Wippery Cottage, May 13th, 2025.

Thought arises from a blanket of darkness. Safety... warmth... the sweet scent of a powerful alpha. Memories slowly come back. Pain, confusion, anger, sadness... Eyes open. Grant! Damn that miserable fucker! Shake her head, try to clear it. Faint noises... birds, wind on window. Change form. Pain! Pain everywhere. Splitting headache, centered at the back. Naked. What happened to her clothes? Awful body stench. The full weight of the previous night hits. She curls in and sobs. Minutes pass. Try to gather herself. Get up and stagger to the bathroom. Throw up, just acid and bile, then dry heaves. No wand. Wash her mouth. Shower, cold. Cold! Fuck! Wash away stench. His towel. Again, his smell. Old leather, citrus aftershave, pine needles. His closet. An old sports jersey. Utah Jazz? What? Sounds like a dark incantation. Blue and gold, nice colors, just about big enough for modesty. Sit. Grief and anger. The fallout hits her, and bile rises again. She swallows it, and changes back to furry. Let the fox handle it. The simple mind of the predator. Keep the human mess at the back of her head. For now.

He wakes up with a warm, raspy wetness on his hand. He opens his eyes slowly, knowing right away he hasn't slept enough. A furry head nudges his hand, issuing a tiny little growl. He sits up a bit, caressing the incredibly soft, silky fur on her head and ears. Harry summons his glasses. She looks bigger than he expected. About the size of a beagle, but with lighter build, longer body and shorter legs. Weasley russet on top, creamy white on the bottom, with black accents at the tips of the ears, tail and black socks on her legs. A long snout and, like any animagus, Rose's amber eyes, but with elongated vertical pupils. A thick furry tail half as long as the rest of her body. Gorgeous creature.

Harry has an odd way with animals, like he thinks of them as equals. Rose is not used to dealing with humans in her fox form, but she feels the acceptance in Harry's manner and voice. The fox responds with instinctive trust. "You hungry?" She shakes her head. "Thirsty?" This time she nods. Harry gets up, walks to the kitchen and sets down a bowl of fresh water. She drinks fast and sloppily, and, once she is done, she pads to the front door and scratches.

Harry worries, but just for a second. Almost anything that can hurt a fox her size, she can easily outrun. He opens the door and she takes off running across the tall grass. In a few seconds, she disappears into the woods.

Harry goes about his routine. Katas outside, under the shade of a centenary oak. A quick shower and breakfast. Then house chores. Kitchen clean-up. Vaccuming. Open windows. A whisper of colonial country music from the built-in speakers. Laundry. Lunch. It's past two, and Harry is reading an old science-fiction novel when he hears a strange scream, followed soon by scratching at the door.

She pads in, rubbing herself againt his leg. "So, was the hunt successful?"

She gives him a haughty glare that can only mean "What do you think?" Harry snickers, as the fox' glare mimics closely Hermione's death stare when she feels he is being thick.

"What was that scream?"

Jaws open wide, and Rose treats him to an indoor version of the same sound. A thin, inhuman screech, a bit like a banshee's. Harry is a bit shocked. "Right. A fox is not a dog!" A quick guess, borne of a lifetime of animal observation and long lazy hours chatting with Luna Scamander and her husband. "A mating call?"

She looks a little shifty. A mating call indeed. She is perfectly aware to whom she was calling.

Harry sets his book aside, folding a page corner to mark his place. She growls. "Use a marker!" She can just about hear her mother's anger. With a dirty look of disapproval, she jumps on the couch. She changes, and instantly, the whole of last night's events falls on her like an ACME anvil. A second later Harry's lap is filled with a sobbing brunette, her face pushed tightly onto his chest.

Harry tries to help, holding her close, murmuring in her ear."It's fine, Rosebud. You're safe... everything is fine..."

A few minutes later, and the sobbing shows no signs of stopping. Harry is both amused and horrified, as his body begins to react to the breasts crushed against his chest, the shapely naked bottom rubbing against him and the long legs tucked next to him. That damn picture playing tricks on his mind. Harry has had ample experience with curbing inappropriate responses. First he thinks of Vernon and Petunia. Naked and... but that's not enough. Then Snape. And Dumbledore. Snape on Dumbledore's wrinkly arse. Rose wiggles, and... it's not enough. The nuclear option. Umbridge. Naked. Playing with herself. Smiling... yeah. He feels the tightness between his legs ease up. That still does it.

