Harry admitted, days later when Snape cornered him in the hall to yell at him again, that shooting Theodore Nott (though the highlight of his week) wasn't his best decision, given that the consequences certainly outweighed the benefits. He had appeared properly remorseful when Snape had told the Headmistress what had transpired, but, unfortunately, it seemed he hadn't worn that guilt very well. McGonagall had thought his apology impudent and insincere.

He told Snape that it shouldn't be a surprise that he'd bollocksed up his apology, considering he wasn't sorry at all for doing it, as Snape should really have known already. No matter Harry's logic, McGonagall and Snape were furious, and Harry was in a lot of trouble.

"Honestly, Potter," the Headmistress said with gritted teeth. "I wonder if I should lock you away somewhere where the world will no longer have to deal with you. Perhaps they'll give me an Order of Merlin!"

"I'd be happy to explain, Headmistress," Harry told her, eyes a little wide. "If you please."

"I do please," she snapped. "What could possibly make you think it would be acceptable to nearly kill a student? And no more fake apologies!"

Harry nodded and started to make himself comfortable by sitting in a respectful, school-boyish manner, but then Snape kicked him in the leg, and he straightened up. "Well," Harry began, casting a quick glare at the Potions Master. "Nott was attacking a student because he was Muggleborn."

McGonagall huffed. "And you came to his defence, did you?" she asked dryly.

"Yes, ma'am, and I'd like to have it noted that I had every right to disable Nott," he added. "I dislike prejudice as much as the next bloke."

She gave him a look of absolute frustration that made Harry feel a bit ashamed for a moment, and then the feeling was gone, and he was returning her expression in an attempt to lighten the mood. She just looked angrier.

"Guns are not allowed in this school, Mr Potter," she went on, seething. "Neither is attacking the students. I would expel you, but, with the present climate, I would likely be sending you to your death." McGonagall paused, glaring something awful at Harry's bemused face. "Suspension would only tip off the press that you were in trouble, and, if this incident gets out of this office, well…you know how bad the response would be."

Harry lifted one shoulder. "They'll think Nott was within his rights," he scoffed. "And they'll want my head, but they'll settle by ruining my political aspirations instead," he continued mockingly. "I know."

"Savior or not," McGonagall continued. "You've bollocksed up, Potter."

He hid his laugh with a cough and said, "I do believe I have, Headmistress."

"Luckily, we've managed to save Nott's legs," she said, grimacing. "Though I've no idea how to keep him silent on the matter." McGonagall glared at him as he opened his mouth to speak. "And no, Potter, you cannot kill him."

Harry opened his mouth to argue. Snape kicked him again.

With a thoughtful frown, McGonagall leaned forward in her seat and stared at him. "I'm beginning to understand you, Potter, Albus—" she stopped and turned to look at the ex-Headmaster's empty portrait. "Albus told me very little about where you two were on the night he died. He is being extraordinarily close-lipped about it."

Cursing mentally, he chided himself for not realizing sooner that Dumbledore would be forever immortalized in the portraits of Hogwarts' deceased Headmasters. That old man had better keep his gob shut, Harry thought rather viciously, and though his inner grumbling was less than innocent, he managed to maintain a guileless expression under McGonagall's critical eye.

"May I ask what he did say?" he asked politely.

"No, you may not," the Headmistress said icily. "Though you may know that he confirmed to me that you quite like Muggle weapons." She held up the gun with two fingers, dangling it by the grip. "I'm going to have to confiscate this, you understand."

"Fuck," Harry huffed, and then quickly backpedaled when McGonagall raised a warning eyebrow. "I mean, gosh. Suppose I deserve it though, ma'am. Might I ask when I could have it back?"

The other brow rose and lines appeared in her forehead. "When I deem you able to refrain from shooting the students," she told him. "That means never, Potter."

Well, that's torn it, Harry mumbled inwardly. "Alright. I promise to never, ever, ever, attack another student so long as I live… on my parents' grave. Cross my heart, hope to die—"

"No," McGonagall cut him off, scowling. "You will give a formal apology to Mr Nott—"

"What?" Harry blurted, before squeezing his lips together.

McGonagall glared. "Make it a sincere, formal apology. You are not allowed Hogsmeade trips."

Which essentially meant he was under house arrest. Bugger.

"And the next time you decide to defend a student against an aggressor, I expect you to find a professor," she said, sniffing. "Or, if you're incapable of believing the faculty is qualified to run this school, a Stunning spell rather than bullets may be the better choice."

Harry grimaced, knowing a dismissal when he heard one, and made his way out of the office. He loved that gun. Now that old cat had it, and she was very close to losing what little faith she had in him. Not to mention Dumbledore bumbling about in his stupid portrait…. He should have just killed Nott and burned the body, but he'd been upset and tired and had wanted to blow off some steam. Harry hated to make mistakes, and he wanted his goddamn gun back.

Slinking down the stairs with a petulant scowl, Harry suddenly realized what he was doing and sighed through gritted teeth. If the Colt had been modified, he would have been in a lot more trouble than just a measly request for an apology and house arrest. He always carried around that regular pistol anyway, but if he had deviated from the norm and a modified gun was on him…if he had killed Nott….

