Chapter 11- Miss Riddle

Chapter 11: Miss Riddle

"Miss Jenkins!"

"Oh, hello Harry, what can I help you with today?"

Harry smiled nervously at her. "I...I baked some cookies for you," he said, revealing from behind his back a small plate of chocolate chip cookies.

"Oh Harry, you're such a sweet boy," the kindly primary school teacher said, gingerly taking the small plate of cookies out of his hand. "Chocolate chip! My favourite!"

"D'you wanna try one?"

"Oh, of course! I'm sure one won't spoil my dinner." She winked at him.

Take the one on the top. The one on the top. The one with five chocolate chips. The one on the top.

Predictably, the woman did just that, and Harry smiled sheepishly, inwardly grimacing. Miss Laura Jenkins, a 21 year old strawberry blonde with freckles and a penchant for polka-dotted dresses, was one of the few muggles he didn't mind associating with – she was new to the school, and had yet to hear all the incriminating stories his teachers and classmates liked to tell about him. As was such, she's the only one who would trust Harry enough to ingest anything he'd touched. Her mistake.

Tom had quickly caught on to the woman's innocent and trusting nature, and had immediately singled her out as a target. A target for what, he hadn't been sure of, until Tom instructed him to put his culinary skills to use the day before.

"Bake the most unassuming of treats."

So, given those vague instructions, he'd settled on chocolate chip cookies. The next step had been to coat the top of of one of them with the potion he and Tom had retrieved from Mr. Snape's house not a month ago. After that came the tricky bit, the part Harry had been practicing for for a long time - and this was the important part, since there was only one cookie that was tainted by the potion (they couldn't afford to waste it, after all). Apparently, his magic was strong enough that he could...aid the thought processes of muggles, or at least, that's how Tom put it. Harry knew he was just being polite for his sake.

Apparently muggles were especially 'suggestible' and were prone to all sorts of magical coercion. Harry hadn't known whether to be thrilled or horrified when Tom had told him a few weeks back that if he concentrated really, really well, he could convince unsuspecting muggles to do what he wanted without saying a word; all he had to do was carefully replicate the sensations he had experienced when Tom had said the word imperio at Mr. Snape's house. Tom said that he would not be able to perform the curse (a fancy, complicated bit of magic, it was...not to mention, it was called Unforgivable for a reason), but he'd be able to reproduce some of the effects, if only barely. Thus, long before he had known anything about what he'd taken to calling 'Tom's Mysterious Cookie Scheme', he had been practicing (mostly on Dudley and the postman) his ability to persuade Miss Jenkins to eat the right one.

She would be the first person to ever ingest Severus Snape's Injicio Potion, which was, apparently, harmless, for the most part anyway. Harry really hoped Tom was telling the truth on this one. He would feel bad about hurting the only muggle that was nice to him.

The Injicio Potion was an extraordinarily complex piece of magical ingenuity, and Harry wouldn't pretend he understood a fraction of the theory behind it (Tom had tried to explain it, but ended up complaining about how simple his childish brain was), but from what he could tell, the main purpose of the translucent blue potion (which, luckily, was effective in small doses and could be administered with food or drink) was to create a temporary vessel for Tom. There were two halves to the Injicio Potion; the first was the potion itself, and the second the imbuere spell Tom had cast on it. The idea was that the potion, which was through the spell imbued with what Tom called his magical fingerprint, created a fake copy of his magical core in the consumer of the potion, which allowed him to temporarily anchor his consciousness in the consumer's body, which he'd, for all intents and purposes, occupy for the 6 hours following consumption. Long story short, Tom was going to possess Miss Jenkins.

Apparently, having the body of a ten year old wizard that happened to be Harry Potter put something of a damper on Tom's current plans – which he still refused to divulge – and while he promised Harry he wasn't planning anything big in particular, certain arrangements needed to be made, and for that, he needed to look the part of an anonymous, responsible adult.

"Do they...taste good, Miss Jenkins?"

