Edited: 4/24/2023

Divergent Plans

"This cannot be safe." Arya stomped her heavy skis experimentally. Surely a single mistake would mean ripping her legs off.

Harry laughed. "Your boots will pop off the skis if you crash. Come on, this is the most fun way to travel mountain ranges." He adjusted his goggles, a strip of enchanted glass tinted against the sun's reflection against the snow.

She eyed the slope dubiously. It looked too smooth to have been made by nature's hands. Though it was late spring, snow carpeted the whole route. She tugged at her jacket, odd synthetic, conjured fabric in bright green. The world sounded odd through rounded ears, and her binaural hearing was just slightly off. Du Sundavar Freohr was a comforting weight at her hip.

"Wedges to slow down, parallel to speed up," Harry called back, gliding down the steepening ledge. Gingerly, Arya followed him.

And they were off.

Her skis scraped the snow with each turn like carving rough wood, sending plumes of powdery snow into the air. The wind pulled her hair behind her, a pennant of rippling, glossy black. Her cheeks burned in the wind and she found herself grateful she'd worn the offered goggles.

After only a minute or so of experimenting, Arya figured out how she ought to balance and was right behind Harry, leaning deep into her curves and the toes of her rigid boots. Trees raced by at terrific speeds, fast enough to kill her. Harry skied recklessly, searching for rocks and leveled off portions to shoot off of and into the air, laughter trailing after his receding form.

"Hermione went skiing at this resort in France one time, that's where I got the idea," he reminisced fondly. "I've been doing it for a while now, though. You picked it up really quickly."

Arya shrugged, drawing level with him and standing further upright, allowing the wind to catch her body like a sail and slow her down. "I've skated a tiny bit on the Black Lake, it's a bit like that. Have you ever skated?" She shook her head.

"It's like gliding over ice on blades strapped to your shoes. Well, it's less dangerous than that, but that's the gist of it." Harry spun flat on his skis and started gliding backwards, glancing over his shoulder. "If Brom has the egg, are you just going to leave with it?"

Arya veered around a jutting rock and rejoined Harry on the other side. "I must. Durza may have been sent away, but he will return, and now the King will know where I was. It is not safe for me or the egg to stay here. Galbatorix may not know the egg is nearby, but he has long been attempting to capture an elf, and Durza will report how my injuries ought to have stopped me from running far."

"Can we beat him?"

She had to stop herself from laughing. "No. No one can. I do not think he will come in person, though. He has many servants."

Harry crashed back-first into a snow drift and emerged laughing. "This is almost as good as flying!"

"Flying!?" Arya stumbled.

"Yeah, on broomstick or dragonback!" he exclaimed. "The dragon wasn't as much fun, but it was a lot more exciting."

Had he not said it in the Ancient Language, Arya would not have believed him. She searched his face for guile and found none. "Tell me more."

Though he was a good sport about expounding on his encounters with dragons both during a bloodsport tournament and guarding bank vaults ran by sinister dwarves, Harry grew increasingly short of breath. Arya's blood boiled at the treatment he described. He did not look happy about it, either, but she took heart in the knowledge that dragons existed outside of the three eggs she knew of.

By the time they reached Carvahall, Harry was visibly suffering from burning thighs. It was bizarre to be pulled up a mountain by magic by a practitioner of magic who was indifferent to the exertion, but couldn't manage to glide down without running out of energy. Though she had actually enjoyed herself skiing, she worked to keep it off her face. Humans, men especially, were presumptuous creatures. Harry was pleasant company, but she was not interested in a relationship. Faolin's corpse still haunted her waking dreams.

Carvahall laid out before them, buildings like postage stamps on Arthur Weasley's muggle mail. Harry and Arya both slung their skis over their backs and tramped into the village on rigid, clunky ski boots.

The villagers called after them. Arya was surprised to find that Harry didn't seem to understand the common tongue. They drew a lot of attention in unfamiliar clothing, and both of them were strangers to the insular village. Her sword in particular drew a lot of stares, especially given Harry did not carry one of his own.

"Komstu með konuna þína eða systur þína, ókunnugan?" a skinny man asked Harry. He frowned.

"Bæði!" A fat one called, roaring with laughter.

"What?" Harry asked. The man grunted and ignored him. "Did he say anything important?"

"No," Arya said. Curious and unwelcoming eyes followed them all the way down the muddy, winding cobbles to Brom's house. His windows were shuttered and his door locked. Harry knocked, then waited. Arya extended her mind through the door and checked. The abode was empty.

