Harry and Dobby worked in silence as they carried the injured creature back toward the ship.
The desert wind whispered over the dunes, dragging sand along the hull of starship, but the wards held firm, bending light and sound away from prying eyes. Whatever civilization existed on this planet, Harry had no intention of revealing their presence until he understood where—and what—they truly were.
Dobby adjusted his grip carefully, cradling the creature with surprising gentleness for someone so small.
"Dobby will not allow anyone to see Master Harry's tent," he said firmly, glancing once toward the distant horizon. "Or our secrets."
Harry nodded. "The ship is safer anyway. If anyone scans the area, they'll look for wreckage, not something warded."
They entered through the rear hatch, sealing it behind them. The interior lights flickered to life, humming softly as ancient systems recognized their presence. Harry laid the creature down on one of the medical platforms Salazar—Bane—had once insisted was essential for "long-term conquest."
Now it would be used for something far simpler.
Saving a life.
Winky appeared almost instantly, eyes sharp with concern.
"Oh, poor thing," she murmured, hands already glowing with diagnostic magic. "Bones shattered… internal bleeding… lungs strained from impact."
Harry didn't hesitate.
He uncorked a vial of healing potion, letting the thick, pearlescent liquid trickle past the creature's lips. It swallowed weakly, instinctively, the potion reacting immediately. The creature shuddered as color returned to its skin.
"Good," Harry muttered. "It works."
He followed with Skele-Gro, carefully measured and diluted. Bones knit together with faint popping sounds, the creature groaning softly but no longer in agony.
Dobby watched with wide eyes. "Magic works on aliens too," he said, sounding faintly awed.
"Magic works on life," Harry replied. "Life just wears different shapes."
They waited.
Harry sat on a crate near the medical platform, elbows on his knees, staring at the dim glow of the ship's panels. For the first time since leaving Earth, he allowed himself to think.
This planet has races. Engines. Technology advanced enough to defy gravity and sound barriers.
Which meant trade routes. Fuel. Knowledge.
A way forward.
And yet, a bitter thought lingered.
I don't want to be a Sith.
The word itself tasted wrong now.
Salazar Slytherin—Darth Bane—had taught him power, discipline, ambition. But betrayal had been woven into those teachings like poison in wine. Rule of Two. Master and apprentice. One always destined to kill the other.
Harry clenched his fist.
"If that's what being a Sith means," he murmured, "then I'm done with it."
Dobby, sitting cross-legged on the floor, nodded solemnly. "Dobby agrees. Sith hurt their friends. We do not."
Winky smiled faintly. "Then we are just… us."
Harry let out a quiet breath. "Exactly."
A sound broke the silence.
A rasping inhale.
Harry was on his feet instantly.
The creature's eyes fluttered open—large, bulbous, glossy black, reflecting the soft lights of the ship. It stared at the unfamiliar surroundings, panic flaring for a moment, before its gaze locked onto Harry.
It croaked something unintelligible.
Harry raised his hands slowly, palms open.
"It's all right," he said carefully—and then switched languages.
"Easy. You're safe. You were injured. We helped."
The creature froze.
Its eyes widened.
"You… saved me?" it rasped, voice rough but unmistakably understandable.
Harry felt a surge of relief so strong it almost made him laugh.
"Yes," he said.
Dobby puffed his chest proudly. "It's a blessing Master Harry learns many languages!"
The creature struggled to sit up, wincing, but stopped when Winky gently pressed it back down.
"Don't," she scolded softly. "You were broken."
The creature swallowed. "I… I should be dead."
"You would have been," Harry said honestly. "But you crashed close enough for us to find you."
The creature stared at him for a long moment, then bowed its head as much as it could manage.
"I am Sebul," it said. "A racer. A pilot. You saved my life."
Harry inclined his head in return. "Harry. This is Dobby and Winky."
Sebul blinked, eyes darting to the house-elves. "Your… crew?"
"Family," Harry corrected.
That earned him a strange clicking sound from Sebul—laughter, perhaps.
"You are… unusual," Sebul said slowly. "All of you."
Harry smiled faintly. "We get that a lot."
