The sand remembered him before he remembered himself.
It whispered against his armor—black as a forgotten promise, red as the spaces between heartbeats—and told him stories in a language older than words. Stories of other shores, other worlds, other men who had washed up on beaches that existed in the margins of reality, in the places where stories bleed into one another like watercolors left in the rain.
The man in the skull-mask pushed himself upright. Water streamed from the joints of his armor, and for a moment, the droplets caught the light like tiny falling stars. He had been Harry Potter once, in another life, in another story entirely. That boy had died in a hospital bed in St. Mungo's, or so the world believed. The body they burned had been a lie made flesh, a simulacrum that fooled even magic itself.
The truth, as truths often are, was considerably worse.
*Reaper.* That was the name they had given him. Or perhaps it was the name he had earned. In the Department of Mysteries, in rooms that existed outside of time, names have a way of choosing their bearers rather than the other way around.
He had spent years there. Decades, perhaps. Time moves differently in places that have decided time is more of a suggestion than a rule. They had broken him down to his component parts—boy, survivor, hero, fool—and rebuilt him into something that served a purpose. Combat magic that would make Voldemort weep. Runes that could unpick the fabric of reality. Alchemy that transmuted not lead into gold, but boys into weapons.
And weapons, he had learned, do not need to remember what it felt like to be loved.
The beach stretched away in both directions, white sand meeting impossibly blue water meeting a sky that had never known British clouds. Reaper's hand found the cutlass at his hip—his favorite, though the Unspeakables had tried to train that preference out of him—and drew it with a sound like silk tearing. The blade caught the sunlight and threw it back changed, filtered through the runes etched into the steel.
*Not Scotland,* observed the part of his mind that still catalogued such things. *Not anywhere I know.*
The buildings in the distance were white as bleached bone, with arched doorways that seemed to invite the heat inside rather than keep it out. They hunched against the hillside like creatures that had crawled from the sea and decided to stay. There were ships in the harbor—real ships with sails and oars, the kind that belonged in history books or fantasy novels, not in any world where magic and Unspeakables and dark wizards trafficking in impossible rituals existed.
But then, perhaps this wasn't that world at all.
Reaper had killed Rookwood and his followers in a Scottish ruin that had last seen sunlight in the time of the Picts. They had been performing a ritual, as dark wizards so often did, painting symbols in blood and speaking words that predated language. He had interrupted them efficiently, professionally, without mercy—because mercy was another thing they had trained out of him in that timeless room.
The last of them had died with a smile on his face.
*"You're too late, Reaper,"* Rookwood had whispered, blood bubbling between his teeth. *"The door is already open. The door has always been open. You just had to know how to look."*
Then the world had turned inside out, and Reaper had fallen through the spaces between here and there, between now and then, between one story and another.
---
A patrol appeared on the coastal path above him, moving with the practiced ease of soldiers who had walked the same route a thousand times before. They wore bronze that had gone green with verdigris, and carried spears tipped with iron. Their banner showed three ships eating each other's tails—ouroboros ships, locked in an eternal triangle of consumption and cooperation.
The Triarchy.
The name surfaced from somewhere deep, from stories read in another life. Westeros. The Free Cities. The Dance of Dragons and the wars that came before and after it. Fiction, he would have said once. Stories told by a storyteller, nothing more.
But Reaper had learned, in his long education in those timeless rooms, that all stories are true somewhere. That fiction is just history that hasn't happened yet, or history that happens elsewhere, in the infinite library of possibilities that most people never learn to navigate.
He had fallen through Rookwood's ritual into a story.
The question was: which story, and how did it end?
The soldiers passed without seeing him. Reaper had learned to be invisible long before the Unspeakables got their hands on him. Living in a cupboard teaches you how to take up no space at all. Hunting Horcruxes teaches you how to move through the world like a ghost. And the Unspeakables had refined it into an art form—the art of being nobody, nowhere, nothing at all.
Just a shadow that occasionally killed people.
His emergency portkey was dead, the magic burned out of it by whatever dimensional barrier he had crossed. No way home. No way to call for extraction. No handlers whispering mission parameters in his ear through enchanted earpieces.
