Chapter Text
Chapter One
Harry sat on his old mattress in the cupboard under the stairs and pressed his thumb into the seam of a crumpled flyer until it left a white line.
HOGWARTS FOOTBALL CAMP.
Ages 11-14.
Discipline. Teamwork. Excellence.
Early mornings. Late evenings. Meals included.
He’d found it two weeks ago on the corner shop noticeboard, tucked between adverts for piano lessons and a missing cat. It was ridiculous—the idea that the Dursleys would ever let him go, ever pay for something like this. He’d known it immediately.
He’d tried anyway.
He’d been up before the alarm every morning. Chores done without being asked. Dishes washed twice. He’d even started running in the park, counting breaths instead of laps, practicing with a scuffed ball he’d found behind the bins. Like if he could just prove he was serious, prove he could be good at something, maybe they’d let him have this one thing.
A week after finding it, he’d left the flyer on the kitchen counter.
Petunia had found it while he dried the mugs. "What’s this?"
"A football camp," he’d said, voice flat, deliberately neutral. As if his heart hadn’t been hammering. "I could help pay. I looked it up and—"
"We’re not sending you away." Her voice had been final.
"I know," he’d said quickly. "I just thought—it’s not expensive—"
She’d scanned the flyer, mouth tightening, then softening into something that might have been a smile. "We’ll see."
He’d waited three days. The flyer stayed on the kitchen counter, pushed to the side but not thrown away. Maybe that meant something. Maybe Petunia was actually considering it.
He should have known better.
Three days later, Vernon came home early. "Boy, get your things. You’re moving back into the cupboard. You’re getting ideas."
He’d moved into Dudley’s second bedroom at the start of the year without explanation—just a couple muttered complaints from Petunia about ’nosy neighbors needing to mind their business.’
Harry held still, judging Vernon’s mood by the color of his jowls. "I didn’t do anything."
"Exactly," Vernon had snorted, as if Harry hadn’t made every dinner he’d eaten in the last month.
Petunia had hovered behind him, arms crossed. "We can’t have you thinking you’re owed things. It’s not good for you."
Harry’s stomach had sank. Hands went cold. The room tilted slightly, though he kept his feet planted. He felt the familiar burn behind his eyes, the slow ache that came when he’d been small too long, too quiet. He wanted to argue, wanted to punch the wall, wanted to disappear. Instead, he nodded and went to the spare room, no longer his (never his), to pack.
It only took him five minutes. Maybe less. He’d folded the blankets the way Petunia liked, even though no one was watching. Even though…why bother?
He’d come downstairs to no fanfare, crawling into the small space beneath the stairs. The cupboard door clicked shut behind him.
Now Harry sat on his old mattress, thin and ratty, in the space he still fit perfectly. That’s when he realized: There was no finish line. No version of himself that would earn something better. Being good didn’t matter. Doing everything right didn’t matter.
The space smelled the same—dust and cleaning supplies and the faint mildew that never quite went away. His left wrist throbbed, the way it always did when the weather changed or when he thought too hard about how it had healed wrong.
He’d been eight. Had broken a plate while washing up—his hands were wet, it had slipped, he’d tried to catch it. Vernon had grabbed his arm, twisted it backwards while shouting about carelessness and worthless boys who couldn’t do one simple task. The snap had been quiet. The pain hadn’t been.
Petunia had wrapped it in an elastic bandage from the first aid kit and told him to stop being dramatic. It had healed crooked over the next six weeks, and now it ached whenever he bent it too far or carried something too heavy.
Harry folded the flyer once more, sliding it into a crack above his head. By then, the wanting had thinned to nothing. Waiting for something to change on its own, for Aunt Petunia to change her mind, for freedom to be delivered by a magical owl, was ridiculous. He pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes and ignored the liquid that dripped down his cheeks. He was an idiot.
