Chapter 46: Adults

It was Vernon who picked him up at the train station. The man was growing slightly larger as Harry became absent for entire school years. Harry only noticed because it was hard for them to fit under one umbrella. He wondered if he should encourage his uncle to pick up a sport as they loaded his trunk into the car and got into the front seats of their blue beetle.

"Would you mind dropping me off at Diagon Alley for an hour?" he asked.

Vernon hngged. "It's still early enough, but Petunia will be expecting us for dinner," he replied and continued taking the path home, rather than to the alley.

"I just need to pick something up and leave a note, it's a Christmas present," Harry lied, like a liar.

His uncle sighed and switched lanes, getting some honks from the other drivers busily filling the streets with their English holiday spirit. "I hate driving in London during winter break," the man grumbled.

"Thanks, uncle," Harry said with a smile as they arrived at the leaky cauldron, where he jumped out. Going by the fact that his uncle drove off towards the congestion leading to Harrods, he hadn't gotten presents yet either.

Not unusual for the man, but definitely bad strategically. He chuckled and entered the pub. By now he'd remembered the password to the brick wall, so he didn't have to bother Tom who seemed busy enough, dressed in bright red and green, serving a loud group of witches their butterbeer with cinnamon on top.

The whole pub smelled like cinnamon, actually, and apple. Perhaps they were making apple pies. He exited the building and tapped the sequence into the bricks with his wand, striding out into a busy Diagon Alley from amongst the trash bins and making his way towards the daily prophet. The claim that he'd needed to come here to buy some last-minute presents was obviously false, unlike the other magicals churning up the street, he'd already prepared everything through owl order and before he'd even left for Hogwarts. What he did need to do, however, was counteract the bad press that the ministry had shat in his direction, so that he could have a career in magical Britain if he chose to stay.

It might not have seemed important now when the only people who could gain a negative image of him that had any power over his future were his professors. But, if the news coverage about his future successes, such as his incoming victory at the U17 duelling tournament, remained the way it had been for his academic achievements, then things could get annoying. Better to nip it in the bud, he thought as he entered the bostonesque headquarters of the newspaper and walked up to the receptionist, who was the same as all the other times he'd come.

The woman glared at him as if his existence offended her. "Archive is closed," she said with a cold look. Before pointing her gaze demonstratively downwards as if there was something actually important on her table, instead of just a crossword puzzle.

"I'm not here for the archive," Harry said and it was indeed the case that he'd mostly researched what he'd wanted to for the moment. "I'm here to see Ms. Skeeter."

The harridan looked him up and down with her hawkish nose and unimaginative brown/grey hair bun. "Ms. Skeeter isn't expecting anyone," she said and continued pretending that he wasn't there.

"Well, in most cases you would have the authority to not let me through, however, this time I am bringing a story that I would like Ms Skeeter to write. Considering that denying me here would actually impact your job, I think it's best if you go get her," Harry said patiently and looked around to check if there was anybody else present. As expected, considering it was the same as the last few times, there was no one in the entry hall or the archive.

The librarian sniffed, scribbled something on a piece of paper and pulled out her wand to cast a spell on it. The paper folded itself into a little paper crane, which flew off in a loop behind the woman and slipped through a little opening at the top of a large wooden door, which Harry assumed was the entrance to where the writing and whatnot actually happened. Although God only knew how wizards ran their newspapers if the Daily Prophet was really the best they could come up with.

Maybe he should consider getting a Quibbler subscription?

As the seconds passed and Harry waited, he had the opportunity to reflect that it might have been a bit of a spontaneous decision to come here immediately. Perhaps him having met her here the only two times he'd come to the Daily Prophet archives had tinged his view of her. She was supposed to be a reporter, which generally included leaving the office occasionally.

A smudge of green entered his peripheral vision and he managed to look up just in time to see the scowling face framed by blonde curly hair that dragged him away and out of the building.

"You have a lot of nerve, coming here," Skeeter scowled once she'd pulled them out of the building and deposited him on the corner of it. "Harry Evans," she sniffed, "more like Bratty Liar."

Harry stared at her aghast. "Was that really the best you could come up with?" he asked, at which Skeeter blushed, before huffing.

"Anyway, my point stands. You have a lot of nerve showing your face around here. Trying to get a retraction on that article Stodges wrote? If so, I'm sorry to inform you that nobody will care about your opinion, or mine for that matter if you're hoping for some sort of support," she finished, angrily, chest heaving in a manner that was slightly distracting.

