crawlersout

by slexenskee

Harry is the girl who wanders in and out of time. Tom knows nothing about her, and despite the fact she has whisked him away from the orphanage to live with her, he's starting to think he never really will either. Regardless, he is determined to never let her go, not even in the face of time, space, or dark lords. timetravel

9. Chapter 9

Sorry this took so long. As usual, a reviewer basically got me to stop dragging my feet and finally write it. This time it was Prussianblues, so thanks for that :) Anyway here's a 20k chapter? I couldn't find anywhere to break it, and I also didn't want to gloss over details when the rest of this story is already very detailed. Anyway, sorry if it feels like filler, or like far too much time spent on the vacation. It might even spill into the next chapter too, lo siento -.-

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Harry, in the desert.

It would be impossible to discern her, if not for the gauntlet of golden fire lit with the wind, flying chaotically around a figure dressed in blue. He knows, somehow, that it is her.

The desert is endless, a dry and haunting landscape of patterns in sand, sloping into the arid, bitter air. In the eaves of night the sky washes the desert into an indeterminable indigo, embers of sun lining the dunes in final bits of light. The wind whips across the boundless land, stirring her hair into another violent dance of sand and gold, picking at the ends of her robes.

Harry is utterly impossible to miss. The rest of the scene is lost in ambiguity.

She is at first a lone figure tossed against a glorious canvas of stars and mountains, an arcane existence at the apex of a cresting dune. But soon others join her.

Skeletons and undead limp their way into the scene, dragging desert-worn bodies through the sand. They seem to flock to her, almost reverently. At first there are only a few, crawling from behind the dunes, trudging in the distance. But more are soon to follow, surrounding her, a fatal centerpiece of cinerous hair and lapis cloth, as one would an ancient deity. She turns, watching them with a vague look of apathetic interest. Her electrifying eyes survey her mighty undead legions with an air of apparent disinterest.

She raises a hand. A wand.

The vision dissipates.

A tall, broad man straightens up from his position leaning over the table, a look of irritation gracing his handsome features. He scowls in the direction of another figure, draped in layers of cloth and choking incense.

"Is that all you can give me?" He asks, crossly.

The fortune teller merely gives him a long, unimpressed look with her glassy eyes. "What the future does or does not give you is out of my hands."

Grindelwald makes an irritated noise, drawing a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. "Lovely, that."

He had arrived at South Station a moment too late. He rounded the corner to see Harry's shock of roseate hair disappear under a hood as she grabbed her ward's hand. In a mere blink of an eye, the two disappeared from sight, portkeyed somewhere he could not follow. To his great annoyance, none of the transportation staff could tell him where they went. They merely held the portkeys; the actual portkeys themselves were crafted by the goblins, and no way in hell was Grindelwald chancing a run in with them.

Why must you be such a difficult creature to find? He thought, and it is not as irritated as it should be. If anything, he felt almost fond.

He shakes his head, turning back to the old lady scrutinizing him with narrowed, distrustful eyes. He did not believe for a second that Divination was all a farce. It was a lost art, surely, but it was an impressive discipline nonetheless. He wonders if the woman had seen his arrival, he wonders what else she had seen about him. He was never entirely sure how seers worked. Had she seen his future? He supposes that was of no consequence; he wouldn't want to know, and she wouldn't ever tell him.

"Thank you for your time," he says, diplomatically, as he deposited a handful of galleons on her desk. "And the ball."

The crystal ball in question has returned to its original, cloudy state. The enigmatic vision of Harry has long since cleared, but he found himself glancing down at it anyway, as if it might have some insight left.

He exits the parlor with an air of frustration and unwilling curiosity.

She is in a desert, somewhere.

The desert is odd, but not nearly as surprising, or impressive, as the legions of undead. Was Harry a necromancer? It would surely explain the boy's fascination with the subject. She hadn't struck him as a master of such deadly occults, but then he supposed he didn't know much about her to begin with. She was a maddeningly difficult person to get a hold of, in all capacities. It was as if she hadn't existed, appearing out of nowhere one day to enroll her young charge into school.

At any rate, normally he wouldn't even bother with gypsies and seers; looking into one's past was usually more than enough to provide adequate insight into one's future. But Harry had no past to speak of, so he was at a loss.

He supposed he could simply wait until the school term resumed. No doubt Harry would return from wherever she had spirited herself for her ward's first day of school, if nothing else. She seemed sentimental like that. But the start of the school term seemed like eons away. Not to mention, it seemed highly likely she may just pull him out of school and disappear entirely. He wanted his answers now; he wanted her now. If he was being honest with himself, this… interest in her was going beyond whatever small favor Lord Hindenburg— or Headmaster Pershing, or whatever name he was going by now— had asked of him. When he had mentioned meeting a woman with an impressively dark aura in the capital the man had been intrigued. But he had simply told the dark lord to keep an eye out for her. It seemed a casual and offhand request, but Gellert knew Pershing far better than that. He had never met a man so shrewd and sharp as the Headmaster, except perhaps for Albus. Often times he wondered if the man was a seer himself.

This small favor of his had turned into a headlong obsession, if he was being honest.

It wasn't often he came across someone so intriguing, someone so mysterious. She looked unassuming enough; pleasantly attractive, with a calm if not standoffish demeanor. And then she goes and defies death and gets up after and walks away. She had a magical aura not unlike his own, something inherently dark and dangerous. She might look and seem like a light witch, but she was made for the dark arts. There was more to her than what lingered on the surface, and Pershing's uncharacteristic interest in her only confirmed it.

Well, no matter, he thinks, as he twists through an alleyway, and returns to Knockturn Alley proper. There are other ways to find her.

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.

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Harry stares into an infinite sky, feeling so small and insignificant against such an overwhelming sight. It was beyond beautiful. If anything, in a way, it was terrifying. Growing up in London meant she was used to the fog and the gloom and the light pollution; the stars in the night sky were few and far between, looking more like a surface painting than something indomitable and larger than reality as she knew it. But here, in the vast and endless Mongolian deserts, its presence was undeniable. She could stare up into the distant galaxy forever; she could get lost in there, if she wanted.

Shuffling sounds bring her back down to earth, the laborious drag of feet against the sand above the merciless wind. She squints, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the lashing wind, turning around.

She sucks in a quick breath, almost face to face with a man without much of a face to begin with.

"Oh," she says, taking a step back. The dead man does not move with her, simply staring at her from a distance with his empty, hollow eyes.

He is joined by a band of compatriots, all in varying states of decay. The vast majority of them are mere skeletons - souls lost to the timeless desert, belonging to an era that has long since passed. More and more rise from the graveyard of shifting sand, lumbering unsteadily on ancient joints as they emerge out of the ground. They clamor around her, crowds of faceless skulls surrounding her on all sides. They do not approach her, however, keeping a satisfactory distance away. All the same she is apprehensive of the sight. They don't appear to be controlled inferi; they seem to simply be… zombies, she supposes. Ron would be ecstatic. Ever since he moved in with Hermione (ostensibly for financial reasons only, of course) he's gotten really into muggle TV. He'll be infinitely jealous to hear Harry got to star in her own episode of The Walking Dead. Harry would not share the sentiment.

She eyes them warily, gathering up her cloak around her, holding it tightly to her chest. The wind makes it difficult; her hair catches in her eyes and her robes struggle out of her grip, but eventually she manages it, and backs her way into the center of her ring of zombies.

They're probably not my zombies, she thinks, before shouting, "Tom? Tom, where are you?" Over the harsh wind.

"Over here!" She hears in the distance.

Tom comes scampering up the sand dunes, dodging his way through the crowd of undead. He looks positively thrilled.

"Wow! There are so many!" Tom enthuses, as he comes to stand by Harry. He holds a copy of The Necromancer's Moon tightly in his hands. "Who would have thought there were so many dead people in the middle of nowhere like this?" He marvels, before turning to her eagerly; "Do you think some of them are Mongols?"

"I'm positive all of them are Mongols." Harry replies, scrutinizing what appears to be some kind of armor still tattered and wrapped around one of the skeletons closest to her.

Tom observes them with interest. "They're not moving." He states, obviously.

"They're not." Harry agrees cautiously, still apprehensive at the sight of them. "Are you controlling them?"

"Not really," Tom reveals, to her rising trepidation.

Harry looks at him with slight alarm. "Where did they come from, then? Didn't you Raise them?"

"Oh! Well yes, I Called them." Tom scratches his cheek, red and ruddy from all his adventuring in the markedly cold desert night. "But I'm not commanding them to do anything. Usually they just kind of wander around aimlessly… it's so strange to see them so still."

"Strange, huh?" Harry repeats, expression wary as her eyes flitter about the crowds of undead. It's certainly unnerving, to say the least. She supposed people were not all that different from squirrels at the end of the day, but it was something about the human form in such a macabre state that made her uneasy.

She takes a hesitant step forward, beginning to circle the unmoving undead. The skeletons stare emptily at nothing, but the moment she moves they all swivel to start staring at her. Harry jumps in alarm, eyes wide.

"They don't normally do that either." Tom says, curiously.

"Well, can you make them stop?" Harry replies anxiously. "It's creeping me out."

Tom takes out his wand, murmuring under his breath. He frowns when he looks up, only to see that the undead are still staring unnervingly at Harry. He ducks his head down and consults his book with a pensive furrow in his brow.

"Tom," Harry calls, uneasily.

He frowns further. "It doesn't say anything about this in the book," he reveals, to her growing alarm. "Normally when you use the Command the Dead spell, they listen to your commands, whatever they are."

"They're not listening to you now?" Harry asks, a bit hysterically.

Tom just continues to frown, shrugging. "I guess not."

"Tom," Harry scolds. "Are you telling me you summoned these things and you don't know how to control them?"

Tom looks perhaps a bit sheepish. "Well… they seem to be under control now?"

"They seem docile now," Harry amends, testily, "but how long will that last? And what have I told you about trying dangerous spells without fully understanding them?"

"This has never happened before," Tom insists, whining slightly. "You've seen me use this spell all the time!"

Harry blows out a long breath, acknowledging that he's correct. Tom raises dead things all the time, and this has never happened before. Then again, Tom has never raised humans, either. And out here, in the mysterious and foreign Gobi desert was probably not the best place to try it out.

"Well, maybe you should put them back where they came from for now." Harry suggests, eying them cautiously. They seem harmless enough… but Harry doesn't think that will last for very long.

Tom nods glumly, returning his attention to his new Necromancy book. He waves his wand again; the incantation he speaks is not in latin, or any other language she's familiar with— it sounds like Oirat, one of the local dialects spoken in the nearby town they were staying in. Harry hopes to leave it by tomorrow morning; as it turns out, traveling in this day in age in the muggle world is an awful idea. The muggle world is globally ridden with strife, and even here so far removed from the European infighting, remnants of the conflict are readily apparent. She vows to stay as far away from the soviet conflicts as possible, which at this point is synonymous with staying as far away from the muggle world as possible. Harry can only imagine how difficult navigating Jalalabad as British nationals is going to be right now.

She stirs out of her sobering thoughts on the world state of affairs after a few long moments, realizing the zombies are still here.

Harry blinks in surprise, before turning to her young charge. "...Tom?"

This is rather unusual. Also unusual is Tom's confused expression as he stares at his minions.

"They're not leaving," he whispers, a small, faltering thread of alarm in his voice.

Harry's voice matches his own as she repeats; "They're not?"

