Chapter 103: The Brat in Diagon Alley

That year, Harry’s birthday was celebrated at the Leaky Cauldron, where all the patrons happily offered their congratulations—it was undoubtedly a novel experience for Harry.

Along with the birthday gifts came a signature form: third-year students could visit Hogsmeade on designated weekends, but only with a parent or guardian’s signed permission.

“Sir Johnny,” Harry said, finding the Auror assigned to protect him, deliberately using an honorific title to cheer him up.

In truth, Mr. Johnny English had been awarded the Commander of the Order of the British Empire for his outstanding service protecting the Queen (it was said he had successfully driven off an attacker), though he rarely emphasized it, Harry knew he was deeply proud of it.

“Look at this signature form—I think I’ll need to return to Tang Dun to borrow Sir Crowley’s personal seal, or might you permit me to go to Georgia to get his signature in person?” Harry asked tactfully.

“Oh, the Hogsmeade form? I loved that place when I was in school. But now returning to the Muggle world is dangerous—just watch me.” Johnny shook his head and scribbled his signature with wild, flowing strokes.

Harry stared at the elegant cursive signature on the form: “James Potter.” It left him deeply confused.

“Professor McGonagall can’t possibly remember every student’s handwriting—any signature on here will do. Would she really go ask your father to verify it?” Johnny shook his head. “Just hand it in. She won’t suspect a thing.”

“But, Sir Johnny…”

“What’s wrong? Are you worried Professor McGonagall still remembers your father’s signature so well she’d recognize it instantly? Don’t worry—you can say he recently learned a new signature style, very elegant, isn’t it? Or I can sign your mother’s name instead—even someone else’s if you like: Elizabeth Alexandra Mary Windsor. How’s that? I know it by heart.”

“You might have forgotten one thing—my parents are dead.” Harry said, rubbing his temple. “If you’re really going to forge a signature, at least use George Crowley’s name.”

“Oh oh, I’m so sorry—I didn’t realize.” Johnny finally caught on, frantically trying to erase James Potter’s name, but the ink had long dried.

“Let me think… ah, this.” After a flurry of frantic motion, he came up with a fix: add a few more lines.

“In lieu of James Potter, granting permission for his son Harry Potter to visit Hogsmeade Village—George Crowley.” It looked overly wordy, but at least it wouldn’t seem suspicious.

“Phew.” Johnny exhaled. “It’s just a small thing. Have fun in Hogsmeade.”

On the way back to his room, Harry kept reminding himself: this was a top-tier Auror. Though he might be clumsy in small matters, when it came to fighting criminals, Harry could still trust him—probably.

Harry packed up his essays and headed to Florean Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour in Diagon Alley, where the owner was exceptionally knowledgeable and often helped greatly with his assignments. He also adored Harry, once trying to give him two ice creams in one hour—until Johnny stopped him.

“I don’t want Harry to get diarrhea before he meets Black.” He said.

Sometimes Ivy insisted on buying things, but Harry knew his magical currency wasn’t abundant—he needed to budget carefully. He held no shares in the Quick-Quill Pen Company anymore; before graduation, every Galleon was one less.

Ivy suggested exchanging pounds for Galleons. Harry agreed, but there was a limit: each child could exchange no more than one hundred Galleons per school year. It was enough for tuition and supplies, but barely enough for extra purchases.

“This is ridiculous. Why won’t they let us exchange more? It defies the free market,” Ivy complained.

“Don’t you notice Galleons are the most stable currency?” Harry pointed to the nearly faded exchange rate board outside Gringotts. “The ruble’s up to 8.9 now, but here it’s still 1:1.2. The pound’s still 1:5. In other words, if you use Galleons as a middleman, you can exchange rubles at 1:6.”

“It’s a wealth secret,” Ivy sighed. “Too bad we can’t use it. Oh, I really love that big crystal ball, and the Gobstones…”

“Stop it, Ivy. In the magical world, we have to be frugal.”

As Harry spoke, his gaze helplessly drifted to something else: a brand-new, dazzlingly elegant Firebolt broomstick.

“Firebolt,” Harry whispered, reading the product label. “The pinnacle of broomstick artistry—fluid as flowing clouds, a slender grip harder than diamond, gleaming brilliantly. A fine birch tail, perfectly aerodynamic, granting unimaginable balance and precision. Accelerates to a hundred miles in under seven seconds, with built-in anti-collision magical braking. Price: reasonable.”

