–––CHAPTER 4–––

THE WEEK passed rather slowly.

I got chewed out by Robards on Tuesday after he got a firecall from Mrs. Bletchley whom he apparently heartily disliked and I didn't mind, I spent more time in the archive at the Daily Prophet reading old papers without Claire and without luck and did mind, and I got stuck with the night shift on Wednesday and absolutely minded.

That was Robards' late response to the firecall.

The office was dark, with only the light on my desk on. Across from me Pat was snoring over a report about the BMR – the Brigade for Muggleborn Rights, a lobby group that some elements in the Ministry recently had tried to label 'subversive' –, and I contemplated ways to get back at Robards. That was when the fireplace flared green. The sudden glaring light woke Pat, and when someone called, he grumbled and walked over. A moment later, he called me there as well.

I saw a white-blue striped nightcap disappear between the flames, and Pat grumbled something about old codgers and their precious night's sleep. Apparently, Blotts had been woken by a commotion in front of his bookstore, and found it necessary to call the Aurors. Pat told me to follow, and flooed to Flourish & Blotts.

o ] [ o

Abraham Blotts was indeed in his nightwear.

In addition to his striped nightcap, he wore a white nightshirt that stretched over his round belly and was shorter than what I'd have liked. I distracted myself from his hairy legs by remembering Mrs. Bletchley's. Between his books in his store, under his flat, he gesticulated wildly and railed against hoodlums and good-for-nothing youths that really were all hooligans out to disturb his sleep. He fixated me with a stare from his beady eyes during the last part, and I shrugged and went to the shop door to investigate, leaving Blotts in Pat's company.

It was dark out on Diagon Alley; a few stars, the moon hidden behind clouds that were black on the night sky. Down the street, the Gringotts building shimmered ghostly white. A little light fell from the illumed shop window with a few books on display out into the street, but the yellow glow lost itself a few feet away.

I looked in the direction of the bank, where silhouettes moved. Someone was shouting. It echoed from the house walls. Then, sudden spellfire flashed through the nightly Diagon Alley. I wasted no time and sprinted towards the source. Ahead, at the junction of Knockturn Alley, a group of five or six girls stood, all carefully styled for a night out, dressed in revealing Muggle attire, which apparently was the current trend with young witches. Except that it was a Wednesday night, but I guess for them, weekdays and weekend were no difference. I recognised a few girls. Little princesses, the lot of them, but the star was, without doubt, Astoria Greengrass.

The pale light of a lone street lamp, a little into Knockturn Alley, shone on her skin and clothing, which was just skirting the line of looking totally trashy, even if I somehow didn't think she'd have minded. But it was carefully arranged, the purple ripped – well, I thought it was a t-shirt, but it was an entire batch of sizes too small, the neck was cut wide, leaving her left shoulder bare and pushing her cleavage out, and whatever glittery logo had once been on it was now unrecognisable, because of the pseudo-accidental tears that showed quite a bit of her midriff. It ended above a black miniskirt that entirely deserved its name, and that was the last piece of clothing, if you didn't count the stripes of glossy patent leather from her heels. Her toenails were the same colour as her shirt.

Well, at least she wasn't naked. That had to count for something. Then again, perhaps that was for later in the night.

She was advancing on a shady guy in a dirty grey cloak and a battered hat, while the other girls started to nervously teeter away from her.

"Did you call us something nasty, tramp?"

"Wha'? Yer completely nuts, yeh freak – yeh were the one who – Stupefy!"

His spell was swatted away like it was nothing. Perhaps it was. He didn't look very competent to me. Wide, dark pupils glittered in the light of the street lamp.

"I don't like you."

She was on her potions again. I suddenly had a bad feeling as to how that would play out. She lifted her wand.

"Stop!" I shouted, my own wand up.

A slash downwards, and deep gashes opened on his chest, the telltale sign of the Sectumsempra curse, right before he was flung ten feet backwards against the brick wall in a hail of other curses, all carefully aimed at his already open wounds, in cruel pinpoint accuracy. Laughter fell from her red lips, while she had him under her wand and he screamed and jerked around, impacting at the wall with a sickening crunching noise, just before I had finished thinking Expelliarmus.

