See disclaimer in Chapter 1. I don't own 'em, I just play with them from time to time.
Harry sank into his desk chair, exhausted from a full day of editorial meetings for his latest book. The publisher had been pleased with his new photo for the book jacket, but now the publicist wanted him to agree to a three-week tour and media junket.
Sounds lovely, he thought, popping open a bottle of Butterbeer. He'd prefer something stronger, but he wanted all his wits about him when he spoke with Sly online. Harry perked up at the thought, taking a long draw from the bottle as he booted his laptop.
He knew Hermione would do her best to negotiate a shorter tour, knowing that Harry hated public appearances. Keeping up the glamour was draining, and he disliked being in large crowds. He hadn't been comfortable as the center of attention years ago, and he still wasn't now. Wearing a face that wasn't his made it somewhat easier, even though he'd recently begun to wonder why he'd chosen the features and coloring he had. Some strange coincidence, he assured himself, his brow furrowed as he tried to remember why if he'd actually modeled the glamour after Malfoy, or if it had just been a fluke.
The bottle clinked against the desk as he put it aside, eager to log in to the Magical Dating Online web site. His day had been even more intolerable because of his eagerness to chat with Sly, making already interminable meetings seem even longer. He had more ahead of him tomorrow, but he couldn't bring himself to care at the moment, since he was so focused on finally chatting with Sly.
MustLoveQuidditch is available for chat.
Harry wrinkled his nose, clicking around to see if there was a way to disable the notification. He wasn't technically available for chat – he only wanted to talk with Sly. He'd arrived in the chat room a few minutes early, and he wondered if that had been a mistake.
Chat request from Hardbody08: red ur profile, wnt 2 chat?
Harry hated Netspeak. Why would I want to talk with you, someone I don't know? he thought uncharitably, closing the window without responding. Bad grammar and spelling should not be rewarded.
Chat request from Daddyto2doggies: Tell me about yourself.
Harry closed that window, too, quickly growing annoyed with the site. If you wanted to know about me, you should have read my profile, nitwit, he thought, his teeth clenched as three more chat requests popped up, none of them from the one user he wanted to talk to, each of them cheesier than the last.
Chat request from IntrospectiveIntellectual: Hey baby, want to cook up something magical with me?
Harry very nearly closed the window, growling out loud at yet another attempt to get his attention with a lame pick up line. At least this one read my profile first, he thought, his eyes scanning the screen as he looked for any sign of Sly. It was several minutes past 9 p.m. – maybe he'd gotten delayed.
Chat request from IntrospectiveIntellectual: Gryffin? You there?
Harry grinned, finally realizing who had sent the last request, clicking away so he and Sly could chat in private.
MustLoveQuidditch has left the room.
IntrospectiveIntellectual has left the room.
MustLoveQuidditch: Sorry, Sly. Didn't notice it was from you.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: I thought perhaps you'd reconsidered, turned off by my pick up line.
MustLoveQuidditch: No, it would take more than that to turn me off from you. It just blended in with the rest of the lines that were coming my way. It was worse than the Leaky Cauldron on Singles Night in there.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: Don't tell me you've been to the Leaky for that?
MustLoveQuidditch: Only once.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: Merlin, that's all it would take, I'm sure. I've never been, but a friend of mine goes regularly.
MustLoveQuidditch: Regularly?
IntrospectiveIntellectual: He's a real player. Different witch every week.
MustLoveQuidditch: That explains it, I suppose.
MustLoveQuidditch: So, fancy meeting you here.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: Sorry I'm late. We'll have to find out if there's a way to log in directly to the private chat rooms.
MustLoveQuidditch: Merlin, yes. You left me to the wolves out there.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: Not for long. And Quititchlvr69 seemed lovely.
MustLoveQuidditch: Yes. I quite like it when a bloke starts off a conversation by asking after the length and girth of my prick.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: I notice you didn't answer him.
MustLoveQuidditch: I didn't want to embarrass the room – make them all feel inadequate.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: I have no qualms. I'm sure you'll find me more than adequate.
MustLoveQuidditch: A bloke has to have some secrets, after all. Let's leave the show and tell for our real meeting.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: As you wish.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: What do you want to talk about? More word association? I rather enjoy that.
MustLoveQuidditch: I do, too. Maybe later? I have something I need to tell you, something I should have told you earlier.
MustLoveQuidditch: Are you still there?
Introspective Intellectual: I'm here. Are you married?
