Chapter 3
It was never his intention to be here.
His choices were a whirlwind of wrong branching into more wrong. It was always something, some sort of heavy feeling that told him that none of this was right, you deserve kinder. Breath clogged in his throat, tongue trapped between his teeth, trying to scrape past the thick blood and pulled back strings of flesh from his hoarse throat being flogged raw from his screaming himself awake. His life was a series of carefully maneuvered scripts, his actions of voice lines and choreographed moves and he was tired. Harry was so so tired.
Tired of screaming. Tired of death pressed against his eyeballs, claws clipping away at his skin. The stress ravaged his bones, scratching their marks against ivory.
I’m tired Hedwig, Harry swallows his sobs, he has not been allowed to cry in a long time, I’m tired.
The wound in his arm has yet to heal correctly. Each movement makes a jolt of wrong arch its way up his arm, something twisting nauseatingly inside his stomach, his fingers twitching automatically at the pain.
He is alternating between a deep-sadness, a cesspool of slippery cliffs that he is trying desperately to crawl out from and the bright burning anger of madness scratching at the back of his mind, howling, snapping its jaws like an animal seeking vengeance. The silence of unresponded letters and the anger that follows, the way his jaw clenches, his teeth clicking against each other. He is breathing in smoke in the hopes it will be okay and it is not. It is oh so not. It is just wrong, and nobody else sees it, nobody else cares about it.
Voldemort is back. Voldemort is here and where is everyone? Where is his home? His makeshift family? His mind feels like it is scrabbling for purchase, his anger insurmountable, and grief ravaging. Cedric’s body is bleeding, slipping between his fingers. Cedric is dead and he was given a thousand galleons for a trophy paid for in blood. Cedric is dead and Amos' cries are ringing in his ears, loose parts of his skull shaking, knocking up against his walls. Some part of Harry is dead too, some part of his soul is missing and perhaps the Avada Kedavra Voldemort shot at him had hit its mark, had killed some part of him in that Graveyard with how cold he feels, how the warmth in his chest feels like it is writhing, uncontained, uncontrolled.
“Cedric,” Harry moans quietly, the heels of his palms pressed against his eyes hoping to scratch out death, “God, why?”
Hedwig is silent but she stays, her head tucked underneath his chin, his fingers carefully carding through her feathers. He feels as if he isn’t holding something, everything will slip back into the chasm. His emotions are already violent, switching between too violent ends, these violent delights making iron situate on the back of his tongue through every bite of measly food that passes through the catflap. He still can see it. The darkness, the end, the laughter ringing in his ears, the yelling of his throat, begging, pleading to spare the Golden Hufflepuff boy. The only person who apologized for all the shit the school put him through, who had bothered to help him in the second task even if it was repayment for the first, it still felt like something.
I have lost you.
Hermoine and Ron are silent. Everyone is silent. Everyone is stifling, their images in the back of his mind, their fingers too harsh and not enough. He wants to be back home, in the Burrow, in the leaning rooms and the squeaking staircase. Harry wants and Harry will not get it – that's the hand Fate has dealt him. It is the hand Harry wants to bite, to dig his teeth in and pull with some reckless abandon, until the blood in his mouth is no longer his, and everytime he breathes he is drinking in the scent of acrid smoke curling in between his eyes.
Four weeks of Surrey, in a house that hates him. Covered in scathing remarks and hissed words. Fingers gripped around his neck, fingers tugging at his skin, pulling the last bit of his sanity out the proverbial window. Of listening to news about scandals and water-skiers, and the weather that has done nothing but highlight the unprecedented sunny days, humidity thick in the air and Harry? He feels like he is being driven insane, his jaw clicking in and out of place when he speaks, bristling at every letter of stay put and we will be there soon. But how soon was soon? Soon was a few weeks ago when he couldn’t help the water run cold, scrubbing his hands raw. Soon was when his voice was still lost, unable to do anything but wail about long stretched corridors and dried blood painting gruesome canvases along dark brick. Soon wasn't soon enough. Madness flickers behind his teeth, mold stretched thin along the hunger.
