ACT I

Chapter 1: Burning Day

The headquarters of the Auror division bustled with shuffling guests and an air of confusion. Every kind of witch or wizard could be found here and there was little discrimination among Auror ranks. If there was one universal element in the human temperament, it was the propensity for violence and the hunt for the thrill. Employment in the Auror Division lacked for neither. The Aurors huddled around a large Ministry cafeteria, now having been converted into a make shift briefing room. Above most heads towered a large African man by the name of Kingsley Shaklebolt. As he passed by his colleagues, several gave him deep nods of respect. He forced back a friendly smile. Shaklebolt prayed than they didn't notice his slight limp.

His adventure of sorts in the previous night would follow him to the end of his days. They had come to relieve the Advanced Guard just in time. Lupin's face was a bloody mess, Kingsley could remember as brooms flew high into the night and spells screamed after them. They were all players in the greatest Muggle fireworks show. Kingsley rubbed his right thigh tenderly. It was still healing from the strange bolt he had taken from one of the fliers. It was a flight of sheer adrenaline, terror and utter madness. All of them fought for their lives with a ferocity only unlocked as they stood at the doors of death. Scrimgeour's loud and authoritative voice brought him back to the present, where the crowd of three hundred or so Aurors had immediately gone into professional silence.

"New orders," barked Scrimgeour, "From on high! We will be pulling many of you from your smaller cases into this operation. From here on out, this is the most important case in the Auror division. You'd do well to treat it as such. And before we begin, let me remind you of the confidential nature of all dealings in the Auror division. You will not speak of this to your wives, your families or your friends, on pain of death and charges of sedition. Do I make myself clear?"

Silence followed. Scrimgeour smirked grimly. "Very well."

He passed his wand over a nearby wall. Its coloration was disturbed and began to glow a vibrant range of colors before settling into a coherent portrait of a young man with green eyes bearing an ominous scar on his forehead.

"In case you live under a rock," called Scrimgeour, "I give you Harry James Potter, boy-who-lived, Triwizard champion and a would-be fifth year Hogwarts student who has a knack in getting in all sorts of trouble."

The omission of the more detailed history with a certain Dark Lord did not go unnoticed by the Aurors. Scrimgeour was not a man easily impressed – as all Aurors knew. Despite the notable citizen they were discussing, it did not appear that the Head Auror held him in high regard, or any regard for that matter. To Scrimgeour, he was naught but a criminal with an ugly scar on his forehead. And addressing the Voldemort matter would be opening a can of worms best left to politicians.

"At 12:37 pm Law Enforcement Patrol responded to the Trace on one Harry Potter engaging in underage magical activity. When they arrived, they found him."

Scrimgeour waved his wand and the picture of Harry bled into the picture of Dudley Dursley, his corpse rolled over so they could get a look at his face. The spread of blood around the body was disturbing. However the Aurors, as they were, did not flinch. They shouldered the burden, as they always had done.

"He is Dudley Dursley, Potter's cousin, found dead a couple blocks from his home. And," another wave of the wand, "These are Potter's guardians Vernon and Petunia Dursley, one found dead next to his son, the other in her home. All of them were cursed with magic we've never seen before – it's giving Experimental Charms a run for their money."

"How do we know it was Potter who cursed them?" spoke Kingsley Shaklebolt.

Scrimgeour's eyes found him in the crowd. "We don't. We can't verify it because conveniently Potter snapped his wand, likely to try and prevent a Priori Incantato from revealing his curses. What we know is that Potter's Trace was active during the period where the Dursleys were murdered. We know that he fled the scene soon after. And we know that his relationship with the Dursleys was a very bad and abusive one."

"Sir, you needn't to pull us off our cases simply to catch one boy," spoke one John Dawlish. "Just enlist a Hit Wizard or two at best. Potter's still a schoolboy."

Scrimgeour grimaced. "Experimental Charms have been working on the bodies all night and the one thing they know for certain is that the magic is definitively not rooted in Greek magic – meaning this brand of magic is not native to the West."

All the Aurors now looked at the cursed corpses with significantly more intrigue. They were no professional Charmers but the Dark Arts was all they knew.

"If it's not of the West…" murmured another Auror holding up three fingers and speaking loud enough for others to hear. "Then it's got to be Egyptian…or Polynesian…or maybe even Chinese. And the amount of blood suggests that it's not Egyptian."

"Polynesian seems equally unlikely," suggested another.

The Aurors' eyes darted back to Scrimgeour who did nothing to correct the statement. He looked at them stone-eyed and raised himself to his full height.

"Three murdered muggles is bad enough. But fiercely guarded Chinese magic being appropriated by a foreigner? That is a calamity. At best, there will be an embarrassing inquiry into British internal affairs and reticence agreements by the ICW – no doubt prompted by the Chinese. At worst, the Chinese may be compelled to forcefully extradite one of our most notable citizens and sever diplomatic ties with Britain. This mess will be very costly to Anglo-Sino relations."

"All because of some bloody spell?" muttered an Auror disbelievingly.

Scrimgeour sent the wizard a stern look. "I don't pretend to understand the Chinese any better than you, however I do know that they guard their native magic with near religious devotion. For the Potter boy to have some how learned of their secrets and use it would be an egregious affront to the East. As I have been told, some twenty years ago, a Polish boy at Durmstrang caught using stolen Chinese magic. Within a week, he had been extracted to China and tried and sentenced. His wand was snapped, his magic sealed, the headmaster of the school was sacked, several prominent members of the Polish Ministry and Durmstrang Board of Governors resigned immediately."

"Who do they think they are?" muttered one – a notion being shared by many in the briefing. The haughty status of China among magical nations was a widespread source of discontent in the magical world – worse still that China did nothing to try and remove themselves from lofty heights or share their secrets.

"Understand the significance of this case. We need to apprehend Potter before the Chinese get wind of this. Any story with Potter doesn't stay quiet for long but I reckon I can sequester the Daily Prophet at least about the Chinese magic for about a week before they break the story. Once the Chinese hear about their fiercely guarded magic being appropriated by a foreign Englishman they will be in an outrage. Bones reckons they'll use their significant clout in the International Confederation of Wizards to demand an inquiry into British affairs. The ministry cannot afford this international embarrassment, least of all with the Chinese. It took us over two decades to get a Chinese Ambassador on British soil. We cannot lose the diplomatic ties we worked so hard to create. We must find Potter on our own and present the real story to the Chinese before they go over our heads to the ICW."

Scrimgeour stood and so did the rest of the Auror corps dutifully. "We stick to protocol. Sweep all probable locations. Interrogate all possible collaborators. If we have nothing in a week, I get a warrant to raid Hogwarts. If we have nothing in two weeks, I lock down the English channel."


It was twilight when Harry Potter returned. His feet dragged amongst the dead leaves and his shoulders hung defeated. Dim stars reflected in his eyes but beyond them there was little light. A gentle breeze wisped about him, and ruffled his hair in the wind. Harry stopped and lifted his head to the sky with closed eyes and a heavy heart. A dreadful moan escaped his lips. Oh how he wished the breeze were a gale, one strong enough to blow away his hurts.

But it was only a breeze. And when it passed, darkness still hung above Harry's head and his dejected form crumpled at the knees. It was coming – the darkness. It was taking its time, swallowing each outlying star, edging ever closer at the slowest possible pace, but still coming. Always coming. It was relentless. It wouldn't stop. And it had patience. On all sides it was slithering towards him as if he were a lone island atop a sea of nightfall and obscurity. Little hope was the few remaining stars. They were distant and blinked often, their offered light faltering. He was falling and the darkness chased him. And the starlight in all its splendor could not reach him. The shadows outpaced the sun. Soon they would overtake Harry too. Already he felt the cold nipping around his ankles and dusk clawing at his mind. He was screaming into space. And no one would ever hear it.

In every star, he bore witness to a face, clearer and brighter than the sun, the face of friends, memories, desires. Each burned bright and made battle with the gnawing blackness about it, burning brightest, like a great flash, in the seconds before it went out forever. He saw a sea of red hair and beneath it, eyes jostling with joviality and comfort. He saw a mane of thick bushy brown hair and heard like music to his ears the bossy and memorable voice he would not forget. And he saw lastly the Grim – feral yet tame, ferocious yet collected. And it stared at him through wide yellowed eyes, in an arcane manner before it howled and was gone.

He was suddenly shook hard. He gazed up, startled. Ted Tonks was with him, a cup of coffee in one hand while the other stifled a stiff yawn. He gave Harry a friendly smile with tired eyes and helped him stand. Harry accepted it ungainly. He was in a wretched state of mind and wondered how if there was more ill news to be borne.

