As he entered, Eragon was treated to a new sort of architecture he had not yet seen. Where Harry's castle had been grand, Jeod's house was opulent. There was a difference. Without magic, Eragon was certain it would have taken an unthinkable amount of gold to create Harry's castle the ordinary way. All the stone carvings, paintings, even the simple structure itself, it would take the combined labors of a thousand men and many years to do.

Jeod's house was obviously much smaller, but the decorations and fashionings in the entry hall were much more curated to give the impression of gold. The owner of this house is rich, they seemed to chant. Gold leaf and pristine white marble, dark mahogany wood and thick woven carpets dyed rich purple with gold trimmings, it was stately in a way that the castle with its masonry and grand sense of ancient power was not.

"Can you introduce your friends?" Jeod asked, leading the three of them in through the front door. Brom grunted.

"Eragon here is on a quest. Harry is with us indulging his wanderlust, and I'm accompanying them to be the voice of reason. Neither of them have any love for the Empire, though we've all worked out a healthy relationship with our secrets. Namely: not pushing each other for them. They're both magicians, though they've managed to stay beneath the Empire's notice – despite their best efforts." Brom scowled.

Jeod imitated his scowl back to him, then made a goofy face. "Come on, Brom!"

He winked at Harry and Eragon. "Don't worry. He was grumpy when I knew him, too. I think it's too deeply ingrained in his face to fix that scowl. So what brings you to my doorstep specifically? I have no doubt that if you'd leave me to believe you were dead for sixteen years, you wouldn't lose a wink of sleep over persisting."

"Information," Brom grunted.

Jeod threw his hands up. "I should have guessed. You know, I'm a rather successful merchant as of late. I do have other services to offer to our-" he glanced at Harry and Eragon. Brom shook his head subtly. "Friends. What exactly happened to you, anyways, Brom? I remember getting separated after Gil'ead and then-" Brom coughed.

Jeod stopped. "Right. Well, I suppose this mystery will continue to torment me."

"Not necessarily." Brom took out his coin pouch and dumped a handful of money into Eragon's hand. "Why don't the two of you explore the city and get some dinner? Jeod and I will catch up on boring old people's stories. I'm sure neither of you care much to hear me recap sixteen sleepy years in a little village in the middle of nowhere."

Harry shrugged. Eragon wasn't quite so eager to just leave. They were going to discuss things they wanted to keep secret from him, and Eragon was sick of Brom openly having so many secrets. As far as Eragon was concerned, Brom's past was a giant blank spot, and the man shut down any lines of inquiry that might have cleared anything up. They'd been traveling together for weeks now, Eragon was learning swordplay and magic from him, following him into mortal combat, and he still didn't know a thing about the man's past before Carvahall.

All the simmering frustration at all of Brom's secrets bubbled up at once at the clear dismissal. The coins Brom put in his hand felt insulting, a slap to the face and a clear taunt; I trust Jeod more than you, we're going to exchange secrets, and you're not allowed to know them or even ask.

So when Brom closed the front door behind them and Harry began to walk over to the herbalist's, Eragon lagged behind. The street Jeod's house was on was quiet enough that Eragon felt he could sit on the front steps without arousing too much suspicion.

Harry glanced back at him. "You coming?"

Eragon growled under his breath. "Go ahead without me. I'll catch up."

Harry glanced at him knowingly. "Are you sure?"

Frustrated, Eragon scratched his head. "Maybe you're happy knowing none of Brom's history, but I'm not. He's too secretive for it to be unimportant, and I want to know. Are you going to tell him?"

Harry shook his head. "I'd be a hypocrite to snitch on you for eavesdropping when I used to be notoriously nosy. Just…remember that what you hear isn't going to be filtered through the tact and manners of someone speaking to you. I remember listening in on a rather callous conversation about a man who supposedly betrayed my parents to their deaths. It certainly sounded a lot worse than it would've if they'd been trying to tell me in a way to spare my feelings. You get me?"

Eragon shrugged. "Do you want to listen, too?"

"Nah," Harry said. "Brom and I aren't being nosy to each other. It's a sort of unspoken truce. If I listen with you, I'd be breaking my half of it. If I'm meant to know, Brom will tell me."

He seemed surprised with himself. "Wow," he muttered. "Nobody would ever believe those words came out of my mouth."

Eragon watched him turn the corner of the shadowed overhang. Pressing his ear to the stone wall, Eragon strained to hear anything. No sound made it through. He would need to use magic. For a moment, he worked to put together the words he'd need for this task.

"Thverr stenr un atra eka hórna!" he whispered, closing his eyes. And suddenly, he could hear.

"-uly? Surely I'd have heard of it by now."

"Everything about it was done with the utmost care for secrecy and security," Brom apologized. "I might've told you, but your reaction might have made it easier for the Empire to figure out you were involved in the theft."

Eragon frowned. He'd missed something important.

"Still," Jeod insisted. "It's not like the King wouldn't have known! Why keep this secret so close to their chest when both sides obviously know."

Brom was silent for a moment. Jeod harrumphed. "I had to hide," Brom said. "I could hardly tell you myself when every single one of the King's servants was scouring up and down the length of the continent in a mad hope to catch me. I had quite literally the most coveted item in Alagaesia with me."

"You don't need to explain it," Jeod dismissed. "I know you couldn't. I suppose I'm just annoyed that none of our friends in Farthen Dur sent me so much as a cryptic note!"

Eragon heard muffled footsteps approach. "You didn't tell me we were expecting guests," a woman's voice said. She sounded stately. "Who is this?"

A rustling sound. "Brom. From when I was younger. Brom, this is Helen, my wife."

"Pleasure to meet you," Brom said smoothly. "I heard a lot about you when Jeod and I were…working. It's good to put a face to the name."

"How long do you expect to be here?" Helen asked.

"As long as they need," Jeod cut across. Eragon could almost see the dirty look Helen would be giving in his mind's eye.

"They? How many guests are we suddenly hosting?"

"Just two others," Brom said. "Harry and Eragon. They're housebroken, I promise."

"Heh." Helen gave an unimpressed, flat sort of attempt at a laugh. "Do not let this distract you, Jeod. You cannot afford another bout of 'bad luck.' Brom, it was a pleasure meeting you."

The footsteps receded.

"Bad luck?" Brom quoted.

Jeod sighed. "My ships have a nasty habit of leaving port and never being seen again. It does not take many losses of this kind to break a business. I've been trying to ship food to Surda. My ship is loading right now, actually. Despite Lord Ristheart's best bureaucratic efforts to make even actions so trivial as tying shoelaces require permits, licenses, taxes, and approval. It was supposed to leave almost a month ago. Helen knows that if this ship 'disappears,' our finances really will be in trouble."

