TITLE: "THE GUNMAN"

AUTHOR: sordid humor

AUTHOR'S E-MAIL: sordid underscore humors at yahoo dot com

CATEGORY: Adventure

SUB-CATEGORY: Humor; Romance; Drama

RATING: brought to you by the letter M: "M" is for monotony

DISCLAIMERS:

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.

Jake Gyllenhaal is an actor. I do not own him. Just thought I'd make that clear. I'm using his face by request. That is all.

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This is a 5,000 word installment which serves as proof that I am not dead.

I am in fact alive, not necessarily well, and living in Brooklyn.

There is good liquor, rent stabilization, free parking, and hookah. You should join me. Bring chicken, we'll barbecue.

- - -

we demand flat-ness

we demand THIS MAN

- enclosed picture of actor Jake Gyllenhaal

we demand cross-contamination

((According to the most recent tax records available, the owner and proprietor of Euro Cafe & Snacks, located at 14 Charing Cross Road in London, is one Mr. A. Shafiq. Beware the internet.))

((This is me: slightly inebriated and trying my damnedest.))

((This is you: not taking me seriously.))

PART II

SELECTED PORTIONS OF:

CHAPTER IX:

(TENTATIVELY ENTITLED)

ADVENTURES IN ALCOHOLISM

Harriet sat alone at the Leaky Cauldron. From her dark corner she could eavesdrop on several conversations simultaneously. She sipped tea.

"I won't let my girls leave the house without me, things being the way they are!" a blonde witch at the bar tittered at her friend. The friend agreed, tittered some herself, and ordered something a little stronger.

"Yer not coming to the match?!" a middle aged wizard exclaimed, staring across the table at his friend with shock and bewilderment written across his face.

"Nope," his friend replied morosely, looking as put out as his companion, "the wife, yeh see. Doesn't think it's safe fer us teh go 'in such a small group!'" He impersonated his wife's shrill voice. The other men nodded sympathetically and sipped their mead.

The Ministry was frightening people into staying at home. That would make things easier—fewer witnesses. Having gathered all the information and supplies she would need, Harriet put a sickle on the table for her tea and collected her things. Blatant stares followed her path to the door.

"What's a pretty thing like that doing out alone, eh?" a young man inquired of Tom the barman after ordering his drink.

"Dunno," Tom answered, pouring the man's scotch. "She's in 'ere a few times, now. Always alone."

"And always in men's clothes?"

"'Suppose so, Mr. Weasley."

"Interesting." Fred Weasley sipped his scotch and pondered. Tom shrugged and held out a hand for three sickles.

-

Harriet returned to her hotel room to find Hedwig perched on the fire escape, pecking out a steady rhythm against the window pane. She rushed over to the window and opened it. Headwig swept in and deposited a large brown package onto the bed, hooting softly and coming around to land on Harriet's shoulder. She preened.

Headwig can recognize me? Harry wondered.

--Yes. In a way. She can sense. She knows us.

Us?

--Shut it, Potter.

Harry ignored her. What's in the package?

She ripped open the package and dumped its carefully folded contents out over the bedspread. It looked like just a lot of black material of different textures, all a little faded.

Huh?

Harriet pulled out a bundle of fabric and shook it out. Only a small amount of dust plumed into the air. She coughed and then examined the cloth. It was a slightly faded black dress in a 1940's style, with a collar and a row of buttons marching down the front, a silver buckle cinching it at the back. She held it up to herself and it was about the right size, if a little big. "Not bad," she muttered.

Where did these come from?

She chuckled. "They're 'Dark Artifacts,' Potter." He shrugged and she rolled her eyes. "I forged your handwriting and wrote Dobby. I had him send any women's clothing from the attic that could pass for Muggle wear. This must have been Mrs. Black's."

That's disturbing.

"Pretty much," she sighed. "But I can't go on wearing your clothes... and it would look suspicious if I bought everything new." Harry recalled a chapter from one of his books about disguises; it said that the best disguises consisted of both new and older, worn-looking clothes. Harry supposed that walking around wearing the same clothes as the manikins in the store windows wouldn't exactly look right, so the idea made sense.

Harriet tossed Mrs. Black's dress aside and reached into the pile again, pulling out a garment made of far less material. She held it up and snorted. It was a tiny black dress that appeared to be made entirely of snake skin, with a plunging neckline and a skirt portion that would barely cover her bum.

