XXVI. Once Smitten, Twice Denied
6 October, 1978
Harry woke gasping.
Oh bloody hell, that was…shit, that was a very nice dream.
He moved uncomfortably and reached around for his wand to remove the sticky mess in his pants. His whole body jumped an inch off the hay when he realised that Goat was behind him nibbling on his hair. Oh eurgh, the breath on my neck in the dream is way, way less sexy now. Jesus.
With a shudder and a resolution to never think about that element of the dream again, Harry cast a few cleaning charms and relaxed back into his hay bed with a heady smile.
That's what? The sixth dream about workbenches and clocks in the last month?
I think I'm messed up. Clocks should not be a sex thing.
He tried not dwelling on the identity of his dream partner and the very explicable reason why his subconscious had suddenly started sexualizing timepieces.
Besides, I don't even know if he's interested in men, let alone if he's interested in me.
He worried his lip.
How do you find out if a person's bent, anyway? I mean, really? You can't just walk up to someone and ask them how they feel about buggering blokes, can you? Is there a codeword or something? Maybe some sort of revealing spell? Revelio Homosex—er—Homosexius?
. . .
God, I'm ridiculous.
I bet Caffrey would know...
At that Harry's common sense gave him a good slap. Fuck's sake, don't write the Captain! God knows he's got a track record for sending letters from whatever sea he's sailing just to embarrass me!
He's probably not bent anyway. We had one nice conversation. I'm seventeen and horny all the bloody time is all. He's been polite enough when he comes into the Head, that's it, and I'm polite right back.
But Harry knew very well that while Gideon Prewett remained as polite, if taciturn, as ever, he himself had come to look forward to the young man's visits to the Head more than was strictly polite.
Not that they interacted much beyond pleasantries. Nonetheless, Harry was coming to appreciate the fact the man was simply in the room, sketching ideas for clocks in that book of his or listening as Fabian prattled on about a new idea. Some days, after nights spent burying corpses in the darkened gardens of the Muggle world, nights he wanted desperately to pretend didn't happen, Gideon's presence was enough to make everything seem just a bit less awful.
Harry had been spared the horror of executing unarmed captives like many in the Nines had not, and thank Myrtle for that, he thought with a shudder. He suspected she'd been correct that performing such an act, one as necessary as it was monstrous, simply wasn't in his nature. Nonetheless, the masked forms of those he and the others had needed to kill lest they kill others, the sound of spells destroying their bodies like so much meat, stayed with him.
It's the right thing to do, he would repeat to himself as he watched the body of an enemy drop to the ground, and he believed it.
Being right didn't mean it wasn't brutal. Any idealistic rot about the nobility of battle had been burned from him by reality, leaving a numbed hollow in his heart.
But.
But Gideon was somehow clean of all that, and his arrival at the Head gave Harry something to look forward to in a world that had quickly turned into fields of mud, blood, and bone.
And he's really fit, his inner voice interjected helpfully, pulling him out of the swirling morass of grim thoughts. Don't forget the fitness. That's important.
Harry huffed, but didn't disagree with himself. Gideon was attractive, and his presence somehow made Harry feel better.
It was…really nice.
Granted, the last two weeks had seen the cessation—however temporary—of distress calls to Platform Nine. Voldemort obviously knew someone was protecting Muggleborn families, as he had stopped further initiation raids, at least for the time being. Harry could only surmise that the extremely low number of survivors wasn't the best advertising for recruitment.
The reprieve was a welcome one, though they were all on edge waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Harry padded upstairs for a shower, grousing to himself about which was a greater impossibility: gauging someone else's gayness or divining a Dark Lord's plans.
xoxoxox
"Oh, good morning Harry!" a cheerful Guin greeted as he entered the public room. "Tuck in, then." She passed him a plate of eggs and bacon.
"Cheers, Guin, thanks."
Doc, who was lounging about reading the Prophet, gave Guin a pointed glance. His wife rolled her eyes.
"Say, Harry," she began with studied nonchalance as she wiped down the bar, "we've been wanting to ask you how you would feel about moving out of the stable and into a proper bedroom."
He stared. "Huh?"
"I doubt you want to hear it, but Ab's room is, well, just gathering dust. We thought it might be a good idea for you to take it and make it your own, or maybe just move into a guest room and replace it with Ab's. We don't mean to disrespect him," she rushed on, "but it's just sitting there empty."
Harry floundered. He'd never even considered the possibility.
"I think it's a good idea, kid," Doc added as Guin shot him a look. "As long as it stays there like that, you'll be haunted. Of course, it's your choice. Your place, after all. But you should think on it."
A mischievous glint flashed in Guin's eyes. "And really Harry, you should take some room at least for yourself. You're a nice bloke, after all. A nice bloke who'll hopefully be bringing a nice person back to his place for a good shag. No one you deserve will be much inclined to shag in a stable."
Oh my God.
Doc choked on his tea, but she smiled, completely unapologetic. "Well, it's true!"
Her husband mopped his chin and nodded at Harry in mock-seriousness. "She does have a point. Hay's okay for sleeping on, I suppose, though I've no idea how you can stand the pointy bits. But a hay bed can't be strong enough to withstand a shagging, at least if you're doing it right."
I don't even...Oh my God.
"That's a fair point, Harry!" The woman was entirely too enthusiastic. "You'll only end up with a ruined bed and a bruised lover."
Part of him was sure that he should be upset by the thought of changing Ab's room, but most of him was simply gaping at the oddness of the conversation.
Taking a long swig of water, he finally found his voice. "So…um…you're saying that I should have a proper room for shagging reasons?"
"Well, mostly because it's healthy for a person to have a private place of their own, and it'll help you with your grieving for Ab," Guin admitted. "But the benefits for shagging are very real and shouldn't be overlooked."
