Chapter 4
Harry wakes up a dog.
His muzzle is hair widths away from the questionable pool of water, looking into his own reflection. What, Harry chokes out the thought, his green eyes memorizing as he traces over his form – the way his scar is still there, now a sore thumb amongst the black fur that can’t hide the bisection of the mark. The fur he has doesn’t cover up the new scar on his forearm let alone the ones he knows are scattered on his back. He looks like Padfoot – a Grim, but larger, deadlier with thick black fur that pools around his ankles, a few white hairs splattered against his coat too, the most prominent being on his chest. Harry cracks open his mouth, looking at the rows of sharp teeth lining his maw, the way they gleam a cold ivory, and he gnashes them together, feeling more like a monster than a human as he hunches over.
Whereas Padfoot came up to his hip, this form feels like it is the size of a small cow. His ears are more angular, jutting out from his skull, and his fur is warm, already feeling mated along the underside of his belly from the puddle he awoke in. He doesn’t look that much like a dog, more like a monster, some sort of untamable beast with his size, sharp nails clicking against the asphalt, unable to halt even one second to not gaze at what is gazing back at him.
Yet, Harry doesn’t remember how this happened. There’s a thick haze of fog in his mind, blurry out all the details. He knows he came to Japan, something in his heart was urging him too, to get out of range from the Wizarding World but when he left, wasn’t it summer? The air is colder now, bellowing sharp winds cutting like ice. You will pay with time. He doesn’t know what that means, but the statement rings in his ears, leaves him swallowing bile, hoping this new form may provide some answers even if he just wants to be on his own two feet.
Harry doesn’t want this. Harry just wanted to escape, to flee from friends who ignore him and hypocritical Godfathers who told him to stay put. He just wanted to run away from the headmaster and the Dursleys with their bruising grips – but now, Harry blinks, watching as his eyes fill with liquid, struggling to hold in his tears – he just wants to go home, wherever that is.
A muffled whine slips past, and it is with a heartbreaking realization that he can not speak. That in this form, his tongue is too big, his teeth too sharp, and he feels like screaming or whatever the Grim equivalent was as he awkwardly picks up his paw, shoving it down into the puddle with vengeance, hoping to no longer stare at what he had become. The water ripples but it doesn’t hide what he has become; it doesn’t swallow what Harry now is and he feels like shouting, anger filling his maw, striking a match against his tongue as he turns, bolting out of the damp alleyway with its overturned trash and scurrying rats right out into the open.
He is no longer in Tokyo.
The streets are too empty to be the major city, the buildings too short to be the looming skyscrapers of neon lights and advertisements sparkling against the shine of moonlight. His head whips around, looking at street signs that are unfamiliar, looking at people who stop to stare at him, eyes widening with something like fear. It sparks something ugly within him and he can’t help it – Harry can’t help but look at the way the mother shields her child away from him, her eyes desperate to get away.
Please don’t be afraid, Harry wants to beg, taking a step forward, dropping his head down in the hopes to appear harmless. I don’t bite.
The woman yelps. “Back! Back you mutt!”
Harry flinches, trying to open his mouth just to say something but, as quickly as he does she runs, dragging her child along and Harry can’t help but watch sadly, standing up to his full height, watching her shadow disappear along the well-lit streets. The clouds drifting in the sky, echoes of snow to come and it makes Harry swallow something nauseous, bile curling its way along his changed anatomy as he watches her leave.
The wind is harsh, and the sky promises retribution, and for once in Harry’s life, the anger that warmed him, leaves him cold.
–
It’s slow going.
Ice caked underneath his paws, the cold nipping at his heels. His fur can only do so much before he lays amongst the roots of trees, curled up as tight as he can to store some measly heat from the snow that covers the ground in thick plumes. His eyes are much sharper than before, but hunger gnaws deep in his belly, unrelenting and unyielding, leaving him with what little energy he has left to scavenge the area for some sort of meal – at least something of substance that could keep him going, just a bit warmer enough to avoid the chill of winter.
