Chapter 1: Sometimes Recognition is a Curse

"You're late" was what Harry dreamed he wouldn't hear as he peddled as hard as he could. Sweat was dripping down his forehead as he rushed quickly in the morning summer heat towards work. He realized now there were yet more things for Mr. Fussybritches to complain about - his tardiness and his hair. Of course, Fussybritches wasn't really his boss's name, it was just a nickname that the staff gave the horrible man who yelled at you if you were so much as a minute late.

And Harry had been late often in the past few weeks. Headaches and nightmares had been keeping him up most of the night. The dreams were getting progressively worse, each night introducing a new horror. He mused to himself that he could become a fiction horror writer, or perhaps moviemaker, with some of the things his mind produced during the night. It was the stuff of fiction and fantasy and with this creativity he could be a millionaire.

The headaches were nothing new, but they came and went in spurts and Harry was convinced it was his eyes. He hadn't seen an optometrist since his cousin Dudley had broken his only pair of glasses five years ago, after pushing him off the roof while they were painting the house. It was a miracle Harry hadn't broken any bones, and his cousin seemed to have agreed it was some sort of unnatural phenomenon. Vernon Dursley, Harry's uncle, looked disappointed when he saw his nephew lying on the pavement, bruised and battered. Harry could almost swear that his uncle wished he had broken a bone or two and this is why Harry had left the Dursley home as soon as he graduated from Stonewall high. It was also why he was so poor and didn't have any money to see a doctor about his eyes.

DING. DING.

'Crap,' Harry thought to himself. He sat at the corner across from the shop waiting eagerly for traffic to stop so he could cross. He could see Mr. Fussybritches, a man who was all about his khaki pants and polo shirts, standing at the window, staring out at Harry in his moment of crisis. The light turned green and Harry ran his bike across the street, chained it up against the newspaper stand and walked quickly for the door. He made an attempt to rule his untidy hair that was now dripping with sweat and flying all over the place. He hadn't had time to even make an attempt with the silly concoction that his friends called 'hair gel'. Hair gel in Harry's hair resembled salt-water taffy more than anything else. He was almost glad he hadn't had time to use any this morning.

"You're late, Potter." These words ruined any moment of joy Harry could have had when he opened the door and smelled the fresh aroma of roasted coffee beans.

"Sorry Mr. Fussbridge, my alarm..."

"Today your alarm, yesterday your bike. Always full of excuses, eh, Potter? Think you are better than the rest of this lot who actually managed to show up on time?" He pointed to the rest of Harry's coworkers who were smiling at customers and making espresso.

"It won't happen again sir," Harry answered. When the subtle moment of disbelief in his boss's eyes subsided, he made for the break room to pick up his apron.

"And tomorrow you better shower, Potter... and get a haircut! I'm trying to run a respectable establishment here."

"Yes sir!" Harry responded.

The coffee shop had a long counter that resembled a bar. The espresso machines were at one end and the rest was lined with big jars of cookies, pastries and breads. Behind the bar was a big mirror that gave the place a very ominous, yet light feeling. Harry always liked coming here, even when he wasn't working. Aside from the happy feeling the surroundings gave him, he had a lot of friends here that had gone to secondary school with him. He figured there were worst things he could do for a living, although at the moment he couldn't think of what they might be.

"Morning Sarah," he muttered once he'd reached the break room.

"Mornin' mate. Headache?" she asked softly after noting the look of agony on his face.

"Yeah." He wrapped the apron around his back and gave himself a once over in the mirror.

"You should see a doctor."

"I would if I had the money." Sarah gave him a sympathetic look and reached up to fix his hair. She slicked it back in what he called 'greaser style'. It really was the only thing that kept it out of his eyes when it was being this unruly. Unfortunately it also made him feel like one of those guys in leather jackets from the 50's era. This is why he normally used gel, even though he hated it.

