Chapter 1

An old man turned ninety-eight

The room was dark. Partly because the curtains were drawn, and partly because of the rain that tapped at the glass insistently, like a small child begging for attention. A thin shaft of gray light peeked through a space in the curtains, falling on a hand thrown carelessly across a pillow in sleep. The clock read 7:35 am.

The sleeping figure groaned, rolling over and muffling the sound of the rain with his blanket. After a moment a bleary eye opened to focus on the glaring red numbers on the clock's faceplate. With another groan the man pulled back his blankets and threw his legs over the side of the bed, resting elbows to knees and linking his fingers behind his bowed head. A resigned sigh came from his body as he stood up, shuffling across the room. He picked some trousers off the floor, inspected them, and pulled them on before opening the bedroom door. From the corner of the room a black dog rose and dashed into the hallway. The man followed.

He turned into the bathroom, his body working from rote memorisation. He thumbed in his contacts, looking up at eyes that were now brown, now hazel, and leaned on the sink. Black hair that looked like it had never seen the bristle-end of a comb hung into his eyes, and three day-old five o'clock shadow stubbled at his cheeks and chin. Carefully, he traced the outline of a fading scar on his forehead, a jagged line that started below his hairline and ended above his eyebrows. Down to the second, this man was a creature of habit, for the silver clock hanging on the wall now read 7:40.

Harry Potter left his bathroom and walked directly into his kitchen. The coffee maker had already gone off, set on a timer, and Harry popped two pieces of bread into the toaster and whipped an egg and a tomato from the fridge. After poking around a bit more, he added mayonnaise to the counter. His egg cooked as he sliced up his tomato, and as if the toaster, too, were on a timer, his toast popped the moment he took his egg from the stove. A sandwich was hastily put together, coffee poured into a cup, and Harry headed into his living room, dropping over the arm of his chair into his well-broken groove. The television was already on the news channel. It was now 7:50.

Harry started to make his sandwich vanish as the weather came on, promising rain, rain and more rain for the next few days, followed by a massive thunderstorm. Harry grumbled around his mouthful of food, and from the sofa, his dog growled back.

"I know, Pads," he said, leaving the last bite of his sandwich on the coffee table while he went to put his mug in the sink. When he returned, the sandwich had mysteriously vanished, and the dog had a too-innocent look on his face. Harry glared half-heartedly at his dog, who smiled up at him, his sloppy jowls hanging.

"Come on, Pads. You've got to walk, and I've got to get food. And maybe some socks." Pads' bright eyes sparkled with dog laughter, and he leapt from the sofa like a carefree baby deer and bounded for the door, pressing his nose to the crack and wagging his tail so hard his whole back end went with it. Harry slipped into his windcheater and attached Pads' leash to his collar. For a final touch, he slipped a vest over the dog's back. There was a simple image on the back: a no sign over a dog's face, with a hand. Harry left his apartment at 8:00, locking the door behind him. As he turned into the stairwell the light caught the reflective lettering on the dog's vest: Anxiety Alert Dog.

It was raining outside, but not hard. Pads' vest protected his already short fur from the rain, and the Boxer-mix's long legs and docked tail were perfect for London weather. Harry walked down the street and rounded a corner, deciding that he would first pick up those socks. And maybe some trousers. The walk had reminded him that the backs of his jeans were far too frayed to be fashionable anymore. He shopped quickly, pausing only to let Pads decide which dog treats were exactly right before forcing himself back into the rain, carrying three bags and a strong dog. He wrapped Pads' leash around his wrist for security before starting for home.

Halfway there, Pads was suddenly behind him, and as Harry continued to walk forward, the dog began to pull. Harry turned around and saw his faithful dog staring down an alley, his head cocked and ears erect. He tilted his head one way, then the other, and looked back at Harry.

"Come, Pads," Harry said, tugging at the leash. Pads made a face that Harry could only call concerned and tugged back. Harry tugged again, and Pads shook himself, then barked once, his voice uncertain. Harry became concerned himself: Pads was trained never to bark unless Harry was in danger or having an anxiety attack. He put his bags down outside an apartment door, just under the overhang, and walked to the mouth of the alley. There was nothing there.

Pads began to whine. Wondering what had set his dog off, Harry slowly unwrapped his leash and dropped it. Pads looked up at him, and Harry gave him a command, "Find it."

Pads trotted down the alley, sniffing, pausing every so often to cock his head, before sitting down next to a mound and pawing at it. Harry came after him, staring at the mound. It looked like a pile of dirty old clothes. The alley was dark and wet and reeked of garbage, and it seemed to close in on him. Harry swallowed hard, reaching for Pads' leash, convinced that the dog had found either a dead person or a dead animal, when the mound moved. It sat up, resolving into a pale, skinny man in a black overcoat. His hair hung in wet clumps around his face; it might have been blonde at one time. The man looked at Pads, and looked up at Harry, looking resigned.

