Harry flung down the mirror in disgust. It was happening already. His face looked somehow narrower, the eyebrows bushier, the down on his top lip darker. And as for his hair… The thick, black locks swung forward across his face; he tossed his head back angrily.

“I’m getting this cut,” he vowed in exasperation.

His room at The Leaky Cauldron must have been the smallest in the whole building. There was barely room for his trunk and Hedwig’s cage. It was no more than he deserved though. He hadn’t been able to book from the Dursley’s, so had simply turned up and taken whatever they had left. The Knight Bus, as alarmingly unpredictable as ever, had eventually collected him from Privet Drive in response to a message he had sent to Stan via Hedwig. He now had one afternoon in Diagon Alley to buy all his supplies for the new term before catching the Hogwarts Express the following morning.

The last month had been far from pleasant. Sabotaging expensive topiary was a mortal sin in the Dursleys’ eyes. Harry had not gone unpunished. Preoccupied with punishment plans of his own, however, Harry had been largely indifferent to pain and privation. It had been rather a Pyrrhic victory for Uncle Vernon.

Harry pushed open the door of Wizard Whiskers and marched straight up to the bearded barber. He had to do this now, straightaway, before he lost his nerve.

“I want it cut short,” he said, “very short. Really short. A ‘Number One’, all over.”

“Well, if you’re sure…” The barber hovered his clippers reluctantly over Harry’s luxuriant head of hair.

“Positive,” Harry confirmed. “Go for it!”

In five minutes it was all over. Harry ran an uncertain hand over his shorn dome. It felt spiky but soft. When he put his glasses back on, a punk-headed stranger stared back at him from the mirror, the lightning scar aggressively visible with no fringe to soften its jagged edges.

The breeze felt unnaturally cool on the back of his neck as he strolled self-consciously down the cobbled Alley towards Flourish and Blotts. He was convinced that every warlock, witch, goblin or wizard he passed was staring at his scar. Perhaps he could do something to divert attention from his forehead…

“Harry? Is that you Harry?” a tentative voice called from across the street. A moment later he was engulfed as Hermione flung her arms around him in a welcoming hug. He hugged her back, breathing in the warm, familiar smell of her skin and hair.

“Oh Harry, I’ve missed you so much!” she exclaimed, beaming at him. “What on earth have you done to your hair?”

“What does it look like?”

“It looks as though you’ve just escaped from prison, or you’ve joined the army, or something. You haven’t … have you? I mean, you haven’t been in Azkaban all summer, or anything weird like that?” she faltered.

“Might as well have been,” he said, moodily. “Not that anyone would have noticed if I had.”

“Don’t be difficult,” she said. “You know Dumbledore told us not to have any contact with you. You know, in case it got intercepted, or drew attention…”

“Come off it, you think they don’t know where I live ?” Harry retorted irritably.

“How should I know? Look, don’t be like that, Harry. I’m really pleased to see you. Don’t spoil it.” She took his arm. “I’m meeting Ron in the bar at the Leaky Cauldron in five minutes,” she continued. “You’ll come, won’t you? Or did you have to buy more stuff?”

In the excitement, Harry had completely forgotten what he had to get.

“Oh, quills, ink, the usual. And the books, of course,” he ad-libbed.

Hermione gave him a reproachful look.

“You’re meant to have read those over the holidays.”

“Well I’ve had other things on my … I’ve been busy, OK?”

The warm, smoky air of the Leaky Cauldron wrapped them in a beer-stained blanket the moment they stepped in. ‘Why can’t they open a few windows on a glorious day like this?’ Harry thought, wrinkling his nose. Spending practically all day every day outdoors for the past eight weeks had turned him into a bit of a fresh air fanatic. ‘It’s so stuffy and hot in here. I can’t breathe.’ Funny, it had never bothered him before. Through the haze they could see Ron sitting at a table with two other boys. Even though they had their backs to him, their identical ginger heads identified them instantly.

“Fred! George! Hi Ron!”

At the sound of Harry’s voice they all looked up. Their smiles froze.

“Whoa, mate! That is one major bad hair day!” The twins were perversely impressed. “Is that for real, or is Tonks just a really bad teacher? Ow!”

Hermione had kicked Fred’s shin. She flashed them both a meaningful look and mouthed, “Sore point…”

Ron gave him a limp salute,

“Welcome aboard, Captain. Lieutenant Weasley reporting for duty.”

“Huh?” Harry was confused.

“Don’t take any notice of him,” Hermione explained, “He’s been talking utter rubbish all week. No one has a clue what he’s on about. He’s obsessed with some stupid television programme.”

It seemed that Mr Weasley, working for the Department for the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, had impounded a malfunctioning television set. It had been bewitched so that the on-screen characters acted out their own independent story lines, irrespective of the screenplay.

