IMPORTANT NOTE:What is this? I don't know. I have a million different things I should be working on, but this little plot bunny would not stop hopping around my head. So, here it is. I sort of fell into the 'five times' trope, but hopefully mixed it up enough to be classed as 'original'. Each chapter will be dedicated to a letter, just to make it a bit of a challenge for myself. like this chapter is A, I randomly picked a word beginning with A and got Aid. Next chapter will be the letter B, then C, then D, if you get what I'm poorly explaining. If you're up to it, P.M me or review a word beginning with the next letter of the alphabet and I'll try and do that word. So, next letter is B! XD Either way, I hope you enjoy this madness!

PART I
A is for Aid.- A.K.A The three times Harry helped and the one time someone inadvertently helped her.

Jim Gordon- No Chance.

This new 'free-lancer' who had been contracted to work with the GCPD had first given Jim Gordon a lot to think over before more pressing matters had taken up most of his time and thought process. It hadn't helped his case that he had not seen, heard or even conversed with this 'Harry Potter'. What was that age old saying? Out of sight, out of mind. Jim had a lot on his plate without adding more to it and so, ignorance, the short while it lasted, was bliss indeed.

He knew very little about this mysterious person, having only picked up tidbits from the odd conversation between gossiping beat-cops as he walked across the lobby to his desk. He knew they were new to the district, to detective work, even to Gotham itself. In fact, that was the most worrying point Jim had taken a premature stance against. This person, who by all accounts looked barely out of high school, had been assigned to Gotham all the way from England.

Gotham really must have been going to shit if they had roped in help from aboard, from a teen whose job title was a flimsy 'free-lance enforcer'. Free-lance enforcer... What did that even mean? Did he enforce detective work? Police work? Assassination? Law? The kid was nineteen... Nineteen! How did he even have a job above waiter or cashier while slopping his daylight hours in lecture halls in university?

Jim really, really didn't know how to feel about the whole ordeal. In his eyes, Gotham didn't need help from an outsider. An outsider wouldn't understand Gotham, it's extravagant inhabitants, the daily oddities that blew up in their faces and most importantly, the danger they were putting themselves in by accepting this job.

The boy was a kid, too young to die at one of GCPD's many, many enemies hands. So no, Jim Gordan was not excited about this new addition. Not one bit. And what should happen even after his quite loud protests angrily whispered at the commissioner? The kid had been assigned to his and Harvey's cases. The commissioner had promised this Harry would be a large help he would be idiot to turn his nose up at, Jim saw it as a liability. Another life, young and bright, balancing in his shaky, already filled hands.

Of course, all this had been placed on others words he had half-heard, his own minds conjuring of a pimpled faced teen whose voice broke every sentence and his own assumptions. Never anything good to base an opinion or logic on. Nevertheless, assume he did and inevitably he paid for those assumptions twice over.

Tugging on his suit jacket, Jim nodded and politely smiled to the few detectives and cops that greeted him as he strolled through the GCPD lobby to his desk. Most ignored him, few glared. He definitely was not a popular man, and with the way he was going and his unnerving determination not to fold under the weight and promise of corruption, he never would be.

Making it to his desk, he stalled. Something didn't seem quite right. It only took him a few moments for his brain to supply the answer. His case files. Normally, after a harrowing week like he and Harvey had just been through, he left his case files on his desk, open, scattered, ready for Monday morning and another agonizing week. However... They were gone. Had Harvey sorted them for him?

Turning to ask Harvey where the hell his files were, he was once again jolted to a freeze. Normally, Harvey would be lounging on his desk chair, feet propped up on the wonky table, cheeks red from a night of boozing, glasses and suit skew-whiff and wrinkled. The sight that greeted him couldn't be more different.

