It took Harry several days to get used to his strange new freedom. Never before had he been able to get up or eat whenever he wanted. He could even go wherever he pleased, as long as it was in Diagon Alley, and as this long cobbled street was packed with the most fascinating shops in the world, it wasn’t very hard to wander off to the outside world. 

This freedom also came with certain aspects he didn’t quite fancy. For one, he was utterly miserable for reasons he couldn’t understand. He usually couldn’t sleep at night, and so he would irritably toss from one side to the other, scream into his pillow and cry himself to sleep. Most nights he couldn’t sleep long enough, disturbed as he was by nightmares. Those nights he hated the world more than anything else.

He just couldn’t understand why he was feeling like this. Guilty, angry, afraid at the same time, breaking down at minor inconveniences as though he was carrying the world on his shoulders. 

Then again, he probably was. 

Due to his pathetic sleeping patterns, Harry woke exhausted, struggling to keep his eyes open while working, occasionally snuggling under the sheets in his room during breaks, the inability to fall asleep inducing him to pull  Recent Local History , volume two (which was written by Alenxandria Alexander) from under his bed and read for the next two hours, until around two in the afternoon. Then he’d have a lovely crying session, in which he’d rather avoid the wooden walls in the corridors, before dragging himself outside, head down, feeling entirely numb.

But that wasn’t all Harry was up to. 

He still had to save money, if he ever hoped to achieve some stability, and tending to the tables at the Leaky Cauldron would only get him dinner and sleep, if he was lucky. Harry wasn’t stupid. Diagon Alley was the most resourceful option he had, with many, many shops to choose from. 

To work for. 

To learn all and any information the adults might have on the Boy-Who-Lived.

He avoided the tinsmith, which was right beside the entrance, and wavered between avoiding the apothecary or not. The woman would certainly ask where he’d gotten his experience, small though it may be, and if he even uttered Snape’s name, he was sure she wouldn’t wait a second before writing a letter to assess his abilities. No, best to avoid it entirely. 

He decided to ask Florean Fortesque for work at his parlour, because he had offered Harry some ice cream -free of charge!- after catching him making his rounds in the Alley, back hunched, rather depressed. The ice cream was like magic. Sugary, savoury and all the words that meant pleasant pulled into one. He almost dared to ask for more, when his bowl was finished, but instead thanked the man very sincerely before leaving the shop to head to another.

The rest of the shopkeepers at Diagon Alley weren’t so bad, Harry thought. Sure, that one shop that sold the most expensive articles of clothing had a very rude owner, but he’d have no problem avoiding her. Or the library.

And so, in the one week Harry spent at Diagon Alley, he learned many great things. 

He learned how to serve ice-cream, how to clean books, how to sew clothes that needed mending… 

He also learned no one actually knew what had happened thirteen years ago to the Boy-Who-Lived or Voldemort.

The couple had said Voldemort had died on his birthday, Alexandria Alexander said it happened on a cold, Halloween night.

Tom said Harry Potter was dead, while Harry Potter wiped the counter in front of him with a wet rag and a grin.

The woman at the second-hand clothes store who said she was from Thailand and called herself Fah was insistent that nothing of the sort had happened at all. 

The owner of Flourish and Blotts guaranteed that Lord Riddle and Voldemort were two different personalities entirely. 

Harry got some enjoyment out of watching these adults. Almost every customer had a different version of the tale, and almost none of them had read Alenxandria Alexander, but Harry could understand why. He had to shut the book himself when Alexander began to talk  about a ‘dark angel’ that had come to tell her the truth about the night the Potters had died. For a history book, Harry thought the book was very much subjective. And very much dependent on this angel she called her muse. 

But if there was anything Harry knew was correct, it was that close to his presumed death, Voldemort had turned far more nasty. As though attacking minorities and trying to push bills that would ensure the supremacy of native citizens were not enough, he opted to murder not soon after - murder of the children of families that weren’t ‘normal’. 

He’d invade homes, attack parents, if not killing them, and use a knife to carve their foreheads in lines of scars, after which he’d leave them in the house which his followers would set on fire.

Until the night he attacked the Potter household. 

