A/N: I'm sorry that I posted two days beyond my intended deadline. School projects caught up to me. Please read A/N at bottom for a genuine note.

Also: I read Brisingr, and I have Inheritance waiting on my desk. I plan to incorporate a couple ideas from Brisingr, but not too extensively. Feel free to sound off your opinions in a review, though. Nothing is completely set in stone.

Chapter 9

"I…" the word hung in the clearing's open air. Well, now he was in danger of digging himself into a ditch. To fight was not the reason for why he'd come here. Why he'd agreed to learn under another Rider. Why he'd given Arya the benefit of the doubt, because Merlin knew he was wary of just about everything. The simple isolation in his old cell, surrounded by the chilling cold of dementors and the slow, hollow emptiness that had spread along his chest, had easily instilled a mood of extreme caution into everything in his life.

Harry tried to speak, he opened his mouth and inhaled and struggled to make his voice box work, but his stomach would churn violently and his diaphragm relaxed, rising in his chest and forcing all the air out of his lungs.

Although his lips tried to shape the words, he couldn't get the air in his lungs to stay put before it rushed out, as if it were sentient and could sense his inner turmoil.

Those children were still staring at him with their mature eyes. They stood there patiently, unnaturally so for children, imploring a response: A verbal one.

How could he respond to these children that wanted a romanticized hero? And that was just it. He couldn't. How was he to explain himself to them?

The hollow hole in his chest grew, and the Rider clutched a hand to his midsection, studdering an "nh…nuh…nn-oo-oh" in staccato sounds, struggling to force the singular syllable out.

Still, they expected something from him. By Merlin, why did he have to be the one to do this?

…Wait, why did he need to explain anything? Just make a statement and rest at that. He scanned their faces. "I came here for a haven. And I don't know about this war."

He'd had no reason to mention asylum, which was how Arya had billed Ellesmera in subtler terms: A political asylum. How she'd presented Ellesmera…and how he'd really seen it.

He paused, glancing briefly at their somewhat downcast expressions. Several of the kids tried to look stoic, but a few weren't, and their expressions were plain in front of him. "I won't fight." He bit his lip, "can't. Won't. Same thing. Not unless I really have to, and it's in –" no, not the Greater Good. That phrase, having been bandied about in excess post-War, was too trite. "- Unless it's in my best interest to do so."

The wizard didn't know what was in his interest. He wasn't sure when – or if - he would know. But, at least it was a foundation that he could start with.

"Alright?" Their faces weren't readable, even the open-book kids had composed themselves. He lowered his voice, beseeching them. "Alright?" Explaining oneself wasn't a good reason to completely kill their moods.

Alas, Harry had accomplished just that. In the air lay an unrepentant disappointment. And, tearing away from their neutral gazes, the new Rider focused on maintaining his composure. Attempting to ignore the elves' lingering looks, he strode off back in the direction he'd come from, towards the crowded, bustling market.

He could barely stand to witness the disappointment that their masks veiled, and looked to the far-ahead noise as a distraction.

'Where had the guest gone?' was the dominant thought in a palace guard's mind. The sun had long since set, and starry lights were beginning to peek through the sky. If he were to be honest with himself, the guard may have admitted that he'd stayed far too late at his job today, but such thoughts were not helpful for the task that still lay before him, and he cast them to the wayside.

The Queen had planned to converse and sup with her daughter and the Rider she'd introduced to Du Weldenvarden, and while the princess had accepted promptly, the newcomer…had yet to be informed of the invitation.

And thus, Sol, a two-century-old guard of the palace, had been issued to locate the errant guest. Since he was conveniently there when the Queen decided to fetch the Rider, responsibility for salvaging the guest had fallen on Sol.

The Rider's…residence…had been the first location that he'd checked, but there were no signs that anyone had been in the place since that morning. If the Rider were still with The Mourning Sage, then surely the Elder Rider would inform their guest of his invitation, would he not?

As it stood, the new Rider – Sol had not been given the man's name, and had additionally neglected to ask – was somewhere within Ellesmera or its surrounding area. And after briefly searching some populated areas – the training grounds, meeting grounds, and the market – Sol had resigned himself to rummaging around isolated glades in the hope of getting lucky. Such had been his state for the past hour.

