July 23rd, 2002
"We've got lovely properties in south-west London suburbs—Hounslow, Sutton. Epsom, but it's already in Surrey—"
"No!" Harry protests loudly like an ill-mannered prat. "No suburbs. No Surrey."
The estate agent seems to realise that he feels quite strongly about it because she immediately changes her tune.
"The city, then," she decides smoothly, but something in her falters, like she thinks he's wasting her time. "Lambeth has been quite popular lately—"
"I live in Islington," Harry blurts, feeling like they speak two different languages. "I would rather stay on this side of the river. And stick to central London."
"I see." She visibly regains her composure. "Camden is always a great choice. We also have listings even closer to the city heart. Of course, the prices—"
"The price isn't an issue," Harry cuts her off. He's never thought he would say something like that with a straight face. "May I?" He indicates a thick folder in her hands.
She keeps going while he slowly scans the offers. "Are we set on a bigger flat or a house? We have some lovely studio apartments in Marylebone if it's just you." She clearly tries very hard to figure him out. Too young to be a family man, too quiet to be a free-spirited artist or an unattached party animal, too badly dressed to be a child prodigy who accidentally invented something cool in his teens.
"It's just me and my... butler," he finishes clumsily.
"Ah. A regular Bruce Wayne, huh?" He doesn't get the reference, so he keeps quiet, but he has a feeling that she's mocking him.
"The place we live in now is awful," he shares, pretending to himself that Kreacher isn't heartbroken by the mere idea of moving. "I'd like it to be cosy, but not claustrophobic. Big windows, that sort of thing."
Apparently it's not specific enough, because she looks quite lost, so Harry ups his game. "I like it when the living room and kitchen are combined, making one huge room." He browses through the folder some more. "Oh, a roof garden. That's nice." His eyebrows rise when he glances down. "It's also quite pricey."
Her eye twitches nervously. "Those are slightly underpriced. How about I check your credit and mortgage options real quick while you think on it, and then we will know what we're looking for?"
Harry attempts to make a quick calculation in his head, mostly to no avail, before looking right at her. "I'll be paying in cash."
She blinks slowly once, then twice. "May I see some identification?" she asks still politely, but with a sharp edge to it, not even attempting to hide that she thinks he's full of shit. He offers her his brand new passport with a bland smile. "Which bank do you use?"
"Bank of England," he says with more confidence than he actually feels, and follows her with his eyes to the back door, biting his lip anxiously.
Now is the time for the real test. It's been easier than he initially anticipated, apart from a couple unfortunate hindrances. Cameron, Mr. Weasley, and his lawyer, Falwey, all advised him to see the Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee, which Harry did. One lady fainted. A silver-haired wizard who led the committee couldn't possibly understand what Harry was trying to accomplish, but neither did Fawley. He's pretty sure there are people in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes who are now convinced Harry is attempting to flee Britain, and it's only a matter of time before they sell that information to the press.
But at the end of the day, it helped that Harry was already officially a citizen, went to school in the muggle world, and the Dursleys—surprise, surprise—never claimed that he died, so there was no formal deterrent to him getting a passport. Turns out there's a whole procedure in corroboration with the General Register Office that covers up for all those children disappearing every year and allows them to come back if needed, which understandably became quite popular during the war, at least until the process was suspended by the puppet government. The only downside is a glaring hole in Harry's resume—the deception doesn't extend that far—but he assumes no one will be looking that closely.
Compared to the hysterical hiccup that was his visit to the ministry, the meeting in Gringotts, which he was fretting about the most, was a walk in the park. For a very non-human race, the goblins have long-established networks in place with multiple other banks. Harry barely managed to stutter out what he had in mind, and he already had a balance sheet in front of him. There was a lot of talk of asset allocation and fussing at funds laying in one deposit or another and basically doing nothing. Right after the war, Harry had plenty of other things on his mind, so he only now discovered that his grandfather had tended to invest in really strange things for a wizard, from Japanese cars to American airlines to French beauty products. Ragnuk, his financial adviser, encouraged him to buy into something called Google, so Harry did, wondering if he was joking when he said they had seers whispering in their ear. He mumbled something about charity, and the goblin indulged him, huffing impatiently. Before Harry knew what was happening, he was being given an envelope and pushed through the door.
Whatever magic had happened in that dusty Gringotts' office, the representative of the Bank of England was aware that he's a very high-profile customer, had his balance confirmation on file, and asked Harry politely to share his postal address as soon as he has one.
