Hemp Flowers Meant Fate
Chapter 2
This chapter isn't edited in any way, shape, or form. See an error? Please tell me!
Warnings: More body disfiguration. Mentions of slight blood and gore. Rushed and delirious writing. More OC mention.
A/N: Trident Shamal makes an appearance in this chapter! Harry will get a taste of the mafia and learn more about Dying Will Flames and the curse before he trippity trappity trips headfirst into the underground, haha. Also, more of Alfie the OC in here, but he won't be a major part of the story other than a way of introducing a major character to another major character.
I'm not one for creating and abusing OCs excessively, lmao. But in this case, I need a somewhat logical and reasonable way to introduce Harry to the underground, lmao.
Enjoy!
Balsamine.
Impatience.
Alfie and Harry both looked over them, Alfie quickly turning away in a very suspicious manner. Harry was unperturbed, and stared at him, suspiciously. He knew enough about people, and how they reacted around him to know that he was probably trying to hide a grin of some sorts. Harry twitched, and grabbed some tissue from the side of his bed, wrapping up the bloodstained flowers and tossing them at Alfie, who yelped and caught them with a grimace.
"Oops," Harry said, simply.
"Okay, I deserve that," Alfie muttered, pocketing the now blood-stained tissue with a slight grimace. Harry felt a bit sickened at the thought of him keeping anything he projected from his body, and glanced away. "But it seems like your flowers are telling you something."
"Wow, really?" Harry enthused. "What made you think of that?" His tone was dripping with sarcasm.
"Are you normally this sarcastic?" Alfie shot back, exasperated. "It's hard to believe that the media portrays you in such a different light, honestly."
Harry just shot him a warning glare, his smile barring a bit more teeth than normally. "The media just want to show the people what they want to see, and if they want to paint me in a Mr. Friendly and nice way, then they will." He pulled back, leaning back in his bed as he stared morosely up at the ceiling. "It's not like I have any say in the matter," he muttered.
Alfie was silent, staring at him, before he returned to scribbling down notes in the clipboard he was always seen carrying around.
It had been a few weeks since his impromptu visit to the healers, and Harry wasn't- well, feeling it. He still felt rather guilty and down for not telling his friends sooner, and they walked on thin ice when around him, treating him with the utmost delicacy that was starting to piss Harry off. He still coughed up flowers, and the pacifier had lost its glow, settling into the tacky orange that Harry was slowly coming to terms with. It was a horrid color, no doubt, but it held it's charm; well, it was starting to, anyways. Harry was growing rather restless as the therapy he was now subjected to progressed, and after a few weeks, he was a bit disappointed that his current illnesses weren't improving at all.
His flowers mocked his impatience, it seemed.
Even his own magic hated him.
"Hey," Harry suddenly asked, sitting back up. A thought occurred to him, something he and his friends briefly debated about after they all met with the young healer. "How old are you, by the way? Just curious."
Alfie's expression dropped, and he grimaced. He quickly cleared his throat, and returned to his clipboard, a wry smile on his face. "It's rude to ask someone their age, you know," he commented, lightly.
Harry blinked, glancing away sheepishly. While he wasn't the nicest around, he did pride himself on being polite when called for. After the war, and his social reclusiveness, it seemed his manners had taken a nose dive, and he was really living up to Snape's interpretation of him. A snarky little brat. Finding nothing to say, he only shrugged mildly at the look Alfie spared him.
"Sorry?" Harry offered.
Alfie sighed. "I'm older than what most people think, actually," he admitted. "But I rather not talk about it, it's a pretty sore subject for me," Alfie said, making Harry nod along. He, himself, knew about sore subjects and the like.
"I'm just going to take that as you being probably ancient, then," Harry remarked, an attempt to lighten the air. "Any luck on the spiritual magic part of my treatment?" That was also something eluding him, and he had scoured the Black library on anything relating to it. The results were disappointingly lackluster, and left Harry feeling more restless and frustrated at his body.
While he knew recovery would take awhile, it didn't stop the itch that grew into discontent with his body and the curses he had taken upon himself. Especially with his flower curse, something that was self-inflicted. He thought that if he now knew about the cause, he could just will his magic to just- stop. Stop fuelling the flowers that mocked him, and was slowly killing him. And then maybe his magic would work to stop the Sky Arcobaleno curse he had accepted. It didn't take an idiot to know how stupid Harry was when he accepted the second curse, and to accept it so casually at that. At the time, it felt- well, not needed, not anything, just another blow to Harry's already depressing lifestyle.
You didn't ask any questions, at all? Hermione had asked, critically.
Er, was all Harry replied with.
