September 26th, 2002

They can't pretend it's not happening anymore. No matter how pointless and absurd it seems at first glance, this is it.

That's what Harry is thinking when he looks at the mess that used to be two young people, their whole bodies turned into constellations of cuts. They were cut through their clothes; both them and the litter are covered with blood. For now, the standing theory is that they both bled out.

They're in the middle of a mountain trail in the Scottish Highlands, around twenty miles northeast from Hogwarts. If they trekked south, they'd reach the outer edge of the Forbidden Forest within four hours. The bodies had been here for a while before the owner of a nearby camp found them.

There's no message on the wall this time, because there is no wall; they're in the middle of a forest. But the girl's left sleeve is rolled up, and on her arm...

"This is gibberish," Inspector Porter announces, staring at the lopsided letters. "Mupples? Can't. Aggavate?"

"Small Ps and Gs look the same," Adams points out. "Mupples-Muggles, Aggavate-Appavate. Apparate? You think it might be an R, Potter?"

Harry doesn't answer; he's too busy staring. Of course it's an R; it says, in a very illegible handwriting, 'Muggles can't apparate.' Which is true, but why cut people to point it out?

"How does the penmanship look in comparison to our previous ones?"

"They were all in block letters before. Very clear. Is it even the same guy?" Porter asks, sounding dejected.

Adams is unfazed. "Take it to the lab to check," she insists. "Potter. What are you doing?"

What Harry is doing is looking for the strange symbol, but he can't see it anywhere. Different method, which fits, but also a completely different writing and no symbol. If not for the hint towards magic, a very clear one this time, and the close proximity to Hogwarts, there's nothing suggesting it's the same person. No wonder muggles can't connect it. The victims too—already identified, non-magical again, a young couple here on vacation. Frighteningly random.

It's easier to think about all this and not about the paralysing similarity to the letters that were once upon a time cut into Hermione's arm. Coincidence, or is this person playing with them on purpose?

"There's no symbol," he mutters.

Adams blinks. "Symbol? Ah, the whistle?"

The whistle. Of course it's not a small B or a bird. It's a whistle. Something flashes through his memory that has no particular connection, but it doesn't want to go away. "Can you look into the Whistleblowers?"

Adams raises her eyebrows with interest, like it's the first potentially useful thing he's ever suggested. "Who are they?"

He tries to remember what exactly the Unspeakable told him. "A conspiracy group?"

"A secret society type of thing?" She narrows her eyes, and Harry has an impression of walking on very thin ice because there's one particular secret society he doesn't want her to find. "What do you know about them?"

"Maybe. And nothing, I just know they're supposed to exist. Let me know if you find anything." He shrugs. "Excuse me," he adds before circling back to his own people who are looking around the scene for clues.

Lydia casts a quick privacy charm around them. "What the fuck," she says quietly, rubbing her face with her hand. "What the fuck?" she repeats more strongly. They are all most tired from sitting idly, waiting for it to be a reasonable time to get here. The local police would have been a little puzzled if the special unit from London appeared within minutes of them reporting the crime. The news got to the central office, and The Met got interested and informed the aurors, even though no one was certain if it's their killer or something completely unrelated. The local unit wasn't happy at being trampled. The muggles are now busy frantically checking all registered visitors to nearby lodging houses and campsites. Harry thinks it's rather pointless. If it's a wizard, they'd just pop in and out.

But they would also use Diffindo or even Sectusempra, but no tracking spell detected anything like that or anything at all. No signs of apparition either.

Muggles can't apparate.

"I know, right?" he mutters to Lydia.

"Muggle case, huh?" she sneers, giving him a pointed look.

"It can still be a muggle," Harry argues weakly to not admit that his theory is in ruins. It could be, if not for the amount of information they must possess. To recreate the effects of Desodio so well, to be aware of the possibility of splinching... only blood draining is not something that is typical for the wizarding world. No one drains people, unless they get overly creative with their curses. No vampire would drink it all, and there were no teeth marks on the old man's corpse. Combined with clear alluding to magic, not many muggles, even those who are associated, know these things.

Or is it just a wizard who figured out how easy it is to avoid magical law enforcement by covering their magical tracks but still has an upper hand over muggles simply by using magic, which they don't take into consideration?

