Disclaimer: See Chapter I

Also, I'd like to thank those of you who have taken some time to read and review my work (you know who you are). Your kind words have been felt and hope the wait hasn't been too long for this next installment as I'm trying to update my work every three chapters or roughly once every ten days. One final bit of thanks to the Harry Potter Lexicon that is quite the resource for anything Harry Potter related.

One final note: if anyone reading this is also a fan artist, please feel free to draw any character from this work in any way you feel like going at it. Just make sure you drop a review telling where the image can be viewed.

Anyhow, without further trouble, the next chapter.

Chapter XXVIII: The Connection

Harry, for perhaps the millionth time that day, wondered just what the hell he was doing. At the moment, he was dressed in his black suit, with his black trench coat over it. Despite it, he felt rather freezing, as he left his overcoat and jacket front open, and the weather was brisk and cold. The reason for that was because he was carrying a black leather attaché case handcuffed to his left hand, and he carried his Browning on his left side. So, to ensure his right hand could draw the 9mm he was carrying, Harry walked with his fedora pulled low, his coat open, and strode quickly to create some warmth.

At the moment, he was pacing fast through a few dimly lit streets in London's East End, the fog stew-thick. Harry remembered the story of Jack of Ripper, and wondered if Jack would meet up with him tonight. With the ways things had went today (Boxing Day, December 26) Harry wouldn't have been surprised. Yet, nervous as he was, Harry kept his face expressionless, his back straight, and his movements confident. He knew he was in a rough neighborhood, that he was being watched, and that the only thing the people around him respected was strength, brutality, and the fear of the first two being directed against them.

Harry heard only the sound of his footsteps clicking on the cobblestone streets. The clicking was soothing as Harry took a look at a darkened window, and saw that nobody was following him in the harsh glow of a street lamp. Further up the street, he saw the pub where the meet was located. Harry lifted his briefcase, and wondered just what the hell he was delivering. Considering it was Books asking for it delivered, he had to wonder…

            *          *          *

Jeremy 'Books' Fielding was a short, wiry fellow with brown hair and an easy smile from the neighborhood Harry was walking in. He had joined the Army at 19, when a childhood friend of his, a policeman named Frank Carter, had told him that it would be a good idea to leave London and never come back. The reasons included the fact Books (he had earned the nickname for being the clerk to a local underworld boss named Jacko Barker, who ran a small gambling operation out of the back of a saloon in the East End) had been wanted for questioning by New Scotland Yard about the death of a detective from the Organized Crime unit. Not to mention the fact several carloads of underworld heavies under the joint command of two very angry men by the names of Hatchet Harry and Bricktop were looking for him, to ask him some direct questions, in a very physical manner, as to just how much Books knew of Barker's skimming from the gambling operation; skimmed money that should have been going to the above-mentioned gentlemen. This was, of course, after it was discovered Barker had moved residences. Jacko Barker's new residence, it turned out, being the bottom of a gravel pit.

Books had heeded the advice of Frank, and made his way over to the nearest Recruiting Office, where he took the initial entry tests, signed the papers, and got on a train that very day for recruit training. That had been about six years earlier, and he hadn't been back to his old hometown since.

Now, Harry entered the picture for during his time in Wales him, Neville, and Dudley had learned to play poker, blackjack, and the American game of craps at Books' very capable hands. When they had left in the end of July, Books had enthusiastically asked for their mailing addresses. Harry had given him the forwarding one for Hogwarts Alex had given him, and hadn't thought much of it later.

That is, until Christmas Day rolled by and, lo and behold, there was a package from Bosnia, and the sender was listed as Cpl. Jeremy Fielding. Harry, feeling rather bored at No.12 since Ginny was off-limits (and tired of cheering Ron up as Hermione had taken the Floo to Switzerland, where her parents were skiing or something), opened it. Inside was a large glossy picture showing Books, Prescott, Rooney, and Ghost drinking beer in some barracks room, and making elf hats out their blue UN berets (none of the Paras Harry had met thought much of any other kind of beret, and stuck to their red ones). There was a letter, written with black ballpoint on blank loose-leaf, describing the events of the months since they had parted ways.

