Chapter Twenty: Summer Scraps

Harry was only marginally aware of what was going on around him. Night had fallen a while back, he thought, and the air had been sweet with woodsmoke and ripe fruits. He knew there was a great fire burning nearby. He could feel its heat on his face, a contrast with the cool dewy grass under his fingers. Bursts of golden orange flickered up the silver-specked sky, dancing like fireflies.

Muted as if coming from under water, he could hear voices and laughter, the heavy thrum of drums. He breathed deep and felt the stretch of his lungs, heard the rush of air like the sea, refluxing with his blood. Rough, ridged oak bark dug into his back, and his body felt heavy resting against the old tree. He could taste sage and nutmeg rolling on his tongue, sharp and earthly. His head spun in time with the beats of his heart, with the pounding of the drums.

The woman sat cross-legged, just at the corner of his peripheral vision. The brown, ample robes of her people pooled around her. She had given him her name, Harry remembered. Gwenshlean. She was the most accomplished magic user of her camp, a founding pillar to the Druids. She was older than him by a dozen years, but they had danced together earlier. She had glowed with sweat in the firelight. Harry had lost himself to the sway of her body, shedding shame like skin.

She leaned toward him until he could feel her heat along his side, more real that the fire's. Harry had no desire to move, his limbs weighted down, his skin buzzing pleasantly.

"If you want to remember, Harry," she told him, "You have to let yourself go."

It should not have made sense, Harry thought, but somehow it did. His heart slowed down, thumping loud enough to overwhelm everything else. He could feel it in his neck and in his toes, in his belly and on his cheeks. He swayed back, further against the tree behind him, and he could feel himself sink, slipping away, a stone into undisturbed pond-water.

{. . .}

Yesterday

"Bloody flaming arrows, really?" Nick hissed, skidding to a stop beside Harry. "What's next, they're gonna bring out the ballista? Get down Potter."

The other boy grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, forcing Harry behind an overturned cart. Arrows wheezed past their heads.

"Look at it the bright way," Harry retorted, elbowing Nick in the ribs until he let go of his shirt. "We could still be dining on tripe soup at the arse end of Hungary."

"Must you remind me of that incident every other day?" A very visible shudder ran the length of Nicholas' body. He looked faintly green at the gills.

Harry rolled his eyes at the theatrics. Sure, the soup had been terrible, but it had been food, and they'd all been starving at the time. Beggars truly can't be choosers, he'd found. He shifted away from Nick, straightening from his half-crouch. He waved his wand at the stack of hay, putting away the smouldering beginnings of a fire before smoke could clog up his sight.

Those archers at the top of the church's tower were going make themselves a nuisance, he could tell.

"How far are the others, do you reckon?" he asked, carefully peering over the edge. There were soldiers approaching.

Nick gave a shrug, a hand resting on Harry's shoulder for support as he eyed the other end of the street, lips thinned in calculation. "Dunno," he replied. "Marya said they'd be right behind. I imagine they got caught up."

"Right," said Harry, an idea beginning to form at the back of his head. They had to be quick about it, not much time left before the soldiers reached the cart now. "Well, listen." He nudged Nick for good measure, making sure the other boy was paying attention. "Nick, listen. I'll draw them out. You go round behind them. Then we run for it."

Nick shot him a look. "Harry. No. You are not using yourself as bait. You can die just as easily as the rest of us, as I'm sure you know. Besides, I promised the boss I wouldn't let you make a repeat of Sardinia. The bit with the angry candlesticks was plain stupid."

"Well if you've got a better plan, now's the time," Harry growled out. "We've gotta get to the boy before they do."

Nick stayed stubbornly silent, scowling at the distance as if it had personally offended him.

"That's what I thought."

There were steps approaching, booted and heavy, a shout. Harry rolled out from behind the cart, coming up with his sword raised defensively. Behind him, Nicholas let out a curse, something vicious about Harry's mother, but Harry wasn't listening. He caught the first man under the knees, brought him down with a clean smack on the temple, sword-pommel smashing soft flesh. He stunned the second before the unconscious body hit the ground. He caught a blur of motion out of the corner of his eyes, shimmied out of the way of a falling blade. Steel sliced through air. He parried a slashing blow at his stomach, flowing with it, then a thrust for his heart. The soldier seemed slow, clumsy compared to Godric's swift grace. Harry dodged his sword, came up against him, back to chest, and rammed his elbow into the opening of the man's helmet. There was the satisfying crush of broken bones. The soldier reeled away from the impact, howling.

"Potter, duck!" Nick called, and Harry dropped, sweeping another man's legs from under him. Daggers soared over, each enhanced blade meeting its mark.

"You didn't have to kill them," he snarled at Nick, watching the men from the church's tower fall like flies, accompanied by a shower of blood and unused arrows.

