Cerise

Cerise
Relationship: Gen, future Harry/Hermione
Genre: Nobility, Third Year AU, Fix-it
Length: 5k
[Disclaimer: Used a fair bit of Keira Marcos’ worldbuilding, including but not limited to noble houses, Harry Potter being the Earl of Gryffindor, the structure of the magical world that JKR never bothered to get into, putting noble sigils up on shops’ front windows, and innumerous little bits of world details that I prefer over canon. If it seems familiar, assume it’s hers.]
[Warnings: Decent Weasleys, canon Harry Potter’s life struggles]

–

Harry Potter’s life has never been so adventurous outside of Hogwarts, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger know. 

Ron knows this despite what say the children’s books which center around his best friend’s supposed courageous exploits. He knows that when Harry was eleven, he got his Hogwarts letter. He knows that at twelve, Harry’s summer excitement consisted of an imprisonment, a jailbreak, and a month at the Burrow.

Hermione knows that Harry– her friend, Harry, not Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived– is forced to go back to his awful relative’s’ house every summer. 

Hermione doesn’t know what Harry had to endure this summer, when her feet first hit diagon alley, but finds out soon enough. The agreed-upon meeting time– nine– and the agreed-upon meeting place– Gringotts– provide a gaggle of redheads, waving and smiling. A hug from Molly Weasley preempts their parents converging on one another, leaving Hermione to the throng of siblings.

Ron reaches for her wrist almost immediately, tugging her a bit away from the horde.

Descending the steps of the white-stone building, Hermione learns that one of her two best friends has a mass-murdering, escaped convict after his life.

And then she sees him, ascending the same steps.

“Harry!” She can’t help but call.

He looks up, startled, and once recognition colours his expression she hurries over and more or less throws herself into his arms. He gamely sweeps her off her feet and returns the hug.

“Oh, why is it always you that the bad things happen to?” She demands softly.

“Just lucky, I guess.” He murmurs back. She slaps him– lightly– on the shoulder before they separate.

“Business at the bank?” Hermione queries, eye going from him to the towering archistructure. 

Harry visibly hesitates just a moment.

“Of a sort,” He agrees, gaze going behind her to the rest of their party.

“Mr. Weasley, Mrs. Weasley, Doctors Granger.” Harry greets politely.

“Hullo, Harry,” Her mum waves, cheerful.

He promptly gets a rehash of her earlier welcome from Ron’s mother.

The dads are mid-conversation, hers wearing a confused, somewhat strained smile and Ron’s talking avidly about something or another.

After ascertaining that the Grangers managed to convert their Muggle money to the wizarding sort, Molly immediately starts making noises about where they should go first, Madame Malkin’s first on her itinerary.

“I’ve been on the Alley all week,” Harry begs off, not unkindly. “I’ve got most of my school things already.”

There was, of course, also the fact of his appointment with the Dverger.

“We can meet at the Cauldron for lunch then, dear.”

“I’m actually not staying at the Cauldron, Mrs. Weasley. It was too… predictable, one might say, and with the current situation…”

Mrs. Weasley’s hand flies to her mouth in horror.

“Of course! You poor dear. Why didn’t one of us think of that?”

“Actually, there was a little cafe, right off the alley–” He says for her mum’s benefit, “– over on Autumn, Mrs. Weasley. It looked quite lovely.”

“Sounds good, mate.” Fred agrees, butting in for his mother, still wide-eyed at her pseudo-blunder.

“Eleven good for you?” George adds.

Ron rolls his eyes.

“Let the man by, would you? Now, I’m absolutely positive Hermione wants to go to Flourish and Blotts, first, but–”

“It would be smarter to get our robes ordered first, so they’ll be ready just past lunch, I agree…” Hermione laughs, saves her dad from Mr. Weasley’s enthusiasm by asking a quick question, and by the time the party had made their way past the bank, Harry had disappeared within.

–

Harry led the party from Gringotts to Autumn with an easy smile and a sedate pace. He talked animatedly with Hermione and Ron for the short journey, trying to catch up on as much as possible.

Ginny, a bit quiet, responded to his questions ably enough.

