Chapter Text
Harry had one routine indulgence. One place he’d never have dared to step foot in as a child. One specific establishment, and a few things he paid for, but more for the experience itself. A place no one knew about, not even Ron and Hermione.
Whole Foods.
In Soho.
Ron saw a mailer once and made a typical dad joke about buying Whole Foods being better than being sold half of the food. Nobody laughed. Hermione had replied that the classist idiots who go there are fine with paying double if it means they don’t have to mingle with peasants. Harry bit his tongue and kept his feelings about the Brown Borough sourdough boule to himself. And bought two loaves on the way home.
Today, though, he didn’t particularly need anything beyond a mindless shopping trip. He grabbed a pre-made chicken vindaloo with rice out of the cooler and walked toward the bakery. His mobile vibrated in his pocket, and he stopped to check it.
Junk email. A passerby bumped his elbow. He fumbled his mobile, but caught it and turned to scowl at the man. The man continued on, so Harry frowned at the man’s sandy hair and tan trench coat.
Quick as a flash, the man looked over his shoulder. Mustache. Scars.
Remus.
Harry blinked, and the man was gone, lost behind a gaggle of middle-aged women in matching pink t-shirts. Harry stood, chicken vindaloo in one hand and mobile in the other, until the aisle’s population flowed away, other nameless people meandering in.
It wasn’t Remus. It couldn’t be. He was just going mad. That was all.
The cider-rich scent of apples pulled him through the produce section, between flawless, flat-topped pyramids of fruit. He stopped to hunt for his reflection in a glossy Honeycrisp.
First Sirius, now Remus. No, first Mrs Pendergrass, then Sirius, now Remus. Maybe he’d finally cracked. If he walked up to Hermione and told her he saw dead people, she’d laugh in his face and tell him to stop watching old Bruce Willis movies.
A little girl, maybe five years old, peeked out from behind a display of pears and smiled at him, a wide grin full of perfect baby teeth. She looked up and over her shoulder, one blond corkscrew pigtail hanging free, and the other falling behind her head. In what felt like slow-motion, she pulled a golden pear from the bottom of the pyramid. Her eyes opened wide in horror as the pyramid began to sheet planes of tumbling pears onto the floor. Dozens of them rolled to a stop around her feet. She watched them, as if waiting for them to spring up and attack her. She smiled and kicked a pear, then looked back up, eyes gleaming, and clutched her far superior pear in her tiny hands.
Harry chuckled to himself and stepped around the detritus. The girl’s mother called to her from the deli, and she skipped away.
The bakery called to him with the scent of just-barely burnt flour. Just enough to smell real, and not industrial. It reminded him of something. Something new. Something good. But damned if he could remember what. A new toasted sandwich at Ministry Munchies, probably.
He half-expected to see Remus between the stacks of bread, but the section was nearly empty. The sourdough didn’t look fresh, so he took a giant soft pretzel from the stand. His stomach growled. He licked his lips and looked at the pretzel. If he ate part of it now, but paid for it on his way out, it wasn’t technically stealing.
An elbow nudged his side.
“You look like you’re not going to make it out the door with that pretzel,” said a devastatingly fit man in a Harpies t-shirt. “Let alone all the way home.”
Harry licked his lips and stared at him. Shiny black hair down past his chin, brown eyes, tall, lean. A Chaser. Harry knew it like he knew the pretzel crust would stick to his tongue. A Chaser from one of Ginny’s old scrimmage bracket games.
“Tongue-tied?” the man asked with a smirk. “Harry?”
“Sorry…”. Harry shook his head and tried to remember the man’s name. A Chaser, a major team, probably on the Continent. Portugal? Spain? Spain! “Armando! Galicia Graphorns, right?”
“Armando… Maldonado?” he said, as if he didn’t know his own name.
“You’re in London for the European Cup?”
The recent string of fit Quidditch players in Harry’s bed suddenly made sense.
Armando nodded and said nothing , but it didn’t matter, because the man was devouring Harry with his eyes.
“Are you gonna eat that here and now, or do you want to take it home?” Armando asked, voice dropping as a woman walked by. “Because I think pretzels like to be eaten at home.”
“Do they, now?”
Armando hummed and nodded. “This one does.”
Harry’s gaze flicked between him and the hall to the restrooms. “What if I wanted to eat it right here?”
Armando gulped, and his confidence wavered. “I think this particular pretzel is a bit too loud for public consumption.”
