Carry On

Chapter 9

Harry woke up feeling sick. And then was sick. He gagged and threw up bile that burned on the way out. A quick water charm had him spitting out water on to the concrete floor and cleaning his mouth. Merlin, his head was filled with cotton. And everything hurt. Especially…

Harry glanced down at his bare feet and winced. Oh, everything was really cut up.

Still, where was he? Harry sat for a long moment and can only assume that this was an empty and safe spot. The cotton feeling that still remained in his mouth was thick despite the water. And his limbs felt rather heavy, as if he had been sleeping for a while.

And his shoulder bandage was disgusting. All brown with dark spots.

He eased himself up, grimacing at the pain radiating mostly from the soles of his feet. His bag was still on his back, and Harry pet the straps to soothe himself as he inched toward the door that led further in to the building. He stood by the closed door and listened for several counts before he deemed it safe enough for further investigation. Harry eased open the door, and found himself in a cramped, dusty little hallway. Harry glanced down to the dust at his feet and pulled a face.

Well, he was going to do a thorough cleaning of his feet later. Nosing around, Harry discovered what he assumed was the kitchen of a small café of some sort. He had had to do some work in the past that involved him seeing the inner guts of a small café and this looked just like this (said work involved an attempted poisoning from a jilted lover—little to say, Harry learned a thing or two about how the inner workings of the food industry worked during that investigation). The front doors that led on to the street were boarded up with a ‘espace à vendre’ sign in the window.

Harry skipped close and peered out through the baby blue curtains—the sky was early dawn and darling pink. A brand new day. Harry rubbed at his chin, and then scratched at it with his finger nails. His fingers came away covered in rusty red flakes and white smudges.

Right. Priorities. He needed to be clean.

Second—get out of Paris. Get to Germany.

Thirdly, find a safe place that he could hunker down and pace through his memories.

Harry glanced around the abandoned café and decided that this place was safe enough to get clean in. In the kitchen area, he tested the taps and found the water dry. There was also no electricity. A bit of charm work had him a few candles that he lit up. And after making sure the drainage worked, he plugged up a large sink and filled it first with water, and then heated it.

There, a nice little bath. Harry set down his pack and deftly took out the aquarium. The little octopus was curled in a ball, floating around. It didn’t seem to notice Harry, so Harry set it down on a dusty counter and tapped the side. The octopus peeked out, and once it saw Harry it unfurled and attached itself to the side of the tank Harry was closest to.

Harry smiled, pressing a hand against his sternum as he watched the octopus relax. “We’ll be here for a little. It’ll be okay. I just need to clean up, and when it’s a bit lighter I’ll get some money, get some clothes… and perhaps a train ticket or something.” Harry rubbed the back of his head in faint agitation. Sure, it might be easier to keep to the magical side of things, but Harry didn’t really have an actual plan of where to go other than the remembrance that his other self had thought he was a muggle and stuck to muggle transport. Which worked out fine, even though Harry was a little rusty it wasn’t as if he forgot how public transport worked. The Dursleys hadn’t taken him much of anywhere really, but that didn’t include school sponsored trips.

Harry set his trunk down and enlarged it. A quick pop had him wrist deep in potions and salves. Once he had everything lined up, Harry dropped his rather filthy (and ripped, as the case of his shirt was) to the floor. He carefully undid his shoulder bandage and groaned at the mess that still was. It was okay, because he had the things to take care of it, but the fresh air did sting something fierce.

He made sure to scrub every inch as best as he could before using every potion and paste that could be useful. The shoebox contained a lot of items from Grimmauld Place that Harry swiftly made use of. A thorough cleaning of a curtain before he ripped it up for bandages for his shoulder and his feet. The rest he transfigured in to a clumsy pair of short pants. Harry really needed to research household spells, because one leg was slightly longer than the other.

Harry ended up cleaning the shirt he stole, ripping the sleeves off, and patching the hole with the extra material.

In the end, he looked pathetic.

It just had to last through the bank and a store visit.

Harry peeked out of the kitchen and noted that not much time had passed. So he went back to the trunk. He did find half a jar of scar reducer. He read the instructions, transfigured a mirror and stuck that on the side of the aquarium tank. So he kneeled on the ground in front of where he set the tank and went about rubbing the scar reducer in to the flesh of his face.

As he worked, he looked to the octopus that was crowding close. “I’ll get you some nice things for your home. Would you like that? Maybe something like a treasure chest… I can toss you a few galleons if you like.” Harry peered at his reflection, frowned at his unchanged face, and promptly checked the expiration date of the jar.

... and then realized he didn’t even know what the date was. Harry groaned to himself and continued on with it anyway. Maybe something minor would happen? It was going to be gradual, but still! He had thought he’d see some kind of lessening by now.

“But yeah. Decorations. I’ll get you some. In Germany.” Harry added, because he would rather not be in France just in case Mr. Chameleon was still on the chase. (He is, the voice in the back of Harry’s head grumbled. Nowhere in the world will be safe.)

Harry eventually tossed the now empty scar reducer back in to the trunk. He made himself some cloth shoes that were serviceable, and then set his bag in to the trunk. Wedging it in to the medical side. He hastily made some pockets and shoved his money in to them.

“Okay buddy. I’ll get us a hotel once we’re in Germany. Hopefully by the end of today. And we can stop this bag business. Just one more day.” Harry smiled and carefully placed the aquarium in his trunk. The octopus gave another sad wiggle and Harry closed it up and shrank it down.

Harry cleaned up after himself, put on his trunk necklace, and eased himself out of the abandoned café and into the alley. There were some cars in the street, and people on the path.

