Turn DRARRY

Chapter Thirteen

Harry sprints toward the corner of Marshall Street, breathing hard and ducking his head against the freezing rain; the downpour is so savage now that every contact is painful but he barely notices, focusing only on the pounding mantra of Draco's note to himself.

Marshall Street Baths, Soho. 4pm. Goran. Marshall Street Baths, Soho. 4pm. Goran. Marshall Street Baths, Soho. 4pm. Goran. Marshall Street Baths, Soho. 4pm. Goran.

Goran. One of Fitzwilliam's nasty friends, no doubt. Harry doesn't really want to think about the logistics of this whole mess, but as he stops, fingers pressed to the cold, wet stone of the wall, and peers down the street, he can't seem to suppress the unhelpful racing of his mind. He's going to fucking kill Draco when... Harry swallows hard. His drenched cardigan sleeves catch on the rough brickwork and he shivers. Shaking himself, he darts another glance around the corner and pulls himself together. This is all his fault anyway. He's going to let Draco berate him for getting him into this situation in the first place, and then he's going to kill Draco for scaring the shit out of him.

That'll work.

"Okay," he mutters to himself, tapping his fingers against the bricks. "Think like an Auror... if you remember how."

And, despite his doubts, the instincts slide back into place as easily as pulling on an old, familiar coat. Within seconds, Harry has taken in the silent street, the parked cars, the couple walking their dog who pass behind him with quiet, meandering footsteps. Marshall Street is dimly lit, but illuminated enough for Harry to see the pale stone arches and the pavement signs that should have been taken inside by now. Though the tingle of malevolent magic is completely absent, Harry draws his wand and casts a series of detection charms, slightly saddened to realise that he no longer trusts his own intuition in times like these.

"Better safe than sorry," he mumbles, concealing his wand in his sleeve and proceeding slowly around the corner. "Nobody heard me say that," he adds, horrified with himself despite everything.

Swiping at his sopping fringe, he steps carefully up to the entrance and scans the foyer for movement, but all inside appears to be still. He tries the door, wrapping his fingers around the cold handle and tugging hard, but it doesn't budge.

He bites his lip hard and refuses to allow panic to set in, even though he knows one thing for certain.
This is definitely the place, and he doesn't need to use any investigative skills to be sure of that fact. He knows Draco, and he knows that Draco is here somewhere. What state he might be in, Harry doesn't know, and the thought speeds his heart into a nauseating rhythm. Opting not to think, he aims a simple unlocking spell on the door in front of him, idly reflecting that an insane old man was more effective at keeping him out of a building than a load of supposedly professional criminals.

He holds his breath as he steps inside, grateful that the door swings silently on its hinges. The smell of chlorine hits him at once and yanks him back to his primary school swimming lessons in an instant, bringing with it a slew of unhelpful memories of being dunked under the water until his nose burned and stung, yelping as his goggles were pinged against the back of his head, and scrabbling around the damp changing rooms to find clothes that had been hidden by Dudley and his minions.

Scowling, Harry forces himself to adjust to the warm, chemical-scented air. He knows he should wait for Ron, but there's no harm in having a quick look. Clearing the scene, so to speak. It's not as though he's about to go bursting in on Fitzwilliam with his wand drawn—apart from anything else, reason tells him that if Draco is in here, he's already in trouble, and anything Harry can do right now is unlikely to be helpful against fuck-knows-how-many curse-happy gang members.

Reason, though, is not something he is accustomed to obeying, and the temptation to go dashing through the corridors in the dark is one that he struggles to control. The thought of Draco's disguise dissolving around him floods Harry with dread, and his fingers curl around his wand until they hurt. He has no idea what these people are capable of in a situation like this; he thinks he has a better grasp of Fitzwilliam, but there is no guarantee that the head of MLE is the one in charge here.