A/N: Thanks to my one and only reviewer Tx-Dancegirl-9657 who seems very sweet and encouraging! Thanks also to those of you who put this on your alert list. Enjoy.
Disclaimer: J.K Rowling, can you please stand up so all the lovely people can see you? Thankyou, now can you tell them how you own everything of Harry Potter? Yes well, no need to get big-headed about it, we all know you're a genius. Lets all applaud her shall we? Thankyou, now that's over, on with the story!
Disguise, Struggles and Shadowy Corners
The moment Harry left the muggle park and entered the unknown territory of the streets, his disguise slipped back into place. He took no chances and therefore when he travelled through the streets of London people avoided the eyes of a tall blonde, sensing his mood as if it hung around him, instead of ducking past a green-eyed youth.
The Leaky Cauldron was it's usual self. Despite his intolerance for risks, Harry had no problem spending a lot of his time here; many foreign or unknown wizards frequented Diagon Alley, it being a hotspot of magical activity. Magical folk seemed to flock there, feeling little comfort in being around anyone but their own kind. Therefore there was no odd looks, or at least very few, when he took a seat in a shadowy corner of the pub, or when he greeted the barman with a nod of familiarity, indicating an order of the usual, showing he was no stranger to the place.
It had been odd, at first, when Harry found no-one staring at him or muttering under their breaths when he appeared, or pointing at his scar unashamedly to their friends. He had been so used to it that he had to stop himself from pausing, surprised, when his entering a room caused nothing but indifference, or least he had felt like this when he had first began using the disguising spell. After the years it had become as normal to him as when he had first lived with he Dursley's, unnoticed, not special, ordinary.
If Harry had taken a closer look he might have noticed this was not entirely true, his brooding exterior visible to even muggles, was much more prominent to the more perceptible wizard-kind, his clothes again were odd, even among wizards, a strange mixture of both world's fashions:
He wore a long brown coat, full of pockets with mysterious looking things inside them. The collar was pulled up around his face, partially obscuring it and casting his hollow eye sockets into shadow. Beneath he wore a shirt with large sleeves, the cuffs flowing visibly from beneath the sleeves of the coat. Over that he wore a waistcoat of a red so deep it appeared almost black, his Gryffindor instincts had never been truly shaken, he always smirked to himself when he thought of it, his secret joke. The costume was finished off by black trousers and dark boots.
The normal Harry Potter would never wear such subtly elegant clothes, his dress was something he could more imagine Draco Malfoy wearing, and indeed, with his blonde hair and new features he did suspiciously resemble a Malfoy. But it was for this very reason he wore such attire, no-one would ever put Harry Potter in such an outfit. His acquaintance with the barman also roused interest despite what he thought; the Leaky Cauldron attracted all sorts, so it was with vivid imaginations that curious eyes would wonder at the mysterious stranger.
Harry had scanned the room for a split second, not even stopping for a moment when his eyes fell upon one of his old school professors, the charms teacher, Flitwick, perched precariously on a stool at the bar. Another thing he had become used to over the years was the fact that the wizarding community was so closely linked, that he would always run into someone he knew, or had known once, sooner or later. The first time it had happened he had almost had a heart attack, but he was as adept at this element of disguise as the others, his eyes betrayed no flicker of recognition as, seemingly immediately to the spectator, he swept over to the dark corner and his table.
But it happened that of the few whose curiosity Harry had caught, Flitwick was one of them. Harry kicked his boots up onto the table, complacently, arrogantly, pulling a book out of his pocket and beginning to read. His demeanour was also a façade, Harry would never normally dream of doing such a thing, but his character, as he thought of him, Lysander, felt no qualms with using this kind of behaviour. There was only the dark mood and tight jaw, the shadowy, hollow eyes to indicate anything of the being beneath the mask.
His old Professor leaned across the bar to the man behind it, "Who's that then?"
The barman played dumb, fetching Harry's 'usual,' "Who's who?"
"Come on, Warner; cure an old man's curiosity, eh? The young man who just walked in, who looks like he's been through hell itself."
Anyone else, on recognising that they were the object of a conversation, could not help but have their heads instinctively snap up, as if someone had said their name. But Harry had trained himself to ignore this; instead, his response took on an odd form. A sudden twitch, a jerk of the head in the opposite direction of the bar, an outlet for the suppressed reaction. He smirked to himself at Flitwick's apt description, 'through hell itself.' But he was also annoyed it was so obvious, despite his skilled mask.
