Getting Closer to Fine

Six

I was a superman, the looks are deceiving. -- Stone Temple Pilots

*

"Please tell me those are the last ones."

Harry created a minor dust storm by thumping a box filled with intelligence reports down onto the table. "Nearly," he said with a sneeze.

Dean groaned and reached for a rolled parchment labelled Crabbe, Vincent, Sr in spidery handwriting. Following suit, Harry pushed his glasses up on his nose and began to wade through the minute details of Crabbe's life. Reading had never, ever, been one of his favorite pastimes, and today's work was certainly doing nothing to alter that outlook.

He wished, not for the first time, that Magical Law Enforcement could employ an army of Hermiones to read and research and organise everything important into a nice neat package for him. But it was never going to happen. Besides the department's general lack of funds, letting more people into their investigation - even (or maybe especially) Ministry people - would break about a dozen of Moody's cardinal rules.

"Are you two making progress?"

Harry jumped. He knew that voice - it belonged to Moody's boss, otherwise known as the department's Deputy Head, otherwise known as the wizard only slightly less terrifyingly important than Madam Bones.

"Yes, sir." Harry wriggled in his chair, trying to find a dignified way to turn and look Mr. Cavel in the eye. Unfortunately, there didn't seem to be one; he did manage to get an up-close view of the man's not-so-small stomach by looking over his shoulder. "We've gone through nearly all the reports on Crabbe we can find, checking for interactions with other hot-listed persons."

Silence. Harry glanced at Dean to see if he might be about to chime in helpfully, but his partner was focusing intently on his fingernails.

"And," Harry went on, "we've some surveillance planned for tonight that should be productive." We hope.

"Ah, excellent. Carry on, then."

The parchment was returned to his hands; Harry coughed, sputtered, and sneezed as dust rose once more.

"Is he gone?" Dean asked.

"Yeah."

"What do you think that was about?"

Harry shrugged.

"I could count on one hand the number of times I've ever even seen that man," Dean continued. "And now he's coming to see us. . . ." He eyed Harry speculatively.

Harry looked away. He felt lucky, most of the time, to have the partner he did: someone who'd lived with him for seven years, who came closer to knowing him than anyone else in the department. Chances were good he'd be miserable working so closely with any other Auror. Some thought he was all fame and no substance, others believed every single heroic tale about him they'd ever heard and expected him to be, well, Superwizard. And Dean, Dean should know better, but just now it seemed like maybe he didn't.

Harry was supposed to know and understand, because he was Harry Potter. But he didn't know, could only guess, and anything he might guess would sound too ridiculous or too real here in the daylight.

A rustling broke the silence, indicating that Dean had gone back to his parchment. Harry sighed and returned to his own.

*

Harry and Dean moved through the crowded street off of Knockturn Alley casually, trying to look as if they belonged. They had each had a little Polyjuice before leaving headquarters - there was always some bubbling away in the Potions Department, made from the hairs of witches and wizards with unmemorable appearances. Currently, Harry was tall, freckled, and sandy-haired, while Dean was short, for once, and blond.

Harry was trying to look as if he was enjoying the throngs of people, the creepy shop window displays, and the pervasive prickly feeling of dark magic in the night air. Knockturn Alley on a Friday night was certainly. . .educational. But he and Dean had to look perfectly at home, as if they had grown up strolling these streets, window-shopping for shrunken heads and human bones. They couldn't appear at all disturbed by the gaunt, green faces of the banshees that glided by in the crowd, or the noisy groups of hags scoffing down raw meat from takeaway cartons tinged pink by bloody juices. Successful surveillance was all about attitude. A brilliant disguise meant nothing if you blew it in the delivery - something Harry and Ron had learned when they were twelve.

Harry did find himself enjoying something: the unusual sensation of being able to see over people's heads. It was somewhat disconcerting to look down on people, to see above the crowd rather than through it.

With his new height and quick eyes, Harry spotted their quarry first, and gave Dean an inconspicuous poke. Crabbe was standing not five metres away from them on the pavement, his lumpy profile clearly visible at the edge of a small group of wizards. Luckily, they were all distracted, clustered around a hag whose fierce teeth flashed as she enthusiastically made what appeared to be a sales pitch. Harry suspected he didn't really want to know what the old dark wizards were in the market for.

