Chapter Two: What Now?

Harry was the first to admit that he had no idea what he was doing. He'd researched it, sure, he'd looked into where the best place to open a new shop was and the kind of things involved with setting up a new business. Strong finances, check, a clear vision, sure, but as he stood in the centre of his dilapidated shop all of that work he'd done in between cases and when Ginny had been away with the Harpies seemed inconsequential.

He tried to ignore the twisting knife in his heart. That was the past. This was the present. His present to himself, he guessed. Yeah, that's what it was.

He'd moved into the small flat beneath the building. The space wasn't much, a bedroom with a tiny en-suite and a living room that doubled as a kitchen. With a magical extension licence, he could've made it into a manor, but he wanted to avoid the Ministry as much as he could. Even if he did have to report to their immigration department.

But that could wait. First, the shop. Right. He could do this. He'd promised himself no magic, and for the most part he meant it, but a little bit wouldn't hurt anyone. He closed the small blind on the door so no one could see what he was doing and got to work. The tables and chairs were transfigured, after several attempts, into comfier armchairs. Bookshelves would have to be built, his transfiguration skills weren't that good, but he cleaned the counter so that the old oak positively gleamed. The kitchen remained a mystery until he decided what to do with it, but a trip up to the first floor (second floor - they don't do ground floors here, Potter), revealed the full extent of the shop's potential.

Previously used for extra seating when the coffee shop was too busy, Harry set about banishing the needless chairs and tables. Then, with the artistic temperament that had left him languishing in the middle of his classes at primary school, he began sketching out what he wanted. Bookshelves would line the walls where they could. Then the railing that prevented customers from falling through the oval hole at the centre of the floor would be decorated with crawling plants or lights, depending on the time of year.

A rather draining bit of magic later and the floors were no longer sticky and covered in dust, but instead were the dark wood slates that they had once been. Once he was satisfied that there was nothing else he could do, Harry set about finding builders and various other contractors.

The first few couldn't fit him in until the following year. The next seven, the year after that. The only ones with availability had reviewed so poorly that he'd left a tentative 'I'll let you know' message with them and put question marks next to them in his notebook. Sat in the only armchair that got any sunlight, he thumbed back through his contacts desperately looking for someone, anyone, that would work.

Muggle contractors were all too busy. Silently cursing his lack of preparedness, Harry thumbed to the back of the notebook where the contacts he really, really didn't want to reach out to could be found.

Tearing out the page and muttering darkly under his breath, he pulled down his scarf and coat from the coat stand that, two hours ago had been a rusty kettle, and trudged out into the autumn air. This close to the harbour the wind was biting and it took everything he had not to cast warming charms on his clothes. The sooner he could put his wand away in his cupboard, the better, because the temptation pulled at him. He almost yearned to use magic, despite the fact that every time he picked it up he felt the pang of guilt like a shard of ice in his heart.

Soon, he promised himself. He just needed to get the shop set up and the Ministry off his back and then he could get on with his life. A life without magic, a life free from guilt, free from nightmares. Well, not quite, the nightmares still came, but he wasn't living them anymore. Every shop didn't remind him of the people he should be going to them with, every face didn't look at him with pity, or pride, or asked for an autograph. Even people he'd arrested had asked for his signature.

As with all buildings created to house magic, the builder's yard was actually disguised as a convenience store. A heavy-set man with a beard and rather crooked teeth leaned against a counter stuffed with confectionery. He glared at Harry and then returned to his battered book.

"I'm here to see Houria Melody." The man didn't react but when he revealed his wand, he grunted and nodded towards a backroom.

The difference was instant. Instead of fluorescent lighting, stained white floors and shelves stuffed with brightly coloured packets, this room was airy and sparsely filled. A series of plush chairs were set against one wall and sat atop a stack of books was a small fairy. His wings flapped slowly as he read from a long yet incredibly thin roll of parchment that ran from his seat to the floor.

Fairies were an endangered species in Britain, largely thanks to their persecution. It seemed those who had fled to America had been given rights that Harry's own Ministry was yet to grant them. Original research had indicated what the muggles thought was true. Fairies were cute, fairly innocuous creatures with limited magical abilities. The truth was that there were varieties of fairies, just as there were varieties of wizards and witches. Garden fairies fit the myth, but there were sub-species that simply let their magic portray them as cute. The truth was far more monstrous looking.

Atop the stack of books was one such fairy. Dark blue skin blotched with dark spots stretched across a thin frame. His face was pointed and sharp enough to cut stone. Black eyes flitted across the text he was reading, the only way Harry could tell was because the pupil was white in a sea of darkness.

