The Golden Horn 1/? (HP)
Title: The Golden Horn 1/?
Rating: R
Summary: The war is finally over and Harry is ready to get on with his life. Most importantly, he wants to pick up where he left off with Ginny. First, though, he'll have to come to terms with the fact that Ginny didn't put her life on hold and wait for him to come back to her.
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.
Note: This is the first part of an idea I've been mulling over for several months now. I hope to finish it before DH comes out, but make no promises; mostly I'd been fixated on the image that closes this chapter, and told enough people who encouraged me to go for it, that I couldn't resist writing it any longer. This is as raw as fics from me get, so I invite any and all constructive critique.
Harry lay in bed, not bothering to put his glasses on, and watched the dust motes swirl and dance in the beam of late-morning sunlight that streamed in through his bedroom window. Exhaustion had settled deep into his bones, he was lying in probably the most comfortable bed he'd ever slept in, and for the first time in many, many months he had nothing to do but look forward to the rest of his life.
The war was over. Voldemort was dead, and not all the Dark Magic in the world could bring him back.
The war wasn't quite over, Harry knew. Several of Voldemort's followers and allies, among them Fenrir Greyback and Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, had fled during the final battle, and there would no doubt be pockets of resistance, but Harry trusted the Order of the Phoenix and the Aurors who remained loyal to Mad-Eye Moody to take care of them. All that mattered to him was that he had accomplished the task he had set out to do over a year ago, the task he had been destined for since before his birth.
Harry yawned and stretched, groaning as the lingering tension in his muscles tightened its grip. After all the months spent on the run, always looking over his shoulder, sleeping with one eye open and his wand clutched in his hand, he would need time to recover. He intended to take as long as he needed. He'd made sure that Mad-Eye and McGonagall and Lupin and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley understood that, before he left: he'd paid his debt to wizarding society, with interest, and didn't owe anyone a damn thing.
He did, however, owe a debt to the demands of nature, as the piss-erection that raised his duvet informed him with an admonitory throb. With a slight grumble of acknowledgement Harry threw off the bedcovers and padded barefoot across the bedroom, his toes curling in delight at the sensation of highly-polished wood after their long imprisonment inside thin, ragged socks and tatty trainers, to the adjacent lavatory.
Harry would never have thought the mere sensation of taking a piss could bring such relief. It was as though emptying his bladder had become a metaphor for the burden that had been lifted from his shoulders; as the river lessened into a stream and then became a trickle, he felt strangely lighter and less encumbered by the responsibility that had shadowed him for so long. He was a free man at last.
When he was done, Harry padded back across the room, intending to have more of a lie-in, when he heard a strange cry coming through the open window, unlike anything he'd heard before. His intuition told him it wasn't a cry of distress, but there was something about it that called to him, demanding his attention. Unable or unwilling to resist, he put on his glasses and went to the window.
The window was actually a set of French doors that opened out on to a tiny balcony, which looked out across a small courtyard enclosed by a high stone wall, and beyond that, the murky waters of the Bosporus. Standing outside, Harry could clearly hear the ringing of buoys, the shouts of fishermen advertizing the morning's catch, and the rumble and screech of traffic navigating Istanbul's narrow streets. The cry that had summoned him rang out above all other sounds; Harry turned to his left and saw in the distance a large building that surpassed all the others in height, its cascading domed roofs reflecting the sunlight, surrounded at each corner by four narrow white towers, each pointed roof topped with a crescent-shaped spire. On the tower nearest him Harry saw loudspeakers broadcasting the cry across the city. After another minute or two, the speakers crackled into silence.
Harry leaned over, folding his arms on the balcony railing, and looked out across the water, breathing in the sharp sea air spiced by the tang of petrol. On the far side he could see the rows of buildings that constituted Istanbul's Asian quarter; if he looked to his right and stood on his toes, he fancied he could see the bend in the water that shaped the Golden Horn. Looking closer, he watched as a man driving past on a moped stopped by one of the fishing boats, and after some gesticulating exchanged a few coins for a fish wrapped in paper, which he bit into before getting back on his moped and driving off.
Realizing his initial plan to while away the day in bed had lost its allure, Harry turned to go back in, thinking he'd bathe and see if he could scrounge up some clean clothes, or at least charm the worst of the grime out of what he brought with him, before heading downstairs to see who might be around. A walk along the harbor would do him good, he thought, and hopefully his host could direct him to a shop where he could outfit himself in new robes and shoes, and, as his stomach helpfully pointed out, he was rather hungry.
He was just inside when the sound of familiar voices drifted up from below. One of them was deep and heavily accented: Viktor Krum, whose townhouse this was, who had offered it to Harry as a refuge and a save haven from the fear and frustration that had dogged him since he set out to find and destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes. Viktor'd been instrumental in that regard as well, convincing the headmaster of Durmstrang to grant them access to that school's library. While Hermione plundered their archives and Harry grilled the Dark Arts Mistress until he thought his head would explode, Viktor and Ron explored the grounds by broomstick and came to an understanding.
