July 27th, 2002
His head hurts as if someone's put a jackhammer to it. His mouth tastes like something died in it, but fixing it would require opening his eyes, moving to the sink, finding his wand, or calling Kreacher. It's much easier to just lie here, gradually falling in and out of consciousness. He slowly cracks one eye open to the world swimming around him. Right, he's safely at Green Street; he got in late last night, sat on the floor near the front door, spent a moment bickering with Kreacher, who's always been an insufferable mother hen when Harry's drunk, and refused to go to Grimmauld Place even when Kreacher offered to take him—he was at least right that Harry would splinch over all six continents should he attempt to get there on his own. His elf got no other choice but to bring him a sleeping bag—from his time on the run, great reminder, Kreacher—while Harry bitched about the war, people, booze, and every other stupid thing under the sun. Kreacher must have been relieved when he finally passed out.
Shit, someone is playing violin in the building again. He wanted to be able to hear what's happening outside, but now he regrets keeping that Muffliato unilateral. They aren't bad; it sounds more like a rendition of some modern song than regular classical stuff, but it's way too funky for his current state. Why would they do that at the crack of the fucking dawn? To be fair, judging from the amount of light, it's around noon. He has windows now; he can't pretend time doesn't exist anymore. Fucking crappy sunny apartments, bloody hell.
But it was worth it. Which is saying something considering that it involved drinking himself into a stupor, but Harry feels like his eyes have been opened last night. He was just looking for some fun, but he found so much more. Who knew muggles are so relentless and attempt to work on so many things that are wrong with the world? They're also ugly—people in general are ugly—but they don't give up; they pick up the pieces and keep going. It's a notion that's particularly close to Harry's heart. He's always felt that wizards are inclined to rest on their laurels. They fix one thing and are good to settle, like everything's going to be fine from now on. It won't, at least in Harry's experience. There's another fight to pick, and then another. The work is never done; you can either keep fighting or give up. There is no settling.
Maybe it's the war that shaped him, but he just can't see any other way forward. Hermione is like that too, and only now he wonders if it's because she came from muggles. But muggles can be lazy too; the Dursleys…
He frowns. The tune and tempo changed, and he knows the song his mysterious violinist is playing now. Vernon used to put it on when he was feeling unusually sentimental. Even though Harry was a little kid at the time, he remembers thinking that the Dursleys didn't seem to understand the message of that song at all.
But the muggles! The amount of music they created while Harry wasn't looking is staggering. Dozens of genres, hundreds of subgenres, some of which his new friends shared with him last night before warning him that he sounds like he's deaf and to never attempt singing ever again. They were bold and occasionally rude. Harry felt they had every right if what they told him was true, and they had no reason to lie. Because he also learnt what the flags were about; the muggles have a whole movement advocating the rights of… everyone who is not straight, basically. Harry's not sure how that works in the wizarding world. He's never met a gay wizard, apart from the rumours about Dumbledore, but to be fair, he's never really met so many wizards, period. It's probably similar to what Tom—the older tall muggle in a coat, who took it upon himself to explain everything to him; Harry suspects he must have thought he was born and raised in some foreign country; at least he hinted at it a couple of times, and Harry didn't dissuade him—told him it had been like in the muggle world before. Gay people had existed, but they'd stayed out of sight for fear of being ostracised. Or thrown into jail. Or, you know, killed. Phew, maybe wizards aren't that awful towards gay people after all. As long as they're pure-bloods, probably.
In the muggle world, it could apparently get pretty brutal. After he followed Tom's friends to another bar, which looked old and full of history, and reminded Harry a little bit of wizarding pubs, he spoke to the bartender, who told him that the place had actually been bombed three years prior. There was a big memorial plaque at the entrance. Who would have wanted to destroy such a place, Harry has no idea. People are insane.
