Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter belong to JKR. And Holy Christ is the beginning of this chapter psychological. I may have had to be more wordy than I expected because I'd probably end up losing people amid the psychoanalysis.

Summary: Harry confronts fear itself. Ron has a memory. Daphne reveals some bad news, Dean gets called in on his day off, Dennis is sleepy, Harry questions Hermione on her reticence to speak to Ron about the Auror Program, and Teddy has trouble sleeping.

The King of Limbs

Part 2

"It is held in the hands of other men."
- Tom Riddle Jr.

VIII: Do You Have Protection?

October 11, 2002 7:38 PM
The Circus Motherbase - The Lazarette

"One does not need..." Harry repeated, a little dazed. "Then you aren't real."

Voldemort's smirk was poisonous. "Am I? I have done more to tie myself to this world than anyone else has done previously. I know more than you could ever hope to. Do you not think my ways are beyond that of life and death? Supernatural, even?"

Harry tried to move, but found himself rooted to the spot. Magic.

He had to say something, anything. "But... you died."

"Oh... this tripe again? You really are a broken record, Potter. As I said, one does need to be alive to be immortal. One only needs to pass on an idea. A feeling. A facet of oneself." The pale-skinned man stalked over to Harry, pressing a long finger to Harry's scar. The DCI flinched, remembering how much pain it had brought him in his fourth year, but he felt nothing other than soft pressure of Voldemort's finger. "Right. In. There."

"My head? My mind?"

Voldemort nodded, slow and sarcastic, the way an exasperated adult would do with a slow child. "Good," he said. "You're catching on."

He prowled around the frozen DCI. "Swords, guns..." He muttered sadly. "How shamefully muggle of you, Harry. Look at you, once the shining pillar of all that was bright in the world. And now? Chasing after killers and drug dealers. So-" the scourge's voice dropped to a whisper, the sound of a cold wind on frozen metal. "-pedestrian. Where is your light, your brightness, now?"

Harry remained silent as Voldemort drew back, as if he had reached an understanding. "Ah. That is... unfortunate for you. You can't accept what they want you to be. You are like me. A creature of the night. Of shadows. Beasts. To put you in the light would blind you. But you must understand, dear boy, that the times converge on all. What is now night must become day. And when the shadows are erased, you too, will crumble."

"Thank you for the advice," Harry spat, Voldemort looked amused.

"Manners, now." He patted the DCI's balaclava-bound cheek. "I know what it is like. To be lost, to have to befriend the darkness. To always be... angry. That your life turned out the way it did."

Harry allowed a ghost of a smile to flit across his face, though he knew Voldemort could not see it. "Weariness. To feel it in your bones."

"And then it becomes a part of you. That Anger. That Weariness." Voldemort drew up to his full height. "We are not so different, you and I."

Harry nodded. "But then you had an idea that built up that anger."

Voldemort laughed, high-pitched. "Yes, indeed I did. Blood Purity. It is amazing how easy it was to fool those people-" He paused. "Do you know why I did it?"

"Chaos."

"Splendid!" Voldemort congratulated. "Perhaps I should have waited a few more years. You are much more interesting as an adult than a child."

Harry snorted bemusedly, unsure as to whether he should take that as a compliment or an insult.

"It is very easy to delude purebloods. Blood purity was merely a mask."

"A mask?"

"All men wear them," Voldemort shrugged, his tone turning acidly sarcastic. "Look at muggle history. The Jewish population was a scapegoat for depression-era Germany, a people to blame for the vast misfortune of the fools at the Reichstag. They were doing well while hard-working Aryans were left dust," here voice took on an outright mocking tone, "Adolf Hitler was able to manipulate that resentment, that anger at a more fortunate race of peoples.

"It was just as easy for me. They say that those who do not know history are doomed to repeat it. But what of the man who has studied those history books that the rest of the world has forgotten? Such was the clime I entered the wizarding world. Purebloods treating Muggleborns the same way Germans did the Jews. It was too easy. All the wizarding world needed was a man like Hitler to spark its powderkeg."

Harry scoffed. "You really are a loony."

"I prefer genius," Voldemort returned, "You see, ideas are like fire. Fire spreads. Fire rises. It can do nothing but consume. And when you spread an idea so volatile that it divides the very world in two, you are in a position of power. To give Purebloods that dream of theirs, a world without muggle influence. And you can easily manipulate people when you seem to be a paragon of their ideals. They buy into your false ideal so quickly that they don't even contemplate that you might not stand for what they do. But, it can't be helped; fire spreads. All you need is that little bit of flint and tender and the all nature is yours to lay waste to.

"The people are fools," Voldemort continued, his voice like silk, "deep down you know it just as I do. Just as Dumbledore did. He did not trust people, though he fought for them anyways. Why do you think he was so... manipulative? The people cannot be trusted. They will use you, abuse you, and when they are done with you, discard you like old refuse. That, Harry, is your fate.

"You cannot run from the times, nor the people. They are blind, mad dogs." His smirk turned cruel. "You said it yourself, people are only as moral as the times they live in enables them to be. And you are forced to be their protector. You are forced to be the watchman for all dangers real or imagined. But whom watches over the watchmen, Harry? When those as 'moral as the environment allows them to be' rise up against you? Do you have protection from the mob, from the times?"

Harry's eyes widened. He had said that to Seamus. How would Voldemort know that he said it?

"I showed you their true nature. Newspapers slashing your reputation, people turning into madmen because of fear. And yet, you still fight for them. Why?"

The raven-haired wizard stared ahead. "Because. It was my duty."

"Duty?" the high-pitched, hoarse voice returned, amused. "Your duty was not to die for an ungrateful populace. Your duty was not to be a pawn in the machinations of two old fools whom fought a war over hubris!"

Was Voldemort... self-deprecating? The pale, snake-man had never exhibited doubt or derision in his actions prior. He glided to Harry, placing a hand to the mask and ripping it off:

"You have given them everything. And only they reap the benefits. Have you not given enough? Would you not accomplish so much more with your mind, with your ingenuity, than laying your broken body amongst the dead that make up the foundations of your new society?"

Harry allowed a ghost of a smile to envelope his face. "My body is all I have to give."

Voldemort drew back with a sneer and something that sounded suspiciously like a snort. "You delude yourself, Potter."

Harry shrugged... or, at least, he tried, given he was rooted to the spot. Voldemort looked at the struggling wizard, as if observing the invisible bindings that ensnared the young man, before he waved his hand and the restraints were gone. Harry flexed his arms, getting used to the ability to move once more, readying the sword he had been carrying.

Voldemort looked amused. "Yes, that's the spirit, Harry!" He swept away to the blue sphere of energy and stuck his hand into it, pulling out a rapier stylized with a serpent coiling around the handle, its jowls snapping over the emerald inlaid as the pommel. Harry had never seen Riddle use a weapon aside from his wand and was, admittedly, quite curious to see how the wizard handled a blade.

"This is too good," Harry remarked, already in a battle stance.

Voldemort raised his blade in mockery of traditional dueling etiquette. "En garde, Harry."

And the he was off. Moving with a supernatural vigor, Harry barely registered Voldemort phase out of existence and at the edge of the small island they stood upon and reappear mere feet away from him, bringing down the rapier in a manner that was definitely not suitable for the type of sword he used. Harry brought up his own blade and parried the strike, taking the moment's interruption to roll out of the way:

"Untrained, or just stupid?" Harry questioned the elder wizard's strange swordplay. Usually rapiers were used for light, quick strikes and stabs, not long slashes or trying to muscle one's way through an opponent as one would a Greatsword.

The snake-faced killer cocked his head in a questioning manner. "No, quite trained, I assure you. Though, perhaps, not in the traditional way."

Harry made good use of his seeker reflexes and jumped out of the way of an oncoming Voldemort. He did not truly have time to contemplate the unfairness of not being able to access his own magical reserves when Voldemort was so venomously using his abilities.

