October 19th, 2002

There's a song playing on a loop in his head. Harry thinks it might be Nirvana. It feels like Nirvana.

'I gazed a gazeless stare; we walked a million hills. I must have died alone a long, long time ago.'*

He's cleaning. He's delegated Kreacher to take care of Grimmauld Place after his and Draco's last foray into alchemy. They achieved surprisingly much considering the safety paranoia Draco has developed after reading Dallwitz's first letter. Turns out Adalbert Dallwitz has a lot of opinions, and most of them come down to the same conclusion Snape reached—that they're going to get themselves killed. The letter contained a whole list of don'ts and only two items on the 'to do' list. Apparently, there are lots of ways to kill oneself when attempting to animate matter, and Dallwitz has no faith in them, in their ability to cast magic, and most of all, in their willingness to use appropriate protective spells. Which they would—they're not complete idiots.

He laid out for them the maximum amount of energy that can be safely pumped into several specific substances before they reach the breaking point, in the form of a complex magical equation where one unit of magical energy equalled his average Lumos and was a bit ironically designated as 'flu' or 'fl.' According to Dallwitz, he had come up with it as an abbreviation from the Latin 'fiat lux,' which meant 'let there be light,' only for Nicolas Flamel to pocket the idea for himself and start telling people that it came from his last name. There's no way of asking Flamel about it now, and it's not a commonly used system anyway; most wizards never bother to learn about it. Harry can't wait to show it to Hermione.

So one flu equals one Lumos—seems easy enough. Only it's not, because Harry's average Lumos differs from Dallwitz's average Lumos, and on top of that, even Harry's Lumos isn't always the same. So they were introduced to the measuring spell that let them put their Lumos on the scale, with Dallwitz's Lumos as a fixed benchmark. The spell didn't look like a spell at all. There were no words, only numbers, formulas, and graphs; geometric schematics and vector spaces; and the probability model in case they wanted to tweak it for themselves. The math was wild, and Harry wondered if every spell really looked like that; if that was what stood behind what they later learnt as simple 'swish and flick' and 'Wingardium Leviosa.' He was especially at a loss at what they eventually figured out was an intention algorithm—with intention represented by small 'i'—but Draco had taken Arithmancy in school, and Harry had had some basics of dimensional analysis in his physics class, so together they managed to decipher it and charm a piece of parchment with it. That whole first evening was spent on trying to make it work and then trying to recreate Dallwitz's calculations in relation to other metals, because Draco was under no circumstances getting blown up. His words, not Harry's.

By the time they met for the second time, they had a basement full of parchment, very little material to work with, and another letter from Dallwitz. This one was less helpful; he had sent Harry the innards of another spell, looking even more complicated than the first one, and instructed him to read through it and think about Reparo in terms of probability. Harry wasn't even sure where to start making sense of it, but he's been thinking about Reparo a lot since then.

But not that day. That day he made some Phoenix stuff again, much to Draco's openly fanboying delight. He tried to use water, as Dallwitz recommended, but he still managed to vaporise a cleaning cloth for his glasses and somehow add it to the glowing mass. Bad news: his precision wasn't his most impressive trait—"You don't say, Potter," Draco scoffed—good news: he discovered another property, very similar to the one he was trying to recreate. Admittedly, he did that by turning the entire southwest wall of the lab permanently bluish, vaguely transparent—but only from one side; the other side of the same wall in the kitchen still looked the same—and, apparently, able to repel magic. Not the same as magic absorption, but close enough. Draco was writing every observation down like crazy, using Dallwitz's methodology. He took to it like a fish to water, as long as Harry didn't remind him that it was a clearly muggle approach to experimentation.

Harry was too busy worrying that apparently there was something in his little innocent microfibre cleaning cloth that was inherently magic-repellent.

The effects faded, both magic-repellency and semi-translucency, and all that was left was the blue shade that Kreacher is now trying to get rid of. But that's not why Harry is here, cleaning and humming what possibly is Nirvana. He's here because Zoe and Ben are coming to dinner. Which is not all that surprising by itself; Zoe pops by all the time, and Ben has been over a lot during the last three weeks he and Harry have been... dating? Having sex and doing other stuff together. So yeah, dating.

