TITLE: "THE GUNMAN"
AUTHOR: sordid humor
CATEGORY: Adventure
SUB-CATEGORY: Humor; Romance; Drama
RATING: PG-13/whatever combination of letters is using these days...
DISCLAIMER:
I do not own them in a box,
I do not own them with a fox,
I do not own them while I'm bowling,
They all belong to J.K. Rowling.
(Realistically, no copyright infringement intended, sorry-sorry, et cetera, et cetera. You know the drill.)
-
-Title gleaned from E.M. Forster's A Room With A View (1908) with much love, respect and admiration.
-lyrics from I'm Not Okay (I Promise), My Chemical Romance
AUTHOR'S NOTE:
count: 5000 running count: 22,000
... coined in 1620 and from the french "fenetre," meaning "window"...
I believe it would be pertinent to the public to explain my current situational stipulations: If I write this fic relatively well, subjecting myself to an evolving set of conditions, I will be rewarded with a publicly undisclosed sum of money. Yes, I love writing, but I normally don't have the time. This convinces me to make the time; plus, my mazokus get to drag me around like their own personal dancing monkey. I have stipulations like "there must be telepathy," "Harry must lose his virginity," and more recently "You must make reference to Vampire Hunter D Bloodlust at least once before chapter 7 and several times during and after chapter 10." Kyle, Jeba is coming; just keep your pants on 'til what I think will be chapter 20. This is my plight. If you'd like a complete list of the guidelines for payment (or if you'd like to donate towards my winnings), let me know. I'll send you the list. You'll get a kick out of it. rolls eyes Thanks for taking the time. Seriously. I hope you like it.
(( for Jules: thanks for the hero-worship and enjoy the nose oysters ))
PART I
CHAPTER IV:
FOURTH CHAPTER
Well if you wanted honesty that's all you had to say
I never want to let you down or have you go
It's better off this way
For all the dirty looks, the photographs your boyfriend took
Remember when you broke your foot from jumping out the second floor
What will it take to show you that it's not the life it seems
I've told you time and time again
You sing the words but don't know what it means
To be a joke and look, another line without a hook
I held you close as we both shook
For the last time, take a good hard look
I'm okay, I'm okay, I'm okay now, I'm okay now
I'm telling you the truth, I'm in this, I'm okay—TRUST ME
I'm not okay, I'm not okay, I'm not okay
"Woah, Harry! This trunk's awful light!" Charlie remarked, lifting Harry's trunk easily with the muscle of one arm. "Sure you've got everything?"
"Er—yeah," Harry said, thinking fast. "I sent some things to Grimmauld Place..." and he trailed off, hoping the partial lie would be sufficient.
"Oh! Right, then," Charlie smiled a bit and nodded. Ron was looking about the room distractedly and hadn't heard a word. Hermione appeared as though she were straining to find something wrong with Harry's story: she thought and thought yet vocalized nothing. Somehow Hermione could always tell when he was lying. Harry went to pick up his bag, hoping to avoid her hot glare by turning his back...
Nope. He could still feel it.
He picked up his green messenger's bag and slung the wide strap across his chest. He had walked to the store the day before and bought the bag himself. It had been cheap, but large enough to hold Hogwarts: A History, a jacket, and precious little else. He adjusted the strap to fit more comfortably on his shoulder and turned back to face Hermione.
"Wha'?" he asked. She was glaring at him with squinty eyes.
"Nothing..." She looked away almost too hastily, feigning innocence that Ron and Charlie failed to notice, but Harry knew better. He had learned to read her over the years: she thought she was onto something and she wasn't about to let it go. He was going to have to be far more careful around Hermione from now on.
"Best of luck to you, Harry," Charlie said cheerfully, offering Harry a calloused hand. He shook it gladly.
"Thanks. Will you be at the Burrow tonight?"
"Of course."
"Then I'll see you when I get back!" Harry released Charlie's hand and stepped back to give the man room to apparate. Once he had gone, Harry turned to Hermione and Ron and asked, "How are we getting there, exactly?"