Fred and George amused themselves, by themselves, and Percy had joined the group for lunch. The latter talked with the four adults.

“How are Bill and Charlie?” Harry asked.

“Good. I keep forgetting you haven’t met them yet, mate. S’weird. Charlie couldn’t join us in Egypt.” Ron explained.

“Too busy taking care of Norwegian Ridgebacks, I expect.” Harry said, casually enough, but Hermione snorted.

“That he is!” Ron laughed. He flexed his hand in consideration, offering it up with the small scar on the outer edge visible.

“Norbert… and his kin…are resistant to magic,” Hermione noted, fascinated but skirting the word ‘dragon’ in conjunction with the old scar lest one of their parents overhear. 

Quieter, she muttered: “I suspect the saliva fouled the healing enough that Pomfrey couldn’t quite keep it from scarring.”

Hermione poked his hand and they all grinned in remembrance. 

“No one will ever believe where it came from.” Ron bemoaned, several decibels quieter than both knew him capable of.

“Wish I had that problem,” Harry noted with amusement, absently fingering his own scar. “Well, they’re both pretty far-fetched, I guess.”

Ron started to respond, only for Harry to surge forward.

“Here, Mrs. Weasley!” He called, shooting an apologetic look his best friend’s way.

“Harry, this is…” Mr. Weasley started, slightly awkward. Harry ushered them all in with an easy grace and confidence.

“Did I not mention? This is my treat.” Before anyone could protest, he turned to the Grangers.

“I don’t know that Hermione’s told you, but all my family was robbed from me in a war twelve years ago. It’s rare that I have company for many meals, let alone the company of such friends.” He saw Mr. Granger’s eyebrows shoot up and Mrs. Granger’s eyes widen with sympathy.

“I would, greatly, appreciate it if you all would allow me this.” He continued, aware of Mrs. Weasley’s immediate softening.

He opened the door to Cerise and Mr. Weasley caught it for him, eyes tracked on Harry even as he held it open for everyone else to go through.

“Well played,” George said in a quiet undertone, one of the first ones through and passing by him. Fred gave Harry a discreet thumbs up. He laughed once, silently, before controlling his expression.

Before any of the adults could step forward, a well-dressed hostess approached Harry.

“My Lord,” She deferred, and led them to a prepared, well-lit area in the center of the cafe.

Harry watched faces as his friends and their families were seated in elegant red, plush chairs. They took in the ambiance of the obviously upscale restaurant with wide eyes.

It was extremely gratifying to be able to provide this experience for them, Harry concluded.

“Did I forget to mention? I recently found out I have partial ownership.”

Hermione, sitting next to him at the white-sheathed table, kicked him a little under it. Everyone was dressed casually for school shopping. Her hair was wild and pulled up in a messy bun. In her thin jumper and jeans, she looked absolutely adorable.

When school was in session, she favored a similar look, only her wand tended to be stuck in the bun, her sleeves were pushed up, and she had a nest of thick books about her.

She glared at him now, a small, put-upon pout not doing anything to detract from her looks.

“Of the restaurant?” Dr.– Mr.– Granger asked in polite surprise.

“Yes,” Said Harry, picking up a clear wine glass. Dark red liquid appeared in it and he took a small sip.

“My family started, offered patronage and funding to, or invested in many such businesses. I only just found out by spending so much time this summer on the Alley– and subsequently visiting Gringotts.

“This is 1981 Chateau Guadet.” He announced. “A low-alcohol wine is provided for our meal. When we first drink, the glasses are charmed to find whatever– appropriately complimenting, of course– entree is most palatable to us.”

Mrs. Weasley looked pacified about the low-alcohol bit and most of the others– even the wizards– looked intrigued.

“Is such a thing not common in the magical world?” Dr.–Mrs.– Granger asked once she’d taken a sip.

“You’d think so,” Harry answered, “but no. It’s a very clever gimmick that, along with proper start-up capital and excellent dishes, makes this the most accomplished restaurant on Autumn Alley.”

At Hermione’s questioning look, he elaborated.