The young woman smiled weakly. "Yes, Harry...I'm just...just...not...feeling...quite...quite..."

And that was it.

As soon as the woman lost consciousness, a terrible pain erupted from Harry's forehead and he dropped to his knees. Thankfully, it only lasted a moment.

"Well, that was...interesting."

Harry stumbled to his feet. "Speak for yourself."

The Dark Lord, now in the body of his very pretty primary school teacher, promptly ignored him. "My wand, Harry."

Harry reached into his backpack and retrieved the yew wand, handing it to Tom who shivered with pleasure at its touch. Immediately, he pointed it at the pencils lying on Miss Jenkins's desk, and they transformed into a pile of silver coins.

"Sickles," he said by way of explanation.

Harry nodded, awed – so this was transfiguration! He'd never seen Tom transfigure anything before, and he couldn't wait to learn how to do it himself. All the things he could do...imagine, being able to influence matter itself! Was it on the molecular level? Atomic? Quantum? Which particles were changing, and how? So much to learn, and when he did...

"Look at me," Tom commanded, stirring Harry out of his daydreams of becoming a world renowned transfigurer (was that a word?).

Harry did so, and Tom pointed his wand at him, muttering some words under his breath.

"Glamour?" Harry guessed.

Tom nodded. "You're a blonde as well now."

"Marvelous."

"Now, come along. We have much to do."

Tom stood up, but stumbled a bit, glaring at his feet.

"They're called heels," Harry put in.

Tom's red eyes narrowed. Apparently, while he was, essentially, inhabiting Miss Jenkins's body, he still couldn't get rid of those eerie red eyes of his.

"I am aware." He sat down, elegant as ever, and proceeded to de-shoe himself. "There," he said, standing up again.

"You're...not going to wear any shoes?"

"I have no need of them."

"We're going to London. Don't you think you might get Miss Jenkins's feet all cut up and bruised?"

Tom raised an eyebrow. "Irrelevant. Now, come along."

Obediently, Harry followed him out of the school and to the side of the street. Once they reached the sidewalk, Tom stuck his wand out toward the street.

"Umm...what are you doing?"

"Hailing our transportation."

Harry loved the Knight Bus. He'd always wanted to go to an amusement park, but the Dursleys never let him come along. Everything about them seemed so...spectacular, like any kid's dreams come true. The popcorn, the candy, Ferris wheels, roller coasters – for years, he'd dreamed about riding a roller coaster one day. He figured it was likely that he'd never get the chance, but the Knight Bus was almost as good a ride, he thought.

Tom, however, was less than impressed, and assured Harry that the only reason they were 'hailing public transportation' was that apparation was too taxing.

It was a short affair, the journey from Surrey to London, and before Harry knew it, they were dropped off in front of a pub that went by the name "The Leaky Cauldron."

Harry frowned. "That's a bit conspicuous, isn't it?"

Tom smirked, Miss Jenkins's lip gloss shimmering as he did, but said nothing. Instead, he took Harry by the hand and led him toward the heavy wooden door to the pub. He paused, and looked at Harry with a strangely soft smile on his face.

"Welcome, Harry, to the Wizarding World."

Upon opening the door, they found themselves in a dingy old pub, dimly lit by several lanterns in the corners and hanging from iron frames chained to the ceiling. The furniture was of worn wood, polish and paint fading, and the walls covered with paintings and odd images of all sorts. Only a few patrons sat at the tables, off in a far corner, some enjoying what appeared to be average pub fair and others sipping from mugs of some unknown liquid. It was not obtrusively loud, nor was it quiet - it was, in fact, a kind of cheery, albeit subdued.

There was something very...antique about the place, like an old pub from a Dickens novel or the Prancing Pony from the Lord of the Rings. Something about it was rather fantastic, too, he noted as he caught sight of the paintings of dragons and knights and odd little creatures whose names he did not know decorating the walls. And then there were the patrons; most quite old, dressed in quirky, archaic clothing, so...idiosyncratic, in a way. Definitely a Dickens novel, Harry thought.