"He's not there."

"How do you know?" Harry frowned.

Arya was already striding down to Morn's tavern, making mental contact with Brom. "It is I, Arya Egg-bearer. I was nearly captured and forced to send away the egg."

Alarm flooded across the link from Brom's stolid mental defenses. "I did not receive it. By whom were you attacked?"

The tavern door opened. It was far too early in the day for it to be occupied, and the man who left bore himself as if sober and with purpose. An apron hung from his stubbly neck. The man caught sight of Harry, eyes widening.

"Góðan daginn, virðulegi ókunnugi." Respect and caution warred for dominance in his tone.

"What did that mean?" Harry asked again. "He said 'ókunnugi' again." Morn watched him, standing a respectful distance back.

Arya touched Morn's mind fleetingly. He was scared of Harry. "He said 'Good morning, honored stranger.' Ókunnugi means-"

"-Stranger," Harry finished. He waved and smiled. Morn melted in relief, skirting past the pair of them and down the way they came.

The tavern was nice, as far as taverns went. In the daytime, the nausea, sweat, and alcohol which usually cloyed during service hours was mostly absent. Brom was sitting in an armchair near a very low fireplace. The shutters and door were all thrown wide open, and the smoke from the old man's pipe wicked away and out into the street, its dank scent forcing itself up Arya's nostrils.

"Quiet. Thwart spies and scryers. Let none but my friends hear and understand me," Arya commanded, her voice infused with power. Harry shifted behind her. Brom beckoned her over, twisting his fingers over his lips. Arya nodded, but eschewed the traditional greeting.

"Durza," she said promptly. "And a few horned friends. My companions were slain, and I would not have escaped him if not for this man. He knows what I was carrying, and has given me guarantees he is no friend of our enemy's." Brom scowled over her shoulder at the wizard.

"We've met. Trouble follows you, wizard." He turned back to Arya. "Did he slay Durza, or merely stop him?"

Arya thought back to the viridian glare of the curse he called 'the killing curse.' His books were clear on what it was supposed to do. "He did not stab him in the heart, but it is not impossible that Durza died, anyways. He worked magic I am unfamiliar with. In any case, Galbatorix will know if he does not return and make guesses as to where I was and where I flee to. Carvahall may not be safe for you or I, and especially not for my charge."

Brom furrowed his brow. "I did not hide here merely for its isolation. I cannot just leave. If I did not receive your charge, where might you have sent it?"

Arya's nostrils flared. She glanced back at Harry. "I do not make mistakes like that, especially not with that. I sent it to Brom Half-Rider."

He backed off. "Fine. I doubt he'll look in Carvahall, first. Ceris and Gil'ead are likely to send troops north to try and cut you off from Du Weldenvarden. I suggest you go far north and cross the North Sea beyond the Empire's control, or else try for Surda along the coast, if you manage to steal a boat. Unless you are prepared to fight through magicians and the Ra'zac, alone." Brom shooed at her. "I don't want to be seen with you. Your choice of attire draws attention I want nothing to do with."

Arya snorted. Brom was as she knew him still. "And Harry?"

"He's a weird magician," Brom said, eyes fixed over her shoulder. A cranky mask hid the twitches at the corners of his lips. "Maybe he can help you find your charge. I cannot lend obvious help until nightfall. I see you have those same strips of wood on your back. Tell me you weren't foolish enough to launch yourself off mountains on nothing but a pair of sticks."

"I offered to take you," Harry objected. "Point-me, dragon egg," Harry said aloud. Arya turned back to find his wand had spun on the palm of his hand, and pointed northeast. Brom laughed, his eyes sparkling.

"Of course he got it." The grumpy old man act was gone, and pride shone on his face. "You know, Arya, I wouldn't be too surprised if it hatched for him. We can go tonight. Find something to occupy yourself, and swing by my house after sunset."

Arya bowed. "Your urgency in this matter is appreciated, elder."

Brom raised an eyebrow. "Damn right. Listen to your elders, Arya. I shall see you tonight."

Outside, Harry waved his hand beneath his nose. "Damn, that man smokes like a chimney." The sun shone high in the sky, an hour or so before noon. The daylight had chased away the morning chill, leaving her jacket stuffy. Arya pulled down the 'zipper' in front and let the breeze cool her. Harry went further, removing his entirely and tying the sleeves around his waist. He hung onto his skis by the carrying strap.

