A/N: My pet project of the moment, the crazy DT/HP x-over. Now, even if you do not know anything about the Dark Tower series, relax. You don't have to. I'll try to make this as understanble and clear as possible. For those who had read the first version of this chapter, MAJOR CHANGES have occured. And when I say major, I mean it, so please read it again, it'll help. And now for the obligatory disclaimer: I do not own anything. At all. Well, maybe the plot. This is all for fun.

Bulletproof

Chapter I. Death

When he first opens his eyes, it is, judging by the sun's position, early afternoon. He cannot remember how he came to lay here, over this soft grass (not that he remembers much right now) but he doesn't really mind. It's been a while (years) since he has been this peaceful, and he intends to enjoy this while it lasts. He closes his eyes, sighing contently, and listens to the silence before finally falling asleep.

….:::---:::.…

He is brutally woken by the sound of a gunshot, and in an instant he is up on his feet, wand in hand. This time it is twilight, and he whispers a quick 'Lumos!'. The magical light allows him to really look at his surroundings, and he can see he is in a clearing, a clear space surrounded by bushes and trees. The gunshot had originated from his left, he thinks, so he sets off that way, uncaring of danger, more curious than anything else. A few feet into the forest, and there is a light, a bit further. He goes.

As he gets closer, he mutes the light from his wand, and only the firelight –for it's fire, he can see it now- remains, a vivid spot of orange-red in-between the trees. Without thinking, without any conscious decision, he begins to shift into his Animagus form. It is something he has practiced back home (and now he pauses slightly, Where is home?) with his friends, but has never been very useful. Now, though, he lets himself flow into his animal self, a heavy, tall, long-maned black horse. It may not be very stealthy, but would still look less threatening than a human to whoever was there, were he (they?) hostile.

He's on the border of another clearing now, he sees, hidden in the shadows, on the edges of the flickering light cast by the wood. There are three men hunkered around it, one of them skinning a rabbit, the other two arranging bags and sheets into makeshift beds. He doesn't move, stays in the dark, watching them. They don't seem much older than him, maybe four or five years of difference, maybe even less. He takes a breath. Expires.

Moves forward, into the light.

….:::---:::.…

It is Cuthbert who first hears the nervous neighs of their horses, he who first raises his head to see something moving out of the darkness, and his hand instinctively drops to the gun hanging at his belt. A mere moment later, Roland and Alain do the same, and the three of them stand tense, ready to fire. One, two seconds, and they can finally see, and it's just a horse, and after exchanging an incredulous look (but there's a brief pause before, in case there's something coming after the horse) relax. Cuthbert goes back to the rabbit, finishing the skinning. Alain sits back and watches Roland, who, after a last wary look around, approaches the animal standing there, looking calmly at them. Still, Roland's approach is slow, his eyes all the way trained on the equine. He stops a few feet from it, and carefully extends his hand towards it. Unfazed, the horse just makes a few steps forward, seeming completely unafraid. Taking that as an encouragement, Roland takes a last step and begins to run his hand over the silky neck, still ready to pull back. No sign of fear from it. He ends up at its side, hand playing in the long mane.

Cuthbert, having decided he has done enough for the moment, interrupts.

"What's a horse like that doing in the middle of nowhere? It doesn't seem to have a master, but it's obviously not a mutie, and anyway, there weren't any traces of a herd around here…"

Roland nods.

"Don't know. It doesn't fear us." A pause, then – "But if it belonged to someone, it wouldn't have come all the way into the woods. Would've been found before."

They fall silent, and the subject of the conversation stays unmoving, content with looking at them. And then Alain rises, approaches, and frowns.

"Something's wrong…" He trails off, while the two others look at him. And, with a sign in the horse's direction –

"It's not a real horse."

….:::---:::.…

The man closest to him steps back, his faded blue eyes suddenly wary. He doesn't really stop to wonder how the third one suddenly knows; once again, he does not think, acts on instinct, and shifts back to human, to find, for the second time that night, three guns trained on him. He raises his empty hands, gives an easy smile. I'm no danger to you. They stare at him, until the one who had last spoken lowers his weapon. His companions look slightly puzzled, but follow suit when he nods slowly.