The fairy held up a small blue finger, muttering quietly to himself and then, when he was finished he banished the parchment with a click of his fingers.

"Apologies, Mr Potter, accounting. You know how these things are." Harry, too familiar with people knowing who he was on sight, nodded. "And how may I be of assistance?"

"I'm opening a shop and I hear you're the best."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," the fairy grinned, revealing rows and rows of pointed teeth. With thin long fingers, he pulled off his half-moon glasses and flew over to Harry, hovering a few feet from Harry's nose. "Now, may I enquire as to the particulars of the assignment? Nothing is too large or too small, I assure you."

"Bookshelves mainly. And fixing the wiring."

"A muggle property?" The fairy's lips curled, those tiny teeth looking more like daggers than anything else. "How peculiar. And might I ask why it is that you of all people are looking to renovate a place such as this?"

"No, just the work."

"Very well, very well. You are welcome to your secrets. I expect you would like to keep your presence in Seattle similarly discreet."

"Let me guess, for a few extra galleons?"

The fairy's black eyes sparkled at the suggestion. "I always knew you were a shrewd man, Mr Potter."

"No, but I know how things work."

"A trait I cannot say extends to many of your kind. Too few wizards and witches are receptive to the fine art of commerce and trade. Entitlement breeds discontent for the payment of services rendered, if you catch my drift?"

"Why pay for magic they can do themselves, you mean?"

"Precisely, but this world is filled with those stunted by their own arrogance. It pleases me to see that the Boy Who Won is no such fool." Harry felt his jaw clench. "Ah, forgive me. Mr Potter it is. Now, where shall I find this bookshop of yours?"

Harry detailed the address and Houria, once a down payment that was frankly eyewatering had been agreed, said that he would meet Harry the following morning.

With his only enjoyable meeting of the day out of the way, Harry headed back to his rooms, made himself some tea and while it cooled began changing into the only robes he'd packed. They were black, stupidly long and itchy but they'd do. He checked the battered gold watch Mrs Weasley had given him for his seventeenth birthday, swore when he realised the time and drank as much tea as he could.

The trip was instantaneous. One second he was in Seattle the next he was outside the vast, overstated home of the American Ministry. No, he mentally corrected himself, the Magical Congress of the United States. The Ministry was easier to remember. Shorter. Simpler too. But then, it was obvious as he entered the Congress building that simple was not this Magical Government's idea of governance.

Every surface shone with a gleam. Every wall was a testament to the power of magic in America. Mural after mural, slices of history that practically yelled 'look, aren't we great!'. Harry, who had seen what that kind of thinking led to, resented the place on sight.

He strode across marble floors and unlike in his own Ministry only turned a few heads. Apparently, the legend of the Boy Who Won hadn't permeated every single soul in America, unlike Britain. It was relieving. People didn't run up to him for autographs or congratulate him for a war he'd won almost five years ago. Merlin's beard, had it been that long?

The Department of Magical Immigration, because of course it had to mention the word magic, was on the fourth floor and for the second time that day Harry found himself in a waiting room. This one took a lot longer to get through. Apparently even magic couldn't speed up the wheels of bureaucracy.

He was called into a small office by a diminutive man who hurried off to shepherd the other people in the waiting room. Harry unclasped his outer robe and sat in the rickety wood chair facing a large, overcrowded desk. Papers teetered dangerously, tiny statues fought (some of them literally) for space around a large silver inkwell. The Statue of Liberty was trying to drown an animated version of Clint Glackowski, America's star Seeker, in a pool of dark blue ink that had dripped onto the desk and had yet to dry into the wood. It was probably charmed with liquid-repelling spells.

"Sorry, I'm so sorry!" The door was practically catapulted off its hinges by the Magical Congress witch. She wore magenta robes and had her wand stuffed into her wild brown hair. Clasped in her hands was another stack of folders. Before Harry could offer to help, she'd thrown them onto a cabinet next to the wicker bin that was already overloaded with discarded parchment. "I am not normally so late! Today, huh? You wouldn't believe the day I'm having. Vampires from Hungary, actual real-life Vampires. We don't get many these days, it was a bit of a talking point let me tell you! Then a lovely werewolf and his son, a lot of paperwork there and now you!"

She threw herself into the chair opposite Harry, it creaked and swung wildly but she somehow managed to not careen into the opposite wall. "Harry Potter. A proper honest-to-God hero, right here. In my office. Who'd have thought it? Not me. That's who. When I saw your name, I was so excited."