After that, he stopped waiting. He stayed out later, just late enough to avoid attention, not enough to attract suspicion. The library became his sanctuary. He learned which librarian asked questions and which didn’t. The older woman with red glasses watched him like he might fold a page wrong. The younger one—chipped nail polish, ponytail tucked into a messy clip—looked up only when he came to the counter.
"Can I help you?" she asked, glancing up from her own book. Harry caught a glimpse of the cover—two male figures facing each other on ice, holding sticks. Weird.
"I’m looking for books about airports," Harry said, hands still by his sides. Didn’t babble. Didn’t offer extra information. Stood like he belonged there. "And international travel."
"Oh," she said. Interested now. "Going somewhere?"
"Yes," Harry said. That was true enough. "I want to know how it works."
She smiled, pointed him toward the transport section without another question. Harry took that as a win. He read carefully. Airports. Terminals. Security. Which questions were meant to be answered, which were just ways for adults to hear themselves talk. Short answers worked best. Calm ones worked better. He practiced everywhere.
In the grocery queue, an old woman smiled at him like he was something small and agreeable.
"School nearly out, isn’t it?" she asked.
"Yes, ma’am," he said, calm, measured. Face polite, useful, like someone who could be relied on. "I’ll be busy this summer."
"Oh? Helping out mummy and daddy?"
"Something like that," he said, his stomach twisting, then corrected himself. "Actually…traveling. Haven’t flown before."
The woman’s eyes lit up. Safe. He probably reminded her of someone she used to know. "Good boy," she said.
Harry waited until he was outside before rolling his eyes.
Money came slowly. Petunia let him keep change under a pound. He memorized prices, folded receipts flat, handed them over only when asked. The more Petunia forgot to ask for the receipts, the more bills Harry could slip into his stash. Extra errands, extra rubbish, extra effort—they all went into the tin at the back of the cupboard. Coins first. Notes tucked in a sock with holes big enough to see daylight. He kept it hidden, not counting too often. Counting was tempting fate, like he was telling the universe exactly how much he had to lose.
Petunia kept documents in a filing box at the top of the hall cupboard, everything labeled in neat block handwriting. Harry had fetched insurance papers before; he knew better than to rush. One afternoon when Vernon was at work and Petunia had driven Dudley to a friend’s house, he dragged a chair over and carefully lifted the box down. He read labels while his heart hammered.
POTTER, H.
His file was thin. Birth certificate. Immunization records. A single school report from primary, before the Dursleys had learned to hide him better. And there—a passport.
He pulled it out carefully, flipped it open. His own face stared back at him, younger, the photo clearly taken in a pharmacy booth. The date stamp showed it had been issued two years ago. The Dursleys had gone to Majorca last summer without him; Mrs. Figg had watched him for the week. They must have gotten him one anyway, probably because some nosy neighbor had asked Petunia about "that nephew of yours" and she’d needed to prove he existed. Or maybe it was required for benefits Harry didn’t know he was entitled to. Either way, it was valid until 2028.
He memorized the passport number, checked the photo again—yes, that was definitely him, even if the boy in the picture looked more frightened than Harry felt now—and slipped it into his pocket. Everything else went back exactly as he’d found it, the box returned to its spot, the chair pushed back against the wall.
That night, the passport went into his tin, pressed between folded notes.
Packing happened in pieces. Dudley’s least ruined clothes. The smallest sizes that fit. Folded carefully, as if that might make them more his. A toothbrush. A comb he’d found behind the bathroom radiator. The army man with the broken leg, because leaving it felt wrong even though bringing it was stupid.
Two mostly-empty notebooks joined the pile—one with bus schedules copied in neat columns, the other with his research. Airport layouts sketched from memory. A list of destinations with prices and notes: Toronto - £520 - too obvious? and Dublin - £290 - TOO CLOSE and America - NO underlined three times. At the bottom: Ottawa - £440 - boring = safe.
Night before departure, he lined everything up in the cupboard. Money counted one final time: About £240 between the notes and coins he had stashed. Not enough, but it would have to be. Passport. Clothes. Food—two apples and a sleeve of crackers he’d skimmed from the weekly shopping. Practical. Boring. Perfect.
