content warning strong language in this chapter

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Guidry was an early riser, and Harry feared that this occasion wasn't exactly an exception since both Mrs. Cormier and Guidry seemed to be completely at their ease as they got around to their morning routines before the birds began chirping.

Though his eyes were puffed, and he felt the tiredness of having woken up so early, he felt oddly well-rested, and it made sense since he had slept like the dead. "Good morning, Alastor," Mrs. Cormier said very deliberately, with a slight wink. Harry greeted them with as much vigor and good nature as he could, trying to shake himself into wakefulness.

He tried to work himself up by telling himself that this was the first day that he would begin his journey back home, that everything that he did from now on would be for that purpose, and that he couldn't slack - he had to pull a downright Hermione. It was hard not to wake up with those thoughts, and the amazing smell of the breakfast that Mrs. Cormier was putting together also did its rightful part.

Over breakfast, Guidry filled him in on what his duties were for the day and how they would begin their work. "Now, you gon' be manning the front desk, at first. We gets customers all days of the week, so I always gotta be prepared for a spontaneous session - but mostly, they book. Lots of them come for the Thursday-Friday special, a table reading with a ghost. Just any old random one, they don't care 'slong as it spooks 'em," Harry could hear the bitter reproach in his voice. It was clear that the Cormiers really didn't like the people here, and Harry wondered why they didn't move.

But would it be any different in another place? "I gets some money on the side selling… charged gems. Special ointments, trinkets with enchantments. Lots of its horseshit-" "Language," Mrs. Cormier warned. "-but it pays good, and it ain't completely powerless, so most a' the time they come back satisfied. Now, your job is to book the appointments, write them down and then hand them to me at the end of the day—no more 'ten people per session on the Thursdays-Friday special. Someone give you trouble, they unhappy with a trinket, you come to me. Someone looking for a trinket, you come to me.

Someone so much as looks the wrong way at ya. You come to me. Understood?" Harry nodded. "Good," Guidry said, laying back in his chair and spreading his fingers behind his head. "This little arrangement gon' give me quite some time to do what I really need to," he said cheerily. Mrs. Cormier rolled her eyes, but there were traces of a smile in the space around her lips.

Then, she stood from the table, cleared the dishes, reluctantly accepting Harry's aid, and seemed to be preparing to leave. "Where are you going?" Harry asked quite a bit of alarm in his tone. He felt the idea of her leaving him alone with Guidry to be a most painful and scary one. Mrs. Cormier laughed lightly at him and smiled warmly. "Gotta go to work, Ali," she said, what with her new nickname for him. "I'll be back by lunch," she told him, winking before heading down the stairs. Harry watched her go, dreading the idea of his work now that she wouldn't be here.

He hadn't realized how comforting her presence had been to him until it was suddenly gone. He silently reprimanded himself - he barely even knew these people. Sure, they were nice enough and had given him aid when he needed it most, and for that, he would eternally be grateful, but there was no reason that he could rationalize as to why he had become so attached to Mrs. Cormier as fast as he had.

Except, deep down, he knew the reason for his extreme attachment. He was vulnerable. He looked at Guidry for a moment and wondered if he felt the same for him. "Come on, pup," he said with a grunt. No, he definitely didn't. Guidry led him down the stairs, and then his work began. He was shown ledgers, calendars, and different types of record-keeping books. He was instructed on what to do if a customer came through the door, step by step, with a fail-safe guide that Guidry drilled into his brain.

Guidry said he'd stay with Harry for today to look over him and get him used to work, but that tomorrow he would be on his own. Harry pored over the record books, trying to decipher Guidry's nearly illegible handwriting. It was just names of people, dates, amounts, prices, etc.

He even noted, with great difficulty, that Guidry actually charged extra for certain people. When questioned about it, he flat-out denied it, but an evil glint in his eye betrayed him.

Harry stifled the urge to laugh a bit, but he feared that it might be suicide, what with Guidry's personality. Guidry told him that business was slow on Mondays. He intermittently went to his workshop and then back, keeping his eye on Harry or reclining on a rocking chair by the counter, reading a newspaper and watching as Harry got bored out of his mind. He had decided that he would wait until Guidry knew he was good for the job until he asked him how to begin searching for a solution to head back home - he didn't want to push him yet, not when he hadn't at the very least started to pay him back.

