Chapter One
A weak shadow was cast down the street of Privet Drive, so faint that one could hardly, if at all, distinguish it from the dark even asphalt that lay stretched against the neat, carefully proportioned world that was indeed Privet Drive. Harry noticed it. Yes, Harry noticed this bleak shiver of a shadow, not because he was staring off into the street attempting to see into a familiar place, for nothing could be familiar anymore. Nay, he noticed this little shadow because it was the closest thing to light, to hope and happiness that he had seen for quite some time. This tiny shadow represented the bleak amount of hope he had left, for only in the shadows could one ever truly become safe, could one ever hide from the darkness. Hiding only bought you time though, for it was inevitable that one day, most likely very soon, a blast of light would greet you, and then only death would be your companion. Harry mulled this thought over in his head, almost laughing at the strange reality that shadows brought you life, and light brought you death. He would have laughed, too, if he would not have been afraid of the consequences. For even issuing a faint chuckle could alert them to where you were, therefore escorting you to your death. Yes, Harry was afraid, terrified even. Not to be would have been insanity. Bravery was now only the act of foolish men, and even then was acted out timidly with hushed voices and broken whispers. Harry had always been foolish.
Harry rolled up his black robes to his shoulders and flicked his wand with mild disinterest. Nothing. Not even a spark could be coaxed out of his faithful magical companion. This was not surprising to Harry as he glanced down at his right hand and saw his broken wand lying between his fingers. It was now completely useless to him, and as far as he knew, beyond repair. The truth was, that it did not matter if the wand could be repaired or not, for even if it could, under today's circumstances, repairing a wand was risky business. Repairing a wand meant that you were going to use it. A wand was a dangerous weapon, and it could be used against those who marched through the streets, striking fear into the hearts of grown men. Harry remembered the last spell that he had cast with it, an identity spell. Now when Harry looked into the mirror he did not see a tall, well built handsome man of twenty two with a faint scar on his forehead, but rather a gangly mousy haired forty eight year old man. When someone called out to him, the name that rung from their lips was not Harry, it was Teddy Grindson. And when he looked into the eyes of his legal wife, it was not the eyes of the woman he loved, but rather a dark expanse of brown that one could drown in. Not that Harry minded, for in fact he knew her very well, he had gone to school with her in Hogwarts, Padma, he thought her name was, Padma Patil. Not that her real name mattered. Nothing real mattered. The only name which he could call her by was Sandra. She was now Sandra Grindson, and he was now her husband Teddy Grindson, mechanic.
Or at least that was who they were supposed to be. In fact, Harry, or Teddy, if you wish, lived for the monthly meetings held in secrecy in the muggle sewers which planned the end of the hateful reign of Voldemort. Not much could be done, except to hide those who continued to rebel. He sometimes wondered what had become of his old friends, Ron and Hermione, and of the girl he once loved, Ginny… He may still have loved her, he couldn't know, for it had been so long since he had seen her. He was not allowed to know what names they lived under, and so at every monthly meeting he scanned the faces of the people around him, hopelessly searching for some type of signal of who they were. There was never any such signal. No one in the meetings knew who the others were, save for an elderly old man who assigned them all new faces, new lives. This was the way to make things like they were so long ago, to build trust, you must deny it to everyone. For anyone could be made to confess, to rat out their friends. Everyone had a price, and Voldemort had a uncanny talent for discovering each person's particular fee.
Harry sighed and shook his head. Now was not the time for thought. There was never time for thought, least of all now. He took a few shuffled steps towards the house he had grown up in, the house of his Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon. What was once a carefully tended garden was now a tangled mass of leaves. The sorry remains of the house consisted of a few loose bricks stabbing from a broken wall. He had come to say good bye. His last living relatives had just been murdered, joining the ranks of countless others, including their son Dudley.