Chapter 1: The junkie

This was not the place Harry Potter had thought years ago he would eventually find himself at. He had had an idea that he would, after a long and exciting life as an auror, grow old and grumpy and grey-haired, and most likely retire somewhere near magical London to enjoy the last passing years of his life. He had certainly deserved that. Anyone who wanted to argue about it, were told to have a word with Hermione Granger, who quickly whipped their asses back on track.

Therefore, it can be fairly said that leaving his the position as a promising auror at young age of 27 had not occurred to him during his early years of duty. Neither had the reason he then later left, before it had presented itself before him as a stone hard fact.

He was bored. So utterly bored, that the stillness started to burn within his veins like thick goo, preventing his normal blood flow and making his skin itch. Adventure had been like extra-oxygen fed to him and now it was hard to breath, suddenly without it. You see, oxygen gets you high. It's the same thing with adrenaline. Just like the third cup of coffee in the morning when earlier ones have just settled in. The risk of losing his life had become his way to escape the dull life of wizards of the New Age.

As always after a war, just like in muggle wars, the ever thinner growing circle of "the bad guys" - the Death Eaters - did not offer the challenge the Wizard World had originally presumed. After all, when the tight leash Voldemort had held his followers in vanished, so did Death Eater's enthusiasm. Oh, there were still the old-fashioned fanatics who thought the old traditions and courtship should be respected and the new more muggle-friendly ones banished. Of course there were, but instead of running around, cursing people faster than they could count, they took subtle terms into their politics: less radicalism, less violence. They became part of the new Ministry of Magic willingly which made many people let out heavy, relieved sighs.

For Harry this had meant more paperwork. God, he hated paperwork.

The mingling between the magical and non-magical world became considerably less cautious but more strict. Most people even knew the function of rubber duck these days, after they had realized that muggles weren't actually poisonous like few of the pureblood families had insisted. The education was blooming now that the old lines of the Houses were smudged by the two dead Lords, other of Light and other of Dark, and also by the passing shadow of the war.

Suddenly people had connections. Everyone's fate was connected from one to another through sympathies for the lost members of the family. And also, to their own saviors, no matter the House they had been sorted into, before the war. They had new determination. There were no routes made ready for the witches and wizards of the New Age, for now they had to make their own.

War criminals were judged and imprisoned. New laws were passed. And so, all was good in the world.

That's how he ended up here.

It's nothing too remarkable, the office he is situated in. The floor is wooden, lined with scratches from the tables and office chairs and black high-heels. The windows are large but half-way shut window-blinds make them seem smaller than they actually are. The air smells of copy-paper and plastic plants.

It certainly seems like an office but Harry is neither dim nor trustful by nature. From the corner of his eye he can see the unblinking eye of a camera staring right at his profile. The room around the actual office is much like a sitting room, but from Harry's point of view it resembles observing room more than anything else. A bit like a huge aquarium where Harry is the fish that gets disturbed when someone knocks on the glass.

There are several other cameras situated around the dark corners of the place, some more visible than others. Without doubt there are microphones too; maybe in the higher, inner corner of the coffee table's leg or under the pot of a very innocent looking plastic plant.

He could make them all useless with one word.

He doesn't though, and settles in burying his hands deep into the pockets of his faded grey sweater. He is so out of place in this silly little stage, build up just for him. Still, he has to give points for the dramatics, the sheer depth and carefulness of it, as everything is built to the smallest detail.

As much as it seems like a normal job-interview, Harry knows better than to believe that. This is going to be something extraordinary. Honestly though, he doesn't know what to expect. Only very few people from the muggle ministry and government know of magic's existence. Despite many complains, mostly from the pureblood's direction, there had to be some, since how else would they explain how the bridge of London had suddenly twisted around and around and finally crumbled into Thames during the Second Wizard War. They couldn't Obliviate the whole nation after all. It was a delicate line between the worlds. If wizards and witches would become too familiar with muggles, some greedy little wand-waver would eventually sell their world to them. Or other way around. The last thing they needed in the slowly healing Wizard World was guns and drugs and nuclear weapons.

