I'm not lonely.

I'm not.

But when the sun has risen, peaked, and started to dip, and the throngs of students begin heading back to the carriages that'll return to the castle . . . well, acknowledging that I haven't moved from my stool, or spoken to anyone who isn't a three-hundred-year-old, homicidal bar owner becomes a depressing effort. It's a self-fulfilling prophecy, and the reason Abe's made hundreds of galleons off me.

Not that he's done anything with the money; the stools still have the structural integrity of cello-taped toothpicks, and I'm pretty sure the moss on the ceiling is gaining sentience.

Far be it for me to question his monetary sense, though. This bar is probably older than Hogwarts. Shit, Abe is probably older than Hogwarts. I don't say that out loud. Not unless I'm in the mood to dodge glass projectiles from the man. He's good people, I promise. Grows on you. Like the moss.

We've had our little symbiotic arrangement since third year, and while I could attribute my near-perfect attendance at this crumbling pub to the fact that it's the only place run-down and decrepit enough to keep the other students out, I like to think it was destiny. Destiny and a healthy dose of luck that Abe didn't simply brain me with a wine bottle when I first walked in.

I told you – he's good people. Just doesn't like kids.

Neither do I.

Though sometimes I wonder if I've always been like this, or if I'm turning into a miniature, significantly younger Abe. Then a tentative knock at the door shatters the silence and Abe and I both look up, then at each other. Neither of us wants to get up, so naturally I stand and stalk over. I swing the creaky thing out and nearly smack the tiny person standing outside. Of course, - of fucking course – it's a student. I debate doing my customary 'Abe growl' and instead shift to the side to give him a view of the student – a young girl. We make eye contact, but he doesn't speak, just goes back to polishing the glass in his hands, which is strange enough to make me frown. At the very least he'd usually give the nearest one a solid hurl.

I don't dwell on it; I suppose throwing glass at small people probably can't be done in good conscience. And she was small, probably a third year. Straight brown hair, pale skin, blue eyes like they were artificially built for guilt-tripping parents and teachers alike. She glances up at me, then lowers her head as I stare her down, 'Its late, what are you doing here?'

'I got lost,-' her voice is small, shaky, and I suppress a sigh-'and I don't know the way back, and these are the only lights I can see, and you look like a student as well and -' I interrupt her, 'if you say 'and' one more time I'm going to feed you to the old man back there. He eats children.' My expression remains blank, and she flinches when her eyes flick up to mine briefly.

'The castle is that way,' and I point at where I know the enormous structure sits, several kilometers away. She shifts on her feet, still looking down. So, I drop my arm because I'm not a fucking compass.

'Can – can you help me?' This girl does not know how lucky she is Abe wasn't closer to the door. I close my eyes and wish for a cataclysm to wipe me off the face of the planet, but no meteor appears, and unfortunately Abe did not poison my drinks. So, I resign myself to my universe-given glorified babysitter role and walk back to my drink, downing the remainder and letting the glass thunk loudly against the countertop.

'Right, tiny person, let's get you back to the cunts responsible for you.' Her eyes widen at the language, but I'm pissed, not drunk enough for this, and impatient. So, I shrug off my winter cloak, drape it over her like a sheet, and flick a sickle onto the counter as I walk out like I've done a hundred times before.

Outside, in the cool November air, soft threads of moonlight flitter through gaps and illuminate the small alley. It is peaceful, and a walk I usually enjoy alone. The thought drifts away gently; I was a lost kid too, once.

She struggles to orient the cloak several sizes too large for her, but I don't wait and soon hear the scuttling of small footsteps behind me. It is a distracting noise and keeps my mind empty as we walk.

The walk up to the castle is not a short one, and in my slowly evolving soberness, I deduce that tiny people must have tiny legs, so I turn around when we're halfway and see her lagging. Aren't children supposed to be more energetic than pseudo-old-man alcoholics? This doesn't bode well for my hard-earned reputation as a self-induced, apathetic loner, but its late, dark, and I suspect if I leave her out here, I'll feel a very inconvenient inkling of guilt.

