September 7th, 2002
Harry runs. He doesn't even consider apparition—it's just a few streets away. When he gets through Chinatown and to Shaftesbury Avenue, he stops and rests his hands on his knees, panting slightly and thinking furiously. He casts a notice-me-not charm because it's very crowded here, and then, right in the middle of the street, his Patronus.
"Go to Percy," he instructs Prongs. "Tell him I got called in to work, and to tell Ben..." Fuck, what should he tell Ben? "Tell him to think of something. But yeah, work. Very urgent." It's not the most coherent one as far as messages go.
It's useless. Ben is smart—he knows that Harry didn't get a call or anything of the sort. As far as Ben is concerned, nothing visibly happened, and then Harry just fled. Probably because he didn't like being kissed by him while crying. Which couldn't be further from the truth.
He will need to think of some cover story. That sounds like a future Harry's problem.
He keeps running, only now registering the implications. The Leaky Cauldron? The same killer? Different killer? Ben's face gradually fades from his mind, much to his despair. Has he been wrong after all?
The crime scene is not hard to find even if one can't see the wizarding pub. The cops are already all over it, and it takes Harry a moment to locate Lydia, who stands out of the way along with a visibly fretting Gabriel.
"Hey. Did you run here?" Lydia frowns, seeing Harry slightly out of breath.
"I was at Leicester Square," he explains distractedly. "What—"
"This is so bad," Gabriel sighs, seemingly not registering Harry's words. His eyes move furtively between the muggle police and the hidden pub. Finally, he gets a grip. "Travers, go inside and talk to the staff. The spells should hold, even if they're all staring straight at you when you get through. Potter, go take a look at the scene, come back, and tell me what you think. We're still waiting for Denshaw."
Having a task, Harry doesn't wait for the rest and heads towards the alley behind the pub, where the concentration of muggles is the biggest. He nods at Commander Carlton when he recognises him and flashes his badge to get through.
The man looks old, over sixty, and very pale. Harry narrows his eyes. Pale, like drained-up pale, but there's no blood around him on the concrete. The corpse seems to be intact and even clean. Still dressed. Harry glances at the message on the wall—'I've got your attention now,' seemingly in blood just like the last time. The weird symbol below is also accounted for, but... Harry scans the ground and the walls just to be sure. No, no souvenirs like the Death Eater mask, unless muggles already took something, but he doubts it. The message and the symbol are enough, though—looks like the same guy.
"Whose attention are you trying to get?" Harry whispers absently. Wizards'? Muggles'?
Everyone's?
Harry crouches next to the body, brings his wand to the very edge of his sleeve, and grips it tightly. The tracking charm shows nothing while focused on the body. It also shows nothing while focused on the surroundings. The diagnostic charm confirms that all the blood from the body is certainly gone, but except for that, nothing seems to be wrong with it.
Let's say they're covering their magical tracks. There's a curse to remove intestines or internal organs, which would probably work for blood—even all the blood, if it was in effect long enough. Harry doesn't remember what it's called. Or... there's probably a muggle way to do it. But it couldn't have happened here; the body must have been brought here already in this state. On a Saturday night, in the very city centre—much easier for a wizard.
But is it proof that the culprit is magical? No, it isn't. A muggle could have still done this and coincidentally dropped the body next to the Leaky Cauldron. It's certainly not impossible.
"What are you doing?" he hears behind his back and straightens quickly, pushing his wand deeper into his sleeve. Sergeant Adams joins him, and they both spend a moment staring at the old man on the ground.
"We meet again, after all," Harry states the obvious.
"Yeah. That's too bad," she replies wryly, and Harry snorts. Yeah, he knows what she means. He's got nothing against her, but he would rather never see her either if seeing her means there's a dead body.
"Exsanguination," she says.
Harry frowns. "Huh?"
She rolls her eyes. "That's what draining of blood is called."
"Ah," Harry mutters, not acknowledging his ignorance in any other way.
"Same guy," she adds thoughtfully.
"Completely different method," Harry points out. She silently indicates the wall. "Could be a copycat," Harry suggests next, this time playing a devil's advocate more than anything else.
She gives him an unimpressed glare. "You're pissing me off," she informs him matter-of-factly.
Harry laughs. "You're not the only one."
She shakes her head bemusedly and crouches down much like he did earlier to give the body a closer look. She only takes a step back when a muggle with a camera comes over.
