August 3rd, 2002
It's the second time within a week when he wakes to Hermione's voice. The good news is, he's not hungover this time. Much. It's quite dark, except for one source of light on his right, so he opens his eyes, intrigued.
"...don't show up before noon, but if you're not up yet, now would be a good time," Hermione instructs him sternly while he's trying to understand where he is. Not home, that's for sure. Before he has a chance to panic, a hoarse voice comes from somewhere below him.
"Good morning." Ash pauses at the top of the stairs leading to the mezzanine that houses the bed Harry is lying in and not much else. "Slept well?" He brings a cup to his mouth to hide his smirk. His eyes are twinkling, and he doesn't seem to mind the glowing otter that is now giving a lecture right over his head. Right, he can't see it, but the sight is so surreal that Harry gapes in spite of himself, dumbfounded.
Ash frowns. "Have you seen a ghost?" he asks, clearly put out, before glancing up right at Hermione's Patronus with a blank expression.
Harry snaps out of it. "I'm fine." He sits up. "I should get going. It's my birthday," he adds inanely.
Ash stares at him. "Happy birthday," he says uncertainly, but it sounds more like a question than a statement, like he's not sure if Harry's expecting something in regard to that.
"Well, it's not today. There's just this party. My friends would strangle me if I didn't show up."
Ash makes a face. "Yeah, I hate those things."
Harry hesitates, not sure if he's supposed to just get up stark naked, and Ash clearly finds the tense silence foreboding. "Don't look at me. I'm not coming to your party," he emphasises warily.
Harry snorts and, deciding to screw it, leaves the bed shalemessly. Ash only has a bathrobe thrown on him, and it's not even tied. Besides, after last night, there's no room for modesty anymore. He puts on some pants and looks around for his t-shirt. Ash goes back to the kitchen, grabs a bowl, pours in some cereal, and overflows it with milk that spills onto the tabletop. He looks a little dazed. He was drunker than Harry last night. Not completely out of it, but drunk enough to suffer today.
"Want something to eat? Or some coffee?" he asks when Harry follows him down, fully dressed. "I promised not to ghost you after."
Harry figures it has something to do with ignoring his existence and not with actual ghosts. "I don't remember insisting on that." He steals his mug to take a sip of coffee before taking out a cigarette pack out of his pocket. He offers one to Ash, who just grimaces. "This was fun. If you want to get together again—"
"Sorry, kid, no repeats. But come by to Friends again. We'll grab a drink."
Harry frowns, but then remembers that's what the place they met in is called. Friends of friends. He lights a cigarette and decides to skip asking for a phone number—he will find him again. Or not.
There's an extra bounce in his step when he leaves the building, taking a moment to reorient himself. He's on the other side of Soho, near University College London. Quite a walk, but Hermione clearly said not to hurry.
It's scientifically proven then; getting laid makes everything so much better. What was he even anxious about? It was so easy. Maybe it's because of the guy—Ash was fantastic and so much fun. He laughed a lot. He laughed plenty at Harry, but in the way that made it impossible to stay nervous. No stakes meant no expectations, which just left the entertainment part. Harry had no idea it could be like this. Not that it had been bad before, but it used to feel like a task. One Harry approached with his usual lack of ambition, so he found himself out of his depth quite often. But this time he didn't even know the guy; if he tried, he could never see him again. He might not see him again even if he tries. So there was no harm in cutting loose. No one but some random guy from a club to judge him.
Only he kind of wants to see him again. Not to fuck him, but simply because Ash is a riot. Harry really wants to see him attempt to hit on other guys and join Ollie in sabotaging his efforts. Which should be weird, but for some reason isn't. And anyway, who makes these rules?
He delves into his pockets in search of the keys. Kreacher accosts him by the front door.
"Master has thirty minutes to get ready for his surprise party," he informs him tersely, making an aborted move, like he intends to take his jacket but then realises Harry has no jacket.