The clanging of steel was the sound that accompanied the soft, flowing water of the grotto. Harry slid underneath a horizontal swipe and sprang back up, using the momentum to catch Voldemort with a headbutt right to his non-existent nose, sending the former Dark Lord reeling back with a hand to his face.

"Well, Potter's grown some teeth, has he not?" Voldemort questioned to no one in particular, grinning toothily, an action which scared the living daylights out of the DCI.

Harry smirked. "All the better to tear you to pieces with."

"Do not banter, Potter. You are terrible at it," Voldemort observed soberly, slinking towards his nemesis, sword gleaming fiercely in the dim light of the cavern.

"Thank you."

"It was not a compliment."

"Any criticism from you should be taken as compliment," Harry grinned wryly, blasting from his position, leaving the stray pebbles vibrating as he moved, trying to build up speed, use as much of his own human strength as possible. The blade grew white-hot with every blow, a combination of a magical heating charm on conjunction with friction caused by vibrations in the steel with every clang of metal upon metal – a Circus specialty.

A sizzling sound was made when the former Dark Lord pushed his would-be conquerer back off the circular island into the frigid, knee deep waters and the glowing blade made contact with the liquid, causing some steam to rise.

"Earlier," Voldemort began curiously, "you said your body was all you had to give. What did you mean by that?"

Harry laughed harshly. "You know, I was never the hero they all wanted me to be. Ron, Hermione, they thought I could truly lead an army, be a leader. Truthfully, my worth was measured by my willingness to die for a cause."

Voldemort once again cocked his head in curiosity.

"Your horcrux had to be destroyed, and the only way it could be done was if you had succeeded in 'killing me'. And we both knew that you couldn't kill me unless I wanted to die. So Dumbledore groomed me for that very decision. To be able to stand at the end, and have the strength to say 'I give up'." Harry stepped from the fragrant water onto the island, wet boots clumping the black sand beneath his feet together.

"...You give up?" Voldemort drawled.

Harry smirked. "And I did just that. Died. As expected to."

The pallid man actually smiled. And, Harry noted it was not any sort of cruel smirk as the man usually wore, but a genuine, rather tender-hearted smile from the old killer. "Then we are the same."

"Oh yes. The very same," Harry grinned, lunging forward, on the attack this time. A downward swipe was met with an upward block as Voldemort tried to spin around Harry, succeeding in doing so and holding his rapier to the young man's throat.

"Defense as an offense is much more apt for you than throwing your sword like a lunatic," Voldemort chided in Harry's ear. He resisted the shiver that threatened to go down his spine.

And clarity struck. There was more to this test than facing a Voldemort doppelganger, or the shadow of what the man once was, fueled off ideas. The Lazarette. Lazarus. A man was to rise from death. From fear.

How could he have been so blind?

Knowing that a killing stroke was imminent, Harry realized that desperate times called for desperate measures and raised his sword arm, as if to show he was giving up. Voldemort made the crucial mistake of loosening his grip just the slightest, and Harry took full advantage of the momentary chink in the elder man's proverbial armor, swinging the handle that the sword point faced both men, and plunged it through his own stomach and into Voldemort.

Searing pain was the first thing to register, and while he had not stabbed anything crucial, there was no way to avoid the physical anguish that came with the suicidal move. The blade was still hot, cauterizing his wounds while slowly killing turned to see wide shock in Voldemort's blood-red eyes. The arm that had been holding the rapier went slack and the blade clattered to the ground as the former Dark Lord tried to wriggle his way out of the steel, but Harry held tight.

"Are you, too..." Voldemort began, "immortal?"

Harry let a smile play at his lips. "I don't fear death."

"Then... you are not. Why this silly attack, then?" Even with pain clouding them, the red orbs looked curious.

"Because there is more than one form of immortality," he reached back and tapped the elder man's forehead, "all it takes is an idea. No fear. No compromise. Even in the face of death. Because-" Harry grimaced, wrenching the sword out from Voldemort and himself with a terrific gasp, "-if you become more than just your fears and passions, you can achieve something greater than long life."

Voldemort collapsed to his knees, gasping, as Harry spun to meet the man whom had been his scourge all his life:

"Because there is still a part of you left inside me," Harry grit his teeth, "a facet of who you were, of what you did and why-" Harry tapped his forehead, "-trapped inside here. It's why you're here, isn't it?"

Voldemort managed to nod through the mutual pain both men suffered.

"The Lazarette," Harry began quietly, "presumably named after the man Jesus Christ raised from the dead, Lazarus."

Voldemort wheezed. "Skeptics will say that a man named Lazarus never existed, that Jesus was a necromancer, that Lazarus was never dead at all and the cave the man was buried in was built on natural ley lines that were more conducive to healing magic, bringing him back from the brink."

"But we both know what it is that really happens here," Harry said.

"A man must die to come here. A man must die so that he can rise back to the surface." Voldemort looked up. "Well done, Harry."

Harry could not believe it himself. "The potion they gave me. It places fear at the forefront of your mind. So what's torn from you in the Lazarette is fear itself, because it's what you must destroy to rise, to thrive, isn't it? You are just a product of my mind."

"A personification of your fear, if you must," the red-eyed man clarified.

Harry nodded, raising his sword, before pausing. "If you are part of me, then how can I ever be sure what you told me of your view of Pureblood bigotry is true?"

"I do not know," Voldemort said, being deliberately vague, "believe what you will. That is the best one can hope for."

The raven-haired wizard raised the blade once more. "Any famous last words?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," Harry inclined his head at the former Dark Lord's words, "you are a shadow, Harry Potter. A stain on the perfect order of this world. What you will fight from now on will have neither name, nor nation, nor philosophy. You will fight time itself. A never-ending battle to keep that chaos I spoke of alive. You may be the hero now, but one day on that lonely battlefield of yours, will come a time to choose between the times and your ideals. To keep that fire spreading, burning.

"And it will be a lonely battle. One you have no hope of winning. Your own personal hell. Where there is not but to struggle and strive until all that is left is your broken body among the foundations of the newest utopia.

"No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, everything you touch will burn. Every life you touch will be consumed by your fire. And in the end, you are still alone, and everyone around you will have disappeared. You will still be a mere shadow of a man. You will still be what is wrong. This is fate."

Harry stood, taken aback by the Dark Lord's calm outburst. "I never took you to be a man of fate."

"Everyone has a fate, Harry," Voldemort said sagely. "It is not controlled by God, by the world, or even you. It is held in the hands of other men. Hell is other people, Potter."

"Jean-Paul Sartré," Harry recognized the quote.

"Remember it."

The raven-haired men readied the blade and plunged it through Voldemort's non-existent heart. The man seized and curled around the blade. For a moment, Harry felt his own body tense in phantom pain, knowing that he was voluntarily killing a part of himself. Conquering his fear, as one might say.

But soon, the pain ebbed away, and all that was left was a dull ache in Harry's chest as the corpse fell to the ground and seemed to fade into the black sand of the island. The ghostly blue ball of energy exploded in a hundred directions, like shattered crystal, and illuminated the entire cavern a white-blue color as the entrance to the Lazarette, until recently covered opened of its own accord. Harry knew he must climb to the top without the aid of magic. He checked his own wounds, only to be surprised when he found no evidence of the self-inflicted stab wound Harry had suffered. Testing out his previously injured abdomen, Harry found it gave him no pan and he slung the blade over his back, swimming to the wall and finding a little slot to start climbing.

This was, perhaps, the easiest part of the test. Zero had made Harry practice scaling walls without magic as a punishment for idiocy (which, Harry noted, was quite often), so the climbing was not very hard.

As he got closer to the surface, he heard voices whispering something. He could not tell what. Focus on the cracks in the stone. Climb. Left arm up. Right arm up. Feet digging into lowest rock. Climb. Repeat. Climb. Repeat. Climb.

