Chapter Text
“Holy shit.” Harry muttered, cracking his back. “That was so bad.”
“No it wasn’t,” Dean yawned.
“You’re right. I’m fucking knackered though,” Harry said, dragging his guitar case by the handle onto the tour bus. Iron Stag had officially pushed through thirty-two out of forty states on their American Circuit tour, and it was starting to take a heavy blow on them physically.
At this point, the amount of people that had no idea they were British was comical. Somewhere between Texas and Colorado, the accents had stopped registering. They were just another band now, loud, sweaty, and easy to blur into the rest.
They’d gotten stuck after this one anyway. Someone had mentioned that their tour bus was half a mile away from the venue, which was conveniently next to their hotel. This lead to a huge crowd surrounding them, the tour bus, and their hotel. By the time it was empty enough to leave, it was half past one. The desert air had cooled, but it still clung to their skin, dry and stubborn.
“Hello, hello!” Ginny beamed, squeezing between Ron and Harry.
“What’s got you so happy?” Ron grunted, leaning his head back against the seat.
“These pictures! Honestly might be my best work yet.”
She started brandishing them immediately, pointing out her favourites. Some of Harry mid-song, which even he had to admit looked quite good. The stage lights always seemed to illuminate his bronze skin in a way that only existed during concerts. One of Dean and Ernie throwing Pavarti and Lavender into the pool of their last hotel, completely ruining their makeup. A few candid ones too, Harry hunched over his songbook, Padma ruffling their hair after a concert in new mexico, and another in New York where Ron was wearing a shirt that read “I survived my trip to New York City”, caught mid argument with a bouncer to a club they were trying to sneak into.
“The hell was I even saying there?” Ron muttered.
“Ha! You look like Aunt Muriel!” Ginny laughed.
Ron scowled. “I knew it was a mistake letting you be our photographer.”
Ginny scoffed and shoved him off the seat. “Fine. Guess you don’t want to see the rest then.”
“Don’t listen to him, Gin. We want to see more,” Harry said, nudging her side.
The rest were from their last concert in Colorado — the crowd a blur of raised hands and Iron Stag shirts.
“Oh shit, do you remember—” Harry leaned forward, squinting at one.
“Did you get a picture of that girl in the audience?”
“Which one?” Ginny asked, already flipping through.
“The one in the purple top.”
“Ohh, that one.” Ginny snorted. “Yeah, hard to miss.”
“She nearly blinded me,” Ron muttered.
“What are we talking about?” Lavender interjected, walking down the aisle with her toenails drying.
“The girl who flashed us in Colorado" Harry muttered, distractedly looking through the photos
“Tsk Tsk Tsk. What would Hermione say of this topic Ron?” Parvati said, appearing behind lavender sorting through stacks of clothing.
Ron blanched, decidingly removing himself from the conversation.
“That girl was mean as fuck,” Dean said, tossing a tennis ball into the air and catching it without looking.
Harry laughed, then paused, brows knitting together. “What was her name again?”
They all looked at him.
“What?” he said, defensive already.
“You spoke to her for like ten minutes,” Ginny said.
“Did I?”
“Yeah,” Ron added. “Backstage. She gave you—”
“Don’t.” Harry cut in quickly.
Ernie smirked. “You said you’d remember her forever you tosser.”
Harry rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah, well. Clearly I lied.”
“Are you guys quite finished?” Padma interjected, thoroughly unamused. Everyone quieted down before turning to look at her. She had been their manager for a year ever since they’d signed to North Vale, and was generally only amused with them when her pay check came in the mail.
“Good job today, boys. Bagman was impressed. I was able to score you guys an opening slot in Arizona. A proper crowd, not just locals drifting in for a drink.”
“Opening for who?” Dean asked.
“Rising band. Still climbing, but they’ve got traction. More importantly—” she paused, making sure she had their attention, “—Tom’s going to be there.”
“Who?” Ron repeated.
“Our Investor,” Padma said. “He has his hands in half the acts North Vale Records is backing right now. Doesn’t waste time on mediocrity.”
“This is helpful why?” Dean asked lazily, catching the ball against his chest.
Padma glared sharply at him. “This is helpful because it could possibly score you guys a performance at the Grammys next year.”
The bus went quiet.
Everyone gaped.
“If they see you lot performing how you performed today, I could try to sway them,” she continued, flipping through her notebook casually. “They’re already paying attention. Don’t waste that.”
“Grammy’s?” Ernie repeated,
“Yes, Ernie. The Grammy’s,” Padma said flatly.
Ron let out a low whistle. “Bloody hell.”
“Damn straight. Don’t mess it up,” Padma finished.
***
The hotel was a modest 4 stories with dated decor from the 50s and peeling—well, everything. If Harry wasn’t as tired as he was today he would’ve questioned Padma’s sanity whilst choosing the hotel.
He barely registered check-in. By the time he got to his room, his head was buzzing, not entirely from the show.
He tossed his guitar case against the wall and collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling.
For a moment, it was quiet.
Then his mind started moving again.
Faces, mostly. Girls from different cities, different nights. Names he half-remembered, conversations that blurred into each other. Laughter that sounded the same across borders. He was starting to worry about the normality of his memory loss. It was normal not to remember those types of things right? Under normal circumstances, he probably would’ve asked Hermione about this. But he’d rather not bother her during her internship, that was the whole reason she stayed in the UK this summer anyways. Also he didn’t want to give Ron and Hermione the satisfaction of admitting something was wrong.
Harry shut his eyes—which didn’t help at all.
He pushed himself up, dragging a hand through his hair, and crossed the room. His bag sat open where he’d left it. He reached in, pulled out a folded paper, then something else—small, metallic.
He hesitated.
Just for a second.
Then a sharp knock at the door cut through the silence.
Harry flinched, shoving everything back into the bag like it had burned him.
“Yeah?” he called.
No answer, just another knock, lighter this time.
He crossed the room and yanked the door open.
No one.
Harry blinked, leaning out into the hallway.
Empty.
“The hell?” he muttered, stepping back inside.
The phone rang.
He stared at it for a long time before picking up.
“Yeah?”
“Harry.”
He froze.
“Sirius?” His voice shifted without him meaning it to.
“Thought you’d forgotten how to answer a phone,” Sirius said dryly.
“My bad.” He muttered half-heartedly
“Alright Haz?”
Harry leaned against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor. “Yeah. Fine. Just finished a show.”
“We heard,” another voice cut in Remus. “Padma sent something through. You sounded good.”
“Thanks.”
The line went silent for a bit, before frantic whispering and shuffling could be heard
“You coming back any time soon?” Sirius asked.
“Tour’s not done,” Harry said. “Got Arizona next.”
“Right.”
More silence.
Harry glanced toward his bag, then away.
“I should—” he started.
“Yeah,” Sirius said quickly. “Don’t let us keep you.”
“Harry,” Remus added, just before he could hang up.
“Yeah?”
“…Take care of yourself.”
Harry swallowed. “Yeah. You too.”
The line clicked dead.
He sat there for a minute, phone still in his hand.
Then he pushed himself up, crossed the room to his bed, and didn’t look at the bag this time.
Outside, the neons of the hotel were glowing faintly as he drifted into dreamless sleep.