Blacklist [h.s]

seven

Grace

We learned two things after Harry's stunt he pulled last night. One: Youseff Badawi, a human rights activist is hosting an event tonight whether his life is on the line or not. Two: Youseff Badawi was going to be killed at tonight's event.

Youseff began his organization National Hope  in 2012 after his sister was rescued from human trafficking. Since then, Yousseff and his sister Noura have been rescuing young girls from their traffickers and starting them onto a better life. And someone didn't like that. 

Someone that we can't stop without Harry's help because Harry is the only one who knows what the assassin looks like—the assassin who they (by they, I mean criminals) call Phantom (I think it's silly too). hunter had spilled wine all over the photo Harry gave him. 

I feel like I've been in this situation a thousand times before, standing in front of Harry's makeshift cell, Harry smirking at me. He's facing the wall, hands clasped behind his back whenever the door beeps open. He doesn't turn around to see who it is, but I'm sure he knows it's me.

"I need your help," I mumble quietly, almost afraid to admit it. I can't see his face, but I know the smirk is there. Something has changed between us since last night, or at least I think so. I feel vulnerable around him, closer to him somehow. Armed guards stand behind me waiting for Harry to make some sort of irrational move, but he doesn't. Harry isn't in restraints this time.

"You know what the Phantom looks like, we're compiling a list of everyone who is attending tonight, but-" Harry cuts me off, turning around as he speaks.

There's not a smirk on his face like I expected, but rather his lips are formed into a thin straight line, his eyebrows furrowed. For once, he's serious.

"Gracey, I want more than anything to help you. It's the reason why I'm here," he mumbles. I suck in a deep breath, bothered by his words because I know he doesn't mean helping me catch criminals, he means something more sentimental or sinister—I can't tell which. 

"But I won't say another word until the terms of my conditions are met." 

And just like that, Harry got everything he wanted. His own personal bodyguard Paul, his own hotel (changed every three days), and a title as an FBI informant. It took more than three hours to convince the private board that Cooper has organized to discuss all things Harry, but somehow he did it and somehow he convinced Harry to let him put a tracking chip in his neck. And Harry was somehow on his way to freedom.

Harry steps out of his cell with a wide smile, his eyes shining like he's just discovered a cure for cancer. Agent Hunter is shoving a manilla folder into his chest before he's even over the threshold. 

"You got your end of the bargain now we get ours," Hunter grunts. Harry doesn't take the folder and instead lets it fall onto the floor.  He looks at me, beginning to say something until Hunter interrupts him. 

"I'm right here, you can talk to me," Hunter spits.

It takes everything I have in me to not laugh when Harry looks at me to answer. 

"This guy didn't RSVP. I've seen the man. If you want to identify him, put me in that room," Harry said. 

"So, you want to go to the party?" I ask, furrowing my eyebrows. 

Harry grins, "I thought you'd never ask." 

-

I don't know how I keep ending up in these situations. In a fancy dress, Harry in a suit attached to my side. But somehow I do. The music is deafening as we step out of the elevator and onto a rooftop filled with hundreds of people dressed just as fancy as we are (and also a few dozen agents acting as security). Harry is greeting people, hugging them, kissing their cheeks, shaking their hands. I stand back idly like an awkward girlfriend at her first family reunion.