Chapter Text
The ice in Kyoya's glass didn't melt fast enough.
He was sitting in the dim, amber-lit lounge of The Connaught in Mayfair—the kind of London establishment where the silence itself cost a premium. He had chosen it precisely because the clientele here were too wealthy and too arrogant to care about a twenty-three-year-old Japanese businessman drinking a vintage single malt alone in the corner.
Externally, Kyoya was flawless. His bespoke suit was uncreased, his posture immaculate, his glasses reflecting the soft, expensive glow of the bar. But behind his dark eyes, the shareholder meeting from forty-eight hours ago was playing on a devastating, endless loop.
"The board has ratified the final succession plan," his father's voice had echoed through the Tokyo boardroom, devoid of any warmth, any acknowledgment of the years Kyoya had spent bleeding for the Ootori Zaibatsu. "Fuyuki will assume the chairmanship. The legacy remains with the firstborn. It is a matter of tradition and stability."
Tradition. Kyoya took a slow, burning sip of his whisky. Stability.
It was code for greed. The patriarch's greed for a clean, unbroken lineage, completely blind to the fact that Kyoya had optimized their medical logistics, expanded their European holdings, and played the perfect, calculating shadow prince for a decade. He had done everything. He had anticipated every market shift, tolerated the ridiculous whims of the Host Club in his youth to secure networks, and hollowed out his own desires just to be seen.
And in the end, blood won. The empire was handed to a man whose greatest achievement was simply being born first.
Kyoya didn't yell. He didn't cause a scene. He had merely signed the severance and transition documents, transferred his private, hard-earned capital into an untraceable offshore account, and boarded a flight to London. He was drowning his sorrow, yes, but doing it with mathematical precision. He wanted to see how much alcohol it took to dull the phantom ache of a stolen throne.
On the other side of the room, Harry stared down at the amber liquid in his heavy crystal glass, wondering if Vernon Dursley would have had a stroke if he could see him now.
Growing up, Uncle Vernon used to brag incessantly about this specific hotel bar. "The Connaught, Petunia! That's where the real players go. The movers and shakers. If I could just get a table there, Grunnings would double its profits in a fiscal quarter." Vernon had spoken of it like it was a holy temple of capitalism.
To Harry, at nineteen, it just smelled like expensive wax, old money, and beautiful isolation.
He had slipped away from Grimmauld Place through the Floo network, bypassed the Leaky Cauldron entirely, and walked into the Muggle world until his boots hit Mayfair. He couldn't stay in the wizarding world for another second without suffocating. Just three hours ago, Hermione had dropped an entire stack of Auror Academy application forms on his kitchen table, her eyes flashing with that terrifying insistence.
They didn't want Harry. They wanted the soldier. They wanted a wedding to print on the front page of the Daily Prophet to prove the war was really over, that the bad times were gone. They were so greedy for a happy ending that they couldn't see he was still picking shrapnel out of his psyche. He didn't want to track down Dark Wizards. He didn't want to hold Ginny's hand and pretend his chest didn't feel hollowed out by a blasting curse.
Here, in this ridiculously posh Muggle bar, nobody knew what a 'Chosen One' was. Nobody looked at his forehead. Nobody expected him to save them.
He raised his glass, took a swallow that burned his throat, and let the silence wash over him.
Kyoya's eyes, trained to observe and categorize every variable in a room, settled on the boy sitting three stools away at the long, dark wood bar.
The boy was nineteen, perhaps twenty. He wore a heavy, dark coat that looked expensive but horribly neglected, as if he'd thrown it on without looking in a mirror. His messy dark hair defied the elite atmosphere of the lounge, and he was staring into his drink with a profound, heavy exhaustion.
Harry felt the gaze. Years of running for his life and its aftermath had made him hyper-aware of being watched, but this look didn't feel like a magical threat. It didn't feel like a fanatic looking for a signature or a reporter looking for a quote. It felt cold, calculating, and strangely respectful of the distance between them.
Harry turned his head slightly, his vivid green eyes meeting Kyoya's sharp, dark ones behind his frames.
Neither spoke. They didn't need to. In the quiet, high-end sanctuary of a world that cared only for money, two outcasts—one stripped of an empire he had earned, and one running from an empire he had been forced to save—raised their glasses in a silent, grim toast to their own ruin.
A week later, the walls of the wizarding world felt like they were physically closing in on Harry.
He had barely slept. There had been three more owls from Hermione, two tense Floo calls from Ron, and a surprise visit from Mrs. Weasley, who had tried to tidy up the kitchen while dropping heavy, tearful hints about how much Ginny was crying in Devon. Everyone had a plan for him. Everyone had a script.
Harry sat at the ancient, dark dining table in Number 12, Grimmauld Place, staring at a stack of unread Daily Prophet newspapers. The front-page headlines practically screamed his name, demanding to know when the Chosen One would take his rightful place at the Ministry.
They won't stop until there's nothing left of me, Harry thought, a cold, unfamiliar anger settling deep in his chest.
He was done. Standing up, Harry drew his wand. He walked to the front door, his boots thudding against the dusty floorboards.
"Kreacher," Harry called out, his voice quiet but iron-clad.
With a sharp crack, the old house-elf appeared, bowing low, his large eyes fixed on Harry. "Master Harry called for Kreacher?"
"Listen to me very carefully, Kreacher," Harry said, looking down at him. "We are changing the rules of this house. As of right now, I am locking down Grimmauld Place. I am altering the wards."
Kreacher's ears perked up, sensing the heavy, ancient magic radiating from Harry. "The Black family wards, Master?"
