Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any part of that world. Some small sections of text may be taken from the works of J.K. Rowling in accordance with copyright law in my country.

Note: The is the second story in an ongoing series, and follows on from "Harry Potter and the Ticket Backwards".

Harry Potter strode briskly towards the gleaming row of taxis by King's Cross Station. Behind him lingered the cheerful calls of Hogwarts students waving goodbye to their friends, and the somewhat confused mutterings of hundreds of wizarding parents trickling past the platform barrier and through the muggle train station.

Harry didn't bother to spare a thought for the chaos behind him; he had other things on his mind. As always, the train ride back to London had taken most of the day, and Aunt Petunia was surely getting ready to put the dinner on as Harry strode out of the station. The Dursleys would not be picking him up, of course, instead prioritising their comfortable dinner as they had always wished to do. Due to his newfound independence he anticipated seeing less of his relatives this year, and Harry thought that he may have earned himself some appreciation because of that.

He had a tentative sort of arrangement with them that eased the tension somewhat: they practiced mutual avoidance.

As the thought crossed his mind, Harry realised that him arriving back from Hogwarts in the middle of dinner would probably not be beneficial to his relationship with his family. He stopped his feet in contemplation.

What would Hermione recommend?

Impulsively, Harry decided he would take a taxi to Charing Cross and the Leaky Cauldron, and spend the night there instead.

The idea seemed more attractive the longer he thought about it. Staying overnight in Diagon Alley would easily allow him to run a few errands before sneaking back into the Dursley's house with much less fanfare sometime on Monday, no one the wiser. He would happily avoid conflict with Uncle Vernon, Dudley could continue to forget Harry's existence, and Aunt Petunia could keep on pretending that her perfect, normal family had never had an unwanted interloper who lived in the cupboard under the stairs.

In fact, why announce he'd come back at all? If Harry could avoid reminding them all of his unwanted presence, the happier everyone would be.

The less fuss the better, after all.

The thought of 'fuss' arrested Harry, and with each new step that he took towards the first taxi in the rank his mood dropped. The overcast skies suddenly seemed to match his temper. With a few murmured words in the window of the front-most taxi, Harry slunk into the back seat of the car and stared moodily out the window.

Regretfully, Harry thought about his plans.

He had looked forward to these holidays with the focused kind of hope a house-elf might have looking at a forbidden room full of dust bunnies. The possibilities of school break, the flexibility and freedom he had never before enjoyed, had dangled just out of his grasp for months and months. Harry had dreamed of finally indulging in a few pleasant fantasies. He'd had them all planned out: Big Ben, Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, beaches and lakes and theme parks – all the theme parks. Harry desperately wanted to visit all the holiday destinations that normal people saw at least once. Then, he had decided, he would have the magical experience too. Hermione had always been confused by Stonehenge. Was it as magical as the muggle history implied, or was their whole understanding completely wrong? Plus, Harry had been listening carefully to the gossip in Gryffindor Tower. Wood had been a great proponent of visiting the home pitch of the English National Quidditch team, and Alicia Spinnet argued fiercely for the benefits of visiting the Roman Baths – the magical ones. Apparently there were ancient runes etched into the stone that brought about untold benefits for health, or so Alicia claimed. She said every magical family holidayed there at least once.

Harry muffled a sigh, and stared out the windows of the taxi, his plans ruined. Despite being thrown roughly into his school trunk and well out of sight, the mere existence of his exam transcripts mocked him. They were good for his age, very good considering his natural – uh – talents and interests, but they were not good enough. His high expectation and hopes for the holidays were bleeding out from him slowly, had been since they moment he got them back, and by the time Harry the taxi driver had merged onto the main street, he was as cold as ice.

Harry relaxed in the back seat of the taxi until it dropped him by the familiar Charing Cross intersection, and a few moments later, he managed to slip into the Cauldron with barely a bang of the door.

