a/n: i was trying to update one of my other stories before this one, but i go where the muse directs & the muse said: hunger & its solutions? SIKE, let's randomly update harmony instead.

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"Location: Unknown Mansion"

Hara wakes up to find the normally faint, golden glow that has resided inside her chest for years, before she learned about magic, when there was only one thing she could cling to that was hers, splintered and tinged grey. Her fingers spasm, digging into soft sheets that shred to ribbons as her magic lashes out.

Why, why, why was it always her fault?

Why did it have to be Sirius?

Who else would die because of her, would Ron and Hermione be next?

Chest heaving, fuming green eyes survey her surroundings and she drops wooden post pieces onto the tile floor. She's not in Hogwarts and no medical wing looks like this. Everything in the room is disgustingly expensive. There is what she suspects to be real gold everywhere: decorating the now smashed window, encrusted on the dented wall, and making up the material of the untouched, curving door handle. An actual chandelier adorned with an obscene amount of crystals swings unsteadily from the cracking sky-blue ceiling.

The only people she could think of that would (be arrogant enough to) have chandeliers in bedrooms are the Malfoys and they sure as hell wouldn't give her, the half-blood Girl-Who-Lived, that kind of treatment. They'd throw her in the dungeons, not a bloody guest room fit for the queen.

A quick look down reveals the state of her body. There are violent, purple marks on her arms and legs. She hasn't been healed and her whole body hurts. Hara presses a wrapped hand to her chest in an attempt to soothe the pain. Maybe the Malfoys ran out of dungeon space? She snorts at the thought.

The bandages Ron wrapped tightly around her hands are intact, as are her unchanged, bloody, and dirty clothing. She takes some detached joy in knowing they ruined the fancy sheets, the ones she hasn't destroyed, before she realizes the house elves will have to clean them.

For some reason, likely pure arrogance (Malfoy Jr. had to get it from somewhere), they left her wand in her arm holster. She clearly hadn't been searched either, small mercies, since she still has the knife Remus gave her strapped to her thigh.

The only thing missing is her necklace- dull pain, pulled taut until it snapped -but she has faith in Hermione's charms. No one but a registered member of the D.A., someone who had signed their name and keyed their magic into the binding, parchment contract created for the group, would be able to see anything odd about her galleon. Thank Morgana for paranoia.

Shaking her head, she searches through her pleated, school-uniform skirt pockets and reveals a stick of gum that she shoves into her mouth and starts chewing, a pretty purple handkerchief decorated with whimsy clouds and turnips from Luna, and Sirius' mirror. She clutches it with widened eyes, maybe-

"Sirius Black!" she said eagerly.

The mirror continues to reflect her increasingly distraught image. She calls again. There is no answer.

Her hands tighten around the frame and she spits out the minty gum somewhere to the side, taking a careful, calming inhale, then gently slips the mirror back into her pocket. Alone in the large room, she flops onto the broken bed and muffles a scream into the pile of fine blankets she ripped apart. Her temper tantrum hadn't been quiet, someone would be coming to investigate soon. Too bad for them, it was probably the worst possible day to mess with her.

Sirius always said Potters are known for their honor and sense of justice, but they would be ruthless if driven to it, especially concerning their family and friends. She won't be too late ever again. If her friends are here, she's going to lead a revolt to top all revolts and bring her wrath down upon the Malfoys and whoever the fuck else is here.

(Nearby, a blonde walking down the hallway sneezes suddenly.)

"Right," she said aloud, sitting up. "Let's get on with it then."

If it's just her here, well, who really cares?

Getting to her feet, she stalks toward the ostentatious door, pausing to scoop up the last intact and rather lethal-looking vase in the crook of her left arm, and reaches with her right hand for the solid handle. The metal is cool to the touch and turns suddenly in her grasp, door swinging open and hitting her smack in the face.

She stifles the instinctive cry and chucks the vase through the open doorway, clutching her nose as she stumbles back. The vase makes contact and shatters loudly upon impact.

Someone falls into the room and what sounds like frantic apologies in a foreign language spill from their lips as they slip on the vase pieces and grab onto her arm with a shout. Warm fingers sear themselves through the linen fabric of her long-sleeve. She nearly melts against them, wand sliding into her open palm, their noses a hair's-breadth from brushing as her watering green eyes meet the liquid honey of his own. The air around them seems to still, then simmer, and a familiar warmth seeps into her skin.

