Chapter 36- It's all I detail (part 2).

Back in the kitchen, Tom was looking over the Leaky Cauldron's stash of healing and medicinal potions. People got sick, after all, and didn't always have their own with them, so he kept a supply of some of the mildest non-prescription potions on hand. He'd gotten the idea as a young man when one of his customers had woken in the night with a raging case of heartburn. It had been so severe, he had woken Tom to see if he had anything that would help. Unfortunately, Tom hadn't had a remedy available, since he didn't suffer from the affliction himself, and the matter hadn't seemed worth a trip to St. Mungo's, so the ailing wizard just had to wait until the little potions shop opened the next morning. Tom had offered to go, and had purchased a small array of common remedies while he was at it.

It had been a sound investment, Tom mused as he studied the bottles, noting the levels of the potions they contained. The goodwill it had earned him had been enormous, and since most witches and wizards added money toward replacement when the settled their accounts, the cost of providing the service was minimal. Hmm. He still had plenty of fever reducer, but he was almost out of Stomach Soothing Solution. Mrs. Nettleby had used quite a bit of it during her stay a couple of weeks ago. Poor dear. Ah well, there were a few doses left. He'd order more later.

Frowning, Tom sipped his tea, and began to organize. So far as he knew, Harry had been planning to stay at the Leaky Cauldron today and do laundry. He'd see how the boy was doing when he woke up, then they could send owls to the shops Sparky was supposed to be working at for the next couple of days. Actually, after what he had seen last night, a check-up at St. Mungo's might be in order. The old wizard was just considering making a list when a quiet voice spoke behind him.

"Good morning, Tom."

Startled out of his reverie, the wizard whirled around, then blinked a couple of times. "Harry?" he blurted incredulously. He'd figured Harry would be spending the next day or two sick in bed, but there he was, freshly dressed, hair still damp from the shower, and looking none the worse for wear.

He gaped until the boy frowned worriedly at him. "Are you all right, Tom?" Harry asked, studying his elder uncertainly. "Maybe you should sit down," he suggested. "Would you like another cup of tea?"

Still thunderstruck, Tom sat heavily at one of the worktables, and didn't object when Harry collected his cup, and went to refill it. When he glanced at the clock it read, "You're Early." Tom raised an eyebrow at Harry when his young companion returned, and placed two steaming mugs on the table. "What are you doing up at this hour?" he asked, as the boy perched on the chair beside him.

"Er, you said you wanted to talk to me," Potter stated, fiddling nervously with his own teacup.

Oh, yes... Tom thought, remembering as from another lifetime when he'd asked Harry to come down a little early. Merlin! Had it really only been last night?

"If that isn't true, I can go," Harry offered, seeming more than grateful for a chance to escape. He had just started to rise, but the other wizard stopped him.

"No, no, I remember now," he said with a small smile. "Sorry, I was off with the pixies. Breakfast?"

Harry shook his head. He wasn't hungry just yet. "Maybe a little later?"

"Very well." Tom folded his hands on the table and seemed to gather his thoughts. "When I originally asked you to come down, I had a few questions in mind, but after last night I find I have a few more."

Harry started, then paled a bit, as he realized what had happened. The last bit of information he hadn't been able to place upon awakening fell into place. That's right! Tom was there when I woke up from my nightmare! He fetched my notebook! he thought, feeling faintly scandalized. Had Tom gotten him from the desk to the bed as well?

He swallowed nervously and studied the tabletop, wondering if he'd done something strange and unforgivable last night while he'd been dreaming. Did Tom believe him to be a threat now? Where would he go if he couldn't stay at the Leaky Cauldron anymore?

He was so worried about his impending eviction, he nearly jumped out of his skin when Tom leaned forward, and laid a gentle hand on his forearm.

"Are you all right?" Tom asked, frowning worriedly now. "You looked like an owl in daylight for a second there." When Harry nodded, he went on. "You seem to be a lot better this morning, but you appeared to be terribly ill last night, Harry. It might not hurt for you to get checked over by your regular physician, or at least take a couple of days off and rest. You can send owls to the shopkeepers you're supposed to be assisting, they'll be disappointed, but they'll understand.

