Discretion in Vane

~~~
​

It was one of those days.

“Breach in three! Two! Go, go, go!”

Harry winced, covering his ears too late as the maniacal Yank unloaded on a poor, innocent door with a pump shotgun. A small whirlwind of blacked-out sunglasses and comically over-accessorized rifles rushed past him, flooding into the shack of a house. He almost pitied Red Fox. Back when Harry had been on the run, at least he wasn’t alone.

“I told you it’s empty,” he snapped at his American contact, a tall Snape-like man in a depressing black suit. “What the hell is this?”

“I passed it along,” said Snape-with-a-New-York-accent. “Sometimes I suspect they just enjoy doing it this way.”

“We’re clear!” one of the men announced a few minutes later, sticking his head out the door and motioning forward. Harry threw up his hands, giving everyone around him an indignant look. What was a wizard’s word worth here, chopped liver?

Harry stepped into the dark interior with a huff. Finally, a bit of respite from the Arizona sun, though it only lasted a second before someone strafed his eyeline with a paint-peelingly bright torch. “For Merlin’s sake, turn those things off,” he muttered. “Lumos.”

“Ah, yes sir. Sorry, sir.”

Complaining under his breath, he made his way through the house. Several smashed windows had been boarded up or covered by tarps. Dark streaks of mold ran along the walls, and it was somehow disconcertingly moist despite how damn dry it was outside. He flicked his wand, whispering under his breath and putting some gravitas into it. The magic didn’t care, but someone had to exhibit a bit of dignified mystery to balance out the cowboys.

“Not again,” groaned Harry. An ethereal cord had materialized, leading from a point in the decaying lounge up into nowhere. “He Portkeyed out less than an hour ago. Ten minutes earlier and I could have tracked him.”

Not-Snape stepped up, inspecting the Portkey trail as if he could tell a thing from it. Maybe he could; the Americans had been taking the Statute as a polite suggestion longer than almost anyone, and their endless bouquet of three-letter agencies—he swore there wasn’t a combination they hadn’t tried—was as infested with wizards as rats in a London sewer. And they never, ever told you, one way or another.

Not-Snape jerked his head at one of the soldiers. “Search the building,” he said. “Anything you find, you show me, understood? I don’t care if it’s his dirty laundry, I want to see it.”

With a flourish of his jacket—see, Snape’s long-lost American cousin—he returned to the skin-frying heat. Harry, tempted to remain in the shade despite the smell, joined him. Not-Snape—he’d introduced himself, but it wasn’t his real name anyway, so Harry hadn’t bothered remembering it—flicked a lighter and stuck the lit cigarette between his lips. He held up another. “Want it?”

“Can’t,” said Harry, rolling his eyes. Hermione had only caught him smoking once, but it’d been months before she let him hear the end of it. He didn’t need to hand her any more ammunition.

A hot, sullen silence fell, punctuated only by Not-Snape’s occasional puffs on his cigarette. “I doubt he’ll stay in country after this. If he had sense, he wouldn’t have tried it here in the first place. You’ll be starting from scratch.”

“I know.”

It wasn’t the first time Harry’s quarry had pulled a disappearing act. Red Fox, so codenamed in an optimistic reference to the animal’s frequent fate, was just another entry in a long list of walking migraines. Somewhere along the line in the last decade or two, the enemies of Muggle Britain and Wizarding Britain had started to look remarkably similar. Harry, and the Office for Special Coordination, were the response.

“I wish I knew how he’s doing it.” Harry shook his head. “I’d say he must have an informant back over the pond, but no one below the Ministers were even clued in this time. And if he’s got your side of things compromised too, he’s got resources none of us know about. Absolute fiasco.”

Everyone knew the big secret was going to fall apart, sooner or later. The Muggles’ electronic eyes were getting better, and wizards had never exactly been masters of circumspection. Clowns like Red Fox were just making it worse. Stealing Muggle military technology and selling it to their enemies was a truly fantastic way of drawing as much attention to magic as possible. One day, the Statute would fall.

The way Harry saw it, his job boiled down to delaying that day as long as possible, hopefully until the various governments figured out a way not to kill each other over it.

Harry shuffled, watching the steady progress of Not-Snape’s cigarette enviously. Maybe just this once, maybe—

“Ever been to a school reunion?” blurted out Harry to distract himself.

Not-Snape looked like Harry had grown a third head. “Is that relevant?”

“Well, not as such.”

“Ah.”

“But, you know.” Harry paused. “Have you?”

Not-Snape tipped his sunglasses down, regarding Harry contemplatively. “No.”

“Ah.”

Another pause. A muffled clatter emanated from the house. Harry fought back a yawn brought on by Portkey lag.

“My year’s twentieth is rather soon, you see,” said Harry. “Now, I don’t see what’s so significant about that, but apparently not everyone agrees. I’ve been… informed that my presence is expected. Not that that’s relevant either.”

“Will you be going?” asked Not-Snape, sounding like the small talk literally pained him.

“Oh, no, I shouldn’t think so. Definitely not.”

“I see.”

A few more minutes passed in pleasantly awkward silence before the shot-out door swung open, revealing tactically-clad men with a number of plastic bags filled with everything from plastic utensils to old tissues. Harry wrinkled his nose. He had a good idea of what sort of hygiene long-term isolation tended to promote.

Not-Snape took one look and sighed, dragging from his cigarette. “Is there anything that isn’t literally as useful as laundry?”

“Not sure, sir. But there is this.” The man produced one more tiny bag, containing what looked like a gold coin. Perhaps a Galleon; it was the right size for one. Not-Snape took it, turned it over, and shrugged. “You make anything of this?”

Harry took the bag and shook his head. “It’s just a Galleon. That’s British Wizarding currency, if you don’t know. Nothing—”

He stopped short, squinting at the coin and wondering if someone had Confunded him. He pulled open the bag, ignoring a sputtered protest from Not-Snape, and held it up to the light. The edge of a Galleon had the serial number inscribed on it, utterly unremarkable in itself. But Harry knew this number, had it memorized as perfectly as his own name. They’d all had the same number, he remembered, because the Protean Charm required them to be identical. This was a Dumbledore’s Army coin.

“Well?” asked Not-Snape, and Harry realized he’d been staring for longer than could be easily explained. He snatched the coin away, pocketing it.

“Nothing. Just thought it was funny he had a Galleon, that’s all.”

Not-Snape snorted. “Sure. Fine. You’ve got my number for when you need us to bail you out again. Do yourself a favor and don’t wait too long.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Harry, getting out his wand. “You can ‘fuhged’ about that.”

He turned and Disapparated, already concocting a suitable excuse for why he’d need an emergency Portkey back to Britain. It looked like he’d be reliving his Hogwarts days after all.

~(·)~​

Two hours later, someone knocked four times in rapid succession on Harry’s hotel door, then once more a second later. Harry picked himself up, tossing aside a case file with no new information since the last ten times he’d read it. Outside was a lumpy object wrapped in a brown paper bag, which he snatched and brought back into the hotel room.

It was a bloody coke bottle, from back when the stuff still came in glass. He pinched his nose. He’d heard about these things. The Americans had an unholy quantity of them stockpiled for a very theoretical event where they would need to transport a lot of wizards in a real hurry. They did work, but by an experimental method thought better suited for mass production. The experience wasn’t exactly first-class. Worse, decades of maturation had intensified them like a fine wine, promising a stomach-churning adventure for anyone unfortunate enough to use one. Whoever was in charge when his call came in must have had a right laugh when they signed off for this thing.

“Nothing for it,” he said, without enthusiasm. He brought the bottle down against the edge of the nightstand, sent the cap flying, and took a huge swig of the murky liquid inside before he could think about what he was doing. A moment later, his stomach began to rumble.

“Here we—”

Harry slammed to the grass, nearly spraining an ankle, and fell to his hands and knees until his stomach stopped trying to crawl up to his brain. “Go,” he spat, groaning. “Ugh.”

He checked his watch, mentally correcting for the time zones he’d crossed, and swore. He had less than an hour before the Hogwarts reunion was supposed to start, but he’d completely forgotten where Ron had told him it was being held. He racked his brains—some sort of posh boutique hotel, he was pretty sure, though he’d be damned if he knew why. He briefly and morbidly wondered who had taken charge in organizing this thing, because he knew it wasn’t Hermione, and most of the other possibilities weren’t reassuring. Hopefully he wouldn’t have to hang around long to figure out who wasn’t there. If he was lucky, no one would even notice him.

Almost no one, that is. He still needed to find the place. Briefly, he inspected his surroundings, estimating that he had likely ended up somewhere in the Fens. Marshy ground, reedy grass, pungent peat, and droning mosquitoes. Just lovely. Whoever charmed those Portkeys really did have a sense of humor.

Another Apparition brought him to his flat, deep enough in Muggle Aberdeen to keep the vampires—sometimes known as reporters—out of his trash. Most of the time.

A small pile of bills waited for him under his post slot, which Harry took to mean he’d bungled the newfangled electronic payment system. They were joined by a letter formally informing him that an investigation was being opened into his neglected television license. Home sweet home.

He puttered through the kitchen and picked up his landline. After getting a peak behind the curtain of the Muggle government, he wouldn’t touch a mobile with a meter-long wand.

He called Hermione first and got no answer. Why? Merlin knew. She’d been the one to drag Ron and him into this brave new technological age, kicking and screaming.

“Come on, Ron,” he said under his breath after dialing a second number. When he was once again prompted for a message, in Hermione’s voice, he cursed and dialed again. Merlin, would he actually have to send a Patronus? They weren’t really something he typically used for everyday messages—less please bring wine to dinner tonight and more please come quick, turns out Voldemort had eight Horcruxes. He’d call by fireplace if his Muggle place had one, but it didn’t, and he didn’t want to risk evacuating the entire building by getting creative.

“Morgana’s bloody—pick up the goddamn phone, you Luddite lazybones, can’t you see I’m desperate here?”

“Hello?” someone said, acidly. It wasn’t Ron.

Harry groaned. “Hello, Ginny.”

“Hi, Harry. Seeing as Ron’s glued to Hermione with nostalgia, I thought I’d take pity on you. Seeing as I’ve got a lot of experience hearing your apologies.”

Harry arched an eyebrow. “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing really. Just that while everyone else is going to be horribly disappointed, I never expected anything else. Nine years married to you will do that.”

“Ginny—”

“No, Harry.” A crackle like wind came over the line. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. I’ll tell the others you’re not going. Work, some crisis or other. The details don’t matter.”

“I’m going.”

Dead silence. Harry grinned and pumped his fist. “Really?” said Ginny eventually, voice dripping with doubt.

“Yes, really. But Gin, listen—”

“It’s Ginny.”

“Ginny, listen, I don’t have the faintest idea where this thing’s going down. If you could give me directions or an address or…”

Harry could practically feel her eyes rolling. “Oh, please,” she said. “Just come over. I know I wasn’t in your year, but I barely keep up with anyone in mine, so I’m gatecrashing. You can Floo with me. I swear, your brain’s like a sieve sometimes.”

