A/N: Thank you all again who reviewed and favorited and followed and all your support! You keep me going guys.

Guest: Yes, the Ministry definitely noticed a magical battle happening in the middle of a muggle neighborhood. In fact one ministry employee noticed the very second it started—Delores Umbridge.

Which explains a few things.

Chapter 4

Harry's new prescription glasses let him see every splinter, every speck of ash, every crumb of rubble and splotch of blood Number Four Privet Drive was reduced to. He, Padfoot and the Headmaster were the only people in the neighborhood. Eerier than the scars of black magic that tore up asphalt, concrete and once-immaculate lawns. Creepier than the blood graffiti on rubble and wood where houses stood. What made the hairs on the back of his neck tremble was the lack of normal sounds. No cars driving nearby. No screaming kids. His Firebolt stuck like a broken flag in the wreckage of Miss Figg's house (thank Merlin she'd survived). A rotten stench wafted in the air. He shooed a curious fly away from his face. Not a single house on the block was whole, but Number Four gaped like a missing finger on the hand of Little Whinging. The feel of dark magic, prickling his skin like the stare of a monster, lingered everywhere.

"Just as well they kicked me out," Harry said, staring at his former home. No, the Dursley home. He laughed. "Glad I don't have to clean up this mess." There wasn't a recognizable piece of anything. It looked like someone had blown up a crater and used it as a landfill. Everything he left behind was gone.

He picked his way through shards of glass and potholes from his explosive potions. "I think my trunk is over here."

If it hadn't been torn apart too. He pulled away scraps of what might have been roof. Black gunk clung to his hands. Beneath was wood splintered finely to tinder. What about his photo album? Harry clawed through the scraps, digging deeper into his former room and wincing as his freshly-healed wounds throbbed. Madame Pomfrey had done her usual job, though she warned him to avoid anything strenuous before he'd escaped her clutches. Even magical healing could only do so much. He stopped, waited for the burning in his side to ease. Padfoot trotted over and took up the digging.

Suddenly the dog froze and bounded out of the hole. He took Harry's sleeve in his teeth and pulled him away. "What is it? What is it?" He tugged free of his godfather, slid into the hole and dug until his hand clenched around something warm and squishy. He fell back with a scream.

There lay his uncle, or the mass of meat that was his uncle. The face wasn't recognizable at all, skin gone and broken bone protruding through pulped meat. His stomach roiled, and Harry felt like barfing was imminent. His side burned. The stench of carrion hit him and buzzing flies rang in his ears. Vernon's eyeballs were gone, devoured, but they would have been glazed and unseeing like Dudley's, like Cedric's…

"Kill the spare!"

"Harry I…" The Headmaster approached and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Allow me." He stepped in front and waved his wand at the mess.

Harry took several deep breaths and wiped his hands clean on the scraggly grass. "No," he swallowed, "I'm not a coward." Sirius whined beside him. He got back to his feet and adjusted his glasses by habit before realizing he didn't have to. After so long with his regular round ones these new ones felt strange, especially when magically fastened to his face. A fall hadn't bumped them.

"Never that—"

"I need to face this." Harry limped toward the mess the Headmaster had uncovered.

His dead relatives. Dead by magic, just as they'd feared. Voldemort and his death eaters taking out their tempers on his relatives, three harmless, helpless muggles who would have been left alone if not for him.

"It is not your fault," Dumbledore soothed. Padfoot gently nuzzled his hand.

Harry nodded but said nothing. Part of his guilt was from the lack of guilt. He tried to feel sorrow for the deaths of his last blood relatives but his heart was full of the same numbness his head had been in battle. Cedric's death—he had felt that. Still did. The Dursleys, for all he'd known them so much of life, didn't bring any pain from their loss. He even felt vaguely, horribly relieved. No more Number Four Privet Drive; no more spiteful neatness from his aunt; no more Dudley and his gang; no more bellowing uncle. They were gone in a way Harry hadn't imagined they'd ever be.

Harry felt Vernon would drive up in a new car to show off. Petunia would throw an epic fit at the state of her house and the three piles of bloody meat in the crater. Dudley and his gang would march up with hands balled into fists. He was seeing, smelling, hearing reality but it didn't sink in.

Privet Drive echoed with silence.

"This is not your fault," the Headmaster repeated.

"Without me, the death eaters wouldn't have come." Harry stated it like fact. "Voldemort wouldn't have come."