But now that he knew what the job was (at least so far - he suspected Guidry would put more on his shoulders once he began to trust him a little), he wondered whether he couldn't start straight away, looking over whatever material he had as he manned the main desk. After all, it wasn't particularly straining work, and he had quite a few idle hours.

The first customer that came in was an old man with dark, copper-ish skin and a long, white beard that went down to his knees. He was scraggly and unkempt, but he somehow also seemed pretty stable for the age he looked. He reminded Harry eerily of a decrepit, darker version of Dumbledore, which was probably because he had that same, knowing twinkle in his ancient eyes. The old man gave a bit of a start when he spotted Harry at the main desk, and Harry tried to put on his best costumer-service smile.

Guidry leaped up from his rocking chair but let Harry greet the old man. "Good morning, sir. How may I help you today?" He asked politely and measuredly, feeling like he had totally nailed it. The old man looked like he had just been slapped. "The hell you say to me, boy?" He asked, wavering between anger and confusion. Guidry leaped up from his chair. "M.r Carmichael," he greeted smoothly, walking over to the desk and setting himself beside Harry. "Jus' who in Chriss' sake you got there, Guidry Cormier?"

The man asked, eyeing Harry warily. "A nephew. Of sorts," Guidry replied curtly. "If that your nephew, then I shit gold," he said, giving a dry cackle that made Harry's bones rattle. He didn't know what had reminded him of Dumbledore - it was probably just a reach from his homesick brain.

Guidry remained expressionless. "Come, let me take you to see the progress," he said, not even looking at Harry and leading Mr. Carmichael to the back. He probably wouldn't be allowed into his workstation, but they were still out of sight. Once they were gone, Harry let out a long breath and nearly smacked his head against the table.

So that was how the first customer had gone? A complete train wreck? He was sure that most of it had had to do with his accent - maybe some of it was due to the fact that he was painfully white in contrast to the Cormiers and Mr. Carmichael. Still, maybe if his accent had been a bit more normal (normal by their terms, he thought bitterly), he'd do a bit better and start to blend in, if only just a little bit.

He had to admit that, looking out the window to the people parading around in the streets perked his curiosity. He had been far too frazzled and overwhelmed when he'd arrived to appreciate anything or really take it in, but now he would've been lying if he said he didn't feel the urge to go out and explore a bit more, see what the world had been so many years ago, but in the flesh.

He straightened out his back. "Ye're a slacker," he said hushedly, in his best Guidry accent. It was pathetic - it didn't even come close to it. He cleared his throat and tried again after peeping over to see whether Guidry and old man Carmichael had heard him. They seemed well out of sight: he couldn't even hear them. "Got them voodoo dolls, yessir I do," he practiced, though it sounded more like a clucking chicken than anything else. He sighed, dismayed.

Maybe another American accent would work - the southern one was too exaggerated, too complicated, and cartoonish coming from his lips. Still, he had seen his fair share of American movies from the cinema and the Dursleys' TV and radios, so maybe the 'neutral accent' (he thought maybe it was from New York?) would come out a tad better, his ear more accustomed to it. "Hey, I'm Alastor Cormier," he said, trying to smooth out all the Britishness from his voice. He cleared his throat again and stood up a little straighter as if he would become more American by doing so. "I want you for the U.S army," he said, pointing his finger at an emerald that hung from the ceiling. The emerald glinted in the light.

Though it looked like it was taunting him, Harry thought it was an improvement, and he was quite self-satisfied. "I love pizza-" he began again before being interrupted by another voice. "How charming," it said. Harry jumped.

The voice was perfectly smooth and pretty cat-like. The accent wasn't nearly as rough and chopped up as he heard it from Guidry or the old man, but rather the kind of thing he had heard in old spaghetti westerns, mainly from the damsels. Sure enough, the woman who stood at the door was draped in what looked to be fine silks, her tall hat sitting perfectly prim atop her head, done-up curly hair barely reaching past her shoulders. "Welcome, ma'am. How may I help you?" He asked in a slightly cracked voice.

