Chapter 8
Chapter 8
Don’t panic, Potter—Harry blinked down at his white not-right-pasty wrist for one long second before he sharply inhaled and let it go. Slowly, calmly, his eyes panned to the right. Then the left. And then he took a slow, woozy circle as he took in the room at large. It was a bit ridiculous, now that he looked at it with suddenly calmer eyes. The bed was king sized at the least. The carpet under his feet was plush and white (if a hotel has white carpet, then it definitely had money to keep it clean) and he glanced down to his toes to check it.
Harry reached out and touched the side of the aquarium, leaning in to squint at the octopus inside. “… I remember you being… bigger?” Harry squinted at the wiggling creature. Harry squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He stood up and looked around the room. There was literally nothing in this room that he had brought with him.
It took far more effort to stop his walk to the door, but Harry found that the longer he kept at it, the easier it was to keep going. In fact, he felt like he was getting stronger the longer he continued.
His arm itched—and Harry scratched at it idly as he came to the door. That handle… looked like gold plating or something. Harry glanced down to his arm when his fingers encountered more than skin. Right—his arm, his wand stuck to his skin. Harry reached over worked his wand off of his skin. He felt eerily calm with nothing in his head as he stood before the door.
There was frantic tapping coming from the aquarium that had Harry pausing to look behind. The octopus was still there, its bulbous little eyes trained on Harry. “I’ll be back in a second,” Harry murmured, not bothering to wonder if the little creature could understand him or not. So many animals understood more than one would expect, he didn’t doubt that there was something there. “Just hold on little guy.”
Harry slowly cracked open the door and nudged it slightly. The closed curtains of the bedroom he was in made him ill adjusted to the sudden sting of the bright room on the other side. Harry blinked rapidly, and tried not to feel like he was trapped in his cupboard once again, squinting through the vents in to a too bright hall. It seemed to take ages, but soon Harry could make out the other room through the crack between the door and frame.
A large sitting area, filled with couches, gilded chairs, a glass coffee table with what looked like the remains of a large breakfast on it. Harry’s stomach gave a sympathetic pang, and he couldn’t really recall when he ate last, or how long it had even been. His eyes traced the walls and found that everything was a calming plain white—which probably offset the frankly gaudy blue and green decorations everywhere else. The curtains, the carpets, the furniture—it was rather terrible.
The blonde man must have picked this place, then. If Harry was still with him. Harry pressed his cheek firmly against the door frame, trying to get in as much of a view as possible. There were branching short halls, closed doors, and doorways that led to other rooms that he could see from this view. This was a suite, then.
It was silent.
And probably about noon time. Maybe afternoon.
Harry inched the door open a tad, eventually just enough to slip out of his room. He inched the door until it was almost closed before he padded out of the room. He padded around the room, his bare feet telling him how soft the rugs were, and the skin of his arms noted only the faintest of chills as he walked toward a large open window.
Well, balcony doors.
Seeing the Eiffel tower so casually outside of this hotel was a sight to see. Harry blinked at the tall metal construction, and he could feel it’s height in his very bones as he craned his head up. He was rather… close—if he had to guess. Since he had to tilt his head so far back. Harry rubbed at his cheek absently, and grimaced at the tacky feel of the white make up. Seriously—why had this guy put that shit back on him? Sure, it covered the scars and made his skin look as if it was baby smooth, but it made his skin crawl.
Harry wrinkled his nose and peeked out on to the balcony. That was empty. But… was that a gun? A rather large… rifle? Harry stared at the little metal table before he inched back and turned back to the hotel room. There was nothing in this room that he was looking for, so he took the first closed door he could find and listened through the wood. Harry heard nothing on the other side for a nice twenty count, so he popped open the door and peered in to an empty bathroom.
Marble counters. An insanely large tub and a glass walled shower. Gold taps. It smelled like lavender in here. And vanilla.
(Ginny liked the smell of Vanilla—not now memories!)