Where'd that come from?

"Must have belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange, though I don't want to think about her in it." They both gave an involuntary shudder. "After all, it's hardly Sirius Black's style," she chuckled. "Anyways, I bought some every day robes and a pair of heels," she gestured to the bags from Diagon Alley. "That should pass for now. I bought them at a consignment shop and they're quite simple, so I won't stand out." Harry thought otherwise—Harriet was too pretty not to attract attention—but he kept that to himself. She sighed and Harry figured she hadn't heard him.

"Unfortunately, we're out of this room at two." She waved her wand and her things began to pack themselves—folding, reducing, and flying into the messenger bag with relative ease. "Best get a Muggle newspaper and find something for rent. These hotels are bloody expensive." Harry had been thinking the same thing.

-

An hour later, she had taken over her favorite table at Euro Cafe, the same Muggle bakery where she had met Sid two days previous. She had already finished her sandwich and was working on the last dregs of her lukewarm cappuccino, going through the Muggle paper and circling spaces for rent that might suit her. They were all very expensive and nothing was near the Leaky Cauldron. She sighed and polished off her coffee.

"I can't believe they're hiring!" a young woman squealed to her friend as they sat down at the table next to Harriet. "The head bartender there is soooo cute! I wanna fuck him!" Harriet listened in half heartedly as Harry ignored the gossips in favor of the listings in the paper.

"I know!" the other girl squeaked back, adjusting her exposed cleavage and flipping her hair over her shoulder. "We should go to the open call tonight!"

The first girl scoffed as she blew over her hot tea. "Why? It's not like we'd get hired. They're only looking for bartenders, remember?"

"So? At least we'd get into the club for free." The first girl shrugged at this. "And we could spend the rest of the night hitting on the other cute guys." This seemed to change the girl's mind.

"Okay, fine. We'll go. I'll steal my brother's bar tending license and make copies so they'll let us in for free. But if the cute one's not there, I'm not staying."

"Fine. There are other clubs besides Ugly's." They began to eat but continued talking with their mouthes full.

"Yeah. Wish they were hiring waitresses, though. They pay you soooo bloody much to work there!"

"'Cause you have to be fuckin' hot to work there, that's why."

"What's that supposed to mean?!" the busty girl shrieked. Harriet rolled her eyes and rejoined Harry's perusal of the newspaper. An older woman came by to pick up her plate and coffee cup. Harriet thanked her and was about to leave a tip on the table and walk out when the woman stopped her.

"Are you looking for an apartment, Miss?" she asked. English was obviously her second language, but she spoke well and had a pleasant air about her.

"Yes, I am, actually. Do you know of anything in this area?"

The woman gave her a knowing smile, hiked up her sari and said, "follow me."

It turned out the three bedroom double flat above the bakery was for rent—practically for free. The owners of the bakery, Mr. & Mrs. Shafiq, were going to put an advertisement in the paper tomorrow. They used to live there themselves until their daughter asked them to move in with her husband and their children in Staffordshire. They couldn't say no to family and didn't really need the income from renting out the two stories above the bakery, so they happily leased it to Harriet...for next to nothing.

She explained that she had just graduated from university in Germany and had moved to London to be closer to her father and cousin. They would probably drop by to visit. Mr. and Mrs. Shafiq just nodded serenely. She had the feeling they only understood half of the English language. Harriet gave them the deposit in cash.

So, Harry mused as they walked down the street, looking for a furniture store, among other things, what are we doing for money? My vault in Gringotts will only last so long...

--We're going to Ugly's.

Great.

-

Diagon Alley was unusually sunny that evening; the streets were uncrowded and all the shop doors were open to take advantage of the cool breeze. Harry made his way down the street, completely in control. After Harriet had purchased a few necessary dark detectors for the flat she had given Harry the reigns, opting to go to the back of his head and contemplate the details of her excursion to Ugly's. Harry couldn't care less. Aside from the concentration necessary to walk on cobblestone in heels, he was having the most relaxing evening he could remember in quite some time.

A noisy crowd could be heard further down the alley, outside Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Not thinking, Harry made his way towards the brightly colored banners and squeezed inside.

The Weasley brothers' shop was packed; there seemed to be more people in the front room of their shop than on all the streets put together. He edged his way to the back room to have a look at the newest disguise magics on display. He spotted the Vocal Assimilator on a pedestal and smiled.

