The cool morning air greeted him as he stepped out of the Leaky Cauldron. Crisp and fresh, it filled his lungs as he braced himself for the day. The alley was waking up. Shopkeepers flipped signs to ‘open,’ a wizard in ink-stained robes muttered over a newspaper, and crates clattered as deliveries arrived.

  Harry stood amid the bustle of the alley’s daily routine. It felt odd, standing unrecognized in the heart of Wizarding Britain. He truly was a stranger here.

  A man out of time.

  Quite literally, he was no one at all.

  Naturally, now that he’d achieved anonymity, he found he wasn’t best pleased about it.

  Not quite what I’d meant by ‘Just Harry.’

  If he wanted to exist again, he’d need a name on the books.

  The chamber had vanished the moment he’d reset the wards. There was no way back. Not an obvious one, anyway.

  He was stuck for now. Likely forever.

  He wondered how long it would take anyone back home to notice.

  Best not to wallow. ‘Keep calm and carry on’ and all that.

  He needed to think long-term. Being a ‘John Smith’ wouldn’t cut it.

  Harry didn’t exactly have experience in the seedy underbelly of Knockturn. His time in hiding from the Snatchers had been about staying invisible, not working the underground.

  But there was someone in London who would know.

  Mundungus Fletcher.

  As shifty as they came, with a rat's instincts for survival. He’d been tangled in everything from fencing dodgy heirlooms to forged Ministry paperwork.

  He might not be reliable, but he knew people. Knew how things worked.

  I can find him easily enough… I’ll just have to "convince" him to help.

  Harry smirked to himself, giving his coin pouch a light pat.

  Knowing Dung, that’d do the trick.

  He flicked his wand, murmuring under his breath.

  Magic curled outward, seeking, stretching into the city like a hound picking up a scent. A faint pull in his chest tugged somewhere to the east, shifting slightly as the Point-Me spell refined its tracking.

  Got him.

  Harry slid his wand into his wrist holder and set off.

  Time to see a man about a ‘job’.

  · · ·

  The trail led Harry straight to Knockturn Alley.

  No surprise there.

  His first visit to the alley had been as accidental as it was alarming. It had driven home the importance of proper locution, and given him his first real glimpse of the realities polite society preferred to sweep under the rug.

  He was no longer the same wide-eyed boy he’d been, shooting out of strange Floos and needing Hagrid to haul him out of trouble. The vagabonds and misfits lurking in the shadows were still dangerous, but now they were also pitiful, in their own way.

  That included his quarry.

  Mundungus had apparently imbibed a bit too heavily the night before. He was slumped over outside an establishment of highly questionable repute, left to the tender mercies of Knockturn’s finest.

  Harry looked up.

  The Ugly Mermaid.

  A sign with peeling paint creaked above the door, depicting a corpulent mermaid with a rather unfortunate, frog-eyed face and no real need for her mother-of-pearl clam-shell bra, leering down at him.

  A relation of Umbridge, perhaps?

  Harry glanced at the man he was here to petition for aid. He was a drooling, comatose wreck of a man, reeking of alcohol. His snores reverberated across the alley.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Harry cowled himself in a glamour, then sighed as he approached his only connection to the underworld.

  He lazily flicked his wand forward in a looping twist. Moments later, Mundungus jolted awake with a strangled gasp, hacking like a man who’d just been dunked in ice water.

  "Whazzit?!" he slurred, blinking blearily. Then he stiffened, eyes darting, like something was wrong. He smacked his lips, scowling as he patted his hands over his chest, as though something on his person had gone missing.

  "Oi… where’s me buzz gone?"

  Sobriety must be quite the shock to his system.

  "Top of the morning, Dung." Harry’s tone was pleasant, almost conversational. "I hear you’re the man to ask if someone’s looking for a… specialist in handling certain bureaucratic matters."

  Mundungus squinted at him, bloodshot eyes narrowing as he took stock. His eyes scanned Harry, measuring his wealth, competence, and whether his own morning was about to go tits-up.

  Coming to a conclusion, he scratched at his grimy chin and said, "Could be I knows someone. Could be I don’t. Depends." His gaze flicked to Harry’s pocket. "Who’s askin’?"

  Harry lifted a small pouch and gave it a lazy jingle.

  "Why, Little Joey. Said you'd recognize him."

  Then, from his cloak, he casually drew a larger bag. He gave it a little bounce to show off its weight.

  "And I reckon Lord Farthing might be interested as well. After the proper introductions, of course."

  Mundungus’s eyes sharpened, his nose practically twitching, like a rat scenting opportunity. He stroked his chin in mock thought, drawing it out just long enough to pretend there was any real consideration involved.

  “Joey, eh? Good lad, good lad. Always sends the right sort me way, he does.”

