August 5th, 2002
He needs to stop lying. He just digs himself into deeper and deeper holes.
The internet guy comes over this morning. Harry is excited, even though he doesn't fully understand what it is he's going to gain. The guy's name is Mark, and he could just as well speak another language; that's how much Harry understands from his spiel. He blabs about websites, search engines, IP addresses, something called DSL, chat rooms, and emails. The stuff on the screen—a website, Harry corrects himself proudly—looks so indecipherable he feels a headache coming.
The questions he asks are apparently so basic that Mark gets suspicious and finally blurts, 'Didn't you have a TV growing up, mate?'. And the sad reality is that Harry did, but he wasn't allowed to even get near it. So he uses the same tactic Hermione did last time and says that he was out of the country—somewhere exotic that nobody's ever heard about—but Mark turns out to be a pretty nosy guy because he asks where. And Harry would be the first to admit that he's not very knowledgeable—he exchanged knowledge about the regular world for knowledge about the magical world and didn't even learn that much about the latter—so he cries out the first country that comes to his mind, which is Nigeria—that's Luna's fault somehow. Unfortunately, Mark perks up, says that his sister is there with something called Doctors Without Borders, and bombards him with questions on how, where, and why. Harry tries to make something up at first but quickly gives up and Confunds the guy. He feels terrible because Mark definitely didn't deserve to be Confunded, but he mostly regrets that he's now in no state to show him how to get music from this thing.
What are the chances that the guy setting up the internet would know so much about Nigeria? That's just bad luck.
By the time he convinces Mark that the service has been provided and that he can go, he's awfully late to the ministry.
He braces himself before apparating. It's just like Diane said—he needs to get used to it and not let it affect him because he can't control other people's actions. They will do their thing no matter what, and he needs to do his.
He briefly considered changing to robes, but ultimately decided it's bullshit; he's not going to be uncomfortable for the whole day only to be a little less conspicuous. People are going to stare one way or another.
'Act natural, and they won't even know you're there,' he lies to himself inwardly before popping out and appearing in the atrium. It's not so crowded as it normally is around eight—whoever shows up now is clearly less in a hurry. Unfortunately, that means that Harry is rather on display, and the first latecomers have already noticed him. He holds his head high and struts towards the security desk. Halfway through the way, he glares briefly at the Fountain of Magical Brethren. He doesn't understand why Kingsley still hasn't gotten rid of this monstrosity.
Everyone in the atrium seems to already be aware of his presence except for the guy on security duty—Phil, Harry sees on his name tag when he approaches—who is reading the Prophet without a care in the world. Judging by the biggest headline on the cover—'Are Americans trying to intimidate us into accommodating the muggles?'; 'muggles' is underlined trice, fucking sensationalists—it's a riveting read.
Harry clears his throat, resigned to having to start subscribing the Prophet again to not be completely out of the loop. He can't only rely on Hermione.
Phil raises his eyes leisurely, then stands up rapidly and, much to Harry's chagrin, finds it appropriate to bow. Harry stares at him.
"Hi. Harry Potter. Here to see the minister." He produces his wand and holds it towards the man who looks at it like it's a precious artefact. "The Elder Wand is still somewhere in space, sorry," Harry jests.
It became sort of an inside joke since the first interviews after the war began, and reporters started screeching at him on every occasion, "What happened to the Elder Wand?!". One time he was with Hermione and he got sick of it, so he blurted, "Hermione's cat ate it." He didn't remember such a silence falling among the press. So he started to make up more and more far-fetched stories about the wand's fate. The last one is that he gifted it to a muggle astronaut who took it out of the galaxy. By then they got used to his peculiar sense of humour, but the mere idea of giving it to a muggle still caused a small outrage while nobody even blinked at the taking it out of the galaxy part. Wizards are unwaveringly easy to prank.
