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With Mort’s directions murmured in his ear, Harry got himself onto a bus and into London the day after he got his letter from Hogwarts. It wasn’t nearly as difficult as he’d thought it might be, since he’d been preparing for the trip for over a year. He’d pinched a pound here from Dudley’s piggy bank, a pound there from Ms. Figg’s purse when she had him over for the weekend, and countless forgotten coins from the couch, the laundry and even a lucky tenner lost in the park near where the older kids sometimes hang out.
The pub that Mort told him about is exactly where he said it would be, and looked inside exactly as Mort had said it would. There were a lot of things that Mort had had to learn about from behind Harry’s eyes—but this wasn’t one of them.
Harry slipped in the front door during a busy moment and bypassed the bar entirely to head to the way into the alley. He channeled a touch of magic into his fingertips the way that Mort had taught him to and tapped the bricks the way Mort had said. He felt his friend’s approval in a job well done when he stepped through the opening and out onto Diagon Alley.
For a moment, Harry just stared in wonder at the magical street. Mort was unusually pleased—usually mild approval or sometimes pride was the best Harry got from him as Mort wasn’t a very happy individual. This, though, made Mort just as happy as Harry felt. Diagon Alley was wonderful.
Harry ended up wandering around for a while. He’d left the Dursleys right after his breakfast chores were finished and wasn’t planning on going back until the last bus—if he had to at all. He walked past storefronts, watching people shopping, looking at all the cool magical bits and bobs, until Mort spoke up.
“Enough of this. We stick out like a filthy muggle. Go to the bank so we can find out what we’re working with.”
“The bank?” Harry questioned, turning his head around to see if he could find such a building.
A portly man walking past heard him and, after giving him a once-over, gave Harry a pitying look and then pointed out a gleaming white building down the street a way. “That’s the bank down there. Manned by goblins, it is. You’d best be going in with your parents, boy, or else they’ll swindle you blind!”
Harry startled at the man’s address, blinking owlishly up at him. It was so strange to have someone speak directly to him. Only Aunt Petunia did, and even then she always did it like she was just talking to the air next to him. “Uh. Thanks?”
The man gave him a prim nod and then bustled away, his long robes swishing behind him and the tip of his hat bent a little at the top and flopping with each step.
“Condescending bastard,” Mort seethed in his head. “Looking at us and thinking we are less than him simply because of our substandard clothing. Did you see him?”
“Yeah,” Harry said as he headed down the street to the bank. “Weird that he spoke to me. Didn’t expect that.”
“Your poor attire draws negative attention,” Mort said. “Also, listen to me when dealing with the goblins. They have a poorer view of wizards than wizards have of them, if you can imagine it. And for good reason, unlike the wizards.”
“I always listen to you,” Harry muttered as he hopped up the wide marble stairs. He paused at the door to read the cool and kind of creepy poem about thieves and then gave the goblin at the door a nod as he headed in. All the while Mort muttered about how to deal with goblins and what he should say and on and on. Harry did his best to listen while he stared around at the inside of the building. He’d never been in a bank before, but he had a feeling that muggle ones didn’t look half as cool as this!
“Can you make buildings with magic?” Harry asked Mort as he stepped into one of the lines behind some woman. She glanced back and down at him, did that same once over look as that man before and then pulled her bag closer to her side and edged away from him. Harry quickly turned to look away before Mort got furious about her actions. Sometimes, when Mort was particularly angry, Harry’s scar began to bleed. “Well?” he prompted when Mort did nothing but seethe wordlessly for a while.
With a put-upon sigh—Mort always could tell when Harry was trying to distract him from his anger—he began to explain what he knew about architectural magic, which turned out to be mostly limited to repairing stonework and, for some reason, warding against damp. Still, it was interesting to Harry, and he listened attentively and sent Mort prodding questions periodically in his head while they waited for the line to move up.
Eventually, they were at the front and a goblin peered down at them from over a tall desk. “Name and vault key.”
“Hullo,” Harry said, “My name is Harry Potter and I don’t have a vault key but do know the password to the vault of my friend and he said that I could use it to get access to his vault.”
