I own nothing. Least of all this.
A/N: In case anyone is wondering, the original inspiration for this fic comes from the amazing story "Wind Shear" by Chilord on . As much as I absolutely love that story, I always considered it a little weak in a few areas: Harry's backstory and the mechanism for his arrival, the final battle and fate of Voldemort, the actions of a certain Headmaster…you get the idea. This started out as my attempt to…not fix, but upgrade certain elements of the story, and ended up as something almost completely different. It may not seem so at first, but things are really gonna go down the rabbit-hole soon. Spoiler warning: the Department of Mysteries is gonna be big. So, if anyone is looking for an excellent straight-up time travel Harry fic, Wind Shear is by far one of the best. Definitely check it out. With that out of the way…
Catch you on the flip side.
4) NEVER DID KNOW THE ANSWER TO THAT ONE
Once more, the Floo in the Headmaster's office flared to life to admit a certain gruff and grisly Auror. Only this time it was merely the head that poked through.
"Albus! Get down here; we got a situation!"
Dumbledore merely looked up placidly from his paperwork. "What is it now, Alastor?"
"That stick of ours has gone and whacked the hornet's nest again; and this time, he didn't bother with the wards."
An extremely long sigh echoed throughout the room. "Very well, Alastor. I'm coming through."
Alastor grunted, and removed his head to make way.
Less than a moment later, the opposite end of the Floo came to life with a dramatic flair as Albus Dumbledore stepped into the Department of Magical Law enforcement.
A flick of his wand, and the ash covering both the floor and his robes had Vanished. "Now; tell me what exactly has happened, Alastor. And don't leave anything out."
"That's just it, Albus: I don't know. Nobody does."
A frown crossed Dumbledore's face. "If nobody can say what has happened, how can you be certain it was indeed our…stick?"
"The place is practically blazing with Dark Magic, Albus; and jus' like the first time, every single body has somehow up and disappeared. No doubt about it. I just need you to piece together the chain of events, seeing as how the only man left standing hasn't seen fit to enlighten me yet."
Yet another sigh. "And I suppose you also want me to do my best to obscure things should anyone else go poking around?"
Moody laughed. "You know me too well, ol' friend."
"Hmm. I will do what I can, within reason. I have no desire to draw more attention to myself than necessary. That is, if I am to continue being the 'soft speaker', as you put it."
Alastor held his arm out. "Couldn't agree with you more, Albus."
Dumbledore took the offered hold, and with a silent crack, the two wizards Dis-Apparated.
They reappeared in the middle of what could only have been described as a warzone.
A circle of destruction ran right through what had once been a children's playground. Trees that had stood for centuries had been ripped up, roots and all, and flung violently outwards. Metal that had been warped and melted was embedded deep into the dirt. Evidence of lightning strikes and blasting curses abounded. And in the exact center of the chaos, a ring had been blasted out of the ground; inside of it stood the only undisturbed patch of grass for a hundred meters around. Albeit sunk into the ground by about thirty feet.
Throngs of Ministry officials were already swarming the scene; understandable, given that this was a Muggle neighborhood. But the only one that truly worried either of the two wizards was the lone figure clad in the unmistakable robes of the Unspeakables.
"I so hope you realize it is going to be extremely difficult to obscure anything with one of them here, Alastor."
Moody had the grace to look ashamed. "Sorry Albus; must've got here while I was Flooing you. Woulda sent you a messenger Patronus, but you know I ain't been able to cast a corporeal one for a while. Not since…" his voice trailed off.
Albus patted his old comrade on the back. "Quite alright, Alastor. We shall just have to make do. Come; best head off any trouble before it starts."
They began to make their way over to the hooded figure…
Only for it to disappear right in front of them, still facing in the direction of the epicenter.
"…Or not. Hmm. Suspicious. I shall have to talk with Croaker later. Alastor, if you would be so kind as to keep the attention off of us for a while, I would be much obliged."
Moody grunted and began weaving a web of spells, all intended for concealment or obscuring. As he did so, Dumbledore was casting spells of his own, slowly creating a tangled line of multicolored light in front of the two. Every now and then he would give either a hum or a grunt, with the occasional arched eyebrow thrown in. It was only when the line came to a radiating green end that a look of worry crossed his face.
