August, 1998

Harry lowered his wand as the dummy exploded, his spell causing it to incinerate and the force of the blast scattering its contents across the training room floor. He felt the familiar heat from the spell on his face as the smoke wafted towards him, taking a second to appreciate the echo from the sound of his curse that reverberated throughout the chamber. He dodged the spells being shot by the other trainers, jumping to avoid a streak of red light that nearly grazed his foot, and dodging another spell near his head with a tactical roll that his trainer had taught him after a couple weeks of classes. His heart raced as he bounded back up to his feet, letting the adrenaline his body created guide him through the exercises.

There were never real curses being used on him. They were simulations being produced by the auror trainers that looked and felt very near to the real thing, but there was usually the part of Harry that was able to separate wartime from practice, to know he was still safe in his training environment. Sometimes, when he was in a perilous situation, he had used this strategy in reverse, pretending it was just like practice and then letting his instincts guide him to the right decision that needed to be made. The right spell, the right move, the gut feeling telling him to engage or to play it safe. It was what he had done throughout his whole life, with Quidditch, with his coursework, with the quest for Horcruxes and the defeat of Voldemort. A constant dance of practicing and acting on instinct.

He was learning, however, it was getting a bit harder for him to navigate through the muddled waters of training and real-life application of his magic as the days wore on. He was now both shadowing aurors on their missions and drilling for hours upon end in the ministry, and it was difficult knowing when it was appropriate to take his guard down. The result had been a mixture of adequate training intermingled with fleeting moments of terror that further reinforced Harry's need to be prepared for the worst. The phrase "constant vigilance" echoed in his head, reminding him that he was doing this to protect the people he cared about, not because it was easy. He had to succeed, because to fail would mean letting down those he had already died to protect.

"Good, very good! Now keep your senses about you, be looking out for unexpected obstacles!"

His trainer, a man named Curtis Fletcher who had been taught directly by Kingsley when he had first started in the Auror Department, was grading his performance and evaluating the methods Harry chose for their review session later. He was a good fighter and an even better teacher, but best of all, he never brought up the fact that Harry was the "chosen one", and treated him just as he would any other trainee. Harry was sometimes stuck in the ministry doing hours of overtime so he could meet his training benchmarks, and Fletcher never left the office himself until he was confident that Harry had mastered whatever it was they were working through.

The encouragement from Fletcher bolstering his resolve, Harry set his jaw and continued on in the course, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm.

The next barrier that Harry encountered burst into a wall of flames before he was able to scale it. He used his wand to cast a shield charm which protected his body from the heat of the flames, and took a running start before vaulting himself over the other side of the barricade. He ran down the next aisle of obstacles, skirting another jet of light and scaling a short, brick wall as quickly as he could, dropping nimbly to the other side, once again landing on his feet.

"Perfect execution, Potter. Keep it up!"

He paused when he got to the other side of the wall, because he realized almost instantly what the next challenge would be. It was a large wooden chest, held shut with thick leather straps. It opened before he had the chance to mentally prepare himself, or even to think about what form his boggart might be assuming since the war had taken place.

He started breathing heavily, rooting his feet to the ground and trying to control his shaking wand hand.

To his horror, it was not a dementor that climbed out of the trunk to greet him. It was Fred Weasley, his skin the color of fallen snow, and his eyes as lifeless as they had been when Harry had seen his body laid in the Great Hall. He was still wearing the smile that Harry had seen on his face when he had been killed. Behind him, Tonks emerged in the background, her hair the muted, dull brown color it had been during the last years of her life, not the bubblegum pink it had been when she was happiest. Remus Lupin joined her side, his robes tattered and shabby, reaching instinctively for Tonks's hand.

"How many boggarts did you put in here?" Harry shouted at Fletcher, his voice wavering slightly as he raised his wand. He tried to focus on the figures steadily approaching him, repeating the correct words in his head, but somehow still unable to move...

"Ridikulus," He muttered, trying to make the figures disappear before they could wreak further havoc on his mind. "Ridikulus!" he yelled, louder this time, but he knew that nothing would happen. He couldn't summon any kind of happy thought that would help him dispel these creatures. He was letting down the very professor who had taught him this spell in the first place. He was letting everyone down again and again, even after their deaths. Most of these people would still be alive if it wasn't for him.

