Time Between Us: Chapter 3: The Return of a Family

The first thing Harry felt as Diagon Alley appeared before his eyes was a wave of nostalgia. It wasn’t the usual bustle of people shopping for school supplies, but there was still plenty of magical traffic in the area.

The narrow street was unrecognizable, swallowed in an explosion of green and red. Irish and Bulgarian flags and banners hung from every window and awning. A burly wizard wearing a shamrock hat that looked almost alive was shouting at the top of his lungs, trying to sell similar hats, while a group of teenagers chanted “Krum!” with near-religious fervor. For a moment, Harry felt like he’d stepped through the wall of the Leaky Cauldron and into the wrong country. He hadn’t taken part in the preparations for the Quidditch World Cup in his previous life.

He slipped under the cover of an awning outside a potion ingredients shop, pulling the hood of his sweatshirt forward until the world narrowed into a tunnel, shielding the face that some might still recognize. His Muggle clothes made him feel totally out of place among all the witches and wizards—especially with the lack of Muggle-born parents with their children.

“Five Galleons for a singing shamrock? What a ripoff!” a witch complained, her voice slicing through the fanfare.

“Krum’s gonna crush Lynch, just watch!” a teenager yelled to another, bouncing impatiently in line outside the Quidditch supply store, which stretched down the street.

Those voices, so full of trivial and happy concerns, tied Harry’s stomach in knots. He needed to get to Gringotts. But his feet felt like they were made of lead. It was almost impossible not to look around, to soak in the scene—an image of joy he knew was painfully fragile. It was like watching an old photo come to life.

His gaze drifted to Ollivanders’ wand shop. It looked perfect. Pale light glinted off the glass window, where a single wand lay on a bed of purple velvet. But that wasn’t all Harry saw. Over that image, another superimposed itself—like a black-and-white photograph: the same window, shattered; rough planks nailed over the door; the word “CLOSED” scrawled across it. He could almost smell the dust and abandonment, could feel the absence of the old wandmaker dragged from his home to the Malfoy mansion.

He forced himself to look away, breath catching in his throat. He saw Florean Fortescue’s ice cream shop, bursting with life. Whole families squeezed around outdoor tables, kids with strawberry and peanut butter ice cream smeared across their cheeks. A little girl’s laughter rang out as a scoop of sky-blue ice cream hit the ground with a soft plop. And that innocent joy was somehow more painful to see than the ruined wand shop. The image of Florean Fortescue—the kind man who used to give him free ice cream in his third year—being dragged away, his name struck from the list of the living. It felt like standing in a graveyard.

At the end of the street, the crooked white columns of Gringotts rose majestically. Harry took a deep breath and stepped forward, forcing himself to push through the crowd. A wry smile tugged at his lips. At least this time, he planned to use the front door. Escaping through the roof on a dragon’s back had been unforgettable—but maybe a bit much for the occasion.

The white marble steps of Gringotts were cold beneath his sneakers. Harry felt the stares his appearance attracted—a mix of curiosity and open disdain from better-dressed witches and wizards. He ignored them. He kept his chin up and shoulders squared, climbing the steps like he belonged there. The two goblins guarding the polished bronze doors, clad in scarlet and gold uniforms, tracked him with their shiny black eyes. Their long fingers rested on silver-tipped halberds. Harry walked past them without breaking eye contact, feeling the weight of their suspicion like a cloak. I haven’t done anything wrong, he told himself—even though the memory of a dragon smashing through the bank’s ceiling screamed otherwise. Not yet, anyway.

The contrast with the outside world hit him instantly. As he crossed the threshold, the noise of Diagon Alley vanished, replaced by silence. The only sounds in the marble hall were the soft clinking of coins being weighed, the shuffling of ledgers, and the scratching of hundreds of quills on parchment. The air was cold and carried a metallic scent, mixed with something else he couldn’t quite place. There was a strange sort of peace here—the peace of a place where everyone knew that the outside world’s nonsense didn’t matter. Gringotts, Harry knew, had stayed neutral during the war for a very simple reason: its only loyalty was to the gold stored in its vaults. And, of course, its age-old disdain for wizards.

He walked with purpose, picking the counter that seemed the least crowded. He stopped in front of a goblin whose face looked like it had been carved out of a sour lemon. Gold-rimmed glasses perched on the end of a long, pointy nose, almost touching the quill he was using to scrawl numbers in a ledger with impressive speed.