He wasn't one for the game of what-ifs, but the thought of the alternative was a bit of a reality check. That had been close. And Harry had lost his temper. Damn.

Harry kicked the wall, and pain resonated through his toes, but he ignored it in favour of letting some built-up frustration out.

"Self-mutilation, Potter?" Draco's voice appeared out of nowhere. "What did you do now? Snape looked ready to Crucio you—"

"Where have you been all my life?" Harry asked, licking his lips.

Draco's face emerged from underneath the Invisibility Cloak, his expression both wary and aggrandizing. "Potter, you're an idiot—" but Harry wouldn't let him say anything on the matter of him being an idiot at all, and Draco found he didn't mind very much that he was interrupted so rudely.

.o00o.

"Can't a guy have a drink with his ally?"

Rahul didn't crack a smile, so Denny stopped his grinning. His attempts to be well-mannered and witty had failed absolutely, but he found he wasn't too miffed about it, considering he loathed Rahul with a passion. He made a face at the man.

"Why are you here, Mr Brooks?" Rahul asked for the third time, blinking slowly.

Denny shifted in his seat. "Well, Henry and Frank sent me, to check in on distribution down here. Henry's in school, you know, and he feels a bit bad that you're working so hard. No, don't worry, Rajiha," he said, raising a hand when it looked as though Rahul would interrupt. "I've already grounded him."

Despite his irritation at Denny purposefully getting his name wrong, Rahul finally relaxed a bit and nodded. "Tell him there is no need to worry. I have everything under control here," he said.

"I have no doubt about that," he beamed, leaning forward to stare at Rahul across his desk. "Say, how about that drink, Rahodji?"

Denny watched the man's black eyes narrow before they closed for a moment. "Of course, though I have no alcohol here, Mr Brooks. The Qur'an forbids it."

"Oh," he grunted, trying not to gape. "Tea, then?" he choked out. Bloody nutters…no alcohol my arse. He's probably got a stash of whiskey in that turban of his.

Rahul rose from his seat, leaning on his ornate oak desk to push himself up and bark orders in Arabic outside of his door. No one answered, fortunately, and Rahul left Denny alone with a muttered apology. Watching from his seat as the man retreated down the hall, Denny suddenly dove for Rahul's desk, shuffling through papers quickly, looking for something, anything, in Frank's handwriting. He grasped a slip of paper and shoved it into his pocket, sitting back down as Rahul came back down the hall with a woman covered from head to toe in black fabric. She carried a tray of tea in her hands.

"Mint leaves," Rahul told him as the lady handed him a cup. "Good for digestion. You British like heavy tea with cream and sugars, which are bad for the body. I do not find it palatable at all."

Denny looked at the tea closely. "Bash a man's tea, will you?" he said without malice. "'Spect you'll go after my loyalties now. We'll have words if it's my Dandies you're thinking to defame."

Rahul frowned heavily. "I really don't have any idea what you're talking about," he said bluntly, choosing to ignore Denny's answering glare. "Tell me, how is Henry doing?"

Setting his tea down with a short huff, Denny said, "As well as he can be. He's a scholar now, you know. Very posh."

"Yes," Rahul murmured, nodding. "And he is at a magic school?" He waved away the woman bustling about, and she shuffled out of the room obediently. Denny didn't bother to watch her go.

"Aye," he began, slightly wary. "It's a Wizard school in Scotland, I think."

Rahul crossed his hands. "And what do you think of this?"

He didn't know what the man meant by that, and must have looked as confused as he felt, because Rahul smiled and extrapolated, "As a father and as a man at war, one openly against Wizard kind, you seem very tolerant. We all dislike institutions of magic here, and the Wizards that find us so inferior are our enemies. I wonder, Mr Brooks, if your son is the exception."

Denny understood now, what Rahul was asking, and he didn't like it, not one bit. "As a father, I'm proud but worried for my son. As an ally, I think he,s clever to conceal himself this way. Oh, didn't you think of it, Rahul? How embarrassing," he said, grinning meanly. "What better way to hide but among the enemy? They think he's a hero and everything."

Rather than looking vexed at Denny's answer, Rahul instead appeared as though he had expected as much. "Then you have no worry that Henry will find the Wizarding World more promising? We both know the victor is whoever wins the loyalty of your son. He will be the one to end this."

Jaw cocked and patience quickly fleeing, though it had put up a valiant effort, Denny snapped, "No, Hen isn't a turncoat. I'd watch your mouth around me. Slander my son to some other bloke. One who isn't ready to put a bullet between your eyes."

"Ah," Rahul responded indifferently. "A father's love for his son is unreasonable, but twice as strong as logic. I understand."

"How wise," Denny said, muttering insults beneath his breath. "Listen, if you think Henry's a bad leader, just say it. Or better yet, tell him that to his face. Please tell him to his face," he suggested gleefully.

Seeming to finally recognise the danger he was in, Rahul uncrossed his hands and laid them palm up, as if to appear unthreatening. "Forgive me, I don't mean to make you think that I do not trust Henry. But you must understand my reluctance to have so much faith in a child. They are—" Rahul paused to search for the word.

