Chapter Text
Harry woke up with the smell of something faintly drifting in from the hallway. For the second, he didn’t remember where he was. The ceiling wasn’t one from the Gryffindor dorms. There were no velvet hangings, no sounds of distant chattering students or creaking portraits. And it also wasn’t the motel. There was no sight of mold or vague smell of mildew. Instead, there was a small crack in the plaster near the light fixture and a faint draft coming from the window. London traffic murmured somewhere below him. A siren wailed. A dog barked. The bed beneath him was actually semi-comfortable.
He rubbed at his eyes and sat up slowly, propping himself on his elbow. His limbs ached in that heavy, foggy way they always did after a restless night. He hadn’t dreamt—at least not in any way that he could remember—which was both a relief and vaguely unsettling. He really couldn’t remember the last time he had dreamt about anything at all, besides the nightmares during the war.
His bag sat near the foot of the bed, half-unzipped. The photo frame he’d tucked inside it was still wrapped in one of his old T-shirts, though the corner of the glass peeked through. He didn’t take it out. Instead, he grabbed his wand out of his bag and shoved it in his waistband, then snuck out of his room to the bathroom. In the bathroom, he quickly redid his appearance spells, making sure he looked the same as he did the day before. He’d have to find an alternative to this soon.
The bathroom mirror was a little warped, the kind that made one eye look slightly bigger than the other if he leaned in to close. Harry stared at his reflection anyway, wand raised just under his chin, and he whispered the incantations. His features blurred, softened, rearranged themselves until the stranger he’d been practicing appeared again. Not unrecognizable, but not Harry Potter either. Not the Boy Who Lived. Just another young man in London. He tugged at the collar of his shirt, frowning at the way it wrinkled. He wasn’t used to caring much about his appearance outside of staying hidden, but even so, there was something jarring about walking around in someone else’s face. It felt flimsy. Temporary. Like one day, someone would brush past him on the street, the glamour would shiver and break, and suddenly everyone would know.
The flat was quiet when he opened the bathroom door, though he caught faint noises from the kitchen. The smell he’d noticed earlier—toast, maybe?—lingered stronger now. Harry hesitated in the hallway, his bare feet pressing into the worn carpet. This was the part that felt strangest: not duels, not running, not disappearing, but this. Living with someone. Sharing space. The thought made his throat tighten. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d woken up to the sound of someone else moving around in the morning without immediately preparing for a fight.
He padded toward the kitchen, trying not to make too much noise. The flat wasn’t large, but every floorboard seemed to creak as if mocking his efforts at being subtle.
Jamie was there, of course. She stood in front of the kettle, pouring steaming water into a chipped mug, her hair tied up messily with strands falling in her face. She wore sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt that looked like it had seen years of wear. Crumpet, the cat, was perched on the windowsill like a guard, tail flicking slowly as it tracked Harry’s entrance.
“Morning,” Jamie said without looking at him, her voice raspy with sleep. She stirred something into her mug.
Harry shifted his bag strap nervously against his shoulder. “Morning.”
Jamie finally glanced at him, eyes flicking up and down as if checking he hadn’t set the flat on fire in the night. “Sleep all right?”
“Yeah. Fine,” Harry said automatically, though he wasn’t sure if that was true.
Jamie hummed in a way that suggested she didn’t care much for the accuracy of his answer, only that he’d given one. She reached for a plate stacked with slightly burnt toast and pushed it toward the middle of the counter. “Help yourself. I made too much.”
Harry hesitated because even though it was just toast, it felt like more than that. Hospitality. Normalcy. Two things he wasn’t sure what to do with. But his stomach, traitorous thing, growled loud enough to make the decision for him. He took a piece and muttered something like “thanks” under his breath.
Jamie took her mug and leaned against the counter, watching him without much expression. Crumpet, meanwhile, jumped down from the windowsill and padded toward Harry with that same judgmental glare it had worn yesterday. The cat sniffed his leg once, then rubbed against him like she’d decided he could exist in her territory for now.
“That’s a good sign,” Jamie said dryly. “She doesn’t usually approve of men.”
Harry glanced down at Crumpet, who was now curling her tail around his ankle. “Lucky me,” he muttered.
Jamie smirked into her mug. “Don’t get cocky. She bites.”
They fell into silence after that—not awkward, exactly, but not comfortable either. Harry ate the toast slowly, chewing longer than necessary, just to buy himself more time to think of something to say. But in the end, Jamie filled the quiet herself.
“You got plans today?” she asked, setting her mug down with a soft clink.
Harry swallowed, throat dry. “Not really. Work in about an hour and just… exploring London after that.”
