Disclaimer: I own neither Harry Potter or your soul.

Yet.

The evening was serene.

It was the kind of night which saw promises made by young lovers and vicious murders committed by men who have nothing to lose. Warm air blew a smattering of dust along the sidewalk; the light of a half-full moon and dim beautiful lanterns softly cut through the shadows and, if you stood near the road and listened carefully, you could make out the sound of mothers cajoling their kids to bed.

It was the fourth of August, 1996. A suburb of Paris was experiencing a particularly warm evening. Most windows were open in hopes of summoning a breeze and the whole picture practically radiated contended sleepiness.

A teen walked onto the street; his vacant gaze slid over the features of cottages on either side of the street betraying ignorance of his location. His black hair fell to his shoulders in a barely organised heap, giving him a wild appearance. He wore an understated affair of jeans, a shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a sleeveless jacket of greenish leather and black boots. A pair of angular spectacles, which would occasionally reflect the light of the lanterns, covered his green eyes. He carried a shapeless bag over his right shoulder, hitting his leg on every other step and producing a light jingle. His left hand was covered with a black leather glove. If one looked carefully at it, they would notice several strings of barely-visible runes covering the fingers and a circle of similar characters on the back.

Despite being engrossed in thought, the teen was quite alert, as he noticeably tensed when he heard a sudden screech behind him. He sprung to his right and twisted around in a ready stance. His posture visibly relaxed after seeing a cat on one of the dumpsters nearby with its hair standing up, more shocked than the teen at the sound. He shook his head with a rueful grin and continued to walk.

However, he took no more than five steps before he heard the sound of multiple voices on a parallel street – judging from the tone used, someone was in the middle of a heated argument. On noticing a flash of intense green spell light from his right, he stopped, and his forehead creased. The color was worrisome and begged to be investigated.

Still, the teen was not what he once was, and rushing into trouble did not define him anymore. He shook his head and continued his aimless walk, if ever-so-slightly faster.

However, it was simply not to be. The voices came closer, as did the steps of multiple people from the side-walk ahead of him. The young man immediately and quietly made a tactical retreat behind the nearest dumpster, spooking the already weirded-out cat. Which, after a moment of deliberation decided that the strange human was safer than the approaching source of shouts and abnormal noises, held its position on the dumpster, only occasionally throwing a distrusting look at the teen.

He barely managed to sit down on the asphalt when a trio of men ran out on the sidewalk, pointing intricately carved sticks of wood at a young woman who had just demolished a part of a decorative fence to make her way to the same street.

The teen heard the woman spit out a couple of words in French, and the bored-sounding answer in a deep male voice. He frowned, fished a similar wooden stick out of his pocket and started fiddling with a simple metallic amulet on his neck, tapping it with his wand in a couple of places and smirking in satisfaction, now able to understand the argument.

"…You really should not be so obstinate. Judging by our information, you don't even know how to use it, and therefore, you don't need it, no?" The deep voice continued.

"No need for things to become even more violent," a nasal baritone added threateningly.

"Now listen here," the woman's voice trembled, whether it was from rage or fear, he couldn't tell. "That dog has no business trying to take what belongs to me by birthright!"

"On the contrary, my dear," the man said sarcastically, "Now, my patience is running out. Hand over the stone, or bear the consequences. You may be well-trained, but it is three-on-one," he murmured in a low tenebrous voice.

The woman spat something that the translation amulet failed to catch. The hiding young man frowned and pulled at his left-hand glove, making the runes flare just a bit brighter.

"You are making a mistake, mademoiselle. You can't escape, and you can't win. Do you really want to…?" the nasal voice tried to reason, but a bright red flare interrupted him. The teen frowned and carefully began sliding alongside the dumpster, closer to a low stone fence that would shield him while he made his escape. However his plans went pear-shaped when a deflected concussion curse blew the dumpster he'd been hiding behind to bits, sending him to the ground and hitting him with a sheet of plastic to his back.

"Just… a freaking vacation," he coughed, getting to his feet and deflecting a follow-up curse with a translucent shield that sprung up from his glove. "Is it too much to ask?"

