A Place to Live And Work

The farewell still lingered in Cael's chest as he hoisted his battered luggage and walked down the quiet street. The cool wind ruffled his messy hair, and just as the ache of uncertainty settled in, the familiar mechanical voice echoed in his mind.

"So, where to, host?"

Cael tightened his grip on the suitcase. "I've got 43 Galleons left. I can rent a room at the Leaky Cauldron for a month. If there's work… I'll take it."

"Sounds like plan."

With that, he caught a bus into the heart of London. The familiar brick façade of the Leaky Cauldron greeted him like a memory frozen in time. He slipped through the old wooden door, the smell of firewhiskey and butterbeer heavy in the air.

The pub was exactly as he remembered—the warped floorboards, the low murmur of conversation, and Tom, the grizzled, bald-headed barkeep wiping down the counter with a rag that might've been older than Cael himself.

Tom's eyes landed on him, recognition flashing beneath those bushy brows. "Back again, boy? Let me guess—your parents still won't let you into Diagon Alley? Or did you run away again?" His voice was teasing, but not unkind.

Heat crept up Cael's neck. "You still remember that?"

Tom chuckled. "Hard to forget the eleven-year-old who tricked me into sneaking him through. Nearly got hexed by your Head of House for that one." His smile faded slightly. "What brings you here now?"

Cael exhaled, the words heavy on his tongue. "The orphanage shut down… So, I need a place. How much for a room?"

Tom's expression softened. "Tough luck. Five Galleons a week. Meals cost extra."

Cael slid the coins across the bar without hesitation. "A week, then. And… is there work here? Or anywhere in Diagon Alley?"

Tom handed over a brass key. "Room 117. As for work… nothing here for kids. But Diagon Alley's full of shops. Might be someone willing."

"Thanks."

Lugging his suitcase upstairs, exhaustion hit him like a Bludger. The mattress was thin, the room small, but after days of uncertainty, it felt like luxury. He drifted off in seconds.

The next morning, Diagon Alley bustled like a living thing.

Golden light poured over crooked cobblestones, glinting off windows packed with shimmering cauldrons, gleaming broomsticks, and fluttering owls. Witches haggled at stalls, students chattered with bags of sweets, and the aroma of ink, parchment, and roasted nuts filled the air.

Cael clutched a crumpled parchment in his hand—Find a job today—and pushed forward.

First stop: Slug & Jiggers Apothecary. The pungent scent of herbs and potions curled through the air as he stepped inside.

"Excuse me," he started, voice nearly drowned by the clinking of glass vials. "Are you hiring? I can clean, stock shelves—anything."

The squat wizard behind the counter glanced over, unimpressed. "We've got enough hands, lad. You're barely taller than the workbench."

The rejection stung, but he moved on.

Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.

The silver-haired seamstress gave him a polite, appraising look. "Lovely initiative, dear. I've apprentices already—but…" Her eyes gleamed with sudden thought. "If you model for my catalogues, I'll pay you. One Galleon for every ten photographs. Male and female garments."

Cael's first instinct was to decline, pride tightening in his chest—but pride didn't pay for meals. He schooled his expression. "I'll do full-body shots for the male clothes… but only from the neck down for female ones."

Madam Malkin chuckled, delighted. "Shame, with your face, the dresses would sell themselves. But, terms accepted. You'll come daily, try on whatever I make, pose for photos, and earn your coin. You're free to work elsewhere too."

His lips twitched, half-amused, half-resigned. "Thank you."

Next, Eeylops Owl Emporium.

Feathers floated like snow, the air thick with the rustle of wings and the musky scent of bird feed.

"Job?" The shopkeeper barked a laugh, pointing at a mound of owl droppings. "You'd vanish under the mess, kid."

Shop after shop blurred into a pattern of polite refusals. Too young. Too small. Come back when you're older.

The Galleons in his pocket felt heavier with every rejection. Supplies for Hogwarts weren't going to buy themselves.

Only one place remained.

Flourish and Blotts.

The towering bookshop loomed ahead, its windows stacked with gleaming tomes and fluttering parchment. The faint chime of a bell marked his entrance. Inside, the scent of ink and old paper wrapped around him like a familiar cloak.

Behind the counter, an older wizard scribbled notes, his spectacles sliding down a crooked nose.

"Sir," Cael began, summoning the last scraps of courage. "I'm looking for work. I—I know how to handle books. I've practiced the Cleaning Charm."

The man glanced over his glasses, unimpressed. "First-year? I've no time to babysit."

Defeat clawed at Cael's chest, but he stayed rooted to the spot. "I'm careful. I love books. I… really need a job."

The man studied him, eyes narrowing. "You know Scourgify?"

"Yes, sir. I've practiced."

A pause stretched between them, then the old wizard exhaled, setting his quill aside.

"You'll clean the books—properly. No torn pages. No sloppy spells. Floors by hand—magic scuffs the wood. Nine Galleons a week. Show up, work hard, and you'll earn it. Deal?"

Relief cracked across Cael's face, the first real smile in hours. "Deal."

The man offered a hand, fingers ink-stained and calloused. "Welcome to Flourish and Blotts."

And so, Cael began juggling two jobs—one in the cozy quiet of the bookshop, the other parading Madam Malkin's latest designs while witches cooed like he was some exotic creature behind glass.

He felt ridiculous. But the Galleons jingling in his pocket made the embarrassment bearable. Pride didn't fill an empty stomach—but hard work and stubbornness just might.