The walls started closing in on him, and he realized slowly what was happening. His head was spinning, he saw stars in his peripheral vision, and then, before he could stop himself, he collapsed.

...

Harry came to in a brightly lit room, with a wet cloth resting on his face. He sat up quickly. He had been levitated into a hospital bed in the recovery quarters of the auror training office, and his trainer was sitting across from him appearing to be checking some boxes off some paperwork.

"Not bad, Potter." Fletcher said approvingly. "Your training is improving, we just need to work on some of the more difficult exercises. It's perfectly normal for those who have experienced some of the things that you have."

"Er... Thanks." Harry said, not really sure of how to handle this situation. "Did I -"

"Yes, you lost consciousness for about 10 minutes, after the boggart exercise. I had the healers bring you in here."

"Oh. Sorry."

"There's no need to apologize," Fletcher said, offering a small smile. "It wouldn't hurt to get you over to see a ministry doctor, though. St. Mungos has a program that specializes in trauma care, I can see if Kingsley will sign off on a leave of absence for treatment."

Harry blinked quickly, clearing his throat.

"Sorry, treatment? Trauma care? I'm fine, Curtis. Really. I just need a bit of time. It's happened before and it always goes away, I just need to work harder."

Fletcher smiled encouragingly.

"Working harder isn't always the answer to everything, Harry. With the amount of hours you've put into training, you'd be having no problems at all, if that were the case."

"Yeah, but I'm fine. I'm really fine." Harry stood up and began pacing around the small room, feeling a familiar sense of aggravation boiling up within him. It reminded him of the indignancy he felt in his fifth year, when he had been telling the truth about Voldemort being back but nobody believed him. It hadn't been the first time Fletcher had brought this up to him; in fact, when he had first gotten hired, the same Trauma Care department in St. Mungo's was recommended to most of the new hires who had just left Hogwarts to join the auror training program. "Trust me, I've… I've been through this before. I can do it again," he finished, determined to convince Fletcher that he wasn't going to be stopped by something as trivial as this.

"Harry, I've specifically placed boggarts in your exercises for the last two weeks of training, and I've not seen any improvements. We spent an entire session last week working on your patronus, and you've been able to conjure that for years. I don't doubt that you've been through this before, but it's not nothing, and I want to treat it as such."

"I said it's fine!" Harry practically shouted, clenching his fists and turning to face away from Curtis so he wouldn't have to see the look on his face. Harry had to control this, he had to find a way to reign this part of himself in. He had to admit he had become increasingly frustrated with himself since he had kissed Draco. The wound was too fresh - the question of whether or not he was gay, whether Draco hated him still, whether he was absolute rubbish at kissing and Draco just couldn't be bothered with his sloppy attempt at intimacy, whether Draco thought of him at all. It was embarrassing beyond belief, and it was worse because now Harry was having dreams about Draco, instead of the people who had died during the war.

The first time it had happened, Harry had awoken feeling so guilty, so absolutely wretched that the memories of the people he loved were being pushed out of his subconscious by some fantasy he was entertaining about Draco that he had completely fucked up his training that day. Over the next few weeks, as the dreams continued, it became increasingly difficult to focus, and Fletcher was beginning to notice. There was so much shame, so much regret that Harry had been shoving down for as long as he could remember; it was inevitable that some of it would start seeping through to the surface when he let his guard down.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," Curtis said, not reacting to Harry's outburst in the way that Harry expected him to. He stepped around to the desk on the other side of the room, pulling out the paperwork for Harry's discharge. "Why don't you take the afternoon off? You've done an excellent job today. Go get some rest, and we'll start again in the morning. Alright?"

Harry nodded, feeling foolish for getting so worked up when Curtis had only told him something that he already knew. He began to leave the room, but turned around once more before he had left.

"Curtis, please don't cut my training schedule because of this. I'm willing to do what it takes, and I'll work out all the personal stuff on my own. I promise."

Fletcher placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, his kind eyes glinting with reassurance.

"Potter, we haven't had someone in the department with as much promise as you in decades. We're not about to let you just walk away."

Harry nodded again, trying to suppress the insecurities plaguing his thoughts.

"Now take care of yourself. That's an order. Alright?"

Harry tried his best to force a smile.

"I won't let you down, sir."