After they had finished their training rotation in the Welsh mountains, Second Battalion had been alerted to supply a draft of men for the UN peacekeeping force in Bosnia. Bravo Company had been detached and added to an ad hoc force sent in near Tuzla, and according Books things were rather quiet. The only excitement had been when a band of Serbs tried to steal a cow from a bunch of Croat farmers. It hadn't gone well, and a running gun battle had broken out with the British watching from a safe distance as the Serbs tried to take shelter in a small village. Unfortunately for the Serbs, it happened to be populated…by Muslims…Angry Muslims who had opened fire on both Serbs and Croats. Books said it was comical in a dark sort of way watching the three factions go at it. The fight eventually ended with one dead cow, and a bunch of dead people.

Books said the land was 'fucking mad, but interesting'.

After that, Books had asked for Harry, dressed neatly in suit and with his Browning, to go to an address close to the City of London, and pick up a package there from a German firm there. Attached to the letter had been a sealed packet identifying Harry as a Mr. Charles Menzies, of the security firm of Brinks and Holdens out of Hull, and a series of permits allowing him to have a concealed firearm. Harry had almost laughed for the photograph was a very crude cutout of one taken back at Dwrryn Camp that had been retouched and edited. It had also listed his age at 25, which Harry doubted if any policeman would believe. Yet, he was intrigued as Books told him to pick up the cargo at the German firm, and to deliver it to an address somewhere in the East End.

Bored as he was, Harry had gotten dressed, and told Sirius and the rest he was going to go drop something off for a Muggle friend of his. Mrs. Weasley, who was staying with Ron, the twins, and Ginny at Sirius's for Christmas, objected, but Harry was firm. Saying he owed it to a friend of his, he had walked out of the house, and spent three hours walking around the neighborhood that the Black residence was located at. He had done this for two very important reasons: he didn't wish to be followed, and he didn't have the slightest clue where the nearest underground station was. Once he found it, he got off near the City and made his way to the firm where he was expected.

Inside, he was greeted with a frisking, metal detector scan, and a curt demand to see his identification. The people greeting him had been a group of gray-suited, unsmiling gentlemen and one older woman with definite German accents. After they were satisfied with his credentials (and his reason for carrying a semi-automatic pistol in down-town London) the Germans had handcuffed the briefcase to him, and shown him to the door. From there, Harry had spent much of the rest of the day riding the underground and taking in the sights of London. Not because he had any great desire to be a tourist (though he had to admit watching the Gurkhas from the newly created Royal Gurkha Regiment, created following the draw-down, had been a thrilling sight to watch as they paraded near Buckingham Palace), but rather because he had the sneaky suspicion he was being followed. Harry wasn't sure what it was, since he had checked for a possible tail multiple times and come up empty, but he just had that feeling…

Which was why he spent thirty minutes in a public washroom, sitting in a stall, just listening for any footsteps or anything of that sort. He had also made it a point to walk through several bustling shopping areas, crosswalks and the like, staying on the lookout for anyone who seemed to bump into air or something similar. All quiet…which meant that if anyone was following him was either very good, or he was starting to develop a paranoia equal to that of Mad-Eye Moody and his uncle Alex.

Still, he had a job to do and after all the time he had used up being chased by shadows, he had made his way to the East End and now walked towards the rendezvous point. The point was a small pub, looked decent from where Harry stood as he walked. Judging by the fact there weren't any heroin addicts or shitheads loitering nearby, the place looked like a decent enough place. Which usually meant that the place had some connections to the underworld, as the usual rule was that addicts and shitheels, while being their customer base, were kept to a safe distance via the threat of brutality.

Harry couldn't complain, and he wasn't really worried, as he knew he was a neutral, and thus on probation as long as he didn't stir up any drama. No, what did worry him slightly was the name of the guy he was to deliver the briefcase to…

Just how the fuck do you get to be called Soap? Harry was mulling over those thoughts as he opened the door to the bar.

