Work Text:
After the war, Harry decides to travel the world. He’d spent so long feeling trapped in Britain. First with the Dursleys, who tried to control his every move, then at Hogwarts, where Voldemort played cat and mouse with him and his friends. Even with Voldemort gone, the press of crowds gathering all around him causes him to feel uncomfortable. He hates the constant praise, the interest in his life, the presence of reporters.
It’s Ron who first suggests it. “You’ve got the money for it, right? Why not just leave?”
And Harry can’t think of a single reason to stay. He and Ginny broke up in the weeks following the final battle and he’s staying at Grimmauld Place, which hasn’t grown on him at all over the years. It would be so easy to simply leave. At random, Harry chooses a place he’s always been curious about, and he finds himself in NYC within the week. He likes it there almost immediately. Voldemort’s crimes never directly affected the people here. While most people seem to know of what happened in Britain, they don’t usually connect a Harry to that Harry Potter.
There’s darkness in this city too, but as long as it doesn’t go after him, Harry doesn’t care.
He’s not an auror. He’s just a private citizen, trying to find meaning in a world where he no longer has to be anyone but himself. For the first time in his life, he really is just Harry.
“We do have some crime families here—the Graves family, for one,” someone cautions him early into his tour of the United States.
“That’s so 1920s of you,” Harry says because Harry grew up in the suburbs and his association with gangs is mainly Dudley’s schoolyard gang, who rode around on bicycles and beat kids up for the hell of it. Wizarding Britain may have a seedy underbelly that begins but doesn’t end with Knockturn Alley, but after so much war and chaos over the past few decades, it doesn’t have a proper crime syndicate. Harry associates darkness with Dark Lords, not with mob bosses.
But, as stated, it’s not his problem anymore.
Harry-just-Harry likes science museums where you can do small experiments, donuts, and this little coffee shop in the city’s wizarding district. The barista paints intricate magical creatures in the milky foam and on one particular Tuesday, he puts in a request for a Hungarian Horntail.
“Harry Weasley,” the barista calls out when it’s time for his order.
While Harry isn’t hiding his identity, he doesn’t want it announced to the whole coffee shop, either. Harry’s almost too distracted to hear her. There’s a man waiting in line. He’s a little older, a lot attractive, and Harry’s slowly getting around to exploring his attraction to men. His robes are dark, expensive, and a gleaming scorpion pin peeks out of his collar.
When Harry picks his drink up, the man’s gaze is more intent than it should be, more curious.
Harry keeps going to that coffee shop, and so does the man whose name he still doesn’t know. When he asks, the man says, “My name is Percival Graves,” and Harry curses his luck.
“Someone warned me about you,” Harry tells him.
“Did they?” Percival asks, a smile on his lips. “Does that mean you won’t have dinner with me?”
It sounds like a fantastically terrible idea.
Those are always the best kind.
*
Harry’s world tour begins and ends in New York City. He’d wanted to get away, and he had, but he’d found something even better than roaming the world. And perhaps it’s not how one is supposed to go around putting down roots, but Harry’s entirely content.
“I met a guy,” Harry eventually says in a floo call to Ron and Hermione. “Before I say any more, I just want to say that at least he’s not a Dark Lord…”