He zipped up his bag and whispered like a spell: "No going back."
He lay down, pressed into the cupboard, listening to the usual sounds of the house settling around him: the hum of the refrigerator, Dudley’s telly muffled but still too loud, Vernon laughing at something that wasn’t funny. He stared at the dusty underside of the stairs, noting the way the shadows pooled near the back wall. If he did this right, no one would notice until it was too late. That seemed fair.
Tuesday morning arrived quiet as usual. Dudley’s alarm went off late, Vernon was already in the kitchen muttering at toast, and Petunia’s sharp, off-key humming drifted down the hall like a dying whale.
Harry touched each item in his bag one last time, checking folds, feeling the weight, adjusting the strap over his shoulder so it rested just right. He glanced back at the cupboard. Everything he left looked the same. Good.
He froze in the hall for a moment, surveying the scene. Vernon’s wallet sat innocently on the side table, bulging at the seam like his gut.
Harry had never stolen anything that mattered before. Pocket change left on counters, sure. An extra biscuit from a tin Petunia would never count. But this was different. This was crossing a line he couldn’t uncross.
Practicality won. He picked up the wallet, flipped it open, and pulled out the cash. Five fifty-pound notes, a twenty, a ten. He didn’t take the cards. Didn’t touch the photos. Just the money. He put the wallet back exactly where it was. Vernon would blame Dudley. Or maybe he’d know it was Harry—but by then he’d be gone.
He tucked it into his pocket, left the wallet where it lay, and inhaled once, slow and steady.
The air outside smelled like grass that hadn’t been walked on yet. The sky was pale and cold, paper-thin and wide above him.
He walked at a steady, measured pace, neither fast nor slow, matching the rhythm of someone who belonged somewhere, of someone who had somewhere to be. Lines he’d practiced ran through his head: No, I’m not lost. I know where I’m going. I have a ticket.
The bus arrived on time. He paid exact change, slid into a window seat, and watched the streets shrink beneath him, noting the familiar and unfamiliar alike without surprise.
For a moment, he let himself grin. He was moving. He was going somewhere. That was enough.
The bus dropped him at Heathrow’s Terminal 3. Harry had memorized the layout from a library book, but the actual airport was louder, brighter, and more chaotic than any diagram could convey. People rushed past pulling wheeled luggage that clattered against the tile. Announcements echoed overhead in languages Harry didn’t recognize. The smell of coffee and something fried made his stomach clench with hunger he’d been ignoring.
He joined the queue for the ticket counter, keeping his face carefully neutral. Around him, families clustered together—parents checking passports, children complaining about early wake-up times, couples debating which gate to find first. Harry stood alone with his small backpack and tried to look like this was routine. Like he wasn’t twelve years old running away from home with stolen money and a half-formed plan.
The woman at the counter had bright red lipstick and tired eyes. Her name tag saids MARGARET in cheerful letters that didn’t match her expression.
"Next?"
Harry stepped forward, reaching into his pocket for the cash he’d separated earlier. "How much is a ticket to Ottawa, Canada?"
She glanced at him, then past him, clearly looking for an adult. Harry had expected this. Adults always looked past him, like children only existed when accompanied by someone taller.
"Where are your parents, love?"
"Meeting family there," Harry said, exactly as he’d practiced. Not my family because that invited questions. Just family, vague enough to be believable. "My aunt’s expecting me."
The woman’s expression softened slightly. Point for Harry—he’d hit the right tone. Polite, responsible, the kind of child who got sent on planes alone because he could be trusted. Not the kind who was lying through his teeth.
"Traveling alone, then?"
Harry nodded. His heart was hammering so hard he worried she could hear it. Yes, traveling alone, because I’m either very brave or very stupid and I haven’t decided which yet.
"You’ll need a ticket for an unaccompanied minor service. That requires—"
"I have money," Harry interrupted, then immediately wished he hadn’t. Too eager. He forced himself to slow down. "I mean, my aunt already arranged everything. I just need to purchase the ticket."
