A/N: This has been sitting around half written for a while, so huzzah that it's done! It portrays my favourite characterization of Harry, which is most clearly described by the title. It's not as great as I'd hoped it would be, so I might take it down and redo it at some point. Hopefully it's still entertaining.

Disclaimer: Yes, I own Harry Potter. And pigs fly. And Orlando Bloom has more than four facial expressions.

Slightly Mad

The interviewer brushed her hands down her robes, straightening them anywhere they had gone astray in the long broom flight. They were nice, expensive robes. After all, she worked for a very prominent and popular magazine and had a high payroll. Plain and sharp the robes were, with just enough flamboyant touches to make her seem interesting. She'd spent a long time selecting these robes that morning, for in but a few moments she would be giving the most important interview of her career.

She'd been assigned to tackle a question growing in the general populace's minds like wild fire- What ever happened to Harry Potter?

After the defeat of the dark lord, Harry Potter had been showered with praise and fame and gratitude. He quickly became several times richer than he already had been. He was constantly on the radio, in the newspapers, showing up at schools and city halls to give speeches.

And then quite suddenly he had disappeared. Only a select few, namely his closest friends and of course Albus Dumbledore, knew where he now lived. And the interviewer had been able to find out. Broom had been the only way to get there since he wasn't on the floo connection and had gone so far as to install anti-aparation wards. Harry had agreed to the interview on the condition that she would never give away his location. The entire mystery was thrilling, and she'd surely become famous for solving it.

She shivered with excitement, cleared her throat, and adopted an expression of 'professional disinterest' before raising a shaking hand to the door knocker.

The door swung open suddenly before her first knock. She was somewhat taken aback but quickly smiled at the grinning man in the doorway.

'Merlin… it's him…'

And it was. Harry Potter had a very particular appearance and there was no mistaking it. The trademark messy black hair, emerald eyes covered by circular glasses, and peeking out through his bangs a faint lightning bolt scar. He was tall, he was handsome, the interviewer was smitten as any right-minded woman would be. She put on a charming smile and held out her hand.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Potter. It's a real honor to meet you. I'm—"

Harry grinned even wider, and shook her hand firmly with both of his. "Yes, yes, you're the interviewer! Lovely of you to come all the way out here just to talk to me, just lovely. Won't you come inside?"

"Yes, thank you Mr. Potter—"

"Please, call me Harry," he said with a wink, and gestured for her to enter. With one last shiver she stepped inside.

The interviewer was disappointed to see that it was a normal house. It wasn't only normal, but particularly normal. Any given muggle residence could look exactly the same. But she shrugged, thought out a few sentences of how the deeply scarred war hero strived for normalcy in his tattered life, and followed Harry down a short hallway decorated with flowered wallpaper.

"Watch your step," he called cheerfully over his shoulder. She looked down for any sudden steps but didn't find any.

"For what?" she asked.

"Crocodiles," Harry said with a shrug. He turned left into a small sitting room and immediately plopped himself down on a squashy crimson couch. He indicated that she should also sit. The interviewer (after smoothing down her robes) whipped out a notebook and a quill and began scribbling at it furiously.

"You keep pet crocodiles?" she exclaimed, "That's fascinating!"

"Oh no, I don't keep them," Harry corrected her grimly; "They wander in sometimes. There's really nothing I can do about it except try to ignore them and give them the occasional hot dog."

"Er… hot dog?"

"Yes, they like hot dogs." He shrugged again and smiled at her. He had extremely white teeth, and their sparkling momentarily distracted her. She snapped out of it and noticed he had asked her a question.

"Beg pardon?"

He smiled placidly- she realized he very rarely didn't smile placidly- and repeated, "I said what is it you wanted to talk about?"

"Er, yes… well, you know. What you've been doing, why you decided to cut yourself off from the world, a recap of the final moments between you and the dark lor—"

"I'm only slightly mad, you know."


"I said would you like some tea?" He smiled at her.

The interviewer blinked. "Er… yes, yes thank you."

Harry stood up and wandered off, presumably to the kitchen. This interview certainly wasn't going the way she had planned. Of course, it would all work out once they settled down and really got into talking. Besides, she was one of the few people in the wizarding world to get the opportunity to talk to the Harry Potter. Here she was in his sitting room! What could be better?

Harry returned bearing two teacups and saucers. He handed one to the interviewer, raised his own cup in a toast, and took a large swallow. She returned the gesture and did likewise. Then she frowned. Something wasn't right…

"Harry, this isn't tea its orange juice," she said, eyeing the yellowish liquid. It was sweet and pretty tasty, but certainly not tea.

"I know, I make it myself," Harry replied calmly, "I have orange trees in the green house out back. Do you like it?"

"I didn't see any green house—"

For once he looked vaguely sad. "Yes," he frowned, "I've misplaced it."

The interviewer coughed and took another sip of her orange juice. Harry smiled once more and drained his cup before placing it carefully on the coffee table.

"So," the interviewer said, clearing her throat. It was important to gain control of the situation. "What have you been up to since dropping out of affairs?"

"Oh, I've taken up knitting," Harry informed her happily. The interviewer wrote in her notebook somewhat doubtfully and waited for him to continue. He didn't. In fact, he seemed to have lost all interest in the conversation and was now gazing out the window and humming quietly to himself.

"Er… Mr. Potter? Harry?"

"Yes?" he answered cheerfully, looking at her again. The interviewer sighed.

"What else?"

"What else what?"

She gripped her notebook very tightly now, but kept the smile on her face. "What else have you been doing?"

Harry frowned thoughtfully and tapped his chin. "Did I tell you about the knitting?"

"Yes," said the interviewer. Harry shrugged placidly.

"Oh, I forgot. I'm slightly mad, you see."


"I said, would you like to see some of my knitting?"

The interviewer cleared her throat, "No thank you."

"Oh," said Harry, somewhat downtrodden, "Pity. I'm pretty good, you know."

The interview had mentally prepared several questions to ask Harry about his current life, but suddenly none of them seemed relevant. Perhaps it would be safer to stick to the past, stuff everyone knew. As long as it was from a recent interview it would seem like news.

"What were those last moments like, just before you defeated the dark lord?" she asked, her quill at ready.

"Dark lord?" Harry frowned, "Oh yes, that Voldemort guy?"

Her left eye twitched unnoticeably. "Yes, Harry. Him."

Harry shook his head. "He was a mean one. I don't think he liked crocodiles."

The interviewer narrowed her eyes. "Are you sure you aren't slightly mad?"

"No thank you," Harry said placidly.


"I said no thank you. I've just had some tea."

Her left eye was twitching quite perceptibly now. This was going nowhere. She had imagined him to be brave and angstful; perhaps he would cry on her shoulder as he relived the horrible events that made up his past. But he'd barely frowned throughout the entire meeting and seemed to know less about his past than she did.

"I think I've got enough information, Mr. Potter. Thank you."

"Please," he said as they stood up, "Call me Harry."

He was mildly surprised as she ran from the room, her expensive robes billowing out behind her. There came a scream, and the sound of expensive robes tearing as their wearer scrambles out of a window. Harry slowly walked down the hallway and into the foyer. A large crocodile lounged lazily in front of the door. Out an open window he could see the interviewer already disappearing into the sky.

"First the milkman, now this," Harry sighed, bending down to stroke the crocodile's head lightly.

"Well," said the crocodile, "You are slightly mad."