September 28th, 2002
There's a stranger in his bed.
That's not even the most unusual thing. Waking up next to someone and having no recollection of how he ended up in such a position happened to him several times already. The unusual part is that he's relaxed and well-rested, his limbs almost jelly-like in a loose embrace. It's a lovely state to be in. He's still slightly sore just where he's supposed to be, and he isn't hungover in the slightest.
Wait. If no hangover, why no recollection? He turns gingerly, causing a heavy arm to slip off him and fall limply on the sheets, and is welcomed by serene, still features. Oh, right. Ben. He's breathing deeply and quietly, and his fingers twitch, like they're trying to locate Harry back, but there's not much they can do in their slumbering state. He's starting to sport a stubble on his chin and above his upper lip. Those lips in particular are what steal Harry's attention until he realises...
Oh, shit. Ben. The memories come back to him with the impact of a meteorite, and he blinks to chase away the remains of the sleepiness from his brain. A smile is tugging on his mouth, and he tries to fight it for a while before it fully breaks out, followed by a snort. Because Ben said...
"I never really do this, you know." His hands run up Harry's back, over his shoulder blades, and tickle his nape before wandering back down and stopping at the very bottom of his spine.
Harry can easily guess what he's talking about and decides to assure him with conviction, "Oh, yeah. No, me neither." Don't lie, Harry. You're really bad at it.
Ben is apparently thinking the same thing, because he gives him a knowing look.
"It might have happened occasionally," Harry concedes mildly. "But believe me, I was honest when I said that I didn't invite you here to have sex with you. I mean, I hoped," he admits shamelessly. Ben cracks a smile. "But I just really didn't want to let you go." Sweet Merlin, orgasms make him cheesy, but it's worth a grin he gets in return.
"If it makes you feel any better, you were the perfect gentleman for the first fifteen minutes," Ben commends him jokingly.
Harry starts to shake with laughter. "I'll take it." They're quiet for a moment, just listening to the other inhaling and exhaling steadily.
"I don't have to go if you don't want me to," Ben speaks up suddenly. "But there's no pressure. If this is happening too fast—"
Harry frowns. "We've just established that I—"
"No, I mean..." Ben is starting to look slightly frustrated. "Correct me if I'm wrong, and this is a one-off kind of thing—"
Harry's lips tighten. "I'm not a complete commitmentphobe."
"I'm not saying you are." Ben's voice sounds like that's exactly what he's saying. "But you've been known to..." he breaks off, takes a deep breath, and rubs his eyes. "Sorry. I tend to get confrontational for no reason."
"It's the job," Harry mutters lazily. He could put more effort into this rather important conversation and maybe even pick an argument, but he's way too comfortable lying on Ben's chest and listening to his heartbeat. It doesn't really inspire combativeness in him.
Ben cracks a smile. "Maybe," he admits unapologetically.
"And I tend to just let things happen. Personal experience," he continues to mumble. "So, you were saying? Not a one-night stand, no. And don't you dare go anywhere."
"Oh, good." Ben turns to enfold him whole with just one arm, and his lips end up right above Harry's ear. "What I was trying to say, in a very evasive way, is that I'm going to be extremely heartbroken if you never call me again." Harry gets goosebumps all over his neck.
He smiles into Ben's collarbone. "Oh, so no pressure, then?"
"None at all."
To his utter surprise, now in the light of a new day, there's still no temptation to run for the hills. A slight sting of panic, yes, but that's only because everything seemed so much easier last night, in the dark, like his bed at the top floor became a separate reality, fenced off from the rest of the world. Now the world is peeking in through the open curtains, and the simple thing they shared last night doesn't feel so simple anymore.
He said too much. In a moment of the crucial decision whether to let Ben in or leave Ben out, feeling more content and light-hearted than he had in a very long time, he said too much.
"What are you doing?" Harry complains when Ben wriggles out from underneath him and reaches out towards the nightstand.
"Asking Nathan to keep Ziggy for an undetermined period of time." He types on his phone, frowning slightly.
Right. Best friend. Harry remembers. He's been listening very attentively, trying to hold his mind back from running in random directions. "Is he going to be mad?"
"It's his job to be supportive of my sex life," Ben points out nonchalantly. "But probably."
He comes back to bed, and Harry crawls back into his arms. If they keep this up, he's going to start purring.
