Disclaimer: Harry Potter, characters, names, and related indicia are trademarks of Warner Bros. and Scholastic Inc. All rights to Harry Potter belong to J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros. and their affiliations. No Copyright infringement is intended, nor is any money being made through this.

Rating: T: mild language

Date Posted: January 14, 2013

Words: 2,774

A/N: Wow, I really excited about the number of readers! Thank you to allow of you phantom readers and a big thank you to everyone reviewing, following, and favoriting :) Please read to the bottom, as there's an important A/N that I'd really like if you read :) Hope you enjoy Chapter Three!

Harry stood on the side of the road, watching as the sun rose higher and higher into the sky. More and more people trickled into the already crowded streets with each passing moment, creating a thick wall of noise and smells, threatening to overwhelm him. For a moment, Harry wondered just how many people lived in the diminutive town. He and Elisabeth had lived by the town for over half a decade, yet he never really bothered to interact with the people who inhabited it (nor they, him, for that matter).

He glanced down at his battered watch. The glass was cracked slightly and numbers slightly faded from its frequent use. Elisabeth had pestered him time and time again about either getting rid of it or repairing it, but he refused.

It was a quarter to six, meaning that if he wanted to get anything done, he needed to get going. He set off down the street, making sure to keep his head down and avoid calling attention to himself. It wouldn't do him any good to be seen wandering the streets. He had a tendency to cause a bit of trouble – not purposely of course. It just...happened. If only Elisabeth would believe him when he told her that. It wouldn't do any good for the wrong person to catch sight of him.

As he passed by an elderly woman sweeping the porch of her shop, Harry made sure to call out a hearty, "Good morning Mrs. Blake!"

The woman – Mrs. Blake – stopped sweeping momentarily to smile up at Harry. "Hello Harry dear," she said, nodding to him then resuming her sweeping.

Rosaline Blake ran the small clothing store where Elisabeth had worked since she was twelve, and Harry nine. Back when they were dirty, good-for-nothing street kids. Thieves: rotten pests to be avoided or, better yet, squashed when given the chance.

At the time, he and Elisabeth were blessed to have shelter; but they had no money, and foraging only got one so far. In the previous years, the duo made do with gathering edible plants – berries, mushrooms, greens, etc. – and hunting small game, like birds or rabbits. However, the year that Elisabeth turned twelve, an electrical storm caused lightning to strike on some dry wood, sending a fire to engulf a majority of the forest in red hot flames, killing off most of the plant life, and sending the game away for greener pastures.

And leaving Elisabeth and Harry to starve in the coming winter.

The two had attempted to live off of the meagre stash that they had previously collected, but it simply wasn't enough to last them through the harsh months. Desperately hungry, they eventually led to begging, trying to guilt the public into giving them food and money. And when that didn't work, they stole. Most of Flintsworth's population turned a blind to their troubles, leaving them to stare or freeze in the snow.

Mrs. Blake however, could not and would not turn away the pair.

She allowed Harry and Elisabeth into her home, giving them food and water. In return, all Elisabeth had to do was help keep the front of the store clean; she was twelve at the time, and Harry, seven. Two years later, Harry took over Elisabeth's job, and she moved to the back of the store, where she helped Mrs. Blake make and mend the clothes. Over the years, the tasks their jobs entitled varied – some days he'd clean, others he'd load boxes – but they could always count on some sort of income, and therefore, they could count on not starving to death.

She was a strange woman, a fact that Harry wouldn't deny. When she thought Harry wasn't looking, she always gave him the creepy, knowing smiles. "I expect great things from you, Harry," she would always whisper after he completed a task, no matter its difficulty. And that twinkle in her eyes that never seemed to fade! Yet, the woman was still the kindest woman the pair had ever met, God's personal gift to Elisabeth and him.

Harry almost stopped and helped her (he didn't care that he wouldn't get paid: Mrs. Blake was practically family) but he knew that he was short on time. Despite what he had told Elisabeth, he didn't walk to Flintsworth simply to "clear his head" (although that was part of the reason). Harry needed to see him; and he'd be leaving very soon.