Harry can't avoid a little amusement at his quandary. "So, 'favorite niece' acquires a whole new meaning." She appears unaware of the position they find themselves, but he suspects that, despite her distress, she knows.

Harry breathes in and out slowly. He knows she is physically fine, but that her mental state requires some care. "Let's try to be objective. For a law enforcement officer, a situation like yesterday's warrants leave from active duty, psych evaluation and, if necessary, treatment. On one hand, she's young and inexperienced. On the other, she's a predator animagus. What's more, the situation yesterday was not only very harsh, but personal. On top of it, discretion is imperative." Harry frowns. "Conclusion? Watch and evaluate. Help her decompress. Send her to a very discrete mind healer if needed. Hermione must be told something. And, for all that's bloody holy, keep the dirty thoughts to yourself."

She quiets down, and seems to sleep for a moment. She opens her eyes. The shirt was hiked up to her waist. She jumps up, blushing and pulling the shirt down. Her voice cracks. "I'm so sorry..."

Harry smiles softly at her. "No harm done." He gets up and hugs her. He was always touchy-feely with her, maybe even more than with his own children. Possibly trying to compensate for Hermione's somewhat stiff mothering and Ron's scattered self-involvement. He sighs. Despite all her faults, Ginny never had any problem in showering their chidren with physical affection. Ginny is definitely Molly Weasley to Hermione's Emma Granger...

He hands her her wand. She feels the faint shiver of magic when she touches it. "Chestnut, phoenix tail feather, twelve and a half inches, springy. Excellent for charms and defense." She frowns. Until that moment she hadn't realized Harry would have done something with the crime scene. But of course. Someone had to clean up that awful mess...

"There's a clean dress on top of the bed. Your underthings are clean and dry on top of it. The rest of your clothes were a total loss." She stares at him, a bit lost. He smiles and speaks softly. "Go make yourself presentable. We need to talk."

She takes a quick shower. A brand new toothbrush and a bit of minty muggle toothpaste gets rid of the taste of raw squirrel and dirt. Not that she minds raw squirrel... She stares at the dress. A simple white, cotton, flat straps with lace finish, a hint of cleavage, small red flower print, a little cinched under the chest, hemmed in lace right above the knees. Perfect fit. A faint lavender scent. A little old-fashioned, very girly, very muggle, cute as hell. Something she would never choose for herself. She couldn't see either Aunt Ginny or Lily using it. She clucks to herself. Tomboy Weasley girls, all of them. Except the half-frenchie cousins, of course. She can easily picture Vic or Nicky wearing it.

A mouthwatering smell brings her back the kitchen. To a conversation she would give anything not to have. Her mind circles around, re-living last night's events. "Ending a relationship by slitting her boyfriend's throat. That's one for the grimoire." Killing aside, she is slowly realizing the massive shitstorm last night's events will cause.

Harry is arranging hot crumpets on a serving dish. There's also tea, honey, milk, butter and jam, all neatily placed on the breakfast table, together with a small vase and a pretty red namesake. She sits, taking her time to smell the namesake. Her spirits lift a bit."Thank you."

Harry sits in front of her, and serves the tea. She sips, and the ritual calms her nerves enough to speak. "I'm sorry. I've been such an utter idiot..."

Harry raises his hand to stop her. "Wait." She closes her mouth and purses her lips. "First of all, he's not dead."

In five seconds, her face goes from disbelief, to astonishment to a stone countenance. Harry sits back and lets her wheels spin. Long practice in dealing with smart Grangers. A minute later, she proves, yet again, she's her mother's daughter. "A time-turner?"

Harry stares levelly at her for a few seconds and then smiles broadly. "Twenty points to Ravenclaw."

She smiles back, a substantial part of the weight on her shoulders disappearing like morning mist. "That changes things."

"Yes."

"Everybody says they are all gone." She pauses. "Family vault?"

Harry nods. "Family member was in the team developing time-turners. Stole a prototype."

A frown, and the tip of a pink tongue on pursed lips. There's a glimpse of mischief in her curiosity that reminds him of her twin uncles. And the picture. "Can I see it?"

"Turned to dust after use." She gives Harry a look which is both sad and skeptical. "I've never lied to you, baby girl. Not about to start."