"Have you got any clues from this?" Harry asks innocently. "Any more links to the previous one?"
She tightens her lips. "We're still looking for an identity. He didn't have anything on him. No phone, no wallet. No matching missing persons report. So far we suspect that the killer has a vast understanding of human anatomy. Possibly a doctor, or at least someone in the medical field."
A doctor. Interesting. Harry makes a mental note to think it over later in regard to healers. "Need any help?" he asks, feeling kind of useless. It cheers him up a little when he sees that some of the muggles around don't seem to be doing anything in particular either, apart from pretending to be busy.
Sergeant Adams gives him a dirty look. "You know what would be helpful? If we weren't banned from investigating Finch-Fletchleys."
Harry blinks. "You were banned from...?" Yeah, that makes sense. Kingsley did say that keeping muggles away without obliviating them is easily done.
"As if you didn't know," she scoffs. "We were told by the higher-up to let this lead go. And don't pretend it didn't come from you people. You know how this looks?" she asks challengingly.
"I—" Harry starts, but she doesn't let him finish.
"I don't know what you're trying to hide and how it's supposed to help, and if you even want to solve this case, but I'll tell you what: when everyone tells you to drop something, that's usually a good indication that you should go after it even harder."
Yes, Harry knows, probably because he's the same. If he were in her shoes, that's exactly what he would assume. But he's not, and what he should be doing right now is reporting her as a potential threat to the statue. He doesn't want to do that. She's a good cop.
"Don't," he says simply, but there must be enough warning in his voice that she looks up.
"What?" she asks dismissively.
This could work, but it could also be a huge mistake. "Don't look into this," Harry clarifies firmly.
Something in his face must halt her further protests, because she just stares at him uncertainly. Finally she snorts weakly. "What? If I do, I'll die a horrible death?" she mocks, but there's doubt hiding behind her arrogant tone. She accepted the warning. Whether she will heed it or not, that's not up to him, so he says nothing.
She goes to make a report, so Harry circles back to Gabriel, who is speaking to Alison, looking much calmer now. He starts talking as soon as he enters the silencing charm's range. "The blood is drained. Could be a curse or done muggle way. Similar writing on the wall, the same symbol as a signature. The victim is unidentified. Nothing comes out of the tracking charms," he outlines quickly.
"Entrail-Expelling Curse," Alison fills in. "Or, like Potter said, no magic used at all."
Gabriel scowls as if he doesn't like that interpretation. "Take a sample from the body when nobody's watching," he instructs Denshaw. "Let's have Unspeakables take a look at it."
"Muggles think it might be a doctor of some kind, or at least someone in the medical field," Harry mentions, then adds after a moment of reflection, "I can't see any obvious links to magic except for it happening outside of the Leaky Cauldron, which might be purely circumstantial."
Gabriel nods absently. "Still, it's the same person, so we're treating it as a whole." He gives Harry a suspicious look. "Did you take the muggle competency test?"
"This morning," Harry reports dutifully. Gabriel nods, looking like he considers it as pointless as Harry does, and clearly wants to say something else, but that's when Lydia walks out of the pub, seemingly not wanting to bring attention to herself and looking all the more suspicious for it.
"Nothing, which was to be expected," she reveals, clearly not happy about it. "Nobody cares what's happening on the muggle side. Hannah doesn't even remember anyone walking in or out through the muggle entrance today." She growls under her breath. "How can there be no witnesses?"
"The muggles are already broadcasting and asking for anyone who saw anything to come forward," Alison says. Harry makes a mental note to watch TV tonight.
"Should we do the same?" Gabriel asks uncertainly. Even freshly being part of the senior rank, he's no seasoned auror, and right now he looks like he has no idea how to proceed.
Harry doesn't want to take responsibility for this one, but he still speaks up when no one else does. "If we do, it's going to have to be worded very carefully. Even us assisting the muggle police in their case. I don't know about you, but I don't want to make this public until we absolutely have to. There are people at the ministry already demanding putting secrecy first and obliviating the muggles. The society will eat us alive."
"Agreed. Mention it to Williamson and see what he says," Lydia advises Gabriel, who nods resignedly.
"I've also got some bad news," he adds, as if everything that is happening hasn't been enough, but before he has a chance to elaborate, there's Commander Carlton walking over to them. The silencing charm screeches and drops when he walks right through it.