"It's not a surprise. I've known about it for ages." He shrugs before crossing the room and throwing himself onto the couch. Damn, he's sore. His body isn't used to the exercise he loaded it with last night.
"Sir Draco says it's a surprise," Kreacher insists before giving Harry an evil eye. "Master must get ready." Since when did Malfoy upgrade to a 'sir'?
Harry shields his eyes with his forearm. "Well, he knows shit," he mumbles brusquely.
Kreacher's expression darkens. "Sir Draco is wise and courteous," he protests vehemently, and Harry barks a laugh. Malfoy. Wise. Best joke ever.
"Okay, okay," he grumbles when Kreacher suddenly appears on the back of the couch and starts to shove him towards the edge. "I'm going."
"Master go take shower. Master stinks of muggle," he hisses disgruntledly. Harry gives him an aghast look. Damn, Kreacher. That's personal.
Despite his elf's fears, he's ready in thirty minutes—even less than that. Kreacher wants him to wear robes—he calls their colour crocodile green, but Harry doesn't know how drunk he'd have to be to want to imitate a crocodile—but his answer is 'hell, no'. He's a little tempted to wear sweats or anything that wouldn't stifle his movements—he's aching enough as it is—but those are not very festive, so he just chooses jeans and an oversized open shirt over a white tee. Kreacher looks displeased.
Harry doesn't give him a chance to protest when he apparates to the Burrow—carefully, purposefully, outside of the border of anti-apparition wards—and waits for Kreacher to join him. He might cuss the Weasleys out, but he never misses the chance to go up against Mrs. Weasley.
"You guys had an adventure! Without me!" Ron greets them near the road with an accusation, but he's grinning from ear to ear.
"Me and Kreacher?" Harry wonders. "I can guarantee you we did not."
Ron rolls his eyes. "You and Hermione and Ginny," he explains impatiently. "You went to muggle London!"
"It wasn't that exciting." Harry shrugs. "A lot of shopping. You would have hated it."
Ron shakes his head, leading them towards the house. "I wouldn't know, would I?" he grumbles. "Next time, I wanna come too."
"We'll arrange something," Harry promises. He kind of can't wait to see that. It's going to be a disaster. He doesn't know when he started to live for this shit. At this rate, he will obliterate the Statute of Secrecy. He should probably spend more time thinking with his actual head.
They don't enter the Burrow but head straight towards the backyard. There's a crowd already. Harry's touched; the Weasleys have really outdone themselves. It's staggering at first how many people decided to come. He's never really gotten used to it; he's always been really bad at being popular. But those are all people he knows; he's even managed to build some kind of rapport with most of them, some before the war and some after. There's Neville and Hannah; Susan's also with them. There's Dennis with his girlfriend; Harry keeps forgetting her name. Lee Jordan is whispering to George; Cameron probably brought him along; they work together, and Harry hasn't spoken to Lee in years. Cam also brought Lydia—she's the only auror he can immediately see, thank Merlin; he doesn't want to make anything up before he actually talks to Kingsley—she's speaking at Millicent Bulstrode, who looks like she wants the conversation to be over already.
"Mom insisted on inviting the snakes. Something about them being your friends too, apparently," Ron explains quietly, following his gaze. He looks dubious but indulging, and Harry feels a sudden surge of affection towards Mrs. Weasley. It's not even about the Slytherins; it wouldn't break his heart if they weren't here. It's just about her knowing who he is. Caring about who he is besides the obvious.
He sends Ron a grateful smile, catching a flash of Draco's hair. He stands separated from the rest, talking to a dark-skinned guy. Shit, is that Blaise Zabini? Harry had no idea he'd been back in the country. They seem to be the only ones keeping to themselves, though. Harry's eyes register a much more interesting picture—Daphne and Astoria are standing in another corner, talking quietly to Hermione; or rather, Hermione is talking to them, and they're listening intently. They all look friendly enough.
