Chapter Text
Harry had no plans to stop in Ashford − indeed, he had every intention of avoiding large human settlements altogether until he could devise a suitably tragic and convincing tale about his presence in this world. Something along the lines of: “Alas, good sirs, I am but a poor and wretched orphan, unknowing of mother or father, reared in some distant and inconveniently untraceable land, where I was taught the noble arts of alchemy and healing − pray, do not question it too closely.”
A flawless story, really. Subtle. Elegant. Completely unbelievable.
Unfortunately, his plans unraveled with alarming speed.
This world, Harry had discovered, clung to his magic like a starving man clutching at bread. Apparating over long distances no longer felt like a brisk step through space − it felt more like being wrung out like a damp cloth and left to consider one’s mistakes.
By the time he staggered back into existence, he had just enough strength left to remain upright − and regret the decision thoroughly.
He appeared within sight of a small castle flying bright orange banners.
(Ashford, he would later learn. A detail that might have been useful five minutes earlier.)
For a while, he simply stood there, unsteady and distinctly out of place, waiting for the world to settle into something less… enthusiastic.
That was how the castle guards found him.
A patrol slowed at the sight of a stranger lingering too close to their walls, and approached with the calm certainty of men who expected trouble and were rarely disappointed. Questions followed. His answers, unfortunately, did little to improve his situation.
Suspicion settled in.
Arrest began to feel inevitable.
Then the castle erupted.
Servants rushed out in visible panic, calling for a healer with increasing urgency. Something inside had gone very wrong − and, as Harry soon gathered, the castle’s own maester had recently given his heart to the Stranger, leaving them inconveniently short on medical expertise at precisely the wrong moment.
The guards hesitated.
A suspicious stranger was still a problem − but a missing healer was a far more pressing one.
Rumour, thin and hastily assembled, did the rest. Harry was reassigned from “potential threat” to “possible solution” with remarkable speed.
Within moments, he was seized, informed − quite decisively − that a man rumored to possess healing abilities did not, in fact, get a say in the matter, and ushered inside with considerably more urgency than dignity.
He was then presented before the lord of the castle like an especially dubious gift.
The great hall that greeted him looked as though someone had taken a perfectly respectable medieval tapestry and decided it needed more shouting.
At the center of the chaos stood the Ashford family, engaged in what could only be described as a full‐scale domestic siege. Voices rose and crashed over one another like waves in a storm, each determined to drown out the rest. Around them, vassals, servants, and even a few remarkably patient dogs kept a cautious distance, observing the spectacle in near silence and exchanging looks that clearly said, this again.
“I swear it!” bellowed the head of the family − a round, red‐cheeked man with a beard that seemed to quiver with indignation. “The Seven themselves are punishing us! This is your doing, woman − clearly not enough candles were set in the Sept! We should have prayed more fervently while we had the chance. Now we are doomed. Doomed, I say!”
His wife, a woman of slender build and impeccable posture − who looked as though she had been carved from marble and then given opinions − turned on him with a hiss sharp enough to cut steel.
“At least I go to pray,” she snapped, “unlike certain individuals who devoured an entire venison pie the size of a knight’s shield and then fell into such a stupor that not even the Stranger himself could have roused them!”
The lord emitted a scandalized gasp, as though this were a gross exaggeration rather than a precise accounting of events.
His outrage, however, was swiftly drowned out by the wheezing sobs of the true center of attention.
A young girl − no more than twelve − stood nearby, her face flushed and blotched with angry red spots. Her breaths came in strained, rattling bursts that sounded deeply unhealthy and thoroughly alarming. On either side of her stood two boys, likely her brothers, frozen in place like particularly decorative guards who had misplaced both their purpose and their courage. Every so often, they glanced at one another with identical expressions of quiet terror, as though hoping the other might suddenly know what to do.
“Oh, woe! Woe is me!” cried the lord, wringing his hands with renewed vigor, though he took care to do so just out of reach of his wife’s glare. “My poor, sweet Gwin, stricken by some dreadful malady on the very eve of her name day! What am I to do? What is to become of the tournament?”
Harry, still slightly dizzy and now deeply suspicious of his life choices, considered the scene.
He had wanted to avoid people.
Instead, he had found this.
One of the guards who had earlier hauled his half‐conscious body into the hall cleared his throat with such force that the sound rang off the stone walls, cutting through the quarrel like a bell at prayer.
“My lord,” he announced, with the air of a man delivering something that might yet prove unfortunate, “we have found a hedge healer willing to offer his aid…”
His voice trailed off as he glanced back, suddenly less certain of his prize when confronted with the full weight of his lord’s attention.
All eyes turned.
Harry had the distinct and deeply unwelcome sensation of being measured, weighed, and found suspiciously unconvincing.
Brilliant.
Still, there was no help for it. He drew in a steadying breath, straightened as best he could, and stepped forward.
