Harry woke up that morning with a very bad headache. For a moment, he forgot everything that had happened those past few years, and his mind automatically sprang to Voldemort...
Then he spotted the empty vodka bottle beside his bed and remembered; rough night.
His head pounding, Harry rolled out of his bed-he was still dressed from the night before, but his clothes were filthy. Quickly, he changed out of them, into a clean shirt and trousers. He considered wearing a tie, but couldn't find any clean ones, so he abandoned the idea. Yawning widely, he went into the bathroom, and picked up his razor, which lay next to his watch.
10:00AM.
'Ten o'clock!' Harry yelped. He dropped his razor, grabbed his glasses, watch, and a handful of hair gel, then raced to his front door. He tore down the stairs, burst out of the entrance to the apartment block and raced down the street, rubbing the gel into his hair as he ran-he was late, again! This was the second time that week, and the fifth time that month- surely they would fire him this time?
He skidded to a halt at the office door, and flung it open. He strode down the long room, ignoring all the rolled eyes and impatient sighs as he knocked things off people's desks, and flung himself into his swivel chair.
'Potter. Fifth time this month. Are you trying to set a record? Or just testing the boundaries?'
Harry sighed heavily, and looked up at his boss. 'Sorry Mr. Gill', he muttered.
'I should hope you are', Mr. Gill grumbled. He bent down so that his mouth was right beside Harry's ear. 'You are walking a thin line, Jonathan. Now I've given you a chance because you seem like a good kid to me-messed up, but good. Don't abuse my good nature, d'you understand? One more strike and you're out.'
'Yessir', mumbled Harry, 'it won't happen again sir.'
Mr. Gill straightened up and plodded on down the office. Harry reached across his desk and switched on the computer. Then he slumped down low, and placed his head in his hands on the desk.
Nothing was going right anymore.
For two years-two glorious years, he had lived his new life; no more famous Harry Potter, no more learning magic, no more Malfoy, no more Voldemort...he was Jonathan Potter now, an ordinary twenty-year-old Mug-
Harry stopped that thought quickly. He wasn't a muggle. He was a human being. Muggle was a nonsense word.
But recently, Harry was no longer able to block out his old life. When people asked him where he got his lightning-bolt scar, he longed to tell the truth, to say where it really came from...but always, he heard himself say 'I was in a car crash when I was little.'
When people asked him where he went to school, he told them St. Brutus'. But every time he told that lie now, he felt a pang of regret that he was denying his real school. It felt like he was betraying Hogwarts...
It was in alcohol that Harry had begun to seek solace. Then he could explain away his headaches easily-for they had started to come back again. The charms and spells he had used to protect himself before throwing away his wand had worn down, and every day, Harry found it harder to hide from the truth. The mysterious deaths were not, as he had determinedly told himself, nothing to do with him. The strange skulls suspended in the air over people's homes were a mystery to most people; but not to Harry. He had stopped reading newspapers, and watching television-it was too painful. Sitting behind a desk all day, pretending to care about his stupid job, was killing him-but what choice did he have? He couldn't go back...not after everything that had happened...
Suddenly, Harry's scar seared with pain. He let out an audible moan, and several heads turned in his direction. He felt as though he was going to throw up. He leapt to his feet and ran to the bathroom, his hand clapped over his mouth. He barely made it in time.
Kneeling in front of the toilet, his head hung low, Harry fought the urge to cry. He clenched his fists tightly, and blocked off the horrible images of what Voldemort must have done now.
No. That wasn't his problem anymore. He couldn't go back. Not now. Not ever.
But he couldn't work today, either. He left the bathroom, and knocked on Mr. Gill's office door.
'Mr. Gill?' He poked his head around the door, 'I feel awful. D'you think I could go home?'
Mr. Gill stared at him in disbelief. 'One more strike, Potter', he said, 'you leave, and you're out.'
Harry studied his boss closely. 'Y'know what?' He asked irritably, 'you can stuff your crummy job, because I don't want it anymore.'
He slammed the door, his scar burning. He strode out of the office, and back to his apartment, which he had vacated less than an hour previously. He sat on his bed for quite some time, keeping his mind blissfully blank-a skill he had picked up, ironically, from learning the magical art of Occlumency. Eventually, he went out to the kitchen and made himself some toast. He stared around his three-room apartment as he munched; he had let it turn into one hell of a mess. He hadn't washed up in weeks, and empty chinese take-away cartons littered every surface. His eyes lingered on a bottle of gin that was lying on its side on the cheese-encrusted microwave. Slowly, hating himself as he did it, he unscrewed the cap, and began to drink.
