Author: The Plot Bunny Whisperer
Title: Without Reserve
Rating: T
Genre: Gen,
Summary: Kobayashi Hari, newly of Namimori, is a simple man with simple needs who'd really rather be left alone. Unfortunately for him, no one ever listens.
Pairing(s): None.
Warnings: light angst, hints of PTSD
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't care, don't sue.

AN: Short one-shot to help with writer's block. Written while having been awake for nearly 48 hours so there's bound to be mistakes. Sorry for that. One-shot for now, might be continued.

Enjoy!

Without Reserve

Less than two weeks into his job as tutor for the Vongola Decimo-to-be, Reborn finds himself in an unusual situation – that of being frustrated due to a lack of information. (He wasn't brooding. Anyone who said otherwise would be shot.) What made it worse was that he could not place the blame on CEDEF, who supplied the information, as it was more than likely they had not even been aware of the lack. This was only further supported by the deplorable failure of all of his spying techniques; even his bugs can't get past whatever protections were employed by his target.

Said target just happened to be the Sawada's neighbor, Kobayashi Hari, who lives in the house directly behind his new student.

If not for an offhand mention by Nana, Reborn would likely have never paid any particular attention to this one person, having already written off all of the other neighbors within a two kilometer radius as being of least concern. What draws his attention, however, and places this one on his radar was that until Nana had packed up the leftovers from lunch his first weekend in the house and cheerfully stated that she was going to "run around the corner and drop this off for Hari-kun~! That boy, always too busy to remember to eat~," Reborn hadn't even realized there was someone living in that house.

It was as though the mere mention of the name had lifted a fog in his mind he hadn't even known existed. It was suspicious. And annoying.

Reborn had spent several days in reconnaissance scouting the neighborhood and surrounding town before slipping his flyer into the Sawada mailbox. Until that moment he couldn't recall even a single mention of this Kobayashi Hari. With the fog now lifted, he begins to recall snatches of conversations and tiny nuggets of information about the "polite and helpful though somewhat distant Kobayashi-san." Information that his mind had recorded, labeled 'unimportant,' and then promptly forgot about.

It was entirely unlike him to ignore so obvious a threat. A person who could remain so invisible to his senses, especially being so close to him and what he was duty bound to protect, that could apparently influence even his mind had to be a threat. It was one he refuses to remain ignorant of.

Which was why he was so incredibly frustrated. Setting his bugs to spy on the house for him had been a futile endeavor; they either reported that there was nothing there of notice or came back confused and uncertain of what they were supposed to be doing. His second attempt, using cameras, was a complete failure from the start. Most of them stopped working within hours; the lenses wouldn't focus, the batteries would die, and in one notable case, went up in flames from internal shortages caused by faulty wiring. Not even spying on the house in person while Tsuna was busy at school worked. Either he would see nothing or something would distract him and make him leave only to realize minutes later than he had been tricked somehow.

It was infuriating. If Reborn didn't know better, he'd say that Kobayashi Hari was a ghost.

If he hadn't been so irritated already because of this information gap and his failures to fill it, he might have gone a bit easier on the annoyance that was the Bovino brat. Unfortunately, the little cow nuisance had caught him shortly after yet another failed attempt to plant a spy (by way of a beetle hiding in Nana's apron pocket as she made another trip to Kobayashi's house. It had returned with exactly nothing to report.) The assassination attempts did nothing but further piss him off, so instead of simply deflecting the attacks he returned them twofold.

(In hindsight, he would be thankful for his overreaction.)

Several explosions later, the cow is crying in the corner, singed, dirty, and still smoking from the detonations. Tsuna is waffling between trying to console the child and stammering attempts to scold the unrepentant Reborn, who either ignores or shoots at him in return. It is within the chaos that there is a barely audible thump; a form landing on the sill of the open window, ruffling the curtains and bringing a sudden halt to the activity in the room.

