“Well, why don’t you take a seat here, and I’ll fetch you some information?”
The boy beamed.
“Thank you, Mrs…?”
“Ruthson, dear.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ruthson.”
What a polite young man, Sue thought warmly as she rummaged through a filing cabinet.
“Any particular type of tree you’re looking for?”
“Um… Yew trees? I heard they’re supposed to be really ancient.”
“They are indeed. Some of the oldest living trees in the country.” She pulled out a glossy brochure and handed it to him.
“Will this do?”
The boy flipped through the pages until he found what he wanted.
“Perfect. Thank you so much, Mrs. Ruthson! I should get back to my mum and dad now—they’re waiting.”
“No trouble at all, dear. Happy to help.”
As the boy left the office, Sue smiled to herself.
What a delightful young man.
≤○≥
Alan and Jennifer stumbled laughing into their hotel room, still buzzing from a night of holiday excitement and romance.
Jennifer’s smile faded as she patted her pockets.
“Alan,” she said, voice tightening with worry.
“Yeah, baby?”
“I can’t find my wallet.”
“Seriously? Where did you have it last?”
“It was in my pocket. It’s gone.”
“I’ll check the bags.”
“Oh no… oh shit!” Jennifer threw her hands up.
“My cards were in there!”
“Jen, relax. It’s probably here somewhere.” But Alan’s search turned up nothing.
“What if someone uses them?! Oh shit, shit!”
“Jen, calm down. We’ll call the company and freeze the cards.”
“There was almost a hundred pounds in cash! That’s like… a hundred and fifty dollars! Shit! Shit!” She looked at him desperately.
“Well?!”
Alan stopped rummaging.
“Yeah… it’s gone.”
“SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!”
Several blocks away, Harry examined his prize inside the stall of a public toilet.
In his opinion, it was simple common sense: any wizard who didn’t charm their money pouch to be non-summonable was an idiot.
And any Muggle tourist who carried their wallet loosely in a pocket or left it vulnerable was also an idiot.
Better he took it than some amateur cutpurse.
He counted out one hundred and seven British pounds with a satisfied smirk.
“Breakfast time.”
≤○≥
Harry spent a pleasant day eating heartily and practicing Occlumency in the lobbies of various London hotels.
The beauty of hotels was that no one questioned a child sitting alone—staff simply assumed his parents were nearby and had left him to wait.
If anyone grew too curious, his backup plan was a quiet teashop in some remote village.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, it was time to strike.
He paid for his last drink, slipped out of the building, turned into a shadowed alley, and vanished with a sharp crack.
He reappeared on the muddy flood banks of the River Thames.
The ground was soft and treacherous; he struggled for balance until he smacked his forehead in annoyance and remembered he could fly.
Hovering just an inch above the earth to avoid leaving footprints, he drifted silently from bush to bush through the fading summer twilight.
Ahead rose his target: the majestic Ankerwycke Yew.
The tree was ancient, more than two thousand years old.
It had stood long before the Peverell brothers toyed with Death.
Steeped in legend, this was the site where the Magna Carta was signed, stripping absolute power from the monarchy and secretly granting the magical community autonomy from Muggle rule.
Legend also claimed that beneath its branches King Henry VIII had begun his affair with Anne Boleyn—an event that shattered the Church’s hold on Britain and helped end the witch hunts.
It was perfect.
Harry drank in the sight, drawn to its powerful symbolism of freedom, death, resurrection, and even a touch of scandalous rebellion.
He could feel the deep, thrumming magic radiating from it.
He crept closer—then froze as a subtle wave of magic washed over him.
A detection ward.
Damn it.
Most of the power hadn’t been coming from the tree itself, but from the protective enchantments surrounding it.
He ducked behind a bush and held his breath.
Crack!
A figure in dark robes apparated beside the trunk, wand already raised.
Even at a distance, Harry recognized him instantly.
Mr. Ollivander.
Oh, hell.
“I know you’re there!” the old wandmaker called out.
“I want to know why.”
Harry frantically tore off his shirt and tied it around his head, covering his hair, face, and most importantly, his scar.
His eyes might still betray him, but there was little he could do about that now.
“If you won’t come out, I’ll come to you,” Ollivander warned.
“Homenum Revelio!”
Merlin’s bloody beard.
There was no time to hesitate.
Harry apparated with a crack.
He reappeared fifty miles away—only for Ollivander to follow instantly.
Another crack.
Harry appeared in an empty city street and broke into a sprint.
A red Stunner streaked past his ear.
He rounded a corner, shot upward into the night sky, and soared over the rooftops.
Crack!
“Homenum Revelio!”
Harry prayed he was out of range.
He dove behind a massive industrial chimney, accelerated to the top, and disapparated once more with a final, decisive crack.
He landed in the quiet graveyard of a small Devon village, breathing hard.
“Phew…”
His heart hammered against his ribs as adrenaline surged through his small frame.
He had been an idiot.
Of course the most famous yew tree in Britain would be protected—especially by a master wandmaker.
He could only hope Ollivander hadn’t spotted him flying or caught the full extent of his abilities with that final spell.
Flying was an extremely identifying skill; only he and Voldemort could do it unaided.
Still, it could have gone worse.
With luck, the only conclusions Ollivander could draw were that a very short, unusually powerful wizard—possibly a Metamorphmagus, a half-breed, or someone using Polyjuice—had tried to approach the tree wandlessly.
Harry dusted himself off, squared his shoulders, and smiled grimly into the darkness.
The night was still young, and he had other trees on his list.
With a loud crack that echoed among the gravestones, Harry Potter vanished once more.