For the first time since St. Mungo's—since they had stolen him from his hospital bed and replaced him with a pretty lie—Agent Reaper was truly alone.
He discovered, to his surprise, that he didn't entirely mind.
---
Three days of watching taught him the rhythms of the fortress-town that clung to the island's spine like barnacles on a ship's hull. Three days listening to conversations in languages that should have been incomprehensible but somehow weren't—a gift of the ritual, perhaps, or a side effect of falling through the spaces between worlds.
The Triarchy soldiers spoke of wages and women and wine. But mostly, they spoke of the Crabfeeder.
*Prince-Admiral Craghas Drahar.* The name was always spoken with a particular inflection, the way one might speak of a storm or a plague—something natural, inevitable, and utterly without mercy.
"Took another ship yesterday," one soldier told his companion as they passed Reaper's hiding place. "Westerosi. Flying the Velaryon seahorse."
"Pirate or merchant?"
"Does it bloody matter?" The first soldier laughed without humor. "The Crabfeeder stakes them all out on the beach at low tide just the same. Lets the crabs and the water do the work together."
"The screaming, though. Gods preserve us, the screaming lasts for hours."
They moved on, and Reaper remained in his shadows, processing. Dead men tell tales, after all. Tales that keep other ships away.
It was, he had to admit, effective. Brutal, but effective. The Unspeakables would have approved.
The thought sat uneasily in his chest, in the place where Harry Potter used to live.
---
On the evening of the fourth day, he stood on the eastern shore away from the fortress, away from the patrols. The tide pools caught the dying light and held it like secrets. The water whispered against the stones in rhythms that were almost hypnotic.
Reaper stood at the edge of the world and felt the weight of his armor like chains.
His hands moved to the clasps of his mask before he could think better of it. The skull-face came away with a soft hiss, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt air on his skin. Real air. Salt-wind and spray and the smell of seaweed drying in the sun.
The armor followed piece by piece until he knelt by the nearest tide pool and looked down.
The face that looked back was almost a stranger's. Green eyes, still. That lightning-bolt scar, faded but never quite gone. But the face was older, harder. The softness of youth carved away by years that technically never happened.
*Harry Potter,* he thought, testing the name like a word in a foreign language. *I used to be Harry Potter.*
"You still are," he said aloud, surprising himself.
The face in the water didn't answer.
But in this world, there were no Unspeakables. No missions. No handlers. Just islands and soldiers and a man who fed his enemies to the tide.
If he wanted to survive here—truly survive, not just exist in the spaces between shadows—he would need to be more than Reaper.
He needed to be Harry Potter again. Or at least someone who remembered how Harry Potter used to move through the world.
---
In the morning, he wore only some of the armor—enough to protect, not enough to terrify. The mask stayed in the cave, wrapped in his cloak. His cutlasses remained at his sides, but less prominently displayed.
He looked like a soldier. A mercenary. Someone who had seen combat and survived it.
Someone who might walk into a town and ask questions without immediately being attacked.
It was a start.
---
The market square pulsed with life—merchants bellowing prices in three languages, slaves shuffling beneath impossible loads, and always, always, the smell of the sea mixed with spices and desperation.
Harry was cataloguing the harbor when he felt the prickle at the base of his skull.
*Predator. Close. Behind.*
"Easy now, pretty boy," a voice breathed against his ear, and cold steel kissed his throat. "Don't do anything stupid. My hand shakes when I'm nervous, and you've got a very nice neck. Shame to open it."
Four more men melted from the crowd like sharks rising from deep water. They formed a loose semicircle with the casual efficiency of people who'd done this many, many times before.
The one with the knife—Harry could smell wine on his breath, stale and sweet—pressed harder. "Here's the situation, boy. You're young, you're pretty, you've got all your teeth. You know what that makes you?"
"Profit," said another, his face divided by a scar like a river through a map. He grinned, revealing teeth filed to points. "Fighting pits in Meereen pay good coin for fresh meat. Especially the exotic kind."