The door behind Harry creaks open. The man he sees is nothing like what he had imagined him to be. First of all, he's mousy. His face is long, lined with age and his eyes clear but watery, adding into greyish-blue color. Man has a fine brown hairline but at the top of his head he has a bald spot. Quietly Harry wonders if it's stress-baldness, if the man rubs it every time he is in trouble. In that case, it seems that the man gets into trouble a lot.

That thought sends a pleasant shiver down Harry's spine but he refuses to shudder.

The man has a small nose which he scratches quickly before shaking Harry's hand. It is dry and warm against his.

"So sorry to keep you waiting, young man. Please, sit down! I am Jonathan Eddings as you may know. I hold a rather important position in the government."

Harry answers him with a quick, thin lipped smile and nods. He sits down again and the uncomfortable office chair digs its hard lines into his back. The other man, his future employer and the so called British Government, shuffles to the other side of the table and sits down with a soft huff.

"I'm Harold."

Today Harry is Harold. Tomorrow he may be something else. Maybe. He quite likes the name Harold; it makes him sound older and wiser. On the other hand it makes him sound like a butler.

"Ah, yes, yes…" The man mutters, shifts and rubs his nose again. It strongly strikes to Harry as wrong! but he ignores the feeling for now.

"You have quite admirable list of referees and yet I haven't heard much about your reputation."

The man, Jonathan Eddings, stares at him and waits for an explanation. He eyes Harry's faded sweater and jeans with poorly hidden distaste.

"I believe it is not a good thing to have a reputation in this line of duty," Harry says without breaking a sweat. This is his job, he knows what he's doing. Again: wrong! How can this man, the man who has earned himself such dangerous name, not understand such simple thing? Harry's bad fashion choices do not affect his capability to work at maximum potential. This isn't what muggles consider a genius, is he? Harry hasn't been out of this world that long.

"Quite so. Well then, why do you think you would be the best person for the job?"

Harry leans back in his chair, staring at the man with indifferent face but behind it, his mind is whirring. He decides to speak just for the worth of speaking. These ordinary, depthless questions are putting him off, big time.

"I have experience in several areas of importance for this job. I'm very well organized, courteous and," he leans toward the man, baring several teeth in his self-assured smile he saves for situations just like this. "I'm quite clever."

This whole thing is like a pig in a bag. He can smell the wrong! all over it. The man he wanted to meet would not ask such boring, ordinary questions from him. "The British Government" would not rub his nose when he is nervous about his new employee and he definitely would not own an office with fake plants. Actually Harry has a feeling there would be no interview at all to get to him, but a test.

Oh!

"Is that so?" Jonathan Eddings says but doesn't look too pleased at Harry's revelation. "That doesn't really matter though. I'm looking for a bodyguard, not for the second coming of Einstein. No matter, if you can keep your mouth shut I think we will get along quite pleasantly. I do so hate people who show off."

"I'm not just a bodyguard," Harry says and the man across the table raises his thick eyebrow. Harry can't see this, however, because he's staring straight at the camera on his right.

"And I'm not someone you can just trick that easily either. Honestly, did you think this would work on me?"

"Excuse me?" The man hesitates and Harry turns to look at the minister again. Jonathan Eddings seems rather bewildered and Harry snaps his mouth shut.

What?

"What do you mean by that?" The man, with a very real bald-spot on his head demands and sounds quite put off. "I do not need a bodyguard who doesn't know his place. I need a shadow behind me! Someone who I can rely on, no matter what the situation. I don't need a smart-mouthed young man!"

What? Had he… Had Harry miscalculated? But he does trust his contacts, this has to be the British Government, unless…

Harry taps his fingers against the office chair. Twice. He stares at the man across him and blinks slowly behind his glasses. The chair behind Jonathan Eddings has adjusted into man's shape and there's a packet of handkerchiefs on the table. The boring painting of a summer landscape on the wall is signed S. Eddings, as in probably Jonathan Eddings' wife or daughter.

