Disclaimer: Don't own. Don't care. Writing this for free.
AN: Hi there everyone! Gotta say, the pairing for the fic got a lot more interest than I thought it would (comments about that overshadowed the magical inuendo, pity). Also, the name of the dragon has been chosen, hope you all are happy with it. Also, I got to say that a lot of detailed reviews for the pairing made my muse think a lot of scenes and scenarios that will enrich this fic a few chapters from this one.
This early update comes to you thanks to the fact that LAST CHAPTER GOT OVER 200 REVIEWS! Wohoo! Seriously, that was a milestone I didn't think this would break until Season 7's teasers came about and fanfiction readers returned to this site to stall the anxiety.
Also, as promised to one of my readers, I reduced the number of parenthesis in this chapter. I hope the reading is now more pleasant for everyone.
Warning: This chapter has angst and deserves to be M.
AN Edit 23-10-2016: I changed the mistake about using the Gryffindor sword as a butcher knife. Thanks for catching that mistake.
The name of the dragon that won in the poll came to you thanks to: Hulkishpower (If anyone else recommended, not voted, that name let me know so I can credit you too).
Published on: 16-10-2016 Betaed by: ddzhalev
"To go North, you must journey South. To reach the West, you must go East. To go forward you must go back, and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow".
Quaithe to Daenerys Targaryen, Game of Thrones, season 2.
Chapter 5: Half a step forwards
There are people whose mastery of a subject is wide enough to find the right answer for every mystery to be found in every corner of continent; and thus, these people might feel overconfident to the point of forgetting that the sea has mysteries of its own. So, as a self-proclaimed man of the world, Tyrion had been stumped to find out that their guest ran away instead of doing what a man ought to do when naked whores parade in his room. It was as if his guest had no cock at all... No, that is not necessarily true, not all men would let their basest desires take over (theoretically, that is). Sure, Tyrion could not think of anyone who would choose blue balls over pussy; in fact, even the highly honorable Ned Stark had succumbed to his cock's will while away on the battlefield and sown his seed away from home, then returned with a bastard.
The only man Tyrion would ever imagine pushing away whores would be Varys, and having anything at all in common with Varys was a blow to anyone's masculinity on principle.
Worse that the discovery that he wasn't all-knowing in his favorite area of study, was the fact that he had no idea how detrimental the latest development would be to the goal of winning the dragon rider's favor.
Tyrion rubbed the bridge of his nose, "Missandei, make sure that these women get their coin." The beautiful former slave gave a demure nod and began handing a coin to each whore. Once the whores had what they were promised, they left the room. Now that Tyrion, Missandei and Grey Worm were alone, Grey Worm spoke firmly, "You were wrong."
Instead of replying right away, Tyrion took a sip of the wine in his half-empty cup. What had been a drink served for a celebration of soon to come benefits, no longer tasted as sweet. "Our young guest might not have reacted as predicted, but this result has not been entirely unfavorable to us."
Missandei frowned, puzzlement clear in her pretty brown eyes. "What could you have gained, when it was clear our guest was not appreciative of your actions?" It was an impressive talent, Tyrion decided, being able to speak of both his fuck up and the boy's lack of fucking in such polite terms.
"Insight," Tyrion revealed confidently, "we now know more of Harry than we did yesterday. Life is like this: we do what we believe is right, then we learn to see the good and the bad resulting from it."
"So you were wrong," Grey Worm insisted. Missandei smiled a bit.
Tyrion was not amused.
"The important thing is to plan our next step: reach common grounds of communication. I want you," he pointed towards Missandei, "to get ready to teach Harry the common tongue of Westeros. By being able to communicate in that language it would make it a lot easier for us to reach an understanding; not to mention the extra benefit of him having to rely on us instead of the locals. Speaking about locals, I believe it would be for the best to double the security for the time being," Tyrion looked pointedly at Grey Worm, "as you might have noticed, the Red Priests have been stirring the people. It would be in our best interest to keep the masses away from our guest for the time being."
