Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Conscience	By : sordidhumors Category: Harry Potter > Slash - Male/Male > Harry/Draco Views: 15282 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: This story is based on "Harry Potter, " the novels and subsequent films created by JK Rowling, licensed to various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury, Scholastic and Warner Bros. This e-publication makes no profit.

Chapter List
- 41
- 42
- 43
SUMMARY: Harry Potter gets acquainted with Leon Harper's work.

DISCLAIMERS: Shift written by Ed Droste and Christopher Bear for the lo-fi album “Horn of Plenty,” released by Warp Records, November 2004.

CONSCIENCE:

BERETTA -

SHIFT

“Baby, I've got silver and I've got gold

but when push comes to shove, this is getting old.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

No, I wouldn't have it any other way.

And when you call I'll be there.

I wouldn't have it any other way.”

"Shift"

Grizzly Bear

They screamed—both of them. The powder blue pickup actually tilted, millimeters shy of tipping into the ditch before Leon grabbed the wheel and adjusted their course.

“Eyes on the road, lad!” he shouted in his gruff Irish accent.

Harry's heart thundered in his chest. Driving an automobile was nothing like a broomstick—or even riding a Thestral, Hippogryff or Granian. There were too many gears and levers, too many things demanding his attention with their incessant beeping and blinking. He hadn't been in a car in what felt like ages, spending most of his time in the magical world, the Ministry of Magic, number twelve Grimmauld and that ridiculously happy, wonderland place his brain occupied every time Draco was in the room. The truck's turn signals looked foreign to his eyes... and it wasn't that they were American. The dry, cracking, chipped-away leather of the steering wheel felt unusual under his fingers, the terrain stretched out before his eyes uncharted and strange. Of course he'd looked down at the stick shift when it came time to change the pickup's gear.

“Sorry!” Harry gasped. “Reckon I should memorize the order of these,” and he patted the manual transmission shifter under his right palm. Americans had to drive on the wrong side of the road, too. He was completely off his game.

Leon put his head on the dashboard as they trundled along. Harry couldn't spare the old man more than a passing glance, his eyes now glued to the dirt road.

“Yeh've really never driven a car before,” Leon said softly. It was more of a groan.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

Leon snorted. “Though yeh were kiddin'.”

Harry tightened his hands on the wheel. He could barely see over it. “Nope.”

Mr. Harper's mobile rang as they pulled into the car park of his shooting range. To his credit, the man's thick-veined hand didn't shake at all as he held the muggle device to his ear: Harry had nearly driven them off the road another half-dozen times on that same stretch of country road. They were lucky it was late morning and no one was about. There'd been quite a bit of bellowing. Harry craned his neck, throat bone-dry, minding his mirrors as he backed the pickup into Leon's reserved parking spot.

Mrs. Harper's voice could be heard through the tiny receiver. She had music on at home and spoke loudly over the sound. She asked Leon whether they'd arrived in one piece.

Leon closed his eyes, dry-washing a hand down his face before brushing the bristles of his mustache, pressing them down at the corners of his mouth. “Feared for me life, cher.”

She laughed.

“Headin' inta the office now. Ta.”

As Leon shut the little flip phone, Harry could hear Charlene, still laughing, chirp something about “take it easy on that boy, Leon.” Mr. Harper stowed the phone in a holster at his hip, right next to the empty rung which was presumably for his gun. He gestured for Harry to lock the car door on his way down.

Mr. Harper breezed through the sterile entryway, offering a half-bored wave to the girl behind the bullet-proof glass. She was reading a magazine and barely glanced up to wish her boss a good morning as he walked by. She did a double-take, chewing her pink bubblegum like a cow chewing its cud, watching the dark-haired young man trailing behind Leon Harper, twirling a ring of car keys around his finger as he went.

“Oh. You remember Mr. Potter from yesterday,” Leon said offhandedly, pointing back at Harry, knowing the girl already had both eyes fixed on the handsome blighter. She leaned her chin against her hand, mooning over his rugged, boyish charm. “He'll be contracting with us fer a few weeks.”

The girl perked up perceptibly, scrambling for a pen. She eyed Harry like cousin Dudley might eye a double cheeseburger with bacon—all-but licking her lip-glossed gob.

“Should I put him on the teaching roster?” she asked excitedly.

“No, no,” Leon waved both hands in front of his chest. “He's not the new Safety Instructor—we're still looking. This is Blackwater. They'll fax his paperwork today or tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay. I'll keep an eye out for it.” Jenny settled down, smacking her gum between her teeth as she threw the pen aside. Apparently she was only interested in Harry if was going to be firing a weapon in her vicinity. Harry got the impression this muggle girl knew nothing of what was really going on behind the shooting range's closed doors. He trailed behind Leon, not understanding half of what the old man and the teenage girl were talking about. A Safety Instructor had to be for the range itself, teaching muggles how to operate guns safely and store them in their homes without incident. That much made sense. But this 'Blackwater' and someone sending a fax with his information? Leon wasn't likely to give him any explanation here in the lobby. Harry clenched his teeth and kept his mouth shut, doing his best to walk with a purpose.

Leon was striding toward the reinforced door when Jenny spoke up.

“Commander Devin from SOCOM rang twice this morning.” She opened her window to pass a post-it with the official's information. Bubblegum rolled visibly in her mouth. “Says it's urgent.”

“Everything's urgent with Dev,” Leon harrumphed, opening the big metal door and ushering Harry through it. Harry waved to Jenny—who ignored him—before walking down the long maze of beige hallways that lead back to Leon's concrete lair.

When they were safely ensconced in Leon's office, the man's laptop booting up with a few odd clicks and chirps the likes of which Harry had never heard, he fielded a question.

“What's SOCOM? Is it code for a wizarding institution?”

Leon sat back in his chair. “Division o' muggle armed forces,” he corrected. “'United States Special Operations Command.' They're a point o' contact in the non-magical government, sort of a liaison. They have officers who know about us and make contact when there's a suspicious event they'd like the wizards to check out, see if it's 'us' or 'them.'” He waited until Harry nodded, to be sure he understood. “They help us keep magic invisible to the public in return fer a few... let's call 'em strategic favors. An' SOCOM's Commander Devin is a greedy son-of-a-bitch whose reached the end o' my patience.”

Harry felt his brows rise.

“He's new,” Leon shrugged, entering a pass-code on his silver and white laptop. “Got wind o' what we can do an' now he's got all these fancy ideas—barmy, every last one of 'em—of what we can do ter serve our country. Load o' bollocks,” Leon shook his head, as though this had happened before. Whenever muggles found out about magic, there was always the chance they could take it to the extreme. The Dursleys were afraid of it. This Commander Devin wanted to use it to his advantage. That was the nature of power.

“Been trying ta get me involved in what shouldn't be the magical community's business. I swear, the fella's one phone call away from my Obliviators.” Leon hit his last computer key with unnecessary force, launching a string of applications across his screen. Harry frowned as the old man closed out what he didn't need.

“Your Obliviators, sir? I mean, what about the Ministry of the Americas?”

Leon dropped both elbows to his desk with twin heavy thumps, peering around his computer at Harry. His white mustache was curling up at the ends—perhaps, beneath the brush, he was smiling. Harry couldn't quite tell.