This is Jonathan Eddings' office. He is really in need of an employee, a bodyguard. Not an actor then, Harry wonders and taps his fingers against his chair again. Slowly his smile widens into a full-blown grin which he smothers quickly. He bites the pad of his finger to keep down the bubbling excitement within his belly.

Oh, there was a clever, clever person behind this test. Double test, just to confuse him. Already, Harry is quite smitten.

("I'm sorry, Mr. Eddings. I do not think I'm suitable for the job after all.")

If excitement would be a drug and sold in a bottle, Harry would be a drug addict. Those were his exact thoughts when he followed a beautiful woman called Anthea across the building. It was like the whole place was purely made of glass and metal like a very expensive, very ordinary looking piece of art hidden in the plain sight. Harry had a feeling the glass was bullet-proof, however.

He smirked behind his hand and bit the pad of his middle finger again.

His steps clacked quietly after Anthea's high-heels' sharp snaps. If models were ninjas, Anthea would be a perfect example. She had her long brown hair tied high up into neat ponytail at the back of her head and she was wearing a grey, flexible looking jacket. Instead of a skirt she had grey, straight pants and in her hand the latest model of iPad. After she had told him to follow her, Anthea hadn't spared him a glance. When they had turned at the corner, Harry had thought he had seen a shape of a knife press into the fabric of her pants from her shin.

Oh yes, if excitement would be a drug, Harry would gladly become a junkie. To his amusement, his new (this time hopefully the real) employer seemed to be the next best thing.

Next, he was lead through a very humble looking wooden door.

"He is the only one who passed," Anthea stated without greeting the man before her.

Harry hid his feelings behind indifferent mask, even though he was quite sure this man had seen him approaching through several cameras on the way. He had to be aware of Harry's gleeful feelings which left masking his emotions the only option to save his professionalism. If he was lucky, his acting skills might even impress the man.

Said man had nothing on the table, except for a very fancy looking cup of tea. He stood up instantly when they entered the room. Harry couldn't help but admire the sheer elegance the man moved with, since he himself didn't own any of the kind. He had never quite gotten over his awkward teenage grow-spurt, which had left him with suddenly too long limbs and hair everywhere. The hair had been easy enough to handle, thank God, but the occasional stumbling had stuck.

"Good evening, Harold," the man said and leaned his hip against the table. "I am truly delighted to make your acquaintance. Would you like to have a seat?"

"No, thank you," Harry answered and pushed his round glasses a bit higher on his nose. He straightened his posture automatically and pressed his palms together behind his back.

This was more like what the personification of the British Government was supposed to look like. He looked polite from head to toes. There was nothing too remarkable at the first sight of the man, with his average face. He couldn't really be called attractive but he wasn't ugly either. His face was merely pleasant to look at. Under the three piece suit Harry could tell that the man wasn't thin as a brick, but the softness around his belly wasn't that noticeable. He wasn't much older than Harry either, who was now in his early thirties. If one bothered to look past all that, there was certain sharpness in his eyes and proud raise in his chin, barely noticeable, but there. This man had authority people weren't even aware of and it made Harry's blood boil in a very pleasant way.

"You have friends in high places," the smug looking man said, "but not in too many, which is preferred", he continued smoothly and wiped invisible (or microscopically small) dust ball from his desk.

"I am rather pleased by your referees but naturally it was for the best if I tested you myself."

"And I passed?"

"With flying marks," the man gave him a smile that did not look as impressed as it could have. Harry didn't smile back either. He hadn't expected any pats on the head for the job well done. His job was to do the job well done, so praising him for it would be like singing praises to the milk-man for delivering the milk.

"You were recommended by the head of the National Special Defense Unit which is more than telling. People there have always been very keen to… accomplish things."