She'd never uttered a spell out loud either.

I caught her wand in my hand, she turned around, nimble footed, appearing a little annoyed. Then, a slow smile spread over her face.

"Harry Potter."

"Yes, yes, we've been there already, remember?"

I heard Pat's rapid steps from the bookstore.

"You have my wand," she pouted. Then she stretched out her hand and looked at me cutely. "May I, please?"

My eyes went over to Pat, who had reached the guy. He shook his head, then called over to me, "I'm going straight to St Mungo's with him. Take care of her." Then he Disapparated. I felt a headache coming on. Take care of her in what way? Arresting her? I couldn't just dump a child into a cell. But of course, she wasn't just a child, without bounds, like Greengrass had said, but a child without bounds, currently stuffed to the brim with potions, and with far, far more magical prowess than anyone could possibly be comfortable with. Effortless silent casting of powerful spells. Joy.

"You only almost succeeded in killing him," I said to her. "I wouldn't want you trying to do better next time."

A small frown furrowed her face, as she worked that one out. "I didn't like him," she finally said as if this explained everything.

Then she looked at me, and the smile was back. She took a step towards me and stumbled. I instinctively rushed ahead, to prevent her head from making acquaintance with the cobbles. She fell directly into my arms and went jelly-legged on me instantly. I had to hold her close to hold her up. I was perfectly able to feel all her curves. For that matter, I was certain that she wasn't wearing anything under her ripped top.

Just as certain as I was about the deliberation of her stumbling. She couldn't have been more obvious if she started rubbing herself against me.

The other girls watched us, or me, perhaps, nudging and giggling.

"Show's over," I said to them. "Your little leader goes with me."

They giggled some more and she pocketed her wand, which she of course had snatched away while I was tied up in catching her and holding her up.

"I like you," she purred in my ear, wrapping her arms around my waist tightly. I felt her breasts pressing against my chest. The thin fabric of her shirt did nothing to stop the nipples from poking through it.

"That's nice," I said. "How about we go home now?"

Getting answers out of her in that state was a waste of time. I Apparated the two of us away, back onto the gravel path in front of the iron gates of Greengrass Hall. The house was entirely dark, no lights on, resting silently inside the fenced gardens, sleeping peacefully in the middle of the night.

She took a step back, then peered up at me.

"But I don't wanna go home."

"I think –"

She giggled again. "Catch me."

And before I could do or say anything, she was gone, with a near silent pop.

I cursed all Greengrasses in general, which felt good, and her existence in particular, which felt even better. Then I tried to follow her. I found her at the first place I could think of without admitting to myself that I should have just dragged her home, stunned, and that she could be anywhere now – she was back at Diagon Alley, whatever for. It wasn't as if it was a hotspot for nightlife. I wasn't even sure there was something like that anywhere. At least not legally, that was. She seemed to be waiting for me just where we had stood a minute earlier, at the mouth of Knockturn Alley. The other girls were gone.

"We can go now," she said and looked pleased.

"Fantastic," I said. I grabbed her by her arm, and started to drag her away, when she said: "Activate."

o ] [ o

I crashed into the ground headfirst, while she made a dainty little hop. The little beast had tricked me into taking a Portkey with her. I was seriously getting fed up with insolent brats that tried to walk all – over me – with no panties on?

With my head resting on the cold paving, I had a perfect view up her legs, and she had evidently decided that tonight underwear was optional. Why was I even surprised. But shaved or no, it did little to quell my annoyance. Glaring at her I rose, brushing off the dust I had fallen into. She smiled brightly at me and sauntered across the bleak yard we had arrived on, in front of a large rundown concrete building.

Rusty metal frames ran along the wall and broken windows stared blindly into the darkness. The building stretched on sheer endlessly, far further than I could see, topped by a brick chimney that was just barely perceptible, rising like a broken finger up into the black sky. On the other side, I could just make out some kind of tanks and pipes running every which way in the dark, appearing like a filigree wire mesh.