Phil blinks and gives him a forcibly serious nod before taking his wand for screening. "Have a nice day, Mr. Potter." Those are the first words he utters to him. Harry gives him a tight smile and quickly walks off towards the lifts.
It will be such a relief when he's an actual employee and doesn't have to register every fucking time.
The trip takes ages; the elevator stops on every damn floor. He spends a very awkward three minutes on small talk with Cho Chang, who gets in on level six—Department of Magical Transportation, where she works, if Harry's not mistaken. The small crowd in the elevator is listening to every painful word they exchange. Cho is lovely, but Harry can already see the headlines about rekindling an old flame. She departs on level five—Department of International Magical Cooperation. Oh, fuck, he completely forgot about Percy. After Kingsley, then. Unfortunately, Cho's leaving doesn't mean he's left unbothered for long.
"Level Three, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, incorporating the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad, Obliviator Headquarters, and Muggle-Worthy Excuse Committee."
The silver-haired wizard who led the committee that helped Harry get his muggle passport but couldn't see the point in doing so gets in. Harry sees his face and gets a bad feeling.
"Ah, good morning, Mr. Potter. Heading to the Auror Headquarters?" He's clearly trying to be friendly. It doesn't work one bit. Harry opens his mouth, but it's too late. "How have you been enjoying the muggle world?"
The worst part is that Harry doesn't believe Mr. Peasegood is a gossiper. He probably didn't deem his meeting with Harry important enough to mention it to anyone. He asks as if it's a charming oddity he's heard about and wonders if it's worth trying. But everyone around them is suddenly all ears. "It's an acquired taste," Harry says flatly, but forces himself to give the man a tight smile.
He doesn't get off on the DMLE floor, much to the disappointment of those who do get off there, which is nearly everyone in the elevator.
Finally, it's just him and some older lady who leans towards him conspiratorially. "If you're running with muggles, young man, be sure to visit Sweetings. My Leonard and I used to spend many evenings there. Lovely place. If there's anything muggles are good at, it's restaurants, trust me."
After the lift pings, she disappears in the Exotic Symbol Analyst's office, leaving a surprised Harry behind. Before heading to the minister's office, he glances at the plaque next to the door that says 'Althea Spencer-Moon'. Huh.
"The minister is ready for you, Mr. Potter," Kingsley's secretary—Clara?—chirps. Harry glanced at the clock above her head. He's only thirteen minutes late. Good.
"Is this finally happening?" Kingsley says without a greeting, standing up to shake Harry's hand.
"Looks like," Harry mutters. "You're suspiciously excited, considering you're not even a part of DMLE anymore."
"Come on, you know I think I've been cheated. My whole life I wanted to be the Head Auror, and then I was catapulted to the top job before I could. I have to live vicariously through you."
"Oh, poor you. It's such a drag to be the leader of the wizarding world," Harry mocks, collapsing into a chair.
"Want to switch places?"
Harry laughs. "Nor for the life of me." He rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward. "So, this is irregular. Again."
"You quit through me. I thought you could just as well be rehired through me. Not that I actually step on anyone's toes here. I can act as the head of the armed forces, after all."
"Not in the time of peace," Harry corrects him with amusement.
Kingsley waves his hand to dismiss the notion. "Robards will be the first to know." He moves some things on his desk and draws some papers. "Now, Harry. This has been internally discussed many times. We want you to skip the trainee part, even though you haven't finished last time. Jump in as a junior auror already. As far as the ministry's concerned, we're willing for you to start right away, give you a week or two to settle down, then take your oath."
"I want to get through the assessment," Harry declares firmly. He's fine with skipping training, even though he's slightly concerned it will raise eyebrows. He can prepare on his own, but damn him if he joins the ranks without proving he deserves to be there.