Harry winced, recalling numerous birthdays and anniversaries. “Thanks,” he said. “Is now all right, or…”

Ginny said something to someone near her, the words too muffled to make out. “I’ll be home in fifteen minutes. I don’t care if you want to wait there.”

“Okay. I really appreciate it.”

A silence stretched, Harry not quite sure whether he ought to hang up. Ginny cleared her throat.

“I’m seeing someone. A Muggle.”

“Er—” Harry broke off, sensing danger. “Congratulations?”

“I didn’t tell you so you could congratulate me, you prat. I’m just warning you so you don’t, you know, freak out.”

“I don’t see why you seeing someone should bother me,” said Harry.

“Good.” Ginny’s tone formed a stark dichotomy with the word’s traditional meaning. This could be messy.

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll see you both in fifteen. ‘Bye.”

He hung up before Ginny could get the last word. Merlin, he’d fucked things up with her. Ending their marriage had been the right choice. Trying and failing to get back together half a dozen time since had not. It just never seemed like a bad idea at the time.

Fifteen minutes. That should be just enough to get the aftertaste of government-issue soft drink out of his mouth.

~(·)~​

Tom turned wispier by the year, but somehow Harry suspected he’d still be pouring drinks long after Harry was in the ground. He endured the usual greetings from Tom and everyone else with grace: Merlin, is that Harry Potter? and Can I buy you a drink? and Mr. Potter, would you father my wife’s children? Well, maybe not that last one, but honestly, he wouldn’t be surprised.

“Harry?” someone said, and Harry sighed into his second drink. If he was actually going to do the nostalgia thing, he would dearly need it.

“Really?” he said, turning. “Where? Where!”

Seamus Finnigan rolled his eyes. “Come off it, mate. Can’t say I expected to see you back in Britain today.”

“Me?” said Harry. “How about you? I thought you were meant to be abroad for another month and a bit?”

“Eh. You know how it is. Spend six months on groundwork, then get pulled before you can make anything of it. Story of my fuckin’ life. Y’know, sometimes I think I would’ve been better off staying on the dark side.”

Harry snorted. A few years back, a couple of fresh-faced DMLE recruits had seen something funny on a routine patrol through Knockturn Alley. They gave the dragon’s tail a tug, and out came a smuggling ring large enough to wear Wizarding Britain like a puppet. And in one of those holding cells overflowing with disgruntled hard cases had wound up Seamus. If Harry hadn’t pulled a few strings and harped on about Seamus’s actions during the war until everyone was sick of it, his unique talents would be languishing in Azkaban right now, not helping Harry keep an endless string of crises just this side of out of control. Somehow, Seamus always managed to sound like he wished Harry hadn’t bothered.

Harry checked the weathered clock hanging behind the bar and ordered one last drink. To Seamus he said, “Are you going to this nonsense too, then?”

Seamus glanced around shiftily, his heavily muscled bulk vaguely reminiscent of a mountain in motion. “T’be honest, mate, I was going to take a gander, see if Lav was feeling charitable, y’know? But if you’re going, I got your back, Potter.” He clapped Harry on the back, grinning. Harry plastered on something hopefully resembling a smile and failed dismally.

“Wonderful,” he said. “Should be heaps of fun.”

He tapped his glass with a fingernail, considering. Technically, while Seamus had the same official clearance he did, he shouldn’t be talking about Red Fox to anyone, full stop. But he might need some backup in a hurry, and he couldn’t get it through the usual channels in case Special Coordination really was compromised.

“Something interesting came up while I was overseas. Could be big.” He gave Seamus a meaningful look. “That’s why I’m really here.”

Briefly, he gave an overview of the situation, watching the clock in the corner of his eye. Making Ginny wait would not go over well, and that was if she stuck around at all.

“So keep an eye out for anyone who’s not there,” finished Harry. “Obviously not everyone in the D.A. was in our year, but we can at least eliminate some possibilities. I still feel like there’s more to this, though. It’s not a pleasant thought that someone from the D.A. could be wrapped up in this. You with me?”

“Count on it, mate,” said Seamus, nodding solemnly. “Hey, Tom! Let’s have another one, eh?”

~(·)~​

One Apparition later, Harry crouched beneath the eaves of Ginny’s house, out-glooming a flock of ravens perched in a gnarled apple tree along the drive. He remembered planting it, eons and eons ago, when they’d first moved in together just months after the end of the war. It had been just a sapling then, but now it was a towering institution, adorned with its fruit. Harry felt like breaking something. Or having a smoke.

A low rumble picked up from down the drive, winding fifty odd meters before it reached the road. The lawn had been huge when they moved in, Harry remembered, and picturesque. Good for kids, supposedly. Ginny had let it grow wild.

The rumble resolved into an automobile, low, black, curvy, and expensive. “Cute,” said Harry under his breath. The passenger door swung open and Ginny stepped out, laughing at something the driver had said. Then she saw Harry, and her smile turned to something sardonic as she waved to the vehicle and started walking up the drive.

“Thought you might have changed you mind,” she said.

“By the end of the evening, you might wish I did,” replied Harry darkly. “Am I going to get to see the Muggle wonder, or does he stay with the car?”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “If you want. I have to go put on robes, but I’ll introduce you. Play nice.”

She walked back, tapped on the driver window, and her toy boy got out, looking both vaguely uncomfortable and somehow familiar. Then he turned around and Harry had to fight to stifle an exclamation of pure malicious glee.

He was considerably younger than Harry or Ginny, dressed in a thousand-pound suit with a watch on his wrist that no doubt made that previous sum look paltry. He took one look at Harry and took a step back, eyes widening. “Si—”

Harry cut him off, sticking out a hand. “Harry Potter,” he said and winked.

“Er, Eric.” The man accepted the handshake tentatively, looking a might pale. “Eric Hartley.”

“Well, Eric,” said Harry, pumping his arm excessively, “I do hope you’re quite aware of what you’re getting into.”

“Wait, you mean—”

“Harry,” said Ginny, a thoroughly familiar warning in her voice. Harry let go of Eric’s hand.

“Eric, this is my navigationally challenged ex-husband. Don’t mind his clothes. He joined a religious order after we broke up.” Ginny laughed at her little joke, then stood on her toes to plant a pointedly prolonged kiss on Eric’s lips. She pulled away with a sigh, patting the stubble on his cheek. “I’ll see you soon, dear.”

Once she was gone, Harry glanced over to Hartley, stepped over to a flatter bit of ground, and nodded, satisfied that he had at least half an inch on the other man. Hartley shuffled, running his hands up and down his coat, and gave Harry a sideways look. “Religious order, eh?”

“She thinks she’s funny.”

“Right.” Hartley cleared his throat twice. “Listen, sir, I’m really sorry about this. I didn’t know she was your, you know—”

Harry waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, don’t worry about that. We both went around the block after we split, if you get my drift, and made sure the other person knew it. It’s no issue.”

“Right.” Hartley sighed. “To be honest, sir, I’m not entirely sure how I feel about seeing my boss’ ex in any case. No offense.”

“Mm.” Harry flicked out his wand and checked the time. He’d be a few minutes late, but he figured Ginny knew the right time to show up to something like this better than him anyway. Hartley’s eyes tracked the wand like a hawk.

“I suppose she’s like you, then?” Hartley said.

“Oh, yes. You didn’t know?”

“Well—” Hartley grimaced. “It does explain a few things.”

Harry snorted. “I’ll bet. Listen, I’m off to get pissed and hopefully catch an international criminal. You make sure Tina Lafette doesn’t get her hands on the Italian thing. If her lot of duffers get their hands on it before it goes to Number 10, well, it doesn’t bear thinking about, does it?”

“Don’t even say that, sir.”

Harry laughed and channeled his inner Seamus, thumping Hartley heartily on the back. “See you in the office. Oh, and if Gin points her wand at you, make sure you tell her you work with me, quick-like. She’s a dab hand with with Memory Charms, and you wouldn’t be the first bloke she tried to make a particularly clean break with.”

Leaving a disturbed Hartley to climb into his car, Harry found Ginny fixing her hair by the fireplace. She raised an eyebrow at him, an unspoken question. Harry shrugged, handing her the tin of Floo powder.

“I dunno, Gin. I think you might just break his heart.”

~(·)~​

There were many things Harry considered himself an expert in, from dueling to deescalation—sometimes. Curiously, as the thought had not occurred to him previously, interior decoration was definitively not one of them.

“D’you reckon they’ll be checking our names?” asked Harry sarcastically as he followed Ginny through the hotel lobby. Pastel pinks and inscrutable paintings signified something posher than a chain hotel, and the garish multicolored lights floating about ensured no one could fail to realize this was no Muggle hotel, at least not tonight. Harry simply didn’t get it.

“Because I could always transfigure you,” he carried on. “I’m quite good at disguises. You want to look like Lavender tonight?”

“Somehow, I think I’ll manage,” replied Ginny dryly. “I just hope Ron and Hermione kept an eye on the clock. They’ve been looking forward to this for a while I think, and if they miss it because… well, it would be funny. But I don’t think—oh!” She craned her neck. “I think I saw Neville. See you later, Harry. Try to have fun.”

Privately, Harry found that suggestion unlikely. Over the years, he had developed a unique capacity for pissing off the people that used to like him, all while ingratiating himself further with those he loathed. That sort of misapplication of social effort took real talent, but Harry had been practicing at being a miserable bastard since he was a teenager.

The hotel occupied a prime position along the Cornish seaside that might as well be a license to print money. Marble pillars and a polygonal roof, no doubt in some style Harry wasn’t nearly sophisticated enough to identify, completed the impression of extravagance. The hotel appeared devoid of its normal clientele, and Harry spared a brief thought for whoever was paying for this. Merlin knew it wasn’t going to be him.

Two wings were laid out at right angles to each other, and a sizable courtyard was situated in the square formed between them. With the hotel building itself seemingly empty, Harry could only presume he would find the others there.

Having been abandoned by even Ginny’s dubious company, Harry wandered just into the courtyard, lurking in the shadows of the column-supported veranda along the perimeter. At least he didn’t have to pretend to himself that he was here legitimately. Yes, it was quite a good idea remain here for a time, seeing but unseen, attentive and discerning. Harry was like a ghost, a wolf among the innocent, a rough man ensuring the rest of Britain could sleep easily. He was perfectly aware of his surroundings, like a hawk from high above—

“Oh my, Harry!” a voice squealed, about a nanometer from Harry’s left ear.

“What the—” Harry managed to avoid pitching over by a margin smaller than he’d admit. A woman with a sly grin rushed over to catch him, not immediately letting go once he had steadied himself. That, more than anything else, prompted his memory. He knew her, more’s the pity.

Harry took an immediate step back, brushing himself off. “Romilda Vane,” he said. “So we meet again.”

While Harry prided himself on the peppering of white in his facial stubble and the steadily deepening creases around his eyes, the years had left a rather different legacy on Vane. Thanks, he imagined, to the bountiful application of discerningly selected creams and charms, she looked like she had walked off a magazine cover just minutes ago. Her hair followed an elaborate and silky curve, and her smile was as white as sugar.