He's forgotten how fun it can be to just learn about someone for no other reason than to get to know them. Or maybe he never realised in the first place how powerful that kind of knowledge can feel. What Ben's comfort food is—spring rolls. Whether he's a morning person or not—he most certainly is. That his favourite season is summer, he loves spicy food, and he doesn't like roller coasters. That he's a Taurus and doesn't really give a shit how compatible it is with Leo according to horoscopes. That he liked history the most back at school and his history teacher from ninth grade was his first crush. That he still blames himself for what happened to Zoe, even though he knows he shouldn't. That it happened the night he finally decided to come out, and she got into a huge fight with their parents about it before storming off. That the only thing he picked up from therapy was writing a journal. That he's one hundred percent, gold star gay, and his parents are still not totally cool about it. That they met at The Who concert. That his all-time favourite book is 'Siddhartha' by Hermann Hesse. That he was going to travel to Australia after he graduated from college, but he ended up in Thailand and stayed there for over a year; that it's where he stopped eating meat and why he speaks conversational Thai. That his favourite sex position is missionary, but he's not exactly vanilla; he tends to pick up his partner's kinks. That his first boyfriend in college got killed in an accident riding a motorcycle. That it was the first time he was heartbroken, the second being only last year, when he discovered he was being cheated on by the guy he was with for four years. That he remembers names but not faces, his favourite colour is green, and he counts steps while walking. That he has slight OCD and his favourite movie is 'To Kill a Mockingbird.' That he sings in the shower and generally sings a lot. That he tried to learn sign language, but he's not very good at it. That life insurance commercials make him cry sometimes because they're full of lonely old people. That he thinks the world is going to end because humans destroy it.

Ben seems to be an open book, and Harry tries to pay him in kind, which sets him on his own way to self-discovery. Ben has questions, and Harry needs to find answers. It isn't that difficult to gloss over his childhood years and completely skip traumatic experiences; Ben's already vaguely aware of those, and after that first night, he hasn't been particularly nosy. But Harry has a favourite book now, ever since Andrew recommended he read 'A Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy' by Douglas Adams. He also has a favourite movie, ever since Ben made him watch 'Good Will Hunting.' He's learnt that he loves Asian food, especially the way Ben prepares it, and that he likes rough, messy, loud sex with just a little bit of holding him down and bossing him around, especially the way Ben does it. He's told him many secrets: that his favourite season is winter, that he's a night owl, and that he loves adrenaline. That he hates the idea of horoscopes too, and that his first crushes were his two schoolmates who were a couple at the time. That later the boy had died in front of him, and he had a short fling with the girl, which only messed him up further. That he's in therapy and isn't on his own; that he has his two best friends from school and many other acquaintances. That he had a girlfriend who was more like a sister, and that he didn't really let himself explore the other option—boys—until earlier this year. That he's never been abroad. That he never remembers names, his favourite colour is red, and he's been diagnosed with ADHD. That he goes to AA and is trying to stay sober. That he hit his three-week mark last Thursday and feels really good about it.

It's humbling, being open about this stuff. It's far from his default mode and takes constant effort. But it's also been truly gratifying. He loves how refreshing talking to Ben feels. He loves spending time with him, period.

'Who knows? Not me. I never lost control. You're face to face with the man who sold the world.'*

"Master?" Kreacher snaps him out of his reverie.

Harry pauses his wiping down the kitchen counter. "How's the wall?" he asks with amusement.

"Still blue," Kreacher grouches. "There's some post for Master. A note from Mistress Andromeda—"

"Is she bringing Teddy after all?" Harry cuts in, startled. He doesn't mind mixing Teddy with Ben and Zoe—he's a smart kid—but it requires additional planning.

"She is not," Kreacher informs him formally. "Little Master is having a sleepover with children from dance class. She wants to know if Master will be present tomorrow at dance class."

"Sure," Harry agrees easily. The first sleepover is quite a big deal. Isn't Teddy too young for that? But Andy has been getting along with the mother of the little girl Teddy befriended—Annabelle?—so they probably arranged it together.

"Another note from Mister George Weasley. Master is being invited to the Fruit Club."

Harry thinks he misheard at first. "The what?"

