Reign Over the Frosted Heavens

by Meer-Heika

Bleach/HP xover. Toshiro Hitsugaya learns first-hand the cruel side of Wizarding Britain. Can Harry Potter teach him about the good? Chapter 34 up. The ride to Avalon is a bumpy one!

35. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

A/N: Just as a reminder: Camelot is the capitol, Avalon is the dimension—just as Seireitei is the capitol of Soul Society.

5,000+ of the following words came from the mind, hands, and heart of my beta, Cressie. They improved the story in ways I cannot describe but that I hope you enjoy. To her I give co-authorship of this chapter.

With all that Harry had been through, it truly was a miracle that he remained conscious at all. From the instant Voldemort entered the park, Harry's scar had throbbed non-stop, a constant agony that both distracted and weakened him. He'd powered through as best he could. What other choice was there, if they had any hope of surviving his latest encounter with Voldemort?

As if facing Snake-face only a few weeks ago in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic hadn't been bad enough.

The public park in Little Whinging, Surrey, was a literal war zone. The heavens themselves released a flood of biblical proportions, thunderclaps slammed against eardrums, and electricity blazed brighter than the noonday sun. Three disparate factions, not counting himself and Toshiro, tossed spells in all directions with no regard for their eventual target. Beams of colored light collided—sometimes three or four at a time—redirecting their effects, mutating them into an inconceivable aberration, or cancelling each other out in an explosion of sparks. Chaos transformed a storm-tossed but otherwise normal night into hell on Earth.

One thought dominated every mind: every man for himself and damn all others.

A vicious spike of pain impaled Harry's forehead an instant before his most hated enemy cast the killing curse at him. The torture, as unexpected as it was devastating, overwhelmed him; his entire body locked up in a seizure of agony. If Toshiro had not yanked him out of the way, Harry Potter would surely be dead, as he hadn't enough strength left to dodge the attack.

Gasping and wheezing, trembling with exhaustion and pain both magical and physical, Harry Potter rump-slid backwards on a pathway of dark stone as Toshiro pulled him through the doors. He bounced to a juddering stop, saved from falling completely over by his hands on the ground behind him. His holly-and-phoenix-feather wand clattered three times before rolling into a groove between two rectangular blocks.

Before Harry could regain his breath, the ponderous doors dissolved into misty vapor. Their disappearance opened his view to an immense passageway that stretched into infinity. The young wizard studied the endless tunnel, his face a classic concoction of panic, disbelief and disorientation.

The lion's portion of his battered mind reeled, unable to accept the evidence of his own senses.

The park…the Death Eaters, the Aurors…Dumbledore's lot. Where did they—Did it really work?

One moment, Harry had stared down the length of Voldemort's bone-colored yew-and-phoenix feather wand, as the torment in his forehead threatened to split his skull open. A lethal green light blossomed on its tip and sped in his direction. The next…

Nothing. No rain. No lights. No cries. No screams. No insane laughter or maniacal commands.

And no pain in his scar. One moment, it had been pulsing hard enough to blind him. The next, there was nothing, like someone had flipped a switch. The effect left his head tingling, as though his brain worked overtime, trying to determine what he was supposed to feel at the moment.

Years of experience showed what the teen wizard should be feeling, what he expected to feel. Voldemort would undoubtedly be furious—if this was a strong enough word—that his targets had escaped him. Powerful emotions from the Dark Lord had always meant distressing echoes of the emotions for Harry Potter.

Yet he felt…nothing.

What does it mean? When Toshiro and me rushed through that doorway, did it transport us somewhere, like the Floo Network? It certainly didn't feel anything like travelling by the floo. It didn't feel like anything, really.

No whisper of power, no dizziness, no sense of movement, just like stepping from one room into another.

First they were there then they were here, away from the carnage. Harry strained, but the only sounds were two sets of harsh breathing and a random, subdued drip-plop-splash as shed rainwater plummeted from clothing and hair into slowly spreading puddles that surrounded the two boys.

A timid whisper of realization dared to creep into his conscious mind. We did it. We actually escaped Voldemort.

Harry twitched in surprise as Toshiro's hand rested against the trembling teen's left shoulder blade. "Are you hurt? I mean, anything new?"

"'kay. M'okay," he gasped as he tried to bring his breathing back under control. The mortal boy wondered if he actually believed that—Toshiro obviously didn't, from the way he looked at him—but it was the best he could do for the moment.

Toshiro seemed to realize he needed time to collect himself. The white-haired boy settled back onto his heels, a sheathed katana across his folded knees.

An irrelevant thought flitted through Harry's mind—Where has Toshiro been keeping that sheath, anyway?—as he took a moment to look over his little comrade-in-arms. After the wild night they'd shared, he could only marvel at the younger boy's power, and how fearlessly he had fought off wizard after wizard.

The shinigami captain released a controlled breath heavy with unmistakable satisfaction. Other than mangled clothes and a minor cut or twelve, the teen wizard saw no serious injuries on his smaller companion. Toshiro seemed to be taking a moment to readjust himself, or at least allowing Harry to do so. A quick scan of his own body found only those wounds from Uncle Vernon's attacks and random fresh bruises and cuts—and a bum that was not happy with its rough introduction to the stony ground. Nothing required immediate attention.

Okay, neither of us is hurt badly enough to need immediate attention, Harry thought. Now to ask: where are we? And which way do we go, forwards or behind?

In the five years since he had first been ushered into the wizarding world, Harry had been "through the looking glass" on many occasions; he was accustomed to the lurching differences between the muggle and magical communities. But this, this sudden trip through an entirely different sort of looking glass was so far removed from his realm of experience, he could hardly comprehend it.

The path where the pair sat measured some fifteen feet wide and thirty feet high. The walls and ceiling brought to Harry's mind the unpleasant mental image of a giant's fleshy and wrinkled large intestine. Straight as a ruler and the uniform shade of wet charcoal, the corridor vanished into the distance both before and behind them, unbroken by visible bends or intersections and lit by something other than a direct light source. The road bed was a lattice of tightly connected, large rectangular blocks set at staggered intervals, forming an elongated checkerboard pattern.

The air was still, devoid of life or sound save for one glaring aberration. To their right, a platter-sized segment of the brawny wall—the impact point for Voldemort's Avada Kedavra spell—frothed and curdled, as though acid was eating through flesh. Even as Harry watched, the damaged area widened, deepened, and cast off a stench like decomposing meat.

His near miss at Voldemort's hand struck a thought in Harry's head. He turned an anxious face to his companion and asked, "What do we do now? My fam—the Dursleys. Voldemort, he said he'd—"

Toshiro stood, settled his sword along his back, adjusted its sash to lie comfortably across his chest, and offered a hand to Harry. "I know."

Harry accepted the help up, as well as Toshiro's hold on his shoulder to control the sway of exhaustion. For a long moment, Potter didn't trust his own body, particularly his vision or his sense of balance. An oppressive weight of guilt did nothing to improve his condition.

"It's my fault," the young wizard fretted. "They don't give a ruddy damn about me, and I don't have any warm feelings for them, either, but they're the only blood kin I have left. He'll go after them because of me."

"That's not true and you know it," Hitsugaya countered with a particularly stern squeeze. "Sometimes, events happen that cannot be anticipated, altered or prevented. All we can do is move forward and leave some of the battles to others." Toshiro captured Harry's emerald green eyes with his own intense turquoise gaze. "Our circumstances are far different, but I understand all too well the pain that comes with feeling responsible for others' lives."

The shinigami captain squeezed Harry's shoulder again, added an attention-demanding shake, and intensified his stare. "Harry, you cannot fight an entire war alone. All you can do right now is train and grow stronger. When you're ready, you will face Voldemort again."

"My head know—" Harry began, but stopped suddenly and cast his eyes downward in surprise.

The ground beneath their feet twitched twice. A subliminal rumble sounded far in the distance.

"That's probably the sweeper," Hitsugaya reckoned, being familiar with the workings of the Precipice World. "No sense taking any risks. We should get to Avalon as soon as possible."

He picked a direction seemingly at random, as there were no signposts or indications which way this Avalon place would be, and set off at a brisk pace.

Harry retrieved his wand and hurried after his companion. He could only trust that Toshiro Hitsugaya knew where they were going; Harry Potter sure as hell didn't. This strange new place was so disorienting, he couldn't even tell from which direction the ominous rumbling was coming from.

With each step, he winced at the squelch of his soaked, ragged, ill-fitting trainers stuffed with newspaper to improve their fit. Wringing water from their clothes as they went, the pair managed perhaps a dozen steps before both sound and vibrations swelled in a grand crescendo. Toshiro and Harry spun around, expecting to find a mammoth something practically on top of them.

The sweeper's function was to clean the Precipice World of any and all contaminants. It looked something like a large, round, hairy sponge, designed to fill the passageway top-to-bottom and side-to-side as it scoured away all matter down to the molecular level.

At least, that is how it should have looked.

Harry blinked. And blinked again. And laughed.

"I thought you said the sweeper was dangerous. And huge!" He snickered again. "I've seen housecats bigger than that."

The diminutive sweeper trundled along the ground in an irregular zigzag pattern. It made a noise somewhere between a roar and a rattle, and caused tremors far out of proportion to its pocket size.

"Is it supposed to be scouring holes in the floor?" Harry deadpanned, even though he instinctively knew the answer had to be in the negative.

"No," Hitsugaya replied tersely as he took a half-step back. His countenance bore no trace of Harry's amusement. "No, it is not."

"And them?" Harry swept a hand toward more of the oncoming miniature things.

Beyond the sweeper, five more could now be seen—one on the floor, one on the ceiling, and the rest on the walls. Each fluff-ball left in its wake a trail of ragged, Swiss-cheese holes in the horizontal and vertical surfaces.