"I…Mr. Tonks…" Harry murmured. His voice was hoarse and his throat dry and uncomfortable. "You shouldn't have stayed up for me."

"Nonsense," Ted replied cheerful in the night, "and call me Ted. Nymphadora just threw a bombshell at you and left you to your own devices for how you would climb out of the smoking crater. It's her nature. She's always been independent – always relied on herself. It's why she's grown into such a confident young lass."

He laughed gently in his reminiscence.

Harry looked at his feet. Is he here to brag about his daughter?

"But she never had any expectations to meet," Ted spoke again. "She grew at her own proper pace. She was allowed many happy years of experimentation – experimentation which I warn you, Andromeda was not too pleased about. Not like you. Your life has been ordained most untimely and mired with things I could never imagine besetting my daughter at your age."

Harry could only nod his head. They began to walk back together, silent under the stars. The wind had stilled and died. Amidst the sleeping town, it was just the two of them in the world. There was something about this Ted Tonks, something Harry could not readily describe. But it was not unpleasant.

"You're…you're not a wizard are you," Harry asked flatly, though it came out more as a statement.

"Me? Heavens no," chuckled Ted Tonks. "I find myself too simple a man for all the complexities in your magical world. Yet I suppose, thanks to my wife, I know a good deal about your world and I think our worlds are not so different. There are triumphs and victories, defeats and sorrowed nights. And all of us, regular or magical folk must reconcile this with ourselves."

"How do I reconcile this?" Harry mumbled. "How can I go back after everything that has happened?"

Ted paused. "You can't. You can't ever go back, ever be who you were before. These events have made you something more…or maybe something less. The pains you have will follow you to your final days. You are changed Harry."

"For better or for worse?" Harry asked heavily.

"That my friend is entirely up to you."

Bullshit.

They fell into silence once more. Harry knew the conversation hadn't done anything for him, but Ted was a pleasant man to be around. And his presence, like a dam held back the tides of grief for a small time. It would break again soon enough and rapid waters would descend and crush Harry. He had to fight back. He had to swim. And live.

The two men entered the house silently. They all must have been asleep by that time. Ted showed Harry to a guest room where a bed had been readied for him. Ted excused himself to his own quarters. Harry rubbed his palm across the smooth surface of the bed, savoring its silky qualities. He felt strange and looked over his shoulder and swore he saw the faintest flash of pink before it was hidden away beyond the doorway. He shook the thought away.

Will I sleep tonight?

Harry laid his head on the pillow. It was a softer bed than he had ever lain in before, Hogwarts or Privet Drive. The linen was silk and the mattress gave way to his form as if he were floating on air. A bed for a king.

He felt like he was sleeping on nails.

No sleep tonight. Maybe that's a good thing.

Harry propped himself up on his pillow and stared into the moon, falling now in a silver splendor. He knew if he continuously stared for hours, the image would not change to him. But if he were to turn away and come back in an hour the moon would be in an entirely different position. Harry didn't know why he was thinking about this. His mind seemed entirely detached from his will – desperately seeking out any and all distractions.

"Ron," he whispered. "Hermione. George. Fred. Ginny. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. Sirius. Sirius…"

Sirius. Sirius. Sirius.

In the first hours Harry had spent among the trees, he had thought himself spent of tears. Falling fast from his eyes in rage and sorrow and confusion, Harry battered his body in tandem with his battered mind. And at long last, only when the world became cool and darkness had fallen did Harry stumble home.

In the dead of night Harry set aside his vanity. His eyes rained upon his cheeks like a great tempest. And he wept a silent cry with only the moon as his witness. He wept and wept and wept and it was never enough. In closed fists he held his bed sheets while seas of his sorrow swept down his face.

Wake me up. Please…wake me up!

Harry looked to the moon, as if demanding an answer. It stared back at him in a cold silver hue. And in silent hours to come, Harry simply sat and stared at the moon. Soon before his very eyes the moon became fire encircled and silver turned to gold. Harry blinked several times. The sun had bested the night and now stood where once the moon lingered. He felt no more heat from the sun than he did from the moon. Harry turned his gaze down dumbly – unsure what to do now that he had outstayed the night.

He took out the foreign wand he had nabbed from his fallen attacker, wondering how much damage he could cause with it, wondering if he could conjure up the sun as it had been done two nights past and send it at his enemies. He was tempted to try, tempted to whisper the words he had overheard from those Triad bastards.

Harry ran his fingers up the wand. It was rigid and unbending. The wood had a reddened brown hue and it was heavier than any others he had held. On the butt end, was engraved the tiniest symbol, one Harry could not read. He twirled it in his hand. It was eerie and somehow seemed…efficient.

Maybe this was the wand that killed Dudley.

Harry felt sick to his stomach and threw the wand to the other side of his bed. The sickness passed for a while only for Harry to realize his famish again. Indeed he had been amongst the trees for most of the previous day. It was still early out. Harry descended the stairs and left the house once more, pausing only to leave a small note detailing his return.

He walked around aimlessly for some minutes. His stomach growled horribly. He crossed a small deserted stone bridge and passed by what looked to be a pub. He walked further and came into a small clearing, gated by elegant black metalwork. A grassy hill was before Harry and everywhere sprouted up small polished rocks. They were engraved with names and titles and memorabilia and everything imaginable to prevent those names from falling into obscurity. Harry felt chilled and he turned away from the graveyard suddenly. He found himself staring at a smaller girl, close to his age with meek looking brown eyes and a firm bosom. But what his eyes were drawn to was her hair, as red and fiercely untamed as flames. She looked at him oddly.

"Um, hello," she squeaked.

"Hello," Harry replied heavily.

They simply stared at each other for an awkward moment.

"Do you live here?" she asked.

Harry paused. "I suppose so. Or I used to I guess."

She said something to him but he was no longer listening. He hardly saw the girl. All he saw was the lush red hair flowing upon her head. Red hair that so painfully reminded him of things gone and lost. Red hair that would never again be worn by any so cheerful and wholesome as the Weasleys. Red hair.

"Are you okay?" she asked, stirring him from thought.

Harry closed his eyes, ridding his mind from the fiery hair and shook his head forcefully. "Sorry. You just…you remind me of someone I knew."

"What's your name?"

"Harry."

"Just Harry?"

"Just Harry."

There was a finality in his tone he didn't bother to hide.

"Hmm," the girl rubbed her chin. "Did you lose someone Harry?"

Harry very nearly reeled back from the girl. "What?"

"Well you are standing outside a cemetery, you know," she spoke in a matter-of-fact tone that he was all too familiar with. Hermione…I'm so sorry.

Did I lose someone?

Harry knew the answer was many times greater and more sorrowful than such an innocent inquiry would have beckoned. He had lost. He had lost everything. The sun – a blinding globe of unmitigated fire – had consumed all he once held close. He could still feel its heat. The memories of his friends gave him as many scorches and burns as they did tears. He couldn't bear the memories of the happy past, for they were all ashes now without the prospect of the rising anew. This so called Order of the Phoenix – it was no phoenix at all. The Burning Day burned on and on. How would he go on? Harry had often thought that in his adventures, his greatest crutch was luck. But he saw all to late how wrong that was. His luck was nothing to the strength of those around him. They had been his crutch, his luck be damned.

The pain welled in him, spreading like a cancer, too multitudinous for anger or vengeance to set in. He was not avenger. He was broken. He was missing.

"Missing what?"

Harry stirred. He hadn't realized he had uttered the last words aloud. For some reason he felt a great deal of contempt towards this girl…this mockery of a friend. Who was she, this pretender who with a few words aspired to access his intimate thoughts and pains? Who was she, this wench who wore her fiery hair less fair than the Weasleys, or spoke with a tone more capricious and less warming than Hermione? She was not his friend. His friends were dead.

"Go away," he spat, though the harshness surprised even him.

She flinched and stepped back once, but no further. There was a glimmer of pain in her eyes and her mouth was agape with confusion.

She's still there.

"I SAID LEAVE!" Harry found himself screaming at the poor girl. But poor was the last and kindest of qualities he saw in her. He saw something he wished never to see so long as he lived – shadows.

The redhead sulked away without a word and Harry, knowing regret would set in soon, threw his mangled hand at the fence of the cemetery. The deep tremors of pain coursing through his nerves did nothing for his torment. And he gave a small roar of frustration.