"Detective Truman," he says in a tone suggesting that he thinks he's been degraded by having to deal with Gabriel instead of Robards. "A moment of your time?"
Gabriel excuses himself, so Harry, Lydia, and Alison entertain themselves by whispering ideas, or rather a lack thereof, to each other. Lydia speculates that the murderer might be using magical artefacts, and that's why there's no residue; some can slip from the tracking charms if they're neither still in use nor present anymore. Unfortunately, they don't know any that could cause the blood draining or parts of the body being ripped off, but people make all kinds of weird, illegal stuff in their basements.
Gabriel comes back along with Carlton, followed by three muggles.
"Should we go to the station?" The commander asks gruffly. "There are many onlookers here."
Truman clearly hates the idea. "It's late, and we still need to go back to our headquarters. Let's just do this."
Carlton doesn't seem impressed by the lack of ceremony but doesn't complain. Instead he clearly addresses only his people, "Now I know this is irregular, and it doesn't affect your proper partners, but for this case specifically, we're going to pair up with the detectives from AO. I've been told that we've got very different perspectives and specialities and should do well at complementing one another." He sounds like he doesn't believe a word he's saying. Those around him don't look much happier. "Now, to not waste precious time," he emphasises with a dirty look towards Gabriel. "Inspector Porter with Detective Travers, Inspector Donovan with Detective Denshaw, and Sergeant Adams with Detective Potter."
"Thank god," they can all hear Sergeant Adams whisper. She doesn't seem to care about having everybody's attention focused on her and rolls her eyes when Harry sends her an amused smile.
"Now, exchange contact information and at least make an attempt to work together," Commander Carlton orders harshly, then adds with an evil look towards the team of aurors, "We'll be at Scotland Yard first thing on Monday. You're welcome to join us." Harry tries to picture anyone joining them and can't. Which is probably just as well, as he doesn't believe the invitation is sincere.
"I expect you to do your utmost best to divide the work reasonably and keep your colleagues from The Met well-informed," Gabriel adds, probably just to say anything, as they are forbidden by law to keep their counterparts informed, which makes it utter bullshit.
Harry still decides to be the first one to reach out and walks over to his new partner. "I thought I pissed you off," he says casually.
She narrows her eyes. "You only piss me off. The rest of your colleagues kind of freak me out," she admits. Harry briefly wonders if the muggles have developed some sixth sense to avoid wizards as a part of their evolution. She gives him a hard stare. "Detective Potter."
"Sergeant Adams." He nods politely. "Just Harry is fine."
"Give me your phone, Just Harry," she orders. Harry sees in the corner of his eye Lydia approaching Inspector Porter. Good, they're going to play nicely. He's curious if the others are prepared enough to be in possession of a phone number to give away.
"You give me yours." He adds the string of digits to his contacts as she dictates and shoots her a quick text.
"I'll call you Monday evening and we'll see if there's anything for us to go over," she informs him and walks away before he has a chance to reply. He sighs. She's snippy, but she also wants to solve the case—and not only this case. She wants to solve the case of the mysterious unit that keeps injecting itself into her investigation. On one hand, he will need to be extremely careful, but on the other, at least she shouldn't purposefully avoid him if she doesn't want to sabotage herself.
Lydia joins him, looking subdued as well. "How did it go?" Harry asks conversationally.
"He's a nice guy," she says diplomatically. "What do you think? Whose bright idea was it?"
"Kingsley's," Harry says without thinking.
"Oh-ho," she mocks him. "First names basis with the minister." Harry gives her a dirty look. "But yeah, probably. His and whatever muggle that is high enough to be in the know and naive enough to think it will work. Do you think Shacklebolt knows that he's putting the Statue of Secrecy at risk?"
At this, Harry bristles. "He's not the one murdering muggles near wizarding locations and leaving magical stuff as clues." He might not be fully team Kingsley here, but he's literally caught between a rock and a hard place.
Gabriel pauses next to them. "We've got everything we need. Go home. We'll talk on Monday."
So Harry does walk home through the night, with his head full of dark thoughts. When he passes Leicester Square, he barely remembers what Ben's lips tasted like.
September 13th, 2002
"Are you ready to talk today?" Diane asks, collected as always.
And yes, he is; he has to be. By now, he feels like everything is seething inside him. He wants to get rid of it. Leave it in her office and never have to look at it again. So he tells her.
