Disclaimer – I should have said this before but these are not my characters or world, etc etc, no money being made, etc, etc, please don't sue.

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Three weeks after walking quite literally away from magic, Harry found himself in a forest. He'd spent the last three weeks walking mostly, hitchhiking when someone would pick him up (ignoring the Hermione-voice that scolded about dangerous strangers firmly all the while) and sleeping rough to conserve his store of pounds. Forests were good – they were peaceful and pleasant enough now no one was chasing him, and no one was around to care if he slept among the bracken and ferns.

That was when he did sleep – nightmares plagued him and he woke more than once in a cold sweat. He'd get up and keep walking at that point, grateful the weather was warming up and that he was mostly by himself. Sometimes he'd see other hikers but he didn't seek their company, waving from a distance when they insisted on some form of acknowledgement.

There was an enormous thunder storm brewing. So far Harry had been lucky with the weather, the blanket he'd brought as an afterthought all he'd needed for shelter. Now it wouldn't do at all. He was trudging through the undergrowth, looking for a place where he could build some sort of shelter when he spotted the back of a large shed. Picking up his pace, because the wind was starting to really howl now, Harry hurried to see if he could find a way into the shed, preferably without causing damage so as not to get the police after him.

As he rounded the corner he came upon the owner and mentally cursed his luck, even as the older man was cursing the door that was caught in the wind and threatening to knock him over. Harry leant his strength to the struggle and between them they got the door shut and barred.

"You'd better come inside," the man shouted and gestured at the stone house nestled in a very overgrown garden only a dozen yards or so from the shed. Thunder pealed loudly enough to wake the dead as they reached the back door and barely had they stepped inside before the heavens opened and rain drenched everything with the ferocity of a fire hose. (Harry had seen Dudley turn one on at school once – it had promptly knocked his cousin over and smashed a window, for which Harry was blamed.)

"Mr Baker," Harry's host held out a hand, "Thank you.""

"Harry Potter, you're welcome," Harry shook hands politely and slipped his bag off his shoulders as lightening strobed through the window and illuminated the room briefly, "Umm… I hope I can stay until the weather clears a bit?"

"Sure," Mr Baker replied with a shrug and switched on the kitchen light, "Would be a bit surly of me to refuse, after you helped with the door."

Harry decided not to mention that 'surly' could be some people's middle name and studied his host as he pushed his bag back into a corner by the door. The man was older than he, by quite a bit, and wore a long-sleeved cotton shirt, the cuffs rolled up to his elbows and stained jeans. His arms were muscular, his boots well broken in and his sandy hair had quite a bit of sawdust in it. Mr Baker was staring at Harry as keenly as Harry was at him, but the ex-wizard took no offence and waited to be told if he could sit at the table or not. He didn't fancy standing by the door all night. The kitchen was full of wooden furniture and cabinets, and was cluttered on nearly every surface. While it wasn't dirty per say, there was a layer of dust and disarray that spoke of its owner's disinclination to clean.

"Have a seat Harry Potter," Mr Baker waved a hand at one and Harry sat down gratefully, smiling his thanks.

"I'm going to make some tea," the other man continued, "Do you want one?"

"Yes please," Harry replied, "If it's no bother."

"Wouldn't have offered if it was," was the gruff reply. There was a newspaper on the table and Harry read it upside down while his host busied himself with pot and kettle. No splashy headlines about the missing 'Boy Who Lived' or even just 'Harry Potter', not that he'd been expecting them in Muggle news. A scandal in parliament (members from the cross bench had been sleeping with each other under their spouses' noses and the author couldn't' decide what was more shocking – the adultery or that they were from opposite political parties.) Some toddler had fallen down a storm drain after a pet and had to be rescued at great expense and 'would the Council be Improving Safety of the Storm Drain Systems' – as if toddlers should be let to play down their safely. Harry nearly snorted aloud at that one. A stained mug plonked down in front of him and he jumped, blushing at the reaction.