(O)(O)(O)

Two weeks before

Diagon Alley, Britain

The magical street in the centre of London was as lively and colourful as always. While it was still rather early in the morning, most shops were open. Most importantly, the bank of Gringotts was open.

A couple of what appeared to be men in elegant, if understated, robes with face-covering hoods walked through the Alley with purposeful strides. They didn't attract much attention – people around them were still too sleepy to bother themselves with looking at passers-by.

The men briskly entered the bank and approached the closest teller. After a brief whispered conversation, the goblin nodded and jumped off his seat, beckoning the duo to follow.

Ten minutes later, the younger of them sat in a well-furbished office, gaping at a rather tall goblin sitting across the table from him.

"I'm afraid I'm not joking, Mr. Potter."

"Unbelievable," the teen moaned, covering his face with his hands. He was sitting on a ridiculously comfortable chair in the office of his account manager, Tearshape. Generally, this would mean that he had come up with yet another insane money-making scheme, which would usually succeed and give him a new hill of gold in his vault. However, the same mad plots tended to bite him in the arse sometimes, and this is what exactly happened today.

"If I could help you, I would," the goblin shrugged helplessly, looking just as upset with the situation as his primary client. Goblins were paid a percentage of the account they managed, after all. "But perhaps you should have tried to avoid being caught red-handed after murdering that boy."

"I was set up, Tearshape. I resent the implication that I am some blundering fool who'd just leave his wand lying over the corpse. If I had really decided to kill him, I would have made it look like an accident and have an iron-clad alibi. It's not like that would be difficult, considering the fact that the Triwizard Tournament has a long record of similar accidents," Harry answered, rubbing his aching head. "So, you can't do anything?"

"No. You were convicted of killing your fellow student during the last Task of the Triwizard Tournament. The rules are clear, I'm afraid: according to the Treaty signed after the last rebellion, the convicts' vaults are to be frozen until their sentence is served."

"Why was my godfather able to withdraw funds, then? Ah, never mind, he wasn't convicted in the first place."

"Indeed. Now, as your sentence was for life, there is nothing to be done. You can't take money from the vault or make any transaction, but should you father children, the vault and all assigned property would pass to them."

"That's a rather far off perspective," Harry grumbled, thinking deeply. "Could you manage it on your own?"

"No, I'm afraid. Even should I manage to unfreeze the vault – and that is next to impossible – I would need your written permission, and you are supposed to be in Azkaban."

Harry nodded grimly, resigned. After a goodbye, he left the office, put the hood of a dark, nondescript cloak over his head and was escorted to the main entrance by a couple of surly guards.

Last year, his fifth year of magical education, he was forced to compete in the Triwizard tournament. He made a good showing, but the other champions – including the deceased Reinth, a seventh-year Slytherin student – were much more skilled than he was. However, that proved irrelevant when during the last Task, Harry and Reinth, in the heat of a duel, both grabbed the Goblet – which, as it turned out, was a portkey that transported them to a graveyard, where a half-immaterial Voldemort immediately murdered Reinth and bound Harry in conjured ropes.

The Dark Lord then proceeded to steal blood from him, which he evidently intended to use in some sort of ritual to return his body. Fortunately, Harry managed to escape while Voldemort was otherwise occupied. When he arrived at Hogwarts and told the Minister and the Aurors of what had happened, they only found Reinth's cold body with Harry's wand nearby. Priori Incantatem revealed that it was this exact wand that cast the Killing Curse, and Harry was immediately arrested. He was tried in a month's time and in the face of overwhelming evidence, sentenced to life in Azkaban.

Fortunately, he had some good friends. Hermione, Ron, Neville and Luna managed to cook up an insane plan to switch him with a golem (which he had created in his fifth year as a side-project for extra credit on his OWLs). They were helped in this by Mad-Eye Moody, Dumbledore and Tonks.

Harry thought he managed to escape scot-free, and as long as no one recognised him, he was golden. However being convicted did apparently lead to some unpleasant consequences. He and Sirius had been planning to escape Britain and travel the world, but this plan was a costly one. He knew that Sirius would gladly share the Black fortune, but being unable to pay for his own expenses was galling.