"Oh—okay, Guin. Thanks for, uh, thinking of me." Harry shook his head, willing the ground to swallow him whole. "I guess I'll let you know."
Guin beamed. "Great!"
"You know," Doc mused after a few moments of awkward silence, "you're under a lot of stress with the war and all right now. A good roll in the hay," he grinned at his own wit, "can do wonders for that."
Merlin! Why is everything about sex this morning?
"Yeah, uh, thanks Doc...Can we please stop talking about shagging now?"
"Suit yourself," Doc shrugged, winking at Guin before turning back to the newspaper.
xoxoxox
10 October, 1978
Although Voldemort hadn't been seen since his last Hogsmeade battle the previous year, the discovery of marked supporters in the Ministry had left people feeling vulnerable, and it wasn't getting any better.
Everyone needed a drink these days, it seemed.
At least it's good for business, Harry sighed as he looked around the pub.
It wasn't gone five on a Tuesday evening, but the Head was already packed. Pulling another round for the regulars, Harry's eyes drifted to Fabian and Gideon, who were enjoying the last traces of daylight at a table by the window.
Like always, Fabian was chattering on while Gideon buried himself in his sketchbook, only looking up every so often to offer a comment. Apparently the latter had spent the afternoon painting something. Flecks of metallic gold and pale blue dotted his hands, and a thin line of gold traced the curve of Gideon's cheekbone.
That damned streak of color seemed to follow Harry around the pub.
Why hasn't Fabian told him he has paint on his face?
. . .
Someone should tell him he has paint on his face.
He frowned.
It's really very distracting.
His eyes fixed on Gideon, he startled as the beer he was drawing overflowed onto his hands and shirt.
"Dammit!" Drying and cleaning charms removed all evidence of the spill, save for the barflies' laughter. "Oh shut up," he grumbled.
When Harry left for the kitchen to fix a plate of sandwiches, the band of regulars at the bar huddled together.
"You boys see that?" Dalcop muttered.
Nappy, Martial, and Pel nodded.
"Lad can't keep his eyes off him," Pel murmured with a resigned sigh. "Had to happen some time."
"Ruddy hormones."
The men clucked sympathetically.
Dalcop stole a look at Gideon. "So whadda we think a' him then?"
All four swiveled on their bar stools to peer over at Gideon, then turned back, their heads bent in conference.
"Don't seem a bad sort, really," Nappy started.
Martial looked thoughtful. "Man does have a job..."
"Started 'is own business, didn' he? An' just a few years outta school, too."
Pel was more hesitant. "Well, he isn't Caff Burke at least. But is he even interested in men? I don't want to see the lad's heart broken."
"He don' wear tight trousers…" Dalcop said dubiously. "Don' all poofs wear tight trousers?"
"What the fuck are you on about? All poofs wear tight trousers!" Martial scoffed.
"Harry's trousers are normal," Nappy offered.
"Oh, belt up, all of you." Pel said. "No, of course all poofs don't dress the same, Merlin Dalcop. An' don't you boys be saying 'poof'. It isn't nice anyway an' this is Harry we're talking about."
"A'right, a'right, 'm sorry!" Dalcop blustered. "Didn' mean anythin' by it, a' course. Anyway, what do we think of him? Tha's what's important here."
They were interrupted by Loch coming up for another drink. The young werewolf eyed the cluster of barflies. "What are you lot conspiring about?"
"Tryin' to figure if Gid Prewett over there's a poof—uh, I mean, you know. A gay," Dalcop piped up immediately.
Pel put his head in his hands.
Loch raised an eyebrow and turned to study Gideon. They all followed his gaze.
Gideon looked up from his sketchbook to meet several pairs of eyes. A faint flush colored his cheeks as he hastily looked back down and hunched his shoulders.
The group huddled back together in a parody of subtlety.
"Hard to tell, I think," Loch said in a low voice. "He seems a decent enough bloke, but keeps himself to himself. I can ask around.…"
"Aye, do that, lad. An' if you can, find out anything bad about him while you're at it," Pel suggested. "I'll have a friend look an' see if he has a criminal record."
Dalcop nodded heartily. "Yeah, yeah! S' Harry we're talking about here! Even if he is a poof that don't mean he's good enough for Harry."
The men murmured their agreement. "Sounds like a plan, lads," Pel concluded just as Harry returned from the kitchens with the sandwiches. "Act normal!" he hissed.
The barflies all dropped into an exaggerated silence that had the younger wizard looking at them suspiciously.
"What are you all up to?"
"Nothing!"
"Us?"
"—don' know what yer talkin' 'bout."
Harry rolled his eyes and went to drop off the sandwiches.
xoxoxox
2 November, 1978
"They're looking over here. Again. No—don't look."
"The regulars?" Fabian asked in a low voice.
Gideon nodded. "Look pretty arsed about something."
Fabian waited a moment and stole a glance at the bar. Sure enough, the old drunks were taking it in turns to glare at the threesome sitting at the round table by the window.
"Dammit, Fabe, I told you not to look!"
"Any idea yet what you did to them?"
Gideon grimaced. "None. They've just been staring and whispering all month."
"Surely they aren't Death Eaters?" Emmeline Vance, the third in their party, asked with concern. The brothers chuckled and Fabian began explaining the various groups who frequented the pub.
Across the Head, the barflies looked at each other.
"She's a pretty 'un," Nappy muttered.
"Too posh for a place like this," Dalcop agreed, scowling at the dark-haired young woman. "Sitting awfully close to the both of 'em, ain't she?"
Pel watched the threesome carefully. "Hard to tell which she's with." His eyes traveled over to Harry, who was taking orders from Sanguini's group in the shadows at the back of the public room.
