Scout's honour

The next few days were… interesting.

He was careful to raise a ward-stone in the centre of the fire and let it flare when no-one was looking. It was a temporary measure – enough for maybe three weeks, to just cover the camp and provide a little resistance against wandering Shamblers – or Walkers. Whatever epithet the corpses went by, it would give a warning and it would hold a dozen or so at bay for a day or so before it broke.

He noted that Andrea – the blonde from earlier, Amy, and Daryl all seemed to shiver at that, and added a mental note not to use magic around them unless necessary. They might not have bright enough cores to show as magical to Mage Sight, but the fact they felt it alone showed they had potential to, if not use it, then detect it. Oddly enough, the man who'd introduced himself as Jim – a quiet man by nature, it seemed – had looked directly at him the moment he'd triggered it.

With something akin to comprehension.

He would have to talk to the man at some point: unlike the others, Jim had the brighter life force and the right channels. Possibly a squib, or a latent talent. Either way, the man knew something of what he'd done. And more interestingly, didn't rat him out.

His role in the group was at best undetermined. He was there temporarily, and they all knew it. So he ghosted along, helping with what chores and tasks he could. Entertaining the kids, keeping watch, washing, mending broken clothes and hunting in the evenings well into the night. He knew he was safer than any of the others – the perks of seeing in the dark and super senses – and even if they didn't take his word for it, they didn't fight him on it after the first time he'd dragged a buck back and gave them a (mild) tongue lashing about the visible fire, having ended three Shamblers far too close to the group that night alone.

At any rate, he was himself twitchy about staying in the camp. It was a beacon for Shamblers and the bad kind of survivor alike, noisy and bright, and though he trusted his Ward to give warning –Merlin knew he'd had practice and experience enough using it – he didn't trust the group to heed that warning or not be stupid about attracting more Shambler attention than it could repel.

His secondary form saw a lot of use at night the moment he his Core rejuvenated enough for him to use it. It was safer sleeping in the higher bows of a tree, out of reach and small enough to blend, than on the ground in a bedroll. And as a Hawk, it would be very hard to trap him in said tree even if the Shamblers tried to mob the bottom. Sure, the solitary and territorial instincts that came with the shape and lingered for hours afterwards were a pain in the arse, but better than the alternative.

But he made sure to appear at camp during the day, if only to keep up appearances.

So he sat down for a bowl of what could possibly be called over-cooked stew most nights, and observed.

The group seemed to work… Just.

Daryl was obviously the only hunter there, though there had been mutters of a 'Merle' hunting as well, yet to return. Quiet on his feet, observant without making it obvious. The crossbow seemed to be a permanent attachment, and one he was skilled at using. And that wasn't even counting the number of blades hidden. Didn't say much, but then, that was a virtue that seemed to be lacking from most of the group. He had a feeling that he and Daryl were going to get along famously, barring a few sticking points. Merle was apparently an arsehole of the highest order, but a valuable one. He would reserve judgement until he met the man. Shane, after all, didn't seem the most reliable judge of character to go by.

The man was the leader, in the sense that he was listened to. It was a hard-nosed kind of leadership better suited to military units, where men listened without question: this group were civilian's and scared by it instead. Oh, they trusted him, to a point: but the man obviously made most of them uncomfortable. And given the edge of violence Shane seemed to carry, he could hardly disagree. The man wouldn't hesitate to leave the group behind if he felt it was to his benefit. The only people Shane seemed to truly care about was the brown haired woman Lori (whom he was enjoying nearly nightly trips to the woods with) – outspoken, but in a bossy way, convinced she was right – and her son, Carl. Carl reminded him so much of Teddy it kind of hurt, so he avoided the kid on principle where he could.

Dale seemed to be the conscience of the group, naively hopeful. Practically minded, but at the same time far too willing to see the good in everything. In that, he at least helped to balance Shane out a bit; seemed to smooth the cracks the more ruthless man's attitude caused and mitigate some of the worst of it through offering council.

Not that Harry thought much of his council, truly, but in the end this group weren't his to lead, or his responsibility.

Jacqui and T-Dog, though a part of the group, seemed to be followers through choice though perhaps not natural leaning. Whatever strong opinions they had they kept to themselves, working to the betterment of the group without causing friction where they could. That wasn't to say they didn't have opinions– but at least they were intelligent about how they voiced them. More often than not, they seemed to agree with Dale. Andrea and Amy, blonde and willow-thin sisters, sat attached to the old man's hip as well. They didn't say much of anything, and usually got lumped with 'Lady Chores' from Lori, who's opinion of woman's work seemed to extend to the thirties and fail to progress from there.