“… Fancy.” Harry mumbled, feeling rather like this hotel was a bit much. Sure, with magic making a home look like this wasn’t hard or even costly, but he was rather sure that this was a muggle place. Which meant that it cost a lot. Which made this whole place absurd.
Harry found a hall that led to a door which led to another bedroom. Empty of anyone, but there were a few suits and clothes scattered around. Harry, inevitably, walked in to the bedroom that he hadn’t woken up in. There was no one here, so he could poke around right? Harry walked to the bed where the clothes were scattered about, and lifted a few to check under. Nothing, which wasn’t disappointing (he told this to himself—it wasn’t like everyone kept their secrets in easy to find places).
The bedroom here was blue with red accents while his own had been green with purple accents. Which was fine, really. It was just interesting to note. (All of these colors were silly, and Harry wouldn’t approve of any of this decoration in his future place of living.) Harry pressed his lips together, scratched at the back of his right hand, and then walked himself out of the room. He made sure to shut the door.
He stumbled in to a small hotel kitchen eventually.
And swiftly snatched his bracelet from the counter before he could think twice about it. He gripped it hard in his hand, and felt his body settle down. The prickle in his skin didn’t feel so bad now. In fact, Harry could almost say he was relaxing. He was obviously no longer in London, or England in general. Which was good for him in the long run really.
He pulled on the bracelet and felt it settle in to place. And there was his bag! Harry hauled it close and peeked in—his things were still there. That stupid shoebox, the motorcycle—Harry plucked out the Octopus care pamphlet when he spotted it. He was sure that there was something he probably needed to be doing for his little guy. Harry closed the top and slung it over his shoulder.
… it was the trunk that might be the problem. It was open in the middle of the kitchen. To the medical side. And there were bottles all over the floor. Scattered about in some kind of organizational system that Harry couldn’t understand. Harry glanced around, chewing on a knuckle for a second before he slowly pulled the knuckle away from his mouth.
Make up did not taste good. Yuck.
Harry debated for a few minutes of how to get everything back in the trunk before he decided that by hand would be the best bet. He didn’t want to accidentally blow himself up with some strange accident. Harry stuck his wand in to his waist band and crouched down. Harry had no system for putting everything back, and just stacked them the best he could. Harry soon had the floor cleared, and hoped that there was nothing else stacked away. Harry sighed with relief when he closed the trunk and shrank it back to charm sized.
He was on his feet in a second, and back in his room a few moments later. “Okay—okay. We’re good to go. Green light, little buddy. But, um… going back in the bag again.” Harry grinned at the little octopus as he pulled out the shoebox and pulled out a few more wads of bills.
… how did one exchange money again? These were British pounds, not euros. Harry found have to find a bank later.
He tossed them on to the bed, shoved the shoe box and the aquarium in to his bag once more and—
… clothes.
“Well, that’s a problem.” Probably not as much of a problem as him talking to himself so much. He glanced down at the sleep pants that he was in. It was a garish kind of purple that had him cringing, even if they were soft. Harry pulled his wand out of his waist band and with a few taps had them more fitted and a nicer color of black. Harry tapped his stomach and squinted down at his pasty chest—that was a bit much, wasn’t it? This make up thing really had to go. He needed to go through that potion and cream stash to find any scars removers. “Another problem…” Harry groaned to himself.
… but really, he was secretly happy about his current level of problems.
(Only think about the present. Nothing exists beyond this. This is the present…)
… There had been clothes in the other room.
It was just a shirt.
… and some shoes.
Harry just needed to get out. Harry packed up with a hum. Harry shoved the wads of cash in to his pockets, stuck his wand in to the band of his pants, and had his bag read and on his shoulder. Harry scratched the back of his right hand once again.
“Right.” He nodded to himself, turned, and yanked open the door.
Harry couldn’t help but jump when he found the blond man on the other side. The blond was in a simple white t-shirt and what Harry supposed were green combat pants. The headband matched the pants for the most part (camouflage, Harry thought that was what it was) –but it wasn’t really the outfit that had Harry pausing (it felt right, to his head, that there was so much green).