Oh, his suit still needed a good wash and iron. His glasses still sat awkwardly on his nose and it was definitely Harvey sitting in his well-worn chair. But that was where the similarities to their normal routine stopped. Harvey was sitting up, hands clasping the back of his head, slightly kicked back but still more alert and perky than he normally was this time of the morning, grin wide and toothy, speaking to a... Woman who was literally sitting on his desk corner, legs crossed, slightly swinging, chatting amicably back to Harvey.

She was a small thing, even sitting, around five-two, perhaps five-five if you measured the mass of chaotic dark auburn curls that danced and twirled from her head too. The color was... Odd, Jim would admit. Dark, tantalizingly deep, nearly black, but shone with a fiery redness like vintage mulled wine that glinted even in the gloomy atmosphere. The good wine that cost an arm and a leg to even sip. She was pale too, almost deathly if it weren't for the pleasant blush and scattering of warm freckles splattered across a pixie nose. Her features were sharp, almost too sharp, a potent feline grace that bordered on unnatural. A large scar split across her forehead, breaking one eyebrow into two, nearly crossing the crease of her eye to caress a pupil. Yet, it was her eyes that caught and held you still, even if they were not directly looking at you. Was that shade of green even possible?

Only when Harvey's gaze slithered to him, still standing like an moron just behind of the woman's shoulder, did Jim snap back to himself like an elastic band had been flicked onto his brain, kick-starting it. Coughing into his closed fist, he was slightly surprised that the woman didn't jump nor turn to face him. It was as if she already knew he was there. Straightening out, Jim painted on his best smile and rumbled out to Harvey as he made his way to his own desk, sitting down with a muted thud.

"Cheers for sorting my files Harvey, but where the hell are they?"

If possible, Harvey's grin widened until it looked painful to bear, even if the glint in his eyes contradict that effect.

"Oh, it wasn't me, it was Harry. They're in your top draw, the left side."

Jim scoffed, for once being the person to kick back in his chair, staring incredulously at Harvey, one eyebrow mockingly raised. Was he really meant to believe that? If Jim had been against the idea of this outsider coming in, Harvey had nearly run a full-scale mutiny to stop it from happening. So, he doubted Harvey would let the kid run through the files, let alone go anywhere near their desks. Had he drank an off cup of coffee? Had his morning bagel been drugged?

"Oh, yeah, of course. The English guy? The one who is likely still snoring away at home, a retainer on his bedside table and who likely only speaks in acronyms did this? Barely out of high school, he came in and sorted my files for me? Pull the other one, Bullock. Wasn't it only yesterday you couldn't stop calling him all the names under the sun? What? A fan now that he's doing the paperwork?"

For some reason, Harvey gave a jagged wince that could be confused for the beginning symptoms of heart failure, hands falling from the back of his head, flopping onto his lap, stiffly sitting up and shooting the woman a weary smile. The woman, in turn, chuckled, a sweet sound, like a warm summer breeze and blue skies, and jumped down from the desk, crossing her leather clad arms over her chest, sending a snarky grin in Harvey's direction.

"Did he now?"

However, the woman soon turned to face Jim on a twirl of her boot, cocking her head to the side as she scanned him with a friendly smile and a glow to her too keen eyes. Normally, he was alright under scrutiny. This time, however, he fidgeted, once again pulling on the tail end of his suit jacket. Finally, she broke the silence and after, Jim wished she hadn't.

"I'm Potter. Harry Potter. Nice to meet you... Detective Gordon was it? I hear we're going to be working rather closely together over the next few months.

Harry Potter. The woman's name was Harry Potter. God damn it. Perhaps the commissioner was right, he was a complete imbecile. To be completely fair, who named their daughter Harry? Spluttering out an unintelligible apology, Harry cut across him, leaning slightly forward on the last word, throwing back his own unintentional jab right back at his flushing face. Poetic, in a way.

"Oh, and you're welcome about your files... Btw."

Trying to divert the course of the conversation, Jim hastily pulled the aforementioned desk drawer open, heaving the case files onto his desk, flicking through before scanning again, frowning when he came up short.

