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shockcity · 8 years ago

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HP #3C - Temeraire Crossover

Rating: T Summary: Harry finds himself stranded in an alternate universe in which the Napoleonic Wars are fought with dragons. Yeah. He thought it was weird too. Category: M/M Pairing: John Granby/Harry Potter Warnings: none

THIS IS PART III

Part III

DAILY PROPHET SPECIAL EDITION ‘The Minister’s Speech’

The Wizengamut is breathless with anticipation. As press, we are gathered together in the reconstructed atrium to await the arrival of the recently elected Minister for Magic, who has been rather quiet since his Ministerial Inauguration Address earlier this autumn.

When he arrives, Minister Robards is the picture of severity, lending truth to the rumours that this announcement will change the face of the Ministry of Magic forever. He wears the Services in the Second War Auror medal upon the lapel of his robes proudly; a statement in its own. It is no secret the Wizards and Witches of England had worried that electing another Auror into the Ministerial position would go the way of the late Rufus Scrimgeour. Yet, in the so far short months of Robard’s term, the reconstruction force has increased tenfold, our people have felt more safe everyday, and tentatively, we are on the edge of saying to our foreign dignitaries, “We are recovered.”

Flanking him are the intimidating specters of Kingsley Shaklebolt and Percy Weasley, both tied if not directly involved with the Order of the Phoenix. The comfort of their presence, for the furor of regard for the Heroes of the Second War has yet to calm, moves the press to silence.

“Greetings,” the Minister begins solemnly. “In the past year, our world has hastened the effort to rebuild itself. Our work has taken longer than we had hoped, due to the immense losses of the Second War. We have mourned names that shall never be forgot, we have reunited with our family, our friends; we have toiled in the aftermath of tragedy, of a war to end all wars.

"I speak of it thus, as a great ending, for the destruction of the tyranny hidden deep within our people is now at an end. We are strong. Yet we could be stronger. What the Wizarding World needs now is security: the assurance that no such darkness shall plague the world again. What is necessary, in this time of rebirth, is control. Safety. Strength. Justice. For due to the nefarious actions of dark wizards, we have all suffered needlessly. I will reiterate this truth: we deserve our pound of flesh, and we deserve to prosper.

Our world will never tremble beneath the fist of evil again, and we shall raise our wands and hearts and defend our people. The Ministry now has a plan of action. With our increased security and surveillance, no dark wizard or rising aggressor will find the fuel to spread their insidious fires. There will be no flames, for we will smother them before they even start. Somewhere, the wizards of the past, the hidden dark supporters, the cowards shielded from the consequences of their campaign, tremble at the words I speak now: we are strength in this new age. We are the protectors of peace and the sole judge and executioner of the darkest of crimes. Our world is untouchable, from this moment on. Believe that we are stronger and more dedicated than ever before.”

He stops here, moved in some way that is not explained until he says, “The loss of so many, demands nothing less. In their memory, we will never let the dark have a grasp upon us again. They watch us now, happy that we are prepared. That we are willing to change. For there can only be progression after so much sorrow. With our new line of defense there shall too, be advancement. Recreation. Profit in life and in security. And they may rest in their well-deserved peace, for no other man, woman or child shall sleep unsteady beneath the reign of tyranny again.”

He looks at us, his gaze travelling to meet everyone individually, showing his regard. “I trust I can count on Wizarding Britain to be active enforcers of justice and safety. Name he that breaks the peace, name she that threatens discord; show them there is nowhere they can hide. Too much has been taken from us. Too much injustice has bred leniency, and they expect to be pardoned again. But they are wrong. It ends now.

"In accordance with these new laws, the age of peace shall take any Wizard or Witch willing to protect our livelihood. Our own Magical Law Enforcement will train and educate any volunteers. Thanks to the efforts of our newly incorporated department of Muggle Science, we have now mastered a form of surveillance that will seek out these dark supporters and watch, ever ready, for any sign of disturbance. New laws to provide safety and the reacquisition of wealth will be put to parchment this very day, signed by the Wizards and Witches of the Ministry and supported by our world’s heroes.

"While the changes may be difficult in their transient phase, you can expect the Ministry to aid any who do not have the means to rebuild. Rations shall continue for now, but the wealth of the Ministry will provide you more comfort than in wartime. Comfort is the key, when we are still missing the loved ones unfairly lost to evil. Though the constraints of difficult times may lower our spirits and dampen our hope, we are Wizarding Britain. We are strong.

"Let our cowering enemies be caught and tried for their crimes. Let them see us rise above the destruction, anew, unified in our control and intolerance for the dark. We are strong, and in this we shall not fail. I am the Ministry. The Ministry is you. Thank you.”

The Minister takes no further questions, though the members of the press have none. His message is clear enough.

Skeeter, R. (October 21, 1999)

::::::::

“John.” Laurence called to him softly. Granby did not appreciate his tip-toeing, though he knew his friend was trying his best. “John, there is news.”

His muddled head, due to drinking himself quite stupid every night, prevented him from understanding Laurence’s words for a moment. When he did, he sat up rather sluggishly and said, “Pray, tell me.”

Laurence hesitated.

“Pray, then, don’t tell me, if it is wretched news,” Granby scoffed, coughing as his dry throat throbbed in irritation. He looked at his fellow captain. “Oh, it is wretched news,” he whispered. “Damn you.”

“I’m sorry, John. I–” he swallowed audibly. “I am the bearer of ill-tidings indeed. Captain Potter– Harry…. There is word that he has been killed.”

Granby said nothing.

“He is a hero, at least, in death. His treason is forgiven, I assure you. He and Remy, it seems, did not choose to take shelter in France.”

“They killed him,” Granby croaked.

“Yes,” Laurence answered. “Yes, they did. But not before the French lost over a hundred men of their own. Harry and Remy did not go quietly. It was madness, as usual.”

Granby laughed, though it wasn’t even half-hearted. “A hundred men on their own,” he gasped. “Aye, that is my Harry.”

“I’m sorry John,” Laurence repeated. “Do not think you are alone in mourning, my friend. They– they will be terribly missed.”

He could not address Laurence’s quivering voice, for his own would not obey him. The man left, and Granby poured himself another drink.

What little hope he had harboured for Harry’s safety was gone, and now there was nothing left to do but nurse what was left of his heart with oblivion.

:::::

De Guignes glared at the returning captain, well aware his meeting with the Emperor would be an unhappy one once again. The patrols had found no sign of the escaped dragon, and if De Guignes had not seen the inexplainable with his own eyes, he would blame the captains entirely for having not found the Papillon.

The Emperor had already warned De Guignes that if any more men were buried because of English traitors, De Guignes himself would be buried next. He blamed their lack of hospitality which had been De Guignes responsibility, for the mess the English captain had caused. He blamed De Guignes for letting Lien and the Papillon battle. It should not have been a threat to her, but the dragon had been mad with rage. She nursed the terrible claw marks even now.

The Emperor would not take this news well, for a dragon could not simply disappear. Just as a man could not.

Yet the English captain, with blood on his chest and in his mouth, surrounded by the overwhelmed French guard, had vanished before De Guignes eyes. An impossibility that still left him sleepless at night. An impossibility De Guignes would have ignored as a trick of the mind had there not been so many others to witness it. And they could do nothing but spread the news that the captain and dragon were dead, for the truth was unacceptable, and no one would believe it.

The Papillon Noir had flown away, vanished, and his captain before their very eyes had disappeared in the midst of the attack. Like nothing De Guignes had ever seen before. Like magic.

::::::::

He woke in a forest. A very familiar forest. The echo of memories danced across his mind, as he calmly observed the dark world around him. He frowned as he felt magic, buzzing like a thousand bees; pulsating from the earth and sky. He closed his eyes in pleasure.

Harry was stretched out on the ground, stones and what felt like slimy moss stuck to his clothing. The air was crisp and moist, as if just after rain. The trees smelled familiar; a dark, hollow scent covered in the static of power, like the aftermath of lightning.

It took those moments of observation for him to remember, that he should not be in this forest. That this was a place he had left behind. Was this–?

Remy.

Harry shot up, feeling terribly sore for some reason, and clamped a hand across his chest where the pain worst. But there was no wound, and he belatedly realised that there should have been one. He had been shot, surrounded by the enemy with Remy fighting–

Remy.

He looked around, ignoring the trees he had found so familiar, the black bracken, the smell of wet ground and the sound of unnatural quiet. Where was Remy? With much effort and a pained grunt, he got to his feet. Harry was dreadfully alone, in what seemed to be a stone clearing. Above him, the sun peaked through the shadowy wood, and ahead of him there was only darkness.

“Remy,” he meant to shout, but his voice was hoarse and raw. “Remy!”

There was no answer besides the wail of the boomeranging wind, dancing from tree to tree. Remy wasn’t with him. Remy was gone.

“Who’s tha’ ther?”

His shouting had attracted attention. Harry pivoted and nearly tripped over the loose stones, before squinting in the direction of the voice. In the darkness of the forest, a shape both massive and familiar was outlined by the stark yellow light of a lantern. Harry gaped.

“Hagrid?” he said in disbelief.

The lantern fell with a loud smash, and the flickering light went out.

::::::::

He was surrounded by Healers. They hovered around him like irritated birds, provoked by Harry’s uncooperativeness, no doubt. They poked and prodded at him, but could find no obvious injuries. Poor Hagrid stood at the back of the room, looking concernedly at his old friend. The babbled, blubbering words Hagrid had had for him in the forest hadn’t made any sense, and if Harry thought some sense would be at hand at St. Mungo’s, he was very mistaken.

“–strong evidence of magic, it’s sticking to him, here, you see?”

