Harry didn't know where he was.
He stumbled down the muggle street, frantically searching for any familiar sign.
The last thing he remembered… He and Malfoy were playing a game of Wizarding Chess in one of Diagon's finer restaurants, to Malfoy's insistence. Harry had lost miserably.
After that, nothing. He couldn't remember a thing. It was a blur, a mess, in his brain. Just trying to decipher what happened made his head ache.
He had tried Apparating to Hogwarts, the Burrow, Godrick's Hallow, Ministry of Magic, Diagon Alley—bloody hell, he had even tried Apparating to Malfoy's spiffy manor. Thereafter, when all else had failed, he had resorted to Apparating to muggle London and walking to Leaky Cauldron by foot.
But there was no Leaky Cauldron. In its place stood an absolutely normal—absolutely muggle—hair salon.
Whenever he had tried to Apparate himself to a magical location, his insides felt horribly violent, as if he was on the verge of splinching himself.
Harry inhaled deeply, stopping and stepping to the side to allow the other pedestrians space to walk.
Harry tried Apparating once more. He clearly imagined the Malfoy Manor and its ridiculous albino peacocks and its massive water fountains. Its fancy furniture and moving paintings; its tall ceilings and hovering magicked chandeliers.
Harry furrowed his eyebrows, breathing deeply. He should've Apparated by now. Focusing harder, Harry felt cold sweat on his neck.
Suddenly, Harry dry heaved, leaning against the wall of a Starbucks. He felt his stomach churn and heart beat so rapidly he feared that it would jump out of his chest. His ribs ached and Harry groaned in pain. Harry felt as if each individual intestine was separated, stretched, and strung out as long as it went. Was it possible to die from pain alone? Coughing and hacking, Harry's throat felt like he had breathed in the fumes of a Fiendfyre for hours. He hated this. The feeling of splinching, without being actually splinched.
Raising the hand he had coughed into a second ago, Harry grimaced when he found it covered in blood.
He couldn't Apparate. At least not to any magical location he knew.
Bloody hell. He was so lost. Hermione was going to kill him.
Harry shuddered as felt his insides burn.
Harry pointed his holly wand at himself. "Episkey!" he snarled. "Episkey!"
He hacked again. The bloody spell was only used for minor injuries.
"Ferula! Vulnera Sanentur!" With a particular vicious jab with his wand, Harry hissed, "Reparifors!"
Oh, how ridiculous Harry must've looked to the muggles walking about.
Nevertheless, Harry sighed in relief. He still felt slightly woozy, but the excruciating pain inside was gone.
"Bloody hell..." Harry tasted copper. He wiped his mouth. "Merlin..."
People around gave him a wide berth, glancing at Harry and scuttling away when he looked up. Harry could understand. He was coughing up blood, still in his embellished wizarding dress robes—and was also madly waving a wooden stick and muttering Latin like a madman.
Waving his wand once again—discretely this time—Harry casted a Notice-Me-Not charm and ducked into the Starbucks he had leaned against only a few seconds ago.
A strong smell of coffee hit his nose. Harry dry heaved once again. Such an intense aroma Harry had once been fond of now made his insides churn.
There were circular tables about, people typing away on some kind of technology Harry struggled to identify. Computers? No. Computers were big, like the one Dudley had. The girl wearing the beanie had something much sharper, much slimmer. Had technology advanced so far during Harry's stay in the Wizarding world? Wait—Harry had heard of it... L-something. Lap... Laptok? But those were uncommon. Bloody expensive too. So expensive that even the selfish twat of the name Dudley didn't receive one for his birthday, no matter how much he begged and demanded.
Harry wretched his attention away. As much as muggle technology was fascinating, Harry had much more pressing matters to deal with.
He stalked off to the direction of the bathrooms in the corner, tiredly muttering, "Alohomora," and opening the door. The occupant inside squeaked as the previously locked door opened wide for no discernible reason, hurrying himself in his business. The man shoved himself back inside his pants and scrambled out without washing his hands.
Harry locked the door after him.
Trudging up to the mirror, Harry groaned at the sight.
His robe's sleeves, which Malfoy had gifted him ("They're secondhand," Malfoy had lied as he shoved the extravagantly wrapped gift into Harry's arms), were splattered with blood. Malfoy would not be happy.
Besides that, Harry looked like he always did, albeit a bit pinched and panicked, but still—he looked relatively the same.
Scourgifying his robes, Harry rubbed his eyes and sighed. He leaned against the sink, pondering his situation.
"The number you have dialed has been changed, disconnected, or is no longer in servi—"
Harry hung up. He tried again.
And again.
And again.
Slamming the phone on its handle, Harry made a furious swing at the number keys.
Had Hermione changed her number and forgotten to tell him? Had she not remembered to pay her phone bills?
Unlikely. It wasn't like her to forget anything.
Harry reached for the phone again, only the find out it had fizzled out and stopped working from his magical ire.
Cursing, Harry transfigured his clothes into plain muggle shirt and pants, silently apologizing to Malfoy while he did.
Time to keep searching.