“I know,” trilled Vane, rapidly occupying the space Harry had vacated a moment ago. A subtle impression of something between black coffee and chocolate drifted to Harry’s nose, a bitter note that he wouldn’t have predicted she would wear. “I can’t believe we’re only getting to catch up now. How long has it been?”

“My memory really must be going,” said Harry dully, feeling like he was staring down a long, dark tunnel with no end in sight. Or, at least, not until the end of the night. Harry had spent seven years as the Chosen One, nine as an Auror, two as a free wand, seven more as a “special liaison,” and he still felt utterly interacting with Romilda Vane. He gave her a dubious look. “I don’t recall you graduating in ‘98.”

Hermione would point out that, technically speaking, Harry hadn’t graduated at all. Fortunately, the Hermione in Harry’s mind was much easier to ignore.

Vane blinked. “Well, I own the hotel, don’t I?” Then she grabbed Harry by the arm and promptly became an irresistible weight dragging him into the open. “It’s been just wonderful, Harry, ever since I left Witch Weekly. Barbara Frolke—she’s the editor, if you can believe it—is a madwoman, with the fashion sense of a drying slug. You wouldn’t believe how little this place went for—I suppose it was a bit of a mess, but Charms always was my best subject… And what have you been doing? There’s a lot of speculation, you know, about why you left the Auror office… It wasn’t really because you couldn’t stand to work with your ex-wife’s brother, was it?”

“Special liason to the Muggle Ministry,” said Harry, clipping his words tightly. “Because I wanted something safe, boring, and out of the public eye.”

“Oh. Well, anyway, like I was saying about Witch Weekly…”

The gently rolling grass of the courtyard was populated by Harry’s old classmates, milling about conversing and steadily churning through trays of canapés. Were he to allow his eyes to unfocus and blur, he might imagine he was back in Hogwarts, perhaps on a walk through the grounds after a particularly trying Potions lesson. But Potions led to Snape, which led to the American smartarse and Red Fox, and Harry’s attention sharpened once more.

None of them were so young as they once more, though Harry thought he might have it the worst of anyone. Merlin, was that Zacharius Smith? Harry barely recognized him, the slight pudginess of his youth replaced by an angular, authoritarian visage that could have been carved from stone. He appeared to be giving an impromptu proclamation to small group of other Hufflepuff alumni, complete with wide gestures and gratuitous metaphors. Harry gave the back of his head a death-stare. He stayed out of politics on principle, but if Smith was making a try for Wizengamot, he’d make an exception and call in some favors.

He wasn’t a suspect, though. The rat had given up his coin when he fled Hogwarts with the first-years, so long ago. Funny how those days had been closer to Harry at his birth than they were to him today. They’d never really faded for him.

Maybe that was why he did what he did. Some part of him would never quite believe that Tom Riddle had entrusted his immortality to Horcruxes alone.

A burst of laughter carried to Harry from somewhere and he glanced around, but the source was lost among the myriad faces of his past. Hell, this place was a nightmare. Between the atmospheric twilight glow and hedge paths carving through the courtyard, it would be almost impossible to get a clear picture of who had or hadn’t attended. He needed Seamus, and he needed to shake Vane. One of those should be easy; Seamus wouldn’t stray far from wherever they were serving drinks. But Vane was already proving that her tenacious streak hadn’t been phase.

“—so, I told him that not only would I not comp the room, he could expect an itemized bill for every last drop of ‘certified pure Lithuanian vampire blood’ on the carpets, and that he could take his pervy—” Vane stopped, glaring. “Hey!”

“Huh?” Harry turned to her, blinking. “Er—”

She huffed pointedly. “Are you listening at all? Because I don’t see you in a massive hurry to talk to anyone else.”

“Well—”

“Fine.” She flicked her hand, a dainty, practiced gesture. “I’ll go check on the refreshments. Come find me if you’re in a better mood later, all right?”

With that, she gave him a condescending pat on the cheek and walked off. This was why Harry didn’t talk to people.

Shrugging the interaction off, Harry returned to assessing the courtyard. A few times people looked at him strangely, as if they recognized him but were convincing themselves otherwise. His reclusiveness since leaving the Aurors was legendary, or so the papers put it. It worked to his advantage here. Every time he spotted a former member of the D.A, he made a mental note. Maybe his memory was getting a bit funny in his older years, but when it came to work, it might as well have been a slab of stone hieroglyphs. He wouldn’t forget a face, not tonight.

Boot, Bones, Brown, Abott… the list went on. Conveniently, Ginny was not the only one who had attended despite not being strictly invited. Lee Jordan joined the ‘tentatively cleared’ list, along with Colin Creevey.

Why a twentieth year reunion had ballooned into a nineteenth, twenty-first, and twenty-second year reunion, and probably more besides, Harry couldn’t say, but he suspected it was related to the extreme vigor with which Hermione and, unusually, Ron had pestered him about it. Hermione had all but threatened him if he didn’t show up. Harry suppressed a sudden shiver. If she found out he was here on work, the consequences would be apocalyptic.

Speaking of which, he still hadn’t seen her or Ron. It’d be just his luck if the one time he actually did show up to a social event they were too wrapped up in each other to remember to come up for air.

Harry plundered a small tray of pastry-wrapped sausages from one of the tables set up in the center of the courtyard, near a large water fountain. Not having eaten since an early breakfast and with the intestinal turbulence of the American Portkey finally passed, he set about desecrating the ornate appetizers. He pulled out his wand and levitated a clump of dead leaves out of the water fountain; there, compensation for the crumbs he’d deposited on the ground.

Hermione appeared out of nowhere, like a bloody ghost. Fuck.

Harry had crammed the last sausage into his mouth moments ago and was now left with nothing to do but slowly turn around, holding an empty tray definitely intended for more than one person. It’d didn’t help that Hermione had that bloody disciplinarian aura since she got the Arithmancy position at Hogwarts. He was thirty-seven, knew enough dirty secrets to bring down the Prime Minister, and she still managed to make him feel guilty over the pettiest things imaginable. It was a gift.

“Glad you decided to show up,” said Harry, or at least intended to. By the look of concern on Hermione’s face, it probably came out mangled. Briefly flashing back to his second year and the Basilisk, he swallowed, imagining the heroic mouthful bulging his throat like a snake’s.

He looked at her disturbed expression indignantly. “What?”

“Oh, Harry.” She pinched her nose and sighed. Then she bloody tackled him.

“Hey!” He staggered, banging his calf against the fountain under the full frontal assault Hermione considered a hug. “Air! Air! C’mon, it’s only been a week and a half.”

Hermione released him, grinning impishly in a way that made the years fall away. “You came, you great prat. After making us all think you wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, and so far I’ve had Romilda Vane sniffing after me and my ribs’ structural integrity tested. This might be the last time.”

“Romilda Vane?” Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Why is she here?”

“It’s her hotel,” said Harry morosely. “Who planned this ridiculous thing, anyway? Feels like half the country’s turned up.”

“I may have mentioned to a few people that you promised you would come,” said Hermione primly. “Just as a precaution in case you had second thoughts. And, well, this may be a twentieth-year reunion, but I’m not sure it’s their graduation most of the people here are celebrating.”

Her lips twitched mischievously. “With that in mind, I’m not surprised you coming led to a few plus-ones."

Harry arched an eyebrow, almost wanting to tell her the real reason he was here, just to see her expression. Wisely, he refrained. “Never mind that,” he said, glancing to the side in search of prying and pulling the Galleon out of his pocket. “I need you to take a look at something for me.”

“Now, really? Ron and I were just talking to Padma about trade negotiations or some such, and I’m pretty sure he’ll go spare if we don’t rescue him. Why are you trying to give me a Galleon?”

“The serial,” hissed Harry, jabbing his finger emphatically. “Look at the serial number.”

“Okay, okay, I get it.” Hermione squinted, turning the coin over and shrugged, her mouth moving rapidly as she spoke silently to herself.

“Well,” she eventually said. “It’s not a real serial number, for one. On a real Galleon, the third, seventh, and thirteenth digits are always identical. But other than that, I don’t see what’s special about it. Is it some sort of code?”

“You don’t recognize it?”

“No, I don’t. Ought I?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “It’s a bloody D.A. coin. Can you tell whose it is?”

“Really?” Hermione slowly waved her wand over it, muttering quietly. “Well, it’s not yours. Other than the master coin, they’re all identical.”

“Completely identical?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”

Great.

Hermione rolled her eyes and grabbed Harry’s hand, putting the Galleon in it and closing it in a fist. “I’m not even going to ask what the story behind that is until tomorrow. Come on. You can’t hide all night.”

Resistance was futile; at least Harry made the most of his forced march by cataloging familiar faces while hiding in Hermione’s shadow. Cho Chang and Alicia Spinnet joined the list of probably-not-enemies-of-the-state, chatting over some Quidditch game or other. Technically, Harry, supposed, Red Fox could actually be here, and that thought sent a shiver of adrenaline down his spine before he scolded himself for being so easily excitable. They were sure Red Fox had been out of the country for months, and no one’s first thought was to head for a party after narrowly escaping a black bag. No, Red Fox was probably crouching in some leaky Siberian shack, mourning his poor life choices and entirely unaware that his identity was being narrowed down, one name at a time.

Unless, of course, he realized he forgot his coin and already knew Harry was on his case from the mole in the Office. Really, when Harry thought about it, there was every chance that a panicking international criminal was charging back to Britain at this very moment, intent on doing something drastic. What a thoroughly wonderful thought that was.

Where the fuck was Seamus? He’d been exfilled a few days ago at most, or Harry would have heard about it. It was possible his security support team wouldn’t have dissolved yet. Backup through the normal channels wasn’t an option, but anyone who’d spent the last few months abroad with Seamus couldn’t possibly be feeding Red Fox information.

It was almost certainly an overreaction, but even the thought of Harry’s shadow war spilling into this crowded courtyard of nostalgia was enough to even make him consider taking Not-Snape’s sarcastic offer of assistance seriously. The whole point of what he did was to stop these things not just before they affected the innocent but before they even had to think about it. He’d seen enough common heroism and sacrifice for a lifetime before his eighteenth birthday.

But all that hinged on Seamus actually showing up.

Harry was dragged out of his mental spiral by the need to rescue Ron from conversational purgatory; by the looks of it, he was ready to tap out and Patil was only getting started. Hermione released his hand and picked up the conversation, to Ron’s clear relief, who turned to Harry. “Glad you could make it. Figured you’d be wrapped up with sneaking around and blowing up—”

“—the barriers to establishing the complicated, tedious, but nevertheless crucial cross-governmental relationships that are what we do in the Office.” Harry glared at Ron, twitching his head in Padma’s direction. Ron had been a damn good Auror before quitting to partner with George, but he was entirely too good a man for Harry’s line of work. He’d step in front of a curse for Harry without a second’s hesitation, but he’d never quite figure out the pertinent word in black operations.