“–enforcement says there was no atmospheric disturbance, but I’m not an Unspeakable, what do I know–”

“–you shouldn’t say anything, then. His pulse is rising, why is his pulse rising?”

Harry calmed himself with immense difficulty. “I beg your pardon, but you’re not coming anywhere near me with that metal thing.”

The healer paused with the hook shaped poker in his hand and sheepishly put it down. Harry ignored him and said, “Would someone mind telling me what’s going on?”

This question only started them all up again.

“–doesn’t remember?” “How many fingers am I holding up–” “Do you suppose he’s been an amnesiac living in the wild?” “The meat on his bones suggests adequate nutrition, healer, tell another one.” “His pupils are dilated, has he been possessed?” “By what? Voldemort?” “Merlin!” “I wasn’t serious, Porgie.”

“Excuse me,” Harry interrupted quite loudly. “None of that is true at all.”

They fell silent, waiting excitedly for more things to prod at. Harry would not give them the pleasure. “I’d like to speak to Hagrid alone, if you please,” he said smartly. The healers looked around at each other, shocked, and he scowled back at them and said, “Out. Now.”

While they scattered, Harry leaned back on his pillow and glanced down at his battered clothes. They weren’t too telling, given he was wearing trousers and boots, and his bottle green coat and neck cloth had been one of the many things he had left behind. He sighed at the grime on him; blood from battle and the dirt and discomforts of prison. Hagrid moved forward, large and awkward, once the door shut to his room.

“'Arry,” he began, looking as though he would burst into tears again.

He reached out and grasped Hagrid’s hand. “It is right wonderful to see you, Hagrid. Really it is. But I need you to tell me what’s happened. How long have I been gone?”

Hagrid sniffled a bit, but thankfully did not cry. “Nineteen yers,” he said. “Ya up and disappeared withat any word. We looked fer ya, o’ course, but ya were gone, jus’ gone–” he started sobbing then, and Harry reached for him but couldn’t provide much comfort.

Nineteen years? But he was sure he had only spent eight and some months in the other world, how could–?

“An’ things are mad withat ya,” Hagrid was snuffling. “People have gone righ’ mad,” he sobbed.

Harry frowned. “Hagrid, what do you mean?”

But his old friend could say no more, and they were suddenly distracted by the door flying open and smacking into the wall in a flurry of noise. Harry looked over and saw Hermione for the first time in years, and he could not help but grin. She shot toward him and hugged him to her so strongly he felt his bones ache. And then Ron was there, smiling at him, and Harry looked at them all and was very suddenly brought back down to earth by their changed appearance.

They were old. They looked as if nineteen years had truly passed by. He hadn’t quite believed Hagrid, but it looked as though Harry really had come back to his own world, and not in the present, no…he was far into the future.

::::::::

“We welcome Mr. Potter back from his self-imposed exile by extending, once more, the hand of friendship between he and the Ministry. Though in the past we have been at odds, both of us are different. I assure you, Mr. Potter, the Ministry is not running away with any Dark Lords at our heels. And since this transformation is largely due to you and your heroic efforts, we ask that our old alliance continue.”

Harry could do nothing but nod, what with Robards and a mass of faces looking toward him for his public assent. Hermione squeezed his hand underneath the table, and Harry smiled at her, if a bit coldly. The ball held for Harry’s return was a strange one. He had been baffled all night. His attempts at talking to Hermione about going home were waylaid by her own machinations. Ron sat at her other side, a perpetual frown on his face, but said nothing.

The mass of people, of self-important socialites and puffed up politicians were so very obvious in their display that Harry wondered why he saw no Ramillies on their fat heads and swallow-tails and high stocks in mockery of the world he had so recently left. And though he had explained his journey to another dimension of sorts to Hermione, she seemed unconcerned, and he wondered if his story had even got back to Robards, considering the made up, public account of his supposed self-imposed exile.

Somewhere in Robard’s speech there had been details of this tale, and to Harry’s astonishment he realised that they had made him out to be some kind of traumatised hermit. Which, alright, alternate dimensions didn’t sound much better, but Harry was a bit offended anyway.

The biggest concern he had with this entire business, was that none of them had considered that he would not stay.

He simply couldn’t stay. Though there were people he loved in both worlds, he had shown his favour for the other. The love of his life was there, the companion of his heart, and the war, of course, that made it all so thrilling. Harry could not stay. He had told the healers and Hermione this, had told Robards and the other wigs swarming around him. He was summarily ignored.

“A toast to you, sir,” Robards was saying, raising his glass as the last smattering of laughter died down. Harry wondered what charms he had at his fingertips that he could so easily sway these silly people and so casually crush Harry’s own peace of mind. “To Mr. Harry Potter and his return to our world. May we be that much stronger.”

“To Mr. Potter, here, here,” they cheered and Harry looked away absently. He glanced at the frolicking crowd, so very tired and confused, blinking slowly in the dim light of the ballroom. Then he noticed something out of the norm. Something strange.

“Hermione,” he whispered to her, taking her away from the conversation on her right, where a red-faced man was babbling about mortal souls or some such rot. “Hermione, where are the purebloods?”

Her eyebrows rose magnificently. “What ever do you mean, Harry? Why does that matter? Ron’s pureblood, if you’ll remember. He’s beside you.”

“Yes, but, the–” he didn’t quite know how to describe them. “The smarmy Dark Arts loving ones, I mean. Where are they?”

“Oh, the Blood Purists,” the red-faced man suddenly cut in, laughing. “I’m afraid you won’t see any of them in polite society, Mr. Potter, not when they’ve been locked up in Azkaban, the lot of them.”

Harry gaped. “All of them? What–?”

“They were known dark supporters Harry,” Hermione explained patiently. “When we adjusted the Ministerial Amendment for Muggleborn Rights, they attempted another civil war, but Robards put them down quite soundly, and from then on any supporter was incarcerated.”

“After the Executions of course,” the red-faced man reminded her.

“Executions?” Harry frowned. “Are you– I beg your pardon…but what executions?”

The red-faced man chortled. “Didn’t believe the Minister about our strength, did you boy? I’d say, oh, two hundred and some supporters were put on the block–”

The chopping block? Harry gasped inwardly. But what a horrible way to say it–

“And the rest, fifty or so, sent to the bowels of Azkaban. Guarded by dragons now, you know,” he said, and Harry started at the word. “The Dementors were a bit too hard to control. But, Mr. Potter, you shan’t find one sympathetic man here to the dark arts. We are in an unprecedented time of peace. And thus I shall reiterate my belief that our mortal souls, now so padded with moral strength, have already ascended to a higher form of existence–”

“We cannot possibly be the higher form of existence, Mr. Brewster, for we cannot properly say what a higher form entails. Your philosophy is fallacious, I’m afraid,” Hermione countered.

“I have years of time left, as a now immortal soul, to convince you, Mrs. Weasley,” he laughed. “We wax philosophical now, instead of fight, Mr. Potter. It is a calm and content life.”

It was a familiar but forgotten habit to turn to Ron and share a look of bewilderment. The strangeness of the situation lessened a little when Ron frowned at his wife and the man next to her, before shrugging at Harry rather helplessly. But this comfort did not last long.

Two hundred executed. He was astonished.

“What heinous crime were two hundred men put to death for?” he blurted.

Hermione stared at him for a moment, more surprised by his interruption than his question. “Why, of supporting the Dark Arts, sir,” Brewster, was his name, replied. “Those imprisoned are the offspring of the Dark, though they have it nice enough there. In, oh what was the word, Mrs. Weasley?”

“Rehabilitation,” she provided. “The progression, Harry, is remarkable. Some inmates have been healed completely of their sympathies. Draco Malfoy, for one, was let out a year and a half ago–”

“Though you won’t see him here, of course,” Brewster chuckled. “He’s as good as a vagrant now, without his fortune and name. No less than any Malfoy deserves, I’m sure.”

“And we’ve got technology now,” Hermione continued. “There’s an entire department dedicated to the advancement of communications and security, researching how to make magic and science work in tandem. It’s absolutely amazing, Harry, really.”

“Though there were protests from the Blood Purists, when it began. But now there is thankfully, nothing left of them to disagree,” Mr. Brewster laughed. “And on that note, my dear, I shall posit that we have indeed transcended due to the progression of magic and science, for we are indeed the higher species, and therefore existing in a higher form of existence. Which can and will eventually be proven with a combination of nature’s greatest forces, which will finally answer the question of something rather than nothing!”

Hermione smiled and dove back into the silly debate as Harry sat among them and stared. The tinkling of fine china, the boisterous chatter and soft music, the laughter of these happy people surrounded him and suffocated him. He was so confused and–

There was a sudden scream.

A man, dressed in rags with a dirty, sunken face, shouted from the entrance doors, as people backed away, “Resistance! Resistance! Away with Murderers!”

There were shouts. The dance floor cleared just as Harry saw the man brandish his wand. “Fiendf–”

And a wizard in black from beside Robards shot a sickly green spell at him, a very familiar one, and the wand clattered to the floor along with his body. Harry shivered as Death nodded to him, unchanged in this world or any other, and relieved that the danger had now passed, the ball resumed. The body was carried away. The laughter returned.

Harry came back to himself and realised he was standing, not sure when he had rose and for what purpose. He gazed out at the party. Somewhere beside him, Brewster had returned to his conversation after casually commenting on the apparent madness of the uninvited man. Harry excused himself, and when he reached the hall outside he merely stood with his back to the door.

“Don’t let one sad radical ruin your night, Mr. Potter,” came a voice. Harry turned to Robards. “You look sick. Are you well? You’re so pale.”

There was no mistaking the cruel amusement in Robards’ words. Harry stared at him.