This is obvious though— whatever spell Tom had attempted to use clearly had no effect. The undead were still amassed around them, standing stock still under the ominous desert moon. She wonders if it has anything to do with the full moon hanging heavily above them, and the endless sand around them; this desert was a known necromancer's site for a reason, perhaps there was something about this place that was so powerful even Tom's direct commands couldn't break through it.

Harry glances down at the book in Tom's hands; they had picked it up from a wandering caravan of traders stopped in Sevrei for the night. She had to admit, this whole trip would be a lot worse if they weren't wizards. The small sum of Sevrei was not a particularly interesting or well-known tourist destination, with little to offer by way of supplies or comforts. If Harry hadn't known beforehand to pack a magical tent the equivalent of a five-star hotel she would probably be in a right foul mood right now. At any rate clearly the silk road was not just a journey limited to ancient times; it's long standing history continued up to this day, with wandering caravans stopping periodically in small towns like this on their way westward. These particular merchants were a group of vampires on their way to Tajikstan, traveling through the northern silk road to get to it. They had at first been wary, than amused by Tom's endless pestering and fascination with their handwritten, handbound books. Harry managed to cull his frenzy by allowing him to only pick one thing out of their caravan of trinkets— with great reluctance Tom had chosen the Necromancer's Moon over a cursed coffin from medieval times, to Harry's relief. If it was truly that cursed, it probably wouldn't play nicely with the charms over their tent, or any charms at all, and they'd have to lug it around by hand.

The vampires spoke passable English, which wasn't surprising since Harry assumed immortality gave one a lot of time to pick up languages. They knew enough to convey the contents of the book and give them a translation charm for the Oirat text inside it, and discuss the mercurial weather patterns and strange happenings in the desert beyond.

The vampires warned that Duut Mankhan was a strange and lawless place with mysterious circumstances causing it to be called the 'Singing Dunes'. Even though it was on the silk road, most tended to avoid it due to rumors of the undead residing in its lofty hills. This was of course the entire reason Harry and Tom were here, so this did nothing to deter them. Still, Harry had found it odd that even the vampires— dark creatures who were known to dabble in Necromancy— seemed wary of it. Considering the amount of necromantic objects they were selling, Harry would have thought they'd be perfectly at home there.

Maybe she should have heeded their warning a little more.

"Do you hear that?" Tom asks, quietly, pulling Harry from her thoughts.

Harry turns to him curiously, before tilting her head. She sucks in a breath. "Yeah," she answers, just as quiet. "I do."

Earlier the wind had been too loud to hear your own footsteps, let alone such a soft and fragile sound. Something seemed to resonate in the darkness— a low and wavering note threading through the dunes. It was such a sorrowful, haunting sound. It was oddly sweet in a way, but it still put Harry on edge. It could have actually sounded nice; if it hadn't seemed so out of place. But combined with the undead armies staring them down, it was positively frightening.

"Maybe we should get out of here." Harry suggests, panicking somewhat.

Tom nods vigorously. Then he bites his lip. "Do you think we can?" He asks, hesitantly. "I mean, do you think they'll let us?"

Harry swallows. "Well… I guess we'll just have to find out."

She pulls her wand out slowly, inching closer towards Tom. The skeletons do not move. She places a heavy hand on his shoulder, directing him down the dune, her eyes never once straying from the undead crowds around them. They take one step, then another, and another after that. The armies do not make a move towards them, but they follow them with their empty eyes. The desert is still and silent— too still, and too silent. The violent winds have dissipated, leaving only the hollow, singing sound and the shuffling of their feet. The undead are soundless; in the incandescent moonlight they stand like solemn sentinels, watching their every move.

They cautiously make their way to the base of the dune, weaving through the stationary skeletons with wary steps. When she turns around to look, she sees that they are all standing in the same positions, but with their necks craned an impossible angles, all turning to stare at them. At her, it almost feels like.

The wind whistles slightly, eddies of sand whirling at her feet. In one fell swoop the wintry light disappears, the luminous moon covered by clouds. The resonating note falters, pitching the desert into dead silence.

And then, they move.

It is a frenzy. The undead pitch into violent movement; lunging through the sand. Harry screams in fright, tugging Tom close to her on instinct, raising her wand. To her shock the torn bodies charge right past her, making for something in front of them.

She blinks wide eyes as the undead rush past them. Suddenly there is an explosion, and a bright blast of light. A spell. And then another, and another, as the armies rush past them. She lets go of Tom, backing away to tread back up the dunes for a better vantage point. The undead surge forward as one terrifying unit, making for something out in the distance. No, not something, Harry realizes. Someone.

There's a person out there, casting spells into the darkness. She can hardly see anything, squinting into the distance. All she can hear are the guttural sounds of the undead as they rush past her, sprinting towards their prey.

Finally another spell lights up the air. It's nothing but a split second, the scene illuminated by a zap of lightning— it's a single man, surrounded by hordes of the undead.

Harry watches, horrified. Then she takes a deep breath, screaming at the top of her lungs; "Stop!"

All at once the undead come to a complete stop. In unison, they all turn towards Harry, out of breath, in the valley between two dunes; a queen in royal blue, standing beneath the indomitable moon, clouds drifting away to reveal its full incandescent glory; her kingdom of death and silence spread infinitely around her. In one swift movement, they all drop to their knees before her.

Tom stares at her, feeling as if he's never seen her before. Harry looks equally as surprised, her eyes as big and luminous as the moon behind her.

Well, this is knew. Harry thinks, blankly, as she watches the sea of ancient soldiers fall to their knees in front of her.

She hadn't actually thought that would work.

"Harry?" Tom chokes aloud, eyes wide.

It only takes a second, and then Harry is descending towards him, swooping low to cup his face in her hands. "Tom! Oh Merlin, are you alright?"

He nods faintly, eyes still wide and full of disbelief, as his mind tries to catch up with the last few seconds.

It all happened so fast. The undead watched with their empty, silent gazes as Harry and Tom slid past them, carefully treading through the crowds as they made their way out of the amassed skeletons. Tom had thought they were in the clear— the risen bodies seemed docile enough, and they didn't seem all that interested in attacking them, even as they wove their way around the stationary figures. He remembered the vampires saying something important about the singing dunes, although he couldn't remember what it was exactly. But he knew this drone-like sound meant something important. Even more important— the moment it stopped.

Even as a novice necromancer like himself, well used to the odd habits of the undead and the supernatural, the sight was terrifying. It's just, he'd never seen so many. He knew the Gobi desert was the site of hundreds of conflicts over the ages, making it a veritable graveyard of civilizations. More than that, he knew the undead made pilgrimages to its haunting, icy slopes. Most people thought it was the necromancers who chose the desert and brought the undead with them, but actually it was the other way around. The necromancers followed the undead, fascinated by such an oddly sentient choice. Every full moon it was said that hordes of dead would rise from the ground under moonlight, from all over the surrounding mountains and steppes, trekking their way to these slopes. And it was true, Tom had wanted to observe this infamous pilgrimage himself— but he hadn't realized the sheer amount of undead that would be here. In hindsight, it was a rather foolish oversight.

And then, to see them all so violent, without any necromancer commanding them whatsoever— it was so unnatural and horrific a sight. The idea of the undead moving and acting without any apparent guidance was disconcerting, to say the least.

He felt awful, realizing he hadn't actually told Harry any of this, and naively led her into such a dangerous environment they were both unprepared to face. Despite his avid enjoyment of the subject, necromancy really was dangerous. And if the undead of the desert were said to move on their own, then it was only a short jump to conclude that they had a will of their own, undictated by any necromancer. And if Tom wasn't dictating them, then there was a chance they would turn out to be rather unfriendly. He vowed to apologize and come clean to her the moment they were out of danger.

Except they were out of danger now, and Tom found all the words slipping out of his head with the wind around them.

"...Harry…" He says, slowly, still looking at her as if he was seeing an entirely different person. In a way— it sort of felt like he was.

He'd never seen anyone do something like that. Not even his necromancy professor, a talented and well-renowned master of the field. She could summon legions of undead not unlike the ones around them, and could command them with the grace of a conductor directing her orchestra— but she could never stop them with her voice alone. Not like Harry had. And her undead had never listened to her like that. They never fell to their knees into the dirt and bowed their heads, as if in the presence of god himself. They did not stand still and reverent as their queen walked among them, their eyes covetously tracing her every step.

Maybe he is looking at Harry like this because she really was an entirely different person. A person Tom had never really known.

The girl ignores his soft utterance, examining him with a clerical eye, her hands drawing up and down his shoulders as she scrutinizes him for injuries. She breathes a sigh of relief when it becomes apparent he is unharmed, before rising back to her full height. She observes the fallen undead around them with an impassive expression, lips thinned into a fine line. Tom thinks she really does look like some kind of god in that moment, bronze hair falling loosely from beneath her hood, silk robes floating around her, cold and merciless bright eyes passing judgment on the world around her. In that moment, she is timeless.

Then she lets out a long breath, steering him by the shoulders.

They walk together through the kneeling crowds, Harry's gait steady as she picks her way through them, ignoring their moving gazes. Tom is not nearly as unmoved by the sight, feeling wary and uneasy as they pass through them, as if waiting for them to lunge into action once more.

They finally make it to the scene of the conflict, where Tom is surprised to see a harried man with a satchel of parchment scrambling to his feet.

Harry stares down at him, looking unimpressed. "Can I help you?"

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.

.

"So how exactly did you find me? If you don't mind me asking." Harry asks, once they are sufficiently far enough from the danger, a thousand meters up in the air, riding on a massive bird of prey.

Harry has never ridden on a giant eagle before. She didn't even know they came in this size. She didn't know people rode eagles, either, but she supposes there is a first for everything.

Their guide— a boy perhaps a few years younger than her from Kazakhstan— pats the neck of his eagly fondly. "Serik is quite clever," he says with a smile. The bird turns slightly to blink back at them. "He can find anyone, just about anywhere."

"But how?" This is from Tom, nestled by her side, looking both excited and positively exhausted after all this adventure.

The boy shrugs. "How do all birds find what they are looking for?"

Harry and Tom both frown at that. That's a good point. How does Hedwig always find her? No one ever seems to know how they do it.

The scenery beneath them looks as if it hasn't changed since the dawn of human civilization. They fly over tiered rice paddies meticulously carved into the mountain face, rolling fields and the foothills of the great and terrifying Himalayas. This close to them, the wind currents are strong enough for the massive golden burkit to use the rising air to ferry them through the countryside in record time. This is how couriers like Azat can get around so effectively in such an enormous territory.

The Kazakh people have been using falcons and eagles to hunt and ferry them for centuries; Tom is utterly enamored. Harry point blank refuses to buy him a falcon or bird or prey of any kind. Anyway, Azat says the bird and its owner must bond from a young age, so Tom would have to find an eagle young enough to bond with him— this is why they travel together, even though most European courier birds travel alone. The massive, magical cousins of the regular golden eagle are the only bird capable of weathering the violent winds of the Himalayas all year round, but they need to draw magic from their owner to do so. An ordinary bird couldn't do this all year round. Harry can't even imagine poor Hedwig trying to weather these kinds of winds.

Harry patiently reminds Tom that no matter how cool a giant hunting bird may be, he already has a familiar; a fat, mean and possessive familiar that will be very upset if they bring home a new pet, and is petty enough to eat it just to be spiteful. So Tom eventually just sighs and instead takes to pestering their poor ferrier the entire ride over, asking all sorts of invasive questions that leave Harry horrified and apologetic. Azat assures her his curiosity is not offensive at all. In fact, it is nice to see people so interested.

