disclaimer: don't own.

warning: mentions/slight scenes on the darker side of organized criminal activity, such as kidnappings/rape.

In her years of experience, Harry Potter had experienced Italy a countless number of times.

(Of course, it was difficult to say if they were all the same Italy… after the first dozen, it sort of became a blur).

But parallel universes aside, it was important to remember that Harry Potter held a lot of respect for each and every world's cultural monuments. Hence, why she was here, standing in the crush of hundreds of people, observing the Pantheon for what was perhaps the thirty-second time.

Her fingers cradled a cheap film camera - the item served more as a prop than anything else, but after that one world where the locals nearly stabbed her for wearing foreign clothes, it never hurt to blend in.

(Then again, was it possible that her eye-watering flamingo print shirt pushed the idea of "tourist" a bit too far? It was hard to tell.

Still, perhaps it was a tad too offensive),

She leaned forward, making appropriate noises at the massive temple. A few clicks, standing right in the middle of the crowd, being a nuisance to those around her - and she was all set. It felt good to be an upstanding member of society.

Her eyes trailed the columns in front of her, their towering heights inspiring a sense of nostalgia. Inevitably, at one point or another, their ancient history would become mere specks of dust between her fingers. And when that time came, well. Perhaps Harry Potter would finally be laid down to rest.

But that would be eons from now, and with a growing appetite, she took one last photo and turned, intent on finding the nearest bakery.

It was at that moment that a hand reached out to grab her.

She blinked as time slowed to an agonizing halt, the gloved hand wrapping around her eyes as another hand came towards her mouth.

Oh, she thought curiously, watching as the hands gradually moved to close in. Is this a kidnapping?

And then another thought: was it the shirt? Was it too offensive?

Reasons aside, Harry had all the time in the world to decide her next course of action. She was, of course, ravenously hungry and that put a damper on all sorts of exciting things.

But! When would her next kidnapping be? It could be another few decades, just like last time, and then where would the fun in that be?

Kidnapping it is, she decided, because it wasn't like starvation could kill her anyways. Then a couple of drinks later on tonight.

Drinks and bread - what a fantastic combination. Immensely satisfied with her plan, the world resumed its course, and the hands finally wrapped around her face.

"Ahh!" she said in a hopefully fearful manner, the sound horribly muffled against the cloth stuffed into her mouth. Her eyes travelled to the hordes of people around her, and she marvelled at how easy it was to kidnap a young woman right in front of the Pantheon.

If I had known it was gonna be this easy, she thought as several men dragged her to a more hidden area, I would've started my own ring of kidnappings. Forced anyone with hideous outfits to change into something nicer. It could have been an empire, a benevolent dictatorship!

Ignoring the hypocrisy of her own thoughts, Harry allowed the men to bash her head against the brick wall at a nearby alleway. The pain was negligible, near non-existent in fact, but she eagerly gave a rather convincing cry of pain before letting her body slump over.

"Well that was fucking easy," one of the men commented as another hauled her over his shoulder. "Don't they usually fight a little harder than that?"

"American tourists are stupid like that," a man far to her left snorted, muttering a few more obscene words in their spoken language. "Just bring her in so we can report to the old man."

"Yeah, yeah, you don't need to tell me twice," the first man laughed, and soon after a hard smack was placed on Harry's behind. "Maybe the boss will let me have a go at her after he's done."

And as she was none-too-gently thrown into a dark, tinted van, Harry briefly considered leaving and grabbing that bread after all.

The thought passed by quickly, however, because she was all for the "next, great adventure," and the mafia was a fantastic place to start.

So, not the shirt, she thought, wiggling around her tightly bound ropes to find a more comfortable position. That's good to hear - wouldn't want seem culturally offensive.

Minutes later, she let herself drift away, humming an off-key tune that was oddly reminiscent of a melody she had once known long ago.

.

.

.

They kept her blindfolded during the entire journey. Once they confirmed her conscious state, they moved her to a place that smelled awfully of rat dung and damp mold.

Placed on her feet once more, the blindfold was roughly removed and Harry blinked several times to adjust to the dim lighting. The cloth in her mouth was taken out next, though her bindings remained, and she turned her head to take in the terrible decor around her.

"Hm," she hummed, glancing at the door in front of her, encased in metal locks and rusted chains. There were rows of barely burning candles along the hallway behind her, forming eerie shadows that illuminated the dusty corridor. Her feet tapped on the earth below and the sound seemed remarkably hollow.

