Harry should have worn his travelling cloak.
His thirteen-year-old Firebolt, a tangled knot of twigs at one end and a gnarled stump of a handle at the other, shivered beneath him as he sank through one layer of cloud and into another. He leaned forward and dipped the broom down, lowering further still. He emerged from the base of the cloud, his glasses misted over and fine ice crystals clinging to the tips of his wild, jet-black hair.
He took out his wand and tapped the Firebolt twice, soothing it. For the past few weeks, the only thing keeping the broom together had been the superglue that Harry had found at the back of a cupboard in his one-bedroomed flat. And willpower.
Mainly willpower.
He had lost track of time some hours ago, having set off shortly before nightfall. Mid-December, that was around four o'clock. For all Harry knew, the time now could have been anywhere between six o'clock and midnight.
The River Avon, glassy and still, meandered through snowy embankments below. To the left, withered forestry hurled grotesque shapes across a football field, and farther than that, the ruins of a housing estate rotted by civil unrest in the Muggle world.
Harry sighed, gritting his teeth. This was the third time this week he had flown over Bristol. The first night, he had landed on the outskirts of the city, near an industrial estate, and had ventured on foot towards the city centre.
Reports of magical crime had been on the rise in recent weeks. Initially, Harry had come here on the orders of Ron, his deputy and the man who Harry had nominated to lead the investigation.
The only lead the Auror Office had was that major cities across the United Kingdom had seen crime increase at the same alarming rate almost concurrently. Harry had been one of a dozen Aurors dispatched to various locations, ranging from Glasgow to Middlesbrough to Bristol. None of the other Aurors had reported unusual activity when performing their sweeps, and the investigation had come to a grinding halt.
After obtaining Ron's approval, Harry had come to Bristol a second time and circled the air a few times, hoping to hear someone cry out for help. Instead, silence.
His third visit, tonight's visit, was nothing more than a coincidence. Three nights a week, he would set off from his suburban London flat, his destination decided by his Firebolt and the bitter winds of winter. Flying gave him time to clear his head of all the dust and detritus that congealed like mud during the day.
As the new Head of the Auror Office at the Ministry, Harry had been expected to reduce his activities in the field and instead work more as a 'logistician' – in other words, become a pen-pushing salaryman the moment his predecessor, a prim-and-proper woman with an eye for detail, had resigned, apparently without reason. Flying was a distraction from the daily hustle, from all the people whose names and faces Harry rarely matched correctly.
Some nameless bureaucrat from higher up in the Ministry had been the one to inform Harry of his promotion. The ancient-looking man had blustered like a horse upon Harry's immediate, staunch refusal to stifle himself amongst mountains of paperwork that never seemed to shrink no matter how much he completed – and he would never surrender his duties in the wider world anyway.
So, Harry had proposed a deal: he would hire an assistant to help with the basic paperwork while he fulfilled his active duties, and the more important reports and investigation summaries would be dealt with by him upon returning to the office. Should the need arise, he would finish his work at home.
He had failed that last part; on the coffee table in his living room, there was a haphazard pile of parchment and notes and clipboards that hadn't been touched in two weeks.
The Firebolt jolted him from his thoughts; it spluttered like a car engine, shuddered, and died. Before he plummeted the few-hundred metres to the ground, he gripped the handle and Disapparated to the first location he could think of.
A foot-deep puddle of slush greeted him first, on a cobbled path nestled on either side by refurbished shops – Diagon Alley never changed, even in the years succeeding the war. The brickwork of Ollivanders remained as dark as when Harry had first set foot here fifteen years ago, only the graceful curls comprising its name were brighter, as if recently painted. Several doors down, the Magical Menagerie's windows shimmered in the dull glow of the streetlamp outside.
Harry caught a startled yelp in his throat – a small hole in his right shoe had torn into a gash across the sole, and now his socks were soaked through and his toes were freezing.
"Just bloody fantastic," Harry grunted, shaking the Firebolt in frustration. A few jagged twigs snapped loose and were lost in the snow. Harry couldn't really complain; the broom had lasted longer than his marriage, at least.