He almost stepped out in to the street before he paused and reached up to touch his face. Right, that was still a thing. Harry gave himself an aggravated sigh and attached a localized ‘notice me not’ on his face. He ruffled his purple hair, hopped out on the street, and moved on. He had considered self transfiguration, but it wasn’t something he had much practice in. The Auror corps used polyjuice due to ease of upkeep, and relative non-detectability while under the potion. Undercover work was rather rare for them, since Wizards were generally so straightforward. (But Harry had grown up with the idea, it being a common plot point amongst muggle story telling. And Harry could admit to himself that auror work had become tedious and a bit repetitive when that job from the unspeakables had come in to his hands—should have listened to the ‘no’ of his gut, rather than the ‘yes’ from his boredom…)

A stop by the bank had his British Pounds converted to Euros.

A quick stop at the closest clothing store that didn’t look terrifyingly overpriced had him the new owner of a few changes of jeans and long sleeved t-shirts. Harry wore a black long sleeved and blue jeans on the way out. A pair of white sneakers were added to his ensemble soon enough. It took longer than Harry would ever admit to, to find a leather jacket with matching gloves. (Why that was important, he couldn’t put a finger on it. But he had wanted it so he had hunted down a matching set and felt satisfied with himself covered up.)

About halfway through the day Harry dropped his face in to his hands and cursed at himself before he went and got himself a hat to stuff his bright purple hair inside. It helped, even if it didn’t cover all of it.

… he was certainly much more paranoid after that.

He didn’t feel entirely safe, either. But he wasn’t sure if that was the paranoia or his gut talking. So, he immediately went to the train station and booked himself a ticket. Paris to Munich—a nearly six hour train ride that he would be settling in, in about thirty minutes.

A nervous Harry picked up a few sandwiches from one of the little shops in the station and stashed them in the paper bag he had his jeans rolled up in. From there, he found a nice little corner to huddle in as he waited for his time. It was very relaxing to just watch the people walk by, and at the same time it eased his paranoia to see everyone that was within view. If he saw them before they noticed him, all the better.

… it still felt like there was an itch between his shoulder blades.

Harry ate one of his sandwiches to fight off the sleepiness. And to settle his stomach. He had been walking around for hours with just potions in there and it had given him a bit of indigestion. But he felt calmer after the bit of food, and once he noticed the time on the big clock, he was up and jogging for his train.

It was a relief to be on the train, settled in to his seat—and the train moving. Harry grinned to himself as he curled up and leaned against the window to watch the world go by. He felt very safe in this moving metal beast of a train. It had mediocre seats that had him shifting every so often. And it was a bit noisy. And a lot of people were in the train car.

But none of the bad offset the fact that he was moving—he was leaving those crazy people behind and moving to where he wanted to go. The seats were uncomfortable, yes. But Harry had also spent a considerable amount of his life being uncomfortable. His youth as a Dursley ‘undesirable’. His teens as a Ministry ‘undesirable’. And some years of his adult life as an Auror. All of it led to the fact that this was a mild discomfort that he had no problems with.

So much so that he…

He nodded off.

He jerked back to consciousness from the kiss of cool metal to his cheek. His eyes shot open and he locked eyes with dark orbs shadowed under a hat. It was Mr. Chameleon, looming over his curled body with a gun jabbed against his scarred cheek. Harry felt his breath rattle in his chest, his eyes tracking Mr. Chameleon’s finger as he drew back the hammer of his gun.

A mild click.

… it didn’t have the same pizazz of a normal hand pistol. Harry felt his budding panic still. What was this?

“Entschuldigen sie,” a light voice that didn’t match up with Mr. Chameleon’s face filled the air between them. It was like watching a moving photograph and hearing someone lip read the movements out loud. Mr. Chameleon was saying it—but the voice did not match up. Harry frowned, confused. “Entschuldigen sie bitte!” The voice was more insistent now. A tap—

Harry jerked in to a sitting position, eyes wide as he settled on to a woman in uniform. For a few dizzying moments he was thrumming in panic as he tried to spot Mr. Chameleon. A few deep breaths and the woman’s concerned look had Harry focusing on her. It took a moment to realize what she was asking for, and he fumbled with his little paper book that held his ticket. Harry helpfully opened it up before he passed it over. She checked the time, the dates, and handed it back before scurrying away with speed.

Well, Harry couldn’t blame her. He prodded at his face and mentally sighed as he wiped at the drool. He uncurled from his seat, gently stretching his still exhausted body as he unfurled. The clock in his car stated that the final destination would be in about two hours. Harry slowly stretched his arms over his head and smiled as he heard the leather creak (that was a nice noise, good leather!). He pulled out a sandwich from his bag and pulled his hat lower as he hopped to his feet. Harry felt rather ravenous, and in his relaxed state he wouldn’t deny himself. The sandwich was finished in a few bites and he ambled out of the car to find one of the restrooms.

Urinate. Wash hands. Dry hands. Pull on gloves…

Harry glanced to the door he had locked and took a moment to peer closer in to the mirror of the little bathroom stall. The yellow lights made his skin have a hazy tinge he didn’t care for. But Harry was more focused on his scars as he prodded them and tilted this way and that. Harry wanted to say a few looked a little less awful, but maybe it was just him? Harry peered closer and took a moment to really inspect a dark spot.

A bit of poking and prodding and… “… do… Do I have a lip piercing?” Harry prodded at his lip, checked the inside and found that whatever it was, the hole didn’t go all the way through.

But if he had a lip piercing… Harry inspected his nostrils. His eyebrows (found another spot, although it looked like the hole was still viable?). His ears (left ear, the holes still looked good). Harry stared at his face, and mentally rolled his eyes at himself.

Really? Him? Piercings? It was preposterous.

He still checked his belly button. And his nipples. He sighed in relief to find everything unbothered. Harry didn’t know if he would die from humiliation or not, but was relieved that he wouldn’t have to think of it.

Harry tucked his shirt in and gave himself a once over before he paused.

… he had seen more than enough people today. And, well—a man having their shirt tucked in to jeans, the way he had his own shirt? He hadn’t seen it, and he had been through so many crowds and stores today. Harry paused before he ran gloved fingers over his stomach. It was comfortable, and it was a fashion he was used to (old fashion—retro fashion, his mind supplied) and he squirmed at the thought of sticking out too much.

