Birds of a Feather (Stick Together)

Harry trudged through the city streets, the trench coat pulled tight around him as the rain fell in a soft drizzle. He kept his head down, blending into the throng of the evening commuters and pedestrians. His mind raced with the puzzle pieces he'd gathered so far—1978, a world teetering on chaos, and Tom Riddle now a viscount with political aspirations.

Why always you? Harry thought grimly, his hand brushing against the Elder Wand hidden in his pocket. He pushed the thought aside. He had more immediate concerns.

He needed shelter. Somewhere to rest, regroup, and figure out his next move. He'd seen a few motels as he wandered the streets, dingy neon signs advertising rooms by the night or week. The kind of places that didn't ask questions, perfect for someone like him.

As he turned onto a quieter street, the sound of muffled shouting reached his ears. Harry stopped, his instincts flaring.

The shouting came from an alley just ahead. Harry quickened his pace, his footsteps silent as he approached the narrow space between the two buildings.

What he saw made his stomach twist.

A group of young white men, barely older than teenagers, were crowding around a boy no older than fifteen or sixteen. The boy was dark-skinned, his lean frame pressed against the brick wall as one teen shoved him hard in the chest.

"Got any more cash, or is that all?" the leader sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

"I told you, I have nothing else!" the boy shouted back, his voice wavering between fear and defiance.

The teen holding him grinned cruelly. "Well, maybe you can serve as entertainment. It's what you blacks are good for, after all."

Harry didn't think. He stepped into the alley, his wand slipping into his hand as he leveled it at the group.

"Oi!" he barked, his voice sharp enough to cut through the rain.

The group turned, their expressions shifting from cocky to wary as they took in Harry's disheveled appearance, the ruthlessness in his gaze—and the faint glint of the wand in his hand.

"Who the hell are you?" one of them snapped, but his bravado faltered when Harry took a step closer, his green eyes blazing.

"The guy who's going to make you regret it if you don't leave right now," Harry said evenly, his voice low and steady. He twitched the wand just enough to let a faint spark of magic flare at its tip.

The group hesitated, exchanging nervous glances. Then, muttering curses under their breath, they backed away and disappeared into the rain-soaked streets.

The boy sagged against the wall, his breathing shallow as he clutched at his side. His lip was split, and a dark bruise was already forming on his cheek.

"You all right?" Harry asked, stepping closer but keeping his voice gentle.

The boy's dark eyes narrowed, his expression cautious. "Who are you?" he asked, his tone edged with suspicion.

Harry hesitated. What am I supposed to say?

"Just someone passing through," he said finally. He crouched down, meeting the boy's gaze. "They didn't take anything else, did they?"

The boy shook his head, wincing as he straightened. "No. Thanks to you." He paused, his gaze flickering over Harry's face. "You're not from around here, are you?"

Harry smiled faintly. "Not exactly."

The boy's expression softened slightly. He glanced at Harry's darker skin—olive-toned and tanned from years of being outdoors. Something in that seemed to ease his wariness.

"You're mixed, aren't you?" the boy asked suddenly.

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the question. "I suppose you could say that," he said, though he wasn't entirely sure what his new body's ethnicity was in this world.

The boy nodded, his shoulders relaxing. "You're lucky you blend in better than me. People like us don't exactly have it easy around here."

Harry frowned, sensing the weight behind the boy's words. "Where do you live?" he asked.

The boy hesitated again before sighing. "An orphanage. St. Ignatius Home. It's not far from here."

Harry stood and offered the boy his hand. "Come on. Let's get you back."

The boy stared at him for a moment before taking his hand. "Thanks," he muttered. "I'm Elijah, by the way, but call me Eli."

Harry paused, realizing he hadn't thought of an alias yet. "Harry," he said after a beat. "Just Harry."

As they walked through the rain-soaked streets, Harry couldn't ignore the way Eli's steps faltered every few moments. The boy was trying to hide it, but he was clearly in pain.

"Stop for a second," Harry said, grabbing Eli's arm gently.

"I'm fine," Eli said quickly, though his voice wavered.

"You're not fine," Harry said, his tone firm. He crouched slightly to get a better look at the boy's side, where Eli was clutching his ribs. A dark stain was spreading across his shirt, the fabric sticking to his skin.

"Let me see," Harry insisted.

Eli hesitated, his eyes narrowing in suspicion again, but Harry's no-nonsense expression left little room for argument. With a resigned sigh, Eli pulled his hand away, revealing a nasty gash just below his ribs.

Harry's stomach turned at the sight. The cut wasn't deep enough to be fatal, but it was bleeding steadily, and the bruising around it suggested the impact of a hard punch or a kick.

"Why didn't you say anything?" Harry asked, his voice softer now.

Eli shrugged, trying to look indifferent. "Not like anyone cares. I've had worse."

Harry shook his head. He hesitated for just a second before pulling the Elder Wand from his pocket. "Well, I care. Hold still."

Eli's eyes widened as he saw the wand. "What's that? Is that a—?"

"Quiet," Harry said, cutting him off. He focused on the wound, the tip of the wand glowing faintly as he murmured, "Episkey."

Warm, golden light spread from the wand, enveloping the wound. Eli flinched at first, but then his shoulders relaxed as the pain ebbed away. The gash knit itself together before their eyes, the skin smoothing out until only a faint scar remained.

Eli stared down at his side, his mouth falling open. "What the hell…"

Harry pocketed the wand and stood, brushing his hands off on his coat. "It's nothing. Just a little first aid."

"That wasn't just first aid," Eli said, his voice sharp with disbelief. He pressed his fingers to his ribs, his eyes darting between Harry and his now-healed side. "You did… magic."

Harry sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. "It's not a big deal. You needed help, so I helped. That's all."

Eli shook his head, his expression somewhere between awe and wariness. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"No," Harry admitted. "Not exactly."

Eli's gaze lingered on him, searching his face for answers, but he didn't press further. Instead, his expression shifted—hesitation giving way to something else.

"We've got others," he said suddenly.

Harry frowned. "Others?"

"At the orphanage," Eli explained. "Kids who are sick. Hurt. Mrs. Turner does what she can, but we don't have money for doctors most of the time." He hesitated, glancing at Harry's pocket where the wand was hidden. "If you can do that… could you help them?"

Harry blinked, caught off guard by the question. He hadn't planned on getting involved, not this deeply, but the hope in Eli's eyes was hard to ignore.

"They're just kids," Eli added quietly. "They did nothing to deserve this."

Harry's chest tightened. He thought of the children at Hogwarts—the ones he'd fought so hard to protect. The ones he couldn't save.

"I'll see what I can do," Harry said finally.