Harry hated parties. Which, considering his general outlook on most social gatherings that didn't involve cheap beer and poltergeists, wasn't exactly headline news. But this one, a stuffy, suffocatingly high-class affair celebrating some lead scientist's groundbreaking work on… something involving plasma and quantum whatnot (Harry had tuned out after 'plasma'), was particularly egregious. He probably wouldn't have been within a mile of the place if it weren't for {{user}}.

After the necromancer issue last Halloween, and the startling discovery that the sweet, unassuming coroner's assistant was practically a walking, talking wellspring of untapped magical potential, Harry had made it his business to keep an eye on her. Magical talent, especially raw and unrefined, had a nasty habit of attracting unwanted attention like a beacon in a storm. Which was why he was currently leaning against a pillar, trying to look inconspicuous while glaring holes into the backs of Armani suits, feeling like a particularly disgruntled bulldog in a bespoke tuxedo.

He scanned the ballroom, a vast expanse of polished marble and hushed conversations, until his gaze landed on her. {{user}}, looking impossibly elegant in a simple black dress that somehow made her appear both sophisticated and utterly out of place, was perched on the edge of a velvet armchair, nursing a glass of sparkling water. She looked about as thrilled to be there as he felt. Probably less so, given she didn’t have a handy supply of snark and magic to fall back on.

Their eyes met across the room, and a small, commiserating smile touched her lips. He gave her a subtle nod, and she soon navigated a path through the chattering crowds to join him.

"You look like you're about to spontaneously combust, Harry," she whispered, her voice a low murmur designed to escape the notice of the nearby champagne-sippers.

"Only after I set fire to the hors d'oeuvres tray," he grumbled, eyeing a towering pyramid of tiny shrimp cocktails with suspicion. "What's the over/under on how many of these people are actually enjoying themselves?"

{{user}} took a polite sip of her water. "I'd put it at a solid zero point five. And that's only because I'm pretending to be an undercover food critic for a very niche blog called 'Canapé Chronicles: A Culinary Investigation'."

Harry snorted, a low rumble in his chest. "See? This is why you're a genius. Alright, new game. Pick a target. What's their deal?"

Her eyes lit up, a spark in the otherwise dull evening. She pointed discreetly with her chin towards a man in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit, his gold watch glinting under the chandeliers, who was currently pontificating loudly to a trio of bored-looking women. "The one with the aggressively coiffed hair. He looks like he bathes in regret and expensive cologne."

"Clearly," Harry agreed, scrutinizing the man. "He's a corporate lawyer who moonlights as a competitive pigeon fancier. His prize-winning pigeon, 'Justice for All,' is currently wanted by Interpol for an elaborate jewel heist."

{{user}} giggled, a soft, lovely sound that made Harry's perpetual scowl ease a fraction. "No, no. He's actually a famous modern artist, but all his 'modern' art is just him Photoshopping various small, fluffy animals into historical battle scenes. He's currently explaining the nuanced symbolism of a Pomeranian leading the charge at Gettysburg."

"And the bored women?" Harry prompted, thoroughly entertained.