"That's our newest creation," said a familiar voice and Harry jumped. He turned to see Fred and George Weasley two paces behind him, talking to an enthusiastic looking blonde witch in bright red lipstick. He was about to wave to them when Harriet reminded him of something which he had, up until that moment, forgotten: he had breasts. Maybe approaching Fred and George wasn't such a good idea.

But it was too late. As soon as Harry turned his head, Harriet's long brown hair had whipped over her shoulder and an involuntary smile had spread across her face. Fred and George had seen her—were already disentangling themselves from the blonde witch with too much lipstick—and were headed her way. Harry gulped and turned quickly back to the Assimilator.

--Don't worry, Harriet said calmly. I can handle this.

Uh... thanks.

"Hi, there," George cooed, coming up on Harriet's right side and tapping her shoulder. "I'm George Weasley. I own this place." He offered his hand to Harriet and she shook it politely. "This is my brother, Fred." Fred popped up on Harriet's left, sandwiching her, preventing her escape, and offering his hand as well. Harriet accepted the second handshake while marveling at their predatorial choreography.

"Harriet Jane Foxworthy. Pleasure to meet you both." She smiled and withdrew her hand. She looked back at the Vocal Assimilator. "I've seen your work in action—it's quite good."

"Why, thank you, Harriet." Fred swept into a low bow, jostling customers with him bum. Harriet laughed.

"Please, only my mother ever called me Harriet! Some people call me Harry," she paused and then leaned towards Fred in mock confidence, "but all my friends call me Jane."

"Then Jane it is," George said congenially, wrapping an arm around Harriet's shoulders and pulling her away from Fred and closer to the Assimilator display. "So, you say you've seen our stuff, eh? You liked it?"

Harriet smiled coyly, wriggling out from George's arm in a seamless motion and turning to face him in conversation. "I was impressed by the level of complexity, the way you layered the spells over one another without effecting the integrity of each component. It must take you a lot of time to perfect."

"Well," George blushed.

"All in a day's work," Fred chimed in, swooping in to stand beside Harriet. "Wish we had more time, though. As you can see, we've never been busier!"

"I imagine you've hired yourselves some good help," Harriet said, looking around the shop at the witches and wizards in matching magenta robes assisting customers.

"Yeah, our sales staff is great! Dunno what we'd do without them, actually." George sighed wistfully.

"Just wish we had more time to develop new products, you know?" Fred stepped closer to Harriet in order to let a sales witch by and didn't step away once she'd passed. Harriet's shoulder was flush with his ribs and she could feel the vibration of his voice as he continued. "We're always working the shop or gettin' dragged off to do paperwork."

"Speaking of which," George whispered. "Hide!"

Suddenly both twins ducked down to half their height and attempted to hide themselves behind Harriet as the sales witch from before reappeared.

"Mr. Weasley! Mr. Weasley! I see you two, there!" She said loudly, cutting her way through the crowded shop. Fred and George sighed and straightened up, both sets of hands still on Harriet's waist. "The extra register is broken again."

"Have Watson look at it," Fred suggested.

"Watson fixed it last time," George said, sounding like he was being chastised by Mrs. Weasley.

"Watson's been trying for the last ten minutes," the witch said, one hand on her hip and the other gesturing towards the registers. A tall man with messy brown hair was bent over the counter, looking frustrated. Every few seconds he would pull at his scruffy beard in frustration and adjust his grip on his wand. "Watson?" the girl called loudly.

"No good!" Watson put his wand back in his pocket and wiped a smudge of dirt off his round nose. "It just doesn't wanna be fixed, Alexa!"

Alexa fixed the Weasley twins with a look, hands on her hips and blue eyes fuming. "Are you going to do anything about it? It'll take hours to ring up the line by hand." She brushed a lock of black hair out of her eyes as she waited for an answer. Fred and George sighed.

"We'll be there in a minute, Lex," George said, defeated. Harriet looked over her shoulder at Fred and George.

"Looks like you need a manager," Harriet said softly.

"Guess it wouldn't hurt to bring one more person on," Fred said, looking at George and biting his bottom lip.

"But we'd have to start interviewing again, and we just don't have the time." George rolled his eyes and cast his eyes about the shop.

"I've got some free time in the mornings," Harriet said simply. Fred and George turned to her as one with a carnal look in their eyes. "But you'd have to pay me," she said quickly, raising a finger and stepping out of their reach. "And I'm not cheap."

