Gotta Be Somebody

By

Echo of a Memory

…

Harry Potter © J.K. Rowling

Twilight Saga © Stephanie Meyer

Chapter 11: No Apologies

"Never Apologize…It's a Sign of Weakness."

-Leroy Jethro Gibbs (NCIS)-

"What are you doing?"

Harry struggled weakly against his captors. He was battered, bruised and severely weakened by the ambush. He had been separated from the rest of his team and worked over severely by the grunts now towing him down the halls, his feet dragged behind him.

"Where are you taking me?"

Again the men dragging him along the cobblestone corridor sojourned on in stony silence. Their leader was about ten steps or so ahead of them with a fire lit torch, one that severely reminded Harry of Dudley's adventure movies where the explorer used a branch with a flaming cloth on the end to adventure in old ruins and caves. Before Aunt Petunia screeched at him to turn off and put on something more educational, like the Home and Garden channel.

"Why are you doing this?"

The lead goon, as Harry had dubbed him, only paused for a moment with a raised eyebrow in a mock questioning look. The teen didn't even have time to register that before something heavy and blunt cracked down upon him, hard, temporarily knocking him unconscious. When he came to, the young wizard's head was aching and spinning simultaneously, he felt nauseous, and something warm was running from his temple and down the side of his face.

"Lookit 'ere, lads," a heavily Cornish accented voice from somewhere in front of him practically leered, "Sleepin' Beaut'y 's awak'n."

Harry was so disoriented at that point that he couldn't do more than hang limply between the two men dragging him along. He was only fifteen after all. Not that that small fact mattered, the leader kept right on speaking, as though Harry had his full wits about him and thus understood every word he spoke.

"Ya wan'ed ta know wha' we're doin', why we fin' gen'lemen of breedin' a're escortin' ya."

Subconsciously the teen registered the sneer, however he was only peripherally aware of it. His head swam as he was jostled none to gently between the two captors draggin him. Why they didn't use magic, Harry didn't know. But if he were to guess, he'd either say that this place (wherever it was) was warded against magic or, more likely, they wanted to 'soften' him up some more before they got to their destination.

"A' fer wher' we're takin' ya, a s'pecial place, jus' fer ya." Harry could practically feel the cruel amusement, even through his foggy haze of pain. Whatever was running down his face was dripping onto the floor…or his clothes, he couldn't have guessed in his state.

"An as fer why, cause you was bough' 'n paid fer, like a good littl' sol'dja'." At this the torch holder let out a laugh that would have caused the hair on the back of Harry's neck to rise, "Them civvies dun' thin' too much of ya sol'djas. Whil' ya pay fer the'r freedom in bloo' 'n pain, they's woul' willin'ly shoo' ya in the back, or sell ya ou', if'n puts a' few galleons in they' purses, getting' fat an' lazy."

Harry, his mind slightly clearer, but in no way able to do more than let the man's words float over his head. What he said next, though, rang through his foggy mind clear as a bell.

"They thin' it's all a game."

Had he had the strength, Harry probably would have at least drudged up some energy to defend the Queen's People. However, being on the cruel end of public expectations, manipulations, and abuse of the civilian populace for the better part of his life, would also have made him pause.

The general apathy of the populace, both magical and non-magical, and their general hostility towards those in active service, egging and jeering troops as they come back from tours of duty, jeering and protesting funerals, shouting abuse at the grieving families made it hard to justify why he and those like him, should spend their time protecting such trash. After all, they delighted in the downfall of others, watched (in a crowd of forty plus) as a girl was gang raped for entertainment (they didn't even try to help), and complained, hated on, and published literature about how the world was unfair to them when they did nothing.

A veritable roar shook the stones around them. Harry could literally feel the very air tremble.

As the echoes died down, the torch bearer turned back and gave him a nasty smile. In the flickering light it became ominous. Instinctively, the teen knew he was going towards something much worse than death and began to shake. His tormenters' grip became noticeably vice like on either arm, and their unseen features took on coldly amused looks. The leader of the bunch didn't restrain his sadistic amusement one iota. He wanted Harry to know that he was taking delight in this.

"Ah, looky 'ere, lads. Seems 'e 'asn't got a clue. Or mee'be bein' chased by one o' these things wasn't enough."