He tells her about the case, about another week spent staring at pictures of evidence. About how there are moments when it takes him right back to the war, especially when he has no idea how to move forward. It makes him feel like he's back in a tent with the fate of the whole world on his shoulders. That he's having nightmares again; he hasn't had them for a while. They're not like they used to be. They're more confusing and convoluted, and they leave him feeling both anxious and helpless. That he doubts himself all the time and feels like a complete failure for not being able to do more. That he feels he's letting people down again. That he has this scary impression that time is running out, even though he doesn't know what's going to happen at the end of the countdown. That he keeps looking around for someone to tell him what to do, but there's no one. That it happens more and more often for his brain to go too fast for him to be able to keep up with his thoughts, much less to put them in any order. That it's so tiring it makes him want to forcibly put himself to sleep. That drinking helps.
He tells her about the drinking too. That the last week was especially bad, because he was starting as soon as he got out of work—slowly, not to pass out, unless his brain was going too fast—and continuing until late at night, every day without a break. Then he took the sobering potion in the morning. It was the longest binge he went on since starting therapy. That he likes the feeling—the emptiness in his head, the sluggishness of his thoughts, that things that seemed grave before suddenly feel not important at all. In a self-sabotaging way, he even likes to see, without sugarcoating, how messed up he is. Sometimes he sits around, wasted, and thinks to himself, 'This is it. This is what being Harry Potter does to a human being.' That, on top of everything else, being drunk routinely leads him to making terrible decisions, because everything seems like a good idea.
So he tells her about the sex. About drunk sex, tipsy sex, and... no, he hasn't had any sober sex since Ginny. About casual sex—Ash, Jill, Lee—and even more casual sex—the bloke from the night before the event at Hogwarts and the bloke from last Tuesday. That sometimes it feels just the right amount of dirty, forbidden, hot as fuck, and sometimes he himself feels dirty and starts to wonder if it's another indication that something is wrong with him, or if he's punishing himself, or if there's some other psychological bullshit at play. That he liked being manhandled, but not that the guy thought he could manhandle him freely, and he doesn't know what it says about him. That it makes him feel like all responsibility is taken from his shoulders and at that particular moment his only purpose is to just be for somebody's enjoyment. That he'd like to explore it while sober, but he's scared, and there's something at the back of his head that tells him not to. That allowing himself to think about it leads straight to thinking about Ben.
So he tells her about Ben. That he's been avoiding him for the last week, because he doesn't believe there's even a point to it. Everything seems to corroborate against it—the guy doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, doesn't believe in magic, doesn't like motorcycles, and seems actually sane, which is everything Harry isn't, and it might sound silly, but right now all of these differences feel insurmountable. That there's something profoundly wrong about even the idea of having a one-night stand with the guy, Harry can't even bear the thought, which is bad in and of itself, isn't it? That coincidentally, the evening they spent together not long ago was the first in a very long time Harry felt truly happy, even with the whole crying in the theatre, at least until he got a harsh wake-up call.
So he tells her about the theatre. About how he'd never realised that he hardly felt anything these days—everything hidden from view, drowned in booze, buried—until he did feel something, even if he's not sure what it was and why it happened. It was just a silly musical; it wasn't even that good or that relatable. It was like in that very moment, some kind of dam inside of him broke. Maybe since it didn't involve him personally, it was easier for him to let himself feel, and apparently he was feeling a lot. If he was watching himself as a character on stage, he would probably cry too. But he's living it instead, and there's no time to cry.
By the time he's finished, Diane looks like she's aged a couple of years. "Well, this is certainly progress," she says mildly.
Harry rolls his eyes. "I know. I'm a shrink's wet dream," he mutters self-deprecatingly.
"That's what you believe, Harry," she points out gently. "I can guarantee that you're not isolated in any of the things you're going through. Now, let's start with the case and with the simplest part to solve. I'd like you to start taking medication for ADHD, now that you're off antidepressants." Harry scowls. He thought he was done with pills. "I'm going to start you on a very low dose of lisdexamfetamine, and we'll see how you will react to it. Taken once a day, it should improve your concentration, help focus attention, reduce impulsive behaviour, and help with, as you call it, your brain 'going too fast.' Please pay attention to what your body is telling you; it can cause decreased appetite, headaches, and drowsiness. I'm going to need you to tell me about every change."