Grey Worm nodded, as did Missandei. It would seem that, in spite of Tyrion's little mishap, they were still willing to trust him and follow his orders without hesitation which was... convenient, of course, but also worried Tyrion quite a bit: obviously the effect of being born and raised as obedient slaves was quite deep.
Thankfully, Tyrion could see that they had loosened up a lot in the time he had shared with them; which didn't mean Tyrion could not speed up the process with the most relaxing substance invented by man: alcohol.
Tyrion smiled. Maybe he could get back at them for making fun of him before.
Sleep was not coming for Harry. He laid inside the tent he had shared with his friends, finding reminders of them here and there. Now that he had time to actually sit and think, he couldn't help but feeling nostalgic. Of course, the experiences of the last day were also bothering him in ways that had nothing to do with depression. So he would jump from arousal to moping in a way even he could see was pathetic. He was pathetic.
Harry covered his face with his hands, and the smell of flowery perfume that had sunk in his fingertips brought memories of warm, naked skin. Skin he had touched, even sucked, even if by accident. The phantom taste of sweat and something enticingly female danced on his lips. He could feel the ragged breath, lusty eyes and smile that held promises of endless pleasure zeroing in on him. He was aroused, visibly so, the thin yellow garb he had on doing very little to hide the state of Harry's lower wand. On instinct, his hands inched downwards. The electric feel of clumsy hands bumping the tip of an erection made Harry gasp, and soon he was moving his hand up and down, squeezing experimentally. Never before had Harry's body felt so much pleasure; then again, he had never had the right stimulus needed for getting hard wood, nor the chance to take advantage of it. So Harry pumped himself, with more speed than talent and no grace whatsoever. The feeling built up until he was overwhelmed by the new sensations and soon his eyes were seeing little white dots that were no less in number than the Christmas lights in the Great Hall during December.
Harry's mind was foggy and unfocused for a few minutes. Then, as his mind came back to normal, he felt guilty and so very filthy: the sticky and thick substance on his hand, belly and inner legs felt like wet white glue, sticking the word disgusting to every spot of skin it touched. How did something that felt so amazing a few moments before make him feel so horrible now? Was he guilty because he jacked off to the memory of that woman? She flashed him and jumped on his lap, for Merlin's sake! Even as pathetically filthy as he felt, he knew he was being irrational.
Harry took a deep breath and tried to calm down. He tried to bring forth all the knowledge about adulthood that he had gathered: it was not much. Truth being told, he had learned more about intimate relationships by listening to Fred and George make crude comments and jokes towards Percy after they found out about the latter's crush on Penelope Clearwater. If Harry had had any doubt of where a dick went or what foreplay was... then the very visual hand gestures, the fake moans (that sounded disturbingly female) and the odd wiggle of a tongue they made cleared up Harry's doubts that day. It was a rather embarrassing, yet educational day; and Harry had not only learned about sex, he had also had found out that Percy had inherited Molly Weasley's furious yelling timber. Of course, his new knowledge made Harry's forming crush on Cho ten times more awkward, and he was unable to look at Hermione's eyes for a week.
After recalling what little meager knowledge he had gained thanks to the twins and by accidentally overhearing random teenage talks, Harry focused on the shame he was feeling. He recalled, with no small amount of disgust, that one time when he had been cleaning the windows of the top floor of number 4 Privet Drive, he had happened to hear thumps and what sounded like the cry of a dying whale coming from Dudley's room. Aunt Petunia, who had just returned from shopping, had rushed up looking worried on the behalf of her Diddy Dudleykins, opening the door without knocking and revealing his cousin without pants. Harry's aunt's wails of her baby becoming a man, and the impromptu celebration banquet, had made Dudley look as though he would die from shame. It was the first time in history that Dudley had ever refused to eat, much less step in the kitchen.
To this day, Harry thanked the gods that aunt Petunia's body had been blocking his line of sight of an image that would have tormented him for life.
Harry had no doubts that, if it had been himself getting caught with a hand on his privates, then he would have been beaten black and blue; which is why he had never tried to explore himself in Privet Drive. Similarly, Hogwarts was also not an option for "self-discovery" since the dormitory was shared and Harry was unable to get in the mood with tree other males in the room. So this had been Harry's first experience getting wanky and the Boy-Who-Lived decided that it was understandable that he felt such an irrational shame.
