Hello all! I'm back! Some of you may have read on my livejournal about my little swan-dive over my bike. I'm still not 100% again, but my hand can type so at least I can enjoy writing fanfiction again :) Here you go!

Beta: hidden_lily Thanks so much for your hard work :)

Chapter 20: Coming Home

After exchanging every last galleon he had with muggle currency, Harry found himself standing in the middle of a muggle street with very little idea of where he was in the world. He knew he was close to someplace called St. Giles, if he remembered correctly, which he was far from sure he did.

One thing he did know: he needed to get a lot farther away from London, preferably in the direction of an old workhouse. Harry just knew he needed to see the place again, to remind himself of how far he had come and that even if he could now never go home, the home he had lost was better than the one he had been rescued from.

Trying not to think about the person he had left behind, he started walking. He knew Lucius could be about so he tried to find a cab, but there were none around. Somerset House - this was a place Lucius had mentioned, but Harry had no idea in which direction it was or how far. He wandered down Oxford Street, turning his head so much his neck soon hurt. The people were so … inexplicable. Harry was sure he should feel some connection to them, having thought he was one of them until the age of eleven, but no such feelings emerged within him.

He did feel overwhelmed, but tried to stay focused and not panic. A man in horrid rags suddenly grabbed his sleeve, coughing and mumbling something unintelligible. Harry reared back in shock, pulling his arm free and hurrying down the street. Georgian homes with shop fronts lined the street. The people, the horses, the rolling of wheels - it all seemed deafening to Harry. The street appeared never-ending.

Finally, he found a cab and asked to be taken to the workhouse, but the man would not travel that far from London. Harry was dismayed. In the end he asked to be taken to Somerset House. It was risky, but Harry reasoned that the muggles Lucius Malfoy could allow himself to walk among might know more and be much more amiable to help Harry get to his destination.

It took ages compared to Harry's usual means of transportation, but the feeling of the rocking carriage brought back memories. He saw himself eagerly peaking through to the outside world for the first time, forgetting he was being watched by his new owner. He remembered the sight of Malfoy Manor for the first time - he could never forget that - and the awe he had felt. Now, as he stepped out and looked up at Somerset House he felt some of that awe again. Wizarding buildings tended to lean which way they wanted, being kept up more by magic than architectural design. Even Hogwarts' towers seemed to curve depending on the weather or other factors. The city of London felt so solid, like it was all carved out of the same rock. Somerset House loomed like a columned mountain. There was a church nearby, Harry recognised the steeple for what it was, and it too was straight as an arrow to the sky.

Suddenly very unsure of himself, Harry turned away and looked in every direction. He felt overcome with loneliness.

'Draco,' he whispered. 'Where am I?' How could Mr. Malfoy react so violently? Harry didn't fancy himself under any delusions, but he had hoped Mr. Malfoy cared for him at least a little. He had never shown anything but kindness to the little orphan boy he had rescued. Then again, Harry had been kissing his son quite forcefully.

'Young man, you seem to have an utterly lost look about you,' a man's voice remarked. Harry looked up to find a pair of kind eyes in a kind, clean-shaven face. The clothes were clearly expensive: a black frock coat, double breasted and a purple necktie could be seen. He wore a top hat and had a cane, much like Mr. Malfoy, but he had a jolliness in him Harry found instantly appealing.

'Yes, Sir, I am terribly lost,' Harry confessed. His long robe was easily dismissed as a long coat, and though not in fashion especially in the summer weather, it would not cause a stir. The man frowned in sympathy.

'Perhaps I might be of assistance? Where are you heading?'

'A Workhouse, Sir,' Harry told him, telling him the name of the village, in the West Country; that much he knew.

'Why on earth would you wish to go there?' the man exclaimed.

'I need…' Harry hung his head in shame. 'I was born there.' The man's silence made Harry think that help would not be forthcoming. He decided to continue despite this, 'I was rescued by a kind gentleman who raised me alongside his own son and now I wish to see the place again … to try and find my true origins.'

'I see … well, I'm afraid I don't know much about Workhouses,' the man said, not unkindly. 'But I do know someone who is a good friend of Mr. Baines. Have you heard of him?' Harry raised his head, bewildered.

'No, Sir.'

'He is the President of the Poor Law Board. I'm sure he can tell you how to get there.' Harry couldn't help the smile blooming on his face.

'Will you help me speak to him, Sir?'

'I will indeed,' the man smiled and Harry felt hope flare in this chest.

XXX

Draco lay on the bed as if dead. What had he done? What had they done? What had his stupid father done? Draco cared not about the tears streaming down his face. All he knew was that his father would catch Harry and then punish him horribly, perhaps even send him away forever. Draco was sure he wouldn't survive it, not if the ache in his chest got any worse.