Harry nods heavily, taking a piece of paper from her. "That'd be good," he admits. Not getting lost in his own train of thoughts sounds like heaven.
"Excessive drinking while taking this medication is not recommended," she adds plainly. Bull. "Now. I still get the impression that you jump between different habits to manage your restlessness. This concerns both the drinking and the casual sex. When it comes to the latter, there's nothing wrong with it per se, but it can impact people differently. I believe you are very starved for affection, Harry, and casual sex seems like an uncomplicated way to get it without exposing yourself too much emotionally. We might need to watch out if it doesn't turn into a form of escape from other areas in life or from the possibility of commitment. But in general, as long as there's mutual consent and it feels right to you and brings you a positive experience, it's all good. Same with kinks; as long as it's in a safe environment, it's healthy to explore them. Otherwise, it might lead to internalised shame, and there's no reason for it. That being said, mixing it with alcohol puts the consent issue into sort of a grey area. So yes, Harry, exploring while sober seems like a way to go."
Harry kind of can't believe that he even told her all that, and now he wants the ground to swallow him up. But it's too late; besides, who is he supposed to talk to if not his own fucking therapist?
"Now, when it comes to drinking," she continues in a graver tone. "That is a problem that can feel very isolating. Seeing how many people struggle with exactly the same thing you do and how many manage to overcome it can be crucial in finding your own inner strength. That's why I would like you to consider joining a group."
"Like... Alcoholics Anonymous?" he asks sceptically, and much to his shame, his first thought is, 'But I'm not an alcoholic.' Apparently now he's also a liar.
"You might not be exactly extroverted, but I know that you strive among people, Harry. I think that's part of the problem here: you don't talk to people about this because you don't think they'd understand, and that means you're alone with it. Unlike other areas of your life, you don't have anyone to inspire you, to cheer you on, and to notice when you slip up. And I think having a support system has always been a big part of the way you've dealt with problems."
"So I should get a new support system filled with strangers?" He puts as much doubt into this question as he can.
"Strangers who share your experiences, yes. You can exchange stories of what brought you where you are, and unlike those who haven't struggled with alcohol dependence, I bet that they will understand perfectly."
"I hardly can share my story with them," Harry protests weakly.
"You don't need to go into specifics," Diane assures him gently. "Trauma is not something that happens exclusively to wizards. I can guarantee that there are many muggles who suffer similar repercussions even though they weren't engaged in a magical war."
Harry sighs and surrenders. "Okay. I'll think about it," he promises, not willing to commit to anything yet.
"That's all I can ask," Diane says calmly. "The choice, after all, is all yours. Now, when you were getting things off your chest, you mentioned Ben several times."
Harry closes his eyes. He doesn't want to talk about Ben, especially since he knows what he will hear, and it turns out he's right. Diane suggests that it could be very good for him, that Ben symbolises change, something new and different, something that might be exactly what Harry needs to get out of his head prison consisting of the new case, old traumatic memories, and the same faces and outlooks surrounding him all the time. She knows he's been trying to push out of that cage on his own with varying success, but according to her, a healthy outlet would be an invaluable help. She asks him what he's scared of, and Harry isn't able to answer. He doesn't know. So she just points out that heartbreak is a part of life, and shutting himself away isn't the right answer.
She also asks him how his research is going, and he has to tell her that it isn't. She's not happy with him and says that this is another instance of him neglecting his own needs for the sake of duty to the point that it is harmful to him. For someone who isn't supposed to criticise him, she's doing a great job of it.
At least she's mostly amused at him getting all weepy in the theatre and confesses indulgently that she too cried at that play, so there's nothing exceptional about it at all, and since he's been repressing his emotions for so long, it was bound to happen. Well, at least one thing he's done right.
All in all, it must be the most successful therapy session he's ever participated in.
September 21st, 2002
He feels like he's going to start shaking any moment now. He doesn't know if he's restless just because, or because he needs a drink. He's not going to get one. He had two on Wednesday with Ash and the gang, which was two too many. But he wanted to go out, see someone who wasn't an auror, and stop thinking about the lack of leads. Have sex while arguably sober. And he did. Stopped after a second drink, met a girl, much to Ash's dismay—or rather a woman; she might have been twice his age—went with her to her hotel, and then apparated home like a civilised human being right after fucking her. He didn't even have to take a hangover potion in the morning. Very well-behaved. He almost managed to not think about Ben.