He is trapped, like Hedwig, who watches him pace back and forth. He is trapped, stuck in four walls and bars. Harry is trapped, the fact looping, scratching into his brain. Mice burrowing into the crevices of his poorly healed scars.
He needs to get out.
“Hedwig,” Harry murmurs, looking at her in the moonlight. The itch is under his skin, crying for release, pent up frustration making him want to run, to go wherever the wind takes him. He thinks his mind is slipping – his anger is running its course as he looks at white and black feathers, yellow eyes almost glowing. “You’ll find me, right? You’ll find me wherever I go? I’m not leaving you but I need you to go to the Burrow.”
She hoots softly, her beak nibbling at his fingers as gently as she can before he unlocks her cage, carefully watching her fly out into the night. It is with that image, her wings glinting softly – the cool summer air brushing against his nose from the open window, does Harry straighten, glancing at the short letters scattered on his desk, fighting the urge to rip them all to shreds, to leave them collecting dust.
Stay put, Harry hisses shrill in his mind, Sirius you hypocrite.
It’s too easy to swipe everything off his desk, to let his quills and ink splash across the hardwood floor, uncaring if it will stain. His mouth twists into a scowl, and it doesn’t matter – no it doesn’t matter anymore Harry thinks, his fingers twisting into fabric, his eyes harsh. It doesn’t fucking matter. They left him. They left and left and didn’t try. They left! His mind is howling, screaming and no one is here for him to take his frustrations out on, to throw a mean hook or to send someone careening to the ground in a brawl. Out! Harry’s mind yells, his fingers clutching the letters and ripping the parchment to shred, watching Hermoine’s neat scrawl disintegrate before his eyes and Ron’s chicken scratch vanish.
Fuck you! Harry sneers, his fingers pulling back the loose floorboard. He grabs his wand, the spare amount of galleons he keeps on hand, the cloak, and the photo album Hagrid gifted him, cradling them tenderly before rushing to the closet, grabbing an oversized peacoat that fell to his knees, using the pockets to stuff the bulky items inside.
This is impulsive! His mind yells, waving its hands around, Stay put! Stay, stay, stay you stupid buffoon!
Yeah?! Harry shouts back, his magic flaring wildly, something brews deep inside of his heart, something cold. And then what? Pretend? Pretend nothing is wrong? As if a bounty isn’t on my head? The locks on his door open, loud in the sudden silence of nightfall, his nails scratching at the house's railing, not caring if he is gouging out the veneer. Thankfully, Vernon hasn’t changed the lock on the safe from where he keeps his cash and he pulls out the wad of pounds, enough to cover perhaps an exit out of the country and piss him off at the same time.
Stop me then.
–
In hindsight, it's a bad idea, but Harry is nothing if not stubborn to resist the hold of a bad idea.
It is a terrible idea. Stupid actually. Really stupid to the point he can’t help but groan, watching the cab-driver eye him from the rearview window about his pathetic state when he slides into the taxi.
“So,” the man drawls lazily, a cigarette out the window, “Were we headin’ kid?”
“Heathrow,” Harry blurts.
This is so stupid. The wad of cash he stole is burning a hole in his pocket, the rest of his other belongings are hugging his oversized coat. He can’t help but fidget with his wand. The cab driver is silent, not asking any questions even as Harry lounges across the backseat, his eyes tracing the scenery, watching the minutes tick by as the night is cold and the moon is out. It doesn’t bring any comfort to know this, but it is a fact Harry takes with stride.
What will everyone think? Vernon will be furious, Petunia would be furious on behalf of her husband, then relieved. He doesn’t know how much he stole, but most of the cash in the safe is now his. Everyone will keep ignoring him like they’ve done already at least, that's what Harry thinks bitterly, his arms folding across his chest at the thought because if they cared, they would come and they didn’t. They didn’t send him a birthday gift, they sent him a single letter with a sentence about nothing, just telling him it was hard to talk. Hard to talk about what? Hard to do what exactly? Leave him abandoned after he begs each year to not return? Hard to not care for their friend while the two of them have fun without him? Whatever happened to camaraderie or their friendship?