His blond eyebrows were furrowed. Perhaps his face was a bit confused. Harry opened his mouth, paused, and then closed it. He didn’t know what to say. Was there something he could say? This man knew him as the Harry-before, rather than the Harry he currently was.
The blond man’s hand snapped out and yanked at the backpack strap Harry had on his shoulder. “Hey!” Harry snarled, arm clamped down to hold on to the bag before it could be ripped away. “The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Harry, with a good enough grip, yanked back.
The blond didn’t let go.
“The fuck do I think I’m doing? What are you doing, kora!” The man took a step forward, and Harry hated the few inches of height the other had over him. But Harry refused to be yanked around by this guy—
Harry felt it, as hyper aware as he was. That sudden heaviness of his body. The blue tinge around the blond man’s skin. Harry couldn’t even form words as everything in him revolted to the idea of a drugged state once more. Harry was back to reacting again.
He kicked out—kicked the blond man’s knee out and made him falter.
Harry couldn’t break the strap free from the man’s iron grip.
The blond went down with a shout, but Harry soon followed with a choked gasp when a hand gripped at his throat and made him follow.
Everything blurred from there. Elbows knocking in to the door frame. Knees slamming in to the floors or guts. Harry lost his bag, but used the loss to squirm like a monkey. Harry tried for a rear wrist lock—the blond slipped out of that with ease and Harry got an open palm strike to his nose for the effort.
(Well, rear wrist locks were best when one was still standing…)
If the blond was talking (or yelling), Harry didn’t want to hear it.
This man had tried to control him again.
Once had to be a fluke. Twice, meant it was a natural thought process to submission.
A third time would make it a pattern. Harry refused to allow that.
Harry got several kidney shots in before the blond grabbed a fistful of hair and slammed his head in to the floor. Harry couldn’t even feel the pain—when had that happened? Why couldn’t he feel pain now when he had been so sensitive before? –but Harry could feel the intent. The hits the man was doing, they were not meant for permanent injury, but for a knock out or a stunning.
A sound like thunder—a gunshot—had Harry flying back and away from the sudden hole in the floor next to his head. The blond man moved just as quick, and the two turned and looked to the other man in the room.
Harry froze. He hadn’t even noticed him.
… the new man seemed terribly tall, from where Harry sat on the ground. A sleek black suit, a strange hat with a wide golden yellow band. Ironically, to Harry, the thing that stood out the most was the ridiculous looking green chameleon clinging to the matching golden yellow tie.
“He’s gone crazy,” the blond hissed, pointed at Harry.
“I’m not crazy!” It was a poor refute, Harry realized. Even as he started to inch toward the wall. Where his bag was leaning against.
The next gunshot from the chameleon man put a hole in the floor where Harry had been about to put his hand. Harry froze, and decided that, perhaps, it was best to stay still. The blond hissed something out as he rolled to his feet and stood up.
And there was two more people. There. With Mr. Chameleon.
Well, there were two, but Harry found himself focused on a man in a white lab coat ( … “are you a doctor?” Hissed a wispy remnant of Tom Riddle, eleven years old and looking up in to the powerful eyes of Albus Dumbledore). His body felt like it was ice as he trailed up to the man’s face. He looked… impossibly bored. And was watching Harry. Slowly, the man tilted his head to the side as he stared.
The icy feeling was increasing.
Out—Harry felt like all of his senses were screaming. This man looked like he was at a zoo—and Harry was the animal in the cage.
But… but Harry was used to being in situations like this. And he felt himself calm down. His escape would be inevitable (it always was, in one way or another) and he didn’t need to panic himself in to failure. He glanced to where the blond man had been, and slowly he got up to his feet under the black eyes of Mr. Chameleon. Harry tuned in on what they were saying (and decided not to question when he learned another language. It would come in time, yeah?).