Hermione's disappointed and rather exaggerated groan would haunt Harry for the next few weeks. Even Ron looked disappointed, making the sore spot for Harry wound deeper, and he slumped in his bed, resisting the urge to pull the covers up over his head and sleeping off the dread and guilt. He was good at sleeping.
"Sadly, no," Alfie looked mildly unhappy at the fact. "Your friends, Hermione and Ron, are currently in Russia looking into the international magical library located in Moscow, aren't they?" Harry nodded, crossing his arms. "I'm sure they'll find something there," Alfie tried to enthuse.
"What about you? I thought you knew about- the spiritual magic," Harry waved a flippant hand towards him. "You heard about it from an old colleague, haven't you? Can't you just, like, call them up, or something?"
"Surprisingly, it isn't that easy," Alfie snorted, dryly. "He is also a muggle, and he is surprisingly hard to track using magical means, you know. It's usually him who calls me up to hang out." Harry felt something suspicious tingle down his spine, and he shifted, frowning at the feeling.
He was about to reply before something caught in his throat, tickling his lungs painfully. His stomach lurched, and he bent over, gagging dryly. Alfie made a startled noise, dropping whatever he was doing to come closer, wand at ready. Harry had to fight off the itchy paranoia and allow him, despite still being wary at allowing people to come at him with their wands ready.
After his coughing fit, he held zennae flowers.
Absent friends.
Both of them shared a look, Alfie's eyebrows raised. Harry pinned him with a spiteful and dry glare, feeling oddly vindictive at his flowers. "I blame you," Harry told him, making Alfie raise his hands defensively.
"I did nothing," Alfie said. He readied his wand, "Do you want some charms to take away the pain, or?"
Harry nodded. "Actually, I was just thinking about how the pain fills me with adrenaline and joy, and how I come to appreciate it; yes, I want the pain charms, please," Harry insisted, making Alfie nod, slightly exasperated. Another bad thing to come from his self-inflicted curse was the fact that his magic use was now limited, due to the fact that his magical core was going through some stuff.
To just put it mildly, Harry's magical and spiritual magic were just 'going through some stuff'.
Alfie was afraid that if he used his magic without restraint, that would speed up the process of his flowers growing and that would be hard on his lungs. Harry had thought that if he used more magic, then the less magic would be in his core, and that would leave less fuel for the flowers; apparently, he was wrong. It wasn't an unknown feeling for Harry, to be honest; Hermione was the brainy one out of them, in Hogwarts. That's not to say that Harry wasn't smart in his own way, because he was, it was just-
Well, magical theory never interested him. Defense against the dark arts always interested him, and Harry liked to think that he liked teaching. Teaching Dumbledore's Army had left him feeling oddly pacified at that time in life, despite Umbridge and the looming threat of Voldemort that the public and Ministry were avoiding like the plague.
Maybe after all this is said and done, Harry would be a teacher of some sort. He has seen and experienced some shit in his life.
Alfie had finished casting some healer's charms on him, and was currently pocketing the wrapped up zennae flowers. While he didn't know a lick about plant biology, he said it was important to keep samples for future reference. Harry had been cleared for today, and he was allowed to slump back lazily in his bed, watching Alfie through hooded eyes. He had brought his pain potions, and an another attempt at controlling his flowers potion. It was attempt number 15, and Harry wasn't having high hopes for it.
Therapy happened twice a week, while he was treated to by the young looking healer every day. Luckily, Harry hadn't needed to go back to St. Mungos after the first visit; he was allowed to file for a familial healer to come check up on him after filling out forms, and getting it signed by the director at St. Mungos. Alfie had been quickly assigned to his case, and he has been visiting every day since.
Harry had a feeling that he got on Alfie's nerves a lot, which was amusing to see.
"I'll be taking my leave for today," Alfie declared, gathering his stuff up. "You know how to reach me, so please don't hesitate to do so if the need arises. As your Healer, I'd like to see you taking care of yourself and asking for help when you need it," he said, smiling wanly. Harry narrowed his eyes. Harry was about to reply before a catchy pop tune interrupted, and he blinked.
Was that Backstreet Boys?
Harry- Harry felt more disappointed that he knew the band rather than the fact that his healer apparently listened to Backstreet Boys.
Alfie had the decency to laugh, sheepishly. He glanced down at his cellphone, which he fished out of one of his pockets, frowning. "Just a second please," Alfie said, answering. "Hello?" Harry had deduced a long time ago that his healer was a muggleborn, as he often forgot to do simple acts of magic and for the fact that he had, well, a cellphone.
Harry decided to do him a favor, and picked up his wand from his nightstand. With a simple wave, he cast a privacy ward around the healer.
Alfie shot him a warning and panicked look, making Harry stick out his tongue slightly. Bleh, he hoped he conveyed that word enough. A simple privacy ward wouldn't kill him, Harry decided.
