Chapter Text
Once upon a time, a fae and a human got into an argument, and they summoned Death to act as witness and mediator and judge.
“What am I to judge?” said Death, ancient and patient beyond measure.
“The definition of a favor,” came the answer.
“I’ll go first,” said the fae, with sleek wings of blue and robes of silver and a sly smile. “A favor is a bargain, crafted and molded and carefully struck.”
The first time Eggsy sees Harry Hart, he’s taken aback by him, for a lot of reasons. One of them is his incredibly fancy suit, because Eggsy’s got an instinct over what separates those with fat wallets and those with only coins to spare and the threat of starvation has honed that instinct to perfection. Another is the fact that he’s got sunglasses on, which wouldn’t be out of place in direct sunlight, but he’s in the shade, and Eggsy’s got an eye for details. Thirdly, and probably most importantly, is the sight of enormous wings that arch out of the man’s back, beautifully outlined in black and detailed with rich greens and blues that fade to a subtle yellow closer to his spine, an unmistakable sign of one of the fae.
“I’m the man who got you released,” he says, head tilted just so, an arrogant smile on his face.
And Eggsy knows, just like every other human knows, that fae can’t lie.
That doesn’t mean they have to tell the truth.
“That ain’t an answer,” Eggsy shoots back, because technically, he isn’t. “The woman who answered my phone call and passed on my message, she’s the one who got me released. You’re just an insect trying to take credit.”
“A little gratitude would be nice,” he replies, but there’s a bit of a softening in his arrogant smile, something that transforms it from pure arrogance to a mix of delight and intrigue. Maybe it’s how Eggsy is using loopholes in his sentence against him, or maybe it’s just the insult that fae have been trying to shrug off for centuries. Or maybe he just thinks he should’ve left Eggsy to rot in prison.
Then his next words blow all of those thoughts clear out of the water: “My name is Harry Hart, and I gave you that medal. Your father saved my life.”
When they sit down at the bar, Eggsy spends a good long moment staring at Hart, mostly because he’s heard only a couple of stories about his dad, and absolutely none of them were about the fact that his dad served with a fae. Fae hardly ever join the military, after all, since they say that human wars are beneath them, and even when they do, they usually end up in a fae-only unit, because, again, humans are beneath them. And Hart doesn’t seem to think any better of humans, judging by his answers to Eggsy’s questions.
“So before you was a tailor, were you in the army? Like an officer?”
“Not quite.”
Eggsy internally sighs. It’s a typical fae answer, which means it says everything and nothing without being a lie. Of course, if Hart wasn’t in the army, then the chances of Eggsy’s military dad running into him sink even lower.
“What were you then, a money guy? A gadget guy?”
“Neither, thankfully.”
Since Hart clearly isn’t going to answer on that front, Eggsy changes directions. Even if fae don’t like telling the truth, they don’t lie, so sometimes the best method for talking to them is to make a box and ask around it, and then figure out what they aren’t saying. “So where was you posted? Iraq or something?”
But that’s apparently at the end of Hart’s patience, because he says, “Sorry, Eggsy. Classified.”
He doesn’t sound at all sorry, of course. But that sorry could mean a lot of things – sorry to end this line of conversation, sorry to cut you off, sorry to have met you. It doesn’t have to mean sorry for leaving Eggsy high and dry and in the dark about the father he barely remembers.
Still, Hart has admitted he knew Eggsy’s dad. So he can’t dodge questions on that. “But my dad saved your life, yeah?”
“Yes,” Hart says softly.
It makes the hairs on the back of Eggsy’s neck stand up. This isn’t the kind of softly that means gentleness or quietness. This is the kind of softly that means eagles diving through the air, cats prowling through the night, polar bears waiting at the edge of ice holes. This is a predator acknowledging a weak spot, but baring sharp teeth so that the prey don’t get any ideas.
Hart nods to the medal Eggsy has faithfully carried for most of his life. “And I gave that medal to your family as a token of the favor that action earned. I am a fae, and we do not take favors lightly. Which is why I’m sure your father would be bitterly disappointed in how you’ve chosen to spend it.”
And here comes the judgement. “You can’t talk to me like that!”
Hart pushes onwards, ignoring him, which just is icing on the cake, really. “Huge IQ, great performance at primary school. Then it all went tits up. Drugs, petty crime, never had a job.”