Tom, wiping down tables near the counter, looked up with a smile, and had Harry set up with a room and a piping hot dinner to follow with a minimum of fuss. Steak and kidney pie, roast potato and mushrooms, minted peas, and a foamy tankard of butterbeer appeared on a tray almost before Harry was settled in. He dropped his luggage carefully at the foot of his bed and slowly trudged over to the small dining table by the window. He was exhausted.

The warm smells curled up towards his face, and Harry picked up his fork with a barely suppressed sigh.

He had made plans for these holidays, new plans, to help him get ready for the year ahead. But surely tonight, and maybe tomorrow, he could have some time to himself?

He ate the food mechanically, thoughts swirling in his mind, until Harry realised that he had worked himself into a sulk. That was the precise opposite of the self-control he was attempting to attain, but he couldn't simply perk himself up. Reluctantly, but with no other alternative, Harry sent himself to bed.

After a good sleep in the soft, warm bed, Harry woke up at the pub feeling lighter than he had for months. He was used to stressful months at school, but this time it had only been first year – first year, for a second time! – and he'd still had to work hard to make it through. For months and months, Harry had kept himself rather busy and couldn't help but remember that he was the only person in the world who knew what was coming. He should really jump out of bed and keep going.

But the room was so cosy in the morning. The vanilla scented sheets were warm and soft, the rough-hewn panels of wood on the walls smelled like cinnamon or other spices. He fought himself bravely, just to get up.

The noise of him stirring must have caught someone's attention, and by the time Harry had washed his face and changed clothes a steaming hot breakfast was delivered to his door. Warm cooking smells reached his nose. The toast was a perfect golden brown; the bacon, deliciously oily and crisp.

Harry ate his full English breakfast in the privacy of his room, occasionally sipping casually from his foaming tankard of Butterbeer, and divided his attention between the picturesque view of an early morning Diagon Alley, and the food laid before him.

The steam from his meal curled upwards, bathing his face in gentle heat and his glasses in the lightest of foggy condensation. The comfort of the inn contrasted with the still chilly temperature of the early morning, and Harry relaxed bonelessly in the peace of the dawn.

If he had been in his original timeline, Harry mused as he waited for the steam on his glasses to clear, almost nineteen years old, he would be looking for a job right now. The rebuilding of Hogwarts would have been complete. Funerals done. Trials held, and over. He would be picking up the pieces and trying to move forward.

He had no idea what he would be doing. Auror work seemed…

It was what everyone assumed he would be doing, Harry supposed. He'd had a duty to keep on going, hadn't he? Be the change you want to see, Hermione had always said.

He had more time now, of course, to be that change. He refocused on the breakfast before him.

For now, Harry decided, it would have to be enough that he could enjoy the calm before the storm.

The hats and heads of busy wizards bustled about on the street below him while Harry took his time to muse and ponder over his meal. He would be joining the people out there for one more day, Harry determined, before he returned to the Dursleys mid-Monday.

He took his time starting the morning; Tom had sent up a complimentary Daily Prophet with his meal, and Harry browsed through the news slowly before collecting up his luggage and making his way outside.

The Owl Post Office was his destination. In between the mad panic and general scramble to clean out the Gryffindor dorm before the train, Harry had found time to make a quiet stop at the school Owlery. A few whispered instructions later, a surreptitious exchange of bacon, and a school owl had been sent to wing its way off to Diagon Alley, bearing the precious burden of Harry's wand. All going well, it was now being held at the Post Office for him to retrieve, thereby once again avoiding its tagging by the Trace.

Despite all the thought and planning Harry had put into this – over the period of one whole year, no less – he was still uncertain as to whether it would work. Was the ministry Trace placed on the wand sometime during the ride on the Hogwarts Express? When someone walked through the barrier? Or was it somehow attached to his person instead? Harry thought the wand and barrier theory made more sense, but ten months was a long time to wait to test his hypothesis.