“Exploring London,” Jamie repeated, not quite a question, not quite a judgment. “Right.” She pushed her mug aside and started fussing with the kettle again. “Well, I’ll be in and out. I’ve got the night shift tonight. My shift is the one after yours. Lock the door if you’re not gonna be here.”
Harry nodded, grateful for the instruction. Something simple. Something to follow. “Got it.”
Jamie didn’t say more, and Harry didn’t press. A part of him wanted to retreat back to his room, shut the door, and breathe in silence again, but he forced himself to stay a moment longer. He took another bite of toast, Crumpet sat by his feet like a warden, and Jamie busied herself with dishes that didn’t really need washing.
~~~~~
Harry arrived at the café a little earlier than his shift, the city still yawning awake around him. The morning air had that crisp edge that made him pull his hoodie a little tighter, but it was tolerable. For some reason, his nerves felt steadier than yesterday—though not gone entirely. He could feel them in his chest, in the tight coil of his stomach, but they weren’t paralyzing. He had survived one shift; he could survive another.
Inside, the smell of coffee hit him immediately. The rich, roasted aroma wrapped around him like an old, comforting blanket. The warm light from the windows spilled across the wooden tables, making everything look soft and inviting. Lia was already behind the counter, restocking cups. She gave him a small nod when she saw him, a little smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
“Early bird,” she said casually.
“Figured I’d get a head start,” Harry muttered, setting his bag down and pulling on his apron.
He paused for a moment, letting his fingers smooth over the fabric, then glanced around the café. It looked lived-in, like it had a rhythm all its own. He could hear the soft hum of the espresso machine warming up, the clink of cups being stacked, and the faint shuffle of a broom in the corner. He straightened a chair, wiped down a table, and tucked stray napkins into the dispenser. These little rituals made him feel like he belonged somewhere—even if only a little.
The first customers trickled in, regulars mostly. Harry tried to memorize faces and orders, but even when he stumbled, people smiled politely. A man with a thick scarf made a joke about how complicated the coffee menu was. Harry laughed before realizing he’d done it, that natural, easy laugh he hadn’t heard himself make in months.
The morning rush hit sooner than Harry expected. The bell above the door jingled continuously, and a swarm of people crowded the tiny café, umbrellas dripping onto the floor. Harry wiped his hands on his apron and took a deep breath, reminding himself to move slowly and not panic.
“Good morning! Welcome!” he called out as he approached the first table, trying to make his voice steady.
A woman at the counter, sharp suit and sharper expression, narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, I’d like a latte. But not too hot, not too cold. And the foam? I want it exactly—” she paused, tapping the counter impatiently, “—a quarter inch thick. And don’t skimp on the chocolate dusting. It needs to be symmetrical.”
Harry blinked. “Uh… okay. Quarter inch, symmetrical chocolate dusting. Got it.” He tried to keep his voice calm, but inside, a tiny panic was blooming.
Lia appeared beside him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Deep breaths. Don’t overthink it. Just do your best.”
“I—yeah. I got this,” Harry muttered, though his hands shook slightly as he started preparing the drink.
The woman watched every move, arms crossed, lips pursed. Harry frothed the milk carefully, poured it into the cup, dusted the chocolate on top as evenly as he could, then slid it toward her.
She picked up the cup, squinted, then sighed loudly. “This isn’t a quarter inch. It’s… more like three-eighths. Do you even measure?”
Harry’s face burned. He opened his mouth, but Lia beat him to it. “It’s a busy morning, ma’am. We can remake it, though.”
The woman huffed and waved him off, storming toward a corner table. Harry exhaled audibly, leaning against the counter. “Is it always like this?” he muttered.
“Some days,” Lia said, smirking. “Some days you get a Karen latte, some days you just get normal people who smile at you. Consider today a trial by fire.”
Harry laughed nervously. “Yeah, feels like it.”
During a lull, Lia leaned against the counter beside him. “You’re getting better,” she said, eyes warm. “I was worried yesterday, but today? You handled all that chaos like a pro.”
Harry shrugged, feeling heat creep into his cheeks. “Thanks. It’s… not what I expected. But I think I like it.”
“Good,” Lia said, grinning. “Because if you keep improving, I might have to start letting you make latte art. And I’m not sure you’re ready for that kind of responsibility yet.”
“I can handle it,” Harry said, but he couldn’t stop the small, genuine smile from creeping across his face.
When the morning rush finally eased, and the last few customers lingered over their drinks, Lia clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Not bad for day two,” she said with a grin. “You’re getting the hang of it.”