"Without you the Dursleys would not have enjoyed the protection of the blood wards. Wards that should have stood against even Voldemort at the height of his power. Tell me, what happened just before Tom and his people arrived?"

Harry stared at the rubble of the Dursley house. "Dudley was just lying there. Blank. Dead. But he breathed. Vernon shouted at me and—" What did she say? "Petunia said I was no longer welcome and they threw me out."

The headmaster's attention was riveted on him. "Petunia specifically said you were no longer welcome?"

"Yeah, that this was no longer my home and I was no longer family." Harry scoffed, "As if I ever was."

"Ahhh." The headmaster's sigh was a pained one, but knowing. "The blood wards required two things to work: firstly, you had to accept Number 4 Privet Drive as your home. Secondly, and of equal importance, the Dursleys had to grant you houseroom of their own free will. Petunia, in verbally casting you out, broke the blood wards protecting all her family."

"But she didn't know…" Harry trailed off at the grave look the headmaster gave him. "Did she?" If Voldemort had demanded him, his aunt would have traded him for a loaf of moldy bread…but at the price of her family's life?"

"Many people have fatal flaws Harry. Petunia has always been crippled by the vice of spite. I had hoped the pain of her sister's death would drain her hate and explained carefully the most vital importance of the blood wards to counter any foolishness. Alas, her spite cost her dearly." The headmaster stared at the lumps of rotting meat, festooned with flies, with more sorrow than Harry could muster. He turned to his fallen Firebolt, trailing a hand up the largest crack of his broken broom. A quick tug freed it. Twigs fell like kindling. Even this, a bunch of sticks given by his godfather, he mourned more than them.

A bark caught his attention and Harry stepped around his uncle's corpse. Snuffles was dragging out a broken wooden box—no, the remains of his trunk. Trapped in the cupboard beneath the stairs, it had held up better than anything else in the house. The trunk itself split in two pieces as soon as his godfather drew it out, spilling torn parchment and broken quills everywhere. In the wreckage was a familiar album. He dropped the broom-shaft and fell to his knees by his most precious gift. The sneakoscope Ron gave him squeaked pitifully at the lingering dark magic. With careful hands, Harry flipped through the photo album. A scar here. A burn there. But the pictures had been spared.

There were no pictures of his relatives, just as his relatives never had any pictures of him. Harry closed the photo album and met the stare of the grim-like dog. "Sirius."

The dog tilted his head, questioning.

"Anyplace I can practice shooting?"

Harry stood, feet shoulder-width, offering the smallest profile possible, and raised his weapon to the target. With deep steady breaths and a steady finger he squeezed (not pulled) the trigger.

A quiet pop echoed in the abandoned shooting range and a bullet hit almost dead-center on the parchment copy. Harry smiled. Ron laughed aloud, "Right in the shnoze."

"Don't be silly Ron, he doesn't have one," Hermione said. She mimicked the proper stance and took her own shot at the picture thirty feet away, just missing an eyeball. "This is an excellent idea. Very therapeutic." She glanced at Harry, "Everyone's aim has drastically improved from the old bulls-eye targets."

"And we get to shoot Voldemort." Harry fired off a couple more shots. Now Tom Riddle combined lipless old man with gap-toothed kid. Harry snickered. The snicker died as he remembered that night. "We need to learn to shoot faster and in a fight. He won't be giving us time to find our stance and aim carefully."

"True, but muscle memory is important. Perhaps exercise prior to target practice would simulate the exertion of a fight?" Hermione said.

Harry glanced toward the setting sun and laid his gun down. "We can try. Come on." He began the warm-ups that Oliver had drilled on the Quiddich field. Ron joined him a moment later.

"I didn't mean now," Hermione grumbled, but followed them.

Harry lead his friends around the edge of the former target range, where forest growth steadily invaded. They dodging and ducked around thorny bushes and vines and scrambled through the field of thick grass. Oliver's crazy schedule and the Tri-Wizarding tournament served him well. Harry barely had the chance to get out of shape. Ron was holding up even better; he'd been training for the keeper position over the summer. Behind them, Hermione's face flushed darker and sweat plastered her wild, bushy hair against her face. "I think…we should ask…about Auror…exercises."

"This is better." Harry charged toward a bench, threw himself into a slide and scrambled out from beneath the rotten wood. None of his fights had involved any kind of martial arts, muggle or wizard, but they all had lots of frantic dodging and more scrambling through dirt.