“—it’s all fucked up. He obviously can’t even feel the bond anymore. I can’t feel him,” the blond man was saying, mostly talking to Mr. Chameleon as he spoke. And was gesturing toward Harry often.
“Whatever they did, it’s messed him up more than me. I still have complete access to my flame. It doesn’t even feel like he has any.” The blond concluded, and Harry watched as all eyes inevitably turned to him. Harry realized he had been backing up for a while, as his fingertips brushed against the wall he had put his back to. He had a nice view of the entire room at large. His bag at his feet. And the door to his room was a few inches away and wide open.
The doctor in the lab coat and fancy suit cleared his throat, and dropped a heavy suitcase to the ground. It sounded… metal. “Well. Thanks for wasting my time repeating that information.” The man’s voice was flat as he raised a wrist and pressed a button on his watch. Harry mutely watched as the large metal suitcase open up with a mechanical whine. It made a metal table with a computer attached and liquids and chemicals in bottles scattered about.
“I’ll get this settled. Skull, sit.” The doctor pointed to the metal table before he moved to pull on some gloves.
… everyone was looking at Harry.
Mr. Chameleon theatrically cocked his gun.
… were they… talking to him?
“Look—“ Harry started, but jerked to the side as a bullet hole impacted in the wall right next to where his head had been. Harry felt his suddenly calm heart start to race again.
Okay. Okay—forget his memories. Forget what his body was doing. It was obviously not safe here. Bonds. Flames. Whatever—Mr. Chameleon was shooting at him.
“I don’t care who the hell you assholes are, but I’m not getting near that table!” Harry finally hissed, jabbing a finger in their collective direction.
“… Lackey.” Mr. Chameleon’s voice, Harry realized, was deep. And threatening. And his eyes were squinty and his face impassive (none of that went well with his ridiculous side burns). “What are you babbling about. You have ten seconds to explain.” And the gun was up again and pointed at Harry. And Harry was rather sure it was no longer pointed next to his head but at his head. This man was obviously not someone to mess with—he hadn’t even spoken any of that with a question! All demands!
The sudden count down the man started made Harry… panic. “10… 9… 8…”
“I have no clue who you assholes are, but I’m so done. I’m out.” Harry hissed, before he let his body drop. The two following gunshots hit the wall, but Harry focused on scooping up his bag and rolling his body back in to his bedroom. He used the door to roll himself faster and to slam it shut at the same time. Harry’s wand was out in a second, and he cast a few charms to expand the door to make it impossible to open. A sticking charm to make it even harder.
And a shielding charm. Damn, that man was trigger happy.
Harry took a moment to look down and inspect his body. Yup, no holes there.
Harry jumped when something slammed against the door. Harry paused and turned his head to look at the door. There, another slam.
Time to go.
There was really only one way out now.
Harry yanked open the windows and shoved his head out. This hotel room was rather high up. Harry made sure the backpack was on tight. He might not have a shirt, or shoes… but he should be fine. Harry had done okay with less. A leg out and his feet dangling down…
He had been much higher on a broom.
Harry looked to his left. And froze when he caught sight of the blue-blue eyes of the blond man. Who was crouched on the railing of the hotel suite balcony and looked like he was about to climb the walls until he had gotten to the windows. The door was still slamming, and there was cursing now.
“Skull, look—“ the man started.
“I refuse.” Harry promptly replied—and jumped.
He landed hard on an occupied balcony. The two woman taking a lunch fell out of their little metal chairs shrieking.
“Sorry!” Harry called, his shoulder stinging unpleasantly as he rolled to his feet, hopped the rail, and let himself drop. Harry did it two more times before he hit grass. From the yelling and thudding he could hear behind himself, he imagined that the blond man was following his insane drops. Harry could roll with it, he had been trained to roll when he fell off a broom.
All the same, Harry ran. He ran on to the pavement. From the pavement of the courtyard he sprinted on to the street. A bit more, and he was out amongst the throngs of the people of Paris.
On the left.
