Before I start this chapter, go and check out the fantastic story, 'A Happy Accident: 70 Years,' by the wonderful Njchrispatrick. It is where the inspiration for this story came from. If you notice any similarities between the stories, I do have permission to use them

On the day Harry Potter researched Steve Rogers in the muggle library, without a glamour on (he still didn't know why he hadn't performed it, and it wasn't like he could perform it now), he found out several things. His biological father was an absolute unit of a war hero. They were similar in one aspect of the two. Except, the kicker was that Steve Rogers was from the forties, being born in 1918 and presumed dead in 1945. How Harry was born in 1980, thirty-five years after was another mystery he didn't want to delve into.

As much as he was loathe to admit it, there were more similarities between the two of them. Mainly, their habit of rushing headfirst into situations without much of a plan. There was also the hatred of bullies. There were many more, but Harry wasn't exactly about to think about them. Just the two main similarities were enough.

Interestingly enough, there were photos of the man looking like Harry did now. Small, frail, with a head that looked too large for his body. It was then that Harry found out about the Super Soldier Serum. He didn't go further into it, though, instead shutting down the computer and tucking his chair under the table. It was time for him to leave. Just staring at the pages and pages of information was making him feel uncomfortable.

He walked past a stack of books and heard a sharp gasp. A small boy, with kinky black hair and dark skin, peered out from behind a bookshelf. Harry stopped in his tracks. The boy was clutching a well read book, covered in red white and blue. It was all he could do to stop himself from groaning. Those were the colours of Steve Rogers, the aggressively American man.

"Excuse me." The boy's voice was soft. "Did you know that you look just like Captain America before he used the serum?" Harry tried not to walk away. This really wasn't what he needed, not right now. What he needed was to leave and spend some time at home, not looking in any mirrors and having the glamour up as much as it was humanly possible.

"Yes, I am." The boy looked up at him with awe filled eyes.

"Could...could I take a photo with you?" His voice was quiet, shy. As soon as he asked the question, he cast his eyes down to the floor, like he was expecting Harry to say no. Usually, he would. But, the boy was just so cute, maybe he would say yes, just this once, even though photos with people he didn't know were something he usually loathed.

"Sure. What's your name?"

"Gabriel. My names Gabriel, and I'm eight years old." A genuine smile was spreading over his face, his eyes sparkling. "I'll be right back." Gabriel dashed off and soon returned, dragging who Harry presumed was his caregiver (given the fact she looked nothing like him, with wavy black hair and pale skin) by her wrist.

"I'm sorry about him," she immediately said. "He gets a bit hyperactive sometimes."

"It's no problem at all," Harry found himself saying. "I'm happy to have a photo with him. Do you have a camera?"

"Mummy always has one. She likes taking photos." Gabriel dissolved into a fit of giggles and snorts.

"Well, then, let's take this photo."

Ten minutes later, after a lot of talking with Gabriel, who he was quite fond of, Harry left, feeling slightly lighter. The little boy was like a ray of sunshine. He put a smile on Harry's face, making him feel not quite so resentful about his new appearance. He disapparated home and was greeted by a yowling Shemia, who he just smiled at.

Perhaps things weren't going to be too bad now.

A week later, Harry still hadn't decided what type of glamour he was going to use in the long run. He was leaning towards the one he could do at will, but the idea of never having to look at his 'true' face was very attractive right now. The thing is, through all of this deliberation, Harry had been sitting at home, avoiding the mirror at all costs and putting t-shirts over reflective surfaces just in case the more basic glamour he was wearing wore off. When Harry sat at home for more than two days, with nothing to do, no books left to read and no movies left to watch (they were something he would always love, despite Ron's utter confusion) he started doing strange things. He performed odd spells, fed Shemia too much and aimlessly walked around. He even found himself bopping along to Whitney Houston's song, 'I Wanna Dance With Somebody,' using a hairbrush as a microphone. He would never admit to it, but he actually kind of liked the song. Eventually, the boredom became too much to bear.

