The ride home was painful.
Harry gritted his teeth as he drove his moped through school traffic, maneuvering around cars and inattentive students at a cautious speed. Normally Harry loved driving fast – loved the wind on his face, the hum of the engine, and the feeling of freedom he had whenever he started up the motor – but today he was driving slowly.
With a partially swollen eye and a body made up of bruises, Harry had to weigh the pros and cons for driving his moped home. If he drove his normal speeds he'd be back home in roughly ten minutes, meaning he wouldn't have to deal with the vibrations from the engine rattling his injured body for too long; however, with his left eye almost completely shut and his glasses bent from the fight, Harry couldn't really see very well, meaning that his reaction time was fucked.
So he chose to drive slowly, knowing that it would be a painful ride, but overall a much safer one.
Twenty minutes later, Harry came to a stop in his usual spot outside his home. Number 12, Grimmauld Place was Sirius's old childhood home, and he absolutely hated it. It was spacious for a townhouse and quite old as well, and as a child it was Sirius's own personal hell. The house had been musty, dark, and foreboding – just like Sirius's abusive parents. When Sirius had acquired the deed to the house upon his mother's death he had planned to burn the house down purely out of spite. However, when Harry came into his care, Sirius realized that he needed more room to raise Harry than what his one-bedroom apartment could offer.
As a result, Sirius and Harry had moved into Number 12, followed closely by Remus Lupin and Peter Pettigrew, whom had both agreed to help take care of Harry upon Sirius's request. The four had renovated and redecorated the home to make Sirius feel better, and for a long time the home was bright, youthful, and in high spirits.
But now, as Harry opened the door, he was greeted to a dusty silence and a dark hallway.
Harry trudged into the house, down the hallway filled with family photos that hadn't been updated for years, and up the stairs to get to his room.
He opened his door and threw his backpack onto his bed as he entered. His room was big enough for two people, though he never had the need to invite another person to stay over in his room with him. The walls were covered with poorly draw murals, the product of his ten year old self and his Uncle Remus one summer's afternoon. Harry was the one to draw the murals – of horses and dogs and cats and dragons and houses and mountains and football games and stick figures – while Remus helped him paint the upper walls and ceiling to resemble the sky transitioning from day into night.
Remus's contribution to his room was the main reason why Harry hadn't repainted his it in the past seven years, despite the cringe-worthy murals.
Harry grabbed a change of clothes and then made his way to the bathroom for a shower. He undressed as the water turned hot, and then stepped into the shower with clenched teeth.
The spray of the water hitting Harry was a constant reminder of his bruised body, and his shower ended up being quick rather than soothing like Harry had wanted it to be.
Turning off the water, Harry wrapped a towel around himself and stepped out onto the bathmat so he could observe himself in the mirror.
He was a dark-blue blob without his glasses on, and leaning towards the mirror Harry was greeted to the sight of his left eye – completely black but not totally swollen.
Earlier, as he had been waiting in the office, one of the workers had given him an icepack for his eye and an ibuprofen for the swelling and pain. That had been a couple hours ago and he was due for another round of icepacks and pain killers.
Harry dressed delicately before heading down to the kitchen, his wet hair dripping water onto the collar of his clean shirt. They were out of pain killers, and they didn't have a proper icepack, so Harry had to resort to using a bag of frozen peas. Harry plopped down into one of the chairs in the kitchen, the bag of peas wrapped in a cloth towel and placed unceremoniously over his eye.
Harry reclined in the seat, the same position he had been in earlier that day in the office, and stared at the ceiling. He was drifting off to sleep, his body relaxing as the cold seeped into his eye from the peas.
And then the doorbell rang.
Growling, Harry slammed the peas down onto the table and got up from his seat. He knew that he could have let the bell continue to ring, could have let the person ringing the bell wait until they realized there was no one home, but Harry knew the person who was ringing the bell.
Stomping to the front door, Harry adjusted his bent glasses on his nose once more before opening it.
He was greeted to the site of his Uncle Peter, his eyes wide in surprise and his hand out to knock on the door. Peter Pettigrew was a man in his late thirties with thinning brown hair, a growing bald patch, a pointed nose, and watery blue eyes. Harry noticed that he appeared thinner than the last time he saw him, no doubt due to stress.
