Disclaimer: Anything you recognize isn't mine, just borrowed.
The Alchemy of Complications
The day after the battle in the Forest, after a good night's rest and a delicious breakfast, Harry felt more well-disposed towards the world.
His Guardians, on the other hand, were still furious at the wizards surrounding them and were not restrained in making their displeasure known, scowling darkly at anyone who so much as looked at him for too long. They weren't going to forget – or forgive – anytime soon, the fact that someone had dared touch him.
If Harry were honest, however, the way their hissed displeasure was unnerving the wizards and keeping them at a distance, probably had a part in his feeling better.
He felt like the warm rays of morning sunshine pouring down from the amazing sky-like ceiling of the Great Hall were cocooning him in a small bubble of peace. That his Guardians would not let any of the unnerved, whining or demanding wizards burst it was a gift he relished and treasured.
Nevertheless, he couldn't ignore the rest of the world for long and right after the children were sent off to their classes, he allowed the Headmaster to corral them to his office.
The fact that no-one else was included in the meeting meant he still felt relaxed enough to smile politely.
Itachi and Seifer made a point to check the small room they were taken to before joining Scar where he stood forbiddingly behind the chair Harry took, alternately scanning their surroundings and glaring at the Headmaster.
Dumbledore sighed but did not try to stop them or appease them in any way. He looked old and frail and tired and oddly powerful, filled with wise patience and a kind of quiet power that invited reliance, even faith.
Harry however didn't have much attention to spare him at first, as he was completely fascinated by Dumbledore's office and the thousand and one trinkets that filled it, his Al-Bhed upbringing plus O'aka's influence plus natural curiosity combining to make the circular room and its intriguing content a veritable cave of wonders for the young Summoner. He wished he had half a dozen eyes to see and examine everything, and a year or two to ask all the questions springing to his mind and then study the answers.
Sadly it was not to be, and biting back a sigh, he took a seat in front of the old wizard, who was smiling indulgently at his curiosity. It was hard to keep still when he felt an itch to examine all of the fascinating knickknacks, but the grave and grim countenance of his Guardians helped him keep his focus on the situation at hand.
He took a breath to ask the first of his many questions, but with skilful timing, the Headmaster beat him to it.
"That was an amazing spectacle you granted us yesterday, Lord Summoner," he said, benign and humble. His eyes glittered unnervingly. "It was a joy for the heart and the mind at once and I thank you deeply. I must confess a scholar's curiosity, however. May I ask...?"
He trailed off and Harry raised an eyebrow at his evident uncertainty.
With a slight, embarrassed cough, the aged Headmaster tried again, looking a little uncomfortable: "When you called forth your Aeon, the ground beneath your feet blared with Circles."
Harry blinked, momentarily surprised because he'd heard the capital letter in that word, but still, not entirely understanding why the wizard was so ill at ease.
The Headmaster looked at him stonily and précised: "Trasmutation Circles."
Harry frowned, uncomprehending, but Scar, hit with sudden understanding, focused sharply on the aged wizard. "You're an Alchemist," he stated with certainty.
Dumbledore tensed sharply for an instant, almost bristling, but then he forced himself to relax all at once. "I am," he sighed. "One of the only three left…" His eyes met Scar's with equal sharpness. "Or so I thought."
The not-quite-accusation hung in the air.
Harry scowled. Without even much effort, the man they'd come to interrogate had pushed them into defensiveness. One had to admire him, really... but why, exactly, should he feel guilty? And of what?
"I do not understand the source of your unease," said Itachi in an unnerving monotone.
Scar muttered something incomprehensible, face dark, but turned away when they glanced at him.
"There is no record of Alchemy being the base for a Summoner's power," said Dumbledore rigidly.
"Well, it's not," replied Harry with a shrug. "I use it for bombs and such... although, if you listen to Scar, that's not Alchemy."
"It isn't, not how we intend it," nodded the dark-skinned Guardian. "It's more... chemistry, I guess. Mix and match formulas."
Dumbledore nodded slowly: "There is, of course, a base of Potions to certain branches of Alchemy..."
"...But it isn't the point of true Alchemy," completed Scar.
"No, not really," agreed Dumbledore. Then he leaned back, regarding the tall Guardian. "So you are an Alchemist, then," he mused thoughtfully.
Scar's reaction was swift and furious: "I am NOT!" he roared, starting everybody. "I may have studied that tainted art but I have not followed that foul temptation into its abyss. I will never be like them!"
Harry regarded his Guardian with surprise. His vehemence was unexpected to say the least.
He hadn't bothered learning much about the strain of Alchemy diffused in Scar's home world: what he did when interacting with the Aeons, he did by instinct, without study nor deliberate understanding, and what he did following Rikku's recipes or trying out his own was, as already pointed out, a whole other matter.
He did, however, have a general idea of it. It was only natural, after all, that they talked about their respective cultures, compared their various approaches to magic and battle in general, chat about their differences and similarities... It wasn't as if they spent much time discussing the philosophy and beliefs behind what they did, but they had exchanged opinions.
Now Harry was rather perplexed by his Guardian's attitude.
Although Scar had explained the way his culture despised the idea of giving new form to one of God's creations, the young Summoner had gained the impression that the Ishvalan had braved the stigma for reasons he wasn't willing to share.
After all, was his arm not a tool of Alchemy as he intended it? From what Harry'd gleaned of Scar's technique, it wasn't all that different from what other Alchemists in his homeworld did: the very fact that he had to study the makeup of objects he wished to destroy (or at least guess it) made him an amateur Alchemist by practice, regardless of his haughty protests that it was the arm, and not he himself, that performed Alchemy.
So his posturing wasn't altogether logical.
But then, very little about that world had seemed logical to Harry, despite the fact that it was entirely rational, at least on the surface. For instance, didn't his own magical talent – the magic he evoked in battle or to heal, not his Summoner's powers – break the supposedly unavoidable Equivalent Exchange Principle in many small ways?
About the only thing that made sense to him of the whole philosophy was the fact that an Alchemist is unable to deconstruct or form an item whose composition he does not comprehend. Rikku's first and last lesson had been just that – if you don't understand it, you can't do it and shouldn't even try – Harry could still hear her bright voice, interspersed with cheerful Al-Bhed curses, happily condemning him to study and study and more study before attempting anything interesting.
Seifer, always one to speak bluntly, asked carelessly: "Don't you use Alchemy when you blow up something with that arm of yours?"
Scar snarled and Harry grabbed his arm tightly to calm him.
"You do follow the cyclical flow of transmutation," he murmured to his Guardian, almost apologetically. "It's just that you stop at deconstruction, instead of reshaping your target."
"And that makes all the difference," ground out Scar through clenched teeth.
Harry regarded him for a moment, then nodded slowly: "Alright."
"Alchemy is a very misunderstood branch of magic," sighed Dumbledore, suddenly seeming more comfortable with the topic. "As anything powerful and difficult to understand, it has gained over the centuries an aura of eerie mystique, which, as is typical among humans, is interpreted at once with awed admiration and bitter terror."
His soft declaration was met with various grimaces.
"I myself have faced prejudice in both senses for being an Alchemist and though I do not lie about it, of course, I have learned not to advertise the fact too much. For it is impossible to negate that alchemic practices can turn to horrifying results... and that, I suppose, is the crux of the matter..."
"Is it?" asked Harry dubiously, because frankly, he wasn't altogether sure of what they were talking about.
"There are those who say that Alchemy corrupts the soul," said the Headmaster solemnly.
Itachi, practical as usual, stepped in to bring the discussion back to the topic they needed to address: "As fascinating as this all is, we aren't here to discuss the pros and cons of Alchemy, but gain insight on the unexpected enemies you apparently didn't see fit to warn us about."