"Didn't you get my owl?" Hermione forgot about being suspicious in order to look genuinely worried.
"Told you," Ron grinned. Then, triumphantly, "Should've used Pig."
"Ron," Hermione admonished, "just because Errol is old—"
"And don't forget senile!"
"—doesn't mean he's incapable. Age is no reason to question his worth! He's a perfectly able bodied—"
"Please," Ron interrupted loudly, "no S.P.O.O.O.O.!"
"I don't know what you're—"
"Society for the Protection of... Old Overweight Ornery Owls," Ron spluttered his way to a finishing. Harry laughed appreciatively. Hermione fumed.
"Sorry, Hermione," Harry said. "How're we getting out of here?"
HONK!
A horn blew from outside number four, Privet Drive.
"I called a taxi to take us as far as King's Cross. From there we can take the Underground," Hermione clarified.
"Ace. Let's go, then."
-
Harry cleared his throat.
"Oh, you're leaving?" Uncle Vernon said in a would-be casual voice, barely containing his internal glee as he folded his newspaper down halfway in order to peer at Harry from behind it. Harry could see his balding head and beady eyes and nothing else.
"Yeah," Harry responded, strolling from the doorway across the linoleum to the kitchen table where the Dursley family sat. He stopped a good three feet from Uncle Vernon's chair. "I won't be in touch, don't worry," he added shortly, seeing beady bulging eyes relax to a more beady positioning. "I just wanted to say—" Harry took a deep, calming breath before plainly saying, "should anything happen to me—I want to be buried with my parents."
In the silence that inevitably follows such statements, Harry held out a hand to his Uncle Vernon.
Bulging eyes flicked back and forth, from hand to face to hand again, yet no further action was taken. Harry's hand remained stoically extended for some decent period of time before the newspaper once more covered beady eyes.
"Goodbye," Harry said simply, then turned and left number four Privet Drive without another glance behind.
-
-
-
Ron was wringing his hands. His face was white as chalk. He couldn't stand still. The examiner knew that her instructions were trickling in one ear and out the other. Nevertheless, she went through her protocol. First, Ron was to apparate into a hoop at the other end of the muggle warehouse in which they all stood. Then he was to apparate to Hogsmead, right outside Madame Pudifoot's tea shop. Ron nodded nervously, not taking in a word.
There were about three dozen young witches and wizards waiting in line, all in varying states of nervousness. Parents stood off to the side, chatting and waiting. Harry, at the very front of the line, could hear little snippets of conversation: several fathers planned on taking their sons to a Quiddich match after the test, and the sons were avidly discussing the strengths and weaknesses of the teams; two witches gossiped about a recent interview in Witch Weekly; several girls at the back of the line were whispering... about him.
"That is Harry Potter!" One girl hit another for not taking her word.
"You're sure?"
"Yes!"
"He's even better looking in person..."
"And taller, too!"
"Harry?" Hermione regarded him closely. "Are you alright? You're grinding your teeth..." She put a hand on his shoulder as Ron finally apparated into the hoop. "Nervous?"
"No, I'm fine," Harry lied.
"Who's she?" the girls at the back of the cue continued, not bothering to whisper.
"Think she's his girlfriend?"
"I hope not!"
"Harry Potter! You're next!" Ron had apparated off to Madame Pudifoot's at long last, and it was Harry's turn.
"I'll meet you and Ron at the Three Broomsticks. Remember, Harry: destination, determination, deliberation!" Hermione called after him as he approached the examiner.
"Just don't lose your shirt," he mumbled to himself, mortified by the very thought of the squeals that would arise from the back of the line should his clothing begin to come off. "Destination, determination, deliberation... "
"You're Harry Potter?" the examiner asked.
"Yeah."
"Alright. First I'll have you apparate into that hoop over there," she pointed and Harry nodded to demonstrate that he knew where the hoop was. "I'll check for accuracy and any splinching, then you'll apparate from there to Madame Pudifoot's in Hogsmead—you know where that is?" Harry nodded again. "Good. Whenever you're ready, then," and she stepped back.