Harry cleared his throat.

The goblin didn’t look up.

“Yes?” he grunted.

“I’d like to speak with the account manager for the old wizarding families,” Harry said. His voice came out steadier than he felt. He remembered what Hagrid had told him the first time they were there, in that very hall: goblins don’t like beating around the bush.

“Vault key,” the goblin grunted, flipping a page with a snap. “No key, no access. Next.”

“I don’t have a key,” Harry said calmly. “That’s why I need a meeting. To settle the access issue.”

The quill froze.

It was a barely noticeable pause. Slowly, the goblin lifted his head. His eyes, black as tar, scanned Harry from head to toe. It was a slow, insulting gaze, cataloging every detail: the Muggle sweatshirt, the messy hair, and likely the thin layer of alley dust still clinging to him after he Apparated. The goblin’s nose twitched slightly, and Harry suddenly realized that the cleaning spell he’d used might not have worked as well as he’d thought.

“Account managers don’t waste their time with…” the goblin paused, and the phrase “just anyone” hung in the air, thick with contempt. “Come back when you’ve got real business to discuss, wizard.”

The final word was spoken low and sharp—an obvious dismissal. That was Harry’s cue. His heart sped up, but he leaned over the dark wooden counter, resting his elbows on the surface. He gave the goblin a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I’m sure he’ll make an exception for me,” Harry said, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, forcing the goblin to lean in slightly to hear him. “My name is James Peverell.”

The quill, still between the goblin’s long fingers, trembled. Just once. For a long moment, the goblin didn’t move. The sour expression vanished in a flash of shock, replaced by a mask of disbelief and sharp suspicion. His eyes jumped to Harry’s face, lingering on his green eyes just a beat too long, then drifting up to his forehead, searching for a scar that wasn’t there. The goblin’s mind seemed to be racing, recalculating everything it saw. The boy in ragged Muggle clothes had just invoked one of the oldest and most powerful names in the wizarding world. And, luckily for Harry, he didn’t see Harry Potter.

Silence. A silence so heavy and deep that the name “Peverell” seemed to echo. This wasn’t just any name—Harry knew that. Saying that name here, in a bank run by creatures who scoffed at wizarding nonsense, was almost a death sentence. And a filthy impostor in Muggle rags claiming such a legacy? Madness.

The goblin at the counter stood frozen for what felt like hours. Then, with a quick, surprisingly agile hop, he jumped down from his elevated seat. When he spoke, his voice was a low growl—still rough, but the contempt had been replaced with wariness.

“Wait here. Don’t move.”

Without waiting for a reply, the goblin turned and pressed one long finger to a dark rune etched into the side of the counter. The stone glowed red for a second, then dimmed. He turned back to his ledger, but it was just for show. Harry saw the quill frozen in midair, hovering just above the parchment, while the goblin’s eyes flicked toward him from the corners.

Harry’s mind spun, playing out increasingly awful scenarios. He imagined being dragged off by goblin guards, down into the depths of the earth, locked in a vault to rot. He had a ridiculous flash of Death itself—cloaked, skeletal—appearing in the hall, pointing a bony finger at him and declaring, “Thief!” But the worst fear of all was simply being exposed. What if they had a spell, some way to see through his disguise and announce to the whole bank that Harry Potter—the infamous bank-crasher—was trying to pull a con?

A dark oak door reinforced with iron, which Harry hadn’t even noticed in the far wall, creaked open. Out stepped another goblin. This one was clearly older. He moved with quiet authority. A name surfaced in Harry’s mind, pulled from those frantic months of planning with Ron and Hermione: Gornuk. One of the senior managers.

The first goblin hurried over to Gornuk, speaking in a rapid string of guttural sounds and sharp clicks—Gobbledegook, the goblin language. As he spoke, he subtly tilted his head toward Harry. Throughout the explanation, Gornuk’s eyes never left Harry. They were calculating eyes, devoid of emotion, studying him with a scrutiny that made Harry question every decision he’d made.

Gornuk listened until the end, gave a curt command that sent the other goblin stepping back with a respectful bow, then turned around. He didn’t speak to Harry. He simply lifted his chin in a small, silent gesture—an order to follow. His expression was blank. No disdain, no curiosity—just the look of someone about to deal with yet another tedious problem in a long workday.