Soon, Harry's fingertips touched flat stone as he pulled himself up to face the army of masked warriors once more.

Zero's unmistakable saunter gave him away as the phalanx parted for him once more. Harry only then remembered Voldemort had ripped off his Balaclava, and the DCI felt rather naked until Zero pulled off his own mask, revealing the hard jaw, tanned skin, and brown hair Harry had become so used to seeing as the Infiltration Unit Leader stared, cold and calculating, at Harry:

"Have you solved the mystery of the Lazarette?"

"One man must die that another man may rise."

"So, then," Zero began. "Rise, soldier, and fight with us. You have been given a second chance, a new life."

Harry kept a thin-lipped stare at the man.

"And give us that new life," the brown-haired man finished.

Harry contemplated for the barest of moments, Voldemort's words coming back to him: And it will be a lonely battle. One you have no hope of winning. Your own personal hell.

But what other choice did he have? This was hell for all men, but where else did Harry belong? It was heaven, it was hell. And, suddenly, the only answer he could give was very clear.

"I will."

"Good," Zero replied, turning to the unit of similarly dressed soldiers, "Leave us."

The phalanx complied, seemingly vanishing into thin air. Harry knew it was a new form of apparition that involved breaking down into base components of the human body and being able to move without a corporeal shell, rather than trying to transport the entire body across large distances. While one had to know the intricacies of being able to reform oneself from the smallest cell to an eyeball to one's very thoughts, it significantly lessened the risk of splinching oneself and made for quieter apparition. Due to the inherent dangers associated with breaking down one's thoughts and cells, this certain type of apparition, Cellular Apparition, was used only by those who knew nearly every facet of themselves.

Harry turned his attention back to Zero, whom said "Walk with me.". Harry complied, following the elder man:

"You've proven yourself over the past month, - well more, if you count the amount of time you spent with a time-turner - and in that time, you've proven yourself to be more than capable. In fact, you've proven yourself to be my greatest student. And yet there is still a problem."

"And what's that?" Harry questioned.

"Oracle found Agilian in your system," Zero said, pushing two large, stone doors open with practiced ease, revealing one of the more futuristic, brightly lit hallways of the Motherbase. "How long have you been addicted?"

Harry saw no use in lying. "Three years. After the war, I-"

"-We know of Tom Riddle's... addiction. And we know of how it passed on to you with the Zeitgeist Phenomena." Zero said. "But we cannot have a drug addict in our fold."

Harry's face fell, he knew something like this would happen.

"But, yet, despite that, you've still shown yourself to be far above the mettle of most other recruits. Which is why I am offering you the chance to detoxify yourself," the brown-haired man said with a smile, "You will still be part of The Circus, you will not be obliviated, and in three weeks, you should be fine, once again. All you need to do is to get past the pain of detoxing. Can you do that?"

Harry hated to think of what life would be like without the biweekly dose of Agilian, but he needed this more than he needed that, and that was more than enough incentive to answer in an affirmative.

"Good," Zero said, placing a hand on the raven-haired man's shoulder. "Because after you detoxify, you will be given your first mission. Do not worry about your Auror-work, it will be taken care of by our man at the top."

Stark.

"In the mean time, do help out your Weasley friend with his case. You might find it rather helpful in a few weeks." Before Harry could contemplate the elder man's words, Zero extended his hand, took Harry's, and leaned in to whisper:

"Welcome to The Circus, Mister Potter."

And with that, he swept away down the large hallway, leaving Harry to stare out the charmed windows at the magnificent city before him.

October 12, 2002. 2:36 PM
Harry Potter's Residence, Liverpool, UK

The next day, Ron came over, as expected, with a silvery wisp of memory stoppered in a vial. Harry had procured a small pensieve, one he had bought when situated in Turkey on assignment two years prior, carved from Israeli Marble, decorated with golden characters in Aramaic as well as old prayers in Hebrew and Arabic, which Harry had since found were a tribute to all three of the Abrahamic Religions. While Ron saw it for mere functionality, Harry had a feeling Hermione, whom would be visiting with Teddy later that evening, would go mad for it. Placing it in his drawing room, Harry let Ron unstopper the vial and pour the memory out into the ivory-white bowl.

"So, this is your mum's memory? Or is it Gin's?" Harry questioned politely.

Ron took a gulp from a waterbottle, which Harry now found himself obliged to give any and all guests. "It's mum's. Ginny was still at The Burrow, working on something. Some story or another of the like. She really wants to get that Belfry Award next year."

"Good on her," Harry praised; the Belfry Award was the premier British honor for top-notch wizarding journalism, the magical equivalent of the U.S. Pulitzer Prize. Harry had to admit, Ginny had some of the best editorials he had ever seen, and she really did understand how to report what she saw, never sugarcoating the bad or embellishing the good.

"I've only read a tick of what she's put out there, and half the time I wonder where her brain got to while we were at Hogwarts. She's real good, Harry." Ron waggled his eyebrows; Harry immediately read that look:

"Holy Christ," he replied, reverting to Mugglespeak, "Ron, there was a time when you'd sock me a good one for even thinking of your sister that way, and now you're trying to play matchmaker?" Ron shrugged, grinning:

"How's about we take a gander at the memory?"

"By your leave," Harry swept his arms out in a magnanimous and showy manner.

Both men peered intensely into the pensieve, waiting to be ensconced in the memory. Harry looked up at Ron, whom had scrunched his forehead in concentration, screwing his eyes shut. He looked rather flatulent, by Harry's wager. With that thought in mind, a slight smirk playing at the raven-haired wizard's lips, Harry turned back to the pensieve. Suddenly, a lightheaded feeling overtook him and Harry found himself being pulled into the memory.

Molly Weasley had always been a stout witch with a temper and a funny-looking gait, one that made it seem her lower body moved faster than her upper body could keep up with, so she often appeared to be moving calmly and placidly from the waist up, and rushing like one of those Japanese Bullet Trains below the waistline.

Upon seeing the woman he had seen rarely over the past few years, her red hair (now slightly more grayish than he remembered), Harry realized just how much he missed his surrogate mother. He missed her cooking, though Hermione brought it over to his house often, he missed the atmosphere of The Burrow, he missed her fussy temperament, he even missed her nagging. She humped up one of the hills as a soldier would, wearing the straps to her purse as a bandolier and her wand held at the side (the war had made her slightly more paranoid) like a weary infantryman would carry his firearm after a particularly harsh day in the field. And yet, the stout woman marched on, measured waist-up, rushed waist-down.

Harry felt the warm rustling of wind from a warmer day, late August or early September... he could not quite remember the exact date Mr. Lovegood had died. The blustery draft whistled within the trees, creating, rather oddly, the sound that waves of water crashing against a shoreline would make.

Ron coughed beside Harry, perhaps to alert the raven-haired man of his presence. Harry turned to acknowledge his friend and they followed after the taller man's mother, whom continued on, unaware of either her son or his best friend being only mere steps behind her.

They came to the crest of the hill as Mrs. Weasley let out a slight cough; Ron turned to Harry, and by way of explaining said:

"She says 'the blasted thing won't go away'."

Harry nodded as matriarch of the Weasley Clan righted herself and continued on her way down the path. He asked Ron why his mother would not simply apparate to the market, at which Ron grinned, saying that the family healer had told Mrs. Weasley she had to incorporate at least a thirty-minute walk into her daily routine to keep her cholesterol in check.

They passed some beautiful landscaping, the moors in the distance, even a mountain or two beyond that. Briefly, Harry wondered what the world map would look like if all lands hidden by magic were included in them. Maybe, he thought, they might find that the world has twice the landmass the muggles think they do.