“Imperial Alley is the larger, more opulent alley with all the high-end, magical stores. The very rich shop and dine there. Cerise is just as good, if not outright better, than many of the restaurants on Imperial. It’s location was a brilliant choice. It attracts the moderately wealthy from the other alleys as well as stupidly rich purebloods from Imperial. Win-win.”

He paused as their appetizers appeared, individually and delicately plated on white, square dishes: elegant, speared kabobs, two apiece, arranged on artfully cut pieces of lettuce for garnish.

Ron immediately put one in his mouth.

The rest of them laughed at the exaggerated moans he made until Mrs. Weasley playfully shushed him.

Interestingly, each kabob contained a different mix of fruits and meat; likewise, when their entrees followed after a bit of small talk, no two were the same, even as Percy and Fred ended up with the same meal. The sauce on Percy’s meat differed from Fred’s, and the cut of the salmon varied.

Hermione’s filet mignon dish contained small but numerous pieces of meat, artfully arranged around garnish and sides.

Ron’s meal, in contrast, provided more in the sheer magnitude of food. It was still well-done, but largely amounted to a pile of huge garlic-butter sauteed shrimp on a bed of chopped parsley.

“It’s so pretty I almost don’t want to eat it,” Mrs. Granger confessed in hushed tones to her daughter. She had small, round pieces of bread with spooned veggies and meat topping them. Harry had no idea what it was called.

Mr. Granger had no such problems with his meat and sauce-topped-pasta. Harry wasn’t close enough to any of the others to see their plates in any detail.

“Ah, I am very glad to hear that, Mrs.” A new voice interrupted.

Harry grinned.

“My compliments to the chef,” He said wryly, having already tried and absorbed his first bite of braised shoulder of venison. Several pieces of cooked asparagus and a very pretty half tomato filled with other vegetables finished his plate.

The chef grinned.

“It is not so often our own Lord comes to visit, no? And not in the last ten years at all.” He was surprisingly young for a chef, Adrienne, and looked it as well. When Harry had first come to the Cerise upon claiming his titles, the head chef and wizard-in-charge had both shocked and enamored him.

“Through no fault of my own, as you well know,” Harry protested, before gesturing. “These are my good friends, Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley. They’re in my year at Hogwarts, all of us Gryffindors. Their families graciously indulged me in my choice of restaurant for lunch.”

“We are grateful for the chance to serve our Lord and his honored guests.” Adrienne said formally and seriously. “Without the Earl of Gryffindor Cerise would not have been. The Lady Potter once said, ‘I would like a restaurant where they know what I want to eat even before I do.’ And voila, here she is still, many decades later. Lord Potter decided for the restaurant to exist and named it such, Cerise, for the colour of his noble House.”

Dead silence.

“‘Partial Ownership,’” Hermione quoted next to him.

“More like majority ownership.” Harry allowed modestly, pink in the cheeks.

Adrienne laughed.

“He is humble, our Lord, no? Is good quality in nobility. Is rare, except that for the Potters, has always been this way, yes? Yes. Enjoy your exquisite meals, honored guests. Please, Lord Potter, come any time. Your table is reserved always– was, even, for the ten years you were away from the magical world.”

The chef swept away without a word, back to the kitchens from which he came.

“How embarrassing,” George said into the quiet, grinning openly.

“‘Partial ownership’, he says.” Mocks Fred.

“Little cafe he’s been wanting to try, he says.”

“Quaint and charming, he says.”

“Caught!” Both twins chorused.

“He was just being polite.” Hermione chastised them sternly.

“The Earl of Gryffindor?” Asked Percy of all people. “Congratulations. I didn’t realize you’d claimed the title.”

Harry inclined his head warily.

“Yes, although I wasn’t aware I was Heir to a Most Ancient and Noble family until last week.” He took another bite of the excellent venison. “The Dverger are doing a scarily thorough investigation as to why and how it was kept from me for so long. I should have been receiving notices and formal lessons from a very young age.”

“You didn’t know?” Ron demanded.

“No?” Harry said, surprised. “I had no idea.”

“Well… da–ng.” He corrected himself smoothly. “I thought… that, well, you weren’t ready to take the Lordship or you didn’t want to, yet, because you were still mourning. Neville only wears the Heir ring for the same reason.”

