Harry Potter and the Thunderstruck Muggles

Apparition could certainly be called a nice method of travelling, pretty quick and easy. It showed just one slight drawback - you had to know your destination.

Harry didn't know Santa Monica, which was not surprising since he didn't know California, and this could be easily explained with the fact that he didn't know the United States at all - well, yes, with the exception of Miami Linkport.

Studying maps, the first thing Harry learned was that even Saturday at noon would have been early enough for finding Cho's letter. The time difference from London to Santa Monica spanned eight hours, in the positive direction - he would win this time, only the maps showed it with negative numbers, just to confuse the unexperienced traveller.

He had a leisurely breakfast in The Burrow, which was followed by an Apparition jump to Hogwarts. Harry had no real appointment with Samantha; on the other hand, she would expect him, so it felt too impolite not to tell her.

Samantha wasn't in her hut, once known as Hagrid's hut, until a living person had started to paint old memories over. Harry looked for a piece of parchment, paper, grocery bag - anything to leave a note. There wasn't any, and under its new owner, the hut was too clean for writing in the dust.

About to walk into the school building, Harry's eyes fell onto an old plank in the corner, and he knew at once how to write the message - just what a Texas woman, raised on a ranch, would expect.

He grinned, remembering Flitwick's lessons about the practical spells for the household and otherwise. The tiny wizard, lying in a grave nearby, would have been proud of him:

"Flagracies."

The glowing tip of Harry's wand burned the writing into the dry wood as quickly as a quill would go over parchment.

He draped the plank over the grill, as the only place of which he knew that Samantha would pass by for sure. Walking back to the train platform, in the full heat of the July sun, he was asking himself why he didn't deposit his Steel Wing there. It would reduce the travel between The Burrow and Hogwarts to an Apparition jump and a very short broomstick flight.

Back in The Burrow, Harry said goodbye to Nagini, leaving her in the garden, with access to sunny places, water, mice to catch, and gnomes to tease. Then he clutched his bag and jumped to London Linkport.

---

The first connection from London to Los Angeles was four o'clock local time, and arriving half an hour earlier with a global network ticket should be sufficient.

It wasn't. "I'm sorry, Mr Potter - the four o'clock portal is booked out. You may sign on the waiting list - "

"Wait a second - what do you mean, booked out? Just let me walk through last in row, that's all I'm asking for."

The service witch tried to smile, though what came out was more of a sneering. "There's a time window for each jump - about ten minutes, so the number of passengers is limited. And the waiting list is already twenty people long. It's vacation time, Mr Potter."

This was indeed how it looked: the linkport crowded with people, pushing each other, glancing irritated, angry, fighting to start the best weeks of the year, or maybe to finish them as quickly as possible because they hadn't turned out as good as expected.

The service agent offered two choices. One was wild-jumping, which meant another target in the USA, hoping a connection from there to Los Angeles would offer a slot, while she warned Harry that this was probably the worst choice - it didn't look better anywhere, and American linkports were notorious for their bad treatment of passengers, as well as their overbooking policy. The other choice was the six o'clock jump.

Harry accepted grudgingly. Arriving at ten o'clock US west coast time was probably early enough, except that he had to wait two more hours.

Jumping back to The Burrow and returning an hour later didn't make much sense to him. Looking around, he found all seats occupied, giving reason for a constant stream of little rows. He found a corner which offered the chance of not being tripped over every five minutes, and sat down in the lotus position to watch a fascinating spectacle - humanity at its meanest.

Couples, snarling at each other. Parents pulling their children forward, children trying their best to get lost. Passengers shouting at service clerks, uniformed figures moving through the crowd with faces which had lost the barest trace of a smile. And guards - massive figures, always in pairs, one hand gripping their wands, their eyes scanning the crowd relentlessly. Without them, the next row would quickly escalate to a wizarding duel, in spite of the hefty fine - two hundred galleons for cursing another passenger in public, no matter why.

Some yards across, Harry saw a couple arriving. They dropped their luggage and tied their dog to a piece of metal at the wall. The man walked to a counter and came back after some minutes. Then the man and the woman took their luggage and walked forward, disappearing in the stream of passengers.

Harry looked at the dog. He tried to see the couple and tried to reconsider what he'd sensed, watching idly. For all he knew, the dog owners were gone and had used the linkport hall as a waste-basket for the dog.

He gave the dog a closer examination. Middle-sized, golden-brown, muscular body, massive head was it sitting there, hope and patience in its eyes, which stared ahead, scanning, waiting.

Fifteen minutes later, Harry was sure. The dog had been abandoned.

What now? Should he notify the guards? They would come and fetch the dog. For what Harry could see, the dog wouldn't respond well to any approach. So they would stun him, take him, and stuff him into some shelter, or worse, into some room of the lost-and-found. The thought was unbearable.