It looks like rather than invite the Slytherins, Mrs. Weasley just left it to Tracey to notify his other friends, because she only brought the girls, which is probably better for everyone. Except for Draco—Harry can't picture Tracey inviting him of her own volition, but she probably didn't consider it time and place to push her anti-Malfoy agenda. It's no secret that over the last few years, he and Harry have been shifting between being cool with each other and being joined at the hip.
Tracey indeed looks like she belongs when she arranges the snacks on a big platter under the watchful eye of Mrs. Weasley and chatters happily with Susan. Tracey never had a problem with the rest of the school, and the rest of the school never had a problem with her. She might have taken other Slytherins not coming back for eighth year badly, but in some ways it was a blessing to her. It let her open up to people from other houses for the first time. Being in Slytherins' shadow was no fun. Had things been different, Harry would have totally seen her in Dumbledore's Army.
And he went unnoticed for too long. "Here he is!" someone cheers, bringing the crowd's attention upon him. Harry turns to see Natalie Fairbourne and has a momentary fright before he remembers that it doesn't mean Romilda Vane is here. They're probably not even friends anymore. Natalie has been engaged to Seamus for almost a year now; they put together his love for pyrotechnics and her love for fashion and patented the firobes, which are robes that are permanently on fire but never burning down. They were all the rage after they were first released. Harry doesn't mind Natalie. He can't be all buddy-buddy with Draco Malfoy but has an issue with Romilda's friends from years ago. That would be ridiculous.
It gets really loud; everyone tries to speak to him at once. Harry just smiles shyly, which has always been his secret weapon. George restores order, or rather anti-order in his case, but it allows Harry to take a breath. He doesn't enjoy it for long before Mrs. Weasley presses him to her chest. He feels like a little boy. Maybe that's what he is.
He sneaks out, exchanges a couple more greetings, and finds himself near that big tree he and Ginny were caught making out once.
"Tired of your acolytes?" Zabini asks, then quickly drops a teasing tone. "Sorry for crashing your party. Draco said it would be cool. Happy birthday."
Harry wants to point out that Draco isn't a decision-maker on what's cool and what's not, but refrains for the sake of peace. "That's fine. Good to see you. It's been ages." He's not sure whether it's good or not. They barely know each other. They still shake hands.
"Also, sorry for the whole… how it went before," Zabini mumbles, like he feels it needs to be said. It's refreshing, but not necessarily in a good way. At some point, everyone just kind of agreed to stop apologising any longer; there was nothing left to say. "I didn't—"
"I would have run away too if I could have," Harry jokes to break the tension.
"No, you wouldn't have," Zabini protests quickly. He's right.
"Come on, lighten up," Draco whines at him. "You're back. We're going strong again. Almost a full set."
Except for Pansy. Harry wonders if Draco knows what's been going on with her. Last time he's heard, she was planning on staying in Greece for good. "Slytherins taking over the world? Merlin helps us," he mocks.
Draco at least makes a wounded sound, but Zabini's attention is focused over Harry's shoulder. He turns quickly and catches Ginny making an aborted gesture. Whatever signals she's been giving before Harry looked, she immediately stops and hides her hands behind her back.
Harry raises his eyebrows and moves his unimpressed gaze back to Zabini, who is scratching his neck sheepishly. "Yeah, let's not beat around the bush. I've been seeing your ex-girlfriend, Potter." His tone is casual in a forced way. "I hope you're not... I mean, it's not like I need your blessing," he adds uncertainly. Draco mutters, "Oh, Merlin," under his breath.
"Course you don't," Harry assures him with fake cheer. "And good for you. Ginny's awesome." He pauses meaningfully. "I remember that you were always enthusiastic about her. What was it? Right. 'You wouldn't touch a filthy blood traitor like her'?" he quotes with an innocent smile.
Zabini looks like a deer caught in headlights. He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. "How did you—"
"I see everything," Harry cuts him off; his voice is deadly serious and his expression impassive.