"Yes. I am wiping the current list of allowed guests. From this moment on, the only person keyed into the wards—the only person who can cross the threshold—is me. No exceptions." Harry raised his wand, pointing it at the heavy oak door. He began to chant under his breath, feeling the old, dark protective magic of the House of Black unraveling and reweaving itself around his magical signature alone. The air grew cold, vibrating with absolute finality.
When he finished, the heavy locks clicked simultaneously. The house felt tightly sealed, like a fortress.
Next, Harry walked over to the grand fireplace in the drawing room. With a sharp flick of his wand, he cast a heavy, complex locking charm onto the grate. "I am renewing the Floo security," Harry told Kreacher, his eyes reflecting the green flames as they violently died down into embers. "The network is now closed. In a few days, it will open, but only to people whom I explicitly approve."
He turned back to the elf, his green eyes sharp and unyielding. "If anyone arrives by Muggle means—if they knock on the door, if they try to find me—you are not to answer. You do not tell them where I am. You do not take their letters. If Hermione or the Weasleys show up, you tell them nothing. Understood?"
Kreacher bowed so low his nose scraped the floorboards, a dark, pleased look on his withered face. He liked this version of Harry—the one acting like a true, ruthless master of a Dark house, rather than a polite public servant. "Kreacher understands perfectly, Master Harry. The blood-traitors and the mud—the friends, they will not trouble Master. Kreacher will keep the secrets."
"Good," Harry breathed, feeling a massive weight lift off his chest for the first time in two years, he even ignore the slip name calling Kreacher purposely or not.
He looked around the dark, silent house. He had officially cut the cords. He was completely unreachable. Now, he could finally leave for a change of pace, a complete change of scenery, and above all, head toward his absolute silence.
With a muffled crack that was swallowed by the roar of London traffic, Harry appeared in a narrow, shadowed alleyway a block away from Carlos Place. He pulled his heavy wool coat tighter around himself, adjusting the collar to obscure his face, and stepped out onto the clean, rain-slicked pavements of Mayfair.
When he pushed through the heavy doors of The Connaught, the bustling noise of the city died, replaced by the soft murmur of low voices and the faint scent of polished mahogany and leather.
Harry walked straight to the reception desk. A polished receptionist in a pristine morning suit offered him a flawless, welcoming smile, completely devoid of the wide-eyed, scar-staring fanaticism Harry faced every day in Diagon Alley.
A few minutes later, Harry was riding the velvet-lined lift up to his room. When the porter left him alone, Harry locked the door manually, threw his duffel bag onto the heavy armchair, and walked over to the grand window. Below him, the streets of Mayfair stretched out, orderly and completely indifferent to him.
He sank down onto the edge of the large bed, burying his face in his hands. For the first time in two years, nobody knew where he was. Not Hermione, not the Weasleys, not the Ministry. He had months of absolute, unbroken silence ahead of him. He just needed to rest his mind, breathe, and figure out what a nineteen-year-old boy was supposed to do with the rest of his life when he no longer wanted to be a hero.
He thought that his mother's maiden name, Evans, was a perfect fit for him if he wanted to live a truly low-key life. Or perhaps he should still use Potter, or even Black, for his surname, but live solely in the Muggle world. Maybe he could travel to another country—using Muggle transportation, of course.
Harry opened his bag and pulled his Muggle documents out. It was a stroke of luck for him that he still possessed valid documentation in the Muggle world.
Harry stared at the name stated on his passport: Harry James Potter-Black.
Yes, his name was no longer just Harry Potter. Because of his godfather, he had a "Black" in his name now. Harry had never really grieved for his godfather. Back then, he couldn't process his feelings with Voldemort's return, and then, a year later, Dumbledore's death. Harry also hadn't been able to truly mourn because he had to go Horcrux hunting immediately after. A solid year of running around, followed by defeating Voldemort and seeing so many people pass away, had simply made him numb.
The bathroom mirror in his executive suite is vast, bordered by clean white marble and lit by a soft, clear light that doesn't hide the shadows beneath his eyes. Harry stares at his reflection. His hair is a chaotic, overgrown mess, hanging into his eyes and curling wildly around the nape of his neck. It is the heavy, untamed hair of a boy who has spent too long living out of a tent, hiding from a war.
Leaving the hotel, Harry spends the afternoon walking the streets of Mayfair and Savile Row, slipping into quiet, high-end Muggle boutiques. He has a small fortune in his mokeskin pouch, and for the first time in his life, he spends it entirely on himself. He doesn't buy the flashy, loud clothes of the wealthy youth. Instead, he chooses pieces that feel like a shield—structured, elegant, and beautifully understated.
After buying his new clothes, Harry goes to a traditional barber shop to get his hair cut and styled. He chooses to have it cut a little bit shorter, leaving his natural curls still prominent but perfectly neat. The sharp, tidy look fits his face much better, framing his green eyes and making him look like a composed, independent young man rather than a weary soldier.
When he returns to the hotel and changes into his new wardrobe, the transformation is complete. He looks entirely anonymous, affluent, and detached from the world that has spent two years suffocating him.
The next day, Harry checks out of the hotel. He steps onto the bustling Mayfair street, carrying nothing but his enchanted rucksack, and hails a classic black cab. Sliding into the back seat, he instructs the driver to take him to Heathrow Airport.
As London slips past the rain-streaked window, a profound sense of relief washes over him. He is finally leaving the country, leaving the whispers, and leaving the suffocating expectations behind. This trip is for him, and him alone. He doesn't have a grand plan or a final destination mapped out for the rest of his life; he just knows he needs to move, to breathe, and to explore the vast Muggle world until he feels ready to finally move on.
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