...

Diagon Alley was almost a completely different place than it had been when Harry had first visited with Hagrid to purchase his school supplies in his first year of Hogwarts. Many of the storefronts were abandoned, their dark windows or boarded up entrances casting an eerie glow on a place that had once seemed like a magical wonderland to Harry. He walked down the cobblestone road from Gringotts to the Leaky Cauldron, where he had agreed to meet Ginny when he found out he would be free from training for the rest of the day.

The two had only seen each other a handful of times since the battle at Hogwarts. He knew she needed space to heal and process things; her method of grieving was not too different from his own. He had definitely created space for himself to heal, as well, though recent events were causing him to wonder if maybe he had left too much space. It was August, and he knew Ginny would be needing to get her school things eventually, so he offered to spend the afternoon with her in Diagon Alley collecting what she needed for the year.

She was sitting in a corner of the dingy pub, wearing a playful, dark blue sundress that hugged her curves like it was created to single-handedly seduce all of the men in Britain. Her long, red hair was tucked behind her ears, and the darkened freckles on her nose gave her a sort of golden, ethereal glow. She wasn't even trying to look beautiful, Harry could tell. She had thrown on a dress to detract attention from the bags under her eyes, which seemed to be a kind of universal indicator of suffering since the war had taken what it did from the wizarding world.

"Merlin, Gin you look gorgeous," he said as he approached her. She stood up, pulling him into a hug. Her hair had it's usual flowery scent, and Harry held her a little longer than usual just so he could take it all in.

"Wish that was why people were staring," she muttered, sitting back down in her chair. She had ordered a small plate of chips, and had a butterbeer for each of them on the wooden table.

"Are you sure it's not? He asked, grinning. It was nice to be back to their normal, casual banter that didn't include flashbacks from the war. "That dress is nothing to be trifled with."

"Glad we both agree," she laughed, popping a chip into her mouth. "This dress could commit murder and walk away like it was nothing."

Harry laughed, scooting in a bit closer and stealing one of the chips on the table. Ginny was definitely right about the staring. He had avoided being out in public as much as possible since May, and that had been one of the reasons why. Even walking into the pub, there had been about 6 or 7 individuals who had whipped their heads around to catch a second glimpse of him. Here in the Leaky Cauldron, there were families all over the sitting area whispering to each other and pointing at him and Ginny. He had always been used to a certain level of publicity within wizarding communities because of his scar, but it had definitely gotten worse since the war.

"Maybe they're just surprised we're real, human beings who have to eat real food, and not robots created by the ministry to save the world," Harry offered.

"Oh, that's bollucks. The ministry could never design robots as charming and intelligent as ourselves."

"Touche," He replied, staring subconsciously at the stairway to the inn upstairs. He wondered if Malfoy was still staying here, if he could potentially be in this building at this very moment. The thought of that sent butterflies flying madly inside Harry's stomach.

He couldn't help thinking about the dreams he had been having, the ones that had completely overtaken the nightmares he had been accustomed to since the war. It would always start out the same way, with himself and Draco in his house like they had been a couple weeks ago. Sometimes the circumstances were different; the reason why Draco was there would change, as well as the person who initiated the kiss. Each time his subconscious visited the event Draco and himself got a little further, and Harry would awake with a stiff erection that could only be facilitated by finishing the scene in his head, imagining about a million different endings to what had started in his kitchen. It had gotten to the point where Harry would have to mastrubate to the fantasy sometimes three or four times a day just to keep the thoughts at bay. The whole thing was undeniably confusing, and often made him wonder if he had ever been interested in girls to begin with. The worst part was that he was sitting here with Ginny, someone he loved and respected and definitely envisioned having some sort of a future with, and his eyes kept wandering up the staircase like he could see Draco standing naked at the top of it.

He sipped his butterbeer, pulling himself away from the daydream he had been having. Ginny was talking about which stores she would need to go into to gather her school supplies. He listened attentively, nodding in recognition as she was speaking and muttering things like "mhm," and "yeah, of course" under his breath until he realized that Ginny was waving a hand in front of his eyes.

"Harry, I just asked you if you would get Kreacher's face tattooed on your arse."

"Sorry, what?"

"You said yes, so if I were you I'd get that appointment set up straight away."