"The Fruit Club. The next meeting is on Thursday," Kreacher explains patiently.

"I've got AA on Thursday. Don't tell George that," he warns quickly. What the fuck is the Fruit Club? He's afraid his first thought that it has something to do with non-straight people might turn out to be correct. What is George up to now? Harry already has a gay brigade made out of Ash, Ollie, Andrew, and Jared. He doesn't need another one.

He needs to text Ollie back, though. He's been missed, apparently.

"Also, Master's uranium was delivered."

Harry blinks. "By owl?" he asks incredulously.

Kreacher nods seriously. "Kreacher put it in the cupboard under the sink. Here's the receipt."

Harry reflexively takes the piece of parchment from him but doesn't look at it. "Is it safe?" he checks warily.

Kreacher looks offended. "Kreacher would never put Master in harm's way. But if Master is scared, Kreacher can put it in a bubble."

Harry's first impulse is to bristle at the notion of him being scared, but he refrains and decides to be responsible. "That might be for the best. Thanks, Kreacher." He shakes his head that Draco, sneaky bastard, actually did it. Then he glances down; damn, this shit is pricey. He wonders if he should pay Malfoy back before concluding that it's definitely not going to ruin him of all people.

"When are the muggles coming?" Kreacher asks stiffly, lowering his voice theatrically.

"At four," Harry says distractedly. "I still need to mop the floor." He knows what's coming as soon as he says that.

"Kreacher should—"

"You already fixed up Grimmauld Place," Harry points out, interrupting him.

"Kreacher is perfectly capable of doing both," the elf grumbles.

"How about you just take the afternoon off, hm?" Harry suggests, tossing the receipt on the pile of takeout menus. He doesn't have a lot of time left, so after washing the floor, he goes upstairs to move all the papers concerning the case from his bedroom to Kreacher's room, which also serves as the training room, in case Ben stays over. He had a late night going through it all over again last night.

He took to Roderick's penchant for making crime boards and started to write down every observation. The main board is now displayed proudly in the corner of Auror Headquarters, allowing everyone to add their remarks. Harry stuck the photo of the whistle symbol with a written annotation, 'Whistleblowers?' to it on the second day. Their team was expanded with Graham Romsey and Geoffrey Hooper joining. The case got the priority it didn't have before, and they were being pushed very hard to produce some results. The interrogations have started, but Harry still has an unpleasant feeling that they're going completely blind and are uncomfortably close to arresting random people. The list of suspects has gone from nonexistent to very long, but each person is just as likely to be their culprit as the next. Cameron was questioned, officially because of the excessive amount of information he possessed simply due to being good at his job, while his girlfriend was looking on through the glass. Several purebloods with Death Eater connections. Draco, to his own bemusement. Tracey's boss, for some reason. All of these people were let go very quickly—most had alibis, but the aurors had nothing tangible even on those who didn't.

Roderick introducing them to new methods hasn't been particularly helpful at this point either. They went through every victim and every crime scene once more, but it's already been weeks, and the chances of discovering something they missed before—that muggles missed before too—were dwindling over time. It looks like the only thing they've been right about from the beginning is that there are hardly any leads. Which is fucking unbelievable.

Roderick despises the idea too. He's clearly a man of action and, despite his retirement, hates sitting on his hands. He's been making whole charts, looking for a link between the first family that was killed and the recently murdered couple—the guy from outside of the Leaky Cauldron is still John Doe—but found nothing. He's had whole lists of doctors, healers, muggle-haters, muggles in the know, and magicals potentially having a bone to pick with the wizarding world. He reached out to his old contacts in the US and beyond—CIA, ASIS, MI5, BND, DGSE, CIRO—knowing exactly who's in the know and who isn't, looking for the Whistleblowers as a potential security threat if the killer acts on their behalf. He's still waiting to hear back from any of them.

It's all quite discouraging. But at least Roderick doesn't let them sit idly, waiting for the case to solve itself, or worse, feel tempted to get involved in the media circus. His field trips are becoming legendary and are suspected to be caused by his distaste for hanging out in the Auror Headquarters. People, at least those who are regularly exposed to him, have even stopped caring that he's a squib. Regardless of Roddy's magical prowess or lack thereof, there seems to be a general agreement that he's a badass.

