Summary: Harry never has it easy. When his enemies develop initiative, things become even less easy, but for every cloud there is a silver lining... the trouble, though, is finding the stuff.

Crossover: Berserk

Disclaimer: I own nothing of this.

Pre-fic Comments:

Please comment if you think something is wrong with my characterisation.

Harry looked up at the old man. "How can I cast wards? I don't want to be dependant my whole life!"

"The short answer is ye can't," Malachai said brutally, and truthfully. "Four elements be needed for a ward, and ye can't get to two of them. Yer body's agin yer, too -- I'm startin' a' think that yer lungs'll never clear up."

"What about the second element," Harry asked, desperate. "That nightmare was terrible!"

"What were it about," Malachai asked, curious about what happened behind the eyes of his apprentice.

Harry blinked. "I... I was trapped in a room and some pipes, and had been for a thousand years, living on nothing but rats, dreaming of freedom, the day when I'd finally be free of the Chamber of Secrets..."

"What happened," Malachai said. "It'd be dead boring and no a nightmare iffin nothing happened."

"I... there was only one small, juvenile figure in my way," Harry said. "One small boy, and I'd be free if I could kill him. I knocked him over with my coils, then moved past a calm pool of water. And... and..."

"What next, boy," Malachai asked.

"I was the Basilisk," Harry said. "I killed it, but I /was/ it!"

Malachai leant back against the cart's side. "Yer an intrestin' boy, no mistakin' that. Were ye linked to it afore killin' it?"

"Do... you promise not to hate me," Harry asked.

"Not for no good reason."

"I... I'm a Parselmouth," Harry said miserably. "I can talk to snakes."

Malachai whistled. "Then yer the first here, and that's a fact. As fer the dream, have ye ever heard the sayin' 'Ye are what ye eat'?"

Harry pulled a face.

"Well, let's get to yer trainin'," Malachai laughed. "We'll try for that second, I think. Variety never hurt none."

Ten minutes later, Harry had made a successful calling on Roc, the Skylord. To the surprise of both of them, Harry had managed to call on Roc just as strongly as he had Salamander the Firelord, something Malachai had thought impossible.

"I... thought you said that I couldn't call on the other Gods after calling Salamander so deeply," Harry said, puzzled.

"Werl, I'd say there be two factors here," Malachai said. "One, the affinity o' fire to air, and two, yer dumb luck."

Harry nodded, before realising what the old man had said. "Hey!"

"'Tis true," Malachai insisted. "Ye got the best and th' worst luck I ever seen in me life."

"So I'll wind up horribly dead by demons attracted to my scar, then seven armies will turn up to save me," Harry complained.

"That jist means we have to train yer up to scratch fast on how ter dispatch the buggers," Malachai said dismissively. "Now, the first thing to remember is that yer want them to be scared silly."

"But... why," Harry asked, puzzled. "I thought that I'd have to kill them fast before they kill me."

Malachai grinned. "Two ways t' do that -- either scare them silly so they'n try runnin' or be too scared ta move, or be faster 'n 'em. They'n got advantage from th' start, so we'll start ye off on scare tactics first."

"Oh... okay," Harry said.

"Th' Black Swordsman's first scare tactic is his appearance," Malachai said. "Black armour gets too damn hot otherwise. Th' second is his sword -- you seen it?"

Harry shuddered. "Coming towards my neck, yeah."

"Now, if that were a normal, three foot long blade you'd jist get th' hell out the road, but with a huge lump o' iron like that, y' too terrified ta move," Malachai said. "That's what we're aimin' fer."

Harry nodded, understanding now. He wanted to get back to Earth, but he had to survive first.

"Fire, most critters are afeered o' fire," Malachai said. "Unnatural fire, that'll scare 'em even quicker. You ever seen a blacksmith at work, with his bellers?"

Harry shook his head.

"Th' added air from th' bellers make th' fire hotter, since fire needs both fuel and an oxidisin' agent, which most o' the time is air, cept'n iffin we're workin' with explosives. But we ain't. The main thing is th' air. See where I'm goin'?"

"I think so," Harry nodded.