It was the other voice that gave Harry pause, that made him duck behind the brocade curtain to avoid being seen. Low, yet unmistakably feminine, with a hint of a Devon twang to it, Ginny Weasley's voice made Harry's knees go soft and other, more sensitive parts of him grow stiff.
He hadn't seen her or heard her voice for over nine months, not since Voldemort had sent Alecto and Amycus Carrow to the Burrow and Arthur Weasley had begged Harry to find someplace, no matter how far away, where his only daughter would be safe from harm. Once again Viktor had come to the rescue, promising to guard Ginny with his life. Only the shock of having seen Percy eviscerated by a curse meant for her kept her from clawing Harry's eyes out in protest. She didn't say a word to Harry as he took her in his arms and Side-Along Apparated her here, and when Viktor indicated which room would be hers, she thanked him, then shut the door in Harry's face. He told her it was necessary, that he wouldn't be able to live with himself if anything happened to her, that it had been her father's idea, but he suspected she'd cast a Silencing Charm the instant she closed the door and didn't hear a thing he said. So he said goodbye, thanked Viktor for his hospitality, and Apparated back to England.
Now the war was over, the Carrows were in Azkaban, and Harry, along with Ron and Hermione, had returned to Istanbul--to restore his spirit, but more importantly to start over again with Ginny. She didn't know they were here; it had been late when they arrived the night before, and Viktor, understanding that their need for rest superseded all other needs, showed them to their rooms and promised not to disturb them until they were ready.
The sound of Ginny's rich, throaty laugh stirred Harry from his musings. He leaned cautiously forward, wanting to get a better look at her without being seen himself. She looked much the same as he remembered, although she'd cut her formerly waist-length hair to just below her chin. She looked happy and at ease with herself as she laughed at something Viktor said. The both had brooms slung over their shoulders, and for the first time in ages Harry felt the urge to go for a fly. He hoped Viktor had a spare broom; even if it was a ponderous and sluggish Oakshaft 79, Harry longed to feel the wind rushing past his face, burning his cheeks and making his nose itch.
This thought in mind, Harry took a step back, more determined than before to embrace the first day of the rest of his life, when he picked up on a subtle shift in tone in Ginny's voice. Unable to resist, he looked once more down on the courtyard.
The grin that had begun to take shape slowly faded away as he saw Viktor and Ginny, their brooms now lying on the ground, wrap their arms around each other in a passionate kiss.
PART TWO
Rating: R
Summary: The war is finally over and Harry is ready to get on with his life. Most importantly, he wants to pick up where he left off with Ginny. First, though, he'll have to come to terms with the fact that Ginny didn't put her life on hold and wait for him to come back to her.
DISCLAIMER: J.K. Rowling owns the Harry Potter universe and everything it encompasses. This is a work of fan fiction, and thus derives no profit or material benefit therefrom.
Note: This is the first part of an idea I've been mulling over for several months now. I hope to finish it before DH comes out, but make no promises; mostly I'd been fixated on the image that closes this chapter, and told enough people who encouraged me to go for it, that I couldn't resist writing it any longer. This is as raw as fics from me get, so I invite any and all constructive critique.
Harry lay in bed, not bothering to put his glasses on, and watched the dust motes swirl and dance in the beam of late-morning sunlight that streamed in through his bedroom window. Exhaustion had settled deep into his bones, he was lying in probably the most comfortable bed he'd ever slept in, and for the first time in many, many months he had nothing to do but look forward to the rest of his life.
The war was over. Voldemort was dead, and not all the Dark Magic in the world could bring him back.
The war wasn't quite over, Harry knew. Several of Voldemort's followers and allies, among them Fenrir Greyback and Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange, had fled during the final battle, and there would no doubt be pockets of resistance, but Harry trusted the Order of the Phoenix and the Aurors who remained loyal to Mad-Eye Moody to take care of them. All that mattered to him was that he had accomplished the task he had set out to do over a year ago, the task he had been destined for since before his birth.
Harry yawned and stretched, groaning as the lingering tension in his muscles tightened its grip. After all the months spent on the run, always looking over his shoulder, sleeping with one eye open and his wand clutched in his hand, he would need time to recover. He intended to take as long as he needed. He'd made sure that Mad-Eye and McGonagall and Lupin and Mr. and Mrs. Weasley understood that, before he left: he'd paid his debt to wizarding society, with interest, and didn't owe anyone a damn thing.
He did, however, owe a debt to the demands of nature, as the piss-erection that raised his duvet informed him with an admonitory throb. With a slight grumble of acknowledgement Harry threw off the bedcovers and padded barefoot across the bedroom, his toes curling in delight at the sensation of highly-polished wood after their long imprisonment inside thin, ragged socks and tatty trainers, to the adjacent lavatory.
Harry would never have thought the mere sensation of taking a piss could bring such relief. It was as though emptying his bladder had become a metaphor for the burden that had been lifted from his shoulders; as the river lessened into a stream and then became a trickle, he felt strangely lighter and less encumbered by the responsibility that had shadowed him for so long. He was a free man at last.