"Harry's a better catch," Nappy said with certainty, joining Dalcop in glaring at Vance. "Ain't nobody's eyebrows look like that naturally."
"Oh go on, stop being mean," Martial snapped. "Girl's eyebrows are fine."
Meanwhile the Prewetts and Emmeline turned their attention back to their assignment for the evening and stole subtle looks at the table of vampires. The young owner of the Hog's Head was laughing with Sanguini as he passed out glasses out bloodwine.
Gideon narrowed his eyes.
"They hardly look like they're plotting anything….Ugh, at this rate we'll be here all night," Emmeline moaned.
"Not your kind of place, love?" Fabian teased, appraising her exquisitely-tailored robes. "Well, you are rather over-dressed for the company." He ignored her scowl. "And honestly, I'm not sure we aren't wasting our time on this one. They're here a lot and seem a decent sort. I'm starting to think that Dumbledore doesn't need to be concerned, at least about them."
Emmeline rolled her eyes. "They're Dark creatures, Prewett. It's obvious that they'd side with a Dark Lord."
"Maybe, love. Maybe. But I'll wait and see."
Gideon turned back to the conversation and nodded at his brother's words. "Harry seems to like them well enough."
"Well if Harry likes them…" Fabian yawned dramatically. "Hell, Gid. Harry's the owner. It's his job to like everybody."
xoxoxox
11 November, 1978
What the hell? Harry stared at the crowd of students flooding into the Head. What the hell are they all doing here?
Of course, student patrons were no new thing on Hogsmeade weekends, but usually the Head only saw them once the more 'child-friendly' establishments in the village were full. The Prewetts' clock hadn't even chimed noon yet.
As Harry grabbed bottle after bottle of butterbeer, the hairs on his neck suddenly prickled in warning.
Something's wrong.
Senses honed by nights with the Nines had his wand in his hand, his stomach clenching and his eyes sharp as he surveyed the room.
The pub's way too quiet for this number of people.
No matter where he looked, he found a student who had been eyeing him, only to turn away quickly and start whispering to their mates. Hushed conversations seemed to be taking place at every table.
More than anything else, the pub felt like a very excited library.
Something was definitely going on, Harry concluded as he stowed his wand, but it didn't seem threatening As the lunch hour wore on and the whispers continued, his wariness turned to irritation. He was on the verge of simply asking the pub at large what was so bloody interesting when the door swung open and the cold November wind blew in Sirius Black.
"Squibbulus!" his godfather's counterpart greeted him with a toothy grin, flopping down on an empty barstool. "Keeping your nose clean?"
The pub erupted anew in louder whispers.
"My name's Harry, Black."
"We-ell, you'll always be Squibbulus to me. Regardless of the accuracy of the moniker, of course." Sirius popped a few nuts from the bowl on the bar into his mouth.
A hush fell over the room.
Sirius bristled and looked around suspiciously. "What's with them?" he asked in a much quieter voice.
Harry shrugged. "Dunno. Been acting like this all day."
When he came back moments later with Sirius' ale, the man was smirking.
"Eavesdropping charm. Seems Hogwarts has heard about your little ruse, and all the kiddies are dead curious about why you pretended to be a squib."
Harry could have slapped himself. All but the first years saw me at school last year, and they know all about the service to wizards. Of course I'd be the topic of gossip.
. . .
And I need to ask Guin how to cast an eavesdropping charm.
Outwardly, he just shrugged again. "Well then, their curiosity is helping to fill my vault, so I can't complain."
Sirius mock-toasted him with his pint. "One hell of a stunt though, mate. Can't reckon why you'd do something that barmy, but as a prankster myself, I respect your commitment to the play."
Harry snorted, and tipped his own glass back in response.
Some time later, a burning jolt of rage shot through him as he returned from fetching yet another crate of butterbeers and found that Sirius had been joined by a friend.
"Hey there, Harry. Nice to see you," the young man greeted him politely.
Pettigrew, his mind snarled. He clamped down on the instincts that were screaming for him to draw his wand and curse the rat right fucking now.
Cut that shit out! I've been through this. This Peter might not be a traitor. No doing things before I'm sure.
Harry's smile felt as false as it was.
As the hours ticked by, he wondered more and more what Sirius and Peter were doing in the pub. They simply nursed their drinks and made conversation with each other. The rat hadn't done anything that screamed 'Death Eater' or 'cowardly friend-killing traitor,' so Harry settled for watching them like a hawk.
Honestly, they just seemed like two mates drinking suspiciously slowly on a cold afternoon.
Harry wasn't sure if he was disappointed or not.
When Gideon walked in for a late lunch, his forced smile relaxed into a real one and some of the tension drained from his shoulders.
Eventually the crowd of disappointed students left, with Sirius and Wormtail following closely after them. With a start Harry suddenly realized that the Marauders had probably been stationed at the pub to protect the kids.
Yeah, there are Aurors about, but I bet Dumbledore had his Order patrolling the village in case there's a repeat of last year. He nodded to himself, appreciating that the other group wasn't being lulled into complacency by Voldemort's silence.
Good on them. Platform Nine's staying in the Muggle world—we don't have political protection like the Order does—so if they can help here and we can help there, well, at least that's something.
"Why don't you like Pettigrew?"
Gideon's voice from across the now-deserted pub startled him out of his thoughts.
Shite. I thought I covered that up well enough.
He could have shrugged it off or tried to convince Gideon that he was misreading him. Instead, Harry bit his lip.
"I—I'm not sure," he admitted carefully. "Bloke just rubs me the wrong way. Has since I met him at Hogwarts. He just…doesn't feel right."
The other man stared at him for a few beats before nodding slowly. "Fair enough. It's just that you seem to like most people."
