Chapter 3: chapter 3
Chapter 3: Deserted
Chapter Text
Harry looked out over the desolate city and laughed softly to himself. He'd been travelling to and fro, even crossing the borders a few times for weeks, and yet he ended up back here again, in this dirty old hotel with rickety beds and smelly drapes, two blocks from the airport. He didn't even need to check in; he'd 'convinced' the owner that he'd already paid ahead. Still, when he managed to scrounge up a few loose coins, he left them for the old man that ran the place; he did feel like he was freeloading. Half the rooms weren't even in use and he made sure he had his own food, so the hotel staff didn't have much to do. It was the thought that counted, right?
Natasha and he had finally parted ways after a month and despite his previous intentions Harry had stuck around the desert after her plane departed, somewhat reluctant to leave. Perhaps it was because silence and loneliness as one walked down the winding streets were strangely calming, and it felt as if time came to a halt; it was a welcome change from the slightly organized insanity of his former life, at least for a little while, and he relished in just relaxing. Despite the dangers of the region, there was a certain appeal to this place. Well, if you could cast cooling charms.
Being alone again felt strange; back home he'd been a recluse. He'd already gotten used to loneliness, and it didn't hurt anymore – after his last year at Hogwarts he'd managed a few excellent years as a newly trained Auror. He'd already gone up against some of the nastiest of dark magic while in school, so it seemed like the next logical step. It'd been a few years, though, when he realized that the Wizarding World wasn't going to stop talking about him; that his defeat of the Dark Lord had put himself in much the same position that it had Professor Dumbledore, and probably for the same reason.
He'd never enjoyed being in the spotlight for things he wasn't fully responsible for: yes, he'd ultimately been victorious, but neither Hermione nor Ron got even half the publicity he did (let alone Dumbledore, whom people seemed to prefer maligning posthumously after Skeeter's biography.) and the rest of the wizards and witches involved got no more than a casual mention. It was constantly Boy-Who-Lived this, Potter-that. Maddening.
He figured he'd held out pretty long – Hermione had been asking how he was holding up for years, probably the only one who even noticed how his new life was wearing him down. Well, perhaps Ginny too; Harry thought she might've held out hope that he'd eventually get back together with her again, but pulling her into his existence as the nation's hero and scapegoat was probably even less desirable than taking her along to fight Voldemort. Of course, it had been a moot point for a few years now – he shivered as he recalled the flames bursting out of the Burrow's upper floors, walls creaking as it just managed to keep back the monstrous blaze.
He'd caught the one who did it, of course and found out what the reason was behind casting Fiendfyre at the Weasley residence. The memory of that day still stood out in his mind. He'd scoured through the wreckage, desperate to find out what happened to the Weasleys, and had felt extreme relief when Arthur and Molly apparated in; they'd been visiting friends.
There had only been one person inside.
"Stop thinking about it," Harry muttered to himself, rubbing his forehead tiredly. It had been a nasty shock – even if he wasn't her boyfriend anymore, Ginny had always been a close friend. He and Ron had discussed the issue a few times – his best friend sought him out about it, and he guessed he probably just needed to vent with someone that wasn't family.
The day of the fire had been one of a number of dominoes that had finally driven him to go back to the Forbidden Forest, back to the clearing he'd once died in – it had been a peculiar feeling, standing there once more. There, the Resurrection Stone had remained ever since he dropped it. He'd taken it and turned it thrice; He and Ginny had spoken about a lot of things – about the war, about her death – and about them. When he finally left the forest, he knew he'd not see her again – not before he himself died. Clenched in his fist was the stone.
Harry sighed deeply at the memories. They weren't pleasant ones, but they were a few years removed now, and he knew that he wasn't blamed for anything that happened; that he had little impact on what had occurred at all. He hated it – saving people was literally his job description, at the time. It had been Hermione and Ron, his oldest friends, who had convinced him that he shouldn't put blame where he shouldn't. He still didn't quite know how they managed that.
Compared to good old England, Afghanistan was an oasis of calm: quite the ironic proposition, though he supposed it'd had more to do with his identity than with the environment. Even trying to hide his face with glamours had gotten old quickly, and aside from his closest friends he couldn't remember just talking to someone for half an hour without a dragon's load of preconceptions and greatly exaggerated tales of his heroics getting involved.