Kingsley gives him a knowing smile. "I was afraid you would say that. That's what I like about you, Harry. Self-awareness. I've got a counteroffer, though. Take tests in what you feel aren't your strong points. Tracking, poisons. History, if you want to. We can arrange it for this week, if you're up for it, or give you time to prepare for them, or—hell, we're getting new recruits in September; go ahead and join their courses. But do it as a junior auror already, because no one is going to assess you on battle instinct, resilience, or duelling. That would be a waste of everybody's time. We remember your training; it wasn't that long ago."
Harry mulls over it for a long moment. If he turns a blind eye to the blatant favouritism, already working on assignments while catching up at his own pace doesn't sound half bad. That's what has always worked best for him, and the goal—being an auror—is achieved much quicker. And he has to admit that Kingsley's kind of right; he's already got through most of his training—the accelerated version of it—and he did apply himself back then. There's nothing he put more effort into than potions, and he was doing well enough by the end. He was also getting better with stealth; for that one, he hopes he can count on Diane to help him suppress his various nervous ticks and general restlessness, at least to some extent. Those have been his two weakest spots. He feels quite confident about the rest.
"Fine. Next Monday, though. I've got Teddy on Thursday. I'll make sure to switch to weekends from now on. Then give me a few days to get reacquainted. There are probably some new faces, aren't there?"
Kingsley looks like Christmas has come early. "I'll get Robards to get in touch with you." In his excitement, he completely ignores Harry's question. It's not that important, though. He'll find out soon enough.
He still winces. He and the current Head Auror have never really gotten along. He's one of those convinced that Harry isn't as much of a hot shot as he thinks he is—as the world thinks he is—and Harry's problem with him originates from Robards being quite a stickler for the rules. Not that he opposes following the procedures, but he's always preferred more of a hands-on approach. Less planning, more acting.
"But this is where the special treatment ends," he warns, just to be clear. "From now on, I'm a regular junior auror. Put me on surveillance duty." He's sure Robards will make sure of it, but he doesn't want Kingsley to have any ideas.
"Harry, I want you to understand that the special treatment is for us, not for you. Because we want you on board," Kingsley explains patiently. "Having you on board means we get to utilise you and your skills, not cater to your need for everything to be on equal footing."
"Robards—" Harry protests weakly.
"Robards' not opposed to having you on the team at all. And if he somehow remains unaware of your special position, he will know—he will, Harry—by the time the news comes from me and not from another application on his desk. You know it too; otherwise, you'd be having this conversation with him instead." Kingsley pauses, clearly contemplating how to word what he has to say. "We won't—can't—forget what happened. We've been through a war together, Harry. I am where I am because I was a part of this war, not because I was uninvolved and therefore unbiased. If a crisis strikes, I won't pretend I don't trust you more than a regular auror. And I will need Harry Potter, not another rookie."
All Harry can think is that this is very wrong. It would be easy to revel in the praise and accept it as something well deserved. Because technically, it is. But the truth is, it doesn't always work like that. Being experienced in combat doesn't necessarily make one more trustworthy. People with that kind of past have issues. It's not all about know-how. PTSD isn't a friend that makes one more vigilant. It makes one paranoid, which leads to irresponsible behaviour. It isn't helpful at all.
"Muggles do psychological evaluation before letting someone on armed forces. Well, I guess in our case, we're all armed. But before they're allowed on high-stress jobs. Like police. Or military." He knows, because he asked Diane. The Minister for Magic can vouch for him; an expert can say that his magic is safe to be around, but this is what matters most—that his therapist gave him a green light, confirming that it shouldn't harm him further, that he shouldn't be putting others at risk, and that he's not trying to bite off more than he can chew.
He realises that he really doubts himself a lot. Before, he just did what he felt he had to do. Now it's his active choice. He feels more responsible for this choice than he ever did for anything.
"What's with this new fascination with muggles?" Kingsley asks, amused. "How is it going with Diane?" he adds before Harry can answer.
"Good," he mutters quickly. "It's helping." He tries to think of something else to say, but he's saved by a loud ping.
