A/N: Don't own, two small (shortened) quotes from OotP and DH, thanks for the follows/favs/reviews, hope you like it.

After weeks of being restrained by ropes, the cold and foreign iron shackles were biting painfully into his inflamed wrists. The resigned gathering of captives was advancing wordlessly, tinkling chains reverberating eerily along the corridors. Conscious of the watchful eyes of the guards escorting them, they walked with their head bowed and shoulders slumped.

Earlier that day, the host had arrived in proximity of Selhorys and the one they called Khal had signalled for a halt. Whip-carrying riders had then aligned all of the prisoners in order. Carters were at the front, and Harry at the very back. The day before, Scar had practised his very personal brand of makeover on Harry. Designed to make one look like they had been found dead in a ditch and slightly re-heated in a microwave. Admittedly, after a couple of months in the riders' company, it was not a very hard feat. Harry's hair had been haphazardly shaved to emphasise the ugly scar at the back of his head. Then his tunic had been traded for an equally ratty but tighter one, doing great disservice to his slight and half-starved frame. The satisfied smirk on Scar's face had made something ugly boil in Harry's guts. True hatred is a rare but dangerously energizing feeling.

Not long after, a small group of horse-mounted people had arrived with a colourfully dressed envoy from the city. The man had presented an intricately engraved chest filled with precious trinkets of gold and various stones to the Khal. As a 'gift', the rider had then gestured to the bound men and women, and soldiers had begun to gather and bind them with sturdy shackled chains. During the process, Harry had seen Scar converse with a bold fat man who was taking notes on the transaction.

Finally, the procession arrived in a big room furnished by three stools along the left and the right edges. In front of each stool was a small table topped by a few unrecognisable tools. All of the stands were manned by older, white-haired women with tattoos on their faces and slave collars around their necks. As the guards started to separate the chained groups into lines, Harry saw three men ahead. Two of them were dressed in colourful robes and resembled the envoy that parleyed with 'Bushy Boss'. They were followed by the scribe who was going over notes he had taken on his wax tablets. The jury took seat in front of a table adorned by fruits, nuts and wine. One of them used a candle to light up a stick of incense, warding off the squalid smells of the prisoners.

In time, all captives were brought in front of the three men, a small discussion would take place before an unfortunate soul was taken to a stool. Here, different things happened depending on what had been decided. Some would have their hair shaven, some were divested of their clothing to be analysed by the collared women's elder. Each one's ordeal ended by having a symbol forcefully tattooed on their face. When they were done, the new slave would be taken through a door at the back and the cycle would repeat.

After one or two long hours, the sordid sorting came to an end. Harry and eight other men were the only bound prisoners to remain unsorted in the room. All of his peers were grey-haired survivors who managed to withstand the arduous walk seemingly on shear stubbornness. Some of them were even maimed in some way. Two were missing fingers, one had lost an ear to the curved weapon of a rider and an older man kept squinting at everything, as if he couldn't quite see clearly.

The sorry lot was bunched together by the three remaining guards, and the scribe approached them briskly as the robed men left the room to see to the newly acquired slaves. An exchange of words followed that Harry understood very little about, but it did nothing to alleviate the ominous feeling hanging in the air.

~'Are you sure about this one,' a guard said, gesturing in his direction, 'he doesn't look that bad... I mean, he looks young.'

~'Yes, yes, apparently he took a bad fall. Hit his head and became completely worthless'

~'Oh, yeah... he does seem a bit lost there doesn't he?'

~'They told me he only talks in nonsense Westerosi and doesn't know how to do anything, funny how that can happen...' the scribe said pensively, 'Anyway you lot, let's get moving, our friend will be waiting!'

The disheartened group of men was then dragged through the long corridors again. After emerging inside of the city, they were paraded along the streets without pause. The strange spectacle didn't seem to attract anyone's attention, however, and they remained mostly unheeded by the population. This town looked like a dirty, cluttered mess to Harry. He imagined it was like a blend of old middle-eastern civilizations with ancient Rome in architecture and a healthy sprinkling of refuse on top.