"Quite right," nodded Harry, shaking himself out of the swirling ponderings about Alchemy, Good and Evil, Life, the Universe and Everything, and pinning the aged wizard with a pointed look.
"Ah, my boy..." started Dumbledore.
All three Guardians bristled at once.
"He isn't yours," hissed Itachi with a ferocity that started the Headmaster.
"And he's much more than a mere boy," added Scar disdainfully.
"Yeah, so can the condescension, wizard!" was Seifer's less-than-polite contribution.
The old man looked taken aback, but raised a hand placatingly: "My deepest apologies – to all of you, and to the Lord Summoner," he said quietly. "It is an old teacher's habit to see any youth as a student, that's all; I meant no offence."
"None taken," assured Harry, his smile tight but his tone gentle, to quiet his bristling Guardians.
"Your teachers know who is behind the attack. They were horrified that it happened, but not surprised," insisted Itachi levelly.
"Horrified, yes. That is the right word," sighed Dumbledore. "To attack a Summoner..." He shook his head in pained disbelief. "But no, we weren't surprised, not entirely. Voldemort has done worse and I would put nothing past him. Nevertheless, that his followers could stoop so low, renouncing their honour and spitting on the very traditions they claim to want to protect..."
"...Voldemort?" asked Itachi sharply.
Dumbledore smiled sadly: "It warms my heart to hear his name pronounced so cavalierly. People have been so terrified of him that they do not dare utter it and choose instead to say 'You-Know-Who' or 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named'."
"You're joking," blurted out Harry.
"I wish I were. I try my best to break them of the silly habit; after all, fear of the name only increases fear of the thing itself. Alas! My efforts are generally in vain."
Harry shook his head, incredulous.
"Well, it's not like his name's anything to go proud of," commented Seifer with a smirk. "Voldemort. Honestly! I'd come up with a pseudonym real fast if I were him."
"Voldemort is a pseudonym. His real name is Tom Riddle."
There was a brief pause. Then Seifer asked, incredulous: "He had a perfectly cool name like 'Riddle' and went and chose that pathetic 'Voldemort' instead? The bloke has issues, I tell you!" He shook his head mock-sadly.
Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling madly again. "Indeed, indeed."
"So who is this Tom Riddle? And why has he attacked my Lord Summoner?" asked Itachi, determined to get some answers.
"He hasn't, not in person."
"His followers have," retorted the Guardian swiftly.
"Yes." Dumbledore sighed deeply, almost crumbling a little on himself. "Perhaps it would help you to understand my position, if I were to explain the recent history of our land."
No-one replied, but their pinned gazes showed their interest well enough.
The Headmaster leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in front of his chin; briefly but unhurriedly, he sketched a picture of the war his world was embroiled in.
"Voldemort, or if you prefer, Tom Riddle, was a student here years ago; an excellent student, on the surface: intelligent, polite, a Prefect. Extraordinarily gifted, too. I fear his disposition was nowhere as good as his appearance, however. Alas, I always suspected... but there was no proof, not even any real indication, only my instinctual misgivings."
He shook his head sadly. "After he graduated, he disappeared, and in circumstances fraught with scandal. Many were shocked: the charming Head Boy, who had shown such promise..."
Dumbledore sighed. "What he did in the intervening years, I shudder to think. Almost no-one recognized him when he returned, grown in power and in ruthlessness, styling himself a 'Dark Lord'."
The aged wizard's voice had grown dry and almost mocking.
"He had followers, too – at first, he maintained the semblance of calling them friends; but he soon shed the pretence. He has no friends. His 'Death Eaters', as they call themselves, are servants and minions, nothing more: wizards and witches dedicated to doing his bidding, who delight in bringing terror to both muggle and magical innocents."
"Sounds like a right cad," said Seifer carelessly. He had perched himself on the corner of the Headmaster's desk, long legs stretched out before him, balancing Hyperion on its point and twirling it a bit; now and then he glanced over his shoulder at the narrator affecting nonchalance, but his eyes were piercing.
Dumbledore regarded him steadily, a saddened look in his blue eyes.
After a moment, he continued: "Perhaps the most terrible thing is that this war we're facing is the second major conflict Voldemort causes in less than half a century. The first, which I was about to describe, started in 1970 and lasted for over a decade: eleven years of what amounted to a secret civil war."
He moved his eyes from Seifer's form to the unnaturally still Itachi, but his gaze was misted with memories.
"You cannot imagine. Terror everywhere… panic… confusion… that's how it used to be, in those days. Spells that hadn't been heard of in decades, horrible magic, vile magic, dragged into the open uncertainty of not knowing who supported whom; the fear of your loved ones being controlled, unable to stop themselves from committing horrible crimes... Voldemort's rise to power was rapid but stealthy, marked with rumours, and then news, of deaths, disappearances, tortures; the Ministry was in disarray, any potential for resolute action stunted by the threat of exposure to the non-magicals," went on Dumbledore.
He was a good teacher, Harry could tell. His words were clear but thorough, precise but engaging.
"It was a horrid time, indeed. And then-" The wizard paused, dramatically, for a long instant. "And then, it ended abruptly. Overnight, on Halloween 1981."
"How?" breathed Harry.
The unnerving blue eyes focused on his green ones. For a very long moment, Dumbledore seemed to be contemplating something of critical importance and perhaps, evaluating Harry. Whatever conclusion about the Summoner he came to, however, were not disclosed.
"Love," said the aged wizard gravely. "A mother's love – and a mother's sacrifice. The truest and most powerful of ancient magic." He smiled sadly. "Her name was Lily Potter; the brightest light of her generation. She offered her life, selflessly, out of love for her only child: and her sacrifice created an invincible protection for the baby, so that when Voldemort attempted to kill him, the lethal curse rebounded on him instead."
All four listeners stared, wide-eyed with wonder.
The old wizard went on in a lighter tone: "Thus was Voldemort defeated once. Oh! You may imagine the jubilation. For eleven years we'd had very little to celebrate... There were parties out in the streets, flocks of owls racing back and forth with merry messages – my old friend Dedalus even engineered a spectacle of shooting stars over Kent," Dumbledore had a fond smile as he reminisced. "Some were uneasy that we might come to the attention of the muggles through the exuberance of the festivities, after managing to maintain secrecy through a war... but most were too relieved and happy to worry."
Seifer and Scar fidgeted with barely contained restlessness. As nice as the story was, it wasn't giving them the kind of information they needed and wanted. Itachi let nothing show, of course, but to Harry, his very stillness indicated that he was in ready-to-battle mode.
Apparently oblivious to the preoccupation of his listeners, the aged wizard went on: "Alas! It was not enough. As the saying goes, true war doesn't end when you kill off the leader. The source of conflict Voldemort had exploited during his rise to power rooted itself in the regrettable bigotry and inequality of our society and none of that disappeared with him. It was only a matter of time before he returned... Before the war started anew."
Dumbledore leaned back, suddenly looking even older and incredibly weary: "And now it has."
Harry contemplated him. A good teacher indeed – and a good storyteller. What the Summoner could not tell, was how truthful the wizard was being. The tale was fascinating, but how much of it was real?
He could not bring himself to distrust the man, yet he couldn't bring himself to trust him either. Even in the little time he'd spent at Hogwarts, it was plain to see, for him, that the Headmaster cared deeply for the children in his care, both those still in school and those who had already graduated; but on the other hand, he'd noticed the man wielded secrets and half-truths with the craftiness of a Master Illusionist. Harry had the unnerving feeling that every word the aged Headmaster used was another veil wrapped around the truth: that instead of revealing, it helped to hide. And yet... was it also protecting?
Harry's lips firmed.
He did not know what to make of Albus Dumbledore, and he did not like it.