Childhood romances lasted for everyone but him. Ron and Hermione were still happily married, as were Neville and Luna. Hell, even Draco bloody Malfoy and Astoria Greengrass had something of a functional marriage. As for him and Ginny – well – things hadn't been quite right for over a year.
Three months ago, Ginny had decided to sleep on the sofa one night and didn't return to bed. Since childhood, Harry had never stopped running long enough to look behind or around him, or even within himself. It had been five years after Voldemort's final defeat, when the world's war wounds had scabbed over, that he'd had time to breathe – had had time to live. A further three years passed, and he was still married to Ginny. Or was Ginny still married to him?
That was the part he couldn't quite work out. That one night on the sofa had extended to a week, and then to a month. Two weeks into the second month, at breakfast, Ginny had been the one to acknowledge the problem.
"What the hell are we doing?" she had sighed, stirring a bowl of cornflakes with steady, measured movements. "Come on, Harry, we've not done anything as a couple in months."
Harry had stared at her, caught somewhere between vague understanding and outright confusion. She was right – their last activity had been lacklustre sex, and even that had gone wrong because Harry had found himself unable to perform for reasons unknown. He had been too ashamed to speak to Ron about it, but he supposed that was a small price to pay for marrying his best friend's sister.
The conversation with Ginny had been brief and blunt. So brief, in fact, that it ended before Harry had had chance to respond.
"Look," she had said, laying down her cutlery and tucking her fiery hair behind one ear as she fixed him with a penetrating gaze, "ever since that night, you've not looked at me the same way. And when you do, I don't see the love a husband has for his wife in there – not anymore. You see me as a friend, Harry, even if you don't realise it yet."
Shortly after, Ginny had gathered her essential items from around the house and left for The Burrow. Harry had watched her leave, knowing a strange emptiness that wasn't entirely unfamiliar. Maybe Ginny had been right. Maybe it would be better for the both of them if they saw other people.
Harry had tried to find some semblance of sadness – had spent days wallowing around their suburban house in search of some hidden purpose, some way of distracting himself from the failure of his own marriage without having to face Ron at work.
Ginny had returned on the fourth day, subdued and foreboding. She had handed divorce papers to him, already signed.
"Do you really want to go through with this?" Harry had asked, guarding his voice. He had rifled through the papers and noticed a few damp spots on each. "Do you really want to throw away five years of marriage?"
"Sometimes," she had said, sniffling, "we need to do what's right even if it harms us. You don't love me, Harry. It's unfair for me to remain your wife when you could find happiness somewhere else – with someone you love as much as they love you."
"But I do love you, Ginny!" he had insisted, louder than he had intended, and he hadn't known whether it had been from anger or distress.
Ginny had merely shaken her head, gesturing towards the divorce papers. "Just sign them." Her voice had quivered as she spoke. "Do this one last favour for me – as a friend."
Harry, brought back to reality by the fresh snowflakes blooming on his glasses, gave himself a little shake. He pulled the zip of his jacket closer to his neck and dipped his chin into the collar in the same motion. He cast a forlorn glance at the Firebolt. His Firebolt. The Legacy series had been superseded twice by now, and he could realistically afford several of the brand-new Firestorm models quite comfortably. But he didn't want to replace it; without it, he would never have been able to win the Quidditch Cup for Gryffindor back in third-year. Oliver Wood's glee had rung over Gryffindor Tower in a melody of unfaltering, overflowing joy.
Harry allowed himself a small smile. The last time he and Oliver had seen each other was with desperate haste during the Battle of Hogwarts. So much had likely changed in the past eight years that they might find the other unrecognisable now. Still, it would be good to see him again – to catch up, maybe share a few drinks over a friendly meal and bid the past farewell with a toast.
There was no point in reminiscing out here, in the stifling cold.
Gringotts Bank towered over the rest of the buildings to the left, its snowy marble stark against the starless sky above. Harry drew himself further inwards and kept moving, the only sound on the street being the quiet squelch of slush underfoot.
Returning to his flat was a daunting prospect – his cupboards were bare, his fridge functioning solely due to magic, and the worn-leather sofa on which he regularly slept had recently started emitting a sweaty, mouldy stench. So, tucking his sorrows to the back of his head for the time being, he picked up his pace and headed for The Leaky Cauldron.