He manoeuvred through the crowded streets, trying as hard as he could not to knock anyone (or himself) down. Was this what a fish felt like when trying to swim upstream? It seemed like he was fighting tooth and nail simply to walk one hundred metres up the street!

It took about a few minutes, but eventually Harry fought his way to a little patch of exposed brick on the obnoxiously bright coloured walls of the town. He placed his hand on the bricks and strained to push his magic to his fingertips, his body becoming colder with every push, as if all the warmth in his body left their original places and met in his hand. The warmth was pleasant at first, a nice change from the frost that inhabited the area like an icy plague. But it grew hotter and hotter with each second until it was damn near intolerable; his hand was burning as if he had placed it onto a set of iron pokers. Harry could have sworn the distinct odour of burning flesh had polluted the otherwise crisp air...

After what had seemed like a lifetime (but, in actuality, was only around fifteen seconds), the wall finally pushed in, and Harry snapped his hand back, blowing on it and scooping a handful of snow off of the ground. Upon inspection, Harry's hand didn't show any of the expected changes – no patches of skin burnt black, no smoke, and no redness – the only indication of what had happened being a slight tingle of pain that pulsated every once in a while, causing his hand to twitch uncontrollably and very uncomfortably. Harry rolled his eyes. What did I expect? You'd think I'd be used to that by now, but no.

As Harry nursed his (non)injured hand, the brick wall in front of him opened up, revealing a small passageway, dark and musty and completely uninviting. The muggles walked by, not even sparing a glance at the bizarre appearance of a hole in the wall and the boy standing in front of it, completely oblivious. He cast a few paranoid glances over his shoulders before walking in and embracing the cool darkness.

On the outside, Harry made sure to keep a calm and cool demeanour as he walked (ran) down the darkened corridor, but on the inside, he was panicking. Had he already left? If he did, well, it wasn't the end of the world, Harry supposed, but still.

Magic-induced light invaded his eyes as he reached the end of the corridor, the destination being a dingy little room that didn't look like it was big enough to house a rat. Stepping out into room, he looked around. His eyes jumped around until the fell upon a man over in the far corner, sitting and throwing things into a suitcase and nursing a (rather large) bottle of Ogden's Old.

"Ah, Mundungus," Harry said, his relief barely masked. "Good, I thought you'd left."

Mundungus Fletcher looked up from his place on the ground. Fletcher was by no means an attractive man; he was short and fat and his long ginger-coloured hair fell down in greasy strands, looking extraordinarily like a mop had been haphazardly thrown on his head. Had Harry not been used to Fletcher's appearance, he could have easily mistaken the man for a pile of rags. His personality didn't exactly make up for the lack of looks, either.

"I leave in less than a half hour," Mundungus grunted, his words slurred (not much, but enough to be noticeable) from the Firewhiskey he had consumed. "What do you need?"

Harry smiled. That was why he liked Mundungus: he wasn't one for chit-chat or formalities. That couldn't be said for most people from this town, but then again: Mundungus wasn't from this town.

Like Harry, Fletcher was a wizard: the only other wizard that Harry had met in his life. He was fairly certain that other witches and wizards lived in Flintsworth, but he wasn't exactly welcome in to town, so it was difficult for him to investigate. In truth, Harry wouldn't have even known he was a wizard if he and Elisabeth had not met Mundungus. After he had apparated to the wrong location and stumbled upon Harry playing and levitating frogs by a small pond, Mundungus had taken it upon himself to be Harry's mentor for all things magic, and had been for years (until Harry surpassed him, that is). And yet, despite all the help he had given Harry over the years, Elisabeth openly despised the man. He's never seemed too fond of Elisabeth, either, for that matter...

As far as Harry knew, Fletcher was the only man for kilometres that sold anything remotely magical, therefore making Fletcher Harry's one chance at purchasing potion supplies and books.

Luckily for him, Fletcher was always well supplied (albeit, Harry wasn't always certain that his supplies were obtained in exactly...legal manners).

