"You bring me another one." Ajihad folded his hands, staring across the desk at the 'new one' in question. "How many more, Harry? Are you familiar with this one's family history?"

Harry frowned. "Is it relevant?"

"Very. Murtagh is Morzan's son."

He blinked. Brom watched silently. "Galbatorix's right hand man, so I've heard."

Ajihad's stillness was intimidating. "You look young, Harry. Morzan died when you were too young to know the shadow he cast over the Varden."

"Over his son as well," Brom spoke up. "Murtagh has no love for his father. I can vouch for that."

"And for the King?" Ajihad's gaze moved to Murtagh himself.

"None for him either," Murtagh said evenly.

Ajihad was quiet for a moment. With a bite of guilt, Harry realized the man probably hadn't been trying to disrespect him by waiting when he'd first met the man. He was measured and thoughtful. His dark brown eyes bored into Harry, the only perceptible movement Ajihad made.

"You continue to insist on fast-tracking entrants past the Twins examination," he said, disappointed. "I understand the practice is invasive and distasteful, but the policy is not yours to negotiate."

Harry winced. "I think each of us have come highly recommended enough to skip them. And we all have secrets we don't want just anyone to find out."

"Everybody does," Ajihad agreed. "Sometimes those secrets are indiscretions, past lovers, trivialities the Twins have seen a thousand instances of, and forget about as readily as they learn of them. Sometimes they are vices or points of leverage to be aware of. The Twins behave unpleasantly," he conceded. "But their loyalty is beyond question."

"Why?" Harry asked. He could not imagine what somebody could do to prove such unchecked trust in anyone. They did not seem like the types to have a tragic romantic backstory to bind them to the cause. The thought of those two in any romantic context made him queasy – even more than Snape.

Brom and Ajihad exchanged looks. "They were instrumental in recovering Saphira's egg," Brom said.

Harry rubbed his forehead. He should know arsehole did not equal evil, Snape had been the nastiest git and in the end, he'd been a good guy, if not a good guy. "Fine. They're super trustworthy. Isn't it dangerous to put so many eggs in one basket? How beyond disastrous would it be if they were captured?"

"Them I can protect," Ajihad said. "I cannot see into the minds and hearts of newcomers."

"Then they missed one," Brom spoke up into the pause. "Jeod's identity has been leaked, Urgals are marching to Farthen Dur, Durza knew where Arya was going to be with the egg."

Ajihad finally moved, mimicking Harry. "Keep quiet, all of you. This is a matter of discretion."

Harry dragged the discussion back to the topic at hand. "Can we return to Murtagh?"

Ajihad didn't look happy to return to that topic. "You know what my men would say if they found out." Ajihad glanced at Brom. The smaller man was unbothered by his gaze.

"Don't let them find out. Or tell them and sell them on his story. I don't care what you have to do. I promised him I would vouch for him."

Murtagh endured the argument stoically.

"You do not consider the optics," Ajihad said. Brom snorted.

"Don't I?"

"The Varden hate Morzan more than Galbatorix," Ajihad went on. "The King sits on his throne in Uru'baen and does nothing. Morzan was the one he sent to do his dirty business. He was the enemy we fought."

"Nobody loathed him more than I," Brom said.

"But you have a different perspective." Ajihad pointed out. "You thwarted him. Your animus is ancient and personal. As far as the Varden is concerned, when Morzan arrived, all was lost. You were the only one not helpless before him. Murtagh is the inheritor of that legacy. When my men hear that I have allowed him to fight with them, and to enter without the scrutiny every other member faced, they will be furious."

"Then spin it," Harry insisted. He knew very well how the right presentation could change a person's image. "Don't just announce that Morzan's son is joining you. Talk about how it's a triumph to have him on your side, rejecting his father's legacy in favor of a brighter future. Say Murtagh's very brave to give up a life of power and privilege in the name of the good of Alagaesia. Look how bright our future is when even the son of the right hand man of Galbatorix himself wants to fight for us."

Ajihad's solemn expression turned contemplative. "Brom?"

Brom shrugged. "It's a compelling story."

The man looked to Murtagh. "And you?"