The teen shook his head. Whatever happened, he shouldn't waste time on useless self-pity. He covertly looked around to see if anybody was watching, then ducked into Ollivander's wand shop.

Fortunately for him, there was no one there besides the owner himself, who was rifling through a large crate near the wall opposite the entrance.

"Mr. Ollivander?"

"Yes, yes, just wait a second…" The old man closed the lid and straightened, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. Then he turned around.

Immediately, his eyebrows rose to his hairline.

"Well, this is unexpected."

"I assume you got Professor Dumbledore's letter?" Harry half-asked, pitching the material of the heavy cowl that covered his face unconsciously.

"Yes, I did. Fortunately, Mr Potter, I trust his word, and if he vouches for you, then it is good enough for me," Ollivander answered curtly, walking to the door and spelling it shut. Then he put a sign on it and dropped the curtains on the windows. When he turned around to face the teen, there was no trace of his previous displeasure on his face.

"I recall you being a rather difficult customer last time you were here," he noted with a small, enigmatic smile. "Let's see if that changed over five years of your education, shall we?"

He snapped his fingers, turned around sharply and picked a wand case from the shelf near him.

It seemed that Harry was just as much, if not more so, difficult to match to a wand as the first time. One hour and forty minutes later, Harry was the proud owner of a new wand. Crafted from sycamore wood, it held a phoenix feather core just as his previous one and was a supple thirteen inches in length.

"This wand is a bit longer," Harry noted, carefully twirling it in his fingers to get used to the balance. It felt odd but not unwelcome.

"Long wands are usually the mark of flamboyant or temperamental wizards," Ollivander stated, slightly amused, "They also sympathise with creative and unconventional minds."

Harry made an amused sound. After hanging out with Luna for as much as he did, any person would find their minds becoming more open to possibilities.

"And the wood?"

"Sycamore fig, or the Great Maple. High quality, beautiful wood. Beware, though: this wand will resist being used for mundane tasks. However, you will never find a better focus for the greatest and most wonderful of magics," Ollivander took the wand back and put it in its case lovingly. "I rarely use Great Maple, it is too temperamental for my tastes and very particular about the choice of their owner, but whenever a sycamore wand finds its match, it is usually in travellers and researchers, people eager for new experiences and knowledge."

Harry nodded thoughtfully. How appropriate.

After paying for the wand with the money Sirius had given him earlier (which still rankled) and saying goodbye to the creepy wandmaker, Harry met up with Sirius outside of Gringotts, and they left for Grimmauld Place. After carefully entering the dreary house and verifying that no one was there to notice their absence, they entered the living room. Sirius lit a fire with a negligent wave while Harry sat down in the closest armchair, fiddling with his new wand thoughtfully.

"So?" Sirius asked cheerfully, dropping into the other armchair and stretching his legs. "Did you do what you wanted?"

Harry tsked irritably.

"No. As I was convicted, my assets were frozen until an heir arrives somehow or I get released. Both are incredibly unlikely to happen in near future."

Sirius shrugged.

"Well, that's a shame, but I have money enough for both of us. Don't worry about it, Harry."

"I hate being a freeloader," Harry grumbled, and his wand shot out a couple of sparks. One of them hit the teen in the eye, making him clutch at it and spit a few choice curse phrases.

"You're not. You're my godson, and I'm supposed to take care of you, so hush. In any case, now that you have a wand, we're all set to get out of the country. We can bugger off as early as tomorrow."

"Then let's get on with it." Harry nodded and hid the wand after giving it a suspicious glance. "I have already said my goodbyes to everyone who won't blab to Dumbledore. The rest will have to be happy with a letter."

(O)(O)(O)

Two hours later, the frequent visitors started to slowly trickle in. Lupin was the first to arrive, entering the kitchen and making himself and the duo of convicts a spot of tea. Some time after that, Emmeline Vance returned from her shift in St. Mungo's and collapsed on the couch in the living room, barely able to murmur some greetings. Then Mad-Eye Moody trudged along, grumbling about contraband and Death Eater greenhorns, drank a pint of firewhiskey and left again. He did not return until later that evening, when the majority of the rest had gathered, bringing along Tonks and Kingsley.