"I don't understand," frowned Scar. "If the situation is as dire as you say, why is school still in session?" His dark countenance was a reflection of his inner demons, brought forth once more by the tales of war.
"Ah! For some reason, Hogwarts is well protected. Very well protected. Indeed! More than I had thought, even." Dumbledore looked genuinely delighted. "Nothing that wishes harm to the students can cross the boundaries of our grounds – there have been gruesome examples of attempts in the last few years. That's why you were attacked in the Forest, they could not have done it here."
"The school's protections are that strong?" asked Itachi with a very slight frown. Harry knew him well enough to detect a hint of surprise in his tone.
Interested, the Summoner leaned in: "What are they? Wards?"
"I do not know," Dumbledore said serenely. His blue eyes were twinkling madly. "I would never claim to know all the school's secrets."
Seifer muttered something uncomplimentary about moronic old geezers and Headmasters in general.
Practical as ever, Scar threw out a few quick questions – were there other places so well protected? Was the local government able to fight back? Who all was opposing this Voldemort character? If there was an open war going on, why hadn't they been warned before the Summoner's arrival? - scowling at the haphazard answers he got.
Apparently, open war wasn't truly an option for the wizarding world, the risk of exposure being too high – though Dumbledore reluctantly admitted that Voldemort seemed less concerned with secrecy than he should be and less inclined to limit himself to terrorist tactics. A few rather spectacular attacks on the 'Muggles', those outside the wizarding world, had considerably increased the panic in the Ministry and the population.
Very few dared to oppose him during the first war and even less now; Dumbledore talked proudly about the resistance group he himself founded and led, the Order of the Phoenix, but he allowed that not many had survived the first conflict and moreover, fourteen years of peace had lulled most into complacence. They were doing their best to keep track of Voldemort's actions and intentions, but it wasn't much.
Harry shook his head, on the whole unimpressed. "This is all very interesting I'm sure, but also irrelevant to us."
His Guardians backed off at once, politely letting him take the lead. Dumbledore, for his part, looked completely taken aback.
"Surely you must wish to understand the situation?" he asked courteously, but with a hint of impatience.
"As I said, it is certainly interesting," replied Harry diplomatically, "but it has little to do with us. We are unlikely to be further involved."
"So we're not staying, then? Good," commented Seifer rather carelessly and Scar crossed his arms, relaxing slightly.
The Headmaster gaped.
"It is not my intention to discount your efforts on behalf of your people," Harry added quickly, refusing to wince at the very Lulu-like voice in his head, that was pointedly reminding him of good manners and acceptable handling of political encounters. "I realize you're suffering and feel for you," he said by rote.
The wizard's slightly shocked expression brightened up. "Indeed. I thank thee, Lord Summoner. But at last we have a new hope!" he countered, suddenly joyful. He looked at Harry with pride and warmth, as if he was a grandson who'd come home after years abroad and having graduated with honours to boot. "Your arrival here... it is the answer to all of my prayers!"
Feeling the faintest dread and resentment already pooling in his belly, Harry gazed back with as neutral an expression as he could manage. It sounded very much like the wizard wished – maybe even expected – him to take part in the conflict.
It was not unprecedented of course. Having the backing of a Summoner was often a coveted goal for politicians and leaders and he'd heard much griping on the topic from Yuna. That did not mean it was welcome.
Harry considered his next words carefully, trying to formulate his question in such a way as to bring the least offence. "I do not wish to belittle the sufferings that this war is bringing to you and your people," he said carefully. "They are undoubtedly great. However, I fail to see why this conflict should involve me."
Dumbledore regarded him with an unnerving, knowing look.
"You truly expect me to took an active role in this war?" asked Harry, dumbfounded by the gall of the man.
Itachi's eyes narrowed and Seifer tensed. Scar moved slightly at Harry's side, restless; they did not interrupt, however.
"I'm well aware that Summoners don't normally interfere in the dealings of common wizards," allowed Dumbledore. "Normal magic has never been within your purview so much as wild magic and natural disasters, I know. However I believe that in this circumstances, an exception shall be made. You will lead us into a new era of peace!"
"I shall not," snapped Harry in clipped tones.
"I am confident you will," said the old wizard with infuriating serenity. "You see, it is not a matter of you being a Summoner, though that is an amazing bonus, of course."
"A bonus?"
"It is about you being you."
All four of them looked at Dumbledore uncomprehendingly. Undaunted, the wizard stared placidly back.
"What do you mean?" asked Harry sharply. "I am... me," he said lamely. If it wasn't his Summoner powers the man was after, than what?
After a tense pause, Dumbledore answered, in carefully measured tones: "Because, my Lord Summoner, Lily Potter was your mother."
Harry could only stare in utter shock.
The silence was such that the soft whirring noises of a few trinkets sounded loud, as did the distant voices of children somewhere outside.
"You can't know that," Harry whispered warily.
But once again, Itachi had caught on sooner than anyone, his genius mind making connections where no-one else did. "There were many surprised reactions to my Lord Summoner's looks, on the first night," he said coldly. "You recognized him then."
Dumbledore smiled rather smugly: "Summoner Harry is very much the image of James Potter, his father, but he has his mother's, Lily's, eyes," he explained, his eyes twinkling merrily. "Many of us have been their teachers or classmates; his appearance was hardly going to pass unnoticed."
Itachi and Scar exchanged a glance of grim triumph. They'd been right – those reactions were a sign of trouble.
Harry's mind was in complete turmoil.
Was this really his birth world? Was it possible? There was no such thing as magic back there, the Dursleys had made it clear. But the wizarding world was hidden, so maybe they just didn't know. Or did they? His Aunt Petunia must have known about her sister... had she lied? To what purpose? But how could his parents have been magical? How could they have been murdered in a war – weren't they killed in a car-crash? Surely none of this was possible. And yet... Harry's own affinity for magic – could it come from them? From here?
Were these wizards really his people? Would he find... family, here? His family...
But no; he shook himself slightly. His family were O'aka, and Clasko, and Sky Runner; Yuna and Rikku and Paine, and Lulu and Brother and Buddy and Wakka and little Vidina; and of course, Itachi and Scar and Seifer.
That was his family.
Feeling the relief of someone who's finding his balance after a moment of vertigo, he breathed deeply.
This Lily... this woman who was a hero, or a saint, or both, was just a stranger. It was nice to think of his mother being this special, but it made no real difference. He would honour her memory, gladly, but could not feel any obligation to her people.
This wasn't his world.
Still, he had to ask, he had to be sure. "What if you're wrong?"
"I confess I wasn't sure at first; it seemed impossible. I thought it a coincidence, a chance event, a fortuity. I did not let myself hope. But being in company with you, my Lord Summoner, is strengthening my conviction. You have a lot in common with her – and with James Potter too, really."
"It might be a coincidence-"
"Ah, but then there's your scar." Dumbledore smiled slightly: "The only mark left on Lily's son was a peculiar scar - a wound by the curse meant to take his life, in the form of a lightning bolt."
He nodded slightly to Harry's forehead, where the orange goggles he used to hold his shaggy hair back left a jagged, zigzagging scar visible.
With growing animation, he said entreatingly: "Have you never wondered what might have caused that unusual scar? It is not an ordinary cut. It is the mark left by powerful, evil magic. Magic that had killed dozens, hundreds, but that did not work on you."
Half-unconsciously, Harry raised a hand to rub his almost-forgotten scar. Truth be told, he hadn't given it much thought since he was a child.
"That is what makes you special, Harry – what would make you special even were you not a fabled Summoner – that is what makes you famous."
"Famous?" he squeaked. Then he gulped, forcing himself to gather his composure again. Fame wasn't something entirely good in his book, but it wasn't entirely bad either; more importantly, it was something he had experience with. He could deal with being famous for more than his connection to the Aeons, he supposed.