Blaise blinks, unnerved, clearly not knowing whether he's joking or not, until Draco scoffs.
"He's messing with you. He's just been sticking his nose where it doesn't belong, because he was convinced I was up to something."
"You were," Harry points out calmly, crossing his arms. Draco huffs as if it's a small, insignificant detail. "And you broke my nose."
"And you—" Draco takes a deep breath to start with the accusations but is interrupted by Zabini's bark of laughter.
"How are you two even friends?" He shakes his head.
"Don't get too comfortable," Harry warns only to keep him on his toes, then snorts when Zabini stiffens. "I'm just fucking with you. Don't worry. We were all stupid teenagers. Some of us were just more stupid than others," he adds under his breath. Draco spits out a 'Look who's talking!', but Zabini must realise it's all fooling around because he relaxes. "So what have you been up to?"
"Well, managing my estate, mostly. The Italian part of it."
Harry raises an eyebrow. "Isn't 'managing one's estate' a code word for 'sitting around, twiddling thumbs'?"
"Oh, like you're so busy," Draco sneers.
"I thought you were supposed to be the nice one," Zabini protests. Harry is about to express his bewilderment at the notion when suddenly they're swarmed with people. It looks like since they refused to join the party, the party has come to them.
"Hey! What are we talking about?" Ron cries out jovially, putting his arm over Harry's shoulders. He hopes it's not his idea of a rescue attempt.
"Apparently, Potter's not nice. Did you know about this?" Zabini asks in full seriousness.
Ron barks a laugh. "Of course not. He's a grumpy bastard."
"And a lazy bum," Malfoy adds considerately. "Although, if you believe the rumours—"
"You're a lazy bum," Harry snaps back dimly. "Find a hobby other than gossiping."
"I tried. Pottery didn't agree with me."
Harry's tried to keep his cool, but he fails and snorts loudly, along with half of those present.
"This is better than it used to be at Hogwarts," someone comments, Hannah or Susan most likely.
"At least they're not trying to curse each other," Neville chimes. "Or me," he adds upon reflection.
"Oi! I've never cursed you!" Harry protests. "Hermione did, though." He throws her under the bus to get the attention off him.
Hermione's eyes get big. "I did not! Did I?"
"Sure you did. You body-bound me once," Neville laughs.
"Oh my, you're right. I did do that." Her hand flies to her mouth.
People are laughing, and Lee Jordan shakes his head. "What have those baby Gryffindors been up to?"
"You never know with this bunch." George waggles his eyebrows meaningfully.
Hermione blushes. "Are we going to eat that delicious cake Mrs. Weasley made or what?" she bristles. Someone points out that it's a very unsubtle change of subject.
"I need details on that one." Harry turns and sees Lee standing right behind his back, grinning from ear to ear. He needs to tilt his head back.
"I didn't know you were that kind of reporter," he teases lightly.
"Oh, no, that one is personal interest."
Harry blinks, processes what he said, and pictures a sex dungeon. Maybe not all wizards are prudes, after all. And he has to admit that Lee has aged extremely well. Harry wouldn't mind body-binding him. Or getting body-bound.
He should probably stop thinking with his dick, but his inner voice protests that he's only just started.
"Sorry to burst your bubble." He fake-winces. "But they were eleven at the time."
"Now that's just disturbing." Lee makes a face, and Harry hears someone calling his name. Maybe another time, then.
He starts to head to where Tracey is cutting the cake, but this time he's intercepted by Ginny.
"Please don't tell anyone," she whispers harshly, and Harry makes a rookie mistake by glancing at Zabini, who's already pretending not to stare at them.
He looks her in the eye. "I won't. Just be careful," he says quietly, even though some part of him wants to tell. There's a havoc-wreaking, mischief-making, pot-stirring gremlin in him that wants to tell everyone and let the chips fall where they may. It's the same part that wants everyone to know that he had a muggle cock in his mouth last night and watch them lose their collective shit. It's like an ultimate sacrilege. It's glorious.