Harry rubbed the salt off a patch of glossy crust. “But they’re just so... flexible.”
“Alas,” he replied with a sigh, “they are.”
Harry stepped closer. “And maybe I wouldn’t mind wrecking a pretzel in front of the security cameras.”
Armando’s face fell, and he stepped back. “The what?” His Adam’s apple bobbed.
Harry shrugged. “Well, more for the benefit of the sad bloke who sits in an office and watches the cameras.” Armando looked baffled, so Harry gestured at the ceiling. “The little things hanging down on poles.”
Armando scowled, scanning the ceiling until he narrowed in on a single camera. Horror bloomed across his face as he took in the field of suspended surveillance. “Oh,” he whispered. “Oh, no…”
Harry wanted to lick up his arched neck and wrap his hair around his fist. “I suppose I could take my time with my pretzel if I take it home with me.”
Armando nodded. “Yeah.”
“That is, if I have a pretzel who wants me to take it home and eat it.”
“Yeah.” He nodded again and focused on Harry. “Yeah, definitely.”
Harry grinned and glanced toward the restroom. “Side-along from the gents?”
“Fuck, yes. Let's get out of here.”
-
Harry stood naked at the foot of his bed, spit cooling on his dick. Armando stepped on his own foot to pull one sock off, then the other. He smiled at Harry, lips still slick and swollen, his dick so hard it looked painful.
He’d known Armando would take his socks off like that. Just like he knew Armando was going to say-
“Could you turn the lights off?”
“Why?” Harry replied, before his brain caught up to his mouth.
Armando settled onto Harry’s bed and fluffed a pillow like he’d already claimed it. He lifted one shoulder in a blasé shrug.
Harry stalked toward the bed, and Armando grinned and cupped himself with one hand. He rubbed his chin against the pillow, and Harry could just make out the quickening pulse in his neck. Licking that neck was still on Harry’s to-do list for the evening.
“Maybe I want to see you come,” Harry said, thighs against the edge of the mattress. Without warning, he pounced, landing on all fours over Armando’s body.
Armando let out a startled yip and wound his legs around Harry’s hips. His hand stroked up Harry’s arm, across his shoulder, and cupped the back of his head.
“Maybe I don’t want you to see me come.” He tugged Harry’s hair. “Maybe I look atrocious.”
“Maybe I don’t care.”
Armando glanced at the ceiling and idly petted the short hair on the back of Harry’s neck. “Are there cameras in here?”
In general, Harry judged wizard questions about the Muggle world against the rubric of Would Arthur Know? rather than laugh at them.
“No. Some Muggles do put cameras in their flats. Some wizards probably do, too. But I don't.”
"Okay, good."
Harry leaned down and planted a kiss on his forehead. He mumbled, lips against Armando’s skin, “Do I get to eat my pretzel now?” He worked his lips down his temples and nipped at his earlobe.
“Yeah,” Armando whispered shakily. He pulled Harry’s hips down and writhed, thrusting against Harry’s belly.
"I think I'll start at the top. The top of the pretzel's the best part."
Harry sighed and nuzzled into his neck. Armando’s hair smelled like toast, and Harry kissed behind his ear. He licked, ever so slowly, down to his collarbone. His tongue ran over a bump. He sucked his tongue, then kissed along Armando’s collarbone, lips softly probing. A mole. Against his lips. He hadn’t noticed it before, and he started to pull back for a peek.
“Wait,” Armando said. He pointed a finger at the ceiling light and closed one eye. “Nox.”
The bulb shattered with a crackling pop, plunging the room into darkness.
Harry kissed the mole. “Good aim. I couldn’t make that shot if I tried.”
Armando clicked his tongue and reached between them, long fingers wrapping around Harry’s cock. “Sharpshooter or not, Potter, you’d better keep up.”
-
“Stay,” Harry said to the dark room. He was entirely too fucked out to make a more cogent argument. His dick would be glued to his thigh with dried come before he’d be able to string his thoughts together.
A rustle of fabric and slight breeze were the only reply. A pair of jeans being snapped open, and one leg sliding in, then the other. Armando’s fly zipping.
“I make a mean omelette.”
“I… no. Thanks.” Armando patted his pockets down.
“Can I Owl you sometime?” Harry hid a yawn in his pillow.
“I’m really not looking for anything serious.”
“Well, yeah. Me, either.” Harry filed that knee-jerk response away to examine later. “But if you want to get drinks after a match while you’re in Lon-”
“I said no.”