“I – ”
“You had excellent prospects for your hobbies, which might explain the lack of a job, but you gave those up too. First prize, regional under tens’ gymnastics two years in a row. Your coach had you pegged as Olympic team material.”
“My step-dad – ”
“Wasn’t part of the Marines, and yet, what happened? You were halfway through training, doing brilliantly, but you gave up.”
He throws out each accusation so casually, like it didn’t burn a hole in Eggsy’s heart to stop doing his homework, to stop attending gymnastics, to stop basic training. Like he hadn’t wanted each of those things with all of his heart. Like he hadn’t cried each night into his bed after ditching them, but quietly, because he couldn’t let anyone know.
But of course Hart doesn’t know. He wasn’t there. Anyone who wasn’t there doesn’t get the right to judge.
“Because my mum went mental!” Eggsy snaps, cutting off whatever latest insult Hart is about to spit out. “Banging on about losing me as well as my dad. Didn’t want me being cannon fodder for snobs and insects like you! All you do lot do is sit there judging people like me from your ivory towers and fluffy clouds, with no thought about why we do what we do! We ain’t got much choice, you get me? And if we was born with the same silver spoon up our arses and wings out of our backs, we’d do just as well as you, if not better.”
Hart is silent for a long moment after Eggsy’s impromptu speech. He doesn’t seem offended, exactly, but his wings are certainly shifting behind his back and there is some strange emotion in his eyes. If anything, he seems slightly amused.
Whatever it is, the emotion vanishes when there’s a loud shout from the doorway.
As Rottie and his gang swagger over, Eggsy curses under his breath. He’d been tempted to choose somewhere else to have it out with Hart, but this had been the closest, and Hart marched in like he owned the joint without waiting to see what Eggsy thought. Out of the frying pan and into the fire, just like every other decision in Eggsy’s life.
“Some more examples of young men who simply need a silver suppository and wings?” Hart asks, voice just this shade of sarcastic.
“They can’t be any worse as fae,” Eggsy grumbles. “Come on, let’s bounce.”
Hart raises one eyebrow at that. Clearly he’s a little surprised that the man who’d been spoiling for a fight with him five seconds ago now wants to avoid a fight. Although he says, “Nonsense, we haven’t finished our drinks” like this is some sort of fancy hotel that doesn’t do take-away.
And by the time Eggsy makes to respond, Rottie is on them. He’s all swagger and talk, really; Eggsy’s main concern is his gang of thugs. He can only fight so many of them.
He can tell they’re a little hesitant to take on Hart, though. Older he may be, but any fae could overpower a human easily. Their magic used to level entire battlefields; what’s one gang of probably drunk or high men? But as funny as it would be to watch Hart bowl them over with magic, Eggsy really doesn’t want to be blamed for yet more problems, because there’s no way the coppers are going to look at Hart and blame him when Eggsy’s around. So when Rottie tells Hart to leave, Eggsy echoes it.
He’s almost in the clear, too, when Poodle gains a spine from seeing a fae turn and walk away and shouts, “If you’re looking for another rent boy, they’re on the corner of Smith’s Street.”
And Eggsy groans because there are two things fae abhor: lies and rudeness.
Like any fae that looks like Hart would ever need a rent boy. He probably has women falling at his feet to be on the arm of a fae with money and power.
Sure enough, Hart stops, tilts his head to the side, and sighs.
“I’m doomed,” Eggsy mutters.
Less than five minutes later, Eggsy is still doomed, but in a completely different way. He’d expected Hart to use magic or to call on other, lesser fae to mess them up or even to just curse them and flounce off, but no. Nope. That’s not good enough for Harry goddamn Hart.
No, Hart beats the piss out of them with his bare hands.
And then he curses the barman, because why not.
By the time Hart slowly walks back over, sits down, and gulps down the rest of his drink, Eggsy is already seeing the prison bars close in front of his eyes.
“Sorry about that. Needed to let off a little steam. Heard yesterday a friend of mine died. He knew your father too, actually.”
Eggsy is really, really tempted to ask what the hell that has to do with beating up every guy in a three foot radius, but he also wants to get out of here alive, so he keeps his mouth shut. He has a feeling Hart is rather done with humanity in general.