Hermione didn't have breath to argue.

They made two loops around the target range before Harry would need Voldemort's wand pressed to his head to do another. "Race you." He forced himself to sprint toward his gun. Ron picked up his pace. Hermione might have sworn; Harry was too far away to hear.

By the time he halted at the old stand and picked up his gun, every muscle in his body was twitching. "Mate…you look…like you've gone…another round with death eaters." Ron said. He stumbled to a stop and picked up his own gun.

Hermione joined them moments later, looking even worse, but she had breath enough to shout, "Safety." Harry's hands trembled, but he kept the muzzle far from anyone living. He was panting like a bellows but forced his stiffening legs into position. With blood still drumming in his ears, he squeezed out three more shots.

Only one hit the target this time, though Voldemort now sported a gap at the corner of his mouth. "More practice," he panted.

"Always need…more practice," Ron grumbled. His next shots missed completely. "Be…better shot…with Snape's face here."

"We won't…encounter Professor…on the opposite side of the battlefield," Hermione admonished.

"Bugger that. Slimy sniveling death eater. Look at all the other profs…after us. Lockhart, Quirrel, Crouch Jr? Snape's just buying his time. Not a squeaky-clean—"

Several more shots rang out from Harry's gun. In the silence, he said, "We should…exercise more often. It's good. More like a real fight."

Hermione, who had always been more comfortable in the library than the field, nodded in agreement.

"What about that death eater detection spell?"

"All theoretical unfortunately," said Hermione, putting another couple of bullets in Voldemort's face now that her hands weren't shaking. "An enchanted object that touched the skin at all times would be best. Knowing an actual spell would be a nice backup. Unfortunately it isn't as though anyone has a dark mark we can study."

"Could use Snape." Ron said before firing. He winced, covering an ear. "Silencing charms are wearing off."

"What?" Hermione asked.

"I said—" he saw her teasing grin, "Oh bugger off. That's the last round for me."

"We'll have to get Remus or Sirius renew them before next time," Harry said, his last shot sounding unusually loud as well. "Enough for now."

Hermione nodded, "I've got to get back or my parents will worry."

"It wouldn't be a bad idea for you to have your own broom," Harry mused, "Or get a little better at flying one just in case. None of us know how to apparate worth anything—"

"—something else we should learn as soon as possible," said Hermione. "You won't always have portkeys."

Harry winced at the reminder, "—and if Voldemort did take over next Tuesday we'd be stuck with broom travel."

Scowling, she scrambled for a counter-argument that would not require mounting a cleaning implement and shooting hundreds of feet off the ground. "Animagi."

"Would take longer and school brooms can fly faster than most birds," Ron said.

"I don't need to race."

"Speed could save your life," Harry said. One reason he justified buying a Nimbus 2001. Not quite the Firebolt—out of his and Sirius's price range now—but with both the Firebolt and the Nimbus 2002 released, his new broom hadn't come with too many zeros on the price tag.

She huffed, "Point taken. Next Diagon trip I will look at the brooms. As soon as our silencers are re-applied we should practice with moving targets anyway. Most death eaters won't be stupid enough to stand still."

"I dunno…" Ron said.

A soft crack echoed through the shooting range. Then another, then another in rapid session. A sound heralding the beginning of nightmares.

Harry didn't hesitate. "On the brooms."

"Speak of the bloody dark lord," Ron cursed.

Reaching into his potion bag, Harry flung one vial at the appearing death eaters. The glass bottle arced through curse-laden air. Hermione clung tight to Harry as the three took off, spells flying beneath their feet. Every curse missed the bottle which shattered on the ground, releasing heavy dark clouds of mist, rapidly engulfing everyone. The trio flew.

If Harry was learning to pack more potions, Voldemort's people had learned to fly. Three death eaters shot out of the mist. All three on Firebolts.

Harry reached for his potions only for Hermione to clasp his hand. "You fly, I'll throw."

"Hang on."

Harry flattened himself and shot like a bullet, so fast Hermione's nails dove into his gut and she couldn't throw the potion for fear of falling. Another curse grazed their clothes. Harry jerked to the other side. Hermione finally wrenched one arm away and let the potion fly.