"You're welcome," Nick snapped back, sounding sour. His eyes flashed from amber to yellow before settling again. "We need to go now."

Together, they pelted across the square, Nick running headlong, much quicker than Harry despite all his training. It wasn't a big town, thankfully, more of a fortified hamlet, rickety houses pressed together on hard-packed earth. It didn't take them long to clear the open space, none of the villagers daring to leave the safety of their homes. Harry glimpsed a few of them squinting at him from thick doors open ajar.

"Let's try left," Harry panted. He could feel sweat sticking his hair to his forehead, sliding along his back. "The church's bound to have a basement. If there's anywhere they'd keep the kid – "

Nick grunted in acknowledgement. He swung left without warning, veering swiftly in a narrow alleyway. Harry followed without much elegance. He ran into a wooden stall, swearing when the impact jarred his hip. He could hear cries of alarm, the grating blare of a horn.

They rounded the street's corner, huffing in the afternoon heat. Harry barely registered the discordant clank of metal, the sound of hooves on muddy ground, before he came face to face with mounted soldiers. He called up a shield, large enough to cover Nick, before a spear could take his head off.

"Merlin's balls," he swore, staggering to a stop. He took the situation with a quick glance; half a dozen men, all armoured and mounted, wielding weapons with an ease that came from well-honed habit.

"Halt!" one of the men shouted, voice oddly muffled by the muzzle of his helm.

"Give us the boy and we'll be on our way," Harry shot back, with little hope.

"Like that ever works." Echoing his thoughts, Nick jumped past the shield before Harry could stop him, an explosive blur of speed and strength. He'd already unhorsed a man, smashed his head up against the wall when Harry joined in, casting three spells in quick succession.

They made a quick work of the men, Harry catching most of them with magic, throwing them down into unconsciousness' tender arms. They blasted open the church's heavy doors. It was a rundown, shabby church, its air cool and moist despite the blazing heat outside. It smelled strongly of mold and cankered wood.

Nick raced ahead, head tilted to a side in a decidedly canine manner, looking for any straggling soldier. Harry closed and locked the door behind him, mixing up a few charms just to be safe. He set to finding the boy they'd been instructed to track, muttering a locating spell under his breath. Magic flickered, coalesced at the tip of his wand, before shooting off in coloured ribbons toward a half-hidden backdoor, which was bolted from the outside.

"Hello?" he called, pressing a careful ear against the door. The wood was too thick; he couldn't hear anything. Speaking as loudly as he dared, he said, "We're here to help. Don't be afraid. I'm going to open the door now, all right?"

He nudged open the rusted, dirty bolt. It came loose with a reluctant creaking noise. Harry peered inside. He couldn't see anything at first; the room was too dark. Only thin rays of sunlight flitted through the boarded windows, the light muddied by all the floating must. Squinting, he discerned a vaguely humanoid shape huddled against the far wall. It didn't stir even as Harry stepped further into the room.

"Hey – can you hear me? I've come to get you somewhere safe. Lumos."

Star-bright light filled the room, forcing Harry to blink against the sudden shine. There was a boy hunched on a bed of stale straw, dark hair matted with filth. He seemed fast asleep, completely insensate to the world, gangly limbs sprawled out in an uncomfortable-looking heap. Harry felt a twinge of worry when he didn't twitch at his entrance.

He laid a hand on the boy's waist, another on his throat, looking for a pulse, his own heart constricting in alarm. He found a slow, steady stutter under his fingers, allowed his shoulders to unwind a little. A quick spell told him the boy had been drugged up, some Muggle mixture of plants he didn't pause to identify. He drained the poison from the child's body, chanting softly until the boy's eyes fluttered open, drowsy with sleep.

"Rise and shine, sleeping beauty," he teased, keeping his tone light and friendly. "How are you feeling?"

The boy groaned. "M'alright," he mumbled, arms flaying around in a valiant effort to straighten up.

Harry sneaked an arm around his back to help manoeuvre him in a more comfortable position. The boy's ratty shirt was ripped in several places, revealing swathes of pale, dirty skin, though thankfully free of any visible injury. Harry's hand accidentally brushed against the boy's bare back, and a curious shiver ran down his spine, a frisson of something not unlike electricity. Recognition flashed in the boy's eyes – which were a peculiar shade of dark, marine blue, deep like the night's sky.

"Who's you?" he croaked, shaking his head like a dog. He leaned more of his weight against Harry, breathing deep, ragged breaths.

"My name's Harry. I'm a wizard just like you." To demonstrate, he waved his wand, let a swirl of green and silver sparks come together to form a miniature dragon. It earned him a quiet gasp, full of wonder. He guided the illusion in a full lap of the room, then left it to its devices. "Me and my mates heard you might be in a spot of trouble, so we've come to help you out, if you'll let us."

