The Observer Effect

      Diagon Alley wasn’t actually diagonal—or straight, crooked, or askew, for that matter—and it couldn’t be described by any simple geometric shape. It coiled like a snake in the grass, and every single building stood on a corner. Harry couldn’t understand for the life of him how such a result could be achieved in a space with an ordinary Euclidean metric. It was impressive.       All the visible structures were shops, as expected, and each one sold something amazing and strange. Harry suspected that one could spend hours studying the local wares and that it would be at least as fascinating as a visit to the Natural History Museum. He forced himself to walk forward, so as not to get distracted. Fortunately, his destination was visible from afar—it towered above all the rooftops of the district, white and slightly curved like a solitary fang. Gringotts.       Near the tall wrought-iron doors leading into the bank stood…       Harry knew it was a goblin; Tom had told him about them. He’d even formed an image of what goblins looked like from those stories. As it turned out, he had imagined them very badly. This goblin resembled a gargoyle that had escaped from a medieval cathedral portal, both in appearance and facial expression. Harry nervously cleared his throat.       ‘Hello?’       The goblin stared at him but didn’t respond.       ‘May I go in?’       The goblin bowed silently. It didn’t look like an obsequious gesture, but rather like a greeting before the start of a duel.       ‘Er, thank you, I think?’       Receiving no answer this time either, Harry forced himself to end this one-sided conversation and pulled the door handle. The heavy-looking panel opened unexpectedly easily, as if it had hydraulic assistance. Harry sighed, checked his pocket (the key was there), and went inside.       Inside, there were more goblins. Many of them. Harry looked around uncertainly for a free banking counter or something similar, and eventually approached the first counter that caught his eye. The goblin behind it was studying a thick ledger and running a ruler along the lines while making notes on a nearby piece of parchment. Harry took out the golden key and held it up to the bank clerk’s bent head.       ‘Excuse me… I need to access my vault.’       Because—yes, in the vault, not to it. The vaults here were enormous—entire rooms you could walk into, unlike the tiny safe-deposit boxes Muggles used. Harry couldn’t wait to see one.       Without raising his head, the goblin grated, ‘Name?’       ‘Harry James Potter.’       The goblin perked up. Producing a magnifying glass from somewhere—as if from thin air—he snatched the key from Harry and examined it from all sides.       ‘Everything appears to be in order. Wait here.’       He left through one of the many doors in the far wall of the banking hall, but soon returned with another goblin: swarthy, narrow-eyed, and bearded.       ‘Griphook will escort you.’       Griphook led Harry through another door, behind which was a tunnel that was rather reminiscent of a mine or the Underground, with roughly hewn rock walls and a track on the floor. In response to the goblin’s whistle, an empty cart trundled up by itself along the track. It turned out to be the local transport. Harry wondered how far the passage extended, how many such tunnels there were in total, and where it all fitted in. From outside, the bank didn’t look large, and Harry could have sworn they hadn’t gone down.       The cart went on and on as if in one of Dudley’s computer games. Torches burned on the walls of the rocky corridor, stalactites hung from the ceiling, and puddles periodically appeared on the floor. Once, there was even an entire lake with frighteningly black water. Finally, they stopped by an unremarkable, low door. Harry, who was both desperately shy and burning with impatience, unlocked it with his small key.       Inside, there was gold. It was a real mountain, and Harry immediately remembered the parable about Squibs that Tom had told him.       ‘Griphook, tell me… You must know. How much is there altogether?’       ‘Fifty thousand six hundred and twenty-five Galleons,’ croaked Griphook, who had been silent until now. ‘That’s counting coins of smaller denominations as well, naturally.’       Yes, there were piles of silver and copper coins in the corners—Harry hadn’t noticed them at first—dully gleaming.       ‘Enough for a whole lifetime…’       Harry seemed to hear Tom’s voice as if it were real. In the underground silence, the illusion was so complete that it seemed as if you could turn round and see a tall figure frozen behind you.       ‘…but the key to the vault at Gringotts has been lost—and the child, whilst owning a fortune that could provide for him completely, remains a pauper…’       ‘Where did I get them from?’       ‘From your parents—your father, more precisely. And he had them from his parents, and so on. Excellent clients, your whole family, Mr Potter, if you ask me.’       