I own nothing. Least of all this.

"You are a brick tied to me that's dragging me down,

Strike a match and I'll burn you down to the ground.

We are the jack o'lanterns in July,

Setting fire to the sky

Here, here comes this rising tide, so come on;

Put on your war paint!"

- "The Phoenix", Fall Out Boy

1) BOOGEYMAN, WON'T YOU COME FOR ME

His eyes flew open.

The ceiling was the wrong color.

No, wait…right color. Wrong ceiling. Looked like things were back to normal, then.

A flash of pain stabbed through his arm.

Well, almost normal.

He ran his fingers over the burned skin. He didn't need to be able to see to know what he'd brought back with him from the other side. So, the Mark could cross worlds. Would've been nice to know beforehand. Then again, it's not like it would've changed anything. It wasn't exactly like he'd planned things this way.

He hissed as the headache he'd woken up with intensified. Integrating two separate sets of memories into one brain tended to have that effect.

The pain receded just enough for him to resume his earlier train of thought. So, he had the Mark. Did that mean his host had lost it? He certainly hoped so; guy had enough on his plate as it was. And having two Marks running around loose wasn't exactly his idea of a good time. On the bright side, he was pretty darn sure there wasn't a First Blade in this reality; meant the odds of him becoming a psychotic murderer were a whole lot lower. Unless of course the Elder Wand counted as this reality's version. Or the whole "becoming a demon" thing happened on its own if you got killed. Something that looked increasingly likely considering what he'd learned.

He frowned. What exactly had he learned?

The prophecy…the Department of Mysteries…Umbridge…Sirius…

He sucked in his breath and held on for dear life as the new memories burned their way through his mind. That settled it; next time he saw Crowley, he was definitely shanking the dude. Not killing him; much as he hated to admit it, they still needed the smug bastard. Or, at least, his host's family did.

As if his life wasn't confusing enough already.

First things first. Although not necessarily in that order.

A psychotic killer he might not be, but one doesn't spend any amount of time in a hunter's head without picking up at least some new morals. Morals that would finally allow his conscience to permit what he'd been dreaming of for as long as he could remember.

He slowly forced himself out of the bed and onto his feet. If there's one thing the Dursleys failed to count on, it was him waking up with the knowledge of how to pick locks….

His first stop was the kitchen. Deboning knife was good for slicing, not so much for stabbing. He needed something multipurpose. Paring knife would work well enough for now…after he took care of business, he'd grab a few things from the garage.

He crept back up the stairs, making sure to stomp a few times on the squeaky board in the middle. The one Vernon had explicitly stated would get him killed if he did it again.

Sure enough, he could hear the tub of lard clomping his direction from the opposite end of the hallway. Now, to wait for him to pass the bathroom, and then…

SHUNK.

From behind, through the windpipe and artery. Not clean, but quiet. Now, for the giraffe…

Same thing for her, only from the front. He left her body still tangled up in the sheets…it wasn't like he'd be needing to move it. The whale, he'd leave for later if Plan A failed. Down to the garage, and then to the garden tools. No machete, unfortunately, but he supposed the brush axe was just as good. Gave him a bit more leverage, too; something he was desperately in need of considering just how much weaker he was than his host had been.

Now, where did Vernon stash all those propane tanks for his new gas grill…

He'd forgotten just how heavy those things were. And how very hard it was to move them quietly. He'd dropped one on his foot and had to cover his mouth to keep from swearing. The longer the beast upstairs stayed asleep, the better. But in the end, he'd gotten all of them set up in a line from the front door to the gas water heater. Chain reaction. At least, he hoped that was what would happen.

And to set it off…Vernon still had those things from Petunia's dad, didn't he? Things that should've been his, considering he was the only one with any reason to use them. Yep, still hidden in the closet. One German officer's dagger (not a Bowie or Sykes and Fairbairn, but it would do), and one German 8mm Mauser with sniper scope. Much better than those stupid Lee-Enfields in .303, anyways. Germans always made the best stuff.

Wand, check. Invisibility Cloak, check (he was definitely being more careful with the thing now that he knew what it actually was. And why Dumbledore had kept it). Broom, hell no. He already knew for a fact the chances of him getting to play Quidditch this year were slim to none, and added on top of that his newly acquired fear of heights (thanks a lot), he had more important things to worry about. Such as packing light enough to actually walk around. The rifle was pushing things, but sometimes you just needed something a little more precise than a wand at long range. The trunk, he was leaving; the books in it could all be replaced. Hedwig's cage...as much as he'd like to be sentimental, now wasn't the time.

"Sorry, old girl. But this whole place is on my list, and I gotta make things look convincing. Head to London; I'll be waiting at Number 12, Grimmauld Place. If I'm not, Sirius'll take care of you. Don't let anyone else come near you; my list of people I trust is getting incredibly short."

Hedwig looked at him, hooted once softly, and then took off through the open window.

Now, for the grand finale.

He paused at the back door just long enough to whisper back into the darkened house, "I do not consider this place my home".

To his utter amazement, he could actually feel the magic disintegrating. Huh. Looked like luck was on the whale's side tonight. That is, if he survived what was coming.