“I’ve never read anything about the Noble families,” Hermione realized out loud. “Earl of Gryffindor? Gryffindor as in ‘Godric’?”

“Godric, who married Rowena, and had Salazar as a consort,” Harry confirmed.

“You’re descended from Rowena Ravenclaw?” Her mouth dropped open, full bottom lip just this shade of red from the wine.

“When I pulled the Sword of Gryffindor out of the sorting hat, Dumbledore told me only a true Gryffindor could have done it. He could have mentioned he was being literal.”

“You pulled the Sword of Gryffindor out of the sorting hat? When? Why?” Percy asked, raising his voice a little to be heard from clear across the table.

“Yes, last year. I used it to kill the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets.”

Harry wasn’t a big fan of asparagus, but this was cooked to perfection. It tasted delicious.

A tinkling of silverware being dropped on the table alerted him to Molly, Arthur, Fred, George and Percy Weasley staring at him in shock. Ginny, beside Percy, was pale.

“You were there,” Harry reminded, a tad confused. “Ron and I went down there to save Ginny and…”

“You fought a basilisk?” Molly asked Ron in quiet, frigid tones.

He raised his hands immediately.

“There was a cave-in down in the Chamber. Lockhart and I were trapped, Harry went ahead and had to fight the Basilisk on his own.”

She blinked, stunned, and turned to Harry.

“Fawkes, Dumbledore’s phoenix, brought the sorting hat to me. I pulled the Sword while Fawkes blinded the snake to give me a chance. I stabbed the Sword through the roof of its mouth, killed it, and used the fang that caught my arm to kill the diary. Fawkes cried on my wound and saved my life.”

Dead silence.

Harry pulled back his sleeve to show the silver scar, back to front on his forearm, where it had healed without even the normal protruding scar tissue.

“It was less than six months ago,” Harry said, worried now.

“Ginny, you were there, you saw it.” He hated to remind her of the experience, but really– he wasn’t making this up. Or crazy.

“B-bigger than a d-dragon, it was.” She stuttered a bit. “Sword of Gryffindor, rubies on the handle.”

Hermione grabbed his arm with wide, chocolate eyes.

“I can’t think of a single mention of anyone surviving contact with basilisk venom– much less a bite, Harry.”

It meant more to Harry and Ron than, say, the rest of the Weasleys, who could not have known she had a magical eidetic memory for written information.

Harry took a moment to digest before raising a hand to forestall any further discussion.

“I have an appointment with a certified, private healer tomorrow for a general checkup, as I never met with a healer like most magical children. It’s been fine this long; it can wait a few more hours.”

Half a dozen voices rang out with protests.

“But Harry–”

“Young man,–”

“Basilisk venom–”

“You should have died, mate!” Said Ron, closest save everyone but Hermione. Blue eyes fixed on him unwaveringly, tinged with hurt.

Harry realized, with the advent of phoenix tears rendering the wound virtually non-existent, and the Headmaster’s own lack of worry– or even insistence that he see Madame Pomfrey– that he’d dismissed the matter from his mind to worry over other things.

It wasn’t something he could ever forget, of course– the terror of it was still fresh in his nightmares, some nights– but he hadn’t mentioned to either of his best friends what had happened, assuming, erroneously, that there would be no further consequences when none became manifest immediately.

“It’s not the first time I survived something I shouldn’t have, Ron!” Harry said, a tad bit short and bitingly. As much as he was frustrated with their concern and impatience, he was more so irritated with himself for overlooking the issue.

The sheer dearth of what he knew about the magical world, the vast number of things he thought were normal or commonplace only to discover they were was the opposite, or vice versa, seemed unconquerable.

Worse, still, he had no way of knowing when his unwitting assumptions were wrong until it was pointed out to him. How could he know what to question or what to accept blindly?

Ron’s eyes slid up to the jagged bolt across Harry’s forehead and his mouth huffed an exasperated puff of disbelief.

“If it’s as rare an event as we can assume, ordinary healers wouldn’t know what to do with it anyway. The man I have an appointment with is certified with the ICW and the actual best gold can buy; the Dverger insisted.”

