A/N: Set in some nebulous dystopia or possibly a different planet where there's very little sunlight and lots of sandstorms. I did not put as much thought into it as I usually do because I just wanted the aesthetic! Definitely faintly futuristic though!
The city was a violet kaleidoscope.
Sand filled the air, carried back and forth by a brisk wind, shooed from crowded corner to abandoned alleyway. But underneath the sand, through the beige silt and gritty smog, there was an unending source of light.
Harry tugged the scarf down his face, surveying the city from on top of the hill.
It took a few weeks to get the back-up generators running, but now that they never stopped running, they powered a massive web of neon lights. Every dilapidated building was frosted with pale blue and electric purple. Billboards blinked with white LED'S, and every single sign had been wired to shine violet.
"C'mon." Ron clapped a hand on his shoulder, tugging him down the dune. "Gotta be careful on the way down, there's debris. Something must have shifted while we were away."
Sure enough, spokes of metal and rough brick peeked through the sand. It moved constantly, especially when the winds were rough, and now most of the buildings on the South side of the city were completely buried. The two travellers they'd picked up on the scouting mission had to be directed around the danger, but they hadn't gotten this far without being slightly alert to their surroundings.
"It's so bright," one of them said, once they reached the street. "Is it always this bright?
"Pretty much," Ron said, squinting up at a harsh billboard. The advert had long since been stripped away, leaving nothing but tatters and splashes of paint behind.
"I'd forgotten…"
Harry gave them both a moment, both of them blinking in the haze of neon light, before leading them down the sand-swept street. The wind tried to buffet them into various doorways, but Harry led the crew determinedly towards the Order of the Phoenix's headquarters.
"It used to be a bank," Hermione explained, as she pushed open the brass doors. "Now it's where we receive new citizens and deal with any problem that comes up. We'll bring you to the kitchen while we debrief, and then we'll find you both somewhere to stay. Molly's in charge of rations, so you'll have a chance to discuss that with her."
"It might be a few hours before we're back," Harry said. "Meetings tend to run long."
The two of them blinked owlishly before hurrying to thank them. Hermione directed them to the stairs, which led down to the kitchen. It was Molly's pride and joy, and she'd probably be delighted to have new mouths to feed, although Harry wasn't so sure if they'd be as delighted to deal with her energy after three days traipsing across sand dunes.
"They're right, you know," Ron said, out of the blue. "We've lived here for over a year now, but every time we go scouting, I forget how bright the city is."
"We should try not to take it for granted," Hermione agreed. "But for now, we should go and debrief. McGonagall will want to know that we're back. Oh, and we can see if they've got new goggles for you, Harry."
Harry reached up to prod his goggles. They were copped-coloured, with bottle-green lenses. He had been worried, at first, that they'd end up being the thick plastic kind he recalled from science classes.
"These work fine," he said, waving away her concerns. "They keep the sand off, so that's all I care about."
"You won't be saying that when the lens cracks in the middle of a mission."
"Leave the man alone, Hermione," Ron said, jaw almost cracking on a yawn. "Are we going or what?"
"I'll meet you there," Harry said, as he shucked off his jacket and slung it over one shoulder, heading straight for the showers. "There's somewhere I want to go first. Won't be long."
Ron and Hermione shared a knowing look behind his back.
"As if we don't know where he's going," Ron muttered.
"Or how long he's going to be," Hermione added dryly.
Harry ignored them both, shuffling off to the showers. He lived, for the most part, in the Order's spare room. The bank was surprisingly roomy, one of those old red brick buildings that was now stuffed full of cots and crates and first aid equipment. Someone had knocked in one of the walls during the early days to allow them access to the gym next door, and that was the corridor he headed for, making a beeline for the locker with his name on.
A soft, olive-green jumper waited for him inside. He put his dirty clothes in the giant hamper and showered quickly but somewhat languidly. They were allowed seven minutes of hot water after a mission instead of the usual four; he could afford a little languidness.