Harry only nodded silently, enchanted.       All his life, he had received nothing but scraps and hand-me-downs. He lived in a cupboard and was constantly reprimanded for every crust of bread. Out of charity, as they always told him. And meanwhile, he had this.       A blinding rage, white as the brightest light and hot as molten metal, was born somewhere in the depths of his consciousness. His mind was empty and scattered, filled with strange, wandering echoes.       They had taken the wizarding world away from Harry. For ten years, his magic had been stolen; he hadn’t even realised until he met Tom. Now it turned out they had robbed him even more literally.       ‘Tell me, Griphook. You wouldn’t happen to have some sort of pouch, would you? I didn’t bring anything with me.’       A pouch was found. It was dear—five Galleons—and Harry thought it a bit steep, but it was worth every one. The pouch was magical: small and seemingly empty, it could hold everything Harry could see around him, including a quantity of gold that would have torn his pockets. Harry poured several handfuls of gold coins into the pouch without counting. He had to force himself to stop—he realised that he was unlikely to need all that at once. But stopping was difficult.       ‘Thank you, Griphook. I’m ready to go.’       The cart carried them away through tunnels and impenetrable darkness, past the underground lake and the smell of mould and weeping stone, and through the bustle of the banking hall towards the sunny day beyond. Harry emerged into the street feeling subdued. His head was filled with thoughts.       He wasn’t poor. There was no need to beg or economise. He could afford new robes instead of second-hand ones, and the best potion ingredients and books. He could even have a golden cauldron instead of a pewter one. A wand—yes, he’d buy a wand right now. Tom had never even dreamed of such abundance—it was pleasant to exceed him in at least one thing.       Mordred and Morgana! Tom! He didn’t know anything yet!       Harry pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the reassuring weight of the diary beneath the layers of fabric. This sobered him a little. He needed to catch his breath. He turned his head; he’d seen a café nearby somewhere. Ah, there it was. He had no desire whatsoever to return to the dirty, dark pub, especially since the barman was a bit of a joker and clearly not right in the head.       He strode towards the striped awning where people were eating, drinking, and showing each other their purchases. They were gossiping and laughing. They were all wizards. Harry was a wizard, too. This was his world. It was a world that belonged to him by rights. Finally, he felt in his proper place.       The waitress smiled at Harry and asked: ‘Where are your parents, little one?’       ‘Shopping,’ Harry lied, not batting an eyelid. ‘Don’t worry, madam—they gave me money. Could you bring me some tea? I’ll wait for them here—it’s probably going to be a while.’       ‘Of course,’ she replied, relaxing. ‘How about cucumber sandwiches? Or would you like to try the house trifle?’       Harry beamed. After all, he was just a little boy who had been poorly fed most of his life.       ‘I would! If I may, both, please.’ The woman smiled kindly at his enthusiasm. ‘And treacle tart, if you have it!’       In the shade of the awning, beside a lush potted plant—the plant was probably magical; it moved its leaves slightly out of time with the breeze and occasionally shot one of them into the air, where it would spin and twist before finally flying off into the blue sky—Harry took out the diary and laid it on the tablecloth. There was no pen—it was probably still in the cupboard—but Harry found a pencil in his pocket: a blunt, very small stub, a symbol of his entire previous life. Harry sipped his tea, bit into his sandwich, and wrote:       ‘Still 26 July       Dear Tom!       I’m about to tell you something—you won’t believe it!       I went to Gringotts… No, wait. I’ll start from the beginning. A professor came to see me…’       The wretched pencil wrote feebly, of course, but Tom didn’t think to complain. He absorbed Harry’s narrative, barely interrupting and only occasionally throwing in clarifying questions. Harry wouldn’t have minded knowing the answers to many of them himself—for instance, who had kept the key to his vault all this time and what right they had to do so? But these questions would have to be added to the growing list of things he needed to try to find out at Hogwarts somehow.       Hogwarts was a beacon, the Promised Land, El Dorado—it seemed that once he got there, all his problems would be solved. Harry knew this was an illusion, but the feeling persisted. He’d never even seen Hogwarts, but he yearned for it as a migratory bird is guided by its instincts, as a salmon recognises its native river from the taste of the water, or as a baby turtle crawls towards the ocean’s edge after digging itself out of the sand.       