Italy is beautiful; it's sunny and green with a hint of sea breeze drifting on the wind. Well, he assumes as much from the view outside his window. He hasn't been brave enough to leave the house yet.
Apparently the Blacks were ambitious in claiming real estate they took a fancy to, and there are a dozen of tiny abandoned houses all over the world. He's not surprised in the least that one of these houses resides in Sicily, Italy.
The Blacks, fond of art and tradition, couldn't resist a vacation home on such a well-known historical island. They were even fonder of taking things that didn't belong to them, he thinks, tracing the rim of an ancient Roman-styled vase. Naively, he hopes it's a replica.
The house is small for one belonging to wizards; there are only six rooms. He's thankful though. He's able to put up protective enchantments in one go even if it takes a lot out of him. Kreacher enhances the spells, and between the two of them, they have working wards.
He does nothing after that accomplishment, does nothing but sit by the fireplace staring at ancient pottery. The gun rests beside him the entire time. He doesn't allow it to leave his sight.
Kreacher is the only reason he doesn't think about pulling the trigger a second time.
"The house is too cold," he mutters.
A fire is lit with a snap of the fingers. He leans back into the luxurious chair, taking comfort in the heat. He lets out an appreciative mumble, and Kreacher pops away with a promise to come back soon.
The fire resembles Ginny's hair, he muses absentmindedly, especially when she drank Pepper-up potions. He rubs a hand over his chest in an effort to soothe the ache.
Is this a side effect of her potions, he wonders. This feeling in his chest that takes his breath away, this pain. He doesn't realize he's crying until he can no longer breathe.
He reaches for the Calming Draught that sits next to the gun. His fingers freeze, and his breathing becomes uneven. The shine of the glass bottle gives him a thought: perhaps Ginny had only—
No. No, that's just her blasted potions speaking.
He won't believe that she was doing anything else other than using love potions on him. He can't because if it turns out she was innocent—if it turns out he's nothing but a murderer—
"Master, he wishes to meet with you," Kreacher arrives with a pop.
Time unfreezes for him, and he uncorks the bottle and downs it in one smooth motion. An unsettling feeling of calmness washes over him; the troubling thoughts are pushed to the back of his mind.
"Let's go," he utters coldly. "Stay hidden when we get there."
He shoves the gun back into his pocket and holds his hand out. Kreacher apparates them away. He's so numb that he barely feels the discomfort of being pushed through a rubber tube.
Italy's main wizarding world community happens to also be in Sicily; they land outside of Mirto. Kreacher stays hidden, and he strides through the town with the invisibility cloak over his shoulders.
Kreacher's whispered instructions lead him to a church. Though the building looks old and worn down, it's easy to see the care that goes into the upkeep. He stands in front of the heavy wooden door, taking shallow breaths.
"Are wizards the same as sinners?" He asks softly.
"Master?" Kreacher inquires.
"It's nothing," he says, pushing the door open.
It doesn't matter anymore. He's responsible for so many deaths; if he catches on fire, he deserves it.
His movements don't go unnoticed. Startled patrons move towards the door with wide eyes. He navigates around them and heads to the back of the church. A large, old painting waits for him.
"Tap your wand against it and step through," Kreacher instructs.
He knows that the wizarding world intertwines with the muggle one and that old artifacts are fair game. It doesn't stop him from holding his breath as he reaches out to the painting, part of him cringing at accidentally ruining something so precious.
He passes through the painting without incident. The world that awaits him makes him stop and stare. Ancient Rome stares back, and for a moment, he's eleven again with his jaw dropped wide open.
White buildings with elaborate, colorful drawings etched into them stand tall, supported by beautiful pillars. Men and women stroll around with tunics and togas, hair twisted into amazing braids and styles. He almost wishes for a thousand eyes to see it all.
"Near the end of the main street there is an alleyway with a hidden pub. That is where the filth is waiting," Kreacher whispers in his ear.
With that, the childish wonder vanishes and the familiar numbness sets back in. Without taking the invisibility cloak off, he follows the wide road keeping a careful eye out. No one seems to pay attention to his hidden form, but that doesn't mean they don't know he's there.
It's a long road; the street turns dirtier the more he walks. The buildings become less clean and beautiful, and he knows he's almost there when a large white wall looms over him. He's pretty sure the wall borders the entire community.
"Here," Kreacher hisses.
Sure enough, the alleyway leads him to a rotting door. He can't comprehend the symbols painted above the door, but he understands the meaning of a figure knocking back a cup.
He takes off the cloak, squares his shoulders, and opens the door. To be honest, he expects a seedy-looking pub like the Hog's Head. Instead, pieces of artwork pepper the room, and matching wooden tables and stools surround a large fireplace. The homely atmosphere leaves him momentarily dumbfounded.