"Can we just get this over with, please?"

"Not a talker, huh?" She yanked open a drawer and plopped a fresh stack of forms on her desk. "No worries. It's fine. I get it. My dad's the same. Says I talk too much, but then, it's my job to get to know people. And that's why we're here. So, Harry. Oops." She clapped a hand to her mouth. "How rude of me. I'm so sorry. You don't mind if I call you, Harry?"

"No, that's fine."

"Sorry. Well, you can call me Vanessa. But where was I? Oh yes, your paperwork. So we've obviously seen that your Visas have been accepted by the No-Majs, so you have every right to reside here as a No-Maj. That's lovely, isn't it?" Harry didn't answer. "And once we're done here today, we'll be able to get you signed and okayed to stay in magical areas too. Okay?"

She pulled a quill from the inkwell, knocking the Statue of Liberty as she did so and freeing Clint from the stranglehold she'd been placing him in.

"Reason for your move," Vanessa read and then looked at him expectantly.

"Establishing a business," Harry intoned.

"Oh, lovely! What kind? Defence magic, I bet!"

"No, it's a bookshop."

"A bookshop!" Vanessa practically screamed. "I love that! That is truly wonderful. And what was the reason for moving here in particular?"

"I needed a change of scenery."

"Well, you made an excellent choice. You'll be staying in Seattle, right?" Another nod. "A fantastic city, I must say. I haven't visited in far too long. Maybe when you've set up your shop I'll have an excuse." This nod was far less enthusiastic. The sooner he never had to see this woman again the better.

"And do you have any family in Seattle?"

"No, just me. My godson might be visiting and his grandmother."

"And would that be temporary?"

Harry had hoped to convince Andromeda to let Teddy come with him. Teddy had been the only thing that had kept him in Britain for so long. The young boy hadn't deserved to lose his parents and Harry, desperate to fill the hole like Sirius had done for him, had stayed. He'd nappy-changed, bought toys, played the good Godfather and it had been enough. For a while. Then Teddy started going to Nursery, he hadn't needed Uncle Harry to be there every day. That turned to once every few days. Then once a week. Finally, even less. Andromeda had started seeing someone. They were happy. They didn't need him. Not like he needed them.

"For the foreseeable future, yes."

"Well, if there are any changes in your circumstances, be sure to let me know! Of course, you'll need to work with the No-Maj government as well, as tricky as they can be." Harry didn't bother to point out that his visa with the muggle government had been sorted three weeks before he'd left, while the Magical Congress had insisted he attend a verification appointment in person.

"Alright, so that covers your family here. Next of kin?"

"Andromeda Tonks," Harry answered. He had no idea if that was actually correct, but she was related to Sirius and that was the closest he was going to get to a family. He gave Vanessa her address, occupation - or lack of. They went through any dependencies, financial stability, the location of his home and new premises. Then there was the damned quiz. He'd had to do the same for the muggles, but the magical version was even worse. Who helped Abraham Lincoln win the Civil War? Why was magical intervention in No-Maj affairs strictly prohibited from the inception of the Magical Congress? Which Harry had to resist pointing out was already ignored by Travis Wyatt in the answer to the first question. Name the last ten presidents of the Magical Congress? And so on.

"Okay then," Vanessa said when they eventually finished his immigration papers. "Your application will be seen by David, that's my boss, and once they're approved - which I'm sure they will be - we'll be in touch. Of course, now that you have submitted your application, you are strictly prohibited from conducting any form of magic until these forms have been approved. We'll be registering your wand when you leave."

"What about magical contractors?"

"To help with the shop?" He nodded. "That's perfectly acceptable and I'll make an addendum to your file to illustrate that you'll be working with a magical workforce. You will, of course, be able to use magic in life-threatening circumstances."

"Don't worry, that won't be a problem."

"Excellent! Well, it was a pleasure meeting you, Harry. Yes, it was!" She offered a hand and he shook it, receiving ink stains on his palm for his trouble. "Have a great day!"

Harry did his best to match her energy, "you too." He failed, but he tried and he supposed that was half of the battle.

Downstairs he handed over his wand and when the paperwork was finished, he received a portkey, a brass key, that was to stay on his person at all times. Before he could ask why, the portkey pulled him from the conversation and dropped him unceremoniously onto his bed with a familiar naval yanking and gut-wrenching sensation.

"I hate magic," he muttered to himself. Irritably he shoved the portkey into his pocket and his wand into the battered bedside table he'd managed to pick up from a market the day before. Above him, the light flickered. Bed springs creaked as dragged himself off the lumpy mattress.