The goblin looked at him like he was an idiot. Harry felt his cheeks heat up. In his head, Mort sighed, aggrieved.
“Request a private meeting with Jornauk, the account manager of the Slytherin-Gaunt vaults.”
“Oh, and I’d like to request a meeting with Jornauk,” Harry said, carefully pronouncing the name the same way that Mort had in his head, “The manager of the Slytherin-Gaunt vaults.”
Now the goblin gave him a long, slow blink. “And under what...authority would you like to request this meeting?”
“Tell them you’re my heir.”
Harry smiled. “I’m the heir to Lord Voldemort.”
It turned out to be a good thing that they’d left so early from the Dursleys, as Harry had to spend hours with the goblins. First, they’d had to talk to Jornauk and prove that he was indeed Lord Voldemort’s heir—and it was so weird calling Mort by his full title and name, Harry much preferred Mort—and that took quite a few tests and such. Then the account managing goblin for the Potter vaults came and he also had to talk to Harry for a few hours. And then Mort and Harry had to have a conversation about who’s money they were going to use—his or Mort’s—and they ultimately decided to use Mort’s.
Mort was convinced that Harry’s vaults were being watched by Dumbledore. But then Mort was convinced that Dumbledore was watching them at the Dursleys as well, even though he hadn’t sussed out exactly who on their block was the possible spy. (Harry’s bet was Ms. Figg or Mr. Harlow. Mort thought it was either Mrs. Dickerson or Ms. Figg. Either way they were pretty sure Ms. Figg was suspicious.)
It was that same paranoia from Mort that made renting a room on Diagon Alley somewhere completely impossible as they’d certainly have someone poking around their situation within hours. No, Mort assured him, the goblins could be trusted to keep things private, but the moment a wizard or witch saw them and recognized them, the gig would be up.
They didn’t get out of the bank until late afternoon, which was barely enough time to go get a full set of robes fitted at some quiet little tailor around the corner off the main road. They’d passed at least two other robe shops along the way—Madam Malkin’s and Twilifitt and Tatting’s—but Mort had said that the first would be swarming with all manner of Hogwarts students who would gape at him and the latter was owned by someone that Mort had never appreciated the work of, or who had not appreciated his work, one of the two. Mort often had opinions on people, Harry knew. This was just the first time that he had opinions on people that Harry hadn’t met yet.
The small tailor shop they ended up in was quiet and quick—he had some nearly-finished Hogwarts robes that he could mark with Harry’s measurements and get cut up for him, as well as some sets of underthings that Harry could also get easily enough. With a few nicer robes, a couple casual ones, and a heavy winter coat and pair of soft, warmth enchanted gloves, and Harry’s outfit for the year was all but guaranteed.
Harry walked out of the shop in one of the new robes—a soft, dark blue-gray set over a cream colored tunic and brown trousers—and he immediately went to get boots from a shop next door.
Mort’s pleasure at the new clothes made Harry grin helplessly as they walked down the street, arms swinging at his sides, almost skipping as he went along. It was so easy to be happy when Mort was happy. It was such a rare treat and Harry had gotten to experience it twice in one day!
“We’ll get a wand and then find some dinner and a place to stay for tonight,” Mort murmured as he guided Harry back onto the main street of Diagon and toward a shop with big glass windows in front that had a sign over the door that said Ollivanders.
“Sure,” Harry agreed. He’d had some tea and biscuits with the goblins, so he hadn’t been entirely famished, but he wasn’t going to say no to actual dinner if he could help it. Even with Mort’s help, food at the Dursleys was often hard to come by.
Mort tensed with anticipation as they went into the wand shop. Harry looked around curiously at the place, marveling at the shelves around them—was each box filled with wands, or did they come one to each box?—and so he jumped a little when a man showed up behind the desk, peering down at him.
“Harry Potter,” the man—“Garrick Ollivander,” Mort told him—murmured. “As I live and breathe.”
“Somehow still,” Mort muttered in his head. “He looked almost this old when I was here and that was fifty years ago.”
