Chapter Text
Harry was liking this universe. It was certainly better than what some options were (Hermione's imagination had supplied his own plenty of fodder).
It had magic as part of it already, there was modern civilisation, and there weren't any wars involving the entirety of the world. Sure, magic wasn't known by the majority of the people living on the planet, but you couldn't have everything you wanted in life.
Harry was enjoying wandering around here; seeing the sights, meeting exciting people/creatures/beings, getting lost every now and again, occasionally doing a bit of vigilante-justice where necessary. It was good.
It didn't really last. (He wasn't that surprised. Prophecies seemed to put a beacon on people, making it that much harder to blend in and just be one of the crowd.)
He was backpacking in Spain when it happened, enjoying being a tourist and with absolutely no demands on his time.
And then he ran into this . . . vampire-y demon-y thing. He's not gonna be more specific than that, because he doesn't really know what it is.
It had taken one look at him - it was human looking then - and had pretty much just lunged at him, mouth shrieking blue murder, claws outstretched, and the most awful stink that he'd nearly gagged (years of potions was the only thing that had prevented that from happening, but it had still been a close call).
His reflexes were pretty decent - Quidditch, the war, work - so he was able to avoid it and not get snagged on the whirling mass of claws, growls, and hatred.
Well, it was a bit much to ask to never be attacked in a word with magic. "Oi, ugly!" Harry yelled, taking a quick glance at their surroundings. It was night, there were only a few lights on, and the one person he saw was quickly going in the opposite direction. Good; there'd be less need to hold back without any innocents around. "What do you want with me?" The adrenaline's flowing, his brain is waking up, and he feels so incredibly alive with battle (he misses it, and hates it - it's the only time outside of flying that he doesn't feel half asleep in this world).
"Wizard . . ." The creature hissed venomously, sinuously creeping closer to him. Harry'd find the whole 'on all fours' thing a bit more freaky if he hadn't been forced to put up with Voldemort and the associated shitstorm that had been. On a scale of Cornish pixies to Nagini, he'd give it about a Blast-Ended Skrewt; a bit scary initially, but not too bad once you knew the horror areas.
"Death to all wizards," the thing lunged, trailing verbal and literal bile. Harry was slightly more caught up on it's words - and he was pretty sure he'd heard them correctly, but you never knew; between the language barrier and accents, it could actually be congratulating him or something. Unlikely, given the whole attack thing, but still possible - than it's actions. He apparated out of the way, further down the street but still within the thing's sightline. Couldn't have it turning on innocents just because it was frustrated, after all.
The thing didn't take his sudden vanishing very well. It seemed frustrated, angry, and there might gave been a bit of fear in there as well. It screeched into the night air. Okay, that was shiver-inducing.
By the time the thing caught sight of him, he was ready to battle it. Transfiguring his clothes to be more durable may mean he lost a bit of flexibility from the fabric, but it was certainly needed. Apparition is going to be my ace with this thing's speed.
Harry readied himself, and joined the battle.
It wasn't terribly hard once he adjusted to the thing - it's movements and speed were definitely different to what he'd faced off against before. And in the end, he'd gone back to the old standby: burning shit. (If that hadn't worked, he'd likely have tried to drown it - opposites and all that - but he didn't think there would be many completely fireproof creatures out there, even with the weirdness this world was already showing him.
The thing had burned, all right. It had gone up in flames like it had been soaked in petrol, and the sounds and smells of it burning- well, whilst he knew it would work, he'd prefer to have done it a different way.
But that wasn't his main concern. His main concerns were how he'd been recognised as a wizard on sight, what the hell that thing was, and why he had been attacked by it when he had been doing shit all to the thing. Hell, he hadn't even realised it was there until it had revealed itself.
Recon it is.
Harry vanished from sight, the only proof that there had been a battle swiftly washed away by the sudden, non-seasonal shower that drenched the area. Spain was off his travelling list indefinitely, and he needed to get information. Now.
Italy wasn't much better.
He was half tempted to visit the Vatican for kicks (and, alright, because Hermione had been just that much of an influence) but he'd held off. For all he knew, the Catholic Church might not have the whole 'thou shalt not suffer a witch' thing here and have no issues with magic; or they could just be hypocrites and use it anyways. Priests, 'nuff said.
There were so many people there in the areas he wanted to visit - runes were an itch with him now, and he really wanted to know what dimensional differences there were - and they seemed to crowd like they had no issues with having strangers right there. Okay, he kinda got that (he was never getting on the Tube in rush hour again, no matter what anyone said. He'd rather disillusion himself and be stuck to the outside then be on the inside in that kind of crush) but it wasn't like he was fine with it himself.