"Hmm." Brom went quiet for a moment. "Do you think they know?"

"Who, the Empire?" Jeod snorted. "Unless I did something else to get a black mark, I can't think what else would spur them to do this. That is, if this is more than bad luck. I'm beginning to pick up a reputation."

"They could just be hitting shipments of food to Surda," Brom supposed. "They don't have to know where your loyalties lay."

"What other options are there?"

"A spy," Brom grunted.

Jeod scowled. "They check the minds of every person who joins, certainly everyone who might be trusted with this sort of information."

"It would be very foolish to assume any protection is perfect," Brom said. "Especially when confronted with evidence to the contrary."

"Circumstantial evidence."

Brom scowled. "Do you want them to help you or not?"

"How would they help me?" Jeod wondered. "You can't put a secret back in the bag. If they know, they know, and nothing they can do will change that."

"They can send muscle to guard your ships," Brom suggested.

Jeod grunted. "If this ship sinks, our friends won't have to worry about my shipping company anymore."

Brom was quiet for a while. Eragon heard an aborted first syllable from Brom's mouth as Jeod started speaking at the same exact time. "Enough about my business. Where have you been? Who are your friends, and what's Eragon's quest all about?"

Brom sighed. "Carvahall."

"You know, just about any other person in Alagaesia would have no idea that any village by that name exists, but you have the fortune of speaking to one of very few people who are familiar with that village."

Eragon was surprised. The way Brom had made it sound, Carvahall wasn't even on most maps. Therinsford was a lot larger, and the only one anybody cared about so far up north. That, or Ceunon. One day, Eragon thought he'd like to see Ceunon himself. He could ask Roran about Therinsford whenever they next saw each other.

"So what were you doing in Carvahall?" Jeod asked.

"Laying low," Brom said.

"I'll bet," Jeod snorted. "Aside from that thing you stole, there's probably nothing in Alagaesia Galbatorix wants more than your head."

Brom chuckled. "He can't have it. I'm still using it. I was laying low, and I was actually keeping an eye on Eragon."

Eragon nearly lost his grip on the eavesdropping spell. Brom had stayed in Carvahall for him? He hadn't even known him!

"Is his quest of particularly great importance?" Jeod asked.

Brom gave a very heavy, exhausted sigh. "You have no idea, Jeod."

"Well now I have to know." Eragon imagined Jeod was leaning in. "What's he after?"

"He wants to know what happened to his mother."

"Huh," Jeod said. "Well, is that a problem?"

"His mother is Selena."

Jeod choked. "Oh shit."

Eragon shot to his feet, furious. He knew! Brom ALREADY KNEW who his mother was, and led them all on a wild goose chase, lied to them, just to visit his friend. He clenched and unclenched his fists, pacing in the sheltered alcove. He pressed his ear back to the wall, determined not to miss another word.

"-the hell do you even tell a kid something like that?" Jeod was asking sympathetically.

Brom chuckled bitterly. "It is twice as complicated as you think it is."

Jeod groaned. "From what I can tell, it must already be the most convoluted and ridiculous circumstance possible."

"Mhm," Brom said. "So you can only imagine how convoluted it is in truth."

That sank in for a moment. A few seconds later, Jeod muttered. "Poor kid doesn't even know his mother was the most dangerous and terrifying assassin Alagaesia has ever seen."


Harry wandered across the street. The alcove Eragon was listening at was quickly hidden by a trellis covered in ivy. He glanced up at the herbalist's shop.

Just from across the street, Harry recognized some of the stuff he saw hanging up in the back. Dog tongues, bat skin and various hairs, it was a true apothecary. Harry felt around for the bag of freshly minted gold coins he had in his backpack. The herbalist's shop had the potential to be a gold mine. It was worth waiting for the shopkeeper to return.

"Hello?" Harry pushed open the door and called into the dark back of the shop. The door was unlocked, that had to mean there was a clerk somewhere in the back, right?

He perused the aisles. Shelves and boxes were labeled with tiny scraps of parchment. Harry put on his glasses, heedless of Brom's paranoia. Pufferfish spines, a wooden drawer's label read. Lacewing flies. Spider eyes. Ground dung beetles.

A pair of glowing eyes blinked open. Harry felt a presence touch his mind. What a strange specimen you are, it said. Harry flinched back, frantically emptying his mind. He could almost hear Snape shouting in his ears. Clear your mind!

You're not very good at this, the voice said lazily, ignoring all his efforts to shut it out.

Harry searched around the room for the person who was ignoring all his pathetic attempts at Occlumency.

I've never heard the term Occlumency before. But I assure you, if Occlumency means to keep others out of your mind, you are dreadful at it.

Harry's eyes fell on the creature sitting atop the shelves behind the empty counter. "You," Harry realized. "Get out of my head."

Surprisingly, the presence obeyed him and left. Harry grunted. "I shouldn't be surprised by talking cats. I just haven't met many magical creatures around here. Is the shopkeeper in?"

The cat jumped down onto the counter. It was big, black, and shaggy, like it had never seen a brush in its life and the extra fur added on a good bit of volume. It looked like a darker version of Crookshanks, if Crookshanks had gone through years of physical therapy to get rid of his limp, and had facial reconstruction surgery.

It gave him a very unimpressed look, then meowed.

Harry realized with embarrassment that it probably could only talk with its mind. "Sorry. You can speak in my mind. I was just…surprised. I don't love it when people mess with my mind."

Nobody does, the cat answered, suddenly back in his mind. Why are you looking for Angela, anyways? I am far more interesting.

"I can't exactly buy from you," Harry grinned.

Why not? Why fools buy useless mixtures is beyond me. Nasty and inedible things, Angela sells. Except dog tongues. Those are tasty. If you bring me some clotted cream and fish, I may let you take some things. I am Solembum. With his message, Harry got the sense Solembum was male.

"I'm Harry, but I'm incognito right now, so you can call me Harken."

Solembum licked a paw. Aren't all humans? Nobody uses their real name anymore. Not even I. Though you did a poor job hiding your other name.

Harry shrugged. "You don't seem like the kind of cat to spread secrets around. Brom would call me foolish and naive, and I really should know better, but-" he shrugged. "I've got a soft spot for magic. You'd really let me take stuff if I brought you food?"

Solembum arched his back, tail curling up behind him. Take? Is the exchange of goods not called trade in your tongue?

Harry held back a laugh. "How about you tell me where the shopkeeper is, or bring them out, and I'll owe you some fish. I don't know where to get my hands on clotted cream, but fish sounds easy enough."

Solembum tilted his head. Acceptable. Angela will be here shortly.