So, he decided to go down to Diagon Alley and just do some mundane shopping. Maybe buy a new broom. Wait! He could check out Florean Fortescue's and see who was currently in charge of it. Surely, they would jump at a chance to sell it, seeing as it was just sitting there. And, Harry slyly thought, they weren't likely to say no to him. For once, his much hated fame would be good for something.

Mind made up, Harry disapparated, landing in a heap on the ice-cream parlour's rotting deck. He leaped to his feet, cursing his inability to use any form of magical transportation. Several people on the street jumped, looking his way. When they saw who it was, their faces lit up. Harry cursed and put a very quick 'Notice-Me-Not' charm over himself. After standing very still, not even daring to breathe, they dispersed, muttering about hallucinations and seeing Harry Potter. He was lucky that they weren't super intent on looking for him, otherwise the charm would have been more useless than one of Hagrid's flobberworms. The relief of not having to deal with 'fans' at the moment couldn't be put into words. Calling people his 'fans' always left him with a sour taste on his tongue.

He crept up to the front of the building. He was about to touch the boarded up windows, when someone behind him spoke.

"Harry Potter."

He yelped and jumped a mile into the air, before spinning around. He immediately spotted the woman who spoke, who looked vaguely familiar. She was delicately perched on one of the ruined seats, underneath a tattered, faded umbrella. Her brown hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail, greasy strands falling in front of her face. She'd seen through the Notice-Me-Not. Crap. At least the others on the street wouldn't.

"What?" He didn't have time to be very polite. He was sick of being polite. With his privacy constantly being invaded, it didn't leave much room to be sympathetic towards people who 'just wanted one interview for my paper.' They weren't even the worst of it. The pushy parents who seemed, for some reason, to think they were entitled to his time drove him nutty. Sometimes, he was tempted to just disapparate away and leave them hanging.

"Have you heard?" Her voice was familiar, niggling just at the back of his mind. He knew he'd seen her somewhere before.

"Heard what?" he asked, then stopped. "You know what, I don't have time for this. Just leave me alone, please." Harry was surprised he'd even said please. She didn't budge. "Come on, shoo!" She didn't budge, only tapped her cracked, chipped fingernails on the faded table. The extremely irritating noise made Harry grit his teeth to stop from snapping a sharp reply at her. That was the last thing he needed right now. Just because he wasn't generally polite, didn't mean he had to go psycho on people.

"I'm not leaving until you answer my questions." She stood and walked over to him, casually leaning against the crumbling red bricks. She was far too close for comfort. Harry's personal space bubble had been invaded twice over now. Honestly, all he wanted to look at was a prospective business opportunity. At least if he was running the ice-cream parlour, he would have the excuse of work to encourage people not to interview him. Then again, he didn't expect that to stop them. He couldn't go anywhere without being swamped with reporters and wellwishers. You'd think nine months after the war… Harry stopped that train of thought the second it cropped up. He didn't like thinking about the war. He liked speaking about it any less. The memories that bubbled up to the surface were traumatic and not something he ever wanted to relive again.

"I said, I'm not leaving until you answer my questions, Harry." Her nasally voice jerked him back to reality and the incredibly annoying conversation he was trying to avoid.

"Don't call me Harry. To you, it's Mr. Potter." She gave him a simpering smile, clearly not going to respect what he just said. "And if you're not going to leave 'till I answer you, you're going to be here a bloody long time, aren't you?" He didn't look at her, keeping on inspecting the boarded up doors. He was looking for anything that would lead him to who had the rights to the building.

"I don't think so. See, I have a trump card that I can play." She maliciously grinned. In that moment, she reminded Harry a great deal of Rita Skeeter. His face paled. This really was the last thing he wanted right now.

"And what may that be?" Harry hissed. He really was getting pissed off now.

"If you don't answer my question, I will tell everyone you're here. Bet you won't like that, hmmm?"

"It's nothing I haven't experienced before."