He coughed. The woman smiled kindly at him, but there was something unsettling beneath all her powders. She seemed far too interested in him like he was a sugared lollipop, and she was a toddler with a sugar rush. Her eyebrows perked up when he spoke, presumably because of his accent, but she didn't betray much more in her expression. He had the distinct impression that she was the kind of woman to control even the slightest twitch of her mouth. "You're new here, aren't you?" She asked with that sultry voice of hers, completely ignoring Harry's question. "Yes, ma'am," he answered. She smiled further, her lips stretching to places that shouldn't be human.

She was unsettling, to say the least. "What're you doing in a place like this, sugar?" She asked, pouting a bit. Her tone was sweet, and her face was welcoming enough, but Harry thought he sensed venom laving her silky tones, and he was taken aback by the sickening sweetness of the woman. She was just too much - she seemed like one giant, puffed pastry from McDonald's. "Excuse me, ma'am?" That was the only thing that he could reply to. Guidry hadn't trained him for a situation like this, and he had said to call him if anything weird happened, but the woman seemed on the prowl for him, and he had momentarily forgotten what he was meant to do. Before she replied, he gathered himself. He was just supposed to be a clerk.

Nothing personal. "Can I help you with anything?" He asked her, feeling the strength in his words lacking. She stared him up and down for a second as if debating whether to press him or not. It was weird being interrogated and treated in such a way as a clerk in a shop - first Mr. Carmichael, now this odd woman? What was with these people? Back home, people treated clerks as if they barely existed if. Harry didn't think it was right, either, but he was struck by the comparison. Finally, the woman seemed to cave because her unrelenting, creepy gaze let up, and she turned her eyes up to the pretty crystals floating up ahead. "Yes. I'm looking to book a table for five on Thursday. For a Close Encounter," she said whimsically. Harry fought the urge to laugh or look at her as if she was a maniac - which he genuinely thought she was. So, this was the kind of person that paid for those special tables?

No wonder Guidry hated his job so bad. "Very well, ma'am," Harry took a second to think of the next question he was meant to ask. "May I have your name?" The woman let out a sudden laugh which was as artificial as she was disturbing. "My, you truly are new here! Why I'm a regular," she said, putting a hand to her chest and faking offense. "Beg your pardon, ma'am." "Say, that's a particular accent you have there. Where you from? England?" "London," Harry replied, mentally slapping himself for letting her side-track him. He was supposed to follow a script. "And what's a fella like you doing all the way here in Louisiana?" She asked airily, nearing the front desk and getting scarily close to Harry.

He pursed his lips. He thought he could now pinpoint at least one of the things that made her so disturbing - she had the manner and disposition of someone eager to prove they were charming or king, when really they were just the opposite, like a berry loaded with poison. "Life," he said meekly, hoping she'd find it charming rather than sassy. She smiled, and he hoped he could take that as an entry to continue with his script. "I'd hate to offend you, Miss, but if you could-" she suddenly leaned so close to him that he could smell her overly sweetened breath. "Are these niggers keeping you against your will?" She whispered suddenly, pronouncing the word 'niggers' rolling the r, as if it were a particularly nasty taste in her mouth.

A stone dropped in Harry's stomach. "N-No, I-" "Miss Lundelville," said Guidry, emerging from the back with Carmichael hobbling at his side. Carmichael took one look at the lady and hauled her ass to the door. If Harry could've, he would've done the same. "Oh! Mr. Cormier," Miss Lundelville greeted warmly as if she hadn't just asked Harry if they were keeping him captive. "See, I was just having the pleasantest conversation with your new little clerk…" she looked at him expectantly, and Harry almost responded 'Harry' before checking himself. "Alastor," he finally said, his voice small and squeaky. Guidry's eyes flashed to Harry, their gaze worried. "Alastor," she said sweetly, but somehow, coming from her, the name sounded wicked. "Ain't he a charming one?" She asked, her eyes glinting with malice.