---

Harry couldn't afford a dog, could he? No he couldn't, especially not now. But someone else could.

He moved closer to the dog. Almost within reach, he stopped: The dog's ears had gone flat; now two unmoving, unblinking eyes watched him, waiting for the next movement.

"Hey, doggie-boy, I'm here to help you. Your people got rid of you - didn't you realize already? Stop waiting for them, they won't come back. I'm here to offer you a better place - so stop looking mean, and let me - "

The dog was baring its teeth, the ears flat to the head. Two inches closer, and Harry would nead a healing charm or two - after he had managed to come free.

Then what now?

Harry dropped his bag, exactly at the borderline of the dog's reach. "Take care of that - I'm back in a minute."

When he returned from the cafeteria, two meat balls were in his hands. He moved his bag aside, sat down just outside the dog's reach, and started to eat - slowly, smacking as much as he could. The meat ball's taste was questionable - no, not at all, actually, but for a good purpose ...

He had the dog's full attention. And the ears were up again.

The first meat ball was gone - thank God.

Harry broke a piece from the second. Looking directly at the dog, he shoved it into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.

The dog swallowed too.

Harry broke another piece, moved it toward his mouth, but then stopped. His hand reached into the dog's range. "Want a bite?"

Ears at half height, the dog moved closer, then sniffed - at Harry's hand, at the meat. The large mouth opened, and the piece was gone. The dog hadn't even touched Harry's hand.

This was basically comforting, but right now a nuisance. Harry needed direct body contact to send his message. He ate another piece himself, a very small one.

The next piece was for the dog. It disappeared like the first.

Another one for Harry, not more than a greasy spot. The dog had caught the rhythm and was already waiting for its own.

For the dog's next piece, Harry curled his hand up. When the snout came to fetch it, his fingers trailed the flews.

Two pieces left.

Offering the next, Harry sent a first message through the contact. He noticed a slight twist in the dog's body, but there was no baring of teeth. Holding the last piece, Harry looked into the dog's eyes. "Sit down."

The dog obeyed.

Inching closer, Harry's left hand touched the nose, the flews, then stroked over the dog's head, his mind all the while sending a message of comfort and trust. Then he offered the piece, which was swallowed immediately.

He untied the leash and held it. "Come here, doggie."

His both hands were at the dog's head. "Now - I can offer you a good place, and someone who's not going to drop you for a vacation trip. So - ready to come with me?"

A fleeting moment of uncertainty, then the dog had accepted.

---

Doing an Apparition jump with a dog should work okay, provided the dog was as close to his body as Nagini at other occasions. Checking the time, Harry decided to leave his bag where it was. It contained only some clothes, and according to the letter, he would need others anyway.

He walked to a quiet passage and knelt down. "Now come close; we ought to jump together."

A small reluctance, while Harry's mind was again sending a wave of calmness, then the dog relaxed. Harry put both arms around the muscular body. "Ready? Then let's go."

They stood on the Hogwarts Express platform.

The dog made a twisting movement and gave a short yelp of surprise, which faded quickly under Harry's stroking hands. He released the leash. "Now come hurrying - my jump is due soon."

The dog followed eagerly, as if knowing exactly that soon they would meet his new boss. But then, maybe he was that clever; after all, Harry had explained the situation more than once while establishing the relationship.

They reached the hut. Harry knocked, waited a moment, then opened the door. No sign of Samantha.

What now? He just couldn't tie the dog and leave, not after he'd promised to find a place where this wouldn't happen again. He drew his wand. Just in time, he remembered that the dog might be a bit jumpy, and panic at the signals he was about to send.

"Sit down ... Good dog - now just sit, and don't get afraid."

A ball shot into the sky and exploded with a bang loud enough to be heard from the other side of the lake.

Harry looked at the dog, which was sitting calmly, all attention at him.

"That's the spirit. The next one's not that noisy."

A second ball shot upward and exploded in a sparkling tree of red stars, which faded slowly. Then Harry repeated the sequence of sound and light once more.

"Okay, doggie, that's it. Now let's hope for my time schedule." He sat down, feeling like on burning coal while the time was ticking away. The dog moved around, sniffing, inspecting the new environment.

An eon later, more exactly after ten minutes, Samantha came around the corner. She stared at Harry, at the dog, then at him again.

"Back from your trip? And even with some company - didn't you like it over there?"

"I didn't even start yet. This dog - it was dropped by its people in the London Linkport. I just couldn't leave it like that - you know, er - I mean, this hut needs a dog, it's just incomplete without any ... With Hagrid, it was Fang, and now - "

"Incomplete, eh? ... And I have to care, although there's nothing magical about this creature. Does he have a name?"