A third—bald, built like a wine barrel—cracked his knuckles. "Better than the crabs, eh? Crabfeeder stakes you out, you're dead in a day. Maybe two. But the pits? Could live for weeks. Months, even, if you're good."
"Think of all the people you'll meet!" added the fourth, wiry with a laugh like breaking glass. "Champions from all over Essos! Before they kill you, of course. Very educational."
"So here's what's happening," Wine-Breath said. "You're coming with us. Nice and quiet. Down to our ship. Then we sell you for enough coin to drink for a month. Well, three weeks. I'm bad with money."
Through all of this, Harry noticed, one member of their crew hadn't spoken. He stood slightly apart—younger than the rest, maybe Harry's age if you didn't count the decades in the time room. Dark-skinned, lean, with eyes doing calculations while his companions performed their theatrical villain routine.
Those eyes met Harry's, and something passed between them.
Recognition, maybe. Or warning.
"One chance," Harry said softly, his voice carrying a coldness that had nothing to do with temperature. "Walk away. Right now."
The pirates laughed.
Wine-Breath laughed so hard the knife trembled.
Scarface laughed until tears ran down his ruined face.
Wine-Barrel laughed like thunder.
Glass-Laugh laughed like the world was one big joke.
The young one didn't laugh. Just closed his eyes, like someone watching a tragedy unfold.
"Oh, I like this one," Wine-Breath wheezed. "Got spirit. They'll love—"
Harry moved.
---
He twisted sideways, serpentine, so sudden that Wine-Breath's knife opened a thin red line across his throat instead of plunging deep. Harry's elbow snapped back—not a punch, a *strike*—catching the solar plexus. Something cracked. Wine-Breath went down.
The cutlass sang free, runes beginning to glow.
Scarface came in fast, blade low, going for the gut. Good technique. Professional.
Too bad Harry had been trained by people who thought "adequate" was an insult.
*Parry, bind, pivot.* Harry's cutlass caught Scarface's blade, guided it past, continued the arc. Enchanted steel met unenchanted steel. The pirate's weapon shattered like ice, and Harry's blade continued upward, opening him from hip to shoulder.
The man looked down at himself. "Oh," he said, almost conversationally. "That's not—"
He fell.
"MAGE!" Wine-Barrel roared. "HE'S A BLOODY MAGE!"
"Finally," Harry muttered. "Someone observant."
Wine-Barrel and Glass-Laugh rushed him together, smarter than their dead friend. They came from opposite sides, trying to split his attention.
Harry's left hand traced a pattern in the air—no wand, no focus, just raw will shaped by knowledge that predated most civilizations. His lips formed a word that hurt to speak.
*"Fulgar."*
Lightning answered like an old friend. Not sprawling dramatic bolts, but something focused. *Personal*. It leaped from his fingertips to Wine-Barrel's chest, found his heart, and *squeezed*.
The big man stopped mid-charge. His eyes went wide. His mouth opened—just a thin trickle of smoke. He toppled like a felled tree.
Glass-Laugh hesitated.
Fatal mistake.
Harry's cutlass took him through the heart with surgical precision, runes flaring bright enough to cast shadows in broad daylight.
Four men down in under a minute. The market square went silent.
Harry turned to face the last member of the crew, blade still extended, blood dripping to hiss and steam on the cobblestones.
The young pirate hadn't moved. Hadn't drawn a weapon. His hands were carefully, deliberately held away from the various blades festooned about his person.
"So," the young man said, his voice carrying manic energy, "that just happened. My entire crew—*former* crew, I should say—just got absolutely murdered by a pretty boy who fights like death itself learned to use a sword. Which is impressive. Also terrifying. Mostly terrifying."
Harry said nothing. Predator assessing prey.
"Oh, the strong silent type. I respect that. Very intimidating." The pirate's smile was bright enough to sell sunlight. "Name's Lysaro of Tyrosh. Those corpses currently redecorating the street? That was my crew. *Was* being the word of the day. Past tense. Very past tense."
"You were going to sell me," Harry said flatly.