“Right, right, ‘course.” Ron winked in what he probably thought was a conspiratorial manner. “Really though, it’s great to have you back. Hugo keeps asking why ‘Uncle Harry’ travels so much, and I’m starting to run out of good excuses.”

“Yes, well, at least I’m here now.” Harry glanced at Hermione, judged her sufficiently occupied with an intellectual topic, and continued in an undertone. “Have you seen Seamus anywhere? It’s a bit urgent.”

“Seamus? I reckon I did, yeah. I was looking for a loo, and I got a bit turned around in the hotel. He pointed me in the right direction.” A glint entered Ron’s eye. “So, meet our gracious host yet?”

Harry, already half a step toward the hotel, stopped. “And what would you know about that?”

“Nothing much. But you know, someone had to pay for this thing. And if, theoretically, that someone was Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, it’s not impossible that they might pick a venue with particular significance for the most prominent attendee.” Finally, Ron’s straight face collapsed as he broke into hiccuping laughter. Harry rolled his eyes and started off.

“Go on, mate,” added Ron. “Say hi to Romilda for me. Ask her if she has any of her Cauldron Cakes!”

Harry did not reward him with a response.

~(·)~​

Harry was halfway to the hotel when he was assailed once again. He didn’t have the faintest idea what Seamus was playing at in there, but maybe he was simply securing it out of an abundance of caution.

“Ladies,” a throaty woman’s voice announced, “am I seeing things, or is this a bona fide Harry Potter sighting? Tell me someone has a camera.”

Angelina. Wonderful. The last time he’d seen her, they’d both been royally drunk, and he was fairly certain that he’d lost an embarrassing wager and dipped before paying up. Pulling out his favorite trick, he turned around, pointed in the vague direction of Smith’s flock, and exclaimed in a tortured foreign accent, “My word, you’re right! Over there!”

“Nice try, Harry,” said Katie Bell, snickering as she and Alicia Spinnet snapped shut the long leg of the ambush. Harry sagged.

“You know, now’s really not the best time—something quite important—washroom matter, actually—”

“That’s terrible,” said Angelina. “I’d love to let you get to that if it weren’t for the fact that you’d likely drop off the face of the earth for another year and a half to avoid one simple, simple task.”

She remembered all right.

“No, really. Now’s really not a good time. Have you seen Seamus anywhere?”

“Seamus?” said Katie, giggling slightly. She always had been a menace when tipsy—Harry still remembered the birthday incident—and judging by her glass of golden liquid, that was as much an inevitability as ever. “Is Seamus your answer, then?”

“What?” It took Harry a moment to decipher her implication, and he shuddered. With a slight acerbic hint to his voice, he added, “You do realize that literally all of you are too old to be here?”

Alicia sighed, fanning herself with her hand. “Ah, we’re young in spirit. It’s the easy life. Look at you, constantly running around the world and you’re already going gray.”

“It’s the job,” said Harry, deadpan, edging around Angelina with his eye on the sliding door back into the hotel. “All the diplomacy and good-faith negotiations are a real wear.”

He took another step. Angelina blocked him. He gave her a practiced death glare that had loosened more tongues than anything in the Americans’ bottomless bag of technicalities. “This is childish.”

Angelina flashed a smile that would have made a Great White envious. “Harry, Harry, Harry… We’re just looking out for your well-being. This isn’t healthy for you.”

“She’s right,” put in Katie, shifting her weight to relieve the bad leg that had brought her Quidditch career to a… crashing… end. “I know ‘cause I’m a standoffish bitch too, and I think about getting back in the air one last time, like, every day. Sans broomstick. I’m going to get another drink. Don’t let Harry escape, ladies.”

Somewhere along the line, Katie had developed a particular sense of humor.

“She’s got a point,” said Alicia eventually.

“Is she, uh, all right?” asked Harry.

“She was always a bit”—Angelina made a vague jerking gesture—“turbulent. You remember in Hogwarts, Alicia?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Yeah. But after she fell… well, you’d know already if you were around a bit more. I’ll talk to her. Just as soon as you promise not to flake on your bet again.”

“Really not a good time—”

“It’s a perfect time,” said Alicia. “Look at all the people! Merlin, it’s not like we’re asking you to save the world again. Though at the rate you’re going, this’ll take you longer.”

“Pretty sure I have a better track record with the first thing,” said Harry.

“Really, Harry,” said Angelina, suddenly sounding very much like Hermione. “A bet’s a bet. Merlin knows if we’d lost, we’d have done our bit that night, not over a year later. All you have to do is get someone you knew at Hogwarts to go out with you. It’s not as if you’ll have any trouble. Pretend you’re still young for once. In fact, if you don’t…” Angelina laughed. “I’ll encourage Romilda. Did you know she still has a thing for you?”

She really was George’s wife. “Fine,” said Harry, pinching his forehead. “I’ll figure something out. Now, please fucking move. I need to… do diplomacy.”

~(·)~​

“Seamus?” called Harry, peering down the hotel hallway, trying not to think about the absolute clusterfuck the night was turning into. This was why he never mixed work with his personal life.

Certain nameless individuals had pointed out, with varying degrees of concern and snickering amusement, that this philosophy typically resulted in him having no personal life at all. Harry disputed this, naturally. Not only did he often discuss the weather, football, and Quidditch with his coworkers, he also kept up a lively stream of emotionally-charged correspondence with his apartments’ utilities company, particularly when they saw fit to raise their rates.

Maybe those nameless few had a point after all.

“Homenum Revelio,” attempted Harry, losing patience. The spell fizzled, filling his ears with a backlash strongly reminiscent of a toddler screaming. Of course, those would be the sole magical protections Vane considered necessary. She seemed the type to cater to those of wandering affections. Lavish or slovenly, East or West, there was always an unmistakable feel to these places, like everything from the warmly lit chandeliers to the plush carpet was selected to promote a sense of sensation above all else.

Harry had grown rather accustomed to such establishments over the past few years though, admittedly, never for the conventional sort of clandestine rendezvous.

“Seamus,” said Harry again, a bit more sharply. He’d already walked from one end of the hotel to the other, and unless he wanted to start breaking down doors, it was looking like it was time to give this up and run things on his own. He’d been on edge since entering the eerily empty hotel. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being…

Something cylindrical pressed hard into his back.

…watched.

“Stay still, Potter,” said a rumbling voice, distorted through some sort of charm into something warbling and toneless.

Harry stayed very still indeed.

There was movement behind him, and Harry caught a glimpse of silvery cloth as it was removed. Whoever this was—and Harry had precisely one theory—had major resources behind them, because it wasn’t a common invisibility cloak that could escape his attention.

His attacker was tall, with a couple inches over Harry, and gave the impression of a man—definitely a man—who wasn’t afraid to take things to the ground. Something chilly and biting filled Harry, though he didn’t show it. Red Fox hadn’t killed anyone that they knew about, but there weren’t many good endings to this story.

“Move,” said the voice, shoving Harry into a stumble.

“Impatient, are we?”

A sharp blow fell across the back of Harry’s head, his vision exploding with stars. To be fair, he’d been informed on numerous occasions that he was an insufferable bastard.

“Move, or I blow your guts out on these pink fucking walls.”

Harry supposed that answered one question, at least.

“Keep your pants on, mate. I’m moving.”

With the occasional warning prod of his wand, Red Fox directed him to a hotel room. The wand left Harry’s back, almost convincing him to make a try for something, but a whispered “Alohomora” later, the nagging presence returned.

“In.”

“Have to say,” drawled Harry as he calmly walked through the door, “I didn’t expect the elusive Red Fox to deliver himself to me.”

The reaction was minute, but undeniable. For the slightest of moments, Red Fox froze, before cuffing Harry again. “Don’t know what you’re on about. Shut up.”

Harry allowed a grin before composing himself and turning to face his captor. The codename ‘Red Fox’ was for internal reference only. His captor had just let it slip that he really did have an asset in the Office.

Of course, if Harry’s innards ended up decorating these lovely pastel walls, that would likely be of small comfort.

Red Fox was every bit as tall and imposing as Harry had sensed. A rippling distortion of color covered him from head to toe, obscuring anything but his profile. Curious; if he was going to to such lengths to disguise his identity, it suggested that he might actually intend to let Harry live.

“Sit on the bed,” he ordered.

Harry raised an eyebrow. “Where I’m from, you’ve got to pay up front for that sort of thing.”

This time, Harry detected the faintest sigh of exasperation before Red Fox hit him again and slammed him down on the bed.

“Turn around, face the wall. Wand. Pull it out, slow. Look around, you die. Move too fast, you die. Understood?”

“Aye aye, cap’n,” said Harry, flinching in expectation of another blow. When it didn’t come, he gradually removed his wand, holding it loosely above his hand. Red Fox snatched it, and Harry briefly mourned the loss of the holly’s warmth.

“Turn out your pockets.”

Harry again moved to comply. By this point it was looking pretty certain that Red Fox didn’t actually intend to hurt him. If a prisoner had given Harry the kind of lip he was spouting, he’d be nursing a tooth by now, but Red Fox was pulling his punches. As long as he thought Harry wasn’t a threat to anything but his patience, he’d get lax.

And then he’d find out about Harry’s other wand, the one not even Ron and Hermione knew he still carried.

“Looking for this?” asked Harry, holding the D.A. Galleon between his thumb and forefinger.

Then things happened very quickly.

Red Fox grabbed the coin and shoved Harry, sending him sprawling face-first onto the bed. Heavy footfalls thundered as he sprinted out of the room, followed by a grunt, an incensed feminine shriek, and a clattering tumble.

As Harry rolled off the bed, the Elder Wand shivering eager death in his palm, the oh-so-familiar voice of Romilda Vane cut through the chaos.

“—what the bloody hell you think you’re doing, but let me tell you, you’re getting charged for a full day, and be thankful I’m not calling the L.E.P.—”

Harry dove off the bed just as Vane got a clue that the small giant who had just bowled her over was a touch more sinister than her usual brand of malfeasant. Red Fox shoved her away and cast a Stunning Spell, but Vane suddenly moved like she’d been in the dueling circuit for a decade, dodging it entirely and ensuring she continued to face the maximum possible danger. Red Fox turned around, just in time to see the leveled Elder Wand.

“My turn, fucker. Telum Ignis!”

He was a quick one, that was for sure. Harry’s twisting bolt of flame detonated against a rapidly raised shield, concussive waves of hot air screaming outward. The piercing aspect of the curse continued on, ricocheting off the shield and boring a hole through half a meter of drywall. Maybe Harry was imagining it, but he sensed a bit of surprise from Red Fox. He might be squeamish about taking lives, but Harry had long learned to ignore such compunctions.

“Depulso!” roared Red Fox, the Banishing Charm hitting Harry like a runaway train and blowing him backward into a Vane-shaped tangle. Again, he tried to flee, but Harry was on his feet again.

Sectumsempra!

Red Fox ducked and the curse flew high, smashing a chandelier and pouring streams of glass and burning lamp oil onto Red Fox’s shoulders. He’d nearly made it to a turn in the corridor, but ‘nearly’ didn’t count for much in Harry’s line of work.