“My lord,” he said, inclining his head just enough to pass for respect without risking his balance, “my name is Harry. I am… a traveling healer. With your leave, I would examine the girl.”
The words sounded thin even to his own ears, but they would have to do.
He was keenly aware of how he must appear: a stranger in odd‐cut clothes, too clean by half, lacking the dust, stains, and general air of mild suffering that seemed expected of anyone claiming to wander these lands. Not to mention the fact that he had been dragged in rather than arriving with any dignity whatsoever.
Altogether, not an ideal introduction.
Harry held his ground anyway, meeting their stares with what he hoped passed for quiet confidence.
If they wanted their daughter to keep breathing, they were going to have to trust him.
At least a little.
Lord Ashford looked Harry up and down as though he were a horse of uncertain breeding, coughed twice into his fist in a valiant attempt at dignity, and drew himself up−
Only to wilt at once beneath his lady wife’s withering glare.
“Yes − yes, of course,” he muttered, waving a hand with sudden generosity. “See to her, then. Quickly, man!”
To Harry’s mild surprise, when he glanced toward Lady Ashford, her gaze − though sharp as ever − was fixed upon him with something far softer beneath it.
Hope.
Ah. That explained quite a lot.
Desperation, it seemed, made for sharp tongues and sharper prayers.
Harry wasted no further time. He crossed the hall in a few quick strides and came to the girl’s side. She clutched the edge of the table as though it were the only solid thing left in the world, her knuckles white, her breath coming in strained, rattling pulls that set his teeth on edge.
Up close, it was worse.
The swelling, the blotched skin, the tightness in her throat−
Yes. Definitely not divine wrath. Unless the gods had developed a fondness for lethal allergies.
He gently pried her fingers from the table and guided her down onto a nearby chair, keeping her upright.
“Easy,” he murmured, more to steady her than anything else. “Sit − like this. Breathe if you can.”
Behind him, the noise in the hall threatened to rise again.
“Quiet,” Harry said, without turning.
It was not loud, but something in the tone − firm, certain, entirely uninterested in argument − carried.
The hall fell, if not silent, then at least less disastrously loud.
Better.
He crouched slightly to bring himself level with the girl, quickly scanning her face, then tilting her chin just enough to check her mouth and throat. Angry swelling. No obstruction − yet. Good.
Turning his head just a fraction, he added, sharper now:
“Do not give her anything to eat or drink.”
A pause.
Then, because apparently that required explaining:
“She cannot swallow properly.”
There was a murmur at that − uncertain, but attentive.
Good. They were listening now.
Harry looked back to the girl, softening his voice.
“My lady,” he said quietly, “do not be afraid. I will not harm you. I mean only to learn what has done you this ill − and to see it undone.”
He hesitated a fraction, then added, with the faintest hint of reassurance:
“You shall yet attend your tourney, and outshine them all.”
It was, he suspected, precisely the sort of promise a twelve‐year‐old girl might cling to.
And if it kept her calm and breathing, all the better.
A few steadying breaths − slow, measured, counted softly under his breath − began to bring some order to the girl’s panicked gasping. Harry kept his fingers lightly at her wrist, as though merely taking her pulse, while a faint thread of magic slipped forth, quiet as a whisper and twice as discreet.
No flash, no flourish − only the slightest easing.
The tightness in her throat lessened by degrees, enough that each breath came a little deeper, a little less desperate than the last. Not well − certainly not well − but no longer on the brink of disaster.
That would have to suffice for now.
Color crept cautiously back into her face, chasing away the worst of the ashen pallor, though the angry red blotches still marred her skin, stubborn as sin.
Progress, then. Not a miracle − but progress.
Harry caught the whispers rising behind him − a low, rippling murmur that spread through the hall as swiftly as spilled wine. The change in the girl had not gone unnoticed. No grand gestures, no muttered prayers, no clouds of incense − and yet she breathed easier.
That alone was enough to set tongues wagging.
Splendid. Just what he needed.
His gaze shifted, settling on a young maid standing nearby − no older than her mistress − who clutched the hem of her gown so tightly it seemed in danger of tearing. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, fixed upon the girl as though she feared to blink lest the improvement vanish.
Harry met her gaze, his own steady and unyielding, and spoke clearly enough for the entire hall to hear.
“First − open the windows. Let fresh air into the room.”
The maid startled, then bobbed a quick, jerky curtsy before hurrying to obey.
“Second − bring lukewarm herbal tea. Nothing new. Only what your lady has taken before without ill effect.”
A pause, just long enough for that to settle.
“Third,” he continued, turning slightly, “I would have laid upon this table all that she has eaten this day − every dish, every sweet, every crumb.”
That earned him a snort from Lord Ashford.
“Poison, is it?” the lord said, with a dismissive wave. “Nonsense. We all ate and drank the same fare.”