Hitsugaya's gaze sharpened, and went to the section of wall damaged by Voldemort's Killing Curse. Even as he looked, the corrupting outside force ate through the wall and created a spreading black void. Beyond the perforation swirled a lawless mass of matter and non-matter, unclaimed star-stuff transfused with raw, arcane energy. No substance could survive there, whether it be mortal or spirit, protoplasm or ectoplasm, living cell or lifeless element.

Quickly analyzing the unnatural situation, Toshiro surmised, "Voldemort's curse must have changed something in the sweepers' programming. They're not just cleaning the Dangai. They're breaking down the barriers between dimensions!"

"That doesn't sound good," Harry added, apprehensively.

"It isn't. Run!"

Toshiro turned around and darted away, Harry hot on his heels.

()()()()

"Ghaaaaaa! FINALLY! Yes!"

Anissina DuLay and Aina Sigursdottur both smiled as Daniel Gilbreathe threw his arms high in celebration and fell back into his padded chair, coming dangerously close to tipping backwards onto the control room's dark green tiles. The captains of Third and Sixth Divisions watched, amused, as their counterpart from the Eighth Division allowed his inner child a moment's free rein.

The captain of Research and Development spun his chair in circles. Legs flung out, arms raised, Daniel pumped his fists in triumph. He'd endured hours upon hours of hard, thought-intensive work trying to format the Precipice World to accept Harry Potter's distinctive blend of mortal, spiritual and magical energies. He'd relished the challenge, welcomed it whole-heartedly, but Daniel was more than grateful to finally be finished.

"All done then?" Anissina asked lightly from where she sat in front of the control room's second console, long braids hanging down the back of the chair all the way to the floor. Close beside her, Aina leaned against a nearby wall, idly rolling a small dagger between her fingers.

"YES, YES, YESSSSSS!" Daniel crowed in relief. Overhead lighting danced off the lenses of his glasses, making his eyes spark with delight. "It was a wonderful puzzle, make no mistake. A delightful challenge, certainly. Rare. Unique. I doubt I shall see another like it for millennia. If ever! But damn-it-all, Nissa, I'm glad it's DONE! The incessant phone calls alone were enough to drive me 'round the twist!"

Movement in DuLay's peripheral vision pulled the healer's attention away from her fellow captain's silly antics. With a curious frown at what she was seeing on one of the monitors, she asked, "Is it supposed to be doing that?"

Daniel stopped his tomfoolery to study the largest of three monitors, the other two of which contained streams of data related to the system's background coding. The scientist stared, uncomprehending for a moment then answered with a muttered, "Uhhh, nooooo," and attacked the keyboard. He paused, expecting the mini-sweepers to stand down. Rather, they sped up.

"No? Okay, that didn't work. I should, yeah," the Eighth Division captain muttered to himself as he worked.

Another protracted string of computereze curled across the command line, only to vanish with the press of a submit key. Instead of standing down, two new mini-sweepers appeared; the voids produced by their passing grew larger and more numerous.

To make matters even worse, the once straight and level passage became a nightmare whorl with no rhyme or reason. Judging by the two running figures, all directions (including up) were possible. The gyrations and curlicues only served to backdrop the unchecked nature of the emergency.

He gave no notice when Anissina and Aina stepped closer to better view the action.

"Oh dear. Maybe if I…mmm…"

Daniel inserted an even longer chain of commands. Instead of removing the rampaging mini-sweepers, some three dozen smaller balls, each the size of an egg but even more destructive than their larger counterparts, appeared in the beleaguered, damaged passageway. The new sweeplets didn't leave holes up to the size of dinner plates. Where they passed, all of the Precipice material disappeared, revealing the lethal proto-matter between dimensions.

The micro-sweepers even eradicated their larger predecessors as they caught up to them.

On the screen, Potter looked back and saw the new threats. The three captains in the control room heard the clearly hysterical wizard shout something about "scrubbing bubbles" before he added more speed to an already frantic run.

Aina cocked an eyebrow and, just loud enough for Daniel to hear, asked, "I wonder if our mortal friend thinks he is in a bathroom cleaner commercial."

Not appreciating the fact that his fellow captain kept up with minutia from the Living World, Gilbreathe glowered at the video feed, fingers blurring over the controls, and groused, "Not helping."

()()()()

Harry truly wondered if the term "reality" had any connections whatsoever to the place where he now found himself. At the very least, "logic" had taken a holiday at a secret location far, far away.

After a minute or so of running down a straight, unbroken corridor, "reality" took on a whole new set of physical laws. Straight became corkscrew, up became down (and vice versa), left could be mistaken for right (again, vice versa), and who knew where, when or if they would find the OUT. Gravity was no longer a viable concept; the floor arched upwards at a 90 degree angle but he could run straight up without any problems whatsoever. At several points they ran along the ceiling without resistance.

This bizarre place had travelling by portkey beat, hands down, for sheer lunacy and the overloading of his senses.

As they rounded a U-bend, literally running on the far wall in order to maintain speed, Hitsugaya and Potter had just enough advanced warning to jump over yet another mini-sweeper that had raced across their path. The pair hopscotched their way across the minefield of voids left in its wake. During one of the jumps, Harry's left trainer came off and disappeared into a hole in the passage's…ceiling? It passed into a void and disintegrated into its smallest subatomic particles.

So this is why Luna told me to wear shoes that wouldn't fall off. Harry thought. Figures!

The young wizard continued to run despite the handicap of one-shoe-off-one-shoe-on, and did his best to stay close to his white-haired companion. Judging by the many glances cast Harry's way, Toshiro kept pace with him on purpose; had he so chosen to do so, the little shinigami could have left him in the dust.

A glance back showed their situation to be even more dire than before. Where there had been a few cat-sized menaces, he now saw dozens of their smaller, more destructive mouser cousins.

The lunacy of the situation brought forth his irreverent side and made him cry out the first thought that came into his mind.

"They're Scrubbing Bubbles!"

Hitsugaya, two steps ahead, looked back, unsure of what Potter was referring to. His turquoise eyes widened in alarm. While the mortal boy's mind sought humor as a way to cope with their bizarre situation, Toshiro understood just how grave a predicament they faced. He could use shunpo and reach the Avalon exit gate in seconds, but he would never leave a comrade behind, especially a mortal boy who would die if he did so.

Even taking a moment to throw Potter over his shoulder and shunpo both of them to the exit would've been a moment too long. Still, he had to push Potter to increase his speed if they had any chance of making it to Avalon.

Toshiro put on a burst of speed and cried, "Move it, Harry!"

The young wizard, desperate not to be left behind, sped up as much as he could. The two boys ran even faster, up, down, upside down and sideways. Their lives literally depended on it.

As he was pushing himself to keep up with Toshiro, the heel of Harry's remaining shoe caught on the edge of a narrow strip of nothing. He scrambled back to solid ground then, with a vindictive cow kick, launched the offending micro-sweeper that had appeared in his path to the rear of the approaching horde. It and a dozen of its counterparts disintegrated in the nothingness of their own making.

Harry's insane good luck kicked in—contact with the mini-sweeper destroyed his sneaker down to the molecular level but the kick itself had thrown the shoe clean off his foot. By the time the disintegrating energy ate through its sole and would have destroyed Harry's flesh, the shoe had sailed free, taking the danger with it.

Toshiro shouted, "There it is! The exit!" as he pointed to a light in the distance. The white square played peekaboo, there then gone then back again according to the undulations of the besieged pathway.

"They're gaining! The passage…nothing's left behind us!" Harry cried, panic seizing him as he looked back at the expanding void that rushed after them. The void had consumed everything in its path, even the majority of the "scrubbing bubbles."

"We're almost there! Keep going!" the shinigami captain desperately urged Harry on.

"I don't plan (wheeze) on stopping!"

The portal grew brighter, larger, closer.

With the grand void less than a foot behind them, they leapt for the promised safety that lay beyond the blinding white portal. They were up. And out.

Harry Potter and Toshiro Hitsugaya shot through the rectangle of light into open air, their speed carrying them nearly thirty feet beyond the exit boundaries. Impact with a lush, grassy slope knocked all air from their lungs. A boulder in his path brought Hitsugaya to a more abrupt stop than his mortal friend, who ended his tumble in a frothy splash into a narrow, winding, sandy-bottomed brook.

The giant wood and copper doors swung closed with a ponderous clang then vanished into spectral smoke. Harry sucked air into frantic lungs as he watched the spot where the doors had disappeared, hoping that this new space he had crash-landed in was not going to dissolve as well.

One moment passed, then another. The landscape remained unchanged. Harry gave one last gasp of relief, even as every cell of his body lost cohesion. He could not have moved another centimeter, not even were Death Itself standing over him with a scythe ready to take his head. Staying conscious at all took every last erg of his strength.

He laid submerged chest-to-thighs in running water. His head and shoulders rested on a mossy pillow, calves and feet supported by similar mosses on the farther bank. A light breeze laced with sweet grass and floral perfumes from the surrounding meadow blew against wet clothing and cooled overheated skin. Sunlight warmed his face, bathing his eyelids in a lemony glow.

"That was quite the entrance, jeune homme." an amused voice rumbled above him.

Harry cracked sweat-tacky eyelids and looked up. Standing above him, backlit by a bright blue sky and upside down to the boy's field of vision, was an old man clad in a black, short-sleeve tunic over a white undershirt and black leggings. On his shoulders was a short white mantle, hemmed with Celtic knots and marked on the left shoulder by a pentagonal Celtic design around the number one. He leaned on a walking staff for support, though something in the stranger's posture made Harry wonder if the stance was more "pose" and less "need."