“They really don't teach yeh anything, anymore, do they? Hogwarts....” The old man leaned back in his chair, folding his arms over his paunchy stomach before launching into a lengthy and long-overdue explanation.

“The government here isn't like the Ministry o' Magic. It's safe—because it's small,” he pointed a finger at Harry, hammering home his intensity with the gesture. His eyes were hard and serious. “They're bureaucrats-only. Census, legislation, taxes... an' that's it. Our magical population is small, spread out over thousands of miles—the northernmost parts of Canada all the way down to Argentina an' Chile all share the same governing body. There are meetin's once per quarter, held by region, where we all march in an' vote on changes to the laws, new hires, the budget, salaries, everythin'. Officials from the Census Department make a few presentations, then we vote. Simple as that. If anyone's got a complaint or wants a new law, they submit a form and it's put to a vote at the quarterly. The people decide an' it's the government's job to follow orders.”

Harry swallowed, processing everything Leon had said. It didn't take him long to find a hole in the otherwise sound logic of a small Ministry.

“But what about the unexpected? I mean, magical creatures wandering into car parks and wizards charming teapots to bite muggles' fingers off—that kinda stuff. How does a government that's paperwork-only enforce the law?”

Leon smoothed his mustache with one hand, pushing the bristles down in the manner of old habit. Harry wondered what the man did before he had a mustache—probably stroked his upper lip and wished.

“Anytime there's somethin' outta their offices—creatures on the loose, underage magic, potential exposure—they contract a Field Operations Team. Someone like me.”

“So you work for the Ministry?”

Snorting, the old man shoved his laptop aside to look at Harry straight on.

“No,” he said shortly. “No. I work fer myself an' my people work fer me. I take Ministry contracts... sometimes. I also do jobs fer private individuals an' the occasional bit fer the muggle government; when the price is right, o' course. There are by-laws an' regulations regardin' what Field Teams can an' canna interfere with. But in general, we operate as a private militia-for-hire.”

Military for hire? No wonder Moody had thought of sending Harry Leon's way. Harry folded his hands in his lap, curiosity swarming in his head like gnargles in mistletoe.

“Do you have a set number of contracts you have to take to stay a Field Team?”

Leon chuckled. “No. We're re-licensed every quarter through the Public Services Act. Certain functions like arbitration in domestic disputes, missing children, accidental magic by minors and Splinch Assistance are free to all persons registered with the Census Department,” Leon listed these things from memory, counting them off on his thick fingers. “We file a form and the Public Service Vault pays us our hours, easy as that. Everyone gets prompt, quality assistance because they can pick who they work with. No chance a troupe of bigots'll Apparate on your doorstep when you yerself select yer service provider.”

“So,” Harry readjusted himself in the metal camp chair. Leon's office was nothing if not utilitarian in style. “How many Field Teams are there? If the population is small, there can't be that many people to work on the teams.”

“True,” Leon agreed. “There are thirteen. Everybody knows who we are: they re-approve us four times a year. They know how much we charge fer jobs outside Public Service, what we have to report 'cause o' the by-laws an' what we can let slide.”

“I bet it's nice for the Ministry,” Harry added. “They can give the easy contracts to the lowest bidder, that way there's gold in reserve to tempt the more experienced teams when there's a dirty job that needs doing.”

“Yer catchin' on, lad.”

Harry felt the puzzle pieces falling into place. “Then Blackwater is...?”

Leon blinked in silence. “Don't miss a thing, do ya?”

Harry shrugged off the compliment, feeling his cheeks heat despite himself. “I was taught by the best.”

“I'd say they did one hell of a job,” Leon said in earnest. “Can't get a thing by you.” He leaned forward in his seat to type on his laptop, swiveling the computer around so Harry could see. The screen showed an aerial view of a military campus, state of the art, shiny and new, with the word “Blackwater” across the top and a large graphic of a bear's paw. The black paw print was the company's logo, splashed here and there along the page as Harry used the laptop's track pad to scroll down.

“So they're muggle,” Harry said after reading only the first paragraph.

“The muggle government's version o' us,” the old man confirmed. “I've been workin' with Blackwater on and off. As a private company outside o' the government, they're ideal cover. Depending on what country I send my team inta, we sometimes have trouble with the local authorities. They don't want what appears ta be an American military team working on a case which they believe is theirs. Blackwater has gotten us inta some otherwise inaccessible areas—war zones, restricted areas, quarantines, you name it. For a modest fee, they'll let us pretend to be a Blackwater satellite.”

Chewing the inside of his lower lip, Harry began to nod. “I see how that works,” he tapped the tip of his trainer against Leon's big wooden desk as he thought. “I'll hazard a guess you're one of the only teams that does this, though. What do the other teams do?”

Leon seemed pleased with Harry's logical line of thought. “They do what we did before Blackwater: coax the muggle federal government into issuing us badges in various departments of their government,” Leon huffed, recalling the messiness and the headache. “If there were muggle police involved, we had to be FBI to outrank 'em—Federal Bureau of Investigation,” he explained. “If the real FBI was already on site, we had ta be Central Intelligence Agency—American MI5.”

Harry nodded his understanding. “Not having papers is a big problem back in the UK. Most of the purebloods don't even exist as far as the muggles are concerned—no birth certificates, hospital records or driving permits. It gets messy trying to move witches and wizards around.”

“We have a Credentials Office that works with the muggles, keeping us all on-record. Problem is they're slow as a dead bowtruckle with its back legs tied together; unfortunately, they're the same people charged with convincing the muggle feds ta issue badges to Field Op Teams. By the time they got you yer papers, half a field o' muggle police officers have been mowed down by heard o' mad Hinkypunks. It was only after the Jarvey Incident, when we started billing the Ministry fer our Obliviation hours, that they allowed us direct contact with the muggle government. Now we have knob-heads like Devin at SOCOM,” Leon snorted. “Still, he's better than nothin'. We get our badges in record time—an' Obliviate 'em when they start getting' ideas in their heads,” the old man snorted. “Costs the Ministry less in overhead, saves us time an' ends up saving lives while reducing exposure.”

“Makes perfect sense,” Harry agreed. He shifted in his chair once more, the hard metal beneath the meager canvas padding making his bum sore the longer he sat in the same position. His mind kept going back to Jarveys, one of the few magical creatures capable of speech. He'd been so excited to read about them in his Care of Magical Creatures textbook third year. In an amusing turn, the only speech Jarveys are capable of is rather lewd in nature, composed almost entirely of insults and curse words. This provided no end of amusement to a group of thirteen year old boys and so the name of the creature had stuck with him over the years. Jarveys resembled overgrown ferrets and were good for hunting gnomes. He wondered what kind of damage they'd caused.

Curiosity got the best of him. “I have to ask. The Jarvey Incident?”

“Of '94,” Leon nodded. “Press coverage was lacking. The Ministries did their best ta keep it quiet.” A squint took over his face. “I want coffee. You?”

“Sure.”

Leon pressed the intercom at the corner of his desk, barking orders at Jenny to bring them a pot of coffee.

“The Jarvey Incident,” the Irishman repeated. “In the spring o' 1994, some three hundred Jarveys wandered into a ski resort in New Hampshire after their nests had been demolished by a roadway project. There was a film festival in the local town and every resort was packed with tourists an' journalists, all armed with cameras. We saved some o' their footage: imagine a sea o' fat ferrets racin' down Main Street in a great furry wave, shoutin' obscenities and insultin' the tourists.”