Harry scoffed. "Hardly. I think most of the folks out there are bastards. But I think a lot of the people in here have, I dunno, something worth liking about them, even if they aren't really likeable."
Gideon nodded thoughtfully, and continued to look at him.
Goddammit! I've gotten so I can read most of the regulars well enough, but the man is completely inscrutable! The nervous curl of excitement in Harry's stomach grew as he stood there, meeting Gideon's stare.
After a few more thudding heartbeats he couldn't take the tension anymore. "So, uh, what are you working on today?" he asked, awkwardly gesturing to the man's sketchbook.
And then to his delight Gideon was motioning him over, and Harry was sitting down in the booth next to him rather than across from him, and neither of them were remarking on that rather odd decision.
"It's another emotional barometer invention based on MACUSA's threat level gauge," he started explaining. "I know Fabe showed you the one in the shop that measures the emotions of people in a house, yeah? Well, this one's more ambitious. What we're trying to do is create a barometer than measures a much larger area. All of Britain would be great, but right now that's beyond us…"
It was difficult for Harry to pay as close attention as he wanted, given the excited voice in his head chanting He's talking! To me!
"Anyway, we're working on versions that can measure areas the size of about a quarter of Hogsmeade, half of Diagon Alley, that sort of thing."
Harry frowned. "But what are you trying to measure?"
"Oh—this is the brilliant part—we want to make a barometer that can gauge the anger levels of the people within that area." Harry must have looked confused, as Gideon rushed on. "It's a way to help predict if Voldemort's going to attack, see? If the barometer for an area suddenly spikes, then that might mean that an attack may be imminent. It won't give us much advance time, but it'll give us some, and that might make the difference between a successful attack and a failed one."
Gideon's eyes burned with excitement. "So what do you think, Harry?"
"This is…this is bloody brilliant, Gideon."
A tinge of red crept into the man's ears. "We were thinking we could even mount them in public places to help warn people, plus maybe put some in the Ministry, at Hogwarts—there are so many different ways to adapt the spells and runes…"
From there Gideon embarked on a detailed description of the formulas, runic schemes, and spells that he was planning on using for the the emotional barometers. Having never taken most of the subjects required to understand his explanations, Harry contented himself with enjoying the sound of Gideon's voice as he navigated through high-level magical theory.
Fit and smart, his internal voice approved. Like hell 'Fabian's the clever one'!
As Gideon expounded—and wasn't that a verb that Harry never thought he'd apply to the typically quiet man—neither man seemed to notice that at some point their legs touched and stayed pressed lightly against the other's, nor that Harry had leaned in rather closely to follow (or try to follow) the spell formulas that Gideon sketched out for him. As it had in the Prewetts' workshop, time stuttered and blurred into meaninglessness, and Harry simply enjoyed being where he was and doing what he was doing.
"Well, Cassiopeia, it seems the cards did not lie to us. Patience is apparently required on our parts today!"
Both young men jumped as the biting tones of Professor Pemphredo wrenched them out of their own little world.
Harry turned to see a full table of divination gamblers glaring at him (well, Wigol was giggling), while a grinning Pel busied himself behind the bar pulling pints for Dalcop and Martial Sorner.
"Oh! I, um, I didn't noticed you all came in," he admitted, cringing. "Have you been waiting long?"
The gamblers glared. Dalcop's shoulders were shaking with silent laughter.
Gideon shot up. "Thanks for lunch, Harry. But I need to get back to the shop. I'll see you later."
Harry flashed him a quick smile and then hurried over to get the gamblers' drinks, shooing Pel out from behind the bar. "Everything's coming right up, ladies and Wig. First round's on the house. Er, sorry about the wait and all."
No one said anything else until the door closed behind Gideon.
The moment it did, all the barflies sniggered loudly as Dalcop pantomimed a rapidly-beating heart.
"Oh, shove off," Harry grumbled. "We were just talking about clocks."
"Seems that last word had one too many consonants," Pel retorted. Marty and Dalcop collapsed into giggles.
Huh?
…
Oh.
"That's just—I mean—oh, shut up, Pel!"
"You know, little Devil," Pemphredo cut in, because that's just the perfect addition to this conversation, "I'd be happy to do a reading and see if you're in for any tantalizing new developments."
Harry blanched. "Oh, no thanks, ma'am, seriously."
"Oi, Professor—maybe we should have a little flutter on that, eh?" Dalcop asked.
The ancient teacher looked thoughtful. "I'd be happy to draw up odds, gentlemen."
"Two galleons on the two of them being in bed together by the end of the month!" Marty Sorner proclaimed.
"What? No, guys, c'mon—"
Pel grinned as Harry tried to regain control of his pub. "I'll start a list while the professor works on the odds."
"Odds on what?" Guin asked as she came in from the kitchen.
Harry narrowed his eyes. He'd discovered a few weeks earlier that she'd riddled out the secret of the radio painting and had enlisted an enthusiastic Ariana as her accomplice. Guin now seemed to listen in on every conversation in the public room, so long as it was close to the bar; beyond that they just got static. Meanwhile Ariana took over the spying much of the rest of the time. Indeed, the painted girl had become absolutely obsessed with espionage.
Guin tipped him a wink.
Ruddy Slytherin.
Dalcop responded, heedless to Guin's eavesdropping. "If 'n how long it'll be before Gid an' Harry finally get to it."
"Oh, what a fascinating idea! Doc and I will definitely want to make a few wagers."
Harry's shoulders slumped. "You all know I really do hate you, right?"
xoxoxox
22 December, 1978
November had turned into December with howling winds and continued silence from Voldemort. The Nines had taken to training together a few times a week, with members showing up to teach, learn, or run mock-missions whenever they had a free night.