“Jesus. Sorry. Didn’t know I was that bad a lay.”
“It’s not- You’re- You’re great, I just- I can’t.”
Harry slumped into his pillows as audibly and as pitifully as he could. It would have been nice to at least watch Armando leave like his broom was on fire.
Harry cleared his throat. “Can you get my mobile out of my jeans?”
“Yeah.”
Muted footsteps on the carpet, and the keys in Harry’s jeans pockets jangled. His mobile hit the bed with a soft thump.
“Thanks.”
Harry’s thumb hovered over the flashlight button on his mobile screen. He’d already stolen a pretzel and chicken vindaloo tonight, so what was a little unauthorized surveillance?
He tapped the button. The room flooded with white light. Armando spun around, and Harry got a single, quickfire look:
Armando’s shoulders were broader, his waist thicker. Harry closed his eyes, but forced them back open.
Brown hair… buzzed short on bottom, the top brushing his ears.
The man waved his arms and covered his face, but not before Harry saw him.
Heavy, square jaw covered in dark stubble. Hazel eyes.
He Apparated out with a molar-rattling pop.
Harry blinked and concentrated on committing the image to memory, but found he didn’t need to. He remembered Antonin Dolohov quite well.
-
Harry gave up on sleep and went to work at 5:30 AM. He sat in a wobbly metal chair at a round café table in the Atrium and nursed a tepid Starbucks latte. It should have felt safer than his flat, but the empty lobby seemed to hold its breath as if waiting for a punch to the gut.
His flat wasn’t compromised, necessarily. The wards were ironclad. Only Ron and Hermione could cross them. But that wouldn’t stop someone from lingering outside the building. If that man really was Dolohov, he was probably sitting in the alleyway with a pipe wrench right now.
But it couldn’t be Dolohov. They’d all seen his corpse. But they’d seen Remus’ body, too. And Sirius’. And Mrs Pendergrass’ obituary. Did that mean Armando Maldonado was dead, as well?
Harry popped the lid off of his cup and took a loud gulp. He should’ve asked the men he fucked over the weekend for their names. He licked a droplet off the rim of the cup. They’d have told him if they wanted to. If they’d cared to.
Armando had been different in that way. Or Dolohov, or whoever he was. The other two men stripped down and all but shoved him onto the bed. They’d kissed him as an introduction and again as a parting gift.
Armando was slower. More deliberate. He kissed Harry like he gave a damn. Harry swirled his half-full cup. Maybe that’s why Harry had expected him to stay the night. It would have been nice.
Unless it was Dolohov. In which case, he was lucky to have survived and should probably boil his dick.
Harry slouched, elbows on the table, head in his hands. He was well and truly losing his marbles. Robards was going to make him turn in his badge and robes. They’d pack up his flat, turn in the key, and force him to live in Ron’s old room at the Burrow. Or worse, the Janus Thickey ward.
Harry finished his latte, laid his head down, and wondered if St Mungo’s would let him bring his mobile.
-
A whiff of roadkill woke Harry. He rubbed his face against his robe sleeves. The Atrium was bustling with morning foot traffic. At other tables, Ministry employees bolted down their hasty breakfasts.
“Hey.” An arse clad in red robes nudged his elbow.
Harry squinted up at Ron. “Morning.”
“Did you get called in for a split shift?”
Harry shook his head. Ron scanned the crowd like a sheepdog. Dark rings sat below his eyes.
Harry cleared his throat. “Did you get called in last night?”
“Nah. They paged, but I’ve got enough seniority to punt it to the younger guys.”
Regardless, Ron looked like he hadn’t slept in days. “What time did they page you?”
“Around two.”
“Rough.”
Ron shrugged. “I was awake.”
Harry yawned, stretched, and cracked his back against the chair. “Were you up working on the Moirai investigation?”
“Some. I mostly couldn’t sleep.” He glanced at his mobile. “You want anything from Caffè Nero? ‘Mione’s going to Apparate in from there in a bit.”
Harry shook his head. “No, thanks.”
Ron scanned the crowd again, then rolled his shoulders. He pulled an empty chair over to Harry’s table, turned it around, and straddled it. He folded his arms on the backrest and laid his chin on them. Harry wondered if he wasn’t going to doze off, too.
“I talked to George last night.”
“That’s good. How’s George?”
“At Shell Cottage. He’s been there all week. Hasn’t left.”