Harry swore loudly, ignoring the early hour. Let the disheveled townspeople scorn him. He didn't care. He just wanted to forget it all – forget about his friends and Sirius and his parents and Voldemort and Dumbledore and everything. Harry wondered what he'd find after stripping away all those layers of companionship and in one case, mortal threat. He could find nothing in its absence, nothing but the horrid emptiness of a place that once seemed so full and cheerful. A hollowed shell of a boy who lived, whilst others fell around him.

He needed to clear his head. But every second the day's rays beat down on him was a scornful reminder of the small sun that had taken away all he had. The very sun was perverse memento and Harry would see it every day of his life. He slumped against the side of the fence. He was angry. He was broken. He was missing.

"What am I going to do?" he whispered again – alone with his thoughts.

Diverging thoughts vied for dominance in his mind.

Regroup. Get back to Hogwarts. Dumbledore will have a plan.

Run. Run to protect the few people left that you still hold dear.

Fight. Give them a taste of vengeance. Show them what it is like to lose everything.

He saw red and gripped the rails of the fence tightly.

Kill. Kill them. Kill them all. Kill their loved ones. Kill their friends. Or die trying.

But how?

How indeed. He had a wand he could barely control. His old one, which fit him like a glove, was in pieces perhaps taken by the rain into a nearby storm drain. He had lost his Firebolt – the prized broom he had been gifted by his Godfather. His friends were gone. His luck, all but spent. These Triads were weaving powerful magic, powerful enough to have killed Moody, a man who carried a reputation as fearsome as his appearance. If not for Harry's last vestige of luck in his inadvertent apparation, he knew he'd be dead or at least captured. He felt powerless, struggling like a child with balled bruised fists tapping against the knee of a giant.

Harry felt as if he was falling down a deep chasm with his limbs dangling uselessly behind him. It was unending descent so helplessly interred in the deepest levels of the world that all the light was swallowed and his sight was deprived. But he could still feel it. He could feel the nauseating feeling welling up in his stomach as he plunged further and further down. He was falling the endless fall. He was sinking beneath the mantle of the world, groping but never finding a foothold. And his screams reached no ears.

Falling the endless fall, eh?

As soon as the bloodlust had become him, it vanished just as quickly. He was no murderer. But then, what was he? A whelp that had to scurry behind greater men like Dumbledore? A boy whose only real talent was his disproportionate share of luck? A whipping boy for the cruel designs of fate? Was he being written into a tragedy? Was this some sick game? Who was he? Who was he supposed to be? These questions left Harry ever exhausted and more confused without the answer to the most crucial question of all.

"What am I going to do?" he asked again, heavy with the fear he might never find the answer.

I need to do something! Anything! But what? Dumbledore? Vanish? Fight alone? Take down as many as I can? Run?

RUN the message had said to him. He still felt the crumpled paper in his pocket. He had told no one of it.

Maybe the key to this thing was not to think about what had happened. Maybe he should ask what is yet to be done, rather than how to reconcile what has already passed.

He swore in frustration again. He might never shake this newfound habit. But he knew one thing. He couldn't continue like this. He could not allow himself to continue to tread this path of remembering his fallen friends while his grief multiplied before his very eyes. This would not do.

And so he lifted himself from the fence, straightening the thin jacket gifted to him by Ted Tonks – all the while hoping he could similarly straighten out his mind and put it to the task. A task he had yet to decide on. And the choices and contingencies continued to pop into his head as he made the solemn trek back to the Tonks house. The dawn gave way to the late morning and the village began to rise from slumber. And now Harry walked without the stumble of one crushed by grief. It was present and still moaning but lulled at least while the boy-who-lived contemplated what was left to do.

"What am I going to do?" he asked again.

And maybe soon he'd find an answer.


"Shanghai is furious," spoke the mediator almost with cruel satisfaction. "Chang in particular wants your head for the collateral damage you caused."

"I did what I had to," replied the voice in the mirror, cool and collected.

"He doesn't think so," the mediator replied. "He's angry enough to have relayed a direct message."

The voice in the mirror changed to the deep throaty voice of a man, not lacking in any authority, confidence or wrath.

"I was told the Triads were professionals not wild dogs after cars!" roared the new voice, with the power to shake the resolve of ordinary men. But neither of them were ordinary men. The new voice continued. "You had explicit orders Wei – I made sure Shanghai made it unequivocally clear what you were to do! BRING POTTER BACK ALIVE! Instead you tried to kill him! What madness overtook you to such action? Your actions betrayed the trust of your superiors, stained the reputation of a group you so loyally serve and implicated us in the most blatant use of illegal sacrosanct magic we have ever seen! In your craze you lost three men and the fourth must be out of commission for weeks at least from your senseless display of the Dai Ren – one of our most prized and more importantly forbidden techniques. You alerted the British to a Chinese presence on the Isles and Potter is still on the loose. You will revert to your mission directive immediately. And for god sake, reign in the collateral damage! If you do not I will send real men, loyal men to put you down, dog."

The voice died out and the mediator tentatively waited in silence to hear the reaction of Wei, her employer and tormenter. It was a just thrashing, she thought – one that invoked fear. But for a man of such terrible reputation as this Wei character, she did not know if it was enough to tame him. She could almost smell the bloodlust and the madness about him. And most frightening of all, this insanity was held at bay by a gate of steel poise, opening only at the express wishes of the master. The door to his wrath was held firmly shut by his own will. And when he decided to open it, torrents of fire would ignite and the world would be too small a place to outrun the flames. Such control and power were undoubtedly bequeathed in the past to men who once conquered the earth.

"Back to the matter at hand," he finally spoke, his tone betraying no sense of worry or regret. Rather he spoke lazily as if on a calm summer stroll. Somehow the mediator doubted he was the type.

"But…but," stammered the mediator. "Chang is-"

"In London," he finished. "Potter is not. He is my goal and I am the pursuer, not Chang. I've just handed you your next assignment."

The mediator looked down at a plain notebook lying at her side. Jet-black ink appeared from hidden contours of the page and began swirling like a tempest until taking calligraphic shapes. The mediator took a moment to read it silently and she shook with the sheer gall of this Wei.

"I won't do this," snapped the lady into her mirror.

"I was assured that you would be able to handle the complexities of-"

"I never said I couldn't do this, I said I won't do it. It's…it's illegal on so many levels."

"Illegal? My dear, what is it you think we do?" laughed the man on the other end. "You had no scruples when you dealt with Wizengamot."

"Those were just bribes! This is…this will ruin him! Both of them!"

"Large crime, small crime, a crime is a crime. And we must remove the Thief from the equation."

"I will not-"

"YOU WILL!" bellowed the voice, with a hot flash of anger. "Do not forget our arrangement, girl! If you do not keep your side of the bargain, I have absolutely no reason to honour my own."

The heat of his rage rose before her eyes and she tried to shake off the chill of her own fear, now breaking her into a cold sweat and desperate pleas. She tried to remove the tremble from her voice but she sorely failed in this.

"Once I do this," the woman replied shakily, "then I'm done."

"You're done when I say you're done!" roared the voice. "And no sooner!"

The mirror dimmed away and the woman fought the urge to scream and launch the accursed mirror to the other side of the room.


Albus Dumbledore sat in his office with sad blue eyes as he watched a tiny featherless Fawkes hobble on his desk. Fawkes squeaked softly and the Headmaster scooped the small bird up in the palm of his hand. Fawkes fit snuggly there. It seemed, as he grew older Fawkes grew more beautiful. It may just as well have been the prideful eye of a master, but Dumbledore thought his lifelong friend now bore a red plumage more rich and brilliant than ever. Fawkes wore it even now, as a small hatchling, as a king wears a crown.

"Albus!" exclaimed Minerva McGonagall. "What are we to do? Are you not concerned of what's happening? You received word from Andromeda did you not? Harry is under their very roof, as is protocol for Burning Day! What are we going to do?"

Dumbledore turned towards his deputy with a deeply troubled look. "I am entirely concerned. Sleep eludes me still while I wonder what is to be done. I had not anticipated my appeal in Wizengamot failing. And neither Amelia nor Rufus were willing to listen to me. I'm afraid my stature amongst these power brokers has fallen greatly."

"And Fudge?" McGonagall asked with barely contained contempt at the name. "What of him?"

Dumbledore sighed. "Between his valiant efforts to remove my titles and smearing Harry's name, it's been rather difficult to secure a meeting with him."

"Then I ask again, what is to be done?" McGonagall repeated. Her words were those of a teacher fearful for her student. "After Alastor and Hestia and…"

"There are none who regret the loss of life greater than I," Dumbledore spoke quietly. "It is abominable that the children suffered."

