Harry cracked open a cold can of some American soft drink or other and took a large swing of it to quench his thirst. He typically didn't drink these, but seeing as he was a guest and one had been offered to him, he didn't see why he shouldn't have it.
"Not a fan of Everfizzy-Sweetness?" asked his host.
"What makes you say that?" replied Harry.
"You made a funny face."
"I forgot how sweet and fizzy this crap is. Don't drink it very often, I guess. Actually, I can't even remember the last time I had any sort of soft drink… Maybe five-six years ago?"
His host reached across the table and took a swing from his can. Harry grinned at her while collecting his thoughts. She leaned back and lit a cigarette.
Harry had gone to Europe after his successful strike against the werewolves of Britain for a little vacation, and to lie low. His decades-long wait for vengeance was finally coming to fruition. He had many plans to execute, but he was a patient man and knew not to rush.
He didn't know what was happening with Hermione though, and this left him confused. After their work with the wolves had finished that night, Hermione never showed up at their safehouse. In fact, she had disappeared altogether. She wasn't responding to any of their usual methods of communication either.
Harry had gone back to the forest the following day after their mission. He didn't find traces of anything or any wolves besides the burned out clearing and the mounted head of one Fenrir Greyback. Nothing along the perimeter Hermione was supposed to have controlled. He did find some traces of wolves running but no bodies, no blood, no signs of struggle or battle. It was as if the wolves had simply vanished mid-stride. One moment there, the next gone. He wondered what Hermione did to them. It was definitely within her abilities to evaporate something…
"Penny for your thoughts?"
Harry looked at the person asking him the question, and wondered how much he could actually tell this beautiful woman about his life. He had deflected so far any questions about who he truly was.
She had told him about her life. She was a writer, and travelled the world. She currently lived in a comfortable but small flat by the Mediterranean.
Harry had gone to Greece for the beaches and the food. It's been a week since he's been staying at her place after meeting her on the beach one day while enjoying a walk.
She had a vintage cigarette holder in her hand, and bright red lipstick on. Her breasts were exposed, and she and Harry both sat around the little wooden table in the small kitchen, basking in a post-coital moment of bliss. The smoke she exhaled melded with the incense burning harmoniously, so the smell in the air wasn't overly acrid because of the tobacco.
"You know how I said my work was classified? Yeah, some of those classified things are troubling me."
The woman frowned at that while blowing out some smoke in Harry's general direction. He waved his hand through the cloud to clear it up. She looked at the tattoos on his body. They were mostly some sort of alphabet she didn't recognize, but covered his arms and torso. Some were clearly scar-tissue as opposed to ink, some both, and some just ink.
"Fine, lemme tell you a bit about what I do." He looked around the flat while searching for the best way to tell her something without actually revealing anything. He absently observed that the balcony door was open, letting in a fresh, moonlit seaside breeze. He could hear the crickets singing their song. The woman puffed on her cigarette in silence and darkness, lit up by a single candle on the table and whatever moon and starlight that came in through the windows.
Finally, he spoke. "I recently conducted an operation against a violent criminal organization that preys on children and the socially ostracized. The gang had over fifty members. My unit and I destroyed them."
The woman's frown first deepened and her eyes grew wide. She smirked as she heard the end of the sentence. "You're some sort of cop then?"
"No…" Harry shook his head.
"SAS?"
"Please, I can't tell you more than that. Classified. Even what I did tell you could land you and I both in trouble if word got out. Please keep this to yourself."
Of course, Harry was lying to her. He didn't have a job. He was a warlock. Harry considered that maybe he was self-employed. Either way, it was only classified because of the International Statute of Secrecy, as were all things magical. He had collected a fair amount of wealth from around the world over the course of the last decade. Being a warlock was profitable, even though many activities he had engaged in were not legal, in almost any country.
He didn't even technically exist in the muggle world anymore since he went missing a long time ago, and was considered legally dead by the laws of muggle UK.
Of course, the Goblins of Gringotts didn't care for such human peculiarities, and Harry had enough inherited money to get by comfortably outside of his so-called work earnings. Proof of physical death was necessary to hand over the Goblin ran vaults to next in line kin. Narcissa was only able to get Grimmauld Place because Harry never actually took ownership of it after Sirius, who was most definitely dead.
