Maybe it was loneliness.

The redheaded young woman and the black-haired man sat on opposite sides of the campfire.

Where once the black-haired man's eyes had twinkled with familiarity and pride and love, there was only now cold, dead neutrality. The young woman didn't need to hear him speak to understand what he was thinking. But he spoke anyway.

"This is the last thing I'm going to do for you," he said. "You're not my goddaughter anymore."

"Really?" Iris quipped back, her tongue numb and cold as it was from the painful hours-long swim beforehand. "Shouldn't I be owed an extra twelve years? Y'know, because you weren't there?"

Sirius bristled, but didn't say anything. He knew he was going to lose this argument. And he was bracing himself for it.

"Didn't you run away from your relatives?" Iris asked, already knowing the answer. "Because you hated them? Because your mother was a psychopathic bint and your father worshipped Social Darwinism like the Bible? Didn't you hate your entire family because they hated a select group of people for no real reason and tried to force you to partake in hurting them?"

"What's your point?" Sirius snarled.

"My point is you had someone to go to, back then," Iris shrugged casually, trying to mask her shivering. "I didn't. I put up with the Dursleys for God knew how long without a guardian angel to keep me from being starved, beaten and occasionally raped." Sirius flinched at her matter-of-fact tone. "I didn't have anyone to go to. Because the people who should have been in my life were locked up in Azkaban after making the most idiotic decision possible."

"You seriously can't be blaming your psychopathic nature on me," Sirius growled, but the heat in it had disappeared.

"Only part of it," Iris nodded. "The other part goes to Albus Dumbledore, Remus Lupin, and Tom fucking Riddle." Iris' green eyes were dull, dark. "Forgive me if I got mad when every single one of you, whom I had just begun trusting, abandoned me again."

"You know we didn't keep from you because we wanted to," Sirius said. His face was unseen but his voice broke slightly.

"Yes, you were just acting on orders. Funnily enough, that's what all of Hitler's Jew-exterminators said during their trials, too." Iris snorted. "I'm not going to compare you to a Nazi, obviously. That's just pathetic. But fucking hell, would it have killed you to go against Dumbledore's orders once? He's not even your Merlin-damned employer!"

Iris didn't notice she'd stood up. Iris didn't notice she was yelling down at a cowering Sirius. She had no doubt Sirius could beat the shit out of her if she tried anything. But Iris had Sirius' guilt and shame on her side. She was reminded, the way they were arranged, of Vernon yelling at her as a child. Iris, cowering, terrified.

Iris sat back down.

"If it's any consolation," Iris spoke. "You did a pretty good job as a cool godfather even if you missed out on the first few years."

"Don't praise me," Sirius said quietly. "I don't want to be praised by the likes of you."

"Fuck you."

Sirius didn't respond.

After that, all conversation ceased. Iris realized just how exhausted she was. Her muscles had long ago given up on screaming in pain and had simply drifted to unconsciousness. She may or may not have said - she only vaguely remembered - three words that undoutedly cut through Sirius' heart like a red-hot cauterizing knife.

"I love you."

Then Iris closed her eyes. She didn't have any dreams. Too tired for that. When she woke up, she found that her Azkaban prison robes were transformed into warmer, more humane robes, that she was under a thick woolen blanket, the fire had been put out, and Sirius was long gone.

Iris wondered if she'd ever see Sirius again.

She stared into the distance. The sky was blue, but the blue gave way to desolate gray that she'd escaped from last night. Even though she was now far away from the island of Azkaban, she still felt dead and empty inside.

The glamour charm was definitely a dream. Iris had lost count of how often it had come in handy. She'd used it to change the appearance of her clothes into something that seemed to fit in more with the people around her, the color and length of her hair.

She was sitting in front of a Spitfire, hanging from the ceiling with wires. She liked the aeroplanes. There was something to be romanticized about the great open sky and flying in a delicately made machine. The crystallization of British stiff-upper-lip, unwavering determination, and craftsmanship.

In the sky, perhaps one could almost forget they were nothing more than another murderer.

Another dog of war.

Iris sighed, rubbing her tired eyes. It was strange to see her sanctuary being defiled - she shook her head, forcing herself to stop. This wasn't her sanctuary anymore. The Muggles were out and about. The war hadn't happened yet. She'd checked the newspaper; the date was July 30th, 1995. About two years since the beginning of the endless conflict.

