The next morning, Harry awoke feeling stiff but otherwise as apathetic as ever. Somehow, sleeping on cobblestone was even more uncomfortable than sleeping on packed dirt. He stretched, ran a hand through his hair and staggered back onto the main street of Diagon Alley.
He wandered aimlessly, vaguely hoping that moving about would give him some idea of what to do. As he drifted down the street, he forced himself to ignore the suspicious and even fearful stares he received. No doubt people with Harry's appearance were more commonly found in the seedier Knockturn Alley.
Just as Harry was preparing himself for the possibility of finding an out-of-the-way alley to take a nap in when he realized that he was standing in front of Jones' Medical Supply.
"Proudly serving Britain since 1934," Harry read aloud thoughtfully. The slogan was printed below the sign on the shop in swirling script.
And then, with what could have safely been called intrigue in his voice, he read the sign in the front window. "Help wanted. I wonder…"
And so, after taking a moment to make himself look slightly more presentable (licking one's palm to smooth one's hair back isn't a very suave move, but at least Harry had the sense to use his left hand), Harry entered Jones' Medical Supply once more.
"Welcome to Jones', what can I do for you toda--" Mr. Jones' greeting died on his lips as he caught sight of Harry.
"You," he said, disbelief warring with disgust in his voice. "What're you doing back here, Smith?"
Harry shrugged listlessly. "There's a help wanted sign in the window. Mr. Jones."
"I need a shop boy, not a gruesome old man," Jones scoffed. "Trust you me, I know no-good layabouts when I see them!"
Were Harry in a better state of mind, he would have been angered by the language so often leveled at him by his late uncle. As it was, he simply shrugged again. "I'm only twenty, sir. And not too proud to do grunt work."
Jones now found himself in a dilemma. He had been seeking someone to fill this particular position in his shop for nearly a month now with no luck, and running the shop alone was far from easy. But he didn't trust this Smith man. For one thing, he couldn't be nearly so young as twenty. Jones had guessed him at thirty at the very least. And besides that, the unkempt appearance and gruesome scarring spoke of suspicious activity, perhaps even…dark activities. What kind of person developed such an appearance in peaceful times?
While Jones debated himself over whether Harry was a risk worth taking, the potential employee in question stood patiently before the front counter, awaiting his decision. If he could land this job, then he could afford food, and if he was lucky a cheap flat. By this point in his life, he considered food and shelter a luxury more than anything else. But that didn't mean that, just as in his bland childhood at the Dursley's, he wished for more, in a place so deep in his subconscious that he wasn't even fully aware of it. Harry possessed a great desire in his soul; not just to live, but to live well and be happy. No matter how scarred he became on the inside or outside, his soul would continue to guide him toward this ultimate goal.
"You get a week," Jones said abruptly, pulling Harry from his drifting thoughts. "One week, to prove that you're not some worthless bum. And I can terminate the deal at any time. Think you can handle that?"
Jones was clearly trying to get a rise out of Harry, but Harry was in no state of mind to oblige him. After all, the man was sarcastic and seemed to be capable of verbal cruelty, but he was no Snape. Or Voldemort, for that matter.
"It's a deal," Harry said, finally allowing himself to look Jones in the eye. If the older man was startled by the intensity of his gaze, he didn't show it; instead, he simply leaned over the counter and presented his hand to shake on the arrangement.
Harry took the hand, not knowing the long and dangerous path that their deal would lead him on.