Chapter 239: Back To London
Early August, London.
On the road in suburban Hampstead, the Granger family returned from a long trip, carrying their respective suitcases and backpacks, slightly dazed as they looked at the flower beds on both sides. Compared to the hot Paris, London’s temperature was more humid and cold, and the vegetation in the gardens and courtyards was denser and greener.
The bewildered Bastien followed beside Hermione, step by step, her eyes carrying the innocence of a little girl, curiously examining everything around.
“This will be your home from now on.”
“My home.”
Bastien’s little face showed no particular expression as she repeated softly.
“We have to do a big cleanup every time we return from a trip, so we’ll clean out the empty room on the left side of the upstairs corridor—look, that’s the one. It’ll be your bedroom from now on.”
“My bedroom.”
“Don’t be lazy later; you have to help with the cleaning. If you can’t move things, wipe the tables and help me sort the miscellaneous items, got it?”
Hermione’s tone was light and cheerful, her mood very pleasant.
Bastien nodded vigorously: “Got it! I’ve done these things before, and I can move things too.”
A sense of pity welled up in Hermione’s heart, and she suddenly didn’t want Bastien to do housework, but she immediately shook her head—cleaning her own bedroom was housework, while working for cultists was enslavement; the two were different in nature.
They walked into the home they had been away from for nearly a month.
The three began bustling about. Because they had covered things with dust sheets and locked the doors and windows before leaving, the big cleanup wasn’t too heavy: open the windows for fresh air, drain the yellow stagnant water from the water pipes, and wipe everything top to bottom, and that was about it.
The main physical labor went to the only man in the house, Mrs. Granger took on some, and the two underage child laborers just assisted from the side, handing over items and wiping table and chairs and stools.
Bastien was quick and nimble, did the housework fast and well, and even helped Hermione in her spare time.
Seeing Hermione’s complicated expression and silence, she would even comfort her in a very proper way: “It’s okay, everyone has things they’re good at. I’ve done these often before, so I’m more skilled. You’re not good at this, but you’re good at reading and studying, and you know lots of knowledge I don’t.”
Hermione pursed her lips and said nothing.
“Bastien, fetch me half a bucket of water.” Mrs. Granger’s call came from downstairs.
“Okay! Coming!”
“…”
Hermione watched Bastien carry the bucket away; in the past, such odd jobs had been her work.
As she passed Mr. Granger, the middle-aged dentist suddenly turned and let out a strange yell. Inevitably covered in dust from the cleanup, he had smeared some on his face and was clawing the air to scare Bastien.
Bastien stared at him for a few seconds, then made a clawing motion herself, letting out a low, loud hiss from her mouth, startling Mr. Granger instead.
Mrs. Granger tilted her head slightly, her smile especially gentle.
Two adult laborers and one half-underage laborer, the four figures shuttled inside and out busily. Bastien integrated into this home during the bustle, feeling like she truly had a place to belong.
After bustling back and forth for half a day, they went out and ate something simple in the evening.
On the first night back in London, Bastien still had to temporarily share a bedroom with Hermione, as supplies for the new family member hadn’t been purchased yet. The family had pillows, quilts, and bed sheets, but no spare bed frame or mattress; they could go shopping tomorrow.
Hermione emptied her suitcase, sorted and organized her things by category, put clothing in the wardrobe, placed the wood carving and postcard bought in Paris on the desk, planned who to give them to, then sat at the desk by the window and began writing a letter.
Bastien lay in the soft, warm quilt, like a squirrel curled in a tree hollow, tilting her head to look at Hermione by the bed:
“What are you doing?”
“Writing a letter to friends.”
“Writing a letter…”
“Yes, I’ve been away for a month, so I need to know how they’re doing and arrange to meet in Diagon Alley before school starts to buy items on the school supply list together.”
Hermione buried her head, the pen tip scratching across the paper with a rustle.
Harry had to stay at the Dursley’s home over summer vacation, and she didn’t know how he was doing. With Bastien’s example right there, she worried Harry was suffering abuse.
At the end of July, she was in Paris, spending all day with Bastien, and almost forgot Harry’s birthday, managing only to send an international letter two days early. The birthday gift had to be sent internationally too, and she didn’t know if it arrived on time.
