A/N: My first one-shot. This is what happens when both you and your best mate are writing at the same time. You get bored of one story, and write one-shots. Possibly a bit OOC for Harry, but bear with me, I prefer freedom with my characters' personalities. Read and review :)

DISCLAIMER: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter, and all the places and characters that come with it. I just had the idea :)


"Oh shit," said Harry, and before they saw him, he vaulted himself over the counter, seating himself on the floor with his head down. Why was it that every time he was in Diagon Alley, someone always had to tip them off? It had been three years since Voldemort's death, but people still weren't just letting him be. Would they like it if every time they went to visit a girlfriend's brother they had to hide behind the counter of said girlfriend's brother's shop just to get away from the press?

"They said he went in here!"

Harry winced as he heard the shout, and the bell above the shop door jingled as hoards of stampeding reporters pushed their way in. He often imagined them as vultures, all beaks and talons, waiting to pick apart their next unfortunate victim. Harry's back itched as he pictured them scrambling after him as he fled as fast as he could. Since the final battle, the press had become the most irritating thing he could possibly imagine.

"And what can I help you with today?" Harry heard George Weasley's voice say from his hiding spot. He hated having to get George to turn them away all the time. There were often many paying customers around, and George normally held a never-kick-anyone-out policy around his store. The only reason he would was because Harry and Ginny had personally murdered him after the couple were forced to hide in a store cupboard for at least four hours after George refused to kick out the reporters they were hiding from. It was only closing time that got them to leave.

"If you are not going to buy anything, and you are only here to try and find Harry Potter, one; I'm afraid Harry isn't here right now, and two; you are going to have to leave," said George to the crowd of reporters.

One voice stood out over the rest of them to Harry. It was the loud voice of Rita Skeeter. Suppressing a shudder at the sound of her following him – again – Harry cursed himself for forgetting his Invisibility Cloak.

"Our informant was very definite about him being here," she said, and Harry could tell the other reporters were nodding and murmuring agreement.

"Your informant is wrong," George replied firmly.

"No he's not," said a loud voice. Harry winced again. That was the voice of Michael Corner. He had been the informant so many times that Harry was starting to think he was a stalker. "Harry is definitely here."

"This is ridiculous. I will go get our security detectors to prove it," said George, and walked over to the counter. "Harry," he whispered as he bent over. "You're gonna have to go out while I've got them looking at the footage. This is really getting stupid – you need a restraining order, mate."

"Oh shit," said Harry again. "Fine. Ginny's going to get pissed if I'm caught... This is mad!"

"Well, yeah. That's what happens when you save all wizard kind," said George. Harry glared at him. "Fine, fine," he said, and walked off with the security detectors.

"Right, over here everyone," said George to the reporters, and they all hurried towards him like a flock of sheep. "Wait, it's just turning on. Right, there we go," George continued, and as they all leaned in, Harry leapt back over the counter and sprinted out of the shop as fast as he could.

Yes! Got away! Harry thought jubilantly. However, his celebrations were as short-lived.

"There he goes!" yelled Michael Corner.

"Oh SHIT!" yelled Harry, again.

"Come on!"

Every reporter that had been in the shop sprinted out after him and Harry was panicky, too full of thoughts of talon-like probing quills to remember that as he had left the shop, he could Apparate home. Unfortunately, he only remembered after they had a good few pictures of his retreating butt.


"Harry," said Ginny the next morning, as he came down the stairs. "I'm sick of seeing pictures of your arse running away from cameras on the front page of the Prophet. We need a restraining order." She threw down the paper angrily, and Harry choked at the picture from the previous day coupled with the headline:

CHOSEN ONE RUNS AGAIN:

Do Reporters Smell?

"Oh shit."