The whole company took over the dining room, exchanging news and killing time with small talk. Finally, at seven PM, Dumbledore showed up. Harry immediately excused himself good-naturedly, knowing that he would be inevitably kicked out when the meeting began.

He slowly ascended the stairs, recalling the past month of his life in this house. It hadn't been all that incredible – the house's dull and dreary atmosphere would take its toll on anyone, plus he wasn't at all enthused by his status, but his godfather did all he could to lift his spirits. They spent days bonding over their Hogwarts experiences, talking about Harry's parents; the pranks and other little joyous moments that Sirius managed to recall. They spoke of the trip Sirius took to Spain and the United States after their confrontation at the Shrieking Shack. Sirius got a kick out of the fact that even though he wasn't in the country, the Ministry was afraid enough of him to postpone the Triwizard Tournament by a year.

When he wasn't spending time with Sirius, Harry was busy crafting a magical glove. It was an idea he had in his fourth year – something to even the odds in a fight. The rune-inscribed glove drained a bit of mana from him over time to fuel spells that could be cast with gestures and pressing different fingers together. The newest version could create a flash-shield – a powerful version of Protego, which only lasted a second or two, cast banishers, a basic Diffindo that Harry tweaked to be able to cut through anything that bound his hands and not injure himself and a summoning spell for his wand. Or any wand really – the runic array responsible ended up a bit wrong, and after thinking a bit, Harry left it like that so that it could double as a weak Expelliarmus.

Harry also wanted to recreate his Awesome Robes of Levitation, which was his best work so far – aside from brooms and flying carpets, there wasn't really anything to enable flight, and he was extremely proud of creating something completely new. Ultimately, he decided to improve on the design before making Robe Mk.2.

As he walked up the stairs, Harry absently leaned sideways to dodge the cursed tapestry that came alive every third time somebody not added to a particular list passed by and tried to smother the trespasser. He walked out of the range of the grasping cloth, then stopped and turned around ponderously. A corner of his mouth twisted slightly upwards as he pulled his wand from his pocket.

A moment later, the annoyance was permanently gone. With a merry whistle, Harry turned around and continued upwards, and onwards.

He entered the library and paused for a couple of seconds, pondering over his choice of reading for the next hour. After grabbing The Greatest Works of Magical Craft in XVI-XIX centuries, he sat on the very comfortable armchair and started reading, trying to distract himself from the small pit of anxiousness in his stomach. Half an hour later, he admitted defeat and settled down for a nap in the same chair.

(O)(O)(O)

Sirius woke him up closer to midnight. With no one in the house except the two and Kreacher, it seemed like a good time to start packing and take off.

Well, they tried.

"What do you mean – leave the motorcycle?! It's the only thing that kept me sane in this house!"

"It's not like we'll be in this horrible house for it to save your sanity… and what will you do with it anyway?"

"What are you going to do with that many books?"

"Read them, of course," Harry lifted an eyebrow.

"Well, I'm going to continue my work! I can't abandon my baby here; Dung will make off with it as soon as he finds a large enough expanded bag." Sirius sniffled here, stroking his motorcycle as if it were the family pet.

"Fine. But you're carrying it… wherever you wanted to carry stuff," Harry frowned in confusion. "By the way, do we take trunks or something?"

Sirius grinned and waved at something covered by a sheet of dust significantly thinner than usual for this house.

"No, not exactly. See, I bought these pretties back when I decided to take a vacation in the colonies."

"Backpacks?" Harry took one of the ordinary, decent-sized objects and started wiping the dust off it.

"Yep. I bought only one initially, and started enchanting it, but something went wrong, and I had to buy a second one and start all over again." Sirius grimaced, but brightened almost immediately, "I've since fixed it, so it works fine. It has two compartments, as you can see, and three pockets. Look, each compartment has two zippers. That's because each of them has two sub-compartments – one normal, and the other has an undetectable expansion charm on, and it can be accessed by opening it with the other zipper. Any muggle scans will only show the contents of the first and no muggle can see, let alone open the second zipper. Neat, huh?"

Harry nodded thoughtfully and smirked as he glanced at the proud face of his godfather.

"Remus helped, didn't he?"