It was a very humbling experience, and Harry still isn't sure how much he actually owns.
The estate agent comes back with an extra bounce in her step, nearly vibrating with enthusiasm. She sits down, crosses her legs, and grins at him like a cat who got the cream. "So, Mr. Potter. What are we thinking? Mayfair? Chelsea? Kensington, maybe?"
"I'm gonna start a new job on Whitehall, so not very far from there?" He almost snorts at himself, but the thought of walking to the ministry every day is surprisingly nice. If everything goes well, that's the next step on his never-ending list.
The agent's eyes widen even more. Harry doesn't get what's so exciting about working for government. It's not even her government, but she doesn't know that.
"A roof garden, you said? Let's take a look at penthouses then, shall we?"
It all feels awfully overindulgent, decadent even, but Harry thinks that he's never bought himself anything. He can barely remember doing something just to make himself happy. He just suffered, then sacrificed himself, and then suffered some more. He can indulge for once in his life.
"Ah, before we start, can I get your phone number?"
Shit. He knew he forgot something.
July 26th, 2002
He fell in love the moment he first stepped in, and he feels the exact same way now. Maybe it's because it would be hard to find anywhere so unlike Grimmauld Place. It's spacious and full of light, like these rooms are pushing the air into his lungs and filling his heart with hope.
"We're very lucky that they wanted to get rid of this place so quickly. No squabbling with the bank also helps," chirps Jennifer, the estate agent, pulling Harry out of his dream-like state. "This would be a perfect nursery if it's ever needed," she mentions distractedly, pointing to the smaller room at the left while Harry's busy wondering what he's going to do with a bedroom this huge.
"Yeah, maybe," he murmurs, barely listening to her. He's so fucking happy and so ready to keep going, he could burst. He also wants her to go away already, so he can go up to check the garden again.
She must realise, because she continues smoothly, "I'll leave you to it. I can come by after four and bring the rest of the papers?"
"I've got therapy," he blurts, and only then starts to wonder if it's something that shouldn't be announced left and right.
She gives him a wan smile. He doesn't know what kind of picture she made up of him in her mind, but he can feel that motherly care in her stance. She's aware that he's an orphan left all alone in the world with only a small fortune for company. She's aware that he's starting some very hush-hush job for the government. She's aware that he's rather withdrawn, and she must have noticed that his understanding of the world around him is pitiful at best. And now she knows that he's in therapy. It looks quite sad no matter how you look at it.
She clears her throat. "If I might just suggest. Your lawyer wasn't very helpful. You might consider hiring somebody else."
Or just anybody whose specialty isn't wizarding law would work. He smiles politely and waits for a couple of beats after she leaves before taking a deep breath.
"Kreacher," he calls softly.
His elf appears in the middle of the hallway with a quiet crack. Harry observes intently as his big head turns this way and that, taking everything in, before he clenches his little fists and presses them to his eyes.
"Master." Now Kreacher grabs his ears, pulls, and makes a steady wail. "This…is…horrible!"
Harry hurries towards him and falls to his knees. "Oh, come on, it's not that bad," he tries to convince him gently. "Look, it's so… clean!" The wailing only gets louder. "Shit, Kreacher, I didn't have time to put up any wards yet. You need to keep it down."
Kreacher's sobbing dies down; he lets his ears go and gives Harry a judging, unblinking glare. "Master is utterly irresponsible," he declares harshly. "What if a muggle comes in?" he frets in a stage whisper.
"They... don't do that," Harry assures him half-heartedly. "We will make sure that everything is secure in a minute, but first..." He sighs and sits on the floor, crossing his legs. "Look, you know you don't have to stick to me, right? You can stay at Grimmauld Place. I'm not going to get rid of it. I just need to be here right now. And if you need to be there, that's fine. I could visit you. Andy and Teddy for sure would. I don't want you to be unhappy."
Kreacher's ears drop sadly. "But... Kreacher can't leave Master all alone. Master won't survive!" His eyes get really big. Harry doesn't know if he should be offended or amused.
"I'll be alright on my own," he promises. "You really don't like it?" he asks in a small voice. He's not above a little emotional blackmail, but he doesn't mean to be cruel; in Kreacher's age, every change is painful, and Harry knows how much the Black ancestral home means to him.
Kreacher makes another spectacle of looking around. "It's very empty," he says mildly, clearly trying to find any bright side to emptiness.
"It is right now. It won't be empty when we bring our stuff."
