A/N: Let me start this off by saying that I'm a huge IronTitan and IronStrange strippe- SHIPPER. BUT I don't write romance that well so y'all can expect hints (teeny tiny hints) at some point tho it'll remain GEN. I know it's early (veeery early) but I just wanted to give y'all non-slash shippers a heads up. Romance has like .005% place in this fic.
Chapter Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Hand Wavy Cultural Speculations (It's,,,,aliens guys)
ARC 1: CHAPTER 2
Amechania
-0-
The thing about grief is, it doesn't stop.
It's painful and a miasma of dark haze. It's resentment and guilt and self-hatred and what ifs. It's the rug that's been pulled out from underneath, the deck of a sinking ship that you're unable to leave.
Harry Potter awakes in darkness.
It's warm and safe, but it's dark and he's alone and he can't move.
Grief doesn't stop but it can be put aside. Fear isn't much better, but it is a stronger motivator.
He struggles, limbs barely twitching, finding himself trapped in something incredibly fluid but strong. He manages to move one of his legs in a brief, jerking movement, the sensation odd and left him aching like he'd pulled muscles that hadn't been used in so long. There's a muted sound but he's too tired and fearful to notice.
It didn't take long before consciousness slips away from his grasp.
-0-
The next time he wakes, it's still dark. It's still warm and safe. The grief is still the strongest emotion, the fear still lingering at the edges of his limited consciousness.
But now, it feels as if something has settled.
His mind isn't a mess of fight or flight anymore. There's a thought process now.
Where am I? He thinks, but he felt himself slipping away into the haze of unconsciousness, the warmth enveloping him comfortingly.
He wakes like this countless times.
Always dark, always safe, always the grief. It drifts, though. It dulls in the wake of figuring out where he is and why he feels an incredible amount of lethargy, limbs too heavy to move and too weak to control.
And every time he wakes, the feeling of something settling, of something clicking into place, turns into a soothing presence buried deep in his mind.
You're safe, it coos not in words but in vague impressions, you're strong, you're here for me.
It may have meant something else, but deciphering it felt like catching a glimpse of thin spiderwebs in a dark room.
Like his cupboard, he thinks, dark and cramped, but safe.
-0-
This time, he wakes to a gust of cold that had a cry ripped away from his mouth.
(He wakes to the feeling of being left behind and leaving behind.)
The warmth is gone, and the darkness replaced by light. It's disorienting and distressing, his body reacting to heightened stimuli in the only way it could. Vaguely, he feels some sort of fluid coughed out from his mouth. Something must be said about feeling your body being manhandled and too weak to defend itself.
He's swaddled in something incredibly soft that covered him from the cold.
For the first time, he opens his eyes not to darkness.
There's a face in front of him, blurred, but he recognizes the smile that twists it. It's green, though, but his mind gives him vague recollections of creatures with features odder than green skin.
"Harrhan," He hears as his body instinctively curled towards the finger that poked at his face. "Harrhan, son of Makaerus."
Oh, his mind registers blearily, Harrhan, not Harry Potter. And then, He's not Harry Potter?
He drifts to the feeling of warmth and thoughts of rebirth.
-0-
As it turns out, he's both Harry Potter and Harrhan.
The confusion of his identities took such a long time to settle that when the dreams of blood and magic and cursed fire stopped haunting his waking moments, he's lost another set of parents.
(When he'd finally had the time to mourn, the time to accept what had happened. When the pain had numbed into a dull throb.)
Harrhan has lived about two earth years—only a few moon cycles in this new world he'd been born into—when Makaerus, his father, succumbed to the call of death. His mother, one he never learned the name of, had died when she gave birth to him.
Zen-Whoberi was not a kind planet. Every single one of its occupants suffered greatly from poverty. The few that can get by with any amount of frivolity were few and far in between, their society rife with desperate surviving individuals. It wasn't lawless, though it might as well be to a significant portion of the population. Harrhan and Makaerus had always lived in the shadows of poverty.
No one in their right mind would take in a child that wasn't theirs. No one would voluntarily take another mouth to feed.
(Especially not someone so different like Harrhan.)
So Harrhan had to stand up for himself. He turns that grief and anger (and fear) into something else.