He zipped up the black leather of his jacket.

If no one could see it, no one could judge him for it.

A wand in his sleeve, the hat pulled low. He was ready to get that other sandwich from his bag.

Harry looked to himself in the bathroom mirror one last time. His family too green eyes paired with his ridiculous hair stuffed under his hat. Harry reached up and tugged on a few strands. Even though he was in this shoddy light, his hair was still ridiculously purple. Harry trailed leather fingers down, passing over the scar through his eyebrow. Down, down over the fine scar lines over his cheek—to the corner of his lip, where a thick scar had hooked on and bubbled thickly. That was one of the worst.

He missed his own face. He missed his hair, his tan—hell, he even missed the bags under his eyes from sleep deprivation from work. Harry sighed and pressed his leather covered hand against his reflection, blocking out his face as he took a moment to breath.

Everything was going to be fine. Harry was going to sort himself out. Sort himself, and go on from there. Find all the missing pieces, and then he could pull himself together and be as he should be.

(Not broken. Don’t need to be fixed—just all together again. That’s it…)

He stepped out of the bathroom slowly, meandering down the little hall a ways. He could see the glass door that separated the seated area from the rest of the train. But the closer he got to the doors he had exited through such a short time ago, a curious sensation dug at him. Caused him to slow his steps until he stopped walking. The uneasiness was strong in his stomach, and he moved to the side of the hall before he inched along. Harry pressed his shoulder to the wall next to the door and peered in to the car.

… nothing looked off.

In fact, it looked the same really. Harry shifted from foot to foot as he eyed his surroundings. What was setting him off?

Harry mentally counted to ten before he pressed the button that opened the door and slipped in to the train car.

Ah. There. There was someone sitting in his row now. Harry had had the three seats to himself so far, so it struck him as off when he spotted the second figure. Harry lingered by the door for a second before he padded on over. The new person, a man, had taken up the end seat of the row. Harry didn’t think the man had snooped through his open bag, but he felt a little twitchy. Harry eyed the sprawled legs before he cleared his throat.

No reaction. The man was slumped with his chin on his chest and a hat pulled low.

“Hey… hey! Excuse me.” Harry snapped his fingers and tried to get the man’s attention. But nothing came of that. Harry warred with himself for a long moment before he rolled his eyes at himself. Harry reached out and held on to the headrest of the seat in front of his row and used it to haul himself over the sprawled out body of the person who took up the end of his row. Harry dropped his body in to his seat with a huff. He snatched a sandwich from his bag and choked it down.

He glanced to the man at the end of his row before he reached to his wrist. With careful digging under his sleeve he could just make out the bracelet. Harry eyed it for a long moment, and then his bouncing leg. This train couldn’t move fast enough.

When it finally pulled in to the station Harry wanted, he was eager to be gone. With the train stopped, Harry jumped to his feet, hauled his bag up, and was in the process of squeezing by the man again—when the man jerked. Harry yelled as he got tangled and spilled in to the aisle between seat rows. Harry groaned as he slowly rolled on to his side. His legs were free to move, and Harry pushed himself up so he was sitting. And so he could scowl at the stranger.

An Asian man—he reminded Harry of Cho, sheepishly waved at him. “Sorry,” the man murmured, his English was American accented. “My bad,” he added.

Harry kept the disgruntled face a moment longer before he sighed and let it go. The Chinese man was standing and offering a hand up. Harry didn’t feel wary for it, so he accepted the help up. “Is your head okay?” The man asked, and Harry automatically reached back to rub the back of his head. He didn’t remember if his head had hit anything on the way down. “Should I take a look?” The man offered.

Harry shook his head and ducked down to pick up his hat and his bag.

“My name is Longwei—what’s yours?” The man, Longwei, asked.

“Um—it’s Harry.” Harry blinked up at Longwei, before his eyes naturally followed the rather long braid of black hair back down to the Chinese man’s waist. “And my head is fine. Don’t feel a thing.” Harry shoved his hat back on and shuffled out of the way.

Longwei smoothly stepped out in to the aisle. “Are you visiting Germany as well?” The man asked, shifting to walk out of the car to head for the main doors. Harry cocked his head to the side, before he shrugged to himself and followed Longwei out of the train and on to the station platform.

“Yes, just for a bit. Till I figure out where I’m going next.” Harry hadn’t really thought too hard about it, but he supposed that it was what he would end up doing.

Longwei nodded, “being a traveler—at such a young age! That must be exciting.” He prompted Harry, reaching out to gently elbow Harry’s shoulder. He was certainly magnetic, Harry decided. Harry felt content to have the Chinese man in his space, which really didn’t happen too often (especially after the whole final battle with Voldemort and all the events that led up to it… and then Auror training—he was scarred. That was it really).

“I’m not that young…” Harry muttered.

“Oh? How old are you then?” Longwei cheerily asked as he made for one of the stairs. Harry, already meaning to go to the stairs he could leave, followed along.

It was a simple question, really. And Harry scrambled for an answer? His real age from birth to now? The years he had lived? Well, it didn’t take much thought to realize that one of those answers was going to be completely ridiculous.

“Twenty-eight, can’t you tell?” Harry wrinkled his nose and looked away from Longwei. The crowds weren’t so bad, especially as it was so late. All he could spot were exhausted looking business dressed people as they shuffled on.

A touch to the scar that crawled out of the corner of his mouth had Harry slapping the offending hand away the moment he felt it. (Bloodragedeathburnitburnit!) Harry turned to lock eyes with Longwei, who looked startled and apologetic and that was just enough to have Harry jerking himself back to control. Of stopping his intent to stomp the other in to the ground.

“Sorry—I’m told I’m, um… the English word might be ‘intrusive’?” He offered, rubbing at the hand that Harry had slapped away.

Harry didn’t apologize for the sting.

Longwei should appreciate the fact that Harry hadn’t followed through with a punch.