And here's a doorbell. Just in time. Harry runs down the stairs, and the first one to greet him is Ziggy. Zoe and Ben let themselves in while Harry is being thoroughly slobbered over. He doesn't complain; he loves this dog something fierce, so he just slumps to the floor and enjoys the attention.

Zoe goes straight to the kitchen to put the groceries on the counter, because even if the dinner is at Harry's, Ben is still cooking. Who would want to eat anything Harry makes when there's Ben around?

"What's this?" he asks Ben, getting up off the floor to kiss him briefly on the lips under Zoe's scrutiny and still attempting to fend off another attack from Ziggy.

"Nobody's going to tell me now that I'm not the best matchmaker in the world," Zoe says smugly, trying to fit everything in the fridge.

"You mentioned your godson might be here," Ben explains sheepishly, putting the gift bag at his feet.

Harry smiles. "Well, he's not. Not today. Sorry." He shakes his head. "But you're so thoughtful. You put all of us to shame."

"Thoughtful, right," Zoe snorts. "He just loves Lego. He's only lying in wait to get his hooks into some innocent kid so he has an excuse."

"That's a very disturbing thing to say." Ben grimaces mildly.

Harry cracks a laugh. "He's gonna love it." He doesn't think Teddy has lots of Lego. Or any. Then he adds, on second thought, "Admit it, you just want me to step on it."

"I would never," Ben deadpans, which means he totally would.

"So, what are we making?" Harry joins Zoe in the kitchen, deciding to at least pretend they're not going to be useless and let Ben do all the work.

"I'm thinking spinach lasagna." He tilts his head thoughtfully.

"Okay, what do you need?" Harry asks, opening the spices drawer. He has lots. "Basil? Thyme? Parsley? Nutmeg? Garlic powder?"

"All of the above, except for the last one."

"Ben's a vampire," Zoe translates, and it takes Harry a moment to grasp that she doesn't mean that literally. Which is a relief. Not that he has anything against vampires.

Well, to be fair, Ben is quite bitey.

"What kind of health nut are you?" Harry jokes. "Isn't garlic a natural antibiotic?"

"It is. That's why when he was sick once, he ate like eight bulbs of it and hasn't been able to look at the stuff ever since. It's also an obvious proof that a common cold can easily escalate into a severe case of vampirism."

Harry barks a laugh, making a mental note to never feed Ben garlic. He busies himself with preparing the pasta sheets, quietly observing the siblings. Ben starts to work on the sauce, so Zoe grabs a shallot to chop. He seems to anticipate the exact moment her hand jerks and swiftly pulls the knife out of her hand. He takes over without a word, and Zoe narrows her eyes at him at first, but then clearly gives up and moves on to stir the sauce. There's something absolutely endearing about this scene. Harry's always been fascinated by siblings, starting with the Weasleys, probably due to not having any himself. That level of silent communication and mutual understanding when needed is impossible to forge. Friends can get there, but it's not the same.

"We passed upon the stairs; we spoke of was and when. Although I wasn't there, he said he was my friend, which came as a surprise—"*

He doesn't realise he's humming until Zoe groans, "Please, Harry, have mercy and don't sing."

Ben pretends he's not laughing. Harry turns a bit pink and obediently shuts up. "Is this Nirvana?" he asks absently, still haunted by the song.

The knife clanks against the counter, and Ben gives him a look that is filled with so much betrayal, Harry immediately feels guilty, even though he has no idea what he's done to deserve it. "What?" he asks helplessly.

"Uh-oh," Zoe mutters under her breath.

"That is David Bowie's song. Nirvana's version is a cover," Ben informs him in a tone that suggests he's trying to stay calm.

"Okay?" Harry doesn't see the big deal. "It's a good song. I've only heard the one about heroes before. I don't like that one."

Ben looks inappropriately devastated. "What do you mean you don't like it?"

Zoe shakes her head. "And it was going so well," she sighs.

Ben's lips twitch. "This might be a dealbreaker for me," he announces gravely.

"Wait, no!" Harry protests desperately, but he would probably be more convincing if he were able to keep his face straight. "I don't like songs about heroes," he explains vaguely with a shrug.

