A/N this is an AU. The first 6 books all took place as is, however the events of book 7, the war, the subsequent aftermath etc. were much more extensive. Details will emerge as the story develops. This is my take on the classic "Harry goes to America" fic but it is not your standard version. It has dark and angsty parts, as well as more light and fresh parts, so don't say I didn't warn you. Overall it is more geared towards character development then massive AU plots. Also, my writing style will probably vary tremendously throughout. I like to experiment with different ways of getting the story to you guys. Feedback would be great and I hope you enjoy.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters. Any original characters are mine and I would like for it to stay that way. Any resemblance to real life characters is unintentional.

The batter swings viciously but to no avail. The pitcher has fooled him with a changeup and he has overextended. His wrists turn before the critical moment of contact and the result is a sharp grounder pulled down the line. The ball bounds down the smoothly groomed dirt of the infield; a hard shot to field cleanly. The young man manning the hot corner takes two quick steps to his right, smoothly backhands the grounder, turns and snaps off a strong throw to the first baseman. In the dugout, the coach grunts with approval. "Good job. Again". The players reset and repeat. Practice makes perfect.

A cry of "balls in" from the coach signals the end of the practice. The players gratefully troop into the air conditioned clubhouse. It can get rather hot in this rural part of New Mexico - slightly south of Albuquerque- in the summer months and this day is no exception. The players, really nothing more than a group of ambitious teenager's crowd around a chalkboard in a tight semicircle as the coach begins the post practice analysis speech.

"Moore", he says, addressing a husky kid adorned in the tools of ignorance, "good job behind the plate today. Maine," a quirk of the head indicates a tall wiry fellow standing by his side, "felt very comfortable with you today, nicely set targets and you were framing real good. I would just like to point out that you need to work on, as I've emphasized, really getting those knees down when blocking. It's essential. Today it worked out. But that's more because Kyle's a fastball guy. It ain't gonna be like that with everyone. Take someone like Marquez," he points to a stocky but athletic Hispanic boy, "his stuff will break you to pieces if you don't get that blocking technique down pat. You got me?" Moore nods.

"Good. Next... "In this vein the coach goes around the room giving his insight to each and every one of the boys.

He sounds tough, but it's all done with the encouraging tone of a teacher who genuinely wants to help his pupils. Sometimes he just points out something done correctly, the little things that make a big difference. With others constructive criticism is dealt, tough love, knowing that without a firm directing hand these boys will never grow to be men in the diamond. The coach has been doing this for years. This is the way to deal with a young college squad. Most of these kids haven't cracked their 20s, let alone be able to buy a drink, and a firm hand pushing them through the vicissitudes of life on the diamond and for those who need it, off the diamond as well, can be life-changing.

The young man who plays third base is slouching at the end of the dugout, a look of exhaustion apparent on his face. The boys have all left now, finished their showers and headed out. Some go to the dorms and others to the study hall. Only he is left and he has not made any indication that he's going anywhere, still clothed in his dirty uniform and wearing batting glove on his left hand.

Gingerly, the coach sits down on the banged up metal bleacher and contemplates the young man. It's not the first time that the kid, a slender kid topped with a mop of unruly black hair and trendy glasses has occupied his thoughts. Initially, the boy hadn't struck his attention. There was no imposing physical presence or loud personality in the locker room that would draw eyes to him. He seemed a fairly athletic plain boy.

The first time that the coach had noticed anything out of the ordinary was early on in the season. He had been in the clubhouse sorting ice packs for the pitchers to ice their arms with when he noticed the boy peeling off his batting gloves. A scar was revealed on his left hand. He could have sworn that it was in the shape of words, as if someone had tried to carve his hand like a piece of wood. It was unnerving and that had prompted him to keep a watchful eye on the boy. Having dealt with victims of abuse professionally for 35 years in Dallas before a well deserved retirement, he was no stranger to the morbid ways abusers prey on their victims.

Now, near the end of a long season together, he has yet to acquire much more insight into the boy. He is mysterious and enigmatic. A young man whom when playing looks no different than a regular teenage athlete, both on and off the field. On the field, he enjoys the game and off it he enjoys hanging out with teammates after wins. On other occasions however, it seems like a mask drops revealing the face of an ancient man, as if he has been shouldered with a burden too much even for one twice his age. Initially the coach had chalked it up to being the results of the adjustment to a new country and culture, the boy having emigrated from Europe the year before, but he recently has been giving that hypothesis a reassessment.

"It's that scar. That thing rubs me the wrong way", he mumbles to himself. "I think it's time I had a bit of a talk with him".