A wall to his back, limited exits, and an easy way to draw his wand - the bare minimum he required to relax his guard. Not very mentally healthy, but incredibly physically healthy in the long run.
And then it had all- turned to shit is an exaggeration, but it certainly hadn't been like getting a free box of chocolates - started to go wrong.
You get the feeling that something is gong wrong when a massive guy (built like a brick shithouse, honestly) dressed all in black and somehow not feeling the temperature strides up behind you, booms out "Remove yourself and your glamour immediately, or there shall be dire consequences," like something out of a particularly trippy opera, and then glares until you get yourself outside.
. . . Which on the Harry Potter scale of 'Oh Shit' isn't ranking that high. It's definitely trying to get up there, but hasn't quite hit the mark.
That the guy was unseen by the people around them was immaterial. If he was dressed like that and speaking like that he wouldn't want people to see him either.
So Harry did what any sensible person would do: he got out of there and didn't alarm the tourists/tour guides/pick pockets as best he could. And on reaching outside, he started moving. (Away from the city, he wasn't that keen on trashing Rome.)
The . . . being? seemed to get the picture since he certainly wasn't running his mouth off now. Matter of fact, he seemed to be having a bit of difficulty with the crowds. Didn't stop him from catching up to Harry soon, but it certainly warmed the cockles of his heart, even if only briefly.
"Remove your glamour, cur, or the consequences shall be dire." How the guy could say lines like that with a straight face was beyond him.
"Um, what glamour? I don't even know what a glamour is, to be honest." Which was partially true. Hermione had crammed a rough approximation of what a glamour was - faerie illusion magic, generally disrupted by contact, took a lot of power - but he had a sneaking suspicion that it was different here. Different world, different rules; seemed reasonable enough to him.
"Lies merely annoy me, creature: remove your illusions at once," He seemed to be about two seconds away from drawing his suddenly appearing sword and charging. Which, not great, but if he wasn't whipping out fireballs yet, it could be worse.
"Um, I'm not wearing any." A steadily tapping finger persuaded him to elaborate. "Really, I'm not! I'm terrible with that sort of thing - I've always been more of a practical sort of guy - and I don't even know what illusion you could be referring to!"
The guy seemed to believe him. Kinda. Okay, he looked less like he wanted to skewer him, but he'd take what he could get. He unbent enough to stop tapping on the sword, anyways. "Your presence does not match your appearance, fiend, and I would have honesty from those in my tomb."
Which- yeah, he was a bit surprised by, too. This guy was a . . . semi-dead eternal guardian to his own tomb? Surely he could get someone else to do it so he could enjoy whatever came next.
"Oh. I'm, uh, sorry? I don't know what I can do about that - I'm not wearing an illusion that I know about, I swear, and I'd probably notice something like that eventually - but I didn't mean to, uh, disrespect you. Really." Really, really. I had no idea you were still kicking, for one thing, and a bit of respect to anything that says 'fuck you' to death is always a good plan.
The being eyes him for a moment, nods, and turns on his heel. "Your words are honest, and your heart is true. You may return to my resting place in peace, vessel."
Vessel? The fuck, and- "How did you know I had magic, um, sir?" Way to sound like an awkward teenager again, Harry. New universe, same old you: British polite and still getting into trouble absolutely everywhere.
The being kept walking. "To those who can See, vessel, the magic you hold is barely contained by your skin."
God, I wish Hermione was here. "So, uh, do you have any tips on how to . . . contain it a bit better? 'Cause I'd quite like to be not recognised on the street for it, if possible."
He gets the feeling that the being is incredulous. If his life wasn't naturally this weird, he'd be right there with him. "You are filled with magic, vessel; unless you know of a way to ultimately sever your connection to the arcane power, you would be as able to change that as a glass would the water it contains."
"Then-" Okay, no, not happening. He was not going to start begging a probably-dead Italian guy who was likely heavily into religion (he has a tomb in Italy? Gotta be religious as hell) to teach him something. Worst comes to the worst, he apparates out of whatever situation he was in and just buggers off to the middle of nowhere to where no one noticed or cared about the random English guy who was living there. New Zealand, maybe. "I thank you for your assistance, guardian," What little of it you gave me, you trigger-happy prick. "Do you have any recommendations for me, for the future?" Like hell if he's just going to let his first real interaction slip through his fingers.
"The sigils, vessel."
And that is all the prick says while walking back to his tomb. Harry isn't that surprised; annoyed, frustrated, but not that surprised.
Still: at least he has a proper starting point now.