Disclaimer: ... still applies, thank you very much.

Author's Notes: This chapter disappointed me extremely. Which is horrible, actually, considering I wrote it. But oh well. I'm too busy thinking about seeing the movie again to complain to myself about me.

You can, though! Just review, and yell at me! I'm sure I deserve it, lol.

(Oh, by the way,Niamhi -- if you're still interested in beta'ing for me, let me know. I'd really appreciate it, if you were. My contact info's in my user-profile-thingamabobber-ish-ness, if you need it.)

And, finally, I love all of my reviewers. You make me happy, you really do.

o.o.o.o

Bodily Bits And Pieces

Alone in his office two days after the memorial service, Albus Dumbledore reflected on the disastrous events of the last few weeks. Harry's death was so sudden, so unexpected, it had left Albus in a state of shock that lasted too many days. As he saw it, he'd been blind to things he should have considered before anything else. Looking back now, a startling and seemingly impossible conclusion leapt out.

'Harry, Harry,' Albus sighed, passing a hand over his eyes lightly.

Though he had suspicions -- and suspicions that were growing rapidly, at that -- he said nothing of them to anyone, aside from one brief mention to Minerva that he now regretted. If the full scope of his suspicions panned out, he could have done a great deal of damage with that one conversation.

There were, he felt, two possibilities regarding such strategic purchase of the books he'd been keeping track of. One, was that Voldemort (or an agent on that side) wished to find out how much of his history the general public could possess themselves of. Or two, someone was researching the Potters and their involvement in all wars against Dark Wizards over the last century.

Albus, personally, hoped to high heaven that it was the latter of the two. And he would dearly love to be right about who that person was.

'Harry, Harry,' he repeated heavily.

When Harry's letters that he was being treated all right had turned into curt notes that contained nothing but the minimum information required to assure the Order that he was fine... It was unlike Harry. Albus felt sure he should have investigated that.

But he hadn't. He'd left the boy alone, thinking it best to give him space that, perhaps, looking back, he had not needed.

In all his life, Albus had made very few things which he would truly call mistakes. There had been some, of course, but hardly many. His only problem was that they all seemed to be terrible and happen in groups. As someone had once pointed out to him...

o.o.o.o

Pensive, filled with a chill in his bones that he couldn't get rid of, Harry was falling slowly into the memory of knowledge he had thought he did not want. Fifty or five years ago, there had been only one book mentioning Potters that he could get his hands on. He had memorised that passage, that mention of his family.

As put down by Tristan Potter in the early days -- before The Fall, when Wizarding Briton still had a throne and a king to sit on it -- the Potter Code of Honour demanded retribution against those that impugned the name of the great House, vengeance on those that betrayed it, and death to those that defied it.

When the king was lost, the New Order came about, and they had first started to hide themselves from Muggles, Sebastian Potter had revised the Code, to better sit with a government that cared not at all for the quarrels of former nobles. Outright talk of death and revenge was removed, but still it remained, smoldering in the hearts of heirs to the line for generations...

Older than most and twice as powerful, since the Golden Years, and before. The Potter blood had been preserved well, pure and strong. The Potters never felt the need to interbreed, marry cousin with cousin, because though they were a proud family they ascribed not to prejudice -- and were always rather gifted than plentiful, numbering few.

Once, in a millennia, had there been enough Potters for circumstances to encourage a bound that transcended familial love and soared into romance. The tale of Roselyna and Aloquacious Potter is one of --

Harry hadn't been interested in that part, truthfully. A few words on, it had turned into the lovey-dovey stuff that still made him uncomfortable. He read through it once, but after that always skipped ahead, to where Aloquacious had been captured by the rival aristocrat in love with Roselyna...

Rusisi Black had committed a dangerous act of disrespect toward the House of Potter. In attempting to win, through subterfuge, Roselyna as his second wife, and kidnapping the only son of the head of that great house, he had woken a sleeping monster. This mistake set in motion events which would, ultimately, lead to his death.

Trapped in Rusisi's dungeon, alone and in pain, a serpent was slowly twitching to life. Aloquacious did not know anything of the history of his family Code, but he did not need to. His soul followed the Code where his mind did not know to, his power grew with the reality of an unfair imprisonment which the House of Potter could not tolerate.

The battle-spirit of his ancestors was awakening in him.

Harry had since been learning some rather surprising details of his family's involvement in history of the most brutal kind; war. He was beginning to realise that his destiny had more to do with who he truly was than with anything a crackpot Seer said. All that scared him.

But nothing scared him more than the things Aloquacious's tale made him see in himself.

The battle-spirit of his ancestors was awakening in him.

'Lad... lad,' snapped Cain, accompanying his words with a sharp slap to the back of the head that broke Harry from his musings. Harry looked up and made a questioning noise.

In a tone which suggested he was repeating something, Cain said, 'Your lunch is cold, and it's past time you started today's practice. What are you doing?'

Sheepish, Harry stood up from the table. He absently began levitating his dishes to the sink, not bothering with his wand or his voice. 'Oh. I must have got lost. That's all.'

'No, don't bother apologizing,' snorted Cain, rolling his eyes very childishly. 'Really, lad, how many times do I have to tell you? Your mind is a dangerous place. You can't just go wandering about in it on your own.'

This seemed to rub a long-standing sore spot for the younger man. Harry glared at his mentor and considered voicing his anger. But after a brief struggle with himself he thought better of it, and left the room without responding to Cain.

