Ok, so TECHNICALLY, I did publish this around the time after the Ides of March. Just...you know, very much later than I was intending to. Sorry about that, long story short there was a Masters, and then unployment, a girl, drinking way too fucking much and then sobriety, and now I'm back again! Look, I'm sorry that I went but life kinda swept me a way for a bit. Covid affected us all differently, and for me drinking was becoming a bit too much of a regular occurence. i'm all good now (I think).

I've actually been writing elsewhere, for Critical Mass Magazine. i'll post the link after this little Authors Note so you can go check out my work. I'd REALLY appreciate it if you could give it a read. In fact, I'd go so far to say that reading it might even encourage me to keep writing both for Critical Mass and for .

Anyway, here's chapter 2 finally. Chapter 3 is in the works, I'll probably be posting that in April. April 2022 C.E.

Enjoy! /?s=harvey+john

(Please read my science fiction work The Lost Burdens, it's some of my more fun writing work!)

The day had finally come. Finally he could shed this ugly old face and return to his true form. The Dark Lord was truly back, not just a broken soul in a broken body. Diggory confirmed it, if the burning on his arm wasn't satisfactory evidence. He licked the corner of his lip, and hid a giddy grin behind darting glances that formed the basic layer of Mad-Eye Moody.

"I saw him,I saw him kill Harry Potter!"

Gasps, screams, panic. Everything he'd hoped. He looked to the stands and saw the once joyful crowd growing in fear and hopelessness. The young mudblood and blood traitor, Weasley and Granger, looked particularly pale. And...was that. Greengrass looking faint in front row?

School girls, he scoffed internally, they never pick the right boys.

He moved in on the gathering crowd of teachers and aurors surrounding the young Diggory boy. A shame he'd returned really, but not something that he'd not planned for. He slipped fully into the character of Moody, already prepared in what he might say. He approached Dumbledroe and Fudge who were arguing heatedly among themselves.

"-can't seriously believe this? The boy is simply experiencing some delusion cast on him in the maze!"

"Nothing in there was designed to do such a thing!" Dumbledore snapped at him.

"Then, then a spell then." Fudge responded, his answer like a half thought grabbed at desperately. "Perhaps some...some sort of illusion cast by Mister Krum."

"With respect Minister," Crouch interrupted him, pushing himself between the two wizards, "neither Krum or Potter have made it back yet, and they haven't sent sparks either. The cups been taken," he gestured, the silver portkey sitting on the ground where Diggory had landed, "and thus the tournament is over. Let me go in and fetch them."

"And with equal repect Alastor, we do not know where it is in the maze, if that is where they are," He continued quickly before Fudge could interject, "they might be. It stretches for miles, it could take days to find them."

"Then we should send for more Aurors to scower the sight." Fudge stated.

"And risk compromising ourselves? Minister if the Dark Lord is returned-"

"He is not!"

"Never the less, whether he is or is not sending Auror's could cause great harm to the magical world. Who will provide order and stability, keep criminals at bay?" Dumbledore made a strong argument, one Crouch had hoped he would make.

"I'm no Auror, but I have the training, I'll go in." He said. "I'll take the cup, it will take me to where Diggory was last. I'll start from there, work my way inwards."

"Alastor, you could be in there for hours before we reach you. The dangers are still very real and active." Dumbledore pointed out. "We already have two champions missing, we don't need a professor to add to that list."

"Agreed." Fudge nodded. "Alastor your offer is appreciated but there's no need for-"

"I wasn't asking for permission." Crouch growled, in a manner almost identical to Moody. "You two can stand here arguing until we're dust and bones but I'm going to move while I've still got one good leg. Anyone who tries to stop me, I will go through them like a hot knife through warm butter, or do I not make myself clear?"

It was the perfect speech, and one neither of them could deny as very much in character for Moody. Sometimes there were benefits to being known as Mad-Eye. People tend not to stop you when you make your intentions clear, or question when you show strange behaviour.

"Very well," The Minister caved, much to Dumbledores dismay. "But be discreet. Find the boy, bring him back in whatever state he's in. But not to here. If you find him take him to the guest qurters, I'll have the area secured. Dumbledore-"

"I'll send Professor McGonagall to co-ordinate with your security." He said, his tone still showing his disgruntlement and worry. The Headmaster turned to crowd of ever panicking student and teachers, chiefs among them were the bearded half giant and the mudblood and redhead. The rest were still either gossiping or panicking.