"Hey Uncle Pete," Harry greeted, looking down at his uncle's face.
Harry had outgrown Peter in height while in his early teens, a fact Sirius had found hilarious at the time.
Peter's eyes widened further as he took in Harry's face.
"Harry! What happened to you?" he exclaimed squeakily, his face a mixture of horror and worry.
Harry gave him a reassuring, self-deprecating smile.
"I got into a fight," he replied simply, running a hand through his hair as he shrugged his shoulders.
Harry noticed by Peter's fidgeting hands that he was struggling internally, unsure if he should reach out to inspect Harry's face or if he should keep to himself.
In the end, he ended up frowning worriedly at Harry with his hands in his pockets; Harry tried not to feel too hurt about it.
"You should really put some ice on that eye of yours," Peter replied awkwardly, pointing towards Harry's black eye.
"I was doing that when you rang," Harry said, nodding his head.
"Oh."
Harry looked at his uncle before rolling his eyes and stepping to the side, inviting him in. Peter glanced at him hesitantly before entering the house.
Just like always.
"Will Sirius be home soon?" he asked as the two made their way to the kitchen.
"His entire department is trying to capture a rather elusive serial killer," Harry answered, "he's been coming home later than normal for the past week. You'll be fine."
Peter's shoulders sagged out of relief, his posture relaxing; Harry couldn't blame him, the last time Sirius and Peter had seen each other it had ended with Sirius threatening to arrest Peter the next time he saw him.
Well, at first Sirius had threatened murder until Harry had interjected his objections. He didn't like watching his uncles fight – never had.
"Oh, well, that's good. I mean, not the serial killer, that's bad, but – you know," Peter stammered out. Harry smiled slightly at his antics.
"I know," Harry said, reassuring his uncle.
They entered the kitchen together, and Harry went to the stove.
"Harry? What are you doing?" Peter asked, looking between Harry and the bag of peas on the table.
"I was going to make you some tea," Harry replied, holding up the kettle for his uncle to see.
It had become a habit Harry had fallen into – Peter was far more likely to talk about his illicit activities to Harry when he had a cup of tea and a couple of biscuits to munch on.
Peter gave Harry his best stern expression, which looked more uncertain than stern. Harry's uncles never could pull off a perfect stern expression – they could do disappointment, but never stern.
"Nonsense, Harry. Sit down and ice your eye; I'll make the tea."
Peter walked over to Harry and made flicking motions with his hands, as if he could shoo Harry away from the stove and towards the table. Harry hesitated, not sure if his uncle would still talk like normal if he had to make the tea himself, but in the end he handed Peter the kettle.
"Alright."
Harry walked back to his chair and sat back down, picking up the bag of peas as he did so. The cloth surrounding the bag was wet now, the bag sweating cold water as the peas defrosted. Harry put the bag over his eye and he could feel the cold water drip from the bag and down his face. It felt nice.
Peter ambled around the kitchen as he got everything he needed for the tea. The action was familiar and Harry allowed himself to think back to when he was younger – back to when Peter and Remus still lived with him and Sirius, of times when Peter would try to make breakfast for everyone only to end up burning everything because he would be talking with Harry, of Remus walking into the kitchen with the newspaper under his arm and sighing at the mess Peter had made, of Sirius laughing and poking fun at Peter's culinary skills, of Remus making tea and Peter preparing cereal for everyone as a way of apology.
Harry sighed away the ache in his chest.
"Who did you fight this time?" Peter asked once he had the water boiling.
"It was Hooper and his friends," Harry replied.
"Is Hooper that football player you showed up during try-outs?" Peter asked, his face scrunched up as he tried to recall why the name was familiar.
Harry hummed in the affirmative.
"But that – didn't that happen four years ago? Why is he still on you about that?" Peter looked at Harry with a puzzled expression on his face – as if he couldn't fathom someone holding a grudge for that long.
Or, at least, someone holding a grudge against Harry for that long.
"He's a fucking idiot and a bully. He and his mates really don't need a reason to pick on me."
Harry was, after all, a very easy target: he had no friends, and knew of no teachers who like him enough to have his back. Harry was at the very bottom of the school's social ladder – the proverbial Untouchable.
