Hi! Thanks for the reviews! Even I agree that there are a lot of inconsistencies in the world of fanfiction. But then again, so do the original stories. I mean, it is difficult to have a rational theory when you are talking about fictions, and that's even before considering magical/fantasy genre.

For now, I'll stick to following whatever I can find in the wikias for both Nasuverse and Harry Potter.

Speaking of which, I can't find much information about Servant's de-materialisation in the wikia or in the anime. So I'll just assume partial-materialisation is possible in this case.

I want fluff and papa!Archer, so that's my main focus for now.

Disclaimer: I do not own Nasuverse or Harry Potter, because my brain can't really keep up with all the worldbuilding theories.

Warning: mention of child abuse, though not so explicit or extreme

31 July 1985, Little Whinging, Surrey

It was a lovely, if a little bit warm, day in a small town of Little Whinging. The sun reached its highest point, and the surrounding nature was buzzing with life. Trees grew in full green leaf while orchids and honeysuckle bloomed, revealing their beauty to the world. Bees and butterflies all aflutter as they fed upon nectar-rich flowers.

A breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive, which lay silent and tidy under the scorching sun. Rows upon rows of identical houses filled the otherwise boring neighbourhood, as if it was proving the unremarkable lives of its inhabitants. It was common, it was normal, it was ordinary.

Nothing important had happened here, really. Unless, if you count the occasional happenings that surrounded the house of Number 4, where the Dursleys resided with the infamous 'Freak'.

The entrance door of said house abruptly slammed open, and a blur that was a raven-haired child shot past it. Hot on his heels was a red-faced, overfed and coronary-ready man, holding up a rolled piece of newspaper and swinging it around as he tried to hit the boy. The shrieking of a woman and the laughter of another boy echoed from inside, completing the picture with an unseemly background sound.

"Out, Freak! Out!" Huffing in exertion, Vernon Dursley drove his nephew-in-law away from his perfectly normal dwelling. He continued shouting at the top of his lungs even if his target could no longer be seen. "Useless boy, can't even do things right! I've had enough of your ungratefulness!"

It was sad that none reacted to the incident. Neighbours only tsked in annoyance, not at the patriarch of the Dursley's family but at the 'Freak'. Upstanding citizens such as the Dursleys didn't deserve a misbehaving child shoved upon them (or that was what Vernon thought).

'Freak' ran and ran and ran, far far away from his 'home' and from the harsh treatment of his 'family'. The little boy breathed haggardly in exhaustion, as choked sobs occasionally escaped his mouth. He tripped over a small rock and fell, his knees scrapped, but the pain only added more tears to his eyes. Not much could be done to ease the pain - the accumulated pain in his years living under the cupboard as a mere dog and servant of the family he was 'mooching off', an undeserving son of drunkards - so he stood up and continued running.

Maybe it was just a coincidence that his feet carried him to a nearby park, or maybe he unconsciously seeked the one place where he could only gazed longingly at children playing with their parents. Or maybe it was fate, because as he hid behind a bench to cry to his heart's content, a low voice interrupted his self-deprecation moment.

"You alright there, kid?"

'Freak' jumped, not expecting someone sitting on the bench (he thought it was empty a few seconds ago). His eyes snapped towards the stranger - a tanned skinned young man with white hair Uncle Vernon would never approve of - before looking back down. Shuffling on his feet, 'Freak' didn't know how to respond. He had overheard Aunt Petunia telling Dudley once not to talk to strangers, saying that he might get kidnapped by bad people.

But there was something in the stranger's tone that surprised him. Often times Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon asked Dudley with the same tone whenever he scraped his knees, 'worried' for their son's wellbeing. But never was it directed towards him.

His reaction seemed to take too long, because the stranger ruffled his white hair before sighing. He stood up, and 'Freak' thought the man would simply leave like those other adults who tried to talk to him before Uncle Vernon ushered them away. A few moments later, however, strong arms gently raised him up, and the stranger carried the little boy to the bench and seated him on it, to his consternation.

The man plopped beside him, before closing his eyes. 'Freak' thought the white-haired stranger was asleep, until the man reached out to pat the boy's head softly and said, "Now, cry. I'll be here with you."

It was like a magic word, because as soon as 'Freak' heard it, his dam broke. Fat tears rolled down his cheek as he curled into a ball, hugging his knees. It was unlike his restrained breakdowns during his nights in the cupboard, because this time round he didn't have to bite his tongue to prevent his sobs escaping from his mouth and angering his uncle. For the first time, 'Freak' could cry freely.

