Hemp Flowers Meant Fate
Chapter 5
This chapter isn't edited in any way, shape, or form. If you see a mistake, please tell me!
Warnings: Rushed writing. General. Poor medical knowledge by yours truly.
A/N: I wrote, rewrote, hashed and rehashed, this to hell and back. I'm not going to lie, I'm not proud of some parts, especially towards the end. I'm not good at writing huge scenes with a lot of characters, so it is really rushed and blah-blah-blah—things like that. ;v I apologize sincerely in advance!
Moving on—when I started this story, I had a timeline, ya' know? Well, that was shot to hell. Like a thread slowly unraveling until it's nothing but a mess. All that was left from the wreckage is that this is set 7-8 years before the Representative Battle of the Rainbow.
The Viper thing in the last chapter was also unexpected, by the way. So, I'm doing what I can with that—it was unexpected. My fingers gotten away from me when I wrote that. ^^' Alas, with the Arcobaleno finally meeting, I have to start thinking about the ending of this story.
How do you guys feel for it to be around 10 chapters, more or less?
Enjoy!
Geranium, with a hint of nutmeg.
I expect a meeting; expected meeting.
Harry narrowed his eyes at the flowers, the irony wasn't lost on him. With a frustrated groan, Harry tossed them off the side of his bed and tried to go back to sleep. It was too early for this shit, he decided sleepily. His pacifier seemingly agreed, pulsing the addicting warmth and dragging him too easily back into unconsciousness.
-0-0-0-
"Stay still," the tailor ordered, voice crisp and left no room for argument. Harry opened his mouth to say something before he was 'accidentally' pricked with a needle, making him clamp his mouth shut and stare balefully in silence. The tailor was on a house-call to Grimmauld place, due to both Shamal's and Hermione's insistence on getting a custom-tailored suit to wear when meeting the rest of the Arcobaleno.
On one hand, it was pretty relieving to know that the person Hermione hired wasn't blinded by bias to Harry's presence. On the other hand, however—
"Ow!" Harry complained, when the tailor pricked him again. "You know, I don't think tailors are supposed to keep hurting their customers. I heard it's bad for the job," he supplied, mulishly. He also didn't know why this one needed to be so handsy.
They had magic, right?
The tailor was an older lady, with stern features and a pursed mouth. Her dark pool of hair, streaked grey with age, were gathered up elegantly on top of her head in a strict bun, and out of her eyes. She smirked rather meanly at him, pinning another fold upwards on the suit she was tailoring for him. "If you'd stop slouching, this would go by faster," she confided.
"This is boring," Harry shifted, earning another 'accidental' prick. At this, Harry turned a rather pleading look towards his two best friends, who were also in the room with him. Ron was sprawled in his favorite armchair, head tipped back and snoring as quietly as he could; Hermione was sitting next to him on a nearby couch, sorting through various papers with a narrowed look. "How much longer?" Harry sighed, finding no help there.
"Just a few more moments, dear," the older lady rolled her eyes.
After all was said and done, Harry was observing himself in a full-length mirror Kreacher had managed to dredge up from the bowls of Grimmauld place. It was a bit dusty, a bit smudged, but it was clear enough for Harry to scrutinize himself. Despite his sickly complexion, with deep bruising around his eyes, and messy hair—Harry liked the outfit, and shifted around to see himself in different angles. It looked nice, despite a slight uneasiness at seeing himself in this expensive outfit. With a somewhat forced indulgent smirk, Harry turned to see an amused tailor staring at him.
Despite the heat crawling up his neck and burning his ears, Harry was determined to be unperturbed. So, what? He looked nice, despite the uneasiness. He'll take these small flares of confidence and indulgence when he could, practically deserved them with all he's been through. "I like it," Harry smiled wanly at the tailor.
Madam Moretti smile was nothing less than pleased. "I'm glad, then," she nodded. "That will be 60 galleons, 4 sickles, and 2 knuts," Moretti told him, already packing up her stuff in her bag. Harry nodded at the amount, eyes trailing back to himself in the mirror.
Despite how exhausted he looked, he actually did look a bit less dead.
"Pleasure doing business with you," Madam Moretti told him, as she was grabbing a handful of Floo powder. Harry was tying his pouch full of money onto his belt, trying to determine if it was a cool accessory or if he should just shove it into his pocket like usual.
Harry was going to tell her the same, before Alfie and Shamal walked into the room. Meeting Shamal's eyes, he inwardly smirked, before turning back to Moretti with a bright smile. "You know, I think I might commission you more often. You really suit me," he made sure his voice carried over.
Hermione made a choked noise, even as Alfie chuckled, exasperated. Shamal let out groan, sending him a narrowed glare. "Oh my god," he muttered, stalking over to an empty seat and throwing himself into it. "I swear you're doing it just to spite me," he huffed.
Moretti had laughed, her stern features softening. Despite her loose and callous disposition, she seemed to carry a sense of humor on her. Harry was definitely going to try and commission her sometime. "You're quite a laugh," she told him, smirking. The smirk suited her, somehow. "See you around, Lord Black."
"I like her," Harry supplied, after she left. He adjusted his suit, looking at himself in the mirror once more. He straightened his shoulders, tilting his chin up slightly. "Despite her pricking me like a bloody cactus over and over again," he muttered.
"You were moving quite a lot," Hermione seemed to recover from his bad pun, the bemused look fading away. It was replaced with her critical one, as she stood up and walked over to him, eying his outfit with a curious eye. "You look good," she finally said, nodding.
"Are you saying I don't look good normally?" Harry huffed, placing an offended hand on his chest. "I'll have you know—"
"You've just now showered and changed out of clothes that you've been wearing for a few days straight," Hermione told him, bluntly.
"—That you are completely right," Harry finished, glancing away. Ron, the traitor, woke up just in time for this exchange and chuckled sleepily. He weathered Harry's betrayed glance, stretching up from the chair and yawning. "Nice of you to join us," Harry offered, feeling a tinge guilty. Ron and Hermione had careers, and were dealing with planning a wedding and helping Harry out at the same time—Harry wondered how they were even coherent at this point, with how tired they looked.
Harry averted his gaze, choosing to fiddle with his cuff, guiltily.
"It's not like I missed much," Ron yawned, rubbing at his eyes. "Watching you get tailored was as boring as Professor Binns' class," he told them. "How are you feeling, by the way? You look good in your suit, mate," Ron was more awake now, nodding.
"Today is the big day," Harry said, mysteriously. He shifted his gaze to Shamal, who was still slumped in his seat. "I honestly don't know how to feel. I kind of want to get it over with, but at the same time," Harry trailed off, fidgeting with his hands. He didn't want to meet them, now that the day was actually here. He felt too wrung-out, too tired, and now—he didn't really know what there was to talk about to the rest of the Arcobaleno.