Hermione felt a bit guilty. Now back in London, she would write a letter to check in.
…
「My dear friend Harry:
I hope you received the birthday letter I wrote you; I know it was a bit sloppy, but the blessings are sincere.
I’m back from vacation in France. The trip had so many exciting things, I don’t know where to start. I met Professor Levent in Paris—the situation was very urgent at the time, I swear, I was so moved when I saw the professor that I nearly teared up. Also, I have a new sister now, and for the next few weeks, our family will be busy with her identity and enrollment. Mom has scheduled interviews at several schools, and the whole family has to be busy with it.
France has a Ministry of Magic and Aurors too. I even got involved in a case, and didn’t have extra time to experience the interesting local magic. Fortunately, I learned about the Ministry’s operations and the history of local wizarding families. I’ve written all that into my History of Magic thesis. I hope Professor Binns doesn’t deduct points when he sees it, since it’s two extra rolls of parchment beyond the required length.
If all goes as expected, this letter is delivered by a Daily Prophet postman. I subscribed to their far-post service, which delivered the newspaper to Paris. Now it just needs to go to London, and the extra fee covers the postman service.
Did you see the news in the Daily Prophet? Ron’s family went to Egypt— so enviable. The wizarding world of ancient Egypt is famous.
The school supply list has arrived, along with a consent form for weekend activities. Next term we can spend weekends in Hogsmeade— so exciting! I’ll go to Diagon Alley shopping on the last weekend of August. What about you? Reply if you can; if not, we’ll meet on the Hogwarts Express.
Your dear friend Hermione」
Harry couldn’t help laughing. Hermione was still the same; he really hoped Professor Binns would grade her homework unacceptable.
He set down the letter he had just received and looked up to meet the owl postman’s gaze, which held a bit of displeasure.
The displeasure was justified; according to the address on the envelope, this letter was supposed to go to the Dursley’s home at number four Privet Drive in Little Whinging, but the recipient Harry was now staying on the second floor of the Leaky Cauldron, making the owl postman take a detour.
Harry stroked the owl’s feathers. With Hedwig out, he shared some of its dried white mouse as an apology to the postman.
The owl postman accepted the payment, its attitude much friendlier, rubbing his palm and tilting its head to ask with its eyes if a reply service was needed.
Harry shook his head and watched the postman spread its wings, leaving the windowsill of the Leaky Cauldron and disappearing into the morning light of Diagon Alley. The sky was brightening; he could hear cars on the Muggle street and the sounds of vendors and pedestrians in Diagon Alley.
The reason for leaving number four Privet Drive and temporarily staying at the Leaky Cauldron went back a few days.
This summer vacation was as unbearable as past ones. Cousin Dudley, fat as a pig, was home on break and would mock Harry now and then, with Uncle Vernon chiming in and Aunt silent, but that was nothing— just endure the vacation and return to Hogwarts.
Aunt Marge, Uncle Vernon’s sister, a shrew living in the countryside with no blood relation to Harry, but Aunt insisted he call her aunt. Every visit left terrible memories.
When Harry was not yet five, Aunt Marge tried to break his leg with a walking stick. At seven, she gave him dog biscuits as a Christmas gift, trying to trick him into eating them in public. At ten, she let her dog chase and bite Harry, forcing him to climb a tree to hide until after midnight when she called it back.
There were many such incidents. Harry had no doubt this visit from Aunt Marge was full of malice too, but since it was second-year summer vacation, to get Uncle and Aunt to sign that consent form, he was willing to endure.
He always restrained himself, never clashing with Aunt Marge.
But that restraint shattered at the dining table two days ago. The dog-owning shrew insulted Harry’s parents at the table; he could no longer endure it. Rage surged, and he cast a spell that inflated Aunt Marge into a bloated balloon hanging from the ceiling, her undignified state just like when he hung from the tree years ago.
The impulse didn’t feel good afterward. He had violated《 the Secrecy Law》 and broken《 the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery》, likely to have his wand confiscated and be expelled from school. He was homeless, with nowhere to go.
But things developed differently than he expected.