But maybe that's it. There's always someone who has something against someone else, based on inane factors. What they look like. Who they love. Who their parents are. It feels good to know that these muggles don't allow themselves to be subdued. That they speak out loudly, refuse to back down, rebuild their pubs, and keep going. It makes him think of the wizarding world; sure, they rebuilt and kept going after the war as well, but not that much has actually changed. Muggleborns, who were the real victims, fell back into their place in society, too glad they're allowed to stay to ask for anything more. Most of them attempt to blend in when they should stand tall with their heads held high and force the rest to acknowledge that they're here—different but equal. Acknowledge their specific culture, which is not muggle culture at all—Hermione, for example, by now has very little to do with muggles; she's just a witch who brings muggle way of thinking with her.
And what about witches? Pure-blood culture is terribly archaic; people are pressured to marry young and pop out a couple of babies as quickly as possible, and women are generally considered less career-orientated and encouraged to just be socialites. Everybody can't be okay with that, can they? For instance, Daphne is totally a feminist, but she has nothing to back her up, so she just sulks and bitches at everything around. And even in the ministry, Hermione has been jumping hoops every step of the way.
And what about the gays? Does anyone even think about them? Do they need to hide in the shadows as well, to keep the status quo? 'And what about me?' Harry thinks to himself, feeling his headache worsening.
How come the only ones who rebelled throughout magical history are the goblins and terrorists? What have wizards been thinking?
Suddenly it gets even brighter, though the sun has already been pouring through the open blinds. Harry scowls and squeezes his eyes shut.
"Harry, where are you?" booms Hermione's voice. To be fair, it probably only sounds that loud because he's hungover. He blinks blearily at the glowing otter floating above him. "We've been trying to Floo, but you're not answering. Are you out? I'm with Ginny; I wanted to talk about the wedding. Send Prongs, please. We're worried."
Harry winces and sits up reluctantly. He rubs his face, waiting for the world to stop spinning, before trying to locate his wand. He waves it briefly, and a huge, silver stag appears. Harry has an unpleasant impression that it's judging him.
"Go to Hermione. Tell her, 'I'll be home in thirty minutes. Could use some help today, if you guys have time.'" His voice also sounds like something that died a long time ago.
Prongs promptly disappears, and Harry gets up and goes to the kitchen, a little unsteady on his feet. He turns the water on and drinks it from the sink; there're no glasses here. He needs to bring more stuff. He casts a Minty Fresh Spell on his mouth and a Refreshing Spell on the rest of himself before calling Kreacher, wondering where he is. Grimmauld Place? He would have answered the Floo.
This one is definitely judging him; Harry must have been more annoying last night than he thought.
"Master has only himself to blame," he grumbles, but still waits patiently for orders.
"Coffee, Kreacher? And a hangover potion, please?" he asks beseechingly.
Kreacher's eyes narrow. "Master should suffer," he sneers with such solemn disapproval that it makes Harry shiver, but he still obediently disappears with a pop. Harry sighs with relief before going back to his makeshift bed to put his pants on.
He takes the potion first when Kreacher comes back, then washes it down with coffee. "You're a lifesaver." He immediately feels more like a human being, but hangover potion never works one hundred percent, which is supposed to be taken as a warning, or so they say. He pats his jeans and finds a bunch of stuff—a bottle cap, some business cards, and a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He remembers Tom giving them to him; he liked them last night. Smoking was awesome when he was feeling restless and didn't know what to do with his hands. He lights one.
Oh, shit. Those tasted much better when he was drunk. It takes a moment to get used to, but it's not so bad with coffee. It stinks, so he opens the window.
"I think I'm going to go to the store to get some stuff for breakfast, and then we need to swing by Grimmuald Place. We're gonna have guests," he says, waving his cigarette around. Kreacher glares at the smoke like he's wondering what he did to deserve such suffering.
"Kreacher can get anything Master wants," he grinds out stiffly.