Harry quickly realised that he had judged too soon.

After traversing many streets, they arrived at the worst area of the docks. Along the river, the smells of rotting fish and stagnant water were almost overwhelming to the senses. Dingy taverns and brothels were strewn on the other side. Mingling about, sailors and travellers who all appeared to be thoroughly drunk or worse populated the crass district. Harry even wondered if one particularly rugged-looking man, who drooped motionless on a crate, was even still alive. Now this, Harry thought as his now calloused naked feet slipped on the grimy, uneven pavement, this is a shitehole.

They came in front of an open air circus comprised of an enormous cage surrounded by rough-looking elevated bleachers. The tiring group walked towards one of the big ratty tents at the back. Entering, the scribe was greeted by a small, flinty-looking man with cropped black hair and beady eyes. They argued for a short while until the man produced a bare fistful of silver coins, seemingly satisfying the now jovial scribe. At the back of the tent, the nine bound men were shoved inside an enclosure perched on top of a low wheeled cart. Guards took their shackles off through the bars before walking out with the scribe.

Silence was absolute as the short man exited the tent, leaving them sealed and closing the flap after him. The complete darkness was only lifted by what little light managed to pass through the thick canvas, highlighting the large iron bars that surrounded them. The inside of the cage was crammed, obviously not designed to accommodate nine adult human beings. After a moment to adjust, they all sat in circle with their backs to the bars, folded knees often touching to the sides.

Seemingly at once, multiple noises began to be heard. He could hear ragged breathing coming from one of the men directly in front of him. By his left, one started coughing uncontrollably. On his right, the near-blind old man was softly crying. Harry sat still, his arms hugging his legs tightly. His eyes opened, looking through the bars at some point in the distance, he didn't move. He didn't make a sound.

How did I end up here? That question obsessed Harry most of all.

-"Fuck this!" Harry said, bowing his back as he laboriously got himself up. The cage was maintained firmly shut by big heavy chains that looped around the bars a few times. On the other side, there was a large and primitive iron padlock. I can do this, he thought, they left us alone, don't give up!

Contorting himself to move around, he signalled the long-haired man who was missing fingers to scoot over, taking his place in front of the door. The only people he had ever known to pick locks without using magic were the twins. Harry wished he had taken the time to learn the skill from them in detail, but then again, he had no tools with him. Fighting through the despair, he tried everything he could. He shook, hit, pulled and pushed until his hands were hurting. Harry made multiple attempts to provoke his magic to come to his aid, accidentally or otherwise, but they yielded nothing. Just like the many times he had tried before.

Exhausted and beaten, he sat down again. The others didn't say a word. His mind whirled as he buried his head in his shaky hands, and then, it came to him.

In truth, it had begun insinuating itself in the back of his mind from the very first day. Through weeks of walking it stayed there, lurking. It sometimes took advantage of a moment of weakness to haunt his waking thoughts: an insane idea. He had wondered if it was all a bad dream, a mind spell of some kind, or if he had simply gone insane. But now, with this city so strange and foreign, it took a full hold of his consciousness. This is not my world, he thought, If you can travel trough time, it must be possible to travel trough worlds. So somehow, I am lost somewhere else... everything I know means nothing. Nobody is coming for me.

-"This is not my world", Harry whispered. Nothing answered him.

Much later, after the night had surely fallen outside, a young woman slipped into the tent with a small lantern. The low light of the short candle inside it was casting huge shadows around the space as she tip-toed in their direction. She was dressed in a long tunic circled by a multitude of colourful ribbons that were faded by time and use. Once she drew near, Harry could see that her face was marred by two deep gashes. One travelling from the right side of her jaw to her cheekbone, the other reaching diagonally from her left brow to the bottom of her ear. He could also just make out the outline of a tear tattooed under her left eye.

