Chapter 131: September 1998

"Expect the unexpected, they say, but once the unexpected happens the last thing you expect is that it will happen again."

-Paul Auster


The air seemed unseasonably warm for the end of September causing the collar of Harry's shirt to cling to his neck. He shifted in his seat and reached for the menu, using the sticky plastic to fan himself. He liked this place. The food wasn't great and the staff wasn't all that welcoming, but it was quiet. Rarely was there anyone else present when he showed up, aside from the staff and a patron or two.

"What'll it be then?" the bored-looking server asked as she popped her chewing gum.

"Erm…do you have a special or anything?"

She sighed heavily and rolled her eyes, jabbing a pen towards a board hanging haphazardly on the wall. "You need me to read them off to you?"

Harry shook his head, "No, sorry. Erm, I'll just take the special. And er—do you have squash?"

The woman pulled a face but nodded, "For the kids, yeah."

"Could I have some, please?"

She huffed but nodded, "Anything else?"

"No. Thank you."

The waitress grunted and walked away, no doubt to go back to the kitchen and complain about having to wait on the only person in the place. Her frustrations didn't bother Harry, however. Everything seemed so small and insignificant now.

He wondered where he should sleep tonight; if he should go back to The Burrow or maybe just take up a spot at Grimmauld Place, though, it may not be safest there.

He didn't feel safe anywhere.

Which was ridiculous. It was over. He had defeated Voldemort. He had helped to restore Hogwarts. He had fulfilled his prophecy and done what he was supposed to do.

The memory of Mrs Weasly crying over her son sprang to mind and Harry swallowed down the guilt that crept into the back of his throat like bile.

Yes, he'd led them all to victory. But, at what cost?

The celebrations had been a strange mix of highs and lows. People singing in the streets, dancing for the joy of freedoms they'd long lost. The Ministry had quickly turned over and had already begun to rebuild itself with the stray pieces that had been left behind. The papers and magazines all sang praises of "Harry Potter: The Chosen One" or "Harry Potter: The Boy Who Lived Again!" or whatever other nonsense nicknames they'd come up with. He was practically tackled left and right when he went out into public—witches and wizards clinging to his clothes, thanking him and crying into his shoulder.

But, when he was alone; when the shops all closed and the streets cleared up; when fireworks fizzled to embers and blew away in the wind…Harry thought of the people who had died trying to protect him.

And when the compunction faded away, he felt the same foreboding sense of danger he'd felt the last seven years of his life.

He thought it would go away—and it had…kind of. His scar no longer felt like it would split his head in half. His dreams were nightmares of his own instead of the terrifying look into the pit of hell that was Voldemort's mind. But, there was still…something.

The chime of the bell above the door pulled Harry from his thoughts and he looked up, watching as a woman entered the small establishment. There was something strange about her, something familiar in the way her stance was. Dark hair fell around her shoulders, shielding her face, but Harry felt something strange tugging inside of him. An alarm bell sounded in his head—that gut feeling he got when he needed to act.

She looked around the shop, turning bodily to face him and Harry inhaled sharply at the way her nostrils flared as she sniffed the air. Her golden eyes lit up as they landed on him and she smiled before striding over to the booth and sliding onto the bench across from him.

"You're a bit scrawnier than I thought you'd be," she said. "Saviour of the Wizarding World and all…but, I guess you are kind of just a kid. You're what, sixteen?"

"Eighteen," Harry corrected, automatically.

"Jesus, I'm rubbish at guessing ages," she chuckled under her breath.

She reached across the table and plucked the menu from Harry's hands, "Anythin' worth gettin' here?"

Harry swallowed and shrugged, "I got the special."

She gasped, looking at him very seriously, "Mate, don't y'know you aren't ever to get the special in a place like this? It's all old shit they're tryin' to get rid of. Probably give you food poisoning…but, then again, can Wizards even get food poisoning?"

