Vis-à-Vis-à-Vis: A Drarry Story

Chapter 8

Diagon Alley teemed with people, rosy-cheeked in the rare spring sunshine. Harry walked the length of the street, crossed, and walked back, hands in his pockets and gaze downcast. Surely, after twenty minutes of aimless walking, he'd caught the Doppelgänger's attention.

He looked up and glanced around. Who would the Doppelgänger be today? Maybe the portly man leaning against a lamp post? The kid walking a mountain bike through a crosswalk?

Harry cupped the vials in his hand. How did the Doppelgänger want to be seen today? Did he want to be noticed at all? If he were smart, he'd be in hiding. But Harry had an inkling that self-preservation wasn't the bastard's strong suit.

If he could draw the Doppelgänger out, he might not need to use the hair sample. And he didn't trust the Doppelgänger to truthfully identify himself once arrested, so the Elixir was a better use of it. The wanker would probably claim to be the fifth Beatle or something ridiculous.

There was no motivation to keep the Doppelgänger out of DMLE custody. Not anymore. He wasn't a witness. He was a criminal.

I was someone you'd let get close.

A criminal, and a thief. A liar. An imposter. Not real. And Harry's kitchen counter still held place settings for a breakfast for two. He'd left a tiny, glittering shard of his heart on that counter.

The foot traffic thinned as he reached the second-hand robe shop at the end of the street. He leaned against the plate glass window, the back of his head resting on the solid weight of it. Sun warmed his face, and he closed his eyes. He folded his bare arms over his chest, letting the rays penetrate his skin.

He wasn't posing. But he wasn't not posing.

He licked his lips, then peeked out through his lashes. The Doppelgänger could be anyone.

One of the children huddled around a game of Exploding Snap? No.

He wouldn't be interacting with a group of people.

A woman with a baby in a pram? No.

An old man walking a pair of Crups? No.

The Doppelgänger would be alone.

A teenage girl taking Polaroid selfies on the corner? Definitely not.

A rotund woman sat on a park bench, a newspaper unfolded over her lap? Possibly.

Someone tapped sharply against the glass, right between Harry's shoulder blades. He rolled and looked over his shoulder.

The shop was utilitarian. Orderly racks of robes, mostly black, hanging from mismatched hangers, mostly pink, over a tiled floor, mostly yellow. A dressing room mirror sat propped against the wall, just out of reach of the sunlight streaming in through the windows.

Harry's body cast a shadow in the golden rectangle on the floor, and fit neatly into it, shoulder to Harry's shoulder, hip to hip, thigh to thigh, stood the Doppelgänger. Lanky limbs, a shock of red hair, freckles, and blue eyes with a wicked glint.

Ron smirked at him through the thick glass, the end of his wand raised. He tapped it again, right where Harry's shoulder met the window. The reflection of Harry's hair surrounded Ron's face.

Harry let himself believe it was really Ron. Just for a moment. Until those blue eyes met his with a heat they'd never shown before.

"You," Harry mouthed. He turned and slammed his hands flat against the glass. It shuddered in the pane.

Ron grinned and let his wand trace down, up, over, and down the lengths of Harry's fingers. Harry's breath fogged the glass, and he tried to slow his breathing. This smug bastard had the gall to flirt with him after stripping his bathroom of hair and standing him up in his own kitchen.