The Spanish – or possibly Mexican? – family stayed on the edges: helped with the chores, but they were their own unit. There for safety in numbers but keeping a careful distance. It was clear that they didn't agree with Shane most of the time, but kept the peace and passively resisted when they felt it important. Glenn, an Asian looking kid, seemed to follow their lead but was personable enough to try and get on with everyone in the group. The scavenger seemed to be another mediating influence, always seeking to simmer tempers and cheer others up.

Which left the Peletiers. Ed was a nasty piece of work, and one he would happily see immolated. He was sure it was a sentiment he wasn't alone in. A wife beater and arsehole of the highest order (no judgement reserved whatsoever), Harry didn't need to using legimency to see that Ed thought Carol was his property and Sophia didn't even register, despite being his daughter below ten years of age. He spent as little time as he could with Ed, tried to help Carol where possible – the bruises were visible through how she moved – and played with Sophia as much as he could. Tried to encourage both out of the cage Ed had crafted around them. In the end, it was their choice to make. He just had to make them aware there was a choice.

Shane had yet to tell him to do anything, or even glance at him aside from the occasional bit of scorn when he saw Harry down by the quarry river with the women. Washing, after all, was not a new chore for him: the stone not so different from a washing board. Also, since none of the women knew how to fight, it seemed pertinent that someone who did know stuck around. Other than basic politeness, none seemed to quite know what to think about his on and off presence in the camp, or his apparent need for solitude: some accepted it, some wary of it, others tried to question him on it and got frustrated at his vague answers and silence. Others – like Daryl – simply didn't seem to care one way or another.

Harry was both liking and hating his more acute senses: on one hand, it was invaluable to know what was going on, and people seemed to be an awful lot more forthcoming when they didn't think anyone could hear them. On the other, some of those secrets and inanities he could do without hearing, seeing or smelling (Lori, Shane and Ed being the main offenders there), and the less said about month's worth of the inability to shower, the better.

It was the second week when he got restless enough to go without a reason.

The ward had been silent for those days, mostly because he had the feeling most of Daryls 'Hunting' trips weren't for food, much like his own. Merlin, but that man's work went unappreciated.

"Checking the traps." Was the low announcement as he rose, making sure to grab his bow as he did. One of the few skills he'd really enjoyed, archery. It had been hard trying to find the right wood for the job, harder still to shape, but he remembered his lessons well. And well… In the ward, magic use was automatically hidden and dissipated. After all, it wasn't only the muggle-magical hybrid that was probably attracted to Magic use. It was actually primarily what made Inferi attack: the hunger for life energy, of which pure Magic was the ultimate expression.

"Good hunting." Came Shane's snarky comment, but without half the bite it probably would have had before the plague struck.

For a man who never had to hunt for his food, the ex-police officer had an awful lot of disdain for those feeding him. There was little game out here except rabbits and squirrel, the rare deer getting rarer as Shambler's scared them off. And the group's supplies were scarcer.

The man was going to bite himself in the arse with that attitude later. Or get bitten.

He was unsurprised to hear Daryl fall into step behind him, possibly as Shane's behest but more likely not. The hunter did not take orders well, and from what he could gather, neither did the mysterious Merle.

He made sure they were a good distance in the wood before he turned his head slightly to address the man.

"How many?"

Daryl gave him a measuring look, before looking forward again.

"'bout a dozen."

Less than he'd thought, more than he'd hoped. Bugger all, but the group were going to have to learn to survive without people picking up their slack.

"Close?"

"Close." The man replied, edgy. Too close, goes unsaid but heard never-the-less.

"Eight so far." He mused. Twenty in the space of three days. But he'd been sticking close to the quarry walls, trying to catch the edible critters hiding in corners, not the Shamblers. There was no telling how many could get through the quarry at once, not with the road as a shining beacon. "Fucking idiots."

It was a useless grumble. But one he felt the need to voice. Because they were all but calling them in, advertising. And where there was one Shambler, there was always more. And more. The cities would run dry of fresh meat and they'd start going further afield; maybe it had already started. The Ward was good as a warning system, but little else: too temporary for anything stronger.

"More of 'em than last time, then." The hunter to his side noted, seemingly absently.

And that was Not Good.