But, God. She'd fucked up that scene, hadn't she? Instead of keeping her cool as she should have, she'd allowed her repressed memories and emotions to take control. A mistake like that against anyone else, a dark wizard, would have killed her. Mistakes like that were never to happen again. There was no guarantee she'd walk away, alive, next time.

An old man sat down next to her, on the soft leather long-chair. He gazed up at the Spitfire.

"Don't see many of you young'uns with an interest in history these days," he said.

Iris turned her eyes onto him. He was tall, but his back crooked, he didn't seem it. He was gaunt and seemed labored. Probably a soldier of that war, then. Iris returned her gaze back to the aircraft. A silence stretched between the two of them, until Iris finally spoke.

"We're all dragged into history kicking and screaming," she said.

"True," the old man agreed. "I used to be a pilot, you know. 319th Squadron. I flew a Spitfire, like that one. An earlier model, though."

Another old soldier clinging desperately onto their past achievements as their relevance was washed away by nuclear power and the Internet. Brilliant. But Iris needed practice responding politely to unsolicited attention instead of just blowing up peoples' heads like they were eggs.

"319th?" She said. "Are you Polish, then?"

"I am," the old man agreed. His story took a turn. "I wish I'd never had to step foot in that plane."

"Why's that?"

"Because in the events that led to me flying that aircraft, my family was robbed, my brothers executed, my father and mother shipped off in a train like common cattle," the old man said. His tone was completely neutral. "Only my sister and I got the visas to come here. Only we survived. I only flew out of vengeance."

Iris remained quiet for a very long time.

"You're not what I expected," Iris finally allowed.

"What did you expect?"

"I expected an old English man trying his best to relive his glories and remain relevant in the minds of the younglings," Iris said, and the old man snorted beside him. Iris was starting to like the bastard.

"There is no glory in war, as much as we pretend there is," he said. "All that's left are men dead on the outside, and men dead on the inside. Anyone who remains proud of their military history is a fool."

"Did you murder people?"

"I did. I have a three-times ace," the Polish man smiled darkly. "Best in my squadron. Got the shiniest badges and medals. I've half a mind to throw it away, but my grandkids think they're cool."

The last part was spoken with such sarcasm and spite that Iris actually laughed. A sound she didn't quite remember how to reproduce, but she assumed she did alright. "Would you believe me if I said I was a killer, too?" Iris asked.

"You're a bit young," the old man replied. He didn't seem fazed in the slightest.

"I can look young if I want," Iris said. She removed a few of her glamours, until some of her facial scarring could be seen, and turned to the old man. He didn't react, really. Just nodded, took it in stride. Iris liked this old boy.

"What war?" He asked bluntly.

"You wouldn't know of it," Iris replied softly. "I'm from far away."

"A regional conflict, then?"

"Suppose you could say that. It was regional when it began, but I… left," Iris said. The man nodded. "I don't know how to tell my story. I don't think I started fighting because of revenge. I was the wonder weapon, you could say. I fought because, well, that's what I had to do."

The old man remained silent. "Do you regret your kills?"

"No," Iris replied honestly. "I felt nothing. Perhaps I might have felt something if I ever gave them the time to beg me for their lives."

"I've met a few like you," the Polish man said, still unfazed. "Soldiers who were really just machines wrapped in flesh. They weren't really cruel, just damned efficient at the job. Didn't torture anybody, didn't rape a woman, just went around killing."

"And what happened to them after the war?"

"Depends," the man shrugged. "Some of them stayed in the military. Those ones turned out alright. The others shot themselves in the head. Wasn't depressed, or anything. Just didn't care anymore."

A mother shot a glare at the old man as she dragged her child away; suicide was not the type of conversation one had in a public place. Too bad for her that neither seemed to give a fuck. The old man had lived through that sort of stuff. His nerves were numbed when it came to talking about it.

"Reckon I'll shoot myself?"

"Maybe."

"You know, they gave me a few shiny medals, too," Iris smiled. "One of them was a French Knighthood. Another one was the Order of Merlin, First Class. For my 'valiance and strength in the face of terror'."

"Order of Merlin?" He snorted. "Careful, might sound a bit pompous there."

Iris smirked. "If there's one thing I've never been, it's modest."

The old man proceeded to buy Iris lunch. As with all food in public places, it was grossly overpriced and slightly greasier than anyone would have liked. Iris didn't complain as she ate her fish and chips. She hadn't had food like this in fifteen fucking years.

"You really like it, don't you?" the man said, amused.