“Perhaps you should get some rest,” he said, smiling with all of his teeth. “I’m sure you’re still shaky from your accidental dimension travelling. My word what a fascinating sentence.”

'I know everything, I own everything, I control everything; don’t cross me,’ was Robards’ hidden message.

“Yes, I think I will retire,” Harry said absently. He was too shaky to confront Robards at the moment, to meet his challenge head on. He needed to know more.

“People have gon’ righ’ mad,” he remembered Hagrid’s words, but hadn’t thought they would mean something so sinister. “Excuse me,” he said to Robards, and left the Ministry for the first time in days.

If there was a perfect place to hide, it was Grimmauld Place.

:::::::

Of course, Harry had no idea that his escape from the hold of the Ministry would be his first act of war upon Robards. His shock at the night’s proceedings was enough that he had not paid any attention whatsoever to the wards broken in his haste to leave, nor his unintentional breaking of the tracking charms and curses that should have kept him there. He did not know until later, for he did not yet believe that matters were as bad as all that when he arrived at Number 12.

Surprised but pleased that the Fidelius charm was still working, he let himself into Sirius’s old house and immediately froze in alarm. Mrs. Black was no longer in her spot, shouting obscenities as she was wont to do, as Harry had expected her to do, for she had hexed her portrait to the nines and was near impossible to get rid of. The house elf heads, too, were gone, and the Troll foot Tonks had always tripped over was nowhere to be seen.

Grimmauld was no less dark and dreary, but there was a severe lack of dust and clutter. A severe lack of anything, really.

The house had been gutted. Sparse furniture and a few candlesticks were all that were left. Harry made his way to the kitchen, remembering that during his time at Grimmauld, the kitchen pantry at least was always well stocked. Not so any more, however.

There were no signs of life at all; it looked as though the place had been abandoned for years. Harry was suddenly absurdly angry. This was his house. Look at what they had done to it!

He wondered if Fletcher might have ransacked it, but the house was too…precisely empty for his kind of work; Dung had always been a messy thief. No, this was done by a number of people who had very professionally cleared out the Most Ancient House of Black.

“It must have been the Order,” he murmured to himself. “Blast it!” he cursed, for his only haven was unequipped to house him.

“Master?”

Harry had been facing away from the pantry, and so the sound of that scratchy old voice made him start badly. But he was glad to hear it. “Kreacher!” he exclaimed. “By God, Kreacher, what has happened?”

Kreacher promptly burst into tears. “They came, they came. The Mudbloods and Traitors. They destroyed masters possessions! They said Master was dead! But Kreacher did not believe it, they told Kreacher he was given clothes! Kreacher cursed them. Cursed the Mudbloods and Traitors. They lied to Kreacher! Master was not dead! Master. Master.”

“Shush, shush,” Harry tried to comfort him, in a gentle way that always seemed to calm Remy’s wobblies. “There, Kreacher, what’s this about giving you clothes?”

“They say all House Elves are free now,” he howled. “That the Mudbloods and Traitors have set them free. Kreacher was put out of Master’s house, and Kreacher spoke with other elves. They have disappeared, saying Wizards don’t need them any more. But Kreacher knew Master would need him.”

Harry gaped. All the house elves free? That smacked of Hermione, and yet Harry wondered what the repercussions had been. He asked this to Kreacher, as soothingly as possible.

“They have disappeared!” Kreacher wailed. “Gone away until they are needed again. But most have died, Master, without their families. Many have died.”

He swallowed as Kreacher went on again, “The Mudbloods came and destroyed the house. They wanted Kreacher to leave, and tell them about the Wolves and Purebloods, but Kreacher would not. Kreacher would not. Others were here before them, loyal to Master, but the Mudbloods came and killed them.”

“Wolves and–” he stopped. “Kreacher, who was using the house?”

“The red headed Blood Traitor, the wolf, many wolves and Mistress’s old friends. They came and said they were loyal to Master! They planned something, they would not tell Kreacher. When the Mudbloods came the wolves and some escaped, but Kreacher was thrown out! But he got back in, Master, to wait for you. Kreacher did.”

There was silence but for Kreacher’s strangled sobs, and the old creaks of an old, empty house. Harry stood in the kitchen, a pounding headache threatening and his eyes dry and heavy. He rubbed a hand across the fragile bone of his nose and looked down at Kreacher carefully. “We’ll fix this, Kreacher. We will. I need to…get some sleep, I think.”

“They left Sirius Black’s room,” Kreacher croaked. “They left the Traitors room untouched. But Master Regulus’s things were-were…destroyed!” he sobbed.

“Shush, now,” Harry said, “Kreacher, I’m sorry.” And he was sincerely, very sorry. “It will look better in the morning, when I can find out what the bloody hell is going on.”

Harry supposed they had kept Sirius’s room for him, as some kind of tribute. There was no doubt that it was the Order that had done so, for they were the only Wizards able to come to Grimmauld Place. Yet, this also sounded like the Ministry, who seemed to do things without any sort of fair trial involved (as he had seen so horrifyingly at the ball). And most of the Ministry was comprised and officiated by old members of Dumbledore’s order. These were trustworthy people.

But the executions, the deaths of the elves and the swift, unmerciful hand of would-be justice was too much of a contradiction to Harry’s regard for the men and women he had fought beside, and the things he had once thought they believed in.

In any case, it was too much to think about at the moment. The days he spent in the Ministry had been an endless deluge of reunions and confusing new information. He missed Remy, and Granby, and Laurence and Temeraire, and couldn’t quite understand how he had come back to his old world, or how he would even get home.

He collapsed onto Sirius’s bed and closed his eyes, tension and anxiety running down his spine. And then his eyelids snapped open, and the dark ceiling hovered before him undefined.

“Teddy,” he said to himself, suddenly starting to tremble. “Oh my god, where is Teddy?”

:::::::::

After a dreadful night’s rest, Harry ran his wand over his clothing to get the wrinkles out and made his way downstairs. Kreacher was in the kitchen already, waiting for him with watery eyes. “Master has no breakfast!” the house elf cried, looking back and forth from him to the empty pantry. “They took everything, and Kreacher could leave, but Kreacher does not want to leave Master!”

“That’s alright, Kreacher,” Harry said quickly, swinging the door closed. “I have to go for a while, anyway. Tell me, can you keep anyone at out of the house?”

“Kreacher can! Kreacher will.”

“Good,” Harry said, “Good. I don’t…want anybody here, Kreacher, while I’m gone. Something very strange is afoot. I need to find out what’s happened.”

“Master can depend on Kreacher. He will keep the Mudbloods and Traitors out.”

Harry had thought about his priorities before falling into a fitful sleep. The red headed wolf must have been Bill, and the others werewolves, possibly. Though Harry was sure Kreacher’s 'them’ who had gutted Grimmauld were the Ministry, he did not know if Bill was at odds with his family, or if the group that had squatted here were some sort of resistance. It was dangerous what he did not know, so he would not speak of his suspicions aloud.

He was only sure of what need be done at the present moment and that was that Harry had to find Teddy.

There had been no word of him since Harry’s return five days ago, and none since. Harry should have asked immediately and he hated himself for not doing so. Where was his godson? He needed to know. And then there was the pressing necessity of finding a way home. But that would have to wait until he found out just what the Ministry had done to Wizarding Britain. He also wanted information about the man who had been killed before his eyes last night, and the purebloods locked in Azkaban, and well…Harry really just wanted to know what was the devil was going on.

He left for Shell Cottage, still remembering the place well even after so many years away. With some surprise, he saw that there were signs of life here. A blue and red rubber ball sat on the steps of the cottage beside a row of misshapen sandcastles. The shells that hung around the doorway whistled in the sea air, above a screen across the open door. He could hear the clanging of pots and a murmur of conversation from afar.

When he reached the pathway, the sounds abruptly went silent. Harry had probably tripped the wards. He continued on despite being unsure of his welcome now, and before he made it to the stoop, Bill peeked at him from the other side of the screen. “Harry!” he said, a wide smile stretching his face. “Come in! Come in!”

He could not help but smile back and shake the man’s hand vigorously. “Bill, I’m glad to see you,” he said honestly. “I should have called before I came over. I hope I’m not interrupting anything.”

A flash in Bill’s blue eyes made him frown, but Bill quickly waved him inside. “Not at all, come in! Tea?”

“Please,” Harry said sheepishly. “I’m afraid I’m famished. Poor Kreacher had nothing stocked in the pantry for me.”

Bill’s hand wavered on the kettle before he poured. Harry watched him carefully, saying, “But I can’t blame him for being unprepared for a man come back from the dead.”

“Yes,” Bill turned, grinning. “You’ve outdone yourself this time. Up and disappearing like that. You’ve seen mum, I take it. Did she wallop you for it, Houdini?”

Harry gave a startled laugh and said, “I haven’t seen your mother yet, I was held by the Ministry this past week until I startled poor Kreacher last night. I was shaken up by the events at the ball, of course.”

And there was another tell in the tightening of Bill’s jaw. Harry was slowly grasping more of the situation.

Bill sat, moving aside an empty plate to reach for an opened box of biscuits. Harry did not mistake the other empty cup and plate for trivial clutter.

“Oh, choccy bickies! Bill, I haven’t had one in an age!” he exclaimed, dunking a biscuit into his tea with childlike joy.

Bill laughed. “I’ll make you some sandwiches, if you’d like. Have you had dinner?”

“Not even a pinch of breakfast,” Harry said mournfully, sipping and dipping. He watched Bill’s evident good humour as the man rose to put together a meal for him. “Last night was terribly boring. I’m surprised I didn’t see you there. Everyone but Mrs. Weasley, you and Charlie showed. Kingsley looks quite polished beside the Minister, the sod, and Hermione, though I love her, did nothing but waffle about philosophy while her husband had that look on his face. You know the one.”