"*Technically* yes, but—and this is important—*they* were going to sell you. I was going to say 'lads, this seems unwise, perhaps we should reconsider our life choices,' but nobody listens to Lysaro. I'm just the navigator. I don't get a vote." He gestured at the bodies. "And look how well ignoring me worked out! Spoiler: not well at all."
Behind Harry, Wine-Breath groaned, still alive despite his broken ribs. Harry didn't turn.
"You're wondering if you need to kill me too," Lysaro continued, words tumbling like coins from a torn purse. "Fair question! Very reasonable! I was part of a group that just tried to kidnap you. On the other hand—and here's where it gets interesting—I'm also the only one who *didn't* actively try to kidnap you. I was exhibiting what we legal scholars call 'plausible deniability.'"
"What do you want?"
Lysaro's grin somehow widened. "What do I want? Not to die today. That's priority one. Priority two is to maybe, possibly, work for the terrifying foreign mage who just turned my associates into a cautionary tale. Because staying alive seems significantly easier next to you than running from you."
"How do you know I'm foreign?"
"You're too pretty for Lys, too pale for the Summer Isles, too well-fed for Pentos, and you fight like someone taught you in a language I don't speak. Also, that lightning trick? I've been to every Free City from Braavos to Volantis, and I've never seen anything like it. So either you're from very, very far east, or you're from somewhere the maesters don't have maps for."
Harry heard boots. Lots of boots. The Crabfeeder's soldiers, responding to reports of magic and murder. Maybe ninety seconds before this became complicated.
"You said you could be useful," Harry said. "Prove it. Now."
Lysaro's eyes lit up. "Oh, I am going to exceed your wildest expectations. Follow me. And maybe—just a thought—put away the glowing murder sword? It's distinctive, and distinctive is bad when we're avoiding arrest."
Harry sheathed the cutlass. The runes dimmed reluctantly.
"See? Teamwork!" Lysaro was already moving toward a side alley. "Fun fact—and by fun I mean terrifying—the Crabfeeder's men are maybe thirty seconds out. Good news: I know these streets intimately. Bad news: I got lost here twice yesterday. But I'm feeling lucky!"
Behind them, Wine-Breath groaned again, desperate.
Harry paused. Turned. Met the man's eyes.
*"Dormire,"* he said softly, and the man slumped into sleep.
Kinder than death. Kinder than he deserved.
But Harry Potter had always had a weakness for mercy.
"Sleep spell," Lysaro said, impressed. "Humane. Shows character. Also shows you're not a complete monster, which is excellent news for our partnership. Now—and I cannot stress this enough—we need to *run*."
---
The alley was barely wide enough for one person. It smelled of piss and rotting fish and something worse. But it was empty, hidden, and took them away from armored men shouting orders.
"Left here," Lysaro called, ducking under a low archway. "Then right, then through that disgusting crawlspace—don't worry, it's mostly dried blood—then we're at a safe house. Well, I say safe house. More like a house-adjacent space that's safer than being arrested."
Harry followed, not even breathing hard despite the sprint. "You talk a lot."
"Coping mechanism! I process trauma through excessive verbalization. It's either this or drinking, and I'm trying to cut back. Do you know any good healers? You probably don't. You've got that whole brooding loner thing happening. Very mysterious. Very unmarketable in polite society."
"Do you ever stop?"
"Technically when I'm sleeping, but I've been told I mumble, so even that's questionable." Lysaro vaulted over debris with surprising grace. "Almost there. Just through this collapsed warehouse—zero structural integrity, total death trap, which makes it perfect—and then we can chat about who you are and why you shoot lightning like a Valyrian sorcerer."
The warehouse was exactly as advertised: half-collapsed, thoroughly unsafe, completely abandoned. It smelled like the sea had died there and no one had bothered with a funeral.
Lysaro settled onto a broken crate. "So! Now that we're not actively committing homicide or fleeing justice, let's talk. You're a mage—a *real* mage, not some hedge witch selling love potions for coppers. That lightning was *clean*. Professional. The kind of magic you don't learn from a book stolen from your uncle's library. So, question: who trained you?"