Fred and George exchanged a knowing look.

"Done," they said in unison and looked back at Harriet. "When can you start?"

Harriet laughed. "How about tomorrow? I'll come in and we can discuss what you need me to do so you can concentrate on your inventing."

"Great. How can we reach you?"

Harriet began to back away, still smiling and flushed from the warmth of the bodies in the shop. "Oh, I'll be in touch. Don't worry, boys."

She waved and made her way out of the shop and back into the breezy ally. Harry felt a little light headed, and he didn't think it was from the heat in the shop. Fred and George had been hitting on him. And he liked it.

Harriet...?

--I think now would be a good time to—

Yeah, shut up. I got it.

-

Kavall's shop looked dustier by day, but everything else looked the same; the piles of books and jars of pickled mysteries and the old cash register in the corner looked undisturbed since Harry's last visit. It appeared that Kavall rarely sold anything from the shop floor but still made enough to keep the store front open. That might be worth looking into.

Harriet hooked her shopping bag over her shoulder as she closed the shop door behind herself. Kavall was nowhere to be seen. She cleared her throat.

"Hello," she called. "Anyone home?" She spoke with confidence, peering around disinterestedly, the way Draco Malfoy might while awaiting service at Flourish and Blotts.

"Oh, hello!" Kavall popped up from a staircase hidden by the register counter. "Good day! Aunders Kavall, Miss. How may I be of service?" he swept into a gallant bow and the tasseled tip of his floppy gray wizards hat dusted a little spot on the floor.

Harriet came forward to meet him and Kavall offered her his arm as though to take her on a turn about the shop. She took his arm and he led her slowly through the shop as she spoke.

"Mr. Kavall, I believe my father acquired a book from your shop some weeks ago... quite possibly in an effort to subdue me. As you see, those efforts were fruitless. In fact," she smiled, "they seem to have backfired brilliantly."

"Ah, yes!" Kavall replied. "I would never forget a meeting with your dear father. He has a particular way about him..."

"How many times did he threaten to kill you, Mr. Kavall?" she laughed. "I'm terribly sorry, that's just the way he is; brusk and distrustful." Harry thought she might have been speaking about him but said nothing.

"It's quite alright, Miss. I've grown accustomed to harsh words and distrust these days."

"Well, Mr. Kavall, I'm not sure what spell you suggested to my father, but he seems to be trapped in the likeness and mind of my dearly departed Aunt Mildred. Dear Aunt Mildred was his eldest sister and a hopeless Squib, so I've gotten little information from her. I learned of my father's mistake through Legillimens in her sleep. I believe my father's spell was mis prepared and backfired onto himself—though I must say I'm pleased it wasn't cast on me!"

"Oh, dear," Kavall squeaked and scratched his bony temple with his free hand.

"Poor father," Harriet smiled and blushed a little. "Though it's rather amusing," she trailed off, still grinning.

"You've decided to reverse the spell?"

"I suppose," Harriet shrugged. "Better judgment will out and all that. I've got enough to tease him about for a good while." Kavall chuckled.

"Unfortunately, there's only one way to reverse it," he warned.

"With father, there's usually only one way about anything." She shrugged again. "Please go on."

"The spell is very complex dark magic; it creates a temporary, near-invincibility within the target—usually the caster, but not always—until they have carried out a specified action, a killing. Until that death has taken place at the target's hands, both facets—in this case, your father and the emulation of your dearly departed Aunt—will exist, and will exist in that temporary, near-invincible, heightened state; which, I dare say, would greatly enhance your father's work, should he choose to come out of retirement."

"He might consider it, if only to to try killing me a few times."

"Surely not," Kavall patted her arm and led her on another turn past the dirty shop windows.

"This is the worst thing I've done to him in a long time. He's quite angry." Harriet stopped to think and Kavall turned towards her, a comforting, wrinkled hand on her forearm. Her shopping bag bumped between them. "Though, I suppose he would be grateful if I got him out of Aunt Mildred."

"That's the ticket!" Kavall said, jabbing a bony finger into the air, signaling a small but significant victory.

"Can it be done?" Harriet asked.

"It's tricky—and they can't be put together again—but it can be done. And," he leaned forward, "it heightens the invincibility if done properly."

"Well, he'd have to thank me for that."

"Kavall appeared to be thinking hard. He removed his faded hat and arranged the wispy white hairs on the top of his head.

