At least Nordok gave him some things to do. Harry goes back to Silas Pumperknell’s and buys a book on how Gringotts works in the wizarding world, and Mr. Pumperknell persuades him to also get a book about the history of the goblins. Both of them are imported because the Ministry won’t let British publishers take either book.
The most immediately useful thing he learned at the bank is that participating businesses have ledgers magically linked to the bank. Customers can write checks that are pressed into the ledger and the transaction automagically goes through. Non-participating businesses that have a Gringotts account can mail checks into the bank although it takes longer. Harry gleefully writes a check to Mr. Pumperknell since now he doesn’t have to carry all that gold around.
“I don’t think I need a new wardrobe,” he says to Bear as they walk back towards Diagon Alley. “I mean, I’ve got my school robes. Maybe some new trainers…?”
Bear stops. “What?” Harry says, turning around to glare at him.
Holding eye contact, Bear gently grabs Harry’s oversize denims in his teeth and tugs. Harry yelps and grabs them as the twine holding them up threatens to give and dump his trousers on the cobblestone.
Bear lets go and stares at him pointedly.
“FINE,” says Harry. Did his dog just call him a hobo? He thinks so.
Great.
Bear leads the way not to Madam Malkin’s but a slightly larger storefront a bit closer to the bank, Twilfit & Tattings. Harry goes inside and immediately there’s a witch wearing her hair in dozens of green-tipped braids hurrying over to him. She gives him a once-over and purses her lips. “Can I help you?”
“Hi.” Harry looks down at himself and winces. In comparison to the lovely sleeveless silk robes she’s wearing, his tatty Muggle clothes look like they’re good for the bin and not much else. He’s wearing his school robes open at the front the way most of the Gryffindors do but it’s still obvious they’re too small at the wrists and ankles. “I need a new wardrobe.”
“Perhaps Madam Malkin’s might be better suited to your… needs,” the witch says.
“What?” Harry frowns. Then it dawns on him. “Oh! She, er, kind of annoys me. I can pay,” he assures her.
Showing the leather-bound Gringotts checkbook seems to ease the assistant’s worries. Suddenly she’s all smiles. “Very well, then, just come on back here for a fitting–a whole wardrobe, you say? It would be my pleasure–yes, your familiar can come, as long as he stays out of the way, can’t be getting fur on the clothes–just hop right up here.”
Harry climbs up onto the pedestal she shows him. It faces a three-panel mirror and he winces again. Bear lies down just inside the curve of the mirror, head on his paws and grey eyes watchful.
There’s five of the fitting stations, but only one other is occupied. Harry glances over as a tape measure whizzes around him on its own, taking every conceivable measurement of his body. The boy next to him is about Hogwarts age. It takes a second for the name to come to him—Nott. He’s a Slytherin.
Nott looks over and does a double take. “Potter?”
The witch who brought Harry in checks herself slightly as she comes back over with armfuls of cloth, but otherwise she says nothing about it being Harry Potter in her shop, for which Harry is enormously grateful.
“Nott,” he says when he can’t think of anything else.
“Finally decided to clean yourself up a bit, I see,” Nott says.
Harry bristles, but Bear whines, and it makes him pause. Nott didn’t seem like he was being mean. Harry peers at the other boy and spots none of Malfoy’s malice on his face. “Yeah. I—didn’t really know there were other shops than Madam Malkin’s.”
The witch makes a hmph sort of sound as she holds a length of bottle-green cloth up to Harry and nods to herself.
“Duh,” Nott says, rolling his eyes. “You chose well, though. I’ve always gotten my robes here.”
“As well you should,” the witch sniffs. “We don’t hold with any of those premade tailoring charms. All our tailoring is done in-house on raw cloth woven with no magic whatsoever.”
That sounds—fancy.
“Do you want open or closed-front robes?” she asks.
“Er—me?” Harry blushes when she gives him a long-suffering look and nods. “I don’t know. Is there a difference?”
“Closed robes are more traditional,” Nott drawls. “They’re also nicer in the summer since you needn’t wear full trousers under them, just hose.”
This all sounds horribly medieval.
The “hose” turn out to be basically fitted but not skin-tight trousers of silk or fine cotton. Harry’s skeptical, but the witch, who tells them her name is Portia, makes him try on a sea-blue closed robe over the hose and a short-sleeved cotton shirt, and it actually feels quite nice. The robe itself is some kind of linen and he can tell it won’t make him hot. “I like this,” he says, and she grins broadly.