He is home. She is home. He is safe. She is safe. He is-

Too close. She shakes his hand off and tugs at her glow to pull it back into her chest, retracting it from where it is intertwining with- the boy's? Her glow dims and pulses in pain at the action. His arm twitches as if to pull her back and she puts some distance between them to stare at him. He stares back.

A sensation, similar to a heated breeze, brushes questioningly against her shoulders. She sways toward him and clenches her wand.

"Where the fuck are my friends?" she demands, taking her hand off her nose and drawing up to glare at the pretty blonde boy, raising her wand to point at him.

He throws his hands out in a placating manner and mutters, "Inglese," beneath his breath before continuing in English.

"I don't know?" he said, voice smooth and just as pretty as the rest of him, eyes darting to her wand. "You were alone when we found you."

She keeps her glare, taking in his muggle pants and green jacket that no Dark wizard would be caught dead in, then cautiously lowers her hand to hang loosely at her side, "Oh."

A man in a suit runs into the room and stops at the blonde boy's side. He makes no mention of the bits of vase, nor does he outwardly react to the rest of the ruined room. He ignores it in a way that speaks of experience. If these are muggles, (but the boy's warmth- ) they're no ordinary ones. Hara can't see any sign of a weapon or wand along his jacket, but some intuition tells her he is heavily armed.

Wait. "What do you mean found?" she asked in a more polite tone.

They exchange glances and speak in- Italian, was it? -before the boy turns to address her. He is noticeably more composed with his babysitter? bodyguard? near him.

"I believe we may have much to discuss, but now that you are awake, please first allow my man to check your wounds."

He smiles faintly with serious eyes.

Hara might not have ever gone to a muggle medical professional doctor, the Dursleys truly took fabulous care of her, but she wasn't stupid enough to just trust whoever this boy was trying to provide.

"No," she said firmly. "Explain first."

"A compromise then," he said, after a moment. "We found you on the sidewalk, unconscious and covered in injuries."

The new information raises the question of why they had decided to 'take her home,' but it's a decent start so she gives the boy a wary nod. He casually waves his hand and a man in a similar attire as the bodyguard steps forward. He looks more suited to doing the damage than patching people up.

The boy steps back, past the threshold, into the dark hallway. The man waits at the door and doesn't enter the room. She steps forward, slow, but sure, wondering what exactly he is going to do.

His hands blaze into sunburst flames when she is within reach. Magic! She has the tip of her wand jammed into the tender skin of his neck instantly. So they aren't muggles. Everyone stiffens.

"The hell do you think you're doing?" she asks coldly.

The boy speaks up in a soothing tone that, damn him, actually works a bit, and is just a touch warning, "He's going to heal you."

She scoffs, heated and disbelieving. With fire? Nobody "healed" with fire.

Still, despite the danger, Hara can't help herself. She leans forward for a better look because this magic calls to her. The fire dances around the man's hand beautifully. Her glow flares as she loosens her hold and prods at it. The man and boy both shudder.

"Ivan is skilled with his Sun Flames." The boy sounds off, voice pitched a tad deeper, strained.

She's certain she somehow ended up in another country, so flames must be their form and name for magic. Something about the word "flames" niggles at her brain though. Almost as if she's heard it before.

Maybe "sun" means healing?

"Heal yourself then," she said softly.

Ivan doesn't hesitate in procuring a knife and lightly slicing his palm. The cut smolders yellow and begins to bubble. He smears the blood away to reveal smooth, unblemished skin. She gives one last poke before bundling her glow up again and pulling her wand back.

She still abruptly catches his wrist when his hand raises to her nose. He stops and waits for her to release him to continue. His magic, or flames, heal most of the surface-level pain she has, but he lingers over her forehead scar and bandage-wrapped hands. The ache in her chest persists.

When the bruising is reduced to blue and green, he immediately retreats, giving her much-needed space, hands flickering until the magic disappears. The atmosphere seems to lighten as she relaxes the slightest bit and thanks him genuinely. His lips curve the barest amount, a pull and tug that looks unconsciously done, and he walks to stand beside the boy.