One death eater snapped a quick curse that, by luck or skill, hit the tiny bottle. The explosion sent all three flyers head over heels. Harry was flipped off the safe cushion and leg rests. Fingers clutching the broom handle like ten vices as he fought the inexorable pull of gravity. His broom pitched forward as Hermione clung like a cat to a broken mast at sea, every hair standing on end.

As Harry tried to pull himself up, the death eaters recovered and swooped in for the kill.

"Fly Hermione! Fly now!"

"You're pitching it forward," she screamed.

"Down."

Ron swooped to the rescue, flinging another potion at the death eaters. An acid cloud distracted them but more rose from the group on the ground. They weren't the greatest fliers, but there were at least twice as many as there'd been on Privet Drive. Harry could feel the tell-tale chill of dementors.

"Hermione."

Dusting off rusty skills from four years ago, she plummeted, but it was a controlled plummet. The motion jerked Harry's grip loose. Without years of gripping brooms while flying a hundred plus miles per hour, he would have fallen. Instead, with fingers straining, he used the momentum to loop his legs around the handle. Expertly polished ebony wood hit his crotch. Ignoring the pain through sheer willpower alone, he kept his grip upside down.

"You need to fly. I haven't flown since first year," Hermione screamed. Her muscles were rigid, her arms like steel vices, her palms sweaty around the broom. The trees, which had looked like heads of broccoli from their height, rapidly swelled in size, limbs flailing in the wind like Whomping Willows.

Harry flipped them over.

"I don't mean like this." Hermione wrapped herself like an octopus around the broom. "Oh Merlin turn us back around."

"Even I can't fly this thing upside down. Climb back up behind me."

"Spell."

Harry flattened himself. A shaft of fire shot right over him. Hermione's face turned bloodless. "I'm fine down here."

Lucius Malfoy circled them like a hunting lion, lazy and confident on his Firebolt. He definitely didn't pass that sort of skill down to his son; Harry had a sinking feeling about his chances against the death eater while another person clung on his upside-down broom.

The explosion had ripped off the death eater mask, showing every arrogant feature clearly. A splatter of blood marred blond hair that whipped through the wind like a flag. This close Harry could see the gray of his eyes, like stone. Lucius Malfoy looked nothing like the targets they were aiming at. He spoke—though Harry couldn't hear him over the blood pounding in his own head—probably something about surrendering to Voldy's killing curse. His face was so mobile, so unmistakably alive, so unlike a paper target.

His drawn wand aimed unwavering at Harry's heart.

Harry drew his gun.

He felt no courage, no struggle to straighten his spine or take another step forward when everything in him said flee. Harry raised his gun with trembling human nerves and looked down the iron sights at a living person. His vision tunneled. He couldn't see the gleam of sickly green at the tip of that wand or the death eater robes flapping in the wind. Harry was focused solely on the rigid features of Lucius Malfoy's face. An enemy. An abuser. A murderer.

"Avada—"

Warm metal pressed against the flesh of his finger. His hand and arm recoiled with the gun. Bullet left barrel like a miniature bomb going off, the shock-wave reverberating through flesh. Harry's stone heart beat again. Too late. A hole appeared in the side of Malfoy's face, just beneath his eye socket. He mouthed, 'Kedavra,' but the green light died. His wand slid from slack fingers. The wizard flopped off his falling broom, both plummeting to the ground. The cold, detached part of him holstered his gun and began to fly. The other part of him beat wildly in his chest and boiled in his stomach.

"Harry! Harry?" He could feel hands again. Hermione's. Ron's. "Are you okay?"

He holstered his gun with a shaking hand. "I…" Another spell, blinding green, shot at them. Harry dodged instinctively, Ron at his side. Nausea and horror were left behind. "Fly." Lowering his voice, he added, "Grimmauld place."

Ron's pale skin was infested with sickly green and his fingers loosened around the gun he'd been carrying. Harry snatched it with seeker reflexes and handed it back, only for his friend to flinch away. "That…that's not like a killing curse. Not like a killing curse at all. Oh Merlin the back of his head."

"You might still need it. They're still after us," Harry said, offering the gun back.

Ron shook his head, all his limbs twitching worse than any exercise he could do. "Fly," Hermione said, "Come on, follow us."

Hesitantly Ron obeyed, and the trio swooped toward the first buildings. Death eaters followed, their curses slashing through windows and steel indiscriminately. In the failing light hunters and hunted were strange apparitions darting around skyscrapers. Some vanished in the concrete jungle, either through spells or using the shadows to their advantage. Harry flew almost wholly by his legs, one hand gripping Ron's gun, another around his wand.

