Chapter Text
Harry can’t do it anymore. Somewhere along the line, he begins to expect the Wizarding community to fail him – to disappoint and betray him. It’s what they do. He’s prepared for it. But the same can’t be said about his best friends: Ron and Hermione. Except they do too, and it’s the worst sort of betrayal he could have ever imagined. It hurts more than anything he’s ever experienced. Harry wants to think that him falling victim to something so heinous and insidious as a spiked drink and regaining his faculties during the act with a woman he doesn’t know would enrage them. It doesn’t. He tells them what happened. Ron grins in a way that is closer to a ‘Congratulations. Well, done mate!’ then furrow his brows in concern or shock. He waits for the outrage from Hermione, waiting to hear her shriek about rape and descend into a rant about male rape victim statistics. That doesn’t happen either. She sighs and laments that he needs to be more careful, for the thousandth time. Like it’s exhausting to remind him. So, Harry doesn’t bother to tell them he’s spent the better part of two days crying. That, upon waking up from the love potion, his magic reacted violently and flung the woman to the opposite side of the room they had been in. That she didn’t move when he fled in terror. That her death was reported in The Daily Prophet the day after and blamed on Death Eaters. Death Eaters that now live in hiding, biding their time to perform terrible acts such as murdering and raping young women. Such as killing fans of Harry Potter.
It’s ridiculous. There are no more Death Eaters. There haven’t been for over two years.
Yet, Harry can’t muster the willpower to try and correct them. A part of him chides himself and shames him for what he’s done, but Harry is done.
He packs his belongings. Everything he owns and cares about. Empty his Gringotts Vault, with no small amount of trouble, because they want to fine him. He accepts that. But refuses to pay for all the damages. Only a third. He wasn’t alone. They accept those terms.
Harry knows Ron won’t be able to pay them back. He knows Hermione will be barred from the bank because she’s a muggleborn now in debt. But he doesn’t care anymore. He gave everything to the Wizarding Community of Britain. He gave them everything he had. He even gave them his life. Choosing to die in the place of his friends.
It’s too much. They will never stop taking things from him. Now, they’ve even taken his virginity. The one thing he wanted to protect and then give to someone he loved when he found them. The one thing he could keep private and cherish until he was ready to part with it. Now that was gone too. Just like the remainder of his love for them.
Once packing is done, Harry takes his time to walk through Grimmauld Place one final time. He stays in each room for a couple of minutes. Takes a few trinkets here and there. An afterthought. They are dark objects, not dangerous, but dark all the same. Sirius was dark, no matter what anyone said, but that didn’t mean he was dangerous. Well, unless he wanted to be. Dark magic doesn’t scare him anymore. The preaching of the ministry is hardly a reliable source of information anyway. So long as it’s not hurting him, he doesn’t care.
Before he leaves, he kills Kreacher and mounts his head beside his ancestors. Not because he hates him. Even if he does. But because Kreacher realizes that the last person with permission to enter Grimmauld Place is leaving. Forever. So Kreacher asks. He even apologizes. It rings hollow to Harry’s ears, but a small part of him is grateful. Kreacher was old and tired. Harry knows what that feels like. The thought to join the house-elf in death muses his mind for a short while. But then the Wizarding Community will have truly taken everything from him. Even his will to breathe. It’s too much like giving up. Of turning his back on his parents' sacrifice. On Sirius. Cedric. Remus.
Harry deserves better. It’s liberating and heartbreaking to realize all at once.
For a while, once he finishes his final tour of Grimmauld Place, he stands in the hallway. It’s quiet. It’s never quiet if Walburga can help it, but there’s a solemness in her dead gaze. As though she realizes that the House of Black will disappear for good once he leaves. That the last chance it had of revival is leaving. She doesn’t say anything when he opens the front door. Instead, she drops her head forward and waits for the door to shut.