After close to half an hour, his tears finally ran dry. A few hiccups wracked his small body. It was like a burden was finally lifted up from his shoulders. He tentatively peered up to the stranger, and the man cracked open one eye.

Emerald eyes met steel grey. 'Freak' frowned. For some reason it looked familiar.

"Done?"

A hesitant nod.

Stretching like a cat, the man stood up, dusting away imaginary dirt from his lap. He raised his hand to the boy's eye level, but 'Freak' only stared at him in incomprehension. The white-haired man sighed, before gently took the child's hand and pulled him up.

(His hand was rough and calloused, but it was big and warm.)

"Come on. Let's take a look at those scratches, hm?" Looking at 'Freak' from head to toe, he added, "And maybe get something for you to eat. You're too skinny for a boy your age." Tugging softly at the boy's hand, the man led him out of the park to the street.

At the mention of food, 'Freak' perked up. He didn't manage to have breakfast as Uncle Vernon and Dudley finished all of it, and Uncle Vernon would smack him with newspaper if 'Freak' was caught eating without permission. He lightly jogged to keep up with the man's long strides, before the man noticed this and walked at a slower pace.

"Hey, kid." The boy looked up, and he had just noticed that the man was even taller than Uncle Vernon, but not as bulky. "What's your name?"

"...F-Freak."

The man twitched, and 'Freak' flinched as the larger hand tightened its grip on his smaller one. He vaguely heard the dark-skinned man muttered something about walrus and sashimi, but 'Freak' was too busy panicking to think about it.

Oh my god, he's going to beat me up-

"That's a lame name." The boy jerked at the cold statement. He dug his feet on the ground and was about to shake his hand free of the iron-grip hold-

"...Nevermind. I'll call you Harry from now on."

His hold on the small child's hand softened. The man's lips twitched into a small, wry smile before ruffling the boy's hair.

"Har...ry?"

"Yeah. Sounds better, right?"

It was, indeed. 'Freak' - no, Harry - relaxed, before shyly nodding in agreement.

They continued walking. Fr- Harry didn't know where they were going, but honestly it didn't matter. The man had only been kind to him since they met. Maybe he was different than Uncle Vernon? The boy peered at the man's face before looking down once more.

The man noticed this, though, because he asked, "What is it?"

Blushing, Harry mumbled. "...W-who are you, mister...?" It was so soft, and he even trailed off in the end. But the man had heard it anyway.

"You can call me Archer."

Another comfortable silence. Seeing that his first question was answered without a following violence, Harry tentatively asked his next question. The biggest question of the year.

"...W-why…?"

Archer glanced down at him. "Why I approached you?" He hummed, "That's because you're all alone, Harry, and you were crying."

Harry frowned, not understanding the man's reasoning. Other adults had approached him before, but upon seeing that it was the 'Freak', they feigned ignorance and quickly left. Both man and child fell silent once more, before Archer turned sharply into a new street, leading Harry to a pub. 'The King's Arms' was written on the wall above its entrance. The white-haired man didn't seem bothered by the prolonged silence as he opened the pub's door. The bell tinkled.

"Welcome to- Ah! Archer! Didn't expect to see you today." A middle-aged man with receding dark hair and bushy beard stood behind the bar, waving at them. Some customers noticed the tall white-haired man entering the pub, and for some reason they started to get excited and promptly opened up the menus in front of them.

The bartender noticed Harry beside the white-haired man and he did a double-take. Looking at Archer and Harry back and forth, he finally asked, "Who's this kid?"

Archer waved lazily, "A stray. I picked him up."

The bearded man stared at him, and Archer stared back. They were in a standstill for about a minute before the bartender flung his arms up. "Well, he looks too skinny to my taste. Going to feed him?"

Harry flinched. That was ("Freaks like you are like dogs. Come here only to eat and sleep.") too close to the mark. The white-haired man ignored the question as he led the boy to the back of the pub, before entering the kitchen. A chef was there, though he glared at Archer upon catching sight of his white hair. Archer only smirked in return.

"Sit here." He gestured at a stool almost as tall as Harry. The white-haired man then went out, leaving the little boy scrambling and trying to climb up the stool, to no avail. A minute later, Archer was back with a first-aid kit. He looked at Harry, before sighing and lifting the boy up the stool to sit.