She raised her free hand, palm out, holding her pinky down with a thumb, three fingers up while smiling.
"Scout's honour."
Harry picked the woman up into his arms. She kissed him and wrapped her arms around his muscular torso, allowing him to carry her over to the bed in the corner.
She was a columnist for an online magazine, and generally moved every now and then to a new location. She had stayed in Thailand before this, and Australia before that, and Argentina. She was from America originally, but the call of the world had rung loudly for her, and she went out in pursuit of adventure.
They were both aware of the ephemeral nature of their tryst.
The morning come, Harry made some breakfast for them. She had work to do, articles to write.
Harry bade her good day, and went for a walk.
The ancient and cobbled streets of the small village he was staying in were somehow comforting to Harry.
There were Greek muggles drinking coffees and smoking in front of little restaurants. Harry wasn't a fan of cigarettes, but people were free to do as they willed, he mused.
Harry ordered an iced coffee from a vendor. He pulled a smartphone out of his pocket and went through his emails and other messenger services. Still no message from Hermione.
Where r u, he typed out and sent, even though the last five messages across three apps had been ignored and remained unopened.
R u ok? Halloween is coming.
They had been planning to kidnap and ritually murder Peter Pettigrew on this occasion. Now it seemed he would have to act alone. Harry was sure Hermione was fine, but he had a knot in his stomach whenever he thought back to how the wolves had killed Ron back when they were still young students. Hermione had been close with Ron, in a way Harry suspected was more than just the friendship he had had with her back in school. He was worried for her.
There was no evidence from which Harry could deduce what had happened to his oldest friend. Both Hermione and the fleeing wolves had disappeared off the face of the earth that night.
His phone vibrated. He excitedly looked. Maybe Hermione was back.
Beach? Im done with work. Harry read the text he had gotten from his lover and smiled even though he was a bit disappointed it wasn't his partner-in-crime.
Ok, give me an hour. He paid for his coffee and left in the direction of her flat. It was beachfront property.
He walked on through the village. He was wearing some shorts and a polo, had a Panama style hat on, aviator sunglasses and flip-flops. He looked like an ordinary tourist. He was even sporting a nice tan.
Various smells from bakeries and eateries convinced him to buy some gyro pitas and a salad to go as well as some beverages.
He eventually made it to the beach where his lover was tanning. He watched her for a moment, enjoying this last day of peace before he left back to the UK.
That day they made love first on the beach, and then back at her flat. They ate, and made love again.
She lit another cigarette in her holder and blew out a big cloud while letting her head drop back in exaltation. She loved the sex with this strange Brit. She glanced at Harry and she knew deep in her guts, then and there, that their affair was over before he even said anything.
"Babe, we gotta talk."
"Ssshhhhh…." She closed her eyes, tears welling up. "Don't worry. It's ok. I get it. You gotta go and save the world or something else that is probably Top Secret, and Classified." She laughed bitterly. A tear went down her cheek. Maybe it wasn't just the sex she had come to love.
They made love again, this time very tenderly, prolonging the moment as long as possible.
Harry watched her sleeping form, breathing peacefully. He left her a letter he had prepared ahead of time for this occasion, explaining some things to her, how to get in touch with him if she was ever in trouble, that he had friends all over the world, and that he would always come help her out if she needed it. He left her some money, explaining that he had enemies, and that it would be better if she packed her things and left, in case someone had been tailing him, even though he thought it unlikely. He was sorry that she had gotten involved in his life, because his life was a dangerous one, and she should be extra-careful from now on. He told her he wasn't sorry for meeting her though, and that he wished they met under different circumstances, but that he had work to do, and he couldn't put it off any longer.
He cast a disillusionment spell on himself first, embracing the feeling of an egg cracking on his head, and running down his body, and then a more complicated variety of the spell on his broomstick. He had all his belongings on him, in his backpack and pouch, both of which are magically larger on the inside than out. He mounted his broom on the balcony and shot off in the direction of the UK. He would get to France by the end of the day.
At over two-hundred kilometers an hour, his racing broom would cover the distance between the countries in ten-twelve hours, depending on a few factors, such as the route he chose to take and the weather, and how much he pushed his broom.