Something must be very wrong with him.
There's cake; it's exquisite and not shaped into anything this time—"Who knows what Harry's into these days," George comments loudly. There's more laughter, and then some talk about politics that sobers everyone up. Those closest to Harry vigilantly steer the conversation off Auror Department, or at least Harry's potential involvement, which he is grateful for. It also helps that Lydia is too busy arguing with Natalie—and who knew she's such a right-winger? Even Seamus looks slightly uncomfortable, and he thinks the world of her—to be bothered by idle gossip about potential new aurors.
Multiple people tell Natalie that she's letting populists indoctrinate her and that there is no way that American anarchists have been sprinkling government buildings with the Essence of Insanity to sabotage the International Statute of Secrecy, but she claims that she knows muggles because she can feel their presence surrounding Diagon Alley. Finally she snaps and admits that they'll probably have to close their shop because their main target is young people, who are less and less interested in wearing robes, let alone robes with special effects. Everyone wants to wear jeans now, and the new ministry regulations have significantly limited the import of muggle fabrics, so even if she and Seamus decide to switch to muggle wear, internal policies won't let them ship enough to keep the butik going. Harry feels for her, really, but he doesn't understand why it made her direct her rage at muggles and not pure-bloods who were the ones who pushed this legislation in the first place.
In an unexpected display of solidarity, Draco claims that he adores firobes, owns several pairs, and would love to acquire some more. Natalie seems touched, and Seamus, who has been looking rather self-conscious through the whole debate, consoles her quietly. It gets kind of awkward, and Harry's torn between trying to figure out how to offer people money without offending them and being gleeful at the prospect of teasing Draco about his love for firobes. George lightens the mood by declaring that he's finally got the drama he's been waiting for, and then, much to everybody's relief, the topic dies when Bill, Fleur, and Percy arrive long after cake.
Bill is immensely curious about Harry's latest dealings with the goblins and grills him until Mr. and Mrs. Weasley show up to announce that it's time for presents. Harry moves to follow them when he's halted again.
"Harry. Good evening. Many blessings on your birthday." Percy clears his throat; he's even more twitchy than usually. "I was wondering if I could speak to you for a minute."
Harry just shrugs and nods. Percy grasps his shoulders gently and ushers him towards the house, away from the rest of the party that has congregated near Arthur's garage. Harry raises his eyebrows, intrigued by the secrecy.
"Look, I know you're coming to the ministry on Monday—" Harry must make a face because Percy explains quickly, "Dad told me. I suppose Kingsley told dad." Harry doesn't even bother to show his annoyance at that. "Would it be a problem for you to drop by my office on your way? Or after your meeting with the minister? My office is on level five. I'm the Senior Magical Trading Specialist now—"
"I know where your office is, Percy," Harry informs him indulgently, suddenly grateful that Percy only arrived as late as he did; knowing him, he wouldn't have been able to hold back from praising both his department's efficiency in enforcing the new regulations and Wizengamot's wisdom in implementing them in the first place. Natalie would have bitten his head off. "Is something wrong? What is—?"
"No, no, nothing's wrong," Percy assures him uneasily. "It's just... personal. Now is not the time. Monday. Please?"
Harry sees Mrs. Weasley waving at them, so he pats Percy's arm and nods. They head back together; Percy looks rather cagey, and Harry follows him, bemused.
Gifts are both delightful and awkward; he could never accept stuff like a normal human being, so all these people bringing something for him specifically is grating. But he does appreciate it, so he smiles and mumbles his thank yous. Surprisingly many people give him vinyl records; Hermione is a main suspect for that. It's actually pretty cool to have some magical artists as well; he doesn't know half of those bands. He's concerned when he sees a book on muggle inventions, wondering if anybody here but his closest friends is aware of his latest projects. The book looks more humorous than scientific, though, and Harry lets it go. He's immediately charmed by a small, plump, clearly magical cactus in a red pot. He shots Neville a quick, grateful smile. More than one gift is uncomfortably auror-related. Harry keeps his mouth shut and only utters another thank you, and another, and some 'You really shouldn't have'. It's all very lovely and awkward and nearly makes him cry.
