Voices drifted up from the alley below. The low murmur of shop owners unlocking doors. Crates scraping against cobblestones. A child's laughter.
Harry opened his eyes.
The water-stained ceiling looked down on him, same as when he'd closed them. Cracks spreading from the corners, yellowish blotches marking where moisture had seeped through. The cracks were clear. Right, fell asleep with his glasses on again.
Sunlight slanted across the small room, catching dust motes dancing in the air.
Harry pushed himself up, rubbing a hand over his face. He sat there for a few minutes, considering whether to lie back down, and let the morning get on without him.
But the sounds from below kept filtering in. Shop doors opening. Voices calling greetings. The alley coming alive.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.
The steak and kidney pie sat congealed on the side table, cold and untouched. Shame to have wasted that.
Harry moved to the washbasin. The water was cold when he splashed it on his face, shocking some alertness into him. He fished his toiletry kit from the mokeskin pouch and pulled out his razor. The familiar weight was comforting in his palm. Shaving. That he could do.
Just another morning.
He lathered soap on his face, humming Hoggy Warty Hogwarts as he drew the blade along his jaw in steady strokes. Suds and stubble stripped away by the sharp steel. He'd done this very thing more than a thousand mornings by now. Since he first needed a proper shave every day, after everything was all over.
Nicked himself plenty of times back in those days. Not any more.
A quick rinse, then pat the face dry.
Looking good.
Then finger guns, just like Sirius always did after a shave.
His toothbrush came out next. The criss-crossed bristles were getting quite frayed. He'd be needing a new one soon enough. Don't suppose they made this sort just yet. He spit out the froth, and pulled out his tongue scraper. Wiping it down his tongue, he admired the collected gunge.
Always impressive, that.
He gargled and spit. Face clean and mouth fresh, and generally a bit less manky.
He looked down at yesterday's clothes. Pyjamas, too, he realized, wrinkling his nose. They'd have to do until he could get some new duds. A quick sniff check confirmed the need for a cheeky freshening charm.
There we are, right as rain.
·
Harry trotted down the stairs into the common room. Smelled like Tom had a pot going. The room was nearly empty. Guess the Cauldron wasn't most people's first choice for a morning bite. Unless you were after canned beans on toast.
Not for him, thank you.
Tom glanced up from behind the bar, nodding as Harry passed. He nodded back, heading straight for the door.
Stepping out, the morning light hit him. He squinted, and paused to take a deep breath of the crisp air, filling his lungs with the cool freshness. Hadn't realized how musty the room had been. Need to get that sorted when he got back. Tom was a decent man, but his nose seemed to have done a runner.
Diagon Alley stretched before him. Shop signs hung from iron brackets, the paint brighter than he remembered. Not as faded or chipped. The place looked properly alive again.
A few shop doors were already invitingly ajar. A wizard levitated crates into a storefront. Down the alley, voices rose. He glanced over, ready for trouble. Seemed to just be a dispute over delivery times. Cabbages were late, from the sound of it. High drama.
Harry walked, hands in his pockets. The cobblestones had a pleasant unevenness to them, smooth but not quite level. His dragon-hide boots found the rhythm easily enough. The smell of fresh bread was carried in from somewhere, mixing with the acrid tang of sulphur from the Apothecary. He wrinkled his nose.
Voices echoed out from stores. A ladder leaned against Quality Quidditch Supplies, the wizard at the top cleaning the upper windows with long, smooth strokes. The Comet 180 sat in the display below, sleek lines catching the morning light. Decent bit of work. Not a Firebolt, but then again, what was?
A witch hurried past, lime-green robes bright against the grey stone. Packages stacked in her arms, one corner jutting out at an angle that nearly caught his shoulder. She kept right on.
So did he.
Outside the Apothecary, two old wizards stood arguing. Walking sticks were jabbed in the air between them, getting their points of view across. Harry passed close enough to catch fragments. Something about the Cannons' abysmal season and whether the new Keeper was worth the galleons. Ron’d get stuck in on that one.
He let out a slow breath, and kept walking.