"Trust me, you won't like it this time. "

Harry snapped upwards, eyes narrowed and fists clenched. He was sick of this woman. "Who are you, lady? What gives you the right to hang around me, like I'm some rare commodity?" She only perked up at his rage. Harry could already see the cogs ticking over in her head, like she had just realised something, or was mentally listing something down. "Get out of here!"

"Well, let me introduce myself, first. My name in Genevieve Armand, junior reporter for the Daily Prophet." Harry's face paled again. "And, as for the 'hanging around you' thing, I'm a reporter. It's what I do. In fact, it's what I was taught to do. So, no, I'm not going to get out of here." Now Harry knew where he had seen her. It was a few weeks ago, the day his appearance had changed. Did her approaching him have something to do with that? Probably not, but he wasn't going to rule it out. You could never be too cautious with reporters. If you let them in for too long, they became annoying bad smells that were impossible to get rid of.

"Well, I'm not going to speak. It's going to be a fantastic article, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes. It will be great for people to realise that their saviour," she spat the word, "is such a jerk. Now, answer my question, or I will tell them you're here."

Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. The glasses that sat there were actually fakes that he had made, as he no longer needed them. It was more an attempt to try and return to normality. Well, what was normal for him. If he took them off, articles would be run, theorising about why he no longer needed them. It drove him loopy. After the War, he thought that the slanderous articles would stop, that the gossip would be stemmed, that the crazy theories about his 'secret love life' would be pulled out at the root. But that wasn't the case. If anything, the articles had just become worse, peering into his life, invading his every moment of privacy. He was lucky that the reporters didn't venture out into the muggle London, where he lived, close to the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron. That would just be even worse.

"Fine, I'll do it. What is your question?" Maybe, if he just gave her what she wanted, she would finally leave him alone. Her face lit up, though not in a good way. If her teeth had been pointed, she would have been scarily similar to a great white shark. It sent shivers up Harry's spine. The better this conversation was over, the better.

"What are your thoughts on Ron Weasley's new friend?"

"Huh?"

"His new friend, Harper. Tiny blond guy, sickly looking, large nose. Weirdly serious looking. What are your thoughts on this new development?" She grinned at him, like she'd just revealed a big, trust shattering secret. Harry inwardly cursed and fumbled for an excuse. He decided to be indifferent to the situation. That could work.

"I really don't care. He's allowed to make new friends. We're still close." Inside, Harry was cursing. Of course Armand's question had to be about that. The one thing he was trying to avoid right now.

"So, you don't care about who Ron," as she said the name, her tone became dreamy, "associates with?"

"Who am I to dictate who he spends―wait, why am I answering you?" He shook his head, taking a step back. He'd answered her question. That was all she wanted. Now, it was time for him to leave. A visit to the broom store sounded nice, just to ogle the latest version, despite the fact he had a ridiculously fast one at home, his only splurge in a long time.

"Because you want to, don't you, Harry?" Armand's voice was sickly sweet. In that moment, she reminded Harry of a cross between Rita Skeeter and Dolores Umbridge, which was the worst possible thing he could think of, save Voldemort returning. An overpowering urge to escape came over him. But the need to put Armand in her place was stronger.

"Don't call me that," he snarled. "You have no right to…" He stopped talking as the telltale prickling of the normal glamour wearing off started at the tip of his fingers. In less than a minute, he would be looking like 'Harper,' which wasn't what he needed right now. Armand would have a field day with it, he knew. "You know what, I'm leaving."

"No, we haven't finished talking."

"Too bad." Just as the prickling reached his neck, Harry pulled out his wand and turned on his heel, disappearing with a loud crack. Armand was left gaping.

When Harry fell onto his apartment floor (he'd appeared three feet in the air, most likely due to his panic), he could already feel his appearance was changed back. He cursed (words that would make Molly turn beet red) and returned the glamour. Just the sight of blond hair falling in front of his eyes was enough to make him mad. He was avoiding the problem, he knew. This was fine, though. He would be fine. Better to bury the problem deep down and never face it again.

It was right then that Harry decided he knew what type of glamour he wanted. He would visit Hermione tomorrow and they would start preparing.

