He landed silently and with no small amount of satisfaction. That had been remarkably easy. He would stop using magic for now, he decided. It made things less interesting and more boring. What was the fun of sneaking into someone's house if there was no chance of them discovering you?
He realized he was already making plans for future sneaking into other people's houses. To do so at night was an easy way to get souls. It was private, everyone was asleep, and he was sure he could remain quiet enough to get away with it. Of course, if they woke up, he doubted they could fight him off. He doubted anyone could fight him off. Climbing the wall had been evidence enough that he was strong and agile.
How fast was he now, anyway? He hadn't properly tested himself at all. That wouldn't do. He needed to know his limits. Fighting would be difficult if he didn't even know what he could do. He might not know what he had to defend himself against here, but that did not mean he could grow lax. At least Voldemort couldn't get to him here, no matter how hard he tried. He was pretty sure this is late 19th century London. Time travel of this caliber shouldn't be possible, yet here he was.
He wished that he had paid attention when Hermione went on her rants about magic. Now he had no idea how this could be possible. All he could think was of time turners, and those could only go back, at most, a week. He certainly hadn't used one, so how was he even here?
He started running, not really sure where he was going. He didn't know what to do. He was tense, he realized. Perhaps he was more stressed than he had thought. The running felt good. The restless burn he hadn't noticed under his skin lessened slightly. He ran faster. Everything was a blur now. He really was faster than any human could manage, and he wasn't even running at his maximum speed.
He needed a place to stay. The easiest thing he could think of was to find a house, kill whoever lived inside, and stay there until someone noticed that the people were missing. The only problem was it would work, at most, for a week. Ideally he would find a hermit with no friends. The chances of that were slim to none.
He needed money. Enough money to buy or rent from someone. It wouldn't be too difficult to simply rent from someone. Identities were fickle things in this time. He could find a landlord who wouldn't care who he was as long as he paid. It wouldn't be difficult. The difficulty was money.
He would have to steal, then. He could easily sneak into houses, he had already proved that. It would be child's play to sneak into houses and steal valuables. He could sell it all to pawn shops. There were probably many that would buy them knowing they were probably stolen. Few pawn shops had scruples when it came to stolen things.
He continued to run, only stopping at the nicer looking houses and entering. He stole jewelry, money, fine clothing, anything of value. It was easy to slip in and out. In one of the houses, he picked up a black leather bag, knowing he would need something to put the valuables in.
In one house, he found the most unusual jewel he had ever seen. It was in the shape of a sphere, with no edges to be found. It was black on the outside, but within it held what appeared to be green smoke. It swirled and twisted inside the jewel. Something radiated from it, something he had never felt before. He could not help but slip it over his head. He would keep this one. It was undoubtedly magical, anyway. No muggle should have such a magical object.
Soon enough the night was over, and dawn was creeping up. He stopped, then, and looked at what he had stolen. It was enough, he thought, to get him enough for at least a month in an inn. That is, if he got fair prices. There was every chance whoever he tried to sell all of this to would try to rip him off. It would be rather easy. He had no idea what the going rates were for things like this. He would have to try, at least.
The first two pawn shops were busts. The second they realized he was selling stolen goods they kicked him out. He hurried away from there as quickly as he could, aware that they might go get the nearest policeman.
The third, however, did not turn him away. The second his eyes fell on the jewelry and clothing he salivated. He smelled of greed and he certainly showed it. His offers came nowhere near the real value of the cache. Of course, they both knew that it was all stolen, and as a result Harry sincerely doubted that he would be able to find much better offers. After driving up the prices as much as he could, he left.
He had to find a place to stay, now. He had noticed a rickety yet respectable looking inn not too far back from the pawn shop. It was called Silva Inn, and would suit his needs perfectly if the innkeeper wasn't too discriminating.
He stepped into the inn, instantly silencing the patrons eating their dinner. Everyone stopped to stare, wide eyed, at the beautiful green eyed man who had stepped into the inn. No one quite seemed to remember that staring was not very polite. He eyed them all with indifference, and then cleared his throat, not at all pleased with the staring. Everyone seemed to shake themselves and go back to their conversations, although many still stole looks at him. It was obvious that he was now the talk of the room.
Harry approached who he assumed to be the innkeeper, a gruff man with a pot belly and a wild brown beard. The man smelled of greed and gluttony. He was cleaning a mug with a rather dirty looking cloth. Harry eyed it, wondering if it was really helping anything.
"And what does a pretty boy like you want in a place like this?" The man's voice was deep and would be rather menacing, he supposed, if he were the easily cowed type. Instead of cowering as the man seemed to expect, he smoothly replied "I would like a room to rent here indefinitely." The man seemed surprised at that, but hid it rather well.