His original plan was to tell the Arcobaleno that he was going stay out of the way, and do his own thing, and that they didn't need to worry about him. Harry could take care of himself, especially from the mafia if he stayed in the magical community. All of this could be said in a simple letter, now that he thought about it, did he really have to go to this meeting? Maybe he could get Shamal to cancel—
"Don't," Shamal groused. "I can feel your second thoughts all the way from over here."
Harry turned towards him, making a face. "I don't want you to feel me," he replied. While the second thoughts lingered, making him dubious, he knew that Shamal was right. It was too late to change his mind now.
"Harry," Alfie cut through Shamal's sputtering, with a slight roll of his eyes. He pushed up his glasses, stepping forward to get Harry's full attention. "Don't antagonize Shamal too much," he told him. "And please take it easy today, and listen to Shamal. He has more experience with the mafia than any of us here," Alfie warned.
Feeling like a child, Harry blinked then frowned. "I know, I know," he waved off Alfie's concerns. "If you're forgetting, I killed Voldemort. Twice," he held up two fingers, making Ron snort and Hermione sigh. "I'm pretty sure I can handle the Arcobaleno. It's not like I'm going to go there to start a fight."
"If there is a fight," Ron mused. "Then I'm sure Harry could come out on top."
"There isn't going to be a fight," Hermione said, decisively. Her intense brown eyes cut down any protests from Harry, who glanced away and folded his arms. "Honestly, you get into enough trouble as it is. No need to look for it when it can be avoided," she offered, practical. Her look softened, "I just don't want you to somehow get hurt in this," she admitted, slowly.
"No need to fear, bella," Shamal drawled, with a lazy smirk. "I'm here," he gestured to himself, as if that's all that was needed to reassure them. Hermione gave him a dry look, making Ron snicker; Harry just grinned, even as Shamal adopted an affronted look.
"Look after him too, Harry," Alfie decided, making Shamal glare at him. Giving his old friend a placating smile, he continued, "If you have any trouble, please don't hesitate to call me." Shamal eyed him, before blowing out a sigh and nodding.
"As if I'd do anything else," Shamal waved away Alfie's concerns.
Alfie shot him a quick smile, before glancing back at Harry. "I'll be back later in the evening, Harry, to discuss your treatment further. I have another potion for you to try," he informed, causing Harry to make a slight face. "I do think this one might work," Alfie offered, helpfully.
Ron snickered, "It can't be that bad, can it?"
"Other than the risk of death, it's like drinking warm puke," Harry sighed, inwardly shuddering at the memories. The potions Alfie usually concocted for him didn't really have a formal taste, but rather a tingly aftertaste that either numbed or burned his mouth after drinking it. Not to mention that Alfie had to monitor It closely, as to make sure that it didn't burn away at Harry's lungs or internal tissue, while also making sure that it didn't irritate his already damaged and beaten lungs in the process.
Alfie appeared more enthusiastic about this particular one, though; Harry felt apprehensive, and mildly hopeful. After all, they can only fail so many times, right?
"Oh, gross," Ron looked horrified. Hermione rolled her eyes.
"Potions, medicinal ones at that, aren't supposed to taste good," Hermione offered. She cast a tempus charm, frowning at the time. "We need to go," she decided, glancing at Ron. Ron had winced, hunching in on himself. "Ron," Hermione smiled, warningly.
"I don't wanna," Ron muttered. "Malfoy is going to be there, waiting for me. It's creepy," he whined, making Harry snap his attention towards him. Draco was still bothering Ron at work? That was something Harry kept on forgetting to ask about, especially with everything he's been going through.
"Why? What's wrong?" Harry asked, narrowing his eyes slightly. Thoughtfully. Hermione shot him a long-suffering glance, while Ron glanced away, shrugging. "What?"
"Nothing you need to be concerned about," Hermione insisted, shaking her head. Harry felt a twitch of irritation. Having information kept willingly away from him always pissed him off, but—Harry reigned in the irritation, glancing away to frown at the floor. He wasn't some whiny and angry teenager anymore, he reminded himself.
He had bigger things to worry about, after all.
"Fine," Harry muttered, rubbing at his face. "Let's just go before I change my mind," Harry said, sending one brief glance at Shamal. Shamal made an agreeing noise, checking his person to make sure he had everything. "I'll see you guys later."
With that, everyone left Grimmauld Place, heading to various destinations. Ron, Hermione, and Alfie had all left through the Floo network. Shamal and Harry had no such luxury, having to traverse the old-fashioned way.
Now, or never, Harry repeated to himself. As they stepped out into muggle London, Harry stuck close to Shamal, who had somehow procured an umbrella out of nowhere. The weather was quite miserable, spring still a few weeks away; the chill added onto Harry's clamminess, and he shoved his hands into his pockets. His suit and cloak had warming charms, and waterproof charms, threaded through it; something that Harry wasn't going to tell a grumbling Shamal about.
Especially after he laughed at him when he whipped out his favorite cloak to wear.
"This weather is horrible," Shamal complained, the moment they arrived at their destination. He stomped his feet to get rid of excess water onto the rug, while Harry shuffled his own. "How are you feeling?" Shamal turned towards him, eying him with a trained eye.
Harry shot him a crooked smile, "I feel fine," he shrugged. The coffee place Shamal had chosen was warm, and smelled nice. His chest felt full and heavy, but was easily ignorable due to the pain potions Alfie had managed to bring early this morning.
"Good morning!" A worker came up, smiling sweetly at them. Shamal was eying Harry suspiciously, before his attention was torn away towards the woman. "Are you here on reservation or walk-in?"
"Reservation," Harry nodded, taking off his cloak to fold over his arm. He tugged at his collar, careful to not loosen it too much.
Shamal had practically lit up. "Good morning, bella," he practically cooed, making Harry raise an eyebrow. The waitress blinked, especially when Shamal got into her personal space, catching her hand and bringing it up to kiss gently. "I have to ask, though: is there an airport nearby, or is that just my heart taking off?"
Oh—oh, jeez.
That was shameless.
Harry felt his ears burn, and he glanced away to stifle an awkward chuckle. He didn't know if he should laugh or hiss at Shamal to ask what he thought he was doing. Alfie had warned him, of course, but—well. Awkward, Harry thought.
The waitress sputtered, face flushing red. "I, erm," she gained her composure quickly. Harry was mildly impressed. She firmly pushed Shamal away, and straightened. "May I ask what your reservation name is?" She seemed to decide that Harry was the safer bet out of the two, ignoring the exaggerated pout Shamal sent her.
