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Chapter Text

i carry your heart with me(i  carry it in

my heart)i am never without it(anywhere

i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done

by only me is your doing,my darling)

—e. e. cummings; [i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]

1

It's long before he can understand them that Harry first notices the words on his arm.

He's confused and vaguely alarmed as they weren't there just a minute ago and instinctively rubs at the purple lines that curl elegantly on his forearm, expecting them to blur.

They don't.

Nothing happens to them no matter what Harry tries, and it's not until he's about to give up and look for something to cover them with that they vanish, leaving behind nothing but soft tanned skin. Startled, Harry looks at the spot with round eyes for some time, but the lines don't come back.

He checks the next day, and the day after that, and when he doesn't see them again, he forgets. Well, at least he does until the moment they appear again, months later.

Blotchy and purple, the lines don't make any sense to him at all. More curious than anything else this time, he decides to take the risk and asks his aunt about them.

(It's the first time he remembers her answering him with the full truth.)

“That's a lie,” she says, a little distracted as she is scrubbing a plate. Her tone is curt but not snappish, and Harry listens with growing curiosity as she continues, “A lie your soulmate is now telling about you. Every person has a soulmate, and when they tell a lie—to you, to him or herself, or to other people about you—the lie will appear written on your arm in their handwriting.” She puts the sponge away and rinses the plate out before putting it to dry, then wipes her hands on her apron and sniffs. “So—a lie. Now you know, so get back to your chores, boy, before your uncle comes back.”

Wisely, Harry doesn't ask her to read his mark aloud and instead does as he's told. He doesn't need to know what it says yet, anyway. He'll learn to read, and then he'll be able to understand it without any help.

***

When he's six and has both new glasses and freshly acquired reading skills, he is finally able to read his mark. After everything he's heard about soulmates at school, he's more than a little excited.

“I don't care,” Harry mouthes the words carefully as he reads, then frowns. He looks at them long and hard, squinting to better focus on the curly purple lines, and then tries again.

“I don't care,” Harry repeats, feeling more than a little confused. What? “But—”

Oh. Oh.

His eyes sparkle and he smiles—bright and delighted—as he understands.

(His soulmate cares!)

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2

Skull is loud, obnoxious, and a coward. He screams and laughs uproariously; he complains and whines and annoys his fellow Arcobaleno on purpose, even when he knows that Reborn is trigger-happy and Colonello won't hesitate to punch him around. Sometimes he can even manage to irritate Lal to the point of making her want to shoot at him, and that's when all hell breaks loose. The threat of bodily harm is inconsequential to him, however—he knows he'll heal. It's the attention he's after, and doesn't that say something about him, when he's happy even though they're after his blood?

(Better this than alone.)

He squeals, docks and hides behind Oodako, trembling without really being afraid. It's an act he's polished to perfection, a mask nobody questions, and it serves him well. Sure, the other Arcobaleno are pretty scary, but he doesn't actually fear them.

He's practically immortal, after all.

(If they don't believe him, well, that's not his fault. It's not like he hasn't told them.)

“Come here, Lackey!” Reborn growls, dark eyes sparkling with a hint of malice. Skull squeaks once before he covers his mouth with a gloved hand and vigorously shakes his head. “Lackey…!”

Oodako, bless her beautiful soul, wraps a tentacle around his tiny body and hauls him over her head before high-tailing out of there. Skull laughs in delight as he turns and, mockingly, pulls down his lower eyelid and sticks his tongue out at the hit-man.

“I'M THE GREAT SKULL-SAMA, YOU'LL NEVER CATCH ME!” he howls, then ducks to avoid the rain of bullets directed at him. He keeps laughing until he's well out of danger, and only then does he stop.

His mirth disappears, evaporating as if it was never there to begin with, and Oodako slows down. She makes a soft, questioning sound to which Skull responds with a soft pat to her bulbous head.

“I'm fine, girl,” he assures her, but the clicking sound she makes in response lets him know she doesn't believe him. His lips pull up in a crooked, brittle mockery of a smile as his right hand ghosts over the covered skin of his left arm. “I don't care.”

Whoever said that octopuses couldn't glare is an idiot, Skull decides as Oodako pins him down with reproachful, narrowed eyes. He sighs and admits defeat. It's not like he hasn't opened up to her already; Oodako is probably the only living being that knows him, the real him.

“Of course I care. When he said that… it hurt.” Skull closes his eyes and tips his head up, trying to forget the way his stomach had dropped at the taunt. It's nothing new, but the pain doesn't change. It's always the same tearing, fiery ache in the pit of his stomach, in his lungs, in his heart. But then again, Skull has been hurting for far too long, and he's losing hope that he will ever stop. “I may look like this, but I'm already thirty-four. It's been sixteen years since the Fated Day, and still there has been not a line in my arm. Maybe I simply don't have a soulmate. Maybe they're dead. Maybe my curse makes me undeserving of them.” He shrugs, tries to smile again to appear unconcerned.

Going by Oodako's disbelieving look, he doesn't quite manage.

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3

Soulmates and mysteriously appearing words aside, Harry hadn't been prepared for actual magic.

A complete world of witches and wizards, flying brooms and enchanted castles filled with ghosts—

It continues to be mind-boggling, even now as he sits together with the redhead called Ron (his first friend!) inside the Hogwarts' Express. His destination? Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, where he's going to experience his first year of magical education.

He can't yet believe that he's a wizard, that his parents were wizards, that they did not die in a car crash but saving his life from a bad wizard who was trying to kill him. That he is famous, even after the episode at the Leaky Cauldron when Hagrid took him to Diagon Alley, or after Ron asked to see his scar.

It just doesn't make sense. Little Harry? A hero? Impossible. Not when he's nobody but a boy raised under the stairs. He doesn't say anything, however, because what if they realize they've made a mistake and then send him back?

Harry is not sure he'll be accepted, but he'll try to fit in. He won't go back to the Dursleys. Not before he absolutely has to—and never again if there is anything he can do about it. (Surely with magic, his situation is going to change?)

(It doesn't.)

He is accepted well enough, except for the members of Slytherin House and his Potions professor, who's a real dick. Harry finds his second best friend in a bushy-haired girl when he saves her together with Ron from a troll on Halloween. The three of them help Hagrid with a baby dragon, lose a lot of points, win a lot of points after the Philosopher's stone's debacle and the fight with the possessed Quirrelmort and then win the House Cup.

He asks the Headmaster if it's possible to stay at Hogwarts during summer, but the answer is no, and he has to go back to the Dursleys once more, to be quiet and talked down to and ordered around.

(The only thing that makes his summer bearable after Dobby ruined Vernon's dinner with the Masen's is the appearance of the script in his arm. Purple, as always, and in another language. It's not uncommon, Harry has noticed. His soulmate mostly uses English, but there are other languages involved. Usually Italian, if his curiosity-fuelled research at the library is to be believed, but sometimes his arm is full of pretty characters that look complicated and very Asian. He still hasn't deciphered what they are, but he believes them to be Chinese, or maybe Japanese. Harry does not claim to be very knowledgeable about languages, though he wants to learn. His soulmate speaks at least three, so he should try, too.

This time, the lie is written in the pretty characters and Harry pouts. Italian he can understand a bit, if only to sound out the words. This—he can't do anything but stare at his arm until the ink completely disappears.

He's glad, anyway. Even if he does not know what it says, it is there. He has proof that there is someone out there for him, someone who will like Harry for being Harry, no questions asked. That knowledge lets him soldier on, wait it out.

When Ron and his brothers come for him, Harry is hungry and a bit lonely, but his spirit is fierce.

He'll not give up.

Never.)

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4

Skull groans as he sits up, head throbbing dully in muted pain. He can feel the warm heat of his flames dissipating, reabsorbing into his skin and he knows he has failed his mission.

There are no voices nor any other sound apart from his own harsh breathing, so the fray must be long over. The group he had been in charge of has probably been completely annihilated.

He twitches as he struggles to stand. The sharp pain in his side which hints at recently mended broken ribs makes it difficult, but he manages, and then he looks around cautiously.

There are at least twenty bodies scattered around him in the darkened room, hours dead. One of them is half on top of him, restraining his legs. He studies the man with narrowed eyes, trying to see him beneath all the blood that's matted to his hair and staining his suit.

It's Marco.

Skull flinches and then mourns, because Marco was a good boy who got tangled in the Mafia just because he had activated his Flames in a place where there were witnesses. He was a lightning, a little brash and inconsiderate, but a good kid nonetheless. He had been one of the small handfuls of people that tolerated or even liked Skull's exaggerated act, and Skull is sad to see him dead.

He closes his eyes and hangs his head for a minute in silent prayer, and then carefully maneuvers the body away from him.

Standing up, he looks himself over and frowns, disgusted with all the blood and grime that clings to his leather suit. He will have to burn it. It is not salvageable anymore.

Sighing, Skull searches for his missing helmet and then stealthily escapes the warehouse. He does not know if more people are going to show up soon or not, but he does not intend to stay to find out. Three against at least thirty, when the debrief has stated that at most there'd be five in patrol... Yeah, no. Skull recognizes a trap when he sees one, even if it's only in hindsight.

Maybe he should stop being freelance and try to join a Family. If he is lucky, they'll have his back when it's needed.

(Sometimes he thinks that it's a good thing his soulmate is not in the picture. He really does not fancy the idea of dragging them into the blood and cut-throat politics that is the world of the Mafia. Backstabbing and mortal danger are common currency, and unless they are strong, they'll get eaten alive.

Skull almost was, and the only thing that saved him was his flames.

He doesn't want this life for his soulmate, but—

But he aches.)

Chapter Text

Harry does not particularly care about the gender of his soulmate. They are there, have always been there, and they want Harry—he knows that with certainty, without a single doubt. It's clear in every lie he glimpses scrawled on his arm in purple ink from time to time. They exist, and they want Harry—that's all Harry cares about.

As much as he likes magic, as much as he likes his friends, Harry has come to the realization that Wizarding Britain and people, in general, are fickle. They cheer on him and love him when he's doing what they expect; they suspect him and hate him when it suits them best.

Take second year, for example. Or fourth. Both were nightmares, but they are nothing compared to his fifth. This one is the worst.

Being called an attention seeking liar by the Ministry is bad enough, but when most of the school actually believes the Skeeter woman when she says that he's probably deranged and dangerous, Harry has to ground his teeth and take deep breaths to avoid exploding.

At least he tries to.

He successfully keeps it inside until the first class of Defence, when the pink toad that Hermione swears is a plant of the Ministry (and Harry is not inclined to doubt his brilliant friend) effectively goads him into a shouting match that ends with him in detention.

(It sucks.)

(It's even worse when he goes to McGonagall later on and she advises him to just keep his head down and bear with it.)

His friends rope him into creating a group to teach Defence to whoever wants to learn, and suddenly Harry finds himself the leader of a bunch of teenagers that call themselves Dumbledore's Army.

And then the dreams start.

The visions.

Mister Weasley is attacked some days before Christmas and Harry is able to alert the Order in time to save him, but he's scared. He's scared because he witnessed it, because it felt as if it was him the one who attacked. But at the same time, he feels that the dreams are useful, so he is not really keen on learning how to Occlude his mind when Sirius and Snape inform him about Dumbledore's decision.

(He's also a bit spiteful, because the Headmaster has been ignoring him the whole year. He hasn't even looked at Harry in the eyes, not even when he appeared at his hearing in August.)

The lessons start soon after they are back at Hogwarts, and they are hell. Harry only continues attending them because of Hermione's pleading, but he knows it's just a matter of time as both Harry and Snape hate each other too much to keep going through them.

It's Valentine's when Cho finally manages to approach him. She has tried to do so since the beginning of the school year, but Harry has successfully avoided being left alone with her until now. She asks him out on a date, but Harry politely declines.

“You are not my soulmate,” he says, and the girl desperately looks at her bare arm with hope, but his words are not there. Her eyes fill with tears but they don't fall, and Harry pities her just a bit. The girl is pretty, and he can admit that he had thought of dating her the year before, but… But he doesn't really feel comfortable with the idea, and he doesn't want to lead her on. He has his soulmate, and he is in no hurry to experience all the things everyone says his teenage-hormones should be making him feel. He has a war to focus on, romance can wait. (He hopes.)

“We could date anyway? Until you meet her, of course?” Cho suggests anyway, though without much hope.

Harry shakes his head. “I'm sorry, but no. I simply don't feel comfortable dating other people while I wait for them to show up.”

She nods jerkily and scampers off, and Harry feels a twinge of sympathy for her plight, but does not reconsider.

It is later that day that Ron dubiously asks why he never refers to his soulmate as 'she'.

“I just… well, I think it is quite rude to assume, right?” he states sharply. It isn't his intention to sound so snappish, but in his defense, he's tired. The dreams keep coming and he is not sleeping well; his hand hurts from the last session with the Blood Quill and he still has to plan the next DA meeting and everything is getting on his nerves.

“All right, I get you,” Ron says, placating. “I was just wondering. It'd be weird if your soulmate was a guy, but hey. They might be, and you're right. It'd be rude to just assume they're a bird.” He hesitates a second, but then turns serious. “If they turn out to be a guy though, you know that I'll be fine with it, right?”

Harry breathes out a relieved sigh and suddenly feels lighter, as if an invisible weight has been lifted from his shoulders. He grins lopsidedly at his best friend and nods, green eyes flashing in gratitude.

It's true he doesn't care whether his soulmate is male or female, but he has been worried about being rejected by his friends if they turn out to be male. Ron's honest acceptance means so much to him that he's not sure he'll ever be able to put it into words.

“Thanks, mate.”

Ron's ears turn red and he waves Harry away with a huff. “Go to sleep, man. You're dead on your feet,” he grumbles, and Harry snickers.

“Sir, yes, sir!” He salutes the other teen with a serious face and then he has to dodge the cushion aimed at his face. Cackling, he runs up the stairs to the boys' dormitory and prepares to take a quick shower before going to sleep.

Chapter Text

I don't care if I never find them.

Skull stares.

The water has long turned cold in the shower as the adult-turned-baby stares as his arm in stunned disbelief mixed with hopeful wonder. As the orange letters start to fade, he lifts a chubby arm and with reverent fingers, he traces the chicken scratch until it dissolves completely.

He feels breathless—his stomach is fluttering and his lungs are protesting, and he's sure that he will start hyperventilating if he doesn't calm down soon.

(But it's so difficult. Because Skull has been waiting forever to see words in his arm, has always tried to deny that it hurt when he doesn't see them, and suddenly they are right there.)

He sits on the floor, cold water still hammering down on him, still staring at his now ink-free flesh.

There is no sound for a couple of minutes but for the one the shower makes, and then—

Then Skull is laughing. Heartily, truthfully, full of relief and wonder and longing; tears freely spill down his face and get washed away by the shower.

It's liberating, filled with utter happiness, because after more than thirty years since he started looking for words in his arms, after twenty-five years under the curse that turned him into an infant, he finally, finally has confirmation that his soulmate exists.

Skull doesn't care that he's so much older than the other (he's a baby and unable to age, anyway); he doesn't care that his life is crazy and complicated and that they probably won't ever have a 'normal' relationship. Skull doesn't care at all. His soulmate exists, and they want to meet him. That's all that matters right now.

Skull hiccups and stops laughing when an idea hits him. He's not sure if it will work; he hasn't really heard of anybody attempting it, but he has to at least try. If it doesn't, he'll be disappointed, sure. But if it does—

He focuses on the idea of his soulmate and speaks aloud.

“I won't wait for you.”

He waits for a heartbeat, breath caught in his throat, but nothing happens. He huffs, disappointed, but doesn't yet give up. The other might be wearing long sleeves at the moment, for all Skull knows.

(After all, it was pure luck that the writing had not disappeared from his arm before Skull took off his bodysuit to shower. If he hadn't, he would have missed it, and that knowledge is a little daunting. Worse, even, is to suddenly be hit with the epiphany that there might have been others that he missed. Skull hasn't bared his arms voluntarily unless it was absolutely necessary for years, hasn't really looked, and so he cannot fault his soulmate if that's the case.

He'll give it an hour.)

Slowly, unsteadily, he gets to his feet and turns the shower off. He's cold but he doesn't really feel it as he towels his tiny body dry and, after ransacking his closet a bit, quickly puts on a cotton t-shirt with short sleeves.