MustLoveQuidditch: Merlin, no. It's nothing like that.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: Diseased?
IntrospectiveIntellectual: Dying?
IntrospectiveIntellectual: Poor?
IntrospectiveIntellectual: Ugly?
MustLoveQuidditch: Stop! You're making it hard to type! Stop joking around. I'm serious.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: I've listed the things I couldn't abide – anything you say can't be worse than being ugly or married.
MustLoveQuidditch: Well, remember you said that, yeah?
IntrospectiveIntellectual: You're making this worse, you know. I was a Slytherin. You can't even begin to imagine the things I'm envisioning.
MustLoveQuidditch: Well, then here goes. You know the manuscript I sent you?
IntrospectiveIntellectual: The James Evans book? It's brilliant. I still want to know how you got it. Did you have to sleep with him or something?
IntrospectiveIntellectual: That was a joke. You really didn't sleep with him, did you? Recently, I mean?
MustLoveQuidditch: Something like that.
MustLoveQuidditch: I am James Evans.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: Just tell me what it is, Gryffin. Really, it can't be that bad. Stop making things up and just tell me. Do you not want to meet? Do you need more time?
MustLoveQuidditch: No, I really am James Evans. Or rather, James Evans is me. It's a penname.
MustLoveQuidditch: Sly?
IntrospectiveIntellectual: You're James Evans? Fuck. I feel like an idiot.
MustLoveQuidditch: Don't! That's why I didn't want to tell you. I'm glad you enjoy my books.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: I can't believe you let me go on like that.
MustLoveQuidditch: No, really. I didn't tell you because I wanted to avoid this.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: Well, I'd have figured it out eventually. When we met, at least.
MustLoveQuidditch: Actually, you wouldn't have. That's not what I really look like. It's a glamour.
MustLoveQuidditch: Sly, are you still there?
IntrospectiveIntellectual: Yes, just went to get a copy of one of your books. It's a glamour, then?
MustLoveQuidditch: Yes. I'm the same height and build, but other than that I look nothing like James Evans.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: Why the cloak and dagger act? Why not put your real name and face on the books?
IntrospectiveIntellectual: Gryffin?
MustLoveQuidditch: Still here. I don't know. Just looking to be appreciated on the merit of my writing instead of who I am, I suppose. I'm famous for something I had no control over, and I didn't want that to color the book sales.
MustLoveQuidditch: Plenty of people would buy them just because of who I am, and I didn't want that.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: I see. I should go.
MustLoveQuidditch: Sly, wait! I apologize for not telling you sooner. Please don't let this stop what we have going here. I really do want to meet you eventually. It's why I told you in the first place.
IntrospectiveIntellectual: I'm sorry too, Gryffin. I need some time to think this over. I'll email you.
IntrospectiveIntellectual has logged out.
Harry sat back, his jaw clenched. Fuck! he thought, closing the web site and shoving the computer roughly away from him. Hermione had been right – as always. He should have warned Sly that he was James Evans when it first came up.
He glanced at the now-warm bottle of Butterbeer on the desk, condensation beading wetly on the outside of the dark glass. He picked it up, throwing it into the fireplace. The resultant crash made him feel slightly better, as did the decision to head to the kitchen to seek out something harder to drown his sorrow.
"I think I fucked it up," Draco said, his head buried in his hands. Blaise crossed his legs, waiting for the blond to explain. "He told me he's James Evans, and I freaked out."
The name niggled at Blaise's mind, but he didn't know why. Did they know a James Evans? Someone from a younger year at Hogwarts, maybe?
"The author, Blaise," Draco snapped, lifting his head. Blaise could see the dark smudges under his eyes, his pale skin even chalkier than usual. All the signs of a sleepless night.
Great, Blaise thought, standing to go ask Madge for some tea. Draco was in a mood, which meant it was going to be a long day.
Hermione wrinkled her nose as she stepped out of the Floo, the smell of stale whisky immediately evident. She stepped around what looked like part of a broken bottle of Butterbeer, careful not to touch it – or the puddle of liquid next to it – with her shoe.
"Harry?" she called, annoyed that he had missed his appointment earlier that morning. The publishing house was going over final edits to his latest book, and he really needed to be there.
She picked her way through the study, stepping over the scattered pages of Harry's manuscript, which blanketed the floor. From the looks of it, he'd attempted to review some of the edits and gotten frustrated at some point last night.
"Harry?" she called out again, starting to get worried. It wasn't like Harry to miss meetings, even ones he didn't want to attend.
