It was while Haris was visiting Sootopolis that it happened. One moment, he had been talking with Wallace, proposing a venture into the Cave of Origin, where he could feel an incredible wellspring of spiritual energy, and the next he had felt a tugging sensation behind his navel and multicolor light had flared around him, spinning and pulsing, leaving him feeling quite sick before he had slammed into hard stone.

It wasn't a feeling he was unfamiliar with—he explored old ruins for a living alongside being a fairly well known Ghost type Specialist Trainer, and sometimes retrieving ancient artifacts wasn't as safe as his family might prefer.

The scene that greeted him as he sat up, however, was certainly unfamiliar. He sat in the middle of a dark hall that had arching ceilings with—was that an illusion of the night sky? Oh, he had to learn how they had done that; it would make being in the cities for work so much easier!

He shook his head, running a tanned and scarred hand through his messy hair as he rolled into a crouch, eyeing the people seated around him. They were lined up at tables, dressed in ridiculously archaic robes—as far as he knew, those had only been worn in the older ages of Kalos, and that was a very long time ago. Even then, they hadn't been that popular.

He stood, and turned around as something was called in an unfamiliar language.

"Harry Potter?"

It was a strange language, sounding very similar to Unovan, but seeming to share a few roots with Kalosian as well. It's sounds were somewhat slurred, even more so than the Unovan dialect he was familiar with, and he cocked his head as whispers rippled through the throng of people even as his eyes fixed upon the tall goblet that stood in front of him, flickering with red and blue fire. It's song thrummed in his head, whispering of warmthglorystrengthpride and he shook his head, turning his eyes to the old man who stood to the side, reaching out for him.

Haris took a step back, deftly avoiding the outstretched hand, green eyes flaring with suspicion as the old man's muted song sang with paingriefdisbeliefhope.

"Who are you?" he asked sharply, voice rasping from his throat due to his habit of remaining silent for weeks upon end while he was exploring ruins. "Where am I?"

The old man seemed to reach an epiphany, and withdrew a stick from his robes, and pointed it at Haris before saying something as he waved it. Abruptly, the unintelligible mutterings resounding through the hall morphed into something he could understand, almost like it was being put through a filter of his native Hoennese.

"Harry Potter?" they whispered, "The Harry Potter? That's him?"

Haris frowned. Who was this Harry Potter? He didn't know, but the muted songs of all those who surrounded him swelled, and he winced, struggling to block them out as he wouldn't—couldn't—call Dusk out in such an uncertain situation just to mute the songs that resounded in his mind.

As the old man stepped forward, Haris' shoulders rose and his face tightened. He had no idea of where he was, how he had been taken, how he had gotten there, who had taken him, or how he was going to get back.

At that point, he didn't much care for any of that, though.

Because he was going to get home. No matter what.

…but he didn't think Grandmother, Grandfather, and Phoebe would mind too much if he took a few detours along the way.

Right?