Chapter Text
Harry had always thought that summer holidays at Privet Drive couldn’t get worse, but this one had proven him wrong by a mile. The Dursleys had been at their most insufferable, delighting in finding new ways to make him feel unwanted. Aunt Petunia fussed endlessly about cleanliness, forbidding him from using “her” bathroom, while Dudley strutted around with an air of petty triumph, armed with a new vocabulary of insults courtesy of Uncle Vernon. Meals were small, often barely more than scraps, and Hedwig’s cage remained locked to keep her from hunting.
Then came the house-elf. Dobby, with his frantic energy and wide, fearful eyes, had turned an already miserable summer into utter chaos. Aunt Petunia’s prized pudding had crashed to the kitchen floor in an explosion of cream and violet sugared flowers, splattering the walls like a pastel crime scene and destroying the carefully maintained image she presented to guests.
“WHAT have you done?!” Petunia had shrieked, her voice high and piercing, while Dudley gawked at Harry like it was his fault alone, smirking between bites of stolen pudding.
Uncle Vernon’s face had turned a dangerous shade of purple as he bellowed, “YOU’VE RUINED US, BOY!” He had barely allowed Harry a word in defense before stomping away, returning hours later with a hired handyman to weld thick bars across Harry’s window. The clank of metal was humiliating, like Harry was a dangerous animal that needed caging, his freedom stripped away in a grotesque show of control. He’d overheard them downstairs later that night, whispering about reform schools and “breaking the boy,” their fear of his magic bubbling into cruel pettiness. He could still hear Vernon’s smug voice, planning to keep Harry “in line” until term started.
Nights were the hardest. He would lie awake on his narrow bed, staring through the bars at the sky beyond, the stars cold and distant. “Why hasn’t anyone written to me?” he whispered to Hedwig once, but even she couldn’t answer. No letters from Ron or Hermione. No news. It was as though the wizarding world had forgotten him.
He didn’t know it then, but it was Dobby’s doing—his well-meaning sabotage keeping Harry cut off from everything he loved. His stomach often growled as he picked at the meager portions Petunia slid under the door. Sometimes he dreamed of Hogwarts, of roaring fires, feasts, Quidditch soaring under a golden sky, and the sound of Hermione and Ron’s laughter, only to wake up suffocating in silence, more trapped than ever.
It was nearly unbearable. Until the night Ron Weasley appeared at his window.
“Harry!” Ron hissed through the bars, his freckled face grinning like it was the best idea in the world. “We’ve come to get you!” Fred and George flanked him like mischievous sentinels. “Blimey,” Fred muttered, inspecting the bars. “Locked you up, have they? That’s sick.” George chimed in with a quick, “Don’t worry, mate, we’ll get you out of here.” The flying Ford Anglia hovered beyond, a glowing, enchanted lifeline in the dark, headlights illuminating Harry’s prison-like room. The night smelled of petrol and magic, a mix that felt like hope.
The frantic escape blurred together—Hedwig’s indignant screeching, the bars groaning as Fred and George yanked them free, whispering incantations and grunting with effort. “Quickly!” George urged. “Watch your trunk!” Ron shouted, leaning halfway out the car. Uncle Vernon’s meaty hand closed around Harry’s ankle as he scrambled for the window. “YOU’RE NOT GOING ANYWHERE!” Vernon roared, yanking him back with surprising strength. “LET GO!” Ron yelled as he and the twins pulled with all their might. Harry’s heart pounded as his trunk clattered dangerously against the windowsill before they finally wrenched him free. “Step on it, George!” Ron yelled, and Vernon’s furious roar echoed behind them as they sped off into the night sky, the car’s enchanted engine humming like freedom itself. Fred cackled, “You should’ve seen his face!” and even Ron cracked a laugh as Harry slumped against the seat.
Relief crashed over Harry first, nearly dizzying. “Thanks,” he croaked, his throat dry. “Don’t mention it,” Ron said with a grin. “You should’ve seen your uncle’s face,” Fred added gleefully, while George chuckled, “Might’ve broken a record for biggest temper tantrum.” Then came guilt—a hollow pang at the chaos left behind—but threaded through it all was gratitude so deep it silenced every other thought: the Weasleys had come for him. They’d risked everything just to make sure he wasn’t alone.
