The Master of Death

Chapter50: Dinner Date

It took only a second for Harry to assess his surroundings. Grimmauld Place's kitchen was empty sans Kreacher and Sirius. The old house-elf was currently standing atop the rough wooden table and from his elevated position, he was glaring at Sirius. Said man sat leaned back in his usual seat, arms crossed as he stared at the house-elf looming over him.

The sight had Harry snorting as soon as he had materialized in the cavernous room.

Kreacher was the first to notice him.

"Young master has returned," he began, turning to Harry. Some kind of map crinkled beneath his feet before he started to climb off the table "The filthy, disgraceful master Sirius had Kreacher keep the letter back-"

"It's alright," Harry cut him off, his lips twitching mirthfully. Kreacher still muttered insults under his breath and he climbed down a chair while Harry turned to face his godfather. Sirius seemed equally amused despite himself.

"New haircut?" he inquired with a raised brow.

Somewhat self-conscious Harry ran a hand through the mop on top of his head as it had always been a source of controversy for him - from Petunia trying to tame it with all her might, to everyone always comparing him to his father. "It got too long," Harry admitted. Then he dropped this hand and shook off the odd musings. "So," he began with a firm voice, "Where's that letter then, my 'pen pal' sent, as you put it?" he asked, closing their distance.

Sirius' expression fell. He uncrossed his arms, producing a single small note when he opened his palm.

Harry took the offered letter and stared at it for a long confusing second. "That's it?" he inquired and looked at Sirius. His godfather shrugged.

An old leather wand holster was strapped to his sinewy and tattooed forearm - a practice usually only employed by some Aurors and Hit-Wizards. On a second look, Harry noted that while he was wearing his usual attire, which most days consisted of a pair of worn jeans and an equally vintage or obscure band shirt, he wore sturdy boots and had his hair tied back in a messy bun. Even though he was no longer exactly gaunt, it made his cheekbones stand out prominently.

Sirius expelled a long breath of air and nodded gravely. "Coordinates and a time."

"No signature," Harry muttered as he stared at the collection of numbers on the parchment penned in crisp, loopy cursive. 'Bring what you promised,' he mouthed while scanning once more over the only words written on the parchment. But the latter was enough to tell from whom this note had come.

"Demanding bastard, isn't he?" Sirius voiced as if he'd been plucking Harry's thoughts right out of his mind.

Harry rubbed his beard-less cheek in long-forgotten habit as he mused over the letter. Apparating by coordinates was difficult. Usually, only certain personnel in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was trained in it.
Apparation in general was defined by three rules.
Destination, determination and deliberation.

To apparate, you had to know where you wanted to go. But you didn't always have the time to painstakingly describe a place before you had to apprehend a criminal, so coordinates were an easy way to quickly brief a group of people.

A lesser-known advantage was that coordinates tended to be overlooked in memory charms. So even if an Auror or Hit-Wizard had been obliviated if they for example had stumbled over a wizard's hide-out, they had something to fall back on if they knew the rough coordinates of the place.

It wasn't illegal to learn how to apparate by coordinates, but most people never bothered with it, as it was hard to train your mind to go from apparating by descriptions and memories of places to simple numbers. It was a lot harder than even apparating by the names of places.