"Oh, and speaking of owls," Tom said, interrupting himself before Harry could say anything, "I received a letter from your headmaster yesterday. He asked if I'd mind allowing you to occasionally make use of the Leaky Cauldron owls since your own is so distinctive." Tom frowned a bit, and fished the letter out of one of his robe pockets, and squinted at it. "I don't know why he thought it would be an inconvenience, with you staying here and all, I suppose he didn't want to presume anything."

Harry blinked once or twice as he processed what Tom was saying. The other wizard was worried about owls? And his health? This wasn't what he had been expecting at all. Before he could stop it, a question escaped. "So I can still stay here, then?"

Brought up short, Tom frowned again, this time in confusion. "Why on earth would you think you couldn't?"

Harry shrugged dropped his gaze to the tabletop again. He found his attention momentarily distracted by Tom's hand which was still resting lightly on his forearm. It was an interesting sensation, not at all like when his aunt or uncle roughly grabbed him, or when one of his friends grasped his hand to direct him somewhere or hurry him along. No this was calm and undemanding. Comforting, one might say.

Before he'd started attending Hogwarts, Harry hadn't had a lot of experience with positive touch. He had observed it, of course. Dudley had always been showered with affection by both parents, but Harry had always been fascinated by the small, loving attentions that Aunt Petunia especially, seemed to do without conscious thought. It was the same at the Burrow. Molly Weasley was forever brushing back hair, straightening clothing, and bestowing quick loving touches much to his friend Ron's chagrin. Janet Wright had behaved in a similar fashion with Kitty and Becky just last night, come to think of it.

Since he'd started his magical training, he'd made a lot of progress. He'd become accustomed, for example, to the rough, brotherly jostling of his dorm-mates and the Quidditch team. He'd learned to accept Hermione and Hagrid's tackling, exuberant hugs with good grace, and, most of the time, he could deal with casual contact from his professors and peers. It was those fleeting moments of genuine tenderness that still took him by surprise. He found himself feeling lost and tongue-tied, and unsure what to do.

Finally, unable to bear the suspense, he looked up and met Tom's shrewd gaze. "You're still fretting about that rubbish Rita Skeeter wrote, aren't you," the other wizard said, his tone making it a statement, not a question. "I thought we sorted this out your first day here."

Harry didn't respond aloud, but his cheeks reddened slightly.

Tom tutted disapprovingly. "Child, I've lost count of how many witches and wizards have sat in my pub and cried out tales of woe that featured that woman. Unfortunately she always makes sure her articles have just enough truth in them. The Daily Prophet doesn't usually retract a story unless it's completely wrong. More importantly," he continued, giving Harry's arm a little squeeze before sitting back, and folding his hands on the table, "I've never believed you to be a danger to those around you. If I did, I wouldn't have recommended you to my friends in the Alley, and I certainly wouldn't have allowed you to escort that family home last night."

The effect of his words was electrifying. Smiling indulgently, Tom watched the emotions that flitted across Harry's face. The boy had looked amazed at first, then suspicious, as though unable to believe what he'd been told. Next, he had looked very hard at Tom, scrutinizing him closely as though searching for signs of falsehood, then finally... finally, Harry had believed him. His eyes had lost the look of ill-concealed dread, his posture had relaxed slightly, and the wholehearted smile that lit up his face was worth a million Galleons.

The talk had gone a bit more smoothly after that. Tom knew Harry hadn't told him everything, but they'd hit the high points on quite a few topics before it was time to get the dining room ready for breakfast. Harry had seemed to sense that Tom had been genuinely frightened by what he'd witnessed, so he shared a bit about his scar, and its apparent connection to Voldemort. He'd also admitted that he didn't get sick often, and even when he did, he seemed to shake it off overnight or within a day or so. Madam Pomphrey had also commented more than once how quickly he healed from physical injury.