"Uh." The boy blinked at Harry, staring with enough intense focus to be unnerving. He nodded earnestly, long curls bouncing around his face. "Uh, yes please?" Then, though that odd, knowing glint never left his eyes, his face broke into a grin, and he said, thoroughly upending Harry's world, "I'm Merlin, by the way. Say, I don't suppose Harry's short for Arthur, is it?"

And Harry – Harry was –

{. . .}

Harry could feel the thundering pounding of the drums rock through him, he could feel the old oak tree against his back, hear Gwenshlean's voice in his ear, honey-sweet.

"Further, Harry. Close your eyes, you must go further back. Tell me what led you to the boy."

{. . .}

A week ago

"This is fine," Harry muttered, going cross-eyed through the head-rush. He thought he might have broken his ankle. The rope was tied tight around the joint, growing tighter by the minute for supporting his whole body weight.

Somewhere above his head – or his foot, as it were – tree branches groaned in a most ominous manner.

"This is fine," he repeated, wiggling around in the faint hope he'd shake the trap loose, gritting his teeth when chafing, grinding pain jolted up his leg. "Just perfectly bloody fine."

As if in agreement, the boar snorted, pawing the ground in preparation to lunge. The beast was a mound of coarse hairs and corded muscles, beady eyes fuming with malicious rage from the deep set of its mud-caked face. It was big, bigger than Harry thought a pig had any right to be. The two curved, pointy tusks that poked out of the sides of its jaws stood, by Harry's most optimistic estimate, just high enough to gut him like a fish, given his unfortunate position.

And because it was just this sort of a day, Nicholas had pick-pocketed his wand again, the bastard.

"Guys?" he called. He'd lost sight of the others a while ago, but he lived to hope. The boar was taking short, trotting steps away, ostensibly to gather momentum.

At least, Harry thought in a fit of morbid merriment, there'd be poetry somewhere in his dying under the blows of Hogwarts' mascot. Voldemort certainly wouldn't top that, the unimaginative loon.

"GUYS!"

And amazingly, from the depths of the forest came a shout of, "POTTER?!"

"NICK I'M GOING TO KILL YOU AND FEED YOU TO THE PIG, YOU THIEVING ARSEHOLE!"

He heard a distant crash, the rattle of crushed underbrush and rustling leaves. The boar snorted, started running. Harry couldn't help the whimper that left his lips. His ankle was hurting something fierce. He swore he could feel the broken bones grinding together beneath his skin. He thought he was going to pass out, too much blood rushing to his head, making his vision go fuzzy, and who would've thought that boars could run so fast, this couldn't be right –

A low, menacing growl rose up from the nearest thicket of trees. Nicholas surged into sight, lips pulled back from his teeth in clear warning. He pounced on the boar, quicker than Harry could see. The animal whined in alarm, but could do nothing to escape him, driven by its own weight. Within moments, Nick had slit its throat. It collapsed on the grass, gushing blood.

"Guess what we're having for dinner?" Nick turned to him with a quirked smile, tawny, flyaway hair glittering gold in the sun.

"Just cut me loose please," Harry panted. He was having troubles breathing, his lungs wouldn't expand properly.

Nick grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulling his head away from the ground so he wouldn't break his neck upon landing. A swift swipe of his dagger severed the rope holding Harry. He hurtled down, hissing when his vision whited out from the impact of his own weight on his injured limb.

"Wand," he gritted out. Wordlessly, Nick pressed his wand into his palm, held him steady as he bent down and whispered, "Episky," swearing when his bones popped back into place with a wet, audible crack. He rested against Nick while the pain receded in waves, which the young man weathered without a sigh of protestation. "Where the hell have you been anyway?" Harry asked, pulling away carefully.

"We've found the cave, while you were busy gallivanting with a pig." Nick ducked smoothly, dodging the fist Harry had aimed at his heart. "Bran and Marya went on ahead. Hopefully they'll have killed the trolls before we get there. Then we can go off and get paid."

"Hopefully," Harry repeated, making no effort to hide the dubiousness from his tone. In the months since he'd joined Marya's Lowswords Company, not a single one of their jobs had gone according to plan. Harry couldn't say he had been enjoying mercenary life, but at least it paid good money.

"Cheer up, Potter. We'll be feasting tonight." Nick jerked a thumb in the direction of the boar bleeding out behind him.

"Feasting my arse," Harry retorted. "You people eat like a herd of Thestrals. There'll be nothing left before the sun is set."

Still, he pointed his wand at the carcass, agreeing to lugging the body all the way back to their camp. He followed Nick through the forest, trailing boar's blood in their wake.

"You alright, mate?" he called after a while. Nick was never silent for too long. He was always dropping comments about his surroundings, acerbic remarks about people's smells when they where somewhere inhabited, speculations about animal tracks otherwise. From what Harry could see of his face, the young man looked tired, dark circles under his eyes, a jerky nervousness in the usually easy glide of his steps, in the sharp angles of his drawn face. "You seem tetchy."

