A/N: This story may soon be up for adoption if I can't find the other bits, I'll continue it a-fresh if the reviews are good. Basically I was sorting through half-baked scenes on my laptop for my other fictions (which, at a free moment, will be updated when I have time to attempt syntax fixing the documents) The Core Project has been niggling for resurrection along with Saving Harry and I'll see if I can do anything with my Dr. Death fic this coming weekend. While I was having a rummage I uncovered this little gem, which I consider to be my polar (no pun intended) opposite to "Potter Frost" (which is on the update list just after Saving Harry).

I do not own YGO or HP. Slash, undecided pairings. Ignores DH and HBP Severe underage alcoholism and other nastiness - story may be a twoshot/threeshot OR possibly on-going but with a drabble-like style, depending on response

Chapter Two

Dinner had been an awkward affair at best. The visitor made an effort to clean himself up before coming down and seemed to aware of his less then positive reception. Not that he could blame them of course, he was an intrusive presence at best. It was then that both Isis and her younger brother began to learn something interesting about their guest. He was a man of many faces, for one thing. Whilst physically his characteristics hadn't changed, Isis noted how much more guarded Harry was. Certainly not standoffish as his manners were the best she'd seen. There was almost no similarity to the boy sitting in the spare bed, clutching his sides, or tear-stained unconscious features from when Bill had brought him over. Indeed, it was almost as if Harry had been well-practiced in the art of handling subtle animosity at the dinner table. He seemed to take Marik's shooting looks of distaste into stride while manipulating the cutlery around him with such well-refined ease that any sign of awkwardness on his part was untraceable. He remained unbearably polite and gracious, while subtly acknowledging the little digs that Marik made once or twice.

Really, Marik didn't hate the stranger, he just didn't like him being there - something that Harry could understand. It would not do to consider this other person's place a 'home away from home' as there was none of the bond or love for the walls or inhabitants like he had for The Burrow. As he helped Isis wash the dishes, he could not help but feel a pang in his chest that sunk all the way down to his stomach as he remembered The Burrow as it had been - as it should have remained being, and was now a pile of ash being repaired. He politely excused himself from their company, feeling no desire to be glared at by someone with worse subtly then Ron had.

His heart sank like a rock, Ron...

He dug around his trunk for the money he'd prepared earlier, there was a nice little agreement with Gringotts and his pouch connection to his vault, and after mulling over exchange rates, he decided he was doing well for an unemployed wizard. He felt like he was floating, as he took money and shoved it into his pockets and fixed up his shirt for a rather older look. It was almost surreal, how he'd left the house with no strings attached and was looking out at a hyper industrialized city in another country, on the other side of the globe. Never had he felt so far away from home, and as he saw - not horses or broomsticks, but cars, cyclists, scooters, motorcycles, signs and lights everywhere - he could not help but feel the cold air was breathing liberation into his lungs.

He could almost forget.

Almost.

He felt as though he were on a peculiar sort of high from the ease in which he'd shoved money into his pockets and walked out to explore a foreign city of which he had no understanding and had utterly no interference. It must have been hours, he'd crossed too many streets to remember, aimlessly wondered into shops and absorbed the rainbow of people he encountered.

Not a hint of the Death Eater's... they never stepped foot here. The war never did reach the shore.

Japan was so beautiful, so unspoiled, there was something tender and pure about Domino city that seemed to want to lick his wounds soothingly. To surround him with bright eyed, mixed sub-cultured youth, business men strolling in and out of Edo's with arm-fulls of last minute food. Day to day things in a completely different culture that was unspoiled by the cruel hand of Voldemort and his war. It was almost like the city had wanted him to forget. Harry exhaled and sat down on a bench, staring at the building parallel, across the street.

Behind the bench was a small walled up stone plant-box area, that had little flower beds. He could have sat out in the slowly darkening outside for longer, but soon the cold turned from refreshing to a gentle nip. His hands wrapped around himself as the bitter chill made him shuffle into the building, which seemed to welcome him with open arms.

It was a dimly lit little pub that served - unusually enough, tandoori along with pub meals and alcohol. Making his way over to the nearest vacant stool, he decided to try something other then Firewhiskey. Muggle alcohol.

Previously -in his youth at Hogwarts, he never understood the appeal or Seamus Finnegan's desire to turn liquids to rum. He'd seen Uncle Vernon get drunk plenty of times, it didn't appeal to him. Losing your bearings and the hangover following never seemed particularly appetizing until he realized something. For a while, for a short, blissful, swaying moment - he could forget.

He could forget everything he'd ever seen that he didn't want to see and the pain and the ache of loss. He could forget the war and his deceased friends, deceased loves, and all those who'd suffered. Once the lightly burning alcohol reached his body in mass units, he could feel himself slipping. Instead of that being a bad thing though - it was a good thing. It felt like he was slipping away from being "Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived," and was simply "Just Harry,". Just Harry who had the freedom to be uttering his story and his problems and his frustrations into the pit of whiskey shot, to a bartender paid to nod and smile.