The young Kazakh and his burkit Serik fly all over the largest and most dangerous mountain range in the world all year round, a territory that is over two hundred thousand meters wide and over eight thousand meters tall. He knows all the small villages to stop at, all the wind currents and weather patterns, the safest ways to travel and the fastest ways to travel, how to use the sun and the stars to guide him, and when that fails, how to use his magic to find the Earth's magnetic field to direct him when the weather permits neither sun nor stars.

And he knows all that without once attending a magical school.

They are too expensive, he says, too far, too few, and too select. For the vast majority of magical peoples, they must live in the muggle world, protecting and continuing their beliefs mostly in secret without any kind of standardized education. Knowledge is passed down through generations by clan elders, wandering monks, or from father to son, as in Azat's case.

They both listen with rapt attention and somber eyes. It's not as if Harry didn't know how woefully inefficient and inept the Ministries of the world can be already, but it's so much more apparent when they're out traveling the world like this. Already muggles are well on their way to a globalized society. They might fight amongst each other endlessly and wage horrible wars that scar the planet, but they have also already figured out how to systematically educate, feed and house entire populations effectively. They are growing, and innovating, and learning new things.

Harry does not want to think of Grindelwald's words right now, but she does anyway. Our governments have become ineffective and useless, overrun and corrupted by the rich and powerful.

He called the wizarding world 'stagnating'. And she knows his words will truly come to pass, and people like Hermione will have to struggle with decades of a sluggish economy and little progress and attempt to move an unwilling population into the new millenia. She can't help but think of Fudge, and all the money the British Ministry of Magic wastes on ridiculous and frivolous things meant to further their own gain. Fudge wasted all this tax payer money bribing the Daily Prophet to run smear campaigns against her to save his own reputation, rather than spend it on furthering magical infrastructure for more rural areas of the British Isles, or spend it on grants for children who couldn't afford Hogwarts, or even wands.

She knows for a fact that the great Imperial Qing dynasty still rules over the greater central eurasia territories as far as the magical world is concerned, collecting tax money from poor provincial towns like Azat's, without giving them anything in return. There is only one institutionalized magical school with government funding that could even be considered nearby, and it is the Emperor's Institute in Luoyang— a prestigious and selective school that only accepts the sons and daughters of wealthy court nobles, and that's not even really in central Asia. There are also the Russians in the north, who also take taxpayer money from the rural lower states, and they too would never let some poor farm boy from a distant village attend one of their esteemed boarding schools, let alone let them live in their cities.

Empires rise and fall, dictators rise from the ashes and wage wars to imperialize new territories, and all the while no one cares for the actual people themselves.

How exactly does Gellert expect to change that? She genuinely wants to know.

In all honesty, she slept through most of her history classes so she doesn't entirely remember what his policies were in particular. She just new he had been in support of the war and callously disregarded how many people were to die in order to further his own aims.

Speaking of Gellert…

Harry glances down at the letter tucked into her cloak. "Do you…" She swallows with difficulty. "Do you know who sent this letter?"

She's pretty sure she already knows who did, but she can't help but ask anyhow.

Azat shakes his head. "It came from the west," he reveals. "It was addressed specifically for me to deliver. It was good timing, since I was already intending to leave for Wuhai."

Something tells me that wasn't coincidental in the slightest, Harry thinks, annoyed.

She doesn't voice that aloud. "I'm sorry then. We must have completely ruined your schedule." She says instead, sincerely.

"It is alright." Azat replies easily giving Serik a gentle tug to the left. The bird beats its powerful wings, and then they are soaring upwards in a warm torrent of air. "For Serik, Lhasa is not too out of the way."

Even for modern day airplanes Harry is fairly sure traveling straight across the mountain range like this would most definitely be considered out of the way. But for Azat and Serik, there is no place in the mountains they cannot reach, be that the highest peak of Everest or the lowest valley in Nepal.

Except for Kabul, apparently.

Azat says it is not safe to go to, even for sorcerers, but especially for Westerns. Between the recent Anglo-Afghan war, and a border rife with tension from the Soviets, the Afghan people were not very fond of foreigners in their land. Even Azat does not fly through some parts of the country. Tom was rather put out at that, until Azat suggested they try Lhasa instead. It is far closer, and far less likely to end with either of them dead. Tom warms up to the idea of it after Azat goes on to explain the Tibetan Buddhist practice of a 'sky burial', and their many peaceful beliefs on the afterlife and the cycle of rebirth. Having never encountered a magical society that believes in reincarnation, Tom was sufficiently distracted from his disappointment.

They have a brief stopover by a beautiful lakeside in Nagqu province, so Serik can hunt for lunch and Tom can ride a yak. Harry is sure to take a truly absurd amount of pictures of Tom essentially doing nothing but sitting atop it because the yak doesn't really want to move, but she can't help it. It's the most adorable thing she's ever seen.

"Harry!" He waves at her, from where his yak has decided to trudge halfway into the lake to satisfy its thirst, and hasn't moved since. Harry snaps another picture; the view of the lake and the mountains so beautiful it could fill a whole book of pictures. "Come ride one!"

"I'll leave the adventuring to you Tom!" She calls, less than thrilled at the idea of falling and getting soaked.

Tom rolls his eyes, but doesn't make any move to drag her over. He looks down at the enormous beast who doesn't seem the least bit phased at hauling around a little human atop it. More than likely the massive thing can't even feel him underneath all that fur.

"They're quite docile," Harry comments to Azat, as they stand on the banks.

"This herd is unfamiliar with humans. Not many people travel this far into Nagqu province." Azat remarks. "Unless of course, you can fly."

Harry smiles. "Yes, I assume that would make it a great deal easier to get around in a place like this." She gestures to the lawless expanse of grassland around them, and further still, the soaring mountain peaks bearing down on them. The air is so fresh and clean, tinged lightly with frost. It's certainly not warm, even at this time of year, but it's not cold enough to spoil her good mood, either.

The tan boy turns to her slightly, wind ruffling his hair. "If it is not to bold of me to ask, why are you traveling to such far, foreign places? Sevrei is not the type of place most would go to; neither is Anjoman. Most travelers go out of their way to avoid such places as the Gobi desert and the Hindu Kush mountains."

"We're on vacation, believe it or not." Harry reveals, to the boy's surprise. She laughs. "I'm aware they are very… unexpected places; Tom is very interested in Necromancy and learning new— and often obscure— magics, and those were two of the places he wanted to go."

Azat blinks in shock. Then he shakes his head, smiling ruefully. "It's true there are many rare magics, but most would avoid them anyhow, because they are either too far or too dangerous." He gives her a long look. "You do not seem to have a problem with the latter, however."

"How so?" Harry asks coolly. Tom yelps in the distance, his yak bucking slightly as it shakes itself to dislodge the bugs flying around it. He nearly topples face first into the water, but steadies himself at the last moment.

"I do not normally land in the desert," he reveals, in a low voice. "But I have flown past it often enough and have seen what the undead do to unsuspecting travelers. They are not docile in the least; necromancers come to study them and pay their respects to the desert, but they do not linger. They can control them to an extent, but during the full moon they grow exceptionally strong; even necromasters have difficulty keeping them at bay."

He turns to her fully at that. "And yet, they did not attack you. In fact, they were deferring to you."

Ah. Yeah, that.

Poor Azat could have seriously died landing in the desert as he did. As it is he should have, but Harry has once again managed to thwart death in some manner, and the young Kazakh who did not deserve to die lives on.

They listened to her. Better than they did Tom, the actual necromancer between the two. They were all but worshipping her.

"It must have been something Tom did," outwardly she shrugs it off. "He's very clever like that."

Azat does not look convinced in the least, but Serik's large shadow swoops above them, and then the enormous creature is dropping next to them, ruffling its feathers.

It gently butts its head against Azat's side, cooing. "All done, are you?" He smooths a hand down its back.

"Tom," Harry calls. He's managed to convince the yak to leave the water, and is attempting to stand on top of it. "Come on! We're leaving."

"Okay!" He replies, jumping off his new friend. He pats it on the head before racing back to her.

Fortunately, they do not talk about the dead and the undead for the rest of the ride over.

.

.

.

He is not fond of blood magic; even for a dark lord there are some things that are too dark. It's an incredibly dangerous practice, and there's never any guarantee that the ritual you're attempting will even work. Often times they are performed correctly, but end up with less than desirable circumstances anyhow. Still, it's not as if he's unfamiliar with it.

Studying it is one thing, though. Actually trying it is a whole other story.

He's never actually participated in a blood ritual— nor has he ever wanted to— and yet here he is anyway in the bowels of Beirut, in a basement choking with heavy incense and far too many carpets. He supposes he should be grateful it smells like incense, and not like the tunnels outside. Blood magic is far too close to human sacrifice to ever be legal, no matter how liberal a country may be, so it's no surprise he had to muck his way through the sewers for a bit to find this place. It's exactly the kind of place he'd expect a known practitioner of the arts to hide in; ritualists are regularly hunted down and imprisoned in magical societies, and for good reason. They have an infamous history of stealing young children from nearby villages to use in their conjuring; they are equally infamous for eating them afterwards, too.

He watches the candles dripping against the walls, feeling what he refuses to call apprehension; wariness, perhaps. There's nothing wrong with that. A little self-preservation never hurt anyone. Actually, he could probably use a bit more of it.

It has become very apparent that tracking her down was going to take some serious effort. A scrying compass and a crystal ball just wouldn't do. On a related note, it was also becoming very apparent that this obsession of his was getting out of hand. If he's going to such lengths to find her that's reason enough to take a step back and reevaluate his priorities. He's been spending far too much of his precious time on this little side quest of his as it is; now he is turning to blood magicks?

Gellert scowls at himself, turning away from the wall to fix his glare at the carpet beneath him. Why must they sit on the floor? It was unbearably uncomfortable.

"You've come a long way to get here, Lord Grindelwald."

He looks up as an elderly man hobble through the drapes obscuring the other side of the room. He has a monocle on one side and a glass eye in the other, skin like leather, with a well manicured beard; his long, draping robes nearly blend in with the curtains behind him, making him seem like an oddly floating head. He could have been from anywhere, or anytime. Gellert couldn't pinpoint his ethnicity if he tried; he couldn't pinpoint his age, either.

"And yet you don't seem particularly surprised." He returns, drily.

He quirks a lopsided smile. "Come," he says, holding the curtains open. "Your future awaits."

"My future, you say?" He repeats as he gets to his feet, chuckling. "I have a feeling it's always awaiting me."

The old man merely smiles enigmatically, disappearing into the shifting, curtains.

The material creases in his hands like water, intricate patterns woven into luxurious fabric rippling across its surface. He is a man of refined tastes, so it is no surprise he is so impressed with them. Flat woven embroidery stitches across the curtain as stags and winged mythical creatures, delicately adorning the telltale geometric designs so prevalent in Islamic art. Judging by the use of animals and mixture of other materials would date this carpet somewhere around the Sasanian Empire. It should rightfully belong in a cherished museum somewhere, and yet here it is, acting as a curtain of some kind, hanging innocuously in a cramped basement.

He takes his time perusing through them all, as if he has all the time in the world. It's not often one gets to see such impeccable works of art, and especially one so difficult to find in the Western world.

"Ah, the ghalitcheh has caught your eye, has it?"

He doesn't turn around at the sound of the old man's voice. "This corner articulation is profoundly impressive," he replies, before releasing his hold on it and turning to face the other man. "Islamic tradition prohibits depictions of animals and humans, so this is either very new or very old."