Wasn’t sure where he was going, but he’d know it when he saw it.
Further down, a group of young wizards clustered near Flourish and Blotts. One looked to be doing some kind of impression, voice pitched high and hands gesturing wildly. The others were laughing, one doubled over against the shop window, caught in a fit of giggles. Harry caught a strong whiff of hair tonic as he passed. Someone had really committed to their morning grooming. The laughter followed him for a few steps, then faded.
A witch strode past going the opposite direction, robes swishing. Healer, by the look of the green trim. She had a scroll in one hand, lips moving as she read. Passed within arm's reach without glancing up.
Witches and wizards moving with purpose. Shopkeepers calling greetings to each other across the way. The clatter of deliveries being sorted. Normal morning business.
Harry's stomach rumbled.
Right. Breakfast.
A small shop caught his eye. A painted sign showed a steaming pie, roundhand lettering underneath reading "Mabel's." The window display looked fresh. Pastries sat arranged on wooden boards, wrapped parcels stacked beside them. A handwritten sign listed the daily special: Bacon and Egger, 2 Sickles.
He pushed the door open.
It was warm inside. The smell hit him immediately: butter, fresh bread, bacon cooking. A woman stood behind the counter, middle-aged and sturdy, flour dusting her apron and sleeves rolled past her elbows. She looked up as he entered, wiping her hands on a cloth.
"Morning, love."
"Morning," Harry said. "What's good?"
"Depends what you're after." She gestured at the display case. "Steak and ale pies if you want something that'll stick with you through lunch. Sausage rolls if you're just a wee peckish. Bacon butties if you need proper breakfast, but've got places to be."
"A bacon butty sounds lovely."
"Egg on it?"
"Please."
"Brown sauce or red?"
"Brown."
She nodded, looking pleased, and disappeared into the back. Harry could hear the sizzle of the griddle, metal scraping against metal. She emerged a minute later with a paper-wrapped bundle, still warm, and set it on the counter between them.
"There you are. Fresh off."
Harry pulled out his coin purse. "What’s the damage, then?"
"Two sickles."
He counted out the coins and handed them over. She took them with practiced ease, dropped them into her till, and gave him a warm smile.
"Enjoy it while it's hot."
"Will do. Cheers."
"Aye, lovely morning to you."
Harry stepped back into the alley, butty in hand. He walked a bit further and found a bench near a bakery. Far enough from the sulphur and wormwood.
He unwrapped the sandwich.
The bacon had proper char along the edges, crispy where it kissed the griddle. Egg yolk broke as he lifted it, rich yellow mixing with the brown sauce. The bread was soft white, already soaking up the grease. He took a bite.
Now, that’s how it’s bloody well done.
He closed his eyes. Bacon crunched between his teeth. The bread compressed nicely, substantial without being heavy. He took another bite, then another, working through it steadily. He licked grease off his thumb between bites.
Finishing the last bite, he crumpled the paper. A quick vanishing spell and the evidence was gone.
Harry sat for a moment, watching the alley continue its morning. A wizard walked past with a stack of cauldrons. A witch peered into Eeylops Owl Emporium, tapping on the glass at one of the displays. Two boys ran past, laughing, one chasing the other with what looked like a Fanged Frisbee.
He smiled, just a bit.
Just another face in the crowd.
Right then. Time to sort the practical bits.
Being nobody worked well enough for wandering Diagon Alley on a Tuesday morning, but it wouldn't do forever. He needed papers. Identity, records, the sort of documentation that proved you existed and weren't just some bloke who'd stepped out of the void.
Sadly, he didn't know much about working Knockturn's angles for that sort of thing. But he knew someone who did.
Mundungus Fletcher.
Dung had been in the Order. Might already be. He was a small-time crook with decent connections, good survival instincts, and most importantly, easily persuaded by a bit of dosh.
Harry drew his wand, giving it a flick.
Magic curled outward, seeking, stretching into the city like a hound picking up a scent. A faint pull in his chest tugged somewhere to the east, shifting slightly as the spell locked on.
Got him.
Harry slid his wand back into its holster and set off.
