The Dursleys were known for their sweet delicacies and extravagant balls.
Petunia Dursley was a sharp woman who expressed her opinions freely. Her dark brown hair was always tied up in some sort of elaborate hairstyle, which always looked as if it was individually tugging on each strand—and Harry had admitted to himself, shamelessly, that he hoped her head ached with each passing hour.
Vernon Dursley was a large man with a shiny, bald head that Dudley had once called a potato—(in which the father had taken it as a sugar-coated remark from his dearest son)—and was always fitted in suits that were too small for him. He had a gruff beard—always neatly trimmed, but never tamed—and despised Harry with all of his might.
Dudley Dursley on the other hand had the stability of his father and the brain of his mother. Dudley had served as Harry's alarm clock during his time at the Dursleys—a watch that never ceased its ticking. Unlike his parents, he had grown to respect Harry over the years, although Harry begged to differ that his cousin had only ravaged worse throughout his adulthood. At the frequent parties that Petunia Dursley held, he somehow always found a way to skip up to Harry's side and start a pleasant conversation.
(Pleasant for Dudley, but not so much for Harry.)
And in the present, Harry sulked.
Petunia stood off to the side, chatting with a petite woman whose silk gloves were practically pulled up to her armpits. Petunia nodded eagerly at something the older woman said before Harry felt a slight breeze wash over his body, and he was dragged across the backyard of the Dursley residence.
Harry glanced upwards at the strings of colorful streamers hanging off of the many willow trees that were scattered across the yard before Petunia tugged his ear especially hard. Her words drifted through Harry's mind as she spoke, waltzing through his brain, before aimlessly wandering back into the unknown. ". . . Yes, yes. And this is my wonderful nephew, Harry," Petunia cooed, shoving Harry in front of her. Harry stumbled forwards, refraining from letting the sour look he was hiding from the crowd surface. "Quite a beauty, isn't he? Yes, I agree. Now take a look at my son. He grew up to become such a great young man."
The gloved woman scoffed, telling Harry that she thought Dudley looked anything but young.
Harry's longing gaze drifted over towards where his cousin was standing poshly—surrounded by a cluster of businessmen with wine glasses between their grubby fingers—and leaning against a marble pole. Harry winced as his head suddenly jolted to the side, followed by one of Petunia's withering glares. He scowled, trying to wrench his way out of his aunt's clutch as politely as he could without causing an uprising. He bluntly ignored the offensive look she shot him when he strode away, rubbing his reddened ear with a sense of delicacy.
"You look lost."
Harry spun around, coming face-to-face with what seemed to be a man in his late twenties. The corners of his eyes crinkled when he gave Harry a genuine smile, before squeaking as a sudden force yanked him backward, and the gloved woman from earlier hopped out from behind the stranger.
Just as Harry was about to sweetly reply with, "Just a little bit," the woman had already begun to hit the man across the chest.
The man let out a cry as the gloved woman landed a swift punch to his abdomen, hunching over in pain. The woman glanced down unimpressed, before shaking her head in disapproval. Her hair fell just above her shoulders, a shade of rich brown that Harry couldn't recall seeing before. Her lips twisted into a frown of disgust whenever she caught sight of her over-the-top dress, stomping her foot in anger, and smacking back on the facade that Harry had seen her display with Petunia just mere moments ago.
"Newt!" The woman hissed, locking her fingers around his arm and pulling him back up to a more presentational position. "It's not respectful to point out the obvious!"
"It's fine, Tina," the man slurred, clearly drunk from his excessive swaying. He slung an arm around Harry's shoulders, who stiffened upon the abrupt contact. "Besides, this young man already knows the obvious! Right, Harry?"
Harry blinked at the mention of the name he hadn't given. "Huh?"
"Harry Potter, Harry Potter, Harry Potter," Newt sang, spinning into the other man's chest.
Harry blinked, insides curdling into sharp icicles. "Oh, so you know my name as well."
Tina gave him an icy smile, wrapping a hesitant arm around Newt's elbow. "Yes, I think everyone here knows your name, dear."
And the rest of the night wasn't so quiet. Harry hoarded the cupcake stand—with a little girl who seemed to think that the pink frosting is liquid starlight, and her equally thick-headed brother—who tormented Harry by bombarding him with silly questions.
"Aren't you Mr. Teapot?"