The old man shuffles closer, adjusting his monocle for a better look at it. "Yes you are quite correct," he agrees, as he leans back. "But this is not a persian carpet. This is an early anatolian animal carpet, heavily influenced by Chinese motifs in the thirteenth century."

Gellert blinks. "Are you a collector of antique carpets?"

"Oh, no." The man blinks his single eye owlishly. "They always manage to find me, one way or another."

"Still, it is nice to see someone showing interest in such lost arts." He continues, as he wades back into the depths.

"Well I don't think I would call it a lost art," he calls, as he follows the old man's smaller form. "But I would agree, it is not given nearly the attention it deserves."

He wonders if he has passed some kind of test of some kind, for the man grins toothily at him, and motions for him to sit down. A chair this time, mercifully. It wasn't as if he had been rude, but he hadn't seemed all that enthused with Gellert's presence in his shop. Now though, he seemed to adamantly enjoy him being here, even serving him tea with much gusto.

"Now, this young lady you are searching for," he begins without preamble, as he slowly lowers himself into the seat across from Gellert. "Tell me, why are you looking for her?"

Gellert wonders if he should be surprised that this old man knows. Ultimately he decides the question would be too much of a headache to answer, so he doesn't even bother. "I want answers from her."

"Impatience won't grant you them."

Gellert raises a brow. "Is that what my future told you?"

"No, this is simple advice all men must know." The man remarks, spooning sugar into his own cup. The tea is the color of blood, and Gellert isn't all that sure he wants to see if it tastes like it too. "Never rush a woman."

He lets out a surprised bark of laughter. "You may be onto something there."

"An old man picks up a thing or two, after all these years."

The blonde tilts his head. "How old are you, if you don't mind me asking?"

The man's single, milky blue eye turns to him. "You're free to guess." He offers, instead of answer. "However, I suppose it is rather unfair of me to know so much about you, and you so little of me. My name is Amir. I have lived for far too long. They call me many things; Grand Vizier, the finder of lost children, the third magi of the east."

Gellert blinks. "I see." He hadn't known any of those; when he returned to the seer who sold him the crystal ball, demanding something far stronger and darker, she told him to seek out the hermit deep beneath Beirut. A dark soul, gifted in blood magicks, she had said.

Nothing about Amir struck him as particularly dark, and he hasn't seen any of the usual remains of blood rituals. Then again, it's not as if he knew the man very well- or at all.

"Ah, but you are skeptical, I can see." That eye stares him down again, in an oddly intimidating manner. "But there is much to be skeptic about."

"I wouldn't say I'm skeptical," he returns, slowly. "Rather, simply… uninformed. I was told if I want to find this girl, I would need far more powerful magic to do so; but I must confess I am not well versed in blood magicks of any kind."

"You were informed correctly. However, you have not told me the true reason you are searching for her; if I do not know, I cannot help you."

"Like I said, I want answers."

"If that were truly all you wanted, you would not turn to blood magicks to do it. Especially when you are aware you will get them sooner or later."

He might be old, but he's still sharp.

"How can I be so sure?" He refutes. "She has a habit of disappearing off the face of the Earth-

Amir laughs. "That she does."

"-how am I to know if this time she will disappear for good?" It's a thought that plagues him quite often, actually. Aside from the boy, he has no way of ever tracking her down. And if she truly wanted, she could easily spirit away both herself and the child and then he would never be able to find her at all.

"So it is not answers you seek," Amir deduces triumphantly. "But the girl herself."

Gellert can't really find it in him to deny something that has become woefully obvious.

The old man pours himself another cup of tea out of the tall brass Dallah between them.

"Blood magic can indeed help you find her," he reveals, as he sets the teapot down. "But it is a steep price to pay for something you truly do not want."

Gellert frowns. "What do you mean by that?"

"You tell me." The vizier replies calmly. "Why are you looking for her?"

The dark lord feels as if they're going in circles. "As I said-

"No, no. Why are you really looking for her?"

The tall blonde man pauses, expression turning introspective. "She… fascinates me. I want to know her. I don't want her to disappear." He frowns. "I am not entirely certain as to why, however. But for a person I have only met quite briefly, she has certainly left a mark."

Amir makes a vague noise of understanding.

"Ah, I see. It is true, to obtain what you truly desire, a much stronger magic is needed." The man says, eyes twinkling in a way that maddeningly reminds him of Albus. "A very, very strong magic indeed. However, I believe you are looking in the entirely wrong direction."

"Wrong direction?"

"Truly I cannot help you, young man,"

Young man? Gellert's brow twitches.

"Or rather, I can, but you will come to regret it." With a flourish of incredibly precise wandless magic, a piece of parchment, a brush, and a pot of ink come flying through the carpets, neatly reordering themselves in front of Amir. "I will not perform any blood magicks for you today. Instead, I will give you this."

He writes something down, before handing it to the dark lord.

Grindelwald takes the parchment, glancing down at it.

8:00 PM July 28

Suiran

Kyoto

He looks back up.

"Send this off to her, by a burtkitshi from Almaty. You will find the answers you seek there. If you know what it is you are truly seeking, of course."

Why must old men talk in riddles, he thinks, exasperated. If he ever ends up as some kind of wise old oracle, he will be sure to tell it exactly how it is. Still these are very precise instructions, so at the very least he knows exactly what to do, even if he doesn't know why he's doing it.

"Ah, and before you go, take this with you." He rises from his chair, moving towards a lopsided cabinet crowded with trinkets. He returns with a pouch. "Give it to the girl."

Gellert takes it as he rises as well, peering into the depths. Inside he finds gold, frankincense, and myrrh. The dark lord blinks for a moment, eyes widening. Then he closes the pouch, smirking.

"You've given yourself away, old man." He calls, wryly, as he tucks the pouch away and makes for the wall of carpets.

The old man only laughs. "Or so you may think!" He replies in kind.

.

.

.

Lhasa, Tibet

The scrying compass twirls endlessly. Next to it, an opalescent glass ball spins in a cloudy mist.

The mists part for a moment, revealing a looming breath-taking range of mountains at the throat of the world. Temples dot the clear blue sky; vibrant colored flags float in the wind; paths wind endlessly in the grooves of stone giants; incense is heavy in the air. A girl with vermillion hair wrapped tight in a gold and navy cloak, a few brilliant strands loose and falling across her shoulders as she sits in an ancient tea shop.

It's impossible to tell from such a foggy and unfocused image, but the girl in question is scowling crossly, looking like she's a few seconds away from firing a few curses, a letter crushed in her hand.

She's been like this ever since that courier found them in what is quite possibly the definition of the middle of nowhere. She would have thought the endlessly uninhabited deserts of Mongolia would give her some reprieve from irritating dark lord's and the world at large. She was very wrong.

Harry still doesn't know how he found her. Seriously. How did he know to send a letter to Almat, and then further, that Azat would be flying a route past the Gobi desert? How did he even know they were in the Gobi desert to begin with? It irritates her endlessly.

"Harry," Tom tugs at her cloak, calling her back into the present.

She immediately feels bad; she doesn't want her foul mood ruining Tom's much anticipated vacation. He's having such a great time, despite all their setbacks. It's all been one exciting adventure to him, and Harry doesn't want to spoil it. She wants Tom to experience new things, to see the world, to learn about other cultures and emphasize with them and like them, wizards and muggles alike. Meeting people like the vampire merchants in Sevrei and Azat, a Kazakh falconer, were exactly the sort of experiences Harry wanted Tom to have. Meeting people of all walks of life would only do him good; maybe if Voldemort had gotten this opportunity, he wouldn't have turned out to be so bigoted and prejudiced and convinced of his own superiority. If he could only see the world he had wanted to ruin…

Well at any rate, they have only been here a few days and already Tom has made friends with the Buddhist monks in the city, following them around and asking millions of questions at all hours of the day. It was fortunate they were such patient and indulgent people, otherwise they probably would have kicked him out for annoying them a long time ago.

The center of Tibetan Buddhism for over a millennium, Lhasa remains largely a city of wonders. Harry had read once that some places were more magical than others, that sometimes the magic was so powerful you could feel it as a tangible pressure on your skin. She hadn't really believed that until now. No wonder everyone here was incredibly spiritual, monks and muggles alike. Magic seems to come alive here, as if the centuries of worship and prayer have managed to seep into the earth itself.

"Sorry Tom," she apologizes sincerely. "I was lost in thought."

Tom frowns over his breakfast, but drops the subject. "Can we go to Maizhokunggar today?" He asks instead, eagerly.

Harry blinks. "Sure, of course." She replies genially, picking at her dumplings. "We can do whatever you want, Tomcat."

Tom does not look appeased in the least. He casts another long look at her over the rim of his butter tea. Harry doesn't notice, because she's too busy scrutinizing her shemdre, a Tibetan breakfast staple of yak meat, rice and potatoes and some kind of mystery sauce. Translation spells have proved unhelpful thus far, so she doesn't even bother to try to ask the cook what it is. Harry doesn't know how she feels about yak meat. She eats it anyway.

Harry has been peculiar ever since the desert. She refuses to speak of it, always changing the subject or glossing over it as a weird fluke caused by the desert magic, but Tom doesn't believe that for a second. He may not be a real necromancer yet, but he's studied enough of it to realize just how anomalous such an event like that was. And then there was the letter she received shortly thereafter. She wouldn't let him look at it, and Azat did not tell him what was in it, or even who gave it to him in the first place. Harry was hiding things from him, again. And already that upset him— but more than that, seeing Harry so maudlin upset him even more. Hopefully a day trip would keep her mind off of whatever it is that was bothering her.

"It's kind of a long way," Tom adds, after a beat. "But one of the monks told me you can take a carpet if the weather is clear."

Harry smirks at that. "Is this just another ploy to get me to buy a flying carpet?" She teases lightly, because Tom has been wanting one since they arrived. They're not hard to find all along the silk road, often being traded alongside classic artisan persian rugs. At any rate if Harry thought persian rugs were expensive, persian flying rugs were just plain obscene. Just one medium-sized magical carpet costs the same as her latest Firebolt model from the future, and that's accounting for inflation.

"No," Tom drawls, in a way that means he really does want to go, but also really wants that carpet.

Harry had been contemplating buying him one in secret for his birthday, but she supposes an early birthday present couldn't hurt. Even if it is six months too early.

"Well, what do you want to see in Maizhokunggar?" She asks, as she thinks the idea over.

Tom frowns thoughtfully. "The monastery of course. My professor talked about it once. She says it's famous for its lectures on sutra and tantra, and for its teachings on the transmigration of souls." He explains, looking excited.

Harry rolls her eyes. Of course he's excited about death, once again.

Then her amused expression falls, a somber look taking its place.

She's not sure if she wants to take another foray into more necromancy practices, what with what happened last time. She still doesn't quite know what happened. And Harry didn't want to know; she didn't want to unravel the mystery. She didn't want anyone asking questions she didn't want to answer, be that Tom or Azat or irritating Dark Lords. She's lived mostly in ignorance of her title as Master of Death, and she would prefer it that way.

In all honesty, she had sort of thought it was just a myth, or maybe just an allusion to something else. Her headmaster had believed in it, though, and so have countless others. Every civilization since the dawn of humanity has believed in some practice of the dead in one way or another; it is central to the human existence, after all. It might be a myth, but there is always some fact to legend. Harry has a wand that cannot be broken no matter how many times she snaps it in two; a ring that cannot be lost, no matter how many times she throws it away; and of course, the cloak that is always there with her, a subtle reminder of the fate that is hidden from her.