"We must find Potter and bring him back within the school's safety!" the head of Griffindor said at once.

"Harry is a wanted man," spoke the Headmaster. "Bringing him back here implicates Hogwarts and all its staff. But I agree we must move him somewhere…somewhere safe. I may even consider sending him abroad to my chalet at Lake Louise. However finding the appropriate guardians to bring him there will be challenging. We have suffered a great deal and I am afraid we do not readily have as many bodies as I would have liked."

"Surely Shaklebolt-"

"Kingsley has been pulled off the Black case to help with the manhunt for Harry," Dumbledore murmured. "A manhunt I was unable to stop in Wizengamot. Our dear friend Alastor has passed on. Sirius, god bless him, has found rest and Remus and Severus are still in serious condition being cared by our Madam Pomphrey. The dear Weasleys and Miss Granger…they shall be remembered and revered for all they did."

Dumbledore sighed deeply and stroked the deep plume of his loyal phoenix. "I fear we cannot risk moving Harry just yet while we are so ill-manned. I will try to get news to them through whomever I can spare but as for now Harry stays put. I dare not risk relocating him without at least a guard of our ten best. We must keep him sequestered where he is. We can only hope for Harry that his lone protector – Andromeda's own daughter according to the message – will do her very best to keep Harry safe."

"And how much can we truly trust Harry's only guardian?" McGonagall demanded. "I am soft for Andromeda as much as any but her daughter is a new initiate of mere weeks! Now with Alastor gone, so is the one who vouched for her! She was always a troublemaker, that one. And she is a Metamorphmagus! They have always been shady folk…"

"I understand the concern," spoke Dumbledore. "But Miss Tonks has thus far proved a stalwart protector. We must hope she continues her efforts."

"And while we scramble about ourselves, You-know-who gathers his forces in the shadows and this new group of Chinese mercenaries tears Britain by root and stem looking for Harry," McGonagall seethed in frustration.

"This I agree, cannot stand," Dumbledore affirmed soundly. "I intend to be abroad at once. I shall go to Shanghai myself and make heads or tails of this affair."

"China Albus? Will they ever allow it? It's been years since they let a foreign wizard in."

"Oh, I think they will make an exception for me," Dumbledore smiled looking at his beautiful phoenix. "Though not for my popularity in the Far East I suspect. It may be hard to imagine, but even if I were to proclaim Britain a desolate pigsty, I would still be more favored in Britain than I have ever been in China."

Fawkes cooed loudly in agreement. Dumbledore looked at the bird hard, and saw in its eyes the longing to stretch its wings, end to end across the office and reach once more the full breadth of its majesty – and then perish in fire, in Burning Day.

Only to rise once more.


When Harry returned to the Tonks household, he solemnly wished that the pink-haired Auror would not be there. He was not granted such mercy. She was lounging on the couch, a buttered bagel in one hand while the other propped up the Daily Prophet on her knee. Her eyes strayed up from the newspaper to steal a long glance at Harry, who brushed her off and took a silent seat.

Andromeda and Ted must have gone to work, leaving the two of them only with the company of each other.

Torture, Harry thought.

"News?" he asked her distractedly. Anything to distract me.

"It's as I thought," Tonks sighed, ruffling the paper in her hands. "You are wanted for the murder of Dudley Dursley, Vernon Dursley and Petunia Dursley. The Minister has personally requested that your case be dealt with by the Auror Division and not standard Hit Wizard investigators. You are to be considered, and I quote, a highly disturbed and dangerous criminal."

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia are dead.

Harry had all but expected this. He felt it strange that he was not moved. And for a brief moment he was ashamed of his apathy. They had never been any more to him than cold and reluctant relatives. He was sure they died cursing his name. Despite this, Harry found himself hoping they were at least spared the knowledge of their beloved son's death before they met their own end.

And he was a criminal now. A lawbreaker. A felon. A convict. He had graduated from petty rule breaking in Hogwarts. He was a wanted man – people would be looking for him now, intent on exacting justice they believe he deserved. Because of course, he was now a highly disturbed and dangerous criminal. His way of life in this world was now impossibly changed. He was a murderer now, no better in the eyes of society than the Death Eaters they shooed to the shadows in shame and fear. He feared his popularity would skyrocket – and for all the wrong reasons. According to the Prophet he had killed his relative in cold blood. It was infamy in the making.

"It seems Dumbledore tried to challenge the order of your arrest in Wizengamot," Tonks continued. "His bid was unsuccessful. Apparently the Prophet attributes this to him clinging on to the grandeur of being former Chief Warlock of the courts. And now...oh, you'll like this one…the man presiding over Wizengamot is Lucius Malfoy."

"Malfoy?" repeated Harry viciously. "What the hell does he have to offer the courts?"

"Only three decades of legal experience, funding for at-risk Ministry projects and the blessing of the Minister himself," Tonks shrugged. "I don't like it anymore than you, trust me. Oh, and they also filled another one of Dumbledore's former positions! Supreme Mugwump, silly name I know. It seems one Fabien Delacour will now be chairing the International Confederation of Wizards. Ha! Just when the world thought they had gotten the ICW out of the hands of the French!"

Harry briefly thought on a girl with silvered hair while Tonks giggled to herself over petty world politics. His thoughts soon turned grim once more.

"What about…Grimmauld?" Harry asked, his voice horribly hollow. My Godfather's home…it could have been my home. It should've been my home.

Tonks paused. "The Department of Magical Law Enforcement is calling it a home-made charms experiment gone awry. And who's to say otherwise? The lone witness on the scene could barely describe the moments before the explosion as a bright flash of gold. And it's not even close to the front page. No one cares, not while you're the hot story."

Harry nodded dimly.

Tonks suddenly leaned in towards him. "And where were you this morning?"

Harry leaned away from the Auror, not meeting her uncomfortable gaze. "Clearing my head."

Tonks tilted her head to an angle. "And?"

"And what?" he snapped.

"And is it clear?"

Of course it's not fucking clear!

But even as the thought came to him, Harry found himself reluctant to voice it, if only for the familiar lofty look in her eyes that always seemed to be searching for something.

"I'm fine," he said coolly.

"I should hope not," Tonks replied dryly. " Anyone who can compartmentalize that in the span of a dozen hours would be…oh I don't know…a highly disturbed and dangerous criminal?"

Her lip was twitching upwards, almost cruelly. Harry did not see the humor in this. In fact he found no comfort in all the many things this Auror seemed to take light-heartedly. Harry could already tell she made a habit of prancing on morbid subjects – and it ruefully unnerved him.

Looking again, her smile had faded. He felt too tired to risk another explosion of anger. He owed it to Andromeda and Ted not to destroy their house because of their infuriating daughter. He exhaled deeply and brushed through the paper absent-mindedly. He looked once more and Tonks was still staring at him.

Am I some fucking circus show to her?

"What are we going to do?" he finally asked her – and he so longed for her to deliver for once a straight answer. But she did not play by his rules.

"What do you think?" Tonks asked, crossing her arms and legs.

Harry's frustration mounted again. "I don't rightly know do I? That's why I'm asking!"

Tonks let out a haughty disappointing sigh. She held up her hands. "Alright, alright. Don't go bashing your head against a tree again. "

Harry flushed red and gritted his teeth. Out of the corner of her eye, he saw her give a capricious giggle.

"Well?" Harry demanded.

"We are staying put here until the Order deems it safe enough to make contact with us," Tonks spoke lazily. "I imagine the first order of business will be to move you to a more secure location."

"What about the Triads?" Harry pressed. "What is Dumbledore going to do about them?"

Tonks face contorted into look of irritation. "Dumbledore? What are you going to do about them?"

Harry stuttered a moment. "Me? I…"

"Because the way I see it, they are after you, not Dumbledore and certainly not the Order," Tonks said crossly. "This is as much your problem as it is Dumbledore's – if not more."

Harry watched in shock as her hair turned fiery red and she fumed as if a great anger was aching to be released. Her aggravation had replaced her mirth within seconds and she was already on her feet, staring down at him.

"This is a war!" Tonks scolded. "The casualties will rise and no one, no one is safe, not even Albus Dumbledore! There may come a day when we can no longer rely on his wisdom! And then what? The charge of responsibility and choice falls on us! As it always has! If you can't think for yourself, if you can't take action without the approval of another, you will not last! Don't you understand?"

Tonks seemed beyond angry now. She was livid, for what reasons Harry struggled to comprehend. And she was towering over Harry's sitting form with an indecipherable look. "Well?"

Harry moved his jaw silently, his tongue searching for words while his brain tried to aptly retort. He seemed a lame indecisive child – and it burned him to realize it. Had she known he had been wrestling with this very question all morning?