Bill nodded and chuckled.

“I don’t mean to come the old soldier, but I could do with two of those sandwiches if you don’t mind. My thanks. In any case, it was uncomfortably tedious, for a ball held in my honour,” Harry went on. “I should have liked you there to make faces at Mr. Brewster with me. Pray, tell me, where’s Fleur?”

With Bill’s back to him, Harry could not see his expression. “She’s in France,” he said, resuming his task. “We live there most of the time, but I’ve had a job here for the last month. My daughter, Victoire, was just here with my niece on Fleur’s side. Cheeky little thing, too bad you just missed them. Where’d you learn to talk like that?”

Harry smiled as Bill handed him his sandwiches. “The eighteen hundreds.”

Bill blinked. “Are you…are you serious?”

He merely raised his eyebrows and grabbed a few more biscuits. “Who knows, Bill, I could be jesting. Would it matter? Oh! The Prophet. Does it say anything about last night?”

There was no mistaking Bill’s uneasiness. The man was transparently anxious now and very, very tense. Harry didn’t think Bill could keep on being friendly anymore. “It was just a madman, Harry, I didn’t take you for a bloke who’d be entertained by the misery of others.”

“So they’re sure it was a madman,” Harry murmured, glancing at him keenly. “Robards said the same before I left.”

They were silent as Harry finished his tea and turned his plate of sandwiches around. His fingers hovered over the meal in faux thoughtfulness, until he looked up at Bill sharply. “Kreacher told me you were at Grimmauld Place.”

Bill’s hand disappeared underneath the table. “Bill,” Harry said, slowly. “Where is Teddy? Where is my godson?”

Something in Bill released, and some of the tension in him went out. “Teddy?” he said, and then his anxiety was restored. “I don’t know, Harry, I–”

He brought his wand up faster than Bill could his. “Where. Is. Teddy?” he repeated, louder. “You were squatting at Grimmauld with werewolves, so Kreacher says. You know more about what’s happening then you say. Where is Teddy?”

Bill looked at Harry’s wand. “You’ll attack me in my own home, Harry?” he spat.

“I’ll bloody kill you in your own home,” Harry promised. “Where is he?”

“With my daughter. They were married in secret two years ago,” Bill confessed.

Harry clenched his teeth. “And he’s safe?”

“As safe as he could be, under the circumstances.”

“And what circumstances are these?” He chuckled without humour. “Imagine for a moment, returning to your world only to find that bastard Robards as Minister, my house gutted, my house elf broken by the government, and forced to go to a ball of silly people who would ignore a murder done right in front of them. I would like to know what has happened to the world I died for, and I think you should tell me, as candidly as possible.”

Bill’s surprise showed on his face. He swallowed audibly and said, “Things are not well.”

“No,” Harry agreed. “No, they are not.”

The man fidgeted with his tea cup for a moment, his eyes sliding to the left. Harry saw it as confirmation and turned his wand. The hex lifted the person behind him upward, depositing the wizard’s wand to the floor. A string of profanity broke out as Harry disarmed Bill and turned around.

Draco Malfoy, looking haggard and destitute, struggled with the dirty robes that flopped into his face. “Let me down, Potter!” he bellowed, cheeks bright red.

Harry laughed, putting the man to rights. “Sit down, Draco, why don’t you. I won’t hurt you. I still owe you, after all.”

Draco staggered to his feet, still cursing, and angrily went over to sit beside Bill. Harry sat across from them. “What part of your information was bollocks?” he asked Bill, wand aloft.

“None of it,” Bill said. “I didn’t lie.”

“Good,” Harry said. “Good. Now, I think you should tell me what the blazes has happened, and why no one is doing anything about it.”

“Of course we’re doing something, Potter,” Draco snapped. “There’s a resistance, though we’re killed as fast as we recruit. Your precious godson is a part of it!”

“Is he?” Harry said, pouring more tea. “I’m glad. He must be a smart lad. And I take it you lot are with them, as well?”

Bill nodded very slightly, as if afraid to say it aloud. Harry reckoned they had a right to be so cautious. “It’s a long story,” he sighed at Harry.

“I have time enough,” Harry assured him. “And this is important enough, I think… if you’ll attempt to kill me to keep it a secret.” He plucked at the untouched sandwiches wryly. “I confess I’m not very fond of ham,” he joked.

Bill had the decency to look ashamed as Harry pushed the poisoned food away.

“Now, tell me what’s happened, Bill. And we’ll see what can be done.”

:::::::::

Remy huddled deeper into the side of the mountain. The outcropping had very little cover at the top of the peaks, where the snow slid and sunk into the crevice and sensitive hollows between his underbelly and hard rock. The Karakorum range seemed perpetually cold, and if not for the Markhor, with their long grey beards and twisted horns, Remy imagined there would be no food here at all. He had seen a shy big cat on one of the peaks, but it was too beautiful to eat, and besides the squalling eagles, there was very little to keep him full.

He did not know precisely, how he had got to this cold place. Remy had flown from France, flown for his life and in a haze of despair without direction or care for his weakening endurance. Pakistan seemed as good a place to stop as any, and once he’d collapsed at the peak, he had not the energy nor motivation to rise. Harry had disappeared. His capitaine was gone. There was little else for Remy to do but mourn.

If he went back to England, they would send him to the breeding grounds. This was most likely, given Remy’s refusal to have another captain. He would not. Ever. They would try to persuade him, likely, but Remy had always been stubborn and rebellious. He would have had to flee anyway, so his seclusion in this mountainous wasteland was inevitable anyway. But he was lonely. Desperately lonely.

He left the outcropping only to hunt the finicky Markhor, whom, despite their clamouring up and down the mountains, could not outrun him. There were no men here, it seemed. Perhaps the weather and the peaks were too dangerous for them. Remy reckoned he wouldn’t talk to them even if they were here. Remy didn’t want to talk to anyone.

He spent long days and long nights on the mountain. It was always cold and always silent but for the quiet whisper of snowfall. Remy knew he wouldn’t stay here forever. A part of him was sure Harry was still alive, just– not here. With him. Harry had been injured when he suddenly vanished, but Remy hoped and thought he knew, deep within him, that his capitaine still lived. Remy would just have to find him. He thought about how this could be accomplished, day and night in the frozen mountains. There was no obvious solution, and so Remy grew frustrated and despondent. But he would not give up. Remy would find him. Somehow.

And then an ominous rumbling shook his little den, waking Remy out of a restless sleep, and the snow came down the peak at a vast, dangerous speed, and buried him in black ice.

:::::::::

John would hear no more about Nelson’s death. It seemed to be all the men would speak about, and though Laurence tried to steer the conversation away from the news, John could see he was just as eager to speak about it as the others. He poured a glass of wine, a commodity John was abusing in this dangerous time. With Lien’s Divine Wind, Laurence off to Australia and Nelson’s death, John couldn’t imagine a time without fighting, and found only a temporary peace in drink and oblivion. Every day was a battle just to rise out of bed.

He did not think Nelson’s death was as important as the death of one of their captains, some months ago now. There had been no uproar for Harry. Logically, John Granby knew Nelson was a terrible loss for England. That his naval mastery would be sorely missed, and one brave man and his boisterous dragon would not. He could be reasonable about it, but that was only when he was sober, and with Harry gone, John was stuck at the bottom of a bottle.

The group dispersed in the early hours of the morning. John had gone to Iskierka earlier, to see to her wellness, but his heart hadn’t been in it. He had not been very affectionate to her for a while now, and it was starting to show. Iskierka was subdued, the other Captain’s pitying but lacking empathy. They did not know that he had loved. They did not know what he had lost. Captain Little, who did understand, being of the same persuasion, often took the bottle from John and made him sleep. He spent many a night when with their formation, coaxing John to sobriety.

It was only natural, then, that John should take up with Little. He was so kind and gentle, and his comfort was enough to keep John from the drink for days at a time. John was a bit more peaceful on these nights when Little warmed his bed, and he was grateful for it. His gratitude did not extend in slumber, however, where the bright green eyes of his soul flickered across his dreams; as beseeching and as lively as the last time John had seen him.

::::::::::

“I want to know what you think you can do about it, if anything, Potter,” Draco said, contemptuous as ever. “Most of us have left. The ones who didn’t agree went to America, or France, like Weasley’s wife.”

Harry tapped his fingers on Bill’s tabletop. “Why didn’t you run?” he asked Draco, specifically.

“Run where?” Draco sneered. “With no money and no friends, no allies… not even a random stranger would help a Malfoy, you know. But you can run, if you want to, Potter. I heard they gave you your accounts back. Had to scrape together the galleons, no doubt, after the Order spent it all when you died.”

Harry managed to calm his temper. “I’m not going to run. My friends are here,” he said, his long look warning Draco that he was getting on his nerves. In turn, to keep the peace, he said, “I’d like to help. I might be able to do something. Anything, really. And Teddy is here, isn’t he? I want to make sure he’s safe.”

“Your godson doesn’t know you, Potter, and he’s been discriminated against all his life. A fine time you’ll have of getting any affection from him; he’s a cold, bitter young man. Much like me, once. And you could never stand me.”

“I don’t need him to like me,” Harry sighed. “I don’t blame him for anything, and if he wants to hate me, that’s fine. I only want him safe.”

Draco laughed. It was horrible and full hopelessness. “Safe is far, far from here, but he’s too stubborn to go. Safe is away from the Ministry. Which is a lot harder than it seems, Potter.”