"Minister?" Clara's voice is clear and seems to come from everywhere at once. "Your eleven thirty is here."
Kingsley stands up. "Sorry, Harry. Duty calls. That's the Peruvian ambassador. We're assisting in convincing the ICW not to ban their Darkness Powder in the whole Europe. It caused quite a lot of trouble with robberies in Spain lately."
Harry gets up too. "Well, I'll see you around, minister," he quips with a cheeky grin.
Kingsley beams. "Let's get lunch next week." He straightens his robe. "I'm really glad you're back, Harry. Welcome to the ministry."
Who would have thought? Harry thinks to himself in the elevator after exchanging a quick greeting with Kingsley's guest. Everyone, probably, but even years ago when he first signed up for the auror training fresh out of school, there was a part of him that couldn't fathom working for the institution he used to have so many problems with. Still does, really; the ministry that sent Umbridge after him; the ministry that folded like a house of cards at the slightest gust of wind—he can still see the flickers of that ministry. The work hasn't been done yet. But as they say, if you want something done right, do it yourself.
He almost forgets about Percy again. It's calmer this time when he gets off four floors up and slowly heads towards Trading Division. No one is coming in this late, and it's too early for lunch yet, so not many people are wandering the halls.
He knocks quietly and hears a muffled "Enter," so he pushes the door.
"Harry," Percy exclaims as if surprised to see him.
He gets inside with an uncertain smile. Percy runs his fingers through his hair, looking flustered. "You're okay?" Harry waits for a beat, then sits. "So, what's the deal?"
Percy takes a deep breath and folds his hands on the desk. "Okay," he mutters to himself before finally looking at Harry. "Thank you for coming, Harry. I need... help. Advice. Something." He pauses, as if bewildered at himself for behaving this way. "And I thought you might be the best person to go to. I would also appreciate it if this could stay between us."
"Of course," Harry assures him, more and more concerned. What has Percy gotten himself into?
"So, you know about the new ministry's recommendation on getting exercise on a daily basis? That most wizards don't have enough physical activity, and they're getting fat and unfit, and everybody should walk for at least thirty minutes at least three times a week." He goes on and on, and Harry feels his eyebrows rising. That's what he wanted to talk about? The ministry's new recommendations?
Is he trying to imply that Harry is getting fat and he should exercise more? He looks down at himself subtly. He doesn't think so. If anything, he's still way too skinny.
"Percy," he interrupts impatiently. "What does that have to do with anything?"
Percy blinks, flushes, and busies himself with adjusting his glasses. "Right. So, do you remember Penelope? Clearwater. We're friends." Harry nods, not bothering to tell him that he knows very well that he and Penelope broke up but are still friends. "She's in administration of DMLE. Most days, we have lunch together, usually in Diagon. We like the Golden Snitch." This time Percy seems to realise on his own that he's getting off topic. "Anyway, so a little over two weeks ago, because of the ministry's new recommendation, Penny wanted to walk a little further, not just Floo to Diagon, and have a restaurant just around the corner. So we went through the visitor entrance to the muggle side, and we walked and found this sandwich place. It was really nice and cosy, and the sandwiches were great, and there was this… waitress... whom I started to talk to. She was... unlike anyone I have ever met. Really insightful and savvy, and... and her hair was really..." He pauses and clears his throat, apparently deciding to leave her hair out of it. "But then Penny said we have to go, so we left, and..." The story halts when he takes a deep breath before admitting, clearly embarrassed, "But I came back. Two days later, to talk to her. Audrey. And then again, and again. And now I don't know what to do anymore," he finally blows up, looking beyond miserable. Before Harry's able to figure out what to say to that, he adds hopelessly, "And I know it's going nowhere. I don't even know what I've been thinking." He looks absolutely frazzled.
Harry feels he needs to be gentle. "Why is it going nowhere? Why is it necessarily a bad thing?" He knows why, but he still wants Percy to think about it. "And what is it that you think I can help with?"