Longwei blinked down at Harry, gave Harry a little trembling smile, “I’m a bit nervous, you see. My German isn’t that good. And, well—never been to Europe before. So… I do apologize. I’m a bit out of sorts.” Harry inwardly squirmed, because he could just feel that shy awkwardness that was begging to shine through. This man reminded Harry of Neville.

“Forget about it. Anyway, do you know where you’re going?” Harry didn’t really accept the apology, but he was sure he could form something of a truce before shoving the man off.

Longwei was back to his infectious smile. “Would you mind sticking around till I stumble to my hotel? I’d appreciate. I’m a bit dead on my feet.”

Harry shrugged before he nodded. Might as well—he had nowhere else he rather needed to be. It would be his good deed of the day. Longwei looked rather pleased with the agreement and took point to lead Harry out of the train station, chatting about things to see in Germany. Apparently Longwei had a mild obsession with castles (Neuschwanstein castle, Linderhof palace, Schwetzingen castle…) and other such things.

“Come with me!” Longwei invited Harry.

Harry hedged a proper answer with a ‘maybe’, but that seemingly just invited Longwei to throw more invitations in Harry’s face to the point where, after a taxi ride (Longwei paid), Harry was about ready to crawl in to a bed and sleep.

Well, he had escorted Longwei to his hotel… might as well get a room since he was already here.

“This hotel serves breakfast, right?” Harry asked, rubbing at his eyes. When he lowered them and looked back to Longwei, he saw the expected beam that he knew was coming from his question and the other implied fact that he wanted to get a room here.

“Yes! I checked ahead. Breakfast served between six in the morning until nine in the morning.” Longwei played with the strap of his messenger bag, glancing over to Harry through his eyelashes before he looked away from Harry and down to his shoes as he shuffled in place.

The hotel was nice. It looked modest and clean. Which were bonus points for Harry.

“I’m not sure when I’ll be up. But if you’re around we could have breakfast together.” Harry mentally sighed. He felt a little obligated to keep the smile on this man’s face (so much like Neville—making Neville sad was like kicking a wounded Hippogriff).

(Or a dragon—)

Harry watched Longwei’s hand this time as the man reached over and gave Harry’s shoulder a brief squeeze. “I’d really like that. Thanks Harry! I have something to look forward to tomorrow.” Harry shuffled for a moment before he stepped away from Longwei’s warm hand.

“Yeah. Right. If we happen to be down at the same time. I’m really tired.” Harry couldn’t help but quirk a smile at Longwei’s enthusiastic goodnight before walking off to the elevators. Harry himself turned to the front desk. Harry blinked at the key that was already waiting out for him. The person—man, woman?—behind the desk had their dark hood up and their head pillowed on their arms. They held a hand out.

“One hundred and thirty euros a night—take the key.” The… man? Harry really couldn’t tell, muttered in to the arm his head was pillowed on.

“Um… how…?” Harry trailed off. How did the man know he needed a room?

“You’re loud.” The maybe man hissed, and open and closed a fist in Harry’s general direction.

Harry shrugged after a moment, counted out his notes, and pressed exact change in to the waiting hand. “Thanks, um…?” Harry trailed off, hoping to prompt a name so that he could at least identity a gender.

“Don’t mention it.” The desk worker dropped his hand, and didn’t move.

Right… Harry stared before he reached out and picked up the key. He checked the tag—third floor, room fifteen. Harry glanced once more to the desk worker before he turned on his heel and moved to the elevator. Harry muffled a yawn in to his hand as he pressed the call button for the elevator with his knee. With that, he waited in a tired quiet that followed him into the elevator. He held the doors for a blond woman and together they started up for the third floor. Harry glanced to her out of the corner of his eye.

The woman stood ramrod straight, in what Harry could identify as a parade rest or some sort from the military. Her hair was blond, but upon closer look, it appeared to be a wig? She had brown eyes that were focused on the number displayed inside the elevator. She had on some kind of cloth doctor mask over her mouth and nose. The kind that people wore when they were feeling a little ill.

Harry realized he had been staring too long when her head started to turn to look at him.

Harry quickly looked away, and let out a little relieved sigh when it was his floor. Harry jogged out of the elevator, glad that the woman didn’t leave with him. He found his room easily enough and hurried inside. He felt itchy, standing outside in the hallway and was glad to shut and lock the door behind himself.

He took a deep breath and let it out slow, and then flicked on the lights. Harry eyed the little hallway, cautiously checking the small luggage closet. Harry peeked in to the bathroom across from the closet. It was a very cramped space with white tile and no natural light. Harry was already balking before he caught himself (when had he gotten so… like Draco Malfoy?) and shook his head at himself. Harry closed the bathroom door and walked in to the main space.

A quick glance over before Harry started to lay his protective enchantments down. Silencio. Notice me not. Colloportus on the door. Harry added a few more general wards that wouldn’t take much power before he considered it a job well done. It was nice being aware enough to actually ward and protect where he was going to sleep for the night.

It was certainly not like the last hotel he was in. The carpet was short and a dark blue, which did admittedly look nice compared to the white-peach of the walls. There was one piece of hotel art sitting above the twin sized bed that, if Harry squinted at the modern art, looked a bit like a river. There was also a television.

… Harry couldn’t help but be a bit disturbed by the television. He padded over to it and ran his hands over the edges. There was just so much… missing! The thick backing was gone. It was flat! “Dudley probably would have had tantrums for weeks just to get this…” And it was in a hotel room! That was a bit crazy. Harry paused and waved a hand behind the television, just to make sure it wasn’t an optical illusion.

Holding the controller in his hand felt forbidden.

He had to check with the little instruction card next to the television before he was able to get it on. The volume was nonexistent, but he fumbled around until he found the little ‘plus’ and ‘minus’ signs. He focused on button pressing until he could understand the words—English. Harry hummed, a little wondering at that and it didn’t take long to get the menu up. Apparently the last guest had left it on this setting then? Harry watched the movie for a moment longer (they sounded American) before he started to just press the channel changing button.