There's a lot more to it than that. There are legions of undead that follow her command, a harmless green light that would kill anyone else. An irritating man who refuses to leave her alone and had the gall to send some poor boy into a dangerous desert just to find her.

Harry's eye twitches with that last one.

She reaches for her tea, attempting to mask her unpleasant expression behind its rim before Tom can notice it. He has been uncannily observant of her as of late, and she doesn't want to ruin his vacation, no matter how awry it's gone.

Ruin it with all this Master of Death business and… this damn letter.

The luxurious parchment was wasted on it; the whole thing was simply one sentence, wrapped in a bow and closed with an extravagant wax seal. Actually, Harry didn't even think it constituted as a sentence. It was barely three words. It managed to find her all the way in the Gobi desert, and still look as pristine as it probably did when it left the man's hand.

8:00 PM July 28

Suiran

Kyoto

"Harry," Tom calls plaintively. Harry startles. Before she knew it she had closed her eyes without even realizing it, hands still tightly clasped around her teacup. Tom is watching her with big eyes, evidently worried and doing nothing to hide it.

"Sorry, sorry— I've got a bit of a headache. I hope I'm not allergic to yaks." She jokes with a smile, rising from the table. "Anyway, it sounds like we have a carpet to purchase, don't you think?"

Tom eyes her skeptically, not fooled by such an obvious segue in the least. Still he merely nods. "Maybe some fresh air will be good for you."

"Up here it probably will." Harry agrees cheerily, exiting back into the bustling street. She had never thought of Boston or London as particularly polluted, but the air up here is so foreign and wonderful, as fine and cold as crystal.

It's summer, but the wind is so great it's no surprise Harry is dressed in a cloak and is still a little cold. They travel to the center of the city, where the majestic Jokhang Temple is surrounded by markets, catering to the pilgrims journeying to the temple. The winding narrow streets surrounding the temple are besieged in foot traffic at this time of day, and merchants peddling goods of all kinds. Predictably there is a lot of yak butter and cheese for sale, traded around in enormous slabs on the side of the road, and enough candy stalls for Harry to finally give in to Tom's begging and buy him some. Tom wants to buy basically everything for sale in the market; prayer wheels, beads and flags, copper Buddha's and other metal goods, talismans that claim longevity or good luck, cushions and robes and no small sum of hunting falcons. Harry refuses all of them, but especially that last one. No golden eagles, no hunting falcons, no birds, period. There are quite a few shops selling quilts and cushions, but Harry has yet to see a magical carpet.

They amble down the brightly colored street rather aimlessly, Harry letting Tom tug her into whatever store catches his fancy. Tom has already spent all of the money Harry gave him (which was no small sum) so he knows he can't really buy anything, but he likes to look nonetheless. The curiosity on his face colors his features into something childlike and innocent. She doesn't think she's ever seen him as carefree and happy as he has been this vacation.

Harry can imagine a much older Tom Riddle, traveling the world after graduating from Hogwarts. She wonders if he ever had the opportunity to simply peruse through an exotic market and enjoy the smell of incense in the air; more than likely, at that point in his life he was too consumed by his madness for the dark arts to ever stop and enjoy something so simple. If it wasn't furthering his aims in some manner, it was pointless.

Meanwhile, a much younger Tom Riddle is enjoying himself thoroughly, so much so that he is currently attempting to bargain with a shopkeeper in broken Chinese.

Harry does a double take, shaking her head with exasperation as she tugs him away by the arm. "Tom, we are not buying that."

Tom looks up at her with wide eyes. "But it's supposed to give you good karma!"

"There are a lot of ways to get good karma that don't involve buying a giant hulk of a rock." Harry returns, wholly unmoved. "And anyway, how exactly do you expect to lug that home?" It's like the coffin all over again.

Tom can at least see the logic behind her words, even though he looks less than pleased at once more being thwarted. "I guess," he allows, sighing. "But there's just so many things here you just can't get back at home!"

"I know," she ruffles his hair, as they continue onwards. "But you can always come back, you know."

Tom blinks up at her blankly.

"Next year," she rolls her eyes. "I figured you'd want to go somewhere new next vacation, but I'm perfectly fine to visit Lhasa again."

"Next year…" He repeats, looking lost.

Harry tilts her head in confusion. "Yes?"

"We're going again next year?"

Harry casts him an amused glance. "We've been over this Tom."

He nods, remembering the conversation. She had mentioned it so off-handedly, it hadn't really sunken in. Rather, the idea of him being able to do this every year hadn't quite sunken in. He could have adventures like this with Harry every year! He could explore the world and experience everything it had to offer and learn everything there was to know, and it wasn't just a once in a lifetime opportunity. He could go every summer.

For an orphan who could barely dream of life outside the orphanage gates, it was a lot to come to terms with. For a long time the whole world and all it had to offer seemed unattainable for someone like him. How could he travel the planet when he could barely travel London? Travelling costs money, as the orphanage caretakers loved to point out whenever the kids at the orphanage begged for a trip to the beach or the countryside. And an orphan like Tom had nothing; no possessions, and certainly no money.

And yet here he was anyhow, in a mystical town at the top of the world.

"We can go anywhere?" He slips his hand into Harry's, as they continue to walk.

"Sure, wherever you want, Tomcat." Harry replies easily.

He's quiet for some time after that, but his thoughtful expression clears once they finally stumble across a carpet merchant. There were far too many of them for Harry's liking, and just like brooms they were all just slightly different. No, it was even worse than brooms; it was like choosing a wand, since each was made individually. Tom eventually chooses a gray carpet that shimmers like silvery water underneath the mountain sky.

He unfurls it with a hearty tug, immediately jumping on top of it, all but beaming. "It's like riding on top of a cloud!" He enthuses, pushing his hand against its surface, only to watch it bounce back up when he took his hand away.

Harry was far more skeptical about climbing onto a giant floating rug. The merchant assured her it was the same mechanics as riding a broom. She lets out a breath, and climbs onto it. Tom is right, it doesn't feel like they're riding on anything.

"Okay, okay," Harry mutters, mostly to herself. "I think I've got this…"

She turns to Tom. "You have the map, right?"

He spreads it open on his lap, nodding. "Yep!" He points east. "I think it's that way."

"Alright then," Harry laughs. "East it is."

.

.

.

Drigung Monastery is situated on a domineering cliff face overlooking a vast and lush valley.

The white and red structure seems to wind along the rock face; becoming one with it, rather than trying to overcome it. The smell of incense was undeniable even from kilometers away, chased in the wind as they crossed through the volatile terrain on their new carpet. Harry had to admit, she was very glad they bought it. Harry adored flying on a broom, but as it turns out maybe she just adores flying itself. Flying on Serik was an incredible experience, feeling his powerful wings beat against the wind, the effortless way he soared through the sky— the magical carpet was just as incredible. Unlike a broom, it really had a mind (and temperament) of its own. Theirs had been rather ornery until they flipped it over; now it was as docile as a lamb.

Buddhist esotericism— and Vajrayana in particular— made it rather difficult for Tom to get much out of the monks practicing at Drigung. To be fair, Tom was apparently asking questions they use great caution in answering.

He tells her all this as they return to their carpet for lunch. It is now spread out on the ground, acting as a picnic blanket. As long as they don't spill any tea on it, it doesn't seem to mind much.

"I guess they don't tell just anyone," Tom laments, around the dumplings Harry had packed for lunch.

"Yes, I suppose that would make a lot of sense, considering they've taken a great effort to be as far away from civilization as possible," Harry jokes with a laugh.

"They also don't let anyone participate or watch sky burials." He continues, pouting. "They're sacred, or something like that."

"Well, then perhaps we should just let it be." Harry suggests. The monks have been kind enough to let foreigners and non-practitioners like them wander around the monastery and ask as many questions as they like; Harry doesn't really want to push it any farther. "Why don't we just walk around and explore some?"

Harry hasn't actually ventured into the formidable complex yet. She's been out on the gates trying to take photos of the landscapes. She's used a magical camera before, but never one as old as this. And she had thought the ones in her time were outdated; this one was almost impossible to figure out. She had managed to get it to work earlier though, to her great consternation. Maybe it too was a temperamental object.

"Sure," Tom agrees. "It's kind of hard to find your way around though."

Harry shrugs. "That's half the fun, isn't it?"

They do eventually need to get directions from one of the monks in one of the may courtyards, far too lost in this maze of winding staircases, archways and stone courtyards. Eventually they end up in one of the highest spires, with a great view of the tiers of the monastery below, and the mountains beyond. Harry valiantly refrains from taking photos, even though the scene is breathtaking and picturesque; she wouldn't want to be rude.

"Oh, Harry," Tom tugs her away from the ledge, gesturing to a bald, robed man with a book in his hand, who appears to be finishing up some sort of sermon. In front of him, rows of monks rise to their feet, most likely eager to stretch their legs after such a long lecture. "This is Monk Gyatso— he's one of the head monks here. He's been really helpful."

Harry dips her head respectfully, a long spill of vermillion hair spilling out of her hood with the movement. "Hello, I'm Harry Riddle, Tom's guardian. Thank you for indulging his curiosity— I apologize for any trouble our unannounced visit might have caused."

Monk Gyatso waves her concerns off. "No need," the look he gives her is long and contemplative. It is so piercing and intense it actually makes Harry want to fidget. Finally, he bows his head as well. "You honor us with your presence, Harry Riddle."

That was completely unexpected. Harry blinks rapidly. Tom looks up at her with confusion, but Harry has no answers to give. "Um… Well that's very kind of you to say." She fumbles awkwardly, caught off guard. "We're travelers, and were curious about the practices of this temple."

The man tilts his head. "A man has died in the nearby village. We have been asked to perform a jhator. Would you like to watch?"

Tom's eyes grow very wide. Incidentally, so do Harry's. "Is— is that really alright?" She manages to get out. Tom had said they did not invite foreigners to witness something so sacred and intimate as a sky burial.

"Yes. A blessing from you will go a long way in assisting the soul to reach the afterlife, as it lingers in the uncertain plane between life and death." He replies, calmly, only perplexing Harry further.

A cold feeling slips down her back as the monk beckons them to follow them. It's obvious the monk knows who she is— what she is. But how did he know? And what did it mean?

And why is this all happening now? She thinks, alarmed, as they descend out of the smaller courtyard and down to the larger one.

The answer comes to her easily. Harry has never made it into a habit to travel to sacred places like the Drigung Monastery or the Gobi Desert. She was a bit busy in Britain, and after that, didn't have much time between the end of the war and the beginning of her life in this time. And what little time she did have was not spent indulging in travel. Harry has never encountered people like Monk Gyatso, she has never wandered into a desert full of the dead. She would never have known what she was— and what it really meant— because she would never have the opportunity to find out. She intentionally never had the opportunity to find out. Harry had never had much intention in accepting her existence as the Master of Death, whatever it meant. And she has no intention of accepting it now. Or ever.

Harry is quiet as they are lead to the traditional setting of a jhator— a large flat rock, higher than the rest. It is midday, an unusual time to have a sky burial, they are told. Normally they occur at dawn, but weather did not permit it today. Relatives may remain nearby during the jhator, but in a place where they cannot see it directly. Harry and Tom, however, are escorted to the burial site.