And he still wasn't sure of his plan's success, but it was worth a try. After all, he had a number of important plans that required it. The thought brought Harry back to the present, and he firmed up his steps as he strode down the Alley.

A few shopkeepers waved cheerfully to him as he ambled past their shops. It was not that they recognised him, but rather good advertising, although he allowed to himself that a few might remember him from the time he stayed in the Alley last year. But Harry barely got any strange looks, not even the school trunk bobbing along behind him drew much attention, and he decided that his identity was probably undiscovered for now.

Long may it last.

Harry kept walking on, arriving at the Post Office early enough to beat the crowds.

The shop was exactly as he remembered it: dark and dingy, a stale, rancid smell permeated the building; owl droppings and pellets, dandruff and fluff littered the floor. As the doorbell tinkled closed behind him, a cheerful looking woman, maybe in her twenties, dark hair curling wildly about her face, greeted him from behind the counter.

"Good morning," she smiled formally. "How can I be of service today?"

"Morning," Harry nodded. "I'm here for a pick up. Harry Potter? I think you have a few things on hold for me."

Her eyes bugged out for a minute, she stared at his forehead, and then her smile widened into a genuine grin. "Oh, Harry Potter! What an honour. I'm so pleased to meet you, would you mind a handshake?" She trotted around the counter and clasped his hand with both of hers. "My mother will be so jealous. Harry Potter himself! Thank you, Harry – may I call you Harry? – for everything you've done. I remember the bad times, I was at Hogwarts myself when it happened. I can't express just how grateful we all are." She pumped his hand up and down the whole time. "What an honour, what a complete, utter honour it is to meet you."

"Thanks," Harry grimaced, trying subtly to extract his hand from hers. "I'm, uh, glad I could help out. So do you have my parcels for me then?"

"I'm Gladys Whitaker, daughter of Wallace Whitaker, from Devon," she added, as if it made a difference to Harry. Gladys leaned forward conspiratorially, to murmur, "I'm a half-blood, you know. You did my family a favour we'll never forget. My parents still talk about you regularly, you see. They sleep safe in their beds every night, thanks to you."

"Oh, good," managed Harry, his hand still grasped tightly. "I'm, uh, glad you're all well."

"Oh, but we are," she beamed at him. "If there's anything we can ever do for you, anything at all, just say the word."

"Brilliant!" Harry tried. "Perhaps you might have some mail for me?"

Finally, the woman let go of his hand. "Oh! But you'll be wanting your mail, then! They've been the source of a bit of gossip, just let me tell you. Martha – she's our newest hire, you know – Martha's been telling me, 'They can't belong to our Harry Potter', she said. She swore up and down it must be some other bloke with the same name. Course, there's lots of Harry's now, don't you think? I suppose most of them are quite young still, though, would you agree?" She made it back behind the counter, and then turned, digging around in the cubbyholes stacked on the wall behind it. "My youngest brother, for example, is a Harry. Named after you, of course. He'll be making it into Hufflepuff in a wee while, let me tell you. He was a bit of a surprise to the family, if you know what I mean. A celebratory baby, my parents always say. I'll tell him I met you. He'll be thrilled!"

"Lovely," Harry said weakly.

"I know!" She continued burbling. "So we thought it might be you we were holding these for, but then we thought, it probably wouldn't really be you, y'see? And what are the chances? Here you are!"

She finally turned, glowing triumphantly, a small pile of mail and parcels balanced neatly in her arms.

"You've got a few letters that came in last night," she said. "And this morning's Daily Prophet, too. That's be fourteen knuts for that lot, and another eight knuts for this little pouch here." She waved at the small little bag sitting innocuously on top of the pile of paper and parchment. Harry eyed it eagerly; it held his wand in it, after all. She passed the pile over. "There's an Undetectable Extension Charm on this, I'll wager a galleon. 'Course, they're completely undetectable, don't you worry, but we see a lot here, for the post, y'see, so I'm developing the sense."