Harry dodged right and ducked on to another street, narrowly dodging the reaching hand. Harry ducked when his gut said to duck, and twisted out of the way of the fist coming to his head.
“Wait! Skull—shit!” The blond man hissed, another failed attempt that Harry dodged again. Although this time Harry spun to face the blond. Harry brought his hands up in to a standard ready position. Level with his shoulders with one foot facing forward and the other back and perpendicular to the other foot. The blonde’s eyes flickered over Harry’s form, and he came to a stop.
“Look… listen!” The blond had changed his posture to something that wasn’t so hostile, but Harry merely found it to be unnatural looking on him.
“I don’t want to listen to you.” Harry added. “You knocked me out!”
“It was unintended! You’re not usually so susceptible to it!” The blond’s easy posture was curling up in to something tight and defensive. Harry squinted to the man, and let the silence speak for itself. The man shifted, “… I took advantage of it, yes. Your flame is sealed so far down I can’t even sense it.” The man inched closer, and Harry inched back in response.
“Skull, I… you shouldn’t move so much. We need to find the seal, and figure out how to remove it. And from where we can go back against those assholes that dared to…” The man choked, making an abortive motion to his eyes as he let out a shuddering breath.
Harry lowered his arms slightly.
“I already took them out.” Harry pressed his lips together, it was best that these muggles didn’t even try to find wizards again. Especially after Harry had beaten that hornet’s nest.
The blond frowned. And Harry glanced down to his feet and back up to the blond man’s face—it seems that the blond had gotten closer.
“I highly doubt you got all of them—“ the blond snorted, and then caught himself. He pressed his lips together and glanced to Harry through lidded eyes.
Oh.
The danger sounds went off in Harry’s head.
Harry took a step back, to put more distance between them. The blond man burst in to rapid action, lunging at Harry. Harry used the distance between them to dart left, dodge a car in the street, and Harry grinned as he heard the curses of the blond man as he ran. This was merely just another extreme case of Harry hunting, it felt like.
(Why didn’t it feel like Death Eaters were after him instead?)
Still, no matter the fact that it was like Harry hunting, Harry couldn’t risk himself being caught.
Harry passed by a boutique in the street, and with a swift yank had a shirt from the rack. A second later was a satisfying crash as the blond man ran straight in to the tumbling rack. Harry grinned, pumping his legs and keeping the shirt in a fist.
It was impossible to outrun this man—Harry realized this when his lungs started to burn and each breath burned on the way in. It sounded like he was getting closer. And closer. Ever closer. Harry could see when he looked up that the Eifel tower was much father now.
The warning went off too late. The warning of his instincts.
Harry choked at the neat sticking out of an arm from an alley that clotheslined him. He went down hard.
It was Mr. Chameleon. Harry was still gasping when he felt the light pressure of a foot on his chest. Harry’s hands came up and he grasped at the shoe. His eyes were so watery, but he could still see the blank face of the man above him.
It didn’t hurt—Harry didn’t know why that thought was strange.
“Haaahhh… haahhh… Damn, you’re really fast when it counts.” The blond huffed, slowing to a stop next to them in the deserted alley.
“Stuntmen are typically very strong and fast,” a woman spoke up, coming in from the other side. She came with another set of feet. Harry could bet that the doctor man was with her. But all the same, Harry couldn’t look away from Mr. Chameleon, just as Mr. Chameleon kept his eyes pinned on Harry. There was no gun in his hand, and Harry could only guess it was somewhere in that suit.
“Let me go.” Harry spoke to Mr. Chameleon, now. The others could listen, but it was Mr. Chameleon that had him pinned (there was no pressure, but Harry was at a disadvantage). And from all of them, Harry thought that it would be Mr. Chameleon that had the highest chance of catching him as opposed to just tailing him.
(Why did he think that?)
The man was impassive, still. But Harry could see a bit of sweat on the side of his face. Could see the measured breaths he was taking to not seem like he had been running frantically. This man was human, as human as Harry was. “No. I will not.” The man replied.