Harry couldn't help breaking out in laughter. Leon slapped the edge of his desk, a belly laugh escaping him to rival Hagrid's drunken giggles. His skin reddened beneath his white whiskers, chuckling as he remembered the sight.

“Bribed a National Guardsman ta let my Obliviators onto the base a few miles outside o' town. We rolled in with tanks—got the muggles ta listen to us, sharp-like. Took four Field Teams a week ta track down all the footage an' every witness. Took even longer to trap an' relocate the Jarveys—catch an' release wasn't protocol then but we figured they weren't dangerous, so they ought ta live. I'm jus' glad the muggles didn't have these cell phone cameras then.”

“Merlin's balls,” Harry said quietly. “Sounds like a ton of work. But it could've been a lot worse. Good that you were able to trick the muggles and sort of keep them in one place 'til you could modify their memories.”

Leon cocked his head to the side, the whiskers of his mustache rubbing together with a soft swoosh-ing sound as he chewed his upper lip in thought. “You think like an Auror,” he said at last.

“Thanks,” Harry smiled. “It's what I'd like to do, once all this is over.”

Jenny arrived with their coffee and the day's work began.

In between approving supply orders and bookings for his muggle business, Leon took meetings with members of his Field Operations Team. Some of them simply owled reports while others called on the phone or Apparated in. Each time someone Apparated into Leon's office there was a ringing, a sort of high-pitched squealing like air rushing through a tiny tube. The sound would stop the moment the witch or wizard's body materialized. After three visits, Harry inquired about the sound.

“Blood ward,” Leon replied gruffly, “keyed ta my team. No one else can Apparate into this room unless I lower the shield. Guess how often I do tha'?”

“Never,” Harry grinned. He'd never heard of a Blood Ward but guessed it was a very advanced sort of magic, probably ancient with a few twists thrown in by Leon. The old wizard had a penchant for twisting magic, making it better by making it his own.

Leon smiled back. “Good lad.”

The team was an interesting mix of people. Harry looked between the witch and wizard delivering a speech to Leon about how they needed to add mosquito-repelling charms to their flak jackets before an upcoming contract in someplace called The Everglades. The wizard who spoke was big and surly, Latino judging by his healthy, caramel-tan skin, jet-black hair and slight Spanish accent. Leon called him Mr. Moreno. He wore a black cowboy hat and kept fiddling with a silver cigar case, opening and closing it in a constant, unconscious rhythm as though all he wanted was to go outside and have a smoke. The woman beside him, Maddie, couldn't have been a day over twenty four. With her spider bite facial piercings and the tips of her cropped brown hair dyed a vivid green, she would've looked more at home at an MSI concert than fighting mad Hinkypunks at old Mr. Harper's side. After Mr. Moreno left, Maddie spent a quarter of an hour pointing rather animatedly at fuel consumption reports for the last month. She hounded her boss to trade in their fleet for more fuel-efficient hybrids. Leon laughed, telling her that manual transmissions were easier to force through a failing Trans-Location Barrier and, until hybrids came with a stick shift, they'd stick with the gas-guzzling SUV's and live to fight another day. Maddie left with an arm-load of papers. Harry watched her out the window as she walked into a huge warehouse at the other end of the employee car park, slamming the door behind her.

As they waited for Leon's next appointment, an Obliviator called Kitarou Hitori, Harry leaned over to speak to the old man. At Leon's request, Harry had moved his chair behind the desk, sitting right next to him and making mental notes as the man carried out his daily business. No one paid him much attention and he was grateful for it. Anyone who didn't make a big deal of his being The Boy Who Lived was a sensible person in Harry's book. He received no special treatment, either from Leon or his staff.

“A Trans-Location Barrier,” Harry muttered, “is... like the wall separating King's Cross from Platform 9 ¾?”

“An' more,” Leon confirmed. “The way we build 'em here, the field lets out to an alternate location. Dependin' on what time yeh cross the field, it'll dump yeh out in a different place. Runs on a schedule, o' course. More convenient than the floo network, especially fer families, since it's free through the Transit Service. Most folks drive their cars straight through.”

“Cool,” Harry was more than a little awed at the ways Americans had of going about their magical lives without muggles noticing. “And anybody can use them?”

“Public sites, yeah. Most o' the larger Field Teams like us have a private barrier. We tune it to wherever we need to go. Beats portkeys and Side-Along Apparition,” he shrugged. “I was never a fan o' landin' in cornfields an' bogs just ta stay outta the way.” Harry recalled many an arrival at the Burrow, landing knee-deep in muck. It was certainly an inconvenience. “Barriers have Notice-Me-Not Charms layered on so thick, muggles wouldn't notice the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade marchin' out.”

Harry squinted at the reference.

“Never mind,” Leon muttered as the squealing noise picked up again. Hitori arrived—a short but muscular Asian-American man in a tight tshirt, military fatigue trousers and heavy boots. The shirt, stretched tight over his impressive frame, bore the logo of a mixed martial arts academy. It wouldn't have been a stretch to say that Hitori either worked there or owned the place.

Leon was quick to explain Harry's situation to the Obliviator Hitori, asking the man to get in touch with Commander Devin—“Sick of 'em already, boss?” Hitori joked with a wry, knowing smirk—to acquire a muggle military I.D. for Harry... and then take the Commander off Leon's hands. Hitori nodded slowly, jotting everything down on a small pad which he stored in one of his trousers' many pockets.

“Tomorrow morning, first thing,” Leon told the Obliviator. “Before he has a chance ta leave me another God damned message.”

“Got it,” Hitori nodded once, making a mock salute.

“An' take Harry with yeh,” Leon added as an afterthought. “Show 'em how we do things 'round here.”

Hitori's dark eyes settled on Harry. He blinked once, solemn, before nodding to him, too. “My pleasure.”

After Hitori left, Leon had a lively telephone conversation with a second Mr. Moreno. This Moreno had received funding for research and development, the money provided by the magical government as a kind of Field Department of Mysteries with Leon as Moreno's overseer. The details were vague as the men went back and forth on speakerphone so Harry could hear. It all sounded like gibberish, intense levels of magic theory, conjuring and technical jargon passing between them like a platter of pumpkin pasties at a Hogwarts feast. All Harry could discern was that this second Moreno fellow, far more talkative than the first, was working on a type of defensive spell. By the tone of their voices, the project wasn't turning out as planned. Moreno asked to borrow a research assistant, Hanson Tokko, who Leon was loathe to part with. Eventually they came to the conclusion that Tokko would decide which dead end project he wanted to waste his time with. Leon agreed to email Hanson and the conversation ended with an amiable invite to a karaoke bar the following evening. Both men offered greetings to the other's wife before ending the call.

Harry caught Leon's eye before he disappeared into a pile of boxes, digging for a special type of form.

“Tokko is your assistant, then?” he asked. “For a project like Mr. Moreno's?”

Leon nodded, flipping the lid off a white file box and leafing through the folders it contained. For all the appearance of mess, Leon was actually quite organized.

Harry bucked up his courage, laying his palms flat against his thighs and staring at the old man's hunched back. “Dare I ask what the project is?”

Leon smiled to himself as he drew out a folder.

