Chapter Five of 'Half the Sunrise'- Remnants of a Martyr Complex

[lomonaaeren]

Chapter Five<--Remnants of a Martyr Complex/i>

“So, about that shop.”

Harry snorted a little as he glanced up. It had been three days since the battle with Greyback, and Nott had been quiet and mostly avoiding Harry. Then again, it hadn’t been difficult. Nott had been brewing, and Harry had a few regular clients who’d asked for dueling lessons, more than ever now since he’d taken down the rotworm and he and Nott had taken down Greyback and his accomplice in public.

And Harry had understood why Nott might have hesitated. Sure, he was the son of a Death Eater, and not inexperienced with the seedier side of life in Knockturn Alley, as he’d proven. But he hadn’t had the kind of violent life or training that Harry had, and often it took people time to become used to the fact that Harry was, in some ways, a trained killer.

Or an Auror, which sometimes is the same thing.

“We can have one if you want,” Harry said. “But I think it would be better if it was just for your potions.”

“Why?” Nott leaned forwards over the table and stared at him. Dinner was duck tonight, which Nott had been delighted to find in the market. “You fought equally to earn the gold. You should get equal return from the investment.”

Harry paused. He hadn’t expected Nott to be so invested in the idea of fairness.

“I know we’re different people,” Nott said, impatiently, probably catching that pause. “I also know that we only have each other.”

Harry nodded. That was true enough. He had sometimes ventured to the edge of Diagon Alley with the idea that if he could catch a glimpse of Ginny or the kids or the Weasleys shopping, it wouldn’t be the same as creepily stalking them. But he had always turned away before he’d waited five minutes.

The other Harry Potter was with them. They hadn’t suffered any loss. His wound might still be healing over, but theirs had never existed, and he had no right to inflict his presence on them.

“I wouldn’t really be able to use any shop space. It’s not as though I’m going to be selling anything to anyone. I don’t make wands or dueling robes.”

“And you couldn’t use a space that you could outfit to your own needs for a duel? I heard you muttering the other day about how little and cramped some of the spaces they expect you to teach them in are.”

Harry hesitated. Yes, that was true. Some of the flats he was called to made his and Nott’s look spacious. And when he wanted to teach someone to run and dodge and shield and cast countercurses, it was worse than useless if they were upset about their curtains getting scorched or their floor pockmarked.

“You know we can afford it,” Nott said, and leaned forwards with his hands flat on the table, his eyes glinting. “We could afford one of the nicer spaces right on the edge of Diagon Alley, even.”

“We could also afford a larger flat,” Harry said, meeting and holding Nott’s eyes.

Nott blinked and sat back a little. “Yes, of course we could,” he agreed a second later. “I hadn’t thought of that. Do you want one more than a shop space?”

Harry gave it serious thought, looking off to the side so that he could just gaze at the blank walls they hit with regular Color-Changing Charms. Looking at Nott often made him unable to make a decision like a regular person. The man was…intense.

And, well, this deserved consideration. But Harry didn’t want to move to a larger flat simply to have more space. He had lived in many places more cramped than this, spent almost ten years inside one in particular. Nott hadn’t complained. Harry assumed he could live with it.

But he should ask to make sure. He hadn’t known Nott before they stepped back in time, after all.

“Are you getting tired of living on top of me?” he asked, turning around in the chair again. “I assumed you were. I know you must have had plenty of space in the house where you did live.”

Nott’s eyes widened a little. Then he said, “Too much. Elizabeth and I barely used a quarter of it.”

“But still more rooms than here.” Harry spun his hand around his head. “If you’re cramped or want more, just tell me.”

“What about you?”

“I can live with it.”

“So can I.” Nott shrugged, perhaps because he thought the shrug in his voice hadn’t come across clearly enough. “Honestly, I think we should acquire the shop space so we can acquire the Galleons to acquire a much nicer flat, not one that’s merely a little bigger.”

Harry half-smiled. “All right. That makes sense. I just wanted to make sure that you weren’t getting sick of sharing bedroom and bathroom space every day.”