Well? What am I going to do? Think! Say something! Don't let this woman keep making a fool out of you!

His time was up and the Auror was done waiting for him. Tonks backed away, her shoulders slumped and a small hint of defeat on her brow. She shook her head slowly.

"Forget it," she muttered. "Forget it."

And she slunk out of the room more dejected than Harry all while the boy-who-lived wondered what he had just heard. This Auror was turning on a dime, one moment calm and the next moment furious, one second solemn and the next in laughter. But always, she looked at him with that incisive gaze. Sometimes she would steal away quick glances of concern. Other times she would gaze long until it became manifest and uncomfortable.

What is she after? Something's bothering her…is it me? I haven't done a bloody thing to Tonks! Well except the stunner…and she paid me back in kind. What's her problem?

The following day passed both painfully slow and hazily fast. Ted Tonks appeared to be some sort of writer, locking himself in his solitary study for most of the day. Strangely, Harry could not fathom that such an extroverted personality could lend itself to the countless hours spent with naught but one's own thoughts. He could never endure such a cruel thing – he'd sooner go mad. With Ted locked in his study strengthened with a special silencing charm and Andromeda away with Healer duties, Harry found himself more often than not in the constant company of one Nymphadora Tonks.

And he did everything he could to escape her presence. He kept company with the tall oaks on the outskirts of Godric's Hollow. There he would slump under golden eaves and continue to ponder what is to be done. It was horrible beyond measure – these days of inaction where Harry could find nothing more to do than pitiful self-reflection. After everything that had happened, his only active role now was sitting and waiting. He had to do something. He had to take the fight to them. Somehow…

"How's the wand," Tonks had asked him, sipping her coffee in bemusement.

Harry had stopped bothering to wonder about the source of her infinite contentment. He gazed at the rigid wand with some disdain.

"I haven't used it since we dueled," Harry murmured. "I…I don't want to use it again."

Tonks said nothing more and returned to nursing her coffee, humming a small tune under her breath. It was Harry's turn to gaze at her inquisitively, wondering what was going on beneath that pink hair of hers. He realized he had held the stare too long and was now locking eyes with Tonks who was wearing a familiar wry smirk.

"A picture lasts longer," she quipped.

Harry immediately broke off his gaze. Tonks laughed.

"Now don't go swooning over me," she giggled. "It'll make things dreadfully awkward around here."

Harry went red. "I'm wasn't swooning! I…I was thinking about your Metamorphmagus traits."

"So mum told you, eh?"

"Just the basics. When…when did you learn you were…you know…"

Goddamn it, even small talk is strange with her!

Tonks raised an eyebrow. "I was eight. By accident I had screwed up my face to look like this."

Her face impossibly contorted until she was spouting a long ugly beak where her nose and mouth once were. She cawed a couple times and reversed the transformation.

"My mother was so hysterical," Tonks reminisced with a smile. "She locked me in St. Mungo's for a week trying to discover what was wrong with me. Apparently I was the first Metamorphmagus born to Britain in some 50 years."

"And you can change into anyone?" Harry inquired curiously. "You can literally become anyone?"

Tonks nodded absentmindedly. "As long as I have a decent idea what they look like. It makes for great sex, I've been told."

Harry sputtered in shock over the nonchalant afterthought. This Auror was awful!

"It's why we were ideal spies," Tonks went on. "We could wear other people's faces as the perfect disguise and none would be the wiser." She paused, and narrowed her eyes at Harry. She broke out into a small grin. "Take this for instance."

She stood up and her body began to morph in ungodly ways. Her height rose an inch and her slim body began to widen out, mass impossibly forming at her core. Her pink hair receded and exchanged its vibrant hue for dark black. Her eyes vanished into green orbs and on her brow there stood a scar. Harry muttered a quiet obscenity as he stared into a perfect replica of himself.

That's what I look like?

Harry hadn't remembered the last time he had stared into a mirror. His hair was even more unruly than before. His eyes seemed dimmer and beneath them were great half circles in his skin. His mouth was unusually thin and his whole face looked sunken in some way. It was an unnerving reflection that he'd rather not have seen. But perhaps it was better that he had seen.

"A little worse for wear, I guess," muttered Harry.

The other Harry laughed. "Trust me, it could be worse."

Harry then morphed again. His height grew and white hair erupted from his chin into long wisps. His sunken eyes grew more sunken and shone a bright blue while his hair, now greying white fell about his shoulders. Harry gasped at his Headmaster.

"Now this," grumbled Dumbledore. "This is the body of a century old man! Ugh. What do you think a hundred years have done to his nether regions?"

Harry found himself grimacing and laughing despite himself. Dumbledore looked surly.

"Now," Dumbledore grumbled, "what about…"

Dumbledore became Hagrid who became Flitwick and then McGonagall. Harry couldn't help but grin at this absurd show. McGonagall looked a bit pensive for a moment and then slowly transformed again – shrinking this time. Harry saw thin hair turn thick, frizzled and…bushy.

Bushy? Bushy hair? Like….

Harry leapt from his seat in horror.

"What the hell are you doing?" he shouted.

Tonks paused mid transformation and looked like some gangly creature. She returned to her pink hair and plump face with another strange look in her eyes. Harry brushed them aside. He wanted answers. He was furious.

"What the hell was that Tonks?" he demanded loudly. His arms were shaking now and he threw down his own mug with more force than desired. It shattered against the floor.

Any humor in the moment had vanished and tension now hung thick between the two.

"She wasn't the first person to have hair like that, and she won't be the last," Tonks spoke quietly.

"Damn it, Tonks!" he cried in anger – anger so deep he was trembling from it. "You don't fucking do something like that after…after…"

Words failed him and he held his head in his shaking hands, trying to pry from his memory the horrid picture he had witnessed moments before. This was so wrong.

What the fuck is wrong with her?

He breathed heavily and for her part Tonks was showing signs of regret.

"You told me you had gotten over this," Tonks said slowly. "I needed to see if-"

"OF COURSE I HAVEN'T FUCKING GOTTEN OVER IT!" Harry screamed at the Auror, al his senses now burning in fury. He was erupting from hatred he had been brewing for some days now.

Words now spilled from Harry's mouth absent of his will. "HOW THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO GET OVER THIS?" he bellowed at Tonks. "EVERYONE around me is dead! My friends – oh god, my friends whose only crime was befriending me, died for my sake! Mrs. Weasley treated me like her own son! The one wizarding family who had shown me unconditional kindness! Ginny was only thirteen! And Sirius! WHAT THE HELL DID HE DO? HE WAS INNOCENT – FROM ALL OF THIS!"

Tonks said nothing. And Harry could not stop – he needed to expel all these words lest they rip him apart inside.

"And you have the fucking gall to stand in front of me and show me the face of my friend, smiling and happy as if nothing happened!" Harry roared. "IS THIS SOME SORT OF JOKE TO YOU? You're…YOU'RE FUCKING SICK!"

He spun swiftly avoiding the apologetic look on Tonks' face. He felt as if the anger inside him would boil the blood within his veins. He ripped open the door and took off once more – down the streets, past the houses, into the fields and beyond the oak trees. He expelled a feral roar and tightened his fists painfully.

"What the hell am I doing?" he whispered.

I'm still falling the endless fall.

He cursed. His stomach lurched uncomfortably and he once again felt as if he was plummeting through the surface of the earth at ungodly speeds whilst wind and fire roared in his ears, drowning out his screams. It was a fall that would last millennia and he went ever faster. And felt ever sicker.

All the faces he had buried in these past days rushed back to him, clearer and more morose than before. He had not truly ever been thinking about what he had to do. Rather that question had only served as an outlet, a distraction from his anguish and his loss. Harry thought he could power through this – thought he could forge on ahead like a raging bull. If he had cut a deep enough path ahead, maybe these grievances would fall aside. But he had been fooling himself. He could not look forward until he gazed behind.

He had been tethering on the brink of despair – and now he had lost his balance and tumbled fresh into this black pool of sorrow. He cursed himself. He was not over the loss of his friends. How could he be? It was so fresh, their faces so innocent. And he now stood alone on a precipice where below lay the corpses of all those he loved.

"Why did they have to die?" he hissed violently. "Why do they always die? God damn it, why can't everyone give me a FUCKING BREAK!"

Maybe I am a highly disturbed and dangerous criminal after all.