But it is hard. Any person he does see is someone who is afraid, someone whose mouth twists into fear just at the sight of his figure, leaving him to traverse at night in the hopes to encounter less people. Harry eventually learns that the place he is in is Namimori, about a two-hour train ride from the center of Tokyo and this town is the place of strange, unexplained occurrences and people who have better things to do than care about them. Even despite him, fear clearly scented them (and that was a new skill to add to the book), they never once called animal control or tried to bribe him with treats, it could be of course that people were too afraid, but perhaps, there should be some sort of answer to his questions.
It was just, all so strange and even as he could barely feel his limbs, blinking ice from his eyes, Harry still had no clue just how he got here. Why was he even in this form to begin with? What was the purpose of four legs instead of two? Of paws that could rip people apart than his own ten fingers and careless scars scattered across his skin. Past the fog of hunger in his veins, the sluggishness of the cold freezing his muscles in children parks, there was to be some answer found in this somewhat large town and Harry was going to find it. He missed his arms and legs. He missed his bed, and he missed blankets, but most of all he missed Hedwig and his friends, hoping they would forgive him for running off like this, because how long has it been? Summer does not jump to January without some awkward time warp and the idea that he is worrying them for that long? It makes Harry want to vomit.
Sometimes there was sun, enough for Harry to feel like wandering, slipping through the snow as carefully as he could to avoid being seen by the school children on the playground; to avoid the people shopping and the thugs in the alleyways, Harry was careful. His body held weakly, wanting to appear smaller than what he really was, his mouth kept carefully closed. Docile. He just wanted to appear docile. Sometimes even, in this neighborhood Harry had discovered by chance a week ago, there was an old lady who sometimes was willing to give him some of her food. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough. It was enough to get him through these past few freezing days too.
Today was one of those few sunny days. Harry was carefully making his way over to the old lady who fed him occasionally, keeping close to the fences, avoiding the stray eyes that landed on him before he came to a stop by the two-story house. This neighborhood never treated him badly per say, ignored him was a better term and that, that was the best Harry could really achieve. It was actually quite a nice neighborhood; one would say the rich neighborhood if Harry had to pick a term to describe this place. There was little litter, most people that walked by were kids and parents, the houses were usually two-storied and had a unique twist of western and eastern architecture. Construction wasn’t common nearby, but the city was close enough that if it did happen, it wouldn’t be a bother. Schools were down the street and even the playground Harry slept in was in this area. It was all in all, quite a nice place to be.
Carefully, Harry grabbed the mail in the slot with his teeth before unlatching the gate, careful to shut it behind him with a touch of his snout as he walked to the small porch leading inside. His belly rumbles, hunger gnawing as he takes his time to walk amongst the overgrown path, his claws clicking against the paved rocks.
The old lady wasn’t out yet, but Harry sets the mail down by the small step in front of her door before laying down, stretching his long legs out and yawning, careful to avoid slipping on the stray ice caking the wood.
He hears her before he sees her, stretching his neck around to watch as she opens the door, looking down at him. Today she dons a very cozy looking sweater, lavender in color with a long skirt that reaches down to her ankles and a few pairs of fuzzy socks on her feet. “Kageyoshi,” she greets, and that's another weird thing here. Here he isn’t called Harry or The Chosen One, he is called Kageyoshi or “good shadow.” It was growing on him, a name that wasn’t tied to being human or even close to what he had in Britain, just a name given to him because of his appearance. Harry can’t help the wag of his tail at the kind greeting, another thing that he had to be aware of was his tail showing his emotions now.
She looks at him with something close to fondness. Her hair is completely gray, with a few white strands carefully framing her face. “Come around back Kageyoshi, I’ll reheat us some leftovers to share.”
With that, she bends down, grabbing the mail he grabbed for her and shuts the door, leaving Harry outside.