"Gin, I'm sorry," Harry sighed, trying to wipe his mind clean of everything besides the conversation they were having. "I've just been...distracted lately. There's been a lot going on."

"You always do this." She laughed, pulling him to his feet and leaving a couple galleons on the table for the food and butterbeer, most of which were untouched. "Come on. Let's go for a walk."

...

The hot August sun was beating down on them overhead. Ginny walked besides Harry, passing the shop windows he had brushed by earlier. He tried to think, as he often did, of what might be on her mind. Her face revealed no emotions whatsoever, as it usually did. He knew that Fred's death had shaken her to her very core, but she didn't show it in the slightest. The only meager betrayal of her steadfast, unbreakable exterior was the tired look on her face, and the circles around her eyes. If he hadn't been sleeping well, he couldn't imagine what she was going through.

He wandered into Flourish and Blotts with her, helped her pick up potion ingredients at the apothecary, and then both of them gravitated naturally to Quality Quidditch Supplies, where they began browsing the shelves and investigating the new Firebolt Supreme prototype model. They didn't have to catch up on much, as both of them were quite content just commenting on the new features of the broom, or exploring the gadgets they could find on the shelves. Harry was shocked when he checked his watch and realized they had spent nearly 45 minutes in the Quidditch shop alone.

"Fancy a drink before you head back?" he asked, carrying the parcels with all of her school things out of the shop when they had finally decided they'd had enough.

"Hermione told me not to drink with you," Ginny smirked, linking her hands together and swinging them out in front of her while she walked, her short dress flowing in the gentle breeze. "So yes, I would love one."

"She has to stop telling people that. So far she's the only person I haven't drank with."

"Yes, but then you'll have to have the inevitable conversation about her not being your mother. That just can't go well, can it?"

"Trust me, I've tried it many times before, and nothing has seemed to stick yet."

They were walking under the awning of Florean Fortescue's old ice cream parlor, which had since been boarded up after his death. Ginny cracked a joke that Harry barely registered, beaming at him out of the corner of her eye, and Harry was suddenly struck with an overwhelming feeling of desire - something he hadn't felt towards Ginny since the first couple weeks in which they had been dating. Harry stopped in his tracks and swallowed quickly, biting back the urge to lean forward and kiss her. They had decided to put things on hold after the war, just to give both of them a little time to make sense of things on their own, but now he was staring at her, with her auburn eyelashes and golden freckles and sweet-smelling hair and he couldn't think of a reason why he shouldn't.

"What's wrong, Harry?" She said, her voice tinged with concern, and bringing him out of his own mind.

And then he remembered why he shouldn't kiss her. Just one look from those beautiful, brown eyes assured him that she was still very much in love with him. It was lightly coded in the way she teased, in the way she looked at him when she thought he wasn't noticing. A tidal wave of guilt washed over him and he suddenly felt that he needed to get as far away from Ginny as possible. He wanted to kiss her, yes, but he also spent hours every day fantasizing about fucking Draco Malfoy. How he had been feeling about Draco was deeply troubling in its own right, but now he was realizing that it could affect Ginny as well, should they continue on the path they were going down. He wasn't sure if he was ready for that kind of commitment right now, with so many uncertainties in his mind.

"Sorry, I was just thinking," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the ground and avoiding Ginny's face as much as possible. "Maybe Hermione has a point. Why don't we turn in for the night, maybe do this some other time?"

"Oh?" Ginny's tone had changed, and Harry could tell he had hurt her feelings.

"Yeah, it's been loads of fun, though. I can help you carry these back to the leaky cauldron so you can floo home if you'd like,"

"Don't worry, I've got it." She took the parcels from him and gave him a very forced, unnatural smile. "See you round, Harry."

She strode away briskly, her flaming red hair flowing behind her in the breeze. Harry exhaled deeply, tilting his head back to look up at the evening sky. It was turning vibrant shades of orange and purple near the horizon as the sun began to set. This could have been such a beautiful night. He closed his eyes briefly, wishing more than anything that he could be someone else, someone whose mind was not troubled by traumatic nightmares or pale blonde boys who confused the shit out of him.

God, he needed a drink.

He snapped out of his trance almost immediately as a loud clicking noise sounded, accompanied by a bright flash. A reporter was now standing in the street in front of him, having likely just captured the front page for whatever tabloid they represented.