On the street, Harry stills. He doesn’t know where to go. He’s leaving but has no concept of where to. Will he live among muggles now? Or become a hermit in an abandoned forest? The idea of giving up magic makes him nauseous. Magic is who he is. The one thing that has never failed him. He’s not giving it up for anyone. Still, he needs a plan. He doesn’t have a plan. He needs to find a place where no one will find him. For all traces of him to disappear.
Harry slowly blinks and spins on his heel, disapparating on the spot.
He reappears in Ottery St. Catchpole in Devon. Outside of Luna’s house.
He takes no more than two steps toward the peculiar structure before the front door opens. It’s Luna. Wrapped in a colorful blanket and hair pinned with two knitting needles. She’s not smiling though. Not like she usually is when she sees him. She’s solemn and her eyes look a little pink around the edges. Like she’s been crying but it’s been a while since then.
When he reaches the top of the stair, Luna steps to the side and allows him through without a word. Quietly, she closes the door behind them.
“I am so sorry, Harry.” She says with what sounds like tears in her throat. He’s not surprised that she knows. Not because Ron and Hermione would tell anyone, but because he’s always suspected that she sees more than people realize. It’s comforting and upsetting. He doesn’t know the logistics. If she can see things that will happen or only things that have happened. Or if she can decide or influence any of it. The idea that she had seen what happened to him and chosen to do nothing is too upsetting to think about. Because of that, he pretends that she didn’t see anything until it was too late. It’s easier.
“Me too.” He then tries to gather his remaining thoughts into a sentence. To summarize all his needs and wants into words. It’s hard, but after a long moment of tense silence, he succeeds, “I need to leave. To go somewhere no one will ever find me again.”
Harry makes the mistake of turning towards Luna. Her chin wobbles, but she quickly pulls herself together when he turns around. Tears glisten in her eyes, but she wipes them away. Instantly Harry feels guilty. He hates it. He’s tired of always feeling guilty.
“I don’t know if it’ll work,” She says, the airy tone of her voice jarringly absent. “But before Daddy- before…” She takes a deep breath, pushes the memories of her father’s mental deterioration out of her mind, and continues, “He was convinced he found a doorway into another realm. That, if the sugar fairies used it as a gateway after stealing children’s teeth, then surely that meant it was a door of some kind.”
Luna tries for a smile but doesn’t quite manage it.
Harry waits, knowing that not everything Xeno and Luna claim to have discovered is baseless.
“When I was a little girl and after mom died, the idea of going to another world was very appealing to me. So, I often went to the fairy ring in the forest just off the property and placed candies in the ring in hope of them whisking me away to some faraway land.” Luna then locks her gaze with Harry’s. “Every time I did, magic would rise up and gather into a bright light and for a short while, something small and colorful would appear. And every time, followed by childish giggling, the candy would disappear, and a small pink flower would bloom in my hair. Then the light would disappear again.”
Harry is silent for a moment, “Fairies?”
Luna shakes her head, “No. I don’t think they are fairies. They stay out of sight for the most part, so I can’t tell for certain, but fairies sound more similar to chiming bells. This sounds more like young children.”
“And the other side?”
Again, Luna shakes her head, “I don’t know what’s on the other side. It could be nothing. It could be a whole new world. I don’t even know how to get through to the other side. If there is another side.”
Harry considers her. She wouldn’t have told him unless it was relevant somehow. She knows he’ll find a way to get through to the other side. But she doesn’t know what happens to him from then on. He disappears from her sight. Or so he speculates. But it’s the best chance he’s got.
“I can’t let you remember.” Harry then says, his quiet voice thick with pain and regret. He doesn’t want to hurt Luna, but he has to. “Nobody can know.”
Luna’s smile is brittle and when tears slide down her cheeks, she doesn’t bother to wipe them away.
“I know.”
The next day Luna wakes up on her couch, no knowledge of what occurred the day before, but knowing in the depth of her heart that she’s lost something infinitely precious.
They all have.
Harry stumbles out of the portal with the grace of a dragon and lands flat on his arse – skidding across the moss-covered ground a good two meters before the world stops spinning. He blinks, shakes his head to realign the world around him, and takes a tentative look around.