It was a gamble. The woman could ask for documentation he didn’t have. She could call a supervisor. She could see right through him and everything would end here, in this fluorescent terminal, before he’d even left the ground.
Instead, she sighed—the long-suffering sigh of someone who didn’t get paid enough to care—and turned to her computer. "Cheapest flight to Ottawa leaves in three hours. Layover in Toronto. Gets in late evening local time. That’ll be £487."
Harry had spent two weeks on this decision. The library computer had listed Ottawa flights at £450-500 depending on the day and airline. He’d hoped for the lower end, budgeted for the higher. £487 was... manageable. Just barely.
Australia: too far, over £800. America: too obvious, too loud, the first place Vernon might think to look. Dublin: too close, just across the water, and his accent would mark him immediately. Someone would ask questions, might even call the Dursleys just to be helpful.
Canada had made sense. English-speaking, far enough to matter, big enough to disappear in. Toronto was £520—possible, but it would leave him with nothing. Vancouver was worse. Then he’d found Ottawa. Smaller. Cheaper. Government buildings and boring politicians and probably the dullest place in Canada.
Perfect.
Now, standing at the counter with Margaret waiting for an answer, the mental math happened automatically. £520 total. Minus £487. Equaled £33.
Thirty. Three. Pounds.
Which he’d need to exchange for Canadian dollars at whatever terrible rate airports charged. Leaving him with what—forty dollars? Fifty if he was lucky?
Brilliant plan, Harry. Absolutely foolproof. What could possibly go wrong?
But it was the best option he had, and he was here now, and going back wasn’t—
He couldn’t go back.
He pulled out the cash with shaking hands, counting out the bills.
"Passport, please."
Harry’s fingers fumbled getting it out of his pocket. Margaret took it, flipped it open, glanced between the photo and Harry’s face. For a terrible moment, her eyes lingered—on the photo, on him, comparing. Then she scanned it into her system and slid it back across the counter.
"Here’s your boarding pass. Security is that way, gate opens in two and a half hours."
She processed the payment with mechanical efficiency, and barely looked at him as she explained security procedures and gate numbers in a monotone that suggested she’d said these exact words ten thousand times before.
Harry took the boarding pass, mumbled his thanks, and walked away before she could reconsider or—worse—wish him a good flight in a tone that meant she actually cared.
Ottawa. He was going to Ottawa. He knew almost nothing about it except what he’d found in a library book: capital of Canada, bilingual (English and French, though surely people spoke English there), cold in winter but warm in summer. Population around 900,000. Home to Parliament.
A place that sounded boring and governmental and utterly unremarkable. The kind of place where a twelve-year-old British kid could slip through the cracks and no one would notice. Probably.
Probably wasn’t a great foundation for a plan, but it was what he had.
Security was worse. He had to take off his trainers—too big, stuffed with newspaper to fit—and immediately felt exposed. His socks had holes in them. The newspaper crinkled when he walked. Every person in line could probably tell he was wearing someone else’s castoff shoes held together with hope and poor life choices.
He emptied his pockets onto the plastic tray: three pound coins, a tissue. Put his bag through the scanner.
The officer watching the screen frowned at something, and Harry’s breath stopped entirely.
This is it. This is where it ends. They’ve found something. There’s some rule about torn bags or suspicious notebooks or twelve-year-olds with terrible plans—
"Whose bag is this?"
"Mine," Harry said. His voice came out steady. That was good. That was better than the internal screaming happening in his head.
"You pack it yourself?"
"Yes, sir." Unless you count Dudley owning these clothes first before deciding they were too rubbish even for him, in which case, technically some of this belonged to Dudley, but I don’t think that’s what you’re asking.
The officer pulled the bag aside, unzipped it, and started removing items. Harry watched his carefully folded clothes get rifled through, his notebooks flipped open, his small bag of toiletries examined like they might contain tiny bottles of terrorism. The officer held up the army man.
