9

Harry knew how to count by twos and tie his shoes. He had read every Jack and Annie's Magic Treehouse book (and there are too many of those, so its saying a lot).

However, one thing he did not know how to do was keep track of a human/godfather/cat and well, just track a deranged and murderous deatheater witch through the wilds of Cambridge, England. He was stressed, and it showed; even with his senses dulled by recent death and the shock of his transformation, Serius had said one morning as they were eating breakfast, that Harry had suddenly begun to be dry; not his usual "blithe self" as the old cat had put it. The conversation, although he had to strain to remember it now, had went something like this:

"Serius, I've been running low on spell books lately."

"And?" Serius' voice had changed immensely after he undertook his transformation; it was now lighter, flatter, and scratchier.

"Well, I, uh, I've…"

"Just leave it, Harry!" Sirius slammed his paw down on the table, which, in the past, would have made a great deal of noise, between his bony knuckles and the hard wood. However, he now could make barely a squeak come out of that table. He continued, "I mean, just let it go," in softer tones.

'But Serius, you don't understand, I-"

"You what?"

"You… I.."

"You nothing Harry." Serius had then yawned and stretched, and jumped up to a higher place; Harry couldn't remember exactly where. "don't you see? This stress has gotten to your head; and I'm to blame, I know, and you didn't ask for me to come here." His fur prickling, Serius adopted a sort – of – guilty expression. "Problem is… I can't go back."

"I don't want you to go back. And I need those spells."

"Lets stop arguing Harry; this is getting nowhere. Now go relax, and I'm sure you'll be back in your right mind after an hour or two of rest."

"B-but-"

"No. I won't hear any of it."

After a pregnant pause, Serius hopped off his perch and went over to Harry. Still silent, he rubbed his side against Harry's leg, bowing his head, as if to effect a pose of gratitude.

The two stood, as if poised in a statue, realizing how much they still had to do, if they were going to get the revenge they knew they deserved. However even now, in this moment of peace and thought, Harry's heart was hammering; and not just from guilt, but from anxiety.

Which brings us to the next line of inquisition ; )

Two months earlier

The room was dark. Harry sat there, fidgeting, and Hermoine sat next to him, counting the freckles on her arm.

"So its really over, isn't it – the hunt for the prophecy and all?" Hermoine, who dared to break the silence, glanced up at him nervously. "And… well, the others too, I guess." She laughed ruefully. "Professor Umbridge is long gone now!"

The two were sitting in the dim, dusty green room of the Minister of Magic's main office. Trying to make small talk – or at least, a one – sided conversation. For Harry's benefit.

Harry stared out the window. He blinked furiously, with the excuse of "allergies" (pitiful, I know), and then fidgeted some more. He checked his watch; nice, smooth brown leather, complete with sterling silver buckles, and a quartz engraving on the back: To Harry, with much respect, from Dumbledore.

Rolex, of course; it seemed that many people thought that the more extravagant a gift was, the faster it would be to heal your heart.

Ruefully, Harry returned Hermoine's woefully quiet comment with a long, pensive, and somewhat creepish and chillyish gaze.

Hermione just couldn't help herself. "What? Who died, why so glum?" She said, and then immediately clapped her hand over her mouth, hard; so hard it would probably leave a big, black bruise later. Harry didn't care. Her rude and totally forgetful sentence hadn't effected him in the least; nothing could. After the death of his godfather, he had been an impenetrable, and in some cases intolerable, wall.

"Potter? Harry Potter?" The shrewd, sharp voice of a clerk was heard, piercing the delicate film of grief that had settled over Harry's eyes, opening them to the light.

"Yes."

"Come right along, will you? It's the first door on the left. Oh, you look like a nice one, oh my my! All well groomed and ready to see…" As soon as she got a better look at Harry's sullen, set face, her voice vamished into midair, disappearing, as if behind a thick veil. Harry couldn't help but notice the similarity; he blinked furiously again.

"Allergies," he muttered.