"Oi, what are you looking at?" Harry bellowed, and the man retreated slightly, withdrawing his camera from Harry's face. Harry was reminded for a nauseating second of Colin Creevey. His mind instantly jumped to the image of the boy's corpse lying on the table in the Great Hall, right next to those of Tonks, Fred, Lupin, Lavender, and so many more of the people that had died for him that night.

"Piss off," he muttered, shoving past the reporter and apparating in the middle of the street.

...

He had only been to this bar once before, a couple weeks after Draco had come to visit him. He wasn't sure what he had been trying to prove at the time, if he had been trying to convince himself he wasn't actually bent, or if he was just seeking refuge in a welcoming, friendly environment. Either way he had decided to pay a visit to the place that Remus and Sirius had scrawled letters back and forth about, the bustling, muggle gay bar which was not terribly far from Grimmauld Place.

When Harry had stepped in through the door for the first time and descended the neon, light-up steps to the dance floor, his jaw had nearly dropped to the ground. There were men everywhere, dancing and grinding to the beat of the music, kissing, sharing drinks and laughs over in the lounge area, caressing each other with absolutely no inhibitions. It was the most hedonistic, exciting thing that Harry had ever walked into. He had gone straight to the bar, where he struck up a bit of a conversation with the bartender and gradually learned that his godfather used to be an old regular at this place. It hadn't surprised Harry too much when he had found out that Sirius had been gay; Ever since he had stumbled across some of Sirius' old letters from friends in Grimmauld Place he had suspected as much, but it was somehow comforting to know that he was sitting in the same spot that Sirius often had, and that both of them shared this hidden part of their identities. Harry knew enough to understand that homosexuality was more taboo in the wizarding world than it was the muggle world, which was saying something. He thought back to the jokes that children used to make about him in primary school, before he had gone to Hogwarts. How Dudley's gang used to call him "faggot" or "poofta" for being a skinny, 11-year-old outcast. But here… that very quality was being celebrated in a way that Harry couldn't have imagined in his wildest dreams.

This was the bar Harry had chosen to apparate outside of when he had left Diagon Alley. He hadn't danced with anyone or tried anything adventurous the first time he had been here, and he doubted anything would happen tonight either, but it was the only bar he could think of where there wouldn't be swarms of people staring at him or trying to get his autograph. At least here he could just drink and feel somewhat like a normal person again.

The bartender was probably in his 60s, with a bald head and a well groomed, white beard. He smiled when he saw Harry again, reaching instinctively to make the drink that apparently had been Sirius' regular too: Jameson whiskey with a shot of cinnamon. Harry had thought he had been so clever ordering this the first time, and the confirmation from the bartender that Sirius had thought of the same, muggle recipe for Firewhiskey as he had was more euphoric than the warm, comforting burn of the alcohol in his chest.

"I'll take another one," he smiled, laying down a couple muggle notes on the bar in front of him.

"Let me," a deep voice spoke from over his shoulder, pushing the money back towards Harry and motioning to the bartender that he wanted two of what Harry was having. "They're better at the Leaky, for the record."

Harry looked sideways at the man, his heart giving a lurch in his chest as he realized that he wasn't the only person here who wasn't a muggle. The man was tall, very fit looking and tanned, as though he spent a lot of time out in the non-existent British sunshine. Come to think of it, his accent sounded American, as Harry could tell from the programs he had watched on Dudley's television whenever the Dursleys were away from home. He didn't think he had ever talked with an American before, much less had one buy him a drink.

"Thanks," he said, a bit sheepishly. It was safe to assume that if this man frequented the Leaky Cauldron, he probably knew who Harry was.

"I'm Mitch," he said, extending a hand to Harry. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I know I'm not used to finding blokes in here who enjoy firewhiskey as much as myself."

Harry was startled to find that he wasn't as caught off guard by this man's wizarding background as he was by his appearance. Mitch had sandy coloured hair, deep brown eyes accented by gorgeous, thick eyelashes, and the most exquisite bone structure Harry had ever seen. He almost had to do a double take when the man took a seat next to Harry at the bar.

"I er - Yeah. I'm Harry," he stuttered, wiping his hand nervously on his pants and then extending it to the man.