It's a bit early to start dinner, but Skull doesn't feel up to doing anything else. He cooks while continuously peeking at his left arm, hoping to see a new message appear on his skin, and the distraction costs him as he ends up with overcooked convenience store pasta, soggy-looking and completely unappetizing. Skull scowls at it, but then he notices his arm take an orange tint from the corner of his eye and his ruined dinner is promptly forgotten as he reads: My name is not Harry.

Chapter Text

The day he starts talking to Skull (his soulmate!) marks a startling change in Harry's routine. Sure, he keeps going to class, keeps attending DA meetings, keeps getting detention with the toad but now, instead of doing all his homework with his friends in the common room after dinner, he usually goes to bed an hour early. Not to sleep, no, but to talk.

Speaking in lies is more difficult that he could ever have imagined, and now Harry kind of understands why nobody he knows uses their marks this way (Hermione and Ron don't need it—once they realized they had each other's lies on their skin, the tensions that started in their fourth year ceased and their communication improved; Dean and Seamus have known since they met in the first year; Neville hasn't seen any in his skin, not yet, which means that their soulmate doesn't lie—or has not been born yet. Petunia has Vernon's; Dudley can't care less. Other people… he doesn't know. Marks are a private thing, after all.)

But his. He knows, somehow, that his soulmate is older, and that he doesn't know of Harry's world. He's not a wizard and has never put a foot in Hogwarts or Magical Britain. Harry doesn't know when will it be safe for them to meet, but it isn't now. Not with the threat of Voldemort hanging over his head. (He won't put Skull in danger by meeting him before this war ends.)

So, all things said, speaking through their marks is the only way they are able to communicate for now, and so they make the most of it.

And they learn.

Harry learns so much about his soulmate, about his mismatched crazy family and their antics, about the world outside Hogwarts and Great Britain. It's a wonder he still can even focus in class.

Of course, his change in routine makes his friends wonder, and after a solid week of this new behaviour, Hermione has to ask.

(Why hadn't Harry told them before? He isn't completely sure. Because it was new, maybe. Because he wanted to have something completely to himself, if only for a little while. Marks are a private thing, after all, so why should he even speak about it? Still, he's not really surprised when Hermione asks, and he doesn't begrudge her her curiosity, after all, he isn't one for secrets, usually.)

“I'm talking to my soulmate,” he says, shrugging awkwardly when both her eyes and Ron's widen in surprise. “We figured a way.”

“Can I see?” asks Hermione hopefully, but not demandingly. Harry hesitates, hand covering his arm in an unconscious gesture of protection. She must see his struggle, because she immediately backpedals. “No, it's okay, really. I shouldn't have asked.”

Harry lets out a soft sigh and smiles at her. “Thank you, but—here.” He extends his arm and uncovers it, letting them see it because he trusts them.

Twin surprised inhalations startle him into asking, “What?”

“They are purple, Harry. Purple,” says Ron.

Puzzled, Harry tilts his head to one side, then nods. “Yeah. And?”

“They are… extremely rare.”

“What? What do you mean, rare?”

“Like. I don't know. Mine are black. My whole family has black markings. Hermione's are, too.” He shrugs. “I have heard of people with coloured markings, but I haven't met anyone. Fred and George said once that they met someone with yellow markings, but I'm not sure I believe them.”

Harry's eyebrows rise in surprise. He has never seen other people's marks, and was never curious enough to read more about them, so he hadn't known that.

“I think…” Hermione chews absently on her lip, and her eyes lose focus. Harry and Ron exchange confused glances but don't interrupt, recognizing that she's trying to remember something. “I've read a lot about this, both from Muggle and Magical sources, and there's no agreement about the whys of the soulmarks, or their colours. Yes, most people have black marks, but there are also other colours like green, red, yellow, blue, indigo, purple, and orange. Why those? Nobody knows. However… the only thing every book I've read about marks agree on is that, among coloured markings, orange are the rarest, with purple not so far behind them.”

Harry honestly doesn't know how that might be important. “So?”

Hermione huffs, probably aggravated at Harry's disinterest in this particular mystery. “So? Harry, this means—”

“Nothing,” Harry cuts in. He straightens his spine and clenches his fist, suddenly in no mood to hear anything else about it. “It means nothing. My marks are purple, and that's all there is to it.”

“But—”

“Drop it, Hermione.”

He doesn't know what kind of expression he is making, but something in it must convince her to do as he asks, at least for now. Harry loves her, he does, but there are things that they will never agree on, and her insatiable need to know everything sometimes gets on his nerves. Especially if it something regarding his soulmate.

So what if it's uncommon? Harry himself is so far out of the norm that it isn't funny. It actually makes sense, if he sees it in that way.

(Still, he's not about to let people say things, not even his friends. Skull is his, and he will protect him.)

(He ignores the little voice that snidely asks him 'from what?')

“So,” Ron says, breaking the awkward silence. “How is it that you manage that, anyway? Sounds bloody complicated to me.”

Harry snorts, relaxing. “It kinda is. We have to be very careful in how we word things so that they are lies that can be read between the lines to get the true meaning behind it.” He rubs his arm absent-mindedly and smiles. “But… it's worth it.”

His friends smile with him, and Harry is content.

(So, of course, it wouldn't last).

Chapter Text

They get to know each other slowly, tentatively at the beginning. Skull learns that Harry, his soulmate, is skittish but brave, a little thick headed but very forgiving and above all else, inherently good. He's at school and he both loves and hates it, he has no parents and he has no love lost for his relatives, but he considers his friend's family as his own.

Skull tells him about Oodako and his career as a stuntman, about his six fellow Arcobaleno and how they are like family.

He does not mention the curse or the Mafia, because those are things that are better explained in person. He won't actually lie to him—or mislead him, technically, as everything they say is a lie twisted so that it implies the truth. It's a complicated system and it has led them to numerous misunderstandings at the beginning, but they learned quickly to phrase things in a way that conveys what they actually want to say. It has been fun, for all the complications it has brought, and every new bit of information Skull learns of his soulmate endears him more and more to him.

They make it a nightly ritual—there is just an hour difference between Italy and wherever Harry is staying, so it is not difficult to coordinate once they discover that.

It has been almost four months since the day he noticed his mark and started communicating with Harry, and three since it became consistent, so he worries a bit when, one night in June, Harry does not respond to his greeting. It's just a moment and then it passes, because it has happened sometimes before and he knows Harry is in the middle of taking his final exams, so it would not surprise him if the boy just crashed under all the stress.

He worries when the next day is the same, but he tries to convince himself that it is nothing.

Third time is a charm, and now Skull is really worried about his boy, because Harry has always let him know beforehand if he cannot contact him for a long period of time for whatever reason.

When two weeks have passed without a sign of the boy, Skull starts to fret. He does not know how to phrase his worries into a lie so that they reach Harry; he doesn't know if the boy is mad at him, really busy, comatose or even dead. He's scared, he's distracted, and he pays for it with a bullet wound that goes right through his right shoulder. (He messed up his assignment and let his target turn the tides on him. He is lucky he has his flames to heal him by augmenting his healing factor.)

Finally, after a very desperate attempt at the beginning of July, he receives an answer that chills him to the bone.

There is nothing wrong.

Nothing more.

Skull does not care that he has work to do. He does not care that he doesn't really know where Harry lives, or how he might react to his soulmate looking like a two-year-old baby.

Harry needs him, so Skull is going to find him.

He is Skull de Mort, amazing stuntman; there is no doubt about that. But he is also Skull, the Cloud Arcobaleno, one of the World's Strongest Selective Seven and as such, he has contacts.

And he is finally going to use them.

Chapter Text

It takes Skull eight long days, numerous chats with different contacts, a hefty sum of money and careful maneuvering to locate Harry's house and keep the real reason hidden, but he finally manages it.

The second he receives the information, he is booking a midnight flight to London and making reservations into a medium class hotel. He coaxes Oodako into her smaller form and prepares a light traveling bag, and then departs from his small apartment in Milan without a backward glance.

He's jittery and anxious and very eager at the same time, and he doesn't believe he would have been able to sleep at all if he weren't a baby. As it is, he falls asleep suddenly half an hour before the plane arrives in England, prompting the stewardess to shake him gently awake after they land.

He thanks her sleepily but honestly and the woman beams and coos at him, telling him he's adorable, and Skull has to fight hard to keep the scowl from his face. He usually does not suffer this kind of treatment as he prefers to travel using means of transport that will not question the piercings and the make-up he favours, but desperate times call for desperate measures, and if it means getting to Harry faster, then Skull is not above removing both and looking his current age.

(He feels a bit naked, without them. He'll reapply them when it's safe again.)

He doesn't know who's more surprised when he knocks at the door of Number Four, Privet Drive, the woman or he. Skull made his background check while searching for information about his soulmate, but even the photos attached to the Dursleys' files weren't enough to prepare him for the sight. Petunia Dursley is tall and thin, has pale blond hair and reminds Skull a bit of a horse. A snotty one. She doesn't see him at the beginning, so he has to knock a second time after she slams the door shut in his face. This time, however, he doesn't bother waiting before squireling inside, and then has to suppress a pained wince after she finally sees him as lets out a high, shrill scream.

“Ma'am, please,” he says after a moment, when Petunia has failed to compose herself and keeps blabbering about children and who knows what else. His squeaky voice shuts her up and Skull feels something inside him relax at the reprieve. “I'm looking for Harry.”

That is, apparently, the wrong thing to say, and if the vile things sprouting from her mouth are anything to go by, then Skull is liking less and less the picture he has put together in regards to his soulmate.

(Missing school, fights, bruises, troublemaker; a school for delinquents in which Harry isn't enrolled but everyone thinks he is, silence—)

His flames react to his mounting ire and they start to leak around him. Angry beyond belief, Skull doesn't keep the tight reign he usually maintains and lets them spread, thick and heavy, dangerous and electric. The woman doesn't seem able to see them, but she surely feels their effect: her words die on her mouth as her eyes grow in size and she hunches her shoulders, making herself look smaller than she is.

“What did you—stop! What are you doing? Stop right this instant! Your… your kind cannot attack us, they'll know!” She gasps and a hand goes to her chest. She takes a step back for every step Skull takes forward, and Skull can practically taste her anxiety rising together with her fear. She's getting desperate. Good.“You're under-aged! Surely, surely your Ministry will punish you if you keep—”

Ministry? What is she talking about? If Skull weren't so angry, he would ask. Instead, he shows her his teeth and looms over her, giant despite his size, and she whimpers.

“Aunt Petunia!” someone hollers as they stomp down the stairs, and the sound is enough to shake Skull out of his trance. At the same time, his leaking flames seize on something that calls and pulls and soothes and—

The horrible woman forgotten, Skull turns to the boy at the bottom of the stairs and declares, “Mine.”

Chapter Text

Harry's not sure what happened.

He had been staring at the ceiling, mind miles away as he thought about the war, about Voldemort, about Sirius and the guilt that weighed heavy in his gut when suddenly Aunt Petunia started screaming.

This is it, he had thought as he jumped out of bed and rushed downstairs, heart beating madly in his chest and blood rushing in his ears. This is it, they've found me.

He isn't sure what he was feeling, exactly, as he ran. Dread? Excitement? A little bit of both? He had been feeling so dead before that the sudden rush of adrenaline didn't make it easy for him to distinguish his own emotions now that he had them.

But what he does know is that whatever it was, it changed into wordless surprise as he reached the bottom of the stairs and his gaze fell on the tiny body of the person who was causing Petunia so much terror. Harry stopped, freezing with a hand still on the railing and his mouth half-way open in a word he forgot, mesmerized by the sight of violent purple fire. It surrounded the baby as if he were the focus and pressed down on Aunt Petunia, though it didn't seem to burn either of them, and then—

Then the baby turned, quick as a whip, and pinned him down with eyes as purple as the flames, and something in Harry seized.

“Mine,” the toddler said in a voice that should have been squeaky, but wasn't. A declaration that shouldn't seem believable—a whim, maybe—but was instead said with all the weight of an absolute truth.

Harry had felt it in his soul, and so had responded in kind.

And that's how he finds himself back in his room, sitting on his bed with the small body in his arms, the door closed and blocked and not particularly caring that he doesn't quite remember what he did between then and now. Skull—because he is Skull, there was no way he could be anyone else, no matter what logic may say—is warm and solid in Harry's embrace, a pulse of homehomehomebelonginghome that fills Harry with a peace he had forgotten he could ever feel.

“What is…?” he starts, but the words catch on his dry throat and he has to clear it before he tries again. “What's happening? Skull?”

The baby hums against his neck, where he had buried his face the moment Harry had picked him up. “t's 'rmonization,” he says, as if it explains anything. Harry isn't even sure what words he said, but he feels too content to be annoyed. “I dn't 'spect it to f'l dis strong.”

Harry blinks and frowns a bit, then asks, unsure. “It's because we're soulmates?”

“Mmm… no,” Skull says, then sighs. When he speaks next, his words aren't as slurred. “Maybe a little? I don't know many soulmate pairs who are also Harmonized.”

“Harmonized? Is that...” Harry hesitates for a moment, but then remembers the purple fire. There's no way that isn't magic, so he wouldn't be breaking the Statute… right? “Is that some kind of magic?”

“Mmm…” Skull doesn't answer immediately. Instead, he pushes himself away from Harry's neck, then blinks the haze from his eyes. Harry's about to comment, but Skull's gaze suddenly sharpens and then his eyes open impossibly wide. “Wait. You don't know…? Oh, shit. How the—” He disentangles himself from Harry's embrace and stands in front of him instead. He's so light the bed barely dips. Harry wants to grab him again, hold him, but Skull looks a bit wild around the eyes, so he doesn't. “How are you active? Your Flames—Tell me you know about Flames.”

Warily, Harry shakes his head and watches on with increasing alarm as Skull runs a tiny hand through his brown—wrong, wrong, wrong, something whispers—hair and paces. He bites his lip, waiting.

“So, okay.” Skull stops and stands in front of Harry, and Harry's suddenly aware of how ridiculously tiny he is, and how that's definitely not right. He knows for sure that Skull is at least a few years older than him, so he shouldn't look like a baby. “Flames. They're not… magic, even though they look a lil bit like it. There are seven types, and long story short you're a Sky, the one who keeps all elements together, and I'm a Cloud. Your Cloud. You're my Sky.”

There is a special emphasis on the words, coloured with wonder, and Harry can tell that it means something. Something important. He swallows down a lump in his throat and then asks, “You said something about… being, um, active?”

“Ah, yeah. Not everyone can use their Flames, only people who—” Skull's eyes narrow and he studies Harry's face suspiciously. “Only people who had great regrets when they were about to die.”

Uh-oh.

“When… and how… Harry?”

The air is charged again, a little bit different from how it was with Aunt Petunia, but still tense and Harry can feel a bead of sweat run down the back of his neck. Skull may look like a baby, but Harry has no delusions about his power.

“Um,” Harry says, unsure of what to say or where to begin—his life has been in practically constant danger since he was barely a year old; he has survived more than one brush with death, and they are all one way or the other connected to the Wizarding World, of which Harry's now pretty sure Skull doesn't know about. But… it's Skull, Harry's soulmate, and apparently his Cloud, whatever that means. So he takes a deep breath, looks into purple eyes and says, “Well, I'm a wizard, and there's a war…”

Chapter Text

“We're leaving,” Skull says. His voice is even, barely audible, and it's only his eyes that show the utter rage he feels after listening to Harry's story. There's an itch beneath his skin and his fingers twitch with the barely restrained need to summon his Flames and let them out, let them raze this house, this neighborhood, this entire country and its useless inhabitants to the ground.

He doesn't, even though he dearly wants to, because of Harry. Because Harry loves Britain, loves the Wizarding World. Because even though he doesn't like his relatives, he doesn't wish to bring them harm.

Harry's too good of a soul. Too good for the world, too good for Skull.

(But Harry is his. He's Skull's soulmate, Skull's Sky, and there's no way in hell that Skull is going to do anything to make him unhappy. So Britain will stand.)

(Voldemort, on the other hand…)

“What?” Harry asks, blinking and then frowning. “Where?”

Skull shrugs and jumps down from the bed, looking around the room and scowling at the state of it. Fucking Dursleys. “Right now? Out of here. My hotel. We have—I have things I need to explain to you, and we need to make plans. Your things are all here?”

