Disclaimer: Not mine.

Harry Potter and the Diagon Alley Small Business Association

Books and Basilisks pt 2

Note: This chapter wound up getting bit more serious than the last, just to let you know. On the bright side, neither Harry nor Dumbledore ends up getting tarred and feathered by an angry mob. Well, not yet, anyway.

Also, I posted chapter one of a new story, Honor Among Thieves, a HP/ Leverage crossover.

oOo

"So let me get this straight," said Mr. Flibbert Flourish sternly. "You were just having an innocent, theoretical conversation about the power of names when suddenly— apropos of nothing—Madame Beatrice fainted."

"Yeah, that's pretty much it. I mean, she'd just been asking about the monster I had to fight last year, and I'd just told her it was a basilisk, but—"

Mr. Flibbert shrieked.

A witch standing nearby fainted.

Just for the fun of it (parallelism, he would call it), Fidget knocked over a stack of books.

Harry sighed again.

oOo

"A Basilisk? A BASILISK? What—how is that even—" Mr. Flourish had come around a few minutes after Madame Beatrice, and now all three of them were in the sitting area of the store, magically enlarged so that the sudden wellspring of customers that had appeared in the bookstore could fit in too. In fact, Harry was pretty sure he had even seen Bill Bludgins from Quality Quidditch lurking in the background. It seemed that at least half of Diagon Alley was eagerly awaiting his tale.

Mr. Fidget brought some tea to help revive the fainters. When Harry asked if he could have some, Fidget shook his head. "It's medicinal," he said solemnly, adding some amber liquid to it that made Mr. Flibbert cough as he swallowed. Harry figured it probably tasted pretty bad (most medicines did), so he was grateful for Fidget's warning.

"Now, now, Flibbert, there's no need to get so riled up," said a regal looking witch with long dark hair. "After all, Mr. Potter never said how large the basilisk was. And furthermore, Mr. Potter seems like a very levelheaded young man. I'm sure he of all people knows that he just needed to charm a rooster to crow within hearing distance of the basilisk."

"That may be, Tamara," said another wizard faintly, "but I'm still stuck on the fact that there was a basilisk in Hogwarts, and my son never mentioned it to me. Why weren't we told?"

Everyone turned as one to Harry, who gulped. For the first time, it occurred to him that maybe he shouldn't be talking about this. It wasn't really his fault; adults always had such weird reactions and got really upset over the smallest things. Too late now, he thought sullenly, I'll just have to tell them about it, unless I can distract them somehow. Think, Potter!

"Ah, sorry sir, do I know you?" Harry asked, frantically trying to come up with a diversion.

"My apologies, Mr. Potter. I'm Doc Boot of Boot's Leather and Luggage. We're right next door to Trunk's Shoes and Boots, down near the tea shop," the wizard explained. "I think you know my son, Terry. He's in your year at Hogwarts. Ravenclaw."

"Oh, of course, Terry," Harry said enthusiastically, despite the fact that he wasn't sure he'd ever talked to Terry Boot for more than five minutes at a time. "How's he doing? Having a good summer then? Tell me about it."

"Oh, he's doing well. He'll be thrilled to know you asked about him—big fan of yours, my Terry. Why, it seems like just yesterday he was playing with his Harry Potter action dolls. Actually, come to think of it, that may have been yesterday…."

"Harry Potter action dolls? There are dolls? Of me?! Why didn't anyone think to tell me that?" His terror (of public speaking, not of the basilisk) completely vanished in the face of this new horror. Harry was sure his eyes were about to fall out of his face, and he thought that might actually be preferable to picturing his classmates playing with dolls of him.

Then he had another thought that made him feel nauseous and a bit dirty.

Oh, God… Ginny.

He groaned and put his head in his hands, but not before seeing that most of the adults around him were a bit embarrassed and trying to avoid his eyes. Well except for Fidget, who was smirking unrepentantly.

Traitor. He'd better be careful or I'll sic the Weasley twins on his precious bookstore. Harry was getting more in tune with his bloodthirsty side every minute. He wondered if Tom Riddle had gone through something like this to turn him evil too.