Harry. Gone. It was the most unjust thing Draco had ever thought or imagined. Just because they shared a few kisses. How could this be? Maybe if he just closed his eyes and pretended, he would eventually wake up and see Harry was still sleeping in his bed and everything was all right.

He heard the distant Floo through the open door and then, a full five minutes later, the soft creak on the stairs. Without a thought he was up and out of the room, flying down the hallway without a broom. His father was on the bottom step, head down and one hand gripping the banister. He looked utterly defeated and Draco shivered at the sight. Slowly, the man looked up.

'Go back to your room,' he said without inflection.

'Where is Harry?' Draco had to ask, consequences be damned.

'He is no longer your concern, nor your friend. He is nothing to you.'

You are wrong, Draco thought savagely, he is everything.

'But I need him,' the words slipped out like water through desperate hands. Lucius' face hardened.

'You need to do as I say and never even think the boy's name!' Draco could see his father visibly trying to calm himself.

'How could you?' Draco asked, knowing he should stay silent, but unable to do so. For once in his life he felt righteous. 'He's family.'

'No,' Lucius shook his head. 'He is a mudblood orphan who has wormed his way inside this family and corrupted it from within.' He began ascending the stairs slowly. Draco was shaking with the effort of not backing away. His father's eyes were hard as steel. Never before had Draco been afraid of him, but that still did not stop his words from slipping out. Just as Lucius reached the second step from the top, close enough to be eye level with his son, Draco bowed his head and the words slipped out.

'But I love him.' So quiet, like a confession to a priest. When no reaction came Draco decided to let it all flow. 'I've loved him as a friend, as a brother and now as … the most precious of all. I cannot stop it. I know you loved him too, but you are right. He is not part of this family. He is too good for it.' With that his courage was spent and Draco turned and ran, locking his door and hoping his father would decide to curse objects and not him.

XXX

Harry was jolted awake by a rather large stone hitting the wheel of the carriage. He rubbed his eyes and then stared out over the rolling countryside. The gentleman Harry had met in front of Somerset House, a Mr. Steward, had delivered Harry into the safe hands of his good friend Mr. Pickering, who in turn had managed to get Harry into Mr. Baines office. The man had been sympathetic when the story, now with several exaggerations thanks to Mr. Steward's sense of drama, had been relayed to him by Mr. Pickering. He had sent word to a friend living not far from the small town Harry was searching for to expect a young gentleman, a good friend making an inspection at the local Workhouse. Harry would travel to the Workhouse, make an informal visit with a letter from Mr. Baines himself to ensure his entry, and then proceed to the house of Mr. Baines' friend for the night. Harry had protested at first, saying it was too much, but Mr. Baines had insisted. All he asked in return was a report on Harry's findings, explaining how improved the Workhouse conditions and running were thanks to the Poor Law Board. The testimony of a former inmate, now a fine young gentleman who had improved his situation in every way, would carry a lot of weight. An exchange of favours was something Harry had no trouble understanding, and he readily agreed.

He had been conducted to an Inn not far from Mr. Baines' office and told his journey would begin early the next morning. Now it was well into the afternoon the next day, and Harry was beginning to wonder if he would ever arrive. How did muggles manage to live their whole lives so slowly? It was extremely frustrating.

Finally, Harry's destination was in clear view and his stomach did a painful lurch. The brick building was exactly as in Harry's dreams. The high walls seemed at once to surround him again, suffocating. It took him several moments to realise the driver was holding out his hand to help him out. Harry tried to control the shaking in his hands as he approached the gate.

One hour later…

Despite his mixture of hope, anxiety and inevitableness, Harry's visit to his childhood left him empty and without a single answer. No one who worked there now had been there long enough to remember his coming, and if they had, why should they remember him? The children looked as listless as he remembered himself being, but his desire to help them was overshadowed by his own disappointment. Why had Lucius Malfoy chosen him out of all the rabble? All Harry knew was that he would need quite a bit of imagination in his report to the Poor Law Board.

He returned to the carriage and the driver told him it was only an hour's drive to his nighttime accommodations. Harry stared vacantly at the passing town, then farms and a small woodland. The lane was bumpy and despite the nice weather Harry found it all rather dreary. They passed a large empty field, overgrown with tall grass everywhere, and remnants of a house in the middle. Harry's heart gave a jolt, and his scar seemed to twitch.

'Stop! Driver, please, stop a moment!' he cried. The man pulled the reigns and the carriage came to an uneasy stop. Harry jumped down. 'Please, can you wait?'