Murtagh gave a reluctant answer. "I don't care if I have to live under an assumed name. But I understand that the Varden will look on me less charitably if they discover my identity after I hid it than if I was upfront and took the bitter medicine upfront. Do what you will."

Ajihad stared for a moment in thought before dismissing Murtagh.

"What news on your projects?" Ajihad asked. Assuming a curious expression, Brom sat in the chair Murtagh vacated and listened.

"I'm working on something that might give superficial protection against army-killer spells," Harry reported. Shield hats might have been a gimmick for the below average Ministry paper pusher witch or wizard, but they were a lifesaver for muggles who were otherwise helpless against magic. He just had to figure out how to make them work.

Brom sat forwards. "How do they work?"

Harry explained the history behind the shield hats. "It was initially a joke thing, but it worked as well as a shield charm and I'm starting to think it could be a bit more seriously useful than just an aid for wizards with poor Defense marks. It keeps your wand free while defending. The problem is, I don't know how much a shield charm is going to stop. It's not like back home. There, most people used the same set of spells and you could sorta tell if something wasn't going to be stopped by a simple protego."

"Your concern is with what this won't stop all of our magic," Brom surmised.

Harry nodded. "My shield spell worked well against the Twins, but I'm never actually certain they won't find one that will just instantly take effect and stun or kill me. So I would never rely on it in a duel. But nuisance spells, I bet it would stop."

"Army killers are not nuisances," Brom pointed out.

Harry tried to put it into words. "To magic, it probably is. You're not giving any one person enough attention, enough willpower to break through the shield. You can't just say the words to an attack spell without putting any feeling behind it. You've got to mean it," he found himself echoing.

It was true even of the disarming charm. Saying the words and doing the motion without any urgency or care made a feeble charm. When he shouted it in desperation or put a lot of force behind it, it sent people flying across the room.

"Alright, so it will protect the rank-and-file better than concerted efforts to kill," Brom allowed. "Can you make, what, thirty thousand of them in a few weeks?" He looked to Ajihad to check the number. The big man nodded.

Harry blew through his lips and over his forehead. "Maybe," he hedged. "It's an opportunity cost though. You want shields or armor for traditional fighting, and I've got to enchant Eragon's armor. He can be a, uh, raid boss. If we give him every possible advantage and let him be an unstoppable unit. And I can help with defenses."

"Do what you can for the invasion now," Brom reassured him, holding up his hands. "The Varden doesn't need food it can't eat if the Urgals overrun us next month."

Harry nodded. "I can do that."

He was going to need a second opinion.

"Did you find out?" Harry asked. He was sealed into his private study, enchanted with every bit of privacy he could muster, then augmented by Arya's assistance.

Morgan shook her head. "I could not find them. You can have your answer whenever you please."

Harry was uncomfortable dragging spirits back who were clearly trying to hide. But this was important, wasn't it? It could save more lives than anything anyone had ever done before.

He twisted the stone. "Nicholas Flamel."

Nothing.

Morgan shrugged into the silence. "Then he is not dead."

Harry tapped the tip of his pen against his desk. "Fine. What do you know about life extension?"

Morgan smiled. "I did not concern myself with it; I thought it was unlikely I'd survive long enough to need it."

"But you never made a horcrux?" Harry wondered.

Morgan gave him a strange look. "How common do you think knowledge of horcruxes is?"

He frowned. "Slughorn knew about them off the top of his head, Riddle found out about them in a book, Dumbledore managed to do the same."

"Slughorn was a scholar of the bizarre and obscure," Morgan said. "Riddle was an obsessed scholar, and Dumbledore, despite being a scholar in his own right, only learned of them after searching exhaustively in Riddle's footsteps. In any case, the done thing in my time was a phylactery. The idea of splitting the soul had not been circulated, but the idea of separating body from self is an idea as old as time. Phylacteries are a horcrux for the whole soul, and they come at a steep price. I thought I would be killed before I got old enough to care, and I didn't think 'life' as a flesh golem sounded appealing."

She floated closer to read his journal over his shoulder. "I question your choice to pursue this now. Getting worried?"

Harry snorted. "Got worried. Durza beat me effortlessly. No, it was Arya."