Into the silence, Mr. Granger said quietly:

“You fought a snake large enough to give you a puncture scar three inches long?”

Hermione frowned primly at him, letting Harry’s arm drop from her grasp.

“There was only one, it was an anomaly, and it’s dead now. Hogwarts is the safest place in the wizarding world, Daddy.”

Her words rang with the practiced tone of a long-familiar argument.

Dr. Granger took several deep breaths before nodding, still an unhappy tilt to his mouth.

Harry and Ron, who had been chased by giant man-eating spiders earlier that year, kept their mouths shut, though they did glance at each other quite quickly before looking away just as fast.

“Quite right,” Mr. Weasley said, tucking back into his food, visibly shaken. “Molly and I attended for seven years with nothing so outrageously dangerous occurring. Why, that mess with the Chamber was downright shocking.”

“Too right,” Molly agreed faintly, looking from Ginny to Harry with teary eyes.

Harry prudently took another bite of venison to avoid it.

“Say, Fred…” Began one of the twins, a bit off.

“Yes, George?”

“Remember that charms lesson where we learned to conjure nice, happy butterflies?”

“Of course, George, old chap! Why, the pretty colours of a few dozen butterflies–”

“Just fluttering harmlessly about Flitwick’s classroom, mind–”

“Were an unforgettable sight.”

“Ah, yes.” Said Mr. Weasley, much more animated now. “I remember that one. Molly, what was the charm again?”

Mrs. Weasley brightened and drew her wand, only to pause and glance at Harry.

For a moment, he was perplexed.

Then it clicked and he nodded, grinning.

Conjuring butterflies in the middle of a restaurant might be a touch out of line, but owning said restaurant had to have some perks.

Hermione cleared her throat a bit.

“Mrs. Weasley,” She said, almost shyly. “You might try faro farfalla, instead.”

She took out her wand and demonstrated the wand movements, three in total.

The Weasley matriarch was intrigued.

“Fah-roh Far-fahll-uh, you said, dear?”

“Fur-faaallla,” Hermione iterated slowly, “Apple ‘A’ sound. It’s italian in origin.”

Mrs. Weasley practiced the wand motions twice before incanting:

“Faro farfalla!”

Slowly, three butterflies drifted into existence from the edge of her wand.

Only, instead of flesh, they burned golden, mere outlines of glowing aureate fire as their wings fluttered lazily. 

“Oh,” Mrs. Granger said softly, entranced. Even Mrs. Weasley looked surprised at her own creation.

Hermione held out a hand and one of the magical constructs landed on her palm. It fluttered its wings once, twice, three times before deconstructing. A blazing trail of tame fire of the same colour stretched in a ribbon to Mrs. Weasley from her hands.

“To find lost children,” Ron realized, eyes alight with the reflection.

“Wherever did you find such a lovely spell?” Mrs. Weasley asked, casting a reluctant finite after the second and third constructs floated to Ginny and Mrs. Granger.

“Magic is amazing. I’ve spent years looking up the most beautiful spells, so I can… Well, so I can show my parents someday.” She smiled at her mother. “I’ve a list.”

“Follow the butterflies,” Harry muttered to Ron, who snorted wine right up his nose and choked, laughing.

“Mate.” Ron complained.

In short order, they were done with their meals, and Harry insisted on everyone getting dessert.

“It’s part of the magic!” He insisted. “It’ll show up, anyway, just like the appetizers did.”

And lo, it did.

After dinner (“Really, I’m so invested in this restaurant the interest I get off it this month will cover the meals”) and leaving the restaurant, they split up. Mr. Weasley, the twins, Ginny and Ron went to Quality Quidditch while Mrs. Weasley, Percy, the Drs Granger, Hermione and Harry ventured down Historic for a book shop that offered more than the new and popular releases that Flourish and Blotts specialized in.

Hermione, of course, was delighted.

“Your birthday is in September, right?” Harry asked, trapping the sleeve of her jumper. “Let me pick you out something as good as the Broom Servicing Kit you got me for mine.”

Unprotesting, she laughed and allowed herself to be spun through the shelves.