She looked faintly disappointed that Harry didn't open it in front of her, but then looked back at him sunnily.

"And then there's the holding fee, and the mail redirect ward for twenty-four hours," she concluded, "So all up, you owe six sickles and three knuts. I'm sorry I can't give you a discount, but you know what the boss's like."

Harry counted out the money and handed it over to her carefully.

"Thank you very much," he said. "Can I set up a medium-term mail redirect for the holidays while I'm here?"

"Well!" Gladys started. "You certainly can, I've just learnt the redirect charm myself, don't you know. But it'll be cheaper if you hire a box for a month or two, rather than pay for the holds individually. Shall I set you up?"

"Please."

"I don't suppose it would be possible for you to come back – which you will anyway, of course – but, after ten in the morning sometimes? Martha will be furious, absolutely furious, I say, with herself, that she missed you this morning. But she doesn't work weekends, and starts a bit later than me during the week. What do you think?"

"I'm sure I'll see her soon," agreed Harry, somewhat less than enthusiastically, but his tone flew right over the woman's head.

"Oh, how lovely! She'll be thrilled. Absolutely thrilled, I tell you."

She stopped talking, to Harry's intense relief, and picked her wand up, frowning and concentrating furiously for a moment. Her wand darted in front of her, a complicated pattern cutting through the air, then she put it down with a satisfied smile.

"There you go, Mr Potter. Oh – it was Harry, now, wasn't it? There you go, Harry. One mail redirect charm, up and running."

Harry hesitated slightly. "Uh…I should probably mention, there might be some problem with my mail being intercepted over the next couple of months. A house elf, I should say. Will this cover that?"

The woman – Gladys – seemed to calm down a little as she thought, and her brow furrowed pensively. "Goodness! Now, there must be quite a story behind that claim! But don't you worry, Mr P – Harry, we take our duties seriously. I'm assuming that his house elf is not yours?" She enquired. Harry nodded.

"Hrm…obviously, otherwise you would simply order them not to steal your mail. Silly old me!" Gladys flushed red, but continued to think. "I don't suppose…But it is you, after all. In which case they are probably watching your place of residence. Intercepting the owls, don't you know."

Harry had a momentary vision of Dobby leaping off roofs to mug owls mid-air, pillow case fluttering in the wind, feathers flying on impact. Then he realised that Gladys was still talking and swiftly refocussed his thoughts.

"As long as you intend to come here to collect your mail – which you are – there should be no problems. I will discuss it with the boss, however, just to be safe. Was that all?" She raised her brows inquiringly.

"Thanks."

Harry handed over a couple of galleons for the service and the box he'd be renting for a month, and made to leave.

"Thanks," he nodded again. "I guess I'll be seeing you shortly, then. Do you think you could…Martha's okay, obviously, but perhaps you could not mention to the customers that I'm coming here?"

"Not a problem," the woman beamed at him, her buoyant mood restored. "The Owl Postal Office prides itself on our professional conduct and speedy deliveries. You won't have to worry about us," she assured.

"Ah," Harry muttered sceptically. She didn't seem to see any irony, but that was witches and wizards for you, he supposed. "Well, see you again then."

The little doorbell tinkled again, as he showed himself out. With nothing urgent to do today, he thought he may as well browse the Alley.

By the time Harry entered the last shop of the day, he had bought a bottle of wand polish, twelve new rolls of parchment, three new quills, and six bottles of ink of various enchantments and colours. He'd had an ice cream at Fortescue's, and found time to pop all his parcels away tidily, and reunite with his wand. He'd also topped up on Sleekeazy's – the witch had remembered him from last year, embarrassingly enough, and given him a discount again – and found himself an armload of new books to study from. He finally found himself standing in front of the stirring rod display in the back corner of the apothecary, just behind a pile of brass scales that teetered precariously some distance over his head. There was some odd advice from Malfoy ringing in his ears.