In a neglected corner, where the dust and cockroaches fused to become some grotesque manifestation of evil itself, Harry took cautious sips from his chipped glass of Firewhiskey. Cigarette smoke and alcohol hung amongst the rumbling babble of the other patrons. Harry had deliberately placed himself away from the centre and chose the one corner not illuminated by the rusted chandelier dangling from a loose screw in the ceiling.
He let his eyes track the room – a gaggle of elderly women chatted between themselves next to the fire exit to the left, and in the middle of the room, in front of the bar, a celebration of some sort appeared to be underway. Cheering erupted from the three tables around which a dozen or so men had clustered. Glasses of beer shot skyward, sloshing their contents about, and chinked. The racket drew a few filthy glares from the elderly women, but Harry kept on scanning.
His eyes narrowed on a woman whose legs were crossed, her lips pursed. A peculiar sapphire tattoo curled from the centre of her forehead down the right side of her face, coiling into a point on her cheek. Ornate, decorative wings expanded to her ear and were lost in the violet hair she had folded into the belt at her waist. She noticed him staring at her. He looked away when she winked at him.
Something stirred inside him, a toxic concoction of revulsion and confusion, nibbling at his stomach like a parasite. He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose; the woman was beautiful. 'Beautiful' did not equate attraction.
Harry downed the remainder of his Firewhiskey. It was dull, flavourless, and almost like drinking nail polish. He pushed away from the table, his chair scraping against the floor. The back of his throat burned, more from the suffocating cigarette smoke than the Firewhiskey. He pegged his nose shut as he waded through a sea of rickety tables and chairs, and brought his empty glass down on the bar.
"One more," he said.
The bartender had his back to him, scribbling something down on a rectangular piece of parchment hastily torn from a larger sheet. He replied, "Just a second, we're about to switch shifts."
Harry rolled his eyes. The bartender moved to the right and through a door painted the same black as the walls. His replacement emerged and stopped in the doorway, leaning against the frame, the upper half of his face shaded in the candlelight.
It was the lean, well-built torso snugly fit into a black turtleneck that Harry recognised first, and then the accent.
"Bloody hell," Oliver said, in the same manner one would greet an old friend. His Scottish baritone thundered from his throat and drowned out the rest of the world. "Harry – mate! How long has it been?"
The corners of Harry's mouth turned up in a genuine, warm smile, and he had no idea why. Oliver shuffled over to him, seemingly oblivious of the varnished claws of a woman several seats away as she swiped for his attention. He took Harry's glass and promptly filled it with Ogden's Old Firewhiskey. "About eight years, I reckon," Harry said, and he would not stop smiling. "How have things been with you?"
"Oh, you know, here and there – just searching for myself, really."
Harry took a sip of his Firewhiskey, crisper and sharper than before. Between finishing the other glass and starting this one, some secret aspect of him had gained clarity. The alcohol trickled down the back of his throat and warmed the base of his stomach. "That makes two of us," he said grimly, setting his glass back down. Oliver moved away from him to deal with other customers.
"You can keep talking, Harry," Oliver said brightly. He passed a bottle of cider to a rotund beast of a man and accepted three Galleons in payment. "We're busy, but I've always got ears for a friend."
There was that warmth again – except Harry hadn't taken a drink this time. It brought sweat to his forehead and he felt his cheeks reddening; he unzipped his jacket and slung it over his arm. Seconds later, his teeth were chattering and the skin on his arms had risen in tiny bumps. He put the jacket back on.
Oliver raised an amused eyebrow at him. "You all right there?" he laughed.
He cleared his throat.
Harry took that as a reminder that he had yet to pay for his drink. He fished around in his pocket for a handful of gold and left it on the bar, but Oliver pushed it back towards him.
He flashed a set of straight, white teeth at Harry, smiling kindly. "Your money's no good here tonight, mate. I've got it."
"Oh, no, Oliver – I can't accept that. We've not seen each other in eight years and you're already buying me drinks?"
