Making a Difference

The Leaky Cauldron was still as tiny and grubby-looking as it had been the fateful day the famous Harry Potter, Chosen One, Savior of the Wizarding World, had laid eyes on it the first time – no matter what Hannah Longbottom had tried to do about it. The grubbiness seemed to be part of the establishment. The Muggles hurrying by still didn’t glance it. Only the shops on the sides changed once in a while.

The inside, though, had changed tremendously since the Second War was over. It was a brighter room now, decorated tastefully in clear colors, and furnished in light woods. On every surface, there were flowers blooming. In a corner, out of the line of sight, there was the long table, were the surviving members of the DA and the Order of the Phoenix held their monthly meetings, just to keep in touch and to talk about what was going on around the Wizarding World. They were not yet old enough to talk about “old times”. Maybe they would never be.

On a board above the table, someone had very carefully pinned the Orders of Merlin of all the members of the DA and the Order who had died in the Battle of Hogwarts or during the war. Outside those meetings, no one dared sitting at that table.

Most visitors just walked through anyway, giving the still young-looking woman with the friendly pink face and the long blond braid behind the bar only a curt nod. Parents sometimes whispered to their kids as they passed, and once in a while a boy or a girl would point a finger and ask: “She’s a hero from the Battle of Hogwarts, isn’t she?” and the parents would shush them at once. Mrs. Hannah Longbottom, former member of the DA, new owner of the Leaky Cauldron, only smiled warmly at them. She had indeed been at the Battle of Hogwarts, but she did not feel like a hero at all.

She liked to watch the people who entered the Wizarding World via the small, walled courtyard behind the pub. During the week, at the time between breakfast and lunch, there were few enough people coming. One of them was a small boy with a pointed face, worn Muggle clothes, and hair in that undefined color that ranged somewhere between brown and blond. His face was carefully composed, only his blue eyes glared at the world with an angry stare, as if he expected an insult from it. An elderly witch who’d probably come for a weekend shopping gave him a smile, but he stared back as if to say “don’t look at me.” The witch turned away, but that did not seem to satisfy the boy. His eyes wandered through the whole room, searching it, trying to pierce the shadows back behind the bar, willing it to expose its every secret. There was something demanding, commanding about the manner he carried himself.

When the room did not obey his silent command, or maybe when he realized there were, indeed, no secrets at all in this pub, he began to explore the taproom carefully. He did not seem curious in the way other children of his age might be, nor did he seem afraid. It was as if he was taking something back that had always been his, making sure it had not been damaged during the time of his absence.

When he was done he sat down on a chair out of the line of sight, on a chair that was only ever occupied by a woman named Luna Lovegood-Scamander. It was different from the other chairs, made of a darker wood and carved into strange shapes. It was not, by any means, a throne, but the boy sat at it as if it were.

Suddenly, apparently coming out of nowhere, a woman with a pink face and long blond hair, pulled back in a braid, was standing in front of him. “May I help you?” she asked in a kind voice.

The boy stared at her, startled, but quickly regaining his composure. “Who are you?” he demanded.

The witch only smiled at his harsh tone. “I’m Hannah Longbottom,” she replied. “I’m the owner of this pub. Now, would you please tell me your name?”

The boy hesitated, glaring at Hannah Longbottom. She still smiled, in a motherly, absolutely sincere way. To his own surprise, the boy blushed faintly. “My name is Smith,” he replied. “Richard Smith.”

“That’s a nice name,” Mrs. Longbottom said.

Richards face darkened and a door seemed to close behind his eyes, but then he realized that Mrs. Longbottom had not been making fun of him. “I don’t like it,” he gave back flatly.

“Where are you headed to?” Mrs. Longbottom asked.

Richard hesitated once again. He was not quite sure where he was going, but he had no intention of showing that. “That’s none of your business,” he answered sharply, fastening his grip at the heavy envelope in his hand. This was his trophy, his proof that it had not all been a dream when the strange old lady with the square glasses and the tight bun had told him he was different, he was a wizard. This was his ticket to a new life, where people would recognize what he was worth. He would make them recognize it.

“Ah,” Mrs. Longbottom said. “Hogwarts. Come to get your school supplies? Where are your parents at?”

“Don’t have any,” the boys snapped. That wasn’t the truth, but as good as the truth. He wasn’t going to tell this complete stranger about his dad, about the prison, or his mother, who’d promised once again that this would be the last time she went to rehab, that this time she’d quit for good. Richard hadn’t believed her. He’d heard it too often. His parents hadn’t been any help to him, ever. They couldn’t pay for his new school, they hadn’t even brought him here.

“I see,” Hannah Longbottom muttered. She suddenly looked thoughtful. “Is this your first trip to Diagon Alley?”

Since Richard didn’t want to risk being caught lying, he told the truth this time. “It is,” he gave back. It never paid to tell a lie that could be detected so easily.