"Certainly, except I didn't hear it called. Samantha, I'm really in a hurry, if it's not already too late. So, what's your comment - can I leave the dog with you?"

Samantha knelt down and grabbed the dog, which responded open-heartedly - after all, this had to be his new boss, who else if not this woman?

The witch sighed, then looked up at Harry. "Oh Lordy! All right, get lost - no, before I forget, Harry - I like horses, as you know, but still, if you see any, just leave them where they are, okay?"

Grinning, Harry gave her the thumbs-up, then sprinted toward the train platform.

Reaching the linkport again, he hurried to the corner where he had left his bag. It was gone. Well, small price for a dog. He ran to the gate.

"I'm sorry, Mr Potter - when you didn't arrive in time, your slot was passed further to the next one at the waiting list."

Harry slumped back to his corner, to wait for the eight o'clock portal, swearing to himself - people might abandon dogs, or little girls, directly in front of him, he would just close his eyes.

* * *

The eight o'clock portal had no waiting list. Coming out in Los Angeles, noon local time, Harry knew why - compared to this, England had been cool. He went looking for the linkport toward Santa Monica.

There was no linkport to that city, which apparently was considered a suburb of Los Angeles, or maybe the better part of Hollywood. To be precise, the linkport to Santa Monica was under construction.

There was no Knight Bus either, or the Californian equivalent. Wizards here had cars, used cars - oh, how many cars, as Harry realized quickly after taking a cab, to be stuck in the worst traffic jam of his life. It made clear why a linkport across a few miles would be profitable.

Until they reached the hotel, it was close to four o'clock local time, and around midnight according to Harry's sweat-soaked body. No problem yet - he had slept long. Now he felt like starving.

The Palace Hotel presented a large facade in shrill colours, the Californian equivalent of decent. The building behind the facade was considerably smaller. And it was cool inside, if not to say frosty. In contrast to the device in the cab, the air condition here wasn't broken.

Yes, rooms were booked for a Mr Potter, and an envelope was waiting for him, too. The clerk wanted to see money in advance, and stared in disbelief when Harry presented green bills, rather than a credit card, his behaviour changing to a perfect match of the air - cool, if not to say frosty. The absence of any luggage at Harry's side helped nothing to improve the atmosphere.

The suite - bedroom and salon - looked nice, still not decent in Harry's opinion. At least it didn't hurt the eyes. He opened the envelope to find a note from Cho.

Harry stared at the letter, trying not to feel angry. So far, there was nothing in the movie business he found appealing - it had taken Cho away from him, it had earned him an invitation to a party, and he had travelled around the world only to find another letter.

The Californians were definitely crazy, but shopping in late Saturday afternoon was something at the bonus side - provided you were longing for a Californian suit, or maybe three of them.

Harry wasn't. He was hungry.

The cab driver knew where to find Gerry's Fashion; still better, he knew where to fetch something to eat. It was called King Burger, offered a taste slightly better than the meat ball in London Linkport, but it was large enough to fill a stomach.

And it leaked. When finished with the royal chunk, just in front of a building which made the Palace Hotel facade look pale, Harry detected spots of grease and dressing on his clothes.

So what - here was the place to get something better.

---

"Harry, my dear - how ab-so-lute-ly thrilling to meet you!"

Harry stared at the man, who looked young and splendid, though only at a distance of four feet and more. Coming closer, you could see wrinkles, even under the make-up, and a pair of shimmery eyes, looking with admiration and longing at Harry.

"Er - hello, Gerry."

The eyes stopped inspecting Harry's body and continued by inspecting Harry's clothes instead. With a masterpiece of self-control, Gerry suppressed a grimace of ab-so-lute horror.

"Dearest Harry! I hope nobody saw you arriving like that! Tell me where you've found these clothes, so I'll be able to stay off from such a nasty place!"

Gerry with the shimmering eyes started to fetch jackets together with trousers, but then stopped.

"Darling, do me a favour and take a proper shirt first - I would just start crying if I had to look at this combination any longer!"

"Okay ... to ease the pain."

The first two samples were flatly refused. Frills and whatnot? No thanks. Not-so-young Gerry looked slightly hurt but offered some alternatives.

Checking them, Harry felt better: finest quality, soft and thin as before, but at least they looked like shirts, rather than night gowns. "Yes," he said, "that's more like it." With respect to Gerry's admiring looks, he preferred to change in the cabin.

Newly inspirited, Garry rushed through the rows, found a splendid piece here, a knocking item there, and came back, his arms full with ab-so-lute showstoppers.

Harry inspected the collection. Light green, rosy, cream-coloured with some glittery stuff to reflect the light in myriads of sparkles. He looked up.