"Come on, you gave us a great reunion opportunity." He appreciates Lee's comment—it at least means they didn't all bring fancy, thoughtful gifts because they felt bad for poor recluse Harry Potter.
"There's still one more, Harry," Mr. Weasley chimes with an inscrutable smile. "From me and Molly, and all of us Weasleys, really."
He stands up and heads to the garage. Ron and George jump up to help him, and Harry has a foreboding feeling. Not foreboding like it's gonna be awful, but like it's gonna be huge and significant and make him fall into pieces.
He's right. Mr. Weasley soon appears again, slowly guiding a motorcycle, and Harry's jaw drops.
It's magnificent. He can scarcely believe that it's the same machine he and Hagrid crashed... when was it? Five years ago, almost to the day. It's also the same machine Sirius used to ride. It looks different; it was clearly refurbished and repainted. Before, the fuel tank and fenders were brownish green. Now they're bright red, with a stripe of white on the tank, where on the side the company name is proudly displayed. Triumph. It used to be completely indecipherable. The rest, formerly dingy, is now gloss black. It's the most beautiful machine Harry has ever seen.
"We thought you'd like it back," Mr. Weasley says, looking bashful but happy. "I added a bunch of gadgets. It flies, of course, but you can also turn it invisible now and spit fire from the tailpipe, and there are some protection charms built in. It's charmed to avoid obstacles..." His spiel comes to a halt, and he asks hesitantly, "Do you like it?" Because Harry still hasn't said a word, he's just standing there with his mouth open.
The question snaps him out of it, so he makes two tentative steps forward. "I love it," he breathes out, his voice breaking. He must look like he's about to faint because Mrs. Weasley sweeps him into a hug.
Mr. Weasley beams and pats his back supportively. "It's yours. We only fixed it," he says modestly before winking briefly at Ron.
Harry inspects the motorcycle, not knowing which part to focus on. "Can I just... ride it?" he checks, overwhelmed and feeling like an idiot asking that. It can fly. How wasteful it would be to just use it to get from point A to point B, sticking to the road. How boring.
But Mr. Weasley doesn't seem to think he's boring. He just smiles warmly. "Of course you can, Harry."
People take it as permission to get closer to admire the bike—someone whistles appreciatively; Harry's pretty sure it's Cameron—while his mind is going at top speed. He doesn't even have a garage. Jennifer mentioned something about the garage—or lack thereof—that one can be rented not far from his building, but he wasn't listening because he never thought he would need one. He needs one now; more so, he wants to ride it now. He can leave it on the street, right?
"Can I take it home?" he asks purposefully.
Mr. Weasley looks confused. "Of course, Harry. As I said, it's yours."
"No, I mean... can I ride it home now?" he clarifies.
Mrs. Weasley looks concerned. "All the way to London?"
"Don't be ridiculous, Harry. It will take hours," Hermione protests.
"Can you even ride it, Potter?" Draco mocks.
What follows is a crash course by Mr. Weasley and Cameron, who are the only ones that ever sat behind the wheel. Of a car, but they insist it's almost the same, and of course Mr. Weasley gave it a spin during repairing, so he knows what he's talking about. He shows him how to start the engine, how to shift gears, and how to turn and stop. Harry only loses his balance a dozen times or so before he's able to make the bike go where he wants it to. People are cheering loudly every time he falls over along with the bike. Traitors. Hermione only comments that he should probably get a helmet. Ron adds to send them a Patronus if he ends up in a ditch.
By the time he's deemed ready, he's pretty sore, but mostly over the moon. He decides that just this once it will be justified to Confund a muggle if he gets pulled over. It's his birthday, after all. Kind of. He's going to get papers eventually.