Perhaps he should go back to the Main Square. It would mean leaving the forest's tired presence, and he could always begin his search again from there. Lacking fresh ideas, Sol gave into his internal voice and began trudging back to the Square.

It was well that he hadn't hesitated any longer in the decision, for he only caught a glimpse of decidedly non-pointed ears before they melted into the milling throngs. Sol peered at the area he'd seen – supposedly – the Rider in, before realizing it led to the Training Grounds.

Pleased at the prospect of progress, Sol stalked his target.

Harry was grinning, ear-to-ear, as he made his way in the market. He had no idea where he was going, but it didn't matter. Cloaked in a Notice-Me-Not charm, he was free to act as he pleased on his own schedule. The elves walking on his right side paid him no attention: Nor did those on his left, or the merchant vendors peering at passersby from their stalls.

Yet, the wizard had no idea what to do with this anonymity. He'd never had it before. At Hogwarts, he was always conspicuous. Even when marauding the halls in his Invisibility Cloak, Filch, Mrs. Norris, and teachers were on the lookout for errant students – such as himself. The Dursleys' paid him no mind, but still took every step to ensure he didn't embarrass them. As a result, one eye was always on Harry, no matter their fear and revulsion for their nephew. And at Azkaban…well, certain guards had always had a mind for him: As a punching bag.

The worst thing about those beatings wasn't the pain or the experience itself. Only three guards in the compound cared for the practice, and they rotated amongst the inmate population. Harry only suffered once a month at the most.

The agony came afterward, when his Magic stirred incessantly, passing over each gash and bruise, reawakening the sting but unable to heal it. His magic had become weak. As time passed, he could feel his magic lessen in size and his whole being shrunk within itself, like a plant cell in plasmolysis or a beach ball that needed more air.

Without adequate care, his magic was never able to gain strength and recover. With each beating, more wounds were inflicted, old gashes became deeper, and an ever-shrinking portion of his body remained unblemished. The only unscathed body part from those three years was the palm of his left hand – though a silvery marking covered it now. Without the knowledge, his current appearance would fool anyone about this old state of being – even himself.

The beatings were probably why, Harry realized grimly, old Malfoy had been so weak after his stay. The idea made sense. During his brief captivity in Malfoy Manor, Lucius had been…sullen, withdrawn. He'd let Bellatrix order him about, and had his wand seized by Voldemort to boot. He hadn't stayed for the final battle. Mrs. Malfoy found her precious son, and she could've bullied Lucius into acceding to her desires. The man, with a weakened frame and further diminished demeanor, no wand, and sullied appearance, had likely given in without protest.

A tall creature with long blond hair passed alongside Harry. Wait, was that…

He stared at the retreating figure. Long blond hair, reaching mid-back, Tall, High posture. But the ears were…pointed. How could they – right. Elves. Ellesmera.

Puzzled by what to do next, Harry took off to follow the blond elf.

Belatedly, the wizard realized how badly this could end if the elf was returning home. The wizard would be lost, and surely noticed by his quarry. Notice-Me-Nots didn't work well without others around you. Yet as the crowds thinned, he could hear loud noises – the clinks and scrapes of metal upon metal – up ahead. He could make out individual figures training and fighting, when a tenor voice, less than a meter behind him spoke. "Shur'tugal"

Harry jumped, cursing himself as he did so for the surprised outburst, yet the reaction was nigh unavoidable. If the Notice-Me-Not was effective before – the voice may not have been directed at him – it had certainly failed now.

Indeed, Harry turned around to find a pair of turquoise eyes studying him intently.

He looked official.

The elf possessing said turquoise orbs – now sparkling in mirth – dropped to one knee. Looking up to his new Rider, he intoned a standard invitation. "The Queen Islanzadi requests the Rider's presence for when she takes her evening repast."

Quite official, he decided.

A dinner invitation? He couldn't remember the last – wait, yes he could. The day before the escape from Kingsley, the traitor had invited him to dine with the Minister. Citing a previous engagement – he was meeting with Andromeda to discuss Teddy's welfare – he'd declined, thankfully.