'I'm your driver, young Sir, I'll wait as long as you wish,' the man said kindly, as if understanding Harry wasn't used to people doing as he asked. Harry thanked him and ventured into the field. He thought he saw an old trodden path winding through the tall grass and followed it as best he could.

There had been a rather large house here once. Harry walked around the old foundation, finding the place where the door had once stood. The floorboards were still intact! They had just been obscured by the tall grass and remaining brick. Harry imagined where the kitchen might have been, where the family might have sat around the fireplace.

Why had this place drawn him? There was energy here … magic? Harry was so used to magic around him, as every wizard was, that he took its energy for granted. Only skilled wizards could feel such remnants of magics lingering in places.

He found what must have been the entry to the underground basement. The handle was laid into the floor and Harry pulled it open easily and the hinges didn't even creak. There was no dust on the square door and the stairs down into the darkness were well worn yet seemed new compared to the floorboards. Harry instinctively drew his wand. He slowly climbed down into a large space, far enough beneath the surface for a man to stand comfortably. Harry could hear no movement, so he decided on a small lumos. The moment he could see his surroundings he knew for certain someone was living here. It was a poor man's home, but well-kept and neat if not completely clean. There was a made bed in the far corner with an old box of some sort for a bedside table. On it lay a book, which Harry found very strange. Perhaps an out-of-work tutor? A large trunk, eerily reminiscent of his own trunk at home- no, no longer his home - stood at the end. There was an old door on two small barrels serving as a desk, with several books stacked neat on one side. A half dozen boxes were stacked to the other side, some filled with jars, fresh herbs and vegetables, no doubt stolen from nearby farms. There was a large cauldron too, sitting upside down.

Harry picked up one of the books and gasped: it was a magical theory book. He checked another: a muggle novel. Perhaps it was someone in exile, like him? Then again, it was more likely an outcast, maybe someone dangerous. Harry cancelled his lumos and hurried upstairs. He jogged slightly to the carriage.

'How far to the house from here?' he asked.

'Oh, just up the road there,' the driver replied, pointing up ahead. 'No more than ten minutes.'

'Could you ride on without me?' Harry asked. 'I could use the walk to clear my head.'

'Are you sure?' the man asked. 'It's getting a little chilly.' Hardly chilly with warming charms, but Harry wasn't going to mention that.

'Yes, please give them my apologies for being so late.'

'I'm sure they'll understand, Mr. Patton,' the driver said, taking Harry's desire to walk as a sign of a trying experience at the Workhouse. 'I'll tell them, if you're sure?'

'Thank you, I'll be right after.' With that the driver urged the horses on and was soon gone into the trees. Harry turned back to the old house. Where to wait? He walked around the entire clearing, trying to find a path and sure enough, through the small wood a path went straight towards the old house. Harry positioned himself in some bushes with a good view of the path and the entrance to the basement.

Then he waited.

But not for long. Not fifteen minutes had passed before Harry heard the soft treading of feet. A man appeared; he looked aged beyond his years and tired, wearing old but proper clothes. A worker's trousers, though he was no such thing, and a nice knitted vest could be seen under the wizard robe. The man's hair was clearly graying prematurely. He had a kind face, Harry thought, despite the need for a shave and a bath. He walked purposefully towards the ruins, but stopped short. Was he sniffing? Harry tensed, gripping his wand tightly when he saw the man draw his.

'Who is there?' the man called. He turned, appearing to sniff again before stepping towards Harry's location. His wand was not raised, and he kept it half hidden behind his right thigh. Harry hesitated. The man came closer still. 'I know someone is here,' he said. He was only a few feet away. Harry made his choice. He sprang to his feet, wand raised and ready to fight. The man froze.

'Don't move,' Harry said. He felt full of adrenaline. He hadn't felt like this since that dog/man had chased him in third year. It was terrifying, but he wasn't afraid - he couldn't explain it. The man was giving him the strangest look, as if he had seen a ghost.

'James?' the man gasped the name like a deity. The man's hand barely held on to his wand. Clearly, he did not intend to fight, but Harry kept his wand raised nevertheless.

'No, my name is Harry.'

'Harry? No, it can't be….' The man took a step back, almost staggering under the weight of some knowledge. Harry was getting increasingly nervous. A duel he could handle, but this crazy wizard was disturbing. 'Fourteen years … yes, the right age … but, how?'

'What are you talking about?'

'You are Harry Potter…?'

'No, Harry Patton.' The man stepped closer suddenly, staring at Harry with wide, desperate eyes.

'But you have your mother's eyes!' he cried, coming closer. Harry brandished his wand.

'Back! Stay back!'

'Why are you here, if you are not him?' The man seemed to visibly force himself to calm down, but his eyes were full of hope and despair equally.

