He was older now, his mother long gone.

So long, in fact, that he couldn't really recall the exact shade of her eyes or whether her smile had really been as bright as he remembered. So long that, sometimes, he found himself frantically rummaging about in his drawers just to look at her one more time. He would stare at her pictures, drinking in all the details that, later, were inevitably bound to fade in the void of his memory, like leaves in the current.

But her voice, her voice he never forgot.

He still remembered the ghost of pale fingers across his forehead. A gentle, cooling pressure against his clammy skin, whilst his young body had shaken in the aftermath of yet another night of horror. He still remembered her words, lulling, reassuring.

You'll survive this.

You'll come out stronger.

She had told him not to discredit the importance of painful experiences, for it was the bumps in the road that made the journey memorable.

Looking back, he knew his mother had needed the reassurance as much as he did, helpless against a situation out of her control. She had been chasing a flame of hope in the insurmountable darkness of her son's affliction, trying to find a positive in a pain that she could not make her own.

As an adolescent, he had clung onto her words, wanting to believe with his whole heart that he could turn his pain into growth and still enjoy his life.

But, watching Harry munching on a piece of buttered toast with the carefree countenance of a young man that had no worries for the future, he had never wished more for his own chance at a smooth ride.

"So," he asked cautiously, "you are looking for a way out of your current living arrangements, am I correct?"

"Yeah, I guess so. I mean, I've come of age now-" the boy paused, his expressive green eyes going slightly out of focus as if trying to place an event he couldn't quite recall.

"My family, I mean, the Dursleys, well. . . They were never my home, really."

"Mhm, I understand." He scratched his chin thoughtfully, cringing at the feeling of the days old stubble peppering his skin in patches. Ironically, he could never grow a proper beard. "And I think I can help".

Harry had been asleep for three days, his mind slowly adjusting around the new memories.

There was not much time, having to deal with the news of the missing boy spreading across the Wizarding Community like fiendfyre and with the bureaucratic nightmare that was forging someone's new identity, but he was a skilled wizard and he had made it count.

He and Harry had been staying at his grandparents' old place in Cardiff, a quaint two bedroom that was the only remaining link to his Muggle heritage. For once, Wizards' complete disinterest for all things Muggle had played in his favour and he was certain that no one, or at least no one alive, knew about his property.

And, mostly, it had been of little use over the years, almost forgotten. A few hasty cleaning spells had done nothing against the stench of disuse and many surfaces were still covered in a thin layer of dust, both indicative signs of neglect.

Harry paid it no mind though, his eyes peering at his surroundings with indolent curiosity. Most of his focus was on the generous breakfast laid in front of him, cheeks plumping whilst his jaw worked through three days worth of starvation.

The house itself was nothing special. Most importantly, there were no traces of magic at number 34 Compton Street and, as things were, it was the perfect residence for a young middle class teacher. Nothing out of the ordinary in Harry's eyes, who now believed himself to be in the presence of his ex history professor and counsellor at Stonewall High Secondary, met by chance when on the run from his appalling relatives.

Because this Harry, this new Harry, wasn't even Harry at all.

More than the faces of his friends, more than the real and good memories of Hogwarts, more than magic itself, it was stripping Harry of his own name, his identity, that had made his guts twist with guilt.

He couldn't risk it, though.

Even the smallest chance of recognition, even the tiniest possibility of Harry reacting to his name being called, was too dangerous. The only way for the boy to disappear and finally have his shot at normality was to cut every single tie to the past.

Evan James was a common name, common enough that no one was going to look at the boy twice. By Merlin's beard, he could bet there were bound to be at least a couple of Evan James wandering the streets of Cardiff right at that very moment.

The small homage to Harry's parents felt flat when compared to the enormity of what he was doing, yet the insistent voice in his mind commanding his actions kept reminding him that no magic had been able to save James and Lily Potter.

And Harry was just a child, with the same threat that had taken his family away 15 years before, looming over his shoulders.

Magic couldn't protect James and Lily, and he owed it to them to give their son his best chance.

So, he had sold his grandfather's vintage car, almost legally, with just a little push of magic to help move the transaction along.

It was a sleek, deep burgundy Jaguar dated from the late fifties and, as little as he knew about cars, it had been his grandfather's pride and joy when he was alive. It was a little precious memory from his youth that he had never had the heart to part from. But, a sports car that beautiful was of no use rotting in a garage and, with only a smidge of regret, he had handed the keys over to the new owner, telling himself that it was what his old man would have wanted. He didn't have a driving licence, anyway.

The money was good. More than enough to buy Harry a complete wardrobe and a new pair of glasses with a thick, square frame. They sat differently across his slender face, accentuating all the right angles of his cheekbones and altering his features slightly, so that he was still recognisable but, at the same time not quite himself.

The money was even enough to open a small bank account in Evan's name, something to keep him going for a while. He had no doubts Harry would find a way to sustain himself; a lot of muggle kids travelled around the world for work experience, these days. In Evan's mind, the account was a little inheritance left by his parents, to access when he came of age.

The decision to change Harry's birth year to 1978 had been a necessity, and it helped that the boy had grown a lot during summer. He could easily pass for a fresh-faced 18 year old.

Obtaining the documents, though, had been a completely different matter, and the amount of laws and ISWS (International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy) regulations he had broken would probably land him in Azkaban, if he was to be caught. All in all, he found that the prospect didn't scare him as much as it should.

He fished Evan's passport out of his pocket, running his thumb along the edge a few times before pushing it towards the boy.

"I made a few copies of that. I can talk to the embassy, find out the quickest way about getting a visa."

Harry nodded around a mouth full of grapes, "Thanks, I mean it. I honestly have no idea where to start. I feel a little foolish, really, but. . . I don't know. It has been my dream for a while."

Evan James really wanted to move to California. Far, far away, in one of the least prolific magical areas in an English speaking country, where Harry Potter was really a nobody. Unbeknownst to Harry, all the documents necessary, paired with a one way ticket to San Diego International Airport, were upstairs, safely tucked in the left drawer beside the master bed. He had even gone as far as putting a tricky spell on the papers, assuring that any muggle coming across them would feel gently compelled to accept their validity. Another possible one way ticket to Azkaban on his already impressive list.

"Nonsense. I am sure the travel agency will help and you'll be all set to go within a week." He smiled, forcing the weight of the lies to drop back into his stomach.

"That would be awesome. I don't know how to thank you enough!"

"You know, I knew your parents. We went to-"

"Boarding school together!" Harry finished for him. "Yeah, I remember. Although, I cannot imagine them in a boarding school. I mean, Aunt Petunia, for all she acts high and mighty, she is quite middle class really. I guess it does explain why she would hate her sister so much, but. . . boarding school, sounds fancy. I guess I don't really know much about my parents".

"It was truly a lovely place" he replied, willing his smile not to slip at yet another jab at his conscience, "but, H-Evan, all your parents ever wanted, in spite of fancy boarding schools and expensive things, was for you to be happy."

Harry's eyes were a little glossy when he raised his glass of orange juice in a mock toast. "To new chances, I suppose."

"To happiness!"

Glass hit glass with a clink.

Maybe it would all end in disaster. Maybe he would never see Harry again, and the loss was already unbearable. Maybe he was a foolish man.

But, despite knowing that his own life was only going to get harder, a part of him still carried the little hope of his mother's words that, for Harry, everything was gonna turn out ok.