"Haven't had proper food like this in a damn long time," Iris said softly. The old man's eyes flashed briefly with sympathy.

"Do you want something else?"

Iris looked up. "Can you get me a Coke? I haven't had one of those in ages either."

The old man did and Iris thanked him. Weird how a total stranger was being more accommodating to her than the magical government. She sipped her soda and rolled it around in her mouth. The old man's lips quirked. "Well?"

"It's too sweet," Iris said. "I guess things are better in hindsight."

The old man snorted. "I know," he said.

"Thanks for buying me food. I'm sorry I can't pay you back." And it was true. She didn't have any Muggle money on her.

"Better than spoiling my grandkids," he grumbled. "God knows my wife does that enough already."

Iris smirked. "What ridiculous nickname did they give you to make you hate them so much?"

"They didn't," he said simply. "They're just spoiled. My daughter married a rich man, plenty of properties around London. Kids haven't known real struggle their entire lives. I'd say that's not their fault, but it gets fucking annoying when they belittle your own struggles as a result."

Iris nodded. "I suppose I'll be going through that phase soon."

"Oh, you'll have fun. Nobody knows just how many times I've thought about killing myself," he said quietly. "My wife found me once in the shower bleeding out and unconscious. She didn't realize I was bleeding here," he brushed his finger over his wrist, "and here." Other wrist. "Just that I was unconscious and bleeding. The paramedics noticed, obviously, but didn't tell her. If they did, she forgot. Frankly that's not a surprise considering how forgetful she is."

Iris remained silent. She too knew a lot of people who killed themselves after the war. Voldemort was gone. But so was everything else. Everything was gone, dead, ruined. A world that felt so empty that it could have been a hologram of the real world.

"I like you, kid. You're honest. I can be honest with you. Not an arse-kisser like my son-in-law and grandkids. You know what you are, and I know what I am."

Did she really? Did she really know who she was?

"God knows I come here often enough. I'm going to have to go home around now. My daughter is bringing her kids over today."

"See you around, then."

"I'll see you, kid."

Iris watched the old man leave the exhibit, following his limping figure with her eyes until he rounded a corner. She suspected that he truly enjoyed talking shit about his memories. It helped him stay sane, she supposed. Sometimes, it was better to share the burden instead of trapping oneself in a cage of one's memories with one's most dreaded monsters.

But not her. Oh, not her. Her monsters would rip everyone else apart.

Tonks found her.

Judging by the magical residue left by the escapee, Magical Forensics had estimated that the woman had not traveled more than ten miles in diameter. Aurors were made to fan out and search for the mystery woman. Tonks had felt a hint of dark magic radiating from the Imperial War Museum, so she entered it. Followed the… stink, if you will. The metallic tang of ozone.

The woman in question was wearing jeans, a leather jacket, and heeled boots. Her hair was long, arrow-straight and jet black. Her face was unblemished, but Tonks knew it was her. Her facial structure was identical to the woman that had attacked her. See, not many people noticed these sort of things, and Tonks herself was only familiar with the process of identifying facial structures because she was a metamorphmagus.

She was just watching the - airplane? She sat and stared. Tonks observed for half an hour, but she didn't move. Earlier, she'd said goodbye to an old man, and judging from their attitude with each other, they were complete strangers who'd sat down together to have a chat. After that, nobody spoke to her.

She was truly alone in this world.

Tonks warily watched, making sure the woman didn't move, as she moved to the restroom. Once inside, checking it was empty of people, she lengthened her hair, changed it to blonde. Her eyes became blue and her jaw narrower, nose sharper. Only problem was her clothes - she couldn't change her clothes. She could transfigure it, she supposed. Better chance of that than with a glamour.

"Kingsley," she whispered into the tiny communication mirror attached to her wrist, disguised as a bracelet. "I've located the target. I'm going after her. Cover the exit for me."

"Understood," Kingsley responded in a tinny voice.

She transfigured her glamoured Auror uniform into a pair of jeans and a leather jacket. Unoriginal, she knew. But the thick fabric of the Auror robes, the long sleeves, made it difficult to shrink into something as thin as a t-shirt. There was also the hopeful bonus of making the mystery woman identify with Tonks through their mutual attire.

Tonks left the bathroom and peeked around the corner again. The target remained unmoving. She exhaled. Good. She steeled herself and prepared to approach her. Dumbledore had reassured her that, based on her previous reaction to Tonks, she was unlikely to hurt her - but Dumbledore had an optimistic streak a mile wide. She was terrified, if she was being honest. That woman could kill her as easily as Molly did the dishes.