It was only afterwards, after a lot of cryptic looks from Alfie, that he dispelled the privacy ward. Alfie turned on him. "That was dangerous, Harry," he said, sternly. "You shouldn't be doing magic when it's uncalled for," Harry felt slightly affronted.
"A simple spell isn't going to kill me," Harry muttered.
"Famous last words," Alfie sighed. He pocketed his cell phone. "Your theory about your flowers might be somewhat true, Harry," he conceded, making Harry glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "Or that saying, speak of the devil, and he will appear, is," Alfie shot him a wry grin.
"Make sense," Harry said, tired.
"That was my friend, my absent friend as of late," Alfie didn't lose that knowing look on his face, his lips upturned dryly. "He wanted to hang out, which is fortunate, wouldn't you say?"
His words sunk in, and Harry wanted to laugh at the absurdity of his flowers. Predicting the future, or mocking his current situation- if the flowers weren't slowly killing him, they'd be great to have. As it was, it only served to remind him of the deep burning in his chest, and every time he rasped a breath, his breathing often shallow and rapid nowadays. The heaviness lingering, making his limbs feel heavy and numb.
"Too bad it can't predict lottery numbers," was all Harry could say, making Alfie laugh, slightly. The underlying sentence weighed heavy in the room, though:
Too bad it's killing me.
-0-0-0-
Trident Shamal was in London, England.
He was visiting a friend, who he had managed to track down after a few weeks of searching. Surprisingly, it was very hard and left Shamal slightly puzzled but oh well. He needed to get away from the mafia craziness and wariness, especially more so with the latest gossip of a wayward Sky Arcobaleno and controversy. Luckily, his friend was rather eager to meet him as well, making Shamal raise an eyebrow.
Dr. Alfie was an old colleague of his, and they had interned together at one of England's general hospitals. While Alfie was just working to get the experience, Shamal had been working on his multiple degrees going towards his interest. This included a degree in nursing and entomology, even going for a full doctorate in infectious diseases. Alfie was flabbergasted and often asked him how he lived with no sleep, making Shamal respond with his usual responses: women, and coffee.
Needless to say, Shamal's reputation as a womanizer had soon proceeded his impressive prowess as a doctor. It took the edge off the attention, which made the then 22 year old preen and crow inwardly at his cleverness. His colleague was also the same age as him, making both of them 28. It had been a long time since he saw Alfie, who looked tired and young as ever.
"You don't age, do you?" Shamal greeted, making Alfie blink and turn towards him. He was rather bland, with no distinct features. If it wasn't for his pale hair, and pale eyes, he'd have been a complete nobody.
"I wish I could say the same to you," Alfie replied, dryly. It was a sore subject for him, his appearance.
"Ouch," Shamal said, mock-offended. He placed a hand over his wounded heart, blinking at Alfie. "Is that really all you can say to an old friend?"
"Old is right," Alfie muttered, as he opened the door for both of them. Both of them had agreed to meet at an old bar near their shared and old workplace, a popular place for interns and doctors who wanted to take the edge off from the stress. Luckily for both of them, no one seemed to recognize them as they made their way towards a secluded part at the bar counter. "Have you considered retirement?"
"Quit with the old jokes," Shamal groaned. "I get it, I get it, you're not a baby-faced kid, you're a hardcore veteran with grey hairs. Happy now?"
"Hardly," if anything, Alfie looked even more affronted.
Shamal just shot him a dry grin, happy for once that his mind isn't on the mafia and the craziness it sometimes dealt him. Alfie shot him a quick smile back, distant and made Shamal's hackles rise slightly.
As both of them ordered their respective drinks, Shamal took the time to observe his friend. In the dimly lit bar, Alfie looked tired and stressed as always. He was always stressing and nervous about many things, especially his homelife. While he could always keep it around his patients, and superiors, in private- well, Alfie looked like he hated life and circumstance, something Shamal could relate to. Unlike many prodigies, who had their own ticks, Alfie had none.
Unlike Shamal, who liked women, and his mosquitoes. Coffee was also partially his bloodstream, but he had chalked that up to being pure Italian.
"So, what's up, doc?" Shamal asked, finally receiving his tumbler full of aged scotch. Alfie had ordered some type of no-name whiskey, and he was staring absently into his glass.
"A lot, actually," Alfie responded, taking a swig of his drink. He grimaced. "I've been meaning to talk to you, actually," he pinned his knowing gaze on Shamal.
"About what? Finally found a lucky woman to settle down with?" Shamal wiggled his eyebrows. "Charmed someone with those killer glasses you wear," he mocked, making annoyance tick on Alfie's face.
"Shut it," Alfie muttered. He sighed. "No, I was hoping to cash in a favor you owe me."