"Young?" Denny provided, trying not to sound as furious as he felt. "Foolish? I don't disagree, Raja, but you're forgetting one very important thing." He sat back in his seat and gazed at the man impassively. "Ask me to tell you."

Rahul leaned forward with a loud sigh. "Tell me."

"Say please."

Rahul's jaw clenched. "Please."

"Henry hasn't ever been a child." He added a proper scowl and glanced at the man's headdress. "I hope your head gets better. I'll show myself out."

Oddly enough (though he had gotten the last word) Denny did not feel as if he'd won the day. He felt as if Rahul had known far too much about what Denny thought, with his indifferent eyes and careful questions. He felt as though Rahul might just know more than Denny himself did. What game was he playing? Denny didn't know - he wasn't any good at these sorts of things.

Walking out of the building, his face still twisted in contemplation, Denny took out the Portkey Henry had sent to him and activated it. Once he was in front of Tyler's Manor again, he took out the slip of paper he had pinched from Rahul's desk. It said very little, but also just enough: Friday. Noon.

Perhaps Frank, for this was indeed his familiar handwriting, had simply scheduled a business meeting with his ally and was not up to anything out of the ordinary. Harmless professionalism, surely.

But Denny suspected it was more than that. He hadn't liked that quiet, unobtrusive attitude of Rahul's, and he was beginning to think that Frank was far more ambitious than they'd been lead to believe. He worried, because a betrayal involving not one but two allies (and important ones, people who knew too much) could prove disastrous. He worried, because it sounded like they could no longer depend on Frank, who happened to be their friend. With the note half-crumpled in his hand, Denny took out his mobile and decided.

"What do you want?"

"Do you always answer like that, or is it just me?" he snickered, but then he sighed because, at the moment, he was unable to find much humor in anything. Clearing his throat, Denny went for the kill. "Lad," he said, "we've got a problem."

.o00o.

Hermione stood in her room and took a deep breath. Her trunk was open at the foot of her bed – open, but not unpacked, and she stared at it with very little motivation to put her things away. Instead, she sat down heavily on the warm covers and enjoyed the silence. She was missing class, but, for once, it didn't seem to bother her. It was her first day back at Hogwarts, but she wasn't excited or happy about it. She had only returned because her Aunt had begged her to continue her education. Also, Ron had sent numerous letters in an attempt to get her to come back. She had finally conceded, but only after she'd buried her parents and cried nonstop for a week or so. And by then, she'd been itching for something, anything, to do.

She didn't want to think about her parents now, but the images of their bodies would stay in her mind forever. It was stuck in her head, asleep or awake. Hermione sighed again, looking at her trunk forlornly, and supposed she had another hour before her roommates returned to the tower. It wasn't that she didn't want to see any of her old friends… or maybe it was. She simply didn't know how she felt at all. Knowing she didn't want sympathetic words or unfeeling comments such as 'staying positive' or 'it gets better', Hermione felt as though talking to anyone ever was the last thing she wanted to do. But, then, she thought, if her suffering was ignored entirely, she would be upset that no one had bothered to care. That no one thought it mattered that her parents were dead.

Hermione was always one for rational thinking, and grief had made her irrational. She found herself angry and sad and frustrated with herself and everyone close to her. Supposing she dealt with both of them – the sympathetic well-wishers and the ones who would rather look right through the tragedy – and exploded in their ruddy faces? What if she told them exactly what she thought about them, from their intelligence to their appearance to anything deeply personal that could hurt them, so they would know how awful she felt. Hermione thought she may just do it, that she was out of control and that she may just break down at the thought of hearing one more 'I'm so sorry'.

Hermione had only once before considered leaving everything behind for some peace. After her second year, things had seemed unfixable. The diary she had accepted as a gift had torn her apart, touching on everything she'd wanted that was unattainable, with promises of fantasies that would never happen. Then… then she had realized it was all fictitious, and she had to confront the reality before her. The reality that Hermione Granger would never fit in, that she was an outcast no matter what world it was, muggle or wizard, and that, despite how hard she tried to be perfect, she made mistakes. Horrible, terrible mistakes that she didn't want to live with.

And then there was Ron.

After Dumbledore had saved Hermione from the catastrophe she had caused, Ron had suddenly clung to her side and had stayed there. For months, Hermione had waited for him to leave, as everyone else seemed to, but still, he remained. Forever loyal and true, but no less like his irritating self. They started dating, something Hermione had never envisioned for herself. She fell in love with having a boyfriend, and then she fell in love with Ron. Now that a new disaster had struck, Hermione thought on her Ron and wondered if he was a part of the 'everyone' that she didn't want to see or speak to.

No, she thought, laying down on her bed and stretching her arms over her head, I want to see him. I missed him.

But that would mean seeking him out. So far, the only person she'd had to deal with was Headmistress McGonagall, who expressed her apologies for her loss before pressing forward and assigning her classes. Hermione had appreciated that very much, was glad that McGonagall hadn't harped on the subject, as many did. She had merely pointed out that if Hermione needed a break to visit family or to just simply not do schoolwork for once, she'd only have to say the word.

Thirty minutes back at Hogwarts and she already wanted a break.