"Accomplishing" might have been a wrong word for it. "Legendary" would fit them much better, since the whole branch of National Special Defense Unit consisted of muggleborn witches and wizards, who struggled to keep the whole Wizard World hidden. And with magic on their side they could, quite literally, accomplish almost anything in the muggle world. People from that particular Unit must have sounded like stuff of legends.

"Thank you, sir. Before we go on, I have been asked to inform you that wherever the contract we might later on make take this partnership, I am not under any circumstances, allowed to reveal any information about my previous work with the Unit."

First Harry had thought this would be annoying rule and it would most likely become that given enough time. But right now, he just wanted to face keeping his world hidden as a challenge even from this wonderful, exciting, scary man.

The man hummed to himself under his breath and nodded.

"I would not ask that from you. It is not why I sought your services and it would make me seem highly unprofessional, not to mention irresolute and un-resourceful. Now then," the man opened his palm and Anthea gives him the iPad without a word. The man has soft ginger hair, Harry notices, as the man starts to read whatever is in front of him.

What the black haired wizard hears next is a total surprise.

"Harry James Potter, son of Lily Potter nee Evans and James Potter. Both biological parents dead since you turned one. Turned in custody of Petunia Dursley nee Evans and Vernon Dursley, with their son Dudley Dursley. Attended Little Surrey's public elementary and secondary school: average grades, but you seemed to be a bit of a troublemaker, Mr. Potter. No identified mental issues, average growth and health, maybe a bit underweight as seen by the notes but still. No criminal record, no unpaid bills. However there are no records of you, what so ever, after you turned eleven years old."

The man raises his gaze from the white screen and Harry resists the temptation to swallow. Damn his muggle records. He has never needed them before and he certainly has never bothered to check them. On the bright side, at least they don't read St Brutus' as uncle Vernon had once or twice threatened.

"The thing is, Mr. Potter," the man says and presses his lips together momentarily before continuing, "that logically there should be something: school records, accounts, bills, health care reports, et cetera. And yet, nothing. Not even a tiniest mark anywhere in the whole system."

The man looks on his left and touches the handle of a black umbrella which is resting in a holder. The hand drops at his side again and he meets Harry's gaze with a bit of wonder in his eyes.

"The most interesting thing is, however, that Mr. and Mrs. Dursley are convinced that you have never lived under their roof."

Ah, Harry thinks and his gaze falls to the floor, this is going to be awkward. He humors the possibilities in his head before answering.

"They never liked me that much. Even when I lived there they were busy telling the neighbors that I wasn't their child. I'm not surprised they told you that."

The man raises his eyebrow elegantly and seems to consider the new information.

"They lied to official records about you?"

Harry huffs and his mouth quirks a little in a humorless smile.

"Most certainly. If they have a chance of any kind to officially wipe out my entire existence they would gladly take it."

"And why would that be the case?"

Harry glances towards the other but is not put off by his show of sympathy. This man doesn't want to hear a sob story about his abused childhood, about cupboards and angry bulldogs. He wants to hear if there is something wrong with Harry: what was the thing that made his supposed guardians hate him so much, and if his nature will affect the job. As a passing thought, Harry also wonders if the smug looking man thinks he is lying. He has no way of knowing if Harry did actually ever live under the roof of the Dursleys. Oh, but the neighbors, they would have told him they had seen Harry run around as a thinner-than-paper 11-years-old kid. And if not, Harry has a feeling this man could find it out some other, mysterious way. That settles it then.

"Aunt Petunia had a personal reason to hate my mother, which in turn made her hate me. And of course that passed off to uncle Vernon and Dudley."

Harry shrugs nonchalantly. There isn't much else to say and to be fair, he has told the truth. Well, a half-truth but still. He doesn't remember if leaving out information was considered lying or not.

"And after you left Little Surrey?"

"Private school and a job undercover, hence the missing records. Later I worked with the Unit. I was handpicked to work there."

There is so much more he could say, so many things he could tell in order to impress this man. He has fought basilisks, dragons, dementors and he has made a successful burglary into one of the world's most protected places and killed a Dark Lord. And yet, he can't say anything. If the man can't deduce his abilities from the shine of his eyes Harry is going to be very disappointed. This all has seemed very interesting so far.