"My friend, over here!" A heavily accented voice rings out.
Ignoring the eyes digging into him by customers frozen mid drink, he goes over to the table closest to the fireplace. A smile greets him along with a wink. He takes a seat across from the man without a word.
"So cold," the man says sorrowfully.
"You wanted to talk. Talk," he bites out, resisting the urge to keep one hand in his pocket.
Brown eyes stare into his. When he doesn't respond, the man snaps his fingers and says something in a different language. A server stops by with a drink that's placed before him, and he feels the air around him shudder. He reaches for his wand without hesitation.
"Easy there," the man holds up a hand, "just a little spell to keep this conversation to ourselves. It's standard with the drink."
Aware of the eyes still on him, he puts his hands on the table and leans back. He's noticed that the men in this area exclusively wear tunics. The man across from him wears a toga. Wrinkled brown eyes narrow at him with an unbending smile.
What makes you special, he silently wonders.
"I am Sertor Fonteius Rogatus," the man introduces himself. "Your missives lack eloquence, but it's not every day I am contacted from foreigners about fiamme."
Of course the messages lacked eloquence. Kreacher somehow wrote them. He wisely chooses against saying so.
"Sertor—" he begins.
"Rogatus," the man interrupts tersely.
"Right, Rogatus," he says without missing a beat, "what can you tell me about this fire?"
It takes all his self-control to avoid shaking the man like a rabid loon. To avoid shouting out, "Tell me. I've just killed my wife. Tell me what I want to know."
"My friend, what you ask for is dangerous knowledge. If you think I will just tell you because you asked, you are quite the fool."
He squeezes his hands together. For a dangerous moment, he envisions squeezing the trigger on the gun still in his pocket. He grits his teeth, wondering why the Calming Draught seems to have stopped working.
"What do you want?" He asks.
Rogatus with that ever annoying smile winks again at him. The man takes a long sip from his drink, and he feels his fingernails digging into skin.
"While I would like to know why Harry Potter is here asking about such things, I have something else I'd like from you," Rogatus eventually says.
"How do you?" He chokes out.
His scar is hidden by his hair; he made sure of it. His face shouldn't have even made it to Italy.
"Mirto is a very isolated place. Most magic-weavers here don't even realize there is a magicless Mirto. I am not one of them. I know many things," Rogatus says. "Which is what brings you here to me."
"What is it that you want?" He asks again.
"You foreign magic-weavers always desire to know our secrets—our spells—without giving your own up," Rogatus tells him with a tilt of the head.
"You want to know spells," he says in realization.
"I want a teacher," Rogatus corrects him. "I want a teacher that knows foreign defense spells. A teacher that abides by our laws and cares for our children."
(Books line the walls, and piles of them are stacked to the ceiling. He searches for the items on his list, and he's thankful that Flourish and Blotts is relatively empty today. He does his best to tune out the annoying shadow behind him.
"Harry," Neville tells him once more, "you don't have to keep fighting."
So You Want to be an Auror? shines in gold lettering from a pile on his left. He grabs it and looks for another book.
"Hogwarts has a spot for Defense against the Dark Arts. I hear offing Dark Lords is extra credit," Neville tries again.
He finds another book on a shelf. He thinks about finding the third one another day. Maybe he should look for sturdy wand holsters.
"Just think about it, alright?" Neville says softly.
He thinks about it so much it hurts. Memories of the D.A. tear through his head like radio static. Every time he remembers how much he liked teaching, he remembers how he was never good enough. Remembers Lavender and Colin's still bodies.)
"I'll do it, but I'm going to need more than just information," he says darkly.
He wants to take it back immediately, but this information is too important to pass up because of feelings. Rogatus takes another long sip of his drink, and he avoids looking the man in the eye again.
"Of course," Rogatus smiles, "in order to put you in a position to be trusted with such perilous information and our children, we must turn you into a true citizen of Italia. Hiding your identity would be par the course."
His heart nearly stops. He knows, he thinks. The damn smile seems to only brighten.
"Faustus Artoria Tutor. That will be your new name," Rogatus says. "The Artorias will agree to adopt you without any questions asked so long as you buy them off."
"Faustus?" He tries out.
It feels awkward on his tongue. The name also feels familiar though he can't pinpoint why. Something Hermione might have said about a book a long time ago.
"Don't ever let anyone call you Faustus unless they are calling you Faustus Artoria," Rogatus tells him sternly. "Have some class."
"Then what would you have me go by?" He says irritably.
"Tutor," Rogatus smirks. "That is what you are after all."