Harry twisted, Disapparating and appearing at the end of the corridor, facing Red Fox. He could Disapparate too, but with Harry so near, it would be trivial to follow the lingering wake.

“Surrender,” bellowed Harry, snapping his wrist and sending a lash of flame to collide with a conjured wave of water. The Elder Wand’s might proved itself, and a wash of steam slammed into Red Fox, drawing an audible hiss. Every inch of Harry’s body howled with arcane power and soaring adrenaline. Finally, after months of mind games and being outplayed at every turn, it came to this. Just the way Harry liked it.

Red Fox jabbed his wand and the carpet split and rose up, sprouting thousands of insectoid legs and beginning to crawl along the walls. Harry torched it on principle; spiders were bad enough.

It would be the hard way, then. Harry liked that.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” he purred. “Crucio!”

The Unforgivable—at least, for officially recognized law enforcement—scored only the most glancing of blows, but Red Fox doubled over, clutching himself. Harry stalked forward, sensing blood. Ron was going to get a hell of a kick out of this, or at least the sanitized version. He doubted anyone had caught an international criminal at their Hogwarts reunion before.

Red Fox erupted into motion, showing far less of the Cruciatus’ lingering effects than he should have, twisting and sending a curse directly away from Harry.

Not good.

Without a moment’s hesitation—if he had, he probably would have thought better of it—Harry Disapparated, materializing right in time to catch an eyeful of unpleasant yellow. Prot—

The half-formed shield shattered, weakening the curse but not stopping it. It deflected away from his chest to his arm and slashed an inch-deep gouge instead of amputating it entirely. It still bloody hurt.

Also, Harry now knew what it was like to fall into a pile with Vane for the second time in one day. For a change of pace, this time he got to experience the bottom end of things.

A loud crack rang out, announcing Red Fox’s Disapparition. By the time Harry got back up with the way Vane was clinging to him, he’d be half a dozen jumps away, probably to a stashed Portkey that Harry wouldn’t be able to trace. He’d escaped. For Merlin’s sake, the saving-people-thing had struck again.

A wand lay on the scorched carpet: Harry’s. Wonderful. A smart criminal, and a polite one too.

He leaned back, letting out a groaning sigh. Warm blood was starting to soak his clothes, and the stinging pain was only just getting started. On second thought, he wouldn’t be sharing this little tale with Ron, or anyone else. Except Seamus, if he ever showed up.

Harry briefly considered the possibility that Red Fox had already eliminated him but dismissed it. Seamus was a real butcher in a fight, and while Red Fox might have been able to match him in technical ability, he wouldn’t have stood a chance with the light touch he’d been showing. Even the curse he sent at Vane probably wouldn’t have killed her.

Speaking of which, Vane shifted slightly on top of him, her wide, dark eyes less than an inch from his. She looked disgustingly untraumatized by what really should have been a significant emotional event. “Safe and boring, huh?”

Horrifying images of Witch Weekly headlines loomed large: Office for Special Coordination Actually Clandestine Force of Sexy (and single) War Heroes was perhaps the least objectionable possibility.

Harry twitched, subtly communicating that he would like to get up now. Unfortunately, Vane appeared to have gone temporarily deaf to body language.

“You saved my life, Harry,” she said, coming somehow closer. Maybe it was just his head spinning from the fight, but her voice didn’t sound half as shrill as usual. Her smooth hair tickled his neck, and he shivered involuntarily. At least his lower brain functions had found something more interesting to think about than how much his arm hurt.

“Technically—”

Her lips brushed his.

Fuck it.

The term is ‘misattribution of arousal;’ Harry had an excuse ready made for this latest experiment in romantic misadventures.

His hands slid up Vane’s back, bunching her slippery-smooth blouse. Her scent mingled with the charred carpet, lighting a fire in his chest with every breath. In an instant she was on him like she’d been waiting for two decades straight.

Hopefully that wasn’t literally the case.

“Fuck,” rasped Harry, trailing his hand through her hair and pulling her to him. He swore he could feel her heart pounding, or maybe it was just his.

She pulled back, releasing his lips with a pop and leaving trails of heat as her hands slid up his chest. “You know,” she said, an intoxicating darkness in her voice, “I really should have figured this out when you started going out with Weasley.”

“What’s that?” asked Harry, staring up at her. He really didn’t want to hear about Ginny right now.

A wicked smile spread across her face. “That the only way you’d notice a girl was if you had to fight for her. Fourteen-year-old me could have saved herself a lot of time.”

Harry grunted. “Would have been a better try than the fucking potion.”

“Yes, it would have. But it’s better this way.” She repositioned her thigh, eliciting a surprised hiss. Her fingers dug into his skin, the nails stinging in a way that was impossible to ignore. “I’ve a lot more to offer than back then. And trust me, Harry, so do you.”

This was bad. Some cackling miscreant in his subconsciousness had flicked a switch, and rusted over mental pathways were starting to sing. Cue the trumpet-blasting cupids and falling roses, because he was pretty sure he was looking at the most beautiful thing this side of the equator.

It wasn’t as if Harry were a monk, though over the last few years he’d approached it out of sheer laziness. If he only wanted her, it would be simple, albeit confusing, but Harry just couldn’t do the casual thing. It never failed to end catastrophically, but, seeing the silent laughter behind her eyes, he was starting to think he wanted to give it another try, with Romilda bloody Vane. Very bad.

She was snogging him again, their bodies molded together, and it felt something like flying. But Harry’s inner Hermione had put her spectacles on and was tapping sharply on a blackboard, curiously in time with the pulses of pain from his arm. Vane whined quietly as he pulled away, sliding her hand out from under his robes.

“What’s wrong?”

Harry grimaced and flicked his eyes downward. She followed them and gasped. ‘Vigorous activity’ clearly hadn’t been what the Healer ordered, and the red stain had spread from Harry’s arm to her front in messy patches. She trailed a finger down his arm, so light it didn’t even hurt. “You should have said…”

“It’s not so bad,” said Harry in time-honored masculine tradition. Though, privately, he was feeling a little lightheaded at the sight of so much of his blood. “Er, maybe if you had a bedsheet…”

“A sheet?” Vane gave him a scandalized look at, he hoped, his heroic sense of self-sacrifice, not the possibility of stained linens.

She fiddled with her slightly disheveled clothing and produced her wand from a place that Harry rated as distinctly intriguing. “Take it off. I’m good with healing charms.”

Harry, still mildly traumatized by Gilderoy Lockhart’s ineptitude and painfully aware of the endlessly creative ways healing magic could go wrong when miscast, didn’t argue. Frankly, he’d been sold since ‘take it off.’

Vane helped him stiffly remove his robes and shirt, providing well-timed gasps and winces as the wet cloth slowly peeled from his arm. Harry contributed his well-versed dictionary of profanity.

“Vulnera Sanentur,” she whispered. Harry barely stopped himself from flinching away. He knew almost nothing about healing spells, mostly because he didn’t trust himself not to fuck them up. But that was definitely not considered an introductory-level charm.

Remarkably, it seemed to be working, the parted flesh slowly drawing together as Vane trailed the tip of her wand back and forth over the wound. Harry bit down on his tongue; it burned worse than the curse.

“I did some healing training after Hogwarts,” said Vane, flashing a smile that gave her adorably cute dimples. “It was really boring, though. Everyone had accidentally cursed themselves or fallen off a broom or something… nothing brave like this.”

“There,” she declared, her hand lingering on Harry’s forearm, where there wasn’t so much as a scar. He blinked; he’d almost forgotten she was doing something.

“Harry…”

“Yeah?”

“Did you get this because of me?”

“Well—yeah. But don’t worry—”

“Harry,” she gasped, eyes widening. “That’s so romantic.”

With the way she kissed him after that, Harry was pretty sure someone had finally hit on the mythical formula to get him to stop underselling his injuries. He’d have to write Poppy, for old time’s sake.

On second thought, perhaps not.

Entwined, they rose to their feet, stumbling back until Harry’s head banged on the doorframe. Vane giggled. He cursed and reluctantly disentangled himself.

“Fuck the refreshments,” she whispered. “Let’s get out of here.”

Harry squeezed his eyes tightly shut, waging an internal argument. “Can’t,” he said. “Work to do.”

“Oh,” she mouthed, leaning in until gooseflesh broke out on Harry’s neck under her hot breath. “I think I like that.”

Turned out bad could get worse after all.

Fortunately, Vane had accumulated a small stockpile of clothing left by forgetful guests and managed to find something that would fit him. Blood was murder on cleaning charms, and Harry didn’t fancy trying to avoid starting a fuss while looking like he’d stumbled blindly through an abattoir.

Vane changed, too. Harry was starting to regret having to bring Red Fox in. From a slightly distorted perspective, the man had done him quite a favor.

~(·)~​

Harry returned to the courtyard to see the sun had set in his absence. Vane, humoring him by leaving a few minutes later, blew a kiss and whispered, “Good luck.” Harry grinned. He’d probably regret this by morning, but damn it was a nice change to find a witch who didn’t hate his work.

“Harry! Shit, Harry!”

He snapped around, reflexively reaching not for holly but elder. Seeing who had called, he slowly withdrew his hand, blinking in surprise. He must be more off-balance than he realized.

“Where you hell have you been, Seamus?” he said in an undertone, setting a quick pace for a dark area under the veranda. A vaguely recognizable woman loitering there took one look at his expression and vacated the area.

Seamus swallowed, breathing heavily and rolling his shoulder with a wince. “Malfoy,” he said coldly.

“What the hell does Malfoy have to do with anything?”

“He’s here. No, listen—seriously, mate, listen. I was thinking, right, about the coin you found, and it was getting to me. Don’t much like the thought that someone I fought with could be on the other side now, you know? And you know me; I like to have a good think before getting down on the ground, get some idea where I’m going to look. Who not to turn my back too. Right?”

Harry slowly nodded.

“But here’s the thing. It doesn’t add up. I got here and took a look around, and fuck me but everyone and their mother was already there and none of them looked like they were shitting themselves scared that Harry bloody Potter was coming to blow ‘em away. And I still didn’t buy that someone from the D.A. could be our man anyway. So I started thinking about who else could have got their hands on one of those coins.”

He scratched the back of his neck, shaking his head. “ ‘s not something you’d think of, seeing as you weren’t at Hogwarts by then, but once Dumbledore’s Army got to be a real nuisance for Snape and his scum, they started doing anything they could to catch someone with one of those coins. Mostly we were bright enough to stop carrying ‘em, but you know—teenagers. Geniuses, the lot of us. I know they nabbed at least a few, and most never got found after the war ended.”

Both his eyebrows slowly crawled up, heavy implication entering his voice. “I figure it was the junior filth interested in keeping that sort of thing. The Slytherins more than the Carrows. So I expanded my search a bit, to anyone who thought wearing black robes and a mask was a good idea.