Untouchable unless he's getting the shit kicked out of him, that is.
Peter frowned at Harry's answer, and Harry wasn't sure if it was because Peter had almost been in his position while at school or if it was because he was currently occupying the same position in his everyday life.
Harry frowned as well as he gazed up at the ceiling. Whereas Harry was perfectly capable of surviving on his own, Peter needed to be protected by a group of powerful people in order to survive.
When he was younger, Peter had found his niche with Harry's father, James, and Sirius, and Remus. But now, with half of the group gone, Peter had moved onto far more powerful, far more dangerous people who he believed could protect him.
Believed, being the operative word – the group was doing anything but protecting Peter.
"I still can't believe that anyone would want to beat you up," Peter commented, his tone dismayed over the information.
Harry tried not to point out the fact that Peter would have probably wormed his way into Hooper's group had he had the chance while at school. In a way, he had, considering how big of a bully James and Sirius had been when they were younger.
Instead of talking, Harry shrugged in response.
They fell into silence, Peter shuffling awkwardly next to the tea-fixings while Harry sat relaxed in his chair. His left hand grew numb as he held the makeshift icepack, and he tried to place the peas in such a way that he could still ice his eye without getting his hands cold.
The kettle whistled, and Peter sprang into action as he prepared the tea. A few minutes later he sat down across from Harry, two cups of tea in his hands and the packet of biscuits under his arm. He placed one of the cups of tea in front of Harry, the other one he kept for himself. Peter opened the biscuit package and placed it in the center of the table, though not before he took one for himself.
Harry picked up his cup so that he could peer down at the tea without the pea bag moving from his eye, and he noticed that Peter had prepared it the way he liked it. Smiling slightly, Harry took a sip from his tea, burning his lip and tongue in the process, before placing the cup back down on the table. He kept his hand on the cup, though, feeling the warmth from the scalding tea heat up his freezing hand.
"So, how are you?" Harry asked, once more maneuvering the bag of peas over his eye.
"I've been well," Peter replied, his voice shaky.
Harry contained a snort of disbelief – Peter had dropped weight within the two weeks he had last seen him. He was not doing well.
"Have you stopped gambling, then?" Harry asked, already knowing the answer.
"Well – I – uh," Peter stammered out, his face turning red from embarrassment.
Harry quirked his eyebrow in an attempt to give his best judgmental expression, but it was hindered by the giant bag of peas on his face.
"I was up twenty thousand!" Peter exclaimed. He tried to play it off like it was a major achievement; however the sweat forming along his brow and his shifting eyes told Harry everything he needed to know.
"And what happened to it?" Harry asked in response, taking another sip from his tea.
"I – It was Mundungus's fault! If he hadn't upped the beat then I could have taken it all!"
And with that, Peter was off on a detailed rant about his recent games, and Harry sat back and listened. Harry had learned early on that Peter loved talking about himself – loved trying to make himself seem more important than he really was – and he also learned that Peter couldn't help but talk about everyone he knows.
And the people Peter knows nowadays were all cut from a similar cloth.
Harry had gained more intel on various Death Eaters through Peter's gambling stories than he had through newspaper stories and Sirius's old case files. Granted, not everyone Peter met was a Death Eater – Mundungus Fletcher, for instance, was just a thief with no Death Eater leanings – but a large majority of the people Peter interacted with were from the group.
So Harry sat back and listened, and every time Peter spoke of a Death Eater, Harry filed the information into his memory for later.
The first time Peter had told him of his gambling exploits had been when Harry had been fifteen. The house had been too quiet for Harry and he had welcomed his uncle's stories despite their illicit subject matter. In the end, Peter's stories had only been a ploy to kill time until Sirius came home from work, when he had asked Sirius for the money he needed to pay off the loaners he was indebted to; needless to say, the resulting argument had been the final knife in their dying friendship.
And even though Sirius had forbid Harry from speaking to Peter ever again, Harry had ignored the command. Through Peter's initial stories, Harry had recognized names, had realized who Peter was dealing with, and for the first time in his life, Harry understood why he was still alive – why he had survived that Halloween night when he was five years old.