Harry dug his fingernails in to the fine finish of the shoe on his chest. “Why?” Harry heard his voice reaching deeper octaves than he was used to.
“You are Arcobaleno. You are one of us. The strongest seven.” Mr. Chameleon put some pressure on to Harry’s chest, but not enough to even hinder his breathing.
I prescelti sette.
Harry held his breath.
“Lackey, I don’t know what they did to you. But we will fix you.” Mr. Chameleon continued on.
I don’t need fixing.
These people did not know him. And Harry didn’t know what they wanted to do to him.
“Let me go.” Harry demanded, because he wasn’t going to bed.
Harry swore he saw Mr. Chameleon’s eyes flash yellow.
“Why would I do that? I’ve already caught you.” The man’s face pulled in to a perfect appearance of pure mocking. And Harry hated to the fact that he already, objectively, knew he was going to rise to the bait.
Harry readied his feet. “You can’t keep me.”
“I’m the greatest. I can do anything.” The man was certainly arrogant.
Harry squinted, “I won’t allow it.”
“You can’t stop me,” The man replied, a gun suddenly in hand. It seemed like he was done talking. And the man with the doctor coat was approaching him now. A syringe in hand. The woman was talking, Harry realized this dimly. Talking to the blond. But her voice was coming in patches. There was a roaring in Harry’s ears now, his eyes locked on to the obvious drug that the doctor man had.
This could not be. Harry wouldn’t allow it.
He was not an animal in a zoo.
He was not going to be caged.
(They just want to help—a little voice in the back of his mind whimpered. Harry hissed it in to compliance. He refused. He refused it all!)
Accidental magic at his age was embarrassing—but when the air seemed to ignite, Harry was glad for it as the shockwave of it all knocked everyone off of their feet. Harry mentally grimaced as he saw and heard Mr. Chameleon slam in to an alley wall. But he didn’t have the time. He was on his feet and running.
He was out numbered.
Harry knew of plenty of ways that a group could take out one person. He needed to end this.
And he had an idea.
Dodge. Dodge. Duck. Bullets! Turn!
Harry fell down the stairs leading to the Paris metro. His chin slammed hard in to a step and there was blood in his mouth. It was disgusting, and he was spitting blood even as he jumped barriers. Gathered the attention of police—how did Mr. Chameleon get in here before him? Harry dodged around the black haired man on the platform, and somehow made it through the closing door of the metro.
Harry was gasping around blood, body shaking as he stared, eye to eye, with Mr. Chameleon. The only thing between them the doors of the metro and the glass.
“You won’t get far.” The man had unbelievably tight control of his face, and while Harry couldn’t hear him, he could still read his lips.
It was still a challenge, though.
“Catch me if you can.” Harry grinned—victory! The widening of Mr. Chameleon’s eyes spoke enough to Harry that Mr. Chameleon could read lips as well. The train started to inch along now. Mr. Chameleon stepped back, eyes glancing up to the top of the metro.
Harry’s stomach went cold. He was sure, then, without a doubt, that Mr. Chameleon could make it on the train. Even with the doors shut. Harry backed away from the door, eyeing the sudden smirk that Mr. Chameleon was sporting. Harry turned, and squirmed through the train.
A plan. He had to think of a plan.
He couldn’t see Mr. Chameleon outside anymore.
This was not good. Harry frantically took a moment to wiggle in to the white button up shirt that he had. His hands fumbled the buttons, and he got it halfway up before he hauled his bag back up and on to his shoulders. He realized then that there was a large bubble around himself. A bubble of open space as the people drew back from him. Harry glanced around and caught his reflection in a dark window.
Oh. He used his sleeve and mopped at the blood covering his chin. “Sorry, took a tumble.” He murmured in English (and retroactively realized that everyone that had been chasing him had been using English as well. Or at least, they were, near the end. When he had been using English at them). The people stood even further back and Harry shuffled awkwardly as he moved further along the cars of the train.
In any case, he needed to get off.
Preferably before the last train station.