"Whoever it is, they're trying to bring us out into the open," she announces gravely.

"They're sloppy," Harry states flatly, before quickly correcting himself. "Well, their execution isn't sloppy, but the message... it's not obvious. It feels like they're playing a game. Or the full message won't be clear until they're finished."

Lydia looks aghast at the gloomy scenario he roughed out. Harry glances around, impressed that Alison seems to be actually discussing something with Porter. Her partner, the third cop whose name Harry doesn't remember, is not on the scene today. Gabriel is lurking, looking both worried and contemplative. As if planned, they both come over after a couple of minutes.

"The muggles are trying to decipher the words. They think it's some kind of a code," Alison reports immediately. "We might want to keep this one quiet as well."

"Of course we will," Gabriel agrees. "I don't know anymore if we're supposed to be solving this case or keeping the muggles from solving it."

"How do you propose to do either of those things?" Lydia asks rhetorically.

Gabriel sends her a dirty look. "Get all samples to the Department of Mysteries and to the Evidence," he instructs curtly. "Denshaw, keep an eye on whether the muggles find something useful to us or something that needs to be covered up. Potter," he stops and looks at Harry thoughtfully. "Go talk to the minister tomorrow, if you can. I don't see it going well if we continue as we've been doing." Great, more of Kingsley's optimism. Harry nods stiffly. "They're driving up to Inverness tonight," Gabriel tells them, tilting his head towards the muggles. "Anyone can stay with them?"

Harry maybe even would, but today, of all days, he has plans. He's going to college. Almost.

Alison looks resigned. "I will," she volunteers reluctantly.

Harry wanders away, lost in thought. Six bodies; the first three on a Friday, then the fourth one a week later, on a Saturday. And now two, almost three weeks later on a Thursday. Wounds not applied after death, but while they were still alive—causes of death in all cases but the middle one, when the guy was just drained until he fell asleep and never woke up again. More focus on the actual message than its shape. Their prep doesn't care for consistency nor aesthetics. Not form, but substance.

"What are you thinking about?" he hears Adams' voice from behind his back, so he tells her.

She nods and mutters her acknowledgement but doesn't comment further on his theory. Instead she asks, "Are you staying over with us?"

"Alison does. We're going home," Harry says, not caring if she's going to assume they have a plane they didn't invite them to share. They're a super special unit; they can get away with being selfish arsholes.

"Got exciting plans?" she scoffs derisively when he makes a mistake by glancing at his wrist to check the time.

"Yeah. Super exciting," he deadpans.

She must either not get his sarcasm or ignore it. "Getting drunk or fucking around?" she asks. Harry jolts. Has she been following him? When he thinks about it, it's really sad that this is the conclusion she would reach if she had. "You're just the type. Scruffy, permanently spaced out, lax, with this devil-may-care attitude when it comes to this case. And your face just now confirms it. More so, you're the type to find an excuse for everything you do, as if you're the only person around with issues. If we wanted to, we could all find reasons to be good-for-nothing deadbeats, but some people take responsibility for their own lives instead of playing the blame game to protect their self-image or because they're so afraid to step out of their comfort zone they would rather never try to change anything than face the possibility of failure."

Harry wants to bristle, and he would if she didn't manage to hit a little too close to home. Instead, he says stiffly, "You don't know anything about me."

"I don't have to," she announces with the confidence of someone who already knows they're right. "Whatever it is—daddy issues, mommy issues, childhood trauma, low self-esteem, anger issues—process it, get over it, and focus on the case, because right now you're not helping."

Harry closes his eyes and sighs. "You have a terrible bedside manner." Before she has time to point out she's not a doctor, he continues, "People are not going to be perfect just because you want them to. If I were you, I would focus on not projecting my expectations for myself onto others. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got classes to attend."

"Wait. Are you still in college?" she asks, surprised.

"I'm only twenty-two," Harry explains simply, not elaborating that technically he isn't.

Her eyebrows rise even higher. "Then why are you even a part of this unit?"

Because the wizarding world and the muggle world work completely differently. For them, it's perfectly normal to go become a law enforcement officer at eighteen. He smiles tightly. "That's none of your business. I'll send Alison over."

