My newest story: Here's Looking at You, Kid. This one's gonna be chapter story! Heads up, when I get busy, I usually don't have time to write, so chapters can be few and far between. But don't be discouraged! That's part of the reason why they're so long. I promise that I know where this is going and that I will eventually finish it (this is why I didn't want to post anything until I had at least completed two chapters). Please read and review. Since this is a chapter story and not a oneshot like pretty much everything else I've written, I most likely will answer reviews promptly (hopefully).

Oh, and like it says in the summary, it literally is Casablanca but with Harry Potter. Though I will make a point of saying that it's different from the movie in various ways (I'm not giving it away, sorry). Which means that I have to add this:

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of its subsequent works, nor do I own Casablanca. I'm not making any money off of this, I swear. So please, J.K. Rowling, Bloomsbury Press, Scholastic Books, Warner Bros., MGM, and anyone else involved: DON'T SUE ME! I don't have any money, so taking legal action against me will benefit no one.


Years had passed since Harry Potter had been called "The Boy Who Lived," or "The Man Who Won." No. Now, he was just Harry who ran Harry's Café du Sorcier in Bonifacio, Corsica. His fame wasn't as well known here as it was back in Britain for sure, but there was the odd customer who seemed to recognize him every now and again. Of course, the ones that recognized him never brought it to his attention; that'd be too embarrassing if it wasn't true.

At Harry's, every sort was welcome, as long as he wasn't underage and didn't start a scuffle. Some came for the drinks, some for the music, and others for the winnings in the back room's gambling hall. He'd seen many walk through his door: wizards and muggles alike, many of the former were refugees, trying to leave their home countries for one reason or another.

Despite the array of customers, Harry never did seem to find a face reminiscent of his Hogwarts days. Of course, he never did tell anyone where he was off to after he defeated Voldemort. He meant to travel the world, become an Auror, get married, and start a family. For a while, it seemed that he was on that track, only for him to wind up here and open up Harry's.

He'd seen all sorts, but it seemed that no one really saw him. He was a sort of enigmatic character; he'd be at the bar or in a booth or wandering around downstairs most nights, but no one could affirm that he was Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived and the nightclub's owner. There were some that suspected such things, but no one really knew for sure.

Not that he really minded people not recognizing him, but after a while, it became a lonely existence. The only real friends he had in Bonifacio were his employees and the Chief of Police. He'd made acquaintances around town—it'd be bad business if he didn't—but he really lacked something, something he hadn't felt in years and still scared him half to death. It wasn't Voldemort or the fame of his name or even Quidditch. It was…something else.

One thing was for sure, though, and that was the resurgence of a new threat in the wizarding world. Yet this time, Harry was absolute in his resolve to not join the fight this time. He'd been through one war, and his parents through another. All they ever seemed to do was bring death to those that did not deserve it.

This new enemy wasn't as new to the rest of the world as it was to Harry specifically. It was a sort of collection of individuals internationally that had taken to Voldemort's principles, his global connections. They preyed upon the muggleborns, squibs, "blood-traitors," and the muggles themselves, determined for the rise of the purebloods. In their eyes, Voldemort was something like a martyr.

Sure one could argue that it was just a continuation of a job that had chosen Harry long before his birth, but he was done with it. He'd seen enough for one lifetime and would rather not get involved again. Plus, this organization, which had taken root under one Fetije Mërzitaab of Albania, did not have a singular hatred for Harry like Voldemort did, so he was relatively safe. As long as he didn't raise any suspicions in his little hideaway nightclub, no one would have any reason to call him out. And though he had a bias against patrons of his club that happened to be under Mërzitaab's banner, albeit suppressed, they were well-paying customers and rarely started fights. After all, Bonifacio was a place for vacationers and refugees, not at all a place for wars; it was neutral ground by any government.

The problem, however, was in transportation. Due to the uneasiness and threat of an international war, many wizarding governments disabled their transportation branches, including the Floo networks, portkeys, and even apparition. Brooms, magic carpets, and muggle transportation were the only ways to traverse the world now. Unfortunately, this left many witches and wizards stuck in corners of the globe like Bonifacio, waiting for formal identification papers and permissions from their governments to travel. Some, by luck, wealth, or influence may have been lucky to escape this paradise of a prison, but many others were just stuck waiting, and waiting, and waiting.

