A/N: Yeah, I still have no excuse for this story, though I'm glad to see some of you liked it. :) Chapter two: In which Harry is a twat, Undertaker is all broody, and the dogs just want some love.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything. Rights are reserved by J.K. Rowling, the World Wrestling Federation and all subsidiaries and involved parties. Don't sue me.
My Tell-Tale Bones
Chapter Two...The Lives We Sacrificed To Live
"Undertaker." He replied simply, his tone holding no mocking or nonsense.
"Undertaker?" What kind of name was that? Maybe I'd misheard? I didn't think so but… "Like...the job description? Muddling around with people's bodies and all that literal rot?"
'Harry Potter, could you sound more like a complete twat ?' I groaned inwardly, sighing at my own lack of social grace. Could I get away with blaming an improper upbringing? Probably not.
Undertaker didn't seem all that impressed with my description of his livelihood.
"' Muddling around with people's bodies …' You could say that." Was all he intoned, almost quietly amused at the very comparison.
Realizing that there was a red smear on the door jam, left from our not too graceful entrance, I immediately jumped into gear, remembering the man's injuries.
The whole reason he was in my flat to begin with. I wasn't usually so scatterbrained. Something about the man made me feel as if my brain were coming out of a fog, trying to shake off cobwebs after years of silent stagnation. Until I found my bearings, it was leaving me disoriented and dazed.
Was it because he was the first magical person I'd interacted with in all these years? Merlin, I hadn't even been able to do magic since I had left the Wizarding World behind. When I left, the last stop I'd made had been to Gringotts for money. There, safe within the confines of my vault with all of the Potter gold that could've never bought me happiness, my dear holly wand had also been left behind. I hadn't wanted anything that could possibly be used to trace me. It had been hard but not having magic at all, not being magical at all, had been my only chance. Or at least that's what I'd thought.
When I'd been stabbed in the back of the head in a vicious mugging, not only had I not died, but the Elder Wand had leapt to my defense to exact a terrible and brutal judgement on the horrified would-be killer.
I didn't even know when it had appeared in my pocket but it had never left. The rather persnickety stick of elder was hidden even now as part of a decorative votive arrangement and my invisibility cloak was a rather gaudy curtain in the bedroom that had the tendency to send sparkles shimmering through my room when the sun's light hit it first thing in the morning. I swear it was like the ruddy thing was just spiting me in vengeance for it's undignified resting place.
Grumbling, I pushed the thrice damned Hallows to the back of my mind and carried the Home-Healers Kit and towels from the lav back to the strange undertaker character on my sofa.
Looking around my small, humble flat as I made my way back, I knew what Undertaker would see. Minimal furnishings and a tidy yet informal sitting room. I didn't have much by way of possessions but much of what was there was a collection of mismatched oddities both muggle and magical alike. A bookshelf overflowing with a few centuries of rare Potter Family collected texts stood tall and almost oppressive in one corner. Some of the priceless manuscripts had been placed in makeshift shelves, wooden market crates turned on their sides and given new life and purpose. A jar of five perfectly preserved white feathers along with their owners ashes lay on a tiny shrine on the middle shelf of the bookcase. They were the only things left of the beautiful soul that had once been my dearest, closest and sometimes only friend. Five feathers, one for every year that we had been companions.
My fingers felt sticky with remembered blood, murder years old still scarred onto the insides of my very nerves.
With an effort, I tore my eyes away from the shrine and back to my bleeding guest.
Undertaker's eyes were fixated on the small pixie-dragon skeleton that was hanging above my desk against the far wall, glassy and somewhat confused as if he couldn't quite wrap his head around what he was seeing. The shrouded gaze flicked to the amalgamation of vials in the kit I spread out on the couch, each a different hue and consistency. Something in him seemed to click into place and the recognition only spread a frown across his pale demeanor.
"You're a wizard…" It was a statement of fact rather than a question.
Was I though? It didn't seem right to call myself that anymore. With the Hallows ringing like soft chimes at the edges of my awareness, their power breathing new life into every cells even as it died, the term didn't ring with the truth that it once had.
"Mmmm...I haven't been for some years now. I left that world behind and I haven't looked back." I explained softly, wetting one of the small towels lightly.
The smell of simple antiseptic filled the air. After all, not everything had to be magic potions and spellwork. A regular disinfecting never hurt, especially before any potions were distributed. Seeing and being treated by war zone medics had taught me that much.
Undertaker's massive arms tensed as if he were expecting an attack but when none came, the muscles visibly relaxed, if only slightly. Merlin, his biceps were bigger around than my thighs.
Gently, as if he had no more strength to him than a bubble, as if he couldn't squeeze the life out of me with his little finger, I began to clean him free of blood. Goddess, there was so much of it. No thanks to the head wound, no doubt. If the battlefield had taught me anything it was that.
That old familiar static began to creep into the foreground of my brain from it's confinement that I had forced it into. I wanted to be a normal, everyday British muggle citizen. Normal everyday citizens did not know how to cast curses. Normal, everyday blokes did not have walls of static in their heads to hide all of the blood and murder behind.