“Plans?” Harry flails a little as he hurries to follow him and his legs get caught on the sheets. “Plans for what?”

“Voldy. The war.”

“What?! You can't get involved! It's—It's too dangerous!”

Skull stops to give Harry a deadpan stare. He drops the books he had picked up from the rickety desk inside the mostly-packed trunk and then summons his Flames to his hands with a burst of Will. “I'm hardly powerless, Harry. And you don't even have all the facts. I'll tell you—everything. But first, let's get out of here.”

Harry looks undecided for a second, then stubbornly shakes his head. “I can't. The Order—they're looking over me. Dumbledore said I need to stay here. There are blood wards… protection from Death Eaters.”

Skull raises an eyebrow. “There was nobody here when I came,” he says. “And there's nobody there now.”

Harry opens and closes his mouth, and then he lets his head drop with a groan. “Fletcher. I still don't know why they use him, he's useless.”

Skull refrains from pointing out that he considers every single wizard useless. As far as Harry's account of his years in the Wizarding World goes, he can count on one hand the number of times an adult was actually useful.

He had been worried about introducing Harry to the Mafia—now he isn't sure if it wouldn't be better and safer to just take Harry and spirit him away to Italy. The Mafia is terrible, there's no doubt about that, but at least Skull knows this evil and knows how to navigate it. It hadn't been like that when he entered it, no, but he's learned since then.

He doesn't think Harry would be happy with abandoning the wizards to their fate without doing something to help, but he will give him the option anyway.

“I don't know how your wards work,” he admits. “But if it comes to it, I know of a safe-house not too far from where I'm staying. The protections are—more than good. Better. Just. Please.”

Harry doesn't say anything for a moment and Skull deflates. He doesn't want to stay here; he doesn't want to leave Harry here—it's a known location, it's dangerous, it's… Harry is his Sky. Skull can and will protect him better than some sketchy wards alone would ever be able to. The itch beneath his skin is still there, not only fueled by anger this time, but also anxiety caused by the need to protect.

“Okay.”

Surprised, Skull looks at Harry's eyes and he finds only determination there. They hold eye contact for an endless moment, and then Harry says, “I trust you.”

Warmth floods Skull's chest and makes him feel lighter than he has in years.

Chapter Text

They leave quickly, with Skull carrying Harry’s trunk with barely any help from the fifteen-year-old wizard.

It looks ridiculous, and Harry has to force himself to remember that Magic (and, apparently, Magical Flames) is a thing.

He puts his foot down, however, when they are out of the house and in public. Skull protests at the beginning, saying that nobody actually pays him attention, and while Harry doesn’t really doubt him—he’s seen stranger things, really—he doesn’t want to risk it. They are running away, after all, and even though he’s doing it voluntarily he doesn’t doubt that the Order will immediately assume that he was kidnapped and send a search party to look for him. The less weird they seem, the less attention people will pay to them, and so the less likely it would be for people to identify them. A boy wearing glasses and a grey hoodie, carrying some luggage while a big-eyed toddler trots alongside him babbling happily is not the description any person looking for him will expect, and so they’ll probably just dismiss it. He hopes.

Luckily they don’t have to walk much.

After taking the train to London, Skull discretely guides Harry to what seems like a nice enough hotel. They bypass the reception without a second look at the receptionist and take the lift to the second floor.

When they enter the room, Skull all but wrestles the heavy trunk off Harry’s hands and puts it down at the end of the queen size bed. A small screech makes Harry jump in fright, but then Skull chuckles and coos, hurrying towards the back of the room in which a medium-sized water tank lies. Is that…? Harry blinks. Yes, that’s an octopus. Why…? Oodako!

“Oh. She’s lovely!” he says, approaching cautiously, unsure of his welcome. Even if she looks adorable and domesticated while interacting with Skull, it doesn’t mean she’ll act the same with a stranger.

She turns then, and makes a high-pitched squeal that Harry never knew an octopus was able to make. He could swear she is happy to see him.

Skull laughs, bright and happy. “She likes you! Oodako, this is Harry, my soulmate, my Sky. Harry, this is my best friend in the whole world, Oodako.”

Before he knows what’s happening, Oodako has jumped out of her tank, grown three times her size, and wrapped herself all around Harry, giving him the wettest, most enveloping hug he’s ever been given before. He oofs as he falls back, and then laughs at her tittering happy sounds.

“Magic.” He sakes his head, just a little bit stunned. He doesn’t know what he was expecting. “It’s really nice to finally meet you, Oodako.”

Her tentacles squeeze him a little tighter at that, and Harry wheezes.

“Okay, okay, down, girl! He can’t breathe!” says Skull, and Oodako immediately lets him go with an apologetic sound. She’s one of the most intelligent creatures Harry has ever seen, along with his Hedwig, Crookshanks and Buckbeak.

“It’s okay. She’s just happy, aren’t you?”

Skull smiles, a soft fond thing that Harry has not seen before in his face, and Harry coughs, focusing on Oodako to fight down the blush he can feel making way to his cheeks.

They room falls into silence, comfortable and languid, for a few minutes. Then, Oodako goes back to her tiny size and quickly jumps back into her tank, making a little splash. Harry is soaked and feels kinda disgusting, but he hasn’t felt this happy in months.

“Okay, well,” Skull says, clearing his throat and jumping up to the small table in the center of the room. “You should take a shower and change your clothes. There’s… a lot to discuss and I wouldn’t want you to fall ill.”

Harry scratches his nose, then nods. It feels just a little bit awkward, now. Even though he knows Skull, knows he’s his soulmate, they are still strangers, in a way. “Okay,” he says anyway, because he really does feel disgusting, and a little cold. He takes a change of clothes from his trunk and follows Skull’s finger to the bathroom, where he proceeds to take the shortest shower he’s ever taken outside the Dursley’s house. The water’s warm and the pressure is just nice, and he mourns a little for the fact that he can’t stay under it for longer, but his curiosity is bigger than his need to do so. He towels himself dry quickly and then puts on his clean clothes, happy to see that they are ones of the few that actually kinda fit him. When he exits the bathroom, towel around his shoulders, some steam escapes with him.

Skull is waiting for him with breakfast on the table, which is nice, but what really calls his attention and makes him freeze on his spot are the purple hair, the make-up, and the freaking piercings.

...Good.

What?

Harry blinks once, twice, and then shrugs. For some reason, he finds the way Skull looks now much less jarring than before.

“So,” he says instead, sitting down in front of his soulmate, who is perched on top of the table, “will you tell me now what… all of this means? Flames? Your…” he waves his hands awkwardly, vaguely in his soulmates’ direction, “size?”

Some of the tension that had drained out of Skull’s shoulders when he didn’t mention anything about his appearance came back, and he sighs. He puts down his fork and runs a tiny hand through purple locks, grimacing.

“Yeah. It’s… well.” He chews on his lip ring for a moment and Harry lets him gather his wits. He knows how difficult it can be to explain something so complex as Magic, and he has a feeling that this is something similar. “You know what Flames are, and how they activate. Well. People notice, and just like your magic, having them make us… the same, in a way.”

Something clicks then. “You have your own secret society,” Harry says in wonder. How haven’t the wizards realized? It was mind-boggling.

Skull nods. “Yeah. But it’s not… it’s not as neat as yours. It’s… underground in a whole different way. It’s the, uh, underworld, if you wish.”

“...you lost me.”

Skull flinches a little and then his shoulders droop. “The Mafia, Harry. The real Mafia Italiana, the underbelly of crime, is populated and governed by Flame Actives.”

Harry has known, since the very beginning, that his soulmate is not what could be considered normal. This, though, is still quite a shock.

“But—but. What does that even mean?” he asks, bewildered. He can't equate the image of this tiny baby being a killer, an assassin for hire. It simply does not compute. Sure, he’d felt this oppressive, dangerous aura back in his aunt’s house, and he already knew Skull is dangerous, but not… not that dangerous.

Skull grimaces and looks to the side, hiding even more of himself by hunching his shoulders, and Harry feels a stab of guilt for making him look so miserable. But—he needs this information. He needs to know that, whatever this means, his soulmate is still good. He can’t… he can’t stomach it any other way.

“It’s just how it is. Active Flame users got together way back and created the most powerful Mafia Famiglia ever, and soon others followed their path. Then, later, whenever someone who wasn’t already part of that world managed to activate their own Flames and any mafioso caught wind of it, they’ll be dragged into it, too. It’s the law,” he spat the last bit with such venom that Harry relaxes a bit, instantly sure that even though Skull forms part of it, he didn’t join it willingly.

“But. What do they do, what do they make you do?”

“It depends. It’s different depending on your flame, your worth, if you harmonize or not, the type of Family that gets their claws on you. I’m… I guess I’m one of the not so lucky ones, but not of the worse off. I’m independent.” He shrugs. Looks down at his fork. “I have to play by the rules, but I can follow my own morals, choosing the types of work I take or don’t take. I have to pay for everything myself and I don’t really have a, a support network except for some of the other Arcobaleno, but… it’s not so bad.”

Harry feels his heart constrict at the loneliness that exudes out of Skull and feels himself reaching. The warm, homey feeling he has learned to associate with his Flames touching Skull’s spreads through him, and he can see his soulmate relax.

“You’re not alone anymore, you know?” Harry says, barely above a whisper.

The wonder in Skull’s eyes is a punch to the guts and sunlight in his chest, bursting through him and spilling out as tears of happiness when his soulmate’s answer is “I’m here for you, too.”

Chapter Text

“Wait, Harry.”

Harry stops on his heels, and it warms Skull’s heart that he trusts him so implicitly. They’ve known each other in person for barely a week, and even with multiple revelations about his world and his role on it, Harry still trusts him.

The boy looks at him, cautious but curious, and asks, “What’s wrong?”

Skull narrows his eyes at their door and pushes out a trail of Flame. There’s something nagging at him. It feels familiar in a way he can’t describe, but he doesn’t trust it. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

There’s someone in their house. In their safe space.

He growls.

“Uh, Skull?” Harry says after Skull takes a leap up the front steps. His green eyes grow in surprise as they fix to his chest but Skull doesn’t really notice. He’s too focused on the door, on the half-cloaked presence inside, waiting for them.

(He’s not gonna let anyone hurt his Sky. He’s not.)

Skull drops the bag of groceries without care and blasts the door open with a kick enhanced with Flames. He distantly hears Harry’s gasp of surprise as his body changes when he activates his Armored Muscle Body, but he’s too busy reaching for Oodako and trying to locate the intruder to pay him much attention.

It’s dark inside. Someone has dropped the blinds.

Skull scans the room, fingers ready to give orders to his faithful companion, and then there’s a gun in front of him.

A gun.

Harry’s behind him.

Harry’s in danger.

Pure Cloud Flames burst from him with a roar, covering the place in a matter of seconds. Oodako jump-grows and throws herself at Harry, shielding him with her body with barely a sign from Skull, and Skull attacks.

There’s a snarl on his lips and rage in his eyes, and he can feel himself burn. He’s lost in his bloodlust and attacks, attacks, attacks, not noticing that there are no bullets, not really. Flashes of yellow light mix with his purple, and there’s something familiar in that, but Skull cannot think.

It’s not until Harry screams his name and reaches with his Flames, soothing and commanding at the same time, that he comes back to his senses and starts to calm down.

His breathing is erratic and he still can’t see or hear well, but the arms of his soulmate around his middle are unmistakable as he’s lifted and hugged. Slowly, slowly, he relaxes enough that sounds and images start to make sense again.

He blinks and realizes he’s hugged into Harry’s chest, his face neatly tucked in the crook of his neck. “Harry...?”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” his soulmate says, relaxing under him. “You’re back.”

“Mmm… what happened?”

“You were Raging, Lackey,” a squeaky voice answers from behind, and Skull tenses as he recognizes it. He quickly turns in the arms of his soulmate and his eyes fall on the small form of the Sun Arcobaleno. His pacifier is bright in Skull’s proximity, and so is Skull’s, though he hadn’t noticed until then.

“Reborn?!”

The Hitman smirks. “The one and only. Now…” He narrows big dark eyes and looks from Skull to Harry and back to Skull again. His hand hovers over Leon. “You better start talking.”

Chapter Text

Reborn doesn’t know what to think.

He sits on top of the table, facing the Lackey and the boy who’s apparently not only his Sky but his soulmate (the one Reborn has teased—meanly, he knows—Skull of not having for years) and tries to make sense of all the new information he now has.

Who would’ve thought that following his instincts after he realized the Lackey was acting out of character would lead him to discover a completely new world?

(How come nobody in the Mafia appeared to know it existed at all?)

“So. Hiding,” he says, and immediately wants to kick himself. How inarticulate. He doesn’t let his face change at all, because there’s no need to broadcast that he’s uncomfortable. His fedora rests by his side, and Leon is on top of it, watching the SkyWizard-Cloud pair with curious, bulbous eyes.

Skull shrugs from where he’s perched on his Sky’s lap. Reborn can feel their Flames intertwining, calming, and he feels a tinge of jealousy and want.

(The civilian Sky has potent, pure flames. Not as obvious or powerful as the Vongola, or even Aria’s, but still impressive. Feeling them pouring out and containing Skull’s raging Flames when Reborn had unknowingly threatened them both had been a surprise, along with the sheer ferocity of Skull’s attack.

Reborn had been ready to greet Skull the same way he ever did, with a small threat and a gun to the face, and hadn’t expected for everything to go up in literal flames.

He’d seen the signs, when he arrived at the safe-house and looked around for clues, but he hadn’t connected them, not really. Yes, it was obvious that Skull was sharing a room with a teenage male, but Reborn hadn’t even thought about the possibility of them bonding.

He wasn’t prepared to face a newly bonded, utterly possessive Cloud in protective mode.

His mistake.)

“Yes. They’ll be looking for me, if they haven’t started yet,” the Sky says. “I sent Hedwig, my owl, with a letter to my mates so that they know that I’m okay, but I don’t think the Order will care.”

His owl. Right. Wizards. He sees Leon move on his left and swallows a self-mocking grimace. Since when is he such a hypocrite?

“Let them try,” Skull says, baring his teeth in a way that results disturbingly threatening, coming from him.

The Sky sighs and pokes Skull’s cheek with a finger. “Skull, no. They’re not the enemy.”

“They still can’t protect you better than me,” Skull says, almost pouting. Reborn hates to admit it, but he’s actually with the Lackey in this one. “So they can’t take you away.”

“We should explain things to them,” the boy says. “They’d understand.”

Reborn snorts. “Yes,” he drawls, “I’m sure they will. You just went with your soulmate, who looks like a baby punk, and who is part of the Mafia. Oh, and he also has powers they don’t understand. I’m sure it would go swimmingly.”

The boy scowls at him and Reborn shrugs, unrepentant. It’s only the truth.

The boy’s shoulders slump a bit and he looks morosely down at the top of Skull’s head. “Yeah, you’re right. But I don’t know what else to do! They will find me, and when they do I don’t want them attacking you or, or, or Obliviating you! That’d be a disaster. And there’s also the Death Eaters—they’d do worse than taking your memories if they find us before the Order does.”

Reborn presses his lips together into a tight line and thinks. He doesn’t like this. The boy is not his Sky—he can feel a small thread of Sky attraction to him, but there’s no response from the orange Flames. It’s likely that the boy already has started forming a Sun bond without even knowing it—but he’s Skull’s, and even though they’ve never been particularly good to their young Cloud, he’s still part of their mismatched little family, and so is his Sky.

“We should contact Viper,” he says, standing and picking up his fedora. “They’re the most likely to know something about wizards and what to do about going unnoticed. For the right price, they’d definitely work something out for you.”

Skull’s mouth goes slack and his eyes big with surprised awe, and Reborn has to fight down the impulse to kick him in the head. It wouldn’t do to do that in front of a Sky.

“Thank you, Reborn,” the little Sky says and smiles at him, and Reborn has to look away.

Well, whatever. The world would better appreciate his good deed of the year. He is not about to repeat it.

Chapter Text

Viper is another not-baby. They’re tiny and even though their cloak covers half their face, Harry is pretty sure they’re forever frowning at the world.

