Disclaimer: Same as the three chapters before.

A/N: This chapter I have to say thank you to the following readers for leaving me such nice reviews last chapter. Diana (although you're anonymous, I so know it's you!), the lovely Moonlight-6056 whose beautiful reviews every chapter make me way too happy, Wine and Watercolour for the wonderful insight and advice, and Psycho8 for she's been reading my pathetic drivel since the sixth grade. I hope that you're all just as pleased with this chapter. I'm so so sorry it's taken me this long, I still don't have a laptop to call my own and my sister is on hers all the time. But here you go, I love you all!

Coming King

Chapter Four

This was the man from the dream, the one whose face had been haunting Harry's every sleeping moment, sticking around after the fact to taunt him with clues and fragments of disjointed sentences. He had dwelled for days on the one dream, not being able to decide if he should come after the man or not. Not coming had never been a real option, though, for he knew what had to be done. He was being given a chance to actually save the world, it was what he'd been trying to do for so many long years now. He couldn't just let it slip away from him without even trying to find out how he would succeed.

In the dreams the man was merely a wisp of something inconsequential and Harry had almost thrown off the idea of him, thinking that his mind had simply created this average man as a response to improper sleeping patterns and a failing diet. But he wasn't just a dream. He was actual flesh and actual blood. Harry could see the faintest ghost of the man's breath on the air and marveled at the sight. It seemed almost impossible that one who had visited him while he slept could possibly be real, but here he was. He was coming closer with every step, bringing with him something that the boy who lived was both thrilled and terrified at the prospect of. And Harry was blocking his path.

The man gave Harry a polite nod as he easily side-stepped him, his feet leaving the concrete for only a moment as he made the slightest indention in the grass that flanked the sidewalk. His head was down and his hands were thrust deep into his coat pockets, totally unassuming and thoroughly forgettable in every way. Harry was unable to keep the shock and disappointment from his face, he had been expecting something so much more than that. Shouldn't there be some great sign from god that this was going to change his life forever?

He went so far as to look around for the sign, the great miracle that was supposed to be happening somehow, but when he found nothing he returned his gaze to the back of the man making his way to the quiet building before him.

This couldn't even constitute as a meeting, only a passing. If the man had been anyone else, it would have just been another dull moment in the life of Harry Potter. But the man wasn't anyone else. He was the one Harry had been so diligently seeking. The one who would decide what to make of the rest of his life. And he was letting him slip through his fingers.

The boy looked up in despair as he watched his quarry duck silently into the bar. There should have been more than that, he shouldn't have let him just walk past. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Harry's eyes danced almost frantically over the outside of the building, looking for something but not knowing what it was. He didn't understand what had gone wrong, why the man didn't know him. Perhaps if they were both in the light.

No, Harry cast the thought away, unable to keep the bitterness even from his thoughts. He was that unexceptional, nothing at all remotely out of the ordinary about him. There was nothing to distinguish him even from the rough brick walls and torn up cobblestones of Tayside. The very man who had given him hope for something greater than himself didn't even know his face. And that was more than he could bear.

It was all right for those he didn't know to ignore him, to not care about who he was, but those who knew him even the slightest bit were now aware that he was done being ignored. He had been a chess piece for far too long. All one had to do was listen to the young man to remain on his good side. It was such an easy thing to do, yet it seemed to be such a bother to almost everyone.

That was why so many authority figures were no longer on friendly terms with Harry. They saw him as unimportant, someone they didn't need to listen to or critique all that carefully. He had vowed to make people like that think otherwise. And this man was supposed to help him with that. Why wasn't he helping? If he could take down at least one madman, maybe the world would see the larger one as more reachable, far more accessible that he ever had been before.

But perhaps there was some hope that he couldn't yet see. Harry desperately clung to his last chance, the thought that there was always the possibility that the man simply hadn't looked properly, hadn't seen him clearly, would know him if only he offered himself.

His face quietly determined, Harry squared his shoulders and detached himself from the shadows. There would be no going home tonight.

---

"Draco, are you trying to make me angry?" the Dark Lord asked rhetorically, his cloak swirling menacingly as it so very often did. "Because you really haven't done a single thing to please me the entire time you've been in my service."

"Forgive me, Lord," Draco said from his position on the floor, groveling just enough not to seem too pathetic, yet prostrating himself just enough to be the good little servant. It was a fine line to walk, but somehow he managed to pull it off every time his arm burned and he was forced to pop in for a fun time around the campfire with his closest enemy/friend combos. Yet he refused to let his pain show to the rest of the assembled Death Eaters; that would just be too much even for him. He had to keep some kind of respect, the little bit that it was.

"I'm trying my best to serve you." He resisted the urge to add "Truly, I am!" to the end of his sentiment and clutch his heart for effect. Melodramatics were far below him for the most part though smoke and mirrors weren't always out of the question.

Voldemort sighed and Draco inwardly rolled his eyes, a mental profanity sounding through his heavily shielded mind. The precursor to a new round of fresh curses was usually a sigh. Or a rhetorical question, for that matter. Oh goodie, he'd been given the magical opportunity for both! He was not left wanting.

He let only a gasp escape his lips as the Cruciatus was lifted from him. Once the pain was gone, it was gone. It wasn't as though he let it stick around to mess with his actions. He then easily straightened himself up so he was standing before his Lord, he wouldn't allow himself to bow any more than he absolutely had to. He saw his father smiling coldly from up on the dias next to their master, his pride nearly evident on his face. It wouldn't do for two Malfoy's to be showing emotion at once, that was almost enough cause for the world to end.