She nods, and then looks down, stricken. A valuable resource was wasted in getting her out of trouble. "I'm sorry."

Harry misunderstands her. "No problem. You're quite right to doubt it."

She waves her hands as she replies. "Oh, no! It's not about that. I'm sorry that such an unique... resource, got wasted on a stupid girl's mistake."

Harry smiles softly. "Well worth it. And I object to the use of the word 'stupid'"

She sighs and looks upset. "It's the right word. I went for the wrong guy. Not the first time either."

"Don't blame yourself. That boy has a history of deceiving and victimizing women."

There's a long pause while Rose stares at Harry. "Legillimency or veritaserum?"

"Legillimency."

"Hope you scrambled him properly."

Rose sees an expression in Harry's face she'd never seen before. A satisfied, evil smile that both scares and excites her. "Don't worry. He didn't get away with it."

They spend a quiet afternoon. She's clingy, and alternates between angry and weepy. They dine on leftovers and take a slow walk under the stars. She changes and runs a bit, chasing faint trails. After they come back to the cottage, she gives Harry a tight hug. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, Rosebud."

"I think I should be going."

They sit, and Harry lets the silence stretch for a bit. "No."

She frowns. "No?" He nods. "I've bothered you enough."

Harry shrugs. "I don't think that's a good idea. Besides, it's no bother."

"I'll be fine, uncle."

"This is a former Head Auror speaking." His voice sounds rough. "You're not fine. I'd send you to a mind healer, if I could."

"You're exagerating."

"I'm not. Stay."

"No. I have to get back to my life."

They stand, a couple of feet apart, staring at each other. Both pairs of eyes seem to glow. Harry knows he has no authority to hold her. His voice comes out as a whisper. "Please."

She holds his stare, feeling naked and small under his gaze. Something breaks inside her and she looks down. "All right." She thinks for a bit. "I'm going home and packing for a week. Is it ok?"

Harry nods. "That's fine."

They do an hour of meditation before sleep. Back to back on her bed, about a foot apart. He focuses on the noise of her breathing, and the slight swirl of their magic at the very edge of awareness. She turns inwards, trying to still the anger and the disgust with herself and her world. She is not successful

His sleep is light and broken by unformed dreams of death. A nightmare comes. She screams and begins to thrash in her sleep. He walks to her bedroom. He gives her a diluted dose of dreamless sleep, the drawbacks of the highly addictive potion balancing her need for rest and a clear mind.

He lies on her bed, embracing her while the potion does its thing, and she falls into a shallow slumber.

He wakes up still on her bed, with Blacktip licking his face as in the previous day. He can't avoid smiling, wondering when he came up with the name. "Good morning... Blacktip?"

She steps back and stares at him. He feels her pleased assent, even before she nods and licks his face some more. She changes into a kneeling position next to him. "Are you going to the Burrow?" There is an open lunch invitation on Sundays, and both Harry and Rose come, more often than not. It's noisy, tasty and usually fun.

"Are you?"

"No." She shakes her head. "I don't think I could handle it."

"I have to see someone this afternoon, but I can stay for now."

A curious glance. "Don't spoil your plans for me. I'll be fine by myself."

"I know. I don't feel up to the Weasley madness today either."

She nods and smiles. "I get it. By the way, I love my Marauder name. Thank you."

His smile lights up her heart. "My pleasure."

After breakfast, Harry gets back to his novel, while Rose watches a couple of action flicks on the telly. Harry prepares a big greek salad and freshly squeezed lemonade for lunch.

"I love the food, uncle, but I find I miss having more meat."

"I can cook more meat, luv. I've spent some time in the Far East, and got used to eating very little meat or industrialized foods. I like the way the healthier diet feels." He a lie, but a big omission. A decade back, a lover explained the connection between diet and the taste of a man's cum. As it turns out, Harry much prefers blow-jobs to steaks.

"Thanks."

Harry arrives back at the cottage around five, carrying a bag that smells heavenly. Rose rises to greet him, and turns into Blacktip, sniffing around. There's three different kinds of fresh meat, plus fruits and vegetables is the bag. Beyond that, expensive perfume and the slight hint of female arousal.

She turns back. "A well-shagged uncle, I presume." It's remarkable that there have been no pictures, or even confirmed rumors of women in Harry's life since his divorce. Even Jamie and Albie think he's just disgusted with witchkind.