Bill came back into the kitchen, cutting off what Harry was sure was another long bout of pessimism on Draco’s part.

“Well, they’ve accepted,” Bill announced, looking worried. The resistance had their own headquarters, and it had taken three hours for Bill to get word out to them. Bill had told him it would be hard gaining trust from these desperate people, but Harry’s own determination kept him going, as well as his desire to see his godson.

And the more he heard about the world he had left behind, the more he realised just how bad things were. He wondered, for a moment while Bill was explaining the new and completely discriminatory werewolf registration, if this would be the futuristic world they would have faced if Napoleon had won. This made him long for home, and plagued him with guilt given his recent treason against his own country, so he thought no more of it.

Harry was also very angry. Despite being absent for so long, Teddy’s plight was rather personal to Harry. The involvement of werewolves in the second war had poisoned the public, despite Remus’s status as a hero. Too many had died in attacks by the werewolves supporting Voldemort. Remus was now the exception and not the rule.

Anyone with ties to packs, with blood of a werewolf, or with the disease itself, were culled or locked away. Teddy’s life had therefore been one of secrecy, shame, humiliation and loneliness. Yet werewolves had not been the only victims of the Ministry. Harry had seen the extreme punishment of the purebloods first hand. Others too, lived in isolation, penned like animals. Veela were the subject of jealousy and paranoia, and though not killed for it, they were shunned in society and regarded as immoral, deceptive, and dangerous. Like living love potions.

Some creatures had been brought to the brink of extinction in only the last ten years. Trolls and giants had been reduced to five little colonies, where they were forced into close contact with each other despite both species being highly territorial. House elves and centaurs, run from Hogwarts grounds, had nowhere else to go, and If they stayed they would go the way of the acromantulas, who were hunted and killed until eradicated from the Forbidden Forest entirely.

It was outrageous.

And worst of all was Hermione. The cleverest witch he had ever known had become someone Harry did not recognise. She had never been ignorant, and never cruel. Her sense of fair play had been indomitable. And her original SPEW campaign had been very different from what actually happened to the house elves, which she would never have stood for. Her politics were now illogical, and Hermione was never illogical. She would have never excused the culling; never supported prejudice for any reason whatsoever.

Harry was sure she was under a potion or spell. What else could have made her so unlike herself? Bill had argued that she was not. That she was as bad as the rest of them. Ron, now quiet and unassuming beside his powerful wife, had no opinion. Bill’s family had kept silent on the matter for years, perhaps out of fear, if they believed any of it was wrong in the first place. All of them accepted the awful world they lived in now.

Bill reckoned the Wealseys just weren’t capable of fighting anymore, after Fred’s death. George had never been the same, Percy had lost his mind with the rest of them at the Ministry, and Ron, loud, brash, Gryffindor Ron…had hidden himself away. Ginny, playing for the Holyhead Harpies, was thankfully saved from much of the politics while travelling with her team. She seemed to stay away voluntarily to keep herself from further pain.

Harry’s disappearance had not helped. Bill had said he did not blame Harry, but that Harry was not to expect Ginny to contact him. The part of her that had loved him was long gone.

Bill’s mother and father were tired and old, and they too would not lift a finger against the Ministry. What had the Weasleys fought for, in the second war? They had thought they had won. They had thought all would be well once the Dark Lord was gone. When it had not been so, the disappointment seemed to have been too much to bear, and so the Weasleys had withdrawn.

And it killed Bill– it was killing him. He was bitter and jaded and untrusting of everyone and everything. He would kill Harry, who was an old friend, to keep even a hint of suspicion from falling onto his family.

But there was one of his siblings that still fought. Charlie, still in Romania, had been ferrying purebloods and creatures to the Continent for the last six years. Bill hadn’t seen him in ten, but they sent letters to each other once a year, checking in. The resistance was scattered, and many of them had no way to communicate with each other, or only sent word when it was absolutely necessary. No one even knew who was friend or foe, who was hiding where, and what their next step would be, Bill confessed.

The headquarters were more of a refugee camp than anything, and there were many of them across England, though perhaps not as large as the one Bill had been to. There was no leader. They heard of other resistance fighters by word of mouth, and based on a general consensus of action or non-action, would proceed accordingly. Sometimes they just saw an opportunity to hurt the Ministry, and took it.

Bill had only been to the camp once, when it had just barely got up and running. He was still able to get a message to one of them, if it was necessary, and so when Harry had asked to see the camp, Bill had begrudgingly contacted them. He warned Harry that they would test him, and would not be very gentle about it. It may be painful, or uncomfortable, and probably if he were lying or only there to make trouble– they would find out.

Harry wasn’t worried. He had gone through too much in his short life to be surprised by much. Draco had asked what he could possibly do to help. The answer was complicated. He would have to think, and see, and understand the efforts so far.

“We have an hour,” Bill said, casting a glance at the clock on the wall. “I hope you didn’t have plans, Harry.”

“No, none,” Harry assured him. “I’m sorry to ruin your day like this, I’m sure you had other things to do.”

Bill shrugged one shoulder, rolling up his sleeves to wash the dishes. “When I’m in England I recruit, mostly, sometimes I take a job for Gringotts, but the goblins are hard to work for. They agree with the Ministry, mostly because they make a profit.”

“My family fortune lining the pockets of a goblin,” Draco laughed humourlessly. “Imagine what father would say.”

His father, dead at the hand of an a Ministry executioner in front of a jeering crowd, wasn’t able to say much of anything. And if he had, the present company might not have been all that sympathetic. How Draco could joke about it so carelessly, Harry could not understand. Bill cast a glance at the blond, his eyes sad.

Draco had been hiding in Shell Cottage for a year now. Only Bill’s good name had kept the Enforcers from searching for him here. After his 'rehabilitation’ Draco had slipped his tracking spell, has stopped checking in with the Enforcers, and so a manhunt had begun. If he were caught, he would be killed– Draco’s situation was very dire indeed. It was no wonder Bill had been so frightened when Harry had shown up.

“So he’s in, is he?” came a voice from the door. Harry looked over, his hand twitching on his wand, and stared at the new arrival.

Bill seemed to have been expecting him, and did not look concerned. Draco huffed and cast a surly glance at Harry, one that Harry did not understand until he observed the man closer.

He was young, and tall. His face was heart-shaped but critical. A permanent notch in between his eyebrows suggested long times of stress and the circles beneath his eyes showed fatigue. His hair was wild, and was strange to Harry’s now conservative eyes. Bright aquamarine in color, with ever changing tips that were just now turning pink.

He was broad-shouldered with a slim, straight waist. His nose was small above thin lips…familiar lips and familiar eyes. It was the amber gaze of his father.

Teddy!

“Good to have you,” Teddy said to Harry, rather formally. His expression was guarded, Harry noted sadly. His words to Draco, about not needing Teddy’s affections was all talk really, for Harry was practically breathless as Teddy offered his hand. “Where have you been anyway, dearest godfather?”

He said it teasingly, but there was a hard look in his eyes that betrayed old grudges; a shadow of Harry’s abandonment. “1805,” Harry answered, shaking his big hand and thinking that this was all very bizarre. “Fighting the Napoleonic wars with dragons.”

Teddy blinked. “Are you…wait. What?”

Harry shrugged and shook his head. “It’s…rather a long story,” he said.“I–”

It was difficult for Harry to put into words how sorry he was. How could one make up for abandoning a child, involuntarily or otherwise? Harry thought back to his own childhood, remembering a time before magic, when the Dursleys had told him his parents were drunks. That they had been negligent and had got killed and had left him on his own.

But that turned out to be rubbish, and so the feeling was not quite what he was looking for. He thought of his own godfather, but there was no resentment there. Sirius hadn’t had a choice, he’d not left Harry because he didn’t love him. Harry had never, ever blamed Sirius.

But that was not true of Remus. Harry winced. The thought was rather tender, and he carefully worried it like a sore tooth.

He had never really acknowledged the bitterness he felt when Remus turned out to be a very good friend of his parents. Just as good a friend as Sirius, who would have taken Harry in, godfather or not. He understood Remus would have been frightened of caring for a child, what with being a werewolf, and it was quite possible he would not have been allowed custody anyway.

But nothing stopped Remus from visiting him, and yet he never had.

Harry held on to that feeling and looked at his godson. Apologies were meaningless here; it was an unforgivable thing to abandon a child, but not apologising would be just as bad. People were very complicated.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, finally. “I didn’t mean to leave you, and I didn’t leave because I didn’t care for you, or didn’t think of you. I’ve thought of you often, actually.”

He licked his lips. “I want you to know that I didn’t have a choice. One moment I was here, and the next I was in another world,” he huffed, shaking his head. “Dimension travelling. Who knew? But– it doesn’t matter. I know it doesn’t. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. You…you look good, Teddy.”

Teddy’s eyes were a bit wet. “Hey, it’s alright,” he said, swallowing. “I know it wasn’t your fault. And you look good too. Bit young though?”

“Yeah,” Harry laughed, still a little shaken. “Time moves faster here, I think. It wasn’t that long ago to me, that you were just born, and Remus was so happy….”

Teddy smiled and nodded. “I’d like to hear about him, sometime.”

“Of course,” Harry said, returning his smile. “Of course, Ted.”

“Did I just witness a pivotal moment in the heartbreaking saga that is Harry Potter’s life?” Draco drawled, quite satisfied at ruining the moment.

“Ah. Right. Are you sure you want to get involved in another war, Mr Potter?” Teddy asked, ignoring the blond. “This one is rather nasty.”

Harry raised his eyebrows, and responded wryly, “Can’t remember a time when there wasn’t a war to fight. I want to help. And don’t call me that. I’m Harry.”