He’s in a forest with towering trees. It’s dark, but not completely pitch black. There are fairy lights all around and a small – muted – choir of giggling voices some distance away.
Harry quickly gets to his feet, makes sure he’s got all his belongings with him and takes off in the opposite direction of the childlike voices. If they find him, they might send him back.
He can’t risk it.
So, he runs away from the only living beings he’s encountered – heard – thus far.
It’s not unusual for Codatorta to spend his days in Magix City during the months between term. He likes the change of scenery but also enjoys watching the people as they go about their day, happy and carefree as they are. It reminds him of what he’s fighting for. Sometimes he needs that reminder. It’s also a good opportunity to scout for new talent.
It’s as he’s walking through the main boulevard that he sees him for the first time. Specifically, it’s the young man’s gait that draws his attention. It’s measured, quiet. More a predator's prowl than a carefree stroll. His back is straight, shoulders tense, but his arms and hands swing loosely at his side. It’s not obvious. In fact, it’s very well concealed unless someone who knows what to look for thinks to look. It’s not the walk of a civilian, but rather a soldier. One with an abundance of paranoia and enough suppressed nerves to make Codatorta feel them prickling his skin.
A predator among prey.
He’s dressed in unfamiliar if poor clothes. Nothing that speaks of money or any particular care for fashion. His hair, from the back anyway, is black, unkept, and ignored. Either by choice or lack of means. The young man also carries a single backpack. One of a weathered and old variety that seemed to hold itself together by sheer stubbornness. Even the shoes he wears look to be in need of some sort of life support.
Codatorta is pretty sure the young man is homeless.
Then, from one moment to the next, he sees the soldier brush shoulders with another young man, and then where his hands used to be empty, there’s now money.
Codatorta is not sure just what he just saw, but he knows that the money the soldier now has isn’t his.
A thief?
At that moment, the soldier veers to the side and towards a diner. As he does, he looks back, his gaze slowly dragging over the crowd, and then he disappears through a pair of glass doors. But Codatorta only really sees one thing, and that’s the young man’s eyes. They’re vivid green – and just about as lifeless and dead as a soldier who’s seen just one awful thing too many.
He follows the young man inside.
Harry knows he’s being followed. Knew the moment it first happened. But he doesn’t know why. He’s been careful. Only pick-pocketing the bare minimum so he can eat and also doing so with magic to make sure it can’t be traced back to him or even seen. However, it’s clear to him now that he’s not been careful enough.
From the reflection in the window, he watches the man who has taken an interest in him. He’s tall, his shoulders broad, and his hair, mustache, and beard a dark brown.
He looks pretty mean.
But Harry can also be mean if he needs to be. The man wouldn’t be the first shithead he’s been forced to deter since coming to Magix City. The name of the city still makes a part of his mind snicker. It sounds like a male strip club. The people around these parts aren’t exactly averse to dressing the part either. He’s seen a lot of bizarre things since his arrival a month ago. Some things he rather not remember.
Still, he doesn’t like being followed. It’s best to set the record straight as quickly as possible. That way he can get on with his life in peace.
When the young man leaves the diner, Codatorta waits just long enough to see him through the door before he gets up to follow. There are plenty of people on the streets. It’s midday and the citizens of Magix are returning home from work. It’s a busy time of day. It takes a moment to spot the young man again, but he does and keeps his eyes on him as he weaves through the crowd.
When the soldier quietly slips into an alleyway, Codatorta is quick to follow.
Except, the young man is standing in the middle of the alley with his green eyes narrowed in a glare and fixed upon him. Codatorta feels a sliver of surprise but swiftly pushes it away.
“What do you want?” The young man glares, his shoulders drawn up and his hands still enough to be likened to a snake waiting to strike.
Codatorta considers him. Initially, he was merely curious about who he was, but now that he’s in front of the young man, or teenager as he can now see, he feels more concerned than anything else. Something about the boy is raw and hurting. There is a pain and fury boiling beneath the skin of the boy and Codatorta wonders who could have put it there. What the boy must have lived through to acquire it. It didn’t look like a new sort of pain. It looks old. But the boy was most definitely not old. 16 perhaps.