Percy's eyes get big. "That's the thing, Harry. Even if I… even if… you know. She keeps asking me questions. And I don't..." He pauses, reluctant to admit that he doesn't know something.
"What kind of questions?" Harry asks patiently.
Percy makes a chaotic gesture with his hands. "You know. What I do. Where I live. I told her I live in Devon, and she couldn't understand how I worked in central London. She figured that I rent here and my family is in Devon, and I didn't dissuade her, but almost every personal topic leads into a trap like that. Last week she asked for my telephone number."
"What did you say?" Harry asks with morbid curiosity.
Percy looks simultaneously ashamed of his deception and proud of his ingenuity. "I asked for her number, then I saw how many digits it has and made one up."
Harry can see a glaring hole in that plan. "Well, if you intend to keep seeing her, she's going to realise you gave her a fake number and think it suspicious."
Percy looks unbothered. "I just figured when I get one, I get the one I gave her."
Harry stares at him. "That's not how it works," he informs him apologetically. "What if someone is already using it?"
Percy gives him a disbelieving look. "What are the chances of someone already using it? It was like eleven digits. That's billions of combinations."
"Yeah, okay, but..." Harry starts, but then decides to drop it. There's no point in getting into it with him.
"But see, Harry. You know these things. You're rubbish at math, but you get muggle stuff. Like phones. Or cars. Or these little money cards. Last week she complained that her ATM card got swallowed. What does it even mean?" The expression he makes is hilariously perplexed.
"Okay, so you need a... translator?" Harry surmises.
"Yes," Percy perks up before leaning in confidentially. "There's one other thing. Let's say that we keep seeing each other... somehow." He doesn't sound like he considers it doable at all, but he's still pursuing this, so he must be pretty determined. "And that I want her to think I'm not a complete oddball. I need to at least pretend that I'm familiar with these things," he emphasises. Harry nods, because he might be far from being an expert himself, but he's been getting through a similar thing lately, and 'fake it till you make it' has been his credo. "I have to start somewhere, and she likes theatre. She studies dramatic arts. So taking her to see a play seems like a perfect choice."
This one makes Harry's eyebrows rise. An actress, huh? "Yeah, that's promising," he agrees, feeling himself getting wrapped up in the whole affair. "Anything in particular?"
"Yes." He's never before seen the always serious and proper Percy look like an overexcited puppy. It's quite hilarious. "You know these plays with songs?"
"Musicals?" Harry guesses.
"Yes! That!" Percy sounds triumphant, like Harry's familiarity with it proves to him that it's the right move. "It's almost lunch break. We could go and get the tickets!" And then, like an afterthought, "Are you busy?" Apparently it only now comes to him that Harry might have other plans.
Harry contemplates how much he wants to spend the afternoon exploring London theatres with Percy Weasley instead of doing anything else and finds with surprise that he doesn't mind. "We need to plan what you guys want to see, though."
Percy looks confused. "Can't we just go to the theatre and choose something?" he asks in concern.
Harry bites his lip. "Well, there are a couple of dozens of them on West End. It's really close to here, just on the other side of Strand. And we want to be sure that the play is going to be good, right? If she aspires to be in the industry, she probably knows most of them. Did she give you any tips?"
It looks like Percy is only now starting to see that it's not going to be as easy as he thought. "How do we know then?" he frets.
"We're going to ask someone at the box office," Harry calms him down. "You're going to tell them what—Audrey, was it?—what Audrey enjoys, and—"
"We need to go now, then!" Percy jumps up and grabs his briefcase. He makes a series of complex wand movements, and his classic black robes turn into a grey, stripped shirt, pressed slacks, and elegant brogues. Next to him, Harry feels like a slob in his trainers and baggy jeans. He follows Percy at a much more sedated pace, amused despite himself. "To the visitor entrance, and then to West End!"