"Are there anti-stealing charms?" he wonders out loud, still concerned about keeping it on the street.
"Of course, Potter, you can charm anything not to be summoned," Draco huffs, like he can't believe Harry doesn't know that. Harry does know that, as a matter of fact, but that's not exactly what he meant. But he drops it, because he can't imagine they've ever had to figure out how to protect stuff from the muggles, but not by hiding it from them.
Kreacher grumbles as he tends to that he could bring a bike home with him, and what a crazy idea it is to ride on it for hours on end, but he writes it off as another of his master's idiosyncrasies and agrees to take the rest of the gifts. Harry checks the time real quick—it's barely six. He should be home by midnight, right? Or maybe he's crazy attempting to ride a machine he's never rode before half across the country, partly after dark. He might be even more crazy and swing by Stonehenge on the way just to do some sightseeing.
Everybody sees him off, like he might never come back. Harry utters his gratitude to the Weasleys multiple times before he departs among laughter, cheering, and advice and tries to remember how Mr. Weasley said to get to the nearest major road.
He's not doing very well at first, but he soon gets the hang of it. The engine is loud and whirring; along with the wind, it drowns out his thoughts. He might be staying on the ground, but it feels like flying—the same sense of freedom, of the vastness of the world around him. That was always his favourite part of quidditch.
The landscape of English countryside doesn't change much. The traffic isn't bad either. It takes awhile before he gets confident enough to overtake, but once he starts, he can't stop. It's a pretty fast bike, and it doesn't differ so much from the broom when it comes to steering. He doesn't do that anymore once it gets dark, two hours into the ride or so; he's not suicidal. Much.
He follows the signs, so he gets to London easily, but that's when trouble begins. First he drives through suburbs disturbingly resembling Little Whinging, so he tries to get the hell away from there as fast as he can, but he might get ahead of himself because he ends up near Heathrow. No matter what direction he heads, the airport seems to emerge right in front of him, and he doesn't want to actually get further away from London, so he has to admit to himself that he's lost and take a break at the gas station. Only then he wonders if the bike is charmed to never run out of gas.
Refuelled—him, not the bike—he finally finds his way home. There's no space in front of his building, so he has to park down the street. He discreetly puts an alarm spell on the bike in hopes that if someone tries to steal it, he will at least have time to come down and yell at them. He can literally offer people stuff for the taking, but not his bike. He could use a sticking charm, but he's too scared some muggle would actually try to take it and discover it's unmovable; that would be hard to explain.
He gets home exhausted but mostly sated, which is slightly ruined by Kreacher looking like he's been sitting in the living room for the last five hours, waiting for his silly master to return. He looks ridiculous on the bright yellow couch.
Harry slowly, lazily gets ready for bed, listening with one ear to the local violinist behind the wall. What was her name? Zoe? Anyway, she's on fire today, at least until one note breaks into something way out of tune. He admires her determination; she tries again and again, but something is wrong; more notes are severed by seemingly random screeches, and finally silence falls. Not for long, though; there's a thud and then another, and then something crashes loudly. He exchanges a concerned look with Kreacher.
Another loud bang makes him jump up. "I'll go investigate," he decides rashly.
Kreacher looks terrified. "But... master..."
"It's gonna be fine." Harry shrugs. "It's just a girl." Not that girls can't be dangerous. Hermione would beg to differ. "Stay here."
He follows the noise to discover that Zoe lives one floor down, right below him. He's not convinced this is a good idea; maybe she just feels like throwing stuff around and he's going to bother her for nothing? It's a completely understandable impulse, after all.
But he doesn't know that for sure, so he knocks firmly.
She looks confused when she opens the door. And unkempt. "What?" she asks rudely.
Harry doesn't really know what. "I heard noise. I just wanted to check if everything's okay," he explains clumsily.