"Gerry, please don't take it personal, but - well, just dress me like a heterosexual, because that's what I am."

The tailor giggled. "It's not your fault, mon ch‚r, probably just the lack of opportunity. Alors ..."

The pieces of French didn't sound as if the communication would improve when changing to that language, were probably just the nice touch on top of Gerry's personal style.

The next collection offered no more pastel colours. None at all, really. Shouting blue was still a moderate member in this palette. Harry shook his head.

"I'm not going to wear that, Gerry."

"But my dear Harry, you bad boy, you said I should dress you like the vintage macho, didn't you? That's how such people dress here around."

"Really? ... Do you like it?"

An expression of deep distaste crossed the man's suntanned face. "It's awful - these terrible colours, these ab-so-lute-ly deafening combinations! But what can you do? That's the fashion, darling."

"Good, so we agree on that. Now, let's try it again. Make it simple, Gerry - just perfect, no less. Like what you'd wear, if you weren't - er ..."

Another giggle. "Got it, Harry-dear ... the true challenge, the ab-so-lute dream customer. Give me a moment to re-adjust, it's quite a while since ..."

The next attempt struck the first success. Black trousers, a raw-linen, cream-coloured jacket, together with two alternatives - a dark-red shirt, slightly shimmering, to wear it openly, and a sand-coloured one with a dark-red tie, suiting formal occasions.

Gerry beamed. "You look gorgeous, Harry-baby. People will eat you alive, with that outfit."

Harry grinned. "Which ones?"

"Oh - all of them, it's your choice, you naughty boy." Then Gerry stopped. "Your shoes - Harry, you need shoes, Heaven forbid you'll be seen in them while telling everybody where you got your dress!"

"You might be right - but at that time?"

"No sweat, honey - just a second. What's your size?"

The tailor started to dial numbers into a cell phone, then was talking with someone, asking for a collection of shoes, slippers, and loafers.

Harry interrupted him. "Do they have suitcases? I need something until we're finished here."

They hadn't, but this was no sweat either, someone would come with a few nice samples.

---

Harry's and Gerry's next agreement was about a light grey suit, just what you'd wear to discuss the next million, somewhere outside, maybe at a swimming-pool.

Looking for more, they were interrupted by a young woman with a pile of shoes, followed shortly afterwards by an older woman with suitcases. They were all smiling and found it perfectly normal to come along after five o'clock on a Saturday - an astonishing experience for someone used to English service, in particular since it couldn't be explained solely by Harry's habit of never asking for a price.

He selected a large, expensive-looking suitcase, four pairs of shoes, just to be prepared, and was discussing a third and last combination with Gerry when Cho entered the room.

Gerry hurried over and welcomed her with kisses on both cheeks. "Cho-darling, how ab-so-lute-ly splendid of you to come! You look stunning! This jacket - together with your hair! So magnificent, really! And your young friend - so daring! Where did you find him - are there still more like him? Please tell me - it's not nice to keep this secret from your devoted Gerry."

All smiling, Cho came closer.

Harry stared. She wore a deep-velvet jacket over a cream-coloured blouse, and a black skirt. Sparkling earrings, more sparkling at her neck, nails lacquered in a perfect match with the jacket, her lipstick a lighter shade of that. His Cho - a Californian businesswoman, department movies, sub-section spectors.

"Hi, Harry. How are you?"

He kissed her. "You look - great."

She had noticed the short pause and responded with a brief grin, then inspected him. "Did you come to terms with Gerry?"

"About the clothes - yes."

Another grin. "That's enough. Let's see, what's your choice for this evening? We're late, so please dress here, then we can go."

Moviemaker parties seemed to start early. Harry presented the first combination, earned an approving nod, and went into the cabin to change while Cho walked to the cashier desk to settle the financial aspect of this shopping tour. When Harry came out, his suitcase was ready, and Cho stood waiting.

Gerry smiled, maybe a bit enviously. "Ah, what a perfect couple! You'll be the event of the evening, you two. Young love - it always makes me so sentimental! Cho, Harry - don't forget to tell where you've found these admirable dresses. Bye."

* * *

Cho walked to a flat, silver-grey sports car. A Porsche - offering barely enough space for Harry's suitcase. He moved in and sat down in a comfortable leather seat while Cho entered the driver's seat and started the engine.

He said, "I didn't know you can drive a car."

"I couldn't, but now I can. Getting a driver's license takes less than a week here."

"Is it yours? Looks as if you're selling movies like crazy."

"It's all make-believe. The car's rented."

"Do you want your own? No problem - just tell me."

Cho's head was shaking, her eyes not leaving the street ahead.

"By the way," asked Harry, "how much was it together? The clothes, the shoes, and the - "

"Don't ask - you don't want to know, and I'm not going to tell you."

