Burgers and Reborn Buggers
Harry decides there's a certain level of humor, if a bit of a morbid one, in naming your food after your enemies so you could legally eat them.
He posits this thought to Hermione in a whisper, who floats behind him and only giggles in response. Yes, Hermione, yuck it up, he wants to say as he rolls his eyes. So he's a bit of a pushover when she pushes him to take care of himself and eat. What else is new?
The BatBurger menu flashes at him, and the cashier just stares balefully at his seemingly crazed whispers to seemingly empty air, and most importantly, his lack of a meal order.
"... One order of Riddle-me-Fish with large jokerized bat-fries and orange juice, please." Harry politely mutters in a perfect New Jersey accent, specifically the nasal tones he learned from Bergen County when he was stuck fighting off an undead horde with Mr. and Mrs. Vision in that one other universe full of costumed nutters.
"... That'll be $2.50." The utterly jaded cashier mutters back, seemingly utterly done with 'crazy hobos', which of course fails to rouse Harry's temper because he's even far MORE done with... everything... and he couldn't really care less what in-universe natives think. It's been so long since he cared at all about anything or anyone, and it's always harder to get back to caring every time he decides to st-(Stop, enough, please don't leave, why do you keep LEAVING-)
Harry pays for his meal, making note to pull out native dollar bills with images of that strange old American president he's completely unfamiliar with, and not one of the old wrinkly and crumbling dollar bills Harry had inadvertently saved from nearly a millenium ago, the ones he was forced to keep with him because he was unable, though mostly unwilling and mostly out of principle, to exchange them for fucking bottle caps, of all things, in that nuclear wasteland surprise he found himself in back then. That was, what, the five-hundred-thousandth world? He can't rightly remember. In any case, Harry refused to put the money in magical stasis, because that spell is something he always forgets to remove, and then oh, look, people are suddenly freaking out about some never-tarnishing-coin or never-wrinkly-money or something or another.
Then when Harry moved on, he was further horrified to learn that he was still unable to exchange his dollar bills for cyber-Won in Neo-Seoul in yet another universe, thanks to that sudden worldwide clone revolution led by the clone named Seon Mi 451. Or was the name Sonmi-451? 421? Harry couldn't rightly remember. It's been literal eons. Well, he remembers just how much cheaper fast food was and is whenever he's in a 2010's era, so at least there's that.
He settles in a booth and digs in, finding himself utterly unsurprised as always at the greasiness of American fast food. As interesting as the taste of joker-flavored powder is on the chips — Harry may be old as dirt but he's a proud Englishman and would always refer to "fries" as chips — he would insist that he's tasted worse. Or better. Overall the meal rates a solid mid, which makes him already sort of regret eating the completely unnecessary meal.
So? Hermione blurts up from beside him, ever-inquisitive. What's it taste like?
"Tastes like America," is his stolid, if mildly disgusted, reply to that. "Dunno why the world keeps thinking it's Brits that have 'white boy' palates, when Americans labor under the impression that salt and grease are valid flavors."
"Hey, it's at least better than Burger King, isn't it?" comes the sudden, uninvited query from the booth behind him.
Harry turns to stare coolly at the man who had just spoken. Richard Grayson, or Grayson Richards, Harry never bothered to remember the bloke's name correctly, stares back with a peppy grin and lifts a... a buffalo chicken Night-wing... in emphasis.
"..." Harry turns back to his meal, unwilling to engage in a completely unnecessary conversation with a native.
"Hey, don't be like that!" comes the jolly chide. "At least tell me if you think it's better or worse than the New York staple, yeah?"
"... I hardly think it matters."
"How come? Isn't being better than what the vast majority prefer, something to be proud of?" Grayson, or Richard, whatever, ripostes.
"Being better than the refuse that the plebs go for is hardly anything of note or to be proud of," Harry mutters into his burger. "To say nothing of actually being worse, which must take some effort indeed."
A distinctly young snort echoes from behind him, and Harry turns to the other booth again to see that a young boy, probably the biological Wayne child, has been part of the conversation without Harry noticing.
The thing about not caring about anything, Harry thinks, is that everything is so far below notice that Harry actually ends up not noticing anything. Everything. Or plenty enough things to make no difference.
"I find myself agreeing," comes the arch tone of the child.
Harry nods silently at the child before turning back to his meal.
"There are better ways to have quick meals, Richard," the child continues, blithely moving on to ignore Harry, which of course Harry completely fails to care about since that's his brand. "A shakshuka from Al-Basha is heartier, healthier, and just better than any old 'veggie burger' from this place. Nevermind that it's Americanized and not too much like the Maghrebi version, it's still better than... this."
The child spits the word "Americanized" like it's a curse, and frankly, Harry can relate. He once tried what Americans tried to pass off as haggis, and Harry nearly upchucked his very soul after. Minerva McGonagall would've clutched her metaphorical pearls at the complete abomination they've made of her homeland's cuisine.
The two move on to argue about — or in this case, disparage on one side and fail to defend on the other — the merits of American cuisine. Harry finishes his meal, before slumping his back once more in boredom and deciding to not eat after at least three decades, no matter Hermione's urging. In any case, the next time he does eat, he'll make sure it's proper food.
... Damn Hermione for goading him into eating in the closest burger joint.
Come now, it couldn't have been that bad, could it? Hermione chides him.