"Where's the Fasbender case file?"

There was that chuckle again, marshmallow dipped in fairy dust and Jim's flush deepened to sunburn red. It stung too. Out of the corner of his eye, stubbornly keeping his eyes on the pile of files so he didn't make himself out more of a fool as he already had, Jim saw her shove her hands deep into her jean pockets. It wasn't a... Conventional get up for their job, but strangely, for her, it worked.

"That? I finished it this morning. The killer's down in the cells if you want to re-question him and all reports have been handed into head office."

Jim's gaze wondered over to the clock on the wall ticking obnoxiously away, growing more bewildered. Harry Potter had not supposedly arrived in Gotham until last night, starting shifts today. Even if she came in the earliest time the GCPD opened, it would have been six o'clock... Which means she had solved the case in a measly three hours while arguably heavily jet-lagged.

"... But I and Harvey have been working that case for a month, at a dead end, no leads left. You've only been here three hours... How?"

Harry gave a non-committal shrug, grin still affable and good-natured, slowly strolling to the stairs that would lead her down to the main lobby, likely heading to the small kitchen to get a drink before the real working hours began. Still, if this was what she had accomplished off duty, only a day in Gotham, what other seemingly miraculous things could this small, unassuming woman do?

"Two hours and twenty-seven minutes, actually. You better keep up Detective Gordon."

With a cheeky wink, she descended the stairs with a bounce to her step, leaving Jim stalled once more. Nonetheless, when action and thought process did return sluggishly to his body, he didn't waste time, whirling on Harvey with clenched teeth and a hushed voice.

"You could have given me a heads up!"

Harvey's boisterous laughter was loud and strong enough to shake walls. Great. He had not scavenged enough of his composure through his brief conversation with Harry to not be the butt of Harvey's jokes for the oncoming... Oh, he would say, next several months. Some days he wondered why he even got out of bed. Harvey's tone was just as loud, barbed and jovial as his laughter.

"What? And ruin the surprise and that flaming pink blush you're sporting? No chance."

Oswald Cobblepot- Penguin
Lady luck.

Oswald Cobblepot hobbled down the highway, pressing himself into the embankment, away from the cars that zoomed past him without so much as a passing backward glance. His suit clung to him, sodden, frigid and water clogged. Chilling him to the bone, a small shaking shiver dancing up and down his spine. Holding his hand out once more as he heard the rumble of a car behind him, he wasn't surprised when it carried on with its journey instead of stopping. Either people in Gotham needed a lesson in manners and humility or hitchhiking was not as easy to accomplish as books and T.V made it out to be. Oswald thought it was a bit of both. Just his luck.

Of course, he wouldn't be in this predicament if it wasn't for Falcone, Fish Mooney or Detective Gordon. However, he would bounce back. He always did. The detective joining their game of power struggles threw a wrench into things, an unexpected ace in the hand that Oswald hadn't had time to calculate, but he knew now. The detective was a good person, not entirely a white knight but good enough to be boringly predictable. After all, he was still alive because of Jim Gordon. Now, with his fake death in play, he had time to recuperate and plan. In trying to kill him, or save him in Gordon's case, they had all danced to the tune he was whistling.

Of course, the soaking wet, stilted walk through Gotham's streets looking for a ride, he could do without, but beggers can't be choosy as his beloved mother would say. It was a slight setback, not a decimation of his plans. That was all. He just had to keep pushing forward. He refused to go back to the umbrella holding errand boy. He had come too far to fall back now.

At the tell-tale rattle of an engine, Oswald's hand shot out on instinct, thumb raised to the cloud-ridden sky. Once again, he had expected for the vehicle to drive right past him, but when the smooth rumble stuttered to a stop and he heard the small squeak of tires slowing on asphalt, his own weary walk drained to a standstill.

