Chapter 2: chapter 2
Chapter 2: Tabula Rasa
Chapter Text
It had been an odd week, Harry thought. He sat gazing out over the rugged terrain, the thin pane of glass that separated the bar's interior barely capable of keeping the harsh winds out, particularly at night. It didn't help that distant explosions seemed to grow ever closer every night, and there were more soldiers patrolling the street than he'd seen since he arrived.
The reason that the last days had been truly strange, because Natasha, his self-appointed guide to the war-torn nation, had decided that he couldn't go anywhere alone and had spent the better part of each night dragging him along to every bar and club for expatriates that she could find in a vain effort to figure out his last name, or anything else, really. It wasn't that Harry was particularly careful about using his name – he didn't exist here, he'd checked – but as Natasha had similarly refused to give her surname, it'd turned into a bit of a game.
"You really are just an overenthusiastic gal, aren't you?" Harry asked softly, amused at the concept of Natasha as totally innocent; he had entertained the darkest of suspicions for those first two nights; he'd barely closed an eye. It didn't seem to affect the woman one way or another, and his paranoia had been reined in. Even if he suspected she was playing a part, he doubted the amusement he detected in her voice was faked. He doubted she'd actually go and harm him. He wondered idly exactly what kind of person she really was, without the act.
He could check, of course. Harry shivered, backing away from that thought. He had done some unsavoury things since arriving: he'd obliviated, confounded and hexed a few people where he thought it appropriate. He hadn't considered Legilimency, and he really didn't want to start down that road. He remembered his first experiences with the discipline far too well, with Snape's sneering face hanging over him, memories rushing by as he tried in vain to stop them from being seen; those terrible moments recalled in an instant. No, that was definitely not something to unleash on unsuspecting Muggles: it was inhumane.
Harry sighed, waving his glass as he waited for another drink; he didn't know where Natasha was, but he suspected it was within eye shot, as she always seemed to know when he left. It was interesting to go to these places with a Muggle; he had never really done it in his former life, mostly spending time in the magical equivalent, dancing to the Weird Sisters or others. Honestly, it wasn't much more exciting, and he'd only ever gone for the people, anyway.
"Enjoying yourself?"
"Eh," Harry shrugged, not in the least bit surprised that she popped up right beside him, as if from nowhere. "It's nothing special. Why do you drag me to these places, anyway? I'm not really the type... the one time I had to dance, it was tough enough to find someone who could actually teach me how to do it..." He chuckled, smiling at the bartender as she refilled his glass. "Maybe if I get drunk enough?"
Natasha sighed. "I figured you'd like to see the social circles here – you really shouldn't be cooped up in a hotel, you know – or visiting curiosity shops. What was that all about, anyway?"
Harry blinked. "I'm flattered, I suppose –I'm closer to thirty than twenty, honestly. It doesn't interest me as much as it used to."
She gawked, and Harry uncomfortably realized that he'd read wizards were supposed to age slower than Muggles – did it start this early? He hadn't really had many to compare with, given that both Sirius and Remus had good excuses for looking older than they should, and after living essentially divorced from Muggles for years, he hadn't really thought about the issue. Still, perhaps he had simply hit the genetic lottery, as Hermione put it? With a pang, he realized that his parents hadn't really had the chance to find that out. It was strange to think of himself as being the same age or older than they'd been when things went so terribly wrong. It was so very... young.
"I had you pegged at twenty-two. Maybe." She cocked her head to the side. "Really?"
"I swear, my year of manufacture's 1980." He imitated her movement, smiling. "Or would that be 1979, given... well, never mind... I shouldn't have started that sentence..."
Natasha rolled her eyes. "You could probably pass for twenty; I guess it's because you shave. Not bad." She shrugged and took a sip from her glass. "This makes you officially my senior, I suppose. Huh."
Harry smirked. "Now I'm suddenly the old fogy, eh? Figures that's how it works. It's sad, you know. When I was small, people tended to underestimate my age too, probably because I was thin. Some people didn't, I suppose, most of them of course knew all about..." He stopped, staring at his glass in consternation. "I can't stop yammering... What's in this stuff?"
"Alcohol." Natasha answered dryly. "I think the yammering is what it's supposed to do."
Harry sighed and rolled his eyes, pausing as he allowed the world to settle back down. Okay, he probably had one too many, now. It wasn't terribly tasty stuff, but it worked. He had to admit that going for strong drinks in a bar like this wasn't something he imagined could happen in Afghanistan. This wasn't exactly where you'd expect an honest-to-goodness dance to ever happen. He supposed that with scarcely a single native around, this bar was essentially the best there was for anyone from outside the country to get what they were used to. He sighed briefly as he imagined him and Ginny, out there on the dance-floor, before he shook his head and looked down at his glass darkly. "I don't think I appreciate this alcohol as I probably should."
