GODRIC'S HOLLOW, THE JOLLY MUGGLE — DATE UNKNOWN

The stage is dark except for a few glowing street lamps, gas flames flickering. Soft light reveals the partial exterior and interior of a charming and nearly empty pub. The sign outside says THE JOLLY MUGGLE. It is being swept by the BARMAN. He lets go of the broom and it continues swaying back and forth. He uses a magic wand to darken some of the torch brackets before returning to his station behind the bar. BARMAN cleans the counter with a rag. He regards the last remaining PATRON. The wizard is at the end of the bar, dressed in a high collared black jacket, his face concealed by a floppy grey wizard's cap. The PATRON is muttering to himself, empty glass in hand.

PATRON (slurring his words, to himself): From the moment I first heard of it, I was desperate to go. And there's plenty I'm responsible for... Now... Now, I'll never get to see my son grow up. He could have played Quidditch for England. Or been a brilliant Auror. He could have been anything. Poor kid thought he had to save the world. I mean, he also almost destroyed the world, but probably best not to focus on that bit. And their mother. I don't think she had even time to scream. Lord spare them the details more than that. Spare me while you're at it.

PATRON brings the empty glass to his lips. He tilts it and sets the glass down with a thud. He taps the rim impatiently.

BARMAN: We're closing up for the night, sir.

PATRON: Hey... you've got a wand. Could you — take my mind? Take my memory? Make me forget who I am?

BARMAN: I can't and I won't.

PATRON (truly pitiful): Hmm. Then kill me.

BARMAN: I can't do that either, sir.

PATRON: You should do. Truly. I don't deserve to live — not when so many have died to protect me. How many people have died for the Boy Who Lived? Does anyone know?

BARMAN takes the glass away.

BARMAN: Are you feeling all right? You're not acting like yourself, Mister Potter.

PATRON: Just a slightly weird twenty-four hours, is all. I did my best to put a stop to it — but people were frightened of me and I — well, they're after me now and...

The PATRON stops and removes his wizard's hat. We can see that it's HARRY, but without his glasses. He looks horrible. HARRY stares vacantly at the BARMAN.

You recognized me?

BARMAN: Of course, sir. How could I not?

HARRY (still slurring his words): Right... Right, well I will not risk being revealed or distracted.

He reaches into one pocket, finds nothing, reaches clumsily into the next and takes out his wand. He grins.

There's the little blighter.

HARRY sets Voldemort's wand, his wand, on the bar and taps the side of his head. Then he looks around inquisitively, one eye squinting. He puts on his glasses.

Where — exactly — am I?

BARMAN: You're in The Jolly Muggle, sir.

HARRY: How'd I get here?

BARMAN (shrewdly): Were I to hazard a guess, I would say that you walked.

HARRY: The Jolly Muggle? (beat) The Jolly Muggle. Haven't I been here before?

BARMAN: Certainly, Mister Potter. Godric's Hollow is not a large place but we have the finest pubs in Britain. It's become quite popular as a weekend break.

HARRY drunkenly topples off the barstool and leers through one of the diamond-paned windows.

HARRY: I can see why — look at the thatched roofs. Lovely. Quite lovely.

BARMAN: It's the greatest place on earth, far as I can tell. And now that it's coming up to Hallows' Eve, there's no better place for a stroll than through Godric's Hollow. St. Jerome's graveyard is supposedly magnificently haunted.

HARRY: I'm in Godric's Hollow?

He sneers at the window.

Godless Hollow, more like.

BARMAN: Not at all, sir. No better place for a stroll than through Godric's Hollow. No better place. Though I haven't seen you lately. You know it's still the safest round, what with all the goings-on — the war.

HARRY: That's my fault.

BARMAN: Now, I know that's not true. Unless you've become Voldemort without any of us noticing. Daily Prophet says those Death Eaters killed thirteen more yesterday.

He finishes wiping down the bar and throws the rag over his shoulder.

Thirteen. Monstrous.

HARRY: Hang on — when's the last time you saw me?

BARMAN: Well over a year now, to be sure. Your mates stop in from time to time. Black and Pettigrew were here a while back. Sat at that table in the corner. Awful quiet, they were.

HARRY looks around the pub and back out the window. He eyes the BARMAN.

HARRY: My mates? What's my first name?

BARMAN (confused): Why you're... James Potter, sir.

HARRY (under his breath): Right. I was sitting at the bar when — and the Aurors found me, so I —

HARRY fumbles through his pockets. He takes out the Time-Turner. He shakes his head.

I escaped. Into the past. 

BARMAN looks concerned as HARRY throws open the door and totters in place.

It's nearly the 31st of October, 1981. The date my parents were killed. The day that everything changed...

He adjusts his glasses and looks out at the wings, stage right

BARMAN: You feeling up to snuff, James?

HARRY: Sorry, I'm — I haven't been myself lately. I've made so many mistakes. Things you don't come back from.

BARMAN nods and leads HARRY to the door.

BARMAN: That doesn't seem particularly fair on yourself... You know, I served Albus Dumbledore once. Sat right where you were just then. I'll never forget what he told me. He said, "Perfection is beyond the reach of humankind, beyond the reach of magic. In every shining moment of happiness is that drop of poison: the knowledge that pain will come again. Be honest to those you love, show your pain. To suffer is as human as to breathe."

HARRY: Sounds like him. And he just said that to you for no reason?

BARMAN: Not exactly. I was so nervous to see the greatest wizard of all time sitting at my bar that I spilled his drink. Went all down his robe, it did. The fancy purple one. Dumbledore wanted to make me feel better, I'd reckon.

HARRY: That also sounds like him.

BARMAN: Best day of my life. Now, let me point you home. If I'm not mistaken...

BARMAN gestures to the wings. He looks suddenly confused.

HARRY (inarticulately): Something amiss?

BARMAN: I thought — I thought you lived over there. But now I only see...

HARRY: Never fear, my good man. I know the way.

HARRY taps the side of his head again and fixes his hair.

BARMAN: Of course, you do. How silly of me.

HARRY takes a wobbling step out of the pub. The BARMAN stops him.

Mister Potter! What's happened to your forehead, sir? There's an awful scar.

HARRY: Hmm? Oh, that. Long story.

HARRY yanks himself free and staggers away. He exits.