'Hey,' Cain exclaimed, following him into the sitting area of their "modified" hotel room. 'Don't walk away from me, lad.'

Abruptly, Harry whirled around to face his mentor. He looked quite peeved. 'Pardon? I must have missed that, because for a second I thought you told me not to walk away from you.'

'That's what I said,' returned Cain with a slight frown, wary and confused.

'When are you going to stop treating me like a child?' Harry demanded, his voice rising. Things around him were beginning to shake -- even the sofa, which was actually looking somewhat like an itchy, angry caterpillar. 'When, damn it? I've been learning from you for six years, Cain. You have never respected me as an equal -- which you know I am. Hell, you've never even told me your real name!'

Cain looked torn. There was hurt in his eyes, but only anger in his voice. 'Why, you ungrateful little --' he began almost calmly, taking a step closer to the seething young man.

Harry cut him off with a short, bitter laugh. 'Don't, Cain, don't you dare. I've been called ungrateful before; it wasn't true then, and it isn't true now,' he declared firmly. There was a pause, and the shaking of the furniture intensified. Harry lowered his voice and went on, 'I've killed people for you. If that's ingratitude, then I might as well roll over and go back to being a Muggle, because I will never be what you call grateful.'

'Lad...'

'I'm going to take a nap, Cain.'

o.o.o.o

'Morning, Hermione,' Ron proclaimed almost cheerfully as he took a seat across the table from her. Glancing up, Hermione answered him blandly, but added a half-smile.

It was the closest either teen had come to happiness since Harry died. Molly felt some of her worry over their upcoming separation ease. These two had recovered enough to be fine apart for a few weeks.

She still dreaded bringing it up with them, of course. For, in their near-happiness, the two seemed to have forgotten that Hermione was returning to her parents in just a few hours.

Ginny trotted down the stairs, looking rather detached. Ron and Hermione spared her barely a glance. If she noticed this neglect, it didn't show. In fact, she seemed not to notice her brother and her friend at all. She sat down and began eating almost mechanically.

Her eyes were downcast, so that the others couldn't see the shadows within.

Molly called a good morning to her daughter and it was answered with a grunt. Hurmphing gently, Molly chose not to upbraid her child for this disrespect, given the circumstances.

Given the circumstances... There was a lot Molly would chose not to do.

Ron and Hermione had engaged in a conversation that they were carrying out in low, furtive voices. Every few seconds, their eyes would dart around the kitchen, as if they expected someone to jump out and start yelling (or, perhaps, hexing).

'Hermione,' called Molly from the stove, seemingly oblivious of this. 'Dear, are you all packed?'

Glass of pumpkin juice halfway to her mouth, Hermione froze. 'Packed?' she queried in a startled voice.

'Yes, dear,' Molly replied, bustling over with another plate of eggs. Some of these she dropped onto Ginny's plate, the rest she set on the table by Ron's elbow. 'You're going home today, don't you remember?'

Hermione's mouth fell in a little 'o' of surprise, while Ron gaped at his mother.

'Home?' he cried, his voice surprisingly distraught. He half-stood from his chair, his fists clenched. 'You can't send her home.'

'Ron,' Molly cried sharply, and that was all she needed to say.

Ron sank back into his seat, looking forlorn.

'I don't want to go home,' whispered Hermione hopelessly. Even so, her tone suggested she was already resigned to the inevitable. (It was only a few weeks to the start of term, after all. She could wait that long; she was patient.)

'You had probably better,' Ron whispered, staring at his plate as if he couldn't bare to look at anything else. But he smiled, thinking of when they'd be at school again, and he could have Hermione, if not to himself, then at least mostly so.

Giving a satisfied nod, since neither of the teenagers was going to protest too much, Molly went back to the stove.

None of them noticed the fleeting, contemptuous glance Ginny shot Hermione before getting up and leaving the kitchen quickly.

The evilness currently residing in the poor girl's mind heartily disapproved of teenage heartache and loneliness. Besides, it had plans for the girl's body. With Harry Potter's aunt out of the way, the next on the list was the family of the boy's friend. Not even Dumbledore could protect the Weasley's against treachery from one of their own.

In her heart, Ginny cried.

o.o.o.o

Outside, in a park not far away from St. Mungo's, a small delegation of Order members stood in horrified silence. Charlie leaned against a tree, one hand covering his eyes, like he'd wanted to through the whole of their brief visit. Kinglsey Shacklebolt and Emmeline Vance stood not far away, silent and grave.

Dumbledore had sent the wizards and witch to check on the conditions of Harry's two remaining relatives, and -- despite all being familiar with the situations of Frank and Alice Longbottom -- they were all unsettled after seeing the effects of Muggle over-exposure to the Cruciatus curse.

Brain damage was only the greatest of the Dursleys' worries; by no means the only worry. The two large Muggles looked deformed, the curses having grossly mutilated their bodies, beyond the delegation's power to properly express.

Vernon, who'd been hit first, no longer had hands or feet... only gnarled stumps at the end of his limbs. His face, likewise, was not recognizable as belonging to a human, immense scarring covering it all.

Like his father, Dudley was without certain key appendages. Unlike Vernon, however, the boy's face was more or less how it should have been. That is, if you ignored that his eyes had been burnt out by the magic surging through his unprepared system. It was possible that most of his brain had been fried, as well, but St. Mungo's physicians were uncertain on that point.

But it wasn't like either of the two had any functioning brain cells left, anyway.