Harry doesn't make it a habit to deal with the dead, undead, or recently dead, so the sight is actually a bit unnerving to her. After the death the body is left untouched for three days; then it is cleaned and wrapped in white cloth. So all Harry can really see is a corpse wrapped up in white, curled in the fetal position. All the same it takes a lot of effort not to look away.

Tom meanwhile, is of course utterly fascinated by the proceedings and not unsettled in the least. Apparently her presence has made the monks for more amenable and open about their normally secretive customs, because they don't mind explaining the ritual in great detail— however gross it might be.

After all the ceremonial events are over with, the vultures are called to feed.

Before that though, they ask Harry to offer a blessing to the spirit, to aid in its rebirth.

Harry has no idea what to say, as they all stare at her expectantly. There is Tom's confused stare of bewilderment, Monk Gyatso's encouraging look, and then there is the expectant and reverent gazes of the other monks assembled. Harry swallows with great difficulty. They look at her with awe and veneration. They look at her as they would the Master of Death.

Harry takes a step forward, standing at the foot of the burial stone. She claps her hand together, bowing her head as she closes her eyes.

She has no idea what she's doing; her hands are shaking slightly, as she bites her lip and fights to keep her composure. What is happening? Why her? Why is it always her? She doesn't want this— this whatever this is. She doesn't want people looking at her like this, like she's some sort of patron deity to be worshipped and revered. She's Harry. Just Harry.

But no one seems to want to let her be just Harry anymore.

She lets out a shuddering breath, dropping her hands as she straightens up. She blinks a few times, to clear the moisture from her eyes, and by the time she turns around they are as clear as day.

Afterwards, as they are about to leave to return to Lhasa, Monk Gyatso gives her a book.

"The Bardo Thodol," he explains, as he holds it out to her.

It means nothing to Harry, but behind her Tom abruptly stops midway into climbing onto the carpet, breathing in sharply. Harry nods politely. "Thank you."

The monk steps back, bowing. "Have safe travels, Harry Riddle."

Harry just nods again, placing the book in her lap as they ascend into the bright blue sky.

.

.

.

Kyoto, Japan

"A ryokan?" Tom repeats, unfamiliar with the term.

Harry nods. "It's a… a bath house, I suppose you can say."

Tom shrivels his nose. "We're staying in a bath?" He asks, incredulously.

Harry laughs as she shakes her head. "No, no, that's not really… Well, I guess you'll just have to see when you get there." She's not really sure how to explain an onsen to someone who probably doesn't even know what a hot spring is.

At any rate, Harry is not unfamiliar with the term, but she is unfamiliar with the place.

The portkey dropped them off in bustling Kyoto Station, amidst a sea of people in both traditional and Western clothing alike. Tom stared openly at everyone who passed by, even when Harry told him not to. Much like King's Cross, Platform 11 was hidden completely from muggle view, but unlike the British train station the wall between the two worlds was completely transparent, providing an unhindered view of the muggles milling about. Still, even if they couldn't see them it was impolite to stare. In comparison to Mongolia and Tibet, this was positively overwhelming. Even if the crowds couldn't hold a candle to London, let alone New York City, it was far more than all the other places they'd been to.

To be honest, she's sort of been dreading this… inevitable confrontation. At first she was nothing short of absolutely enraged— how dare this man just intrude upon her vacation like this— which eventually led to worry, concern and finally, weary resignation.

Master of Death.

This whole vacation was just going right back to that, wasn't it?

The desert, the legions of undead. The monks at the monastery, the sky burial, the Bardo Thodol- better known as the Tibetan Book of the Dead.

It was very telling, that the monk would give her one as… well, as a gift she supposed. An offering, even.

Harry shakes the thoughts away, refusing to let them overcome her, returning to the present. She asks one of the station attendants about the letter, and is redirected to yet another portkey office.

Suiran is a ryokan. Apparently quite a nice one, judging by the woman's impressed expression. It was on the outskirts of the city, with picturesque views of the nearby mountains. The hotel boasted private baths and gardens, making it both beautiful and calming. It's also exclusive to magicals, since it's hidden from muggle view by what she calls the 'Saru yama mist', which is why it is only accessible through portkey or apparition.

This gives her pause. A hotel? He wants to meet at a hotel?

It actually seems… perfectly normal. Harry has had many business meetings in hotel bars, happy hours, work events; it's fairly par for the course. It seems so surreal to think they would meet at a hotel— she has a brief image of Grindelwald in a well cut modern suit, leaning against some trendy metropolitan bar in some trendy, metropolitan hotel, drinking a single malt scotch and charming the pants off the bartender. Harry snorts. So basically, looking exactly like the kind of person she goes out of her way to avoid.

"When's the portkey departure?" Harry is pulled from her thought by the question, looking down at Tom.

"Half past one." Harry answers, looking up at the station clock. About two minutes.

"Where are we going again?" Tom asks, as they both hold onto the paper fan they were given.

"We're staying at a hotel, Tom. It's at the outskirts of town, by Arashiyama." She answers. To be honest, it was also a bit of a happy coincidence. Harry wasn't entirely sure where to stay when they arrived in Kyoto— she supposed she would just have to ask someone for a recommendation. At least now they have a concrete destination.

Tom digs around for his map, squinting at it as he unfolds the yellowed paper. "By the Hozu river," he remarks. "It's a shrine?" He looks up.

Harry frowns thoughtfully. "They said something about being on sacred land? I can't remember what shrine it was though."

Tom's eyes light up. "We're staying on a shrine?" He repeats, excited.

Before Harry can respond, the portkey activates between them and all but throws them onto the ground at their destination.

"I hate these damn things," Harry mutters, as she stumbles a bit and clutches her head. The vertigo is always so awful.

She opens her eyes when Tom exclaims; "It's a monkey!"

She jumps at the sudden shout, whirling around to see there is, indeed, a monkey. On its haunches it comes up to Tom's chest, staring up at the boy in front of it with a flat expression. Harry returns the look with an equally unhappy glower; Harry is not fond of monkeys. They're cute until they start flinging their poop at you.

Harry tugs Tom back by the arm. "Don't get too close to it."

"It's a monkey." Tom gasps with delight. "I've never seen a monkey before! Harry, can I take a picture with it?"

"Absolutely not."

"But you let me touch the yak." Tom points out mutinously.

"Because Azat was there and he knows how to handle them," Harry returns, with a no nonsense expression. "Monkey's are not actually very nice, so let's leave this one alone."

Like clockwork it sits up straighter and bears its teeth at them with a weird hissing noise. Harry is quick to take the warning for what it is, but Tom is very reluctant to leave, staring after it with fascination.

"Well that was a nice welcome." Harry snorts, finally taking the time to look around and survey their surroundings.

Behind them is a wide, rushing river, banking against a tall mountain lush with bamboo. They are standing beneath a large crimson gate, with stone stairs leading up into a thicket of bamboo. True to the attendant's word, a group of muggles pass by on the road below, never once looking up at the shrine dug into the mountain side.

"Oh, wow, look at that Tom! Looks nice, doesn't it Tom?" She smiles sunnily.

He nods, looking just as awed. "It's definitely different." It's certainly a hell of a lot warmer.

Harry very quickly realizes that it's very nice. To her absolute delight, it's practically the equivalent of a five star hotel, with its own private baths. She hasn't forgotten why she's here in the first place, but at the very least she's thankful he chose somewhere nice, although she's still not sure why the man would choose here of all places.

Dinner is not until later in the evening, so Harry and Tom take to exploring the nearby town. Harry is charmed by it all, making interested noises at everything they pass by, be it a dango stall or a crowded tea shop. Tom finds his eyes drawn to something else entirely, looking at all the other people who pass them by. Predictably they are curious over the foreigners so far from the city, slowing down to stare at them, or to whisper to the person next to them. Tom doesn't pay that any attention though, well used to it after Lhasa. No, he's not really focused on the people themselves, but rather, what they're wearing.

Harry had assumed Tom would immediately drag her to a shrine or a bookstore of some kind, but the first shop he stops at along the cobblestone road is full of beautiful fabrics.

"Tom?" Harry looks at him questioningly.

"You should get one, Harry." He replies in answer.

Harry pauses. "A kimono?" She clarifies, perplexed.

Tom nods immediately, looking up at her. "You haven't bought any souvenirs yet," he points out, which is true. There is a moment where Tom looks away, silent, as if struggling to find the right words. "And I think it would look really pretty on you." He blurts out.

Harry blinks with surprise. She turns her gaze back to the patterns and colors in the window; they are really beautiful. And Harry is a total sucker for fashion.

She caves far too easily. "Well, I suppose it would certainly go a long way in blending in." Or maybe not. The hair was undeniable.

Either way they end up spending the better part of an hour in the store.

Tom, surprisingly, does not complain once, even as the seamstress brings roll after roll of fine fabric to inspect against Harry's skin. She hadn't realized what an arduous process it would be, but perhaps she should have expected it, considering how elaborate and delicate it looks. Eventually the old woman decides on a pretty pattern of lovely lavender flowers, on a pale grey and white background of stylized clouds and what Harry thinks are swans. Or maybe dragons? It's a very complicated design. At any rate it's very beautiful; Harry might be in love at first sight. Tom has the best ideas sometimes. Why didn't she think of buying one earlier? All the magnificent colors and patterns, the accessories… Harry could buy the whole store.

For all their inherent elegance, putting them on is the farthest thing from graceful, as she finds out. And the woman had even advised her to get a yukata, worn in summer and made of cotton, and far less elaborate and formal than an actual kimono. If this is what they consider 'less elaborate', Harry does not want to know what they consider intricate.

It's a whole process; first the yukata itself, then the many bows holding it together, and then the large obi ribbon that goes atop all that. This is not even to mention the many complicated ways to tie the obi itself— apparently the shape and size of the bow is a fashion statement in and of itself. And then of course there is her hair, pinned up with hair ornaments and pins, and then the ornaments that go in the bow, and then the shoes, which are inarguably the most trying shoes Harry has ever worn. And that includes Louboutins.

Still, Tom was right. All put together it is really stunning.

"Well?" She gives a twirl in front of the mirror. "What do you think, Tom?"

Tom doesn't say anything. At his silence, Harry stops her critical inspection of herself in the mirror to cast a worried glance his way. "Tom?"

"You look really pretty." He manages to say, wearing a discomfited expression of what she thinks is bewilderment.

Harry smiles. "Oh, thank you! It was a good idea, Tom. I'm glad you suggested it!" She looks positively ecstatic, before hopping off the pedestal to pay for the many articles of clothing and accessories she is currently attempting to walk in.

Nothing raises Harry's spirits quite like fashion, so when Tom saw the elaborate, traditional dresses all the women were wearing, he knew it would be a surefire way to brighten her mood.

And he really did think she would look nice in one.

… But he was quickly redefining his definition of 'nice'.

For the second time on this trip, Tom finds himself staring at her like she's a different person entirely. His reaction is odd, to say the least; it's not as if he's never seen her dressed up before. She wore a very pretty dress to his graduation— so nice Margaret had to comment on it— and looked really nice then, too. There's no real reason this is any different; it is also a very formal garment, also something she doesn't wear everyday, but somehow it's more than that.

People were staring before, but that was mostly out of curiosity. Now they're just interested in Harry's outfit. A group of girls her age compliment her on her yukata, to Harry's absolute delight. The owner of the tea shop they stop at insists Harry sit at a nice table in the back, with tatami mats instead of stone flooring, as to not damage her dress. As they wander the city a bit, it becomes apparent that whatever shop they had bought it at was quite prestigious; people could tell where Harry got it from sight alone. Someone actually gives her an umbrella when it begins to lightly drizzle on their way back.