He jumped down from the counter in that catlike way that seemed like half falling, half graceful leap.

"You're headed outside?" Harry asked. "Will Angela be angry with me for opening the door for you?"

I do not need the help of humans for such tasks as opening doors, Solembum snipped, leaping up to catch the handle of the door and pull it down, twisting so that he pushed the frame right as the handle was twisted down. Without another glance, he slipped out.

"Well goodbye, I guess."

Solembum did not answer.

"You know, that might be the chattiest I've ever seen Solembum. You must be very interesting." A woman's voice came from behind the counter, further towards the back. Harry turned around and stopped dead.

She was nearly a perfect clone of Hermione. Harry was brought up short by the unexpected sight. She had the same bushy hair, the same shape of face-

Harry sighed. The similarities ended there. "You look like you've seen a ghost," the woman said. She laughed to herself. "Maybe your instincts are pretty good. I'm Angela," she introduced herself. "And you're the stranger Solembum deigned to speak with."

"You look a bit similar to a very good friend of mine," Harry apologized. "It's a bit dark in here, I thought- never mind. I'm Har-" he caught himself. "Ken. Harken."

Angela raised a brow. "Solembum tells me you're looking to shop, Har-ken," she said, with an exaggerated pause between syllables. "What caught your eye?"

Harry gestured. "It's been impossible for me to get my hands on pufferfish spines. I haven't been able to bring myself to kill dogs for their tongues. A lot of the ingredients you have here, this is the first place I've seen them in a while."

Angela hummed. "Good. I worried you'd want to buy love potions or some frippery like that. You seem interesting. Fools can be interesting, but they don't often last long."

Harry gazed up at the labeled bottles. "Nobody tries to, I dunno, burn you for being a witch for brewing these?"

Angela laughed. "Certainly not. I'm always careful to make sure my potions aren't too effective."

"It doesn't sting your professional pride?" Harry wondered. That had been a sore spot for him when working for Gertrude.

"I suppose it'd be nice to be able to risk really flexing my skills," Angela mused. "I just tell myself I'm in the business of fleecing rich fools, not brewing potions. Then it doesn't matter how effective they are."

She leaned on her elbows over the counter, her eyes wide, examining Harry. "It sounds like you're in the business of brewing potions though, so I ought to treat you as a different type of customer. What are you interested in?"

Harry's eyes skated over the labels once more. Lacewing flies. He already had fluxweed and knotgrass. "Do you have boomslang skin?" Harry asked. "Er- it's a snake, green for males, brown for females, rather large…?"

Angela shook her head. "I'm sorry. I deal mostly in plants. In the title, see? Herbalist."

Harry raised a brow and nodded his head at the dog tongues. Angela snorted. "A couple of odious neighbors who raised loud, feral dogs and couldn't manage them properly. Solembum's work."

Unhappily, Harry asked for some pufferfish spines, lacewing flies, and a sampling of the wide variety of exotic herbs Angela had in stock. Many were unfamiliar to him, which suited him fine. If she stocked them, that probably meant they were useful in some way, and he didn't mind experimenting to figure out how.

"If it's snakes you're after, Teirm doesn't get many. You'd have more luck in Surda or the fringes of Du Weldenvarden, if you can brave the journey." Angela drummed her fingers. Harry had found some snakes in the Spine, common garden snakes, but no especially useful breeds.

"How much?" Harry asked.

Angela squinted. "Shouldn't you have asked that first?"

Harry blushed. He was not in the habit of questioning if he had the gold on him to buy whatever he wanted. Since he was eleven and first introduced to his Gringotts vault, money had never been something to worry about. He slid a handful of gold coins over the counter. Angela stared down at the little pile for a moment.

"Either you're trying to bribe me, or you have no idea what money is really worth."

Harry shrugged. "I can afford it, and these will be very useful."

Angela shrugged herself and scooped up the coins. "It's become a bit of a ritual of mine; when Solembum chooses to speak to someone, I offer to tell them their fortune."

"No thanks," Harry said quickly.

Angela frowned. "It's not quackery like the rest of this. I have dragon knucklebones. They do not lie. Theirs is a true fortune telling." She withdrew a drawstring pouch full of things which shifted and clicked against each other within, like dice or marbles or bones.

Harry insisted. "I've got plenty of pretty awful experiences with fortune telling and prophecy."

"Suit yourself," Angela said. She tucked the pouch beneath the countertop. "Is there anything else I can help you with?"

Harry thought for a moment. "Know any good places for dinner?"

Angela thought for a moment. "The Green Chestnut is not too far and the clientele are…interesting, but the food is subpar. The South Wind is far more expensive. It's in the midst of the nicer inns by the docks. They cater to rich merchants with traditional food from Surda, Ceunon, and other far-flung ports."

Harry thanked her. He was about to leave when it occurred to him that Eragon was still eavesdropping and would expect to find him here when he got bored. "If someone comes around looking for me, Evan, will you tell him where I went?"

Angela nodded. "Are you going to the Green Chestnut or the South Wind?"

"South Wind," Harry answered. "Thank you."


It wasn't long past noon when Harry found the restaurant in question. It was in the middle of a group of stately inns, just inside the city walls near the port. It felt very much like a gated community. There was a low wall surrounding the whole cluster of buildings, a literal manifestation of the class divide. There were no guards overtly standing with armor and spears at the entryways, but there were definitely 'bouncers' sitting on benches or near doorways, watching the square.

Harry glanced down at his clothes, decided they were about the right match for the people he could see, and walked in like he belonged.

Nobody else spoke with the bouncers, so he didn't either. He walked past unchallenged.

He'd noticed that as a general trend, shops and signposts did not often have words on them. Harry hadn't given much thought to how people would communicate when most people were illiterate. Usually, there were tankards outside of taverns, needle and thread outside tailor shops, some variation of a cleaver for butchers, and so on.

Here, it seemed literacy had reached some critical density among the intended clientele and signs with words on them had suddenly reappeared. This one square, where only the rich collected, this place felt like Hogsmeade had.

The South Wind was a low, cozy building with a wrought iron fence bordering outdoor tables shaded by great big umbrellas. It was made with bricks, tiling, and wooden detailing. Harry headed inside.

The atmosphere was warm. The indoor seating was half full with people who did not fit in the homogenous mold of nordic folk he'd seen in Alagaesia. Plenty of olive skin tones, darker tans, and even a few people with truly dark skin. Chatter was at a dull murmur. Hearths flickered with low fires, and the rustle of pots and pans came from back behind the main counter.

The whole place smelled like good, homelike food. There was a notable absence of the less than pleasant smells in the rest of the city. Teirm didn't smell awful, but it was certainly worse than London. For Harry's money, he'd take petrol fumes and urine over poop and sweat any day.