Harry got to the end of the train without too much fuss. His feet were throbbing. And there was nowhere for him to go. People were gathering close to the doors now, and Harry supposed that it was about to land.
… and there was Mr. Chameleon. At the other side of the long train car.
He smirked.
Harry scowled and ducked down behind a small cluster of people at the end of the train.
Right. Right. Escape plan.
Harry glanced down at the train car floor.
… whelp.
Desperate times.
Harry reached back and discretely pulled his wand out of the back of the band of his pants. Notice-me-not to the floor.
Harry pressed himself against the wall of the last car of the train and was about to implement his plan before he looked up—a pair of fancy shoes had planted themselves in front of him. Harry looked up at Mr. Chameleon then, whose smug face looked down at him.
“Well, that was short lived Frank Abagnale,” Mr. Chameleon tipped his hat with one hand, the other on his hip.
“… what?” Harry blinked, was that his name?
“… what?” Mr. Chameleon’s degree of smugness lowered as he blinked down at Harry.
Confringo.
Harry made it small, and felt the train car floor give under him, more than ready to tumble back and in to the wreckage. Already, he had a shielding charm ready—
Mr. Chameleon had an impossible grip on the front of Harry’s shirt, and another hand around a stabilization bar. His face tense as he kept Harry from tumbling in to the sparks and failing metal as the end of the train fell apart and everyone scrambled away.
Mr. Chameleon was saying something, but Harry couldn’t hear it over the screams of the metal of the train breaking apart under the small blasting curse he had made. Harry couldn’t believe the man had moved so fast, he was sure that Mr. Chameleon had moved him back from the end of the train by at least a foot.
With a minor heave, Harry tumbled right in to Mr. Chameleon’s chest, and Harry automatically grabbed a hold of the stabilization bar as Mr. Chameleon let go of his shirt. The hand that had been on his shirtwent up and grabbed Harry’s jaw in a vice grip. Harry couldn’t stop the yank that had his chin craning up to almost pain. Baring his face and neck for inspection Those dark eyes were roving around his face now.
That insane little chameleon was chilling calmly on this man’s tie—still. Did it not notice the train car falling apart?
Harry glanced up, catching the movement of Mr. Chameleon’s mouth.
“—are you okay?”
“… I’m fine.” Harry answered back, awkward. Even his instincts felt awkward.
The pinch of a needle—Harry shoved at Mr. Chameleon’s chest with one hand, the other hand slapping to his neck where the pinch had been as he stared in open mouth surprised at Mr. Chameleon. The man who calmly dropped the syringe that no one else seemed to notice to the floor.
“You—“ cheat!
Harry moved to stumble back to the hole—to his escape—
Mr. Chameleon had him by the shirt again. Shit, he should have just not worn that! Shit! Harry reached out to pry that hand off—and he rather hated that Mr. Chameleon was so damn unmoved by it all as he struggled against the hand that seemed impossible to pry off. Harry leaned back as far as he could, his feet on the edge of the hole. The train was slowing down, and Harry could swear he saw the light of the train station incoming and—
Harry let go of Mr. Chameleon’s hand.
Harry looked him in the eye. “Catch me if you can.”
Mr. Chameleon’s face froze—
Harry used his two hands to rip away the chunk of his shirt that Mr. Chameleon was clutching, and Harry sleepily grinned to himself as he freely tumbled back and through the hole, slapping away Mr. Chameleon’s swift hand on the way down.
He apparated before he hit the rails.
Harry groaned as he landed face first in an alley. A peek around and he saw it was the same alley that he had been clotheslined in to by Mr. Chameleon. Harry reached up to gingerly touch his nose—he could swear it was broken.
But he had made it.
He lost them.
Harry giggled woozily as he hauled himself to his feet. He stumbled over to himself, found a door, and fell in to a backroom or somewhere. Harry kicked the door shut and fell down on to the cement floor. It smelled… like dust here.
And… and…
And he needed to rest.
He heard nothing.
And let himself fall asleep.