            *          *          *

Harry entered and took his hat off. Switching it from his shooting hand to his left, Harry took a moment to scope the place out. It looked decent enough, with a bunch of booths, and crowd of middling leveling characters watching the tube at the bar. A blonde-haired, hard-looking character in a gray suit with a black turtleneck was behind the counter, and looking at Harry in frank curiosity. Harry supposed it was because of his age, or the fact that he was wearing a tie.

Smiling, Harry walked up and took a stool. He set down a pound note and asked, "Got any brew, sir?" The bartender smiled, and filled up a chipped porcelain mug with Earl Gray and set it down in front of Harry. Sipping it, he nodded in approval and said, "Piss-poor weather out. Fog is like a bleeding stew out there." The barkeeper laughed, and replied, "That it is lad. Look a bit, there." He made it come out of a question, though Harry understood it to be a command.

State your business, or get the fuck out.

Harry smiled, and said to the man (who bore a remarkable likeness to Sting, a Muggle musician Uncle Alex listened to), " Running a delivery. Which reminds me, you know a fella named Soap?" The barkeep's face changed slightly, and it didn't look peachy. Harry wondered if that had been a good idea in the first place to mention whom he was looking for.

The barkeep looked at him for a moment, and then jerked his head towards a back room. "In there, and tell him if it's got anything to do with the shit him and my boy pulled a few months ago to get the fuck out of here." He turned his attention back to the telly as Harry got up and headed towards the backroom. Now, Harry wondered just what the hell Books had gotten him into.

Opening the doors, he entered to find four guys around a table drinking. One of them, a thin, petulant looking fellow looked towards him and asked, "Who the fuck are you?" Harry didn't deign to answer and looked at the four of them.

"Which one of you is Soap?"

"Me" The one who had asked him who he was got up and went over to Harry, him and the other three staring at Harry. Harry stared back.

After a moment, one of the ones at the table, one of the two with his hair cut really short (the way it had been for Harry back in Wales) asked, "Right, lad, what you got for Soap there?"

Harry kept his eyes locked on the man in front of him, playing the game to the hilt as he held up the briefcase.

"Books send his regards."

Soap finally broke away as Harry smirked; he had won the game. "Oh, you're the one Books called me about. I thought he fucking out-of-it. That the case?"

Harry nodded, as he held it out.

"Books recommend you handle the goods through Doug the Jew or Tommy Barclay and to avoid Nick the Greek if possible." One of the short hair men snorted and muttered something. Harry didn't know or care.

Soap pulled out a key ring from a trousers pocket; Harry couldn't help but notice he had a hell of a knife hanging from his belt. As he held out the case, Harry asked, "You mind if I keep the cuffs?"

"Yeah go ahead." Soap un-cuffed the case and set it down on the table, handing the first key over to Harry. Using a second key on the ring, he turned the case from Harry's view and opened it. Soap seemed to gasp as he looked inside and slammed it shut suddenly. He looked over at Harry, though everyone in the room was curious as to just what Soap was up to.

"Books promised you a thousand quid right?"

"Yeah"

Soap went over to a small cabinet and pulled out a roll of pounds of two, hundred-pound notes and the remainder in twenties. He handed them over to Harry.

"Thousand quid, as promised."

Harry didn't bother looking at it, and put it in a trousers pocket. "Have a good evening."

With that, he turned and exited the room. He didn't know what he just delivered, and couldn't have cared less. At the moment, he was just grateful the briefcase was out of his hands, and that he wouldn't be seeing these assholes again. Knowing Books, it could have been anything from diamonds to plutonium.

Turning, he opened the door and stepped out. With a quick nod to the barkeep, he headed straight toward the door. Harry took a glance towards at one of the plate glass mirrors, and saw something odd. One of the guys watching the tube, dressed in a sports coat with a blue sweater, moved his hand away from his beer stein. Harry got a good look at his hand, and he was wearing a metal ring and bracelet not unlike the one Harry had; the magical communications set Harry happen to have.