Harry observed the man fixing up the scratches on his knees. The boy didn't know how to take care of wounds properly, as his aunt and uncle didn't bother to teach him. The liquid - alcohol, Archer said - stung, but it didn't hurt as much as Uncle Vernon's slaps and Aunt Petunia's barbed words.

Plastering a band aid with lion cartoons on it, Archer finally nodded in satisfaction.

"There. All done. Now, I believe we have a lunch to make-"

"Now, wait a minute! Your shift isn't until-!"

"Shut it, Alfie. He's using his own money. Just let him cook."

"But, sir! He stole my customers!"

"That's your fault, not his-"

"Excuse me! Is Archer cooking?"

"Is he?!"

"No. Get back to your seat, you lot! Come back on Saturday if you really want his food!"

"Pooh…"

Ignoring the rowdy exchanges, Archer turned to Harry. "Wanna help me out?"

Harry nodded, prompting the man to take a different stool, smaller than the previous one and with stairs on it. The boy tentatively stood on it, the kitchen table just right below his chest, and Archer gave him an apron.

It wasn't really the young boy who cooked, but for the first time in his life, Harry enjoyed his most dreaded activity.

Archer cursed himself for his inability to do anything for his charge.

It had been four years since the fateful day; since the red-clad Servant followed the giant of a man to a small town in Surrey. At first, Archer wanted to materialise and pound at the Santa Clause wannabe of the importance of hiding from civilians' sight. A flying motorbike couldn't be more inconspicuous, after all. He half-expected Enforcers or Magi from the Clock Tower to appear in front of Hagrid and kill him for the breach of their secrecy (or slapped a Sealing Designation on him for performing a True Magic), but he had to remind himself that this was a different world. The ruckus caused by the wizards here should have attracted their attention, but so far none from the Magi Association had come.

Archer wanted to grumble during the entire journey of flying. At least, the bike had a sidecar, or else he had no choice but to cling at the giant's back. Archer would shudder if he had a body.

As they arrived, the surrounding neighbourhood was curiously dark. None of the lamps were on. It was understandable that the street was empty; judging by the position of the moon it should be around midnight. Except, two individuals were waiting for them, and Archer wanted to cry at their fashion statement.

One was a rather stern-looking bespectacled woman wearing an emerald cloak, while the other was an old man with a white beard and crooked nose. And, oh, he wore a cloak too, a purple one. If not for the era that they were in, the Counter Guardian would have thought he was the stereotypical Merlin.

He thought the Merlin wannabe - Dumbledore - could see his astralised form, as the wizard snapped his head to where Archer was standing. His gaze lingered, but after a few moments of seeing nothing and his wand hitting nothing, the old man finally relaxed. Archer raised an astralised eyebrow at that.

After some discussion about motorbikes and scars, Hagrid gave the baby to Dumbledore. The giant gave a really sloppy kiss to little Harry's cheek and Archer thought he was about to eat the infant, because his entire head and bushy beard completely covered the little bundle. Then, the giant howled in tears as he expressed his concern of 'poor little Harry off ter live with Muggles'. Archer couldn't help but curse Alaya for this dumb situation.

Dumbledore laid Harry gently on the doorstep of one of the identical houses, before producing a letter out of his cloak and tucking it inside Harry's blanket. Archer wanted to scream in frustration; what kind of people leave an infant alone at a doorstep in the middle of a night?!

Saying something about celebration, they left just like that. Oh, and the woman - McGonagall - turned into a cat, by the way. A sorcery?! No, it wasn't that surprising. Honest.

The Counter Guardian thought the situation couldn't get worse than that. Oh, how wrong he was.

Gathering prana, Archer materialised his right hand only before rapping on the door. A few moments of no answer, he knocked again, this time with a bit more force. He was about to screw secrecy and blow the damn door off its hinge when it opened, revealing a woman who Archer couldn't help but be reminded of…of a horse.

She looked puzzled at the sight of a baby in her doorstep (who wouldn't, seriously). When she picked up the letter and read it, all hell broke loose.

The matriarch of the house screamed bloody murder, waking little Harry up. She was about to commit an inhuman act of kicking a baby, and Archer was about to fully materialise to kill her when a neighbour shouted at her for being too bloody noisy. She flushed, before reluctantly, bitterly taking the baby inside.