"Arya seems like a smart woman," Morgan complimented. Harry caught himself nodding along when she added "-she will tell you this is stupid."

"...what?"

"Your alliance has one wizard, a wizard they need to help them win the war rather than provide a retirement plan for its veterans." Morgan gestured at the door to the great workshop. "You heard Ajihad ask for shields. Right now, the Varden's men are at much higher risk of being killed by an arrow than by old age."

Harry sighed and sat back. "Yeah. They are. I'm just not sure how best to help them. I don't particularly like the idea of sitting here for weeks enchanting shields or hats."

Morgan shrugged. "Find another way. You have thus far used your magic for scale. You take advantage of its unlimited strength to do things larger and stronger and faster than the native magic can. Magic can do far more than make a sword really sharp and really hard to break. It can give a sword life to fight on its own, or imbue it with the skill of a master. As for your own fighting, you are trying to reinvent the wheel. You know who to ask."

He did not want to. Harry had avoided calling anybody he knew for a reason. The tale of the second brother was never far from his mind when he used the stone.

"He'll be happy to see you," Morgan promised, whispering in his ear. Harry waved her away like a mosquito.

She glided backwards. "In any case, it seems you no longer need me."

Harry's protest died in his throat as she faded away. The name was on his tongue. He took off the ring and set it on the table to forestall the temptation. He still intended to go back. However long it took, Harry promised himself he would not leave his business back home unfinished. Dumbledore had said in the Waiting Room that he could go further back. Harry was determined to run through it all without letting anybody die.

Didn't that mean if he got to know Cedric's spirit, then went back in time, Cedric would forget about him? Harry was not about to connect with the spirits of his parents only to see them torn away by time, like he'd already have to deal with when Ron and Hermione were suddenly eleven year olds who had never met him.

No, Harry was not quite so desperate yet. He thought about Morgan's suggestion. What could his magic do that Alagaesia's couldn't?

And ideas began to percolate.

Oromis,

The Varden is facing an invasion. I'm writing to ask if you can send fighters. You know I can have them in Farthen Dur in a day, and back the day the invasion ends. I am unsure if I personally can pick them up (I'm on the run from the elvish law, in case you hadn't heard), but Arya is a fair enough pilot. We'll pack barf bags for final approach – landing isn't for the faint hearted.

In other news, Eragon gracefully navigated a sticky issue in his first meeting with Ajihad; who he should owe his loyalty to. He did not swear himself to the Varden, promising to instead be the 'Champion of the Coalition,' which I thought might make you happy to hear.

While Brom has advised me to keep my magic secret as long as possible, I am constantly confronted with a dilemma: the more I try to keep my secrets, the less I can do for the Varden. I'm producing enough food to feed the entire army (and honestly probably most of the Empire) but I cannot distribute it all without raising questions and putting dwarf farmers out of a job. The more…impactful sorts of magic I might use to help with the invasion are blatantly impossible by Alagaesia's standards.

I guess I want somebody to convince me to let loose. My question to you is, is it worth a higher chance of the Varden being overrun to keep my secret for some theoretical time in the future where its revelation will be more impactful? Are you hoping to sneak me out in the final battle as a trump card to Galbatorix? Or that I'll be a secret war machine churning out enchanted gear, food, and medicine, or something else?

In other news, Murtagh officially joined the Varden today, he's Morzan's only kid. Apparently this is a huge deal, but the guy clearly hates his dad and isn't too fond of Galbatorix, either. I'll let Eragon fill you in on some more sensitive family drama surrounding that. Despite hearing of an oncoming invasion, morale in the Varden is oddly high. I think finding out they have a Rider on their side has gotten them more excited than the invasion is dreadful.

Either way, I've got some subtle ideas and some not-so-subtle ones. Advice is welcome.

Thanks,

Harry Evans

Ajihad,

Today's troop movements. Misha is convinced his theory is right and they aren't headed for the valley. Maybe ask the dwarves if there's anything interesting in the direction they're headed?

Regarding my projects, I'm looking for somebody who knows how armor works and an extremely trustworthy seamstress. I have an idea I want to check out. Even if it doesn't work perfectly, the shielded accessories idea is looking good so far. I can meet the armor guy wherever for consultation, please send the seamstress up to my lair.