Great, Shamal concluded. "Oh, joy," Shamal rolled his eyes, sighing. Welp, there goes any chance of a fun and laid-back evening. "Just when I was hoping you finally decided to not die a virgin."
"I'm going to ignore the fact that you hope about anything concerning my genitalia," Alfie responded, weakly, making Shamal choke on his own drink. "And move onto more pressing matters."
"Well?" Shamal drawled, after a moment of contemplative silence. Shamal was starting to get nervous, and played it off as Alfie's general nervousness rubbing off on him.
"I have a patient," Alfie mused, quietly. Shamal paused, a feeling of dread sinking low in his stomach. Something tingled the back of his spine, and he refused to squirm underneath the apprehension that now laced the air, leaving it tense and rather heavy. To keep his nerves away from the surface, Shamal tipped back his glass tumbler, relishing the dry burn as it crawled down his throat.
"Oho?" Shamal finally gave, raising an eyebrow. He kept his voice bland and unforgiving.
Alfie spared him a helpless glance. "I think we both know that we keep secrets from each other, Shamal," he finally said. "You know information about your dying will, and I know things about... stuff." He grimaced, making Shamal snort.
"Very specific," Shamal commented.
"Shut up," Alfie snipped back, rubbing a hand over his face. His glasses became askew, and he hurriedly fixed them, pressing them more firmly onto the bridge of his nose. "But this is serious," he conceded. A moment's pause, "I'm serious."
"Aren't we all?" Shamal retorted, feeling very out of depth. All he wanted was to enjoy a few drinks with his old friend, who was unrelated with the mafia. To get away from the deep and tense mafia underground, which was left scrambling to figure out where, and who, the next Sky Arcobaleno was. There was still rumors going around that Aria of the Giglio Nero Family was still the second in line, but Shamal knew this to not be true.
A little visit from Reborn had set the record straight for him, so to say.
Alfie was heading into murky territory, and Shamal was growing increasingly uncomfortable with it.
"Listen to me," Alfie demanded. "I'm going against so many laws just to mention this to you. So you got to help me with this," he accompanied this with a swift swig of whiskey. He shuddered and pinned a serious gaze onto Shamal, eyes rather bloodshot and tired.
"What about me?" Shamal insisted. "Don't you think that I have my very own set of laws that I have to adhere to?"
"What about the hippocratic oath?" Alfie snapped back, tired. "There has to be a point in our careers where we have to choose between that, and our own secrets," he muttered, eyes distant. They refocused on him, and he eyed him, suddenly rather bland. "You do remember the hippocratic oath, don't you?"
His question made Shamal harden, and he set his jaw.
Of course he remembered it. He remembered every time he assassinated someone due to his work. To be completely honest, in the beginning, he didn't care much for the oath. He was a hitman, born and raised, and taking the oath was rather silly at the beginning of his training. The oath only grew heavier and heavier, each year he grew older, and the onset feelings of regret and tiredness was starting to settle into his bones. Stand-alone hitmen weren't expected to live past 30, especially if they were not affiliated with any powerful Family. So, as Shamal grew older, the more he expected to die; it made him paranoid, and slightly terrified to think about it. People like Shamal weren't going to the pearly white gates, after all; maybe he'd even be transported to another level of hell because he was a doctor, and his profession didn't really yell about his pure intentions with his knowledge.
The bartender made rounds, and Shamal tapped the bar to signal a refill. The bartender grunted, and did as asked, even refilling Alfie's tumbler as well.
"I do," Shamal finally said, after downing his drink. The dry burn was pleasant, leaving his limbs and insides tingly. His head was getting foggy, thankfully. Alfie sipped at his drink with a straight face, reminding Shamal of his rather heady tolerance to the stuff.
"Then you have to help me," Alfie said. "Just this one time, just with this one patient. I'm sure you know about his condition, on some type of level, to help him," Alfie set his glass down with a slight thud, turning in his seat to face Shamal fully. "You're the one who told me the myth about the dying wills, anyways."
"That's a pretty big leap of logic you're making here," Shamal bit back. "What if I just like folk tales?"
"You?" Alfie huffed, pushing his glasses back up onto his nose. "Please, Shamal," he insisted.
"Bah," Shamal almost wanted to throw up his hands in frustration. He settled for throwing Alfie a haughty look instead. "I don't know what you want me to say, Alfie. I'm at crossroads here, and you're certainly not helping me decide with how ambiguous you're being."
"I can only say once I know that you know something," Alfie grimaced.
"Same here," Shamal said, dryly. He groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. His skin felt clammy, and his bones felt tired, despite the light airy tingle in his limbs. "Fine, I know about dying will," he conceded, at last. It was vague, at best, but answered Alfie's unspoken question here.
Somehow, it felt like he was throwing his life away with this confession.