It takes some time to get in touch with them. To be fair with them, though, Harry thinks he’d have done the same thing in their place if someone called him and started with a shouted: “VIPER-SAN!”

Viper disconnects the call. Immediately.

Harry looks at his soulmate with a mix of slight disappointment and amusement. Who’d have thought that Skull would face the same challenges as Ron when speaking on the phone?

“Idiot Lackey,” Reborn mutters and forcibly takes the mobile from Skull. Skull yelps and sulks, glaring daggers at Reborn. Harry watches the interaction with a nagging feeling and narrowed eyes.

Reborn dials again, then clears his throat. “Viper. It’s me.” A pause. Reborn taps the table he’s standing on with tiny feet. “Yes, Skull’s here. No, he won’t shout,” he says, looking pointedly at Harry’s soulmate. “It’s a matter of… interest. He requires consultation.” Another moment of silence. Reborn scowls and tugs at the front of his hat, hiding dark eyes from view. “Yes, I want to know, too. What?! Double?! No, I—Yes. Yes, yes, damn you, you miser, we’ll pay. No, we can’t go, you’ll have to come here.” A deep, long-suffering sigh. “Yes, there’ll be travel charges, I know. We’ll wait.” He snaps the mobile closed and thrusts it back towards Skull, who’s looking a little green beneath his make-up. “I hope you’re prepared to pay through your nose,” Reborn comments idly, but it sounds like a threat.

Harry gulps and thinks about the gold piled up on his vault in Gringotts. Hopefully, it’ll be more than enough.

He’s not sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t the sudden distortion of air right in front of them, or the small body crossing it as if it were an open door. While floating. With a...snake halo?

Harry blinks twice, cocks his head, shakes it. Magic. A different type, maybe, but definitely magic. They’re not going to convince him otherwise, not when they do this kind of thing. Also—Viper’s trick seems way more comfortable than apparition. He wonders if they could teach him.

“I hope you are both ready to pay. Time is money, and you’re keeping me away from rewarding work, so this will be a total of—huh.” Viper stops mid-sentence, their body angled towards Harry, and he feels like he’s suddenly being dissected. They float forward, closer to him without being too close to risk being growled at by Skull (who’s apparently a lot more possessively aggressive that Harry thought was possible) and makes a small gesture with their hand. “Huh. You actually managed to find something interesting for me. It may even bring an investment.” Their tone is just as flat and monotonous as it was at the beginning, but there’s something behind it that speaks of actual excitement—maybe even glee.

(Harry can almost feel Skull’s apprehension bleeding through their bond, and even Reborn’s stiff posture gives off an impression of alarm. He swallows.)

“Um, hi. I’m Harry. Harry Potter,” he says, and he immediately knows that he shouldn’t have.

Viper doesn’t outward show any kind of surprise or excitement, but there’s something around them that just feels...sharper, somehow. Skull jumps onto his shoulder and hugs his head, and Harry can’t see him but he knows he’s glowering at Viper.

“Mmm. I guess I could be persuaded to make you a discount.” Viper muses, patting the frog’s head distractedly. “Only if you answer my questions in a satisfactory manner.”

Harry’s sweating. “I’ll, um. Sure. I’ll try.”

Viper hums, and Skull snaps, “Stop with the cryptic act, Viper. What’s going on?!” He’s so tense that Harry can feel the tremors of strained muscles. There’s an edge of warning on his tone that Harry’s pretty sure is not common at all, based on Reborn and Viper’s reaction.

“Mu, so impatient.” Viper sighs and floats towards the table Reborn is perched on. He makes space for them and offers them a cup of tea when they land. Actually, there’s a whole tea set on the table that Harry’s never seen before and is pretty sure was not there even three minutes ago. Also, the snake halo turned to a tiny green frog. Whatever. “But I guess haste is best in this case. I did say that time is money.”

Indecision grips him for a moment as Harry debates whether he should approach and serve himself a cup too or keep his distance in deference to Skull, who is still rather hostile.

“Sit,” Viper says, without leaving room for an argument, and so he sits.

Skull jumps from his shoulder onto the table and crosses his arms. He’s standing between the other two and Harry, and Harry feels a surge of warm fondness for his ridiculous soulmate.

“I’m not going to bite,” Viper says, dry as a desert, and Harry would bet they’re rolling their eyes—except that he’s getting the idea that even mentioning the word ‘bet’ in front of this particular tiny person would be one of his worst ideas ever. “Since when has he been like this?” they ask Reborn when Skull doesn’t move or stops frowning at them.

Reborn sips at his tea and delicately shrugs with one shoulder. “He flew into a rage when I found him,” he says, “though that might have been the gun pointing near his Sky. That was… maybe three hours ago, I’d say.”

Another sigh. “And when did you bond?” they ask towards Harry and Skull, though it is Harry who answers.

“Around a week ago? I lost track of time, honestly.”

“A newly bonded soulmate pair, a newly bonded element with a baby civilian Sky...” Viper falls silent, considering. “And a magical civil war to top it off. Yes. Skull’s unbecoming behavior can be excused without tax. This time.”

…Absolutely everything is about money with this being, isn’t it?

“Yes,” Reborn says, tipping his head towards him.

Harry startles. He didn’t say that out loud, did he? No. He’s sure he didn’t.

Dread rises as a horrible thought crosses through his mind: can Reborn read minds?

A devious smirk curls Reborn’s lips and his dark eyes glint. “Yes,” he says again, and Harry—

Harry is pretty sure he’s pulling his leg. He has to be.

...Right?

“In any case. You’ll tell me what you need, then you’ll tell me what I want to know, and then I’ll decide on a price. Time’s ticking. Start.”

Chapter Text

Skull listens with half an ear. It’s not that he isn’t interested—he is, very much so, in fact, since the topic concerns his soulmate’s safety, his Sky’s, and nothing is more important to him than that—but there’s this buzzing in his blood and in the back of his mind that feels like an alarm, like a warning. Don’t let your guard down, it says, and it’s been telling him so since the moment he saw the gun in his face.

He likes the Arcobaleno. They are his family, the only one he’s had for more than half of his life. He doesn’t quite trust them, though, not after knowing them as many years as he has and having suffered through their constant disregard of him. It doesn’t usually bother him—why would it, when he’s quite capable of caring for himself without them? He hadn’t needed them before, not truly.

The situation now is different, and he hates that he has to rely on anyone else to help keep Harry safe.

They’ve been bonded for a week, been on the run for that same amount of time, and the threat of people taking Harry away—being it the wizards who want to kill him or the ones who think can protect him is a non-issue in his head; he doesn’t care who, they won’t, they can’t, he won’t let them—and now there are two dangerous people in their space, two unbound elements who have taken an interest in Skull’s Sky, and it makes his skin itch.

He doesn’t like it. He won’t let them out of his sight.

So Viper and Harry speak, with Reborn piping up here and there to make suggestions, and Skull barely hears enough to understand the basics: Viper has known for a while about the wizards and even about Harry, but didn’t have an in before and they want it desperately enough to lower their prices a ridiculous amount; Harry doesn’t know as much as he should about his own world even after living in there for five years, to Viper’s moue of disappointment; Reborn is curious about things even though he doesn’t wish to appear so.

“It shall be enough for now,” Viper says, reluctantly, when their last four questions are answered by a shrug or a sheepish ‘sorry, I don’t know’. “And I will help. But—you must find out the answers to my questions and I’ll expect you to take me to your...Goblins.” Is that a hint of greed in their tone? “I’d rather think they’ll be interested in doing business with me.” Yeah, definitely greed. Skull is not surprised.

He only cares one thing in their answer, though.

“So what do we do?” he asks, cutting straight to the point.

Viper has the good grace to not ask for clarification. They sniff. “Do you have any jewelry you use regularly?” They address Harry, and Skull fights down the urge to bristle. “Something difficult to break or lose?”

Harry blinks and shakes his head. “No, I don’t. The only thing I use apart from clothes are my glasses.”

“That won’t do. Easy to lose, easy to break.”

“What do you want it for anyway?”

“Mist cloak. I cannot guarantee that it’ll work reliably against your magic, so until it’s tested it’ll be,” they make a pause, and the next words sound strained, almost as if saying them pains them, “free of charge.”

“What good is it if you don’t know it works?” Skull asks, rather sullen.

“Don’t insult me. This might not work against wizards, but it’ll definitely help against other Flame users. Or have you forgotten that you have a baby civilian Sky with untrained, unbound Flames parading around the Mafia?” they say disdainfully, and Skull’s stomach drops to the bottom of his feet. He had actually forgotten, and he curses internally at his own folly. Viper sniffs again. “I thought so. Furthermore, I’ll grant you one—exactly one—express Mist extraction for one-quarter of the price in case Wizards do actually find you and Skull can’t get things under control on his own. One.”

Some of his dread and tension disappears after the reassurance—he knows how much power Viper has to put into their Flames to transport other people, and they usually only do so with time to prepare and an exorbitant fee paid in cash. This is actually much more than he hoped they’d get, and it makes him relax a bit for the first time since Reborn made the call.

“Thank you,” he says, sincerely grateful. He looks Harry over and considers his own collection of jewelry. “Would you prefer a ring, or would you prefer to have a piercing?”

Harry’s green eyes grow wide behind his glasses, then he frowns. He opens his mouth, hesitates, and says, “I—a piercing, I think. Here?” He takes his helix between thumb and forefinger, and Skull nods, satisfied.

“I’ll make it for you. Wait a moment.” He narrows his eyes at his fellow Arcobaleno. Viper ignores him, while Reborn sips at his teacup and raises a mocking eyebrow at him. Good enough.

Skull jumps down from the table and hurries towards the cupboard in where their things are stashed. He rummages through his bag until he locates the little box he’s looking for and with a small sound of victory pulls it out and walks back to Harry. He presents him with the box and Harry takes it, gingerly.

“What’s this?” he asks, looking at the engraved tree on the lid.

“My jewelry box,” Skull answers, ignoring Reborn’s suspicious coughing. He likes his trinkets, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. “Choose something you like from there.”

“Oh, I couldn’t—it’s yours! I can buy my own.”

“No, no, pick one.”

“No, it’s okay, really, I should—”

“As amusing as this is, it has to stop now,” Reborn cuts in. “Just pick one so that Viper can do their thing,” he says, and he’s standing, now. The tea set is nowhere in sight, and Leon is green and deadly in his gun form on his owner’s hand. Alarms blare in Skull’s mind as he whirls around, purple Flames on his hands, towards the closed door. Reborn turns the safety off, making a sharp, ominous clicking sound. “Preferably before someone else finds us again.”

Chapter Text

Remus is losing his mind.

He’s been doing so for years, he is aware of it, so it shouldn’t be anything to write home about, but this time is—different. More, maybe.

(Maybe the facts are that he now knows that he can’t afford to lose anyone else in his life anymore. He’d thought so, too, when Lily and James were killed, when he’d thought Sirius had betrayed them and murdered Peter. He’d thought, back then, that there was nothing else left for him to lose. He’d been too grief-stricken, too lost in his own misery, that it had taken him more than it should have to think about his friends’ baby boy. By then Harry had been spirited away, safe and protected in a place where he would grow up without the burden of the Wizarding World on his shoulders.

Remus had inquired, but he’d accepted the situation rather quickly—after all, what could he, a social pariah, a dangerous werewolf without a pack, do for a child?

He regrets it a bit, now.

He hadn’t known Harry was growing up with Petunia, of all people, but even if it hadn’t been ideal he still thought it was for the best. For Harry’s safety.

Then he had discovered Sirius’ innocence and he had hope for a happy ending, not only for them but for Harry: the hope of a stitched back together little pack of three, a family—it would have been heavenly. Definitely more than what Remus deserved, but he still wanted it with all the pieces that remained of his battered heart. He could almost taste it, back then during Christmas day, even though the war had been picking up and Sirius had been still a fugitive trapped in a house he hated, and then—

Then everything came crashing down around him and Sirius died.

They weren’t soulmates. They would never have doubted each other when Lily and James had to go into hiding if they had been. But they were friends, they were lovers, they were family, and regaining that little bit of comfort only to have it taken away so forcefully, so suddenly—

It almost broke him. He had to step away, just for a few days, just until he wouldn’t lash out at people who didn’t deserve it, and then he’d be back and continue with his duties. Nothing was supposed to happen in that time.

Nothing should have happened in that time.

But Harry is gone.

Gone.

Apparently, one day a baby came to Privet Drive and took Harry away. Remus would have called bullshit if he had been there when Petunia told the story, but it apparently wasn’t—the team that interrogated her didn’t resort to Legilimency, as it is unethical and very dangerous for Muggle minds, but a small compulsion to tell the truth was good enough and when she repeated the exact same story under the influence, there was no further doubt.

Knowing that didn’t help any, not really. It only served to confuse them and alarm them even more. Petunia was quick to blame ‘their world’ on the attack she suffered, since apparently the baby had done something to her, though she couldn’t say what. She didn’t see a wand, either, nor any kind of lights that they could associate with the use of wandless magic. The baby might have been someone—a Death Eater, probably—polyjuiced, or he might have been truly a baby being controlled (as horrifying as the idea is, Remus wouldn’t put it past the scum to do something like that) while the true danger was invisible or…

But the way she described Harry’s meeting with this baby, the—reunion, almost, before he voluntarily took the stranger in his arms and up the stairs, the way they left sometime later through the front door with all of Harry’s things and without any sign of force…

Remus doesn’t know what to make of it. He hates to think that Harry’s been kidnapped, maybe put under the Imperius (though wasn’t he immune...? He resisted Voldemort’s Imperius, who could be strong enough to…?), but on the other hand he wouldn’t know what to do if Harry had actually left voluntarily. What would that mean?

Has he…failed?

(Of course he has. He’s been failing for fifteen years.)

It took the order two days to notice Harry wasn’t in the house instead of locked in his room as he’d taken to doing—(Remus tries to ignore the voice in his head that tells him that it’d been a stupid idea, letting Harry be alone with people who didn’t like him for months after...everything that happened, but he can’t. It’s loud.)—and after that it takes them three more to get a lead.

Finding witnesses who had noticed a boy and a toddler walking together is a much more difficult endeavour than it should be, Remus thinks. It is an exercise on patience and keeping not only deep frustration and hot anger but also increasing, bone-deep fear at bay, without much to show for it.

They finally catch a break with, of all people, an old little lady with thick glasses and a bun of thick white hair. She hears them questioning a young couple in the park close to Harry’s house and approaches them with a smile.

“Oh, you mean the polite young lad with the glasses and his little brother? They helped me with my groceries the other day, though it was the young one who carried one of my bags, as the older had his hands busy with a big trunk. Enthusiastic little thing, he had beautiful eyes, and of the most extraordinary colour. I’d never seen purple eyes before,” she says, happy to have people to chat to, and Remus clings to the sudden hope like a lifeline. Purple? It has to be them.

“Did they say where they were going?” he asks, hoping he doesn’t sound as desperately on edge as he feels. “Do you remember? Please.”

The old lady squints, touching her upper lip with a knuckle. “I don’t—they said they were catching a train, but I don’t think they said where.”

That’s more than they had before, so Remus thanks her profusely and together with Tonks—his partner in his search—they hurry to the station, high on the knowledge that they are finally getting somewhere.

Hopefully he’ll get to Harry before anything bad happens to him.

He has to.

(He can’t afford to fail anymore.)

Chapter Text

Harry barely has time to process Reborn’s words before the door explodes with a deafening bang. Wood splinters rain over them and, on instinct, Harry covers his face with his arms, though he shouldn’t have bothered.

Before he knows what’s happening, he’s forced down behind the recently overturned table, thrown on its side when he wasn’t paying attention. He wants to protest the manhandling, the unnecessary protection, he does, but he doesn’t have the time.

One moment a not-baby is standing on his head, the next a truly bizarre amount of colours and sounds are colliding around and above him in the most dizzying spectacle he’s ever seen.

Viper is once again floating, arms open and hands extended. Their eyes are covered but their lips are tight. There are—things, phantasmagorical and eerie, coming out of nowhere to stand next to them, intimidating in their form and their number, and Viper flicks their fingers and they spring into action, attacking viciously with jaws and claws and talons. T

That’s not all, no.

Skull is in his big, muscled form again, and he can’t see Reborn but bullets encased in yellow fire are raining down on their opponents in a truly frightening speed.