"I know, Kreacher. But I need to do some of these things for myself." He musters up all sincerity he can. "It's important to me." He doesn't think he's really cut out to live like a wizard—with using magic for every little thing and letting his house elf run his life—but he can't tell Kreacher that.
Fortunately, he drops the subject after rolling his eyes. Harry has a feeling that to Kreacher, it's no different than indulging any other of his human's absurd whims.
He's almost not hungover anymore, so he jumps up, puts out a cigarette, and hurries outside. There's something remarkably calming about performing daily tasks like grocery shopping. The store is only a little overwhelming at the beginning, but he manages to get most of the ingredients for omelettes, some juice, more coffee, some tequila, more cigarettes, and 'The Guardian'. Good enough to start with. He must not look fully out of the woods yet, because the cashier laughs at him when he leaves.
He's already back at his building when he bumps into someone in the doorway. He makes a spectacle of apologising first before he takes a good look at her and notices a violin case in her hands.
"Oh, was it you who was playing this morning?" There must be some gripe in his voice because she immediately gets defensive.
"It was me playing this afternoon, yes," she corrects sharply, and he can almost see her frizzy hair puffing up. They're a bit like Hermione's, only shorter, but her skin is golden-brown and her face rounder. "Was it you who barrelled in this morning, tripping over your own feet and crashing into every wall?"
Harry gets a little red. "It was... probably me, yeah," he stuttered, biting his lip. "I just moved in last night," he adds, going for friendly.
Her eyebrows rise. "You moved in last night... drunk? Are you a squatter? This is a really nice neighbourhood. You can't—"
"No, no," he protests vehemently. "I'm here totally legally. I just moved in... and then went to get drunk," he explains sheepishly, mustering a winning smile. Shit. He's going to be that neighbour that everybody hates.
But she only laughs. "Got ya." She holds out her hand. "Zoe."
"Harry," he introduces himself, feeling faint with relief. "You're really good," he adds sincerely, indicating her violin.
For some reason, she doesn't look flattered by the compliment; quite the opposite, her face falls. "Thanks," she mumbles, clearly uncomfortable. Harry frowns, but before he can say anything else, she gets past him hurriedly. "I've got to..." She pauses awkwardly before walking away.
Harry thinks it was pretty weird even by his standards, but he shrugs and starts climbing the stairs.
After sending another Patronus, they move to Grimmauld Place and wait for Hermione and Ginny, who come through the Floo within minutes.
"Harry!" Hermione cries out before hugging him briefly, but pushes him away instantly. "Have you been smoking?"
"Where have you been?" Ginny asks at the same time.
Harry is almost bouncing with excitement. "I've got to show you guys something," he announces cryptically. They exchange concerned looks. "But we need to bring stuff with us," he warns them. "No empty mileage."
Now they look incredulous, and Ginny probably has no idea what he's talking about, but they dutifully follow him out of the kitchen. He swoops up some bathroom accessories and toiletries into one bag and the rest of his clothes from the closet into the other, and then takes out his trunk.
"Are you... going somewhere?" Ginny asks hesitantly. Harry just gives her a look before grabbing photographs, some books lying around, and the content of his nightstand, and throwing it in his trunk. He decides to come back for the rest of the books later and burdens the girls with levitating the bags and the trunk downstairs while he brings Kreacher's beloved closet on carved legs. He contemplates his bed for a moment, but decides to just buy a new one.
"Harry, what is it all about?" Hermione asks, carefully guiding the bags to the floor in the middle of the kitchen. Kreacher is almost done packing his newspaper clippings and other memorabilia.
Harry is a man on the mission; he waves his wand at the cupboards, and plates, bowls, mugs, pots, pans, and cutlery start to pop out randomly towards the room. "Shit!" he exclaims, hastily casting a Cushioning Charm. "Can you transfigure something into a box?" he asks Hermione distractedly. She looks torn between amused and irritated. "Take a bag with you," he instructs them before grabbing his trunk in one hand and Hermione in the other and turning on the spot.