Teddy looked amused. “Yes,” he coughed. “I know.”

“I’m glad,” Harry said. “You’ve got a brain in there, that’s always handy.”

The boy rolled his eyes, much to Harry’s amusement. “So, you’re married,” Harry teased, grinning from ear to ear. “Young though, aren’t you? How’s married life?”

“Well, it’s–” Teddy began to say, before shooting a panicked look at Bill. “Brilliant,” he responded decisively. “You’re not married in, uh…eighteen-o-five, was it?”

“I do have someone, he’s a good sort,” Harry said, ignoring Draco’s choking. “He’s a fellow captain in the British Aerial Force. And I’ve also got a dragon named Remy who’s as close to marriage as I’ll ever get. Or parenthood.” He paused for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah, parenthood.”

“I have a feeling the whole story of your accidental dimension travel will be extremely entertaining,” Bill commented wryly, but his eyes were on the clock. “But it’ll have to wait. It’s time to go.”

::::::::::

Bill activated the Portkey. It was a rabbit’s foot, coarse and fragile, and it deposited them in the strangest place. A desert lay before them, with swirling sands lifted by shammals and marked with the footsteps of invisible creatures. He thought they might have been east, Egypt perhaps, or Afghanistan. But when he looked closer there were inaccuracies.

Harry’s inexpert eye observed the dry, cracked ground where weed and cacti sprouted, unfamiliar to the droughty Sahara. But dunes, lifted to the sky and smoking at their tops, smacked of the continent. He could see no animals, which would have helped, and surmised that this place was a complex ward of sorts, made by wizards to obscure a trespasser’s sense of direction. The very air, filled with the heavy aroma of magic, leant truth to his assumption.

They did not have to trek far, thankfully. Draco was already complaining of the dust in his robes and hair. There was no marking immediately visible to the eye, yet Bill seemed to know where to go. His path was evident when Harry caught sight of something very queer. A rabbit, with bright white fur and looking incredibly out of place, waited for them in its cautious, twitching way at the top of a clay hill. They marched towards it, and Bill seemed unworried that it would flee as they approached.

Red stone slipped underneath their feet as they lunged up the slope, and only when they were a meter away did it move. The rabbit stopped at a hole in the ground, barely the size of Harry’s foot, and went below to its sandy burrow. Bill glanced back at them, raising his eyebrows for some unspecified reason, and stepped on the moulin. He sunk, much like the swirling passageway of the loo to enter the Ministry, and without hesitating, Teddy followed.

“More sand,” Draco sighed, before he was sucked in as well. Harry stepped forward and copied them. The rough sand did not chafe, as he would have thought. He sunk with smooth precision in a slow descent, so that when he landed it was easy to keep his feet. Below was darkness.

When his sight adjusted, he saw a very dim candle that lit a stone wall. All around, there was red clay and tendrils of root, encased by the dry earth and old grain. The rabbit was ahead, beside the wall, and it glared back at them in the darkness– its nose twitching. They waited. Draco mumbled under his breath about it, rankled about having to wait on a rabbit of all things, until Bill elbowed him to be quiet.

The rabbit seemed to make a decision then, and bounced one, two steps forward, and on the third passed through the stone. Bill followed its steps to the very detail, going so far as hopping thrice before vanishing.

Teddy did the same, lifting a foot as if playing hopscotch and seeming terribly amused with himself. Draco scoffed inelegantly, turned to Harry and said, “It’s the werewolves that have done this,” he groused. “They always did like to see humans humiliate themselves.” But he jumped as well, three times, and passed through.

Harry smiled, lunging for the first step and completing the little hops quickly. And then he was dragged through the wall with an icy lurch, and suddenly he was in an immense stone cavern. Rather than red rock, or compacted grain, Harry was now surrounded by limestone. Stalactite had been chipped away at the ceiling, to keep it from falling, most likely, but the columns where the dissolved stone had met each other from roof to floor were left untouched.

But the most startling thing, besides the odd change of stone, was that there were tents pitched as far as the eye could see. Fire-pits pocked each encampment, and there were people, so many people, outside the tents and wandering through them. Clusters of market-like carts sat in between makeshift pathways, full of strange fruits and plants, collected from the outside no doubt by enterprising merchants. The locals, who sold to the mass, were brown skinned and keen-eyed. Brazilian, possibly. Yet there were dark coloured men selling goods as well, in garb suited to tribesmen like the Tswana.

The English refugees, haggard and looking like medieval nomads, sat in furs and dilapidated robes outside their tents. Some had baskets of what looked like silver threaded cups, others were toting sharp, delicate gypsum. A selection of fox coats and what looked to be elephant tusks were displayed on one man’s arm as he haggled with a merchant for a blushing, orange-pink fruit that was bigger than the man’s hand. A monkey, with a small, oval face, jeered up at them from the ground. It passed beneath their feet, cackling, before leaping towards a woman and wrapping its grey arms around her neck.

There was chatter echoing off of the cave walls, and the screech, somewhere, of a fiddle. There was laughter, the scratching of knives on wood and the screams of unwatched children. An odd, fresh scent of summer air in the high mountains, made its slithering way through the cavern. Harry could see no way out of this place, and how far the cave extended was unknown. The blackness on the horizon could be the border of the camp, or perhaps more passageways leading to more rooms with more people. There was an echo of water as well, running against substratum, but he could see no river.

They moved through the people unnoticed, camouflaged in their variety and in their numbers as they were. At the east end of the cavern, where the tents grew sparse, there was a larger tent than the others in the lefthand corner surrounded by tiki seashell torches. Their flames flickered invitingly, a strange intimacy and secrecy about the tent that was obvious in the highly populated cave, where privacy was probably nonexistent. Bill stopped here, and Harry looked over his shoulder. To his amusement, the rabbit waited at the flapping entrance to the tent.

Harry, in the boorish way of impatient military men, looked at the rabbit with fond exasperation. “Well?” he said to it, and the nose twitched. Bill looked back at him with wide eyes. “We haven’t all day, Luna.”

Luna Lovegood effortlessly changed from hare to woman, and Harry grinned at her. The long blonde hair of her younger years was gone, cut short in a boyish bob. Her slender form was covered, absolutely covered, in seashells and feathers. The flowing robes she wore were no less ragged as the rest of the refugee’s clothing, but fell rather gracefully on her. Luna would probably look good in mud, though.

“Hello, Harry,” she said in that drifting way of hers. He was very happy to see her; this was a friend of the past unchanged, and Harry was glad to see it. “Come in, then.”

Draco scoffed, ignoring her, and lead the way into the tent. If he was expecting luxury and rare comforts from this supposed steward of the underground camp, he was disappointed. There was a cot to the side of the magically enlarged tent, and a desk in front them, filled with maps and books. A very modest fireplace with a rather small fire flickered to the left.

A man stood by the fire with his arms clasped behind his back. He had very dark eyes, a small forehead, and a black mustache. He nodded to them very briefly, but said nothing.

Their attention was drawn to the back of the tent, where the other entrance remained empty. The cool breeze was coming from the fluttering door, and Harry shivered. The steward entered, and just as Harry suspected, he was familiar to him.

The once round face was now gaunt and weatherbeaten. He was thin and unevenly muscled by hard work, and stood at an astounding 1.9 meters. There was a confidence to his stance as well, though Harry was not too surprised, and he towered over them and looked awfully handsome and really was altogether very impressive. Harry himself had never been impressive, and even though his small stature did not in any way lessen his strength of character, he’d always wanted to be taller.

Neville smiled at Harry, though it was strained.

“Hello, Harry,” he said, mimicking Luna. “This is Sushanta.” He gestured to the man by the fire. “And, wait a moment,”

Neville turned back to the tent flap and murmured something, and a man came out at his beckoning. He was very obviously English, in his trousers and jumper, with his face red and his eyes wide with worry. “This is Williamson.”

The man nodded in their direction, taking out a handkerchief and wiping away the sweat on his brow. “Pleasure, pleasure,” he said absently.

Harry looked for some sign as to how this man would fit in here– in this camp of refugees. Then Harry saw a line of teeth marks on his neck, and figured he was probably a werewolf. There was also a strange void where there was no magic buzzing in the air, and Harry pinpointed the lack of it as coming from Williamson, who was a Muggle, if Harry guessed right.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much furniture,” Neville said, more for Draco than anyone else. Draco did indeed look very put upon, but Harry shrugged and sat down on the ground, followed by Teddy (who sprawled, really) and Bill. Draco’s moue of disgust was manfully ignored, before he too, sat. Luna was back as a rabbit, probably more comfortable that way, and perched on Neville’s knees when he situated himself on the floor as well, facing them. Williamson leaned against the desk, ringing his hands.

“We’ve just run out of tea as well,” Neville sighed. “The merchants will be back tomorrow with some, but I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything.”

“It’s alright, Neville,” Harry said, frowning. “We’re fine without it.”

Draco shot him a look, as if to say, 'speak for yourself’. Harry ignored him, and said, “How have you been, Neville?”

Neville laughed. “Alright, I suppose. Doing fine.” His smile slid off his face and he sighed. “You know by now how bad things have gotten, I’d wager.”

“Yes,” Harry nodded. “Do you…have a plan?”

Neville lifted one shoulder. “To survive, I guess.”

“Survive?” Harry frowned. “But what’s to be done about the Ministry?”

“We’re not terrorists, Harry,” Bill said. “Despite your run in with Johan, there aren’t many who would suicide at a Ministry ball.”

Harry blinked. “Johan was the one they murdered, yes? You knew him?”

“He lived here,” Neville provided uncomfortably. “He was one of our more…hardened refugees. His entire family was killed by the Ministry. He was an editor for the Prophet, and he made his opinions on the Enforcers known. They killed his wife and three children to punish him.”

