The wind feels nice, he thinks, closing his eyes. There's a salty scent to it from the nearby ocean. It's so different from the pollution of London that it makes his lungs hurt.
"Tutor, where are you?" A childish voice rings out.
He gets up from the shade of the tree, stretching with a sigh. It's back to work then. His student is supposed to be taking a break, but the boy has a hard time sitting still.
Despite resting in the grass, the toga wrapped around him stays clean and neatly in place. When he first wore the heavy, woolen material, he had almost decided to burn it immediately. Thankfully for his sanity, someone took pity and showed him how to properly spell the garb. He still catches the white material in doorways, but at least it covers the uncomfortably short tunic underneath.
"Tutor!"
"Marcus, didn't your mother tell you to be patient?" He asks the boy running up to him.
Bright, blue eyes and a mischievous smile meet his words. The boy shakes shaggy blond hair, and he fights the urge to transfigure a stick into a comb. It'd be a useless gesture: not five minutes would go by before that hair became a mess again.
"Mama said many things. If I did everything she told me to, I'd never sleep!" Marcus exclaims.
Well, true enough, he supposes. Marcus' mother would be a slave driver if she wasn't too busy with spell research to ensure everyone was following her orders, and as she's unable to keep an eye on her energetic, curious child, the job falls to him.
"Let's get back to the lesson then since you can't let me enjoy some peace and quiet," he says.
"I'll be good! I will be as quiet as a mouse," Marcus promises while struggling to maintain a straight face.
"You mean as quiet as a drunk troll," he snorts. "Come on then, go get your tactics textbook. We'll do a practical lesson afterwards."
Marcus rushes off with an excited whoop, and not for the first time, he marvels at how easy he finds his new life. Getting up in the morning to breakfast that Kreacher cooked, meeting up with his student for a long day of teaching before heading to the pub for a relaxing drink by a heatless fire—it's too good for a murderer like him.
He waits for the inevitable, for the moment the illusion of a peaceful life shatters. As a precaution, he keeps the gun maintained and attached to his belt invisibly, but the days pass by without incident. The memory of red hair and a freckled smile begin fading away.
"My friend, you are busy as always," Rogatus tells him over a drink.
It's the same pub as before, but this time he can read the sign outside. Hardened Flask was not his first guess for a name. He swirls the wine in his cup and different spices assault his nose. He thinks he can spell cinnamon.
"I have a lot of work," he says, thinking of his student.
While trouble tends to follow the name Harry Potter, Marcus actively seeks it. He's had to use stun spells on bees simply because his student wanted to see if the insects would sting. It's impressive, really.
"The Servilius child," Rogatus nods, "a handful I hear. Ah, but you must have impressed his mother greatly for her to be willing to allow you domain over his education. That is no small feat."
"I think she just wanted a babysitter," he says flatly.
It's embarrassing to remember, but with his brain torn apart by a language-learning concoction, he had accidentally wandered into a house that he mistook for a library. There, he met the Servilius family where he ended up in a debate over which was better for children: theoretical or practical magic.
"Rogatus, when are you going to tell me about these Flames?" He asks abruptly.
Luna's words haunt him still. Though it sounds far-fetched, that there some kind of cursed fire in Italy that may be affecting him, he trusts his instincts. He needs to know whatever Rogatus knows.
He needs to know if that's why he's going crazy.
Rogatus leans back silently, and he rankles over the man's considering gaze. He's been here for more than two months; he's dyed his hair and got his vision fixed. He's followed every order and threatening smile with a nod. He deserves to know.
"It's not yet time. You still stick out like a daisy among roses, and the Artorias are still covering your tracks," Rogatus says. "This is dangerous knowledge. You need to be able to blend in perfectly, or you will wind up dead."
"When will that be then? When I've got nothing left to give you?" He says through clenched teeth.
It's crossed his mind a few times that Rogatus has no plans to actually tell him, that the man is simply leading him on. He briefly imagines the kind of reaction a gun to the face would get before disregarding the thought. He's not desperate enough to attempt threats or Veritaserum just yet.
"Peace, my friend. I am simply being cautious. You'll get your information as I am a man of my word," Rogatus says.
"I can't wait forever," he warns.
Rogatus accepts his words with a nod. Perhaps he owes the man his full trust, but time's running out for him. He can feel his soul growing dimmer day by day.
(Would the dementors be able to feed off of him, or would he be considered undead?)
"Come, tell me about your day. How have those new potions been working for you?" Rogatus says, smile firmly in place.
Mirto's main street is Vicus Strios; it runs in one line with every important building resting on it. He spends most of his free time exploring it; the street is just that long. Vicus Strios runs from upper-class to lower-class, and he finds himself more comfortable with the buildings planted firmly in the middle.