Harry didn’t know how long he just kept going. Nothing really catching his eye about it, but was a bit unwilling to just turn it off now that he had complete access to a television with no one to yell at him for it. It was a bit boring, Harry came to realize. Boring, but he still was determined to enjoy it.

Until he found a news station.

“…and the death toll continues to rise as the London fires spread. As it was covered earlier, it was 1666 the last time London faced such a crisis by fire. The narrow streets of London are ill suited for stopping fire. Evacuations have been thorough, but the initial surprise took hundreds of lives. Entire apartment buildings going up in rapid smoke. London burning has sparked an outcry against wooden homes—and against fire protection services the longer the blaze continues to ran rampant…” The woman at the desk spoke clearly with crisp English enunciation. Harry’s eyes trailed down watched the thin banner at the bottom of the screen as it started to list districts, the death toll and—

Harry felt his stomach heave. In seconds he was in front of the toilet, losing what little there was there to his gagging. His body trembled in the aftermath, and Harry didn’t bother to lift his head up as he reached up and pressed the full flush button.

He could still hear the news, even in here.

“… it is feared that this burning will last longer than the five day 1666 burning of London. City officials had requested emergency aid, and the UN has granted it…”

Harry took a shuddering breath, glad he hadn’t bothered with the bathroom light.

“… the origin of the blaze has been identified to have started in two places. One, being in Whitehall. The other….”

Families. He had ruined families in his rage. Harry shifted his head where it leaned against the edge of the toilet and stared down at his leather covered hands. His hands were covered in ashes and blood, now. The blood had been there previously, of course. The ashes were a new thing.

The rage that welled up was sudden, so sudden that Harry found himself choking on it.

The voice on the television warped—until a nice little pop rung through the air. Harry blinked around tears and lifted his head up. Did he smell… smoke? Harry took a moment to rinse out his mouth in the bathroom sink before he walked out of the bathroom to catch the television on fire.

“… shit.” Harry stared at it for a moment before he flicked his wand in to hand from his sleeve and smothered the flame in magic.

The television set was a little… melted.

“… maybe the Dursleys did me a service, here.” Harry mumbled to himself, still riding on the coattails of the horror of London burning to really ponder on what he was saying. Maybe he was just not allowed the nice muggle inventions of the future.

…. He was going to have to pay for that, wasn’t he? Harry sighed and dropped face first in to bed. A blind flick of his wand had the lights going out and the windows opening up to carry the small amount of smoke away before the fire alarms caught it. It would be just his luck if that alarm started to scream. Harry didn’t know how long he laid face down on the bed, because all he could focus on was the mental scream in his head as he chanted numbers to himself. Imagine the fiendfyre he had let loose in London as it ate away the walls of apartment buildings and gobbled up entire families. Imagined them screaming and screaming and screaming—

Ginny hadn’t screamed. Her face two dimensional flat and ever loving. The last seconds of his sight had been the fire arching around him in a dome, intent to swallow him whole as it licked its greedy fingers over the edges of Ginny’s portrait.

But she had only had eyed for him. Smiling and loving and wreathed in flames.

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, unable to make himself look away from the memory in front of his eyes. He could smell it—smell it, feel it, breathe it, and he was choking on it all. Ginny, his precious Ginny.

… she is dead.

Harry didn’t even know when she died. But her portrait was dead now, too.

If he had stayed his hand, he would have been able to keep her, at least for a little while. Enough to talk. To discuss the absent years between them. If only he had kept himself calm. If he had found another way! He didn’t need to set fire to the department of mysteries! There had to have been another way!

A sob ripped through him, and Harry clenched his teeth to stop the other one from coming out.

He had done this to himself.

Irrationally, all he could think about was the list. The one stapled to the front entrance of his home. It had started out as a bit of parchment that Luna had given them, of places she had seen that she told him he should take Ginny to. It had started off as five places. Spain. China. Australia… and two more. Two more, his reaching memory grasped at it. Hawaii was definitely one. And France (Harry choked a laugh and bit down on his leather encased hand). The list hadn’t stayed small for long, though. Over the years, whenever Harry or Ginny heard of a new place they would scribble on a new location. James and Albus gamely started to add to it as well when they were old enough. Lily had added animals she wanted to see rather than places and—

And none of that would ever happen.

Because Ginny was dead. His children old and dying.

And Harry as he was.

He and Ginny were supposed to travel together after she retired from quidditch. They were going to try for another child together. They were going to watch their children graduate Hogwarts together. They were going to see their children married off. They were going to travel the world together.

They were going to grow old.

Together.

The air burned on the way in, what little managed to squeeze past the clench of his throat. Harry wheezed, fighting to keep the sobs in as he ripped at his own hands. Desperately, he tried to claw his thoughts back in to place. It was too much, it was too much he was going to rip himself apart. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t breathe!

… that nameless child that would never be.

Harry wouldn’t want to make them the child of a mass murderer.

Harry didn’t know what did it, really. What tipped him over the edge. He came back to himself and his ripped hands and aching body and a damaged hotel room. Holes in the wall. The curtains ripped to shreds. He had trashed the place. Harry took a few shuddering breaths. The dawn was breaking outside his window and he felt—

Raw.

Harry shifted and dug his fingers in to the center of pain in his shoulder.

Everything slowly shifted back in to place. His thoughts crept back in to logical order. His throat loosened up. His body slowly relaxed and he blinked away the image of Ginny, wreathed in flames and consumed alive—

Harry felt the tears drip down his face. Hot and too heavy. He felt them on the outside, but his head was terribly clear and not feeling much of anything. Harry looked to his bloody hands once again. The room at large… and laid down on the bed again.

When he woke up once more, the afternoon sun was hot on his body. His face was sticky with things he’d rather not think about—and his hands burned. Harry glanced down to his hands and… found them bloody, but whole. Harry wiggled his fingers in front of his face and felt everything twinge. Harry didn’t move for a long moment before he had his wand in hand.

Windows shut. Curtains fixed and drawn.