It was only half true - he wanted to know, however thought better than asking again. There was some stress in Cho's voice, in her movements, still more in her mind.

"How's your business going? No - tell me first about the party we're invited to. Which people are there?"

Cho responded first with a brief laugh, then she said, "The answer's the same in both cases. It's a tricky business, the meanest collection of bastards you can imagine. And that's exactly where we're heading to."

"Charming. And which bastard in particular has invited us?"

"It doesn't matter. Harry, those parties are different from anything you know. Anyway - the host is Samy Loewenstein, a producer. He's screwing the female starlets, which is just fine with his wife who's doing the same with the male ones. But don't get me wrong - money's still more important to him, so he's not sperm-blind at all when negotiating a deal."

What Harry could hear sounded definitely English. Still, it was a new language, and he didn't like it. Less for the words Cho used - then he knew why: it came out without the slightest trace of humour.

Somewhat more careful than before, he said, "Hmm. Well, maybe the food is good."

Cho grimaced. "You're trained in close-range combat, so you might have a chance for getting some of that. Expect more calories from the bottles - and you don't have to fight for a refill."

"What about your co-entrepreneurs? Will we meet them there?"

"Sylvie and Jesamine?" For the first time, Harry felt something of the Cho he'd known at Hogwarts. "No, they're working round the clock, and grateful for leaving the entertainment to me."

Harry was looking forward to a really magnificent evening - at three o'clock in the morning, according to his inner clock. He suppressed a yawn.

"What exactly's my role there? Anything to be careful about?"

A quick glance at him, then Cho's eyes were back at the street. Harry wondered about her hesitation - after all, his question was perfectly understandable, wasn't it?

She said, "It's a Muggle world, Harry. You might meet a wizard or a witch, but then it's incognito. So don't start sending charms around, neither with nor without a wand."

"Okay."

"People will invite you to all kinds of events - lunches, dinners, parties, whatever. Just say yes - they don't mean it, it's only small talk. And don't be surprised if the average conversation is one and a half sentence."

It sounded exactly like the meeting Harry had dreamed of, after so many weeks without Cho. He was asking himself whether she would be interested in hearing some news, for example about a new teacher from deep-down Texas, when they reached a bungalow that was clinging to the hill, and the car slowed down.

---

He climbed out and stared at the flat building. "Looks pretty small for such a guy. If that's -"

Cho laughed. "Wait till we're inside. These residences are show-off pieces, the more expensive, the better. Either you build a sequence of single units halfway on top of each other, then it's called environmental style because it follows the slope of the hill, or the complete thing has to hang over a cliff, then it's called panorama style. This one has three or four storeys downhill."

The door was open. Nobody stood inside to welcome arriving guests. It took Harry only a few minutes to realize that this was the most sensible thing the hosts could do. Whatever they did - with or without starlets of either sex, it was better than pretending any of the people he saw were welcome.

The crowd as a whole showed no reaction to newcomers. The first rule for the partygoer was to address someone, interrupt him or her in the current activity, and shout a trumpeting hello. Only for the very famous, the roles were switched.

Cho seemed somewhere in the middle, but only due to her new toy in town bonus, as she told him. Each novelty had a two weeks' grace period, and hers was running out.

Somehow, the people he saw reminded Harry of the dog he'd saved a few hours ago. It was the same baring of teeth, the same strong reaction if anything edible came within view, only their ears weren't moving.

No - he'd been wrong, there were more differences. The dog had looked steady - ready to attack before, confident and trusting afterwards. People here looked anywhere except in your eyes, attacks seemed possible only with words and from some distance, confidence was sparse, and trust an alienity. And the dog hadn't been so noisy.

The exchange of welcoming shouts seemed to indicate an encounter after several decades of separation between best friends. Listening to pieces of conversation here and there, though, Harry learned that most people had seen each other last time on yesterday's party. But still, it made sense - yesterday's party was the deadest thing, surpassed maybe only by yesterday's stars, except that some of them were walking around, trying their best not to look like zombies.

And friends - Harry had to learn a new terminology. A best friend was someone you'd met at such a party, to be addressed my dearest friend. A good friend was someone who might be ready to answer a phone call - unless he had something better to do. A close friend was someone to exchange gossip with, of course spiced with a generous dash of misinformation. A young friend was a rookie in the party scene, like he himself.

After a while, he knew that even this bunch of hyenas and chackals had friends, and the good sense to protect such rare animals. When referring to them, they never used names, didn't even specify the sex. I know someone meant there was somebody they had been able to trust once in the past, and it would be a thrilling experience to find out if it still worked that way.