On either side of the girl, her brothers nodded vigorously, eager to agree with something that sounded certain.
Harry exhaled, slow and patient, as though restraining the urge to argue with particularly dense children.
“What is a blessing to one man,” he said evenly, “may prove a bane to another.”
His gaze flicked briefly to the girl, then back.
“Especially,” he added, “when taken in excess.”
There was a small pause after that.
Just enough for doubt to begin its work.
After a draught of cool, fresh air had been let into the hall − and, once she could manage it, a few cautious sips of lukewarm tea (to which Harry had, with great subtlety and no small relief, added a few drops of an antihistamine potion summoned earlier with a discreet Accio) − the young lady’s breathing eased further.
Not well, not yet − but enough.
Enough to turn Lord Ashford’s earlier skepticism into something far more agreeable. Relief, it seemed, made for a generous temper.
“Bring it all!” he barked at once, swelling with renewed authority. “Everything that was set before us this day − leave nothing behind! If there is treachery in my hall, I’ll see it dragged into the light!”
Servants scattered like startled birds.
Before long, the table was laden once more with the remains of the feast: trenchers soaked in grease, the bones of roast capon, a half‐ruined venison pie, dishes of stewed leeks and onions − and, set somewhat apart, a cluster of sweets that had fared rather better than the rest.
Harry circled the table slowly, Ser Androw at his side, the boy doing his best to look useful while mostly looking anxious. Harry’s gaze moved not over what was there, but what was missing − what had been eaten, and how much.
The savory dishes he dismissed almost at once. Shared, picked over, nearly gone.
Nothing there.
His attention settled instead on what remained.
Sweets.
Tarts. Small pies. Honeyed confections, some scarcely touched.
Interesting.
He stopped, glancing at the boy.
“Tell me,” Harry said, gesturing lightly toward the spread, “is there any among these your sister favored above the rest?”
Androw frowned, thinking hard, then pointed toward a pie set proudly in the middle of the table.
“That one − the honey pie. It was made for her name day. Mother said it was to be hers this time,” he added, with a faint note of long‐suffering, “on account of Father usually seeing it disappear before anyone else gets a proper share.”
Harry could well believe it.
“So that must be Gwin’s pie…” the boy went on, then hesitated, doubt creeping in. “But − we had some as well. A slice, at least.”
Harry’s eyes flicked briefly to the girl.
“And she?” he asked.
There was a small pause.
Then, from the chair, in a voice still thin and hoarse, but far steadier than before:
“I… had three.”
Harry rewarded her with a small, reassuring smile.
“And you have eaten this same pie before, have you not?” he asked gently. “With no ill effect?”
The girl nodded, a little shyly.
That settled it.
So − something in the pie, yes… but not the pie itself.
Harry straightened, his gaze lifting to meet that of Lord and Lady Ashford.
“My lord. My lady,” he said, with a polite inclination of his head, “with your leave − I believe something has been added to this dish. Something not part of its usual making.”
He gestured lightly toward the honey pie.
“Likely an import. A spice, perhaps − something rare, brought from−”
He paused a moment, trying to recall the map he had studied a few times before.
“−across the narrow sea. New enough that no one here would think twice of it. I know this may sound… doubtful,” he added, with a hint of dry honesty, “but there is a simple way to test it.”
Before anyone could object − or, more dangerously, ask questions − Harry gave a soft, sharp whistle.
From beneath the tables, two hounds stirred, lifting their heads with interest. At the promise of attention (and perhaps food), they rose at once and trotted over, tails giving cautious, hopeful sways.
Harry picked up a small piece of the honey pie from the table, then crouched and broke it open between his fingers.
“A hound’s nose is keener than any man’s,” he said, almost conversationally. “If there is aught amiss here, they will know it.”
Which, he reflected privately, was more than could be said for most of the room.
The first hound padded forward with the solemn air of a creature long accustomed to being offered scraps. It lowered its head and gave the piece in Harry’s hand a long, thoughtful sniff.
Then it froze.
For the space of a heartbeat, the hall held its breath with it−
−and the dog exploded into a violent sneeze.
The sound rang against the stone walls like a snapped bowstring. The hound recoiled, snorting and shaking its head, as though deeply offended by the very notion of the thing.
A ripple of startled murmurs swept the room.
The second hound, less cautious and perhaps less wise, darted in to snatch the offered morsel. It bit down−
−and immediately spat it out with great force, backing away and fixing Harry with a look of profound betrayal.
Harry sighed.
“My apologies,” he said mildly, reaching for a bone from the table and offering it in compensation. “An unfortunate necessity.”
The dog accepted it with dignity, though its expression suggested the matter was not entirely forgiven.
Harry rose then, dusting his fingers together, and let his gaze travel slowly across the assembled faces.
The murmuring died.
“So,” he said, his voice calm but carrying easily through the hall, “what, precisely, was added to this pie?”