"So," she began casually, feet planted in the center of the doorway, "where the fuck am I?"

At this point, she is fully confident that while, perhaps not Light, they also aren't working for Voldemort.

"You are currently receiving the hospitality of the Cavallones."

She frowns. She's never heard of the Cavallones but that doesn't mean much.

"Okay, thank you," Hara acknowledges, "but what country are we in?"

The boy pauses, before answering, "Italy."

As she suspected.

"My name is Dino," he said, sheepishly scratching the back of his head, but the intensity of his gaze betrays him.

Everyone looks at her expectantly.

"Hara," she said, then as an afterthought, tacks on, "pleasure."

And that's that.

There's no gleam of recognition or exclamation of "Hara Potter!". He simply nods and says something about a meal and someone assisting with getting her ready, but she's too caught up in thoughts of freedom and peace to really pay attention.

During the Tri-Wizard Tournament, Delacour and Krum hadn't been overly impressed by her "status" and "fame," could the rest of the world really be the same? Escap- leaving England for a vacation abroad was becoming a better and better daydream. A place and time where she could finally have some anonymity and exist as Just Hara.

She watches him leave with the two men flanking him, appearing how Malfoy thinks he looks, and considers fleeing into the dark night, never to be seen again. She could do it, even if they have wards up.

Her curiosity wins out though and she rights an overturned chair to sit down on it and wait. She has always been too fearless for her own good.

This situation and the boy, Dino, is a mystery waiting to be unraveled and the infamous Potter Luck will drag her into it regardless of what she does. If he is to be trusted, at least her friends aren't here, which hopefully means the Order was successful in getting them out of the Ministry safely.

Hara glances up and startles at the arrival of a woman in a pale blue maid uniform. Do Italian magical households not have house-elves? Not that she's complaining, she much prefers a fully-clothed, cross-her-fingers paid for their work person than the indentured, indoctrinated slavery system going on in England. The woman is carrying a folded bathrobe and gracefully curtsies in the doorway. Hara stands and follows her through another opulent bedroom to the most beautiful bathroom she has ever seen, including the Prefect's bathroom.

The bath is already drawn and steaming. There are flower petals scattered atop the surface that turn the water orange. The maid sets the bathrobe on the small wooden table near the tub, curtsies again, then shuts the door behind her.

Hara turns the lock and casts the few warding and silencing spells she knows before loosening her red- and gold-striped tie, toeing off her tattered trainers, and dropping only her outerwear to the floor in a heap. Just because they didn't seem like they meant her any harm didn't take away the fact that she had essentially been kidnapped.

Sliding into the gorgeous tub, she lets out a sigh at the water's perfect temperature.

Enjoyable as it is and as much as she trusts her magic, she doesn't linger in the bath. After gently washing her body and hair with the lemon soap, mindful of the many remaining bruises and freshly scabbed skin, she steps out and dries off with the fluffy towel hanging on a shiny, gold hook. A heating spell dries everything besides her hair completely.

Wrapping the bathrobe around her shoulders and tying it close at her waist, she tosses her dirty clothes into the tub to soak. Then, she walks to the sink and turns the faucet handle all the way up to add another layer of noise in case anyone is listening in. Water crashes into the porcelain bowl and sprays the chiseled edge. It's a muggle trick, but one that born Magicals wouldn't likely think of, over-reliant on magic as they are.

Closing her eyes, Hara draws her wand and envisions winning the Quidditch Cup. It takes her a few tries to produce Prongs, but he proudly prances around the bathroom when he emerges. She smiles faintly at the sight and leans into the spirit to whisper her message. Prongs nuzzles her cheek then gallops away.

She slumps against the wall with a huff of relief and drapes an arm over her eyes. She isn't going to hold her breath about the Ministry doing their damn job and finding her, but Prongs should be able to contact her friends. It's the best she can do at the moment.

Straightening away from the wall, she curiously looks over the assortment of glass bottles and lotions lining the marble counter. Hara holds her wand over the containers to find a perfume and scentless lotion that won't aggravate her skin and picks up what produces a blue glow.

She pushes her robe sleeves up and scoops some lotion out, dabbing and rubbing it in until it disappears. Sniffing a few of the perfume options, she decides on a dark, heavy scent that evokes thoughts of moon flowers blooming beneath a cloudless night sky and sprays it onto her neck.