“It's always been a fascination fer me,” he began, tossing the folder onto his desk and then leaning his hip against the heavy piece of furniture. “Wands. How they work, the ways we use 'em, why they look the way they do. Back before you were born, the wandmaker Pavel Gregorovitch published some research suggesting that objects other than the traditional shaft o' wood could be crafted into functional wands. He cited some examples of historical artifacts—swords, crowns an' the like—having been imbued with magical properties similar to a wand. He took it one step further, suggesting there might be a way ta create a small, wearable object—such as a bracelet, ring or glove—which could perform all functions of a wand.”

“Most folks didn't take Grevorovitch seriously. Right shame, tha' was,” Leon put more of his weight into the desk, resting a hand over his papers as he gazed out the window in thought. The half-dozen cars in the employee car park gleamed back in the afternoon sunlight. “After the war, the Americans had money ta burn. I talked Hanson Tokko inta leaving the Department o' Mysteries and comin' out here with me ta see if there was any truth ta The Gregorovitch Hypothesis. Fifteen years later, this is what we've got.”

Slowly, Leon opened his left hand, raising it into the air. He wore what appeared to be a brown leather driving glove, the fingerless type with a two-button clasp at the inside of his blue-veined wrist. The material appeared old and worn but well cared for. He flexed his fingers slowly, muttering under his breath—a familiar seven syllables.

“Wingardium Leviosa.”

The white cardboard file box Leon had sifted through rose a meter in the air, revolving slowly as the wizard moved his fingers, seeming to guide the box around in an even glide. He levitated it around the room, hovering a moment over Harry's head, before setting it back down in its proper place.

“Blimey,” Harry whispered, shocked. “So it works.”

“Fer small spells, anyway,” Leon shrugged, his voice gruff. “We ended up workin' backwards, creatin' a wand keyed as closely as possible ta myself before Transfiguring it inter a glove. From there we released the Transfiguration one thread of magic at a time, weakening the web itself until what appeared ta be a glove functioned as a wand. Not exactly a victory... but a step in the right direction.”

Leon sighed, his belly expanding beneath his flannel shirt, stretching the pattern. “An unforeseen bonus—every prototype has been immune to Expelliarmus. Somethin' about the Transfiguration throws off disarming spells. Too bad Gregorovitch isn't here ta see it. Heard the Death Eaters got 'em. Tragic.”

Harry bit his tongue—hard. Not only were Pavel and Anka Gregorovitch alive and well, they were hiding out with the Order and seeking safe haven in America! But no one was supposed to know, for the wandmaker and his wife's safety. Harry couldn't break that trust. He pinched his thigh, a reminder to contact the Order as soon as possible. If Leon and Hanson could create something as fantastic as that wand-glove, Harry couldn't imagine the possibilities if they put their heads together with Gregorovitch himself! With that kind of ingenuity, they could... destroy a Horcrux. Repel Inferi. Destroy Dementors. The tide of the war could be turned. Harry worked to keep the excitement and sheer fucking hope from his face. The back of his neck burned.

Harry cleared his throat, averting his gaze. “Do you have a new project or...?”

“Fer the Field Teams,” Leon confirmed. “Trying fer a mild Confundus Charm mixed with a Notice-Me-Not so the muggles see our wands as handguns. We've had problems with local law enforcement wanderin' into our work zone unannounced, seein' things they shouldn't.”

“I bet changing the way muggles see wands would save your Obliviators a lot of leg work,” Harry offered.

“When it's done,” Leon snorted irritably. “Muggles still see light an' color from our spells—and o' course the result, which doesn't at all resemble a bullet wound. The sight scrambles their brains. I think we've Obliviated Jenny within an inch of her mind.”

That made sense—the girl at the front desk was odd, even for a muggle, existing in her own little world. Over-Obliviation could do that, Harry had learned in fifth year Charms. That was why the Ministry of Magic kept records of memory-modified muggles, to be sure that people turning up in the wrong place at the wrong time weren't getting one-too-many doses of magic, turning their brains to mush. Harry wondered what kinds of records the Ministry of the Americas kept—what had to be reported and, as Leon said, what they could “let slide.”

It was a wild country out here; a dangerous and uncharted territory where the rules, it would seem, didn't apply to everyone. Leon was like a town sheriff, meeting out his own brand of justice. So long as he was elected by the people with full disclosure of his methods and means, Harry couldn't find fault with it. Keeping magic secret was paramount. And the work Leon's team did was important. Occasionally, there would be Jennys and Commander Devins to be “handled.” As Draco might say, it was the price of leprosy.

- - -

“You can smile a little,” Charlene told him that night. “No need to be stern.”

Over her shoulder, Leon spluttered. “It's a bloody CIA consultant badge, cher! 'Stern' is the idea!”

Charlene ignored her husband with a shake of her blonde head. “Young men are far more 'andsome when they're smiling,” she coaxed, adjusting her grip on the professional-grade muggle camera she'd been waving in Harry's face. Her red fingernails stood out against the black plastic.

Harry swallowed, brushing his hand down the vintage silk tie the Harpers had loaned him. He also wore a starched white dress shirt and crisp black blazer, both of which were eerily the right size. Charlene had appeared with the garments, saying she'd guessed at his measurements. He got the feeling the clothes had belonged to their son. He said nothing.

The tie was smooth and cool beneath his finger tips, broad bands of silver and green running down the length of it in a diagonal pattern. He'd seen a tie like this before—in the memories of Albus Dumbledore and Horace Slughorn. Voldemort had worn a tie like this, back when he was just Tom Riddle, a seventh year Slytherin. Harry suspected this was Leon's own Slytherin necktie, saved from his school days. Charlene had gushed when Harry emerged from the bathroom, fussing over the full Windsor knot he'd used, ordering her husband to notice how the dark jacket and tie brought out the color of his eyes. She'd cleaned his glasses with the tail of her blouse, ruffling his hair before positioning him against the wall to take his picture.

Leon peeked around his wife's ample frame, catching Harry's eye. “Serious,” he mouthed. “Government. Bureaucrat. Suit.”

Charlene smiled. Her mouth moved to form the words “ignore him.”

Harry smiled back as the camera flashed.

- - -

Three figures stood in Leon's employee parking lot the next morning. They were waiting beside a glistening black SUV with chrome side runners and the Blackwater insignia airbrushed onto both the passenger and driver doors. Leon waved to them out of his pickup's open window as Harry pulled into the car park. Americans drove everywhere. Then again, their country was so big and everything so spread out, it was the only option besides Apparition or an airplane.

Harry scanned the car park. Maddie, with her green-tipped bob, was just arriving for the day. She got out of her little two door car and approached the collection of people standing by the SUV.

“Where you off to?” she asked Hitori.

Leon raised his voice so she could hear him over the slamming of the pickup's doors. “Taking care of a pain in my arse!”

Maddie rolled her eyes. “Devin?” she asked bluntly.

Hitori and the two blondes with him nodded in earnest. One was a woman, tall and elegant-looking. She reminded Harry of Narcissa Malfoy, with her refined face and flowing blonde hair. This woman had her locks pulled back into a functional if plain pony tail. She wore high heeled pumps and a lean black suit, adding to her height. The other blond was a young man, no more than four years Harry's senior, with a dopey smile and a hairstyle that constantly fell into his eyes. He looked like a California surfer, fit and colored by the sun. His starched suit was almost like a costume, well-fitted but clearly not his style. The blondes had to be part of Leon's Obliviator squad. Harry guessed Hitori was their leader, the way they deferred to him, one at either side, awaiting his orders.