"Could you please call your dog off?" he asked, his accents either of a Brit who had been in America for a while, or vice versa. Immediately Harry thought the latter, for any Brit to return to the United Kingdom they'd have to be coming back to family.

"Pads, it's okay," Harry said firmly. Pads looked up at him, planting both his forepaws firmly on the earth. He looked up at Harry with concern, sensing how the alley was making his master feel, but also how it must be making the stranger feel. Pads' compassion for the bum was not unheard of- Pads was always fond of going out of his way to let the homeless pet him- but he had never gone to this extreme before. Harry tried to think of something to say. "Are you okay?" was stupid, obviously he wasn't. "Why are you out here?" was just as stupid, as he certainly hadn't chosen to be out in the rain. Finally, Harry settled on, "Do you need any help?"

That appeared to be wrong too. The man shot him a glare. It was half-hearted, but full of pride. He opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again, the glare vanishing. The resigned look was back.

"Yes," the stranger said bitterly. "I do."

Pads whined.

"Well," Harry said, unsure why he was going to suggest what he knew he was going to suggest, "I've got a hide-a-bed, and food, and a roof. It won't hurt me to lend a hand." The man's eyebrows drew together under his hair, and he looked down at his hands, wringing them together.

"Thanks," he said, finally, standing up. Suddenly, Harry wasn't sure if it was a good idea. The man's thin face looked almost desperate, but he hadn't stood up so much as unfolded. He had at least a foot of height on Harry, even if he was thinner in the shoulder, he didn't look like he weighed much less than Harry either. But Pads was suddenly up, pressing against his legs and wagging his tail the way he did with every browbeaten homeless man. Harry thought he saw the ghost of a smile as he reached down to scratch Pads' ears.

"Come on," Harry said, tugging Pads after him. His new charge followed slowly, although his stride was clearly longer than Harry's. Harry was just glad to be out of the alley, out of the oppressing dark and damp. He breathed a sigh of relief before stooping to pick up his bags again.

"I can carry some."

Harry looked at him. He was opening his home to this man, if he couldn't even let him carry a bag of groceries, something was wrong. Harry nodded, and he picked up two of the bags, leaving Harry with just one and Pads to deal with.

-- -- --

"Here it is, home sweet home," Harry said as he opened the door to his flat with a jingle of keys. He unclipped Pads' leash and vest and hung them up alongside his windcheater. Pads gave a shake- more for show than anything, as he was already almost dry- and leapt onto the sofa. "It's not much, but it works." Harry wasn't exactly embarrassed by his well-worn furniture, but he suddenly realised that everything was pretty old and used looking. Light poured in from windows lined along the far wall, giving a view of the park across the street.

"It's more than I had," the man said, standing rather awkwardly at the doorway. Harry gestured at him to take his coat off, taking the groceries to start putting them away.

"Can you throw that last bag into my room?" he asked.

"All right," there was a shuffling, and a thump, and more shuffling, and Harry heard the man ease into his squeaky armchair. "Are you thirsty?" Harry called, pulling a bottle of coke from the fridge.

"Yes," came the reply. "But your dog is staring at me." Harry filled up two glasses with coke and entered the living room, handing one to his new charge and putting the other on the glass coffee table. Pads was, indeed, staring at the man, his chin and forepaws resting on the arm of the sofa. Harry patted him and Pads wagged his stub.

"He's just wondering why you're in my chair," Harry said good-naturedly.

"Oh," said the man. He took a sip of his drink before setting it precisely beside Harry's glass, and then held out his hand to Pads. Pads, knowing that this was how humans introduced themselves to dogs, sniffed it, then pressed his face into it and wiggled. The man stroked Pads' head with piano-player's fingers, and an intensity that looked like his very life depended on it. Pads groaned happily.

"I think… he saved me."

Harry blinked at this revelation, staring at Pads. The dog was a wonder. When he looked back up at the man, tears were creeping down his cheeks. He slid off the chair to his knees and buried his face in Pads' strong neck. Pads licked him and whined, mussing his matted hair up further. Harry simply stared, feeling awkward, until the man let go of his dog and wiped the tears from his face with a grimy sleeve. He pulled himself back into the chair, still absently stroking Pads' ears. He looked up at Harry.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I just… I don't know how long I could have survived out there."

"How long have you been on the street?" Harry asked. The man seemed to count, and he finally breathed, "Three years."

"Well, you're welcome to stay here for as long as you need," Harry said. "Just remember that he's Pads, and I'm Harry P-"

"Please," the stranger cut him off. "No last names. I don't… it's just… uh… call me Duck."

"Duck?" Harry repeated, thrown off.

"My friends called me that," Duck said.