Harry felt his chest lift a little. “Thanks,” he said, honestly. He didn’t need to overthink it. The approval, simple as it was, grounded him in this new life he was carving out.
The door slammed open with a force that rattled the bells above it, and a woman marched in with a scowl that looked like it had been welded onto her face. She wore a perfectly tailored suit and carried a large leather tote, the kind that screamed “executive” in all the wrong ways.
“I asked for soy milk, not almond!” she barked before she’d even made it halfway to the counter.
Harry froze for a fraction of a second, watching her gesture at the cup she’d left on the counter, which was already half-drunk by someone who had apparently been trying to sip it before realizing it was wrong. He took a steadying breath and approached.
“Ma’am,” he said carefully, keeping his voice calm, “let’s see if we can fix that for you. Would you like a fresh cup?”
Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned slightly over the counter, hands braced as if she were about to launch into battle. “I don’t want a fresh cup! I want the one I ordered! This is unacceptable. I don’t have time for mistakes.”
Harry forced a small smile, trying not to feel his chest tighten. He had already learned over the past few days that some people simply thrived on confrontation. The best approach, Lia had explained, was calm efficiency. “I understand,” he said. “Let me remake your drink exactly as you want it, and I’ll bring it right out to you.”
She sniffed dramatically, clearly unimpressed, but stepped back enough for him to move. Harry grabbed a cup, measured the espresso with precision, added soy milk this time, and carefully layered it so it looked perfect. When he handed it over, she took it like a hawk, inspecting every angle.
“This is better,” she said finally, her voice clipped. “But next time, pay attention. I don’t like to wait.”
Harry nodded politely. “Absolutely. Thank you for letting me fix that for you.” He stepped back, trying not to let the adrenaline of near panic show on his face. As she settled at a corner table, muttering under her breath, he exhaled.
“Okay,” he muttered to himself. “Just one intense customer, no big deal. You’ve got this.”
Harry barely had time to take a breath before an elderly man at one of the corner tables yelped and knocked his teacup over. Steam hissed as it spread across the table, dripping dangerously close to the edge. “Oh! Oh no, I’m so sorry!” the man stammered, patting at the spill with a napkin that only seemed to smear it further.
Harry rushed over, grabbing a stack of paper towels and a small spray bottle of cleaner from under the counter. “It’s okay, sir! Don’t worry about it.” He knelt slightly, blotting carefully, making sure not to push the liquid toward the floor. “Here, I’ll handle this.”
The man looked embarrassed, muttering apologies under his breath. Harry just smiled, though his hands moved quickly to mop up the mess before it could ruin the table or drip onto someone else. He grabbed a fresh cup of tea from behind the counter and set it in front of the man. “All cleaned up. On the house.”
The man’s eyes widened. “Oh, thank you… young man. You’re very kind.”
Harry nodded, brushing imaginary dust off his apron. “It’s nothing. Happens to the best of us.”
No sooner had the old man settled than a commotion erupted near the counter. A group of teenagers, clearly friends but all with conflicting opinions, were arguing over a single caramel macchiato.
“I said extra caramel!” one of them shouted, waving her hand dramatically.
“No! I said light caramel, or it’s ruined!” another snapped back, arms crossed.
Harry sighed, adjusting his apron as he stepped forward. “Hey, hey, okay. Let’s slow down a bit.” He smiled, trying to diffuse the tension without sounding condescending. “I can make two separate drinks. One with extra caramel, one light. That way everyone’s happy.”
The teenagers paused, looked at him skeptically, then slowly nodded. “Okay, fine,” the first girl said grudgingly.
Harry grabbed two cups and carefully measured the syrup. He handed the drinks over with a small flourish. “Here we go. One extra caramel, one light caramel. Enjoy.”
The teens took the drinks, eyed him for a long moment, then simultaneously said, “Thanks… I guess.” One of them even smiled faintly.
Harry chuckled under his breath as they walked off. “Every day’s a new adventure,” he muttered to himself, wiping his hands on his apron and glancing at the line of customers waiting patiently behind them.
The bell over the door jingled again, and Harry turned to see a man about his age stride in, looking completely exasperated. He carried a briefcase and had a wild, frazzled look like someone had just asked him to solve a calculus problem in public. He scanned the room, spotted Harry, and made a beeline for the counter.
“Listen,” he said, voice rushed, “I need a coffee. Strong. Extra shot. Black. No sugar, no milk, no nonsense. I’ve got a meeting in fifteen minutes, and I cannot be late. I don’t do lines, I don’t do small talk. Just the coffee.”
Harry blinked, then nodded. “Of course. One strong black coffee, extra shot. Coming right up.” He moved with precision, grinding the beans, measuring the espresso, and monitoring the timer. When the coffee was ready, he handed it over, careful not to spill a drop.