Still, his fame as a Summoner was based on some actual skill on his part. Not like this!
"Famous for something I might have done as a toddler?" he protested incredulously. "Before even walking or talking? That's ridiculous. I don't remember what I did – if I did anything at all. I was a baby then! And in any case... it's been years. Why would anyone still remember me?"
Dumbledore's smile was gentle and his eyes twinkling merrily, but it only made Harry scowl more. "You must understand: Voldemort's destruction was a historic moment. You're regarded as a war hero."
A few hisses and grumbles followed that declaration, making Dumbledore blink uncertainly at the obviously unhappy Guardians.
"Why?" asked Scar with unusual bluntness. "Shouldn't his mother be the hero here?"
"Perhaps, but it is to her child that people look," replied Dumbledore dismissively. He turned to the Summoner, his voice growing warmer: "There are books written about you, Harry; every child in our world knows your name. That lightning-shaped cut on your forehead is a symbol of hope. It is the visible sign that you and Voldemort are linked, because instead of killing you, his curse rebounded on him. A mark that inflames the fantasy of all of us."
"You said it was the mother's sacrifice that did it," pointed out Seifer with little patience.
"It was. But that is not a well-known fact – the people believe that Harry did it. That something in that little child stopped the most evil Dark Lord of recent history. They call you the Boy-Who-Lived."
"Why? Someone must have told them this version instead of the truth – why?" insisted the blond.
No answer came from the Headmaster, but Itachi didn't need it.
"Propaganda," he explained with apparent indifference. "The power of a controllable symbol." He pierced Dumbledore with his gaze: "You needed a figurehead, a hero, someone to pin all of it onto, that would inspire hope in the people. Someone to whom everybody could point as the cause of their freedom, and by extension, upon whom they could rely, to bring about that freedom again if necessary. It matters not if it's true or not, you encouraged the myth for purposes of control and power. A martyr would not have been as effective. Dead people cannot be called upon to save the masses again. The child's young age and implied innocence enhanced the perception of a miracle and at the same time, gave hope of a repeat performance, should it ever be needed. Clever."
The aged wizard did not seem happy at the frank assessment, but did not dispute it. His eyes grew colder and his attitude less genial than earlier, however.
Harry's mind was churning and so befuddled that a headache was forming behind his forehead. None of this made sense. They'd only wanted to know why they'd been attacked, how had they ended up on this roller-coaster of unexpected revelations? It didn't help that his Guardians were all staring unnervingly at the wizard, faces too rigidly neutral. He closed his eyes to try and keep a grip on his emotions.
A pregnant silence took root, before Dumbledore leaned back and returned to a more measured tone. "I did what was best, in the interest of all. The aftermath of the first war could have crippled our world terribly. A beacon of Hope and Light was necessary to give the people the will and strength to rebuild their lives quickly. Harry's mere existence healed our world more than anything else could have!"
He focused his gaze on Harry again: "In light of this, you might imagine how devastating it was, to discover that little Harry Potter had disappeared from his family's home; and how much hope your reappearance – and as a Summoner, too! – is bringing us."
The Summoner scowled. "I did not disappear from my 'home'," he said icily. "I had no home there. And certainly no family."
Dumbledore frowned worriedly.
"Even so," interjected Itachi coolly, derailing the wizard's probable protest, "you cannot expect my Lord Summoner to step in the role you tried to build for him. Too much has changed: his path has led him far away from your world. To hope he would fulfil your expectations is foolish."
"We need him," retorted Dumbledore with conviction. He rounded on Harry: "Would you truly deny us when we need you so much? Voldemort is on the move and Darkness spreads wherever he treads."
He rubbed his steepled fingers on the tip of his long nose. "What worries me the most is that he seems to be much more powerful and better organized than he used to be. That night, when your mother's love stopped him, he lost almost all of his powers as well as his body, and fled, horribly weakened. Where to, I know not. I do know, however, that he returned more powerful and more terrible than ever – looking younger and even more handsome than he used to, just as I always feared he would. Moreover, he returned with even greater ambition than he used to have: something I did not think possible."
He couldn't contain a shudder: "His eventual goal of conquering the entire wizarding world seems to have expanded to possibly include the muggle world along with it. A foolish ambition, of course, but nonetheless dangerous to all of us. As if that weren't enough, there are worrisome rumours of allies no-one has ever seen, lending him powerful and mysterious knowledge, not to mention the whispered possibility that he has become an Alchemist, of all things!"
His voice rose with feeling. "We've seen troops that must be of foreign origin, making me wonder just how far and wide his influence spreads. The Ministry is a step away from being toppled, his campaign across both the wizarding and muggle communities is growing ever more violent. We desperately need just what you can give us – what Harry Potter can give us. We need you."
For a long moment, Harry said nothing. Too much was roiling in his mind to put it into words and he wasn't sure he should disclose any of it to this man, in any case. He did not lower his eyes, however, and held onto Dumbledore's solemn, steely gaze instead.
When he felt he had enough control over his voice not to start shouting, he pointed out icily: "It is not my place to get involved with your war."
Passionately, the old wizard insisted: "You cannot ignore this, Harry! Don't you see? This is your destiny."
Harry slashed a hand in a dismissive motion. He was a Summoner. His destiny was not in the hands of these wizards.
The Headmaster went on fervently: "Our entire world relies upon you! You are marked; singled out because your mother died to save you. And that gives you a unique advantage over Voldemort, because if there is one thing Voldemort cannot understand, it is love. He cannot realize that love as powerful as your mother's for you leaves its own mark, its own protection. A protection you will have forever, for it is in your very skin. We need you, the hope you symbolize and the strength you can give the Light side!"
Harry closed his eyes, pained. Lulu's words echoed in his mind: There will be those who would use your power and status to their advantage... Well, here was a prime example, was it not?
"Regardless." Harry stood up, determined to put a stop to the meeting and the unreasonable expectations it seemed to have kindled. "I have no obligation to you."
"But you must help! It has been Prophesised," blurted out Dumbledore.
This time all four showed their dumbfounded incredulity openly.
Harry sat back heavily. "Excuse me?" he asked in disbelief.
"There was... a Prophecy," the Headmaster declared with obvious reluctance. Once again, Harry could hear the capital letter in the word. "Which named you as 'the One' capable of bringing an end to Voldemort's power."
"Prophecy?" guffawed Seifer. "Are you serious?"
"It is a very serious matter," rebuked Dumbledore.
Harry rubbed his temples, feeling his headache bloom. "Alright. What does it say?"
"It states you will be the One to vanquish-"
"The actual wording, please."
Dumbledore blinked.
"Surely, if you place so much importance on this Prophecy, you know its wording?" asked Harry, without bothering to temper his sarcasm.
"I know what it says, yes, and it gives me reason to believe that you are-"
"Either you tell me the actual Prophecy, or I'm leaving," interrupted Harry, irritation growing inside him. "You're attempting to trap me in a war. The least you owe me is the truth!"
"The truth." Dumbledore sighed. "It is a beautiful and terrible thing, and should therefore be treated with great caution."
Harry levelled him with a flat glare.
Discomfited, Dumbledore fidgeted in his seat, caught himself, cleared his throat a couple times and finally gave a resigned sigh: "The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hands of the other, for neither can live if the other survives. The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches..."
A momentary pause followed by the renewal of his entreaties: "You see? You understand now? By attempting to kill you, Voldemort himself singled you out – marked you – and set you on the path that would bring about his own destruction, at your hands! You are clearly the Chosen One. The power of a Summoner... there is no doubt that Voldemort would not know it..."
The four let him go on; lost in thought, they were slowly digesting the information.
"Is Voldemort even aware of this Prophecy? Does he believe in it?" asked Itachi calmly.
