Chapter 27-Meanwhile, the Diagon alley.

Saturday, July 15, 1995

Blissfully ignorant of the commotion he was about to cause, Harry Potter, in his guise of Jim Patterson, mild-mannered student at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, read over what he had just written to his headmaster.

Mindful of Professor Dumbledore's request, Harry had carefully transcribed all the information he had written in his little notebook, and tried to honestly express his thoughts and impressions about what was happening with his scar.

It hadn't been easy. His first instinct, as always, was to jealously guard anything that could be perceived as weakness, and swallow his own problems, and fears. As a young child he'd never been able, or even allowed to open up to the Dursleys. They silenced him when he tried to ask questions, accused him of lying when he swore he didn't know why weird things happened, insisted he was "up to something" if he smiled or laughed, and made him the target of their scornful ridicule if he came to them seeking assistance, reassurance, or advice. As a result, Harry had become remarkably self-sufficient at a very young age. Even now he turned to the adults in his life only when absolutely necessary, preferring to either confide in his friends, or just handle things himself.

Dumbledore seemed genuinely worried, though, and as much as Harry might wish otherwise, the headmaster's concerns were justified. If the painful twinges he felt when Voldemort fired weak, warning curses were anything to go by, he was going to be in real trouble when the dark wizard finally brought his full power to bear. The repeating threats of an attack were another problem. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Voldemort was targeting him.

Harry twirled his quill absently between his thumb and index finger. He wasn't keen on announcing to Dumbledore that the Dursleys had moved away, but what choice did he have? The chances of the property being discovered empty were entirely too good. Voldemort obviously wanted him, erm, dealt with. In light of this new threat, Dumbledore might decide that the enchantments on the house needed to be strengthened, or added to. Even if he didn't, Mrs. Figg might drop by with a job or an errand for him. The Weasleys might decide to surprise him once the warding of their home was completed. Not to mention Hermione would certainly get suspicious if she tried to phone and reached a disconnected number.

Besides, Professor Snape had been at some of the Death Eater meetings he'd witnessed, and the Potions Master would probably not be inclined to hide what was going on. He might be a greasy git, and the scourge of Gryffindors in general, but the man had never failed to defend him when he had been in actual danger. Harry would accomplish nothing by withholding information, except maybe to cast doubt on himself and his connection's strength and reliability...and he didn't want that. The boy could still remember his helpless frustration the year before when Snape doubted his story about Barty Crouch Sr., and wouldn't allow him to see the headmaster.

Harry sighed, and raked his other hand through his hair, trying to decide what to write. He hadn't even bothered to find out where the Dursleys had gone. It hadn't seemed to matter since he had no intention of ever going back to them. Tom, bless him, hadn't pressed the issue, but Harry knew his behavior was baffling the old man. If this was a misunderstanding of some kind, as the innkeeper had hinted, a phone call would clear it up in minutes. Harry just hadn't taken the time. He didn't imagine they'd gone far, anyway-his aunt and uncle had never seemed to be adventurous types. They were probably still in Surrey...although they might have ventured as far away as London. Eurgh, practically next door! What a horrible thought!

In the end he'd scribbled a short, vague, reference to the property at 4 Privet Drive being vacant. It seemed kinder than letting someone stumble across the house unprepared. He looked at the little paragraph, feeling his conscience prod him. He didn't lie, exactly, but his wording implied that he was with his relatives, where ever they were. It wasn't, perhaps, the best decision, but he didn't imagine the truth would go over well. Harry rolled his eyes as he imagined that letter:

Dear Professor Dumbledore:

I'm working for my keep at the Leaky Cauldron, seeing as my family abandoned me and I can't risk getting shipped off to an orphanage or endangering my friends. On the upside, I finally got some clothes that fit. Hope you are well...

Shrugging, Harry added If Voldemort is planning to attack me there I'm afraid he'll be disappointed. There. That should be good enough. Now Dumbledore would know that the dark lord was wasting his time planning attacks on empty houses! Anyway, the letter proved he was all right, and should set the headmaster's mind at rest.