He was back to square one – in the same ditch he thought he'd crawled out of. Before figuring out what to do about the Triads he had to do something about these memories – these dead things floating on the margins of his mind like phantoms. He was losing it – losing this battle for lucidity. He was worming through this meandering muck of self-pity and defeatism. They were ashes now – all of them, reduced to dust in the night wind because of a wretched sun that shone with the moon. He would never see their true faces again. There would be no bodies for the funeral, if there ever were to be a funeral. He had to shake this from him.

Damn it, I have to come to terms with this. Tonks is right. I can't keep doing this…can't keep running away whenever I see someone who even remotely looks like Hermione…or Ron…or Sirius

But how? His thoughts strayed back to the village, to the memories and finally to the cemetery. There somewhere laid two bodies – put to rest more than fifteen years ago. Harry decided then and there, what he had to do. He had to see them. He had to see their graves – he had to understand their deaths…or maybe understand why he understood their deaths. He needed whatever he had done to come to terms with his parents' deaths and mournfully do the same to his friends.

But what was it? He would wonder.

He couldn't deny that he had already eschewed common sense. And he could not readily explain to others why he did what he did or how the thoughts in his mind made sense to him. But he felt the pull towards the cemetery and it threw one foot in front of the other. Harry emerged from the oaks, determined to find the resting place of Lily and James Potter. He mastered the streets until he met his goal.

A sudden solemnness came upon Harry as the familiar black gates to the cemetery came into view. He tried to shake off this apprehension – from what source he could not fathom. A wisp of red caught his eye and he craned his neck to see the frightened look of a girl. It was the same girl from before.

It's that girl!

She met his gaze for but a moment and quickly turned away, intent on getting out of his sight. Harry felt a tug of regret and pondered over stopping her. But still she was wearing that face – that face he could not bear to see.

"Wait!" he resolved to shout.

Her pace slowed and she looked back at him, though not at his eyes thankfully. Harry swallowed deeply. He had no idea what he was doing. He seemed intent on stepping towards her and approaching but found his feet glued to the ground for what reason he already knew why. He hated this girl.

So they stood apart, separated by some distance and the light fog that had descended down in the late afternoon. Harry saw her rock back and forth on the balls of her feet for a moment before stepping towards him. One step, two step and then three and four until she was before him. Still he did not look at her, resolving instead to look at her shoes.

"Do you not like the look of me?" she asked him quietly.

Harry's mouth went dry. What was he supposed to say to that? "I…I don't think you're…ugly or anything. You are pretty of…attractive."

She was silent for a moment. "You didn't answer my question, Just Harry. Do you not like the look of me?"

The odd prefix to his name did not disturb him in the least, and Harry wondered why. Moreover, he tried to figure out how to answer her question. He started with the truth.

"No," he whispered, his head hung low. "No I don't."

In her right hand was a long drooping summer hat. She moved and placed it on her head, the white rims drooping low to cover her eyes and hair.

"Better?"

Harry bit his tongue. He was ashamed to make this pretty girl cover her face, merely because he was too weak to face the truth. But he knew he could not stand her presence without her masking that hair. He nodded apologetically.

"I…" he started. "I'm sorry for shouting at you."

"That's alright," she whispered, her lips curving to a warm smile. "I often shout at myself."

Harry looked back to the cemetery, now covered in a dreamlike mist. He shuddered for reasons beyond him.

"Have you been in there?" he asked her, ignoring how stupid he must have sounded.

Of course she's been there, idiot. She LIVES here.

"No," she said to him, earning her a look of shock on Harry's part.

"No?"

"No," she reaffirmed. "I don't think there's anything in there for me."

"But haven't you…" Harry murmured.

"Lost someone?" she offered. "Oh yes. Yes I have."

Harry looked away, confused and perturbed, fumbling for his next words. "I lost someone too."

She moved closer to him. "And what are you missing?"

Harry took a deep breath, the air intoxicating in its trance. "Everything," he whispered.

Wordlessly, he walked away from her, moving towards the gate, intent on telling himself he did not care whether she followed him in or not. But when he reached the gate, when his hand touched the cold bars of the entrance, he suddenly looked back. The girl was right behind him. He felt inexplicably comforted by this. Harry took another deep breath and goaded the door open, and stepped through.

Before him in the soft mist, laid a maze of inexplicably intricate and complex mounds of stone. The paved road wounded this way and that, making mesmerizing patterns of stony rivers. On opposing banks laid many silent gravestones.

"I'm…I'm looking for two headstones," Harry murmured.

Why am I telling her this?

"What are their names?" she asked.

Harry hesitated. "L-Lily and James…Potter."

She acknowledged this by bending low to read the engraved markings of the nearest tombstone. She shook her head slightly and straightened herself before walking to the next one. Harry wandered for a moment and did the same. The cemetery was a large place, probably the single largest thing in all of Godric's Hollow. They had spent many moments in quiet silence. The girl didn't ask what the two headstones meant to Harry and he was grateful for it.

"Did they pass away recently?" she asked him finally after a fruitless hour of search.

"No," Harry grunted, bending down to get a closer view at another. Benedict Jones, it said.

"No?"

Harry looked up at her. "Yeah. Why?"

She played with her hands nervously. "Only…your sadness seems very present."

Harry turned away quickly. "Yeah." And said no more.

Another hour passed. Every wrong gravestone Harry peered at made him more and more frustrated. This little escapade was bringing him no peace. It might be a giant waste of his own time, and the time of this poor girl he had strung along with him. He paused to look at the girl again, her hat obscuring most of her face while she bent over. He wanted to tell her to take off the humiliating hat but he knew he couldn't. He'd fly into another rage if he saw her. Still, it didn't feel right.

I should try to get her name if I can't at least stop being a dick to her.

"What's you're name?" he asked her.

He could see her faintly smiling in the mist.

"Eleanor."

"Just Eleanor?"

"Just Eleanor."

They both seemed content with that and returned to searching for the Potter gravestone. But Harry was becoming more and more defeated with each passing moment. His eyes were glazed and he dragged his feet desperately.

"Can I ask you something Eleanor?"

Eleanor turned to him and nodded promptly. Harry took a breath.

"Who did you lose?" Harry asked, hoping to God it was not too forceful a thing to say.

There was a long silence in the mist. "My big brother," she answered him sadly.

Harry sucked in some of the foggy air. He couldn't stop here. If he couldn't at least find his parents' gravestones he at least had to get something out of this.

"When?" he pressed her, presently forgetting of his sensitivity to the situation.

Eleanor sighed and turned away. "Does it really matter?"

"Yes," Harry hissed immediately. "Of course it matters."

"Why?"

Harry opened and closed his mouth dumbly for some feeble attempts at words.

Why couldn't I have picked a stupid girl?

Harry thought hard again. The silence between them was not uncomfortable – rather it was quite fitting. The foggy scene made him shiver.

"Because," he said at last. "Because…because time heals all wounds."

The words came to him as naturally as breathing. Was that it then? Was it time he needed? Time to register the wounds, time to come to terms with it and time to resolve in himself the grief he felt nibbling away? No, he couldn't accept it. It seemed stupidly obvious, but his own answer was no luxury to Harry Potter. He didn't have time.

"No," she spoke urgently and Harry lurched back in surprise.

"No?"

"No," Eleanor repeated. "Time doesn't matter. Time doesn't heal wounds."

She seemed strangely adamant in this regard – a trait Harry had not yet seen from this queer girl. She started walking to another group of headstones and Harry quickly trailed behind her urgently.

"What do you mean, time doesn't matter?" he demanded strongly, walking in long strides to overtake her.

"If I were to think of my big brother today," Eleanor spoke softly. "And then think about him in a hundred years, what do you think would be different?"

"Time, obviously," Harry said immediately. "It would be a hundred years for you to deal with it and-"

"No!" she berated him in a harsh voice. Her tone then calmed significantly. "No. Time is inconsequential. It could've been one year, twenty years or a hundred years. Time is inconsequential. It's not time that really changed, it's me that's changed."

"But-but," stammered Harry incredulously. "You need time to change!"

"You decide when you want to change – not time." Eleanor spoke cryptically.

Harry frowned at this. Easier said than done.

"So…time doesn't heal all wounds…we heal our own wounds," Harry repeated dumbly.

Eleanor nodded vigorously. Neither of them spoke for a moment. And then…

"That has got to be the most useless piece of advice I have ever heard," Harry spat in distaste. He walked away in frustration. For a moment he had actually thought the conversation was going somewhere fruitful. But no, leave it to this weird girl to bring about this anticlimax.

What is this rubbish? We heal our own wounds? Bloody useless that is! Another second-rate philosopher! I just need to fix this! I don't need a goddamn philosophical lecture about the human temperament!