It wasn't a car like he had expected, but a motorbike with a strange, oval carriage attatched to its side. His legs hurt enough that it didn't really matter to him. It could have been a filled hearse and he would have scrambled into the back like a drowned puppy seeking shelter. Scrambling into the carriage, still shivering, he saw the person, who had been kind enough to stop, reach up and slide of their blackout, visored helmet, shaking their hair free from the tight confines.

"You're lucky I bought the carriage out today. Bloody hell mate, you've taken a right dip ain't you? Here, take your jacket off."

Huddled, cramped, knees pressed to his quaking chest in the small carriage, Oswald finally turned to look fully upon his 'savior'. It was a woman, a young woman but a woman all the same. Her dress sense left a lot to be desired. Holey jeans that were nearly disintegrated. Army boots, black, unlaced. An old, nearly washed out band T-shirt that just peaked out. A dark, dove gray hoody, unzipped, open underneath a well loved and looked after leather jacket, one size too big for her small frame.

However, where her sense of style left a bad after taste in Oswald's mouth, her looks and beaming, toothy smile made up for it ten times over. She was a ragged little thing, rough around the edges, but a diamond underneath all that coal dust. Immediately, he began to stutter incoherently, uncannily the girl only smiled brighter, dimples imprinting in flushed cheeks. It was so bright, he wasn't sure he could look at it directly.

"W-... What?"

Before he could question further, or stop the damned shake in his voice, the woman was swinging a leg over the beast of a motorbike she had been straddling, shuffling out of her leather jacket and hoody. Bending down, she came close, leaning over towards him and Oswald couldn't help the breath that he snaggly sucked in.

This close, too close but strangely not close enough for his liking, the contradiction playing games with his mind, he could see the small splattering of freckles dusted across her nose. Then she was touching him. Willingly touching him. Something only his mother had readily done before. He could hear his own swallow bounce in the air between them. Her hands were gentle, small and delicately bird-boned as they slightly pushed him forward, slipping his soaked jacket off, leaving it draped over the side. Away from him, but not out of reach. Then she was wrapping her leather jacket around his shoulder, barely reaching around the circumference due to the size difference. Perhaps that was why it was one size bigger. Did she make a habit of clothing half-drowned people? She seemed the sort with that star-like glow of goodness to her skin and eyes.

After the jacket was snuggly wrapped around his back, she used her hoody as if it was a blanket, swathing it over his front, tucking it in tightly, pressing warmth and heat and life into his open pores.

She smelled like earl gray tea, elderflowers and something sweet that beckons a closer sniff, and another, and another. It was a pleasant scent. Natural. Unfiltered. Alluring.

"Do you want to go to the hospital, you're looking peaky."

Oswald blinked a succession of rapid blinks, shaking his foggy thoughts away with a shake of his head. His dripping locks splattered onto his forehead, rivets of dank dock water trailing down his sallow face and obscuring his vision.

"No, no... You're British?"

She leaned back a fraction and Oswald found he could breathe normally again. Unhindered. However, she had also taken the warmth and light with her, imaginary or real, he did not know, leaving him to shiver again. Yet, with his state, his jumbled speech, most people would have thought him a drug addict, kicked him out and left. She only grinned. No one had really smiled like that at him before, apart from his mother of course. Holding her fist up, she extended a finger one by one with each passing word.

"Bloody. Knickers. Bollucks. Wanker. Tosser. Yep. British alright. My name's Harry...Are you sure you don't want to go to the hospital... Okay. Where are you heading then?"

Oswald stopped shaking his head from another denial to the woman's request, idly looking past her and down the road.

"Oswald Cobblepot. Er, out of Gotham. If you're heading that way."

Out of the corner of his sight, he could see her frown, mimicking his gaze down the winding road.

"Yeah, heading home just on the outskirts of Gotham, just cross the border in the countryside. Do you... Do you not have a specific destination? I can't just drop you off in the middle of the street like... This."