“Yer in good hands,” Leon told Harry with a slap on the back. The old man made his way to the main building, grumbling about a good cup of coffee.

Hitori took off his sunglasses to greet Harry, introducing his team as Rikka and Johnny Neither of them seemed surprised to be meeting Harry Potter: Johnny gave him a wide smile and Rikka inclined her shinny blonde head before tossing him a set of keys.

“You're driving.”

Hitori put his sun glasses back on. “You do drive, right, Potter?”

Harry swallowed. “Um, sort of.”

Rikka spoke with a slight accent—Norwegian or Finnish, very northern. She must have emigrated. “Kelly's on maternity leave, so we're short a driver. You can take over.”

Johnny leaned in conspiratorially as Rikka and Hitori climbed into the SUV.

“Trust me,” the surfer boy whispered, “Ukrainian Ironbellies drive better than Rikka. You can't be worse.”

Harry cocked his head to the side, examining the set of keys in his hand. “Aren't Ironbellies pretty much blind?”

Johnny smirked. “Exactly.”

Even as an eleven year old, Harry had never liked the sensation of running straight at a wall. Pushing your trolly cart through the wall separating King's Cross from Platform 9 ¾ was a harrowing experience, especially the first time. It didn't matter how many people told you you would be fine. It didn't matter how many Weasleys you watched walk through the barrier ahead of you. When you pushed your trolly at full break-neck speed towards a solid brick wall, there would always be that niggling voice in the back of your head telling you you're about to seriously hurt yourself. It didn't help that at the start of his second year, the barrier had actually failed on him and Ron, sending them sprawling, trunks and possessions everywhere—bruised. Perhaps Harry's psyche hadn't made a full recovery from that incident. He never thought about those sorts of things, the series of frightful and life-threatening events which made up the story of his life. Deep thoughts were rarely expected of The Boy Who Lived, anyway. Like a dog, he buried them for later.

His hands shook at the wheel, tan leather moist and slippery with the sweat of his palms. The speedometer read sixty four miles per hour and rising. And there was a great brick wall before him, closer and closer as his foot pressed down against the accelerator. Rikka and Hitori were chatting in the back seat, Johnny up front with Harry, a map of the state of Florida spread out over his knees.

“...Map?” Harry questioned under his breath. “You know where we're going, right?”

Johnny made a face, sticking out his long tongue. Harry couldn't see it, his wide-eyed gaze fixed on the obstacle rapidly approaching. He pictured the SUV crashing into the wall, bumper crunched in with a sickening smack, glass flying everywhere, the impact of steel and brick, the dust of broken mortar billowing through the air. He wondered if he could Apparate out in time.

“Maddie calibrated the Trans-Location Barrier last night,” Johnny shrugged. “I've never been to SOCOM before, so I wanted to have a look at the map, get a feel for the area.”

Harry took a shaky breath followed by a second and then third. “Oh.”

He wanted to screw his eyes shut. There was a brick wall ten yards off and he was about to crash into it. Too late for brakes. Seven yards. Harry's jaw clenched, a muscle in his neck flexing uncontrollably. Two yards.

He closed his eyes.

“Harry,” Rikka said quietly, her accent trilling. “The auto in front of you has stopped moving.”

Harry's eyes snapped open.

The farm fields of rural Ohio had been traded for wide boulevards and palm trees. They were on the outskirts of a large city by the ocean, warehouses and apartment complexes springing up on all sides as they neared their destination. Overhead, there were seagulls in the sky.

The SUV was approaching a red traffic signal, a single car stopped at the light. Still a ways off, Harry applied the brakes, gliding to a stop with time to spare.

From the back seat, Hitori snorted. “You a Seer? I hear they drive with their eyes closed, too.”

The Obliviator team was precise, all practiced business as they carried out their assignment. They spent longer in the waiting room outside Commander Devin's office. The man's secretary offered the four visitors from Blackwater coffee or tea while they waited. Once in Devin's office, Harry stood back and watched. He'd been warned to stay out of their way.

Rikka Stunned Commander Devin—got him right in the chest with a bolt of silent red light. The big military man tipped backwards, falling out of his chair with a muffled thwump. The floor was thickly carpeted but Harry suspected someone had laid down a Cushioning Charm to further quiet the sound. Hitori bent over the Commander, wand tip pressed to the muggle's temple. White light flared as he worked.

Johnny went through the contents of Commander Devin's desk, taking what they needed, incinerating that which the muggle should no longer be privy to and ignoring the rest. Rikka made for the filing cabinets, using a spell similar to Hermione's favorite floating research method to pull files from their roosts. She set fire to them in mid-air, leaving not a trace behind. Soon, Johnny pointed his wand at Devin's computer and mobile phone, purging information from every possible source.

Harry stood with his back pressed flush to the office door. He listened to the secretary typing on her computer in the room beyond. In the roughly four minutes it took the Obliviators to finish with their task, no one came to bother Commander Devin.

“Ugh,” Hitori sounded annoyed as he glanced up at Rikka. “Gonna have to knock him out for this to take effect.”

The blonde woman sighed, a hand on her hip as she blasted top secret files to smithereens. She set a Hoover Charm around the office, cleaning the carpet of ash and residue.

“Fine,” was her reply.

Hitori's gaze went to Harry. “In two minutes, go outside and get Devin's secretary. Tell her the Commander collapsed. We'll walk out in the ruckus.”

Harry minded his watch and, when the prescribed two minutes had passed, he opened the door and went out into the lobby. Behind him, the Obliviators were poised on their hands and knees, as though rushing to the Commander's aid.

Harry screwed his face into a look of pure panic. He tensed his fingers, jogging up behind the secretary but keeping his eyes trained on the office, as though concerned for the SOCOM Commander's well-being.

“C-commander Devin collapsed!” he told her breathlessly. She whirled around in her chair, startled. Harry pointed back at the man's office, where Hitori's large frame could be seen bending over the military man, checking his vitals. Rikka and Johnny looked convincingly worried. “He was just talking to us and then.... Get a doctor or something!” Harry shouted.

The woman picked up her phone and dialed an emergency number. Several men in uniforms came walking around the corner and Harry snagged their attention, too. The more people there were, the easier it would be for the Obliviators to slip out unnoticed.

The secretary ran into the Commander's office, followed by the uniformed officers, several plainclothesmen and then three uniformed medics. As the concerned bystanders streamed in, Hitori, Rikka and lastly Johnny snuck out.

From the car park, Hitori phoned Leon. Over speakerphone, the old wizard was in a snit—something about the Ministry of the Americas dangling a fat wad of money in his face. And pigs.

- - -

“Wild boar, actually,” Mr. Moreno in the cowboy hat corrected Leon later that night.

“Pigs,” Leon repeated stubbornly. “Ruddy pigs.”

“You're not the one chasing 'em through the woods,” muttered a sandy-haired bloke sitting next to Harry. He was a chubby fellow who spoke under his breath, not expecting his boss or anyone else to her him over the noise of the karaoke bar they were situated in that evening. “Don't see why yer makin' a fuss.”