“I have not seen you around these parts before.” Codatorta begins but then continues when the boy’s glare intensifies, “I’m a teacher at Red Fountain. A school for heroes. Have you heard of it?”
The boy snorts with derision, and Codatorta gets the sense that he’s not particularly impressed by the notion of heroes. It’s… odd. And concerning. The school is revered in Magix.
“I don’t give a damn about heroes.” He says flatly.
Codatorta takes that as a no.
“An unusual take to have. I take it you don’t get along with heroes?” If the boy is a thief then Codatorta can understand why. But something about him doesn’t speak of a criminal. It’s strange, he can’t quite place the boy, so he decides to test him, “What with you stealing money from citizens.”
The boy moves with a swiftness that takes Codatorta by surprise. Using the convenient placement of a trash can, the boy uses it as a sprint board and launches into the air, his fist drawn back but before he can land his hit, Codatorta spins out of the way, but something unsettles his balance, and the boy lands on the ground, kicks his leg out and knocks Codatorta to the ground. It happens fast enough that when Codatorta is back on his feet, the boy is already running away.
He doesn’t follow.
But he got want he wanted. The boy isn’t a thief. Not by choice in any case.
The next time Codatorta sees him is a few days later. This time it’s not by chance. Rather, Codatorta has not been able to stop thinking about the boy since the day of their first meeting. Something about him reminds Codatorta of a wounded animal. But more than that, for someone so much smaller than him, the boy’s instincts were sharp as a knife. Admittedly, the fact that the boy managed to knock him on his arse was not Codatorta’s finest moment, but he chalks it up to being a fluke. He still can’t figure out why he lost his balance short of stepping on something questionable. Which is highly likely.
Regardless, Codatorta wants him as a student. The boy has potential, and the thought of him running around and pickpocketing in the streets is making him uncomfortable. It’s not completely surprising that he wants to help him. He’s seen a lot of kids in bad places and has always helped where he could. Still, this one feels different in a way none of the others have, and he wants to know why.
So when Codatorta sees him walking through the local mall with his backpack resting on one shoulder, an apple in one hand, and a paper in the other, Codatorta feels a rush of energy and anticipation. But it’s short-lived. Because one of the female store clerks of a fashion chain stops the boy with a grin on her face and both of her hands resting on his shoulders. No doubt to offer some fashion advice.
The reaction, however, is instantaneous. The boy lashes out like a cornered dragon. And then he runs.
Codatorta feels like the world slows down as he takes in the boy’s expression.
Terror. Haunted.
Codatorta gives the woman a swift glance and decides she’s fine if not shocked. But he doesn’t pay it any mind. He follows the boy in a run.
Codatorta finds him hidden behind a dumpster. His head is shielded by his arms and knees as uneven and panicked breathes wreck through his thin frame. He’s hyperventilating.
“Kid,” He crouches down before him, his heart contorting with concern, “You’ve got to breathe. With me. Pull it in. That’s it. Out. In… and out again. Again. In. Out. In. Hold. Out again. Good.”
He watches the boy as he slowly gets his breathing back under control. Watches the tremor of his scarred hands and again wonders who hurt the boy so badly that the touch of a stranger sends him into a panic attack.
Harry stares dully at the cheerful glass of lime green lemonade. A leaf of mint and ice bobbing on the surface. There’s a hollow ache and a feeling of shame clinging to his shoulders. He tries not to think about the woman he knocked to the ground. About his panic attack at the mere touch of a woman. He tries not to think about the man sitting opposite him either. The teacher. If the man is to be believed.
He feels all sorts of out of it. Lost. It was naïve of him to assume that just because he had piles of galleons, that he would be able to use them in Magix. It was stupid of him. Stealing was something he’d sworn never to return to after the Dursleys. Except he ended up having little choice in the matter. He’d sworn to himself that he’d live alone after leaving Britain. That he was to be happy and do whatever he liked from then on. He’d sworn to himself that he was going to live, and not just survive. Except he’d not managed to do any of those things. All he’d managed to do was end up on the streets like some street urchin that pickpocketed for a living. It was impossible to find work without interacting with women. And he couldn’t do that.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Codatorta asks him. Because at least now he knows the man’s name.