The book had given a very vivid description of that particular topic.

Harry shut the book the minute things started to turn ugly, and didn’t get out of his room for two days. 

Those two days, he cried more than he had ever before, flashbacks, nightmares, and the eventual numbness that came from refusing to think about it.

That is, until this morning. 

A prickling sensation rippled on Harry’s arm. He hadn’t realised he had picked up the habit of scratching his arms until he felt a jab of pain on his skin. With a groan, Harry twisted his arm for a better look, wincing and staggering back when he caught sight of the red, bleeding line running down his skin.

For a moment, he stared, petrified and curious. The blood was pooling on his skin, dark red. He would have stood transfixed in his own shock, no doubt, if the blood didn’t start dripping to the bedsheets and floor. 

With a gasp, he jumped to his feet, staring wide eyed at the red trail following him, heart thumping loud and angry. He rushed to the door, closed it and didn’t bother locking it behind him. Running down the corridor with his head down, as to avoid the menacing doors, he didn’t notice the man that was walking towards him until he collided with his shoulder and tumbled to the floor, scratching his arm on the carpet. With a hiss, he pushed himself up, cradling his now burnt and bleeding arm. 

“I’m sorry,” he cried to the man, struggling to find his balance, “I’m so sorry, but I’m in a rush!”

And without looking at the man, he rushed down the stairs. 

“Tom!” he shouted into the inn, still cradling his arm, head spinning with bright, small dots, “Tom!” he tried again, leaning against the counter, one hand flying over his mouth to stop a gag.

Tom walked out the door that led to the kitchens, eyes going wide when they landed on Harry. It didn’t compare to the expression he showed upon seeing Harry’s arm, however, confused between a fusion of horror and shock.

“Harry! What on Earth happened to you?”

“I- Small accident, you see, I read this thing and-” Harry’s started, his words ceasing abruptly. Tom looked at him with furrowed brows, his hands held open in front of him, “Harry?”

“Nevermind. I just need… I just need- are there any doctors in Diagon Alley?”

Tom scratched his forehead, silent for far too long. Harry licked his lips and lifted a hand, shaking him by the shirt, “Tom! Doctor?”

“Ah!” Tom jumped, rather clumsily, due to his age and nodded vigorously. He knew the answer, no doubt, and wasted no time blurting out in a jumble of words, “Healer, on the left side, very close to Gringotts, right before you turn into Knockturn Alley. Does her work free of charge-”

“Great,” Harry said, squeezing his shirt sleeve over his stinging arm, biting back a wince as the fabric was rolled over his arm, digging into a gauze above the cut. The metallic smell was becoming nauseating by the time Harry turned to the back door, Tom’s and the customers’ eyes on his back, and he’d rather find this healer before he delayed anymore.

“I will send Yanase with you,” Tom said, turning to the kitchens to find the waiter with the burnt face, “Yanase!”

But Harry had thrown himself out the door the moment Tom had turned his back, blending into the busy street of Diagon Alley, arm clenched to his chest. 

He received a few queer looks. Most of them were concerned, some of them reluctantly so, and Florean gave him a wave, spoon in hand, which Harry returned with a vague smile. The pain was growing from a throb to spasms of pain, now, and the jostle of the crowd resembled ugly screeching in his ears. 

Eyes still down, Harry dodged the crowd ambling down the street, trying to keep as much to the right as he could. The pain, vibrating up and down his arm, was growing heavier and heavier. But with it, Harry felt something else. Something equally, if not more terrifying than the pain, because Harry felt alive. Strong, stable and controlled. The cut had been a mistake, yes, but in a way, it felt like the anchor Harry was searching for. 

He reached the Healer, while lost in his thoughts. The outside isn’t much different than the rest, but is adorned with colourful paint that circles the white walls. There are only two small windows which are too high to reach, and a lonely wooden sign that reads Healer at the very top.

Harry doesn’t immediately trust it. The  shop has a cheap feel to it - built from items discarded on the streets and painted to look defeatedly pleasing to the eye.