The fellow's name was Jedidiah, the Potioneer of Leon's Field Ops Team. Like Charlene, Jedidiah had a thick southern accent. The fellow was snippy but shy. He buried himself in his oversize pint before anyone else heard him complaining.

“What's wrong with the wild boars?” Harry asked, having not understood the details discussed back at the range. The whole team was gathered at a homey karaoke bar in Fox Lake, Illinois. Apparently the area had a high concentration of Trans-Location Barriers, being close to the American Ministry in Chicago, and so was an easy location for everyone to access. There were easily twenty people, many with spouses and significant others. Harry got the niggling suspicion they'd all come to meet the newest member of their team, Harry Potter.

Leon had offered him a job that afternoon. He said that, if Harry planned to hang around and stick his neck out with the team, he deserved equal compensation from the Ministry for his trouble. That and Leon was understaffed. He'd provided Harry with a stack of consultant badges—CIA, FBI, DOJ, SOCOM—as well as credentials fresh from MI5 in England. All the seals and numbers seemed to be in order, too. He could go waving his badges literally anywhere. The team was polite to Harry, laughing at his jokes about not being able to sing and generally making him feel quite welcome. Every now and then, a couple or small group would get up and head toward the stage, singing an off-key number or two before sauntering back with fresh drinks.

There was an impressive version of Muffliato cast up and down the table. Nearby muggles paid them no mind even as they discussed Obliviaion and magical theory at full volume.

A big Serbian man called Ivan shouted down the length of the table in answer to Harry's question. He pronounced his name as “ee-vahn” and Harry could tell by the familiar accent that he was from Serbia. Ivan's biceps were the size of a child's head, his ginger-blond hair and goatee framing his face like a Greek god. Harry made a mental note to stay on the chap's good side—he looked like a man with a short and murderous temper.

“Zhee problem ees zhat someone introduced Russian bitva hogs to a native heard in Mississippi,” Ivan said, pitching his booming voice to carry. “Zhey are related to zhe African Tebo. Quite magical i very dangerous. Zhey upset zhe local food chain. Now zhey come out of zhe woods, attacking muggles as zhey forage.”

“Ministry's offerin' a pretty penny ter kill 'em all,” Leon put in. “Quiet-like.”

“You'll come, right?” Mr. Moreno in the cowboy hat asked Harry. He sat beside his brother, a leaner version of himself a few years older. The two were clearly brothers, family resemblance strong through their strong cheekbones and shadowed eyes.

“Sure,” Harry nodded. “Strength in numbers.”

The table toasted him, beers and cocktails raised high. Harry lifted his soda in appreciation.

He sat back and listened to the conversations buzzing around the table. Apparently Jedidiah had had a breakthrough in his research, using Ashwinder sheddings—which were highly flammable—to make a kind of wizarding explosive more powerful than muggle dynamite. The team kicked around perspective names for the substance. The winner was Ash4, a play on the name of a powerful muggle explosive, C4.

“Where's Johnny?” Harry asked idly, looking down the table and not seeing the blond fellow anywhere.

Maddie gave him a tight-lipped smile, explaining, “Full moon. He'll be back in a few days.”

“Oh,” Harry's brows rose. He hadn't had any indication Johnny was a werewolf. And everyone treated the guy quite normally. Harry sipped his soda, listening in on the conversation between the older Mr. Moreno and Leon. They were discussing the skinny fellow's research project. His thin fingers raked through his black hair at the temples, where gray hairs were beginning to sprout.

Mr. Moreno's daughter, Malaya, caught Harry's gaze and rolled her eyes grandly. They were dark like her father's but almond shaped and very alluring.

“Project Vader,” she muttered. “I can't believe the government pays them to play around with that shit.”

“Sorry?” Harry cupped a hand over his ear.

Malaya leaned forward across the table, tucking a strand of her long black hair behind her ear. He bangs fell all the way down to her eyebrows, giving her the aura of an Asian school girl with caramel-tan skin. Her pleated wool skirt and pale blouse added to the image. Harry wondered if she attended the Salem Witches Institute. She looked about Ginny's age.

“Project Vader,” she said more clearly. “You know, like Darth Vader in 'Star Wars.'”

“Is that a book?”

She laughed. “No! A movie—a really famous one.” She sipped her soda before explaining. “There's this bad guy in the movie, Vader, who uses The Force, which is like magic. He uses the dark side of The Force and his enemies, the Jedi, use the light side. The whole thing is a metaphor for good and bad karma, what people dedicate their lives to and shit like that. Anyway,” she flipped her long hair back over her shoulder, “Vader does this thing in one of the movies where he uses The Force, holds up his hand,” she mimed the action, bringing her hand up to her father's throat as he spoke but hovering a few inches away, pretending to squeeze. “And chokes one of his generals. My dad got it in his head that he could make a defensive spell to do about the same thing—and have it not be classified as the Dark Arts. He thinks he can make it Neutral.”

“That's... interesting,” Harry said, nodding slowly. “I see how it would be useful, defensively. And I guess it would take any pureblood Death Eater by surprise.”

Malaya rolled her eyes again. “It's stupid. But my dad seems to like it.” She smiled at her father, wrinkling her nose as the expression became silly. Mr. Moreno wasn't looking at his daughter, wrapped up in his conversation with Leon and Hanson Tokko. Hanson was Korean and wore a silk paisley bow tie and thick black spectacles. A streak of pure white ran through his hair at one side, completing the effect that he had just walked out of the Department of Mysteries, covered in research dust and shrouded in the mystique of the unknown.

“Dad,” Malaya put a hand on her father's forearm, pulling his attention away from his work. “As cool as it is hanging out with your coworkers and everything, I still have homework to get done. Can I go home and, you know, work on that?”

Skinny Mr. Moreno raised an eyebrow. “Can you wait an hour, sweetie?” the man asked, swirling the last of his beer in his glass.

“I'd rather not,” the girl insisted. “Maybe someone else can give me a ride home? That way you can stay and relax. You need it.”

“Such a sweetheart,” Mr. Moreno kissed the top of his daughter's head. Then he looked around the table. Most of Leon's team shook their heads, beers and cocktails in hand. His dark eyes fell to Harry at the end of the table. “Potter, you drive a stick shift?”

Harry nodded. Mr. Moreno threw a set of keys at him.

“Can't miss it,” Malaya told him with a smile, pulling him up from his chair. “It's the orange McLaren.”

It took Harry a moment to get used to the way the car's fancy doors opened up instead of out, reminding him of the Delorean from Dudley's favorite childhood movie, Back To The Future. The whole thing was low and sleek, curves and angles like a bony, large-breasted woman in a figure-hugging dress.

“Great car,” he mumbled, adjusting the seat and mirrors before fitting the key to the ignition. When the car started up... it sounded like a real car, none of that rumbling and white smoke of Leon's old pickup. He tapped the gas pedal, just to hear the engine roar in response, flexing his fingers on the steering wheel, toes curling in his trainers.

Malaya provided decent driving directions and, two Trans-Location Barriers later, the sports car was idling outside her house in Plano, Texas.

The full moon was unusually bright, its blue-ish night color filtering through the dashboard, making streaks of light in Malaya's hair. It was these flecks of light glinting off her bangs which alerted Harry to the fact that she was moving, slowly leaning towards him, closer and closer. He could count her eyelashes, feel the warmth of her cheeks and lips as they hovered so near his own. She breathed, hot and sweet, closing the distance between them.