Kreacher's ears perked up. "Everything? Even Kreacher's collection? Even the elves' heads? Even the tapestry?" he asks sneakily.
Harry pinches the bridge of his nose. "You can bring your personal belongings. The tapestry goes to the museum, and it's better if the heads stay at Grimmuald Place." He quickly thinks of something muggle-safe that he can offer him instead. "We can bring that big closet and the snake-like chandelier."
Kreacher seems to mull over it for a long moment. Harry can feel the upcoming victory, so he sweetens the deal. "Come here," he encourages before opening the smallest bedroom. "What do you think?"
Kreacher stills in the doorway, and his eyes get huge and round like plates. "Kreacher cannot..." he croaks.
"Sure you can," Harry disagrees lightly. Nursery, phew. There will be two people living here, and they both deserve their own room.
Kreacher murmurs 'Kreacher cannot' under his breath a couple more times. Harry gently steers him back to the hallway and down the stairs.
"You're just going to have to keep most of your stuff in your room, so no one will see it, okay? As for the rest, we can decide what stays in the house and what goes back to the Gringotts vault. Nothing will be thrown away, got it?" He remembers Kreacher's hysteria when the house was last cleaned and wants to make it clear that he has no intention to mess with his elf's beloved possessions, but to be honest, if he never again sees Walburga's portrait, it would be too soon.
Kreacher swallows and opens his mouth, then closes it and swallows again. He clearly tries to force the words out. "Master promises the muggles won't come?"
Shit, he sounds genuinely scared. Harry crouches down next to him again. "They might. But they won't come to harm us, and you won't have to interact with them at all. Quite the opposite; you know you can't be seen, right? If there are any muggles around, you need to stay hidden or go to Grimmauld Place."
But Kreacher doesn't look happy nor convinced and finally decides to share what's bothering him. "But how will Master defend himself against the muggles? Master can't curse them. The Statute..." His voice trembles and breaks down.
Harry sighs inwardly. "I'll put up protective charms, alright? No muggle with the intention to hurt me will even get in here. If they do, though… I'll punch them."
Kreacher looks at him like he's never heard anything more ridiculous. "Master is so strange." He shakes his head incredulously, but then nods decisively before waving Harry away. "Master goes on with protective charms, then! Go on!"
Right. Safety first. Harry rolls up his sleeves and is ready to get to work when he hears Kreacher shriek. Fuck, he really needs to Muffliato this place pronto.
"This is too small!" Kreacher exclaims in horror, pointing to the fireplace. "How will Master travel?"
Harry sizes the fireplace critically. It is indeed pretty small. At least it's not one of those fake electric ones, or Kreacher would have a stroke. He didn't consider connecting this place to Floo Network before, but he has to admit it would be pretty handy. If it's even doable. "I'm sure we can do something about it," he announces calmly before taking out his wand. Magic fills first him and then the air; the fireplace grows slightly while Harry focuses really hard on not affecting the chimney flue. He has no intention of demolishing any walls. The fireplace is already of a pretty decent size, but he keeps going until the violin music coming from somewhere behind the wall dies down. Oops.
Harry quickly finishes the engorging, hoping that no walls were cracked in the process. Especially other people's walls; he can deal with his own. "See? Much better."
Kreacher still looks quite surly, but Harry ignores him. He puts the tip of his wand to the front door and starts to walk slowly along the wall all around the open plan, muttering under his breath. He does the same to the downstairs bathroom before going back upstairs, distantly aware that Kreacher is following him, straightening the spells. He almost adds a Muggle-Repelling Charm out of habit, but catches himself in time. He repeats his actions on all three bedrooms, another bathroom, and even a walk-in closet—what the hell is he going to need a walk-in closet for? He just wanted a garden—and then finally...
"Come on, I'll show you something," he says brightly before climbing the stairs again and pushing the heavy door.
The garden looks mesmerising; it's really tiny, resembling a little lane. Harry can't wait to cover it up with plants. A bit of hedge to keep it out of sight. And ivy. Lots and lots of ivy. And above it…
"Hello, London," he whispers.
He might have lived in this city for years already, but this feels different. It feels new.
"That was quick," Diane sums up, using an opportunity to cut in when Harry takes a breath. He's been talking for several minutes straight, which isn't like him at all. "I can see you glowing. It's amazing, Harry."
"Thanks," he mumbles sheepishly. "I really think it's going to be good for me."
"Looks like it will," she agrees easily. "So, what's next on the agenda? Since you're on a roll?"