Harry sulked as he snatched another icing-covered treat off of the silver platter. "It's Potter."
"What?" the boy's head cocked slightly to the left. "Dotter? Hey, Saturn! Mr. Teapot knows Dotter!" He turned back to Harry, letting a wink slip. "Dotter is our neighbor's dog. She barks all of the time, but she likes cuddles and laying underneath the Christmas tree when the festivals roll around."
Harry was speechless. Yet, his voice lowered as he leaned forward, and spoke through a mouthful of crumbs. "Dotter, you say?"
The boy beamed, sticking out a grubby hand. "Pluto, Mr. Teapot. Pleasure to meet you."
The girl perked up, skipping over to Harry's side. She was wearing a mask of curiosity, poking the man's arm as if he were a work of art in an ancient museum-occupying herself with blabbering about her brother. "Sorry," she apologized, any hint of sincereness gone from her voice. "That's Pluto. Everyone kinda forgets about him cause he's a dwarf planet."
"Named after a dwarf planet," the boy corrected.
The girl rolled her eyes. "Basically the same thing."
Although Harry tried to fight it, an amused grin curled at the corners of his mouth. "Are you two siblings?"
The resemblance was something that Harry could've expressed was the length of a mile away, but by the way that the two bickered, he couldn't get past the thought. The girl had rosy red hair, the hint of freckles scattered upon her cheeks like constellations. The boy had tousled curls the color of molten silver, flashing a smug smile every time he caught his sister saying something grammatically incorrect.
"More like twins," Pluto input cheekily, suggestively waggling his eyebrows at his sister.
Saturn scowled, kicking him in the shin—grinning with glee as Pluto hopped around on one foot. "Not really."
Pluto's display of feigned pain was abruptly put to a stop when a shadowed figure rounded the corner, and Saturn shoved a cupcake into his hands—no doubt trying to shut him up.
The woman sighed as she took in the sight, gaze flickering over to Harry. She jolted in surprise. "I'm terribly sorry about this."
Harry didn't have to receive a further elaboration to know what she was referring to. "No, you're alright. I find your—" He cut himself off, lips pursing. "—children?—to be quite humorous."
The woman swatted Pluto's wrist as the boy lunged for Saturn in a fit of eight-year-old rage. "Yes, yes." She slipped a white handkerchief out of her dress pocket, dabbing her brow tentatively. "Sometimes I worry for them. An energetic little bunch, aren't they?"
Harry smiled. A genuine smile. "I can't help but agree, miss."
"And if you think that this is bad," she waved a hand towards the two, "wait 'till the rest arrive." When Harry's dark brows furrowed, the woman took that as a prompt to continue on. "My other children. There's Pluto and Saturn, of course, and then Mercury and Jupiter."
Harry's frown deepened. "You decided to name all of your children after planets?" His mind wasn't hooked, but his heart was yearning. "Do you hold a certain connection to outer space?"
The woman shrugged, wine glass clanking against the dessert table as she shifted to the right. "I give my husband the credit, truthfully."
Before Harry could open his mouth to converse further, the sound of a knife clinking against glass echoed from the front of the dining hall. The ballroom that the Dursleys had rented was stuffed to the brim with obnoxious decorations—from women wearing brightly-colored dresses and twisting balloons into animals for the youngsters, and a mockery of magicians—which Harry knew his relatives had set up just to get underneath his skin.
"Hear ye, hear ye," Vernon Dursley announced poshly, nearly shattering the cup as he slammed it down onto the nearest table. "I have an important announcement to make."
"That our recent business has rocketed and is now prompting towards other regions of America?" a voice piped up, and Harry's gaze flickers over to a stout man—who was smiling pleasantly and strumming the strings of a broken violin in his arms.
"No," Vernon interrupted, tapping his foot against the marble floor impatiently. He turned back towards the waiting crowd with a solemn expression, one that Harry dearly wished was resting upon his face more often. "I have recently found out that I am not a Leo, but indeed a Virgo. My deepest apologies for letting my poised confidence overtake me, fellow ladies and gents."
Beside Harry, Pluto gaped in astonishment. "What . . . the Hell."
His mother slapped his arm with the fashion magazine she had picked up from one of the waiters. "Pluto! Language!"
Pluto scowled but reluctantly agreed, crossing his chubby arms over his chest.