“Malaya.”

Harry said her name, slow and clear. He put a hand to her shoulder, straightening his elbow to keep her a consistent arm's length away. Sliding away in his seat, his back met with the driver's side door panel, a handle and many plastic switches and buttons pressing along his spine. He met her dark eyes from behind fogging spectacles.

“I think you're beautiful. You're my type—from what I've been told. I don't date a lot. But I'm in a relationship right now. We love each other,” he smiled despite himself. It felt good to talk about his feelings, to say the words, even if Draco wasn't there to hear him. “And I'm not the type of bloke who cheats.”

Where he once had felt fear and dread—the crippling emotions often brought on by the presence of an attractive female, especially one he was charged with delivering unfortunate news to—Harry was imbued with a sense of calm and purpose. He couldn't control the situation; people were unpredictable, after all. But he could choose his own reaction. If Malaya got angry with him, it was better to give her a flat wall to rail against than a responsive one. The matter really wasn't up for discussion. The less room he gave her to rally against him, the faster she would accept his word as final and move on.

He could see the process of logic in her eyes. First her mouth opened, lips parting to form a rebuttal. At the firm look in his eyes, she snapped her mouth shut. He was happy to see that no girlish tears formed in her eyes. He watched her carefully through the seconds it took her to collect her thoughts.

“I'm very sorry if I led you on in any way,” he added firmly. “Believe me, that was not my intent. I've been told my table manners border on flirtatious....”

He recalled his most formal date with Draco, sitting in their private cavern at that muggle restaurant, holding hands over the crisp white linens. They may or may not have played footsie under the table as the champagne took hold. In that moment, he had felt comfortable in his own skin—mostly because he was worried about Draco, the way he'd grown up and the way he would have to re-fit himself to wizarding life. Perhaps Harry was at his best when he worried for others over himself, a part of his 'Hero Complex,' as Draco and Hermione called it. He focused himself on Malaya, her comfort and their very new acquaintance. It would be better to tell her something—anything to build trust between them. After trying to kiss him, it was obvious she at least liked him as a person. He screwed up his courage to salvage the situation.

“I should have said something sooner,” Harry comforted, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze.

“I... yeah,” Malaya deflated, falling back against her seat, shoulders slumping. She folded her hands in her lap, gloves clutched between her palms. Her eyes stayed downcast as she spoke. “I felt something. Probably should've asked if you had a girlfriend first.” A sad sort of chuckle escaped.

“Er,” Harry let his own head rest against the coolness of the window behind him.

Malaya was so embarrassed, she ignored the awkward sound he made. “Hogwarts girl?”

“Erm, sort of,” Harry shrugged.

Malaya still wasn't looking anywhere but down. “Who is she? Would I know her?”

Harry resisted the urge to fidget. He didn't want to lie, he really didn't, but Malaya didn't seem like the right person to tell about his recent adventures in homosexual buggery. He was silent too long.

“Oh my God,” Malaya smiled like the kneazle that got past the Gringotts goblins. “I bet she's famous. Am I right? If she's your girlfriend, then I'm sure I've heard of her somewhere. Spill it,” she teased, perking up and swiveling in her seat excitedly. “Who is she?”

Harry licked his drying lips. “Someone special.”

Malaya's face scrunched. She tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear, her hand returning to her lap with an excited snap. She seemed very interested. Harry found himself hoping she wasn't a gossip. Perhaps, if he gave her some of the information she sought, he could gain an ally from this unusual and uncomfortable situation.

“Someone?” she repeated, incredulous. “Harry, you shouldn't talk about your girlfriend like that,” she tisked. “When you tell me who she is, I'm owling her. She'll be mortified to know you talk about her like that when she's not around.”

“Someone special,” Harry said again, more forcefully this time. “It's a compliment.”

Malaya laughed at him. “It's weak, Harry.”

He shrugged the insult off, playing it cool. “Maybe I'm weak.”

“Come on, Harry,” she rolled her eyes. The whites of them glowed in the light of the full moon. “You sure know how to get a girl interested. What's her name?”

Harry sighed. The game was over.

“His name is Draco. He used to be a Death Eater but he defected to our side over the summer.”

Malaya didn't let him get any farther.

“Your girlfriend's a guy—” Harry wasn't sure whether that was a question or an exclamation. He was careful to keep his face pleasant but blank. He nodded passively, as though his lover's gender wasn't a huge concern. It wasn't, really. It shouldn't be. “And he used to be a Death Eater—like, with the Dark Mark and everything?”

“Yup.”

Malaya shook her head. “Bullshit. You're messing with me.”

The corner of Harry's mouth turned up. “Why would I do that? Wouldn't it be easier to tell you I'm snogging Gwenog Jones than to spin some story about a love affair with the son of Voldemort's favorite Lieutenant?”

She bit her lip when Harry said The Name. He doubted anyone had actually said it to her face, full-volume and without a tremor of absolute terror in their voice. The sense of his statement hit her a moment later, logic processing secondary to the emotional shock brought on by those rarely uttered syllables.

“Fuck,” she whispered. And then her brain took an unexpected turn toward the feminine. “Got a picture?”

“One,” Harry offered, reaching for his wallet. “He's wearing a disguise, though.” He pulled the string of photo booth paper from its hiding place, handing it over to her. Two pictures were visible and she looked them over with care. Harry looking to the camera while Draco looked confused—the second showed them both laughing. Even with nerdy glasses and dark hair, he still looked like Draco. There was intelligence burning in his eyes, a grace and style to the movement of his limbs, preserved forever like a gleaming Draco statue, frozen there in the muggle photograph.

Malaya looked nonplussed. Harry reached over, unfolding the sheet of paper, giving light to the pictures no one else ever saw. Compared to the first two, the second pair of photos were nothing short of shocking. Him and Draco kissing—pawing at each other, really—and then fighting for purchase, Draco losing his balance as Harry threw him against the photo booth's wall, snogging him senseless.

“He's hot! Damn!” Malaya fanned herself with the string of photos before gazing at them, star-eyed, a second time. She clutched the paper as though Harry might snatch it away before she was done drooling over it. “No wonder he turned you gay!”

Words tumbled from Harry's mouth before he could stop them—heated words, packed with discomfort and something which tasted oddly like denial. “I'm not gay.”

Malaya raised an eyebrow at him, waving the pictures around like a lighthouse's beacon to guide travelers in the night. The gesture made her thoughts crystal clear: she considered him confused or even embarrassed about his sexuality.

“I'm not,” Harry insisted. “And neither is Draco. He's bisexual.” Harry took a deep breath before continuing. Her steady gaze was disconcerting—that almost pitying look she was giving him. It twisted knots in his stomach. He didn't like the feeling. “We're dating. I've only fancied girls before, so....”

“You went gay for him, then,” she clarified.

“Malaya,” he pleaded, patience wearing thin. “Honestly, I don't think I'm gay. At least I don't consider myself to be. I've never liked a bloke before him. Fancying boys—sort of a prerequisite for homosexuality, as I understand it.”