Dean tilted his head in acknowledgment, then casually walked toward the men. Harry feigned interest in a shop window that, with a little help from his wand, provided a good reflection of the scene. He couldn't see exactly what Dean was doing - his partner was too well-trained for that - but Harry knew that when Dean was finished a pair of earplugs would record and transmit everything the men said.

At length, Dean returned to Harry's side, and they contemplated the shop window together. "Any trouble?" Dean asked lightly, pressing a plug into Harry's hand.

"Nah. Not that I could see."

"Good." Dean slid a plug into his ear on the pretence of scratching his head, and Harry followed suit. "Want to know what they're buying?"

"No. But I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"You know how a torture rack works, right? Well, this is a miniature version - fits like a very tight glove, pulls the hand in one direction and the fingernails in another. The old hag says they're efficient, portable, and effective. Brilliant for those times when an Unforgivable just isn't the right touch."

"Lovely advert," Harry muttered. He leaned back against the wall, careful to stay in the shadows, and Dean followed suit. Just two blokes out people-watching - or, more accurately, witch-watching - no different from anyone else.

They were silent now, listening intently. Harry wasn't surprised in the slightest to see the elder Goyle in the group, although he didn't recognize the faces or voices of the other three wizards in tow. That cheered him, a bit. Harry was pretty sure that he had personally met the best and brightest of Voldemort's followers in the not-so-distant past. Then again. . . a Death Eater big shot could be standing there, right now, Polyjuiced just like he and Dean were. They needed to watch like hawks for over half an hour, at the very least - anyone who took a drink of anything during that time would immediately gain a prominent place on the suspect list.

"Oi!" one of the men called out. "Want to take a ride on my broomstick?"

"Oh, that's original," Harry said, rubbing his now-ringing ear.

Dean nodded towards the passing witch, who hadn't even turned her head. "You've got to agree with the old bastard's sentiment, at least."

"If you go for the type," Harry replied, taking in the tight, slinky robes and the flirtatious walk.

"Oh? And what would you go for, then? The innocent, modest, bookwormy type?"

"Not - not necessarily."

"Oh, well, if you insist," Dean said cheerfully.

"Don't you think it's easier to listen if we're quiet?"

Dean mouthed something rude in reply. Harry ignored him, and they fell silent again. The hag had moved on, and one of the wizards Harry didn't recognize was showing off his brand-new implement of torture.

Harry and Dean slouched and listened and heard nothing important for a good quarter of an hour. There was something to be said for spying on old fogies, Harry decided - they didn't move around much.

"It's time, isn't it?" Dean asked finally.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, checking his watch. "You're right, it is. I'll go first." He palmed a miniscule vial out of his pocket and downed the Polyjuice in a nose-scratching manoeuvre.

"Oh, really attractive."

"Sod off. Let's see you do better."

"Right." Dean launched into a hacking cough, covering his mouth with his hand. Harry rolled his eyes.

"I've got just the thing for that cough, dearie." An elderly witch with a large tray of drinks materialised at Dean's side.

Harry stepped back. "No, no, he's fine."

"Only four Sickles," the woman said. She brandished a goblet containing a fiercely bubbling red liquid at Dean. "Bloody Medusa. My speciality."

"Okay," Dean said, rummaging in his pocket for change. "We'll take two."

Her face creased into a toothless smile as she accepted the payment and handed over the goblets. Harry waited until she was gone before turning to Dean. "Going to tell me why?"

"Look around." Dean waved his arm. "It seems to be a popular drink."

Harry scanned the crowd and took Dean's point. Everyone else was buying, so they needed to do so as well. But that didn't mean he was going to drink it. It could be poisoned in any number of ways, or it could contain enough alcohol to knock them for six. Besides, its seriously unpleasant odour was doing his already-jittery stomach no good at all, and he was deeply afraid the colour had nothing whatsoever to do with tomato juice.