"Part of it and very much so."
"Does he connect it with my Lord Summoner, as you do?"
"It is the reason he attacked the Potters in the first place," said Dumbledore with assurance. "There were two possible boys who could have fit the criteria, but he chose Harry Potter, who, like him-"
"That does not necessarily explain why he would wish my Lord Summoner harm," interrupted Itachi nattily. "Does he have any reason to connect this prophecy with my Lord Summoner? He might not be aware of your suspicions about his identity."
"Oh, I imagine he has been informed straight away of who Harry truly is," replied the old wizard, shaking his head. "There are spies both in Hogwarts and with the Ministry that would have recognized him."
For a long moment, the group of four could do nothing but gape at the aged wizard.
"Well, that's just brilliant," muttered Harry at last, with a scowl.
So he was to be dragged into a battle to the death regardless of his wishes, or even choices. Because of a Prophecy, of all ridiculous things, that this Voldemort character evidently took as seriously as the aged wizard before him.
It was at least decent of Dumbledore to be offering him the option of walking into it with his head held high; Voldemort, as the battle in the Forest had proven, would not extend him this courtesy.
He was nevertheless furious and disgusted with the old wizard. He'd obviously built a neat little play for him to perform in, and, if he understood the situation correctly, actually expected him to play the part selected for him, to the Headmaster's specifications.
Destiny indeed! Where was his free choice in this fanciful tale, pray?
And the gall to bring up his parents so cavalierly – and the Dursleys on top of that!
He was rather thrown by all the unexpected revelations, but a deep seated rage was building within him, slowly but surely.
He had done his best to forget everything that came before the Magic that brought him to the Macalania Woods, but he hadn't been entirely successful: the details were hazy, now, but the memories of pain and loneliness were still with him. If he was this very important person, why had been left in that horrible situation?
He wasn't going to ask though – for one, he did not expect a truthful answer and for two... well, that wasn't really the point, was it? The point was that he did not want to take part in a war.
A Summoner was supposed to help, that was true. What was it that Yuna used to say? To refuse a call for help without a very good reason is wrong.
The problem was that he had a very good reason. For how would a war help? A Summoner should work for the good of the people. How was war good? He'd seen and heard enough of it to know any appeasing ideas of 'right' did not make it better. Even a holy war is a war. And a world torn apart for a rightful cause is still a war-torn world.
He made to reply but then looked down at his hands and slowly, his expression turned from troubled to thoughtful.
He did not have to make a choice at once; he could take the time to think things over.
But he did have to make a choice and that was an extremely important realization. Ultimately, it was up to him to decide what to do.
He nodded to himself, because something deep inside him felt settled, in spite of the uncertainty he felt swamped by. The very reverence in which he was held thanks to his power made it all the more important that he not misuse it: his influence could change lives for the better, but also for the worse. It was not unreasonable to feel apprehensive. But he was not helpless.
He refocused on the wizard.
"What would you have us do?" he asked in the most controlled tone he could manage.
The Headmaster smiled in relief but then visibly hesitated, probably rethinking his planned strategies in light of Harry's clear reluctance. Finally, he said, somewhat cautiously: "These are dangerous times. Voldemort is gaining more support through the inaction of those who are succumbing to fear than through any actual recruiting. It would give everyone a boost to think that the Lord Summoner is willing to fight for them. If you could show yourself publicly on the side of Light..."
Harry pursed his lips in annoyance.
Ok, that... was pretty much part and parcel of being a Summoner. In times of troubles, everybody on Spira looked to them; Harry had learned early on to always show himself strong and confident, to always smile in the face of anything, to be the one who would provide hope. Nevertheless...
"If I do so, won't it look like I approve of what you, specifically, are doing? When I don't even know much of what it is?"
"I would be happy to include you in the war effort."
"No. I will not be part of your 'war effort'," scowled Harry. "It goes against everything I believe in."
"I understand," soothed Dumbledore, though Harry doubted it was true. "Still, by making a stand, even just in a support role, you could easily change the tides of the war. You may be able to convince everyone you're winning the war against Voldemort, and that may well be enough to bring everyone to the fight."
Oh, hell no.
Did the man even realize what he was asking? He was basically trying to get Harry to send people to their deaths!
"Absolutely not."
The wizard looked taken aback. "Surely you realize that..."
"First of all, I am not winning any war. I'm not part of any war; how much more clearly must I say this? And second, what you're asking for is despicable."
Dumbledore's eyes hardened: "I would not expect you to understand. You are sixteen years old-"
"I am old enough to realize that I would be sending people to their death and what's worse, for a cause I don't believe in."
The wizard winced as if under a blow, but rallied: "As things stand, the war is going badly – if you do nothing, you'll be sending people to their death anyway!"
Harry gasped and his Guardians reacted, taking a threatening step forward; Itachi snapped out a clipped "That's enough!" and Dumbledore regained his composure with an only slightly apologetic air.
"You could be a source of strength for our world," he pleaded. "War is upon us, there is no avoiding it. Will you not lead the way through its horror to the best future? Your mere presence is giving us reason to rejoice and if you would just take on a leading role..."
Harry almost visibly recoiled.
This wizard's request was beyond unreasonable. He was disturbingly reminded of Yuna's tale about being asked to marry Master Seymour Guado, not for love, but to give the people of Spira reason to celebrate – she'd talked to him at length about the pressure of being 'a beacon of strength', what path she'd almost walked and how much she regretted the mistake she'd made. He did not intend to be guilt-tripped into anything like that.
"No," he said firmly. "I cannot be a leader here. I do not belong in this world."
For the first time, Dumbledore appeared almost dangerous. His aura of geniality and gentle wisdom had almost disappeared, leaving a harsh flare of power and determination in its wake.
"This is your world," he declared, his steely tone brooking no contradiction.
Harry almost preferred it. It was honest and it was clear: and it was also admirable, because even in the anger of the aura he could sense a fierce desire to protect and assist. Dumbledore was not a destroyer, but a defender and a carer.
In reaction, Harry felt oddly stronger, more settled. His churning thoughts were settling, a few harsh, yet comforting, truth shining in his mind.
"It is not."
"You were born here," pointed out Dumbledore.
"Perhaps. But I was not raised here. My family is elsewhere and I have no feelings of connection or nostalgia for a place that reminds me only of pain and misery. This is not my world, and most importantly, this is not my war."
Harry almost closed his eyes as his words resonated within him. He felt marginally calmer and in control again.
Dumbledore sagged. He was obviously disappointed, his blue eyes troubled and betrayed.
"What of the homunculi?" he asked with bitter quietness.
"What of them?"
"There are rumours that Voldemort, too, is an Alchemist. You've seen one of his creations for yourself."
Before Harry could retort, Scar coughed lightly. Softly, almost reluctantly but not quite, he pointed out: "Homunculi are vile. They must be destroyed."
"So what? Someone else can do it," spat Harry and immediately cringed at his own reaction. It was petty and childish and even he had to admit it. Not at all worthy of a mature Summoner in charge of his life...
A brief, pregnant silence followed. "It is almost impossible to do so," said Scar calmly.
Dumbledore nodded in agreement: "The only way to kill a homunculus is by expending all of the power that was granted to them, leaving them unable to revive themselves once they have been killed... and that is virtually impossible to do."
"...But we did do it," acknowledged Harry glumly. "It took us more than we expected, but we managed."
Nobody said anything, but their silence spoke clearly to Harry anyway.
"If you can show us where they are, we shall evaluate the threat they pose and-" started Harry, a little unhappily. He wasn't sure how to finish his offer.
"I only know of three, and one you already destroyed. The others stay at the Death Eaters' headquarters..." said Dumbledore quickly.