Moody finished his casting and turned back to his partner. "Well, Albus?"
"I'm afraid, Alastor that I must admit…I am confused."
Moody blinked. The Great Albus Brian Wulfric Percival Dumbledore, admitting confusion? Impossible.
"Confused, Albus?"
"Yes. To start, there appears to have been a magical broadcast of some kind. Geared towards something Dark which I am not familiar with. Obviously, a call of some sort."
"For what?"
"Parlay, I suspect. Our…stick…shows no signs of magical preparation either before or after the call, indicating he wished for any possible meeting to be on neutral ground."
"And was there a meeting?"
"Yes. Not longer after the call started, I estimate fifty Disillusioned individuals Portkeyed in, after which the standard anti-escape wards went up. The call immediately halted at their application. Beyond that, no other defenses or offenses were activated. Our friend took a position what would become the center of destruction, and the leader of the fifty stepped forward to a short distance from the ring."
"What next?"
Dumbledore gave a flick, and the line advanced to a section of light below. "Our friend and the leader conversed for some time, and were evidently comfortable enough to remove their masks in front of each other."
"Recognize them?"
"The leader, yes. I can't say I'm surprised; the Yaxley name came up a few times in those files you delivered to me. As to the other…nothing. No spark of recollection has crossed my memory. And I'm quite sure I would remember coming across eyes like that."
"I'm quite sure you would. I do."
Dumbledore ignored him and went on. "It seems the meeting ended on less than amicable terms between the two; the masks were replaced, some final remarks exchanged, and then…"
"And then…what?"
"…Before I continue Alastor, I have something I must confess. When you first brought this matter to my attention, your description of this Zarathos painted him in what I felt an unflattering light. A bloodthirsty killer, one who dealt with any potential enemy in the same manner every time; that is to say, permanently."
"Aye. Smart fella; the only enemy that can't curse you in the back is a dead one."
"So you say. And yet, these events seem to suggest Zarathos is capable of at least mercy, if not outright forgiveness."
"How's that?"
"He was not the one that threw the first spell. Nor the second, the third, nor any of the ones that came after, for quite some time. As far as I can see, he performed only two acts during the first exchange: the erection of a spherical shield that as far as I can tell was able to stand against even the Unforgivables for a time, and a method of magical transport I must confess to never coming across before now. Nor had his attackers, judging by how their anti-escape wards failed to prevent it. Curious. I thought only phoenix travel was unblockable…"
"You're drifting, Albus."
Dumbledore snapped back to reality. "Right. Sorry about that, Alastor. Just theorizing…anyway, that's hardly the most important matter here. The point I was trying to make was that while Zarathos is evidently capable of great violence, he nevertheless possesses the ability to know when it is best to grant a second chance. Which lays to rest no small number of my fears, Alastor."
"Hmm. If you mean he's not likely to go and off our problem only to replace it, you got that right. But as to the second chances bit…where exactly did he transport too, Albus?"
The time-line advanced once more. "To directly behind the wizard to Yaxley's right, I believe. And it is here that he takes on the qualities you claimed he possessed: his first attack appears to have been a blade formed from the same energy as his earlier shield. A clean strike, straight through the back and out of his victim's chest. It appears as though the blade then somehow…absorbed the body. Not the soul, I must stress. That had long since departed."
Moody muttered to himself. "So, that's how he's been doing it…"
"After that, a portable, less extensive version of the shield, followed by what appears to have been a staff of pure lightning, with which he reflected his attackers' spells back at them. I count three Killing Curses returned to their senders, at least. Once his opponents realized he was using his defenses as cover to advance, it was, I am afraid, much too late for them. The staff elongates into…what appears to be a giant, flaming, war-hammer. This is what appears to have been responsible for most of the missing bodies, as it left behind fiery tornadoes in its' path that almost seemed to consist of…the Light version of Fiendfyre, if such a thing even exists. And for the finale, Zarathos somehow managed to launch himself into the air, gaining far greater height than a normal human should have been able to attain. Considering the war-hammer disappeared about that time, it is possible his ascent was magically assisted. And when he came back down…"
Dumbledore was silent for some time. Moody was just about to jog his old friend out of his ruminations, when he came back to life with a shudder, and finished his thought.