Harry fought his growing smile, resting a lazy hand against his mouth.
"Mr. Dursley!" the other man cried, motioning for the large man to pose. "Would you mind if I snapped a picture of you? I think that this would be a brilliant cover for the newspaper."
Vernon gave the reporter an oily grin, his gaze traveling over to where Harry was hiding at the back of the crowd. "Oh, but I must insist . . . Mr. Chantelle . . . why don't you include my nephew in it as well? Of course, my son is set to take over the business soon enough, but what about the family cheer?" His smirk deepens. "Harry, child, come on up to the podium! I won't bite."
Harry stiffened, hands set on squeezing a crystal wine glass. Vernon's fingers wiggled as if to usher Harry up to the front of the crowd. Harry blinked before a hand landed on his shoulder.
"Don't worry," Pluto whispered. "It's only scary the first time."
Harry's insides froze, and he gapes down at the boy in astonishment. "First time for what?"
Pluto grinned, an innocent grin resting upon his lips. "Going up in front of people. I had to present a speech for school last week, and mother told me that it is better to be excited, than fret."
Harry bit the inside of his cheek, inwardly chuckling at the fact that the child thought that he was concerned for other reasons than he was. He gently patted Pluto's head. "I'll be fine." He shot a respective nod towards their mother, before heading forwards.
The crowd parted easier than he thought it would, making Harry feel like he was wedging people apart with a butter knife. When he hopped up the steps to the stage, a microphone was shoved in his face, and his uncle was laughing amongst others.
He winced at the feedback that spread throughout the room, utterly speechless.
When his eyes caught on Pluto and Saturn-the boy waving ecstatically-he inhaled sharply and brought the microphone closer. "Er, hello. I'm Harry Potter, Vernon, and Petunia Dursley's nephew. It is my honor to be here and celebrate British National Day with you all. Let's take a toast to our soldier's glory, and may they rest in our hearts with peace."
Murmurs spread throughout the crowd, but nonetheless, glasses were raised, and the response came as a chorus. "As well as you."
"Good day," Harry added, after an extremely awkward pause, and exited off the podium with his chin held high and ebony hair swooped into his eyes. When he passed Vernon, he received a strained thanks that was filled with a touch of bitterness, yet it was a poor attempt at hiding it.
"Mr. Potter! That was a brilliant speech!" The reporter from earlier gushed, thoughts of the wanted photograph forgotten.
Harry grimaced. "It really wasn't anything. Just a wish."
"Oh yes, but all wishes come true. Don't they, Mr. Potter?" The reporter pressed.
Knowing that their conversation was surely going to be strung up as a twisted headline the next morning, Harry forced a bright look. "Indeed, Mr. Chantelle. Now, I hope for you the best, but I must be on my way."
I must be on my way.
Harry let out an amused snort at how many times he had used that phrase in the past few days just to escape meaningless babbling.
The sound of a knife clinking against glass echoed throughout the ballroom, and Uncle Vernon was back upon the podium. "Amazing speech, Harry. Now, what are we waiting for? Let's get to the dancing?"
Women around Harry burst into fits of giggles, before sweeping onto the dance floor in luscious silks and fuzzy shawls. A good portion of the men trailed after, bowing, before taking the hand of their chosen partner. Throughout the midst of the swirling shadows, Harry could catch a glimpse of Pluto's mother, and her children spinning beside her.
"Dancing. The art of modern Europe."
Harry flinched, refusing to swing around.
"What is it?" Riddle mocked, knocking Harry backward with a tug of his wrist. "Sad that I'm here?"
Harry fumed, trying his best to blink away the red roses that swarmed across his blurry vision. His glasses were shoved tightly up the bridge of his nose, red marks at the beginning of forming. "No, it just seems quite odd that you are invited to everything that I am."
Riddle's mouth curled. "You're not the only power figure in society, Harry."
"I thought we already agreed upon the fact that I have no connections whatsoever." Harry sighed, glancing away.
"Ah. So knowing me is not a connection? We're friends, aren't we, my dear snitch?"
Harry scowled. "Don't make me call you coffee again."
Riddle's grin only widened, scanning Harry appreciatively as he snatched a cookie off of the nearest dessert table. "I've been meaning to tell you that. Coffee isn't illegal, Harry."