Doing his best not to clank, he crept through what little cover he could find, until he found a good enough spot to set up and watch the front of the house. With a perfect shot on the first propane tank.

No sooner had he settled the rifle into place than he heard the distinctive 'pop' of Apparition. Now, to see if they were Order or Death Eaters…

Never mind. It was both. He'd recognize that greasy black hair anywhere.

Oh, he was gonna enjoy this.

Shame the bastard was alone; he wouldn't have minded getting either Fletcher or another Death Wanker with him. But as the Man in Black used to say, "Get used to disappointment".

Any doubts he'd had about letting the man live in favor of waiting for more people to show evaporated the second he used a Reducto on the front door. Great, now all that hard work he'd put into making sure he wouldn't be written up for underage magic was wasted. It had been personal before, but now it was just good business.

"Give my regards to Crowley, Snivellus."

BANG!

KABLOOM!

Chain reaction.

He took it back; luck was most definitely not on the whale's side tonight.

He slung the rifle up on his shoulder, and stuck out his wand.

SCREEEEEEE!

"Where to, Mr. Potter?"

"Grimmauld Place, Stan. And here's some spare change in case you have any Butterbeer laying around."

"I think Ernie's got some in the back. But you probably shouldn't be drinking it while we're driving."

"Wasn't planning on it."

He'd rather drink the good stuff, anyway. He just wanted to find out if there were alternative, legally acquirable ways to make some Molotov cocktails.

About three bangs and two minutes later, they arrived.

Huh. Turns out reading the Secret in a book totally counted for the spell.

He marched up to the front door of Number Twelve, and knocked four times.

The door swung open to reveal…

"Hiya Tonks."

"HARRY! What in Merlin's name are you doing here? And how in Merlin's name did you know about it?"

"I've got Sirius for a dog-father, Tonks. Figure it out. Also, I should probably point out that's not the only Secret he's told me, if you know what I mean. So, are you gonna let me in, or are you gonna try and send me back to the now flambeed remains of my summer prison?"

"Flambeed? What…?"

"Whaddya think, Tonks. Death Eaters. So much for a nice, quiet summer."

"…You better come in, then. Dumbledore just called an emergency meeting. Probably about you."

He snorted. "I'll bet he did. About ten minutes too late. Typical Dumbledore. Lead on, oh buxom and bodacious Auror."

"Call me that again, Harry, and I'll be forced to do something incredibly unpleasant to you."

"As you wish."

"How'd you know my name, anyway? Don't think we've ever been introduced…"

"Like I said, figure it out. Might as well call me a Lannister; I drink, and I know things."

Tonks' eyes lit up. "Drinking underage already, eh Harry? I'll bet Sirius'll be happy to hear that."

"Probably. But I don't plan on telling him 'til I know for a fact I can drink him under the table. Easy way to sucker him into a bet."

Tonks laughed. "That'll teach the old dog." She gave him a calculating look. "You're not at all what I expected, Harry."

"So everybody tells me."

The door swung open to reveal practically the entirety of the Order, with Dumbledore seated at the head of the table. Practically every eye in the room tracked him as he casually swaggered down to the opposite end, plonked his rifle down on the table, and then sat in the only remaining empty chair. Probably Tonks'; he'd make it up to her later.

Dumbledore's voice seemed to fill the entire room. "…Would you mind telling us exactly how you found this place, Harry? And why it is you're now carrying Muggle firearms?"

"Why yes, yes I would."

Nobody said anything as he pulled out his new-old dagger and began cleaning it. He'd already cleaned the paring knife beforehand; no sense in drawing attention to that.

"…Harry, I really must insist."

"Insist away. I ain't telling you crap. And before you get any ideas about reading my mind, I've already taken care of that particular problem. Seeing things through Moldy-short's eyes was a great motivator to learn."

"…And just what did you see through Voldemort's eyes, Harry."

"Oh, lots of things. Like your pet Death Eater not only giving up the location of my home, but the location of this cozy little shack as well. Shame he's never gonna get the chance to pass on anything else."

The room erupted at his declaration. Sure, it was a lie, but it wasn't like there was a chance in Hell of him ever telling them the truth.

The chaos abruptly ceased when Dumbledore let off a cannon blast from his wand. "For the last time, Harry. What. Have you. Done."

"Nothing much; just cleared out before all those pesky Death Eaters descended. Oh, and stuck around long enough to see Voldemort express his extreme displeasure with Snivellus that I wasn't in. Which reminds me; I'll probably be getting another rigged accusation of underage magic soon, so I should probably be looking into some lawyers. Maybe Ted Tonks…"

As his sentence trailed off, he finally noticed exactly why he hadn't referred to it as the whole Order in his head. Fletcher was missing. And even more worryingly, so was Sirius. If that miserable mango monkey in a beard had done anything to him…

Dumbledore visually relaxed. "Yes, I believe Ted Tonks would be suitable. So long as you didn't use any magic to defend yourself…"

"I didn't use any magic…"

Dumbledore smiled. "Then I believe the matter will be easily resolved."

He cleared his throat. "I wasn't finished. As I was saying, I didn't use any magic to fight. I did, however, use this here beauty." He patted the Mauser. "As well as a couple other things."

