Days turned into a week, and then into two. Between Mione's constant updates on Fort Grim's happenings – apparently the Shambler population had fallen dramatically between Wards and the bored Blood War Veterans – he wasn't overly worried about the situation in England. He'd spent far too long making the place impenetrable for it to fall quickly, and with his permission to amend and improve as she saw fit, Mione had taken to the task with a scholarly zeal that had sent sentient books running for the hills in the past.

Nobody seemed to quite know what to make of his sudden lack of effort in trying to get back, and he didn't see fit to explain it. Though he did say that his people were fine, and having an absolute Ball making Molotov cocktails. From their half disbelieving looks, it only seemed to make his sanity more questionable.

Not that Harry could lay claim to the title of Resident Nutter any more – John had that particular one well and truly in the bag. Between his lackadaisical attitude to killing Shamblers – "Can I go Hunting with you brother? Pretty please? Daylight's burning and there's corpses to maim!" – and his seemingly constant need to make mischief, the Dark Sprite was almost as hyperactive as the kids, and given a much, much wider berth by everyone.

It reminded him oddly of Fluffy, once the Stone debacle was sorted out. Play, the tail would beg going fast enough to blur, while three mouths large enough to swallow you whole, full of fangs, barked and whined themselves hoarse at you.

So things fell into a routine. Of a kind. He helped in the camp through the day, or went on supply runs to Atlanta, hunted in the morning and night, rising with the sun and shifting from feathered form to do so on the ground. The target's varied; sometimes it was Shamblers. They were moving out in larger numbers from the City - he, the Dixons, and John were quickly becoming the necessary patrol thinning the numbers every chance they got. Something the group was blissfully ignorant of, though he knew he had to tell Shane soon. Other times it was stores for the group, in preparation for the move no-one wanted to admit was necessary.

Sometimes he had company: Daryl still joined him on occasion, though by mutual agreement they split more often than not to take out more Shamblers than would otherwise be possible.

John made an impeccable Hunter… Provided you could get him to shut the hell up and stay within sight. The Dark Sprite had a tendency to bolt after prey, preferring a knife or hands over range. Not an issue, but sometimes it interfered more than it helped.

Though oddly, his magic did help attune Harry's own. The bond between them had strengthened as time wore on, a constant backbeat of emotion and energy. And through it, the older being's magic seemed to almost be coaxing Harry's own to expand and explore in ways he hadn't felt since Hogwarts. Just feeling the older being use magic showed him new uses he hadn't really thought possible.

One very useful one was that though he would always be able to taste the approaching magical signatures, it was possible to actually scan an area. He'd never thought of it until he'd felt John doing it. Something he blamed Wizarding society for. The emphasis had always been on focus over expansion, channelling the Core of energy into a tool to achieve an end. It's what made Wandless Magic so hard to learn… Unstructured nature.

But no, apparently the Core could extend tendrils just as easily as a Wand could direct it. Controlling those tendrils took patience and practice, and tired him out faster, but the awareness-

He could feel the area like an extension of himself. He was at once a part of the grass, the slow moving consciousness of the tree, the leaf, the wind, felt the heartbeat of the owl above his head and the rustle of pinion feathers-

He'd promptly gotten a massive headache after that first attempt, but it had been worth it. And so had the many hours of headaches that followed as he pushed himself to do it almost instinctively.

The first time he'd encountered a Shambler and tried it, he regretted it instantly. Undeath had always tasted slimy, disgusting. Horrifyingly wrong to his Magical senses. Rot-Life-movement-Hunger-vacant-gone-tortured-Undeath felt like viscous ooze, terrifyingly unnatural, cold, agonising to be and absolutely disgusting.

He'd killed the thing almost reflexively, before losing his breakfast to an unlucky patch of grass.

When John had come up from his most recent fight with a mammal, the Dark Sprite had given him a sympathetic look full of understanding, said

-"It doesn't get better, but you get used to it." –

and left it at that. Apparently, an aversion to shambling corpses was a species specific thing. As much as he felt sorry for the people that had been turned, if John felt that every single time… Well, Harry could understand why John made it his mission to end them whenever he could.

The shared words were unfortunately true on the subject, as well.

The Night hunts were usually different. Daryl rarely accompanied him when John was there, and vice versa. So when Daryl claimed some of the morning hunts… John claimed some of the night-time ones. And John in the day was vastly different to the Dark Sprite at night. Something about the woods, the moonlight, the shadows, brought another side out of him: a more blood-thirsty and primal one. Harry hadn't known quite what to make of it.

In his defence, as an introduction to John's Creature heritage it had been rather unusual.

They'd been stalking a doe for some time, trying to figure out if she had a herd, fawn or was just passing through. The first would be good to know, the second made her unavailable – no point taking away the fawns chance of survival. The third would have been good. The gibbeous moon had given more than enough lighting to see by, and the woods as relaxed as they could be given what else now called them home.

John had been antsy – patience wasn't his strong suit – but had heeded Harry's order to stay back as patiently as he could. Which was to say, a twitching mess but thankfully not yet to the point of charging their quarry.

And then it hadn't mattered, because that patience snapped.

Seeing a human tear out the throat of a deer with his teeth, the silhouette of an infinitely more predatory form just edging out it's confines, hadn't been what he'd been expecting and certainly had taken some getting used to in the hours that followed. The bite marks had also been suspiciously pointy and big for a human jaw.

Still, Magical Creatures were called that for a reason. They weren't human. Oh, they were intelligent. But they had different abilities, cultures, practices, upbringings… Rules. Expecting John to play by human rules when there was no-one he had to hide his nature from would have been unrealistic, and unfair.