"What did you mean when you said that you just let things happen because of personal experience?"
The urge to purr ceases immediately. Now why can't Ben be a little less attentive at times? "My parents were murdered when I was fifteen months old, and I was sent to live with my relatives, who despised me, which was mutual," he blurts out, his brain slow and translating things to muggle-friendly as he goes. "Then some people my parents used to know got in touch with me, but they were still involved in the conflict with those terrorist arseholes who killed my parents, and I got involved too, and a lot of people died, but more would've if we didn't... do what we did. Then they wanted to get me to work for them to fight those guys again, but I was too busy drinking myself into oblivion for four years. But now I agreed to take the job, and it's a really awful job that keeps me awake at night. So yeah, things just happen, and I just... deal," he finishes clumsily.
He hopes he managed to execute a decent compromise between his crazy desire to share everything and the knowledge that he shouldn't be sharing anything. Ben is silent, and Harry doesn't look up to check his expression. He's probably wondering if this is all some elaborate joke, and Harry thinks he should be panicking a little more, but for some reason he trusts Ben to... he trusts him to be kind. He might think him delusional, but at least Harry knows he will be kind about it.
"Why did you take the job then?" he finally asks. Ah, so he's going to humour him, and even if he doesn't believe him outright, then he'll at least treat it as some convoluted metaphor.
"I can't do anything else," Harry mumbles before taking the time to actually think about it. Well, that's not exactly true. He might not have a lot of faith in himself, but it would be a great exaggeration to say that he'd be completely useless at anything else. "I mean... I can't not do this," he corrects himself.
Ben hums emphatically, like he understands this on the very fundamental level. "I'm sorry." He sounds like he knows the words are meaningless but says them anyway. "1997/1998? Domestic terrorism?" Apparently, he takes Harry's confession as an invitation for a debate, and why wouldn't he? Harry nods vaguely. "I remember that. I've never fully understood what the whole thing was about. At the time, everyone seemed to just gloss over it, like some case of collective self-denial. There was a documentary last year, 'The Greatest Mysteries of the Turn of the Century.' It was one of them, I think. It was disclosed eventually that they were some kind of neo-fascist paramilitary group, but where did they come from? How did they go undetected for so long? What did they want? What happened to them? That's all still unknown, I suppose. Not that I expect you to..." Ben must wake up and realise that they aren't discussing theories about some random conflict out in the world, because he looks down at Harry with wide eyes. "God, I'm so sorry, Harry. Here I am going on and on about this... I say I don't do that, but I do. Disregard personal tragedies to analyse every sociopolitical issue in a detached, big-picture way for my own self-actualisation. Sorry."
Harry has no idea what it means, what he said at the end, and, to be honest, he wants to tell him to keep going, because this is fascinating, but instead he only mutters, "That's confidential," without even putting any heart into it.
Ben snorts. "Yeah. Of course it is." But he doesn't sound surprised nor mocking, so maybe he does understand the concept.
It is fascinating, though, what Harry just learnt, because holy shit. Collective self-denial? It's slightly worrying that there are muggles who retain this level of awareness. It makes sense; the wider the memory charm spread, the weaker it gets. When cast over the whole country, it's more like a suggestion, 'Nothing happened here.' One will immediately let it go, the other will fill in the blanks, and still another one will keep it in mind until it pops up again. It depends on a certain level of stubbornness. And Harry believes that's exactly what's been done in collaboration with the muggle government after the war, once there was time to work on the official cover story. To even think that there are still muggles out there, wondering.
At this point, he doesn't see a way to come off as less suspicious to Ben, so he digs himself deeper, even though he's way more awake now than he was before. "There was a good reason to keep it quiet."
It invites questions, as he expected it to. "Are those clowns still around?" Ben asks, sounding concerned.
Those particular fascist clowns, aka Death Eaters? "Nah," Harry says. "But there are others."
"There always are," Ben agrees, going back to caressing Harry's spine as if nothing happened. "What you're doing now, does it have anything to do with what happened on the corner of Charing Cross Road and Great Newport Street?" Harry jolts before giving him a blank stare. Ben rolls his eyes. "Zoe tells me you're on the force. Then you disappear rather suddenly, and the same night a dead body is found practically next door from where we were. I can put two and two together." He turns thoughtful, as if he only now realises the other possible implication. "Unless you killed the guy. No, you wouldn't have had enough time," he casts the idea away before Harry has a chance to bristle.
