"Well, that was stupid," Harry muttered to himself. It had been rash of him to storm out of Grimmauld Place like that. Sure, they had just told him for the very first time that Dumbledore was—well, was—
No. He couldn't bring himself to even think the word. Surely that was proof enough that they should've sent him a letter, maybe, or visited him as soon as it had happened?
He'd only just seen the man at Christmas. But, if he was to believe what they told him, it had been a month since Dumbledore—
His mind reeling, Harry slid to the ground in a back alley somewhere. "You're an adult," he told himself. "This happens all the time. Get over it."
He took several deep, calming breaths, squeezed back the tears that were welling up, and took stock of the situation. He was somewhere in London, with nothing but the clothes on his back and the disillusionment charm on his wings. He checked the pockets of his blue sweatshirt, found nothing but a gum wrapper, then felt his jeans pockets. His wands. At least he wouldn't be defenseless.
He had stormed out, leaving his trunk in the entryway, just after hearing of Dumbledore. He had no idea what the politics of the wizarding world were like, who was in control now, or even who had done the deed and—killed—Dumbledore. Or if anyone else was dead. His school was so cut of from the rest of the world, so sheltered from the evils, that now that he had been suddenly plunged back into them, all he longed for was to be back in that blissful state of ignorance.
"Let's sort out what I know," Harry said aloud. It was standard teaching in Fairy School that if you met a problem, the fastest way through it was to mumble what you know and what questions you had, so that anyone listening could suggest answers and you'd solve the problem without doing any real work. "Dumbledore is dead. I don't know who did it, but I know it was murder. I don't know if anyone else is dead. I have no idea what's going on in the muggle world. I don't know what's going on in the wizarding world either—is Voldemort in charge? Is—"
CRACK!
CRACK!
And Harry was surrounded. Black-robed figures at every turn, some wearing the classic Death Eater masks, others not.
"Who are you that you think you can use the Dark Lord's name?" one of them growled menacingly.
"Uh. . . ."
The man forced his way closer. His breath was heaving, and stank of garlic. "What's your name?" he asked slowly.
"Nithercott," Harry said quickly. "Aidric Nithercott." The name came to him relatively quickly—his favorite teacher, Mr. Nithercott, taught Flying and Wing Management.
"Hm," a man said, glancing at his companions. "I mean . . . sounds pretty legitimate. . . ."
"What house were you in, Nithercott?" a masked man asked him.
"Oh," Harry said. "I don't go to Hogwarts. I go to Fairy School."
The men stared at him for several long seconds. "Doesn't Bulstrode's kid go there?" one of them piped up eventually.
"I heard they have wings there. . . ."
"I heard they don't need to drink water. . . ."
"I heard that they split the school into two sides. . . ."
"What are the sides?"
"Sissies and Slytherins."
"What side were you on, Nithercott?"
"Oh, uh, Slytherin," said Harry. The men nodded their approval. One man, who seemed to be the ringleader of the group, removed his mask and faced Harry directly. His face was long and pale, his sleek dark hair beginning to gray. Harry didn't recognize the man whatsoever.
"Nithercott," he said, a smile in his voice, "How would you like to join the greatest cause on earth?"
They'd walked him to the Malfoy Manor, asking questions the entire way. Harry showed off his wings, mentioned several spells they'd never heard of before, and promised to brew a batch of Felix Felicis.
"Fairies practically live off the stuff," he'd said to them. "I can whip it up in my sleep!"
Harry had never seen the Malfoy Manor, let alone been inside of it. Summer break being in session, all of the Malfoys were at home—including Bellatrix Lestrange, whom Harry didn't know much of, but had a vague dislike for from the very beginning. He'd thought it was purely luck when none of them, not even Draco, recognized him. Then he remembered that he hadn't seen any of them in several years, and Fairy School had changed his looks.
He had square glasses now.
He had been shown to a guest room after introducing himself to the Malfoys. It was sparse, but nice. As Dolohov left him to his own devices, Harry checked himself out in the mirror. He had been gelling his hair for a little over a year now, most of it in a fancy swoosh, with one little curl hiding his scar. He would need more hair gel, he realized—
It looked like he was going to be here for a long time.