Harry’s arm gives another throb. This time, he turns back, deciding to tend to it himself. He only needs to take a single step to see Yasane, the waiter, walking towards him, parting his way awkwardly through the crowd with his pole-like body. 

Harry’s posture sags and his head hangs down. Defeated, he steals a glance at the shop, then a glance back at Yasane and the crowd. He doesn’t give Yasane enough time to reach him. Turning around, pebbles crunching under his shoes, Harry steps over the sidewalk and pushes the wooden door open.

The strong waft of smells are immediately there to greet him. Herbal smells, they are. Minty and sharp inside the hot, suffocating air. For a moment, Harry imagines that this is what Snape’s laboratory would look like. Shelves upon shelves are packed tightly with jars, while bubbling and boiling noises come from somewhere in the room. And hot. So very hot. Harry fumbles with his shirt, casting his eyes away from the phials on the shelves and steps to the front counter. 

There isn’t a healer in sight, nor a bell to announce Harry’s arrival. Instead, Harry finds a small, crystal ball and stacks of cards. Lifting a hand, Harry touches the ball, running a finger down the glass surface. It’s cool, almost cold, and when Harry lifts his head to look at the door, he feels refreshed. 

Behind him, Yasane steps in, closing the door behind him. He smiles at Harry, back hunched because the ceiling is too low and dodges the ornaments and plants hanging from the ceiling to come closer to Harry.

“The healer isn’t here?” he asks, looking like he’d rather be somewhere else. 

Harry gives him a similar look before eyeing his arm, “No,” he mumbles, then looks behind the counter where a curtain parts the way between this room and the next, where the boiling noises were coming from, “Reckon we should, I don’t know, go in there?”

Yasane shuddered, despite the heat, and shook his head, “No. I- I don’t want. Very unpleasing, I think. Wait here?”

Harry shrugs, leans against the counter, and waits.

Five minutes pass. Then ten. At the end of fifteen, when he can barely lift his arm, he storms around the corner towards the curtain, brows knitted tight and a scowl in his face.

“Evans! Evans wait-”

He doesn’t listen to Yasane and is about to throw back the curtains himself when the healer finally comes out. 

Harry stumbled back, gasping. He tries to catch a look of the woman, at least, before he can stagger back but craning his neck only puts him in an awkward situation where he’s falling again, flailing his arms.

Holding out his uninjured  arm, Harry tries to cut his fall, reminded rather hastily of the night with the Knight Bus. He didn’t fall this time, however. Didn't feel the pain from the fall last time. He feels something much, much worse. A seizing pain that rivals almost anything he’s felt that month. Well, almost.

The woman’s grip on Harry’s arm doesn’t falter when he cries out in pain. Without looking at the women, he tries to pry the fingers from around the cut, eyes tearing up. However, the woman’s vice grip stays firm, and furthermore starts to drag him through the curtain to the other room.

“You!” she shouts suddenly, stopping mid-stride to point at Yasane, who points at his chest in surprise, “Yes, you! Go away, umfana, I will be alone with my patient.”

Yasane swallowed heavily, eyes darting between the two, weighing his options before Harry nodded his head, wiping some of the tears trailing down his burning cheeks. 

The healer’s eyes followed Yasane until he was out the door. With a gentle thud, the closed behind him and only then did she return her attention to Harry. 

“Sit,” she ordered. 

Harry did, and upon her gaze, lifted his arm, bloody and wet under the also red shirt.

The woman tutted and shook her head. Taking Harry’s arm in her hands, she looked down at him with soft eyes before motioning his arm

It took Harry an embarrassingly long time to understand that she was asking for permission. Harry blushed and nodded vigorously. A soft smile found her lips before they closed into a stern look. Her fingers, long and square, gripped the sleeve of Harry’s shirt and slowly started to peel it away from the cut. 

Harry tried hard to not wince, to not make any noise. His lips pressed into a firm, straight line, biting the inside of his cheek and gripping the sheet under him in a tight fist. Then, it was over.

The woman turned Harry’s arm, lifting it to the light that was coming in from the window. She must have seen something Harry could not, the way she suddenly sprang to her feet and passed the boiling pots in the middle of the room towards the shelf on the other side, eyes scanning the shelves. 