···
The trail led Harry straight to Knockturn Alley.
Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
He’d have been worried if it hadn’t, honestly.
Years ago, an unfortunate stutter while using the Floo had sent him careening into this alley once before, tumbling out of a fireplace into a shop selling shrunken heads and poisoned candles. Hagrid had hauled him out then. Wouldn’t be today, though. Then again, he wasn't that wide-eyed kid any more. The dodgy characters that lurked in the shadows could be dangerous, sure, but mostly they were just sad bastards scraping by in the margins.
Like his quarry.
Mundungus Fletcher was slumped outside an establishment of rather dubious repute. Apparently he’d drunk himself unconscious sometime the night before. He’d been left to the tender mercies of Knockturn's finest clientele, as he slept it off.
S’pose looking a tramp was an armour all its own.
Harry looked up at the sign.
The Ugly Mermaid.
Peeling paint showed a corpulent woman with a frog-eyed face and no real need for the mother-of-pearl clamshell bra strapped around her. She leered down at passersby with an expression alternating between seductive and predatory.
A relation of Umbridge, perhaps?
Harry glanced at his only connection to the underworld. Dung was a drooling, comatose wreck, reeking of stale alcohol. His snores echoed across the narrow alley, rattling like a broken accordion. Just the man for the job.
Harry started forward, then stopped.
Hold on. This was the sort of bloke who'd sell his own grandmother for a handful of dodgy sickles. Best use your head, Potter.
He pulled his wand and pointed it at his own face for the second time in as many days. The spell took a moment to settle. His face felt like it had bubbles slowly roiling just beneath the skin, shifting his features into something forgettable. He bit his lip as the process continued. This spell tickled something fierce. Once the sensation faded, his skin was left feeling pulled and pinched in a hundred places.
Right then.
Harry approached and lazily flicked his wand in a looping twist. Dung jolted awake with a strangled gasp, hacking and sputtering.
"Whazzit?!" He blinked blearily, then went stiff. His eyes darted around like something was very wrong. He smacked his lips, scowling, then patted his hands over his chest and pockets.
"Oi… where's me buzz gone?"
Sobriety must be quite the shock to his system.
"Top of the morning, Dung." Harry kept his tone pleasant, almost friendly. "I hear you're the man to see if someone's looking for a specialist in handling certain bureaucratic matters."
Mundungus squinted at him, taking stock. Harry knew him well enough to guess at what was going on behind those bloodshot eyes. Measuring wealth, and weighing it against the likelihood of things going completely pear-shaped.
Coming to his conclusion, Dung scratched at his grimy chin. "Could be I knows someone. Could be I don't. Depends, really." His gaze flicked to Harry's pocket. "Who's askin'?"
Harry lifted a small pouch and gave it a lazy jingle.
"Why, Little Joey. Said you'd recognize him."
Then, from his cloak, he casually drew a larger bag. A little toss showed off its heft.
"And I reckon Lord Farthing might be interested as well. After the proper introductions, of course."
Mundungus's eyes sharpened, his nose practically twitching. He looked remarkably like a rat that smelled something ripe. He stroked his greasy chin in mock consideration, drawing it out just long enough to pretend there was any real thought involved.
"Joey, eh? Good lad, good lad. Always sends the right sort me way, he does."
He sniffed, rocking back on his heels. "Well now, I ain't the bloke you're after, o' course. A bit outta my skillset, that sort o' thing. But might be I knows a fella wot could see to it that certain… misfiled documents find their way back to the cabinets they was never not in."
He leaned in, conspiratorial.
"Just a bit of misplaced paper, innit?"
His grin widened just enough to show the uneven state of his teeth.
"Cost ya, mind. Ain't exactly an everyday service, now, is it?"
Harry smiled. "Lead on, then."
Mundungus guided Harry deeper into Knockturn. The alley had yet to stir. Few pedestrians were about. Most business here happened after dark, when decent folk were safely tucked away and the Ministry couldn’t be bothered.
