Chapter 4

Harry sighed, and kicked his feet as they waited for the Hokage. That conversation with Kakashi had lingering in the back of his mind, growing into an unhappy certainty. It didn't show so much during the espionage parts of their missions, but he found himself holding back in combat, wondering if he really needed to kill his enemies. He felt sick when he had to kill a civilian. The faces of those he killed had once again begun to haunt his dreams.

It was that, more than anything, that had brought this decision upon them. Hermione and Ron had been doubtful about giving up their work at first. Harry could understand. He'd killed Professor Quirrel when he was eleven, and spent the next seventeen years fighting a losing war. Even their final victory had been pyrrhic.

Then they'd been sent to this relatively kind, peaceful world, a world where war was waged between countries, between armies, not between brother and brother, husband and wife. None of them had known what to do. Harry hadn't been sure he was even capable of trusting strangers anymore. They'd been fighting so long they didn't know how to do anything else.

And yet, this wasn't their old world, and the killing they were doing now wasn't like killing Death Eaters. Without the pressure of war, of necessity, to force them onwards, their team was starting to fall apart.

Harry felt Hermione's scolding through the blood and magic bond that had held them together even after death. It wasn't strong enough for them to speak through, but Harry knew his friends better than he knew himself. They didn't need words to communicate.

Hermione was telling him to stop brooding, and Harry sent back wordless assurance. Ron chimed in by sending the image of them all drinking cocktails on a tropical beach, conveying that they were due for a holiday, and they all laughed aloud. Then Harry sent them the gentle mental nudge that meant, 'go away and let me think', and they obediently turned their attention elsewhere.

Harry found himself still smiling as he looked around the office, looking for something to relieve his boredom. No matter how angry or distressed Ron or Hermione were at the time, Harry loved the impression of their thoughts he felt through the bond. It wasn't much, not enough to distract him unless they were trying to get his attention, but it was enough to remind Harry that he wasn't alone.

Of course, that was why he had been so completely unable to deal with Ron's death. It had been like losing a part of himself. No, it was worse than that. It was losing someone else who he loved, who was also part of himself, and Harry had been so very glad to die. His only sorrow had been that he was leaving Hermione behind. He still felt guilty about it, although she hadn't been left behind for long. She had lasted ten hours after him. She had buried Ron and Harry, organised the survivors, chosen one of them as the leader, burned the last of their possessions and gone out to find the largest and most dangerous group of Death Eaters she could.

She was dead by dawn. So were the Death Eaters.

It probably wasn't healthy. No, Harry knew it wasn't healthy. That was why they tried very hard to maintain individual and separate relationships with outsiders. Hermione was very fond of her new parents, although they didn't understand her at all. Half the younger children in Konoha idolised Ron, much to all of their bemusement – especially Ron's. Harry had enormous respect for Dumbledore, and loved his new clan despite their flaws, and although he would never admit it, he was rather fond of their ever-so-reluctant teammate Kakashi, too.

All of which brought him back to the subject of this coming meeting. Harry sighed, and rubbed his forehead.

Finally, the door swung open silently, and Dumbledore entered with a weary groan. Harry gave him a sympathetic look.

"That bad, old man?" Ron asked from where he was sprawled over one of the chairs.

"Not bad, so much as tiring," Dumbledore said frankly, taking off his formal hat as he sat down. "Your father has been particularly difficult of late," he said with a nod to Harry.

Harry grimaced in response. "He's been on his mettle ever since Itachi joined the Anbu," he said, and Dumbledore nodded. "How's nii-san doing, anyway?"

"Now, now," Dumbledore reproached, eyes twinkling. "You know that sort of information is confidential."

"You wouldn't even need to give it to us. If you'd just let us steal it," Hermione put in, giving Dumbledore a meaningful look. "We're professionals. No one would ever know."

"I would appreciate it if you would contain your professional endeavours to our enemies," Dumbledore said dryly. "Don't tell me you're bored already?"

At this, Harry, Hermione and Ron exchanged glances.

Harry spoke for all of them. "Well, that's sort of what we wanted to talk about."

Dumbledore straightened, clasping his hands on the desk and giving them his full and undivided attention. "You are bored?"

Hermione sighed. "Not exactly – the opposite, in fact. You probably haven't seen us on missions enough to notice, but…" she grimaced, searching for a tactful way to put it.

"Harry's getting more trigger-happy by the day," Ron said bluntly.

"So are you, moron," Harry snapped back reflexively. "I saw what you did to those Rain-nin last month." His mouth snapped shut with a click, and all three of them looked away at the memory.