The partygoer's rule number two dealt with shaking hands. It was quite a complicated protocol, used to exchange the messages nobody dared to say aloud. Extending an arm and looking away meant, "Get lost." The same, combined with keeping the grabbing hand grabbed, meant, "Get lost, but not before I say so." Then there was the handshake trap. It started with extending an arm. When the hand was taken, the other arm snapped forward, closing the trap. This was followed by an endless pumping up and down while sending one smiling insult after the other. A milder version, using the same arm technique but a louder voice, came into play to announce news nobody wanted to hear. In such a case, the trapped person had almost no meaning in the context.

And some people tried to be impressive through handshakes - toward men, that was. A soft grip, until the other hand was firmly caught, then the high pressure vice, while studying how the opponent could cope with that.

---

The first time someone did this to him, Harry simply waited. Being used to handle a bokken through a three hour's lesson, he had no trouble waiting the man out without feeling any pain. Hardening some muscles was enough to balance out.

When the next man tried the same, Harry was already fed up sufficiently to play along. In this league of glass-holders, he should have been kept out of competition. But he wasn't, and so his first response was a counter grip, until he felt the force balanced. Then he changed to a serious pressure.

And no doubt, the people surrounding them knew what was going on, had probably suffered from that trick before.

The man's grip broke, the moment where the real pain started - and only now, for what had to be agonizing five seconds, Harry put his full concentration into his handshake. Seeing the man's face pale, he let go.

The spectators turned back to their own conversation. Remarks would start only after both competitors were out of earshot.

Cho had watched, too. "Playing games, Harry?"

"I didn't start it. Well, I hope this guy's not important for your business."

"No - the important people come later."

"Then why did we arrive so early?"

"It's a question of pecking order," explained Cho. "If you came two hours earlier, they might talk with you. If you came five minutes earlier, they'll let you wait till the next party ... If you come after them, you may as well forget your business, since they'll never forgive you."

Until then, Harry had also figured out the rules about clothes. Stars, starlets, and other women of the employee class wore dresses, offering as much bare skin as they thought affordable, raising disapproval only from more fat than tolerable but never because one genital or the other was confronted with open air. In contrast, employers, columnists, and freelance contractors wore costumes like Cho. This left some totally unimportant women who presented themselves as if this was a party. They could be recognized easily because these were the only ones who looked as if having fun. Or they looking annoyed, because they could afford it.

Walking around with Cho, Harry saw a lot of bare flesh, sometimes even attractive. Gerry's question - where Cho had found him - was repeated in all variations, with different add-ons. The women wanted to know where to look for themselves, or to be notified by Cho as soon as Harry was free, or they tried to negotiate with him directly and immediately.

Walking further, Harry could hear speculations of his whereabouts. Most women assumed he was a dancer, probably a result of his balanced gait, which grew more prominent with every minute in this terrain - for him more a combat field than a party scene. When asked, he declared himself a student, leaving open the details.

There were exceptions, however few. One woman simply said, "You two look like made for each other," and Harry's haragei confirmed that she wasn't referring to their dresses. As Cho told him, this woman ran a clinic for drug deprivation, the only reliable one which didn't leak to the press - a monopoly, so she could afford being genuinely nice.

And then the men. Again with a few exceptions, and ranging from questionable humour to open provocation, the basic message was that Cho should get rid of Harry, and follow them right now into some office, bathroom, or car to learn how a real fuck felt. Afterwards, she would have a different view of the world and never be the same as before.

It was getting on Harry's nerves, especially at this time of day, which, for him, was four hours past midnight.

Another man. He kissed Cho's hand, looked deep in her eyes, and said, "You look wonderful. I'll dream of you." Harry was completely ignored.

He could live with that, although not here.

---

Another man, short-sleeved shirt open to the waist, showing sun-tanned muscles, at least shapes like that. "Cho-puppy, when will you stop wasting your time with these boys, to meet a real man?"

Cho was about to look around for a real man, but Harry had had enough. "Is he important for your business, or can I teach him manners?"

"Claude? He isn't important for anyone - save your breath."

Harry didn't want to save his breath, just the opposite. And his hands were free, not holding a glass.

Claude hadn't taken well to Cho's remark and probably saw Harry as a welcome occassion to blast off some steam. He walked a step back, taking something vaguely similar to an attack-defense position. It looked beautiful, and slow, altogether very funny.

Staring at this performance, it dawned on Harry - this had to be an actor for the kung fu category, used to movements slow enough the camera as well as the spectators could follow. Well - the audience here wouldn't be able to follow his own movements, would only have time to watch the result.

Cho's hand was at his sleeve. "Leave it, Harry - it's not worth the hassle."

"No - and it won't take long." He looked at this Claude and saw him making senseless movements with his arms.

A male voice behind him said, "I wouldn't do it. Since Claude has dropped doing movies, he sues people - he's just waiting to be touched, then you'll face a lawsuit of two millions."