Harry admires the parasol as they return to the ryokan, where predictably the staff are dazzled by such a stunning ensemble. Tom doesn't quite get it, since they too are wearing something similar. Maybe it was because of how the old lady tied the bow or something.

Either way Tom is actually rather relieved to be alone with Harry once again, as they settle into their suite. That was more than enough talking and walking for one day, especially when he had a book he was all but itching to get his hands on again.

Dinner is lovely. Harry and Tom haven't exactly been in well populated areas, and have been eating whatever the local cuisine is without much fanfare. This though, is less of a dinner and more of a presentation. It's very fancy, is Harry's first thought. Much like the ryokan itself. Unfortunately, this train of thought only leads her to remembering why they're at this ryokan to begin with, and her undeniably pleasant mood from earlier flatlines into something far more sobering.

She pushes Grindelwald out of her mind for the time being in favor of enjoying the elaborate spread they've laid out for dinner.

Tom has never had any Asian cuisine, let alone Japanese, so Harry has to attempt a vague explanation of what they're eating. It's not what she's used to, either— trendy sushi rolls with strange names, expensive sake and tempura— but she can recognize most of it as very traditional Japanese fair. Grilled fish, rice, miso soup, cold soba noodles and a large variety of pickled vegetables, served with green tea. There is also a whole spread of sashimi that Tom looks at as if it is actually still alive, and not just raw. He's been rather adventurous with his appetite this whole trip, but he appears to draw the line at raw fish. Harry doesn't mind; the more for her, the better. Whenever they go out for Japanese food, Ron always devours the sashimi before she and Hermione can even get a good look at it.

After dinner Tom is quick to return to what he's been doing the last two days— voraciously plowing through her new book.

Harry had no real interest in reading it (although she knows she should at some point) so it was no hardship to immediately lend it to Tom. The book is not exactly uncommon, but it is apparently well known enough for Tom to know what it is. However, a handbound book like this written by the monks at the temple is entirely different than the ones printed publically. It's customary for a monastery to have their own individual copies, unique to that monastery. To have an original Drigung book of the dead is a real treasure indeed.

At any rate, the book has the added bonus of completely taking up every ounce of Tom's attention, so he's yet to ask her why, exactly, it was given to her in the first place.

Harry leaves him to it, relieved she doesn't have to find an excuse to be away from him for a while. She simply says she's going to the hot springs, and he's free to join her. Unsurprisingly he voices his reluctance, preferring to stay here and read. Harry has no doubt he won't even look up until she returns to tell him to go to bed; once Tom picks up a book, he is lost in it until he finishes it.

As she shuts the sliding door to their rooms shut, she takes a deep, calming breath.

She's ignored the problem long enough. It's probably time to figure out why they're really here. She casts a quick tempus; 7:59.

Harry doesn't have to look for very long.

Not even a minute after she started wandering the halls, an employee looking for her nearly runs right into her.

"Miss Riddle," she says, breathlessly. "There's a—

"Man looking for me?" Harry finishes, wryly.

She nods, flushing slightly. "Yes, a foreigner. He was very tall."

"And where is he now?" Harry asks, resigned.

"I believe he is still in the gardens," she hedges, nervously. "I asked him to wait while I went to find you, but it's been a bit of time at this point…"

"Oh, don't worry about it. He deserves to be kept waiting." Harry waves off her concerns, dry as a bone. "Thank you for finding me, though. Sorry for the trouble." She adds, as she walks off in the direction of the gardens.

The girl blinks, looking rather befuddled by her answer. "...Yes, of course…"

.

.

.

The waning moon spills across the surface of the pond, casting an ethereal glow over the waters, and the garden surrounding it.

This late in the evening, the gardens are, predictably, empty and near silent. There are only the crickets singing into the night, and the tranquil sound of rushing water to accompany him. It would have been nice to have company, but unsurprisingly she has kept him waiting, leaving him to wander the gardens alone.

He is always appreciative of art in all forms; be that the endless tides and swirls rippling around the rocks in the sand garden, the intricate craftsmanship of the shrines dotting the path, or even the impressive landscaping of the gardens themselves. He strolls along the water edge, admiring the golden sliver of koi fish beneath the surface. Even that is art, in a way. If he had any skill in painting he could make such a small, insignificant movement such as fish beneath the water's surface become exquisite art. But alas, he is no artist. As much as he may enjoy it, he has never been capable of it himself. It's truly unfortunate, but in return he has become known as a master art collector, with a meticulous eye for beauty.

That would explain a lot about this… infatuation with Harry.

Art imitates life, or so they say. It is but a reflection of things that already exist, inferior to reality. Gellert tends to disagree; art immortalizes life, extending it beyond mere mortal reach, manifests it into something extraordinary, immutable and inexplicable. He doubts Mona Lisa was really all that interesting of a person, and yet her small portrait has been the subject of adoration and endless fascination for centuries. He has never found a place so beautiful, or a subject so interesting that would change his mind.

And then there is Harry.

Part of the allure is her intangibility. He cannot catch her, hold her in his hand as he would a painting or sculpture, hang her on a wall as he would a fine painting. He can study her all he likes and never understand her. She is forever changing, ephemeral, in constant movement. Her emotions are not a painting technique he can scrutinize, and yet they are just as enchanting. Something about their fleeting nature is beauty in itself.

As if to prove his point, the subject of his musings appears as he rounds a well-manicured thicket of bamboo.

She is standing on a low bridge, perhaps admiring the waterfall cascading into the pond, or the moon against the mountains.

He is unprepared to see her there, dressed in a most elegant kimono, hair swept up in glass ornaments and jeweled pins, exposing her long, graceful neck. The traditional attire suits her, somehow— perhaps in the way everything she wears seems to suit her, be it a sharp trench coat or a swooping ball gown. It really has less to do with the attire, and more about the girl herself. She carries herself in a way that is wholly different from other women he has met; all of them were astoundingly beautiful, graceful and clever, and yet somehow not nearly as captivating as her. It's the confidence, he thinks. The independence; the quiet, but firm assurity in her own power and abilities.

Gellert had never really understood why the master artists throughout the centuries would fixate so heavily on the female form. It was beautiful, surely, but was it really worthy of so much endless consideration? Poetry, music, paintings— true masterpieces of their craft, all birthed by a woman and a man's pathetic, adoration of her. The female form was one of the most famous and prolific motifs in all of art history.

It only takes a mere moment of watching her, and suddenly he understands with perfect clarity why these creatures are exalted and glorified in all art and artifice throughout the ages.

The spill of moonlight down her shoulders, the way she tilts her head slightly to watch the fish beneath the bridge, the hair slipping out of its elaborate style; she draws a hand up to tuck the loose curl behind her ear— oh, if only he was an artist, he could only imagine how inspired he would be by such a simple, thoughtless movement. Monet's Woman with a Parasol, Vermeer's Girl with the a Pearl Earring or even Manet's Olympia; all unquestionable masterpieces, true classics that deserve the fame and monumental prestige they are given, all inspired by women who were, essentially, doing nothing. Walking in a field of flowers with a parasol in hand; looking over one shoulder; lounging in bed.

Standing upon a bridge, absently brushing back a lock of hair.

It is utterly mesmerizing.

This is, of course, when Harry completely ruins the moment.

"Holy shite!"

Her exclamation jars him out of his reverie. She has leapt backwards, brandishing her wand menacingly at— he squints. A monkey, maybe?

"You stay away from me," she hisses at the thing, lowly, tugging her yukata close against her. "I don't care if you're endangered, I'll hex you straight into the mountain, do you hear me?"

The monkey does not appear particularly moved by such a passionate display, but returns to the trees after a moment. Harry does not move, far too frightened considering the circumstances.

"I think it got the message," he points out, amused.

Harry jumps again. The expression she gives him and the expression she gave the monkey are the exact same. "If only someone would do the same." She glowers back, as she folds her arms. "You couldn't have waited a couple weeks?" Harry hisses, crossly.

The man only smiles charmingly. "What can I say? I'm an impatient man."

"Yes, clearly." She huffs in annoyance; she's not about to let some— admittedly quite good-looking— jerk off with nice hair ruin what is supposed to be the relaxing part of her vacation. "You better have a damn good reason for calling me all the way out here."

He glances down at her attire. "You seem to have made the most of the experience." He remarks, drily.

"I wasn't about to let you ruin the entirety of my vacation." She retorts.

He chuckles. "Why, Harry, is one night in my company truly so awful?"

The look she gives him in return is answer enough.

Then she sighs, dropping her arms. "Fine. What do you want?"

"A drink."

Harry blinks in surprise. Her daydream of Gellert lounging at a hotel bar suddenly turns into a nightmarish reality.

"...A drink?" She repeats, dumbly.

"It's a bit late for dinner, no?" He returns, tilting his head. "I suppose a nightcap will have to do. Unless, you don't drink?"

Harry has a vague recollection of the last time she, Hermione and Ron ordered multiple bottles of sake; she doesn't remember how they went from the restaurant to the karaoke bar, but she definitely remembers singing Abba's Dancing Queen repeatedly with Hermione. She has to hide her smile behind her sleeve, disguising it as a cough.

"No, I do." She answers.

"Excellent then," He grins roguishly, with an expression that means she wasn't quite as successful at hiding her amusement as she thought. "I'm partial to Shochu myself, but the hotel is famous for their Umeshu. Do you prefer sweet or dry drinks?"

Harry finds herself reluctantly playing along, following him out of the garden and back into the well lit hotel. "I prefer to drown my alcohol in as much sugar as possible, if that's what you mean." She replies blandly.

Gellert laughs. "Well then, I think you'll enjoy Umeshu quite a bit."

Harry has never actually heard the term before. "What is it?"

"Plum wine," he answers. "Like I said, Suiran is famous for their homemade plum wine."

"Is that why you chose it?" She scrutinizes him closely, as they walk together down the halls, passing elaborately painted shouji screens and curious employees alike. It certainly seems like the kind of place Grindelwald would choose, but she doesn't actually know why he chose it.

"Not at all." He laughs.

Harry frowns in confusion. "But then… why did you chose this place?"

"I didn't." He reveals, as they stop in front of an open shouji screen door.

Inside is a traditional tatami room with a table and cushions backdropped by a wonderful view of the gardens outside. Harry reluctantly heads inside, folding herself as gracefully as she can in her yukata. She's not sure how everyone here manages to make every little movement look fluid and effortless, when in reality she feels awkward and hindered by all the cloth. As if to prove her point, she has to straighten out the long sleeves from where they've gotten stuck in her sash. When she looks up, Gellert is already across from her, speaking to an attendant. The woman nods, before ducking out of the room, presumably to get their drinks.

"I was told to come here," he continues, returning to their current thread of conversation.

Harry frowns further. "By who?"

"I'm not sure," he says winsomely, not looking concerned in the least.

Harry is lost. "So… some random person told you to come here?" She asks, incredulously.

"Well, I wouldn't know if I would call him random," the man replies vaguely, before digging into a pocket and fishing out a small burlap bag. "Does this mean anything to you?"

He hands it to her. She opens it curiously, dumping the contents into her hand. There was a golden lump of what she actually thinks is pure, real gold; a weird pale resin of some kind, and another with more amber coloring. She blinks down at it, before looking back up at her company.

"...What is this?" She asks, blankly.

"Gold, frankincense and myrrh." Gellert answers, which doesn't actually answer anything at all.

Harry looks back down at the collection of items in her hand. They seem familiar, in some odd way.