Oswald tried to smile but even he knew it didn't come across as convincing. In truth, he didn't want to be dropped off anywhere in the state he was. He wanted to be back home, warm, in bed, with his mother. But that was a dangerous move, one his mother would pay for him and he wasn't willing to risk any harm coming her way. So, he would push on. Lie to this Harry as much as he was to himself.

"No. I'm a bit down on my luck, you see. Thought I'd make a shot of it outside this city. Can't be too bad, right?"

He finally turned to face her again and her eyes seemed greener than what could be natural. They weren't contacts, the ethereal shine to them denied that possibility. They were unnerving, especially when in contact with his own, as if she was looking into his soul. For a moment, she was silent, deadly silent and Oswald feared she was going to kick him out and call it a day. Surely good deeds need only to go so far? He didn't know. He was new to this whole... 'Goody' act. Then that sunbeam smile was back and his shiver died once more.

"Well, outskirts is still out of the city. Come on, you're heading back with me."

Oswald stuttered and fumbled with the hoody wrapped around him, fighting to escape the cloth prison.

"Oh, no, no, no. I couldn't impose. Please, just drop me off at-"

Harry cut him off with a keen eye that was beyond the years of her face. Strange. For someone so small, innocent looking at first glimpse with an obvious need to do good, that glint looked far too dangerous to be present on someone like her.

"Look, you obviously have no place to stay and I'm not about to leave you without a roof over your head when you're soaking wet. You'll catch hypothermia and die. Then your death will be on me. I mean, my house isn't much, but it's something, you know? You'll just have to trust that I'm not some psycho killer."

She chuckled at the end but Oswald could find no humor. She may not be a... 'Psycho killer' as she called it, of that he had no doubt. She oozed goodness like Fish Mooney excremented greed. However, he was a killer. In some cases, he could be classed as 'psycho'. He had no illusions about who and what he was. Still, not really in control of his mouth, he found himself speaking.

"I... Thank you."

Harry turned, nodded, curls bouncing as she stood back up to swing back onto the bike, pulling her helmet on, but leaving the visor up. With a flick of the handle and her thin wrist, the bike kicked into gear and they were off. Over the whistle and howl of the wind, he could just about hear her, as well as her bell-like laughter that followed.

"Ah, don't mention it. Just don't expect me to cook you breakfast. I set fire to cereal."

Even with the day he had, the bleak outlook of his survival over the next months if he could pull off what Falcone had set him with, he found himself laughing along with the strange, other-worldly girl. Perhaps lady luck had finally taken a shine to him... Who knew she was a redhead?

Jerome Valeska- The Joker
Fire and brimstone

Jerome Valeska was good at hiding. A pro, really. He was good at hiding from his drunkard of a mother and her numerous amours. He was brilliant at hiding behind words, smiles and good-natured jokes. He was fantastic at hiding his insanity behind the drab act of normality. It was all a play to him. The world his stage. All costumes, lines and fake emotions. Glitter and sequins hiding the shattered mirror beneath.

Today, his hiding spot was just behind the magician's caravan, camouflaged by haystacks. he wouldn't be found there unless they really hunted him down. Another game of tag he relished in. No one really spoke to Haly's circus's magician. The man was a recluse, hostile even, barely uttering anything to anyone if it wasn't necessary. He had been with them for nearly a year, perhaps two by now and after all the welcoming had proven useless, the Haly's Circus inhabitants had treated him as he had done them. With barely concealed agitation and reluctance. He was good at his job, the best most had ever seen, the only saving grace in keeping him in the employ.

However, as Jerome perched on a haystack, dabbing at the trickling blood from his broken nose, he witnessed something he suspected he shouldn't have. Perfect. he adored secrets! Especially if they were something he could use or incorporate into the many characters he liked to play. From the rustic shell of the caravan, he could hear the magician's voice intersect with another's voice. Terry Boot if he remembered the name correctly, the man had bored him from the get go, memorizing his name was a low priority. Two voices. The magician had a visitor, did he? Well, well, well. Wasn't that interesting?

