Chapter 1
Wippery Cottage, May 12th, 2025
Harry was yanked out of his meditation trance by a tug on the cottage's wards. An unspoken query to the wards tells him someone used one of his emergency portkeys, landing right in the middle of his living room. Six possibilities: Teddy, James, Albus, Lily, Rose or Hugo. Most likely, one of his four children, taking a shortcut. Growling, Harry puts on his glasses and picks up his wand, walking out shirtless and in flannel pants. It's half past nine in the evening.
The cottage is a modest two-hundred-year-old farmhouse, with rough stone and wood exterior and interior remodeled to a modern muggle style. Light woods and soft pastel colors. Lightly warded, in order not to interfere with electronics and a telling satellite dish on the roof. Situated on the slope of a wooded hill, surrounded by trees and a bit over a mile from the nearest neighbor.
It's ten paces between Harry's bedroom and the living room. Harry turns on the lights. Instantly, his heart is racing and he is moving fast. Rose Granger Weasley. His goddaughter, as precious as his own children. A short, trim brunette, with shoulder-length auburn hair, caramel eyes, a few Weasley freckles and a face resembling her mother's, except for a broad, generous mouth hailing from somewhere deeper in the gene pool. Also, a sharp, inquisitive mind, quick temper and an easy warm smile. Harry imagines she is a bit of what her mother would have been with a happy, safe childhood and a large family. Twenty-one, dating some nameless pureblood git and working as an unspeakable, researching Merlin-knows-what for the DoM.
He finds her lying of her side, face down. Covered in blood, cream silk blouse ripped, one shoe missing, no visible wand. She is whimpering softly.
Harry has spent a large part of his life in harm's way. His professional reflexes take over, banishing the gibbering panic to the back of his mind.
He kneels next to her and touches her forearm softly, pushing a bit. Following protocol. "Rose, are you all right?" Whimpering persists, no sign she heard him. He mumbles to himself. "Conscious and unresponsive." Cold, clammy skin. "Signs of shock. Keep her warm." A warming charm. Pulse fast and steady. "Scan for injuries." No sign of a source for the blood. "Diagnostic charms." Blood pressure normal. Magic core intact, impressive reserves. Minor curse residue, very familiar feel. A body-bind? Obviously broken finger. A small knot in the back of her head, probable minor concussion. Bruises on wrists, right shoulder and neck, signs of attempted strangling. He casts a specialized forensic charm. Huge relief. The blood is human, but not hers.
His heart slows down. No immediate danger. Saint Mungo's? A discreet friendly healer? No. Not without more data. Rough field healing, then, beginning with the finger. Given her intact magic, the bone would knit very fast, and probably incorrectly. That would later require vanishing the bone and a nasty course of skele-grow. Hold the hand up, broken finger clearly in view. Visualise the shape of the intact finger bone. Careful with wand motion and incantation. "Osseum reparo". A muffled snap and a yelp. Properly aligned finger. Satisfaction of casting delicate and somewhat unfamiliar magic successfully. The sharp pain brings Rose out of the funk.
"Ouch! That hurt!" She turns around and blinks at him, her eyes refusing to focus.
He shrugs and smiles tentatively. "Sorry." He positions himself behind her. "Just hold on for a bit." He casts the bruise healing spell on her neck and shoulder and sees the bruises fade away. "Hold your arms forward, darling." She obeys passively, tears falling quietly. He heals the bruises on her wrists and hands, vanishes her soiled clothes, casting a soft cleaning spell and conjuring a blanket. She is wearing a very sexy pale yellow muggle bra and knicker set, clearly from the fancy side. It looks nice on her. Clearly the night didn't end as intended.
She sounds like a little girl. "Thank you, Uncle Harry."
Fear receding, Harry hides his rapidly growing anger behind a professional and parental mask. Harry picks her up in a bridal carry. She snuggles close, sobbing softly. Deciding warmth trumps decorum, Harry carries her back to his own bed, setting her down on the slight depression created by his previously lying body and covers her.
A half-flask of calming draught. He sits next to her, running his fingers through her hair and humming an old Welsh tune that Andromeda used to sing to Teddy when he was fussing. She slowly relaxes, sniffling occasionally. He gives her about ten minutes and whispers. "Rose?"
It takes a couple of seconds, but she replies. "Yes?"
"I need to know what happened."