Harry looked around, to check if anyone was here to listen in, but the street was mostly empty. Similarly to last year, people were more busy hunting for presents on the main street and didn't care about repairing their luggage at "luggage repair for lugs". Also, in addition to that, he didn't really feel like people actually cared that much about their conversation, or the conversation of anyone that they weren't either acquainted with.

"Ms. Skeeter, I'm not interested in retractions or anything of the sort. I just came here to suggest that perhaps another side of the story could also be shown. After all, wouldn't a good investigative journalist be able to uncover if I am indeed a second-year with delusions of grandeur, whose only above-average skill set consists of possessing the correct blood mixture to receive favouritism from the hopelessly deluded and progressive Hogwarts staff?" Harry asked rhetorically, and by the widening of Skeeter's eyes, she knew exactly what he was suggesting.

Nevertheless, her frown remained. "And how do I know that you are? All I know is that you're a brat with too much time on his hands and tongue faster than his wand."

Harry bit his lip to refrain from replying that his tongue was never fast, or slow but always moved at the correct speed for the occasion. "Verify it then. What the article refrained from mentioning is what spells I showed off to gain the advancement I got. Probably with the knowledge that it would invalidate the whole thing. I could cast the spells again, showing everyone what I'm capable of." He considered for a moment, "I'm sure people are curious about what is required to advance beyond one's age in our country's most prestigious learning institution, they'd use the knowledge to try to secure advancement for their own children."

Skeeter hummed thoughtfully, "I don't remember the protocol of what was tested actually being mentioned…" She trailed off and looked at him appraisingly. "Arithmancy and Charms, right?" she asked. At his nod she tssked. "Well, can't really show off arithmancy. What spells did you need to know?"

Harry agreed with her arithmancy conclusion. While a first-year passing the fourth-year arithmancy exam was impressive, it wasn't really visually striking. "I performed all the second-year charms to the level required to pass the course and then in addition I also performed the water-making spell and the disillusionment charm, which are both sixth-year material. I'm also capable of the explosion spell as well as the summoning charm, which is fourth-year material. I could upgrade the bombarda to the bombarda maxima quite quickly as well." Harry explained while Skeeter considered him.

"That is impressive," she reluctantly agreed. "Anything else?" she asked.

Harry thought about his current abilities; he had created a spell that was slowly spreading around the world, but for some odd reason he didn't feel like revealing it was him who'd created it. It was his contribution to the world, done out of personal interest, but shared out of a passion for learning. It wasn't something he wanted to sully with dirty politicking and smear campaigns. Also, he felt that spell-creation wasn't easy to prove and that it would leave an avenue of attack. His detractors could claim that Flitwick had given him the credit so as to safeguard his reputation. His Occlumency, while impressive, was best kept a secret and the same was true for his burgeoning ability to sense magic and his sorcery. His Transfiguration wasn't anything to write home about and he couldn't really prove any duelling capacity until he actually participated in the tournament. Which he as of yet didn't know how to enter, nor did he know the level of the competition. All of that still hinged on Flitwick's answer.

There was one charm, however, which was supposedly beyond even the Hogwarts curriculum that he had wanted to learn, like anyone who'd ever read the Harry Potter books.

After all, who really wanted to face a threat that could steal your soul, but be unable to do anything to protect one's self?

"My Transfiguration is above average, but nothing crazy," he reluctantly admitted. "There is one charm I've been meaning to learn, however, that would doubtlessly shut up a lot of people."

"Which one?" Skeeter asked.

"The Patronus charm," Harry replied. Skeeter seemed reluctantly impressed by his audacity.

"Well, if a second-year student could perform the patronus, then arguments against your advancement really wouldn't have any ground to stand on," she concluded. "You think you can manage that?" she asked, looking him up and down doubtfully.

Harry thought about the life he'd lived till now, both of them. Full of disappointment and misery. All of his happiest memories of his past were tainted by an inhuman amount of grief. There was one thing, however, which hadn't disappointed him yet, which had been an ever-present companion through the most difficult periods of his life. Magic, the joy he'd felt when he'd first managed to levitate a pencil in his childhood bedroom at the age of two had been immeasurable. If it was that memory, then maybe he could… "I can learn it," he concluded and nodded resolutely.

"I would have to read up on the spell myself," Skeeter muttered thoughtfully. "My career isn't easy, I don't want to do something that I'm not completely sure will succeed, especially if it puts me at odds with senior reporters and the head editor," she said while bringing a hand to her mouth to bite at her nails. "But if you managed a patronus of any kind…" she trailed off, gaze unfocusing and looking into a distance above Harry's head.