Crabbe and his friends began to drift down the pavement, pushing their way through other pedestrians. After waiting a beat, Harry and Dean followed, feigning sips from their goblets every now and then. The old wizards' talk began to take a more interesting turn, and Harry gave it his full attention.

"Well, I helped feed his snake."

A deep laugh came echoing through Harry's earpiece. "Nearly got fed to it, more like. I helped with that map, the one that displayed the exact location of all the Mudbloods in southern England."

"Oh?" another voice sneered. "And what happened to that rat you worked with, eh? I imagine the Dark Lord had little use for you after that escapade."

The deep voice spoke again. "Well, compared to these two -"

"I was the most loyal, dedicated - " Crabbe began.

"I've given my entire life to the Dark Arts -" added Goyle.

"I've had enough of this." With those words, one of the men peeled away from the group. The others slowed their steps and, after a moment, the entire party disbanded.

"Damn," Dean said, as their targets faded into the crowd. "Do you think we should follow anyone?"

Harry shrugged. "Which one would you pick? No single one seemed more suspicious than the rest, and I didn't hear anything close to a lead." He paused, considering. "I think we should just go back to headquarters."

Dean nodded. "All right. But I want to go to the toilet first."

"What? Here?"

"Not here, I'm not a bloody exhibitionist! No, a proper loo." There was a pub a few doors down, and Dean strode towards it.

"What are you, five? Can't you wait?"

Dean gave a long-suffering sigh. "We've been over this before. Apparating on a full bladder can make it burst, or bring on a nasty accident at the very least."

"You pay too much attention to Seamus," Harry said, following Dean into the pub. He took both goblets and went on a search for a bin, while his partner headed for the toilet.

Harry soon discovered that finding a bin was no easy task. The pub, like the street outside, was extremely busy. The clientele was nearly all male, and nearly all unpleasant. There were wizards playing cards, wizards drinking themselves under the table, and wizards huddled in corners with hunched shoulders and furtive looks that practically screamed, "shady dealing!" Harry finally decided just to leave the glasses on the edge of the bar, and made his way back through the crowd to meet Dean at the door.

"Ready?"

"Yeah. Brought you something."

Harry accepted the folded bit of paper cautiously. He opened it to read "For a good time, owl. . . ."

"Messalina? Myrrha? Alcina? No, th - " Harry stopped abruptly.

"What is it?" Dean asked, not turning his head.

"One of Crabbe's mates," Harry replied, barely moving his lips. "Having a drink at the bar. I don't think he's seen us."

"Anyone with him?"

"Doesn't look that way," Harry said, casually stuffing the paper in his pocket.

"Then I say we stick with Plan A," Dean said, "and leave. Last thing we want to do is make him suspicious for no reason."

Harry nodded, and without another word they walked into the street and Disapparated.

*

When Harry arrived home half an hour later, he found Ron and Sarah standing in the sitting room. Ron was wearing a clean, featherless jumper, and every red hair had been carefully smoothed into place. Harry wondered how long it would take before on-his-best-dating-behaviour-Ron disappeared and regular, everyday Ron took his place.

Harry tried to exchange pleasantries and beat a hasty retreat back to his room, but Sarah stopped him. "Have you eaten?"

"Er, no."

"Well, we were just going out. Why don't you ring Hermione? The two of you could come with us." Sarah smiled a pleased, matchmaker's smile.

Harry glanced at Ron, and found himself on the receiving end of a look. "Oh, I'd slow you down, I'd need a shower and everything. Maybe next time."

"Oh, go on. We can wait." Sarah stepped closer to him and lowered her voice. "And I'm sure she'll say yes."

"Okay," Harry said. When Ron turned an interesting shade of purple, Harry shot him a look that said, Well, it was your idea for me to be wet and pathetic, now wasn't it?

Harry was smiling as he dialed Hermione's number a moment later. He was going out with his best friends and a girl he didn't have to feel uncomfortable around anymore. Nothing too terribly sinister had happened at work, and he had a free weekend ahead.

His good spirits began to take a downturn, though, as Harry realised he'd been listening to Hermione's phone ring for quite a while.

Ring. . . .

Where is she?

Ring. . . .