That had not been a mission any of them were proud of. It had been an assassination, which was never fun, but by the end it had become a bloodbath. As a team, they prided themselves on being professionals. They made use of comprehensive information gathering to ensure swift, painless and efficient completion of missions.

That mission had been none of those. Unforeseen complications had thrown out their plans, but instead of remaining calm and collected, they had lost their tempers and their calm and had been lucky not to lose their heads. Literally. A lot of people had died who didn't have to, and Harry hated having blood on his hands. Even Kakashi, normally the most laid-back of teammates, had been wild-eyed and on edge.

Team Phoenix was falling apart, and that was something none of them could bear.

"I… see," Dumbledore said slowly.

"We thought it might be time to retire," Harry finally came out and said it, and they all waited with baited breath for the Hokage's reaction.

Dumbledore sat back in his chair. He didn't seem angry, or even surprised, so much as thoughtful. Worried.

"And Konoha's pretty strong at the moment," Ron said with painful earnestness. "We definitely wouldn't leave if we were needed." And it was true, if only because Ron would never abandon Konoha, and Harry and Hermione, who were less emotionally attached to it, would never leave Ron.

Harry couldn't explain it. How had Ron, who was treated like shit by all and sundry just because that bastard Yondaime had cursed him to live with a demon inside of him for the rest of his life, developed such a deep, fierce loyalty to the village that scorned him?

Harry had asked, more than once, and so had Hermione. All Ron had said was, "Don't be so hard on the Yondaime, will you? The only people who have the right to sacrifice others for a cause are those who would die for it themselves," he had quoted Harry's words from years ago back at him. Harry had been defending Professor Dumbledore when he said it, and the reminder had been enough to silence him.

Ron's first memory was of the Kyuubi being sealed into him, and the Yondaime's death. Apparently it had made an impression of him.

Harry didn't care. If the Yondaime weren't already dead, he'd kill the man himself for daring to hurt his friend like that.

Harry was brought back to the present by Dumbledore's sigh. "And if you did retire, what would you do?"

Ron, Harry and Hermione exchanged glances.

"Well, we sort of thought we might go travel for a while," Ron said a little sheepishly. "It's not very useful, but I think we all need some time to sort ourselves out. Figure out who we want to be, you know?"

"Yeah, and espionage doesn't leave much time for sight-seeing," Hermione added. "We're in a new world, and I don't know anything about it!"

"Except, apparently, everything," Ron said under his breath.

"We also want to look for magical foci," Harry said quietly, silencing the budding argument between Ron and Hermione. "Jutsu are the best for battle, but they just don't have the range and precision of spells. And to cast most spells…"

"You need wands," Dumbledore finished this time. "Oh, I know. Appropriate foci are far more difficult to obtain here, but it can be done." He produced his wand and laid it on the desk, giving it a fond look. "I didn't realise how lucky I was at the time to find a yuki-onna who was willing to part with a hair - and even that... well, you've used my wand. You know how difficult it is."

They'd all tried Dumbledore's wand, and the experience had reminded Harry of just how good a wizard Dumbledore had been - and still was. The character of the wand was temperamental and malicious, requiring enormous delicacy and subtlety to get the most out of any spells it cast.

Harry sighed. "Perhaps it would be better to just learn to be a great shinobi and forget about spells, but…" he grimaced. "I just can't. I'm too much a wizard for fighting without a wand to ever feel natural."

"Natural?" Ron scoffed. "It feels like fighting with both hands tied behind my back. I hate it."

Dumbledore sighed, and rubbed his forehead. For a long minute he stared at the desk top, until the trio were glancing at each other in confusion. To be honest, Harry had thought the Hokage would think it was a good idea. They had volunteered for this service in the first place, after all. They weren't prisoners, and both the experience and the hypothetical wands they might gain would make them much stronger.

Dumbledore stood abruptly and walked over to the window, looking out over Konoha.

"Professor?" Hermione asked hesitantly, and with growing suspicion in her voice. "Is there something you should tell us?"

For a long minute Dumbledore only stared out the window. Then he turned, tucking his hands into his sleeves.

"Perhaps," he said soberly. "Perhaps I should have told you this when you first arrived, but…" he sighed, but when he met Harry's eyes his gaze was steady with the wisdom and sorrow of nearly three hundred years of life, all combined. "I wanted you to be happy. I still do. How can I regret that?"

Harry felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. "This-" he moistened his suddenly dry lips and tried again. "This isn't 'we still need you here' or 'we're not trusted by the Council' sort of bad news, is it," he croaked.

Dumbledore's face remained very still. "Voldemort," he said.

Harry was already out of his chair, standing in front of Dumbledore's desk, fists clenched, shaking. "You bastard," he hissed. "You bastard. Don't you dare, don't you dare say anything."