Once he had stopped feeling like a freak for no good reason, Harry realized he could have gotten killed by panicking in the company of strangers, if they had truly meant him harm. Harry had followed them with the intent of keeping "constant vigilance", but a flash of booty and *bam*: all the experience he had gathered by almost getting murdered on a yearly basis went out of the window. Harry had been defenseless and alone, the friends that he had gotten used to having around to watch his back wouldn't have saved his ass if any of the women had decided to stab him or something.
Harry was alone, so there would be no Hermione supplying knowledge and making all his plans for survival, there would be no Ron forming improvised strategies for him. If Harry wanted to survive long enough to get back home, he needed to learn to rely on himself. Sure, the dragon guarding the tent would be a big help scaring away people, but that didn't mean it was a real solution for his troubles.
Feeling no sleepiness whatsoever despite the late hours of the night (or was it really early on the next day?), Harry sat and pondered what his resources were, how long his food and water would last, what little he could do with wandless magic, what spells he could risk with the Elder Wand. If all else failed, he had the Sword of Gyffindor. Harry might not know anything about swordsmanship beyond what end to stick in his enemies, but that had been enough to slay a basilisk at twelve, so he figured it could be of help. Still, he felt it was a pity that Hermione's library-like knowledge - which Harry relied on more than everything he had learnt from his professors combined - didn't include any form of Muggle combat ways. In fact, Harry was willing to bet that it never occurred to her to bring a book that taught sword-fighting to their Horcrux Hunting even as a curiosity.
She also failed to provide information about wandless magic; had it not been for what little Ron had picked up on the subject while growing up in the magical word, Harry would be unable to even Accio his wand if it ever got stolen from him.
Harry yawned. Lazy crimson rays wafted into the tent's opening, and the tiredness of the past day hit him. It would be for the best for him to sleep a bit before he faced the outside world. He curled on top of Ron's bed (his was stained and dirty after his wanking) then, with sheets wrapped around himself to fend off the coldness of the desert night. He fell asleep with half-thought plans and wearing nothing but his boxers. A less than pristine yellow garb was now peeking out from the nearest trashcan.
Magic is a force of nature, it is as ever-existing and ever-changing as water: it might turn into steam with the heat and into ice when cold; but, with time, it always returns to being water; you can take away the water from a river, but can never stop it from refilling when the rainy season comes. Water can be visible, but it can also be subtle: making a home in the sea, bellow the earth or up in the clouds. Water is the life that flows in the body and flows in the blood.
Blood is a vessel for magic, and magic is a force that knows what has been and will be.
Magic is ubiquitous, sees everything and remembers everything. And, sometimes, magic tells tales to those who would listen and shows things to those that see. Magic touches the body when awake and the mind when it sleeps. And so, in dreams magic speaks to men who cannot understand until the events that are forewarned occur.
Most of the time, understanding comes too late.
White mist dancing in the ground emulating the patterns of sand moved by the wind. A woman with silver-blonde hair steps forwards, her lilac dress moving into an unseen wind. The air whispers, yet remains unmoving. The soil is bare yet ethereal, and the trees that look like silhouettes in turbulent waters, are unwelcoming. There is the sound of millions of tiny steps, a sound so soft human ears should never be able to pick up. Purple eyes search for the source, and see tiny spiders moving away in rivers, all moving as though they are running from something at the end of the canopy. She reaches a big, black, human-shaped stone that shines like crystal in candlelight.
"The glass candles are burning." An almost unfamiliar female voice calls from behind the blonde and she turns around searching for the owner, she finds herself alone. "Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun's son and the mummer's dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal"
When the words were over, the woman, Daenerys Stormborn, last carrier of the Targaryen name, was standing in front of another female. Quaithe of Asshai, her masked face and her piercing eyes remaining unchanged from the last time Daenerys saw her. The warning first given to the Mother of Dragons so many moons ago in Qarth seemed to be echoed by the fog and the forest. Daenerys gives a step forward to touch the woman as though spell-bound, but, as pale fingers reach the rhombus of lacquered wood hiding the Sadowbinder's face, wood and tanned flesh turn back into the black stone, then the stone turns to ice that collapses like flakes of dust. Snowflakes had covered the world around Daenerys until all she could see was the pure white of snow. A chill that had nothing to do with the coldness around made Daenerys turn around. Two glowing dots of blue stare at her from the distance.