Harry paused and took his time buttoning up his coat, using his peripheral vision to watch the man at work. You're fucking mad, anybody could have a bracelet and ring set like that. Yet, Harry's initial thoughts became solidified as he watched the man remove a silvery piece of paper, break off a chunk of chocolate and eat it. Harry saw only part of the paper, but he readily identified it from the gold and silver artwork. It was a brand he himself ate from time to time…Honeydukes brand chocolate.

Stopping his buttoning, he unbuttoned his trench coat and went over to an empty booth. He threw it down, and peeled off a couple of hundred pound notes from the roll Soap had given him and went over to the bar. The barkeep looked over at him with a raised eye. Harry took a napkin, put the money under it, and slid it over.

"Fish and chips, bottle of gin, and glass. Make it extra on the chips."

The barkeep pulled the corner of the napkin back, examined the money, grunted, and slid over a half-filled bottle of some cheap brand. Harry normally liked Beefeater, as any else usually wasn't too far from rubbing alcohol, but at the moment he couldn't care less. Taking it and a small shot glass (decorated with the Conservative Party motif) Harry sat down, poured a shot, and slugged it down.

It was worse then Harry thought it was, but he forced it down and had another. After that, he filled one and slowly, drop by drop, sipped from it. Turning his attention to the telly, he watched it as it turned to BBC news. Harry hadn't heard anything of the muggle world since he got on the Hogwarts Express, and listened intently to the foreign affairs field, especially in regards to the Balkans. The news there seemed all right, as all three factions seemed to be calling a New Years Truce of sorts.

His fish and chips wrapped in old newspaper arrived on a tin plate. Moving the newspaper around so no grease would get on his suit, Harry proceeded to smother his chips in salt, pepper, and Worcestershire sauce. Digging in methodically, Harry eyes were still on the TV, but his peripherals were on the wizard. More and more evidence came by Harry's way of that: the Honeydukes wrapper, the way he kept moving hand with the bracelet and ring towards his face (Harry had done this before, and would have bet a month's worth of detentions that the man would be mumbling into it; the question then being to whom), the fact that when his coat went up Harry could make out the outline of a wand. At least what he thought was a wand; after the Honeydukes wrapper and the bracelet set, it didn't take a genius to connect the dots.

Within a few minutes, Harry finished his food with a slight belch. Taking the dregs of his fourth glass of gin, Harry swished it in his mouth and took the bottle with him to the washroom where he spat the dregs into a sink. Looking around, Harry emptied half of what was left onto his coat, vest and shirt. Then, he dumped some on his hands and rubbed it into his face and hair.

By now, Harry could smell himself, reeking of alcohol, not to mention the fact his eyes stung slightly since he got some gin in his eyes. Glancing in a mirror, Harry could see he was flushing, and his eyes were reddening. In short, he looked and smelled your standard drunk. Perfect, he thought to himself as he put on his trench coat. With a deep breath, he closed his coat, clutched the near empty body, and staggered out of the washroom towards the main door. None of the patrons gave him another look, though Harry could tell the wizard in the sweater gave him a casual glance.

Harry stumbled across the room, and proceeded to mumble incoherently; playing the drunk to the hilt. Opening the door, he staggered out into the cold air and noticed that the fog had cleared up. Good, he thought as he staggered down the street. Light from the streetlights gave everything an eerie glow and Harry listened intently for footsteps. Watching puddles, reflective parts of cars and mirrors, he saw that the wizard had exited the bar, and was slowly following him, though he kept a safe distance.

Banging into a street lamp, he unleashed a colorful string of profanity at about a million decibels, and then staggered onwards. He spotted an alley, reeking of garbage and who knew what else (he was quite sure there were probably a few rare items in there Snape might find handy in his potions making), and decided it was time to let loose the snitch, and get his game on. No one followed him on through most of London on a holiday without a reason; Harry intended on discovering just what the hell that reason was.

In the middle of the sidewalk, he groaned loudly, and with his free hand (the other was clutching his gin bottle), he doubled over and clutched his stomach. After a few seconds of making noise, he quickly moved into the alley. There, he did the most unpleasant thing he would have to do that night: he forced himself to vomit.