Life at the Head plugged along as it always did. Thankfully the betting pool on Harry's love life remained a private affair among the regulars, and those who had been sure he would be sharing a bed with Gideon within weeks had been forced to accept their losses.
The only real change was that Remus Lupin had become a fairly regular fixture at the Head. At first the young werewolf just sat alone and looked about the pub in distraction, as though he were waiting for someone who never showed.
While most of the regulars hadn't really noticed the new addition, Harry most certainly had.
Sirius did say that everyone started thinking that Professor Lupin was the traitor at some point. Guess I can see why. Damned if this doesn't look suspicious.
He had little doubt that Lupin was absolutely not a traitor, but decided to send Dumbledore a note mentioning the man's suspicious loitering. Not to do so would itself seem suspicious, after all.
He'd only sent the Headmaster half a dozen or so such missives. The minions of the Dark Lord didn't seem to use his pub all that much, at least not obviously. And certainly not the type of Death Eaters who would know anything worthwhile.
Being known as a Death-Eater killer isn't so great for the spying game, I guess.
Dumbledore had thanked him for the information about Lupin and had urged him to keep his eyes open, but had noted that he "doubted young Mr. Lupin was up to anything nefarious."
Good. Lupin doesn't need the Headmaster doubting him.
After two weeks of solitary lingering, Remus had started a tentative friendship with Loch and his crowd of werewolves. At the same time, Harry observed that he often spent time with some of the more antisocial lycans who occasionally haunted the Head, blokes generally rougher than Loch.
Didn't someone once say that the werewolves sided with Voldemort in the war? So what's Lupin doing with them? Spying on them for Dumbledore? Or maybe for a time he did consider joining them in my world, but decided against it….
Harry had shrugged and decided to definitely follow Dumbledore's advice and "keep his eyes open."
Lupin was in early tonight, sitting with Loch at corner table by the Head's sorry excuse for a Christmas tree.
Harry had meant to keep his eye on Lupin, really he had, but then Gideon arrived—without Fabian for once—and Harry suddenly felt it absolutely necessary to take a quick break for a spot of dinner.
The other man cocked a half-smile when Harry asked if he could join him, and the two fell into easy conversation about the clock maker's current project, a commissioned piece for some ancient matriarch of a pureblood family which would keep track of each of her three dozen cats.
Gideon was despairing over the impossibility of making a mauve, lilac, and mother-of-pearl monstrosity that was divided into thirty-six dozen separate zones but still retained refined aesthetics. Harry stared absently at the frustrated hand running through red hair and tried to convince himself that he should spare a few glances in Lupin's direction.
Instead, his mind stubbornly fixated on the question of whether or not Gideon was at all interested in him. Is he just being a nice? He talks to me more lately…but maybe he's just shy and got over it?
Goddammit, this is impossible! Maybe I should just ask? But then if he's not interested I'll be so humiliated and—
"—and of course the little beasts all have ridiculous names like Elagabalus, Woonsocket, and Monsieur Muckleshoot, so it's impossible to even fit them in the space that I have—"
Gideon broke off as the Floo activated and Sirius Black entered the pub.
"Ah, sorry about that. Wrong stop." His godfather's counterpart sauntered out of the public room and into the Hogsmeade night with exaggerated nonchalance that left Harry shaking his head.
Christ, Sirius really is a shit liar.
His suspicion that his godfather's arrival was no accident was confirmed when Remus Lupin immediately made excuses to Loch and followed his friend out the front door.
Well what are they up to,?
Before he could think to do anything, Gideon lurched up from the table, spilling his half-eaten bowl of stew directly in Harry's lap.
"Shit, shit, sorry Harry, but I just realized—I need, er—I mean, I have to go. I'll, uh, pay for the stew later. Sorry."
He grabbed his cloak and was out the front door before Harry even opened his mouth to respond.
He never babbles like that. What the hell is going on here?
A minute earlier Harry had been enjoying dinner with his…friend and now he had a lap full of potatoes, carrots, and beef.
He swept the mess onto the floor and vanished it. Before he could do the same to the gravy stain spreading across his groin, he felt a sudden heat on his chest.
No.
His heart started beating a tattoo against his ribs.
It's happening again.
Numb fingers pulled the dog tag out from under his shirt. A sharp breath punctuated his surprise at the address of the distress call.
54 Diagon Alley
What? Diagon Alley? Why would…It's the hols. Did some Muggleborn student take their parents shopping?
He'd find out soon enough. Harry cast a significant look at Doc before heading to the kitchen. Technically it was Guin's turn in the rotation, but the young woman had spent the morning with a touch of flu.
When he entered, Guin was looking at her own dog tag and chewing her lip.
"You've been ill. I'll go."
Guin frowned. "Harry, no one's going to go, you know that. We decided only to fight in the Muggle world, remember? We aren't Aurors or the Order, we're just vigilantes!"
The dog tag was still hot on his chest. "I know. I know all that," Harry bit out in frustration. "But fuck this, Guin, I'm going. Besides, if one person goes he can at least give a first hand report to Myrtle afterwards. And if it's a real fight, I don't think anyone will mind an extra hand."
"C'mon, no, Harry—," Guin began, but caught herself when she saw the look on his face "Fine," she sighed. "At least be careful, be smart, and for Merlin's sake, don't forget your glamour."
Harry snapped a glamour on immediately and turned to leave. "Wait, which one is 54?"
"Er—not sure. It'd be around the Magical Menagerie, I thi—"
Harry was out the door and into the back garden. With a deep breath, he Apparated to London.
xoxoxox
Rather than popping into the middle of a fight, Harry chose to appear in a dark corner at the south end of Diagon.
If someone called for help from the Alley, I doubt it's just one person being attacked.
He made his way towards Gringotts, carefully keeping to the shadows.