But the jumper called to him, and so did Kingsley.
Kingsley Shacklebolt worked in the greenhouses. It was a given, then, that if Harry ever needed finding, one need only look for him there. When he was dressed and as dry as he was going to get, he took to the streets, making sure not to bump into any of the senior members on his way out.
There was no way to tell night or day anymore, not with the sun swallowed up by the dark, but it felt late. There was a certain carefree feeling in the air as people darted back and forth, hurrying back to their makeshift homes or heading out for a well-earned drink. Harry was tempted to join them, but it could wait.
At the end of the street, sandwiched between two flat sand-dunes and fenced off with sheets of iron, the steps to the underground loomed into view.
"Harry," said a voice, just as he got to the top of the stairs.
Harry turned to find Neville waving at him, heading towards the greenhouses too. He was carrying a sack over one shoulder, barely breaking a sweat, and there was dirt all over him. Harry gave him a half-hug and let him go down first.
At the bottom of the stairs, they met a wall of glass. Harry still didn't know how they'd built the greenhouses, and he didn't want to ask. But every time he stepped foot inside them, it filled him with that strange sense of awe.
"Could you grab my key?" Neville asked.
Harry fished his own out of his pocket and slipped it into place. The air hummed with electricity; even down here, the neon lights glowed something fierce.
"Right," Neville said wryly. "Not sure how I forgot about that."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry said, stepping aside to let him through and shutting the door behind them.
"You know exactly what it means," Neville says, with a knowing smile. "You two aren't exactly subtle. I'd head towards Greenhouse Seven, if I were you."
"Thanks, Nev."
"No problem. See you later, Harry."
Neville disappeared through the first door, whistling under his breath, and Harry took the second one. The olive jumper was a little too warm now in the sudden heat, but he was reluctant to take it off.
He walked through the greenhouses silently, hands tucked inside his pockets as he revelled in the quiet.
When the sun first fell and the sandstorm rolled in, the days were dark and dim. No power, no natural light, no anything really; it didn't lend for a very cheery atmosphere. People survived off scraps and tinned food. It was surprising how long you could make a tin of soup last. The greenhouses were the first thing they turned their attention to. It was vital, said the Order of the Phoenix, to get the crops growing as quickly as possible.
Not everyone listened, of course. Government officials were too busy running to their bunkers to help piece the city back together. It was a good thing that the Order of the Phoenix, a self-proclaimed group of rebels, never really waited for anyone to listen before they did something.
The greenhouses were the fruit of that rebellion. Harry ducked through another tunnel, tugging his scarf down for the second time. His lips were chapped. So were his hands. But it was a little humid in the greenhouse, everything washed in neon mint light, and the discomfort faded rapidly the further in he went. Great big leaves brushed over his hair with every step, and his elbows landed in tomato plants and trays of tiny seedlings.
Music was playing somewhere in the glass maze. Soft jazz, a little tinny and overlaid with the fuzz of static, but still sweet on the air. Harry followed it, lips turning up as the music changed to a new record, and he recognised the song.
One of Kingsley's favourites. One of Harry's favourites too, now, by default, despite how little he cared about music before.
"Hi," Harry called, as he rounded a final corner. "You worn out that record yet?"
Kingsley was down on one knee in a patch of dirt, being careful not to crush the green sheet underneath the soil. He was tending to a rather ragged group of plants, but he looked up immediately at Harry's question, and warmth suffused his face. He looked good; his trousers were plain but tight, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to the elbows, dark forearms streaked with dirt.
"Ah, you're back." Kingsley stood and wiped the sweat off his brow, facing Harry with a familiar grin, one that filled him with comfort. "Find anything?"
The sight of him was enough to take the weight off Harry's shoulders. The last few days hadn't been hard, exactly, but sand-dunes were exhausting to navigate, and it was frustrating to come back mostly empty-handed. It was time that he could have spent doing better things.
"Just a few stragglers," Harry said. "They were travelling here anyway, so it was a waste of time. We didn't even get much in the way of resources. Grow anything?"