The Burrow was nothing like Privet Drive, and Harry loved it instantly. “Morning, dear,” a talking mirror in the cramped bathroom scolded. “At least try to do something with that hair.” A ghoul banged noisily in the attic. Explosions rattled Fred and George’s room, followed by unrestrained laughter and muffled yelps of “It was supposed to do that!” Harry wandered through narrow hallways plastered with moving family photos that waved and smiled at him, the mismatched furniture and threadbare rugs giving the place a chaotic warmth. Even the smells were different: bread baking, woodsmoke curling from the chimney, the faint tang of magical potions lingering in the kitchen, and the earthy scent of the garden wafting through open windows.
It was chaos. It was imperfect. It was home.
Harry sat at the kitchen table one morning, watching Mrs. Weasley chatter as she cooked breakfast, levitating utensils between pans and plates with casual precision. “Eat up, dear,” she said kindly, while Mr. Weasley animatedly explained the function of a rubber duck, eyes alight with fascination, pausing only to ask Harry if Muggle plugs had “different sizes for different jobs.” Ron, Ginny, and the twins argued over toast. “Pass the marmalade!” Fred demanded. “It’s on your side, genius,” George retorted, earning a swat from Mrs. Weasley. Ginny barely said a word, blushing whenever Harry glanced her way, and Percy breezed in, muttering about his O.W.L.s as though the world depended on them.
A clock on the wall ticked with hands marked for each family member—Fred and George’s hand hovered stubbornly over “Mischief,” while Ron’s rested comfortably on “Home.” Harry found himself thinking, with quiet awe: Everyone here seems to like me. It was such a stark contrast to Privet Drive’s cold precision that it nearly hurt. For the first time all summer, Harry felt like he could breathe again—and he never wanted that feeling to end.
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Golden sunlight streamed through the crooked windows of the Burrow’s kitchen, painting the room in warm amber hues. The smell of frying bacon, fresh bread, and something faintly floral from the garden made Harry’s stomach growl, but Mrs. Weasley was already bustling between stove and table, waving her wand to flip eggs while simultaneously levitating a stack of plates. Copper pans clanged against each other in the sink, a teapot hissed softly on the counter, and the enchanted clock on the wall clicked lazily, its hands shifting to indicate everyone’s whereabouts. The entire kitchen felt like a living thing — one that welcomed him.
“Sit down, dear, you’re too thin,” she said as Harry entered, fussing as she swooped over to plop a heaping plate in front of him. She barely paused to cluck at Ron to “comb that hair, honestly” before summoning more toast from a tin that zoomed itself to the center of the table.
Harry obeyed without protest, sinking into one of the mismatched kitchen chairs that creaked under his weight but felt oddly comforting. Every corner of the room hummed with the easy, unpolished magic of a real home.
Arthur Weasley, seated across from Harry with a half-eaten slice of toast and a copy of the Daily Prophet folded beside his elbow, leaned forward eagerly. “So, Harry, tell me again—electricity, how does it get into those wires? And plugs! Do they work the same for toasters as they do for—what was it—televisions? And do all Muggles use those ‘telephones’ at the same time? I still can’t imagine how the wires don’t tangle.” His eyes glittered like a boy at Christmas.
Harry smiled awkwardly, unsure how to explain it in a way Arthur would understand. “Er—well, kind of. There’s—um—voltage, I guess, and—”
“Voltage!” Arthur exclaimed, as though Harry had just shared an ancient spell. “Marvelous word, isn’t it? I must get my hands on some of those plugs. Imagine, Molly—enchant one to—”
“Arthur, eat your breakfast before it gets cold,” Molly interjected sharply, though she didn’t entirely hide her fond smile.
Before Harry could say more, Ginny entered, clutching a bowl of fruit. She spotted Harry, went crimson, and immediately fumbled, sending the bowl clattering to the floor. Apples rolled under the table and across the floor. “Oh no!” she squeaked, diving to retrieve them, hair falling into her face.
Fred appeared in the doorway, smirking like a Kneazle that had found cream. “Careful, Ginny. You’ll scare Harry off before term even starts.”
“Leave her alone,” George added with mock seriousness, though his grin matched his twin’s. “She’s clearly practicing how to faint dramatically in front of him. Next she’ll ask for a lock of his hair. Very romantic.”
Ginny made a noise somewhere between a groan and a squeak, and Harry quickly bent to help her collect the apples. “It’s fine,” he said softly, passing her one with a reassuring smile. She mumbled a quiet “thanks” without meeting his eyes, her ears glowing pink.
