Before I start this story, I just wanted to say that I have permission to use the idea of the sperm bank and glamour. I got the idea from Njchrispatrick and his wonderful story, 'A Happy Accident: 70 Years.' I highly recommend that you go and check it out before you read this. The quality of writing is phenomenal and the story is really, really sweet. So, if there are certain similarities, I do have permission to use them.


Nine months after the end of the second Wizarding War, Harry Potter noticed something strange.

He was standing in front of his bathroom mirror, lopping off bits of hair that flopped into his eyes too often. Due to the unruly nature of it, he was able to get away with uneven bit without no-one being any the wiser. Plus, it meant he saved a few galleons on a haircut. Honestly, the prices that people charged him just because he was famous. He wasn't quite sure how they could justify it, but he wasn't going to go rifling around inside their heads looking for the answer.

Just as he was about to take the last piece off, a blond strand of hair fell into his hands. Harry narrowed his eyes and held it up in front of him, squinting at it. That was...odd. Maybe the spell has a side effect where it occasionally changed your hair colour? It had never done it before. The laws of magic were steadfast as they came, so maybe that wasn't the answer. Perhaps a prank? Ron was constantly pranking everyone around him. Maybe that could be the answer.

No matter, it wasn't that important. It was possible that the strand of hair belonged to someone else, as well. Strange things consistently happened around him, so finding a hair belonging to a stranger tangled up in his own wasn't the most outrageous thing to happen to him. Only a few days ago, a howler filled with noises that were only meant to be heard in the bedroom found its way into his apartment, which was in the middle of Muggle london. To say it made him angry was an understatement. He made an urgent note to go to the Ward Specialists to get them his wards improved, especially against unsolicited mail.

After cleaning up the hair, Harry made his way into the kitchen and absentmindedly made a cup of tea. The sweet aroma calmed him down, like it always did. After the War, he took every chance he could to relax and stay calm, and if that meant drinking ten cups of tea a day, he would do it, dammit. Being relaxed stopped him from getting flashbacks. If he could stop those with tea, then sobeit. He took the occasional calming draught, but didn't rely on him. The last thing he wanted now was to become addicted to some potion. He'd seen the effects, and it wasn't pretty. Harry shivered at the thought.

Placing the tea on the rickety coffee table, Harry flopped back into the couch and picked up the pile of letters spread out over the couch. All of them contained job offers, each employer desperate to say that they had 'the Boy-Who-Lived' working for them. Harry grimaced at the much hated title. The title always came first, it was always what people saw. An idealized version of him that vastly differed from his true personality. Everyone liked to believe that he lived a lavish lifestyle, but in reality he was frugal and lived in a small flat. Another common belief was that he was surrounded by women and revealed the attention he received. This couldn't be more wrong.

Soon, though, he would have to find a job. For nine months he'd sat at home, not contacting anyone outside his main circle of friends, finding comfort in old muggle movies and his newly acquired cat, Shemia, a fluffy brown moggy who kept him awake all hours of the night. This couldn't continue for long. Rumours were beginning to fly and funds were beginning to dwindle. Well, the funds he'd set up for the year. He may have more money than he knew what to do with, but he wasn't going to spend it all. Maybe he could become a broomstick designer. The offers were certainly there in their multitudes. Not that he knew a single thing about broomstick designing or the Arithmancy it required.

So that was off the table.

A lot of offers came from the Ministry of Magic, where he absolutely refused to work. The expectation to become an Auror weighed heavy on his shoulders, dogging him at every turn. He wasn't going to become an Auror. That much was out of the question. Sure, he would be good at it, but that didn't matter. What he needed right now was a calm job, without stress or major worry. Something that would make him happy, while also making others happy.

A sudden idea struck him. Florean Fortescue's, the ice cream parlour in Diagon Alley, was still out of business. He could buy the premises and re-open it, put it back into business. The job wouldn't entail too much stress and was about as far away from the War he could get. Yes, that was what he was going to do.

Harry made a note to settle on it right there and then. He wasn't going to change his mind.

Suddenly invigorated, Harry took a long swig of tea and gathered up all the letters and pamphlets. He dumped them into the bin with a flourish. Now that he had somewhere to go, something to look forward to, a goal to work towards, everything seemed clear. His eyes began to itch slightly, so he took of his glasses and rubbed them. Unfortunately, this only made the itching worse.

"What on Earth," Harry muttered, sitting back down on the couch. He tried to focus on something else other than the itching, but it was virtually impossible. To his dismay, it began spreading, before turning into an intense burning sensation. Harry grit his teeth, fists clenching and unclenching, desperate for it to stop.

And suddenly it did.

Harry panted in relief, sweat dripping down his face. He wiped his forehead and suddenly paused. Something felt...off. There was definitely something different about his face and the way it felt under his hand. Panic flooded into his chest and he rushed to the bathroom, desperately looking into the mirror.

When he saw his reflection, Harry screamed, then fainted.

For the face in the mirror didn't belong to him.


Hello. I hope you enjoyed this. This story is a little challenge I have set myself called 'The Garden,' where I write a chapter a day and upload it, with no real plan of where I want to take it. I'm interested to see what happens.

As I said before, go check out A Happy Accident: 70 Years by Njchrispatrick, which is where I found the inspiration for this story.

Sincerely,
Mariadoria