Authors Note: All characters and places from the novel series Harry Potter are owned by J.K Rowling. Any which are created by myself are created, and therefore owned by me. No copycats.

Suggested Reading:The Soldiers of Eden by S.J Rafael – seriously good.

The Boy-Who-Fled

By Happy Fingers

Chapter 1: He's Back

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"There's just something…wrong…no, not wrong…I just don't like it. Honestly, what do we really know about him? Well I'll tell you what we know. Nothing. Not a smidgen. Where he's been, what he's been doing, who he's been talking to. You-Know-Who's been back for 3 years now, for all we know they could be working together! Allies in darkness!"

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"You move and I swear to almighty hell you'll regret it" Shacklebot snarled, pointing his wand just inches from the boy's face.

He was breathing heavily, and the small beads of sweat that had formed during the fight threatened to trickle down his dark skin, and fall to the dusty, littered floor. The small gash on his right temple glistened in the day's final rays of sunshine and looked particularly painful, especially in combination with the torn and tattered robes that hung of his strained body. The small group of aurors stood around the boy in a wide circle, looking as if they'd been running a marathon, each presenting their own significant battle scars, and shaking ever-so-slightly. Save for the rather strange-looking suited man, who, for starters did not seem to have a wand, secondly was wearing sunglasses at sunset and three was the only one who did not seem remotely put out by the remarkable chase that had occurred.

Harry Potter stood with his arms up above his head, the slightest hint of amusement flicking across his handsome features. His emerald-green eyes glanced around him, he was cornered. Though to be fair, he had put up a good fight. A few feet away lay two unconscious Aurors, and dangling above him was another, yelling something to the effect of "get me down", however no one could be sure for his mouth had been sealed over. Something Harry felt rightly smug about. He knew he was caught, but it didn't mean he was going to make it easy for them; he'd spent his life running from these guys. He wasn't about to just give in.

At least not that easily.

"Okay Harry…" the tall woman behind him cooed, her voice shaking in unison with her outstretched hand.

"We're going to take you in now; it's for your own good. Trust us" she nodded, as though talking to an insane person.

The Aurors surrounding him all flinched together, as if all flicked with ice cold water as Harry flicked his head to the side, his jet black hair swinging out his eyes and neatly covering the scar that each and every one of them was staring at, their eyes wide with…well…a mixture of fear, anger, shock and bizarrely enough…respect.

They did have to hand it to him, he was only sixteen, and he'd fought well. Maybe a little too well. Harry smiled as the circle of people surrounding him closed in, edging towards him bit by bit. Harry couldn't quite understand why they were so scared, they had his wand.

A mistake he vowed would never happen again.

Minerva McGonagall did not like to run; she was more of a brisk-walker. She felt running destroyed the finesse of her appearance, usually leaving her wheezing and puffing for air, with rosy red cheeks tinting her slightly worn features. That's right, Minerva wasn't one for strenuous movement of any kind, she saw no need for it.

Why run when you could apparate?

Yet here she was, running as fast as possible through the school corridors of Hogwarts. Her cloak bellowing behind her, along with any traces of dignity. However today was an extreme circumstance and Minerva felt that she would have to leave any inhibition behind. Inwardly growling at the age old magic that prevented her from apparating. She came to a flustered halt outside a dark wooden door, and rapidly knocked three times against the old, worn bark. Ignoring the frightened looking house elf that had just left the office, and sped past her.

"Enter" a soft voice sounded, if a little hoarsely.

McGonagall burst in and fluttered towards Dumbledore, who was sat at his desk, apparently examining some sort of necklace. As she opened her mouth to speak (having to suck in as much air as possible before doing so) Dumbledore raised a calm hand, looking up at her with a grave expression.

This was a moment in history, and as always, Dumbledore remained calm, retaining his level-headedness and aura of knowledge with apparent ease. The tip off had indeed seemed correct, Harry was going to make an appearance at Diagon Alley, though exactly why, was as of yet, undisclosed.

"I am aware of the situation Minerva." He said calmly, as McGonagall huffed and puffed, her thin, grey eyebrows creasing and thinning further at the sight of her ripped robes that hung loosely by her feet.

She most definitely detested running…

The fierce looking boy sat in the chair with the distinct aura of smugness surrounding him. His jet black hair lay messily atop his head and couldn't be set far apart from his slightly worn-looking dark jacket that hung loosely around his muscled physique. His stained white t-shirt didn't do anything to improve his dirty appearance and only made him look slightly more socially acceptable compared to the pitifully torn jeans he wore as trousers. The scuffed brown boots he wore tapped rhythmically against the pristinely clean, tiled floor, small speckles of dirt dislodging themselves with each thud, littering the floor around him. The three guards watched him from their posts each with varying expressions. One of them, a woman with slightly strange looking hair, was scowling at him with what the boy thought to be a permanent looking frown. He smiled at her playfully, winking as the woman's face darkened still. He knew it was irritating her, and to be quite honest, he couldn't care less.