Harry took this moment to observe the woman further. Her black skirt held rows of beads, and a shawl was draped over her chest. Harry couldn’t see much of her hair, but just beside her round red earring, he could just make out some black shapes over her dark skin before that, too, was hidden by a hat with a round brim on the top. 

The woman turned around and began to stride towards him, a few jars in hand. She bent down beside the table next to the bed, the jars perfectly lined up, and went back to the shelf before coming back with an odd bag with stripes.

She pulled open the latch on the bag, and lifted out some small, white, soft looking balls and dropped them on the table as well. Standing up for the third time, she circled the room towards the fireplace and picked up one of the many buckets beside it. She heaved it with no difficulty, and Harry presumed it to be lightweight until she placed it on the floor, pulling its lid. Harry bent over, catching the glimpse of water before he was pushed back by the shoulder.

“No,” the healer simply said, bending down and reaching under the bed, arms coming back with a wide wooden bowl. Balancing the bowl on the bed, she took hold of his arm again and held it above the bowl, dipping the rag that was hanging on the belt she was wearing into  the bucket, she gave it a tight squeeze before starting to clean the cut on Harry’s arm. It stung. With every stroke, Harry winced and received a tight-lipped frown from the woman. 

Once that was done, and the water that had fallen into the basin was a murky colour, the healer moved onto the jars. Taking one white ball into her hand, she dabbed it inside one of the bigger phials, continuously, until it took the colour of the liquid, and once more, Harry’s arm began to sting. Harsher, this time, and the feeling lingered even when the healer began to spread a balm over his cut. 

“Hurts?” the healer asked, balancing the bag on the bed.

“Uh, yes, but it’s better now,” Harry said, flexing his fingers and turning his arm around, “Thank you.”

The healer gave a stern nod of approval, but a hint of a smile grew on her lips at the concern still knitted on Harry’s face. Lifting a roll of bandages, she held out her hand. Harry offered his arm before she asked for it. With another nod, the healer gently wrapped it around his arm, circling it slowly and steadily, and finally clipping it to place with a needle.

Harry lifted his arm to his line of sight, flexing his fingers and running his free hand over the bandage. The material, rough to the touch, felt soft from the inside. Softer than his shirt, at the very least, because Harry didn’t feel any itching from his cut.

 “Thank you,” he said to the woman, dropping his arm with a smile, “I would have liked to offer something, but I heard you do this for free. Thank you for that, as well.”

 The healer nodded. Kneeling beside the table, she started to pack away her materials, stuffing the extra balls and bandages into her bag and lidding the jars close. Harry, not sure of what to do, jumped down from the bed, one hand still on the wooden frame. He stood still, observing the healer. Oddly reminded of Snape, when he took the time to help him from a nightmare or when he had fallen, always smelling like one herb or the other. But here, while the dominant smell was sharp and minty, Snape had the sort of smell that was nutty and bitter, close to ginger but not quite.

 Oh, ginger.

 Harry didn’t know if ginger had any healing properties, but he was thankful the healer hadn’t used it all the same.

 Rubbing the back of his neck, Harry faced the healer, smile lopsided, “So, um-” he clasped his hands in a firm clasp, “What’s- If it’s alright, can I learn your name.”

 The healer turned, sharp and precise. She looked as though Harry had just emitted an abominable screech in her shop, eyes wide and lips slightly parted. A flash of recognition passed over her eyes, however, and she recovered from her shock quickly. She cleared her throat. Her hands slid down her skirt to smooth the fabric while she stood up before her hands landed on her hips, “I am healer.”

 “But what’s your name?”

 “My name is Uluthando, umfana.”

 Harry tilted his head, “What does ‘umfana’ mean?”

 “You don’t know?” the healer asked, stern lips loosening into a smile.

 “Of course I don’t know!” Harry cried, throwing his arms into the air, “The words I know are only in English. You should speak English with people in this place.”

 “Why? This is my shop. You come to me.”

 Harry lifted his brow, scratching the side of his neck before his mouth opened in understanding. Wide and an almost perfect ‘o’.