"Welcome, signorina," a slightly accented voice entered from the several men standing resolutely next to her. They were all dressed impeccably well, wearing ironed suits with tightly clasped, gloved hands. Moments later, they moved in tandem, creating two lines that revealed a short, stocky man in an even more luxurious suit. The man chuckled as he dropped a recently lit cigar. "I'm sorry if my men startled you."

"Oh, no," Harry answered, surveying the man's rather tacky shoes. "They were perfect gentlemen. Couldn't have asked for better service."

There was a silent pause before the man dug his heel into the cigar. With ill-concealed delight, he noted, "You're English! My men told me you were American. I apologize for the misunderstanding."

"Quite alright," Harry said with a shrug. "Happens to the best of us."

"Well, of course," the man agreed before waving his hand. Immediately, two men grabbed Harry on either side and another two worked to open the rusted door. "I'm very familiar with, what they like to call, the very best. And you, signorina, are a perfect addition to my best."

"I'm flattered," Harry responded as gloved hands dragged her through the open door. The leader of the group walked sedately next to her, commenting further as the door shut with a resounding slam.

The entryway led to another lengthy hall. There were piercing noises that grew increasingly louder and, when they turned another corner, Harry realized the sounds were actually screams.

"Oh," she said blandly, as she was shoved forward, past the barred rooms surrounding her on each side. Each dismally small room held several woman, either barely clothed or not clothed at all. Shrieks of pain and terror cascaded across the entire corridor, with some women desperately pulling at the bars and others sitting silently on the floor.

"You see? This is my collection," the leader said to her proudly, as they led her through the hall. The smell of urine and rotting produce overwhelmed the air, and Harry turned her head around, making note of every single prisoner within each room. "Impressive isn't it? I only retrieve the best."

"I see," Harry said. And as they reached another door, leading to a single bedroom, she asked, "So are all these women for you? Just you?"

"Some are," the leader answered after a beat of silence.

"Okay then," she said, as the men moved to remove her clothes. "So, what, you sell the other girls? The girls themselves, or - ah, the zipper is actually on the side, I know, it's weird, sorry - or their services only?"

Even longer silence. The men focusing on her clothes turned to look at their leader hesitantly.

Belatedly, Harry realized that perhaps this entire display was meant to serve as a power move, to intimidate and strike fear into victims before they could even think of fighting back.

Oh no, she then thought, I ruined his favorite part.

"Their services," the man said slowly. Then, rapidly to his men in Italian, he hissed, "Who the fuck is this girl? Where did you pick her up?"

"I have no idea, boss," one of the two muttered as the other successfully tore off her shirt. Briefly, she mourned for the loss. "She was taking pictures at the Pantheon - you know how clueless the people there are."

"Well this one isn't acting like any normal tourist," the boss spat, motioning for the men to hurry up. Swiftly, Harry's cargo pants were pushed down as well.

In English, the man continued with a sneer, "You're not a regular tourist, are you? Who sent you, you little bitch?"

Harry blinked, bewildered.

"Sent me?" she asked as they tossed her onto the dusty mattress inside the bedroom and shut the door. "Uh…"

Well, what was she supposed to say? Her mother, who birthed her? Or, the real perpetrator of all her shenanigans for nearly half a millenia, the all-powerful, eternal, unchanging Death?

"No matter," the man interrupted with an uncaring wave of his hand. "I'll get the answer out of you after I fuck you till you're half-dead."

"Now that just sounds like bad business," Harry noted as she laid uncomfortably on the thin bed. "Do you do that to all your girls? Because that's poor service to your customers."

The two grunts looked at each other even as the boss tore off his expensive suit, leaving on only a collared shirt and pair of briefs. Without another word, he sent a sudden hard slap across her face.

"I think you should also rethink your sanitation procedures," Harry added, barely registering the pain. Her eyes narrowed as she waited patiently for the right moment. "Selling girls in the catacombs? That's a surefire way to get diseases."

"Talk all you want," the boss sneered, hands finally reaching for his skin tight briefs. Harry wiggled her fingers around the bound ropes in anticipation. "I'll make sure to send your broken body to M16 by the end of the week."

Wait, she blinked. M16? M16 as in the UK's Secret Intelligence Service?

Before she could ponder on that interesting revelation any further, the sound of gunshots rang through the air.

Immediately, muffled shouts and curses could be heard from the other side of the door, while the screams of the prisoners rose to another decibel of fear and terror.