Harry stared at her in bewilderment, unsure if he should draw his wand or answer the question. Maybe he should just remain silent? She didn't look like a Death Eater and her arms were on full display and without a Dark Mark. Though, they were fairly scarred.

Harry studied her as she looked down at the menu. He could see more thin scars peeking out from the collar of her shirt and a few silvery strips across her face. She was quite pretty, he thought, although she looked a bit unkempt. He could see a layer of dirt beneath her short fingernails and her clothes were a little rumpled.

"Keep starin' at me like that, Harry Potter, and I'm gonna make you buy my dinner."

Harry inhaled sharply and struggled to find something to say. Thankfully, he didn't have to since the waitress showed up with a glass of orange squash, all but slamming it onto the tabletop.

"You didn't say you were waiting on someone," she said.

"I wasn't," Harry mumbled.

The waitress eyed him for another minute before turning her attention to the woman in the booth. "What do you want?"

"You're a bit miserable, aren't you?" she chuckled, ignoring the shocked look on the worker's face. "Eh, I guess I get it though. Can't imagine it's a sunshine type of job dealin' with hungry people all day. I'll have three large orders of fish and chips, a salad, two pieces of the chocolate cake and erm…I don't know…maybe just throw in some gravy and another sweet. I don't care what kind. You mind making that a takeaway for me? I can't stay."

The waiter scribbled the order on her pad, scowling the entire time.

"And something to drink—what you got there, Harry?"

"Er—orange squash."

"Oh, I haven't had that in ages. Orange squash to drink, please."

The worker stared at them both with disdain before muttering a few promises to return soon with a drink and slinking off to the back again.

"So, Harry—d'you mind if I call you by your name or do you want me to call you one of those titles they've got for you now?"

"Erm, no. Harry is fine."

"Great!" she beamed, "Harry, listen, I can't really explain a whole lot but—"

Suddenly, Harry's senses kicked in and he realized why something about this stranger felt familiar. It wasn't her, exactly, it was her eyes—golden yellow like the setting sun—and he felt the words tumble from his mouth before he could make sense of them.

"You're a werewolf."

She stopped, pulling her head back a few inches before laughing. "Yeah? I didn't think you of all people would have an issue with it."

"I don't."

"Then why you seem so shocked, mate?"

Harry glared at her and took a sip of his too-sweet drink that tasted more like the colour orange rather than the fruit. "No offence but, it's less the furry little problem and more the just coming in here and talking to me like we're mates."

"Oh, wow. Okay. Well, first of all, saying no offence doesn't make it less hurtful. Secondly, I have some stuff I have to tell you but, if you'd rather just sit here lookin' all sad and pathetic by yourself, I guess I can leave."

He quirked an eyebrow and ran a hair through his hair, resting it on the back of his neck to rub out the tension that was beginning to grow there.

"I don't have all night, Harry. If you want to know, you'll need to either tell me to continue or tell me to fuck off. I'm expected to be at the mo—home—soon. And," she looked over her shoulder, taking a deep breath through her nose and angling her head toward the kitchen, "it sounds like they've about got your food done and mine will be ready in a few. Damn, that's rubbish service innit? I'll have my order ready before I get my drink. D'you mind?"

She motioned toward his glass and Harry stared back at her, bewildered. "No, I guess not."

"Ta, Harry," she smiled, brightly and drained half the glass.

Harry let his hand fall from the back of his neck to the table with a thump. He was at a loss for words, honestly. He felt like whatever this person needed to tell him must be important but for the life of him, he wasn't sure he really wanted to know what it was.

"What's your name?" he asked, instead.

She held out a hand, "Mikazuki. But, you can call me Mika, everyone does."

Harry took her hand briefly before settling back against the hard back of the booth. "Why are you here?"