"…When he came back down…he brought the sky with him."
Alastor did the only thing he could when confronted with a waxing poetic Dumbledore: he changed the subject. "So just like the first time, then. Quick, clean. And no survivors."
Dumbledore seemed to sag ever so slightly. "I wish that were so, old friend. But now we come to the one part of this tale that has simultaneously given me the most hope…and the most fear."
The line of light advanced one final time, to a tail glowing Killing Curse green.
Dumbledore turned his gaze to the ground. "Watch if you can, Alastor. I have done so, and possess no desire to repeat it."
Alastor stared first in shock, then in horror, at the scene that played out before him. As Zarathos climbed out of the crater he had created, a single Killing Curse struck him in the chest, and sent him sprawling back into the hole. A somehow unharmed Yaxley strode over and gave what was probably a very nasty speech over the fallen corpse. That was the thing about recreations like this; the sounds and conversations were inevitably lost. It was why they were so rarely used by the DMLE. Well, that, and they were devilishly tricky and complicated to do.
As Yaxley turned to leave, a tremor seemed to pass through the image. Yaxley turned back in confusion, only to see something that Alastor had not thought possible:
Zarathos, slowly standing once more in the bottom of the pit. Underneath his feet grew a fresh patch of grass, the last bit having been blasted to smithereens earlier.
And then Zarathos rose into the air.
Wings of fire seemed to stream from his back, spreading out farther than any Veela's, or at least that Alastor had ever seen. The fire moved to engulf his whole body, and when it reached his helmet, it vanished in the face of the flames, exposing his entire face to view. More specifically, his eyes.
Their natural green, they had retained, but the pupils had changed drastically. In their center was drawn a symbol Alastor didn't recognize; a circle, inscribed within a triangle, with both bisected by a single thin line.
It was then that the second impossible thing happened:
Alastor heard the voice of Zarathos coming from the image.
"You know, I was going to let you live. You were a good conversationalist, if nothing else, and you were clever enough to realize what your master would do to you for your failure. You might have atoned for your sins. Even the ones you committed to gain your Lord's mark. But now, you've gone and done something you really shouldn't have. You've managed to kill me…and in doing so, revealed one of my secrets. And I'm afraid I can't let you live knowing it. To put it bluntly…"
Zarathos gave a jerk with his hand, and Yaxley was dragged into the air, his neck slamming home into an iron grip.
"…You've pissed me off."
What followed was the most brutal torture Alastor had ever had the misfortune of seeing. When it was over, Alastor Moody did something he hadn't done since he saw his first body at the tender age of thirteen years old:
He threw up.
When at last he was finished, he stood up, vanished the mess, and turned back to Dumbledore with a gleam in both of his eyes.
"We need to find our stick, Albus. Before he goes and does something we cannot possibly explain away."
"Our stick, Alastor? That man is his own master, and no one else's. You know me; you know my feelings about information being kept from me. If we were to work for him, and make no mistake, it would be for, not with, how long do you think it would take before I pushed him too far? Asked him one too many questions? I know that symbol in his eyes; I know what it means. If he is what I suspect…he will judge anyone he comes across. Light or Dark. How you survived him, I cannot begin to comprehend. Fifty of the Dark's best, Alastor, and he slaughtered them all. Without a wand. He will deal with our mutual problem, make no mistake. But afterwards, if he does not willingly return from whence he came…we can do nothing. Nothing but accept it. And pray that he does not realize we have uncovered one of his secrets."
"So we tell him, Albus. We tell him that we will do…nothing. That we can do…nothing. And that we will do our best to see his secrets safe. Coming from me, he'll believe it. I think. What you need to do is prove yourself trustworthy to him as well."
"How? How, Alastor?"
