Ever since the disappearance of Harry Potter from the Wizarding World, Harry kept his magic either low-key or wandless, only letting loose when he was completely certain that it was safe. Though the Trace was removed from the holly wand at his majority, Harry had never really trusted the Ministry. Even less when he was never removed from the spot at 'Undesirable No.1' after the completion of the war.

It was one thing to sleep in a tent to escape Voldemort's government, another to flee from the people he gave his life for.

Hermione kept reading law books and reassuring him until her eyes were solid red, both from tears and insomnia while Ron repeated words until the mantras turned to pudding in his ears.

"We'll fight it! Bloody hell, if they think they can pull this over on the hero of the Wizarding World..."

"Oh, don't worry, Harry. We'll find a way, there's got to be something here, I'll find it..."

"Bleedin' government think they can pull this while everyone's still scared! Too bad we can't bring V-Voldemort back. Lock him in there with them and see how long before they start crying for help..."

"The injustice of it! Who do they think they are, treating you like this after all you've done! Just give me a few more days, I know it's in here, somewhere..."

Day after day, week after week.

All Harry could think about was the engagement ring sitting on Hermione's finger while she flipped desperately through musty tomes. There was no joy and celebration anymore. Mrs. Weasley should have been fluttering about the house with stacks of catalogs, flowers and swathes of fabric. Ginny would have arranged flowers and made Ron blush that obscene shade of scarlet. Mr. Weasley should have been quizzing his future daughter-in-law about muggle wedding traditions while Hermione desperately tried to keep her sarcasm in check.

Maybe kids soon, little tots with bushy heads of hair, faces full of freckles. Hermione glowing, belly full of child.

So one day when Hermione was lost in a stack of books and Ron paced frantic circles around her, Harry stood up, told them how much he loved them and left.

It was abrupt, ugly. Hermione wept big crocodile tears on his shoulder from her red, red eyes. Ron stood silent, but he sent a Howler the following week.

Harry didn't like it anymore than his best friends, but he did what he thought was right. It wasn't fair for him to hold their life back.

In the muggle world, he had Mundungus get hold of a man good with forging records and when he was there he thought, Why stop with just making a life for Harry Potter? A personal history and three fake ID's later, Harry Potter walked out of that rundown building transformed, free.

He could do anything he so desired.

Harry hung up his custom charmed cellphone after his conversation with Basher.

Basher had been with him from nearly the beginning of his chosen career. They met on Harry's second heist, a rather risky plan at Barclays that could have dealt with some more brainpower on it.

Harry and Basher had gotten split off from the rest of the group during get away after a particularly dull teammate completely mistimed the police response. Then a newbie on the crew got the jitters after hearing sirens and took off in the boat before the last three of them could get in. The other ditched man, Daniels, ran towards the mall, followed by the bobbies while Basher and Harry took advantage of the opportunity, strolling down North Colonade until they reached a 24 hour dry cleaning shop to hide in.

Desperate situations tend to bond people.

So does hunting down ex-crew members and making them regret the 3 hours you spent talking to a squat Indian man with an accent as thick as lard.

But even without the messy robbery that was Barclays, Harry thought that he and Basher still would have hit it off like two grindylows with gillyweed. Other than the fact that Basher himself was a squib raised by his equally squibbish aunt, they understood each other on a personal, comfortable level that would have Harry all over his fellow Brit if only Basher had had the good decency to be born less ramrod straight than a streetlamp. As tragically heterosexual as he was, however, Basher was still a terrific man to have on crew. With good sense, humour and a wonderful talent for making things go 'boom', he was on Harry's very selective list of favorite people.

It had been a while since their last job together, though, and besides, muggles or no muggles he was not passing up a Vegas theft. Casinos there were tighter than Uncle Vernon's belt. And as he had only grown horizontally for the past 25 years, that was a rather powerful statement.

So. Visiting a good friend that liked to blow things up? Yes.

Meeting a potential crew member, still fresh from most of the silly training errors? Yes.

Watching a never-before-successful-some-would-say-impossible job? Hell yes.

Transcontinental apparation was a power-eating bitch of a journey, but it would be worth the trouble. If nothing else, he could sit in for a good game of poker and come back to the UK happy. And by 'happy', read 'a couple thousand richer'.

In the morning, there was a knock on the hotel suite door.

Turk, who had fallen asleep on the couch, groaned first, "We don't need any towels. Thank you, come again."

"I'm not here to change the bed or tuck you in, I assure you. You called for me?" The man on the other side of the door announced.

"Guuuuuys! Did anyone order food?" A chorus of mumbles and curses called back to Turk. "We didn't order any stinkin' food, go away." Punctuated by a thud as something small but heavy hit the wall beside the door. "No sense of decorum at all."

"I'm not room service... bloody Americans," he trailed off as Turk's snores began again in earnest. Harry pulled out his cellphone and dialed Basher's number, quietly grumbling.

Sprawled out on his bed, Bash buried his head into the down pillow to seek solace from the logger man snores Turk had begun emitting. Suddenly his cell rang, jerking him out of his sleep and sending hiim diving to the nightstand.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Basher."

"Harry! You here already?"

"Outside your hotel door, actually. I'm assuming this is your base of operations as there's some git that's not you telling me to bring the towels later."

Basher didn't say anything before he hung up and threw the phone on the bed. Normally, Harry would have taken offense, but he made an exception as he could already hear an enraged Brit storming on the other side of the door, "You absolute tosser! I call in a favour for you! Something goes wrong and I went out find you an expert! A professional! He crosses the ocean to help us! Putting aside his own life, commitments and jobs to fly around the bleedin' planet after one of us bollocks up! And what do you do? Tell him we don't need towels?"

Harry could just discern a light thunk and some quick mumbling before the door flew open and he had been encased in a firm man-hug.

"Sorry about this one, Harry. I suspect he ran into doors as a child. The rest of the blokes aren't as touched, I promise."

"Not touched or not as touched?"

"Not as. I reckon we all have to be a little mad in this line of work."