"You don't like..." Ben starts to echo before breaking off in the middle of the sentence, baffled.

Zoe bursts into laughter. "Oh my God, that's even weirder than this weirdo," she says, pointing to her brother with her thumb.

Harry tries to bring some order back. "So, you like Bowie?" he asks casually.

"His dog is named Ziggy!" Zoe cries out, clearly losing her patience. Ziggy barks in confirmation.

Harry blinks. "I don't get it," he admits lamely. Merlin, what has he even started?

"That's it," Ben says before throwing the spoon back into the pan and walking off towards the computer. "We're doing Bowie education 101."

Zoe eyes the sauce mournfully. "So I'm guessing we're not eating?"

Before Harry has a chance to answer, Ben comes back to wrap his arms around his middle and press his lips against the back of his head. "You coming, doll?" he whispers. Clearly his lack of appreciation for Bowie isn't such a dealbreaker after all.

And Harry must be already wired that way, because his back arches reflexively, his whole body shudders, and his mouth says without thinking, "Mm, yes, sir."

"Oh, hell, no," Zoe objects strongly, covering her ears and turning back towards the stove. "I don't want to hear it."

Harry reddens but takes the opportunity to spin in Ben's arms, grab his face, and kiss him very thoroughly. Later, when he's being led through the entire discography of David Bowie, trapped underneath panting Ziggy, and the lasagne is baking in the oven, he's really glad that he found these people. More of his own people. For the longest time he felt that he only ever had Ron and Hermione. And he did, but they also had each other, and it was terrifyingly easy to take the backseat after the war to give them space to fully explore it. He still loves them to pieces, there's no doubt about that, but suddenly he's very aware that he loves Zoe and Ben too—in a reasonable 'I love all of my friends' way when it comes to the latter, because thinking otherwise at this point would be madness.

Quietly petting the dog and watching Ben sing 'Changes' without a care in the world, he falls in love a little bit.

With David Bowie, of course.

October 23rd, 2002

Another day at work is coming to an end with Harry and Lydia staring absently at the board and trying to come up with something when Roderick suddenly shows up at the headquarters. Which rarely happens. He barely nods his head in their direction before disappearing into Robards' office.

"What now?" Harry groans quietly.

Lydia gives him a knowing look. "I know you want to get out of here and check your phone," she whispers smugly.

Harry rolls his eyes. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to explain that I need to keep it turned off during work hours?" he whispers back.

She just shakes her head. "I can't believe you're dating a muggle."

Harry hushes her sharply. It's not necessarily a secret, just like his sexual orientation isn't a secret, but there's still no reason to announce it to the whole department. Both of those pieces of information are one wrong pair of ears away from ending up on the front page of the Prophet. For Harry it's more like, if someone finds out, fine, he'll deal. But if someone asks, he will tell them it's none of their business.

"Nobody's heard," she hisses, raising her hands defensively. Unlike the others, when she asked, he just told her. Actually, she's the only person who knows about Ben apart from Draco and Percy, bemusedly. Now that he thinks about it, Lydia might be becoming another one of his people.

Soon Williamson and Truman are called into the office as well, and Harry and Lydia are not surprised in the slightest when their time comes. They're followed by Alison, Graham, and Geoffrey.

"We're having a play date with The Met tomorrow at six," Roderick informs them, immediately taking the reins. "We haven't compared notes in a while."

"There hasn't been a murder in a while," Alison mutters.

"Do we have to? I got hurt during training today," Geoffrey reports hopefully.

"Are you expecting to be fighting muggle police?" Lydia scoffs.

Roderick gives him a quick once-over, looking for signs of injury. "Walk it off, soldier," he concludes, which is quite harsh, as Geoffrey took a too strong Everte Statum and fractured his pelvis. Mordecai put him back together nicely, even though he kept muttering about St Mungo's. Harry might not like him, but he has every right to be sore.

He decides to express an objection as well, "Why outside of work hours?" he asks politely but firmly.

"I didn't know we were allowed to have private lives now," Gabriel remarks sarcastically.

"What very important plans do you have, Potter, so I can shoot them down?" Roderick asks with fake curiosity.