However, that was not the topic at hand, so Harry shook his head, following Molly as she spoke to a passerby, a kindly-looking young woman with a baby cradled in her arms. Mrs. Weasley cooed at the baby, whom stuck his little arms out of his bundle and tweaked her nose playfully. Molly let out a giggle Harry never thought could come from her mouth, and tickled the bundle, which let out high-pitched squeals of joy at the redhead's ministrations. Ron was outright grinning and Harry could not help but smile at the woman's antics.

"How are things at home, Mrs. Weasley?" The young mother, a pretty and pert blonde, asked politely, smiling sweetly between the middle-aged woman and her child.

Mrs. Weasley stopped and looked up at the mother. "Really Mel, dear, it's Molly. I daresay we've spent enough time with each other to be on first-name basis by now," the mother, Mel, grinned bashfully, "But things are going well. George is planning on proposing to Angelina, soon.:

"Oh, that's wonderful!" The blonde practically squealed. Harry tried very hard not to be sick through the next five minutes of the Weasley Clan's romantic prospects:

"Is this really necessary?" He questioned Ron.

The redhead raised his hands in surrender. "Hey, mate, this is the memory mum gave me. I didn't ask for all this." Harry grunted tried his best not to focus on the conversation until something was said that forced Harry from his state of practiced apathy:

"And I'm not sure, but I think young Ronald may have a ring lined up for Hermione, too," Molly was saying. Harry's head whipped around to face Ron so fast he thought he may have suffered whiplash. The male redhead simply shrugged, which Harry could take as a yes.

And suddenly, without warning, an alien feeling bubbled up in the raven-haired man's chest. He could not quite place it. But it made him feel... as if he wanted to stomp on something; to destroy something beautiful. His fingers twitched, his head ached, and he really needed to punch something. How could Ron even think of proposing to Hermione? They clearly weren't ready for a step as big as that! They still bickered all the time, and had not even moved in together, hell, Hermione still had not even told Ron about her plans for Auror School! What could possibly make the man think that!?

Are you sure you are not just jealous, Potter? Asked an inner voice that sounded suspiciously like Voldemort.

Of course not, was his quick reply, quashing the voice down.

Great, now he was talking to dead men inside his head.

He had to calm himself. Breathe in. Breathe out. Nothing's happened yet, and you're going to talk to Hermione later; she'll be able to shed some light on it, she always does.

"Congrats, I guess?" Harry said, bemused, and impressed with his ability to fight down his anger.

Ron tapped his forehead. "Mum's a salacious liar," he said, "I assure you I intend to do no such thing. Not for a few months at least."

Well, great, not for a few months then.

"Who's that in front of Mr. Lovegood's house, Molly?" Mel questioned, looking off to the side once gossip about the admittedly large Weasley family had died to its embers. Harry looked with Mrs. Weasley to see two figures, swathed in black cloaks, inspecting the outside fence of the off-kilter house the elder Lovegood took residence in.

Harry knew that no matter how close he got, he would not be able to tell who it was exactly as it was Molly's memory and she clearly could not see them, but he did notice something very interesting on both of their cloaks - an All-Seeing Eye on the back, the top of the pyramid with a nondescript orb emblazoned on it, like one would find on the U.S. dollar bill. It would be very hard to make out from this distance, but, Harry, aided by his corrected and enhanced eyesight (God bless Oracle, he mused), was able to pick it out rather easily. Harry very much doubted that the rumors of an Illuminati that controlled the tides of all things in the world, but it was entirely possible a magical group that had to do with Xeno's death would have used the All-Seeing Eye as its logo.

"Oh, that Xeno," Molly commented fondly, "always has strange men poking abouthis house."

Suddenly, the DCI found himself back on the hardwood floor of his home, staring across the room at Ron. The redhead wore a questioning look:

"Did you find anything I couldn't?"

Harry shrugged. "You catch the All-Seeing Eye?"

"The what?"

Just as Harry was about to answer, his phone twittered on the table that had been moved away for the pensieve. Flipping up the top, Harry answered. "DCI Potter."

"It's Daphne. We need you and your homicide hard-on here."

Ignoring the foul-mouthed brunette's choice of words, Harry groaned. "How'd you get my number?" he questioned, impressed.

Daphne snorted through the receiver. "You know there are four guys here who know your phone number. It's not like I had a hard time, or anything. You may think so, but you aren't the most secretive person in the world."

"Don't be snooty," Harry chided, "I'll be there soon."

He turned back to Ron:

"Ask Hermione about it; she probably knows twice as much about it as I do. Get Malfoy to do some research on the eye and see if any Magical Groups are known to use that symbol," he said, at loathe to think of what Ron and Hermione did in private. The honey-haired healer's claims to virginity hardly assuaged Harry's fears. "Unfortunately, duty calls. And it calls at all hours of the day."

"Right," Ron agreed. "I'll be seeing you, then?"

"Of course," Harry smiled, ushering Ron out into the rain and then leaving himself for the NIM.

October 12, 2002 4:02 PM
NIM - Narcotics Division

Harry strolled into the NIM whistling a tune that sounded similar to 'The Farmer in the Dell' as he moved. He had just shaken off the sour mood that had overtaken him when he had thought of Ron and Hermione together, and with multiple assurances that he could only fill the role of best friend, Harry was starting to feel good despite the inclement weather. However, said good mood was not to last in the face of a determined Daphne Greengrass, whom, Harry had learned over the past two days, was no one to get in the way of when she had her mind set on something. Like Hermione, Harry guessed, but a lot more snide and way more violent.

"You wouldn't be so chipper if you knew what just happened," she smiled wryly as Harry met her at outside the elevator at the Narcotics Division. Harry, surprised by the sudden interruption just after the elevators opened and decided teasing was in order:

"Were you waiting for me?" He asked the brunette.

"No!" she snapped defensively, "No! No!" She paused, "Yes. Yes, I was waiting for you."

Harry could not help but snicker. "Why so defensive?"

"Shut up and let's get on point, shall we?"

"Certainly."

Daphne led Harry down the past a bunch of cubicles, haggard Aurors seated at all of them, speaking into telephones or writing up reports. A few greeted both of them with a slew of 'Potter's and 'Greengrass's. Daphne nodded frigidly at the salutations and kept up a one-way conversation with the DCI:

"Apparently some bloke that you and Finnigan had arrested last month just had his court hearing," Daphne stated, "He just got off free of all charges against his person." Harry was about to say something when the pretty brunette just barreled over what he had to share with her own words, "I know, I know, you found the bullet, the fingerprints, and he all but admitted to it when you arrested him, but this isn't a case with any jury. Just a judge, and we all know Judge Monard is about as corrupt as they get. It's got Finnigan in a right tizzy."

"Monard? He's always been known for having some controversial decisions, but this is idiotic! There's no way a person can overturn that much evidence on someone. His fingerprints were found at the crime scene, on bullet casings to a gun that he owns! Monard would have to be paid off to give out this decision."

Daphne looked at Harry seriously. That look could only mean one thing:

"You don't think...?"

The brunette laughed harshly, ice-blue eyes looking deadened. "I don't think; I know. Philius Monard is dead corrupt." Harry decided not to question how she knew and instead followed her to the large, circular, oak table that had been serving as a 'meeting table' of sorts for those involved in the Shankly Case. Dennis sprawled lazily over his work, fast asleep and drooling on a photo of Hawk, one of the dealers. Freeman looked up from a set of Gringotts' bank reports, likely the movement of Shankly's money, and waved tiredly. Seamus looked right depressed whilst staring out one of the windows into the deluge outside:

"Well this has turned out to be a shite day," he muttered aloud, not really directing at anyone. A chorus of assent rose from the others as the nodding-off Zabini snapped to attention at the sudden noise, blinking owlishly, seemingly lost.

"Wha' time s'it? He murmured blearily.