Tonight, just like any other night, Harry descended from his flat above the club to join the frenzy. And as always, he wore a three-piece suit of black and white with a black bowtie and black Oxfords to seal the deal. No one usually noticed him; they were all too busy with their own booze, smoke, and money.

He saw a few of the regulars in their unofficial designated spots as he crossed the joint to the bar. At the front door, he noticed his bouncer Jimmy keeping one of the underage girls out; night after night, a few of them came to the club with the hopes of one day entering the liveliest place this side of the Mediterranean. Jimmy was a tall, hefty man with biceps the size of a Quaffle and a love for wearing fedoras. Even though he was a muggle, he sure was handy to have in a fight, not to mention that his stature and muscles alone intimidated even the most skilled wizards.

Sitting at the bar provided Harry with much of the same commentary he had heard for the past two years:

Two wizards sitting at a table, discussing their situation: "I'll never get out of this hole!"

A woman trying to pawn off a diamond ring to a seedy-looking man with a grimace spread across his face: "I'm sorry, madam, but diamonds here don't hold as much value as they would in say, Copenhagen. They're a dime a dozen here and worth little more than spilt wine."

A vivacious and very drunk woman trying to woo one of Harry's oldest regulars: "Come on, darling, take me out for a spin on the dance floor!"

When Emil, Harry's resident bartender, came over to where his boss was sitting, he took out a tumbler and poured him a minimal amount of Firewhiskey, not even needing to take Harry's order. Emil was a Spanish wizard that had come to Corsica to escape from his overbearing family. Eventually, he wound up in Bonifacio with gambling debts so large, several gangs wanted his head. And by sheer dumb luck or the grace of God, he had found Harry just in time, who was gracious enough to give him a job and arrange with the gangs to give Emil more time to pay off his debts. Tonight, he owed less than two hundred galleons.

"Emil, how well have we been doing tonight?" Harry asked.

"Very well, boss. We've made about hundred galleons so far on my end, and even more in Francs." Emil then bent closer to Harry and whispered almost conspiratorially, "Though I suggest you inspect the back room. From what I've heard from several patrons, we might lose half of tonight's earnings from roulette alone."

"Thank you, Emil." Harry knocked back the rest of his Firewhiskey and sauntered towards his gambling hall.

He then spotted his portly and bespectacled head waiter, Johann, briskly entering the back room and just barely caught the exchange between him and one of the women surrounding the roulette table:

"Waiter?" she called.

"Ja, Madame?" Johann answered.

"Would you be a doll and ask if Harry would join my girlfriends and me for a round of bourbon?"

"I am very sorry," he stated in a thick German accent, "but Herr Harry does not drink with customers. I have never seen him do that, never."

"Well, isn't that a shame, girls," the woman said to her surrounding friends.

Harry couldn't resist, "You know," he said to the woman as he walked up behind her, "I don't think anyone's ever seen this 'Harry.' I mean, have you? Do you know what he looks like?"

She pouted for a bit as she thought. "No, come to think of it, I haven't. But he's got to exist, hasn't he? Someone's got to own this place, right?"

"Yes, but whoever owns it might not even be named 'Harry.' The owner, whoever he or she is, perhaps just likes the name."

"Now that isn't right! All the staff here talks about him like he's their real boss! That's got to count for proof."

"Maybe, but he might also turn out to be a recluse, like one of those Jay Gatsby types. That would certainly explain why he never comes down to drink." This is fun, Harry thought. He hadn't beat around the bush with a customer in a few months and he'd decided that had been far too long.

Thinking for a moment, the woman tentatively asked, "You don't know him, do you?"

Harry sniggered internally before replying, "I think I may have met him once when the establishment was new. From what I can remember, he's a bit of a tosser; way too high and mighty to check in on his own pub now and again."

Just then, Johann, laden with tray and all, came over to him and said, "Herr, you're needed at the front. Frauline Valerie wishes to speak with you."

As Harry left, he could just see the look of realization spreading across the woman's face. Well, that'll keep the legends going, he thought with a smile.