Alfie looked relieved, still slightly on guard, but relieved. "You do?"
"Yes, fucking yes," Shamal hissed, slightly hating his connection with his old friend and colleague. "Now tell me about your mysterious patient and how come you think I can help with his situation." His, left a better taste on his tongue.
It would have been better, made this whole situation better, if the patient in question was a beautiful girl. It would have made risking his life, and career, on the line much more worth it.
"Recently," Alfie ignored his spiteful emphasis on the his part, fiddling with his glasses. "My patient has been afflicted with two diseases. One of them, I can treat fairly well; at the very least, help monitor him on his road to recovery. The other, well," he spared Shamal a slightly nervous glance. "Have you heard about, er," he fumbled, grimacing.
"Spit it out," Shamal demanded. "You're risking both of our necks here, and our careers. You already convinced me to join you on this suicide vendetta you have for your patient, so might as well come clean, you prick," he seethed, making Alfie laugh, bemused.
"I suppose you're right," Alfie sighed. "Fine, have you ever heard about something called the Arcobaleno curse? More specifically, the Sky version of it?"
Shamal was playing his tumbler glass when he said this, and he watched with some sort of bewilderment as it fell from numb fingers. Everything inside him turned to static, a brief feeling of oh, and then Shamal wanted to curse whatever gods that were listening. He had a sinking feeling of what if from the moment Alfie started the conversation, but now that the what if was actually fucking true, Shamal had no idea how to go about it. His first instinct was to laugh himself silly, and his second, rather more primal, instinct was to run to the nearest phone booth and phone Reborn. That seemed like the most logical thing to do, right?
But- Shamal risked a glance at Alfie's hopeful and wary face.
For once in his life, Shamal chose the hippocratic oath over his own skin.
"Yeah, I do," Shamal tried to flag down the bartender, ready for the check. "I need to see your patient, and pronto," he said to Alfie, who blinked.
"Is it that bad?" Alfie said with a wan smile.
"The worst," Shamal answered. He paused as both of them stood, Alfie shrugging his wool jacket back over his pressed suit. "Just for reference, does your patient seem- famous? Or popular, at least?"
Alfie snorted, something wry creeping onto his features. It lined his smile.
"You bet," Alfie laughed.
"Great," Shamal muttered. "Just great."
Time to meet the wayward Sky that has been causing quite the stir in the underground, Shamal decided. Then after all that was said and done- then he'd have to call Reborn, and tell the Arcobaleno that he found their newest Sky.
What a headache.
-0-0-0-
Harry had coughed mezereon flowers.
He stared at them cryptically, frowning.
Desire to please; a flirt.
-0-0-0-
"Did you find anything?" Harry demanded, the moment the connection was stable between him, Hermione, and Ron. Ron groaned from their side of the mirror, and Harry squinted at it, realizing that he was face down on the floor of their hotel room. Hermione rolled her eyes.
"Ignore him, he's just moping," Hermione told him, seriously. Harry raised his eyebrows. Hermione elaborated, "He's not used to doing all of this research."
"I left Hogwarts years ago," came Ron's muffled reply. "Years and years."
"Two years, actually," Hermione sniffed, with another roll of her eyes. She sighed, and sent a wan smile towards Harry. "But to answer your question, yes, we did happen to find some information relating your spiritual magic. It's really vague, but it's better than nothing."
"My healer said that he was meeting up with his old colleague, and was going to ask for his help with this," Harry supplied, making Hermione hum. Ron let out another groan, picking himself up unsteadily from the the floor to shoot a scandalized glare at Harry.
"Don't dare tell me that you might be getting answers from another source before us," Ron warned, with a slight narrowing of his eyes. "Don't tell me that my suffering for this is in vain." Harry blinked, while Hermione shot Ron a raised eyebrow. "What?"
"Don't be such a baby, Ronald," Hermione said. "Let's think of the big picture of Harry recovering rather than who exactly helped the most, got it?" Ron grumbled but nodded, flopping down onto the bed. "Anyways," Hermione slid her attention back towards Harry. "We did find out some vague information concerning spiritual magic, but it is rather- really vague," Hermione finished.
"Vague or not, I wanna hear it," Harry shrugged, mild. "Any information is helpful than none."
"Wise words," Hermione nodded. "Alright, here's what we got." She sat down next to Ron on the bed, pulling out a some parchment papers. It seemed that she already took down notes, Harry could see her uniform and pragmatic handwriting scrawled across the page. "Apparently there are 7 types of known spiritual magic that each person possesses. They are surprisingly color-coded, which makes things easier. The Sky curse, as you say, is...orange?" Hermione's sharp brown eyes flicked up towards the mirror, and Harry held up the pacifier.