She heard a low groan from the kitchen, quickening her pace until she found the source – Harry, head down on the table, a mostly empty bottle of Ogden's Best and an overturned glass next to him. Her concern turned to anger, her lips tightening as she took in the scene in front of her.
"Harry James Potter!" she yelled, a small satisfied smile curving her lips when she saw him flinch at the tone and volume of her voice.
He raised his head, regarding her with bleary eyes. He absolutely stank – the sour smell of whisky fairly emanating from his pores. Harry didn't have a high tolerance for hard alcohol, so she doubted he'd actually finished that much of the open bottle – a suspicion confirmed when she noticed several pools of amber liquid dripping from the table onto the floor.
"'Mione?" he croaked, blinking as he searched the table for his glasses, not realizing they were still on his face. He swallowed, grimacing at the taste in his mouth, and rubbed his eyes, the action pushing his glasses aside. He took them off, regarding them with surprise before replacing them and clearing his throat. "Hermione."
She glared at him, crossing the kitchen – skirting the spilled Firewhisky – to get him a glass of water, which he gulped gratefully. She started a pot of coffee – it clearly wasn't the time for tea – and threw some bread in the toaster, figuring he wouldn't be able to stomach much more than that.
"Hermione, what are you doing –" he broke off, his eyes widening as he took in her formal robes and high heels, "– the meeting. Fuck. I'm sorry."
She nodded, her expression still severe even as she buttered his toast and sat the plate in front of him. He gave her a weak smile, reaching instead for the cup of black coffee she'd put down as well.
"Eat. You need a shower, and we only have a few minutes," she said, crossing her arms as she leaned against the counter, watching him with narrowed eyes. "I told Abigail you had an emergency, but she expects us there this afternoon."
He looked at her blankly, his eyes traveling around the kitchen until he found a clock. Afternoon? he wondered, blinking in surprise when the clock showed it was already after 1 p.m.
"Shit. I'm sorry," he groaned, rubbing his hands briskly over his face. He needed to wake up.
Hermione's expression softened slightly. "I'll pick out some clothes for you. We're leaving in 15 minutes, so you'd best hurry."
Harry nodded, snagging the last piece of toast as he stood, hurrying upstairs to his bedroom. Hermione followed, giving him a chance to get into the shower before entering the room and rifling through his closet, looking for something suitable for the business meeting. Harry preferred casual Muggle clothes to wizarding robes, but James Evans was always decked out in fashionable wizarding wear when he went out in public. It was yet another distinction that helped Harry glide from one personality to the next – a way to ensure he never slipped up and forgot which face he was wearing in public.
She heard the water shut off as she dug around for a pair of socks in his bureau, her curiosity raging. What could have upset Harry so much? She had a sick feeling it had to do with Sly, and Harry's confession. Had he told the man everything, or just that he was James Evans? Guilt nagged at her. After all, she'd been the one to insist he come clean.
Harry padded out into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist. He looked much better after the shower, Hermione noted, watching as he briskly rubbed his hair with another towel as he walked blindly through the room. She tossed the socks on the bed, bracing herself on his wet shoulder so she could reach up to kiss him on the cheek. His skin was smooth and smelled slightly woodsy, and she was glad he'd taken the time to shave. The glamour would have hidden his stubble, but she knew he hated being unshaven. He must be feeling better, she thought with a smile as she squeezed his shoulder and stepped back, intending to leave the room so he could change.
"Wait," he said, catching her hand as she pulled away. He nodded toward the bed, and she sat, openly curious now.
She closed her eyes as he dressed, and they chatted about the book and the changes Abigail had proposed. She questioned him about the scattered manuscript, relieved to hear he'd tripped and knocked it off the desk, not thrown it in anger as she had assumed. It was believable – Harry was a very clumsy drunk.
"So why were you drinking?" she asked, opening her eyes when he'd pulled his robes on. She handed him the socks, watching as he finished dressing and cast the glamour on his face and hair.
He combed the blond locks, spritzing them with the potion the stylist had given him. Harry never took this much care with his own appearance, but James Evans was a different matter.
"The dating site just added a chat function," he said, startled when he saw remorse and sadness in the grey eyes in the mirror. He'd been using the glamour for years, but he'd never seen that expression on the now uncomfortably familiar features. "I told him who I was – that I was James Evans, at any rate."
Harry snorted, shaking his head. "Glad I left the Harry Potter part off, since his reaction to James Evans was bad enough."
TBC