Harry felt his mouth grinning at Mort’s words and he tried to stifle it a little. Clearing his throat, he said, “Hullo Mr. Ollivander. I’m here to get my wand, please.”
“That you are, that you are,” Ollivander said, “You know, I remember the wands of your parents,” Harry winced at their mention, but Ollivander continued on anyway, “It feels like only yesterday your mother was here herself, buying her first wand. A bright girl. Hers was ten and a quarter inches long, swishy and made of willow. An excellent choice for charm work.
“Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. Powerful and predisposed towards transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it. It’s really the wand that chooses the wizard.” He blinked and shook his head, then peered down at Harry over his glasses and asked, “Shall we see what kind of wand suits you?”
Harry nodded eagerly.
And so began Ollivander’s measurements, starting with a question on what was his wand hand—Harry preferred his right, but Mort told him he’d best learn how to cast with both so that’s what he told Ollivander—and then a magical tape began to whip around Harry and measure his body parts.
All the while, Ollivander fetched out various boxes with wands for him to try. Harry gamely did so, a little surprised that Mort was rather quiet through this all, though with especially poor fitting wands, Mort would scoff in his head. Harry went through over a dozen wands before he began to feel nervous.
“Don’t worry,” Mort soothed him absently, “It took me some time to find my wand as well. The more impressive the wizard, the more choosy the wand.”
I don’t think that’s how the saying goes, Harry thought back, biting his lip a little so he would remember not to talk aloud. It was a bad habit, and one he hadn’t really worked on stopping. Though he probably should, if he was going to go to Hogwarts soon.
“A tricky customer, hm?” Ollivander seemed delighted and soon went and fetched even more boxes and even more wands. After this stack, he gave Harry a thoughtful look, one that lingered on the scar that Harry knew his bangs covered a decent amount of—he was sure of it, in fact. He’d grown his hair out in order to do so, though Mort would sniff derisively about his ‘wild locks’ from time to time. Harry thought Mort secretly liked them, especially when they were every which-way after an unprompted nap.
“Let us try some of these, then,” Ollivander said as he brought out yet another handful. There was one that he hesitated over, and finally, as he drew it out, he said somberly, “Holly and phoenix feather,” he said, “Eleven inches. An unusual pair as well. Usually they don’t mix too well, but in this case... shall we try, Mr. Potter?”
“Sure,” Harry said. The moment his fingers touched the wand he knew it was the right one. He could feel Mort in his head realize it as well, as magic swelled up from his toes and through his whole body. Mort’s magic surged as well, knife-sharp down Harry’s spine and through his arm to his fingers. He sucked in a sharp breath and flicked his new wand over his head, releasing a shower of gold and silver sparks, like a dripping firework fountain.
“This is the one,” Mort said. Harry nodded breathlessly. He swished the wand again, thinking he’d like to see a shower of different sparks and laughed brightly at the cascade of orange and blue ones that rained down next.
“How peculiar,” Ollivander murmured as he set the other boxes to the side, watching Harry with an intense gaze.
“Ask him what he means,” Mort instantly prompted.
“Peculiar, sir?” Harry asked, managing to glance up from the wand with some difficulty. He’d taken over a year to learn how to properly channel his magic through his fingers, but with the grip of his wand acting like a pull, he was able to so easily draw on his magic now. He wondered what other magic he could do. Would all the little things he’d learned to do without a wand be easier now?
“Yes, yes,” Ollivander said. He gave Harry a wary glance and then said, “Very peculiar. You see...Phoenix feathers are a rare piece for me to work on. They must be plucked by the bird, you see. And the bird that gave me the feather for your wand gave but one other feather that I matched into one other wand...”
Harry didn’t need Mort’s prompting to press Ollivander with a pleading gaze and a, “Another wand, sir? Do you remember who?”
“I...do. I do,” Ollivander said, looking away from Harry for a long moment. “I remember every wand I’ve ever matched and remember to whom they are matched.” He was silent for a minute and then glanced down at Harry and let out a long sigh. “The other feather was placed into a wand wood of yew. Thirteen and a half inches. Very stubborn thing, but it matched to a powerful wizard...”