It isn’t rocket science as to why she won’t let him inside. Harry can bet that he probably smells questionable, with the river being frozen and him being unable to bathe, but that he is still a stray. A human trapped inside a dog body, but he is still, unfortunately a stray and well, he won’t bite more than he can chew, so with a small gallop, Harry trots to the back of the house, dodging the overturned rake that was left outside and the blankets covering delicate rose brushes to prevent them from being frozen to a crisp. But Harry would love to be in someplace warm – at the very least, just something to snuggle into or at the very least let the bone-aching chill that comes from the cold disappear.
Harry hops up onto the porch, sitting down beside the sliding door. He carefully peers inside, looking at the cozy interior with a wistful sigh, eyeing the couch with vigor. It looked really comfy, and he can feel himself holding back a whine before the lady steps out, looking down at him with a raised eyebrow, two bowls gently steaming in her hands. The smell of pork hits his nose, and he can't help it but stand up, his face nudging at the bowl, careful to be kind as she pulls away, walking a little bit away from the sliding door and towards the edge.
“Patience,” she chastises and reluctantly he sits down, waiting for the food to be in front of him, and even more patient enough to wait for her to start eating before he digs in, stuffing his snout into the bowl and uncaring if he makes a mess. Harry was just so hungry. His stomach grumbling in agreement as he woofs it down, licking his lips and making sure to get every little drop that could be wrung out. It didn’t feel like enough but well, Harry feels satisfied enough and he can’t help but flop back onto his back, happily content from having something to eat.
“That, that was fast.” She stretches out a hand and tentatively cards her fingers through his chest fur but soon pulls back when she realizes he probably is a biohazard to pet. “You must be hungry.”
A sharp twist of dissatisfaction wrangles from him at the lack of touch, missing it more than he should. “You know Kageyoshi, I’m a little bit worried. There have been some figures stalking around this neighborhood, creepy and whatnot,” she wrings her hands into her sweater, “Makes me worried about the young kids.”
Harry, he didn’t expect that, twisting his body to lay back onto his stomach and at full attention. His hind legs bunched underneath him, almost leaning forward into her space, tempted to stuff his nose into her own bowl of food. “This is a lot to ask of you, old boy, but can you look out for the neighborhood?”
He’s not old! Harry can’t help but feel like pouting at the assumption, but he feels like accepting her request. Some feeling in his chest is bubbling around happily at the idea that he could be able to do something like protect a neighborhood, be able to find a way to cure himself and finally go back to normal instead of being stuck in this form. It would give him the chance and well, perhaps he may be able to find more food? That would be nice.
Carefully, unused to doing this, Harry lets loose a low warble of a bark in agreement before snapping his jaws shut.
“Thank you, Kageyoshi.”
–
That’s how he starts patrolling.
It was just a request, but one night turns into two and transforms into four, before Harry finds himself almost waiting for his patrol to start from sundown to sunup after two weeks, walking along the neighborhood, memorizing the streets, trying to imprint the entire Namimori area into his head. The number of places he has been, even discovering abandoned warehouses on the edge of town, a closed amusement park, and countless schools that make sadness tangle a noose around his neck at his own school back a thousand miles away. There are countless green parks, some rundown, some in nice shape. As the days go by and it slowly warms, Harry feels some of his warmth returning, even if it means that there are more people to hide from now that it isn’t too cold.
He even stumbles upon a nice sushi place run by a single father one night! Who, despite the embarrassment and desperation driving him to dig into the trash after going a few days without anything substantial, had done nothing but grab a whole fish for him to scarf on once he was caught. That isn’t to say he was going to do it again, his pride forbids it, but the meal was enough to keep him going for the rest of the day and he can’t help but feel thankful at the gesture. Food, especially feeding strays was probably never a good idea and Harry couldn’t help dropping a flower at their doorstep the next morning in thanks.
He almost hopes that every time he strolls past, he’ll get something else, but those are carefree wishes, and Harry just wants this town to be safe.