She tried not to be upset with herself. Glancing at the clock with another deep breath, noticed that lunch was now beginning in the Great Hall, and suddenly, she was angry. No one would expect her to come down if they even knew she was back, and the 'walking on eggshells' nonsense they'd likely pull after seeing her frustrated her to the point of madness. People were so infernally predictable, and it made her positively furious. She got up from her bed, feeling as though a monster was rearing up inside of her, and wiped away the tears that had collected at the corners of her eyes. Hermione would show them that she was stronger than they thought, that she didn't need their consolations and fake empathy. And her Ron was there, and he would not know what to say, but it wouldn't matter anyway, because he was hers. Hermione left her trunk opened but untouched and marched down to the Great Hall.

When she arrived, in a haze of fury and aggravation, she looked for bright red hair and saw Ron stuffing his face with steak and kidney pie and ignoring his sister, who sat in front of him with a scowl on her face. Hermione didn't understand why she felt comforted by the sight, because she knew she wasn't better, and that sorrow waited in the shadows to overwhelm her at any given moment. But she could ignore it and greet her boyfriend, who she hadn't seen in months. She could.

As she stepped forward, no one turned their heads to gape at her, no one cared, and Hermione was suddenly happy it was so. She didn't expect, however, the boy sitting next to Ron, the boy who she could see had captured her boyfriend's attention completely. She didn't expect that Harry Potter would be there at all, or the uncontrollable and absolute wrath that rose up inside of her at the sight of him.

Hermione stood at the entrance to the Great Hall, looking into the face of the boy she suspected had a hand in her parents' murder, and the wheels in her head turned, and the room shrunk until it was him and only him she saw. And she trembled, stuck in that one moment, before she turned quickly and fled - red hatred burning in her eyes.

.o00o.

Mina didn't like Spain much, but she certainly wasn't going to tell Alejandro that. The man was patriotic enough to be really irritated if Mina said it was too dry and too warm. Since, compared to her country, Spain was considered the tropics, it was no surprise she disliked the climate. She also wasn't a fan of being in a place where she did not speak the language, for it always made her think that people were speaking about her, maliciously or otherwise.

But Alejandro had extended the invitation to his villa in return for her hospitality in Russia, and refusing would be a slight even among friends. One thing she did approve of, however, was the Spanish cuisine. They were heavy on the breads, beans, and spices, of which she did not get much of in Russia. Though Alejandro's company was wonderful and his home pleasing, if it had been otherwise she might have still gone to Spain for the food alone. Having admitted this to her friend (rather sheepishly) he had merely thought it funny, especially when Mina had brought a crate of vodka with her, a complimentary gift that she had opened straight away with a disapproving glare at the offered Spanish wine.

In the parlour room, she poured liberally into her glass, and every few moments she looked up a bit cautiously at Alejandro. She knew what he wanted to talk about, and she thought it prudent to speak of it as well, but for some indiscernible reason the subject made her nervous. Alejandro had that very knowing look in his eyes.

Mina sighed. "Spit it out, Andro. You're making me angry," she said, taking a huge, burning gulp of her drink.

Alejandro laughed. "My dear, you seem impatient today," he teased, raising an eyebrow at her glare. "But I will forfeit. Henry Brooks has yet to contact me."

She was unable to prevent herself from gaping. "He didn't visit you in Russia?" she asked.

"No, you would have known if he had," Alejandro informed her, still observing her closely. "I would have told you, Mina."

"I thought you had spoken to him in confidence," she shrugged, sitting back, her drink at the ready.

"And you thought I would not return the favour and tell you of my meeting with him," Andro assumed, looking a little hurt. "In any case," he went on before she could apologise, "he hasn't met with me. Or made an attempt to meet with me. I had thought I made my loyalties clear."

Mina thought it was odd as well, considering Brooks had not hesitated to speak with Mina at all. She didn't think he was one to simply accept a follower without acknowledging them, or, indeed, asking what they wanted for their support. Mina told Alejandro so, and he nodded.

"I did not think so, either," he agreed. "I have sent letters to him. Numerous ones, but he does not respond. I think they are being intercepted."

She sat up, nearly spilling her precious imported vodka. Her brief panic over the near disaster made Alejandro laugh happily. "But that would mean someone is out for blood," she said with a glare at him.

"On my side or his." He dipped his head slowly. "Yes."

"He gave me the means to contact him," Mina said quickly. "Shall we try? To see if someone is cutting off my contact with him as well?"

Alejandro looked as if he hadn't thought of that. "You haven't spoken to him at all since that day?" he queried with curious frown.

Mina finished off her glass and went to her bag, where she kept the gifted pistol wrapped in a clean cloth. "I saw no need to," she admitted.

Looking at the gun, she raised an eyebrow at Alejandro and held up the ammunition. "I load it and he appears, or so he said," she told him, before putting the bullet in the revolver and swinging the chamber back into place. The click of the gun echoed throughout the now-silent room, and they waited, and waited, and, after five minutes of nothing happening, Mina sighed.

"Then we have our answer. Either I've been played, or someone is interrupting our—" she was cut off abruptly when a bright light enveloped the room, blinding everyone in it, before it diminished completely, leaving Mina cursing up a storm and rubbing at her eyes. When her vision cleared, she saw Henry standing in front of them, looking as composed as usual.