"I already told you, didn't I?" she tutted impatiently, "Look, it's not over. All the shit you just put up with is the fuckin' least of your worries. Come November, there's gonna be a massive strike on Diagon Alley led by some Russian fuck—what's his name—Donovan? Oh, that's definitely not right. It starts with a D but I can't ever remember—"

"Dolohov," Harry said automatically, "Antonin Dolohov, is that who you're talking about?"

She snapped her fingers and pointed at him, "Yes. That guy. Anyway, he's the one you need to worry about. While everyone has been out here letting off fireworks like it's bloody Boxin' Day, they've been gatherin' themselves up for more."

"More?" Harry asked, his heart beginning to pound hard in his chest. "What do you mean 'more'?"

"Well, you think it's all done and over with just because you picked off that snake-faced arsehole?" she threw her head back with a laugh, "Don't be stupid! I don't know the exact date, I just know it's November, yeah? So, y'know, you might want to maybe look into talkin' to some people from The Order. Get a good safehouse landed to set up shop."

Harry reeled, his mind racing a mile a minute. He had roughly a thousand questions he wanted to ask, yet his mind felt blank as he tried to make sense of it. How could there possibly be more to come? Hadn't he given up enough of his life to this? Merlin, he just wanted some damn peace and quiet for a few minutes. He deserved that.

Anger rushed through him, hot and fierce. He'd vanquished the Darkest Wizard of his time and he still had to fight? And who the hell is this Mikazuki werewolf girl who just happens to know what's going to happen?

"Do you work for him?" Harry asked, finally finding something to latch onto.

"Me? Oh hell, no."

"Then how do you know this?" Harry asked, "How could you possibly know that—"

"Well, for one, because I'm not an idiot. D'you really think that killing one barmy bastard is enough to stop an entire movement of people from wanting to still get what they believe they should?" Mika sat back and folded her arms across her chest, "I have my sources. I can't tell you how, sorry, but I can tell you that it's going to be nasty. More people are gonna die and it's gonna be shit."

She seemed to be truly sorry for that, at least.

Harry pulled his glasses from his face and tossed them on the table, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Who are you?" he murmured.

She placed a hand on his forearm and squeezed in a comforting gesture, "A friend, I promise. And a very good friend of mine has high stakes in this, so I'd be very appreciative if you could do your whole Chosen One thing and make sure The Order of the Phoenix has their shit together come November. Because, if you don't, it's going to be an absolute mess."

Harry nodded, feeling the weight of the world fall back onto his shoulders. The suffocating heft of it almost comforting in its familiarity.

Finally, the waitress returned with a bag of styrofoam containers for Mika and a plate of something in a loaf shape, dropping them both unceremoniously on the table before heading back to her spot in the corner with a magazine.

"One more thing," Mika said, as she gathered her bag. Harry arched an eyebrow at her as she rifled through several wallets before plucking out a few bills. She tossed the money on the table and stood up, her mouth twisting into a frown. "There's gonna be a time that you need to quite literally dive in front of a curse to protect your friend, Hermione. I think you would do it anyway, but it's really important that you do."

Harry felt a laugh bubble up in his throat, "Are you asking me to die for her? I would anyway, but it's a strange request coming from someone I don't know."

She shrugged, "You won't die and neither will she. But, it's really important that it happens, yeah? Just, keep that in mind. Oh, and one last thing…"

Harry groaned inwardly, not really sure he could process any more of this bizarre meeting.

"You're gonna need help and it's gonna come from places you don't really expect. From people, you don't really expect. Trust that the people that come to you for refuge aren't trying to kill you, yeah? Not everyone is as terrible as you may have thought they were."

With that, she patted Harry's shoulder. "See you around, Harry."

Harry grimaced as the bell above the door tinkled as Mika exited.

"Hopefully not," he whispered to his plate.

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a/n: A bit of a shorter chapter but it's one of my faves, so I hope you love it, too! irl has been ass lately, but I love all the comments you guys leave! It makes me incredibly see it, so thank you guys so much!

xoxo