Perhaps the most telling bit had been the small pieces of information Harry had shared about his muggle relatives. Or what he didn't say, rather. The boy had still been reluctant to speak on the subject, but Tom had gotten the point nonetheless. It was a shame and a disgrace, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out how it had gone on for so long unnoticed, but there is was, plain as day. The Boy-Who-Lived, the child who every witch and wizard in the magical world assumed had everything he wanted given to him in abundance, actually had very little. It was beyond Tom's comprehension how such a daft mistake could have been made.

Those horribly oversized clothes had been hand-me-downs from his cousin. The clothes Harry had bought for himself had been the first new ones he'd had since he was a toddler. Evidently, his relatives had done exactly what they'd had to, and nothing more. Harry had been given food to eat, clothes to wear, a place to sleep, and medical attention when there was no other choice, but he had clearly been denied many other intangible things that children need to thrive and grow. No wonder he'd seemed so amazed when Hagrid had brought him to the Leaky Cauldron for the first time.

The kitchen clock had finally chimed a warning, when it was time to set the tables. Harry had given Tom a half smile, and excused himself to "go fetch Jim." Tom watched until he vanished into the stairwell, marveling at the resilience and quiet strength the boy demonstrated. All things considered, it was a bloody miracle he'd turned out as well as he had.

Realizing he still had Dumbledore's letter in his hand, Tom tucked it back into his pocket with a sigh. It had been obvious from the headmaster's correspondence than he hadn't had the foggiest notion that Harry was at the Leaky Cauldron. He had intended to take the boy to task about it, but their conversation this morning had made him pause.

Harry had assured him that he was communicating with Dumbledore, and passing along any useful information about his scar and You-Know-Who, and further, he had shared that Albus had warned him against going to his friends' houses, which was why he'd wound up at the Leaky Cauldron in the first place.

As he wandered into the dining room, and started setting up, Tom pondered his dilemma. On one hand, it felt wrong to with hold something of this magnitude from the Hogwarts Headmaster. On the other hand, Potter was deeply afraid of something. He wasn't even sure the boy could articulate what was bothering him if asked. He wondered if he was nervous about being sent back to his muggle relatives. He wondered if Harry's fears were justified.

He let the vicious circle continue for a little while before deciding to let the matter ride, at least for now. Harry was safe enough, in his disguise. No one had recognized him. No one had even suspected. That was another benefit of him being famous. Harry Potter wasn't expected to willingly work. The thought never occurred to people.

That was all well and good, but they'd need to be cautious. Lucius Malfoy had been on the Alley yesterday, and soon the shops would be full of people who would likely recognize young Mr. Potter. Perhaps he should talk to Harry about telling a few of the other shopkeepers so they could keep an eye out for him-watch his back-sort of like they had a couple of summers ago.

Monday, July 17, 1995

Professor Minerva McGonagall distastefully brushed at the soot on her summer weight robes as she emerged from the fireplace in her office at Hogwarts. Aside from the obvious, one of the more irksome consequences of Voldemort's return was the restrictions that Dumbledore had put on travel. She enjoyed apparating to Hogsmeade, then walking to Hogwarts when the weather was pleasant, but no one had been available to accompany her, so she'd had to use the Floo System, or her Order portkey.

The Transfiguration professor paused to open her window, before settling at her desk. Letters to the students had to be sent out at the end of the month, she owed Flourish and Blotts a booklist, and a projected count of students and she hadn't even started to prepare.

Luckily most of the Hogwarts staff had already turned in their projected schedules and requested texts for the new term. The only problem was the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. There couldn't very well be a syllabus and supply list when there wasn't a professor available to compose it. Minerva supposed if worse came to worse, she could always put down the text by Quentin Trimble. Many of the returning students already had it, and it was better than forcing the students to buy all of Gilderoy Lockhart's books again.

The Deputy Headmistress had just finished sorting her colleagues' supply lists into seven piles, one for each group of students at Hogwarts, when an express owl flew in her open window, and dropped a thick parchment envelope on her desk, before wheeling around, and fluttering off again.