"What's going on?" the mafia boss roared as his men immediately pulled out their respective guns. Meanwhile, Harry wrinkled her nose at the sight of the naked man, his undergarments hanging loosely at his ankles.

And as quickly as it had started, there was a sudden silence. Carefully approaching the closed door, the two grunts raised their weapons, fingers wrapped around the trigger -

From one breath to the next, the door slammed open, twin golden shots bursting through the opening and piercing through each man's forehead.

The grunts fell with a crumpled thud, guns hanging loosely in their lifeless hands.

"Stop! Don't move!" the boss raised his own weapon with unsteady knees.

Already tired of this entire fiasco, Harry loosened the ropes around her body and sat up, stretching the sores in her neck.

"Chaos, Don Gospella," a man stepped into view, shadows surrounding his face, dressed in his own well-fitted suit. "You've been a tricky man to find."

"You, you," Gospella wheezed, stumbling backwards. He tripped over his undergarments and collapsed onto the floor. "How did you - "

The man whipped his head to Harry, who, after standing up and giving a long stretch, was staring at a tacky glass painting in consideration.

"You," he then snarled, pointing his gun at her. She, meanwhile, lifted the framed portrait and removed it from the wall. "You brought him here didn't you, bitch? Stooping so low to work with the people you chase - I'll kill you!"

Not heeding any of the words thrown at her, Harry slammed the painting against the wall. The sound of shattering glass was near inaudible to the cracks of twin gunshots that followed after.

Harry looked up from her bent position on the floor, hand curled around the broken frame, one bullet hole in the wall behind her, and another in Gospella's right hand.

"Where I come from, women are treated with respect," the veiled man said lightly, one hand in his pocket, his gun emitting the faintest whips of smoke. He continued, over Gospella's screams of agony, "But I guess you wouldn't know the meaning of that."

"I'll kill you! I'll kill the both of you!" the mafia boss howled, clutching his bleeding hand to his chest.

Stepping over the painting, Harry approached the two men, standing right in front of the boss. She lowered herself to meet Gospella at eye-length, the largest piece of broken glass in hand and a pleasant smile along her lips.

"I think he'll enjoy meeting you," she told the man thoughtfully, remembering the entity that began it all.

She smiled as his eyes lost their initial fear, travelling deliriously, hungrily, from her legs, to her breasts.

Abruptly, Harry kicked Gospella's legs open and, in one swift movement, viciously slashed through his most beloved member.

She released the bloodied piece of glass soon after, unmoved by the man's renewed shrieks of overwhelming pain.

Satisfied with the completion of her plan, she turned, walking past the other man, an unreadable expression on his face.

They moved in tandem; him, moving forward after a pause, to take care of Gospella's headache-inducing screams and her, stripping one dead grunt's suit clean to clothe herself.

Her magic moved to resize the outfit, the cheap fabric clinging nicely on her shoulders. Tugging her unruly hair back into a low ponytail, Harry faced the man again just as he turned, long slim fingers tight around Gospella's collar.

"I suppose you want him as well," the hitman said resignedly, his English smooth and slightly accented. He gestured to the unconscious man with a casual kick.

"No," she said, but it came out more as a question. Her eyebrows rose as they both exited the moldy bedroom. The hallway was eerily quiet, only accompanied by the quiet sobs of several women.

Turning to the man, she added, "You may have interrupted me, but that's not a bad thing."

The hitman glanced down at her with narrowed eyes.

"Your people don't need to see the body?" he asked her as she sent a thrum of magic through the heavy padlock of the first prison cell.

My people? She mouthed in confusion, her back to him while she pulled harshly against the outdated lock. It sprung open with a grating screech and she tossed it to the ground, ignoring the following brutal thud.

"I came here without any expectations," Harry said blandly, skipping over the part where she had willing tagged along, eager for her next kidnapping.

Hand on the rusting door knob, she looked back at the hitman, his hat covering the upper half of his face.

"I've learned it's best to leave it to your people," she said slowly, having no clue what the fuck she was saying, but figuring it would be poetic to use the man's words back at him. "Your world, your laws."

Harry blinked in amazement at herself because wow, did that sound cool or what?

Shaking away her thoughts, she ignored the man's relaxing posture and pulled the door open, gaining entrance to a tiny room with three young women.

One swiftly moved in front of the other two, her hallowed features failing to hide the fierceness in her eyes.

"Peace," Harry raised her hands, switching easily to Italian and softening her voice. "We're not here to harm you."