They reached the hallway. The clerk took a key fob out of her pocket, and stuck a bronze key in the door. A few steps later they arrived at a tall oak door, greater than the others in both height and majesty; ornate in all its holdings, the polished wood seemed to ooze power, just like its owner. Harry was about to hesitate, but thought better of it; he would not show weakness here, in the minister's office. He could wait, and break down later. When the clerk caught sight of his bony wrist, with its jutting peaks and points, she didn't even flinch, as the minister would; she dealt with the Magical Murder Authorities, and probably saw famished, desperate people who were long ago destroyed by sorrow almost every day.

Harry didn't hear the door click, and he didn't even register the minister at first, as he walked in the room. He sat down on autopilot, picked up his cup of tea and sipped it automatically, and hoped for his body to grant him with enough energy to answer whatever ridiculous questions the minister threw at him.

"Hello, Harry, my old friend!" The minister probably had no recollection of how callous he had been throughout the year, Harry thought with bitterness. He tried not to let that bitterness reflect in his voice however, and said in a monotone, "and you, Minister. I hope you're well."

"Well, I can see you're not…" The minister began what appeared to be the prelude to a long and robust pep talk about friends always being there for you, yada yada yada, and then thought better of it. He leaned back in his chair. He steepled his fingers. Harry watched the cars outside the window go by, as if challenging the minister to say something interesting; and seconds later, he did.

"Look, Harry." He began by using a soft, pleasant tone. Harry had heard this before, and he was tired of it. The old man wanted something from him; well, he might just have to take "no" for an answer, for the first time in his life. A hint of color crept into Harry's cheeks, as he thought of this idea, which unfortunately seemed to encourage the minister enough to go on.

"I know this is asking a lot of you, and I know how much you have suffered over the past few weeks." He gestured to a cluster of pictures hanging on the back wall. "Believe me, I know how you feel. My little girl Molly – she's the one in these pictures, yes, - died when she was just nine, leaving me completely alone. My wife abandoned me a few years before, you see," he said ruefully.

Harry thought that this must be a big deal, whatever the minister wanted, because he was putting so much personal information out there. He might have sneered, but for the moment he was transfixed. He looked at the photos.

"She looks so… Young!" He whispered, as if in a trance. "So alive!" He turned back to the minister. "How did she die?"

"That's a long story, and probably not worth telling now. What I need right now is your help Harry. Now please, please listen to me," the soft tone was gone now. The minister's voice was that of a desperate man trying to make a bargain.

"Why should I help you?"

"Ah, I knew you would ask that shortly. Now here, look at this. Read this chapter, of the book in front of me."

There were several books on the table, and Harry realized they were all the same. Or all had the same message, at least. He read out loud at first, and then silently, his lips moving slightly but ideas going off in his head like lightning. For the first time in a long, long time, he felt a spark of life rise in his chest.

"Do you mean to say…"

"Yes."

"But it can't really… I mean, it can't all be –" Hi didn't dare to hope – "free? You doing this for me, for nothing?"

"No, no, I'm afraid that's not it."

"Oh." Harry's chest deflated. They were probably ask him something totally wacked out now, something like… Like…

"However I doubt you'll object much to the requirements I have for you.

"What?" Harry looked up from his lap. His eyes had gone dead again; the minister was toying with him. He was sick of it.

"Well, the first requirement is that you find Belatrix Lestrange. The second is that you bring her to me alive, for questioning. And the third is that you do so in a way that will not attract any muggle media attention.

"Really?"

"None at all. No cameras, no nothing."

"No, not that, just… really?"

"The minister seemed to finally understand.

"Yes." He then hesitated, as if afraid of something. Harry caught it.

"What's the matter?" He said.

"Its not permanent. Not at all."

But at the moment this didn't bother Harry at all. "I'll meet you tonight," he said. He barely heard Hermione or Ron or anyone else the rest of the day, his ears were ringing with the words in the pages the minister had shown him. Rehabilitating Magic, it was called – he had never heard of something so powerful! It was so good.

As Harry stood there holding Serius, racking his brain for the answer to the question of time, he realized that it was indeed too good to be true.