So he just laughs. "Good to know I have an alibi."
"That means I do too—I'm not your guy," Ben informs him just in case.
Harry laughs even harder, burying his face into the crook of his neck. "Thank you for clearing yourself of suspicions. That's very helpful."
There must be some disbelief in his voice, because Ben mutters, "Sorry. It's kind of my pet subject."
Now Harry has to look up at him. "Murder?" he asks incredulously. Frankly, a part of him feels relieved, because he's been really concerned that this guy is way too normal for him, but maybe he isn't at all.
Ben looks only slightly embarrassed. "When you put it like that, it does sound weird. But... yeah. From the legal perspective, obviously, but also just... why, you know? What drives people to..." he breaks off, clearly finding difficulty with verbalising his thoughts.
But Harry gets what he means. He has plenty of experience with struggling both with killing people and with people being killed. It's way more complex than it appears at first glance. "It depends on the circumstances, I'd suspect. But there are possible justifications."
"For everything else, sure. I mean, I don't really condone violence at all, because even condoning one aspect, like self-defence, effectively leads to condoning all aspects, where the act of aggression becomes a matter of interpretation. From the individual's perspective, it's completely unreasonable, but from the society's perspective, that's really the only answer that doesn't result in spreading more violence. But—"
"I'm waiting for the 'but,' because right now it feels like you're preaching at me," Harry says slightly snappily, feeling his heart plummeting at this moral conclusion.
Ben's lips press against the top of his head briefly, maybe as an apology. "Yes, it does, and I realise how inappropriate it is of me given everything you've clearly been through. But, from both a legal and common-sense perspective, people kill each other all the time. In self-defence, during wartime, claiming necessity or duress, or loss of control. It all doesn't go beyond reason. But murder..."
And yeah, Harry can see what he's getting at. Everything that happened during the war, they were all constantly in the 'kill or be killed' mode. But what their killer is doing—targeting random people, leaving them clues like in some sick cat-and-mouse game—is different. It's inconceivable.
Ben must realise he might have gone a bit too far with it because he scoffs at himself. "Phew. What a topic for three in the morning."
Harry is about to agree, even though he doesn't mind all that much—even discussing murder feels more academic and eye-opening tonight than it normally would—but he casts his eyes down and raises his eyebrows. "Should I be worried about this?"
Ben looks down too and coughs awkwardly. "I promise, the thought of murder doesn't get me hard."
He looks so adorably panicked that Harry starts to laugh. "Oh? What does get you hard then?"
"You."
Harry smiles coyly and very casually rolls over to spread out next to him. Ben is on him in an instant. "What do you want?" he whispers into his ear, looming over him.
"Just... do whatever you want to me," Harry exhales, shuddering impatiently.
Ben tuts disapprovingly. "I'm going to need more specific consent than that, doll." His lips wander from his ear down the column of his neck, and then further down.
Harry hisses, unable to get his thoughts together. "Nnn... consent," he mutters, grinning and hoping the other will accept enthusiasm over precision.
Ben starts to shake with laughter above him.
And now his whole body is tingling again. It's impossible to recall last night without recalling the entirety of it, because it was all equally delightful. And scary. Harry doesn't do things like that. He doesn't discuss philosophy with people he sleeps with. He also doesn't talk about the details of his experiences; everyone was either there, or he has no desire to share. Maybe except for Diane, but that's different. That's practically an obligation, one of the tasks to complete once a week. Otherwise, he just buries and buries, and then buries even deeper.
But here is Ben. A guy so detached from everything Harry knows, they might as well be from different planets. A guy who wonders about moral dilemmas, about ethical consumption, about boundaries of consent. A guy who refuses to punch someone in the face because he'd rather believe that karma will get them instead. A guy who, Harry feels, thinks he already knows it all and goes through life like nothing can break him. A guy who knows only in theory that life is brutal and who's never had to choose—kill or be killed. Lucky, maybe, or just doing the best he can with the hand he's been dealt.
It could be a front, possibly. Harry hardly knows anything about him. He kind of can't believe Ben hasn't run away screaming yet—Harry's own circumstances sound more than a little suspicious. They both come into it blind. But he has... the kindest eyes Harry's ever seen. For a moment he has a mad urge to poke him only to see them again.