He ended up buying her “A History of Transfiguration in the Sixteenth Century” as well as “Numerology and Grammatica.” Harry grabbed “Obscure Potions” for himself and, at a little prodding, “Charms Thought Lost: a Reclamation.”

“It’s where I found reference to the Lost Light charm in the first place,” She claimed boldly.

“I’m still getting her an actual birthday present,” He said quietly, conspiratorially to Mrs. Granger. “Don’t tell her.”

“Oh, wait.” He said as they were ringing up, only to run back to the shelves.

“Really, Harry?” Hermione huffed.

“Yes, really.” Harry countered smartly. “I’ve copies of all these books, but you might as well have your own– otherwise you’ll have mine all year.”

“Harry!” She protested.

“He has a point, dear.” Mr. Granger pointed out rightly.

“‘Founding Families.’” Hermione read. “‘The Ancients: Dating Back’; ‘Noble Protocols’; ‘Wizarding Law, Great Britain and the Surrounding Isles: 1990-1995.’”

“Nineteen-ninety through nineteen-ninety-five?” She asked. “Harry, they can’t sell that. It’s only ‘93.”

The wizard at the counter harrumphed as Harry laughed.

“It’s self-updating, ‘Mi. There’s entirely blank pages dedicated to future Wizengamot sessions. It doesn’t list the laws, just the ruling of each session. So if a session in 1992 passed a law into effect that countered one from 1991…”

She grabbed the book and flipped it open while he counted out the gold.

“It has record of the law from 1991, unaltered!” She exclaimed.

She frowned.

“Harry…” Hermione said slowly. “Why do I need these books?”

“Because I’m the Lord of a Most Ancient and Noble House, Hermione. My father’s line has carried the title of Earl of Gryffindor all the way back to before Godric. Beyond that, I’m heir to a few other families and some titles that died out in the war were left to me or my family in magical wills, or the Potters were the closest family they had and we inherited.”

He paused.

“I’m one of the few noblemen left in Wizarding Britain and beyond that, I’m one of the highest ranking. Only another Earl has equal standing. Beyond even that, the various titles that have been left to me have awarded me no less than 13 votes on the Wizengamot. Counting mine, there are sixty four total claimed seats and one for each of the ten department heads, including the minister, of the Ministry, and another for the chief warlock– making 75 total seats.”

“That’s nearly a fifth of the votes.” She realized out loud, then paled as the meaning occurred to her. “Without even taking into account various alliances.”

“Exactly.”

“You’ve got thirteen out of 75 seats on the wizard Parliament?” Mr. Granger asked, stunned.

“We’ve not a House of Commons, Daddy,” Hermione corrected. “It’s 75 on the House of Lords, counting what is essentially the magical Prime Minister and his cabinet.”

“We don’t have a separate judicial body, either.” Harry said. “All criminal cases come before the Wizengamot and, in the absence of a magical regent, the Supreme Mugwump acts as judge. The Lords cast a vote of innocent or guilty and a majority decides.”

As her parents digested that with uneasy faces, Hermione powered on.

“A two-thirds majority or simply a majority?”

At Harry’s confusion, she elaborated: “Could someone be convicted of a crime with 38 votes guilty to 37 votes innocent, or do they have to have at least 50 to ensure a conviction?”

He blinked, then turned to her parents and the intrigued shopkeeper.

“This, ladies and gentlemen. This is why I’m buying her a copy of the law books.”

It startled laughter out of them.

Hermione bit her lip carefully.

Harry motioned for her to speak, smiling.

“You might as well say it, if you’re thinking it.”

“Are you going to be attending sessions while we’re at Hogwarts this year?” She asked.

Mr. Granger looked surprised.

“You don’t have to have a proxy vote until you’re of age, lad?”

Before Harry could answer, the Shopkeeper, hitherto silent, laughed.

“You see that ring un his finger, sir? He’s of age. A Lord’s ring will kneet be lettin’ just anyone put it on. T’were he not in tha eyes of magic a man in full, grown in the ways tha matter, he’d have tha Heir’s ring a’stead.” 

The Scott’s thick accent minutely threw all of them, Harry included.