The next morning, Harry appeared in Hermione's flat without warning. He had notified her he was coming via the floo, which he hated, only making him realise that an owl was far more efficient and far better at not making him feel sick. So, she knew he was coming, just not when he was going to come. Judging by the sound of smashed crockery coming from the kitchen, he'd given her quite the fright. There was a clink of something being repaired, then Hermione called out, "Just a minute, idiot!"

Before she arrived, he noticed a copy of the Daily Prophet lying on the couch. It was opened to a page around halfway. He spied the name 'Genevieve Armand' under the title, which read, 'Harry Potter: Losing Bond With Friends?' He sat down on the couch and picked it up, beginning to read. He was very amused at what he was going to find.

'Yesterday, dear readers, I was sitting outside what used to be Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlour, when I noticed Harry Potter approaching. He was using a 'Notice-Me-Not' charm, but, with my sharp eyesight, I was able to see through it. Now, this was the perfect opportunity for me to ask him some questions about something I'd witnessed a few days prior.

See, I was minding my own business, walking down Diagon Alley, when I spied Ron Weasley, talking with someone unfamiliar. As you will know, I am quite smitten with the hero, believing that he did far more for us than he is credited for. I also believe that Harry Potter took a lot of the credit for himself, drawing attention away from others and onto himself. I walked up to Mr. Weasley, totally starstruck, and asked him to sign one of his own chocolate frog cards. He was extremely kind and willing to talk to me. The small, sickly looking man beside him was not the same, I can tell you now.

He seemed on edge, his eyes darting around. When I talked to him, I found out that his name was Harper, no last name given. Remarkably similar to the name, Harry, don't you think? This Harper was tetchy and dragged Ron Weasley off before he could talk to me further. I personally thought he was being a bit possessive of Mr. Weasley. He could have been trying to draw attention back to himself, seeing as his competition for friends is none other than Harry Potter. I decided that I needed to get to the bottom of this mystery.

When I asked him about it, he was ridiculously reluctant to answer my question. It took a lot of haggling and negotiating on my part, involving some empty threats ( you know I would never harm anyone on purpose, my dear readers), before he answered me. Even then, he was short and sharp, disapparating away before I could get more out of him. But what I didn't get out of him was fascinating.

He didn't know seem to know a thing about Harper. Indifference filled his face when I asked him, which looked to be a well practiced mask. He replied that Ron was able to choose his friends, though his face seemed to say otherwise. And, as my dear mentor Rita Skeeter taught me, there is always something someone is hiding, always a story to sniff out. Unfortunately, as I said above, he disapparated before I could get more information out of him.

I think that there is more to find out here, my dear readers. Perhaps a story of betrayal and denial? Only I, Genevieve Armand, will be able to find out. Be sure to keep an intrepid eye on this esteemed publication to find out.

Love you all,
Genevieve.

Harry snorted. The entire article was completely ludicrous. There was a reason it was only printed halfway through the paper. Everything about it was fake. At least to him. And to hear Rita Skeeter was her mentor? That really wasn't surprising.

"Harry James Potter, what have I told you about appearing with no warning? The least you could do is knock!" Harry jumped, closing the newspaper. Hermione appeared in the lounge, hands on hips. Her hair was up in a bun on top of her head, wand jammed through it, sleeves rolled up and sweat dripping down her face. Clearly, she was in the middle of something that was causing her a great deal of grief. A strand of hair fell over her face and she irritably blew it away. "Oh, you found the article."

"Yes. It's very amusing."

"I think it's a steaming pile of fabricated vitriol."

"Well, that's certainly something,"Harry chuckled. He surged forward and gave her an energetic hug. She squeaked slightly, before melting into the embrace. "I've decided what type of glamour to use." Hermione pulled back, eyes wide.

"Already?"

"Yes."

"I thought it would take you at least three weeks. It's only been one." She seemed slightly anxious, shifting from foot and foot, wringing her hands. Like there was something she wanted to tell him but wasn't. It puzzled Harry.

"Yeah, but I know what one I want."

"And which is it?"