Harry considered him. The Unspeakables had trained him to lie, to weave deception as naturally as breathing. But something about Lysaro's manic honesty made him hesitate.
If he was going to survive here—truly survive—he'd need allies. And allies required trust.
At least a little.
"I was trained by people called the Unspeakables," Harry said carefully. "They specialize in things most people don't understand. Time. Space. Death. Magic that exists in the spaces between other magic."
Lysaro's eyes went wide. "That sounds *incredibly* ominous and I am here for it. Please continue."
"I'm not from Westeros. Or Essos. I'm from... somewhere else. Another place entirely."
"Like Asshai? Ulthos? Somewhere super east?"
"Further than that," Harry said. "Another world entirely."
Silence. Then Lysaro started laughing.
Not cruel laughter. Not mocking. Genuine, delighted laughter that echoed off broken walls and sent rats scurrying.
"Oh," Lysaro said when he could speak. "Oh, this is *magnificent*. This is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I was having such a boring week! Just the usual piracy, kidnapping, moderate alcoholism. And then you show up from *another world*—not another country, not another continent, but a whole different *reality*—and you do magic, and you fight like a demon wearing a man's face, and you've got this dark mysterious backstory." He wiped tears. "This is incredible. We're either going to have amazing adventures or die horribly. Probably both."
Despite himself, Harry felt his lips twitch. Almost a smile. It felt strange, like wearing clothes that didn't fit. But not entirely unpleasant.
"So," Lysaro continued, somehow increasing his energy, "you're from another world, you're here by accident—I'm guessing accident, you don't seem like someone who vacations in the Stepstones—and you need to survive while possibly trying to get home. Sound about right?"
"More or less."
"Perfect. Here's what I offer: I know these islands. I know the Crabfeeder's organization, his patterns, his habits. I know which soldiers take bribes, which ones will gut you for looking at them wrong, and which ones are secretly terrified of their boss. I know how to move cargo—human or otherwise—without being noticed. I know the black markets, the safe harbors, the places where Triarchy authority is more suggestion than law." He leaned forward, suddenly serious. "And most importantly, I know something is happening here. Something big. The Crabfeeder's gathering ships, making alliances, preparing for... something. I don't know what. But I can help you figure it out."
Harry studied him. The manic energy, the rapid speech, the gestures—it all read as genuine. And Lysaro, whatever else he was, didn't seem to be lying.
"One chance," Harry said. "You work with me, follow my lead, don't betray me. Do that, and you live. Betray me—"
"And you'll kill me with magic and swords and probably several things I don't want to think about. Got it. Fully internalized." Lysaro extended his hand. "I accept your terms, mysterious mage whose name I still don't know. Partners?"
Harry looked at the offered hand. Thought about Rookwood's dying smile. About the Unspeakables' training. About Agent Reaper who worked alone.
Then he thought about Hermione and Ron. About every time he'd survived because someone had his back.
He took Lysaro's hand. "Partners. I'm Harry. Harry Potter."
"Harry Potter from another world entirely," Lysaro said, shaking enthusiastically. "That's brilliant. Very epic. Very 'chosen one who fell through reality's cracks.' I can work with this." He released Harry's hand and clapped. "Right! First order of business: clothes that aren't blood-soaked. Second: establish you a cover identity. Third: figure out your goals beyond 'don't die.' Fourth: food, because I haven't eaten since yesterday and I think best when not starving."
"That's a lot of business," Harry observed.
"I'm very business-oriented! One of my best qualities. That and my devastating good looks and complete lack of moral fiber." Lysaro stood, stretching. "So, Harry Potter from another world, ready to navigate the exciting, terrifying, probably fatal world of the Stepstones?"
Harry stood, feeling something shift in his chest. Something that felt almost like hope.
"Lead the way," he said.
And the story, as stories always do when you add magic and murder and partnerships formed over fresh corpses, became significantly more interesting.
---
"Tell me about the Crabfeeder," Harry said three hours later, sitting in a different safe house—this one actually structurally sound—eating bread and cheese that Lysaro had produced from seemingly nowhere.