"Who is interrupting what now?" Henry asked casually, brushing his shirt down.

Mina stood, noticing, out of the corner of her eye, that Alejandro did as well, though he had the presence of mind to have his rapier ready. She shook her head at him, and he put the sword away.

"Henry," she greeted him warmly. "We were speaking of our inability to contact you."

He grasped her outstretched arm and leaned forward to kiss her on each cheek once, going back to the left for another, as was formal between friends. Despite herself, Mina knew her face was a brilliant red. "I'm glad the gun worked," he said, and then he turned his green gaze on Alejandro. He caught his breath. "Mr Guillermo?" he questioned softly.

The Spaniard stepped forward and clasped hands with Henry, looking just as awed at the boy in front of him. Perhaps more.

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr Brooks," Alejandro said politely. "Please, sit," he offered.

"Drink, Henry?" Mina asked, holding up the bottle. The young man smiled at her but blatantly eyed the Spanish wine.

"I'm partial to wine," he teased with good humour.

Alejandro actually laughed, a rare thing in the company of strangers, and Mina excused his joking with open amusement. She handed the lad a glass and swallowed a little nervously when he sat beside her.

"This is unexpected," Henry said wonderingly, though he seemed very happy to be there all the same.

"We had not planned it ourselves," Alejandro confessed guiltily. "I have sent letters to you but have received no answers back. Mina offered to contact you."

The surprise on Henry's face alarmed Mina. She took a fortifying drink.

"Someone is intercepting my mail," he said, oddly still and cold. "I apologise, Mr Guillermo. Though I have sent letters to you as well, I should have sought you out when I received no reply, but I let other things distract me."

Alejandro raised a hand to make peace. "It is fine, and, please, call me Alejandro. We are all friends here," he said lightly, smiling.

Henry nodded. "Then you'll call me Henry," he insisted.

"Who is it?" Mina asked, talking over the pleasantries. "Do we know who is preventing us from speaking?"

"I've an idea," Henry hedged. "Someone on my side, I should think."

"Frank McAllister," Andro said bluntly.

When Henry didn't say anything in regards to that accusation, Mina decided she would. "That is a very dangerous accusation," she warned. "So quick to point the finger at McAllister? I thought you liked him, Andro."

"Henry's eyes tell me it is him that is suspect. Him and Rahul," Alejandro mentioned, raising a shoulder. "Rahul, now, I know him to be traitorous at the best of times."

"If Frank is in with Rahul," Henry explained to Mina, "then he would want to isolate my allies – such as Alejandro and yourself. He doesn't know about the gun, however, but he is aware I keep in contact through messenger birds sometimes. Whether it's Frank behind it or not, we at least know that a wizard or witch is involved. Rahul has a few on his payroll."

At her confused look, Alejandro finished for Henry. "Magic would be the only way to intercept travelling messenger birds. Especially if there are protections against non-magical tampering in place," he clarified.

Mina nodded, looking down at her glass pensively. "Are you going to speak to Frank and Rahul about this?" she asked, though they all knew she meant "will you kill them?"

"No," Henry said. "Not yet. I had Denny," he turned to Alejandro and explained, "my father, visit Rahul yesterday. He found a note from Frank that bore only one message: Friday. Noon."

"Then we'll wait for Friday," Alejandro approved his stratagem.

"Yes," Henry acknowledged, looking sad all of a sudden. "Rahul, I think, is after the guns. I didn't expect this of Frank, though. I hope I'm wrong."

Mina scoffed loudly. "Men always want more power," she said, "especially you English."

Henry smiled at her. "Frank's American, Mina," he corrected.

She groaned and slurped down the last of her second drink. "Even worse!"

They both turned back to Alejandro and waited, though Mina admired Henry for a moment. He looked tired and sad; burdened with the weight of the war. His expression was calm and perceptive, however, and Mina was glad he seemed intact, at least mentally. As handsome as always, he sat with confidence among them, but not as if he were better, but as if he were an equal, with only a slight edge of inferiority from his age and inexperience. She liked seeing him so friendly, though his tightly controlled face still full of relaxation and ease was a lie. A well-practiced lie too.

Mina wondered if in certain company he acted his age, but shook the thought away. No one able to relate to and manage their elders so easily could have too much a child-like alter-ego. The boy would have to be mad if he did, and Mina could not contemplate an insane Henry Brooks without fear, even after two glasses of vodka. Regardless, there was a public face that had to be in use during meetings such as this, so perhaps Henry was a funnier version of his friendly self when at home. But Mina also noticed that, if Henry was putting on a face, he was really very good at it.

His concern seemed real, and he didn't hesitate to show impatience or confusion even when both were disadvantageous to show openly. Perhaps it was what attracted Mina, and many others, to him. Perhaps it infuriated and offended others. Alejandro, apparently, quite liked Henry Brooks for his transparency and easy honesty.

"You want to ask me a potentially offensive question," he said to Henry now. "I'm not easily offended. Please ask," he motioned gently.

Henry nodded. "Alright. What do you want?"

The boy didn't go into the specifics of his suspicious, or Andro's actions in helping others onto Henry's side, for which Mina was very glad. It was unnecessary, and foolish, to hand someone debts.