"Rochambeau," Harry saw Shamal gear up for another—probably bad attempt at charming the poor waitress. Reaching over, he pinched his arm warningly, causing Shamal to send him a quick glare. Harry ignored him, smiling politely at their waitress. The reservation name was a bit weird, but it, apparently, was to keep anonymity and avoid suspicion.
Harry disagreed, considering that the name made the whole reservation even more suspicious. It wasn't like the muggle world could trace Harry Black to any one person, much less him. Still, Harry was used to dramatics, and from the small stories Shamal sometimes gave him—the mafia had a flair for dramatics almost as much as the magical world.
The waitress nodded, and turned on heel, leading them through the restaurant. After taking their orders, she quickly left with a hurried nod. "You made her hate us," Harry accused Shamal, when she was gone. Shamal gave him a narrowed glance of his own.
"I did?" Shamal huffed. "She would have warmed up quicker if you'd let me work my magic," he sighed, wistfully, eyes trailing back where the waitress disappeared. Harry let out a loose chuckle, grudgingly amused at Shamal's words.
"Between the two of us, I think you should leave the magic to me," Harry confided, glancing around casually. Speaking of which, he should really cast privacy wards around this place if he wanted to talk about himself, and the mafia, in this rather public place. His wand was strapped to his holster on his wrist, comfortingly.
Shamal stopped him with a stern frown. "Don't," Shamal warned. "Already took care of it," to demonstrate, he held up a finger. An indigo and misty flame flickered from it, before it faded away. "Alfie would kill me if you do any excessive magic," he reminded him.
Harry felt slightly relieved, though not all that reassured. Flames and stuff were great and all, but couldn't really hold the same assurance that magic could hold. Harry was resigned to feeling restless, though, considering that Shamal was right on some level. Alfie would have their heads if Harry kept on defying him through small acts of magic throughout his treatment.
And—Healers were really scary, Harry found out, when they were at their limit.
"Alfie seems to have high hopes for this next potion," Harry sighed, forcing himself to relax next to Shamal. He felt itchy and paranoid, glancing around restlessly; he had to keep from shaking his leg nervously. Instead, he focused on fidgeting with his cufflinks, loosening them before tightening them again absently. "Did he tell you about it this morning?"
It was going to be a long day, considering that Harry had to wake up really early this morning just to get ready. Hermione and Ron had arrived with Madam Moretti, Alfie appearing twenty minutes later; he came to deliver a fresh batch of pain and cold potions, while dragging Shamal away to answer his questions, and to brief him on what he had planned for his side of Harry's treatment.
Shamal hummed, contemplative. "Alfie was telling me about his theory for how this potion should work. Has he explained the theory behind it to you yet, or?" Harry shrugged, mild. To be fair, he never really asked for a theory behind the potion, only inquiring if it would work or not. As long as it worked, Harry didn't really question it.
Plus, Hermione grilled Harry's poor Healer enough with her own set of questions. No need for Harry to pile onto that.
"I don't think so," Harry said.
"It's really interesting," Shamal enthused. "Have you heard of the disease tuberculosis? It's one of the deadliest disease in the world; it was nicknamed the white plague with how many people it killed," the interest Shamal displayed towards this made Harry sweat drop a bit. Then again, Healers and doctors were like this, right? Interested in these types of things…
Harry had an interest in defense in dark arts, so it made sense that healers and doctors were interested in diseases and illnesses.
"Oh," Harry racked his brain. It did sound familiar, the disease. "Is it like in those old movies, where someone coughs into their handkerchief and when they pull it away, there's blood?" It seemed like something Harry would do now, now that he thought about it.
Shamal snorted, dryly. "Yeah, that's what I'm talking about. It was a very bad disease, which thankfully died down a lot when the vaccine finally came out for it. It still kills a lot of people, but not nearly as much as it did before." They were interrupted by the waitress coming back with their drinks, who he flashed a flirty smirk at. "Thank you, bella," he purred.
The waitress sent him a bland look, making Harry snicker. "Thank you," Harry told her, as she set his own drink in front of him. A deluxe hot chocolate, topped with whip cream. He fidgeted with the menu he was given, having already decided on what he wanted.
"It's not a problem, sir," the waitress smiled, sweetly, at him. "Have you two decided on what you guys wanted to eat?"
"Oh, I know what I want to—" Shamal piped up, completely shameless. Harry elbowed him sharply, keeping his attention completely on the waitress. "S-smoked haddock, please," Shamal wheezed out, sending a scandalized glare towards Harry. Harry felt his eyes glare holes into him, prompting him to smile brighter at the bemused waitress. "Heathen," Shamal hissed under his breath at him.
"Can I have the seeded banana bread with almond butter and raspberry jam? No salted butter, please," Harry ignored his doctor. The waitress sent him an amused smile, before taking her leave. Harry turned towards Shamal, who was sulking. "I don't know what you usually do, but I'm sure it's a crime against humanity for you to do it."
"Says the one who has a horrible sense of humor!" Shamal snapped back, without any heat.
"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry replied, taking a tentative sip of hot chocolate. It had a shot of espresso in it, and it combined nicely with the sweetness of the chocolate. His drink chased away the ever-present chill that lingered under his skin, and he sighed into it. "My humor has a certain art to it, one of which that someone of your class can never hope to understand," Harry sniffed, painfully amused at Shamal's suddenly ashen face.
"Oh god, please not another one of him," Shamal pleaded, under his breath. Harry blinked, momentarily confused. Another one of him? Who was him? Before Harry could prod, Shamal sent him a withering glance, making him snap his mouth shut. He smirked indulgently at him instead, and Shamal grumbled a bit. "I still think you're doing it to spite me," he said.
"Maybe I am," Harry shrugged. "Maybe I'm not. Who knows?"
Oh, he was so doing it to spite him.
"Let's just move on with our conversation," Shamal groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Where were we? Oh, right—you know about the disease, right? At least, heard about it from somewhere," at Harry's nod, Shamal grinned. "It's real interesting because, apparently, magical diseases and regular diseases operate a bit differently, especially considering your immune systems."
That would explain a lot, considering that Harry used to be pretty sturdy growing up. He had often felt that he didn't get sick as nearly as much as he probably should have. The only notable times Harry remembers being sick was when he had those bursts of accidental magic, such as turning his teacher's hair blue or whatnot. Was that because his magic was depleted, or whatever?
Harry should really go through another talk-back situation with Hermione concerning her notes about this.
"Well, apparently your magic can take care of pretty much everything non-magical. But if it's inflicted magically, such as a curse, or a magical disease, then your magic can't do much about that without outside help," Shamal enthused. "Tying into our earlier conversation, the magical community didn't suffer from tuberculosis as much as the rest of the world. Still, that didn't mean that you guys didn't get infected, because you did. It just mutated into something that isn't that particular strand of tuberculosis, evolving into something that doesn't eat away at your lungs. Instead," Shamal trailed off, expectantly. His grin was a bit off-putting.