Slowly recognition and fright made their way into the young wizard's eyes as they cleared. The leader, who'd been watching him closely allowed himself to savor the look with much sadistic pleasure. Almost agonizingly he prowled up to the boy and bent over so that he was close enough to almost intimately speak to him in a mocking, falsely concerned tone.

"Dun' w'rry, the rit'al won' hur'…much." Harry's struggles, as feeble as they were, were renewed as sheer terror took a hold of him. His captors just laughed coldly as they dragged him along, not even bothering to try and calm him. Each was taking a sadistic delight in the slow torturous mockery of a procession.

Another roar shook the halls.

Dull emerald eyes slowly fluttered open.

Harry couldn't really make out anything at first or was he aware of his surroundings. Instinctually though, he knew he was somewhere safe. Slowly, ever so slowly, the world around him came into focus.

He was lying face down across the wooden threshold of his 'room', surrounded by bits of dirt, wood, glass, and blood. Just beyond his fingertips lay the potion he'd apparently been taking before passing out. The glass phial was lying on its side, uncorked, and was mostly empty. Around the lip of the bottle, small drops of purple-ish liquid dripped into a puddle that spilled out when Harry presumably dropped it.

The small pool of lavender potion almost had a silvery tint to it with the pearlescent 'skin' that had swirled over it. It was a small testament as to how long he'd been laying there.

Harry grimaced as he ran a small mental check on his body. Pain was not a new experience for Harry. His first memories at the Dursleys ensured that. However his body was in no condition whatsoever to be moved. He still hadn't recovered from his last episode and this last encounter with his tracker only aggravated his condition.

Stubbornly, with a will born of steel and tried fire, the seventeen year old wizard stiffly and ever so slowly moved his protesting limbs to where he was in position to awkwardly push himself up on his knees. Bits and pieces of debris flaked off of him as he moved.

Everything hurt.

Harry, stubborn though he was, allowed a groan and wince at the pain he felt. He was alone and had no one to witness his moment of weakness, which was why he allowed it. He was able to make it to his hands and knees before dizziness overtook him. After the episode, the teen grimaced slightly. The warning his body was sending him told him what he already knew. He'd lost too much blood and was at risk of collapsing again if he went too quickly.

That said, he stubbornly forced his limbs to move and stiffly crawled back towards the destroyed kitchen, leaving his potion phial where it was. He'd clean it up later, when he could move properly.

Harry set his jaw and grit his teeth as he awkwardly shuffled and crawled through the disaster that had been his kitchen towards the only source of running water in the house, his sink faucet. He repurposed an empty pail for use of water. He needed to clean off his wounds. The last thing he wanted was an infection.

Granted his immune system had been tweaked to be just about impervious to everything, but he wasn't about to take a chance. Harry couldn't go to a hospital, Mundane or otherwise, because of that…amongst other things.

In almost palpable relief he made it to the remarkably intact section. For a moment he didn't care that his hand would most likely be taken hostage by his cranky spigot, he just wanted to at least feel some form of relief from his grubbiness and go back to collapse on his sleeping bags. It was Saturday (he was sure of it) and thus had the entire weekend to 'heal up' enough to endure a still, sore week at school.

And he was certain that he'd scared his neighbors away for the time being and thusly would still have time to clean up the mess the fight had made. With that slightly, less than thought out idea in mind, Harry scrambled (stiffly and awkwardly) up his cupboards and heavily leaned against the counter. His head spinning and threatening to put him back into a subconscious state because of the movement.

Once his world stopped spinning, Harry laboriously lifted his pail into the sink and waited a beat before slowly reaching for the faucet. He ignored the fact that it growled at his offending appendage and clumsily stroked the slightly warm metal.

"Hey boy," Harry mumbled, "how about some warm water?"

Apparently the appliance was appeased by the token offering of attention and complied. Soon warm, slightly steaming, clear water filled his pail. At least the magic hadn't been a total flop, Harry subconsciously reasoned. His magical mishap with his sink left him with a slightly intelligent, if cranky, spigot that filtered his water to almost pure status, which actually relieved him a great deal of worry.