Harry gives out a well-humored guffaw. "I hoped the meats would mask the scent. And no complains about the shagging."

The perfume suggests wealthy, and, thank Morgana's perky tits, it's not her mum. Curiosity and a touch of jealousy get the best of her. "Who? Please, tell me. I swear I'll keep it secret."

"It's not just my secret, luv. A dear friend, married and chafing." After a long pause, he adds. "Not your mother."

She smiles. "Did you ever? With mum?"

Harry grimaces. "A lot of people asked this over the years. We've never answered it."

"Why?" She faces down and blushes. "I know. Nobody's business."

"Clever girl."

She turns wistful. "I wish I could find what the two of you have."

There's a long silence. When Harry speaks, his voice is flat and dry. "War siblings. Closer than most marriages, according to some." Harry shakes his head. "Too costly in blood and tears, though."

She gives him a long stare and nods, with a sad little smile. "You can stop one of her rants with a single look." Suddenly, she giggles, turning the mood around. "It drives Dad barmy."

Harry smirks. "I knew I had a hidden superpower somewhere..."

Dinner has a nice venison steak with spring potatoes and a bitter greens salad for Rose, and a barley and vegetable soup for Harry. Dessert is dirigible plum pudding, straight from Luna's garden and recipe book.

After dinner, Harry approaches Rose with a fingerwidth of cognac in a snifter. "We should talk about it."

She sighs. "I guess..."

"Tell me about Grant..."

Harry is not a therapist, by any stretch of the word, but he's been through the process. He knows that it's not about what he says, but getting Rose to acknowledge and confront her anger and her fears. She is very angry at herself for 'choosing badly'. She's attracted to dangerous bad boys, big bloody boohoo. He almost tells her there is nothing wrong with bad boys, or girls, as long as you know what you're dealing with. You just don't turn your back on them. She's worried about having the bloody mindness to slit an attacker's throat. Harry respects her for it. Being a killer is not a bad thing. Accepting the killer within yourself, however, is hard. He learned that when he was eleven.

The fears are harder both on Rose and on Harry. Rose was raised in a world at peace, surrounded by love. She hadn't confronted random violence before. The type of violence that may snuff your life in an instant. Some of her innocence was destroyed that night. Her sense of being immortal, indestructible, was taken away. Harry grieves again for a twelve-year-old Hermione, who confronted her own mortality for the first time in a dirty bathroom. He wonders how long her nightmares lasted. It's one thing to jump on the back of a troll. It's another to cower, paralized, under its rage. There's a difference. At least Rose didn't require a hero. She was her own hero. This is something to build on.

At night, the nightmare returns. They avoid the potion, so Harry keeps her in his arms. She sleeps, precariously. He doesn't, his anger swirling around them like a miasma. That anyone would dare do this to his Rose... The punishment is barbaric, but well-deserved.

She wakes up on his bed, a warm spot where Harry had been minutes before. She changes to Blacktip and follows the noise of the shower. He is whistling softly, lathering his hair. Corded muscle under dozens of scars. Supremely dangerous and supremely safe. He notes her presence.

"I'll be out in a bit."

She switches back, long legs under the Utah Jazz jersey. She tries, with partial success, to keep her eyes above his waist. They've been to nudie beaches in southern France, his family and hers. The view is not new. Of course, she is no longer twelve... "So many scars..."

"It's been an eventful life."

"Why did you do it? I mean, killing Voldemort, chasing dark wizards, plus whatever stuff you're currently doing."

His face darkens. "To try and give you kids a sane, safe world."

She steps back and looks down as he dries himself. "How many have you killed?"

"I don't keep count."

"Dozens? Hundreds?"

"Too many."

"Any kills you regret?"

"A few."

"Any innocents?"

"Yes."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." Harry's face hardens. Harry understands her need to hear about this. "There were three of them, in a small cottage in the Smokies. That's a mountain range in the southeastern United States. Two wizards, twins, and a witch. They'd been dabbling in necromancy."

"Inferi?"

"Yes, and other things." Harry dresses himself as he continues. "The reports were vague, and most from non-magical sources, so they needed someone who could blend in the muggle world to investigate and not raise alarms. You know how carefully we must step around the muggle American government. After a couple of weeks, I find them. I could have asked for help, but I was a little too arrogant. Three poorly trained bush wizards against the great Harry Potter."