Harry wasn't sure just what in the hell was going on. "I hope he tended to you well, Miss Lundelville, hate to see one of my best customers mistreated," he told her, but there was no affection or meaning behind his words.

Harry had previously thought that Guidry was harsh on him and maybe even disliked him, but now that he understood what it was to be disliked by Guidry, he thought that the man might downright love him. "Oh, he's a charm. I was just getting him to write down my details," she chirped and then proceeded to tell him the exact information that he needed to jot down her appointment.

He wrote it all down in a plain sheet of stained paper so he could pass it neatly into the schedule book - it would've made him sick to be as unorganized as Guidry was. Truly, if Hermione had seen his records, she would've fainted. Once he was done, Guidry carefully watching them from his rocking chair, and when Harry was done jotting down her details, Miss Lundelville turned back to Guidry, her gaze fixed. "Will young Mr. Alastor be aiding with the table reading on Thursday?" She asked, batting her eyelashes.

Harry scoffed. Who was that for? Guidry was clearly unmoved, and from her previous comment, it was plain that she disliked him - but if it was for Harry, it didn't make any sense. Why would she be trying to flatter him? "He might," Guidry replied tentatively. "If he does his job right throughout the week." "Then do be a good boy, Alastor," she said with a wink. "Well, I'd best be going. Good morning to you," she said, raising a pale hand at them. Guidry lifted his own hand stiffly, but Harry just watched her go, baffled.

Once her quaint little blonde head had bobbed clear out of the shop, Harry let out a hard breath, letting tension release from his body that he hadn't realized had been building up. Guidry sighed too, but it was more a sign of fatigue than relief.

Harry wanted to ask a million questions, but he just asked the first thing he managed to formulate. "Who was that?" He asked, watching the door warily as if she might come back and try to swallow them whole with that massive mouth of hers. "That was Carmelita Lundelville. Spawn of satan - her daddy, some barber who cuts the police men's hair.

Thinks she's all that. Pays good, though. Brings her friends in pretty often - can't scare a crowd like that too much 'less you wanna get in some real trouble." Harry tried to hold back from shuddering. 'Her daddy, some barber who cuts the police men's hair,' Guidry had said, and he had put quite some weight into the words. Harry was suddenly frightened by the reality that he was in, that the same laws and rules that he had been living by didn't apply in this context, and he felt horribly exposed and scared.

After a pause, Guidry spoke again. "What she say to you?" He asked quietly. Harry looked back at him. He didn't want to pay Guidry back for his kindness by lying to him, but it also felt awful and incredibly degrading to reveal what Carmelita had said. Particularly that word that she had used so dirtily. It made him want to slice off his ears.

But he felt he had to be honest with Guidry: who knew what might happen if he kept something like that from him? "She… implied that you might… be holding me here," he said hesitantly. Guidry didn't need to know the details or the tone. "What?" "I said, she-" "I know what you said, boy!" Guidry barked, fuming. Harry shut his mouth. Guidry suddenly stood from his chair. His jaw clenched so hard Harry thought he might hurt himself. Then, he sat back down, clearly restless.

His jaw was dancing. His eyes were popping out from his skull like a mad fish's. Finally, after a second or two, when Harry had decided to stop watching him as if the man were a movie of some kind and started copying down Carmelita's details in the books that corresponded, Guidry calmed down.

He ran a long hand down his face and then took a deep breath. "Shall I bring your cigarette pouch?" Harry asked timidly - he thought that maybe that would calm him, but Guidry just ignored him. "She better stay away. From you," Guidry warned to no one in particular. "What do you mean?" "Miss Lundelville got a bad reputation. She a grown lady, you a child, that's all I'm gon' say." He said, clearly perturbed. Harry was about to ask him just exactly what he meant by that, but then Guidry spoke again. "You know what?" He said, his eyes suddenly glazing over with a sullen, detached look. "I'll bet you ann'thing that by tomorrow, some police man's gon' show up at our door.

You mark my words, Ha- Alastor." He shook his head and stood decisively. He flung a piece of parchment at Harry. "Write Mr. Carmichael's details down. I'm gon' see about some coffee," he said, starting up the stairs. The rest of the day passed relatively quietly. Guidry stayed by Harry as he greeted two more clients.