She shakes her head to get rid of disorientation. "Where are we?" she asks in wonder, looking around.
Harry takes a step back and spreads his arms as if he wants to embrace the whole room. "My new home." He can't help but gloat a little.
Hermione gives him a disbelieving smile, then laughs quietly and throws her arms around his neck to hold him for a long moment. "But... where?" she emphasises, letting him go to glance through the window.
Ginny and Kreacher join them with a loud pop.
"Mayfair," he says. "Still London," he adds upon reflection.
"This is your place?" Ginny asks, putting the bags down. Her gaze travels from light switches and power plugs all over the room to the intercom and security system by the front door. "It looks very... muggle."
"It does," he agrees easily, heading to the kitchen. "Do you guys want some breakfast?" He comes to a halt and slaps his forehead before they can either agree or not. "One moment, please." He jumps to Grimmauld Place and comes back with the kitchen equipment box made by Hermione.
They both watch carefully as he puts stuff out, sets the onion to cut itself, and takes out a pan. Hermione looks far less doubtful, and after a moment she comes over to help.
"Are you going muggle then?" Ginny asks, also approaching tentatively and eyeing the microwave that the previous owners left distrustfully.
"Not fully muggle," Harry explains casually. "I would say... around sixty percent muggle. Can you find a coffee grinder?"
Ginny visibly gives up and decides to focus on her task, but that's when Hermione finally loses her patience. "So where did all this come from?" she asks nosily, adding some bell pepper to the eggs.
"I've been going to therapy," Harry confesses, not looking at either of them.
Ginny stills with a bag of coffee in her hands while Hermione gives him a wide-eyed look. "Since when?"
"Beginning of June."
"Two months?" She sounds almost hurt. "You never said anything."
Harry shrugs. "I wanted to see if it works first."
"Does it?" Hermione asks bluntly.
"I'll let you know." He gives her a sheepish smile. "But I've been better," he admits after a moment.
"I'll say." She sounds impressed, indicating everything around them. Harry blushes a little.
"Like a muggle therapy?" Ginny finally speaks up. "Can you even tell them anything?"
"Not exactly muggle," he clarifies. "You've met Roderick, right?" They both nod. "What about his wife, Diane?" Ginny's expression is blank, while Hermione nods with less confidence. "She's the therapist. I've been seeing her. She's an outsider, but not really. It's pretty perfect." Hermione looks like she wants to ask a thousand questions, so he quickly cuts her off. "I know we were supposed to work out the wedding, but can we multitask?"
"What do you have in mind?" Ginny asks, visibly regaining her composure. The coffee is already brewing.
"Shopping?" Hermione guesses. When he gives her a surprised look, she rolls her eyes. "There's nothing here, Harry."
He grins, embarrassed. "Yeah, I need furniture. And clothes."
"I never thought I would see the day," Ginny sighs, astonished, then narrows her eyes. "Don't you worry about anything, Harry, I've got this."
"Have you ever done muggle shopping?" Hermione wonders.
Ginny shrugs while Harry pours more eggs into the pan. "Of course I have," she scoffs. "Dad's always been taking us to the market down the village."
Hermione looks sceptical. "I don't think that's the—" She's interrupted by the doorbell.
They all freeze at first, before Harry takes a quick look around. He curses under his breath. Everything looks normal apart from his trunk. After double checking that Kreacher is gone and that both girls are in full muggle attire, he mutters to Hermione, "See who it is, will you?" before quickly apparating the trunk to his bedroom.
He hears Hermione saying, "Yes, he's just upstairs," and hurries back down. Hermione is letting Jennifer in when he gets there, while Ginny looks a little confused. His estate agent watches the two girls calculatingly but stays polite and then lights up when she sees him.
"Hi, Jennifer."
"Harry. Sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt." She must be in a hurry, because she's already rooting in her briefcase.