"…We need to move. But not to Atlanta." Because if Atlanta was a safe zone, this quarry would have been flooded by now with Shamblers trying to breach it. The fact they were moving away said everything that needed to be said. "Shane doesn't take too well to suggestions though."

And that he didn't. He seemed to have the same syndrome as Lori, too hell bent on believing he was right to listen to other's suggestions. And right now, Shane thought Atlanta was a Safe Zone… Or at least, safer. Though even the leader seemed to have his doubts, not even having ordered a scouting mission to the place yet.

The hunter seemed to grunt an agreement with that assessment.

Agree, and have about as much clue as how to fix it as he did. Or maybe couldn't care less. To be fair, if it wasn't for the Kids, Harry would probably have been in the same boat.

He was distracted by a tree with a diagonal marking. Ah, he'd set one up here. It was with care that he approached, hidden carefully behind the tree because he could hear movement. Too large to be any bunny. Hope turned to disgust when he saw what the trap had sprung on though.

A Shambler – once a probably pretty, medium height blonde woman, in a filthy summer dress that was torn to ribbons - stared at him and started jerking, clawing to get at them with a desperate kind of hunger regardless of the gored leg caught in the snare, only falling still as one of his arrows pierced through the forehead. Merlin bless reinforced war arrows and horse bows.

Not so much the brain that coated them on removal, though.

"How many?"

"Several Snares, couple of pitfalls." He answered just as quietly. The pitfalls more for the Shamblers, though apparently snares did the job just as well. If not for the intended target.

They walked and worked in silence. By the time they made it to the last trap – this one Daryls, and thankfully not Shambler infested – they had a good brace of rabbits and smaller mammals, and had killed too many Shamblers for him to feel remotely comfortable being near without the ward. Still there was enough meat to last maybe a couple of days, provided the place they were hung was hidden: this group of survivors seemed to have little to no idea about rationing.

Still, moving on was becoming more urgent: if the group wouldn't go, Harry himself soon would. Hermione and the others were still waiting, and his own patience was starting to wear thin.

Not his group, not his responsibility. Or so he told himself.

It was on the way back and two more corpses later when the interesting bit happened.

Because the steps that started to follow them about halfway were far too even to be Shambler, too bipedal to be animal. And far too quiet to be any of the campers.

Daryl didn't even tense, but there was no conclusion to be drawn from that: the man held his crossbow at the ready like always. So, it became a toss up: lead the person back to the camp, or take them out then and there. It was a decision the Hunter didn't seem about to make.

But Harry was many things: going out of his way to intentionally cause undeserved harm was not among them. And until it was clear just who is following, that person had the potential to attempt to cause it. And the group would be less than willing and capable of dealing with it. Shane would just try to kill them on sight, no doubt.

So he started to slow. Just enough to make the steps miss time for a moment, before matching their pace again. Enough to make the rustling fade a bit more as their follower noted the change.

To start to close the gap, inch by inch.

They were a mile or so from Camp Caper when he stopped entirely. The watching eyes had kept a respectable distance, but were still stalking them. Because if he had to name it, that's what it felt like: a predatory regard, not hostile, not friendly. Measuring. Waiting.

Daryl stopped with him, an unreadable glance his only acknowledgement of the action.

"You want a rabbit, you're welcome to it. But you'll have trouble catching it through a tree." He announced to the open air. And wasn't that the ultimate expression of a bleeding heart in these times – freely given food.

Not that it didn't come with tactical advantages. Hero complex he may have had, but survival came first.

The follower had stopped with them. Stopped, and been utterly silent. No Shambler, this one. Living, wary, and all too quiet to be anything but a survivor, and probably a skilled one. Though Daryl's lack of action had given him an inkling of just who it might be. Unless the hunter was performing a subtle test.

"An' what if I want more than a coney?" The gruff words were harshly spoken, shattering the quiet. In contrast to the almost silent steps the man made on coming out behind his cover. Still, Daryl didn't tense or even turn to face the voice fully. Oddly, he almost seemed to relax, a hidden tension dropping out of his shoulders.

And that… That cinched it.

"Sure." He replied neutrally, eyeing the broad shape that could only be the much vaunted Merle Dixon. Accent, check. General look, check. Daryl's reactions, check. "From what I've heard, you've been feeding the Gannet's longer than I have."

There was a ghost of a smirk at the apparently younger Dixon's mouth, so small he almost missed it. Merle was apparently the more expressive of the two, snorting a laugh in a way that reminded of him of Ron with his mouth full and under a tickling hex.