"The permanent one, with the potion." Hermione's face fell.

"Ah."

"Ah, what?" asked Harry.

"I've been doing some...experimenting. Through that, I've found out that the spell...doesn't work."

"What?" Harry felt the blood draining from his face. "No, that can't be true. Is there another variation? Maybe you were just saying it wrong. You have to be saying it wrong."

"Harry, I wasn't saying it wrong. The information I have is wrong, and there is nothing on it anywhere else. I'm actually beginning to believe that the entire spell is an elaborate hoax. The more I think about, it the more plausible it seems. Now that I'm looking, there doesn't seem to be any records of it ever being performed. There are so many things that are just...off about it."

"Please tell me this isn't true. Are you pranking me? Did Ron put you up to this?" Harry fell down onto Hermione's couch, knowing deep down that what she was saying was true. She wasn't the type of person to lie about something that was so important to him. Ron wasn't either. The theory of his friends lying to him was Just when he thought a stroke of good luck was coming his way. He should have expecting this, he really should have.

"It's true, I'm sorry."

"Right. Let's do the other one, shall we? What's the spell?" Harry leaped up, suddenly invigorated. He wasn't sure why he was changing moods so fast, but he wasn't going to complain. Anything to get away from that gloom that threatened to float into his mind.

Hermione blinked. "That was...fast. Are you quite alright?" She looked very uncertain.

"Why dwell on the unfortunate? We've got a glamour to do. Come on, let's do it!" He grabbed his wand and held it in his hand. "Remind me what the spell is again? I've forgotten."

He hadn't. It was the pronunciation he was unsure on.

"Okay. The spell is, 'Tunc Spectat Imperium.'" Harry opened his mouth to perform the spell, but Hermione snatched his wand away from him before he could start speaking. "There are a few things I need to tell you about it." She pointed at the couch. Harry reluctantly sat down. "Okay, the first. You will need to take it off every few days, for at least an hour. If you don't, then the drain on your magic will be severe when you take it off. It could make you faint, or worse." Harry's foot began tapping impatiently. "The second is that it isn't compatible with a few of forms of magical transport, mainly Portkeys. You should take it off before you use them, otherwise it will be very painful."

"It that all?"

"Not yet. Be patient. The world isn't going to end. To apply the glamour, you say the incantation and imagine what you want to look like, very clearly. To take it off, just say the incantation. Try to be sitting down when you take it off, to avoid your knees buckling. And, never combine it with other glamours, lest it fails and becomes permanent. That means you'll have to take the one you're wearing off." Harry grimaced. Of course he would have to. "Now, let me show you what happens when you take it off."

"Wait, what do you mean? How can you do that?

"I've been using this spell for the last few days, to test out how it works. Look a bit closer." Hermione gave him that look, when she thought he was being a bit daft. Ignoring it, Harry squinted his eyes. He didn't notice anything at first. Then, it his him like a slap to the face. There were several subtle differences on her face. A light smattering of freckles spread across her cheeks, there were small green flecks in her eyes and dark blonde strands of hair interweaved with her usual brown.

"How was it?"

"Fine. You don't even notice it when it's on. I'll take it off now, just so you can see what happens. Mind, the effects will be less extreme than yours, seeing as you're changing your entire appearance." She sat down and raised her wand. "Tunc Spectat Imperium." A soft golden light emanated from her wand, and the changes she'd made to her appearance slowly faded away. She sagged slightly, definitely looking far more tired. "Wow. That's more draining than I expected. Maybe you should take it off every other day, instead." She shifted. "That's going to take a while to recover from. Wow."

"Alright, my go." Hermione, though her eyelids were drooping, handed him back his wand, handle first. He quickly vanished the temporary glamour and took the fake glasses off his face.

"Remember, you need to clearly picture what you want to look like. If you don't, it could go quite wrong. You don't want that."

"It's easy enough for you to say."

"Just breathe, stay calm."

"I know. Could you be quiet for a while, please."

"Of course."