“Is he alri-” Harry stopped. “He wasn’t here?”
“Nope.” Ron’s eyes darted from face to face in the milling crowd. “I asked him why he was playing graveyard dress-up at Headquarters. He had no idea what I was talking about. Said he’s been out there working on the cottage roof since last Sunday.”
Harry drummed his fingers on the table. A flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. Hermione stood in front of the Apparition point across the Atrium. She had a newspaper under one arm, a carrier of paper cups in hand. She waved to Ron, who acknowledged her with a feeble smile.
“What’s Hermione think about the George thing?”
Ron shook his head. “I didn’t tell her. If it’s the Moirai, I don’t want them to find out she knows, you know?”
“Not really.”
Hermione set the carrier of cups in the middle of the table. She wiggled one loose and placed it in front of Ron. “Americano.” She set a second one in front of Harry. “Latte, extra hot, extra foam, and three shots of Hermione You Shouldn’t Have.”
Harry smiled and accepted both the critique and the drink. Hermione stayed standing while she blew on a cup of black coffee. She spread the newspaper out in front of her. In the center of the front page, a clip of a Quidditch game played on a loop.
A black-haired man in a red and black Galicia Graphorns jersey hurtled toward a hoop, dangling upside down from his broom, Quaffle in one outstretched hand. He flung it through, corkscrewed down the pole, then darted back up astride his broom.
Brown eyes met Harry’s, and he hid his shock behind the rim of his too-hot latte. It was Armando Maldonado. Alive, well, and playing Quidditch.
Harry skimmed the caption while Ron and Hermione talked about Rose’s upcoming birthday.
MALDONADO, NEWLY-MINTED GRAPHORNS CHASER,
SCORES HIS TWELFTH GOAL OF THURSDAY NIGHT’S TIER THREE MATCH,
AN ABSOLUTE SHUT-OUT AGAINST THE HOME TEAM, BALLYCASTLE BATS.
Harry read it four times and burned his tongue on his drink. Armando Maldonado was alive. But he was in Northern Ireland playing Quidditch last night.
Hermione opened the paper. Harry blinked himself away from muddled thoughts of fucking Armando, and of Dolohov standing in his bedroom.
She licked her thumb and flipped through sections until she found what she wanted, then folded the paper into quarters and pushed it toward Ron. “Look at the drivel Luna’s writing now. You might want to show it to Robards. She’s going to provoke hysteria.”
Harry leaned closer to Ron, and it took him a few moments to find the article.
Quibbler Quips and Quandaries,
published daily on Tuesdays, Fridays, and Full MoonsCoo coo ca choo!
Did your dead mum come through the Floo?
Pitter pat, tit for tat!
Why’s Dumbledore buying a hat?
True blue, gumshoe!
Supreme Mugwump at Fortescue’s?
REPORT SIGHTINGS OF OUT-OF-PLACE,
OUT-OF-VEIL HUMANS TO THE QUIBBLER.
OWL PREFERRED.
Harry read it twice, until the hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and his latte curdled in his gut. Ron’s eyes flicked up and caught Harry’s, and they both astutely looked away.
“See?” Hermione said. “They buried the story about the DMLE Polyjuice ban on page four, because obviously Quidditch is more important.”
“Yeah,” Ron said, taking the paper. “I’ll let Robards know…”
Ron trailed off, watching Hermione as she looked into the crowd and froze, coffee halfway to her lips. Harry’s gaze followed hers.
Vernon Dursley dusted himself off in front of the Floos.
“No…” Hermione whispered.
Ron sat up straight and palmed his wand. “That bastard.”
“She’s dead.” Hermione’s coffee shook. “She’s dead! Ron, she’s dead!” Hermione shouted. Wide terrified eyes met Harry’s. “She has to be dead,” Hermione said, blinking back tears. “She has to be.”
Ron stood, kicking a leg over his chair. “Wait, ‘Mione, who did you see?”
She stepped around the table and buried her face in his shoulder. “Bellatrix,” she said with a whimper.
Ron stroked her hair, then kissed the top of her head. “I could have sworn I saw Pettigrew.”
He looked at Harry and waited. “Vernon. My uncle Vernon.”
"All impossible." Ron tucked the newspaper under his arms and held his wife’s head to his chest, swaying gently.
“Shh… ‘Mione, we’ll figure it out.” He pulled back and kissed her forehead. “Promise. Don’t worry. Besides, Mum would trade her knitting needles to kill that bitch again.”