Harry was unsure how he was expected to order or pay for a meal. He watched a group of three overweight men in brightly dyed clothes approach what was essentially a buffet and hand over some coins. Harry mimicked them.

"Paella today," a woman with olive skin smiled alluringly. "With ingredients imported from Surda. My brother cooks it, our mother's recipe from back home."

Harry paid for his meal. It didn't seem expensive, but he knew his sense for money and the cost of things was skewed.

"Are you new here?" the woman behind the counter asked.

Harry nodded. "Hoping to meet interesting people, hear the rumors, stuff like that."

He found a table near a window and ate. The food was wonderful, a major change from the types of dishes Carvahall ate. They always had a sense of being utilitarian; like getting to eat at all was the prize, and the food was optimized for survival rather than taste.

Paella wasn't like that. It felt like some kind of ethnic food he might find in a multicultural district of London. It was authentic and delicious. The rice was flavored with some kind of spice Harry had no name for, along with an unfamiliar kind of meat that tasted just as good as any he'd had.

Harry risked a wandless spell, muttering the supersensory charm under his breath. Brom's lessons were paying off; he managed it without his wand. He closed his eyes against the overwhelming sharpness of vision and listened with his keener ears.

"The tariffs are ludicrous. I want to sell to you, but half of my money will go into the King's pocket."

A sigh. "I know. It feels like there's hardly a point to making port here anymore."

"It's just on food, medicine, and weapons," The first pointed out. "I've got bales of wool and barrels of dye sitting around in my warehouse."

"Subject to luxury dues," the other grumbled. "Nevertheless, in the interest of not wasting my trip and the time of my crew, I've no choice."

Another conversation perked Harry's ears. He honed in on the three voices.

"I'm telling you, the whole fucking village was gone. Burnt to the ground, the bodies charred to the bone. Half the caravan fled for Belatona."

"Cowards."

"No," the first snapped. "Prudence. The kind of force that can annihilate a whole village would kill our whole caravan without a second thought. If you've any sense, you won't try to trade by land until we hear some news on this mysterious legion of Urgals."

"You're sure it was Urgals?" the third asked.

He snorted. "Who else levels a village for fun?"

"Shades," the third muttered nervously.

They were silent for a moment. "The only one anybody knows of haunts Gil'ead, on the other side of the Empire."

"His name is Durza," the third one whispered.

"Here we go again," the second muttered.

"You'd remember it too if you saw him! He's got skin like milk, blood red hair, and crimson eyes!"

Harry jolted upright. That perfectly described the man who was torturing the elf in his dreams!

"He does the King's bidding, wherever that may be," the third one whispered. "The King clearly has a bone to pick with Surda. The tariffs-" he cut himself off. "Who's to say Durza isn't headed there to enforce his will a bit more directly?"


Harry wasn't at the Herbalist's shop across the street. Instead, a woman with curly hair and an ageless face was scrubbing off a crystal ball the size of his head with a rag. She glared at a soap sud, rubbed it with the hem of her sleeve, then checked that it was clean.

Eragon cleared his throat. "Have you seen another man come through? A bit older than me, black hair, scar on his forehead?"

She glanced up. "Oh, hello. Yes, yes I have. He left half an hour ago, and asked me to tell you he was headed to a nice tavern called the South Wind, near the swankier inns by the port. I'm Angela, by the way."

"Evan," Eragon said shortly.

Angela fished beneath her counter. She emerged with a pair of knitting needles she pointed accusingly at Eragon. "You don't seem to be in a good mood."

"How did you guess," Eragon snorted.

"Do you need a sympathetic ear? I'm afraid I don't know you well enough to offer you my shoulder."

Eragon rolled his eyes. "I just found out I've been lied to for a while."

"That's no fun," Angela sympathized. "See anything you like?" she gestured up at the stuff in her shop. Eragon still had the money Brom had given him, but nothing really leapt out. There were a bunch of bizarre and curious items that, if he lived nearby, he might be willing to buy for the novelty, but there was nothing in the shop Eragon wanted badly enough to carry with him whenever he left Teirm.

"Crystal balls?" Eragon wondered finally, nodding at the great big orb on the counter.

Angela scoffed. "I can make up some vague things to say that with enough hindsight, you can convince yourself were true," she said scornfully. "That's how most fortunetelling works, you know. A load of hooey and a bit of cleverness to make people believe it. Still I suppose the song and dance can be entertaining-"

Just then, a shaggy grey cat leapt onto the counter between them. Eragon startled. He hadn't seen or heard it coming.

Hello, a lazy voice said in Eragon's mind. The cat fixed him with its mesmerizing eyes, a shining lavender that shifted to peridot while he was watching. Like turning an agate in the light, their color gleamed orange. The cat flicked its mane and jumped down on the other side of the countertop. Eragon saw its raised tail over the ledge, stalking into the back rooms.

"Usually he's less overt," Angela muttered. "That's Solembum, by the way."

"Your cat can speak with his mind?" Eragon asked.

"Werecats can," Angela corrected. "And he's hardly mine, he just enjoys my company. I think. I suppose I do feed him, too. No, Solembum knows I offer to tell the fortune of anyone interesting enough that he bothers to speak with them. I guess he wants to know, too."

She produced a little velvet bag. "Though I suppose I should ask: do you want to know what your future holds?"

The question sat before him like something weighty. Something he knew he should consider before answering. Eragon himself didn't know what he was going to do in the future. Right now all he wanted was to leave Brom far behind. There were a million paths before him. Way out, a vague shape on the horizon, Eragon suspected Galbatorix was in his future in some form. Even that, he had no idea the shape it would take. Werecats had always occupied the shadowy, unknown bits of legends, flighty and mysterious, yet clever. If a werecat wanted to know his future, was that a good thing or a bad thing? He reached out to Saphira.

Are you watching?

Yes.

What do you think?

Eragon felt Saphira ponder. Knowing something is better than knowing nothing, even if that something is worthless. You can always discard whatever she says. You cannot get the information she offers later if you change your mind.

"Please," Eragon said. "What can you tell me about my future."

Angela poured the contents of her little bag out onto the counter. They were little bones with glyphs scratched into them on every side. They looked arcane and ancient, yellowed and worn near the joints.

Where did she get those!? Eragon wondered. Dragons had not been common in Alagaesia for at least a century. Their bones had to be extremely rare. It also occurred to him that Angela having those knucklebones was something similar to how Harry described his culture, and the way they made use of dragon parts. Was there a connection there?