“So cool, Harry. Should we buy one?” Ivy said excitedly.

“‘Reasonable price’ means even emptying the vault won’t get you one.” Harry forced himself back to reason. “Let’s go write our essays.”

“Wait—look at that man. What’s he doing?” Ivy pointed elsewhere, delighted.

“Oh, that’s the manager of Flourish and Blotts.” Harry looked at him with pity. The man was being viciously bitten on the forearm by a book titled *Monsters That Are Monsters Themselves*—it was the new term’s Care of Magical Creatures textbook, and Hagrid’s birthday gift to him.

“Summer’s only halfway over,” Harry said. “Just watch—when new students come to buy books, I wonder how he’ll handle it.”

Despite Harry’s repeated emphasis on the importance of summer assignments, Ivy dragged him shopping in Diagon Alley every day for a long stretch. Johnny English disguised himself differently each time, secretly trailing them. Several times, he tied his shoelaces right beside Harry while Harry drooled over the Firebolt; by the time Harry finally tore his gaze away, Johnny’s laces were knotted into impenetrable tangles.

A week before term began, Ivy dragged Harry around again. Diagon Alley was now bustling—children everywhere bought supplies for the new term. That day, Harry saw Ron and Hermione together buying books, and immediately went over to greet them.

“Hi, Ron. Hi, Hermione,” Harry said. “You here to shop? By the way, where’s Neville?”

“Grandmother once said, life moves toward distant goals—only by shedding heavy burdens and advancing with empty hands can one find true joy,” Hermione smiled. “Neville’s with Hannah.”

“Oh, alright,” Harry thought. The imposter Neville must have succeeded—Hermione seemed to have decided to forget all that messy emotion.

“Harry, I planned to find you at the Leaky Cauldron after buying books. Look at my new wand,” Ron said happily. “Willow and unicorn hair—beautiful, and willow’s perfect for advanced silent spells.”

“You can do silent spells already?” Harry made a fist gesture. “Strong Stupefy?”

“Yeah. Give me a sword, and I’ll show you Strong Sectumsempra,” Ron grinned boastfully.

“You two chat. I’m going inside to find my books,” Hermione said, slipping into the shop.

“Alright, we’ll wait outside!” Ron said.

“Who’s that?” Ivy asked. “When did you two get so close?”

“When we wrote that joint letter last year,” Ron said. “I mean, later Hermione and I organized another one—to the Magical Congress—telling them Hogwarts students all wanted Tang Nade back.”

“I had no idea,” Harry said, astonished.

“Because Zhang Qiu didn’t seem to like Tang Nade, I didn’t tell you,” Ron said, embarrassed. “Actually, Hermione isn’t a bookworm—she’s just… under a lot of pressure.”

When Hermione emerged from the shop, she carried a large bag stuffed with textbooks for every subject. Harry stared at it in horror—he couldn’t imagine studying so many subjects at once.

“Oh, you. You seem highly suspicious,” Johnny suddenly appeared before Hermione, flashing his Auror credentials before interrogating her. “Who are you? What’s in this bag? Are you planning to attack Harry with your book bag?”

Hermione froze.

“Hey, Sir Johnny, this is my classmate, my friend!” Harry protested. “She just bought some elective textbooks.”

“Is that so? But I’m certain your sister thinks she’s a threat…” Johnny eyed Hermione suspiciously. “And little girls are most sensitive to evil. Could you be Black’s accomplice?”

“Ivy’s like that with everyone—don’t mind her,” Harry said, rubbing his temple. “Sorry, Hermione. This is the Auror assigned to protect me by the Ministry of Magic—Johnny English.”

“Oh, I understand,” Hermione nodded, still confused. “Hello, Mr. English.”

“Then I’ll tentatively rule you out as a suspect…” Johnny pulled a book from the bag and flipped through it idly. “*Early Records of Muggle Taming*. Excellent. So you’ve taken Muggle Studies.”

“I forgot to tell you, Harry. To provide better personal protection for you at school, I’ll be serving as this term’s Muggle Studies professor,” Johnny whispered. “But at school, don’t call me Johnny or English—I’m using the alias Teddy Pien.”

“Uh… got it, Professor Bean.” Harry thought the alias had zero artistic merit.

“Or you can call me Doctor Bean,” he winked.