The restaurant is busy.

Harry sits beside Hermione and across from Peggy in the corner of the room, but the chatter in the room rises and falls in little waves with the lulls of natural conversation; he hears a host of different accents, and by no means is the only language floating over to this corner of the room English. Normally, Harry would enjoy the differences in the way people are speaking, but for now, all the noise seems to needle at him, and he can feel himself tense and stiff in his chair. Hermione is keeping an eye on him, but Harry knows that if he asks her about it, he'll only end up snapping.

What is wrong with him?

He fidgets under the table as he slowly picks at his ravioli, bouncing his right knee quickly in place. Peggy and Jon are talking about what's been happening most recently in their dental practice, updating Hermione on family friends, on conferences and academic events Peggy and Jon have gone to, and even bringing her up to date on a particular soap that Hermione has never mentioned and, from what Harry can guess by her face, never actually had a desire to watch.

"So, are you excited about any of your OWLs in particular?" Peggy asks, seeming to garner the same thing and interrupting Jon, and Hermione glances up from her fork, seeming to think about the question.

"I am," Hermione says. "OWL Defence Against the Dark Arts looks very interesting - we start looking at the theory of non-verbal magic, you know, and while we don't actually start studying it until sixth year, I'm excited to give it a whirl. Ancient Runes becomes so much more active in the way it's taught, too - ooh, and Herbology, and History, actually, and--"

"So, basically, you're excited about everything?" Harry asks mildly, and Hermione stops short, then laughs at herself.

"Yes," she agrees. Harry's grin is small, and it doesn't really do much to cut through the stress and anxiety he can feel, but he's glad to know that there's still a smile ready inside him, even like this. Peggy and Jon have turned to Harry now, however, and Harry can just feel himself coiling tighter and tighter, like the spaghetti around Hermione's fork.

"I'm excited about Potions," Harry says. A part of him, an angry, nasty part of him that he tries to ignore, says, Why are they even asking? They're Muggles, what do they know? What's the point? They might as well be asking an astronaut how his day went. He resists the urge to close his eyes and purse his lips together, instead making eye contact with Jon, and then Peggy, forcing himself to stay in his place. "The work becomes a little more dangerous, particularly looking at new kinds of poisons and the like, but we look at antidotes too, and how the two respond to one another, as well as examining the work of catalysts in time-activated potions. For example, certain medicines would lose their potency if bottled whilst magically active, so one can place a final ingredient in the seal, so that the potion is finished upon opening."

"That sounds really interesting, Harry - I haven't even started looking at fifth year Potions yet! Oh, it sounds great!" There's something about Hermione's genuine, honest excitement that grates on him rather than improving his mood, so Harry doesn't reply, and just offers a small smile before returning his focus to his food. Peggy and Jon keep on talking, asking Hermione questions about this bit of that course and that bit of the other.

What do they know?

Harry's fork makes a thin screeching sound against the surface of his plate, and he flinches. "Sorry," he mutters. The other three return to conversation: Jon is talking animatedly, waving his knife and fork and dripping lasagne on the white tablecloth; the way Peggy sits is too stiff, too unnatural, and Harry thinks of a stupid statue that's in the Slytherin second year corridor.

You've got a knife in your belt.

That thought is positively unbidden, and Harry stops eating, staring down at his ravioli, swimming in its thick, blood-red sauce. Harry has got a knife in his belt, the bronze-hilted dagger he'd bought last year in Hogsmeade, just like he has the comforting weight of his packet of Silk Cut and his wand in his pocket, but that's nothing. He wouldn't actually hurt someone, wouldn't actually kill someone - least of all Jon, or Peggy.

Unless he could do it. Unless he would do it.

"Do you want to get dessert, Harry?" Peggy asks him. Harry feels like he's hearing her voice from the surface while sat the bottom of a swimming pool.

"No, thanks, Peggy. I'm not hungry."

---

"Hey, Harry!" He turns his head as they exit the restaurant: Adrian comes over, grinning and showing off his teth, and although Harry's smile is weak, it's genuine. "I don't suppose you're from that private school of his?"