A flash of white and black. Harry fired. A scrap of fabric fell. Three flashes of green answered.

"Keep going," Ron said. "Faster."

Harry slipped the gun in his other pocket and used the free hand to guide the broom, lowering his body for less wind-resistance. Ron was flying all-out beside him, swerving around the tops of buildings, soaring and swooping like a man possessed. On the Nimbus 2001, Hermione at his back, steering with one hand, Harry could barely keep up.

"I can't see them," Hermione reported from behind. She'd regained her seat while he'd been…distracted. "I think they've fallen back."

No one slowed down.

Skyscrapers and towers turned to town-houses. From above the rooftops looked as alike as any houses on Privet Drive but Harry had a seeker's stare. "There."

Grimmauld Place, visible only to those who knew its secret, was the only safe place left for Harry now that the blood protection was dead. They swooped through a special roof entrance—one of the details that gave away the wizard home—recently modified by Bill Weasley not to skewer those without Black blood.

Sirius's old home made Privet Drive look like a haven. Kreacher had barely touched the caked dust, mold, dirt and unidentifiable substances since his old mistress and master died, which had left a decade of grime and rust on everything. Almost as livable as the shrieking shack. Sleeping at night was a challenge at the best of times.

His godfather's presence alone made the place heaven compared to the former Dursley residence. He was there all the time and equally importantly so was the Order of the Phoenix. If anyone would believe them, if anyone would help, they would.

An old witch and wizard were gambling with cards while another, younger pair sat to the side, starting on supper. When the roof-door flew open with a shriek and a bang, the younger couple shot to their feet, a chair falling over beside a bob of pink hair. Despite robes wrapped around the chair, she had her wand pointed at Harry. So did her friend, Remus. The older duo were nearly as quick on the draw, sending game pieces and galleons flying in their haste.

Ron staggered off his broom, one unpleasant smell away from throwing up—which the house happily provided. Hermione shakily slid off, twitching like she'd been under the cruciatus curse, and embraced the floor. Harry clutched his broom a moment longer, unwilling to leave the safety of the sky. He was so messed up 'scruffy' didn't cover it. A pair of moth (and probably doxy) eaten curtains swept to the side, revealing the late Mistress Black in all her mad glory.

"Mudbloods and blood traitors in my house—"

"Silencio," the older witch bellowed.

"—filthy, disgusting—"

"Oh for Merlin's sake," the witch stalked over, shoved the curtains closed and snapped another curse to keep them that way.

"You really are who you look like?" Kingsley asked solemnly.

"Yes," Hermione said, "I swear on my magic I'm Hermione Granger."

"Whew. You three look like me after my first auror training day. Planning on joining the force?" Tonks commented.

"If I live long enough," Harry said, smiling weakly. "Already got the experience." A hole had appeared, just appeared in Malfoy's face. Harry felt like joining Ron decorating the floor.

Kingsley, a more experienced auror, asked, "What happened?"

"Death eater attack. Gun range," Harry said. He clutched Ron's weapon and his wand in white-knuckled hands.

"We will send a team to investigate," Kingsley said soothingly. He drew his wand. "Expecto Patronum," and the Lynx appeared for a moment before vanishing into the distance.

"Sir," Hermione interrupted, "My parents. can we bring them here? I don't feel safe in the muggle world anymore."

"Of course. In the meantime, I would suggest not leaving the house. Especially not so soon," Kingsley turned toward emerald flames as Dumbledore stepped through.

"Sir," Harry had no idea which sir he was addressing but someone needed to know. The Headmaster turned his way; Sirius appeared in the stairwell; Kingsley paused. Something in his tone must have attracted their attention. He didn't know why, it sounded like nothing to his ears.

"Lucius Malfoy is dead. I killed him."

A/N: Loads of fanfics have Harry's first known kill be Terrace Higgs or some other token death eater and the first draft of this story followed that path. I scrapped that. Killing Lucius Malfoy has more severe repercussions—so bring it on!

Another wand vs gun moment. The gun (and Harry) won mostly on luck and Lucius's stupidity. The killing curse is deadlier but slower than an actual bullet. He would have been better off with a transfiguration spell or something. That said, if Harry had missed, or just clipped Lucius's jaw, he'd probably be dead.