It didn't take him long to catch the blinding flashes of spellfire and the acrid smell of smoke coming from far up ahead.
A lot of spellfire, and a lot of smoke.
He was nearly to Ollivander's when he glimpsed a massive crowd fighting in the Gringotts plaza off in the distance. Fighters darted in and out of his limited field of vision and curses lit up the night.
This is where Sirius and Lupin went off to. I'm sure of it.
Oh God. Are my mum and dad here?
Suddenly a shriek, and then another accompanied by the sound of rapid-fire curses, shattered the silence to his right.
Harry paused, his instincts tugging him towards the scream—someone's being hurt a block over—and his heart demanding he join the main battle ahead.
Another voice cried out.
Dammit.
He turned to slip behind the buildings to his right. Making his way through a grimy courtyard littered with broken bottles and between another set of buildings, Harry peered into a darkened, narrow street.
Oh hell. This is Knockturn.
A brilliant flash of blue light just up the street caught his attention. He smashed himself up against a wall and stared as two men stood back to back and defended themselves against a gang of eight Death Eaters. A few other masked figures were scattered about the street, all downed and unmoving.
His eyes slowly widened as he watched the pair.
They moved in a continuous circle with their backs to the other, the larger one casting so deftly that it took Harry a few moments to catch on to his strategy. His jaw dropped as he identified among standard shields and counter-curses the strangest assortment of spells he'd ever encountered. Childish, trivial, nuisance things—a nausea curse here, a spell to tie a man's shoelaces together there, a curse to send dust into a person's eyes—all cast so quickly that he doubted the attackers even noticed they'd been hit at first.
But their effects in tandem with the actions of his partner were devastating. As they circled, the smaller man slammed into the Death Eaters with high-powered blasting hexes and cutting curses, the sort of crippling but flashy spells their opponents should have been able to block. Yet the distractions the larger man kept sending slowed their reactions just enough that the group was being thoroughly demolished.
Up until this moment, Harry had thought he'd started to master fighting as part of a team thanks to his training on The Delight and with the Nines. But this…
Four more went down, their screams echoing in the empty street.
Harry figured he should help, but the pair didn't really look like they needed it.
Two more down.
The remaining two fighters seemed more skilled than their companions, and the pair's circling strategy didn't appear to work as well against even numbers. Luckily the men noticed this and broke apart to take on a final opponent each.
They're a lot weaker on their own, he observed clinically. The larger man who favored the nuisance spells was doing alright, but he lagged when casting offensive magic, while the smaller man was fast with his attacks but slow with his shields.
They're beginning to falter. I should—
Harry stepped out to join the battle only to be clipped by a cutting curse to his side.
Three more Death Eaters had Apparated in and were advancing on him. Ignoring the blood seeping from under his ribs, he dropped into a crouch and flipped up a concussion shield, a defensive tactic Caff Burke had insisted he master. They couldn't take many hits, but each spell that made contact would send a concussive blast back on the caster.
His ears rang with two solid gongs.
Two out of three isn't bad. In fact, it seemed the third, smarter Death Eater had been caught in the concussion blast's wash as well.
Harry canceled the shield and hit the first dazed Death Eater with a Stupefy followed by a refilling charm to the lungs. The unconscious man gurgled as he began drowning in his own blood.
He won't get back up again.
His satisfaction was fleeting. The other two had recovered quickly, already scrambling to their feet.
"Avada Kedavra!" one shouted, but the spell was a pale sickly green and fizzled out before it got close to Harry.
Guess he doesn't have the power. Or maybe he didn't really mean it.
The Death Eater's intentions didn't matter.
Leave them alive and they'll just come back at you later. The now all-too-familiar horror that accompanied the thought didn't stop Harry from snaring the man's wand arm with a paralysis hex before dispatching him with a Diffindo to the throat.
The third man had taken shelter behind a silvery, mercurial shield that Harry had never seen before. Moving with liquid grace, the Death Eater lowered the shield and rapidly followed it with another new spell, an orange flash with so much pressure behind it that Harry's ears popped. He could only dive away.
This guy…yeah, he's faster than me. And he knows spells I don't know.
Shit.
He barely managed to shield against a volley of spells that blurred towards him in a colorful whirl.
I don't think I can beat him in a fair fight, his mind observed with detachment as the man flicked away some of Harry's best explosive curses like they were schoolboy jinxes.
Caffrey Burke's laughter filled his mind. You're a pirate, love. Maybe you should try not fighting fair?
He fell to the ground to escape a violently-red streak.
Christ, that was a Crucio!
Okay then. Don't fight fair.
Harry managed to quickly cast an overpowered stone-softening spell—recommend by Tweeny Twig's for reshaping stone walls—onto the street in front of the Death Eater, but had to scrabble to block an incoming neon-pink curse whose wash reeked of acid.
Meanwhile, his opponent had erected a rotating golden shield designed to protect all vital areas of his body.
But, Harry knew, such a shield didn't cover all the way to a person's feet.
Thank for teaching me that one, Ab.
"Flagellum Ignis!" With a shout he sent his Fire Whip at the man's ankle. The flaming cord wrapped around it and Harry pulled.
The Death Eater cried out and fell forwards onto the part of the street that Harry had softened, his body sinking into cobblestones that now had the consistency of wet cement. His face, however, struck hard pavement. With a sharp crack his mask shattered.
"Well, holy fuck," Harry panted, staring at bloodied pale skin and disheveled blond hair. "That you, Malfoy?"
A twenty-something Lucius Malfoy glared up at Harry as he foundered helplessly to drag himself out of the stone quagmire.
Guess he always was a worthless piece of shit.
"The big battle's over by Gringotts, Lucius," he grinned. "Did you get lost?"
