Temper (noun)
1. heat of mind or emotion, proneness to anger
2. a substance (such as a metal) added to or mixed with something else (such as another metal) to modify the properties of the latter

Temper (verb)
1. to dilute, qualify, or soften by the addition or influence of something else
2. to make stronger and more resilient through hardship


November, 2005

Four gin and tonics, a half-eaten, out-of-date turkey sandwich for lunch, and Hermione nattering in his ear. Harry hid a wince, unsure which was the cause of his pounding headache, and tilted his head toward Hermione in the hope she'd lower her voice, raised as it was to cut over evening buzz of the Leaky Cauldron.

"I know it's old and decrepit and falling down and probably filled to the brim with curses, but honestly Harry, it'll still fetch a decent price. Just say the word and I'll put an ad in the Prophet, you won't have to lift a finger. You can't stay in our spare room forever and if you ever want to settle down you know you'll need a place of your own."

Tempting as it was to tune her out, Harry knew that firstly, Hermione was right, and secondly, there was no way in hell he was selling Grimmauld Place. Call it nostalgia. Call it sentiment. Call it stubbornness.

Actually, Harry half thought it might be a curse upon the owner. He didn't want to live in Grimmauld Place, hadn't visited since the war, and yet every time he worked up the nerve to pop over and burn the dump down, somehow he found himself with something else to do. He tried his best not to think about it. If Hermione ever caught wind that he thought his house had cursed him, she'd give him a blistering lecture and burn the place down herself. He didn't want that, either.

"Harry. Harry… are you listening to me?"

"Hard not to," Harry muttered and earned himself a thump on the arm. He tried to match Hermione's fierce glare, but her lips quivered in a bitten back smile. Difficult to be grumpy in the face of that, really, so instead he finished his fifth gin and snagged her wine, smirking at her outraged huff.

Ron had caught the tail end of the conversation as he brought back his round of drinks, glasses floating nearly four feet above him, credit to his overly enthusiastic attempt at levitation.

"Leave off, 'Mione, he'll sell it when he wants to sell it." Ron glared at the drinks floating above his head until they reluctantly slunk onto the table. Levitating stuff hadn't ever been Ron's problem, not since the troll. Putting said stuff back down without breaking anything, however, now that was sometimes an issue.

Hermione swiped up her glass of wine, some fancy Austrian white that Harry found too sweet for his tastes, while Ron dragged his mug of dwarven ale over to his side of the table. Harry downed the dregs of Hermione's previous glass of wine, grimaced, and took a sip of the gin that Ron had bought, a slice of lemon tickling his nose.

"The market's peaking right now," Hermione continued, as if the interruption hadn't happened, "You could buy something just down the road from Ron and I, Hogsmede is growing exponentially, and there's some lovely little cottages on Snape Lane."

"He's not going to live on bloody Snape Lane," Ron said. "Use your head, love." But then, the traitor, Ron turned to him with imploring eyes. "She's not wrong, mate. Sirius hated the place, you don't need to keep it. Sell it to a stuffy, pureblood nob and buy something local to us."

"It's not that we want you gone. We just want you to move on, Harry."

"And I'll never put a baby in her if you're always around," Ron quipped, a grin softening his words.

"Ron!"

As they squabbled, Harry's headache pulsed behind his eyes. He skimmed a look over the crowd gathered in the Leaky. There—a flash of platinum blonde caught his eye. Draco was chatting with another man, someone Harry vaguely recognised from their school days. Anthony Goldsmith, or the like.

"I think about it," Harry lied, downed the gin, and slipped out of the booth they'd tucked away in. "I'll see you both later, alright."

Draco hadn't been around for weeks and Harry desperately needed a shag, especially after the turn that conversation had taken. He pressed his way through the crowd and nudged Draco with his elbow, before turning a grin on their school mate.

"Draco, Tony, long time no see!"

Goldsmith shook his head. "No, no, Harry old chap, I can't stand the nickname, it's Anthony or nothing," he said. He was dressed in the type of fancy silks Harry only wore when forced to attend a gala, stone grey edged with peacock green, and kohl was dusted beneath his blue eyes, an admittedly appealing look. A bit fancy for the Cauldron, but who was Harry to judge?

"Harry," Draco said, voice flat. "I'm sure you remember Anthony. This is my boyfriend, Anthony Goldstein."

Harry blinked. He turned to look properly at Draco, in his dark robes, crisp white shirt buttoned to the throat, brilliant blonde hair perfectly coiffed. Draco, in turn, didn't meet his eyes, the coward.

"Ravenclaw, right?" Harry said, turning back to Goldsmith—Goldstein, apparently. It wasn't that Harry didn't care, but…

Well, actually, Harry really didn't care.

Goldstein beamed. "Right-o. Good to see you. Draco and I were just passing through. Dinner date at the Golden Niffler, you know how it is." He winked.

Harry winked back, and in hope of provoking Draco, put every ounce of purr he had into his reply. "Oh… I do."

He was rewarded with a flush on Goldstein's cheeks, even as Draco's ears tipped red in fury. Serve him right, the plonker. They'd had a good arrangement. Lots of shagging, zero emotions. Harry wasn't even that mad Draco was seeing someone else, but it would have been nice to know.

"Can't be late," Draco said, clutching Goldstein's elbow. "It's been a pleasure, Harry."

Sure it had. "Ta ta," Harry said, an affected imitation of Draco's uptight manners. It made Goldstein chuckle, even as Draco's shoulder's tensed.

As they walked away, Harry lingered and was rewarded for his nosiness when Goldstein murmured, "How the fuck did you end up on first name terms with Potter?"