Harry blushes slightly, but he can't stop smiling. "I'm going to talk to Kingsley. I want to get back to work." He snorts at himself before shaking his head. "What am I even saying? I've barely started before."
"You did what you could have at the time. It's okay to take a break when you need one. There's no reason not to pick up where you left off."
"I know," he says mostly out of habit. "I'm a little anxious. To be around people again. On a daily basis."
"Any people, or these particular people?" Nothing gets past Diane.
"Magical people," he admits reluctantly. "People who know me, or they think they know me. I'm fine with my actual friends now. But if I go back, I won't be a random junior auror. It's gonna be a whole thing."
"We already spoke about this. That it's something you're going to need to learn how to deal with. Develop your own mechanisms against it, because you can't control other people or count on them to stop giving you special attention. If it's your intention to stay—"
"I can't give up on the wizarding world completely. It means a lot to me, and I want to be a part of it."
"You feel you deserve to be part of the world you helped save," Diane points out. She always hits the nail on the head, and most of her conclusions are similarly brutal.
But Harry isn't supposed to lie to himself anymore. "Yeah. Yeah, I fucking deserve it. If I just left without looking back, it would feel like letting myself be driven out."
"But you also want to have an option to lie low. To have a place to go when you're feeling overwhelmed."
"Yeah. Is that selfish?" he asks uncertainly.
"I think having a safe space is very healthy, Harry. It's an essential human need."
"It feels like it's too much. Like I want a little bit of everything, and I should just pick one."
"No one has just one thing. It's your life, and you have full control of it. You can have a job in the magical world, a home in the non-magical world, and friends in both. Those are not mutually exclusive, and there's no limit to it." She scrutinises him for a long moment, as she tends to do, before continuing, "I would like to lower your dose. It's been close to two months, and you've been doing tremendously well. It would let us observe your symptoms in a safe environment for a while before you go back to work."
Harry gulps. "If you think I'm ready."
Diane gives him a quick smile. "So. Anxiety about being among the magicals. What about No-majes?"
Harry shrugs. "They don't bother me."
"I've got homework for you, then. By our next session, try to initiate a conversation with a non-magical person, one that is not prompted by circumstances. You mentioned you wanted to go out. What was the plan? Were you going to take anyone with you?"
This actually stresses Harry out a lot. "I want to go alone. I picture... just walking out and going wherever the night takes me. Being a normal person who just meets another normal person or people and makes a connection, even for a moment. Planning that kind of defeats the purpose."
"So the key part is the spontaneity, not knowing what's going to happen? Whether you find a nice conversation, a crazy adventure, or a hot sexual encounter?"
Harry tries not to blush like a silly teenager and fails. "Sure. If anyone's up for it," he blurts self-deprecatingly. Fuck, Diane just mentions it as a possibility, and he has to fucking focus on it.
"Why wouldn't they be? Don't you think other people could find you attractive?"
Harry officially hates this conversation, and it's his own fault that they're even having it. "I think they won't be aware of the only thing that attracts people to me."
Diane's eyes narrow. "So you believe it's strictly your fame and your name that make you desirable? Not who you are beneath it?" Harry's silence speaks volume. "Is it something you assume based on how others typically react to you? Or did a previous partner already make you feel that way?"
Damn her. "I know she didn't mean to—" he starts weakly.
"Why did you start a relationship with Ginny in the first place?"
Harry promised to be honest. "I knew she wanted to. I thought I just as well might."
"And how did you feel when it ended?"
"I didn't really feel I was in it by then."
"You weren't emotionally committed," Diane translates for him. "The relationship was circumstantial from the beginning. Don't make that face, Harry. People stay in such relationships for decades, sometimes purely out of habit. Some of them learn to love with time, both the person and what they've built together. Some are happy with it. Not everything needs to rely on profound emotions. It might be exhausting, really."
"I love Ginny," he protests half-heartedly.
"I'm sure you do. You've been friends for a long time," Diane indulges him. "What I'm trying to say is that most people have a preconceived notion of what love is supposed to look like, and it's hard for them to accept anything else. Often, they have an ideal in their mind that they subconsciously try to replicate. Their parents, for example."
Harry tenses, which doesn't escape her notice. "I've never met them," he grumbles.
"Which makes the desire even stronger, to feel closer to them. But people are not simple. There is no magic formula for it—no pun intended. What looks good on paper and meets all criteria might still end up not feeling right, and it's no one's fault." Diane cocks her head slightly. "Have you ever asked yourself what actually attracts you? Either in people or in general? Sexually, romantically, spiritually? Those are all separate questions."