Rufus Scrimgeour entered the small dusty room and stood with a stern expression on his face, visible only by the soft light that emanated from the small light bulb that hung from the ceiling. He was perplexed indeed. When he got the call he didn't quite believe it, for the amount of false alarms had urged him to become skeptical about ever finding him, if at all. Carefully staying hidden he observed the boy through the cover of darkness, yes, at certain moments Harry's return had seemed most unlikely.

Yet here he was.

The Minister left the room, casting a warning glare to the strange suited man that was placed at the back of the room, and the Minister left as he came.

In the cover of darkness…

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Dumbledore was worried, yes, most certainly worried. He was not expecting this… No, this was quite unexpected, and yet he found himself humming with excitement. He had not seen the boy in…well, since he was just a newborn child, how he must have changed.

The darkened room was filled with people, their sharp and hushed voices heightening in volume between the crackles of the open fire. Dumbledore however sat aside, his mind elsewhere, admiring Fawkes (his Pheonix) in a dazed but pleasant manner. A small layer of smoke hovered around the ceiling, increasing in size as the fire once again flashed emerald-green, with yet another arrival. Dumbledore stood calmly and greeted the short, slightly frumpy looking witch that had emerged from the fire with a polite nod, smiling as the witch adjusted her lopsided hat.

"Hmm-Hmm" she sounded, evidently trying to get as much attention as possible from the others in the room.

She made no move to greet Dumbledore, and strutted to the centre of the room, her head and shoulders held high, as if on some kind of parade. The witch was old, around 60, though you never could tell, at least not like you could with Muggles. She wore shiny black robes that matched her tall, pointy hat. Her face was sharp and chiseled, and perfectly complemented her evidently pompous attitude.

"I am here to inform you-" she shrilled, not looking at anyone in particular, "-That the Minister of Magic will be arriving shortly!"

This slightly over the top statement seemed to sprout an endless amount of happiness within the frumpy witch, her grotesque smile effectively conveying her assumption that she was (by-far) the most important person in the room, perhaps even, in the whole world.

Dumbledore who had watched the woman intently from the minute of her arrival merely smiled.

"Thank you Veretia" he softly whispered, before returning to his desk.

Veretia Tricksalonge was not a fan of Albus Dumbledore. To say the least. She had blamed him for every single wrong doing that had occurred in the world.

Ever.

A tree losing all its leaves (in the middle of winter) why of course, Albus Dumbledore was behind it. Her failing at the Auror test for the sixth time. Well, evidently Albus had something to do with it, in fact, every single negative event in her sorrowful little life had something to do with Dumbledore…she was sure of it.

She was an avid reader of the infamous Daily Prophet, the newspaper that took delight in reminding the Wizarding community (wherever possible) that it was Dumbledore who allowed Voldemort to obtain the Philosophers Stone, and it was Dumbledore who allowed The-Boy-Who-Lived to run away from his Muggle family, thus, removing all hope of ever destroying Voldemort and winning the war.

So it was no surprise that Veretia continued to ignore Dumbledore and wrinkle her nose at the sound of his voice, as if some foul stench was right under her pointy little nose. Swiveling on the spot, she strutted out of Dumbledore's office with the elegance of a hippopotamus, slamming the door behind her with a smash. Apparently Veretia did not want to breathe the same air as the man responsible for ruining her life.

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"WOULD YOU STOP DOING THAT?" shouted the female guard for the umpteenth time.

Harry immediately ceased tapping his boots and glared at the woman, his emerald-green eyes sparkling mischievously. Nymphadora Tonks was on edge. She had to admit that. There was something about this boy, something…dangerous.

He continued to watch her for several minutes, twiddling the large silver ring on his right hand in a circular motion. Tonks stared back, squinting repeatedly as the reflection of light from his ring flashed before her eyes as it spun. The male guard (that Harry presumed to be chronically shy, in turn meaning he was the weakest) tried desperately to stifle the tickle of a cough that erupted from his throat, and practically whimpered when Harry snapped his head toward his direction. The weakest were the easiest to unnerve, and usually provided the most reliable means of escape, something Harry was inexplicably good at…

Nymphadora shifted uneasily, as she ever-so-slightly edged backward, allowing the small comfort of darkness to envelope her. With an uneasy glance her small beady eyes flicked over to the table on the other side of the room, on which, the boy's wand sat. However as soon as she did it, she regretted it, or at least…she knew she would.

A sign of weakness.

Something she was trained never to give away.