Malfoy had once mentioned it offhandedly, half sneering, half curious, as the Slytherin-Gryffindor Potions class had ended for the day and all the students were streaming out.

Match his stirring rod to his wand wood, Harry pondered.

Was that a thing? He curiously fingered a pale golden stirring rod in his hands, ruminating over the matter. Ash, Hermione – the original Hermione, that was – had once told him, had links to both Celtic and Norse traditions, and represented power to change one's fate, as well as healing and control. It seemed a powerful – and stubborn – type of wood. On British soil, at least. The colour, Harry continued to muse, seemed to match his current stirring rod, the one that had come with his basic Hogwarts Potions supplies. Back before it had grown dark with use, of course.

Harry rolled the thin wooden handle in his fingers. If his logic was correct, an Ash stirring rod would probably help a beginner Potions student control their cauldron. It might cause less explosions, he thought. That seemed helpful.

But, he continued to ponder, perhaps once students had passed those first few steps, a more personalised stirring rod might be called for. Something that worked with his magic, complemented his character.

Harry felt more certain of his logic when he remembered the kind of magical snobbery that Malfoy might embrace.

Harry put the ash rod back in the cubby it had come from and began to look for the stirring rods of holly.

Immediately Harry noticed that there were a few wood types that seemed very common. According to the labels, birch, oak, and chestnut seemed to be popular choices as each had multiple cubbies stacked high on the wall, crammed full of wooden sticks of various lengths. As did ash. It took Harry some time to find a meagre collection of Holly stirring rods, before realising that the colour of the wood didn't match his wand at all. He paused in confusion.

"Are ye lookin' for somewha' in particular?" Harry jumped when a gravelly voice interrupted his focus. A middle-aged wizard, somewhat hunched-backed, stood uncomfortably close behind him.

"What? I mean," Harry glanced once more at the array for stirring rods in front of him, "pardon? Yes, thank you. Please. Um."

The apothecary, for presumably the wizard was he, ignored Harry's confusion and nodded at the holly sticks he was looking at.

"They won' look like yer wand, o' course," he muttered. "All tha' wand polish an' fancy finish won' react t'the potions well, y'see."

"Oh," Harry realised. No wonder it had taken him a moment to identify them. "In that case –"

"How long be the rod ye be wantin'?"

Harry paused. "That matters too?"

The older man grunted impatiently. "O' course it matters. Don' they carry yer magic too? Don' it pass through yer stirring rod an' into yer potions? Almos' like some other magical conduit ye use?"

"Oh." Harry frowned thoughtfully. "So…eleven inches, then?"

The man swiftly grabbed a stirring rod from the small pile, measured it against his forearm, and immediately sped to the counter, leaving Harry in his dust. "Ye'd better be gettin' a good potions text too," the man threw over his shoulder.

Harry blinked, and chased after the man's back. "But I alrea–"

"Like yer rod?"

Harry blinked. "That's…a fair point."

The apothecary threw two books on the counter next to Harry's purchase. "Skimmin' the Surface an' What Lies Beneath in Potions Theory, and 1031 Brief Lessons in Wizardin' Lore, and ye'd best be glad m' wife's a Potter Spotter. I don' sell these regular-like."

Harry, feeling exactly as if he had just held a whole conversation in which he understood nothing, simply nodded.

"Thanks. I don't quite – I mean, this has been…educational. Really, thank you. I think…um…I don't suppose…How much do I owe you?"

"Four galleons, three sickles an' a signature." The man pushed a quill and parchment towards Harry who signed, confused, and returned it with the right change.

"I'll come again," Harry nodded thankfully, and the man grunted what was probably a reply.

Still feeling like his head was spinning – probably the fumes in the apothecary, Harry told himself firmly – he returned to the Leaky Cauldron where he spent the afternoon sorting through his post and his purchases. He answered his letters swiftly, organised his new purchases and settled in for a lazy night at the Cauldron before losing his freedom the following day.