Archer greatly regretted his inaction on that day. But even if he had done anything to pry the baby off that woman's hands, he couldn't have done anything better to take care of Harry. He was at all time low of prana, and he could hardly materialise for a few hours. And no matter how much he hated her, the woman - who was his Master's sister - had the capacity to take care of baby Harry, although she often times neglected him in favour of her own son. Archer didn't even have the money to buy baby formula, nor had he a place to live.

(Archer wouldn't admit it, but he was acting like a mother. A jealous one, to boot.)

The Red Servant thanked and cursed his B-rank Independent Action Skill. Thankful that it was high enough to let him take action without being tied to a Master, and dreadful that it was not high enough to allow him to remain in the world for long without a Master to supply prana.

It was three days later, then, when he noticed that his prana reserve was actually recovering. Sure, it was really slow to the point he couldn't tell the difference until days later, but it was a start. After several trial and errors, Archer concluded that there was a magical barrier that existed around the Dursley residence, supplying him with prana. He wasn't sure where it came from, or who erected it, but he figured he shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. So long as he was within it, he could survive.

That didn't mean he could just materialise anyhow though, no matter how much he wanted to. Being in astralised form helped to conserve prana, but boy how he longed to slice the walrus that was Vernon Dursley in half. The man relished in antagonising little Harry just because the boy was categorised as a 'Freak'. Touching the baby was like touching death itself. It didn't help that his wife, Petunia, was indifferent towards her own nephew's wellbeing.

Archer had initially planned to form a contract with Harry as soon as he could talk and pronounce complex words correctly, but that plan quickly flew out of the window the moment he casted Structural Analysis on the boy. Unlike his former Master's magical core -which was stable, her son's core writhed in uncontrolled magic. Sometimes, it released random bursts of magic, other times his magic laid dormant.

If the Servant tried to form a contract in this state, he would either pop like an over-inflated balloon, or withered like a dry leaf.

Thus, it was four years of pain, both for little Harry and for Archer himself. No matter how much he claimed to have abandoned his goal to save people and be a hero, or how many people, including children, he had killed, the Counter Guardian that was once named Emiya Shirou was a soft person in nature. To see a little boy whom he was supposed to protect being treated like a scum, and to be powerless to do anything about it clawed his heart.

Archer thought any of Harry's other relatives would have come and visited him, but for years none had come at all. He was really hoping for them to take the child away from this blasted house, but not even Harry's godfather came. The Servant frowned at that. Sirius seemed genuinely care for his godson, but he was never here. Nor were the magical people who briefly met the child on the day his parents died.

Poor Harry was lonely and hurt. A child abused by his own relatives, a child who had no one to shower him with care. Where were they?

Thus, for the first time in millenia, the Counter Guardian resolved to save a person once more.

A number of calculations and analysis later, Archer deduced he could materialise for a maximum of eight hours per week, provided when he's in his spiritual form he stayed at the Dursleys. That wasn't reassuring at all, to be honest.

It was a coincidence that Archer saw a notice on a pub a couple blocks away. 'Hunger is the enemy and the people need a chef. Join the King's Arms to save the day!' An image of a regal blond she-king popped in his mind, and he ruefully smiled at that.

Since then, he worked as a part-time chef during weekend nights at the King's Arms. It was not bad; after the owner/bartender of the pub tried out his dish, and the pub became a popular dining site since then, the white-haired Servant immediately got a pay rise a week after he started work. Thankfully, Harry was still a young child, so he would usually be fast asleep early at night, leaving Archer with free time every evening.

For now, making money was his first priority, in case the Dursleys decided to kick Harry out all of sudden. What a grim prospect.

It was when Harry reached a kindergarten age things went downhill even more. The little boy's status was promoted from a useless scum to a dumb slave.

"Mow the lawn, boy!"

"Sweep the floor, brat!"

"Cook the bacon, Freak!"

That's it. No, Archer wasn't going to slice the walrus or the horse into two. He was going to skin them first before making the first walrus and horse sashimi combo in the world. And maybe add an extra roasted pork in it.

It appalled him that Harry grew skinnier day by day, while the Dursley males grew fatter and fatter. Archer tried to help Harry with his tasks, such as discreetly cut the vegetables when Petunia called the boy over, or mopped the floor when the house residents were asleep.