The blond hissed but used Harry's distraction to slip a hand inside the collar of his robes. Before Harry could even blink Malfoy had portkeyed away.
Oh well done there, lad. Ab's voice dripped with sarcasm.
Dammit! So bloody stupid. Did I seriously just lose Lucius Malfoy because I was too busy taking the piss out of him?
Footsteps sounded behind him and he suddenly remembered he wasn't alone. The two-man team had apparently bested their last opponents and seemed no worse for wear—
Oh. Huh.
His mouth hung open in a way that surely had to look ridiculous.
Fabian and Gideon Prewett approached him, the former grinning broadly, the latter looking at the glamoured Harry with a more guarded expression.
"Not bad, mate, ha!" Fabian pumped his fist in the air. "But was that a bloody construction spell you used on the street? Brilliant!"
Gideon did not smile.
I'm glamoured. Be normal. He swallowed the flock of questions that fluttered on the tip of his tongue. "Uh, thanks. You two are okay, then?"
Both had cuts and burns, though they raised their wands when Harry moved to tend them.
"Whoa—don't worry. I'm not bad at healing. See?" He waved his wand and muttered an incantation over the laceration in his side, which had just started to throb as his adrenaline ebbed.
Fabian shrugged after seeing Harry's skin neatly fuse back together. "Have at it, mate, but be quick. We want to get to Gringotts."
A few moments later and the worst of the brothers' injuries were healed.
"Let's move," Gideon muttered.
The trio made their way onwards towards the growing din of the battle, the brothers keeping Harry in front of him. He silently approved their decision. They don't know they know me.
As they drew nearer to Gringotts, a blast of frigid air seized Knockturn and a puddle of water crackled out a warning as it froze.
Lily Potter's screams suddenly shattered into Harry's mind.
–Not Harry, please no, take me–
He managed to straighten his back and looked around in mounting panic. Both Prewetts were trying not to double over.
"Wha—what is this?" Fabian choked out, Gideon heaving rattling breaths beside him.
–Take Harry and run!–
–Ab? Hey. Get up, Ab–
–Stand aside, you silly girl–
–Get up, Ab. Please?–
Harry clamped his eyes closed as his parents died again, as he found Ab's body again. The cold was surrounding him, attacking him, digging its way into him.…
"Deh—Dementors," he finally gasped. Looking overhead, his eyes tracked a massive black shadow barreling towards Diagon. "'S gotta be."
Gideon's harsh gasps punctuated the unnatural silence. Jesus, I can't even hear the battle anymore.
"Oh God, this is…" Fabian moaned, unable to finish the thought.
"Yeah. Yeah, I know. This is…this is really bad." Harry struggled to calm down and get himself ready to fight. The cloud, however, passed above them, and the Dementors' effects were rapidly weakening. "Oh hell, they're going to incapacitate everyone fighting down there."
He had to control his breathing. I can't let this happen.
"Either of you know the Patronus charm?"
Gideon shook his head.
"Always meant to learn it but…" Fabian trailed off.
"Okay," he gulped. "Okay. I can do it. But I need one of you to go and try to see where they are. The other I need to stay here and watch my back."
"I'll go. You stay," Fabian said to his brother and moved down Knockturn on silent feet.
Harry closed his eyes.
I've driven off tonnes of Dementors before, and I was only thirteen then. I just have to focus. Ab told me how to cast multiple patronuses. But if I can't do it, one should at least help some.
Happy thoughts.
Happy memories.
Images of Ab, Pel, the Head, and the Dearborns unfolded in his mind. Hagrid, Poppy, and Filch. The feeling of the Caribbean wind in his hair. The press of Gideon's leg against his own.
Salt spray, the tang of mead, Hogsmeade in autumn.
A warm glow filled him.
This is my life now.
He smiled and opened his eyes.
"I can't see them—I can't see Dementors anywhere! But damn if I can't feel the bastards," Fabian called in a loud whisper as he jogged back.
"That's okay, it's okay. We've got to get as close as possible. I can cast the spell, you two cover me, yeah?"
Fabian nodded and elbowed Gideon, who nodded brusquely.
The walk up the rest of the deserted alley was far too short. In moments they were looking out on a raging battle in the small plaza in front of the bank, but the Death Eaters were obviously gaining the upper hand as the defenders wavered under the crippling effects of the still-unseen Dementors.
Willing himself to ignore the chill, Harry closed his eyes.
The glow was still there.
Deep breath.
Please.
. . .
"Expecto Patronos!"
Harry's world narrowed to his own heartbeat just before a bone-deep thrum of power rumbled through him.
Three colossal wandering albatrosses erupted from his wand and wheeled into the square under the power of a single beat of their wings. Their silvery blaze flooded the darkness, drowning the flashing reds and greens of other spells in its wake.
As one, the defenders rallied under the huge patronuses, while smaller shining animals started appearing scattered throughout the battle. One loud baritone rose over the din, "Keep fighting, mates, keeping fighting!"
Harry, however, only heard the keening cry from one of his albatrosses, and he understood its confusion. They can't find the Dementors.
It doesn't matter! Just help them! Keep flying!
The birds soared, ducking and whirling through spellfire that could not touch them, leaving renewed hope in their wakes even as the effects of what had to be at least a hundred unseen Dementors attempted to ravage the souls of the defenders.
Harry held onto his wand with both hands like he had once held it in a graveyard in another world, with pure desperation and an absolute commitment not to let go, not to fail. The edges of his vision blurred until he could only see the scene directly in front of him, dotted with chaotic pinpricks of darkest black and glowing white. I have to keep at this. They can't fight with the Dementors attacking their spirits.
But he was faltering under the massive drain on his energy that came with maintaining such a spell for more than a few moments.
An arm reached across his chest and held him steady.
