A/N: I don't own Harry Potter. I write fanfiction without making money, so it won't be perfect and will most likely have some plot holes.

Chapter 2 – Oh, happy ignorance

The problem of getting to the Leaky Cauldron had the shape of an unusual hot day, something that hadn't seemed likely that very morning. Harry gazed up at the sun, figuring that it was early afternoon by the shadows it was casting.

The bonds to the body had now stop aching, being replaced by a numb feeling, that by experience Harry knew would last around two days. He didn't even feel the wound in his side anymore, or his throat that had been dry as sand some hours ago. Now he just sat on a bench in a park, in the shadow of some lilacs, considering what he should do. First of all, where was he? Where was London? And why did a kid stare at him with dark soul-less eyes and a drooling mouth?

"You don't have a glass of water, do you?" he rasped. This voice, though hoarse, was a little lighter in the tone than his own voice in his own body. The body was probably younger than Harry himself was. Harry had hoped to be a grown-up, as people don't but into other adults' businesses. If he was a child, there was a risk that people would suffocate him with cotton and feel that he was their responsibility.

A great clunk was heard beside him, and there was the kid with a glass of water.

"Oh… um… thanks", Harry said, awkwardly. He never really expected the kid to get it for him. He drank slowly, uncomfortable at the kid's stare. When the glass was empty, he put it down beside him, and waited for the kid to do something. Nothing happened, just that bothering stare.

"Um… haven't your mother told you not to associate with strangers?" If the kid behaved like this for every people he met, he would be dead meat if he ever stumbled across a Death Eater.

"I have, and he still does it every time!" said an upset voice behind Harry. It was so sudden that Harry jumped out of surprise and nearly knocked down the glass. The blonde, plump woman lifted up the child into her arms while apologizing to Harry profusely.

"He's such an adoring child, just wanting the best of everyone. Every time he sees someone that seems…", here she stopped, thinking over her words while glancing at Harry's grating-covered clothes, "…less lucky than most people, he wants to help. Well… sorry for the trouble and good day." And then they were gone, just to be back again a minute later. Under the other arm of the mother, was a dirty-white sweatshirt that didn't look like it had been properly cleaned in ages.

"This one is my husband's; he was going to throw it away anyway." Before Harry knew it, he had the sweatshirt in his arms. He stuttered thanks, mostly because of surprise, but the woman seemed to think it was of gratitude and smiled gently. Before she had begun to walk away too long a distance, a plan formed into Harry's head and he called out:

"Sorry, Mrs… but can… can I borrow your phone?" He tried to sound more insecure than he felt, younger, more innocent. "I need to call my uncle and I... don't have any money." The last part he said very fast, like he was embarrassed. It was kind of sad that he had to develop such actor skills, but it worked. He could practically sense the mother feelings crackling in the air, encircling him. If she had been a redhead, he would almost mistake her for Mrs Weasly. That thought brought tears that he wasn't quick enough to notice and dispose of before they had fallen, which added to the blonde woman's concern.

"Of course, dear" (so he was a dear now? Tears were indeed useful, even if that move had been unintended) "just follow me. Our house is just round the corner." Harry nodded gratefully and followed.

It was a quiet neighbourhood. Children played, flowers were everywhere, sneaky neighbours that peaked over their rosebushes. Everything was so normal. So peaceful. So unreal. It was a little over a year ago Harry had last been in a place like this, the day he had left the Dursleys. It felt like a lifetime. He didn't miss the particular neighbourhood, but more that period of his life when things weren't as complicated. Dumbledore alive, Ron alive, Harry in his own time…

They walked into a house almost covered by green rhododendron bushes, with withered flowers everywhere on the grass. The hall that led to the living room (and the telephone) was dark, after having been out in the bright sunlight. Harry lifted the telephone receiver while the mother put the kid to bed in the next room. He knew she listened closely, while she doted upon the child. He waited for awhile, long enough for an imaginary uncle to pick up the phone. He imagined that he talked to a fretting Aunt Petunia when she talked to Dudley in the phone.