He didn't even feel the hours slip through his fingers, until a voice of more then the bartender began to urge him to go home.

When he felt like his skills in apparating would be close to suffering due to his intoxication - he nodded and took his leave in an ungraceful stumble as the barkeeper shook his head and resumed cleaning the bar table with his rag.

He decided he'd have to apparate out of the house, he contemplated doing it straight to his room but his drunken logic told him it'd be hard to explain how he got in the house if anyone was awake and knew he hadn't entered using the door.

Then he realized he'd have to appear sober and knock because he didn't have a key.

Forcing himself into a rigid stance - but looking down so that his out-grown locks of hair would fall forward over his eyes somewhat and scar, as - if his eyes could betray his intoxication and as if looking down would coat the liquors scent.

He lightly knocked on the door, and after the sound of a gentle click, it opened. He hoped it'd be the tallest brother - what was his name? Something beginning with an O with enough facial tattooing and intimidating demeanor that Harry guessed small children weren't fond him. Yeah, that guy - Odion!

His drunken mind celebrated the internal victory - yeah he hoped it was him, between Odion and Miss Isis and the stroppy teenager, he would have preferred if the nice lady didn't see him in his shameful state and he couldn't deal with blondie and the shit-eating grin that'd be soon to follow.

Of course, with a Potter's luck, it turned out to be the stroppy, irritable blond boy who made a show of not liking him at dinner.

"What time do you call this?" the teenager - what was that asshole called again?

Harry had half a mind to push his way in and - no, his mind reminded him he was a guest in their home even if this member of the Ishtar family was uncooperative at best. He had to keep it civil, but this guy was a year below him and was talking as if he was his keeper! The Ishtars were kind enough to put him up, yes, but they were not his babysitter nor did they know him enough for it to a be a legitimate concern of theirs.

"Sorry mother, I didn't know there was a curfew!" he was surprised at how eloquently he managed it, it wasn't slurred - maybe the cold air had sobered him a bit.

"In this house, no, but everyone else is asleep, try not to be a dick and wake everyone by coming in whenever you want," snapped Marik irritably.

Harry blinked his drunken haze back slightly and had the decency to be a bit ashamed. As much as it pained him to admit - the kid raised a valid point. Suddenly he felt a sweeping sense of guilt that weighed his stomach down like a rock.

"M'Sorry," shit, now that was slurred and more emotion then he intended had poured into it.

"Easy, don't make me get the kleenex - Gods, what is wrong with you?" sneered the blond as Harry did his best to walk in normally but was betrayed by a slight sway.

"Pee-Tee-Esss something," slurred out Harry, there was no keeping up an act of sobriety - it proved much to hard. It didn't look like the youngest Ishtar had clocked on anyway.

"Erm..? What?" Marik had no idea what Harry was on about, but then the smell of strong - immensely strong - liquor had wafted from the apologetic boy's mouth despite best attempts to hide it. It took a minute for it to click, and then when Harry had practically slobbered his entire body onto the banister in order to make it up the stairs, it was apparent. Somehow, someone - had served their... intruder, and not only had he spent a majority of the day out (which he had no complaints with) - he'd gone and gotten totally intoxicated.

"Nev'mind, m' tired. I'll be back earl'yer nex time, m' sorry," he drew out the last word and then let out what sounded like a poorly smothered hiccup.

If Marik didn't dislike the guy so much the situation would have been comical, but he settled for glaring up at Harry's staggering form as it slowly retreated to the guest room.

Intoxicated wasn't the right word - shitfaced - more like it.

Thoroughly unimpressed, he went back to watching the late night horror channel in the living room, and decided he'd get his digs in tomorrow - during what promises to be the world's deadliest hangover.

Morning came - unfortunately.

The swirl of vomit seemed to be flecked with blood until he blinked it away, his mind played tricks on him like that. It made him angry with himself - as if the punishment of the unholy hangover wasn't bad enough on it's own. At least he'd conjured a bucket this time as he was sure he wouldn't make it to the family's bathroom from his bed. Not that he'd have been pleased to - he was sure explaining why he was sicking up when the other members of the household needed to brush their teeth early morning would not be a nice task. Being a bloke, he was sure 'morning sickness' wouldn't fly as an excuse - actually it'd probably be frowned on more if it could have been. He coughed out the unattractive driblet of foul, odorous stomach expulsion and felt it drip from his lower lip. Finally, it felt like his body had been forcefully cleaned out, and a sense of relief washed over him as he cast a vanishing charm on the bucket and fell back into the bed.