Harry’s heart jumped at Mort’s spike of shock that ran through him. “Yew and phoenix—it cannot be...”
Harry blinked, surprised. Could it be Mort’s wand? “What happened to that wand?” Harry asked.
“It is lost,” Ollivander said, “As is its owner. I am sorry to say, Mr. Potter, but the wand that shares the core of yours is the wand that belonged to the one that gave you that scar.” He reached out a hand, finger extended like he might touch Harry’s forehead.
Harry leaned back not-so-subtly and bit his bottom lip to stop from smiling. Mort was giving off a weird mixture of emotions at that revelation, that confirmation, but Harry could ask him about that later. “So Lord Voldemort’s wand-” he stopped abruptly as Ollivander flinched back dramatically and went very pale.
“You should not speak his name so casually!” Ollivander said, sounding upset now, almost scolding Harry. “He is known as you-know-who or he-who-should-not-be-named, and by no other name.”
Harry stared at Ollivander in disbelief. He was not going to call Mort such a silly thing! He had a name, it was simple to use it!
Mort was giving off that smug feeling he got when he was proven right about something, but with a sharper edge to it. Harry sighed and resisted the urge to rub at his face. Of course Mort would be happy someone was so afraid of him they wouldn’t even dare say his name. He’d been more than happy to help Harry learn how to terrorize the other boys in the neighborhood so they’d leave him alone rather than hassle him anytime he was outside.
“Uh,” Harry said, “Okay. Um. How much for my wand then?”
Ollivander blinked, as if shocked at Harry’s casual response and then answered almost robotically, “Seven galleons.”
Harry nodded, dropped off the money and hurried away, clutching his wand tightly in his hand as he did so. He ducked out of the building and, once the door swung shut behind him, heaved a great big sigh.
“What a strange man,” Harry muttered to Mort. Mort chuckled in his head and Harry could feel Mort’s amusement tickle all the way down the back of his throat.
“A relic of an ancient age. A shame that he has no visible apprentice. Who shall take up his work when he passes?” Mort mused, “And more of a shame that he has no idea where my wand was taken to after ...that night.”
“I’m sure we can find it if we ask around to the right people,” Harry said, “Or maybe if we can go and check there for ourselves.”
“Almost certainly Dumbledore cleaned the place out of all its valuables,” Mort snorted derisively, “Including my wand, if it was still present. We shall return to this later. Now we need to find you some dinner and then I will lead you to a place we can stay. I know a man who owes me quite a few favors...”
“All right,” Harry said pleasantly. He hummed a little song that Mort liked enough to not complain about and headed down the street to find a place to eat something.
Well fed, with wand in hand, and the sun beginning to set and cast the world into a blue twilight, Harry headed down the darkening street of Knockturn. He was a little worried about it—it was kind of creepy all around and he was definitely being stared at—but Mort was with him and he had a sharp spell on the tip of his tongue if he needed it. They managed to make it to the shop that Mort told him about without too much hassle, if he didn’t count the hags that wanted him to sell his fingers or toes or eyes, and Harry pushed open the door.
A little bell ward jingled overhead. Harry looked around the shop curiously. It was full of all sorts of odds and ends. Books and jewelry. Furniture and dishware. Harry had seen bits of antique shops on the telly—one of Aunt Petunia’s guilty pleasures—and so he realized that they must be in something like that now. A magical antique shop. How cool!
An older man stood behind the counter. He gave Harry a scornful look. Harry walked right up to the counter, despite how interesting everything looked, and planted himself in front of the desk. The man gave him a once-over, gaze resting briefly on Harry’s face with a squint, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing...
“Mr. Borgin,” Harry said, “My friend gave me a letter to give to you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of folded parchment, unsealed. They hadn’t bothered with the wax seal, having written the letter over their little dinner.
Harry put the parchment on the desk the way Mort told him to and slid it over to him, then he stood there and waited.
Borgin squinted at him and then at the letter. He flipped it open with a flick of his wand and stared down at it. He gave Harry an annoyed look. “This is unreadable rubbish. What trick are you trying to pull, boy?”