Some of the shopkeepers were quite literally denizens of the night. Vampires, mostly, though Harry had heard rumours about a hag who ran a popular potions shop near the end of the alley.
Most storefronts remained shuttered, including the one Dung led him to.
A simple slab of burnished oak above the doorway bore the name:
Mr. McKrell's Wonders.
At either end of the shopfront, a pair of pockmarked Ionian columns stood. They looked carved from coarse, porous travertine, leaning awkwardly against the building's brickwork. Not load-bearing, just propped there holding up a thinly veneered entablature that stretched the width of the entire ground floor, partially hiding the grime-streaked windows of the first story.
Etched into its surface in shallow, uneven relief was a pot-bellied wizard. Round-faced and vacant-eyed, he lounged in a basin of swirling waves while a school of water nymphs surrounded him with outstretched hands and love struck expressions.
Now that is art.
The whole fa?ade reeked of someone's half-arsed attempt at pomp. Not a chance it fooled anyone, save perhaps the poor sod who'd commissioned this crime against humanity.
The wonders in question filled the large, dusty window.
This lot looks like it was nicked from Zonko's, not a Founder's Vault.
A crumpled sheaf of parchment lay propped against the glass, its label boasting 'The Scroll of Sumerian Prophecies.' Even at a glance, Harry could tell it was complete bollocks. The fake cuneiform was strung together higgledy-piggledy, half the symbols carved backwards.
Next to it sat a dull butter knife, its sign proudly proclaiming it 'goblin-wrought gold.' The flaking copper filigree and tarnished metal beneath suggested otherwise.
Completing the trio was a dented, rust-flecked cauldron. Its tag boldly declared: 'SALAZAR SLYTHERIN'S PERSONAL CAULDRON: FORGED BY THE DARK LORD HIMSELF!'
Harry snorted.
Even Lockhart would've blushed at this.
At the centre of the display sat the pièce de résistance. A crudely carved wooden cup placed atop an ornate stone pedestal. Every few moments, it tilted forward, pouring a stream of dark liquid into a rune-etched basin below before righting itself and filling once more.
It was the One True Grail, eternally overflowing with the blood of Christ.
And I'm the Queen.
As they stepped up to the shop, Dung rapped on the door.
Knock, Knock, Knock, Knock, Knock—
Knock. Knock.
Harry arched a brow.
You’re gonna get your fackin’ ‘ead kicked in?
The door cracked open. The face peeking through was that of the pot-bellied wizard shown just above. It was perfectly round, with wide-set eyes that made him look rather like a toad.
Upon seeing Mundungus, he puffed up, his expression pinching to indignant.
"Here to sell me another load of bollocks, eh, Fletcher? You'll ruin my reputation as a purveyor of the finest goods!"
Dung rubbed the back of his head, chuckling.
"’Twas an honest mistake, Maron, I swear it. I was told it were the genuine article. How was I to know it was a knock-off? You're the expert, after all." He held up his hands in mock surrender at Maron’s scowl, then pivoted. "But I've come to make it right! Brought you a man what's in need o' your services, I have!"
With a grand, exaggerated flourish, he gestured to Harry.
Maron's gaze turned to Harry, scanning him from head to toe. Harry let his jaw go slack, putting on his best Crabbe impression. Lights on, but no one home.
"Pleasure. I've heard great things."
He looked at Harry, and his face lost its thunder. “A customer? Why didn’t you say so, Mundungs, my old chap!” He unlatched the door chain and stepped aside, waving them in with both hands like a carnival barker trying to lure in marks.
The shop was stuffed to bursting with junk in every colour, size, and shape imaginable. Shelves sagged under the weight of tarnished trinkets, moth-eaten robes, and what looked to be a stuffed Kneazle with three legs and a suspiciously glassy stare.
Now that belongs in the storefront.
Can only imagine what's stuffed in the back. Maybe this’s where the Blackpool frog choir got off to.
Maron turned to lock the door behind them. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. Rattle. Rattle. Clunk.
Three bolts, two chains, and an iron bar that slid into brackets on either side of the frame.
He's just a blind dragon short of Gringotts.