But he had none of that now, not even a cocksure alternative plan. Plus, this was the Queen, the one who was giving him asylum without any knowledge of who he was. Maybe he shouldn't have fainted the other night?

The turquoise orbs were still trained on him.

"Alright, I accept. When and where?"

"The messenger-elf stood back up. "At dusk, in the Palace's Dining Hall."

"Where is that?" Harry cocked his right eyebrow. "I've been here for less than twenty-four hours, and I don't know my way around."

Chuckling, as if lost in a distant memory only he knew, the messenger curved his lips into a wicked smile. "I can guide you to the Palace. Shall we meet at your residence twenty minutes prior?"

"I don't know how to reach it either."

The smile twisted into a musing grin. "Perhaps I shall accompany you, Shur'tugal, until nightfall, so as to be in a position to guide you then? We will waste no time in locating one another."

If Harry had been asked whether he would enjoy proximity to a boisterous companion, he may likely have refused. Yet the messenger elf, despite being that and more, was fun to be around.

"I am Sol, son of Lunadris," said companion informed him. "I am a sentry at the Royal Palace."

Sol was loud, lively, and lent himself to risks. He was daring and asked many questions that could be considered an invasion of privacy. Yet, skirting those inquiries aside playfully, Harry liked Sol. He was unlike anyone from Hogwarts. He was far wittier than Ron, more forthcoming than Neville, better at listening than Hermione, and very much an independent thinker.

Certainly, the elf had cheek. His second question, after names and pleasantries were exchanged, was a lewd one. "So, did any of the lovely maidens in Main Square catch your wiles? Eh?"

Speaking over Harry's rising blush and sputtered protests, Sol ribbed him further. "Come now. Don't tell me that the new Dragon Rider is a blind hermit." The cheeky grin only grew wider and deeper. Harry blushed further and batted Sol's elbow away to cease the ribbing.

After Arya and Oromis, Harry had supposed that most elves were outwardly stoic or unemotional, but Sol was, if anything, capricious and open. He went from elated laughter at Harry's half-hearted, sardonic statements to sullen gloom at watching spars in the training grounds.

Proficiency in weaponry, Harry learned, was a skill that elves were expected to attain as they matured.

"It's why you'll only see elves under a century old here. Most do not continue with their weapons after meeting accepted standards, and those that do will have partners by the time they leave these grounds," Sol declared.

The interesting facet of that statement to Harry, however, was the 'under a century old' bit. 'Twas a good thing he'd belatedly learned Occlumency. Not having someone else's soul in you made shielding a lot easier, and concealing one's surprise even simpler.

The pair – elf and wizard – watched the Training Ground proceedings for some time, conversing all the while. Sol had two siblings, a brother and a sister. Both had preceded him by numerous decades, and both were involved in the war. The sister was one of a dozen aiding Eragon, and the brother lay in Osilon, a frontline warrior. Eager to avoid the subjects they were treading on the toes of, Harry began supplying information of his own.

He relayed the background of Hogwarts, his erstwhile magical school. Sol, on his part, seemed captivated by the idea. "A school for magic?" He asked incredulously. It took the better part of an hour before Harry realized that the 'school' was as foreign as the 'for magic' bit. Upon the realization, the wizard initially endeavored to elucidate his companion, but faltered as the questions piled on.

How long did he stay at the school? "It lasts for seven years, starting when you're eleven, though I only stayed for six."

Why only six? "There were…special circumstances." Harry grimaced.

Why did they leave home at such a young age? "It isn't that young. Er, I don't know what you consider the age of adulthood to be, but it's seventeen for us."

His age now? "Twenty-one."

Did he have any family where he came from? At this, a flash flew across the wizard slash Rider's face, as his eyes scrunched up, the corners of his mouth pulled away in a frown, and an involuntary jerk revealed his reaction to the query. Hoping that Sol had missed the face, Harry was pensive before responding. "Not really. I have a godson – I'm an honorary uncle – who is being cared for by his grandmother."

Parents? "…They died when I was young." Brooding, he muttered, "and Sirius passed away more than five years ago."

What did he do after the magic school? "I lived…" Harry paused, realizing he couldn't say 'London', "near the community for a year. Afterward…there was a rift, and my friends blamed me for an act I hadn't committed and betrayed me. I ended up at the Varden maybe two weeks ago."