Harry frowns. Sure, he must have thought about it multiple times. Sometimes. Maybe once or twice. There have been plenty of people that he was attracted to sexually. First there was the whole mess with Cho Chang and Cedric Digorry, and that was fucked up even before one of them died a gruesome death right in front of Harry's eyes. But yeah, either of them. Or both, maybe. He thought about Cho a lot, but he also really liked Cedric, and he spent most of his fourth year in a state of permanent confusion until his world fell apart and it became too mundane to think about.
Lee Jordan is hot. Susan Bones is cute. Daphne Greengrass is absolutely stunning. Harry would happily have a go at either of these people. Who else has ever seemed fanciable? Something whispers in his mind, 'Sirius', but Harry tries to shoo this thought away with a scowl. That's gross; Sirius was family. 'Not really,' his inner voice reasons. 'He was just your dad's friend. You can find him hot if you want to.' He shakes his head to get rid of the notion.
What about romantically? Cedric, really. In fact, he was everything that Harry could potentially want in a partner. He was kind, generous, reliable, humble, and true to himself, but also kind of intense. Fierce. But at first he was Cho's boyfriend and then dead, and Harry has never had a presence of mind or even the guts to acknowledge that little dream.
And Ginny, most likely. He could picture it easily back then, still can right now, and he likes that picture. He used to like it enough to turn a blind eye to that something that he felt was missing. A spark, or whatever.
And who has he ever felt connected to spiritually?
Voldemort. He almost gags.
"That must have been some thought," Diane remarks. She's been watching him quietly the whole time. Harry doesn't want to know what kind of face he made.
"I'll think about it," he promises casually, not mentioning that he can already think of little else.
The first crisis breaks out as soon as he's back home—home! What a wonder to think of 11 Green Street as home—he brought some stuff from Grimmauld Place to fill the emptiness a little bit, but he still has nothing to wear. And not in a drama queen kind of way, but literally he can count on the fingers of one hand the number of clothes he owns that don't bring to mind homeless people, abused kids, or both. Weasley sweaters won't work either. He has a nice bottle green t-shirt he got from Hermione and one pair of jeans that's a little less shabby than the rest, though still riddled with holes. His sneakers look slightly better than his trainers. He has some hoodies, but it's summer; he doesn't need a hoodie. What he needs is a shopping spree, but it's too late now. He considers not shaving so he looks less like a kid, but it also makes him look more like a bum. Eventually he decides his appearance won't get any better, so there's no point in sweating over it.
Another issue is destination. He squints when he gets outside—the sun is going down very slowly—before taking off in random direction. The streets are crowded and everyone is going somewhere—where do all those people go? Should he follow them? But each of them seems to have something else in mind; as a whole, it makes them buzz like a bee swarm. He passes a charming square and gets to what looks like a main street. He crosses it more or less at the same time the sun finally sets. Suddenly it gets darkish, but not really, because everything is drowned in lights, and Harry remembers seeing Diagon Alley or Hogwarts for the first time. He feels the same now.
Like in a psychodelic trance, he walks right into this mess, trying to take everything in but unable to. He follows large groups, passing jazz bars, theatres, and art galleries along with them. There's music coming from open doors and windows, getting louder as he falls deeper down this rabbit hole. He loses his unsuspecting guides because he can't help stopping every couple of yards. He pauses by a guy in flowery pants playing saxophone. There's some kind of random performance happening behind him, ruining his acoustic. He stops when he sees another guy throwing up near a painting on the wall. He stops by a big record shop and is tempted to go in, even though he knows nothing about records, but it looks very colourful and confusing, like a little medley of everything. He promises himself to come back here and then halts again when one man loudly calls another a cunt. He thinks it might end up in a fight, so he follows a bunch of giggling girls into what looks more like a hole in the wall than a serious pub. He only needs to take a single step to get to the bar, but the floor is so sticky that it's enough for the soles of his feet to get glued to it.
"What a dolt," one of the girls comments loudly to Harry, clearly waiting for him to agree. He thinks his answering smile might be kind of panicked.
They order shots and ask Harry if he wants a shot. He pays for shots and has six or seven before his tongue loosens up. The blonde girl, the one who complained about the man outside, has been trying to make conversation, and he's been just standing there, silently freaking out.
"I'm the maid of honour," she boasts, pointing to another girl in something that looks like a crown. Harry's not sure what that has to do with anything, but he at least knows what it means.
"Yeah, me too."