It's just – now, it has been around a month since he’s been stuck as a hound and there was no other clue into finding a cure. Nothing gave him an inkling on how to reverse this process and it was starting to grate on his nerves, annoyed at the lack of progress he was making as the days turned warmer and Harry, colder. God! Harry huffs, slinking back through the streets of Namimori at nightfall, his skin prickling with unease. He can’t help the snapping of his jaws in annoyance, grinding his teeth together. There was fear coiling deep in his lungs that this was irreversible, that he would be stuck like this forever, that he would forever be left to wander the world as a dog, unbound by nature, stuck in Japan. It was terrifying. That isn’t to say that it wasn’t nice. Here he had no expectations, no death-defying experiences placed on his head, no daily prophet stalking his every move – even his nightmares were kept carefully at bay, but – Harry missed running on two legs, hell, he missed reading books too! Just holding something with two hands instead of awkwardly within his paws was something he would never take for granted.
He just, Harry liked the freedom, but it was lonely. It was terribly lonely, and he was trying to curate some sort of friendship, but it was hard when kids were terrified, and parents shooed him away. His only interaction that could be positive was meeting with the old lady (Mirami-san) every other day, listening to her on the porch as she ranted about the news, or talked about her grandkids and her late husband, but even that left much to be desired. It felt as if he was inherently selfish at wishing for more, but he couldn’t help it. Perhaps it was his dog behaviors like his inclination for touch or his enjoyment at just seeing people he liked, but being without a home was leaving him cold, almost achingly, desperately empty.
Resisting a sigh, Harry carefully kept trekking on, his head swinging around, careful to keep himself alert for any mischief that may befall. So far, it didn’t seem to be too much. Chasing off bullies was his main job, other times it was guiding kids back to their parents or carefully having to pull cats away from each other to avoid a catfight – it wasn’t too bad, but it was slightly repetitive. Not a whole lot of action going on and Harry was starting to wonder just what he could do in this body. Wonder just how powerful he was.
The night was still young and for that, Harry kept going forth making sure to keep his nose high to catch any wayward scent and well, he couldn’t help but stop, perking up at full attention at the scent of chicken some houses away. Harry could feel his mouth watering at the thought of food, especially after it has been a day or two (he still kept frequently losing track) since he had eaten and doing all of this walking did burn a lot of calories.
With renewed vigor, Harry quickly trotted towards the scent, noting that it came from the red-sloped house that had Sawada in front, and it wafted from a chipped, if not a pretty porcelain bowl. He inched closer, looking at what just seemed to be rice and chicken before glancing up, wondering if it may just be a trick, but after a moment, Harry couldn’t help but divulge. Carefully, he started eating, hoping that it was not poisoned with something he could not smell as he scarfed down the offered food.
It was delicious.
It made Harry feel more and more frustrated at his situation too.
Damn it, Harry leaned back, looking down at the bowl, careful to avoid the sneer on his lips. Damn it all.
He should have never come here. He should have never ran away. He just went from one bad situation to another. From living in abuse to living on the streets. At least one offered a roof over his head and now? What did he have? Harry had no wand, no cloak, no friends or people to turn to, all Harry was, was alone in a country that left him turned into a dog and no ability to speak.
It was just frustrating.
Having to rely on things like this to survive. To rely on people, he didn’t know – patrolling a neighborhood he didn’t understand, in a place he didn’t care about. It was nauseating. Fuck, Harry hisses, but he can not stop because their must be a cure or some sort of reverse mechanism to this. He must be able to regain his memory of what happened instead of blinking away hazy fog, the splitting headache that came from every time he tried to dig past what was holding the memory afloat. There must be some light at the end of this tunnel, and he is so tired, but he must keep going. Harry cannot stop.
There is no option for him to rest.
Thank you, Harry dips his head towards the Sawada household before turning away, for the meal.
–
There is food waiting for him in the morning, and while usually he never comes in the morning, he wanted to visit Mirami-san today. Harry can’t help but pause in his steps at the bowl being placed right where it was last night and it surely can’t be a fluke or some sort of mistake, but – he steps forward, inching slowly across the pavement and back towards the front of his house.
