Diagon Alley

"I could take more of the curses for you, Dark Lord. It would be my honor."

As Voldemort got out of the taxi, Quirrell kept babbling away in the depths of his mind.

"I'll say this one last time."

Voldemort looked toward the Leaky Cauldron, wedged between a bookshop and a record store, and said gravely, "Don't get yourself into unnecessary trouble, child. You must learn to protect yourself."

"And we don't need to discuss this any further. Go get some rest."

After calming the incessantly babbling Quirrell, Voldemort walked into the shabby, dimly lit Leaky Cauldron, where he immediately spotted Old Tom behind the bar.

"Hey, Quirrell."

The moment they met, Old Tom called him by name. "I thought you'd die in the Forbidden Forest. They even made bets on it."

Voldemort followed his gaze to a nearby table. Sure enough, several people there were watching him. One of them looked astonished and annoyed.

"That unlucky fellow is Dedalus Diggle. He bet you wouldn't make it back alive," Old Tom said teasingly.

"I don't think he's very bright." Voldemort gave Diggle a long look, then pointed at his own head and joked with Old Tom.

"Ha..."

Old Tom had barely managed the first syllable of a laugh when an angry Diggle slapped the table and stood up.

"Bang..."

"Bald Quirrell, who are you calling stupid?"

His furious shout quieted the noisy bar. Everyone turned to look at the two men involved.

Old Tom got up, intending to come around the bar and break things up. He knew Quirrell was timid and didn't want the kind young man to embarrass himself in his bar.

However, things didn't go the way he'd expected.

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

Voldemort spoke calmly and slowly drew half his wand from its holster. Even though the wand had "died," it still had the power to intimidate.

"Dedalus Diggle..."

"Are you challenging me, the adventurer of the Forbidden Forest and future Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor at Hogwarts?"

His calm, composed words conveyed confidence and a readiness to fight.

Diggle stood there, rooted to the spot. He didn't know how to answer, and in the silent bar, everyone was watching him.

His hand trembled, as if he meant to reach for his wand, but that was his only movement. He made no further move.

"Good heavens, Quirrell, you're going to Hogwarts to be the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor?" Old Tom's words rescued Diggle, who was frozen in place, unsure how to respond.

Voldemort gave Diggle another look, then put his wand back where it had been.

"I'm going for an 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. "A Butterbeer, please."

"Coming right up, Quirrell."

Old Tom turned to pour the drink. The bar grew noisy again, and Diggle stormed out, though no one paid him much mind.

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

Old Tom handed him the glass. "This one's on me, for old times' sake."

"Thank you."

Voldemort smiled and nodded, then took a hearty gulp. The taste of butterscotch filled his mouth, with a faint bitterness underneath. It was quite good.

"You've changed a lot, Quirrell. You're much braver now," Old Tom said earnestly, watching him set down the glass.

"Looks like I accomplished what I went into the Forbidden Forest for." Voldemort smiled, without directly answering the question.

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

"A challenge."

Voldemort offered the explanation he'd prepared earlier. "The Forbidden Forest is dangerous, but that journey is over. I need a new challenge, and the Dark Lord's curse seems like a good one."

Old Tom shivered. The name made him uncomfortable, and the bar fell silent for a brief moment before becoming even noisier than before.

Old Tom didn't want to talk about the Dark Lord, so he changed the subject. He pointed at Voldemort's bald head, asking him to explain what had happened to his hair.

"When I was leaving the Forbidden Forest, my hair caught fire. It's a minor problem, isn't it?" Voldemort said.

"Yes. The company that makes Sleekeazy's Hair Potion also makes a good hair-restoring potion. You could try it."

As he spoke, Old Tom pointed to his own thinning hair. "When I was young, I used their products all the time, but once you get old, there's not much point in these things."

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

After finishing his Butterbeer, Voldemort said goodbye to Old Tom, then passed through the bar and came to a small walled courtyard.

He took out his wand, counted three bricks along the wall above the rubbish bin, then two across, and tapped them.

The brick wall began to shift, soon revealing an archway within. Voldemort stepped into a winding cobblestone street whose end was nowhere in sight.

The surroundings changed in an instant. Sunlight fell on a stack of pewter cauldrons, and the bottom of one reflected the light into his face, making him raise a hand to shield his eyes.

Once he'd turned away from the glare, Diagon Alley appeared before him. The shop windows on either side were filled with all kinds of Magical Creatures and wares, dazzling Voldemort.

The Remnant Soul Voldemort had clearly experienced all this before, and the Voldemort of today had visited Diagon Alley in his memories. But how could that compare with being there in person?

"Wonderful Diagon Alley. I like it here."

After stepping onto the street and browsing around curiously for a while, Voldemort finally entered a barbershop. "A hair-restoring treatment, down to my back, and make it smooth."

Looking at the list of services engraved on a row of wooden signs, Voldemort said from his chair.

"As you wish."

The barber began to work:

First, he waved his wand and scooped a glob of thick green potion from a bubbling cauldron, spreading it evenly over Voldemort's bald head.

After waiting for a full hour, Voldemort felt his scalp grow hot and itchy.

Then his hair began to grow at a furious rate. The barber hurriedly applied another potion, but by then, the hair had already reached the floor.

"This is a terrible experience."

Wrapped up in his own hair, Voldemort simply relinquished control of his body and left Quirrell to deal with everything.

"Hurry up and take care of this, you damn fool."

The moment he got control of the body, Quirrell started cursing. He clearly didn't have as good a temper as Voldemort.

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

The barber spoke hurriedly, waving his wand. Scissors and a wooden comb flew up and began cutting the long hair.

That part went quickly, but applying Sleekeazy's Hair Potion afterward took quite a while.

At last, everything was finished before dark, and Voldemort regained control of the body.

Looking at himself in the mirror, with long black hair reaching his waist and a calm, reasonably handsome face, Voldemort nodded in satisfaction.

"How much?" he asked.

"Haircut, nine Silver Sickles. Hair-restoring treatment, one Galleon and thirteen Silver Sickles. Smoothing treatment, sixteen Silver Sickles..."

After listing the prices, the barber stared blankly into space. He didn't snap out of it until Voldemort began to think he might have to wake him up.

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

Looking at the shop assistant's sincere expression, with no hint of joking, Voldemort finally understood why he'd been staring blankly. The problem was, the daze hadn't helped him get the total right.

"If my calculations are correct, it should be three Galleons and four Silver Sickles." Voldemort spoke as he took out the money and paid.

"Ah... Did I get it wrong again?"

The barber murmured as he reached out and took the coins Voldemort handed him.

That mutter really made Voldemort think that some Muggle inventions ought to be introduced to the Wizarding World.

Someone like this man here was in desperate need of a calculator.