"Er, they're not really dolls per se, as much as enchanted miniature figures," Doc Boot said nervously. "They're really quite adorable—some of them even speak. I can have Terry bring some of his by to show you—"

"Er, that's okay. No, thanks." Remembering his plan to distract them, he swallowed his nausea and added, "Do you know if Boot—I mean Terry—has finished his summer homework yet? Gosh, that potions work sure was a killer."

Yes, Harry was really just that desperate that he would rather discuss his most hated subject with a boy who possibly had creepy stalker tendencies than continue the previous conversation.

"Oh, yes of course. Terry was very excited about that assignment. I can floo him and you two could—"

"Perhaps you can catch up with your school chums later, Mr. Potter," suggested the regal witch in a tone that said this is not a suggestion. "For now, I think we would appreciate an answer to Doc's question. How is it that none of us have heard of this basilisk?"

Drat, thought Harry. So close. On the other hand, given a choice between explaining to a room full of strangers how he had hunted down a fifty-foot long basilisk using his Parselmouth abilities or having to picture Terry Boot and Ginny Weasley having Harry Potter doll playdates, while desperately trying not to think about exactly what they had forced his poor, innocent doll-self to do, he thought he actually preferred the basilisk.

"Well," he said consideringly, "I suppose nobody mentioned it because it ended up not being a big deal. I mean, 'no harm, no foul,' right? Nobody was killed. Well, a bunch of people got petrified by the Basilisk, and I guess Myrtle died, but—"

"Petrified?!"

"Died?!"

"Not a big deal?!"

The black-haired witch growled and several of the others standing nearby looked like they were about to grab the torches and pitchforks if that's what it took to get their answers. Perhaps Harry had underestimated their school pride a bit. Still, it was a bit hypocritical that they could get all worked up about a stupid basilisk, but he'd never seen any of them supporting the school at quidditch matches.

He risked a quick glance around and saw everyone staring at him with an intensity that frankly disturbed him. Being the center of attention on Privet Drive was usually not a good thing if your name was Harry Potter. Judging by their expressions, though, Harry wasn't getting out of this without talking. He could try to distract them and slip out, but he suspected they would just follow him back to the Cauldron. Possibly with torches and pitchforks.

Except for Fidget, who was still snickering. For some reason, the man seemed to find Harry endlessly amusing, and Harry was beginning to wonder if the man had some sort of facial tic or possibly a mental problem. Not that that would stop him from asking the Weasley twins to wreak havoc to their destructive little hearts' content. Dungbombs seemed a bit simplistic, but Harry was pretty sure Zonko's made an ink-vanishing potion. If he bought it in bulk and had the Weasleys use some dungbombs to explode the potion all over the books…

Harry was a bit vindictive like that sometimes.

Looking at the angry mob surrounding him, Harry grudgingly gave in. He told the whole story from the beginning (and by "whole story," he meant only the absolute bare bones of the tale), although he tried to put the focus on the funny bits, like Lockhart and the pixies, and he definitely didn't mention Ginny Weasley's name. No way would he voluntarily drag someone else into this mess, even if she was doing possibly unspeakable things to a miniature likeness of his body. It was hard to dodge so many of the explanations, but Harry had years of practice and his audience seemed too appalled by the basilisk to ask questions.

When he was done, the crowd around him was silent for a bit. Harry wasn't sure if they were still in shock about the basilisk or terrified of his Parselmouth abilities (he'd tried to avoid mentioning that, but the regal witch had eyed him archly and he found himself blurting it out like an idiot).

"Well that was—enlightening," Fidget said blankly, for once not smiling.

"Mr. Potter, a word, please? I'm Rita Skeeter with the Daily Prophet," a nosy witch with ugly spectacles and too much make-up burst in, a parchment and quickly moving quill floating next to her. "Tell me, how does it feel to be a Parselmouth? Is it true you've been experimenting with Dark rituals? Do you—"

"Oh, Rita, give it a rest," snorted the regal witch, whose name was Tamara something, if Harry had heard right. She casually plucked the quill out of the air and snapped it in half, earning a death glare from the reporter. "Parselmouths are just wizards and witches who can talk to snakes. Despite what the ignorant masses may believe," and here she looked condescendingly at Rita, "the ability itself is not Dark."