"Craghas Drahar, Prince-Admiral of Myr, Scourge of the Narrow Sea, the Crabfeeder himself." Lysaro tore into his own bread with enthusiasm. "Started as just another ambitious Myrish lordling with dreams of glory and gold. Then the Three Daughters—Myr, Lys, and Tyrosh—formed the Triarchy, and suddenly every ambitious lordling had an opportunity. Fight pirates, they said. Protect trade, they said. Make the Stepstones safe for honest merchants."
"But?" Harry prompted.
"But old Craghas, he took to it like a duck to water. Or maybe like a crab to rotting meat, which is more thematically appropriate. Started actually catching pirates. Started staking them out on beaches at low tide. The crabs would come first, then the water. Takes hours. *Messy* hours. Word spread. Pirates got scared. Some of them ran. Some of them joined him—because if you can't beat the Crabfeeder, better to work for him than feed him your intestines one pinch at a time."
Harry took another bite, processing. "So he's effective."
"Oh, he's *very* effective. Problem is, he stopped distinguishing between pirates and anyone else sailing these waters. Westerosi merchants? Pirates. Pentoshi traders? Pirates. That fishing boat from Driftmark that got lost in a storm? Believe it or not, also pirates." Lysaro's voice took on a bitter edge. "The Triarchy's blockading the Stepstones. Not protecting trade—*controlling* it. Every ship that wants passage pays a tax. Those that don't..." He made a gesture like waves. "Crabs get fed."
"And Westeros tolerates this?"
"What's Westeros going to do? King Viserys sits the Iron Throne, and from what I hear, he's more interested in his toy dragons—the stone ones, not the real ones—than in actually governing. His brother Daemon's got the real dragons, the City Watch, and about ninety percent of the ambition. But even Daemon can't burn every ship in the Stepstones. Not without starting a war with the Free Cities, and even dragons can die if you throw enough scorpion bolts at them."
Harry filed that away. Dragons. Real dragons. Not stories, not legends, but actual fire-breathing war machines that flew.
This world kept getting more interesting.
"What about Lord Corlys?" Harry asked, pulling the name from memories of overheard conversations. "The Sea Snake. He's got the biggest fleet in Westeros."
Lysaro's eyes sharpened. "You have been listening. Yes, Lord Corlys Velaryon, Master of Driftmark, richer than the Iron Throne itself, with more ships than sense. The Crabfeeder's bleeding him dry. Every merchant vessel that goes down is gold out of Velaryon coffers. He's been petitioning the king for help, but Viserys won't commit. Too afraid of upsetting the Free Cities, too content in his peace." He leaned back. "There's rumors, though. Whispers that Corlys is losing patience. That he might take matters into his own hands."
"With Prince Daemon?"
"Maybe. Daemon's got the dragons. Corlys has the ships. Together?" Lysaro made an explosive gesture. "Could get interesting. Could also get everyone killed. Dragons versus war galleys, fire versus scorpions, pride versus desperation. Place your bets, watch the carnage."
Harry was quiet for a moment, thinking. In his old world—his real world, whatever that meant anymore—he'd been a weapon pointed at targets. The Unspeakables gave orders. He followed them. Simple. Clean. No politics, no choosing sides, just missions and efficiency reports.
But here, there were no handlers. No orders. Just a Crabfeeder who tortured people to maintain a blockade, lords who cared more about gold than justice, and somewhere in the distance, dragons.
Real dragons.
"You're thinking too hard," Lysaro observed. "I can actually see the thoughts moving behind your eyes. It's unsettling."
"I'm thinking," Harry said slowly, "that I need to understand this world before I can figure out how to survive in it. Or get home from it."
"Sensible. Very logical." Lysaro popped an olive into his mouth. "So what do you want to do? Stay hidden? Find a way back to your world? Join up with someone powerful?"
"I don't know yet," Harry admitted. "In my world, I was a weapon. Someone pointed me at problems, and I made them go away. But here..." He gestured vaguely at the window, beyond which lay the Stepstones, the Triarchy, the Free Cities, Westeros, dragons, and all the rest of it. "I don't know who the problems are. Don't know who deserves to be pointed at."