Harry blinked, realization seeping in. "Oh, oh," Harry smiled, a bit excited. Shamal's own giddiness was starting to rub off on him. "That must mean that it eats away at our magical cores, right?" Despite how morbid it sounded, and was, it was still interesting. Still, Harry's own excitement faltered, and he frowned. "What does this mean for Alfie's potion, though?"
"Let me explain a bit more," Shamal assured. "Seeing as of that the tuberculosis evolved, the magical world took a few years to develop its own vaccine to fight off against it. Meaning that it can be controlled." Shamal puffed himself up proudly, even though Harry still didn't know where this was going. Seeing his confusion, Shamal huffed and continued, "That means that if the disease latches onto your magic, and eats away at it, we have a way to control it," he gestured for Harry to continue.
Harry reluctantly did, "which means that Alfie plans on having it eat away at my disease." It made sense, seeing as of that the flowers were magically induced. Which meant that his flowers were saturated and created from Harry's magic. "Will it work?" Harry tried not to sound dubious. Using a strain of one of the deadliest diseases to fight off another seems—counterproductive.
If anything, Shamal's grin widened. "It should," Shamal assured, waving off his doubts. "I have personal experience in using diseases to counteract each other, after all." At this revelation, Harry eyed his doctor warily. He was a mafia doctor, he reminded himself.
Did mafia doctors torture people by using illnesses?
Give me this information or I'll give you pneumonia!
That didn't sound threatening at all.
Harry almost wanted to ask. Biting that question down, he instead sipped at his drink, contemplatively. What if it didn't work? No doubt they'd continue to try, but—still, it sounded risky. Then again, the options presented to him was dying this way over dying another way. So, he guessed it didn't matter, and he should probably trust the two people who had more experience than him.
He was going to have to consult Hermione about this later, though. Just to make sure.
"How's your progress on the Arcobaleno curse, though?" Harry inquired, turning towards Shamal. Shamal had somehow procured a newspaper, scanning through it with a bored expression. At his question, though, he stiffened for a split second. Harry blinked, and he was back to looked poised and relaxed as ever.
Still, Harry caught that. He narrowed his eyes slightly, pursing his lips. That never boded well, did it?
"It's in the works," Shamal said, mild. His words were slow, contemplative. "The Arcobaleno curse is mostly unknown, and I'm slowly working through magical texts to see if there is any more information about Dying Will Flames. It's—slow going." At Harry's crestfallen look, Shamal hurried on to say, "Don't worry, I'm working on it as fast as I can. I just want you to focus mainly on your lung disease, alright?"
"Can't you tell me anything other than don't worry about it?" Harry snapped, folding his arms. Shamal opened his mouth, but the waitress miraculously came back with their food. She seemed to notice the tense silence, and quickly hurried elsewhere after a few assurances that they didn't need anything.
Shamal's expression was nothing short of a wince. "If it helps," he finally said, as carefully as he could. Harry stared stonily at him, mouth pressed into a thin line. "The fact that you're not fully Flame Active could be helping slow down the process."
The pacifier was still hanging around his neck, the warmth emitting from it chasing any type of chill Harry had. It was still hard to think that this little thing could be killing him somehow. Fingering it, Harry asked, "How do you know if I'm not fully Flame Active?"
"Oh, I would be able to tell," Shamal told him. "Flame Actives are usually more in tune with their instincts, and almost always have it running through them at all times. Inactive Flames, if they are accessed, are like—a leaky faucet? They sputter wildly in and out, and need time to control them. It's a tricky situation considering that if you try to active your Flames when you're pass the safe age limit, there is a high probability of you becoming a Flame Reject. And those," Shamal shook his head, expression grim. "Those aren't the type of people that are the sanest."
"There's an age limit?" Harry asked, blandly. "What if someone has no choice in but to activate their Flames past the age limit?"
Shamal smiled wanly. "Your friend, Hermione, was right on the fact that Flames are linked to your personality. They're what you are genetically predisposed to do, which means that if you Activate them young, your personality will have a higher chance of revolving around your Flame type. However, if you wait too long, and your life experiences nurture a very different type of personality, then that will lead into your Flame rejecting you." Harry frowned at this; he made it sound like the Flame has its own sentience.
It was something that unnerved him to no end, at the thought of that possibility.
"Isn't there a way to change your Flame type to match your personality?" Harry ventured to ask.
"It's called Flame Transplant, which also leads to Flame Rejection." Shamal answered, cheerfully. "So, it's best to Activate them young, or to never Activate them at all."
"Is there no in between?" Harry raised an eyebrow. "You just said that I was not a fully Flame Active."
"There is a very narrow spectrum," Shamal conceded, thoughtfully. "Alfie and you had told me your history, and it appears that you do have some experience in accessing your Flames somewhat. While not formally trained in them, you do have the highest potential of safely Activating them well beyond the safe age limit," Shamal smiled. "Which you are not doing, by the way."
Harry blinked. Blunt. "Well, duh," Harry said, slowly. If fully Activating his Flames meant dying sooner to the Arcobaleno curse, then that was a no brainer. Besides, his years of adventure and near-death experiences were behind him. There was no monster to defeat, nor any evil to vanquish. Just two curses that needed to be dealt with—
All Harry had to do was keep himself occupied until that happens.
And to not drown in his turbulent emotions in the meanwhile.
"As long as you know," Shamal nodded. "Anyways, back to the Arcobaleno curse; it's a tricky situation, considering that there is hardly any known information about it. Up until now, whoever has been administering it has kept a low profile." Shamal leaned towards Harry, eyes gleaming. "There had been rumors that someone had been in charge of it all, but you just confirmed it for me. It's quite—interesting and worrying at the same time."
"Yep," Harry drank more of his hot chocolate. It warmed him from the inside out. "Do you think the other Arcobaleno have more information about it?"
Shamal nodded, suddenly grim. "I plan on asking them about it when they get here; there's a lot of secrets that they keep from others, especially on their pacifier," Shamal's eyes wandered to Harry's, and he blanched. "Speaking of which, it's glowing."
"Huh? Oh," Harry glanced down at it, indeed noting that it was glowing. "Yeah, it did that for the first few weeks I had it. Don't know why it's glowing again." Huh, Harry thought absently. The warmth coming from his pacifier wasn't more or less, but the glow was a bit eye-catching. "Didn't you say that it would do that if they're near?"
"Reborn told me, yeah," Shamal murmured, distractedly. He sighed, and glanced at Harry's still uneaten plate. During their conversation, Shamal had managed to finish off his own meal. Raising an eyebrow, he turned towards Harry, "Here, I'll go wait for them up at the front, you finish eating."
