HARRY POTTER: FORBIDDEN MAGIC

The late night summer rain pelted hard on the boy's shoulders as he sat on the roof of the apartment building, clad in a battered black coat that was long soaked through and a pair of trainers that had lost their toes a month previously. His raven's wing hair was plastered to his pale and bony forehead, his emerald eyes closed from the world.

This boy was Harry Potter, The Boy Who Lived. A hero made villain made hero again. At least, that's what the Wizarding Press thought. All they knew. They'd dramatized the ordeal in the Department of Mysteries, throwing out words like "courage" and "valor", and it enraged him.

They had said so little of the wrongly accused man, whose only crime had been ill-placed trust, that had given his life for Harry's pathetic own.

Sirius's death was his fault, no matter what Dumbledore said. Prophecies or no prophecies, if Harry hadn't gone running off to "act the hero" as Ron had put it (and regretted later) then his godfather would still be alive, there with a bark-like laugh… or a hug.

Harry could really use a hug right now. Even if he didn't deserve one.

There were no cars traveling the streets now, not at the late hour, in this dangerous neighborhood three miles outside Little Whinging.

He did not worry about being seen. If anyone tried to hurt him, he would embrace the conflict, give himself fully to pain both received and dealt out… just to drown that which dwelled in his heart.

He opened his eyes now, for the first time in nearly an hour.

So… some "prophecy" dictated that he be the hero again… that he was responsible, not just for Hogwarts, or England, but the entire goddamn world. The seer who he'd always thought a crackpot had turned his world upside down with her more than decade-old words, and now where did he stand? Alone, guilt-stricken and heart broken on the roof of some decrepit building, not daring to ask the ether for relief.

And then, a familiar but uncharacteristically quiet voice slipped through the night like a warm breeze.

"Wotcher, Harry."

He did not turn around. "Tonks," he said, not sure which emotion dominated his voice; there were too many vying for control.

The metamorph auror took a few tentative steps toward him. Four, to be exact. Four steps across a rain-washed roof.

"What are you doing here, Tonks? Did Dumbledore send you? Because I've had it up to here with—"

"Harry."

Something in the way she said his name broke his cold self-paralysis. He rose. Turned.

The twenty-something witch was wearing a violet raincoat that hung to her black-booted calves, over a pitch-dark skirt and tank-top. Her hair was as black tonight, spiked, but choppier than usual.

"I came on my own," she said. "I've been worried about you."

Harry's face was carefully blank.

"Thanks for your concern, Tonks. But I'm fine."

She frowned, looking at him with her head cocked to one side.

"Really! I'm serious, I'm… aw, fuck it, who am I kidding?" he finished bitterly. "I'm wrecked."

Tonks came the rest of the way to him and said, "I know the feeling. He was my cousin, y'know. You knew him a bit more than I did, sure… but I spent time with him, I cared about him, and… I know the feeling."

Harry nodded, and they squatted together on the roof's edge.

"Did you walk here?" she asked.

"Yeah. Another friendly exchange with my dear relatives, and I couldn't take it. Not on top of everything else. Not on top of…"

He trailed off, but Tonks finished for him.

"The prophecy."

"…Yes."

She took her time answering. When next she spoke, there was a quaver in her voice that shocked Harry.

"You're feeling isolated, aren't you? Isolated by fear of what you've got to become… isolated by the fear that it's your fault that he died. And it wasn't, Harry. You've got to believe me. He wouldn't blame you, and you shouldn't blame yourself."

Harry felt a strong burning in his eyes.

"I'm so… tired, Tonks. So fucking tired. Tired of war and death and destiny and all that bloody bullshit. And it's like I've got my back to a wall. There's no one here for me, Tonks! I've never felt this alone in my life! Not even before I went to Hogwarts, when I was everyone's favorite punching bag-slash-laughing stock."

"Ron and Hermione—"

"Are the greatest friends anyone could want. But in the end, no one expects them to destroy the epitome of evil, now do they? I've got no one! Because no one will ever, ever understand just what it's like to be Harry fucking Potter, The Boy who fucking Lived."

And then, before he even realized it, he was sobbing, tears tearing their way from his eyes.

"Oh, Harry…" Tonks said, mournfully, and took him into her arms.

He cried into her shoulder for several long moments, but she kept rubbing his back and whispering what little words of comfort she could give.

Then she realized. Words were not enough. Not for someone who has forgone all hope of happiness, all bonds of friendship.

All at once, the blazing fire she'd felt around this time last year, the one that spread from her heart through her entire body, returned. It was forceful, burning its way through everything but the need to be free. To be honest.

Okay, then.

Honest she would be.

As Harry's tears subsided, she gently upturned his chin so that they were face to face.

"You were never alone," she said, adoration shining unconcealed in her now-blue eyes. "You were just looking in the wrong places."

For quite some time, they gazed at each other.

Then, as the rain bled through their clothing and as, one whole world away, people praised only half a legend, they kissed.

At first, it was cautious, reserved. But one taste of each other's lips… one glimpse of forbidden magic, and it became a frenzy.

Harry still felt the pain. He figured that he always would. But for now…

For now, he could at least hope to be okay.