Sarah was probably Harry's greatest friend in the world. She had gone to Stonewall High too and had come to work at Fussybridge's Coffee Shop while she decided what to do with the rest of her life. Mr. Fussybritches was her Uncle, and she had worked hard to get Harry a job here too. They were partners in crime, causing all kinds of trouble and she knew her Uncle would never fire her; but Harry wasn't so sure that the grumpy old man wouldn't get tired of their antics and give him the boot. But Sarah always tried to look out for him, even letting him sleep on her floor when he had left the Dursley's home, lent him money for his first apartment and made sure he was never alone on Saturday nights. She was a good friend, and he couldn't think of anyone in the world he'd rather see at 8 AM in the morning after a night without sleep.

"Hi Harry!" came a cheerful voice that rang like nails on a chalkboard in his ears. "Oh Harry, you look horrible!" Sarah raised her eyebrows in amusement at him.

"Thank you for noticing, Susan," he mumbled, skulked past the two of them and out onto the floor for another day of work.

And as far as days went, this one was proceeding fairly normally. Sarah was keeping a close eye on him and he knew it was because she was concerned. Susan, on the other hand, was a completely different story. Harry had mixed feelings about her. Sometimes he had the feeling she'd wrap him up in a blanket and wait on him hand and foot if he let her. Other times he thought she was constantly stabbing him in the back. He couldn't even mop the floor without her offering to help and Harry was baffled as to why, considering she was so bad at it. It was as if she'd never used a mop before, or even understood the concept of how they worked.

By mid-morning, Harry was exposed to yet another hilarious demonstration of her inability to do anything remotely normal. Mr. Fussybritches had ordered him onto the floor to clean up after a young child who had spilled his pop. Susan had rushed to the scene, yanked the mop from his hands and taken over. Now she was splashing water everywhere and making a general mess. Yet somehow, at the end of her efforts, the floor was spotless and perfect. Harry just figured she had an unusual technique. Her pushiness disturbed him sometimes, though, and when Harry had suggested to Sarah that Susan was 'kissing ass' she laughed at him, gave him a heavy pat on the shoulder and muttered something about him 'not understanding girls.'

While Harry meditated on Susan's mopping skills, a familiar customer came into the shop. Tall, brown hair and fairly plain looking. He tried to remember as many of the regulars as he could, but he hadn't taken her order very often. Was it cocoa that she ordered or was it a latte? She approached the register and stared up at the menu for a few moments. When she dropped her eyes her jaw performed the same maneuver and she stared at him as if he was a deranged lunatic. Or maybe she was deranged? He wasn't sure.

"Can I get you something?" he asked politely. She never answered.

Harry whipped out his handkerchief and wiped off his face.

"Do I have chocolate on my nose or something?" he asked playfully. In response she brought a hand up and rubbed her forehead. Harry knew what was coming next.

"Oh that," he said. "It's just a scar from a car accident."

Her eyes widened with horror.

"It wasn't anything recent, though. It was when I was a baby." Harry wasn't sure why he was explaining this but the girl looked obviously disturbed by his childhood predicament.

"You're Harry Potter!" she proclaimed and just as quickly the girl turned around, having forgotten her order and ran out the door.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again. You have quite a way with the ladies, Potter." Sarah had crept up behind him and was now wiping her hands on a dishtowel. He frowned.

Her statement wasn't far from the truth either. This wasn't the first time Sarah had witnessed a strange woman gawk at him, mumble his name and then run in the other direction. What she hadn't had the pleasure of seeing yet was the men who shook his hand instead and then engaged him in strange conversations as if they'd known him for years. Sometimes they would even mention his parents, so Harry thought they must have been old family friends. It was truly strange but had happened often enough that by the time the next customer had come in, he had put it behind him.

- - -

"Hermione! I'm not even dressed!"

Hermione Granger looked around the room she had Apparated into and recognized the familiar space that was decorated in that strange Ron Weasley manner - orange everywhere topped off with pictures of men flying on broomsticks. She turned around and spotted the artist himself, clad only in a towel and his messy red hair.

"Well get dressed!" she ordered. "I have to show you something!"