"No worries. We're just having breakfast. These are my friends, Ginny and Hermione. Guys, Jennifer helped me buy this place," he boasts happily, leaning on the kitchen counter. Diane gives them a quick smile. "Would you like some coffee? Or an omelette, maybe?"
"I've got another client at two, so I'm afraid I must run. I just wanted to give you these." She cuts straight to the chase, pulling a bunch of papers from her case. "This is your stamp duty receipt and the deed." She pushes one folder into his hands. "This is the rest of the property info. And here is your insurance certificate and warranty."
He ends up with three thick files and puts them on the counter, deciding to freak about them later. "Is this all, then?" he checks with anticipation.
Jennifer smiles warmly. "This is it, Harry. Reach out to me if you have any follow-up questions, but formally, everything's been taken care of. You can focus on making this place to your liking. I can see you started moving in already. Going furniture hunting?"
"Right after breakfast," Harry nods before giving a slightly disbelieving look to Hermione, who beams at him.
Jennifer kind of scans the room, as if she's looking for the mysterious butler, and for a moment seems tempted to ask, but she refrains. She's been very discreet from the beginning, which he appreciates. "I'll get out of your hair, then. It's been a real pleasure, Harry. I hope you'll be very happy here."
Sure it has been; the commission she'll pocket for this one will probably be enormous. But that's not fair; it's her job, and she's good at it. He thanks her sincerely after she says a quick farewell to the girls and locks the door behind her.
"She was so nice," Ginny observes, looking much more relaxed now. "Was it her house before?"
Harry is still a little dazed, so he leaves explaining the muggle real estate industry to Hermione and busies himself with breakfast.
After they eat and clean up, he decides to leave all his stuff in the living room for now and unpack later, and they're ready to go.
"Oh, you're so close to Hyde Park!" Hermione exclaims when they get into the sunny street before grabbing their arms and leading them in the other direction than he went last night.
She seems rather distracted; after Harry manages to drag her away from the park, arguing that they can't do any shopping there, she insists that there's a bookshop somewhere around here they just must visit. They find it, and she marvels over the first edition of the novel written by someone named Günter Grass. Harry gets it for her, shutting off all her protests and mumbling something about her upcoming birthday. He knows she and Ron have been economising lately. One title catches his eye, so he flips through it and realises it's a play. On the back he sees words like 'masterpiece' and a term Tom used last night that he wasn't familiar with. He discreetly adds it to their purchase.
Hermione gives him a searching look, but the only thing she says is, "It won a Pulitzer. Should be good."
Harry doesn't get the significance of that. They leave the bookshop and realise they have no idea where to get furniture, so Harry steadily steers them towards Soho, but what they find first is a store that looks so fantastical, he can't help but get inside.
Hermione moves gingerly between the shelves with video games, but she looks confident enough. Ginny's eyes are huge; she doesn't seem to know what to focus on.
A store assistant approaches them. "Hi. I need a record player," Harry says slowly. He's already learnt that blurting out something strange once is usually harmless, but coming off as completely clueless can raise suspicion.
"Sure. They've been coming back lately. Very retro."
Something in the guy's words draws Harry's attention. "What do you mean coming back? What else is there?" he wonders out loud, and only then remembers the little cassettes and discs Dudley used to bring home. The store assistant gives him an incredulous stare. He's young, maybe a couple years older than them.
"Of course, there are CD players, but Harry here is looking for something more old-fashioned, aren't you, Harry?" Hermione cuts in, giving him a warning look.
"Yeah," he mumbles, even though now he isn't sure. But the records he saw in the shop last night were big, and those at the Dursleys had been pretty small. He likes the first ones better.
"Well, they say you can't fake that sound," the assistant says nonsensically. "If you're not interested in stereo, then a way to go would be to get a decent turntable, a stereo receiver with a phono input, and a pair of speakers. Apart from that, just go digital, mate."