"So, you caught the death eater then? What are you still doing in Gotham Harry?"

Jerome turned his head, angling his ear towards the open grated window at the very top of the tall caravan. It was only a small thing, barely bigger than a shoe box, but in the silence that fell on the circus two hours before the show's opening, it may as well have been a megaphone.

"I told you. I was assigned and once they found out how... Unique and ... So many... Strange city... Hotspot... So they told me... I wanted to stay."

The second voice was softer than Boot's, whispy, husky, warmer. However, this far away, with the pitch of the voice, Jerome couldn't quite make out what she was saying fully. Well, that wouldn't do. What good was learning secrets to use as weapons if you only learned a part of them? No, it wouldn't do at all. This was a surprise with a big black bow and his name written on it. He wanted to rip his gift to shreds.

Slipping off the hay stack, Jerome edged forward, fingers reaching up to the grate to pull himself up more, putting his ear as close to the grate as possible. The bite to his soft flesh was welcome. Jerome thrived on pain. Adored it as much as his mother loved men and cheap bourbon. Of course, that was on the contingency that he was the one giving it, to himself or others. He was the one in control. Always in control.

"Well, you're an unlucky bastard aren't you? From what I've heard of that place... Well, not one of our kind would be caught dead there. Still, at least you got assigned to an actual city and not a fucking circus. A literal, bloody circus."

He couldn't see the woman or the magician, but by the way she followed the magician's statement with a heady sigh, softly, feathers and oil, he pictured a faceless blob running a hand through hair, pacing maybe. He hoped she was pacing. He hoped she was agitated, angry, ruffled, on edge. Those were always the best sort of people.

"It isn't so bad Terry... In fact, I quite like it. Of course, crazy shit is happening on a day to day basis, but that's nothing new for me and well, I like the people there."

Before Jerome could get more, fix the riddle and add a punchline, a hand snatched his shoulder, clamped and taught, pulling him down, flipping him around and slamming him into the trailer with an almighty thump, the voices from the trailer stopping completely at the unexpected noise.

"I didn't say you could leave the caravan, Jerome. Neither did your mother."

Ah, the escape artist. Jerome would have thought his mother would have swapped men by now. After all, it was nearly three o'clock. She must be getting old. Still, as a grin spread across his cheeks like an oil slick in the ocean, his nose ached, reminding him exactly who gave it to him. The man in front of him. He really didn't like leaving loose ends.

"Well, I was trying to impress you! I thought you would appreciate the Houdini tribute-"

The escape artist, Jerome never knew his name, pulled him forward before slamming him back into the trailer, snarling, the smell of bitter, cheap whiskey ghosting across his face, stinging his abused nostrils. Jerome laughed, full and true and slightly unhinged. However, his little show was cut off by a slam of a thin door bouncing off metal, a set of sharp steps and an unimpressed shout.

"Oi, fucker, let him go!"

Jerome went with the flow of the change of the script, slowly cocking his head to the side, eyeing the newcomer. What people looked like never really registered with Jerome, neither did their choice of dress if it wasn't something he could use. What did pierce through and register was emotion. Personality. Heavy, hot and poignant characters. This woman reminded him of a fire pit. Blistering and scorching, destroying all in its wake. Hell wrapped up in skin and human form, that was what this woman was... Delicious. She ignored him, instead focusing all that exquisite fervor on the escape artist. What a waste.

"This has nothing to do with you girl. Go back inside the trailer."

As he pulled Jerome forward once more, as if using him as a meat shield, Jerome turned his neck as far as it could go to watch the woman and found she was now focusing on him, eyeing his nose. Her gaze was just as hot and burning as her temperament was. Glorious.

"Did he do that?"