"Thank you," he still had his manners at least. Mr Baker grunted and shoved the paper over to him, which Harry took as permission to read it. He hadn't read anything for a while now, and certainly nothing for leisure purposes, so he leaned over the pages and skimmed them quickly.

"Been living rough?" the question caught him off guard as he was glancing at the football scores and he said yes before he'd had a chance to sensor himself. He had a moment of panic, but Mr Baker was not glaring at him or spouting off about useless dole bludgers so he waited for the next question, thinking quickly to put together a good cover story. He hadn't anticipated needing one so soon, for all that he'd been walking steadily for the last three weeks.

"Doing drugs?" Mr Baker's voice was sharper now and Harry shook his head quickly, then pushed the sleeves of his jacket up and showed his arms. They were unmarked of course, and he pulled the sleeves back down when Mr Baker nodded at him, the suspicion in his eyes fading. Harry wondered if the British magical society was demanding to see each other's forearms as well – searching for those who were Marked. He pushed the thought aside impatiently. He had chosen to walk away from that world and whatever they were doing now was nothing to do with him.

"I lost my family recently," Harry offered, as it was true, "I was in boarding school and I just… walked away. I'm of age, so there was no one to stop me."

This was also true, though it left every pertinent detail out. Mr Baker nodded after a moment and glanced at the clock. Eighteen was of age in the Muggle world and Harry was close enough to that birthday now that it made no never mind.

"Supper time," his host announced, "There's a bathroom at the top of the stairs and clean towels in the cupboard beside the sink. By the time you've washed up there will be a meal ready."

Harry blinked and then nodded. He still had some clean clothes in the rucksack, so he fished them out and went upstairs obediently. The hot water was heaven, though he didn't linger. The storm was beginning to die down already and it was likely he'd be asked to go after dinner. He couldn't blame his host for that. Harry was, after all, a complete stranger and there must be something to the 'stranger danger' myth if both Hermione, his teachers at primary school and his Aunt carped on about it.

Downstairs the newspaper had been cleared from the table and two settings laid out. Dinner appeared to be beans on toast with fried eggs and bacon, which made his mouth water. Harry shoved his dirty clothes in his rucksack and refilled the tea mugs from the pot as directed. A plate was plunked onto the table in front of him and he waited for his host to sit and begin eating before starting his own meal. Living rough did not mean he had to forget his table manners.

They didn't talk during dinner and Harry cleared the table without being prompted when they'd both finished. There was detergent and a sponge on the sink, so he washed up the dinner things, as well as the plates left from earlier meals – at least two days-worth if Mr Baker was eating three meals a day. He turned from the dish rack to see Mr Baker looking at him intently.

"You'd better stay the night," Mr Baker announced suddenly, "I wouldn't feel right, sending you back out into that."

That was the storm, the rain and wind still fiercely battering the garden outside the stone cottage. Thunder still cracked from time to time, but it was sparser now than it had been when they first came inside. Harry hesitated, unsure of taking charity, even though it wasn't meant as such.

"I don't want to put you out," he muttered, knowing he was being stupid – one step outside and he'd be drenched through. Mr Baker snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Believe me, lad, you won't."

"Then thank you, I'd like to stay tonight," Harry swallowed his pride. Mr Baker nodded and gestured at the table again. Harry sat and ran his fingers over the edge, nervously, then again when he felt the texture. The edge of the table had a subtle twist worked into it and he bent for a better look.

"Made that myself, I did," Mr Baker said suddenly, "As part of my journeyman work."

"You're a woodworker?" Harry asked, pulling out a drawer in the table and admiring the joinery. The corners locked together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.

"A master carpenter," Mr Baker corrected. He got up and came over to Harry's side and pointed at the joins, "Not a single nail or screw in the entire table, lad. It's held together with precision joinery."

Harry looked up, which was apparently all the encouragement his host needed to launch into a thorough and detailed lecture on his work, which lasted for several hours as Harry kept coming up with questions. He wasn't humouring his host, it was a chance to learn something new, something that took skill and finesse. He hadn't learned anything new that was not related to life and death in a long time.