Valerie was the receptionist and book keeper, not to mention a very beautiful Frenchwoman. She managed the payroll and finance's for the club. She also worked with Jimmy in granting entrance to the esteemed pub. She was the brains, Jimmy was the muscle, but they still answered to Harry.

"So, what seems to be the problem, angel?" Harry asked as he approached her station.

She pointed at Jimmy, who was currently holding back an angry Slavic man. One glance at his approach of entry told Harry that he was a muggle.

Jimmy, catching sight of Harry, raised his eyebrows, as if to ask what he should do with the struggling man at the door. All Harry had to do was shake his head before Jimmy said, "I'm sorry, sir, but this is a private room."

Outraged, the Slav demanded entrance, "How dare you offend me! I've traveled across the globe and have been accepted into all sorts of establishments! And none so low as this…this saloon!"

Suddenly, a small and familiar Corsican tried to wheedle his way into the club. Though initially blocked by the Slav, he managed to squeeze through.

"Hey!" the Slav shouted, "What's the big idea, huh? Why does he get to come in?"

Nervously, the small Corsican man turned toward Harry. "Oh, hello, Harry," he said with a mix of false cheer and nervousness. "Lovely to see you, but I've got some business to attend to."

Putting a hand on the small man's shoulder, Harry stopped him from going any further. "Dieb, if you're conducting business in my pub, I think you'd better consult me first. What do you say, Jimmy?"

He turned his face toward his large bodyguard, who still blocked the Slav from entering. "Oh, most definitely, boss." With that, he gave the angry man a slight push and began to close the front door.

"You'll regret this! I'll inform the chief of police just what's going on in here."

"And what is going on in here," Harry inquired with mild interest, attention still focused on Dieb.

"Gambling!" the Slav said as if he had struck a gold mine.

Harry merely laughed. "You do that, but tell him to stay away from the cards: he'll do much better at roulette instead." And with that, the Slav stormed away in a rage. "Now, Dieb," he said to the small man as he lead him towards a booth, "what sort of business are you thinking about conducting in my club?"

"Now, now, Harry! The way you just dealt with that man was extraordinary! I might've thought you've been doing this your whole life," Dieb said in an attempt to stall from the club owner.

"What makes you thinks I haven't?" Harry asked coldly as he pushed Dieb into a booth.

"Oh, nothing. But when you first came to Bonifacio, I thought—"

"—You thought what?" Harry interrupted.

"What right do I have to think? What right do any of us have to think, what with this war about to start?" Dieb added nervously.

Dieb was one of those slippery folk one hopes never to have to deal with, due to the annoyances they cause. He dealt in shady business and had a silver tongue of charm, if not for his nervous manner. He's much more of a Mundungus Fletcher, if you ask me, Harry thought. All Harry knew about him was that he had connections everywhere and was one of the few that knew that he owned the club. He had the potential to be dangerous but often came across as harmless. Dieb, however, was also a wizard and served as a great source of news concerning the world, and thus was welcome in Harry's bar as long as Harry could benefit from it, money or information.

"Why did you come here tonight?" Harry asked, feeling quite tired just talking to this man.

"You know about those murders the other day, on the boat from Livorno to the Porto Vecchio, yes?"

Harry eyed him suspiciously, not liking where this conversation was going. "What about them?"

At that moment, one of the waiters passed by, only for Dieb to wave him over. After being handed a drink, he asked Harry, "Will you have a drink with me, please?"

"No."

"I forgot: you never drink with your customers." Sadly, he asked Harry, "You despise me, don't you?"

"I probably would if I devoted any thought to you at all," he said coolly.

"It's because you don't trust me, isn't it. I know you; you have strict definitions for what people should or shouldn't be, but then you do nothing about them. You don't approve of Mërzitaab's banner, but you still accept their money and let them in here. You don't like my trading business, but as long as I keep you informed, you let me sell my wares in your own bar. If you care so much, why don't you put an end to it or refuse service to the Death Eaters?"

Harry frowned. "You forget, Dieb: I'm neutral in all these conflicts. If it doesn't affect me directly, it's not my problem."

"I've heard stories about you, before you came to Bonifacio. They all described you as some self-righteous—"

Harry interrupted him. "We aren't here to talk about me. What is it you plan on selling in my club tonight?"