Natasha had been a better conversation partner, at least; that was one definite upside to the solution he'd finally reached for his problem, of straight out leaving the world he knew. Natasha was far too intelligent for her claimed job as a consultant for businesses, Harry was sure. The fact that she was hiding things from day one hadn't escaped his notice. He wasn't sure how much he cared; he did the same thing.
The stained and worn bed in his hotel room had a vaguely unpleasant smell that Harry had not been able to remove; not even some of his more powerful cleaning spells could touch whatever foulness had crawled inside that mattress and died. Still, sleeping here was better than the street, or that one awful night he'd decided to just crawl up under his invisibility cloak out in the wilderness, and a donkey had managed to trip over him. A donkey.
Yet, even with all the nasty aspects, he had to admit that he enjoyed it. He enjoyed just being himself again, not the 'greatest wizard of Britain' or the 'Dark Lord's killer' or the 'Master of Death'. Well, still the latter he supposed. The fact that his schedule was a complete void today was remarkable. It was something that had not happened for nigh on a decade, back home.
"One last trip, then?" He asked idly.
Natasha hadn't been honest with him, he was aware of that. It'd not taken him long to suspect her of planting the device he'd destroyed. From there, he'd begun to second-guess everything she'd said, before he managed to calm himself down and breathe. Even after reconsidering, her smiles seemed genuine and he actually enjoyed their little outings, however artificial they might've been. If she'd meant him serious harm, she'd had half a dozen opportunities already, and she hadn't taken any of those. Plus, he had his magic, and if necessary could shrug up almost any assault a Muggle might want to throw at him – even a talented and flexible one. The fact that his first acquaintance here had ulterior motives was unfortunate – but at least he'd gotten a good few weeks out of it. Now, she was gone, and he had to admit he kind of missed her.
He sighed mournfully as he thought of the fact that he'd probably never see her again; soon he'd go off the grid again; vanish into some other county. It was easy enough to do with a well-placed Confundus or three, that was certain. He didn't have any number he could reach Natasha at (Harry didn't even have a phone, for that matter) nor had they shared contact addresses. The only thing they really shared was this crappy little hotel in the armpit of the Middle East, one good knock against the walls away from being just another hole in the ground.
He glanced across the street, groaning in exasperation as he spotted, once more, that poorly-disguised white fellow acting as if he was a local. Granted, the make-up was pretty good, and even he'd been fooled the first day; that is, if he hadn't followed his pursuer under the invisibility cloak after seeing him spend a little too much time watching the hotel and noticing him removing a convincing wig he wouldn't have known. He wasn't the only one, either: he'd spotted a number of suspicious figures staring at him. He supposed that after spending half his life fighting dark wizards, he'd gotten used to being a bit paranoid.
They were doubtlessly there to keep an eye on him; that they had appeared the day after Natasha left was interesting, and Harry had speculated for some time on the reasons. Who was she, really? Was Natasha even her name? Ah well, as long as his little entourage stuck to being wall-flies, he could deal. He was leaving them behind soon enough.Harry stood up, stretching his limbs as he shook out the stiffness. Today he'd go out into the wilderness, he decided. It'd been some days since he'd done that: just wander until there was nothing in sight, man nor building, just the earth and the sky and him. Though he kept his invisibility cloak on, just in case, it was a great joy to grab his broom and spend that time flitting low over the yellowing grass and make loops around the few trees that dotted this arid region of the country. He didn't get to fly enough, back home. Here, he could very well choose to cross the entire country without running into even one obnoxious Ministry official with a warning letter and a face caught somewhere between smelling something disgusting and mild annoyance. He hadn't tested out his new broom yet; actually he was a bit hesitant to rip apart the packaging. It was probably because it was the last 'gift' from home he hadn't opened yet.
Striding to the edge of town, Harry watched as a large plane slowly made its way into the sky from the nearby airport, its enormous bulk looking far too gargantuan to actually gain any lift, but it succeeded anyway, soaring into the great blue with remarkable speed. He was still somewhat amazed at the fact that it wasn't magic; he hadn't really grown up ever seeing things like this, and the Wizarding World didn't care for it. He wondered how Muggles could forget the majesty of such machines – the closest Muggles got to sorcery.