"No," Harry insisted, standing up quickly. "I'll eat when they get here. I need to go to the bathroom anyways, I'll just wait up at the front afterwards." Shamal looked ready to protest before Harry shot him a stubborn look of his own. "Even if you convince me not to meet them, which I will at some point, I still need to go to the bathroom," he pointed out.
Shamal clamped his mouth shut, petulant. "Fine," he conceded sourly. "Just—behave yourself. These are mafioso," he reminded him. Harry shrugged.
"And I can take care of myself," Harry replied, scooting out of his seat and walking away quickly before Shamal could respond. Dealing with all the concern and 'looking out for' was irritating after a while. With a low sigh, he asked a nearby worker for the bathroom and was given directions. He wanted to pace anxiously in the bathroom for a few moments, to calm his nerves.
His chest was itching, too.
The moment he locked the bathroom door behind him, Harry's flowers decided to introduce themselves to him. Stumbling over to the nearby counter, his limbs felt exhausted even before the attacks started now, Harry collapsed against the surface and proceeded to hack up whatever was stuffing his lungs full this time. It burned, and Harry didn't think he'd ever get used to the feeling of ripping out his lungs piece by piece at a time. Wiping angrily at his eyes, Harry hissed through his teeth, disliking the familiar taste of blood and gritty phlegm. He pulled himself together after a few more brief moments of catching his breath, and he took the time to observe the clotted and slimy bouquet of flowers in the sink.
Snowdrop flowers.
Hope, consolation; a friend in adversity.
Harry huffed, a bit curious about his flowers. A friend in adversity, huh? He carefully grabbed a few paper towels to mop up his mess and flowers. Specks of blood had managed to land on the mirror, and he sighed, moving to clean that too.
He caught himself in the reflection, and he scrunched up his nose.
Blood and bits of petals were dripping from the corners of his mouth, and his skin was ashen. Wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand, he tried to rub some color into his cheeks with his fingers. No luck, and Harry didn't even try with the bruising around his eyes. He splashed his face with cold water, running damp fingers through his hair to try and tame it. Try being the keyword.
All in all, despite how expensive his outfit was, Harry looked -and felt- pathetic underneath it.
For the first time, he wondered what his younger self would say to him if he saw him like this. He'd probably be horrified at him, no doubt; I end up like that? What a miserable life! Harry huffed, making sure the flowers were wrapped up and tossed in the bin and making himself looking presentable. His younger self would probably also be determined, no way I'd end up like that.
Maybe Harry should invest in hobbies, flex his freedom for a bit. Being holed up in Grimmauld place was nice when he was alone, and by choice, but now that he was practically being monitored 24/7 and stuck there by his own body, it was making him restless.
Feeling like he was taking too long, Harry shuffled out of the bathroom, gripping onto his pacifier for its stable and comforting warmth.
Time to meet the rest of the Arcobaleno.
-0-0-0-
Viper had a past.
Contrary to popular and steadfast belief, Viper, like all the rest of the Arcobaleno, had a past. A past that they'd much rather keep buried, but a past nonetheless. Unlike a certain Sun Arcobaleno who, if rumors hold true, buried their memories literally, Viper chose to keep them because they liked money. And they liked information.
And the information Viper's past held were priceless.
If Viper was sentimental, they'd probably claim that it was the memories itself were priceless.
As it was, though, Viper wasn't all that sentimental. And the fact was that they liked money and information. And if they were feeling rather lenient, they also would admit that they especially liked strawberry milk. It was a luxury that Viper hardly indulged themselves in due to liking money just a tad more, and if that meant suffering a bit every time they got a craving, then so be it.
Viper disliked a lot of things, too.
Such as a certain loud and overly-confident idiot insinuating that they were clueless.
They were not clueless.
The grudge had buried itself deep into Viper's core, which only loosened just a tiny bit when Skull cornered them in the hotel pub just the night before. They would have ignored the Cloud's apology, brushed it off to the side and stepped on it, if said Cloud didn't offer a peace offering. A carton of strawberry milk, which was obviously the most Skull could afford along with paying the rent at the hotel they were staying at.
Everyone knew that Skull was the most broke out of the Arcobaleno.
Viper had stared at the offering, not really wanting to accept it. At last, they conceded with a displeased sigh, and grabbed it, opening it with as much detachment as they could. Skull had looked visibly relieved, grinning broadly at them. They consoled themselves that Skull was now broke and spent the last of his money on a gift for them, eying the Cloud warily.
Despite being a different type of Cloud, a polarization, Skull was growing restless.
For a moment, Viper sympathized with him.
"I knew you liked the great Skull-sama!" Aannd Skull ruined it, with that loud exclamation and that annoying laugh.
Sneering, Viper said, "I'd sell you, and everything you own, for one shilling." Considering Viper's greedy reputation, and their tendency to milk things for all their worth before disposing them—the fact that they were willing to settle for such a low amount was an insult in itself.
Apparently, Skull caught onto this fact, and sputtered, "Is that really all I'm worth!?"
Viper didn't reply, smirking cruelly at the Cloud. For a brief moment, Viper had forgotten the intense uneasiness that being in England brought. Now, though, traversing the miserably damp and crowded city, Viper couldn't help but feel that uncomfortable tingle crawled its way back to them. It had been years since they were in English territory, and they really disliked being here.
The past that they had long since buried was taunting them.
Still, Viper knew that this area was safe now. Especially after the magical war had ended two years ago, Voldemort having been killed for the last time. Eugh, just thinking that name brought a shudder of disgust go through Viper's small body, and they regulated their breathing tightly. It had been many years since Viper had been in the magical world, much less England's magical community; they saw no reason to return, saw no point.
Viper, like their past, had a family once upon a time.
While not particularly well-known, they were rich and on the rise of being influential. They were also painfully neutral in all sides, and could be easily swayed if they saw any type of financial gain. It was a small family, and Viper was intended to take over when they were of legal age. It was all ruined when the-one-who-shall-not-be-named came into power in the 1970s.
He ruined everything.
There's no amount of words to describe how much Viper despised him.
While Viper's family members may have perished, the riches their family held robbed, and left Viper stripped of all dignity—Viper had an advantage that even the Dark Lord did not have. The mother Viper had refused to forget was a very special type of muggle. While not having a lick of magic in her body, she had something else that she had taught Viper the moment they were able:
Dying Will Flames.
After the night where everything was ruined, only a few years before Viper should have graduated from Hogwarts, Viper had run away. It wasn't like there was anything left for them in England, anyways. There was a profound sense of guilt that plagued them for a few years afterwards, because it was obvious that Viper and their family should have seen their downfall coming. At the very least, they should have looked for more information about it, should have been more prepared.
Viper blamed themselves for a bit, yeah.
