Chapter Text
Harry Potter stares at the patchy stubble on the underside of his chin in his cousin’s bathroom and thinks about shaving it. He decides not to, mostly out of laziness, but also, no one cares how he looks anyway. He’s all done with the rest of his streamlined morning routine. The whole thing; shower, brushing his teeth, swiping on some deodorant, drying off, getting dressed, pretending that combing his hair makes any difference, takes under ten minutes. He only takes a second to stare at his scar, which seems more and more agitated lately, almost glowing in its angry red on his forehead. He pats his fringe down over it.
It’s best not to linger.
The sun’s barely rising as he eats some buttered toast over the sink, the knife he used already washed and sitting in the drying rack. He finishes in a rush, hearing the slight sounds of footsteps above him that indicate Petunia’s waking. He washes his hands and then the sink of the crumbs, drying them both with a tea towel, so there is no evidence of his existence. He puts it carefully back in place, dry side out, and heads to the front door, slipping on his worn trainers and his even more worn jacket before a prickle on the back of his neck makes him turn. Petunia is at the top of the stairs, her robe tied around her waist, her hair in curlers. She has the same usual pinched expression she has when she sees him. He gives her nod as he reaches for the door, she purses her lips, not saying or doing anything as he slips out into the gray light.
He could live without seeing that face first thing in the morning.
Sighing, he starts the long trek to the bus stop, having to navigate the seemingly endless streets of cookie cutter houses. The sound of sprinkler hisses and bird song makes his shoulder’s drop for the first time since he got up this morning. It’s always best when he doesn’t see his relatives at all, but at least it wasn’t a row first thing. It’s hard to bounce back into a good mood from that and he’s promised himself that he’s done being a moody git all the time. If he’s going to go mad, and he really thinks he might be, just utterly barking, what with all the visions, vivid dreams, and hallucinations he's been having of late, getting worse and worse, he might as well be pleasant. No reason to make this hard for everyone just because it is for him.
He straightens his shoulders and takes a deep breath of morning air, always so crisp this time of year. Taking a second to relax as he waits for the bus, he leans against the sign with his eyes closed. He’s fine. He’s going to be fine. Only a month left.
The bus comes on time, the route runs smoothly, leaving him fifteen minutes early for work. Harry’s decided that it’s going to be a good day. He clocks in in the break room of the rather generic looking pub called the Royal Oak on a high street that’s losing the battle to keep the shops local. Next to the pub is a TK Max. Across the street is a Tescos. Even the Royal Oak is really just a name to cover what is really a chain of a larger franchise, their menu and ingredients standardised.
Bill, one of the line cooks, walks in from the back door that’s been propped open, the smell of smoke wafting in after him. Harry grins at him, already starting in on ingredient prep, shoving a pile of sliced tomatoes into a clear bin before placing it on the shelf in front of him. Bill pats him on the shoulder as he passes, the skin beneath his eyes pillowed and deep purple. Harry often wonders if he sleeps at all.
They work in silence for a half hour. Harry finishes up a lot of the ingredient prep before moving on to putting the chairs down off the tables and wiping everything down so that the scratched wood shines and there’s a clean scent of pine in the air. Bill stays in the kitchen muttering over a stew, adding seasoning, raising and lowering the heat.
After a while Harry hears the front door open, voices spilling in, mixing with the tingling sound of the bell. He smiles over to the crowd that comes in, the three line cooks, the other server for the morning shift, the shift manager, the busboy trailing in last. They all move towards the back, wave, hoot their good mornings, laugh at something one of the line cooks says. Lauren, the shift manager, breaks away from them, her glossy brown hair up in a large bun on top of her head, the smell of cotton candy perfume getting stronger as she nears.
“We’ll if it isn’t my favourite. Everything’s looking spick and span, as expected for my wonder waiter.” She smiles big at him, leaning in closer, her denim jacket still smelling of Marlboros despite the cloud of sugar sweet scent around her. She presses her orange cheek to his, giving his shoulders a squeeze.
She steps back, the broad smile on her face getting a little brittle around the edges, her long fake eyelashes going into a bit of a flutter. Harry frowns. That’s her tell for when she’s about to say something corporate-y. “So. I talked to Mark, who talked to the regional manager, and they said it’s no can-do, mate. You’re still a minor and I’m afraid “close enough” isn’t going to cut it with them. We can’t up your hours. They say it makes their numbers look bad, or something.”
Harry’s shoulders slump, but he’s able to pull his frown up into a half smile. “No worries, thanks for asking, Lauren.”
She pats his shoulders again, giving him an awkward half smile, half grimace and turns away, already shouting something to Rachel, the other server, who rolls her eyes.