Nick cast him a quick glance, something unfathomable passing over his eyes.

" – Nick? You've not blown up Archie's cauldron again, have you? You know how hard it is for him to get a new one every time – "

"Archie cauldron's fine."

Harry frowned at the other boy's back. "Well, what is it then?"

Nick stopped walking abruptly. He didn't turn to face him, but Harry could see his jaw clench and unclench in sporadic spasms. He opened his mouth, breathing in as though preparing to speak, but no word went forthcoming.

Harry felt himself grow tense with alarm. "Gods Nick, now I'm worried. No one's died, have they?" The boy shook his head, the motion stilted. Harry touched his arm, willing to offer comfort but unsure whether it would be well-received. "Tell me," he urged quietly. "Whatever it is, maybe I can help."

"Tomorrow's the full moon," Nick grated out at last, like the words had been snatched from somewhere deep in his throat.

Harry blinked at him in confusion. Now he understood why his friend looked like death warmed up, at least. "I didn't now that," he admitted. "Is – "

"No, you don't get it," Nick cut in. "Tomorrow I'll – I'm – I w-won't be there. I'll have to leave."

"Yeah, I should hope so," Harry huffed out, dumping his shoulder against Nick's. "What's with you turning into a hungry, slavering wolf and all. I was gonna ask if there's anything I can do to make it better?"

Against him, Nick was stiff as a board. "What," he articulated.

"What what?"

"How do you – You know that I-I'm – "

"A werewolf?" Harry thought he could see where the problem was now. "It's kinda hard to miss, mate."

Nick was looking at him in stunned amazement. As though Harry had spoken a language he couldn't comprehend. Harry put a steadying hand on the small of his back when it looked like Nick might keel over.

"You – don't you mind?" He'd never heard Nick sound so small before. So fragile, tentative, the first ember of hesitant hope. It broke Harry's heart, just a little, to think about the kind of rejection he had to have endured in his life, to get that naked look on his face.

"I don't mind," he assured the other boy, slinging an arm over his shoulders for good measure, dragging him in a quick one-armed hug. "One of my Godfathers is a werewolf. And he is the kindest, strongest man I know."

"Oh," said Nick meekly.

Harry shook him, teasing. "C'mon. We need to get going, or the others will leave without us."

They began walking again.

"Where's your Godfather now?" Nick asked, voice stronger though still slightly dazed.

"Uh." Thinking of Remus was like being dumped in ice-cold water. Harry hadn't seen the man in ages, and he knew how he could worry. Sirius' death had been a hard blow to him – he'd had a drawn, harassed-looking air about him ever since. It was some bone-deep fatigue Harry hadn't known how to help him shake off, because he could feel some of it himself. Harry couldn't begin to imagine what the wolf might do to Remus when it realised that Harry had disappeared as well. "I – he. He's gone," he settled for saying, as close to the truth as he could get.

A tentative hand brushed Harry's shoulder. "I'm sorry," Nick told him, grave and solemn the way people were around the dead. "I'd like to have met him."

Harry sniffed, resolutely pulling himself together. He'd take better care of Remus if he got back, he promised himself. When he got back. "Yeah. You'd have liked him, I think." He squeezed Nick's hand on his arm, then let go before the moment could turn any mushier. "I wish there was something I could do to help," he told the boy. "With your moon, I mean. My father used to turn into an animal to keep Remus company through his. Keep him from hurting himself. But I don't know how to do that. It's very complex magic." He gave a pensive hum. "I should ask Godric to teach me, if I ever go back to school."

"You – " Nick shook his head, a wry downturn to his lips. "You're something else, Potter."

They covered the rest of the way quickly. The air was pleasantly warm under the trees, away from the dry, scorching heat of Mediterranean summer. The sun was bright-gold as it drizzled down from its copse of leave. The trees were lean, twisted in absurd shapes by the salty brine constantly blowing from the sea. Birds and cicadas chirped out of sight, persistent background noise. It was a very different forest from the ones Harry was used to, interlaced with rocky valleys of clear stones and babbling streams. It didn't toll with the weight of rain and ancient secrets like the Forbidden Forest. Instead, it sang to a lighter, eclectic tune that set Harry's nerves alight.

"There you are!"

Harry looked up at the sound of Marya's voice. Godric's wife stood atop a crag of jagged stone, split open in the middle by the gaping opening of a large cave. Her hair was bound in a tight braid. Her arms were bare, muscled and littered with a few scars. Harry could see dark blood coating the entire length of her sword. She flicked off the worst of it with a negligent shake.

"Sorry boss," said Nick. He gestured at the boar still floating morosely in Harry's wake. "We thought we'd bring dinner along."