Purple eyes opened abruptly. The forest hidden in the mist and snow had vanished, replaced by a patch of hard soil cracked by the sun. There was the smell of sweat and horse piss, and her ears easily picked up the sound of a cracking fire and the snores of a nearby Dothraki warrior. She looked up to the sky, where sun and moon peeked from opposite corners. It had all been a dream, albeit not an ordinary one. There was meaning hidden in what she saw, but she could not grasp it anymore than she would be able to grasp the stars.
She closed her eyes and let the words of a warning almost forgotten replay in her head until the Dothraki tribe she was traveling with rose from their slumber and readied to go. She stood up, not allowing anyone to give her the order as she joined the march. Her shoes that once had been sturdy now were peppered with holes in their soles and she could feel the land with every step she took. She was dirty and exhausted but she did not sweat or wither under a sun so hot it started scorching the skin of men. She didn't lower her head or stop, even when her feet bled and the wind blew dust to her eyes: she was not a delicate lady but a queen and a conqueror.
She might no longer have a khal or a khalasar, but she was still a khaleesi. And she would make the men humiliating her pay in fire and blood.
On the horizon, the gates of Vaes Dothrak were now close enough to see the giant horse statues that threatened to stomp on anyone landing a foot on the Godsway. Daenerys smiled sadly with the memories the place evoked, the travel she had made to get there, her old Khalasar and her husband, Khal Drogo, whose ties to her were the only reason she had been spared the fate of being mounted until she got ripped apart.
In her heart, there was a sliver of worry about what would happen after she was presented to the Dosh Khaleen. She did not want to join the other wives of the past Khals, for her destiny was to be found on her birthright lands... but if she was deemed unworthy to belong to the Dosh Khaleen, she would have no more protection than that of the women the Dothraki tribes took with them as loot in their plundering.
But, beyond that sliver of worry, there was a certainty that her tale wouldn't end in this place.
Green eyes stared at the plaza the giant pale dragon had claimed as its own, then blinked. A tent had been set up in the wingspan of the beast. Clearly, it belonged to the dragon tamer, for not even the bravest fool would dare put a place of rest right beside such a deadly creature if it wasn't under their command. Where the boy had gotten the tent from was something that got Tyrion the tiniest bit curious, but it was ultimately unimportant.
The odor of perfume was the first thing alerting Tyrion he had company in the corridor he had chosen to overlook the plaza. Varys walked to stand a few steps behind Tyrion. "Many songs are being sung about the events of last night".
Great! First Grey Worm and Missandei and now Varys, would everyone mock him for his miscalculation? Moodily, Tyrion replied in mock magnanimity "Rightly so: first thousands of men without a cock moving around in Meereen, then a boy who should have been able to fill this city's pussies turned them down. It made me so sad that I gave the whores enough coin to get a horse drunk."
Varys, unperturbed, looked down to the dwarf and let out a tiny smile. "How curious, the songs that have reached my ears contain a different tale." Tyrion looked at the perfumed eunuch with confusion. Varys elaborated, "It would seem our guest's actions were taken in a rather favorable light by the women of the trade."
"You are saying that whores were happy to get rejected?" it was absurd. Sure, getting coin for doing nothing was probably a good thing for anyone, but one would think rejection of free service would equate to an insult in their profession.
Instead of answering the Little Lion's question, Varys gestured velvety to the window, "I believe it is time to approach the young dragon yet again." Tyron looked out the window once again, clearly seeing someone dressed in black stepping out from the tent in the plaza.
"So it seems," Tyrion smiled wryly. He had no idea what kind of mood Harry Dragon Rider would be in after last night.
"I leave you to it then," Varys said. Tyrion nodded.
