That's All

Harry Potter, aged 29, sat on the old, moldy couch, his feet propped before him, watching the TV before him avidly. The news anchor drolled on about some more of the inexplicable deaths and explosions that were now commonplace throughout England. He watched as a government official was interviewed and expressed the concern that no one had any idea what was happening.

With a sigh, Harry got up and switched off the TV. It was always the same, so what was the use of watching? With a groan, he stretched, the tips of his fingers brushing against the damp, moldy cement ceiling of his basement apartment. Straightening his threadbare sweater, he went in search of a can of beer.

Soon after graduating from the local public high school at age 18, the Dursleys had kicked Harry out onto the street, an 100 pound note in his hand, with orders to never return. Thus Harry had entered the real world.

Finding work was hard. Workers with no college education in Great Britain were easy to come across, and Harry, with no unique talents, wasn't one that they were eager to hire.

After much searching, he had finally found himself a job at a local business complex as a janitor. The manager had been rather happy to hire him, considering that he didn't represent a company, nor was he a part of a union.

But Harry was happy with his job. They paid him a reasonable amount, he had a decent enough home (in his opinion at least), and nothing odd happened to him, for the most part. And that was fine with him.

Throughout his life, Harry had been plagued by various, random, odd occurrences. They ranged from an odd little man with a top hat bowing to him in a bookstore when he was 9 to an old woman with a poodle asking him for his autograph when he was 17. But the oddest one had happened when he was employed as a janitor.

Harry had stayed at the complex unusually late, having to scrub coffee stains out of the rug in a conference room in time for a very important meeting the following day. The sun was just peeking over the horizon when he locked up his closet at 5 o'clock. Quickly pulling on his rather ragged windbreaker, he opened the back service entrance and stepped out into the dark alley.

As he was locking the door, he was suddenly interrupted by a figure who stumbled into the alley. The figure had one arm clutched tightly against his chest, hunched over slightly as if to protect an injured limb. He was limping slightly and using his free hand to feel along the wall of the adjacent building. Once inside the alley, they slumped against the wall, hand still bracing himself, breathing heavily and unsteadily.

Quickly finishing the locking up of the building he approached the figure to offer his assistance. As he grew nearer, he realised just how oddly the person was dressed. In the dim light of the street lamp, he looked as if he were wearing a judge's robe or some sort of old-fashioned dressing gown over normal clothing. In the hand that was pressed against his chest, Harry was able to glimpse a stick of some sort of wood, perhaps a foot long.

The man's head was down, so neither could Harry see the man's face, nor could the man see Harry. The man's unruly red hair was matted to his head with some slick substance ... blood?

"Sir, are you all right?" he asked cautiously.

The man's head shot up incredibly fast. "I-I'm fine," he said as he wheezed. "Who are --" He stopped, staring at Harry's scar.

Harry felt self-conscious as the man stared, mouth slightly open, at the odd scar on his forehead. Come to think of it, the other people who had acted odd around him had done the same thing.

"You're Harry Potter," the man finally breathed.

"Yes, I am," Harry replied cautiously. "Who are you?"

"Oh, sorry," the man replied, straightening up with an effort. Holding out the hand that had been braced against the wall -- his left -- he said, "Ronald Weasley, at your service."

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Weasley," replied Harry, awkwardly shaking his left hand. "Do you need help?"

Mr. Weasley, who had once again resumed staring at Harry's scar with a glazed look in his eyes, snapped back into reality. "Er, no. No," he stuttered, running a nervous hand through his hair. "I-I have to get back and give my report to Dumbledore. They'll be getting worried about me you know. Can't afford to lose anyone else." He laughed nervously. "Wish it were the same for the Death Eaters." He glanced around, getting slightly pale. "I'll be going, then, I guess," he finished lamely.

Harry shook his hand once again, then watched in astonishment as Mr. Weasley waved the stick in his right hand about, muttered something, and disappeared with a pop.

Harry rubbed his eyes, decided that he must be hallucinating, and went on his way.

Life returned to normal after that. He didn't see Mr. Weasley again after that first night. When he locked up the building early each morning, he didn't see injured people dressed in odd clothing stagger into the alley.

And, most importantly, no one stared at his scar.

But the one thing that he remembered was the utter reverence with which Weasley had said his name. "You're Harry Potter." It was said in the same way that one would breathe out the name of their childhood hero upon meeting them unexpectedly.

And that was what he couldn't understand.

Why would anyone possibly want to meet him? He was just plain old Harry. He wasn't some war hero or an actor. He was a janitor, for Christ's sakes. A lower class worker with no healthier plan, who lived either in the slums or the ghetto, depending on where he could find a cheaper room. Just Harry. Dirt poor Harry. Not anyone special.

Then why was Ronald Weasley so enamored with him? Why did the old lady ask for his autograph when he was 17? Why did the man bow to him in the store when he was 9?

Those were the questions that haunted Harry as he sat on his moldy couch, staring at the blank TV screen, nursing a can of cheap, watery beer. He glanced at his watch. It was seven o'clock. Two hours until he was due at the building. He took a sip of his beer, nearly choking on it in surprise when someone knocked on the door.

Harry muttered a curse under his breath and walked to the door, beer in hand. Deftly sliding back the rust bolt, he pulled open the door. Standing in the doorway was the oldest man he had ever seen.

The man stood slightly taller than him and had long white hair and a long white beard. Two brilliant blue eyes sparkled happily at Harry from behind crescent shaped spectacles. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Harry noticed that he was wearing the same odd robe-type clothes that Mr. Weasley had during their impromptu meeting.

The old man smiled and said, "Hello, Harry. My name is Albus Dumbledore. May I come in?"

Harry blinked. And yet another person who knew his name. What was going on here? Nodding dumbly, he stepped to the side and gestured for the man to enter.

Dumbledore entered the small flat and Harry closed the door behind him. Suddenly, years of living with the Dursleys kicked in and Harry remembered his manners. "Have a seat, please, sir," he said cordially, gesturing towards the one ratty sofa. "Make yourself at home. Would you like a beer, perhaps?"

Dumbledore smiled and sat down, saying, "No, thank you, Harry. I'm all set."

Harry nodded and leaned against the wall across from Dumbledore and next to the TV. "Is there something I can help you with?" he asked, barely able to curb his enthusiasm. There was so much he wanted to ask the odd old man! Like how everyone knew who he was, or why Mr. Weasley had said his name with such reverence, or why he was wearing those decidedly odd clothes...

But that would have to wait.

"Harry, I need to ask you something very important," Dumbledore started, in a serious tone. "It is imperative that you answer truthfully. Do you understand?"

Harry blinked, then nodded dumbly.

"Has anything ... out of the ordinary ... ever happened to you?" Dumbledore asked, peering closely at Harry. "Have you ever really wanted something and it just happened? Have you ever really wished for something, only to have it granted?"

Harry stared at the old man sitting on his couch. With his white knee-length beard and kindly demeanor, he was like a person's favorite grandfather. Or perhaps great-great-grandfather. But... why was this so important? It certainly didn't seem life-or-death. It seemed like... small talk.

Harry shook his head and replied, "No, I'm sorry. I can't say anything like that's ever happened to me. Anything else?"

The twinkle in the old man's sparkling blue eyes disappeared as he sighed, shoulders sagging. All of a sudden, it seemed as though a century had been added to his age. He looked old and defeated. "No, Harry," he said, standing up. "I'm afraid that's all. That's all."