Chapter 3. Harry Potter.

It was so nice to be lying in bed early in the morning, pressing his beloved wife to him and fantasizing about not having to run anywhere, and to seek out, comfort or reprimand anyone. He wanted to spend Saturday with his family, have dinner at the Weasley's, fly broomsticks with Albus, take a stroll with Ginny, and then sit down in the evening and write a letter to his children at Hogwarts. Harry fervently hoped that it would work out just so, but some sixth sense that awoke at the same time he did was telling him that his fantasies would remain just that. Still, he had decided that just for today he would forget about the sixth sense and at least have a peaceful morning – without the Ministry, werewolves, dead children, and a nagging fear that none of it was simply a coincidence.

He was in a rosy mood. However, something kept getting in the way of this feeling of absolute content. Oh, yeah, James.

Harry very slowly pulled his arm from under Ginny's head, slid from under the covers, pulled on the pajama bottoms, took his glasses and wand from the bed-side table, and went downstairs to the kitchen. He finally felt well-slept and rested. In the last few days he had to jump up early and run, barely finding time to sleep or eat.

Today was Saturday, however. The sun was peeking amiably into the kitchen windows. A lonely glass with leftover milk stood in the middle of the table – Al must have had trouble sleeping at night. It sometimes happened to him when he ate a lot of sweets before bed. It was strange that his youngest son managed to remain so thin while always munching on candy and other sweets.

Harry put the tea kettle on the stove – he loved the sound of the boiling kettle coming from the kitchen in the morning. Using spells robbed mornings of their magic. And so, Harry put his wand on the counter, opened the refrigerator, and tried to decide what to eat while his wife was still asleep. He didn't cook often because he never quite mastered the household spells and he had no desire to do Muggle cooking – he had done enough of it while living with the Dursleys.

He was very hungry, but it didn't even occur to him to wake up Ginny, especially taking into account how tired and pale she had been lately, and the dark circles around her eyes. She refused to go to bed until Harry got home. This is how it always was with them, and it was too late to make changes now.

Harry knew that Ginny was anxious about more than his interrupted vacation, although that was alarming all by itself, but also about her son leaving for Hogwarts angry and upset. Harry understood that Ginny was taking it hard even if she never spoke about James' behaviour.

He finally took a plate of sandwiches from the refrigerator, sat at the counter and began demolishing them one by one, while listening to the kettle boil.

"Good morning, Daddy," Albus shuffled into the kitchen, his hair in disarray and his eyes still only half-opened from sleep. His pajama top was buttoned incorrectly, which made him look charmingly goofy. His slippers with three mismatched ears sewn onto them made Harry smile.

"Hello, Al. Why up so early?"

Albus climbed the high stool next to his father's, yawned with gusto, and reached for the candy bowl.

"I fell off the bed," the boy answered simply, unwrapping the candy. Harry looked tenderly at his youngest son.

"And how did that happen?" Harry patted Al's disheveled hair, "Were you learning how to fly?"

"Nah. I was battling a dragon in my sleep," Al explained, stuffing candy in his mouth and smiling contentedly. When he was done chewing, he raised his green eyes to his father, who was patiently waiting for him to continue. "I would have won, too, if I didn't wake up. I stuffed a Drooble's in his jaws, which glued them together, so he couldn't breathe out fire. And then I fell off the bed."

The boy rubbed the shoulder that he must have banged in his fall, but he didn't say anything about it, and Harry did not offer to help. He smiled, looking at Al who had already busied himself with another piece candy. Harry even forgot about not letting Al eat candy before breakfast. He was thinking about how comfortable his son felt coming to his father and telling him about his dream of battling a dragon and how brave he was doing it. He immediately remembered how Uncle Vernon almost got into a car accident when he heard Harry talk about his flying motorcycle dream. This was so long ago. He was just such a boy back then, but with a cursed scar on his forehead – a gift from Voldemort.

Harry unconsciously raised his hand and rubbed the scar. It no longer bothered him and was usually invisible under his hair. Albus followed his gesture and smiled, his cheek dimpling.