It’s real.
Harry raises his head towards the house. The well manicured lawn and groomed oak trees across the front yard. Beige walls and large windows on the two-story house with a front balcony that has some large plants along the fence. The roofs are sloped, a deep red of curved tile that adds an eastern appeal to the otherwise western styled home and Harry can’t help but linger on just how peaceful it feels. The wind brushing against his skin, the warmth emanating from the home – there is something here he is missing, something that is beckoning him to curl in the weak February sun and nap, letting his body lounge amongst the grass until every single one of his worries will vanish, ebbing away into slippery slopes and hazy memories. It is peaceful, something unexplainable just out of reach, telling him to slip past the fence and into the yard, but Harry takes a step back and turns away, because that is not normal. That feeling? No, that is not normal.
His heart should not be doing this strange warble in his chest, humming things that do not make sense. His heart should stop with this nonsense and try being useful for once instead of holding onto pipedreams, like trying to find a way out of this mess. Stupid heart, Harry grumbles, unable to swallow his gratitude at another meal.
Thankfully, Mirami-san is just down the street and with light steps he is in front of her fence once again, opening the gate and slipping inside and stills, hearing another voice coming from inside.
Someone…was here? Harry blinks in confusion, unable to hide his curiosity and nervousness at their reaction, but he is a second too late when out steps from the front porch a middle aged lady with short dark brown hair in a large green sweater and a black ankle-length skirt. Her skin is a fair complexion, with doe-like brown eyes looking at him, her mouth parting in an “o” shape at the sight of him and immediately, Harry cowers back, dropping low to the ground in nervousness because there wasn’t much to say what she may do.
“Oh Kageyoshi,” Mirami-san greets him, “You’re here early.”
“That's a pretty name,” the lady murmurs, glancing at her friend and back at him. She smells like citrus and oolong tea that hugs her figure, a tote bag hoisted around her shoulder, filled with what he expects is some sort of yarn and needles to knit or crochet with. “Does he have a collar?”
Mirami gives a shake of her head. “Lone dog.” She steps forward and looks at him, reaching out a tentative hand and giving him a small pat on the head. “Just protects the neighborhood.”
He can’t help but preen at the praise, his tail giving a quick wag. “He’s a good boy Nana-kun.”
Her eyes are searching, and Harry looks at her, expecting something. There is something about her that feels…strange. Not in a bad way, but as in what he may be looking for may lie with her.
“Thank you, Kage-chan, for your hard work.”
A hand rests on top of his head and – oh.
Harry digs his claws into the ground, trying not to scramble back away from it all. Away from touches that remind him of Molly and her kind eyes that remind him of Cedric. His mind is viscous in stamping the thoughts away, beating them with a bat, unable to even bother thinking about them for a second before he starts spiraling, thinking too much, grieving too little. His heart hammers too loudly, his tongue heavy in his mouth. There are shadows stretching along the edges of his vision and Harry’s focus narrows into pinpoints, holding his breath when her hand slips away and Harry is free to glance up at them before turning, bounding away, ignoring the stuttering in his chest.
He thought, Harry thought, he was doing good. That there weren’t too many bad dreams (he didn’t sleep enough for them to happen), there were few triggers to remind him of Cedric and Ron and Hermoine, but every time it happened, it struck suddenly, in a sunlit field on a perfect day. Grief looks at him and beckons his hand and all Harry can do is accept, feeling it wash over him, wave after cowardly wave. It just happens. It happens so suddenly, so sharp and unyielding and Harry feels like running away from it all, tripping over his own four paws in his sudden haste to get away from it all. It is suffocating – this grief. This swallowing feeling that is threatening to drag him under, leading him to the storefront sushi shop, huddling beside the dumpster, holding in his breath that ends in whines.