A glance at his little bedside clock made Harry wince. He hadn't intended to spend so much time on this letter, but there had been a lot of information to pass along. He'd also dithered quite a bit over what to say and how to say it once he finished copying from his notebook and started talking about his scar. Oh, well. It should do. At any rate, he needed to finish up if he was going to at least start another letter before he was expected downstairs.

Getting a proper grip on his quill again, Harry signed the last page, then firmly tapped the little phoenix on each of the four pieces of parchment. As he watched, his words sank into the paper and disappeared. It was cool, but Harry felt a shiver of deja vu when he saw the effect. It was a little too close to the way Tom Riddle's diary worked for his peace of mind.

The similarities ended there, though. Tom's diary had retained its magic. Dumbledore's sheets of parchment did not. Harry had been told what to expect, but he hadn't realized he would be able to observe the magic leaving. After the message was sent, the paper sparkled slightly, and the totems across the top disappeared, leaving four perfectly normal sheets of parchment behind.

Gathering the parchment into a stack, Harry chewed on his lower lip, and tapped the paper with his quill. Who should he write to first? What was safe to say? The letters he still needed to answer were stacked to his right, so Harry picked them up and glanced over them.

It looked like the letters he would be writing would be remarkably similar. He had slightly different questions to answer and remarks to address, but there were recurring themes, too: his relatives, his job, his health and well being...

Harry wrinkled his nose at the blank parchment before him and made an aggravated sound. It was difficult to know where to start. A lot had happened in the week since he'd sent out his original notes. Eventually he began jotting down answers to the questions he had been asked and making notes about things that had happened, figuring he could practice first, then write the proper letters later.

Dear Everyone, he began, then lined the letters up along the back of the desk so he could refer to them as he worked.

Ron and Sirius both asked outright how his relatives were treating him. Well, that was easy enough.

The Dursleys are being even bigger prats than usual.

Hmm. That sounded a little desperate. Better fix that.

Don't worry, I don't need rescuing or real food or anything, but I am grateful for my job. It's been a real lifesaver.

So now, how to describe the job... Harry tapped the feather end of his quill against his cheek as he considered this.

His store-hopping schedule was something of an experiment, devised by Tom and the other merchants. Since underage students was not commonly employed in the magical community, there were very few established precedents to go by. Tom, mindful of Harry's "over achieving" tendencies, had been particularly careful to set limits on the boy's schedule. In addition to his duties at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry had an optional "short shift" of not more than two hours between breakfast and lunch, and a longer shift of not more than four hours in the afternoon between lunch and dinner.

Initially, Harry had worried about his inability to do magic away from school, but his fears had been proven groundless. The merchants of Diagon Alley had put him to work doing things that were generally done by hand anyway. This freed up the shopkeepers and their clerks, so they could attend to other matters, and they seemed to like it very much. In fact, Harry noted with amusement, his compensation was generally increased somewhat when he tackled jobs that the current store's staff especially hated.

Work is going fine. I'm doing a lot of small things, like general cleaning and maintenance, unpacking and logging new merchandise, taking inventory, and re-stocking shelves. The variety keeps things interesting, and I've really learned a lot.

Now there was an understatement. The last few days had been a real eye-opener for the Boy Who Lived. Because he had been raised in the muggle world, Harry had very little practical experience with every day magic in the magical community. From what he'd observed at the Leaky Cauldron and at the Burrow, he'd figured that tidying up was done exclusively with charms. He'd been certain that the clean-by-hand methods he had learned at the Dursleys would be considered useless in the magical world, except perhaps for serving detentions at Hogwarts.

And he'd been wrong.

There were applications magic was ideal for, of course. Spot removal, for instance. Repairing breaks. Mending tears. Most witches and wizards, even the weaker, less talented ones could manage these small chores because all the caster's magic was concentrated on one small thing.

Directing a cleaning charm-or any charm, actually-on a larger area was another matter. It was trickier...not as straightforward. Even talented spell casters had trouble sometimes. Factors like natural aptitude, skill, training, and raw magical strength became more of an issue. Harry knew the theory from Professor Flitwick's class, although he hadn't attempted any yet. Those types of charms were considered advanced topics for fifth year and above.