"A long story," Draco answered, which really wasn't that true. About a year ago, Harry had been obliged to give evidence in a trial Draco had been prosecuting. They'd argued and then tried to fuck the living daylights out of each other, and had continued on and off for the last eight months.

Not quite sad enough to watch them leave arm in arm, Harry turned back to the bar. There went his plans for the night. Flicking a finger at the sticky wood, Harry cleaned a patch to lean on, and stared down the bartender until he was served, a Hufflepuff witch who he'd seen a few times meeting Susan Bones for lunch, Anna or Harriet or something in between. The Leaky was crowded enough that a few people jostled around him and Harry did his best to project an aura of untouchability, in the hope no one would ask him for an autograph.

"Double Hendricks and tonic," Harry said. "And the same again for that table." Harry jerked his thumb over at where Ron and Hermione were sitting. They'd been joined by Katie Bell and Ginny, both sipping pints of what was likely water or lemonade, as it was still Quidditch season, and the manager of the Harpies was a harpy herself.

Harry paid up with a handful of sickles, signed three autographs, and stomped over, drinks following behind him like ducklings. They clattered onto the shared table.

"My round," he said.

One of the waters tipped as it landed, but Ginny caught it before it could spill.

"You're in a mood," she remarked. "Hey Harry, nice to see you too. The season's going well, thanks, we're likely to make it to the semis. How are you?"

Normally, Ginny's wit was enough to cheer Harry up, but he wasn't sure he could face another conversation about Malfoy, or his dating prospects, or selling Grimmauld Place, or moving on with his life. He gave her a smile that ended up being closer to a grimace and didn't take a seat.

"Just peachy," Harry said. "I'm off. Nice to see you, sorry I couldn't chat, Katie."

"And you," Katie said belatedly, as Harry made for the door.

"Oi, mate, come back!" Ron's call was easy enough to ignore, as was Hermione's sigh.

Harry pushed out through the crowd into the cool autumn night and leaned against the nearest lamp post. It wasn't that he was trying to alienate his friends, but sometimes he had nothing good to say to them. Better he disappear than growl spiteful comments, a burning resentment that they'd all landed on their feet after the war not anyone's problem but his own. When he was in a mood, a bitter, cruel monster lurked in his chest that Harry knew he'd regret turning on them, once he cooled his temper. He'd thought his anger at the world would fade with time, after the war, but instead it turned him spiteful. He did actually like his friends, most of the time, and tried not to subject them to it.

Abruptly, he realised he still held the gin and tonic in his hand. He drank it, then stared idly at the glass, before tucking it onto the windowsill of the Cauldon. Either they'd find it, or they wouldn't.

Across the street, another man was lurking outside a nearby Muggle pub, a lit cigarette dangling between his fingers, long, dark hair and a matching leather jacket cleaving Harry to the bone. If he glanced over the top of his glasses, it was Sirius, leaning up against a brick wall.

But of course, it wasn't. It was a Muggle, much younger than Harry had ever seen Sirius. His nose was a little more crooked, his shoulders not as wide.

Harry was drunk enough to approach.

"Can I bum a cigarette?" Harry said, nodding at the cigarette. "I'll give you a fiver."

The Muggle snorted and pulled the packet out his pocket, passing Harry a straight.

"Nah, here ya go," he said.

Harry lit it with a click of his fingers and smirked when the Muggle raised a brow.

"Neat trick," the Muggle said.

"My godfather taught me," Harry said. He made jazz hands. "Magic!"

New Year 1996, just after midnight, when Sirius had been pissed on firewhisky, he'd shown Harry how to smoke a cigar and create a spark with a snap of his fingers. He'd then tried to give Harry a safe sex talk, which frankly had traumatised Harry more than seeing Voldemort rise from the grave.

No, that was a lie. Still, Harry had been appropriately traumatised.

The Muggle snorted. "So, you a cop?"

Harry took a step back and choked on a lungful of smoke. "Fuck off. If I was, why would I say so?"

The Muggle shrugged his shoulders. "You gotta, ain't you? It's like, the law, or something. You gotta declare if you're a cop."

Harry took a drag of the cigarette. "No?" he hazarded.

"Eh. What can I deal you, then? I've got some leaf that'll chill you right out. Or some Florida snow, you look like the sort for that."

Ron would be laughing his head off right now, if he knew Harry was being solicited by a Muggle drug dealer. Technically, Aurors operated closely enough with Scotland Yard that Harry could bag this idiot, but he was off duty and drunk enough to not care.

"Not my scene," Harry said. "Cheers for the ciggie, mate." He flicked the cigarette into a nearby drain and turned away. Tonight was not the night for socialising, it seemed, not even with the dregs of London's Muggles.

"Your loss, freak."

Ignoring the Muggle, else he'd be tempted to curse him with a pig's tail, a la the Hagrid special, Harry headed for the nearest alley decent for Apparition.

Screw Draco for dating someone else. Screw Hermione for bringing up Grimmauld Place. Screw the Blacks for building their shithole manor. Screw Grimmauld Place for being dank and dark and everything that Sirius hated…

Harry twisted, Apparated, and didn't arrive in Hermione and Ron's spare bedroom. Of course not. That would have been too easy.

Deliberation, tick. Determination, tick. Destination: Grimmauld Place. Stupidly, he'd been dwelling on it as he'd Apparated.

Despite the gloomy sky, a sickle moon hidden by clouds, the street was immediately recognisable. He'd landed on the top step and in retaliation, Harry kicked the front door.

A flake of paint chipped off and the door creaked open, even after all this time. Apparently, he still owned the place.

Harry, despite himself, stepped in.