"Well, this has been very interesting so far," the man says and Harry blinks, wondering if that was merely a coincidence. "You may consider yourself… reinforced."

Harry bows shortly, feeling a bit stupid afterwards but with bubbles of happiness making his stomach turn upside down, he doesn't really care. He leaves the room without looking back, his face still a mask of casual indifference.

That had been all he needed to hear.

His job doesn't immediately get exciting. He's just a secondary assistant, even thought that seems to be a wrong word again. People seem to confuse a lot of things. He's more like the secondary whatever-the-Man-requires. And yes, the Man with capital M. He still hasn't heard his employer's name but that doesn't bother him much. He would be none the wiser with the Man's name.

So far Harry has been a bag-carrier (he wasn't allowed to shake the briefcase at all for some reason), a personal driver (be at the 221b Baker Street, 3. 43 a.m. sharp), a messenger (Oh, excuse me, your majesty) and even an errand boy (tea, dash of milk, half spoonful of sugar). So far he hasn't minded since he has had so much to observe. The people the Man meets are always important people: celebrities, politicians and bankers, with important notes and silently whispered scandals of one another. There are beauties, manipulators, wicked ones, violent ones, cheaters and bribers, and yet the Man charms them all. He attaches the needed strings together or sometimes breaks the ones that cause harm. He swarms past them all with casual politeness and sharp eyes and carefully chosen words.

Harry is impressed. And it is not an easy task to impress him after the life he has lived. No wonder the man looks as smug as humanly possible whenever he can afford it. Harry would too, if he could run entire government, not to mention a whole country as effortlessly as the smarmy Man.

When Anthea (or Mary, Helen, Amelia) asks him to come with her he knows something has shifted. What follows is really not an easy day. He gets thrown, punched and stabbed, even almost shot but Anthea seems rather pleased with him afterwards and nods at Harry when he finally gets to swipe some sweat off his forehead.

The word of the day is "schedule" now and forever Anthea (today Valkyrie) tells him (today Hamish) softly, when they sit across the Man in a fancy Bentley. Harry feels outrageously out of place but ignores the useless feeling of slight embarrassment. He probably seems pathetic in his faded sweater, the piece of clothing radiating the difference between him and the sleek surface of the car bench. The man in three piece suit doesn't seem to mind.

Each and every minute of the Man's life is carefully scheduled and organized to the finest detail, and little by little, it becomes Harry's job to alter those details. He makes appointments and reservations, informs the Man's other employees whenever they are needed and in turn informs the Man of the movements of the others. He is continuously impressed by the resources the Man has in his reach.

On the while, Harry becomes an expert in counting minutes and being aware of every hour. He even has a phone now, which puts him on edge. Suddenly he knows every minute of the Man's life, but nothing about the Man himself. In a way it's exciting.

In a way it's sad.

This partnership could be so much more, given enough time. The British Government and the Savior of the Wizard World, working together; the man with all the assets a muggle can possibly have and a trained auror with magic strong enough to kill a Lord.

They could rule the world together if they wanted. Imagine that.

Harry bites the pad of his middle finger to hide his grin. He knows they would never do that and Harry himself wouldn't really want the responsibility. But the fact that they could do it if they wanted to, gives his brain a doze of barely contained exhilaration.

The Man stares at him across the car and for a second it feels like he can understand the meaning of pure fire behind Harry's gaze. The moment passes, nothing happens and the Man frowns, looking out of window into the rainy London.

The Man who already controls almost half of the world could have had it all, if he had just reached across the car and shaken hands with the man in whose company he already spends almost every waking hour.

It takes some time to get to see the Man as human and not as the British Government. Surprisingly, all it takes in the end is a long and exhausting business meeting. And a cake.