Harry swallowed hard and followed. They left the gleam of the main hall behind, stepping into a side corridor where the stone was darker and the doors were solid iron. The sounds of the bank faded, muffled by the thick walls, plunging them into an even more oppressive silence.

Gornuk’s office looked exactly the way Harry would’ve imagined: functional and intimidating. A heavy mahogany desk dominated the space, surrounded by shelves groaning under the weight of thick tomes bound in dragon leather. There were no paintings, no plants, not a trace of decoration—just precision scales, jeweler’s loupes, and stacks of scrolls tied with ribbon. Gornuk rounded the desk and sank into a leather chair that creaked loudly in protest. He pressed his long, bony fingertips together, forming a sort of steeple, and stared at Harry over them. His pitch-black eyes didn’t blink.

“Peverell.”

He didn’t speak the name so much as spit it out like something venomous. His small, beady eyes raked over Harry from head to toe, and a sneer tugged at his thin lips.

“A name I haven’t heard spoken aloud in centuries longer than you’ve been alive. A name wizards whisper in fairy tales to scare their children. And you”—he gestured dismissively at Harry’s clothes—“dare come before me dressed in those… Muggle rags. Forgive me if I’m not impressed. In my long life, I’ve seen dozens of more convincing frauds try to claim the gold of dead families.”

Harry felt a chill crawl down his spine, but forced himself to stay still. He held the goblin’s gaze.

“Looks can be deceiving, Manager. I was raised far from this world, with no idea what my name meant. I understand your... caution.”

It was a dangerous game, and Harry knew it. Every word was a chess piece on a board he couldn’t see. He was weaving a story—of a boy raised by Muggles, unaware of his legacy—hoping that the truth on one end might lend credibility to the lie on the other.

“A very convenient story,” Gornuk mocked, leaning forward. “Plenty of broke wizards suddenly ‘discover’ a connection to some long-lost bloodline when their pockets run dry. If you are who you say you are, then surely you know your house’s history. Tell me, then, about the pact Antioch Peverell made with the Garlak Goblin Clan.”

The trap snapped shut. Garlak Clan? His mind went completely blank. He could feel sweat starting to form at the back of his neck. Gornuk’s smile widened, triumphant and cruel.

It was instinct, not reason, that saved him. Instead of retreating, he went on the attack.

“I’m not here to recite history lessons, Manager Gornuk,” Harry said sharply. “I’m here to claim what’s mine by right of blood. Agreements can be forgotten or reinterpreted. But inheritance doesn’t lie.” He paused, locking eyes with Gornuk. “Unless, of course, the legendary magic of Gringotts isn’t as foolproof as the stories say.”

It worked. A dangerous gleam lit up deep within Gornuk’s dark eyes. The honor of Gringotts—the absolute infallibility of its magic—was the one god goblins worshipped, second only to gold. To question it was blasphemy. Harry had struck a nerve.

“The arts of Gringotts are absolute,” Gornuk hissed, each word dripping with cold venom. “They distinguish truth from lies, real gold from fool’s gold, a true heir from a petty thief. But an extraordinary claim requires extraordinary proof. And for one as... audacious... as yours, there’s only one test.”

“I’m ready to take it,” Harry said. He already pictured pulling the Wand, the Stone, and the Cloak from beneath his hoodie.

Harry’s unwavering confidence seemed to catch Gornuk off guard. The goblin nodded slowly. With a sharp motion, he opened a heavy drawer in his desk. From inside, he pulled out two objects.

A silver dagger with a handle of polished obsidian. And a shallow bowl made of dark stone that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. He placed the bowl in the center of the desk with a definitive click.

Harry’s breath left his lungs too fast.

This he hadn’t expected. His bluff had relied on the Hallows. But blood magic... that was something else entirely. It was ancient magic—magic he knew absolutely nothing about. Yes, he was descended from the Peverells, somewhere far up his family tree—but he was a half-blood. His mother’s Muggle-born blood flowed in his veins just as strongly as his father’s.

“Blood magic doesn’t lie,” Gornuk said, his eyes fixed on Harry, savoring the moment. “Our arts are older than your Ministry, deeper than your laws. A single drop of your blood in the Lineage Basin will reveal the irrefutable truth. If you’re a fraud, the punishment will be... severe. If you’re real... then you will be acknowledged.”

Harry stared at the sinister dagger and the empty bowl. Backing out now was impossible—it would be a confession of guilt. The goblin would have him. He was trapped. Maybe, he thought in a desperate surge of panic, whatever strange magic Death—or whoever that figure really was—used might help him now.