Harry is quietly laughing at him throughout the entire elevator ride, ignoring the people who get in and out in the meantime, until...
"Mr. Potter, is it true that you intend to live in the muggle world? Are you moving there for good?" They're halfway through the atrium when Harry gets accosted. It's Selma Baxter who cries out these words, and there's a wizard behind her trying to shoulder her out of the way.
"You people need authorisation to be in the ministry," Percy drawls through clenched teeth.
Selma's smirk is annoyingly self-satisfied. "We are here to capture the historic event that is the renegotiation of centaurs' status as beasts in front of the Wizengamot."
Harry glances past her. There are indeed two centaurs standing in the atrium, looking bored. "Then you wouldn't mind getting back to that," he suggests flatly, trying to get through.
"What does the muggle world have that the wizarding world doesn't, Mr. Potter?" The other wizard finally gets a word in edgewise.
Harry thinks he's not with the Prophet but has no idea which media he represents. "They don't ask such stupid questions." Fucking Mr. Peasegood brought this down on him.
"Where are you moving, Harry?" Selma repeats, hoping to grab his attention. Harry doesn't mind taking liberties with the form of address, except when reporters are the ones doing it.
"To Mars," he mutters sarcastically. While he's busy trying to be clever, Percy is pushing them both forward.
"Mars was bright last night," one of the centaurs points out. The other nods seriously in accord.
Harry is still cackling when he falls through the visitor entrance. He sighs in relief. Good old anonymity.
Roaming muggle world with Percy is a slightly different experience than what Harry pictures it would be with Ron, but still entertaining. Percy's done this before—he literally made it his goal to get better at it—but is still wary and somewhat overwhelmed. They pass so many theatres that it's impossible to tell which ones might have what they're looking for, especially since they don't really know what it is that they're looking for. What's even worse, Percy is clearly expecting Harry to have all the answers, while he only vaguely knows of one musical, and it's just because it has something to do with wizards that he remembers it.
Finally, they walk into a random one. A girl in the box office is listing good qualities of every show they're currently running to an older couple, so Harry attempts to eavesdrop while also inspecting the posters. None of the names hold any meaning to him.
It's their turn now. "Hi," Harry says with what he hopes is a casual smile. "Let's start with admitting that we know nothing about musicals. But this one," he points to Percy, who's lurking behind his back, "is trying to impress a girl who's really into it. I mean, really into it," he emphasises. "Can you recommend us something?"
The girl spends a moment contemplating them both. "'Les Mis' isn't really a date kind of show. Same with the 'Phantom'—too many stalker vibes. Besides, if she likes theatre, she probably knows all the classics. 'Mamma Mia' is always a good choice if you're after something upbeat. And if she's a Queen fan, 'We will rock you' has opened recently."
Harry glances over his shoulder at Percy, who looks slightly panicked. "What about... something with a wizard?" he asks, claiming complete ignorance. He feels Percy's bony finger digging admonishingly into his spine, but it's actually fully deliberate on his part. There's no harm in starting to get her used to the idea early, is there?
"'The Wizard of Oz?'" the clerk guesses, sounding surprised. "There's only the movie; it never went on stage. But," she stresses, starting to search through her flyers. "We've got one that is loosely based on both the novel and the film from 1939. It has broken box office records in the US and only recently premiered in the UK. She might have not seen it yet. It's very moving, thought-provoking, and also quite feminist." She passes one of the flyers to Harry, who glances down at it.
"Wicked," he reads out loud before giving a truly wicked smile to Percy, who doesn't look convinced. So he addresses the girl again, "Is there magic too?" Percy looks like he's going to have kittens from what he believes is a blatant disregard to the Statute of Secrecy happening right in front of his face.
"Yes, it's basically about the growing friendship between two witches who start out as enemies because they are completely different; one is blonde, beautiful, and ultimately good, and the other is an outcast because of her green skin, and everyone believes her to be 'wicked'."