"Which one is Alison?" she grumbles, looking between her and Lydia.

Harry indicates the Asian girl. "Actually, I don't believe I ever caught your first name," he realises.

She looks bashful. "We don't use those around here much. But it's Judy," she confesses. "I know you're Just Harry."

He smiles. "We'll talk tomorrow, Sergeant Adams," he says, because she might have given him the name but didn't give him the permission to use it. "I am treating this seriously," he adds firmly, because he does. They're just... the entire Auror Office and the entire DMLE are in very unfamiliar territory here.

He, Gabriel, and Lydia go deeper into the woods to apparate from there. Harry makes a jump from Scotland to his bedroom in London and checks with Kreacher how the preparation of the basement at Grimmauld Place is going. He feels guilty for not taking care of it himself, but there are already too many things he needs to bring himself to do over the impotent feeling that accompanies him everywhere, and Kreacher was overjoyed when he first heard, both by alchemy and by finally using the Black Ancestral Home for something. There's no reason for Harry not to let him have his fun.

He takes a long walk to the ULC campus and manages not to stop in any of the student bars he passes. The Department of Earth Sciences that offers the supplementary courses looks a bit like a prison, and the people are mostly arseholes who take their failure at graduating from an actual college out on others, except for this one girl who's trying to interest him in laser dentistry. But once the lecture starts, he finds himself actually engaged, listening intently and taking notes. Maybe going to a real college isn't such a ridiculous notion after all. If only he had the time and didn't spend half of his waking hours being busy with murder and another half being a drunken loser.

Adams' words—Judy's—are ringing in his head loudly enough to keep him from focusing fully on the differences between stored energy and kinetic energy. Not even because she was right; well, she was, and she wasn't. He might overestimate his misfortune. Sure, the first eighteen years of his life were all kinds of fucked up, but now, unlike some people, he has all the tools to get out of his misery. He has more money than he knows what to do with and got his dream job without even lifting a finger. People give him more credit than he deserves. He should be able to jump over his setbacks. And the thing is, he does, all the time. He's been gallivanting further out of his comfort zone than he ever thought possible, right now being only one example. But she's also right that there is one aspect where he is afraid of failing, almost cripplingly so, to the point he doesn't even try.

That's why after his classes he goes to a place he found before but refused to think more deeply about. He chose this place because most of those meetings are held at churches for some reason, and he doesn't want muggles to talk to him about God. This one looks cosy. Laid-back. He's still nervous.

"Are you here for a meeting?" a plump lady at the desk asks with a warm smile. "Which one?"

Aren't they all here for the same reason? Before he has a chance to ask, she passes him a flyer. AA, ACA, DA, NA, FA, SAA... What do all of those mean? Below, he finds the key. Damn, there's really a bunch of stuff people are addicted to. Adult Children of Alcoholics? Is that a thing? "This one," he points quickly before glancing at the timetable for Thursday.

"Oh, it's starting in less than half an hour," she says, even though he can read. She sounds inappropriately happy about it. Maybe she's just trying to be welcoming? "Would you like a cookie?"

He looks at her and discovers with surprise that yes, he would. It's been a long time since breakfast. At least he's not in danger of having to deal with Food Addicts.

That's mean. These are real problems real people have.

He stays near the table with foods and drinks and munches another cookie, watching people as they leave their stuff in the cloakroom and go straight to the small but sunny room to take their seats. Those who show up come in all shapes and sizes, in all colours and ages, from all walks of life—a guy over sixty with tattoos and long, greying hair, a girl with Hispanic features who looks not much older than Harry, a slicked-haired man around forty in a suit, a lady with dyed purple hair who reminds him uncomfortably of Tonks, and another older gentleman, chubby and sweating. Those who stop by him to grab a cup of tea eye him with curiosity and either smile or nod politely. They know he's a newcomer.

Seven thirty comes, and there are thirteen of them in total. The cookies calmed Harry's nerves a little, but now he's starting to tense again, and then another person walks into the room, and Harry freezes.

They look at each other, and the guy narrows his eyes, like he's trying to recall where he's seen him before. He must finally remember, because he comes over slowly and busies himself with making coffee. "This is awkward," he says conversationally.