"If you'll excuse me, Professor, Minister, I have a few tools in my office that may help me find the boy." Tools being loose ends. He couldn't afford to leave the real Mad-Eye alive. He yet had the chance to do some further damage to Dumbledore and The Light. Perhaps a little school fire on top of it all as well, he though, his tongue flicking to his cheek as he made an abrupt exit and grinning as he thought of all those needy little brats burning. Being Moddy truly was great some times when he wanted to ignore social etiquette.

His walk back to the school was filled with pleasant thoughts; Potter dead, The Dark Lord returned to his power, and Fudge and Dumbledore soon to be at each others throats. Malfoy had done well in making him the puppet of his political aspirations. The man was no fool, but he lacked enough in intelligence to be turned an unwitting weapon of Crouch's side.

By the time he was back at the school he was in a near sprint to his office. The anticipation was murder on his soul. He couldn't wait to see him once again, Voldemort in all his glory. The one true saviour of the Wizarding World. Oh Grindelwald had had his moments, but he'd never aspired to be the eternal protector and enforcer of his doctrines. Voldemort would rule over all of Earth until time itself came to an end and the last cries of man would be his masters voice.

In the meantime, of course, he had to play his part in making sure the war was won. And taking out Alastor Moody would be a huge victory for the Death Eaters. He couldn't leave it to chance that he'd never be discovered. It was far better to be safe than sorry. He'd stage it as a murder, a difficult task but not impossible. His fathers death was suspected by Fudge to be the work of Sirius Black, a theory that fell short on many accounts but it mattered not what anyone else believed. Fydge held the power and the sway of the media, both magical and muggle. Two worlds looking for the wrong man, while he would join with his master.

Entering his office he suddenly felt a growing sense of discomfort. The polyjuice potion in his system was wearing off. He would be best to hurry. He gathered as many items as he could into an extended backpack. Taking over Moody's life, he'd come to enjoy many of the tools the old auror had collected in his time. Tools, weapons, instruments that could benefit the war effort.

While he allowed the items to gather he kept his 'good' eye on the door and his regular on the cup. Once he had finished packing he would summon Alastor and put him under the imperius curse. All he would have to then was get him on the move, and take a little stumble on the moving staircases. He'd rigged one of them to explode with firworks which would form the colours of Hogwarts. The whole thing would appear as a prank by the traitorous sons of the Weasley family. A 'prank gone wrong'. A tragedy, but a blameless one. The Weasley twins would deny the whole thing, they obviously had nothing to do with it. It was unlikely that, following such a tragedy, the ministry would press charges on the lads. They would live another day, though they would wish they were safe in the bowls of Azkaban when the war truly began.

Eventually the time came to set the final act in motion, and that would require Alastor Moody. He could feel the grin growing on his ever straining face, his features begin to return to their natural disposition. He resisted. If anyone should see him now, they would see Moody and think nothing.

The trunk opened and descended dramatically into its self and the cries of the real Moody came out. Cries not of fear or mercy, but anger and ridicule. Even after months locked in a hole the old bastard hadn't lost any of his spirit.

"Shut up, crazy old loon!" He yelled down. "Wingardium Leviosa!"

It was almost comical watching the near naked cripple float up through the air. He couldn't help laughing at the sight, though he did make sure to keep one eye on the door. Students would probably be returning by now, at least twenty minutes had passed since he'd left the stands. He wondered briefly what Dumbledore would be thinking right now – his prize pupil dead, Fudge already looking to deny the possibility of Voldemorts return and another war on the horizon...oh how he was surely suffering...

As Moody ascended out of his prison, he made a grab for Crouch's wand. Months down in a small hole had not helped his reflexes. Crouch easily pushed aside, knocking him into a desk and spilling a number of potions. Heat first held his breath but, uopon smelling nothing, he shrugged. Most of the potions on display were there simple for that purpose, part of the act. A few were there for a reason. All the important stuff was in his bag.

"Hello again Alastor."

Moody spat at him in reponse. Not that it bothered him, it wasn't his real face. "Chariming as ever."

"Suck my cock you black hearted cur." Moody growled, shivering in the cold air of the castle. The man looked frair, sickly even. Not enough so that it would cast any suspicion in the minds of those investigating his death.