“And what do you fuckin’ know? There’s Malfoy, standing like he’s getting buggered by a Hippogriff, and he’s talking to this eerie bloke with a grayed-out face who looked like he’d walked straight out of goddamn Grindelwald’s day. Then they left, took a nice and romantic stroll on the beach. I gave ‘em a tail.”

“Alone?”

“You weren’t there,” said Seamus. “What was I supposed to do?”

“Fine. What happened?”

“Don’t know.” He spat on the grass. “They had a nice chat I couldn’t listen in on without risking them catching me. Then they both Disapparated. I thought they might come back to that spot, so I waited for a bit. But then I thought about what they might have Disapparated to do, so I came back here. I reckon you’ve got to watch yourself, mate. Merlin knows what Malfoy might try.”

Harry snorted. “Bit late for that one. I had a minor altercation with a disguised fellow, say, fifteen minutes ago.”

“Shit. I should have been here. You hurt?”

“I’m fine,” replied Harry. He looked off into the distance, brow furrowing. “He was tough. Shook off a Cruciatus, though my aim was a bit shit. Not what I usually think of when I picture Malfoy.”

“Don’t forget, there were two,” said Seamus. “I got the sense that Malfoy wasn’t exactly wearing the trousers in that relationship, if you catch my drift. Could be the other one came after you.”

“Maybe…” Harry couldn’t deny that Seamus’ theory was the best they had, but something about it felt a little artificial. Malfoy was a prick, but he was also a coward. Red Fox’s game wasn’t for the faint of heart. But maybe if he’d been pulled into it by a more dominant partner who convinced him it was an easy way to restore his family’s fortune…

A pleasant shiver ran down Harry’s back as something clicked. Red Fox went out of his way not to kill anyone. Malfoy always had been squeamish when it came to following through.

“It was him,” said Harry, voice like iron. “Smarmy shit even hung around afterward, smirked at me just a minute ago. I think I’ll go pay him a friendly visit in the spirit of the reunion. Care to come along?”

Seamus shook his head hurriedly. “No, don’t. We move on Malfoy, we might lose his partner, who clearly was the one in charge. This is bigger than the Muggles stealing weapons from each other. If the Office is compromised, we can’t pass up a chance to pull everything out by the root.”

“That’s…” Harry grunted irritably. Seamus was right. You couldn’t make things personal in this business. “Fine. We’ll watch him. You have contact with any of your tactical team?”

“Way ahead of you. Hammer’s ready to drop; just give the word. But, y’know, ideally we don’t have to pull that sort of thing domestically. Especially here. So on that note… might be better if you let me keep an eye on Malfoy.”

Harry snorted. “Not bloody likely. He knows we’re after him. Splitting up’s a bad play.”

Seamus jabbed a finger into his palm. “That’s exactly why we have to. He knows you’re after him. He probably doesn’t know a damn thing about me. So if he stops seeing you going around taking note of D.A. members, he’s going to know you’re looking for him in particular. And then he really will go yellow and drop off the Earth, bad-news partner or not. Personally, I don’t feel like tromping through the Amazon looking for some damned bellend. Again.”

Harry compulsively moved to wipe imaginary sweat from his brow. That hadn’t been a pleasant month. As he had quickly learned, both he and Seamus were such abominable campfire cooks that it made the Horcrux hunt look like a luxury. He nodded.

“We’ll do it your way, then. But the moment anything looks even the slightest bit off, we move in, subtle or not. I know it’s only Malfoy, but he’s more dangerous than he looks. Don’t forget what he pulled off at sixteen.”

Seamus smirked and saluted mockingly. “Yes sir. Enjoy the party.”

“You know what?” Harry laughed briefly. “I think I actually am.”

~(·)~​

Just minutes later, a bang like a gunshot nearly sent Harry diving for the nearest hedge, but as a curtain of red and gold spread across the sky, it became clear that this was far more insidious a threat than a mere attempt on his life.

CELEBRATING TWENTY YEARS OF POTTER – REMEMBER TO THANK OUR BELOVED SOCIALITE HERO!

Unlike the pyrotechnics of lesser wizards, Weasley Portable Programmable Sky Communiques did not go out with the bang. The glowing letters lingered in the sky, utterly washing out the charmed lanterns that had taken to bouncing around the courtyard to provide a warm and atmospheric light.

This did not particularly please Harry.

“Ron,” he said, dropping a hand on his old friend’s shoulder from behind. Ron jumped like he’d seen a spider, a slightly nervous expression settling over his face. Harry gave him a friendly, reassuring smile.

Harry stuck a thumb up at the sky. “Did you know about this?”

“No,” said Ron, putting his hand to his mouth. “The horror—such impudence! Who would do such a thing?”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Merlin, Ron, your timing…”

“Come on, Harry,” said Neville, arm in arm with Hannah Abbott and looking positively dapper in black and red dress robes. “You have to admit it’s rather funny. And pertinent; you have gained something of an, ah, reputation for reclusion.”

“This is a Hogwarts Reunion,” argued Harry, feeling like a barrister with a hopeless case. “It’s about everybody from those days. This—display—is distracting from that.”

Hannah tittered. “Just face it. Twenty-seven years, and I think you’re still holding out hope that people will forget your name one of these days. It’s so cute that you think anyone is actually here for a graduation that never happened.” Her eyes flicked behind him, sparkling under the continuous fireworks. “On that note, you might want to start running, Mr. Privacy.”

Slowly, Harry turned around. A small but growing crowd of snickering comedians was approaching, alternating between pointing at the sky and Harry. Tempting as Hannah’s suggestion was, he stood his ground.

The idea was to avoid spooking Malfoy by looking too competent. Making a prat of himself in front of his old classmates certainly fit the bill.

~(·)~​

Malfoy was watching him. That was all right; as long as his eyes were on Harry, he wouldn’t see Seamus coming.

Malfoy, casually seated on a bench, smirked and looked away, saying something to his wife and pointing up at the sky, which was only now beginning to return to its natural illumination. He stood up, said something else, and strolled off in the direction of the hotel, cool as ice. Harry’s eyelid twitched. That wasn’t the Malfoy he knew. And why the hell had he dragged his wife into this?

By the time his supposed friends got through with embarrassing him, at least half an hour had passed and Seamus was nowhere to be seen. That was reassuring, he supposed, since clandestinely tailing Malfoy would be very difficult if Harry could spot him whilst distracted by Ginny’s acerbic comments on how noble it had been for him to throw himself into his Auror work to such an extent that she had occasionally forgotten she was actually married.

Ouch.

“Going well?” murmured Vane, brushing against him and disguising the motion by offering a tray of champagne glasses. Harry took one but didn’t drink. He was pretty sure his thinking already wasn’t as clear as it should be.

Harry’s lips twitched, and he answered out of the corner of his mouth without looking at her. “That’s classified.”

“Merlin,” she said. “That must be some boring diplomacy you get up to. I bet you keep a lot of secrets, don’t you?”

“A few.”

“Mm. And do they teach you what to do if someone tries to pry them out of you? If so, I think they needn’t have bothered. I can’t imagine anything breaking you.”

Harry arched an eyebrow, not sure where she was leading to. She licked a drop of champagne off her lips and leaned very close, whispering.

“I wonder how you’d fare against other means of persuasion.”

Harry choked out a cough. Then his eyes bulged and he hurriedly stepped to the side.

“What?” said Vane. Then, like she had smelled something unfortunate: “Oh.”

Hermione waved to Harry and brushed an unruly strand of hair out of her face. She looked slightly pink, like she’d been running. Or maybe shouting.

“Just so you know, Harry, I had no idea they were planning that, and I am going to have long talk with Ron and George about it. It’s just insensitive, and not remotely as funny as they seem to think. And they wonder why you aren’t around more often, I swear…”

Her gaze slid away from Harry and turned cool and flinty. “Hello, Vane.”

“Hi, Hermione,” chirped Vane, laying so much fake sweetness into the words that they practically hurt the ears.

Hermione pursed her lips very tightly. Harry wasn’t sure whether he should laugh or make himself scarce, but he cleared his throat and smoothly said, “Vane was just telling me how some madman started throwing around curses in the hotel. Almost burned it down, I hear. Some people really don’t know how to be proper guests.”

Vane snorted, stifling laughter.

“Harry—” Hermione tsked. “You’re not working right now. Let her call the Ministry if she’s worried. Come with me?”

“Actually,” said Harry quickly, sensing Vane about to throw a barb, “I was wondering if I could ask you something about what we talked about earlier?”

Her brow crinkled and she sighed. “Not the Galleon again. Why’s it so important, anyway?”

“He didn’t tell you?” said Vane. “Interesting.”

“Tell me what?”

“Later,” said Harry. “Please, later. I just need to know anything you might remember about D.A. coins that were taken by Death Eaters.

“What?” asked Hermione, looking baffled. A familiar expression of skepticism came over her. “Why are you asking me this?”

“It’s—” Harry bit his tongue; nothing for it. “It’s a work thing.”

“Harry—what did I tell you about the importance of a healthy work-life balance?”

“I think it’s admirable that he works so hard,” interjected Vane. “Whatever he’s doing.”

Harry cringed. “Look, I’m sorry for bringing it up, but I’ve been banging my head against this for ages, and I don’t know anyone who might remember this stuff better than you. It’s not anything major. Safe. Almost more of a personal interest than a work thing. Like a hobby,” he added, inspiration striking him.

“Well…” Hermione appeared mollified, for the time being. “I don’t know how much help I can be. I was pretty sure all the coins were recovered after the war. It was a pretty big win for Kingsley’s administration, wasn’t it?”

“What? But that would mean…”

Something hot coiled around his heart and squeezed.

Malfoy.

“Hermione,” he said, the words sharp and clipped. “Make sure no one enters the hotel. I don’t care how.”

Vane shivered, stars in her eyes. Hermione was less enthused.

“Harry? Care to explain?”

“There’s no time. Romilda, I need you with me.”

She gasped and latched onto his arm, clearly not intending to let go. His inner Hermione was tapping at her blackboard again, but he ignored her. His arm didn’t seem to mind Vane there.

The real Hermione let them go without further argument, repeatedly mouthing, “Romilda?” in utter stupefaction.

~(·)~​

“What’s happening?” asked Vane through slightly labored breaths. It took her a step and a half to match Harry’s one, but he didn’t think that was the real cause. She exuded an aura of eagerness that poignantly reminded him of training junior Aurors.

They stopped in the reception area. Every lamp was dark, and a slight chill was in the air. A tall standing clock ticked away against a wall. Old instincts arose in Harry’s mind, his nerves going taught like musical strings. They were not alone here.

“I can’t be certain,” said Harry grimly. “But if I’m right, nothing good. The secrecy charms on this place, are you exempt?”

“Yes, I think so. I’ve never tested it, though.”

“Good. Do you know the spell to find anyone inside with us?”

She gave a nervous, downward smile. “Guess we’ll find out. Homenum Revelio!”

A moment passed with Vane’s face tightened in concentration before she pumped a fist and lowered her wand. “I saw it! To the left, maybe seven rooms down, on the right side. I’m sure.”