Sebul's gaze drifted around the ship, taking in the strange blend of ancient metal and unmistakably non-technological elements—runes etched into bulkheads, faint magical hums beneath the electrical systems.
"This vessel," Sebul said carefully, "is old. Very old."
"We know," Harry replied. "It landed on our world thousands of years ago. We… repaired it. Poorly."
"So we are in the galaxy," Dobby said.
Sebul tilted his head. "Of course. You are on Tatooine."
The name echoed through Harry's mind.
"Tatooine," he repeated. "Desert planet. Twin suns."
"And three moons," Sebul added. "Though one is barely visible during the day."
Harry leaned back, absorbing it.
"Is this… civilized space?" he asked.
Sebul laughed again, a dry, wheezing sound. "Civilized? No. Inhabited? Yes. This is the Outer Rim. Forgotten by the Core Worlds. Ruled by criminals and merchants."
Harry felt something loosen in his chest.
Outer Rim meant distance.
Distance meant time.
Time meant freedom.
"We thought this planet had no life," Harry admitted.
Sebul's eyes gleamed. "Then you arrived very far from Mos Espa or Mos Eisley. Lucky for you. Less trouble in the wastes."
"Trouble?" Dobby asked suspiciously.
"Slavers. Raiders. Hutts," Sebul said grimly. "If they find you, they will not ask questions."
Harry nodded slowly. "Then it's good we stayed hidden."
Sebul hesitated, then said quietly, "You saved me. I owe you. When I am strong enough, I can take you to civilization. Help you find fuel. Repairs. Passage."
Harry met his gaze steadily.
"That would help us more than you know."
Sebul smiled, exhausted but sincere.
"Then rest easy, offworlder," he said. "You are not lost anymore."
Harry looked out through the viewport, where twin suns blazed over endless sand.
For the first time since leaving Earth, the unknown didn't feel empty.
It felt like possibility.
The moment the Sebul truly recovered enough to sit upright without assistance, Harry learnedone important things about the galaxy.
That Winky's cooking could apparently conquer civilizations.
Sebul sat cross-legged on a crate near the small fold-out table inside the ship. His large, rounded eyes were half-closed in something that looked dangerously close to religious reverence as he chewed slowly, savoring every bite.
"This," Sebul said solemnly, lifting his spoon as if it were a sacred object, "is the greatest meal I have eaten in my entire life."
Winky froze mid-motion, her ears twitching.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "Winky is very glad you like it, sir."
Harry blinked. "It's… stew."
Sebul's eyes snapped open, scandalized.
"Stew?"
Dobby leaned forward eagerly. "Winky only made simple food today! We are rationing."
Sebul stared into the bowl again, as if reassessing reality itself.
"On Tatooine," he said slowly, "this would be sold in Mos Eisley for a week's wages."
Harry glanced at the pot. Brown broth. A few chunks of meat. Vegetables. Bread on the side.
Merlin help me, he thought, what would happen if Winky cooked properly?
Winky, meanwhile, was glowing.
"Oh, Winky can cook much better," she said proudly. "This is only travel food."
Sebul let out a strangled sound.
"Please," he said suddenly, setting the bowl down and leaning forward. "I will fly your ship. I will clean it. I will protect it. I will die for this cooking."
Harry nearly choked on his own drink.
"That escalated quickly."
Dobby tilted his head. "Dobby thinks that is reasonable."
Harry pinched the bridge of his nose. "No one is dying for stew."
Sebul laughed—a sharp, clicking sound that Harry was beginning to recognize as genuine amusement rather than stress.
"I joke," Sebul said. "Mostly."
Harry studied him more carefully now.
Sebul was a Rodian, he had learned earlier—a green-skinned, large-eyed species with angular features and clawed fingers. One of thousands of sentient races scattered across the galaxy. Some bipedal, some not. Some aquatic. Some silicon-based. The sheer scale of life beyond Earth still made Harry's head spin.
"You said you were a pilot," Harry said, steering the conversation back to safer ground.
Sebul nodded. "A racer first. A pilot always."
Harry remembered the blur of engines cutting through the sky, the impossible speed, the reckless precision.
"I saw you fly," Harry said. "That was skilled flight."
