Notes:
While this and future updates will occur in the same 'universe', I make no promises that there will be a coherent plot or chronology. You can think of these as connected oneshots which will get updated when the Plot Bunny Fairy bonks me on the head.
And yes, the title is lifted straight from Bo Burnham.
February, 2003
The bar was dingy and dirty, and filled with shadows and shady characters. Inaudible chatter echoed through the air. He'd happily bet that at least half the bar's patrons were criminals of some stripe, and that some of the chatter was at least tangentially related to illicit dealings. If he was the same person he'd been a half-decade ago – well, he'd likely have been refused entry. Aurors were hardly welcome in places like this.
Seated at a booth that allowed an excellent view of the only two doors that connected to the bar (one for the exit and one for the restrooms), he let his eyes sweep over the room. Contact lenses had allowed him to cover up what he supposed had been a distinctive trait of his, with light glamours and the bad lighting doing the rest of the job. His beer was left untouched at the table in front of him. Wizarding beers weren't quite as strong as muggle spirits, but they hit much harder than even the stronger muggle beers. He might have had a 'true Russian's liver', according to past acquaintances, but that didn't mean that he would be freely imbibing alcohol when going into a potentially high-risk situation.
His gaze settled on a mildly reflective surface that he only later realized was a cracked mirror, although it was hard to tell given the amount of grime and dirt that it was caked with. Still, he caught the blurred reflection of himself there. His naive old self would have been horrified at what he was now.
An amused smirk threatened to appear on his face, and his lips twitched as he processed that thought.
"You know," drawled a familiar voice, "it seems that every time we run into each other, the venue gets more and more unrefined. Your fondness for shitholes knows no bounds, Potter."
Inwardly cursing at allowing himself to be caught with his guard down, Harry Potter forced himself to turn his eyes to the speaker and relax. A lazy gesture to the seat across him followed.
"You're late, Greengrass. It's been a full two days," he said. His fingers brushed against the wand holster on his left arm, placed below the table. The reassuring feel of his backup wand, alongside the dagger sheathed on his right shin, made him feel a mite more comfortable. Greengrass isn't a danger to me that way – I think, anyway. "It's unlike you to take so long to track me down."
Daphne Greengrass, like him, had changed a lot over the years. He was sure that his old schoolmate, years ago, would have been shocked at what she became. Still, the old hint of queenly grace remained, and her posture was as poised as it always had been. Harry noticed a major difference from the last time they'd met. Her hair was black instead of light blonde – whether it was hair dye, a glamor or something else, Harry didn't know, but it was likely to help her blend into the local populace.
She shrugged in response to his comment, and slid into the booth. "I'm sure you'll survive."
"Hmph. What the hell are you doing here?"
Daphne gave a light laugh. "Subtle as always, I see. I could easily ask you the same question."
Harry rolled his eyes. "You know why I'm here, princess. The reasons haven't changed since the last time we met, and the time before that."
"Unfortunate that the quality of your chosen venues couldn't have remained constant too," she said with a sniff. "Besides, how does wiping out a dark wizard sect in Mali and toppling the Djiboutian Ministry of Magic for Axum fall under the same reason?"
"Shits and giggles," Harry snarked. "You haven't answered my question."
Greengrass smiled innocently, ice-blue eyes shining in the dark. "I got bored in foggy old Britain, so I decided to go for a vacation. Mother keeps trying to play matchmaker, but her idea of what makes for a good match is dreadfully dull."
"Right…" Harry drawled. "Your ideal vacation spot just happened to be Wizarding Peru, which is teetering on the edge of civil war."
"I have eccentric tastes. Sue me," she replied with a smirk.
Harry sighed, although it was more resigned this time. "Which side did you sign on with?"
His contract with the Peruvian ministry only required him to bring in the rebel warlord in (as a corpse or soon-to-be-corpse was at his discretion), so he wasn't too worried about Daphne signing on with the rebels. Despite his reputation as a walking wrecking ball, most of his work was actually completed without egregious levels of collateral damage. Cloak, sneak in, whack the target, and sneak out – it just so happened that some of his targets were paranoid bastards who took precautions, and that led to the mass destruction. Either way, engaging Daphne (or any other mercenaries) wasn't really a big concern.