Oddly, even American's had stereotypes for themselves. Redneck, were the not so quiet comments of the camp. He didn't pretend to understand everything the term entailed, but the tone alone reminded him of the way some folk in the Wizarding World said Muggle, mud-blood, werewolf. Like a 'Redneck' was something disgusting or beneath notice, a bad smell or mangy dog that could turn violent at the slightest provocation. Daryl seemed to take it in stride, but then he had the impression very little could really back-foot the distant man. Merle, from decoding Shane's mutters, had given as good as he'd got.

Daryl, apparently reassured that no-one was going to get stabbed or shot, started to move off, and Harry found himself falling into step almost automatically. It was instinctual to keep an eye out on both Dixons, and their surroundings. They'd lingered too long in one spot as it was, and Shambler's were rarely slow to smell new food.

"So where you from, Pretty Boy? Hell of an accent ya got there." An eyebrow climbed of it's own accord. Apparently Merle was both chatty and crass. Though he had yet to actually be insulted.

Strike one for Shane's theory of utter arseholedom.

"Kansas, apparently." The deadpan reply was out before he could stop it. "Seem to have lost Toto along the yellow brick road."

Merle snorted again.

"Didn't peg ya for a Trannie."

His eye twitched, irritated. While it wasn't exactly insulting, it hit closer to the mark than he prayed the Hunter would ever know. Some of the side effects of his luck-driven accidents had been incredibly… odd. Thankfully short-lived, but odd. He now knew without a doubt what he would have looked, lived and been treated like if he had been born a girl.

It wasn't something that had ever have been on his bucket list, but he had found no satisfaction in adding to his 'crazy unintended shit' list either.

The silence was companionable, or at least as much as it could be in Shambler infested woodland, and they were making steady progress.

"Merle Dixon, drifter." The other man introduced himself mid jump, landing effortlessly despite his apparent bulk.

"James, Lord. Pleasure." He offered in return, attention half on what sounded suspiciously not like the wind in the leaves, a fair distance to their right.

"Lord pleasure? Your mama must've hated you, sparkle-pants."

That sufficiently distracted him. He frowned, though not truly disgruntled. He had the feeling that Merle's idea of conversation was a sarky tennis match, complete with a wide array of creative insults. He'd grown up with the Weasleys, in the presence of a more often than not stressed out Hermione. If the man wanted to match wits, Harry would be more than happy to oblige.

It'd been a while since the last Word War with Mione, anyway.

"Sarky git." He snorted. "Make your mind up. Either I'm bent or a Trannie, don't even want to imagine the headache of both at once." No, no he did not. Babbling on a broom-stick, an unwilling foray into just one had been confusing enough.

Whatever Merle said while laughing, a booming kind of laugh that he very nearly Silencio'd out of irritation, was lost as that same sibilant rustle sounded again. He stopped walking almost automatically, keeping his ear directed to the direction it was coming from. Because now it was louder, and bigger: either there was a very stupid cow coming, ignorant of the danger noise could bring, or more than one something. And in these woods, that something was most likely dead and hungry.

"What's up, pretty boy?" Not teasing now. His stopping had obviously tipped them off, and when he tensed to listen he could almost feel the two Dixon's trying to ramp up their own awareness.

"We got company coming." Merle was blank faced, clearly sceptical. The sound was too far away for normal senses, so Harry could even understand why. Daryl, however, had hunted with him before and knew that his ears were keener than most people's. Not the reason why, but the Hunter seemed to accept it as a boon to the hunt and leave it at that.

"How many?" Almost like déjà vu, he smiled an empty sort of smile at the quiet man. The kind that usually accompanied the news 'I'm sorry but we're bailiffs.' on the door-step.

"Making too much noise to get an accurate count." Which had a very large chance of meaning too many to count. Could be a feeding frenzy, could be a small herd of Shamblers, could be bears. But the feeling of death undeath prickling at the back of his neck was getting stronger, and heavier than when it was just one or two. "Too many to leave alone, moving as a pack."

Daryl got a look on his face that spoke of long-suffering. Merle just snorted.

And that was the major problem. The undead didn't stop to rest, were tenacious in following fresh meat. If they weren't dealt with, they'd be bringing them straight back to camp. He sighed, breaking the almost silence, before starting towards a relatively tall tree.

"Stupid idiots." He grumbled under his breath, hooking into the bark as he started to climb it. "Walker free, haven't seen any in ages. They don't come this far out."