Then, his tongue tasted the remnants which made him want to dry-heave, he squeezed his eyes shut. The inside of his mouth began to taste like ash, but he didn't smoke - no, he had a lot of bad habits but smoking was not one of them. But fear coiled him, his mouth tasted like the night of the final battle. When he came back into his body, when the world had rumbled, when the afterlife tore open to unwillingly permiss his rebirth. It had rained ash, he hadn't noticed as the fire eclipsed him at the time but he noticed it in his memories - the sky rained ash and his mouth tasted it to. He couldn't clearly remember much of what actually happened apart from the altercation with Voldemort and watching him burn.

He felt dizzy again, his heart beating in his chest was the only part of his body he could feel, he couldn't move anything but his eyes. It felt like being in a full-body bind and his internal senses flared in alarm. He didn't want to admit it but he felt scared - like his entire body was eclipsed with terror. No matter how many times he relived his memories, the vision of all that he'd had and watched fall -die, in the battlefield, in his arms - people he loved slipping through his fingers had never ceased to hurt.

The memories of the Underworld never became any less terrifying - nor that non-replicatable feeling of losing your own humanity to come back.

Sometimes he could feel pain that wasn't necessarily his, too.

Sometimes he heard voices, not quite like schizophrenia or something alike to that, but like a familiar voice from a memory he couldn't place.

You're the last one of us.

He'd heard them since he became what he was - a... a thing beyond death. It haunted him when the night fell and there was nothing but solitude and silence.

He could feel his numb arms flopping against the floor as his body contorted and fitted, like a fish out of water as his eyes felt like they were being kept open to view his memories by an unseen force. For a terrifying amount of time - he could not control his own body.

To an outsider - it was absolutely disturbing, the lithe man's face occasionally covered by sweat-dripped locks that flung back during the erratic fit, showed an unhealthy glow to his skin, green eyes were opened widely and unnaturally without blinking and rimmed by cracked red bloodshot. Eventually, he stopped moving and the erratic breathing went to sounding winded, as if he was trying to catch his breath. He probably couldn't feel those tears rolling down his face.

The youngest Ishtar stood in the doorway, peeking through the ajar, wondering what he just witnessed.

Perhaps he would just leave the stranger alone today.

He didn't look anything like the confident boy at dinner yesterday, Marik poked at his breakfast - he was unable to wipe his mind of it.

"What's wrong with him?" asked Marik suddenly.

Odion slowly put down his newspaper and looked at his younger brother curiously.

"Who?" he asked, though he could hazard a guess.

"That guy, Potter. Isis said he needed time to heal or something, and when I asked him what was...wrong with him, he tried to say something but it didn't make sense," said Marik awkwardly.

Odion paused to consider his answer - he knew his brother had no liking for the stranger in their home - so it wasn't out of concern. It was probably out of raw curiosity that he was even asking. Isis had given him the bare bones that some sort of war or dispute left Harry in the sad wreck that he was in, but not much else, and he knew his younger brother wouldn't be appeased by hearing the same answer again.

Perhaps he should be blunt?

"He has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Marik," sighed Odion.

Marik's gut froze - it was a mental disorder? Of sorts...

Well, in the past he'd been in the minds of many - adults, teens, the deranged, the simple - even the suicidal but he'd never had a brush with serious disorder before. It was strange and alien and seemed to humanize the disturbing fit he'd witnessed moments earlier.

"Why cant he get help?" logical question.

"It was a magical war, they don't have people qualified to deal with it and he cant seek regular help without exposing his world. They have a Statute of Secrecy, brother," explained Odion patiently.

A silence filled pause.

"Well, he's fucked then," said Marik matter-o-factly.

Odion raised a brow.

"I saw him having a fit when I passed his bedroom," elaborated the blond.

"-And you just left him like that?" said Odion, slowly getting up to go and check on the boy. A little feeling of guilt swam in Marik's stomach after his brother said that - in an incredulous voice.

"We should check on him,"

Potter needed reminding of where he was - the temporary cluelessness was hard to watch. The guy actually thought he'd been captured and nearly fitted again had Odion not calmed him down.

All Marik could do was stand in the doorway awkwardly, watching his brother trying to interact with a stranger on a personal level. Harry Potter was a mystery, an annoying mystery that took up a space at the dinner table and occupied the guest room. He was the smug dinner guest that demanded the sudden attentions of his small family and had them all running after him. His second day into Japan and he'd gone on a booze-bender without paying any mind to how disrespectful it was to show up at their house, that late, stinking of cheap liquor.

But now he looked different, like he was wearing another face, or maybe this was what he was really like underneath it all. Lost, confused, scared, angry and upset while Odion slowly and calmly reminded Harry of where he was.

Maybe this was why that Weasley trusted them with Potter, hardly any magical folk had experience with mental disorder the way the Ishtars did.