"Yeah, hi, it's me, Harry. Yeah, I know. Yeah, I'm sorry. … Hm? … Mm. … Yeah, some drunks robbed me, but I'm fine. Can you call mum so she doesn't worry? They took all my money. Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, not hurt anywhere. Just got a scare. This nice lady lent me her telephone. … No, I don't usually follow strangers, but this was an emergency, and she was really nice. … Yeah, I can get to London, don't worry. I'll find a way to get money to the ticket. … Yeah. … Yeah. Mm. I love you too. Don't forget to call mum. Bye."

He hoped he hadn't overdone it, when he put down the receiver. Maybe every parent wasn't like Aunt Petunia? When he turned around to face the mother, though, he realized that at least this woman was like his aunt, with the exception that she cared as much for other children as for her own.

"Oh, you poor dear! If you had only said something! I thought it was strange… Why would a child like you" (Harry bit his tongue so he wouldn't correct her. He hadn't been a child for years.) "be alone? In that outfit too… So horrible! And your poor mother… As a fellow mother I cannot stand for it, no I can't!" By this time Harry figured that she was talking to herself rather than to him, so he just kept quiet. She didn't seem to notice. "Well, my husband is going to London tonight, so you can travel with him. But before that, we have to clean you up a little." While she ushered him upstairs and giving him towels and a set of old clothes ("My husband doesn't fit in those anymore.") she continued to fawn over him, and Harry's feeble attempts to say that he would really be fine, she had done enough, just added fuel to her determination.

"But really, dear. Those sunglasses! I almost thought that you were a robber, not the one being robbed! It gives people the wrong impression of you. Why don't you take them off?" Harry flinched involuntarily. It wouldn't be good to take them off. It would ruin everything.

"I… I would rather keep them on…"

By her sudden understanding expression, the woman seemed to get to a conclusion.

"Of course, dear. I understand." She said, in a much more gentle voice (if that was even possible). "Now, clean up yourself and I'll make some snack. My husband will be home soon enough."

In the bathroom, Harry studied his new face. Well, he could see why she had took him for a child with the way he acted, but really, this body was not that young as she had given him an impression of. An Asian boy of perhaps fifteen, sixteen years looked back at him in the mirror. This body was not yet fully grown, and Harry let out a sigh for the growth-ache that he may experience – again. Well, at least it was better than rheumatism. Emerald green swirled in the boy's black irises. Harry hoped it would stop soon, he couldn't afford suspicious glances. The sunglasses would have to do. At least, this time around, he could hide the eyes. It had been much more difficult in the 1300th century. He almost started the witch-hunting a couple of hundred years too early, just because a muggle got sight of his eyes. At least, he thought with a grim sort of satisfaction, this boy would be taller and broader than Harry himself. In some months he may be passed for a young adult without that much doubt.

The wound in his side was a disgusting sight, and Harry was grateful that he couldn't properly feel it. The black shirt he had been wearing had clustered against the wound, and flakes of dried blood had dropped to the floor when he took off the shirt. Really disgusting. He figured it would be easier to clean the wound now when he wouldn't feel the pain, than later. Most of the time in the shower was spent on cleaning the wound and trying to get rid of the grating in his hair. Extra time was needed when he had washed away the grating (and also the dried blood) from the wound, which resulted in it beginning to bleed again. It was a large gash in his side, going from his right armpit to his hip, an inch wide at its widest. How the hell had he gotten that? Small cuts in his face he hadn't noticed began to bleed too. When he looked at them in the mirror, he shivered. They looked like big teeth marks, from something that wasn't a human… Disgusting. Utterly disgusting. He swallowed hard, trying not to throw up.