Yeah, right.

"Stupid, delusional blind yanks." Was he frustrated? Just a little.

He was unsurprised when he heard Daryl making his way up the tree opposite his – it wasn't the first time they'd hunted or had to clear a group of Shamblers together, and the Hunter knew the plan from last time. Though he was surprised when he noted Merle doing the same.

He could tell when the Shamblers got close enough for the Dixon's to hear, the moans starting to carry on the wind, because both tensed. And with his eyesight, he got the clearest view through the branches of his temporary shelter.

A dozen, maybe twenty if there were stragglers. From all walks of life before their turning, and clearly not the freshest. His bow was to hand automatically, though the angle was awkward: it was perhaps 40, 45 pounds. He hadn't really measured the poundage when he made it, only ensured he could draw and hold it if needs be. With the arrows he'd made – complete with wide heads – it would be enough to puncture the skull and take a fair portion of brain with it.

Nock. A slow, steady breath, eyes on the those in the back of the group. Herd? Pack? Who knew.

Draw. Fletched feathers resting near his cheek, and damn was that angle going to get annoying. Still, thank Merlin for a Seekers balance. This would be impossible otherwise. Little wind, good distance to fly, and the bow pulled a little to the right.

He loosed and was nocking another arrow without thought, watching the large Shambler fall with the fletching nearly buried behind it's eyes. From there, it was instinct to aim and shoot: taking the larger of the pack out first. The ones that could shake the trees badly, that would make it hard to kill them up close. He saw a couple fall to Daryl's bolts as they got closer, becoming agitated and confused with their own falling down in their midst, the tally somewhere near four to two.

By the time the Shamblers made it to the clearing proper, the pack had been thinned down to about six, though there were more rustling in the bushes. By then the corpses were more than agitated; hungry and angry they were near stomping, darting in different directions. Sensing danger, he could only theorise, but not knowing where the source was.

And then a snarl sounded that was far too vicious to be confused.

"Well hello, you poor bastard." Harry breathed softly, staring in all too aware milky white eyes.

Because one of the Shamblers had looked at the arrow, looked at the tree, and put two and two together when it came to direction. It was the same kind of blind intelligence he'd seen in Agerta, and any number of Diagon's current undead residents. Cunning in the way of animals.

Whoever or whatever the man had been beforehand, he had been magical.

The Mage-Zombie lurched towards his tree stupidly fast, almost tripping over it's own feet in it's haste. The sound of it's outraged growls seemed to attract the others that were left, starting to bang on his tree with snarls now they had a target and were close enough to smell dinner. The normal ones were just clawing at the bark, trying to haul themselves up, but his focus was on the magical one. Because it was trying to climb not simply pull itself up. Scrabbling for the lower branches with rotten fingers, eyes focused hatefully on him and oh-so-determined.

Nock. The fletching brushed his fingers as the arrow slotted easily.

Aim. The well oiled wood didn't even creak, and he paid no mind to the strange angle. Simply adjusted his posture to take the draw length into account.

"Requiescat in pace." The Latin emerged without his conscious direction, flavoured by magic, following on the heels of an instinctive release. And oddly, those eyes almost seemed accepting, for all the hungry fire that filled them until their owner dropped to the ground, unmoving.

Between him and Daryl, the stragglers were quickly finished off: they held for a breath after the last one fell, listening for any more A couple wandered past, easily picked out against the back-light of the Hunter's Moon, but soon enough all that he could hear was the breathing of the wind and the Dixon's. Getting out of the tree was simple, and from there he automatically moved to gather his arrows in. Merle seemed to grumble up a storm climbing out of his tree, the hunter apparently not a fan of 'being a fuckin' monkey-boy.'.

He left the magical one for last, bending over and yanking with little care for preserving the rotten features. The Shambler was wearing muggle clothes, but it was the armband that tipped him off. Because striped with the American flag, the dirty scrap of cloth had the MACUSA logo standing out starkly despite all the filth.

And magically embroidered, gods bless charms work, were the man's name, rank, date of birth and date of death.

No, he had never thought that a zombie apocalypse would be real, never had to think about the consequences of one. But looking at that downed Shambler, the emblem of MACUSA and magical version of a dog-tag clenched in hand, he couldn't help thinking that the snarky american auror named Albert – 'Call me Al, Dude' – brought the scale of it home to him in a way that even Diagon Alley hadn't.

Because that meant MACUSA had probably fallen as well.