She whispered a few words to the prisoners before reaching into a burlap sack, taking out a few pieces of herbal bread with cheese and a water skin that she passed trough the bars. All of them answered a few words that he assumed were thanks, so Harry repeated them before starting to chew into his share mechanically. It was certainly the best meal he had eaten since awakening in the deserted plains seven or eight weeks ago, but his heart wasn't in it. Throughout the low conversation that followed, he only picked out the girl's name: probably Fera. Not long after, she took back the empty skin, mumbled a final goodbye and left discretely through the back.

Distantly, Harry could hear the bustle of taverns and bordellos along the street. The lively cacophony emerging from the dock's rowdy night-life was in stark contrast with the sombre atmosphere in the tent. Resigned, his legs hurting, he settled his head against the cold iron cage and closed his eyes.

_.-=A=-=C=-.**.-=O=-=D=-._

Covered in blood, Harry sat trembling alone in the cage.

-"It's not just accidents now, huh?" He mumbled.

"Accidents!" screamed Voldemort, "accident and chance and the fact that you crouched and snivelled behind the skirts of greater men and women, and permitted me to kill them for you!"

He shook his head. The three deep gashes marring his back burned with every inch of movement.

Harry could still see clearly, apparently It had not been damaged.

He did not notice Fera walking slowly towards the cage.

Thinking trough it, what was his reason for clinging to life so desperately?

"You do care," said Dumbledore, "you care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it."

Do I still? Harry thought. It's a great and unexpected gift to learn that even when purpose is lacking, you will do everything you possibly can to stay alive. Like finding something precious in the woods somewhere.

Shaking the cobwebs of shock and exhaustion, Harry finally saw Fera. The kind young woman approached and began to roughly treat his many wounds with water and boiled rags.

The pain was invigorating. Keeping him awake and focused.

What do I care about?

Thinking longingly of Hermione's Dittany and Madam Pomfrey's matronly glares, Harry found his answer.

Home! I want to find home!

He smiled.

Sure, he thought, contemplating his current condition, find home... what could go wrong?

"So, tell me, what could go wrong?" Harry said.

"Oh, nothing, you might feel a little bit poopy," said Luna as Hermione rolled her eyes, "but then we can just remove it with Murtlap."

It was a strange set of circumstances that had brought them all to this potentially revolutionary discovery.

Luna had found an old forgotten practice during her travels. Hermione had debated with her about Ancient Runes, Arithmancy and Healing until pigs learned to fly. Harry had provided an unexpected practical idea to solve a problem. And Ron had been their go-to guy to source unusual supplies and tip the scale towards common sense.

"We are sure a tattoo wouldn't work?" Ron asked again, his voice queasy.

"Yes," said Hermione while chewing her nail, "There's no way it would constrain so much energy."

"Don't worry so much, it's not like it's the first time I use one of those," Harry said falsely cheerful.

Picking up the black quill, Harry began to carefully trace over the template in front of him.

-"Of course!" Harry said, making Fera jump. Turning around and ignoring the painful jolts of his back, he looked at her hair. There. A small broach was attached to her bangs with a pin. It could work... would it work?

"It works!" said Harry, removing his now blurry glasses.

"Really?" Hermione, "Well of course it does." Luna, "Cheers mate!" Ron.

After a brief celebration and much pestering and annotating of journals by Hermione, Harry asked: "So, when do we do the one that can make me fly?"

"Right you are," cheered Ron.

"First of all," said Hermione, "that's not possible, you can't make a well of magic deep enough to have that type of results without severe side-effects."

"Keeling over and dying is a big side-effect," added Luna serenely.

"Secondly," Hermione said with a crisp nod towards Luna, "I don't think it would be reasonable to add another runic well on yourself, even a very small one. A wizard can only concentrate so much magic, and our bodies needs a good amount flowing freely to be fully healthy and able to cast spells."

"Well... so much for tha-" said Ron.

"And finally," Hermione added unperturbed, "it's not done yet. You'll need to keep using the quill for a few weeks until the scar stops disappearing. That was the whole point."