"I drew you yesterday, Daddy, and you scar as well. I wonder if Mummy can put a spell on it so that it moves and the lightning flashes. That would be cool, wouldn't it?"

Harry smiled and nodded, imagining the lightning illuminate his forehead. The only thing missing was the thunder.

"Daddy, look, it's Bag," Al nodded toward the window. "He winked at me."

Indeed, Bag, James' Snowy owl, was sat on the window sill. Harry bought her when he and James first visited Diagon Alley to buy school supplies and a wand. They saw Bag at the store and it brought back to Harry Hedwig, a trusted friend of all his school years. James liked the owl very much, and Harry gave her to his son.

Albus jumped off his stool, ran to the window and threw it open. Fresh air, filled with the fragrance of the flowering garden, burst into the kitchen along with the owl. The boy stood by the window.

"Daddy, look, the gnomes are back!"

Harry nodded absently – the gnomes always returned – and took the roll of parchment from Bag. A letter from James, he thought, sitting back down. The kettle boiled and he turned the stove burner off before opening the letter.

As Harry read the letter, the wave of happiness and pride for his son washed over his heart. The boy grew up and learned to admit his mistakes.

"Daddy, what did Jim write?" Albus got back to his candy.

"That he misses you," Harry smiled. And that he is sorry for his behaviour. That he loves his parents and that he is sorry to have upset his mother. That he likes the watch very much, will wear it with pride, and take good care of it in memory of his father's godfather.

"Good morning, my men," sleepy-looking Ginny appeared in the kitchen, tying the belt of her robe. He cheeks were rosy and her eyes glimmered. She looked at Albus (he hid the candy he had been unwrapping behind his back), at Harry, and at the letter in his hand. Then she saw Bag who was sitting on the window sill and clearly preparing to take off.

"From James?" she asked hopefully, and Harry nodded, handing her the letter. The morning has definitely been a success.

They had breakfast together and by noon they were ready to depart for Grandpa Weasley's house where the members of his big family usually gathered on Saturdays. When Potters emerged from the kitchen fireplace at The Burrow, the merriment of their young nieces and nephews was in full swing, and the Weasley wives were busy cooking. Bill, who was engaged to set the tables in the garden, nodded affably at them as he passed by, escorting a flying stack of plates.

"Albus!" Arthur Weasley, his hair now completely grey, wearing an old vest made by the late Mrs. Weasley, embraced his grandson. The boy put his hand promptly in his grandfather's vest pocket and fished out a handful of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans.

Ginny joined Fleur and Angelina, George's wife, in the kitchen, while Harry and Mr. Weasley went to the living room where almost nothing has changed in the years after the Weasley family lost Molly.

"Ron and Hermione will be here soon," Arthur said, sitting down in the old chair and looking at his son-in-law. Harry, slowly, as he always did when finding himself in the beloved Burrow, looked over the familiar corners, walls, things on the shelves, portraits, toys, and sheets of paper strewn everywhere. This was his home – a house full of happy memories, pleasant surprises, and people dear to his heart.

Over there, by the fireplace, Remus Lupin liked to sit with a glass of eggnog in his hand. A Christmas tree used to stand in the cornet over there, with a tutu-dressed gnome, bewitched by Fred and George, sitting at the top. And if he went up the stairs, he could find the room where Ginny gave him her gift for his seventeenth birthday.

"Uncle Harry! Uncle Harry!" He was torn away from his musings by the shouts of his red-haired nieces and nephews, as they surrounded him. "Uncle Harry, come teach us to fly a broomstick!"

Harry sighed contritely – this was his cross to bear in this family. He didn't even try to say no anymore. It was useless. He nodded his assent and took off his robe, while the children delightedly ran into the garden to fetch broomsticks from the shed.

Thanks to Merlin, dinner was soon served and Fleur came to fetch the children. Harry put away the broomsticks and joined the rest of the family.

"Hello, Harry," Hermione hugged her friend lightly, looking at him with slight concern, "How are you?"