Losing the man tailing him was easy enough; Harry slipped into an alleyway, of which there were hundreds, donned his cloak, and simply walked out right past his guard. He'd managed it a few times already. One time he'd stuck around, curious to see what would happen; he'd been disappointed to found out that the only result was a phone-call, not anything serious. Harry held out some hope that perhaps he'd called Natasha.
Harry covered a great distance at an incredibly pace, even with his old broom; ancient as it was considering the advances in brooms over the last decade, his trusty Firebolt had still been the fastest broom available in its day, and it showed. Cruising over the sands at what had to be a few hundred miles an hour, the distant mountains came markedly closer every time he checked; the dunes under his feet flew by so quickly it seemed like he was on a vast ocean, the waves crashing upon the mountains rather than the beach.
It was about an hour later (and halfway across the desert, Harry figured) that something suddenly felt very off. It took him a moment to make it out; it was the smell of fire. Something was burning and foul plumes of smoke wafting away from wherever the fire originated sped across the plains; he'd been well above the ground at the time, which was probably why he caught it. There were other scents in the foul gust, though he couldn't make out what they were: gasoline, maybe? Sulphur?
Harry snatched his wand from his pocket, brandishing it before him. He coughed slightly as he accidentally inhaled some of the acrid fumes, but forced himself to ignore them. "Point Me." That charm was a handy one that he remembered using back in Fourth Year: concentrate on where one wants to go, and it'll point the way – give or take an Acromantula encounter or two.
The phoenix-feather wand spun on Harry's palm once, twice, three times, then finally slowed down and ended up pointing to the northeast, almost directly into the wind.
"Well, that's not much of a surprise…"
The impact was hard and sudden; shards of metal and pieces of twisted steel scattered everywhere, spread across the dune in a wide circle around his landing point as in the distance a massive fireball blasted into the sky. The explosion had to have taken out what remained of the stolen Stark weapons, and fairly distributed them into itty bitty pieces. Tony Stark took a few moments to try and clear his head, shrugging what remained of his protective armguards away. He was delighted to find his body in one piece – though his suit was ruined. Damn.
He shoved open the faceplate of his impromptu battle armour, squinting into the bright sun and blinking away white spots. He took a moment to marvel at the fact that he was even alive. The suit had worked. It had worked. "Not bad…"
Getting out of the scattered remains of his absolutely insane invention had been tougher than getting in. Despite its looks, it had been pretty cosy inside the contraption, and consequently it took Tony the better part of half an hour to free his legs, which had then long decided that they'd achieved enough for a bit and had gone comfortably numb. Still, he couldn't complain, they were both whole.
"Definitely need to make opening this easier, next time…" Tony muttered with a critical eye at his ruined creation as he finally managed to stumble away from the crumpled metal and exposed wires; his eyes wandered across the desert wasteland, nothing of which was even remotely recognizable to him. Well, it was recognizable as desert.
He was most definitely lost.
The first hour was bad – he'd turned his shirt into a makeshift hood, but the sun beating down on him and the exhaustion that he could feel into his very bones were taking their toll. The fact that he'd spent the last three months in a cave with substandard healthcare certainly didn't help, either.
The horizon swam before his eyes. Tony wasn't entirely sure if it was a fata morgana, or if he was simply hallucinating. He'd expected more women if it'd been a hallucination, though. All he could see in the distance were rugged mountainous terrain, he wouldn't even try climbing those bad boys, and a vast sea of sand stretching into the distance.
He managed a dry chuckle, trudging onward, hoping that he'd estimated his position fairly well. Unfortunately, since this guess covered a region of a hundred square miles, there was a good chance he'd miss any towns entirely.