Before the dwarf could walk away, the effeminate voice of the Master of Whispers came to him from the hallway "After all, it is a known fact that welcoming guests is your area of expertise."
Ticked, Tyrion turned around to make a snide retort in response to the underhanded mockery from the Master of Whispers. Varys was nowhere in sight.
Harry stepped out of the wizard's tent, the sun was already high up in the sky, making him close his eyes momentarily to adjust to the change of light. He opened his eyes a moment later, then busied himself taking down the tent. The heat of the day felt more intense than it did the day before, the black fabric of Harry's school uniform was absorbing the heat to the point that Harry felt tempted to stop taking down the tent, get back inside and wear his worn Muggle clothes. He resisted the temptation, nevertheless, because it was better to bear with the heat and look presentable, than feel a little less heated and look like a pauper. Especially so when the only nice looking clothes he had could actually blend in a bit with the fashion of the era... or at least with what little had seen around the place the day before.
That done, Harry moved to greet his dragon, touching it's snout with affection. It moved it's head forwards, bumping Harry, making him loose his balance. Harry fell and smiled at what felt like a greeting.
"I believe we had agreed before I couldn't keep calling you dragon all the time, didn't we?" Harry asked his dragon, which continued to stare forwards in indifference. "I realized that wizard names are no good, since their naming sense is bloody barmy. I also don't want to give you some name we need to change later because I have no idea if you are a boy or a girl so..." Harry had thought long and hard on it. He thought of names that sounded cool, then names that could work for either gender. The names he thought of after getting a measly two hours of sleep ranged from names of dragons in muggle literature (well, the one he knew from Lord of the Rings) to dragons that were mentioned in books about Merlin. In the end, Harry figured that, instead of giving names of people, he could give the dragon the name of a place, since those should be equally appropriate for either gender.
Valhalla, that was the first name he considered, and he was so tempted to name it so, because it sounded so incredibly cool... but Harry shook his head in the end. Valhalla was a viking word. It could spell a myriad of trouble if Harry and his dragon were thought to belong to a pillaging and raping society that, for all he knew, was still active and making enemies all around the world. After much deliberation, and with a heavy heart, he gave up the coolest name he thought he could come up with and started thinking of giving the dragon, who was his last link to home, the name England but... it didn't feel right.
In the end, Harry decided to name the dragon "Albion", the earliest known name of Great Britain. It felt appropriate. Not to mention that if people from the past recognized the name (unlikely given the distance and the inefficiency of muggle ancient travel methods), they would have been able to point him in the right direction of the isle.
In Harry's opinion, there were two logical ways to go back. First, he could make his way through the desert, hoping to bump into the general area of the cave, which could have been buried by a sand storm; then he would need to dig the collapsed stone, figure out how to get down to the bottom now that he no longer had a broom. Once down there, he might be lucky to find runes he wouldn't understand at all. Or, there was path number two. He could try to go back to the place his home would be, go to a magical community that he knew where to find and ask for help from people that spoke archaic English.
Despite the first option being the most geographically close, going by the second would make the most sense and would have the most chance of success. For the time being, though, Harry needed to gather resources, information about the world and a map. To be able to communicate with the locals would be a logical first step in his agenda. Harry reasoned that spending time in this place was a must, since he needed to re-learn how much magic he needed to use for each spell; he also planned to find a teacher for sword fighting so he wouldn't need to rely solely on his magic, a thing he could do here since there were so many people with swords; not to mention that Harry would need resources for the long trip that he didn't currently have the funds to purchase (the little coin he had he would probably need to spend on the dragon's food bill). So earning money would be something to focus on after learning to communicate.
"I will call you Albion. Is Albion a name you like?" No response. Harry couldn't help feeling a little bit disappointed that the dragon remained uncaring. "Well, I think it's a rather fetching name. Anyway, I hope you are already well enough to hunt, Albion." The dragon tilted it's head. "Hunt, you know, food?"
As in response for Harry's inquire, Albion spread his wings, startling Harry, and started to move them up and down. The damage done to the dragon when escaping the cave seemed to be healed, thick, red scars shinning on its wings and body. The force of the take off made Harry fall on his posterior for a second time, and the stone it had used to propel itself gained more cracks than it already had.