There was one time when the pig kid - Dudley - step into the bathroom while Archer was plunging the toilet. It was hilarious when the boy rubbed his eyes furiously before falling on his oversized ass and wailing in terror when the image of a flying pair of cut-off hands holding a plunger was still there. His parents rushed to the site only to see nothing out of ordinary, with the exception of their son's state of blubbering mess and a clean toilet.

It wasn't so funny anymore, though, when the horse woman accused Harry for it, claiming he was just like his 'freak of a mother'. The rest of the Dursleys went on with it.

Since then, Archer helped Harry even more discreetly, and paid more attention to his surroundings in case someone might witness more mutilated limbs doing housework.

The years passed by in a blur. Archer feared that one day Harry would snap. Child abuse was traumatic, after all.

That was why the Servant had anticipated Harry's first runaway. The boy was peeling off potatoes when one of it fell and rolled down the floor. Archer was about somehow roll it to the side without making it look like the potato was alive when the pig boy barreled into the kitchen and stepped on it.

The pudgy boy fell. It looked painful, but surely all the fats would've absorbed most of the impact force, right?

Then, he bawled and pointed at Harry.

Chaos ensued, leading to Vernon slapping Harry with newspapers and Petunia shrieking bad names at the poor boy, while Dudley laughed and clapped happily as if he was watching an exceptionally humorous parody.

Vernon wanted the 'Freak' out, and Harry was glad to follow.

Some tripping and crying and introductions later, here they were; eating lunch at the King's Arms, with bystanders salivating as they could only look at the meal longingly. They were puzzled when instead of wolfing down the over-enticing fish and chips in front of them like hungry dogs, both boy and man ate at a sedated pace.

No, actually only Archer ate sedately. At the corner of his eyes, Harry fidgeted violently. His eyes were shining. Was that saliva at the corner of his mouth? The boy clearly looked hungry, yet it was a wonder of how much gargantuan effort he must've put to restrain himself from eating like a whale.

"What are you doing?" Harry jerked, his movement stilled. A familiar fear shone from his eyes, and Archer bit back a groan of frustration. His heart twinged. Apparently, he underestimated the extent of damage the Dursleys had inflicted upon his charge.

Glaring at the bystanders, he waited until they all had scurried away. Archer leaned forward before whispering to the boy in front of him, "Don't worry. You can eat as much as you want for free."

Harry peered up at him. "R-really?" he whispered back.

"Really," Archer reiterated with a warm smile. "It's all on me."

Abandoning all propriety, Harry started inhaling the food in front of him. Archer pitied him, so he gave a bit more of his portion to the growing boy.

"So, why were you crying just now?"

Harry looked down, his hands playing with a stick of french fry. "...," he mumbled.

...Okay, his ears were reinforced now. "What was that?"

"U-uncle Vernon… t-tell F-fre- ah, H-Harry is useless…" The boy's eyes started to become glassy. "D-Dudley fall b-because Freak is not peel the p-potato right…"

"But you did peel the potato nicely, Harry." Archer had to clench his fist to prevent it from 'accidently' slipping towards Vernon's face. No matter how far he was from the walrus. "I saw you peel and cut the potato like a pro when we made french fries just now."

Harry hiccuped. "B-but, Aunt Petunia-"

"Say," Archer cut him off. He shouldn't have asked that question. He should've known better than whatever Harry had just told him.

He had to resort to manipulation, then, to pry the boy away from the Dursleys. Maybe not permanently, but the less time he spent in that blasted house, the better.

"Wanna work with me?"

Harry was startled. Not only him, though. At his periphery, Archer's boss also jerked. So much for subtlety.

"W-work…?"

The white haired man nodded, "Yep. As an assistant cook."

Harry just gaped at him. Said-cook then adopted an innocent thinking pose resembling Rin's.

"Hmm. You'll get paid nicely -"

"Hey! I'm the boss here!"

"- And you can spend most of your day here."

The boy perked up at that. Good, he was in.

"No, you can't do it just like that!" Out of nowhere his boss - Gerrard - interjected. Archer had to lean back to avoid the spittle. The bushy bearded bartender stole a glance at Harry, before glaring back at his chef. "He'll need a consent from his...guardians."

Archer's eyes narrowed. 'Guardians', not 'parents'. Hm, he might have to interrogate his boss later.

"Is that so?" Rubbing his hands, the Servant-turned-cook licked his lips with a dangerous glint in his eyes. "Then, I can try to, ah, convince his guardians to let him work here."

All human beings present in the pub shivered.