Harry thought clearly of a snake in his head and then, looking at the parchment, he hissed out the spell that Mort had made him practice. [Reveal yourself.] There was a shimmer of magic and then the written parselscript—or rather a code that responded to Parseltongue which Mort had made himself while whiling away his years at this very shop years ago—transformed into the careful penmanship Mort had once had. Borgin’s face drained of color as he stared at the now legible letter.
He cleared his throat once, then twice, and tugged on his collar. He opened his mouth.
Harry cut in, “He said if you tried to deny it, he’d like for me to remind you that he’s more than happy to dig up some of the skeletons in your closet and see how they sing, Mr. Borgin. I know Mr. Mort isn’t very keen on music with vocals, though, so he probably doesn’t mean it in the literal sense.”
Borgin gave Harry a horrified look. He closed his mouth and swallowed. After a long moment, he said, “I do believe we can come to some agreement.”
“Great!” Harry beamed, “It’ll only be until Hogwarts starts this year. I’ll find somewhere else next summer, I promise.”
In his head, Mort cackled.
Contrary to what Aunt Petunia thought, Harry was a perfectly respectable house guest. After Mr. Borgin led him to the upstairs unit and cleared out some trash and personal things from the room that he was lending to Harry, Harry had thanked him for his hospitality and promised he wouldn’t be underfoot. Once alone, Harry did a bit more cleaning—with magic!—and thoroughly sanitized the bed that was there. It was a small mattress on a metal bedframe, but considering where Harry had spent most of his childhood, it was a complete luxury.
In the morning, Harry had gotten up, taken a quick shower in the bathroom that Mr. Borgin had pointed out to him the night before—after cleaning it with some spells as well—and headed back out to the street. There was a hidden side entrance for the little apartment above the shop which Harry used, since Mr. Borgin wasn’t there yet to open up the shop proper.
As a consequence of all those years of Aunt Petunia waking him up early to make breakfast and do chores, Harry was up early enough that most shops on both Knockturn and Diagon were closed. Harry meandered down the nearly deserted streets, following Mort’s murmured guidance until they ended up down a winding stretch of brick road where a cafe was located. A flood of fond nostalgia swept through Harry from Mort as they approached the building. There were wrought iron tables and chairs outside the main door and a sign above that swung gently in a nonexistent breeze, declaring the place to be Leslie’s.
“I spent many early mornings and frequent afternoons here,” Mort murmured as Harry walked up to the front door. It was held open, allowing the smell of freshly baked goods, tea and coffee to waft out onto the street. Though Harry’s stomach wasn’t complaining for food, he wanted to have breakfast anyway. It was rare that he got more that two meals in a row at the Dursleys, and now that he was gone, he’d never have to suffer through that again.
They entered the quaint shop together, pausing a moment for Harry to see it for the first time and for Mort to get control of his reaction. “It looks the same,” Mort said after a minute. Harry’s gaze caught on the older woman behind the counter and he smiled at Mort’s amusement, “Even her. She was the one working when I was here, though she was much younger then. I can tell because of that birthmark on her chin. It’s the same.”
Harry hummed thoughtfully and approached the counter. There was someone else ahead of him, so he waited patiently for his turn, scanning through the list to figure out what he wanted. He rarely got to have tea and he’d never had coffee before. And all the various baked goods... Harry had only ever seen pictures of some of these in cookbooks!
Once it was his turn, he stepped up to the counter and smiled at the woman—“Meredith Lightly,” Mort told him as Harry wondered her name—and said, “Good morning!”
“Good morning, young man,” Lightly said with a smile. “And what can I do for you today?” She glanced past his shoulders, her eyebrows pinching together ever so slightly, “Are you lost?”
“No ma’am,” Harry said promptly, “My friend told me about this place and said you had the best breakfast tea around. I’d like to order a pot and a couple of danishes, please.” Harry’s gaze dropped to the glass case where all the food was stored. His mouth watered at the look of some of them.
Lightly shook her head a little, but took his order with a smile. Harry happily ordered three different pastries, two sweet and one savory, and then hustled off to a table to wait for his tea. He followed Mort’s direction once more and took an outside table tucked off to the side, the same one that Mort said he always had taken. There was a little box that had the morning paper in it, which Harry slid a knut into and got a paper out of to look over while he had breakfast.