"I have only offered this twice– well, thrice before. Once for a woman years and years ago, the other for a blind beggar. And now Harken and you." Angela stacked the kuncklebones over her forearm. "The beggar didn't want to hear his fortune. I suppose when you're a cripple living on the streets, the only way the future can go is up. The woman though, she sobbed when she heard her fortune. It was…grim."

Eragon watched her prepare apprehensively. "You've only done this once?"

Angela nodded. "For the woman. Selena was her name."
Eragon tried not to show his shock at the name. Selena wasn't an unheard of name. It was possible it wasn't her, but the circumstances- "Years and years, like twenty?"

Angela tilted her head. "Something like that. Years tend to run together when you're my age. She did look a bit like you, come to think of it. Why? Suspect you're related?"

Eragon shrugged, inwardly cheering. Another lead!

Are you going to tell her or not? Pressing the herbalist for information may lead you closer to Selena without having to go through Brom. Saphira responded.

"Do you know what became of her?" Eragon asked. "Anything else?"

Angela frowned. "I won't share the details of her fortune with you. It's not my information to give. All I know is that she was rightly miserable with what the knucklebones said, and I never saw her again."

Eragon set his face. If his mother could hear her fortune, so could he. "Cast the bones," he said.

Angela focused briefly, her face etched with absolute concentration. "Manin! Wyrda! Hugin!" she cried, tossing the bones in a jumble on the countertop. Eragon immediately recognized the words of the Ancient Language. It was real magic she'd invoked. Whether or not that magic had the ability to tell the future, Eragon still wasn't sure. Saphira was paying sharp attention through his eyes.

But she had revealed something else critical. She had to be a magician, and to show him was a level of trust Eragon could reciprocate a bit.

Right now, Eragon kept silent. Angela studied the jumble, peering at the bones from different angles, checking the glyphs on the sides and between touching sides. After a while, she sighed and produced a wineskin to drink from.

"Your future is convoluted," Angela muttered, leaning against the counter. "The hardest reading I've ever done."

"You said you'd only done this once before," Eragon pointed out.

"Yes, but this is so much harder than hers was that I'm sure this will stand out even many many years in the future, should I be fortunate enough to cross paths with those who need their fortunes told." Angela offered him the wineskin, but Eragon declined.

"What did you find out?"

"It's a mixed bag," Angela said. "Do you want the good stuff or the bad stuff first?"

Eragon looked down at the jumble. "I could use some good news right now."

Angela gave him a sympathetic look that made him very worried. "Well this one's easy. A circle with a line through it. Infinity or very long life. You'll live a long time, at the very least. Many times the regular span of a human life." She indicated the glyph. "Normal lifespans are represented by the aspen or elm. I've only heard of this one."

"Because Selena didn't get it," Eragon guessed. How did that work? He knew Galbatorix was already older than humans had any right to be, and nobody expected him to die anytime soon, either. Maybe it was being a Rider that did it. If dragons grew so large as Belgabad, who was reportedly mountainous, they had to have extremely long lifespans. He hadn't heard of dragons with Riders whose Riders died of old age. It made sense that the bond extended the age of the Rider. He'd ask-

Eragon stopped himself. If he left, he could not ask.

"I didn't-" Angela stopped herself. She wagged a finger at him. "Very clever. I don't know if I should stop giving you commentary to keep her fortune private, or if I should reward your ingenuity by letting you figure out what you can through this method."

Eragon said nothing.

Angela looked back down at the bones. "The Wandering Path, into the Lightning Bolt, into the Sailing Ship. You will be at the center of a great conflict in Alagaesia. Mighty powers will be locked in a struggle surrounding you, and your choices will determine the fate of the country as a whole. And the Lightning Bolt. Doom. A death near to your heart, one that will cause you great pain."

She sighed. "Finally, the Sailing Ship. It's unmistakable. One day, you will leave Alagaesia and never return."

The shop was quiet for a minute.

"All that from three bones?" Eragon poked.

Angela nodded. "It's a known pattern."

"Ah, the fate of Alagaesia, doom, and banishment pattern. Gotta be one of my favorites," Eragon snorted.

Angela shrugged. "It is what it is. You've taken this well."

Eragon curled his lip. "I haven't yet accepted this as absolutely true. Maybe I'm just not letting the truth of it sink in. Will everything here happen, no matter what?"

Angela drummed her fingers on the counter. "This isn't an exact art. Some things will only be clear in hindsight, some will be predictable long before they arrive, and some, you may never fully understand. As a general rule, I would expect them to come true. Either it happens, or you're pleasantly surprised. Some omens are clearer than others, others can be malleable with foresight and preparation."

Who would he lose? Garrow had survived the Ra'zac attack and lived in a safe, hidden, and guarded castle in a remote place. He couldn't imagine him being in much danger. Did that mean Roran was going to die? Eragon remembered the preparations they'd made before setting out. The letter Brom had left for Roran, warning him. Dropping hints meant to lure him to the castle in the Spine so that Garrow could share the Secret and keep him safe. Right now, Roran was unprotected in Therinsford. He could still be in danger.

"Shall I continue?"

Eragon gestured for Angela to go on.

"This is rather pleasant." She indicated a glyph of a rose over a crescent moon. "An epic romance, a woman of noble birth, beautiful beyond compare. No hints as to if or how it ends."

Eragon shrugged. Next to impending death, it hardly hit with the same meaning. He made note of it, anyways.

"More bad news," Angela frowned. "Hawthorn root and tree crossed. It means betrayal, and from within your family. It's blatant and unmistakable."

Roran wouldn't do that, Eragon thought without thinking. And neither would Garrow.

You know nothing about your father's side of your family, Saphira reminded him. The next betrayal you experience may hold clues.

"Is that all?" Eragon asked. Angela cast a scrutinizing gaze over the bones. To Eragon, they looked as unremarkable as a pile of bones. Whatever meaning they held, it meant nothing to him without Angela's interpretation.

"Maybe," she shrugged, squinting. "But nothing clear. It's all tangled, random jumbles, and I am hardly the greatest practitioner of this kind of magic. Whatever else I might guess at is as likely to be wrong as right."

She leaned back. "What I'd give to see the rest of- 'Evan's' life."

Eragon blushed. "Sorry. We were trying to keep a low profile. My real name's Eragon."

Angela raised a brow. "Well, that's not a name you hear every day. There were two others with you yesterday. Harken, and a raggedy man."

Some anger came back at the reminder. "Harken is Harry," Eragon said. "And the other is Brom." he tried to keep his disdain out of his voice.

Angela burst into laughter at the mention of Brom. She doubled over, peals of laughter filling the dim shop. "Oh! Him! I had no idea."

"You know him?" Eragon seized?

"Of him," Angela corrected. "Yes. He's – well, it's not very nice, but he's something of a joke in fortuneteller's circles. His fortune was, well, it was more of a misfortune. If we meet again, I'll be sure to tell you about it."