Harry snorts lowly and nods his head. "I was wondering where you were today," he confesses quietly, making a mental note that having an AA meeting is apparently an acceptable excuse not to show up to check out the crime scene.

"You were there?" He doesn't ask how Harry got back to London so quickly. Instead, for a moment he looks like he wants to ask about the newest murder before he changes his mind and shakes his head. "This is a good place. Let's leave everything that is happening outside, outside," he suggests firmly.

Harry watches him closely, searching for a name in his memory. Inspector Rupert Donovan. Between Sergeant Pig-Headed and Harry's unfortunate namesake, this guy kind of slipped off his radar before, except for him being Alison's partner. He has a sly air about him and something shifty in his eyes, but maybe it's not dishonesty at all. Maybe it's just what this—living at the bottom of a bottle—does to a person.

"Agreed." He's nervous enough as it is without the constant awareness of a coworker's eyes following him.

They join the circle, and once everyone is seated, a weary-looking man starts, "Good evening, everyone. My name is Nicolas, and I'll be the chairperson for this meeting. Alcoholics Anonymous is a fellowship of men and women who share their experience, strength, and hope with each other so that they may solve their common problem and help others to recover from alcoholism. The only requirement for membership is a desire to stop drinking..."* He keeps talking, but Harry sort of spaces out. "Any of you may choose to speak during this meeting or simply observe and listen. It's up to you. Let's raise our hands before speaking to avoid interrupting each other. Now, would any of the first-timers like to introduce themselves? First names only, please," he addresses the group, but from the covert glances Harry receives, he knows he's the only newcomer today.

He probably wouldn't, should he not be put on the spot like that, but he's come this far. There's no point in pretending he's not here, so he raises his hand hesitantly. It doesn't feel like it did back at Hogwarts at all. "Hi, I'm Harry." He hopes his voice doesn't sound as strained as it feels.

"Hi, Harry," the rest of the room murmurs.

"Now, let's move on to our goals..." Nicolas continues, and Harry forces himself to focus.


September 27th, 2002

He wakes up suddenly with an inferno raging inside his body. He desperately tries to hold on to the dream while it slips between his fingers and fades along with the feeling of large hands leaving bruises on his hips, searing mouth marking his collarbones, and curious fingers following the line of his spine. He whines quietly once he fully realises that it's gone, that he's in his bed all alone, and slips his right hand into his boxers to finish himself off. He closes his eyes and arches his back, only hoping that Kreacher won't decide to bring him coffee within the next minute or so, because he doesn't think it's going to take any longer.

Shaking his head at himself, he rolls out of bed and goes straight to the bathroom. His movements are awkward from a sticky feeling in his underwear and trying not to touch anything on the way, but damn if that dream wasn't worth it. He doesn't know if it's his romantic side encouraging him to call Ben or if it's his horny side telling him to go fuck Ben. Might be both.

Turning himself on by fantasising about having sex with Ben without any realistic prospect of it actually coming true is kind of pointless, so as he walks to work, he forces himself to think about steps instead. Twelve of them, to be exact, or so Nicolas claimed. At first, Harry felt uncertain about them, but he's been assured that the 'god' they refer to absolutely doesn't have to be a religious entity. It can be any higher power or even people's own inner strength, which is good, because faced with what he knows about the world—both worlds—he's kind of sceptical about the possibility of the Christian or any other god's existence and not arrogant enough to believe that everything originated from magic like some wizards seem to do. But he agrees to begin his spiritual journey despite the fact that not even having a foreign soul attached to him, speaking to dead people, and coming back to life have managed to turn him into any more of a spiritual man.

One way or another, it starts today with... what was it? Ah, yes. Admitting that he's powerless over alcohol. He can admit that. He's come to great lengths to regain the control over his life, but drinking remains one of the things he's unable to let go of, even though he knows that its effects are disastrous to his continued well-being. Apparently, it's normal. That's what they said last night, these people who seem to feel about it the same way Harry does and keep tenaciously trying after facing who knows how many failures. It's something akin to a revelation. That there are people who had fucked-up things happen to them, whether they were divorces, or losing their job, or childhood abuse, and had the same idea Harry had to make themselves forget about it for a little while, make it not matter. Unlike the lingering feeling of inadequacy he always has when he thinks that Hermione had to literally erase her parents' memories and manages not to drink herself into a stupor every night, and that Ron lost his brother and is still able to go through life sober and even enjoy it, last night made him feel seen. Understood. It was such a relief not to be the only miserable sod in the room.

