Soundtrack:

Electrical Storm - U2
JIROB/The Scientist - Coldplay v. Radiohead
Here with Me - Dido (remix)
Stairway to Heaven - Led Zeppelin
Float On - Modest Mouse

---

Time changes people.

Time had changed Harry Potter the most. To compare him to his former self, happy in his early Hogwarts days, would be like comparing a cloudless shining day to a stormy, rumbling night. Apples and oranges, they weren't equivalent.

Although not tall now - he never would be - he was at least of medium height, built firmly out of lithe and powerful muscles that worked precisely as he wanted them, like a well-oiled machine. He was not bulky or exactly muscled-looking in build, but instead lanky in the way a panther is lanky, a dangerous sort of skinniness to let even the casual observer that he was all bones and formidable muscle. His glasses were long gone, swapped for vision-correcting spells, leaving his brilliant green eyes open to the world. If he glared at people, often they would look away after a few seconds, unable to take the strength of the brilliant emerald piercing through them.

He dressed smartly. People expected him to, for one, and anything less would be a sign of weakness. He was acutely aware of signs of weakness, even obsessive. He was in a war. He woke up and reminded himself of that every day. To be weak was to lose; to lose was to die.

Sometimes, he woke up and wondered what a normal life was like. And then he remembered that daydreaming was a weakness.

In the sprawling pathways of Diagon, there was a cafe, and in that cafe Harry sat and impatiently tapped his foot, waiting for Hermione to finish her sandwich. It was supposed to have been a friendly lunch, a get-together of old friends. Although he tried to stop listening to the voice for awhile, something within him kept saying distinctly that chit-chatting with no purpose was a weakness.

Instead of listening to the awkward silence that was blossoming, he looked at the newspaper on the cafe table. There was an article about the boy - Voldemort's grandson. He was due, it said here, to be executed in two weeks - it was officially proclaimed today. They would give the boy a light execution, by Azkaban standards. Instead of making a Dementor happy, he apparently would be forced off of one of the island's sharp cliffs, into the sea, to be dashed upon the rocks. Food for seagulls. That was their mercy to him.

The article also noted, desperately trying to keep neutral, the Order's involvement to keep him alive. Harry gave a small snort when he read it. Everyone seemed to expect, with this matter, for him to take a bye, to sit it out, to kindly excuse himself. When he didn't, the other Order of the Phoenix members were a bit surprised, but continued on as if he wasn't there - as if expecting him to slack off and not pull his fair weight. Instead, he had turned it into a personal crusade. He liked surprising people. It gave him a perverse sort of guilty pleasure.

Hermione gulped loudly, wiping her fingers on the napkin in her lap as she leaned over to look at the newspaper. (Ron, meanwhile, had put his head propped up against a hand and was staring boredly at the passers-by, particularly the more busty of the women in the crowd.)

"Only two weeks?" Her voice gained a noticeably agitated tone. "They know that's not enough time for us to challenge the decision with all of the bureaucracy it takes! They're - they're - "

"Cheating," Harry said flatly. "They're the Ministry. They do that." Silence reigned for a beat. "So, what can we do?"

Hermione sighed, looking distressed and rubbing at her temples. Ron stirred his drink distractedly a moment before offering, "Maybe the pink B-341 injunction form...?"

"That one!" Hermione immediately seized upon it. "That might actually make it through in two weeks. It'll take a miracle, but it has a chance."

"Not a miracle, just a lot of fruit baskets," Ron said with a wide pleased grin.

Harry didn't smile at all, just gave another snort and reached for his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it.

"C'mon, Harry, it's a joke," Ron pressed, voice lighthearted and then suddenly switching into gravity - "Honestly, Harry. Don't you ever smile anymore?"

Hermione hastily agreed, nearly talking over him. "Really, Harry. I can't hardly remember the last time you smiled."

Harry stood, his face still frozen into a cold frown as he brought the cigarette down from his mouth. He stared at them for a few seconds, shocked and appalled, before stating in a voice as if he were explaining a basic concept to a small child that should know better:
"We're in the middle of the war. I don't have time to smile."

As he walked away, parting the crowd like the Red Sea, Hermione and Ron suddenly became aware of how big and lonely Diagon was.