Destination, determination, deliberation, he thought. He concentrated on the hoop at the other end of the warehouse. He had to do this. He had no other choice. He could get on with the rest of his life once...
He reappeared in the circle.
"Very good," the examiner said briskly, apparating beside him. She made several check marks on her sheet of official parchment. Harry slipped his hand inside his bag, sighing softly when his fingertips met Hogwarts: A History. "Whenever you're ready..." the examiner offered again. Before she could step away, Harry turned to her.
"Er, my friend, Ron Weasley—did he pass?" Harry asked awkwardly.
"Yes, he did," she told him, stepping back. "Relax and concentrate—whenever you're ready..."
Destination, determination... Harry relaxed as much as he could... deliberation, destination... He turned and was greeted by a pinched, nauseating sensation. He tried to relax. Determination, destination, deliberation... desolation, degradation, denigration, defenestration!
He landed hard outside Madame Pudifoot's tea shop.
"Solid, mate!" Ron called, breaking through a casual rank of Ministry officials and dashing across the street to meet Harry. They engaged in a brief manly hug, separating as the examiner arrived.
"Excellent, Potter," she said. "Just a moment." She made a few more marks on her parchment before handing it to a tiny official who had scuttled up behind her almost unnoticed. She disapparated.
"This way, please," and the tiny man guided Harry down the street.
"Ron?" Harry asked quietly as they followed the official.
"Yeah?"
"Uh, is 'defenestration' a word?"
"No bloody idea. Is Hermione coming?"
"Yeah. She said she'd wait at the Three Broomsticks."
"Excellent!" Ron was suddenly very enthusiastic.
"Wha'?"
"Oh, you'll see!"
-
"Two Fire Whiskeys!"
"RON!!!"
Ron had marched Harry into the Three Broomsticks before the ink on their licenses had time to dry. They had seen Hermione at the bar, nursing a Butterbeer and chatting with Madam Rosmerta. Ron had sat down and placed his order in a highly convivial manner. Hermione had been extremely affronted. Harry had just blushed.
"What's the occasion, boys?" Mme. Rosmerta smiled warmly, picking up two glasses for their drinks.
"It's Harry's birthday!" Ron shoved Harry into the seat between himself and a murderous-looking Hermione.
"Oh, that's right!" Mme. Rosmerta said, pouring them each a liberal amount. "On the house," she placed their drinks on the bar, "and happy birthday, Harry."
"Thanks," he blushed more—partly from the principle of a free drink and partly from the venomous expression Hermione now wore.
"Ron," Hermione began imperiously, "I hardly think your—"
"We're of age. Cheers, mate!" Ron clanked his glass against Harry's, and they both downed the amber liquid.
Ron coughed and spluttered uncontrollably.
"Serves you right," Hermione responded primly.
Harry exhaled slowly, savoring a sweet burn at the back of his throat followed by the tiniest of shudders. "Wow," he breathed, running out of air with a soft, strangled sound.
"Glad you like it," Mme. Rosmerta said, clearing away the glasses as Ron gasped for air. Harry clapped him on the back as he wheezed himself back under control.
"We should head back," Hermione said over Ron's shuddering inhalations. "It's nearly time for lunch and everyone will be waiting for us." She stood up.
"Go ahead," Ron said in a detached voice, "don't keep Krum waiting."
Hermione huffed and slammed the door behind her as she left. The unassuming early-afternoon stragglers who sparsely populated the Three Broomsticks turned to cast eyes on Ron as Hermione's slam echoed around the room.
"Should we go?" Harry asked once their audience had gone back to its own business.
"Eh," Ron said dismissively. "I'm gunna have another fire whiskey first. You?" Mme. Rosmerta came back around the bar.
"Maybe... a small mead?" Harry dug around the bottom of his bag and pulled out a few coins, dropping them on the bar discretely. "My treat."
-
-
-
After sandwiches at the Burrow, Krum took Hermione out for a date. Ron wouldn't stop talking about the vulgarity of it all, during which time Mrs. Weasley detected the distinct aroma of fire whiskey on her son's breath—she sent him, grumbling, to his room. Harry stood up, about to go and join him when Fred and George arrived.