"What’s this?"
"A toy soldier, sir." Obviously. It’s literally a tiny plastic soldier. What else would it be?
The man turned it over, looking at the broken leg, the chipped paint. For a horrible moment, Harry thought he was going to confiscate it. Take the one thing Harry had claimed as his own, even if Dudley had thrown it away the moment it came out of the package broken.
Then he put it back in the bag and rezipped it. "All clear. Move along."
Harry exhaled only after he’d collected his things, shoved the newspaper back into his shoes, and made it to the gate area. His hands were shaking. He sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair and tried to stop them.
Three hours felt like three days. He sat and watched planes take off through the massive windows. Each one that lifted into the sky made the reality of what he was doing feel more impossible and more necessary at once. People around him read newspapers, ate expensive airport food that smelled too good, talked on their mobile phones. Harry counted his remaining money again—thirty-three pounds that would have to be enough for him to start a new life somewhere else, somewhere safe—drank water from the fountain, and tried not to think about what would happen if this didn’t work.
What’s Plan B, Harry? Oh right, there is no Plan B. Plan A is barely a plan. Plan A is more like a desperate flail in the general direction of "anywhere but here."
Boarding was called. Harry joined the queue of passengers, showed his boarding pass to a cheerful attendant who smiled at him with that specific blend of pity and professionalism reserved for unaccompanied minors, and walked down the jet bridge.
He found his seat by the window, stuffed his bag under the seat in front of him, and buckled in. A businessman in an expensive suit sat down next to him without acknowledgment, immediately opening a laptop. Harry tried to make himself smaller, less noticeable. The man smelled like cologne and confidence, neither of which Harry possessed.
The plane began to taxi. Harry pressed his face to the window and watched England fall away beneath him—the runway, the terminal, the roads and houses that got smaller and smaller until they disappeared into clouds.
He was actually leaving.
For the first time since he’d found the Hogwarts flyer, since he’d been shoved back into the cupboard, since he’d realized no one was coming to save him—for the first time, Harry let himself believe it might actually work.
Four days later, Harry stood outside a convenience store on a corner in Ottawa and tried to remember what confidence felt like.
The flight had been long. The businessman never spoke to him once, which was fine. Harry had dozed in fits, waking every time the plane hit turbulence or his neck cramped from the awkward angle against the window. The meal service came with food that tasted like cardboard pretending to be chicken, but he ate every bite. The business man ordered coffee and Harry copied him, much to his regret. It tasted like dirt and sadness.
A flight attendant—older woman with kind eyes and too much perfume—had smiled at him and offered extra packets of biscuits and pretzels. "For later, love," she’d said, like she could tell he was the kind of kid who would need them. Harry had thanked her politely and stuffed them into his bag, trying not to look as desperate as he felt. In Toronto, he’d stumbled through the connecting flight in a daze of exhaustion and mounting panic. By the time he landed in Ottawa, it was past eleven at night and the terminal felt like a fluorescent-lit dream.
Canadian customs had been less terrifying than expected. The officer looked at his passport, asked why he was visiting ("family"), how long he’d be staying ("two weeks"), and stamped it without a second glance. Harry walked through those doors into arrivals and felt the weight of it: he was in Canada. He’d actually done it.
The airport had signs for buses and taxis. Harry had walked outside into June air that was warmer than England but smelled different—cleaner, maybe, or just unfamiliar. He’d found a currency exchange kiosk, pushed his remaining £33 across the counter, and walked away with $56 Canadian. The bills were plastic and colorful, like Monopoly money. Like they weren’t quite real.
He’d ridden buses until they stopped running, reading the route maps and trying to orient himself in a city he knew nothing about. When the buses stopped, he walked. Found a park. Tried to sleep on a bench until a police car drove past and he had to move. The second night, he’d found an alley behind a restaurant that reeked of old grease and rotting vegetables, but at least it was hidden. The third night, he discovered a Tim Hortons—apparently a coffee shop, though it seemed to be everywhere—and nursed a single tea for three hours until the staff started giving him looks.