 “You’re right. Of course you should be able to speak your own buisness,” he said, red in the cheeks, “I understand now, I’m sorry.”

 The healer nodded. She lifted her fingers, then, from her lips to her face and Harry stared confused until she pulled at the sides of her lips, showing neat rows of teeth.

“Smile.”

 Not being able to help himself, Harry laughed, doubling  over, his own hand covering the grin on his face, “You’re right,” he managed to say, lifting his head, “A smile is enough.”

 The healer herself escorted Harry to the door, casting warning glances to his arm in a way that suggested that she didn’t want to see him here on injury related business. Harry could work with that, and he made sure to let her know with an overly enthusiastic nod and salute. With another nod from the healer, Harry dropped his hand. Transitioning the salute into a wave, he turned left, the opposite direction of the Leaky Cauldron. He didn’t think he had the nerve to face Tom yet.

 He passed the library with his head down, trying to be as small and invisible as possible, though how that was possible with his bloodied sleeve and bandaged arm he wasn’t so sure. Nonetheless, the street led him to a small bank and a few shops scattered on its sides. Nothing interesting, particularly, but in the corner of his eye, something did flicker. It stood out from the rest, because of the polished wooden walls and the name on the board over the door that didn’t explain much about what the shop sold.

 “Ollivanders?” Harry muttered. He stole a glance at the people around him, to see if anyone was walking to this lonely little shop. No one, not a single stray soul. So Harry decided to be that soul instead.

 Ollivanders had no large windows, either. Only a measly door squeezed between two panes of glass. Approaching the door, however, Harry realized that they weren’t just windows, but colorful, patterned glass. One looked to be made by a professional, depicting a woman carrying a bucket, while the other was only shapes distorted into looking acceptable in a very short amount of time. Harry slid his hands down the one with the woman. He smiled, and with a deep breath, pushed the door open.

 Shopkeepers must have an obsession with stacking shelves tight. Ollivander was no different. Shelf upon shelf, touching the ceiling, were stacks of boxes. Long boxes, short boxes. Big and small boxes. Boxes with colors and then ones with no color at all.

 Diagon Alley was something else, entirely.

 The door closed with a sharp thud, making Harry jump. He would have liked to recognize the odors he was smelling, but he just didn’t have the words. Well, there was wood. A lot of wood. A burning smell that wafted in like fog and other smells that accompanied it like a gentle friend, hand in hand.

 “Why, hello there,” a soft voice said. Harry jumped. Turning to the counter, Harry met with an old man. An old man whose wide, pale eyes were shining like moons through the gloom of the shop. Harry swallowed, moving closer to whom he presumed to be the owner.

 “Good afternoon,” Harry said, almost in a question.

 “Good afternoon, young man. And who might you be?”

 Harry flattened his fringe before speaking, “Harry Evans.”

“Harry Evans?”

 Harry nodded his head, wondering if he ought to go by James Evans in the near future, to disregard any relation with Harry Potter at all.

 The man scratched his chin, lost in thought, before his eyes lifted up, silver and bright. Hands clasped behind his back, he moved around the counter, a smile pulling at the lines around his mouth, “I once knew a woman by the name of  Evans, I don’t doubt you know it either. You look a mighty bright young man, Harry.”

 Harry’s looked up suddenly in surprise. He tried to dismiss it with a cough, but his embarrassment stayed long after the man approached him, standing right in front of him with a hand stretched out, “I am the current and only Ollivander.”

 Harry took the hand. Big, warm. 

 “What do you sell here, Mr Ollivander?”

 “Magic, young Harry,” Mr Ollivander said, without missing a beat.

 Harry blinked. And blinked again. He blinked as many times needed to process Mr Ollivander’s words and derive some sense from them. He didn’t. Many couldn’t decipher Mr Ollivanders, surely, if he always spoke of such absurd things.

 But Harry was curious.

 “Magic?”

 “The best of its kind.”

 “Can I see it?”