He didn't manage to not think about Ben last Saturday, when he was feeling just as restless as he is feeling today, and sent Lee Jordan a very casual Patronus message, 'What are you up to?', to which Lee's fox promptly responded, 'Is this a booty call? Because I'm definitely up to something.' So they spent the day in various states of nakedness, and Harry hoped Lee wouldn't mind if he knew how many times Harry pictured it was Ben fucking him instead.
Now it's Saturday again, and today he was going to have Teddy, but Andy let him know that he's having a stomachache and has been throwing up all morning—his reactions to a full moon aren't typically so drastic; he must have eaten something. Harry was so disappointed, but he assured Andy that it's alright and to keep him posted on how Teddy is doing. So he's alone again, which doesn't bode well.
He reads his newest letter from Yelena Lawless, in which she praises uranium as the superior of all fissionable elements. Then he checks his mailbox and discovers that he's been accepted into an entry-level molecular physics and physical chemistry course—which, according to the date of the e-mail, happened at the end of August—and just failed to show up for his first classes—which were the day before yesterday. He wants to just shut the computer off and forget about it—he doesn't have time for this shit right now—but it's only one evening a week. He can't completely give up on self-development to focus fully on the case that seems to be going nowhere. He clicks reluctantly to mark it as important, and that's when he hears his fireplace activating.
"Potter! Are you busy? I know you're not. Let me in!"
Thank Merlin! Company! Just Draco, but still company.
"Yeah, come on in." He waves his wand towards the fireplace. The computer miraculously doesn't shut off. "What's up?" he asks when Malfoy brushes the ash from his robe.
"Weren't you going to tell me?" he demands, looking down at Harry with betrayal written all over his face.
Harry stiffens, hoping Draco wasn't expecting to be informed that people were being murdered. "Tell you about what?" he checks warily.
"About alchemy!" Draco exclaims. Even though there's outrage in his voice, his cheeks are pink from excitement.
"Wait, how do you know about it?" Harry frowns.
"Mother spoke to Severus," he explains matter-of-factly. "He seemed to be under the impression that you're going to get yourself killed. So I'm here to not let that happen."
"Your mom spoke to Snape. Of course," Harry sighs, rolling his eyes. "Look, you don't need to—"
"No, wait!" Draco blurts in panic. "Do you have a plan? Do you have access to any useful sources? I can be your assistant. I'm going to be an excellent assistant. I know everything that is widely known about alchemy. I love alchemy!"
Harry blinks, suddenly interested. "Do you?" he asks calculatingly. "Well, that's good, because I hardly know anything."
Malfoy's whole face seems to falter in disappointment. "Maybe you should be my assistant after all," he drawls sourly.
"I know nothing about the classical alchemy that wizards seem to practice," Harry clarifies. "But I discovered something. Basically a state of matter that allows the release of magical properties of substances. Which, very theoretically, could allow for these properties to be transferred. And mixed. And new substances to be created. Only I haven't gotten that far yet."
Draco's eyes are practically glowing. "I know what you're speaking of. I read a paper once that included commentary on each alchemical method. Of course, none of it actually explained how either of them worked, but yeah, it was there. Phoenix... something. Animating stuff. I think it was one of the unorthodox ones. It was considered rather artless and explosion-friendly. It was deemed too unstable and dropped. But if you're actually onto something—"
"Bring me whatever you've got," Harry instructs him, feeling his own enthusiasm rising shyly.
Draco scoffs. "Phew, no way, Potter. You'll take my stuff and go do it all on your own. I want in."
Harry rolls his eyes. "I'm not going to push you out. You're in. Now bring me research." He narrows his eyes thoughtfully. "How in do you want to be?" Draco looks confused, so he elaborates, "Do you want to learn muggle physics with me?"
Now he looks even more flabbergasted. "Why would I do that? What does that have to do with alchemy?"
"Plenty," Harry divulges, smiling. "It has plenty to do with alchemy and plenty to do with everything we do every time we bring out our wands."
Draco's expression changes from affronted to perplexed to uneasy. "Potter, I've accepted a lot from you," he finally says. "Being a muggle-loving weirdo is kind of part of your charm. But I won't accept mixing alchemy with some muggle mumbo jumbo. That's sacrilegious."