Where were you in the meantime? "Azkaban," the word tumbled out of his lips. "Do you know what a prison is?" Seeing the blankness of the elf's face, he answered the question for him. "No. Okay. It's…a place where you keep people that committed crimes…or at least people whom everyone thinks committed them. When they betrayed me, my friends sent me to prison."

What was 'prison' like? "You wouldn't understand," was the quick retort. And when his mind caught up to his mouth, he realized how truthful the words were.

They, the elves, and everyone else here, did not know – perhaps even understand – what Harry had lost to Azkaban and, later, the Veil, and Harry didn't expect them to. Thinking about whether he would expect it if he told Sol and others? Only to be disappointed after? Deep-seated, bitter feelings – fear, loneliness, and a crippling uncertainty – coiled in his gut threateningly.

No. He wanted no pity, and he didn't want the disappointment he would feel if they didn't understand. If they did get it, they'd then pity him anyway. It was a lose-lose situation in the Rider's eyes.

He'd take acquaintances over the risk of isolation any day. So he shook his head when Sol queried how the parents survived without the children to do miscellaneous housework, killing the interrogation. The conversation shifted, with neither participant aware of the unspoken decision's gravity. A dozing Antares shifted the distribution of his weighty gravity within Harry's enclosing arm.

As it was, the conversation continued in many veins while the duo rested in the Training Grounds, both failing to notice the Sun's progress overhead until it was just completing its descent from the heavens.

"Perhaps you can show me how to get around another time?" Harry smiled despite himself. He'd known the sentry for all of a couple hours, and yet Sol was his closest acquaintance in the entire world.

Said acquaintance, for his part, was confused by Harry's statement. "How to get around?" He asked.

"It's a euphemism. To give me a tour of Ellesmera and show me how to reach different locations on my own, so I'll no longer get lost."

"But then I will not know when to rescue you, Harry! How will I expect to realize when you need help if you are self-sufficient half the time?" The ribbing had woken up again.

"I'm sure you'll figure it out. You found me here today, didn't you?" Harry smiled, even as he internally recalled how his Notice-Me-Not had failed.

"Perhaps I will. However, I believe I must now guide you to the Palace for your supper with royalty?" The sentry beckoned Harry out of the emptying Training Ground and led the Rider into darkening forest paths.

To Harry, their route was uniform and indistinguishable. He saw no differences between one tree and the next, and every intersection seemed identical. Yet Sol was confident of their direction, never faltering except to chasten Harry to hurry up.

Around the sixth time he did so – Harry had, in his boredom, decided to keep track – the Palace was already within sighting distance. Unlike what Harry was expecting, it didn't seem particularly bright. If he were in Britain, he could stroll down Privet Drive and note which homes' occupants were still awake by the lights streaming through their windows. In London later on, where Harry had lived for a brief year after the Final Battle, the lights never turned off. Traffic lights, car headlights, and the neon signs of a million and one buildings, all provided illumination to commercial areas of the city.

By comparison, the Palace might as well have been a dark closet. There were torches – magical, Harry assumed, by the way they never flickered or bent to the wind – scattered around the perimeter, but nothing of note. It felt as if Harry was leaving a dark forest to enter an isolated log cabin.

A sudden pain wracked through his head, and he furiously shut his eyes, cupping them with one hand. Antares chirped – a step up from his prior squeaking – and the Rider cracked an eye open to glance at the hatchling in confusion and annoyance.

Antares radiated a rich violet halo, contrasting with the paler amethyst of his scales. Alarmed, Harry ignored the splitting pain in his skull to inspect his dragon further, concerned for some unrealized injury. Yet even more color suffused his vision, of greens and blues so deep they were almost black. Next to him, Sol radiated a light yellow, the hue matching its owner's namesake. The tidal wave of color burned Harry's retinas, and he shut his eyelids once more.

When another chirp invited another cracked eye opening, the halo, the tidal wave, the burning was gone. Harry opened his second eye with trepidation. Seemingly satisfied with the return to status quo ante, he noticed Sol's worried expression. Waving him off with a quick "I'm fine", the two slowly resumed their stroll to the Palace.