"Well, to start, you could get rid of all of this. Permanently. The last thing we need is that Unspeakable coming back and finding any of this. And if you truly want to get on the DOM's good side, have that talk with Croaker. And make whatever promises you must to get them to leave Zarathos alone. You're still the soft speaker of the Wizarding World; capitalize on that. And for Merlin's sake, keep the purebloods happy. As far as anyone knows, there've only been a few deaths so far. And as far as we're concerned, it's going to stay that way. If any accusations against Zarathos come forward, they'll be from the leaders of this little charade. And its them you have to silence."
Dumbledore stroked his beard. "…It's a start, I suppose. But that still leaves one problem: how exactly do we tell him what we've done?"
Moody smacked himself in the face. "Och. Aye. Forgot about that. You might want to try sending the blighter an owl; if that fails, perhaps a messenger Patronus. And maybe, just maybe, that blasted flaming chicken of yours might be able to find him."
"True. He possesses one magical transport I am unfamiliar with; perhaps the opposite is true as well."
Dumbledore gave one final sigh, and dispelled the tangle of light still hanging mid-air. A brief look around to reassure himself that any Ministry officials had long since left, and he continued on. A few more flicks of his wand, and the playground repaired itself. Trees flew back in the ground, metal reformed into swings and slides, and the rest was re-covered with grass and sand. It was as if nothing had ever happened.
Replacing his wand in his robes, Dumbledore held his arm out to his partner. "Back to the Ministry, Alastor. I sense we are both going to be extremely busy for the foreseeable future."
And with a crack, the two wizards Dis-Apparated.
A few moments after the echo faded, a lone figure let his invisibility cloak drop and stood from where he had been seated for the entirety of the conversation.
The Unspeakable merely cracked his neck, and took one final look at the scene. "Extremely busy. That's putting it mildly, Dumbledore. That's putting it mildly, indeed."
And with another resounding snap of air closing on vacuum, the hooded figure vanished, leaving Surrey exactly as it had been mere hours before.
The horrifying truth of what had occurred there that day, buried now both by dirt and by paperwork; the only remining traces hidden deep within memories.
But what memories they were.
"Well, well, well. My dear brother-in-law, coming to me of all people for help. My, oh, my, what is the world coming to?"
Cygnus Black raised his head from his hands just long enough to glare at his visitor. "Ruin, Charlus. That's what it's coming to."
Charlus Potter, husband of one Dorea Potter nee Black, and survivor of the war with Grindelwald, sat down across from his host. "Is this the part where you start your speech on how the revered traditions and practices of our great society are being dragged down into the muck by those of less fortunate birth?"
"No, this is the part where I pray you're able to tell me there's a half-blood Potter in existence."
Charlus frowned. "A half-blood? Not for some time, I'm afraid. Why? Is it important?"
Cygnus downed his shot of Firewhiskey. "You have no bloody idea."
"The great Cygnus Black, swearing in public? And caught drinking in the Hog's Head? The world really must be ending."
"By the time I get done saying what I've got to say, you might wish it were, Charlus. Because if you can't name a single half-blood Potter…then you've got an unknown Potter bastard running around wild in England. One capable of slaughtering twenty experienced witches and wizards where they stand. They chose the location, they had the first shot on him, and even when he realized what was going on, he acted like a bloody show-off. And he still managed to put them all down. Oh, and did I mention he did it wandlessly?"
Charlus' face had hardened at the mention of "bastard". At "slaughtering", his eyes narrowed considerably. And by the time Cygnus got to "wandlessly", every trace of emotion had utterly vanished.
His voice sounded like a glacier carving its way through the landscape. "Cygnus, you are going to tell me, exactly and precisely, what has happened. And then you are going to explain, using extremely small words, just why you think it was a Potter that was responsible. Then, if it turns out you're right, maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to bring myself to help you capture him, and turn him over to the authorities."
There was silence from both parties for some time.
A snort.
A chuckle.
A guffaw.
The impossible had happened: Cygnus Black, for the first time in years…was laughing.
"Capture him?! Turn him over?! Oh Charlus, nothing could be further from my mind! Didn't you hear me, man? They were the ones that attacked him. Twenty on one from ambush, and he still managed to wipe them all out. The only reason the Daily Prophet hasn't grabbed the story and run with it is…well, you'll see."
A light appeared to come on in Charlus' head. "You don't want to catch him. You want to join him. Or for him to join you."