Before going through the visitor entrance, he briefly contemplates calling Ben but quickly abandons the idea. It's eight in the morning. Ben has a big case today, which Harry is aware of courtesy of Zoe. Surely he wouldn't want to hear from him now. Just like he surely didn't want to hear from him multiple times during the last week due to various excuses Harry made up.

Being in the Auror Headquarters today sucks. They've managed to keep yesterday's events silent so far, but the tense atmosphere is palpable in the open space. He collects the scarce amount of information to pass to Sergeant Adams, prepares another report, this time on ways to distract the muggles from investigating why there are no working CCTV cameras around the Leaky Cauldron, and quickly leaves the department behind. Today, he has a busy morning ahead of him.

It's completely out of his way, but first he travels all the way down to the Department of Mysteries. He's forced to wait for a very long time before one of the Unspeakables graciously admits him in. After a short and rather chaotic conversation, the cloaked man admits that yes, the department did want him to possibly learn more about the Whistleblowers—why him of all people, he's afraid to ask—but that doesn't mean that they have any information to make the task easier on him. So no, they don't know how to locate the elusive organisation. As a matter of fact, all they know is that they're muggles, but when Harry looked them up last night, there was no sign of them on the internet or even in a freaking phonebook. When he asks why they bother since there's no proof of the group's existence, the Unspeakable informs him very unhelpfully that they discovered them by scrying. Scrying! All this fuss because some Unspeakable saw something they didn't even understand in their crystal ball. At this point, Harry's disdain for divination wins, and he demands rudely that the man tell him if he sees anything useful for solving the case at the bottom of his teacup.

The probability that the whistle symbol from the crime scene has anything to do with the possibly fictional organisation he's been told about is dropping, but he's still interested in the whistle itself, so he takes the elevator back to the very top but doesn't head to Kingsley's office yet, as Gabriel requested of him. Instead he turns left towards the office of the infamous Exotic Symbol Analyst—the same woman who once recommended him a muggle restaurant after riding the elevator together. Unlike the Unspeakables, she greets him with tea and lights up like a Christmas tree when he asks about whistles. She already starts talking while he utilises his doubtful artistic skill to outline the symbol for her. Before he leaves her office, he has two huge cups of tea and learns about a Turkish magical village where people use whistling to communicate and about Irish fairies doing the same, then about the profound impact sound has on magic, especially pure sound, as a powerful channeller of a human spirit, and about the uses of whistling in ancient healing practices, but also that in some cultures it is believed that whistling at night invokes evil spirits. The amount of information is staggering and not very applicable, so the only thing Harry gets out of this meeting is a headache.

After all of that, he's almost relieved at the prospect of speaking to Kingsley. One could like him or not, but Kingsley is at least moderately sane. But when he crosses the hall and stops in front of the minister's door, his relief dissipates. "...it's going to be all over the Prophet tomorrow. Did I warn you? Of course I did! We had a chance to at least control the narrative—"

"This is unnecessary. The muggles only loosely connect this one to the main investigation. It happened in Scotland. It might not even go beyond the local news. There's no reason to panic—" Kingsley's calm voice is barely heard as he's being yelled over.

"No reason to panic?! I have two words for you: muggles! Apparition! You know what they're planning to call him? The Renegade! Betrayer of his own people, set on revealing us, siding with muggles—"

"He hardly sides with muggles. He murders them," Kingsley deadpans. "We're not even sure if it's—"

"Oh, don't give me that bullshit that it's not a wizard. It's obvious. It's too late now. You better send someone from Press Regulation to negotiate with the Prophet quickly, before they fill in all the blanks."

Harry knocks sharply, tired of this. Just like he thought—Thaddeus Bowden, head of DMLE and Hermione's boss, scowls at him when he enters before turning back dramatically towards Kingsley. "We'll see what tomorrow's news brings, minister." He nods stiffly at Harry and walks out of the office with a huff.