“It was hilarious. The Muggles were all in uproar. They take TV very seriously,” Hermione went on. “For instance, Mr Darcy got killed by an exploding blunderbuss in episode One, and Elizabeth Bennett eloped with a bloke called Brandon from a completely different series, and Hercule Poirot ran off with the vicar’s wife and went to open a Bed and Breakfast in Cleethorpes!” She paused for effect, but all this was lost on Harry who was banned from watching television at the Dursleys.

“Ron’s Dad was reprogramming it for weeks - literally - and Ron sort of got hooked on this space thing. He’s totally incomprehensible now - not that that’s much of a change.” She gave Ron an affectionate grin.

“Affirmative,” Ron agreed. “Prune juice, anybody? Or tea, Earl Grey, hot?”

“We’ll stick to Butterbeer, thanks.”

It was too good an opportunity to miss. Harry didn’t know when he was likely to bump into Fred and George again.

“Psst. Could I, um, have a word?” he asked. “In private?”

George tapped the side of his nose knowingly,

“Say no more! Nod’s as good as a wink to a blind Basilisk. Outside, five minutes.”

Harry sighed. The whole Weasley family talked in riddles. He excused himself and slipped out into the September sunshine, blinding after the dimly lit bar.

“So, what’s the trouble, my young benefactor? Want to increase your investment? You don’t want the money back?” the twins suddenly looked worried.

“No, nothing like that.” Harry reassured them. “I need a favour.”

“Ask away.”

“I want … I need you to teach me to Apparate.”

They stared at him in shock and concern.

“Whew! You don’t ask for much, do you? That’s a big ask, Harry. You know it won’t work within Hogwarts because of all the wards and everything, so that means … Are you in some kind of trouble?”

“I know I’m underage,” Harry by-passed the question, “but I wouldn’t ask unless it was really important.”

“Look, mate… sorry, but no can do. It’s too risky. And where would you practise? You can’t go sneaking out of the grounds every time.” George pointed out the obvious drawbacks, but Fred’s eyes were sparkling mischievously:

“It wouldn’t hurt just to teach him the basics…”

Ron and Hermione were also staying at The Leaky Cauldron. Their pre-booked rooms were much bigger and more comfortable than Harry’s. They arranged to meet up again later, once Harry had finished shopping. In Flourish and Blotts he handed his reading list to the assistant who began methodically to select volumes from the packed shelves.

Harry nipped between the narrow, dusty aisles to the ‘advanced’ section at the back of the shop. He scanned the spines quickly, looking… well, he wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, but he felt he would know it when he saw it. One book caught his eye : ‘Magical Mobility’. A glance at the contents page told him that this was precisely what he needed. He’d have to get the rest from the Hogwarts’ library.

“How could you?” Hermione was very upset. “How could you do that to yourself, Harry? It’s horrible. It looks ghastly. It’s so… so… common!”

“Are we talking about my hair again?” asked Harry, “because, if we are, I’m off.”

They were in Ron’s room later that evening. Dinner had been rather tense: Ron kept asking for Klingon delicacies with names that made him sound as though he was about to start spewing up slugs again; Hermione had been on the brink of tears throughout the whole meal. They both kept looking at him askance. Neither of them believed that he had spent the entire summer gardening.

“The hair’s bad enough!” Hermione cried. “But I’m talking about that awful ear-ring!”

“He’s Bajoran. Ear furniture is a sign of cultural identity,” Ron offered.

“Shut up, Ron!”

Without waiting for Harry’s reply, Hermione continued her tirade,

“How could you be so stupid? Getting your ear pierced? You must be mad. Wizards really aren’t into body-piercing. Bill just about gets away with it because…well, we all know he’s a nutter. But you! Dumbledore’ll have a fit. I’ve been ignoring it all afternoon because I thought it was a clip-on and you were wearing it for some kind of sick joke. I never dreamed it was real. What were you thinking?”

Harry twisted the offending stud gingerly. His ear-lobe was still rather sore.

“Oh, so it’s alright for Bill to have one, but not me? And what about Kingsley Shacklebolt? Huh? Are you saying I’m not ‘cool’ enough to carry it off? If you must know, I thought it might draw attention away from my scar. Nobody ever looks at my face; they always stare straight at my scar. I decided to give them something else to look at.”

“And make yourself look like a thug in the process?” Hermione interjected, coldly. “And the hair?”

“Not that it’s any of your business. I was so sick of people peering at me to see if it really was my scar under my fringe. If they want to see it so much, well, here it is !” Harry stood up and began to pace the room, arms folded defensively. He could feel the sharp outline of the letter in his top pocket, a stiff paper shield above his heart. Just knowing it was there strengthened his resolve. Hermione watched him uneasily.

“Listen to yourself, Harry. You want people to be able to see your scar, but you don’t want them to look at it? It doesn’t make sense. You don’t know what you want!” She stood in front of him and put her hands on his shoulders,

“What do you want, Harry?”

“I don’t know,” he answered meekly.