“What’s the point?” Because really, it changes nothing, and he’s not about to tell the man who he really is. He doesn’t want him to know. He doesn’t want anyone to know.
“Well, it’s generally agreed upon that talking about problems helps to solve them.”
Harry snorts. What a lie. Him talking about problems has never helped him. In fact, it’s over ever made things worse.
“No thanks.” He says, a tad more bitterly than he intends.
“Kid-“
“I’m not a kid!” The boiling anger in his veins rises up and pours out of him in a hiss. He can feel the fury reach his eyes, and he knows Codatorta sees it too. “Don’t you have anything better to do? Classes to teach and kids to pile homework on?” He snaps.
“Aren’t you?” Codatorta asks mildly, seemingly unconcerned by his outburst, “You don’t look older than 16.”
“19.”
Codatorta’s face contorts briefly in alarm, but it’s enough for Harry to see it, and it’s only another reminder that things are messed up. That going through his adolescence with irregular meals and a third of a year living on scraps has butchered his growth. It hurts, and if Harry thought it would serve any purpose whatsoever, he might have even cried over it. But there’s no point. Nobody ever cared about him enough to take him away from his relatives. So long as he was safe. Nobody ever stopped to question why, months after school started up again, he couldn’t eat more than a third of a plate of food. Nobody bothered to remind him to eat when he walked through his school days with anxiety and fear slithering through his veins. Nobody bothered to ask why he was the smallest of his classmates despite knowing that both of his parents had been tall whilst alive. Nobody bothered to ask why he looked so gaunt during the Battle of Hogwarts. After a year of starvation.
Nobody bothered.
“I’m not a liar.” Harry looks away from Codatorta, feeling sick at the thought of another person calling him a liar or even assuming it.
“I’m not accusing you of being a liar,” Codatorta says slowly. It’s enough to draw Harry’s attention back to him. “You don’t strike me as a person who lies very often.”
Harry blinks, searches Codatorta’s face, but only finds honest consideration and concern.
It’s… different from what he’s used to. And he doesn’t really get it.
“How can you tell?” What is it everyone has missed that this man hasn’t?
“If you were a frequent liar it wouldn’t upset you so much to be thought of as one. You also wouldn’t need to immediately assume that people would call you a liar unless you’ve been called that before.” Codatorta takes a sip of his coffee and then considers him, “They, whoever they are or were, didn’t believe you when you spoke the truth. Or something in that direction.”
Harry pulls his gaze away from Codatorta’s and forces himself to focus on the lemonade in front of him. It's surprisingly easy to convince himself that it’s the lime green of the lemonade that’s causing his eyes to sting.
“You don’t have to tell me why you’re here.” Codatorta says gently, “But I can tell you’re not from around here. I don’t know what you’ve been through or where you come from, but I’ve seen young men like you before. Directionless and angry. Angry at the world. Angry at themselves. Lost. Liable to hurt either the world around them or internalize their own anger and end up hurting themselves.”
It's mortifying when his vision blurs. Tears nobody asked for. Harry doesn’t know why they feel the need to appear now of all times, but they do, and it makes him feel all the more like a wreck than he already is.
“You strike me as the latter of the two. I can’t take your pain away, but I can offer you a direction. Options. What you decide to do with those options afterward is entirely up to you. If you want to use it as anger management, then that’s one way to deal with whatever you’ve got going on, or if you want to help people in need or just something to keep you off the streets. There are options.”
It all sounds well and good but, “I don’t want to be a hero.” Harry says, voice barely above a whisper, “Heroes die.”
Codatorta knows at that moment that the young man before him understands what it means to be a hero in a way none of his other students do.
It makes him wonder if perhaps he feels so strongly about the notion of heroes because he’s seen what the title does to the people who carry it.