Thanks,

Harry Evans.

"No, see? Plate armor is expensive to make and expensive to properly fit. The Varden don't have enough mail to outfit every fighter," Hammond insisted. The armorer was a thick man with a massive steel wool beard and shaggy hair.

"So what do most fighters wear?" Harry asked.

Hammond pulled out a leather breastplate and rapped it with his knuckles. They were not far from the training fields, in a large room with a low ceiling that felt like a mix between a warehouse and an arts and crafts studio. In between the pillars holding up the ceiling, racks of swords, spears, bows, arrows, pieces of armor, rolls of bowstring and sheets of chainmail, helmets, visors, knives, maces, handles, spearheads, anything and everything sat on racks, shelves, and hooks all throughout the cramped space. Hammond led Harry through haphazardly cleared aisles between the stuff.

"Leather," he explained. "We have enough of these for everybody, though anybody who has mail or plate will wear that instead."

Harry took the breastplate and held it up against himself. It felt too big and too loose.

Hammond shook his head. "You don't wear it against your clothes. Here."

They navigated between a rack of headless wooden shafts and about a hundred unstrung bows hanging from poles. Hammond took him to a corner filled with puffy, knee-length jackets. "These are gambesons," he said. "Just about everybody who'll see fighting wears one. They're padded with wool or hay to soften blows. The outer is leather or canvas and can help against slashes, but a decent thrust will usually get through. You need mail or plate to stop a thrust."

"So to clarify," Harry said, "Gambeson goes under everything, then depending on how important you are, you put leather or mail or plate on over the top."

Hammond chuckled. "Exactly. The gambeson has a hood and we have helmets for everyone as well.

Harry thanked him and loaded ten gambesons onto a wheelbarrow to take with him.

On the way back, Harry noticed an exodus happening in Tronjheim. The Varden and dwarves alike were evacuating their noncombatants. It was such a familiar sight Harry was struck by twisted nostalgia and foreboding. Just like clearing out Hogwarts. He wondered if there would be any Pansies here, shouting to hand over Eragon in hopes the Urgals would leave them alone.

The same solemnity was in the air. Apparently, it was an experience that transcended dimensions, or planets, or whatever space he'd crossed in death to come here. Leaving home to flee danger was wired into humans and human culture.

He caught a flash of a woman hiding from the passing crowds, clutching a bag with a sword at her hip.

So was staying behind to fight.

The dwarves managed the logistics, ushering the far taller humans along down specified routes, checking off names, handing out supplies. The evacuating dwarves mingled with the humans, emerging from secret tunnels and rooms, hidden places they had lived in for generations. Harry wondered how Az Swelden rak Anhuin felt about all this. The Varden had brought an invasion to their home. They had to flee because King Hrothgar was willing to harbor enemies of the Empire.

It gave him a bit of insight on Pansy's betrayal.

"Mr. Singer," Harry called. He only had a last name to go on, but nevertheless he was heard.

"Jack Kilby. I need your help."

"Joseph Jacquard."

"William Morris."

"Gustav Tammann."

"Samuel Colt."

Harry twisted the stone back and forth between his fingers, pacing in his secret office. Please don't hate me, he thought. He breathed out. "Fred Weasley."

"What took you so long, Harrikins?" Fred's ginger hair looked purplish with his ghostly effect.

Harry shrugged mutely, struggling to keep from laughing, smiling, bursting into tears, or all three at once.

"I hear you're crushing it," Fred grinned.

Harry choked on a giggle.

"Really…driving folks up the wall. Having a blast."

He rolled his eyes, wiping his cheeks. "Not funny."

"Au contraire," Fred said. "In the face of tragedy, men may laugh or men may weep. I spent my life trying to make people smile. Now, unless mine eyes deceive me, you're preparing for some industrial-scale cribbing of a Weasley's Wizard Wheezes product. I'm willing to tell you the secret to our magnificent shield garments, but you'll have to pay a licensing fee."

Harry blinked. That was unexpected. "Of course. What do you want?"

Fred shook his head forlornly. "Don't you know the first thing about negotiation? The fee is one thousand galleons, payable in the future past to a pair of brilliant redheaded entrepreneurs."