George took over greeting Mrs. Weasley and accepting sandwiches while Fred approached Harry, carrying a large sized box under each arm.
"Mind giving me a hand, Harry? These go upstairs," Fred asked nonchalantly, though loud enough for two or three other people at the table to hear.
"Sure, no problem." Harry grabbed a box and followed Fred upstairs. "I'm in Percy's old room, with Krum," Harry told Fred under his breath when they paused on a landing.
"Right. That might make things difficult."
Once in the immaculately kept former bedroom of Percy Weasley, Fred set his box on the floor and turned to Harry.
"What's all this for, Harry?" he asked, gesturing toward the boxes vaguely.
"Best not to know," Harry said peevishly, folding his arms and gazing out the window, casting Muffliato covertly so that Fred wouldn't pick up on the spell.
"If you're in some kinda trouble—" Fred took an aggressive step forward, as if trouble was the sort of thing he was used to handling head-on.
"I'm not." Harry turned to reassure him with a shrug.
"Really?" Fred stared him down. Harry returned his gaze to the window.
"Not yet, anyway."
George burst in.
"I thought I'd never escape Mum and her sandwiches!" he panted. "What'd I miss?"
"Nothing much," Fred said. "We were just getting to the good part—an explanation for all this." Fred opened one of the boxes and pulled out Mister D's ridiculous hat—even more foolish and impractical in broad daylight—even in the wizarding world.
"What the hell, Harry? What the hell?" George droned sarcastically in a very even monotone. "Explain right now."
"I..." Harry sighed. "I can't. It... might put you in danger later on..."
"We brought everything you asked for," Fred added, sounding more than a little down. "Can't you at least tell us something?"
"You'd better sit down," Harry said evenly. Once Fred and George were seated on his bed, he sat on a box and began. "So... I'm going after Voldemort. I went to Knockturn Alley to try and get some information, but I got a lot more than I thought I would. Aside from those books—which are really valuable—I... ran into someone."
"Who?"
"Doesn't matter. What's important is how she reacted to me... like she mistook me for somebody else—someone she's really afraid of. She just about died when I mentioned—er, how was it?... 'Those of my acquaintance,' or something like that. I think I might be able to fool her again, and maybe get some more information out of her," Harry finished in a rush.
"And if you can't trick her?"
"Then I'll go straight to the guy she thought I was."
"And who's he?"
"I... I'm not sure yet. I'll figure it out, though."
"So when you find this guy, you'll... what?"
"Pay him to help me—the guy, he's a bounty hunter, or at least he used to be—I bet he'd do it."
"Harry, I don't get it," George interrupted. "Why this guy you don't even know? You can't trust bounty hunters, anyway; they'll turn on you in a second for the right price!"
"I know," Harry responded quickly, running a hand through his hair. "But I think this guy might have some kind of... personal vendetta... anyway, I've got another reason for all this stuff: Ron and Hermione."
"What about them?"
"I don't know if they've told you, but they're threatening to come with me."
"Well they can't."
"Exactly! They think I'm looking for Voldemort in a library or something, but that's not how all this works! Besides; if they know where I am or what I'm after, they'd be in real danger."
"We'll keep them here when you leave, Harry," Fred promised soberly.
"No good," Harry shook his head. "I've got to give them the slip myself. If I don't, they'll always be coming after me. I can't deal with that many people tailing me at one time and still get to Voldemort. I've got to work alone, or with absolute strangers."
"Do you have a plan?" George was still flinching at the mention of The-Name.
"Yeah, a bit. I think I can make a clean break from Ron and Hermione. Then I've got a couple decent disguises, so I'll gather some more information... but I'll make contact once I've got outside support."
"How will you contact us? So we know it's you."
"Chances are I'll send an actual person—no idea who it'll be, though."
"We need some kind of phrase..."
"What do you mean, Fred?"
"Something this contact can say to us so we'll know they've come from you."
"Um... I'll have them mention a thousand galleons. How's that?"
"That's good."
"When do you think you'll send them?"