"Yup. He did that expansion charm thingie, and when I asked him how he knew to trick muggle scans, he got very evasive."

Harry snorted.

"So, you think that he's a smuggler?"

"Oh I know he's a smuggler, I just want to see how long it will take him to admit it," Sirius answered cheerfully.

(O)(O)(O)

A couple of hours later, they walked out of the house. Harry sighed deeply, trying to suppress the sudden anxiety, and turned to Sirius.

"All right, let's make sure we haven't forgotten anything. Money?"

"Check."

"Clothes?"

"Check."

"Camping gear?"

"Check."

"Just-in-case supplies?"

"Check."

"Wands?"

"Check."

"Wards?"

"Taken care of."

"Portkey?"

"Goes off in a couple of minutes. Here you go," Sirius started ruffling in his pockets, and after a couple of seconds managed to extricate a rubber duck out of somewhere.

"Are all of your pockets expanded?"

"Yep. You have no idea just on how many occasions it proved useful to have a lot of junk stashed somewhere on your person."

The duo grabbed the portkey, and the world became a whirlwind of warped space.

(O)(O)(O)

At the same time, far to the north, in a particular magical castle, another person was not asleep at the witching hour.

Albus Dumbledore was sitting in his office still awake, his eyes staring ahead contemplatively. His pensieve stood on the table before him, filled to the brim with silvery strands of thoughts as if mirroring the state of its master. The Elder Wand was circling the rim of the priceless device, held in an idle hand of the old wizard.

To say that he was concerned would be a gross understatement.

The memories that Harry gave him of that night in the graveyard were a cause of great alarm and equally great relief. Voldemort was without a doubt, truly alive once more; which was catastrophic even without considering the inevitable death toll the coming war would provide. His return would certainly galvanise the blood purists and traditionalists (despite the massive degree of intersection, there were some differences in the two main movements of the political world of the Wizarding Britain). Dumbledore's moderates and the barely formed progressives would lose the positions they earned in the last fifteen years, and his work might as well be reduced to ash. He would likely perish in this war, he knew, so his only hope was a successor.

Unfortunately, the one most likely candidate to defeat Voldemort – and gain the popularity and influence to really change things – was not in the least inclined to do so. Harry Potter was feeling justifiably wary at the idea of facing a fully-fledged Dark Lord with decades of experience and was far more likely to flee Britain than participate in the fight.

Dumbledore sighed and took a sugar-topped lemon slice from a dish on a nearby shelf. He knew that something happened during Harry's confrontation with the possessed Quirrell in the Philosopher's Stone debacle five years earlier, but he knew not what exactly it was. Legilimency attack, most likely, judging by the effects. After that event, Harry had exhibited some traits that could not be attributed to simply living through a dangerous experience – cautiousness, egocentricity, self-absorption and a deep-seated fascination with magic. Not bad traits in moderation, certainly, but uncharacteristic of him before the event. No, it was more than likely that Voldemort attempted Legilimency, but it was disrupted by his state. Mind magic was dangerous under best conditions, with the risk of mental contamination, and in such perilous circumstances was guaranteed to have undesirable consequences.

A sudden chill broke him out of his thoughts and snapped him to alertness. He could feel his magic churning ever-so-slightly, accepting an unknown contribution, and then settling. He blinked in puzzlement. It felt much like he was just handed control over some rather impressive wards.

His eyes widened behind his signature half-moon glasses. "Phineus! Wake up, my friend!"

The portrait of the least liked Hogwarts Headmaster in history stopped pretending to be asleep.

"There's no need to shout, I'm up. What do you need, Albus?"

"Go to your frame in the Black London residence. I need you to see if Harry and Sirius are there. Return immediately if you spot them."

"Fine. What has my great-great-grandson done now?" The Slytherin alumni gave him a doubting glance but walked out of his frame. After five minutes, he ran back.

"Albus, they're gone. Kreacher told me that they left not too long ago."

The headmaster sat down on his chair and put his face in his hands.

"Oh you foolish, foolish boys…"

(O)(O)(O)

Harry blinked himself awake in a small room of a rather dingy hotel that they had stumbled upon last night. It was the only hotel in the vicinity that they could stay in. The beds were not what he would call cosy, but they sufficed (after all this was still better than eleven years in a cupboard).

