After the Diagon Alley incident, Harry found a nice pub and inn in a relatively small wizarding town. He rented rooms with his, ah, borrowed money, and finally took a shower. He had bought a few essentials from the local store—toothbrush, hairbrush, change of clothes, to name some—and after he had changed into fresh clothes, thought about the fact that dying was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
Is there any part of me that misses my old world? he wondered. Any part of me that feels bad for leaving my former fellow wizards to their (no doubt) horrible fate?
He pondered this for a few minutes, and decided the answer was emphatically No.
Most of his friends, especially the ones he had been closest to, were dead anyway, and every passing day had made the war more unbearable. Every week that went by seemed to diminish the chance that Voldemort would ever be defeated, not that Harry had been doing much to stop him near the end.
It was true that when Harry had first heard about Voldemort, the man who had murdered his parents, he had promised himself he would do anything in his power to fight him. It was true that he had sworn loyalty to the Light, and to his friends, and to what he believed in. But it had taken one near death experience, one harsh slap in the face by reality, to discover that most of his loyalties revolved around himself. It had taken only one look at death up close to realize how much he liked being alive.
And how much he wanted to keep it that way.
He lay down on the bed and thought about his past for a few minutes. He tried not to do this. Contrary to popular belief, he did actually have a conscience, although admittedly it had seen better days. It was something he had gotten steadily better at ignoring throughout his life, but when he thought about his past, he couldn't help but feel a little guilty.
Dumbledore should have known he was trouble from the first incident, the first indicator that his hero did not possess a heart of gold. This incident occurred during Harry's first trip into the wizarding world with Hagrid.
Hagrid had taken Harry to Gringotts, and the first thing they did was stop by a mysterious vault and pick up an even more mysterious package. Harry had watched Hagrid slip the package into one enormous pocket, and, well, as a young boy prone to thieving, what Harry did next was hardly surprising.
He stole it partly out of curiosity and partly because he knew it must be quite valuable, to be locked up in such a secret way. Imagine his disappointment when he unwrapped the parcel at the Dursley's later that day to reveal… a rock. A shiny rock, to be sure, an unusually red rock, yes, but most definitely a stone.
He knew it must still be valuable, that it must possess some magical quality that he couldn't access, but he also knew that it was useless to him. It was, in the end, not worth the effort of stealing.
A couple of days later, Dumbledore himself appeared at Number Four, Privet Drive. He smiled and twinkled the Dursleys into submission, and then asked Harry if he could have a little chat with him in the dining room.
"Harry, my dear," said Dumbledore, twinkling ferociously, "did you see that package that Hagrid picked up the other day?"
Harry nodded uncertainly, and tried not to look too guilty. He was good at lying, but not as good as he was at stealing.
"Hagrid appears to have misplaced it. Do you know where it might be?"
Harry shook his head.
Dumbledore sighed gravely and said gently, "I can tell when people are lying, Harry. I think you know where the package is. Can you tell me?"
Harry looked at Dumbledore, at this seemingly fragile old man, and then he looked at his eyes. They were piercing and knowing and they looked straight into his soul. Harry did not doubt for a moment that lying to Dumbledore was useless.
He shifted his feet. "I… sold it to Piers Polkiss. For two Mars bars and a Swiss army knife."
Dumbledore stared at him. "Sold it… for two candy bars?"
"Yes, sir. And a Swiss army knife."
Dumbledore was speechless. "I… that is to say… That stone was a very powerful object. Very powerful. Many men would give anything to have it… Literally anything… I don't quite… Two Mars bars you say?"
Harry nodded solemnly. "I figured it must be powerful. But, well, I couldn't do anything with it—I'm not even a proper wizard yet! And I doubt they have instruction manuals for this sort of thing. Also, I knew important people would probably be looking for it, so I couldn't keep it. I can't do anything with a shiny rock, but I can do something with two Mars bars and a Swiss army knife."
"How very… practical of you," said Dumbledore uncertainly. "I, uh… Do you know where Mr. Polkiss lives?"
Harry did not realize how serious of a crime it was at the time and how much trouble he could have gotten into. Later, he realized that Dumbledore must have shielded him somewhat from the repercussions of his actions, no doubt still believing that Harry was merely a misguided hero in his youth.
And that was the first of many Harry Potter related incidents. Dumbledore had warned Harry that stealing would not be tolerated at Hogwarts, and also had a quick chat with Harry's aunt and uncle. Suddenly, the Dursleys decided it would be a good idea for Harry to take Dudley's second bedroom.
Harry never saw the strange stone again, and all Dumbledore said was, "I'm taking it to a safe place."
All Harry knew was that the 'safe place' wasn't Hogwarts or Gringotts, and that was all he ever found out. Frankly, he didn't particularly care.
Harry wasn't especially ashamed of this incident. No, it was later on when his actions, or rather inaction, caused the deaths of so many of his friends… How their bodies lay about him, and all he could think was, Not dead yet… Not dead yet… And the incident he was most ashamed of, when he made a deal to ensure his survival… A terrible promise made just so he was less likely to die…
He shivered and got up. Now was not the time for gloomy thoughts.
I have a whole new life ahead of me! he thought. He looked in the mirror and tried a smile, but it looked forced. Then he tried to brush his hair, but that was equally as futile.