The next morning Mr Baker showed Harry back to the shed, and the workshop inside. Harry leant his unskilled hands to holding and lifting parts of the elaborate chest of drawers Mr Baker was working on. Mr Baker grilled him on the lecture from the night before – Harry was pleased to be able to give correct, if sometime incomplete, replies.

By the end of a week, Harry was permitted to assist with the marking out of measurements on new pieces. He'd also cleaned the house, driven from his bed post nightmares, and washed every item of clothing he owned as well as Mr Bakers'.

By the end of the month he was let to make the first cuts on a new project himself (under very close supervision). Mr Baker abruptly insisted on paying a stipend which it was understood that Harry was to put towards tools and learning materials. He'd moved on to working the garden to clear his head after a nightmare by that point, having found a garden shed on the other side of the house.

By the end of the second month Mr Baker was introducing Harry as his apprentice to a new client, and Harry finally unpacked the rucksack. The garden was mostly finished now, and he'd started running in the early mornings to clear his head instead. He'd also opened a bank account for the stipend and the rest of the money from Before. His Gringotts key sat at the bottom of the rucksack, something he would deal with some other time. There was no rush. He'd found enough of an After to let any unfinished business from Before wait.

0o0o0o

"Alright there Harry?" Ben Pond shoved Harry along the bench companionably and settled down with his pint and a packet of pork scratching's that he split open and left between them.

"That's police brutality, that is," Joe Tucker piped up from the other side of the table, as he always did when the local constable budged someone up to share a seat. No one bothered to laugh, or even roll their eyes any more. After 6 months, neither did Harry.

"Alright Ben," Harry replied, dragging the newspaper back in front of himself and filling out another crossword clue. Mr Baker sat at the bar, as he did every Sunday afternoon, talking with friends. Harry had been unsure about attending the pub when his landlord first insisted. Ben and friends had 'rescued him from the geezers' on his second visit. It was nice to talk to people his own age about things that did not relate to carpentry. As much as Harry found his apprenticeship fascinating and rewarding, he did sometimes need a break.

"And is this the week you finally have a pint?" Ben asked, peering into Harry's empty pint glass.

"Still on the lemonade," Phil muttered gloomily. Ben heaved a sigh and Harry rolled his eyes. Beer was not to his taste, so he drank lemonade instead. There was plenty of time for him to try other types of alcohol, he was only 18 after all.

"What's got into you then Phil?" Ben asked and Joe groaned. They'd only just finished the epic rant from Phil about the stupidity of his real estate clients who bought a property, got planning permission, promptly tried to ignore and/or circumvent said permission and then blamed him for selling the land in the first place.

"Quintin Price, is what got into him," Harry responded in the interest of brevity, and Phil toasted him moodily, "Prat wants to sue the agency for selling to him the property he can't build his dream home on."

"Dream home my arse. It was a brutalist block of Communistic concrete, and he knows it. He was given permission to convert the main barn on that block to a house, not knock it down and install a sub-office of the KGB," Phil growled.

"It won't go anywhere, mate," Simon joined them with a tray of drinks, which were dished out rapidly. Simon was in IT and telecommuted to his office. Harry had nodded sagely when first told that, but he'd worked out what it meant since then. The gaps in his knowledge made things interesting at times – hence the crosswords and Sunday afternoons in the pubs. He sometimes viewed it as gathering covert intelligence on the things people his age found important. Once he identified a gap he borrowed a book from the library and read up on it, which had led to his fascination with science fiction, Muggle history (some of which was half remembered from primary school and none of which revolved around endless Goblin rebellions) and, to Ben Pond's disgust, murder mysteries.

"He breached his planning permission on his own, not on your advice. Buyer beware and all that," Simon continued, sitting next to Joe, "You'll be putting a for sale sign on the gate before you know it."

"Did he actually knock the barn down?" Harry had been wondering about that ever since Phil had started complaining.

"No, he wasn't that brash," Phil sighed, "Well, I hope you're right Simon. The last thing I need is to have the boss sued out of business."