Ron's wife looked tired as well, because the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was also up to their ears in the case of the werewolves. Harry was only glad that his department handled the worst of it and that Hermione did not have to see blood and death on a daily basis.

This is not the time for such thoughts, Harry checked hiself, and he tried to smile sincerely at his friend:

"Everything is all right. James sent a letter today, apologizing to everyone."

Hermione chuckled:

"I didn't doubt that he would. He is a good boy. I think that Malfoy is a bad influence for him."

"Are you sure?" Harry laughed. "I think that they are both a bad influence for each other. I am just waiting for the enraged Draco Malfoy to turn up on my doorstep and demand that I protect his darling son from being the evil wiles of yet another Potter.

They both laughed at that and went over to the dinner table where children were loudly telling their parents what to put on their plates. Albus, as usual, was turning down the soup and Mr. Weasley was trying to convince Muriel, Bill's youngest daughter, not to bring her puppy to the table.

It was a usual Saturday dinner at the Weasley's. Of course, they rarely all gathered there, since Charlie and his family lived in Romania, Bill often traveled on Gringott's business, and most of Arthur Weasley's grandchildren spend many months out of the year at Hogwarts. Despite all this, the dinners were always loud and merry, and laughter, especially that of the children, always rang here, which Harry loved best of all.

In the evening, with the children competing at gnome distance-throwing with Bill, Ron and George, and the women drinking tea and discussing family matters, Harry and Mr. Weasley settled on a bench outside with bottles of butterbeer.

"Your department is in a tizzy right now, isn't it?" Arthur asked quietly, looking sidelong at his son-in-law. Harry nodded, taking a large mouthful of his drink. He knew that the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes had huge problems on its hands because Muggle children had been disappearing all over the country for almost a week. When they were found, they were dead. Mr. Weasley who headed this department probably did not know very much, but it was he and his co-workers who were responsible for thinking up cover stories, dealing with witnesses, and comforting Muggles. "Are they getting closer to London?"

Again, Harry nodded. Indeed, the bloody trail of the six werewolves was getting ever closer to the heart of Britain's magical society. Every day Harry and his teams went on locations where the bodies of the Muggle children were discovered.

Once again, children, once again, Muggles. These monsters were true to themselves even after five years of incarceration. They could not be traced – they did not have wands and they hardly used magic. Nobody knew the exact appearance of the six teenagers since nobody was in contact with them for five years and their prior photographs were likely to be useless. A child of thirteen changed drastically by the time he or she turned eighteen, especially if this child lived without light and fresh air. Thus, the photographs of the Azkaban fugitives were hardly helpful in identifying the werewolves.

"Who exactly are they?" Arthur asked, but then added knowingly: "Top secret Ministry information, isn't it?"

Harry nodded again, like a wind-up toy. He didn't want to talk about this, because that meant helping to bring into this beautiful family evening something scary, terrifying; something that could burst in here, into this world, at any moment through the newspaper pages, radio, or owl post; something that was part of Harry's life for the past few weeks: bloody bodies of children, the terror in their still eyes, the tears of their parents, the helplessness of the Ministry, since the werewolves' transformation did not obey the lunar cycle; and the fear – the fear that one day these monsters, the oldest of which was now nineteen, would decide to switch to wizards.

"Harry," he flinched and turned toward Mr. Weasley, who was closely watching the expression on his son-in-law's face, "If we were in danger, you would tell us, wouldn't you?"

"If you were in danger," Harry made a special emphasis on the pronoun, "I definitely would."

Arthur Weasley nodded.

"Harry!" Hermione strode toward him and pointed to her bracelet, which was glimmering blue. Harry caught himself – his was being signaled as well and he missed it. Harry stood up hastily, looking for Ginny or Albus.

"Don't worry, I will make sure that they get home safely," Mr. Weasley put his hand on Harry's shoulder. "Good luck. And be careful."

Harry and Hermione both nodded and then hurriedly walked across the yard and out of the gate, from where they Apparated directly to the Ministry.