Fantastic.Harry was about as well-hidden as he could manage, floating close to the sand to keep out of the occasional gusts of wind that came out of seemingly nowhere. A vast billowing cloud of dust and gas had briefly dominated the distant skies; it looked to Harry somewhat like a great volcano had exploded, scattering its flaming guts all over the surrounding countryside, though he'd only ever seen it on the Dursleys' telly. He was pretty sure there were no such great fire-breathing mountains in the area – he'd probably have found them mentioned in the many brochures or books he'd read while studying the region (and this world at large, knowledge was power.) Perhaps he'd misread the maps?
He was broken out of his musings when something peculiar appeared in the wobbling image of distant sands, right near the horizon: a black spot in an ocean of sand. It took a minute before he'd gotten close enough to identify it, and he was shocked. There, strolling across the desert dunes with slow steps, at least forty miles from even the flimsiest excuse for a town was a person. Harry flew over at slow speed, careful to avoid startling the man. The wanderer's arms were burnt and bloodied and he had his shirt wrapped around his head to protect from the sun, though it was at best partially successful, as he was stumbling drunkenly along. Judging from the tracks, his time was running out.
"Bloody hell…" Harry muttered, looking up towards where plumes of smoke still rose slowly into the air; he was quite close to where the fire was, now. It required a Supersensory Charm, but he could still detect petrol, kerosene, burnt rubber – definitely not a volcano. It was probably not a good idea to stick around.
He landed behind the nearest sand dune, quickly depositing both his broom and cloak in his mokeskin pouch; he couldn't very well use them in plain view of a Muggle, after all. After slipping his wand in his pocket he made his way across the great wave of sand with some difficulty, unused to the loose dirt. The man hadn't noticed him, stumbling onwards like a drunken Inferi.
"Hey! Are you alright?"
Tony blinked, looking blearily around him and rubbing a hand over his face. It took him a moment to take in what he was seeing. A man, a young man, dressed in the most preposterous yellow-and-red shirt he'd ever seen was approaching him, descending a sand dune with remarkably athletic moves. "There were supposed to be… women."
The dark-haired man sped to his side as he faltered; his knees were finally giving out now that he'd stopped: he managed to avoid crumpling to the ground, but it was close. Tony took an offered bottle of water without comment, gulping deeply from it; his throat was parched.
A second glance towards his saviour didn't make the image any more sensible than it first did: standing in the sweltering sands at the heart of Afghanistan with him was a short bespectacled twenty-something that definitely wasn't from around here if his complexion was any indication. He also had a ludicrous fashion sense, and seemed strangely nervous, as well. Suddenly, Tony stopped entirely, his mind refusing to keep processing for a few moments as he realized that something was not right. Very much not right.
"Sweat."
"What?" The man asked with a genuine look of confusion. Huh. He hadn't actually noticed, then? In this heat? Preposterous.
"I said, your sweat."
"What about it?"
"Where is it?" Tony looked at the man's neat clothes. They were all clean and dry; an impossibility in this weather. The man cursed loudly, running a hand through his hair; Tony briefly spotted what looked like a vague scar near his hairline; jagged, shaped vaguely like a thunderbolt. The stranger grabbed something from his pocket. Tony wondered for a moment if he was going to get shot right here, just after he'd managed to escape imprisonment in the most amazing way possible. That would be a serious buzz kill.
Tony blinked and shook his head; he almost fainted for a moment there, which would have been highly embarrassing. He didn't remember what he'd been doing just now. He forced his eyes to focus on what was in front of him. The stranger who'd found him looked worried. He frowned at him over round glasses as he wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket that he'd tied around his waist.
"You must've been wandering out here for a while, right?" The stranger wondered, turning around. "I've been walking for only a few hours, I can take you back where I came from, get you some help. You look like you could collapse at any moment."
Tony didn't quite know what to make of his saviour: definitely not the kind of person he expected to run into, out here – but he would take what he could get. "That's not an inaccurate description," Tony agreed woozily. "Say, you don't happen to know any U.S. military around here, do you?"
"Military? What for?"
Tony sighed, rubbing his tired legs until they served again. They might as well have been slabs of meat right now and it was a small wonder he could remain standing. "We're sort of – friends, I suppose? Just… tell me, alright? My head hurts, I can't quite feel my lower body and I'm tired."
"Right – I have no clue, but I figure a village might have a phone, right?" The man stuck out a hand. "Harry."