But he lets him sleep. They did spend the whole night talking. And fucking. And talking. What a way to become acquainted, because frankly, the theatre was just a prelude—they barely had any privacy; it was just enough to spark the interest—and during the previous times, they had both been awkward messes. But now... now they went to a coffee shop and spent most of the time grinning at each other and bickering over pastries. Then Ben gentlemanly offered to give him a ride home, and Harry so desperately didn't want to lose his company, he invited him in, feeling obliged to assure him that he didn't have any untoward plans, before blushing furiously. Ben must not have been overly concerned with his virtue—or secretly hoped to be jumped after all—because he quickly agreed. As a newly minted recovering alcoholic, sober for the whole two days, Harry didn't offer him a drink, especially remembering that Ben didn't drink either—finally something they could do together! But he didn't overshare about AA either, because at that point, he wasn't so sure about Ben and about how compassionate he would turn out to be and how he would set every inch of his skin aflame. He was going to find out soon enough, though, because after a few minutes of bumbling about in the kitchen under the guise of making tea, Ben hung his suit jacket on the barstool, which left him only in a white shirt, and bumped into Harry when he was turning. Harry looked up and up at him and figured that one kiss in the parking lot had been quite lovely but completely insufficient. He wasn't even sure who moved first; he was suddenly rising on his toes to reach, and Ben was leaning in and framing his face, and then Harry was being lifted up and put on the countertop, trapping the lean, solid body pressed to him with his thighs and tearing at his shirt. Then they were running upstairs, and after everything, when they were a sweaty, tangled, and panting mess, Ben had the audacity to tell him he doesn't normally do this. After making him see the stars. Outrageous.
He's so into him, it's not even funny anymore.
Only, now what? The guy isn't interested in a casual thing; he's been pretty clear about that. Harry... isn't exactly opposed to the relationship, or is it just dating at this point? To be honest, with Ben it's either treat him seriously or cast him aside, and the latter is out of the question. For a guy like him, Harry would be willing to try; he's just never bothered before. He knows he will probably fuck it up sooner or later, and he already feels bad about it. But he wants to grow as a person. He wants to find more things that make him want to get up in the morning—that's a matter of self-preservation. And he wants to spend more time with Ben. He wants to know everything there is to know about Ben, down to the tiniest details. He wants someone to know him and not use the knowledge to fuck him over.
And that's the heart of the issue. He hates lying. Is it even possible to build something real and lasting on lies? It doesn't seem fair to either of them. On the other hand, some things are not meant to be shared. If Harry's cover story that he's working on something strictly confidential was true, he wouldn't tell whoever he was dating either. Or if Ben was a wizard, he still wouldn't be sharing details about his job with him. Probably. And that's all there is. Except for his friends, who would have to lie as well. And his whole education and personal history, and the way he thinks, and the government he answers to, and... fucking everything. He's made of magic; there's no escaping it.
He's driving himself up the wall for no reason. They're not getting fucking married. He can just see how it goes. And if it goes badly, then he will deal. He built a nice life for himself here, so it'd be a shame, but he's perfectly capable of just disappearing. There are also more drastic methods that he'd rather not consider.
He almost falls back asleep during his musings and only stirs when he feels Ben's fingers running through his hair. Merlin, he doesn't want to open his eyes, but he still forces himself to look up at him from under his lashes. "Hi," he whispers.
"Hi," Ben whispers back and leans in slightly. In his still drowsy panic, Harry performs a magical feat by wandlessly guiding his magic into a gentle Mouth-Cleaning Spell, and he isn't sure if he's more dazzled by being kissed so suddenly or by the fact that it worked.
Necessity has always been the answer to wandless magic.
Ben shifts, frowning slightly. "When did you brush your teeth?"
It would be really helpful if he wasn't so fucking perceptive. "Ehm... in the middle of the night." It's not really the same as teeth brushing, but it's better than nothing. "I do that sometimes."
Ben grins. "You're so fucking weird," he murmurs, which is cute, because he doesn't really swear all that much. His fingers move down Harry's arm and stop at the edge of his tattoo. "I like this. I was going to tell you last night." Harry smiles. He adores it too; Val made it really gorgeous. "Why this?"
Apparently, Ben is driven by the same desire to know everything about Harry. "To never forget how vast the world is. And that it doesn't revolve around me."
