Better Than Bedfellows
Abby Ebon
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Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter; or Sirius Black, or Remus Lupin. Or, well, Ollivander, though I kind-of do, but not really.
Note; in thanks, spiralgal, this chapter is for you.
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Hung Out To Dry
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"It's hardly fair," Ollivander murmured in his usual soft spoken way, "for you to know me in such a way, and I not to know you in turn." Contrary to the calm tones, silver eyes had narrowed, though not in the usual way, pale pupils were whitening and cat-like. Harry breathed in, unable to help himself, anything from Ollivander was better then no reaction at all.
"Oh, we know each other very well, in the proper time and place." Harry had stepped closer, licking his lips as if to taste Ollivander in the very air. It wasn't the strangest thing that could happen, and it certainly wasn't entirely without its own truth and benefits. He knew he was leering, his expression caught between worryingly open and devastatingly hungry, and that to someone who didn't know Ollivander for what he was…. whatever disguise he hid behind in their eyes, well, it would be a strange and obscene sight, indeed.
Harry was quite aware of what Ollivander truly looked like, and it drew him, pulled at him tighter and harder and faster then even the cold flame beauty of a fae. Harry had nothing to compare him to; because nothing like Ollivander had been spoken to, truly, or looked at since wizards and witches had fled the forests to hide in plain sight.
"Indeed, I imagine we do. This is hardly either, rather, neither, Mr. Potter." Ollivander, openly alarmed now at Harry's predatory approach, had taken a step back. Harry stopped mid-step, heart aching within his chest. Ollivander had been many things to him, and in none of them had Ollivander ever feared him enough to take a step away. Harry well knew what he looked like; it would be like something off a primitive battle field. Wild black hair falling in disarray to broad shoulders, green eyes gleaming with lust unable to turn away from Ollivander; it was unnerving, that intent focus, narrow-minded intensity.
Harry had once - long ago, feared what Ollivander did to him, could do to him – and what Harry would allow Ollivander to do to him without a struggle. He had never thought that Ollivander would fear for him, or fear him, for what Harry did to his control. Harry had above all trusted Ollivander, implicitly, and in the days of Dumbledore's death, and Hagrid's well intentioned betrayal, Ollivander had known Harry's trust for the gift it was.
"I know you, son of Khione, do not dare dismiss me." It was hissed, and Harry knew his living-green eyes had flashed snow-silver in his anger, fear, and need. That was an old mark, Ollivander had told him, that the essence of what he was had penetrated Harry, and Harry would not remain unaffected. Ollivander was what he was, and Harry had never begrudged his eerie green-silver flashing eyes, finding odd comfort in them – now, he was glad he could claim such uncorrectable a manifestation of their connection. Ollivander stood frozen, silver eyes wide, knowing he would not mistake such a seeing, or having heard his mother's name on Harry's lips.
"We know each other so well, truly? I would never. I need to see." Ollivander begged, breathlessly, his words running together in a rush. He knew he did not have much time to find out, for sure, what Harry was to him. Either he must accept it, or he could reject it -possibly making the worst of mistakes of his long life. All the while, Harry, content that he had shocked Ollivander into listening, had walked closer. They now stood face to face, and Harry could not help smiling almost gently at Ollivander, expectant – waiting - even as he spoke.
"Then see, and know truth." Know me, again. Harry did not say, but it was heard between them. There was little Harry could ever hide from Ollivander, and less that he would. The fingers of Ollivander's hands rubbed together uneasily, but Harry waited as he knew what was coming. Narrow silver eyes regarded him sternly.
"It may harm, you; I do not want that. Even not knowing you, as you know me, you are… precious to me." Ollivander paused, and Harry knew this not-human was remembering him – not the Harry who stood before him now, but the Harry of this time and place, a boy with earnest green eyes and a trustworthy face. Young, so very young, was Harry's own thought, even now he knew they were one and the same – but not – they would never be so very alike now, he would not allow it. Yet he reached all the same for some contact in the here and now, and feared being cast aside – lost.
"Please…?" Harry begged with open eyed trust, he knew what he asked and knew what it would cost both of them. A breeze ruffled his mane of black hair, and just like that faint touch of nothingness, did he know that Ollivander's finger tips touched his. No place on the body of a wizard –or witch - was as sensitive as their hands, where magic was pulled and tied to.
What he was doing was a dangerous thing, Ollivander had been wand-making before he was born, even given that he was not human, and to trust this much in another, to surrender so fearlessly, was a fool's thing to do. Harry, though, knew he'd always had a bit of the reckless fool within him. If it was Tom or any other Death Eater who he was giving himself over to in this way, his mind would be subdued and trapped within another's, without hope of escape from within, while his body and magic was used like a puppet.