Sticking a finger in his mouth, Harry thought to himself, You're fucking mad, you know that? No choice though…Pushing it back, he felt it touch the back of his throat and he gagged. Feeling his stomach moving, he barely cleared his finger out of his mouth, covered in saliva, before a train of vomit shoot out of his mouth like a train. In a near solid stream, his dinner, the liquor he had drunk, indeed the breakfast he had had that morning (toast and kippers with orange juice) splattered across the wall he was facing.

Harry could hear the wizard approaching the alley. That was when things started to go really, really bad…It may have had something to do with the fact he hadn't had much water all day, that the alcohol and salty food, coupled with their violent ejection from his person weakened him bad, but Harry had to lean against the side of a dumpster, and he could feel himself slipping away into an almost dream-like state. That state was what was worrisome, for he felt himself…change.

No longer did he have the drained feeling of person who has just upchucked a day's worth of food, water, and the burning sensation of regurgitated alcohol. He felt lithe, lean, powerful…the scent of the air was cold, sterile… Harry could see that he was in a room surrounded by shelves full of oval-shaped objects in various colors. There he smelled a man, a man moving along the shelves…Harry wanted to bite him, to kill, maim, but he stopped himself. He had a job to do….

The man walked close to Harry, and Harry curled himself up, trying to avoid the man. Too late…the man spotted him, and Harry could smell the fear and surprise on him. He drew his wand, and Harry struck, his fang digging deep into the man's ribs. The man's blood ran, and Harry luxuriated in the taste. Harry saw his face, and recognized it.

It was Sturgis Podmore, the member of the Order who had laughed and joked with Harry as they pulled security that day for the conference. Harry watched him bleed in great fountains, his mouth gaping. Then he screamed and Harry felt it in his head. Harry could feel a scream from within himself rising, he wanted out of this dream or vision or whatever it was…

Something touched his chest and Harry felt himself lose it. His vision a blur, his mind in that nether land where it is hard to tell dream from reality, the muggle training he had been put through for the past months kicked in. The bottle in his left hand struck out; it definitely hit something for Harry heard a grunt and he could feel a spray of liquid and solid detritus on his face. Still moving purely by instinct, his mind still in startup mode, Harry lashed out his with his foot and stepped forward as he heard a dull thud from the ground.

By now, he was more in the land of realty than dream, and took a look around. The man he had struck was lying back down on the ground at Harry's feet, partly in the pool of vomit. Harry drew his wand and knelt next to the man, leaving his Browning in his holster. There was a very good reason for that.

With the exception of the Three Unforgivables, the magic world was largely a peaceful one. Firegga and Pyreggina were used primarily in industry, while Avanchina was a very extreme (but nonetheless, the only real) cure for the removal of scarab eggs (scarabs liked to use the bodies of victims as hosts for their offspring). Likewise for Destructus, and Pyrio (the incendiary version of Pyreggina), and Ripperus Laceratus was used by the wizard butcher industry. True, Stunning Hexes could kill if enough force was used, but it took quite of bit of luck and quite a few hexes to get the job done. Overall, though, the wizard world was geared, weapon wise, to bringing in an enemy alive for future punishment; the muggle world was simply to kill the bastard in a manner up the person using the weapon, be it quick or slow, or to maim him in any way conceivable.

Harry drew his wand (he had kept it on his right wrist on rubber bands, so that with a flick of the wrist it slid into his hands), pointed it, and muttered, "Stupefy!" The hex it the man and slammed him out of the odorous puddle and against the opposite wall. Harry, breathing hard from the dream, walked over, and took a look at the man. Harry had hit him good with the bottle, as he was sans three front teeth, and was bleeding copiously from his mouth. The man moaned, and Harry was about to ask him just who the fuck he was (he didn't look like Percy or Amos, so he doubted if it was Fudge's goon squad gunning for him) so he could make his way back to No.12 Grimmauld and report his…vision when he heard a can clatter to his left. Harry whirled, and sure enough, it was another man, this one dressed in a black pea coat with a wand drawn, making his way over to him. The man raised his wand, but Harry was marginally quicker as he cast Protego without his wand (and almost puked again as a wave of nausea passed over him briefly) then fired off  "Locomotor Mortis".