Harry shook his head sadly.“But this attack wasn’t sanctioned by the resistance?” he asked.

“There aren’t attacks, really,” Bill said. “We try to survive.”

“And how exactly are you suffering, Bill Weasley?” Draco snapped. “Don’t pretend the Weasley name doesn’t make your life a whole lot easier. You have it good.”

Neville said nothing, and even Teddy looked as if he agreed with Draco. Bill blushed, but fell silent.

“Nineteen years and you still haven’t grown up,” Harry sighed.

Draco turned on Harry with a snarl, but Harry waved a hand in his face. “If we’re done with the pissing contest, I’d like to know how I can help.”

But Neville didn’t answer. “You’re–” he stopped himself. “Sorry. You look the same but you’re different. It’s a bit odd.”

Harry frowned back at him. “Of course I’m different,” he said, shrugging. “I’ve spent years in another world, come back to my own nineteen years later to find it royally bollocksed up and Malfoy still whining… although that’s somewhat comforting, really. And what about you? I hardly recognise you lot anymore.”

Draco whipped his head toward him aggressively. “You have no idea what we’ve gone through, Potter! While you were off dimension travelling, we’ve been fighting for our lives. And if you think we need or want your help now, when you up and left without any concern for us before, you’re mad! And you have the bloody audacity to call us complainers! To demand more action! As if you struggled at all in your privileged little life!”

“That’s wrong, and you know it, Draco–” Bill began, but Harry’s waving hand cut him off.

“Let him be,” he said, turning back to Neville. “Nev, I’ve got some experience in tactics, but it was never my strongpoint. I know how to fight, and specifically I know how to fight a war. I can help, and I’m sorry I’ve got to say that surviving just won’t be enough. You can’t hide forever.”

Neville dipped his head, closing his eyes very briefly. Williamson shifted from one foot to the other. Then, to their surprise, Sushanta, who had only been a quiet witness so far, spoke up: “He is right.” And he smiled at Neville apologetically. “We need more supplies, or we will starve. Which means we will have to trust more people, when we can’t afford to. They will find us, Neville. Eventually. Maybe soon.”

“But…you don’t understand.” Neville shook his head. “Look, we have no weapons. Most of us have had our wands snapped. They have new ways of killing us, of trapping us so that we can’t possibly fight or defend ourselves against them. We can’t compromise our allies by calling for action, not without weapons or a foolproof plan. We really haven’t a chance in hell of winning. Sushanta, you see, don’t you? Sushanta left India when they took up the same bloody-mindedness as the Ministry. He could do nothing. And most places are like India…just as bad or too afraid to aid us. Most people agree with Britain’s policies. It’s, well– not a lost cause, but close to.”

Harry looked at him sympathetically. Neville was very tired, and so very frightened. “But Nev, if we just break it down, look at it carefully…how many able-bodied do you have? What is the state of your finances? Is there anyway to get our hands on weapons? What about Muggle weapons–”

“Oh, shut up, Potter,” Draco snapped waspishly. “We don’t know how to use them. And this isn’t an army. You’d only be delaying the inevitable, and I, for one, would rather go out gracefully and on my own terms than in the hands of the Ministry, even if that means offing myself.”

“Gracefully,” Harry scoffed. “Death isn’t graceful, you ninny. And going down fighting is on your own terms too, you know. But I don’t think we’re going to die, anyway, and it would be a waste to kill yourself. We have to at least try.”

“The Ministry will win,” Draco argued. “Look at what they’ve done to us. They keep us afraid, starve us out, murder our friends and family…anyone not scared of them is a fool. Try to understand, Potter, this is the real world, and sometimes the good guys just lose.”

“Malfoy,” Harry sighed. “If you would only listen–”

“No,” Neville interrupted, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “We don’t have a way to fight them. I’m sorry, Harry.”

“There’s alway a way,” Harry said decisively, before falling silent. He looked around at the group, seeing their weary, defeated expressions. Sushanta met Harry’s eyes and smiled rather sadly.

No, Harry thought, there’s got to be–

He paused. It was…his job, and he certainly knew how to do it. In fact, he was actually surprised he hadn’t thought of it sooner. Perhaps because it was a gamble, and it could turn out entirely useless? But if not? A slow smile inched across his face.

“Tell me, does Charlie still work with dragons?”

::::::::::

-master wishes-

Remy tried to stretch out his neck toward the sound. His body was tightly coiled, and he was aching and cold, and nothing would move at his command. A twitch of a claw and maybe a tiny shiver, was all he could manage in the tightly packed snow. There was rock, above him and below him. He could not move.

Remy wondered if he was going to die. If he could just dislodge himself, he would be able to dig himself out of the snow. He imagined taking a deep breath of fresh air, and sighed. It looked like the power of the mountain was enough to fell even a dragon.

-will not die- the voice said again, and Remy managed to open his eyes.

A tiny pinprick of light floated in the darkness. Remy wanted to ask if it were real, but if he opened his mouth the snow would come in, and it would fill his lungs and suffocate him. He was scared.

Harry, Harry, Harry, he thought desperately, wanting his capitaine– only his capitaine.

-I will take you- said the light.

Death, Remy thought, had come to take him away. To Harry, who, despite his desperate hopes, was probably dead too. And now Remy didn’t mind dying so much. And he was maybe not so afraid, if he could see Harry again.

Before Remy closed his eyes for the last time, he saw that the light was growing. It danced closer and closer, and reached for Remy and pulled him under.

But he did not die, he was only lost for a time. After a rough journey and a long sleep, Remy opened his eyes and found himself free of the snow and in an unfamiliar land. He had an idea of where he was, or so he hoped. He hoped.

::::::::

The dragons here were silly. Remy had been in the plains for a month or so, imposing upon the hospitality of a very strange sort of covert. The mountains were odd, peak-less things with no snow and immense grasslands at its feet. Some of the men here called the area Wallachia, a place bordered by greenery and a deep blue river to the east.

When they had found him, Remy had been curled in a field north of their encampment, sleeping away rather peacefully. They checked him over for injuries, then warmed him up, before whisking him away to their covert. They were kind to him, and he cooperated, though Remy was too weak and tired to fight them anyway.

They spoke in a strange language, as biting as the mornings here in Wallachia. Remy tentatively guessed it was some sort of Eastern European dialect, from what he could tell from Temeraire’s incessant study of all languages.

The issue of the language barrier did not bother Remy so much. He was still so very tired, and needed to get his bearings anyway, and so did not speak at all. He spent most of the first few weeks in the covert sleeping. His wing had been strained, his hide frozen through and he was still numb in some places. They put him in a gated field with the other dragons, perhaps thirty of them, who snuffled at him but were comfortable enough ignoring his presence.

The language of these beasts was very strange, indeed. It was an amalgamation of roaring, hissing, and growling, that jolted some instinctual part of Remy with its familiarity. Most of the time, when he was not sleeping, he tried to understand what the dragons were saying. It was hard work. They had an ever-changing vernacular depending on the moods they were in. Remy could not imagine how the men here dealt with it, until he realized that they did not understand the dragons at all.

There were no human companions for them. Remy had assumed the people who ran the covert were a bit like their captains. But he was shocked to see that there was no love or trust between dragon and man. The dragons themselves were dismissive of people, and often very frustrated.

Remy did not understand why they hated them so, for he could see that the men were very fond of the dragons. Fond and respectful, and cautious, of course.

Though Remy was confused by the men at times too, but for different reasons. When some of his strength returned, Remy was curious how the hunting was on the plains, and would have liked to bathe in the river. But the men coaxed Remy away from the gates (that he very well could have flown over) and had fed him like a pet instead.

Chamois, with their curved horns and hard fur, were the preferred feed. When the men who hunted their meals for them were so inclined, they brought back bear meat from the surrounding mountains. This was not often, and so Remy had to develop a tolerance for chamois rather fast.

The dragons did not want to hunt, happy enough with their warm field and the food brought to them twice a day. They indulged in petty squabbles over territories no bigger than they were, and bred often enough that Remy considered it a bit excessive.

He realised, a month in, that he was in captivity. What Remy had once thought was a covert, where liberties at least were had if in a military type way, was actually a giant sort of pen for them. He was not rude enough start making a fuss with the humans, for they had nursed him back to health and were really very kind. But he balked at being condescended to, regardless.

The men seemed to like Remy though. He was the most compliant and pleasant of the lot (which wasn’t hard, honestly), and often the men would give him more than his usual share of chamois. They spoke to him affectionately, from what Remy could discern from their clipped speech, and soon found to their surprise that Remy was not at all shy of their touch as most dragons were.

They patted him often, murmuring strange, fond words in Romanian, he’d learned, and seldom had to speak sharp to him or worry he would be disagreeable. Remy liked them well enough, though none of them were his captain.

And it became quite clear, somewhere along the way, that his journey to another world had not been wishful thinking. The odd style of dress, the machinery, the magic they used…all clear evidence. Then there was the strangest difference of them all:

When Remy had been dozing in the plains, he’d heard a whirring noise that was both very loud and very alien. None of the other dragons seemed startled, though Remy was frightened out of his wits by the sound. It seemed like it came from the sky, and so his eyes went up, and up, into the blue– but he couldn’t see anything. Then the whirring sound grew so loud and still attention was not paid to it, that Remy was sure it was all in his head and was very scared.

Then a contraption flew over the plains, and Remy gazed at it in stupefaction. It was a flying machine! And it had zipped through the air faster than a Regal Copper.