Harry turned. He stared into a calm face, possibly Chinese, a warning glance in the eyes, and an aura in Harry's haragei which told him this man meant well.

"Suing? Well, then ..."

Remembering what he had trained hour after hour in the recent days, Harry fell into the kokyu suru, just long enough to make Claude the clown duck a bit lower. With his next movement, almost from the stand, Harry was up, his legs ahead - missing Claude completely, passing over the man's shoulders, he turned still in the air and came to a stand in perfect balance.

Claude wheeled around, eyes popping.

Harry smiled. "You blocked my way to the bar, you - man."

Turning, he took a fresh glass from the table, all his senses on alert - but there was no need; this litigation expert knew better than to appear at the wrong side of a filed complaint.

The scene had raised sneering laughter around, and admiring glances from the women. Gerry's dress looked impeccable, showing perfect cut now as during that moment through the air.

Claude mustered a pained grin, and something like a bow, then he went for his own glass somewhere else.

* * *

The man who had warned Harry came closer, his movements quiet, unspectacular, balanced. "That was nice to watch, mister - and to listen."

Mister was something new. Harry said, "Thank you for the warning, er ..."

"Call me Tony. Tony Chee - I was born as Chee Leung, but I had reason to accomodate a bit."

"I'm Harry - Harry Potter. Nice to meet you, Tony."

Two slight bows, rather than handshakes. Then Tony asked, "Where did you learn, Harry? I have to admit, I couldn't figure out the school, and I thought I knew all of them."

It was the first thing that sounded like a normal conversation, and Harry felt grateful for that, more so as this Tony apparently knew what he was talking about. He answered, "That's probably because it's no real school. My first sensei was Matsuo Shigura."

"Never heard of. In Japan?"

"Yes. He lives on a small island in the south."

Tony nodded. "Yeah, one of the true masters who give a damn for publicity. But this must not be true for his pupil. Harry, are you looking for a role?"

"A role??"

"Yes, a role - like in a movie, like as if there was movie people around. Ever heard that word - movie?"

Harry laughed, much more than the joke deserved, recovering from a world of pretense and gritting teeth that went for smiles.

"What I'm trying to say, Harry - I'm doing movies with that kind of action - the real stuff, not Claude's pirouettes. And we have a problem there, because you can only find slitfaces with the necessary skill."

For an instant, Harry's eyes narrowed. Then he relaxed - if Tony himself wasn't supposed to call a Chinese a slitface, then who else?

Tony had registered Harry's expression. "That's Hollywood terminology, includes us Chinese, Japanese, and Koreans. Anyway, people got a bit bored of this stuff - the good ones are always the eastern devils, while you'd be a real hit - the All-American dream boy who fights the slitfaces with their own weapons. Since David, there wasn't anyone else who could play that, and he was never as good as what I could see a minute ago."

"David?"

"Yes, David, David Carradine - Harry, where do you live?"

Suddenly, Cho stood at Harry's side. "Hello, Tony. Are you trying to get your feet in Harry's door?"

The man smiled. "Checking the ground, Cho. He's the one I was looking for over years - young, Caucasian, and a true adept."

"He'd be burned - once kung fu, always kung fu."

Tony shook his head. "David Carradine wasn't. Okay, we'll never win an Oscar, but it's movies, and it makes a living - I've seen worse burn marks," he looked at Cho, "and I'll see more of them."

Cho smiled. "It's a thought. But for starters, Harry's under exclusive rights."

Tony nodded. "That's understood. You know where to find me, if you change your mind." He walked off.

Harry stared at Cho. "Are you my agent?"

"Nonsense. You can't play in movies, Harry - you have to finish school first."

"All right, then let me get back to school. Are we done here?"

Cho bit her lips. "A few more minutes. I had no chance yet to talk with Samy."

"Too busy with starlets, huh? Pity it's not his wife, then I might be able to help."

Cho glared at him. "That wasn't funny!"

"Maybe it wasn't thought as a joke. How long?"

The answer came as a hissing. "Why don't you leave? Nobody's holding you back."

"I came with you, and I'll go with you - that's why."

A sneering. "That's not the standard here."

"But it's my standard. You'll find me at the bar."

* * *

For the next hour, Harry was sitting in a corner - the company at the bar hadn't been to his taste, and there were a few things to think over. Even so, he was offered all kinds of sex - female, male, front or tail, a threesome, and an orgy. Looking mean didn't help, quite the contrary.

He saw Cho talking with a man who seemed to be the host. The man was laughing, shaking his head, saying something which looked very much like an offer to forget business and fuck instead.

Cho came over. "That's it. Let's go."

"No luck?"

"He wasn't interested in a deal - not the one I had in mind."