At least, I'm not, she then thought belatedly. It was difficult to say what exactly the mafia would do with these women now, but the man behind her certainly didn't have any malicious intentions.

"The men here have been taken care of," she gestured to the hitman behind her and, right on cue, he raised Gospella's body into the air in demonstration. The woman at the front stared disbelievingly.

"I'm going to unlock all of the prison cells," Harry continued, pushing her sleeves up to her elbows. Looking straight into the woman's startled, dim eyes, she ordered, "And you, miss, will open them."

"M-Me?" the woman croaked out, licking her dry lips. "But - "

"They'll panic if we approach them, just like you had. I mean, look at us! " Harry joked, though by 'us' she actually meant 'him,' because tall, dark and intimidating didn't do much to soothe anybody's fears. "There's not much time left before our ruckus attracts the wrong people, so I'd like to see you all free before then."

"I - "

And before the woman could say much else, Harry turned and exited the prison cell, quickly pulling on every padlock with a sharp tug.

The hitman followed her sedately, easily keeping up with her steps.

"I didn't know you spoke Italian," he commented casually, dragging Gospella's body through the dirt floor.

Harry shrugged, reaching the end of the hallway in record of time. She watched patiently as the first woman slowly stepped out of her prison cell, hunched over and hesitance in her posture, wonder flooding her features at the dead men along the ground.

"You didn't ask," she pointed out, before a sudden idea crossed her mind. Crouching next to the nearest lifeless grunt, Harry rummaged around the corpse until her fingers reached a cold, metal object.

She returned to the hitman, the gun hidden away, as gradually, more and more women began to fill the hallway, huddling together under the directions of the first woman.

Said woman approached them minutes later, guarded in her movements.

"Give yourselves ten minutes," Harry counted the number of women crowding the small space. "Do any of them need immediate medical attention?"

The woman startled, while the hitman next to her shifted minutely.

"I - no, not anything that needs more than time to heal," the woman answered. "How - "

"Good," Harry interrupted, a touch apologetic. The longer she stayed, the worse it would be for both her and her new acquaintance.

(Though why he still remained, the reasons were a mystery to her).

"You have less than ten minutes to decide," she continued, already opening the door behind her to reveal the dark, musty halls of the catacombs. "In that time, the police will arrive. If you don't want their attention, leave."

"But - "

It was too late, unfortunately. Harry, sick and tired of this fiasco, had already left, briskly walking to the stairs at the end of the hall.

"I thought you'd leave it to my people?" the hitman asked nonchalantly, still here for some odd reason.

"Yes, and you have him in your hands," Harry answered, barely able to stop her eyes from rolling. They walked up the dusty, crumbling stone stairs in tandem. "Don't tell me you need those women?"

There was a slight pause.

"No, you are correct about that," the man admitted. They exited through what seemed like cellar doors, arriving right below a charming, ancient bell tower.

"Great!" Harry said, a bit too cheerfully, which was probably due to her very severe need to eat bread soon. Her eyes travelled up the tower, taking in the tourists chattering around her, to the top.

The bell was missing. The bell of a bell tower was missing, but no matter, because above the place where the bell should have been, was a ceiling full of beautiful, glass-stained paintings.

"Are you planning on contacting your people then?" it was clear, at this point, that the Hitman-Who-Would-Not-Leave was fishing for something that probably wasn't even there. "I am assuming that would be the fastest way to contact the local police."

Harry looked at the man, who was somehow not attracting any sort of attention, despite the half-dead mafia boss in his hands.

There's been some sort of miscommunication here, she thought, but I'm too hungry to try and figure it out.

So, instead of clearing out any misunderstandings like a mature adult, Harry decided it was high time to get the hell out of there.

In a single motion, a tad too quickly for the hitman to follow, she pulled out her borrowed gun (miraculously, still loaded with bullets and safety trigger turned off), and shot blindly above her.

The glass ceiling shattered into millions of pieces.

(It was important to note that Harry, in her centuries of living, had only held a gun three times in her life and twice, they had been made of plastic.

She had actually been aiming for the fire alarm that rested at a slightly lower level, but in this situation, she supposed glass could work too).

"Are you crazy?" the hitman hissed, slipping back to Italian. All around them, tourists burst into a fervor of activity, screams filling the air.

Harry rolled her shoulders, vanishing the gun to another plane of existence.