Fuck, Harry lets his head thunk against the window, pulling his knees up to his chest. His heart is heavy, his chest aches and he is doing everything he can to avoid sobbing like a pathetic boy.
The car ride is silent. The moon waves jubilantly from the window, stars blinking in and out of view. He traces constellations he learned from Astronomy, lets the images bleed into his retina in the hopes of forgetting blood. I am good, Harry whispers quietly to no one,
This is the right thing, his heart warbles, fleetingly and brokenly. There is something there along his magic, calling, beckoning him somewhere, the itch in his body stronger than before. We’ll be free.
Until he is caught.
That fact is inevitable.
–
The cab pulls up at the drop off area of Heathrow airport. The amount of cars there are dead compared to what he sees on the telly or what Vernon has complained about.
Harry carefully counts the cash, paying the fare and a little bit more as a tip before stuffing his hands back into his pocket.
“Hey kid,” the driver says, stopping him before he gets out of the car. He has kind brown eyes now that Harry sees it, looking at their disheveled hair and the faint hug of cigarette smoke along their ruffled clothes. They open their mouth before closing it, giving a small shake of their head, “Safe travels.”
Not knowing what to say, Harry gives a slight nod, stepping out onto the asphalt before making his way towards the sliding doors that greets him with a red carpet, unable to hide his amazement at the large airport, swiveling his head around at the arrays of different airlines. The number of lines, some empty, some with wrapped around people, and others with bleary workers walking around as people went about their day. He isn’t sure where to go and must be standing there like a lunatic because a sleepy, if a bit young worker comes up next to him and brushes just a bit too close to his personal space, flinching back at the intrusion.
“Lost?” she says, kindly.
He nods dumbly, “First time…Ms.?”
“Evelyn.”
“Right, thank you Ms. Evelyn, where would I buy a ticket?”
Harry looks down at himself, suddenly a bit shy at the state of his clothes, though he often does try to keep them clean, there may be the faint smudges of dirt from working in the garden that morning. The worker was nothing but impeccable, even if there were strands of stray bangs in their face from the slowly unraveling ponytail holding their black hair back.
“To where?”
That – that is a good question and he can’t help but say the first thing that comes to mind. “Japan.”
Far enough. Not in Britain, not even in the same continent but on the other side of his world, and well, that is what he is looking for, isn’t he? To get away from everything and everyone, throwing it all the way until this land no longer remembers his name and everyone who expects him to stand willingly in the face of death forget that all he ever wanted was a simple life.
If she is surprised, she doesn’t show it, her eyes slightly widening is all he gets before she takes charge, leading him towards the British airways sign, her heels clicking against the tarmac. Harry has to scramble to catch up with her, trying to glance at the clipboard in hand, some sort of checklist she was completing partially done. This airport really is huge. Harry can’t help his eyes swinging back and forth, watching people mull around despite how late it is and it is still busy, but these must be the inconvenient flights, not the fancy ones that may cost a pretty stirling to afford.
“Thank you,” Harry repeats, letting a small smile grace his face as he looks at Evelyn before heading towards the front desk.
There is no line to greet him, but he weaves through the ropes like there is one until he is right up front, waiting patiently to be called by the sleepy-eyed worker up, a book propped up by their nose until they look up, clearly startled.
“Hello! Hi – yes, hello! What can I do for you, sir?”
“Ticket to Japan, direct flight preferably?”
A computer is suddenly lit up in front of them, fingers typing away at the keyboard as they likely pull up the flight manuals and whatever it is that airports use for flights. “Well we do have one at–” they glance at the clock, “about four hours from now that lands in Tokyo. Direct flight, yes! But only Business Class is available for this thirteen hour flight and if I were you, I would take a bit of easy breathing room though it does cost more.”
“That would be nice.”
They give a hum, Harry glances at their namecard. Terry. A bit of a wildcard Harry thinks, watching them flit around, getting everything in order. It’s a bit chaotic, almost reminiscent of Seamus at the way they rush around, a method to the madness despite the open can of some obscure energy drink at the desk and dark eyebags. “It will be expensive – you can afford this, yes? It is only a thousand and thirty-three pounds.”