Normal. Right.
Clearing my throat, and my head, I opted instead to try and fill the silence between me and a man who seemed perfectly comfortable with it if not my proximity.
"So you're a Shtrige, hm? I haven't met many death mages in my days." I offered with an awkward, yet hopefully comforting smile.
His grave aura was a sentient thing, reaching out to rub against my own like some great feline. Testing mine for similarities and inconsistencies. For truths and lies. Strengths and weaknesses .
"In your days? And how many days would that be Mr. Harry No-Last-Name?" He rumbled, grimacing with distaste as I rewetted the cloth with disinfectant.
I don't know why but the question struck me as alarmingly funny.
For so long, my last name had marked me, singled me out to an entire nation of hero-worshipping sheep as their savior and scion. Later, it would mark me as a figurehead and soldier. A child that they had forced to become a man and, inevitably, a murderer. Eventually even my own death had been snatched out of my hands. All because of a last name.
"I do have a surname, Mr. Undertaker ," I chuckled good-naturedly, snorting out loud at his disdain, "It's Potter. Harry Potter and I'm twenty-one years young, thanks."
"Potter, then. I'm what you might call a death mage, yes, but you could say I'm...a special case. You're no ordinary wizard yourself either though, are you?" The question was asked as if he already knew the answer. He didn't need confirmation of it. What Undertaker was looking for was elaboration .
I wasn't giving it to him.
"Yes, you could say that."
I didn't need anyone, especially some hulk of a stranger off of the street, meddling in my affairs. All that I needed was some greedy brute getting it in their head to try and claim the Hallows for themselves. They wouldn't be able to, after all I couldn't die, but it would be a terrible nuisance.
Either Undertaker wasn't willing to press the matter with the person willing to freely aid him or he was a man who respected the secrets of others. His eyes narrowed slightly but he remained silent on my obvious evasion.
"I'll need you to, erm...take your coat and top off so I can check for injuries beneath them. After that, I can give you potions and you can shower if you feel up to it." I directed, most certainly not flushing lightly at the idea of what lay beneath those layers.
Merlin's beard, if his arms looked like that, what did his chest look like? No. Bad Harry! Bad brain! My sanity dubiously survived Voldemort only to be done in by some bloke with a herculean set of pecs. What had the world come to?
So maybe I hadn't just been watching Cedric exercise for tips and tricks. Maybe I hadn't just wanted to be close to the twins for friendship reasons. And that bloke from the animal shelter two years ago? I most certainly did not spend the night with him two weeks later. Nope.
"No potions." He grunted, struggling to shrug off the sopping leather duster that clung to him in all of the right places. Right for viewing pleasure maybe but certainly not for his injuries. Undertaker had taken a beating and his body was showing the signs of it.
"No potions? But...you'll be in pain. And you probably have Goddess knows how many broken bones." I interjected in surprise, trying not to point out the alarming cuts on his face from what could only have been blunt force. He was going to look a right mess tomorrow without potions to help him heal.
"A rib. Concussion. Broken finger. Maybe the nose. Nothing that won't heal on its own with time and without magical meddling. I'd rather heal my own way." He groused, grinding his teeth and I reached out to help him slide the left sleeve down off of his shoulder.
The gasp that tore its way from my throat would not be smothered. Already, his back was a mass of welts and bruising skin. Familiar marks, 'boot prints', my mind supplied unhelpfully, littered the tight muscles and broken flesh.
"Goddess of all…" The whisper cut through the air of my flat like a scythe.
No potions?
For all of...All of this ?
"But...you're sure?" Another definitive affirmative, "Well, alright. But I'm going to at least bind you up. You may look like a mummy after. Binding has never quite been my specialty."
Undertaker accepted this admittance with silent confirmation. I began the arduous task.
It was no small feat with a man who towered over me by at least a foot and a half and outweighed me by no less than a hundred and fifty pounds. Somehow, I ended up kneeling between the now shirtless man's legs, entirely unaware of my position until I finished tying the rather shoddy knot down beneath his ribs.
A huff of happy contentment, observing my handiwork proudly only distracted me for a moment. It was better than my past medical attempts, if not the most attractive piece of work. I may have even gotten away with my dignity intact if I hadn't realized how disastrously close to the man I was. His dark eyes stared down at me from mere inches away and his body seemed to draw out the heat from the very air, only serving to draw my own heat closer to the surface.
I shot to my feet, aura sparking out hotly and burning with my smothered embarrassment. Speech took another coughing effort. Maybe this bloke was cursed or something. Cursed with good looks and an amazing build, maybe...Bloody hell, I would not, and I mean NOT turn into some ruddy rom-com, thanks very much! Especially not for some stranger dumped in a dingy back alley.
Undertaker's brows were furrowed lightly but he seemed otherwise unaware of my predicament, thank Merlin.
"How about that shower? I'll make us some supper while you're in, yeah?"