Refuge. Safety. Home. Tom loved Hogwarts devotedly, and because of him, Harry had come to love it too—sight unseen, even before their first meeting.       Once the tea had been drunk, the food eaten, and Harry had finished recounting the events of the morning, Tom summarised:       ‘The news is excellent. This simplifies everything considerably. However, you still need to do what you came here for in the first place: acquire robes, equipment, and the recommended books from the list—nothing’s changed there.’       Harry nearly groaned aloud. The list! He’d completely forgotten about it!       ‘Tom! My letter is still in the cupboard. What should I do?’       ‘Stop panicking,’ Tom chided. ‘I’m with you, and I remember everything. Don’t be so absent-minded in future, but for now, look:       First of all, go for a wand.       Then go for the robes and choose something decent. Slytherin House judges by appearances.       At the bookshop, say you’re in your first year—they used to have ready-made sets of textbooks for each year.       You’ll find phials at the apothecary’s.       That leaves the cauldron, the scales, and the telescope.       Understood?’       Harry confirmed.       ‘Then — forward. Conduct yourself worthily, Harry. I’ve no intention of blushing on your account.’       Harry, who was licking his fingers after eating the trifle, blushed and hastily wiped them with his serviette instead.       ‘What’s that you have there, dear?’ the approaching waitress asked, nodding at the diary. ‘Surely not holiday homework?’       She waved her wand and the dirty crockery collected itself onto a tray. Harry suppressed the instant impulse to snap the diary shut and press it furiously to his chest. He carefully turned the cover and smiled just as carefully and deliberately.       ‘No, this is personal. It’s nothing important.’       The waitress chuckled.       ‘Oh, come now. You needn’t be embarrassed,’ she said with a wink. ‘Everyone goes through it. I wrote poetry at your age, too.’       ‘In Merlin’s name,’ thought Harry, barely waiting for the waitress to leave before shoving the diary into its usual hiding place under the elastic bandages hidden by his clothes. ‘I should be more careful.’       He paid the bill—not forgetting to leave a tip—and left the café. Without delaying a minute longer, he set off in search of a purveyor of the most magical of goods.       A suitable sign was found quite quickly. It read, ‘Ollivanders: Fine Wands Since 382 BC’. The gilt had almost completely peeled off the letters. The little shop looked decidedly shabby and hardly lived up to its boast. Harry surveyed it sceptically but went in anyway.       The owner, Ollivander, turned out to be a white-eyed old man whose appearance Harry could have described as either ‘repulsive’ or ‘frightening’. He sized Harry up as if to fit him for a suit, then made him touch wand after wand, which he drew from long, narrow cases that filled the whole counter. In some cases, nothing happened; in others, the wand spat out coloured sparks or grew warm or cold. Once, something crashed and exploded at the back of the shop. The next wand caught fire. Blood flowed from the next one.       It wasn’t clear what effects the seller was hoping to see, but evidently none of what had happened so far satisfied him. He became increasingly excited—his eyes glittered; he rubbed his palms, and he shifted from foot to foot, repeatedly saying, ‘So, so, so… And you’re a difficult customer, aren’t you?’ This was precisely how maniacs behaved in Harry’s imagination, and he felt increasingly uncomfortable.       ‘Really? Though perhaps… Could it be? Why not!’       The old man’s speech finally lost all coherence. He rummaged under the counter and produced an incredibly dusty box. Inside was a wand, of course.       ‘Phoenix feather and holly! Contradictory, bold, unusual!’ he proclaimed. ‘Come now, young man, try it!’       Harry finally understood what Ollivander was trying to achieve and what should have happened.       There was no wand. There was a continuation of his arm—a completion of his arm, as if it had always been incomplete until now. A golden radiance ran along the walls. His fingers grew warm.       ‘Magnificent! Yes! You see! Splendid!’ The repulsive, frightening old man clenched his hands as if he were about to applaud from an excess of feeling. ‘Seven Galleons, if you please! However, this is curious. Very, very curious!’       ‘I don’t want to know what’s so curious, you old ghoul,’ thought Harry, counting out seven Galleons and dreaming only of escaping as quickly as possible with his new wand.       