"You say your Aunt was a Squib?"

"Yes."

"No magic at all?" Harriet shook her head and Kavall frowned, etching deeper lines across his already wrinkled face. "You might be able to separate them using Legillimens on the half that is your Aunt. It would be difficult, as she appears to be the more dominant half. These things happen. Otherwise, I might try a mild memory charm, make her forget she's a Squib," Kavall continued to muse under his breath.

"That wouldn't be too bad," Harriet said. "So, how would the separation work?"

"Both facets must attempt to Apparate at the same time. The new form—your Aunt—would actually Apparate out of the existing body and your father's body would then be able to Apparate in where your Aunt had previously stood."

"So all I would need to do is convince Aunt Mildred she could Apparate and, when the time comes, I could side-along her body and my father could Apparate in?"

"That sounds like it could work, yes," Kavall smiled. "It's good that your Aunt has passed."

Harriet looked at Kavall expressionlessly.

"Then you knew her?"

"Oh, no, dear!" Kavall said quickly, bowing his head and mopping something from his brow. "I only meant that—if your father's second form had been someone living, you'd be running the risk of the second form Apparating into the person's actual body and killing them. But so long as your Aunt's already dead, that shouldn't be a problem. I meant no offense to your dear Aunt."

"None taken. She was an awful woman, really." Harriet and Kavall began to walk towards the shop door. "A head shorter than I am and about five times as wide! None of the family had any idea how she got so large—she was an Agoraphobic and never left the carriage house. My father thought it'd be a laugh to tell batty Mildred about the Salem Witch Trials... and she never left the carriage house again! Said she was afraid the Muggles would get her if she left the house and she wouldn't be able to charm the flames." Kavall laughed and released Harriet's arm as they reached the door. "Funny thing is," Harriet reflected, "no one ever bothered to tell her we had Muggle-repelling charms on the whole castle grounds." Kavall snorted and went red in the face, covering his mouth but not concealing his grin. Harriet laughed a little and opened the door, looking out into the deserted alley.

"I wish things were still funny like that," she said quietly. "Your Ministry is wishing on a star while hurricane waves crash around its ears."

"Indeed," Kavall said, darkening. "Potter is still a boy, not even your age..."

"About two years younger, I think," Harriet replied casually. "It's just plain irresponsible to peg the hopes and dreams of an entire country on one person, on one boy, let alone Potter." She turned back to Kavall and raised her eyebrows significantly. "I heard he got a 'Troll' in History of Magic... or was it Divination?"

Kavall shook his head slowly, smiling.

"Do come back. You and your father are always welcome anytime." Kavall's smile grew as he gave her another bow that swept the floor and then held the door open as she stepped out.

"Thank you, Mr. Kavall. I'll be sure to pass the message on to my father."

"And thank you," Kavall replied, adjusting his hat. "Good day, Miss DuMont."

Harriet made her way out of Knockturn Alley unnoticed and changed a few galleons for Muggle money at Gringotts. The crowds were thin but healthy, seeking dinner and a little entertainment for the evening. Two goblins sat on the Gringotts steps eating sandwiches. Many witches and wizards gazed in a forlorn manner as they passed the boarded up facade of Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor. A few older witches were looking at dress robes in the window display outside Madame Malkin's. Harriet began making her way back to the Leaky Cauldron, intending to change into Muggle clothes and walk back to her flat so as to enjoy the weather.

Mind if I ask you something? Harry asked from the back of her mind.

--You've been quiet enough this evening, so go ahead.

How do you know so bloody much?

--I beg your pardon?

I mean, why is it that you know or do certain things and always get exactly what you need? Like with the flat, or when Fred and George hired you? It can't just be the spell; so what's causing it?

--It's because you're an idiot. She stepped into the ladies room of the Leaky Cauldron and removed her robes, folding them and placing them in her shopping bag. Underneath, she wore a simple cotton dress. She adjusted a crease in the hem before stepping out of the powder room.

That's not an answer. Harry was furious and would have grabbed her by the arm and shouted if he could. Harriet could be so frustrating at times like this. Apparently, she would rather die than give him a straight answer.

--Yes it is.

Not to the question I asked! Harry wanted to snarl.

--You are an idiot, she articulated in her mind, pointedly and decisively. It is both a fact and the simplest available answer to your query.

Oh, yeah? Harry challenged.