Curiously, Minerva picked up the envelope, only to cringe when she read the return address. Flourish and Blotts. Mr. Reed was probably wondering where the information she owed him was. Sighing, she broke the wax seal on the envelope, and pulled out a stack of parchment. Several sheets were bound together, making sleek printed booklet, and there was a letter on top:

Dear Professor McGonagall:

I hope this letter finds you in good health, and enjoying your summer holiday. I trust I will be receiving the book lists and student counts for the new term at Hogwarts very soon, so that I may have the requested materials in stock.

Now that I have taken care of that bit of business, I shall proceed to the real reason I am writing. Enclosed, you should find a booklet of sorts. It is the guide for muggleborn first years.

Minerva closed her eyes, and muttered something uncomplimentary under her breath. How many times were they going to have to go through this fruitless exercise? The muggleborn guide was an absolutely brilliant idea that had failed miserably once it was put into practice. Every now and then Mr. Reed felt the need to try again, and each time she and the other Heads of House had to deal with the hopeless confusion it caused in the new muggleborn first years.

I know what you're probably thinking, the letter continued, almost as if Geoffrey could read her mind. I had given up as well, but I think we finally have something that will work.

Instead of asking someone who has lived in the magical world all their lives to try and imagine what muggleborns go through, I went straight to the source. This update was done by a Hogwarts student-a muggleborn upperclassman. It was so amazingly simple, I don't know why we didn't consider it before. Additionally, the boy has written the information in a very casual and lighthearted manner. I think the children will respond more favorably since it isn't as stiff and formal as the original.

Please take a few minutes to look it over, and if you agree with me, perhaps it could be sent out with this years' letters. I think we finally have a document that will do what we intended from the start. I want to post this immediately, so I do not miss you sending out the letters.

McGonagall chucked softly. If he only knew! The oh-so-efficient deputy headmistress was definitely not present at this time.

I'm sure you'll notice there is no author credited on the booklet. For some reason, the boy seems very bashful, and uncertain of his own abilities. I told him that you'd want to know who produced this wonderful bit of work, but at this time, he wishes to remain anonymous. Perhaps we can change his mind for the second printing, although I'm certain you'll recognize his writing style-it's quite distinctive.

One last thing, he made another suggestion that I felt had merit. Along with the new muggle guide, perhaps we could invite the new muggleborns to come to Diagon Alley in groups, and be met and guided through their first magical shopping excursion. In the future, if this turns out well, you and the Headmaster will undoubtedly want to assign Prefects, or accept volunteers yourselves, but since it is rather late in the summer, the author has offered to perform the function.

You may be reluctant to accept the boy's offer "sight unseen" as it were, but he has been in my employ part-time this summer, and I am confident that he will be able to perform admirably. If you agree, then please divide the incoming first years into groups, and assign then a date. We will, of course be happy to try and accommodate anyone who cannot keep their assigned date.

Sincerely,

Geoffrey Reed

General Manager, Flourish & Blotts

Intrigued, now, in spite of herself, Minerva, laid the letter aside, and regarded the booklet. Sighing, she looked at the piles of parchment on her desk. She really shouldn't dally, if she was going to get the letters out on time. Still, if Geoffrey was right... This was something that had been needed for far too long, and the document didn't appear to be horribly lengthy.

Adjusting her square-framed glasses McGonagall flipped the booklet over and began to read. When she read the title, she smiled. Halfway through the first page, she was impressed. By the time she'd reached the end of it, she'd broken into fits of laughter two or three times. Dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, the Deputy Headmistress laid the booklet aside, and shook her head. Reed was right. It was inspired. Exactly what they'd envisioned all those years ago. The author, whoever he was, was concise and clear, with a dry wit and a slightly irreverent sense of humor.

Frowning, McGonagall flipped through the document again. She didn't recognize the writing style immediately, but then again, she probably wouldn't. The homework assignments and essays she received from students usually had a much more formal tone. Smiling again, she picked up the booklet, and went off in search of Professor Dumbledore. Technically, she didn't really need the Headmaster's approval, registration was one of her duties after all, but she couldn't help thinking Albus could probably use a good laugh too.

* Temporis Spatium is Latin for "Duration"

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