"Dear me, of course not!" exclaimed Madame Beatrice, who had rallied her spirits at this unprovoked attack on her favorite new book-lover-to-be. "Of course, the vast majority of Parselmouths have been insane, power-hungry Dark Lords, but … let me think. Why, there was Sackson the Silly who used the ability to publish 1001 Jokes and Puns That Snakes Find Hilarious. Or, if you prefer, Anise Ablashun, the famous healer who used Parseltongue to gather Runespoor eggs; she actually created the Cognizus Potion, which helps reverse damage from backfired Obliviations."

"Really?" Harry exclaimed in shocked relief. Everyone turned to stare at him again. Darn it, when would he learn to stop blurting stuff out? "Sorry, it's just, I never knew that. I mean, I'd never even heard of Parseltongue until this year. I never really used it much growing up. Snakes are pretty boring, honestly. There was this one garden snake that just kept going on and on about how pretty his scales were…."

Several of the crowd had developed facial tics by this point, but Harry was too caught up in his rant to notice. He had a bit of steam to blow off, here. He'd spent nearly the entire year getting ostracized because his classmates were apparently too stupid to actually fact check before running away in terror. Come to think of it, how had Hermione missed that?

"…And then I got to Hogwarts, and everyone started hating me when they found out. I still don't understand why, but they hated me anyway. It was like, one day I was Harry Potter, and the next, even my dorm mates were looking at me like—like I was going to murder them or something. People backed away from me in the halls, and once, somebody threw bubotuber pus at me from around the corner." He pulled his sleeve up a few inches to show some splotchy scars speckling his arm. "I actually still have the scars from that—they're kind of cool looking. Wanna see?"

Harry figured this was the height of generosity, as the collective Wizarding World seemed to have some sort of kinky scar fetish.

To his horror, several of the witches in the crowd burst in to tears. Mr. Flourish seemed to be snarling to himself about "bigoted snot-nosed brats, I should sell them the Venomous Book of Venoms, Poisons, and Acids. See how they like it." On the bright side, the spectacle-wearing reporter seemed to take stock of the crowd's protective emotions and change her approach accordingly.

"And how did it make you feel, Harry, to be so cruelly betrayed by your classmates at the first sign of danger? What's your reaction to your professors' cold indifference to your tragic plight, as they callously ignored the ignorant prejudice and torture you were subjected to?"

"Wait- what?" Harry said, shocked again. That's not what I said! Tragic plight—oh bugger. On the other hand, Harry couldn't help but wonder. If the knowledge about Parselmouths was as widespread as it seemed, why hadn't any of his professors said anything? Why hadn't Headmaster Dumbledore done something? He was the headmaster, and besides that, he was Dumbledore! In Harry's opinion, he could do anything.

Except defeat Quirrel. Except protect Hagrid. Except save Ginny.

"I—I don't know," said Harry, feeling a bit lost all of a sudden. He was unprepared when this answer seemed to upset his audience even more. Soon, Harry was surrounded by overly-emotional wizards and witches all wanting to give him a hug or shake his hand and assure him that, no matter what those other wizards and witches might have said, they knew he wasn't Dark. They were sure that he would only use his snake-talking abilities (and here many of the audience stuttered nervously) for the Light side, to defeat basilisks and rescue little girls.

Of course, the fact that many of the wizards in the crowd were still riding an adrenaline-high from their shared book wrangling earlier probably helped his popularity as much as anything.

And, at the end of the day, he was still their savior. Naturally, he would use his abilities to save them. For the rest of his life, apparently, as it seemed they had his destiny planned out for him.

And Harry really needed to find a way to teach the Wizarding World about the concept of inappropriate touching. Did these people think that teenagers enjoyed getting mobbed by random strangers offering to comfort them and/or have their babies?