Percy arrived next, sweeping in like a man on a mission, his prefect badge gleaming as though freshly polished. “Important work today,” he muttered, grabbing a slice of toast as he passed. “Can’t be late—I promised to help Dad sort some things for back-to-school preparations.” He didn’t elaborate, but the way he puffed out his chest made it clear he wanted them to ask about his new responsibilities at the Ministry office where he’d been spending part of his summer. No one did.
Fred leaned back in his chair, holding up a sheet of parchment like it was cursed. “So, anyone else see this Lockhart booklist? Seven books—seven! For one class! Is he teaching Defense or starting his own fan club?”
Ron groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Mum’s already going spare about it. Bet he expects us to read them all too. And write essays about his favorite color or something.”
George snorted. “Bet he expects us to worship him. Look at the titles—‘Magical Me’? He might as well sign them with kisses and a headshot. We should bring mirrors to class so we can stare at his reflection instead of him.”
Mrs. Weasley shot them a glare sharp enough to silence them—at least for a moment. “That’s enough out of you two,” she said, though her cheeks colored slightly as she added, “Gilderoy Lockhart is a very accomplished wizard, and his books are excellent.” The twitch at the corner of her mouth betrayed that she enjoyed talking about him more than she let on.
A sudden thud at the window made everyone look up. Errol, the Weasleys’ ancient owl, slammed into the glass before sliding pitifully down in a heap of feathers. Ron sighed and went to retrieve him. “He’s not dead,” Ron said, examining the poor bird. “Just nearly.” He untied the letter from Errol’s leg and scanned it quickly. “It’s from Hermione. Says she’ll meet us in Diagon Alley before term starts.”
Harry smiled faintly at the thought of seeing her again but fell quiet as his gaze drifted to the small coin purse Mrs. Weasley was carefully tucking away on the counter. It looked so light compared to the heavy, gold-filled vault at Gringotts that bore his name. He swallowed a knot of guilt. If only he could help without embarrassing them.
Mrs. Weasley interrupted his thoughts with a brisk clap of her hands. “Right then! Eat up, all of you. We’ve a busy day ahead—school letters, shopping lists, and no dawdling in Diagon Alley!”
Fred groaned dramatically. “Dawdling is my specialty.”
“Mine too,” George added, raising his hand.
“Not today,” Mrs. Weasley said firmly, already herding them toward the table. Ron shot Harry a look that said, Welcome to life in this madhouse, but Harry only grinned. The Burrow buzzed with chaotic, loving energy, and for Harry, it felt like belonging.
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The Burrow was alive earlier than usual, bursting with energy in a way only a Weasley morning could be. The crooked kitchen felt smaller than ever as the family whirled through their routines, filling the air with chatter, laughter, and the occasional argument. The scent of frying bacon and baking bread mingled with Molly’s faint floral hand lotion, the fragrance curling through the warm air. Every surface was cluttered with life: lunches stacked in mismatched tins waiting for bags, parchment lists covered in Molly’s looping handwriting, and a pile of Hogwarts letters perched precariously near a jar of homemade jam. Even the enchanted clock ticked and clanked, its many hands jittering between “Getting Ready,” “Running Late,” and, for Fred and George, “Causing Mischief.”
Molly moved through it all like a general commanding her troops, her wand flicking to straighten cloaks and summon forgotten socks while she barked orders with sharp precision. “Everyone take a sandwich—one each, no excuses!” she said, levitating a basket of bacon sandwiches onto the table. She spotted Ron trying to sneak a second and wagged her wand at him. “Don’t even think about it, Ronald.”
“And Fred,” she added, spinning to glare at her son, “if you so much as look at Harry with that grin again, I’ll have you degnoming the garden until Christmas. He’s new to Floo powder. Don’t you dare make him nervous.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Mum,” Fred replied, his mock innocence so overdone that George snorted.
“Wouldn’t want him to think you’re scared either,” George added, his smirk earning him a sharp swat from Molly’s dishtowel.
“This isn’t a game,” she snapped. “Now settle down, all of you!”
Harry clutched the pot of Floo powder Molly thrust into his hands, staring at the soot-streaked fireplace. The flames roared, green and inviting, yet his stomach twisted at the thought of stepping into them. Magical or not, fire was still fire.
“Listen carefully, dear,” Molly said, crouching slightly to meet his eye. “Step in, elbows tucked, throw the powder down, speak clearly — and I mean clearly, Harry—‘Diagon Alley.’ Then hold still as you spin. It’ll feel strange, but don’t panic. Elbows in. No flailing. No mumbling. Clear as a bell. Understand?”