Harry’s hand trembled for a fraction of a second before he gripped the dagger. The obsidian handle was cold and heavy. He looked at the silver blade, then at the palm of his other hand. For a brief moment, an image flashed through his mind—Cedric Diggory, Wormtail’s hand raising a similar dagger. Holding his breath, he pressed the cold tip to his skin and made a quick, clean cut.

A single drop of blood welled up in his palm. It trembled there for a moment, then fell.

The instant it touched the bottom of the stone basin, a sharp, hissing sound—like water hitting hot metal—cut through the air. The dark stone, lifeless a moment ago, seemed to awaken. A blinding, pure silver light radiated from the point where the blood had fallen. A chill raced down Harry’s spine—an icy, probing energy that seemed not only to read his blood but to dive into his very soul, tracing his history, mapping the shape of his bones, every decision, every loss, every scar he carried.

Gornuk leaned over the desk, eyes wide and locked on the bowl.

The silver light expanded, and the blood began to move. It was no longer liquid. It became a web of light—crimson and silver threads dancing over the black surface, weaving together at incredible speed, like yarn being knit. The lines split and merged, forming an intricate, unmistakable pattern. First, the shape of a raven with outstretched wings—so detailed Harry could see the glint in its eye. And then, burning at the raven’s heart, three symbols shone with an intensity that overpowered the entire image, pulsing with a power Harry felt deep in his chest: a vertical line, a circle, and a triangle.

The symbol of the Deathly Hallows.

The image hovered above the bowl for a long moment—a hologram of blood and light, so vivid and beautiful that the hair on Harry’s neck stood on end. Then, as gently as it had appeared, it faded. The light receded until all that remained was a single drop of blood at the bottom of the basin.

The silence that followed was broken by a sudden, sharp gasp—from Gornuk. The goblin was frozen, his face—once a mask of scorn—now pure astonishment. He looked from the basin to Harry’s face and back again, as if his brain refused to connect the two. Slowly, he straightened. His posture shifted. Suspicion gave way to something Harry never thought he’d see directed at a wizard from a goblin: respect. He even rose slightly in his chair.

“The magic… has recognized you,” Gornuk said, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat, visibly trying to collect himself. “Gringotts welcomes you. Lord Peverell.”

Gornuk sat back down and opened one of the heavy tomes on his desk.

“The main Peverell vault. Untouched since the death of Ignotus,” he explained, his voice now purely professional. “Over the centuries, branches of the family claimed their shares. Many properties and gold passed into other houses through marriage—most notably, to the Potters. What remains in the main vault is not a mountain of Galleons, Lord Peverell. But the true treasure lies in the artifacts. In the books. In the objects.”

“It’ll be enough,” Harry said—and it was true. He didn’t just need gold. He needed a name. And resources.

Gornuk nodded, handing Harry a heavy gold key and a small pouch made of dragonhide. “The pouch is linked to the vault for immediate expenses. The key gives you full access.”

Harry took the key. Somehow, his bold plan had worked. He turned to leave but paused at the door, a sudden, brilliant idea sparking in his mind.

“Manager Gornuk, just out of curiosity… does Gringotts deal in rare magical creature materials?”

The goblin looked up, and a spark of professional interest lit up his face. “Certainly, Lord Peverell. One of our most profitable divisions. Why?”

Harry turned back slowly, letting a small, calculating smile form on his lips.

“Excellent. Because I believe I have access to the remains of a basilisk—nearly sixty feet long. In near-perfect condition. Fangs and venom intact.”

If Gornuk had been stunned by the blood test, this was on a whole other level. His jaw dropped. His professional mask cracked, revealing the raw, glittering greed in his eyes. His fingers curled over the desk.

“A… ba-basilisk?” he stammered.

“Yes,” Harry confirmed, calmly. “I’ll need Gringotts’ help extracting the parts, of course. And to negotiate a profit-sharing arrangement. But I’ll only be able to grant access by mid-September.”

September. The promise hung in the air. Gornuk jumped to his feet, his face twisted into a grin that revealed every one of his sharp teeth. He wasn’t a bank manager anymore. He was a business partner.

“Lord Peverell, you shall have Gringotts’ full and unrestricted cooperation in… all your endeavors,” Gornuk said, his voice dripping with eager sincerity. “Anything at all.”