Harry turns away from them, pulling out the mop from the bucket, starting on that now that everyone’s come through. He ignores the occasional shouts and laughter coming from the break room and kitchen and starts trying to run some numbers in his head.
It’s fine. He never really expected to be put on full time, even though it would have been nice, just based on the unenthusiastic response he got when he brought it up. Maybe it’s for the best. This allows him to try to find another part time job on top of this one and the occasional lawn care he does around town. He’ll be tired, but even if he takes some evening classes at the local college, he should be able to swing rent at the flat share and not starve to death. He has a pretty good savings going. It’ll be fine. He’s going to be out soon, so soon he can almost feel it, that sense of relief of never having to see them again.
All of a sudden, he’s filled with a heady rush of triumph, quickly overpowering the vague sense of disappointment he had just been dealing with. He has to grip his broom handle until his knuckles are white to stop from cackling out loud. Soon enough the sound of laughter, loud, maniacal, so, so cold, fills his head. He grits his teeth against the burning pain that flashes through his scar, radiating out as a throb through his skull.
“Alright?”
Harry jumps, wincing as he looks up to see George, the busboy, small and blond, box of vinegar bottles in his arms, staring at him. “Yeah. Sorry. Just a headache.”
George stares a second longer, frowning. “You’ve been getting those a lot lately.”
Harry tries to keep his face still, trying not to show the pain throbbing through him, though begining to fade.
George places the bottles on the table closest to him. “Maybe you should see a doctor?”
Harry nods, breathing deep when the pain begins to fade in earnest. “Yeah. I think I will.”
George nods, turning away, putting bottles out. Harry starts moping again, pretending like he hasn’t noticed George glancing back at him every once and awhile.
Harry knows he should go to the doctor. But he’s afraid of what they might say. Maybe he really is insane. Maybe they’ll have to lock him up, or put him on a bunch of meds. Or maybe he has a brain tumor that’s causing all this and the longer it goes the worse it gets because it’s eating at his brain. What if they say he only has a month to live?
The thought makes his stomach clench. What if he only had a month to live and this was it? His whole life spent with the Dursleys. He’ll visit the doctor a couple of months from now unless it gets much worse. At least that will give him a little time without their charming personalities in his life. Just some time.
Sometimes he thinks the headaches and everything have nothing to do with anything that makes sense. Sometimes he thinks it has to do with his Oddness. But the rest of the things he does, that happen to him, because of his Oddness, never caused him pain before. At least not directly.
He’s done thinking about it. He wants this to be a good day. He shoves the thoughts away with the mop and bucket in the supply closet.
The day picks up pace, as it always does. The earlier crowds consist mostly of elderly people looking for the early bird special. They tend to be a handful. The second wave is mostly families, tired looking parents and children waving around their spoons, tossing crayons onto the floor. The third wave is usually the hung-over crowd, Saturday morning burning too bright in their eyes.
One of the only exceptions is the small table by the windows. They picked a two seater this time, meaning the mum isn’t joining.
Harry wishes he did shave.
He knows it doesn’t matter, Hermione Granger would never look at him that way anyway.
Still, he pats the back of his head,forever trying, but always in vain, to get his hair to lie flat.
Sighing, he goes over to their table, moving slow, trying to hear something of their conversation.
Dr. Granger leans forward, so his elbows rest on the table. “It’s a busy time of year for your mother.”
Hermione scoffs, “It’s always a busy time of year for Mother.”
Dr. Granger frowns. “Hermione, she’s just trying to make sure all your school fees are-”
She lifts her hand, stopping him, shaking her head. “Sorry. I know. I really do. It’s just that the timing isn’t great. I leave for school in a few weeks-”
“Good morning.” Harry knows people sometimes feel like waiters wait for the worst moment to come by, but sometimes there’s no good time, not unless he left them alone for fifteen minutes, or however long, to work this out. He can’t imagine Lauren liking that too much.
Two of the three regular Grangers look up at him, their polite smiles in place. Hermione stays quiet, like she always does. Dr. Granger’s voice is a forced sort of bright that Harry’s rather used to hearing from most people at this point.
“Ah, hello there. The usual for both of us, if you don’t mind?”
“Of course, I’ll be back with the tea and orange juice in just a moment.” He didn’t even bother pulling out his notepad. The Grangers are a rather predictable lot and they come once or twice a week. They have since before he started almost a year ago.
He’s slow to walk away, pretending to straighten some condiments on a nearby table.
Hermione sighs, pulling a hair tie from her wrist and starts wrestling her hair into a sort of pony tail that looks more like a bun because of its sheer volume, speaking all the while. “I’m sorry I’m being petty about this. It was just a surprise. Honestly, I’m happy she’s gone to the conference, I know it meant a lot.”