"How far away is the closest police station in the back streets of tourist Rome?" she asked, already walking away from the bell tower. Her cheap, borrowed shoes crushed the specks of glass underneath.

"That's right! A ten minute drive," she said, answering her own question. Wiggling her fingers in farewell, Harry slipped into the crowd - with the sudden chaos, everyone was entirely focused on securing their own safety.

And when the hitman blinked, she was long gone, apparating to Venice in hopes that maybe this time, she would finally get her bread.

.

.

.

A few weeks later found her in a little cafe, hidden within the less populated streets of Athens.

"Ah, Greece," Harry hummed, swallowing another bite of revani. The cake was incredibly light, with a slight citrus tang, and fantastically delicious.

She was the only one sitting at the veranda outside, the cafe's elderly owner cheerfully sweeping the floors inside.

It was all terribly nice, Harry considered. So nice, in fact, that it was very likely she would cut her vacation short and move on to her next one.

Always looking for the next adventure, she thought enthusiastically, though her former Headmaster probably didn't mean it in that way. Still, it was exciting to imagine what world she would stumble upon next - perhaps an alien planet? Oh, it had been so long since she last landed on one -

In her next breath, a man suddenly appeared in the seat across from her.

"I must admit," he began. "I didn't expect to find you here."

Harry took a long sip of her iced tea.

"And how exactly did you find me?" she frowned at the hitman (the same one from that terrible time in Rome, weeks ago), dressed impeccably as always, with a well-ironed suit and a clean, white button-up shirt.

The man cocked his head to the side, his ridiculous hat somehow still covering part of his face.

"A little bug told me," he answered, tipping his fedora off to her. The action revealed a mess of dark hair, hidden once again, only leaving distinctive curls on the side.

Harry gave him a sympathetic glance. She knew all too well the troubles of unruly hair.

"Well, you've found me," she waved her hands in congradulations. "How's Gospella?"

"Dead," the hitman said shortly. Harry smiled at that. She had known already, of course. Death had made sure to visit afterwards, to inform her of where exactly the dead man would be for the rest of eternity.

"That's nice," she said, finishing off her revani.

The man leaned back against the plastic chair. Hands laid casually in his pockets, he said, "Considering M16 has erased all records of you, I'm assuming you're here for Moraitis?"

Harry blinked at the sheer number of oddities in that one sentence.

M16? Erased records? As in, erased records that had previously existed?

Clearly, several mistakes have been made here, Harry thought.

"I'm not involved with M16," she told him, conveying what probably should have been said weeks ago.

"Of course you aren't," the hitman said, as if he was simply humouring her. "But your disguise could use some work, if I must say."

Harry laid an affronted hand on her searing yellow, pineapple print t-shirt. "Back off the attire, scrub. This is vintage."

"And please," she added, twirling a strand of her black hair. "You're one to talk. Walking around the streets of Athens in a three-piece suit and an ugly tie. That's what you would call a garish yellow."

Almost unwittingly, the hitman raised a hand to his sickening tie. He caught himself just in time, however, and the briefest of scowls flashed by.

"Moving on, it would be for the best if you delayed your plans for another twelve hours," he said, recovering admirably. "I have plans with Moraitis tonight."

Was it a warning? Or a request? Either way, Harry really didn't give a fuck.

"I have no plans tonight," she said slowly, hopefully at rate that could be understood. It had been two centuries since she had tried organizing her daily life in a concrete manner. Today would not be a day for change. "In fact, it's the exact opposite. I'm going to wander around the streets and maybe get piss-poor drunk."

It was a joke, of course. Harry was as incapable of getting drunk as she was dying, so it was all moot point.

The hitman made a noise that sounded incredibly patronizing, and it was only her bemusement that prevented Harry from smiting him right then and there.

(Although it had been so long since her last smiting... perhaps five years? Maybe it wasn't such a bad idea after all - )

"Do try to wander carefully then," the man said, and Harry was mildly impressed that someone who hadn't even reached his thirties could sound so condescending. "I'd hate to see us on opposite sides tonight."

He left with a dip of his hat, before slinking into the dark alleyways and disappearing completely from sight.

Harry stared into the distance, down the cobblestone roads and up to the darkening sky.

"Opposite sides, huh?" she drained the rest of her tea. With a satisfied sigh, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and slapped an inordinate amount of cash onto the wooden table.

Shoving her hands into the pockets of her cargo pants, Harry hopped back onto the main street, blending with the growing lights that filled the city.

.

.

.

