*AN: I came across the inspiration for this fic in…the shower. I think it's going to be a short one but I haven't written Harry/Ginny in a while and I've been kind of depressed lately so if the fic turns out to be really sad…then my apologies. Anyway! Please rate/ review!*

**Disclaimer: I am not J. K. Rowling. (I wish I were though)**

***Full Summary: (Taking place 7 years after the war) After an unknown curse hits Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived falls into a deep coma. When he wakes up, he has no memory of his past. He takes on the name Harry Harold and begins his life as a muggle. As 3 long years go by, Harry finds himself more and more attracted to a mysteriously familiar waitress at his favorite bar. She addresses herself as "Angel". How far will his new angel go to bring his memory back? Or will her attempts send his fragile life shattering back to nothing?***

Harry

Harry stood between the aisles of the local general store, restocking bars of fragrant bars of soap. After neatly stacking them 5 boxes high, he stood back to admire the handiwork. The shelf looks too crowded. Swiftly, he took all the boxes back off the shelf and began to stack them so that they were only 4 high with slight gaps in between.

"See Harold?" Mr. Franklin, the crotchety old manager, lumbered up behind Harry, "Soaps. Just can't keep them on the shelves. Didn't I say they would be a hit?"

"Yes sir," Harry replied politely, his head already beginning to ache from the conversation. Just leave me alone. I need some quiet. And the shelf is too crowded.

"They're all the rage in France."

"Uh-huh," Harry once again took the boxes from the shelf, his head splitting from the effort. Go away. Three boxes high. That'll work.

"Have you ever been to France?" Harry was saved by the tinkling of the bell by the door, Mr. Franklin left to go attend to a customer. The head ache subsided and Harry managed to finish restocking. It's 5:30, time to go.

"Hey Harold?," Mr. Franklin called from the cash register, "Ms. Pierce needs to make a return. Come and help her." It's 5:30, time to go. Harry turned towards the door, eager to make it outside to the fresh air.

"Harold!" It's 5:30, time to go. Ignoring the calls of his boss, he grabbed his coat and left.

Harry's favorite restaurant was just down the street, and he made it there without paying much attention. It was a tiny pub that was never crowded and always quiet. It was the only place he could be where his thoughts were more than just fragments and his ears weren't bleeding from the city noise. A rickety sign hung over the door, and in peeling blue letters read: Potter's Pub.

A blast of air conditioning whooshed past him as the door shut behind him.

"Good evening Mr. Harold," a friendly faced bartender nodded at him, "Your usual table?"

Harry merely nodded, shedding his coat while heading towards his usual seat in the corner. He seems to be a nice man. He knows my name. Why don't I know his?

"Anything to drink Mr. Harold?" The bartender called, wiping a glass clean. As he spoke, a waitress walked out from the kitchen, a tray under her arm.

"Ronald," she snapped before furiously blushing, "That's my job." Ronald. So, that is his name. Maybe I can say goodbye to him before I leave.

The waitress made her way to his table, the blush soon replaced by a sly smile.

"So, would you like anything to drink?" She was very pretty, standing just short of 5' 2" with her long gingery hair swept into a pony tail. Her large brown eyes were warm and full of laugher with light purplish bruises under each of them, as if she hadn't had enough sleep in a long time.

"No," Harry finally answered, testing the word on his tongue. It had been a long time since he had spoken without it aching, "Just…coffee please." He even tried a small smile back. She turned around back to the kitchen without even writing down the order. Sweeping his dark hair out of his eyes, he wondered why he hadn't noticed her before. Come to think of it, she had been there as long as he could remember.

I've seen her before. I just know it. I should ask. Would that be wrong? I don't even know her name. She probably doesn't know mine. I'm not going to talk to her anymore. But I want to. I'm going to puke.

The waitress returned holding a paper cup of coffee. The kind you ask for when you're not staying.

"Anything else sir?" She clutched the bill in her hand, her smile just a tad sadder, just a bit more forced.

"I didn't ask for…What do you call this?" Harry motioned his hand to the paper cup.

"To Go, sir," she blushed again. He liked seeing the color in her cheeks.

"How did you know that this is what I wanted?"

"You order the same thing every day." Do I?

"Oh…well…that's fine then," The red head turned to go but Harry found himself opening his mouth again. What the hell am I doing? "Excuse me…Miss?"

She turned around slowly, her face confused, "Yes?"

"What's your name?"

"Oh. It's Angel."

"Nice to meet you Angel. I'm-"

"Harry. Harry Harold. Yeah, I know," blushing once more she sped off to the safety of the kitchen doors. Pulling out a few notes from his pocket, he paid the bartender. Wait. Before you leave.

"Have a good one…" Blast. What was his name?

"It's Ron," the bartender cracked another smile, "And you too."

*Ok. I know this one was kind of short but I promise the next one will be longer. xoxoxoxoxo inkpaperlove*