"Well I'm glad to be riding myself of you my old friend." He chuckled darkly.

"We were never friends you traitor, and I always thought you were an upleasent cretin. Your mother was far too good a woman, how she birthed such a bastard I could not understand."

The words were foul to Crouch's ears. He struck at the man hard, knocking a tooth lose. It didn't faze Moody in the slightest. He just looked up at Crouch with that same look of defiance that had urked him all this time. Give him a pre-pubescent mudblood with a billion questions, it would be a more pleasant experience.

"You hit like a ninny."

"Oh Mad Eye, I won't be missing you when your gone. Don't worry though, most of the people who will mourn your death will be following you quite shortly." He raised his wand at the ageing warrior, looking him in his eye. "Now, any last words?"

Mad-Eye gae a short sniff, wiping the blood from his chin, and said, "Cats."

That was certaintly not what he'd expected. "What?"

"Cats." Mad-Eye repeated. "My gardens riddled with them, vermin keep breaking in past the wards and leaving their dropping all over my garden."

"...I'lll...I'll be sure to burn your garden at some point? The fuck are you going for here you daft old man?"

"Well see," He winced, adjusting himself against the back of the turnk, "I'm a clever bastard. I know that cats can be trapped if you have the right tools. For example, cat pheromones which were the bottle just there." He nodded to the broken glass potion.

"You have truly gone Mad, and I've seen the inside of an Azkaban cell." He shook his head, readying to put the man under his curse but apparently he still had words to say.

"Well you see that's the thing, there's a few cats at this school."

"I'm aware of the squibs pet." Crouch growled sick of the madmans ravings. Or so he thought were ravings until a rather cocky smirk came upon his face.

"He's not the only cat at this school." Moody grinned. Before he could inquire Moody turned as he heard the approaching footsteps of what his eyes confirmed to be Professor McGonnagall.

"Professor Moody, is everything-" She opened the door and saw the two Moody's in front of her. Crouch had to give credit to the woman, she was fast on the draw, her wand was in her hand in an instant.

"What the devil is going on here? Alastor? Which of you is Astor Moody?!" She demanded.

Crouch wished he'd had the quick he was famous for in that moment, unfortunately it had seemed to abandoned him. The one moment in which he could have gotten away with everything, and he mucked it all up by being stunned. Literally. It appeared Moody had more than a few tricks left in him. That trick being wandless magic.

Before he could so much as utter a damning swear word, Moody had sent him half way across the room with a wandless stunning spell. Moody then turned to a less suspicious McGonnagall and croaked out, "I still owe you ten galleons from 88."

A frown, to a smile, a look of horror as her wand fell on Crouch. Not much time to escape, he had to act fast. It wasn't the elegant exit that he'd hoped for, or near as destructive. But in case of emergency, break as much as you can before making a hasty unplanned retreat. A few curses aimed at McGonnagall missed entirely (as they were suppose to).

"Accio!" He called out, wand pointed to the cup. At the same time The Deputy Headmistress cast inferni and caught his arm. He iwnced out load and Moody laughed at him. In that split second from when he summoned the cup to being taken to the graveyard, he felt such a level of joy himself. Harry Potter was still dead, even Moody lived Potter was dead. And nothing could rob him of that!

Harry Potter was indeed dead. And, strangely, pleasantly, at peace. He'd shortly parted with whatever strange sickly man that had been here on his arrival. He thought the man oddly familiar, almost like Voldemort only far more hideous and weaker. He started walking, where to he did not know, just so long as he was away from that strange ugly thing. He'd had his fill of The Dark Lord for one life time. It was time now for peace.

Death was not what he had expected it to be at all. Though he'd never really imagined there being an afterlife, part of him had always hoped. A chance to see his parents again, for him to be reunited with the friends he'd made in his short life. Maybe eventually meet that pretty girl he'd seen and find out if Slytherin really were all as bad as Tom Riddle.

Of course death was not entirely perfect. He'd been robbed. Robbed of the chance to live a life, with friends and family...a family he could never have...or could he? Was it even possible to have children wherever he was? And who would want to? presumably most people who died had lived a life already...right? Though he had died young, and the history of humanity was anything but bloodless and without tragedy.