He has a favorite shop; he tends to frequent Knowledge in Sanctuary, a quiet bookshop ran by a friendly lady with a sweet face. There's nothing better than grabbing a book or a scroll and sitting in the corner of the shop, surrounded by piles of paper.
Hermione would love it here, he thinks with a pang.
"Anything interesting today, Sabina?" He asks, resting an elbow on the countertop.
"Please, it's just Irene. You come here so often, you may as well be family," the shopkeeper says before rummaging through a box under the counter.
He makes a pleased noise as Irene sets out three ornate scrolls. Though more expensive than books, scrolls are written on enchanted paper that are attached to two rods. With a tap of the wand, the paper moves between the rods like a film; he can even change the speed and rewind the scroll. It's incredibly convenient.
"This one is a classic epic," Irene points to the leftmost scroll before moving to the one in the middle, "and this one is the History of Oracles."
Both scrolls are beautifully made, but it is the last one that is the most eye-catching. Compared to the other two, the scroll looks old. Its papyrus is yellowed and cracked, and the wooden rods look faded. His interest is piqued.
"A customer was cleaning out his storage and sold this to me," Irene says, noticing his gaze. "I glanced through it and found it was an old defensive magic text. You are teaching the young Servilius, yes? I thought you might find it useful."
Something about the scroll pulls at his gut. He doesn't even have to think about it.
"I'll take it," he says.
"Fifty-five orichalus," the shopkeeper tells him, and he staggers at the amount.
Irene takes out a worn, plain box for the scroll, and he begins the laborious task of going through an extended pouch for fifty-five coins. Shiny, orange coins are thrown onto the counter one after the other, and he mentally calculates the amount of galleons wasted.
It's roughly seventy-five galleons by his calculations. He's lucky that Marcus' mother pays well. This scroll better be worth it.
"Enjoy and no spellcasting in the shop!" Irene hands him the case with a smile.
He settles down into his usual corner, and carefully lays the scroll onto the small table, piles of books hiding him from view. He taps it with his wand, and the words stream by slowly as his brain tries to connect them into something legible.
Rogatus might have something of a point about blending in better; even with the potions and spells reinforcing his brain, he still struggles to speak or read fluently. This scroll uses older terms and words as well, making it all the harder.
Wait a minute. He freezes the scroll and rewinds it until he sees a familiar word blending in among foreign ones. He mouths the word silently before looking in Irene's direction warily. There's no way the shopkeeper knows what she just sold him. He looks down at the scroll again in disbelief.
Legilimency.
A whole section is written on it and looking further there's another dedicated to Occlumency. He goes through the entire scroll, slowly and intensely. Dark magic is prominent, and he recognizes a form of the Cruciatus Curse when he sees it. Crucius, the passage reads, the pain causing technique.
Putting the scroll in its case, he heads home, heavy in thought. Irene may have missed the darker writings closer to the end of the text, but the scroll really has some useful spells in it. He places the case by the bookshelf, and thinks maybe.
"Kreacher, how about some tea?" He asks the old house elf.
Kreacher disappears eagerly, and he runs a hand through his sandy brown hair with a sigh. Attempting Occlumency training again is a nice thought, but he wouldn't even know where to begin. His first try with Snape had been a disaster, and he needs more than a text passage.
(But Legilimency might be easier, his mind whispers treacherously. He's already done it on Voldemort, already knows what it feels like.)
"Tea will be done soon. The filthy liar sent this," Kreacher announces with a scowl.
He accepts the package, and the house elf disappears again, muttering about "no-good con artists." It makes him smile to hear Kreacher so worked up over Rogatus. He holds onto that feeling of humor when he considers that his new present will probably sour his mood.
Opening the box, he pulls out a letter and a small bottle. More potions to change his body then, how bloody excellent. He skims the letter and nearly tears it apart.
"I lament your hair's ability to be anything other than a mess, but that is something we can work with," he reads. "What cannot continue are your eyes for they are too noticeable. Keep pouring this into your eyes little by little until they turn darker. Brown would be good."
He doesn't bother reading the rest of the directions, choosing to throw everything in his hand onto the floor. It had been hard just dying his hair and losing his glasses. To lose his eyes—his mother's eyes—is too painful to even think about. He won't do it.
He goes to bed and dreams about getting caught in Italy. Of the accusatory faces of the Weasleys and his friends. His green eyes, the distorted version of his loved ones tell him, they gave him away. Eyes of a murderer, they cry.
"You don't deserve my eyes," his mother says. It is the last thing he hears before waking up.
He springs out of bed and pours the entire bottle into his eyes. It stings something awful, and he cries as the potion goes everywhere, making a mess out of his toilet sink. He keeps a towel over his face and waves away a concerned Kreacher until the pain stops.
He looks into the mirror, and black eyes stare back.