Harry smiled once again and resumed his continual foot tapping, to which the female guard rolled her eyes. He knew he had them on edge. He enjoyed it.

The plastic looking door to the room opened with a soft click, followed by the high pitched moans of the rusty hinges. Everybody in the room looked up to see a tall woman enter. She wore white, plastic-looking robes that fitted neatly around her lean body. The high heels she was wearing propelled her to such a height that she had to duck her head slightly to get through a doorway. As she turned to close the door she nodded to the guards in the room, apparently this gesture made perfect sense to them as they all filed out the room, without so much as another glance to the boy. The door closed with another soft click, as the tall woman turned around. She was extremely fierce looking, with small beady eyes and long bony fingers. Her blonde hair was piled up above her head, and pinned with what looked like real butterflies. Her shoes created a soft pattering sound against the tiles as she walked over to the table and inspected the Harry's wand, a small smile etched across her bony features. Harry was examining his ring, apparently non-perplexed at the woman's behavior. With the flick of her wand, a small, wooden chair materialized opposite the young man, which she walked over to and sat in. Their faces were level now, and the woman could clearly make out the several marks that littered the boy's body. Scars, scratches, cuts and bruises littered the boys face, neck and arms (or what was visible of them). Though the one particular scar she was looking for was conveniently hidden amid a mass of hair.

The two stared at one another in a chilly silence, pierced occasionally by the soft buzzing of a presumably trapped insect, desperate to escape. The woman's wide, bulging eyes studied the boy intensely, as if trying to unveil something hidden, something lost. Evidently her search produced the wrong results as she abruptly sat back in her chair. She smiled politely, cocking her head from one side to other, squinting at the boy as she did so.

"So…" she drawled, crossing one bony leg over the other.

Harry watched her with one raised eyebrow, and leant forward, his elbows resting on his knees.

"Are you ready to co-operate yet?" she asked, with the slightest hint of frustration.

Harry leaned back in his chair, breathing in deeply, in apparent contemplation. He opened his mouth just slightly to speak, to which he could practically hear the woman's delight, breathed in just slightly… and then immediately shut it, with a wink. The woman's aged face contorted with numerous lines and crinkles, produced by the sharp frown that she was throwing in his direction.

Harry hadn't spoken once since his capture, and he didn't plan to. He knew they needed him, he would come to no harm, but he wasn't about to help them. The whispers of 'Just like James!' and 'Lily's eyes' erupted around the corridor with his entrance, and conveniently told him all he needed to know. He was still wanted, needed. Perhaps even talked about, though he could see no reason why. Yes, he was aware of 'the legend', he knew he had somehow stopped Voldemort, though he wasn't remotely interested in how, why or the consequences of that particular twist of fate. He had more pressing matters on his mind, and couldn't care less of what Voldemort was up to. He knew they wanted him for something, needed him. Why, he didn't know, but he was sure that would come to light in no time.

"You would do well to remember that you are in Ministry custody young man!" the woman almost screeched, obviously exasperated at the boys attitude.

She continued her examination of the boy, to which he consented, though silently. Everything was in order and where it was supposed to be, though Pimmelfry couldn't help but stare at the small black mark, concealed underneath the leather wristband he was wearing. Pimmelfry never had liked tattoos. Her last employer (before the Ministry) was littered with them. For some reason he had found the prospect of vandalizing his body something of a hobby, and as such, had covered it in numerous, god-awful, tattoos. She shuddered at the thought of the Red Dragon that covered most of his skin. Unlike Muggle tattoos (to which she was born, Muggles that is, not tattoos) this particular Dragon was not motionless. No, it moved, it had eyes and it traveled around the slightly chubby mans body, watching you wherever you went. Pimmelfry shuddered, pushing the thought out of her mind. The less she thought of that man the better, for she had a far more serious matter to attend to.

Harry Potter.

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Rufus Scrimgeour sat at his desk, shuffling and reshuffling his papers. His office bared a slight resemblance to a morgue, and contained that distinct sense of despair and depression, that was most definitely furthered by the obvious lack of light or air that was allowed to enter the room. The thick particles of dust that hovered about the room created a thick layer that had encased just about every piece of furniture, stationary and appliance in the room, and anything new that entered would, eventually, soon be encased. The toad-faced woman that sat across from him continued to eye him carefully, awaiting what he was about to say eagerly, while repeatedly dusting herself off.

"Oh I just don't know Dolores" he huffed, the wisps of despair that were present in his sigh all too apparent.

Dolores Umbridge was a fierce woman, much like her older sister Veretia. Although she like her sister, found Dumbledore's nonsensical attitude and sheer peculiarity to be befuddling at best, she didn't share the Ministers sense of panic whenever a situation arose that concerned him in any way, shape or form. In fact, since her visit to the school the year before she found Dumbledore to be far less of a 'threat' than her previous boss had made him out to be. However she had no reason to believe that the boy was any more of a danger than Dumbledore, and point blank refused to hear anything to the contrary, at least not without any hard evidence.