"Tony – Tony Stark." Well, that got a reaction. He couldn't suppress a smile. "Yeah, look, if you help me, I'll pay you back for it, alright? Did I mention I can't feel my lower body? I think I need to have that looked at, it's a part of me I like."
"I'd hardly take money for saving someone's life," Harry muttered in response, ignoring his jibe. Tony sighed as he saw the stalwart look on the face of this Harry?
"Call it insurance then, Callahan."
The man blinked in confusion. "We'll talk about it later. For now – walk."
"Three days, really?" Tony asked, aghast.Yes, you couldn't be roused," Harry answered, wondering whether or not the man would have experience with this and wouldn't notice the difference between magically induced slumber and plain exhaustion. "It was a chore, dragging you along though at least you got to safety, didn't you?" He pointed to the pile of bloodied clothes heaped against the wall. "I left all your stuff there – I don't know how much of it can be reused, though. You managed to wreck them pretty well."
"I really should get in contact with Rhodey," Stark muttered, glancing at the clothes Harry had given him; Harry had simply enlarged some trousers and a shirt that he'd brought along from home. "At the very least it's time for a new wardrobe – this stuff doesn't even have labels."
Tony Stark was an odd fellow. He'd recognized the name, of course; it came up more than a few times in his study of this world's past, and he had the sneaking suspicion that much like there was no Harry Potter in this world, there had been no Tony Stark in his own. What he'd read about the man included quite a few unflattering descriptions of being an arrogant, conceited, utterly insufferable genius. Regardless of his personality flaws, he had what had to be one of the world's greatest minds slouching around his room.
After Stark had finally collapsed (Harry hadn't really anticipated an hour of trekking through the desert, but he supposed it was bearable with company) he'd stunned the man and pulled out his broom. Obliviating him twice in a day was probably not his greatest plan ever, but at least he had a plausible reason for why the man might not recall arriving here; it would have to do. He was still embarrassed he'd forgotten about his Cooling Charms, and somewhat glad that he was the only one that remembered it.
Harry had been a bit hesitant about actually calling the government as Stark had suggested; the Ministry of Magic was decent enough after Voldemort's influence was eradicated, but the few times he'd ended up interacting with the Muggle government (especially the American one) things had gone poorly. Probably it was because the Muggles were just as fond of keeping secrets as any wizard- but whereas most wizards were content with their little masquerade that kept the common man from finding out about magic, Muggles had found their own outlets.
A lot was different in this world... but probably not the way people worked.
Still, Harry couldn't just keep Stark around; though he'd poured a potion against inflammation and fever down to man's throat when he was unconscious, anything more serious than that would probably require some serious explanations – and he wasn't just going to tell a Muggle what he could do. The potions were already a bit of a risk; he only had a limited supply to use, and he couldn't just walk to the nearest shop and buy some more. He was lucky there were no other Muggles to observe the miraculously quick recuperation that followed after administering it.
Considering his options while Stark was out, he'd finally bit the bludger and used the payphone in a nearby shopping centre (or what counted as such in a poor region like this) to make an emergency call, so the man could have proper medical care. Whoever he'd been connected to on the other end had sounded quite incredulous, but at least Stark's name made things happen.
"Callahan?"
"Stop calling me that," Harry muttered, scowling at the tired-looking billionaire. "What is it?"
Tony propped himself up in bed, throwing aside the blankets and sitting up. "I wanted to thank you, alright? I don't know how long I'd have been wandering out there without aid, and I'd probably never have made it anywhere. So, thank you. You're okay. Weird, but okay."
"I suppose I'll take that as a compliment."
Stark leaned forward, a playful glint in his eyes that set Harry's teeth on edge. "You found me a ride out of here; you can come along, if you want. You're a Brit, right? I've been to England before, it's crap. See a little of the world. I certainly like to do that."
"You're offering me a ride?" Harry asked, amused. Actually, it wasn't even that crazy an idea, as he'd been intending to leave for a while now. This had been his last trip through the wilderness after all. Quite an eventful one, it turned out. "Where to then, Mr. Stark?"