“Excellent! Now, you’re still growing, but for a full wardrobe, you’ll want at least four sets of hose and undershirts. Hogwarts?”
The non sequitur throws Harry. “Uh. Yes?”
“Good, the elves there do laundry every other day, so four sets would be more than enough for you. Silk or cotton?”
“Oh. Uh. Two of each?”
“Get two sets in wool,” Nott puts in. His fitting is done but he’s just sort of loitering as though this counts as entertainment. “It’s cold up there in the winters.”
“How could I forget,” Portia mutters. “Is that all right w’you, Mr. Potter?”
“Yes, please,” says Harry. He’s been freezing every winter for the last two years.
“Now—how many day robes?”
God, this is embarrassing. “How… how many is a good number? I’m growing, so maybe not too many.”
“Smart lad,” says Portia. “Well, you’ll spend most of your days in the school robes—I can get you three of those, Gryffindor, right?–so perhaps five? I can make you two in light summer cloth and three that are a bit heavier, for the winters. And you’d best get trousers, shirts, and jumpers for the school robes, since the uniform is open-front these days.” Her expression says exactly how little she thinks of that.
“Sure.” Harry wonders if he’s going to get a headache. “Yeah, that’s good. Uh, how about…” He blushes furiously.
“Unmentionables?” Portia says dryly. Nott makes a sound like he’s trying not to laugh. “Yes, we can provide those as well. I’ll get you some in silk and cotton both.”
“Boots.” Nott’s staring at Harry’s battered Muggle trainers with distaste. “Those things need to be burned in a fire, Potter.”
“They’re my cousin’s.” Harry doesn’t know why he feels like he has to defend himself. It’s not his fault the trainers are in crap condition, but it’s also got absolutely nothing to do with Nott.
“Dragon hide boots for the winters, leather shoes for warmer days and indoor wear,” Portia says. She waves her wand at the back wall of the shop, which displays a variety of shoes in different colors, and two boxes come floating over to rest at her feet. “What color leather?”
“Um.” Harry has no idea. “Maybe–maybe give me a brown pair and–and then something that’ll match my day robes? And black for the boots.”
Portia summons a third pair of shoes and pulls them out, showing leather that’s a nice dark blue. “There. Let’s discuss the colors of your day robes. With your coloring, you’ll do best with jewel tones. Pastels would wash you out.”
“I liked that blue one,” Harry offers. On weekends in Gryffindor Tower, most people wear robes of some kind, in every color imaginable. It will be nice to have something other than his Dudley castoffs and his school robes.
“How about these?” Portia waves her wand again, and several bolts of cloth zoom over from their neatly organized racks on the right-hand wall. They hover in front of Harry and each one unspools a bit. At Portia’s prompting, he reaches out to feel the fabrics.
There’s a bottle green that she was toying with earlier. It’s a heavy, soft wool, and Harry likes it immediately, but he hesitates.
“Oh for Merlin’s sake, don’t pass up on it just because it’s a Slytherin color,” Nott says scornfully. “Haven’t you seen a Gryffindor wear green?”
Yes, okay, he has, on weekends. Harry nods. “Okay, I like that one. This one’s nice, too,” he adds, about a rich burgundy wool that’s a bit thinner.
“Good choices. Might I suggest this for a third winter robe?” Portia shows him a jewel toned purple wool that somehow shimmers or something in the light. It’s very subtle and reminds Harry a bit of his invisibility cloak. The buttons up the front are silver if you ignore the same play of shimmery colors on them.
“Sure.”
“That’s your cold-weather robes, then, and we have the blue for one summer robe. How about this for the last one?” She pulls forward a roll of light cotton in a cheerful yellow.
Harry hesitates, then nods. Why not?
Portia concentrates, her wand dancing through some complicated patterns. The five spools of cloth Harry chose all float up towards the ceiling, the loose ends slotting themselves into some bronze device lurking among the support beams. It hums to life with a soft clattering noise.
“That’ll take five to ten minutes,” Portia says. “It cuts the cloth to the measurements we took and sends it to the back for sewing. Would you like any charms embedded in? The wool robes are sturdy enough to support runes for three or four basic enchantments; the summer robes will hold two or three.”