"It looks pretty orange to me," Harry said, practically. "Unless I'm adding sudden color blindness to my list of fucked," he shrugged, making Hermione stare reproachfully at him, mouth pressed into a thin line. She conceded though with an uneasy expression, glancing back down at her notes.
"Orange is one of the more rarer types of spiritual magic," Hermione worded carefully. Harry sighed, of course it was. "The person who possess the orange type of spiritual magic are more accepting of others naturally."
"In my opinion, the most boring type of spiritual magic," Ron added, with distaste. Hermione glanced at him, frowning at being interrupted. "What? All the other types of spiritual magic have cool powers, like disintegrating things with your mind. Or, like, creating illusions. With your mind," Ron defended himself.
"We have magic," Hermione sniffed. "We don't need spiritual magic," she added, turning back to her notes. "Your spiritual magic is often linked to your personality, but that is not always the case. It's more like- genetic disposition? Spiritual magic doesn't shape you, or anything like that, it's more like it's what you're genetically disposed to do, but ultimately, your life experiences are a more of an influence to you than your spiritual magic."
"...You lost me," Harry commented, bland. "What does this have anything to do with my curse?"
Hermione looked momentarily insulted, sending him a critical look. "You said that any information is better than none, Harry," she scolded. "And while I don't have much about your curse, you said you wanted to know more about spiritual magic anyways." Harry grimaced, and sighed, relenting with an averted glance upwards. It was true, it was his impatience eating away at him.
"So I'm all accepting and all that jazz, so what?" Harry finally said. Too accepting, actually. He needed to work on that. "Thanks, though, I mean it. I'm sorry for being impatient, I just- I just want to get better already," he admitted, quietly, making Hermione's eyes soften. Ron shot him a slight glance, removing the arm that he had previously thrown onto his face.
"We all do, Harry," Hermione said, pityingly. "But Rome wasn't built in a day."
"Don't worry about it, mate," Ron added. "You might be an asshole, but aren't we all? Even 'Mione here is guilty of it," Hermione's expression spasmed, and without looking, she lightly punched Ron's hip. Ron squirmed away with a yelp, proceeding to fall of the bed. Hermione smiled, satisfied.
Harry felt some tension leave his body. "We should start a club," he finally said. "Anyways," Harry decided to drop the heavy subjects. "I finally got some dirt on my healer." Hermione groaned, and Ron's head popped up from over the side, grinning maniacally.
"Did ya'?" Ron asked, looking gleeful. "What is it? Is it true that he might be a vampire?"
"Worse," Harry said, sagely, making Ron gasp. Hermione chuckled, putting up her research to listen more attentively.
"You two are like gossipy old ladies," Hermione rolled her eyes. "But I highly doubt he's a vampire."
"Have you seen his eyes and hair? Pale!" Ron scoffed back. "And have you ever seen him enter some place without being invited it? Or has he ever been in the same room with a mirror? I think not," he said, graciously.
"It's called being polite, for one," Hermione countered. "And the mirror thing is just a coincidence," she finished, looking at Harry. Harry laughed, slightly; it hurt his chest, despite the pain potions, and he shifted to a more comfortable position in bed. "But what is worse than being a vampire? Not that being a vampire is bad, or anything," she quickly added, shooting a reprimanding glance at Ron.
Ron held up his hands, frowning. "Woah, woah, hey there, I never said that it was bad or anything. I'm all for the species equality rights act," Ron stuck his tongue out at Hermione. "Don't put words in my mouth," he huffed.
"Guys, guys," Harry interjected before the couple could continue on the path of bickering old ladies. "This is worse. He listens to the Backstreet Boys." Hermione took a sharp inhale of breath, while Ron blinked.
"Merlin, I love that band," Hermione gushed, sweet, grinning. Ron glanced between Harry and Hermione, blinking confusedly. Harry made a face. "What? Don't like their music?" Hermione narrowed her eyes.
"I don't like what they represent," Harry worded carefully.
"What do they repres-"
"Backstreet Boys? What's that?" Ron asked, still confused. "Is it some type book?"
Luckily, before Harry could delve into the conversation of pop culture and why he doesn't like boybands- Kreacher popped in, wiping at his wet eyes. "Master," he croaked, making Harry grimace and give him his attention. "Your filthy healer is here with a guest," Kreacher's expression soured. "A muggle guest."
Harry paused, slightly.
"Guys, I gotta go. Thanks for the info, 'Mione, Ron. But my healer's here, I gotta take this," Harry said, slowly. Hermione and Ron quieted and glanced at him, Hermione's expression falling slightly. Ron nodded. "Thanks, talk to you two lovebirds later." Harry sent them a tired and wan smile, closing the connection between them and putting his mirror aside.
