Riiiiiiing! Riiiiiiing! Riiiiiiing!

Harry groaned and opened his eyes. The phone was ringing and he was in the middle of a perfect nap. Yawning and using the last of his energy, he sat up and felt around on the coffee table, soon remembering the maid had been there, meaning she probably had moved it back to the kitchen counter where it belonged. Growling and cursing under his breath, he trudged to the kitchen and answered the phone. "Hello?" he yawned.

"Hello, Harry." It was a woman.

Harry closed his eyes. This was the last person he wanted to hear from, aside from John Shooter. "Cho?" he groaned.

"How are you?" she asked. "You don't sound too good." Harry picked up the phone and receiver, carrying them both to his sofa and setting the receiver down on the coffee table.

"I'm fine," he said, flopping down on the sofa.

"How's my little puppy, Chico?" She was talking in a googoo voice, and he rolled his eyes. Did she really have the nerve to call him like this, like they were still friends if that? After what she had done to him?

"Cho," he growled, cutting her off. "Why did you call? Did you have a reason?" There was a sigh on the other end.

"I had one of my feelings," she said softly. "I know you think their stupid and you don't believe them, but I believe them..." He rolled his eyes. The feeling lecture. This was the one hundredth time he had heard it, and he hated it even when they were still together. He held the phone out in front of him with both hands and shook his, gritting his teeth, and then quickly put it back to his ear. "...so I just wanted to call and make sure you're okay."

"Well," he said, sighing and rolling onto his side. "I don't know what to tell you other than I'm fine."

"Nothing weird happen or anything?" He paused for a moment.

"You remember 'Secret Window, Secret Garden'?"

"What?" she asked.

"You know, the story about the woman with the garden and the husband buries her there after he kills her?"

"Not one of my favorites," she admitted.

"Thanks, Cho."

"Well it was kinda hostile, don't you think?"

"Boy do I miss your constructive criticism."

"So what about it?" she asked, a little annoyed.

"Do you think anyone was inspired by it?"

"You mean besides that nutcase of a fan that got locked away that one time?"

"That was over a different story, Cho, and yes."

"None that I can think of. Why?"

"Never mind," he muttered, deciding it wouldn't be a good idea to tell her about Shooter.

"C'mon, tell me," she persisted.

"No, just drop it. Please, drop it."

"Why? Is something wrong?"

"No. I was just asking. Will you please just drop it?"

"Fine," she muttered.

"So how's Malfoy?" There was a groan on the other end and he smirked.

"He's fine," she said.

"I was just wondering if he'd like to get together, get a bite to eat? I mean we have a lot in common, Malfoy and I. We've both been around the same block." Cho sighed on the other end, and he knew she was rolling her eyes.

"We're not together, Harry."

Harry's heart stopped for a moment and he grinned. "Well, I'd be lying then if I told you I wasn't about to break into song and dance."

"I meant we're not together at the moment. He's coming by a little later. We're going out to dinner." Harry's grin vanished.

"Figures," he muttered. "I gotta go."

"Harry, please don't hang up," she begged.

"Don't want to keep you from your date. Bye." He hung up with that and sat back, grumbling.

"Damn mosquitoes," growled Harry as he walked down the trail behind his house. There was nothing good to write about so he decided a good walk would clear his head for a while. Other than the mosquitoes, it was nice out, and he decided he'd take his time getting back. Chico would have to forgive him.

He was almost a full mile away from the house when he stopped dead in his tracks, spotting a familiar car parked off to the side and an unfriendly face leaned against the door.

"Shooter," Harry acknowledged.

"Story sound ring a bell, Potter?"

"Oh, it most certainly did," he said softly. "When did you write it?"

"I figured you'd ask. After all, when two writers show up with the same story, the one who had their's written the earliest is the innocent one. I guess that's why I came up here from Mississippi."

"When did you write it?" repeated Harry.

"I wrote it in 1997," said Shooter with a smirk. "Are you ready to turn yourself in for plagiarism or will I have to beg?"

"Drop it," spat Harry, walking past him. Shooter looked at him confused.

"Drop it? What the hell do you mean drop it?"

"I said drop it. You wrote yours in '97? Well, I wrote mine in late '94. It was published in a magazine in '95 before it was in my book. Sorry, Mr. Shooter, but I beat you by two years, so if anyone's going to bitch about plagiarism, it's gonna be me." Shooter gritted his teeth and grabbed him, pinning him to the car. His grip was terribly tight and Harry knew it was only a matter of time before he broke the bones.

"You lie!" he snarled.

"No I don't!" shouted Harry, pushing him back. "Go check it out for yourself. Ellory Queen's Mystery Magazine, June 1995."

"And how the hell am I supposed to do that?"

"That's not my problem, Shooter."

"Do I have to drive up to your house in London and ask your wife, Cho, for it?" Harry stared at him, his blood running cold. This nut knew where Cho lived? "I read it on your book jacket," he said with a smirk.

"That's Cho's house," said Harry.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" he asked suspiciously.

"What do you think it means, you ignorant hick?" snarled Harry. "I'm in the middle of a divorce. D-I-V-O-R-C-E. Divorce!"

"Sorry to hear about that," he said, but in a tone that let Harry know he didn't mean it. He turned to his car and reached for something through the open window. Harry was on his toes and backed up cautiously. "Hold your water, Potter. I'm just grabbing my smokes." He pulled out a pack of Pall Mall and pulled out a cigarette, then holding the pack out to Harry.

"I don't smoke," he said in an innocent tone.

"You have three days to get a copy of that magazine, if there is such a magazine, and prove to me it's your story." There was a truck driving down the road and the driver honked, waving at Harry. Shooter waved back and turned back to Harry.

"If I show you the magazine, will you then leave me alone and go back to Mississippi?" asked Harry. Shooter nodded and got into his car.

"Three days," he said, and with that, he drove off, leaving Harry to stare.