"Four," Daphne said tiredly, collapsing in her chair, staring at a mountain of papers which contained mostly evidence the team had collected over the last month. "How do you do this every day and not want to commit ritual suicide?"

"Carefully," Dean drawled from somewhere behind the group. It had been his day off as well, and Harry knew Dean was never happy to be interrupted during his precious 'Dean-time', which mainly consisted of watching movies and re-runs of Top Gear. And while the Purebloods and Magical-raised Halfbloods in the room would sneeze at that interruption, Dennis and Harry understood their fellow Muggleborn's (in Harry's case, Muggle-Raised) pain.

"What have we got?" Asked the irascible movie-phile.

"Potter and Seamus lost their suspect on the Cautermall Case. I'm willing to bet that he'll be back at the Towers by day's end," Daphne clarified.

"And I'm here, why?"

Zabini shrugged. "We were thinking that you and Potter could go and meet with that Judge of yours and get him to review the case while Sleeping Beauty and I head to the Towers to see what our friends are doing with their latest batch of Agilian. Thomas, have you given any thought into trying to place a mole into the system?"

"Slow down," Harry said, "one thing at a time. We can go to see O'Riordan today, right?"

Dean nodded. "Just let me give him a call."

"-And what do you mean, mole?" Daphne cut across Harry before he could ask the same question, though her tone was much less polite than his.

Zabini glowered at the brunette. "I mean we place someone within the cabal so we can spy from the inside and do something other than snap photos of low-level dealers."

Daphne merely nodded, both former Slytherins glaring at each other. Dean looked worriedly over at Harry, whom shrugged, unable to do anything. However, Harry had to remember that the room also contained Seamus Finnigan, who was quite able in diffusing tension:

"If you two lovebirds are done going all gaga-eyed at each other, you and Denny over here," Seamus paused and indicated the sleeping Creevey, before smiling and creeping up behind the blond to shout: "HAVE TO GO TO THE TOWERS TO SNAP SOME OF THOSE PHOTOS!"

Dennis jerked awake and smashed his knee against the underside of the table, immediately grabbing for the offended extremity. "Wuzzah -ow! - God! Fuck! Merlin!" The table burst out laughing at his antics, even the normally stoic Zabini chuckled and the ever-irritable Daphne cracked a smile. "Oi, laugh at my pain, will you?" He moaned sleepily, red-faced and rubbing his knee in a circular pattern.

Still chuckling, Harry and Dean looked up at each other, nodded, and headed towards the elevators, still chuckling at the MLE Officer's misfortune.

4:47 PM
St. Schill's Courthouse, Liverpool, UK

Upon coming to the courthouse a second time, Harry found himself disliking the Justice System even more than he had the first time around. Harry stepped out of the Dean's car and followed the taller Auror to the doorway, where a couple of barristers gave them disparaging looks. Harry raised an eyebrow at the goggling counselors and leaned in to whisper to Dean:

"What's up with them?"

Dean looked back with a smirk. "We're not exactly the most clean looking people here, Harry. I've got dreads and a goatee; your hair is a fright and you look like you've decided to become Gandalf the Black." Dean smirked and pointed at Harry's facial hair.

Harry rubbed his jet-black growth of beard absentmindedly. He had not shaved in a long while. Perhaps he had been so occupied with training and the case he really had forgotten to keep up his normal grooming habits. A little bit embarrassed, Harry shrugged and continued on, digging his hands into his pockets.

"You think they'd be less judging if they knew you were a national hero?" Dean questioned, Harry snorted:

"No."

The taller of the two men snickered at Harry's deadpan assessment as the two bumped and plodded past rushing barristers and solicitors, as well as people awaiting trials. Two men sat on the high-backed, throne like chairs whilst magicked scrubs shined their shoes. Dean told Harry to wait by the kingly men. One of the men was a brown-haired man with a namebadge that read 'Dantés' upon the left side of his suit, spoke loudly while looking down at a copy of The Quibbler.

"Potter's a bleedin' recluse for a reason, Danny," Harry overheard one of them say, "he's been hiding about London for the past four years, only coming out once to propose that Anti-Terrorist Coalition last year. Nobody listens to him anymore. His girlfriend's got more pull than him."

The other man Danny, a mousy blond, looked up from The Daily Prophet quizzically. "Just because the Russians and Americans are too prissy to help form ATCO, doesn't mean it's a bad idea, Peter."

Peter, the brown-haired one, shook his head exasperatedly. "Of course it isn't. It isn't paranoid at all."

"No, not really."

"All I'm saying is Potter's a war-hero, and we're indebted to him for that, but it's time we stop looking for Dark Lords in the shadows and jump at every noise. Harry Potter is a war-time man. This is peace, we don't need him anymore."

"Well, I think it's time for him to step back in the spotlight. The Ministry is a bloody pit of corruption. Did you see that Agilian Case this morning? Monard is so full of shite you could smell him a kilometer away. We need someone who can put their hands in the filth there and clean it out somehow. There isn't anyone who can do it better than Harry Potter."

"Potter coming back would be change, alright." Peter started quietly. "Whether good or bad, however, is the question. Personally, I think it'd be bad."

"And I think it'd be good."

Harry snorted from below. Peter looked down questioningly. "And what do you think, my man?"

"I don't really think you should be concerning yourself with talking about that ponce," Harry replied in a voice that was an octave lower than he normally used. "Clearly a guy who goes around and says that terrorists are everywhere has some sort of mental deficiency. Britain's never been more peaceful and the shite from across the pond isn't coming this way."

Danny looked between the two, utterly befuddled. "You people must be joking."

"Not at all," Harry replied, "Potter's a pretentious cock, always has been. And now he's paranoid, too. I think it'd be better to just leave the bloke out of sight, out of mind."

Peter shrugged, finding no fault in Harry's logic when Dean's head poked out over the crowd and he called to Harry:

"There'll be more than enough time to make friends later, Potter!" He gestured for Harry to follow. The raven-haired man turned to the sputtering Peter and the chuckling Danny:

"Well, it was nice meeting you chaps. Some other time, then?"

"Sure, Mister Potter," Danny smiled.

"Uh... that sounds nice," Peter also said.

Harry nodded and passed by the two men, whom broke out into whispers as they watched the two Aurors head to Judge O'Riordan's office. The duo squeezed their way through the ever growing throng of men and women and found themselves going through the oak double doors Harry had been through once before. Two suits of armor guarded the entrance to the hallway that contained many offices and a lounge room as well as a small cafeteria. The floors were tiled with alternating black-and-white inlays. O'Riordan stood outside his office, wig still on and looking mighty haggard, though he managed to put on a smile and boomed jovially to the two young Aurors:

"Come in, come in, boys!"

Harry followed both Dean and O'Riordan into the charming office the elder man had inherited with the job. The office, a cream-white color with soft brown hardwood floors, reminiscent of certain cinnamon-colored eyes to Harry, had one large desk at the center with a comfortable leather chair behind it, the kind a muggle business executive might use. Papers were strewn about O'Riordan's desk alongside used up inkwells and cracked quills laying in a sort of writing utensil graveyard.

Harry collapsed into one of the small, green-leather chairs set in front of the good Judge's work desk, Dean did the same. O'Riordan surveyed both men with a bemused look on his face.

"I assume the case is taking its toll?"

Dean wore his best 'fuck you' face while Harry merely grunted in affirmation.

"What we're here about is a possible case of corruption," Dean answered instead.

The Judge halted. "Are we talking about Monard's decision?"

Since Dean seemed to have developed sudden-onset muteness, Harry answered for him: "Yes."

"Look, we all know Monard is corrupt as-"O'Riordan began, but was interrupted by a loud knock at the door, "- Come in!"

The doors banged open and a rat-faced, portly Judge walked in, wig hanging askew and Judge's frock skirting along the floor. His eyes were screwed shut in intense concentration and he spoke a mile a minute:

"Frederick," he greeted tersely.