"That'll cost ya, pretty boy." He nodded sharply, and asked "How much?" The man seemed to consider this for a moment before replying "1 pound a week."He nodded again, and thrust the amount at the man. "I'll take it." The man snatched the money up as if he were afraid he would change his mind any second and said "Follow me then." He started walking towards the stairs, ignoring the stares they got from the patrons as they went.
They were passing a particularly boisterous group of men when one of them called, "Oi, Micky, you're actually giving fairy boy a room? What is he, some noble man's son out to sneak a shag with a woman?" The other men started laughing at that, clapping the man on the back for his prodigious wit.
The man, who Harry realized must be 'Micky', ignored them and kept walking. Harry did the same. The man must not have taken kindly to being ignored, as he stood then, his chair scraping against the floor loudly. Suddenly, every eye that had been pretending not to look at Harry stopped pretending.
The man stepped forward, snarling "I don't take kindly to being ignored, fairy boy." The man was drunk, then. He was rather stupid, and Harry had a hard time imagining him as intelligent when he was sober.
He stared the angered man in the face, his own face completely blank. "I was under the impression that you were talking to him." He inclined his head towards the barkeep now dubbed Micky. The man's face darkened, as if he had just spat an insult into his face. Stupidity wafted from him in waves. Harry fought the urge to wrinkle his nose. He had a feeling the man wouldn't take that well.
Really, he had no idea why the man would choose to confront him, of all people. Did he have a death wish? If he really was some nobleman, it wouldn't be hard to make the man's life miserable. He was both lucky and unlucky on that front. Lucky, because he wasn't a nobleman, unlucky, because he was certainly not human and would have no problem killing him. He would rather not eat this one's soul, it was disgusting. It reminded him of the slop they fed pigs.
The man opened his mouth, presumably to spout more idiotic drivel, when Micky cut in. "Stop it, Grant. He's a customer. If you want to insult him for no reason, do it somewhere else." With that, he started walking again. Harry shrugged, and followed. He could feel the man's gaze burning into his back, and rolled his eyes. They were going to try to ambush him in an alley later, weren't they? He fought the urge to facepalm. Of course they were. They were certainly dense enough to do it.
He kept walking, making a note to expect them later. It would be easy enough to leave them as bloody lumps on the ground, but he would try to exercise restraint. It wouldn't do to have the police sniffing around here to find a murderer. No doubt 'that strange guy at the inn' would be mentioned. It would be just his luck, which had been decidedly bad lately considering where he was now.
So he would refrain from killing them. That didn't mean he couldn't warn them painfully against further infractions, though. He smirked. The smirk was decidedly dark. Micky glanced back at him and felt a chill go down his spine at it. He wisely decided not to ask.
They climbed the stairs in silence. At the top of the stairs was a hallway lined with doors. The wood of the floor creaked as they stopped in front of the third door on the left. "This'll be your room, then." He inserted a key into the door, and it swung open on squeaky hinges.
Harry took in the room. It was simple, with a small twin sized bed in the corner, a bedside table, a dresser on the far wall, and a threadbare carpet. The man held out the key, and he took it. "Name's Mick, by the way. I didn't catch your name." Harry blinked at the man, not expecting the question. Mick had struck him more as the won't ask kind of guy. "That is because I didn't give it. If you must know, it's Pravus." He came up with the name on the spot, mentally patting himself on the back. He remembered that it was Latin for vicious. Rather appropriate.
Mick blinked at the unusual name, not really expecting it. The man had to be a nobleman. No commonfolk would have such a strange name. He shrugged and grunted. It wasn't his name, so he supposed he couldn't really complain. "I'll leave you to it then." He left, closing the door behind him.
Harry set his bag on the bedside table. It didn't have anything in it at the moment, due to his selling everything in it earlier at the pawn shop. Now he had nothing to do. His mental checklist had been done. He knew where he was, he had a place to stay, he had money enough to last for at least a week, and he had clothing.
He would need more money eventually, though. Stealing as he was doing was not really a long term solution to the problem. He frowned. It would be best to find a job, he decided. To do that, he would have to look around and see if anywhere was hiring.
He left the inn, noticing the man who had confronted him and his group was gone. Their scents of drunkenness and stupidity led out the door and to the left and ended around the corner. Waiting for him, then. Fun. Not.