But Ollivander forgot to ask his opinion. He continued as if talking to himself: ‘Yes, curious… You see, the wand chooses the wizard, not the wizard the wand—this you know, of course. The thing is, this wand chose you specifically, yet its sister… I remember every wand I’ve sold—every single one. Yours has a core of phoenix feather, as I said. Well, this time the phoenix gave me two feathers from its tail, not one as is usual. The first went to you, but the second… Yes, there’s no point in hiding it—the second feather serves as the core of the wand that left that scar on your forehead.’       With these words, he poked his finger right at Harry’s forehead. His finger was thin and gnarled, with a long, pointed nail that resembled a claw. Harry was flummoxed.       ‘You’re mistaken,’ he said. ‘I’ve had this scar since childhood. I was in an accident.’       ‘No, you’re mistaken, Harry James Potter! Don’t look at me like that. I recognised you and your scar immediately,’ the old man said, smiling unpleasantly and showing yellowish teeth.       ‘My scar—I should know better!’ Harry protested.       ‘How do you know that you know?’ the shopkeeper asked Jesuitically. Harry couldn’t answer, and Ollivander continued, getting worked up: ‘No matter how much you deny it, there’s one truth: that scar was left by the wand of a wizard who did great deeds. Yes, I don’t dispute that they were terrible!’ he shouted. ‘But at the same time, great ones! And I believe you are destined for a most curious fate. I shall watch with interest to see where it leads you, Harry James Potter!’       ‘Whatever you say,’ muttered the thoroughly scandalised Harry and fled.       ‘I’m having such luck with madmen today,’ he mused, slowly wandering along the street. ‘However, Merlin knows he’s right about some things. After all, he knows me from somewhere, and so does the barman. I just didn’t understand it at first. There’s some other mystery behind all this.’       He then realised that he had been shifting from foot to foot for some time, mindlessly staring at a shop window. Fortunately, the window displayed cloaks. Glancing briefly at the sign—‘Madam Malkin’s Robes for All Occasions’—he went in.       A doorbell tinkled and a stocky, middle-aged woman dressed in a mauve robe hurried towards him. She smiled.       ‘Hogwarts, dear? And where are your parents?’       Harry was beginning to find this question tiresome. On the other hand, he had just discovered an interesting pattern: the two people who knew about him somehow hadn’t asked about his parents. Why might that be?       ‘Buying my textbooks,’ he lied smoothly. ‘There’s no need to wait for them, madam. I’ve got money on me.’       ‘Well then, if that’s the case, you’ve come to the right place,’ the woman said, leading Harry to a fitting platform and helping him climb onto it. ‘Three plain black robes and one winter cloak—that’s right, isn’t it, dear?’       ‘Yes, please.’ It was strange looking down at an adult from the height of the platform. ‘One request: don’t skimp on the fabric or anything else, please. I need to make a very good first impression… you understand?’ Harry smiled ingratiatingly. ‘Money’s no object. I’m happy to pay extra.’       Madam Malkin only snorted with amusement.       ‘Oh, Slytherin? I thought as much. You lot only ever care about putting on airs and making a grand impression. Right then, dear. We’ll do it your way. Let’s take your measurements, and you can come back in about two hours to collect them. Agreed?’       Ultimately, she talked Harry into buying an entire wardrobe, including shirts, trousers, jumpers, a waistcoat, gloves, a hat, a scarf, pyjamas, long socks, and long johns, which made Harry blush scarlet, but he didn’t dare object. According to her, ‘Of course, your outfit is charming; however, most people wouldn’t appreciate such things. Believe me, I’d wear piercings and fishnet tights myself if I could.’ Struck by the mental image of Madam Malkin in fishnet tights, Harry meekly agreed with every word. Having left her with a large order, Harry departed, promising to return later. He was dripping with sweat—the ordeal had been truly arduous—but at least he had more or less fulfilled Tom’s instructions.       But in the bookshop—it was called Flourish and Blotts—Harry was able to relax. They didn’t have ready-made sets of textbooks, but they did have lists of recommended texts for first- to fifth-years. Everything worked out perfectly, then. Harry spent a truly magical hour and a half rummaging through endless mountains of books. It took enormous effort not to buy half the shop, but there were some things he simply couldn’t resist, such as Between Us Witches: The Best Household and Cosmetic Charms—cosmetic charms didn’t interest Harry, but household ones certainly did! —or Curses and Counter-Curses: How to Lay the Evil Eye—and What to Do If It’s Laid on You.       Only his firm belief that Hogwarts had its own library—one of the best in magical Britain, as Tom proudly attested—stopped Harry from buying too many extracurricular publications. He still collected about half a dozen, though, and together with the textbooks, they would have represented considerable weight if the shopkeeper hadn’t kindly offered to shrink them. Harry gladly agreed—he liked useful magic, and it was fascinating to watch. The shrunken books, each the size of a matchbox, easily fitted into a paper bag like the ones you get from the baker’s.       