While Harry was occupied with his observations, Tom wasted no time in tugging on Harry's hand and brushing through the pub, leading Harry out the back door and seemingly into a dead end.

Harry watched with interest as Tom withdrew his wand from the inner pocket of Miss Jenkins's red pea coat, pausing.

"Watch carefully, Harry. I won't show you again."

When he saw Harry nod, he went about gingerly tapping on a seemingly random sequence of bricks.. A moment later, the bricks moved, dancing apart in an intricate pattern, the complexity but a faint reflection of what lay beyond. And seeing what lay beyond, Harry's eyes went wide, and all his breath escaped his lungs.

"This is...Diagon Alley?"

Tom nodded. "For many witches and wizards unfortunate enough to be raised by muggles, this is their first glimpse of the Wizarding World." He paused. "Soak in everything, Harry. The colours, the sounds, the smells, the very taste of the air...you'll never forget this moment."

Harry nodded avidly, and took it all in. The 'alley's' sides were lined seamlessly with shop after shop, bustling with adults and children alike, the cobblestone street beneath them barely visible. The whole place was at the same time antique and novel, everything crafted of polished glass and neatly worked wood, which complemented the archaic clothing style that seemed to be commonplace for wizards. Dresses and long coats of fine velvet and silk seemed to slip in and out of stores and through crowds, weaving these strange swirling patterns in constant metamorphosis that made the alley look positively alive.

Chattering, shouts, laughter, footfalls - noise - it all sounded like music to his ears. And then there were the smells. Pastries and smoke and sunshine.

Absently squeezing Tom's hand, he let the Dark Lord wearing a school teacher lead him skillfully through the crowded streets until they reached a great white building, labeled with the stark, deeply carven letters, 'GRINGOTTS BANK.'

Harry suddenly felt very small as he was led up whitewashed steps to the bank. When they reached the doors, Tom stopped him.

"Goblins are...temperamental creatures -"

"Like you?"

Harry felt a shot of pain in his scar. Apparently Tom could still torture him even if they weren't sharing a body.

"Be polite, do not speak unless necessary, and stay close to me."

Honestly, Harry never understood why Tom of all people told him to be polite. Shouldn't it be the other way around? Harry figured it was part of Tom's ongoing attempt to act like a responsible non-psychopathic adult.

Pushing open the heavy, polished wooden doors, Harry and Tom found another set of silver doors inside, at which Tom patiently paused to allow Harry to read the inscription over the entrance:

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

Well that was...inspiring. Wouldn't it be amazing, he thought, to work in a place that warned off thieves with a riddle? It was positively epic. Were there treasures hidden underground, then? And guarded by this mysterious obstacle the riddle spoke of? Great wizard guards? Some terrible and fantastic spell? Some exotic beast? Or maybe...a dragon?

Entering the bank, Harry's eyes went wide as he observed the vast rows of busy tellers, all manned by small, leering creatures, which he assumed were goblins. They certainly looked very...goblin-y. The floor was of smooth, polished marble, a classy black and white sort of marble, and the hall lit by brightly shimmering, yet cobwebbed crystal chandeliers. Harry was lost in the majestic display so thoroughly that he nearly forgot where he was, as Tom led him forward.

Meanwhile, Tom approached the goblin at the closest unoccupied teller, and stared at him, saying nothing.

Eventually, the creature looked down at him – which, really, was a her, at the moment – warily. "Yes?"

"I have been absent for many years, and I believe my Gringotts vault will have been closed due to inactivity."

The goblin's wiry eyebrows went up. "And I assume that you wish for your account to be reopened, Miss …?"

Tom narrowed his eyes. "My name will not be necessary."

The goblin looked at him suspiciously. "Your wand, then?"