A sole dirty neon light on the wall poured its too white shine over a patch of the cobbled yard and the building, showing broken paving and bent iron bars that once might have been a window frame or a gutter. Rain and time had dyed it rusty red. The light shivered a little as a gust of wind whistled through the abandoned buildings and tore at the lamp. The place was the definition of dreariness.

She vanished through a metal door below the lamp with flaking paint. The door fell shut with a hollow bang. It bore a sign that I couldn't read.

It was written in Cyrillic letters.

I stared at the door. I should go home. My shift was over. I didn't want to know what a sixteen year old girl in skimpy clothes stuffed with potions did in a rundown factory in Eastern Europe. I didn't want to enter a place I knew nothing about, but suspected its purpose, having heard more than enough tales in my line of work.

And most of all, I didn't want to feel responsible and hated the little voice that urged me to follow her and make sure she got home safely.

I kicked the bars, which clattered through the night, and swore.

"Harry Potter, the responsible adult, that's me."

At least Robards wouldn't be able to complain that I let the culprit out of view, as long they weren't fit to be questioned.

I strode across the yard and ripped open the door. Behind it was only darkness. Cautiously, I crossed the threshold. It was as though a veil had been lifted. The buzz of an ongoing party hit me like a wall – talk, laughter, clinking glasses, and everything accompanied by a thumping bass.

I was standing in some sort of lobby. The light was dimmed, young people milled about. An attractive redhead swayed past, with a teasing smile as she looked at me. It could have passed for a Muggle setting except for the obvious magic that was everywhere, in the multicoloured half-light without source, the room geometry that didn't at all fit with the outside, the charms that kept the noise and light inside.

Astoria was waiting for me next to the door, already with a champagne glass in hand, staring up at me from her cornflower blue eyes. The drink sparkled in the dim light like liquid gold. She put a hand on my arm. The touch was very light, almost hesitant. The light changed to a warm yellow colour, and for a moment she looked so small and young.

She gently turned me around, and I spotted a bar only a few feet away, occupying one side of the lobby. Suddenly, I was thirsty. I was halfway through getting out some sickles, when I stopped. Where the bloody hell had that impulse come from?

"Thirsty, Harry?"

There was laughter in her voice, and all illusions from only seconds ago were gone.

She flipped a few coins onto the counter. "Shampanskoye."

A small voice in my head told me my thirst was artificial, a spell designed to make people buy stuff, a variant of some compulsion charm, quite illegal. At least in Britain. I struggled against it, while the barkeep, a blunt-faced man with very short hair, handed her a second glass similar to hers. She put both on the edge of the counter. Her fingers played around her necklace, and with a final smile into my direction, they opened a small clasp on the pendant.

I scrambled towards her, but I wasn't nearly fast enough. She took the glass phial from around her neck and put a few drops into my champagne glass. Then she dumped the rest into hers, and I realised I had made a mistake. Closer to the bar the spell was even worse. I struggled against the desire to pick up the glass, but the urge was overwhelming. It was worse than walking through the Sahara and finding that well. Maybe I could've fought it. Maybe I should've blasted a hole into the bar.

Astoria giggled.

"Cheers, Harry."

Maybe I would have to have truly wanted to.

I grabbed the champagne glass and drank. It fizzed in my mouth, tasting sweet and alcoholic, and I felt it burning in my throat, but it didn't stop there. Suddenly I felt hot, almost breaking out into sweat.

She lifted her own glass and downed it. Her eyes flew open, fixating me, almost hungrily. A cat-like hiss escaped her and then she sighed in pleasure.

Follow me.

She left, and a part of her remained; she was leaving traces of her behind her, like a glowing afterimage, before it snapped back together when she turned around.

Aren't you coming?

I moved, and my world exploded.

It was fractured into single dimensions of radiant colours that slowly bled into the surrounding space. I was desperately trying to piece reality back together, when I heard her giggle again. She grabbed my hand and dragged me onwards, towards a door.