Munching on koulouri, Harry traversed the brightly lit streets of downtown Athens. The toasted bread crunched nicely between her teeth, countless sesame seeds spilling onto the ground below.

The brick roads felt rough underneath her flats, a sea of tourists swarming around her, the lamp posts rusted and sturdy.

Indeed, it's very nice, Harry decided, her toes curling within her stockings. She had forgone her vintage outfit for a more casual dress, all for the sake of blending in.

She twirled once, startling the people around her, relishing the swish of fabric along her knees.

I'll leave next week, she concluded. This planet was a bit too calm for someone like her.

Humming to herself, she stepped forward again - only for a pair of bodies to block her way.

"Good evening, miss," the man to the right said in Greek. "I couldn't help but notice you were by yourself here in Athens."

"Well, you're not wrong," Harry answered in turn, more amused than anything else. "Can I help you gentlemen?"

The man shared a look with his partner, their burly shoulders relaxing slightly.

"We're looking to promote our club, just around the corner," he said smoothly, gesturing to the intersection behind him. "And well, when I saw a beautiful woman such as yourself, without a place for entertainment, I felt compelled."

"A nightclub, huh?" Logically speaking, Harry was a bit too old for those kinds of activities, but it never hurt to try and feel young again, right?

Skimming their minds more out of habit than caution, it became apparent that the advertised nightclub hosted activities that went beyond the expected.

"Sure, why not?" Harry said easily. There was hardly a club these days that didn't dabble on the opposite side of legality.

The man beamed, his features transforming to something slightly more sinister.

"Wonderful!" he exclaimed, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Harry looked at the limb and briefly considered cutting it off, before ultimately deciding against it.

Both he and his partner guided her down the streets, their stained suits causing the locals to give them a wide berth.

They turned swiftly left, turning a corner and into an alley with stuttering lights. Neon signs bombarded her eyes, with figures standing in front of different doors, burnt cigars between their fingers.

"It may seem a bit dangerous, but there's nothing to fear here," the man commented, nearly dragging her forward at this point. Briefly, Harry wondered if this sort of tactic usually worked for him - he was a terrible actor.

"Annnnd here we are!" he announced, gesturing to metal door squeezed between two larger buildings.

Athena's Wine Goblets - was written in fading black ink along the tinted windows. It was an unimaginative name.

"Come along, miss," the man pulled at her, as his partner opened the door with a creak. The muffled sounds of an electric bass rose to a deafening height.

She was led down carpeted stairs, to a basement full of young adults, dancing erratically to mind-numbing music.

It was a little tacky, but the drinks at the bar looked promising, so Harry gave herself a pat on the back for following directions -

She was hauled past the crowd and pushed down another set of stairs.

"Wasn't that the nightclub right there?" Harry glanced behind her, to the fading music and flashing lights.

"Oh, but you need to meet our boss first, miss," the man said slyly, and Harry wondered who exactly he was trying to fool. "After all, we're giving you V.I.P. access."

"Wow, I'm flattered," Harry said, as her wrists were none too gently squeezed. The whole thing no longer seemed worth the effort, and just as she contemplated leaving, the doors to her left slid open.

Inside revealed a slim, lanky man with an impressive mustache, a set of bodyguards standing resolutely at every corner of the room. The walls were painted an opulent gold and the ceiling towered high, full of mirrors.

The man - who was clearly the boss - crossed his legs, sitting on a lavishly adorned velvet couch, and across from him, past the glass table, sat -

"Ah," Harry said, staring into the dark eyes of her favorite hitman who, at the moment, looked ready to commit murder.

And as she was shoved into the room, the doors closing shut behind her, Harry decided firmly she would leave this world tonight. Clearly, fate was working against her here, which meant she had to get out quick and fast.

.

.

.

"Ah, you must be my partner for tonight," the boss greeted, grabbing a hold of her arm and bringing her onto his lap. Harry, still disappointed at the threads of destiny, let him.

"A little dull, it seems, but oh!" course fingers roughly brought her face to a greedy, dark smile. "Would you look at those eyes! Those fools did something right for once."

"Oh no," Harry said. This wasn't what she imagined her night to go, but, well. She widened her eyes for effect. "I thought I was here for the nightclub?"

The boss let out a bark of laughter. "Is that what those idiots told you? Well, little miss, that dingy place can't serve you as well as I can."

He trailed a finger along the side of her thigh, humming in approval at her thin stockings.