"Just a few tomatoes," Kingsley said, beckoning him closer. "Come and try them. I changed the soil in Greenhouse Three, and I think it made a big difference."
Harry couldn't tell the difference, but he was grateful enough for the food that he made appreciative noises anyway. Kingsley coaxed him into eating a handful of shiny red tomatoes, and then pushed a ripe pear into his hands, smiling like he knew exactly what the reaction would be.
"Fruit?" Harry said, awed. "How? I thought you said... "
"They won't produce a full crop for a few more months, but it's a start. I salvaged a few young trees in the beginning, and the folks at the Ministry were workin' on something to shorten the time span. Tastes good, too. You should try it."
"Should I?" Harry laughed. "Feels like it should go in a museum or something. Do you have enough to go around?"
Kingsley shot him a sly grin. "No. So you better eat it fast."
Harry did not eat it fast. He took slow, indulgent bites, savouring the taste as he trailed after Kingsley, following him through the greenhouses. Each door opened into another greenhouse; sometimes they had to step through tunnels of plastic, but for the most part, it functioned as one big room. The temperature dropped and increased, and by the time they were out in the open air again, Harry's t-shirt was sticking to his back, and there was only one bite of the pear left.
"I'm tempted to eat the stem," he admitted, looking down at it forlornly. "Oh, here."
He tipped two seeds into Kingsley's waiting palm. He'd never said it out loud, but he loved Kingsley's hands. They were big, self-assured, and gentle despite their unquestionable strength. The skin on his palms was a little lighter, rough and calloused, and a green vine travelled down the length of his index finger, tattooed there last year. They were good hands. Strong hands. Harry never knew if he wanted to hold them or if he wanted them to hold him, but he usually got his wish, either way.
And sure enough, after Kingsley had pocketed the seeds with a special kind of care, he placed both hands on Harry's waist and pulled him close. Harry didn't mind being short so long as it was Kingsley leaning over him, pressing him carefully against the greenhouse wall. The glass was warm and felt fragile against his back; the kiss was searingly hot but somehow still chaste, as though mirrored a little to the left.
"I like this jumper," Kingsley said, in rumbling tones.
"Yeah? I like it too. Was thinking of keeping it."
"What's mine is yours," Kingsley said, light enough that Harry didn't have to take it seriously if he didn't want to; but he did, so the words made him swallow thickly. "I'm glad you're home safe, Harry. We should celebrate."
"The pear wasn't enough?"
Kingsley chuckled, drawing back just far enough to kiss Harry's scruffy jaw. "The pear was nowhere near enough."
The promise in his words sent a shiver through Harry. "Might have to put a pin in that. I skipped the debrief. Want to walk back with me?"
"Minerva will be on the warpath."
"That's why I need you to walk back with me," Harry said, with a grin.
"Ah, is that so?" Kingsley's eyebrows went up, and he rubbed small, soothing circles on Harry's skin, just above his hips. "You've only been back for an hour, and you're already causing trouble. Lead the way, then."
But neither of them really lead the way. They walked side-by-side through the street, hands entwined; the wind had died down a little, and the sand settled, shifting slightly on the concrete.
They passed a couple of teenagers, spraying lime green paint on a brick wall, and kept on moving. They paused briefly outside a bar that was thumping with music; through the window, they could see George's familiar shock of red hair as he poured silver liquid into overflowing tankards. A block of flats was seething with life and energy; people hung over the balcony railings, stringing out washing and painting and chucking battered frisbees from one window to another.
Somewhere between one flickering sign and another, Kingsley laughed at something he said, and Harry got tired of the slow pace. He pressed Kingsley against the nearest wall, pulling him into the shadow of the building. But it wasn't a shadow at all; the noise of burning bulbs was fierce and bright, and Kingsley's eyes reflected a violet kaleidoscope of colour. Harry forgot all about the warpath and the war, and kissed him under the neon lights.
[Word Count: 2,434]