Maron spun back with an aggressively toothy smile, all but gliding toward the backroom as he beckoned them to follow. He moved with the grace of a man who'd spent his entire life convincing fools they were about to make the deal of a lifetime.
With oily chatter to match.
“Ah, that urn? A personal favourite of mine. Could hardly imagine letting it go. Contains the ashes of Rasputin, you see.”
A heavy velvet curtain at the back of the shop was embroidered with the phrase Fortuna Fovet Fools. A bit on the nose. They pushed through it, entering the backroom.
It was everything he could’ve dreamed of.
A tacky faux-dragon-leather armchair sat opposite a griffin-claw-footed settee draped in burgundy velveteen that looked to have once housed a Weasley-sized family of moths. Above the mantle hung a troll mount, mouth eternally agape, revealing a set of teeth Hermione’s parents would’ve been proud of. He stifled the shiver that crawled up his spine.
Maron turned with yet another theatrical flourish, arms outstretched.
"Ahh, welcome, welcome! Please, make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen!" His voice was smooth and unctuous. Harry shifted on the velveteen, unable to avoid the lumps.
"Tell me, what's your pleasure today? A rare tome? A relic of forgotten magic? Or perhaps a trinket of exceptional provenance?" He rubbed his hands together, beaming like a starving man at Sunday roast.
"Whatever it is you require, I can provide! And if by some cruel twist of fate I don't have what you’re looking for on hand, fear not! My finest treasure hunters can track anything you can imagine down within the week. Guaranteed!"
Dung cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably beside Harry.
"That ain't it, McKrell." He hesitated, then forced a conspiratorial tone. "He's. aherm. Let's say there's been a spot of trouble with some o' this fellow's paperwork… wanderin' its way outta where it oughtn't 'ave always been, if you be takin' me meaning."
Maron's posture straightened and his grin fell away. Eyes that had seemed dull just a moment ago now analysed him.
When he spoke again, his voice was calm and precise. Startlingly out of character for the fool he'd just been playing. Oh, he’s good. Maybe Dung hadn’t led him astray after all.
"I see." He leaned forward, weighing Harry once more. "And which papers tragically wandered away and got lost?"
Could run for office, this one.
"Government identity, OWLs, NEWTs, the lot." Harry met his gaze without blinking. "Would you be able to see to it that they find their way back home?"
McKrell tilted his head, fingers drumming against the armrest as he worked the numbers.
"I can, aye. Grease the right palms, and lost things have a way of turnin' up right where they should be. You understand."
"Naturally. And I'd be most grateful to all parties involved in the recovery." He tugged on his jacket, causing the bag of galleons in his pocket to jingle.
McKrell’s grin stretched wide. "And remind me… to which name should these files be returned?"
Harry let the pause hang, then smiled. "Halloway. Harry Halloway."
McKrell nodded slowly. "Yes, I seem to remember seeing those files. Can you remind me of the particulars? Birth year, educational background, family history?"
"Born in '48. Raised on the Continent. Orphaned young. Father died in one of the skirmishes with Grindelwald's supporters after '45, mother in childbirth."
"Mm. A tragedy, but common enough for the times." McKrell pulled a scrap of parchment and a quill from his robes, scribbling notes with quick strokes. "OWLs?"
"The usual suspects, as far as OWLs. And NEWTs in Transfiguration, Charms, Defence, Runes, Arithmancy, Astronomy, and History of Magic."
McKrell's eyebrows rose. "A scholar, I see."
Harry shrugged. "Always had my nose in a book, me."
"Right." McKrell continued scribbling, then paused. "Any particular school you'd like listed? Beauxbatons? Durmstrang?"
"Homeschooled. Sat the exams as an independent candidate."
"Even better. Less to verify." McKrell looked up. "This'll take a week, maybe two. Got to make sure everything slots into place nice and proper-like. Can't have anyone poking around asking awkward questions."
"Understood."
"As for payment…" He drummed his fingers against the armrest again, calculating. "Five hundred galleons. Half now, half on delivery."