“Now then,” Hart says, standing and raising his wrist, his eyes glowing gold with fae magic, “I do apologize, Eggsy. I shouldn’t have done this in front of you – ”
Eggsy’s got his hands up before he can even blink. Fae magic is powerful because the fae are powerful, but it’s also strong because no one really knows the true extent of what they can do. Fae tend to wipe memories, or at least blur them, and the last thing Eggsy wants is for the coppers to show up and for Eggsy to have zero memory of what happened, because then he’ll definitely be going away forever.
“No, please. I won’t say nothing, I swear. If there’s one thing I can do, it’s keep my mouth shut.”
“You won’t tell a soul?”
“Ask the feds,” Eggsy says desperately, because anyone who could arrange for his release and knows so much about his past life likely knows about his police record as well, “I’ve never grassed anyone up.”
A gleam enters Hart’s eyes, and he cocks his head to the side. “Is that a bargain?” he asks, and there’s that soft power in the question again, a predator circling and circling and circling, getting ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness. It would be unsettling if Eggsy had time to actually worry about it.
“Yes! On my life, I swear I won’t say nothing!”
For a long moment, Hart just stands there in silence, head tilted in consideration, like he’s trying to figure out what tie to wear for the day instead of whether or not to cock up Eggsy’s mind and memories.
Then Hart abruptly lowers his arm, and sound rushes back into Eggsy’s ears as the magic fades away from Hart’s eyes.
“A favor curried, and a favor spent,” Hart says, each word spoken as solemnly as a wedding vow. “Lovely to strike that bargain with you, Eggsy. I do hope you keep it. And, of course, best of luck with everything.”
What the actual goddamn hell, Eggsy wonders after Hart saunters out.
Then he books it, because he really doesn’t want to be here with the gang wakes up or the coppers arrive.
Dean is as pleasant as he ever is, although the knife is definitely new. Eggsy pictures about five different ways to drop him and disembowel him, and he’s had a bad enough day to seriously consider it – if not for the fact that Daisy is crying in the corner and his mum is crying in front of him. So he plays along, acts dumb, and yells what Dean wants to hear, and hopes that it all ends soon.
Therefore, the last thing he expects is to hear Hart’s voice, echoing in the air like the fae had teleported into Eggsy’s crappy home.
“If I were you, I’d release the boy,” Hart says coolly. “I think it would interest you greatly to know that I have enough evidence on your activities to have you locked up for the rest of your life, Mr. Dean Anthony Baker.”
Dean splutters. It’s almost amusing, but for the fact that he still has the knife.
“The boy owes me a favor, and I haven’t yet collected. And you do not want to be the man who interferes with a member of the fae collecting a favor. So, I suggest you leave the boy alone, before I decide that in the best method to collect what is owed to me is deliver my information to the appropriate authorities.”
Eggsy has no idea what the hell kind of favor he could possibly owe Hart, but he’s not one to let an opportunity slip away. By the time Hart is telling him where to meet, Eggsy’s already halfway out the door.
Eggsy spends a lot of time debating as he wanders to Hart’s tailor shop. He makes sure to take a winding route, ensuring that anyone who might be on his trail is thoroughly lost, because the last thing he needs is for Hart to throw down with his father’s thugs not once but twice. He’s not really sure he wants to go to Hart, after all, because if there’s one thing he knows it’s that fae – even though they can’t lie – aren’t to be trusted.
But Hart also might be the only way to solve this problem.
Fae are bound by human laws, but only in the most general sense. It’s really hard to imprison them, since cold iron isn’t exactly abundant, and most times the Summer or Winter Court sweeps in to “take custody” and the fae in question is never seen again. If a bloke turns up dead after an argument with a fae, though, most coppers won’t investigate too hard. Especially if the fae is rich.
The tailor shop, when he reaches it, just screams rich and fae. It’s old and has fancy suits in the window that Eggsy bets cost more than most people make a year.
Hart is sitting inside, sipping from a glass, because of course he is.
Eggsy pushes the door open. There are no locks, because this is a fae establishment and spells guard it, and sure enough an enchantment washes over Eggsy, like a splash of lukewarm water, although it retreats when it reaches the medal on his chest.
Hart looks unbearably smug.
“I’ve never met a tailor before. But I know you ain’t one.”
Hart shrugs. “A being can be a tailor and still be much, much more,” he says easily. He takes another sip. “Did your stepfather hurt you?”