"I always did love women with class," the boss murmured into her riot of dark hair. He smelled of ash and cheap cologne - Harry wrinkled her nose and tried her best not to cough.

"If that's all well and done, Moraitis," the hitman on the other side of the room interrupted. His eyes bored accusingly at her.

Well, what can you do, Harry shrugged slightly. She hadn't walked around looking for this place.

"Patience, patience, my good man," Moraitis chuckled. He rested a hand along Harry's hip and turned to her. "You must forgive Reborn - he can be awfully restless at times."

The now named hitman, Reborn, leaned on his upraised fist, against the couch's armrest, the sleeves of his suit rolled up to the elbows.

"It wouldn't do to leave Timoteo waiting," Reborn answered, his entire posture relaxed. "You know how he can be."

"Ah, yes," Moraitis agreed. "I'd hate to anger the infamous Vongola."

Nearly asleep at this point, Harry stared down at the hand travelling up to her chest.

Come any closer, and I'll burn it off, she thought lazily, fingers already twitching in preparation.

Luckily for Moraitis, fate had other plans.

"Unfortunately, I'll have to decline the request," the boss waved a hand and every single man in the room raised a gun towards the center. "You know how it is, Reborn. It's just business."

Reborn sighed, cheek still resting on the knuckles of his hand.

"I hate returning empty-handed," he muttered, as Moraitis pulled out a gun of his own. Without another word, Moraitis fired directly at Reborn, only for the shot to ricochet into the ceiling above.

Eyes turned back to Moraitis, the man's arm raised unnaturally high, a pale hand resting under his elbow.

"What - " Moraitis hissed, spitting out that single word before Harry slammed a knee right into his face.

Catching the gun that slipped from Moraitis' fingers, Harry ducked under the set of arms hurled at her, and swung a foot in an arch. One bodyguard's face snapped to the side, and jumping over another guard's shoulders, Harry sent a surge of magic through the locked doors with a single touch.

The metal doors crumpled in an instant. Not one to waste a single moment of opportunity, Reborn had long since pulled out his own gun, sending every single member in the room down with startling efficiency.

Harry stepped out into the hallway, a cascade of shouts rumbling through the walls. Dusting imaginary lint off his tailored coat, Reborn joined her not long after, pointing his gun right at her and firing off.

The bullet missed by a mere centimeter. She turned, the bodyguard behind her falling to the ground not soon after.

Harry smiled. The night finally seemed to turn for the better.

"So, what's your deal?" she asked, even as she and Reborn switched places, his gun shooting at the men rushing down the stairs. She, in the meantime, slid under another guard's legs before leaping up and snapping his neck in half.

Reborn shrugged. "He was encroaching on territory that wasn't his. I was sent to ask him to back off."

"Oh!" Harry downed several more men, humming a familiar melody. "I didn't know you had an employer."

Somehow, she ended up right behind Reborn, their backs to each other. He glanced back at her, narrowed eyes and all, still firing off bullets with unnerving accuracy.

"I wouldn't call this a job," Reborn said. Back in the room next to them, Moraitis stirred, one hand to his bloodied face. "This is more like a favor for an old friend."

"Some favor," Harry noted, relaxing slightly when there was a lull in activity. "His taste in women is questionable, though."

Reborn sent her a look while reloading his gun. "It's certainly better than his taste in children."

Harry tilted her head to the side.

"Children, huh?" she tapped a finger on her chin, watching as Moraitis slowly rose with a groan. Hand grasping cold metal, Harry fired a shot at the man without another thought.

Moraitis went down immediately, blood gurgling in his lungs, a bullet in his heart.

"Not bad," Reborn commented.

Harry stared back down at her gun in disappointment. She had been aiming for his dirty, searching hands.

Still, it felt like a productive night. A nice way to end the day, and consequently, her last time here in this world.

That was the last thing she thought, before a barrage of bullets came her way.

.

.

.

"Well," Harry said cheerfully. "That could have gone worse, right?"

Half-conscious and only held upright through Harry's arms, Reborn groaned.

She carried him back to her hotel room (apparating might leave messy results), practically dragging him across the floor, careful not to get his blood on her clothes.

"How," Reborn gritted out, his breath escaping in short, heavy puffs. She tossed him a pair of heavy duty tweezers, and he caught them quite easily - impressive for someone riddled with bullets.

Harry hummed, pretending to rummage through the cabinet in her bathroom when in reality, she was just conjuring medical supplies.

