The Merciful

TanninTele


Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.


I:

Three Years Ago

The mall, Tonks decided to herself, was the best place to wrangle fools. Black Friday shopping was coming to an end, and shoppers were scrambling to find Christmas gifts at half-price. Their coats and shopping bags were all-too easy to slip a hand into, and Tonks could easily hide in the hoards of bystanders.

She took a break from people watching to take one last sip of her milkshake.

"Ice cream," Tonks said seriously. "Is delicious no matter the season."

She sat at a sticky table beside Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour, dragging her finger through a pile of melted whipped cream. A struggling bug was caught in the sticky mixture, and Harry watched in disgusted fascination as Tonks crushed it under her thumb.

He carefully removed the spoon from his mouth and patted at his lips. "You've ruined my appetite," he told her. "And this knickerbocker glory cost half my paycheck."

"Not my fault minimum wage is a bitch," Tonks flapped a hand. "But don't worry. Dessert's on me. Or, rather," she grunted, leaning back to snatch the purse of a distracted elderly lady, swinging over the back of her chair. The poor woman was trying in vain to spoon-feed ice cream to a belligerent grandchild. She removed a handful of pound notes and let the purse swing back. "This generous woman."

Tonks shoved the money into his hand. "Here's your money back, love."

"Stealing from the geriatric now?"

"Don't lecture me, you're enabling it."

Frowning deeply, Harry reluctantly pocketed the cash and tossed his garbage.

He'd recently gotten a job at Lockhart's Lusty Looks, a retail store with a shitty owner and even shittier pay. He needed all the money he could get.

Scholarships could only go so far, and as for meals and residency, Harry was lucky an older student, Hermione Granger, had needed help paying rent.

The girl was incredibly disciplined and going for her master's in journalism, although she was only a sophomore now. Harry had been in both fear and respect of her when they first met. Incredibly disciplined, she was the type to say 'let's go out for a drink,' and, indeed, get only a singledrink. She liked to surround herself with books, rather than people, and wasn't the chatty sort. Harry could sympathize.

Out of all the interviews Harry had attended, she hadn't seemed the slightest bit bothered by Harry's sexuality. In fact, that had been her selling point; knowing that he wouldn't grope her in her sleep.

Hermione wasn't terribly impressed with Harry's acquaintance to Tonks, and respectfully rain-checked from their outing to the nearby Hogsmeade Mall. At this point, Harry almost wished he bowed out as well.

"Oh," Tonks bounced toward a store, darkly lit and filled with band t-shirts. "Can I?" She already owned about two dozen t-shirts, and Harry yearned to take a pair of scissors to them. But, whatever kept her occupied.

"Be my guest," Harry said in amusement. "I need some fabric for the upcoming winter showcase. It's all fur lining and dyed wool - you'd bore yourself to death. Meet back here?"

Tonks flapped a hand in goodbye and disappeared into the shop. With her hair, painted in streaks of blue and black, and torned jeans, she fit right in.

Harry flexed his fingers around the roll of notes in his pocket. It wouldn't hurt to splurge on a few more expensive fabrics this season. Straightening his back, Harry walked confidently into a sewing shop, avoiding the gaze of a group of Dudley-like boys eyeing him.

The boys - dressed in overlarge, sagging pants and clinking chains - had been snickering at Harry and Tonks for the past hour. Harry knew their type. Upper-class, spoiled brats attempting to connect with their inner 'bruv'. They were college drop-outs, teenage baby daddies and - Harry winced as they shouted a slur at his back - wildly homophobic.

Last Harry checked, he was still a flaming homosexual. His tight jeans and lace-lined, peach-colored shirt practically painted a target on his back.

Grimacing, Harry unwound the winter coat from his waist and covered his shirt. It was a pity, really; it was one of his favorite shirts, bought with his first paycheck when he finally left the Dursleys. The fact he bought it with an employee's discount at Lockhart's Lusty Looks,which mostly sold lingerie and feminine wear, probably only worsened his situation.

Safe inside the sewing shop, Harry busied himself amongst the rolls of fabric and boxes of buttons. He trailed his fingers across a red plaid. It reminded him of fire-places and pine trees.

"Plaid is out this season," a woman, dark-skinned and tall, told him firmly. She wasn't an employee, as she was bereft of the unfortunate beige apron, and instead was wearing a mauve pleated suit. The collar was wide and pointed, brushing against her curly dark hair. She was astonishingly beautiful, wearing little makeup except for a light bruising of purple eye-shadow.