One of the bullets goes right through the mask of one of them, and then through the head and the brain, leaving a splatter of blood and viscous fluids on its way, the body dropping to the floor like a marionette with strings cut, and Harry doesn’t know what to feel because, on the one hand, cool. On the other hand, murder.

Mafia, he thinks, a bit light-headed.

And these attackers, these enemies, they are wizards, he knows. They are Death Eaters, he sternly corrects himself when a bright, sickly beam of green light comes terrifyingly close to hitting Skull. It forces Harry to react out of his panic—minor or not, he’s not about to let the threat of the stupid trace and expulsion from Hogwarts scare him out of helping his soulmate survive.

(He’s not about to let anyone else he cares about die because he wasn’t strong enough.)

His wand is on his hand. He doesn’t remember grabbing it from its place on his pocket, but it doesn’t matter. He has it, and so he can use it. His fingers are clutching it too tightly, so he relaxes his grip to avoid a spraining or worse. He can’t afford to lose it. He breathes in deeply and peers over the table, then sends a barrage of stunners and disarming spells to every black-covered not-baby in his line of sight.

There are more than he thought there’d be, and he swears when some of them spot him. They immediately attack and Harry has to dive away from his cover to avoid being blasted away with a nasty bombarda.

“They are Death Eaters!” he roars, aware that it’s probably obvious by now, but wanting to let his soulmate and his allies know what they’re dealing with. “Avoid the green lights—they’ll kill you!”

A big shadow passes over him and he glances up just in time to see Oodako leap onto three approaching cloaked figures and restraining them with vicious, inexorable force. Harry is pretty sure they’ll either pass out or die before anyone tries to help them, especially since the three not-babies are the most obvious, immediate threat.

Skull bashes heads like it’s going out of fashion, Reborn keeps shooting, and many of their targets do not put much of a fight as they are trapped in Mist illusions, or so Harry gathers from the way they are either dazed, fighting imaginary things, or fighting each other.

He sends another stunner, shouts an Expelliarmus, and his target does not even seem to notice the loss of their wand. In fact, there is not a single Death Eater still attacking what they should. It’s then that he realizes that the major threat has been dealt with, and Harry lets his wand arm drop, panting a bit.

The whole fight lasted less than three minutes, and he barely did anything at all, but Harry’s suddenly exhausted.

The last two attackers fall down, either unconscious or dead, and Harry breathes.

“Well, that was...”

“Unexpected,” Viper offers.

“Anti-climatic,” Reborn adds, stepping out of his hidey-hole with his green gun cocked.

“Rude,” Skull scowls, returning to his normal size.

“Yes, that,” Harry agrees. Though he has to hand it to them, they took down, what, ten, fifteen Death Eaters without breaking a sweat? Harry is impressed. “Thank you.”

Viper makes a dismissive gesture with their hand. “Think nothing of it. I will charge you, though, as this wasn’t part of the contract.”

Harry can’t help it, he chuckles. “Deal.”

He is barely starting to truly relax, when there’s a shout from outside:

“AUROR CORPS. DROP YOUR WANDS. YOU ARE SURROUNDED.”

Chapter Text

“WAIT!” Harry shouts, and the surprise is the only thing that makes Skull stop when he is about to attack the new intruders. He’s still on hyper-alert, even though they crushed their enemies with barely any consequence to them.

“Hands in the air!” the woman’s voice, the Auror that yelled before, says, and Skull tenses, ready to get back to the fight should there be one.

“Tonks! Tonks, it’s okay! I’m Harry, it’s okay!”

Silence greets Harry’s voice, and then another voice, male this time, asks full of hope, “Harry?”

Harry looks startled, but not in a bad way, so Skull doesn’t attack. Yet.

“Professor?” Harry wonders, then shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. We are fine,” he says, then looks around and down and grimaces. “Ah, well, we’re fine right now. There are, uh, some...unconscious Death Eaters in here, though.” He doesn’t mention the ones that are dead, but Skull doesn’t blame him. Reborn’s kills are rather clean, but still. Skull doesn’t think Harry’s seen much death in his life, much less a dead body.

“Unconscious…?” A man enters the room, around forty years at a first glance, looking stressed and wary. His amber eyes fill with relief when he finds Harry, standing dirty but unharmed, and then his eyebrow twitches when he sees the mess of bodies around them. Then he pales when he sees the blood. “What ever happened here?”

“You are late to the action,” says Reborn, drawing the man’s attention to himself. He’s cleaning his green gun with a cloth in what Skull knows is a practiced act of nonchalance. “By about two minutes.”

The man’s eyes widen and then narrow, and he looks Reborn over. He’s younger than forty, Skull decides as he studies the way he tenses up again, half-raising his wand.

“And who might you be?” the man asks, smiling politely but with murder in his eyes. He’s dangerous, and Skull doesn’t know if that makes him like him or be even warier of him.

“A friend of the Family,” Reborn answers, and it’s obvious that the man doesn’t hear the capitalization in the last word, but Skull does. Reborn is making a statement. More than one, actually, and Skull will have to think on it later on because he simply cannot make the time right now to process that.

“Yes,” Harry hurriedly interrupts, but if he’s aware of the weight of Reborn’s proclamation, he doesn’t show it. “He’s a friend. They all are. Please don’t attack them,” he asks the man, then hastily adds, looking quickly at the three of them. “And the same for you three, don’t attack the wizards, please.”

“Harry,” the man starts, disapprovingly.

Harry squares his jaw and interrupts him. “No. It’s my soulmate and his friends, and they just took down fifteen Death Eaters in less than five minutes, without magic.” Well, it was technically the truth. As far as any of them know, Flames aren’t magic. “They have a right to know.”

The man’s eyes grow wide, and he looks at the three of them again. Does he look paler than before? “Your soulmate, you said?”

Harry nods, then adds, “Yes.” He extends a hand towards Skull, and Skull draws even closer to him, but without letting his guard down. “This is Skull, my soulmate. And his friends. Skull, guys, this is Professor Remus Lupin. And the woman behind him, she’s Nymphadora Tonks.”

“Call me Tonks,” she says, and she’s smiling too but her eyes are sharp, assessing.

In any other case, this would be the moment Skull puts on the mask and acts like a complete airhead. But right now, he is not inclined to be the clown.

“You’re Harry’s other godfather,” he says to the man, Lupin, and he isn’t being fair, he knows, letting his disapproval through. Harry’s reproaching glare says as much, and so Skull tries to keep his dislike at bay. “Hello.”

“Ah,” Remus says, obviously taken aback by Skull’s words and tone. “Not, not really…” he sighs, “yes, something like that. Ah. You’re…not a baby.”

“He’s not as dumb as he looks, then,” Viper says with a sniff. They’re still floating, and Lupin twitches at the sound of their voice. He must not have noticed them until then. “No, Skull is not a baby, nor are any of us, either. Baby Sky,” they say, turning all their attention to Harry. Skull tenses again in what’s pure reflex, but Viper ignores him. “Pick the piercing. Now.”

Skull blinks.

“What...?” Lupin asks, disoriented.

Harry startles. “Uh, yes. Right away!” he says, then hurries back towards the upended table, looking for Skull’s jewelry box. He trips on one of the many bodies strewn around the room and it groans, indicating that that one, at least, is still alive. For now.

“Are you not going to do anything about these?” Reborn asks. “Your partner looks like a magical cop or something. And weren’t we ‘surrounded’?”

“It’s Auror,” the woman with the pink hair says, with a note of cheerfulness that is only part act. “Surrounded may have been a bit of an exaggeration, but a good choice for intimidation, ya know? In case it was needed.” She walks over to a group of three unconscious Death Eaters close to Skull and toes one of them with a boot. There’s not answering sound. “And yes, we should at least tie them up.” She glances over the ones that are clearly dead, and winces a little. “Uh, the alive ones, at least. Remus?”

Lupin, who is still looking between Harry, Skull and the other two Arcobaleno with a puzzled, slightly lost look, shakes himself up and blinks. “Uh, yes. Can you...?” He indicates vaguely with his wand and Skull moves away. If he moves closer to Harry, well. It is only logical. “Thanks. Incarcerous.”

Between the two magic users, all the Death Eaters are tied up in less than a minute. Handy.

“Well,” Auror Tonks says, “These are too many for one portkey, so let’s make three groups and send them off to the office. Levicorpus.”

“This one,” Harry says, and Skull’s attention shifts from the awkwardly floating Death Eaters to his soulmate, who is now holding up a rather simple silver loop to Viper’s inspection.

“It will do,” Viper says, nodding, and accept it into their tiny hand. “I don’t have all I need with me, so I’ll find you once I finish it. Remember, only one extraction.”

“Yes, thank you.”

Viper huffs, waves their free hand, and the air distorts. They aren’t there anymore.

“Uh. What. Where did that baby go?” Lupin asks, and Skull looks sharply at him. He’s standing next to Auror Tonks, who’s putting a paperweight over the last cluster of Death Eaters. She counts under her breath and then, as suddenly as Viper, they disappear.

“Work,” Reborn says from where he’s standing close to the window, tugging his fedora down into his eyes. His voice may be remarkably disinterested, but the glint in his eyes indicates that he’s still looking at everything clinically, dissecting it and making his own judgments. “Same as me. We’ll be seeing you soon, Baby Sky, Skull.” He nods his head to each in order, takes a leaping step to the veranda, and then jumps right out of the window.

And then Skull is the drama queen, sure.

Lupin runs to the window and looks out of it, worry etched into every movement.

“Don’t bother, he’s already gone,” Skull says, studying the man intently. He turns around and gapes outrageously at Skull. Skull snorts. “As Viper said, he’s not an actual baby. He’s survived much worse than that.”

Weary, Lupin runs a hand down his face. “I really don’t understand how it came to this.”

Harry snorts. “You and I both, Professor. You and I both.”

Chapter Text

The stare down is tense and, honestly, a little bit ridiculous.

Skull is sitting on top of the table, legs crossed, and unblinkingly stares at Dumbledore, who stares back. There’s a glint in Dumbledore’s eye that Harry has learned to know it means he’s amused. He thinks. He hopes.

(Better amused than angry, Harry thinks, feeling a shiver down his spine as he remembers the fearsome image of an angry Dumbledore battling Voldemort in the Ministry atrium.)

The Order has not been called in full, but the most important people are there: Professor Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Professor Lupin, Mad-Eye Moody and, to Harry’s disgust, Snape. Tonks had gone to the ministry pretty much immediately after delivering them to Grimmauld, to take care of the collected Death Eaters, she said. She also said something about cleanup, and Harry hopes that means she’ll be doing something about the… about the dead bodies back in the room.

Harry’s sitting just behind Skull, on a chair because that’s what it should be, and he feels like squirming even though most of the attention is focused on the unknown element in question: Harry’s soulmate.

Harry thinks it has to be Skull’s life as a mafioso, or maybe his prior life as a stuntman, what lets him keep such composure under so many heavy stares. Harry is certainly sweating a little, and he makes an effort on not looking at anybody in the eye, just in case. He really should pick up the boring Occlumency book that must be at the bottom of his trunk and try to practice the skill again. Because he still isn’t sure whether Reborn was able or not to read his mind, but it left him feeling unbalanced, truly. Plus, Voldemort and the… the fake visions. He doesn’t want to go through that again.

“So, Mister…?”

Ah, right, the interrogation. Harry tries to focus.

“Skull,” Skull says.

“No last name?”

Skull blinks and doesn’t say anything. Harry almost offers it, and then realizes… yeah, better not give De Mort as his last name, even if it isn’t the one he was born with, because… because. Associations.

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkle. “All right, Mr. Skull. You took Harry from his home—”

“House,” Skull corrects, stern. He’s almost scowling. “I took him from his relatives’ house because he wasn’t okay and he needed out.”

Snape scoffs, derisive. “He didn’t need an out, he’s just being the irresponsible brat that he’s always been, putting himself in danger and—”

Skull turns to him and his flames are blazing in his eyes, a threat. “Shut up, Snape. The only reason you’re sitting here is that I don’t want to complicate things, but keep at it and I. Will. Take. You. Out.”

It shouldn’t be as menacing as it is, not when Skull is less than two feet tall and soft all around. But he is, and Snape must see something, or feel something, because he actually shuts up. He scowls and makes a show of crossing his arms and all, but he does shut up. Harry’s impressed.

Skull turns back to Dumbledore, but his flames are still making his eyes glow. “Isolating him like that was the height of stupidity, especially when his only father figure had just died in front of him. He was in pain. He needed out, and so I took him out.”

“You’ve seen each other before this?”

“No. But we’ve been talking for almost a year through our marks. I knew something was wrong, and I was not about to let him suffer for nothing.”

“And how did you find him? I’m honestly simply curious, my boy, as there are magical protections in place so it’s impossible to locate the house with magic.”

“Who needs magic?” Skull asks, rather rudely. “You only have to know the right people.”

“I see.” Did he? Probably even clearer than Harry.

“The lad ain’t lying,” Moody says, and his electric blue eye moves around in its socket eerily, taking all of Skull in. “He ain’t even a wizard, he doesn’t have any magic.”

“No?” Dumbledore pats his beard, rising an eyebrow and looking honestly curious. “How peculiar. But, pardon my curiosity, you must be something, because, well, you are somehow cursed.” He pointedly looks at the purple pacifier that dangles on Skull’s neck.

“And they took a dozen of Death Eaters on by themselves and won, he and his friends,” Lupin points out.

“Yes, that.”

Skull shrugs a tiny shoulder. “I am. What of it?”

“Just answer the damn question!” Snape growls, annoyed, and Skull clicks his tongue. Oodako, who had been tiny and innocent looking until then, sitting comfortably in the water tank McGonagall had transfigured for her, splashes out of her confines and grows, then envelopes Snape in a wet embrace that is less than friendly and has the man sputtering in outrage.

“I think I told you to shut the fuck up,” Skull growls. The wizards have all jumped out of their chairs and have their wand in hand, except for Dumbledore, who looks like he’s watching an interesting soap opera. The three adults’ are pointing at Skull or Oodako, while Harry’s is pointing at them.

“Harry...”

“Don’t,” Harry snarls, feeling angry and protective. There’s something hot on the back of his mind that wants nothing more than attack these people who dare point their wands at his Cloud, but he’s aware enough to not let it be the main part. “Put your wands down. Neither Skull nor Oodako will do anything to Sn—Professor Snape,” he promises, then amends, “except squish him a little and leave him covered in water.”

Snape makes an angry sound in his throat but he can’t speak because one of Oodako’s tentacles is covering his mouth. Good riddance.

“Potter, you’re not thinking straight,” Moody says, not lowering his wand at all. Harry shows him his teeth and feels the hot of his flames expanding. They may be even showing in his eyes.

“I think you should put down your wands before I do something we’ll all regret. Now.”

His threat is acknowledged and the wands lowered, and only then Harry notices how tight his muscles are tensed. He is almost ready for battle. Wow.

“Tch,” Skull says, then clicks his tongue again and makes a sign for Oodako to grow small again and retire to her tank. She does so, though looking quite reluctant, in Harry’s opinion.

“Well, now that that’s been resolved,” Dumbledore says, and… he sounds greatly amused. Whatever, Harry’s most given up on trying to understand this man. “I don’t really care what you might be, Mr. Skull,” he says, and now he’s really serious. “What I want to know is if you’re willing to—”

Harry doesn’t get know what Dumbledore really wants with Skull, because just then the air in front of them shimmers and distorts, dark indigo, and a tiny body appears, floating right in the middle of the dinner table.

Viper ignores the pointed wands at them and addresses Harry directly, extending their arm towards him with their fist closed. Harry extends his own with his palm up, and Viper lets the shiny object drop onto it.

“Only once,” they say, voice raspy, and then vanish.

Harry blinks, then immediately turns to inspect the silver loop, noticing there’s something different about it but not able to pinpoint exactly what that is. He tentatively reaches to feel the thing with his flames—it’s difficult as his control isn’t all that good, really, even though he’s been practicing since the moment Skull realized his flames were active. A tug, and when that doesn’t work, he gently tries to convince them to look for what he wants. One beat, a second, and—

There. A small flick of heat, of indigo-colored illusion, barely perceptible. The Flames curl around his, greeting them with something that feels like curiosity, and then retreat. He coaxes his own back, and blinks again.