He might be a badass, but Harry isn't about to be intimidated. "I don't think I'm obligated to inform the entire team about it," he says evenly.

Even if Roderick gets the hint, Robards doesn't. "That's all, everybody," he announces, keeping up appearances of being in charge, and then gives Harry an expectant look once the others leave.

Roderick doesn't, so Harry addresses him instead of Robards just to be petty. He's been the one who asked, after all. "I've got an AA meeting at seven thirty, and I'm not missing it to play with muggles, which we can do at literally any other time."

Roderick looks taken aback at first, but his eyes quickly flash with something resembling approval, and he nods sharply. "Fine. How's that going?" he adds considerately.

Harry smiles. "Four weeks tomorrow, sir." It might not seem like much, but he's fucking proud of himself, and it shows.

Roderick's expression softens even more. "Good for you, kid. Keep it up." Harry's most definitely going to. "We'll reschedule," he informs Robards. "I'll check if Friday afternoon works." Harry thinks it would probably be too much if he mentions that he has therapy.

"Four weeks of what?" Robards asks, baffled. "I'm not rescheduling because of Potter. Commander Carlton already agreed to Thursday. We need to decide on a strategy. There's no time to lose." Harry wants to point out sourly that they've been doing fuck all for the last who knows how many weeks, and without Roderick they would still be doing fuck all, and now suddenly they're in a hurry? "What's an AA?"

"I need Potter present," Roderick protests immediately, completely ignoring his last question. "He's one of the few sensible ones." Harry tries not to feel overly flattered.

He's been quite pissed off at the way the Auror Department is approaching this case, and by now he doesn't give a lot of shits about what Robards thinks about him. What is he going to do? Fire him? He would like to see him try to explain that to the minister. Not to mention the public. "Alcoholics Anonymous," he explains coolly, putting clear emphasis on the second word.

That's the moment he realises that he might not be ready to come out, but he thinks he's ready to come out as no longer perfect. Robards can go to the Prophet with it if he wants to. Maybe then he'd at least serve as a warning that battles won don't make people better or stronger; they mess them up just like any other bloodshed does. Maybe it would result in some increased awareness. At the end of the day, he has very little to hide, at least when it comes to things the press might care about—his personal life, his mental state, his political leanings. He's been through way too much shit to bother.

Roderick must have explained the idea to Robards while Harry's been spaced out, because when he reorients, the latter looks disconcerted. "I'm not sure if that's—"

Whatever he's going to say, Harry doesn't let him and spells out explicitly, "I just decided to inform you as a polite consideration, because you're my immediate supervisor, but it's not open for a debate."

Robards clearly disagrees, because he mutters, looking like he's swallowed a lemon, "As if we didn't have enough on our plates."

Harry raises his eyebrows with fake interest. "So I should just get over two decades of trauma because it's inconvenient for you?" Robards opens his mouth, but Harry isn't finished. When he glances at Roderick, he looks like he's having a time of his life. "Actually, it wouldn't hurt to tell those kids out there that if they need to talk to someone or take a break to put things into perspective, then there's nothing wrong with it. This is triggering stuff we work here on. Tell them that if Harry Potter isn't immune to it, they don't have to be either. They'll be much better off if they take care of themselves instead of playing heroes. Trust me, I would know."

Something akin to panic flashes through Robards' eyes, and Harry realises that he's never really alluded to his role in the war. He doesn't talk about the war, period. He hasn't since the trials. People know that he killed the Dark Lord, obviously; back then, they might have even been vaguely aware of how much he had to sacrifice in order to do that, but maybe they forgot. Maybe at some point it lost its meaning, and now he's little more than a famous face. If that's the case, then for the right cause, Harry doesn't mind reminding them.

Robards clears his throat forcefully. "Friday, then?" he mutters, moving towards his desk, and Harry knows he will never mention it to anybody.

He smiles tightly. "Yes, sir," he drawls before turning around. He catches Roderick's eye on his way out. He's giving him a piercing, narrowed stare, and Harry wonders if he's just been polite before, while underneath he didn't think of him very highly. Until today, that is.