Harry nodded quickly, though his palms were clammy, and his pulse pounded in his ears.
Fred and George crouched in front of the fireplace, scooping up pinches of glittering Floo powder. “Watch and learn, Harry,” Fred said, winking. “Diagon Alley!” The green flames swallowed him whole, leaving only a faint echo of his laughter.
“See you there!” George grinned before vanishing in another whoosh of fire.
“Show-offs,” Ron muttered, rolling his eyes.
Harry swallowed hard. Molly gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll be fine, dear. Just like we practiced. Go on.”
Harry stepped into the grate, soot crunching under his shoes. He raised his handful of powder, tossed it at his feet, and stammered, “Diagonally!” The ash choked him mid-sentence, burning his throat.
The world erupted.
He was spinning violently, tumbling helplessly through a long, fiery tunnel. Cold, invisible hands clawed at his clothes and slapped his face with every rotation. His glasses slid crookedly, nearly flying off as his stomach twisted. Shadowed parlors, gilded halls, grimy hearths—flashes of strange rooms blurred by, each gone before his brain could catch up. Voices murmured faintly, laughter distorted by the roaring fire. He tried to breathe, but each gasp felt like inhaling smoke. The spinning was relentless, nauseating, endless.
Then, with a bone-jarring lurch, he was thrown out.
Harry hit the ground hard, groaning as he blinked through the soot coating his face. Cold stone dug into his palms. His robes clung to his sweaty skin, and his cracked glasses smeared the world in crooked blurs. The air reeked of dust, metal, and something faintly rotten. He forced himself upright, heart hammering, and blinked until the shadows sharpened.
The shop around him made every dark story he’d heard about Knockturn Alley seem tame. Dusty glass cases crowded the room, their grotesque contents illuminated by flickering, sickly light. A locket etched with strange, shifting runes pulsed faintly, as though breathing. A wickedly spiked dagger sat crusted with dried, dark residue. Instruments of unknown purpose gleamed with quiet menace. A Hand of Glory lay on black velvet, its shriveled fingers frozen in a grasp that made his skin crawl. Nearby, an opal necklace glowed faintly, its sheen oily, almost alive. Masks lined the back wall, their carved faces twisted in mocking expressions that seemed to follow his every movement. Even the floorboards groaned beneath him, as if warning him to leave.
The bell above the door jingled.
Harry’s heart leapt into his throat. He darted into the nearest hiding spot — a massive black cabinet that smelled of mildew and rot. He crouched in the darkness, knees aching, every shallow breath echoing in his ears.
Footsteps approached. A smooth, cultured voice filled the shop.
“Good morning, Borgin. I trust you understand why I’ve come.”
Lucius Malfoy. Harry didn’t need to see him to know. Calm. Cold. Dangerous. “There are certain… embarrassing items in my possession I’d prefer the Ministry not find during their ridiculous raids,” Lucius drawled. “And that Muggle Protection Act? Utter foolishness. They’ll regret antagonizing old families.”
“Yes, Mr. Malfoy,” Borgin replied quickly, his voice oozing deference.
Draco’s voice cut in, sharp and petulant. “Can we hurry? I don’t want to spend my whole day in this dump. Potter’s probably at the Leaky Cauldron being treated like royalty. He gets away with everything.”
Harry gritted his teeth.
A third voice, quieter but sharper. Lyra Lestrange. “You should look at this,” she said mildly. Through the cabinet crack, Harry glimpsed her moving with deliberate grace, dark curly hair cropped short, expression cool and unreadable. Her fingers hovered over the Hand of Glory before she stepped back deliberately. She examined the cursed opal necklace with clinical detachment, then drifted behind Lucius with practiced composure, her presence silent and steady. Something about her posture—poised, unafraid—made Harry shiver. She didn’t notice him. She didn’t even look his way.
“Wrap these up,” Lucius said briskly, gesturing at several items. “Draco. Lyra. We’re leaving.”
Draco muttered something under his breath, earning a sharp glance from Lyra, who said nothing. They moved like this was routine, like shops full of dark relics were just another errand.
Their footsteps faded. The bell chimed, and silence returned.
Borgin grumbled bitterly. “Malfoys. Always think they own the place. Old families.” He clicked his tongue, shuffling toward the back room, still muttering about Lucius’s arrogance.
Harry exhaled shakily. His heart thundered in his chest, palms slick. He had to get out of here—now.