"Got it in one, Charlus. Tell me; what do you know of the Knights of Walpurgis?"
Charlus frowned. "The name is familiar to me, but I cannot say where I heard it."
"Understandable. As far as the rest of the Wizarding World is concerned, the Knights do not exist. At least, not yet."
Cygnus took another drink of his whiskey. "They started small. A call for the restoration of our traditions, harsher regulations for currency exchange, some mild cases of Muggle-baiting, you know the deal. All hidden and buried, the regulations and speeches in other legislation, and the baiting in the DMLE's files. But lately, things have gotten more…intense. They have begun…recruiting. And after a good deal of negotiation, I allowed myself to be convinced that they were worth supporting."
"I assume this is going somewhere, Cygnus?"
"Patience. My oldest, Bellatrix, was…one of those recruited. She was already betrothed to one of the highest ranked Knights, the Lestrange heir, so it seemed a natural next step."
"The Lestrange…"
"Yes, I know, Charlus. Now please, no more interruptions. When she came back from her first official introduction to the Knights…she revealed something that seemingly confirmed my decision to support them. They have a Lord, Charlus. A full on Dark Lord; not just a bloody ponce with a worthless title."
Charlus' eyes bugged out; but he somehow managed to hold his tongue. If there truly was a Dark Lord on the rise…then things were about to get very, very bad. And the Light would need all the allies they could get.
Cygnus showed no signs of noticing his guest's distress. "The things he did, that Bellatrix relayed to me…they were ancient magics, Charlus. Some of which I'm sure not even Dumbledore knows of. And his power…it's off the scale. So, as you can imagine, whatever doubts I had harbored about following the Knights were utterly crushed. Dumbledore wouldn't have been able to stand against him; even those that survived Grindelwald could only have delayed him. Yes, it truly looked as if I had chosen the right side, and was already preparing to convince the rest of my House of the same, when…he…happened."
"Your mysterious Potter."
"It was Bellatrix's initiation. A hit-and-run on a Muggle pub, just down from the Leaky Cauldron. It would have been a statement. It ended up being a massacre instead. I don't know if he was waiting for them, or if it was just plain bad luck, but nevertheless, mere moments after the wards went up, and the advance group went in the back, they ran screaming in pain out the front. He had set them aflame with Fiendfyre, Charlus. And he was in total control of it. They were burned, Charlus. Torched. Not consumed. He made them suffer. And it only got worse from there."
"Worse? How could anything be worse than Fiendfyre?"
"You'd have to see it to believe it. Which is what I intend to have you do."
Cygnus removed a phial from his robes, a silvery substance contained inside. "I assume your family possesses a Pensieve?"
Charlus scoffed as he took the offered glass. "Of course. We aren't barbarians, Cygnus."
"Use it, then. Pay attention to every last detail. And when you're done, I pray you realize exactly why the Blacks must ally with this man if we are to survive."
"Because it would be such a shame if that failed to happen. I assume certain of your daughters are already being coached as to how best to approach him?"
"I wish. As it stands, Bellatrix and I are the only ones to know the truth, although I'm quite sure she'd pursue him given half the chance. The memory you hold in your hand is my copy of her own from that day. I intend to show the original to Orion some time in the near future. If I had a name to go with the face, it would go a long way towards my case."
"If you haven't got his name, how are you so sure he's a Potter?"
"The hair. You know better than I about the curse; its' effects are unmistakable. As to the half-blood part…it's the eyes. I know of no wizarding families with that particular shade. There's no doubt about it, Charlus. Watch the memory, and you'll find yourself agreeing."
Charlus Potter stood. "Very well. I'll watch the memory. If I see what you say I will…I will help you find him. But if these Knights truly have a Dark Lord for a leader…then no matter how powerful this wizard is, he'll need more allies. We all will. You might want to go looking for them. I sure as hell will."
And with that, Charlus Potter left the Leaky Cauldron, leaving Cygnus Black behind to his drinking. And his thoughts.
Harry remembered quite well the first time he'd ever been in a Muggle pub.