When he was done, Harry padded back across the room, intending to have more of a lie-in, when he heard a strange cry coming through the open window, unlike anything he'd heard before. His intuition told him it wasn't a cry of distress, but there was something about it that called to him, demanding his attention. Unable or unwilling to resist, he put on his glasses and went to the window.
The window was actually a set of French doors that opened out on to a tiny balcony, which looked out across a small courtyard enclosed by a high stone wall, and beyond that, the murky waters of the Bosporus. Standing outside, Harry could clearly hear the ringing of buoys, the shouts of fishermen advertizing the morning's catch, and the rumble and screech of traffic navigating Istanbul's narrow streets. The cry that had summoned him rang out above all other sounds; Harry turned to his left and saw in the distance a large building that surpassed all the others in height, its cascading domed roofs reflecting the sunlight, surrounded at each corner by four narrow white towers, each pointed roof topped with a crescent-shaped spire. On the tower nearest him Harry saw loudspeakers broadcasting the cry across the city. After another minute or two, the speakers crackled into silence.
Harry leaned over, folding his arms on the balcony railing, and looked out across the water, breathing in the sharp sea air spiced by the tang of petrol. On the far side he could see the rows of buildings that constituted Istanbul's Asian quarter; if he looked to his right and stood on his toes, he fancied he could see the bend in the water that shaped the Golden Horn. Looking closer, he watched as a man driving past on a moped stopped by one of the fishing boats, and after some gesticulating exchanged a few coins for a fish wrapped in paper, which he bit into before getting back on his moped and driving off.
Realizing his initial plan to while away the day in bed had lost its allure, Harry turned to go back in, thinking he'd bathe and see if he could scrounge up some clean clothes, or at least charm the worst of the grime out of what he brought with him, before heading downstairs to see who might be around. A walk along the harbor would do him good, he thought, and hopefully his host could direct him to a shop where he could outfit himself in new robes and shoes, and, as his stomach helpfully pointed out, he was rather hungry.
He was just inside when the sound of familiar voices drifted up from below. One of them was deep and heavily accented: Viktor Krum, whose townhouse this was, who had offered it to Harry as a refuge and a save haven from the fear and frustration that had dogged him since he set out to find and destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes. Viktor'd been instrumental in that regard as well, convincing the headmaster of Durmstrang to grant them access to that school's library. While Hermione plundered their archives and Harry grilled the Dark Arts Mistress until he thought his head would explode, Viktor and Ron explored the grounds by broomstick and came to an understanding.
It was the other voice that gave Harry pause, that made him duck behind the brocade curtain to avoid being seen. Low, yet unmistakably feminine, with a hint of a Devon twang to it, Ginny Weasley's voice made Harry's knees go soft and other, more sensitive parts of him grow stiff.
He hadn't seen her or heard her voice for over nine months, not since Voldemort had sent Alecto and Amycus Carrow to the Burrow and Arthur Weasley had begged Harry to find someplace, no matter how far away, where his only daughter would be safe from harm. Once again Viktor had come to the rescue, promising to guard Ginny with his life. Only the shock of having seen Percy eviscerated by a curse meant for her kept her from clawing Harry's eyes out in protest. She didn't say a word to Harry as he took her in his arms and Side-Along Apparated her here, and when Viktor indicated which room would be hers, she thanked him, then shut the door in Harry's face. He told her it was necessary, that he wouldn't be able to live with himself if anything happened to her, that it had been her father's idea, but he suspected she'd cast a Silencing Charm the instant she closed the door and didn't hear a thing he said. So he said goodbye, thanked Viktor for his hospitality, and Apparated back to England.
Now the war was over, the Carrows were in Azkaban, and Harry, along with Ron and Hermione, had returned to Istanbul--to restore his spirit, but more importantly to start over again with Ginny. She didn't know they were here; it had been late when they arrived the night before, and Viktor, understanding that their need for rest superseded all other needs, showed them to their rooms and promised not to disturb them until they were ready.
The sound of Ginny's rich, throaty laugh stirred Harry from his musings. He leaned cautiously forward, wanting to get a better look at her without being seen himself. She looked much the same as he remembered, although she'd cut her formerly waist-length hair to just below her chin. She looked happy and at ease with herself as she laughed at something Viktor said. The both had brooms slung over their shoulders, and for the first time in ages Harry felt the urge to go for a fly. He hoped Viktor had a spare broom; even if it was a ponderous and sluggish Oakshaft 79, Harry longed to feel the wind rushing past his face, burning his cheeks and making his nose itch.
This thought in mind, Harry took a step back, more determined than before to embrace the first day of the rest of his life, when he picked up on a subtle shift in tone in Ginny's voice. Unable to resist, he looked once more down on the courtyard.
The grin that had begun to take shape slowly faded away as he saw Viktor and Ginny, their brooms now lying on the ground, wrap their arms around each other in a passionate kiss.
PART TWO