"Like I said, I dunno yet. Once I ditch Hermione and Ron. Once I'm disguised and hidden. Once I've got someone to send..."
"So you're really going after him..."
"Yeah. I'm gunna get 'em..."
-
-
-
Harry donned his dress robes with a distinct note of apprehension. Mrs. Weasley had insisted that everyone "dress up" for dinner tonight, and Harry had been the only one to put up any kind of protest. He distinctly detected the odor of conspiracy. "You don't turn seventeen every day, you know!" Mrs. Weasley had proclaimed, and thus it was final. Harry just hoped nobody would make a big deal out of his birthday... he honestly wouldn't know how to take it...
Mounting the stairs, music and the gentle hum of multiple conversations drifted up to him. Ron apparated right beside him, straightening the collar of his navy blue dress robes—the cocky, I-just-apparated-like-it's-nothing smirk on his face told the whole story.
"C'amon, mate," he said in chipper tones, clapping a hand on Harry's shoulder and steering him the rest of the way down the stairs.
"Harry!" Mr. Weasley greeted him from the main room. "Happy birthday," he said, handing Harry... surprise... a glass of honeyed mead.
"Thanks," Harry said, taking the glass with a small pang of guilt. He wondered if he'd been drinking too much lately ... can never drink too much with untold numbers of extremist factions trying to murder you every moment of every day ... he took a sip.
Mr. Weasley excused himself and went to help his wife in the kitchen.
"Where's everybody else?" Harry asked Ron, who continued to fuss with his robes.
"Dunno," he said. "Hey! I'll go check outside!" and he disappeared excitedly, leaving little more than a dusting of red hairs behind. Harry chuckled appreciatively and sipped his mead agreeably. Then he saw Ginny standing by the radio. He froze.
Her hair was pulled back from her face, little strands falling down her neck—his eyes explored the lines of her, the planes of her body in a long blue dress like a vision seen only in dreams from which the mind must too-soon wake. He watched her, praying she hadn't noticed him, knowing she already had, but praying all the same that she would have the grace to pretend with him; pretend she hadn't noticed him, and allow him to glory in her looks a moment longer. She had such a power over him, standing calmly in her long blue dress, toying with the window frame and toying with his heartstrings, tearing them this way and that as though they should break and leave him lifeless, heartless in a body held heavy and solid at the foot of the stairs.
She would do well to ignore him. He wished she would; to hear her voice... to look into her eyes... to know she was watching him... would all be too much. He might lose what parts of his heart that still remained. Without a single acknowledgement, she held the power to command him. Looking at her—he was lost to the world.
She lifted her eyes to the door that lead out to the garden. Raising her skirt above her ankles, she moved to the door, dragging his battered, bleeding gaze behind her. She abandoned him with her beautiful green eyes held high. He had no control of himself. From the garden she willed him to follow, and he did without thought or hesitation.
-
"SURPRISE!!!"
-
-
-
Books and alcohol rivaled one another for attention amongst the multicolored contents of the pile, yet the large bags of money were also very appealing. Some gifts stuck out like sore thumbs, such as the unpronounceable plant from Professor Sprout; the bow and arrows from Firenze; or the stolen goods from a battered looking Mundungus Fletcher, returned in an equally pilfered, Black-family-crested suitcase. Other gifts made more sense, like a charmed rope from Professor Flitwick, or a very advanced potions set complete with books and cauldron from Slughorn. McGonagall had gotten him a brick-of-a-book called An Introduction to Legilimency... it looked scary. Nearly Headless Nick had presented Harry with a large box of cigars. Trelawney gave him muggle tarot cards, insisting they were the best divining tool she'd ever come across. Moaning Myrtle didn't show up and Harry didn't need tarot cards to divine why.
Mad Eye Moody pressed a very spartan looking set of daggers into Harry's hands, accompanied by a heavy book on hand to hand combat and a brusque wink. Hermione hadn't approved, but had handed Harry a book on the international history of Aurors. Tonks and Lupin gave him the Ministry's official textbooks for year one of Auror training.