It was many hours later when Harry finally dragged himself into the bathroom to wash his face. Glancing out the window, he saw that dusk was gathering. He laughed bitterly to himself. Another wasted day in the life of Jonathan Potter. He stared at himself in the mirror; several day's worth of stubble darkened his chin; his hair, which he normally kept tidy nowadays, was a mess; he had huge bags under his eyes, and he was deathly pale. Was this what he had come to? Was this all the rest of his life would be? Getting drunk, sobering up, moving from job to job? He kicked the basin in annoyance, and a sharp pain shot through his foot. He hopped around on it, lost his balance (he obviously hadn't shaken off that half bottle of gin yet) and landed in a heap on the bathroom floor. He didn't even bother getting up.
In his half-stupor, he thought he heard a knock on his apartment door. He sighed-now he was hallucinating! Nobody had called on him since...well, the last visitor had been Hermione and he had certainly told her where to go in no uncertain terms. Two years ago.
There it was again! There was definitely a knock on the door-it sounded quite frantic. Harry scrambled to his feet, and staggered into the hallway.
'Open up!' Hissed someone, in a panicky voice. Harry, his hand halfway to the doorknob, froze.
He knew that voice, he thought drowsily. He knew it from the old days. A part of him, the part that had been struggling to make itself heard for some time now, wanted to open the door. The other part of him, the bitter, resentful, ashamed part told him to recoil.
'For God's sake Harry, open the door or I'll break it down!'
That was it. The former part won. Harry turned the key in the lock, turned the doorknob and opened the door.
His visitor had obviously been leaning against the door, because he landed in a heap at Harry's feet the moment the door opened. Harry, who still wasn't sure who it was, took a step back, and watched as the man pulled himself to his feet, slammed the door violently and heaved a sigh.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them, wondering if this could be a dream. How could it really be happening? Why...?
'Harry', the man gasped, 'please...I need help...'
Harry noticed that he was bleeding profusely from a wound in his shoulder. He took in the hair, the tattered robes, the eyes that were so like those of his brother...
He was looking straight into the eyes of Fred Weasley.
And at that moment, Harry knew his new world was shattered.
Then he spotted the empty vodka bottle beside his bed and remembered; rough night.
His head pounding, Harry rolled out of his bed-he was still dressed from the night before, but his clothes were filthy. Quickly, he changed out of them, into a clean shirt and trousers. He considered wearing a tie, but couldn't find any clean ones, so he abandoned the idea. Yawning widely, he went into the bathroom, and picked up his razor, which lay next to his watch.
10:00AM.
'Ten o'clock!' Harry yelped. He dropped his razor, grabbed his glasses, watch, and a handful of hair gel, then raced to his front door. He tore down the stairs, burst out of the entrance to the apartment block and raced down the street, rubbing the gel into his hair as he ran-he was late, again! This was the second time that week, and the fifth time that month- surely they would fire him this time?
He skidded to a halt at the office door, and flung it open. He strode down the long room, ignoring all the rolled eyes and impatient sighs as he knocked things off people's desks, and flung himself into his swivel chair.
'Potter. Fifth time this month. Are you trying to set a record? Or just testing the boundaries?'
Harry sighed heavily, and looked up at his boss. 'Sorry Mr. Gill', he muttered.
'I should hope you are', Mr. Gill grumbled. He bent down so that his mouth was right beside Harry's ear. 'You are walking a thin line, Jonathan. Now I've given you a chance because you seem like a good kid to me-messed up, but good. Don't abuse my good nature, d'you understand? One more strike and you're out.'
'Yessir', mumbled Harry, 'it won't happen again sir.'
Mr. Gill straightened up and plodded on down the office. Harry reached across his desk and switched on the computer. Then he slumped down low, and placed his head in his hands on the desk.
Nothing was going right anymore.
For two years-two glorious years, he had lived his new life; no more famous Harry Potter, no more learning magic, no more Malfoy, no more Voldemort...he was Jonathan Potter now, an ordinary twenty-year-old Mug-
Harry stopped that thought quickly. He wasn't a muggle. He was a human being. Muggle was a nonsense word.
But recently, Harry was no longer able to block out his old life. When people asked him where he got his lightning-bolt scar, he longed to tell the truth, to say where it really came from...but always, he heard himself say 'I was in a car crash when I was little.'