Sebul's chest puffed slightly. "I have raced since I was a hatchling. Podracing, cargo runs, smuggling—"
"Smuggling?" Harry echoed.
"Light smuggling," Sebul said quickly. "Nothing immoral. Mostly food. Sometimes people."
Harry raised an eyebrow.
Sebul shrugged. "Tatooine is not kind to those without credits."
Harry leaned back, folding his arms. Trust did not come easily to him—especially not after betrayal had followed him across worlds.
"You want to join us," Harry said. "Why?"
Sebul hesitated.
Then he sighed.
"Because I am tired of running in circles," he admitted. "Because I nearly died today for a race that no longer matters. And because you are not some Sith lords."
Dobby stiffened.
Harry's eyes sharpened. "How do you know that?"
Sebul met his gaze steadily. "Sith do not heal strangers. Sith do not share food. And Sith do not look at the galaxy like it is… open."
Harry was silent for a long moment.
"Tell me about Tatooine," he said finally.
Sebul leaned back, carefully stretching his still-healing arm.
"Tatooine is dust and heat," he said. "Twin suns that burn hope out of the sky. Three moons that watch you sleep. Water is precious. Life is cheap."
Harry nodded. "That much we noticed."
"Mos Eisley. Mos Espa. Small settlements. Criminal hubs," Sebul continued. "The Hutts rule here. Jabba used to host massive podraces—before the Empire."
"The Empire," Harry repeated.
"Yes. The Sith Empire," Sibor said. "They rule the galaxy now."
That sentence landed like a stone.
Harry felt it settle somewhere deep in his chest.
"The Sith," he said slowly. "How long?"
"Recently," Sebul replied. "Since the fall of the Republic."
Harry exchanged a glance with Dobby.
"What changed?" Harry asked.
Sebul snorted. "Leadership. Banners. Names. Life stays the same for people like us."
"You don't sound afraid of them," Harry noted.
"I am careful," Sibor corrected. "There is a difference."
Harry considered that.
"What about Jedi?" he asked.
Sebul's expression darkened. "Hunted. Dead. Or hiding."
"So the Sith won."
"They always do," Sebul said bitterly. "Eventually."
Harry exhaled slowly.
So the galaxy is ruled by Sith… and I just escaped one sithlord.
The irony wasn't lost on him.
"And races?" Harry asked. "The one we saw."
Sebul shook his head. "Illegal now. Gatherings bring attention. The Empire does not like crowds that cannot be controlled."
Harry frowned. "But you raced anyway."
Sebul smiled. "Freedom tastes better when it is forbidden."
Harry understood that far too well.
When Sebul was finally strong enough to stand without wobbling, he walked—slowly—into the cockpit.
His eyes widened instantly.
"This ship," he whispered. "It is ancient."
"Thousands of years," Harry confirmed.
"It should not still fly," Sebul said, running a clawed hand over the console. "And yet…"
"It does," Dobby said proudly. "Mostly."
Sebul chuckled, then turned serious.
"You cannot stay here," he said. "Your supplies will not last forever. And when someone eventually notices energy readings in the desert, they will come armed."
Harry nodded. "We figured."
"I can take you to Mos Espa," Sebul said. "Or Mos Eisley. You will find parts. Fuel. Mechanics. Information."
"And trouble," Harry said.
"Yes," Sebul agreed. "But controlled trouble."
Harry looked at Winky and Dobby.
Winky nodded eagerly. "Winky trusts him."
Dobby crossed his arms. "Dobby will watch him."
Harry smiled faintly.
"All right," he said. "You can come with us. On one condition."
Sebul straightened. "Name it."
"You don't lie to me," Harry said calmly. "Ever."
Sebul placed a hand over his chest. "On my honor as a racer."
Harry extended his hand.
Sebul clasped it.
The galaxy had just gotten bigger.
They weren't alone anymore.
They had a pilot.
They had a direction.
The journey across the desert stretched far longer than Harry had first expected.
Tatooine was merciless in a way no place on Earth had ever been. Heat rose from the dunes in visible distortions, turning the horizon into a mirage that never quite resolved. Each step sank slightly, forcing constant effort, and the wind carried grains fine enough to sting exposed skin.