“One person or two?”

“Two.”

Relief crashed over Harry. If he’d been too late, his own preconceptions would have doomed an innocent—well, mostly—man. Without hurry, he slid his hand into his robes and drew the Elder Wand. It shuddered in his palm.

“Nicely done.” He rolled his shoulders, bracing himself for what he suspected was to come. It wasn’t the duel that bothered him. It was what would come after. “Stay here, all right?”

“Wait,” said Vane. She stood on her toes and kissed him for several long seconds, leaving him with a spinning head and a lingering impression bitter and sweet. “Good luck.”

A crooked smile crossed Harry’s face, lingering for only a moment. Maybe not everything had gone wrong tonight after all.

He crept down the hallway, listening at each door before finding the right one. The doors were thick and muffling, for reasons Harry chose not to speculate about, so he couldn’t make out the words. But he could guess the gist of it, and the weighty presence of an anti-Apparition Jinx confirmed it.

For a moment, he hesitated. He’d been chasing his own tail since he found that damn coin—what if he was playing one step further into Red Fox’s plan? Should he take a more a more cautious approach?

He briefly considered that. Contemplated, even. Then shook his head.

“Nah.”

“Bombarda!” he roared, a column of crackling yellow light streaking from the Elder Wand and blasting the door to so many splinters.

The best counter to a superior plan, Harry found, was superior violence.

He strode across the burning shards of wood, his robes flaring as the heated interior air rushed outward. He flicked the Wand, and bits of wood rose from the ground, swirling about him and sharpening into slender silver needles.

Malfoy and Seamus faced each other, wands drawn, and alternated between staring each other down and casting nervous glances at Harry. He arched an eyebrow. “Surprised to see me again, Red Fox?”

Seamus grinned broadly, but the hint of nerves didn’t fade from his eyes. “Great timing, mate. He’s a wily one. Don’t know how he caught me, but he’s going down now.”

Malfoy’s eyes bulged, and drops of spit flew as he shouted. “What the blithering fuck are you talking about, you deranged fool? I haven’t done anything. Potter, he tricked me in here and tried to curse me in the back. Arrest him immediately!”

“Arrest?” Seamus chuckled darkly. “Hate to break it to you, friend, but Harry’s not an Auror anymore. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you—Red Fox?”

“Are you Confunded? Do I look like a fox to you?”

Seamus jabbed his wand, and Malfoy’s expression flinched, transforming into a molten glare when no curse flew. Seamus laughed.

A bang issued from Harry’s wand. “Enough. There’s no point in denial. The game’s up.”

“That’s right, slimeball,” said Seamus. “Now, shall we—”

“Incarcerous,” said Harry calmly, looping his wand through a textbook motion. Malfoy raised his wand, pale fury etched on his face as twisting iron chains streamed from Harry’s wand—

Straight at Seamus. Red Fox, rather. He didn’t even see them coming.

Malfoy’s jaw dropped, and he looked incredulously between Potter and Seamus, who was entangled on the floor and shouting profanity. Then he threw his hands in the air, pocketed his wand, and started for the door.

“You owe me a favor, Potter,” he hissed as he passed Harry. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but it stinks and you’re involved. If you don’t want the Prophet hearing what their gilded hero does behind closed doors, you’ll keep that in mind.”

Harry snorted derisively but let him have the last word. Malfoy was vindictive, not stupid. He’d be reasonable.

“Really, Seamus?” said Harry quietly, once Malfoy had left. “Treachery goes without saying, but to forget something like your damn D.A. coin? To even have it on you as Red Fox? I thought I taught you better than that.”

“What’s wrong with you? Malfoy—”

“Drop the act.” Harry’s voice was like a whip, and Seamus cringed beneath it. “I know you lied about the D.A. coins. It wasn’t a bad try, and once you murdered Malfoy no one would question your story. But you should never have let me live once you had my wand.”

With that, something faded from Seamus’ eyes and the fight went out of him. He slumped, limp, to the floor, utterly expressionless.

“Didn’t know you had a second wand. Never even saw it before.”

“The privilege is reserved for my enemies.”

He snorted without humor. “ ‘s a cold way to put it.”

Harry’s nostrils flared and he reached down, knotting his fist in Seamus’ collar to drag him up and shove him against the wall. “Fuck you.”

“Real mature—”

Harry slammed him back again, and he grunted as his head bounced off the wall. “It was you all along? Months of work, endless setbacks since every time I got a lead I bounced it off the target himself? Do you have any idea what kind of damage you’ve done? When the Americans learn that it wasn’t just a Brit who stole their precious blueprints but that he was on our damn payroll—for what, gold? Do I even have to tell you how pathetic that is?”

Seamus smirked. “Sounds like you’ve got everything figured out. Almost, anyway. But it wasn’t ever about the money for me.”

“What, then?”

“Mostly spite, I reckon. Probably should have occurred to you stiffs that press-ganging petty crooks into your little spy game wasn’t a great way of getting long-term loyalty.”

“I can’t say I’d describe what you did as petty. And considering the alternative was Azkaban, a little more gratitude would be warranted,” said Harry, pocketing Seamus’ wand. He flicked the Elder Wand, and a gold coin zoomed out of Seamus’ pocket into his hand. He checked the serial; it was the D.A. coin. “I’ll have this back.”

Seamus eyed the coin. “ ‘s not that I wasn’t grateful to you, mate,” he said. “Like you said, I was Azkaban-bound. But that was bullshit. There were guys who did ten times what I did who walked. I was in the right place and knew the wrong people, and that was enough for them. So fuck the Ministry, I said to meself, and fuck Britain. If they say I’m crooked, I’ll show ‘em what crooked looks like.”

A sudden fire filled him, and he grinned toothily. “And the bloody idiots went and trained me and told me where I could find all sorts of things I shouldn’t know about. And I led quite a merry chase, didn’t I? They were idiots to trust me.”

Harry regarded him silently, disgust settling in his gut. At Seamus or himself, he wasn’t sure. Both. “They trusted you because of me. Thanks for paying me back.”

“Nothing personal, mate.”

Harry nodded slowly, considering. “Fair enough. This, however, is.”

“Wait, the coin’s—”

He clenched his free hand into a fist and drove it up into Seamus’ chin. Restrained by the chains, he wasn’t able to move with the blow, and his head jerked back violently. Harry released his grip on his robes, and Seamus collapsed to the ground, landing awkwardly on his shoulder. Before he could collect himself, Harry slashed his wand and sent him the rest of the way into unconsciousness.

He gave the wrecked room a final look. He was going to have to find some way to bill this as an expense, ideally without explaining the details. The Minister always got squeamish about operations on home soil.

Red Fox was in chains; Malfoy was alive and thriving, judging by his instant inclination to blackmail his rescuer. But nothing about this felt like a victory. It had been a long time since someone got close enough to Harry to betray him.

A faint exhalation from just outside the room caught Harry’s attention, and the Elder Wand flashed up like a startled snake. Then he groaned; he really shouldn’t be surprised.

He crept out of room silently, rolling his feet with each step. Vane, in what he was beginning to consider characteristic fashion, was crouching in the hallway with her ear pressed to the wall and her eyes closed in transfixed concentration. She frowned and shook her head, brushing her hair away from her ear. Then she paused.

Slowly, she opened her eyes, blushing slightly but with a challenging tilt to her jaw. “What happened?”

Harry fought back a smile. “Can’t you tell me?”

“No,” she said, sulkily. “The walls have muffling charms. But I did see Draco Malfoy leave before you. Do I need to be jealous?”

“That’s a mental image,” he muttered. “It’s all right. Probably better you didn’t hear any details. But it’s resolved.”

“Good.” She walked over and slid her arms behind his back, resting her head in his neck. He sensed her glance at the splinters and dust that had billowed out into the hall, and she sniffed. “You’re lucky you got on my good side. Did I tell you about the guy with the Lithuanian vampire blood?”

Harry chuckled. “You know,” he murmured, “I’m going to have to wrap all this up later. But I think it can afford to wait.”

Vane shivered and looked up at him. “Good. I’ve had enough waiting.”

As Harry leaned down to kiss her, the pendulum clock in the lobby struck the hour and a strange tug yanked at his midsection.

~(·)~​

Halfway through nowhere, Harry plunged his hand into his pocket and flung away the D.A. Galleon as if it were heated red. A strangled grunt escaped him as a sensation that wasn’t quite like movement suddenly came to an abrupt and unwelcome halt, and something warm and shifting rushed up to slam into him face-first. Muffled complaints streamed from his mouth until he eventually worked up the motivation to roll over, blinking blearily.

The night air was warm, humid, and faintly flavored with salt.

He was lying on a long and thin stretch of beach extending in two directions, the pearly sand bright under the gibbous moon. Thick foliage began where the beach ended, impenetrable and dark. Turbulent waves broke over damp sand and broke, leaving trails of foam as it receded.

Harry had absolutely no idea where he was. Worse, since he’d separated from the Portkey before arriving, there was no way to tell how near or far he might be from its intended destination. If he had taken a second or two to think he might have realized that it almost certainly led only to one of Seamus’ safe houses, and that with Seamus trussed up like a hog the greatest threat would be from a displeased Vane.

Galvanized, he scrambled to his feet, brushing loose sand off his robes. He appeared to be alone. Cursing profusely, he drew his holly wand and traced it through the air.

Homenum Revelio.

He waited for many seconds, even long after he knew that if the charm was going to reveal anything it would have. With outward calm, he put away his wand, working his jaw this way and back.

Was it possible that Vane hadn’t been brought with him? It wasn’t likely. Most Portkeys transported anything the holder was in contact with, and he’d been in rather closer proximity with her than the typical standard for Portkey travel. So if she wasn’t back there, and she wasn’t here, that meant she was separated from him when Harry interrupted the Portkey.

He couldn’t Apparate away without figuring out where he was first. Apparating from an unknown location across an unknown distance over an unknown quantity of water was a recipe for Splinching so severe that all the healers in Mungo’s wouldn’t be able to put Humpty Dumpty back together. If he could find the Galleon, he could probably figure out how to invert it, but Merlin knew where it ended up. Hopefully with Vane.

The situation wouldn’t be improved by him bemoaning it. Turning, he vanished with a sharp report and reappeared somewhere further down the beach, then repeated it again and once more. If Vane had wound up on this island—he assumed it was an island; Seamus liked the tropics—she would hopefully end up on the beach sooner or later.

He still felt like kicking himself for not recognizing the Portkey Charm beneath the Protean on the coin. Then again, Hermione hadn’t either, and she was better at that sort of thing than he would ever be. At least the night couldn’t possibly get worse from here.

~(·)~​

Harry was a massive idiot for tempting fate.

From a silver-lined point of view, he had at least located Vane. Unfortunately, he hadn’t been the first. Unless she had tied herself palm tree—and he wasn’t sure if he’d be surprised if she had—Seamus’ Malfoy narrative hadn’t been entirely fictional. Red Fox had a partner, and there was every reason to think he wouldn’t be happy.