Harry exhales loudly. "Phew. Why do you let them chew you out like that?"

"That's the whole point to this, Harry. To put some poor schmuck on the post so you can always know who to blame." He sighs. "Please tell me you've got good news."

Harry snorts. "Like what?"

"We need a suspect, Harry. Tomorrow, we're going to need something to give to the public."

"How am I supposed to pull a suspect out of the hat for you? Six bodies and not a flicker of magic tracked. Not a single witness. Not a fingerprint. Nothing to follow up on the muggle cameras, which is partly our fault. I'm not going to randomly arrest someone only to make you feel better and elevate morale." He falls silent, thinking furiously. His looking into Whistleblowers proved futile, so he's not sure if he should even mention it, but he doesn't want to leave Kingsley completely hopeless. "I've got a lead, maybe. But I spoke to the Unspeakables and to the Exotic Symbol Analyst about it, and so far it seems like a dead end. But I'll keep looking into it," he assures him.

"Althea is excellent at decrypting any hidden meanings. Do not hesitate to consult her again," Kingsley says, shuffling with his papers. "I want to bring Roddy on the case," he announces suddenly.

Harry's eyebrows rise to the middle of his forehead. "Isn't he retired?"

"Just for consultation," Kingsley explains. "He's seen a lot."

Now that Harry thinks about it, it's kind of an excellent idea. He's not exactly clear on what the minister's brother used to do for the American muggle government or military or whatever it was, but the level of secrecy only leaves more to the imagination. And he's been doing it with constant awareness of the wizarding world's existence at the back of his head. He knows how to play both sides of the fence. Harry's only concern is the potential awkwardness of having to work with his therapist's husband. He doesn't really know Roderick all that well. They've only met once. "That seems like a good idea," he says carefully. "You want me to do anything about the Prophet?" Kingsley gives him an amused stare. "I don't mean something outrageous to replace tomorrow's front page." He grimaces and hears Kingsley mutter, "Pity." Harry's about to suggest that he still has time to come out before tomorrow's Prophet is released, but something holds him off, so he gets back to his previous thought. "But does anyone even care that muggles are being murdered, or is it all hysteria about the Statue of Secrecy?"

Kingsley's eyes narrow. "I'm listening."

"If we can't stop the news, let's at least strip them of the only narrative. I know not as many people subscribe to it, but I'm sure Cameron would love to present an alternative outlook in the Tribune."

Kingsley doesn't even have to think about it. "Do it. And I'll try to soften the blow from the Prophet."

He's already exhausted when he leaves the minister's floor, and it's only mid-day. When he gets back to his own department, half of the aurors aren't even there; Denshaw is actually working with The Met, and Gabriel disappeared after the morning conference. The Patels are gone, and only Higgs and Berrycloth seem to be actually working on something. A bunch of trainees and junior aurors are busy gossiping in the corner, and Lydia is staring at the ceiling. Harry stops by her cubicle.

"You've got a mission today," he informs her quietly.

She takes her feet off her desk. "Who died and put you in charge?"

"You shouldn't wish Gabriel ill," he cautions her jokingly. "But this one is from the minister." Her eyebrows rise even higher, and she gives him an expectant look. "There's going to be an unpleasant surprise in the Prophet tomorrow, so go to your boyfriend and tell him that if he wants a piece of the cake, he needs to put something together quickly. You know what kind of story we're going for," he adds pointedly.

Lydia jumps to her feet, salutes, and heads straight to the fireplace. Harry exhales, knowing that he can count on her to come up with something thought-provoking together with Cameron. Having that covered, he decides to leave as well. There's no point in sticking around, and this might be the last peaceful day for a very long time. He knows where he wants to be.

He dodges Percy, who tries to check if everything is okay, and pulls out his phone as soon as he's back on the muggle side. He stares at it for a long time, debating with himself, but eventually puts it away and walks briskly towards the tube station.