Apparently they find it hilarious. "Are you?"
"I don't know yet. Two of my best mates are getting married—to each other—and they've been fighting over who's going to get me."
"I'd be fighting too," the blonde drawls. Harry gets a bit red.
"If the bride chooses a guy, is he the maid of honour? Or still the best man?" he wonders out loud, and they all look like they're seriously considering it.
"You know what? I don't know," one of them admits in surprise. "But you can definitely be the maid of honour if you want to."
"Yeah, I agree." Harry nods solemnly. They look utterly delighted.
They have a couple more shots before the girls decide to take him with them. He's not opposed to the idea. They turn right, then left, then right again—he's pleasantly buzzed and doesn't even watch where they're going anymore—through some secret passage—what is this place, Hogwarts?—and end up somewhere very dark, with bright, fluorescent lights that hurt his eyes, and very loud; the ground is nearly shaking from the bass of what he learns is R . He firmly declines to dance but accepts a drink this time—rum and coke, which tastes invigorating and vibrant, unlike whisky that by now tastes like depression—and everything gets a little dizzy after that.
At some point, one of the girls screams, 'This is our song!', and they all disappear in the crowd of sweaty bodies, leaving him alone with the maid of honour—'Tallulah, call me Lulu'. They talk about weddings, then marriage in general, then single life, which leads to him getting a lecture about hookup culture. She's very passionate about these things—feminism, emancipation, defying expectations—and seems to realise that Harry's lost in the conversation like a babe in the woods, so she starts to treat him like a blank canvas for her to fill in. He's hardly that clueless—he suspects he knows more about civil disobedience than anyone here—but he happens to agree with her on most points. He just didn't know about the hookups, but he does now, and it all sounds wonderfully indecent and liberating. After all that, it's almost disappointing when they only make out a bit in the corner, but she gives him her number—just types it into his brand new cellphone, and it's a second phone number he has, after Jennifer the estate agent—before rejoining her friends.
He's not sure if he actually likes the club or if it was mostly Lulu, but it's somehow refreshing that people come here just to be able to lose their inhibitions for a while without facing any judgement. He inwardly compares it to Malfoys' soirée as another example of meet-and-hangout setting and nearly snorts. Do wizards have clubs? If not, they definitely should.
And the best part—nobody, absolutely nobody knows who he is. Friday night, ladies and gentlemen. The very beginning of the twenty-first century. Either two months after or five days before Harry Potter Day—wizards can never agree on that. What a time to be alive.
Fresh air helps him sober up when he leaves the club. He doesn't recognise his surroundings, but the vibe is a little different. He has a feeling it's not because of the change of location, but because it's later; there are even more people whirling around now, and they're being louder than before. More drunk, surely—not that he's an exception here. More aggressive in some cases, more smiley in others. Just more. An upbeat song starts to play from one of the bars, and a bunch of people immediately jump in to sing along. It's good; Harry thinks of learning the name of the artist, getting a record, and listening to it at home. Then the song changes to something about heroes; he scowls and keeps walking, and suddenly he finds himself in front of a Leaky Cauldron.
After the initial surprise that he's managed to get as far as Charing Cross Road, he spends a moment picturing the scene an appearance of an inebriated Harry Potter in party mode would make inside. It feels horrifying, so he turns on his heel to continue his exploring.
He ends up on a street that is similar to the rest but also a little different. Everyone looks a bit more bizarre, kind of quirky. The general feel is more dodgy, too; some people still bounce the street, making a lot of ruckus, but some kind of sneak around. There are very colourful flags here and there; Harry doesn't know what they mean, but they must not be important because some of them lie on the ground and people tread all over them. A group walks out of a nearby pub, accosts a lone man, and starts hugging him excessively, like he just got back from war. On the balcony above them, people are dancing. He hears some kind of music and follows it; it sounds pretty awful, with a robotic timbre to it. He passes a phone box with an actual couple making out in it. Oh, wait, they're both men. Very… manly… men. He might stare at them for too long to be considered polite.
"Where you headed, honey?" asks a gentleman in a trench coat, noticing his scrutiny. He blows up a big puff of smoke that itches Harry's nose.
He shrugs. "Here, apparently."
He gives a sharp smile, showing all his teeth. "Good answer."
Soundtrack for this chapter:
Robbie Williams – 'Rock DJ'
Madonna – 'Like a Prayer'
Enrique Iglesias – 'Hero'
Outkast – 'Ms. Jackson'
OT Quartet – 'Hold That Sucker Down'