  He sniffed, rocking back on his heels. “Well now, I ain’t the bloke you’re after, o’ course—bit outta my skillset, that sort o’ thing—but might be I knows a fella wot could see to it that certain… misfiled documents find their way back to the cabinets they was never not in.”

  He leaned in, conspiratorially.

  “Just a bit of clerical oversight, innit?"

  His grin widened just enough to show the uneven state of his teeth.

  "Cost ya, mind. Ain’t exactly an everyday service, now, is it?"

  · · ·

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Mundungus guided Harry deeper into Knockturn. The alley was far more reluctant to rise than Diagon. Few pedestrians were up and about. Not much business was handled here in the light of day.

  Some were, quite literally, denizens of the night.

  Most shops were still shuttered, including the one Dung had led him to at the alley’s end.

  A simple slab of burnished oak above the doorway bore the name:

  Mr. McKrell’s Wonders.

  At either end of the shopfront, a pair of pockmarked Ionian columns, carved from coarse, porous travertine, leaned awkwardly against the building’s brickwork. They offered no structural support, only holding up a thinly veneered entablature that stretched across the entire first floor, partially covering the grime-streaked windows of the second.

  Etched into its surface in shallow, uneven relief was a pot-bellied wizard. He was round-faced and vacant-eyed, lounging in a basin of swirling waves. A school of water nymphs surrounded him, hands outstretched, their faces a caricature of adulation.

  Now that is art.

  The whole thing reeked of a half-hearted attempt at grandeur. The fa?ade fooled no one, save perhaps the patron who commissioned this… crime against humanity.

  The wonders in question filled the large, dusty window.

  This lot looks like it was found at Zonko’s, not a Founder’s Vault.

  A crumpled sheaf of parchment lay propped against the glass, its label boasting ‘The Scroll of Sumerian Prophecies.’ Even at a glance, Harry could tell it was utter bollocks. The fake cuneiform was strung together higgledy-piggledy.

  Next to it sat a dull butter knife, its sign proudly labelling it ‘goblin-wrought gold.’ Glancing at the flaking copper filigree and the tarnished metal beneath, Harry felt somewhat dubious about its authenticity.

  Completing the trio was a dented, rust-flecked cauldron. Its tag boldly declared: ‘SALAZAR SLYTHERIN’S PERSONAL CAULDRON: FORGED BY THE DARK LORD HIMSELF!’

  Harry snorted at the bald-faced chicanery.

  Even Lockhart would’ve blushed at this.

  At the centre of the display sat the real star of the show: a crudely carved wooden cup, placed atop an ornate stone pedestal. Every few moments, it tilted forward, pouring a stream of dark liquid into a rune-etched basin below before righting itself and filling once more.

  A parchment tag in elegant script read: “THE ONE TRUE GRAIL: Eternally Overflowing with the Blood of Christ.”

  Right. And I’m the Queen of England.

  As they stepped up to the shop, Dung rapped on the door.

  Knock, Knock, Knock, Knock, Knock—

  Knock. Knock.

  Harry arched a brow.

  Shave and a haircut, two bits? That’s the password?

  The very same pot-bellied wizard from the frieze hanging just above the door cracked it open. A round face, with dim, glassy eyes, peered out at them.

  Upon seeing Mundungus, he puffed up in clear indignation at the man’s visit.

  "Here to sell me another load of bollocks, Fletcher? You’ll ruin my reputation as a purveyor of the finest goods!"

  Dung sheepishly rubbed the back of his head, chuckling.

  "Twas an honest mistake, Maron, I swear. I was told it were the genuine article, how was I to know it was a knock-off? You’re the expert, after all." He held up his hands in mock surrender, then pivoted smoothly just as Maron’s face began to redden. "But I’ve come to make it right! Brought you a man what’s in need o’ your services, I have!"

  With a grand, exaggerated flourish, he gestured to Harry.

  Maron’s gaze turned to Harry, eyes scanning him from head to toe in silent assessment. Harry smiled guilelessly and gave a jaunty wave.

  “Pleasure, I’ve heard great things.”

  Coming to a decision, Maron unlatched the door chain and stepped aside, waving them in with both hands like a carnival barker.

  The shop was overstuffed with oddities in every colour, size, and shape imaginable. It really was a wonder he’d managed to cram so much misfit junk into one storefront.

  Can only imagine what’s stuffed in the back. Probably a stuffed troll and the Blackpool frog choir.

  After leading them inside, he turned to lock the door behind them. There were three deadbolts, two chains, and an iron bar.

  He’s just a blind dragon short of Gringotts.

  He spun back to greet his guests with an overly toothy smile, all but gliding toward the backroom as he beckoned them to follow.

  He moved with the over-practiced grace and oily chatter of a man who’d spent his entire life convincing fools they were about to make the deal of a lifetime.