Just keep flying.
Then the crowd before him parted and he glimpsed colors other than black and white. A flash of red, a few slivers of brown, a shock of golden yellow.
Harry desperately tried to focus as he realized that he'd spied his parents and the Longbottoms in the distance, all dueling furiously with an emaciated figure swathed in a robe so impossibly black that it seemed like a man-shaped void in reality.
Voldemort, his mind whispered before his stomach sank.
Oh God. Mum and Dad—and Alice and Frank—they're dueling Voldemort. Oh God.
Fear roiled through him and the voices of his own parents played on a gruesome loop once more.
–Please no, take me–
–Take Harry and run!–
–Avada Kedvada!–
The albatrosses had flickered and fizzled out of existence.
He slumped back, eyes wide, as the parents in his mind kept dying and their counterparts kept battling the Dark Lord.
They were losing.
"NO!"
He wanted to run and join the fight, to save them, but his legs wouldn't work correctly and the strong arm held him back.
No! Fuck this. Fuck all this! They're still alive, they still have a chance!
It felt like his heart was trying to beat its way free from his chest.
Deep breath, dammit. Deep breath!
He shut his eyes and forced his mind to do his bidding. Think.
Images of an imagined life with Lily and James, with his own mum and dad, flashed across his mind.
Please, one more time.
Like in his third year, he later couldn't really remember making the conscious choice to act. He just knew that people who mattered—people he had lost—were in danger of being lost again.
"Expecto patronum."
His voice was only a whisper, but the right emotions were there, even if his body was gasping that it couldn't do any more.
Prongs burst from his wand.
"Save them. Please. Somehow," he gasped.
The stag shook its antlers and galloped into the battle. It ran on legs faster than nature allowed, becoming little more than a silver blur streaking through the frozen London street. Neither Lily nor James, nor Alice and Frank, seemed to notice it racing behind them.
But Voldemort did.
Prongs drew the Dark Lord's attention away from his attackers only for a moment, but in that moment Harry could have sworn he saw multiple spells crash into Riddle.
And then Prongs was gone, Harry's wand hanging uselessly at this side. His vision swirled into a nauseating, kaleidoscopic spin and he swayed, not quite unconscious, but so bloody tired he couldn't manage to do anything as he leaned back into the body behind him.
Broken voices cut their way through the silence in his head.
"—ly shit, did that just happen?! Damn, Harry…"
" …get him out of here."
"I'll stay…over…report..."
"...tell Dumbledore…come on, we're going."
There was a horrible suffocating sensation and Harry realised he was being Apparated.
"No…"
"Shut it. You're done for the night."
Harry blinked and Gideon Prewett's face swam into focus. They were standing on a stoop, the Hog's Head a bit down the street.
"Whah?"
Gideon's eyes bored into him. "I can't take you to the Head like this, unless you want everyone to know you were in the battle. You can go home tomorrow. I'll send a note to Guin."
He nodded dumbly. "Kay…Wait—how? Glamour…"
The redhead snorted. "Dropped during your first Patronus charm."
"Oh...Potter, Evans, the others. Okay?"
"Yeah, looked like it. Fabe's waiting to meet with them and the others."
A surge of relief flooded through him as Gideon helped him inside Prewetts' Prodigious Clocks and up the back staircase to what had to be the brothers' apartment. Harry blearily eyed the couch but the other man kept him walking into one of the bedrooms.
As the door shut behind them, Gideon whirled around, his gray eyes flashing.
"What the hell were you thinking? That was mental!"
Harry cast about blankly for something to say, but his mind was fuzzy and he felt like he was viewing the scene from far away. Really tired. Wow. He looked over at Gideon, who glared furiously back.
Oh.
Oh, he looks hot when he's angry.
"Well? Come on, Harry! Say something."
Huh.
Yeah, he's right.
I should say something.
So he said something.
"I like you."
Gideon shut his mouth with an audible clack of teeth.
Harry figured he should probably say more.
"I really like you."
The other man shook his head in rapid little jerks. "Well—what? That's—that's just beside the point! I mean… Merlin, Harry—you can't just go and say—seriously?"
He shrugged, which only seemed to irritate Gideon more.
"You're—I—this is hardly the time—" He threw up his hands in frustration. "Oh, the hell with it all!"
Harry didn't have time to cotton on to what was happening–Gideon wasn't making a lot of sense tonight either–before one hand slipped around his waist and another grasped the back of his head. Making a raw sound in his throat that the younger wizard couldn't fathom, Gideon kissed him.
Oh.
Well alright then.
Muscle-control was rather beyond him at this point and Harry was fleetingly concerned that his kissing was sub-par, but the arm that pulled their bodies together and the hand entwined in his hair—not to mention the press of Gideon's lips and his tongue in Harry's mouth—more than made up for any worries he might have had if he could think straight.
Oh wow.
He felt himself losing his balance, but that was totally okay because Gideon seemed to be doing well enough in that regard by himself, so Harry leaned into the kiss with the last vestiges of his energy.
Soon enough—too soon—Gideon pulled back.
The redhead started saying something about how he probably shouldn't have done that since Harry was obviously exhausted, but Harry decided to concentrate instead on the electric tingles lingering on his lips.
"Oh…Oh, I really like you," he managed before weariness overtook him completely and he slumped back onto the bed behind him.
The last thing he heard was Gideon murmur something that was probably brilliant.
xoxoxox
Note: Multiple patronuses: In OotP, McGonagall casts multiple patronus messengers. I figure multiple patronuses thus can also be used for the spell's original purpose. For the spell I just used the pluralized Latin form.
Huge thanks to Averagefish for beta-ing this chapter up to the battle in Knockturn. If the quality drops off significantly about halfway through, that's all on me.