Chapter 2

"The Phantom Pains"

The pain was unimaginable, but it wasn't real.

Harry hated himself for succumbing to it.

He let out an animalistic howl as he dragged himself across his living room. He wasn't in his apartment anymore, though. He was on the battlefield. Hogwarts rose above the scene as if it were the stone thumb of God thrust up from the crust of the earth. And people died. People Harry didn't even know. But they were people he wished he had known, because they were fighting so valiantly and dying so bravely.

It was only there, crawling through the destruction like a wretched beggar, that Harry realized he was living history. He hadn't realized how big the world he carried on his shoulders really was until it all came crashing down around his ears. It felt like the entire wizarding race was fighting in that grassy field. He felt sure that when it was all over, everything would be over.

But mostly, he felt pain. He had dueled with Voldemort, but he didn't know if he had defeated him or not. Someone had hit him with a spell that was aimed at his heart, but instead hit his legs. If it had hit his heart, it would have caused so much pain that the vital organ would have simply stopped doing its job. Instead, he was now crippled, unable to breathe because the pain was so excruciating. Harry knew that if he lived to be a thousand, he'd never forget such agony.

And then he saw Ron take his last breath, lying pale as a ghost in the mud, and Harry thought for sure the pain spell had been fired again – this time successfully hitting its original target.

Harry was so wrapped up in memories that he didn't notice the two, slightly drunk young men outside his window. It was raining, and the heavy drops were drenching the grungy curtains because he'd left it open. The two men were college students, living in the run-down complex out of necessity because they couldn't afford anything better. They didn't know what to do when they passed the open window and heard the screams and howls from inside.

"I'm going in," said the shorter of the two. His vision swam as he crawled through the window and tumbled to the floor. Harry howled on, completely oblivious and far away in his own haunted memories. "Shit!" The student's curse was belated. The alcohol hadn't allowed him to immediately register the pain in his posterior that came from stumbling through a window and landing on one's ass in an inelegant heap.

Harry let out a particularly painful scream. The student still outside fumbled for his cell phone with the intention of calling for help. It slipped from his grasp, however, and rolled into a nearby drain. The student cursed fluently for a few moments, then forgot why he was upset, thanks to the alcohol he'd consumed, and went back to waiting for his friend.

Said friend located Harry easily enough.

"Shit, dude, you look like hell," the man commented pointlessly, flipping Harry onto his back with a bit of difficulty. Harry moaned, his eyes wide and unseeing. "Hey, Mikey, bring me the booze. This guy looks like he needs some!"

Mikey came in moments later, a brown sack in his arms.

"Fuck, man, I don't think you should give him anything," Mikey wasn't as drunk as his friend, but still was not in the best state of mind to be making decisions.

"Well I'm not callin' the cops. You wanna get arrested? We aren't supposed have this shit, remember?"

So, logically, the best thing to do was to pour alcohol down Harry's throat. Which they did, liberally, until he'd drank more than was healthy. Mikey, and his friend Chris, decided to drink with him. After awhile, Harry had quit moaning and had become quite friendly. Potions may not have worked on his body (for reasons even the finest healers couldn't discern) but muggle alcohol did the job nicely. He no longer felt the phantom pains in his legs, and he was too drunk to remember anything beyond how to ask for another swig. The haunting memories had been defeated for the night, and Harry had found a cure for the haunting pain in legs that were no longer there.

When Harry awoke the next morning, Chris and Mikey were gone, and he didn't even know they'd been there. He couldn't explain why his apartment was trashed, why he was surrounded by empty alcohol bottles, or why he had no memories of the previous night.

Despite the terrible hangover he had, and the vomiting he did all over the carpet, Harry felt better than he had in a long time. Something had finally made him sleep for more than a pitiful hour or so.

Knowing he would have to clean up before Ginny came by (or there would be hell to pay) Harry slowly began the process of righting things and bathing himself. It took him most of the day, but soon the job was done well enough. If Ginny came, she wouldn't notice anything amiss.

And, for the first time, Harry was motivated to leave his apartment. He wanted to escape like that again. He wanted more alcohol, and he didn't think Ginny would be so obliging as to get it for him. He got dressed in the only clothes actually hanging in his closet. It was difficult pulling on the jeans, as Harry usually didn't make an effort to dress in anything other than boxers. When the pants were on, he put on the lone black t-shirt that had been hanging beside the jeans.

Feeling cleaner than he had in years (possibly because he actually was cleaner than he had been in years), Harry wheeled out of the apartment just as the sun was setting in search of a liquor store.

His apartment was in a strange part of town – half magical, half muggle. Despite being unable to use a lick of magic himself, Harry could still see the unassuming wizarding establishments mixed in with the muggle stores as he wheeled down the street. The buildings were run down and very old. The muggles had moved into the wizarding town unknowingly. The wizards simply hadn't cared, and went on with life as they had before. Unsurprisingly, it was known as a bad part of town where strange people hung about.

After rolling himself half way around the world, or so it seemed, Harry found a seedy looking shop with a sign hung in the window that let Harry knew he'd come to the right place. Unaware he was entering the wrong door, Harry wheeled himself inside the dingy apothecary that was located next door. A bell went off as he entered.

At first, Harry didn't realize he'd entered the wrong store. There were certainly enough bottles about, and the place wasn't very well lit. It dawned on him, however, when a little old man popped out from behind the large counter. His glasses were ridiculously thick and huge. They made his big yellow eyes look like goldfish swimming in two glass bowls. He didn't have much hair, but it was combed neatly. His wizarding dress was very old fashioned, and everything about him was prim and tidy. Harry, though dressed in his best clothes, looked slovenly by comparison.