What had surprised Harry the most was himself. The instinctive anger at having his order ignored, burning white hot for a second. Apparently broadcasting strong enough through the bond to make John jolt from his meal, and oddly, not return to it. He wasn't even going to touch on the urge to take a bite out of the tantalisingly nice smelling corpse, either.

John was very quiet returning from that trip.

Almost worryingly so.

Even more worrying was how John never charged off like that after, and actually seemed to pay attention.

The world was ending, he was certain of it.

Of course, as if to remind him of the fact it already had, the peace shattered in true Camp Caper, melodramatic style.

-Line Break -

The morning did not start well. For Harry, anyway.

When someone is a Veteran of a War that includes loud explosions and imminent threat when rising from unconsciousness (and if being held by Voldieshorts as a prisoner didn't count as that, nothing would), the one thing you don't do is wake them up with loud, abrupt noises.

John, apparently, hadn't gotten this particular message. Or more likely, did, and then proceeded to completely ignore it.

So he jolted from unconsciousness with a startle, wings hitching up to take flight automatically and lurching forward to a booming shout of-

"Brotherrrrr!"

- Right underneath his chosen tree for the night. The incongruity of a somewhat welcome voice and loud-sound-fight-danger- had made his half-awake brain stutter, motion frozen, and the result had been a very undignified pivot around the branch, hanging upside down like a demented bat, wings half extended.

He glared death at the cause, promising a painful end. It didn't effect John's laughter one bit.

So he'd grumpily dropped into a dive and taken his frustration out on the Dark Sprites hair in passing, claws barely skimming the scalp. It'd been almost satisfying to hear the yelp even as he transformed mid-air to land on two legs.

By the time he'd gotten to the camp proper, he'd calmed down somewhat, though John was keeping a careful half step between them as they walked. And kept on rubbing at the side of his head with what was meant to be inaudible grumbles.

Inventive curses, Harry had to give him that if nothing else.

"You deserved it, you big baby." He eventually sniped back. John glared, but subsided.

Sleepy nods greeted them from the Campers that were awake, Dale's greeting almost cheery with what was clearly coffee in hand, ones he returned wordlessly with the sole intention of claiming a cup of his own. The mugs Andrea handed him, careful not to look at the dark presence hovering by his elbow, smelled burnt and looked worse.

Apparently, burning water was a family trait. But, in the end, caffeine was caffeine.

He'd finished the dregs by the time the camp began stirring in earnest, Glenn almost impossibly chipper given the fact he'd had watch that night, the Dixon's similarly getting their fix of dark goodness (or possibly averageness in this case) and retreating to the corner of the group.

And then Shane emerged from the forest, looking far too awake and pleased with himself. Harry would have bet his entire (now useless) fortune that Lori would emerge from the same spot after three minutes or so.

Hmm. Maybe he should start a betting pool.

He was distracted when Shane clapped a hand on his shoulder in apparent camaraderie, a broad grin on his face.

"James, feel like stretching your leg's today?"

Not like Lori I'm bloody well not. He had to bite his tongue to stop the retort. No good would come of it, and for once, Shane actually seemed to be in a good mood.

"Depends on what you mean."

"Supply run in Atlanta." The smile fell. "We need to get movin' soon, and we ain't got half the stuff we need for it."

Harry shrugged. It was no skin off his nose. Apparently that was reply enough.

"Glenn, T-Dog. You're up too, if you want. Need people that can lift, get in short and sharp." Both nodded, T-Dog a little wey faced for the thought. But the man had been trying to get into more runs, to get used to the grittier parts of the lifestyle for all that he didn't seem to have the stomach for it all the time. It seemed Jacqui's intervention had been timely.

"I'm going." Strong words, in a hard voice. Andrea had her arms folded, posture reminiscent of Amy's when she was fighting a battle she was determined not to lose. "You're gonna need light, quick, as well. An' guns to cover your backs."

The staring match that developed between leader and rebellious follower made Harry itch with the urge to just Stun the two. Why did everything in this group have to be a bloody battle of wills?

"Can you fire?" Shane challenged, the rest of the group watching it like it was a tennis match.

"Sure. Not that hard, is it?" Andrea was nearly glaring, jaw knotted. Issuing a challenge of her own.

Glenn looked like he wanted to run for the hills – the guy really didn't like conflict, and it was his bad fortune that this group seemed to thrive on it – but still seemed to steel himself.

"Shouldn't run into that much trouble. In, out. And we've got lucky so far." He interjected.

By now the entire Camp was watching the argument. Shane seemed torn between giving a verbal beating to the stubborn woman and sighing. He settled on the latter.

"Fine. But you're taking a couple of others then, if you think we need that many damn guns." The blonde woman almost objected, but stayed her tongue. Huh. Even she knew a losing battle when she saw one, then. "Morales… Merle."

The Dixon didn't jolt, but his eyes flickered up with a calculating gleam.

"Now ya'll hang on. I aint no babysitter, Officer Eastwood."

"Ain't asking you to be." Shane rebutted. "Just enjoy the ride an' shoot geeks. Ain't rocket science."

Another tense moment, during which Harry reflected that it was far too early for this kind of Soap Opera bullshit, and Merle looked away with a snort.

And with that, it seemed the daily drama was over. People split to various tents, things were gathered, and Glenn started to check over the truck they would be taking with Dale.

He was himself about to head off, to wash up a little in the stream, when a pouting John and comment caught him completely unawares and startled a full body laugh out of him.

"What am I, chopped liver?"

He didn't think John was ever going to forgive him for it, but dear God's that teenage whine.