"I want a world where there is acceptance, for all forms and all convictions. Where proof can be found that faith is not faithless. I want a world where my family can live without fear of the evil, of the unknown."

Henry swallowed and looked up at him through his lashes. "You're very idealistic," he pointed it out.

"Utopia isn't such a grand delusion as people think," Alejandro argued, shrugging off Henry's comment. "It will be a very long time before this happens, perhaps after my death. Perhaps after yours—" he paused and puffed on his cigar, looking at the end briefly before notching it. "But this is a start. We will win this war, and there will be assimilation, reconstruction, and then progress. Much needed progress."

Stubbing out a cigarette, Henry shook his head briefly. "Even so, there are still people who are inherently evil. Still people who will kill regardless of a reinstated moral code," he said.

Alejandro leaned forward. "Tell me," he asked softly, "after this is over, will you not give up your gun?"

Mina twitched beside Henry. "If there is peace, then there is no need for a gun," she added her two cents.

"But evil doesn't cease. Security—" the boy began, but Alejandro raised his hand again to silence him.

"Security is another matter entirely," he said. "You would not give it up?"

Henry remained silent, so Alejandro continued. "Then you are a not as fine a role model for the world you wish to recreate as I thought," he told Henry thoughtfully.

"You must understand," he said quickly. "That some things are unchangeable, that without certain evils, we would not have a concept of right and wrong in the first place."

"You're asking for an exception to the rule," Andro scoffed, sitting back with a sigh. "Henry, Henry," he murmured, reaching out to grasp the boy's arm. "I ask you to do this not for the sake of the world, but for yourself. You are remorseful, not made of stone, and you will destroy yourself with your determination to perfect the world. But if it is not perfect, if your necessary evils become the only way, what will you do?"

Silence again. For a long while, Henry sat and stared until he pulled his hand away gently and nodded. "It is necessary now," he admitted softly. "But I'm not saying I won't ever change my mind."

Alejandro dropped his head in respect. "That is all I wanted to hear," he responded.

"Why do I feel as though you know more about me than I do?" Henry asked him suspiciously.

"Perhaps I do," Alejandro laughed. "We all have our dreams, Henry Brooks. Yours just happen to come true."

Mina smiled. "Alejandro is a believer. He thinks God assigns us a purpose," she playfully scoffed. "I told him the only God I've ever known was my father, and he would turn the devil green."

Henry chuckled. "Neither of you are really faithless, though," he pointed out. "And neither am I, to be honest."

They rose with him when he stood, Mina stumbling a bit and looking at the empty bottle of vodka accusingly. Henry smiled at her and kissed her cheeks, and she grinned at him quite affectionately. Alejandro watched her with amused eyes as he shook Henry's hand in farewell. They didn't find it odd, his abrupt need to leave, because they were all alike there, all quite informal, and so nothing could take them by surprise.

"Here," the boy said, reaching into his pocket. He handed Alejandro a little pistol. "Load it, and I'll be here."

Alejandro took the gun and held it up in thanks. "Ingenious, you know," he remarked sincerely. "How does it work?"

"I have a matching one at home. It loads when you load. I put names on the bullets, and whichever is in the chamber tells me who calls. I got the idea from magic clocks, if you can believe it."

"Extraordinary," said Alejandro.

Henry grinned. "Thank you," he hesitated, but only for a moment. "It was good seeing you Mina, and it was a pleasure to meet you, Alejandro."

"I will speak with you soon, Henry," he said.

The boy popped out of the room, and Alejandro turned to his friend. Mina sat down on the sofa with a heavy, tired sigh. "Too handsome for his own good," she said, obviously a bit sweet on the charming Mr Brooks.

Andro had to laugh. "He is, though it will take a few more drinks before I have that conversation with you," he said, pulling her up. Before she could point out that the crate was still full of vodka, he told her, "You have had too much already."

She smiled at him. "I haven't had near enough!"

Somehow, he found he couldn't argue with that.

.o00o.

Getting into the Headmistress' office undetected was more of a trial than Harry would have thought. The Gargoyle wasn't much of a problem, but the wards were. Harry was known for swatting mild protections away with ease, having had quite a bit of practice doing so, and he knew the general makings of the wards to accelerate the disabling of them. The problem was that not only were there spells to keep people out, but interwoven wards that made sure dismantling the magic would not go ignored. It was Domino-Theory warding, and though Harry could destroy it, it would take time. McGonagall was in her office almost the entire day, and the windows of her rare absences were only forty-five to fifty minutes, at best.

Harry, therefore, enlisted the help of the resident poltergeist, asking him to cause a bit of havoc on the seventh floor just after lunchtime. McGonagall would be taking her meal in the Great Hall for a half an hour and then dealing with Peeves for a while. That left Harry just enough time. After negotiating with the Bloody Baron, who promised to let Peeves cause trouble for a week, given the Baron was notified the next time Harry decided to shoot someone (preferably not a Slytherin), Harry went to Ron for help as well.

With his mouth stuffed with cobbler, Ron looked pleased to be in on a scheme worthy of Fred and George. Unfortunately, Hermione was there as well, and she was glaring at Harry furiously. He ignored her.

"So what do I have to do again?" Ron asked, once he'd swallowed.