By the time she had returned, Reborn was pulling out the last bullet from his body, the tiny metal capsules resting on the dresser next to her bed.

He sat a little more upright, bleeding all over her blankets and pillows, and barely able to stop her nose from wrinkling, Harry handed over the rest of her equipment.

"I don't need these," Reborn said, but accepted the supplies nevertheless. His stitching technique was methodical and swift, leaving Harry to dump his torn outer coat in the trash.

There was a flash of something, bright and warm. It grabbed her attention, near magnetically, and when she faced Reborn again, there was a tiny spark of fire dancing along his fingers.

Now this, is what we call interesting, Harry felt her lips pull into a smile. It couldn't be called magic, no. Magic didn't exist in this world - she had checked. She always did.

The fire reached towards Reborn's wounds, his skin stretching and healing, and when her gaze finally traveled up to his eyes, they were still as sharp as ever.

"What, did they not cover Flames in your training?" he rasped out, the fire finally dying after another moment.

"No, I don't think they did," Harry said, finding it completely hopeless to try and convince Reborn of her lack of employment.

Reborn laughed, the sound cut short, as he carefully wrapped a roll of bandages around his less severe wounds.

"I guess they were too busy with everything else," his eyes trailed over her undamaged form. Cutting off the last of his bandages, he gingerly rose to a stand, putting back on his not-so-white button up shirt.

He walked back to her, meeting her in front of the doors to her room's balcony, hanging on the twentieth floor. The clear windows let in the moon's eerie light, illuminating half of their faces, covering the rest in shadows.

"I suppose some gratitude is in order," Reborn finally said, hands in the pockets of his dress pants.

Mind still considering that strange fire, Harry smiled. "A thank you would work."

Reborn's eyes narrowed. Taking a step forward, he leaned in, the fabric of his cotton shirt shifting to reveal the bandaged skin underneath.

"I can think of other ways besides a simple thank you," he said lowly, lips tugging to one side, close enough that the warmth of his skin was blatantly apparent.

A hand reached out to wrap around her waist, to pull her in, long, pale fingers toying with the ends of her dress. Reborn exhaled, his breath tickling her ear -

Warm, chapped lips pressed against her throat, the fingers climbing higher and higher -

And Harry, with long suffering patience, stared flatly up at the ceiling.

She dragged a hand along the waistline of Reborn's pants, trailing across skin until she found one area where a bullet had been, and pinched.

Reborn hissed, doubling over in pain. Pushing him to side, Harry exited the room and into the balcony.

"Honestly," she called out to Reborn, who was struggling to rise back to a stand. "I think I'd rather have that thank you instead."

Because it seemed Reborn would only continue to remain insufferable, Harry climbed onto the railing. The city below was glowing, with brilliant lights, moving out to the sea ahead, the water reflecting the stars above.

"Wait - " Reborn said, stumbling forward.

But no, Harry would not wait. As much as she wanted to move on to the next world, she figured it wouldn't hurt to try and figure out the mysterious flames here.

So Harry jumped. The wind rushing past her, falling down faster and faster, the feeling near exhilarating, and Harry laughed, without reserve and freely, before disappearing into thin air.

Leaving Reborn, alone in a single hotel room, to the scent of drying blood and the sound of wind running against the waves.

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this was going to be a one-shot, but then things unraveled so fast, it might end up being a two shot instead?

regardless, I really wanted to poke at the "adult Reborn"/fem!Harry trope, though I don't think it was done that successfully. Still! I had a lot of fun writing this. I wanted to try my hand at something with "romance," although the romance is... basically nonexistent at the moment LOL. Right now, we have two people with their own interests and motivations, and whether something will blossom out of it is unknown at the moment.

It was really fun trying to write the beginnings of attraction without blatantly spelling it out, though whether attraction was even there (one way or both ways or not at all) is up for debate.

This style of mod!fem!Harry was interesting to try out - she's kinda crazy, but still with a good heart, and the exact opposite of the mod!fem!Harry I wrote for my other oneshot. She was inspired by several other mod!fem!Harrys out there, like the one in "Cirrus Cloud" by silenceia, and the countless ones fem!Harry ones written by The Carnivorous Muffin. Go check them out, if you haven't already! They're absolutely brilliant.

I hope you all enjoyed it! Let me know what you thought if it, how the relationship between Reborn/Harry felt, and how Harry's personality felt over all!

(also, this is unironically being posted on Valentine's Day. How did this even happen LOL)

- SE