Harry (today Henry) sits beside his employer in one their most usual meeting places and picks at his fried vegetables. His eyes secretly follow the businessman across the table, who chats at his boss with animated hand signs. Maybe he is originally Italian, Harry thinks as he taps at his phone in order to look uninterested in all the while continuing conversation so that he can give the men a fake feeling of privacy.

It's the change in his usually so smug employer that catches his attention immediately, when the maybe-Italian suggests they move on to dessert. His shoulders don't slump or his posture doesn't change, but the silent, world-weary sighs that leaves his thin lips is heavy enough to crush a whole building. Harry stops chewing and looks at the Man from the corner of his eye.

"I think I shall refrain myself from such small pleasur-"

"Nonsense, dear man! This place has such lovely chocolate cake that I have to insist you to try it! Ehm, Janet! Janet, dear, would you bring us some of that lovely cake you were talking about earlier? Thank you, darling!"

The Man's hand twitches and Harry is momentarily distracted by the thin, blunt fingers and slightly larger joints. The ginger haired man licks his lips, swallows his annoyance and crosses his hands as if getting ready to resist a temptation. He clears his throat and scans the room with his eyes, clearly looking for a distraction. He looks almost miserable. Harry in turn swallows a carrot and wonders.

What the other politician just did was rude and probably an unfortunately big blow to his employer's ego, since the man is so used to everyone listening to even his tiniest wishes. The whole situation must have irritated the Man a lot more than he lets on. Harry, who has this whole time played with his new phone anyway, starts clicking away with it, this time with a proper goal.

When Janet-the-waitress arrives a few minutes after, she's holding one piece of chocolate cake and a new glass of water. She places each of the items before her customers.

"I'm sorry, dear, but we ordered two pieces of cake."

Janet blinks twice at their guest.

"Mr. Holmes originally preferred to have none, sir. Now, excuse me."

Two politicians are left sitting in silence at the table, other looking flustered while the other looks as if nothing out of ordinary has happened. His employer, Mr. Holmes, has a damn fine poker face, Harry has to give him that.

Later when their guest excuses himself from their company, face still burning with humiliation of his orders being over-written, Harry and the Man stay in their places for a while. Finally Mr. Holmes' mouth turns into a pleased smile.

"That was very clever of you, Henry."

"Thank you, sir. What he did was rather rude," Harry murmurs as he stabs his fork through unresisting onion, "and his hands annoyed me."

Later in Bentley Harry raises his eyebrows at his boss as he listens him humming quietly, deep in his thought. Apart from that, rest of their day is spent in what to Harry seems to be a companionable silence.

If he later that evening receives a whole new wardrobe, he just counts it as a small personal victory.

"We are counting on you, Hans," Anthea's voice whispers to Harry from small mike that is fitted snugly in his left ear. Harry nods more to himself than to anyone else. And well, it's not like no one can see him.

Today is his day. A day made clear just for him. At least it almost feels like that but truthfully he's doing one of his latest job adjustments. Burglary isn't something new to him but Mr. Holmes doesn't need to know that. For once, he can be left guessing.

The thing Harry is supposed to retrieve is not his business, nothing interesting and top secret. So, of course he had jumped on a chance to find out what the whole hassle was all about.

The first problem awaits him at the gates of the manor.

It's a beautiful place really, fateful to its Victorian style from the paving to fountains. It's something Harry had once imagined Malfoy Manor to be like. The problem is that it's loaded with cameras, motion-detectors and other electrical equipment Harry has absolute zero interest in. And what he needs is inside the manor, so obviously he first needs to get past all these little welcoming-presents the owner of the manor has installed for him.

Harry almost feels bad for him. Or her. He really doesn't care either way.

He knows the Man and Anthea are listening to his every move from the electrical equipment wired on him and it feels a bit uncomfortable. Absently he scratches his cheek and wonders if Mr. Holmes will be cross with him if he destroys them. Probably not if it gets his job done, it's not like the smug bastard doesn't have enough money to buy him new ones.