Harry was beside himself now. He felt more lost and hopeless than ever. Worse still, these feelings of despair were crawling back to him, now that Tonks' little joke had blown back the doors of his ill contained grief. He was becoming a mess again!

Harry didn't say another word to Eleanor, but left her swiftly, running past and over some the headstones, paying no heed to how rude he had been to both the girl and the dead residents. He flew through the gates, berating himself in all manner of crude words and blew out hot air of frustration. Just when he thought he was making even the slightest bit of progress…here he was again.

He was getting nowhere.

Furious with himself, with the world and certainly with a certain pink-haired Auror, Harry returned once more, defeated and desperate into the house he wished never to see. Was some higher being taking the piss out of him?

More time passed by. More suns rose over his head and set, waxing a reddening sky in its wake. Harry began to notice things, or rather he forced himself to notice things – anything really. It was all he could do to refrain from slipping back into the pain that would leave him debilitated. He noticed at meals how Ted Tonks always seemed to have an answer to everything, despite his humble origins. He noticed how Ted always calmed a fuming daughter, how he took her sarcastic remarks in stride, and how he was ever the peacemaker in the household. He noticed Andromeda. He noticed the frostiness that the mother and daughter had never quite shaken. He noticed when Tonks only spoke to her when she had to, and even then it couldn't be considered an endearing show of love. He noticed how often Andromeda bickered about Tonks' exotic hair colors. He noticed how Tonks' gaze of impenetrable searching would sometimes flicker into a conflicted stare as she opened her mouth, wrestling with herself for an apology. But most of all Harry noticed how much they noticed him – that no matter what he did, he was being watched very carefully. They thought he was some time bomb. Perhaps he was.

But even these paltry distractions could not dull the ache that had resumed in his heart. He knew he shouldn't be like this – truly he knew. He knew that Sirius and Ron and Hermione and Ginny and the twins and Mr and Mrs. Weasley would never want to see him like this – defeated after they had made the greatest sacrifice at all. He knew he owed it to them to be more. But despite all this, it just hurt so much. It was beyond physical and mental pain. It was the torture of his soul and everyday he felt it on fire, burning up the tinder of his core.

In those three days where Harry was relentlessly persecuted by the losses, he avoided the Auror all together, never saying more than a few words at any one time. He waited for her to apologize for such a cruel reminder of his pain but she never did. He left in the early morning to seek out the graves of his parents, knowing not exactly why he was doing it anymore. For in some ways it amplified his desperation like oil to fire. In other ways, it gave him some purpose, some goal he had to focus on. Yet he knew, this goal had to be more than a distraction like last time. It had to mean something. It had to fix him, to rid him of all the hurts. So he scoured the graveyard. Eleanor always was searching with him – though he did not speak to her as freely as before. His tongue was often tied up in his grieving thoughts and those he would never share with her…or with anyone.

He had made a point to ask Andromeda to take him to the gravesite. When Harry had asked, she had shuddered terribly and broke into tears, only assuaged by the comforting embrace of her wise husband. She reacted similarly whenever Ted would call Harry, 'Mr. Potter'. Ted had subsequently only addressed Harry by name. Harry felt a sudden pang of guilt, but nothing compared to what he was truly feeling everyday. A look from Ted Tonks told him to leave it be, and so he did. His options were becoming exhausted. Eleanor didn't know what to look for and Andromeda would be reduced to a pool of tears before she could help him. He could only seek out help from one person. And he hated having to ask her.

He stood at the entryway to the living room. He could see Tonks there now, lying on her back whimsically and twirling her wand about her fingers absentmindedly as she stared at a painting hung on the wall. He took a deep breath before entering the fray.

However, she was the first to speak, not lifting her eyes. "Are you going to ask me to bring you to your parents' tombstones?"

Harry yelped audibly. What does she know about that?

"I know you've been looking for them," Tonks said plainly. "Don't give me that look! I wouldn't be a good guardian if I just let you wander about, would I? I've seen you in the cemetery, with that pretty little girl. But no matter how hard you search, you won't find what you're looking for."

"Tonks I want to go," Harry said firmly. "I want to go to my parents tombstones."

"Why?" Tonks asked instantly, her eyes not leaving the painting on the wall.

Harry was taken aback by her brusqueness. "Because…I dunno because I feel like I need to. Because that's what sons do for their deceased parents…I dunno…"

Tonks smiled grimly. "Harry, without any disrespect, I doubt your parents would care."

"I care! I need to go," Harry insisted. "I need to see it. I need to understand it."

"They're just ruins, Harry," Tonks said to him in a soft voice. She moved herself into a sitting position and faced Harry with more attention now. "You're not going to understand what happened any better than you do now. You're not going to get any answers, you're not going to get any satisfaction and most of all you're not going to get any closure."

"It's not about that!" Harry insisted again, his voice rising rapidly and his hands in fists. Why didn't this woman get it?

"Then what is it about?" she asked plainly.

Harry opened and closed his mouth several times, feeling stupid and humiliated again. He reddened and racked his mind for something – anything – to say. "I just gotta go. I'm here and it's something I have to do."

Lame fucking answer. Way to go Harry.

"That's not a reason for anyone to do anything," Tonks replied bluntly. "Don't think I don't understand because I do Harry. I know it hurts – it always has. And it was easier to forget when you never had any idea about your parents. But now that you're here, now that you are at the very place where they planned to make their lives, it's hard. It hurts being so close yet infinitely far away, and you'll never be able to close the distance…no matter how far you run."

Harry cursed inwardly and for the life of him he couldn't understand why he was feeling the tug at his tear ducts. He would not let himself cry in front of this bloody woman. God knows how much weakness she had already seen from him. He blinked rapidly, trying to banish these emotions but they struck him wave after wave like nausea in his heart. He sat down slowly on her bed beside Tonks, feeling his distress nearly palpable and his eyes begging to overflow. This woman was evil – bringing out all the things in Harry he wished not to see himself.

Tonks put a tentative hand on his knee. "But despite all this Harry nothing is going to come of visiting them. And you know it too. It can't bring you closure Harry – only you can do that."

Harry violently shrugged batted away Tonks' hand.

"I…"Harry choked on his words. "I'm over their deaths…really I am. I had 15 bloody years to get over it. Done is done, dead is dead, I know this!"

He turned away as a river of salt and water cascaded down his cheek. Harry was straying, further and further from his goal. This wasn't about his parents! This was about Sirius and all of them! He wanted – no he needed to get past Ron, Hermione, Ginny, George, Fred, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley…Sirius. Instead he was trampling through an age-old cemetery with some stupid girl in search for his parents tombstones. He smacked himself on the inside. What was he doing?

One last try, he thought. One last try and them I'm done for good. If I don't find anything this time…well, I'm never, ever going back there again.

He slunk out of the room silently, dodging a silent appeal from Tonks to stay. His feet carried him back to the mist where fading rays of gold were suspended in the low thin clouds above. It looked like paradise. But it felt like hell. Harry wrenched the cursed gate open. He searched for what seemed to be hours. He had to find something. He had to. There had to be an explanation for all this! The sun had waned and night fell on the sky in silence. The mist now seemed more eerie than ethereal. Harry's shirt clung to his back drenched with sweat. His unruly hair was unkempt and wildly clinging to portions of his sweating face. He was an utter mess, searching for things buried sixteen years past and expecting enlightenment.

Harry went meticulously through the many places he had not yet visited, riffling through countless names, touching innumerable headstones, desperately seeking the right one. His eyes were bloodshot and tired. He wanted nothing more but to lie down in the damp grass. But he owed it to himself to continue. So his scour began anew. Then it happened, so suddenly that Harry thought his pounding heart would rip from his chest. His throat constricted and he felt the coils around him tighten. His eyes widened and his breath labored to keep a steady pace. A silent mouth was open and Harry couldn't utter a sound. He had found it. He had found the two small polished stones that rose above the earth. For a moment he was rooted in place, fearful to go but loathed to stay. With trembling legs he approached the tombstones apprehensively.

This is it! He would scream to himself. This is it!

Harry knelt low in shallow breaths and peered at the engravings.

Lily Potter

1960-1981

Daughter, Wife, Mother

James Potter

1960-1981

Son, Husband, Father

Harry stopped breathing and stared at the gravestones of his mother and father in a reverie of silence that lasted both seconds and lifetimes. His brow furled and his mouth went dry. Seconds passed, then minutes, then many minutes. He couldn't believe it. He simply could not believe it. They were plain grey stones with bare engravings without any words of wisdom, familial motto or anything beyond what they intended to be.