"Hmmmm?"Brings back painful memories," he said lightly, blinking away. "Never mind, it's not important. Not anymore." He sat in silence for a while as Natasha looked on with an intrigued expression, though she never came out and asked what he meant. "Let's go find some other place," he finally muttered. "When are you supposed to get back to work, anyway?"
"Soon enough. Besides, the last few times I got to do actual work, you ended up having a lazy day at the hotel," she answered lightly. "I swear, you go to Afghanistan out of all possible countries, and then half the time you end up hanging around your hotel room, alone, or in the strangest places – what on Earth were you doing at that bazaar browsing West African fetishes, anyway?"
"It looked interesting," Harry muttered apologetically, looking away. "It reminded me of something. Besides, it was only three blocks over. They were cute too, those fuzz balls, admit it."
"They were little monkey heads." Natasha said with a stare. "Actual monkey heads, imported and everything. Who on earth would even consider buying such a thing?"
Harry wisely didn't answer; he thought it would probably come across as even worse for his already ruined reputation if he admitted to considering buying a sample because one little skull had reminded him distinctly of Mad-Eye Moody, scowling and barking about constant vigilance; another had been almost dead-on for the old Black elf, Kreacher. He wondered idly if that old elf's head would be kept, along with the rest of the Black's eerie collection; with the last of the Blacks vanishing without an heir, the house would probably be put up for sale.
"So, how long will you be here?" Harry wondered, turning back to his companion as they walked out into the dusty street. "I figured you'd be out of here soon since you've had a lot of free time, these last few days."
"I haven't decided," Natasha answered, prodding Harry playfully. "Come on now, I know as well as you do that the only reason you're hanging around here is because I am doing the same. It's not often that you end up meeting with a fellow world-traveller, eh? Even if you're only a budding one..."
"Fair enough," Harry said, shrugging. "I'll probably catch the first flight after you leave. You're right, I admit it. Honestly if I never see another desert again it'd be too bloody soon, so it's certainly not the environment that's keeping me here."
Natasha snickered. "You went looking for new experiences, though. I suppose meeting me counts?"
"It's better than nothing."
"Hey!"
Harry frowned as he quickly locked his door and walked over to his hotel bed. He'd been having an uncomfortable feeling for the better part of an hour now, and he needed to figure out what it was.
It had started right around the time he'd left Natasha – she'd gone off to do whatever she did, and he'd elected to head back to his room to catch some shut-eye. Then there was buzzing. It wasn't loud, and if he wanted to he could probably ignore it, but the annoying constant irritation practically sent him up the wall now that he'd actually noticed it.
Drawing his phoenix-feather wand, he narrowed his eyes and cast the first detection charm he remembered – one of the first he'd ever learned from Hermione, actually. That had been an interesting way of life, when he'd just joined the Aurors; half the time he'd run into situations that he didn't really have the spells for: it was a bit of a sink or swim business, Auror training, and he'd ended up asking Hermione for tips to prevent the same thing from happening again. The result was that he'd learned a small arsenal of obscure little charms she'd scrounged up from her vast collection of tomes and research scrolls; he'd had to keep a little manual to go over them occasionally, as he was prone to forgetting the details. In fact, Hermione had mercilessly teased him about that, especially when he managed to blank on the incantation for the levitation spell of all things. It was the first proper spell he'd ever learned, for Merlin's sake.
"Nothing," Harry muttered as he failed to detect any of the tell-tale glow nearby that would account for the feeling he had, though it did get slightly more pronounced. Suddenly, he recognized the vague buzzing as similar to his reaction when he'd first gotten a mobile phone, courtesy of Hermione and approximately a dozen anti-sorcery charms to keep it intact in a magic-saturated environment. A little while after he'd gotten it, the thing decided to turn into a small firebomb and set his trousers on fire, after which he'd immediately stopped using the things and decided that probably someone less accident-prone should test the latest inventions.
Ruffling through his magically extended pouch (it held a lot more than what it looked like from the outside) he came across numerous odds and ends he'd picked up before leaving; his old broom, worn and with thin cracks in the surface; he kept it mostly for sentimental value. Somewhere in the bottom had to be the newest model that he'd picked up mere weeks ago: it was still wrapped up, but he had no doubt it'd soar, if the old one did.
His hand brushed past a gossamer silk-like cloth and he smiled in recognition : his invisibility cloak, still working as well as the day he'd gotten it. It had gotten him out of quite a few jams, as it was unusually good at concealing oneself: even better than other cloaks, at that. It wasn't too surprising, he supposed; it was one of the Deathly Hallows...