Carefully pulling himself up from the low metal bleachers, he heads towards the dugout ruing the old bones in his body. Right before he is in view of the dugout, he pauses and unconsciously readjusts his cap. He is second-guessing himself, unsure of how the kid will take this well meaning intrusion into private matters.

After all, it boils down to what's best for the kid; it doesn't matter if you're not behind the desk anymore. With that thought bolstering the sense of the necessity behind the upcoming act, he starts forward.

He ambles down the steps casually, his shoes scuffing on the worn cement. The kid jerks, startled. His hand, seemingly by instinct, swings downwards towards his waist groping for something which is not there. Realization sets in and his body audibly relaxes.

"Oh, it's you", he says, his tone implying a sort of relief as if he was expecting someone else. "You startled me".

"Po-toer," he stumbles as he often does on the French sounding name. The nervous tension he has about the upcoming confrontation doesn't help any.

- "It's pronounced Pateur. I've told you many times before, just call me Henri", the kid quickly cuts him off. He sounds slightly exasperated, the emotion compounded with his obvious lethargy thickening his unusual accent. It sounds English, but when pronouncing his last name there is a distinct French lilt to it.

"Whatever", the coach grunts in his distinctive drawl, "get dressed and come to my office, I want to talk to ya. Hustle." He doesn't like sounding tough, but sometimes when these teenagers get moody this is the only way to get through to them. If he was being inwardly honest, it makes it easier for him to affect the grumbly persona when he is nervous.

They settle down in the office, a small room not much bigger than a closet tacked on seemingly as an afterthought to the side of the ramshackle sports complex. It's organized precisely, everything in its proper place, as befits a man whose occupation had been, and to some degree still is, organizing people's minds. Henri sits down on an aluminum folding chair and stares into the coaches eyes.

"What am I here for" he asks calmly. "I haven't done anything wrong, have I?" He knows why he's here. The coach's inquiring eyes haven't been invisible. Oh maybe he thought that his interest in me went unnoticed, but for the trained eye it was about as subtle as a dragon crashing through a bank window, he thinks wryly

The coach leans forward. His five o'clock shadow rims his chin. Henri is struck by the position he takes. Leaned forward with his fingers lined up in a steeple, it is eerily reminiscent of a former headmaster he once had.

He freezes. Thoughts come crashing through his head. Buried memories of the man he most respected are unearthed. His smile. "Blubber, nitwit, oddment, and tweak," the headmaster says. A little boy turned to Percy, his newfound friend's older brother. "Is he mad," he asks. "Just a little," Percy responds with delight," he's the best." Henri's lips crack in a grim smile. His eyes are glazed over. The grief starts to kick in. A flood of emotions, of guilt for having survived when others haven't starts to weigh him down. A low cry emits from his mouth, barely a whisper. "I tried but I couldn't save you. You didn't let me."

The coach looks at him in alarm. Turmoil is written all over Henri's face. He's breathing heavily, hyperventilating. The coach jumps up and lays a comforting hand in his shoulder. Henri doesn't seem to acknowledge its existence. The coach looks at the boy and raises his hand.

SLAP. A resounding whack to Henri's face shakes him out of the self induced panic attack. He comes to and realizes what just happened. He curses under his breath. Embarrassment courses through his body as he realized what just went down and who he was in front of. The coach lets out a deep breath.

"Have you been in like a war or something?" the coach asks only half joking. He's unsure what answer he will hear. The kid definitely has some traumatic experience that left lasting effects. The full blown panic attack induced by what seems to be PTSD happening right in front of him seems rather indicative of it. Abuse could have similar affects but that doesn't seem accurate.

Henri looks at him blankly. A defiant and unspoken 'what do you know' is conveyed from him to the man on the other side of the desk.

"Something has happened to you in your past." The coach states matter of factly. Henri barely twitches an eyelash at that. A subtle nod of his head gives the coach the acknowledgement to go on.

"I don't know what it is and honestly I don't know if I actually want to know what it is. I think you need to talk to someone you trust and let it out." He is looking Henri in the eyes this whole time and Henri is staring back at him steadily, unperturbed by this unsolicited psychological conversation.

"You know who I am and what I've done for many of you kids - referencing the counseling and help he has given out freely to his players over the years- and I think I know you to some degree. I am sure you have friends, but I don't think you have ever actually divulged the full extent to anyone. If you want to place some trust in me and talk, then I am perfectly willing to forgo the excellent food my wife has prepared for me and find a diner together."