"I just need a few things if you have the time," Harry said. Fletcher nodded, not one to pass up the opportunity to gain some more gold. Fletcher never minded that Harry couldn't pay in wizarding money (what was it again? Gallons? Galleons?); he simply exchanged them at the big wizarding bank in London: Gringotts. "I'm running a little low on potion supplies, and I was wondering if you happened to have any cauldrons? Preferably self-stirring, but any pewter cauldron is fine. A rat climbed into Elisabeth's last potion and the thing – along with the rat – exploded."

Fletcher said nothing for a long moment, simply staring at Harry (or was it through Harry?). The young wizard shifted awkwardly as the seconds ticked by with nothing more than an intense stare from the older man. Several times, Mundungus opened his mouth as if to say something, but swiftly shut it and resumed his piercing stare.

Finally after an immeasurable amount of time, Fletcher nodded and grunted – a confirmation that he did, in fact, have the items he needed. He turned around to pull out his bag where his stock sat, leaving Harry awkwardly frozen in confusion. A hundred things ran through his mind, but the only coherent thought he could truly pick out was: What the hell just happened?

Fletcher simply went about his business as if nothing had happened, and Harry quickly decided to go along with it, too creeped out to do otherwise. After searching though all of Fletcher items, Harry was finally able to pick out the potion supplies he needed, and even coaxed Mundungus into giving him a good deal on a nice brass cauldron that would otherwise cost him a small fortune.

"That'll be...nineteen galleons, sixteen sickles, and four knuts."

Harry gave him a blank stare.

Mundungus rolled his eyes. "In muggle money, it would be about ninety-nine pounds."

Harry nodded in understanding, and, although he was loath to spend that much money at one time, he handed the flimsy paper to Mundungus. The tension and awkwardness still lingered in the room; Harry wanted to leave, and he wanted to leave now. As soon as his purchase was finalized, he quickly shook Fletcher's hand and exchanged goodbyes – they wouldn't see each other until the summer; for some reason, Fletcher hated the winter and spring in Flintsworth.

Turning around, Harry started back toward the tunnel, not wanting to spend another second in the room and hoping to pick up a few things before he went back home. Hopefully, Monsieur Pâte's bread was still nice and warm. Maybe his daughter, Violet, would even be there...

"Hey...Harry, wait," Fletcher called, throwing him out of his thoughts. Harry internally groaned. What more could the man possibly want? He'd already paid, after all. He spun around to find Mundungus with an eerily similar expression to the one he wore earlier in the deafening silence, again staring through him with that thousand-yard stare. They stood like that for a good minute.

"What," Mundungus said finally, breaking the stillness in the air. "What's your name, boy?"

Harry eyebrows shot up and he rolled his eyes dramatically; this was one of Fletcher's stupid games, wasn't it? "I'm pretty sure you said my name just now, Mundungus."

Fletcher shot the sixteen-year-old a dirty look. "Yes, yes, your first name's Harry; I got that much. I'm not an idiot, boy." He stopped to take in a calming breath, letting it out slowly. "No, I meant, what's your last name?"

Again, Harry raised an eyebrow. He and Mundungus had known each other for seven years now; the older man had memorized Harry's name after realizing that Harry would be a frequent aspect in his life. But then again, Harry mused. Mundungus is getting older.

Harry sighed in mock annoyance and hurt. "Is your memory slipping, Mundungus?" Harry teased. "I thought you would have remembered me by now! I'm Harry, Harry Miles, remember?"

That wasn't completely true, but it was what everyone – including himself – identified Harry as. The last name was actually Elisabeth's; Harry had simply taken it on at a very young age. When they were little, people were more willing to help poor, orphaned siblings, than poor, orphaned children who just happened to find each other. Non-siblings were assumed to be ne'er-do-wells: hooligans or partners-in-crime (literally). Why the sibling dynamic helped or made any real difference, Harry never really knew, nor bothered to know.