“Bedroom space? With our magnificent curtain hung between us?”

Harry laughed, one of the first times he could remember really doing that with wholehearted mirth since they’d come back to the past. Nott’s eyes widened a little. Maybe he hadn’t thought the joke worth that response.

Harry shrugged off that suspicion. He and Nott were getting along perfectly well, he thought, better than Harry would ever have suspected for two people who had barely known each other before traveling back. So long as they continued getting on well, there was no reason to change the way he acted.

“Whatever you want.”

- - - -

“Is something wrong, Nott?”

Nott had acted as though something was wrong ever since they entered the potential shop space that might become theirs. The space worked well enough, to Harry’s eyes. It was in a building perhaps a curse’s flight from Diagon Alley, not far from Borgin and Burke’s, and was entirely made of stone except for the single window. It felt cavernous without anything except a counter in the back, but Harry suspected they would fill up the space soon enough with cauldrons, finished potions, ingredients if Nott wanted to sell those, and the division they would need to make between the potions portion of the shop and the dueling room.

Nott, though, had been looking continually at Harry during the tour. Harry wondered if there was some feature the building was lacking that Nott thought Harry wanted, but it was hard to say anything in front of the owner going on and on about how wonderful things were. At least the woman had backed out a little to give them room to consider the purchase.

“You haven’t said whether this suits you.”

“Oh. Sorry. Yeah, it does.”

“But you don’t want…” Nott trailed off. Harry watched him, puzzled. He had the odd feeling that Nott was searching for words, and he didn’t think it was because Nott didn’t know the names of the technical dueling apparatus Harry might have considered if they were richer.

“Just a wall between the spaces, and sound-proofing so my students and I don’t disturb your brewing,” Harry said reassuringly. “Maybe some extra insulation so if we slam into the wall, so that doesn’t disturb your cauldrons, either.”

Nott folded his arms. “Do you ever demand anything for yourself, Potter?”

“I just did?”

“That’s for your clients, for the shop to make money, for you to be sure that you’re not disturbing my brewing. Not for you.”

Harry frowned, truly perplexed. “And the improvements and modifications you’ve been talking about to this space aren’t for you?”

“They…look, Potter, some of the things I want just because they’ll make it more convenient, all right? Like the counters and tables I was talking about with sunken spaces for the cauldrons to sit in. They’re not technically necessary to get the brews right. I just like them.”

“But that will still make the shop better and make you more likely to earn money.”

Nott stared at him in what seemed to be sheer frustration. Harry stared back. In general, he tried to be as accommodating as possible, and he thought he and Nott had got along better than a lot of pairs who might have had to tolerate each other in such a difficult situation. But he truly didn’t understand what the problem was now.

“Never mind,” Nott snapped, and spun around to call the owner of the shop back in.

Harry rolled his eyes at Nott’s back and went to investigate the floor and ceiling at what he thought must be the halfway point of the shop, to see how easy it would be to install a partition between the spaces.

- - - -

The owl that landed on their windowsill that evening made Harry instantly cautious. Not only was it a much more distinctive bird—black with dashes of white—than the anonymous barn owls and tawnies most people in Knockturn used to send post, the parchment it bore was shut with some kind of golden seal Harry didn’t recognize.

Nott entered the flat to find Harry casting detection spells at the letter. “What’s going on?” he asked, sitting down at the table and watching. The owl clicked its beak at Nott in annoyance, as if it had thought Harry was living alone and didn’t want an audience for whatever would happen when he opened the letter.

“This owl delivered this letter, and it has a seal on it. And the owl isn’t going away.” Harry glared at the bird just in case that had stopped being true, only to get a twist of its head and another click.

“How many detection spells have you tried?”

“All the standard ones. There’s nothing.”

“Probably safe to open, then.” Nott’s voice was distracted as he sorted through a sheaf of parchments he’d brought in with him and laid on the table. “Probably…someone who’s trying to puff themselves up by using formality where informality would do.”