His curse hit the man below the groin, and he fell face down into the dirt. Not taking a moment to pause, the thought of questioning the two men was forgotten as Harry realized, his mind in it's nigh-drugged like state, that if there were two, there were probably more people lurking in the shadows. Beyond that, a comrade, a fellow wizard, was at the moment bleeding his life out somewhere. Harry wasn't sure where, and it wasn't important. All that mattered was that he had to tell someone in the know the information so that a search could be conducted. He would have wanted the same thing done were the circumstances reversed.

Running forward, Harry jumped over the man as he slid the wand back into a coat pocket, taking care to keep his hand on it. Moving fast, he bobbed and weaved as he came out of the alley and made his way across the road. There was an underground station only a block or two away, he might make it…

A pair of bright lights stopped near Harry as he crossed, and a voice called out, "Oi, watch where the fuck you're going!" Harry blinked, and stopped as he saw that he came close to being run over by a black cab with white and yellow checkering. This could be useful, Harry thought. Running over, he opened the passenger side door, and tossed over a twenty-pound note, and ordered the man to drive him to an address near Vauxhall Cross. The man grunted, and within a half hour (there wasn't that much traffic at that hour) they were there. Harry made his way to one of the few underground stations that he had really memorized, and that was the one near SIS headquarters. Alex had shown them the place when he was training them how to spot and break a trail.

Harry caught a tube ride to the one closest No.12 Grimmauld. Getting off, Harry made his through alleys and side streets to No.12. He ran and opened the door and got in. There, he found Moody, Lupin, and Mr. Weasley putting on coats getting ready to leave. Judging by the bracelets, it wasn't going to be a social call.

All three of them seemed surprised to see him, which was when Sirius and Mrs. Weasley came out of the Dining Room. The former seemed to be quite angry, but that changed as he saw Harry. Mrs. Weasley ran over to Harry, hugged him, and said to Arthur, "Tell Albus he's back, Arthur." Arthur nodded as Moody looked over at Harry. "Where have you been lad?"

Harry shook his head, "No time, we need to find Sturgis Podmore. He's bleeding bad!"

A sudden chill seemed to go through the air as everyone started looking at him strangely. Harry started to get frustrated, "Well, what the fuck is the matter with you, move! Someone's life is on the line!" Whatever it was that was bothering them still bothered them, as all seemed transfixed to just gape at him, and even Molly Weasley was shocked enough that profanity didn't seem to register.

Moody was the first to recover, as he shook his head and said, "Podmore's dead." Now it was Harry's turn to be shocked, but before he could answer any more questions he was hustled by all of the adults into the kitchen. The twins, Ron, and Ginny were there, but not for long as Mrs. Weasley shooed them out. Harry caught Ginny's eye, and saw once again that it was filled with concern and worry; he managed to give it a quick furtive look and hoped she could read his thoughts that he was all right.

That ended as Lupin asked, "All right, Harry, tell us what you've been doing since this morning?" Harry, still rather numbed from the death of Podmore, shook his head, marshaled his thoughts, and began to recite everything that had happened. The message from Books, his movements through the London Metro area, the meet, how he had spotted the wizard tailing him, the ambush he had set so he could capture the tail and figure out just what was going on…Harry told of everything, and watched the reactions as he told of how he had been…something that had attacked Podmore.

As he finished with his thought that he believed he had been a snake of some sorts (just as he the thought occurred to him that Voldemort owned a hefty-sized pet reptile named Naginni) the fireplace flamed, and within a moment Alex stepped forth and started dusting himself off. Alex, wearing slacks and a blue sweater, didn't seem too happy. He went over to Harry and held out a slip of paper. "Care to explain this, lad?" Harry looked at the paper, and it was one informing him of his immediate loss of his wand for the usage of underage magic, coupled with expulsion from Hogwarts. Harry blanched, and suddenly he felt nauseous.