"Philius," O'Riordan returned stoically. Harry whirled around to take in the sallow man once more. Philius Monard did not look particularly imposing or corrupt, rather weak, but nothing as he expected. Monard held a file in his hands, which he raised and strode toward O'Riordan's desk, dropping it open the polished oak:

"I am taking off for the day; would you be so kind as to look over some of my writs?" Without even waiting for an answer, the man turned on his heel and strolled away, leaving behind a halfhearted "Thank you".

He opened the door and strode out. Harry and Dean stared at each other for a long moment as the door shut, and once they heard the click of said door closing, both burst out laughing, at which O'Riordan looked dismayed:

"Yes, yes, fat man hands me all sorts of work and you laugh. Tossers."

Harry stopped laughing and turned to the Judge, surprised to hear a curse coming from the venerable old man, and then back at Dean. Both laughed even harder, if possible. The Judge merely shot the two a playful glower.

"What a pompous git!" Harry snorted.

"He probably has a tiny prick," Dean agreed.

"Anyways," O'Riordan murmured, blushing at the insults directed toward a fellow Judge, "I know Monard is an arse and he's more than corrupt, but there's no way to prove it unless you can somehow implicate him in a crime, otherwise he's just another bought Judge no one can touch."

Harry eyed the broken quills on the Judge's desk soberly until a bright idea struck him: "What if... we had the bank statement of one Damian Shankly and his affiliates? And what if we just so happened to take a close look at the transactions?"

Dean seemed to understand Harry's line of thought. "You're trying to find evidence of Shankly giving Monard money, aren't you?"

"Brilliant!" O'Riordan boomed, "oh, you'll go far with a brain like that!"

Harry had the decency to blush faintly at the praise. "It's nothing major, really."

"Well, boys, tell me if you do happen to find something, because, aside from that, my hands are tied. When you've got enough, you can come to me for a Wizarding-Mobile Wire Tap. I'll be more than happy to push the paperwork for you!"

"Thank you, Judge," both Aurors said automatically.

The Judge laughed once more. "Call me Frederick, you two."

5:45 PM
NIM - Narcotics Division

Harry and Dean returned to the NIM half an hour later to find Daphne hunched over file after file, and report after report. Seamus, Dennis, and Zabini had gone to the towers, and DS Freeman, whom had been working since seven PM the night before, had finally been sent home by Rodgers when she found him asleep on the keyboard of his typewriter in his cubicle. Dean told Harry to wait at the large oak table with Daphne while he went to see Rodgers about Zabini's idea of planting a mole in the Shankly Crew. Collapsing into one of the comfy mesh chairs, Harry surveyed the concentrating brunette. Ruffling around for the Gringotts account statement files, he noticed Daphne was nibbling on one of the beads of a rosary, the one she had been playing with two nights earlier.

"I thought you were a Pureblood," Harry started aloud, startling Daphne, whom looked up from the files questioningly, rosary dropping by the wayside and clattering on the table.

"Yes," she began with an expression of confusion, which looked rather like a sneer. "I am. I never was anything else. Why does it matter?"

Harry coughed, realizing how that may have sounded. "Ah, I'm sorry. It's just that you normally only see really devout Catholics carrying around Rosaries. I wasn't aware that wizards could be at all religious."

"Well, I'm not - not really," she said, contemplating the rosary rather philosophically, "-I'd forgotten, you were muggle-raised, weren't you?"

Harry nodded. "Yeah."

"Well, it isn't any secret that it is hard for wizards to believe in any sort of 'religion', per sé," Daphne mused aloud, talking more to herself than Harry, "most of Jesus' miracles, with the exception of the ones where he brought people back from the dead, can be accurately explained by simple magic. Turning water into wine would not be too difficult for any decent wizard.

"But, despite that we don't believe in any true religion, it's hard not to have faith in something. Most wizards choose to believe in an afterlife; I choose to believe in the Christian Heaven. The rosary calms me, somewhat. Makes me feel safe."

"Huh," Harry grunted, mulling over the brunette's words.

"Do you believe in an afterlife, Harry?"

"Sort of," Harry said, smiling bemusedly, "I also sort of wish I didn't."

"Sort of?" Daphne snorted, clearly amused. "You know, Malfoy always said you were a ponce when we were in Hogwarts, but I never took you to be nutters as well. The Prophet stopped doing that after fifth year, if my memory's not off."

"They also said Dumbledore was a great wizard when they weren't busy attacking him, but never made comment on the fact that he was probably the barmiest codger I'd ever had the fortune of meeting. Heroes are never what they're portrayed to be. Especially not me. Have you seen that fountain out front?" Harry asked, referring to the fountain of himself, Ron, Hermione, and Neville in the NIM courtyard.

"The one with you, Granger, Weasley, and Longbottom?" Daphne questioned; Harry nodded. "Yes, I've seen it."

Harry snorted. "That mask of calm confidence fountain-Harry is wearing is about the biggest lie that came from the war. I nearly about nearly wet myself thrice and suffered a heart attack while casting that disarming charm."

The candidness of the conversation, combined with Daphne's disbelieving expression caused Harry to burst out laughing.

"Hey!" The brunette exclaimed dangerously. "You aren't having me on, are you?"

"I assure you I am not," Harry explained, "your face was priceless." The AT Agent merely glowered, and Harry continued. "But, seriously. We're not as polished as everyone portrays us."

"Oh?" Daphne asked soberly, "And what's that, that dulls your shine?"

Harry merely smiled. "A little forward of you, don't you think, Miss Greengrass."

"No, actually," she grinned toothily, "if we're to be working together, I think I deserve to know of some of your foibles."

"In good time," Harry replied quietly, attention driven away from the brunette upon seeing Dean emerge from Rodgers' office with something akin to a grin upon his face. "What's the news?"

"Looks like Zabini won't have to bother me about the mole anymore; Rodgers thinks it's a good idea."

Harry nodded contemplatively. "When will we be working on that?"

"Monday," Dean replied, "when we try to convince Rodgers and O'Riordan to either get a muggle wire-tap, or one of those new models of George's Extendable Ears. Apparently the Department of Mysteries is helping make them."

"So, what else today?"

Daphne rubbed her eyes tiredly and Harry yawned, causing Dean to give the two a pitying smirk:

"Nothing else today, it was supposed to be our day off, so you can leave whenever, Harry," he replied, "Greengrass, you're still on the clock for another seven minutes. Seamus and Dennis should be back in a few; if you two are willing to wait, we can all go out for a couple of pints?"

Harry waved him off. "Not tonight, Dean-o. Hermione's bringing Teddy over and if I go waltzing around pissed, she'll probably hex me and then proceed to kick the shite out of me. Or probably send those goddamned birds after me. Besides, it's in bad form to be watching over a four year-old while drunk."

"Suit yourself, Harry," Dean shrugged lightheartedly, turning to the pretty brunette across from Harry. "What about you, Greengrass? Are you in?"

"Maybe next time, Thomas," she declined, "I have business to take care of back in London. It seems as though my sister has decided to get married and I'm supposed to be her good, advice-dispensing, big sister."

"Congratulations!" Dean exclaimed.

"How unfortunate," Harry mused in the same breath. Dean turned to Harry with questioning eyes as Daphne cracked an amused smile:

"What do you mean 'unfortunate'?" Dean asked.

Harry shrugged. "Well, unless Astoria's the fastest person to ever break up with one person and shack up again, I'd say it's unfortunate as to whom she's marrying."

When Dean still looked confused, Daphne clarified: "Draco Malfoy."

"Oh," the dark-skinned Auror deadpanned. "How unfortunate."

And a good laugh was had by all.