'Go digital,' Harry mouths to himself. He wants to ask but he's too embarrassed. He'll wait until he sees Diane or Cameron.
"We just got back to the country recently. We haven't had access to the latest novelties." Hermione, his personal hero, jumps in smoothly again; her clear British accent is even more pronounced when she says it. "What do you mean by digital?"
The guy looks sceptical but asks patiently, "Do you have a computer with internet access?" Harry shakes his head without a word. "Well, when you do, you can download music online—actually, don't do that, that's illegal," he backtracks, and Harry thinks he's probably gonna end up doing that. "You can buy it and listen to it. If you get speakers, you can also plug it to your computer, so it's the source instead of the turntable. It will also have a CD-ROM, so you can listen to CDs as well as vinyls. And the best part." The guy raises his finger, indicating them to wait. He comes back with a bunch of small boxes. "These are all MP3 players. You plug it to your computer and transfer the music, so you can listen to it anywhere, and you don't need to drag CDs with you. What you really want is this one." He takes one out of the box to show them. It's tiny. Harry's pretty sure he's staring at the guy like he hung up the moon, but he doesn't care. "An iPod. It can pack one thousand songs."
One thousand? Harry can hardly comprehend it. He only knows, like, three.
"I want one," he decides rashly. "And a record player. And speakers. And a computer."
The guy seems to determine he's a good sort of alien and decides not to look a gift horse in the mouth because he indulges him. "We don't have those. Just go to any electronic shop. Or to the Apple Store, if you want a full set."
Ginny, who's been following the conversation with rapt attention, frowns. When the guy leads them through aisles, she leans into him. "Why do they have a separate store with apples?" she whispers, perplexed.
Harry shrugs and looks quizzically at Hermione, but she shakes her head to show that she also has no idea.
The store assistant leaves them to look at audio systems while he speaks to another employee. Harry can see him glancing in his direction, so he probably tells her that there's a guy who's gonna leave a lot of money here. Which is true. He chooses a Scottish turntable, which additionally satisfies his patriotic inclination, speakers, and some other gadgets. He arranges for all of it to be brought to 11 Green Street on Monday, and the girls start to twitch impatiently, so he asks the guy, "There's a song. I don't know what it's called, but it goes like, 'Life is a mystery—'"
"Yeah, mate, that's Madonna." He looks utterly unimpressed.
Harry forces himself not to blush. "Where do I find her?"
The guy brings them two aisles down, and suddenly they stand in front of the whole wall full of Madonna. Damn, she must have been busy.
"Oh!" Hermione exclaims suddenly, looking at a different shelf. "My dad had this one. And this one!"
Ginny looks a little miffed by not knowing what they're talking about—not that Harry and Hermione know that much either—but that's only until she discovers she can put headphones on and listen to random artists. "What's this one?" she practically yells, bouncing a bit in place.
Harry reads over her shoulder. "Backstreet Boys."
"They don't sound very backstreet to me," she comments before moving on to something else.
"I'm getting this," Hermione announces with flushed cheeks, holding the one with 'ABBA' on the cover to her chest.
"Let's get all of them!"
Hermione gives him an indulgent smile. "We won't be able to carry them," he chastises. "We still need to get clothes. Oh, this one is called 'London Calling'," she adds, still absorbed by the records.
Suddenly, Harry's face falls a little. "I'm sorry, I've made it all about me, and we were supposed to talk about the wedding—"
But Hermione just waves him away. "The wedding is in nine months. We have time."
They're not able to carry everything. They hide in an empty gate to shrink their shopping, which is a good move because they barely take several steps and they're in front of the department store.
"Yes! It's my turn now," Ginny exclaims triumphantly. They get inside, and her eyes widen. "Oh, wow. This is different than the market in Ottery St Catchpole."