It was only after Viper was cursed with this damned infant body that Viper suspected it was less of a them problem, and more on the fate's sick joke type of a problem.
Needless to say, when the Dark Lord had first been killed Viper had been satisfied. While the circumstances were a bit suspicious, Viper saw no reason not to celebrate, as long as that bastard was gone, Viper could be content. Of course, all of that was shot to shit when the Dark Lord returned to power, and Viper was on edge for months.
Then the boy-who-lived turned man-who-conquered.
Viper, before the second defeat of the Dark Lord, couldn't see what was so special about a brat who had somehow managed to kill him. While it was odd, surprising, nonetheless welcomed, scenario; the brat wouldn't remember what he did, wouldn't understand just how many lives he saved that fateful night, wouldn't understand the praises and practical legends created for him, about him.
It was only after Harry James Potter lead his own army against the Dark Lord, and won, that Viper realized that there might be something more to this brat than they first thought.
Of course, Viper had resigned themselves to never meeting the brat in person. Why would they? Viper was fully enclosed in the mafia now, the same place their mother ran from. She'd have their head if they ever meet again, Viper was sure. Not only was Viper invested in the mafia, they were a part of the Varia.
And may, or may not, have been a part of the infamous Cradle Affair that happened more or less a year ago.
Viper was not in a good mood, and hasn't been for a while now. The fact that they were obligated to help find this wayward Sky Arcobaleno, which brought them back to England, they were really not in a good mood. At this rate, Viper was considering paying at least a 4th of their fortune for just one day, one moment, of peace and quiet.
Just one.
Apparently, that was too much to ask for.
It took a lot to surprise Viper nowadays. Like, genuinely surprise them. Even if there was a moment where Viper was caught off-guard, they had long since mastered their reactions and their Flames to ever show it. Point is: it took a lot to surprise them.
The Harry Potter was their newest Sky Arcobaleno.
This revelation was, by far, one of the most surprising moments in Viper's life.
-0-0-0-
To be completely honest:
Harry found them adorable.
Shamal had warned him of this beforehand, though. Babies they might be, they still held their skills and strengths from when they were adults. They, despite their appearance, were the strongest in the world. Harry was slightly grateful that he didn't get that version of the curse, despite probably getting the 'worse-off' type of deal when it came to the Arcobaleno curse. The last thing Harry needed was to be the same age and size of Teddy.
He didn't think he could have handled that.
So, he had to give the rest of the Arcobaleno props for appearing so—normal? Normal didn't seem to be the correct term to describe them, though. Confident, maybe. They appeared more than what their age suggested. Harry was slightly unnerved, and slightly relieved, because while they appeared to be babies, they weren't.
Just…adults crammed into their baby forms.
Jeez, this is awkward.
Reborn, Shamal had told him, was the strongest, and the Sun Arcobaleno. His attire was a little suit with shiny black shoes; his hat was a fedora with a broad orange band wrapped around it. It was tipped rakishly over his head, probably due to the weight of—Harry squinted; an animal?
The most notable, and thus cutest, feature was his curly sideburns.
The next was Fon, who was dressed rather elegantly in red. He, like Shamal had said, seemed to be the calmest of the bunch; he also had a tiny monkey! It chittered, and Harry found to be somewhat weak to cute animals. From what Shamal had said, he was the Storm Arcobaleno.
Colonello and Lal Mirch were interesting. Shamal had desperately warned him not to get on the latter's nerves, and warned him to not mention her corrupted pacifier. Apparently, Shamal had gotten on her bad side before, especially concerning how her own Flame seemingly disintegrated into two different Flame types after being cursed. Colonello was—well, Shamal didn't have that much information on him, other than that he followed Lal Mirch around insistently, up until he took her place as the Rain Arcobaleno.
Colonello seemed to want to show Reborn up, while Lal was just intimidating.
Verde was—green. Just green. A shock of green hair, an indifferent expression, and round glasses, his little lab coat was—ah, adorable. But the glasses where what Harry focused on, considering the fact that he had his own pair safely tucked into one of his pockets. After the war, sometime between helping out the reconstruction of Hogwarts and attending funerals, Harry had felt that he needed a change. He had thought that getting his vision fixed would help him—move on.
It didn't.
Harry was interrupted in his musings from an excited and loud exclamation from a leather-clad baby. His helmet made his voice a bit echo-y, and he oozed confidence. His helmet was—a motorcycle helmet, right? The thought of a tiny baby motorcycle made Harry inwardly snort, wondering if he should ask if he really did have one, or not.
Of course, the conversation steered towards the last unknown baby.
The supposed Mist Arcobaleno.
And then this was where the going moderately well meeting started taking a nose-dive towards the worse. Harry wanted to bash his head into the table repeatedly, internally demanding Shamal to get his ass back here and help him navigate this. Shamal had given him pointers and tips on how to properly handle the rest of the Arcobaleno, but he didn't say anything about them recognizing him.
Especially not his old name.
Technically, Harry James Potter was still his legal name, especially in the muggle world. In the magical world, however, he just started signing things with 'Harry Black', and everyone just went with it. Considering the fact that he was technically a 'lord' of the two houses, and had countless, unexplored, vaults that he had been given before, during, and after the war, he was given a lot of leeway. Not to mention the fact that things in the wizarding world were a bit—outdated. His estates and bank statements, along with filing seriously inflated tax rates, were the only thing Harry could have managed to fill out with his new name.
No one ever thought to bring it up formally to him, so Harry just assumed that it was an okay thing to do.
Viper, and seemingly everyone, was waiting for him to speak now. Viper, what an odd name, Harry mused, as he surveyed his empty drink. Not enough chocolate could help the sinking stone in his stomach, and he tried to think about what to say. What could he say? Admitting that he was indeed Harry Potter was opening a whole can of worms that he didn't want to open.
Especially not in their first meeting.
Crap, Harry cursed inwardly.
"My original name is Harry James Potter," Harry began, reluctantly. He felt so tired all of a sudden, and he had to resist the urge to slump forward onto the table. He shot a quick glance at Viper, who appeared to be more in control of themselves now. "But I now go by Harry Black, so please refrain from using my old name, please," his last name carried too many memories, carried too much weight.
Viper clamped their mouth shut. They gave a curt nod, "My apologies."
Harry sent them a tired smile. "It's fine, you didn't know," he offered, sheepishly. What to say now? He already broke the statue of secrecy with Shamal, but that was on Alfie's insistence. Shamal was one thing—telling a whole group of practical strangers was another.
Even Harry wasn't so impulsive to start doing that.
"Do you know him, Viper?" Reborn asked, eyes sliding from Harry to Viper and back again. His smile was too innocent. Harry inwardly frowned at the tone; despite the question, it felt like he really was giving no leeway in not answering. It was like an unspoken answer, or else.