Alex looked at him, and continued, "That's not all." The second piece of paper he showed Harry was a notice charging him with assault and battery on Ministry personnel in the lawful execution of their duties. Harry's urge to throw-up worse then previously continued at a madcap pace. Looking around, he spotted a sink and made a beeline towards it, but was stopped as Alex showed him the final piece of paper, this time saying he was to attend a disciplinary hearing for both charges tomorrow at ten in the morning. Attached to it was a note ordering Alex to find Harry and for him to sit tight until the next day; it was signed Albus Dumbledore.

"Sitrep, Harry, now." Harry filled his uncle in on just what had happened. Alex put a finger on his chin, and appeared to be thoughtful. He glanced over at Moody, and asked, "Alastor, does the Ministry still maintain the PRD section of the Department of Mysteries?" Alastor shrugged, "Possibly…you think Umbridge and her goons were using Polyjuice to disguise themselves to follow young Harry there?"

"Definite possibility. PRD, Harry," Alex turned to Harry to explain, "Stands for Polyjuice Registry Division. It was a group that we used during the last war to create large varieties, note the word, of the Polyjuice so that our tail teams could merely use a different Polyjuice potion to change their image using hair samples drawn from barber shops across the country. From what it sounds, it feels like they may have spotted you, and followed you from there. The fact he was caught through the chocolate, good spotting by the way, means we are probably dealing with amateurs, and definitely not anyone from either the Auror's Division or even from the Department of Law Enforcement. My guess is you were dealing with Diggory and Percy Weasley."

Alex paused and looked over at Harry. "Still, that isn't the main issue here. What is more worrisome is that vision you had…Tell me, how did it feel, this vision? Was it like a dream?"

Harry nodded. Alex continued to ask questions: how did it feel, did it feel like he was under the Imperius, had he ever felt as though he were in control during the assault upon Podmore? Harry had to nod, as he told his uncle that when one of the wizard followers had touched him, he had felt himself lose control in the fight. Alex shook his head, "Not that. That's just what happens when you are in a state of near shock, and your training and instincts to survive kick in. You'll pretty much attack and destroy anything that comes near you. No, what I mean was did it feel as though you were in control of yourself as that thing attacked?" Harry thought to himself for a moment, then shook his head. "No, I could feel what that snake felt, for the way it smelt was snake-like since it used its tongue, but I couldn't control my or its actions."

Alex nodded, then looked over at Moody, "Did Kingsley and Tonks mention if they saw any sign of a snake when they found him?" Him was obviously Podmore. Moody shook his head, and said, looking over at Harry, "Not a sign. My guess he's using his pet for reconnaissance. What is worrisome is what we've discussed is becoming more and more clearer." Harry wondered what was happening and he asked him, "And what might that be?"

"That you're a very weird kid, young man."

"Fuck off, Moody! Now spit it out, what's the matter?"

"Harry, are you aware of why you were being taught wand-less magic, despite the fact that it taxes your concentration to the utmost, and drains you of energy like a leaky cauldron when it does so very little besides counter-curses and the simplest of charms? You know why we've been teaching you Occlumency during the year?" This was Alex, looking at Harry, his eyes hard. Harry shook his head, "Just general training? Training to help me become an Auror, like I told you during the summer?" Alex nodded, "Partly, but that isn't why. That's the main reason why." He tapped the scar on Harry's forehead. Harry reached up, and started to realize just what his uncle was getting at.

Alex continued, "From the time he cursed you, there was a connection of sorts between you and the Dark Lord. That much we, by which I mean the Order and the Headmaster, realized from the start, the question is, just how extensive is your connection. Since you can see from inside the bloody bastard's pet means that when he is using his mental faculties, you will able to…feel it I suppose. Anyhow, to offset some of the worst possibilities, we put you through training designed for you to regulate your thoughts, and hopefully filter out the occasions when you can see the Dark Lord's activities as a result of your mind being at its most vulnerable. At least that was how Snape explained it to me…"

"Give me one of the possibilities you mentioned? Worst case?" Harry had sinking, lead-like feeling in his stomach.

Moody and Alex looked at each oteher, and Molly said to Alex, her tone warning. "He's too young, Alex. He…"

"Deserves to know since it is his ass on the line." He looked Harry straight in the eye, "The worst case is that You-Know-Know could be possessing you in a fashion stronger then, but similar to, the Imperius."