The man felt old-old-old—enough to weight the air with his ages. Despite the unfamiliar pressure and near-overwhelming strength of the elder's personality and power, Harry was not afraid. It reminded him of Toshiro's "presence" during their recent running battles, though this was calmer, a tranquil pool deeper than any ocean depth.

Harry had no doubt, this old man was powerful beyond belief.

In a voice quivery with relief, Harry quipped, "The water...feels wonderful...can I stay here?"

The old man made no effort to smother a chuckle. "Soak in the creek as long as you wish, my young friend. I do say, your arrival was slightly more amusing and less painful than that of young Captain Hitsugaya. Though we now have physical proof of his hard head."

Potter recognized the voice of Captain de Tournay, who had spoken with him over the soul phone prior to the fight with Voldemort. He followed the old man's gaze. Beyond his own bare feet—when had he lost his socks?—he spied a rumpled, mud-, grass- and dirt-stained Toshiro Hitsugaya propped against a large, gray lump of stone, the only one in the entire vast field of grass and small brush. The white-haired youth rubbed his forehead with one hand and slapped at the ripped leggings of his hakama to cover his bloody knees with the other, his uncensored expression one of muted annoyance.

Even as the mortal teen watched, Harry's smaller companion throughout the long ordeal released a long breath and relaxed, in spite of his painful encounter with the boulder. Toshiro's lithe body went limp with exhaustion, and his countenance melted into weary relief.

Harry's expression tightened, unable to immediately grasp that same assurance. "We're...safe?"

"Yes, you're safe." The elder leaned harder against his staff and tilted his head to more directly meet Harry's emerald eyes. He graced the young wizard with an honest smile and said, "Welcome to Avalon, Harry Potter."

The man's warm welcome echoed in his mind. For a moment, Harry marveled that he'd finally made it to this mysterious haven, this place of promised safety that he had wondered about since he'd first learned where Toshiro's people came from.

A small voice inside his head whispered, I'm really here. I'm actually in the Afterlife, and I'm still alive!

He had passed through the ultimate Looking Glass.

However, being who he was, with his complicated life and, as Hermione put it, his 'saving people thing,' Harry could not dwell on such a miraculous moment.

The events of the afternoon and evening replayed themselves in Harry's mind. He stared up at the eldest of the reapers and pleaded, "Please, please send word back there. Voldemort, he...he intends to murder my..." after his uncle's murderous assault, Harry could no longer call them 'family,' "the Dursleys."

De Tournay glanced at one of the knights in an entourage of some half-dozen similarly dressed people (though no one else wore a mantle) and gave a single, tiny nod. The woman, a muscular brunette, leapt away, vanishing in an instant.

"Done, my young friend. Given the variance in linear time between this world and your own, she will arrive in plenty of time."

"So...what happens now?" Harry asked, his voice weary but still apprehensive.

"Now, you relax in this creek and let the water drain away your stress and aches. Whenever you are ready, we will escort you into Camelot. It's not far, just over yon rise." He pointed beyond Harry's head with the metal-capped butt of his staff. Harry was too tired to bother looking; he'd take the old man's word for it. "For safety reasons, your special gate arrived in an area well clear of buildings and people. Once the healers have field-treated your injuries, we will take you to Captain DuLay's facility in Camelot proper, where she will give you a more thorough examination. Once that is done, we'll find a place where you can rest. Nothing can or will harm you here. Nothing at all. Remember that. While you are in Avalon, you are safe," the Field Marshal's rich, baritone voice soothed his young guest.

"Safe." Harry stared at an endless, pale blue sky and repeated the word in a breathy whisper. "I wonder what that feels like."

De Tournay's smile softened still more as he replied, "You will know soon enough."

Harry smiled at the reassurance and, within moments, fell asleep.

()()()()

Captain de Tournay watched the mortal boy for a minute, making sure he was unconscious, then motioned for his team behind him to move in.

Toshiro called from his place against the boulder, "Is Potter all right?"

The ancient leader of Avalon waved to him and said jovially, "He'll be fine. The boy's fallen asleep in the creek. I think you wore him out, Captain Hitsugaya."

Toshiro debated with himself on how to respond, but was spared the need as he felt a reishi signal fast approaching and heard a rush of wind then a frantic voice called out, "Oh, thank the Heavens you're all right! Where's Harry? Oh, there he is." Daniel leaned over the boulder Toshiro had crashed into. "Thank goodness!"

Hitsugaya looked up at him, a trickle of blood meandering down his face from a new cut on his forehead, and smirked, "You couldn't have placed that passage just a foot to the right or the left? You had to set it right in front of this boulder for me, didn't you?"

Daniel looked down in surprise at the rumpled and bloodied shinigami, took in Toshiro's condition and compared it to the impact cracks in the boulder's surface. In spite of his outward appearance, there was a self-assured look in the young prodigy's eyes that Daniel hadn't seen since he'd first met him. It was a welcome sight.

"Well, you weren't supposed to destroy the Precipice Gateway I created for you two, you know? Or come pelting out of it like a pair of runaway cart horses." He stood up straight and offered a hand to Toshiro, pulling him to his feet.

Toshiro snarked back, "If your Dangai passageway hadn't dissolved around us, I could have given Potter a more leisurely tour."

As the little captain stood, Daniel winced with chagrin. At this point, he wasn't sure what led to things going so horribly wrong with the Precipice Gate he had spent so much time on, designing it specifically to allow Harry Potter safe passage to Avalon. He preferred not to broach the subject until he could study the problem further and so cast about for a diversion. "Hmm, you've dented this boulder, did you see? And this crack here, I know it wasn't there before. They weren't kidding when they said you were hard-headed!"

"Hard-headed? Who said that?" Toshiro looked up at him and shouted.

Daniel just chuckled and waved his hands in front of him as he said, "Sorry, sorry! Please forgive me, I spoke out of turn. Pay me no mind. Let's just go get you cleaned up, shall we?"

"Hn!" Toshiro huffed at him then looked down at himself. His robes were still wet from his prolonged battle in that mortal world's downpour. Mud splattered his shinigami robes which were ripped and burned in several places due to close calls from spell fire. He only hoped his haori was not too badly damaged. They were ridiculously expensive, and head captain Yamamoto frowned upon captains that needed their haori replaced.

Toshiro straightened Hyorinmaru on his back and looked over to where de Tournay's reapers were lifting Harry out of the creek and onto a prepared stretcher. The ancient leader of Avalon waved him off.

"We'll be bringing young Mr. Potter to Captain Dulay's infirmary. You go on, get yourself cleaned up and looked over, if needed."

Toshiro watched the reapers as they ministered aid to the boy for another moment then turned back towards Daniel as he called out to him, "Well, are you coming?" The captain of R&D was already crossing the grassy field, heading in the direction of Camelot. Toshiro refused to rush but caught up quickly enough, as Daniel had slowed his pace until his companion joined him.

"I take it you don't feel like using flash-step right now, to get there faster?" Daniel asked, glancing askance at the disheveled little shinigami.

The two captains crossed the meadow and moved onto to an earthen road that cut between pastures and meadows. They traveled at a reaper's typical ground-devouring, reishi-enhanced, bounding pace. After centuries of hard training, "bounding" was actually less exhausting for reapers than a mundane stroll.

"No, not at the moment." Toshiro replied curtly, wiping his bloody face with his sleeve then folding his arms across his chest, trying to retain what little of his dignity remained. How he hated to be seen in public wearing a ruined uniform. It gave him a feeling of weakness, to be seen by older and more experienced captains in such a state. More importantly, so far as his pride went, he wasn't about to admit to another captain that he was spent.

He wanted to return to his suite, take a shower, and sleep for a week, but there were too many questions yet for him to be able to do so. No doubt the Avalonian reapers would want a detailed accounting of the protracted wizard battle, as the information would be invaluable in understanding the dangers in dealings with the magic-users in the future. Toshiro's official report—for both Field Marshal de Tournay and Yamamoto-soutaicho—would be a blow-by-blow of his interactions with the wizards, covering every minute of his presence in the mortal realm. The very thought of that much paperwork made him tired.

The two captains traveled in silence for several minutes. Even when they passed a pair of low-level reapers and Daniel exchanged pleasantries in passing, Toshiro stayed silent.

"As you may recall from our conversation in your hospital room after the unfortunate training hall incident," Gilbreathe broke the long silence in a straightforward and no-nonsense manner that he knew Hitsugaya would appreciate, "I do on occasion speak my mind irrelevant of how irritating or embarrassing such conversation may be."

"I do, yes," Toshiro admitted.

"I try not to do so often, but I feel I must ask. Should I be worried that you are withdrawing into himself again? If so, why? You were rather spirited when we greeted each other a few minutes ago."

"I have much to think about."

"So, you had a rather exciting time in England, then?" he asked lightly.

"You could say that, if battling hordes of wizards is your idea of excitement," Toshiro grumbled, steadfastly refusing to delve into the uncomfortable topic any further.

"Well, it's not like it's the best sport there is…that still remains football, you know," Daniel quipped, "or if you're a wizard, Quidditch, but you really outdid yourself Toshiro, if the 'Living's' news broadcasts are anything to go by."

"Nani?" Toshiro cried, finally brought out completely from his inner musings.

"I was too busy to listen in on everything, but reapers in my department kept me abreast of what is happening on their news, particularly when it involves Reaper business of any sort, for which your rescue of Harry Potter most certainly qualifies. Seems the British weathermen are suffering conniptions trying to explain the freak winter storms they had in only certain parts of the countryside, and how great banks of snow and ice could happen in extremely localized areas during a previously sultry summer evening," Daniel reported, a hint of amusement in his voice. "They were just beginning to report on some massive skirmish in a park in Little Whinging when I ran out to come meet you at the exit point, so I don't know how that is going to turn out. But going by the weather broadcasts that I heard, the reporters were practically in histrionics over it all."