Harry stumbled out of Borgin and Burkes, wiping at his cracked glasses with the edge of his sleeve, blinking against the bright sunlight. His legs still felt shaky from the Floo ride and the tense minutes hiding in that cabinet. His ears still rang with Lucius Malfoy’s voice, his mind replaying fragments of the conversation—snatches of words about the Ministry, the act, the “old families.” He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, scanning the crowd for someone familiar. Before he could gather his bearings, a huge shadow fell across him.
“Harry? That you?” came Hagrid’s booming voice. The half-giant strode up, eyes wide with surprise and concern. “What in Merlin’s name are yeh doin’ in a place like this? Knockturn Alley ain’t no place for yeh—come on, we’ll get yeh back ter the others.” Hagrid’s massive hand clapped down on his shoulder, nearly knocking the wind out of him as he steered Harry out of the crooked alleyways.
“Yer lucky I found yeh when I did,” Hagrid muttered. “Lots o’ people round here who wouldn’t think twice about takin’ advantage o’ a lost kid.” He glanced back at Knockturn Alley, his face darkening. “I shouldn’t even leave yeh for a second. Place is full o’ people who’d sell their own grandmothers for a few Galleons.”
Harry nodded quietly, grateful for Hagrid’s steady presence. They emerged into the bustle of the main street, the shift from shadowy Knockturn Alley to bright, crowded Diagon Alley feeling like stepping into another world entirely. Stalls lined the walkways, hawking everything from self-stirring cauldrons to enchanted quills. A group of school-aged kids jostled past them, laughing as one of them unwrapped a steaming bag of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavor Beans.
Before he could catch his breath, a familiar voice cut through the din of the Alley.
“There you are!” Molly Weasley came barreling toward him, her face pale and tight with worry. She grabbed him by the shoulders, giving him a thorough once-over as though expecting a limb to be missing. “Honestly, Harry, what were you thinking? ‘Diagonally’? You could have ended up Merlin-knows-where!” She produced an oversized clothes brush from her handbag and began furiously dusting soot from his robes, ignoring his mumbled protests.
Ron appeared from behind her, wide-eyed but grinning, clearly torn between relief and teasing him. Ginny peeked out from behind Ron, cheeks pink as she quickly ducked back when Harry glanced her way. Percy emerged a moment later, adjusting his prefect badge and muttering about how “reckless travel methods” were exactly why rules existed.
“I’m fine, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry said quickly, though his face burned. He could feel the gazes of several passersby lingering, drawn by Molly’s fussing. Hagrid loomed beside her, frowning but less frantic.
“Found him wanderin’ outta Knockturn Alley,” Hagrid rumbled. “Lucky I spotted yeh when I did. Dodgy place that is, Harry. Best steer clear. Nothin’ there yeh’d want ter see.”
“Knockturn Alley?” Ron gasped. “Blimey, Harry—did you see any cursed skulls? Or those shrunken heads? Fred says they talk to you if you stare long enough—”
“Ronald!” Molly snapped, her voice like a whip. “This is not a laughing matter. He could’ve been hurt or worse!” She muttered something about “reckless children” and “dangerous places” before shepherding Harry firmly toward Gringotts, still brushing soot off him with sharp, practiced strokes as they walked. The marble steps of the bank gleamed under the afternoon sun, bright and imposing against the chaotic backdrop of Diagon Alley.
Harry caught sight of witches haggling at stalls selling potion ingredients, owls swooping overhead with packages, and the hum of conversations that made the Alley feel alive and overwhelming all at once. Shop windows glittered with cauldrons, brooms, enchanted pets, and the latest in magical accessories as students tugged their parents toward them with eager faces. Harry glimpsed a group of first-years peering into Madam Malkin’s shop, one nervously tugging at his new robes.
They reached the top just as Hermione came bounding down the steps, her hair wilder than usual and her arms full of books. “Harry!” she squealed, nearly dropping the stack as she threw her arms around him in a hug that almost knocked him over. “Are you all right? I heard you got lost—what happened? Were you hurt? Where did you end up? Oh, it’s so good to see you!”
Harry grinned, feeling warmth push away the lingering unease. “I’m fine. Really. Just—wrong fireplace.”
Hermione gave him a look that said she wasn’t entirely convinced but let it go, falling into step beside him. “Come on, Ron and I were just about to meet you at the bank. The Alley’s absolutely packed today. There are new shops opening up near the apothecary, and the Quidditch store has some new releases Ron hasn’t stopped talking about.”