"I take that as a conditional yes then, if I manage the Patronus you'll write the article. Something along the lines of, "In the mind of a prodigy; what it takes to excel at one of the world's premiere magical academies"," Harry suggested.

In a surprising move, Skeeter stretched out a hand to playfully ruffle Harry's hair. "Let me think about the headline, brat," she said somewhat fondly. "Just owl me if you manage to get anywhere with your Patronus and I'll do the rest," she said with a sigh, before suddenly noticing the glaring logistical issue. "Wait, you have a trace outside of Hogwarts and I'm not allowed at the school without permission. How would we even manage to do the interview?" she asked.

Harry shrugged, "You'll just have to sneak in. I trust you can manage that," he said. He didn't want to involve a professor in this, since they likely wouldn't agree with his strategy anyway and would form a different opinion on him afterwards. Unfortunately, the slander could not stand and needed to be counteracted. For strategic reasons.

Also, fuck the ministry.

"Anyway, I should head out. Have some stuff I need to do," he said non-committedly to Skeeter and left her muttering to herself there on the curb, apparently trying to figure out how she could sneak into Hogwarts. Wasn't she an animagus?

Leaving the side street Harry entered the rush hour of present buyers once again. He thanked the heavens it wasn't raining but then tried to remember if he'd ever seen rain in Diagon Alley. He shrugged, not caring that much. There was probably some sort of ward assuring good weather. The walk to the pub was annoying, full of being jostled and deafened by the excited screams of children and the loud conversations of adults who couldn't quite make each other out through the high volume, and thus resorted to adding to the madness. He saw a store that seemed mostly empty, which was odd and swerved off the street, past a cadre of older witches fawning over a book stand and a large moving painting of a grinning blonde man in a foppish outfit playfully wrestling a werewolf. Entering the store he discovered that he'd entered, unsurprisingly, a bookstore. Quite frankly, there were fewer people currently frolicking around the high wooden shelves than there had been in summer, which made sense. Back then most of the clientele had consisted of children or their guardians, now that was done with for the year and normality could return.

He'd never really considered books a good gift, he thought as he aimlessly wandered through the story, occasionally laughing at the stupid names of the books. One could never quite nail down what a person would like to read. In addition, buying them a book usually put them under some sort of pressure to read it, which people then took as a reason not to read the thing, but to keep it on a visible shelf for the rest of its, or their, life.

After having walked through most of Flourish and Blotts he frowned as he realised that other than school material, most of the books were fiction, cookbooks, autobiographies, histories, or poetry collections. Where were the other magic books? He flagged down a clerk who wasn't currently doing anything but lounging around and the brown-haired man came over lazily.

"Where are the magic books," Harry asked brusquely, at which the man blinked in confusion, before pointing to the shelf stocking the Hogwarts curriculum. "No, I mean stuff beyond the Hogwarts curriculum?" he asked, at which point the man's 20-something face lit up in recognition.

"You're a muggle-born, aren't you?" he asked while bringing up a hand to scratch at his stubbly chin and looking at Harry from under two heavy brows.

Harry's defences were raised by the question, considering that blood purity was such a sensitive topic. "Half-blood, what's it to you?" he asked defensively.

"Don't worry, I'm a muggle-born, I just asked because if you're not from around here," he said, vaguely waving his hand, "then you probably haven't gotten the memo yet."

"What memo?"

The man shrugged. "That wizards and witches aren't that interested in magic," he said cheerily.

"What do you mean?" Harry asked, intrigued. This was the first time he was meeting a muggle-born out of Hogwarts.

The man beckoned Harry to follow, which he did, as the man explained further. "You know, they do their compulsory Hogwarts education and then they go out, get an apprenticeship and learn the magic they need to do a specific job. Then they're done usually," he explained. They reached a shelf in the back of the store. It seemed to be dedicated to romance novels. "I'm Ian, by the way, Ian Brown," the man introduced himself.

"Harry Evans," Harry replied in kind as he looked at the shelf they'd stopped at. "What am I looking at exactly?" he asked.

"You're looking at the entirety of this store's books on magic, how to cast it and all. Well, the stuff that isn't about household, hygiene or beauty spells," Ian explained as he bent down and took out a book from the lowest shelf, which Harry noticed was the only one not chock full of novels which had scantily clad witches or wizards on the cover. "Here," Ian offered him the book.

"Enchanting the objects of everyday life," Harry read, then looked back at the amount of books available, probably around 200. "This can't be true," he eventually concluded. Ian simply laughed.

"The thing about things that you're born with, they ain't special no more. A wizard sees his magic as a tool for convenience and never uses it for anything else. I've heard some ministry clerks don't even need to know any magic, beyond apparating to work and the spells necessary to sort paper-work," Ian explained, but Harry was still reluctant.