Merlin, Harry blinks, but pulls out the wad of cash from his coat pocket and the ID he remembered being given in fourth year, something about muggles needing it since they can’t trace wand signatures.
“Oh! Thank you for the ID,” Terry chuckles. Harry wonders if he’s a bit insane from staying up so late, but their energy is welcome from the drear that is Privet Drive. “Strange to pay with cash but who am I to judge! There are stranger people than you – and well you do seem to be a good bloke if not young. Ah well – everything has gone through, thank you Mr. Potter. You will be Terminal Five, Gate Six. Safe travels and thank you for choosing British Airways!”
The change is pushed back into his hands along with his ID and plane ticket. Thankfully, that was much easier than he expected and with that taken care of and four hours left to spend, Harry thought that now would be a good time to grab a bite to eat and perhaps, even some new clothes. The old “I lost my luggage” trick should work well enough as to why he needed some new clothes and perhaps a backpack. He didn’t want to wear this heavy, uncomfortable stifling peacoat forever if he had any say about it.
With that plan, Harry starts his trek through the airport, unable to help but linger on the way muggles move with purpose. People of all different shapes and kinds swarming the hallways, brushing past him without a care, all in their own world that he is given the chance to see. It is so strange to not be in a crowd and feel so free within it, even if the proximity leaves him on edge as he goes up the escalator and through the tube to the other side, getting lost a few times at just how much stuff was in their airport. It felt like a Hogsmaede inside of a large glass building! Or, a small part of London just inside the airport itself. Yet, Harry liked it – not being able to be distinguished, blending in as he jams his hands into his pocket, walking past people who are on their third cup of coffee, and the disgruntled murmurings of French and other languages Harry picks apart with each step.
Floor to ceiling windows light up the way, the clock reading one and four. Harry can’t help but wander, slipping into a few stores along the way to grab a nice brown messenger bag and some clothes to change into, including a sweatshirt, ankle-length pants, underwear, and even some tennis shoes. Of course, the price gouging of an airport leaves much to be desired, but he was able to trash those hideous washed-out gray clothes that really, Harry couldn’t care less about the fact he was wasting money, finally able to wear something that was at the very least comfortable. Unable to prevent himself from twisting around in excitement at the brand new feeling of clothes that actually fit and aren’t the usual school uniform. He feels new, his heart singing with joy at the chance of freedom even as his mind whispers, thick and cloying, brushing up against his tattered joy with paranoia at his actions. He will be found. You can not escape.
Freedom is so limited. Freedom is so close – just right there to being in reach as Harry settles down at a cafe, one of the very few still open at night in Terminal Five to grab a warm drink of English Breakfast and a ham and cheese croissant that satisfied his stomach more than bruised apples ever could. He thinks that these small moments make everything this summer has thrown at him much better than he could ever imagine, that the idea of mundane is enough to jumpstart his mind in obvious excitement than fancy speeches, or long glorious tables – his life has not had a sense of normalcy in the past few years that just the brush of seeing muggles in actions leaves him relieved, away from the pressure.
How strange? Harry muses, biting back the anger and the grief. He looks out towards the window. I hope Hedwig knows where to go.
–
It’s fourteen hours later and his heart crows in utter delight once they touch down at eight P.M.
It is less of a delight to try and navigate a nation when the language is not English, let alone that for a fact, Harry knows that nobody should really come looking for him here. He has no idea what the relation between the British Ministry and Japan is, but given the whole entire Americas being between them, he hopes that is enough to keep the wizards at bae, at least for a few months before he decides to flee again, yet, his magic swirls, bumbling happy. That, for one, is new. His magic has never done this and for one, he doesn’t even know if it is his magic with the way it is acting, brushing up against everything and everything, wishing for some sort of response. It’s unnatural, something heavy sinking into his gut at such a reaction. Was something wrong with his magic?
