Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. This is a work of fan-fiction only.

The Secret Life of Henry Evans

After splashing some cold water on his face, Harry returned to the darkness of the bedroom. He glanced over at the alarm clock sitting on his night table. Despite not having his glasses on, the green glowing numbers were oversized so that even he could read them from ten feet away. It read 4:32 a.m. He'd slept for just over four hours, but he would hardly call any of that sleep restful. As tired as he was, Harry did not wish to sleep anymore. Having the dream twice in one night was enough, and he was certain that it would come a third time if he chose to sleep again. He decided to get dressed and start his Sunday morning.

His eyes were still accustomed to the light of the bathroom, making the bedroom appear much darker. However, he had lived in this house for over a year now. He knew his bedroom well enough that he could walk through it blindfolded and still not bump into any of the furniture. So, Harry had little trouble finding his dresser in the dark. He carefully opened the drawers. Since Kreacher always neatly folded and placed his freshly laundered clothes in the same place, Harry had no difficulty in finding the clothes he wanted to wear. He pulled out a pair of sweat pants, a t-shirt, and a pair of warm woolen socks.

As he quietly dressed, Harry refused to allow his eyes to take even a quick glance at his bed. In his tired state, he was afraid the sight of it would be too much of a temptation to resist. Even now thoughts of crawling back into the bed, snuggling up next to Hermione, and feeling the warmth of her body as their flesh pressed against one other was eagerly calling to him. But Harry resisted. He was soon dressed and pulling his heavy terrycloth bathrobe on for a little added warmth on this cold autumn morning. Finally, Harry retrieved his glasses and wand from the night table, the green glow from illuminated numbers of the alarm clock making it easy to find them both.

He crossed the bedroom, still ignoring the invitation to return to his bed. By the time he reached the door, Harry's eyes were once again used to the dark. He finally allowed himself one last look at Hermione. She was still lying on her side, facing him. The bed sheet had ridden down her body so that it now lay across her waist, covering only her legs. Despite the fact that Hermione had unconsciously curled herself up into the fetal position in order to preserve her body's warmth, Harry was able to clearly see her bare breasts, now cradled in one of her arms. He marveled at how beautiful she looked right at this moment. He could not resist crossing back over to the bed to look at her more closely. Carefully, Harry brushed her hair back giving him full view of her face. She looked so peaceful and content now. He gazed upon her beauty for a few seconds longer before he lifted the covers further up her body. Then he leaned down and gently kissed her cheek before whispering into her ear, "I love you." He left the bedroom, quietly closed the door behind him, raised his wand, and said "Lumos."

Even if she could not hear him, Harry needed to say those words. It was the first step he had to take. The next step, Harry knew, would be infinitely harder than the first. In the morning, he would have to say those very words again, this time to her face as she looked back at him. Harry was almost certain that she felt the same way, but there was still some doubt in his mind. The truth was he and Hermione had never really discussed their relationship before. In the past, Harry had never given this fact a second thought. For him even discussing the subject of their relationship would have been an admission, on his part, that there might actually be something more there. At the time, Harry had not yet been ready to make such an admission. As he walked down the stairs to the ground floor, Harry realized that his doubts were fueled by the fact that Hermione had never once tried to broach this subject before. Harry could never claim to be an expert about women, but from all of the romantic movies Hermione liked to make him watch, he was sure that she would have brought up the subject at some point. Maybe she didn't feel that way about him. Perhaps he had misread the look that was on her face the evening before.

Whatever the case, Harry knew he had to tell her. He had to get things out into the open.

He wished now that he had slept longer. Harry did not look forward to the prospect of spending the next few hours thinking about what he had to say to her. Too much thinking tended to cloud one's judgement, to sap courage, and make people doubt the things that had to be done. Harry decided to pass the time by immersing himself into his work. He had several reports to go through, most of which he already knew were worthless, but they had to be read nonetheless. If he got lucky, one or two of them might have some useful leads. Before even considering sitting down at the desk in his study, however, Harry needed a mug of coffee. The caffeine would help keep him from falling asleep and drooling all over his desk.

He crossed the living room and into the kitchen. After turning the lights on, Harry said "Nox!" and the tip of his wand ceased burning. The coffee maker was in its usual place on the counter top, and Kreacher had already set it up to brew the morning's coffee. All Harry had to do was push a button and the coffee maker went into action. As he listened to rumbling sound of the coffee brewing, Harry looked over his kitchen. He couldn't help but let out a chuckle at the thought of this house that he now called his home. It was a modest but charming semi-detached house at Number 8 Endicott Road. It was a quiet little street in a quiet little neighborhood of a small town just outside of London. To any outside observer, this appeared to be a common Muggle home. It contained many of the modern accoutrements that Muggles took for granted: electricity, a refrigerator, a home entertainment system, a stereo, and even a seldom used home computer with internet access. A late-model mid-sized sedan that Harry regularly drove currently sat in the driveway. The only abnormal thing one might notice was that most of the rooms in the house were actually larger than what they should have been. Hermione had gotten quite good at enlargement charms.