The moral of the story was, magic was more convenient, but every now and then a good muggle scrubbing was required to deep clean and get the missed corners. Harry hadn't seen a lot of "by-hand" scrubbing because even though they agreed it was necessary, and had superior products like Mrs. Skowers Magical Mess Remover, most witches and wizards absolutely detested cleaning by hand. Generally, they either disliked the inconvenience and mess, or had "pureblood" issues. Tom had speculated that this attitude might even have been how the custom of keeping house elves had originated, though no one knew for sure.

My boss is very nice, and seems pleased with my work. Harry continued. He spoke well of me to some of the other shopkeepers, and some of them have had me do little jobs for them as well.

Well, he might have downplayed that a little, but again, it was true enough. Earlier in the week, Harry had done tasks for Flourish & Blotts, the Apothecary, the Magical Menagerie, Florean Fortescue's, Gambol & Japes, and Eeylope's Owl Emporium. Today, he had spent his short shift at Quality Quidditch Supplies, and the afternoon at Madam Malkin's Robes For All Occasions.

The boy put down his quill, stretched his fingers, and let his mind wander back. Today had actually been quite eventful, but he couldn't really discuss it without giving himself away. God, but it was frustrating! Maybe if he couldn't go the Burrow, a day visit could be arranged. There were some things he was simply bursting to tell Ron and Hermione! Harry smiled mischievously. He would offer to meet them at the Leaky Cauldron.

It had started that morning with the breakfast crowd. Harry had discovered that even well-cast spells weren't perfect, and charmed objects couldn't necessarily "see" or "think." He'd just finished clearing some tables, and had put a plate with a spoonful of half-dried jam on its edge into the sink. Usually this wasn't a problem. Tom's charmed brush was usually very thorough, but today...

Today the washing brush had missed a spot. Harry still couldn't fathom how it had happened. It had been a fairly healthy dollop.

That was bad enough, but to complicate things, the drying towel hadn't missed. It wiped the glob of jam off the plate as it dried it, then proceeded to smear the sticky mess on the next three dishes in line before they noticed what had happened.

Harry chuckled a little. Tom had exploded into rather colorful language before remembering his presence and becoming highly embarrassed.

Things settled down after that. His stint at the Quidditch store had been largely unremarkable. Just handling a small order that the store owner had received. Lunch at the Leaky Cauldron had been pretty tame too, until Hedwig and Fawkes showed up, that is.

The real action, however, had occurred when he headed down the Alley for the second time.

Harry had been dead nervous as he approached the robe shop. Remembering his outing with Dr. Granger, he'd dearly hoped he wouldn't be required to help customers make their selections. It wasn't that he wanted to hide in the back all the time. Harry interacted a bit with the shoppers, usually when he was on the main sales floor stocking shelves, and liked it very much. He didn't mind answering questions, directing them to the appropriate department, or fetching items, but he really couldn't picture himself following someone around and doing the whole "oh that looks wonderful on you" or "do you need another size" routine.

He needn't have troubled himself. Madam Malkin had greeted him pleasantly, verified that he wanted to earn credit toward new school and dress robes, then led him to the back. She had just received a large shipment of material, trims, supplies, and accessories, and wanted him to sort it out.

As they walked, Harry took the opportunity to look around. He'd never bothered to go beyond the Hogwarts uniform area on previous visits, so the rest of the store was new to him.

Besides school and dress robes, there were several glittering accessory displays, and a small shoe department. Some of the robes were plainer than others, but none could be called "casual." When he asked about it, Madam Malkin told him she had a sort of 'gentleman's agreement' with Gladrags Wizardwear. She handled the fancy things, they carried everyday items. It was a practical, workable arrangement for merchants and customers alike.

The back room had managed to be orderly and chaotic at the same time. Robes in various stages of completion were draped over dressmaker's forms, bolts of material stood in shallow shelves along three walls, and the fourth held threads, trims, and other sewing needs. Three witches in gray work robes, whom Madam Malkin introduced as Colleen, Dara, and Maggie, were busily measuring, cutting, and sewing. By the looks of things, someone was planning a wedding with a very large bridal party.

After the introductions had been made, Madam Malkin took Harry over to the large stack of shipment boxes, gave him some quick instructions, and left him to it. The wizard had grinned when he pulled open the first box, and saw the bolts of familiar black cloth inside. Madam Malkin was obviously stocking up for the back to school rush.

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