He hums and cocks his head, considering.

“After dinner?” he asks Skull, who is right by him again, without looking away from the loop.

“Yeah,” Skull answers, then takes the earring and makes it disappear somewhere on his person.

It is only when the silence becomes oppressive that Harry remembers that there were other people in the room, and that they had been in the middle of something rather important when Viper showed up. He looks around and smiles, feeling rather sheepish.

“Uh, yeah, where were we?” he asks.

Nobody answers and Harry frowns. Most of the adults are staring, wands in hand.

“What?” he asks, bewildered.

Dumbledore coughs, and it sounds suspiciously like laughter.

Lupin sighs, long and sustained, seemingly resigned. “Your...friend appeared right in front of us, without notice, handed you something, gave a cryptic warning, and then vanished without so much as tripping up the alarm system. Which should be impossible since the house is under Fidelius and a whole lot of other magical protections.”

“Ah.” Harry blinks. He can kind of see where the problem in that is, for them. He clears his throat and sits down again. “Well, yes. They’re a friend, and they made me a favour of sorts,” he says, rather vaguely. “And, well, they don’t have magic, and their power can get around wards.” He shrugs. Taps his fingers on the table, softly, rhythmically. “They gave me a way to avoid being located by people with their type of power,” he offers, “and what they said was just a reminder, not a warning or anything like that.”

Lupin looks like Harry’s explanation physically pains him. “That’s… okay,” he says, rubbing his eyelids with his fingers. “Okay.”

“So...” Harry says, when it doesn’t seem like anyone else is about to speak up. “What were we talking about?”

“That, I think, is my cue,” Dumbledore says, smiling at Harry before turning serious again and looking at Skull. “As I was saying before, what I want to know is whether you’re willing to fight at your soulmate’s side in this war.”

Skull’s eyes are hard and determined when he says, “Yes, I am.”

Harry feels all the air leave his lungs, and then they feel full of hope—he remembers Skull fighting with the other Arcobaleno, the ease with which they took down the Death Eaters without so much as sweating, the way Viper just appeared out of nowhere, no alarms raised, and then feels, for the first time since that night at the Ministry, a surge of true hope for the war.

They may actually make it. With them, they may actually—

His eyes widen, realization slamming onto him like a freight train, and whispers, “The power the Dark Lord knows not.”

Chapter Text

It’s not only Skull who hears Harry’s sudden epiphany, but everyone else, too.

The reactions are mixed. Understanding, dread, and confusion are the predominant ones, however, and it takes little time before Dumbledore makes most of the adult wizards clear up, reminding them of the value of not knowing everything plus the importance of getting their respective important tasks done.

When there’s only the three of them left, Skull asks, “You think this is the answer, Harry?”

He knows about the prophecy. Of course, he knows. They’d had, after all, a whole week to themselves before they were somehow found by everyone at the same time, and both of them had talked as they got to know each other. Among the stories they shared, Harry’s terrible last year adventure was one, which included the prophecy Harry hadn’t known about until then even though it is apparently what started the mess Harry’s life became.

“I know it is,” Harry answers, solemn and weary and Skull nods. He can see the certainty in his soulmate’s eyes, feel it in the thrum of their growing bond.

“We’ll have to train, then,” Skull states, and grimaces. He doesn’t know how much help will he be, teaching. He hasn’t had to try his hand at it before, and he’s not so confident that he’ll be able to, but he will try. If it becomes necessary, he’ll even call Reborn.

(He shudders.)

(He doesn’t want to, and he hopes he won’t have to. Reborn’s methods are...heavy-handed. Violent. He knows, he’s both seen them and suffered through them before, and he doesn’t want for Harry to have to go through them, if it can be avoided.)

“I think,” the old wizard, Dumbledore, interrupts. He’s the only one who stayed, and Skull had almost forgotten about him. “I think that it would be wise to inform me as much as you can about what is happening, my boys. It will let me understand and plan accordingly, and help you both in any way I can.”

Harry’s silent, looking at the old man with guarded eyes, and Skull keeps his mouth shut. It’s his soulmate’s choice what to do with the wizards, really. Skull is willing to work with them or spirit Harry away from them at the drop of a hat, whatever he decides. His only wish is to help him and keep him safe, to make the bastard that’s hunting him a corpse and thus no longer a threat, and then just…to live, safe in the knowledge that they will both be there for each other from now on.

Skull hasn’t had the easiest life, and the promise of a future with his soulmate, whatever happens with his curse, fills him with determination and hope.

After a few tense moments, Harry nods. “Okay,” he says, serious. He makes eye contact with Skull, then looks back at Dumbledore. “I—we will. But…you can’t leave me out of the loop any longer, sir.”

Dumbledore nods, too, and his eyes are a little sorry, a little sad. “Yes, my boy. I thought...” he exhales, then shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. It is time, I think, to tell you everything.”

And so they learn about Dumbledore’s studies about Voldemort and Tom Riddle, and about his suspicions that he’d done something...dark, evil, to make himself immortal. Skull suppresses a shudder when the words are out, because he’s often bragged about his almost-immortality, and the comparison, as vague as it is in his head, makes him want to be sick.

It’s a comfort to know that their methods are nothing alike, though. Skull’s abilities come from his Flames, and Riddle—Riddle did something. Dumbledore isn’t sure what, though he has his suspicions, as he admitted. The man doesn’t share them yet, though.

“I have to check some more leads, and then…then I’ll tell you. I promise,” he says, serious, and Harry accepts it. Skull reserves himself the right to hunt the man if it seems he’ll break his trust. “Now, about this power you mentioned...”

Skull sighs, takes the lead. “I don’t know how much we can tell you,” he says, honest. Harry whips his head around to look at him in surprise, and Skull grimaces, shrugging only one shoulder. Dumbledore’s eyes are suddenly sharp, cutting, almost cold. Skull gulps. He knows that this is a man who, for all his jovial air, is really powerful and even dangerous. “I’m sorry. It’s just…there are rules, sir, and people who enforce them—with prejudice.” He shivers as he thinks of the stories of the Vindice. He hasn’t had the bad luck to meet any of them yet, and he hopes he will never have to. “We cannot tell anything about it to the people who don’t have it, or the ones who are not already in the know. The consequences are not worth it.”

Dumbledore hums and sits back in his chair. He regards Skull over the rim of his half-moon glasses, and Skull suddenly feels all of ten years old again, being told off by a teacher. He straightens his back, looks at Dumbledore in the eye, refusing to be cowed. Dumbledore smiles, his eyes losing the edge, and says, “I think this might be a little bit of a grey area.”

Skull blinks. “Huh?”

“Well,” Dumbledore says, “I understand you are a member of a…secret society, yes?” He peers at him, prompting him to answer.

“Er, yeah.”

He nods. “Yes, I can see the problem. In fact, we have our own law against telling muggles—that is, people without magic—about us. The Statute of Secrecy. I think that Mr. Potter is quite aware of its existence. Did you tell Mr. Skull about it, Mr. Potter?”

Harry looks chastised but quickly nods.

“And yet because of your connection he told you about it, and he did so without being punished even though you are, in fact, a muggle in the eye of our laws.” He lets that sink, then adds, “And after that, you told your other friends, who are also not wizards.”

“That’s different!” Harry protests.

“Is it?”

Harry hesitates.

Is it?, Skull wonders. “They are not the Vindice,” he points out. “Nobody will turn up suddenly out of nowhere and take you to prison for telling, right?”

“Ah, perhaps not. But the wizard responsible would be fined, and the muggle or muggles would have all their memories of magic wiped. It could be worse, too, depending on the scale of the offense.”

Skull bites his lip.

Dumbledore continues, “But then again, direct family—be it by blood or adoption—, and soulmates and their families are allowed to know without penalty, as long as they keep the secret to themselves.”

“You’re not Harry’s family, though,” Skull points out immediately.

“Ah, well, in that you are correct. Remus Lupin, however, is Harry’s family by magic. Would you consent to speak to him about it? Someone at least should know what is happening.”

Skull mulls it over. That...that probably would be acceptable. He doesn’t know of cases in which the Vindice appeared because soulmates and their families became aware of their world without being part of it or having Flames themselves, so…

“Okay,” he says. “We’ll do that. Tomorrow, though. Today we have something else to do,” he says, thinking of the piercing in his pocket and its protections. He’s itching to provide Harry with more security, after everything he’s learned. Even if it won’t work against the wizards that are hunting Harry, at least he won’t have to worry so much about the Mafia world finding him, too. As Reborn and Viper put it, Harry is a new Sky, a civilian. He might have training in magic, but he is still vulnerable to Flames as he barely knows anything about them, and Skull’s world is cut-throat and dangerous. It’s better to keep Harry as far away from it as he can, at least for now.

Yes. He’ll focus on Harry’s protection first, and then he’ll make time to think about everything else.

Chapter Text

Harry groans, pushes himself up until he’s standing, and pants, “Again.”

His voice is scratchy and tired and he’s dying to drink two or three water bottles and maybe eat a whole cow, but there is yet another part of him that insists that this—training his body and his magic and his Flames—is much more important than that.

Moody grins, looking even crazier than normal, and raises his wand.

“Stop,” Skull orders.

Harry tenses, shoulders knotting up, jaw clenching. Then he exhales, loudly, and drops his wand arm. “Okay,” he says, resigned, instead of pushing for more. It’s a discussion still ongoing, but one he’s not been able to really win, yet. And he’s honestly too tired to try again, right now.

Skull smiles at him, grateful and proud, and Harry can’t help but return the look with a tired grin of his own.

Then the doorbell rings.

Harry’s shoulders come up to his ears and he closes his eyes, expecting a blood-curling scream that never comes. It’s a reflex, instilled in every person that has lived for any amount of time in Grimmauld Place during the last two years, and therefore not something that is easy to get rid of. Even Moody is tense on his spot, the blue of his magical eye absent in its socket as he’s probably using it to look at the entrance door through the back of his head.

Mrs. Black loud bellows do not reach them because there is no Mrs. Black’s portrait clinging to the wall of the entryway any more.

(It was the same day they were brought in, after Harry got his ear pierced and he and Skull went down for dinner. Mrs. Weasley was there, and Harry had been happy to see her until she noticed his newly acquired accessory and let out a high-pitched scream of disapproval—it reminded Harry vividly of her rants about Bill, and he doesn’t know how he didn’t see it coming. Her screaming, in turn, woke up the damn portrait of Sirius’ horrible mother and the racket made Skull angry. Before Harry had even realized what was happening, his soulmate had dashed around him and out of the kitchen. Mrs. Black’s screams became louder and shriller, and then something surged—Flames, those are Skull’s Flames—and suddenly the screams cut off. When they went to see, there was no portrait anymore. Harry doesn’t know what Skull actually did with it, as he wouldn’t share, but he’s glad it’s gone. The woman, portrait or not, was disgustingly happy that her ‘disgraced’ son was dead, and she wasn’t afraid to express it. The things she said… Harry hated her with a burning passion. Almost as much as he will always hate Bellatrix, and that’s saying something.)

Moody’s normal eye focuses on Skull, and he grunts, “That’s probably for you, going by the height and the darkness of the bloody curse.”

Harry blinks, frowns, looks at his soulmate. Skull’s eyes open wide, then he grimaces. Harry’s seen that expression of guarded dread a lot of times whenever Skull speaks about his fellow Arcobaleno, but more when it’s in reference to one of them in particular.

“Reborn?” Harry guesses, and Skull’s tiny shoulders drop in defeat.

“Yeah, I guess. Viper would’ve just appeared, and the others don’t know about…” He takes a deep breath. “Guess better we see what he wants, before he kicks down the door.”

“Yer late, lad. Someone already opened it,” Moody says, and Skull sighs again.

“Where is he?”

Moody grunts. “He’s sitting on the kitchen table. Molly’s still at the door,” he relays, and his gruff tone shows a mix of amusement and irritation. “He passed right by her, and it doesn’t look like she saw ‘im.”

“Yeah, Reborn is...” Skull grimaces again, and doesn’t finish. Instead, he jumps from his place on the couch and starts down the stairs. Harry follows.

“What do you think he wants?” Harry asks.

“Dunno.” Skull shrugs, but he’s tense. “We’ll find out in a minute.”

“Who—when—why are you—?” they hear Mrs. Weasley sputter, and both hurry the last steps to the kitchen before something can happen.

“REBORN!” Skull screeches, and Harry’s a bit startled to see him fall into the role of an idiot. He’s pointing a tiny finger at the hitman in a very dramatic fashion. “What are you doing here?!”

“Chaossu.” Reborn sips at his tea, completely ignoring the hovering form of Mrs. Weasley and her drawn wand. His dark eyes narrow at Skull for a fraction of a second, then dart to Harry, then go back to Skull. “I’m here to train the baby Sky,” he announces apropos nothing. “Because lord knows what he’ll learn from Skull. He’s good at some things,” he admits, and that makes Skull’s hackled raises lower some, Harry can practically feel it, “but this is war. He needs...finesse.”

“Finesse?” Moody scoffs. Harry’s heart leaps up to his throat, but he doesn’t visibly startle. That’d get him hexed for not ‘being in constant vigilance.’ “And what kind of finesse can a cursed muggle like you teach a wizard, huh?” Harry flinches a little at the deliberately confrontational tone. He knows that Moody is testing Reborn, somehow—or that’s what he’s hoping for, at least—but still. Going by the stories his soulmate has shared with him, being this openly dismissive of the Sun Arcobaleno is not a wise course of action.

Reborn’s smile is mild as dew and somehow, sharper than a shark’s. The room is suddenly flooded with killing intent so strong Harry can feel it in his bones, and the next second Reborn is right behind Moody, with his gun pressed to the back of his head. Moody has his wand in hand, his body’s half-turned, but everybody in the room can tell he’s lost.

“Bang,” Reborn says, deadpan, and puts the gun down. He’s back on the table and slurping tea the next second, and the warmth has crept back into the room.

The silence is absolute.

“Magic isn’t everything,” Reborn points out, and Harry—

Harry knew that. Harry knew that, but he’d somehow, somewhen, forgotten during the last couple of weeks. Being back on the Wizarding World, dueling with magic and practicing what little he could with his Flames had made the details of the Death Eater’s takedown fade a little from memory, Harry’s ashamed to admit. But he’s now being reminded of the fact that, aside from Viper who fought with their illusions, the others fought and won using mostly their own fighting abilities—which, Flame enhanced or not, are still of muggle origin.

Reborn’s right.

“Okay,” Harry says without input from his brain, but he doesn’t regret it.

Everyone turns to look at him, but Harry has his eyes on Reborn’s, and is barely aware of them.

He squares his shoulders and raises his head. “I want to learn. To fight without magic, I mean. Volde—him, his wand’s and mine don’t want to duel. You know that. And.. it might happen again, and then what do I do? I should be able to—to do something, even if I can’t use my magic.” And, he thinks rather grimly, knowing how to access his Flames won’t help him at all if he can’t use them. He doesn’t think he’ll be able to do that if he’s not fit and strong enough, though. But he can’t say that here, with an audience who’s not aware of them.

Skull sighs, then jumps to Harry’s arms. He catches him without thinking.

“I agree,” Skull says, rather reluctant. “I guess.”

Harry beams at him, even though Skull can’t see him. Reborn, though, can, and the hitman’s smug smirk sends a thrill of alarm down Harry’s back.

“Okay, then,” Reborn says. “I will gladly help.”

Chapter Text

There is something wrong with the baby Sky.

It’s not something immediately apparent, no. It takes Reborn almost a week to notice, and once he does, he berates himself roughly for not seeing it sooner. Mentally, of course. There is no need for other people to know that.

How didn’t he see it sooner? True, he has been mostly busy with the tortur—training of the boy (and some of the most curious wizards that had decided to stick around and watch some of the sessions). He’s been busy trying to apply the exact balance between his normal training routine and a measure of uncomfortably out of practice caution, because he’s working with a restriction he usually doesn’t have: a protective Cloud guardian and soulmate. And a very good one, even, so he has been walking (striding, really, Reborn’s just that good) on the edge of a very sharp knife (and succeeding, thank you very much) for the whole week.

Still, he should have seen the signs immediately. The tenseness, the hyper-alertness. The constant twitch of Sky Flames; the way that every passing day he stayed closer and closer to Skull, to the point of being clingy in a way their settling bond shouldn’t have demanded any longer.

