A/N More old friends, just like I promised. Hope you enjoy!

When the old, creaky boat entered the port, the city seemed to be still waking up from last night's sleep. Harris jumped down on the quay and looked around. Dublin was a big city. It certainly had dozens of taverns and pubs. But Harris was an optimist.

"I'm looking for a pub." He stopped a passer-by who looked as if he was from here. "A man named Harper runs it. Patrick Harper."

The Irishman shrugged.

"I know four Harpers, so I do. And five times as many pubs."

Undaunted by this first failure, Harris continued:

"A giant of a man. Has a Spanish wife." He repeated the question to three more men, one after another. "He used to be a rifleman. A sergeant major in Wellington's army. He captured a French eagle at Talavera together with Colonel Lieutenant Sharpe." Harris fell silent, wondering what other information about his friend could be useful here. "After the war he became a horse dealer. He could still sell horses, I suppose."

The Dubliner's eyes lit suddenly.

"Ah, that Harper? 'The Baker Rifle'. That's his pub." Harris grinned when he heard the name. "Go straight ahead, then turn south by the church..."

Before he managed to find the pub, he had to ask twice more, but finally he stopped before a two-storey stone building with a green sign with white letters which said: The Baker Rifle. Patrick Harper, just like Harris and all their fellow riflemen, was still proud of having been one of the 95 Rifles, the best — at least in their opinion — infantry regiment in the whole British army. Harris smiled and reached for the door.

The room was fairly empty, probably because it was still rather early. In one corner two sailors, looking a bit hungover, were eating something that resembled scrambled eggs. Behind the bar, a young, plump redhead was cleaning some glasses. Apart from them, there was no one else in sight. Harris walked to the bar and waited until the woman put the glass she was cleaning aside.

"I'm looking for Patrick Harper," he said.

"Mister Harper's not here," answered the girl and shrugged. "Do you want a drink?"

Harris hesitated. The woman, clearly not very interested in the new client, went back to her work.

"What about Mrs. Harper?" asked Harris after a moment.

"Mrs. Harper is here." This time the barmaid didn't even glance at him. "Want me to call her?" she added after a while, and her voice suggested she was doing him a big favour.

"You better do." Harris sent her a mischievous smile. "Tell her an old friend wants to see her."

The woman disappeared behind some door, and Harris, still smiling, sat at the nearest table and looked around the room. He had to admit the pub looked quite nice. The floor was freshly swept, the tables fairly clean, the windows a bit less so, but they were well-hidden by colourful curtains. Looks like the Harpers are doing well, he thought, wondering whether it was more thanks to Pat or maybe Ramona.

"Harris!"

He turned around in surprise. The voice that called his name didn't belong to any of the Harpers, but, although unexpected, it was equally nice to hear.

"Dan! So good to see you!" Harris grinned and embraced his old friend. "I certainly didn't expect you here!" he said, when they finally both took a step back.

Hagman shrugged and suddenly looked at the wall somewhere over Harris' shoulder.

"Well, yes," he muttered finally. He must have immediately realized he was not making much sense, and he turned away from Harris, just to see a tall, lanky teenager who had just come inside.

"You remember this young rascal, don't you?" he asked in a tone that was supposed to be cheerful but fell flat. At least his smile seemed sincere, even though it didn't reach his eyes, Harris thought before he turned to the newcomer as well.

The boy looked around fourteen, and it seemed that he had grown tall too fast and his body wasn't yet sure how to deal with this change. He was skinny, had black, curly hair, tanned skin and bright, intelligent eyes. Even though it had been over a decade since their last meeting, Harris had no problem guessing the teenager's name.

"Little Patrick?"

"Yes, sir!" The boy greeted him with a shy smile and awkwardly shook the offered hand. Meanwhile, the barmaid came back to announce that her mistress was on her way.

"Not so little any more. He's taller than both of us, soon'll be taller than his father," Hagman laughed, much more genuinely this time, and gave the boy a pat on the back.

"I can see that," Harris agreed. "It's good though, let the young grow up as we're growing older." As he uttered these words, he looked more closely at his friend. Hagman seemed even skinnier than before, a bit hunched, and his long, once dark hair was full of silver streaks. Nevertheless, Harris had to admit that during these past years his friend had changed much less than himself.

"Though I wouldn't say you were getting old, Dan," he laughed, running his fingers through what was left of his once red curls. "I think now I don't look any younger than you. I wonder how Patrick is doing. Big Patrick, I mean."

"Just 'Pat'," Hagman corrected him. "Big Pat and Little Patrick. We had to distinguish them somehow," he laughed. "Patrick, go get your father. And meanwhile, we can get a drink! Olivia, lass, give us some whiskey, will you?"

Judging from the way the barmaid immediately left her work to bring them a bottle, Harris guessed Dan was someone more than just a guest here. He didn't ask, though, knowing his friend was not much of a talker. He suspected there would be many occasions to catch up.

A/N So now you know whom I resurrected. Let's just assume the second part of Waterloo never happened, okay? There's no fun without Harris and Hagman, simply.

TBC. Soon, I promise!