A/N: Still digging out one-shots. I didn't realize I had so many stuck in my notebooks. Although it does make sense, because I'll scrawl an idea out and often won't have more of a plot—it'll just be the one idea. Hm… So anyway, here's another one.
This one-shot takes place after the war. Harry won, obviously.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. (But my birthday is coming up, if you're interested in getting me an awesome birthday present…)
oOo
My name is Harry. Not Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, Defeater-of-You-Know-Who.
Just Harry.
It was a kind old woman who helped me to remember this, helped me realize it. I'd gone back to Privet Drive after the war was over; a sort of goodbye to my old life, I guess. No matter the reason, I was standing on the sidewalk in front of Number 4. The Dursleys had moved out—last I'd heard, they'd gone to America, though I have no idea how long that will last—but the house was still there. Two new cars sat in the driveway—they belonged to the new owners who had, no doubt, heard all about 'that Potter boy' from the other neighbors.
After about thirty minutes of standing on that sidewalk, looking at what had been my home for so many years (really, I'm surprised no one had called the police about the crazy stalker man outside), I turned to head for the nearest alley to Apparate away. I hadn't gone two steps when there was a meow and a cheerful old voice behind me.
"Why, if it isn't young Harry! Please, dear, come in and visit. Haven't seen you for a while!" I was entering Mrs. Figg's house almost before I knew what I was doing. Looking around, I had to smile—she still had all of her cats, and probably even more than when I had last come here! I heard the old lady moving around in the kitchen. She called out to me while I shooed a calico off the chair I wanted to sit in.
"Tea, dear?" I smiled again—twice in one day, and on Privet Drive no less! It had to be a recent record for me.
"Yes please, one lump." A few moments later, she came out with a tray of the tea and some biscuits. I sipped my tea and looked around at the surrounding cats.
"I see you've gained a few more." She chuckled quietly.
"I've lost a few as well, but I always like to think that there will be room for all—past, present, and future. Every one of these cats has a story, will have more stories, and is living a story now. Here, I'll tell you some of them. Just let me get my albums." I watched with fond eyes as she shuffled off into one of the halls. Even twelve years after I left Privet Drive for the first time, the dear woman hadn't changed a bit. She returned with two of what I knew were only a tiny fraction of her many photo albums, and took a seat next to me.
"Now just let me know if I've told you each story before, dearie. My memory is not quite what it used to be." With that last direction, she began to tell me stories of each cat and the mischief he or she would get into. I never once stopped her.
Somewhere among the tea and the endless pictures and stories, it became clear.
I'm Harry. Just Harry.
oOo
End
oOo
A/N: Finished that one. Lets see, twelve years after age 11… so I guess Harry is something like 23 years old. And Mrs. Figg isn't a Squib or a witch or anything—she's a little old lady that has lots of cats and would baby-sit Harry. (In case you got confused.)
Kaaera