It had been right after he'd landed in the Urals. He had planned on landing somewhere well out of sight and throwing up what few concealment spells he knew, but after looking at his fuel gauge he realized that was completely out of the question. So, he had set down near what appeared to be one of the last remaining holdouts of civilization at the bottom of a mountain, made sure he locked the ship behind him, and set out looking for two things: fuel, and information.
He found the first, alright. Problem was, it cost money. Money he didn't have. So, he set out to find that instead. And if he happened to discover something useful at the same time, who was he to complain?
To that end, he chose the most cliché avenue he could think of: gambling. And then proceeded to swagger into the loudest bar in town looking for some action (that it was the only bar in town had absolutely no bearing on the matter).
It was quite easy to be mistaken for a beginner at a game when you had quite literally never played it before. That he would win the first round was a given; his opponents smelled blood in the water, and if they were going to squeeze him for everything he had, then they needed to keep him overconfident in his luck. Unfortunately for them, the Potter luck was rather more than they had counted on.
In other words, once you learned the rules of a game, it became ridiculously easy to cheat with magic.
A few rounds in, and he knew which of his fellow gamblers was the most likely to have the information he was looking for. Throwing a few hands to keep the rest of the table happy worked just fine for him, provided his target was losing the most money at the end. And in the end, it was just the two of them left, with a mountain of coins sitting between them.
Harry slid more of his winnings into the pile, enjoying his target's reaction. "Double up."
His opponent gulped, and glanced down at his cards yet again. The poor fellow was sweating like a zebra giving a speech to a bunch of lions. With trembling hands, he began counting the extremely small bunch of coins in front of him. It was some time before he spoke. "…I can't match."
Exactly the moment Harry was waiting for.
He leaned back in his chair. "Hmm. Shame. I was quite enjoying this. You know what, I'm feeling generous. You keep what you've still got, and in return for matching the bet, you tell me what you know about a…place…I've been looking for."
The relief on the fellow's face was evident. "Place? Sure man, I'll tell you! I'll tell you whatever you wanna know!"
Harry grinned. "Perfect. This place I'm looking for…I believe around here it's known as…Durmstrang."
The temperature in the room dropped by about thirty degrees.
The fellow's nervous look was back. "Ah. Durmstrang, you say? That's…interesting. From what I hear…a warlord owns the place now. Kills anyone who comes close. Not that many can manage that."
Harry frowned. "How's that?"
"Well, it can't be found, can it? Place just…doesn't exist. 'Cept to those blasted Risen. Blighters that come back to life after they die…ain't natural. They're the only ones that can find the place. And even then, they don't come back. Nobody ever comes back from…Durmstrang."
His words rang in Harry's head. So, Durmstrang still existed. And was now run by a warlord. An obviously magical one, seeing as how he'd managed to get past the wards. And also with no small ability to kill the supposedly unkillable. Briefly, Harry wondered if the Killing Curse worked on the Risen. Or him, for that matter.
But that was neither here nor there.
Here, Harry was surrounded by quite a large number of people, all looking at him with no small amount of fear…and in some cases, hatred. Better do something about that.
He sighed, and laid his cards down on the table. "Call."
His opponent looked from his cards, to him, then back again. A sigh, and he laid down his hand as well. As hands went, it was fairly good.
But not as good as Harry's.
Harry reached out to swipe his winnings off the table, when his arm was grabbed by one of the other people at the table. "You looking for Durmstrang?"
Harry did his best to keep his voice level. "Perhaps."
"You won't survive. And all of that lovely cash you got'll just disappear along with you. We're taking it back. I, for one, don't see your Ghost floating around anywhere nearby. By the time he brings you back, we'll be long gone. Us, your money, and anything else you got worth taking. And there's not a thing you can do about it."
Harry thought about it. Four of them, one of him. Stunners would work; but without being able to go for his wand, he didn't want to bet on them not wearing off in the middle of a fight. Permanent solution it was, then.
Harry smiled. "Wrong. There's four things I can do about it."
They moved.
But Harry moved first.
"Reducto, Diffindo, Confringo, Expulso."
The one holding Harry's arm collapsed back into his chair, a gaping hole in his chest. The second one simply stopped where he was, then simply…fell apart, his arms and upper torso now utterly detached from the rest of his body. The fourth was sent flying through the window out into the snow, his entire front caved in from the Banishing Spell. But it was the third that produced the most spectacular effect.