"Ah, yes!" Dieb exclaimed as if he had forgotten. "Those two couriers on the way to the Porto Vecchio were carrying letters of transit signed by the Italian Ministry. I just happened to come into contact with them, if you know what I'm saying."

Harry raised an eyebrow, not sure if Dieb implied that he killed the two couriers or if he interacted with more corrupt officials to get the letters off their hands.

"You know," Dieb said as he finished off the rest of his liquor, "I'm going to make a lot of money tonight and by tomorrow, I'll already be on the next airplane out of here." He sighed, "It's been so difficult to travel without apparition and the Floo networks. How do you think muggles stand having to wait for hours to get to a destination? It's so much of a bother."

Harry frowned again, "But how is, say an airplane, faster than traveling by broom or magic carpet?" looking around to see if anyone was watching them.

Incensed, Dieb quickly changed the subject. "That does not matter. What does matter is the fact that tonight I will sell the spare letter for such a high price, I might be richer than you. And speaking of which, despite all of my friends here in Bonifacio, I would be honored if you took care of these for me," he said while trying to inconspicuously hand Harry the letters of transit. "Seeing as you don't care much for me, you're the only one I can trust to hold on to these for me. Please take them."

"For how long? I don't want them here overnight."

"Oh, certainly not that long; just an hour or two, maybe," Dieb said as he handed Harry the letters and got up from the booth. "Thank you. You're such a great friend. I hope you're more impressed with me now."

Harry scoffed.

"Now, if you don't mind, Harry, I'll be sharing my good fortune with your roulette table." He started in the direction of the gambling hall.

"Hold on," Harry ordered as the small, slippery man turned around. "I suppose you're right. Couriers from the Italian Ministry? I am a little more impressed with you."

Then, Harry too stood up and vacated the table. Slowly, he sauntered over to where his resident piano player, Mik, was playing a lively riff from his rendition of "Summer Wind." Mik was from Albania and was trusted by Harry above all others, despite the little-known fact that he was a Squib. But where his magical development ought to have been cultured, his musical talents flourished.

Whilst in France, Harry had met Mik through a wizarding performance troupe he had happened to see. Harry noted the brilliance and talent of the piano player before the show had even reached its halfway mark. Afterwards, Harry made a point of visiting this virtuoso and learned that he was here to earn some cash in order to leave his family, all of whom were ashamed of his being a Squib. He then offered Mik enough money to pay off his debts and board an ocean liner, knowing full well the need to escape a mistreating family. However, only weeks after Harry had established his nightclub after their departures from France, Mik had wandered in and asked Harry if he needed a piano player.

Mik was young, only a few years older than Harry and had a broad face with an even broader smile. Ever joyful, his long fingers glided across the piano's ivory keys to his lively rendition of "Let's Face the Music and Dance" while several patrons danced one the wood paneled floor and others sang along. As Mik crooned along to his own tune, Harry slid up to the piano to lean against it, looking around at the drinkers, the dancers, the conversationalists. Then, as the spotlight on his chief entertainer turned to focus on the orchestra, Harry quickly slipped Dieb's letters under the keyboard's cover.

Stepping away after giving a slight nod to Mik, Harry ventured over to the bar, still listening to best jazz in the Mediterranean. He threw back a shot of Firewhiskey when a woman in blue silks and feathers came into his peripheral vision.

Sitting down at the closest barstool, Harry distinctly heard her call to Emil, "One highball, ma cher. On the rocks." Harry knew that voice. Inés.

Inés Sańassu owned Harry's main competition: the French Fox. Though the pair were business competitors, they had a good friendship and often laughed over incidents at their respective pubs. Inés was twenty years Harry's senior and a strict woman with a penchant for fashion. She had emigrated from France to Bonifacio to use her sales skills and knowledge of the latest trends to build the most successful bar in Corsica, all before Harry's Café du Sorcier, of course. She refused to take flack from anyone and commanded a lot of respect in the city; she also had no idea that the magical world existed because she was, in fact, a muggle.

"Hello Harry, ma cher," she purred as the Boy Who Lived himself turned to face her.

"It's not that I don't appreciate you buying liquor from me, Inés, but why are you here?"