She began foraging through his drawers and piles of dirty clothes like his mom on laundry day.

"Are you mad! I have work! I'll be late!"

"Be late, call in sick, quit, do whatever you must, but you have to see this."

She shoved a pair of dirty jeans (his least favorite of course), a black tee shirt, socks and shoes into his arms. Without thinking twice about being embarrassed, she even reached into his underwear drawer, pulled out a clean pair and added it to the ensemble.

"But I haven't even showered yet!" he protested as she walked out his door into the hallway.

"Just hurry up!"

Where on earth was she taking him and why had she chosen Muggle clothes? Ron knew her well enough to know this smelled like trouble. Not that he wasn't used to being in trouble with Hermione. He had partaken in enough fun with her at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to know that she wouldn't come Apparating in unannounced unless there was some real fun to be had. He reluctantly threw on the clothes she had picked out, ran a comb through his hair and opened the door.

"Are you going to tell me where we're going?"

"Just come on," she reached over, picked up his hand and Apparated them both away.

Ron, out of instinct, always closed his eyes when he Apparated. There was something about the process that gave him vertigo if he didn't. When he opened them again he was standing in a narrow alleyway, surrounded on all sides by imposing bricks.

"Well that was close! You could have landed us right in the building and splinched us both!" he reprimanded. She didn't seem at all offended by his nasty demeanor though.

"Nonsense. This is where I Apparate to every morning. It's a safe location."

"We're in London? Hermione, what on earth is going on? If you've dragged me all this way to show me some bloody book, I'm going to be really disappointed."

She grabbed his hand and forcibly dragged him out of the alley and down the street.

- - -

"Pssst. Sarah!" Harry heard Susan whispering frantically. "Can I make orders for a while?"

"Why? What's wrong with taking them? Don't make such a fuss."

Harry just kept to restocking the tray of croissants. He knew enough about both the girls to avoid getting in the middle of that argument.

"Please?" came the pleading.

"Fine. All right! Two lattes and a hot cocoa," Sarah said loudly in an exasperated tone as she passed the espresso machine reigns onto the other girl.

Harry only barely saw the two people that walked up to the bar to make their orders. He hardly even registered their presence until he felt one of them staring at him. When he turned his head he spotted the girl who had known his name earlier. This time she was with a boy who looked his own age. He was reading the menu.

"Excuse me, could we have him take our order?" he heard the girl ask shyly.

"Hermione, just order and lets get on with whatever you've dragged me all the way to London for," the boy pleaded impatiently with her.

Sarah turned to give him a curious look and Harry walked over to join her.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Yes, I don't see it on the menu but can I get a butterbeer?" the boy asked. The girl next to him ribbed him hard with her elbow. Harry didn't even know what butterbeer was. Maybe the boy thought this really was a bar.

"What on earth was that for?" her friend shouted at her.

"Ron, don't be dense. He'd like a latte."

"Hermione, you know I don't drink coffee. Cancel that, I'd like a..." and the voice trailed off as the red head's eyes found their way to Harry's forehead.

"Bloody hell. Har... Harry Potter?"

His eyes went wide and his jaw dropped. And almost predictably, his hand came up and stretched out towards him.

'Well,' Harry thought to himself. 'Never happened twice in one day. This must be a new record.'

He reached out and shook the other boy's hand and braced himself for the inevitable conversation that would lead nowhere and was just as mysterious as the stranger recognizing him in the first place.

---

by ezzie: 5/23/03

I figure this is something I can work on even in the context of OoTP since it involves impossibilities imposed by the 'what if' scenerio of Harry having never made it to Hogwarts. We'll see where this goes. I expect it to have quite a few chapters.

This is inspired (shamefully) by a boy who works at my local Starbucks who is the spitting image of Mary GrandPre's Harry on the cover of the US edition of OoTP. I'm sure he wouldn't want to know that he has inspired this, although I'm guessing he is going to get 'the wow did you know you look like Harry?' question a lot now. Poor boy.