Harry stops pretending to shuffle things and moves away, listening to her fathers quiet reply, thanking her for her understanding.
He’s not sure why he’s so obsessed with the Grangers. Outside of the daughter being beautiful, of course. It’s not that, or not just that. He’s never made a fool of himself trying to impress girls before. He’s not not made a fool of himself either. Mostly, he just avoids that whole thing. He fills their glasses, checking to see if an order for another table has come in yet. It hasn’t.
He feels like he understands them, like he’s watching tele, gets their dynamics. Dr. Granger is the more laid back one, less work focussed, closer to his daughter. The other Dr. Granger is ambitious, expects a lot from Hermione. Hermione is always seeking her approval. At least that’s his theory. He tries to listen, especially when the mum’s there, as though all the puzzle pieces will come together and he’ll know them.
He tries not to think about how that’s kind of creepy. It’s just a passing fancy.
“Here you go.” Harry places their glasses down and looks up, startled to see Dr. Granger staring up at him.
“Harry, pardon my question, but I was wondering, how old are you?”
Harry raises his eyebrows, glancing over to Hermione whose face is turning red, her eyes narrowing across the table at her father.
“Uh, seventeen.”
“Interesting. I only ask because Hermione here is also seventeen, almost eighteen in a couple of weeks. You’re a strapping young man-”
“Oh my god.” Hermione hisses across the table, her face flushing further, her eyes narrow slits.
He barely looks at her before turning more fully towards him. “You must go out. Have fun. Go out on some dates, get up to some mischief. Put, maybe, traffic cones on statues. Steal signs, I don’t know.”
Harry takes a second to imagine what would happen if he had a stolen sign in his room. They’d probably call the police on him.
Shaking his head, he shrugs. “Not really. Mostly I work. Sometimes I get a beer at a different pub down the street with some people here, they aren’t very strict, but that’s as cheeky as I get.”
“You aren’t in school?” Hermione asks him, her voice even, but when he looks at her, he can tell she’s trying to hide how aghast she is. He looks over her features, her eyes dark but the spark in them bright, the red still fading from her pale cheeks. He bets she goes to a 6th form with some sort of uptight uniform.
He crosses his arms. “No, I plan to start taking some classes to get my A levels here in a couple of months.”
“I see.” Hermione glances away, out the window. He can see her frown in the reflection. Harry grins. It’s not like he doesn’t know they’re all a bit snobby.
Dr. Granger clears his throat. “Taking a break? Saving up for Uni? These fees have gotten ridiculous in some places lately.”
Harry imagines telling them, just for a second, that, see, while his aunt convinced his uncle not to kick him out when he was sixteen, just barely, he did fully stop giving him any food or clothing, even manky hand-me-downs from his gigantic cousin. Harry had the option of starving and going around naked or getting a job. He thought he’d use this time to try to save up to get away from them as soon as possible, but see, they’ve continued the trend of being as obnoxious and self defeating as possible, because they ask him for rent and random other expenses all the time. It’s been a bit slow going. He can only guess at how uncomfortable they would look.
“Yeah, something like that.”
Dr. Granger nods, clearing his throat, looking down at his lap, the conversation clearly dead now that Harry didn’t answer the way he thought he would.
“I am going to check on your order. Anything else while I’m here?”
Hermione turns from frowning out the window. “No, thank you.”
He expects her to continue to look disapproving, but instead she seems sad. A little sorry. Like she knows. Or guesses.
Not being able to deal with how much he dislikes that right at this moment, he gives them a stiff nod and leaves.
He likes it better when the observations go the other way.
He sends someone else to drop off their food and handle their check, pretending to be too busy to deal with it.
Later, he goes to the other side of the restaurant and starts clearing some tables while George is in the back cleaning a full sink of dishes. He sees Hermione standing outside, her back to the tinted glass. From the outside, it looks like one of the dark panels of the building walls, but inside it’s just a darkened window. The owner didn’t like the asymmetry or something.
She has a pale yellow leaf in her hand, cupped in her palms. She looks right and then left before she raises the leaf closer to her face.
It turns bright red.
Harry puts down the plate in his hands and leans over, so that he is looking right over Hermione’s shoulder. The leaf turns purple, then a vibrant neon blue. Harry’s whole body seems to tighten, he forgets to breathe. He palms the glass by her shoulder, like he can melt through it to her, to grab her and keep her there. But a nice cream coloured car pulls up to the kerb and Hermione’s head snaps up. In a second the leaf is back to its original yellow, and then she’s gone, taking quick strides, pulling the door open. The car pulls away.
The leaf is blown away as a breeze comes through.
Harry’s still standing there, his hand pressed to the glass.
It seems like it's time to pay the Granger’s a visit.