Tonks approached the raven-haired figure with her hands stuck in pockets. She cringed again as she realized, if not for the color, just how similar their outfits were. No turning back now, though. She'd surely get suspicious if she tried. She took a deep breath and sat down next to the woman.

The woman didn't react.

Tonks looked up at the exhibit, the Spit-Spitfire? She had to squint to read the text underneath. She stared at the metal plates, the propellers, the glass bubble of the cockpit. It looked very pretty, in the same way a sleek broom was pretty, Tonks could agree on that. But she didn't see just what was so appealing about this particular exhibit to warrant so much attention from the woman.

"I'm guessing this is your favorite exhibit," Tonks said jokingly.

The woman turned her head and looked at Tonks, before returning her gaze to the Spitfire. Tonks felt an involuntary shiver run across her spine as they locked eyes again. "I don't know why I'm so popular today," she commented casually. Tonks swallowed. Had she been identified?

The woman stood up. "Nice seeing you again Tonks, but I don't think I'm ready to face you again right now."

Tonks also stood up, her hand itching for her wand. They remained in a stand-off for a few brief, tense moments. Tonks' eyes flickered between the woman's unmoving hands, her posture. She was laid-back and didn't seem as tense as she was. Finally, her eyes. Her cold, green eyes, beautiful like sheets of ice in the arctic yet just as painfully cold.

That was her mistake.

"Legilimens," she murmured.

Tonks' breath hitched as the soft-spoken word, too soft to be picked up by Kingsley's communication mirror, sucked her back inside her mindscape. She was in Hogwarts. That was where her mind was most familiar with, the closest to a defensive position she ever knew.

In one's mind, one only became a conscious representation of themselves. Those skilled in Occlumency could construct themselves with great detail and accuracy - Snape could built an image of himself with a fairly good imitation of his real-world black cloak, hair, brows and frown - while novices may appear to their mind's eye as nothing more than a melted, deformed mannequin of a similar height and build. Tonks was in-between; she could see distinctly pink hair in a mirror in one corridor, a red robes that vaguely reminded her of the Auror uniform.

The intruder was a carbon copy of the real thing.

The intruder, whoever this was, was so damn good and practiced at Legilimency and Occlumency that they barely needed effort to represent themselves as the demonic red-haired, green-eyed woman that she was. But this was the first time Tonks saw her properly, and this also increased her shock. What little of the woman wasn't clothed was covered in scars, ugly ones. A large, serrated scar on her cheek which suggested a lot of tissue damage; a thin one across her eye (and subsequently tearing her eyelid, making her look wide-eyed in just her right eye); what looked like claw-marks on her left lower jaw, and a single, ugly and prominent scar ringed her throat, one that Tonks felt like she knew what it was caused by but didn't want to guess.

The stone statues and metal suits of armor that decorated Hogwarts at every corner jumped to life and moved into position to intercept the woman. Her mental defenses were quite well-structured; Hogwarts was full of traps even to those familiar with them. But the woman marched up to the stone phalanx and tossed them aside with her formidable mental power like they were gnats. Tonks felt the castle crumble around her with her panic and this situation was only barely improved when she forced herself to shut down her emotions and remain calm.

The woman headed in the direction towards what was unmistakeably Hogwarts libraries, ignoring the mental manifestation of Tonks.

The memory archive.

Tonks, with an unheard yell, chased after the woman. Tonks ran after her and prepared to strike with her fists, but she was soundly rebuffed as if running right into a mattress made of air. She tried again, to the same result; the woman walked quickly, but unhurriedly, reaching the library. Tonks watched in horror as she fired off a salvo of spells only for them to fizzle out halfway to their target. This woman's Legilimency was simply powerful enough to crush her Occlumentic defenses under her feet.

She casually walked through the shelves, Tonks struggling all the way, but making no difference to her. She paused at one shelf, examining the titles on the spines of the volumes. She removed a tome, still relatively thin, but covered in wisps of darkness.

"No!" Tonks screamed. For the first time since the intrusion, the woman looked at her. Then, from her fingertips, a red light shot at her; Tonks fell back into darkness.

"Tonks."