The library's surely closed by now.

Ring. . . .

Roger Davies is a tall fuckwit.

"Hullo?"

"Where were you?"

"Harry?"

"Yeah."

"Well, hello, Harry. I was in the bath, you icon of politeness, you."

Harry swallowed. "Ron and Sarah are going out to eat, and invited us to go. Do you want to?"

"Sure. Can you give me half an hour?"

"Yeah, I reckon."

Harry rang off, filled Ron and Sarah in, and headed to his room. A scrap of paper fluttered out of his pocket when he removed his robes - Dean's list. Harry rolled his eyes and promptly banished it to the bin.

He hummed a little as he moved about the room, gathering up a change of clothes. The sound of the wireless came through the wall; Ron had apparently decided to show his discontent with the change in plans by subjecting Sarah to a Quidditch broadcast. Shaking his head, Harry stepped into the corridor - and froze, struck by a thought. Doubling back to his room, he stood over the bin and disposed of all its contents with a quick, quiet Incendio.

*

This attempt at a group night out was, so far, going much better than the last. Ron seemed to have forgiven Harry and Hermione for their presence; Sarah had made no mention of Little Whinging; and Hermione had found no reason be disturbed by anything Ron said. The evening was definitely looking up, Harry thought, and if his mind persisted in putting a label on the proceedings - an alliterative label beginning with the letters D.D. - he could still ignore it.

Ron and Sarah were definitely cozier this time around; with the meal finished, they sat very close together in the booth, Ron's arm slung about Sarah's shoulders.

"He's going to take me to see the gnomes next week," Sarah said, eyes alight.

"Goblins," Ron said, punctuating the correction with a poke to her side.

"There's a difference?"

Ron banged his head onto the table in theatrical disbelief, leading Sarah to contribute a poke of her own.

A mini-wrestling match broke out on the opposite side of the table, and Harry looked down at his plate, uncomfortable. It wasn't the public affection that bothered him; seven years at boarding school had left him with immunity to that sort of thing. The standard response to such a display had always been an eye roll and a muttered, "Get a cupboard," shared with whichever best friend was closest at hand. But tonight, Harry was finding it strangely impossible to play his part. His face was too hot and his brain was too busy estimating the amount of personal space present on his and Hermione's side of the booth.

"Er, Harry? We can get you another menu, if you want."

Apparently he'd been contemplating his empty plate for too long; three pairs of eyes were now staring at him.

"No, no." Noticing that Ron was shrugging on his coat, Harry added, "I'm ready to go."

As they stepped out onto the pavement, Ron drew him aside. "Look, er, I don't know what you and Hermione were thinking of doing now. . . ."

"But we're not welcome at the flat," Harry finished for him.

"Right. Nothing personal, of course."

Harry had to grin at Ron's expression, an interesting mix of relief and excitement. "So how long am I homeless for, then? All night?"

"No, we're not there, yet." Ron looked rather wistful. "Couple of hours, say."

"Okay." Harry made his way over to the girls, and pulled Hermione away for a conference.

"Let me guess," she said at once. "You're not allowed home."

"That's about the size of it."

"We can go back to my flat, if you want."

There was no reason that offer should make a little tingle go up his spine, no reason at all. There were no parallels here between Ron and Sarah and himself and Hermione, and it was time for his body to start remembering that. "I - I'm not - wouldn't you like to go to one of those all-night bookshops instead? You like those, right?"

Hermione looked at him with raised eyebrows. "Yes, I do," she said slowly. "I didn't think you did, though."

Harry nodded to show how very much he liked large shops filled with books and earnest book-loving people.

"Okay, then. I'll tell Ron."

And as the two couples turned to go their separate ways, Harry thought - but couldn't quite be sure - that Sarah winked at him.

*

Harry held the door open for Hermione, then followed her into the bustling bookshop off Kensington High Street. This place was so far removed from Knockturn Alley, he was finding it hard to remember that they existed in the same city. This shop was all bright fluorescent light and clean, carefully arranged stock; its windows weren't lined with vicious screaming books, and its display stands did not include dingy encyclopaedias of poisons. The air was thick with a wonderful aroma of coffee mingled with chocolate. Harry closed his eyes for a moment, just to take it all in, to let it wipe away all traces of malodorous herbs and bloody alcohol.