She appears to struggle with the words. "My boyfriend... Grant. Tried to end it... he cursed me, the turd. In the back. Tried to... tried to..." The words fail her and she starts sobbing again. Then the words he was expecting. "I killed him..."
The little wheels turn in Harry's head. Grant Montague. Pureblood heir, dark family. A couple of years older than Teddy. Handsome bloke. His death is a huge political grenade. Daughter of the Minister killing her boyfriend, heir of an important opposition family... damage control required. "I need a memory, luv."
She doesn't react. Harry uses his command tone, something Rose never heard him directing at her. "Unspeakable Targus!"
Her eyes widen and she stiffens. It's not just the unusual tone, tugging at her own training. She had no idea her uncle knew her handle. "Very well, sir."
He hands her the crystal vial and his wand. It's not the first time she handles his wand. He used to teach her little spells and prank charms with it, years before Hogwarts. Unbeknown to her parents, of course. Even after more than a decade of growth and learning, it still feels nice. Not like her own wand, which is a part of her, but a little like an old friend. They exchange a glance and a small smile over it and a bit of the horror of the night gets washed away. She draws the memory, from a few minutes before she knocked on Grant's door, until she used the emergency portkey. A bit more than an hour, altogether.
She hands him back the wand and the memory. "What are you going to do?"
He hands her another potion. "That depends." Before she can ask, he continues. "Dreamless sleep. And whatever is required."
She nods. There's no adult in her life she trusts as much. It amuses her briefly that, deep down, she doesn't see herself as an adult. Not that she would deserve a lot of trust, given her dismal taste in wizards...
She takes the potion and settles herself back in bed. The smell. Male sweat, citric shampoo and a whiff of fresh mowed grass. Harry's scent, nearly as familiar and just as comforting as her parent's. The owner of the scent bends over her and kisses her gently on the forehead. "Just sleep, kitten. I'll be back soon."
She grabs his wrist as he straightens up. "Be careful, uncle."
"Don't worry." His soft voice has an undertone of pure menace that fills her wounded heart with glee. "Uncle Harry will deal with the monsters."
She listens to the floo as Harry leaves. Fear and darkness come back and begin to overwhelm her again. She changes into her animal form. Somehow, she feels better equipped to deal with pain and fear. She squirms out of the covers and curls up on top of them. She yips, as faint smells and noises assault her fading consciousness. With her snout tucked under her furry tail, she falls into a deep, potion-induced sleep.
12 Grimmaulds Place
Harry tumbles out of the fireplace at the Black manor, with his usual graceless style. Silence. No one has lived in the crusty brownstone since shortly after Albus was born. Harry and the caretaker, a young house-elf named Eddie, are the only ones cleared on the ancient, deadly wards. Cleaned-up, most of the furniture and ugly décor removed, the place is left with a certain stark elegance. It's become Harry's magical workplace. The house has training space, well-appointed secure potion and enchanting labs, one of the best, and darkest, magical libraries in existence. Also, a it is safe place to meet unfriendly magicals. And a few other uses...
As Harry races up the stairs, he feels the magic of the old wards wrap around himself, protective of its Master. The study. Large dark-paneled room, with a single large window facing the yard. A heavy desk, leather chairs, a small bookcase with books, ledgers and a few interesting items. A large painting to one side, a stern-looking gray-haired older man with broad chest, chiseled features and an air of dangerous power. A proud-looking, black-haired woman with sharp, intelligent gray eyes and a subtle smile leans slightly against the man in a pose of easy familiarity. He does not belong in this room, but he doesn't care. The woman, however, is home. As usual, she breaks the silence, her voice high and crisp.
"Hello, Harry dear."
Harry smiles at the portrait as he goes around the desk, and then grimaces when he presses his finger to a thin hidden needle under the desk. "Dorea, Charlus."
Charlus speaks, his deep, gravelly voice almost felt, rather than heard. "Anything amiss?"
"Oh, yes. Definitely." Both figures frown. A black metal safe door appears next to the painting, which Harry opens as he speaks. "Have I mentioned my goddaughter, Rose?"
Dorea replies, frowning. "I don't think so."
"Her full name is Rose Granger Weasley. Eldest of Ronald and Hermione Weasley nee Granger. Twenty-one, former Claw. Works for the DoM." Harry picks up a small metal pensieve from the safe and places it on the desk. "She was attacked tonight. Apparently, she killed her boyfriend after assault and attempted rape." That gets an approving nod from Dorea.
