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They were at a pub with a garden in the back, playing cards and sipping pints. It had been a few weeks since Harry and Ron met up last.
Harry saw it first, but Ron was the one to bring it to the attention of everyone near them in the garden.
“Hey! That guy over there—he looks just like you Harry!”
The guy was ropier than Harry and his coloring was darker than Harry’s. But they were both wearing jeans and black tee shirts, and they did have a similar haircut.
Ron went over, alcohol in hand, and got the guy’s attention. He followed the direction Ron was pointing in, saw Harry, and nodded at Ron with an impressed face. He said something. Maybe, “yeah, we do look alike.”
Ron came back—“He says you look alike.”
“Right,” Harry said, trying not to stare at the guy. “What’s his name?”
“Oh,” Ron said after swallowing a gulp of beer, “I didn’t ask, did I?”
But before Harry could decide if he cared about looking like someone else at a pub, the guy sat down next to Harry, across from Ron and placed his beer down on the wood table.
Looking at the guy from the side, Harry was less sure they looked alike. Or maybe he just didn’t often look at himself from the side. Because Ron had started shaking his head and saying “no,” and laughing to himself.
Harry was embarrassed for himself, and for Ron, and for this guy who they were bothering.
“Sorry about that,” Harry said, turning to face the guy.
“It’s fine!” The guy was looking at Harry now. It wasn’t uncomfortable. Harry liked how he looked. Even his scar bothered him less and less. “And pretty funny, how much we look alike.”
Harry nodded.
“My friend has a thing about doppelgängers. Read some book about clones where rich people used their organs.”
Harry looked at the guy, unsure of what to say.
“Not that they believe that,” he said, waiving his hands a little to make his point. “Besides,” he added, “you have light eyes.”
He stopped looking at Harry and they both took in Ron, was still laughing, looking between Harry and the guy.
The guy seemed amused by Ron’s immaturity. He was older than them, and maybe older than Bill. Harry’s hear squeezed when he thought that’s probably how old Sirius would look.
“I’m James, by the way.”
Ron’s fidgeting stilled.
For Harry, that punctured the fun of talking to this guy.
Eventually, Harry realized he hadn’t responded. “Oh, I’m Harry.”
Ron was staring at Harry. “And that is Ron,” Harry said, frustrated by how Ron was acting.
“Cheers,” said James.
“Harry’s dad was called James,” Ron blurted, still being drunk and obvious about it and now toying with things Harry never talked about.
James swallowed, “Oh, cool. It’s a good name.” He noticed Harry’s posture, tensed, and the daggers he was glaring at Ron.
“Look, it was funny to meet you. See you around, maybe.”
“Yeah,” Ron managed, noticing Harry’s mood.
The guy left. Harry finished his beer in one gulp. “I need a walk,” he said. And he went outside.
Like Harry thought, the guy was walking to the tube station.
“James!” Harry said, before he could think enough about it to stop himself.
James turned around. “Oh, hey.”
“You’re not my dad, right?”
James toed the pavement. “Well, not likely, is it?”
“No,” Harry agreed.
“Your dad wasn’t around?”
Harry started to say it wasn’t that, he died. But instead he shook his head.
“Too bad, that is. My dad was a good one, as much as I can remember. Old though.”
“They often are,” Harry said, sounding dumb to his own ears. Then, “Mine was young though.”
James looked at Harry. “How young?”
Harry shook his head, but said it anyways. “Somewhere around your age?”
James let out a laugh. “Were you a surprise?”
“Not sure. Never got to ask them about it.”
After a moment, James said, “This sounds barmy. This is, well, don’t think of it as related to your parents or your dad or anything. But I was hit by a car when I was younger. Nasty business. Was in a coma for a while, woke up with plates in my head and a pretty spotty recollection of who I was. The counselors helped me figure it out. Lots of documents, old pictures, things I’d written. All I’m saying is. Your dad. Things happen to people. Sometimes, you lose people for stupid reasons.”
Then, “You ever done a search for them?”
Harry admitted then, “They’re dead. I’ve seen their graves. My friend…he was drunk.”
James nodded. “Well, I can give you my phone. Made friends over less before,” he smirked.
“Yeah,” Harry said. “Might be nice to have a mate who can handle his drink.”
James shook his head. “I’m sober, actually. Not fun to drink when your head’s already been scrambled by metal and pavement.”
“Yeah, that’s fair,” Harry said, realizing how young he was. And how much he missed having someone else to talk to about his life, like Sirius or Remus. “Yeah, I’ll call you sometime.”