The Hallows. It felt a little strange, now, to think of them as that. Aside from Headmaster Dumbledore and a few of his close friends, nobody even knew the highly magical relics even existed; the prizes of the Peverells were altogether too dangerous to risk falling into the wrong hands, in any case. It was then perhaps fitting that their power was now broken, at least as far as his old world was concerned; he'd retrieved all three before he left, as he was technically still their owner. They'd follow him to death or the closest thing to it.
"Ah!" Harry cried, at last finding what he was looking for, sandwiched between a large stack of Mrs. Weasley's sandwiches which would probably stay good for a decade or more, and a leather book: his photo album, which he'd received from Hagrid so long ago. Somewhere in here was another like it containing many similar photographs from his own time at Hogwarts, including all the exciting parts; Ron's graduation gift to him. He still couldn't fathom how he'd gotten the Creevey brothers to part with those many pictures in which Harry looked decidedly dopy. He pulled his hand free, staring at the wand in his hand for a long moment. He'd scarcely held it since that day, since he'd caught it from the air as Voldemort finally crumbled to the floor in defeat. Dumbledore's wand. The Elder Wand.He whispered an apology to his phoenix-feather wand, feeling decidedly silly as he did so. He'd not touched this more volatile wand in years – he had honestly expected never to do so again, but the chance to remove it from the world and have a dangerous ace up his sleeve was too great an argument to ignore. When he really needed it, it would be there. If he was beaten, in this world... Well, there would be no wizard to pick it up; its power would die with him.
"Here we go again..." He jabbed the legendary wand at his middle, the incantation silent, like most his casting had been for years now. The overpowered detection charm sizzled around him, almost tangible; he shivered at the sheer power that was channelled through the unassuming stick. It felt predatory, dangerous, the opposite of the wand that he'd gotten on his first day: the one that had chosen him, as Mr. Ollivander would say.
With an odd squelching noise something suddenly sent a jolt through his leg, as if he'd been jabbed with a needle. Ripping away his jeans, he blinked in confusion at what dropped down, slightly smoking.
It was a little… machine?
"What do we know, so far, about 'Harry'?"
"Director, we're keeping you informed of all developments; the subject hasn't shown any more signs of strange abilities." The tired-looking researcher turned to his computer and sighed. "Agent Romanoff's keeping a close eye on him – he hasn't done anything strange since he got to Afghanistan. Indeed, it does seem like he actually came to see the sights..."
"I don't care whether he spends his entire day gazing at drying paint," Director Nick Fury muttered, smirking. "I want to know what kind of paint it was and who put it there, if that's the case."
"Yes, sir..."
Fury sighed, turning away and walking to the windows. He gazed down upon the S.H.I.E.L.D. base, drifting along the east coast of the United States at a leisurely pace; teams of mechanics and welders were running to and fro with tools and small forklifts while huge plates were being transported to the side of the vessel with a crane; the Helicarrier was receiving a fix-up. Fury didn't appreciate the down-time; being stuck in one place grated on his nerves. This new – anomaly – did nothing to help his blood pressure, either.
What were the odds, stumbling across a superhuman ability on a surveillance camera? He knew they were possible, of course – he was director of S.H.I.E.L.D, and it was practically in his job description to know every damn thing there was to know about everything – but he hadn't thought he'd just – stumble upon one.
He'd introduced himself as 'Harry', as Agent Romanoff had reported. It was an unassuming name for a person who's just blown onto his alert list from nowhere. He travelled light, and didn't seem too careful; he wandered off the airport with the first pretty lady he came across and hadn't even commented on the fact. Yet – there was something very, very wrong here.
'Harry', if that was his name, didn't exist. At least, there was no passport that had ever been issued to anyone with that name and matching face, and the S.H.I.E.L.D. computer had access to every such file the world over. He'd run three scans – his specific face didn't appear at all, the closest match being a broom-salesman from the Eighties, and even that was flimsy. No passport, no information anywhere in the most sophisticated intelligence database on the planet and strangest of all, he had no plane ticket.
The man had wandered onto and off an airplane into the middle of Afghanistan without even a ticket, and as Agent Romanoff had relayed the events, he hadn't even been stopped; he'd been allowed straight through at the desk, quicker than even normal passengers.
Fury frowned. What kind of clout could a no-name nobody have to get that sort of privilege? Was he in league with resistance groups, perhaps? On the other hand, that didn't explain why the man seemed to just spend his time lazing about and visiting curiosity shops in one of the nastiest places on Earth. It didn't make any sense.
"Should I … inform Romanoff that her orders stand, sir?"
"Agent Triers, I've told you what you need to do. I'll have to think about what to do about this 'Harry'- talk to a few people. Threat or not, he's firmly in our sights now. I'd be damned if I let him slip away."