A few minutes later, a teapot and cup floated their way out of the shop and onto Harry’s table, and he was able to finish assembling the most perfect breakfast ever once he poured the cup of tea. Harry breathed in the aroma and felt Mort uncoil in his head like a great lazy snake in the sun. He laughed a little and then took a drink, enjoying both the fact that he could eat breakfast in such a pleasant manner and that he got to give Mort a piece of his life before he became a disembodied spirit in Harry’s head.
Harry took his time in enjoying his food and the paper with it. He nibbled his pastries and sipped his tea, watching as the sun rose higher and people started making their way out of their homes and onto the street. He wondered if it would be busier today, with it being a Saturday, and how close it was to Hogwarts starting. He saw a handful of children being brought along with their parents and knew that he should probably get up and start shopping.
It had taken him some time to finish his breakfast. Long enough, in fact, that he probably wouldn’t need much for lunch. So he decided to return his teapot and order one more pastry to go, one of the meat pies that he hadn’t yet tried, and planned to eat that for his lunch today.
Then Harry headed out onto the street to start his own school shopping—first would be the trunk and then his books. He might have Mort in his head to teach him spells, but Harry knew that that wouldn’t be enough for both of them. They’d need more power to accomplish their goals and that meant more knowledge. Which meant more books.
With a spring in his step, Harry made his way to the trunk shop. This was turning out to be a great day!
The rest of August passed in a blur of similarly wonderful days.
Harry spent his mornings at the cafe, though once he had his school books he spent the time reading those instead of the paper, and usually was there sipping tea and nibbling pastries until lunch. Then he’d buy another pastry to go and would wander the winding alleyways to stretch his legs out and explore some of the more niche shops around. One notable afternoon found him in the Magical Menagerie, where he was sorely tempted to get a little green snake to take home with him, but heeded Mort’s warning about drawing unwanted attention, and settled on a beautiful white owl instead.
Another notable day was when he discovered a little theater that had been dark when Mort was living here and had been reopened since his departure. They would go to watch wizarding plays, which, to Mort’s annoyance, were often muggle rip-offs. Harry had to bite his lip or cover his mouth often to stifle giggles during somber scenes because Mort was furious in his head about how they were just repurposing Shakespeare and calling a magic play.
The most difficult afternoons were the ones where Harry got recognized and ended up with a cluster of people trying to shake his hand and thank him. Mort was able to guide him through these moments, whispering what words Harry should say, reminding him to smile and shake hands and how to look at people in the face without looking them directly in the eyes, even though Harry’s heart raced with anxiety and he felt a clammy sweat trickled down his back every time he was caught. He hated being so famous. He especially hated that he was famous for killing Mort. But at least he could deal with it and, as Mort liked to remind him afterward, their work would be a lot easier to do with Harry’s fame to grease the wheels.
Still, Harry preferred the days that had lazy mornings of reading and people watching, long afternoons of wandering and exploring, and peaceful nights where he lay curled up in a comfortable bed with Mort whispering in his ear about what sorts of things they’d be able to accomplish in the future. He was almost sad to see the month end and the beginning of Hogwarts arrive, but he couldn’t deny that Mort’s eagerness to see the castle was infectious.
The morning they were set to leave, Harry made his way down to the shop. He didn’t usually go this route, not needing to bother Mr. Borgin for anything, but he thought it was proper to let the man know he’d be leaving. He said his goodbye to Mr. Borgin, who eyed him with some wariness, though not as much fear as he had the first few times they’d spoken, and handed over another letter from Mort to him, this one written in English from the get-go. Mr. Borgin took the letter, looking a little paler, and bid him goodbye.
Harry used the shop floo in order to get to the Hogwarts Express, and soon he stood on the train platform before the big, beautiful engine that Mort had told him about.
“This is it,” Harry said to him, “This is the first step. Are you ready?”
“What a foolish question,” Mort chided, “Get on the train, Harry.”
Harry laughed and tugged his floating trunk behind himself as he hurried to obey.