“Shouldn’t you know? Didn’t you put something on me? Some kind of tracking spell?”
Hart’s wings expand outwards, as if they’re an extra set of legs for balance, as Hart stands up. He still has that predator’s air of danger, but it’s much more muted now – probably because Hart has removed his tie. He reaches out, ignoring Eggsy’s flinch, and comes away with a tiny black dot from Eggsy’s shoulder clutched in a piece of fabric.
“Just an audio bug,” Hart says cheerfully. “I leave tracking spells to the professionals. This is technomagic.”
Eggsy squints at it. It looks impossibly small for something that could carry perfect audio both ways over such a long distance. “I thought most technomagic worked best with cold iron, and you lot couldn’t touch it.”
“That’s correct,” Hart says after a moment, as if he’s a little surprised Eggsy knows about technomagic. Like it wasn’t one of his intro classes in the Marines, because every military wants to utilize technomagic or at least know how to neutralize it. “This particular prototype has a regular metal skin on it, if you will, and it discharges that skin once it is activated to adhere to the nearest surface. This allows me to handle it without harm. Although retrieving it is a different story.”
Eggsy eyes him. That definitely sounds like something no tailor should have. “You sure you ain’t military?”
“Most assuredly not.”
The answer comes too quickly to be some sort of roundabout lie. Hart is downright insulted by the implication that he could be defined as pedestrian as belonging to the military. So he’s something else then.
Of course, Eggsy received a lot of attention when he was in basic, and not all of it was just from his direct commanders.
“You some sort of spy then?”
Hart puts his hands in his pockets and smiles, far too wide so that all of his teeth gleam in the low light. “What if I was?”
“Should you be telling me that?”
“Didn’t you bargain with me not to tell a soul?”
Well, there is that. Eggsy’s seen the results of when a fae goes after a human for a broken bargain. It usually is pretty gruesome. Or the bloke is just never heard from or seen again.
But Eggsy’s not here to rehash old news. “What if I wanted to make a new bargain?” Eggsy asks.
Hart cocks his head. His face doesn’t change at all, but Eggsy can feel the way his eyes sharpen as they focus on Eggsy like a predator pricking up its ears. “That would depend entirely upon what you ask for,” he says breezily, like he didn’t beat up Rottie and Poddle and the lot for the fun of it only a few hours earlier.
Eggsy takes a deep breath. “Can you get rid of Dean?”
“Your stepfather?”
“Did your background check turn up any other Dean in my life? Yeah, my stepdad. The one who gave my mum a black eye and nearly hit Daisy with the knife he was leveling at me.”
Hart hums. “Theoretically, yes, I certainly could. But what could you offer me?”
“I have a favor – ”
“You had a favor,” Hart interrupts. “That medal was the indication of your favor, and I’m afraid you already spent it to get out of prison. I don’t do things for free, Eggsy. I am a fae, and we deal in favors and bargains struck. What will you offer me in exchange for this action?”
The answer comes out before Eggsy can stop it. “Anything.”
Because, really, Eggsy would give anything to get Dean out of their life. He’s already done everything he possibly could – dropped out of school to get an under the table job, dropped out of gymnastics to pick pockets, dropped out of the Marines to run drugs. Whenever Dean gets angry, Eggsy puts himself between Dean’s fists and his mum or Daisy. Half the time he’s the one feeding Daisy or putting her to sleep or bathing her anyways. And it’s exhausting, but Eggsy would do all of it to keep them safe.
He can’t do it forever, and the knowledge burns, but it’s the truth. Dean’s threatened Eggsy with a lot of things, but the knife is new. And sooner or later his mum’s going to have a knife wound instead of a black eye.
Hart looks at him – really looks at him – and goes completely still. “And you mean it,” Hart murmurs. “How interesting.”
“How about you tell me if you’re gonna do it, and get all high and mighty about it later?”
That seems to break the spell. Hart nods, swiftly and sharply like an executioner’s axe, and he takes his hands out of his pockets. Now he seems completely removed from the predator who’d been waiting to see how much he could steal; now he seems like a businessman, waiting to break out the contract and ink made out of blood.
“I will grant you this favor,” Hart announces, every word wrought with power. “And in return, I will ask you a favor of equal value.”
“If you want me to off someone, wouldn’t be better off doing it yourself?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, I don’t need an assassin. That’s the favor you need, my dear. I need something a little less grotesque, though no less bloody.”