"Never happen, mate," Ben said solidly and changed the subject.

In the end, the local constable was right. The lawsuit never eventuated and Phil's agency was engaged to sell the contended property in very rapid order. Harry spotted the sign on the gate on one of his morning runs, as he headed back towards Mr Bakers' stone cottage. Winter had closed in by then and the first snow was on the ground in patches as he climbed the gate gracelessly and jogged along the curved drive.

The front of the property was heavily wooded, separated from the road by an old stone wall, with the drive winding to the left to avoid an ancient oak tree. The bare trees closed over the driveway like spindly fingers holding tightly to the leaf littered surface, only to throw themselves open into an unexpectedly large clearing.

Harry stood and stared. There were three buildings – one open sided and sagging in the roof, a medium sized barn in the rear, nestled against the forest that enclosed the property completely, and in the middle an enormous barn shaped building, standing defiant. Harry mused that if you dormered the roof you'd be able to get three stories out of that height, and that putting glass where the double height doors were would let in a ton of light and then brought himself up sharply. He wasn't in the market for a house with an attached workshop and a place to park a vehicle. He didn't even own a vehicle, though he had been learning to drive Mr Baker's delivery van.

The place felt like home though, peaceful and inviting despite the fact that the barn was in rough shape and not at all habitable. Shaking his head, Harry turned and ran lightly back down the drive, clambering over the gate and loping back to Mr Bakers'.

"You're later than usual Harry," was the greeting he got from his teacher as he stomped the snow off his shoes outside and then stepped into the laundry. The shoes were toed off and put outside the door, which he closed against the cold decisively.

"I stopped at that property up the road," Harry dragged the knitted cap he wore while running off and started pulling on his gloves, which were a bit damp and therefore clinging to his cold fingers, "I wanted to see what all the fuss was about."

"And?" Mr Baker asked lightly, collecting his freshly popped toast from the toaster and carrying it to the table. Harry shrugged, padding towards the door.

"There is a barn at the back that would make a ripping workshop," he mentioned. Mr Baker hummed in reply and Harry hurried up the stairs.

Freshly showered, he was sat at the table eating his own toast when Mr Baker came in from the study where he'd been on the phone.

"That friend of yours will meet us there at nine," Mr Baker announced, "With all the details with him."

"You're never thinking of moving your workshop?" Harry was astounded. Mr Baker had mentioned several times that he liked his short commute and if the amount of sawdust (and dust in general) was anything to go by he'd been using the shed at the back as his place of business for the last 10 years.

"Never hurts to look at options," Mr Baker replied lightly, "Finish up in here and we'll have a lesson before we go. You need to practice driving in adverse conditions and it's going to snow soon."

"Smelt like it," Harry agreed and steeled himself for another harrowing lesson. While he was an amazing teacher when it came to all things wood and carpentry, as a driving instructor Mr Baker was a bit laid back, which had led to some advice arriving only after the fact. Nerves honed by years of Care of Magical Creatures lessons were standing him in good stead.

By the time they rumbled through the now open gate it was snowing heavily. Harry was relieved to put the brake on and switch off the engine. Phil was standing in the shelter of the barn, with all of the doors open to let in the light. Harry followed Mr Baker through the white drift, shaking the snow off as he stepped into the space.

The floor was brick, buckled by heavy machinery running over it, and the walls were board. The bottom of the exposed frame was oak, but higher up more modern lumber replaced it. Mr Baker had brought a torch and the beam picked out the distant joists, which were also modern lumber.

"Is it heritage listed?" Mr Baker asked Phil, who shook his head, rifling through the folder he held.

"The original barn was late Victorian, but in the 50's before the National Trust could get a look at it, the owner cut the roof off and raised it, adding the double height doors so that he could put big farm machines in. There wasn't enough of the original for the barn to be listed when he was done – even the cladding is a mix of old and new," Phil told them, "And the council have confirmed that the planning permission to convert the barn stands, provided the conversion doesn't remove the structure."

"What about the roof line," Harry asked, "Could you dormer it for more head height, do you think?"