"No bad intentions against us", he tells them, and they seem to trust him.

The blue-eyed man is looking at him still, and he doesn't move while the other appears to be gauging, evaluating him. Then he turns and goes to sit by the fire, and gestures for him and the other two to come.

They come. Now he can see them more clearly, sees the curious looks the dark-haired, dark-eyed one sends in his direction. Blue-eyes' hair is dark too, but the third one is fairer, clear eyes switching back and forth between his friends and him. Silence again, for a while. Then Blue-eyes speak.

"Who are you?"

His mind is still fuzzy, and he doesn't know why exactly, and he had to think for a moment before the answer comes –

"Harry Potter."

There's no sign of recognition from the trio at his name. Vaguely, he feels there should be.

"What are you doing around here?"

"I don't know."

"How did you come here, then?"

He frowns. He doesn't remember. Tries to. It feels like something's blocking his memories, a mental wall of some sort, and he claws at it, thinning it, until it's gone. And then – crashes. Shouts, jets of light flying, rebounding on the walls, red hair at the corner of his eyes, men in black robes, blood in his eyes, his scar hurting, then a high-pitched laugh, and two voices, one cold and high, the other deeper and not as cold, both familiar, the same spell, and two green flashes of light speeding towards him, too fast for him to block, and 'Harry!' called over and over and – black.

He blinks. Swallows. Blinks again.

Then, still composed, still calm, but on the inside watching the green approach, closer and closer still, all in slow motion, while –

"I died."

….:::---:::.…

Alain, by nature, was never one to be startled easily. Still, the stranger's – Harry's – answer is so unexpected that he cannot mask a movement of surprise. Cuthbert, on the sides, does the same. Even Roland recoils slightly. A shared look. His friends, as unbelievable as it is, seem to accept that answer as the truth. He feels the same. He doesn't need the touch to believe so; there's some part of him that recognizes the younger man as someone to be trusted, someone who won't lie to them, not on such a subject.

They look at him again, and nod as one. We believe you.

Then Cuthbert, always curious, voices what Alain's thinking (he doesn't know what Roland's thinking, rarely ever did).

"That was magic, wasn't it? The horse."

It seems obvious, but they want to be sure. Alain detects flicker of surprise in the green eyes and is puzzled. What is there to be surprised about? It is only logic.

Hesitation, then a nod. "Yeah…"

They don't pry further. They've always been on comfortable terms with magic, even though their experiences with it have not always been good.

Silence.

Alain uses it to look at Harry in detail. Green eyes, the first thing you notice when looking at him, too old in his adolescent's face. Wild hair, falling on his forehead. And, just there, hidden by it, a jagged scar, rather small, but in the distinctive shape of a lightning bolt. He wonders how he came to get it. Asks the question.

Receives an astonished look.

….:::---:::.…

They know magic, yet do not seem to be wizards. They ask him who he is, then wonder about his scar. Something is wrong.

He looks at them.

"Where are we?"

They don't seem fazed by sudden change of subject. Blue-eyes (and he still doesn't know their names) is the one to answer.

"In the Outer Baronies, maybe a thousand wheels from where Gilead stood once." There is bitterness in the way he says that name, Gilead, but not directed at him.

And… Something is very wrong.

"Where is that?"

They look at each other. Back at him.

"Where are you from?"

"England. I was in Diagon Alley when…" He trails off. Looks at their blank faces. Sighs.

"Great. No such place around here?"

A negative sign.

"Wonderful."

The dark-eyed one grins.

"Looks like death isn't what it used to be."

Well. After wands and owls and flying broomsticks, he supposes even dying and waking up somewhere completely unknown where people are still travelling on horseback armed with guns (alternate universe, maybe, or something like that – he'll have to ask Hermione for precisions, he thinks, before realizing the foolishness of that thought) doesn't seem very strange.

He can't stop himself from smiling back, despite being dead, despite not being sure he'll ever see his friends again.

"And since it looks like I'm stuck with you, mind telling me your names?"

"I'm Cuthbert Allgood."

"Alain Johns." It's the fair one, giving a smile of his own.

Then, Blue-eyes. "Roland Deschain."