"Aurghhh!" Toshiro groaned, threw his hands up into the air, and clamped down on his damp, flyaway hair. "Wonderful. That's going to land me a couple extra nights of paperwork now."

During the conversation, meadows gave way to scattered personal dwellings. Within three minutes, they passed through the first of many protective walls and entered the outermost ring of Camelot. In the far distance, on the peak of the tallest visible hill, stood the castle and complex that served as headquarters for the Grim Reapers of Avalon.

"You're kidding, aren't you, mate?" Daniel was surprised by the young shinigami's serious reaction. "It was funny! Why should it matter what the news broadcasters have to say? I'm sure it was imperative for you to use your spirit sword in battle, and it's not like a living person has ever exposed a reaper in action to the public at large, so why all the fuss and bother?"

"That is the policy in Avalon, not in Seireitei," Toshiro grumbled as the pair slowed their pace to avoid collisions with the city's citizens, many of whom stopped their chores or tasks in order to stare at them, at Hitsugaya in particular. Toshiro reined in his irritation; he really did not like not looking his best in public. "My superiors are quite adamant—shinigami must leave as little impact in the Living World as possible, so they pay extra close attention to those of us who use element-based zanpakutos. Yamamoto-soutaicho doesn't like it when we cause a stir there or do something that gets noticed by the Living. It always means more paperwork, having to justify my actions." His voice fell to a rough whisper. "More work because of old men and their rules."

Daniel watched the smaller reaper with surprise. "I suppose that's one more difference we have between our two realms. In Avalon, when something like this happens, it's good for a jolly laugh. It makes a footnote in our reports, at best. Not that any of our reapers have ever faced running battles with battalions of wizards," Daniel waved his arms around to dismiss the notion, almost upsetting a baker carrying an overfull tray of sweet buns in the process, "but that's beside the point! You're going to make the best highlights reel for our New Year's Party this year, for certain!" he finished with a laugh.

"Joy," Toshiro said flatly, giving him a sour look, which only made Daniel laugh again and clap a hand on his shoulder in support. Toshiro stiffened involuntarily, which Daniel seemed to notice, as he paused. He then threw caution to the wind and wrapped his arm completely around the young shinigami's shoulders.

"Don't think about things like that right now," Daniel said warmly. "You should be happy, and proud! You saved Harry Potter from multiple forces and got him to Avalon safely in the end. That's what matters, right?"

A small smile crept its way onto Toshiro's face and he opened his mouth to respond but never got the chance. He felt a burst of wind accompanied by a spike of familiar reiatsu, and before he knew what was happening, he was yanked off his feet and wrapped in a bear hug of an embrace, his face pressed in between two mounds of flesh.

"TAICHOOOOOO!" Rangiku Matsumoto cried exuberantly, hugging him to her tightly, even as he began to struggle. "Oh captain, it's so good to have you back! It's been too quiet here without you. I heard about the wizard battle in the park, and I wanted to go there to help, but I couldn't get the clearance in time. And Ichigo wanted to come, too, but he had the same problem. But I knew you would be victorious, how could you not be, you're my captain! I said—"

Rangiku babbled on, oblivious of her captain's distress as he wriggled and tried to push away from the woman. Around them, people stopped to stare. Most of them were amused, some opening laughing. At the very least, they smiled at the busty red-head's antics.

"Uh, um…excuse me? You might want to…" Daniel stammered and blushed, at a loss for words.

"C'mon, Rangiku, let the little guy breathe, huh?" Ichigo Kurosaki chuckled, as he grabbed Toshiro from behind and pulled him from the lieutenant's grasp. The substitute Shinigami set the red-faced captain down on his feet.

Toshiro sucked in several lungsful of air before shouting, "Matsumoto! Were you TRYING to suffocate me?"

The unrepentant woman just smiled at him and wheedled, "Aww, don't be mad, captain. I was just worried about you! We had returned to the Eighth Division for news, since we were denied permission to go join you in the Living World, and they filled us in, and said you had just arrived, so we were waiting for you at the Avalonian gate. When I saw you and Daniel approaching, I just couldn't help myself!"

"All right, all right already! Just stop trying to smother me with those things!" Toshiro exclaimed, trying in vain to smooth out his already messy appearance after his lieutenant's greeting. Titters from the crowd in no way helped calm his irritation. He murmured under his breath, "Honestly, I bet that's how I'll eventually be killed, smothered to death by my lieutenant's…"

"Captain, you know I wouldn't do it on purpose!" Rangiku chided him. He just looked up at her and scowled even has her attention zeroed in on his most obvious wounds. "Oh, you're bleeding from your forehead, and a few other places now that I can get a good look at you. Let's go have you looked at by Captain DuLay, okay?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Matsumoto. I don't need to go to the Infirmary. I'll be fine. I just need to clean myself up and change into a fresh uniform. And while I'm at it, you'll need to change now, too," Toshiro said with a small smirk.

"What?" Rangiku paused and looked down at herself. Her uniform now had mud, water and bloodstains down her front.

"Aww, captain, you ruined my shihakusho!" she cried melodramatically.

"I did no such thing! You got what you deserved, grabbing me out of the blue like that," Toshiro admonished his lieutenant with a hint of satisfaction in his voice, as he set off up the path that led to the nearest Avalonian headquarters gate.

"Captain, wait for me!" Rangiku cried and hurried after him, arguing with Hitsugaya the whole way about getting him some medical attention.

Meanwhile, Daniel hadn't moved. His cheeks still a lightly dusted pink, he just stared after the quarreling pair of shinigami, dumbfounded.

"Hey, let's get a move on, Daniel. You coming?" Ichigo's voice cut through his reverie.

Captain Gilbreathe turned to look at the easygoing, carrot-topped teenager. "Are they always like that?" He motioned toward the receding Tenth Division duo with a jab of an outstretched thumb.

"What, arguing?" Ichigo answered a bit sarcastically.

Daniel turned his head towards Ichigo so fast he nearly cricked his neck. "You know what I mean! Does Lieutenant Matsumoto do…does she greet her captain like that often?" He struggled to put the question in as polite terms as possible.

"That?" Ichigo smirked at Daniel then looked up the path at the receding pair of Seireitei shinigami. He shook his head and continued, "Well, I haven't known them for very long, but others have told me that Rangiku likes to tease Toshiro a lot. Actually, she likes to tease ALL men a lot. What gets me is how he never reacts to her doing stuff like that to him, outside of getting pissed off at nearly being suffocated by her, uh, her chest!"

Daniel shook his head to clear his mind, and muttered, "I say, Captain Hitsugaya is a lucky man, and he doesn't even realize it."

Ichigo grinned, "Yeah, Toshiro's a prodigy, and he's a great captain, but he looks like he's the same age as my little sisters. They haven't really gotten into boys yet, either. 'Course, Toshiro's been that size for a couple of decades, from what I've heard. But do yourself a favor, don't ever call Toshiro a kid. Not unless you want to be frozen until the spring thaw. Renji's told me stories. I don't know if they're true," he finished with a laugh, "but I don't wanna find out the hard way."

Daniel's eyes opened wider at Ichigo's warning.

"Well, I'm heading back. I want to see if Rangiku can actually wrangle Toshiro into the Infirmary. He hates going to the doctor, avoids the Seireitei's Captain Unohana like the plague." Ichigo smiled then added, "Not that I can blame him on that one. That lady is scary as hell!"

And with that, Ichigo set off, Daniel in tow.

Daniel, for his part, found himself torn between thoughts of how Rangiku Matsumoto had greeted her young captain and thinking on how Toshiro's recent reticence about being touched by others seemed to vanish when it came to his lieutenant. Come to think of it, he had allowed Matsumoto to touch him as she wished when the two had been reunited in the Hogwarts Infirmary, as well. Clearly, the bond between those two was quite close, and unique, to say the least.

()()()()

Harry Potter awoke to the sound of glass bottles clinking together, the squeak of a wheel in need of oil, the creak and pop of a firm mattress beneath him, and the sanitized, unmistakable aroma that screamed hospital.

It was a familiar enough way to wake. Far too familiar, to Harry's way of thinking. What did it say about his life that recovering consciousness in such a place was, well, commonplace?

Somewhere close by, soft-soled shoes shuffle-scuffed in an irregular inkling of sound. Slightly further away, harder heels tapped against the solid floor; a stiff chair creaked. Voices spoke in hushed tones, too soft to make out any words, though Harry recognized three of the voices, specifically Daniel, Toshiro and Ichigo. The others were unfamiliar, most of them male but with one or two females among them.

Trying to recall what injuries would have landed him once more under a healer's tender care, Harry queried both his memory and his body for clues. Information returned in a slow, stuttering trickle, though not always in chronological order. While one part of his brain shifted details into their proper sequence, he reviewed the responses from his body. Most of him felt numb in an all-too-typical way. Pain suppressants. Anesthetics.

Wonderful. Peachy with a side of keen. The sarcasm in his mental voice was deliberately over-the-top. Something that requires anesthetics won't be fixed with a simple plaster.

He felt a detached sense of something on his chest, although the medication insulated him from most of the sensation. A tugging, followed by a vague hint of warmth.

"There, I believe that is the last piece of glass."

Glass? Oh. Right. Uncle Vernon and the patio doors.

The feeling of moist warmth faded even as a soothing, dry warmth increased. Curious, Harry unglued gummy eyes and blinked against the combination of fluorescent and natural light. Sparks and sparkles filled his vision until it adjusted to the daytime brightness.