(He spares a moment, one precious moment, to mourn what he had lost once again. Mourns what he could have had in this new life; mourn Makaerus and his rough wisdom, his courage to raise a damaged child by himself in a harsh world. But Harrhan is so used to it now that he's hardened the parts of himself that mattered the most.)
Harry Potter had been a survivor. Harry Potter had lived a life of suffering and found solace in Death and been granted a gift of Life.
Harrhan, son of Makaerus, will just have to be something more in this world of survivors.
-0-
Being in a body so young was both a blessing and a curse. Though certainly, the pros outweigh the cons.
Harrhan acknowledges the fact that even in this new form, in this new life as a zehoberei, he is still too small for his age group. In fact, his appearance didn't stray too far from how Harry Potter had looked like, with the glaring exception of his pale green pigmentation and other inherited features. His scar, characteristic of his time as Harry Potter, remained a pretty silver mark on his forehead (and thankfully absent of any malicious soul fragments).
Now, his small stature allowed for him to fit into the nook and crannies adults wouldn't even think of hiding their stuff in. Another advantage it gave him was the need for less food to ensure his continued survival, and it seems that no matter the species, people tend to underestimate those seemingly weak compared to them. That, Harrhan took full advantage of and did his utter best to avoid the pitfalls of being physically lesser (he can't believe there'd come a time he's thankful of Dudley and his gang).
However, because of how young his body is, Harrhan had to pace himself properly, lest he fall asleep out in the open. He's clumsy and easily tired, having had jumped several developmental milestones at the same time, but thinks that with enough time and practice, he'd be able to overcome that. Harrhan can be patient, and his time as Harry Potter had taught him to be resourceful and cunning.
He is aware that had he been anyone else, had Harrhan not been Harry Potter and lived a life of survival before any of this, he wouldn't have lasted as long as he had. Zen-Whoberi was not kind, more so to the needy who don't have a provider. Harrhan had long since resolved he will be his own provider.
Twelve moon cycles—about three earth years, Harrhan approximated, and the conversion of a year on this planet—later and he's got the surviving part of his life down pat. It certainly hadn't been easy, but Harrhan made do. Zehoberei biology was a lot more resilient than the fragile thing Harry Potter had been.
(Apparently, aliens existed in this world. Who knew?)
And then he rediscovered his Magic.
-0-
It should have come to him earlier, the thought of looking for his Magic.
Harry Potter—Harrhan—is the Master of Death, one of the most powerful Beings in the universe (though Harrhan now suspects that it may be more than he'd ever considered). He may have been reborn to a different body in a different world, but magic exists within the Soul. It's what made Horcruxes an abomination of the greatest extent; ripping away a part of your entire being. Voldemort had no Afterlife with what he'd done; he'd simply ceased to exist.
(And isn't it odd, now that his body has had enough time to acclimate with everything, to just Know things he previously didn't. He doesn't Know everything, but he Knew enough. It's just another sign that he isn't quite what he was Before.)
But he'd first and foremost been raised in the mundane. Magic came at a later point in his life and it was par for the course that it slipped his mind for a time.
(And the pain of being given hope and immense sense of loss tied to his memories of Magic—his rise and fall.)
There had also been nothing in this world that gave the impression that Magic existed. Extremely advanced alien technology that his planet doesn't possess, yes, but not Magic.
If it weren't for that humming presence deep beneath his mind, Harrhan wouldn't have considered he still had his.
As it was, it came as a surprise when he'd apparated away from the merchants chasing him off the streets.
Used to thinking on his feet, Harrhan wasted no time to slink into cramped paths in between stalls and wooden houses.
After that, it was only a matter of training his new body to use it (which was harder than it sounds like with such an underdeveloped physique).
-0-
Harrhan meets Shadom just as he was scouting a new area.
The streets were wider than he was used to and the spaces between structures barely allows him to fit in, but this was where wares of all kinds were abundant and Harrhan needed a few presentable looking containers if he wanted to try his hand at selling the half-earthian half-local goods he'd managed to create with limited supplies.
Magic, at the bare minimum he manages to use, was a great asset.
So for the first time in a fairly long time, Harrhan isn't sneaking around. He tries to blend in the crowd, but seeing an old woman carelessly pushed aside by some impolite prick had some of his more compassionate side rising to the surface.