Warner sighed, "I honestly don't know. Don't get me wrong," he said quickly in reply to Flitwick's disbelieving look, "He's what you could call a regular, alright, calls himself Lysander Reubels." Harry almost felt like nodding confirmingly at this statement, encouraging the lie, but instead he stared at his page as if lost in thought.
"He appears about once every two months, stays a couple of nights and then leaves. Never meets anyone else, always alone, can't get a word out of him most of the time. He just strolls in, orders a butterbeer, and reads or stares out the window for hours." The barman whispered, clearly oblivious to how easily Harry could hear.
"A butterbeer?" Flitwick raised his eyebrows,
"I know, doesn't seem the type, but that's what he always orders." Harry knew Lysander would drink something stronger, more fancy and most importantly, alcoholic; but he could never shake his love of the drink, it reminded him of happier days. But now he wondered if it was the best choice, it clearly aroused Flitwick's suspicion, and seeing the old charms teacher, whilst sipping a butterbeer in a noisy pub, was just too like the Three Broomsticks at Christmas Time, too like the days at Hogwarts…
Suddenly and abruptly, breaking the illusion, slipping back into his old way of movement, Harry stood up abruptly, suddenly moving like Harry. His chair scraped back noisily as he slammed the butterbeer down and took upstairs to his booked room. Warner stared after him embarrassedly, "He must've heard us." He overcame it quickly and switched back to gossiping, "Anyway, he must be foreign, you don't recognise him so he never went to Hogwarts."
But Professor Flitwick was staring after the blonde figure, a glassy look in his eyes, "Just then, for a moment, do you know…he reminded me of someone…"
Harry paced his room, his bulky boots banging loudly against the dusty floorboards. He hadn't been able to help himself, the sudden memory of Hogwarts, seeming so vivid in his mind, had caused him to lose control. The turmoil of emotions he usually suppressed bubbled to the surface with new fury: rage, sorrow, guilt-yes, the guilt was the strongest, the overwhelming, all-consuming deprecation for everything about himself. The self-hatred that spilled over with a crash.
Turning mid-pace he aimed a flying kick at the bed post, a grunt of anger escaping his lips as the wood made a worrying cracking noise, and then splintered before his eyes. Suddenly, Harry was shocked at himself, he'd never lost control, but all it had taken was a nosy charm's teacher to make him start breaking up the furniture. With a sob of anguish he sat down on the creaking bed, head in hands.
What was he doing? This wasn't a life, living every waking moment as someone else, someone with big boots and blonde-hair, this wasn't him, there was no point… The words snapped him back to reality, 'no point in carrying on with something so painful.'
Those had been the words on his 'suicide note' and it brought back with cruel clarity that this life was painful, but his other life had been worse. Having to look into the eyes of Molly everyday, knowing he had taken her son from her, seeing little Teddy staring up at him, his own godfather the cause of his parent's death. The blow struck him with a harshness that left him gasping for air; it was as bad as what everyone thought Sirius had done. Ofcourse, he had been innocent, loved Harry's parents more than anyone but…
Harry remembered how he had felt when he thought Sirius, his godfather, had turned James and Lilly Potter over to Voldemort: the hatred, the want for revenge. Is that how Teddy would think of him? If it was, he deserved it, he as good as murdered Lupin and Tonks, Teddy had every right to despise Harry. It would be easier, Harry thought bitterly, if he did hunt me down, if eventually he did kill me, at least them maybe some of the guilt would end…
Harry realised he was curled into a ball, trying to stop the aching in his gut, his heart, every part of him. He was holding himself together at the seams. Well good, he thought acrimoniously, I deserve the pain. Indeed he welcomed it, it helped block out the memories, the images, the thoughts that dug deeper into his heart like knives. A young man with tight jaw and eyes that betrayed a person who had seen too much, suffered things that one so young should never have to endure, lay curled on a bed in the Leaky Cauldron, struggling with his existence.
A/N: Quite angsty, I know, sorry if it's too short. Never mind, I'm having too much fun with this story! Please, lazy people who have put this on their alert list (thankyou, it is much appreciated) if you are still reading, review!
I need some feedback!