Weird, Harry thinks, looking down at himself and his grumbling stomach before deciding to head out, his lack of carriage making it easier than he would expect to just walk out into the bustling city full of neon lights. It really is – Harry’s breath catches in his throat and he stifles a wounded noise at not knowing how to navigate around that he can’t help but try and follow the tug trying to point him in some direction in hopes of knowing where to go. Yet, everything is so overstimulating, his poor sleep catching up to him because sleeping in a plane full of strangers with a high chance of screaming himself awake was a risk he was not willing to take. His movements are drowsy beyond normal, feet slugging, dragging against the asphalt as he holds his bag closer to him, careful to avoid the large crowds brushing past him even if Harry has to keep bringing out the flash moments of daydreaming that drag him into eternity before righting himself up, unwilling to go to sleep yet.
There must be some sort of magic community in Japan, right? Maybe he could grab a translator of some sort? Now the regret was slipping in at his rash actions. Just buying the first ticket he hears out of Britain, no planning, no coordination, just pure unadulterated thought to escape. This was the type of thing Hermoine would scream at him for and Harry would let her, this was beyond stupid. This was so unimaginably stupid of an idea that he can’t help but groan, continuing to walk, following wherever his heart would lead him too.
He doesn’t know where to go. Check. Harry doesn’t even know where he is. Another checkmark. And his magic was acting all strange and tugging him towards something very strongly. Also check. At the very least he was able to do this in comfortable clothes even if, much to his annoyance, he still, did not know where the fuck he was. Was this how he got kidnapped? Mugged? Or maybe some other preposterous thing like prostitution or getting involved in drugs? Given all the things shouted at him for that, Harry sneers that Vernon would never get that satisfaction out of him being proven right.
Serves him right, Harry harrumphs, hoping Vernon across the world was screaming at him with a vengeance at the stolen money as he turns down an alleyway, not caring where he was going other than his magic lead him this way. His mouth twists into viscous satisfaction at causing the Dursleys inconvenience for his actions; after everything they did to him, stealing around three-thousand pounds was the right way to piss off Vernon after all that gloating about how much work he did the company, and all the employees he took their credit for in his line of work.
Really, Harry jams his hands into his pocket, watching his scenery of dark shadows blend away to the neon lights of the city, but – Harry paused at the back exit of the alley, his fingers holding his wand as he realized there was something amiss about this. He was – he looked around, looking at the market stalls that were not their previously on the street over and the strange figures of cats with two-tails running through the market, the sound of street-life coming alive as Harry, barely able to ignore his growing grin, realized that he was in the magical district of Japan.
Yes! Harry cheers, but notices still that his magic is tugging him along. Apparently, this was not where he was to go, and with a frown, continued his expedition, passing through red-tinted sloping shingles. His fingers brushing against the stalls, animals running underfoot with strange characteristics he has never once had the chance of seeing in Hagrid's class. There are posters everywhere, strange talisman adorning walls or hanging from the rafters. Lanterns glow majestically, the neon lights he saw were just how bright this alleyway was, splitting into multiple parts that Diagon alley’s size paled in comparison to what Harry was witnessing. Everything seems to be alive, his eyes taking it all in as he passes by people yelling, the smell of fresh food being baked in front of him such a novelty concept that he can’t help but try to use his English to order a skewer of what seems like squid, though from the man’s less than stellar expression and random gesture towards a stall, he thinks he gets the point of where they may be leading him, giving a shy but well-mannered wave.
“Ah! A budding customer?” The stall the man pointed at bears a woman with eyes the colors of yellow, irises slit and her nails adorned in gold nail polish. Her black hair is twisted into bounds on each side of her head, bound by a yellow ribbon with a strange but cute styled black jacket with stripes, the cuffs clearly longer than her arms as she leans over her stall, looking at him with a critical eye. She is shorter than expected.
“You speak English?”
Her eyes shine and she reminds him eerily of a fox, “A British one! You know you Brits are always so stuck-up, we rarely see you folks over here.”
He blinks, “Oh – er, I’m sorry?”
“Polite too!” She coos, her short figure coming out from behind her stall and barely reaching up to his shoulder as she looks up at him. Now he can see that really, she is fitting into that black and yellow aesthetic with even her shorts and socks following it, though her shoes were just black. “So nice to hear a different language! Now I know why you are here.” She gestures at her shop, at the trinkets right in front of her. “A translator! Right? Must be hard for your European brain to not be on the high horse this time.”
