14 - Home
Harry used to count the days.
When he had first arrived in this world, dazed, angry and worried about his friends he hadn't know just how misplaced he really was. All he had known was that he needed to get back to the Ministry and make sure that everyone was alright.
But he'd found out that there was no Ministry. No magical community, no Hogwarts, Diagon Alley or Saint Mungo's. He was no where near where he should have been.
Those first few weeks he had hoped that perhaps Hermione would somehow find a way - to come here, to find him, to bring him back. So after searching desperately for the wizarding world and failing, after realising just how far he was from home, he had returned to the city he had landed in – hoping that that would make it easier for her to find him.
Worlds apart from his own and he had settled in the city he had landed in, as if that would actually make a difference. As if that would really help Hermione find him.
But he had wanted to believe that he would find his way back – he had believed it because they had made it through so much together that it seemed like they would always find a way, somehow.
So he had counted the days and had collected books on magic – more fiction than fact but he read them anyway, completely and with the hope that somehow, somewhere he would find the answer.
The thought that there was no answer to be found was forcibly pushed from his mind.
A month after landing in this world, after staying in cheap hotels and abandoned warehouses, he finally decided to use his remaining money – the golden wizarding coins got quite a good exchange rate in this world – and bought a rundown shop and the apartment above it.
It took him two weeks before he gave in and started turning his shop in an actual store that could get customers. Two weeks of continuously searching through books, through the internet, delving deeper and deeper into pure fiction because he hadn't wanted to admit it – even to himself – that it might be time to settle in for the long haul. A month and two weeks and he had come no closer – had seen no sign that there was even such a thing as magic in this world. And practicality won out – he needed to make a living somehow, so the downstairs store became a bakery.
But he hadn't given up, hadn't given in – his shop was put in perfect order but his apartment remained quiet and empty and cold. More like a hotel then a home, because he wasn't planning on staying.
Then, as autumn approached and the days slowly shortened, Harry bought a few candles, because he was more used to reading by candlelight than the bright lamp in his apartment, and because he appreciated their warm glow. A few days later, he decided that a plaid would make the colder evenings more pleasant. He couldn't quite bring himself to buy the bright Gryffindor red one, but settled on a reddish-brown one and then picked up a yellowish-orange one as well to balance it out.
Then he had met Monroe and learned that this world was not without some form of magic either – because Wesen were certainly something and there had to be a reason why Grimms could see them for what they really were when no-one else could. Harry's money was on magic because somehow, he could see them too and there was no way he could be descended from a family of this world.
So he kept searching, kept asking Monroe and Nick as subtly as he could about magic and the abilities of Wesen. But days went by and although he learned more about this new world, nothing that they told him indicated any form of wizarding magic or a way home.
And he stopped counting the days.
Harry wasn't sure how or when that had happened.
His useless books on magic were joined by a book on potion making from Rosalee's store. It was a thank-you gift, she had said and Harry had accepted it with a strange twisting feeling in his stomach. Because although he had never liked Potions back at Hogwarts (three guesses why) it was something achingly familiar and yet completely different from back home.
It had taken him a few days before he could bring himself to actually sit down and read the book – but when he finally did it was easy to lose himself in it, his emotions tempered by the matter-of-fact instructions and the background information of various ingredients and tools. Just as he had buried his frustration and desperation in his baking when he had first set up shop, now he could work through a small part of his home-sickness through the pages of this book.
Following the book were vegetarian recipes from Monroe – and after a while he finally gave in and bought a binder to collect them in.
Sometimes when Monroe came over to his apartment, he was joined by Nick or Rosalee and occasionally they brought something with them when they stayed for dinner. Beer at first, but Rosalee once brought a small basket fruit with a small, wooden crafted fox in the middle.
As they got to know him better, the beer was changed to tea, and the fox was joined by a wolf, now sitting watchfully on what used to be an empty shelf.
Slowly, without meaning to, the apartment gained a warmth; a sense of comfort and welcome and home, instead of the stark, temporary-ness that it had held before. It wasn't until Monroe took away his unmoving, basic chrome clock and, instead of replacing the batteries, replaced the whole thing with a wooden decorative piece that Harry really saw what was happening. Monroe summoned a worried smile as he took in Harry's frozen form and pointed out that the old clock, man that was a soulless piece of junk – now this, this was a clock.
But the wizard was incapable of replying, of saying or doing anything – because that was the moment when it finally hit him.
So Monroe babbled on and on about clocks and craftsmanship, desperately filling Harry's heavy, painful silence with whatever words came to mind. And he knew that Monroe didn't understand – his friend probably felt like he made some sort of social gaffe and tried to cover it with a blanket of clock-related facts.
And while Monroe's soothing voice enveloped him, Harry managed to shake off his panicky shock. He smiled politely, agreed that it was a beautiful clock and he poured the wolf more tea and brought up some left-over muffins. And their conversation drifted on, beyond clocks and things unspoken. But Harry's smile was forced and his mind was distant and his hands shook ever so slightly as he carefully put down the teapot.
Because for the first time, when he thought about his world, his mind dwelled not on all that he would regain if he made it back, but about all that he would lose if he left.
Word Count: 1200