"That's right," Hermione says, putting out her hand to shake, and she grins at Harry before turning to Adrian. "I'm Hermione. I'm in a different house, but we share classes."

"House? God, how old-fashioned is this place?" Adrian demands, but Harry can read the joke in his face even though his tone is indignant, and Hermione gives a soft chuckle. "I go to school here in London - I met Harry at the arcade. I'm just on my way there now, actually. Do you want to come along?"

"Yeah, sure," Harry says, shaking Jon and Peggy's hands respectively. "The arcade is on the way back to Sirius' place, so I'll walk with him."

"Are you sure you don't want a lift, Harry? " Hermione asks, but Harry just smiles a little, and shakes his head.

"Nah, traffic in London will be ages. You guys should get out onto the motorway before the evening picks up again. I'm used to walking around." After hugging Hermione, Harry walks alongside Adrian, drawing a cigarette out of the packet in his pocket and flicking it alight. He feels Adrian's gaze out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't comment on it, instead glancing around at those on the streets about them. It's starting to get busy again with the evening light, and they walk past crowds of Muggles dresses up for nights on the town.

"So, houses, huh?"

"Yeah. Mine is called Slytherin: our house colours are green and silver. She's a Gryffindor, so she's red and gold."

"You're so bloody posh," Adrian says, shaking his head, and Harry finds himself laughing. The sound is a little more bitter than he really intends, thinking about growing up in Little Whinging in hand-me-down clothes with Dudley breathing down his neck: Harry is anything but posh. "Are there a lot of black girls at your school? I never know how it is in the private places."

"Yeah, a fair few. We've got all kinds of people, really - I've got a friend, Draco, he looks a lot like you. You should see him next to his cousin, who's black: he's very pale, of course, but they've got the same nose and the same ears." Harry taps the base of his cigarette, dropping ash onto the street as they walk toward the arcade, and he feels a slight twinge of guilt - there's blood politics, of course, and there's a worry about class, but he's lucky to live in the wizarding world in a lot of ways. No racism, no sexism... "Pretty accepting of different religions and races, really."

"That's pretty cool! I just go to a normal school - my parents actually wanted me to go to this Hebrew school. We're in the catchment area and stuff, but my grandma kinda put her foot down, said she'd heard too many stories of kids getting beaten up wearing their uniforms, and you should see the place, you know? There's a huge big fence around it, they have to do all these alarms... Drills, in case of terrorists." Adrian doesn't look that upset, merely shaking his head and seeming disappointed, annoyed that this happens, but Harry feels a sickly weight in his belly. "Our rabbi's a pretty relaxed guy, though, so he didn't mind."

"One of the guys in my year, Theo, is Jewish," Harry says. "He's not that religious or anything, I don't think, but he wears a star of David."

"And he's circumcised?" Harry laughs.

"Dunno, haven't checked. I assume so." Do Muggles talk about religion more often than wizards? Maybe. Harry doesn't know what the dominant religion is - the Dursleys had been Church of England, but they'd never done anything with the church or gone to services, except for weddings and funerals, and it hadn't seemed to mean much to them. He hears discussions in classes or on the radio sometimes, and he knows that Theo meets some of the other Jewish kids in school on Friday nights. Most people seem to be atheists. "Are you guys super religious?"

"A little," Adrian says. "We keep the kashrut - that's laws about how we should eat, like not eating pork, and some religious rituals. We're pretty close with our rabbi, and my Uncle Moshe is a rabbi in New York. You?" The violence, intrusive thoughts Harry had been having earlier have faded away, now, but he feels a little antsy nonetheless, and he keeps on walking at speed beside the other boy.

"My parents died when I was a baby, so I never really knew them, but I don't think they were religious." Adrian watches Harry take a drag of the cigarette, and Harry meets his gaze. They're outside Penney's now: the arcade is closed. There's a sign on the door apologizing and saying they'll be open tomorrow. Did Adrian know, Harry wonders? Harry sees the nervousness on his face as he steps out toward the smoking area out the back of the adjoining café. He knew. "I live with my uncles, now, and they're not religious at all."

"They're brothers?" Adrian asks, seeming surprised.