He had first chalked it up to the stress of the training, of the double threat of himself and Moody attacking him without notice any time, anywhere, in the name of preparedness.

And he doesn’t doubt that it is part of it, definitely, but…

Today, the Sky had refused to let Skull out of their room, and the moment anyone tried to enter to talk to him or convince him to come out to eat something, he’d snap at them. Literally. With his teeth.

“You have incomplete bonds,” Reborn says from his place in the doorway, never stupid enough to try and enter an almost feral-element domain, much less a Sky’s. He sweeps dark eyes over the boy’s hunched form at the corner of the room, the purple of Skull’s hair barely visible from where he’s tucked under the boy’s chin. The boy doesn’t quite snarl at him, but he’s showing more teeth than he normally does, and his Flames are almost pulsing with protective rage. His eyes don’t look quite focused even as he glares in Reborn’s direction.

Reborn carefully doesn’t let any emotion show on his face or his Flames, letting them be as calm as he can manage even as he feels the boy’s Sky pressing on them. He’d have it easier if he were a Rain, but he’s not—at least he’s not a Storm, or a damn Mist; the first would probably agitate the Sky even more, while the second would most likely clash with Skull’s Cloud Flames, and this conversation would be virtually impossible and things would get even more out of hand than they already are. As it is, it is only the boy’s instinctual acknowledgment of Reborn’s status as a friend that lets him even be there, talking to him.

Reborn needs to handle this with the utmost care, and quickly.

Now.

He takes a deep, measured breath, and shows his unarmed hands in a sign of goodwill.

“Harry,” he says, and it’s—strange, using the boy’s name. He’s tried not to, and he isn’t even sure why, but now he is and it feels awkward as it leaves his mouth. “You need to focus a bit. I need you to tell me who your other guardians are.”

The boy growls, shifts. A tiny hand that must belong to Skull (who else?) comes up and softly pats his cheek. The calming gesture seems to work, as the boy blinks then and his green eyes regain part of his focus.

“Huh?”

“Your other guardians,” Reborn repeats, a little irritated but trying not to show it. At the boy’s look of honest confusion, he sighs, then tries again. “People, or maybe a person, that you haven’t seen in a good while and that you miss right now.” That’s a good start, at least. If it is what he thinks it is, then...

“Ron,” he says immediately, without hesitation. “Hermione. Neville, Ginny, Luna.” His eyes lose focus again. Reborn starts swearing under his breath as he realizes the severity of the situation. Five? He has five incomplete guardian bonds? That’s the whole rest of his set!

Harry shifts again, getting agitated once again, looking wilder around the eyes now that he’s managed to put a name to what he’s missing.

“Where are they?” he asks, softly, and then louder, “Where are they?! Where are they?! WHERE ARE THEY THEY ARE MINE!”

Reborn jumps out of the way and closes the door just in time, as Harry’s Flames explode out, burning bright and uncontrolled, with a weight on them that Reborn has learned to recognize as magic interwoven in the pure Sky.

“Nobody gets in there,” he orders, sharply, as two concerned adults come running with the clear intention to do just that. He cuts off their complains before they can even form with a narrow look of warning. He eyes them speculatively. Lupin already knows about Flames, and while Mrs. Weasley doesn’t, Reborn thinks that after this there will be no way to hide it from her. He takes a risk. “Harry’s almost feral because he has initiated a bonding with five other elements, but it’s incomplete, and they have not seen each other in a long time. Whoever Ron, Hermione, Neville, Ginny and Luna are, bring them here. Now.”

“What? My Ron? Ginny?” The Weasley matron asks, and that’s at least two elements in close range, good. Plus, they are her children, so Reborn’s bet was on point. “But—”

“Mrs. Weasley,” he interrupts her seriously. “Bring them here. They must be feeling quite terrible, themselves.”

Her eyes widen in sudden distress. “I—They’ve been looking sick, lately, maybe a little more irritable, but—” She looks at Harry’s door, playing nervously with her hands, and then her face turns serious, eyes determined. She looks down at Reborn and nods once, sharp, and then turns and hurries away, presumably to look for her children.

“The others?” Lupin asks, sounding worried. “They are like Harry, too?”

Reborn shakes his head. “The way the bond works—it’s different how it affects them. Still, they must not be doing well, so it’s better if you bring them here. You know them?”

Lupin hesitates, nods. “I was their teacher for a year.” He smiles wanly. “I know them, but...” he hesitates again, bites his lip. Reborn feels an itch to shoot him. “Hermione has been here already, that’s fine, but the other two children—” He sakes his head. “They won’t be able to enter without the secret, and the secret keeper is Dumbledore.”

Reborn grits his teeth and shadows his eyes with his fedora. “Fetch the girl, then,” Reborn says, because having three guardians (four, with Skull) is better than nothing. “Bring her here, and then contact Dumbledore. We need to bring the other two, or things could get—bad.”

Lupin pales, then frowns darkly, obviously aware of what an understatement ‘bad’ is when they can feel the overwhelming pressure of Harry’s Flames and Magic seeping through the door. He turns on his feet.

“Expecto patronum,” he says, waving his wand. It’s not the first time Reborn sees magic being cast, but it’s still a rather novel experience. A large canine, probably a wolf, made of pure white light forms in front of Lupin and he commands it, “to Albus: come to the house. There are complications. Go.” The animal bows shallowly and then disappears, and Lupin addresses him over his shoulder. “I’m going for Hermione. With luck, Dumbledore will be here soon.”

Reborn tilts his head in a vague gesture of appreciation, and Lupin disappears down the hall.

He sighs and eyes the little Sky’s door once again. His Flames are even more agitated than before. Hopefully, some of the guardians will be here soon, because if not—

He grimaces, eyes shadowed by his hat.

Chapter Text

It never occurred to Skull that he wasn’t the only element bonded to his Sky. In retrospect, it was kind of short-sighted of him, but he’d been high on harmonization and then worried for his soulmate, and then whisked to a wizarding house, of all things, so he thinks he’s justified. A little.

It doesn’t make him feel any better, though, not when his Sky is suffering as he is right now. Skull doesn’t care about the manhandling or the clinginess, really. He enjoys his soulmate’s hugs, usually, but today’s things have gotten out of hand, and had been since the early morning when he woke up to his soulmate’s low growling. He’d been snatched right out of the bed and held protectively against Harry’s chest for a two and a half hours before someone tried to enter the room, and that’s when he realized there was something really wrong about him.

He snarled. At Mrs. Weasley.

Harry’s Flames immediately expanded at the perceived threat, and Skull couldn’t do anything but try to calm him down by intertwining his own Cloud Flames to the incensed Sky. He didn’t think he’d attack her, but Harry was not answering verbally either to him or the woman, and once she came too close to them Harry actually tried to bite her.

“Mrs. Weasley,” Skull said from the depth of his soulmate’s embrace. “Go find Reborn. Something’s not right.”

He had hoped Mrs. Weasley understood him even if his words were quite muffled. Harry had brought him even closer to his chest as he retreated towards a defensible corner of the room, so even though he tried to be clear he wasn’t sure he managed. Apparently, he did, or at least she got a general idea, because after only a moment Harry relaxed some, and Skull guessed she had gone away.

Once Reborn gave his verdict—and Harry started shouting for his other elements—Skull felt like a fool for not realizing before what was going on.

He doubled the output of his Flames, trying to soothe his soulmate’s raging, angry, desperate ones, and kept on with the patting of his cheek—the only place he could reach from the awkward position he was in.

He trusts Reborn more now than he did before he found his soulmate, and he would have trusted him even before to help with something like this. Reborn’s broken bond with Luce still pains him, Skull knows, and the man would never, ever jeopardize a set’s bonding if he could do something about it. So Skull endures the rage of his Sky’s Flames, knowing that the other elements must be coming to help him soothe them soon.

There is no way around it.

It takes what feels like months but must only be around fifteen minutes for the door to open again, with a resonating bang. Harry tenses, Flames poised to hurt, but then there’s running steps and a cry of his name and Skull feels him relax, feels his Flames expand and dance, and Skull knows that’s at least two members of their set throwing themselves around them, holding their Sky (and, by extension, Skull) between them in an increasingly awkward but warm hug.

“Harry, oh Harry what’s happening why—” a female voice babbles, and Skull can see now a rain of red hair and freckles and pale skin. These must be two of the Weasleys. “Everything felt wrong, and there was a pull, and then mum came—”

“I’ve hounding mum for days telling her I wanted to see you but she was all mysterious and it was driving me mad,” a male voice says plaintively. “And Hermione kept writing and worrying and it made me worry and then Neville wrote, Harry, Neville. He was trying to contact you and he couldn’t and he sounded so weird, and it made me even more anxious, but mum wouldn’t—”

“—and Luna just came home one day and said, ‘look at your arm’ and I did and she said ‘I hate you’ and it was in my arm and I didn’t know she was my soulmate but it was in colour, Harry, and that never happened before—”

“—we were about to come anyway, even if mum wouldn’t let us, I’d even bring Hermione because something was not right and I knew it, but I couldn’t put it in words, and then mum came and said ‘come with me, now’ and there was this zap and we had to run, we had to because how couldn’t we? You needed us then and you need us even now and—”

“Yes,” Harry says, finally finding his voice, and it sounds rough and gravelly in a way that is utterly alien to Skull, but he understands. It has to do with the fact that for hours he’s only been growling or snarling or shouting, and his throat got the price for that. “Yes, where are—? You’re mine, you’re mine and the others—where are they?”

“They’re coming, Harry,” Skull says when the other two don’t answer. “Remember? Reborn was here, and he asked you, so they’re definitely coming.”

Harry nods, eyes still a bit distant, but more focused. His speaking turns the redheads attention from Harry to him, and their eyes widen in surprise before narrowing in eerily similar expressions of suspicion and concern.

“Harry, who’s this?” the woman—girl, really—asks, tone even but dangerous, and Skull tentatively brings his flames to her, exploratory. Red greets him, thunderstorm on their crest, and she shivers, eyes narrowing even further when he smiles a smile full of teeth at her. Storm. It suits her.

“Skull,” Harry says, dropping his cheek on the crown of Skull’s head. “Mine.”

The other boy, who Skull is pretty sure is Ron, Harry’s best friend, gapes first at Skull, then at Harry, then back at Skull. “Your soulmate is a baby?!” he asks, aghast.

“Don’t be daft, this is no baby,” the girl scoffs, then frowns. “Soulmate?”

Skull nods, as much as he can within Harry’s still quite clingy embrace. “Yes. I’m Harry’s soulmate, hi. And his Cloud.”

“Alright.” Ron blinks. “Definitely not a baby. What’s a cloud?”

Skull tugs on his Flames, makes them visible, and the two redheads gasp, startled, and flinch back. When they realize they’re not burning, they cautiously reach to touch them.

“These are my Cloud Flames. My alignment, my—power,” he says, disinclined to explain everything right now since he knows he will have to repeat himself later on, after the rest of the elements come. “You’re Storm,” he says to the girl, “and you’re Lightning,” he says to the boy. “And everything is going wacky because you’ve been far too long away from our Sky.”

There’s still confusion in the teens’ eyes, but at the same time, there’s something that settles, like a veil of unconscious understanding, as they cling closer to Harry, who hums.

He’s calming down from the rage he was getting into, thank the powers that be. The bonding is not instantaneous like it was with him, but the strained pre-bonds are mending with the element’s proximity, and that’s enough for now for Harry’s sky.

“I don’t really get it, but—”

“Harry!” a third voice shouts, another female, and the four of them tense and look back to the door. It was not closed behind the other two, and another girl with bushy hair and dark skin crosses it at a run before practically jumping on their already crowded hug.

“Hermione!” Ron exclaims, surprised, but makes space for her to reach Harry without trouble.

“I was so worried!” she cries as she pets Harry’s hair, looking at his face with fervent analysis. “I knew there was something wrong the moment professor Lupin came to my house, no, even before that, but what—” she then blinks and focuses on the still visible purple fire, and her breath hitches. “Oh. Oh, this is—this is like back at the Ministry,” she says, awed, and Skull immediately latches onto that bit of information.

“You’ve seen this before?” he asks sharply, and she starts, then looks at him with wide eyes before she blinks and nods.

“Not this colour, but,” she bites her lower lip, “I wondered if I had imagined it, it was for such a short time...”

Skull nods, thinking. So, they most likely activated together when they were in danger—logical, really—and that’s when they created the pre-bond. He cringes when he remembers how long it’s been since then. No wonder Harry’s gone a little feral.

“These are Flames,” he says instead. “We’ll explain everything later, once all the elements are here and Harry’s come back.”

She looks like she wants to fight him on it, but then she looks at their Sky and her face falls, then her eyes harden in resolution.

“Alright,” she says, breathing in deep. “Ron, did you finish your homework already? And don’t you dare lie to me, you know I’ll know if you do,” she says, completely changing the subject and Skull is thrown for a moment as Ron groans.

“Ah, but Hermione! How could I concentrate when everything felt so wrong?” he whines. His sister giggles as Hermione berates him and starts a rant on the importance of being prepared and complying with their obligations even in times of duress.

The atmosphere is suddenly much lighter, much more relaxed, and even Harry’s tense muscles soften around Skull’s middle as the two bicker without restraint and without malice.

It’s then Skull gets it: she’s doing her work as their Rain.

He smiles and feels himself relax for the first time since the day started.

Chapter Text

Albus has been planning the trip to Little Hangleton for what feels like months, now. He has been doing so since he got one of his last sets of collected memories, since he started drawing more certain conclusions about the method Tom used to extend his life.

The weight of all his years and all his mistakes sets heavy on his shoulders, hollows his bones, drags him down every day as he thinks of what a bright mind like Tom’s has become. The worst part will always be, in his opinion, that it was his own actions (or, perhaps, inactions) that collaborated in pushing that young man down the path he’d been set upon since the very beginning, instead of helping to guide him out of it.

He’s old, and he’s well aware of his own prejudices at this point in his life. He can look back and see a lot of things he should have done differently, a lot of mistakes committed that he laments, but he’s only a man, and men, he’s learned, are foolish creatures. Even the most kind-hearted of them has blind spots and biases, and for all he’s always tried to be better (after Gellert, after Ariana), he’s never considered himself as kind-hearted.

(He’s tried to be. He’s tried to actively choose being kind when presented with different options, but he knows he’s not always succeeded.)

Through action or inaction, however, Tom was lost back then, and the only thing that Albus can do now to try and correct his mistakes is figuring out how to stop him before their world is once again consumed in the horrors of war.

(He’s seen two, already, and he’s not keen on seeing another one, even if at this point it feels almost inevitable.)

Tom has died, Albus knows that for sure. The problem is that he has not stayed dead, and that’s only possible by a handful of specific methods, and he fears Tom’s found one of the most efficient...and one of the most terrible.

The darkness of Horcruxes is absolute and abhorrent. Albus has done his best to limit the knowledge of their existence both in the school and outside of it, but that was after he became the headmaster of Hogwarts and the Supreme Mugwump, so it’s not impossible to think that Tom somehow accessed the information at some point before his war started.

He’d had his suspicions the night Lily and James Potter were murdered, and they grew once Harry confronted the poor possessed Quirrel in his first year (another mistake, that one, and not his last. When will he stop making them? Will he ever?), but it was practically confirmed when Harry presented him Tom Riddle’s diary after the Chamber of Secrets’ debacle and the boy spoke of a young Tom coming out of it.

The horror Albus felt back then was nothing in comparison with what he’s discovered since.

If he’s correct—if he’s correct, then Tom has created more than one Horcrux. If he’s correct, then he will probably find one today, either at his paternal grandparent’s house or in the Gaunt’s shack. And if he made two, he made more. Albus has a hunch on how many, but he still needs more pieces to complete the puzzle, and he’s not about to put anyone else in danger by revealing this information before he’s completely sure.

(Before he’s found a way to remove one from a living being without killing them. He needs to find it. There must be one.)

Harry’s disappearing act at the beginning of summer had pushed his plans back, a little, and the interrogation and the trial of the Death Eaters that had attacked him and his most curious soulmate had taken a lot of time to settle, too, but he’s now ready to take on the trip and confirm some of his theories.