"But not right now," Eragon said slowly. Some of the anger he felt towards Brom shifted to Angela for her reticence. Was nobody ever going to tell him anything about Brom's past!? Smoke, mirrors, and tight lips were all he could ever find.

"Strictly speaking, I shouldn't tell you at all," Angela pointed out. "It's bad form to spread others' fortunes around. It's private information, and nobody else's business but their own."

"There's nothing else you can tell me about him?" Eragon pleaded.

Angela frowned. She opened her mouth but just then, Solembum leapt onto the countertop and sat between them. His eyes flashed many colors, like a shattered prism with a different shade on every facet.

Listen closely and I will tell you two things. When the time comes and you need a weapon, look under the roots of the Menoa tree. Then, when all seems lost and your power is insufficient, go to the Rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls.*

Before Eragon could press the werecat for answers, he stalked off.

"What was that about?" Eragon asked. Angela shrugged. She opened her mouth again to speak when the door opened.

Eragon spun on his heel, irritated and about to excoriate whoever else had interrupted them again while he was seeking critical answers.

"Oh. Harry. You're back."

"Er, you mean Harken?" Harry nudge. He had a bundle in his arms, wrapped in paper. "Is Solembum in? I brought him a mackerel."


Solembum padded around Eragon's legs and took the wrapped mackerel from Harry's hands. Harry gauged the atmosphere in the shop. It was tense. Eragon looked irritated but more than that, Harry sensed a simmering anger in the lines of his body, the set of his face, and the way he'd whipped around when he opened the door, ready to chew him out.

Harry spotted a pile of bones on the counter and surmised what had happened. "You got your fortune told?" he asked Eragon. "I wouldn't worry about it. Professor Trelawney regularly predicted my agonizing, tragic, and imminent death for all three years I had her and it-" the words stopped dead in his throat.

"Never happened," he forced himself to finish. All of a sudden, everything Trelawney said that Harry had just ignored, it all came rushing back. She had been right.

Harry put on a smile. "Did you buy anything?"

Eragon looked back at the herbalist. "How much for my fortune?"

Angela smiled and waved it off. "Nothing. It was a privilege. I hope we meet again, Eragon. By then, the stories you'll have to tell," she trailed off.

"Thanks," Eragon offered anyways. He shot Harry a meaningful look and led him out of the shop.

"What was that all about?" Harry asked, when they were out in the street.

"Brom. But I don't want to talk about it so close by," Eragon muttered. To Harry's surprise, he cast a dirty look at Jeod's house. Harry remembered he'd left Eragon while he was eavesdropping. He'd probably heard something he didn't like.

"Where do you want to go?" Harry offered.

"I'm going to see Saphira." Eragon's jaw was set. Harry got the sense he was irritated with him, too. He followed Eragon out of the city.

They passed through the main gate. The guard at the front glanced between the two of them, taking note of Eragon's anger. "No Neil?" he asked.

"Bit of a family dispute," Harry told the guard tightly. "We're taking a walk."

"Keep an eye on the sun," the guard advised. "Gates close at sundown. If you're not inside by then, you'll be stranded until morning."

Harry nodded and jogged off after Eragon, headed to the south following directions only he could sense.

It was not long before they stopped at a cliff that seemed a bit higher than the city walls, It was far enough away that only the sharpest observers would ever spot even a dragon taking off from behind it. Since it was higher than the walls, not even the guards on patrol would be able to see over the lip of the cliff to whatever was behind.

Eragon set to climbing the cliff with his hands. Harry was tempted to fly up and be done with it, but the physical activity was good for blowing off steam, so he merely sat back and watched, ready to catch Eragon with magic if he fell.

Eragon got stuck halfway up. Frustratedly, he tried to reach for handholds in any direction, then a way to backtrack, but to Harry's eye, he looked pretty well stuck. He was about to offer his help when Saphira came lunging over the lip of the cliff in a burst of glittering blue.

She executed a midair front flip that saw her gliding towards the cliff face. Like a dog scruffing its puppies, Saphira caught Eragon's shoulders with her talons and hoisted him up to the top of the cliff. Harry waited below and gave them time to speak with each other. He couldn't stop thinking about what he'd learned at the South Wind.

Durza.

That was the name of the Shade Brom had warned him about. One of the King's foremost servants. He was the one torturing the elf woman.

He laid the Elder Wand flat on his palm. "Point me, elf woman."

The knobbly stick wobbled for a moment, but did not resolve a bearing. He was about to put it away when a breeze blew through the trees at the base of the cliff. The Elder Wand glided to point northeast.

"Point me, Durza."

Nothing. Not even a wobble. Harry waited almost a full minute for that to change, but the Elder Wand remained stubbornly still.

Outside the city was a drastic change in the soundscape. The chatter of people, creaky wagon wheels and clopping horseshoes, it all vanished. Replacing it was the rustle of wind through leaves, the chirping of birds. Beneath both soundscapes, the dull thunder of the ocean remained, a comforting sound just below notice.

Harry sighed into the sounds of nature. He was not stupid enough to think he could take Durza on. Brom had been clear that Galbatorix and Durza were terrifying threats. They had killed dragons and Riders with impunity a century ago, and they'd only gotten stronger over the years. Harry held no delusions that he could take Durza in a fight. The way Brom had described magician's duels was equally terrifying. Almost entirely mental combat, winner take all, and Harry hadn't been able to muster the most meager defense against Snape with a year of one-on-one tutoring.

But the Point Me charm had indicated the elf woman was somewhere to the northeast, and the traders at the South Wind thought Durza was in the south, headed to Surda. What if Durza had left to carry out his mission, and the elf woman was no longer guarded by such a potent threat? Harry might be able to rescue her.

His ruminations were interrupted when Saphira came coasting down and deposited Eragon next to him. Saphira curled up at the base of the cliff, one dark blue eye cracked open in watchfulness. Her saddle stood out on her glittering scales. It seemed almost a shame to cover any part of her with something as dull as leather.

Harry gave Eragon a lazy wave. "What's going on?"

Eragon was immediately indignant again, but no longer seething. "Brom knew who my mother was the whole time."

…Oh. Harry sat back against a tree trunk. "Why did he want us to come to Teirm if he already knew everything you were after?"

"Exactly," Eragon snapped. "It has to be because he wanted to see Jeod. The two of them are working against the Empire somehow. I bet it's the Varden they both work for."

"Is that bad?" Harry hazarded. "Don't we want the Empire defeated, too?"