Tom once again withdrew his wand from his - Miss Jenkins's - pea coat pocket, but hesitated before giving it to the goblin. "I require the utmost discretion," he glanced down at the goblin's nameplate, "Redclaw. Believe me when I say that any indiscretions will be...dealt with."

The goblin bristled as he took the offered wand, inspecting it closely. Once he'd run his eyes over the whole thing, he reached down, and from under his desk, he retrieved a strange device, a sort of squarish object with a glowing crystal in the centre, which he proceeded to slowly wave over the wand. A moment later, the goblin's eyes widened, and he handed the wand back to Tom with shaking hands.

"Please," intoned the goblin cautiously, "Follow me."

The goblin led them into what appeared to be a rather fancy waiting room, the walls veiled by intricate red tapestries which matched the upholstery of the gold gilded chairs they were shown to.

"Please be seated."

Harry and Tom did so, and a moment later, Redclaw disappeared, but only for a couple of moments, after which another goblin waddled in with Redclaw. This goblin looked much older, sturdier, and quite frankly, scarier. His wrinkled face was scarred and his wiry grey hairs stuck out every which way (rather like Harry's own hair). Nonetheless, the old goblin's voice was soft.

"Please, sirs, follow me."

Tom rose to his feet, but stopped Harry from leaving his chair.

"Redclaw, if you would, my companion has his own business to attend to."

Harry looked up at Tom. "I do?"

Tom smirked a bit. "You don't think your parents left you with nothing, do you?"

Harry's eyes widened, and he nodded.

Once Tom and the other goblin had left, Harry looked over at Redclaw, who was staring at him expectantly.

"I...er...believe my parents may have left something here for me."

The goblin simply looked unimpressed.

Harry sighed and went on, "Their names were James and Lily Potter…"

Redclaw's eyes widened with recognition. He nodded. "I see. Key?"

Harry panicked, for a moment. "I, well, don't have one. My guardians, they're muggles, you see…"

The goblin quirked an eyebrow, but didn't say anything. Instead, he poked his head out the door behind him and called, "Griphook!"

Yet another goblin appeared, stalking through the wide doorway with a purposeful stride, and looking curiously over at Redclaw.

"Mr. Potter wishes to access his account, but is without a key. I trust you will take care of him?"

Griphook glanced between the two, but then nodded, beckoning for Harry to follow him.

Meanwhile, Harry's mind was reeling as he recalled the poem at the entrance. Was he in trouble? Did they think he was impostor? What would they do with him? Would he be punished...eaten by a dragon, maybe? He shook his head. Tom wouldn't have left him alone if he believed the goblins would hurt him. After all, who ever heard of someone getting eaten by a dragon because they lost a key?

Well, it's probably happened once or twice, now that he thought about it.

Griphook had led Harry out of the waiting room through an arched doorway opposite to the one he had appeared through, into an office-like room, furnished with only a desk and two chairs, cushioned with black leather and gilded with gold. Griphook made his way to the chair behind the desk, reaching into one of the drawers. Harry watched with fascination as Griphook withdrew a small golden basin, and then an ornate dagger and placed them on the desk.

"Now Mr. Potter…As you are not in possession of your key, we must take a special blood test to affirm your identity."

Harry nodded. That was reasonable. Then he looked at the two objects questioningly. "Is there something special about that particular bowl and knife? They look awfully...specific."

Griphook stared at him oddly, as though he had not expected him to ask such a question. Why that was, he didn't know. The bowl and dagger really did look rather particular, and equally mysterious. "They are paraphernalia of goblin ceremonial magic, Mr. Potter."

Harry's eyes lit up. "Really? How does it work?"

The goblin looked at him suspiciously. "We do not reveal such things to outsiders."

Harry deflated a bit. "I see. That makes sense. So...how much blood do you need? Shall I just prick my finger?

Griphook dipped his head in acquiescence, pushing the two items toward Harry.

Without flinching, Harry sliced the dagger through his left index finger, watching in awe as the blood dribbled from his finger, falling into the basin, moving of its own accord and tracing his name, Harry James Potter, over the shimmering gold. "Brilliant."