"Maybe, if you applied to," Phil shrugged, "After Mr Tucker's failed application, the council is likely to be really picky about what you do though."

"Hmmm," Mr Baker muttered. With the four doors (one in each wall) open there was plenty of light and adding windows would make it even brighter. The barn was enormous – enough room for a large crowd. With the doors open like this you could see through to the forest outside, veiled by a curtain of snow. It was peaceful.

"Well give me the details then young man, and we'll help you close up," Mr Baker's voice brought Harry back to the here and now. Harry obediently helped Phil shut the doors while Mr Baker started and warmed the van.

"He's never thinking of moving, do you think?" Phil asked while they were wrestling with the furthest set of doors. Harry shrugged. Mr Baker had married, raised children and laid his wife to rest far too soon, all while living in the stone cottage.

"I don't pretend to know what's in his mind," he replied lightly, "Beyond the ken of us mere mortals, mate."

Phil snorted and snicked the padlock shut, leading the way back around the barn. He'd parked his car under the saggy roofed structure, so it was at least clear of snow, "I'll see you on Sunday, matey."

"Mind how you drive, Phil," Harry nodded and strode back to the van. Mr Baker was in the passenger seat and Harry bit down a sigh. For a moment he missed Mr Weasley's Ford Anglia and wondered if it was still living wild in the Forbidden Forest. He climbed into the drivers' seat though, and put the van into reverse, manoeuvring carefully so they could turn and head back down the drive.

Mr Baker didn't bring the barn up again until dinner that night. Harry spent the day making pencil boxes for their upcoming winter market stall. As the slide topped boxes were not to have any nails or other fasteners in them, they were an exercise in precision, requiring a level of concentration he hadn't anticipated. Supper was a slow cooked casserole, started at breakfast and as was their custom they ate in silence, reading at the table.

Harry washed up and then made the evening pot of tea, joining Mr Baker the table. His mentor had the file that Phil had handed over in front of him, pencil in hand. The pages inside were marked with spidery writing, made while Harry washed up.

"We're coming to the point in your apprenticeship where we need to start working on larger wooden structures," Mr Baker said without preamble, "I was thinking of looking for a contract we could take on, but this is too good an opportunity to pass up."

"You want to convert and then sell it?" Harry asked, oddly disappointed. Mr Baker hesitated and then pushed the papers aside.

"Look, son, we need to be thinking about your future here," he sighed, "You're good – good enough that once you've made your mastery you'd be able to more than make a good living in carpentry. Usually I train an apprentice and send them on their way. You however, you have a way of working that really compliments my own. In the last six months I've increased my output by a third, and that is down to you. I wasn't looking for a partner, but I think between the two of us we could really establish ourselves comfortably. The house would be a good project and, in the end, you could buy it from me. If of course, you see yourself here in the future."

"I do," Harry admitted, "I wasn't looking to learn a trade like this either, but making things … it feels good."

Which was as close as he'd come to admitting a less than peaceful past.

"You said that you walked away from school after the death of your parents," Mr Baker continued, "I'm not one to tell a man how to live his life. But you need to see to the final arrangements."

Harry nodded. He'd let the fiction of Lily and James death being recent stand. It was easier in a way to have people assume the loss was still fresh. He had no memories of them to speak of fondly, so silence was not suspicious. He should clear out the bank account at Gringotts though. It was ridiculous to have whatever money left sitting there when he had no intention of returning to that world. He could transfer the balance to his bank account here and call it his inheritance. Hopefully he'd be able to contribute something substantial to the build.

"You're right," Harry sighed, "I should go and sort out their affairs. Make sure there is nothing outstanding that needs to be taken care of."

"Go in the new year then, lad," Mr Baker reopened the folder, "There's no rush and you'll be needed for the Christmas market stall, because you are the apprentice and I have no intention of sitting in the cold for three nights. The market is on the village green, and I'll supervise from the pub."

Harry laughed and stood, bowing repeatedly as he moved around the table. He sat next to the older man and together they started panning out what they would do with the property.

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