"Her boyfriend?" Charlus asks after a small pause.
"Montague Heir." Charlus raises her eyebrows and Dorea breathes in sharply. Harry deposits the memory in the pensieve. "As Hermione is the Minister, coming up for re-election next year..."
A third voice is heard. "The potential for disruption is... significant." Harry raises his head to look at the third figure that appeared in the portrait. Tall, thin, balding, sharp features reminiscent of a raptor. Definite family resemblance to Dorea."
"Hello, Arcturus." The new figure in the painting places a hand on Dorea's shoulder and they exchange a fond smile. Charlus stern visage shows a little smirk. These three represent a covert alliance that was the only real counterweight to Dumbledore's political influence after the fall of Grindlewald. For three decades, Arcturus and Charlus were enemies in public and dear friends in private, both wrapped tight around Dorea's clever fingers. She was trained as a healer, and became an unspeakable after the war, trying her best to fade against the background. A discrete connection between two powerful factions. Harry considers the painting his greatest family treasure. He has enormous respect for the reservoir of smarts, low cunning, knowledge and sheer bloody mindness it embodies.
Harry dips his face into the pensieve.
" It's a bit after seven when she finishes revising her report and leaves. Stopping by her locker, she removes her gray cloak and changes into a little muggle ensemble. Black miniskirt, a cream silk top with just a hint of her lacy bra showing. Brushed hair and bit of blush and lipstick. She smiles at her reflection, clearly pleased with what she sees."
Harry takes his head out of the pensieve and frowns at it. "What is it?" Dorea asks.
"My goddaughter just gave me a little peep show." Dorea and Arcturus laugh, and Charlus frowns. "I wonder if it was on purpose."
Dorea's voice is amused. "Take it from a woman, Harry. Of course it was."
"Is she good looking?" Arcturus asks.
Harry scowls at the painting. "Yes."
Arcturus continues. "Powerful? Smart?"
Harry's scowl deepens. He is aware of the incestuous ways of the Black. "Yes and yes, damn it. Completely out of the question, though..."
Charlus interrupts with a slow drawl. "Potters marry for love."
Dorea turns to him, a bright smile on her face. "I know, dear." She points at Harry with her chin. "But this Potter rather bollixed it up last time."
Harry shakes his head. "Youthful mistake, auntie. Not planning on repeating it."
Arcturus points a finger at him. "You owe the Black a powerful heir or two, young Lord. And we care naught for love."
"Oh, hush!" She slaps Arcturus arm and turns to Harry. "You should bring her for a visit. I am intrigued."
Harry shakes his head and mumbles. "Maybe when hell freezes over." After glaring at the painting again, he dives back into the pensieve.
"... she apparates from outside the Ministry to a little nook on a brick wall, hidden by a notice-me-not ward. A hundred paces down the street is the entrance to a modern stone-and-glass building. The doorman buzzes her in and she takes the elevator to the top floor.
A single light wood door at the end of the hallway. A soft knock, and the door opens. Grant is wearing flannel tan pants and a Magpies jersey, a broad smile on his face. He tries to kiss her, but she wiggles past him, entering the flat.
It's a posh muggle place, all light wood and glass, mood lights, a large screen TV covering a wall, showing a muted basketball game. White leather couches, a glass dinner table. An open bottle of wine and a half-full glass of red on top of the table.
The man is still smiling, but he can sense something is off. "Anything wrong?"
She saunters to the large sofa and sits down. "Oh, you know... nothing much. Long week at work."
"Glass of wine?"
"Sure." She looks a little guarded, but also playful and seductive. Harry has a hard time reading her intentions from her body language. She reminds him a little of Tonks, of all people.
He pours and hands her a glass, which she sips. "What about something to eat?"
"What do you have in mind?"
"Something light. Bread, cheese, some fruit..." She nods and he goes about assembling their dinner. Warming charm for the bread. A half-eaten tray of cheeses from the icebox. Basket of fruit. A few walnuts. They eat in silence, until he decides to talk again. "What's wrong, darling?"
She sips a bit of wine and gives him a serious look. "We should talk."
A slight bit of annoyance shows in his face, quickly buried. "Aren't we talking?"