"I'll remember that," said Harry. "One more thing. I need a document. Proof of identity."

Gornuk, already calculating the value of the fangs in his mind, gave Harry his full attention. "We can issue a Blood Proclamation. Certified and sealed. To us—and to anyone who understands ancient magic—it’s a binding oath." He paused, a cynical glint in his eye. "But your Ministry... they trust their own worthless paperwork. They'll look at a Gringotts seal with suspicion. I doubt they'll accept it."

"I’ll take it anyway," said Harry.

With a nod, Gornuk grabbed a parchment, scribbled a few lines, and pressed his signet into a pool of black wax. The seal glowed for a second before hardening. He rolled it up and handed it to Harry.

"Keep it safe, Lord Peverell. It may not convince fools, but anyone with true power will recognize the magic it bears."

Harry took the document. As he exited the office and crossed the main hall, he was so lost in thought he barely noticed the stares and whispers that followed him now. He was unaware of many things. But above all, he was both amazed and terrified by the fact that magic—the oldest, deepest kind—had looked into him and believed his lie. Or maybe, he thought with a shiver, it wasn’t a lie after all.

Harry stepped out of Gringotts and back into the clamor of Diagon Alley. The midday sun felt hotter now, and the crowd of Quidditch fans even louder. But something had changed. The reassuring weight of the gold key in his pocket, the small coin pouch on his belt, and the official scroll tucked inside his shirt.

He was so caught up in this new, fragile sense of control that he didn’t watch where he was going. His mind was already two steps ahead, thinking about buying clothes, when he turned around a large stone pillar—and collided hard with someone walking from the opposite direction.

"Oh, heavens! A thousand pardons!" said a warm, familiar voice that made Harry’s stomach drop to his shoes. "Totally my fault—I had my head in the clouds, wondering if I should get one of those leprechaun hats for Molly... she'd probably hex me for it..."

Harry looked up, and his heart skipped a beat. Standing in front of him, adjusting crooked glasses on his nose and wearing an embarrassed smile, was Mr. Weasley. His red hair was thinner than Harry remembered, but his kind eyes were exactly the same. For one terrifying moment, Harry forgot who he was pretending to be. The name “Mr. Weasley” was on the tip of his tongue, along with a million questions about Ron, Ginny, and the others.

He forced himself to swallow the words. He pulled his hood forward, hoping the shadow would hide his face.

"It’s nothing," he muttered, his voice sounding hoarse and strange to his own ears. He tried to walk away, but Mr. Weasley, ever the gentleman, placed a hand on his shoulder to steady him.

"Are you sure you're all right, young man? That was quite a bump," said Mr. Weasley, his curious eyes trying to see past the shadow. "I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. Here for the Cup? It’s wild, isn’t it? I’ve never seen so many foreigners! Fascinating!"

Every friendly word was like a needle. Harry felt a throb start in his temple, a symptom of his growing anxiety. He needed to get out. Now.

"Yes, for the Cup," Harry answered shortly. He took a step back, slipping out from under Mr. Weasley's touch as politely as he could. "Sorry, I’m in a hurry. Got an appointment."

"Oh! Of course, of course! I won’t keep you," Mr. Weasley said, completely unaware of Harry’s inner panic. "Enjoy the game! And be careful near the Leaky Cauldron—there are people selling fake tickets!"

Harry only nodded and plunged into the noisy crowd before Mr. Weasley could say anything else. He didn’t dare look back. He was afraid that if he did, the concern and warmth on Mr. Weasley’s face would break him in half.

Harry’s heart was pounding. The feeling of Mr. Weasley’s friendly hand still burned through the fabric of his hoodie—a physical, searing reminder of everything he was trying to protect. The confrontation in Gringotts had been pure adrenaline. This, however… this was something else. Playing James Peverell before suspicious goblins had been a performance. But looking into the kind face of Arthur Weasley—a man who had once treated him like a son—and seeing trust in his eyes… that felt like betrayal.

He pushed through the crowd in a daze of misery, the sounds of celebration fading into a dull buzz. And that’s when he saw it. In the window of Quality Quidditch Supplies, amid a chaotic display of polished brooms and self-waving flags, a pale and shadowy figure stared back at him.

For a second, he didn’t recognize himself.

The Muggle clothes, dirty from Apparating and worn from the Battle of Hogwarts and a mending charm, were the first thing to stand out, screaming “outsider.” But it was the face beneath the hood that sent ice through his veins.