Griphook nodded appreciatively. "It is goblin magic – it cannot be fooled by wizarding magic."

Harry perked up at this. "What's the difference between goblin magic and wizard magic? Except, um, the obvious…"

Griphook cast him an amused but reprimanding look. "We do not reveal such things to outsiders," he repeated. "Now, everything seems to be in order. Firstly, you can have a new key commissioned if you so wish, and we can nullify the old one."

Harry blinked. "Where is my old key?"

Griphook frowned and reached into the desk, pulling out a rather thick file, flipping through it with expert ease. "Last we checked, it was in the possession of one Albus Dumbledore."

Harry's eyes flashed with recognition. "Dumbledore? Why does he have my key?"

Griphook shook his head. "That, I do not know. Most likely your parents arranged for it to fall into his possession should a certain series of circumstances occur. Nothing can be done about it, except the creation of a new key."

Harry's eyes narrowed in thought. "Have there...been any withdrawals from my vault in the last ten years?"

Griphook quirked an eyebrow. "Which one?"

"I have more than one?"

"Indeed, Mr. Potter, but only one is currently open."

"Which is..."

"The trust fund, set up for your parents."

Harry felt warmth flood his chest. His parents set up a trust fund for him? That was so thoughtful of them. "Well, any withdrawals from that one?"

Griphook scanned the page. "No, none."

Harry nodded, somewhat relieved. "Well, in that case...is there a way to make me a new key without nullifying the old one?"

Griphook's eyes widened in surprise. "I can just make you a copy of the old one."

Harry nodded. "I think that would be best. I...I don't want anyone to know I was here, you see. Which reminds me...any way you can make my visit...off the books, so to speak?"

"That is not a problem, Mr. Potter. Gringotts values the privacy of our customers. Now, please wait here. I will return with your key forthwith."

A moment later, Griphook returned.

"Here you go, Mr. Potter," he said, handing the key over.

"Thank you for your help, Griphook."

"Not a problem, Mr. Potter. Now, would you like to see your vault?"

A grin crept on to Harry's face. "Yes please!"

If Harry loved the Knight Bus, he adored the underground rail system of Gringotts. Now that was a ride. He wanted to do it again, and again, and again...

He wondered if Tom would let him return to Gringotts for the sole purpose of riding the carts again. Probably not, but it was definitely worth a try.

Harry ended up withdrawing 20 galleons and 50 pounds, with which he was provided a nice little black velvet bag. He wasn't sure he'd need the cash anytime soon, but figured it could come in handy. After all, now that he had his own money, he really had no excuse to keep stealing it.

When he and Griphook returned, Tom was already there waiting for him.

"Have you settled your accounts?"

Harry nodded.

"Then let us go. We have much to do," he said, leading Harry toward the exit.

Harry looked over his shoulder with a smile.

"Thank you again!"

Once they reached the outside of the bank, Harry looked up at Tom.

"I like goblins. They're very...efficient."

"That they are."

"Say, Tom, I've been wondering for the last couple of hours..."

"Yes, Harry?"

"Why do we need Miss Jenkins for all of this?"

Tom sighed. "There are a couple of reasons. First, a child your age wandering around alone in Diagon Alley is quite suspicious, don't you think?"

Harry nodded. "Yes, I suppose so."

"The other reason is that you would not have been able to access my vault."

"And Miss Jenkins could?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Not quite. I had a number of security measures placed on my vault...certain requirements needed to be met. The first was my wand. Once they had seen it, the next step was a test to verify my magical core."

Harry's eyes widened. "And mine would have interfered with the test?"

"Very good, Harry. That is correct. The last security measure is a parseltongue password."

Harry nodded. "That makes sense." He frowned. "Does this mean you need to possess someone every time you visit your vault?"

Tom nodded. "For now. Why do you think I had Severus brew so much of the Injicio Potion?"