Harry ends up getting growth charms in all five robes, as well as the three new school robes he gets–one silk, two wool. It’ll make them last longer. He might have a lot of gold but if it keeps getting drained, who knows where he’ll be at graduation? At Nott’s suggestion, he also gets temperature charms in all of them, since it means the wool robes could be worn in warmer weather and the lighter ones in cold. Portia tells him the more he uses the temperature charms the faster the robes will wear out, but it gives him a bit more flexibility in when he can wear what robe.
“Right!” Portia claps her hands. “Now onto jumpers, trousers, and shirts.”
Harry slightly wants to run away.
There’s an overwhelming set of options for jumpers. In the end, he gets one with a nice chevron pattern of blue and grey, one in burgundy, one with vertical stripes of deep green and royal blue, and a fourth one in a plain beige. Nott’s quiet commentary helps him narrow it down a lot.
Portia heads off to set the jumpers aside. “Why are you being so nice?” Harry asks Nott.
The Slytherin stares at him. “D’you know how many people would want to talk to you at school, Potter? Everyone. But the Weasel and Granger run them off, or Malfoy starts a fight of some kind, and it’s impossible. I’m not passing up the chance to see if you’re worth befriending.”
“Aren’t you and Malfoy mates, though?” Harry says suspiciously.
“If you think Malfoy gets along with anyone except his goons, you need to pay better attention.”
Harry doesn’t have time to ask any more questions because Portia’s back and leading him to the racks of trousers. These come pre-made in different sizes that are then adjusted to fit specific people, since it saves time. “Wool for the winter, again, and this linen blend for warmer days,” Portia says. “Black and brown are both allowed with the uniform.”
“Maybe—maybe one of each color in the wool and the linen?” Harry tries, and Portia beams approval.
Then there’s a grey linen with vertical pinstripes that he likes, and a pair of trousers in bright blue that he decides would be fun to maybe wear on weekends, so he winds up getting six pairs instead.
At least shirts are easy. He picks out a round half dozen, all in the same cotton-linen blend: two white, one in a nice color that Portia calls teal, one sober blue, one dark red, one hunter green. Then Nott directs his attention towards a silk that shimmers very slightly in the same way as his purple robe and Harry decides he wants it.
“All these robes are made to be worn closed, but you can leave them open if you like,” Portia tells him, as a slot in the wall opens and spits out a package wrapped in brown paper. She waves her wand and it neatly floats over to rest on the counter. “Mostly it’s just our generation that wears things like jumpers, button-downs, and trousers regularly, but at Hogwarts you won’t stand out for doing so underneath a robe worn open. Just keep the colored shirts to the weekends, all right? The uniform calls for white, grey, or brown underneath your school robes.”
“All right,” Harry agrees. He didn’t even know there’s an official uniform at Hogwarts. All his old Dudley clothes are so washed out they look grey regardless of their original colors.
“Lastly, cloaks.”
“And hats,” Nott adds. “And gloves.”
Good God.
The cloaks are easy; Harry gets one in heavy black wool per the uniform and another in a slightly lighter wool blend that feels almost slick to the touch. “It’s water-resistant,” Portia says when he asks. That one comes in different colors, but Harry sticks to black so he can wear it at Hogwarts if it’s raining but not too cold. He’ll be outside a lot this year for Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures.
Nott points out that he should get scarves, too. Harry can’t make up his mind and gets four different soft wool scarves. One of them is Gryffindor-themed, but the others are, respectively, burnished dark gold, blue, and a green-and-grey cable knit pattern.
“Gloves.” Portia picks up his hand. “On an unrelated note, please get yourself some moisturizing lotion, your cuticles are atrocious and your skin is so dry I can hear it crying.”
His hands cracked last winter. That’s not normal? “Okay,” Harry says. He doesn’t even know where he’d get something like that.
“Apothecary,” Nott says quietly.
“One set of dragon-hide gloves for protection,” Portia says. “That’s what the school list calls for, anyway. I can give you two pairs, one with a wool lining for warmth?”
“Yes, please.” Harry had no idea this was why his hands were always cold and stiff in the winters. He’d thought that happened to everyone.
He turns down the pointy hats, since no one really wears them.
Portia manages to shrink the various packages, with a warning that it’ll wear off within an hour so he’d best get it back home by then. Harry crams them all into the loosely woven cotton bag she hands him, thanks her profusely, hands over forty-eight galleons and five sickles, and leaves the shop the proud owner of a full wizarding wardrobe.