That relaxed Harry a little. Hell, for all he knew, this was still someone who lived in Knockturn Alley, but was a recent exile, like them, and hadn’t realized it was a bad idea to use their own distinctive owl and seal. Harry reached down and picked up the parchment, one eye on the bird’s beak and talons. The owl just leaned a little forwards as if it could will him into reading the letter faster.

The bottom fell out of Harry’s stomach.

To the Defeaters of Greyback:

I am writing this letter out of desperation and in hopes that my owl can deliver it without a formal name. I have nowhere else to turn.

I am an Auror who has always had trouble with the practical aspects of the job, but I managed the wandwork and the like until I was cursed. The curse was slow-acting, and I didn’t notice it at first. Then I thought it had only affected the speed of my spells. It’s become obvious that it’s affected my ability to cast offensive and defensive spells, too. I can manage ordinary household charms and the like with my normal level of power, but no shields, curses, or countercurses.

Please. I’ve always wanted to be an Auror. This is the only thing I do want. And people who might have helped me if I wasn’t Muggleborn have turned me away, citing my lack of money and—although they don’t put it this way—my lack of connections.

You defeated the undefeatable when you brought Greyback in. Perhaps you can defeat this curse, too. At least try. I can’t pay you in money, but I’m happy to offer you whatever favor you wish.

Dennis Creevey.

Harry swore under his breath and held out the letter to Nott when he extended a hand. Then he turned and stared out the window at the run-down buildings of Knockturn Alley, ignoring the owl’s impatiently clicking beak.

Dennis.

He had become an Auror because Harry had. Oh, he had talked about wanting to honor his brother, since Colin had talked about being an Auror, too, but the way he’d looked at Harry every day during his training had told Harry the truth. Harry had tried to walk the line between friendship and favoritism until Dennis was trained, and then he had done the best he could to support him.

Now, when Dennis would look at him and see a stranger…

Harry closed his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face. He might have told himself that he hadn’t tried to go into Diagon Alley or get a job at the Ministry because he didn’t want to stand the chance of confusing other people, but that wasn’t the truth. He trusted Nott’s calculation that no one would be able to recognize them as who they had once been. The replicas created by the ritual had fully taken their place.

He hadn’t done it because he was afraid of getting hurt, of feeling so much pain when he met old friends’ eyes and his family’s eyes and saw nothing but politeness there that he wouldn’t be able to breathe.

“It’s a bit irritating that he doesn’t say which curse,” Nott muttered. “That would make this easier.”

Harry jerked himself back to the present, beyond grateful for Nott’s practical clear-headedness. It grounded him like a splash of cold water. “I know. But he might not know. That would fit with his not knowing how to cure it.”

“Then you want to meet with him?”

“I can’t do anything else. But I’d appreciate some tutoring in any knowledge you have on curses before I go.”

Nott stared at him so long that Harry thought he must have offended his prickly pureblood pride for some reason. But then Nott said, “We’re both going, Potter.”

“What? But you didn’t know Dennis. He wasn’t your friend.”

“You’re going,” Nott said, his voice low and inflexible as iron. “I don’t want to be separated from you. Besides, it’ll be easier to help him if we’re both there.”

Harry found it oddly hard to breathe. He stared at Nott, who stared back and looked a little bored. Maybe he was. Maybe this didn’t matter to him for the reasons Harry had thought it did, or maybe he didn’t know or remember that Dennis was Muggleborn.

Or maybe, they were closer than Harry had thought.

Harry took a deep breath and said, “You know what’s ridiculous?”

Nott arched an eyebrow.

“We’ve spent months together in a world where we’re the only two who really know who we are—were—and we’ll probably spend years like that. And neither of us is charging off to get his own space, and we fight well together, and—look, what I’m saying it’s that it’s bloody ridiculous for you to go on calling me Potter. Call me Harry.”

Nott sat up and stared at him. Harry met his eyes and tried to look as encouraging as he could.

Nott half-shook his head, but not in denial, and said softly, “Call me Theo.”

Harry smiled, and it felt like the most sincere smile he’d given in a long, long time.