Sorry it's been so long, People! I've written a little here and there in my notebooks, but always forget before i get the chance to type anything up . so here's the second chapter. No planning, so writing, just typed what came into my head!

Dreams, Memories

"Writing"

This is AU, people. After the war Harry retreats to the Muggle World. that's the only thing that is different. Except for the fact that after Snape killed Dumbledore, Harry never saw him again. He dissappeared, and was cleared by Dumbledore's memories after the war. He was never Headmaster of Hogwarts.

For a moment, I can do nothing but stare blankly at my door. Eyeing even the cracks in the cheap wood with suspicion. But after no monsters come leaping at me from anywhere, I slowly unlock the door and open it just enough to yank my bag inside. I lock the door again and drag my bag into the kitchen, and upend it onto the sticky tiled floor.

Tips, receipts, pens, papers, and pencil shavings hit the floor. I dig in the side pockets and find my i.d. and cash exactly where it should be. As well as a monster load of change and my notebook. Everything is exactly where it should be so I flop backwards onto the floor and stare at my god awful ceiling.

I'm hoping that whatever sticky mess is on the floor doesn't transfer to my hair.

I dolefully transfer my gaze to my dreary window and try to determine the time from the bleary light that is attempting to shine through the grime. No such luck. My head hits the floor again and I give a great gusty sigh.

Peeling myself from the disgusting floor I sweep everything back into my bag and chuck it towards my bed. I look down at my pathetic outfit and frown. Well, if I'm going to look like a hobo today, I might as well finish the outfit. I peel off my slacks and fish out a dirty pair of baggy jeans. Fishing around a bit I give up on a belt (I swear my clothing pile is a monster that eats things) and use a fraying shoelace instead.

I fish a bit more chocolate from the drawer, glaring at my now busted counter top, and amble towards my tiny bathroom. The mirror is a lost cause, I decide as I peer into it vainly trying to clean dirt smudges off my face and fix my hair. I put a bit of what cover up I have left on my scar, wipe my hands on my jeans, and leave my bathroom. On my way by my mattress I bang on the thermostat, futilely, and shiver in the cold. I tug on a ratty sweatshirt and squint at the stove clock.

Damn, I think it's finally given up the ghost. Good thing today is my day off.

I snag my bag, stuff a bunch of laundry into a trash bag, and stumble out of my dreary apartment. I'd much rather do chores than stay there all day.

My door closes with a thunk and the lock turns with a squeal, but you can barely hear those sounds over those of my neighbors. I'm so used to the thunking of #41's bed frame and the shouting of #45's husband that I don't even bat an eyelash when I hear a bottle smash and the shouting changes in pitch.

I trip down the stairs because the elevators broken, it's always broken, and opt to take the side door directly to the outside. I don't feel like being pestered by the manager today. He knows I get paid in three days, he can damn well wait until then.

2 blocks get me to the laundry mat/grocery store and I toss in two loads of clothes with quarters that don't even make a dint in my supply.

I wonder what that rat faced bastard would think of me paying my rent with a bunch of quarters?

I smile morosely and lean on the grocery door, holding it open for a little old lady who doesn't even appear to notice me.

I like living the life of anonymity. It's the reason I'm here in the muggle world, instead of in the Wizarding. I got tired of being the Hero. I like being the deadbeat I am in a shitty apartment in a dreadful neighborhood with a decent job. Of course, my manager doesn't know that I make $50 in tips every night and after paying my $150 rent I deposit the rest in an account for emergencies. And I also do not plan on telling him.

Hermione is worried, I don't blame her. I'm 20, and am a waiter at a restaurant. She's 20 and is the head of a brand new department she designed herself at the Ministry of Magic. The department of researching dry old musty things, or something or rather. And Ron is a slap bang Auror. If I had an owl, I'd imagine I'd get one every day or two from him continuously asking me why I am not an Auror also.

I've told him time and time again, why. He just doesn't want to hear it. I want to have a job that I have achieved on my own merits. I am just dysfunctional enough that waiting has turned out to be my only option, and I'm okay with that.

I browse the shelves, thinking about what I have in my fridge. Tapping my list I think of that small list. 3 eggs, a half a bottle of ketchup, strawberry jelly, rotten milk, a couple slices of ham, and a shred or two of cheese. I grab a bunch of sandwich makings and stuff them into a handbasket, debating about my cupboard. Milk, cereal, oatmeal, and apple juice follow. I tally up my budget and decide that this food should last me another week, at least, and I head to the check out.

The girl at the counter doesn't even appear to recognize me. Which is nice, but odd considering I come in every other day or so. And she's worked here since I move in down the street, at least. Which was when I was 18. After Voldemort. And Ginny. And all those idiots that drove me out of that blasted world.