The sound of running water and low-pitched singing indicated that Sirius had decided to take a shower. Harry sat up on the bed and tilted his head slightly. Was that an aria he was hearing?

He shrugged and started putting on his trousers. A rectangular object in his left pocket poked him, reminding of its presence. After finally defeating the stubborn fly, Harry took the offending object out.

A leather-bound passport glinted innocently. The teen opened it reluctantly and looked at his photo and the name beside it.

Harry Peverell.

It just drove home the fact that a large part of his life ended, and there was no going back. He didn't know whether the weird feeling in his stomach and chest was borne by fear, sadness, anxiety or happiness. Most likely an amalgamation of all those.

His new name was agreed upon after much deliberation with Sirius, who declared that he needed a new one. He didn't argue with that, considering that he didn't wish to land himself back in prison, which he had narrowly escaped not so long ago, just because of his infamous name.

For convenience's sake, Sirius had asked him to choose a name of a long lost line of one of his ancestors. Something about verification spells for signatures and other methods of name checking. They spent a couple of evenings pouring over the dusty genealogy books looking for a suitable candidate and ended up with the Peverells – a powerful and well-respected family which had died out in the middle of the seventeenth century, its last daughter marrying a Potter.

As for Sirius, his documents declared him to be Sirius Lythgow – a family that had become extinct in the male line by the late fourteenth century.

Harry lifted his head as he heard the door to the bathroom open. Sirius stumbled out, pulling a towel tighter around himself.

"Oh, you're awake? I thought you would be out for at least another couple hours," he noted cheerfully.

Harry shrugged, moving past his godfather into the bathroom.

"Well, it was hard to sleep through your singing. Opera, much?"

"Meh, I was quiet. Wasn't I?"

"Nevermind. So, what's the plan for today?"

"Put some glamours on, visit the local magical alley. Maybe look around the muggle side of Paris for some time."

"Good enough for me."

(O)(O)(O)

The magical side of Paris was, simply put, breathtaking. Long Jardin – the Long Garden – was a living, breathing entity composed of interweaving buildings and enormous amounts of greenery flowing from the numerous balconies. The living ceiling was even somewhat luminescent, completing the charm. Harry just couldn't help staring at everything around him, disregarding the occasional disparaging glance from locals with ease born of constant practice.

The only thing sticking out like a sore thumb was the Gringotts branch, the strict white walls which were overall disharmonic with earthly tones of surrounding buildings and the flora.

Almost immediately, the duo decided to separate for a while – their hotel was barely ten minutes' walk from the entrance of the Garden (which, like Diagon Alley, was hidden from the Muggles, but was situated in a rather fancy bar instead of a pub), so they just agreed to meet up there in the evening. Sirius went off to find something or another pertaining to Quidditch or single witches (whichever he saw first).

Harry shook his head fondly and turned around sharply, trying to take the whole street in. Choosing a shop at random, he went in with a grin.

(O)(O)(O)

The day passed so quickly Harry barely noticed the darkening of the sky. What he did notice, though, was the rumbling of his stomach, which forced him to abandon a very promising little junk store, full of weird knick-knacks of unknown purpose (the owner was less than helpful in that regard), to search for a nice restaurant to soothe his growing hunger.

When Harry exited the shop, he realized ruefully that he got carried away even more than he thought – it was already dark, and the grumbling in his stomach was loud enough for a couple of passing women to throw him disapproving looks. The teen shrugged and went for the exit. Sirius had pointed out a nearby shawarma joint in the morning and had recommended him to dine there, as the bar that covered the entrance to the Garden had sky-high prices for food, not good for peripatetics.

Ten minutes later, Harry was inhaling the shawarma while inspecting his purchases of the day. A crapload of leather sheets and a silver ingot for his enchanting projects, a glyph-encrusted belt, a dragon-hide sleeveless jacket and boots of the same material. All enchanted for durability and climate-control, as the seller had assured him. All in all, Harry thought about returning tomorrow and treating himself to a couple of nice sets of clothes, seeing as he owned hardly any, and none of it was nice by any definition.