“Which is?” Eggsy asks warily.
“I happen to be in need,” Hart says, “of an assistant.”
Hart turns out to be one hundred percent serious, so after Eggsy stares at him a little more, they go off towards Hart’s house. It’s a very nice house, and Eggsy has to restrain himself from eyeing everything in it, because just within one minute of walking in the doorway he sees a lot of little things he could nick that could feed them for weeks. Hart, however, seems unbothered about the idea of letting a thief into his house, and just keeps walking until he reaches the stairs.
“Come along, Eggsy. There are some things that must be signed before you become my assistant.”
Eggsy shuts the door, slips off his shoes, and follows. For Daisy, sweet little innocent Daisy, Eggsy is more than willing to fetch the dry cleaning or mop the floors or whatever other little chores rich people pay other people to do.
Hart has a very nice office, if a little sparse. It’s pretty much a desk, a computer, a telephone, two chairs, and a stool. And a crap ton of newspaper covers.
“You want me to polish your collection?” Eggsy asks, boggling at all the strange headlines.
“Most assuredly not.” Hart straightens from where he’d been bent over a drawer, and he produces a contract and a pen. “This is a non-disclosure agreement. I need you to read it and sign at the end.”
“Magic ain’t enough?”
“In the Court, your word would be enough. But we are in the human world, and I am not one to leave loopholes. Sign it, Eggsy. This is part of the bargain.”
There’s nothing too weird in the contract – it’s the standard sort of agreement that means anything Eggsy sees, hears, touches, smells, or tastes can’t leave Hart’s house – so Eggsy flips to the end, takes up the pen, and scribbles a signature. The pen is even a regular one with regular black ink, nothing special, and the contract doesn’t do anything magical like glow or disappear once he does.
“Thank you.”
Hart takes the contract and sets it aside, resting the pen carefully on top. Then he opens another drawer and takes out a quill, blood red from its point to the end of its rather large feather.
“Do you know,” Hart asks carefully, “what this is?”
Eggsy sees no point in lying. “No.”
“This is a bonding quill. In the old days, we used knives or thorns, but nowadays we’re a little more civilized. This will draw upon the blood of whomever holds it and whomever it is held against to form an unbreakable seal.”
And, well, Eggsy has heard of that. “You mean like a collar?”
“That is an inaccurate – ”
“A bond, a collar, one and the same,” Eggsy interrupts. “When the fae used to command obedience from their pets. That’s what you want from me?”
Hart seems more annoyed by the interruption than the simplification of a centuries long practice. But he doesn’t stand down or become insulted. He just meets Eggsy’s eyes calmly and unflinchingly, as though he’s discussing something as simple as a contract when really he’s talking about an bonding process used by the fae to take human pets who could not disobey, leave, or harm them. If Eggsy lets Hart draw on his neck, he’ll be bound to Hart until one of them dies, and if it’s hard to kill a fae, it’s even harder to kill a fae pet that a fae is invested in and is willing to pour healing magic into. And Hart doesn’t strike Eggsy as the type to just let his pets die.
Hart sighs. “I want a companion, an assistant, a valet. Someone to help me in ways most can’t or aren’t willing to. And I would require your absolute loyalty, Eggsy. You humans make non-disclosure agreements and promises. We swear blood oaths and forge bonds.” He leans back in his chair. “You can still refuse. I won’t stop you if you leave, or report you to the police. It’s your choice.”
On the one hand, Eggsy would be sacrificing his free will to a fae who could order him to do anything from scrub a toilet to cut off his own leg.
On the other hand: Daisy. His mum. His family.
“If it helps,” Hart adds quietly, “I can set the terms of the bonding. It will break on the day Miss Daisy comes of age, or on the day that I die. Would that be acceptable?”
Eggsy was already incredibly tempted, but to learn that he could be free when Daisy turns 18? That’s even better.
But first: “But you’ll take care of Dean either way?”
“Yes. I can’t promise you won’t come to harm under my care, but no harm will come from me or those loyal to me. Pet is the word humans chose – we called them companions, and considered them a part of our families. I will offer you protection, power, and sanctuary, and you will offer me loyalty, obedience, and assistance. And in return, I shall grant you the favor of dealing with your stepfather, Dean Anthony Baker, so that he never bothers you, your mother, your sister, or your family ever again. Do we have a bargain, Eggsy?”