"We inhabit the same physical world, governed by the same natural rules. We meet the same challenges; we just address them differently. Back before we went our separate ways with muggles, alchemists were conducting their research out in the open, using both magical theory and whatever physics and chemistry was known at the time. So yeah, we're not the only ones who had the thought of turning one element into another. We're also not the only ones who succeeded. We just have a much easier job because we have access to an almost unlimited amount of energy, and we work with a much wider spectrum, because even common metals clearly have magical properties, which muggles cannot detect either because they're only revealed when the matter is affected by our specific kind of energy or because we're actually affecting a different part of matter that muggles are unaware of."
Draco is staring at him with wide eyes and his mouth slightly open. "So, you know nothing, huh?"
Harry reddens slightly. "What I mean is, it's stupid not to use the centuries of their knowledge."
"Okay, let's make a deal," Draco proposes. "You focus on whether we can make use of the way muggles do it, and I'll focus on what is known about how wizards have been doing it."
Harry takes his hand without hesitation. "You've got yourself a deal." This is a godsend, really. While before Harry couldn't bring himself to continue his research, he knows that now Draco won't let him give up. Research isn't really his forte.
"If you do get us killed, Potter..." Draco starts, but then breaks, visibly uncertain. "It was nice knowing you."
Harry grins. "You really want to do this, huh?" If Draco is willing to put his precious self on the line, it means it's serious.
"I only wanted to do this since forever," Draco scoffs. "If something is worth dying over, it's alchemy."
Harry wouldn't go that far, but he's not a very careful person himself, so he can't exactly admonish him. "I'm going to prepare the basement at Grimmauld Place for us."
"Don't do anything without me!" Draco warns him.
"Because I will mess it up or because you want to be there?" Harry asks slyly.
"Both!" Draco finally calms down enough to go sit on the couch. "Okay, so tell me more about—" But before he has a chance to ask all of his questions, the doorbell rings.
Harry jolts. "Either scram or transfigure your robes into something sensible. Quickly!"
Draco looks confused. "Why? Who do you think..." His eyes get huge. "You think it's a muggle?" he whispers breathlessly.
Harry rolls his eyes. "Wizards rarely come in through the front door."
Draco must be feeling brave, because he doesn't think long before changing his robes into black slacks and a white shirt. He even manages to only crash the computer and not the overhead lights. Harry was going to turn it off anyway.
He goes to the hallway and, after checking the peephole, lets Zoe in.
"Oh. Sorry. You have a guest. I can come back later," she says once she walks into the living room and sees the blond on the couch.
"No, it's fine," Harry assures her, mostly to torture Draco, who sits stiffly, moving his eyes furtively between the two of them. "This is my friend, Draco. Draco, this is my neighbour, Zoe."
He stands, then sits, then stands again. "Ah. Hello. Draco Malfoy." He reaches out with his pale hand, which she shakes, bemused.
"Zoe Warrington."
"From these Warringtons?" he actually asks, before turning unflatteringly pink when Zoe gives him a puzzled look and Harry an incredulous one. "Ah. Probably not. Pardon."
Harry rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Don't mind him. He's a bit weird. You want anything to drink, Zoe? Actually, Draco, do you want something?"
"Whatever you've got," Zoe says, curling up in the armchair next to Draco, who seems to be sweating profusely.
"I should go," he decides suddenly and starts to get up, but Zoe protests.
"No, really, I don't have to stay. I didn't mean to get in the way."
So he sits back down, probably because she seems devastated at the prospect of scaring him off, and looks at everything but her.
Harry brings them both some Coke before taking his place next to the blond. "So, what's up?"
Zoe takes a deep breath. "Have you spoken to Ben?"
Harry freezes. "Why? Did he say something?" But she hesitates and looks questioningly at Draco instead of answering. Harry gets her meaning immediately. "You can talk in front of him." He's on a roll where it comes to coming out anyway, and Malfoy knows much worse things about him. He might be an old pureblood homophobe, but that wouldn't be the first time Harry has to talk him around.
Draco looks up, eager to learn some new secrets. Zoe nods but still sighs long-sufferingly. "Well, of course he didn't. I hate to think that I messed up somehow by setting you two up, but he literally said nothing except that you went out, and he hasn't heard from you ever since. Was it that bad?" she frets. Draco falters, realising it's just dating drama.
Harry plays absently with his glass. "No, it was great," he admits quietly.