"Do you know what the significance of that is?"

Harry glances at him with a hesitant expression. "Um…"

There's a long moment where Harry doesn't know what to say, and Gellert says nothing at all. His sharp gaze feels like a tangible weight against her.

Gellert finally tilts his head, as if coming to some sort of conclusion.

"What are you, Harry?" He asks, bluntly.

He watches her as he would a fine and rare specimen; an observant look with a curious, almost clinically fascinated air. "You can't tell me you're no one. Too much evidence has proved otherwise."

And isn't that the truth. Grindelwald doesn't even know the half of it, she thinks, glumly.

"Seers the world over know your name," he begins, when she still doesn't answer, leaning over the low table. "Very influential people have their eye on you; you defied death before my very eyes— you are clearly someone of great importance, and yet, one of such mystery as well. No one seems to know anything about you."

Harry's lips thin into a fine line, as she holds his piercing stare.

He rests his elbows on the table between them; the intensity of his eyes makes it difficult to look away. He smiles then, and it is somehow both predatory and benign. "See? Now do you understand why I would find myself impatient for an explanation?"

Harry looks away then, her gaze lowering to the discarded items on the table between them. They should be meaningless, and yet, they are not. They are the farthest thing from meaningless, and she knows it. She knows what it means, even if she can't bring herself to admit it, even in her own mind.

Her hands curl into fists in her lap; her jaw clenches as she grits her teeth. It's taking a lot of effort to remain unmoved, and it really has nothing to do with the man in front of her. It's just— everything. These invasive questions she doesn't want to answer, a whole month's worth of strange happenings she doesn't want to think about, the truth that she wants to hide from.

"I don't owe you any explanations," she manages to say.

This doesn't deter the man in the least. "But you want protection for your dear Tom, no?"

"Who says we need protection?" She retorts, bitingly. "If I wanted you dead right now, you would be."

"And yet, here I am before you, not dead in the least." He points out, smirking. "Come now Harry, if you are truly so reluctant to speak to me, then surely it would be easier to finish the job?"

Harry doesn't want to be reminded of that incident, either. She looks up then, with a heated expression. "How many times do I have to tell you I don't want to kill you?"

If anything, this just causes Grindelwald to smile wider, eyes gleaming with triumph. "Then why don't you just tell me, Harry? What are you?"

Harry swallows with difficulty. Her throat burns. What are you. Not who are you. As if she is no longer a person, but some kind of freak of nature. A specimen to be studied. No longer human in the least.

"I…"

"Well, Harry?" Gellert's smirk grows wider. "Will you tell me? Or would you like me to guess?"

One look at his expression says it all; he has backed her into a corner and he knows it. For some reason, that stupid smirk of his is enough to shatter her impassivity. And not in the way she would think. Normally she would have cursed that smug look of his right off his face, but she finds that she is too tired, to weary and exhausted and drained from all of this. All this running away, as if she could possibly outrun her own destiny. A destiny she doesn't even want.

What are you, Harry?

The question spills down her back like ice cold water. What is she, really? What sort of cursed existence does she have waiting for her?

"I have some theories, you know," he confides, eyes gleaming. "I'd love to hear what you think of them."

When she closes her eyes, she sees a very familiar train station. She sees an end, a relief, an opportunity for peace that she gave up.

Grindelwald's satisfied smirk drops suddenly, melting into an unadulterated dread as he watches the girl in front of him, head bowed, shoulders shaking.

Because she really is just a girl. Her presence might feel larger than life, and her enigmatic reputation might make her seem a lot older than she really is, but in reality she looks as if she could be a recent graduate of Hogwarts— not quite an adult, probably no older than nineteen, give or take a few years.

She looks even younger now, as her expression crumples into one of evident distress. And then, to Gellert's unabashed, absolute horror, she begins to cry.

"Harry…" He struggles to say, shocked, completely at a loss as he sits there rather impotently and watches her press her hands to her face, expression obscured by her hair as she ducks her head down.

He doesn't know what to do. He really doesn't know what to do. He watches her with something akin to stunned disbelief. Soon enough that disbelief pools into a hysterical fear. He hadn't meant for this to happen, he thinks, panicking. He didn't mean to make her cry, for Circe's sake. He just… he just wanted answers, was all. Maybe a nice evening with a drink in hand, and some lovely company to enjoy it with. He expected opposition, stubbornness, and no small amount of insults and anger thrown his direction. He was actually looking forward to it. But he was wholly unprepared for this. He had expected her to lash out, maybe even show some of her true powers as she did so. He hadn't expected her to curl up into herself instead, suddenly looking far younger and unprotected than she ever had before.

Whatever triumph he felt from finally pinning her down like this, finally managing to get her one on one like this, spills out of his hands like icy water, leaving him with nothing but shock and something he refuses to identify as guilt. He's not sure how long he sits there, floundering for something to say, but the waitress comes back with their order and he finds himself sending it back and asking for herbal tea instead. Something tells him alcohol won't be solving this situation.

"Harry, please don't…" He tries again, rather helplessly. He isn't caught off guard all that often, so he doesn't really know what to do. He's usually far more suave than this, with a silver tongue that charms all the right people in all the right ways. He has no idea what to say now, though.

"Why can't everyone just leave me alone?" She mumbles miserably, not looking up.

He watches her rub her eyes with a stricken expression. He doesn't know what to do when women cry. He can't handle things like this. He doesn't know how to comfort people, at all. And for good reason. Since when do dark lord's comfort little girls and gallantly wipe tears from their eyes? But on that note, since when did dark lord's all but bully girls into crying in the first place?

Albus would know what to do, he thinks, irritated. Albus was always better at handling people— maybe because he was always genuine about it. Gellert uses people without a thought. Albus, on the other hand, is just as manipulative, but is still always empathetic to people and their emotions. Albus would know what to do with a crying Harry; he would know how to comfort her, and more importantly, he would know exactly how to get the answers he wanted out of her, without making her cry, at all.

The thought of Albus besting him in anything is enough to incense him into action.

Harry wants to berate herself for being so emotional, but she can't bring herself to care at the moment. She feels lost and completely, irrevocably alone. Whatever she is, whatever existence she has, it is far beyond the limits of the human mind, and the mere thought is enough to terrify her to tears. She doesn't want to be alone. She doesn't want this. She doesn't want this destiny, and all the expectations that come with it.

The girl stiffens in surprise when she feels warm, strong arms wrap around her, pulling her against an equally warm body. She is so shocked it's enough to stop her tears in their tracks.

Everything is just… warm. All at once, she is no longer alone.

There's a long moment where Harry is simply frozen in place, too shocked and confused to do much else but sit there, rigid, in his arms.

"I… apologize," the man says, stiffly, so close to her now his breath tickles her ear. "I didn't intend to upset you."

Harry sniffles, keeping her head bowed, hiding her expression from him. "Then what were you trying to do?"

"I wanted to satisfy my own curiosity. Though I suppose, I could have gone about it with… less hostility." He admits, begrudging.

And then, when Harry doesn't reply, he sighs gustily; "Your existence defies both modern science and magic, and your circumstances are… quite curious. But I admit your circumstances are also your own, and you have no obligation to enlighten me— or anyone." He pauses, as if thinking something over. "Especially me, I would imagine. I did try to kill you."

Impossibly, this gets her to laugh. "Fat load of good that did you." She chokes out, with a bark of laughter.

He smiles unwillingly. "It wasn't one of my most well thought out plans, I'll admit." He agrees, sardonically.

"Then why did you do it?"

The question is quiet and difficult to hear, despite the deathly silence in the room. He wonders if maybe he just doesn't want to hear it.

"Because you were a threat," he reveals, at length. "And I prefer to eliminate those before they can become nuisances."

Harry is silent for a long moment, going very still in his arms. "Am I still a threat?"

"Yes, undoubtedly so." He replies without missing a beat. "But perhaps you're a risk I'm willing to take."

Harry swallows thickly. "And what… exactly, does that mean?"

"I am not entirely sure," he confesses, candidly. "You intrigue me, Harry. I want to unravel all your secrets."

"I think you have a very skewed perception of me," Harry returns after a moment of silence, "I'm really a rather boring person."

He blinks, before letting out a hearty laugh. "That is the farthest thing from true," he enthuses, amused. "You're a very fascinating person— with or without your secrets."

Gellert is not entirely sure how he managed to lose his grip on this conversation so conclusively, but unplanned or not it doesn't make his answers any less true. He wonders if that damned old man knew this was going to happen all along. Probably.

The door slides open, revealing their waitress balancing a tea set in one hand, a tray in the other. This is enough to jar Harry out of her own thoughts, and with a blush she hastily breaks away from him. She all but shoves him away from her, quickly putting an adequate amount of distance between them. She doesn't look at him as their tea is served, feeling horribly exposed and vulnerable, with her eyes still wet and slightly red, appearance slightly disheveled, cheeks burning crimson. She composes herself quickly as the waitress pours tea into her cup, fixing her kimono from where it had ridden up some while she was… in his lap. Harry blushes further, using her voluminous sleeves to surreptitiously dab at her eyes. Merlin, was she really in his lap? How did that happen?

She is very obviously avoiding his gaze, her attention studiously fixed upon her cup as the waitress leaves. The room descends into an uneasy silence once again. Gellert doesn't make any move to break it, leaning against the side of the table as he blatantly observes the girl in front of him. He hadn't meant to tell her any of that, in the same way he hadn't meant to pull her onto his lap. His silence is born more out of bewilderment than awkwardness. His responses to her are a novelty, to say the least. He's never like this.

Harry takes a shaky breath, gaze locked on her reflection in her cup, rippling slightly as her hands tremble. "Look, I can't give you answers I don't know myself." She admits, softly.

She can feel his gaze on her, fierce and unrelenting. She fiddles with the cup in her hand, biting her lip. "I don't want to be the enemy, either." She blurts out. "But I just… I don't want to be a part of any of this. I don't want to be a part of this war, I don't want these— these powers, and I certainly don't want to get involved with you and whatever you have going on."

Gellert watches her for a long moment. Even if she cared to look, his features wouldn't reveal anything.

"I see," he says, finally.

Harry blinks, not expecting that. She looks up. Gellert is smiling at her charmingly, looking positively gallant. Harry doesn't believe that look in the least. "What?" She asks, guardedly, not liking that look at all.

He looks almost— pleased, when in reality, she would have thought he'd be taking this a lot worse. She hadn't really answered any of his questions at all, and it appeared as if he had exerted quite a bit of effort into concocting this whole event to get her to do so.

"It's nothing," he shakes his head with amusement. "It's just— I was told some great advice, that apparently will come to pass."

Harry frowns. "And what was that?"

"Never rush a woman," he reveals cheerfully, as he pushes off the side of the table, moving to stand.

Harry watches him with a look of cautious confusion. "Wait, that's it, then?" She asks, with disbelief. "You'll leave me alone?"

He chuckles. "I don't give up that easily, Harry." He replies, smirking. "But maybe it's time to learn a bit of patience."

Harry frowns further, feeling lost. "And what is that supposed to mean?" She demands.

Gellert's smirk only grows, as he opens the sliding door. "Enjoy the tea, Harry," he says, instead of answering. "And don't keep me waiting for too long."

Harry blinks again, confused. Then she scowls. "I'll keep you waiting as long as I want, you absolute arse!"

This of course does nothing but make him laugh some more; a far too jovial sound echoing down the hall, long after he has shut the door.

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There were a ton of easter eggs in here lol.