Instantly, Harry feared the old man would recognize him. But luck smiled on him, and the man was completely oblivious.

"So you're here for the job, I presume?" the old man questioned – as if he had applicants beating down his door all day.

"Err…no. I just came in the wrong door." Harry started to wheel himself out, but the odd wizard did something quite surprising. He jumped onto his stool, then over the counter, and came to loom over Harry quite suddenly. He was amazingly agile for someone his age.

"Don't be ridiculous. I put the sign out this afternoon, and you are the first person who has rung the bell since then."

Harry had no idea what to say. After only seeing Ginny for so long, Harry had forgotten how strange some wizards were.

"Look, I'm in the wrong store. I'm not applying."

"Then why on earth did you come in?" The man asked, as if Harry not wanting to apply was what was strange.

"I already told you! I came in the wrong door!" Harry just wanted to buy the alcohol and get back to his apartment. He was already regretting leaving.

"That door was charmed, and I assure you I'm no slouch with my charms! The first person to walk through the door and set off the bell, after I put up the 'now hiring' sign, is supposed to be the one best suited to the position. Now, do you have your application or not?"

"Look, I don't have any application, I'm stuck in this chair permanently, and I can't do a lick of magic. I'm not suited to any job," Harry answered bitterly.

"Magic is not required. I merely need someone with eyes better than my own to sort my wares… and run the shop Tuesday through Sunday."

Harry blinked.

"What about Monday?" He asked, a bit of his old curiosity returning.

"I run the shop on Mondays, of course. What do you take me for – lazy?"

Harry didn't know whether it had been a joke or not, but the old man looked very serious. For the first time in a long time, Harry fought back a smile.

"Well, what are your qualifications?"

Harry seriously thought about how to answer the question, finding the situation suddenly very amusing.

"I…uh…graduated from Hogwarts. I took a year of advanced potions there."

"Excellent. Severus Snape teaches potions at Hogwarts, does he not?"

"Yes," Harry replied automatically. Surviving through a year of advanced potions with Snape should have been qualification enough for any apothecary owner.

"He's a kind lad – a bit on the shy side if I remember correctly. It was no surprise he went for his mastery. He used to spend hours in here. Why, it only seems like it was yesterday, but that was many years ago."

Harry didn't know what to say to that, so he just kept quiet.

"Well," the little man huffed, as if bringing himself out of old memories, "At least you were taught well. But more importantly, can you count?"

That one really threw Harry for a loop.

"Um…yes?" He replied hesitantly, not quite sure if they were talking about the same thing.

"You must be able to count to the number 53. That's the most I ever stock of one potion at a time. Can you count to 53? I once met the smartest wizard in the world, and he couldn't count past five. I suppose he was so busy learning impressive, flashy things that he never got around to learning the others – numbers, I mean."

That made Harry smile. He couldn't help it.

"I can count to 53," Harry replied. He wondered if all job interviews were like this in the wizarding world.

"I suppose that's all then." He turned back towards the counter, and Harry didn't know if they were done talking or not, when he abruptly turned around again. "Silly me. I almost forgot to tell you. Because I only work Mondays, you'll have a different supervisor for the rest of the week. He's…not like other wizards. If you harbor any intolerance, I'm afraid I simply can't higher you."

Harry thought of Remus Lupin, also killed in the final battle, and shook his head sadly.

"No…I'm not intolerant."

"Well that's a relief. If I do say so myself, he's overly sensitive about it, but he claims he's had trouble with it at previous jobs. He does wonderful work though. Can't imagine someone letting him go. Come on out, Mr. Pudgy. You must meet your new employee."

Harry wondered what sort of man possessed such a name, and wondered when exactly he'd agreed to take the job, but he was soon distracted by the arrival of Mr. Pudgy.

Mr. Pudgy was certainly not like other wizards. Mainly because most wizards didn't have four legs, fur, or whiskers (though undoubtedly there were exceptions). Mr. Pudgy, Harry was astounded to note, was a cat.

He looked Harry up and down speculatively, then let out a lengthy meow. The shop owner, who'd yet to give his name, or ask for Harry's for that matter, instantly replied.

"No, Mr. Pudgy, the order of catnip hasn't come in yet. And I don't know his name. He didn't say."

Harry's smile became even broader. He'd just been hired by some barmy old man to work for his cat. It was so preposterous it was funny. It felt good to smile again.

"My name's Harry Potter," he informed in an amused voice. Something told Harry the old man wouldn't have the foggiest clue who he was. He was right.

"There you have it, Mr. Pudgy. His name is Gary Plodder."

"Erm, actually, it's…"

Mr. Pudgy cut him off with a particularly loud meow.

"Don't be silly, Mr. Pudgy. We aren't going to call him Harry Potter. That's not his name. I don't go around calling you Winston Churchill, do I? Of course not. Because that's my name."

Harry wanted to really laugh then, but he bit the inside of his cheek. He had a feeling the old man would have been insulted. Harry wondered if he was really named Winston Churchill, or if he just thought that was his name.

Then the cat did the most unbelievable thing. He rolled his eyes, then looked at Harry as if to say, 'forgive him – he's mad as a hatter in his old age.'

"Really, Mr. Pudgy! I'm as sane as you are!"

Harry never got around to buying his alcohol that night, but he did find himself in the precarious position of being hired as a store assistant, employee of one Mr. Pudgy. Certainly, stranger things have happened.

A/N: Bet you thought the apothecary would belong to Snape, didn't you? And I bet you thought this story was going to be super depressing and angsty, huh? Well, that was the plan, but then Winston just waltzed in, and before I knew it Harry was working for a distinguished cat named Mr. Pudgy. So much for angst.