"Well," Lysaro said cheerfully, "the Crabfeeder's definitely a problem. He's been feeding people to crustaceans for fun and profit. That seems pretty unambiguous as far as moral evil goes."
Harry looked at him. "You want me to kill the Crabfeeder."
"I want you to *consider* killing the Crabfeeder. Big difference. One's a plan, the other's a suggestion." Lysaro's grin was sharp. "Look, I'm not going to lie to you—which is a lie in itself, because I lie constantly, but I'm trying to build trust here—I've got my own reasons for wanting Craghas Drahar dead. He killed my captain. Man named Salario. He was a bastard, but he was *my* bastard, and the Crabfeeder staked him out on a beach and let him drown screaming. So yes, I've got an interest. But also, objectively, Craghas is making life miserable for everyone in the Stepstones who isn't him. Soldiers, merchants, fishermen, whores, beggars—everyone's suffering because one man decided torture was good business."
"And you think I can kill him."
"I think you killed four men in about twenty seconds this morning using a sword and lightning. I think you're from another world and you've got magic I've never seen before. And I think if anyone could walk into the Crabfeeder's fortress and walk out again covered in his blood..." Lysaro shrugged. "It'd be you."
Harry was quiet, turning it over in his mind. The Unspeakables had taught him to analyze targets, to assess threats and vulnerabilities. But they'd always chosen the targets for him. Always decided who deserved death.
Now he was being asked to choose.
"I need more information," he said finally. "About the fortress. About Craghas. About what he's planning."
"I can get you that," Lysaro said immediately. "I've still got contacts in the fortress. People who owe me favors, people who can be bribed, people who hate the Crabfeeder almost as much as I do."
"And what do you get out of this? Beyond revenge."
Lysaro's grin turned genuinely feral. "What do I get? Harry, my friend, my partner from another world, if you kill the Crabfeeder, this entire operation falls apart. The Triarchy loses its enforcer. The blockade collapses. Ships start sailing again. Trade resumes. And in that chaos, in that beautiful, profitable chaos, there will be *so many* opportunities for a clever navigator with flexible morals to make himself very, very rich."
Harry couldn't help it. He laughed. Actually laughed, a sound he hadn't made in longer than he could remember.
"At least you're honest about being dishonest," he said.
"It's one of my most endearing qualities! That and my complete lack of shame." Lysaro stood, brushing crumbs from his tunic. "So, what do you say, Harry Potter from another world? Want to help me gather information on the most feared man in the Stepstones so we can maybe, possibly, if everything goes perfectly, kill him before he feeds us to the crabs?"
Harry stood as well, feeling something settle in his chest. Not quite certainty. Not quite purpose. But close enough.
"Let's start with information," he said. "And then we'll see."
"Excellent! I love a cautious approach. Very mature. Very 'I'm not rushing into certain death without a plan.'" Lysaro headed for the door, then paused. "One more thing. That armor you were wearing when you arrived. The whole death's-own-harbinger aesthetic."
"What about it?"
"You're going to want to keep that hidden for now. Mysterious foreign mage is one thing. Mysterious foreign mage who dresses like a fever dream the Stranger had after eating bad cheese? That gets remembered. That gets talked about. And right now, we want you to be nobody special. Just another sellsword drifting through the Stepstones."
Harry nodded slowly. "Makes sense."
"Of course it makes sense. I'm brilliant." Lysaro opened the door. "Come on. I'll show you where we can get you some proper clothes. Leather and linen, nothing fancy, nothing memorable. And then tonight, we start gathering our information."
Harry followed him out into the late afternoon sun, into the white-stone streets of this fortress-town on the edge of several different kinds of chaos.
Behind his eyes, green as killing curses, he began to plan.
The story was accelerating now, picking up speed like a wheel rolling downhill. And at the bottom of that hill waited the Crabfeeder, his crabs, his fortress, and his belief that he was invincible.
Harry Potter had made that mistake himself once, long ago.
It hadn't ended well.
And the story, as stories always do when weapons remember how to make their own choices, was about to get very interesting indeed.
---
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