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Like the richness of the rising sun grazing every lonely corner, redness coats every surface. Blood colours the tiles; walls; his clothing and, disgustingly, his sink. Harry lets out a breath and wipes the sweat from his forehead. The body lay limp, features no longer recognizable from its bruised state. The forearm is facing upwards, and within the canvas of paleness is the distinct ink of the Death Eater symbol. It’s just so easy. Reaching for his house phone, he idly casts an evanesco while dialling a number; the colourful green note stares back at him from his fridge. The penmanship is clear and aristocratic, and though it’s a simple arrangement of numbers, it’s flawless. There’s a slight tilt and a patience within the wrist that wrote it.As it rings, he places the phone between his ear and shoulder. Twisting the knobs of the sink, he covers his hands in soap. From across the street, he watches the tall silhouette move across windows. “Potter,” the voice greets, a pause, “Is this urgent? I’m in the middle of something.”“Draco,” Harry snorts, “It’s Friday.”“Yes,” Draco huffs with annoyance, “and yesterday was Thursday. Tomorrow is Saturday. What do you want?”There’s a sound of cheers in the background; his mouth twitches into a smile. He repeatedly flicks his wrists for his hands dry. “You’re watching Family Feud, aren’t you?”The question seems to open something within the other, and the sound of television becomes clearer. Yes, then. Not that it wasn’t clear already, Draco has made a habit of watching the television every Friday night. It’s charming to be a witness to Draco being entirely engrossed in anything Muggle and new; hence the call, Harry wants to catch these intimate moments. As if he can’t help himself, “You’re Muggle-born, what’s a Viagra?”Harry nearly chokes, and before he can wonder why he’s asking such a question, Draco continues, rambling, “The question was, ‘what is something you’ll find under a man’s bed?’ I don’t understand. There are socks, which I guessed right, obviously. Then, Playboy magazine, but I’m not stupid on what that is.”Harry wandlessly, wordlessly, casts scourgify several times throughout the kitchen. He’ll bleach the entire kitchen tomorrow morning for his own peace of mind. With one last glance towards the apartments, specifically the one that glows warmly, he flicks off the light.“It’s for erectile dysfunction.”“For what?”“You know,” Harry switches the phone to his other ear. He begins to descend towards the lower half of his house. Lower and lower, darker and darker. “It’s for—ah—well—it’s to help when you can’t get an erection.”“Oh.” For a moment it’s quiet, then, “Muggles have something like that?”“Yeah. It's a type of medicine.”“Fascinating. For the lack of magic, they are smarter than most wizards. They can scan brains, for Merlin’s sake. Have you ever heard of a neuron?”Harry opens the basement door, and beneath a sputtering lightbulb sits a struggling man. The air smells putrid from sweat and rot. Winter brings a small grace by cooling the entire house. “I haven’t,” the lie slips easily between teeth. There are plenty more hidden beneath tongue if it meant coaxing words and warm attention out of Draco. “Tell me about it when we meet. I can ask ‘Mione for books if you’re so curious about Muggle sciences, by the way.”He can hear the soft smile of Draco, “Really? I can ask her myself.” The sound of the television has gone quiet. “I only need the titles.”Harry stalks closer to the Death Eater and yanks a handful of brown strands back. The chair tips at the force of it, and there’s a soundless cry that beats against the walls of a silencing spell. He wants answers, but he’d rather revel in this adrenaline of walking the line between normalcy and violence. “Nah. You’d be doing everyone a favour by borrowing her books. Ron is a good listener, but he’s bloody terrible at understanding what she’s saying.”The man, Jasper he thinks—Kaspar? No, Jackson, probably. Ah, oh well. Kaspar struggles against the restraints before curling his lip. He spits on Harry’s cheek in retaliation. With a smoothness of silken sheets, “And do you?”His fist crunches satisfyingly against the other’s scraped cheek. Without Harry stabilising him, he tips to the floor. He feels the glamour and magic stutter on the surface of his skin; his charmed vision blurs and focuses repeatedly. “..Potter?”“Sorry, sorry. What did you say?”“Nothing important.” He can practically see the dismissive wave of a slender hand. Harry breathes. One, two, three, hold—one, two, three. “Is there a reason you called?”“I think I have a lead for your case.” “What’d you find?”“Let me treat you to dinner and I’ll tell you what I’ve heard.”There’s a sharp inhale from the line. “Are you bribing me for a date?”The man is dying. Harry frowns; he can’t have that if he wants to have this. Idly, a weak episky is sent in Oscar’s direction. Jack?“Would you like me to?”“Dinner and killer leads, very sophisticated of you.”“Is that a yes?”“Will there be Paneer Tikka Masala? The one you let me try?”“Of course. I’m not crass.”“Alright, fine. I’ll be going, then.”“Night, Draco.”“Goodnight.”Harry pockets the phone, and he kneels to the floor beside the gasping man. He doesn’t need his wand; they both know it. The evidence still clings in the form of blood on his shirt. A hand wraps around his neck, and his pulse jumps under his touch. It’s thrilling: he feels alive like this. Killing. “Let’s do this again, alright? Tell me who’s commanding your group.”