"Wait a minute, Ginny. Before we go," Hermione asks, visibly nervous. They still stand in the doorway, so they move slightly to the right near the swimwear. "So, Ron and I decided," she starts a little stiffly. "I mean, Ron is going to ask you separately, Harry, but we'd like it if you were his best man, and you, Ginny, my maid of honour?" There's a questioning lilt to it. Ginny squeals and jumps her.
"Shoot! I really wanted to be the maid of honour," Harry complains mockingly, but quickly corrects himself when Hermione's smile turns into genuine concern. "Kidding, kidding. I'll live."
"That's good, because I have a job for you," she threatens jokingly. "And your newfound fascination may come pretty handy. I need you to be our muggle coordinator. Ron calls it a muggle babysitter, but he's a prat."
"Muggle coordinator?" Harry echoes sceptically.
"Yes." Hermione starts to wander the aisles. "You know that my parents are still not fully over the whole Australia incident? And you remember what a ruckus my extended family made about their disappearance? They wouldn't let it go, and they had to be told too, which I think was only approved because I was a war hero. Well, they're going to be there. And there's literally no one who can interact with them in the way they're comfortable with. I barely can. That's when you come in." She looks half-hopeful and half-apologetic.
Harry puts her out of her misery. "I'd love to be your muggle babysitter."
"Sweet Merlin, I'm in heaven!" Ginny squeals before Hermione can glare at him playfully.
She's already draped in clothes, and Harry lets himself be dragged along. As they move forward, he finds himself collecting a huge amount of articles to try on, starting with pants: lots of skinny jeans—Ginny's apparently into that—cargo shorts, and chinos. Then shirts: elegant shirts, casual shirts, linen shirts, Hawaiian and flowery shirts, and a mountain of t-shirts. Then footwear: leather boots, loafers—which are a 'no'—trainers—that's a big 'yes'—flip flops—yeah, okay. Winter overcoats, leather jackets, blazers. Some sweaters, as if he had not enough of those. Hoodies and sweatpants—those actually look great. He manages to keep his dignity and at least take care of the underwear on his own. He doesn't feel like that dignity is still fully intact when he goes to try all this shit on, and Ginny starts with the whole 'Gimme a twirl' business—she looks like she's always wanted to say it. He thinks that's the end of it, but of course that would be too good to be true. There are still accessories: hats—"Why do I need a baseball cap?"; "All movie stars have one, Harry. Are you or are you not famous?" and this time it's Hermione, barely keeping from laughing, the filthy traitor—and sunglasses—"I'm nearly blind, for fuck's sake, and you want to dim the world for me a little bit more?". Bags—yeah, that's a great idea—watches—already has one, thanks—and then belts, and they're finally out of there. Harry hasn't been so exhausted since the Final Battle.
The girls chose some stuff for themselves as well, and the general mood is satiated but beat. They give up on furniture and languish towards Green Street. Harry doesn't mind; he might not have a bed, but he has a leather jacket and a hi-fi audio system. That seems like a fair trade.
He shambles after them and catches Ginny finishing her thought with, '…it's like a completely different Harry'. Which is probably true, but it still brings him down a bit. He doesn't want to be a wet blanket, so he stays silent.
"It was a great day," Ginny grins.
"I missed you," Hermione confesses, tearing up a bit. "I don't think I've even seen you this happy."
Harry gives her a bitter smile. "Don't be alarmed. It's probably just the meds. I'll be back to my regular miserable self in no time."
"Don't say that." She slaps his arm. "Maybe it's partly the meds, but I think it's also hope. Which is not as easy to quit. That's why I think it will stick." She sounds sincere.
After they leave, Harry finds himself doubting it will, so instead of unpacking, he opens a bottle of tequila.
Small note – the first Apple Store didn't open in London until 2004. Well, we will have to live with it.
Soundtrack for this chapter:
Michael Jackson – 'Smooth Criminal'
Simon & Garfunkel – 'Bridge Over Troubled Water'
Backstreet Boys – 'Everybody (Backstreet's Back)'
A lot of Madonna