"Wow," Harry breathed, the dragon got so far away in so little time the wizard could only barely see it despite its monumental bulk. He stood there being awed for a few moments before he heard his name being called.
Harry turned, then glared at the dwarf that sent him the horde of whores. Tyrion, who seemed to be about to say something, had his jaw drop in astonishment as he looked down at the Gryffindor emblem on Harry's chest. Harry frowned, he had assumed the banner of the founders wouldn't be famous here.
It was well known for Hogwarts' students that the the greatest school of magic of Great Britain was built in the 10th Century, and the four founding families' origin was not as precise, but the writer of "Hogwarts: A History" had assured that the emblems of the houses were born in the 7th century at the earliest. Which meant, and Harry was sure of this, that he was pushed into time at the earliest on the 7th Century.
In fact, if Harry was lucky enough, then Hogwarts was already built and the golden lion on top of a red and yellow field was recognized as a school affiliation.
"Gryffindor," Harry said simply, pointing to his chest.
The dwarf blinked, nodding as if Harry had given him enlightenment.
"Harry Gryffindor?" The dwarf asked.
'Oh... so he took it like that?', Harry thought disappointed. It would seem that the school was not built yet; which gave him the certainty he was now trapped between centuries seventh and tenth. Therefore, by seen the lion in Harry's chest he assumed Harry to belong to the family instead of being a student of a school yet to be founded. It made sense, but it was also a pity: getting help from whoever was the headmaster now would have been a good place to start.
Now there was the problem of clarifying the mix-up... only, Harry was still stumped by the language barrier, so he had no way of actually clarifying anything. But, no matter: Harry Potter had always been a Gryffindor (even if not in the sense the dwarf thought), so he didn't care enough to spend all day doing charades to explain the origin of the emblem on his chest; specially since Harry was only going to be in the past, let alone this city, for a short while before he went back home to meet his destiny. Harry shrugged. And so, in these distant lands, Harry Potter found himself re-baptized as Harry Gryffindor. He just hoped his new identity wouldn't come to bite him in the arse latter.
With his head held high and trying to display the confidence of a man who belonged to an ancient, powerful family, he waited for the dwarf to state his business. And God help Tyrion if he tried to do a repeat of last night's disaster; because, this time, Harry had a very big, very sharp sword, and he wouldn't hesitate to threaten his host with it.
Harry moved his hand to the pommel of the sword as he continued to glare at the smaller man. Tyrion, noticing this, rose his hands in a "I mean no harm" gesture. Harry nodded, and decided not to care for the fact the dwarf looked more interested in the emblem in his robes than the shiny sword embedded with rubies and gold on the handle, whose blade had a surface so sharp and reflective it seemed to glow with an inner light under the sun.
Harry made a mental note to get a scabbard for the sword instead of letting it dangle on his belt. After all, the sword was coated in Basilisk venom, and he would feel bad if someone died trying to steal it.
In the end, Harry decided to follow Tyrion instead of going around aimlessly to see if he could pick up some words. Before he actually got around to doing so, Harry felt a pull and his head moved towards the distance where his dragon could be seen, growing from the size of a pebble to that of a house, to that of a gigantic dragon. The dragon landed clumsily, almost smacking Harry's body with one of his wings. The wall of one of the closest buildings came down when the dragon miscalculated and Harry winced at the destruction, hoping the dragon was alright. The smell of blood wafted in the air and Harry worried that the dragon had re-opened a wound or gotten hurt while hunting. The dragon didn't seem to mind crashing hard enough to break rocks, but there was blood flowing like rivers from between his lips. Then, like a bird regurgitating food for it's chicks, the dragon vomited a slobbery and very bloody beheaded horse right at Harry's feet. The memory of the rats in the cave was triggered and he idly wondered if those had been dry because he had spent too long sleeping and the spit dried.