Harry repaired the holes in the wall. The huge rips of the carpet. The shattered mirror and sink. He methodically paced through the hotel and fixed his small rampage. When done, he stood for a moment and took it all in.

Was this going to be his life now?

Wandering from hotel to hotel until he ran out of money? What then?

All of his future plans had been (rippedburnedclawedconsumed) taken away. There was nothing left there but the wake of his wife and children.

Harry dug his fingers in to the burn of his shoulder again, and let the pain center himself.

Pain was fine. Pain was good. It was familiar.

Harry fished in to his sleeve and pulled out the bracelet again. He silently enlarged it so it was more of a giant belt than a bracelet. Harry placed it on the bed and sat down on the floor. “Decades of life are here…” Harry ran his fingers over a cluster of stoppered vials. This was what he got, instead of his family. This is what he experienced instead of the plan he had made with Ginny.

This was all that was left.

Harry bit down on his lip, irritated at the sudden welling of tears as he focused on his memories. His body ached, and his stomach clenched. But over those physical demands, Harry felt like he needed this more. He needed to find out something. So he ignored his body and peered at all the vials and clusters. There were colored dots on the side of vials. In all the colors of the rainbow. Some vials had multiple dots. Some had single ones. There was even a vial or two with no dots.

Whatever system Frank had developed for this, Harry had a suspicious feeling that he would not be able to figure it out. Harry imagined that if things had gone to plan for Frank, Frank would have been spoon feeding him memories for years.

In the end, Harry had to pick again at random.

A cluster of ten. He disengaged it from the belt and unrolled all the vials until they were in a neat little row on his bed. Harry took the vial from the far left end and uncorked it. With his wand in hand, he scooped up the memory and pressed it back to his temple.

He didn’t relive his memory, per say.

It was more like suddenly remembering a moment of déjà vu. Of remembering something that hadn’t really been forgotten, but merely slipped a little to the left and out of direct thought. Harry set the vial down, closing his eyes as he really focused on the sensation He felt… wind—in his hair. The memory of it. The slight trembling of his body—a motorcycle. Just… driving. With intent. But whatever the intent was, it was missing from the vial.

Harry cracked a small smile, the feeling of freedom easing the clench of his body.

Another.

The beaches of Madrid. Harry had gone. Even though it was without Ginny, the blinding blue of the water made his heart tremble. He hoped Ginny had gone without him. Maybe had taken their children and gone together. She would have loved it.

Another.

Canada? Forests. So many forests. And moose. Moose were exciting. Lily would have adored that.

Another.

Harry’s heart leapt in to his throat as he remembered a motorcycle crash. The ramp—his tire had popped and he lost control and he had flown… in the air… and crashed with his motorcycle. His body shuddered and he eyed the vial in his hand as he remembered the distinct feeling of metal slamming him in to rock hard dirt and the roar of a crowd and the crack-crack-cracking of his helmet and—

Harry let out a slow breath.

… it wasn’t fear that was shaking his body.

Adrenalin.

He wanted on a motorbike. Harry shivered and tried to control himself over the sudden need to be on a motorbike and screaming through the streets on it.

Harry eyed the remaining vials. And then looked over his shoulder to the door. And then the vials.

… waiting a little bit wouldn’t hurt anyone.

The next vial had him in a café. Harry could barely recall strawberry milk and cake—and he promised himself he would find a café and try the meal again.

Another—it was Mr. Chameleon. Harry stared down at the plain duvet of the bed as the memory wormed itself back in to place and… and it was Mr. Chameleon. At a table with others. Harry felt his body doing a nervous clench. The man looked the same in his hazy memory as he had the day or so before. Sure, his suit was all black now instead of pinstripes. But the sunshine gold Mr. Chameleon used as an accent color was a bit… unmistakable. And it tickled at Harry’s memory.

At something that wasn’t there.

Harry frowned. “… am I missing something?” Was he missing something by just shoving them back in place? Harry raised his eyes and looked at the large unshrunken belt again. That was a lot of memories to go through. And Harry wondered if he was missing details.

“… maybe I should get a pensive?” He wondered. But those were rare.

The last one he knew about was the one Dumbledore used.

At Hogwarts.

Harry hummed. Quietly he picked up the last vial and uncorked it.

A few seconds later he wished he hadn’t. The whirl of violence in his mind was incomprehensible. People, looming over him and kicking him when he was down and—

Harry snarled, but jumped when the vial in his hand shattered (did he just shatter an unbreakable charm?) and his wand shot out warning sparks. Harry opened his hands and let everything fall out. He focused on breathing, opening and shutting his hands over and over again to calm himself down. Harry viciously scrubbed at the memory to try and find an identity. But everything was a muddled green of a helmet visor. He had obviously been attacked—it seemed by two figured. But without the magic of a pensive, he couldn’t exactly stand back and see everything from an objective view.

(It’s okay, it’s okay! It’s just play—Harry recoiled from the thought. Violence was not play!)

Harry waved his wand over the vial, and despondently watched it twitch and not repair itself. Harry ended up just banishing the mess. He rubbed at his face, and still found it disgusting. He packed up his memories and charmed them in to place. Although this time he lengthened it and cinched it in to place around his neck. He had marks on his wrist from the necklace, so hopefully this would be less pressure.

He needed to get out.

(Why did he have to escape everything all the time? Harry was not like this before, and he hated it. He hated himself. He hated everything with a burning—)

Harry sighed and ambled in to a shower, and fell in to some new clothes.

Okay. First some shoes (leather—to match the jacket and gloves). Then a café. And then he’d find somewhere to unshrink his motorcycle and just go. Harry, freshly cleaned, shrank his paper bag of clothes and stuffed it in to a zipper pocket. He eyed the melted television and grimaced. He couldn’t exactly fix that with magic. Or at least, he couldn’t fix it.

He was going to…

…. The maybe man at the desk hadn’t taken his name or information. Only his money.