Surprisingly, Mundungus didn't snap at Harry for teasing, – as he normally did – but instead, his lips grew into a wide, feral smirk. "Ah, Harry, but you and I know that's not entirely true, is it? I've known that your last name wasn't Miles since you first told me, but I didn't ask." Fletcher got up off of the ground, brushing his soiled-beyond-repair clothes in an attempt to rid them of dirt.

Harry wasn't fazed by Mundungus's "admission." Harry hadn't used his real name (outside of the cabin, although Harry and Elisabeth rarely ever used surnames in general) in over ten years, so how could Mundungus possibly know him as anything other than Miles?

"I've a hunch as to what your real last name is as well," he continued. He stopped beating his tattered robes for a moment, his eyes locking on Harry's unafraid ones. He grinned before casually saying: "Potter, isn't it? And I reckon your middle name is James, isn't it?"

Mundungus needed no confirmation other than the visible paling of Harry's face. He gathered up his things, visibly more cheerful than he had been for all the time that Harry had known him. Harry said nothing as Mundungus packed up his things to leave; he simply stood there, too shocked to do anything else.

Harry's thoughts swarmed with questions as he watched the elder wizard. How did he know? And he knew for so long! But he was so careful never to use Potter! How was this possible? Why didn't he say anything earlier? What was Fletcher planning to do?

He was snapped out of his thoughts as Mundungus grabbed his bag. He placed a heavy hand on Harry's shoulder, tipping his hat with the other. "Have a good day and a Happy Christmas, Mr...Potter," he smiled. He patted his shoulder a couple of times before withdrawing and turning toward the street.

"Wait!" Harry called, much like Fletcher had when Harry had made to leave earlier. Mundungus stopped, that damnable smirk still dancing on his lips. He had a million questions to ask, but the only one that bubbled up to his lips was: "How- how did you know?"

Mundungus shrugged, the smile never leaving his lips. He lifted his hands, waggling his fingers at Harry. "Magic," was all he said before tipping his hat once more and walking to Flintsworth's MAAP (Ministry Approved Apparition Point). Harry watched as Mundungus grew smaller and smaller and smaller before finally disappearing into the horizon.

Harry turned and walked out the door, shaking his head slightly as he went.

Now Kilometres away, Mundungus Fletcher smirked once more. He may not have been the top of his class back at Hogwarts, but he was damn-near the best at silent, wandless, tracking charms.

The problem with this being Un-beta'd is that I don't have anyone helping me to fix my chapters. I don't particularly like this chapter; in fact, I've revised it so many times that I stopped keeping track. (That's actually why this chapter is late. That and I have a major history project to do. Sorry about that, by the way).

That's why I need your help! Please, if you could take a minute or two and write a review that has some constructive criticism that I can use for this (and future) chapter(s), I will send you a sneek-peek of chapter 4. (And yes, this is bribery ;) ).

mdauben: I'm glad that you aren't confused; I apologize for the confusion once again :) Harry and Hogwarts will be colliding soon, but Harry won't be going to Hogwarts any time soon. And "Harry" isn't exactly "at Hogwarts" either. Make of that what you will ;)

cc4s: Here's your update! :) No, "Harry's" not friends with Ron or Hermione. He's very much that creepy loner that secretly hates everyone in the world. And thank you! :)

emarald777: Thank you for reviewing :) Everything after the prologue is sort of building up to the prologue. You'll find out soon! :)

Ceti H. Black: Ha, sorry, I can't. But I greatly appreciate the enthusiasm, and you won't have to wait too long for something similar. Same here, one of the many reasons why I decided to write this.

Lord Jawblinneron: The first will stay constant throughout the story, sorry. The second, however, is debatable. I'm still deciding, so have hope! But regardless, thank you for giving my story a chance.

moonlight10060: Thank you! In the previous chapter, it was Non-Harry (if that makes it a little clearer). This is in Harry-Harry's perspective. Hope that helps :) Thank you!

Next time I post, I'll be 17! :D Stay safe, and thanks for reading!

Nox,

LaughWhileCrying