Harry gaped at her in recognition.

Her plush lips smirked. "Your peach blouse, meanwhile, is quite in-style. Although I can tell it's meant for someone with smaller shoulders." She flicked a sharp nail at his collarbone.

Harry flushed, dropping the plaid instantly. "W - well, perhaps I'm bringing lumber-jack back. It's for my winter showcase."

"Don't," the woman said flatly. "God knows why, but Prada is quite enthralled with beige this season." From her shopping bag, she removed a sketch palette decorated with pale, wintry squares of fabric. "For your showcase, try neutral colors, and - if you're confident in your needlework - show off with some embroidery."

Considering the aisles before him, Harry pointed out a dove-grey, almost blue fabric. "That'd make a lovely coat," the woman told him, nodding in approval. "Lightweight, but line it with fur, and it'll be exceptionally warm."

"Thank you," Harry said earnestly. "Madam Zabini, I'm a big fan. I'm so sorry about your husband - "

Serena Zabini, designer and recent widow, waved a dismissive hand. "Oh, he's just one of many. Nothing like a bit of grief to inspire art," she told him breezily. "I was supposed to meet my son for lunch, but my attention was diverted by the store owner's garish uniform." Zabini went on her toes to peer through the store window. "Ah, my son has arrived - and has flocked to his little friends," her nose crinkled. Harry watched a dark-skinned boy dressed in ripped pants and a football jersey slap the back of a Dudley doppelgänger.

"That's your son?" Harry gaped, before closing his mouth, realizing that may be offensive. "I mean - "

"I know. He has inherited his late father's sense of style," the woman said grimly. "Let's just say I do not miss the man. Now, I best be off before Blaise gets into any trouble. Luckily, his friends are . . . easily distracted." Fixing her bosom, Serena threw her head back. "Best of luck with your showcase, darling," If Harry wasn't incredibly gay, her sharp grin and seductive purr would turn him.

Harry hugged the fabric to his chest and watched in awe as she clicked away. He wasn't alone. The gaze of numerous men and women followed her through the mall, including a man that nearly dropped his Blackberry. The woman winked at him.

Harry grinned gleefully to himself, and - when he was done collecting all his fabric - approached the counter. The bored-faced employee took a pair of shears to the fabric and cut him a few yards. While she was distracted, Harry tentatively snuck a hand towards a pile of glinting buttons and beads. He snagged two small, aquamarine stones and slipped them into his pocket. They'd make a gorgeous pair of cuff-links.

He winced at himself.

Jesus, he rubbed his face, before placing the stones back on the counter. He dolled out the required cash. Tonks was rubbing off on him.

"Thank you," he told to the cashier.

Shopping bag in hand, Harry was incredibly amused to see the chavs entirely enthralled with Madam Zabini's breasts. Serena curled a nail under her son's chin and gave him a small peck on the cheek, before beckoning him towards a deli.

Harry's gaze drifted to the man on his Blackberry, brow furrowed as he argued with someone vehemently. The man was reasonably handsome, older than Harry by less than a decade, with shortly trimmed hair, an aristocratic jaw and hazel eyes that seemed red in some lights, green in others, and blue when reflecting the mall fountain. His grey chesterfield coat over a thick turtleneck, his glimmering wristwatch and bulging pockets betrayed immense wealth. A vast security risk that Harry's friend noticed immediately.

"Tonks," Harry hissed to himself. "Don't."

The girl had made him her target. Her hair pulled into a new beanie, making her seem meeker, less noticeable, Tonks bumped very purposefully into the man. Her hand disappeared into his pocket.

As Harry blinked, a long-fingered hand curled around her wrist and yanked Tonks away.

" - hold on a moment, Crabbe," the man said absently into his cell-phone.

Wide-eyed, Tonks tried to pull away, in effect dropping his nice leather wallet. A number of coins clinked onto the linoleum.

"I've got a little pick-pocket to deal with." He snapped the phone shut.

Fear flashed across Tonks' face. Harry rushed forward, hugging his bag to his chest. "Let go of her," he demanded, voice echoing.

A furrow formed between the man's brows. He tightened his grip. "This girl - "

- took matter into her own hands. Thinking fast, Tonks screamed. "Pedophile!"