"But there are professors, researchers, duellists and enchanters, these people have to love magic in some capacity," Harry argued, at which Ian simply shrugged.

"Sure they do, but they're the exception. Just like a normal muggle doesn't really do anything passionate with their life, other than working a job they're only mildly disgusted by, most magicals just do their thing. I mean, the examples you listed… How big of a percentage do professors, professional athletes, artists and researchers make up in muggle society?" Ian asked rhetorically, and Harry saw his point. He sighed and slumped his shoulders.

"That's depressing," he muttered.

"Well, think of it that way. We have the advantage since we're actually interested. Issue's the politics of course, but what can you do?"

"Isn't working in a bookstore similarly a bit uninspired?" Harry asked hesitantly.

Ian laughed. "Maybe, but it pays the bills, also, I get to read on the job. I mean look around," he said, waving his hand. "This place is deserted except in the summer hols. There ain't no fancy library for me anymore now that I've graduated, gotta have the connections to access the interesting stuff," he leaned in, after looking around to check if someone was listening. "The interesting stuff's in Knockturn, by the way," he said, before straightening up. "Of course, don't go before you're seventeen and can defend yourself," he warned. "Anyway, you wanna buy anything?"

Harry shook his head, "I just came to look, I don't really have any money."

"Pick a book, it's on me," Ian said with a shrug. "I get three books a month, you can have one."

Harry blinked in surprise. "Thanks," he said, before squatting down to read the titles of the magic books. "Any recommendations," he eventually asked, after he failed to get much of anything from the titles.

"Well, you're still at Hoggy, so probably something you can't find in the library," Ian mused, before twitching his finger and causing three books to fly out of their shelves. Harry froze as the books landed in front of him, cover up. The man could do wandless magic as well?

"You're a sorcerer?" he blurted and looked up, surprised. Ian just grinned cheekily.

"It's a parlour trick," the clerk insisted, before introducing the books he'd picked out.

"Enchanting ain't taught at Hoggy, so a basic introduction for that could do you good. Although, you need a well-developed magic sense to infuse objects well. Maybe something to keep in mind for the future. Then we got an introduction to Light Magic, including the patronus, some shields and so on, very basic stuff. But they don't teach emotion-based magic in Hogwarts so it's something to look into." Harry looked at the book on the Light Arts, a pure white tome with a silver stag imprinted on the front. No title. Ian introduced the last book, "Book on apparition and other wonky space-time stuff. They usually just teach you how to do it, and don't explain nothing. I doubt the book is even in the restricted section, since fucking that up just insta-kills you…" the man trailed off. "In hindsight, maybe not that one," he said with a wince and the purple book floated back to the shelf.

"Anything on the Mind Arts?" Harry asked.

"Someone's been reading ahead, but no, strictly regulated, Knockturn only. And even then you're as likely to get a book that tricks you into lobotomizing yourself, rather than anything serious. A lot of magic like that is passed down orally only. Too dangerous to write down and the ministry tends to destroy the books when they find them."

"The Light Arts, why don't they teach it at Hogwarts?" he asked as he picked up the white book and stood up.

"Learning how to fuel your magic with your emotions makes you more prone to experiencing those emotions, and strongly at that."

"Makes sense," Harry muttered, "Feeling is also a skill. That's how the Dark Arts corrupt then? The user has to delve into hate and anger to practise them, turning themselves hateful and angry?"

"That's the gist, anyway, let's skedood. Shifts almost over," Ian said and they went to the front desk, where Ian "bought" him the book, as promised and they said their goodbyes.

"Thanks, for the explanation," Harry said with a frown, thinking about the new things he'd discovered about the magical world.

"No skin off my back, good luck out there. I'd suggest either making it big or going muggle, this place is a bit medieval," Ian said.

Harry left the store confused, but happy.

-/-

By the time Harry was done in the alley, an impatient Vernon was already waiting for him. Harry chuckled as he considered how nostalgic his uncle would one day feel for being able to park in London in the past. In the future, it would mostly become an impossibility.

Throwing his newly acquired book in the back of the car, he got in at the front and they drove off, tyres screeching and squealing for all they were worth. Which, considering his uncle's thriftiness, probably wasn't a lot.

They reached home in record time and when Harry entered Privet Drive 4 through the front door he had to face a hugging assault from his aunt, while an awkward Dudley patted him on the back. The boy was growing, Harry realised. Vertically, thankfully, rather than horizontally.