"Good lads," she proclaimed. "I'm afraid you missed all the fun, though. Bran has already gone to collect the bounty."

"Anything of interest down there?" Harry asked, curiously peering down the dark opening of the cave.

"See for yourself."

Harry glided down the soft, earthly slope, trailing fingers against the stone of keep his balance. It was pitch-dark down there. It smelled strongly of old socks and stagnant sewer water, a foul stench he remembered from his first year at Hogwarts, when he and Ron confronted a mountain troll. He gagged, pressed a sleeve against his nose, and resolved to breathe through his mouth. He conjured witchfire with a flick of his wrist, relieved to see that the trolls' carcasses had already been cleaned out. The cave stretched out under the ground, farther than his light could reach. The floor, a mix of sand and hard-packed earth, was strewn with dirty bones, gleaming dully in the artificial light. While some clearly belonged to animals, others were decidedly human. Harry even spied a couple of skulls, one of them still specked with old flaking blood. It was no wonder the Muggles had hired wizards for the job; though trolls were immensely stupid, they wielded their own kind of magic, which made them very hard to kill. They also had a taste for raw human flesh. Those had obviously taken a swipe at the nearby villagers, rendering them desperate enough to call Marya for help.

Harry trudged further into the cave, unsure as to what drove him forward. A niggling feeling at the back of his head, a whispering instinct, told him to venture deeper and deeper, bypassing the nauseating stink. The cave branched out in several smaller alcoves that the trolls might have used to store their food or meagre possessions. Mostly, they were filled with yet more bones, a few ragged animal pelts, a handful of shiny rocks. One of these rocks caught Harry's eyes, his entire focus zeroing in on a soft green glimmer, tucked away in a dark corner.

The stone was no bigger than a chicken's egg. It was cool and smooth to the touch, as though the years had polished it to perfect lustre. It was made of a dark-green grain or mineral that caught the light, reflected it in soothing river-green shades. Its ever-changing, wavering colour reminded Harry of the lake sloshing against the common room's windows. Delicately, he lifted it from its bracket, stuffed it in the pocket of his coat. He wasn't sure what he was going to do with it, but he knew he couldn't leave it to rot alone in the dark.

He hurried back to the surface, relieved to breathe in fresh, clean air again.

"Found anything?" Nick asked. He was busy skinning and carving the boar into cook-worthy pieces.

"Just a weird rock," Harry answered with a shrug, fingers curling around the small weight in his pocket.

Later that night, the Company gathered on the beach to celebrate a job well done. Archie cooked up the boar, glazing it with honey and its own juice, until the meat was tender, falling off the bones. Bran had procured enough potatoes to feed a small army, using a portion of the price money they had earned from killing the trolls. They roasted the potatoes under the hot coals of a bonfire, lathered them with a generous amount of butter, until the sweet scent filled the night's air. Harry had gone into town, spending his own money to buy mead and beer, a sweet Greek blend that fizzled on the tongue. They drank their fill as the setting sun skimmed the waves, blazing rings of deep pink and purple.

Harry felt good, lazy with meat and alcohol. The Company was in excellent mood; Hayden had taken up a rowdy song, booming voice warming the cooling air, cheered along by the other men. He could get used to this life, Harry thought. Living by the day, travelling the world, getting work where he could, accompanied by good friends who enjoyed the simple pleasures of life. Who did things because they felt good, unburdened by worry or responsibility or fear, who didn't overthink their place in the great scheme of things. This had to be what freedom looked like. Harry thought he could learn a thing or two from these men's philosophies.

Nick flopped beside him with a thud. "What's the long face for, Harry?" he asked. The werewolf looked clear-headed, alert, even though he had drunk at least was much as Harry had.

"M'okay," replied Harry, slurring his words only slightly. "Just thinking about – " He gestured grandly at the stars, which were only just blinking into sight, pale-silver against vibrant violet. "Stuff."

"'Stuff'," Nick parroted. Harry could tell the other boy was laughing at him.

"Uh-uh. 'bout life and going home." He looked up at Nick. The fire played with the angles of the man's face, gliding his skin rich honey. "I'm not sure that I can, y'know," he said. "Go home I mean. Sometimes I don't even want to, 'cos it's good here. And that's just terrible, innit? But there's war and so many of my friends are dead now. It's all just blood and hunger and, and – and torture, like knives scrapping your skin. A lot of people want me dead, too."

Nick had frozen at some point while Harry was talking. Something stalked behind his eyes, golden-bright, glowing yellow in the red light of the fire. "Harry," he said slowly, hands clenching convulsively in the thin sand below. "Stay," he uttered at last. "I don't know what you're talking about, but, just – stay. Nothing bad will happen to you here. I – we can protect you. I promise."

Nick looked dead serious, his lips pressed in a thin line, earnest and determined. Harry was overtaken by the sudden urge to coax away the frown on his month with his lips. He wanted to lean up and kiss Nick, chase after the taste of mead on his tongue.