When people asked him where he went to school, he told them St. Brutus'. But every time he told that lie now, he felt a pang of regret that he was denying his real school. It felt like he was betraying Hogwarts...
It was in alcohol that Harry had begun to seek solace. Then he could explain away his headaches easily-for they had started to come back again. The charms and spells he had used to protect himself before throwing away his wand had worn down, and every day, Harry found it harder to hide from the truth. The mysterious deaths were not, as he had determinedly told himself, nothing to do with him. The strange skulls suspended in the air over people's homes were a mystery to most people; but not to Harry. He had stopped reading newspapers, and watching television-it was too painful. Sitting behind a desk all day, pretending to care about his stupid job, was killing him-but what choice did he have? He couldn't go back...not after everything that had happened...
Suddenly, Harry's scar seared with pain. He let out an audible moan, and several heads turned in his direction. He felt as though he was going to throw up. He leapt to his feet and ran to the bathroom, his hand clapped over his mouth. He barely made it in time.
Kneeling in front of the toilet, his head hung low, Harry fought the urge to cry. He clenched his fists tightly, and blocked off the horrible images of what Voldemort must have done now.
No. That wasn't his problem anymore. He couldn't go back. Not now. Not ever.
But he couldn't work today, either. He left the bathroom, and knocked on Mr. Gill's office door.
'Mr. Gill?' He poked his head around the door, 'I feel awful. D'you think I could go home?'
Mr. Gill stared at him in disbelief. 'One more strike, Potter', he said, 'you leave, and you're out.'
Harry studied his boss closely. 'Y'know what?' He asked irritably, 'you can stuff your crummy job, because I don't want it anymore.'
He slammed the door, his scar burning. He strode out of the office, and back to his apartment, which he had vacated less than an hour previously. He sat on his bed for quite some time, keeping his mind blissfully blank-a skill he had picked up, ironically, from learning the magical art of Occlumency. Eventually, he went out to the kitchen and made himself some toast. He stared around his three-room apartment as he munched; he had let it turn into one hell of a mess. He hadn't washed up in weeks, and empty chinese take-away cartons littered every surface. His eyes lingered on a bottle of gin that was lying on its side on the cheese-encrusted microwave. Slowly, hating himself as he did it, he unscrewed the cap, and began to drink.
It was many hours later when Harry finally dragged himself into the bathroom to wash his face. Glancing out the window, he saw that dusk was gathering. He laughed bitterly to himself. Another wasted day in the life of Jonathan Potter. He stared at himself in the mirror; several day's worth of stubble darkened his chin; his hair, which he normally kept tidy nowadays, was a mess; he had huge bags under his eyes, and he was deathly pale. Was this what he had come to? Was this all the rest of his life would be? Getting drunk, sobering up, moving from job to job? He kicked the basin in annoyance, and a sharp pain shot through his foot. He hopped around on it, lost his balance (he obviously hadn't shaken off that half bottle of gin yet) and landed in a heap on the bathroom floor. He didn't even bother getting up.
In his half-stupor, he thought he heard a knock on his apartment door. He sighed-now he was hallucinating! Nobody had called on him since...well, the last visitor had been Hermione and he had certainly told her where to go in no uncertain terms. Two years ago.
There it was again! There was definitely a knock on the door-it sounded quite frantic. Harry scrambled to his feet, and staggered into the hallway.
'Open up!' Hissed someone, in a panicky voice. Harry, his hand halfway to the doorknob, froze.
He knew that voice, he thought drowsily. He knew it from the old days. A part of him, the part that had been struggling to make itself heard for some time now, wanted to open the door. The other part of him, the bitter, resentful, ashamed part told him to recoil.
'For God's sake Harry, open the door or I'll break it down!'
That was it. The former part won. Harry turned the key in the lock, turned the doorknob and opened the door.
His visitor had obviously been leaning against the door, because he landed in a heap at Harry's feet the moment the door opened. Harry, who still wasn't sure who it was, took a step back, and watched as the man pulled himself to his feet, slammed the door violently and heaved a sigh.
Harry squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them, wondering if this could be a dream. How could it really be happening? Why...?
'Harry', the man gasped, 'please...I need help...'
Harry noticed that he was bleeding profusely from a wound in his shoulder. He took in the hair, the tattered robes, the eyes that were so like those of his brother...
He was looking straight into the eyes of Fred Weasley.
And at that moment, Harry knew his new world was shattered.