Harry idly wondered if the Wizarding World had sexual harassment lawsuits. Or copyright laws, for that matter.

Still, thought Harry meditatively, as awful as this is, it's the first time that being the Boy-Who-Lived has actually helped me somehow. These people may not care a pig's tail about "Harry," but they seem pretty supportive of the Boy. They actually stopped that Skeeter cow from slamming me like I bet she was going to.

Despite himself, Harry felt a small bit of warmth at that. He also began to wonder what else "the Boy" might be useful for.

Maybe I can get a discount on that ink-vanishing potion from Zonkos.

Harry grinned evilly.

oOo

Flibbert Flourish ducked out of the crowd swarming young Harry Potter. He felt a twinge of guilt at abandoning the boy to the maudlin horde, but he knew that it was in Potter's best interests that he catch up with his current target.

Besides, he had a sneaking suspicion that Mr. Potter was somehow responsible for either the mayhem caused by the book stampede or for the petitions he was now flooded with to schedule a "re-match."

"Mendacius. A moment of your time, please." He hurried to reach his quarry.

Mendacius Ledger, owner and editor-in-chief of The Daily Prophet wizarding newspaper, turned back to face Flibbert. He tapped his foot impatiently. News waited for no wizard, and if he knew Skeeter (which he did, entirely too well for his own peace of mind), she would be drafting an expose already. He shuddered internally, half appalled at what they were about to do—this would surely rock the foundations of the wizarding world!—and half gleeful—this would rock the wizarding world!!

If he'd had a heart, it would be warmed with affection for Skeeter's investigatory genius. Fortunately, he'd sacrificed that useless organ a few years back in exchange for a thousand galleons, a promotion to chief editor, and three small goats.

"Mendacius, I'm sure that the lovely Ms. Skeeter is even now drafting a story about this shocking revelation, but I'm equally sure that you yourself are wise enough and experienced enough to see the immediate folly in such an act," Flibbert made sure to imbue his words with the stern authority he usually reserved for people who spilled butterbeer on his rare collection items.

"Of course, of course, but I'm in a bit of a hurry—wait, what's that you said? Folly, eh?" he looked at the other man doubtfully. "Not sure that publishing the story of the century is 'folly,' Flibbert. I mean, a basilisk, the Boy-Who-Lived, betrayal at Hogwarts: it's epic, man!"

"Hmm, yes, but there is one small catch. I'm sure you've noticed it."

"Of course I have! I'm a reporter, can't slip anything by me. But, just to make sure you caught it, why don't you tell me what you're thinking. I'll tell you if you're on the right track." He attempted an avuncular smile at the other man, which ended up looking ridiculous, since Flibbert Flourish was both older and more austere than his companion.

"You have no proof," Flibbert said with exasperation. He paused as Mendacius slowly turned the unfamiliar concept of 'proof' around in his brain. "We've no cause to doubt Mr. Potter's story, of course, but if you are going to start attacking Hogwarts, you will certainly want documentation, won't you? And there are still so many questions I'm sure Ms. Skeeter is dying to poke her nose—I mean, investigate. What were the faculty doing during all of this? Which students were injured? Who was behind all of this? And is there any connection to You-Know-Who, the last proclaimed heir of Slytherin?"

Mendacius twitched and bounced from one leg to the other. Such a dilemma! He was never one to delay talk of a scandal on such flimsy grounds as lack of proof—after all, his loyal readers had a right to know, even if the story wasn't strictly true. On the other hand, it just figured that that bookworm Flourish would raise such daring questions. If he could implicate one of the professors! A link to You-Know-Who! His sales would triple!

It would be better than the exposé he'd written on Abraxius Malfoy's underground house-elf fighting ring.

Finally, he made a decision. "I'll have Rita poke around a bit. We'll give it a few days to talk to the students, see if we can track down some of the faculty during the summer. Filch is usually easy to bribe—er, interview."