When he could finally identify details, Harry's first response was, Well, I'm not in the Hogwarts hospital wing. Close behind it came, So then, where the bloody hell AM I?

"Well, hello." The ethereal, elfin woman clad in a bleached white coat over a green linen shirt and trousers smiled down on him with genuine affection. Liquid gold tresses, braided and beribboned, hung down her lithe torso, their curly ends puddling on the bed beside him. "I'm glad you're awake. Remember me? I am Anissina DuLay, Captain of the Medical Division. In case Field Marshal de Tournay failed to say so, welcome to Avalon, Mr. Potter."

Avalon. That's right, I remember now. This must be the reaper's hospital in Camelot. I recognize her. She's the healer who came when they rescued Toshiro.

Try as he might, Harry Potter could not deny the tiniest bit of a crush for the enthralling woman. When introduced to such feminine grace and perfection, what fifteen year old boy could?

I was right—she looks like Galadriel, Harry thought to himself, in slight awe of the woman, at least the way I imagine her when I read Lord of the Rings last year.

"As you may have just heard," Harry refocused as Anissina returned to her explanation, "I have removed the final sliver of glass from your wounds. Once I'm certain that all of the debris has been extracted and everything has been disinfected, we'll get them sealed up and bandaged, and you'll be free to go."

Harry grinned in relief. Yay. No overnight stay 'to monitor your condition just in case.' "That's good news."

"Out of curiosity," the elfin healer said, "Where did you get this scar?"

Harry followed Anissina DuLay's pointing finger to the irregular, pink pucker of flesh in the crook of his right arm. In the process, he discovered that sometime between falling asleep in the water and waking here, they had removed every stitch of his clothing. A pink blush rose in Harry's cheeks as he realized the only thing guarding his modesty was a mint green cotton blanket draping him from belly button to mid-thigh. Someone had tucked it beneath his hips, so at least it didn't have the fragile look or feel of something that would be peeled away by the first careless brush of a hand.

It also kept chilled drafts away from his personals which was a big plus.

Without his shirt or trousers, the damage done to his body by multiple persons and events over the years became readily apparent, though the abuse that he could see seemed more cosmetic than injurious. Plenty of bruises and cuts dotted his pale skin, ranging in size from pinpricks up to a few the length of his finger or the span of his palm. They had washed away all of the visible dirt, grime, and dried blood, so it wasn't as bad as he feared it might be.

One of the healing team, an older red-haired man, applied glowing hands to a shallow laceration on the inside of Harry's left ankle. The sensation of pleasant warmth to that area increased. Even as Harry watched, the wound healed from the inside out until only the faintest thin white line remained.

Harry's attention fell on movement to his left. Daniel, Toshiro, Ichigo, Rangiku, Field Marshal de Tournay, and a dozen strangers clad in reaper uniforms abandoned their discussions and stepped close enough to see and hear but not to be in the way.

Recalling Healer DuLay's question, Harry glanced again at the mark and answered, "That's where Peter Pettigrew stole my blood at the end my fourth year at Hogwarts. There was a ritual in a graveyard to give Voldemort back a human-ish body. Before that, he was this ugly, twisted…demon-baby-ish…thing. It was a little over a year ago." Harry's expression fell still further. "That was when Cedric died," he added in a pained voice.

Anissina paused a moment in sympathy for the boy then indicated another, older scar. "And this?"

"Basilisk fang." It surprised everyone, even Harry, how casually he could speak about such an encounter. "I was twelve. Would've died except Fawkes cried phoenix tears into the wound."

The male, red-haired healer pointed to a jagged scar close to Harry's left shinbone, and asked him, "Whatever caused this one?"

Harry looked over to him, and replied, "Oh, that one came from an acromantula (1), just shortly before I got this one." He pointed to the scar in the crook of his right elbow. At the man's blank face, Harry interpreted, "A ruddy great spider, more than twelve feet tall." The healer blanched, and a collective gasp arose from the group of healers and shinigami watching nearby. Seeing Healer DuLay about to question another cluster of scars, Harry saved her the trouble. "All of the rest, except for this one," he pointed to the famous scar on his forehead, "I got from the Dursleys."

"The lightning bolt?" Anissina queried, curious.

"My first scar, so far as I know. I was fifteen months old. Voldemort tracked down and killed my parents then tried to kill me. He failed, but gave me the scar to remember him by. No one's really sure how I survived, or how my surviving destroyed Voldemort's first body. It's the main reason I'm famous in the wizarding world. And why Voldemort's so determined to finish the job he started back in 1981. There's a prophecy, you see, that says…well, basically, it boils down to one simple point." Harry's voice wavered ever so slightly as he finished. "Either I kill him or he kills me."

Anissina's delicate hand cupped Harry's forehead temple to temple. Healing energy soothed a lingering ache that Harry hadn't even noticed he still had. It was such a persistent, droning, ever-present soreness over the past year that he tended to ignore it unless it flared up whenever he was too near Voldemort.

Why had it started to ache again? he wondered to himself. The pain meds must have worn off sometime during the review of his scars. The throbbing pain in his forehead had stopped right after they had entered the reapers' Precipice World. Had the passageway blocked it somehow, but exiting into Avalon reestablished the link, however faint?

Under the healer's hand, the warmth moved across his skin in a gentle, petting motion that almost lulled him back to sleep. The sensation moved forwards, back and around in a loosely oval pattern, ever shrinking until it stopped over the curse mark.

And remained there. Sensing. Examining. Probing.

She hovered over the distinctive scar long enough to rouse Harry's concern. "Is something wrong?"

DuLay exited the scan with a physical jolt. She shook herself and exchanged a prolonged, pregnant look with her fellow reapers. Hard as he tried, Harry couldn't read anyone's expression or interpret their unspoken conversation. He could only sense something deep, relevant and ominous in the exchange.

She turned back to her patient, smiled reassuringly, and replied, "No. I'm sensing a strange energy signature around the area. I'm certain that it's nothing to worry about, especially if you haven't had any problems before today?" She voiced the statement in the form of a question.

The mortal boy shook his head in the negative. He said nothing about his blinding headaches, the nightmares, visions, or his possession by Voldemort—all surely related to the curse mark on his forehead. A rebellious corner of his mind reasoned: the reapers were keeping secrets from him related directly to his health, so why should he not do the same? Besides, it wouldn't make any difference. What could they do about them? The healers back home were helpless against what was certainly their own form of magic. What could these people do when they knew so little about wizardkind's abilities and energies?

Not to mention, saying anything might lead to the dreaded overnight stay for observation. In many ways, at least to Harry Potter's way of thinking, that was the worst thing about being treated in a hospital. Injuries could be tended quickly and pain managed with potions, but the BOREDOM of being stuck in a bed for no other reason than someone wanted to watch him was pure torture.

Most important of all, if the reapers knew the truth, they might not want Harry there. Though the risk was slight to the point of impossible, Harry couldn't deny a niggling fear that the link might lead Voldemort and his merry band to Avalon. To prevent an invasion, these people might send him back despite their otherwise sincere offer of sanctuary.

Oh, they'd never force him to return to Durskaban, his own personal prison. His head knew that, but they could leave him anywhere in the mortal world. Dumping him in the wild west of America, the deserts of Arabia, the cloud forests of Borneo, the banks of the Amazon River, a beach on Tahiti Island, or the outback of Australia—any place on Earth except Great Britain, really—would fulfill the general letter of their promise to see him "safe" without drawing danger to their own front doorsteps.

They could leave him with a sufficient amount of local money, a bag or two of clothing to fit the season, some survival gear, a map, a wave goodbye, and voilà! Problem solved. If it happened to be in some other "heaven's" territory, so much the better.

To say that Harry Potter had trust issues at this point was the understatement of the millennium.

"All done, at least with what we're going to address today," Anissina reported to both Harry and the attending audience as she patted down the last bandage over what had been a particular deep cut on his left pectoral. "You're exhausted, and that will interfere with the other tests I want to run." She looked up. "Daniel, since you're acting as his sponsor, I'm putting you in charge of Mr. Potter's wellbeing. I want him to get a good night's rest. Let him sleep himself out tomorrow. When he rouses naturally, you can bring him back for the remainder of the examination."

"Understood." The bespectacled officer nodded then smiled at Harry. "Ready to find a feather bed with a matching goose down pillow?"

Harry fought the urge to yawn. He really was wiped. "More than ready. I hope it's not far. I'm not sure I have the ummph to make any distance."

"Up you get then," Avalon's R & D captain encouraged Harry.

The young wizard glanced sideways at the rather large audience of reapers and shinigami nearby, and then down at himself, feeling very much exposed. Daniel realized the teenager was not inclined to get up from the examination table in front of so many people, seeing as he only had the benefit of the one small blanket offering him any modesty. Daniel grinned down at him knowingly then cast a mischievous look to all of the women in the room.

"Ladies, if you would be kind enough to exit so that our young friend here can repair his wardrobe?"

"Awwww," Rangiku Matsumoto whined in mock disappointment. "Just when the show was getting good!"

"Leave, go away now, out, out, out. Nissa, Aina, scat. Especially you, Miss Matsumoto."

Gilbreathe overdramatized his authority, shooing everyone with the verve, hop, and single-minded determination of a sheltie herding sheep. In the end only Harry Potter, Toshiro Hitsugaya, Ichigo Kurosaki, Daniel Gilbreathe, and Giliad de Tournay remained. Four cloth screens were unfolded in short order, finally giving Harry the privacy he desired to remedy his nakedness.