Dumbledore's face turned gray. "Harry. Please tell me you haven't killed someone."

"Someone? No. Some three? Definitely."

Everyone's breath seemed to catch in their throat.

"Relax; Voldemort had his minions haul off the bodies afterwards, so its not like they can charge me in court. And it was the least I could do, considering what the did to my relatives."

More lies. Yet another moral he'd picked up from his host. Whether that was good or not, he'd have to wait and see.

Molly Weasley opened her mouth (probably to berate Harry and everyone responsible for watching him)…

And then fell silent as Sirius Black stormed into the room.

Well, that answered one question.

"Fletcher's dead. Seems he was killed in his sleep. You sure know how to pick 'em, Albus."

Aaaaaaaand that answered the other.

Dumbledore paled even further. "Anyone else?"

Sirius smirked. "Place was on fire when I got there; only other body I could find was the rather unrecognizable form of your ex-Potions Master."

A voice Harry couldn't place piped up. "If he was unrecognizable, how'd you know it was him?"

Sirius scoffed. "Who else do you know that would die with a sneer on their face, even as they're being burned alive? Seems someone threw him directly into the fire, and he somehow managed to crawl halfway out again before he finally kicked the bucket. No great loss. But there's fixing to be one, if someone doesn't tell me where Harry is, right bloody now."

He couldn't resist. "How bout I show you instead, Padfoot?"

"HARRY!"

"Padfoot, I swear to Merlin, if you make this a chick flick moment…"

Sirius swaggered over and draped his arm over the back of Harry's chair. "Now why would a such a manly being as I ever consider such an act?"

"I'd rather not answer that question. Now, would you mind telling this lot to clear out? Seeing as how this emergency meeting isn't actually about an emergency anymore?"

Sirius shrugged. "You heard the Cub; clear out!"

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "Now Sirius…"

"NOW! Don't think I'm under any misapprehensions about exactly how Harry got here, and why he had to do everything under his own power, again. One of you lot stands up to old Moldy-shorts three times and survives, then I'll consider taking your orders over his."

In the end, the only four people left in the room were Harry, Sirius, Remus, and Dumbledore. With one last look that was probably supposed to be threatening, Albus came as close to stomping out of the room as he was physically able.

Remus sighed. "Harry, you have to realize…"

"That apparently outside of Sirius, Hagrid, maybe Tonks, and myself, no one has my best interests at heart? Damn straight."

Remus didn't stop. "Harry, your friends…"

"I'm sorry, my what now? Did you mean the two individuals that I assume you're referring to who decided to dump me on Dumbledore's orders? Or were you talking about yourself, the person who took Dumbledore's word as gospel and never so much as checked on me once in eleven years?"

This time, Remus did stop.

"…Thought so. Now, if you don't mind, I believe Sirius and I have some catching up to do."

And with that, he swung his rifle back up off the table, and stalked out, leaving the werewolf to stew in his own thoughts.

"…Why'd you have to go and say that to Moony, Cub?"

"Because the sooner her gets his head out of his ass and stops feeling sorry for himself, the sooner he'll realize that Dumbledore's been playing him since his first year at Hogwarts. Or did you never notice how Hogwarts' got its very first werewolf student just as the Dark were starting their creature recruitment campaigns?"

"…Oh."

"Yeah, oh. Now, if wouldn't mind, there's quite a lot of research I need to do, and since I apparently can't count on Hermione for that anymore, its gonna take forever. In the meantime, if you wouldn't mind giving Ted Tonks a Floo, I'd appreciate it."

"Ted? What on earth would you need a lawyer for?"

He slapped his forehead. "Right; you missed that bit. Apparently, old Voldy decided it would be just fine and dandy to do magic right on my front lawn."

Sirius' face twisted into an expression of hard thinking. "…Underage magic laws?"

"Ding, ding, ding."

"I'll get right on it, pup."

"Oh, and one more thing."

"Name it."

"Know anywhere I can get a tattoo? Found one that'll keep the Dork Lard, or pretty much anything else, from possessing me."

"…You want a tattoo."

"Yup."

"You, as in, my godson, Harry Potter, wants a tattoo."

"Well, more need than want, but…"

Sirius pumped his fist in the air. "MY GODSON IS SO MANLY!"

"…Are you done yet?"

"…Yeah, okay, I'm done. Tattoo's easy; can do it myself. Did it enough back in my Marauder days; was a good way to make some coin off the bad boys in school. I'll call Ted, then grab what we need."

"We?"

"You didn't think I was gonna let my godson get a life-saving tattoo all by himself, did you?"

"Fair point. I'll be in the library, reading."

"Got it. Oh, and try and stay away from the books on the top left shelf. Some of 'em can and will cause you serious hurt."

"To my body, or my soul?"

Sirius shrugged. "What's the difference?"

He absent-mindedly dug his fingers into the Mark. "You'd be surprised. You know what, forget I asked. I'll just avoid all of 'em."

"Good. Back soon."

He watched the form of his dog-father bound away, and then turned back to the library door with a sigh. "As if I didn't have to do enough of this on the other side…"