He giggled. He couldn't help himself. He shuffled closer, patted Nick on the knee. "You, Nicholas," he declared. "Are a good man." Then he sagged back on the sand, quite happy with himself.

A wordless growl of frustration sounded near his ear. "And you're a bloody idiot, Potter," Nick informed him, voice rough. Harry could almost hear his eye-roll.

" 'S not my fault. It's hard to keep up with things. Like – like time. How the hell am I supposed to get the right time, heh?"

"It's the middle of August, Potter. You don't need to be a damned wizard to know that."

August. The thought sparked firecrackers in Harry's fuzzy brain, made his heart thump louder. August. If the month was August, then that meant – that meant –

"I'm eighteen!" he exclaimed, bewildered by the unexpected knowledge. He frowned, did the math in his head. He'd left his time at the beginning of January, some six months after his seventeenth birthday. He had spent a year in the past. "Nay," he corrected, dazed. "I'm eighteen and a half. Bloody hell. I didn't even notice."

"God, you're so weird." Harry hummed in agreement. A light kick landed in his side. "Move Potter. Looks like the boss wants to talk to us."

Harry had no choice but to follow when Nick grabbed his arms, hauled him up with inhuman strength. Not sexy, he told himself sternly. He is your friend and this is not sexy, though he couldn't help leaning against Nick's warmth as they scuttled their way across the camp, Harry's arm slung over Nick's shoulder.

Ever since he'd had his epiphany over his attraction to Salazar, Harry had been noticing things. About men. It was as though he'd cracked open Pandora's box. Everything he'd kept carefully buried had come spilling out, impossible to ignore. He found himself wanting. Looking at people his own gender in a way he never had before. Or maybe he had. He wasn't sure. Maybe this wasn't the first time his eyes lingered on the tense line of a pulled-up shirt, the defined muscles shifting beneath. Maybe this wasn't the first time he found himself transfixed by the sight of stubble-covered lips lifting in a wry smile. By the dramatic dip of a collarbone. He thought he might have noticed before – before Salazar.

But he had never noticed himself noticing, and that made all the difference. Now he caught himself wondering what it would be like to run his hands over the flat expanse of a hard chest. He wanted to fit the angles of a sharp jaw in his palms, curl his fingers in shorn hair.

He couldn't say whether it was normal. He knew what his Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia thought of people like him. He'd seen them sneer at women holding hands in the street, full of scorn and venom. He'd heard his Uncle call freak and pervert and unnatural, aren't they ashamed, parading themselves like that, I don't want these degenerates near my Dudley, a couple of men who had made a life together in Private Drive. Maybe that was why Harry had never noticed himself noticing before; he hadn't wanted to make himself even more of a freak. He hadn't wanted to be any more different from his estranged family. He hadn't wanted to know the kind of punishment Uncle Vernon would dish out if he ever found one more truth about his wizard of a nephew. Salazar had stripped him of his illusions, standing half-naked in front of Harry. He'd made Harry see, had made him look, because Salazar would not be denied or ignored. Harry respected him too much for that. He'd had to shake the comfortable carcass of the boy that night, all its blindfolding pretences, to don the body of a man.

As if to make matters even more puzzling, Harry had realised that being attracted to men hadn't diminished the appeal of women. He'd thought about his time with Ginny, about the light-heading warmth of her kisses, how good it had felt to have her pressed against him. He used to love carding fingers through her hair, feeling the soft, smooth skin of her thighs, of her breasts. He remembered the white-hot lightning sparks of pleasure as he moved with her, inside her, watching her eyes roll back, her mouth part open as she pulled him closer, her skin damp with sweat, breathtakingly beautiful.

In short, Harry was confused. He'd never had to question sex or his sexuality before. He'd never had the time for it like the other boys his age, with his life being under constant threat since he'd turned eleven. He found these new feeling disorienting, though he'd been sure to keep them for himself, even when he'd been paralysed by fear.

There was a faint hum against his ear, Nick squeezing his waist in warning.

"Boys," Marya greeted, sitting on the sand with the rest of her men, parchment strewn around her, fluttering in the breeze. An owl stood on her shoulder, golden gaze staring fixedly at Nick, hooting uncomfortably at the werewolf's presence. "Please, sit down." Both Harry and Nick flung themselves beside her, an inelegant jumble of limbs. Marya's lips quirked upward. "I've received news from my husband," she told them, gesturing at one of the letters she held. "Apparently Hogwarts wishes to hire our help in retrieving a wizard boy. They can't spare the men."

"That shouldn't take too much time," Nick muttered.

But Marya shook her head. "Godric tells me the situation might be more complicated than that. Rowena thinks the boy will be discovered soon. We need to spirit him to safety before he can be executed." She shot them a critical look. "I'd like you both to come with me. Specially you Harry. You'll be better placed to reassure the boy. You're good with children from what I hear."