"We'll help you dress," Daniel said even as Ichigo helped Harry shift to a seated position on the edge of the examining bed (leaving Harry free to hold the blanket in place) while Toshiro pulled clean clothes from Harry's carryall, "and get you settled well before sunset."

In spite of his exhaustion, Harry found himself briefly wondering how his clothes inside the carryall came to be dry. After being left in a torrential downpour for as long as they had, Harry figured all his belongings would have been a soggy mess. Maybe he had been unconscious for longer than he thought? After all, Toshiro appeared to be freshened up, He wore the same black and white Asian-style robes as before, but this outfit was no longer torn, wet, and dirty. The small boy's frosty white hair was pristine, dry, and again styled into the messy, gravity-defying spikes he'd worn when Toshiro and Daniel greeted Harry that day in Little Whinging.

It felt like ages since Toshiro and Daniel came to him while he stopped to rest on that park bench after being beaten by Uncle Vernon and shopping for the Dursley's groceries.

The final beating from his uncle, falling through the patio glass doors, the actual rescue. Was that just this afternoon? Five hours ago? Ten? For all he knew, it could be longer than that, depending on how many hours, or days, he'd been out. No, it wouldn't have been days—he'd awakened to them still removing glass shards. Yes, there had been a lot of them but not so many as to take a full day to extract.

In the end, the length of time didn't matter. Instead, he focused what strength he had on getting dressed, rather than asking about such things.

While Gilbreathe attended to assisting Harry, Field Marshal de Tournay turned to the shortest figure in the treatment room and said, "Captain Hitsugaya. Now that we have assured ourselves of Mr. Potter's wellbeing, I would like to speak with you concerning your original mission. I assure you, there will be time for you to recover before you resume field duty, but likewise we cannot stall the mission too much longer."

"This is true," Toshiro replied. "It's past time that I filed a report with Yamamoto-soutaicho. I should also check in with Kyoraku-taicho in case he has new intelligence data for us. Aizen must have a reason for releasing his creations into Avalon's patrol region. We have to find that reason and find a way to turn his machinations against him. We need to block him however we can, force him to expend resources and personnel at minimum risk to both Soul Society and Avalon. To all of the Seven Heavens, if possible."

The diminutive captain's eyebrows pinched in a small frown of intuition. "Has another Hollow attack been reported while I was in the Living World?"

"At about the same time as your final call to Captain Gilbreathe, before passing through the precipice gate," de Tournay reported with a solemn nod. "No damage other than demolishing an abandoned warehouse, but there are enough anomalies surrounding the creature to warrant a discussion."

Toshiro offered the elder reaper a courteous bow. "I am available at your convenience, Field Marshal de Tournay."

As Toshiro made to follow de Tournay out of the infirmary room, he paused and turned back to Harry. "I have to take care of some business with the Field Marshal. Now that Healer DuLay has you on the mend, you're going to be fine now. Daniel will look after you tonight, all right?"

Harry looked his most recent companion-in-battle over again as he adjusted the shirt Daniel had pulled over his head, mindful of the bandages scattered over his arms and torso, and said, "O-okay. But what about you, Toshiro? Are you all right, after everything? I mean, after all that fighting and, well, you know? Don't you need to rest after all that, too?"

Daniel and Ichigo exchanged looks and barely-there smiles with each other, and looked at the little captain as well.

Toshiro straightened slightly under the increased attention but gave Harry an extremely rare, appreciative little smile, "Don't worry, Harry, I'm fine now. We're safe here." Toshiro's voice stressed the last sentence. "But I originally came to Camelot with a mission to perform, and it's necessary for me to attend to it now, or more people in this world and your own may be hurt by forces even darker than the ones that pursue you."

Seeing Harry about to question him further, Hitsugaya cut him off by adding, "DuLay-taicho has already examined me, and I've had time to get cleaned up. Shinigami have far more stamina than mortals do, so I'm quite fine for now, but I will rest soon. You focus on resting up, yourself. I'll rejoin you tomorrow, when you are brought back here for more tests."

Harry looked a little reluctant to see Toshiro go, but he understood. At least he thought he did. Toshiro had really stuck his neck out to come to England, to help him get to safety. If Toshiro hadn't shown up when he did, Harry had no doubt Uncle Vernon would've pounded him into jelly, never mind worrying about Voldemort and everyone else being after him.

He fidgeted a little with his clothes, unsure of how to express what he wanted to say to the smaller boy.

"All right then. Thanks, Toshiro, for…for what you did back there, and…well, for everything," he finished awkwardly.

Toshiro didn't say anything, he just looked at him. His turquoise eyes seemed to look right through Harry with the intensity of his gaze then his eyes softened slightly, and he seemed to be looking at something within himself. Toshiro abruptly crossed the room and stopped right in front of Harry.

"I am glad I was there," Toshiro said. "We had quite an adventure together, didn't we? I have known trained shinigami who wouldn't have held up half as well as you did. Feel proud of yourself, Harry Potter, for surviving such intense battles."

The child prodigy captain ended with a short bow of his head. "Thank you."

Stunned by the sudden praise, Harry could only stammer, "For, for what?"

Toshiro looked at him and shook his head, his eyes suddenly full of emotion although he refused to allow it to show on any other part of his face. "Just, thank you. I'll see you again tomorrow."

And with that, Toshiro Hitsugaya turned on his heel, avoiding Daniel and Ichigo's eyes, and followed Field Marshal de Tournay out of the room. The elder reaper deftly avoided their personal exchange, and was already discussing the recent Hollow attack with the shinigami captain.

The three who remained in the infirmary room were all silent for a minute after Hitsugaya and de Tournay left. Ichigo broke the moment with a low whistle. He turned to Harry and said, "Whoa, I wish I was able to get that on film, 'cause nobody would ever believe me if I told them about it. What did you do to him, Harry?"

"Huh? What do you—I didn't—" Harry stammered as he finished pulling on a pair of pants.

Ichigo laughed and waved off Harry's confusion, "Don't worry about it. You haven't known him long, so you wouldn't know, but Toshiro doesn't usually give out praise like that, or get so emotional. And NEVER around so many other reapers! You must have really impressed him."

That was emotional? I thought he was upset with me at first, with the way he was staring at me, Harry thought to himself.

"It's not for us to talk about, but being able to help you, Harry, has given Toshiro the chance to help himself," Daniel added quietly.

Harry didn't know what to say to that. There was still much that he didn't know or understand about the snowy-haired boy he had come to think of as a friend.

"Yeah, I gotcha, Daniel. Anyway, I've already missed half the training session at Captain Sigursdottur's division. She said it would be all right if I practiced with some of her reapers. I thought it would be great, seeing how you all from Camelot fight in battle, and it gives me a chance to work out." Ichigo flashed Harry a winning smile. "I'm glad you made it here in one piece. I'll see you later, okay?"

Harry smiled back at the lanky, orange-haired boy and said, "Yeah, okay. Thanks." He watched Ichigo leave, and marveled again at the ridiculous size of the giant kitchen knife-like blade the young man carried so easily on his back.

The sole remaining reaper presented Harry with a pair of socks taken from the carryall's diminishing contents and a gift of new trainers in a proper size. As soon as Harry slipped on and tied both, Daniel guided him out of the room and into the hall.

Daniel Gilbreathe and Harry Potter exited the building through the doorway that led to the water gardens directly outside of the healer's wing.

"I admit to not knowing you half so well as I'm hoping I one day will," Daniel said as they stepped off of the last of three steps and onto the main path that meandered through the water garden, "but you strike me as the type who would be highly uncomfortable in fancy quarters full of glam, glitter, and gilt. Am I correct?"

"Yes," Harry admitted with some relief.

He really hadn't known what to expect by coming to Toshiro's world. Seeing as it was supposed to be "The Afterlife," he had a few vague, preconceived notions. Everything in this place would be glamorous and covered in opulence. So far, all he'd seen of it was a grassy field, and the inside of this rather standard-looking infirmary room, so he still couldn't make any judgements. However, if Daniel was asking him such a question, maybe there were other options as well? At least, he hoped so.

In Harry's limited exposure to environments other than the Dursley's stifling home, there were two places that came close to Heaven in his opinion, those being Hogwarts castle, at least before all the unpleasantness he had been exposed to in the last couple of years, and The Burrow. One site being considerably more grand than the other notwithstanding, if Harry had a choice, the place he had consistently felt the most contentment and happiness in had been The Burrow, where the Weasley family treated him like one of their own. Ron had acted as though he was embarrassed by his family home when he had first introduced Harry to the abode, but to Harry, it had always been the most wonderful, comforting place. A house filled with love, a true home.

Had Sirius, his godfather, survived the fight in the MoM to become the father figure that James and Lily Potter asked him to be, wherever they lived would someday join that short list of true "homes." Harry jerked his thoughts away from that path—yearning for what-might-have-beens would not help his situation as it now stood.

Harry had never hungered for opulence, he had hungered for a home where he felt wanted, and included, and loved. Here in this new place, he would settle for some cozy place that made him feel safe, but preferably not somewhere gilded or bejeweled. That had never been his idea of happiness.

After the cloyingly medicinal atmosphere of the treatment room, Harry was more than glad to be out in the open air. A westering sun warmed the crushed seashell and petite gravel pathways that wound through more than two dozen water-based features. A small creek twined along a diagonal path, neatly carving the quadrangular courtyard in half. Along its green bottom, tiny silver fish darted in and out of waving clumps of water weeds and reeds.

Everywhere Harry looked, seats and chairs dotted stream and lake banks along with shade trees and grassy swatches perfect for naps. At the headwaters of the creek, a seven-tiered waterfall some twenty feet high created a soothing rumble of white noise that overwhelmed the susurration of voices, vehicles, and various sounds of life and industry that would otherwise be audible from the far side of the garden's forty-foot-high walls.