"Come on," Hermione said, tugging at his coat, "you're blocking the door."

He trailed behind, smiling, as she made a beeline for the political section. Maybe this wasn't exactly his natural habitat, but Harry was content with his surroundings tonight. He was in no danger, here; there was no chance of making a mistake, of moving out onto a limb that Hermione could cut out from under him with a single word or glance.

He watched with amusement as she pulled book after book from a shelf, muttering at indexes and tables of contents, replacing volumes with a sigh or adding them to a teetering pile on the floor. One thing was certainly true about Hermione; when she was interested in something, she was involved. She put so much of herself into everything she did. . . .

"Harry!" He blinked. "You're. . .hovering."

"Oh, sorry." He took two steps to the right.

Hermione sighed. "Why don't you find something to read? Or a table for us? Or both?"

"Okay." He stood for a moment, considering. This shop was every bit as far from Diagon Alley as Knockturn Alley; he couldn't catch up on current events that mattered to him here, nor was there any chance of flipping open a book and discovering a useful new spell. So Harry shoved his hands in his pockets and wandered off in search of manly things, like sports magazines and football books and sports sections in newspapers. Football wasn't Quidditch, and never would be, but it would have to do.

He didn't have a whole lot of luck at first. Every aisle he walked down seemed to contain books on feminist studies, scary Muggle diseases, or cookery. When he finally spotted a group of men about his age at the magazine stand, Harry hurried over - then turned away quickly when he recognised the subject matter that held their attention. Not that he was opposed to such literature, of course; it just didn't seem like the best place to be found by Hermione.

He finally settled down at a table with two football magazines and a Times. He turned to an article about West Ham, deciding to try and match some faces to the names Dean went on about on a regular basis. He was just memorizing their win-loss record when Hermione appeared, toting a stack of books that reached up to her chin.

"Ugh," she said, dumping them onto the table. "Changing sports?"

Harry grinned and pulled his magazine closer, away from the sliding pile of books. "Nah. But it's required reading for anyone spending time with Dean."

"Like Ron and that Flying with the Cannons book?"

"Exactly."

Hermione pulled a pen and paper out of her bag, opened a book, and began to read. Harry watched over the top of his magazine as she fluctuated between distressed clucking, furious scribbling, and heavy silences punctuated only by the flick of turning pages. It was hard to read upside down, but he could make out words like petitions and rallies and right-wing backlash.

Finally, Harry couldn't watch anymore. "Hermione, why don't you take a break?"

She looked up, but didn't stop writing. "In a little while."

What Harry considered to be a little while came and went, with Hermione still working. "Will you stop now?" he asked, in his best pouty voice.

"Okay," Hermione said, with a sigh. She put down her pen. "What do you want to talk about?"

"Erm, I don't know." Harry cast about for something to say, now that he had her attention. Unfortunately, all he could come up with was, "You work too hard."

As soon as Hermione began sputtering, Harry realised his mistake. "You - Harry - you! What do I say to you all the time?"

"Er. . . ."

"And what do you say to me? I'm fine, Hermione. Don't worry about me, Hermione. I don't want to talk about it, Hermione."

Harry began to slink down in his chair, trying to shield as much of his body as possible from her glare. Then he remembered something, and straightened back up. "I'm breaking now," he pointed out reasonably.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yes." She stood up and headed for the magazine stand, returning a few minutes later with a decorating magazine that Aunt Petunia had once studied religiously.

Harry raised his eyebrows. "I didn't know you read that."

"Not usually, no. But I do enjoy the Christmas issues." She sighed. "My mum has always done such an amazing job on our house. My flat just seemed so depressing in comparison, last year."

Harry nodded understandingly, but most of his mind was preoccupied with the word Christmas. He spread his fingers out under the table, and began to count.

He had five weeks. Plenty of time to find an appropriate best friend-ish present for Hermione. . .which suddenly seemed like a much bigger challenge than it ever had before.

*