"Do you want to call them? Let them know you're all right?"

"I left on pretty bad terms, and it would be international anyway," Duck said.

"So you are American," Harry stated, half a question. Duck shook his head.

"British. I moved to Canada a decade ago," Duck said. "My mother wanted… me to have a chance, I guess. My parents were involved in some bad politics."

"Do you want to call her?"

Again, Duck just shook his head dejectedly, looking utterly depressed. "She's… not listed. And she moved." Duck leaned back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling. It was then that Harry noticed that his aristocratic face wasn't just thin, it was gaunt: his cheeks too hollow to be merely sharp-boned, his eyes too dark to be just tired. Harry abruptly stood up and Duck flinched, his gaze snapping to Harry.

"Look, you look like a walking stick. Actually, I think the bugs are bigger than you. If you're staying here, I won't have you dying of emaciation on my living room floor," Harry said bluntly. Duck's eyebrows drew together, but he crossed his arms against his chest, as if trying to cover himself up. Harry moderated his tone, and went on more gently. "If you want to wash up the bathroom's open to you. I've got an extra toothbrush in the cabinet, and I can bring you some clothes."

"I can't accept charity," Duck began, but faltered.

"You already have," Harry said, suppressing an exasperated smirk. "Look, if it bothers you that much, we can start a tab, okay?" Duck nodded, standing up. As Harry walked into the kitchen, Duck made his way to the bathroom with the slow, careful steps of someone walking down a thin aisle lined with expensive Chinaware. Harry had decided he would make something infallible for lunch: spaghetti. It was easy enough that even he couldn't screw it up, and precisely three people in the entire world disliked it. Harry set the water to boil as Duck closed the bathroom door. Harry tossed the spaghetti in the pot and went into his room, trying to find the longest pair of jeans he owned: he was only a 32'-32', and Duck was substantially taller than he was. Harry added a shirt to the pile, and then carefully folded up new pairs of socks and boxers on top.

He knocked at the door, and Duck cracked it open. Harry held up the clothes, and Duck practically sucked them into the bathroom, but not before Harry saw the numerous scars criss-crossing his arms and chest, or the tattoo on his arm. The door clicked shut.

"Thanks," came the muffled reply before the water started running. Harry's heart went out to the guy: in the years following Fred Weasley's death and his ejection from the Weasley clan, Harry had felt like slicing himself up like a tomato more than once. Instead, I just turned neurotic! Harry thought cynically to himself. He quickly turned around, stomping back into the kitchen and stabbing viciously at his spaghetti. He poured tomato sauce into a bowl and popped it into the microwave, then decided he needed garlic bread. Spaghetti needed garlic bread. Harry sliced up a baguette and slathered it in butter and garlic, sliding it into the oven as Duck left the bathroom.

"Spaghetti," Harry said, straining it.

"Uh," Duck said awkwardly, and Harry looked up at him. Duck was holding up his jeans with one hand, and furtively trying to comb his wet hair out with the other. "Whoops!" said Harry. He dropped the strainer into the sink. "I forgot you were skinnier than me." A flush crept up Duck's neck as Harry sped past him. When Harry had fetched a belt and righted the wrong, he piled spaghetti onto two plates and drowned it in sauce. Harry rarely used his table for dining, but with company it just seemed right. Harry watched with a kind of morbid fascination as Duck wolfed down the spaghetti fast enough that Harry wondered if there had ever been spaghetti on the plate.

"Still hungry?" Harry asked, and Duck nodded sheepishly. While Harry gave him the last of the spaghetti, he also checked on the garlic bread and found it done. Over done: it was nicely black along the edges. Harry offered it to Duck with a wince, "Extra crispy." Duck stared at the proffered bread for a moment before he choked on a mouthful of spaghetti. Harry thumped him on the back until Duck let out a wheezing hack and started laughing. It was so absurd that Harry started laughing too.

"So I'm not the best cook," Harry admitted. "But at least it's food!"

"At least it's that," Duck agreed, nibbling delicately at the charred garlic bread. After dinner Duck offered to do the dishes, but Harry declined. "You're a guest here until you get irritating, then you can do house-work."

"Okay," Duck said hesitantly. "I'll just go sit down."

When Harry was done he came into the living room to find Duck on the sofa with Pads sprawled comfortably across his lap. He seemed to be trying to entice Pads to use the remote.

"He changed the channel!" Duck said by way of explanation. Harry nodded, pointing to the little green button.

"I taught him how to get it to the news, it's on the favourite button," Harry said. "He taught himself how to turn the telly on when he realised I hated silence."

"He's smart," Duck said, stroking Pads thoughtfully. Pads grunted. "Why do you have a service dog? You're not blind, deaf, or mute, as far as I can tell."