Madam Rosmerta brought Harry some of her best spirits: Angelina Johnson, Fred, George, and Bill's colleagues from Egypt brought more of the same. Fred and George made a show of giving Harry a slew of brand new product not yet available to the public: there was much Mrs. Weasley eye rolling. Kingslee Shackelbolt joined other members of the Order—as well as some of Mr. Weasley's friends—in giving Harry money. Both Oliver Wood and Victor Krum donated Quiddich tickets in subdued fits of self-promotion. After giving Harry a handsome set of dragon skin accessories, Charlie got in a fight with Wood over who was a better Quiddich player in his Hogwarts days. The fight culminated in a drinking match, in which Harry and Krum partook and won... hands down. Wood was too plastered to get the bottle to his lips by the third round.
Seamus Finnegan brought Harry a book his great grandfather had written on Celtic spell work. Ernie MacMillan and his entire family showed up, bringing Harry a book about practical transfiguration. The Bones family presented Harry with a lovely collection on spellforms. Ron gave him what appeared to be a copy of Men Who Loved Dragons Too Much, but the book was actually hollowed out to hold a large flask of whiskey.
Fleur gave Harry a small, silvery chain that she immediately fastened around his neck. She said it was made of Veela hair and would protect him... but she didn't say how, or against what. Harry hoped beyond hope it would protect him from women—he figured it wouldn't, but it never hurt to dream.
Luna Lovegood turned up with her father, whom she looked remarkably like. Wearing her traditional bottle cap necklace and glassy-eyed vacant expression, she placed in Harry's hands a map of London, with an inset of the Underground in the bottom corner. Harry bemusedly thanked her for the map, subconsciously aware that the map was most likely more than Luna Lovegood let on. Ron made fun of the map when Luna was out of earshot and Harry tried to laugh appreciatively, but couldn't laugh upon looking at the insert a second time. It had become a map of Godrick's Hollow... Luna was really far more perceptive than she let on...
By now, he was sipping from a small bottle of potent citrus liquor and leafing through the collection of books on spellforms. All but a few of the guests from his surprise birthday party remained—mostly older, serious people theorizing over what The-Boy-Who-Lived coming of age would mean in the fight against the Dark Lord... dark, heavy matters that weighed greatly at the back of Harry's mind. He turned pages and took sips of of his alcohol, searching for something to bring him closer to the thousand answers the world so desperately sought.
He stopped turning pages, licking a drop of potent sour from his lip. He scanned an immense diagram, noting minor aspects that could prove useful. This, he thought, combine it with that one there, put a circle around them, maybe add a double line on the left and some weighting on the bottom he mused, and turned over a corner of the page—but too quickly, giving himself a long paper cut. Immediately, he brought the finger to his mouth.
And let out a low, exasperated moan when the cut burned against his chilled lips. He removed the finger and shook it wildly, swearing violently under his breath.
"Harry? Is that you?" Hermione had come into the room, most likely while he'd been drinking and reading.
"Mmm," he grunted back, standing up from behind his horde. "Yeah. Cut my finger—"
"Serves you right. You shouldn't play with knives while intoxicated," she quipped, still sore about the daggers from Moody.
"I was reading!" He rolled his eyes and held up his finger. "See? Paper cut."
Hermione sighed and shook her head.
"And I'm not drunk." Harry disappeared behind his pile of stuff.
Her ire rose in indignation.
"I just had to put Ron to bed—he's absolutely plastered! Now you've had even more than he has, and don't you roll your eyes at me, Harry! Do you even know how many drinks you've had today?" she demanded in a huff, hair everywhere and hands placed aggressively on her hips.
Harry reappeared from behind his horde with a bottle to his lips.
"Relax, Hermione," he said softly, screwing the cap on his liquor and slipping the bottle in the pocket of his robes.
"What a lush..." she muttered and turned her back to him.
Though he thought she was being slightly unreasonable, he did feel a little guilty, now he had done the belated mental math and realized just how much he had actually drank in one day. He came around the side of the pile and took a few steps in her direction: he saw her stiffen and stopped.