  Pushing aside a heavy velvet curtain embroidered with the badly spelled Latin, Fortuna Fovet Fools, they entered the backroom. It was just as gaudy as expected. A faux dragon-leather armchair sat opposite a claw-footed settee draped in burgundy velveteen.

  Maron turned with yet another theatrical flourish, arms outstretched.

  "Ahh, welcome, welcome! Please, make yourselves comfortable, gentlemen!" he said, his voice a smooth, unctuous purr that made Harry’s skin crawl.

  "Tell me, what’s your pleasure today? A rare tome? A relic of forgotten magic? Or a trinket of exceptional provenance, perhaps?"

  He rubbed his hands together, beaming like a man about to triple-charge a customer for something they didn’t need.

  "You name it, I have it! And if by some cruel twist of fate I don’t, fear not! My finest treasure hunters can track anything you can imagine down within the week. Guaranteed!"

  An obsequious grin bloomed across his face like an oil spill. It spread impossibly wide, an uncanny facsimile of a comedy mask.

  Dung cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably.

  "That ain’t it, Maron." He hesitated, then forced a conspiratorial tone. "He’s—ahem—let’s say there’s been a spot of trouble with some o’ this fellow’s paperwork… wanderin’ its way outta where it oughtn’t ‘ave always been, if you be takin’ me meaning."

  The change in Maron was immediate and profound.

  The oily grin vanished. His servile posture straightened. Eyes that had seemed dull just a moment ago were suddenly sharp and focused.

  When he spoke again, his voice was calm, precise, and far too intelligent for the fool he had just been playing.

  "I see." He leaned forward, eyes weighing Harry once again. "And which papers wandered away from their proper place?"

  So this was the real McKrell, then. Maybe I don’t have to give this up as a bad job after all.

  "Government identity, OWLs, NEWTs, the lot." Harry met his gaze without blinking. "Would you be able to ensure they find their way back home?"

  Maron tilted his head, counting on his fingers as he worked the numbers in his mind.

  "I can, aye," he said at last. "Grease the right palms, and lost things have a way of turnin’ up right where they should be. You understand."

  "Naturally," Harry said smoothly. "I’d be most grateful to all parties involved in the recovery."

  Maron’s grin stretched wide, avarice gleaming in his eyes.

  This man is a true wolf in sheep’s clothing…

  He tilted his head slightly. "And remind me… to which name should these files be returned?"

  Harry let the pause hang, then, decision made, he responded with a smile.

  “Halloway. Harry Halloway.”

  · · ·

  Entering Gringotts, Harry noted that it appeared untouched by time. It remained a fixed point in a world that had otherwise shifted beneath Harry’s feet.

  His boot clicked against the polished marble floor as he strode into the lobby. Looking around, he observed his surroundings.

  The same vaulting ceilings. The same Doric pillars, slightly askew. The same imperiously high counters, forcing wizards to crane their necks up in discomfort… A silent, if unsubtle, reminder of their place in the goblins’ eyes.

  Some things never change. It appears goblins may well top that list.

  He continued forward, the sound of his approach echoing through the vast of the hall.

  The goblin at the nearest counter didn’t pause his quill’s steady scrawl. He glanced down flatly, then held up a single finger.

  Harry waited.

  And waited.

  A cheery smile remained in place on his face as he stared a hole through the clerk’s forehead.

  They do love their games. Well, two can play at that.

  Harry began to hum one of Celestina Warbeck’s classic tunes, A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love as he continued to wait patiently.

  The goblin’s ear twitched.

  Harry began to tap his foot, really getting into the chorus on his third repetition. Unfortunately, it was at this point that he was quite rudely interrupted.

  “State your purpose, and be quick about it. There’s no time to waste.”

  Charming as ever.

  Harry met the goblin’s beetle-black stare, unflinching. “I have business that requires a director.”

  The goblin furrowed its brow, beady eyes fixed on Harry with a needling intensity. After a moment’s consideration, the creature sighed long-sufferingly.

  “And what, pray tell, would justify an audience with a director?” His voice curled with disdain, baring a row of sharp teeth. “I can assure you they would not tolerate having their time misspent on trivialities, wizard.”

  The disdain rolling off the goblin was palpable. It seemed they really did take pleasure in being as disagreeable and vexing as possible.

  I’m suddenly feeling far less guilty about turning the place over.

  Harry enjoyed letting a few more moments pass in silence, the goblin growing visibly irritated by having its time wasted.

  “I have mutually profitable business to discuss.” He let the pause stretch for a few moments, then smirked.

  “Assuming, of course, that Gringotts would be interested in reclaiming a cache of its misplaced silver.”

  That got the goblin’s attention.

  “I’ll check the director’s availability.”