Chapter Text
Plymouth, Devon - 1991
Near Stonehouse Barracks, home of the 3 Commando Brigade, Royal Marines
It's cold. Wind off the sea carries stinging, salty chill up over the docks and into the town. Harry stuffs his hands deeper in his pockets, relishing the lambskin lining of the old jacket. Bomber pilot's jacket, from back in the War. Back when pilots didn't have tray tables, or autopilots, or radar. They had coats and earmuffs and Nazi fighters shooting at them.
Old Lady Rose gave him this for fixing up her back porch. She gave him the pants last winter because she felt sorry for him. He does look a bit like her Jimmy did, back when. Jimmy and Rose met young, so their first photos are seventeen or eighteen, before he shipped out to train during the blitz. Scrawny fellow with messy black hair and glasses.
Dudley's hand me down windbreaker is worn thinner than a sheet. It's nothing compared to this, so he stuffed it in his backpack. He'll have to hide this somewhere when he gets home. Shouldn't be too hard. Payday was day before yesterday, so Uncle Vernon was drunk yesterday and today he'll be getting hammered by his commanding officer. Probably fell over and contaminated the food with his fat face. The fact that the Royal Marines can't find a better cook than Vernon Dursley really says a lot.
When she realizes her shopping trip is canceled because Vernon drank it all, Aunt Petunia will be fit to whip Dudley, let alone Harry.
No, better to see if any jobs need doing. Show up home in a couple days.
"Hey, Jack!" Harry calls out.
The bent-over old man sweeping out his automat gives a quick wave.
"Gutters all right?" Harry adds over the wind.
"They'll keep, young sir," Jack chuckles.
"Don't call me sir!" Harry jokes. "I work for a living."
"Brat," Sarah huffs, swatting her husband and then Harry with a ladle.
"I come in peace," Harry promises, backing away.
"See that you do," she huffs, waving the gravy-dripping implement.
There's no one in the park. Usually, he'd wander back to the base's fence. See if any of the lads have any trouble they think he should get into. Aaron wanted to take Harry hunting, which sounded like fun. No sense doing that today because with Vernon getting chewed out, Harry's more likely to get spotted and have someone who 'means well' drive him home because they think he's waiting for a ride.
"Hey!" a voice calls out behind him.
Harry spins around.
Flying up the street with her messy brown hair bouncing behind her is his best friend. Hermione Granger. She's a year older than him and her parents are rich--doctors at the base hospital--but they get along great. Hermione has books she's tired of reading and Harry has never heard of any of those books. For his part of the bargain, Hermione wants 'girly stuff' even though hates the girls at her school. So he gets her castoff books and she gets makeup and fashion magazines and things she'd rather not ask her mum about. Hermione says her mum will think she's a failure if she puts on makeup before graduating Oxford.
Harry doesn't have a library card or a friend his own age.
Hermione has piles of used paperbacks and the girls her own age bother her.
She's huffing in the cold air, making little clouds as she scrambles along under her massive backpack. She switched her school shoes for trainers but for some reason didn't think to put on actual pants over her skirt.
Harry, by virtue of being unofficial kid brother to a few hundred marine cadets, is friends with some odd sorts. His odd jobs aren't just old lady's porches and automat gutters. He's got a knack for wires, if he says so himself. He's cheap and he's careful and he doesn't ask for money unless he fixes it. So he's got a lot of clients in town, including the madams of both of the brothels that don't technically exist. Some of the businesses who'd rather not have the cops around have asked Harry to fix their lights. He's never seen a girl naked, but he's wired up a red neon light shaped like one for a hundred quid.
"Got them?" she huffs.
"Someone's pushy," he jokes.
"Someone is freezing," she whines.
Harry takes Dudley's ratty old windbreaker out of his rucksack and opens it up. Inside are several tubes of lipstick, a compact mirror
"I wasn't sure but I talked to one of the girls," he admits, his cheeks quite pink. "Told them what you look like."
"You talked to one of the girls?" she squawks. "About me?"
"Not your name! I don't know what lipstick looks good with brown hair, do I?" he complains.
"I better not come out looking like a whore," she huffs.
"Well, the whore I asked said that's really more about how much you use. And where. But she did say she'd give you a tutorial."
Hermione punches his arm.
"Wanker."
"Ooh, new word!" He teases. "Get that hanging around the back fence near the motor pool, like I did?"
"Mum," she says with a blush. "Someone was trying to make her re-use supplies. Unsanitary. Called him a wanker and asked if he'd be fine getting a shot with a syringe that had been in the butt of a patient of her choosing."
"Got a new book you'd like," she jokes.
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Couple. Lord of the Rings..."
"Classic," Harry jokes. "Not that I've ever read it. Just heard of it."
"And this new book called Game of Thrones. You cannot tell anyone I gave this to you. It's really violent and my mom shouldn't have bought it for me in the first place."
"I'll only read it with supervision," he promises. "I'm safe from a book as long as I've got Hermione Granger to help me."
"Library?" he suggests.
"Sounds good."
-----
"Since when do a hundred owls nest on the old barracks?" Harry mutters, pointing up the hill.
"Huh?" Hermione asks, looking up from the compact mirror. "Whoa. Weird."
A hundred feathered heads turn as one. The owls leap into flight, heading straight for them.
"Run!" Harry shouts.