Ben hums with curiosity. "Are you in danger of that?" he asks without a hint of judgement.
The clear acceptance on his face allows Harry to confess, "Sometimes."
Ben smiles, like it's just a common flaw in perception and an acknowledged one at that. Harry tries to draw him into another kiss, but his solid body feels unmovable.
"I should brush my teeth too before we go back to it," he says apologetically. Maybe he was just embarrassed, and that's why he noticed. Harry gives up and falls back on the bed. "Do you mind if I take a shower?"
Harry just closes his eyes and points silently towards the bathroom. He opens them when he feels Ben getting up because he doesn't want to miss the view. He feels a pang of regret when he disappears behind the door.
He doesn't let himself wallow in memories anymore—he's done enough of that—and jumps to his feet. He throws a robe on—a bathrobe, of the colour of grass, not a wizard robe—grabs his wand from the drawer, and hurries downstairs. He doesn't have time to put the coffee on before Kreacher appears silently at his feet.
Shit, privacy spell, quick.
"We're not talking about it, Master," Kreacher states while Harry merely manages to open his mouth. He closes them and blushes at the thought that they had a visitor last night.
"We're going to have to talk about it eventually, Kreacher," he disagrees. "Especially about privacy."
Kreacher gives him a sharp look. "Master means that he will be a permanent addition?"
Harry shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe."
Kreacher looks torn for a moment, visibly holding in a nasty comment. "Kreacher do not care for Master's affairs. Privacy is of no consideration for house elves."
Huh. Since when does Kreacher refrain from criticising him?
"Post," the elf announces haughtily before taking over making coffee.
Harry first opens the newspaper, and fuck, how come Ben made him forget about the case and this whole mess again? If he wasn't obviously a muggle, Harry would be starting to suspect that he keeps confunding him.
The headline is not surprising but still annoying. 'The Renegade Killer attacks! A series of homicides shakes the wizarding world and jeopardises the Statute of Secrecy.' Clearly Kingsley didn't manage to persuade them to skip the part about potential consequences. Luckily, they didn't have any photos related to the case itself, so the picture below the headline shows the Minister of Magic and the Head of DMLE discussing something and looking concerned. Harry just skims the text for his name for now, and there it is, in the third paragraph. Could be worse, but it's still his name, then nothing, and then Gabriel's, Alison's, and Lydia's names added at the bottom like an afterthought. The rest of the article is mostly made up of hysterical predictions of the upcoming fall of the Statute of Secrecy and calling for the international agencies to step in. Harry glances at the author. Selma Baxter, of course. He closes the Prophet with a huff.
He grabs the Magical Tribune next and nearly groans. The headline proudly claims, 'A cry for a revolution. The Renegade Killer lifts the curtain, and the view is not pretty.' A cry for a revolution, seriously? Let's pat the guy on the back next. Also, did they have to use this ridiculous nickname? Harry takes the time to read this one; it's focused on facts and on the madness that is the idea of frantically shutting things down with obliviates while failing to see the wider implications. It speaks at length about their lax attitude towards maintaining secrecy in the face of the changes in muggle society and a lack of preparation for future cases of their worlds intermingling. About the need for new procedures and more rigorous cooperation with muggle authorities. Finally, about their responsibility to protect everyone, muggles included, from the threats of magical origin, and about the dangers that prioritising the secrecy over lives poses to their humanity. All in all, it's good. Just the Cameron level of good journalism. Some food for thought for less lazy wizards for sure.
He's already more gloomy than he wished to be this morning, but he glances at the letter from Minerva. Huh, Adalbert Dallwitz replied and agreed to open a line of communication with Harry. He even provided his postal address. Harry makes a mental note to write the man again later and accepts another envelope from Kreacher.
"The results on the Muggle Competency Test, Master," he croaks, sounding only slightly contemptuous. "Congratulations, Master."
Harry checks the contents—he passed with sixty-nine percent—before frowning at Kreacher. It's pretty out of character for him to praise Harry for his muggle knowledge. "Are you okay, Kreacher? You've been distant lately."
Kreacher shuffles and glances around furtively. "Kreacher is fine. It is not Master's job to worry about Kreacher."
"Of course it is," Harry disagrees strongly. "You're family."
Kreacher tilts his head, looking thoughtful. "That means nothing. Kreacher is the Black Family Elf. It's Kreacher's job to take care of family, but it's not family's job to take care of Kreacher. And Kreacher is not obligated by magic to love family either," he adds uncertainly.