So, I stop. Wait.

She trips over a raised mound of grass, and my cloak flutters to the ground as she hits the dirt with a startled noise. You'd think she was the one caught drinking underage. I stalk forwards with a curse, grab her by the back of her robes, and hoist her up onto my shoulders. She squeaks and clutches my hair like I'm about to throw her off. At least she has the sense to keep hold of my cloak.

I set off again at a better pace, her feet bouncing against my chest.

'Not a word of this, I mutter, 'or I'll take you back and Abe will make children soup out of you.'

I think she nods. At least she doesn't argue.

The remainder of the walk is quiet, except for the moment the castle comes into view, and I immediately regret showing even the slightest ounce of compassion in this world, because her distinctly more relieved, small voice breaks the silence, 'you're really warm.' I don't answer.

The silence that follows stretches on and I realise she is not expecting an answer. Odd, even I, socially inept recluse extraordinaire, know you don't drop topics like one of Abe's 'fresh' bread rolls that young unless you're used to not being responded to.

'I'm sorry,' she says, even softer than her greeting at the bar. My stomach twists with guilt, and I sigh through my teeth. 'I'm not warm. You just made the highly educated decision to wear summer clothes in November.'

A beat. Then – 'I didn't mean to get lost.'

'I know,' and I did. 'Just stick with someone older next time.' A pause, and then the universe takes the opportunity to punish me for showing emotional growth. 'I have an older sister,' she says. "But she doesn't like me being around her and her friends.'

Therapy hour. My favourite.

The irony is not lost on me.

Without thinking, I say, 'Find a better sister,' and she giggles in response. Giggles. I debate dropping her and telling her to walk out of spite.

'I can't, I don't look like anyone else.'

I pretend to think about it, just long enough to realise I'm not entirely despising this conversation with my very existence. Dangerous. I double down on my reliable friend, sarcasm.

'I'm sure we can find someone. I'll tell Abe to kidnap the next girl with brown hair and blue eyes who wanders into his bar.'

She giggles again and my stomach drops further. I think I'm getting nauseous. Or sobering.

The she tells me I'm funny and I decide that its both. Maybe I should run the rest of the way.

'What's your name?'

'What's yours?' I bite back.

She hesitates, then says quietly, 'Astoria.'

Oh. Figures. Younger sister of Daphne Greengrass – miss perfect prefect, student extraordinaire. Of course she'd have a lost little sister running around in Hogsmeade alone at night.

We come up to the castle's entryway, warm lights spilling out and faint noises of activity in the great hall echoing out. It's probably dinner. I stop before the great oak doors and lower her to the ground with a hand. She lets go of my winter cloak almost hesitantly.

'Go inside. Eat. Scram.'

She looks at me like she wants to say something else. Instead-

'Are you coming?'

'No.'

I turn before she can ask why. Let my feet carry me back into the night, away from the light and toward the one part of this world I feel I belong.

I'm new to this. Please point out errors, suggestions- the whole nine yards. I appreciate every piece of feedback. Or don't, and let me sit here with embarrassing typos that don't get caught for days. I promise I'm literate. I just type too fast, and have a tendency to exclusively use single quotes for everything, so abbreviations missing apostrophes are a very real, and dangerous enemy here.

I also have a very fleshed out plot for this piece. So, rest easy in that I won't be delving off into the deep-end, messing up, and then attempting to save myself by posting NSFW re-writes of chapters on a-specific-website-we-shall-not-name.

!MILD SPOILERS AHEAD!

I hint at a few things in this chapter, though they'll only make sense when the accompanying pieces of information come into play. Namely, Harry is very not-psyched-out to be at Hogwarts. He is not special, or at least, not in the way we've all come to know and expect. There is something different with him though, and I'm not talking about the underage drinking, or mild disgust at random kids asking him for help.

I'll leave you with one parting nugget of information.

That glance at Abe upon opening the door to reveal the lone student was significant, even if Harry dismissed it with his dry humour.