"I will find both of them for you, my Lord," Draco swore, wondering if he could cross his fingers and take it all back later. "You will have them before the month is through."

"I had better, young Malfoy," the Dark Lord warned, the threatening words rolling easily off his tongue. It wasn't forked, like everyone imagined it. "Or you will be just as dead as Potter."

Draco's inner self lashed out irrationally. "Super."

---

The inside of the bar was just as nondescript as the outside. There was nothing to distinguish it from any other pub. Even the men inside were the same ones that Harry had seen across the entire country. They were all tired, the same slouch of hard work bending every spine over pints of watery beer. The conversation was forced at best and most eyes stayed either on the cracked tables or the football game being broadcast on the shabby television set in the corner. The floor was unswept and spoke of years of travel by working class boots, heavy traffic when times got especially bad or strangely better than the norm.

Not one head lifted off worn hands when Harry pushed open the door, something that relieved him to no end. Everyone ignored him, so he in turn ignored everyone. He thought it would be best to fit in as well as he knew how, no one would know to notice a scrawny boy with dark hair. He took a seat at the end of the bar and prayed for the second time in one night. Prayed that this wouldn't be as hard as he knew it was going to be. Because everything in his life kept getting more and more difficult as the days progressed. Because nothing could ever seem to go his -

"Excuse me," said a quiet voice from his right, "but is this seat taken?"

Harry tried to keep his eyes from widening at the one who had appeared almost from nowhere beside him. Perhaps this wouldn't be quite as thorny as he had first surmised. Not trusting his voice to support his words, he merely dipped his head forwards in a nod and gestured to the empty seat. The man sank gracefully into it and motioned for the barkeeper, one hand absently fiddling with the hem of his coat, his fingers pulling at the frayed edge. Harry's eyes were riveted on that simple nervous habit; he couldn't begin to know what those hands had done, how they occupied themselves.

Yet the same could be said for his own hands. They had done countless things that many would consider horrible if only he had been on the other side of the war. Death Eaters were tried and sentenced every day for doing things less than he had done. The only difference was who the acts were being committed against. That was the deciding factor in nearly every aspect of the battles. They would curse a young girl while he would curse a different young girl. The only thing separating the two actions was that the girl he was forced to kill was in a white mask and a robe. Yet he was a hero while the other man was sent to Azkaban.

"And for you?" the man inquired lightly.

Harry snapped his eyes back up and realized albeit too late that he hadn't been paying attention. He had let himself be distracted by the inconsequential nattering of his own mind yet again. "Sorry?"

"To drink," he was told. "What can our bartender get for you this evening?"

"Whatever you're having's fine," he stammered quickly, desperately trying to cover the nerves that were being brought on by absolutely nothing. Relax, just breathe. "Thanks."

No words were exchanged as the bartender brought over two pints of bitter. No words were exchanged as they drank. And no words were exchanged when the glasses were refilled and slid back towards them. As the minutes ticked away, Harry found himself becoming more and more of an emotional wreck. And the alcohol wasn't helping. It seldom did. He'd escaped into its constantly open arms before and had come to the same results on more than one occasion. He had studied the man next to him surreptitiously over the rim of his glass for the last quarter of an hour and had come to not one conclusion.

He looked like many other men in their mid-twenties that Harry had seen. Not unattractive, but not conventionally handsome. Just there. He didn't have the hardened eyes of a killer, nor did he have the soft eyes of the naïve. The only thing even remotely startling about his eyes was the shade, a rather pleasant tone of blue that one could instantly be comfortable around. But Harry wasn't.

On the contrary, he became steadily more nervous with every passing moment. He was somehow reminded of the night he had lost his virginity. It had been spent waiting as he chewed his lips raw, wondering if it was ever going to happen, both wanting and dreading it. It couldn't come fast enough, yet he wanted to put if off for as long as he possibly could. It was an unknown that he almost didn't want to meet, but couldn't humanly avoid.

The man finally noticed the shaking of the young man's hands and said, "Come on, why don't we go outside for some air." It was more of a demand than a question and Harry found himself immediately relieved that he wouldn't have to take control of the situation. Control was not his forte.

He let himself be led out of the Counting House and they slowly began to walk down the deserted street. The rain had all but stopped, but the wind had picked up in its wake, cold and dead and utterly fitting. Harry wrapped his arms around himself to try to ward off the chill, but his coat did little to protect him. He gratefully took the scarf that was offered to him and found himself wondering what he had done to deserve the kindness of this stranger. Found himself thinking that perhaps he was wrong about the man he walked with.

"I don't mean to sound too forward," the man said quietly, barely making himself heard over the wind, "but I'm not very good at subtlety." At the raised eyebrows he got in return, he continued in a very well practiced sounding rush, as though he asked this same question in the same way every night with the same results. "Would you want to come back to my place?"

"Yes," Harry said instantly, not bothering to even consider it. "Absolutely."

The man let out an incredulous laugh. "It's never been that easy before," he admitted. "I don't even know your name." He stopped walking and extended his hand, making Harry positive that he was the man he'd been searching for. "My friends know me as Pilate."

Harry took his hand, wondering about the state of the friends he had mentioned. "You can call me Judas."