Harry watched wearily as Riddle outstretched the cookie towards him, a silent offering that he wasn't sure that he wanted to accept. "Everyone only drinks tea. It's pretty much the same."
Riddle's amusement was growing by the second, and it was obvious-too obvious for Harry's liking. "A few drink coffee. But I must admit, tea is more popular. S'pose that's why they call us brits, eh? For our posh style?"
Harry soured. "That has nothing to do with us being called brits, Riddle. Poshness and name-calling are two different things."
Riddle shrugged, raising his cookie to his mouth at Harry's decline. "The world is full of impossibilities. Yet, my job is to make everything possible." He frowned. "About that . . ."
Harry shook his head furiously. "No. Uh-uh. I already told you once, and I most certainly don't want to tell you twice. I've already agreed to attend one of your meetings, but I never said that I'd officially become a Death Eater. No matter how you try to sway me, how much you smile, how much you try and prompt me to join, it's not going to happen." When Riddle opened his mouth to intervene, Harry flung up a sharp hand. "I've already explained my reasons."
"You already know what I'm capable of," Riddle answered quietly. "Why do you test my patience, Harry?"
Harry recoiled, and whether it was in disgust or pain, he wasn't sure that he wanted to know the precise reason. Although, he did want to know why Riddle continued to be so seemingly desperate. Tom Riddle was a man who had named all of those around him weak. He morphed his silver tongue into commands, lulling the things he wanted into his awaiting arms. And when he didn't get something-heck was sure to rain down upon the world.
Harry only bowed his head. "It was a pleasure, Riddle. Goodnight."
"I hope we have the chance to meet again sometime soon, Harry," Riddle called out from behind him. "Perhaps . . . over coffee?"
"Over my dead body," Harry hissed, nearly ramming into a waiter as he rounded the corner, angered to admit that he was a tad too eager to get as far away from Riddle as possible.
"Um . . . I was meaning to ask you about that, Mr. Potter," Mr. Chantelle stated, back at Harry's slumped figure. "What are we thinking? Marble? Cobblestone? A tomb? Or just a slab in the ground? Knowing you, since we're best buddies, of course, you want to go for something extravagant. Oh! How about a marble tomb?" The man clapped his hands in glee.
Harry massaged his temple. "I'm sorry, Mr. Chantelle . . . I'm not exactly understanding what you inputting."
The reporter leaned in closer until he was a breath away from Harry's ear. "It's no biggie, Mr. Potter. Every celebrity plans their death." Mr. Chantelle gave the man one last fake grin, before sweeping over towards where the rest of the guests were crowded around Vernon Dursley to hear his comments on Harry's previous words.
Harry's eyes followed Mr. Chantelle's form across the room until they dropped down to the floor.
Every celebrity plans their death.
Harry Potter had a list full of suspicions.
And Mr. Chantelle had just topped it.
"Hi . . . um, you wouldn't happen to-. . . to have a repair department . . . would you?"
Arabella Figg blinked. "I'm sorry, I'm a little lost. A repair department?"
Harry winced. "Yes, er . . . if someone were to . . . drop their fork, and it somehow stabs itself into the floor." He motioned his hands as if a silver fork was indeed embedding itself into the wooden tiles he was standing upon. "Like, would you have a repair department fix that?"
"A repair department," Arabella muttered to herself, struggling to figure out what the boy's intent was. "May I ask why?"
Harry's heart wrenched in panic as if it were trying to claw itself out of his chest. He brushed a finger across his collarbone before replying. "Oh, no. I was just curious. I thought that if something . . . if something were to happen . . ."
"If something were to happen?" Arabella questioned slowly, still looking utterly confused. "Oh, are asking what to do if your flat somehow got damaged?"
Harry shook his head furiously, before stiffening. "No. I mean yes. I mean . . . sure. Yes."
She raised a feathered brow. "Is your flat damaged?"
Harry swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck. "No . . . not really."
"Not really?"
Unless you count the stab mark on the floor, Harry thought bitterly.
Arabella plucked a daffodil out of the porcelain vase on the coffee table to her right, settling into the sofa she was sprawled across. She crossed one leg over the other, fluffing up a cushioned pillow at her side. "Well then, I'm not sure that I can help you if you won't tell me what the matter is, sweetheart."