Inside Gringotts, the cool, echoing halls swallowed the noise of the Alley. Goblins scurried behind tall counters, their clawed hands scribbling across ledgers, eyes flicking up to scrutinize customers with hawk-like precision. A goblin with an elaborate, jewel-studded collar led them through winding corridors to the first stop: the Weasley vault. Harry kept his eyes respectfully down, but curiosity tugged at him when the small door creaked open.
His gut twisted at the sight inside: a pitiful pile of Sickles and a single Galleon glinting faintly in the torchlight. Molly scraped every last coin into her bag with brisk efficiency, her back straight and her chin high, as though daring anyone to pity her. Fred whispered something to George about “tight purse strings” and earned a glare from his mother sharp enough to cut steel. Percy, looking self-important, adjusted his prefect badge once again and loudly cleared his throat, pretending he hadn’t noticed.
The next cart ride brought them to Harry’s vault, and the contrast hit him like a Bludger. Mounds of gold, silver, and bronze coins spilled from chests and glittered in the torchlight, the wealth almost overwhelming. Harry moved quickly, filling his money bag with practiced efficiency, hoping no one would notice. Heat crept up his neck at the thought of Ron or Hermione seeing the difference between his fortune and the Weasleys’ humble savings.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of shopping. Hermione darted between shops, rattling off her plans to buy ink and parchment while Ron kept pulling Harry toward the Quidditch displays. Percy was spotted in a dusty little shop, nose buried in a book titled Prefects Who Gained Power, ignoring the world around him while Fred and George loudly teased him from the doorway, mimicking his pompous voice until Molly barked at them to behave. The twins pooled their coins to buy a set of joke fireworks, cackling as they read the warnings on the box and plotting elaborate pranks. Ron dragged Harry to Quality Quidditch Supplies, his face pressed against the glass as he admired the latest Chudley Cannons robes, chattering about team rosters and broom upgrades. Harry promised himself he’d get Ron a set someday, even if Ron never asked. Ginny lingered quietly near a shop window, sneaking glances at Harry whenever she thought no one was looking, clutching her secondhand copy of The Standard Book of Spells to her chest. Molly fussed over the boys’ robes at Madam Malkin’s, muttering about hems and how fast they were growing while Hermione argued with the clerk at the stationery shop about the quality of different parchment types.
They finished up most of their errands with an indulgent stop at Florean Fortescue’s. Harry insisted on treating Ron and Hermione to extravagant sundaes piled high with caramel, fudge, and mountains of whipped cream. They lingered there for a while, laughing between spoonfuls, watching the endless stream of shoppers drift by: parents herding first-years with new wands, witches comparing potion ingredient lists, and older students greeting friends after a long summer.
The chatter from the Alley still carried through, full of the sounds of street vendors calling out their wares and the excited voices of Hogwarts students reunited for the first time in months. Harry leaned back in his chair, licking caramel from his spoon, and thought that despite the chaotic start, this might be one of the best days of the summer so far.
As they left the shop, Molly gathered them up, pointing out the crowd gathered near Flourish and Blotts. “All right, everyone,” she called, herding them toward the bookshop’s front entrance. “We still need to get your schoolbooks. Let’s head there next.” The group began making their way down the cobblestone street, the bright Flourish and Blotts sign swinging above the sea of shoppers ahead, the promise of more shopping and bustle still ahead of them.
Harry’s stomach twisted slightly as they approached; after Knockturn Alley, the thought of another crowded shop made him anxious, but he kept quiet, letting the noise of the Alley wash over him. Ron, walking beside him, grumbled about the booklists while Hermione prattled on about the excitement of new textbooks. It all blended into a comforting, familiar hum as they drew closer.
The crowd outside Flourish and Blotts was suffocating.
Harry had been in plenty of crowded spaces before, but this was different—an overwhelming crush of witches and wizards pressed shoulder to shoulder, their perfume and cologne mixing with the pungent smell of ink, polished wood, and freshly printed parchment. The air was thick with heat and chatter, rising like a wave that threatened to swallow him whole. He could barely see over the heads in front of him, feeling boxed in by elbows and cloaks.
The noise was relentless—a chorus of impatient murmurs, sharp exclamations, and the occasional shriek of a Lockhart devotee. Children whined, parents scolded, and a hawker near the door shouted about discounted quills. Molly’s commanding voice—“Stay close!”—was the only tether Harry had in the chaos, cutting through the oppressive hum of the crowd.