"He still lied to us," Eragon said, brow darkened. "He said-" Eragon cut himself off. "Never mind. He knew before we even left the castle. He knew who my mother was and let us run on this wild goose chase across the Empire. He's lied to us since day one, he won't tell us anything about his past. He keeps so many secrets that I feel like I don't know a thing about him, and he expects us to do as he says without question!"

Harry gazed at Eragon a bit self-consciously. Had he been like this during his fifth year? He remembered with a twinge of embarrassment, the way he'd gone off on Ron and Hermione the first day he'd been at Grimmauld Place.

He had been entitled to answers. Even in hindsight, he still thought the adults were wrong for keeping him in the dark. But he was old enough now to at least understand the perspective Mrs. Weasley had looking back. Dumbledore, too. Anything Dumbledore told him, Voldemort might pluck out of his head, and every bit of information was another avenue for him to deceive Harry with. Mrs. Weasley probably just thought he was too young. Certainly the idea of telling Colin Creevey critical, dangerous information made him leery.

"You should bring this up with Brom," Harry said finally. The leaves rustled in the breeze. Harry drew his coat tighter around himself.

"He'll just avoid answering," Eragon scoffed. He paced over the grass, back and forth.

"So don't let him," Harry shrugged. "There's a difference between being nosy and pursuing critical information. Brom is probably in the habit of keeping secrets. You need to make it clear to him that he owes you some answers. And he does. Trust has to go both ways. But," Harry held up a finger. "You also have to respect some secrets."

Eragon fumed. "Of course you'd say that."

Harry ignored the insult. "I keep secrets from you and Brom, too. There are plenty of reasons not to tell someone something. Sometimes it's not your secret to tell. If somebody else trusts you to keep a secret, it's not up to your discretion who you tell and who you trust anymore. You can decide to risk your own secrets getting out, but doing the same for others makes you untrustworthy. And secrets have a habit of getting tangled up in each other. One bit of information can lead to a dozen others, raise more questions than it answers, and give away far more than you intended to."

Eragon was trying to accept that information. Harry could see it in the way he bit back a retort. "But I already know Brom worked for the Varden. We all knew he hated the King since he told the story of the Fall back in Carvahall."

"There's a difference between suspicion and certainty," Harry pointed out. "You can act much easier on certainty."

Eragon shook his head. "We are obviously already defying the King just by me not turning myself in right away."

Harry snorted. "If Galbatorix wants you on his side, he will make lots of offers before he switches to trying to capture or kill you. If you side with the Varden, your allegiance will immediately become clear." After all, Voldemort had done the same. It was always offers with villains. It was like Voldemort wanted to give Harry lots of chances to turn to evil and all that rot. But once he openly showed his unwavering allegiance to Dumbledore, Voldemort stopped handing them out. He suspected an offer would sound a lot more tempting when the guy doing the offering wasn't a snake-nosed monster.

"What about his past, then?" Eragon insisted. "He doesn't have to give us the details of all the missions he ran for the Varden, he could just tell us about the house he grew up in, or the friends he had as a kid."

Harry shook his head. "Sometimes something's not really a terrible secret, it's just too painful to talk about. I keep plenty of those, too. You might ask an innocent question, the answer to which is too tangled up in tragedy or a complicated past, that it's easiest to just say nothing at all."

"It feels like you're defending Brom," Eragon accused. He stopped pacing to glare at Harry.

Harry shrugged. "I'm not excusing any of his behavior. I'm just giving you some reasons why someone might keep secrets, so you can have a clearer view of Brom. He doesn't keep secrets just to taunt Eragon, the Dragon Rider he's managed to trick with his silence. He has reasons, I'm sure."

"Did nobody ever do this to you?" Eragon demanded.

Harry laughed hollowly. "All the fucking time, Eragon. One man in particular kept enormous, life-altering secrets that concerned me, from me. I didn't agree with his reasons, but he had them. I think eventually, it just became a habit of his to never say a word when he didn't absolutely have to. But despite all that, Dumbledore still wanted the best for me, and worked very hard to make sure…" he swallowed, stopping at the words.

To make sure I survived.

"There's one of those painful secrets I was talking about." Harry tried to inject a bit of cheer in his demeanor. "Just because he doesn't tell you things, doesn't mean he doesn't care."


After that, Harry suggested flying. They couldn't play Quidditch all the way out near Teirm, but they could still go for a pleasant flight.

Harry wasn't sure it would work on a dragon, but he was pleasantly surprised when the disillusionment charm rendered Saphira a transparent blur, like looking through a perfectly clear glass sculpture of her.

They took off after Harry disillusioned himself. He wasn't sure why he was keeping the Cloak secret. It just felt like the thing to do. The Hallows were too closely tied to everything surrounding his 'death' that he did not want to answer questions about them.

For that flight, the three of them used their minds to communicate. It was uncomfortably intimate, touching minds like they did. Harry hadn't been optimistic about his ability to reach out with his mind like Saphira and Brom did, not after all his failed Occlumency lessons, but it turned out to be easier than he'd expected. He wasn't sure if it was legilimency or something different the Alagaesian people did, but he didn't need eye contact and Snape always seemed to need it to invade his mind. Either way, the skill came much more naturally to him than guarding himself ever had.

By unspoken consent, the three of them flew out past the shoreline and coasted over the rolling blue waves of the ocean. Mental communication was odd like that. Words were not always necessary. Feelings, wants, and emotions, all accompanied their communications. Often, words failed to measure up to it. After all, words were just common sounds shared by both parties to communicate ideas. With mental communication, direct communication of ideas was possible. It was also quicker, and less got lost in translation.

The sky overhead was straight out of a children's book illustration. Sky blue with puffy white clouds dotted overhead. Harry glided up close to Saphira. They were far enough from shore that Teirm was little more than a notch on the horizon. It was late afternoon. Harry kept an eye on the sun, wary of being shut out by the city gates.

When they were sure they wouldn't be seen, Harry ended the disillusionment charms. He conjured a paddleboard to rest on while Saphira swam lazily alongside him.

"So, fortunetelling," Harry brought up neutrally.

Eragon shifted in his saddle. "I thought you said fortunetelling was chicanery."

Harry frowned. "It can still bother you."

The kid huffed. "Aye, well, maybe this one's different. Angela used the Ancient Language to do it. She's a magician."

Harry rocked back. The paddleboard bobbed underneath him. He shifted his weight to ride up and down the rocking waves. "She just showed you she had magic?"

Eragon nodded.

Something about that was significant. If being a magician in the Empire was so dangerous, that was a lot of trust she showed Eragon. Maybe that was why Eragon had used his real name.

"Well is there anything in particular she said that you're worried about?"