Accepting defeat, he grabbed his money and his wand and headed downstairs to the pub. A drink might help.
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Harry was good at lying, he was good at stealing, and he was good at fighting, but these all fell under the umbrella of surviving, so that was how he summed his skill set up. If he had business cards, that was what would be on them: Harry Potter, Survivor.
It wouldn't say 'Courageous Survivor' or 'Noble Survivor' or 'Sensitive Survivor,' because these are all oxymorons. No, it would simply say 'Survivor,' with all the dreadful self-loathing and clawing at life that it implied.
This is what Harry was stewing over as he sat at the bar. He sat sipping firewiskey, and eventually his bad mood faded, and all he could remember was that isolated house that was out there waiting for him somewhere. The more firewiskey he drank, the harder it was to remember his past.
"I tell you," he informed the bartender, "dying was the best thing that ever happened to me! Not that I would ever want to repeat the experience," he added quickly.
The bartender nodded sagely and continued wiping glasses, not really paying attention.
Harry went on to tell the man in a slurred whisper, "Someone told me once that death was the only way to escape my fate. Boy were they right!" He laughed to himself like he had said something hilarious.
His good mood improved even further when he saw a group of witches and wizards playing cards in the corner. Here is an opportunity to have some fun and make some money, thought Harry.
He walked (stumbled) over to them and said, "Mind if I cut in, ladies and gents?"
A stooped wizard with a large nose grunted in affirmation, but then added, "We're playin for money, tho'. That gonna be a problem?"
Harry gave a Cheshire grin. "Nope, can't say that it will."
Later, his pockets weighed down heavily with the galleons of his opponents, Harry was sitting next to a pretty witch whom he had been playing cards with earlier. She had long, dark hair, and the prettiest blue eyes, or at least he thought she did—everything was swaying a bit peculiarly at the moment.
"No hard feelings, then?" inquired Harry, referring to the (questionably obtained) money in his pockets.
The witch smiled. "None at all. It's only a game, after all."
Harry chuckled. "That's the spirit."
The witch looked at him closely. "What did you say your name was again?"
Harry struggled to remember the name he had decided on earlier. "Ethan… Meadowes." He smiled winningly. "What's yours?"
"Oh, no," she said. "You have to buy me a drink first."
"Of course! How rude of me." He extracted some money that he had, incidentally, stolen, er, won from her just a few minutes ago, and gestured for the bartender.
He was pretty sure she said her name right after she got her drink, but things got a bit hazy after that. All he could remember was that she asked about his back story, and he had launched into a slightly altered version of his childhood. "I was born the third of four princes, but alas, for none were as clever or as ambitious as me… I quickly took the crown for myself and became ruler of… of…Westphalia." He nodded in affirmation, but it was slightly ruined by a hiccup.
The witch raised an eyebrow. "Westphalia?"
"Yes… It's a little slip of a country near France—no, Germany…. But that's not important. What I really must tell you about is my pet elephant…"
And so he went on. It must be said that Harry, while generally an excellent liar, was decidedly bad at it while drunk.
The rest of the night was a blur to him, and he woke up the next day in his bed at the inn, cursing the harsh light of day and suffering from a terrible headache.
His headache got even worse when he discovered that someone had stolen most of the money he had 'won' last night at cards.
Cursing his luck, Harry decided he needed to strategize. He needed some more money, and he also needed documentation of some sort if he was going to continue living in this world. Ethan Meadowes wouldn't hold up against close scrutiny.
To get money, he could sell the orb. It was most likely a powerful weapon of some kind, judging by the fact that a Death Eater had tried to use it in Diagon Alley, and people were always willing to buy powerful weapons. So… A place where he could sell a mysterious weapon with no questions asked, and a place where he could get forged documents. There was only one place that was reliably disreputable enough to offer both these things, and that was Knockturn Alley.
He sighed. It looked like he was going back to Diagon Alley sooner than he had planned.
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Before entering Diagon Alley, Harry changed his appearance a bit. He grew out his hair, tying it back, and perched some fake glasses on his nose (he had fixed his eyesight years ago magically). He also changed his eye color and pulled some long wizard robes over his usual Muggle attire.
This was just a precaution to make sure nobody remembered him from yesterday. He really didn't need any more attention than was necessary.
Then he began a walking down Diagon Alley at a brisk pace, only slowing down when some supplies in the apothecary window caught his eye. Hmm, thought Harry. Basic first aid supplies… I always seem to need some of those… I'm sure a quick stop wouldn't hurt, and I have a little money left over from yesterday that I could use.
However, before he could turn into the shop, he heard something that almost made him walk into a barrel of frogspawn.
"Auror Potter! Yes, I was here yesterday. Are you here about that Death Eater they captured?"
Harry went completely still for a second, and then suddenly ran into the apothecary at full-tilt. Nodding at the store owner and trying not to seem too inconspicuous, Harry pretended to admire the front display while actually looking through the window out into the street.
The man he had punched in the face yesterday was there, and he was talking to another man whose back was to Harry. The man had unruly black hair, speckled here and there with hints of grey, and Harry thought he could see the ends of glasses poking out from behind his ears.
It was his father.