“Stay close!” Molly barked again, her voice sharp with the strain of holding the group together. She tightened her grip on Ginny’s arm as she bulldozed a path through the throng. Harry and Ron squeezed in behind her, Hermione on Harry’s other side, her list of schoolbooks clutched like a lifeline.
Fred and George, of course, were taking their time, offering running commentary about the crowd. “Is that the witch who writes the cauldron maintenance column?” George quipped, earning a shove from Molly. Fred added, “Reckon she’s here for Lockhart or just for the free samples?” making Ron snort. Ginny stayed quiet, practically glued to her mother’s side, her knuckles white around her cauldron handle as the crowd jostled her.
Inside, the air was even more claustrophobic. The smell of ink and parchment was stronger here, almost metallic, mixing with the floral perfume of a witch brushing past Harry’s shoulder. Books were stacked high on tables, towering displays leaning precariously over the crowd as though daring someone to knock them over.
A makeshift stage had been set up at the front, where a banner read: Gilderoy Lockhart: Signing Today! A dazzlingly dressed man stood in the center of it all, his teeth shining brighter than the magical flashes from cameras. His aquamarine robes sparkled like crushed jewels in the light, making him look like a living ornament. Harry thought he looked ridiculous—like a gift someone would return immediately. Several witches near the front giggled and waved as Lockhart signed a book with a dramatic flourish.
“Harry, my boy!” Lockhart’s magically amplified voice boomed across the shop. Before Harry could react, the man himself lunged forward, grabbing him by the arm with surprising strength. “Ladies and gentlemen!” Lockhart called, spinning Harry toward the crowd like a prize he’d just won. “Here he is—the one and only Harry Potter!”
Gasps and excited chatter rippled through the shop as every head turned toward Harry. His face burned as Lockhart dragged him onto the stage, ignoring his protests. Someone in the back squealed, “Isn’t he precious?” Harry wanted to disappear. He caught Ron’s amused look—a mixture of disbelief and schadenfreude—and scowled, wishing Ron would at least pretend to sympathize.
“Come now, don’t be shy!” Lockhart cooed, clamping a hand over Harry’s shoulder like a vice. “And what an honor it is for me to share this moment with our very own celebrity!” There was a blinding flash. Harry blinked against the light, feeling like a specimen under glass. He could feel the sweat starting to gather at the back of his neck, his skin prickling under the weight of hundreds of eyes.
“And—surprise!” Lockhart added, lifting a stack of books. “This year, I’ll be your Defense Against the Dark Arts professor!” The announcement sent a cheer through the crowd. Hermione squealed and clapped, nearly bouncing with excitement. Ron groaned, muttering, “Oh, great. Just great.”
“Let’s get a photo for the Daily Prophet !” Lockhart said, yanking Harry closer for another blinding photograph. Harry’s stomach turned as the camera snapped. He hated every second of it and wondered if this was how he’d feel if he ever made the cover of a Chocolate Frog card—exposed, unreal, and completely out of his depth.
From the edge of the crowd came a familiar, sneering voice. “Well, well. If it isn’t Potter.”
Draco Malfoy stood with his arms crossed, smirking. “Enjoying the fame, Potter? Do you get a stage every time you go shopping, or is this a special treat?”
Before Harry could retort, Ginny snapped, “Leave him alone!” Her cheeks burned, but her voice was clear. Harry blinked—he’d never heard her speak up like that before, and though embarrassment still prickled at him, he felt a flicker of gratitude.
Draco’s smirk widened. “Oh, look, Potter’s little girlfriend has a voice. Does Harry know how much you write about him in that diary of yours? Or are you too busy buying secondhand trash?” He glanced at her battered books with disdain. Ron lunged forward, but Molly’s arm shot out, holding him back with surprising strength.
“Malfoy.” Arthur Weasley’s low, dangerous voice cut through the noise. He stepped forward, fists curling.
“Now, now,” Lucius Malfoy interrupted, gliding into view with his cane tapping against the floor. “No need for unpleasantness.” He reached into Ginny’s cauldron, plucking out her Transfiguration book and flipping it with disdain. “Ah, secondhand. A shame the Ministry doesn’t pay enough for you to afford better for your children.”
“Put that back,” Arthur growled.
“Careful, Arthur,” Lucius said silkily, his voice dripping with mock civility. “People might think you can’t control yourself.”
Near Draco, Lyra stood silent, sharp-eyed. As Draco moved to step forward, she blocked him smoothly.