At the entrance, Sol left him. "I may return to guide you to your residence. If not, ask another sentry here. They'll be pleased with the lapse in monotony." The duo, after an afternoon together, parted ways. Sol ventured back into the dark forest, and Harry moved towards the lighted halls of Queen Islanzadi's Palace.

The eye-color-radiance bled into Harry's sight mid-step as he went into the Palace.

Merlin, this isn't the time for this to happen!

Blinking furiously, he willed the color-sight – whatever it was – away as he struggled to get back in line with his escort.

After Sol left, Harry had felt lost, and he asked a guard to lead him to the dining hall. The person took one look at Antares before nodding, turning, and setting off into the Palace's corridors, without a single word passing through his lips. The silence made Sol seem loud as a pair of wrestling giants by comparison. Yet two minutes later, after another instance of eye troubles, Harry stood before the queen.

Queen Islanzadi was regal in a manner that befits the monarch of elves. Her dress, reaching down to the floor, was made of a silky material that swished silently with her every gesture and turn. Though elaborately woven – Harry would kill himself if he had to count every fold within the fabric – it possessed no glitter and reflected no light. That task lay in her jewelry, which covered sundry body parts, though not her ankles. Besides her obligatory jewel-encrusted crown, one ring adorned her right hand, two necklaces hung taut from her throat, and several bracers fitted her arms. As Harry approached, she turned from viewing a tall set of double-doors to witness his arrival.

"Harry," she greeted, "I am pleased that you accepted my invitation." The guard who had escorted the wizard surreptitiously exited the room.

Putting on a loathed but well-worn mask, he responded. 'Of course," the wizard intoned, a smile painting his visage. "How could I refuse such a kind gesture?"

Saving Islanzadi the trouble of responding to his double-entendre, the tall double-doors behind them opened to admit Arya. Her dress was so similar to Islanzadi's that Harry took little notice. Yet the Queen herself immediately turned to behold the ambassador. They didn't hug, or kiss, or hold each other at arm's length, limbs stretched out to meet at their fingertips. Instead, they conjured a palpable affection in the air that Harry strove his hardest to ignore and look away from.

When at last the tension snapped, and the Queen ushered them to the Dining Area, Harry was only too relieved to take notice of the new surroundings.

Considering that this was royalty, Harry half-expected a long table twenty meters long or more, with an immaculate tablecloth and crystal silverware decorating each unoccupied seat. That was not the case. The room was certainly large enough to hold his imaginative illusion, but a small four-seat round table awaited them. No tablecloth. No crystal. Just a wooden – though fancy – table with intricately carved chairs in accompaniment.

The meal consisted of much that Harry had seen at the Market. Fruits, vegetables, grains, and a variety of spreads and spices were laid on the table. One small bowl held a pile of seeds that Harry would have sworn were sunflower seeds, though he had yet to notice the plant itself nearby.

All in all, the Rider enjoyed the food, though he wondered of Antares's diet. Dragons were carnivores, and the one glaring absentee from the repast was meat. Unsure if this was due to a vegetarian lifestyle or some tradition – no meat in the evening, perhaps – he opted against commenting. His food stores still held frozen meat; it would now be reserved for Antares's consumption until further notice.

Conversation, by contrast, was less than wholly pleasant. Much of the first courses were spent by the two elves lecturing him in the history of the world – of Alagaesia. Of the Rider's place in the past age, of Galbatorix, the Fall, the Varden's mission, and Eragon's status. They told of how the Forsworn betrayed and slew the other Riders, how the dwarves sealed themselves off in the Beor Mountains, how the elves took sanctuary in Du Weldenvarden, and how the dragons came to near extinction.

It was a more extensive version of what Arya had told Harry those first days in the Burning Plains. Yet, that talk had been more encyclopedic. Simply the facts of war, Galbatorix's century-long reign, and the power of Riders, along with the current allocation of Eragon on one side versus Galbatorix & Murtagh on the other. (With an egg in the crossfire)

This, Harry was guessing that Islanzadi had yet to be informed of Harry's total knowledge on the subject. She went into detail on certain facets - the atrocities of the Forsworn, the colossal peace-keeping role of the Riders, the nigh unparalleled power they wielded, and Galbatorix's own indiscretions, which Arya had left out. The Queen spoke much of the gathering Elven army and its purpose. He supposed it was similar to how Dumbledore would have explained the War to a fresh Order recruit.