After using the towel and a beauty spell Lavender taught her to finish drying her damp hair into messy, loose curls, Hara exits the bathroom on quiet shower slippers. She goes to the closet full of pretty items with gold or silver thread and gems or pearls embroidered on and has the niggling suspicion that those crystals on that chandelier in the previous room were diamonds.

The closet's contents of airy, colorful clothing and accessories are exactly the kinds of things she wanted years ago during the brief time she spent dreaming of being a princess. Sirius would have bought her anything she wanted if she asked or even mentioned it, but by the time he came into her life, she had enough money in her account from her parents to not need to ask, nor any desire to do so.

His company and love alone were all she wanted (needed) from him. She ignores her suddenly blurry vision and focuses on mentally calculating the costs of the Cavallone's hospitality: not leaving her on the sidewalk, healing treatment, water bill, and now clothes. Hara will find a way to pay them back so a debt doesn't remain on her end.

The first drawer has two pairs of gloves: a black pair that ends at her wrists and an elbow-length white pair. She glances down at her bandage-wrapped hands and moves to the second drawer where various undergarments are arranged orderly within. Adjusting a bra to her size with a flick of her wand, she swaps her underwear for theirs and then browses the several hanging clothing pieces.

She pulls on dark leggings made of a soft material, strapping her knife back onto her thigh over them, and selects a light-weight black dress with tulle sleeves and skirts that will brush her knees. The dress slips easily over her head and she uses her wand to loop the clasp at the base of the neck around the sizable pearl functioning as a button. She secures her wand into the holster on her arm and pulls the veil-like sleeves down to cover it.

As she exits the closet, the maid knocks on the door and at her answer, enters with a bottle of antiseptic and roll of bandages in her hands. She directs Hara to sit at the vanity and motions towards her wrapped hands.

Hara shakes her head and the woman's dark brows furrow before she hesitantly places the items on the vanity surface and backs away, indicating she will wait outside.

When the door shuts, Hara starts to carefully unwrap the bandages on her left hand to reveal the words carved into the back of her hand. I must not tell lies is red and angry against her tawny skin. She stares blankly and gently dabs antiseptic, despite knowing it will do nothing, to the scar that will always look fresh. A twist of her wand meticulously wraps her left hand with new bandage strips and then she repeats the process for the right hand that bears the statement "I will not break rules."

With that done, she picks up the weighty hair comb from the vanity table and begins brushing her hair, burning the strands in the bristles when she is done so as to not leave any easily-collected or stolen genetic materials lying around. Hair freshly combed, she fiddles with her curls and tucks some hair behind her ear.

There is an array of hair decorations on the vanity. Hara peers at the ornate mirror and pins her short curls back with a handful of black pins, keeping her forehead scar covered with long fringe.

She looks tired, exhausted actually, with tinges of purple prominent beneath usually bright, sparking green eyes dull and her dark, almond skin sun-deprived and a shade or two lighter. The lovely clothes she's dressed in make her feel even more like the part of a character, like one of those princesses who are sad and angry and whose righteous rage could fill an ocean and demolish a battlefield.

No one expects the princess to slay her own dragon, whether that be through coaxing friendship or a swinging sword. Nay, princesses must wait, languishing in a tower alone and unable to protect themselves, hoping, praying for safety, for a knight in shining armor playing hero who dreams of rescuing a damsel and earning a reward in the form of a kiss and crown.

Her mother's earrings shine in her ears, winking a tease and taunt. Hara has been a damsel for too long, it's time to be the dragon.

She stands and returns to the closet for shoes, choosing a dainty pair with slim straps, tiny heels, and a leather, scale sheen. She steps into them, ready for answers and dinner with the pretty boy.

The maid quickly starts walking when she steps out of the bedroom. She follows leisurely, hard-shelled shoes clicking against the tile floor. The maid stops in front of a door and reaches for the handle, but Hara instinctively touches her shoulder first, wishing to thank her.