Harry laughed. "Of course. I'll make the cheque out to William and Percival Weasley, shall I?"

Fred gave him an impressed smile. "Not-so-ickle Harrikins knows how to play. Show me what you've got so far and I'll show you how to add a bit of Weasley flair."

It was late and most of the others were asleep. Harry waited for the last of them to head back to the apartments at the front of the workshop before venturing out. They were going to think he was nocturnal with how often he worked late at night, when he could be alone and talk to the dead in privacy.

He had a couple new machines to show off. "Sewing machine," he said briefly, pointing out Alagaesia's very first sewing machine. Like the Grasshopper, it had no need for fuel or electricity; it ran off a rotation charm and a tiny gearbox.

"The big issue with that was making the stitching catch properly," Harry told Fred. "Either way, I can duplicate those with geminio since the only magic part is the motor."

"What part of our esteemed manufacturing process do you think uses a sewing machine?" Fred wondered. "Not that I wouldn't tell our dear investor if he asked."

"I don't know how you guys did it, but I need it to scale," Harry said. "My thought was I'd do some kind of rune pattern for protection, then I'd give it a bit of magic in huge batches. The sewing machine was my first effort, but that's not scalable either."

Fred nodded, then indicated a metal monstrosity of levers and rollers with a raised brow. "So you made a victorian torture machine?" He floated through the air with the same grace as a ghost as he had as a beater. "Is this how Peeves felt?"

Harry sighed and poked at the levers. "Well, it's supposed to be a punch card loom. I might have bitten off a bit more than I can chew, at least with only a couple weeks to have it working and a bunch of other stuff on my plate."

Fred scratched his head. "This is a bit out of my wheelhouse, Harry. I'd ask my dad."

"Can't," Harry said sourly.

Fred bobbed his head along. "I suppose not. D'you wanna hear how we did it? We didn't print out a whole script with the protego spell written out. Looks a bit like a pair of sideways overlapping 'w's with a line down the middle. We stamped those into the inside of the liner and then used protego to give it a bit of power. They're pretty good, just one stamped symbol. I bet if you get the whole thing woven into the fabric of an actual piece of armor, you'll have a solid piece of kit right there."

Harry wrote that down, nodding. He didn't trust his words.

Quieter, Fred asked, "You don't really think I blame you, do you?"

He opened his mouth, but he couldn't find his voice.

Fred put his hand to his forehead. "Merlin, you do. Listen Harry, everybody at Hogwarts that day knew what they were signing up for. It sucks that I got hit, but–" he shrugged. "I drew the short stick. Fighting isn't without casualties."

He swallowed. Harry was trying not to think about that in the upcoming battle.

"I could have given myself up before the fighting started," Harry disagreed. His voice was shaky. "Fred, I ended up giving myself up anyways. We were–" he swallowed. "Ron, Hermione and I were hardly an hour from finishing the thing Dumbledore told us to do. I gave myself up anyways. If I'd done it an hour earlier, you'd…"

"Still be alive?" Fred guessed. "Did you know that at the time? Did you think 'oh gee, I really want some of my friends to die so I'm going to wait until Voldemort and his pals get a crack at them before I commit suicide by Dark Lord?' I didn't think so. Harry." He floated down to look him in the eyes.

"You have a bad habit of taking responsibility for others' actions. Everything that brought me to the moment a Death Eater was shooting a blasting curse at me, that was a million decisions by a thousand different people who all share a little bit of blame. Mum shouldn't have raised me to be so dashing that I'd stay in Hogwarts and fight, or so handsome that that Death Eater picked me as the biggest threat." Fred put a ghostly finger on Harry's chest. "You bear the insignificant blame of not having committed suicide yet – by the way, not something I was thrilled to watch happen – as opposed to the actual Death Eater who killed me."

Harry raked his fingers through his hair. "You know that's stupid," he insisted. "You can't stick your hand in a fireplace and blame the wood for burning you."

"No," Fred agreed. "Neither can you blame yourself for someone burning their hands in a fireplace you lit hours ago. Cedric, Dumbledore, your mum and dad, not even Sirius blames you for his death."