Once he boards the District line, he shoots a quick text to Diane that he won't attend his session today and that yes, he has a very good reason. His hands start sweating when he gets off at Bow Road station. He considers conjuring flowers, but he knows shit about flowers; he would probably get a cactus or a bunch of weeds. Besides, what if they fade away before Ben throws them out? His conjurations tend to stay in the physical world for quite a long time, but it's too much of a risk—what if Ben gets sentimental? So the other, much more sensible option—buying them. A florist appears right in front of his eyes like a mirage.

The guy seems to know exactly what kind of flowers are going to simultaneously say, 'Congratulations' and 'I'm sorry your case went to shit. You still rock,' depending on today's verdict, as well as, 'Sorry for leaving you without a word' and 'You're so hot you make me feel weak in my knees. Let's spend life together'—okay, too far. He doesn't say all this to the florist, but him being a bumbling mess seems to get the message across. He leaves with a bouquet of daffodils, carnations, and alstroemerias, which actually costs more than his single therapy session, so thus far the only result of his daring endeavour is losing money. Not that he cares.

He stops dead when he sees the crowd in front of the courthouse. There's even a guy with a camera and a lady talking very fast into the microphone. Harry casts a quick notice-me-not charm on himself and his flowers, shaking his head incredulously. Who knew that legal proceedings could be so popular?

"...where five British-based pharmaceutical companies have been charged with conspiracy to defraud the NHS by price-fixing of generic drugs. The companies in question include Sinclair Pharmacare, which is listed on the London Stock Exchange. A civil suit from NHS led three out of five companies to settle, yet the settlements do not include admissions of liability."

Looks like he's late. The reporter lady gets her hooks into some poor guy leaving the building, and he stutters to give her a quote. When Ben emerges right after, she leaves the other guy alone to focus on him instead. He throws some words at her that Harry can't hear before hurrying down the steps to escape her. He gives the impression that he'd love to be wearing a notice-me-not as well, which would be a crime in Harry's opinion, because he looks absolutely edible in a navy blue suit with a thin black tie. The whole world should see this. But he looks tired and like something is bugging him.

Harry follows him silently when he circles the building towards the parking lot. He feels a little bit like a creep, squeezing the bouquet in a sweaty hand. He's never given anybody flowers before.

Fuck, how bad of a boyfriend to Ginny was he to never give her flowers? And how can he hope to be any better now, with issues piling up inside his skull and a job that messes him up even more? This is a terrible idea; Ben is clearly stressed, and the last thing he needs is his stupid flowers. But if Harry doesn't act now, he's going to drive away, so he drops the charm when Ben's back is turned on him. "Hi."

Ben jumps and spins around rapidly. "Harry! Where did you come from?" he exclaims, blinking excessively.

Harry doesn't tell him that he's been here the whole time; he just smiles. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you." He bites his lower lip and shoves the flowers towards him. "These are for you."

Ben takes them reflexively. "What's the occasion?"

Harry wants to say something about the case or maybe apologise for bailing on him, but what he says instead is, "I dreamed about you last night in a way that made me feel obliged."

Ben's eyes widen, and Harry can't exactly see him blushing, but he can bet that if he touched his cheek right now, it would be warm. The knowledge is enough of a reward to overshadow his own embarrassment. Ben watches him intently for several seconds, like he's trying to determine whether he's serious or not, and Harry gawks back right at him, feeling his own cheeks reddening.

"Has anybody ever told you that you've got the most spectacular case of bedroom eyes?" Ben finally asks conversationally after clearing his throat rather forcefully. "At least recorded in recent history."

Harry almost jolts. He's been under the impression that his vacant stare makes him look rather like he's missing half a brain, but if there's someone who considers it hot, all the more power to him. So he blurts out, "Only recent? Right, I've got nothing on those guys from... Ancient Greece." Why, oh why, does he always have to say those things to this man?

But Ben snorts, and not only that, he starts to shake with laughter. "You're good, but you're not that good," he agrees easily.

Harry grins, grateful that he's managed not to completely mess up yet, and Ben finally looks down to actually inspect the flowers. "They're beautiful. Thank you."

"They're actually..." What was he thinking back at the florist? "To say sorry for leaving so abruptly. And that I can explain." Ben tries to interrupt him, but Harry keeps going. "And to wish you luck, if I was here earlier, but I wasn't, so it's more like to congratulate you, only I still don't know if it went well or not. The lady from the news said something about settlement. I don't know if settlement is good or bad. If I was fighting someone, I wouldn't want to settle—" Shut up, shut up!