Harry's mood soured. He was weighing his choices in between his hands. What were the consequences going to be if he informed the landlady of the vicious events that had occurred earlier? He had already managed to tidy up his apartment to draw away suspicion from the housekeepers, and scrubbed all of Nott's blood off of the floor . . . he jolted.
Nott.
In the spur of the moment, Harry had completely forgotten the fate of Theodore Nott. Riddle was no doubt plucking out what was left of Harry's grace just to send him into another whirlwind of confusion. It was as if Riddle was the one ushering Harry into a storm cellar, just to be the one to shove him out into the midst of the tornado. One moment, Harry's brain was being drowned in soothing, quiet words, and the next-Riddle had sprouted red horns and was tossing a pitchfork at him.
And yet, Riddle had known that Harry was going to be at the Dursley's party. Which only prompted him to wonder-how had Riddle gotten himself invited? He had claimed that Harry was not the only power figure in society, but Harry hadn't been invited for his power. It was his relative's poor attempt at public forgiveness.
"Mr. Potter?"
His neck snapped up to meet the worried gaze of Arabella. Blossoms of pink curled around the rounds of his ears. "Sorry," he mumbled.
Arabella's lips curled up into a soft smile. "Don't fret about overthinking, sweetheart. It always takes the best of us. Now, I'd love to assist you in whatever is bothering you." She frowned. "Is it about the garden? Do you want to stop taking care of it?"
Harry's eyes widened drastically. "Oh, no. No. My apologies. I was just curious about the matter, and I didn't want to worry you. But that circles back to my point. There is a repairman, right?" He wasn't sure that he felt like ordering an expensive carpet just to cover up the mark and let another owner find it. He had known that he wasn't going to remain in his flat forever, but it wasn't fair to make another person take the blame for a crime that they hadn't committed.
Arabella chewed on her bottom lip, taking a delicate sip from her China teacup. "Yes, there is a repairman. And I won't prod another further of why you are questioning whether there is one available or not, but if you are ever in danger, Mr. Potter, that is what the watchmen are for. I care about you, boy. Just know that if I hear something . . . disturbing coming from your apartment, I won't hesitate to bust down the door."
Harry inwardly laughed at the mental image of the woman doing such a shameless thing. "I assure you, everything is fine. And please, address me by Harry. I already call you Arabella, so it's only polite for me to grant you the same thing in return."
Arabella's grin grew. "Only if you insist." She glanced towards the grandfather clock mounted on the wall, gasping, before abruptly standing up from her place on the sofa and shoving Harry out of the room. "Shoo! Shoo! I adore you dear, but we've been talking for more than half an hour! You have better places to be than entertaining an old woman like I."
"Goodbye!" He called over his shoulder as he hopped down the stairs.
Arabella only rolled her eyes in return, cupping her free hand around her mouth. "I'll send the repairman down soon enough. I wouldn't recommend leaving the premises in case he arrives early."
Harry rubbed his forearm, bowing his head in thanks. By the time he had made it up to his flat, the sun had already set beyond the horizon, and his stomach was grumbling with protested hunger. He kicked closed the front door, taking long, dragged-out sluggish steps to the dimly-lit kitchen. He hummed softly to himself as the kettle hissed, fixing himself a platter of strawberries and the bread that the landlady had gifted him previously.
A faint knock at his door caused him to shout, "Come in!"
There was a faint rustle, the sound of a lock turning, and a gruff voice. "I heard that you might be having some issues with the floor, was it? A fork . . . fork mark?"
Harry winced, curling closer into one of the fuzzy couch cushions. "Sorry about that." he struggled to search for a reasonable lie. "I was digging for a knife out of the cupboard and a fork fell and," he made an explosion motion with his fingers, "next thing I know, the three little daggers are buried in the floor. How much money do you need?"
The repairman waved a careless hand. "Don't worry about that. I'm here to fix stuff, not be paid."
"Are you sure? I have pockets full of coins, and I doubt that they are going to be used any time soon," Harry insisted, unzipping his overcoat pockets to show the man they wouldn't look.
The repairman's sharp look softened. "That's mighty kind of you, but I'm alright. Now, where's this fork indent?" Harry directed him towards the stab mark, wearing a sheepish look on his face as the man observed the supposed 'fork indent' with curiosity. "This is quite interesting, indeed. And you say this managed to happen with it slipping out of your hand?"
Harry reddened. "Er . . . yeah. Basically."