Harry has no clue where this one's come from. "Yeah. Good," Harry says faintly. Thank Merlin they're not. "No one is obligated to love their family." The Dursleys flash through his mind. "But it depends on your definition of family, I suppose. You can only call those you love family."
Kreacher narrows his eyes at him, and yeah, maybe it's a bit too much for a house elf. "Every Black is family. But Kreacher only ever loved Master Regulus. And now Master Harry, a bit. Even if Master is... unusual."
Now that's a euphemism if Harry's ever heard one. His heart still melts all over the floor. Did his emotionally unavailable elf just confess his love for him? "Aw. I love you too, Kreacher."
"So Master already said," Kreacher snaps, and Harry blinks. Did he? He can't remember.
Kreacher busies himself with coffee, and Harry wonders if he's embarrassed. He's about to tell him there's no need for that when he hears quiet steps. "Go, quickly!" he hisses, cursing Ben's timing for interrupting him and his elf having a moment, before wildly waving his wand to vanish the pile of newspapers and letters. He's so panicked that after they disappear, he's not sure where he's sent them. He hopes he can get them back and that he hasn't lost Dallwitz's address forever.
For lack of better hiding places, he shoves his wand into the microwave and turns swiftly just in time to see Ben at the bottom of the stairs. "I made coffee," he announces brightly, shamelessly taking credit for Kreacher's work.
Ben smiles, and for a moment, everything is alright in the world again. He accepts the coffee and offers to make breakfast, so Harry goes to get the mundane mail and narrates the main items from 'The Guardian' to him while he cooks—something about Bush's reign in the global section, then about the Hubble Telescope finding a new type of black hole, and about trouble on stock markets. Ben isn't very impressed with the contents of Harry's fridge, but he still manages to make a mean frittata. It's so domestic Harry's teeth almost hurt, but in a way that makes him want them to keep hurting forever.
"Listen, I wanted to apologise," Ben says suddenly, taking a sip of his coffee. "For last night," he clarifies.
Harry feels his eyes getting big. "You don't have to apologise for that," he exclaims with conviction. Harry should be thanking him. Well, he seemed to be having fun as well, so maybe they could thank each other. Or just don't bother.
Ben grins. "Not for that. But good to know," he adds and almost manages not to sound smug. "Sorry for grilling you. It was insensitive of me to ask so many questions. I just... when I don't understand something, I can't help myself."
Harry smiles—steady, steady—feeling like he's crossing a minefield. But Ben feels bad about his own nosiness. Harry already has an advantage. So he takes a risk. "You can ask. I don't mind. If there's something I can't tell you, I just won't answer."
Ben nods, playing with his food. "Okay. So you do work for the government, right?" He clearly tries to sound casual.
Harry gives him a coy smile. "Do you want to see my badge?" he offers in an overly flirtatious tone, because it's such an absurd pick-up line.
Ben barks a laugh, but underneath that... he does, Harry can tell. It's understandable. He meets a guy, goes on a date or two, then sleeps with him. Everything seems fine with the guy, except that he works for some mysterious agency, can't talk about his past, and is very conveniently wealthy. It already sounds like a movie preface without even adding magic to the mix. So Harry makes the whole spectacle of going upstairs and tosses his ID card on the table once he's back. Ben takes it slowly.
"It just says Home Office," he points out with mild interest. The funny part is that the Auror Office is in fact partnered with the Home Office, at least formally. The Home Secretary is one of the very few in the know. The card is only for muggle use anyway; aurors don't carry badges, only those little pins. "AO. What does it stand for?" Harry's close to making something up, but that would probably backfire, so he just tightens his lips. "What? The full name is confidential too?" Ben shakes his head. Harry's pretty sure that at this point he doesn't know if he's being duped or not, but he seems to be taking it in stride. "The way you look here, I want to just... feed you and wrap you in a blanket."
Harry appreciates an offhand way he says it. He knows what he means. The picture was taken over a year into peacetime, but he still didn't get back to a normal weight at that point. He gives it a closer look for the first time in a while. He looks painfully young.
"I would have probably appreciated it," he rasps, feeling unusually fragile, even though it's not necessarily true; the Harry from three years ago would have rather cursed someone than let himself be wrapped in a blanket.