She opens and closes her mouth. "Ahh, right." He gestures for her to move on. "How long has it been?"
He frowns and thinks a bit. "About three months, I would say." He turns to her, his frown deepening. "So?"
"It's not working."
He looks shocked, as if this was the last thing he was expecting. A touch of irritation shows in his voice and demeanor. "What do you mean not working?"
"Well..."
He cuts her off, raising his voice. "It's working just fine for me."
"I'm sorry." She tries to defuse the situation with a soft smile, but that only drives the man off the deep end.
"You're a bloody slut! A fucking bloody blood-traitor slut!" He gets up and starts to move towards her, hands balled into fists. She glances at the door, and shoots her wand out of her holster. When he get to three feet of her, she is up, standing at the balls of her feet and her wand is right between them, its tip glowing red.
She speaks in a hard edged whisper. "Stand back."
He attempts to grab her wand. With a lightning fast motion, she casts silently. A light banishing, pushing him a few feet back and making him fall sitting on the floor. The pain seems to calm him down a bit. Rose makes another attempt at appeasement. "There is nobody else, Grant." He keeps staring, so she continues. "We tried. Three months, you say. You're just not the one..."
His voice acquires a childish whine."No, Rose. Please! Don't do this... please..."
She shakes her head, a little sad. "It's over."
He swallows what he was going to say next and follows her with his eyes, as she grabs her purse and heads for the door. She looks at his defeated expression and takes a lighter tone. "Goodbye, Grant."
All it takes is a second. She turns her back on him to grab the doorknob, and the expression of defeat turns into a mask of hate. He grabs his wand from somewhere and casts a silent incarcerous. Rose feels something is wrong and begins to dodge, but it's too little, too late. The ropes wrap around her torso and legs, and she falls heavily. She manages to turn around, watching the wizard approach her, wand in hand. He bends down, picks up her wand and throws it to a corner. She sets her fear aside and speaks in a cold tone. "Think, Grant, think!. You don't want to do this."
"And why is that, mudblood slut? Because your mudblood mother is the Minister? Should I be afraid of your blood-traitor father? Maybe the whole pathetic Weasley clan?"
She growls, her temper finally snapping."No. Just one Weasley." Her eyes gleam with power, yellow topazes in a predator's glare. She stops struggling against the ropes and justs stares at him.
The evil laughter sounds a little forced, trying to hide his fear. "I'm going to teach you a lesson." He grabs a knife from the kitchen counter and approaches Rose. Rose follows his with his eyes, unblinking concentration without fear. He slaps her face, hard and uses the knife to cut the ropes from her legs. He kneels, forcing her legs open and holding the knife near her neck. A moment of distraction, as he opens his zipper is enough. She transforms, biting the forearm holding the knife all the way to the bone, shaking her head to tear muscle and tendon.
Grant screams and pulls back, letting go of the knife.
Seeing her changed for the first time, Harry can't avoid a smile. It suits her. Unfortunately, her animagus is built for agility, not strength.
The wizard tries to shake her loose, while screaming and looking for the knife. She lets go of his arm and lunges for his neck. Before she connects, he shoves her away, and she yips, landing on her side a few feet away.
She changes back and he jumps her. His weight brings her down. Falling, she hits her head hard on the floor. A moment of darkness and his hands are around her neck, choking her. His weight pinning her to the floor. She struggles. She is nearly passing out when her hand finds his injured forearm and grabs. Hard. He screams, and one hand lets go. She bats the other hand away and leans forward as hard as she can. Her forehead hits his nose with a crunching sound. He's momentarily blinded by pain. The knife, a foot from her right hand. A wandless summons. Knife in hand, a swipe, right to left. Blood drenches her face and body. Screams turn to gurgling. She pushes him away, nearly passing out. Open the door. Step outside. Emergency portkey activates.
Harry pulls out of the pensieve, and the three figures stare at him, looking anxious. Harry sits down and breathes in-and-out, trying to quench his adrenaline rush. Anger and fear for his Rose. And newfound respect. He knows she has a fierce spirit. But what he saw goes well beyond that. Harry can recognize a true fighter. Like himself, and very few others he's known. Someone who refuses to go quietly into the night.
Harry describes the memory, clearly and concisely. Arcturus, nodding his head in approval, is the first to comment. "A worthy witch, grandson. And a fox animagus! Canine forms are common among the Black. Is she of the blood?"
