​"No man for any considerable period can wear one face to himself, and another to the multitude, without finally getting bewildered as to which may be the true." - Nathaniel Hawthorne.

If every rose has its thorn, Harry's was surely his fame.

Every where he went, every shop, bar, club, people would flock to him.

Like moths drawn to a flame, water to the drain. 

Of course, it tended to die down as the years passed but even then, an article would come out about which brand of toilet paper Harry bought and all of a sudden, the whole world's gone stir crazy once more.

Everyone wants Harry's autograph, oh, just a quick snap, please, Harry!

Not even "Mister potter", they act as if they've known you their entire lives and to suggest otherwise would be blasphemy of the highest order.

Thus, as I'm sure you can imagine, when it came to finding... Partners, it was very difficult.

Did they have genuine interest? Did they simply harbour a grudge for the Chosen One and feel the need to expose him? Were they simply using him for fame and fortune, riches of the future?Was it a set up? Almost certainly.

Would this stop him? No!

As Harry made his way through the grubby streets of Knockturn Alley, hood wound tightly around his head, hair falling over his forehead, so as to avert suspicion, he felt a great sense of de ja vu.

It always seemed to him, that he'd end up here sooner or later.

Sneaking around in a dark, dingy place of no-good magic.

Whether it be in the physical sense or within his mind, Harry was always making his great, sordid escape. 

Life was hard when you were the chosen one never chosen.

Certainly not for who you are.

Entering his usual haunt, Harry found his disguise wash off of him as he embraced his true self.

"The usual," He requested of the bar tender.

"Sir," He received by way of response, with a curt nod shortly followed by a tall glass of something much too alcoholic for a Tuesday evening.

"Could I get a straw, mate?" Harry found himself asking.

"'Course, lad," Came the response as the bar tender flicked his wand, thrusting the straw forward into a floating motion until it eventually found its home within Harry's glass.

Throughout the night, Harry noticed something odd about this bar tender.

He wore long sleeves, never allowing that of his left to rise up but having no overt issue with allowing the same of his right.

Harry, the sneaky closeted Slytherin that he is, decided that he knew just what to do.

"Oi, bar keep!" Harry slurred. "Mind fetching me one o' them right expensive bo'les of voddy from the top shelf, ay?" 

"Sure, mate," Mister bar man replied with ease. 

Just as he thought he'd get away with using his right arm, Harry thrust the bowl of bar Bertie Botts Every Flavour Beans (they mean every flavour), at him, startling the bar keep and causing him to jump, squeak and raise his left arm.

The mission was a success! 

No... Harry thought. 

That couldn't be... 

"The dark mark," Harry finished aloud, prompting the bar tender to give him a look of bewilderment

"Dude, it's literally just a skull with a snake..."

But Harry had heard enough! He knew the Dark Mark when he saw it!

He was taking him in.

A/N
My life, similar to that of many others now and throughout history, is rather miserable at the moment. For that reason, I've been lacking inspiration and do firmly apologize for the redundant, repetitive nonsense that is this chapter.

I've lost most of my motivation for not only this material, but for writing in general.