In any case, it was past time to return to the hotel. Harry shrugged the jacket on and put the rest into an expanded pocket. Walking outside, he looked around and set off in the direction of the hotel.

Half-an-hour later, he had to admit that he was absolutely lost.

The neighbourhood he found himself in was completely unlike the area that he sought, looking more like a tasteful version of Privet Drive instead of the city blocks.

And it was way too quiet.

(O)(O)(O)

Not ten minutes had passed before Harry Potter was contemplating whether the universe truly hated him or was it just bad luck. A dodged off-blue curse later, he decided that if it was the latter, then he must have been kept on a Malaclaw venom diet when he was a child.

The suspected poisoning by luck-be-gone aside, he truly didn't know what to do. He was attacked by only one of the guys in dark clothing, and he was barely managing to stay alive. It was only the wizard's surprise at his seeming mastery of wandless shields that allowed Harry to land a medical stasis charm on his leg that disabled it for the foreseeable future. For that moment, Harry could only stay on the defensive and hope to see an opening that could be exploited or allowed him to get the hell out of dodge.

The young witch that was the dreadful trio's original target was seemingly having little trouble so far – the opposition was rather good, near Hitwizard-level, but she was much better. She was adept in battle transfiguration, for one, which was an effective power equalizer. Still, two-on-one was not very good odds, and Harry didn't like his chances at all while dealing with only one opponent, and there was a danger of one of the others taking a pot shot.

Harry braced himself and focused on his own enemy. A breath in, out – and he was utilising his Occlumency. No two Occlumenti were alike in their application of the craft – one could create impenetrable barriers, another could choose deception of the potential intruders, while the third could, for example, quadruple his memory retention and recall speed or even make his mind into a calculator.

Harry's focus was always on emotional control, reaction speed and thought acceleration. During their occasional tutoring sessions, Flitwick often wondered at the sheer speed that Harry showed in adapting to his environment and coming up with ingenious spell combinations. He still never stopped reminding Harry to keep things simple and drilled the three "D"s of winning in magical combat in his head. Disadvantage, Disorient, Destroy.

All right, we have a rather skilled opponent who doesn't know our dueling style and has never seen anyone who uses enchanted equipment to fight. He took a stasis to his leg, so he can't move much, but he is casting quickly, Harry thought, making a guarding motion with his left arm, which once again activated his rune-covered glove and created a shimmering flash-shield. A bright red concussion hex exploded against it uselessly, only managing to make Harry wince from the muted noise. The shield dissipated after a second, allowing Harry to retaliate with a basic Incendio, which forced the dark-robed combatant to use a shield himself or be roasted. Disadvantage, check. Disorient or distract, in progress.

Harry conjured a small flight of birds, then enlarged them and sicced them on to his opponent, who managed to send a piercing curse (dodged by a hair's breadth) in his direction before becoming occupied with the conjurations. Those conjured birds had some rather advanced AI though, Flitwick made sure Harry knew how to make his conjurations to never stay in one pack, unless he created them to block something, so that the standard response to Oppugno – Incendio and its relatives – was ineffective. Distract, check. Wait, is the pavement inclined in his direction? Yes, yes, it is.

"Aguamenti Salum."

A huge stream of water escaped his wand and splashed against the pavement, creating a creek running in the direction of the wizard who was still struggling with the oversized birds, occasionally sending a spell (easily shielded against or dodged) at Harry. The young wizard smirked and made a punching motion with his left arm, sending a moderate-strength, but invisible banishing spell. His wand, at the same time, pointed at the water near him, which he very pointedly stayed out of, and his opponent was standing in.

"Fulminis Liquor."

A thin string of visible lightning connected Harry's wand with the water, twisting and forking near the end. The banishing charm pushed the snarling opponent back, and he floundered slightly on his immobile left foot.

He took a step back.

One thing that Flitwick stressed when he talked about lightning-related spells were that they were notoriously difficult to aim, a few high-level exemplars notwithstanding. However, he did teach his favourite trick that could quickly disable a few opponents at the same time by making them move in water that you targeted with lightning.

In any case, both the woman and the other two unknowns were momentarily halted by a short, hoarse scream from their comrade, who fell to the ground in spasms. Harry summoned the man's wand and grinned. Ah, french fries...