7:12 PM
Harry Potter's Residence, Liverpool, UK

Hermione, with little Teddy in tow, stopped by Harry's house later that night. Ron was apparently in Diagon Alley, looking into replacing some of his Auror equipment that had either broken or worn out in Afghanistan. Apparently British-made invisibility cloaks weathered quickly in the Afghan Heat, leaving the godparents alone with their surrogate child.

They made small talk whilst Teddy bounced up and down on Harry's lap, forcing the two to read to him until he fell asleep. Once the little tyke was out like a light, hair Hermione-brown and eyes Harry-green, both adults returned to the first floor. Harry asked if Hermione would like anything stronger than water to drink; she accepted a glass of wine. He decided this was the best time to breach the topic he had been intending to speak to Hermione about since Ron's first visit two days prior:

"So, Ron visited this afternoon to look into that memory of Molly's," Harry started. Hermione tucked her legs underneath herself and listened intently. "The reason we did it today was not because I had actually intended to, in fact, I tried to skive it off on you-" ignoring the playful 'prat' that came about from that, Harry continued, "-but he said he would be happier if you stayed away from Auror work."

Now Hermione rose up from her languid pose, alarmed and wary as a starving dog.

"And, if one uses simple logic," Harry expounded, "it might lead one to believe that you still haven't told Ron of your intent to join the Auror Corps. Would you like dissuade that certain someone of the notion?"

"I-I, u-um..." she stammered, blushing in shame. A vicious part of Harry's mind enjoyed seeing her stutter so, it wasn't often that he reduced Hermione Granger to monosyllabic half-words; another part enjoyed seeing her blush, convinced she looked quite beautiful with that rosy glow upon her face.

"Why not?" Harry asked, trying to give her something tangible to answer. "You've had a month. Why not tell Ron?"

Hermione, being Hermione, decided to chew on the bottom of her lip instead of answering Harry. He suffered a few seconds of the pleasantly distracting interlude of staring at the honey-brunette's mouth. An unbidden thought of never having wanted to be a body part more than those lips at that moment snuck into Harry's mind. Catching his runaway thoughts, Harry mentally shook them from his head and paid attention to Hermione, whom seemed to slowly building up pressure, like a tea kettle, until she would have to erupt with something to say. And sure enough, in ten seconds, she did:

"Oh, Harry, I'm such a coward!" She burst out.

"Coward?" Harry repeated dumbly as the brunette fidgeted and smoothed over an imagined wrinkle in her jeans. "Hermione, forgive me if I'm being a bit dense, but what are you talking about? You've proven yourself over and over to be the bravest person I know."

"You are just saying that," she shot, rather petulantly.

"I'm not, and I certainly don't have to recount the times you've proven your courage, that speaks for itself. It's okay to be afraid, but one has to know what they're afraid of before they can adequately fear it, if nothing else."

"How philosophical of you, Mister Potter," Hermione drawled.

"Hermione-" Harry warned.

"Yes, yes, I know. I am evading," she snapped and halted, taking deep breaths. "I'm afraid of what he'll think. If Ron told you what he thought of doing Auror-work, what will he say when he learns that I've applied without consulting with him."

Harry was not entirely sure why she was so frightened. "Merlin, Hermione, it's not like the two of you are married."

"I know, I know. But still, he's safe. All my life after the war has been with him. We've lived together, lived apart, loved, planned for the future. I don't want to drive a wedge between us..."

Harry looked at his friend seriously. "Shouldn't you have thought more about Ron's feelings about this before applying, then?"

"You're not helping, Potter," Hermione growled, though Harry could detect a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her lips. "I thought - I thought that I'd do it and damn him and what he wanted! But-but now..."

"Now you're having second thoughts."

She stopped and stared at Harry as it all clicked in his head. "Yeah," she said, looking a bit overwhelmed.

"Okay, Hermione," Harry started, hating to have to be the mediator of this problem. He would have much rather preferred it if Ron did blow up at her and their relationship crashed and - wait, what was he thinking? Focus, Harry, he thought, focus. "Here's the first question: Do you really want to be an Auror?"

"Well, I, uhm..."

Harry smiled. "Okay, let's start small. What did you want to be when you were growing up? You know, before you learned about magic?"

"I never had such grandiose dreams as a child," Hermione began thoughtfully, "after all, the muggle world is much larger than the wizarding, and I didn't have the benefit of being the best friend of a national hero-" she playfully punched Harry's shoulder, "-I wanted to do something like my parents, but I never wanted to be a dentist. Working with teeth all day? I could barely look at my own without wanting to burst into tears."

"Ah, yes," Harry smiled, "when you had the - erm - overlarge front teeth."

"A political answer if I've ever heard one, but you can say it for what they were. I had buckteeth. Simple and clean," Hermione chided; Harry shrugged:

"Well, they certainly look nice now."

The honey-brunette faked a curtsy. "Why, thank you! But, seriously, I knew I wanted to do something in medicine. Likely, I thought I would become a nurse."

"A nurse? Why a nurse?"

"Well, I-" she began demurely, "I never had very many friends in school. I knew that people instinctively trusted nurses, that everyone liked nurses. No one really liked doctors when I was growing up, but everyone remembered their nurse being kind to them. I sort of wanted people to remember me like that.

"But when I got my letter from Hogwarts, I knew that I had to be a witch. It explained everything about me. Why I was so strange, why strange things happened around me. I knew the Magical World had to be mine. For the first few years I tried to keep my prospects open, possibly thinking of joining the Unspeakables or perhaps the Department for the Regulation of Magical Creatures. But, I don't think I have the mind for that anymore.

"The war changed me, changed us. I want to be an Auror now. I know it's what I should be doing. I've started practicing again, started going over my Defense books and it - it feel right. I can just feel it. In my bones. I don't want to be a barrister, or a healer, or the blooming Minister of Magic. This is what I want to do. With Ron, and with... you."

Harry smiled, understanding that feeling of knowing. "Then just tell Ron that, and I'm sure he'll understand. He'll be angry at first, but you know he always comes around."

"But why?" Hermione asked suddenly. "Why does it have to be that way? Why do we have to bicker and argue until we're sick of fighting and finally make up."

Harry did not have an easy answer for that. Because that's who Ron and Hermione were? Because they were opposites who were bound to clash over their opinions and ideals? Because they had a combative, but mutual attraction towards each other?

"We're never like that," Hermione continued more softly, as if contemplating something. "Why can't... why can't Ron be more like you?"

There was a loaded question if Harry had ever heard one, and he had no idea how to respond, so he went with a strangled 'eh?' and watched Hermione smile a little at his dumbfounded expression, as she asked a question that about near caused Harry to faint dead away:

"Why didn't we ever think of getting together?" Hermione interrogated as a police officer would a terrified teenager caught with a bag of marijuana.

"I... uh..."

"We could have stayed in that tent," she began, "forgotten about the wizarding world. Lived our lives for each other and no one else."

Harry knew he looked as incredulous as he felt. "Are we really entertaining the thought?"

"It's what bored people do, isn't it?" Hermione questioned slyly, swilling her wine around the glass it was in, taking obvious pleasure in Harry's puzzled state of mind. She smiled demurely, crossing her legs and leaning in close that Harry caught a whiff of her vanilla-scented perfume. Evil witch! Harry thought, feeling comfortably numb at the throes of her heady scent.

"Yeah, I guess it is," he replied absentmindedly, entranced by her cinnamon-colored eyes, large black pupils giving her a deceptively innocent look.

"What's the matter?" She asked, looking concerned, "You look a bit dazed."

"Yes, yes, I'm fine. Your question just caught me off guard," Harry shrugged. "If we were really entertaining the idea of living together in a forest for the rest of our lives... Frankly, I'd thought you wouldn't have me."

Hermione arched a delicate eyebrow. "I wouldn't have you? I, Plain-Jane Hermione Granger wouldn't have you, Harry Potter?"

"You're not plain," Harry argued.