Oliver chuckled. "Don't read too much into it, boyo. If I were making a pass at you, trust me, you'd know."
Harry frowned, cocking his head to one side. "What makes you think I thought you were making a pass at me?"
"Are you trying to tell me the thought hadn't crossed your mind?" The only answer Harry had to that question was a lie. Oliver chuckled again. He added, "I'm just pulling your leg, Harry. What's going on with you?"
"I'd rather not say," Harry said, despondent. He tipped the contents of his glass into his mouth and swallowed it in one gulp. "At least not here."
Oliver took some money from another wizard beside Harry and slid a pint of lager along the bar. "Hey, no need to reveal anything you don't want to."
Harry thanked Oliver for not pushing the matter further.
Harry had already spent far too much time out of the flat tonight; if he didn't return home and sleep soon, he'd be late for work in the morning. "Don't want to keep your customers waiting. I should get going. Thank you for the drink."
Oliver leaned over the bar and ruffled Harry's hair. Beaming, he said, "Don't sweat it, pal. Before you go, hold on a sec."
He turned his back to Harry and ripped off some parchment from a sheet displaying today's special cocktails. He grabbed a quill from under the bar and jotted something down. Turning back to Harry, he handed over the shred of parchment.
"An address?" Harry said. "I don't understand."
Oliver grinned and rolled his eyes. "Not just any address – my address. Send me a letter sometime, and try not to be a stranger."
Harry returned the grin, nodding once. "All right," he said, pocketing the note. "I'll send you a letter as soon as I've got time away from work."
"Sounds great! See you, then!"
"Yeah, see you later, Oliver."
Harry moved back to his seat and gathered the Firebolt together, prodding it with his wand in some futile attempt at resuscitating it. His spirits were high enough now to support the nuisance of the broom, so instead of snapping it in half as he had been close to doing a short while ago, he carried it under one arm and left The Leaky Cauldron via the door leading onto Charing Cross Road.
He headed straight for a few minutes, passing restaurants and clothing stores and nightclubs overrun by university students celebrating the end of their first semester by swimming in alcohol.
He took a left turn onto quiet a side street. Neon lights danced in the shape of a mug, bolted into a sign above a small café, and illuminated the first six feet on the alleyway beside it. An empty was half-shrouded in darkness there, and would make Disapparition easier.
Patting his pockets to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything, Harry jogged behind the skip, ignored the rotten, damp odour, and Disapparated.
With a groan like an old man, Harry laid his head against a lumpy armrest. He had placed the Firebolt on the floor beside the sofa, now only a ghost of its former glory. It would be best to put it out of its misery and dispose of it, but Harry couldn't bring himself to do so.
Harry dangled one arm lazily above the laminated flooring, while the other covered his eyes. The clock on the wall had ticked past one in the morning when he arrived home, and he needed to be up again at five. Sleep was a distant hope – a pipe dream – and had been for at least an hour.
"Just another sleepless night, then," he sighed.
He wondered what kind of happiness Ginny might have enjoyed in the five weeks since they had last seen each other, and realised that he didn't quite care as much as he should have; for a man who had been in a ten-year relationship and married for eight, he was taking it all alarmingly well. In fact, he had only cried for the first two nights. After that, he had resigned himself to the cold fact that his marriage was over.
He brought himself upright and folded his arms, brow creased in thought. Why did being single leave a more bitter taste in his mouth than losing his wife? And why was he only coming to this realisation now?
Harry glanced around the living room, sparsely decorated with a coffee table, the sofa, his trunk, and some miscellaneous boxes of possessions he had yet to unpack. The kitchen was slapdash construction of cracked tiling surrounding a single wooden cabinet, and large enough to fit an oven and refrigerator and barely anything else. The clock above the kitchen counter told him it was half-past-two.
His gut rolled over twice and he winced, placing a hand over his stomach. Perhaps he should have stayed longer at The Leaky Cauldron – the food there was hardly gourmet, but it was serviceable. A steaming bowl of pumpkin soup was exactly what he needed. If only wizarding food was available at the Tesco Express around the corner. Harry laid back down, deciding to wait the hunger out. He could leave for work early and grab something to eat on his way there.