The path carried them away from the stream and along the banks of a good-sized pond that might qualify for a small lake. Flowering lily pads, a quartet of brilliantly plumaged Mandarin ducks, and a mated pair of mute swans graced its tranquil veil, uncaring of the undulations caused by wind-spawned wavelets. A blended micro-forest of sweet chestnuts, sycamores, and alders lined three of its sides, providing shade over a solid quarter of its watery surface.

In all his life, Harry had never seen such a lovely, tranquil place.

"Right, good." Daniel clapped his hands together. "Next question. Nissa left no standing medical orders other than to keep the bandages clean and dry, and to sleep yourself out, so the decision is yours to make. Do you want people close by, or would you prefer a more secluded setting?"

I'm being allowed to choose for myself what I think is best for myself? This truly is Heaven, Harry decided.

As they traveled along the largest seashell path, headed towards the exit gate at its distant end, Harry gave his answer serious thought. There were advantages and disadvantages to both. A point in its favor, a tighter neighborhood meant more people to respond in case of an emergency. On the other hand, what type of emergency was likely in the Afterlife? Who did he know here except some of the captains and a few other guests? They would certainly be housed in the "glam, glitter, and gilt" wings of the senior officers' or guests' quarters, respectively.

On a third hand, if such a thing existed, a more "middle class" type neighborhood, the kind where he'd feel most comfortable, had its own capacity for trouble. People were people, whether living or spirit, as Harry well knew from residing in a haunted castle ten months out of every year. Everyone would be a stranger, and strangers presented a potential for danger all on their own. Add to that Harry's well-documented history of attracting trouble, and he had a near-certain guarantee of misfortune at some level.

Part of him regretted falling asleep in the sandy-bottomed brook. Having awakened in the medical wing, Harry had no idea what lay beyond the garden walls, what the town looked like or how the people responded to outsiders, in particular to a mortal teenage boy in their midst.

While his bump of curiosity wasn't happy about being ignorant, a larger part of him was just as glad for the delay. By this point, he'd absorbed pretty much all his aching brain could handle. If further information had to wait until tomorrow, he wouldn't quibble.

The past weeks, months, year—several years in a row, five to be precise—teemed with a never-ending parade of action, angst, terror, magicals, and muggles. Other than brief periods of banishment to the smallest bedroom at 4 Privet Drive, had Harry Potter ever experienced a moment of peace where he was truly alone?

Alright then, Harry decided. If privacy and quiet are on offer, I'd just as soon have that.

"If it's not too much trouble, I think I'd prefer to be alone. At least for tonight."

"Then I know just the place. Belongs to one of my knights. He never uses it, and has offered it to me on several occasions when someone needs a few nights' simple lodging."

The pair walked a bit further down the path, passing around an S-curve before Harry found a new subject of interest. "Healer DuLay said you're my 'sponsor'? What's that?"

"Precisely what it sounds like," Daniel explained patiently. "Whenever an outsider visits Avalon, someone who isn't a newly released soul from the mortal world, an officer at least one level of rank above acts as host / guide / protector / guarantor, whatever you wish to call it. Field Marshal de Tournay is sponsor for Captain Hitsugaya, since he is the only one in Camelot with a clearly higher rank, without counting years or centuries of service as an officer. In your case, I suppose pretty much anyone in the reaper ranks could serve as your sponsor. However, as I know you, was the one who presented your case to the other captains, and personally programmed the gateway, it makes sense for me to fill the role."

"I'm sorry to be such a—" Harry started.

Daniel cut off the apology with a grand wave of his arm. "None of that, lad. Not one negative word." A warm smile suffused the young captain's face and brought a gentle light to his eyes. "You're here, and we're glad of it." His humor dimmed a fraction. "After seeing what that ruddy awful Realm of the Living has done to you, it's the least we can do to help where we can. Personally, I—"

He coughed and looked away, heavy embarrassment and a flash of something Harry interpreted as guilt crossing his face. "Well, never mind. There will be time for more talk later. When we exit the gate, you'll be in Gafree's Fiefdom. It's one of eleven such districts for our more affluent afterlifers, their families, employees, and businesses. These, for lack of a better term, 'noble' fiefdoms surround the outside walls of Camelot proper. By 'proper' I mean all of the castle, buildings, facilities, and whatnot associated with the business of grim reapers. The processing area for incoming pluses," seeing Harry's confused expression, Daniel clarified, along with a gesture in the appropriate direction, "newly arrived souls, is located a quarter-way 'round the wall, on the exterior towards the north."

Harry asked, somewhat bewildered, "The afterlife has a class system?"

"Similar to the British peerage, yes," Daniel replied as the pair approached the massive, barred gate in the tall stone barrier, "though you will find a large percentage of influences from other countries in our patrol area—Germany, France, Spain, Norway, Sweden, and the like, even some from as far away as Easternmost Russia. Understandable enough, considering our patrol region's long centuries of class divisions. It does make sense that the practice would carry over into the next great adventure, wouldn't you say?"

"I…I suppose so. Is the place we're going in this fiefdom?"

"Oh, no, I'm afraid not. It's a decent distance beyond, in Lagranin's Fiefdom. It's an agrarian, pastoral region, well clear of the bustle of town or city but close enough to reach it easily. Not too far from where we programmed your exit gate, actually. Some fifteen minutes' walk away." Seeing weary resignation on the boy's face, Daniel grinned, playfully ruffled the wizard's messy hair and reassured, "Don't worry, Harry. You won't have to walk the distance. While you were sleeping, I arranged for transportation to be waiting just outside, on the off chance you were released."

()()()()

They exited the gate onto a huge, cobbled courtyard, beyond which Harry saw two gigantic estates, complete with crenelated battlements and heraldic banners wafting in the breeze, as well as whitewashed security walls around extensive grounds with perfectly manicured lawns, shaped topiary art, and the obligatory musters of peafowl. Gardeners moved about in the far-off distance, attending to their business with no visible concern for the reaper headquarters that loomed over everything in the city.

True to Daniel's word, close to the gate stood a smart, light, two-wheeled carriage in the style known as a curricle. Its black silk canopy deployed to hold off the sun, the vehicle's frame and wheels were an eye-pleasing partnership of glossy peacock blue and matte black, with an occasional gold button, buckle, stud, or ornament for accent. The color theme repeated throughout the velvet-cushioned interior. Beaded throw pillows embroidered with all the colors of a peacock's strutting display lay scattered atop the deep, luxurious bench.

An eager pair of matching black-maned bays danced in their traces.

Daniel stored Harry's carryall beneath the seat and climbed in, letting Harry join at his own speed, which he soon did, though not without some noises and grimaces of discomfort. The horses were soon moving in a ground-devouring cantor. As they exited the courtyard for the paved street, Harry caught sight of three noblewomen on horseback, cantering across an open field, silk, satin, lace and fripperies floating on the wind.

Before they could exit the estate fiefdoms and approach the bustling city, the gentle sway of the vehicle and the rhythmic, hypnotic clip-clop of the horses' hooves against cobblestones whispered to Harry's already exhausted mind. With Daniel's indulgent permission, the boy crossed his heels over the narrow, upholstered dashboard, laid his head against the pillowed backrest, and let himself drift.

Some half-hour later, Daniel roused the mortal teen from a light doze. The first thing Harry noted upon wakening was the near-total lack of civilization. Other than the earthen road itself, the neatly trimmed hedgerows, and an occasional stacked stone half-wall that marked an intersection with a side road, he might have mistaken himself for being in the untamed wilds of pastoral Ireland.

As soon as Harry was both awake and aware, the captain said, "There's Tilson's Bothy, on the far side of that burn. You'll be staying there tonight."

Following Daniel's gesture, Harry spotted a small rivulet, a brook barely five feet from north to south bank. A zigzag line of high, flat stepping stones provided the means to cross without soaking their shoes. Some twenty feet beyond the waterway stood a simple little cottage known as a bothy.

Harry recalled a time prior to learning of magic, when he'd written a primary school report on this type of building. Bothies boasted a rich history as hunters' or shepherds' cottages or as emergency shelter for travelers along windswept, unpopulated stretches of wilderness beyond the borders of civilized lands. Though the term "bothy" referred to a wide range of similarly built structures, this particular residence reminded Harry most strongly of Glencoul, a 19th century bothy located in Sutherland.

Green, brown, gold, and russet wedges dotted the gray stone walls like cheery candies atop a sheet cake. The front door, window sills and tightly sealed shutters were painted a dark green to complement the carpet of thick grass that rolled around the structure on all sides, while quaint, blue-black slate shingles protected the steeply slanted roof. More colored stones capped the rooftree that connected the twin chimneys, each on one of the shorter outside walls.

"Have you ever been inside a bothy?" Gilbreathe asked.

"No, but I wrote a school report on them once. It was interesting, so I did some extra research. I have an idea what to expect," Harry replied, enthusiastically.

"Well, let's go see if those expectations are confirmed."

They exited the curricle on the edge of the stream, where Daniel tied the reins to a ring set into a horsehead-shaped post meant for that specific purpose, which left the bays with just enough rein to drink from the creek. With the vehicle secured, they crossed the stream using the stepping stones and approached the door. Without a word, Daniel passed the key over to Harry, who utilized it in the padlock that secured the portal.

The bothy interior was simple to an extreme, but cozy just the same. The floors were stone, flattened by untold years of wear, while a thick coat of whitewash covered the interior walls to give the room some positive atmosphere. The door sat dead center of the west-facing wall with a shuttered window on either side, the trio forming the only visible ways out of the building. A deep, raised fireplace bit a sizable chunk out of the northern wall, large enough to cook a full-sized goose in with room to spare. The bothy's age was evidenced by the permanent smoke smudge that stained the wall from fireplace top to the raftered ceiling. A smaller, daintier fireplace broke up the southern wall, this one the proper size to heat a kettle of water or warm a small stewpot.