Lambo's wailing abruptly silences, startled by the arrival of the person now crouched in the window. The toddler hiccoughs, drying his teary, snotty face with a cloth-covered fist, lips pursed in a trembling pout. Tsuna jumps, turning sharply and tripping over himself, landing in a graceless pile on the floor. Upon sighting his new guest, he cringes, looking at once sheepish and guilty.

Reborn studies the newcomer with sharp eyes. He is a young man in his late teens, possibly early twenties. Clearly a foreigner, with peach-pale skin darkening slowly from the sun and rounded eyes; American, or European perhaps. Despite the lanky body half hidden by the loose-fitting but clearly tailored clothing, Reborn can see a subtle definition of muscles that prove him to be stronger than he appears.

Hooded green eyes, partially obscured by a messy mop of dark hair and bruised from lack of sleep, survey him just as intently before taking in the room in a single sweep with a strangely piercing stare. His thin lips are curled slightly downward, brows pinched in obvious annoyance. His fingers tap a halfhearted rhythm against the side of the frame, where they were clutched for purchase as he thinks. Finally, he speaks, peering down at the sniffling would-be assassin. There was a hint of an accent. (European; likely British, Reborn decides with no little satisfaction.)

"Hey. Brat."

Lambo's face scrunches, chubby cheeks puffing in indignation at the address. "Lambo-san is not a brat," he mutters sullenly, glaring at interloper with watery eyes. The teen ignores him.

"Cool it with the grenades, would you?" His words are calm, slow, almost calculatedly lazy. His eyes narrow just a bit more into a soft glare with just a hint of darkness; subconsciously, Reborn perks up, recognizing something within the contrasting gaze. "I was trying to nap." Lambo flinches from the subtly scolding, almost parental tone, crossing his arms and turning his face in a huff. He sniffles again and mumbles something, but not even Reborn's sharp hearing can make out what he says.

Tsuna shrinks a little as the jade glare turns in his direction, hunching into himself. The eyes narrow even further and, to Reborn's carefully hidden surprise, Tsuna seems to check himself, drawing a quick breath and firming his back, eyes up and head high. The teen smirks in approval, slipping completely into the room and falling (in a graceful mockery of Tsuna's earlier tumble) into a cross-legged slump below the window, yawning as he goes.

"Is there a reason for all the noise, or did you just decide you wanted to celebrate Tanabata a month early?" However irreverent his words are, there's something knowing in his gaze; something old and weary and wary. Reborn knows, as sudden as a lightning strike, that this is not a man to cross.

It doesn't stop him from trying.

Leon clicks, and half-lidded jade eyes look past the gun pointed at his head into his own shadowed onyx orbs. Tsuna lets out something like a half strangled shriek, but the older teen looks simply… amused. Reborn finds it even more annoying than his failed spying attempts.

"Who are you?" Reborn demands.

Instead of answering, the teen tilts his head and slides his eyes to the side. "Tsuna, that little one looks like he desperately needs a bath. Could you take him down to Nana-san? Maybe get him a snack while you're at it." Despite that it's worded as a request, it is very much an order. Tsuna's eyes waver between his guest and his tutor as he hesitates. If Reborn is reading him correctly (which of course he is) Tsuna seems almost… protective. He clearly doesn't want to leave the two of them alone in the same room – and it certainly isn't Reborn he's worried for.

"Alright, Hari-san." Lambo doesn't protest when Tsuna picks him up, silenced by the tension in the room. "I'll bring your usual up in a minute," is the last thing he says as he shuts the door behind him.

Reborn is glad to have his suspicions confirmed; glad to finally be able to put a face to the name that has haunted him for almost a week. Still, neither his hand nor his gun wavers with the confirmation. Kobayashi Hari has been a constant aggravation to him since the lifting of whatever geas he'd been under since his arrival in Namimori, and he will get his answers, one way or another.

—•—

When the ceremonies are over and the following party has finally wound down, the only thing Harry can feel is relief. Thoughts of the future still leave him uncertain and somewhat terrified, but for now he can relax. The future will come all too soon; he may as well enjoy what little time to himself he has left before his attention is demanded once again by the public or the Ministry or everyone all at once.