The man dropped her like he'd been burnt, and the gaze of nearly everyone darted over to them. Tonks was really putting on a show, fake tears glistening in her eyes, as she prepared for another shout. "Creep! Pervert!"

"Oh my god," Harry snatched her by the sleeve. "Tonks, come on - I'm sorry about her, she's clearly mentally unstable, but you shouldn't have grabbed her like that - "

"Is there a problem here, sir?" A mall cop, dressed to the nines in a blue uniform, approached them with a scowl. His mustache was enormous, and Harry would've been distracted by it, if his best friend wasn't currently jabbing a trembling finger at the other man.

"He - he - he tried to touch me," she forced out. "He grabbed my arm, and - "

"That is not what happened," the man tried to contest. "Not precisely."

Arching a bushy brow, the cop nudged his shoe at the fallen wallet. "Well, then what did happen here, hm?"

"He tried to pay me for sex," Tonks spat.

Everyone blanched. "The nerve - " the man whispered.

Harry, exasperated, pulled on Tonks' hand. "Stand down, Dora, let's just go."

She brushed him off, building up steam . "And when I screamed, he dropped his money. I will not be bought!"

"Don't fret, lass, I'll take care of this," the cop laid a hand on his club, and attempted to tower threatening over the other man. This was rather ineffectual as he was shorter than even Harry.

"No, no," the man raised his hands. "No need for violence. I'm sorry for scaring you," he soothed, bending down to collect his wallet. He slipped the coins inside, fingers deft. Harry saw the glint of a gun at his belt and took a large step back.

"I was on the phone with a friend discussing - ah, hiring an exotic dancer for his bachelor's party," he explained to the cop. With the perfect amount of embarrassment and candor in his tone, the lies slipped from his tongue with barely a hesitation. "This young lady bumped into me, and she must have misheard . . . It was all a big misunderstanding, you understand."

"Ah," the cop narrowed his eyes, "Is this true, lass?"

Tonks sniffled, her eyes flicking down to the man's gun. She seemed a bit pale. "I might have overreacted," she stated, resiliant. "But . . . I demand retribution for the emotional trauma I've been dealt."

What ever happened to 'I will not be bought'?

Harry covered his mouth with a hand, fighting a hysterical laugh. She was insane, and playing these two like a damn fiddle.

The man breathed through his nose as if repressing a swear. "Well," his eyes flickered to Harry and the expectant mall cop. "I'd be delighted to treat you and your friend to a meal in . . . apology for this misunderstanding," he bit out, and checked his watch. "I have a reservation for lunch at Pomona's Sprouts in a half hour, if you'd like to join."

Tonks nodded approvingly. "We're hungry, aren't we, Harry?"

Harry swallowed tightly under the man's dark gaze. "I actually just ate," he murmured, before raising his voice. "But it'd only be polite to accept. Considering the circumstances."

The cop nodded, satisfied, and the man smiled tightly.

"Excellent," he purred, and unwarranted, a shiver went down Harry's spine.


Present Day

Pomona's Sprout was mildly expensive but had a large, vegan-friendly menu. Hermione, grateful for this fact, ordered a lettuce wrap while Ron tried the chickpea soup. As she delicately took a bite of the wrap, Ron watched in amazement. The word 'rabbit food' was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back, taking a swallow of his soup. It was as terrible as he expected. Ron grimaced.

The meal was awkward, quiet, as Ron frantically thought of conversation starters. "So, uh, the movie - " he began, just as Hermione spoke.

"How is your - "

Ron cut off with a soft laugh, and Hermione flushed. "The movie," she latched on eagerly. "Was brilliant, if I do say so myself. You know, I took a course on videography, and - "

Ron fought to pay attention, nodding along to her excited chatter. The documentary they'd seen in the mall theater was on the migration of winter birds; Ron had damn near fallen asleep during it, while Hermione seemed deeply involved. He'd kept himself awake by watching her reactions. An hour and a half in the dark allowed Ron to memorize her silhouette. A very pretty silhouette, mind, but her front teeth were huge and her hair blocked the view of those seated behind them. Ron's gaze drifted down to her overbite, between which a chunk of lettuce was stuck. He gestured upwards, interrupting her.

"You've - er, sorry, but you've got a spot of lettuce, just there," he told her.