So whenever Peter came by in the hopes to weasel money out of Sirius, Harry would use the time to weed information out of Peter.
"– Luckily Old Man Riddle was around; otherwise I think they would have pummeled me worse than you –"
"What!" Harry exclaimed, head snapping to look at his uncle.
He had been tuning out most of Peter's story, the lack of information making it unbearable; however that name jolted him back into a state of awareness.
"Uh, Harry, are you alright?" Peter stammered out. He was obviously alarmed by Harry's change in behavior, his watery eyes bright with worry and concern as he looked at Harry's incensed face.
The pea bag had fallen from its position over Harry's eye and into his lap, though Harry hadn't notice, too intent on looking at his uncle. His hand clasped his warm cup tightly, his knuckles white from the force of his grip.
"I'm fine," Harry said through clenched teeth. He took a few deep breaths in an attempt to calm himself down.
"Who was it that helped you out?"
Peter drew back at Harry's question, his own face falling into his own.
"Tom Riddle helped me out. You know Mr. Riddle, he's the headmaster at the school your father and I used to attend – he's a good man and a great replacement for Dumbledore," Peter explained.
His voice was shaky, as if he wasn't sure if he would be punished by revealing the information to Harry.
Harry, meanwhile, jumped to his feet, taking his cup of tea with him. He marched over to the sink and began to rinse his cup out.
"Harry?"
"I think you should go," Harry said, cutting off his uncle's worried question.
Peter looked from Harry down at his watch and gave a squeak of surprise.
"Oh goodness – look at the time! I really should be going!"
Peter sprang to his feet, his clumsy movements causing the table and chair to scrape and wobble as he stood up. Harry kept his eyes on the running water in an attempt to calm himself down. Peter quickly cleaned up his tea cup and the biscuits, placing them on the counter next to the sink before standing awkwardly next to Harry.
"I'll walk you out," Harry declared, turning off the faucet as his uncle continued to stare at him.
They walked silently to the front door; Peter a shrinking mass of concern, Harry a coiled ball of anger.
Peter opened the door, but before he left he turned back to Harry. Gingerly, he placed a hand on Harry's left cheek, close to his black eye, and stared at Harry with a paternal expression that made Harry's heart hurt.
"Take care of yourself – please," Peter pleaded, his eyes genuine.
Harry wanted to tell him to stay the hell away from Riddle. He wanted to tell his uncle – the man who used to read him bedtime stories, who used to play pretend with him, who had taught him how to play cards and how to make pancakes – to stay safe, to take care of himself.
He didn't want his uncle anywhere near Riddle.
But Harry had learned long ago that he needed Peter to continue his dirty habit, to continue associating with shady people so Harry could gain information from him.
And if Peter was hanging out with Riddle, then all the better for Harry's mission.
"I will," Harry reassured, leaning away from the touch. "And you – you be careful."
Peter stared at his surrogate nephew with a terrible cocky smile.
"It's not your job to worry about me, Harry," he said, "I'm the adult in this relationship, not you, and it's the adult's job to worry about the kids. So let me worry about you and you continue to act like a kid."
Peter left after that, walking out of Number 12 with hunched shoulders and a sad expression on his face. Harry had to restrain himself as he closed the door. He wanted to call out to Peter, to yell that he was wrong. Harry wasn't a child, and Peter was far from an adult. But Harry kept his objections to himself.
Silence followed the slamming of the door, and Harry allowed it to permeate the air for only a moment before he lashed out, banging both of his fists against the door.
Riddle.
A dark closet, a pleading mother, a deafening bang, a beam of light from a newly made hole followed by the opening of the closet door, a man – half in shadow and half in light – pointing a gun at his face, blood covered shoes, shouts from downstairs –
Tell anyone about this and you'll end up like your bastard of a father and whore of a mother.
No officer, I didn't see who did it. No, I was in the closet. Is my mother going to be okay? Where's my father?
Harry hadn't realized he had collapsed onto the ground until he felt a sharp pain coming from his knees and hands. He was gasping jaggedly, and he tried to get his breathing under control before he started to hyperventilate.