A brutally pulsing red curse headed in his direction was the response to his recent victory. He jumped to the side and answered with another flock of oversized birds.

With their advantage in numbers equalled, the enemy quickly started losing ground. Not a minute later, the apparent leader barked something that Harry didn't catch. After shooting a couple of curses more or less blindly, they vanished with a pop, not sparing their fallen comrade a single glance. The teen would have sighed in relief, but a pained whimper and the clutter of a wand falling to the ground interrupted him.

The woman was looking at him with wild panic in her eyes. Her hands were clutching her throat, and bright red was leaking through the fingers.

"Oh, no…"

Harry dashed to her side and caught her as she fell on her knees, a momentary look of panic on his face replaced by forced calm.

It was a gift from heaven that one of the stasis spells Harry knew and used in duels could be used in situations like this. He immediately cast it on the dying woman and sighed in relief as her body was shrouded in rings of white mist, signifying successful application. As far as she was concerned, time had stopped. Her entire bodily functions were paused, including the newly inflicted wound. Medical charms were a very rare example of time magic that was deemed safe for common use even after the Atlantis debacle. Slowing or even stopping personal time didn't present many opportunities for cataclysmic events.

Now that the woman was no longer in immediate danger, Harry started ruffling through her things to ascertain her identity and get an idea of what to do. He no longer knew where he was, so finding a hospital would be problematic given the late hour.

In one of the front pockets of her coat, he managed to find a note in French. After fiddling with the amulet on his neck and tapping his glasses with his wand, he managed to read it. It was seemingly a to-do list and mentioned someone called Fibbly. That sounded like a house elf. Definitely worth a try.

"Fibbly?"

A quiet pop and a groan made him turn around. Indeed, the name belonged to a house elf, presumably owned by the very woman that he saved. The elf was a bit taller than what he was used to from his experiences with Hogwarts elves, a bit more healthy-looking too.

"Oh Mistress Joan, what have you done to yourself this time?" The elf (female, by Harry's guess) exclaimed in exasperation and looked at the teen. "Thank you for summoning me, monsieur. She hasn't been herself lately after her father died. I'm sorry you had to see her drunk, not a pleasant sight."

Harry blinked, filing the information along with his surprise at the first elf he met that could talk without butchering grammar.

"Ah, I think you got it all wrong. Unfortunately, she's not drunk."

"Unfortunately?" Fibbly started eyeing him wearily. Harry stepped to the side, allowing the elf to see her mistress for the first time. The little creature squeaked in fright and ran to the side of the levitating figure.

"I managed to put her in medical stasis, but she needs to see a healer, and quickly. She was attacked by three men. I was around and gave her some assistance. They fled, but one of their last curses clipped her," Harry explained quickly.

"Oh no no no no, Mistress Joan, how do you get in these situations?" The elf whimpered and put her head in her arms. After a couple of seconds, she straightened, and a look of resolve came upon her.

"Thank you for your help. You have done a great service to my family today. Will you agree to accompany us to the manor? I fear that your spell might wear off, and I don't trust myself when it comes to things like that."

"Shouldn't we bring her to a hospital or something like that?" Harry frowned. The elf shook her head.

"If Mistress was attacked, it means that they knew where to find her. Getting into a hospital is child's play. Getting into our home – nearly impossible. Now, take my hand and we'll be off."

Harry nodded, accepting her reasoning. It wasn't like he knew how to get to his hotel, anyway, and the elf could – hopefully – help him get there. He looked around, trying to see if he missed anything. The thug he'd fried was beginning to stir, but Harry knew that neural damage would keep him down for a while. He was already reaching out to take the elf's hand when a glint in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Something was lying on the ground near the woman's neck. It looked like a pendant or an amulet. He grabbed it without a second thought and placed his hand on Fibbly.

A loud pop later, the trio were gone.

Author's note

You have no idea for how long I have been nursing this one. In any case, here we go. Artificier!Harry, lots of new and previously almost unexplored kinds of magic, different races - I've got it all and more! My schedule is pretty hectic lately, but I think I'll manage a chapter a month.

See you guys in April!