Finding himself on the street again, Harry pondered. He had to collect his clothes next, and the thought of the pile of kit he’d have was frightening, yet he still had other purchases ahead. He was sure he had passed somewhere at the very beginning of the alley, past a shop that sold suitcases. That was just what he needed.       Squeezed between an apothecary and a Quidditch supplies shop, the little shop, Trunks and Portmanteaux, itself resembled a battered trunk. Inside, it was unexpectedly spacious—Harry suspected extension charms were involved—and crammed to the ceiling with suitcases, bags, and the titular goods: trunks and portmanteaux. There were tiny handbags barely bigger than a finger and suitcases so large that one could probably pack an entire car—if anyone had such an absurd desire, of course. The shopkeeper, a young, blond, cross-eyed man, greeted Harry with the traditional question about his parents. Harry concluded from this that he was a sensible person who could be dealt with safely.       ‘You see,’ Harry declared, ‘I urgently need a suitcase or a trunk. But I don’t know which to choose. Could you show me what you have here?’       Having received assurances that the new customer wasn’t going to skimp, the shopkeeper became very active. Over the next half hour, he and Harry reviewed the entire stock, with Harry marvelling at every item, amazed by the achievements of modern spatial magic. Most items were charmed to reduce their weight and contained Undetectable Extension Charms. There were exotic variants too: trunks arranged like bookcases; suitcases containing Muggle items; portmanteaux with entire rooms inside; and a lady’s dressing case with a built-in triple mirror. But Harry was immediately smitten with a small, strange trunk with spider legs. It looked… cryptozoological.       ‘This is our pride,’ the shopkeeper informed him. ‘Exclusive model, made by an American manufacturer to our specifications. It requires no levitation charms and can follow its owner everywhere—and I mean everywhere—and it is resistant to shocks and knocks, and it has three isolated compartments with built-in sorting, cleaning, and pressing charms. A traveller’s dream! Take it; you won’t regret it.’       Harry knew he wouldn’t regret it. The trunk cost a fortune—a hundred and fifty Galleons—but he paid without a second thought.       As the day drew towards evening, the cross-eyed shopkeeper seemed to have few customers—in all this time, no one else had come in besides Harry—and they gradually fell into conversation.       ‘Yes, we’re rather out of favour these days,’ the shopkeeper complained. ‘Probably our business will never be what it was. You know how hurtful it is when you haven’t done anything wrong in your life, but people turn round and walk away the moment they hear your surname? Prejudice is so sad…’       ‘Tell me,’ Harry said casually, ‘have you ever heard of Harry Potter?’       The shopkeeper goggled.       ‘Harry Potter?’       ‘Well, yes. Everyone here seems to know him.’       The cross-eyed man squinted suspiciously. This looked ghastly on him.       ‘Don’t you know?’       ‘Imagine that—no. We only moved here recently, from very far away. My parents lived almost their whole lives in Peru, and I was actually born there.’       Harry quickly calculated the most remote place on Earth from England.       ‘Oh, fancy that! What a small world,’ the shopkeeper marvelled. ‘I have a cousin in Peru who’s a dragonologist and studies Peruvian Vipertooths. Well, that explains it then. Don’t worry; you’ll soon find your feet here. And Harry Potter—how could you not know him? He’s the Boy Who Lived.’       ‘The boy who lived where?’ Harry didn’t understand.       ‘Not where, but from what!’ His companion laughed. ‘From the Killing Curse, of course! Oh, Merlin’s beard! Is there really someone who still doesn’t know this story? We think we’re the centre of the universe here, but it turns out… Well, listen. Ten years ago, there was a real war here in magical Britain.’       It sounded like the Star Wars opening crawl, only without the solemn background music—and everything that followed was much the same. The only hitch came when they got to the villain’s name. It turned out it couldn’t be spoken.       ‘What do you mean it can’t be spoken?’ Harry was astonished. ‘Is it cursed or something?’       The shopkeeper flinched and, for some reason, looked around.       ‘Who knows for sure?’ he said vaguely. ‘Maybe it is cursed. Though now, probably, it doesn’t matter any more.’       ‘So how—?’       ‘Well, that’s how they said it: “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named”. Or this: “You-Know-Who”.’       ‘That’s not what I meant! What was his real name?’       The shopkeeper’s face contorted into a pitiful grimace.       ‘I—I can’t. I’m afraid,’ he whispered, almost in tears.       ‘Well, at least write it down!’       Having finally deciphered the mysterious name scrawled on a scrap of paper, Harry could barely suppress his laughter. The terror of magical Britain, the darkest of Dark wizards—in whom, according to the cross-eyed man, ‘there was hardly anything human left’—was called… Voldemort.       Oh, thrice-greatest Merlin!       Why hadn’t he called himself the Darkwing Duck, for instance? It would have been no worse!       Harry learned even more entertaining things about him. Apparently, Lord Darkwing Duck—that is, Voldemort—had come to kill Harry’s parents, which he did quite successfully. He then tried to kill Harry with the Killing Curse (for the avoidance of doubt—Harry was only fifteen months old at the time), but something went wrong and he mysteriously disappeared, leaving Harry with the fame of being the Boy Who Lived. Since then, magical Britain has marked that day every year—well, it would have celebrated anyway, since it happened to be Hallowe’en.       ‘Wonderful story,’ Harry said sincerely when he’d finished listening. ‘Thank you very much! However, I’d best be off; my parents will be waiting for me.’       He said farewell and left the shop, and the trunk trotted briskly after him. Some time later, Harry made some additions to his purchases: a cauldron (pewter, standard size two, as required), a set of scales, a telescope, and considerable supplies of parchment, quills, and ink. Harry knew that if he wanted to keep up with the lessons at Hogwarts, he would need to improve his handwriting. He also bought phials at the apothecary’s—an absolutely charming little place, with a crocodile hanging from the ceiling, a tortoise shell in the corner, and various other dried and preserved creatures, just as in Shakespeare—as well as dragon-hide gloves and a pointed hat (for everyday wear). Finally, he felt ready to return to the merciless yet professional embraces of Madam Malkin.       ‘By Thestral’s buggering bollocks! Oh, sorry, dear!’ Malkin slapped her plump palm against her lips. ‘It slipped out accidentally. You shouldn’t know such words. Remember that. But what’s that you have?’       Harry looked back proudly at his—pet? He couldn’t decide whether the trunk was alive. It was more like a cyborg, but it definitely had a kind of pseudo-consciousness.       Looking at his acquisition, Harry replied, ‘It’s a trunk. I’m calling it Trunk for now, though I might think of something better later. Do you like it too? Isn’t it lovely?’       ‘Merlin,’ Malkin said in a weak voice. ‘Yes, of course. Where did you get it?’       ‘I bought it!’       ‘Well, I gathered you didn’t steal it! Dear boy, that’s a Dark artefact—as dark as they come. Who sold you such a thing?’       Harry scowled. His theory was confirmed: anything cool and amazing in the world was immediately branded with that word.       ‘A friend. We had a lovely chat. He has a cousin living in Peru.’       Malkin gasped and turned pale.       ‘Rosier?! The wretch!’       Harry felt glum.       ‘Madam,’ he said in a bored voice. ‘May I collect my order? How much do I owe?’       The woman looked at him angrily and sadly and shook her head.       ‘Well, perhaps it’s all right,’ she muttered doubtfully. ‘Oh, dear boy… Yes, of course. Look, we’ll pack everything up now. Here are the shirts…’       Harry dutifully examined the clothes presented—by quantity, they rivalled an entire department in a Muggle department store, though judging by the prices, they should have come from a boutique. He commanded Trunk to open, and under Malkin’s disapproving gaze, he fed it the entire pile. Trunk clicked its lid contentedly and licked its lips. Malkin shuddered.       ‘I hope,’ she declared emphatically, ‘your parents sort this out.’       ‘Have no doubt, madam,’ Harry agreed. ‘Thank you; it’s been a pleasure doing business with you. Good day!’       The mention of parents came at an awkward moment. The merry shopping expedition was over, and only then did Harry wonder how he was going to get back to Privet Drive with such a companion. He would never manage to pass Trunk off as ordinary Muggle luggage.       He trudged back towards the Leaky Cauldron, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. The wand, hidden next to Tom, sent gentle waves of warmth as if trying to comfort him. Harry contemplated the magical shops slowly drifting past, and a dull mix of despair and irritation grew in his heart. Everything here felt right and good; why should he have to leave at all? He was a wizard, and this was a wizarding place—they suited each other. Returning to the Muggle world was like cutting himself in half with a blunt saw; the mere prospect was painful.       Wait a moment.       Struck by a sudden revelation, Harry stopped.       Did he actually need to return to the Muggles?       His gaze fixed on the notice:       ‘ROOMS TO LET’.