Eragon raked his fingers through his hair. Harry muscled the paddleboard over a larger wave. "She said-" Eragon formed the words haltingly. "She said that I would be betrayed by a family member. That I'd experience an 'epic romance' with a beautiful woman of noble birth, and that I'd eventually leave Alagaesia and never return, no matter my efforts to avoid that fate."

Harry blew his bangs over his forehead. "No pulling punches, mate. Well, prophecies are notoriously fickle. You know that doesn't have to mean what you think it does, right? Leaving Alagaesia could be in the literal sense of going somewhere else geographically, or it could be that you die and that's what it counts, or a million other things. Merlin, it could just mean that Alagaesia gets renamed to Awesomeland and that's how you 'leave' Alagaesia behind. There's a million interpretations for every word and idea, and that prophecy could mean any one of them."

Eragon nodded. "Angela said as much. But it will come true, one day."

"Eh," Harry said. "Even the muggles back home had loads of stories about prophecies. Practically every Greek myth had one. Oedipus was told he'd kill his father and marry his mother. So he ran away, and after a long adventure, despite all his efforts to avoid that fate, he ended up doing exactly that."

"So they do come true," Eragon mumbled.

"That's not the point," Harry said irritably. "Let me finish. There was a story about the Titans, a prophecy told to Ouranos that said his children would overthrow him. So he got paranoid and ate his children. Obviously, his children did not like being eaten, so when they escaped, they overthrew him. The exact same thing happened the next generation later, this time the gods overthrowing Kronos. Pythia tells Croeseus that if he goes to war against Persia, he will destroy a great empire. He does this and winds up destroying himself." Harry ticked off on his fingers.

"These stories are littered with the critical truth of prophecies. One often meets their fate on the road to avoid it."

"So…do nothing?" Eragon asked, bewildered.

Harry tilted his head. "Maybe not. If there was magic behind the prediction, it had to do something, right? Prophecies are predictions, not commands. A prophecy can't force you to do anything, it can only make an incredibly accurate guess as to what you will do in the future." Harry took a deep breath.

"There was a prophecy about me, made before I was born. It basically said me and another guy would fight, and one of us would kill the other."

Eragon's eyes were wide.

Harry forged ahead, quashing his feelings on the subject. "Well, that other guy heard the prophecy, guessed it was about me, and killed my parents in an attempt to kill me and preempt the prophecy. I survived as a baby. He came back when I was a bit younger than you are now. He killed someone else I was friends with. Then his followers killed my godfather. How do you suppose I felt about that guy after all that?"

"You wanted to kill him," Eragon said quietly.

"Exactly!" Harry snapped. "Vol- that guy," he caught himself, "-by believing that prophecy and trying to kill me, ensured that I was his enemy, and that I wanted to kill him. If he had done nothing, I've been told that the prophecy would become just a bunch of meaningless words, and nobody would care anymore. If I had decided to run instead of fighting him-" the words caught in his throat again.

Wasn't that what he did?

Harry swallowed his guilt. "Maybe he would have chased me. But maybe he would have forgotten about me. And the prophecy would be broken that way, too. The whole point is, that prophecy could easily have been meaningless. But it managed to predict, eighteen years in advance, what he and I would do."

But you didn't choose to ignore it, Saphira pointed out. Does that not mean it held some power?

Harry grumbled. "Maybe. If you believe in free will, I could have chosen differently. If I killed Eragon, Saphira, you'd kill me. There's no prophecy in that, it's just an incredibly obvious consequence to an action I could take. Prophecies are magic, so maybe magic just lets them follow a much longer chain of consequences than any human could possibly understand. But it's not impossible to imagine that's all they are; magic predicting the most likely and most impactful moments of a person's life, far in advance."

"I could easily make a prophecy about you, Eragon. Here it is: you will be locked in a great struggle in Alagaesia, one which will determine the fate of the continent."

"That is exactly what Angela said," Eragon muttered.

Harry grinned. "It doesn't take magic future vision to see that you've got a dragon and nobody else does, and Brom told us about what Galbatorix did to the other Riders. Whether you like it or not, you are almost certainly going to get drawn into this conflict. Maybe that's what the leaving Alagaesia prediction is: you could choose to flee Alagaesia to get away from Galbatorix."

Harry winced the moment the words left his mouth. Eragon immediately looked mortified at the idea. He was quick to reassure him. "What I think is this: Angela's prophecy predicts a very, very likely path the future could take. It says you'll be betrayed by a family member. Can you imagine who you've given cause to betray you?"

Eragon mumbled something guiltily under his breath. "Roran," he repeated, louder. "We left him with a bunch of questions, no answers, and I was responsible for the destruction of everything he knows."

Harry gave him a sympathetic look. He'd never really had to deal with a family to bear the consequences of his actions. The Dursleys were uninvolved with the wizarding world. But he understood bad guys going after people close to his heart.

"You can't control his actions, and he doesn't know Angela's prophecy. But you can control your actions. You said she predicted you'd leave Alagaesia and never return. You're forewarned. Maybe it'll be too hard to see it coming, but eventually there will be a point where you can choose to wrench yourself off the path life set out for you. It'll probably be a big choice, like choosing not to pursue your parents' murderer. But I bet it'll be there, if you can catch it in time."


* dialogue is lifted directly from canon.

AN: Use of "orb" in this chapter. Hopefully not as egregious as most fanfic abuses of that word.

This is another one of those moments where I have to lower my readers' expectations now, so I can break them in the future. Careful how you interpret everything in this chapter.

This one took a while to write. There were a few different big chunks I wrote out of order and tried to squeeze in, but that had to be cut, and that forced me to rewrite a bunch of the earlier segments, and this chapter is a long one either way. The fortunetelling scene was stressful to write because some stuff is still up in the air, and even I'm not sure how all these snowballs and butterflies are going to spread. I didn't want to write something I'd have to retcon later. Despite that, I have a pretty decent idea what most of the fortunes here are going to mean. Only one is still up in the air, and I'm not sure what I'm going to do about it. It's probably not the one you think ;)

Also I tweaked Chapter 2 to remove Harry telling Horst about Dumbledore, and added an AN which hopefully clears up some of the persistent misunderstandings about how grizzled, jaded, experienced, or otherwise unflinching Harry is or is not when confronted with violence. On an absolute scale of experience with real war, The wizarding 'war' barely ranks, and Harry was mostly living in the Forest of Dean when it was all going down. Plus, he left before he ever saw the bodies in the Great Hall, so the only time he'd have really gotten to understand the toll of fighting, this particular Harry has never experienced.

It's been really frustrating to feel like I'm trying to swim up a waterfall, pushing back against everybody's preconceived notions on what Harry Potter should be like. I try to keep my AN's short to avoid inflating the word count, but I just had to get this out there for whoever actually reads all this.