"What do these people do for fun? I wanna set these down." Arya kept easy pace with his awkward gait, skewed by carrying the weight of his skis on one side.

"Drink and gamble," she assumed. "In cities, they fuck prostitutes. Are you known to be a magician here? You were willing to reveal your ability to me immediately."

Harry nodded. "I, er, might have attacked the tavernkeeper with magic when I thought he tried to break into my mind. Here-" he headed out to an open patch of trampled, dead grass and flicked his wand. A wooden table with attached benches popped into existence. "We can play a card game or something."

Another flick of his wand realized a stack of glossy paper rectangles. They had numbers and four different shapes on most, though some featured very detailed drawings of people. "That is unfortunate, and unwise for the future. Galbatorix pursues magicians in his Empire relentlessly, and to be caught is to be conscripted and enslaved to his army. I recommend subtlety, though you give me the impression you are incapable."

Harry shot her an offended look, shuffling the cards between his hands with an odd little maneuver that leveraged the flexibility of the thick paper they were printed on. "Do you know any card games?"

She nodded and listed a few, none of which sparked recognition in the wizard's green eyes. "We can start with 'War,'" he said.

If she had been expecting a strategic game even loosely connected to any aspect of warfare, Arya was disappointed. "How is this entertaining? The outcome is predetermined from the moment you deal a hand." Harry slapped down a four of diamonds, which Arya collected with a clover jack.

"Aren't we just killing time? Surely this beats watching paint dry."

"Barely," she muttered. A stiff breeze blew their piles across the table, fluttering into the mud. "Vindr, letta," she whispered. The villagers would assume the magic was his, anyways. She picked up her cards.

"Scourgify," Harry commanded. The mud stripped away. "Damn. You were kinda smoking me. We'll call that your game." He shuffled. "Again?"

"No. If you cannot conceive of a more entertaining game, I will watch paint dry," Arya vowed.

"How about a board game that glorifies capitalism?"

"It cannot be worse than 'War.'"

'Monopoly' might have been an improvement, but Arya couldn't tell. Harry insisted that the last properties, Boardwalk and Park Place cost $2000 to land on and that Mediterranean and Baltic cost $50, which sounded objectively wrong from a game balance perspective. Lacking any idea for what Chance and Community Chest cards were supposed to do, Harry scribbled random things on them like 'do a cartwheel' and 'shout a bad word at the top of your lungs.' It was entertaining, even if Arya occasionally fudged the Chance cards. No need to damage anyone's hearing.

A couple hours after noon, Harry flagged a twitchy Morn down and paid him an exorbitant sum to cook them lunch. He was being paid a golden crown for merely two meals, so Arya did not feel guilty about outlining her inflexible demand that no meat be added to her lunch.

Harry tried to explain how houses and hotels fit into the game, but neither of them understood how they factored into the cost of landing on a property (at least Arya had the excuse of never having seen the game before) so they started out as cosmetic. Harry kept flexing his transfiguration with scaled-down monoliths of steel and glass that exceeded the Empire's total annual generation of steel, which he nevertheless swore were accurate. They conversed in the Ancient Language, so Arya supposed she just had to take him at his word.

They bored of Monopoly well before dinner. Harry acceded and explained 'Chess,' a far better simulation of war than the titular failure of a card game. The rules were simplistic enough that Arya was confident she had heard the whole, accurate set. Given a sensible set of rules and one or two defeats to acclimate, Arya absolutely destroyed Harry, over and over. He was obsessed with doing 'the French move' with his pawns, so much so that he would count it as a win if he managed one 'en passant' a mere handful of moves before she checkmated his king.

"This is like playing against Ron all over again," Harry complained. "When he asks you to play chess, he really means 'can I have a quick ego boost?' It's brutal. I wish I knew how to make the pieces come alive."

Intrigued, Arya asked, "Alive? How so?"

"Sorta like Phineas's painting, the pieces are supposed to have personalities and you don't actually move them. You give them orders and they decide if they feel like obeying you."

Well that sounded interesting. "And you cannot do this with your magic?"

He frowned. "I don't know the spells to do it."

"Then do not use spells."

Harry opened his mouth to object, let it hang open silently for a few seconds, then closed it. He pointed his wand and furrowed his brow. "Animatus!" he ordered. The pieces woke up.

"What is my purpose?" The tinny voice of a white pawn asked.