He didn't know if it was the best thing to do, but when the wound didn't stop to bleed he took a towel and his dirty shirt and tried to bind a pressure on the wound. The white sweatshirt he had gotten effectively hid the temporary bandage. The sweatshirt was so big so Dudley would have looked like a little boy in it. No wonder the woman thought he was a child, with a husband in that size.

When he was done in the bathroom (when the bleeding had eventually stopped), he quietly went down the stairs, sunglasses firm in place. The husband had gotten home, and at the moment the woman told Harry's story with much more detail and exaggeration than Harry had given her. He lingered by the door, unsure how to act, while the wife convinced her husband about their duty, no their luck to be able to do something good in the world. Merlin. How had the man survived her talking abilities? He had seemed to learn how to handle it, though. He gave the sunglasses a disbelieving look, but didn't comment, grunting that they would go to the train station by half an hour.

"What… what about payment?" Harry asked, while being shoved into a stool with a small mountain of sandwiches before him. The husband grunted again, while the woman cooed that no payment was necessary, just that they were happy to help, his poor, poor mother shouldn't even need to worry.

"Is… is it really alright?" He couldn't bring himself to eat the sandwiches before he knew for sure.

"Of course, dear! Now eat! Honestly, if they think we starved you… Henry, can you call his uncle? What's the number, dear?"

Harry chocked so hard so that Henry had to give his back two powerful slaps. What was the point of going back in time if he almost died the same day?

"I don't think it's a good idea…" The woman raised her eyebrows. Shit. He couldn't ruin this now, when he was so close… He took a glance at the clock on the wall. A quarter past two. "He works now. And his boss is very…", theatrical pause ,"strict. It wouldn't be good to call him now." The worrying frown just increased on the woman's forehead. "But his work is not far from King's Cross. I practically grew up there, so I know the way, and the boss won't kick me out if I stay silent." The woman still looked doubtful but her husband grunted his acceptance (did he ever speak a word?) and pointed at the clock. They didn't have much time left. Harry quickly finished off the rest of the sandwiches and drank the glass of milk in one gulp, thanked her for her hospitality, telling her that he wished she would meet his mother one day not mentioning that she would be sixteen years old at this moment, and accepting a great hug that would be warm and very, very painful if he had had any working nerves left.

Soon, Harry figured that Henry was actually a very talk-active person, when not in his wife's presence. If this was evidence of a great relationship, Harry didn't want to speculate in, but he suspected more during the end of the train ride that Henry wasn't going on a business trip at all. Wisely, Harry didn't say anything, and when they stood at King's Cross Henry was more than happy to be left alone without any goodbyes. Harry thought he saw someone with long, curly hair greet Henry, but he ran too fast to actually get a proper look. He felt sorry, though, for Henry's wife. Her life wasn't what she thought it was. And maybe she was happier to be oblivious than to know the truth

***

The Leaky Cauldron was as grubby-looking as ever. Harry took a deep breath before going into the dark pub. It looked like it would do twenty years in the future, with no much difference to notice. The bartender Tom looked the same as well, except that he perhaps had some more real teeth. Harry walked self-consciously up to the bar desk where Tom talked to a man with vividly red hair. Perhaps he was a Weasly? Harry forced himself to not look at the red-head. He waited until Tom's attention was on him. Harry saw in the corner of his eye how the other man studied him, giving a weird glance at the sunglasses.

"You're Tom?" he asked with a low voice.

"I am", answered the barman, peering at the boy. The clothes were muggle, but they fit so oddly, that the man didn't doubt that the boy was a pureblood wizard with no clue about the muggle-world. The question was why he would meet such a young boy (or was he already a man? It was hard to tell with those sunglasses.) dressed in that outfit in these dark times. But maybe it was because of the dark times he met this kind of children. Last night the young Sirius Black had come in and ordered a room, obviously running away from his family. Perhaps this was a similar matter. And then the boy (man?) seemed to crack his neck, but Tom saw that the youngster had given the people in the pub an evaluating glance, seeing the eyes behind the glasses going rapidly from side to side. Tom stiffened slightly, enough to let Gideon notice, and too subtle for the youngster (man?... yes, definitely a young man) to take care. A quick glance at the side, and then Harry asked in a lower voice:

"Is there a way for you to give a message to someone?"