Harry closed his eyes and pictured what he considered to be his true appearance. Gravity defying black hair, blazing green eyes, more lean muscle than human stick figure. Taking a deep breath, Harry opened his mouth and spoke:

"Tunc Spectat Imperium."

Three months later, in the warm May of 1999, Harry Potter reopened Florean Fortescue's. Of course, being considered prime news, it made all the headlines of every newspaper, magazine and gossip rag. The opening day was a smash, selling out within an hour. Harry considered himself lucky he had backup ice cream out the back. The last few months had been totally hectic, but he loved it. He relished being busy. It kept his mind of certain topics that he didn't want to think about.

And the glamour was working perfectly. In the beginning, he took it off every few days, just as Hermione instructed. Eventually, though, he just...stopped. It had been up for at least a month, and Harry couldn't be happier. He could look in the mirror without seeing what was underneath. He didn't need to put towels over the toaster or keep the curtains drawn, to keep from seeing his reflection. It was a freeing experience.

Something strange had happened, though. In his spare time, Harry found himself researching more and more about Steve Rogers, going out into the muggle world far more often than he used to. Despite the fact that he hated the way he truly looked, he could never know enough about Steve Rogers, 'Captain America.' He read all the books that were available and sucked dry every resource. He would never admit it, but it was becoming an unhealthy obsession. None of his friends knew about it. Or of his plans to travel to America for a few weeks, to get even more information. He was going to take the trip in mid-June, leaving the running of the shop to one of his wonderful employees, Romulus Armeen.

So, mid June came and Harry packed up his bags, abruptly telling Ron and Hermione that he was leaving for a few weeks. They said their goodbyes, Ron and Hermione holding hands as he left. Later that day, he went to the Ministry of Magic to pick up the Portkey he had ordered (a shockingly pink hairbrush), taking it to his home and waiting the last half hour for it to activate. It was going to take him to a place in New York, where he would be spending two weeks. After that, he was going to catch a plane to Washington D.C and investigate the Captain America exhibit at the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum.

The hairbrush in front of him began to glow. Harry took a deep breath and put his shrunk luggage, spelled to be feather light, in his pocket. In under a minute, he would be in New York. He touched it, and felt a strong pull at his naval.

The pain came immediately. It felt like someone was pricking his skin with a thousand sewing pins. He screamed out, but was unable to move, due to the Portkey. He suddenly remembered Hermione saying that the particular type of glamour he was using didn't work well with portkeys.

Suddenly, he landed in a heap on the floor. He felt the glamour disappear, along with the pain. He panted hard, falling onto the ground. The exhaustion he knew he would experience soon overtook his body, leaving him shaking. Of course, he had to forget that particular piece of information. Every fibre of his being was cursing his stubbornness about taking the glamour off.

"What kind of freak shit is this?"

Harry glanced up and saw a rough looking man with a wild beard looking down at him. His eyes were wild and mad, hands dirty. A strange, deranged grin covered his next thing Harry felt was a kick to the gut, which sent him flying into a wall. He fell to the ground and crawled to his feet, reaching for his wand through the haze of exhaustion clouding his mind. To his horror, the kick into the wall had smashed it completely in two, and the man was approaching him again, looking like all he wanted was to beat Harry into a bloody pulp.

Well, wasn't this just fan-bloody-tastic?

Hello. Bit of a longer chapter, to make up for the lack of update yesterday. I was so busy that I just didn't have time to write. After this, I think the average chapter length is going to be around 3000 words, if that's alright? Anyway, something actually happen in this chapter! Harry is in America, so that's progress. Don't worry, there will be a timeskip to 2011, as it is currently 1999 in my story. It will happen, I'm just not sure when. Harry is currently eighteen. There will be another chapter tomorrow. Woop!

Also, Genevieve Armand and Gabiel do have a part in the story. It's just not yet. They have roles to play, later on. Just letting you know, so they aren't just there for filler.

If you want to, you can join my discord server. Link is below and the server is about everything fanfiction. It's set to never expire, you just have to type it in.

/Kb9zJgV

Sincerely,
Mariadoria