As pondered these thoughts he felt himself coming into form. He was wearing his favourite red shirt and blue jeans, the air smelled like freshly cooked roast dinner and the ground, though looking rough, was as soft as blades of grass under a summer sun. In front of him was the one place he not expected – Kings Cross only much much cleaner. He wasn't sure he liked it, there was something about the station being crowded and filthy that gave him a certain feeling of excitement. It was part of his tradition, the run to platform 9 & ¾.

He'd never do that again. Never do a lot of things. Like fight for his life against manical Dark Lords. Never receive another beating at the hands of Vernon or Dudley Dursley. Two good things right there. The cleaner King Cross was already looking up. Harry wondered why he was the only one at this place. If this was the afterlife, then where was everyone else?

"It's a train station," he said to himself, the detail forging some connection in his mind that was yet to became a fully formed thought. "Why a train station?"

Why did anyone go to a train station? To travel, he supposed. Usually on a train from one stop to another. He came to this place twice annually during September and January since second year. He also left this place twice annually, Christmas and June. There was also an Easter break but, in his life, he'd always had a reason to stay during that period. Besides, he'd never really liked leaving Hogwarts, though he'd never said it out loud there was a part of him that felt a great deal of jealousy for those students that got to come home to their families.

"Family!" he realised. Maybe that was why he was here. A place for Harry to arrive. A place for family to meet him. Was it too much, to hope beyond all hope? He'd seen them in Graveyard, their words echoed clearly in his head.

"We can hold him for a little time, enough for you to save Cedric and yourself but only a little time and only if you move fast."

"We're so proud of you Harry, now let go. Sweet Boy let go!"

He knew it wasn't really them, just echoes of them. As much as he wanted to believe that his parents were there, they had died years ago in Godrics Hollow. Died so long ago, and so young and had remained so in their ghostly visage. His mother still blossoming out of youth into beautiful woman, his father beginning to lose the innocent cheek of and his boyhood charm. Two parents, barely older than he was, and warriors all the same. They'd died fighting for what was right. What had Harry died for? To save a friend. A good friend. And to spit in Voldemort's face, show him that he was not so powerful if a boy of fourteen (twelve, the annoying voice of Rita Skitta mumbled in his head).

He didn't see them appear but there they were, as young as they had been when they died but more real than their spectral forms in the graveyard. Perhaps not exactly as they had been, his father had no glasses but a growing smile and tearing eyes told him he could see clearly. Up until then, Harry hadn't even noticed he wasn't wearing his own glasses. He also hadn't noticed the tears slowly beginning to stream down his face.

His mother was the first to approach, hesitantly, her lower lip quivering, as if the sight of her son in front of her might vanish like smoke in the wind. Harry stood still, unwilling to move. There was a part of him that felt this world was dreamlike and that if he dared walk or speak he'd be ripped from his parents once more.

They were like angels, in their pure white clothing that glistened in the ethereal light. Lily Evans Potters Red hair shined like a fiery beacon calling him home. Thirteen years, abuse and mistreatment and death and finally, as they stood in front of each other mere inches from touching Harry could no longer hold back the desire he'd felt for so many year. He reached out, and hugged his mother.

"Mum!" He cried out, as her arms went around his and his father engulfed them both shortly after.

"My boy, my sweet sweet boy!"

"I-I'm so sorry! I tried...I tried to run but I couldn't...I couldn't-"

"Shh, shhh, its okay now sweetheart. We're here. We're together. You'll never have to face him again so long as you're here."

"That's right my boy." James Potter sniffed, snuffling his tears. "You're safe here. You'll never be in danger again, as long as you're here you're safe..."

"I can stay?"

Lily pulled away from the embrace if only to wipe the tears from her sons face. "If you want to Harry, but you don't to. My sweet boy you have the chance no other has had it centuries. You can go back, live a life.."

"But I'll have to face him." Harry stated, knowing it was true. "I'll have to face Voldemort again."

Lily didn't answer but the look on her face, on James' face, told him everything and suddenly he was pulling away as horrible thoughts filled his mind. `'You want me to go."

James shook his head, "No Harry, of course we don't-"

"Then I can stay?" He asked, tone hopeful.