She jerked her head in his direction and Jerome chuckled. Normally, he knew what to say, how to act, to get a person to do exactly as he wanted. In this case... He was at a loss. She was splendidly unpredictable. For just this once, he didn't mind not being in control.

"What can I say? Gotta work on my duck it seems."

She smiled and Jerome thought he was seeing a solar flare. All blinding light, heat and deadly radiation. If he wasn't so observant, he would have missed her right hand balling into a fist. She took three steps forward, front nearly pressing into his back. He wondered if her skin ran as hot as her fiery nature did. Jerome had always loved explosions and fireworks. She didn't disappoint. It would have been upsetting if she had. She showed so much... Promise.

"Well, you better start practicing... Now."

Jerome managed to duck out of the escape artist's hold just as the woman swung, her fist connecting to the escape artist nose with a sickening crunch. He fully let go of Jerome as he fumbled back, landing on his butt in a pile of hay, hands shooting to his bleeding nose, swearing profusely.

"There you go, it's all even. Now, fuck off before I knock your teeth down your throat."

There was an edge of darkness to the girl, all brimstone and wrath. Jerome wondered what would happen if she really, truly, wholly let go of it. Let it run free and dance. The escape artist was wise enough to eye her warily before scrambling away with another set of foul words hauled her and his way.

Jerome stood back up, cracking his neck before slowly turning to the newcomer. Up this close, she was short. Around his age. Interesting. Fascinating. More secrets Jerome wanted to bury his teeth into. Would they taste of copper or fire?

"So little red, do I get a name for the face of my fearless heroine, or should I make it up? I can be very... Creative."

The woman opened her mouth to answer but, oddly without Jerome noticing, the magician was standing behind Harry, glaring at Jerome but worryingly wringing his hands. He had never liked Jerome. Always giving him the stink eye, avoiding him more than he did for the other circus showmen, glaring at him when they did cross paths... Not for long. Jerome had a special little knife with just his name on it.

"Harry, We still have things we need to discuss... Now."

Harry sighed, flicking her gaze to Boot before shrugging at Jerome with a small smile.

"Sorry ginger snaps, perhaps another time. If you or the circus is ever by Gotham, I'll be sure to pop in. Make sure you have a name picked out by then."

Just as Harry was leaving to go back into the caravan with the thin, plain, boring cretin Boot, Jerome shouted back, eyes wide and excited.

"I'll hold you to that!"

The door shut with a smile thrown over her shoulder at him. It didn't take that much effort nor planning to 'convince' the circus organizer to divert from Jersey to head to this Gotham in the summer. June to be precise. Now he just needed a name.

Edward Nygma- The Riddler
Refund.

"What is easy to get into, but hard to get out of?"

Harry Potter's nose scrunched up as she concentrated, arms crossed over her chest. She was using the morgue table to prop her hip on, feet casually crossed, looking for all the world she was comfortable and at ease, not aware of the dead, half-rotten body still on the table, half covered by a muslin cloth. At the door, Detectives Gordon and Bullock stood guard, refusing to enter the small room, looking glum and bored beyond measure.

Edward was used to that type of behavior, actions like Gordon's and Bullock's. They never really entered unless that had too, the same went for sticking around, often dashing out the door or away from him once they had what they had begrudgingly gone to him for. Harry's behavior, however, was something new to acclimatize himself to. He wasn't a fool. It wasn't the bodies that scared them off but himself that sent them tailing it out of his vicinity at socially acceptable speeds.

"Oh, that one's easy Ned! Trouble. Now come on, give me a real one. You've gotta keep me on my toes."

Edward had little run in with Harry before a week ago. He'd seen her, for sure, everyone had. She had a habit of drawing attention straight off the bat as soon as she put her dainty foot through the doorway. Still, Edward had never ventured close. He had thought he knew people like her. Something to look at, watch, but never someone like him to speak to. He had been okay with that. Watching was what he did best. He was happy watching. Then that changed and he realized trying to categorize someone like Harry Potter was a fool's task. Unquantifiable, Edward would call her.