Eggsy takes a deep breath. It’ll be his last as a free human, and he treasures it. But Daisy’s worth it, and fae don’t lie, so Hart will set him free one day.
For Daisy, Eggsy thinks. “Yes. We do.”
Hart stands up. “Then please take a seat on the stool. I will need access to your neck.”
All Eggsy does is lower the hood of his sweater, but he still feels raw and naked in front of Hart, and his enormous blue wings don’t help matters. But Eggsy learned a long time ago not to show fear, even when it consumed every fiber of his being, and so he stays perfectly still as Hart comes closer with the quill in his hand.
He sets the tip against Eggsy’s throat. “I am told it hurts. If you need to scream, please do so. Just be aware that once I begin, I cannot stop until this process is complete. To halt it midway would have . . . unpleasant results.”
Eggsy screws his eyes shut. “Just get it over with,” he says.
“Very well. Be still, Eggsy.”
Hart draws the first line on Eggsy’s throat, just underneath his chin, and Eggsy immediately learns that Hart was definitely understating it. It doesn’t just hurt, it burns, like someone is pulling out his insides through his skin, and even after the quill moves on, the lines Hart drew remain pulsing with pain like salt’s been thrown on them. And Hart doesn’t just draw a circle with one line; no, he’s doing some kind of pattern, repeated little whirls and loops as he slowly makes his way around Eggsy’s neck, until he feels rather like his head falling off would be less painful than the quill’s marks.
The world starts to get blurry, and the sound of Hart muttering to himself is drowned out by a low roar. The pain gets stronger and stronger and stronger, until finally Eggsy thinks he can’t take it anymore.
“One last symbol,” Hart murmurs, at once too loud and too soft, and he returns the quill to the front of Eggsy’s throat again.
It’s the last thing Eggsy remembers before he passes out.
Harry looks down at his armful of unconscious human boy, and sighs. Eggsy had in truth lasted far longer than Harry had expected. He of course hasn’t watched many ceremonies, but usually the humans tended to pass out at the halfway mark. Eggsy lasted all the way until the very end, when Harry engraved the Kingsman symbol to complete the bond.
Now the collar glows against Eggsy’s neck, a gentle glow to supernatural eyes and completely invisible to human eyes. Each collar is unique to the fae who draws it – Harry’s style is apparently butterflies and flowers, repeating one after another to encircle Eggsy’s neck.
Now Eggsy is bound to him, unable to disobey him, unable to hurt him, and unable to leave him.
Of course, it has other benefits as well. Eggsy can’t be harmed without Harry knowing, and he can heal Eggsy or shield him if necessary.
Harry carries his new pet to a guest bedroom. Eggsy doesn’t stir when Harry slips off his shoes and pulls the covers up, and that’s probably for the best. The pain will be gone by the time he awakens anyways.
Harry watches him sleep, watches his chest rise and fall, watches the collar shift as his skin moves. Such a powerful thing for such a small price.
If Harry had been a better man, he would have taken Eggsy to the mirror and the elevator, and he would have stood behind him in the mirror, and he would have asked him what he saw. He would have inducted Eggsy into Kingsman, he would have offered him a place to train as a knight, he would have seen him take the place his father nearly earned.
But Harry is not a better man. Harry is a fae, and no fae will do such a thing without a favor, and Eggsy spent the only favor he had when he got out of prison.
So Harry will have Eggsy as his pet instead, and take all the blessings and fights that are sure to follow.
He leaves the room and returns to his workroom. There he implements the order to have the information collected on Dean Anthony Baker transferred to the proper authorities, as well as to begin the process of searching for a suitable place to install Eggsy’s mother and sister. Kingsman moves quickly; Eggsy might not even awaken before everything is all set.
Then Harry sets his finger to a special pad underneath his desk, and waits until a hidden drawer reveals itself in the wall. There’s a gun there, one meant for top-level emergencies, because it is made with technomagic – cold iron, carefully harvested and painstakingly forged, and laden with magic. Formerly, Harry couldn’t have touched it without his skin burning off, as even gloves would only protect him for so long.
Now, though . . . Now Harry picks it up, and chambers a round, and sights down the barrel, and he feels nothing at all, not even the faintest warning tingle of being near that which can kill his kind dead.
And Harry smiles.