“Do you know how to get there?” Mrs. Longbottom asked.

Richard remembered very well what the strange woman who had come to see him had said about that. “Sure,” he gave back. “Just tap the third stone up second across from the cherry tree.”

But he wasn’t quite as sure once he had said it. It did sound rather weird, now that he’d spoken it aloud.

Mrs. Longbottom seemed to sense his qualms, even though he tried to hide them. “Would you like me to come with you?”

“No,” he replied at once. “I don’t need help.” He really didn’t need help. He’d made it this far, hadn’t he? Finding a street couldn’t be that hard, could it? He suddenly felt it was time to leave, before he could question himself any further. He hadn’t taken the help of that strange witch with the square glasses, and she had been a professor, after all. He most certainly wasn’t going to take help from a barkeeper.

Before he jumped to his feet, he let his gaze wander through the room, so that he wouldn’t walk off into the wrong direction. He found the back door easily and, deciding that maybe he could afford some politeness, he said: “Have a good day, Mrs. Longbottom.” He did not say “don’t follow me,” but his voice implied it.

Mrs. Longbottom, however, did not seem to have mastered the fine arts of subtlety, for she came along as if it was the most natural thing in the world. It made Richard wonder whether maybe she didn’t have anything else to do than watch the people who entered Diagon Alley through her pub. Maybe she was some sort of watchdog for that “Ministry of Magic” the professor with the bun had said would take action if he was to use magic in front of Muggles.

Inside the small, walled courtyard behind the pub, Richard hesitated. There was the cherry tree he’d been told about, surrounded by well-groomed flower beds. Through the middle led a narrow, diligently harked pathway, which stopped in front of the wall, right next to the cherry tree. This little, well, park, looked much more like the famous entry to a secret land then the grubby front side of the pub had, and for the first time since he had made contact with the Wizarding World, Richard felt a tiny bit awed and his self-confidence quivered for just a second. He noticed that except for the cherry tree he did not recognize a single one of the flowers and plants, and while he was still looking, he thought one of them moved.

Mrs. Longbottom smiled, passed by him and tapped a stone. In front of the surprised Richard, a wide archway opened itself where the wall had been just a moment ago, an archway onto a cobbled street that twisted and turned out of sight.

“Welcome,” Mrs. Longbottom said, “to Diagon Alley.”

Richard blinked, then he regained his composure. “Thank you,” he gave back, looking sullen. He didn’t need her help, and he would have asked in case he had wanted it. He hated having grown-ups interfere with his affairs. They always made a mess of it. Resolutely, he stepped through the arch and onto the street, not looking back to see the arch close behind him.

Mrs. Longbottom shook her head, deeply in thought. For a moment she let her gaze wander across the patches of flowers and plants her husband, who had been a professor for a couple of years at Hogwarts, had planted here. He was already in Hogwarts, for the school year would start soon, and he liked to be prepared. This year was going to be hard enough anyway: It was going to be the year James Potter the Second joined Fred Weasley the Second at the school, and there was not a single teacher at Hogwarts who was looking forward to it without a hint of dread.

After a while, Mrs. Longbottom went back inside the now empty pub, where she accioed a sheet of parchment and a quill. “Dear Neville,” she began her letter, and then she wrote down everything she had learned about Richard Smith from his words and all she had learned about him by the things he had not said, which was a lot more.

Hannah Longbottom liked to watch the people who entered the Wizarding World via the small, walled courtyard behind the pub for a reason: During her not so long life, she had learned about three different boys who had entered the Wizarding World alone, leaving behind a life so horrible she could barely imagine. One of them, who became a friend of hers, had gone through great hardships to become a hero, one of the greatest wizards the Wizarding World had ever seen. One of them, who had been her teacher, had become cold and bitter, and no one, not even he himself, had ever recognized what amazing talents he could have offered, until it had been too late. One of them, the monster she had helped to fight during the Battle of Hogwarts, had become the most dreaded, most dangerous, and most deadly man the Great Britain had ever seen, and yet it could have all been different, if someone had just tried to make that difference early enough in that life, if he had not boarded the train to Hogwarts all alone. It was amazing how much of a difference a simple letter could make.

Hannah Longbottom would not allow history to repeat itself. Finishing the first one, she accioed another sheet of parchment, and started another letter. “Dear Ginny, dear Harry,” this one began, and again she wrote down about Richard Smith, only in slightly different wordings.

And while the boy went through Diagon Alley, looking longingly at all the things he couldn’t buy but would have liked to, calculating the strange money he’d been given so that he could at least get the things he needed to, Hannah Longbottom saw to it that he would not board the Hogwarts express alone. Someone would know about him when he reached the station, and someone at Hogwarts would be waiting for him. And later, when he came back from his shopping tour, someone would ask him how his day had been.

History would not repeat itself.