I stumbled along, confused and disorientated. What had been a Muggle industrial ruin now was alive. The grey walls were rippling and moving and the grey was crawling away and over the rusty beams. At one moment, the colour was dripping from the walls, in the changing light – and the next, the door opened and a myriad of colours burst out, hitting me full force, magical colours which I was certain I heard and felt and smelled.

It was so intense, slowly echoing around, like a distorted sound, and when someone crossed our path, they echoed too, somehow, not all of them passed – a little lingered, again, or perhaps I did. Then I thought I saw the music, concentric circles of all colours of the rainbow, geometric patterns, painting the walls, all the while we descended a spiral staircase downwards without ever getting closer to the ground.

I shook my head and the strange image cleared; loud music pounded through the fabric hall that was one surging sea of people, dancing, fired up by the music. She dived in and dragged me with her, entering a surging blue sea, underwateresque feeling on my skin, and my hand slipped from her grasp.

I turned and saw the redhead from earlier, who grinned at me, and was over in the blink of an eye, kissing me passionately, now topless, and my fingers traced her breasts, when suddenly an almost feral snarl pushed between us and one look from furious blue eyes burned the girl, and she was blasted away in a single word, shaking in rage-

Mine.

And suddenly we stood in a jungle, humid and hot, and the redhead was ripped to shreds by a wild, merciless beast, until all that was left was gore and blood and flesh; and she stared at it savagely.

My world, my rules.

And her world it was; the music was nothing so much as green and sweeping us away, through the moving masses, with no room and time to breath and Astoria next to me, with feverish and wide and empty eyes, hair slick with sweat, as was her body, glistening in the light and the music, and the damp clothes were sticking to her skin; and everything was so clear and the flowers and the trees moved and seemed alive, and when I touched one, it was her and I was her and I felt what she felt, staring at myself hungrily, downed another golden drink and felt it burn inside me, felt my heartbeat accelerate to a frantic pace, felt a sharp spike of arousal.

I blinked and she almost tackled me, pressing her body against mine, uncaring of everyone else, around us, and she grabbed my hand and unabashedly placed it between her legs, demand clear as she moaned and moved against me, and I captured her mouth in a hungry kiss.

A rose thicket exploded all around us, with wonderful, beautiful, perfect red blossoms, exuding a sweet, beguiling smell that was stronger than the music. Her skin was burning hot, and she moved against me, teasingly, with the flow of the music that was around me and in me. And she kissed me, hard, and the roses crept around her, with pitch-black vines, surging forward, creeping around us with wickedly sharp thorns, weaving all throughout; wrapping around my legs and my arms and rooting me to the spot. They cut through my clothes and my skin, the sharp thorns; and it was her, beautiful and strangling, and strangling everything with its beauty.

She stretched her arms wide, and in truth they were black wings, and she my fallen angel, standing there only covered in rose petals that caressed her skin and those thorny vines that crept over her and around her bare feet, leaving small trickles of blood running down her naked body, her jewellery, like bands of rubies on alabaster.

She had a beautiful body, small, lithe, compact, firm, rounded and the light and the music gave it the shimmering luster of a pearl, a queenly body, and she was crowned by circlet of thorns. Her blue eyes gazed at me as a drop of blood fell from a cut on the skin through the air, in slow motion, without haste, and she extended her hand, catching it on the tip of her left index finger. It atomised into many smaller drops, catapulted back into the air from her finger, and then the process reversed and stopped, just as the sphere had touched her fingertip.

Slowly, she brought the finger to her lips and licked it.

And I needed her, right now, and Angel, you're killing me here, I said and my voice sounded strained and there was a smile on her blood red lips, as she pulled me towards her and said, I know.

And then my clothes were gone as well, and my thorny rose wrapped her legs around me and her arms and vines around my neck, face flushed and the blue of her eyes swallowed by the dilated pupils, wide and empty, like a black abyss in her high that left nothing but animalistic lust, burning, uninhibited, and her voice quivered in excitement.

"Fuck me, Harry."

Review :)