"Partners," Harry replies. He looks Adrian in the face, sees his eyes nervously flitting around Harry, at his cigarette, his fingers, his shoes, his face, his belly. "So, the arcade's closed."

"Yeah," Adrian says, unconvincingly. "Sorry, I forgot." Harry reaches out, plucking an imaginary piece of lint from Adrian's collar, and as soon as he closes a little of the distance between them, Adrian grabs him and pulls him close enough to kiss.

---

It's midnight.

Harry walks along the Hungerford Bridge, a new cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, and his hands in his pockets. It's a warm night, and his clothes are ruffled: Adrian's parents had been out to dinner with some friends, and Adrian's three younger brothers had been out on a trip with the scouts, so Adrian had had the house to himself. And Harry.

Harry grins to himself, and he looks out across the water.

That vicious streak is still in him - when they were in Adrian's room, surrounded by posters for bands Harry's never heard of, Harry had felt it bloom once again, roughly kissed the other boy, thrown him around a little. Not violently, exactly, just... Not tenderly. Harry feels a rush inside himself, even now, and when a guy shoulders him on the bridge, he snaps.

"Oi! Watch where you're going!" The figure, tall and lanky, turns to stare at him. Harry recognizes, after a moment's stare, the spotty face of Stan Shunpike. He grins, showing off some slightly yellow teeth, and Harry wrinkles his nose slightly. "Alright, Stan?" It's unconvincing, and it's certainly not friendly: he turns, starting to walk onwards, but Stan grabs him by the shoulder, throwing him up against the side of the bridge. "Oi!"

But Stan has moved surprisingly quickly, and his wand is pressed right up to Harry's face, the tip of it touching the bottom of his chin. Harry stares at him, searching his wild and excited expression for some kind of answer, but Shunpike gives him none.

"Oh, 'e's gonna be 'appy with me, innit? What'chu walkin' round London on your own for?"

"Who's gonna be happy with you, you dickhead? Let me go." But Stan presses his wand a little tighter against Harry's neck, an obvious threat, and Harry sees the mark on his arm, grey-green in the orange light of summer night. It shifts under Harry's gaze, and Harry feels his breath catch in his throat at the victory he sees in Shunpike's face.

"I'm new, you see," Stan says, whispers. "I was just on my way out to a meeting, but I didn't know you was in town, Potter. 'E's gonna love this." Harry can't go for his wand, but there's a cigarette hanging from his fingers, so he shifts quickly and presses the burning butt into the side of Stan's neck, making him scream and drop his wand. It rolls on the edge of the bridge, falling down into the Thames below, and as Stan drops to try to grab for it, Harry kicks him hard int he ribs.

Stan Shunpike, a Death Eater? That's mad, that's just fucking stupid.

But Harry sees when he rips up Stan's sleeve that the tattoo is right there.

"You bastard," Harry says reaching into his pocket for his wand, but Stan lunges for him, hands clasping around his throat and tightening on the flesh there - the pressure hurts, and Harry can't breathe, can't breathe, as he desperately grabs for his wand. Stan just holds him tighter, and Harry feels the pads of his dirty thumbs in the hollow of his neck, pushing bruises into the pale skin there, feels his vision darkening at the edges, hears his thready pulse jumping in his ears, and he just needs to reach it--

The knife slashes quick over Stan's belly, and he lets out a harsh , choking sound, stumbling backwards from Harry, abruptly letting him go. Harry is bent over, touching his burning neck and heaving in what breaths he can, and he can't believe he did that. Can't believe he used a knife, his knife, can't believe---

Stan lunges again, and it's not a shallow slash this time: Stan all but impales himself on Harry's dagger, and Harry even hears the sudden click of his lowest rib against the metal. Stan's eyes are wide, his face pale, his mouth open; he rips back the knife and he watches Stan fall. There's no feeling inside him, no worry - there's merely the rush of it, mingling with his rush at having been with Adrian.

Harry stares down at Stan, on the ground, and then looks at the knife in his hand.

He needs to get home: he runs.

The next day, the Daily Prophet's headline is DEATH EATER KILLED IN MUGGING BY MUGGLE, and Harry stares at the paper in silence.