Harry, assuming he was alone in his house (even with a broken kitchen door) and not really caring anyways, fumbled as he removed the remains of his t-shirt to begin washing away the evidence of the fight. It wasn't until it hit the debris covered floor that Harry's rather distracted mind reminded him that he needed a rag to help with his bath.

He wasn't even aware that he had company until a rather pale hand offered a clean cloth up in his line of vision. Harry's eyes registered the object but his brain was rather sluggishly in processing what exactly it was that he was seeing. Slowly he followed his line of sight to meet the golden amber of his tutor's.

He blinked uncomprehendingly.

When his conscious mind finally started working, not soon enough in his opinion, all he could do was stare. And stare he did.

Jasper was neither surprised at Brervan's condition, nor at the numerous scars that decorated his student's torso. Those details only confirmed his suspicions and mental profile he'd begun to make of the teen over the few months he'd come to know the boy. It just added another piece of telltale information that was making the picture clearer of the other teen. One he wasn't sure he wanted to know completely.

He had watched over the teen from afar, to make sure that his attacker hadn't come back, and to keep the nosy Edward from investigating and harassing the other boy.

Once his senses had returned to a somewhat acceptable level, though he was still somewhat sensitive to the blood in the surrounding area, he'd chased away Emmet and Rosalie (much to her ire, he was definitely going to be in for it when he returned to the house) and patrolled the area. After he was reasonably sure that the assailant was gone, he braved the warzone that had been Brevan's untamed yard and slipped into the house. He hardly noticed the fur covered banisters and squeaky fur patches by the doors boards.

No. What caught his attention and held it was the absolute hurricane that had once been the kitchen. Walls had been caved in, brutalized and otherwise ruined. The floor was covered in glass shards and what had once been wooden cupboards, tiled counters, and possibly and ancient refrigerator, were nothing more than pieces of rubble and twisted lumps of metal. The only untouched area was the countertop and cupboard surrounding a single spigot porcelain sink.

He would have stayed there marveling at the level of destruction if his sensitive hearing hadn't picked up on the slightly labored breathing from somewhere beyond the door that led into the hallway. The old civil war soldier crept deeper into the house.

While he might not have been comfortable entering another abode without permission, Jasper couldn't justify a reason not to. Especially not after what he'd witnessed the day before.

Brevan had been seriously injured. The compassionate soul within him, buried though it was, couldn't and wouldn't let him leave the other teen alone for long. He knew he'd found something special with this boy, something only they could relate to.

It took everything within his already limited willpower to keep from rushing to the unconscious body that lay sprawled across the entrance of the living room and carrying him off to Carlisle. What had really hardened his resolve was the sight and the smell of Brevan's unusual blood. It sharply reminded him of his personal experience with it as well as the Cullen Clan head's.

He put aside his common-sense (which said, 'help!') long enough to make a logical solution to the situation. Brevan's behavior towards the end of the fight had strongly suggested that he was opposed to any sort of medical treatment, which Jasper would have found odd if he hadn't had personal experience with Brevan's unusual nature. What also stayed his 'do something' urge was the British teen's look before he closed the door in their faces.

Well that and his parting sentence.

He didn't mean the eyes, reptilian and unusual to be sure, but the look of a broken, tired and defeated soldier. Someone like him. Someone else who had to fight against the had he'd been dealt and had suffered for it.

And if that was telling enough, his sentiment about being helped for 'his own good' certainly did the trick. So he waited.

Jasper had withdrawn, never noticing the strangely colored liquid in the glass vial, and kept vigilance over his student. Someone, who was rapidly becoming his charge in his mind. A person who needed his help and protection.

And it was with that resolve, the vampire had waited until Brevan had stirred and watched closely from the shadows as he slowly made his way towards the sink in the kitchen. With each struggle and each refusal to give in, Jasper became more impressed and his respect for his fellow survivor had grown.

So it was that he found himself looking into pain clouded, sparking emerald slit eyes. Eyes, that looked at him in confusion and no small amount of anger.

Jasper could slightly understand that. He had seen the other male's time of weakness, not something someone like Brevan (or himself) took with any coup de grace. However his silent offering of help and understanding seemed to hold that raging storm at bay.