Even the first time they'd done this thing, it had been no thing done with any intent of a reasoning mind – it had been instinct, survival had bonded their magic and minds with a memory, a impression one might even call living-remembrance and not be a wholly wrong, so Harry could always say that he knew himself and knew Ollivander's wishes, and not be lying. Even with this same wand-makers death, in Harry's time - Harry had kept a living – but not - piece of what and who Ollivander was within him. Between them, the bond had been a halved whole, with neither Ollivander nor Harry being subservient, nor dominating to the other's control or lack.
The bond made them into something else, and that was what Harry shared a glimpse of with this Ollivander of the here and now. He wasn't fool enough to re-create that sort of bond with this near-stranger who was the self-same named Ollivander, yet was not his Ollivander.
It was a painful difference, but one that Harry clung to, and did not loose sight of in the midst of their minds and magic melding. Ollivander saw this bond between Harry and this other-him, and knew that Harry would not fall into the trap of thinking one Ollivander the same as another. With the meld between them broken, but the bond between Harry and the other-Ollivander still there, yet out of Ollivander's sight – so to speak, Ollvander stepped away. Harry let him, his aching head allowing some clarity from thoughts he did not like the nature of, suddenly springing forth. But Ollivander, whatever time or place, was not one to let riddles or puzzles lay.
"Why can he not pull you back?" From here, from me? Harry wanted to laugh, but it was not the good sort of laugher normal people so often indulged. He stopped himself, and opened his eyes – colors whirled and faded and danced – but Ollivander as Harry saw him was always clear. Wizard sight was a tricky thing to think about.
"He's dead." It descended between them, that knowledge – like a black cloaked and beaked scavenger bird of the dead – that yearning in Harry's voice was one and the same as the doomed carrier of death, his yearning for death, to follow, even if it was denied him until the end of his war came about, he still hungered for it.
Hungered so much for it that the bond had shattered the barriers between times near and far, reaching and twisting back a dozen years to place him here, something it would not do for a mere wizard – but what was Harry, now, really? He was no more mere wizard then Ollivander.
"What will you do?" Harry had thought he'd known, thought it was simple – he'd change things, he'd keep Ollivander safe and alive – but for what? Not for him, because this was not his Ollivander, and the bond would not send him back while it hurt so much to see one Ollivander and to wish to join another in death. The bond could not – would not – kill him; after all, it was a bond with a god. Or, really, the closest being to a god that nature could invent.
"Heal; I suppose I could do no less or more." Harry answered in the only way he could, for what he was doing here…it certainly wasn't good. So far, hurting his godfather and Remus with disregarding words, and teasing Ollivander with a bond with a wizard he might never have in this here and now, and would not have known of – cursed now, for he mourned and yearned for it as keenly as Harry would mourn for his own Ollivander - if Harry hadn't shown up.
His fault, all of this – again – it made Harry feel sickened. What had the bond done, after all, now was his fault, his guilt. Harry was not really aware of sinking to the floor, not that he would care. But, Ollivander did see, and his eyes widened in alarm to see this depression clinging to the man a boy he knew and liked – had given his first wand to, no less – had become.
"A good start, in the meantime, you have no small amount of skills that we need. I propose a bargain, of sorts, you have no money, no place to stay, so I will house, feed and cloth and provide what means of currency can be gotten and acquired for your use. You will stay, in turn, and help me turn the tide of this war that isn't yours, yet is." Ollivander was not looking at him when Harry glanced to the white haired and snow pale being, yet Harry had the feeling he had been looked at, none the less. It annoyed him somewhat, that Ollivander would purpose to tell him what he already knew.
"I had intended to." Harry regarded Ollivander with his arms on his bent knees, still upon the dusty wood floor, his head on his arms. It was a sour sort of look he gave, and he had no qualms with meeting the silver gaze that returned to meet his.
"Of course you did." Soothing now, of course, Harry expected nothing less. It was almost as maddening as if Harry had had some sort of temper tantrum and must now make up for it. For all he knew, that's exactly as Ollivander this saw all this as – some brat almost-godling's hick-up in time. It sort of made Harry's head hurt in a way that had nothing to do with wine. He knew less about what the bond was doing to him, then he knew the results of what he – and it – did to what went on around him.
"I really sort of resent that, what sort of man do you take me for? I have a better character then you give me credit to." Harry knew he was whining, and he hated that he was seeking approval from this Ollivander (or any, really, save the one that was now dead and beyond approving of him or not) who treated him as a child, and made Harry – in turn – react as a child would. Or perhaps he had never grown up, for who really could when spending their teenage years about those that counted magic as an every day reality? Or would deny magic entirely, as his Uncle and Aunt had? It felt as if all his life, he'd been caught between these two extremes.