He knew that his healer was going to get more details about spiritual magic from his colleague, but he didn't expect him to bring said colleague here. Harry felt slightly apprehensive about this, considering the fact that he had charmed and warded this place to hell and back after the war. Not to mention that some of the Black's dark magic still lingered around the property, and could potentially be harmful to a full-on muggle. While the Order of the Phoenix did the best they could disabling most of the wards and hexes around Grimmauld Place, some still lingered deep and were hard to detect without having a full muggle here for it to trigger.
"Kreacher, apparate me to the front entrance. I want you to enable this place's protection charms and notice-me-not charms on the more obvious magic items. I also want you to have some snacks and tea made and sent to the common place near the east wing, near my bedroom." Harry ordered, slipping out of bed and sliding on his robe. It should help him look less pathetic in his worn clothes, and put on his slippers.
His wand was put into the holster that was strapped to his forearm, and his glasses was shoved into his pocket. The pacifier was laying rather heavily on his chest, almost thrumming in tandem with his heart.
"Master," Kreacher wailed. "You can't be serious about letting a muggle inside-"
"I'm being totally serious. A 100%," Harry's voice left no room for protest. Kreacher's weeping intensified, and he grumbled as he did as asked, making Harry stumble and almost dry heave at the nausea at apperating. "Thank you, Kreacher," Harry told the grumpy house-elf before he popped away. He slumped against the cool entrance of Grimmauld Place, panting slightly and trying to regain his bearings. His chest ached tightly, and the nausea subsided slightly. His muscles and joints felt stiff, and his head starting to feel a bit light, almost woozy; Harry gritted his teeth and pulled himself together. He refused to look and act so weak.
With a feeling of steely determination, he threw open the entrance roughly. Alfie looked like he was about to knock again, and he blinked. "Oh, hullo," Alfie greeted with a pained smile. He raked his eyes up and down Harry's body, and he frowned. "What are you doing up?"
Harry shot him a scandalized glare. I'm here in person because you brought a muggle here! "Doing my daily fitness routine," he said, dry. "I was about to go out for a jog." The stranger behind Alfie snorted, and Harry's eyes snapped to him, making him realize that Alfie's colleague was staring intently at him.
Or more specifically, his pacifier.
"Hey, buddy, my eyes are up here," Harry indicated to his face, making Aflie chuckle. The stranger cringed, sending him a slight glare. He grinned, and stepped more into his house. "Come on in, I need to sit down," he finished, faintly, stumbling down towards the common room of his choosing. He heard Alfie and stranger come in, Alfie immediately shutting the door behind them and hurrying after him.
"I'm sorry," Aflie told him, making Harry throw an arm around him. "But he knows about your curse," he continued, quietly.
"Which one?" Harry snorted. The stranger had long strides behind them, and they arrived at the chosen common room, Harry allowing Alfie to dump him in his comfy armchair. The stranger stood off to the side, near the exit and his back to the wall, eyes scanning the room critically. "My name is Harry Black, by the way," he said to the stranger.
"Dr. Shamal," the stranger introduced, stepping forward. Alfie was digging through his things, pulling out his vials of potion and such. He even pulled out a few muggle items that Harry remembers seeing in textbooks and cheesey tv dramas.
"Nice to meet you," Harry said, awkwardly. While he was grateful that he was sitting down, he still felt exhausted and wrung out. His chest itched, and he fought that urge down. While he could possibly pass it off as a regular coughing fit, his type were rarely clean and they were quite- ugly, to witness.
"I brought him here in dire circumstances, Harry," his healer said, carefully. "He knows about your Sky curse. And he knows that we're- I'm hiding secrets. We had decided to put aside our differences for this one case, and so everything is coming clean," Alfie handed him some vials, making Harry raised an eyebrow.
Come clean, huh?
Sounds awfully close to, hey, I'm breaking the statue of secrecy to bring him here and have his help working on your case, lol. Good luck with this knowledge.
"Great," Harry said, dryly. "What does he know, and what do we know about him? Can he help me with the Sky curse, or what?" He directed this question at Dr. Shamal, who was staring intently at the pacifier again, almost nervously. "Is it curable?"
Dr. Shamal's face twitched, before it smoothed over. Harry didn't have high hopes for whatever expression that was, and his face fell.
"Oh," was all he said.
"I'm sorry," Dr. Shamal, said. "But I know a lot about your curse. Well, not a lot, but I know a lot about Dying WIll and the illnesses related to it." Dying will, right; not spiritual magic. Harry shot Alfie a glance, which resulted in Alfie smiling wanly at him. "But first things first, what are you hiding?"
Alfie looked reluctant, "It's hard to explain-"
"Magic," Harry said, bluntly. "Magic is real, and there are secret societies all over the world hiding themselves from non-magicals such as yourself." Alfie rolled his head to the side to stare at Harry, partly exasperated and partly scandalized. Harry shrugged. "What? You said come clean, and I'm coming clean."