"I'm afraid I have to," Dumbledore said conversationally, though his posture was rigid. "Voldemort was reincarnated. It was almost impossible that he wouldn't be, given the influence he had on the world."

"Since when does destroying something count as influence?" Ron said from behind Harry, in the controlled voice that meant he was utterly furious.

"Do you- God," Harry said, and covered his face with his shaking hands. "God, no. Please, no. I won't believe it. I can't. Do you have any idea of how many people died to kill him last time? Do you have any idea what we did, what we sacrificed?" His voice was rising uncontrollably. "You can't, it can't be true," he said, voice shaking. "No one… nothing could be so cruel…"

"Orochimaru," Hermione said, voice dead, and Dumbledore looked up sharply.

"You know of him?" he asked.

"You were very cagey about your third pupil, so I looked him up. I noticed the resemblance to Voldemort, but thought that you hadn't told us because the resemblance was painful to you. But instead, it was because they were one and the same person. How foolish of me," she said, all in the same mild monotone.

Harry grabbed Dumbledore by the collar of his robes. "Tell me. It's not. Tell me it's not fucking true," he hissed. He couldn't bear it. The possibility had never occurred to him, even though it should have, because he knew about Orochimaru and it was so goddamn obvious, but the thought was so horrible and cruel and how could life be so unfair? Harry couldn't breathe. He didn't think he could bear it.

This wasn't a second chance. This was a punishment, and Harry didn't think he could bear it.

He staggered backwards, slumping into his chair and putting his head in his hands. "Those years were the worst of my life. No, that's not saying enough. Those years were constant terror and pain and privation and grief and I wouldn't wish them on my worst enemy," he said.

"Except Voldemort," Ron said dryly, and Harry marvelled at his ability to make jokes at a time like this.

"Him I wish them upon a thousand times over," Hermione said with fervent hatred. "May he rot in the very depths of hell. May he burn for the rest of infinity. May he be skinned alive. May his eyes be gouged out with spoons. May his liver be torn out every day and his tongue every night."

Even Harry looked up at Hermione in amazement. She raised an eyebrow at them. "What, you think he doesn't deserve it?"

Finally, reluctantly, Harry smiled. "He does," he sighed. "A thousand times over. But I won't be the one to do it."

All three of them looked at him. "I had no intention of asking you to," Dumbledore said, brow creasing.

"Good," Harry said. "Because I would rather cut my own throat than fight that long, horrible war again." And he meant it. The horrors of the war that had destroyed Wizarding Britain and most of the Wizarding World still played out in his dreams. Eyeless, bodyless children's heads. Husband turned against wife, and blood covering the floor as they mindlessly rip each other apart with their bare hands. Ginny, her body unrecognisable, her mind broken. Neville, who was lucid and brave til the end, even as they cut open his stomach, staked out his intestines and left him to die.

Rape, torture, murder. Death after death after death. Sending friends out on suicide missions. Having to choose between a room full of innocent children and life of a hardened warrior, and choosing the warrior every time, in the desperate fight for one more day of life. In his desperation, he had made impossibly hard choices, and every one had splintered his soul a little more.

"I'm sorry," he said calmly. "I shouldn't have been reincarnated. I should have died, because I reached my limit long ago. I have no courage left to draw on."

Warm arms surrounded him, and Harry closed his eyes and leaned into Ron and Hermione's embrace. They had seen everything he had seen, survived everything he had survived. He had no secrets to hide from them.

He allowed himself to draw on their strength for a moment, then stood. Ron and Hermione followed, none of them looking at Dumbledore.

"I'm glad you didn't tell us before," Harry said conversationally. "I wish you hadn't told us now. I wish you had strangled that man the day he was born. I wish I had been alive then to do it myself." He was breathing hard, the effort of keeping his voice even taking a toll.

"We are going to go away, now. We are going to go and live peaceful, normal lives, and if we find out that Voldemort has discovered our existence, we will personally hunt down the person that betrayed us and kill them," Ron said, ice hard. "Do you understand?"

Dumbledore looked torn between anger and understanding, but finally settled on a slow nod. "Go, then," he said quietly. "Say goodbye to your families first, though."

Harry barely managed to get outside the door before he started shaking.

--

Telling the Uchiha's he was leaving had been… traumatic. Harry really felt like hitting himself, though whether it was for making his mother cry or being stupid enough to feel guilty over it, he wasn't sure. None of them understood. None of them could understand, not without Harry explaining his true origins, and Dumbledore was very serious about keeping that a secret.

Well, Harry knew why now. He made himself continue breathing deeply and forcibly turned his mind away from – that man.