Though Harry couldn't say he was delighted at the thought of going back to England, he nodded his assent. He couldn't refuse Marya after everything she had done for him. Besides, he felt responsible for Hogwarts students. He would go regardless of his reluctance.

"That's settled then." Marya stroked a finger down the owl's plumage. "I'll inform Godric. Pack up your things; we leave at dawn."

She was gathering her documents when a flint-strike of inspiration pushed Harry to say, "Actually, boss – I was wondering if I could borrow your owl. I'd like to send a letter to someone."

She cast him a curious glance but nodded without question. Harry scrambled to his feet, feeling abuzz. Alive. His stomach squirmed with anxious trepidation. He cursed himself for it; he felt like a teenager with his first crush. He whistled for the owl to follow him, ignoring the painful tinge of his heart when the majestic barn took off gracefully, reminding him of Hedwig.

He was going to write to Salazar. He had promised, hadn't he? Though his memories of the Night were blurred at best, he remembered mumbling a vow to keep the man informed. Besides, to be honest, a part of him longed to hear from Salazar. He had felt the man's absence keenly over the past few months, even though he churned with contradictory emotions at the thought of him. Lust and guilt overlapping everything he had felt before – friendship and respect and wariness. Being apart from Salazar had been both a relief and a curse. Harry felt like he could think clearly again, distance having given him the advantage of perspective, but he ached, longed for someone he couldn't reach. It was as though his connection to Salazar physically pained him, stretched taut by the separation, pulling Harry in by his heartstrings.

He walked away from the camp while Nick joined a cluster of men in an arm-wrestling match he was sure to win. He moved far enough that no one would come bother him, though he made sure to keep the Company in sight. He conjured ink and parchment out of sand. The ink turned sea-green rather than black, and the parchment was pale if a bit grainy, but he thought it would do. Salazar wouldn't mind. Besides, Harry wasn't sober enough to do any better.

He tapped his quill against his lips, wondering what he could write, coming up blank. Hey, Salazar, he thought, I'm sorry I ran off like that. I know it wasn't the best of times to up and disappear on you. You probably could've used my help. I'm sorry. But in my defence, Gytha had died because of me and I was hurt, and I'd just realised I fancy you, which really freaked me out.

He snorted. That would go down just fine, he was sure.

Hello Salazar. I'm fine and I hope you are as well. I've been travelling with Marya Gryffindor recently. I know you don't like her much, but she's offered me work. I'm a mercenary. No luck finding a way to go home, but I least I have money now. How are things for you?

The very thought made him feel queasy. There had never been space for small talk or pleasantries between him and Salazar. The man had found him bleeding to death, had tasted Harry's thoughts within moments of meeting him. With Salazar, abiding by the rules of etiquette that constricted formal relationships had never crossed Harry's mind. It had always seemed superfluous. Unneeded. The thought of starting now repulsed him.

He went through a few more ideas, crossing them out one after the other. He considered writing the truth. Pouring his heart out. What did he have to lose?

I didn't know it was possible to feel for someone what I feel for you. It occurred to me, while I was washing your wounds, that I want you like I've never wanted anything or anyone in my life. I felt that knowledge expend from where it had been coiled up in my chest. It squeezed around my heart, then it grew and grew until I feared I might explode from the hapless strength of it. Because you see, Salazar, the thing is. The thing is, wanting you could be the most dangerous thing that has ever happened to me. That's why I left. I needed to get away from you before you could consume me. I've tried to get home, these past few months. Desperately. I've scoured the four corner of England without success. All of it in a bid to escape you, the hold you have on me. I'm so scared of what might happen to me if I stay. If I linger for too long. But still. Still, fear isn't enough. And I hate myself for how relieved I am at not having found a way to return to my time.

He burned that piece of parchment to cinder, watched the ashes blow away in the breeze. Feeling like a coward. As he was sitting back down, he felt a lump against his thigh. He rooted around in his pockets, extracting the strange, green stone he had found in the troll's den earlier. The colour made him think of Slytherin. Of home.

He drew up another piece of parchment. A careful spell stuck the green stone to the paper. Another lightened it up. It didn't take Harry long to scribble five small words on the space he had left.

I thought you might like it.

Then, because he couldn't help himself,

Yours, Harry.

{. . .}

Harry's head was spinning badly now. The world whirled before his eyes. His skin tingled, his breathing was short, raspy. He could hardly feel the air against him, or the scrapping of his clothes. He thought he saw Merlin looking at him with wide, worried eyes, the boy's presence like a physical thing, his magic causing Harry's to stir restlessly. Or perhaps that was the drums, which had picked up the pace.