Heck, I don't even think I've TOUCHED my wand since I apparated to the street outside the Leaky Cauldron. I put all of my artifacts from the Wizarding world into a shoe box and entrusted them to Tom the owner of the Leaky Cauldron. I wouldn't be surprised if he donated them to some Harry Potter memorial or something. And frankly? I couldn't care less.

The girl interrupts my musings, sounding exasperated.

"$24.50, SIR."

"Oh, Sorry." I murmur. I wonder how many times she repeated that until I answered?

I fork over that amount, at least $5 of that in change. Hey, I have more than that, but why let thieves know that? It's better to let them think I scraped change out of someone's couch, or something.

Less likely to get mugged in this neighborhood if I take precautions.

I sit with my two bags of groceries in the Laundromat and wish I had thought to bring a book or something. I lean back and close my eyes for just a moment….and am jerked awake by a buzzing sound.

"Mr., you're laundry is done." A little boy pears at me from a few seats away and I smile hesitantly. I glance at the clock and it informs me that it's almost 4. I want to get home soon, it gets dark at 5. So I put my laundry in the dryer for 20 minutes.

The boy and I engage in a staring match, so the time passes fast.

"You're laundry isn't even dry, Mr.!" The boy exclaims as he helps me stuff laundry back into my bag while I hold it open.

I smile wryly at him. "I'm afraid of the dark, kid. So I'm willing to live with damp clothes to get there before it hits. 'sides," I tap my glasses. "I'm practically blind in twilight with these."

He boggles at me a moment and I tie up my bag, bidding him farewell. "Stay outa trouble kid, all right?"

His eager face is pressed against the window as I hurry down the street, only glancing back once. I'm not staying out, tonight.

I hurry up the stairs, more paranoid than usual. Normal everyday sounds make me jump. Like # 32's singing, and #37's banging about as he rearranges his furniture for the 3rd time this week. #45's bloodcurdling scream almost makes me jump out of my skin and I run the last few meters to my door, jamming the key into the lock a few times before I succeed. A few more tries are needed to unlock the door, including a little help from my hip underneath the door handle. The door squeaks open and I slam it shut behind me with my foot, glad that I grabbed my mail while I was downstairs.

The lock grates under my fingertips and I ditch the mail on the countertop while I put away my groceries. That doesn't take very long. So I wrench my laundry rack out front behind my monster clothes pile that is wedged between the wall, with it's one bleak window, and my mattress. It, the rack, comes free with an ominous creak, but does not appear to have any cracks or defects. I set it up in my bathtub and somehow manage to hang all of my clothes on it.

Amazing, must be a miracle type day.

I trudge back to my kitchen, groping for the dirty string hanging on the ceiling to turn on the ceiling to turn on the equally dirty bare bulb. The sharp light makes me cringe, but I'm glad for it as I ruffle through my mail. 4 are hefty envelopes of parchment that I set to the side, 3 are curiously light muggle envelopes, 1 a postcard, and the last a magazine. I trash 2 of the muggles as junk mail, and keep the 3rd as it's information on the health insurance I applied for a month ago. The postcard I smile fondly at, as it's from Neville.

"Hiya Harry! Am on my way through Egypt right now, studying plants on the edge of the Nile. Am onto other parts of Africa soon! I'll let you know when I get back to London, and maybe we can get together for tea? Neville."

The magazine is also trash. It's Victoria secret. Why the hell I need that, is beyond me. Now I eye the parchment with a wary eye. 2 are from Ron and Hermione, I expect those on a regular basis and set those aside. Another is from the Minister, which I set in the junk pile. The last simply says "Harry" on the front, and is sealed on the back with two entwined serpents.

I do not recognize the seal.

I take all three letters with me to my bed and read Ron's first. It's just the usual about his job, and the most recent bad guys he's captured, and how much he misses me, and how I should be his partner and be working with him, and how bored he is without me, and how lame paper work is, and did he mention I should be an Auror? I smile a tiny smile and move on to Hermione's.

Hers explains some new tome that they recently found in the depths of a muggle library with a lot of archaic Wizarding spells in it that she is translating from Old English. She seems rather distracted, and I can't blame her. This sounds like an exciting find.

If I was the least bit interested in that sort of thing, of course.

She promises that she'll send more sweets very soon, and maybe some more of Molly's baking and signs off with her usually loopy affair that always brings a smile to my face because of the very out of place heart above her 'I'.

I untie the jeans, putting off the last letter. The lights flicker as I huddle under the blanket and only steady when I unseal the envelope. The letter falls out of the parchment like butter into my hands and green ink glints off of the page.

"You will be mine soon, my sweet."

Then the lights go out.