"Convenient," muttered Harry, but then he sighed. It wasn't the wizard's fault.
Moreover... the twisting of Magic through Alchemy might, actually, come under the purview of a Summoner.
He was tempted to just say no to anything Dumbledore asked of him, but it would be unjust and petty. A part of him wanted to stand up and shout: "Why should we take care of this? It's your problem. So what if a Summoner's the only one who can fight at that level of power? Train your wizards better! Or find a different solution, destruction isn't the only option to vanquish an enemy."
But he couldn't. He wasn't sure that it was his duty to handle the Homunculi but... he wasn't sure it was not, either.
They felt wrong. So unnatural as to disturb the very fabric of the world. To the point that destroying the one they met had given him a grim satisfaction – a most unusual reaction to killing, for him.
Ignorant of his churning thoughts, Dumbledore attempted a different approach: "How long were you planning to stay at Hogwarts, my Lord Summoner? Where will you go from now?"
"I... I don't know," admitted Harry quietly. He did not like to acknowledge it aloud, but he would not lie about this. "I feel no clear draw at the moment."
Dumbledore had a flash of triumph which none of them liked in his eyes, but when he spoke to them, it was as humbly as it was entreatingly: "Let me at least offer you my hospitality a little longer, then. I am not asking more than you are willing to give..."
Harry felt uneasiness rise in him again and fought the urge to jump up and pace. "Yes you are," he muttered sullenly.
"...but do consider that I can help. Please, I am an ally."
Harry stood up abruptly. He'd had enough for one day. His mind was turning over and over every bit of unexpected information he'd been given and he needed time to process it all. He couldn't take anymore right then.
"I will think on this," he said, the edge in his voice so clear that even the Headmaster immediately backed down.
The wizard could not prevent himself from showing a hint of smugness, however: "I am certain you will come to see things from my point of view."
Harry's eyes narrowed: "I doubt it. Regardless of what my role might turn out to be, this is not my war. This is not my world!"
And on that note, he rushed out, his limit reached and passed already.
He marched back to his rooms in a much fouler mood than when he'd left them.
Once inside, he ignored the refreshments that had been brought for them and pretty much any other distraction, continuing to pace back and forth in irritation.
Harry's mind was inexorably going to places he usually did his best to shy away from. Revelations he didn't want to face were shoved at him by his own brain. Some of the things he'd found out were too painful to face head on, but there were others that he had simply avoided thinking of for the sake of his peace of mind, that he could no longer ignore.
His patient Guardians simply sat around, looking after their weapons or leafing through a book while they waited for him to be ready to speak.
He knew he should be able to, in the privacy of their assigned room, yet he kept pacing furiously back and forth, too worried and anxious to settle, his thoughts running in circles, until it all became too much to keep inside and it spilled in an out-of-control speech.
Voldemort, his mother, his childhood, his confusing impression of Dumbledore, his doubts about the Homunculi, his insecurities about his own role, all of it tumbled out in a jumble of words that slowly shifted towards a rant about his inability to judge the Headmaster's trustworthiness.
"...And he is not telling us everything," he burst out eventually, "I am sure of it!"
"Of course not," agreed Itachi calmly, abruptly making him halt his ranting and pacing. "He openly admitted he has been awaiting this war for years and he does not strike me as a fool. He must have strategies upon strategies in place and contingency plans layered ten levels deep."
"Yeah, and the whole time, he said not a word about any of them. Hyne, Harry! That man keeps his cards so close to his chest they might as well be sewn into his ridiculous robes!" said Seifer, drawing a smile from the Summoner.
"It is not surprising he is keeping things from us," commented Scar. "We have not been particularly open to his overtures and he has not had much time, or reason, to come to trust us."
Harry stopped his pacing in front of a window, looking out. "We have kept some secrets too," he said quietly.
"Well, we have a right to!" blustered Seifer.
The Summoner nodded in agreement, but there was an undercurrent of uncertainty in him.
"To what, precisely, are you referring, Harry?" asked Scar, looking as if he already knew the answer.
A brief hesitation. "My nightmares," he whispered.
"I thought as much. We've found the root cause, then? Is this what you think?" Scar kept his voice neutral and pleasant.
Harry shook his head. "Might be. Probably. I don't know. I just don't know!" His tone rose with his distress and he turned around with a jarring spin that made a few of his sewn on trinkets jingle.
Almost against his will, his hand went up to rub his odd scar again.
Could this be it? Could the odd-looking but unassuming mark be the explanation for the one dark spot of his fantastic life?
He had done his best not to worry too much about his nightmares over the years, but they kept happening, always giving him the same cold and slimy feeling of wrongness even if the content mutated, always giving him the suspicion that they might not be simple nightmares after all.
He knew that his Guardians, despite having grown used to it, were still disturbed by the way he woke up at times, screaming, pale and clammy. It didn't happen too often, thankfully; but enough to be a concern.
They had discussed it ad nauseam at first, but as they kept going in circles, they'd gradually let it slide, accepting the situation because they could do nothing to fix it.
He thought back to the progression his nightmares had followed: he'd had them since a very young age, but they had grown in strength as he grew in age and power.
The one constant was the overwhelming green light, and the accompanying high-pitched laugh, that always concluded the dreams.
Everything else changed; Harry had seen various landscapes from an odd perspective, as if he was gliding through rocks or sliding across cold soils on his belly: those nights, his body felt smooth, powerful and flexible and he could see objects around him shimmering in strange, vibrant colours, even in the dark. He tasted scents on the air and plunged his fangs deeply into men's flesh, feeling ribs splinter beneath his jaws, feeling the warm gush of blood – and relishing it.
He invariably woke gagging, tangled in whatever bedding he'd been using, every inch of his body covered in icy sweat and feeling as though a white-hot poker were being applied to his forehead.
More rarely, he would catch glimpses of a huge mouth, and an impression of a voracious and uncoordinated little man, round and bald like a snowman, with small feet and thick, gorilla-like arms, and would feel desperately, overwhelmingly thirsty; but perhaps the most eerie variation of his nightmares was walking up to a mirror and seeing a strange woman looking back.
She had long, sharp nails painted black and black hair weaving without a breeze, unnaturally long and unnaturally straight, like a thick mass of rough silk threads upon which sat a gorgeous work of goldsmithing, gold threads arching in elegant curves around an oval, blue sapphire, to form a diadem decorated with delicate etchings he couldn't quite read.
Most times, he could not see her face clearly because of a strange helmet-like mask hiding her features, with sharp horns and a long pointy beak curving downwards under her chin, as red as blood; twice however he'd seen her in all her glory, as beautiful as ice, her strange makeup turning her perfect porcelain features into a cold and cruel mask, only animated by the focused insanity of her splendid eyes.
Once or twice, he'd watched her walk easily through a wall that was perfectly solid except for turning into a vertical pool of watery substance when she touched it, generating quiet ripples.
Seifer had identified her at once as Sorceress Edea and that had been the key to understand that they weren't regular nightmares, but visions. After all, he'd never had a chance to see the Sorceress, or even a picture of her, so how else could it be explained?
They had wondered over and over about the other elements of his visions – the wheres and hows and whens and most importantly, the whos – but without getting to any concrete results.
And now, the horrible suspicion was making way in his mind, that he'd been seeing things from this Voldemort's perspective; him and his allies, most likely.
His hand flew to his odd scar again. A mark of the curse linking the two of them, Dumbledore had said. Harry knew enough of magical theory from enough worlds to guess that the link was likely stronger and more complex than just a symbol.
"The source of your visions," murmured Itachi. Fathomless eyes bore into him: "It is your scar, then."
It was nothing they hadn't already suspected. But saying it out loud was apparently enough to make things real, because they all fell silent at once, and the air around them felt heavier than it should.
