"Nithercott!"

Harry glanced up, then quickly swept his overly-long bangs across his forehead. "Yaxley," he greeted, wiping his hands on his waistcoat. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Yaxley shrugged, glancing around the room. "You've really made this place yours, haven't you?"

Harry smiled. "I like to think so." It was true; what had once been a rather sparse guestroom now had no visible floor. Books, parchment, quills, potion ingredients, and the like were stacked everywhere. The four poster bed in the corner had managed to escape such a fate, but the three chairs in the room hadn't. His work space, a long table pushed to one side of the room, was also messier than Harry would normally have liked it. Three boiling cauldrons dominated it, surrounded with knives and half-used bowls of crushed beetles and similar ingredients.

"Now, really. You aren't here just to see me, right?"

"Well, er. . . ." Yaxley looked around, the distaste on his face at the state of the room just barely masked. "How are the potions coming along?"

"Yaxley."

The man sighed. "Can I sit down?"

Harry shoved a stack of parchment and empty potion bottles off of a chair, then stood back and polished his glasses on his sleeve. Yaxley sat cautiously and lifted his legs to rest them on a pile of books.

"Your boots could do with some shining," he said at length. Harry glanced down. They really did, he thought. Harry's clothing wasn't something he would normally wear. He'd been given some clothes from the attic at Malfoy's manor, and appeared to have stepped straight out of the 18th century. He wasn't wearing tights and buckled shoes, they'd been kind enough to give him a pair of knee-high boots. He was, however, dressed in calf-length trousers, a billowy white shirt with frilly cuffs, and a waistcoat. The overcoat that matched was swung over the back of a chair. He'd also let his hair grow longer than he would normally. It was just long enough to be pulled back into a loose ponytail, as it was now.

"Is that all you came for?" asked Harry. "Because—"

"Your hair is reaching a decent length as well," Yaxley continued. "It really does compliment the wings."

His wings fluttered at the mention; he'd had to rip the back of his shirt and waistcoat in order to let them free. "What are you really here for?"

Yaxley sighed. "Truth is, Nithercott, Antonin said you're always willing to listen. He said you can keep a secret, and give suggestions."

"I—" Harry was flattered. Sure, Dolohov had come asking for advice, but Dolohov lived at the Manor. Yaxley didn't, and was rarely there.

"I just don't know how to tell my family," said Yaxley, "that I'm a Death Eater."

". . . They don't already know. . . ?"

"I know I should have told them already, but I could never find the right way, and I—I'm afraid they'll reject me for who I am."

Harry blinked.

"Just—how did you come out to your family?"

"Uh, I. . . ." Was this what Death Eaters actually talked about? Harry had no clue how to respond, so he went with the easy way. "I'm an orphan, and still in school. So no wife or kids."

Yaxley frowned. "Oh, right. Sorry, Nithercott."

"No, no, it's all right. Um. . . ." Harry fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt. "Well, do you care about them?"

"Of course!"

"All right then, you should just tell them," Harry suggested. "If they care about you as much as you care about them, they should accept you for who you truly are. And if they don't," he shrugged, "you've always got a place that'll accept you: here."

"You mean that?" Yaxley asked. When Harry nodded, he smiled. "Thanks, Nithercott. Dolohov was right. I won't hesitate to come by next time."

"Oh, yeah, uh, feel free," mumbled Harry. Yaxley nodded.

"Thanks." The man straightened his robes and stood, then picked his way through the mess and back to the door. "By the way," he said, looking over his shoulder, "some of us are going out for drinks tonight. Would you care to join us?"

Harry waved him off. "As fun as that sounds," he said, "maybe another time."

"I've never seen you leave the Manor," said Yaxley. "You need to get out sometimes. Forget the potions for a night."

"You know I can't do that."

"If you say so," Yaxley smirked, "though you and I both know you could do it tomorrow. I've never met anyone as skilled with potions as you. Next time, Nithercott."

As Yaxley exited the room, Harry looked back to the open recipe book on the work table. It was true; among the wizards of the magical world, Harry was a prodigy. Potions were an incredibly important part of Fairy culture, and the students were overly competitive about it. By Fairy standards, Harry was merely average. He'd only ever won two brew-offs, and neither had included the entire school. Not that he was likely to ever compete again. The summer was almost over, and it didn't look like he would be returning to school.

He couldn't risk being discovered, that was a fact. If the Death Eaters found out who he really was, he was done for. He'd done everything in his power to gain trust, including dressing the way he did—it wasn't just because he had no other clothes, they'd offered to take him robe-shopping. A Fairy study had proved that people were found to be more inclined to trust individuals wearing old-fashioned clothing, the older the better.

But even with the trust Harry gained from his clothes alone, he didn't know how long he could keep this up. He needed to either find a way to contact the Order, let them know he was all right, pass information or figure out an extraction plan, or go deeper into the organization. He could sense that, on the Death Eater ladder of hierarchy, he was about two rungs away from receiving a Dark Mark.

He wasn't considered dangerous, so to speak (his eccentric clothing dispelled that thought immediately), but he was an important asset. He'd 'proved' his loyalty to the Dark Lord several times, and was generally quite liked among Voldemort's followers. It was really only a matter of time.

Harry looked up from the page he'd been gazing listlessly at, and met eyes with himself in the mirror on the back of the closed door. He practically couldn't see the young man from Fairy School. He looked like—like an adult (from the 18th century). He ran a hand through his unwashed hair and sighed. How would he be able to take down Voldemort from the inside, when he'd had no clue how to do it from the outside?

"I'll figure it out as I go along," he murmured. After all, that's what he'd done all summer. It was what he'd done all his life.