"Pads is an anxiety alert dog," Harry said. "I… had a fucked up life. I have a lot of anxiety attacks." Harry smiled fondly, remembering the day he had seen the last of a litter of Boxer-Border collie puppies at the shelter, how he had just wanted a friend but Pads had turned into a saviour. He was shocked at how his feelings reflected what Duck had said earlier. "He does save people."

Duck nodded, and Harry saw tears in his eyes again as he petted Pads. "Thanks," he said softly, and looked up at Harry. "For everything. You didn't have to help."

"Yes, I did. If you weren't there looking pitiful, Pads would be," Harry said lightly. Duck's smile was weak, but genuine. Harry leaned forward, putting his hands together. "Is there anything I should know about you?" Duck looked confused. "You're diabetic, you've got a criminal record, you're dying, you don't like peas?" Duck shook his head.

"No…" he said slowly, rubbing his arms, his face going shades paler until it was almost gray. His eyes looked scared, darting over Harry's face, trying to read it. "I-I used to be a student of psychology. I-"

"It's okay," Harry said. "We're both thoroughly fucked up. I just don't want to fear waking up with a pair of scissors in my throat." Duck looked vaguely ill, going still and silent.

"I'd never…" he said faintly, looking terrified.

"Good," Harry said. "Freelance sports journalist."

"What?" Duck asked, clearly confused.

"You went to school for psychology, I'm a sports journalist." Duck made a small "Oh" sound, his entire face seeping gratitude at the change of subject.

"I have a masters, actually," he said. Harry blinked. "So you could practice here, or get back in school?" Duck nodded. "That's fantastic. When you get back on your feet, you won't be as burned as some of the other homeless guys."

"I'm not homeless," Duck said firmly, and then sighed. "I guess I am."

"Was, you're here now," Harry said, just as firmly. "I used to be on my school's sports team. I'm not going to tackle you to the ground anytime soon."

Duck chuckled.

Most of the day was spent in this fashion, talking aimlessly about the recent past. Neither man delved much farther past the age of twenty-two unless it was necessary to make a point, but Harry was surprised to find that Duck- with his pale, youthful features- was actually a few months older than him. Pads was quite happy having two completely different laps to choose to sit on, and though Harry was afraid his massive weight might be a bit much on Duck's thin form, Duck never complained, encouraging the dog to jump up and happily accepting stray hairs and dog slobber as if they belonged on him. Dinner was largely unexciting, except that Duck cleaned his plate even more thoroughly than the first. At eleven that night, after the evening news, Harry unfolded the hide-a-bed and bid Duck good-night. He dropped his jeans unceremoniously on the floor, tossed his shirt carelessly over his bedside table, and crawled into bed as Pads crawled into his own.

The clock read 11:10 that night when Harry fell asleep, and for the first time in years, Harry didn't care.

-- -- --

The next several days dawned in quite the same way as the first, but Harry's life was no longer strictly scheduled, even if the schedule had been unnoticed before. On the first day, Harry woke up and scrambled eggs for breakfast, sitting in his armchair and watching the morning news as Duck slept, his face crushed into the pillow and the blanket covering him up to his ears. Duck made a sound in his sleep.

"G'mornin'," Harry said.

"Mm," said Duck. "Mrf?" One gray eye opened, fuzzed with sleep. "Huh?"

"Breakfast," Harry said eloquently, pointing to the plate balanced on the corner of the arm and back of the sofa. Duck sat up slowly, the blankets falling around his waist, and grabbed the plate, ready to inhale the eggs. Harry's eyes were caught by the horror that was Duck's wasted body: every rib was visible, his vertebrae a mountain marching down his back, collarbones and hips sticking out painfully. His entire body was crossed with scars: long scars, thin scars, fat scars. Harry noticed he kept both of his arms palm-down, as if the cuts on his inner arms were somehow worse than the rest. He caught Harry's eye, his face turning a bold and fetching shade of red. Harry realised how he must look, staring at Duck.

"Sorry, it's just… you're so…" Duck winced. "How could you live like that?"

Duck shook his head, his significantly cleaner hair swaying around his face. "I couldn't. I didn't want to." He put his fork down, his hands shaking. "I feel so pathetic."

"Don't," Harry said. "Everyone has downtime. Yours was just a hell of a lot worse than normal." Duck looked up at him, his eyes the sad eyes of a mournful Basset hound. Harry dropped his fork on his plate with a clang- Duck practically jumped- and put the plate on the coffee table, picking up the jeans he had given Duck the day before as he did so. "Look, you can't wear the same clothes day after day. I'm not letting you reek up my house, that's Pads' job." Duck chuckled. "We'll get you some clothes later, okay?"

"Well, I guess I can't wear the same underpants for God knows how long," Duck conceded.

-- -- --

When I bulk upload chapters, author's notes will go on the last chapter uploaded. All righty? Good. I love reviews and chocolate.