The man grabbed it like a lifeline, took a single sip, and immediately relaxed, his shoulders dropping. “Finally,” he muttered. “Thank you. Seriously. Finally, someone who knows how coffee works.”
After the man left, Harry exhaled, wiping the counter again.
The rest of the day passed in a blur of orders, small conversations with regulars, and the occasional spill he had to clean up. By the time the shift ended, Harry’s legs were sore, his hands a little stained from coffee grounds, and his mind buzzing from constant interaction
Lia waved him off as he left, “See you tomorrow, Harry! And try not to get spilled on again!”
Harry laughed, a real, genuine laugh, and waved back before leaving the cafe.
By the time he stepped back onto the street, the sunlight had climbed higher, warming the sidewalk. He walked with a little more spring in his step, thinking about coming back tomorrow, about routines that weren’t battles or survival exercises
~~~~~
The rest of the day stretched before him like an unmarked map. For once, there wasn’t anyone telling him what to do, where to be, or who he had to save. Which should’ve felt freeing. But instead, it just left him adrift.
London was noisy in the in the afternoon: buses grinding, shop doors chiming, conversations spilling from corners. He moved quickly, head down, scanning each face without meaning to. The glamour would hold. It always did. But the thought of anyone recognizing him sent a shot of panic down his spine anyway.
He knew one thing—he needed a more permanent disguise. The hair-color charm worked fine for an afternoon, but it always itched at the edges of his scalp, threatening to flicker if his concentration slipped. Last night, he’d woken twice convinced his hair had bled back to messy black. He couldn’t live like that.
Which was how he ended up standing in front of a glass window with bold pink lettering across the front: Mane Street Salon. A neon sign buzzed faintly in the corner. Inside, he could see a handful of women with foils in their hair, a man scrolling on his phone while someone snipped at the back of his head. Normal. Mundane.
He sighed and slipped into an alley nearby. When he walked back out of the alley, his hair was brown again. He walked up to the salon door and nervously walked inside.
The receptionist—a young woman with a sharp fringe and half her hair dyed blue—looked up from her magazine. “Walk-in?”
Harry nodded mutely.
“What’re we doing today, then?” she asked, tapping a pen against the desk.
He hesitated. How did one explain ‘I need to not look like myself because the wizarding world might implode if someone sees me’? He swallowed and forced the words out. “Dye. Blond. Something easy to… keep up.”
She studied him a moment, then shrugged and wrote something on her clipboard. “All right. We’ll get you sorted.”
The chair was strange, the cape around his shoulders stranger. The hairdresser, a cheerful woman with bright red nails and a laugh that bounced around the salon, chatted away as she mixed dye in a bowl. “So, what’s the occasion for this big change, dear? New job? New city?” she asked, leaning closer to examine his hair.
Harry shrugged, keeping his eyes on the mirror. “Just… felt like a change,” he muttered. His voice sounded strange even to him, small and cautious.
“Oh, I know that feeling! Sometimes a fresh color is just the therapy you need,” she said brightly, dipping her brush into the thick paste. “Don’t worry, darling. You’re in good hands. We’ll have you looking like a whole new person in no time.”
Harry barely answered, sticking to short, vague phrases, letting the words wash over him like white noise. He let the woman tilt his head, paint thick, cool paste through his hair, wrap him up in plastic like a leftover dinner. He could feel the tight plastic pressing around his ears, the faint smell of chemicals filling his nostrils, and the cool air of the salon brushing against the back of his neck.
“Relax,” she said, smoothing the cape over his shoulders. “You know, I’ve seen plenty of nervous clients, but I think you might be the quietest of all. First time getting your hair done like this?”
Harry blinked and nodded once. “Yeah.” His fingers fidgeted under the cape, twisting the edge of the fabric.
She leaned closer again, her voice softening. “Don’t worry, hon. You’re gonna look fantastic. I promise. And it’s only hair—if it goes wrong, it grows back. But I don’t think that’s going to happen here.”
Harry watched his reflection in the mirror, his face framed by the thick paste. The red tint was already starting to peek through, subtle but unmistakable. He wondered briefly if people would notice. Would they see the change and think he was someone else entirely? Or would they still see the same Harry behind it?
The woman hummed as she worked, brushing the dye carefully through each strand. “You know,” she said casually, “sometimes a new color isn’t just about looking different. It’s about feeling different too. Like you’re shedding something you don’t need anymore.”