Flibbert let out the breath he'd been holding once Mendacius turned to walk away again. Well, he'd bought the boy some time, at least. He could tell that Potter was uncomfortable with the attention he'd received today. He wished he could spare the boy the mania he knew was sure to come, but such a story could never really be suppressed. At least this way the Prophet would be more likely to print something resembling the truth. Still, he'd need to talk to Tom about helping the boy come to terms with his fame. Fast!

oOo

"Harry? Are you in here, lad?" Tom poked his head around the doorway into his favorite young guest's room.

"Half a mo', Tom. I just grabbed a quick shower before dinner," Harry's voice came from inside the bathroom. A moment later, Harry himself came out, still toweling his hair dry.

Tom frowned, both at the boy's lack of grooming skills (although it's not like he could use a hair drying spell over the summer anyway) and at his awful clothes. He made a mental note to discuss muggle fashions with the boy. Everyone knew that muggles had odd taste in clothes, but these rags were just ridiculous; Tom wondered if Adam Brown had been right after all. He hoped that the boy would be willing to buy some proper wizarding clothes this summer. Merlin knew that Madame Malkin would have his head otherwise.

"Did you need something, Tom? I can come help with dinner if you're short-handed," Harry offered helpfully, bringing Tom back to the present.

"No, the elf's got it all under control," Tom replied cautiously. He was trying to figure out how to broach the subject everyone in his pub had been talking about today. "So, how was Flourish and Blotts? I heard it was a bit… exciting."

"You could say that," Harry snorted in disgust. He proceeded to summarize the day's events for Tom. "I hate it, Tom. I hate the attention, the hopes, the staring, the stark terror. But then, part of me is wondering if any of the people in that store would've been nearly as friendly if it weren't for that whole Boy-Who-Lived nonsense. I just don't know what to do."

"I don't know that there's much you can do at this point, other than what you're already doing. The way I see it, Harry, you have two problems. The first is that people just don't know you. Now, it's not your fault, but having been raised among muggles, you haven't been around for them to get gradually adjusted to. Think about when you first started at Hogwarts. Did people stare and whisper and whatnot?"

"Yeah, it drove me nuts. I mean, I had no idea what I was doing. I got lost maybe fifty times that first week alone. But somehow everywhere I went, even if I had no idea where I was, people kept staring and talking."

"But after a few weeks…" Tom prompted him.

Harry thought about it. "Yeah, it died down. I mean, people still freaked out after the Troll thing and definitely after the first quidditch match, but overall there was less of the whispering."

Tom made a second mental note to ask about the "Troll thing" later. He wasn't sure he could handle any more shocks today.

He cleared his throat. "Well, I think that's part of your answer right there. People will get used to you as they see you more. That's where spending time on the Alley can really help you. You're not being shepherded around by an entourage or an escort, you're just being you. Give them a chance to see 'just Harry,' and maybe they'll forget to go quite so mental over the Boy-Who-Lived."

Harry smiled somewhat weakly at Tom. He wasn't sure what instinct had prompted him to actually open up to the pub owner, but something about the man's unflappable friendliness made him the perfect antidote to today's craziness. And he had some good advice. If Harry could wait out the insanity over the next few days, people should get more used to seeing him in public.

Harry grinned hopefully to himself before focusing on Tom's equally friendly smile. Then he frowned slightly. "Wait, you said there were two problems. What's the second?"

"The second problem, Harry, is pretty simple. As long as you go around doing things like slaying a basilisk, people are going to stare, Boy-Who-Lived or not." Tom smiled at Harry's disappointed groan. "It should still get better. As you get older, people will start to respect you as an adult. Right now, people looking at you still see – well, they see the Boy. And for a child—sorry, teenager—to accomplish such feats borders on the miraculous."

Tom wondered if this would be the time for a few small hints. "You could probably help speed the process along…." He trailed off as though uncertain.

"What? What do I need to do? Just tell me, and I'll do it," Harry promised eagerly.

"It's a question of image. Right now… well, frankly, Harry, you look like an over-sized, over-worked house elf. And the fact that you've never had a chance to learn what most wizards consider basic knowledge increases the chance that the average witch or wizard will think you are as helpless as a baby puffskein."