He feels like ranting, and even though he knows that Lydia would probably be up for it, he knows who is always happy to let him rant and most of the time even rants along with him. His work is done here, so he sends a Patronus message and shuffles towards the elevator. He rolls his eyes when Ron's terrier informs him that Hermione's just joined him in the Leaky Cauldron. It will feel strange to be there after what happened right outside the door.

He Floos straight to the pub from the atrium and sees a happy couple sitting in the corner along with George. They all start to wave.

"Okay, piss off," Ron tells his brother crudely.

George puts his hand on his heart. "That's your boss you're talking to." Then he suddenly brightens. "Harry! Did you get my invitation?"

"I would ask what it's all about, but I would rather not know," Harry says curtly. "I've got a thing on Thursday. I'll come to the next one... whatever it is. Can you guys hang on for another minute?" he asks Ron and Hermione before running out the door without waiting for their answer. George's dramatic cry, "You're breaking our hearts!" dies away when it shuts behind him.

He casually walks towards the street corner, careful to avoid the car that is passing dangerously close to the puddle and trying not to think about the time when a dead body was found not far from where he's standing, and turns on his phone. He's never actually tried using electronics in the Leaky Cauldron before, but the ministry is hazardous, same as further into Diagon Alley, so he'd rather not risk it dying on him. Especially since he most likely has a text from Ben to respond to, and he's been a very dutiful boyfriend so far, trying not to disappear without a word unless he has no other choice. His entire existence is suspicious enough as it is. He quickly texts him back that he's meeting friends, yada yada, that he'll see him on Saturday, and to try not to pine too much. He's about to power his phone off when he gets a reply, 'Already withering,' and feels a huge smile forcing its way onto his face, able to picture his sarcasm perfectly and at the same time aware that it's not as sarcastic as he'd like to pretend.

George is gone when he gets back to the table. Ron is stuffing his face. Harry still feels like he's walking on air. "Sorry. I had to text someone back."

Hermione's eyes immediately narrow, but it's Ron who reacts more dramatically. Only, his mouth is full, so he starts to gesticulate wildly, unable to verbalise. Hermione gives him a pitying look. "What are you trying to say, Ronald?" Then she adds, way more softly, "A special someone?"

Ron finally swallows. "Harry's dating a muggle," he whispers theatrically.

"I didn't say a word about dating anybody, let alone a muggle," Harry points out just to be contrary.

"You didn't have to. You jumped to the muggle side, and you came back with that face. Look at it," Ron exclaims, reaching out to clumsily pat Harry's cheek. "Is it a girl muggle or a boy muggle?"

"What's the matter with you?" Harry laughs helplessly, dodging his hand.

Hermione rolls her eyes. "George gave him something. A new invention, apparently. He called it a chill pill." She doesn't look happy about it.

"Can I get another one of these?" Ron asks loudly, indicating his now empty plate. Hannah waves to him absently from behind the bar.

"Are you high, mate?" Harry asks, half horrified and half amused.

"I'm hungry," he announces apropos of nothing, which pretty much answers Harry's question.

Hannah approaches them with another bowl of goulash for Ron and three butterbeers. Harry eyes them apprehensively before reaching for one. It barely has any alcohol at all, right? He takes a sip and frowns.

"Not good?" Hermione asks, mystified.

Harry takes out his wand and casts a quick privacy charm. "I haven't been drinking," he admits quietly.

Her eyes widen. "Oh, Harry, that's amazing," she says wholeheartedly. "You have no idea how long I've been waiting to hear that."

Harry knits his brows, puzzled. He thought he managed to hide it fairly well. "You never said."

"I did," she tells him carefully. "You might not remember."

"Right." Harry rubs his face with his hand.

"That's great," Ron concludes in a rather underwhelming way after taking three huge bites of his second helping. "Now, tell us about them. Mione, did you see that smile?"

"I did, as a matter of fact," Hermione admits, giving Harry a sly look. "Only, he came here to rant, not to gush."

"Who cares about ranting? Yes, you two are shit out of luck. I, on the other hand, don't work for the ministry, so my life is beautiful. Rant over," Ron babbles. "Let's move on. I need some romance. What do you say?" He wiggles his eyebrows at Hermione in a suggestive way that Harry finds utterly unattractive.