*GRMPHW* The dragon bumped the mangled horse corpse towards Harry. The message was clear. Harry almost groaned and eww-ed, but he had already decided he would act like a proper Gryffindor. He gave a step forwards and, deciding that if he was going to eat vomited meat he wouldn't eat it raw, concentrated really hard into the want to send fire to the meat. "Incendio," he chanted after a few minutes of concentration, Harry's wandless magic made a spark strong enough to light a candle but not much else... maybe he was aiming it too wide?
Harry looked down to the mangled half-chewed, probably even half-digested, horse, and noticed that there were several points in which the meat was all but falling into pieces. With a lot of bravery and a not a small amount of disgust, Harry dug his fingers into the bloody, slobbery horse meat, ripping a handful of it. Once he had done such a thing, he put the uneven blob of meat on the floor. "Incendio!" He commanded with a wave of his hand, and the magic lit the meat on fire until it was giving of a roasted smell. Harry smiled, feeling so much glee he simply forgot the piece had been in a dragon's stomach before.
He moved the food on its lips and took a bite, it tasted horrible: semi-raw inside and charbroiled on the outside. He ate the chunk anyway. He had survived eating worse, so the bacteria left in the animal were not something he felt like concerning himself with right then.
Harry could feel a feeling of pride not his own fill him and mix with Harry's sense of victory. It made sense, Harry knew, that if the dragon burnt its food he would be expected to do so, so maybe eating what it brought wouldn't be too bad in the future. It was nice to have people, er, someone be proud of you.
A cough broke the illusion of being alone in the world with Albion. Once again, Harry faced the dwarf. He had completely forgotten about him. Harry felt oddly offended to have Tyrion there at that moment, like he had ruined a really important milestone.
A few moments of unintelligible babble and insistent (if grandiose) pointing towards the door of the building Harry had been in the day before made it clear that the dwarf wanted him to follow. Now that the bonding moment had gone to waste and Harry had nothing to do, he followed Tyrion behind, trying to act Pureblood enough to keep his image of a Gryffindor, while not lowering himself down to the peacock-ish behavior of Draco Malfoy.
Harry was sure he was failing miserably.
A pair cold black eyes were following the dragon rider and the dwarf moving away from the plaza. A little beggar girl, with a dress so gritty it might never have gotten washed, had been watching intensely from behind her ragged midnight bangs. She stood up and moved fast on nimble feet. She avoided the Undying keeping people away from the plaza and its surroundings by passing through old, broken walls on paths only orphaned street rats dared moving through.
A few minutes later, the little girl was walking in a dark tunnel, the old torch in her hand almost too heavy for her short, bony fingers. The light of another torch came into view, carried by a man wearing a golden mask.
"He came out," she rasped with a dry throat as she looked up. The girl's coal eyes looked swollen and red-rimmed, the bags under them a clear sign she had gone without sleep for too long.
The man in the mask nodded, then threw a silver coin to the poor beggar. She hugged her treasure to her protruding ribs, dreams of bread and water dancing in her eyes. The sound of metal brushing fabric and the swish of wind were followed by a thud. The little girl's head rolled on the floor. The pool of blood leaking out of her two halves spread then drowned the flame of the torch that had rolled out of limp fingers.
The man with the golden mask walked away without turning back.
In the darkness of the old tunnel thousands of small feet moved towards the smell of blood and raw meet. The starving vermin in the place feasted, their hunger so fierce it left behind naught but bone and a single piece of silver that could have granted dreams of bread and water.
To be continued.
AN: I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. I had considered making a longer chapter to celebrate review 200, then deliver it on the usual date, but in the end I chose lenght consistency and faster speed over a longer chapter.
Edit 23-10-2016. I realized belatedly that I didn't speak about what is going to happen to the pairing. It is simple: I will be using the way the fic moves as a guide of who shall keep Harry's heart. I do not plan to make it a harem, Harry won't end up with more than one woman... despite of that, I do believe is completely possible to have a orgy with whores at some point or another, so there is that.
Thanks to everyone that pointed out the mistake of Harry using the poisonous sword as a knife as idiotic (none of you used that word because you are all darlings). As you might have noticed, I changed it.
Please review! Your reviews inspire me and give me ideas for this fic.