Harry thought back on Peter's story, trying to find a purpose to direct his emotions towards, rather than let them control him as they were currently doing. Peter had mentioned Borgin and Burkes, a pawn shop near Kings Cross Station that also dealt with illegal gambling transactions. Borgin, the owner of the shop, loaned money to and collected money from idiotic gamblers like Peter in order to make a profit from both winnings and losses.
Peter had been there when Riddle had shown up, which meant that Riddle should be on the books at Borgin and Burkes.
Heart no longer trying to beat its way out of his chest, Harry stood up onto shaky feet. He had to visit the shop, but first he needed a plan.
He went to the kitchen in order to clean up the evidence that Peter had visited. As he cleaned, Harry thought of a plan. He would go to Borgin and Burkes tomorrow with the intent on trying to pawn a family heirloom, no doubt using an old Black object considering how much disdain Sirius had over his family inheritance. While the worker was examining the object, Harry would try to find information on Riddle.
The rest would be left to improvisation considering how any well thought-out plan Harry ever had ended up falling apart almost immediately. His vaguest plans tended to go much more smoothly than his intricately thought out ones.
Looking around the kitchen one final time to make sure all the evidence of Peter's tea-time meeting were cleaned up, Harry left to his room, intent on writing down all the important information he gleamed from Peter's visit for his binder of evidence he kept in his room.
The binder was three-ringed, and had gone through several upgrades since the beginning of Harry's investigation. At first it had started off as a small half-inch binder, but now after almost two solid years of research, Harry had upgraded to a three-inch binder filled with information regarding suspected Death Eaters and Voldemort himself.
Even now the binder was in need of another upgrade, the rings becoming harder to open as Harry added more papers to the already over-flowing stack.
He retrieved the binder from the loose floorboard underneath his bed; he was probably being more paranoid than he should be considering how no one knew he had been collecting information on Death Eaters, but Harry felt that he couldn't be too careful.
Constant vigilance and all that.
He placed the binder on his bed and reached for his backpack before taking a seat on the bed as well. He pulled out a notebook and a pen from the bag, pausing when his eyes moved over a white business card. Placing the pen and notebook to the side, Harry picked up the card, reading the name and contact information quickly.
He had almost forgotten about Agents Barton and Coulson from earlier that day.
He stared at the card, his mind racing in thought. Harry was given a unique opportunity – two agents from an intelligence agency were investigating Death Eaters. Their mission was to find out as much as they could about Voldemort and his Death Eaters, or at least that's what Harry had gathered from his conversation with Barton.
And Harry had liked Barton – the guy seemed easy-going and good at his job, despite his apparent newness to it.
Barton had given Harry the card because he knew that Harry knew more than what he let on, which was true. Harry could call and tell them about everything – tell them that they could have his binder, that they could finish Harry's work for him.
But he frowned at the idea of letting anyone get a hand on his research. He had started this crusade against Voldemort and his Death Eaters and by God he was going to finish it.
But maybe he could call them and give them a friendly tip that they should turn their attentions away from Quirrell and onto Tom Riddle.
After all, Riddle was Voldemort.
Riddle had killed his parents – would have killed him had the neighbors not shown up before Voldemort could finish the job.
And maybe if Barton and his partner were investigating Riddle then they could keep an eye on his Uncle Peter while they were at it; make sure he didn't end up in a ditch somewhere after a bad game of poker or something.
With his mind made up, Harry leapt from his bed and made his way down to the living room where the home phone was kept. He would call the Agents, tell them to keep an eye on Riddle, and never speak to them again. If they ended up finding out that Riddle was Voldemort and could kill him, then that would be great; if they couldn't, even better.
Maybe then Harry could finish his job without outside interference.
Harry had the phone in hand, the silent living room creating the perfect space for a secret conversation, and began to dial the number on the card.
That is, until Harry heard the front door open.
Ending the call before he even made it, Harry placed the phone back down on its stand and slipped the card under the phone stand.
Out of sight.
Harry watched the entryway as his godfather walked past it. Sirius Black looked haggard: his suit was wrinkled, his tie was undone, he looked like he needed a shower, and he had a packet of cigarettes in his hands. He had almost walked completely past Harry without even noticing he was there, except right at the last minute Sirius did a double take, spotting Harry standing awkwardly in the living room.