"Um, thank you for the Auror book," he pronounced awkwardly, not sure what else to say when she was obviously so angry with him. "It really does look interesting... I'll go to sleep, then." He couldn't take it when she wouldn't say what was on her mind—so unlike Ginny, but so equally frightening. He couldn't begin to imagine what might be going on in a woman's mind. Was she about to cry? Or about to hex him? "Goodnight, Hermione. See you in the morning." He scooped up his things with a spell and meandered up the stairs, presents floating up the staircase behind him, a hundred little reminders of the womanthoughts he remained unprivy to.
-
Victor Krum covered his eyes against the light as Harry opened the door. Krum's covers were thrown back to reveal a well muscled torso and strong arms and light colored boxer shorts. Krum looked piss drunk.
"She got you, too, eh?" Krum asked. His English had improved, but his accent was thicker than usual for obvious reasons.
"Hermione? Yeah..." Harry closed the door, directing his things to collect in man-high piles against the wall by his trunk. "She forced you up here, too?" he relaxed a little as Krum nodded.
"She, eh, undressed me," Krum laughed, indicating his current state.
"I-don't-wanna-know," Harry said quickly, slurring, becoming uncomfortably aware that Krum was in fact Hermione's long-standing boyfriend. Krum laughed even harder. Harry tossed his bottle onto the bed, its liquid filling the room with pleasant sloshing sounds as he tugged off his dress robes and Krum's chuckle tapered off into nothing. Harry abandoned his shirt and trousers in a pile on the floor and dug through his trunk for a pair of pyjama bottoms, being careful to leave a capture phial readily accessible. He coaxed his legs into the pyjama bottoms and then collapsed into bed with his bottle.
"She worries for us," Krum mused. "That must be good. She cares." Harry unscrewed his bottle.
"Does she ever get real quiet when she's mad at you?" He took a sip.
"Sometimes, yes..." Krum rolled over to look at Harry. "No fun. She do that to you?" Harry just nodded.
"It scares me," Harry admitted.
"Me, too."
Harry offered Krum a sip, which he accepted—stretching a long Seeker's arm across the space between their beds. His eyes went large as he sipped and passed the bottle back with an odd smile that made his birdlike features turn suddenly handsome, sinister.
"Vodka... that's very good," he slurred. Harry smiled in return and took another swig. Krum chuckled suddenly, bitter.
"Wha'?"
"Her."
"Hermione?"
"She put us in bed like babies!" Krum signaled for another round.
"Children," Harry muttered, forking over the vodka.
"Our lives are—how do you say—rained on by women?"
"Rained on? Maybe... ruled?" Harry suggested.
"Yes!" Krum agreed. He decided to say it once again, properly, and for emphasis. "Our lives are ruled by women!"
Krum took a savage mouthful and Harry did the same.
"Cheers, mate."
-
-
-
One foot unto the next, stealthily, he crept up to the door. He secured his invisibility cloak, his wand, his capture phial. Everything was in place. Harry could hear the snores of Fleur's grandmother from the landing—she had enjoyed the wine at the party, Harry had noted while forcing himself to become more observant of the goings-on at parties. It would be safest to get the Veela's breath tonight, while she was sleeping hard and the danger was minimal. Harry recalled the scene at the Quiddich World Cup vividly. He wouldn't like to see Fleur's grandmother angry and drunk...
Harry opened the door silently, using a spell from The Darkest Room to muffle the squeaking of the door. He aimed the same spell at the floorboards, just to remain secure and thorough.
The old woman was out—more so than Krum.
Quickly, silently, Harry balanced the capture phial in the palm of his hand, wand squeezed over the lip of the phial to prevent it from falling, as suggested by one of the Auror training textbooks Lupin and Tonks had given him. Holding the phial to his chest, he pulled out the wooden stopper in a smooth motion and extended his arm to the old woman's mouth with urgency.
"Captivus," he whispered.
Whisss the phial seemed to respond, and the air around it managed to contract for an aching instant. Then it was done, and the grandmother gave a snort in her sleep. Harry stoppered the phial and backed out of the room, not believing his luck.