Red Fountain is a castle sitting on top of a mountain in the middle of a forest in the arse crack of nowhere. It’s made out of pale yellow stone with vast glass windows that follow the length of the towering spires they are situated on. There are red roof tiles and a single red flag with a crest on it – but Harry can’t see the motive from so far away – at the very top of the castle. Very much like an ancient fortress. It’s a pretty castle, but nowhere near the size or majesty of Hogwarts.
The thought causes him to viciously dismiss the grand castle in his memories. Hogwarts brought him nothing but pain. But perhaps this place will be different.
He doubts it.
At least Codatorta spoke the truth about being a teacher, or at the very least have a connection to Red Fountain. He still can’t believe it. A school for Heroes. How completely and utterly absurd. Who in their right mind would want to be a hero? Nobody with any sort of brain, that’s for sure.
“This way,” Codatorta says as they pass through the large red gates and enter a courtyard framed with birch trees. “Saladin’s office isn’t too far.”
The headmaster, Harry remembers. The notion of headmasters make him nauseous, but comparing whoever Saladin is to Dumbledore is an insult even he feels is too cruel to make – even in jest. Dumbledore is complicated, but the more time Harry thinks about it the less charitable his thoughts become. Dumbledore steered him to his death in the guise of care and wisdom. Dumbledore succeeded too. Sort of. Had he not been able to turn around in King’s Cross Station, Dumbledore would have successfully planned his permanent death.
It makes him sick to his stomach.
Harry trusted him.
And Dumbledore was planning his death all along.
Harry pushes the thoughts away, not wanting to spiral into the shitter that is his thoughts of Hogwarts and Dumbledore and his death. It’s best to leave those thoughts in a dark corner, so he never has to acknowledge them ever again.
The inside of the castle is grand, the ceiling is high, and the hallways are clear of filth and wear. The place is old. Harry can tell that much from just looking at the cut of the stones, but it has not been neglected with time. It speaks well for the caretakers of the castle. There are pictures on the walls, paintings of dragons and heroes, and magic and fairies. They are pretty enough, Harry supposes, but it still feels strange to imagine heroes and fairies, of all things, as the two sets of beings that battle the world’s different evils.
Harry doesn’t get it. Doesn’t get the sparkles and wings. Or the skimpy outfits. In fact, if he saw a fairy in a war he might just avoid them to spare his poor eyes from the sparkling heels alone. Heels. Who wore heels in combat? It made no sense.
“Alright, here we are,” Codatorta announces and swiftly knocks on the door they stop in front of. It’s a tall door in pale brown wood with golden hinges and handles. It makes it look like a place of importance, but not so much so that Harry wonders if his own clothes will offend the person on the other side. Not much he can do if it does, but Harry can’t say he really cares even if it did. It’s the only clean clothes he has.
“Come in.” A voice says from within the room.
Codatorta wastes no time in opening the door and Harry follows quietly after him. The door, he notes, closes on its own, and reminds Harry that he’s now in a room with two strange men he doesn’t know. Bugger. But instead of panicking, Harry decides to assess the situation and turn his attention to the person that can be no other than Saladin himself. He’s… very short. About Harry’s own height. Unfortunately. Saladin’s hair is long and white, his eyebrows thick and matching the mane on his head. He doesn’t have a beard though, and Harry decides to not think too closely about why that relieves him so much. Furthermore, Saladin is dressed in a pair of white trousers that disappear underneath a long beige tunic. The white fabric reemerges as a white long-sleeved shirt. It’s an unremarkable outfit on a seemingly unremarkable person. The only thing that garners Harry’s attention is the fact that Saladin is holding a staff. It’s gold, shaped like the head of a dragon, and with its mouth biting a sizable purple orb.
Saladin has magic. A wizard, perhaps? Or a sorcerer? Is that what they are called here? It doesn’t matter what he is, he decides, but it changes things. If Harry needs to leave, he’ll need to take out Saladin first.