"Hey, that sounds like you and Malfoy," Percy quips, apparently forgetting all about the outrage he finds discussing magic with muggles to be, even in completely hypothetical terms.
Harry gives him the stink eye. "He's blond and I'm wicked, huh?"
Percy frowns, confused. "I was thinking the other way around."
The girl eyes them with amusement. "You'll have to watch it and see who is who, won't you? Our earliest available seats are at the beginning of September—Thursday, Friday, or Saturday. How many tickets?"
"Just two," Harry says smoothly.
"Actually," Percy disagrees before glancing with apprehension at Harry, whose eyes narrow. "I might have told her that I have a friend who's really into this whole theatre business," he admits guiltily.
Harry grabs his arm. "Excuse us," he says pleasantly to the girl, who is now barely keeping from laughing, before dragging Percy to the side. "Okay, what's the deal?" he asks flat-out.
Percy winces. "Ginny said to get you records for your birthday because you've been listening to music a lot, and then Audrey was talking about music and I didn't know what to say, so I kind of told her that I have this friend who knows all about it, and she said that maybe if you also like theatre then we could see a show, and what else was I supposed to do but agree?"
"Oh, so that mysterious friend really is me," Harry says flatly, even though he's suspected it since Percy first mentioned it. He pinches the bridge of his nose, suddenly tired. "Okay, so now we need to make sure that I'm occupied so you two can go alone," he decides calmly.
"Or," Percy makes a meaningful pause, "we can take one more person and—"
"Make it a double date?" Harry finishes dubiously. "Percy..."
"Come on, Harry. I can't go on my own. I just know that I'll do something stupid, and she'll never speak to me again. If you come, you can act as a buffer whenever I don't know what she's talking about. You saw what happened right now at the box office. I would never be able to communicate with that girl like that. I just don't speak their language."
"You're clearly able to talk to Audrey," Harry points out dryly.
Percy blushes. "She's... different... but she's still one of them. And she expects me to be one of them too. I'll learn, but I need someone to learn from, alright?" He looks truly miserable and not at all like himself when he bites his lip. The Percy Harry used to know would never let his armour crack to this extent. "Look, I know this is inconvenient—"
"Okay, but I don't know anyone who can..." But then he pauses and thinks of Zoe. She's into music, right? One can hardly be more into music than her. Why not musical theatre?
"Thank you, Harry!" He has a feeling that Percy is going to hug him. Yeah, it's happening, even though the two of them don't hug. It's not really their style. "You have no idea how much it means to me."
"Yeah, now I only need to learn everything there is to know about musicals in a little over a month," Harry jokes weakly.
They purchase four tickets for Saturday, the seventh of September. Harry promises to figure something out about the fourth person—worst-case scenario, they can let Hermione in on the plan—before letting Percy go back to the ministry while he starts to slowly walk home. He drops by his favourite record store on his way and spends a delightful thirty minutes grilling the guy about every soundtrack of a stage musical he has available.
When he gets to his building, he first checks on his bike; it stands proudly by the sidewalk, glistening in the sun. He hardly pays attention to anything else, which is why he's caught completely off guard when something nudges his side with so much force he almost falls over.
"Ziggy! Heel!" someone shouts.
Harry regains his balance and makes sure to grab the bike in case it's in danger of going down as well. He blinks the disorientation away, and the beast rolls back enough for Harry to see that it's huge and very fluffy.
He feels a sharp sting in his heart, even though it doesn't resemble Sirius in the slightest. "Hi," he says quietly, reaching out to run his fingers through thick white fur. The dog starts to wave its tail enthusiastically, like it's relieved that Harry finally got with the program. It looks almost like it's smiling.
The owner of the voice catches up to them. "I'm so sorry," he pants. "Ziggy! Come here!"
The dog ignores him happily. Harry grins before finally stopping his petting and turning towards the guy. He's breathing hard and attempting to give his dog a disapproving glare that achieves nothing.