He glanced at the corner they were all skulking around. What would they do if he walked right instead of left? The idiots probably hadn't considered it. Their plan was probably a genius, foolproof plan of epic proportions in their drunken minds. It occurred to him that he needed more words to described stupidity. Dull, senseless, brainless, moronic, simple minded? Puerile, he decided, was his favorite. They wouldn't even know they were being insulted if he used that one.
He turned left and walked over to the corner, turning to face them. They all wore surprised expressions on their faces; as if it were some grand secret of them being at this corner waiting for him that had no chance of being discovered. He stared at them, blank faced, to unnerve them. It seemed to work, as two of the brutes look away from his eyes, an uneasy look on their faces. "Come on, Grant" one of them murmured, seemingly deciding he didn't like the look on Harry's face, "Are you sure this is such a good idea?" The expression on Grant's face wavered for a moment before it hardened in apparent new resolve.
Harry sighed inwardly. It would seem they were forcing him to do this. Well, he couldn't say he didn't give them an out. He stayed still, prepared for a move from any one of the brutish men now surrounding him.
Grant was the first one to move. He stepped forward, swinging his fist around to try to hit Harry's face. Harry sidestepped neatly, and as the man went by him, propelled by the force of his punch, Harry pushed him, sending him sprawling to the ground. He hit the ground hard, and a crack could be heard from the alley, from the force of his jaw slamming into the ground.
They all stared, aghast, at Grant. Their downed comrade didn't seem to want to get up. He was lying on the ground, seemingly unconscious. Harry smirked. Perhaps he had used a bit too much force with that push? Ah, well, he still didn't know his own strength. It was a perfectly understandable mistake.
The other men, who hadn't really been into the fight in the first place, gathered Grant into their arms and hurried away without a word. They felt the eyes of the green eyed man burning into their backs as they walked away, and shivered, feeling dread up creep up their spines. That man was terrifying. They had no desire to fight him and avenge Grant. He was a hotheaded idiot, anyway.
Harry turned away from the men and was about to walk away when he heard clapping. He blinked. Clapping? It was slow and measured, and sounded rather sarcastic and amused. If clapping could be classified as such.
A man stepped out of the shadows of the alley, who he somehow hadn't noticed before. The first thing he noticed was he had no scent. The second thing he noticed was he was a strange looking fellow. His hair was pure white, and ran down to his waist. The bangs completely obscured his eyes, and all he could see of his face was a smirking mouth and a scar that ran from his right eye down his face. He wore a long black dress like robe, which slightly reminded him of what Snape wore. He also had a black top hat.
The man stopped his clapping and his lips curled up into a rather terrifying grin. "Fancy meeting a demon of all things here!" His voice was high and grating, with excited tones.
A demon? The thought hadn't even crossed his mind. Why would it? He couldn't remember ever really reading about the characteristics of the creatures. He vaguely remembered reading in one book they were the epitome of evil, the darkest creatures in existence, starting wars and killing indiscriminately simply because they were bored. If he was a demon, it explained a lot, he had to admit. How this man knew, though, he had no idea.
"What do you mean?" His voice was a bit sharper than usual. The man seemed slightly taken aback at this, before his grin grew positively shark like. "You mean you don't know? Oh, this is positively delightful! I would be more than happy to tell you…if you would give me something in return?" His voice grew beseeching at the end, as if he was only going to ask for a small favor, and wouldn't he give it to him, please?
Harry narrowed his eyes at him suspiciously. Who was he, anyway? He just comes out of nowhere and claims to know what he is. How would he even know? The only conclusion is that he's been watching him, which wasn't too farfetched, considering he had just come out of the shadows without him being aware he was there earlier. The man could hide from him, which no one else could do due to their soul. No one could cover up the scent of their soul. It was impossible. The only reasonable way he could have no scent was if he had no soul.
"What do you want? And who are you, anyway?" The man didn't seem put out by his tone at all, but practically vibrated where he was standing. "I've been looking for a good scout, lately. It's good to be informed in London, right? All you have to do is agree to be my information gatherer. With your talents of stealth, it shouldn't be too hard. I'll pay you, of course. And tell you about demons. What do you say?"
Harry had to admit the deal sounded good. If the man were telling the truth, he would have a job, a rather interesting one at that, and actually know what he was. Yet there was still the question of who the hell the man was.
"I accept. Who are you?" The man clapped delightedly and actually cackled while grinning like a madman. Harry stared, slack jawed. Was the man sane? Cackling, really?
The man spoke then, sounding pleased. "You may call me Undertaker. I'm your new boss. Follow me." He turned and started walking.
Harry blinked at his back. Every sign pointed to slight insanity, but the man was his best bet so far, so he might was well follow him. He sighed, and started following.