“It’s my right,” Harry added, softly. “I’m not just the heir to House of Potter. I’m the last living member. It was my right by magic and law to claim my place as head– as Lord– of my family as soon as I turned eleven. But I didn’t know, and in that time my family magic could have languished irreparably. Without any living relatives, it’s all in me. I’m the sole repository of fourteen hundred years worth of accumulated family magic.”

The Shopkeeper dropped his wand, only to pick it up with an embarrassed cough a moment later.

“Too right, my Lord.” He demurred.

Harry took a deep breath and the tension vanished. He set the new books on the counter and paid for all of them.

They waited for Percy and Mrs. Weasley to emerge from the faraway depths of the back of the large store, five minutes at most, making idle conversation.

“Are you all ready, dears?” Mrs. Weasley questioned them, ringing up some small books that Harry recognized as the romantic housewitch novels he’d seen around the Burrow last summer.

Percy bought himself some rather thick tombs, which Hermione smiled at.

Mrs. Weasley shrank down their purchases that they might fit in their pockets.

“Remind me to expand Hermione’s before you leave, if you would, Mrs. Granger. I don’t know what she’d do with tiny textbooks over the summer!”

The adults laughed as they made their way from the store. Harry, adjacent Hermione, paused with the door held open for her.

“Oh, and Mr. Crow?” He said, almost as an afterthought.

“Yes, Lord Potter?”

“Crowquill’s has the Earl of Gryffindor’s permission to display our House’s coat of arms.”

The bell chimed to mark their exit.

“Did you see the little squares marking the corner of his display shop?” Harry asked Hermione, in advance of her own question.

“All the coat of arms of families who patronize the store?” She asked, fascinated.

“Yes. Flourish also has permission to display mine, as well as Florine’s Ice Cream Parlour. He was willing to chat with me about my history homework while I ate at his shop at the beginning of the summer.”

“I imagine that’d be helpful in shops like Madam Malcolm’s and the apothecaries,” She mused.

“Oh?” Harry raised an eyebrow.

“Picture it. You’re trying to decide which shop has the better quality ingredients and you noticed– oh, Professor Snape’s coat of arms, for example’s sake– and you know a Potion’s Master prefers that apothecary, so they must have quality goods.”

“And if one shop has it and another doesn’t…” Harry trailed off.

“Exactly. What’s wrong with the ingredients at the first apothecary that he won’t let them display a sign his patronage? Are they inferior?”

“I might shop at the apothecary without Snape’s coat of arms just to be spiteful, if one has it and the other doesn’t.” Harry confessed.

“Harry!” Hermione chastised, laughing. “Just because he’s rude and terribly unfair doesn’t mean he’s not an excellent Potions Master. He’s had several groundbreaking articles in The Practical Potioneer.”

Percy perked up at that, drawing Hermione into a spirited debate about cauldrons. Harry, walking to the left of them, smiled fondly. He closed his eyes to bask in the sense of easy camaraderie of trusted friends and allies. It was, without question, better than unwillingly related relatives or unsubtle, alienating stares from strangers. Better, even, than the quiet freedom to walk anonymous among wizards and witches this summer, unknown and unquestioned for the most part.

He stepped up a ways to start pointing out various speciality shops to the Grangers, both out of their element but smart enough to not play the wide-eyed muggle. Mrs. Weasley caught on and joined him.

Together he and she played guide, and the adults led their way to the rest of the party.

At the end of the day, Hermione and Ron allowed themselves to be pulled away by Harry.

“Look, I can’t tell you where I’m staying–” He started, only to be interrupted.

“It’s fine, Harry. You’ve got an escaped convict after you,” the redhead said earnestly.

“Honestly, Harry. Your safety matters to us.” Hermione chided gently.

“– so cover for me with your families while I sneak away under the cloak.” He finished dryly, eyebrow raised.

Hermione huffed at him while Ron laughed.

Harry pulled on his invisibility cloak while they explained to the group at large that he was taking a discrete way back; it was good to be seen in public and on the Alley where he was safe, but stupid to let someone follow him back to where he was staying.

He vanished between one swish of fabric and the next, to the sounds of his best friends chatting idly with their families. If he lingered a little, heart longing for something he’d never have, well– that was nothing new, and the pain was a familiar one in his chest.