Scrimgeour shook his head solemnly stealing a nervous glance towards the closed office door.

"There's just something…wrong…no, not wrong…I just don't like it. Honestly, what do we really know about him? Well I'll tell you what we know. Nothing. Not a smidgen. Where he's been, what he's been doing, who he's been talking to. You-Know-Who's been back for 3 years now, for all we know they could be working together! Allies in darkness!"

Scrimgeour's voice was now raspy and strained as he held up a slightly shaking finger, pointing towards the door. His face had turned the shade of beetroot and his right hand clutched the various bits of paper so tight they had creased and contorted to the point of no return. He stood like this for a while before collapsing in a wreck on his chair.

"I mean, for gods sake, why would he come back, what could he possibly want. Is it revenge...You don't think he's breaking the deal do you?…No…how could he...I'm finished, finished!...If this gets out Dolores…well…I wouldn't like to think what'll happen, the Wizenmagot would have my head!"

Dolores Umbridge had seen a lot in her lifetime. Yes, she certainly had dealt with extreme circumstances, and a Minister of Magic on the verge of a physical and mental breakdown was not one of them. In fact this was such a usual occurrence (most likely due to working under none other than Cornelius Fudge, ex- Minister of Magic) that she merely smiled at Scrimgeour and continued to file her pointy pink nails with her wand.

She allowed him to roar and rant, straining his raspy little throat to it's limits before she let out (what was most likely intended to be) a sympathetic sigh, finally raising her bulging toad-like eyes towards the mere shell of a man that sat, crumpled before her.

"My dear Minister-" she started, her wide smile grotesquely leering through the small beam of light emanating from the light hanging above.

"-I'm sure that if the boy was allies with you-know-who, we'd know. You know me Minister-" she drawled, eyes bulging suggestively "I, as you know, am not a fan of delinquency, or rudeness, or anything else in that particular stratosphere of social etiquette, however, the boy could not possibly know, and if he does I'm sure The Association would be happy to-" she continued but was interrupted by three sharp taps at the door.

"Minister!" a shrill, shriek pierced through the door.

"Minister!"

Scrimgeour plodded towards the door, with a flick of his wand the protective wards removed themselves, as the door slowly opened to reveal the Minister's personal secretary.

"Yes, Miss Ward?" Scrimgeour sighed, looking positively exhausted.

The secretary beamed up towards the Minister, her face the picture of respect.

"Veretia has arrived at Hogwarts and Pimmelfry has finished examining the boy!" she chirped, unable to hide the death-glare she flung towards Umbridge, before swirling on her heel and trouncing of towards her desk.

The Minister of Magic was exhausted, anyone could see that. The destruction of Big Ben had sent him over the edge. The message had finally sunk in. He wasn't going to win this war.

And he knew it.

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"At this point I don't think it's necessary to find out exactly where he's been-" Dumbledore cut in, ignoring the desperate looking Minister who pattered beside him, like some kind of desperate dog.

"Yes but, we need to find out who he's been talking to. He knows of our world Dumbledore! He can perform advanced magic, too advanced. Way before his years! He neutralized three Aurors! Three!" Scrimgeour stuttered, his eyes bulging, not unlike his High Inquisitor, Dolores Umbridge.

The empty corridor in which they stood was deafeningly silent, the two of them stood alone, and yet they both stood observing the lake from the two large windows. The slight wind that had picked up over the course of the day was whistling in through the windows, and nudged slightly at Dumbledore's tired-looking beard. Although it was pretty clear that Dumbledore had heard what Scrimgeour had said, his face made no recognition to his whining, instead, he continued to stare apprehensively out toward the lake, as if an extremely disturbing event was occurring below.

"And what's more-" Scrimgeour continued, now facing Dumbledore.

"He hasn't spoken a word! He's hardly on our side Dumbledore!"

Dumbledore continued to nod knowingly, hoisting his half-moon spectacles higher on his crooked nose. It was most certainly unusual, and perhaps more importantly, worrying, to see Albus Dumbledore looking so apprehensive. He still made no move to face the Minister, and was now stroking his long silver beard in a rhythmical fashion.

"Yes…well, all we can do is wait…we can't force him Rufus. We need him to know we're on his side. Not question him to death." Dumbledore said, as Scrimgeour started to pace behind him.

Dumbledore continued to stare out the window, his face hidden by the natural darkness of the corridor. Yet this natural camouflage couldn't hide the distinct look of fear that was clouding his usually twinkling blue eyes.

Dumbledore was worried.

And rightly so…