Harry looks down to the wire which disappears under his clothes like a small snake. He really hasn't looked like himself since the Man renewed his wardrobe. Nowadays he is wearing smart looking black pants, which can only be described as airy since they're so soft and stretchable. Also, he has the shiniest shoes he has ever owned. He wears a quite dashing grey jacket that comes down to his tights and under it a black vest, almost like a proper butler. The grey shirt and tie seem to blend together. All these, with his short raven-black hair and round glasses, he could be mistaken for Oxford University student who has wandered far from home.

It's sad that there is no one around to appreciate his looks as he makes his first burglary under Mr. Holmes' name. He is one handsome thief.

Harry looks up and over the iron gates of the manor and runs his hand over the stony walls surrounding the place. He spots a camera and stares right at it.

He lets his magic breathe a little.

There's quiet whirring, electrical cracking and few flying light-spots in the air, like small stars that burn brightly for a second before dying. The ever-moving cameras stop. The streetlamps flicker and leave Harry in the darkness to listen the silence. Even his microphone died, disconnecting him from his employer and coworker. Magic really doesn't go with science.

Harry bites the pad of his middle finger in his excitement and snatches his wand from the holder on his wrist. He opens the gate with simple Alohomora and rejoices of the wonderful feeling of using his magic again. It's really been too long. The break in is a piece of cake to him but he's not stupid enough to go in without a pair of gloves. What an embarrassment it would be, if he would be caught because he left fingerprints to the crime scene. The laughs it would cause would not be worth the paperwork.

The front door opens quietly before him, as Harry steps through it. His shoes click against the marble floor and he has to cast Muffliato to keep his steps silent. His new shiny shoes seem to have developed a fault. The door closes behind him as he starts his search.

Harry has seen the general layout drawing of the manor and he has an idea about where the owner keeps the strong-box. The owner of the house might be brilliant enough to steal from the government but he is not brilliant enough to escape from Harry Potter. His magic might be counted as cheating but honestly, it's only fair that he can use his personal skills.

Harry walks straight to the study and almost starts laughing out loud. There is a big, old, heavy safe box sitting smack in the middle of the room with number codes and all. It's almost like a healthy, straightforward challenge to thieves; well, let's see if you have done your homework in the Thief Academy. Any other day Harry would have been happy to accept the challenge but he's kind of in a hurry. His ride should arrive in 10 minutes or so, so he has no time to waste.

Again simple Alohomora does its trick and soon Harry has his breast-pocket filled with a file of something top secret. The curiosity towards the envelope vanishes as he admits to himself that he was in for the action, not the information. He can leave the information part to the more than capable hands of Mr. Holmes.

When he turns to leave, a blindingly bright light is directed to his face making him almost jump out of his skin.

"What the hell is going on here?!"

Ah, a night guard, of course. Harry kicks himself mentally and fakes a nice smile to the man with a flashlight and a gun on his hip. Thankfully, on his hip and not in his hand, because even Harry Potter is not quick enough spell-caster to outwit a bullet. He really needs to remember that more often.

"Just a house visit, good sir. Nothing to be alarmed about."

"What the fuck do you think you're-?"

Harry doesn't let him finish but flicks his wand towards the man and casts Obliviate, Confundo and Disillusionment Charm. The obliviation is the tricky one. He really doesn't want to turn the unfortunate man into drooling vegetable after all. The night guard shakes his head while Harry shuts the heavy door of the safety box. The feeling of raw eggs smashed over his head make him shiver. That is all Harry does, before he steps aside and lets the very confused looking night guard take a good look at the room again. The poor man rubs his eyes.

"'the hell is going on in here? First a black-out and now I'm screaming at nothing. What would Mr. Albert say if he knew?"

Night guard stumbles away still rubbing his eyes. Harry smiles after him and hopes that Mr. Albert, whoever that is, will not make the man's life too difficult when he finds out that his precious papers have been taken during the night. With pleased huff Harry goes off to destroy the security camera tape for that night and apparates close to the car waiting for him a few miles away. Anthea is leaning against it, furiously tapping her phone, most likely trying to get in contact with Harry. Did he accidentally destroy his phone too? Probably.