Harry stared at the reflection again, the words sticking in his chest. She didn’t know what he was shedding—or why. He didn’t need her to. He just nodded faintly and let her continue, feeling the cool, strange paste seep into every follicle, knowing that by the time she rinsed it out, he’d look just a little more… untouchable, a little less recognizable.
As the timer ticked down, the smell of chemicals and shampoo mingled in the air. Harry’s mind wandered, imagining walking through the streets later, seeing people glance at him and not immediately recognize him. It was a strange kind of freedom.
“Okay, darling,” the woman said finally, peeling off the plastic and rinsing his hair with warm water, “let’s see the new you.”
Harry leaned forward, and when the water rinsed away the paste, the mirror reflected a version of himself he hadn’t quite seen before. Blond, a little shorter, and somehow… lighter.
He swallowed. “Looks… good,” he muttered, a small, almost shy smile tugging at his lips.
The hairdresser laughed, brushing his damp hair into place. “Good? Honey, you look amazing. Now go out there and show the world you’re not the same as yesterday. You’ve got this.”
It wasn’t magic. It wouldn’t peel away if his concentration slipped. It was ordinary, Muggle, and for some reason, that made his chest unclench in a way charms never had.
~~~~~
The day bled on in slow increments. Harry wandered, ducking into little shops when the anxiety of being seen grew too heavy. He bought a cheap jacket with cash from his dwindling supply, then a sandwich he barely tasted, more as a formality than nourishment. The texture was bland, the bread dry, and every bite seemed to echo the gnawing unease in his chest. His mind kept circling back—Hogwarts, Ron, Hermione, the duel with Malfoy. The words they’d flung at each other. The way the silence had fallen after, heavy and accusing, like a door shutting on something he wasn’t ready to face. He imagined their faces, the confusion, the worry he had left behind without explanation, and a dull ache began to settle behind his ribs.
He wandered streets that smelled of hot asphalt and baked bread, the faint hum of city life all around him, and yet felt completely invisible, like he was moving through a world made for everyone else. Occasionally, someone would brush past him, and he flinched, heart hammering, imagining they somehow recognized him. He told himself it was paranoia. They didn’t know him here. They didn’t know Harry Potter here. Just another face in the crowd.
By the time evening settled, he found himself back at Jamie’s—or also technically his—flat, hair still damp against his collar, smelling faintly of chemicals instead of wand smoke. The lock clicked behind him, and the flat greeted him with dim, homey light from the kitchen. The faint clatter of a kettle in the distance and the soft purring of Crumpet made the space feel alive, if just barely. Crumpet was curled on the sofa, tail twitching in dreams, whiskers trembling.
“Hey, Crumpet,” Harry muttered, more to anchor himself than for the cat’s benefit. She opened one sleepy eye and twitched her ears in acknowledgment, then settled back into her nap. Harry let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, leaning against the counter.
He peeled off his damp jacket and hung it neatly, a small gesture of order in a day that had been anything but. He made his way to the window and looked out over the street, watching the last streaks of pink vanish behind the buildings. The city lights flickered on, and for a moment the world felt quiet, almost forgiving. Almost.
His reflection in the glass startled him. The blond hair, slightly shorter frame, the absence of his usual lightning-shaped scar—he looked like someone else. Someone lighter. Someone who hadn’t carried the weight of everyone’s expectations for years. And yet, the guilt of leaving his friends gnawed at him beneath that new exterior. He’d vanished without a word. No owl, no note, no explanation. Just gone.
Harry sank into the sofa across from Crumpet, letting the soft purr of her fur against the couch ground him. He wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and stared at the muted glow of the kitchen light, imagining Hermione’s pointed glare, Ron’s worried frown. He pressed his palms into his eyes for a moment, breathing slowly, trying to shove down the swirl of regret threatening to pull him under.
“Tomorrow,” he whispered to himself, voice barely audible over the soft hum of the city outside. “Tomorrow, I’ll make it better. I’ll figure something out.”
Crumpet twitched her tail again, as if in agreement—or judgment—but Harry didn’t care. He sank further into the worn cushions of the sofa, letting the quiet hum of the apartment fill the spaces his thoughts couldn’t reach. Outside, the city buzzed faintly—cars, footsteps, muffled voices—but inside, it was a fragile kind of stillness, the kind that made every stray thought feel louder than it deserved. He let his mind wander, circling the day’s small victories and missteps: the walk through crowded streets, the clumsy attempts to stay invisible, the strange comfort of familiarity in this strange, borrowed life.
The weight of the day settled around him like a cloak, heavy but familiar, pressing against his shoulders, yet somehow grounding him. He let the silence stretch, listening to the faint purr of Crumpet and the soft creak of the floorboards as the apartment seemed to breathe along with him.