"So why the silent treatment?"
"I don't have his number," Harry tries to wriggle out.
"Yeah, neither did he have yours. Here," she says, pulling out her phone and typing something. Harry's phone vibrates on the table. "Really, I don't know what you'd do without me. Look," she adds, fully serious. "I don't want to push, so just tell me to fuck off if it's not welcome. But you told me you liked him, and I know for a fact that he likes you, so I don't get all this dancing around. From Ben, sure, it's classic. He's always dated arseholes, you know, those using up all of his goodwill until there's nothing left, so he doesn't really put himself out there. He has trust issues." At least there is an issue that Ben has. It makes Harry feel a little more confident and less like a complete screw-up. "But you're not shy when it comes to those things. I had a doubtful pleasure to hear about some of it."
Correction, he's not shy—or rather, he's starting not to be—about sex. Dating is a completely different beast.
Only, he has absolutely nothing to say in his defence that wouldn't be directly linked to his shortcomings, which he doesn't want to discuss. He's been avoiding Ben because he's scared and fucked up, and to make it even worse, he's trying to disguise it as logic. And that's after leaving him without a word. No wonder he has trust issues. "I'll call him," he says, hoping he doesn't sound like he's bluffing. He isn't. He's just... still on the fence about it.
Zoe looks like she's been ready to continue convincing him and stops short. "Well. Good. He has a difficult case that he's been struggling with. I'm sure he would like to hear from you."
"Yeah, he mentioned something," Harry mutters, trying to remember what Ben said about his case.
He himself has a difficult case too, but he can't exactly whine to people about it. "How was your interview?" he asks, because contrary to the popular belief, he knows that the world doesn't actually revolve around him.
Zoe snorts, getting up. "I was graciously allowed to teach little kids to play violin, despite my fucked-up hand." She sighs. "It's good. It's a job." She glances briefly at Draco, who is staring at one point on the floor. "I'm gonna get out of your hair. See, you're not an arsehole," she says to Harry with a smile.
He smiles back, hoping it's true. "I try not to be."
Draco comes back to life as soon as they hear the door close behind her. "Who the hell is Ben?"
"Her brother," Harry mutters, then adds longingly, "We went to the theatre together."
Draco visibly tries to understand the importance of this fact. He shakes his head. "You're dating men now?"
"Yeah," Harry confirms easily. "Problem?"
"No, of course not, except for you literally murdering the Potter line," he scoffs haughtily.
Harry raises his eyebrows. "I still like women. I can have children if I want to. But I shouldn't have to. Should I?"
"I suppose, if you care nothing for your family's legacy, you can do whatever you like," Draco drawls patronisingly.
"I like to think my family would want me to be happy," Harry announces flatly.
Draco shakes his head again. "The things you say sometimes. Well, there was already little chance of you marrying into the pureblood circle since you've broken up with Weasleyette. I guess there are worse options than muggle men. Like... werewolves. Or giants. Male werewolves and giants, mind you. Female ones might still be preferable."
"Do you have any idea how offensive you're being?" Harry asks, not knowing if he should get mad or laugh.
Draco shrugs. "Look, I get it. You're going to be a rebel forever. It might actually work for your image. Old bachelor, mad alchemist. Lives with a 'roommate.'" Draco makes quotation marks with his fingers. Harry throws a TV remote at him, which he dodges with a grimace of disgust. "Going for Dumbledore's vibe, huh? Fear not; I'll be your more socially acceptable partner in crime." He frowns. "So what's special about this Ben person?"
Harry's not really sure. He decides on, "He's nice. And he has a cute dog." He realises that he forgot to ask about Ziggy when they went to the theatre. How could he?
Draco doesn't look impressed. "Lots of people are nice."
"Like who?" Harry challenges him.
Draco's silent for a moment. "Kingsley Shacklebolt, or so I've heard."
"I'm not hooking up with the minister," Harry stresses immediately.
Draco bursts into laughter. "No. But hey, he has a squib brother who might be more your speed."
"He's married," Harry grumbles. "Go away."
Draco clearly decides the same. "Let me know when Grimmauld Place is ready for us."
"Will do. Oh! Question." He faces Draco's expectant look. "Do you have any idea where I can get myself some uranium?"
Draco stares and stares some more before sighing long-sufferingly. "I'll ask around. You're so going to get us both killed."