His mother had cried, his father had been angry and his brother had watched with calculating eyes. Harry couldn't help but wonder what he had been thinking. Itachi had been his teacher in the advanced Uchiha taijutsu and ninjutsu, and the use of the Sharingan in combat. He had taught Harry all of the things their father thought he was too young to know, and Harry was very grateful, but Itachi was confusing. He was cool, then warm, then cool, and Harry could never predict how he was going to react.

Plus, Itachi was an eleven-year-old boy. Kids were alright in small doses, but Harry was, oh, 34 years old, all up. Beyond the mechanics of fire element techniques or the correct way to throw multiple shuriken, they didn't have much to talk about.

Harry groaned, and rubbed at his face. Why did everything have to be so goddamned complicated? All he needed was Ron and Hermione. Why did all these other people insist on shouldering their way into his life?

And speaking of people who had shouldered their way into his life, Harry now had to go and tell the prime culprit. Harry walked through the streets, not even bothering to glance longingly at the rooftops. There was no way he was blowing his cover for something as petty as convenience.

Finally, he arrived at the apartment building he knew Kakashi lived in. He entered, nodding politely at the man at the reception, and headed up the stairs. There was an elevator, but they made Harry nervous. Something about being trapped in a metal box hanging from a cord a long way above the ground.

He trudged up the stairs, finally entering the fifth floor. He looked around, trying to superimpose his external memory of where Kakashi's apartment was with the muted green hallways he faced now. He'd only ever seen Kakashi come out of his window, before. Once he had located the apartment, he approached the door warily. He hesitated outside, suddenly unaccountably shy.

Don't be an idiot, he scolded himself. He's seen your rooms. Well, not the ones in the Uchiha Compound, but it's no big deal. He's not that serious about privacy anyway. Well, except the mask. And refusing point blank to talk about his past. And treating even his own likes and dislikes as if they were state secrets…

Harry cut off that line of thought before he could talk himself out of it, and just knocked on the door.

There was no reply. Harry frowned, and knocked again. There was still only silence. Extending his senses, the rooms appeared empty, but that was no guarantee. Harry was no Hermione, to pick out hidden chakra signatures even when blind, concussed and at a thousand paces.

After a moment of hesitation, Harry shrugged and held his hand over the lock. He frowned, and after a moment a bead of sweat ran down his face, but then the lock clicked open. He pushed the door open, and entered, avoiding the traps and illusions. Once he had reached the centre of the room he paused and looked around. Nope, definitely no Kakashi.

Harry scowled. This was so inconvenient. He knew Kakashi wasn't out on a mission, which meant he was somewhere in Konoha, and Harry just didn't have time to search for him. After thinking for a minute, he decided on a plan of action. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out three grey masks.

For a long minute, he just stood there, looking down at the masks in his hand. He ran a hand over the smooth, cool, magically hardened porcelain, feeling the scratch on one that marked where it had stopped a sword about to hit Hermione's face and saved her life. Just above the eye hole on another, a chip marked where Ron had been punched through a brick wall.

The third mask was Harry's, and was unmarked. He'd taken some fairly serious hits over the years, but none with the brute force needed to crack Dumbledore's strongest protections.

Harry smiled ruefully, and laid the three masks out on Kakashi's kitchen table. Then he rummaged round in his bag again, finally coming out with a pen and a scrap of rumpled paper. He chewed on the end of the pen as he tried to compose a suitable goodbye, but only became more and more frustrated.

Finally, he sighed and bent over the paper.

--

Harry, Ron and Hermione met outside Konoha, just out of sight of the gate-guards. Harry was the last to arrive. Hermione was already there, looking miserable and guilt-stricken, while Ron hovered over her anxiously. He had brought all their gear, since he didn't have anyone to say good bye to.

They both looked up when Harry arrived, head down, hands deep in his pockets. For a long moment, all of them just stood there, waiting.

Finally Ron broke the silence. "So…"

"Yeah," Harry sighed. "Who knew that I was going to miss Konoha?"

Hermione sniffed, rubbing angrily at her eyes. "My parents were so upset. They don't even understand ninjas, let alone me."

Ron slung an arm sympathetically over her shoulder, but there was really nothing any of them could say.

"Let's go, then," she eventually said, and they all reluctantly shouldered their packs, throwing one last look back at Konoha.

"We'll be back one day," Ron promised, and both Harry and Hermione noted the longing in his eyes.

"Well, obviously," Hermione sniped, and they set off to the sound of the bickering of three old friends.

A/N: edited 28th August 2008 for world-building and flow. Next chapter may or may not come soon - who knows.