His memories unravelled faster and faster. They rose up from the depths of his mind, clamouring for attention. He felt as though he was being pushed under water. His lung filled with something thick, syrupy, and he –

{. . .}

Months ago

He spent a miserable month roaming England like listless ghost. He felt out of his mind, blank with shock. He left Hogwarts that night with the clothes on his back, his sword and his wand. He Apparated to Stonehenge to moment he stepped outside the gates, taking a looping detour around the battlefield. He could smell the stench of blood and rot from the distance.

He wasn't sure how long he stayed at Stonehenge. He threw himself to work with the grim dedication of a man with problems to avoid. He examined every inch of the stones. He fed them his magic. He poked and prodded, then he begged and begged and begged. He begged to be swept back home. He pleaded to every god that would listen. He'd had enough of this time, of getting attached knowing full well he would lose everyone he met. He was tired of caring. Tired of wanting. Tired.

Tired.

The reality of Gytha's death caught up with him one balmy evening as the sun was setting, his stomach churning painfully with hunger. It was like losing Sirius all over again. His chest felt like a raw, gaping wound, and he couldn't stop bleeding. He curled up against an upturned stone and cried. He cried like a child, until his cheeks hurt with salt and his eyes were gritty with sand. Until he had no more tears to shed, and all he could do was ride out the great shudders that tore through him. It lasted all night, when finally he collapsed from exhaustion.

Afterwards, he woke up to watch the sun rise, soft red and pale peach. He talked to Gytha, even though he knew she wasn't there to listen. He reminded himself of all the good memories he had of her. Teaching her to read and write. Hugging her as she grieved the loss of her family. Pulling pranks on Gryffindors. Hearing her complain about homework. All those quietly joyful moments in the common room. He asked for her forgiveness. He said his goodbyes.

By the time the sun had risen, he felt at peace. His throat was desert-dry, his body hurt with hunger cramps, but the throbbing pain in his chest had changed. He wasn't alright, not by a long shot, but he was healing. Slowly. Painfully.

That same day, he gave up on Stonehenge. He could think of nothing else to do with it. He wished Hermione were there with him.

He Apparated a few miles off the coast, praying he wouldn't materialise inside of a tree that hadn't been there the last time he'd been around.

He found odd jobs to do, drifting from one town to the next. He spent two weeks helping a farmer with his fields. He bartended for a while, which he liked better that cutting down wheat. He had to beat a hasty retreat when he cursed a costumer for having harassed Emelind, one of the women he worked with. He hitched a ride to France, serving as deckhand on a merchant ship owned by Alfric's family.

There was nowhere he needed to be, so he wandered. He stumbled his way to southern France. He got acquainted with the magical community of Toulouse, an old, convoluted city of red bricks and cramped, timbered houses, tumultuous with activity. A vampire Duke, a tall, wax-skinned man, lean as a greyhound, who, it seemed, enjoyed the town's clogging heat, gave Harry full access to his library. He spent some time lurking by the vaulting, stretching aisles, copying a few texts he thought could be of interest. He discussed his time-travelling situation with Ambroise, which the vampire found endlessly entertaining. He proposed to Turn Harry, arguing that immortality was a way like any other to rejoin his timeline. Harry politely declined.

He continued on, crossing the Pyrenees and then to Spain. He walked alone under the swollen blue skies, on golden-plains spread level, golden-tawny grass swaying in mystic patterns as wide as the world. Somewhere on a flatland tucked between mountain peaks and a powerful river, feeling utterly lost, utterly alone, Harry took what felt like the first true breath of his life. He felt the stretch of freedom in his lungs, and it was water-sweet, spiced with a haze of lavender, of warm earth and the faint whiff of pine needles. Which each day that passed since, he felt like he was meeting a little more of himself.

He was deep in Andalusia, glimpsing the sea, aquamarine-blue so clear he thought it looked like glass, when he happened upon Marya and her people. An incident involving hungry Hippogriffs and heart-shaped fireworks found him with an offer for a job. And then he -

He –

{. . .}

He was dimly aware that the memories were flashing quicksilver-fast before his eyes, slipping away from his control. He didn't know where he was, or who he was with. Urgent voices tried to coax him back to himself but weren't enough.

He was tending to Salazar's wounds, feeling like a fret train was about to bear down on him. He was confronting the crack in the Forest, revolting, death-cold, Hermione's voice screaming his name, magic leaking out of him like blood. There was something wrong with him. Something wrong wrong wrong with him, he was wrong –

He saw Runes flaring, searing into his soul. He saw time twist, bend, fracture, and it was terrible, and he, Harry, was right there in the middle of it all. Cause and consequence looping back on each other, infinite. He heard the rumbling shift of the earth's plates, saw red-gurgling magma, he looked deeper and deeper to where the world cracked and was made of shadows, he saw inside of himself and he saw.

He Saw.

Harry broke away from his transe, screaming.