Ottawa was bigger than he’d expected. Cleaner. The people were aggressively polite in a way that felt alien—everyone said sorry for things that weren’t their fault. The distances were wrong. What looked like a short walk on the map he’d found at a bus stop took an hour on foot. Everything cost more than he’d budgeted for, and his budget had been pathetic to begin with.
By day four, Harry’s money situation had gone from dire to critical. He had $23 left. Twenty-three dollars. He’d spent too much on that first tea, not understanding the prices. The apple he’d bought cost $2, which seemed insane. He’d been trying to stretch everything, eating as little as possible, but his stomach had started cramping yesterday and he couldn’t ignore it anymore.
He needed food.
The convenience store in front of him was small, brightly lit, with wide windows that let him see inside. A bored-looking cashier scrolled on their phone behind the counter. A couple of people browsed the aisles. Normal people doing normal things.
Harry had been avoiding places like this. Small spaces meant attentive staff. Security cameras everywhere. But he was out of options.
He’d already checked: bread was cheap, peanut butter would last, apples were sometimes on sale. He could make $23 stretch if he was smart about it. If he didn’t waste money on things like hot food or drinks or anything that wasn’t absolutely necessary.
Just go in. Buy food. Leave. You’ve done harder things than this.
Except he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in two days and the fluorescent lights were too bright and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking.
Harry inhaled once, slow and steady. Pushed open the door.
The bell chimed overhead. The cashier glanced up, then back down at their phone. Harry walked slowly down the aisles, looking at price tags and doing math in his head. A loaf of white bread: $2.49. Peanut butter: $4.99 for the small jar. Apples: $0.79 each, or five for $3.
He picked up the bread, checked the price twice, and added it to his mental tally. His vision swam slightly. When had he last eaten? The apple, yesterday morning. And before that... he couldn’t remember.
Get the food. Pay. Leave. You can do this.
He was reaching for the peanut butter when a voice behind him said, "You are unaccompanied minor."
Harry spun around so fast he nearly dropped the bread.
A man stood at the end of the aisle—tall, really tall, broad-shouldered and solid in a way that made Harry feel even smaller than usual. Brown curly hair, maybe thirty. He looked like he could pick Harry up with one hand and not even notice the weight. He was grinning like he’d just said something incredibly clever. His accent was thick, unfamiliar. Russian, maybe?
Every instinct Harry had developed over four days of survival screamed at him to run.
Instead, he straightened his spine and let his voice go flat. "And you’re an accompanied adult. Well done spotting the obvious."
The man’s grin widened. Like Harry had said something funny instead of dismissive. Like he was delighted rather than offended.
Wrong reaction. Adults don’t like it when you talk back. Run. Now.
"You are British," the man said, as if this was a fascinating discovery. He took a step closer and Harry’s grip tightened on the bread. "Long way from home, yes?"
"Visiting family," Harry said automatically. The lie came smooth now, practiced.
"Ah." The man’s eyes—blue-green, sharp despite the easy grin—flicked over Harry in a way that made him feel catalogued. Too small. Too thin. Clothes that didn’t fit. "Family is... where?"
"None of your business." Harry shifted his weight, calculating the distance to the door. The man was blocking the aisle but not completely. If Harry was fast—
"Is okay, is okay." The man held up both hands like Harry was a spooked animal. Which was insulting and also probably accurate. "I am Ilya. I just think maybe you are lost? I can help."
"I’m not lost." Harry’s jaw clenched. "I know exactly where I am."
"In convenience store buying bread?" Ilya’s eyebrow rose. "This is where family is?"
Shut up. Stop talking. Every word is a risk.
"They’re busy," Harry said. "I’m shopping. That’s what people do in shops. Shop."
Ilya laughed—a loud, delighted bark of sound that made the cashier look up. "You are funny kid. How old? Ten? Eleven?"