Harrhan guessed it must have been the ill-fitting clothes—scrounged up from pieced together cloth—that gave him away because when he helped the woman with her fallen items, she took one look at him and frowned in disapproval.
"Why don't you come with me, child?" She said as she dusted away the hem of her clothing. "Get some food inside of you."
And Harrhan actually paused because that was not how zehoberei went by things. People here were greedy and selfish, there was no place for compassion and gratefulness. (Harrhan would know. He'd had to curb that side of him just to avoid being taken advantage of—had grown enough to acknowledge what's appropriate and what isn't.) Certainly, no one would genuinely offer anything, much less food, to some stranger.
"I don't see anyone looking for you here," That should have sounded like a threat, but the woman made it sound like she was merely stating a fact. "Come, it is only fair that I give you part of what you have saved."
Harrhan peers down at what she had in hand, eyes widening to see more units than he had ever considered anyone in this planet possessing before. It didn't matter how someone came to hold the universal currency because if you have it, you have it. It's a concept that goes any way.
"Why?" He found himself asking, feeling a strange mixture of longing and distrust at the gentle look the woman gave him.
"Compassion for compassion," She says, holding up a hand that he reluctantly takes. "It's so rare to see in this forsaken place."
And when they stop by a stall to purchase fruit that she gives him a portion of, Harrhan finds himself believing her words.
-0-
"I can take care of myself." Harrhan declared one day after Shadom, the old woman he had helped and had given him food for his actions, nonchalantly drops a knapsack in front of him. It's filled with clothes that looked to fit him.
She'd taken to leaving small packages of food or cloth at the odd times Harrhan needed to acquire some wares and ventured into the part of the city where they first met. How the woman managed to know when he drops by every single time, Harrhan wouldn't know. It just seemed that they happen to bump into each other, and she just had an extra bag of supplies with her that could be parted with. Suspicious, very much so for Harrhan who had lived in the slums of the city for a long while.
Because here, in this wider, livelier part of the planet, poverty was not much of an issue. Whereas Harrhan spent most of his time fighting for his survival with the thieves and the poor and near-homeless, Shadom lived in the other portion of society whose resources are limited but they do have it.
Or maybe Harrhan was coming into too quick conclusions on this one. He'd only seen a small part of his planet after all and been limited by the knowledge of his father.
Shadom clicked her tongue, "Child, have you seen yourself? You're too thin, too small. Your skin is pale and mottled with bruises. I fail to see which part you have been taking care of."
His skin is pale because he's a freak, Harrhan wanted to say, because it has always been like that since he was born. He's different, a little bit too different from his kind (even with this kind). It was why no one had ever approached him before, isolated and lonely and pathetic.
"I'm not a child," He says instead. What else can you say to a determined woman? Harrhan didn't really have anyone to practice his conversational skills with, not since Makaerus was alive. Even then, his father merely talked at him.
"You are," She says this with a gentle tone that brushes down any bristled metaphorical feathers. "And you should be treated as such. The streets isn't a place for a child like you."
Like him? Harrhan frowns.
"And if you had told me what your name is, I wouldn't call you a child all the time." Her gaze was sharp, daring him to rebut. He doesn't, because he knows better than that.
"Harrhan," He finally answers when it seemed like she won't let it go this time.
The smile Shadom gives was enough to make the sliver of trust he has given worth it.
-0-
There are days when practicing his magic came as easy as breathing.
Small spells like Lumos, Accio, and Wingardium Leviosa weaved through the corner he'd claimed as his. Blue bell flames kept the space warm in the harsh coldness of night. He struggles with transfiguration and hasn't quite worked out Aguamenti. Forget the defensive spells he used to cast with his eyes closed.
Those days, he makes great progress in stretching out his control; makes him feel good and confident and hopeful. It makes the ache in his heart and bones bearable to the extent that he can breathe without pain.
Then there were the bad days.
They come much more frequently than other days.
It's when he struggles to even concentrate, to clear his mind of memories and thoughts and grief and sorrow. It's when he's in the cupboard under the stairs, fearing for when the next time he gets beaten down to unconsciousness. It's when he's frozen in place and trembling with all the pangs and pains of hunger and tiredness.
Those days, the darkness is of loneliness and cold nights instead of safety and comfort. It's despair and drowning and burning with dark sparks of left-over rage.