"For the same reasons as always, chéri, I want to buy you out."

Harry laughed as he set down his own shot. "You know that it's not for sale."

"But you haven't even heard my offer," she pouted.

"I'm not selling the Café du Sorcier for any price. Besides, if I did sell it, I'd have no place to live."

"Oh, come off it, chéri; you know I'd still let you live here. I'd even give you free drinks one night a week."

"Only one? Hardly seems worth it if you ask me."

"Well then, how about for Mik?"

"I'm not in the business of selling other human beings. I sell liquor, chances, and a good time. You of all people should know that, as I've slowly been snatching your business away for the past two years."

"Exactly! That's why I want to buy you out!"

"Not a chance! If I didn't have to worry about making a living, I'd still keep the bar just to torment you," he said with a grin.

"Oh, but ma cher, let us ask Mik if he would really like to work for me," she said excitedly.

Harry snorted before saying, "You're very welcome to ask him, but I can assure you that his answer will be 'no.'"

With that, the two of them vacated their places at the bar to journey over to the piano bench, where Mik sat mopping his face with a handkerchief. Looking from the one to the other, Mik raised an eyebrow as he said, "I've got a bad feeling about this, boss."

"Mik, Madame Sańassu here would like you to work at the French Fox. How about it?"

"I'm just fine here, boss." Harry's mouth quirked upward.

"She'll double your salary; probably even give you more frequent breaks too."

"Even with extra breaks, I doubt I'll even have time to spend that salary. God knows I certainly don't while working here."

"Thanks very much, Mik." Noticing the satisfied look upon Inés's face, Harry offered to show her out before she turned him down.

Then, turning back to the bar, Harry noticed Emil fawning over a young, pretty woman in a short skirt and heels as tall as a Bowtruckle. He quickly decided he ought to check in on his bartender, in case he decided to get sloppy on the job.

He could only catch snippets of their conversation amidst all the noise around them. "All right, mi querida, for you, I'll shut up. Because I love you. Oh no." Emil swiftly took out a small towel and began wiping the bar with it. "Ah! Hello, boss!" he started, trying to act surprised.

The girl turned to look at him, her exasperation turning into downright despair.

"How's our stock looking for the rest of the night, Emil?" Harry asked without sparing a glance toward the girl.

"We'll be fine for another two hours at the rate we're going, but I sure will be glad for the restock tomorrow."

Then, the girl, looking like she could no longer stand the conflict within her, stood up and cried to Harry, "Where were you last night?"

Finally seeming to give her some thought, he turned to look her over and noticed her drunken state. "That's far too long ago to remember."

"Then will I see you tonight?" she asked desperately.

He seemed to consider her for a moment. "Sorry, love, but I don't make plans that far ahead."

Then she turned towards Emil, the hand holding her glass extended toward him. "Then give me another."

"Oh, I don't think that would be wise, Emil. She's had enough."

"Don't listen to him, darling. Fill it up."

Clearly torn, Emil replied, "Mi querida, I love you, but he pays me."

Suddenly, she turned on Harry. "No! I can't stand you trying to—"

"—Emil, call a cab," Harry interrupted.

"Yes, boss."

Harry then took the girl's arm and led her toward one of the side exits out of his pub. "Come on. We're going to get your coat."

Outraged, she tried to wrench her arm lose, but found herself fighting a losing battle against the former Quidditch player. "Get your hands off me!" she cried out.

Harry looked at her intensely. "Don't make a scene in here. You're going home. And I'd advise that next time, you don't have so much to drink."

In front of them, Harry could see Emil flagging down a cab. He then waved to them.

Angrily, refusing to go down without a fight, she said to Harry, "Who do you think you are? You can't push me around! It's the 90s! What a fool I was to fall for you."

Ignoring her, Harry turned to Emil. "Hey, I think you better go with her. Just make sure she doesn't do anything stupid. Oh, and you better let her know that it's 2003."

A smile broke out on the bartender's face. "Yes boss!"

"But you had better come back," Harry said with a warning look in his eyes.

"Yes boss," Emil said as his face fell.