Harry didn't blink. The galleons from the chamber were already coming in handy. He reached into his mokeskin pouch and counted out two hundred and fifty galleons onto the side table between them. The coins clinked softly as they stacked, gleaming dully in the dim light.
McKrell’s eyes tracked every coin like a cat watching a particularly fat mouse, then placed them on a scale. It tilted left, then right. Then a red light turned on and it gave an angry buzz. He turned to look at Harry.
“You playing with me?”
Harry’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
McKrell tapped the scale with his wand and three coins fell through the scale. “These three ain’t real.” He picked them up, holding them close to his face, turning them about and squinting. Bit down on one. “Well, the gold’s real enough. But the serial number ain’t right ‘tall.”
He looked over to Harry. “If you’re going to be forging, you ought to make sure the numbers look legit. Probably be another 10 years a’fore Gringott’s count gets this high.”
What? But how did that make—
Oh.
Right. Definitely not Neolithic, then. It somehow appeared between the 70s and now. Err, 80s and now. 80s and then?
Whatever.
That would require some thought, but now wasn’t the time.
McKrell cleared his throat, hand outstretched. Harry fished out three more coins, all of which passed muster, and was given back his three ‘fakes.’
"Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Halloway." He slid the coins into a lockbox just off the side of the table. "I'll send word when everything's in order. Where can I reach you?"
"The Leaky Cauldron. Room seven."
"The Leaky, room seven. Got it." McKrell stood, offering his hand. His grip was firmer and confident, then it turned soft and loose in his hand. The dull smile spread back across Maron’s face. "It was a pleasure being reacquainted, Mr. Halloway."
Harry shook it. "Likewise, I’m sure."
·
Harry stepped back out into Knockturn Alley, Mundungus trailing behind him like a hopeful puppy.
"So, er, about that finder's fee…"
Harry pulled out the smaller pouch—Little Joey—and tossed it to him. Dung caught it with surprising dexterity, immediately opening it to count the contents. His eyes went wide.
"Pleasure doin' business with ya, guv. You ever need anythin' else, you know where to find ol' Dung."
"Kipping outside the Mermaid?"
Dung scoffed. “‘Course not. Jus’ nodded off on me way out the door was all.”
Harry grinned. “Yeah, I’ll find you if I need you.”
Dung scurried off, clutching his prize, leaving Harry alone in the narrow alley.
Harry Halloway.
Orphan.
Homeschooled.
Independent candidate with a suspiciously impressive set of NEWTs.
Good enough.
Simple enough to be believable, complicated enough to discourage deep investigation. In a week or two, Harry Halloway would exist in every relevant Ministry filing cabinet, records that had been there all along.
But then what?
There were no expectations or responsibilities. With plenty more galleons kicking about, there was no rush to figure it out, either.
He started walking down the street, turning from the darkness of sleeping Knockturn back into the light exposing Diagon. It was buzzing with activity, the shuffling press of bodies suggested it was the lunch hour. He checked his watch to confirm. Still broken. Fortunately, the rumbling of his stomach validated his suspicion.
He pressed forward with the crowd, keeping his eye out for anywhere that looked good.
“You filthy little Mudblood, you dare—”
Harry whipped his head around. A young man was sprawled on the ground, his two hands behind him, propping himself up. Above him, a silk-draped dandy was standing, pointing his wand down at the boy.
“We were only having a bit of fun, sir. We didn’t mean no harm.” The voice was high and breathy.
The scowl on the pureblood’s face didn’t lessen at all. He looked ready to hex the boy. Harry palmed his wand, but before he decided how to act, the man noticed the crowd that had surrounded him. After a moment, he slowly put his wand away and straightened his robes.
“I’ll let you off this time. But you need to learn not to disrespect your betters.”
The man turned on his heel, and walked away, the crowd parting for him.
Harry looked at the boy, he seemed familiar. Right, he was the boy outside Flourish and Blotts this morning. Guess his impression was a bit too spot on.
Harry started walking again, heading back to the Leaky. He’d lost his appetite.
Mudblood.
He’d almost forgotten when he was.
Harry Halloway wouldn’t be enough.