"Just get McGonagall when Peeves starts trouble. When she leaves, or if she leaves early, set off one your brothers' Dungbombs down the hall."

Hermione looked as though she wanted to scream at the both of them, so Harry added, "Discretely, of course. If she sees you, the gig is up."

"Why don't you just ask Professor McGonagall to speak with Dumbledore?" she finally said with a huff. "Instead of breaking multiple school rules all at once?"

Harry did not tell her that Dumbledore would be out of his frame if he had advanced notice of their meeting, for the man had proved with his continued avoidance that he was quite unwilling to talk to Harry. Instead, he grinned at the bushy-haired Gryffindor and said, "What fun would that be?"

Peeves began his assault just before the end of lunch, and Harry stole away to the Headmistress' office with a conspiring wink at Ron. Harry could hear the ruckus Peeves was causing from the entrance, and he reminded himself to congratulate the mischievous ghost on a job well done. He returned his attention to the wards with a small smirk.

Rather than collapsing them entirely, he quickly catalogued the areas of the web that would give him away, creating a link of his signature within the barrier and allowing for him to pass unharmed. It took the better part of an hour to gain access, but when he did, the Gargoyle slid open and the staircase gladly carried him upward without trouble.

Dumbledore was indeed in his portrait when Harry came into the office, and the loud snoring told him the old man was awake and trying unsuccessfully to put off their conversation. Harry shook his head and approached the portrait, looking up into a familiar face.

"I know you're awake," he said to Dumbledore. "I need to speak with you."

Dumbledore did not open his eyes, but he stopped his snoring and began to slide himself and the chair he was in toward the edge of the frame. Harry froze it with a flick of his hand. "Don't do that," he snapped.

"Well, I never!" the other portraits cried.

"Look here, boy—"

They continued their verbal attack until Dumbledore opened his eyes completely and Harry unfroze the painting. "Alright," he said to the room, and the others quieted. "What is it you would like to talk about, my boy?" he asked jovially.

"You know very well," Harry admonished him soundly. "Why the confidentiality?" he asked, cutting to the chase.

Dumbledore blinked. "Would you rather I informed everyone present of your past misdeeds?"

"Don't try to be the voice of the righteous," Harry snapped at him. "It just makes me want to throttle you. Now, why haven't you told McGonagall?"

The old man sat back and crossed his hands over his belly. "You won't like my answer," he warned.

"Try me," he said dryly.

"It's a righteous answer," Dumbledore joked. Harry stared into his twinkling eyes stubbornly, his face a mask of impatient disapproval. Dumbledore sighed. "What good would it do, Harry? Another life would be destroyed."

"My life, you mean," Harry laughed bitterly. "I'm afraid it was destroyed a long time ago, Dumbledore."

He surprised himself saying as much to the man, who now looked very sad. Harry shook it off and went on. "What about the greater good? When you were alive it was all about sacrifice. You were prepared to kill me, for everyone's sake, if I recall correctly."

Dumbledore looked thoughtful at that. "Death gives you a lot of time to think, Harry," he said, but he stopped when the boy huffed. "Don't be so keen to disbelieve my intentions; I have nothing to lose by being honest with you."

Harry rolled his eyes but remained silent. "I see what you intend to do with this war," Dumbledore continued, seemingly unconcerned. "And it is for the greater good; you haven't fooled me in that regard."

"In a round-about way, I suppose," Harry shrugged, not entirely agreeing.

"But, since I am not speaking to the overwrought public, to people you have harmed in an attempt to do right," he went on, and Harry thought that, if he were talking with a living Dumbledore, perhaps his accusations would have carried more weight. Perhaps not. "Since I am only conversing with you, Harry, I will tell you that I have remained silent because I will not have a hand in hurting you anymore than I already have."

Dumbledore adjusted his position in his lavish seat and sighed deeply. "And this noble task – and do not grimace; it is noble – it will do enough evil to the world, and of course to your soul. It is a terrible price."

"I've taken all of this into account," Harry told him through clenched teeth. "It's worth it."

The old Headmaster looked at him sadly. "But what if you don't die? What if you live as a husk of your former self, when all those you have loved have left you because of the mistakes you have made? The guilt I know you feel, no matter the necessities of war, will mean being alone, what you always wished to escape—"

"That's enough," Harry cut him off tiredly.

He knew that Dumbledore was speaking from experience. Harry wondered how the man had guessed he was feeling remorse, for he'd been very careful not to show it in his actions and expressions. The question of whether or not he wanted to live, after all was said and done, was not something he found solace in. So he did not think about it, at least for now.

"We are more alike than you think," Dumbledore said, his eyes perceptive but kind. Harry looked away.

"I have to finish," he whispered. "I can't go back now."

Dumbledore gave him a surprised smile. "Of course not," said the old man, jollier now than when he had been telling Harry things he hadn't wanted to know. "But you can decide how to end it. You can still redeem yourself to the ones you love."

He wanted to respond that he was keeping the ones he loved safe and secure, unwilling to even consider involving them too deeply, but shuddered at the lie. Love for Denny, who was in the thick of things, made him lose sleep at night. Love for his family, for the Weasleys, plagued him every day with the terrible risk of one of them getting caught in the crossfire. The crossfire of his battle. And the consequences of it – the fact that Arthur Weasley could barely look at him, the fact that he could expect the same amount of understanding and acceptance from everyone else, should they find out.