When he first caught sight of Vane, tied with her arms above her head to the trunk and by her legs too, he almost charged across the open to reach her, caution be damned. But he had matured ever so slightly since his teenage years and the enemies he dealt with were a hell of a lot more conniving than giant snakes or delusional snake-men. Nearly two decades in fields suitable for the unsuited to ordinary life had a way of ensuring that lesson was learned.

Mainly because otherwise one wouldn’t make it to one decade.

Next to her was a circle of crudely carved runes. He hadn’t the foggiest what they were meant to do, but he wagered they were where the Portkey was supposed to deposit any passengers and would disable them long enough for whoever was out here to decide if they were problems or not. Score one for pitching the damn thing.

He cast another search charm, saw only Vane, and began to very cautiously advance, still staying along the treeline. Fortunately, the beach itself was devoid of palms, so he wouldn’t have to expose himself too badly to reach her.

She must have worked one leg free at some point, minus a shoe, and was presently kicking at the ropes around her wrists in an applaudable display of flexibility. It wasn’t likely to work, but he could appreciate the effort. And the flexibility.

A gust of cool wind blew, flapping Harry’s robes and sending Vane’s hair into her face. She shook her head like a damp cat, and when that failed, tried to blow the hair away. Despite the circumstances, Harry cracked a smile.

Once he was close enough that he could have brushed it away for her, he dismissed his Disillusionment Charm and stepped out from the forest’s concealment, fronds rustling in his wake. His fingers tensed around the Elder Wand; waves broke over the beach in a low rush.

Vane gasped when she saw him, her eyes widening to reveal some of the bleariness very strong Stunning Spells tended to leave. Words tumbled out of her mouth in an ungainly rush. “There was some sort of Portkey, Harry,” she said, dropping her kicking leg back to the sand. “And he was waiting—he wasn’t very happy to see me instead of you, you know—and he kept asking questions about you, but I started going on and on about how amazing you are and how exciting all this was, and that sort of thing. So then he tied me up and left.”

Harry choked back an eruption of laughter. He’d heard it theorized about once or twice, but he’d never met anyone who actually managed to escape an interrogation by pretending to be such a massive airhead that their captor gave up for the sake of their sanity.

“Right then,” he said, and rapped the Elder Wand firmly on the thickly knotted ropes around Vane’s wrists. “Relashio!”

Immediately the ropes sprang to life, thrashing and writhing in their haste to loosen themselves. But no more than halfway through, they had a change of heart and promptly retied themselves even tighter. Vane shifted uncomfortably.

“Harry—”

He’d stuck the Elder Wand between his teeth and set about undoing the knots by hand. Odds were he could break whatever enchantment was on them, but he wouldn’t risk the slight chance of tripping some sort of trap in the process while they were still wrapped around Vane. He wasn’t exactly an expert with knots, and every fumble brought an unreasonably strong stab of irritation. He glanced over his shoulder repeatedly, mumbling under his breath.

“—going to get out of here. Merlin, I shouldn’t have got you into this—”

“Harry—”

“—Patronus might take an hour or two to reach anyone, but we should be able to wait inland until then—”

“Harry!”

Her tone of voice, not nearly so distraught as could reasonably be expected, but urgent, finally broke though his fog of frustration. Harry looked up from the knots. “Vane?”

“He did something,” she said, very quickly. “To the ropes. I don’t know what, but—”

Harry’s stomach lurched with sudden realization, and he let go of Vane’s wrists, which she pulled down, free from the tree but not each other, and he spun around and raised the Elder Wand—

Protego!

A crack sounded, and a tall man with a face obscured in magical darkness appeared, a flash of killing green light already streaking from his wand, directly at where he had known Harry would be. His Shield Charm was useless, but Harry hadn’t lived this long for nothing. He twitched the Wand, and the shield turned a frosty blue. Ice coated it just a second before the Killing Curse’s impact, shattering in a burst of green fire.

Vane had the sense to stumble away, still dragging a mess of ropes from one foot, and roll down an embankment into the forest. Harry’s adversary hesitated ever so slightly, as if suddenly less confident. It said something that he knew enough to fear a fair fight with Harry bloody Potter.

“Tough luck,” said Harry. “You’ve been screwed by your partner. Funny thing is, he did the same to me. Maybe this doesn’t have to fall all on your shoulders. You want to put that wand down and live another day?”

The man shook his head. “No, I think even certain death really would be preferable. You see, you spend enough time on the other end of the interrogation room and you start to—”

His accent was American. If Harry had a longer beard, he would have stroked it. He had a wild suspicion that fact was relevant.

The Elder Wand twitched, and he cleared his throat. “Finite Incantatem!”

The man jerked back as his disguise fell away under the Elder Wand’s supreme command, but he eventually shrugged and donned an expression of sardonic amusement. If Harry was here it meant Seamus had failed to get the coin off him—now Harry knew Seamus’ urgency had been for more reason than just the coin’s ability to tie him to Red Fox—and if Seamus had been captured, his partner’s identity was burned. There wasn’t any point hiding now.

“Oh, you son of a bitch,” said Harry, shaking his head and chuckling. “And after all your comments about us having a leak in our program! You were assigned to your own case!”

Not-Snape, Seamus’ erstwhile partner in crime, bared his teeth. “Should have known this would bite me. Your Finnigan must be soft in the head. Leaving something like that coin behind when I tipped him off hours in advance and then fucking around instead of putting a knife in your back… Maybe he wanted to be caught. Is he dead?”

“No,” said Harry.

“A shame.”

Harry flicked his gaze to the man’s wand, a curved and dark thing, and then to where he last saw Vane to ensure she was still clear. He sighed.

“You’re not going to put that down, are you?”

Not-Snape—Harry really wished he remembered the man’s proper name now—sneered. “Avada Kedavra!”

“Accio!”

A curtain of sand arose from the beach like a grasping arm, swallowing the Killing Curse with a damp whumph. A twist of the Elder Wand narrowed it into a long arc as thin as a cutting blade, the grains of sand circling up and down its length so quickly it appeared solid.

Mirroring the motion of Harry’s arm, the tendril lashed out with a supersonic crack, grinding itself to powder on a vivid amber shield. The American—that was a better term, at least—reeled back, wiping a thin film of sand from his eyes. Firmly, but without hurry, Harry thrust forward with the Wand.

Malleus!

A spherical distortion of space flashed across the space between them, striking the American somewhere about the ribs and folding him onto himself with a muffled grunt of pain. He fell to his knees, clutching his torso with one hand and holding himself off the sand with another. It was done.

A very out of place sound emanated from the forest. At first Harry thought it must be some sort of exotic bird, until Vane stuck her head out, sarcastically applauding with only her fingers. She flashed an impolite gesture at the American, but Harry was afraid he wouldn’t get that particular message. The finer points of nonverbal communication were lost on the poor sods.

Harry rolled his eyes up to the sky, weariness starting to set in as the night’s steadily growing adrenaline high plunged away. At least he hadn’t had to kill anyone this time. That was always a minor—

“Harry, he’s doing something!” yelped Vane.

Harry moved on instinct, bringing the Elder Wand around just as the American pulled something from his robes and threw it. It arced through the air in something like slow motion, and Harry got a distinct picture of a bulbous glass vial filled with a transparent liquid before his Banishing Charm ripped outward, catching the vial midair and flinging it backward…

Right into its thrower. Damn it. Getting off this island just got a lot more complicated.

The American tried to move, but his injured ribs made him sluggish and the glass shattered on his shoulder. A furious flare erupted, lashing white flames curling out and around him like devilish fingers, half between insubstantial heat and something uncannily solid. Harry looked away, screwing his eyes shut against the sudden brilliance that brought the sun’s light without its warmth. It lingered for long seconds, a menacing, throbbing red blob on the other side of Harry’s eyelids. He tentatively cracked an eye open once it seemed to fade, and then the other.

A smear of blackened sand marred the otherwise picturesque beach. Otherwise, there wasn’t even the slightest sign of the other man. Harry’s shoulders twitched involuntarily as his skin prickled. That had been far too close.

He walked over and prodded the sand, which wasn’t even warm. Whatever had been in that bottle, it didn’t stick to tradition when it came to ignition.

“Harry?” said Vane, walking over, her voice cracking slightly. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” Harry licked his lips, looking for the right thing to say and coming up empty. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“That’s good,” she said faintly. She looked from Harry to the charred sand and back. “He’s dead.”

“Very.”

“Wow.” There was silence for a moment, and then she pointed at the black spot. “What’s that?”

Harry frowned. A small and colorful object was half submerged in the dark sand, itself unburnt. He knelt and picked it up, snorting in a moment of dark amusement. “It’s his damn cigarettes. Not even a cinder of him, but these things made it through without a scratch.”

Taken by morbid fancy, he flipped open the packet and pulled out one of the cigarettes. After today, he’d right well earned it. Besides, it wasn’t like Hermione was going to find out what he did on a remote island of all places.

He lit it with his wand and savored a deep inhalation, the night’s tension finally draining out of him with it. Vane slipped up alongside him and took it from his fingers, drawing a breath from it herself. She gave it back, but before he could do anything with it she pulled him down into a kiss. He tensed slightly, a touch put off by the proximity of the… well, body wasn’t exactly the right word…

“Thanks for coming to get me, Harry,” she said in a slightly hoarse voice, like smoke and honey.

“Well, seeing as it’s sort of my fault—”

She pulled back. “Harry? Don’t ruin the moment.”

“Right. Sorry… Romilda.”

She smiled, and he felt her whole body shake. “What?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing.” She wiped a mirthful tear away from her eye, still giggling to herself. “I just realized that my fourteen-year-old fantasies of going out with you actually underestimated the reality of it.”

“Well,” said Harry a touch acidly, “I’ll have you know this isn’t exactly a characteristic example of how I usually aim to spend a night with a beautiful—”

She kissed him again, not laughing now. He drew her to him and flicked away the cigarette, watching the faint arc of orange out of the corner of his eyes. Slowly, he closed them.

A score of Apparition cracks rang out like a cooking-off stockpile of Weasley fireworks, and suddenly they weren’t nearly so alone anymore. Harry wrenched himself away from Vane, drew his wand, and despaired when he realized he couldn’t curse his way out of this one.

“—enough—bloody fuck, I told you I’d get ya here, you—” Seamus, a wand firmly jabbed into his back, broke off his diatribe and stared open-mouthed at Harry. “Er, mate?”

Hermione, letting go of Seamus’ hand like it was toxic, had instantly zeroed in on the discarded cigarette, but that was soon forgotten when her eyes fell on Harry and Romilda. A thousand expressions and emotions Harry could barely imagine let alone understand flashed over her, before settling on something between discovering incontrovertible proof of the existence of Heliopaths and seeing a pet die.

What felt like half of the old D.A. members had joined the impromptu ‘rescue’ mission, with varying degrees of seriousness and sobriety. Notably, Ron looked mostly confused, Neville amused, and Katie like a higher power had descended to Earth and blessed her with ribbing material for the next decade.

It really was one of those days.