…At that thought, Harry dropped the slice of bread in his hand, Islanzadi pausing to recognize the action before continuing. Yet he immediately wanted to tune out her endless stream of words. That was what this dinner was. A persuasion tactic to join them.

"Look," he stated, stunning the both of them with his lapse of silence. "You want me to fight with you, correct?" Why else would the Queen mention Her army?

It was Islanzadi who answered, "Galbatorix is the reason you require safety and sanctuary in the first place, Harry Black." The response gave him pause.

"And so? I can deal with threats on my own. I am more than self-sufficient in that aspect."

"You have a dragon with you. You are a Rider. Galbatorix will stop at nothing to enslave you. That, I can guarantee." At the words, Arya's lips thinned unnoticeably, eyeing the potential kill that her mother had inadvertently exposed.

"And if he learns of my existence, I'll know exactly who to blame." Harry sternly gazed at his verbal foe. "Arya said that I would require mentorship here, and I have seen nothing that would give me cause to dispute that at the moment. But I don't make decisions lightly, and I will not do so now. You're asking me to go to war for something I have no firsthand experience with."

Their faces and postures betrayed nothing. "I'm not vetoing your request out of hand, mind, but my goal isn't to go to war. Not again."

The conversation and meal continued, but significant matters were not raised again.

When Harry exited the Palace at twilight's hour, Sol lay by the entrance in wait.

"How do you fare?" From the words alone, Sol's fatigue was obvious, and Harry had to suppress a wince. It seemed as if displaying emotions took energy for elves.

"Well, I don't know how long it'll be before I receive an invitation again, but they'll hardly make haste for it." Sol just snorted before unpeeling his back from the Palace's exterior wall, and led the way to Harry's quarters.

The forest paths were nearly pitch-black as the Palace disappeared from view behind the duo.

Sol stopped and raised his hand. "Naina hvitr un bollr!" An orb of bright light winked into existence before the elf.

The sight prompted Harry to mimic the move. "Lumos!" He held out his arm as he cast the spell, and the light immediately conjured into being. It hung in the air in front of them, moving forward in tune with Harry's stride.

Sol turned. "How did you do that?" His brow, in the newly created light, dropped and his eyes narrowed in confusion.

"The same way you did. I cast a spell." Harry said as his mouth pursued in uncertainty at the question.

"But 'lumos' isn't in the Ancient Language. I've never heard it before. How does it work?"

"It's Latin. Most spells I know are in Latin. You have the intent for a spell say the incantation…and magic does the rest." Harry paused.

"Why is this troubling you?"

"It isn't done! The Ancient Language is the only language used for magic. You don't simply yell 'fire' in the common tongue to create one! It wouldn't happen."

"It….could. It does. Magic is all about intent…I told you about my school. Incantations for the spells that we learn are decided by the spell crafters. Latin was the most common choice because everyone knew it, but there are spells in French, German, Gaelic…it's not limited to a single language." Harry met Sol's eyes, level with his own.

"Maybe magic theory is taught differently here but you saw that the spell worked." That was indisputable.

The wizard finished speaking, suddenly realizing that the pair had stopped moving. He ended the lumos spell, and beckoned Sol to continue leading down the path, his light guiding the entire way.

For a number of minutes the two walked in near silence, save for their footsteps and ambient forest sounds – like hooting owls. Harry's eyes, the entire duration, were downcast. He cursed himself. He had no illusions that he was average or normal – the dinner discussion had impressed that upon him with ease – but now, even his magic was unique.

The image of Oromis, questioning him about his wand, came to mind. Lost in his thoughts, Harry plodded along behind his escort, step by step. He paid no heed to the rustling wind, and barely caught a sound of Sol's voice before it ceased. Looking up, Sol stared back at him, mouth open, lingering fragments of a query in the air.

"I'm sorry, could you please say that again?"