Stark scowled. "Call me Tony, please – you make me sound so old. I could drop you off wherever you want, even back in the U.S. if you're interested," Stark said, shrugging. "I'll probably end up telling people what happened about a dozen times before the week is through, by the way... you don't mind being mentioned, do you?"
Harry wavered for a moment, and then shrugged. "There has to be an interesting story on how an arms tycoon managed to get himself lost in the desert," He smiled. "I suppose if you want to write down my name, feel free – can't do much to stop you. Can't say I'm all that excited about the military getting involved, though." Honestly,Harry figured his first name would be useless for figuring ou anything: it was common enough. He could just make sure that his last name was accidentally left off.
Harry looked curiously at the man he'd rescued, realizing that the man before him was pretty famous and revelled in it, as far as he could tell. "You have all the publicity you could ever want, and you still relish it, don't you? Even now, you're planning what to say, what to do."
"I admit, it has been good for my ego."
Harry sighed. "I can't imagine it; I'd crack if all that attention was constantly focused on me, you know. People whining about autographs and deriding every mistake you make." He thought back to those years after Hogwarts and grimaced. "I'd like to just do what I want, do what has to be done, and to be normal at all other times. I don't much like the limelight."
"Those are probably the types of people most deserving of being in it," Tony said sagely. "The whole publicity thing; I admit, it's a great boost to one's ego. There's a little more to it, though – you influence people. Granted, I've mostly influenced people into buying more of my stuff, but the principle's the same regardless of how you end up being seen."
Harry shrugged. "People aren't stupid – even if you weren't parading around, things wouldn't suddenly fall apart."
"Ah, there is where you and I disagree," Tony noted dryly. "Never underestimate the power of stupidity."
Harry sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Honestly, I've had my share of public embarrassments. I really wouldn't like to add to them much. I imagine with the kind of publicity you get..." He gestured to the pile of magazines that were stacked in the corner, all of them featuring Tony. "I managed to spot you on magazines in the middle of bloody Afghanistan; if you do even the slightest thing wrong..."Oh, when I do things wrong, they're big things," Tony responded softly, looking troubled. "The media doesn't really bother me; generally I even like the paparazzi, they keep me on my toes. The real reason I can deal with them though is that I can change things, if I really want to. The worst I could do is ruin my image, and I'm not that attached to it, even if I appreciate the status it brings me."
"What if you've already changed things, though?" Harry wondered. Back home, the years after the war had been dedicated to reform; the entire Ministry had been torn apart and built up again, with a sturdier basis. Near the end, they'd offered the job of Head Auror to him. He was the first of the new batch after the war, after all, and everyone knew his name. At the time, he's said no; he hadn't felt ready. In reality, he realized, that was about the first sign that the legend of Harry Potter was getting too large for even Harry Potter himself to hold.
"Things can always get better, I'd say. You can only quit if the world's perfect." He raised his hands and smirked. "I know, I know, you're being so sappy right now, please talk about engines and rockets again, Tony."
"Speaking of engines..." Harry said suddenly. He strode over to the window and ripped the curtain aside; he'd indeed heard the rhythmic sounds of distant propellers. "Your ride's almost here. I can already see the helicopters. Can you walk?"
Tony jumped from the bed; he didn't even wobble. "As long as I have my two legs, you can bet on it. If not... well, give me a week or two to fix something up. I think you meant 'our ride', by the way. " Harry muttered uncomplimentary remarks towards Tony as he stepped into the blazing sun, though he couldn't help but smirk at the man's sudden enthusiasm. He probably couldn't wait to get out of the grime and dirt and bathe in diamonds or whatever rich people did. Though Harry had quite a fortune of his own (both from his parents and from all the 'well-wishes' he'd received after the war) he didn't think Tony to be the conservative spender type.
Two huge military helicopters were approaching quickly, much to the consternation of the locals; young children were quickly rushed in by their fathers, several getting rifles ready. Thankfully they landed some distance from town, blowing up dust and debris as they did. Several people jumped out of the wide doors at the sides and rushed towards them in full army gear; Harry quickly stepped back as one of the soldiers rushed up to Tony with a look of mixed disbelief and joy.
"Well... How was the 'Fun-vee' ?"
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