"That depends", said Tom, carefully. It was hard to hear how young the voice was, when spoken so low. "Who's the receiver?"

Harry looked at the old man, the bald reflecting the lamplight. As far as Harry knew, Tom was loyal to Dumbledore. And he had been the first person greeting him back to the wizarding world, with tears in his eyes.

"Albus Dumbledore."

"It can be fixed. But why don't you go to an owlery?"

Harry blushed involuntarily. He hoped it wouldn't show that much. It was always frustrating to depend on others.

"I don't have any money… And I heard that it absolutely would reach Dumbledore if I gave the message to you." He saw the look Tom gave the other man. "I'll pay you back of course", he added quickly. "But I have to reach Dumbledore as quickly as possible."

Tom blinked at the intense tone of the last words.

"Dumbledore is away a couple of days. Headmaster-businesses, you know." Harry's face fell slightly. Away? Dumbledore was away? What the hell was Harry supposed to do now? Tom gave him a piece of parchment and a quill that had seen better days. "Write a note to him, and I'll send it tonight. Be careful with secrets, though." Harry nodded and thanked him. He pondered a little what he would write, resisting the urge to put the almost ancient quill in his mouth.

Headmaster Dumbledore

I would like to meet you as soon as possible.

It is most important that I can talk with you.

Here he stopped, looking up.

"Is it possible for me to stay here, until Dumbledore answers? I mean", he hastened, "I don't have any money, but I can cook and clean… or I can pay back later, if you want that." He silenced himself when he realized that he blabbered. Tom was looking at him with a calculating look in his eyes.

"What about this: You stay the night here, and if the offer still stands tomorrow I'll think about it." Harry practically beamed at him. "You have to share room, though, everything else is full. And I would warn you Mr…"

"Harry. Just Harry." Here, he figured, the title the Boy-Who-Lived wouldn't be useful. Here he was 'just Harry', even if it were only for appearance.

"Harry, then. The youngster you're sharing a room with is strongly objected to the dark arts, so choose topic carefully."

"I don't think we'll have a problem, then. Thank you." Those two words were the most honest ones he had ever said in this time.

I am staying at the Leaky Cauldron for the moment, and if I move, Tom will know where I am.

/ Harry

He folded the note and gave it to Tom. Tom folded the parchment and put it in his pocket, before going round the bar desk.

"The rooms are upstairs. Gideon, you'll take care of things." The other man, Gideon (Prewett? Molly Weasley's brother? That would explain the red hair...), nodded. It seemed like he was used to be a substitute for Tom from time to time.

Harry followed Tom upstairs, down the corridor to a spaced room with two bunk-beds in it. The one at the left wall was already occupied, so Tom steered Harry to the other bunk-bed.

"This is a shared room. That means shared responsibility, but also a lower price than if you would've had a single room." He stated some quite obvious rules about consideration to the other occupant in the room, cleaning, and stuff like that. When he was sure Harry would be fine on his own, he began to leave the room. He halted at the door.

"Where is your luggage, Harry?" He didn't know if he liked this familiarity that a first name could create; it tended to weaken the suspiciousness of one's character. He didn't trust this Harry yet, but he thought it would be better for Harry to think that he did. This was suspicious times, after all.

"I don't have any."

With a grunt that could have been either sympathetic or just accepting, Tom left Harry for himself. Harry, tired from the time-travelling, immediately fell asleep on the unused bed, in shoes and all.

***

Some time later, when the sky lighted up the room bright red through the window, the creaking door was opened by the other room's occupant.

Harry got quite the nasty shock when he realised that the youngster Tom had talked about was none other than his 16-year-old godfather, Sirius Black.

A/N Please, read and review. Constructive criticism is always welcome.