It was so damned comfortable. Did her mother clean the sheets? It was possible, because no matter how many different fabric softeners Tonks bought from the store, it was never the same as when Andromeda Tonks cleaned her sheets. Since Ted Tonks was a Muggleborn and the couple lived in a Muggle neighborhood, mum definitely used a washing machine instead of hand-washing (or wand-washing?) like many magical households.

"Tonks."

Tonks groaned and rolled over to the other side. It sounded like dad telling her to wake up - well guess what, she was a grown woman and wasn't going to take orders anymore! At least, not when her mother's wonderful sheets were on the line!

"Tonks!"

She was splashed with cold water on her face. She stammered and sat up, clawing at her face, flicking the water out of her eyes. Kingsley sat before her with grim satisfaction, and she spluttered. "What the hell was that for?"

"You were knocked out," Kingsley replied succinctly, and Tonks looked around. She was sitting on the floor, well-polished and clean, and judging by the objects littered around her she was in some sort museum. She tried to remember this place.

"What happened?"

"You approached our target and made small conversation. She stood up to leave, and you tried to stop her. You got into a staring contest, and then you slumped to the floor. I was, despite myself, impressed. The woman must have cast a silent, wandless stunning spell and notice-me-not charm."

"What woman?"

"The woman we were chasing," Kingsley said with his infinite patience. "She took on a glamour and came here, so you followed her in disguise. She must have seen through the glamour concealing your Auror robes."

"King, I'm sorry about all this, but I'm really confused… who exactly were we chasing?"

Kingsley chewed on the side of his cheek, peering into his partner's eyes for possible signs of a concussion. "Do you know the date?" Kingsley asked.

"July 13th, 1995," Tonks said dutifully, realizing what Kingsley was doing and knowing he wouldn't be satisfied by any reassurance she made; she'd been concussed before.

"And your full name?"

"...dora Bella Tonks," She mumbled, her voice at a minimum. Kingsley rolled his eyes.

"Do you know what you had for breakfast today?"

"We didn't. We got called in for emergency backup today, though they didn't give a reason why."

Kingsley hummed. "You're not concussed, it seems. But you've apparently sustained some sort of memory loss. Could the target have performed an obliviation? But that doesn't seem likely; unconsciousness is not one of its symptoms, and obliviation always requires a wand, not as a matter of power but of control, if it is to be used without turning someone's brains to mush."

"Tell me about the target, Kingsley," Tonks said firmly. His brows furrowed in worry.

"You truly don't remember anything about the woman?" Kingsley said. "Now, this isn't official information; Unspeakables are keeping it unspeakable, as usual. One person emerged form the Veil this morning, but before they could be restrained, they overpowered the Unspeakables and escaped. We saw them, too, this morning, and we - that's to say, you-" Kingsley smirked and Tonks rolled her eyes, "-were overpowered. They escaped from the Ministry simply by leaving through the front entrance and apparating away, although only after the impressive feat of vanishing the rubble that blocked the entryway."

"That does sound like trouble," Tonks agreed slowly. "What did they look like?"

"Sources report that…" Kingsley hesitated. "When we fought, they appeared to be…"

Tonks stared hard at her partner. Something was definitely wrong. Kingsley murmured something to himself and shook his head. When he looked up at Tonks, his face was calm and neutral, as always, but his eyes betrayed a slight fear. "I don't remember, Tonks."

"Did you get obliviated, too?"

"I didn't. I watched the two of you from a distance. I watched you confront each other. I watched the target leave after you lost consciousness. I watched them leave the building while hiding behind that Centurion tank." Kingsley pointed to the tank in question. "I didn't get obliviated, because I remember every other detail. The only thing missing is the identity of that creature."

"While I hate to make Dumbledore do all the thinking, I really think we need to report to Dumbledore," Tonks said gravely.

Albus was being served lunch by Molly when he was interrupted by twin cracks of apparition, coming from outside. That would probably be a couple of Aurors going on the mysterious manhunt. Or perhaps womanhunt. It didn't matter.

Albus Dumbledore was not known as one of the greatest minds in modern history for nothing. His razor-sharp intellect and near-eidetic memory were powerful tools to behold, tools that Tom Riddle feared - even if the pedestrian wizard believed Albus' true source of power was his magic. That was why, at precisely 11:32 AM that day, he realized something was very curiously wrong.

It wasn't as if the world had turned upside down; no, it was not as serious as that. Indeed, what happened probably would only affect Unspeakables and Aurors, and perhaps his own curiosity. He felt the shock, his mind suddenly with a gap, and the remainder of it trying to rediscover what had once been there. It was in vain. Whatever information had been plucked from his mind was irrecoverable, and the only knowledge he had left of that event was that it was taken from him.