Ben looks up and gives him a look that is so tender that Harry barely knows what to do with it, and then tosses the card back onto the table before leaning in to grasp the back of Harry's neck and bring him closer. He nuzzles his hairline, and Harry thinks, 'Oh. That's how it feels then.'
Ben doesn't ask why, which is good, because Harry probably shouldn't tell him that he spent a year on the run. From his perspective, the government was never taken over by bad guys. By the time he gets up to leave, Harry is pretty tired from the emotional rollercoaster his brain is treating him to, but he still jumps at the prospect of seeing each other again tomorrow—dinner, coffee, whatever Ben wants. He gets one last kiss that makes his toes curl and reluctantly lets Ben go, thinking that at least the lack of chemistry is not something he needs to worry about. It's the only simple part of this.
Right before Ben disappears down the stairs, he gives him a look that is both discerning and speculative, and Harry would give away a lot to know what he's thinking. For a very brief moment he wishes he'd ever mastered Legilimency. But it's probably nothing. Ben just wants to learn what makes him tick.
If he ever does, he will wish to never know. Harry closes the door and lets his forehead bang against it pitifully. Then he turns around and marches back to the kitchen to retrieve his wand from the microwave. Luckily, both seem to be undamaged. He will need to develop another strategy. Many different, alternative strategies. He's already tired thinking about it.
Day one.
September 30th, 2002
"Mr. Potter! Do you have any suspects already?" asks a thin guy, who Harry vaguely recognises.
"Harry, what do we know about the killer?" That's Selma Baxter, because of course it is.
"You can't be here," Harry mutters with exasperation, trying to get through the crowd.
"What is the ministry doing to keep the Statute of Secrecy safe?" Whoever the guy is, he looks way too old to still be shouting questions at people. "Anton Crockford, WWN." Good to know that at least the Wizarding Wireless Network is keeping things consistent by unfailingly being a bunch of narrow-minded twats.
"How many muggles have to die for you to start investigating the case instead of investigating the muggles who are investigating the case?" Looks like Cameron couldn't help but send a minion too; Lily's obstinate expression suggests she's not leaving without the answer. And she used to be such a quiet mouse at Hogwarts.
Well, she will have to get over it. "You're not allowed to be here," Harry repeats more strongly. He's almost at the employee entrance.
Selma Baxter pulls out a long scroll. "We're not, unless we are," she tells him with a nasty smile.
Harry rolls his eyes, tempted to strangle Kingsley. What's the point of having a policy in place for keeping the press out of the ministry if they're going to give special dispensations away like candy?
He finally smacks his wand to the detector next to the gate and leaves this whole havoc behind. The other ministry employees who are passing him are either giving him pitying glances, laughing, or gaping at him like they've never seen Harry Potter being harassed by the press before. The odds are that they have.
Bloody hacks caught him completely off guard. That's Ben's fault too—even with Saturday's morning newspapers, yesterday he managed to make Harry forget what a hell of a day is awaiting him once again. If that doesn't prove muggles have their own brand of magic, Harry isn't sure what does.
The Auror Headquarters feels like the exact opposite of the atrium—everyone is quiet and tense, and at first Harry can't comprehend why. Before he has a chance to ask, Lydia takes one glance at his face.
"What's crawled up your arse and died?" she asks callously.
"Reporters. Didn't they hound you in the atrium?"
She snorts. "I'm not Harry Potter. I just ran past them."
Harry's expression sours. Just great. "What's going on here?"
She tilts her head towards the Head Auror office. "Robards is talking to the minister. And Bowden. And Goldstein. And the minister's brother because of... reasons," she finishes with a shrug.
Harry hears a scoff and turns, but he's not sure if it was Higgs, Hooper, or Romsey making it. He wouldn't expect it from the latter, but he's been known to be wrong before.
"A squib," Graham explains calmly, sounding almost bored.
"And what's wrong with squibs?" asks Nicole Patel quite aggressively.
"Nothing," Terrence emphasises immediately. "But should they really be included in the decision-making process that only concerns wizards? On the national security level?"
"That's the point that it doesn't only concern wizards," Lydia snaps. "Frankly, we've barely been even mentioned, and we're panicking as if we were the ones that are getting killed."