Physically and emotionally exhausted, he allows Kreacher to shoo him away so the old elf could clean the parlor of Number Twelve, aided by a much improved Winky. He finds himself, once again, contemplating her zest for life even as she ushers him up the stairs, fretting and clucking her disapproval over his state of weariness. One of the best decisions he made after the war (likely the only one, he muses bitterly) was binding Winky as a second elf. Hermione had thrown a stink and the two had had a massive row over it, but eventually even she could tell that his snap decision had given the disgraced elf new life.

He envies her for that. This little elf has found purpose in a world where every day he feels more and more like he is drowning by inches. He banishes the thought immediately, unwilling to begrudge her a happiness she has been long deserving of.

He stumbles into bed, half asleep already. He acknowledges Winky's help in getting his boots off, waving her away when she lingers, clearly wanting to make sure he's abed properly. She pops away to get on with whatever it is she does when she isn't busy fussing over him, but with the silence and in the darkness comes his worries and regrets, keeping him just on the precipice of sleep without allowing him to fall into slumber.

It's the silence that bothers him the most. Even as he desired his solitude, the sounds of his sleeping dorm mates was a stark and needed reminder that he was not alone, however much of a lie it truly was. Here, in this house, he truly is alone, or near enough to count. The spells within his walls blocks out even the sounds of his elves as they go about their business, taking from him that small comfort. He is alone with his thoughts and that, as he has learned, is never a good thing.

The world itself drowns him by day, but it is the memories that come to him in the dark that are truly suffocating. He is haunted by the faces of his failures, of those he was too weak or too slow or too unknowledgeable to save. He is lauded as a hero by all but those who were on the losing side of the war, but for all that he has won the right to finally live, he feels as though he could die tomorrow and that would be his only true accomplishment.

His weighted mind finally drags him into an uneasy sleep. He tosses and turns throughout the night, and only a few hours pass before he is jolted awake again, a strangled name clogging in his throat. He is unsure which one it is this time, but it doesn't really matter. Eventually, they all take their turn like an ouroboros made of words, biting its tail in an endless cycle. He doesn't need a clock to tell him it's much too early for him to be awake – the dark sky outside his window is answer enough – but he knows he won't be getting any more sleep that night.

A quick shower washes away some of the grogginess that still clings to him and in short order he is ensconced in a thickly padded chair in the study, a heavy tome (light reading by Hermione's standards) in his lap. It could be minutes or it could be hours before he is drawn out of his reading by the clinking of china and the smell of tea and toast. Winky stares at him reproachfully until he takes his first bite.

"Master Harry not be's sleeping," she accuses, giving another pointed look at his breakfast. "He be reading when he should be in bed. He be worrying his poor elveses, he is." He is both glad for and rues the day she learned to speak her mind. Glad, because it only proves that she has recovered from her mistreatment and depression; rues because she scolds better than Molly Weasley in a full snit, without having to raise her voice even a little to get him to feel guilty.

"I'm sorry," he says contritely, finishing the slice of toast under her watchful eye. "It was too quiet."

She nods, accepting if not fully satisfied. "Will Master be wanting his letters, then?" she asks, clearing away the empty dish with a snap of her fingers and pressing a handkerchief into his hands.

"Letters?" He dips a corner of the cloth into his tea, meticulously wiping the jam from his fingers as he glances at the clock. It's barely past four in the morning; he shouldn't have letters yet. His graduation had only been the day before.

"King Minister and Professy Headmistress leave letters last night for Master. They is saying he should be reading them when he is wanting to." She pours him another cup of tea, fiddling with the arrangement on the service tray in a way that tells him she is reluctant to continue the conversation. Or rather, it is that she wants him to rest more instead of burdening him with work. He feels a rush of stark affection for her and his fond smile makes her fidget in embarrassment.