Lily shared a look with James, a look he could not deciefer but love created its bonds and its own language between people. They had known this moment would come one day, death revealed so much to them they didn't know in life. They had only hoped it would be another to have this conversation with Harry. Because another second away from their son was as painful as a thousand years.

It was Lily who decided to say the most painful words she had ever had to utter. "You can, but Harry...you should decide if you go...or if you stay."

The hurt and disappointment that Harry felt was barely able to be conveyed in the look he gave his parents. What could they have expected? A decade of neglect and abuse had had its toll. To stay would be so easy, as though letting go of life were like allow a leaf to leave his hands and be pulled into the wind.

"I...don't know what to do."

"You should follow your heart son." James said, "If you want to stay, then stay."

"James!"

Lily's glare did little to stop him from speaking. "But, if you want my advice?"

"Yes,absolutely." Harry pleaded.

"Live!" James exclaimed with a choke of laughter. "Do...all we never got to do. And there's so much we didn't do. We wanted so much for you Harry, so much. And you can still have it."

"Yes, yes, absolutely." Lilly agreed, patting James on the chest. "You're Dad doesn't so much wise often-"

"Oy!"

"But he makes a good point!" She laughed, stroking James' cheek affectionately. "Harry no parent wants their child to suffer. We hated every minute here knowing you were in danger there. But there, there's a life. School, friends, girlfriends...or boyfriends! Or neither, but definitely school."

"In short, we'd care more about you getting good grades than grandchildren." James joked and Harry smiled and laughed.

"I think right now I'd rather want good exam results over children anyway." Harry laughed.

"Well good, the last thing you want to be is a fourteen-year old parent. Nappies are a nightmare." James grimaced.

Lily shot him a playful glare then turned back to Harry. "The point we're trying to make is...we never really got a chance to live, or a choice to go back after we died. Yes, you'll have to fight Voldermort and yes you may die, but at least you'll have hope that...tomorrow can still happen. There isn't any tomorrow here Harry. That's the problem with paradise, it's the final chapter...no more stories to tell..."

The wise words of his mother struck him well and truly to his core. Life, the possibility of tomorrow, was so appealing. Life had friends, family, joys and...love. It also had death, despair, loss, sadness, envy, anger...and an evil Dark Lord more powerful than Harry could have ever imagined.

The choice was beyond difficult. Staying here with his parents, at peace, that would be the end to his fight. No more Dark Lord, monsters or other evil entities to contend with. But here he'd be waiting, hoping that someday all he'd left on Earth, Ron and Hermione and all his friends and Hogwarts, would come back to him.

Yet even if they died, and if they came here, how would they greet him? With joy? Or with sorrow? Wouldn't he also be leaving them to suffer under Tom Riddle's wrath? It was almost a certainty that Riddle would not return to Wizarding Britain with altruistic intent. No, Riddle was a bigoted power-hungry madman. Death followed in his very footsteps.

It's not my problem – not anymore, a small part of Harry said. The tiny, miniscule, unimaginably infinitesimal selfish part of him that he'd never listened to before. And as much as he wanted to listen that part of him now, he knew what the right thing to was.

He looked to his parents, hope and despair apparent in their eyes and he gave them a gentle sad smile. "I know what I'm going to do..."

That's how Harry Potter became the first in a long time to see the other side of the mortal veil, experience it, and return. That's how Harry Potter came back from the dead, with a dry gasp and a harsh cough and his hand reaching out for his wand ready to return to the fight in the graveyard.

Only, he wasn't in a graveyard. Not their at all. In fact he appeared to be inside, in a house with warm beige stone walls that almost reminded him of the walls of Hogwarts castle. But Harry knew this was not Hogwarts, as he knew the man who walked through the door was not going to be one of his professors.

His face was vaguely familiar somehow, he'd certainly seen it before. But where? The man in question, with his withered face but eyes so full of hope, looked at Harry and smiled a heavy smile.

"Mr Potter, thank goodness! You're awake." The man quickly began to approach then restrained himself, coming into a more formal stance and...bowing? "Lord Potter, it's an absolute honour. Welcome to Greengrass Manor!"

Well that's that for now. Listen, if you see anything spelling or continuity wise that I should give a second look at please comment it. I've already been made aware I kinda screwed up a little with the info about the Tournament but this is a BIT of a diverted contuinity so I'll address that at some point.

Cheerio for now,

Harvey John - king of Awesomeness