The hollow ache in his chest was replaced by panic. What good was the name Peverell and a Gringotts key if the face he wore could condemn him before he even spoke a word? His priority was no longer just getting somewhere safe. The priority was to disappear. The first task—the most urgent of all—was to stop being himself. He needed a new face, a new appearance. He had to become nobody.

Pulling the hood tighter over his face, Harry forced himself to keep moving. He needed a new look—and fast—especially before walking into shops where he'd be recognized immediately.

He found what he was looking for in a dead-end alley near the archway that led to the Leaky Cauldron, a forgotten place that smelled of damp trash. He conjured a small handheld mirror. The face staring back at him was unmistakable. Older, sharper, but still the face that had graced the front page of the Daily Prophet for years. And the eyes... his mother’s green eyes were a legacy, a beacon. And now, his greatest betrayal.

He needed a new face. Options raced through his mind, each more impractical than the last. Polyjuice Potion? The thought came with a phantom taste of boiled cabbage and the logistical nightmare of obtaining someone’s hair regularly. Transfiguration? A memory of McGonagall sternly warning about botched human transfigurations—permanent cauliflower ears, swapped nostrils—quickly killed that idea.

That left the Glamour Charm. A subtle magic. Not perfect—a well-cast revelation spell or a sharp eye, like Dumbledore’s, could break it. But it was the best he could manage. It would have to do.

Pocketing the mirror, he leaned back against the cold, damp brick wall and closed his eyes. The key, he knew, was visualization. Holding his breath, he whispered the incantation—the word sounding strange and muffled in the quiet alley. He felt the magic rise at the tip of his will. A soft pressure followed, like invisible fingers gently reshaping his nose, making it broader; adjusting his jaw, giving it a firmness that wasn’t his. He tried to darken his hair to a deeper brown.

Then came the hardest part. The eyes. He pushed the image of emerald green deep into the back of his mind—an act that felt like a small death. In its place, he focused on a common shade—a lighter brown.

The tingling sensation intensified, then settled. He opened his eyes, hand trembling slightly as he lifted the mirror once more.

The man staring back was a stranger. A disturbingly familiar one. The features were close enough to be believable, but the whole was… different. Yet it was the eyes that stole his breath. Brown, dull, and anonymous—they were a void where the memory of his mother used to live. A sharp, unexpected pang of grief hit him. The first piece he had given up from that life.

"It’s necessary," he told himself.

He put the mirror away. The grief for his mother’s eyes was folded and stored in a dark corner of his mind. With a face that wasn’t his own, James Peverell straightened his shoulders.

He returned to the main street, dodging a group chanting Krum’s name, and stepped into Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions. The interior was calm, smelling of new fabric and lavender, the only sound the soft hum of an enchanted tape measure flitting around a burly wizard in the corner.

Madam Malkin turned to him. Her smile faltered slightly at the state of his clothes, but she quickly recovered her professional poise. “Can I help you, dear?”

“I need new robes,” Harry said, his voice flat and direct. “Simple cuts, colors that don’t attract attention. Gray, black, maybe brown. Most important—they need to be durable.”

Madam Malkin blinked, adjusting her approach. This wasn’t an excited student or a Ministry worker trying to impress. “Absolutely. A day-to-day wardrobe. I have some excellent wool and gabardine sets. Sturdy, wrinkle-resistant, and they’ll last for years if properly cared for.”

As the enchanted tape measure zipped around him, noting his measurements, Harry inspected the fabrics she showed him. They were exactly what he needed: plain, functional, anonymous.

“Can maintenance charms be applied?” he asked, thinking about his long-term budget. “Waterproofing, maybe a self-mending spell for small tears?”

The professional respect on Madam Malkin’s face deepened. “Of course! Very practical charms. It’ll add a bit to the upfront cost.”

“Perfect. I’ll take three everyday sets and a heavier travel cloak—all with those spells.”

A few minutes later, Madam Malkin returned with the bundle. The price was fair, and her expression was that of a satisfied shopkeeper pleased with an efficient customer who knew exactly what he wanted.

He left the shop with the shrunken parcel in his pocket, leaving behind the clothes that had marked him as Harry Potter. The new robes said nothing about him—and that was exactly the point.

Harry—or rather, James—took a deep breath and walked through the crowd. In a way, the first part of his plan was complete. Now he had to think about what came next. And, most importantly, about potential allies.