“I’m heading home through the floo at the Leaky,” Nott informs him. “You, too?”
“I’m, uh, staying there, actually,” Harry admits as they leave Twilfit & Tattings.
Nott blinks. “Oh, okay. Want to walk there together?”
“...sure.”
They’re only maybe ten seconds into an awkwardly silent walk before Nott blurts out, “You are aware that your familiar is a grim, yes? Like a literal hellhound?”
“Sort of?” Harry winces at Nott’s incredulous stare. “Look, I didn’t know what a grim was until last week. Or a familiar, actually. He just sort of found me and I let him come along.”
“Gryffindors,” Nott says, but again, it doesn’t seem mean. More like a joke. “You’re really Muggle-raised, then? There’s a betting pool in Slytherin about it.”
Harry stares at him. “Don’t–don’t people know?”
“No, Potter, they don’t. In fact, there’s even odds on you wearing those awful Muggle rags because you just don’t respect our world enough to dress yourself properly or because your family threw away their fortune and you’re poor. I put money on the second one because your scales and potions tools are all shite.”
“They’re secondhand,” Harry snaps. “There’s nothing wrong with that!”
“No, there’s not, but you could’ve gotten a secondhand scale that works.”
This silences Harry. Hagrid picked out the scales in first year, telling him they’d be all right for the first few years. The leveling bit is broken, but if he uses Hermione’s set of counterweights and his wand as a level, he can get things pretty accurate.
Nott sighs. “In here, Potter.”
They go into a different apothecary than the one Harry’s used the last two years. It’s called Gusteau’s Potions Supplies and promises fresh ingredients with no contamination, guaranteed! Harry decides to stock up on his potions kit while he’s here, which is how he learns that it’s not actually normal to just carry all his supplies around jumbled up in a school bag.
“It’s no wonder Snape nearly murders you once a week,” Nott says flatly. “Look. You’re supposed to have a case, like this one.” It’s made of leather. “It’s got slots inside for sealed containers of ingredients, and storage in the top for your knives, stirring rods, and stuff like that. This one comes with a full set of knives and stirring rods in different materials, two mortar and pestle sets in granite and dragonglass, and all the storage jars and potions vials you could want. And look, it even fits this restored secondhand scale in perfect working order.”
“Should I—get it?” Harry says.
“Bloody hell, Potter, yes.”
Harry buys the kit and a full set of third-year ingredients since he strongly suspects now that his other ones are cross-contaminated. He’d thought potions was like cooking—you should be careful, but you didn’t have to be that careful. Maybe it’s more like chemistry where things absolutely cannot mix until you want them to.
He barely remembers to get a pot of moisturizing lotion on the way out.
“Much better,” Nott says. “Please tell me you’re aware that you have a noble title?”
Harry blushes. “As of yesterday.”
“Merlin.”
“Yeah. Do you have one?”
“My father is the Earl of Brun Scylf.”
“Oh.” Harry thinks. “How many of our classmates are nobles?”
Nott grins. “Several. Not the Malfoys, though, which drives dear Draco batty.”
Harry laughs.
“I’m going to put money down on you getting it together and acting like a proper wizard,” Nott informs Harry as they get to the Leaky. “So you’d better actually wear those robes and get your potions grade together.”
“Nott?”
“Yes?”
Harry hesitates. “Are you—d’you agree with Malfoy about…”
Harry nods.
Nott stops next to the fireplace in the Leaky and gives Harry a wary look. “I think they’re rude and entitled when they come in and tell wizards and witches that our entire culture and way of life is stupid, backwards, or whatever. I think it’s really dumb that they never realize they’re more or less moving to a new country and then ignoring all its customs, which would be rude anywhere else in the world. I mean, if I go visit the ancient magical enclaves in the Himalayas, I won’t be demanding they conform to British customs. I don’t think Muggleborns are stealing magic from purebloods or any of that rot, or that they’re any worse at using magic.”
“So it’s a culture thing,” Harry said.
“Yeah. Like—quills. Last year I heard Granger shrieking to anyone who’d listen about how if we could just use a pen,” he did a cruel but accurate imitation of Hermione, “while I’m using a quill that was my father’s in his school days. It’s a family heirloom and it’s tuned to the Nott family magic. It’s not backwards, not in our world, but Muggleborns never stop to think about that.”
