A note- I am not a drug addict, just a writer. Drugs are bad for your system. Read slash fanfics instead. They only drown one in feels. I hate myself for this muggle au, seeing that I have no idea why I made the protagonist of a well lived series a druglord. I don't own much. Don't do drugs people!
"Another joint for you, eh ginger?"
A slim, redheaded woman grinned and shook her head from the shadows. She was wearing clothes deemed respectable by society and the glint of a silver watch told him that she wasn't poor. She however, didn't leave at his dismissal, grinning and passing about comments like a contented cat.
Another client. Five packets of black, a joint- the cheaper stuff if he wouldn't mind. Ginger was still there, her eyes only fixed on his hands as they'd reflexively prepared a packet of the drug. The smell didn't entice him, and he hadn't been one for taking the drugs himself.
"You know that I don't take the stuff I buy!" Ginger piped up.
He chuckled, running a hand through his messy black hair. Jeez, when had he last shampooed? Better not think too much and buy a bottle of it.
"Neither do I, ginger."
He looked around, the regulars had home and a gaggle of drunk teenagers were approaching him. He raised his hand gesturing at them to go away- he didn't sell to minors. An empty beer bottle crashed near his foot.
His vision went out of focus for second when he realised it was just his glasses slipping off his nose.
"Ginny,"
"Whazzat?" He asked as stared down his jeans for the remains of shattered glass.
"My name,"
"And why would I want your fucking name?"
"Because ginger's getting old."
He looked up, his green eyes flashing with amusement.
"Ginny, then. Anything else you'd like to give me apart from your name and money?" She laughed, moving out of the shadows.
Her pale skin seemed to glow under the solitary street lamp with a smattering of freckles about her nose. Ginger, or Ginny was a very pretty girl. She grinned and it felt as if her whole being had lit up. Not to mention her lovely rear bumper.
"I'd say we make a fare trade. I want your number and your name- if you must."
"I see," he fingered his shirt's hem, "a copper, are you?"
Ginny raised her hands as if to say that she were innocent and yet her eyes seemed to hold his gaze with the confidence of a person who always got what they wanted. He liked that.
He tore off a slip of paper and scribbled his name and number on it. Ginny snatched the paper with a winning grin and bounded away.
Harry shook off another hopeless fifteen year old looking for a buzz. A cop with a copper topper. Had he just given his number to a prospective date or an undercover woman of the law?
Harry wiped his glasses, smiled and muttered-
"I guess I'll find out in lockup..."