"To die in glorious battle, or maybe switch genders if you're lucky," Harry told it. "Get in line." Her horse pieces neighed from the side where they'd gone after capture and cantered over to their starting squares. Grudgingly, Arya was impressed.

"Why? If I go there, he's going to kill me," Harry's pawn pointed at Arya's own pawn where it stood on the square it had started on.

"No, you can kill that guy," Harry insisted.

"I dunno about that," the pawn said dubiously.

"It's a legal move! Just go to that empty space, turn around, and kill that pawn next to you."

"But I'm not supposed to turn around. You told Edward he'd get sexual reassignment surgery. There's still bits of him all over the middle of the board."

Harry sighed in exasperation. "Arya's going to checkmate me next move, anyways. I need this victory, David. Please be a good soldier for your commander."

"What?!" his king demanded from the corner of the board. "Why can't you play black?"

"He needs every advantage he can get," the black king called across the board.

"What's all this?" Brom emerged from the shadow into the light of Arya's golden werelight. A tendril of smoke drifted from his pipe and was lost in the darkness of night.

"We're saved!" Harry's king exclaimed. "That's it, pack it up boys." It hopped off the board.

"Hey!" the white queen exclaimed.

"I didn't include you since you died on move five," the king called back. "Make us a box so we can hide our faces in shame."

Harry rolled his eyes and conjured a box, rolling up the board to jeers of 'Craven!' and 'Forfeit!' by the black pieces. "I gave you life," he called after them. "You owe me for every time you draw breath."

"You make us want to die," the muffled voices of the white pieces came from inside the box. "Go away."

Brom examined the park table, cluttered with Monopoly paraphernalia and dirty dishes. "We have a fair bit of ground to cover tonight," he muttered. "We best get going."

Harry vanished the dirty plates and stuffed everything else in his backpack. He conjured himself sneakers and offered another pair to Arya. "I guess we're walking."

He followed Brom, a little curious. His curiosity was piqued. Brom had mastered the art of sneaking without really trying. He did not hug the walls of the houses he moved past or crouch low, he just walked with impossibly quiet footfalls and took routes that happened to always be unoccupied. The embers of his pipe lit a tiny portion of his salt-and-pepper mustache and the tip of his nose dull orange, like a grumpy, chainsmoking Rudolph.

Marijuana followed them all the way to the outskirts of Carvahall. The direction he led them was familiar.

"We're going to Garrow's?" Harry asked. Brom silently exuded an aura of agreement. The path was as long and boring as he remembered it. The rising excitement that preceded an adventure hung in the air, but ten minutes of walking in the dark made it hard to cling to it. Arya kept trying to stay ahead of Brom, who adjusted his speed to stay side by side with her. Harry had to jog to keep up. They were both freakishly fast and appeared unbothered by power walking harder than Hermione.

"Don't smoke so close to me," Arya insisted. Brom puffed a spiteful ring of smoke and turned from her.

"I don't want to be followed. You leave a very distinctive scent."

Glowering, he spoke around the stem. "Stop the scent of my smoke from lingering. People might be more surprised if they saw me without my pipe. I'm being covert."

Harry snickered. "Your lungs must look like a coal miner's."

"A magician is as healthy as his skill in gramarye allows," Brom said snootily. "Pipeweed helps me focus."

The farmstead peeked over the hill, a dark, squared silhouette. By unspoken consent, they spoke no more. Harry silenced his feet and bag. Brom put out his pipe, and Arya touched her fingers to her feet, mouthing something below his hearing.

They maneuvered around back to an unremarkable bit of wall beneath closed shutters. Both Arya and Brom seemed certain in the portion of the house they chose. Harry traced a square on the wall with his wand and cast a nonverbal disillusionment charm. The wood melted away like glass, revealing a room dominated by a rickety bed and a shelf, both occupied.

"Jackpot," Harry subvocalized, no more than a whisper of air on the breeze. Halfway down the shelf, an ovoid, sapphire egg glittered. Harry backed off and let Brom first observe the room. He retreated a moment later for Arya to look in.

Long minutes passed watching Arya's back. Harry was about to nudge her when she turned back to him with a radiant smile. She whispered only one thing.

"It's hatching!"

AN: There we go.

Icelandic translations:

Komstu með konuna þína eða systur þína, ókunnugan? → Did you bring your wife or your sister, stranger?

Bæði! → Both!

Góðan daginn, virðulegi ókunnugi. → Good morning, honored stranger.