She was a strange addition to their rag-tag group. Part of the GCPD but not simultaneously. She was often drafted onto Gordon and Bullock's escapades, ready and willing with that playful smile of hers. Yet, she had her own cases given that were... 'confidential'. The only two people knowledgeable in exactly what it was that she was doing or did day to day being herself and the commissioner. It was a frustrating question that taunted him.

Although, he was slightly thankful. It was how they had first met after all. She had needed a foreign compound analyzed and after he had given it to her, not letting on he had kept a copy of the file for himself, after all, he had no idea what this substance was and needed to rectify that, he had asked her a riddle, not able to stop himself. She had paused in the doorway, foot comically half lifted before she slowly swirled to face him, one eyebrow arching.

He was sure a rebuttal would come, they always did. No one ever understood the joy of figuring out something complicated, something other people couldn't wrap their little minds around. It meant you were smarter than someone... Better. Sadly, Edward didn't have many chances in his life to feel better than anything really. So he relished in his riddles and puzzles like a pig in muck. A rest bite from the harsh, frigid world outside his own mind. In the end, he had thought Harry, having gotten what she wanted, would say 'not now' or some other dreary denial and leave as quick as she came. They all did.

However, she had smiled, nicknamed him Ned, his first nickname that wasn't derogatory or meant to scold and berate him, told him she didn't know, re-entered the room and when he told her the answer, she did something even more peculiar... She asked for another one.

Now, for the last week, she had been popping in every morning for a riddle, bearing gifts of caffeine and overly sugary tarts or jelly beans. It was... Nice. Having someone come to you, not expecting to have anything in return, words clipped short and ragged, was refreshing. No, she came for riddles, chats... Company, his company. He was still trying to figure out why she, someone like her, seemed to like it so much when others obviously detested it.

However, things had taken a turn for the worst. The last few days, since a new 'confidential' mysterious case had slammed its way onto her desk, she had become withdrawn, less easy to smile, more solemn and she was never far from her file, pouring over it. Just this morning, she had not popped in like she had done all week, eight o'clock on the dot, only visiting ten minutes ago with a sheepish 'Sorry, I've been caught up', sans any drink or treat.

Oddly, Edward didn't like it. Stifling a million questions he wanted to ask her, needed to ask her or figure out eventually, Edward gave a slight smile, raised his pointer finger and clicked.

"A boy fell off a hundred foot ladder, but did not get hurt. Why not?"

Bullock, as angsty as he always was around Edward, wanting far away from him, scoffed but for the first time in three days, Harry smiled. It was worth putting up with Bullock's never ending disdain for an hour or two to have Harry smile like that.

"Alright, you stumped me. How?"

Edward chuckled, reaching up to push his glasses further up his nose, seemingly growing taller under her inadvertent compliment to his ego.

"He was only on the first step."

For a second, her eyes slanted, head cocking slightly to the side and his smile faltered. Had the riddle accidentally upset her? Had she had a ladder-related accident before? Damn it, he should know better than to try by now.

However, before anyone could blink, Harry laughed, cheerful, bellied, bell-like laughter, pushing off the table and dancing over to him.

Before the shock could wear off enough for him to speak, She tipped onto her tip toes, clasped his face in her hands, pulled him down as far as his lanky form let her and planted a solid kiss on his forehead. Her lips branded his skin. All too soon, she had let him go, backing away at an alarming speed, still laughing.

"Oh, you brilliant, brilliant man! It's his first phase, his first moon! He hadn't fully turned, just partially! I owe you one Ned!"

Then she was gone, sweeping out of the room like a whirlwind of color and passion, pushing past a shocked and prone Gordon and Bullock. His stunned state was only broken by Harvey's incredulous voice.

"Nygma gets the first kiss? What the hell? Am I dead? If this is the afterlife, I demand a refund."

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~AlwaysEatTheRude21