"Yes, sir" Triers added nervously. Fury turned, gaze wandering over the bridge of the Helicarrier, where a dozen other large computer stations were manned, though most were off. He glimpsed a new face, standing bemusedly at the edge of the room. His next appointment had arrived, it seemed.
"Agent Barton. Come along."
"Harry!"
"Natasha! Where have you been all day? I could've sworn you said you'd be back within the hour. It's been six." He smiled at her in amusement as she hurried in, looking a bit flustered. "Forgot how to count?"
"I had things to do." She scowled as she took in his lazy posture. "You won't believe how annoying it is when you're calling someone and the signal just drops out on you. I'd passed by here before to let you know I'd be late, but I hadn't really considered the roof. What were you doing there? Do you just enjoy hanging out in odd places to irk me?"
"The roof has a nice overhang. I think other people have used it before for the same purposes. I went to think, I suppose." Harry shrugged, sipping from his soda. "It's really the first time I'm properly out of the country, you know. I've visited before, but I always knew I'd be headed straight back. It was strange, reflecting on how different it feels when you have no such plans."
"You're staying here?"
Harry laughed, shaking his head and pulling a face. "Way too hot and dirty. No, probably not here. I'm thinking of seeing a little more of the world, honestly. China, perhaps. I've always wanted to see some of the sights and maybe I could stop by Babylon, take a look at the Hanging Gardens, they're supposed to be lovely this time of year…"
Natasha snorted. "Unless you have a time machine, there's not a whole lot out there, these days. Do you really want to go from Afghanistan to Iraq, by the way? Don't you know any actual tourist attractions?"Harry smiled knowingly. "Well, you never know. The violence has kept safely out of my way, here. I know how to defend myself if I have to, as well." He stretched out his legs on the couch and closed his eyes. "In a way, it's a lot more peaceful than I'm used to. Not a lot less pressure from everyone around me, I suppose. Feels good."
"If war zones make you feel at peace, I think you've been living the wrong life," Natasha commented, squatting down next to him. "Where are you from, anyway? I figured England, but I'm poor at identifying accents…"
"Surrey. Didn't really like it there. I've been back once in the last decade, and that was quite enough." He stretched and yawned. "Really, I'd been planning a little outing for a while now. Away from the stress of being me, you know? Unfortunately, real life kept interfering and ripping me out of my would-be vacation, and my work suffered because of it." He shook his head and pouted. "Hermione, a brilliant friend of mine, insisted that I find a solution before I drove myself nuts. We were pretty close, so when I requested some time off from my job, she instantly saw through me and was on the porch before the night was through."
"Woman's intuition?" Natasha joked. "So, what changed?"
"Eh, I found a solution. Not a pretty one, I suppose. It got a few people upset, but they'll probably get over it. I cut my ties and left and I'm probably not going back." He looked sad for a moment, sighing. "Hermione was the one who kept me going, you know. All these supposed well-wishers bugging me constantly, I ended up locking myself in my home and pacing. Ultimately, I managed to slip between the cracks."
"You wanted to escape from people who wished you well?"
"I think you'll find that what a lot of people mean when they say 'Thank you' or 'Please stay', they actually mean 'Fix my problems'." Harry said dryly, pouring the rest of his soda down his throat in one go, coughing slightly. "I've done my duty – and more-so. I suppose it all just got a little too crazy. I had to go. Had to get out of that rut. Unfortunately, being me, there was no easy option."
"Being you?"
Harry frowned. "It's not important. Really not important, actually. You can consider me just another nobody, if you wish. I don't really care. The fact that I've been here for weeks and I haven't even seen a familiar face feels like a miracle." He smirked. "It feels great to be like a blank slate to people. No preconceptions, no ridiculous expectations. Just – just Harry."
The two sat in contented silence as Harry munched on one of Molly's delicious sandwiches – certainly a hell of a lot better than anything they served here. Harry wondered idly whether Natasha even questioned where he'd gotten it. Probably not.
His mind wandered back to that afternoon, to that dirty club with the poor excuse for alcoholic beverages. Someone had put a little device on him: some kind of technological means for tracking, if the few spy movies he'd seen were anything to go by. The only reason he'd even noticed its presence was the volatile reactions that high technology tended to have around magic. With half a dozen charms for cooling on him, it had understandable protested. He was thankful that at least it hadn't exploded into flaming chunks like his dearly departed mobile.
The worrying thing about it was: one didn't track complete strangers. Which probably meant someone had figured out he was here. Still, there was nobody who even knew who he was. There shouldn't be.
Harry glanced speculatively at Natasha and a suspicion began to grow. Was this really his Tabula Rasa, or not?
Weekly Power Status
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