"It could, Hermione. If I had any need for sustenance, I would still think twice before going for that slop." Harry retorts. He walks into an empty alley before casting a notice-me-not spell upon himself. Wandlessly, of course, because he's far too old to use a wand like a toddler.
Hermione hums. Well, how about you try to go to that place that Damian Wayne mentioned? Al-Basha, was it? Try that shakshuka he seemed to like. You never know, it might be a revelation.
"A revelation in human genericness, perhaps," Harry responds with a sigh, before roaming around to search for Al-Basha anyway. "I don't know why I keep going along with your whims, you wretch."
It's because I'm the boss of you, silly, Hermione responds with a small grin. You and Ron always were my minions, nevermind what codswallop Snape droned about you leading Ron and I astray.
"... Speaking of Ron..."
Hermione perks up. Ah. Right. About that... He uh... He did tell you about his plan, did he not?
Harry does not stiffen. He does not. "You mean his plan to move on? Yeah. If telling is anything like the blaring klaxon of him yelling about hating being trapped with me, that is, then yeah, he told me. In... In any case, that was more than a decade ago, Hermione. I've said my goodbyes. I know he's gone."
Harry did. He has the lines rehearsed down to an art form, these days. It started with Albus Dumbledore who was always happy to go on his 'next great adventure', then Harry's mum and dad, then Snape, of all people, who decided to become a ghost and guard Harry for far longer than his or Harry's wont, the contrary git. Then Remus and Tonks, whom Harry hadn't thought would stick around in the first place. And strangely enough, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, whom he hadn't thought would care enough to stick around as ghosts before they suddenly showed up to say goodbye to him. By the time Ron had calmed down enough from his epic meltdown to properly say goodbye and move on, Harry had long perfected the art of letting go. So he said the words. Trite as they sounded to his own ears, what mattered was that it gave his ghosts peace: Thanks for sticking with me, I hope you find happiness and fulfillment, I hope being reincarnated would be at least as interesting and fun as the life we had with each other. I love you, you will always be in my heart, thank you, thank you, thank you...
(PLEASE, NOT ANOTHER ONE, PLEASE, NO, DON'T LEAVE ME-)
Harry didn't beg for them to stay. No matter how badly he wanted to. Every time someone moved on, he always felt his restraint fraying, urging him to make them stay with him. To beg, to cry, to plead with the empty heavens. But... But it wouldn't be fair to them, he knows.
(BUT WHAT ABOUT WHAT'S FAIR TO HARRY POTTER? WHAT ABOUT ME? WHY DOES EVERYONE GET TO MOVE ON WHEN I CAN'T-)
And Harry might never be the most fair person, but he knows himself enough to know that he would never force this miserable existence upon anyone he loves.
And it is miserable. Nearly unbearable, at that. Sirius barely sticks around, though his specter hasn't yet moved on. Says that staying hurts his soul, so he has to go away into the ether to take increasingly frequent and prolonged breaks. Had Hermione's ghostly obsession not been her best friend's fulfillment — fulfillment that Harry would never have so long as he's immortal, which he always would be (NO MORE, PLEASE, LET IT END, LET ME-) — then she would have left him too, and then he would've been truly miserable.
Hermione seems to fidget, which she always did when she was alive and sitting on a secret. W-well, it's a good thing you brought him up, Harry, because honestly, I have good news. Or... Well, it's news anyway. We've been in this universe for nearly three decades, right? We were here when Ron moved on?
"..." Harry doesn't respond, because Hermione seems to not be waiting for a response at all.
Hermione fidgets again. So... The thing is, Harry, I think... I think we just met Ron's reincarnation. In the burger joint.
Harry does the math. Or tries to. Being older than some worlds makes him woefully unprepared to keep track of the minutiae of things, such as mere decades or centuries. "So... Ron moved on a bit more than a decade ago. Was it nineteen years ago? Twenty? Eleven?"
Fourteen! Hermione blurts out before letting out an exasperated sigh. Honestly, Harry, it hasn't been that long! I know timekeeping is hard with... with everything, but you could at least note when Ronald Weasley decided to pass on, you know!
Harry blushes in embarrassment. How was he to tell her that he tries to repress any and every memory of people leaving him? "... I lost track of time." he says instead.
Hermione sighs goodnaturedly. Well, in any case, Ron was reborn, apparently. Any guesses which of the three people you've spoken to is his reincarnation? You get three guesses!
Harry gives her a deadpan stare. "I'm not an idiot. Only one of them is young enough to be him."
Well, that, and Harry refuses to think that the BatBurger cashier could be the indomitable Ron Weasley in any way, shape or form.
Right-o! Hermione cheers, entirely Sirius-like that the cheer has to be completely faked. It's Damian Wayne! Ron is rich now, could you believe it?
Harry tries not to point out that with the entirely new life, with the entire lack of memories of the life he once lived... Damian Wayne is not Ron at all, besides maintaining the core of Ron's soul, that essence of protection-family-battle. Harry had smelt the scent of Ron's soul on the Wayne child, just like Hermione had. But he knows...
He knows...
... That Ron is gone forever.
"Yeah, funny how that turned out, yeah?" Harry jokes instead. "Ron Weasley, heir of a billionaire."
It's hilarious is what it is! Hermione says with manufactured cheer. And he's so snooty now, too, all classy and such! Hilarious!
"...Yeah," Harry says with a soft smile that seems light and easy, when all he wants to do is shrivel up into himself and cry. "Hilarious."