He exploded outwards in a shower of particles, a resounding BOOM originating from where he had just been standing. Before the ash could settle, Harry pulled out one of his wands, stuck it into the cloud, and incanted once more.
"Evanesco."
It was only after the dust had Vanished that he realized something. "Human remains. Shouldn't have been able to do that."
He shrugged, and moved on the next body.
A few more Vanishing Spells, a Reparo on the window and table, and a Summoning Spell for his winnings, and the place was one again clean. Well, as clean as it had been when Harry walked in.
As he placed his wand back into his pocket, he noted that the establishment had become considerably less packed than it had been before the fight. In fact, Harry was the only customer left.
He snorted. "People. Sheep, all of them. They see something they can't explain, and they either run from it, or burn it."
A voice came from the direction of the bar. "You said it, brother. So what if you can do a few things normal people can't? No reason to get all upset about it."
Harry turned towards the speaker. Scruffy-looking fellow, warm-looking hat, and rather ragged-looking robes. Oh, and guns. Lots of guns. Gave him the appearance of that one weird uncle at family reunions you were always excited to see when you were younger. Or so Harry had been told. It wasn't exactly like he'd had a lot of family to reunite with.
He cautiously approached the bar, the weird uncle behind it somehow conjuring a bottle out of thin air. "This here's the good stuff, brother. Older than the Collapse itself. Puts hair on your chest, boy or girl, gaurunteed."
Harry looked down at the bottle. Ogden's Finest Firewhiskey. He looked back up at the bartender. His recognition must've been obvious, judging by how the man's eyebrow rose ever so slightly. He reached out, and poured some of the drink into a pair of shot glasses. "Never did find out exactly who made it, but I got a friend that keeps me well-supplied. Just by happenstance, you understand, he's also one of the few people that knows where to find that there place you was looking for. What was it called…oh yeah…Durmstrang?"
Harry took the offered glass, and enjoyed the feeling of the whiskey sliding down his throat. Something told him he was gonna need it.
He gently set down the now empty tumbler. "Yeah. Durmstrang. Your friend…any chance I can meet him?"
The bartender poured another round of drinks. "Well, that all depends, brother…"
"…On what?"
The man smiled. "Amongst other things…whether or not you can tell me exactly where this lovely bottle came from."
Harry couldn't resist the opportunity. "What, fixing your window for free doesn't get me any credit?"
The man laughed. "You got guts, kid. I like that. But seeing as how my friend happens to own this entire mountain, and doesn't take kindly to any…strange altercations…I'd say you fixing the window you broke was the least you could've done. Now; about that bottle."
Harry hadn't known it at the time, but looking back, he realized it had been that night that had started it all. The night he met the one man that understood him, even a little, all those years in the future.
He'd had many names in the time Harry had known him. Dredgen Hope. The Drifter. But to Harry, he'd always be what he introduced himself as over a glass of Firewhiskey…
Eli. Just plain, old Eli.
And from there, things had, for the first time in a long while, begun to look better. And with every person Harry had met along the way…Felwinter, Shaxx, the Iron Lords, Osiris, Toland, Eris Morn…things had never stopped improving.
Until they did.
Harry was jerked from his ruminations by a family of three leaving the pub in quite a hurry. He looked around for the cause of their abrupt exit…
And found himself staring into the eyes of Fenrir Greyback.
Bollocks. It was the full moon tonight, wasn't it?
Harry could only watch as the werewolf slowly made his way out onto the empty street. There was absolutely no rush to Fenrir's movements; why should there be? After all, he had the entire night all to himself.
Or so he thought.
Harry rose to follow, when the bartender's voice held him back. "Might want to stay in tonight, sir. We got some pretty bad wolf attacks around here lately."
Harry resisted the urge to laugh. "I've been hunting wolves longer than you've been alive, brother. I think I can take care of myself."
"But sir…"
His argument was cut short by the door slamming shut for the third time that night. And for a brief moment, he thought he caught a final retort from the stranger.
"And believe me, Skolas was a lot more trouble…"