"I know of him," Viper snipped, mysteriously. They had recovered in miraculous time, and Harry felt some tension leave his body. Before anyone could question further, Viper continued, "but if you want more information, that will cost you."
Reborn eyed them, before turning his dark eyes towards Harry. Harry stiffened, feeling like he was caught in a predator's gaze. He flexed his fingers, wondering if he could just apparate out of this situation. He had a feeling that this whole meeting was a mistake. Something like he was confident in taking an exam, but the moment the exam was actually in front of him, he was completely unprepared. Glancing away from Reborn's casual smirk, he looked around for Shamal.
Shamal, Harry inwardly willed his doctor to come help navigate this whole situation. No such luck, sadly.
"Harry," Reborn prompted. "You did say we have a lot to talk about."
Harry replied, "I did. But wouldn't you guys like—to, you know, sit?" Despite the mocking voice snapping staller at him, Harry casually disregarded it in the name of politeness. "I'm sure we'll get to know each other sooner or later," Harry offered a wan smile, gesturing to the empty seats at the table.
Verde scoffed, pushing their glasses up. "I find no point in getting to know you on a personal level considering the fact that you'll likely end up dead in a few years anyways," he supplied, eying Harry critically. His gaze lingered on his pacifier, though his indifferent expression remained. Harry blinked at the forthrightness of his statement, taking a few moments for it to finally register.
All the other Arcobaleno had turned towards Verde with varying expressions of disbelief.
"You're probably right," Harry laughed, bemused. He fingered the pacifier that hung over his chest, bringing it up to peer at it with a wan smile. Its warmth was a lie, Harry remembered. On some level, Harry understood his reasoning. He, himself, arranged this whole meeting just to tell them that he wasn't going to get in their way, and that they didn't need to worry about him. "I can accept that," he said, cheerfully.
"My dearest apologies about him," Reborn said, tightly. He sent an intense look at Verde, whose expression twitched slightly before he glanced away. "He has no tact," he said, disdainfully. Harry waved him off, not offended at all.
"It's okay, I dealt with worse," Harry supplied. "It's not like I helped arrange this meeting to become buddy-buddy with you guys, after all." At this information, the rest of the Arcobaleno shifted, something heavy lingering in the air now.
"May I ask why you decided to arrange this meeting?" Fon asked with his ever-present smile. He had taken Harry's invitation to seat himself, taking the nearest seat to Harry politely. "I also have some inquiries on exactly how you met Trident Shamal."
Seeing as of that Fon had taken the invitation, the rest of the Arcobaleno followed his lead. Harry observed them all, duly noting everyone here had their own personalities. All of them had very different lives, most of them submerged in the underworld now; Harry felt so out of place here. It was like he was an entirely different character coming from a wholly different story.
As Harry mulled about how to answer Fon's question, Shamal thankfully came back. His cheek was suspiciously red, and Harry smirked at him, causing Shamal to send him sulky glower. Their waitress followed, looking indigent and flustered, pointedly ignoring Shamal. She hesitated at the sight of the rest of the Arcobaleno, momentarily confused.
"Hello, and welcome," she gathered her bearings. Harry had to admire her ability to recover so quickly. She passed around some menus, continuing, "do you know what you want to drink?" As she took orders, she sent one last sweet smile towards Harry. "And what about you, sir? Do you want a refill?"
Harry brightened. "Yes, please," he nodded, sending a slight glance towards a petulant Shamal. "What about you, Shamal? You finished your coffee. Perhaps you need some tea, instead?" He leaned towards him, smile growing ever-so slightly. "Like some positivi-tea."
"You hate me." Shamal stated, probably dead inside. "That's the only possible reason I can make concerning your horrible humor."
Laughing, feeling oddly relieved at Shamal's presence, Harry turned towards their poor waitress. "He might want a refill too, please," he smiled, pushing both of their empty glasses towards the waitress. She took them numbly, gave them a short nod, and hurried off, dazed. "I think we should give her a large tip," he concluded.
"Of course, having to deal with your horrible humor," Shamal groused.
"I was thinking more along the lines of having her deal with you," Harry supplied, glancing at Shamal with a crooked smile. "You might call it working your magic, I'm calling it embarrassing," specially to witness. Public displays of affection always made Harry feel awkward, more so if it was awkward and fumbling attempts at flirting.
Ginny's long-ago valentine to him in his second year replayed cruelly in his head, and he felt the old wash of embarrassment come over him.
"It's called being a gentleman," Shamal protested, with a heavy roll of his eyes. His smile was indulgent, though. "And I'm merely showing my appreciation towards a natural beauty like herself." Harry snorted, dryly, glancing away from his doctor. Shamal took the time to observe the rest of the Arcobaleno, smiling politely at them all. "I do hope that Harry didn't somehow offend you guys while I was gone," Shamal said with suspicious glance towards Harry.
Harry pointedly ignored him, fidgeting with the edge of his cuffs. His wand was pressed nicely into the crook of his forearm, the tip jabbing his wrist. It seemed to remind him that even if he felt out of place, that didn't mean that he was completely helpless. "I hope I didn't somehow manage to offend you all, either," he finally said, slowly. "And to answer your question, Fon, I arranged this meeting to come to some sort of understanding with you all."
Reborn spoke up, eyes gleaming underneath the broad shadow of his hat. "What type of understanding?"
"A mutual understanding?" Harry hedged, carefully. "I want to know what being an Arcobaleno exactly entails. As Verde had helpfully reminded me of my impending doom earlier, I do understand that my version of the curse is a short lifespan." Perhaps shorter than normal considering the fact that he was still grappling with the flower disease. "Is there anything else I should know?"
"The Arcobaleno Pact, kora," Colonello nodded, after a few contemplative moments of silence. "It's a rule within all the Arcobaleno to not attack each other in any way." That would be easy to follow, Harry noted.
"Alright," Harry nodded. "Anything else…?"
"We also have own version of a secret code call the Arcobaleno Secret Code," Reborn stated, leisurely. He had finished staring intently at Shamal, who seemed momentarily frozen. Harry eyed the both of them suspiciously. Whatever happened there, Shamal seemed to break himself out of it, and Reborn seemed momentarily satisfied. "Our pacifiers can reveal it, if you do happen to receive a letter in code," Reborn gestured to his own glowing pacifier.
"Neat," Harry commented, internally frowning. When was there ever going to be a time for him to use it, though? The rest, he can understand due to them probably being in the mafia. Paranoia was threaded into their blood, at this point; Harry could relate, though for differing reasons. "Do you guys know more about how the pacifiers work?"
Shamal perked up, slightly.