"I hadn't realized how we know so little of magic. I apologize for causing you stress. Your words and your approach intrigue me – our perspectives seem so different, and yet both are correct in some manner. Your school taught you well –" Harry shook his head furiously, hands shaking.

"The most important, best magic is never taught. It's learned by dire need, or it's passed down from someone else who learned it by such necessity."

Sol grinned and called, "and the stars smile upon you for having learned it." In the low light, Harry would've sworn he saw the elf wink, or perhaps a blink.

His mind had interpreted the former, however, and a heavy presence formed in the Rider's chest cavity. It condensed within him, constricting such that his heart was racing with the effort to avoid implosion. Antares, perched on his left shoulder after the meal, gave a long lick by his clavicle, drawing some of the pressure to a new spot.

Split in two, the feeling was manageable. If only just. A heaviness grew behind Harry's eyelids, a warm enchantment that let a person fall asleep without worry as to what would occur in their consciousness's absence. Someone cared. Benevolently. A true fortune and one that he'd too rarely witnessed.

They were different, yet they were the same. It made no difference to him. A warmth spread through his veins, traversing more distance with each pump of his heart. A new sense of comfort. A new sense of hope.

And a nostalgic sense as well, one of home taking root in a scarred void within his mind and a desire to make it blossom.

Turning towards the dimly lit path and frowning at the poor illumination, Harry didn't bother raising his arm, or verbally stating the spell. Lumos Sol Maxima!

***End of Chapter

A/N: I'm going to pose a question to all my reviewers. Is there any particular kind of scene/situation/interaction you'd like to see? I can't say that I'll use everything that is suggested, but everything will help me figure out what needs to be in NWNH.

Thank you for all the reviews in the...7.5 months since I've last posted. Seeing the steady trickle as time went on, believe it or not, does help me realize that people are waiting for me to continue the story. I started NWNH. I have an obligation to finish it. But thank you for impressing that fact upon me regardless.

Special thanks to AmethystNight88, my beta, who helped me with a few missing elements of the chapter.

Thank you for all the encouragement and praise in the reviews. For reviewers who posed questions that I'm in a position to answer, here they are:

Hideout Writer: The elves could help him, but there's no relationship or camaraderie that he can call on to ask for that aid. It's evident that Harry doesn't know them, and they don't know him. And thanks to the glamour, the elves don't know anything about it...although Oromis now has something to ponder. (That's not a clue - it's a realization I made in answering this)

Forcustus5: I'm going to go with Latin. Truthfully, I think magic can be done in any language, but using Latin makes wizards feel as though there's a mystical aspect to it. I'm using google translate for all the non-canon spells, but if a wizard screamed "stop", the object of his attention would probably stop/freeze.

PriyanshPotter: No love interests for Harry at the moment. I'm toying with a few ideas, but none of them are romantic - they're more like character exposition.

BardsSong & MysticDew (you both asked similar questions): Both HP & Eragon's worlds use magic, but the way they're both utilized has advantages and disadvantages. For instance, in HP you can avoid the jets of light to not suffer a spell's effects, while in Eragon they perceive magic through their physical stamina, and it takes its toll accordingly. I'm toning down HP's magic slightly, but I consider Harry to be a superior magic-user.

HonestRobin: Fair criticism, and thank you for it. I suppose I won't try and compensate for the fact that I can't write through a British perspective. I'll work around such things in the future.

Kan'ya: ...I will neither confirm nor deny any hypotheses about the riddle. I'll simply say that I designed multiple interpretations into it, and you can pick whichever one you want until I finally make it apparent in the story.

Dracoman: I don't know whether that's possible. I don't have any plans for it, but I don't run the tightest ship when it comes to writing stories.

josz001: There will be more interludes. QE2 is a nice side-story whenever I get into the mood. I'm a bit stuck on it, but it's only a matter of time before I get an epiphany.

Lightningwolf325: You see why I'm having fun with this. The Veil, the Riddle...they're all nebulous.

I'm now beta for Lizzie's Last Night on her story Garden of Eden. It's a Harry Potter story with a future Harry x Tom Riddle relationship. I recommend it to anyone intrigued, as it combines amazing prose with a novel take on the Wizarding World. There's not a single fanfiction I can name that resembles the world Lizzie has created.