As for furniture, a rough plank table and four chairs sat dead-center of the single room. A sealed storage chest stood in the northeast corner, while a full-sized bed bare of linens sat in the middle, its mattress rolled at the frame's foot and sealed inside an oiled sack. A curtained area in the southeast point contained a privy pot for those times when a tenant did not feel comfortable stepping outside to do their business. The windowless eastern wall was unbroken save for racks of pots and pans, pegs for clothing, a few fishing traps and nets, and various utensils. A small pile of wood sat to the side of the entry beneath a wall-mounted hatchet and saw.

In addition to the fireplaces, light would come from four evenly spaced carriage lamps suspended from the crossbeams and a brass Argand lamp with two blown and frosted glass shades on the table.

"Let's get you a fire started and the lamps lit. There's still a few hours until twilight but soonest started, soonest done and no worries, ey?" the reaper captain suggested.

Daniel and Harry spent the next half-hour readying the residence for habitation. The lamps were lit straight away, and fires laid in the hearth. With light to aid them, they unsealed the storage chest and pulled forth a set of sheets, two plump pillows, and a padded, hand-quilted comforter. They unsacked the mattress, flattened it out, and made the bed in short order.

"That looks to be everything," Harry said with satisfaction.

"So it does. Walk me back to the curricle?" Daniel asked.

Harry obliged. Once more beside the carriage, Daniel reached underneath the seat and pulled out two items. One was Harry's carryall, the straps of which the teen draped over his shoulder, the bulk of the half-empty bag along his right side and back. To think, it had been full upon leaving Little Whinging.

The other item was a large, lidded wicker basket.

"Here." The reaper handed the basket across. "Food, so you don't have to waste your time cooking tonight. True, working man's fare. English, of course. Nothing Frenchy, saucy, soupy or posh. There should be enough there for tonight and some left over to fry up in the morning for breakfast. Some bottled drinks, oh, and two carafes of water, so that you don't have to trudge to the burn in the dark."

"Thanks," Harry accepted the offering with a grateful smile. "I hadn't given supper much thought. Now that you mention it, I am a bit peckish."

Daniel shuffled in place, as though reluctant to leave. "You remember what Nissa said, right? You're to sleep yourself out tomorrow. I'll be by at some point early afternoon to get you."

"I remember, yeah. You don't have to tell me twice. I can't remember the last time I had a good lie-in," Harry assured his sponsor.

Daniel grinned. "Inside you get, then. Eat up and get as much rest as you need. I will see you tomorrow."

Harry hopscotched over the creek's stones and returned to the bothy doorway.

"Oh, by the way," Daniel called out to him.

In the process of closing the door, Harry paused and looked outside. Daniel had climbed into the curricle and held the reins, but slouched forward, an adolescent grin on his face that reminded Harry of the Weasley twins.

"What?" Harry asked, suddenly wary.

"Just before you awoke, the Field Marshal received a report from the reapers sent to monitor the fight. Voldemort and his followers disappeared when additional aurors arrived in response to the escalating spell fire. They didn't go anywhere near your old home. I thought you'd feel good, maybe sleep better, knowing they're safe," the bespectacled captain reported earnestly.

Before Harry could process the news or formulate a response, Daniel set the carriage in motion. He was down the road and out of sight in seconds.

Alone for the first time in ages, Harry closed his eyes and drew in a deep, cleansing breath and let it out again. When was the last time he had ever been left alone by anyone? He closed the door and set the basket down on the rough-hewn tabletop. The carryall went under the bed, out of the way until he needed it once again.

The provider of the meal (or at least the person who stuffed the basket fair to bursting) followed the "meat and two veg" formula common in many English homes. Roast lamb, cut in thick, juicy slices, filled the largest earthenware crock. Roasted potatoes, skinned and cut in halves, filled another container. He found the third pot chock-full of buttered baby carrots.

Setting the primaries out onto the table, Harry next unwrapped a rectangle of cheese cloth to reveal an entire loaf of handmade white bread, so fresh that he could still feel a residual heat from the bun. The carafes of water remained inside the basket, though he moved them to the side so he could better access the remaining items. A block of cheese, a dab of butter, seasonings, a place setting, cups and bowls lay in the bottom. With a bottle of butterbeer and a salad on the side, he had the perfect dinner.

How on Earth, or above it, had the reapers managed to get their hands on butterbeer? Regardless, he was grateful for the thoughtful offering, a nod to both his British and wizarding heritage.

Once the meal was thoroughly enjoyed and the leftovers returned to the basket, Harry pulled out his carryall. Intent on withdrawing his night clothes, he instead found himself staring at Luna's letter-poster. He seriously doubted the artifact would work across dimensions, but what did it hurt to try?

Luna,

I have no idea whether the letter box will work between…realms? Dimensions? Planes of existence? Whatever the hell one calls it, we're a long ways away from one another.

Toshiro and I made it safely, though you were right about needing a better pair of running shoes. Wish now I'd listened to you. Next time, ey?

Did Hedwig reach you? We might never have escaped without her help. She attacked Shacklebolt and made him break off his pursuit.

I won't go into the details of everything that happened. If I did, I'd use up all the parchment I brought with me. Suffice it to say that the journey was…interesting. There was a bit of a dust-up with Uncle Vernon before we left. I came away with a few more scars to explain the next time I see Hermione. The main point is, we made it to Avalon. The same healer who helped me and Madame Pomfrey heal Toshiro back at Hogwarts fixed me up right as houses. Captain DuLay, that's her name, didn't even make me stay overnight. How's that for good news?

I'm currently sitting in an honest-to-Merlin bothy, with a roaring fire in the hearth and the sun about to set. I've been told to sleep myself out tomorrow morning. I hope I can relax enough to do that. We'll see. I'm to go back tomorrow for more tests. Healer DuLay seemed unusually interested in my curse scar but wouldn't say why. I really hate it when people hide things from me, especially things that directly affect me.

That's all I can think of to say for now. I will ask Daniel tomorrow if I can borrow a soul phone. If I can, I will call you soon.

Stay safe, okay?

Harry

The letter box accepted the folded parchment as it had others he'd sent, so Harry could only assume it worked. He'd know soon enough. The simple act of writing the letter left him feeling lighter.

And in the mood for a fresh cuppa.

Even if the scrumptious repast was not proof enough, the basket had, without any doubt whatsoever, been packed by a tried and true Englishman. It held everything Harry might possibly want, including a teapot, traveling service for two, whisk, strainer, sugar cubes, a dollop of cream, and a small tin of black tea leaves, everything he'd need for a good brew-up.

He wasn't quite ready to settle into sleep. Urged by an inner restlessness he was sure stemmed from his being in a new, unexplored place, he pulled one of the table's chairs outside then returned to the bothy, where he brewed up a pot of tea over a quaint little peat fire. Cup in hand, he closed the door to hold out insects and settled down to watch the sun disappear.

Once the sun had set, Harry could see glows from previously unnoticed structures in the surrounding area, on the far sides of the hedgerows and stone walls. Some were direct lights, while others were discrete glows visible over the tops of gentle rolls in the meadow's landscape. Quite comfortable and thus unwilling to move, Harry remained in the chair for some time after his body said it was time to rest.

The cup of tea in his hand had long lost its warmth, but he remained there. Soaking in the peace.

Harry relished the silken silence broken only by the symphony of nighttime insects, a yip-and-bark conversation between two foxes, and the single howl of a distant canine. Away in the far flung distance, a neighbor beat on a hammer dulcimer, accompanied by someone on a reed pipe, and an energetic stick set to a bodhran.

The impromptu band beat out a spirited ditty. It wasn't so much musically accurate as it was lively, and, for that reason, all the more enjoyable. Somewhere out there a happy farmer and his family shared companionship and music. They didn't worry whether the notes were spot on, the timing was synchronous, or the voices on-key. All they cared for was the joy such a production provided for themselves and, incidentally, for a tired, aching, overwhelmed young wizard by the name of Harry Potter.

Giliad de Tournay's voice came to the forefront of Harry's mind. "Nothing can or will harm you here. Nothing at all. Remember that. While you are in Avalon, you are safe."

The old man promised, Harry thought, and he came through. He said I'd know what it felt like. For the first time since I can remember I feel it. Believe it without a single shred of doubt.

Safe.

()()()()

()()()()

A/N: Yay! Finally, Harry is in Avalon!

(1) The wound Harry received from the acromantula in the third task is referenced in GoF Ch. 31-36, but JKR never mentions which leg was hurt, not that Cressie could find without reading every word of all five chapters, though she did read a lot of it, and skimmed the rest. So, we chose the left leg at random. It's mentioned in Ch. 36 that Fawkes flew down from Harry's lap to the floor to heal that spider bite with his tears, so we are guessing Harry was wounded along the calf, or near the front of the shinbone. The wound bled quite a bit, it's mentioned in the book, and it says in a separate sentence that he sprained his ankle when the spider dropped him from a height of 12 feet, so we don't believe the spider bit him on the ankle.

A frivolous note: I did seriously consider, and even start, several silly "voids" such as openings into other anime (Naruto or Gundam Wing), movies (Pirates of the Caribbean—I pictured Jack Sparrow watch them appear, look at his rum jug and toss it overboard), or books (Lord of the Rings). Having cameos by Stargate SG-1 would have been really funny, since I'm using a first-season "Daniel Jackson" as a model for Daniel Gilbreathe.