So, without a word, Brevan turned his back and silently offered Jasper his trust and accepted his help. So he didn't see the small smile that the vampire allowed himself.

It was a start.

Finally, after months of trying to garner some sort of trust between them, he was being offered small opening. He felt something within him move and a sense of peace settled over him.

Perhaps Brevan wasn't the only one who needed help after all.

Perhaps he wasn't the only one who needed healing either.

Harry stared hard at the blond. He had learned long ago that any weakness was exploitable. The Durselys had used them. Dumbledore had used them. Ron had used them. Voldemort had used them.

All against him.

And all with great effectiveness.

Harry could feel his defensive rage beginning to boil to the fore. For so long he'd fought and protected himself. He made sure that no one would be able to see his glaring human frailty again, especially after Luna had died. She had been the last to see him before he steeled his heart and let the last of himself disappear under the blooded, jaded warlock he'd become.

And here was an unwelcome person, who would want to 'help' him out of pity and self-guilt. Someone who'd witnessed his weakness. Gathering his small reserve of strength, Harry steel himself for evicting this trespasser out of his house. He then looked Jasper straight in the eye.

That stopped him. There was no pity in them, only a sad understanding.

And he looked, really looked, at the other teen. Slightly, almost barely noticeable, were small, strangely shaped scars. They littered his exposed skin.

Surprise and realization stunned the wizard. Jasper knew. Not particulars perhaps, but at least knew. He knew and understood what hell on earth was like. He lived through it also. And he didn't pity him.

Harry's gaze looked back at the proffered rag before making his decision.

Something within Harry turned over. And he found himself wanting, for the first time in a long, long time, wanting to trust someone again.

Wanting to trust Jasper.

Because…because he understood.

Harry turned and offered his blood-stained, torn up, debris imbedded and heavily scarred back to his high school tutor. He couldn't say the words, but then again he spoke more with his actions anyways.

Perhaps…

Perhaps he'd let someone else in again.

Just this one last time, he would allow himself to hope again.

::To Be Continued::

A/N: Thank you all for your patience (and especially to all of you who have not given up hope)!

As my chapter title states, I make no apologies for the extended (and forced) absence of this story. But I will tell you one of (and the most relevant) the reasons 'why' for the retardedly long wait.

In my wisdom, I bought a USB drive from Apple to store my work in two places and have backups. And it worked fairly well…for all of 2 years. I had this update (60+ pages) and the rest of the story saved on it (as well as 7 years worth of work). However, due to…whatever malfunction suddenly self-destructed it, it summarily deleted itself…along with just about everything else.

The damage is irrecoverable.

FYI: The 'Rant' as some will dub it in the flashback isn't. Sadly all that Harry's 'Would-Be' speculation has happened in my home state, so yes, it is a true, sad fact, and it did happen. Believe me, it is a very bitter pill to swallow.

**Saddens and angers ya doesn't it?**

…

So apparently there are a few concerns about the normal modus operandi in HP/Twilight crosses. The first being graphic porn. The second is male pregnancy. And the third is sympathy for the characters (Harry mainly).

So to clear up any confusion, repeat after me: "I don't do normal."

Get it? Got it? Good. (Then say it again)

Status-quo or not, it won't follow the others. Why?

Harry despises Edward and probably will for a long time (there will be no touching or cuddles, unless Edward wants to have his are ripped off and then beaten with it).

Male pregnancy? There are many, many, many reasons why this will not come to pass. A few are: Harry suffers severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (amongst other things), he's just learned to cover it very well (a product of his childhood, schooling, and the war), whatever 'magic' is usually conjured up for 'magical pregnancies' is annulled because of what happened to him (Deus ex machine plot killer, Hah!), he's emotionally stunted and therefore will act out differently than 'normal' society, and he's fresh from a bloody Hell-on-Earth war…just to name a few.

And finally, you're not meant to be sympathetic towards his character. Just to simply understand this one side of many that he's showing. Over time he will slowly leak out the 'true' Harry, the damaged, neglected, and hurting child, as well as other parts of his personality.

Remember this:

"He who laughs and smiles the most is often the one who is the most hurt."

…

Echo 3/8/11, 5/5/11, 5/6/11