"Good to meet you," Mitch smiled, and his teeth were almost as blindingly white as Gilderoy Lockhart's. "Have to say, it's always a bit of a relief when I see someone here that runs in the same circles as us. I might not be a muggle, but I still have a pulse."

"Do people from… our circles wander in here often?" Harry asked, genuinely curious. The firewhiskey had brought a light flush to his cheeks, but if he was being completely honest, he wasn't sure the heat under his collar was from the alcohol or the man seated next to him. Not that he needed to have his suspicions confirmed another time, but he was absolutely, beyond a shadow of a doubt, attracted to men.

"Every now and then," Mitch responded, and he cringed slightly when he added "I hate to say it, but normally no one as recognizable as you."

"Fuck," Harry muttered, grinning in spite of himself. "I came here to get away from that."

"I don't blame you. I couldn't imagine being in your shoes," Mitch stared ahead at the bar shelf, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. "Just watch out for people trying to take your picture here, you don't want that plastered on the tabloids."

"I literally just had someone waving a camera in my face. If it doesn't die down soon, I'm going to need facial reconstructive surgery."

Mitch laughed, a hearty, booming sound that was more comforting than Harry expected.

"You're funny," he said, grinning again. "They always make you out to be some stuffy, holier than thou hero in the papers. I know you're probably sick of hearing people rattle on about the papers, but you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I know." Harry raised his eyebrows, taking another drink of the whiskey and letting the burning sensation console his nerves. "You accent - Are you American?" he asked, figuring it was worth mentioning. It was either that, or maybe Canadian.

"Mhm," Mitch responded, in between sips of his drink. "I'm a lawyer, I've been working in the London institute for the last couple years." Harry nodded in recognition; It wasn't uncommon for the Ministry to commission talented Wizarding Law Institute Graduates to work on some of the higher profile cases in the Auror Department. Harry knew from the trials he had observed that the lawyer's services didn't come cheap. Hermione had actually looked into attending the institute herself after she finished up her last year of Hogwarts, a decision which both Ron and Harry had decided to opt out of.

"Do you like it?" Harry asked, just making conversation.

"It's a living," Mitch responded. "I think that's what most people say about their jobs, anyways."

Hearing Mitch talk like this about his career lifted his spirits substantially, given the particularly trying day Harry had at the ministry. Harry was glad that that he and this man had just so happened to stumble into the same, muggle gay bar on the same Thursday night.

"I feel like I'm rubbish at mine," Harry said honestly, not knowing why he was sharing so much with someone he had just met five minutes ago. "Everyone seems to get it except me."

"Not everyone has been through what you have," Mitch said, echoing Fletcher's sentiments earlier. "They probably don't get how you've done all the things you have."

"Neither do I, honestly." Harry said candidly, coaxing another laugh out of the man, who drained the rest of his whiskey and promptly ordered another round. "It was mostly luck. That, and other people working harder than me."

"I suppose that's possible," Mitch said, frowning slightly. "But it's really not the most likely of scenarios."

"You sound like everyone else I have ever met," Harry responded, maybe a little snarkier than he was meaning to. Maybe he was a little drunker than he had been meaning to get, too.

"So...Question for you," Mitch said, shifting the subject as he started on his new whiskey. "How is it that you've managed to live half your life in the public eye and completely hide the fact that you're gay? Do you just know the right people in the Public Relations business?"

Harry squinted as he thought of the right answer to this question.

"Well, I'm not sure. That I'm gay, that is. I think I'm probably, most likely bisexual."

Mitch raised his eyebrows, looking impressed.

"Progressive," he said, pulling a face that feigned that he was in deep thought. "So no boyfriend?"

"No, nothing like that." Harry smiled, his face turning properly red now. The thought entered his mind that this man might be trying to hit on him, but he quickly dismissed it. Mitch had to be at least in his thirties, and he was clearly just bonding with Harry over the fact that they were the only magical people in this club. Besides, he looked to be far outside of Harry's league, even if he was flirting. There was no way anything would come of it.

"Ok, don't tell me you secretly work for Witch Weekly," Harry quipped back, figuring that humor was the only way he could carry on some semblance of a normal conversation.

"Oh God, no." Mitch laughed again, and Harry got another glimpse of his shockingly white teeth. "No, I just… I know what it's like being closeted in this community. They certainly don't make it easy on us, they never have. All the blood status nonsense mingled in with it, it's just hard."