"Oh please," she waved him away dismissively. "I would think you wouldn't have me. I'm plain, sometimes annoying, over-emotional, nag too much-"

"-smart, kind, loyal, prettier than she thinks," Harry cut her off with a smile. She blushed. "Especially cute when she's embarrassed." He laughed as she blushed an even brighter red and swatted at his arm with a 'Prat!'.

Holy Christ, am I flirting with Hermione?

She smiled and scooted over to Harry, laying her head upon his shoulder. "Thank you for talking to me, Harry."

"No problem. Are you ready to tell Ron?"

"I think," she started, "I can only hope he takes it as well as you have."

Both of them shared a chuckle.

"Any woman you end up snagging the heart of will be lucky to have you, Harry Potter," Hermione smiled sweetly, but it was a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, as if she was unhappy to have said that.

Harry ignored it and snorted. "Me? The drug-addicted, workaholic Auror? Some luck, that is."

"But luck, it is," Hermione replied, standing up and finishing the rest of her wine. "I think I should be getting home. I think I'll tell Ron on Monday after he returns from work-" she paused to grin, "-he'll likely be too tired to put up an argument."

Harry grinned. "That's my girl."

Hermione nodded and turned quickly toward the fireplace. "I'll see you, then?"

"Whenever you need me," Harry began melodramatically, "I am at your call."

She turned toward the fireplace before stopping and whirling to face Harry once more. "I never asked you."

"Asked me what?"

"What did you want to be when you grew up? Before we learned about Magic?"

"Well," Harry began thoughtfully, "I actually kind of wanted to work for the Scotland Yard."

Hermione gave him a searching look for a moment before bursting out into laughter.

"What?" Harry questioned, feeling oddly embarrassed.

Hermione just sighed. "You, the Auror wanted to be a Detective? That's so Harry Potter."

"Yeah, well," Harry began, flustered, "whenever the Dursleys were out and I could watch the Telly, cop dramas from America would always be on it. I would watch them and think that one day I'd be like them. Driving Ferraris and solving crimes, It seemed a great life."

Hermione gave him a look. Harry knew that look, a barely concealed look of fury at the people whom had neglected him the first eleven years of his life. But, Hermione covered it up quickly. "And how does the real thing compare?"

"Right rubbish in the face of what I saw back then. Maybe if I move to the States, go to Florida, however..."

"The mosquitoes will love you," the brunette warned. Harry suddenly felt the vaguest wanting for a cigar.

"Ha. Right," Harry shuddered.

Hermione smiled, and without warning, hugged Harry. Relishing the feeling his body wrapped around hers, Harry felt her lips move against his throat, causing his heart to momentarily seize:

"Thank you, thank you for talking to me. Now, go get some sleep."

"Yes ma'am," Harry saluted once he regained his bearings. Hermione gave him one last, sweet smile before stepping into the fireplace and shouting 'Mayfair' as she dropped a bunch of floo powder. And with the rise of deep green flames, Harry found himself having to admit one thing he could no longer hide from:

While he might have been or might not have been in love with her, there was no question that Harry fancied his best friend, the unavailable and uncommonly pretty Hermione Granger.

"Holy Christ," he muttered, echoing his thoughts from earlier.

2:40 AM

"Daddy," something was saying, shaking his shoulder. Harry's eyes blinked open to take in Teddy staring back at him, "Daddy! Are you awake?" He asked, his little green eyes looking rather frightened.

"I am now, kiddo," Harry answered, an amused rumble in his voice.

"Can I- can I... sleep with you?" He pleaded fearfully, looking to his side.

Harry sat up in bed, picking Teddy up and placing the small boy in his lap. "What's wrong, lad?"

"I had a nightmare," Teddy replied in a small voice, curling close to Harry, causing an appreciative smile to play at the elder man's lips. "I'm scared."

"Of course, kiddo," Harry said tenderly, patting the empty space next to him in the bed. "You can sleep here tonight if you want."

"Thank you," Teddy crawled in close to Harry as he lay back down. Harry turned on his side and wrapped a protective arm around the four year-old. The metamorphmagus sighed contentedly and Harry closed his eyes once he had assured Teddy he was safe with him.

For a few minutes, silence rang throughout 221A Sir Thomas Street, only to be broken by the voice of a child:

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, Teddy-boy?"

"How come you and mummy don't sleep together?" If Teddy's question had not been so innocent, Harry was sure he would have choked on his own spit. "The other kids at Daycare say their mummies and daddies sleep together."

"Well," Harry began thoughtfully, staring at his godson, who looked back at him intently through the darkness, eyes the color of Lily's. "your mummy and I aren't married. So we don't sleep together."

"Do you have to be married to sleep with each other?"

"Well... erm..." Out of the mouth of babes, indeed, Harry thought. How was he supposed to answer that one? "Erm... sort of. The rules are... hard to get. For adults, yeah, we have to be married to sleep together."

Teddy yawned sleepily. "Will you and mummy ever get married?"

Harry thought about that for a moment. He saw an older Teddy sitting with his Hogwarts books, reading in the shade of the tree behind Harry's house, flanked by a messy-haired boy and a bushy-haired little girl far too absorbed in her books while Harry and Hermione watched from the kitchen windows. He had to admit. the thought was not unpleasant.

But that was just a pipedream. And this was reality. But he saw no need to break Teddy's naïve view of what parenthood should be like just yet.

"Maybe someday, kiddo," Harry said, pulling the boy in close, "maybe someday."

That seemed to be all the conversation Teddy needed as he turned on his side to face his godfather and snuggled in close. Harry watched over the child for a few minutes longer, watching his breathing even out, and could not help but grin. So this was what being a father was like. It is not unpleasant. Still smiling, Harry closed his eyes.

And soon, his breathing evened out, too.

A/N: So, FFnet has gotten some weird unresolved formatting issues with its horizontal lines, so I apologize if this comes out a bit patchy. But, onward with the fic. Harry is getting some help from Teddy and Hermione in how to be a somewhat normal, functioning human being. And yes, Harry and Hermione's relationship will only escalate from here. Though, since this is really not a romance, it will take a back seat to developing the characters aside from just Harry and Hermione and the overall plot itself. Hope you enjoyed that tiniest bit of HHr fluff and the stuff with Teddy.

Chapter Notes:

After REV042175's comment on how Harry's training had parallels to Bruce Wayne's in the Nolan Batman trilogy, I couldn't help but throw in a few references. Since some of them could technically be considered spoilers to The Dark Knight Rises, I'll leave you to find them out yourselves.

"Hell is other People" - Comes from a J.P. Sartré's No Exit.

In regard to a guest review about Daphne: It is entirely possible for a man and a woman to be good friends without trying to hump each other at every turn. JKR did a very close platonic relationship between Harry and Hermione in canon. One could argue that Harry's relationship with Hermione is stronger than his with Ginny and hers with Ron despite that they aren't 'in love'. In a similar fashion, Harry and Daphne will eventually have an easygoing relationship that some other characters could misconstrue as romantic, but really is very platonic.

More on Daphne. In chapter eight, Harry tells Oracle that 'most of the magical world does believe in a god', Daphne seems to deliberately contradict this. Rest assured, it's not an oversight: While most wizards do believe in a god or a universal force, as Harry says, they find it hard to believe in religion, as Daphne states.

Monard will continue to be a thorn in the Detail's side.

In one sentence, Hermione sort of admits the problem in the relationship between Ron and herself: he's safe. Make of that what you will.

The TV Show that involved driving Ferraris and living in Florida is Miami Vice.

Next chapter: Delirium Tremens. The title is taken from when a person experiences extreme alcohol withdrawal, usually developing symptoms of shakes, seizures, irritability, pain... etc. It's also a damn good Belgian Ale. Please drink responsibly.

Thanks again for reading, and here's to another one coming out soon!
Geist.

Also. Reviews.

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