The lead in Harry's lead fell out; he could feel his head getting lighter. He had killed Sturgis Podmore… a roaring in his ears…

A sharp clap on his head brought him back to reality. His uncle was in front of him, and his eyes were concerned. Harry understood his uncle had slapped him on the back of his head, to bring him back to the real world.

"You listening, Harry?"

Harry nodded.

"You've done nothing wrong, and have acted as you were trained and expected to do. The injuries Sturgis received were so bad that even though they found him almost immediately after he was injured he was fucked anyhow. Shit like this happens in war, Harry, and all you can do is carry on." Alex paused before he continued, "If you're thinking any guilty nonsense over this, forget it. All that happened was that you had the misfortune of observing it, you didn't participate it. Don't blame yourself, and carry on with your Occlumency to keep control of your mind. Clear?" Harry nodded, and asked to be dismissed. At the moment, all he wanted to do…He wasn't sure, just that he had to have some space, and think.

Alex dismissed him, and told him to bring his suit around to Molly Weasley, as he had to look his best for his hearing tomorrow. Harry nodded numbly, and left, closing the door behind him. It was obvious that they had business to discuss without him, and Harry was more then willing to oblige them.

Exiting he saw that Ginny, the twins and Ron were staring at him. It was obvious that they had been listening in. Harry felt a helpless rage in him, similar to that he had felt before only in Snape's class. "Get an earful?" he asked savagely.

All but Ginny looked down. She stared back at him, and Harry could tell she was irritated. Ron looked up, and asked, "Eh…Want to talk of it."

"No, I don't want to talk of it. So excuse me." He turned and made his way for the stairs and his room. As he got to his door, Ginny ran up, and grabbed him by his arm. "Come on, let's talk of it…"

"DAMN IT GINNY I TOLD YOU! I DON"T WANT TO TALK OF IT!" Harry lost it for a moment, and then looked horrified as he realized he had yelled at her. Ginny looked startled by what had happened, and then her face became angry. "Is that so, Harold James Potter? That is probably the stupidest thing I have heard of considering there is only one person who has been under the dominion of Voldemort before that we know of. Remember her? The red-headed girl you had to save years ago? Me?" Her voice was icy, sarcastic. Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, and tried to think as he had, in his depressed state totally forgotten of that salient fact. Nonetheless, the last thing in the world he wanted to do was talk of his unique, and newly discovered problem.

He looked at Ginny, torn between wanting to talk, to let loose what was starting to build up, or to…He didn't want to do anything else to anger her, or rather hurt her, for he could see in her eyes that she was hurt by his unwillingness to trust her.

They stared like that for a few minutes then Ginny turned and headed back towards the staris. She stopped at the staircase, turned and said, "If you can break out of the shell you seem to be so desperate to create, I'll be downstairs. Remember this also, when you want to be alone," She said that last most scathingly, "That all your goddamn tantrums do is hurt those that care for you the most. Those that…" She mouthed 'love you the most', turned, and headed down the stairs.

Harry had felt miserable before; now, he felt he had hit an all-time emotional low. Part of him wanted nothing more then to go, embrace Ginny, kiss her and beg for her forgiveness at him being a prat. Yet, he couldn't force himself to do that as he turned, entered his room, and closed the door. Going over to his trunk, he opened it and removed a half-empty bottle of bourbon, and drainied the thing in one long gulp. He knew what he was doing was wrong, that the booze wouldn't help things much, but he needed to lose himself in the oblivion of Bacchus…

Realizing that it was empty, he looked at it, trying to block out the image of Sturgis Podmore as his life's blood drained from him. Harry could see the man's reflection in the glass of the bottle…The face changed between that of Ginny and Hermione being savaged, and then settled on Ginny, with that hurt and startled look on her face as he yelled at her…

"FUCK!" With the oath, he turned and threw the bottle against the wall, and watched it break. Harry breathed hard, the guilt of everything threatening to roll him under a giant could of depression. Watching the glass, he realized that if his life wasn't that already, it was close to it already.

Broken.