“Ah, this must be the young man you’ve spoken of, yes?” Saladin addresses Codatorta but watches Harry, the corner of his mouth quirking up in a smile that makes Harry glare. It only makes Saladin’s smile more obvious but dipped with amusement this time. Like Harry is cute and harmless. Well, jokes on him.
“This is Harry,” Codatorta confirms, and Harry shifts his glare from Saladin to him, a pang of betrayal settling in his chest. Unreasonable, perhaps, but Harry’s name is not something to throw around without care or thought. Harry’s name ruined his life. He would like the chance to keep it or give it when he damn well pleases. At least they don’t know his surname, and he won’t be giving that any time soon. If ever.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harry,” Saladin says, and draws Harry’s attention back to him.
Harry grits his teeth but then bares them in a mockery of a smile, “I’m sure it is.”
The response baffles the headmaster, Saladin blinks in surprise, but then seems to shrug off the oddity of the situation. Codatorta though snorts and grins a little.
“Pretty sure Harry here is more paranoid than you and I put together, Headmaster.” Codatorta then turns to Harry and says, “You’re safe here.” And his grin softens to a gentle smile, “Nobody is holding you here either. It’s not a prison or a detention center. You’re just here to go over the proposal the Headmaster and I have for you, alright?”
Harry can see, from the corner of his eyes, Saladin watching the exchange with interest. With a sigh, Harry nods. This is why he bothered to follow Codatorta after all. There was no point raising a fuss over it now.
“Alright.”
“Master Codatorta tells me you are a talented young man. 19 years of age, correct?” Saladin asks though he looks a little doubtful of his age but ultimately keeps it to himself, of which Harry is grateful if only because he’s tired of correcting people all the time.
“Yes,” Harry confirms but doesn’t say more than that. He still doesn’t know what Saladin and Codatorta will offer him and he’s not about to put all his cards on the table before he knows what he’s dealing with.
Saladin walks around his desk and takes a seat, but Harry isn’t so foolish as to believe that makes the man any less of a threat if he’s got magic. Codatorta doesn’t move from his side, and Harry isn’t sure if that’s meant to comfort him or because they don’t trust him.
“It’s not unusual for Red Fountain to accept students with nowhere else to go.” Saladin begins, and Harry feels a small part of the anxiety in his chest unravel. At least he isn’t unique in this situation. He’s got no intention of becoming a charity case. “Red Fountain has existed for many, many years, and during that time we’ve had many of our graduates leave this school and go out into the realms and achieve great things. Many of them have their names remembered and written down in history due to their bravery and great deeds-“
“I don’t care about great deeds or becoming famous.” Harry interrupts, and a sliver of satisfaction bloom in his chest at the surprise on Saladin’s face, “If eternal glory or some such rot is all you’ve got, I’m not interested.” Been there, done that. “Codatorta told me Red Fountain could offer me options. He said nothing about committing myself to become a mindless Hero. If that’s what you’re after, I’ll pass. I don’t want to be a hero.”
Saladin considers him for a moment then nods, “Master Codatorta is correct. Becoming a hero is merely one path you can take if you decide to enroll in my school. While it is true that we do train heroes here, that is not what we consider ourselves. The official title of my graduates is Specialists. Being a Specialist, while always competent in combat, is not all they are. Some Specialists are pilots, others are trackers, or in some cases emergency personnel in times of crisis or similar. There’s a vast amount of work available to a Specialist. Being a hero is more of a result than an aim in many cases. If you have no desire to garner anyone’s immediate attention, working as a guard, or taking missions that are more on the low-key side of things is also an option. Each student has a tailormade study plan. There is no one-fit that suits everyone.”
Harry wonders what Saladin means by ‘missions’. Because missions imply a structured organization and that changes things. He doesn’t know how, but it does. It implies fighting, and fighting Harry knows how to do. “Is this a military boot camp or something?”
Codatorta hums in a way that’s not agreement or disagreement, but it certainly seems like Harry is on to something here.