Thankfully in this form, dogs can not cry, only their eyes water and here, Harry struggles not to collapse, his long lanky limbs hunching in on himself, tightening into a ball. He doesn’t care about the grime and the smell that warps his senses, only trying to prevent the unbearable feeling of wondering if it is okay to grieve the living. There are ghosts in his lungs, graveyards sowed into the very making of his bones and there is certainty in dying, some sort of crippling fear hovering at the edge of his vision at the inexplicable end, but Harry is not afraid of it for himself. No, death has beckoned him since his birth. There wasn’t a reason to fear it, but Harry couldn’t help fear the end of it for his family, for his friends. One moment they are breathing and the next they are pushing up red poppies, staring lifelessly into the sky, mouth twisted into horror. The last face they will ever make.
“Bring my body back, Harry. Please.”
He misses Ron. He misses Hermoine and Ginny and Neville and the twins. He misses Arthur’s benign questions about muggle culture and Molly talking about the latest wizarding news, her voice filling in the silence about her sons. He misses being pestered for quidditch practice in the early morning and dodging Ms. Norris. Harry misses Hagrid and having tea every Sunday, rock scones eagerly being pressed into his hands even if they are inedible. There is so much to miss – so much Harry can taste the longing on his tongue, the way it grows like mold across the back of his teeth. Harry longs for nothing to have changed. For the fourth year to never happen, for the oncoming summer to be covered in rolling fields of imaginary endings. Harry will daydream just a little bit more if it means his recklessness doesn’t lead to the silence, his own whines filling the air, unable to swallow the way his heart is breaking and rebuilding itself all in one moment.
I’m sorry, Harry breathes, shoving his muzzle into his fur. He is shaking – wound up tightly. Grief is circular, winding, twisting. Harry is peering down at the same thing that bleeds red and tells him it is gold. There is no authenticity from who it comes from when it smells the same, when all he can see is Cedric’s dead body and feeling the shattering of his heart reach its crescendo once again.
The door cracks open and Harry doesn’t budge.
“Isamu,” the man murmurs and drops down beside him, balancing on the front of their feet. “What happened boy?”
Harry cracks open an eye and carefully, without sound, shuffles awkwardly over closer to the shop owner who calls him brave and good, and all of these positive compliments that make the gaping hole in his chest yawn just a bit wider, swallowing all the words toss his way in the hopes to get more. He is tired. Harry is so tired, and he misses people, and he misses talking, and all he wants is to go back to being a human, hug all of his friends and promise he will never leave again.
The black-haired man, smile lines around his mouth and the indentation of aging bags underneath his eye's smells of fish and vinegar. A strange smell but it is welcome from the putrid scent of the alleyway, the way every little molecule is in his nose, able to be distinguished. It’s overwhelming to smell every little thing, to feel every little thing.
“Did you lose someone?” the man asks, “I’ve lost people too. Perhaps it comes with age.”
They give a dry chuckle, something hoarse that crawls along their throat as a hand comes to rest on top of his head. “Don’t worry boy, the time will pass.”
Harry whines, an embarrassing sound. “I know,” the man says, gentle and caring. It is the kindest Harry has ever been treated by a stranger, it is the kindest thing he has ever been given, and it is chilling, “It doesn’t stop. Sometimes I can’t help but think about it. My wife died at one P.M on a sunny afternoon and I wonder if in America, hours behind that she would still be alive, that the distance in time zones meant she was still breathing.”
Carefully, Harry picks up his body, slotting his head on top of their thigh, nosing his way underneath their arm resting on top of their knees. It is as much comfort as he can do – hopefully, it is enough. Harry is trying so hard to make it enough.
“Grief is strange, Isamu, but it gets better.”
For Harry’s sake too, he hopes it does.
–
The house still keeps feeding him.
Every morning and night, from when he starts his patrol and ends it, there is a fresh bowl of food waiting for him.
When Cedric died, something inside of him was violently ripped out leaving him stretched thin. Harry can’t find a name for the feeling – the torn edges, frayed seams aimlessly drifting in the back of his mind, searching for something to connect too.