He casts silent Finite Incantatem on himself.

"Something wrong?"

Anthea's head snaps up, her posture stiff as if she's ready to launch an attack. Harry can almost see her biting the inside of her cheek, to hold back a curse or a laugh, Harry is not sure which.

"Welcome back, Hans," she mutters finally and relaxes a bit, eyeing Harry with new interest. "What happened?"

Harry shrugs and pats his breast-pocket with a smile.

"All done."

"Really?"

"Sorry about that black-out thing by the way. It's just… I work better without distractions, you know. Helps with concentration."

Anthea opens her mouth but holds back whatever she was going to say in favor of nodding towards the car.

"He's waiting for you."

They both enter the car, Anthea as a driver which leaves Harry to dutifully climb to the back seat where the Man is waiting for him. Once again Mr. Holmes is wearing a beautiful, no doubt tailor-made suit and his hands are softly curved around umbrella's handle. If the lost connection between them had somehow worried the man, it really doesn't show.

"Good evening, Hans," he says with almost unnoticeable raise of his chin. "I take it everything went in our favor."

Harry fishes the file from his pocket and hands it over to his boss. The ginger haired man flicks it open, scans the insides with his smoke-grey eyes and hides the whole thing inside his suit jacket.

"I believe congratulations are in order, Hans. Your work on this mission was exemplary considering it was your first. It requires vigorous efforts these days to find individuals with a set of special skills such as yours."

No muscle moves in his body as the man speaks, except for the occasional tilt of his jaw at suitable points of his little speech. The car jolts on the move. The intrigued look he shoots at Harry gives him creeps.

"Pardon my curiosity but I am rather intrigued of what occurred just now by the manor. I take it you turned down the main source of electricity?"

"In a sense, yes, sir. Well, not really. More like the electricity got a bit…confused. Or swallowed. Or overwhelmed. Look, it is a bit hard to explain this in a way people can understand."

"I am more than advanced in laws of physics and the workings of electrical circuits, hence there is no need to hold yourself back."

Harry opens his mouth to disagree but thinks better of it. Instead he switches tactics.

"I did the job, didn't I? Does it matter how I did it? No one got hurt, there was no ruckus about the whole ordeal and you got your papers back. Everyone goes home happy."

"As your employer, I'm afraid I must insist-"

"No, you can't insist," Harry snaps at him and instantly the air in the car turns heavy as stone. Already as the words leave his mouth Harry is cursing at himself. Certain things are never completely hidden and his sometimes explosive temper bleeds through his mask. He can't have that. Harry rubs his palm against his eyes and leans his elbows against his knees. He lets the air from his lungs escape from his lips as he forces himself to become calm.

"I am… truly sorry, sir," he says softly and courageously meets the Man's sharper-than-bloody-knife stare. "It's to do with the Unit. That's the reason I cannot tell you. The… stuff they had me do, it taught me some things that are extremely hard to explain. I am more than happy to assist you in anything you need but I just cannot reveal some things. And I… I apologize for losing my temper."

It's not hard to play the part of ashamed employee since he does feel a very real hot flash of shame against his skin. For a moment he feels like a child for losing his composure in front of this marvelous man, who always appears so collected even when he is not.

Silence takes over in the car as Anthea drives forward not saying a word if she's heard something.

"Well," the Man says sounding soft and cutting at the same time, "I do find myself enjoying the work of professionals much more than those who are eager to drown the world in their bragging." His grey eyes are shining with various emotions from disappointment to understanding. There might actually be a bit of respect in the Man's stare, if one looks carefully enough.

"However, I would greatly appreciate it if you could keep in contact with us during your next assignment. Would that be appropriate?"

Harry raises his gaze from the Man's shoes, and eyes him from under his dark eyebrows. He doesn't mean to do it, but his face splits into toothy grin.

"Certainly. Thank you, Mr. Holmes."

Comments and corrections are greatly appreciated!