“In a manner of speaking,” Saladin agrees, but then adds, “However, it’s not quite that simple. Red Fountain is one of the most sought-after schools for young men across the realms for a number of reasons. It offers purpose and options, as with your case, but it also teaches discipline, routine, helps develop personal character, and encourages the growth of leadership skills to aid heirs from noble and royal houses both. We help train everything from future princes and kings to help prepare the students who want to join one military organization or another upon graduation. We can hone existing skills of combat and polish already existing talent into something truly remarkable. Tactics and strategy are just another of the subjects that we work with on a regular basis. Overall, the young men who attend Red Fountain are trained in all aspects of their lives in an effort to make them remarkable, independent, and competent young men who have the means and knowledge to face any and all challenges they may face in their lives.”
Harry tries to wrap his head around all of that but can’t quite get past the fact that Red Fountain is essentially the meeting ground for every single guy with any sort of importance from across all the realms. And isn’t that just mind-blowing? In Red Fountain, compared to a future King, he’s nothing special. He’s just Harry with no Surname. Nobody would know who he is, what he’s done, and- Alright, okay.
Merlin’s saggy arse.
Saladin then smiles because he can see that Harry is stunned, “During the six years a student attends this school, they belong to the Specialist Organization. People from across the realms contact us with various requests that Specialists may aid them with. It is training for our students but also works as a way to build a resume for future employment. Students who graduate with impressive credentials can find work just about anywhere across the realms. Some, I dare say, even find themselves as potential candidates for royal matrimony by Kings and Queens who are looking for a suitable match for themselves or their sons or daughters. Such is the range of competency and respect that Specialists have.”
His interest takes a nose-dive, which is bloody disappointing because they sold it so well, and Harry can’t help but grimace, “Royalty browses the top graduates to find people to marry into their lines?”
Codatorta chuckles, “It happens. Some graduates jump at the chance. Others don’t. I wouldn’t worry about it, Harry. All it means is that Red Fountain and the Specialists in training are part of an organization that most realms in the universe turn to in their times of need. We help them when we can. Some graduates become so well established across the universe that the realms they’ve helped protect throughout their training decide to employ them full-time. Other graduates prefer to freelance. Having an impressive resume can get you very far if you prefer working alone or in a small team.”
Thoughts of royal match-making disappear, and Harry can’t hide his interest from the two men, not that he attempts to. They exchange a look over his head, but he ignores it. Working alone sounds… nice. Working as a mercenary of a sort also sounds agreeable. He’s been fighting all his life. It’s all he knows how to do well because he knows how to fight, how to survive.
“Theoretically,” Harry begins as he considers the sheer implications of what he can do with his life if he graduates from Red Fountain and becomes a Specialist, “If I decide to attend Red Fountain and manage to maintain a spotless mission record – because I assume that’s what will count as my resume – for the entire duration of my training, what would my prospects be?”
Harry awaits the answer with bated breath because depending on Saladin’s answer, this will decide his fate for the foreseeable future.
Saladin answers promptly, “From experience, the students who manage such an impressive feat – which are not many, mind you – have had no shortage of options available to them upon graduation. Most have employment before they even graduate. Many decide to form a permanent team together with other graduates and, as Master Codatorta said, opts to freelance after graduation.”
Harry chews the inside of his cheek and thinks it over one more time. Right now, all he’s doing is pick-pocketing strangers to survive. He’s a fighter, he knows that much from simply standing next to an average civilian. He doesn’t feel like a normal person. He is always in a fight or flight mode. That’s not normal. It’s also dangerous. Codatorta mentioned that people like him – people who are angry with the world – often end up hurting either the people around them or themselves. Harry is not stupid. He knows he’s angry. Harry knows he’ll end up as the latter if he doesn’t find something to focus on. A purpose and goal to aim for. It’s grating, but it’s true. Red Fountain is what he needs. And perhaps, Red Fountain can even give him his life back.
He's got nothing to lose.
“Alright,” Harry says, because bloody hell, he’s so tired of feeling lost and aimless. “I’d like to attend Red Fountain if you’ll have me.”