 Mr Ollivander smiled crookedly, the lines on his face easing, and beckoned him to the counter. Mr Ollivander told him to stand behind the corner, and that he would be back soon. Harry listened, shifting from one foot to the next, looking around the shop in hopes of finding what this magic Mr Ollivander was speaking of was. Harry scoffed, a grin on his face. Magic. As if such a thing existed. As if-

 Something landed on the counter. Harry lifted his eyes to see that instead of perhaps a wand or crystal ball, like the one in the healer’s shop, Harry saw a long, white material pulled over a wooden frame. Beside the frame, was one of the long boxes from the shelves, black and white , and beside that was an old jar smeared with paint holding many, many brushes.

 “Ah,” said Harry with hesitant understanding, “Magic?”

 “The very best,” Mr Ollivander said, opening the box and picking out two tin jars, one labeled black and the other in white. Then, Harry understood.

 “Paint.”

 “Art,” Mr Ollivander said in an air of correction, picking up a brush and dipping it into the black, “Is fine magic.”

 He dragged the brush over the white material in a broad, clean stroke. It trailed behind a path of ink. Black, thick. Not very magical.

 “I don’t think I like this magic,” Harry said, and Mr Ollivander chuckled, holding out the brush towards Harry, “Why don’t you try it, Mr Evans?”

 Harry did. He took the brush in his hands, weighing it between his fingers. It wasn’t anything elaborate. Just some wads of hair pressed into the end of a wooden stick. However hesitant, though, he brought the brush down on to the frame and with a sharp intake of breath, slashing it across the page in a sharp movement.

The paint smeared black like sludge, muddy like soil near the rivers Harry and his chimney family used to bathe when they were allowed to (which was about two days a year). A wrenching pain struck his heart with the thought, surfacing some memories. He missed them. Harry missed his family so, so much. Their late night talks, their laughs, the dreams that one day would come true because now, Harry was going to get this world together and find his family a reason to live, not survive.

He didn’t wipe his eyes when they burned. Didn’t hold back as his eyes watered and three lonely tears slid down his cheeks and dropped to the frame. 

“Sorry,” Harry mumbled, wishing to be numb again, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to do that.”

“Most do not,” Mr ollivander said, plucking the brush from his fingers, “But all the same-” he dipped it into the black paint, “It’s a worthwhile canvas.”

Harry wiped his eyes with a bandaged arm. The canvas stared at him with an obsidian gaze, and Harry held back his tears when he was reminded of Snape.

Mr Ollivander capped the paint and closed the box lid. Gripping the cardboard in his hand, he bent down to slide it under the counter along with the jar of paintbrushes, “Will you be buying anything, young Harry.”

“No, sir,” Harry said, patting his pockets, “I’m saving for my family.”

“Ah, a noble act,” Mr Ollivander said with a smile of approval, his silver eyes shining brighter, “But do come for a visit. I daresay you should taste my tea.”

Harry nodded. Offering a wave, he made his way towards the door. Once outside, a gentle wind blew through him, washing him over with relief and leaving him with a smile. Though, it didn’t last. The burning pain from missing his family had begun to dissipate, but a frown still pulled down on his lips. It dampened his mood. It fought his resolve and made him feel like a leaf in a storm, shaking in the wind, barely hanging on. 

Shaking his head to get rid of the thought only brought a headache. He didn’t want to think about it. He wanted to forget. To forget their existence so maybe, possibly, he’d be well long enough to carry himself  through the time he needed to earn enough control and money.

With that, he turned on the curb. The dreaded street yawned in front of him, stretching longer than it actually was. Harry groaned. He wished he didn’t have to walk back and face Tom and answer questions. The healer was decent enough to not ask questions. Tom would only call the whole inn’s attention to Harry the minute he stepped inside. He didn’t want to go back. He wanted to-

“Harry?” 

Harry wanted to get out of there the minute he heard that voice. 

With wide eyes and parted lips, he turned around, lifting his eyes slowly from the small black shoes and up the small black dress towards the small face that looked far more horrified to see him there than Harry was horrified to see her. 

“Is that you, Harry?”

He winced at his name, clasping his hands behind his back and tried to appear as small as it was possible to be. And without looking into the wide eyes that he’d only want to see as kind, he muttered, voice breaking.

“Hello, Professor Patel.”