Or, he was, until Remus Lupin’s wolf patronus comes through his kitchen’s wall as he is preparing a cup of tea and derails his plans with two simple sentences.

“Come to the house. There are complications,” it says in Remus’ voice, and then dissipates in a puff of pearly mist.

“Oh, my.” Albus puts down his cup with a sorrowful sigh. Fawkes thrills curiously from his place on his perch, and Albus smiles weakly at him. “Yes, I’d better go see what’s that about, mmh?” He agrees, and then goes directly for the fireplace.

He arrives to the feeling of great pressure in the air, full of magic and something more. It’s dense, almost oppressive, and if he squints he can almost see it shine—a bright, warm orange colour creeping at the edges of perception.

Straightening his posture, wand in hand, he starts towards where he feels it’s originating from: the second floor. (The second floor… Harry’s room. Where else?)

Before he can make it to the stairs, however, the floo activates again and he turns, curious. He has to hastily step out of the way immediately as two bright red blurs come running directly towards the stairs without even pausing to acknowledge him. He looks the back of the two children disappear with bemusement, then turns his eyes towards Molly, who’s approached him but is also looking at the place her children disappeared to with obvious nervousness in her eyes and demeanour.

“Would that be part of the emergency, my dear?” he asks her, hoping she can clear up some of what’s happening.

She looks at him, biting her lower lip and worrying her hands, then sighs, deflating. “Yes. I’m—not sure exactly what is happening, not really, but Harry’s not been acting rationally today,” she starts, and Albus’ stomach tightens in sudden worry, “and then the, the home tutor, the one who…he appeared to know what’s going on and told me to bring my Ron and my Ginny, said that they should not be feeling well, and well, they haven’t been lately, but I didn’t think—” She takes a deep breath. “So I went home and barely opened my mouth and the two of them were already there, so...” She worries her lip again, looks up the stairs with doubt on her face.

“Remus sent me a patronus,” Albus tells her while his mind whirls with possibilities. “Do you know where he is?”

“Reborn mentioned Hermione, Neville and Luna, too,” she says. “So my guess is he’s gone for Hermione, as she’s in on the secret.”

Albus nods, patting his long beard. A theory is forming—vague and with too many holes, as he doesn’t have all the pieces to get a clear picture, but he can very well guess what Remus wants to ask of him. Giving access to Grimmauld Place to more people outside of the Order is not a risk he particularly wants to take, but if nothing else, those two children have shown their courage and their allegiances clearly back at the Ministry, so extending an invitation to them is not an altogether bad idea. Their guardians, however…

The fireplace blazes bright emerald green once again and Hermione Granger races up the stairs, same as the two younger Weasleys did, and that more than anything else convinces him that he must bring the other two here, too, no matter the risk. Because if Hermione Granger is so worried and focused that she cannot spare even a polite greeting or even a glance to an authority figure like himself, then something must really be amiss.

“Albus, thank Merlin,” Remus says, coming up to them and looking winded. “I know it’s not usually done, but we need—”

“Do not fret, my boy,” he says, interrupting him gently as he goes back to the fireplace. “If you would be so kind as to accompany Molly to see her neighbour, Mr. Lovegood, and his child and bring Miss Lovegood to my office at Hogwarts, I’d be much grateful. Meanwhile, I shall collect Mr. Longbottom and, probably inevitably, dear Augusta. Once we’re all together, I’ll reveal the secret to them and we’ll all floo immediately back here. I believe time is of the essence, Mr. Reborn?”

“It is, indeed,” the small cursed man says, coming out of the shadows of the room and startling both Molly and Remus. “Now that there are four with him, Harry’s better—but things will only settle once the other two are brought here.”

Albus nods. “Can I expect an explanation this time, or it is still out of bounds?”

The man hesitates, then his mouth turns down into a grimace. “I shall contact the proper channel and ask for permission, but I cannot promise you anything,” he says.

It’s not much, but it is more than Albus actually expected, so he nods again. “Very well, then we shall go now. After you, my dear,” he tells Molly, and she shakes off her worries and goes, calling for her home, Remus following.

“We shall be back soon. I trust you will keep an eye on them,” he says to Reborn, who nods his acceptance, and only then Albus floos out.

It’s a matter of minutes to connect with Longbottom Manor—though his knees always resent the kneeling. He hopes it will be a short call and he manages to convince the proud Augusta to be through with her grandson quickly.

It’s rather lucky that the emergency didn’t present itself in the middle of the night, as emergencies tend to do. Since it is instead barely midday, Augusta promptly takes the call, obviously surprised to see him, but not particularly ruffled or annoyed.

“Albus!” she says as she sees him, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“Ah, dear Augusta,” he says, “I must say this is, sadly, not a social call, but rather a matter of quite the urgency. Tell me, has young Mr. Longbottom been acting off these last couple of days?” he asks, because if he’s going to convince her to come without asking questions, his best option is to appeal to her sense of worry.

She narrows her eyes sharply at him, her shrew mind connecting patterns and drawing a conclusion in a matter of seconds. “He has been feeling rather poorly, yes,” she says, “and acting a little bit more aggressively than normal. How did you know?”

Albus nods. “That, my dear, is something I cannot disclose in this way. But—” he says, before she interrupts him as she’s clearly about to do, “—you should bring young Neville to my office, as I know of the only way to help him right now. And do not worry, my dear, everything will be explained after,” he promises, because even if he doesn’t know everything and might not ever do so, as the boy's family, Augusta has permission to know, just as Remus and Molly do. And, he guesses, Miss Granger’s parents, though that is a different can of moonworms.

“Mhph, you’d better,” Augusta says with a sniff, but tilts her head in acknowledgement. “Do wait for us for a minute, I’m bringing Neville right in.”

“Thank you, dear. I’ll be expecting you,” Albus says. He takes his head out of the fireplace and then stands up, knees protesting the rough treatment even with all the cushioning charms in place. He groans a bit and then chuckles, a little bitter, as he goes around his desk to sit and wait for the others to arrive.

“What is going on, Albus?” Armando Dippet asks from his place in his painting, watery eyes curious. “You rarely use the floo to make calls.”

“Yes, what mess have you gotten yourself into, now?” asks Phineas Negullus, disdainfully, clucking his tongue as he eyes him.

Albus hums. “Interesting things, my friends. Interesting things.”

Phineas scoffs and Armando sighs, but then the fire turns green and Albus’ attention is on the people coming through.

It’s the Longbottoms, Augusta looking proper and prim with her ever-present hat and Neville looking a little wild around the eyes in a way that Albus has never seen before in the young man. It’s not fear, it’s not nervousness. It reminds Albus more of a cornered hippogriff, anxious but deadly.

“Are we going to see Harry?” is the first thing he asks, without preamble or greeting, and Albus would chuckle at Augusta’s scandalized face at the boy’s apparent disrespect if the same boy wasn’t piercing through Albus’ soul with his stare.

“Yes, we are,” he says, and Neville tenses even more and loses some of the wilderness in his eyes.

“What are we waiting for, then?”

“Neville!” Augusta reprimands him, sharply, but Neville doesn’t even look at her.

“We are waiting for one more group to join us,” he says, “because the place we need to go is protected, and it is safer if we all go together.”

Neville purses his lips but doesn’t complain. Instead, he turns to look at the fireplace with obvious impatience. Augusta gives him a last bewildered look before turning to Albus, searching for an explanation that Albus cannot yet give.

“They’re coming,” Neville says, and it’s the truth. The flames turn green once again and out of them come Molly, then Miss Lovegood, then Remus.

“Hello, professor,” the girl says to him in her usual dreamy tone. “Madam,” she nods towards Augusta. “I thought I’d be seeing you, Neville Longbottom,” she says at last. “We are finally going to see the sky.”

Everyone looks at her oddly except for Albus, who’s heard that term many times since Harry and his soulmate were brought into Grimmauld Place, even if he doesn’t have a context for it and what it actually means.

“Hello, Luna,” Neville says anyway, then turns back to Albus. “Can we go now?”

Augusta huffs, Molly gapes, and Remus’ eyebrows rise high in his forehead, but Albus just chuckles and nods as he rises from his seat, getting two pieces of parchment and offering one to Augusta, the other to the children, who are standing close together. “Read this silently, and then we’ll be on our way,” he says.

The three of them read the words and once they’re done the pieces incinerate until not even ashes remain, and while Augusta looks shrewdly at him, the children’s eyes are bright in determination.

“After you,” Albus says kindly, broadly gesturing to the fireplace, and the teens do not wait for more.

With a clear shout of “Number 12, Grimmauld Place,” they are swallowed by the flames, and then the adults follow them one by one.

It’s not what he’d planned to do with his day, Albus muses as he appears once again in Grimmauld Place, but he cannot say it is not an interesting development, nonetheless.

Chapter Text

Harry feels like he’s been trampled on by a flock of angry hippogriffs, then swallowed by a giant basilisk, and finally chewed and spat out. His memories of the day are hazy and distant, as if a veil is covering them, distorting them. He only clearly remembers the near desperation and acidic anger that accompanied the surge of raw possessiveness he felt towards his soulmate, and then a burning need . A need without an aim he could immediately distinguish, which in turn makes his already terrible mood worse. Isolation helped, but having Skull safe in his arms and petting his face helped more. Once Ron and Ginny were there, he’d started feeling a little less raw, a little more human, but he was still anxious. Hermione’s arrival permitted him a new level of relaxation—his poor back muscles cried in relief at that, though he didn’t really notice until much later. Then Neville and Luna were there, and his Flames sang.

Once the seven were together (Harry’s mind chanting mine, mine, mine, all mine, all safe, mine ) they went completely non-verbal for an indeterminate amount of time. In fact, the concept of time felt vague and indistinct, almost fake. The only real thing in those moments were their Flames.

Neville’s had been the most agitated, angry in a way Harry has never felt Reborn’s be, for all that they are so similar in brightness and color. Luna’s had been the calmest, even if they clung the tightest to his own. And once all six flames were thoroughly bound with the Sky, they started tentatively reaching towards each other.

Harry remembers this clearly. The quiet joy of silent exploration, the bonding, twinning together and dancing, almost shy. They’re not Harmonized yet, he can feel the difference between these new bonds and his with Skull, but they are strong and sturdy and, with a bit more care and trust, they may yet evolve.

Skull had told him about sets, when he explained Flames and how they worked. Harry had been aware that he would need to complete his own rather soon, but he hadn’t expected it would be this fast. If he were to be completely honest with himself, he preferred it this way—he knows his friends, he loves them, and more importantly, he trusts them much more than he does anyone else. They’ve been willing to follow him into dangers both known and unknown, have stayed with him through thick and thin (with mishaps, sure, but they worked through them). He believes these bonds were just inevitable, after all of that.

(How will these new bonds affect them? What will they mean, once they get down from the bonding high? How are they going to explain all this? It’s almost bewildering to realize he really doesn’t care.)

“By the way,” Neville says, apropos nothing, some indefinite time later, “happy birthday, Harry.”

The words resonate for a moment in the silence of the room, and then everything still before exploding.

“Oh my goodness, it’s true! I completely lost track of time!” Hermione says, fretting. “I can’t believe I forgot! Happy birthday, Harry!”

“Happy birthday, mate,” Ron says, with Ginny echoing the sentiment with a bright smile.

Luna kisses his cheek. “Thank you for being born,” she says, and Harry feels the truth of her feelings in his bones. He smiles at them all, fighting back happy tears. “Thank you, everyone. I honestly forgot, myself.”

“I see,” Skull says with a sigh of relief. “I’d be pretty mad if you didn’t tell me, otherwise.”

Neville blinks, eyes finding what little is visible of Skull between Harry’s arms. “You’re—the purple fire. Right?”

“The Cloud; the first one,” Luna says with a hum.

“...Right.” The boy clears his throat, then seats back. Or—he tries to do so, though it takes some time to actually disentangle his limbs from the pile of teenagers on the floor. His movements make the others follow his lead and after a few minutes of huffing and laughing they are back to being their own persons.

(It aches a little, to be honest. Harry feels a little bereft, even though their Flames are still right there, brushing with his Sky.)

“What is going on?” Neville asks, cheeks a bit pink. Harry takes a moment to actually look at him, and is surprised at the difference the summer has brought. Neville’s grown out of his chubby cheeks, and Harry’s pretty sure he has grown a good handful of inches. He’s still a bit awkward, but the core of his resolve and bravery is becoming easier and easier to see. “I’ve been on edge ever since… since the Ministry,” he says, a little lost. “At first it was easy to ignore, but then it was like someone spread itching powder in my soul . It was so uncomfortable. And, and—the need to see you, all of you, but especially Harry—”

Ginny nods, biting her lip. “I know,” she says. “I felt the same, and it was...” She shakes her head, brow furrowed. “This… this pull was screaming at me to move, to search, to fight. Being near Ron made it better but it never truly left, it only grew as time passed.” She ducks her head, then adds in a smaller voice, vulnerable, “It scared me, at first. It felt a little like, like that time in first year. With Tom.”

Something ugly and much like regret and shame and horror twists Harry’s stomach, and he takes an arm from around Skull to hug Ginny and bring her closer to him. Her Flames flare, a brilliant crimson in his mind’s eye, then calm into a soothing bonfire.

“I’m sorry,” he says, voice still rough. He had Voldemort in his head for barely a couple of minutes, and it was agony. Remembering that Ginny had to deal with a young version of the man in her head for a whole year—he shudders, projects calm and reassurance and protection through his own Flames. 

“You didn’t know,” she says, snuggling into him in a way that would have bothered him before they bonded. There’s nothing there but a steady pulse of friendship , of family and care . “Plus, I realized soon enough that it wasn’t the same. I didn’t lose any time or anything. I was just so...”

“Antsy.” Ron nods. “Felt the same.”

“Worry, too,” Hermione adds. “The need to do something was a little distracting.”

Ron snorts. “A little?”

Hermione shrugs, and they both share a smile. Harry is suddenly reminded that they are soulmates, too. And with that, he remembers Ginny saying—

“You and Luna?” He asks, almost bewildered. “Since when?”

Ginny snorts, then laughs. Luna does the same, and soon the others join in.

“Since forever, Harry,” Luna says. “That we only confirmed it this summer doesn’t mean we weren’t soulmates before.”

Harry reddens a bit but scowls. “I knew that,” he says, and it’s the truth. “I’m just...surprised, that it took you so long to realize.”

The girls share a speaking look, then shrug their shoulders in unison. “It’s what it is,” Ginny says, reaching with one hand to take Luna’s. “But we got off track.” She looks at Skull, who has been silently watchful during the exchange even though through his Flames Harry could track his reactions. “You seemed to know what’s going on better than any of us. Could you enlighten us?”

Skull tilts his head to one side, then tugs at Harry’s hand on his middle. Reluctantly, Harry lets him go, though he doesn’t go far.

“First of all, I’m Skull,” he says, then bows with an entirely unnecessary elaborate twirl. “Harry’s Cloud and his soulmate.” A quiet gasp that he ignores. “A little cursed, and thus the size.” He winks and Harry snorts. A little , he says. What an understatement. 

“Um, okay. Nice to meet you, Skull,” Neville says, brows high. “Could you tell us about this—Cloud thing?”

“Sure.” He cocks his head. Listening, Harry supposes, for possible eavesdroppers. It wouldn’t surprise him if there were, but Skull turns back to them and starts explaining, so Harry relaxes. He knows now of the Vindice, and Harry has no intention of getting in their bad graces so soon. “So, this is information you need, but which you can’t spread around. It’s hush-hush and dangerous, but,” he looks at Harry, smiles a crooked smile, “Harry’s assures me you know how to keep secrets all right.”

“The Statute of Secrecy kind of demands it,” Ron pipes up, and Skull nods in his direction.

“Yeah, this is about the same as that, so, keep that in mind.” He hums, then, thinking. Then he shrugs. “I’m from the Mafia,” he says, dry. Harry winces at the bluntness, but then grimaces as he remembers being equally blunt when he told Skull of his status as a Wizard. To his credit, Skull doesn’t leave it at that, and bulldozes over the rising voices of confused protests and alarm his statement generates. “And not the common, gangster-style mafia, but the proper society conformed in the underbelly of the world. And the world of the Mafia is the dominion of the Flame Users.”

Harry sits back, eyes on his Elements, as he listens to Skull explain once more.