"Prove me wrong then." Mocking, but Harry realized what Ollivander was doing in provoking him; any reaction must seem better then no reaction at all. Harry could appreciate that, if nothing else.
"How could I resist such an offer?" Harry teased in turn, to which Ollivander merely smiled, but it seemed enough. Harry prepared himself to get off the floor, when there came the clang of bells above the protesting squeak of hinges, Ollivander had, after all, invested in an alarm of sorts that was not triggered by magic alone. That itself was an alien concept among the pure-blooded wizards and witches, that they might be attacked by something like muggle means.
Harry was tucked out of sight from the newcomers, whoever they might be, behind the counter where Ollivander stood. That did not, however, stop him from recognizing voices.
"Ollivander, it's good to see you." Warm and affectionate but with the wariness that had never been far from him, Remus sounded well. Harry closed his eyes, and felt he was doomed to be followed by this two and reminded always of the first mistake he'd made in hurting them.
It did, however, make him wonder about what Ollivander's loyalties had been that Harry hadn't known of. Obviously he had stood beside the Order, but Harry hadn't thought of the blow that Dumbledore must have felt at loosing Ollivander. He found a new sympathy in him for his once mentor and old manipulator. Nothing stopped Ollivander from using others, Harry knew, but Ollivander did not care to do so for all that he had the power and will for it. It took a different sort to use people and discard them, and that was the sort of person Harry feared he'd become, always.
If he stopped fearing it, he'd worry he was that sort after all, and Dumbedore had had the right of it all along; only such a person that could use others to the benefit of the greater good could defeat the Dark Lord. Yet Harry thought that would make him as bad as Tom, and Harry was no Dumbledore to turn aside great power after the battle was done, if it was offered up on a plate.
"Ah, boys...I hope you were not planning any mischief?" Ollivander asked, distracting Harry from his unwelcome musings. It was apparent that whatever the media said about werewolves and mass murderers, Ollivander had turned a deaf ear and blind eye. As the old sang went, see no evil, hear no evil…
"Well, not any that Dumbledore wouldn't approve of…" Sirius sounded, for once, not like a growling dog, but the playful youth he might have been.
"In that case, what can I do to lend you aid?" Surprisingly, Ollivander sounded just as teasing and carefree, and Harry wondered if he could ever do such, tossing away his jaded habits in favor of a lighter burden.
"I need, of course, a wand. I meant to come by yesterday but…well, we went drinking." Harry could imagine the rest of that result without any further hinting, he had, after all, had a part to play in that indulgence of freedom that Sirius and Remus had briefly grasped.
"A likely excuse to the neglect of acquiring a wand, I take it?" Remus snorted softly at the quietly mocking note that Ollivander had taken, and Harry heard Sirius lean his weight against the counter, he looked at it, alarmed for a moment that it would come crashing down and reveal him, with Sirius all but atop him. Again.
"Not at all, but – please, if you think you could make it worth the while of standing about rather then drinking out?" Face flushed and his thoughts elsewhere, he did not notice Ollivander nudge him with a booted toe, when he looked up with raised eyebrows, Ollivander looked to the cabinet beside him, where he could reach a box and the wand within. The look said clearly enough, fetch it.
As the consequences of not doing so would be Ollivander attempting it himself only for him to either end up tumbled into Harry's lap or a tangle limbs, Harry did so without much thought behind the act. As result he was startled when Ollivander grasped his wrist and hauled him upward, to his feet, and in plain sight of both Remus and Sirius, both. Harry let out a barely heard groan, and there was a satisfied look on Ollivander's face, and Harry knew he would be getting no apology at the end of the day.
"You!" Sirius was a mix of surprise and snarling rage.
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Note; this is the chapter in which I take Greek mythology and run away with it a bit. What you may, or may not know is this; a little known mythology, if you will, it circulates that there was a goddess of khiôn – ' snow' as it translates, called today either Chione or Khione. Four sides of the same coin, to say - the tales of her are as follows; daughter of Boreas the north wind (in which she bore the singer Eumolpos, to Poseidon) by Oreithyia (who also bore him Kleopatra, and a pair of winged sons named Zetes and Kalais)
…or the lady-nymph of mountain gales, once a mortal princess.
Also, another, as consort of Boreas, with whom he had three giant-kings sons, the immortal priests of the Hyperborea.
Yet another Khione was the nymph of the Greek island Chios, with whom Poseidon had the child who was to be king of Chios, and also called Chios; after being born in a snowfall, the child was thrown to the ocean, and saved by Poseidon.
I think you might know who Ollivander's mother is now, and, in turn, what he is. The question now becomes, is he king of a Greek island, sea-prince singer, or a giant priest-king of a fabled forever-spring paradise land?