"Now, get the right mixture and pressure, and y' gettin' /blue/ flame," Malachai said. "Y' can get black flame, but that needs contracts that I ain't goin' inti' now or never. I wants yer to try mixin' 'em yerself for starters."

Harry nodded obediently, summoning a tongue of flame with ease born of practice.

The sound of marching feet woke Harry from his sleep in the back of the bumpy wagon.

"What... what is it," Harry asked.

"Bin awhile since I seen this," Malachai said, poking his head out the back. "'Tis possessed wild dogs, boy. Come."

Harry stumbled out the back, hacking as he tried to draw breath, stopping dead when he saw them.

Their bodies were as dogs, closest to greyhounds in appearance. Their heads, though... they seemed human, misshapen aberrations.

"Show me, boy. Show me y' c'n take care o' yerself," Malachai said.

Harry stood, staring. It wasn't until the first dog lunged towards him that he acted.

Blue fire leapt from his hands towards the pack, burning fiercely, as he subconsciously channeled Air to corral the wild dogs to face his Fire.

/- give us your body -/

/- Branded one Branded one Branded one -/

/- we will have you -/

Harry screamed, as the voices died with the last of the aberrations, panting as he tried to draw breath into his still sick lungs.

"Here, boy," Malachai said, pressing a mug of the foul tea into his hands. "This'll help yer. Ye done well."

Sipping at the infusion, Harry looked out over the field of incinerated carcasses. In death, the spirits gone, the dogs' appearance had reverted to their natural form. Harry's throat clenched as he felt the tea and his breakfast about to come back up.

"Now, don' take that way," Malachai said, turning him away. "This ent the last you'll see of this kind o' thing."

Harry looked up at Malachai. "Why should I learn magic? All I can do is destroy!"

Malachai shook Harry fiercely, before looking him in the eyes. "Ye ever seen the expression on the face o' a man whose family ye just saved from trolls? Or a woman whose child ye pulled back from the brink o' death itself? Everything has a price, boy. Yer payin' before gettin' the good bits, that's all."

Harry nodded, turning back to the wagon. The priest was staring at the two, shaking.

"Work... work of the Devil! Get back!"

As the wagon disappeared in a cloud of traildust, Malachai stooped to pick up his pack the priest had thrown out. "Well, we'd better get ter walkin'. Shount be too much farther."

"Does the Witch lady have an apprentice," Harry asked. They were in a forest, now, having left the path after buying provisions in a small inn town wedged into a canyon.

"Last I head from her she did," Malachai grunted, stepping carefully over a fallen log. A faint noise drew his attention. "Hello? Hello, there!"

Harry gasped as the other group drew into sight. "Puck! Guts!"

"Harry," the tiny elf yelled, grinning and flying over to him. "How have you been doing?"

"Ah, okay," Harry said. "I could be dead, after all."

Puck flitted just in front of Harry's face. "That's weird... your scar still hasn't healed, even after all this time."

"It won't," Malachai said. "It reacts like a brand, around evil things."

"Ah! Who is this," Puck asked inquisitively. "My name is Puck! This is Guts the Black Swordsman, he's always rude so don't worry about him. This is Miss Farneze, her servant Serpico, this is Miss Casca, and the short kid here is Ishidoro."

"My name is Malachai the Elder, and this is my apprentice, Harry," the old man smiled. "Where are the group of you going?"

"We're on a pilgrimmage, to heal this woman's mind," Guts said. It sounded like a wellpracticed excuse.

"Aaa, really," Malachai said. "Well, the lady we're going to may be able to help you. She's quite a famous healer!"

"Really," Farneze said.

As the adults talked, Ishidoro pulled Harry over to one side. He was a short kid, with a sword strap slung over his shoulder. "Hey, what kinda stuff does your master do?"

Harry blinked. "Magic, why?"

The younger kid's shoulders slumped. "I have a dream... but that old man can't help me."

Harry coughed, bringing his sleeve over his mouth. Malachai's black homespun robes might be simple, but they kept him warm and hid the blood he kept coughing up.

"Hey, are you okay," Ishidoro asked Harry, looking concerned.

"I'm fine," Harry said, habit from being self-sufficient at the Dursleys'.

"Harry," Malachai called. He looked up. "We're travelling with this group for now, until we reach her house."