He contemplated this invention long and hard, but could not quite reconcile its existence. Harry had never mentioned flying metal things. What if he wasn’t in Harry’s world at all? What if England did not exist? Or France? He wondered if Romania was even in his world back home. He wondered how many worlds there were, and which one he had stumbled upon.

His days were long then, worried as he was about his captain, distracted by the odd language of the men and the dragons, and wondering how he could go about finding his companion in this strange new world. He ate and slept, and was able to fly but never seemed to want to go far. It was an odd place, that Remy would find it so comfortable and not really worth leaving, and that none of his disagreeable brethren would want to leave either.

He caught snatches of the dragon’s conversation, sometimes, after a few months of listening and studying.

“–you cannot fly because you are too fat–” a large, spiked dragon had said to its fellow. Remy had never seen any of their breeds before, which was another confusing difference.

The orange and red dragon the spiked one had called fat had roared in annoyance and then let out a string of almost incomprehensible words: “–giant spikes…stupid fat head…not fat…fry yourself, Maltak.”

They engaged in a brawl that lasted long enough to become annoying, and really it was all very ridiculous, so Remy turned away from them with a sigh. He would have appreciated Temeraire here, for these dragons were a lot like Arkady’s lot and Temeraire had experience with them. Their language seemed very similar indeed, if a little more polished. He did not spend much time with the dragons, in any case, for a month into his stay at the covert, Remy found another distraction.

Females would lay their eggs and hoard them, for precisely two days, and then, much to Remy’s surprise, would have nothing more to do with them. Back home, the eggs were coveted until the dragonet inside was strong enough to understand the world outside of their shells. This took at least half a year, and a year more before they would hatch. But here, the eggs were largely ignored by the dragons and the humans, though they did keep them warm.

Great groups of the eggs were placed in the saunas, which were thankfully big enough for the dragons to come and go. Remy had stumbled upon them one day, when he was particularly curious, and had decided he would spend most of his time with them.

He sat beside them and spoke only at night– when the men were not around. Some strange part of him was protective of them, and enjoyed telling them stories and things. His new hobby was not a secret for long, and the men would watch Remy cuddle the eggs bemusedly, but did not interfere.

One egg was Remy’s favorite. It was blue and green, like Remy’s own colours, and responded very enthusiastically to Remy’s description of his captain. It would likely hatch in a few weeks time, maybe a bit more, and Remy spent his nights telling the dragonet all about the world outside the shell. He hoped it would emerge understanding English, so Remy would at least have someone to talk to.

His tales of the war back home and of his many battles, excited the dragonet enough that Remy could feel it somersaulting about in its shell. This behavior fascinated the men, who would sometimes catch the egg moving about and not hatching, which they had thought was the only reason the egg would ever be active. Remy was amused and proud of the baby for his enthusiasm.

He rather thought the humans didn’t know much about hatchlings though. Not that he didn’t trust them, they were very considerate and cared for all of the dragons in the covert, no matter how disagreeable they were. He supposed if they spoke English he might tell them that they were doing it wrong, but it remained that Remy did not understand the language yet, and they could not understand him, and the gap between them was large enough that Remy hadn’t the motivation to bridge it.

This world was so very different. And it was not home. He didn’t know how to find Harry, or whether or not Harry could even be found. Remy had resolved to get all better and then set out to find his capitaine, just like when he had left France and had found Harry wandering around northern England. Yes. He had found Harry before, and he could do it again.

But in the meantime, the absence of his capitaine weighed on him. Not even the kindness of the humans here, or the excitement of the eggs, could fill the hole in his heart that Harry had once occupied. Nothing at all could ever.

The day of the little blue and green’s hatching was a month and two weeks after Remy’s arrival. Remy had coaxed it out with a few soft growls, encouraging the baby to come out. The men surrounded them, looking excited but not as excited as an aviator might be. With the amount of eggs they had, hatchlings were a good thing but still relatively normal.

Remy nudged the rocking egg, but was distracted when he saw that there was a stranger among the men today. He must have been kin to one of them, probably related to the red haired man who worked here. The redhead Remy was familiar with was not often in this part of the covert, but brought treats to the dragons when he visited.

He was a broad-shouldered, muscled man with an easy smile. His visiting brother, for the resemblance was obvious, was tall and lanky, with a tired but pleasant face. They stood side by side and watched the hatching.

The egg moved back and forth, and back and forth, and the scratching and tapping soon began. The murmuring died down in anticipation, and with a loud crack, the top of the shell burst open. A clawed foreleg plucked the debris and tossed it away, before a small head popped through the opening and looked about. The chatter resumed, happy and welcoming, as the dragonet struggled with the shell bits. Remy helped him along, very pleased to see how lovely the dragonet had turned out, but was completely startled by what happened next.

Over the brusque Romanian, there were these fine words: “A Welsh Green. Look how beautiful, Bill,” said the redhead, in absolutely perfect, accented English.

Bill smiled and said, “Lovely,” but sounded unconvinced.

And Remy stared at them. “But you’re English!” he shouted, quite without meaning to.

A rush of panicked Romanian followed his exclamation, and a few of them even backed away. The redhead stood his ground, gaping, and stuttered, “Y-you talk?”

“Of course I talk,” Remy said. “And you are English! How reassuring!”

“Charlie,” his brother said, “Is this, er, normal?”

“Your name is Charlie?” Remy went on. “So you are not Romanian. Good. I do not speak their language.”

“I think I could,” the dragonet said, “If they would teach me.”

This announcement made the humans stir like a hive of disturbed bees. They ran to-and-fro, blathering on excitedly as Charlie stepped forward. “Do you…well…” and he seemed quite out of sorts. “Do you have a name?”

Remy dipped his head and nudged Charlie, trying to alleviate some of his anxiety. It didn’t work very well. “My name is Remy,” he said.

The brother, Bill, started for a moment, his eyes widening. This odd behaviour made Remy blink, but the dragonet was wanting for attention.

“I do not have a name,” the baby said, moving aside a large piece of shell. “You shall name me, Charlie,” he said decidedly. “Remy told me about captains and dragons. I should like that. You will be mine.”

Poor Charlie was very confused, and was shocked into possibly a permanent stupor when the hatchling bounded over and coiled around him snuggly. “A name? Well, ah, well–”

Remy turned his head and met the eyes of Charlie’s brother, which seemed to shake the man out of a daze, and then (to Remy’s surprise) Bill turned and ran, full tilt, out of the sauna. Charlie was too distracted to notice, and Remy felt a bit sorry to have scared him away, but the baby was asking Remy all sorts of questions now, and he had to pay attention.

::::::

“He’s mad, you know,” Charlie had said to him, when Bill had relayed Harry’s plan. “Dragons can’t be domesticated. I don’t know what world he’s been to, but it must have been bonkers.”

Mad like the hatching Bill had been dragged to, while visiting his brother for the first time in a decade. Absolutely mental like a dragon speaking English right out of the shell. Completely barmy, as a talking dragon named Remy suddenly appearing in Romania at the preserve where his brother worked. Bill ran for the Apparation point, snatched up an international Portkey at the garrison, and floo’d back to Shell Cottage with the impossible news.

Harry was up, even at that very early hour, nursing a cup of tea with a yawn. He spoke quickly, asking about Charlie’s opinion, none of which mattered at all. “Remy,” he said to Harry. “Remy.”

And it was all he needed to say, before he was running again. And this time, Harry was in the lead.

::::::::

Charlie decided that would name his dragon after his deceased brother, though the man was only persuaded by Remy, who assured him that his own name was in memory of someone who a died too. The newly dubbed Fred (and Remy thought it was a charming name despite Charlie’s embarrassed laughter), was satisfied and all at once demanding food and Charlie’s undivided attention.

The buzz of excitement the entire event elicited did not die down, and in fact, had grown. Soon, Remy, Charlie and Fred were surrounded on either side by excited handlers, dragon surgeons and even some curious locals.

It was through this crowd that Harry had to wade, with Bill trailing behind. Once the hatching site was before him, Harry stopped to take in exactly what he was seeing.

Charlie, wrapped in a green dragon, was feeding it bits by hand while a man was getting a detailed dressing down by an irritated Remy. The massive bowl of rum and chicken blood was dragged away under Remy’s watchful eye, and around them, dragon tamers spouted off agitated Romanian and pointed, without shame, at the talking dragon.

But once Harry had seen enough of the spectacle, he only had eyes for Remy. His companion was hovering around the duo protectively, ignoring the hubbub with surprising patience, and looking, for all the world, as unchanged as if it were only yesterday that Harry had seen him, and as brilliant and amazing as usual, in this world and the next.

“Remy,” Harry said, not loudly, and mostly for his own benefit. To put a name to the vision before him, of his companion, thought lost perhaps forever. But Remy heard him anyway, and looked up.

They took in one another, startled by the absolute happiness that erupted in them at just a glance. Harry’s face split into a tremendous grin, and his feet were moving forward without conscious thought, and Remy was craning his long neck toward him, his expression of hope so clear and desperate Harry could have cried. And then they were wrapped about each other familiarly and comfortably; the perfect image of dragon and captain reunited.

“Harry,” Remy whimpered into his hair, ruffling it terribly. “Mon capitaine, you are here.”

“As if I would be anywhere else, my dearest, my most beloved, Remy,” he said, running his hand down the smooth bridge of Remy’s nose. “I haven’t the foggiest how you’ve managed to get here, but I shouldn’t care. I don’t care. I am so glad.”

Remy’s wings came up to block out what seemed like all the world and their curious eyes. “Mon capitaine, mon capitaine,” Remy repeated, overwhelmed with joy. “Now that you are here, all is well.”

“It is now, dear one,” Harry whispered. “It is now.”

End Part III

Go to Part IV

#Hp fic #crossover #temeraire fic #hp3c

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