Harry nodded. "I have another question."

"Which is?"

"I've been wondering, how does it feel to have freckles?"

"I think, Harry, that should you ever possess someone with freckles, you will find that you cannot feel them."

"I see. Anyway, where to next?"

"The Daily Prophet's office."

"Um, what's that?"

"Is your mind really that feeble, or were you merely not listening earlier?"

"Ummm..." He must have missed something at some point, probably while he had been enjoying the Knight Bus. Oops.

Tom sighed. "Wizarding Britain's most widely distributed newspaper. Woefully inaccurate at times, but still the best way to acquire an understanding of current events."

It did not take long for Tom and Harry to traverse their next path through Diagon Alley, finding themselves standing below the sign that marked the entrance to The Daily Prophet main office soon after leaving Gringotts. The building was quite tidy, professional looking. It was obvious there was a muffling charm on it somewhere, perhaps in the wards; for though the building seemed quiet and tranquil on the outside, through the windows, Harry could see obvious signs of vivacity. Whilst Harry stared what seemed to be a very strange place (he'd never been anywhere like a newspaper office before), Tom gingerly opened the door and tugged at Harry's wrist, ushering him into the bustling newsroom – reporters were deep in discussions, or otherwise fixated on their papers and quills, and in the back, the editor's shouts could be heard. Harry felt quite out of place, just standing there amidst the buzz, and was a bit dazed as he followed Tom to the main desk.

The man sitting there was dressed in a brown tweed suit - one that was tidy, but obviously not very expensive. The man, Andy Smudgley, if the nameplate was to be believed, didn't notice them standing there, at first.

Harry saw Tom narrow his eyes and glare at the man, clearly holding the Mr. Smudgley's lack of observational skills against him, exuding malice in the way he was so good at.

Upon Tom's change in demeanor, the man's eyes snapped open wide and he glanced up at Tom, immediately raking his eyes over his – rather, Miss Jenkins's – slender, delicate, and very feminine form.

"And how may I help you this fine afternoon, ma'am?"

"I need to see your archives," Tom announced curtly.

The man looked up at him, disappointed, as though what he had expected a different request. "Afraid I can't do that...they're not open to the public."

Tom's glare intensified, and Harry felt subtle tendrils of Tom's dark magic seeping out. Tom was powerful, even possessing a muggle. Then came the barely audible whisper, "Imperio."

"I will see those archives, Mr. Smudgley."

The man nodded slowly, his eyes glazed over and a dazed expression having come over his face, and nodded to the right. "Through that door."

Tom nodded curtly. "Do not inform anyone of our presence."

The room was dusty, though not unclean – it had a high ceiling, and the rows and rows of shelves nearly rose to its full height; Harry immediately concluded that it was magic, not sound construction, that kept the shelves, nearly bursting with filed Daily Prophet issues, standing. They were sorted by year – going back to 1785 – and Tom quickly located the section he was looking for.

"1981?" Harry asked.

Tom nodded. "I've spent enough time uninformed of the events following my demise. Now, do you remember the list of names I had you memorize?"

Harry nodded. "Avery, Carrow, Crabbe, Dolohov, Goyle, Karkaroff, Lestrange, Malfoy, Macnair, Mulciber, Nott, Rosier, Yaxley."

"Good. Now those," he pointed to a pile of papers at the bottom of the shelf. "Are court records. I want you to search them, and bring me the ones referring to any of those names."

Harry saluted, and immediately got to work.

By the time they finished at the Daily Prophet, Harry had read through all the court records for the Death Eater trials that took place in 1981 and 1982. The whole ordeal had been something of a success; Tom was pleased that he now had an idea of what had occurred in the wizarding world since his departure, and was very happy with Harry's own progress. He now knew which of his Death Eaters were in Azkaban and which weren't.

"You did very well, Harry. I think you deserve a reward."

Harry's eyes brightened. "Really?"

Tom nodded. "Come, I know of a place you'll like very much."