For the first time in a long, long while, he wished Hedwig were still with him. She'd made the days at Privet Drive less dire, even if she couldn't talk back it was nice to have someone there to just listen. He couldn't get another owl, it would be too conspicuous and besides, where would he get one? A dog was too much effort. Maybe a cat? He could have a cat. A shop cat. People would love that.

First, he needed to get the shop up and running. You couldn't have a shop cat if there was no shop for it to mooch about in, that just made sense.

What he really needed was food. The takeaway boxes from the previous night stared accusingly at him from the corner. He'd shop later. Throwing his robe under his bed, grabbing a Weasley jumper that he'd been unable to part with and a battered copy Terry Pratchett's Men at Arms, Harry went out in search of somewhere that wasn't a takeaway.

He'd searched uptown the night before and had baulked at the prices, so instead his feet had taken him to the harbour. Boats bobbed and various lights of bars and restaurants sparkled and reflected against the soothing rhythm of the water. Orange light pooled beneath two large glass doors. Gentle jazz music cause on the breeze and swelled as Harry opened the door. Live music.

The bar itself wasn't too busy, but it wasn't empty either. People sat at the bar, each in varying degrees of sobriety. Tables were dotted around, couples were on dates, and friends were catching up. The place was vibrant, filled with people obsessed with other people. It was the perfect place to get lost.

He found a table and perused a menu. It took a few minutes for him to be seen, long enough that he'd had time to check everything, but not so long that he felt like he'd been waiting forever.

"Haven't seen you here before." The comment wasn't harsh, but somehow welcoming. The man wore a crisp white shirt and wore a tie that was far too bright for him to be any kind of junior member of staff. Juniors blended in. Seniors stood out.

"Never been before."

"And you're English, too."

"And you're American."

"Guilty," the man's smile was thin. "Still, nice to see new folk in town. You staying long?"

"Just moved here," Harry answered, wondering idly when the conversation was going to be steered towards food and drink. "I'm opening a shop."

"Really? Well good luck with that, we can always use another independent these days. I've had this place, well, it must be going on ten years and seen a lot of good folk try to start something. Let me guess, a bookshop?" He gestured to the book on the table.

"Guilty," Harry said, echoing the man's words. "Any advice?"

"Don't let the first week knock you down too much. It'll start slow. Things'll pick up. And get good staff. God knows there's a lot you can't do on your own. I wish someone had told me that back when we started."

"We?"

"Marty and I, he's the chef." There was an inclination in the way the man said Marty's name that told Harry there was potentially more to their relationship than a professional partnership. Years as an Auror, fleeting though they'd been, had allowed him to read people better than he'd ever done at Hogwarts. "But you'll have to let us know when you're open. It'll be good to support each other. Speaking of, what can I get you? First drink's on the house."

"Whiskey, thanks er? Sorry, I don't think I caught your na-"

"Harvey."

"Harry." Flustered by the generosity, he looked back at the menu. "And erm, what would you recommend?" He held it up and the man's polite features suddenly became excited.

"Definitely the sea bass, caught fresh this morning."

"Sea bass it is then." Harvey made a note in a small notebook.

"Be right with you. And good luck again."

"Thanks."

The food was prompt and utterly incredible. Harry wasn't normally one for fish but he had to admit the owner was right. One whiskey became two, which led to three and before he knew it he'd ended up at the bar, chatting to Harvey - who was more than happy to fill him in on what he had to check out. Harbour tours were a must, a trip to Mount Rainer was apparently some kind of right of passage for any tourist, and apparently, he had to catch the next Mariners game.

Notes were made, too much drink was drunk and after almost falling out of his cab, Harry knew a friendship with Harvey was going to be expensive and bad for his head. Huh. Friendship. Not even a week and he was already blending in. Nice one, Potter. Good job. Grinning like an idiot, Harry fumbled with his keys and after a complicated moment, he managed to stagger into his flat. The room was uninspiring. Bare walls surrounded him. His belongings were in various states of packed and unpacked. But that could wait.

All he needed was sleep and water a subconscious voice, which sounded far too similar to Hermione, told him. He splashed it everywhere. The morning. He'd clean it in the morning.

He threw his jumper off, then his jeans and fell face-first into his bed. Pain bloomed at the edge of his senses but he ignored it. That was the problem with glasses, he always had to take the bloody things off. He tried to remove them, failed, and let sleep consume him.

AN: So, this is the first look at life proper for Harry in America. I'll be moving to a more structured update schedule from here on out, but wanted to give you guys a proper taste of what to expect from this story.