“Draco, be quiet,” she said, voice calm but firm. Harry noted the protective edge—it was startlingly different from Draco’s usual bravado. It was the kind of tone Harry associated with McGonagall when she meant business, and it unsettled him.
The tension snapped like a whip. Arthur lunged. He collided with Lucius, knocking into a shelf. Books crashed down in a deafening avalanche, people screamed, children cried. Molly yelled for everyone to get back, while Hermione yanked Ginny to safety. Fred and George flanked their father instinctively; Percy froze, pale and useless in the chaos.
“Enough!” Hagrid’s roar shook the shop as he barreled forward, ripping the men apart as if they were misbehaving children. Lucius smoothed his robes, gave Arthur a cold, triumphant look, and turned away.
“Come, Draco. Lyra.” He swept out, Draco trailing behind with a scowl. Lyra followed, shielding Draco from the jostling crowd, her calm demeanor unshaken despite the commotion.
Whispers erupted as the Malfoys disappeared. Harry clutched Lockhart’s books, wishing he could vanish. Molly fussed over Ginny, checking her hands and face. Ron cursed under his breath, his ears scarlet. Hermione, still glowing over Lockhart’s announcement, seemed oblivious to the lingering tension. Fred and George exchanged vengeful looks that promised payback. Percy adjusted his badge like that would erase what had just happened. The shopkeeper muttered about “rowdy customers” as he began picking up fallen books, the crowd still buzzing with gossip about the brawl they’d witnessed.
Molly was still fuming as they exited the shop, her face blotchy with anger and her voice sharp enough to cut glass. “Brawling like a Muggle in the middle of a bookshop!” she scolded Arthur, her tone growing shriller as she went on. “In front of the children, Arthur! Do you know what people will say? The Prophet will have a field day, and for what? So you could punch Lucius Malfoy in front of a crowd?”
Arthur trudged silently behind her, his ears as red as Ron’s and his jaw clenched. He kept his eyes down, muttering under his breath about “arrogant Pure-bloods.” Molly wasn’t having it. “Don’t you mumble at me,” she snapped, rounding on him. “You are supposed to set an example!”
Fred snorted, breaking the tension. “They’ll say Dad flattened Lucius Malfoy. Lockhart will probably write a chapter about it in his next book. ‘Gilderoy Lockhart and the Heroic Bookshop Brawl.’ Might even sign copies at the scene of the crime.”
“Not funny,” Molly snapped, though the twitch at her lips betrayed her. George chimed in, “Think Lockhart got our good side in those photos? He’s probably sending one to Witch Weekly as we speak.” Even Percy, stiff and self-important, couldn’t entirely hide his discomfort, muttering about how “completely inappropriate” the whole thing had been.
By the time they reached the Leaky Cauldron, the group was exhausted and tense. Molly immediately began double-checking parcels, fussing over Ginny’s schoolbooks and adjusting Ron’s robes while the twins continued to tease Percy about “standing frozen like a statue” during the fight. Percy’s haughty denials only fueled their laughter. Arthur mumbled a goodbye to the Grangers, who were chatting warmly with Hermione about their first visit to Diagon Alley, their arms laden with bags of books and supplies.
Harry stood quietly by the hearth, clutching his own parcels and trying to process everything. The day felt like a blur in his mind—Lockhart’s suffocating grip and blinding smile, Lucius Malfoy’s sneering insults, Arthur’s sudden rage, and the crash of falling books as the shop erupted into chaos. He thought of Ginny standing up to Draco, of Lyra shielding him in that oddly protective way, and of Hagrid’s massive form breaking apart the fight with ease. All of it buzzed in his mind, loud and jumbled.
Yet through it all, one thought rose to the surface: the Burrow. Its warmth. Its safety. He thought of the crooked house with its mismatched furniture, the smells of Molly’s cooking, and the clamor of the Weasleys filling every corner. It wasn’t just a house—it was the only place that had ever felt like home.
“Go on, dear,” Molly said, softening as she pressed a pinch of Floo powder into his hand. “Straight to the Burrow.” Her voice, still tinged with lingering anger, held an undercurrent of maternal concern that made Harry’s chest tighten.
Harry stepped into the fireplace, the chatter of the Leaky Cauldron fading around him. He tossed down the powder. “The Burrow!” he called. Green flames roared up around him, swallowing the pub whole. As he spun through the Floo network, his stomach swooping and his vision blurring, Harry let the chaos of Diagon Alley melt away. He held on to the thought of the Burrow—not just a house, but a refuge, a place where, for a little while, he could belong.