Those days, he relives his life as Harry Potter. (As the Boy-Who-Lived, the Heir of Slytherin, the Boy-Who-Lied, the one who taught the DA, Undesirable Number One, the Man-Who-Conquered, the Master of Death)
The soothing presence buried deep within his mind tries, but without anything to deter those visions (not even the increasing lengths of time he spends moving around, indulging his saving people thing, anything to keep him exhausted by the end of the day), Harrhan could only bite back sobs and pleas to nothing.
-0-
"I have a daughter," Shadom says one day when Harrhan took it upon himself to repay her generosity by helping her in the markets. "Gamora."
Harrhan blinks, clueless as to why Shadom broached such a subject.
"She'd like to meet you," Shadom continues as if she wasn't divulging another part of her life to a stranger. "She's a bit older, a bit stubborn and headstrong, but I think you'll like her."
Harrhan thinks of what he could have had, thinks of what he had. He thinks of what Shadom could be to him if only he'd let her. There's no envy for the child he hadn't met but he thinks there might have been, once upon a time.
"We'll see." He muttered sullenly.
-0-
"Gamora," Shadom coaxed the little girl behind her, "Come meet Harrhan."
Harrhan observes the little girl. Gamora stood stiffly behind her mother, not because of shyness as Shadom might think. There's a steely edge to her gaze, her brows furrowed deep enough for it to be a glare.
She's angry, Harrhan thinks, Fearful I would steal her mother away. Zen-Whoberi was still a cruel planet, after all. Having one child is enough of a struggle, more so for Shadom who's a widower just like Makaerus. And to Gamora, it would seem like Harrhan was encroaching on her territory, about to bring needless suffering.
"Hello Gamora," Harrhan tries anyway, tilting his head with a sheepish smile. He's smaller than her, physically younger even, but her reactions spoke for her experiences. She's too open, too young and naive even for the exponential adaptability zehoberei possess—doesn't recognize anything beyond her own perception. Perhaps Shadom had sheltered her too much.
Gamora's lips pursed and her grip on her mother's robe tightened. "Hello." It was bit out forcefully.
She's not nice nor does Harrhan think they would ever get along. Not unless something drastically changes, and he doesn't want that to happen. (Because only the presence of death could make it.)
"It's nice to meet you." He says anyway because Shadom was expecting them to get along.
-0-
Shadom started dragging him to their domicile often enough that Harrhan barely spent time outside of their side of the city.
He helps around, independence still clinging to his every step, but he lets her do whatever she wants. Harrhan could just as easily disappear if he wanted to. (Part of him greatly wanted to because he brings strife to whoever he is with.)
Gamora still hadn't quite warmed up to him, sitting in silence whenever he's around. So Harrhan spends most of his time outside, exploring the livelier parts of the planet and taking care of the errands Shadom might need. He's still avoided by the people, though, but he gets treated a bit more civilly with his fitting clothes and cleaner appearance.
Maybe it's just the air around him. Too dark for a boy his young age, too controlled to be normal, and filled with the static-y feel that ran underneath his skin.
Despite the new company, he's still lonely.
It's okay, because bad days started to become far in between. (They don't. Not really.)
Having purpose, he thinks, might be responsible for it. Having someone else besides himself to mind.
Because with Shadom telling him what to do, where to go, giving him freedom but tethering him in place, Harrhan found a purpose to focus on.
Shadom might not be family, but Shadom and Gamora are to one another.
If Harrhan were to put himself in between them (and that was a certainty because family is selfish and Gamora is, too), he would have destroyed what they have.
Protect it, He thinks, because he wasn't selfish (but this choice is also selfish, isn't it?). Protect them, he vows.
And that resolution was so easy to make.
The small, brief impression of no in the back of his mind was ignored.
-0-
Then the Chitauri came to their doorsteps.
Amechania - (Ἀμηχανία), spirit of helplessness and want of means
Ehh, the one who created Gamora apparently liked using Bible references in the names. So-
Name References:
Harrhan - "Harran"
Makaerus - "Macchaerus"
Shadom - "Sodom" (Sodom and Gomorrah wink wink nudge nudge)
Looking forward to seeing y'all again in 5 days! Hope you enjoyed this chapter :))))