He looked at Harry seriously. "So I guess, Harry, the question is: how attached are you to your muggle fashions and culture?"

"Muggle fashion?" Harry asked incredulously. "You can't seriously think that these clothes are considered fashionable to muggles, can you?"

"They're not? Then why, in Merlin's name, are you wearing them?" Tom pretended to be shocked. So Adam Brown was right; it's not some muggle thing.

"It's not like I have a choice!" Harry exclaimed angrily. "The Dursleys…."

As Harry trailed off and stared at the floor sullenly, Tom's darker concerns from the last few days came back to him. He knew he would have to tread carefully. Although he was nearly bursting to ask Harry just what his relatives were like, a half-century's worth of pub experience told him to wait.

"It doesn't matter, anyway," Harry muttered. "They're just going to hate me no matter what I do."

Tom waited.

There was an awkward silence.

"Who cares about the Dursleys? I have money at Gringotts. I can just buy some wizarding clothes. The Dursleys don't need to find out… I'll head to Madame Malkins tomorrow. Thanks, Tom."

Tom waited.

Harry stood up like he was going to leave. When he saw Tom still watching him patiently, he flushed. "Look, things with the Dursleys, well, they're not great. I mean, they don't really like magic that much, or me really. Actually, they told me my parents were drunks who died in a car crash—a muggle accident."

He peeked at Tom out of the corner of his eyes. Tom's instincts told him that if he showed any response, even sympathy, Harry would focus on his reactions and on saying what he thought Tom wanted to hear. So Tom kept his expression clear of everything except patience, even though he knew later he would be burning with rage at the implications of what Harry was saying—and what he wasn't saying.

"I don't really want to talk about it, Tom. I mean, it is what it is. I have to go back there every year anyway, so there's no point dwelling on it. There are lots of people who don't – who aren't close to their families. It's not like I like them either. And it could be a lot worse; I could be in an orphanage or something, like… well, like somebody else was.

"So I don't see the point in whining about it. They don't want me and I don't want them, but we're stuck with each other. There's no way out of that until I'm of age."

This was one of the longest speeches Tom had heard Harry make, and he thought carefully about how to reply. He knew they had barely scratched the surface; saying "they don't want me" doesn't explain why they wouldn't buy him decent clothes, or why he looked half-starved when he arrived. And Tom wasn't sure about why Harry thought there was "no way out" when any wizarding family in Britain would happily adopt the boy.

But Tom knew he couldn't say any of that. Not yet. Maybe one day Harry would trust him enough to tell him his hidden pains, but not yet. Tom was surprised to realize that he wanted that trust. It wasn't just a matter of professional integrity; it was Harry himself.

Tom wanted to deserve Harry's trust.

He cleared his throat. "I'm not going to try to tell you that it's alright for people to lie to you or treat you like that. But I'm also not going to try to force you into telling me anything you don't want to.

"Everybody has stuff in their past they don't want to talk about. You, me, hell, probably even Albus Dumbledore. I'm proud of your maturity, Harry, of the way you are focusing on what you can do instead of what you can't.

"But, one day, Harry, you're going to need to stop holding it secret inside of you." At Harry's startled expression, he nodded. "When you keep your pain and your shame quiet, it gives them power over you. Your feelings bubble up like a potion with a lid on—if you took the lid off, a lot of that stuff might boil away. But with the lid on, one day it might explode.

Harry looked a bit worried at this, but mostly just thoughtful. Tom was surprised; he thought he'd been coming on a bit strong with that potions analogy, and most teenagers didn't take being lectured well. He wondered if maybe the day's events had shaken Harry up as much as his audience.

Tom would have been less impressed with his own advice had he known that Harry's pensive look was the result of his pondering the likelihood that anyone who had been through Hogwarts in the last twenty years would even consider taking any advice that came in the form of a potions comparison. Harry was slightly worried that some people might actually be foolish enough to consider the advice simply because it made sense, completely overlooking the inherent evil of potions.