Harry has to tilt his head back when he addresses him. "It's fine. He decided we needed to get acquainted."
The guy smiles—oh, wow, he smiles—down at him, and all of a sudden Harry feels a little weak at the knees. Damn, it should be illegal for people to have a smile like that.
Oh, shit, he's saying something. "Are you okay?" Harry's not sure if his eyes are glassy because he's been unexpectedly reminded of Sirius or because he's looking at something very pretty. What is he supposed to say, though? 'Sorry, your dog just reminds me of my dead godfather' or 'Sorry, you're just really hot'?
"I'm fine," he stutters, all his game suddenly gone. "Ziggy is fine too." He proves it by petting the dog, who replies by sticking his snout into his hip and looking up at him with soulful eyes. Harry can't not smile back.
"He's really bad at following directions," the tall, golden-skinned, dark-eyed stranger with a heart-stopping smile explains apologetically.
"Yeah, me too," Harry blurts out.
The smile, if it's even possible, gets wider still. "That's good to know." He wets his lips, like he's not sure what to say but really wants to say something. Finally, he figures it out. "I'm Ben. The one harassing you is Ziggy."
"Harry." He should reply something clever. Or at least shake his hand, but he can't, because both of his are busy petting the dog, who doesn't seem keen on sharing his attention with anyone, not even his owner. "Ziggy and I are already bonding." 'Can you and I bond too?' No, that's way too forward.
"He doesn't usually react to strangers like that," Ben remarks before patting his thigh. The shorts he's wearing are pretty short; a part of his thigh is visible, and now Harry has to force himself to look elsewhere. "Come on, buddy. Say goodbye to Harry."
Ziggy jumps down with such force that Harry reflexively grasps the handlebar of his motorcycle.
"Is that yours? Or are you protecting it as a public service?" Ben's eyes shine with amusement.
"Oh, it's mine," Harry assures him. "Why would I care about someone else's bike?" he adds rhetorically.
Ben raises his thick eyebrows. "So he can't follow directions and only cares about his own? Stop it with self-promotion already."
Harry flushes. "I'm not an awful person, promise." Fuck, kill him now.
"Yeah, Ziggy can corroborate," Ben agrees smoothly, then glances at the bike again. The wheels in Harry's head are turning really fast. 'Invite him for a ride,' his inner voice whispers. Harry brushes it aside; the guy has a dog with him, for Christ's sake. "It's pretty badass for a deathtrap."
Fuck. Don't invite him for a ride. Retreat.
And it is then that Harry finds himself struck completely dumb. Ben gives him another magnificent grin before patting his thigh again. "Sorry for the ambush. Ziggy, come on."
He barely has time to wave awkwardly before Ben opens the door to what Harry suspects is his car. It's white as well and looks quite absurd—such a tiny car for such a big guy and his huge dog.
Harry sighs miserably when they drive away. He climbs the stairs until he's in his attic, but he doesn't go to his or Kreacher's bedroom. The thought strikes him, and he heads towards the third room, the one that he's hardly used at all since moving in. It's completely empty, except for the overhead light. Exactly what he needs.
He's been putting it off too long. Time to let his magic shine. First he conjures several dummies that he aligns along the opposite wall to make it feel like proper training. Then he closes his eyes and attempts to dig deep down to get more than just what's right beneath his skin and draw it out. The response is imminent; his magic accumulates, stretches, and jostles to get outside. He has an impression that it feels kindly towards him today; that it approves. He's not sure of what—that would be too easy. But what matters is that right now it does, and it has every intention to surrender to him. That's the natural way of life—his magic surrendering to him. It's impatient now, already on his fingertips, gagging to be useful.
It's not even a spell that he finally lets out, just a shapeless, nameless ball of energy.
Most dummies disintegrate, the overhead light buzzes and goes off, and then he sees the lights in the building across the street blowing out as well. Shit.