Instead of laughing at his joke, she only rolled her eyes at him, annoyed. She held up the photos in her hand, pointing to the last one, tapping her finger against it to call his attention to the immobile figures, locked in a rather passionate and decidedly sexual embrace. Even confined to the tiny frame, it was clear they were seconds away from ripping one another's clothes off, public photo booth or no.

“I'm gonna take a wild guess,” Malaya simpered, “and say you've sucked his dick.”

Stunned silent, Harry nodded.

None of his mates would ever say the word “dick”—at least not to his face. Ron would use some cute term his Mum made up for her six boys in the bath, and Hermione would probably flex her maturity by using the scientific and correct term, “penis.” He and Draco talked that way, though. It was a mark of experience and sheer fucking realness that Malaya broke out that word. Like it or not, he started taking her a mite more seriously.

“I don't know many straight guys who blow each other, Harry.” She said it honest and true, the corner of her mouth pulled up in a reflection of her shoulder's shrug, just telling the truth as it stood for her. His ire rose like bile, stinging the back of his throat. “For a guy to suck dick, he's gotta be at least a little gay.”

“A little gay,” Harry repeated, sounding like he'd had the wind knocked out of him by a George Weasley Special to the diaphragm.

“Yeah,” Malaya handed the picture back after one long, memorizing look. Harry wondered if girls were like blokes and stored wanking material in their heads, because he'd seen that same expression on Ron, Seamus and Neville's faces and knew what it meant on them. He slipped the pictures back in his wallet. “I mean, I know guys are different when it comes to sex—'a hole is a hole' or something like that. No offense, but guys'll have sex with just about anything if they're horny enough.” There was a snort to her laugh, the sound rattling around in her large nose. “Two guys sucking each other off is only a little gay. Anal sex,” she nodded fervently. “Yeah. Doing that with another guy means you're gay.”

Harry felt his face fall.

Against his better judgment, he got defensive. He sneered like the old Slytherin Draco, the hiss of Parseltongue held back only for a lack of the right consonants. “Have you done it?”

“Nah,” she shook her head, unfazed. “No boyfriend right now—obviously,” flipping a hand between the two of them, she smiled fondly. “Too bad you pitch for the other team.”

“I wish you'd stop saying that,” Harry said, exasperated. Secretly, he was a bit amused that she had used the term “pitch” for Harry's sexual proclivities. He wondered if she knew the meaning of the term; if she thought he was the giver rather than the receiver in the act, or if she'd selected the word at random.

“What? Am I the first person you've told or something?”

“A few of my mates know,” Harry shrugged. “Mostly, they just complained about the ex-Death Eater business.”

“I'll tell you something, Harry,” she leaned forward, putting a hand over his on the steering wheel. She stroked between his fingers as she put words to her thoughts. “There isn't a big pureblood population out here. Everyone's pretty muggle about gays. My aunt's a lesbian and, when she applied for a teaching job at Salem, they turned her down for that. Not everybody thinks that way,” she patted his hand reassuringly. “But if you want people to pay attention and take you seriously... I'd recommend you keep the super-cute boyfriend off their radar.”

“Maybe they'll give you a break for being The Boy Who Lived—I'm sure you don't want that, though. You seem like a guy who wants to succeed on his own merits. So get people on your side first. That's all I'm saying. The right people aren't gonna care.”

Harry swallowed, finding his voice. “I think you're right, Malaya. And thanks for being cool about this,” he gave her a winning smile.

“It's okay,” she grinned back. “I would be offended if you were screwing a troll girl... but your boyfriend's hotter than you are, so I'll let it slide.”

“Gee, thanks,” Harry rolled his eyes sarcastically.

“Seriously, though,” she took her hand away, fiddling with her gloves. “I can tell you really like him. Good for you, going out of your comfort-zone for some hot boy action.”

Harry slapped his hand against the wheel, half laughing yet also half sincere as he droned, “Alright. We're done here.”

“Too bad,” Malaya pouted, putting her gloves on. “I was hoping we could swap sexcapade stories over lunch tomorrow. I need a gay friend.”

Harry barely contained a growl. He wanted to tell Malaya that he couldn't be her new gay friend because, obviously, he wasn't gay—just in love with Draco. Sleeping with Draco—that didn't make him gay, or turn him gay or whatever. It was what it was. There were no words for what they had together. “Lovers” was tawdry and cheap: “hot boy action,” as Malaya put it, was even worse.

“I'm busy tomorrow,” Harry muttered through gritted teeth. “I work for Leon, same as everybody else.”

“Okay,” she shrugged, opening the car door. “I'll call you.” She leaned, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek before getting out of the low sports car, shutting the door with a jaunty slam. She bounded up to the house as though the weather in Texas were truly cold. Harry watched her go through the front door, disappearing into the house, beyond the view afforded him through the large, modern windows.

Gripping the shit out of the steering wheel, he dropped his foot on the gas pedal far harder than was necessary, squealing the tires and releasing the signature stench of gasoline and burning rubber as he peeled off down the block.

It was going to be painful returning this car. It might even be worth becoming Malaya's gay friend, just to get behind the wheel again. He dismissed the thought when a terrible taste suffused his mouth.

One thing was certain—he did not like the way Malaya referred to him as “gay.” She'd dismissed his complicated and individual sexuality, distilling it down to a single word which had nothing to do with his experience or preferences and didn't say a thing about him. It was a label to explain him away—another uncomfortable cupboard to be shut away in, people taking him for the word that described what he did with his dick rather than who he was as a wizard and a human being. If you insisted on dumbing the world down like that, you'd never learn anything new.

He missed Draco. And strangely, he missed Dima, Nebojsa and the guys. They understood. His relationship with Draco hadn't been an awkward admission with them. In their company, sexual flexibility was normal, not something to be tucked away and ignored because it was misunderstood or “different.” His friends from Durmstrang didn't ascribe to stupid labels like “gay” or “bi”—and like Draco, they certainly wouldn't care if words like “fagot” were hurled their way. Very few would dare. They commanded a certain respect, a wide birth demanded by their coolness, their calm and fortitude. Harry was jealous in a way. He wanted to bottle that even keel and bring it with him everywhere. That was what made a man a leader, and it was everything Harry needed to be.

The highway rose up before him. He had a little ways to go before the exit which lead to his barrier. He turned on the radio, letting the noise wash over him, rolling down the windows to feel the wind in his hair, stinging his cheeks. The sensation was like flying, the road a liquid black line stretching out over the endless flat land. He pressed, harder and harder against the accelerator, tension leaving his shoulders with the rising of the speedometer. He topped out around one hundred miles an hour, shoulders collapsing as though he'd just fucked his brains out. He shed everything, coming back to himself.

He decided: the only person to define him would be himself. And right now, the last thing he needed was to catch himself worrying about a thing that works. Perfectly. He and Draco were great together. Draco put him in a good place, a better place. They were amazing just the way they were. It truly didn't matter what they called themselves, what anyone thought or dared say. When he was finished with Voldemort, he would be free. He and Draco could go away somewhere, never have to worry about anything ever again. The thought of that place brought him peace.

Until then, the key to getting the world to accept him was not giving a shit what anyone thought—to be himself, to carry out his mission and do it very, very well. When he gained respect, either as The Boy Who Lived, The Boy Who Killed Tom Riddle or The Man Who Puts His Heart And Soul Into Everything He Does, they would no longer see The Gay or The Fag. They'd see Harry.
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Conscience