Yet despite the harshness, they were not suffering.
Harry had planned well.
Food and water were abundant—far more than enough for months, even years. Magical trunks lightened the load, and enchantments woven subtly into their cloaks kept the worst of the heat at bay. To avoid attention, Harry had packed away the enchanted tent and instead erected a simple canvas one at night, old-fashioned and unremarkable, the kind travelers might use. The magical tent remained hidden, warded and folded away, unseen by prying eyes.
They traveled for days.
During the long hours of walking, Sebul talked.
He talked a lot.
Sebul had the habit of narrating his life as though it were a collection of grand adventures, each story delivered with exaggerated gestures and dramatic pauses. Harry quickly learned that separating truth from embellishment was a skill one developed over time. Still, even filtered through Sebul's flair for drama, the stories were invaluable.
The galaxy was vast—unimaginably vast.
Harry listened as Sebul spoke of worlds where oceans covered entire planets, of city-states floating among clouds, of trade routes that spanned thousands of systems. Compared to that, Britain—Earth itself—felt impossibly small.
"The nearest settlement," Sebul said one evening as they rested atop a dune, pointing toward the horizon, "is Anchorhead. Not much to look at, but it has traders, mechanics, and people who don't ask too many questions."
That last part, Harry suspected, was the most important.
As they drew closer to civilization, the desert began to change.
It was subtle at first. Tracks in the sand—wide, padded impressions and narrow, booted footprints. Then movement in the sky: desert hawks circling lazily above, their cries sharp and piercing as they rode the thermals. Harry paused more than once to watch them, noting how life here had adapted perfectly to a world that offered little mercy.
Soon after, Sebul pointed out their first domesticated creatures.
"Eopies," he said, nodding toward a slow-moving caravan cresting a distant dune.
Harry narrowed his eyes.
The creatures were tall and broad, their long necks swaying as they walked. Thick hides protected them from the sun, and their wide, padded feet prevented them from sinking into the sand. Leather reins guided them forward, and packs hung heavy from their sides.
"They're like camels," Harry murmured.
Sebul laughed. "I don't know what a camel is but these are strong, stubborn, and they'll spit on you if they don't like your face."
Eopies, Sebul explained, were bred for transport, meat, and milk. On Tatooine, nearly everything useful came from animals adapted to the desert. Water was precious—too precious to waste on anything unnecessary.
Then Sebul spoke of Bantha.
Massive, wool-covered beasts with curved horns and towering frames. Harry saw one not long after, grazing near a cluster of moisture vaporators. Its size was staggering, dwarfing even Hagrid back home.
"Best meat I've ever had," Sebul said fondly. "Milk too. Strong stuff."
Harry absorbed it all quietly, storing every detail away. He found it ironic—almost amusing—that in a world ruled by advanced technology, survival still depended on animals much like those humans had relied upon for thousands of years.
"The people here drink more milk than water," Sebul added. "Water's too rare."
Harry glanced at his magically expanded canteen and felt a deep sense of gratitude for foresight—and magic.
By the time Anchorhead finally came into view, the suns were dipping low, casting long shadows across the sand.
The settlement rose from the desert like a collection of stubborn scars. Low buildings made from stone, scrap metal, and sun-bleached plasteel clustered together, their edges worn smooth by decades of sandstorms. Antennas and cables jutted from rooftops. Vaporators hummed softly, pulling moisture from the thin air.
The streets were crowded with beings of every imaginable shape and size. Tall, short, scaled, furred—some walked on two legs, others on more. Humans were common, but far from dominant. Compared to the variety here, Hogwarts felt oddly uniform.
Dobby and Winky drew no more attention than anyone else.
Harry let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
On Earth, house-elves would have been a sensation. Here, they were simply… people.
Anchorhead buzzed with quiet activity. Traders argued prices in sharp, unfamiliar accents. Mechanics worked on battered speeders, tools clanking rhythmically. The smell of fuel, dust, cooked meat, and spices hung heavy in the air.
Harry slowed his pace.
"This," he said softly, "is civilization."
Sebul grinned. "Welcome to Tatooine."
Author's Note:
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