He took the Knight Bus to the Leaky Cauldron, where he met Minister Cornelius Fudge. This poorly reputed minister neither confiscated Harry’s wand nor cited law to expel him, but settled him in the pub and told him not to run around.
“…”
Harry gathered his thoughts, tidied the scattered books and letters on the desk, paused at the blank consent form, and tucked it into his History of Magic textbook.
The sun rose gradually, the sky turning from iron gray to brilliant purple-red. Morning light slanted through the windows, illuminating the whole room: embers remained in the fireplace, the suitcase was stuffed in the wardrobe, there were a few gleaming oak wooden furniture pieces, and a bed that looked very comfortable.
The Leaky Cauldron’s guest rooms were nice— clean, tidy, and comfortable, nothing like the noisy bar hall downstairs.
Harry folded the quilt and went downstairs for breakfast.
He liked this tavern: butterbeer flowed freely, projection mirrors were free to watch, all sorts of exciting Quidditch matches to enjoy, patrons shared fun stories in chats, and he met many interesting guests.
Living in Diagon Alley was comfortable too.
This long street paved with cobblestones had the world’s most fascinating magic shops on both sides. He discussed novel magic props like moon trimmer or firebolt with café patrons, the Sirius Black prison escape case details; occasionally ran into unfriendly people, usually just out of neighboring Knockturn Alley.
The owner of Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour was friendly and knowledgeable, guiding Harry on his essay homework and providing a free ice cream every half hour.
The items in the shop windows were too tempting: not just gleaming firebolts and pretty Galleon stones, even the glass constellation models constantly exuded charm.
He had to keep restraining his buying impulses, reminding himself he still had five years at Hogwarts, unsure how long the inheritance in his vault would last. If he spent it early, he’d have to ask Uncle and Aunt for money for textbooks later.
He’d rather sell his soul to the devil.
Thinking this, Harry arrived at Flourish and Blotts. Per the school supply list, he bought next term’s items.
《Intermediate Transfiguration》
《Standard Spells III》
《Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection III》
Plus elective textbooks, but Hagrid had already given《The Monster Book of Monsters》 as a birthday gift. Muggle Studies textbook would be issued uniformly after term start; only Divination’s《Peering into the Future》 remained.
Carrying the heavy new books, Harry hurried back to the Leaky Cauldron. As he prepared to go upstairs, he noticed Old Tom standing behind the counter, the usually lazy tavern owner chatting with a young guest.
Because Death Eater Black escaped, Aurors patrolled Diagon Alley frequently, stopping strangers to check identities. Mornings had no business, no patrons, so the tavern owner got lazy, leaving servers to mind the shop until evening.
Now beer foam floated in the glasses; the young professor at the counter took a sip, seemingly nostalgic for the taste. The tavern owner looked smug, finally not minding the bar’s hygiene issues.
“Borgin and Wright up to new tricks?” Melvin, just back in London, asked. “Heard they’re selling projection mirrors high-priced through Knockturn Alley channels to other regions whose Ministries haven’t approved them yet. Don’t let them turn projection mirrors into banned items.”
“Just like the flying carpets from India, right?”
Old Tom chuckled, “Indian wizards wanted to export flying carpets to Diagon Alley for sale, did business without rules, got squeezed out by pure-blood families, listed as banned items and prohibited from sale.”
Melvin nodded, took a sip of beer from the table: “Tell them to be careful.”
“Don’t worry, projection mirrors aren’t news anymore. Everyone’s focused on Black now.”
Old Tom finally caught a fresh-from-London guest and was eager to talk. “How do you think Black escaped Azkaban? That’s Azkaban! You even wrote a thesis criticizing their system, saying they treat prisoners like livestock being raised.”
“They hardly count as livestock; Dementors are the livestock being raised. Prisoners are just livestock feed.”
Surprise in Old Tom’s eyes, then he asked quietly: “You’ve toured Azkaban. Tell me, how did this wandless guy break through the Dementors’ heavy seals?”
“How he escaped isn’t important anymore. What’s important is why he escaped. Don’t you think…?”
Melvin turned his head, looking at the student quietly approaching. “Harry.”