After his defeat of Lord Voldemort, Harry's already abundant fame only grew further. While he had long since accepted the notoriety as part and parcel of being who he was, Harry still did not like the awe-struck stares he continued to receive. This was the main reason why he had chosen this house to live in. For a few hours of every day, Harry could escape the fame and be a normal person. Here he was not Harry Potter, the now world famous wizard who defeated Lord Voldemort. The irony that Harry had chosen the Muggle world as the place where he could find some sort of respite was not lost him. He found it to be mildly amusing, in point of fact.

The security measures Harry had taken to keep this home a secret would have made "Mad Eye" Moody proud. Except for those people he most trusted, no one in the wizarding world knew where Harry actually resided. Official Ministry records showed that Harry still lived at Number 12 Grimmauld Place in London. However, if anyone did manage to enter that particular house, providing they could even see it at all, they would only find the workshop Harry had allowed Fred and George Weasley build in order to develop new products for their now famous joke shop chain. Although bought and paid for by Harry, if anyone were to look up the ownership records for the property at Number Eight Endicott Road, they would find that the deed was held by Wendell and Monica Wilkins, a retired couple now living out their years in Australia.

Using the false identities once created for her parents as the owners of the house had been Hermione's idea, but the final touch in Harry's plan of security was all his. If the house was owned by a retired couple living in Australia, and someone was living there, then that person needed a name and a past. While the name Potter was not uncommon, Harry doubted that there were too many Potters with his first name. Even though it was in a Muggle town, any witch or wizard with a decent amount of investigative ability, such as Rita Skeeter, would have little difficulty finding his house. One thought had been to use the Fidelius Charm to hide the house, but in order for that to work, Harry would have to be reclusive in his own home, something he did not want.

Thus was born Henry Evans, the nephew of Wendell and Monica Wilkins. The Wilkins's allowed their nephew to live in the house for a modest rental fee. To his neighbors, Henry was a junior level civil servant with one of the more obscure departments within Her Majesty's Government; obscure enough that Henry's neighbors were not all that interested in the goings on his little section of government. Finding it easiest to use the lie Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon had told Harry for nearly ten years, Henry's parents had been killed in a car crash when he still an infant, leaving him with a rather interesting scar on his forehead and in the care of his mother's sister and her family. Henry's parents had left him a small fortune that, while not enough to secure an opulent lifestyle, allowed him to live beyond the normal means for a low-level government bureaucrat. From all appearances, Henry seemed to be a normal young man. He had a girlfriend, mowed his small patch of lawn regularly, and liked to watch the occasional football match on the television. Henry's neighbors found him to be a modest but friendly and sociable person perfectly willing to attend the occasional back yard barbecue. He preferred his privacy, but that was nothing terribly unusual. The only unusual thing about Henry Evans was that none of his neighbors could rightly recall ever having seen the inside of his house or even wanting to for that matter. A couple of Muggle repelling charms made sure of that.

This life would end, of course. Harry had, at best, three years here before knowledge of who he was would soon get out. This was thanks to young Charlie Chesterton, an eight year old boy who lived three houses down from Harry. Of all the Muggles in this neighborhood, children and adults alike, Charlie had been the only person to be unaffected by the Muggle repelling charms set on Harry's house. Just the previous spring, Charlie was walking door-to-door selling candy for a school fundraiser. Harry was surprised to see Charlie standing in his doorway, but he remained polite, even purchasing a couple of the quite awful tasting chocolate bars from the boy. After a few discreet inquiries, Harry found that little Charlie had the reputation of being a slightly odd little boy, around whom unusual, even unexplainable, things occasionally seemed to occur. Harry knew then that in about three years time, Charlie and his parents would receive a visitor from Hogwarts, and they would learn the truth about Charlie's little oddities. Of course, there were no guarantees that Charlie's parents would even be willing to let their son attend Hogwarts, but if this were the case, Harry had already decided that he would talk to them himself.

Still, Harry was not all that concerned. He had not planned on living here forever. While it afforded him the escape he needed, this house was too much of a reminder of his life on Privet Drive. Besides, if everything worked out as Harry hoped it would, eventually he and Hermione would settle down in a house that they chose together.

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