--Yeah. She was mocking him now. She was walking down Charing Cross Road in heels and a dress belonging to the late Mrs. Black and she was mocking him. She really knew how to piss him off. You're an idiot and you're terrible at potions. Worse than Neville.

That hurts.

--It's true.

I made that Felix Felicis, didn't I?

--And that's where the trouble began.

What do you mean by that?

--Alright, Harry, I'm going to make this simple so that you can understand.

You sound like Hermione.

--We use this tone of voice because it's effective, Harry. It permeates your thick skull. Now, think: what did you use to make the Felix Felicis?

Well, the ingredients.

--Obviously, Harry. She rolled her eyes and switched the shopping bag to her other hand.

Don't tell me...

--Harry, now is not the time to question the integrity of your ingredients. What's done is done. Let's move on. What else did you use?

Er... the Dursley's stove, my cauldron... the salad fork?

--Yes.

I thought it was strange that a potion would call for mixing with a seven and three quarter inch willow wood salad fork.

--Strange, indeed. And where is that salad fork now?

In my office.

--Where in your office?

With the other potion making utensils, where it belongs, Harry couldn't help but snap.

--Well, bully for being organized, Harry.

What's wrong with being organized?!

--Nothing, Harry. She stopped at the street corner and waited for the traffic light to change.

What now?

--What was the fork made of?

Wood, Harry spat. I told you! You already knew that! It was willow wood, seven and three quarter inches!

--And wood does what, Harry? she asked calmly, crossing the street.

I don't know. I'm an idiot, remember? I'm an idiot and I'm bad at potions. Worse than Neville Longbottom! What does wood do?

Oh, Harry, you needn't throw a fit. She reached the bakery and unlocked the side door. She climbed the blue-gray cement steps that lead up to her flat, the heels of her shoes making a 'click-clack' sound on each step. She turned the key and opened the door.

So what does wood do—other than make a great material for salad forks, that is?

--You're funny, Harry. She shut the door. Wood absorbs things.

Harry's brain froze. Shit.

--Yes. Shit. Wood absorbs. The salad fork absorbed some of the Felix Felicis—it's an old but effective way to filter impurities out of finicky potions. The wooden fork absorbed the potion. Then you placed it with your other potion making tools. You treated it like any other potion making utensil. You reused it.

Harry felt as though he were turning green and spinning wildly all at once. He tried to close his eyes and Harriet let him.

--You used the salad fork to make the Draught of Chastity for the Half Horcrux. The Half Horcrux made me.

CRACK.

Harry felt the weight of his stupidity coming down on him. He shook his head and felt a sudden, piercing headache coming on.

"You mean, I cross contaminated the potions?"

He jumped at the sound of his own voice, having not heard it in so long. He opened his eyes to see Harriet not an inch away form his nose, toe to toe with his newly restored body.

"Yes, you cross-contaminated the potions and now I have Felix Felicis in my bloodstream. Permanently. Convenient." She chuckled. "Giddiness, recklessness, and dangerous overconfidence. Do those three things mean anything to you?" Harry shook his head, not able to put the pieces together and knowing Harriet would do it for him. "Those are the symptoms of overexposure to Felix Felicis. Be very careful, Harry."

She slowly reached a hand to trace the lightning scar on his forehead. As she did so, her head tilted to one side, hair spilling over her neck, just the way Ginny would tilt her head before kissing him. Her touch was soft but chilled. He could see his spectacled face reflected in her dark eyes, his pale skin echoed in her golden freckles. He felt a cold chill to go along with his Apparition headache.

"A power the Dark Lord knows not: Harry Potter is an idiot who is terrible at Potions. Who knew?" She shrugged, mussed his hair, and turned away from him to survey the room. "I suspect you'll be wanting your clothes, then. They're in your trunk in the hall."

Harry looked down and realized why he was suddenly so cold. He sprinted to the hall and tore through his trunk for a pair of clean shorts. He returned to the main room wearing a shirt, trousers and an indignant look. Harriet smiled sweetly back at him and suppressed a laugh.

"Fair's fair, Harry."

He turned to find where she'd put Hogwarts: A History. He could use a good shave and some time to collect himself.

"Oh!" Harriet said, as though she'd just remembered something. Harry turned back toward her. She paused. He could tell by the look on her face that she was about to say something snarky and irreverent—she had some of Ginny in her.

"Nice..." Harry braced himself, "scar."

She winked.

Harry blushed, not sure which scar she meant.