"What are you, a vigilante?" She narrows her eyes before he can let out an eloquent 'erm'. "Wait, you're the drunk guy from the other night."
"Oh, I'm completely sober today. I was... driving." There's wonder in his voice. He was actually driving.
She leans against the door frame. "Shame. I could be down for getting wasted."
She sounds pretty miserable. Harry glances quickly over her shoulder. Her place looks a mess too, but maybe it's the result of her recent outburst. "I feel like breakfast," he mentions offhandly. "Would you like some breakfast?"
"It's the middle of the night." It doesn't sound like she disapproves; more like she just feels obliged to point it out.
"So what?" Damn him for becoming so trigger-happy. There's no such thing as a bad idea in his dictionary anymore.
She looks dubious. "You're not some psycho killer, are you?"
The first answer that comes to his mind is 'Yes, I am.' Psycho? Checked. Killer? Checked. He doesn't intend to scare her, though, so he just asks, "Would I admit it if I was?" which might still be a disturbing thing to say.
She kind of shrugs and retreats into her apartment, but only to put her violin not very gently into its case and pin up her hair. Harry thinks they might both be at the point in their lives when they're willing to follow strangers to see if it will end their suffering.
"You were serious about breakfast?" she asks when they're up in Harry's apartment and he brings out the eggs. She glances around subtly. "Nice place," she remarks, leaning against the kitchen island. Harry catches a glimpse of Kreacher over her shoulder; he looks like his worst nightmares are coming true and then silently vanishes into thin air.
"Drink?" he offers gentlemanly.
"What you've got?"
"Tequila."
"Sounds awful. Bring it." Somehow she looks both nonchalant and weirded out. She gnaws at her lip for a long moment. "Sorry about all the noise."
But Harry can see it's the last thing she wants to talk about. "You don't have to explain yourself. Whoever never trashed a place, cast the first stone." He's unpleasantly reminded of Dumbledore's office. He passes her one glass and takes a big gulp out of the other.
She smiles this time; it's almost a grin, and it's very pretty. "Being your neighbour is going to be an adventure."
"I don't do that anymore," he assures her. "Your ears are safe."
"No? What do you do now?"
"Drink, mostly. And listen to sad songs, lately. I haven't been doing much else."
She snorts. "How can you afford this place then?" she asks bluntly. He makes a baffled expression, so she rolls her eyes. "Come on, you look barely twenty, and you just admitted that you've been doing fuck all. This is a very rich person kind of place. It's even fancier than mine, and mine is pretty fancy."
He doesn't know what to say, so he tells the truth. "Parents left me a fortune."
She's silent for a moment. "Sorry." She glances at him and must decide it's safe because she adds, "What did they do?"
'They were managing their estate,' Harry thinks sardonically. "They didn't have much time to do anything. They died when they were twenty-one." Then he adds before she has a chance to utter an even more distressed 'sorry', "Dad was old money though." Most pure-bloods are.
"Like nobility?"
"No, like filthy rich." Not that rich; most of it comes from the Blacks, but he doesn't want to get into more detail. "How can you afford yours?" Because she's not that much older than him, doesn't have a haughty vibe, and apparently it's not impolite to ask.
"I got hit by a car." Harry says nothing, waiting for a punchline. "I got hit by a car and got brain damage. My cerebellum got fucked up, and it's responsible for controlling more precise movement. Now my right hand gets all jerky, and I was being groomed for a first violin in the London Symphony Orchestra. My brother represented me in court against his better judgement, and we got very generous compensation. It helped that the guy who hit me was a billionaire and drunk at the time."
And that's exactly what she didn't want to talk about before. There's something inexplicably charming in the flat way she delivers the story. It's the same way Harry could say, 'I've been kept in a cupboard for the first ten years of my life', if he's ever keen on telling anyone that. Some kind of resigned acceptance that they both got utterly fucked for no apparent reason, but they don't even have the strength to be pissed about it anymore.
He has a feeling they will get along like a house on fire.