The place where Hara's hand is grows warm and she blinks as the maid's hazel eyes widen and a blush spreads over her freckled cheeks. She slowly removes her hand and the maid ducks her head, turning to pull the doors open and hurry away. After glancing back once, she raises her chin and walks faster, skirt swishing about her calves. Hara watches right up to when the woman disappears from view, then shakes the encounter (and thoughts of how that flush had brought out the champagne flecks in her eyes- ) off to stride into the room.

Italy's magical community does a much better job than British witches and wizards at blending in with muggle fashion. Her clothing only has the slightest magical-influence because of its older-style and hand-made, tailored quality. Otherwise, she would assume it was a high-end muggle dress, similar to Dino's black, clearly cotton-blend shirt.

He had removed his green jacket, exposing forearms covered in colorfully-inked tattoos. She checks to see if there's a Dark Mark in his collection, there isn't, and idly wonders how far up his arm the tattoos go.

The bodyguard from before stands behind Dino's seated form at the head of the long table in an uncomfortable, gaudy-looking chair. Dino stands respectfully at her entrance and remains standing as she walks forward, tulle skirts rustling.

"Hara," he said, once she was close enough that he could speak and it wouldn't be shouting. "Please sit at my side."

She startles slightly at the use of her name, but settles next to him and unabashedly surveys him, as he sits back down. A hint of ink peeks out around the edge of his shirt collar. Her tongue sweeps her bottom lip when that troublesome curiosity of hers perks up at the sight.

Human servants quietly slip into the room with silver trays and platters. Yes, Hermione would definitely be pleased to hear about how muggle-influenced Italians were. She would probably want to come and study the Italian Magical community to try and figure out how to apply their system in England. Her water-glass is filled, though she notices Dino's is not, along with a little cupful of wine that she eyes for a moment too long.

Hara has manners, so she bides her time, rather patiently, until after the first course has been served before demanding answers.

"I still haven't received an explanation," she said, in between a bite of soft, butter-topped bread and eggplant lasagna so good it makes her eyes flutter close with a muffled moan of appreciation. How long had it been since she'd last eaten?

Dino coughs and puts down his utensils. "Ah, apologies. When you let out a large burst of flames, a signal that would alert any users two cities over, we were the closest famiglia. Your flames were agitated, rightfully so, and wouldn't let anyone come close enough to heal you."

She tucks the word "famiglia" away for later deliberation. "Then, how- ?"

"I carried you here," he murmured, cheeks pinkening as he averted his eyes.

Hara's eyes dart to his broad shoulders before flicking back to the appealing color on his golden face.

"Our flames recognized the similarity between us, but instead of the typical response, it must have relaxed yours."

Typical response? This explanation just seems to be creating more questions for her.

He continued, "None of your famiglia has come forward yet, but you've only been in our care for a day. They're a English organization, correct?"

"That's right," she said, thinking of the Order. "What do you mean when you say there's a similarity between our ma- sorry, flames?"

His pretty brown eyes gleam amber in the light.

"I've never harmonized with another Sky as well as we have. Do you not feel it?" He asked, intently.

She tilts her head.

"Sky?"

TBC

a/n: ending on a bit of a cliffie ;)

i have plans for this fic, some that involve actual plot and others that are just crack, one-shot-esque story lines. the next chapter will be plot and then we'll go from there, in the mean time, lmk what you think of the taste given of the dino-mite hot mess (and the maid, Oo la la) added to the mix with hara

~extras~ *

the room: trashed

hara: oopsie

~\~

"where am i?" hara asked 'calmly.'

~/~

romario: "just another tuesday"

the tuesday: dino tripping head-first down a staircase, trying to use the curtains as a handhold but ripping them instead, crashing through the window, and trampling flowerbeds in the 3 seconds he's without supervision

*(inspired to start creating these after reading the extras/omakes Huinari writes in the end notes of their lovely fic "Petrichor")

notes:

according to italian etiquette, hara should have entered first, so it could be considered rude that dino was already in the dining room. however, while dino & co. are treating hara as an important guest (the room; clothes; seating her at dino's right side, a position of honor; etc.), she is still an unknown to them so they are trying a little power play.

also, both sides are under assumptions and i'm thoroughly enjoying writing hara excusing muggle oddities/identifiers as cultural differences. glowy hands? that's just how italians do magic. flames? must be the italian term for magic. human servants? it's the italian way. muggle-like fashion? italian magicals are just better at blending in.