Harry resumed his pacing, worried and confused. He hated not knowing what to do. Ever since he'd become a Summoner, his Rod had been a reliable guide and his faith in the mysterious force guiding him to his Trials had only grown in time. But now everything was silence, everything was waiting his decision, his choice. He knew it was important and that he had to make it freely, but it was unsettling to be so free.
"I don't like it," he muttered half-unconsciously.
"Do you wish us to leave at once, then?" asked Itachi calmly, startling him out of his reverie.
Harry bit his lip. He hesitated. "I... was rather hoping to visit the local market district," he admitted sheepishly. For the first time that day he sounded like a teenager rather than a grave Lord Summoner. "I've heard so much about this Diagon Alley...!"
Scar and Seifer chuckled. That was soooo Harry! Summoner or not, he still loved to trade (and haggle) and looking for bargains in new, unexplored shopping venues was invariably a source of enthusiasm for him.
"Well, then. Let's use this shopping trip as a respite, to think things over before you need to decide anything," declared Seifer.
Harry smiled.
The trip to Diagon Alley was a dream and a nightmare all rolled in one.
The place was awesome: easily as interesting as favourites of Harry's like Luka and Dollet. Unusual buildings lined it, leaning at such sharp angles that they would surely fall if not supported by magic; to the Summoner, the humblest wooden house was hardly less eye-catching than the imposing marbles of Gringotts Wizarding Bank or the dusty, inscrutable windows of Ollivander's Wand Shop.
Self-moving lettering advertised the latest best-seller published by Obscurus Books or a special monthly offer at Rosa Lee Teabag, or TerrorTours latest vacation packets.
Restaurants and diners abounded; Harry eyed longingly a very inviting ice-cream parlour whose tables, under coloured umbrellas, were spilling onto the cobbled pavement, but it looked like a very popular place even this time of year, and far too crowded for comfort.
Besides, there was too much to see to just stop, even for something as tempting as the advertised Bubble Ice-cream (with Pleasantly Warming Aftertaste!)
There were shops of every kind, large and little, bright and shadowy, selling everything from robes to telescopes and from bat spleens to quills. In between shops, on the main thoroughfare, there were a variety of street peddlers. Flowers, jewellery, charmed trinkets, pots and pans, carpets...
A few discording notes spoke of troubles not openly acknowledged.
Some windows were boarded up or broken; a number of the stalls along the street were shabby-looking and manned by shifty characters. But even so, it was magnificent.
Everywhere he turned there was something Harry wanted to trade!
He was delighted with the tottering piles of cauldrons and arrays of mystifying silver instruments in the window displays of Wiseacre's Wizarding Equipment. He was intrigued by the bundles of unfamiliar herbs hanging from the apothecary's roof, framing the wooden "Slug and Jiggers" sign; fascinated by the crates of second-hand spellbooks outside Dave's Corner; amused by the colourful, self-moving toys of Noah's Ark.
His favourite, predictably, was the junk shop, Utter Clutter, where broken wands, lopsided scales and out-of-shape sextants hid the occasional gem like a Rune Armlet or a Shadow Stone. 'Miscellaneous' was the only word to describe its products and Harry was quite keen to add to the variety through some trades!
He spent some time browsing the stacks of old issues of magazines, too – he was quite curious about some of them, especially Transfiguration Today and Challenges in Charming, and Seifer ended up engrossed in something titled The Quibbler; the owner happily traded them a few numbers for the old issues of Pet Pals Harry'd picked up in Timber.
The young Summoner would have been ecstatic... if not for the crowd that quickly gathered, apparently with no other aim but to bother him.
Unfortunately, the place was packed to begin with and as soon as they were recognized, word of the Lord Summoner's presence in the Alley spread like wildfire. People flocked by the dozens just to catch a glimpse of him and his Guardians.
Harry was rather amused to notice than a good portion of the cheering wizards were wearing orange goggles inspired by his own, either around their necks or holding their hair back. A couple women were even using them to tie their hair in a ponytail. Apparently, he'd launched a trend.
More irritating was the way his every action was greedily watched and reported and often even copied, as if he was a blitzball star or something.
He would have liked a chance to examine the elegant quills sold at Amanuensis' or try and figure out the relative merits of flying devices versus flying creatures, debating it with the chatty owner of Broomstix; but it was not to be.
The crowd was, for lack of a better word, fawning. And demanding blessings from him every other step. Thankfully his Guardians' glares kept them somewhat in check, but the exciting news of his presence in the Alley kept spreading and more and more people kept flocking to the street just to catch a glimpse of him... It was worse than the fans at the Blitzball Cup!
He tried to make the most of it anyway, calling upon his patience and relying on his Guardians to keep the worst of them at bay.
Indeed, the only break in his Guardians' perfect façade of ruthless protectors and serious bodyguards occurred when Seifer caught sight of Sugarplum's Sweets Shop. The blond's sweet tooth knew no bounds.
The result of his getting himself and all his Guardians Cauldron Cakes (which were admittedly very good), however, was that suddenly everybody wanted some: the vendor had never made better business in his entire life. Thank Merlin magic let him multiply the ingredients!
The annoyances kept growing - everybody wanted a piece of him.
He stayed well clear of the imposing building hosting the Daily Prophet's main office, but he had no illusion that his appearance would not make it into the paper, probably in an overblown light – just like every other article about him had been so far.
And most merchants wanted to give him their wares for free, which took all the fun out of it!
Although tempted to just give up, he made a point to check out Quality Quidditch Supplies anyway: the sport fascinated him, it was almost as good as Blitzball. He wondered if he could manage to try it out somehow.
It turned out to be a mistake, however, because the excitement of a 'celebrity' in an already wildly popular shop drove the crowd into a frenzy. His Guardians had to carve a path through the mass of yelling bodies through sheer intimidation and well-placed elbows; fortunately, they were professional and used to the occasional crowd of fans anyway.
Suddenly, a series of popping explosions on the other side of the street, followed by startled cries and panicked shoving, cleared an area in front of a most eye-catching shop.
Weasely's Wizard Wheezies, read the psychedelic sign (most of the time: now and then it twisted in a clownish joke or a witty advertisement).
The firework display that had been let off to scatter the crowd was hardly more attention worthy than the windows, full of a colourful assortments of goods that revolved, popped, flashed, bounced and shrieked.
Harry loved it on sight.
The owners were great too!
Two identical twins in loud, garish robes, whose neon colours clashed with their red hair delightfully; they called out loudly to the 'Mighty Lord Summoner' not to worry, that that they'd closed the shop temporarily.
"So if Your Summonship wishes to have a look around our humble shop..." started one.
"...which sells the best practical jokes magic can offer! And even some non-magical ones!..." interjected the other.
"...Your Lordly Greatness can do it in peace and quiet..." continued the one on the left, unperturbed.
"Well, in peace at any rate," threw in the second twin. "I don't know about quiet."
"...and we will keep the rest of them out of your way," finished the first, gesturing to the protesting crowd. Then he frowned at his brother: "Hold on. Why wouldn't there be quiet?"
"Because we don't like it," he was reminded.
"Oh! Right. Well, quiet is boring anyway!"
Harry, having made his way to them by this time, laughed lightly. "Ok. Thanks! Will you show me around then?"
"Of course, Your Summonership!" they cried together, bending into exaggerated bows.
Obviously proud of their accomplishments, they wasted no time showing off their veritable cornucopia of jokes, tricks and toys - Pygmy Puffs and Extendable Ears, Wonderous Wands and Nose-biting Teacups, Whizz Bangs and Rubby Chickens.
Harry quickly found kindred spirits in them and soon they were haggling cheerfully over Moody Quills (which wrote down how the user was feeling rather than what they wanted to write) and Dreary Whiskers (which grew instant moustaches when ingested), Decoy Detonators (which run away blaring noises if dropped) and Punching Telescopes (which made Harry thank his good reflexes).