“I just –” Harry pauses, scrutinizing her for a moment, not enjoying the accusation.
“Kidding!” She waves, “You seem polite enough for running away from something, perhaps even someone. Leashed?”
His mind swims, annoyance prickling at the words. “I’m not running,” Harry snaps, though that is definitely what someone running would say.
Her smile is smug and her eyes squint in a way Harry feels like he is being dissected. His neck hair rises, prickling uncomfortably from her yellow gaze. “This one,” she taps her finger on a necklace, on a sharp tooth wrapped in twine and carved with symbols Harry can’t imagine parsing through. “The benefit? A translator that allows you to understand the language as if you were born here? Con? It is quite the overload and you may get a headache?”
Harry reaches out a hand, brushing his finger on the bone, feeling the indent in the ivory. “Who’s tooth is it?”
The lady’s smile is sharp, almost unnatural as she gives a shrug. “Go to my Obaa-chan’s store, you’ll find a form to hide in there.”
“How much?”
“Oh,” she laughs softly, her mouth lined with sharp teeth, “You’ll pay with time. Now, put it on, my Obaa-chan doesn’t like to wait.”
I don’t trust you, Harry stares, swallowing the uncomfortable feeling in his chest as he puts the necklace over his head, every conversation that was previously unable for him to follow suddenly clearing the fog from his brain. It is overwhelming and it takes him too late to realize that the vendor is taking his arm and dragging him behind her shop, the grip on his clothes to tight for him to wiggle from as she takes him away from the glowing lanterns and the bustling of people to dark, sloping roofs and chipped tiles. Plants overgrown from the sides, the smell of petrichor and grass clinging to his nostrils with each step before they pause in front of a small, inconspicuous storefront with no nameplate on the outside and just, a faint see-through door that shows that someone is inside.
“We won’t see you again, but remember Oozora, “ Her smile is cruel and cold, her nails are sharp, twisting into his sweatshirt, “This is only the beginning.”
She steps back, giving a wave. “Bye bye now! See you never!”
Weird, Harry swallows the bile in his mouth and turns to the door in front of him, watching the shop lady’s figure disappear back where they came from. Eventually, he carefully opens the door and in front of him is an older lady in a loose, strange checkered pattern dress. It was a bit of a nauseating pattern at Harry’s first look, but it did well to cover the gnarled, stretching burn scars along her hands.
For such a small room, it is fairly quaint, if not packed to the brim full of stuff. There are bookshelves covered in countless books, some even bound by leather in thick scrolls. The light is dim, a warm orange that casts long jumping shadows as Harry draws his eyes across the room, looking at the plants and the herb plants covering almost every inch of the room. A statue of a fox is coiled behind the lady, incense lit up in a holder whose smoke curls lazily, almost unnaturally in the air, folding in on each other before dispersing. Harry hides the prickle of unease that comes when he steps foot in the room, his foot squishing against the strange but not-unwelcome floor.
“Ah,” she speaks, her voice no longer soft and instead raspy, as if she is no longer used to speaking. The room smells of jasmine and there is a tea set in front of her, something fancy with porcelain and fine China as she sits on top of a cushion on the floor, her head angled towards him. She is hiding something – that is clear – and Harry can’t help but hold onto his messenger bag a bit more tightly. “You come to hide.”
She waves an arm towards the cushion in front of her, her posture relaxed but noble. “Sit, you may call me Kawahira, dear.”
Harry can’t help but follow, carefully imitating her pose on the ground, his knees digging into the soft, rose colored cushion. The tea, he doesn’t think he has ever seen before with its dark green color and smelling faintly of mildew, he doesn’t bother touching, carefully winding himself in. He should probably ask how they know, but well, too many people have already guessed he is running from something so maybe it is just something about him that screams lost child, like a blaring red sign. He can’t really be bothered to care anymore, only looking at her graying hair, the way her hands shake when she reaches towards the circular mug, bringing the warm drink to her lips. There is a strange ring on her finger. Kawahira is covered in stretching scars, pulling at her skin, leaving thick, mangled flesh as a result, but distantly, Harry is aware enough to not take her for granted.