Harry thinks for a second. "She's a great-granddaughter of Cedrelia."
"A Weasley. Of course." Dorea steeples her hands. "Damage control?"
Charlus looks at Harry. "What happens if nothing is done?"
Harry breathes in and out, getting his anger under control. "The body will be found in the next few days. His relationship with Rose is well-known, so she will get pulled in. A media circus and a political crisis. The pureblood opposition to her mother's government will use this to try to bring her down. Rose will be brought to trial, and her actions will be painted with the darkest possible colors. Obvious self-defense will become malicious provocation and conspiracy to end an important pureblood line. Given enough pressure and a little cash, she may be acquitted, but that outcome is by no means certain. Hermione's government is effectively neutered, her chances for reelection gone and the post-war modernization reforms will be in severe jeopardy."
Silence ensues, broken a few seconds later by Arcturus. "So, a complete scrubbing?"
"I believe the same scenario would play out, just slower. In a week, the Goblins would inform the Montagues of the death of their Heir Apparent. Public clamor, as the Darks try to capitalize on the mystery and Rose's relationship. Eventually they will force her interrogation."
Dorea whispers. "Obliviation?"
Harry shakes his head. "Not easy in an unspeakable."
Dorea voices their surprise. "Oh!"
Harry smiles. "I know. She's very talented."
Charlus asks. "Claw, right?"
"Yes." After replying to Charlus, Harry continues. "Besides, obliviating strongly traumatic events is known to lead to problems, including depression, madness and suicide." The emotional trauma is still there, but you're left no way to dealing with it and moving on. There is absolutely no way Harry is putting Rose through that.
"What if the girl disappears?" Arcturus adds.
Harry's heart skips a beat. "That should work."
Charlus nods. "There would still be noise, though."
Harry slumps on his chair. "Sure. But without a body, the focus will be on searching for a missing, possibly kidnapped woman. It completely changes the game." They all nod, confirming their agreement. He gets up. "Thank you for your help. I'll take care of the clean-up and tomorrow I'll go by Gringotts to make arrangements for her... disappearance."
Harry shakes his head in dismay. He knows this is going to cause enormous distress to a lot of people he loves. But it looks like the least bad of very messy collection of choices. As he reaches for the door, Dorea's voice breaks the moment. "Just a second, Harry."
He turns back and stares at her. A small smile and a gleam in her eyes. Both Arcturus and Charlus look adoringly at her, and Harry catches a glimpse of what made Charlus fall madly for the woman. "What?"
"Was the nasty boy dead when she left?"
Harry is taken aback by the seemingly irrelevant question. The boy probably drowned in his own blood a couple of minutes after she left. He frowns and notices both men frowning too. "No." Dorea looks very pleased with herself, but stays quiet. Little wheels spin inside Harry's mind, until something clicks and he laughs. "Fuck."
Dorea smirks. "Ten points to Griffindor."
"You're a bloody genius, great-aunt."
"I suspected it might yet become useful."
Charlus knows, so he looks smug, and Arcturus is annoyed. "Could someone explain, please?"
Harry looks at Arcturus. "Well..."
Atrium, Ministry of Magic.
Harry stands near the fountain, looking like a young office worker waiting for someone. A few late workers come out of the elevators and walk fast towards the floos. Finally he spots Rose, between a stern-looking witch and a large auror. A quick and dirty trace spell on her left shoe. Harry follows her through the floo, a few steps behind her. They arrive at the Cauldron in a cloud of soot. Despite his disguised appearance, masked scent and magic, she stops and turns around, briefly staring at him with suspicion. Harry's respect for her instincts rises a bit more, at the same time as he worries for the integrity of the timeline.
Thankfully, she shrugs and walks outside, towards the apparition point. Harry shuffles silently after her, making sure a couple of people stay between himself and Rose. She apparates away and he stands for a few seconds, seeking the trace. Between the dim pensieve image of her destination, and the trace, Harry manages to fix her destination in his mind. A squeeze, and he pops up on a dark alley, just in time to hear her footsteps moving away. He covers himself with the invisibility cloak, silences his steps and walks after her. He turns the corner and sees her retreating back, twenty steps ahead of him. He cancels the trace and follows her inside the building. After she takes the elevator to the top floor, Harry waits. A few minutes later the elevator goes up, and then comes down with a well-dressed young couple inside. Harry squeezes in as they leave and casts a special electronics confusion spell at the video camera inside. Afterwards, he pushes the top floor button and rides the contraption up.