“Okay. Uh.” Harry hadn’t expected to meet a decent Slytherin. On some level he’s still suspicious. Hagrid says the whole House was full of Dark wizards. So does Ron. But aside from Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle, they’re not evil, just sort of cold and reserved, which in hindsight isn’t surprising given that Harry treats them all with the same disregard. “Would you… can I write to you?”
“Absolutely,” Nott says with a grin. “And if you want to pay me back for helping you today, make sure I’m around to see it when Weasley and Granger realize you befriended a slimy snake.”
Oops. Harry didn’t know the Slytherins knew about that nickname. He feels abruptly sort of guilty. That’s something Dudley would do—call the kids he didn’t like names like that.
“Okay,” he agrees.
Nott vanishes through the floo in a burst of green flames.
“Careful with that one, lad,” Tom advises, appearing out of literally nowhere. Bear lets out a startled half-bark. “The Notts are as Dark as they come.”
“Oh—okay. I will,” Harry promises, and heads up to room eleven feeling quite confused.
The door’s barely shut before there’s a faint pop and his bag of clothes bulges. Harry yelps and immediately dumps it on the floor.
Just in time. The shrunken packages resize themselves in a flurry of popping noises and end up strewn all over the floor.
Harry sets his new potions kit down next to the desk. It must have some kind of weight charm on it because it’s not as heavy as it should be. Honestly, he could probably carry it in the Muggle world; it just looks like a slightly boxy brown leather briefcase.
Harry’s halfway to the bed when he realizes something: he can wear other clothes now.
Gleefully, he rips open the packages and picks through them. Trousers and a shirt would be easiest, but it would be fun to go downstairs and get dinner in the Leaky’s dining room instead, and now he can do it dressed like a–a proper wizard.
He puts on the cotton hose and undershirt. It still feels a bit girly, and part of him thinks the robes look like dresses, but when he puts on the blue robe and closes it up the front, he doesn’t look girly at all. Girly in Harry’s mind means curves and hips; the robes make his shoulders look square and his body lean.
“Much better, dear,” the mirror says when he stands in front of it. Harry’s got to agree. The way it’s tailored makes him look a little less underfed; it’s fitted but not weirdly so, and falls straight down to his ankles in a way that tells him it’ll billow dramatically when he walks.
Wicked.
“Bear?” he says, still thinking about Nott. “I just realized I don’t really know what a Dark wizard is.”
Bear whuffs questioningly.
Harry sits on the bed and then decides to flop back and stare up at the ancient ceiling. “Well, Hagrid and Ron say Slytherins are all Dark and evil and whatever. But most of them are just, you know, cold and reserved. And they’re kids, how evil can kids be? It’s not really Dudley’s fault he’s such a prat. He’s just doing what his parents tell him. And I still wouldn’t call him evil. Just, you know, a prat.”
Bear lets out a two-tone bark that sounds like a short laugh.
“Yeah,” Harry says with a grin. “A prat the size of a baby whale… um, but—is a Dark wizard just someone who’s magical and a criminal? No, that makes no sense. It’s got to be someone who uses Dark magic but I don’t know what that is either. We learn spells that hurt people in DADA. Fred and George said you learn bludgeoning hexes and blasting curses in the upper year classes. Those sound bad. So either that’s Dark magic or Dark magic isn’t only magic that could hurt someone.” He pauses. “That wouldn’t make any sense, actually. What if I cast a sticking charm at someone’s feet at the top of a staircase? They could fall and break their neck.”
Whining, Bear jumps onto the bed and rests his head on Harry’s stomach, watching with sorrowful eyes.
Harry scratches at his ears. “You’re a good listener, Bear. I wonder if Tom’s right about the Notts? That whole thing Nott said about Muggleborns—I can kind of see where he’s coming from. This girl in my primary class, Yvonne Bunting, her family went to India on holiday and when she came back she told everyone about how in India people touch each other a lot more, and ask personal questions, and stuff like that, and how her parents told her it wasn’t rude, just a different culture, so she couldn’t get upset if someone tried to hug her when they wouldn’t do it here.”
Bear licks Harry’s hand.
“I guess I’ll write him tomorrow,” Harry decides. “If he turns out to be a prat, I can always just stop.”
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