The breaking wave

It started with a bar of soap on his desk. At first, Harry had been tempted to throw it back at Malfoy and ask if he thought he smelled, but something vaguely resembling common sense kicked in and he kept it in his desk instead. It sat there for weeks, doing nothing beyond making his old notebooks smell better, until he had a particularly foul experience with a ravenous slugblatter beast that managed to thoroughly coat him in the most repulsive slime imaginable. Gagging on the smell, he'd withdrawn to the Auror's shower and spent at least half an hour working the goop loose and using up the last of the plain soap he'd had and only then resorting to the damned gift.

Worst of all, it worked. It cleaned out grit and slick without any trouble, but the problem was that the smell of it lingered. It smelled good and throughout the day that followed, he'd catch the scent around him. Harry told himself he shouldn't keep using it, but it would be wasteful to get rid of the gift now. And that was fine, it was.

Fine right up until one day they had a meeting in a too small boardroom and he and Draco ended up sitting just a shade closer than usual. All throughout some discussion of tariffs and trade in veela hair, all Harry could think about was that he could smell his soap on the other man. What a mess. What a disaster. He ought to throw the damned thing out and pray that Malfoy didn't notice. He said nothing, but the next day, there was a bottle of shampoo tucked under his desk.

And so it went. Time passed, the gifts continued, they danced around each other, never speaking of it, drawing out whatever this was until one day Harry stopped in front of a store and stood there, looking through the window for far too long. Gloves. A pair of soft, dove grey gloves in new kidskin. Calmly, he walked in and bought them without looking at the price.

That evening, a neatly wrapped small box lay on Draco's desk.

Potter. Leave a message.

After the Queen had given him the list of every living (or unliving) Unseelie shardbearer, Harry quickly divided it up into those that he knew had arrived in the Drabwurld within a year and those that had been here significantly longer. He'd sent out word via the lockets to all the recent arrivals and if he didn't hear back from them, followed that up with individual messages. At first, he'd been worried that the more experienced shardbearers would prove to be the greatest challenge, but he hadn't counted on a general lack of experience with magic among the newcomers.

To be fair, he'd only really had experience resisting mental intrusion and very practical knowledge of how to examine another person's mind with any real control. While he and Linn researched and practiced his skills, most of those among the earlier shardbearers with enough faculty with magic were able to extract or copy their own memories and send them on to Harry via their own messengers. As he and Linn worked, there was a steady stream of owls, nightjars, imps, and in one rather notable case, a great spectral hound that may or may not have escaped from a Victorian mystery novel.

Once they were comfortable with the magic needed, Harry set out to gather all the rest of the memories. Without Caer Scima to use as a base, Harry found himself almost always on the move. He could do enough magic to pay for a room and a meal, but unless he was resting at one of the spires, he rarely stayed anywhere for more than a night or two.

( First on the list, a notorious miser and moneylender in Mair... )