As if the repairman were feeling an oncoming apology, he held up a pale hand. "There's no need. Truly."
A piercing ringing sound cut through the silence, and Harry's eyes traveled over to the landline. He sighed, rubbing his temple in disdain before making his way over to answer the caller. He braced himself against the marble countertop as the repairman set to work on the floor, covering the jagged mark in some type of sealant.
"Hello?" Harry asked, just as a click echoed from across the line.
"Harry!" A bright voice cheered, and the image of Ron Weasley immediately popped into Harry's head.
"Ron?" Harry questioned hazily, drawing out a chair from underneath the table. "How did Hermione's interview go? I called her a few days ago, but I haven't gotten word since then."
Ron's tone sounded solemn. "She informed me that she thought it went extremely well, but they didn't accept her. Clearly, I didn't say this out loud, but I'm not surprised. Don't tell her though-she'll butcher me, okay? Hermione's ideas are open, and I think that they are meant for Britain, rather than America. Of course, she knows America's history and everything-" Ron bittered, "-but we both know that she's better off in Europe."
Harry nodded along, pretending like he agreed with Ron's opinion. "If I'm been frankly honest, her ideas could be used everywhere. She's bright . . . just a bit rough."
Ron let out an exasperated sigh, and Harry held the phone closer to his ear as his friend spoke. "Yeah, I s'pose. I'm just sad that she's sad, but I'm talking about her behind her back-I'm a terrible husband, aren't I?"
Harry chuckled. "Not all of us are cut out for marriage. And I'm not talking about you, Ron, so don't get your knickers in a twist."
"I would never," the ginger replied flatly, a frenzy of static overtaking the connection before the heavy silence resumed.
"She isn't taking it too hard, is she?" said Harry.
From past experiences, he knew that Hermione Granger tended to take a lot of things thrown her way personally. If it wasn't a compliment, it would be considered an insult. And she wouldn't hesitate to fire back a storm of bullets within an instant. Other times, she just rendered herself quiet. Back in Harry's school years-when Hermione had received below the passing grade on one of her exams, she had refused to cease studying for three weeks.
Ron seemed to shrug. "Hermione's taking it as well as Hermione's taking it. As per usual, I get to deal with nailing more bookshelves to the wall, and walking to libraries to pick her up a newly-released scroll."
"That's not as bad as I had thought," Harry admitted softly, yet he couldn't prevent the shiver that crawled its way down his spine.
"I'd like to hear you say that again once you head to the West," Ron muttered.
Harry occupied himself with picking at the tips of his nails, the quiet sound of the hammer flooding his senses. The repairman swept past him, patiently waiting for Harry to look up, before bidding him goodbye and exiting out of the flat.
"That would be nice, wouldn't it?" Harry asked himself softly. "I really wish I could, Ron. I really wish I could."
"But you can't," Ron added, a trace of sadness leaking into his tone.
"But I can't," Harry echoed, heart carrying the same despair that Ron was expressing through his voice. Although he spoke of reason, his mind thought of excuses. "Dumbledore told me that I will be able to perform soon. I am an apprentice to the most powerful illusionist in all of Europe, Ron. I can't give it up that easily."
A certain quietness swept across Harry's flat before Ron's answer came.
"Well, come as soon as you can, alright? I don't doubt that we'll be back soon enough in Britain because of Hermione's descent, but it's . . . nice here in America. The people are lovely, the food is great, and I've learned a lot of things." Ron scoffed. "God, I feel like Hermione here. Everywhere I look, there's so much to see, and so much to know."
Harry let out an empty laugh. "If you think New York's great, Ron, you've got forty-five other states to explore. How much longer are you staying, did you say?"
"I didn't," Ron replied smugly, before his serious overtone returned. "But, from Hermione's interview to me wanting to visit Mum sometime soon, I reckon sometime in August. By the way, my thanks to you for lending us the Potter cottage. Nice place, isn't it?"
Harry raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't know, I've never been there."
"Exactly!" Ron complained. "I'm not one to bribe, but if you come here, I'll buy you all sweets and desserts in America."
"I'm allergic to sugar."
Ron deflated. "Then I buy you all the sugarless food in America. I've got your back, mate. Now, before you go, I had a question that I wanted to ask you."
"Oh, yeah?" Harry said. "What is it?"
"What are you doing with the Death Eaters?"