"No hug for me?" Vernon grumbled as they moved to the dining room, where a sumptuous feast was already spread out, along with the good china. They sat down, while Vernon got a twisted ear and a narrow look from his wife. While her right hand was busy doing that, her left disappeared behind his back, Harry suspected, to pinch his bum.

He turned away, getting a bit green in the face. He didn't want to know, to be honest. Not waiting, or wanting to be courteous, he loaded a piece of the meat pie and some coleslaw onto his plate.

"How has school been going? You don't write enough," his aunt said as she also sat down and doled out the dinner to her husband and son.

Harry considered his classes, which were going fine. He had stopped putting that much effort into everything, including Potions. Just doing the brews once in advance seemed to keep him at a passable level so he didn't feel the need to overexert himself. Considering that he had time to pursue magical sensing, duelling and getting his ass beaten by Professor Potter, in a non-sexual way, he would say that this year was shaping up to be the most productive yet. A lot of last year had been stuck creating the word-search spell, which made his life now a lot easier and probably saved him half an hour every day. Not that he hadn't enjoyed the spell-creation process, but no matter how painful magical sensing and duelling were to practise, they were definitely more rewarding in their execution. While for the spell he'd had to slave away for months, only to get one spell. With his current projects, there was a noticeable improvement every day. "School's going great, actually. All the classes I advanced in have been manageable and I've been making some progress in that duelling thing I told you about," he thus explained.

Petunia nodded. "Didn't you say though, that the professor, Flirthicc, or whatever, would only help you out after Christmas?" she asked.

"I've been doing some independent study, and got help from some classmates," he said, thinking of Tonks.

Petunia sighed. "What is it with men in this family being obsessed with violence," she lamented. "Dudley's been talking about picking up boxing," she explained at Harry's confused look.

"Dad said I could," Dudley sulked from his corner, with a full mouth.

"It builds character," Vernon huffed and the two parents glared at each other, it seemed like this wasn't the first time they were having this discussion.

In Harry's experience, martial arts tended to have two spectrums of people in them, the most passionate and kind killing machines imaginable, but also the biggest cringe-lords. He decided to weigh in, perhaps to suggest a compromise. "I think martial arts can build character, but boxing involves getting hit in the head a bit too much. There is this new scientific fighting style created, which involves locking joints. In a fighting tournament with no weight restrictions, a small Brazilian fighter used it to beat people three times his weight and size. I think in comparison, boxing just sounds a bit limited. It's called Brazilian jiu-jitsu"

Dudley's eyes widened and he snapped to look at Petunia as if he were a shark smelling blood. "Can I mum, can I, can I, can I?" he asked repeatedly until the woman relented and nodded stiffly, glaring at Harry as she did so. He innocently raised his hands.

"If you deny it, it's just going to become an obsession, training for any sort of sport is boring, lots of running and stretching," he reasoned, while Vernon huffed.

"Brazilian jiu-jitsu, pugilism is a proper British sport. Why do something foreign, ridiculous."

"Oh, you shut up!" Petunia snapped, "you and your shotgun." she said.

Harry raised an eyebrow and looked at the people sitting at the table. "Shotgun?" he asked.

"It's because of those blasted wild animal attacks, I didn't even know we had so many beasts in England, but they've been ripping people apart left and right," Vernon reasoned. Harry reluctantly agreed with the man but felt the need to address the misconception. Wild animals. More like, a wild werewolf.

"A shotgun might honestly not be such a bad idea," he chimed in. "You just might want to buy silver bullets," he said, throwing a meaningful look at Petunia and then Vernon. Both of them paled, while the reference somewhat flew over Dudley's head. He was probably too busy imagining himself beating up famous wrestlers three times his size with the power of South American Japanese fusion martial arts, which actually did sound really exotic and cool now that Harry thought about it. Not wanting the dinner to dwell on things such as werewolves and whatnot he turned to his aunt.

"How have the new neighbours been settling in?" he asked, knowing that it would completely derail the situation.

By Petunia's stiffening facial features, it worked. "Horridly," she complained, "they can't even figure out the trash takeaway dates, let alone their garden. Their whole porch and front yard are a bane to this community and I can always see the young wife peeking around behind the blinds," she said, stretching out her long neck, which had probably become like that, doing exactly that.

"Well, what else would you really expect from a woman who married her dentist," Harry agreed, blindly gripping a detail that he'd remembered from his aunt's letters, which served also as strategic updates about the going-ons of the neighbourhood.

"I always said, never trust anyone married to a doctor," Petunia grumbled, "did anyone listen? No." She stabbed at the sausage on her plate and impaled it violently, before cutting it in a manner that felt very personal.