'I…' Harry was at a loss. How to explain the energy that drew him here? 'I grew up at the Workhouse, until I was six. I came here to…' Harry shook his head. This was insanity, all of it. He had come here to escape, to somehow erase his whole life and forget that Lucius Malfoy should have cared more for him after all these years. He came here to bury his overwhelming disappointment in all things Malfoy.

'The Workhouse?' the man asked with disbelief. 'But you are a wizard.'

'I was rescued by a wizard, though he didn't know I was muggleborn at the time. He was very kind to send me to Hogwarts.'

'There can be no other explanation,' the man said with an air of finality. 'You are Harry Potter.'

'My name is Patton.' The man shook his head and Harry huffed at his stubbornness.

'And mine is Remus Lupin,' the man said, smiling now and bowing his head in greeting. He put away his wand. 'I knew Lily and James Potter, people you bear a remarkable resemblance to. They lived here,' he lifted his arm in a wide arch encompassing the whole field. Harry's wand shook slightly and he lowered it a little.

'What happened to them?' Harry asked. Potter… wasn't that the name of the last family to die at the Dark Lord's hand before his disappearance?

'They were murdered,' Lupin said with a deep sadness. 'Along with their little boy, only one year old, named Harry.'

Harry. A little boy named Harry Potter. Someone must have mentioned the child's name, the one who had died that infamous night, but Harry couldn't recall anyone mentioning it. It just hadn't seemed important.

'You have her eyes,' Lupin said with a tiny smile, 'and your father's hair.'

'No- no, my parents were muggles.'

'Do you know that for certain?' Harry's wand lowered even more.

'Yes, yes of course.' He couldn't look Lupin in the eye. It was too much. He let his wand hand fall to his side.

'When did you come to live at the Workhouse?'

'The records say I was approximately one year old, the only characteristic noted was a scar,' Harry's empty hand came up to touch it- it was still itching, 'on my forehead.' Lupin remained silent while Harry's head was spinning. Could it be? A wizarding family murdered, only a few miles from a Union Workhouse. A baby found, perhaps by a neighbour? He had passed a farm a little way down the lane. Was there a chance they had delivered the newly orphaned babe to the Workhouse? Had he finally found his true origin? Did he dare to believe it?

'Harry?' The young man looked up into the kind face. 'You are Harry Potter. I am certain of it.' He sounded so sincere. 'I feel it in my bones, in my magic. Why did you come here of all places if not to discover your lineage?'

'I … I don't know.'

'Come,' Lupin gestured for him to follow, and Harry couldn't help his curiosity. He put his wand away; Lupin could have disarmed him several times over with Harry's distracted mind miles away. They went to the ruins and Lupin opened the door to the basement. Harry was a little uneasy when going down first, but Lupin was right behind him, lighting several torches with his wand and transfiguring an empty box into a usable chair.

'Please, sit.' Harry sat, while Lupin took the bed. He dug under it and took out a small tin box.

'Uh, Sir, I don't mean to be rude, but why are you living here?'

'Call me Remus, please,' Lupin said, ignoring the question. He took out a photograph from the box and held it out. Harry took it and stared at the moving people, who were smiling happily and oblivious to the storm inside the viewer.

It was a wedding. A happy one, not one of convenience. Harry wasn't one to often gaze on his reflection, but even he could see the resemblance to James Potter. Lily was so beautiful, and her green eyes sparked at him. Remus Lupin stood to one side and … Sirius Black to the other.

'Black. He betrayed them,' Harry whispered, remembering the tale so often told by young wizards in the dark to scare each other. Dear Merlin. It was too much. He squeezed his eyes shut. He had killed the man who had betrayed- dare he think it? - his parents. He felt no satisfaction in knowing this, only the same dread as before with the realisation that he had taken a life.

'Yes,' Remus said sadly. 'For years I didn't want to believe it. He was such a dear friend. Sometimes I still don't believe it. When I heard of his escape and death … I couldn't help but mourn him.'

Harry couldn't confess what he had done to this kind and strange man.

'These are my parents…?' Harry still couldn't quite believe it.

'Yes,' Remus said softly. 'They are. I know it. It must be true, and I'm sure they are proud of you. It's quite extraordinary. How could you possibly have survived? What are the chances that you should get to be at Hogwarts? Yet, here you are, a fine young wizard.' Harry finally dragged his eyes away from the photograph and looked up at Remus' smiling face. He blushed slightly at the compliment. 'Who was it that found you at the Workhouse?'

Even though Harry dreaded saying the name, simply because he did not want to think about the man, he did not think to lie. Why should he? Let the whole world know who had taken in an orphan from a muggle Workhouse. So he forced himself to say, 'Lucius Malfoy.'

The smile on Remus Lupin's face dropped instantly.