The twins' cheerfulness was contagious. Seifer, too, was enthusiastic about their products and more than happy to chat and trade good-natured barbs, while Itachi and Scar took on the role of silent watchers, guaranteeing Harry's safety.
At one point, while one of the twins kept showing off their best wares, the other came up to him with a small tray of tasty-looking pastries.
Rather used to people randomly offering him things, from Potions to Cards, for no other reason than his being there and being a Summoner, both on Spira and on Terra, and sometimes even in the Elemental Countries, Harry thought nothing of accepting with a polite thank you and absently bit into the creamy pastry while letting his curious eyes roam around.
Almost instantly, he felt himself swell and change; his bones feeling inexplicably lighter, most of the smells disappearing from his perception, all his hairs vanishing altogether as his skin sprouted rough, yellow feathers in uneven patches.
He barely got a cry of shock out before his mouth was twisting and elongating in a small, tough beak, strong enough to crack nuts; his usual vocal cords seemed to lose all their utility, but something at the base of his trachea started vibrating instead, producing a trilling warble in place of his intended exclamation.
His arms turning into wings and his feet becoming scaly and orange and developing very strong tendons, distracted him from how breathing felt suddenly odd and his vision had improved dramatically.
Blinking rapidly, he realized what had happened with a thrill of delight: he was a chocobo!
The twins were laughing uproariously and yelling "Canary Creams! Seven sickles the pastry!"
His Guardians were yelling too, though not in jest – weapons drawn and faces thunderous – Itachi had one of the twins by the throat while Scar loomed over the other – Seifer was roaring threats – but Harry himself found the prank totally hilarious. He'd always wondered what being a chocobo was like...
At his inquiring head-butt, Itachi released the wheezing twin, who looked only slightly apologetic; he grinned and waved his wand – pointedly ignoring the tensing Guardians – and conjured a huge mirror: Harry got a good look at himself and was thrilled.
He wasn't quite a chocobo, but very similar: a giant yellow bird, whose sense of smell seemed all of a sudden focused on the bag where he kept his leftover stash of dried ghysal greens...
Harry flapped his wings enthusiastically and warbled and tweeted happily. His Guardians were clearly overreacting. This was brilliant! He wondered if he could fly? Or at least run as fast as Sky Runner could?
Unfortunately, it lasted too short a time to experiment. All too soon he was moulting, and that returned him to his normal shape. Oddly enough, his clothes and effects were completely unaffected by the transformation.
"That was awesome!" he cried happily.
He let the twins show him the pastries (while talking fast to appease his scowling Guardians, very obviously still on edge) and marvelled at them. They really looked like simple custard creams! With an impish smile, he bit into another one and warbled in delight when the transformation was complete.
Scar was less than happy with him. Even as Seifer rolled his eyes, pacified, the Ishvalan raged: chimeras were a sore spot for him.
"You're not disturbed by my Transformation Technique," pointed out Itachi reasonably. Now that he'd assured himself of Harry's safety, he was rather indifferent to the silliness of the twin red-heads.
Scar scowled furiously: "That's something you do to yourself and control. This is completely different! And stop laughing you bloody menaces!"
Seifer was quickly converted, though, and happily volunteered for Donkey Danishes and Frog Fig Rolls and then, honing in with unerring instinct on the chance to annoy his fellow Guardian, he sneaked-attacked Scar (no point trying with Stoic Kid, it was an almost impossible feat, even if he'd been practising for years) and managed to stick the Comb-a-Chameleon hairbrush he'd picked up into the tall man's hair before being thrown half through the shop and right into a sample basket of ever-changing Smelly Paints. Urgh.
It had been enough, however: when he picked himself up, Scarface was sporting a lovely cascade of blond-and-purple ringlets which fell to his bottom and looked positively ridiculous on a grown man.
He did not have time to collapse into laughter because Harry was already in motion and before he could react, he had been subjected to a Comb-a-Chameleon attack of his own. He twisted the mirror to evaluate the damage – a neon pink punk crest, how drab – and pursed his lips in annoyance.
The twins were simply delighted and earnestly entreated them to put on a promoting show for their shop. Despite knowing what a bad precedent this would set, Harry was almost tempted. This place was awesome!
Itachi was the only one completely unaffected, though Harry caught him eyeing the boxes of Tricky Pocky and grinning sneaked a few off the shelves, turning to the nearest twin for a spot of haggling.
He was just getting in the swing of it when a squawking bang went off, rattling the windows and making odds and ends fall from the shelves.
The happy, companionable atmosphere was shattered at once.
"Loonar Loop Luminators," muttered one of the twins irritably. "They keep going off at random times, we can't seem to figure out why," he explained apologetically. "These are the new and improved version... except it's not so much improved as a pain in the-"
But his brother was pointing to the boxes of LLL, which looked untouched.
Suddenly serious, the twins whipped out their wands and readied themselves for trouble, sporting steely, ready expressions at odds with their earlier clownish behaviour.
Harry and his Guardians were, of course, just as prompt in their reactions, but it was nice to see their new friends could protect themselves.
Seifer started saying something about the panicked crowd banging on the windows, but shut up abruptly when Harry let out a surprised exclamation.
"Look at that!" he whispered, eyes trained on a quivering square of thin air towards the back of the shop, through which shone the incongruous glare of a streetlight that wasn't there and wafted in the smell of wet asphalt from a street a world apart.
It was the weirdest feeling, because the square of otherness was parallel to the floor, hovering horizontally just a feet above it, but the frame they could see was a vertical take of a city sidewalk dotted with brownish, wet, fallen leaves.
They gathered around it, to peer through.
"What's that?" asked the twins in unison, completely bewildered.
"A Window," breathed Scar. "A passage to another world."
"We've been through some of them before," explained Seifer. "It's-"
But he couldn't finish, because another explosion went off, louder and closer, shaking the whole shop to its foundations and throwing them all off balance; with startled cries, they were plunged head over heels into the Window, instinctively grabbing and dragging each other through.
The impact with the asphalt on the other side wasn't pleasant and it wasn't made any better by the lurching sensation of gravity asserting itself in a different direction all of a sudden.
Coughing a little and dusting himself down, Harry quickly assessed his team's well-being, absently noticing that while Scar had got rid of his girly ringlets, Seifer was still sporting a neon pink punk crest hairstyle. He managed to make it work anyway.
The twins were moaning as they picked themselves up, but the Guardians were already on their feet, alert and glaring worriedly at the ends of the street, where stern shadows were laying in wait.
Harry recognized their arrival point at once, despite having only been there once. The gloomy yet electric atmosphere of Deling City was rather distinctive.
The town was, of course, covered in clouds and lightly whipped by a fine, persistent rain. Seifer had told them, the first time they visited, that there were only ten days of clear sky in an average year; they certainly hadn't seen even one.
Despite the dreadful weather and the even more dreadful feeling decades of military dictatorship had drawn like a heavy cape over the city, it was still impressive. Harry had been surprised at how lively it was: a cosmopolitan centre full of lights and people, of noise and business. Luxurious hotels welcomed visitors eager to admire its several celebrated architectural landmarks – the Arch first and foremost – enjoy its far-famed concerts – some of the greatest contemporary performers and pop singers having lived and loved in its dark rain and electric lights – or admire the ultra-modern infrastructure boasted by its president slash dictator, the infamous Vinzer Deling.
Pity they would have no time for touristy things, Harry mused, eying the stoic looking warriors arrayed at both ends of the street they were on, as well as in key positions over the roofs (and probably hidden somewhere he couldn't guess too).
They all had weapons trained threateningly on them: it did not bode well.