Eventually, Harry calmed down and the wide-eyed horror had melted to shame as he tried to hide behind his fringe of long black hair, ashamed that they'd found him in such way. That time after time he was exposing his weakness to strangers -of whom he was relying on constantly at their detriment.

Odion seemed to treat is as normally as possible and for that - Harry was grateful, but tensed when his stare met with Marik's at the doorway. He was getting an intense sort of look, but not the usual of stare of distaste. Even after his disrespectful behavior the previous night - that made his insides twist with embarrassment.

Marik contemplated using the Millennium Rod to try to gain control of Harry's mind, to see how it thinked and what lurked that caused such fits. But then he made a judgement call - it would be a bad move. Not that he cared about Potter's trust or anything but personally he didn't want to risk what lay in the mind of a man of war. Harry's probably killed more people then he's met, Marik's had a grubby little trail of blood of his own, but when it came to pure, naked, war - he was an amateur. There were also lines that he barely acknowledged because he never had to make judgement calls on them before - but there were indeed lines he would never cross.

War was prone to a lot of horrors that happen to over step those lines, and he wasn't just talking about friendly fire. But raw gore, rape, small children - and all the horrible kinds of things he imagined you could do with a wizard's wand in war.

'Let's see, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, he has extreme episodes and an alcohol problem and he's not even legal yet, this guy is just a barrel full of problems,' mused Marik.

Odion left Harry be and sent a warning look to his younger brother who lingered in the doorway and walked in, shutting the door behind him as Odion went downstairs.

"I'm very sorry you had to see that," said Harry in an exhausted sort of tone, like he'd run a full circuit as Marik slowly approached the bed and sat on the end of it.

"-and I'm very sorry for how I acted last night, I should have been more considerate about the people in the household and what time I came back, I'm just lucky you were awake," said Harry meekly.

Marik waved it off - his anger had disappated after seeing the stranger the way that he did.

"Just don't do it again," he shrugged.

"So what are you here for?" asked Harry bluntly. Marik paused - well, he wasn't really sure, he just felt like he should say something to clear the air of animosity now.

"To see how you're feeling after um...?" he ended trailing off awkwardly.

"Normal," said Harry after a minute. It'd be a lie to say he was fine. Silence fell between the two as Marik felt a strange awkward intimacy to sitting on the edge of Harry's bed, beside him - when previously he preferred to pretend he didn't exist.

"Not good then?"

"Why do you care?" asked Harry curiously.

"I don't," said Marik bluntly "-I'm more curious then anything,"

"At least you're honest," said Harry after the Egyptian's bluntness.

"I feel terrible, I feel out of place, I'm unable to forget and I'm aware of how sad it is that a person who doesn't knows me and evidently dislikes me is the first person to ask and mean it," said Harry wryly. Pause.

"I don't dislike you - I did and now I don't," said Marik after a moment of thought "-you're just sort of...well... there," "And you know, considering we're putting you up and you have some...coping issues," said Marik slowly "-you... err, you know you can tell us - " he corrected "-me things,"

"I mean I know you have no reason to like me, and we don't really know you, but under the circumstances of why you're here and why we're putting you up, if you need to talk about it, you can," I'm very bad at this comforting business, thought Marik - feeling offish and awkward.

"Thanks," muttered Harry, not knowing how else to respond.

"But I don't think getting hammered is a good idea, I can guess what was going through your head and what you hoped it'd achieve - I mean, now I know you have, uhm... this problem, and don't get me wrong - I'm not a prude or anything - I mean...I've done stuff," said Marik, making Harry look at him curiously when he received no elaboration.

"But if you want to forget, the bottle's not really going to help,"

Harry froze.

Was he so easy to read? Intentions so clear? Or did the youngest Ishtar just have a creepy ability to see inside his head?

"You can't imagine the things I've seen," hissed out Harry "-don't take the moral high ground, all I want is to forget the things I've had taken from me so I can't feel the pain of their loss, and there's so many things that I could have gone a lifetime without seeing," he squeezed his eyes shut.

"-and I'm not being dramatic, but a wizarding war is the equivalent to say, a nuclear one but with more damage range, I had to do things just to survive it," and then he admitted something he hadn't meant to.

"-and now I don't feel human anymore,"

"I'm not even talking about the hundreds that I have had to lay waste to!" his voice got louder somewhat "-or the trail of blood that I had to leave across Britain, or any of the horrible things I had to do," he choked.

Marik wondered if he'd opened an emotional floodgate without intending to.

His hands shook under the covers and he wondered if he was about to hear something too private for him to be listening to.

"I felt myself die, I felt Death," pause "-I met him, and it's all such a haze but I felt everything that made me human -that made me mortal be shaved off of my soul and-" he exhaled softly "-I came back,"

Marik didn't quite know what to say.