Ben cuts into his verbal diarrhoea, thank Merlin. He's laughing really hard now. "Settlement is kind of good. Only they had already settled the civil suit weeks ago out of court, and now criminal charges are being brought. It was just the first hearing."

"Oh. So nobody won?" Harry asks stupidly.

"Nah. And nobody's going to for a while now."

He feels weirdly disappointed. "Well, were you at least amazing?"

Ben grins. "Oh yeah, I was among the army of lawyers and had the floor for the whole forty seconds," he says self-deprecatingly.

Harry wrinkles his nose. "Clearly, they have no idea what they're doing. Now I don't regret not being there that much."

"Don't," Ben assures him. "It was all very boring."

"I can tell. I'm already falling asleep," Harry lies jokingly. It's the opposite of the truth; it feels like his heart is close to jumping right out of his chest. "It looks like a big deal, though," he adds more seriously, tilting his head back towards the courthouse.

"It is," Ben admits. "Apparently, it's good to appear in the spotlight every once in a while. They call it career-building," he adds surreptitiously before rolling his eyes.

"Never heard of it," Harry declares firmly. Ben cracks a smile. "You don't like attention?" he asks nonchalantly. Surprise, another thing that makes them completely incompatible. Not that Harry likes attention; he just doesn't seem capable of escaping it.

"At the risk of sounding like an utter goody two shoes, I always just wanted to help people. And all these high-profile cases that look impressive on paper are all about the corporations squabbling with each other. The cases that matter to real people, that can actually change someone's life, are rarely considered newsworthy." He seems to be thinking for a moment. "This one is kind of different. No matter our personal feelings for NHS, ripping them off is like ripping every citizen of this country off."

Harry nods, hoping he doesn't look as vapid as he feels. What does he even have to offer to a guy like Ben, who is clever and put together, apparently saves the world on a daily basis, and, unlike him, doesn't even need to use violence to do so?

His self-confidence is plummeting when Ben suddenly says, "I'm glad you came, though," and smiles this dazzling, heart-stopping smile.

It's enough to make Harry feel a little like he's drunk, and he has to focus to force out the next words, "About that night—"

"Don't worry about it," Ben cuts in.

"It was really important that I—" Harry keeps talking, barely registering what the other is saying.

"Yeah, I gathered," Ben interrupts him again, and something in his voice makes Harry pause and narrow his eyes. Does he know? He most certainly isn't supposed to know. "Do you want to get coffee?" he offers out of the blue.

Harry's heart performs a somersault that makes him feel slightly nauseous. Have feelings always been this unmanageable? He can swear he wasn't such a wreck even when he was a teenager. "Yeah, I'd love that."

"Let me just..." He pats down his pockets in search of the keys, opens his car, and hesitates. "How likely is it that someone will break in to steal the flowers?" he asks with a completely straight face. When Harry opens his mouth to tell him that the probability of that happening is very low, he adds reasonably, "They are very nice flowers." Contrary to his words, he leaves them in the back before moving to the driver's seat. It always cracks Harry up how small his car is. It's practically the size of his motorcycle. How could such a big guy be comfortable driving such a tiny car? He circles it when Ben is rummaging through the glove box and notices a sticker on the rear fender that resembles a very familiar dog.

Ben finally finds what he's been looking for—an umbrella, apparently. Is it going to rain? Harry looks up; yeah, it might—and straightens up. "I know a place," he says.

"Lead the way." Harry smiles up at him. "I was going to ask you—how is Ziggy?"

Ben gives him a look and seems to study him for an uncomfortably long time. Harry is about to ask if there's something weird on his face when he casts his eyes around before suddenly leaning in and kissing him on the mouth, quickly and chastely but with enough pressure for Harry to feel it down to his toes. He's left a little dazed while Ben simply extends his arm to indicate for him to go first.

Huh. All he needs to do is ask about his dog. That shouldn't be difficult at all. He's a very lovable dog.

Maybe Harry is actually going to nail this thing.


That's actually a part of the official AA preamble.