Hermione leans her head on his shoulder and closes her eyes, clearly deciding to suffer through it. "Oh, you wish, Ronald."

Shit, Harry's been so right to come meet the two of them. "Is he going to stay that way?" he asks with a giggle.

"George said it should only be thirty minutes or so. Go on, rant."

"I can't bitch about work now!" Harry finally cracks, almost falling down from laughter. "Ron needs some romance."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Okay, I'll start, then. Bowden is so eager to close this case, he's having us prepare an indictment act even without anyone to charge."

Harry chokes on his butterbeer. "Does he live in an alternate reality?"

Hermione sighs. "You've got nothing, huh?"

"We've got nothing," Harry admits and promptly starts ranting.

He rants. And rants.

"...and did you know that we don't even have a proper method of communication? It's been driving Roderick mad to not be able to just text people, because most aurors don't really carry their phones around if they even have one, and there's no alternative. There's an alarm in the department that goes off when something happens, but when we're out? It's every man on their own; send a Patronus, send an owl, send a fucking smoke signal, whatever floats your boat. One would think that it wouldn't be so fucking difficult to create a system to communicate through those little pins we're wearing. I mean, come on, you managed to do that back in fifth year..."

Ron lets out a loud snore. "Mate, are there any spirits around you haven't crushed yet? Seriously, you just forcibly sobered me up with your woes."

"You sobered up on your own," Hermione scoffs impatiently. "These are very important points Harry makes—"

"I stand by my question. Girl muggle or boy muggle?"

Hermione hides her face in her hands. "That's so offensive," she mutters.

"Is it?" Ron frowns, looking confused.

"Boy muggle," Harry jumps in.

"Harry!' Hermione hisses, scandalised, while Ron, for some reason, makes a fist pump and says, "Yes!"

"What? Having a muggle boyfriend allows me to be as offensive as I want." Harry shrugs. "It's like with using the word 'fag'. I can call myself a fag, but you can't call me a fag."

"I could," Ron volunteers. "With love, of course," he adds on second thought.

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Harry, you're bi."

"His name is Ben," Harry offers before they have a chance to keep bickering. "He's a lawyer," he adds, tired of juggling only with the words 'boy' and 'muggle.' Hermione looks up with interest.

"Is he like a boy, muggle version of Hermione?" Ron clearly doesn't share his sentiment. Harry opens his mouth to protest vehemently, but Ron doesn't let him. "Bossy? Know-it-all?"

That actually stops him short because, well... he throws his hands up. "Don't put this shit in my head. No, he's not boy-Hermione."

"Shame," Ron mutters. "But hey! Your first boyfriend!" He whines, wounded, when his fiancée slaps him on the shoulder. "What? You said non-heteronormativity is supposed to be celebrated."

That actually explains a lot. Harry shoots Hermione a dirty look, even though he's impressed with Ron for pronouncing it correctly. She straightens primly. "Well, it is," she says before leaning on the table and wriggling her nose curiously. "So, how did you meet him?"

"Yeah, don't keep us in suspense," Ron backs her up.

Harry sends him a calculating stare. "I'll tell you everything, but first I need to break your fiancée." Before they have the time to register what he said, he reaches into his bag and takes out a binder with his and Draco's notes.

She starts to read it carefully; Harry can't get over how quickly her eyes are moving over the first page. Her mouth slowly opens when she's about halfway through. "Harry, what is this?"

"This is a magic-measuring and evaluating system developed by doctor Adalbert Dallwitz. Along with his basic concepts, framework, and methodology."

Hermione's eyes are burning so brightly, Harry's surprised she's able to sit still. Ron groans. "Harry, how could you? I was hoping to actually spend some time with her tonight, but I can never compete with research."

"That's not true," Hermione mutters gently but rather absently. Ron points at her with his thumb, like she's just proved him right. "Somebody's done it?" she whispers to herself.

"Yup," Harry says smugly and leans back, having his work done. "Goodbye, fumbling in the dark. Hello, scientific approach."

He doesn't think she registers a lot of what he later says about Ben, but at least Ron looks a bit appeased once Harry starts to talk.

Soundtrack:

Nirvana – 'The Man Who Sold The World'

Also, David Bowie's version

David Bowie – 'Changes'