Viper spoke up here, still staring in that unnerving way at him. "I've done some research in how they work," they said, voice painfully bland. It was a far-cry from their earlier meeting, and Harry wondered if meeting him really was that surprising for the Mist Arcobaleno. "It appears that they serve as a conduit of your Dying Will Flame. Much like the Vongola Rings of the Vongola Famiglia."
Conduit? Harry hummed, thoughtful. So, kind of like wands in terms of magic, except of being your helpful little companion, it was slowly killing you and draining you of your will to live. Fun.
"Do you," Shamal jumped into the situation while he could. "Do you know exactly how it works?"
"Why would you want to know?" Reborn raised an eyebrow at the doctor. Shamal was saved from answering when the waitress came back to them, setting all their respective drinks down. She hurriedly took some orders, flashed another wan, sweet smile at Harry, before walking away in the same hurried manner from before.
Harry observed her hasty exit. "Do you think she wants us to leave?"
"Nonsense," Shamal waved off his concerns, sipping at his refilled drink with a sigh. His expression was pinched, slightly. Meeting Reborn's eyes, Shamal straightened and continued, "I have decided to be Harry's primary doctor in terms of his health. I figured it'd be helpful if I know more about the pacifiers, is all."
There was something more lingering in his words, Harry noted. Especially with how everyone else's attention focused sharply on Shamal, who was stubbornly keeping his chin jutted forward in vague confidence. His grip on his drink was tight, the whites of his knuckles showing.
At last, Lal laughed. It would have been more humorous if there wasn't something sharp there, almost hysteric, almost hallow. A short bark of a laugh, and she grinned sharply at Shamal. "You can't possibly think that you have a chance of unraveling the Arcobaleno curse, do you? How stupid," she accused, and Shamal cringed slightly. Harry twitched, frowning slightly at the baby. Was that really such an absurd idea to tackle, trying to break the Arcobaleno curse?
A familiar twinge of despair tugged at his heart, and Harry stubbornly ignored it. He was tired of being fickle in this matter. Still, it was a bit disheartening to hear that not all of the Arcobaleno took the mere idea of breaking the Arcobaleno curse seriously.
"I'm sure it's possible," Harry interjected, as Shamal clenched his jaw. He looked a bit flustered and annoyed, not a good combination for a trained mafia hitman, Harry was sure. Lal shot him a critical look, and Harry smiled wanly at her. "It won't hurt to try, at the very least," he prodded, making Lal snort quietly.
"There's no point," Lal decided. "The only one who can possibly break the curse is the one who administered it." Almost subconsciously, she cast a disgusted look onto her own corrupted pacifier. "It's best to accept that while you can," she told Harry, seriously.
Harry made a slight face, smoothing out his features afterwards. Acceptance. Dumbledore's visage haunted him, making his stomach churn slightly and a painful twinge in his chest. The prophecy was something Harry accepted, his own death was something he accepted; Harry should be the poster boy for all the acceptance he had shown in accepting the shit hand he's been given by life.
Honestly speaking, Harry felt so tired of accepting everything so easily.
While he understood that there were some things that can't be helped, surely there has to be a line somewhere. Maybe that line was different for everyone. Harry wanted to find his. And if that meant looking for a cure for both of his curses, so be it.
Harry dealt with worse, plainly speaking.
His pacifier felt warm.
"Like I said before," Harry replied, smiling wanly. "Even if that is true, there's no harm in trying." To be, or not to be—if there was even a sliver of a chance of curing the curse, Harry was going to grasp at it. Otherwise, he'll be kicking himself over it for the rest of his life.
And on the bright side, if this somehow doesn't work, he won't have much of a life left afterwards anyways.
So, win-win!
"Tch, whatever," Lal groused, stubbornly. She seemed to disregard their conversation as something serious, eying him sternly. "Don't come crying to me later," she said, making Harry shrug, mild. As if Harry would ever run to someone crying like that anyways.
He angsts alone.
"If you don't want to help, that's okay," Harry continued, decisively. The hot chocolate and the warmth of his pacifier was giving him more energy the more he basked in them. "Shamal and I were just wondering if you guys could provide us with some more information about being an Arcobaleno, and how this whole curse might actually work to give us some leeway in helping solve it. If not, that's fine, but any help will be greatly appreciated," Harry let his eyes linger briefly on Viper.
"Mou, I will offer my assistance any way I can," Viper piped up, causing every other Arcobaleno to glance at them. They pointedly ignored them, flashing Harry an almost bland and indecipherable smirk. Harry wondered if he should talk to them privately.
That—would probably be the wise thing to do.
"Hm," Reborn's expression was unreadable. "Of course, if you think that you have an actual lead in solving this curse, we'll offer our help anyway we can. Granted, we know exactly what's going on," he warned, shooting a brief glance towards Shamal, who grimaced back.
"Not my secret to tell," Shamal muttered, awkwardly.
"It's complicated," Harry hedged, carefully. He sipped his drink, relishing the heat as it crawled down his throat and into his stomach. When he admitted the magical world's existence to Shamal, he had declared that he had earned his keep with how much shit he's been through since entering the wizarding world.
Which—well, he did.
It wasn't exactly the Ministry that kept him from biting his lip on the subject, though; hell, it wasn't even the Dementors. It was the fact that while he did generally disregard the rules in the face of overall picture -he refused to use the term greater good-, the fact that if he introduced the rest of the Arcobaleno to the magical world, that means he'll basically be responsible for them.
Him.
Alfie was able to keep Shamal in line, was basically the one who inducted him into the wizarding world. While it was Harry who spilled the beans, it was Alfie's idea. Still, Harry mulled the idea around in his head, staring contemplatively into his drink. There was a chance that this could work, and Harry would be just a dick if he kept this to himself, kept the information of a world that could help them.
Brutally honesty was something Harry always appreciated.
His friends were going to kill him.
"The mafia is real," Harry mused. "Which seems pretty farfetched, right? Well," I have something that is also very farfetched. Shamal stiffened next to him, and elbowed him, expression torn bewildered and disproving.
Shamal's expression screamed, what are you doing!?
Harry tried for a confident expression, caught between grimacing and grinning. Whatever I want.
"Well, it's a long story," Harry turned his attention back to the rest of the Arcobaleno, smiling wanly. He sent a reassuring look at a stiffening Viper, whose mouth was pursed tightly. "And I'm going to probably be in a lot of trouble if people find out that I am willingly telling you all this—but you see, I am rather against holding information, especially if I believe that it could benefit all of us in a long run."
For the greater good.
With that, he sighed and started a very long story.
Review, favorite, follow, or whatever you do on stories that you read!
I wound to heal flowers predicted Alfie and Shamal's temporary solution for Harry's flower curse.
I am too addicted to cliffhangers, forgive me.
If there is anything you want to happen in the story, please tell me! I need ideas, haha-
#burntout
-mms