"But the statute of secrecy- you can't break it like that," Alfie muttered. He took off his glasses to rub tiredly at his face. Harry shrugged again, glancing at Shamal's bewildered expression, and smirked, slightly.
"I can do what I want," Harry said. "I don't care about the ministry, and I don't care for authority," he huffed, making Alfie roll his eyes. "I did more than enough to earn my keep, oh ancient one."
"Wait, he gets to make fun of your age, and I can't?" Shamal finally said, composed. Harry had to give him props for that. Alfie gave him a bland and tired stare. Shamal's eyes were on Harry, though. "Magic, huh? Like witches and the like?"
"OoohH~ Spooky stuff like that," Harry said, mysteriously. "I'm pretty sure I have a skeleton somewhere in one of my closets, next to my pointy witch's hat and broom," he was kidding about the two latter parts; not so sure about the skeleton part. He never really finished cleaning and renovating most of Grimmauld Place, so- he honestly didn't know.
"Alright, we came clean about my part of this deal," Alfie pointedly ignored Harry's blatant sarcasm. "What about you? What are you hiding, Shamal?" Shamal shrugged, mild and a bit unsure.
"Oh, nothing- just the mafia," Shamal said, quickly. He looked like he agreed to have his favorite pet cremated while alive and to have it's ashes spread into his tea. Harry, at this point in time, wasn't surprised by what the world managed to throw at him.
Magic, curses, mafia, oh my.
Alfie looked pale, but his composure hardly wavered. "But can you help with my patient's curse?" Shamal's expression twitched, but he nodded, faintly, at last. This seemed to assure Alfie and he sighed, looking a lot more relaxed than he had ever been in the time that Harry knew him.
Harry wasn't convinced by Shamal's hesitant nod, and was once again resigned to dying young. The realization and acceptance washed over him, covering him like a thick blanket, and he slumped more into his seat, staring dully at Shamal with a twisted expression. If the Sky curse was going to kill him, anyways, then what's the point of trying to get rid of the flower one?
Damn it, Harry, Harry scolded himself, disappointed. Whether at himself for believing that there was a reason for getting better, or for the fact that he felt the familiar apathy crawling back into his system, settling into his bones like a long lost friend.
Hello darkness, my old friend.
-0-0-0-
Shamal couldn't help but stare at the newest Sky Arcobaleno, albeit a tiny bit nervously. While he wasn't what he would have expected from a powerful Sky, but all great Skies had their quirks to them. It seemed that this one was painfully defeated over something, resigned and accepting of literally almost anything in his life, no real powerful emotion lingered in his expression, lining his posture.
But he certainly was compelling, the heavy weight of a Sky's charisma carried over in his sense of humor, and dry, witty, remarks. It weighed heavily over the Sky Pacifier, and Shamal couldn't help but stare at it, at him, with a bit of awe and a lot of- guilt.
There was no cure to the Sky Arcobaleno Curse.
But the secret that Alfie was keeping from him- magic. Shamal shifted, sending a glance at his old colleague. He was fiddling with his bag, reaching into it and pulling out vials and squinting at them, before replacing them. He kept on glancing at his patient worriedly.
There was no known cure for the curse in the underground world. But maybe there was something there in the magical one. Looking back at the Sky, and his all-too-accepting posture made something curl in Shamal, something pitying and disgustingly soft because damn, this kid looked young. Not as young as Aria, but still young.
Shamal was not looking forward to explaining more about Harry's curse, nor was he looking forward to telling Reborn about finding their newest dying Sky. And the task of finding a cure seemed daunting and nearly impossible to Shamal- Alfie did call in one of his favors, and seeing the kid's defeated posture made something twitch inside Shamal, a brief desire of his own flame reacting to the sad sight of a dying Sky.
Something occurred to Shamal.
"Wait, you said he was sick with something else? What is it?" Shamal asked, suspiciously. The Arcobaleno Curse was bad enough, but hopefully this case of a- witch? They called themselves witches, right? Hopefully it was a nice, non-magical, sickness that could be cared for with a few weeks rest and the proper antibiotic.
And if worse comes to worse, one of Shamal's mosquitoes.
Sadly, the glance shared between his old colleague and Harry didn't assure him all that much. In fact, it left Shamal with a sick sense of dread seeping into his stomach, making it drop drastically.
Oh, geeze.
Review, favorite, follow, or whatever you do to stories that you read.
Insert that gif where that old woman is saying, "Honey, you've got a big storm comin'," here.
Do you peeps have any opinions on how Harry could interact with the rest of the Arcobaleno?
Or if he should have any specific guardians you would want Harry to have?
-mms