Harry didn’t answer. He was too busy trying to figure out if this man was dangerous or just annoyingly friendly. The Dursleys had taught him the first kind. The second kind was new, and therefore suspicious.
"You know who I am?" Ilya asked, and there was something almost hopeful in his voice. Like he wanted to be recognized.
"Should I?"
"I am very famous hockey player. Ilya Rozanov." He said it like it should mean something. When Harry’s expression didn’t change, Ilya’s grin faltered slightly. "You... you do not know hockey?"
"Is that the one with the sticks?" Harry asked, genuinely uncertain. He’d seen the librarian’s book cover. That had sticks.
Ilya’s face did something complicated—surprise, then offense, then something that looked almost like respect. "You are serious. You really do not know."
"Why would I know about... stick sports?"
"Is not—" Ilya started, then stopped. Shook his head. Grinned again. "You are very strange British boy. Come. I buy you food, yes? You look like you need food."
And that’s when Harry’s brain caught up to what was happening. Strange man. Offering things. Nothing was free. There was always a cost.
"No," Harry said, taking a step back. His shoulders hit the shelf. "I can pay for my own—"
"Is not problem. I have money." Ilya was already reaching for his wallet. "What else you need? Just bread? This is not good meal. You need protein. And fruit. Growing boy needs—"
"I said no." Harry’s voice came out sharper than intended. Louder. The cashier looked over again. "I don’t need your help."
Ilya paused, wallet half-out of his pocket. His expression shifted—less grin, more assessment. "Is just food."
"Nothing’s just anything," Harry said, and hated how bitter he sounded. How young. "I don’t know you. I don’t need—"
He needed a lot of things. Food. Money. A place to sleep that wasn’t an alley. But taking things from strangers meant owing them, and owing people meant they could take it all back whenever they wanted, and Harry was done with that.
"Okay," Ilya said slowly. He put the wallet away. "Okay. No food. Is fine."
They stood there for a long moment, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. Harry’s stomach chose that moment to growl audibly.
Ilya’s mouth twitched. "You are sure?"
"I’m sure."
"Stubborn British boy," Ilya muttered, but he didn’t sound angry. He sounded almost... impressed? "Fine. But—"
A voice called from the front of the store. "Ilya! You finding those chips or what?"
Another man appeared at the end of the aisle—Asian, shorter than Ilya but still tall, dark hair, sharp features. His accent was Canadian, but different from the overly-polite strangers Harry had encountered so far. Flatter. More direct. He looked between Ilya and Harry with immediate suspicion. "What’s going on?"
"Nothing," Ilya said quickly. "Just talking with—"
"I’m leaving," Harry interrupted. He edged along the shelf, keeping both men in sight. They were between him and the front door but there had to be a back exit. There was always a back exit.
"Wait—" Ilya started.
Harry didn’t wait. He put the bread back on the shelf—carefully, properly, even though his hands were shaking—and headed for the back of the store. There. Emergency exit, red sign glowing.
"Hey!" The other man’s voice, sharp with authority. "Kid, hold on—"
Harry hit the emergency exit at a run. The alarm shrieked behind him as he burst into the alley, but he was already gone, cutting left and then right, losing himself in the maze of streets he’d spent four days learning.
Behind him, he heard shouting. Footsteps. But Harry was small and fast and had a lot of practice disappearing.
By the time he stopped running, three blocks away and gasping for air, the voices were gone. His stomach was still cramping. His bag—lighter now, down to $23 and dreams—dug into his shoulder.
He’d been stupid. Getting into a conversation. Letting himself be cornered. That man—Ilya—had seemed friendly, but that’s what they always seemed like at first.
Harry found a different alley, darker than the last, and settled in to wait out another night. The pretzels from the plane were long gone. The bread he’d almost bought felt like a fantasy.
Tomorrow, he’d try again. Find a different store. Be smarter.
Tomorrow.
He pressed his forehead against his knees and tried not to think about how much $23 didn’t buy you in a city where you knew no one.