The elevator opens on a darkened hallway, with a single light wood door to the left. Detection spells reveal a simple set of wards. Apparition and portkey suppression plus an aggressive intent-sensitive anti-intruder overlay. Harry brings out a tiny, densely inscribed wardstone and, after dampening the wards with a draining spell, sticks the new wardstone to the door. It adds a second overlay, supressing completely his own magical presence around the apartment. He then charges back the wards and stands in a corner, waiting.
Muffled noises, screaming, crashing, and Rose, covered in blood, flings the door open. She steps out, grabs her portkey, and, with a whispered word, disappears.
Harry puts the cloak away and moves fast. Step inside, close the door and kneel next to the dying garbage. Grant is moving erratically, eyes clamped shut and a gurgling noise coming out of his slashed throat. Harry pulls out the deathstick. He begins with an overpowered 'episkey' to close the slash, followed by a medical switching spell that exchanges the content of his lungs with air. A splash of blood tells Harry he did something right, the result of a quick-and-dirty healing lesson by Dorea. The trash opens his eyes, fear and anger clearly showing. He croaks, trying to speak, but no words come out. He tries to stand up. Harry casts a light stunner and the garbage-who-lived goes to sleep.
Harry heals the arm bite and the bruises. He then goes around the apartment, cleaning, fixing furniture and collecting Rose's purse, shoe and wand. He wakes up the trash, who again tries to get up and speak. Harry pushes him down and hits him with legillimency. Like most pureblood heirs, he's got defenses, but nothing Harry can't bypass. Four previous rapes, before today's attempt. No surprise, actually. Rapists tend to be serial offenders. A sociopath, polished and clever, hiding the morals of a sewer rat. A few extra tidbits of interest, and Harry ends the mind probe, obliviating the rape, a few details about his relationship with Rose and implanting a little compulsion.
A small flask with a purple potion, dumped down the turd's gullet. A quiet spell right between his legs. Potion and spell straight from the Black family grimoire. Death was just a bit too kind for him. A hidden panel on a wall. A drop of turd's blood to open it. Inside, galleons, dark objects and, on top, a stack of pictures. Three of them feature his Rose. Innocent, clever and beautiful Rose. Harry examines them. Maybe not so innocent after all.
Harry pretends professional objectivity. First one, she is tied to a large wooden 'X', gagged, squirming. He notices a tiny tattoo right above and to the left of her mons. Harry concentrates, performs a slight change of eye geometry for magnification. His mouth goes dry. The Swilo rune. He wonders at which age she got it. Next, topless, snogging with another girl. The other girl looks vaguely familiar. The last picture brings out an involuntary gasp. Lying on a couch, wearing just the bottom of a white string bikini, holding her head with one hand, with her other arm lightly draped along her body. Looking at someone off the picture and smiling seductively, a mischievous come hither glint in her eyes. Despite the relative innocence of the pose, it's the only picture that is truly erotic. The others are all flat, uninspiring. Plain blackmail material.
Fire, and the pictures are ash. The last picture imprints itself in Harry's mind. The girl in the picture seems so vibrant, so brilliantly alive. So damn sexy. Harry shakes his head, trying to clear his thoughts. Ron and Hermione's Rose. A sliver of regret. Keeping it would have been a mistake. For sure.
Lights off, Garbage-who-will-regret-living sitting on a chair, half a glass of firewhisky in his hand. Half a bottle down his throat. Enough to make the memory of the night even hazier and further hiding Harry's handiwork.
A light sleep spell, good for a few minutes. Softly closed door. Intrusion wards removed. One advantage of the deathstick is that it further confuses his magical signature. Apparition, First to the manor, to drop off things and report. Then back home.
At the cottage, the weight of the evening finally is allowed to fall on Harry's shoulder. His magic swirls around, and the wizard screams, letting go of the clamps on his anger, his fear and his confusion. Objects tremble and windows rattle. A sleeping fox twitches, bloody dreams of rending pray turning quieter. The fox knows the screaming voice and the swirling magic are not a threat. Harry does something he hasn't done in a long, long time. He sits down on his sofa, elbows on his knees, hands holding his head. And he cries.