"Yes, I saw the alternative offer. Anyway, I can outnumber this kind of offer by far - had the full choice, really."

"I don't think so," replied Cho dryly, "because you don't know what's the full choice here."

In this case, Harry could live without the knowledge. He followed Cho to the car and sat in the passenger's seat silently until they reached the hotel. The car came to a halt. Cho glanced at him.

"What now?"

"We have to talk."

"Where?"

So she seemed to know the topic he had in mind. Still, her question sounded strange. "In that suite," he said, "where else? Had you planned to drive away?"

"I don't know what I had planned." Cho climbed out, took her bag, and opened the trunk for Harry to get his suitcase out.

---

In the suite, Harry went to the small fridge that was called mini bar to take his first hard drink of the evening - vodka with orange juice. He sat down and waited until Cho was back from the bathroom, had her own drink, and her own seat. Looking at her now, he saw someone almost familiar, without that jacket and without the jewelry.

"What's going on here?"

"I'm trying to sell spector technology, as a revolutionary concept of movie recording. That's the bottom line."

"And - what do they say?"

"So far, they're not interested. Movies are made of stars and stories and fiction and imagination, but most of all they're made of marketing. Nobody cares about technology - sensurround isn't selling a single ticket more, that's what they say."

Harry didn't know what sense-around was, didn't care either. A tired-looking Cho was something to care about, only he was at least as tired as herself, and he had some more questions.

"And otherwise?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why am I here? To escort you to that party? I felt like your earring, only you had some already, and I'm not sparkling that much."

"That's not the only reason." Cho didn't look up.

"You've met a lot of people. Gerry, for instance."

Now she looked at him, sighed. "Yes."

He waited, watching her.

She swallowed. "I called you to ... to be seen with you in public, to make clear that ..." She didn't finish the sentence. Even so, it had been clear enough.

"The one who's dreaming of you?"

Cho's eyes widened. "How - yes of course, I almost forgot. Yes, that's the one."

"Why?"

She held his stare. "Because ... I wanted to know how it is - with another man. As simple as that. You had other women - four, if my counting's right, while for me, you've been the only one so far. And before we ... I just wanted to have another bearing, that was the main reason. So I took my choice - and I got my bearing, oh yes, I did. If you want to know - you scored well in that comparison."

"Strange, but I don't feel flattered at all. By the way, me alone isn't quite correct, as you may remember."

A fleeting shade of a smile. "No, but I wasn't trying to come even - that wasn't the point. I wasn't looking for a teacher either - what for, with you and ..." Cho's shoulders straightened. "I wanted to make an experience, and I did. It lasted two weeks, then I was cured. Only he wasn't cured - didn't stop bothering me."

"Will he stop now? Will he manage to dream alone?"

"I guess so." A brief laugh. "Your artistry will probably help a lot - his courage's a bit limited, as I had the opportunity to find out."

"I'm sorry to hear that. I would've wished you more luck with your choice - "

"Stop it!"

Harry shook his head. "I'm serious ... I'm still trying to get a handle on that thought, but - whatever I'm feeling now, or tomorrow, I won't feel better to know that it was a mistake. Just the opposite - I for my part can say that none of the women I had was a - "

"Please, no! Don't start drawing parallels - "

"Why not?" Anger was rising in Harry. "You call me to get rid of your lover, you tell me it's just to widen your horizon, and not anything else ..."

Cho's face showed a pained expression.

"... and then I'm not supposed to comment on that? Am I more than just a tool to lock a door that went open by some accident?"

Cho looked extremely miserable. "Yes, you are. I ..." She started to cry, then stopped, angry at herself, and looked up. "I love you, Harry."

He let it hang in the air.

"Do you still love me?"

Almost a shout. "Of course I do - what do you think why I'm - " He stopped himself.

A small girl's voice. "Please - hold me, Harry."

He stepped over, sat down at the arm's rest, and held her. "Give me a minute, then it'll work better."

Her head was resting at his arm. "What do you think of me?"

"Right now, I'm just angry, and tired as death. And I'm trying not to be jealous."

Something like hope in her voice. "Are you?"

"I don't know - probably. But next moment, I'm trying to tell myself, you have no right, because ... Only those people make me feel sick, that Tony was the only one who felt like a normal human being. If it had been him, at least I could separate one feeling from the other - "

"But it hadn't." Cho tried to grin. "I'm Chinese myself."

Harry couldn't respond to the grin. "This discussion is crazy. Let's go to bed - sleeping. All I know for sure, this was the last movie business party I've seen."

Lying in the bed, Harry had a short moment of comfort, feeling Cho's body curled against his own, holding her, too tired, and still too angry, for any other emotion. For a few seconds, it felt as if she was crying, then sleep caught him.

When he woke, he was alone.