"I'll take them," he says, feeling rather reluctant himself. "I might as well get it over with." She nods and grudgingly hands him the two thick envelopes before popping away again.

He knows without looking what they contain. His final months of schooling had been filled with more politics than learning. While he knows Kingsley and Professor McGonagall had meant well, their expectant looks and not-quite subtle remarks about his career choices had only placed more pressure on shoulders already weighed down with uncertainty. If he's honest with himself, he no longer desires to be an Auror; he's sick of fighting, of hunting mysteries that hold dark secrets. Neither does he wish to be an educator, for all that he had enjoyed his time teaching the DA. He's tired, and it is a bone-deep weariness that shakes him at his core.

There are days when he wishes he had never left his cupboard. That he yearns for the simple days of being a child butler instead of a nephew. Those days are gone now, but they will always linger within him. However much he tries to hide it, to fight it, to run from it, he will never escape that part of him. He will always be the freak under the stairs; the mistake that no one wanted.

If he had his choice, he would leave for some place far away and never look back. Unfortunately, his choices had never truly been his own.

—

He puts off answering the letters for weeks. The envelopes sit on his desk in his study, creased and rumpled from his many times opening and reading them. Ron and Hermione stop by often during that time, looking harried and stressed as the days go by. If Ron has noticed them, he ignores it, instead talking about his family and life at the Burrow, of the reopening of the joke shop. He mentions Ginny a few times, but it's halfhearted at best and the subject is dropped quickly.

Hermione looks at them each time, her mouth opening as if to say something, to ask about it, before she changes her mind and speaks of something else. She talks of her travel plans to Australia instead, of how she intends to begin searching for her parents; whispers her fear of not finding them or of finding them and having them hate her for what she did. She talks of wedding plans, which is being pushed back until she has that closure, and fills the air with mindless chatter of colors and seating arrangements and decorations. She, too, brings up Ginny, but it's more hesitant and questing and she drops it reluctantly when he sours on the topic.

Their presence in and out of his life feels fleeting; ephemeral. He knows this is partly his fault. He has not tried very hard to reach out to them, mired in his own self-doubt and unwilling to burden them when they are already stretched so thin. As the days pass and their departure date draws near, he feels as though he is losing something that he can never regain once it's gone. He doesn't quite know how to keep it from happening, but he doesn't exactly try either.

Their last day in Britain sees him leaving Grimmauld Place for the first time in ages. Molly greets him with an exuberant smile and gently rebukes him for staying away at the same time as she pushes an overfull plate into his hands. Arthur shakes his hand in welcome and gives him a hearty clap on the back before he is called away by another arrival. He sees Ginny in and out of the corner of his eyes, but as she avoids him just as carefully as he avoids her, surprisingly he feels not guilt or pain from this, but relief.

The Burrow is packed with all of the remaining Weasleys and their extended friends, and despite the somber cast to the day, there is laughter and happiness and plenty of good cheer. It feels less like a goodbye than it should; less an ending and more of a beginning.

As the day winds down and the departing couple get ready to activate their portkey, first Ron and then Hermione throw their arms tightly around his shoulders. There is a stark sadness in their eyes as if they have just realized what he has noticed for weeks. The clock is winding down and yet they linger while the remaining partygoers politely give them their space.

Eventually, they can no longer put it off. Hermione throws her arms around him one last time and whispers something in his ear. With a tearful smile, she pulls back and they are gone before he can even think to respond.

Slowly, he smiles. He feels inexplicably lighter than he has in months, as though he could power a thousand Patronus or fight Voldemort all over again without breaking a sweat. For the first time since the end of the war, he laughs – loud and bright, and without reserve.

And then, as he has always done, he does exactly as Hermione tells him to do.

—

"It's okay to live for yourself, Harry. Hang your perceived duties and responsibilities. You're free now, and it's time you did something for your own happiness instead of everyone else's. No matter what, we will always love you. So stop merely surviving, you silly man; go live."