They were utterly unremarkable.

It took a moment. And then dreadful sense of hollow defeat swallowed him whole.

"This is it?" Harry nearly shouted. "This is it? This is all there is? No…no, no, no, no. This can'tbe it! This…THIS CAN'T BE ALL THERE IS!"

Like a wild dog he groveled in the dirt, touching the tombstone. He moved his hands all over, minding every crevice, nook and cranny.

"There has to be something else! A message? Magic? Anything. ANYTHING!"

But there was nothing else. There was no warm feeling in him, no reminiscent reminder of familial love, no encouragement on how to go on. It was just a couple of polished stones. And Harry was just a boy shivering in a sea of mist. Everything around him was exactly as it was before. Nothing had changed. Nothing was different.

And it broke Harry. It broke him in ways he could not understand. He was so entirely certain that there would be something at the end of this journey, some small token left behind, or at least somewhere in the sky, courage that would bless him as he stared on the resting place of his parents. But there was no magic here, just a pair of cold stones, side by side on looking more stones atop a green hill.

"Tonks was right," Harry began to sob on his knees. "She was right all along. There's nothing here."

He swayed back on his feet. "THERE'S NOTHING HERE!" he screamed with all his might, though he was lost on whom he was directing his anger towards.

"NOTHING!" he bellowed. "NOTHING AT ALL!"

Blinking out the tears, he fumbled away, ripe with emotions, most of which he could not describe, but one which was clear in his heart – it was the bitter fruit of disappointment and it would not soon be washed away. He had been delusional. It was only a grave. Just a grave. A grave whose owners had long since perished away from the earth. Why did he think there would be some monumental change to him here?

You idiot! You fucking idiot! Harry screamed at himself.

Drunk on a passion of uncontrollable emotions he stumbled out of the cemetery in similar fashion to drunkards that were now roaming other streets of the village. Harry laid one hand on the side of a building to keep him steady. But his shoulders shook and he could not stop his head from shaking side-to-side, in a perpetual state of denial and distress.

Now I'm lost. I am completely utterly lost.

"Just Harry?" spoke a soft voice.

Harry spun rapidly, the barrage of emotions betraying his face in front of the strange girl that had silently approached him. She touched his elbow and he shuddered at its feeling. He felt so far away from everyone.

"Are you okay?" she whispered to him.

He took in the sight of her and his eyes began to water. He turned his head away.

"Oh, I forgot," she said, raising a familiar summer hat over her brow.

"I'm…sorry, Eleanor," Harry managed to mutter hoarsely. The suffocating chains around his neck began to tighten considerably. "It's…it's just…"

"I take it you found what you were looking for?" Eleanor spoke to him tenderly.

Harry paused and then shook his head rigorously. "No. I didn't find anything."

"But the tombstones-"

"Are just tombstones, Eleanor," Harry interrupted harshly. He laughed cruelly. "There was nothing for me in there. Just like you."

He felt isolated, and desperation clung on his back like a tiny demon. He shook his head to try and clear his thoughts. He just wanted it all to end. Harry's mind screamed on the inside to just get rid of this myriad of grievances. Move on, he told himself, move on. But he couldn't. Whatever power was at work rooted him firmly in place, no matter how hard he tried to tear away from it. He was sobbing now, for reasons beyond comprehension. Harry was so frustrated he felt he could tear down the building before him – brick by brick and still his fury would not be sated. He wanted the world to burn and match the flames in his heart. Heat, hatred, confusion, desolation, desire.

Harry needed to know he wasn't alone. He had to get through this. His parents were dead and they couldn't help him. Two stones on a green hill couldn't help him. Tonks sure as hell wasn't going to help him. He was no longer thinking straight. Sanity had fled from him along with his friends.

He grabbed Eleanor's shoulder forcefully and her hat tumbled away. Lacking in all gentleness or consideration, Harry pressed her against a wall, ignoring her troubled looks and her muted surprise. He firmly pressed his lips against hers. It was not exactly how he imagined his first kiss would be.

But right now he didn't give a damn.

He pressed forward forcefully. It was neither lust he felt nor passion, but it was an intoxicating effect that made him desire more. It felt good. It was desire on a level so far beyond romantic or friendly engagements. He was not so much feeling her lips as he was feeling her, another person – a living person. Harry knew this was not a sexually exciting affair, and he made it plain in his mind that he never intended it to be. He deepened the kiss and his hands made their way to Eleanor's neck where he cupped her face.

It was only then when he noticed she was not kissing him back. That set him off like a light bulb and he recoiled suddenly, disgusted with himself for all the cruel ways he had already treated Eleanor and now for this final humiliation to her. He swallowed hard and retreated quickly, nauseated by what he had done to her.

"I..I," Harry stammered desperately. "I'm sorry…I didn't mean for that to happen…really…It's just…I-I'm not right in the head at the moment and…"

She silenced him a wave of the hand, while the other touched her violated lips. "It's alright Harry. You…I suppose you're going through quite the rough patch."

Harry could only grimace. He had half-expected her to scream and call bloody murder.

"You probably should refrain from doing that again, though," she added softly.

Harry winced and nodded vigorously, not meeting her eyes more now because of his shame than because of the memories. They were not standing very close, and Harry wholly understood why. In his haze of emotions he had betrayed her. He had been overcome by this train of sentiments that left him dazed, confused and without hope. Harry was all too aware of how he had abused this innocent girl in his moment of weakness.

"What happened?" Eleanor asked, though the reserve in her voice was plain for all to hear. "What did you find?"

Harry took a shaky breath. "I found…I found exactly what I was looking for…and nothing at all. I just…I just don't know what to do."

This is pathetic.

I am pathetic.

"I just can't understand," Harry mumbled. "And I've got no one to help me. No one's left except…except bloody Tonks. And she's no help at all…"

"It's not the help of others that you need," Eleanor said to him. "Maybe this is something you have to deal with on your own."

"Bu how?" Harry cried. "I…how did you deal with it?"

Eleanor looked thoughtful. "I told myself that my big brother wouldn't want me to be like this."

"I know that!" Harry said tersely. "But what about the pain? The pain!"

"I told myself I wasn't responsible for his death."

"I know that!" Harry said again, incensed. "I'm not talking about the pain of feeling responsible! I'm just talking about pain – the simple pain of loss. You know…the pain that they're not here anymore…that I…that I'll never see them again. I…I miss them…I miss them so much it tears me apart inside. How do you deal with that?"

Eleanor looked sympathetic. "Oh Harry…I…I can't tell you that."

"Why not?" he demanded tearfully. "Why can't some one lend me a bloody hand?"

"For once," he whispered.

Silence loomed like the night sky over them. And not even the winds were at work.

"Because it's your loss to rise from – on your own two feet," Eleanor whispered to him. She slowly bent low, and laid a tender kiss on the top of his head. He felt disgusted. He didn't deserve this kindness after what he had done. He felt unworthy, dirty. "I can't pull you up, Harry. Just like you couldn't pull me up. We…we have to get up by ourselves. Or…or we'll never grow."

Harry shook hard on the inside. She was right, he knew it deep in his heart. And Tonks was right as well. This had been a mistake, all of it. Another dead end.

"Listen…are you going to be okay?" Eleanor asked him.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. He felt Eleanor pass her fingers through his dark hair. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply. And she was gone, as quickly as she came. Harry sat slowly on pavement, thudding his head rhythmically against the building.

"I have to do it," Harry whispered to himself. "I have to do it."

This is something I have to do. Me. Alone. I won't wait for time to sort this out for me. I won't jump to the next task, hoping this will go away on its own. I won't go looking for sentimental memorabilia to enlighten me. I won't be distracted – I won't hide from this. This is my loss…my moment…my strength.

And then Harry realized quite rapidly. He didn't just need to move on.

Burning Day was over.

He needed to rise.


Author's Note: I'm guessing this is chapter is a far cry from what some were expecting. But for me the problem with writing a mature Harry Potter story using the titled character is that I require a mature Harry. I've read some stories that cleverly achieve this with some careful plot points, magic and only a couple lines of dialogue. However, for me, the adventure tale waiting to happen is predicated on Harry's character arc into maturity so it is important that I take my time with it and do it as realistically as I can.

In all fairness, I did try to cram this into one chapter, but I figured there was too much angst and development to cover so I split it. This chapter and the next will be a bit slow paced as I really delve into Harry's character. This chapter may not necessarily suit your fancy, but I consider it probably the single most important chapter in the entire story yet to come.

Please let me know what you think! I welcome all reviews, brief, in depth or flames. Thanks.