Diagon Alley

"It would be my honor to bear more curses for you, my Dark Lord."

As Voldemort stepped out of the taxi, Quirrell's voice chattered endlessly in the depths of his mind.

"I'll say this one last time."

Voldemort gazed at The Leaky Cauldron, wedged between a bookstore and a record shop, and said in a low voice, "Don't drag yourself into unnecessary trouble, child. You must learn to protect yourself."

"And on this matter, we need not discuss it further. Go rest."

After soothing the incessant Quirrell, Voldemort entered the dilapidated, dimly lit Leaky Cauldron. The first person he saw was Old Tom behind the bar.

"Hey, Quirrell."

Old Tom called out his name the moment they met. "I thought you'd die in the Forbidden Forest. They even set up bets on it."

Voldemort followed his gaze to a nearby table. Sure enough, a few people were staring at him, one of them wearing a look of utter shock and dismay.

"That unlucky bloke is Dedalus Diggle. He bet you wouldn't come back alive." Old Tom said with a sly grin.

"I'd say he's not much for brains." Voldemort shot a deep look at Diggle, then tapped his head with a finger, joking to Old Tom.

"Ha..."

Old Tom's laugh had barely burst out its first syllable when an enraged Diggle slammed the table and stood up.

"Bang..."

"Bald Quirrell, who are you calling brainless?"

His furious roar silenced the noisy pub. All eyes turned to the two parties involved.

Old Tom stood up, intending to step out from behind the bar to mediate—he knew Quirrell was timid and didn't want this kind-hearted boy to embarrass himself in his pub.

But things didn't go as he expected.

"Bald Quirrell. I don't like that name."

Voldemort spoke calmly, slowly drawing half his wand—even if this wand was "dead," it still carried a deterrent force.

"Dedalus Diggle..."

"Are you challenging me, the one who braved the Forbidden Forest, the future Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts?"

His composed, steady words exuded confidence and a resolve unafraid of battle.

Diggle stood frozen, unsure how to respond. In the silent pub, everyone watched him.

His hand twitched, as if reaching for his wand, but the tremor was his only movement—no further action followed.

"Good heavens, Quirrell, you're going to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor at Hogwarts?" Old Tom's words freed Diggle, who was stuck in place, not knowing how to react.

Voldemort fixed Diggle with another stare, then returned his wand to its place.

"I'll interview in a few days, but I don't think it'll be a problem. After all, I have teaching experience, and I've ventured into the Forbidden Forest."

As he spoke, Voldemort pointed behind Old Tom. "Give me a Butterbeer."

"Right away, Quirrell."

Old Tom turned to pour the drink. The pub returned to its clamor. Diggle stormed off in a huff, but no one paid him much mind.

"That's just how he is. Don't worry about it."

Old Tom handed over the glass. "This one's on me. For old times' sake."

"Thanks."

Voldemort smiled and nodded, taking a hearty gulp—the taste of toffee filled his mouth, with a hint of bitterness. Not bad at all.

"You've changed a lot, Quirrell. You're braver now." Old Tom looked seriously at Quirrell as he set down his glass.

"It seems I achieved what I set out to do in the Forbidden Forest." Voldemort smiled, not answering the question directly.

"But why choose Defense Against the Dark Arts? You know..."

"A challenge."

Voldemort offered the excuse he had prepared. "The Forbidden Forest was dangerous, but that journey is over. I need a new challenge. The Dark Lord's curse is a fine choice."

Old Tom shuddered. That name made him uncomfortable. The pub fell silent for a brief moment, then grew even noisier.

Old Tom didn't want to discuss the Dark Lord, so he changed the subject, pointing at Voldemort's bald head, hinting for him to explain what happened to his hair.

"When I left the Forbidden Forest, a fire singed my hair. But it's a minor problem, isn't it?" Voldemort said.

"Yes, the company that makes Sleekeazy's Hair Potion—their hair-growth tonic is decent too. You could give it a try."

Old Tom pointed to his own thinning hair. "When I was young, I always used their products. But when you get old, these things lose their appeal."

"That's exactly why I'm here."

Downing the last of his Butterbeer, Voldemort bid Old Tom farewell, then walked through the bar to a small, walled courtyard.

He drew his wand, counted three bricks up on the dustbin, then two across, and tapped them.

The brick wall began to shift, revealing an archway. Voldemort stepped into a winding, cobblestone street that stretched out of sight.

The scenery around him changed instantly. Sunlight struck a stack of pewter pots, and the gleam reflected right into his face, forcing him to raise a hand to shield his eyes.

As the light shifted, Diagon Alley appeared before him, its streets lined with shop windows displaying all manner of Magical Creatures and wares that dazzled Voldemort's eyes.

The Remnant Soul Voldemort had clearly experienced all this before, and the current Voldemort had also visited Diagon Alley in his memories—but how could that compare to being here in person?

"Marvelous Diagon Alley. I like this place."

Stepping onto the street, he wandered curiously for a while before entering a barbershop. "Hair growth treatment, down to my back, make it smooth."

Gazing at the list of services carved on a row of wooden plaques, Voldemort said as he sat down in the chair.

"As you wish."

The barber said, then began to work:

He first waved his wand, scooping a blob of sticky green potion from a bubbling cauldron, and evenly applied it to Voldemort's bald head.

After waiting for a full hour, Voldemort felt his scalp begin to itch and heat up.

Then hair started growing wildly, and the barber hurriedly applied another potion—but by then, the hair had already reached the floor.

"This is truly a dreadful experience."

Trapped in a cocoon of hair, Voldemort simply relinquished control of his body, letting Quirrell face it all.

"Hurry up and deal with this, you damned fool."

As soon as he gained control of the body, Quirrell started cursing—clearly not possessing Voldemort's patience.

"Sorry, I'll take care of it right away."

The barber said frantically, waving his wand as scissors and a wooden comb flew up to begin trimming the long hair.

The process was quick, but then using a smoothing potion wasted no small amount of time.

Before dark, it was finally over, and Voldemort resumed control of his body.

Looking into the mirror, he saw black hair reaching down to his waist, and his calm features were fairly presentable. Voldemort nodded in satisfaction.

"How much?" he asked.

"Three silver Sickles for the haircut, one Galleon and thirteen silver Sickles for the hair growth treatment, sixteen silver Sickles for the smoothing..."

The barber finished speaking, then stood there staring blankly, until Voldemort thought he might need to snap him out of it—only for the man to recover from his daze on his own.

"That comes to two Galleons and four silver Sickles."

Looking at the clerk's utterly sincere face, with no hint of joking, Voldemort finally understood why he had been staring off—but the problem was, the daze hadn't led to a good result.

"If I'm not mistaken, it should be three Galleons and four silver Sickles," Voldemort said as he pulled out money to pay.

"Ah... I miscalculated again?"

The barber murmured, reaching out to take the coins Voldemort handed him.

And that murmur truly made Voldemort feel it was necessary to popularize some Muggle tools in the Wizarding World.

This fellow before him, for instance, was in desperate need of a calculator.