And just like that, Harry was suddenly too tired to continue their conversation. Too tired to think of anything, really. "You won't tell her?" he asked, still not meeting the Headmaster's eyes. "Or anyone else?"

Dumbledore watched him closely. "I shall remain silent on the matter until I can't any longer," he promised, dipping his head. "You will have what you want, Harry, but I shall ask something of you in return." He chuckled. "As a portrait, I'm afraid I cannot request anything too substantial, so you needn't look afraid."

Harry glared at him to name the terms.

"When the time comes," Dumbledore sobered and turned serious. "I want you to forgive me for trying to stop you."

"You want forgiveness for the way you tried to stop me, not that you tried to stop me at all," he presumed angrily.

Dumbledore said nothing to that, telling Harry he was right, and he turned to glower at the old man head on. "I forgive you, there you have it," he said, motioning absently at Dumbledore.

"Thank you, my boy," Dumbledore cheered, before leaving his portrait without anything more to say.

Harry moved away from the portrait as well, unworried about the mutterings of the other Headmasters and Headmistresses above him. Dumbledore would have them in hand, no doubt. He took the pistol out of McGonagall's desk, happily closing his hand around its weight, and shoved it into his pocket.

"Thief! That's stealing, lad!"

"Stealing! How rude!"

"Thief! Thief!"

"Oh, shut the fuck up, will you?" he yelled at them, and was quite pleased when they did so. He left the office, not feeling as happy as he likely should have been, and he wasn't sure why.

.o00o.

He was dreaming. The cold air, as unreal as it was, was painful against his cheeks. The silhouetted landscape before him faded, and, somewhere, a light flickered and went out. The screaming wind, sounding like a chorus of clanging bells and breaking glass, rose above a meadow. He was freezing.

So he called fire. It blossomed through the grasslands, destroying the greenery in its path and melting the ice away. There was a roar of an explosion - a slow rumble of sound. The tide of fire rose and rose until it crested and descended, heading towards him like a great monster. When it hit, there was no agony or death. It warmed him from the inside, and he smiled up at the clear night sky. The moon, the only thing not scorched by the inferno, hung untouched and beautiful.

"Wake up," it seemed to say as the heat danced around him. "Please, wake up."

The ice was stubborn though. It was fighting back. A last effort to stay and torment him in dreams. It reared up, just like the fire, and both elements hissed like scrapping snakes. He stood in the very middle, in the median, and smiled as they circled one another. Enemies until the end.

"Wake up!" the moonlight shouted, rays of sound bursting through his ears.

Just as the two forces moved back, ready to fall into each other and freeze and burn everything in its path, the voice shook him awake. He opened his eyes and saw Bo.

Years of coming out of a dream with the drake beside him made him unalarmed to see him there. He blinked at Bo blearily, his brain finally catching up after a few moments of confusion.

"Bo?" he asked softly, and the dragon snorted impatiently. "Bo, what is it?"

A cloud of smoke billowed out of the dragon's nose, and Henry's sleepy mind registered that Bo was upset. "It's John, human father," Bo told him quickly, moving about to let Henry get out of bed. "There was an attack."

He was awake then, and he put a hand on Bo's snout to calm him. Or calm himself. Perhaps. "What happened?" he asked promptly.

"Wizards," was all Bo responded, and Henry put on his shoes and grabbed a jacket, glad he had fallen asleep in his clothes again. "Let's go," he told the dragon, and Bo obediently wrapped his tail around Henry's waist.

They Apparated into a disaster. The orchard Henry had played in as a child was nothing but fire, burning everything fast, too fast to stop. The smoke obscured the moon, but enough light came from the flaming orchard that Henry could see Denny standing beside it, a gun in his hand and a helpless look on his face. Henry moved forward as Bo stepped back, and he caught sight of John standing next to his father.

"Den!" he shouted over the roar of the fire. "What happened?"

Denny did not look toward him, instead his eyes were on John. Who heard him and took one look at Henry, before his feet started to move. John reached him in a matter of seconds, and he saw the blur of John's fist before pain washed across his face and he was suddenly on the ground. John slammed a punch to his stomach, hard enough to break a rib, and continued his assault on Henry's face and torso with terrible fury. He could hear the words passing through John's lips, and they were what stopped Henry from fighting back after the shock of being hit so soundly had passed.

"I fucking hate you," John told him, his voice harsh and distraught. "Hate you, hate you. She's dead! Fuck, she's dead. I hate you," he sobbed, and the punches stopped but the words hurt more. John was suddenly pulled off of Henry.

With blood running from his mouth and nose, and his stomach protesting awfully, Henry sat up and looked at his friend, whose expression was twisted in anguish and wrath - looking sinister in the light of the fire. When Denny had taken him away, John had collapsed against his father, still cursing Henry with what little energy he had left.

Henry got up.

It was then that he caught sight of Mary cradling a body in her arms. A body too small to be anything but a child. She sobbed over the scorched remains of Jessica McKay, her little face distorted by fire and her body rigid in undeniable death.