They both started a bit at Harry's accent but didn't bring nearly as much trouble as the first two had. Harry had begun speaking slower, trying to 'neutralize' himself, and Guidry heard the change without commenting on the fact. At around two in the afternoon, Mrs. Cormier arrived home from work, her hair disheveled, her face looking scarily tired.

They changed the sign on the door to 'CLOSED' and all headed upstairs. Mrs. Cormier headed straight to her bedroom, not in the chatty mood that Harry was used to seeing but looking rather weak and exhausted. Guidry silently started making lunch.

Harry asked if he could help, and he was handed an uncomfortably large knife to peel off the fat from a piece of meat he didn't recognize. "Is Mrs. Cormier alright?" Harry asked innocently enough, but Guidry stumbled a bit as he carved up a piece of radish. Harry didn't miss it. "Molly? She good. Always comes back tired from the morning shift, that's all." Harry nodded.

He wondered if it would be stepping over the line to ask what she worked as, and maybe if he had been talking to Mrs. Cormier, he would've asked. Still, Guidry was a bit more intimidating, and, somehow, after the whole affair with Carmelita Lundelville, Harry felt far more deeply indebted to him.

He was keenly aware that Guidry wouldn't be going through all of this if it weren't for him and that he was probably the last person that needed the police coming to his door, inspecting to see whether he had kidnapped some white boy.

It was wrong on so many levels that Harry didn't even know how to grasp it fully, and he didn't know how to express it to Guidry, so he just kept his mouth shut and kept slicing the fat off the meat until Guidry cursed him. "Cutting away all the flesh, you dumb boy. Move aside," he grumbled, knocking Harry away and shoving him towards the vegetables.

When lunch was ready, Mrs. Cormier was roused, and she came back into the common area as chirpy as ever.

She seemed in a completely different mood. She asked about their day and, much to Harry's surprise, Guidry didn't tell her about Carmelita. Harry wasn't about to intrude in a decision like that, so he didn't say anything about the incident. "I met Mr. Carmichael," he said instead. "Pf, that old, cranky fart," Mrs. Cormier rolled her eyes. Guidry shot her a look. "He a good man." "He probably the only person that's got worse humor than you. That's all it is," she countered.

Harry smiled at them, and the tension from before eased away a little bit. After lunch, Mrs. Cormier sat down before the fire and took up a bit of sewing, and Guidry left to take a nap. Unsure of what to do, Harry sat beside Mrs. Cormier by the fire, watching the flames crackle.

It was funny how he had always looked into these kinds of fireplaces for the comfort of some sort, and at least this was just the same as it was at home. Except maybe Sirius' face might have come out of the flames, he thought with some amusement. Sirius. He wondered how he was, where he was. Out of all the exotic places he had been going to as of late, Harry was sure he had beaten him. Probably. He smiled a little bit. "What you thinking about, sugar?" Mrs. Cormier asked softly.

Her eyes were fixed on her stitching, but somehow she had still seen him. "My godfather," Harry confessed. "He a good man?" "The best," Harry grinned. Mrs. Cormier smiled, too, but hers was a little sad. He could tell there was some pity, maybe even a form of regret in her eyes, but Harry was bad at reading expressions.

It couldn't have been over an hour before Mrs. Cormier set down the shirt she was mending and started preparing for work again. This time, Harry watched her a bit more intently, trying to see if he could tell what her job was without being too obvious about it.

She took a bag from one of the bottom cupboards of the kitchen, and though he couldn't tell what was in it, he could tell it was heavy because she looked burdened when she took it up. But maybe that was for another reason. She blew Harry a kiss and asked him to give one to Guidry once he woke up.

Harry didn't think he would likely deliver the message and live to tell the tale, but he promised anyway. It was funny to imagine how he would react. He sat by the fire until Guidry finally woke up, in a far fouler mood than he had been before.

He made some more coffee, and then they both headed down the stairs to reopen the shop. Barely a half-hour had passed before they had another incident. In the end, Guidry had been pretty spot-on because a policeman arrived before the next morning.