"Look, I'm here if you want to talk, but I'm also here if you don't," Tom continued, fortunately oblivious to Harry's thoughts. "Either way, I've got a willing ear and a lifetime's worth of experience in the wizarding world at your disposal. And right now, that experience says it's time to grab some dinner."

Harry's stomach chose that moment to growl, and they both chuckled a bit, the tension broken. As they headed downstairs to get some food, Tom heard a quiet voice behind him.

"Thanks, Tom."

Tom smiled. He'd done good. And he hadn't even gotten blown up in the process. Perhaps that owl-order correspondence course on "So You Want to Run the Leaky Cauldron and Mentor Traumatized Teenagers" had been worth the galleons after all.

oOo

Tom sank gratefully into a chair several hours later. The pub had been packed that evening – no wonder why—and this was the first chance he'd had to stop running from customer to customer.

As was their custom on busy days, several of Tom's friends among the SBA had stopped by for a quick nightcap before heading home. Normally, they'd be gone this time of night, but with all the excitement, they'd stuck around. As Tom finally sat at their table, they all fell silent, trying to figure out where to start with the inevitable questions.

"I'm not sure Harry should go back to the bookstore tomorrow, Flibbert," said Tom.

"I agree," said the bookstore owner quickly. They'd already had cowboy books today. What was next—ninja books? Pirate books? Ninja books fighting pirate books? "It's not that we don't want him there, but I think he has more pressing needs."

He hurriedly relayed the substance of his conversation with Mendacius Ledger, the Daily Prophet owner. "So we have at best a few days before the story breaks officially. In the meantime, people are going to be coming from all parts to try to corner Harry and get comments from him."

"There will probably be a lot of frightened Hogwarts parents," Fidget Flourish said thoughtfully. "And I'd imagine that they're all going to decide to come to the bookstore tomorrow—to buy their children's school texts, naturally."

The group exchanged wry smiles at the thought of a frantic flock of parents flooding Flourish and Blotts in search of Harry Potter.

Madame Malkin clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "As though the poor young man didn't have enough to worry about, what with that awful Black fellow on the loose. I shudder to think what such a depraved criminal would do should he get his hands on young Mr. Potter. Tom, I think we're quite lucky the boy is here with you. Why, those muggles wouldn't be able to protect him from such a Dark wizard!"

"I'm not sure they'd want to," Tom muttered under his breath. Unfortunately, he forgot that both Tamara Twilfitt and Fidget Flourish had exceptionally sharp hearing. Sighing, he explained, "I don't think the boy's muggle family cares for him as much as we've been led to believe. Something's off there, but I can't talk about it."

He clamped his mouth shut and refused to comment further. The others at the table weren't sure how to react, partly due to the fact that they had completely overshot their maximum daily allowance for shock.

Finally Tamara mused, "The more I hear, the more I'm convinced that Dumbledore's got poppies in his pipe. How does he not notice a fifty-foot snake in his school? And he's the one who's always quoted in the Prophet about Harry Potter being safe and happy with his relatives. You want to talk about something being off—well, that man is up to something."

Fidget rolled his eyes. "Not everything is a conspiracy, Tam. Dumbledore may be kooky and he may even be incompetent, but I don't think he's some evil mastermind."

"Well, whatever he is, I suspect we'll be hearing all about it. Mendacius is planning to set that Skeeter witch loose on the Hogwarts faculty," Flibbert successfully headed off the brewing argument between his son and Miss Twilfitt. Age-old debates like "which came first: the phoenix or the egg?" and "Dumbledore: evil or just insane?" never ended well.

"Right now I think we need to focus on what we can do to help Harry in the immediate future. We can't do anything about Black or Dumbledore right now, but we can help keep Harry safe."

"What does he like to do for fun?" Fauna Pevensee asked softly. "Does he like animals? I've seen him with that beautiful snowy owl of his; they seem quite fond of each other. I'm sure that Edgar Eeylop and I would both be willing for Harry to spend time in our shops."

"That's not a bad idea," said Fidget, grinning once more. "Why, Harry definitely has a way with monsters."