"You don't know me in the slightest", Henri laughs. It's the laugh of a man who has stared death in the eye and knows that life can all end in an instant. The coach recognizes it. He has heard that very same laugh emitting from his own throat many years ago. The sound takes him back in a flashback of his own.

1969, for some, the year signified the apex of counterculture, the famous Woodstock festival, Beatle-Mania at its craziest. For others it was different. Life alteringly different. For those others, that most unforgettable of years was taking place in the humidity and steamy forests of Vietnam...

They told him that when the bloody mass of himself had been found they thought he was dead. The car wheels had still been spinning.

Colonel Emerson Phillips, a young boy just 20 years of age, had been selected to lead the convoy of supplies to a rendezvous with troops north of base. The going is slow and rough. The air is muggy with not a breath of wind to provide respite. Emerson is driving carefully and joking around with his companion, 21 year old, Steve Hawkins. A regular fun loving kid from Iowa. They had hit it off from the first day of basic trading and the bonds of war had drawn them closer as it does with so many.

A quick and furious confluence of events, Emerson was still not sure of the order of them to this very day, occurred. The Jeep swerved to avoid a natural obstruction in the rough trail, and an AK47 barked, bullets spraying all around and quickly blowing out the windshield. Steve yelling at Emerson to stay down and to radio the convoy not to follow. Emerson staying down while Steve provides cover. The phrase pounds through his head, dizzy with the sudden burst of adrenaline his body releases. Mayday... Four Charlie...convoy DNF... Repeat Do Not Follow. Send air cover... Mayday... Over and over again. He loses track of how many times he speaks out those words. Above him Steve is doing a valiant job defending the Jeep from the guerilla fighters. They fight with desperation, with no regard for safety whatsoever. They would as soon drop out of a tree, knives gripped between their teeth and AK47 firing away on full auto as Steve would plug them with his M16. But it couldn't go on like this forever. They had little cover and if a bullet would strike the engine they would be roasted in an inferno. Emerson yells at Steve.

"I'm going forward" and he slams the gas. The engine catches, shudders then goes. The battered Jeep jerks forward and starts driving blindly into the forest. The Vietnamese, smelling a retreat, following in hot pursuit. The Jeep is thrashings around, barely controllable as it maneuvers through the thickly wooded Vietnamese forest.

"There", Emerson jabs excitedly with his finger. It seems to be a miracle, in the distance lays a US army station. Steve is concerned that it might be a setup, while Emerson is hearing none of that. Providence, he thinks as he slams the gas yet again, urging a few more RPM from the beleaguered machine. They rumble onto smoother ground. Steve smells something; his eyes widen open as he yells

"Turn around its a- the rest of his words cannot be made out in the noise of the explosion. The resulting fireball is massive. A thermite incendiary explosive device combined with the remaining gas in the engine can do that. Emerson would have been dead very quickly if he had not been thrown clear at the moment of detonation. The forest had been a trap. Small innocuous paths direct unsuspecting victims towards what appeared to be a US army base, but in reality was no more than strategically placed pieces of wood tarp and broken equipment.

He had woken up laughing. A laugh that is only laughed by men who had seen the power of death. One who has had a beloved comrades life casually snuffed out right in front of his eyes. It was this laugh that he has just heard emanate from the mouth of one Henri Patuer and it makes him both concerned and intensely curious about the mysterious personality sitting across from him.

"But what the heck, I'll go with you." Henri says, his voice jerking the coach back into the present. "I'm just warning you. You asked for it, and I'm going to mince no words." I can't really tell him everything because of the statute, but if I tell him enough he probably will back off and give me space.

They walk silently to the car, a solidly built pickup. Before putting the key in the ignition, the coach turns to Henri.

"Forgive me for being so forward, but can I take a look at your left hand?" Henri says nothing, just reaches out his hand and puts it into the coach's soft wrinkled hand. Piercing eyes trace out the words harshly carved in the pale skin. "I must not tell lies", it reads in a thick scrawl. The scar is a pale white, it didn't happen recently otherwise it would still have redness It must have been when he was a kid. What type of foul individual would such a despicable act? The question clearly prompts a visceral reaction from the coach because Henri answers the unasked question racing through the old coach's mind.

"Don't worry about it," he says calmly, "she's never going to see the light of dawn again. You see, I killed her myself"

A/N The next few chapters are going to go back through Harry, or rather Henri's backstory, so expect a more narration/perspective style. It's something I've been trying to work on. Updates will unfortunately be on an inconsistent basis because I have a very busy schedule with camp and college.