It was about fifteen minutes since that Tonks and Kingsley burst into the room, the former nervous and the latter grim. "My apologies for interrupting your meal, Albus," Kingsley apologized, like the true gentleman that he always was. "But I believe something very important has come to our attention, and we would like your counsel."

"You've lost some of your memories," Albus said, and briefly enjoyed the shocked look on Tonks' face. No doubt they thought him all-knowing, at this point. "It's no surprise, dear girl. After all, all but three hours ago I also knew the identity of the one who fell through the Veil. I felt the tremor of magic also. My mind is now missing a piece of its information, and trying hard to recover it. Not that it helps."

"What happened to us?" Tonks asked.

Albus scanned Tonks' mind with a bit of passive Legilimency. She was confused, very confused indeed, by her supposedly recent event of memory loss. "Is something wrong with your memory? Moreso than myself or Kingsley, I mean?"

"While I am mostly unaffected save for the identity of the stranger," Kingsley explained, "Tonks was unconscious after an encounter with the target and when she woke up, she seems to be missing all memory of the confrontation at the Ministry as well as her recent confrontation at the Imperial War Museum."

"Obliviation?"

"I do not think so. If it were wandless, then it would have destroyed her mind from the lack of control and grace. I also do not think Tonks has been concussed."

"Is there some sort of Muggle technology that wipes minds?" Tonks murmured.

"Only in fiction, my dear," Albus replied, thinking. There was only one other explanation for memory loss. "It is possible that your target is a very experienced legilimens. Then it would be possible to perform controlled destruction of your memories."

Kingsley flinched. "Tonks had eye contact with the target before losing consciousness."

Tonks' jaw was hanging slightly open as Albus nodded. "That would make plenty of sense. I believe you have had your mind invaded, Nymphadora. Especially since Kingsley mentioned the act was wandless."

Tonks paled. "Does that mean they've seen all of my memories?"

"Unlikely," Kingsley replied. "They were only around for a few seconds after you lost consciousness."

"Enough time to perhaps look up one detail in your collective memory," Albus agreed. "It would take months to view all of your memories, dear. Years, if you were to view my memory."

"Right," Tonks breathed, though she didn't seem reassured by that much. "So how did they do it? This memory loss thing that happened to you guys?"

"The most likely explanation is the Fidelius Charm," Albus said. Kingsley and Tonks' facial expressions changed immediately to those of worry; they'd watched him perform the charm that hid this house, after all, and that had taken so much drain out of him that in his old age, he was hospitalized by Poppy for three days. Nobody else in the Order could claim to be able to provide that much magical power without risking their life. That meant whoever they were dealing with, was exceptionally powerful.

"They hid their identity under the Fidelius?" Tonks said darkly. "We'll never find them now."

"Not if we're thinking in the context of their identity, no," Albus agreed, and he explained for the two Aurors. "It is entirely possible that you end up sitting next to the person in question on the Hogwarts Express and the two of you make conversation. You would be able to converse with them, remember their facial features and their name, but you would never be able to connect them to the person that crossed the Veil."

"Who could this Veil-crosser possibly have created a trusted contact in such a short period of time?" Kingsley asked.

"I doubted they're trusted," Albus sighed. "With the case of the Potters, Sirius turned down the position because he was too obvious. I believe, if this individual is intelligent enough to be able to perform the Fidelius from memory, they would have chosen a complete stranger, even a Muggle, used them as a secret-keeper, and obliviated them afterward."

Kingsley nodded gravely. "The search will be fruitless."

"Utterly," Albus said.

Hello all,

I apologize to those of you who have read and enjoyed the two chapters I had up before I deleted them. I read them over a few hours earlier and realized just how out of line they were with what I hoped to achieve. It looked like a shitty Tonks-involved romance story than the tale of a misplaced vigilante. As much as I like Tonks and shipping Tonks, I don't want romance to be central, or even necessary, to the story. So, I decided I would re-do the second and third chapters entirely to approach the direction I want to go on. The carefree yet paranoid, the friendly yet violent, and arrogant yet self-pitying war veteran is what I hoped to achieve. What I was writing didn't fit that. I hope that I haven't caused too much trouble for all of you by doing this, and I hope that you enjoy the shift just as much or more as the old perspective.

Darien