The strange thing is, is that it keeps leading him to the Sawada house, standing beside the gate, peaking past the iron fence and rising on his hind legs to reach the brick to peer over into the yard, wondering if there was a stray chance that he may be able to be inside, rest in soft cushions and let the warmth of people return. This feeling is weird but not new, tugging, drifting him along without a whim – some sort of intuition that guides him to stay a bit longer each day in the morning, watching Nana-san grab the mail and what he guesses is her son heading towards the school.
He doesn’t want to be seen even as he watches, careful to leave gifts at their doorstep, uncaring if a few of the things he had grabbed had been stolen. Not like the storekeeper could stop him from grabbing the bouquet though, the mental image of their reactions still keeps Harry smug, but it’s just – Harry is grateful to at least having a steady meal after almost a month and a half of scavenging, relying on scraps and Mirami-san.
Then, one day, Harry musters the courage enough to stay. He waits patiently by the fence, relying on his internal clock to when her son will step out.
The first thing Harry realizes when he sees him, is that he can’t be completely Japanese. With fluffy brown hair and orange-reddish eyes that almost seem to glow in the morning sun, the boy is perhaps almost the same age as him or maybe a year younger. He’s lanky, almost unnaturally skinny with large eyes looking at him in shock before melting into surprise and apprehension. He, in one word Harry can surmise, was cute.
“Kageyoshi.” Harry perks up, “Are you walking me to school?”
There is something drawing me in, Harry thinks. His heart coos softly and his mind is silent. There is a tug here, similar, achingly similar to the one he had before, to the one with Cedric and every friend he has gathered. It calls to him, beckoning him, whispering nothing but what Harry wants to hear, the underlying rampaging thought of safe, safe, safe humming in the air. Don’t they feel it too?
The instinctual flinch comes from someone new petting him, something Harry immediately regrets doing when hurt flashes across their face, but he is quick to rectify it, almost shoving his face into their awaiting palm. I’m sorry, Harry murmurs quietly, anger at himself coursing through him. Grief is choking him silently.
He starts walking towards the school, embarrassed and careful to hug their side. He still doesn't know their name and Harry wishes he did. It would be nice to put a name to the scent of fresh laundry and lavender he catches hovering around his food.
“Tsuna-kun!” A voice shouts and Harry tenses, pushing a bit more into the boy beside him until they are covered with his body, paws digging into the ground as a girl, maybe the same grade as Tsuna stands in front of them, her arm in a half-raised wave and her eyes looking at him curiously almost in surprise.
It isn’t until she asks a question about him does he get her name. Kyoko.
What a really fitting name.
There is some sort of tug here too, his snapped seams reaching, fluttering gently in the wind and brushing up against her. She is nothing but kind, Harry can tell, his nose coming close to her to smell ink and spices on her skin.
Something in his mind gives a decisive nod. She will make a good guardian – and what? What the hell did that mean? Harry carefully avoids showing his thoughts as he walks with them to school, his head swiveling back and forth between their conversation until it is directed onto him, the decisive decision to give him a bath reaching his ears and well. Who is Harry to say no? With the water having been frozen in January and way too cold in February, he hasn’t had any chance to finally wash off, though with the state of his fur, Harry quite dreads what may be upcoming in the bath later.
Yet, they are kind. Harry can see that. The way Tsuna interacts with Kyoko, how they both gravitate to him with no fear, no fright that leaves him angry, angrier than he could ever manage, and it is so nice.
This type of thing – this thing that he craved for so long. The easy interaction between people, the way to be included without being shut down and left behind, his silence offering no opinion except certainty. It is nice. It is warm. His heart is beating loudly, crowing in delight, prancing in rolling fields of daisies and poppies at the comfort of attention that wasn’t negative being directed upon him. The easy touch of lean fingers pressing into his skin with no malicious intentions, the slight scratching behind his ears, getting places that Harry can’t help but lean into.
It’s been a month and a half, Harry has quite lost most of his embarrassment at these behaviors, though eating dog food was still a hit or miss.
I like this, Harry thinks, I like it.