Sirius turned around and entered the room with Harry, his eyes zeroed in on Harry's face.
"That's quite a shiner you've got there," were the first words out of Sirius's mouth. Harry felt his lips twitch, though it wasn't out of amusement.
Sirius took hold of Harry's chin and angled it so he could get a better look at Harry's face.
"You know, even James and I, with all the shit we pulled back in school, never were able to get suspended. Congrats, you accomplished something even your old man couldn't do."
Sirius clapped Harry on the shoulder, right on a bruise. Harry winced, though it wasn't all from the pain.
Harry bit his tongue; he wanted to say that his father was not an old man – would never be able to be an old man – because he died at twenty-five years old.
"I mean, even after we snuck into the girl's locker room we hadn't been suspended – had detention for months, but never suspension," Sirius continued with a laugh, his eyes glazed from a memory.
"Well, you did always say that Dumbledore favored you and dad," Harry said, shrugging his shoulders in such a way that Sirius's hand fell from it.
"That he did," Sirius agreed, still far away in his memories.
The two stood in silence. Harry waited for Sirius to return to reality, and he watched with drooping shoulders as his godfather took a cigarette from the pack and placed it between his lips before taking out a lighter and lighting it up.
Harry frowned – Remus had always hated it when Sirius smoked in the house – and he had to refrain from walking away from his godfather to open a window.
Sirius took a drag from the smoke and blew it out, down towards his feet and away from Harry's face.
"I'm sorry I didn't pick you up from school," he began to say.
"Sirius, it's fine," Harry cut in, pushing away the residual hurt that he had been feeling from earlier in the day.
"No, it's not. I should have picked you up."
"You were on a case, it's fine."
"You were probably bored out of your mind."
"Honestly, it wasn't any different than being in class all day."
"If James or I were in your position we'd have just left."
"Remus wouldn't have approved."
Nor would mom.
"No, he wouldn't have," Sirius agreed, taking another drag of his cigarette.
Sirius stared at Harry some more before rubbing his hand through Harry's hair, messing it up further than it already was. Out of habit, Harry went straight to fix the damage his godfather had caused, causing the man to smile.
"Well, you get a week off from school – think of it as a mini vacation. Enjoy it while you can because once you're reinstated, school's going to be hell."
And with that, Sirius walked out of the living room, leaving behind a cloud of smoke. Harry frowned as he watched him leave; there was no disciplinary action from Sirius – no grounding, no extra chores, no yelling or chastising.
How was Harry supposed to act like a kid like Peter expected him to be if the only adult he still actually liked didn't treat him like one?
Harry grabbed Coulson's business card from underneath the phone and left to go to his room. He already knew how the rest of the night would play out.
Sirius would retire to his office without dinner in order to look over the case file for any clues he had missed during the day; except he would be doing it with a bottle of whiskey and a mind filled with memories. Come midnight, Harry would check on him only to find him asleep at his desk, a half-empty glass of whiskey within his reach and an even emptier bottle of whiskey closer still.
Harry would then down the rest of the whiskey in the glass, pick up the file his godfather was looking through, and look at it himself. This way he could gather more information on suspected Death Eaters for his own research while also staying informed on any new dangerous criminals within the city.
Once done with the file, Harry would turn off the desk light, turn on the lamp in the far corner of the office, and turn off the room light so Sirius could sleep in a semi-dark room rather than a completely bright one.
Then Harry would brush his teeth, jot down all the information he learned to put in his binder, and go to bed.
Harry entered his room and launched himself onto the bed, the mattress bouncing with his body upon impact. He would wait and think until his godfather passed out in his office. In the meantime, Harry looked at the business card in his hand, his mind drifting off in thought.
Coming to a decision, Harry crumpled Coulson's business card in his hand and tossed it into his trashcan.
He swore that he was going to be the one to bring Riddle to justice along with the rest of the Death Eaters – there was no way he was going to call in a couple of unknown Americans for help when he didn't need it.
He didn't need their help, and he certainly didn't want their help.
He was fine on his own.
Always had been. Always would be.
Author's Note:
Thank you everyone who have followed/favorited/reviewed this story; the initial response has been great and I am happy the story has thus far been well received. Hope everyone has a great Wednesday!