Harry nodded, glad he had found someone who at least could speak to the complex dynamic of being a queer wizard in this world.

"Thanks," Harry said, not really sure of what else to say.

"Just know that you're not alone. And if you do decide to come out, with the whole world watching, I think you could really change some bigoted minsets that have been stuck in the 1400s for far too long."

Harry hadn't thought of that before. Not that he had ever considered the possibility of coming out publicly, but the idea that children looked up to him, that the whole wizarding world was watching his every move was starting to sink in a little deeper when he thought about his sexuality. For some reason it sent a shiver down his spine, a tingling of fear that he hadn't realized was there when he had walked into this bar experimentally a couple weeks ago. This had higher stakes than he had really contemplated before, and that thought alone made him want to curl up inside his flat and never set foot outside his door again.

Mitch must have noticed the expression on his face transform slightly.

"I feel like I overstepped," he said apologetically.

"No, it's not that… I'm actually needing to get up pretty early tomorrow. I should head home."

"It's obviously your personal decision, whether or not to come out. It wasn't my place -"

"No, it's nothing, really, I just… I just should probably be more careful. Moving forward, that is." Harry offered a reassuring smile. "And I've got training at 6 AM, I probably shouldn't be drinking as it is."

"Oh - Alright," Mitch looked concerned, and Harry couldn't help feeling a pang of guilt for this ungraceful exit he was making.

"Thanks for the drink," Harry said, offering a lopsided smile and wave at the bartender as he turned to leave, the pulse of the music still vibrating through his body.

…

What was he doing? Harry thought to himself as he jogged up the steps to the street, taking a right to head back to Grimmauld Place. Why hadn't he understood the implications of his exploratory visits here? As Mitch said back in the bar, Harry had spent half his life in the public eye, with the wizarding community praising or villainizing him for his every action. Of course they would turn the matter of his sexuality into a giant media affair. People would take their sides, deciding whether he was a noble pioneer of progress within the wizarding world, or a perverted, sexually depraved deviant who set a terrible example for those who looked up to him. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself for this reason, or make some unintentional political statement. It wasn't just as easy as him deciding he liked kissing Draco, or blushing in a crowded bar when a handsome stranger bought him a drink. Nothing could ever be that simple.

He wasn't normal, as much as he enjoyed pretending that he could be mistaken for a muggle in a gay bar, an anonymous stranger with no lasting trauma from the encounters that he had been put through, and no international wizarding organization analzying everything he did. He would have given anything in that moment to be a scrawny, 11-year-old boy again, magical or not.

…

It was about a 20 minute walk for Harry to get home, which he figured was probably his safest bet after the couple rounds of whiskey he had drank at the bar. The heat of the day had finally lifted, and the city was left with a warm, humid fog hanging in the air, as though someone had tried to smother all of London with a blanket. He wasn't upset with it though; the weight of the air around him was somehow comforting as he walked alone on the lamplit sidewalks. He decided to take a detour to cross over to the riverbank, which was only a couple of blocks out of his way. As soon as he had made it to the Thames, the humidity in the air was helped by the soft breeze coming off of the water. He found the bench that he had sat in a couple times before now, a comfortable resting spot on the roof of a small shop along the west bank.

He sat there and watched the business professionals stride purposefully along the walk, the families who were clearly touring the city bustling along at their own, slightly slower pace. Slowest of all were the lovers, their hands intertwined, lingering on each step along the riverfront and trying to make a minute feel like an hour. It was these people that Harry thought about the most, what was going on in their heads, what it was that made them seem like they didn't have a single care in the world. If he were living in a simpler world, that could have been him and Ginny, he supposed. They were both attracted to each other, both had fun with each other. They could play the part convincingly, walking hand-in-hand along the water and marvelling at the beauty of the city at night together. But to Harry, it wouldn't be enough, somehow. He was always going to wonder what it would be like if he didn't settle, if he let the passion lead him instead of his desire for complacency. He couldn't live not knowing.

But he didn't know how to know, either. He hadn't the faintest idea where to start.

He sat at the bench until the crowds started trickling down to only a couple stragglers here and there, and only when the trash collectors started cleaning up the park around him did he decide to head home.