"He should," Harry muttered. No matter what anybody said, that was one death he knew was his fault, not just in his heart, but in his head as well.

Fred crossed his arms. "I see you're being unreasonable about this, Harrikins. I didn't want to have to pull out the big wands on this. When you blame yourself, you are disrespecting my sacrifice."

Harry blinked.

"Your parents chose to sacrifice their lives for yours. When you try to take blame for it, you are denying your parents the agency of choosing how to spend their lives." Fred landed on the ground and stood squarely before him.

"Cedric wasn't your fault. Pettigrew was a sniveling rat and you were trying to do the honorable thing by offering to share the cup. Everybody else went into this war with eyes wide open, prepared to die fighting Voldemort. Your parents, Sirius, Remus, Dumbledore, Snape, Tonks, Moody, they all knew what they were dying for. It's not your place to take ownership of their sacrifices. Talk to them, if you want to. They'll all tell you the same thing."

Harry fell to his knees and sat on the floor, feeling wretched and cowardly and useless. His face and back burned with humiliation. Fred had said the exact worst thing to him. They had all died, but not for Harry Potter the person. They'd died to get the Boy-who-lived closer to his destiny. And what did he do with their sacrifice?

"I ran away," Harry whispered. His emotions messed with his magic, the bright fluorescent lights winking out and plunging the room into darkness. He could barely see his own hands lit by the ghostly illumination Fred's spirit cast.

Fred sat with him and reached out to hold his hand. Harry felt his ghostly fingers more substantial than they had any right to be.

"You didn't see him die," Fred said gently. "But there is no doubt you defeated him, Harry. None whatsoever."

Harry fell back and faced up into the darkness, just him and Fred in the ghostlight, and he finally cried. For everything he lost, his friends, his family, the world he left behind, Harry finally allowed himself to cry.

Fred stayed with him the whole time, cold and ethereal, yet present and supportive. He held Harry's hand and waited for Harry's emotional wounds to scab over.

When Harry was finished crying, he felt wrung out like a rag, a pile of tears squeezed out alongside all the venom he'd been carrying around for so long. His eyes were puffy and his soul felt as raw as his cheeks.

Without that venom, Harry felt…lighter. The grief and guilt and shame were still there, but the crushing weight of it all had been lifted, at least for a moment. He breathed in and out, wiping his sleeve over his face, appreciating how he felt. He turned his head and glanced down at Fred. There was no judgement on his face. Just sympathy.

"Thanks," Harry breathed.

"Any time," Fred smiled.

"Think I should call Cedric?"

Smiling, Fred said, "Better have some water first, or you'll run out of tears."

Harry snorted and nudged him. His elbow sank into Fred's ghostly form.

"This is going to make talking to your younger self very awkward," Harry admitted.

"I'll be so confused," Fred agreed. "Though I have to say, it's pretty fun messing with people."

"You and George are never going to mix me up on who's who again," Harry announced.

"A worthy sacrifice," Fred feigned sadness.

Harry let out a shaky breath and sat up. "I suppose it's time to get to work."

"Bringing Weasley's Wizard Wheezes to Alagaesia," Fred grinned. "They won't know what hit 'em. Don't be shy about calling; there's nobody old enough in my family to keep me company. Just a bunch of gas bags from the sixties."

Harry laughed. "I'll see you later, Fred." The Weasley's ghost faded away.

He got to his feet. He had work to do.

AN: It might be a bit before the next chapter. Hopefully not too long; the next few are complicated and all fit together and reference each other, so I want to have them all done before I start posting. Might be a couple weeks, sorry.

I used the word 'cry' here deliberately. In Inheritance, several characters 'weep' a few different times in the story. It sounds too dignified. Crying is what babies do, isn't it? It's something weak that no true man would be weak enough to do.

I disagree. I think Harry has quite enough grief to be getting on with and is definitely allowed a good cry here, a real cry, not something as dignified and princely as weeping.

I struggled to really get into the chat with Fred in the beginning, but once I got started, it all came out at once. Funny how that works sometimes. I hope you liked this chapter. As much as Harry has been stealing the spotlight, I want this story to feel like his as well as Eragon's. Finding ways to balance that has been tricky.

Thanks to Scarze for going over this chapter for me.