“What do you seek?”
“Freedom.”
He did not mean to say that.
“You can not lie here, only the truth means well.” She takes a sip at her tea, milky white eyes staring straight through him. There is something all-knowing in her gaze, something that makes him feel less like an adult and more like a child. “You hold the tooth of a Grim on your neck. What my granddaughter thought when she handed it to you, I do not know, but death has caressed you and not taken you.”
His hand comes up to the tooth, unable to help the way his fingers trace the pendant. “Dog teeth and running? My, what a sad tale.”Her body seems to sag by some invisible weight, fingers tracing the edges of her dress in idle patterns. “I fear Fate has left you to bleed.”
A grace Harry has never seen before appears when she rises, towering over him and there is something suspicious, niggling at Harry’s mind telling him to look carefully, that there's something underneath the underneath, slowly coiling along the edges of his vision. His eyes follow the course of her trajectory, seeing the faint image of a long, long tail from behind her and fear grips him, fingers curling into the floor at the shape coming into view. The way it waves languidly behind her old figure, back hunched over, posing as something she is not.
“What –” Harry’s mouth is dry. Her teeth are sharper, much closer now. There is the scent of blood tickling the back of his throat. “What are you?”
She tilts her head in response, eerily still. “What am I not?”
Her back turns to him and Harry? Harry wants to flee. He feels like he is the prey, the snack, the fine dining meal that will be swallowed in one bite. This is not – Harry feels himself wanting to scream. He just wanted to escape! Not be pulled back into another nightmare.
“I hear your heart rise, but there is no reprieve here,” Kawahira admonishes gently, “Time is different in these four walls. When you step out, there is freedom.”
“I,” Harry shakily gets up. His hand digs into his cheek, “I would like to leave – now, if preferable.”
Kawahira gives a slight shake of her head, her tail swishing behind her as she steps around the small, cluttered room. Her fingers brushing through the walls, nails a lot more sharper than what they were before. “I fear you entered the fox's den.” She trails over the spines of books before her finger stills, catching on the frayed seams of a hardcover and pulling it out from the shelf.
Harry pulls out his wand, not caring about the underaged magic use, his fingers white-knuckled, pressed against the wood that bellows with warning, warming his fingers. “I won’t cause any trouble,” Harry urges, “I just want to go.”
Her movements are choreographed, uncaring even at the wand that points her way. “Ah you Westerners with your fancy sticks,” she gives a hum, sitting back down where she was earlier, this time with the book perched in her lap. Her lips are spread in a coy smile and it reminds him enough of the Headmaster that he can’t help but shrink down, bravado slowly dispersing in the face of great age. “Foolish dear, you should know that Asia is closer to the Gods than you.”
“Is that what you are?” He blurts, pressing himself against the wall as far away as he can get.
“If that is what you think.” Kawahira stills, tapping. “Sit back down, like I tell you dear, there is no escape with a fox.”
Harry grips his wand tighter. “I’ll have you know foxes are quite easy to kill.”
“Will you kill me then?” She hums, looking up and down, “You don’t have the heart too.”
“Try me,” Harry bites, snapping his wand out as far as he can reach, pointing towards her.
Then, she does something Harry does not expect, she laughs. Her head is thrown back and what leaves her throat is something high-pitched, almost grating against his ears as she does so unabashedly. “I will not die here, and you, that is up to you.”
“Then what? Fancy making me into a pie? Or a new potion? I can’t say I’ll offer much as an ingredient.”
She gives a small shake of her head. “You may not see it but your heart is leading you and as a human, you will not give, but as something else? Now, there we go.”
His eyes narrow. “And what do you know about that?”
“Nothing and everything.” Her smile is kinder this time, but it still makes him prickle uncomfortably. “But, it will all be over soon.”
The last thing Harry sees is her face morphing, twisting away with an indigo hue into the face of a man with black eyes, round glasses, and white hair before the world swallows him whole.