Hermione's cheeks darkened and she lifted a hand to hide her face. "Don't cover up," Ron said quickly "It's fine. Have I told you that you look pretty today?"

Hermione glanced down at herself self-consciously, brown eyes drooped. She wore a simple grey dress and black flats, resembling something you'd wear to church. Hermione tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. "Thank you," she said softly. "You - you look better."

"Better? Compared to what?" Ron asked in faint amusement.

She shrugged lightly. "You wore sweatpants and a stained shirt when you asked me out,. At least you clean up nice," Hermione picked up her lettuce wrap again. "You know, I'm really grateful that you took me out for vegetarian food. Not everyone is willing to make such a sacrifice," she said wryly. Hermione gestured to his soup, mostly untouched. "Sorry about that,"

Ron gave a short laugh. "Don't be. It's nice to try new things, even if it tastes like vomit. At my frat, all we eat is vension and junk food. I appreciate sharing a meal where Cormac isn't shouting at me from across the table to 'pass the grits!'," he whisper-shouted.

Hermione laughed.

"I'm really glad Harry introduced us," Ron beamed at her. "He lent me my outfit, too. It's a bit small."

"I can tell," Hermione's gaze lingered on Ron's biceps. He wore a tight, dark blue dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal freckled arms dusted with almost invisible hairs. "What color did he call your shirt?"

"'Cobalt blue'," Ron quoted. "'With a mandarin collar.' He's a riot."

Hermione smiled fondly. "You should meet my other roommate. Nymphadora Tonks?"

"The - ah - pink haired girl?" he queried. "We've met in passing. She spends a lot of time with my brothers." He played with his soup, and spoke absently. "I wonder if they're banging."

The girl blanched at his comment, a pang of hurt slicing through her chest. Ron seemed to realize his crassness, and hurried to apologize. "Er - I mean, she's always over at Gryffindor House, holed up in their bedroom. It's just suspicious, as all. I'm sorry. You didn't know?"

"I - " she stammered, grateful for the sudden beeping of her phone.

Hermione scrambled for it, flicking open her purse and hiding her stinging eyes. It's perfectly alright for her to date, Hermione told herself vehemently. You're on a first date now, for god's sake. Clearing her throat, she opened a text from Harry. It was succinct and brief, betraying Harry's panic.

Emergency at Tom's.

"I have to leave," Hermione blurted. She took a few quick bites of her food, before wiping her face. "There's an emergency - I'm sorry to cut this short," she said apologetically, pushing away from the table.

"Oh," Ron said in surprise. He waved for the check. "Do you need any help? A ride?"

Hermione thought of Tom's 'ultra, top-secret, off the grid headquarters', as Harry once described it. She doubted Tom would be very happy to see this particular Weasley dropping her off at the front doors. "I can take a taxi."

Tossing money onto the table, Ron hurried after her. "No one's hurt, right?"

"What?" Hermione was rapidly texting Harry, struggling to pull on her coat. Ron grabbed it and helped her with the sleeves. "No, no. It's just a work thing," she assured. "But they need me immediately."

"At the library?" his brow furrowed.

Hermione closed her eyes. She kept walking at a quick pace. Her date was alarmingly perceptive - which, she supposed, wasn't so odd considering he was studying criminology. Ron dogged after her, right at her heels, as they left through the mall's sliding doors. As Hermione beckoned for a cab, Ron shifted back and forth on his feet, debating whether or not to kiss her goodbye.

"You aren't - you're not just trying to get out of a bad date, are you?" He asked, hazel eyes lowered. "Once, Cormac had me call him, pretending there was an 'emergency', when he wanted to ditch his blind date. He thought she was 'too gothic', but when I picked him up she just seemed sad - " he blathered.

Hermione stopped him with a gentle kiss on the cheek. "You did great," she said encouragingly. "More than great. I just really have to go. I'll - I'll call you."

Ron struggled to grab his phone. "We haven't exchanged numbers - "

The taxi pulled up behind Hermione and she reached back to open the door. "Later, Ron. You know where I work!" she slid in, and waved at him. "Thank you for the movie, and the food!"

Ron raised a meek hand as the cab screeched away. He let it drop and looked down at the cobalt shirt, seeing a faint stain of chickpea soup on the lapel. Harry would need it dry cleaned before Ron returned it.

That went well, he thought, sighing. I think.


To be continued . . .