Skyl went back to the bakery.
He had the day off, so he was really just passing by and popping in for a stroll. There was a simple kind of happiness in watching other people work.
The bakery's decor was warm and cozy. Dozens of different breads were displayed in the window, and even the air smelled sweet. Marika waved to him from behind the counter.
"How's your headmaster?"
"He's fine. Honestly, he's even healthier than before. Turns out taking a little whiff of Sauron's divine power can extend your lifespan."
Skyl leaned against the counter and chatted with her.
"Any funny stories to share?"
Skyl wasn't a gossip, so he didn't talk about the Longbottom family's tragedy. Instead, he brought up his latest research topic.
"Magic from the Lands Between is pretty interesting." He took out a dark, chip-like shard. "This kind of material is called a Memory Stone. It can stably store thought-strings."
"Sounds amazing, but what's it actually for?" Marika played along like a perfect straight man.
"It's basically the same thing as spell slots. With this, you don't need to mentally calculate spell matrices anymore."
"Wow. Incredible." Marika read it deadpan.
Skyl smoothly switched topics. "I might need to go back to the Lands Between in a while. Want me to bring you any hometown specialties?"
"Then I wish you a safe journey."
Ding-ling—
A customer pushed the door open. A middle-class couple came in with their daughter; they'd been lured in by the smell of fresh bread as they passed.
"Skyl! It really is you—I thought I was seeing things!"
The girl dashed over, brimming with excitement. Miss Know-it-all was wearing a casual white dress and a long red plaid skirt, looking like a quiet, bookish girl—right up until she opened her mouth, all brisk and blazing.
"Hello," Skyl said with a grin. "So what—do we bump into each other once every summer holiday?"
He greeted Mr. and Mrs. Granger. The couple still remembered him. Last year, at Grimmauld Place, Hermione had given him an umbrella—proof of the little girl's kind heart. Parents always remember those tiny details.
Hermione couldn't hold anything in. She chattered away, pouring out everything they'd seen and done that day.
"Harry's visiting Ron's family. He wrote to me and asked me to meet up in Diagon Alley to buy books!"
"The school's set up a financial aid fund," Skyl reminded her. "You can get your book costs reimbursed. Or you can take the booklist the school gives you and collect your new textbooks directly from Flourish and Blotts."
Hermione nodded so hard it was like a woodpecker at work. "I know! Professor Dumbledore found treasure from a shipwreck, so Hogwarts has money now. But we're going for a signing."
"Gilderoy Lockhart?" Skyl wasn't surprised. Teenage girls loved celebrities. A dorm covered in posters was basically universal law.
Hermione's face went red, and she rushed to explain. "It's not for me! Mrs. Weasley wants to go to Lockhart's new-book signing. We're all just going with her. And I heard Flourish and Blotts has brought in a lot of new books this year—so I want to buy some to fill my shelves."
"That'll take a lot of money," Skyl said from experience. "Buying one copy of every book in Flourish and Blotts would probably run about a thousand Galleons. A useful book might be cheap, and a book full of nonsense might be expensive."
While the Grangers picked pastries in the bakery, Hermione's father quietly discussed how much savings they could spare for their daughter's books.
Hermione shyly invited Skyl to go with them to Diagon Alley.
"Sure. My classroom needs stocking up too. Hopefully there'll be a surprise." Skyl turned to Marika. "Want to come along?"
The bakery's owner smiled and waved, like a beaming lucky cat. "Safe journey."
They went to the Leaky Cauldron. The summer Skyl first arrived in this world, he'd spent it here; if he hadn't been staying in Marika's apartment this year, he'd actually planned to lodge here again. The owner, Tom, remembered him very clearly.
"Oh, it's you," Tom said with a strange little grin. "That weird kid who doesn't sleep at night. Haven't seen you in ages. You're Skyl, right?"
"Seeing you again makes me very happy too, Mr. Tom."
As soon as the name "Skyl" sounded in the pub, everything went quiet for a beat. Then an older wizard walked up and asked eagerly, "Are you Master Skyl? I mean—are you the genius who proposed Essential Transfiguration?"
"I'm Skyl." He reached out and shook the man's hand firmly. The man looked thrilled.
Six or seven more wizards came forward. Most were older, and they all had that peculiar, bookish look to them—like eccentric scholars. They greeted him with a barrage of praise about his Transfiguration skill, and then a flood of questions followed, as if they'd turned the Leaky Cauldron into an academic lecture on the spot.
Skyl remembered last year, when Harry Potter had appeared here, the pub had looked exactly like this. Back then, Skyl had still been a little nobody who barely understood the wizarding world—he could only stand off to the side. Now, in the blink of an eye, everything felt different, and the feeling hit him hard.
After a long struggle to escape his enthusiastic "fans," they slipped into the back courtyard, knocked on the wall, and entered Diagon Alley. As always, it was bustling. The Grangers needed to exchange money at Gringotts.
Five pounds to one Galleon.
Skyl remembered reading some early Harry Potter fanfics that abused this fixed exchange rate—pumping pounds into the system to arbitrage huge amounts of Galleons and crash the wizarding currency. Later fics "patched" the setting by limiting Muggle-born students to exchanging Galleons in small amounts.
Back when the pound was still tied to gold, exchange between currencies was relatively stable. After World War II, the Bretton Woods system ruled the world; the U.S. dollar replaced the old glory of the gold-backed pound, and then Bretton Woods itself couldn't hold forever. Really, any gold-standard system carries the built-in risk of being manipulated by financial tricks.
Skyl had considered pulling that stunt too. Unfortunately, he became rich almost immediately. Fate simply didn't give him the chance to show off in the capital markets.
The Granger family of three entered Gringotts, looking understandably intimidated by the place.
The couple felt both fearful and curious about the goblin behind the counter. Hermione, a child, didn't like the heavy, money-soaked atmosphere. The goblin didn't give them a pleasant look; when they said they wanted to exchange Galleons, the cold stare got even colder.
"Splendid," the goblin drawled. "It makes me miss the gold-backed pound from a century ago more and more. How much do you want to exchange?"
"Um… five hundred pounds?"
"Too much," the goblin frowned. "Sir, converting Gringotts' pound reserves into gold requires several rounds of investment and trade. That takes time."
Skyl slowly shifted half a step to the side.
The goblin glanced over lazily—then jolted as if struck by lightning. The face that had been stiff as liver instantly melted into marshmallow, and it said in syrupy flattery, "Ah! Respected Mr. Skyl. Gringotts' big fat sheep—n-no, I mean, our major client! It's been ages since you last came."
"I'm here with classmates to exchange money," Skyl said, concise as ever.
"And these three are…? Oh! Certainly, certainly. Sir, you wish to exchange five hundred pounds? Not a problem at all. We've got it right here at the counter."
The goblin moved at a dizzying speed to register everything, then produced one hundred Galleons, even bundling them in kraft paper at ten coins per stack for easy carrying.
They left Gringotts amid the goblins' enthusiastic send-off. The shift from snide to servile was ridiculous enough to make you laugh. Mr. and Mrs. Granger wore very complicated expressions.
Up the street, the crowd flowed toward Flourish and Blotts.
On the way, they ran into the Weasley family.
Hermione bounced up to greet them happily. She looked around, but didn't see Harry.
"Isn't he with you?"
"We got separated," Mrs. Weasley said, frantic. "He must've said the wrong place name when he used Floo Powder. Oh, dear—please let him be all right."
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