Harry stared at the television as a slow growing realization grew in the back of his mind. Wait. Wait—they were supposed to ask for a name, right? Didn’t hotel staff ask for that information in case of damages? Harry felt the storm inside of his head still down.

Back to survival mode.

Harry slowly glanced to the door. He edged closer and peered out of the peephole.

Nothing. Just an empty hallway. Completely normal.

No… no…

Wait.

“Revelio—“ Nothing. The spell revealed nothing but his instincts just wouldn’t settle back down.

A trap—was it Frank? Then why… why…

Harry was at the window before he could even think. He slammed it up and was halfway out of the window before the world blurred and he was on his back in the middle of the hotel room. Harry groaned at the sudden weight on his middle. And the iron grasp on his wrists as they were forced to the ground above his head. Harry kicked out, wiggled—but he was rather pinned.

It was the crazy blond man.

“Skull—hey—seriously what the fuck is with the windows?” The man scowled. And Harry stilled when he noticed the rather large rifle strung over the man’s chest.

Harry refused to answer, and yanked at his arms and tried to squirm out of the blonde’s grasp. The man did have the advantage of weight and position, though. Harry was about to advance to another technique to get himself away when the blond cracked and—

“Did they pull your eyes out too?” The man’s face was bloodless and his eyes looked like they were filled with blue fire. Harry went still as he really took in the man.

And finally, “no, they did not.”

“But you know what they did. To the both of us?” The blond shifted, leaning forward and more directly over Harry. Harry felt the man’s thighs squeezing at his chest (inside, he was calm-calm and screaming) and noted that the man was shifting Harry’s wrists so that they were right next to Harry’s ears.

Why was he even responding to this man? “Yes…” Harry trailed off. He knew what they had done. They had drugged the blond. Tried to rip out his brain for some obscure experimentation that had been meant for Harry. And Harry had had his mind tampered with and stolen.

“Tell me.” The blond man’s voice was strangled.

(Tell him. Tell him—tell him—tellhimtellhim—)

“No!” Harry thrashed, refused the voice and the blond. He was not going to be bullied in to anything. Harry watched the small tremble of vulnerability fade. Watched the blond harden up and Harry could swear he heard the creak of his wrist bones.

“Why?” The man begged, his looming so far and face so close Harry couldn’t look away from the blue fire in the man’s true blue eyes.

So many reasons. So many.

(I don’t want to—Harry admitted that to himself. You can’t make me do anything.)

The silence spoke well enough.

“Please.” Somehow, this begging was worse. This man did not seem the type to say ‘please’. And it rubbed Harry the wrong way just to hear it. “I caught you, so you have to tell me.”

Harry had been warming up to the idea of telling until that last statement.

‘Catch me if you can’—the phrase echoed back to Harry, and he squinted up at the blond. Right, he had said that to Mr. Chameleon, hadn’t he? Which meant that Mr. Chameleon had informed the rest of his group about it. And that meant…

Harry grinned, and was a little gleeful at the startled look that crossed the blonde’s face.

“Well—you have got me pinned… but can you keep me?” Harry felt… excited.

This was familiar. This was safe. This was good. (Let’s play a game!)

“I bet you can’t.” Harry added as he tilted his head to the side.

Harry could feel the man drawing up.

Accio! Harry wiggled his fingers.

The man yelled when the half melted television set landed in his head. Harry huffed at the sudden crush of face in to his neck and he used the surprise to roll them so Harry was on top.

Harry head-butted the man. Harry didn’t hear the crunch of bone, but the man’s nose certainly started to bleed. Harry mentally cursed while the man started to shout obscenities—he hadn’t let go of Harry’s wrists!

The sound of a gun cocking.

Harry darted forward and bit a finger of the man’s hand—blondie yowled and clenched down harder with his hands. Honestly! (Harry had just a tiny smidgen of respect for this…) Harry got his feet under and jumped, rolling over blondie’s head and huffing when the bullet missed him and tore in to the television on the floor.

It shattered.

And sparked. The sparks landed on blondie in a shower, and Harry grinned when blondie finally let go. Harry rolled and dived for the door—and at the last minute remembered that he had charmed the door shut. Right. Well. Harry dived in to the bathroom to avoid the bullets that littered the door.

Alohomora duo!

Harry let a pleased huff as the lock clicked and he made another dive for the door, out of the bathroom. He had the door yanked open and was falling in to the hall when a hand clamped down on the collar of his leather jacket.

“Ack—!” Harry’s hands slammed in to the doorway, followed by a foot to prevent himself from being yanked back in.

“Lackey!” Mr. Chameleon’s snarl was the stuff of nightmares. Harry could feel the shudder his body did all the way down his bones as another arm snaked around his middle and actually picked him up—

Harry was an adult, damnit.

But if there were two hands on him, the asshole couldn’t sneak another sedative in to him. Harry clutched at the doorframe, and mentally shrieked at the inhuman strength the man had.

The doorframe was actually cracking.

Mr. Chameleon took in a sharp breath through his nose, Harry could hear the whistle of it by his ear. The hand near strangling Harry with his collar let go. Harry could see it approaching out of the corner of his eye toward the hand Harry had gripping the doorframe. Harry struck, letting go of the frame to blindly backhand the face behind his shoulder.

… that was a sound of pure rage that Harry received for that. (Meep—not good!)

Harry wasn’t done. His hands descended to the iron band around his middle that he was sure others would call an arm. Harry viciously jabbed his fingers hard in to Mr. Chameleon’s wrist and inner elbow even as Mr. Chameleon retaliated and slammed Harry’s head in to the door.

Hah. Harry was used to head slamming. He had hit harder things.

Harry fell forward and out of the weakened arm and he was sprinting down the hall—

The hall forked. To the left was the blond woman. The face mask from the night before gone and—that way was no good. Harry tumbled in to the stairwell and jumped over the railing and let himself drop.

He landed on the ground floor and rolled with it. He could hear the door slamming above his head, but he was already out in to the lobby. Which was insanely crowded. Harry had almost made it to the door when a hand clamped down on his shoulder and he shrieked, flailing and running face first in to the glass lobby doors.