"The Statute is something that we depend on for all of our survival," Higgs opposes stiffly. "It's hardly the same as a couple of people dying." He looks like he regrets it the moment he says it. He's kind of right. It's not a great thing to say for a pureblood and a former Slytherin.
"Sure, what are a few lives against the huge leap muggles are going to make from seeing a mask on the floor and a couple nonsensical words to concluding there's a secret magical society?" Lydia sneers. "Before burning us on a stake, of course."
"I think what Terry is trying to say—" Geoffrey starts impatiently.
"Terry's not even on this case," she interrupts to point out. "I love how those of you who never met a muggle in your lives are the first to discuss how acceptable it is to let them die."
"I've met plenty of muggles!" Geoffrey bristles. "My girlfriend goes to aerobic class!"
By now, Terrence just looks uncomfortable. Lydia rolls her eyes before giving Harry a sharp look. He reflexively raises his hands in a defensive gesture. "Why are you looking at me? It's not like I don't know muggles." He spent most of the last weekend fraternising with one.
"Go join the war council," she urges him slyly, tilting her head towards the closed door.
Harry's eyebrows rise. "Why would I do that?"
"You're the only one who is friends with the minister," Nicole backs Lydia up.
"What does that have to do with it?" Harry huffs. "You're mad. That would be completely inappropriate."
Before the others decide to join in and goad him to go into the office, the door opens. Bowden looks pissed as always, and Goldstein's expression is as stoic as ever. Harry's always felt a good dose of reluctant respect for the guy—for a wizard, he's level-headed beyond measure, and his take on leading the Department of International Magical Cooperation for the last four years has been superb. Kingsley just seems tired and very resigned, and his brother... his brother's face suggests he believes he's found himself in a circus. Which might not be far from the truth.
If they're waiting for some kind of announcement, it doesn't come. Robards goes straight to Gabriel to fill him in, and Kingsley pauses by the door, still trapped between two heads of departments. So Harry, very casually, followed by many eyes, approaches the last man.
"Mr. Frost," he says politely, stumbling slightly over the name. It's Diane's last name, and in theory Harry knows it belongs to this man as well, but he still kind of thinks of him as a Shacklebolt. He should cease to do that immediately. He can't help but imagine what it would be like to be somebody else, visiting the wizarding world only as an outsider, Harry Potter all but an alter ego that never came true. Just like Roderick Shacklebolt could exist, but doesn't. Of course, unlike him, Harry wouldn't have any family left to visit. He would probably just go on as a muggle. Maybe someday he would see the Leaky Cauldron and wonder what it's all about. Maybe someone else would fill in his shoes. That's a strange thought.
"Mr. Potter." The guy nods back, watching him warily, unaware of his existential crisis. "Good to see you all nice and cleaned up."
At first, Harry wonders if Diane betrays his confidence right and left, telling her husband about him, but then he remembers the only time he met this man before. It was the New Year's Eve party at Kingsley's last year, and Harry got drunk, because that's what he did back then. Did he do something absolutely terrible or mortifying? He doesn't think so. It was a cosy little gathering—apart from the minister's squib brother making an entrance, there was only the former Order of the Phoenix present, or rather whatever was left of it. Harry might have gotten maudlin drunk and alternated between bitching about the war and trying to hug Hermione to death. Classic Harry to those who know him, but to a foreigner, it might have been a disappointing first impression of the national hero.
"Thanks," he says dryly.
He wants to add something else, but Bowden pauses by them on his way out of the department. "We'll be expecting some results now, Mr. Consultant," he barks at Frost. Harry isn't sure who 'they' are. Just DMLE, or the Wizengamot? Its members do like to throw their weight around for a legislative and judicial body with no executive power.
Judging by the look Roderick gives him, Harry wouldn't bet on Bowden if it came to a fight, even despite him having magic. Frost could probably pull out a gun faster than Bowden could pull out a wand. If he carries one.
He looks like he carries one. "I don't answer to you," he drawls dismissively. Bowden huffs and leaves without another word. Roderick leans in towards Harry. "You don't buy into this crap, do you?"
Harry isn't sure what crap exactly he means, but he's disheartened enough to mutter, "Not really."
Frost pats him firmly on the back. "Good man." Then he raises his voice, "Truman. Denshaw. Travers. Potter," he adds with a glance towards Harry. "Pack your bags. We're going on a field trip."
If Robards or anyone else minds a squib bossing the Auror Department around, nobody says a word.