He proceeded to regale them with Harry's courageous attempts to subdue the vicious pen of Monster Book of Monsters. By the end of his tale, everyone was chuckling at bit.

"That's the spirit I'm talking about! The true competitive edge! Mark my words, that boy will go far in the field of professional quidditch. You should let him come to my store; I'd be happy to get the boy some tips to help him on his way. And we know he plays quidditch, so he'd obviously love working there," Bill Bludgins offered generously. Again. In his mind, there was no greater honor than working in a quidditch shop—except for actually playing quidditch.

"All the quidditch in the world won't help him without a thorough grounding in wizard culture and etiquette—something I'm sure you all know is a bit of a hobby of mine," Fashionista Malkin cut in.

"He probably also needs some money advice," Fidget suggested. "If he didn't even know he was a wizard until a couple of years ago, who's been looking after his account?"

"I think first Harry is going to need help dealing with his image. This story is going to be a big shock for everyone, and all eyes will be on Harry Potter. Right now, he clearly doesn't have the experience or the skill to deal with being in the spotlight. And we can't let him be photographed looking the way he does now; people would think he was some sort of house-elf hybrid!" Flibbert said forcefully, and Tom smiled at someone else using his house-elf comparison.

Tamara jumped in to summarize. "Alright, so in the long run, Harry will need politics, investment advice, wizarding etiquette and—yes, Fauna, Bill—he'll need some time for his hobbies as well. But right now, Flibbert is spot-on: Harry needs help with publicity and his image. Pronto. To me, that suggests two choices: either we can turn him over to Fashionista here for a complete makeover—" she nodded at Madam Malkin who preened under the attention.

"—or we can really throw him to the wolves and ask Mendacius Ledger to take the boy under his wing. It's just the sort of influence Mendacius would revel in and it would ensure that any publicity is good publicity."

Everyone sat in silence for a minute trying to contemplate the best course of action.

"I think we should leave the choice up to Harry himself," Tom concluded finally. "We tried making the decision for him today, and look what that led to. I think our only option is to explain as best we can and hope that he knows himself well enough to know what he needs."

Fidget smirked as the group was blindsided by the novelty of letting their savior make a decision on his own. Such unprecedented daring! Frankly, Fidget wasn't sure the boy would be terribly thrilled to be dumped into either a full-body makeover or a one-on-one with the creepy, self-serving news jackal.

Still, he wondered what the boy would end up choosing.

"Of course, that assumes that Sirius Black doesn't sneak into the Alley and murder us all in our sleep tonight," Tamara pointed out darkly.

On that pleasant thought, they all headed home for an evening's rest after a very busy day.

oOo

(That night, Sirius Black snuck into the Alley and murdered them all in their sleep. The End.)

oOo

Author's Notes:

1. The theory I'm going with is that, although the petrifactions were much discussed, most adults dismissed the rumors about the Chamber of Secrets as a school prank. Which is more plausible: Salazar Slytherin's mythical chamber being discovered over a thousand years later, and his "monster" still alive after all that time OR the Weasley twins, renowned pranksters extraordinaire, stepping over the line? So nobody realized the situation was that serious, and none of the main characters would have explained about the basilisk because it would have focused people on Ginny's role in the events and on Harry's parseltongue abilities.

2. I confess, when I wrote "the collective Wizarding World seemed to have some sort of kinky scar fetish", I had a sudden mental image of Mad Eye Moody running in zig-zags to escape a group of stalker fangirls, all wearing eye patches and t-shirts saying " I (heart) CONSTANT VIGILANCE"

3. I've still got a few more characters waiting for their time in the limelight, and of course Dumbledore's going to get dragged in by the tail end of his sparkly robes if he doesn't have a darn good explanation. BUT, I'd also like to get some feedback on which characters people like/ dislike so far. I don't want to plan a major story arc around a character only to find that everyone hates him/ her.

4. Thanks again to everyone who added the story to their story alerts or took the time to write reviews. I really appreciate hearing from you. Feel free to make suggestions about what trouble you think Harry should get into next. Which option should he choose? Or should he think outside the box?