“Harry!” Oh… it was Longwei.

Harry panted, cheek pressed to the door as he stared at Longwei, who stared at him.

“What—“ the man started. His eyes terribly calm for such a surprised and worried face.

“Gotta go. Nice meeting you!” Harry slipped away from the man’s grasping hand and call of ‘wait!’ and was out on the streets. Harry sprinted through five alleys, no less than six shops, and had charmed himself with a disillusionment charm and crouched between some garbage bins.

Harry pressed his face against his knees to hide the grin.

He needed that.

This would be a nice game. Who would win first? Harry, in his race to regain his memories. Or the… Arcobaleno? In their race to capture Harry?

And… and what was that on his knee?

Harry canceled the charm, and then started at the green chameleon on his knee. Both of its eyes were fixated on Harry.

Hey… wasn’t that…?

Harry felt the chill over the back of his neck and slowly looked to the open mouth of the alley as the black suited Mr. Chameleon appeared from around the corner, in his hand was what looked like… a small square? Electronics? Harry glanced down to the chameleon and to the little band around his neck. To the small red light that was blinking.

So tricky!

Harry scooped up the chameleon and ran.

Wait… why did he grab the chameleon?

Harry ran out of the alley and down the street. At his first chance he slowed enough to gently drop the chameleon on a low wall and continued on. He swore he felt the ghost of a hand at his back. Harry didn’t glance over his shoulder, but glancing to the side, to the mirrored walls of a business building, he could see Mr. Chameleon right behind him.

Right. No good.

Harry tried his tricks—throwing stuff in to the path. But whatever he threw, Mr. Chameleon would jump over it. Even with the help of magic to throw stuff in the way. Harry eventually resorted to swan diving in to a thick crowd, knocking people down and ducking behind a flurry of bodies—oops, there goes the hat—and Harry weaved through the crowd of yelling and ducked around the corner and—

Slammed face first in to a brick wall.

Not pleasant.

Harry felt the burn of rough brick at his cheek. The body pressed against his back and the fingers around his throat and his wrist. Harry peered over his shoulder.

The chameleon peered back. And the black eyes of Mr. Chameleon was there too.

“… you’re rather good.” Harry admitted.

“I’m the best, you charlatan.” Mr. Chameleon hissed between controlled breaths.

“Not a charlatan—I don’t have any music to go with my insane luck.” Harry huffed a laugh, and hissed at the bend of his arm as Mr. Chameleon twisted it. “What’re you the best at?” Harry chattered, hoping to delay and distract as he scrambled for an escape plan.

“… do you really not remember…?” The words were soft, and Harry stilled, just to hear the man speak. “All that we went through… is it gone? Like your past?”

Harry wrinkled his nose, doing his best to crane his head to the side so he could see Mr. Chameleon’s blank face.

“My past isn’t gone,” Harry huffed. “Who are you to me?”

It was a miniscule realization Harry could see over the man’s face. So small that Harry didn’t even want to put a name to whatever had gone on behind those dark eyes.

“… it was a trade then. The past for the future. Did you know those men, who spirited you and Colonnello away?” The man was so warm, like a fire pressed against his back. Harry hated the fact that it was relaxing him as much as it was making his skin crawl.

“No,” Harry huffed, and his breath hitched when his wrist was twisted to the near breaking point.

He man leaned forward until Harry couldn’t see his face, and breathed in to Harry’s ear, “I can smell lies.”

… with all the weird shit that happened to Harry, Harry wasn’t disinclined to believe that.

“… yes. In a way.” Harry admitted, a plan forming in his head. These people were so careful with him. Mr. Chameleon only pushed him to the point of near breaking, but never actually broke him.

“What do they want with you?” Mr. Chameleon continued on.

“Probably my life,” Harry humored, and jerked his arm—the hot paint of his wrist braking had him whimpering, and the hand on his wrist jerking away. Harry pushed off the wall with his other hand, slamming back in to Mr. Chameleon’s chest and then ducking away. Harry almost escaped the hand around his neck, but Mr. Chameleon lunged and took them down. Harry’s head was ringing from the collusion in to the ground.

That was enough head hits for the day.

“Skull—!”

“Not my name.” Harry hissed, and out of Mr. Chameleon’s sight Harry jabbed the tip of his wand in to Mr. Chameleon’s belly.

Stupefy!

The man flopped back in a small flash bang of scarlet light, eyes shut. The chameleon was scrambling from his home on the tie to Mr. Chameleon’s face. And Harry couldn’t help the guilty clench of his gut as he sat up, cradling his wrist to his chest. “It’s okay—he is just unconscious for a moment.” Harry added as he used his wand to set and immobilize his wrist. It was a manageable (and albeit familiar pain. He broke this wrist pretty often actually…) pain that had him up and crouched next to Mr. Chameleon. The Chameleon was curled around Mr. Chameleon’s neck and Harry checked to make sure there wasn’t any lasting damage.

… and he couldn’t help but tug on one of those ridiculous side burns and watch it spring back in to place.

There had to be magic or something with these side burns.

Harry rolled on to his feet and set up a mild protection ward around the prone figure before he continued on his way. Well, he was going to continue on his way before he spotted the ridiculous fedora that Mr. Chameleon had been wearing. The hat had flown off when Harry had spelled him. Harry paused, glanced to Mr. Chameleon… and stuck the hat on his own head. The spell will wear away in time, so Harry was content to leave the man behind (and if he was gleeful over the thieving of the hat, Harry wouldn’t deny that).

Harry moved a few blocks over before he found a nice, hidden spot. Hidden enough that he opened his trunk and fetched the motorcycle. Harry had the trunk small again and on his necklace before he slipped on to the motorcycle. It turned on. The paint job was all scratched, but it appeared to be working.

Harry revved the engine.

And took off.

The wind in his hair was soothing. The world blurring by was great.

Nothing could catch him now.