Strolling away from them, Harry glanced at the small airport not too far from his bar. The gleaming lights of the tower flashed every few seconds. He sighed as he turned away, moving towards the terrace seating he had only recently added. Bonifacio's Chief of Police sat leaning against the back of his chair, trying to catch a glimpse of the inside entertainment.

"Hello, Harry."

"Hello, Hugo."

"Take a seat," the Police Chief said as he pulled out a chair for Harry to sit on.

Politely, Harry sat down. He and Hugo Lefevre weren't exactly friends, but they didn't cross much either. They were more like allies or business partners. Lefevre first marched into the Café du Sorcier in its third week of operation. Bonifacio had some odd law that prohibited gambling. Of course, being part gambling hall, the Café du Sorcier was due for a little inspection, but that night, Monsieur Lefevre had such good luck at the cards, he decided to forget all about that silly law. He came back the next night, and the next, and the next, and the next, but he still didn't close Harry's.

"You ought to be so lucky," Lefevre scowled. "You, throwing away women like that. Some of us actually have to try to catch one." Harry said nothing, but Lefevre could see a small upward quirk grace the bar owner's face. "Maybe I'll get around to calling that girl. I'll catch her on the rebound."

At this, Harry nearly had to stifle a laugh. "When it comes to women, Hugo, you're a true capitalist."

They sat back, listening to Mik and the rest of the orchestra shred a new tune. Soon, they heard the buzz of an airplane approach. Harry looked up to see an airplane fly clear over his head and move further and further away, becoming a small dot amidst the stars. The planes that usually flew in to Bonifacio weren't large, commercial things that could hold two hundred people. They were smaller, usually feeling crammed when more than five people boarded and with propellers instead of large engines.

Lefevre nodded towards it. "That's the plane to Marseille. Wouldn't you like to be on it?"

"Why should I? What's there in Marseille?"

Lefevre looked at him with a mixture of annoyance and disbelief. "A way to leave this Godforsaken island. You know that. Of course," he said contemplatively, "it's no broomstick. Oh, how I miss being able to feel the wind rushing through my hair. How I miss being able to hit a Bludger at my brother!" Monsieur Lefevre was a wizard and not too many people knew it. Harry was one of that few.

"Well, don't blame me for not being able to play Quidditch. It's the laws you enforce that keep you from doing so."

Lefevre gave an exasperated sigh. "Just because I'm the Chief of Police in Bonifacio—"

"—I meant your French Ministry of Magic," Harry interrupted.

"Ah, well, that, yes. Hmm…." Lefevre paused for a moment before saying, "You know, I've always wondered why you left Britain. I mean, the Boy Who Lived, the man who defeated He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named all of a sudden disappears off the face of the Earth. Funny enough that he should wind up in Bonifacio three years after he saved the entire wizarding world." He looked at Harry intensely. "You were great! You could've been anything! You could've been the greatest Auror the world has ever seen. You could've joined any Quidditch team with a Seeker record like yours. You could've taught Defense Against the Dark Arts at any wizarding school in the world, but you became a lonely bar owner in the middle of the Mediterranean, hiding out from everyone and everything that used to matter to you."

Annoyance crept onto Harry's face. "Don't pretend to know me or my life, Hugo. Besides," he said as he quickly changed tones, "I did become something: the most successful pub owner in Corsica. And I certainly am not lonely and I have not been hiding out."

"But why, of all places, in Bonifacio? You could've gone anywhere in the world and you chose this little dump of an island!"

Harry seemed to consider him for a moment. "My health. I came for my health."

Lefevre scoffed. "I still think you ought to have gone to America at the very least. You'd have had to deal with less of this European conflict. Mërzitaab's armies, my word! You don't know how dreadfully exhausting it is to cower before one dark wizard only to have another spring up in his place. Or perhaps you do," he said as he suspiciously eyed Harry.

Just then, Johann trotted out of the side exit toward Harry. "Herr Harry, there are some men who won two hundred thousand francs and Frauline Valerie would like some money."

"Excuse me," Harry said as he left Lefevre with Johann.

"I am so sorry, Herr. I would take care of it, but you know…" the headwaiter trailed off.

"Of course," Harry said reassuringly. "Don't worry about it." Just another night in Bonifacio, said a voice in Harry's head. And, boy, does it feel long already.