Tom led him down yet another crowded path through Diagon Alley, until they reached a busy looking bookshop going by the name Flourish and Blotts.

A grin stretched across Harry's face. Books. Tom meant to buy him books.

"You can pick out one book."

Harry pouted. "Just one?"

"Maybe two," Tom conceded, as he opened the door for Harry.

Once inside, Harry was hard pressed not to let out a squeal of glee – for he was surrounded, nigh suffocated in mountains, thousands of books. Harry had spent quite a bit of time at the library, so he was quite skilled at and accustomed to navigating treacherous paths through mountains of books, but he wasn't quite prepared for this – there were books everywhere; and what was more, he didn't even understand most of the titles. It was thrilling.

"Where should I start?"

A subtle smile crossed Tom's face as he radiated amusement. "That would be telling."

Harry scowled at him.

"Now, there is one more thing I must attend to." He grabbed Harry's hand and dropped into it a handful of galleons. "Buy as many books as you want."

"I thought you said -"

"I changed my mind."

Harry smiled triumphantly.

"Now, I will be back in about an hour."

Harry looked at him curiously. "Where are you going?"

"That is not your concern. Stay out of trouble."

And with that, Tom, who Harry had started calling Miss Riddle in his head, disappeared out the door, leaving Harry in what was possibly the most fantastic place he had ever been to.

There were so many books Harry saw that might come in handy, like Hogwarts, a History, which looked quite informative, or The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts, another massive history text. In the end, he decided against those ones...they looked rather heavy, and he'd read enough history lately. Reading about the Holocaust in the detail Tom had demanded had really turned him off of history for the time being. Perhaps another time.

He was very fascinated by some of the titles that implied more applied knowledge, like 1001 Ways to Get Revenge without Landing Yourself in Azkaban: a Comprehensive Dictionary of Hexes and Curses, and another called Curses and Countercurses (Bewitch Your Friends and Befuddle Your Enemies with the Latest Revenges: Hair Loss, Jelly-Legs, Tongue-Tying and Much, Much More) by Professor Vindictus Viridian. Both sounded very useful indeed. Then there were A Starting Guide to Human Transfiguration and 101 Practical Household Potions, which also sounded exceptionally useful.

There were also some more challenging looking titles, like A Beginner's Guide to Spell Crafting and Combat Magic: An in Depth Analysis of Duelling Techniques. There was also Rudiments of Healing Magic and A Survey of Magical Diseases, all of which sounded incredibly impressive, if not a bit intimidating. There was also Ancient and Rare: a Survey of Little Known Magics from around the World, which he knew he couldn't resist.

In the end, he decided on Curses and Countercurses, A Beginner's Guide to Spell Crafting, and the Rare Magics text.

Once he'd made his decision, he made his way to the counter, gladly parting with the appropriate amount of Galleons (which was close to all of them). In the end, Harry left Flourish and Blotts quite satisfied, and was happy to see Miss Riddle waiting outside.

"Tom! Look what I got!" He all but shoved the three books in his friend's face.

Tom nodded, promptly plucking them out of his hands and examining the covers. "Prudent choices."

"Are you finished with whatever you had to do?"

Tom nodded, reaching into his pea coat and producing a little black leather book. "Over the next seven years, Harry, you will be exposed to a wealth of knowledge. I urge you to let none of it go to waste."

And with that, he handed the little black book to Harry.

"A belated birthday gift."

His first gift - the first real thing anyone had ever given to him. Harry stared at it with adoration, committing to memory every part of it. He ran his fingers over the unspoiled, rich leather, tracing the gold gilded numbers on the back indicating the year.

1990

Carefully, he opened it to the front page, feeling the softness of the pages, and finding, scripted with what was no doubt Tom's spidery handwriting, his name:

H. J. Potter

He loved it. Words couldn't express how much he loved it. Though, it was odd...it looked very familiar, like he'd seen it before. He just couldn't place the image.