-"Sorry Hermione," Harry whispered, "Fera?" He said.

The girl looked at him in concern.

-"Could I borrow your broach?" He asked, trying to look sane and reasonable while miming.

Startled, she took a step back. The blood was not helping.

-"Wait, please!" He begged, "I," he pointed at himself, "give it back," he joined his hands, gesturing the handing of something precious, "to you." He finished pointing at her.

Slowly, as if considering whether she was making the biggest mistake of her life, she unclasped her broach and gave it to him. She was perplexed when he took out the thin metal pin and gave the broach back immediately, making gestures to wait for the rest.

Harry contemplated what runes to use. Unfortunately, he had never bothered to learn many. (Sight/Perception) and (Clear/Unveiled), he knew very well, having carved small versions of them on his left shoulder blade. He only knew a handful of others well enough that he could write them from memory. He had to be exceedingly precise.

"So, how precise would that be?" Harry asked.

"Very, very precise... way too precise" said Hermione.

"And you're supposed to do that with a knife, in one go?" said Ron discouraged.

Hermione and Ron argued for some time until:

"Wait!" Said Harry, "the quill! Umbridge's quill!"

"Ah?" said Ron.

"Of course! said Hermione, the law of large numbers! If you use a Blood Quill to draw over a perfect template hundreds of times, small variations will smooth out!"

"Yes, of course," said Ron rolling his eyes.

"Sure, that's what I meant," said Harry.

"Where could we find one?" asked Luna.

They all looked at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes' new number two.

"Huh?" said Ron.

Long minutes passed. There's only one sane solution, Harry thought feverishly. Slowly, He brought his right hand to the inner side of his left biceps. Using his pinky and ring fingers as levers to avoid shaking, he carved two small runes in a Granger-Lovegood Well Pattern onto his skin. Smiling, he handed the pin back to a flustered Fera and fell unconscious.

_.-=A=-=C=-.**.-=O=-=D=-._

The sound of a crowd roaring with laughter could be heard behind the canvas screen.

Looking through a tear in the fabric, he saw what was making the gathering so cheerful. Bulky, strong armed performers seemed to be juggling with two dwarves dressed as acrobats. They would throw them at the same time in each other's direction, catch them with a small bow, and then step back, letting the tension rise in the audience, before repeating the process again.

On the stands, Harry could see a few dozen people enjoying the demonstration. They guffawed, oohed mockingly and applauded each time a dwarf was thrown from one side of the pit to the other, some of them gulping down big tankards of ale all the while. For a wild moment, he thought he could make out the dishevelled form of Mundungus Fletcher among the crowd and his heart leapt. But the man raised his head to shout out something unintelligible and Harry realized he looked nothing like the infamous swindler. If someone had told me one day the mere sight of that old crook could bring me so much hope, I would have had them transported to St Mungo's in a heartbeat, Harry thought despondently.

Soon, the dubious spectacle was over and his cart was brought to the big enclosure. The opening of the 'stage' was coupled to his cage with thick ropes, matching perfectly so that Harry could not escape once his door was opened. Like the previous week, the lock and chains keeping it closed had been replaced with an inexpensive string that could be cut from a distance and two burly guards keeping watch. Unlike last time however, the same measures had not been applied to the other side of the arena.

~'Laaaaadies and Geeeeeeentlemen,' said the presenter, 'last week, eight men died at the claws of our most ferocious White Lion.' The crowd cheered. 'But a man... one man decided to cling to his worthless existence like a desperate puppy.' Some people booed while those who missed it had their neighbours explain what happened. The Hrakkar had been a crowd favourite for many months, and his death at the hands of a scrawny frenzied slave was a big blow to Port-side's entertainment industry.

~'Noooow,' the presenter said, trying to appease the jeers, 'in response to this affront, returning to Port-side for the first time in three years, I give you: The Bruuuuuuuuuute'

The crowd went silent as a big cloaked figure stepped out of a tent. Then it went wild.

Fuck.