Daphne pouted. "Really? That's it? I travel half the world just to end up in this dingy bar and you aren't even going to indulge me?"
"You might enjoy the dog-and-pony show every time we do this, but I don't," Harry said flatly. Well, that's not entirely true...especially if she pouts like that again.
"Does it hurt to sit down when you have that stick up your ass?" Daphne asked. "Lighten up, Potter, and don't frown so much. You'll ruin your boyish good looks."
The old Harry would have blushed. Then again, the old Harry wouldn't have had a 'stick up his ass', as the former pureblood princess put it.
This Harry, however, merely raised an eyebrow.
"Fine," Daphne gave in. "It's neither – I'm a free agent right now."
A look of disbelief snuck past him before he could wrestle it down behind his occlumency barriers. Greengrass clearly saw it, though that wasn't shocking given how perceptive she could be.
"The Peruvian Ministry seems to think that having you contracted guarantees victory, and the rebels seem to be of the opinion that they don't need 'yet another gringa'," Daphne said. Harry could detect that she was not-so-secretly peeved. "Their loss, of course. I figured I'd stay and watch Hurricane Potter in action."
That Daphne hadn't been picked up by either side was surprising. She was relatively well-known in the 'hired wand' community as a powerful witch – her reputation had nothing on his, of course, but that came with the territory of being the Vanquisher of Voldemort and a half-dozen other wannabe-dark-lords. They'd actually fought on the same side before, albeit on different battlefields and fronts. By all reports, she'd acquitted herself well on those occasions.
"I do hope you're not here to convince me to split the Ministry contract with you," Harry said teasingly. As a rule of thumb, Harry would only work in teams with people he trusted and trained with. He trusted Daphne…ish, but they'd never trained or drilled together. He knew she was good in a duel, but that didn't mean she'd actually be of help rather than a hindrance.
"Oh please, Potter, neither of us are in this for galleons." Daphne eyed his untouched drink. Harry pushed it towards her without saying anything, and she shrugged and downed it.
"Besides, I wasn't kidding about this being a sort-of-vacation. Astoria got engaged to Draco recently, and that's only ramped up the pressure," she continued with a sneer, which Harry internally identified as Pureblood Sneer, Type 3. "Mother has become incessant with her attempts at finding a suitable match from a family of good standing."
"The pureblood gentry not doing it for you?" Harry snickered.
"About a third have been halfbloods, actually," Daphne noted. "Most of them are feckless and weak, blood status notwithstanding. No doubt Mother wants the future Lord Consort to be a yes-man like Father."
Harry stayed silent, sensing that she wasn't quite done venting yet.
"If I wanted a spouse that bowed to my every whim, I'd stick with these rosy palms and the secret toys in the secret trunk," Daphne said, using the beer bottle to gesture at her open left palm. She then giggled. "I'm supposed to be meeting another one of Mother's candidates today, actually!"
"I don't suppose you have an emergency portkey to return home?" Harry asked, trying (and failing) to project a hopeful tone.
"Merlin, no," Daphne said. "I left a note with the house elves to hand to Mother. If her invertebrate of choice wants to put forward his candidacy for Lord Consort of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Greengrass, he'll have to come here."
"You're sorting your marriage prospects based on whether or not they'll come to a warzone?" Harry laughed. It was bonkers, in a way that definitely resembled the witch sitting across from him.
"If they won't wade into an active warzone for you, are they really The One?" Daphne said, faux-snootily with her nose pointed into the air.
"That's...kinda fucked up, princess," Harry's chuckles tapered down a bit. "You realize, an idiot wouldn't realize Wizarding Peru was a warzone, right? You could just be self-selecting for yes-men who were also morons."
Daphne pondered that for a second, came to the same conclusion, and chugged the rest of the bottle.
"Fuck."