"I approach their home in the middle of the night. First, I defeat their wards, no problem. As I move, I'm tripped by simple muggle trap. Empty cans and a taut string at ankle height.I cast anti-apparition and anti-portkey wards. A dozen inferi come out of a shed, and, by the time I'm burning the last few, the twins come out of the cottage. They were not particularly powerful, but they knew the layout of the place and were superbly well-coordinated. Identical twins, you know? It's like they have telepathy."

"Dad has told me about my uncles."

"Right. We duel for a couple of minutes. Finally I behead one of them, and the other goes crazy. Starts casting dark curses fast, without shielding or dodging. Before I can swich gears, I take a bone-breaker to the left leg, Then I dodge a couple of unforgivables on a broken femur. Finally I get him with a nearly unblockable rotting curse straight from the Black grimoire. It's a horrific death. The guy is still screaming when the witch comes out, shouting the killing curse. By then, I was nearly passed out. I roll to one side and use a dark cutting curse. Both she and the one-year-old in her arms get cut in half."

"Fuck!"

A cynical laugh. "It was considered an accident."

"Was this the worst?"

"The worst I can tell you about." A long silence. "I was twenty-four."

She stares at him. "So, Albie and I..."

"That's right. You were both one-year-old." This mission, and the three-month drinking binge that followed, effectively ended Harry's marriage. Ginny was a great wife to the Hero, the auror, the rich lord. Not so much for a screwed-up, broken mess of a wizard.

"Fuck."

"Right. From then on I became a lot more cautious, and I always have back-up."

Harry begins a little training regime for Rose. Exercise, muggle self-defense and magical fighting.

That morning she wears dark red yoga pants, a grey exercise bra and ballet sandals. Harry is barefoot, wearing just threadbare jeans shorts. The are standing on a clearing outside. The knifes are muggle-make, black steel, double edge, about four-inch blade with no guard and a rubber grip. Harry protects the edges with a dulling spell.

"There are about a dozen basic knife attacks. I'm going to teach you three of them today."

Rose squints and asks again. "Why are we doing this?"

"You've got the instincts, Rose. I want you to have the skill as well."

"But a muggle knife?"

"Do you know who was the most dangerous opponent I've ever faced?"

She sensed a trick question. "Eh... Voldemort?"

"No, It was Bellatrix Lestrange."

She smirks. "Grams killed her!"

"Molly got extremely lucky. She caught Bellatrix by casting her curse at the wrong place. Anyways, Bellatrix always fought with a wand on the left, and a poisoned dagger on the right. It's a lethal combination. Of course, Black witches were trained in knife combat since they were little."

"Why was she so dangerous?"

"Powerful, extremely fast, utterly ruthless and unpredictable. If anything, her insanity made her even more dangerous. I've learned most of my own fighting style from her." Harry never confessed to anyone that he also found her terrifyingly attractive. "If you show promise, I'll ask Andromeda to give you a few lessons. She is nearly as scary as Bellatrix. And she always carries a couple of knifes on herself."

They train hard for a couple of hours. Repeated attacks. Feet shuffle. Body placement, dodging. Light sparring. She feels herself bringing up the mindset, the speed and agility of her animagus. She likes it! It's with pride that she finally asks. "So, do I show promise?"

"You're fast and precise. But you need more stamina, core strength and lots of practice.".

She nods with a smile. "Point."

"We may continue later."

The exercise really gets to her. Even after a long after-dinner conversation and meditating, she's still physically spent, and sleeps like a log.

=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=

Next morning, after a quick run, breakfast and shower, Harry and Rose head to the Ministry.

For the past couple of years, Rose has been researching dark magic. The overt objective is to develop counter-curses and shields, but Rose's fascination is the magic itself. Where it came from, how it changed over the centuries. She's found that a lot of dark curses started as fairly benign spells that got hijacked to cause harm. Aparently the evil intent gets slowly incorporated into the spell over the years. She's particularly interested in the history of the Unforgivables. A manuscript in the Department's library appears to contain a description of an early version of the Cruciatus curse, which she has been trying to understand.

The old wizard lifts his head as she enters their workspace. "Targus."

She nods. "Ocelot."

He frowns. "What are you doing here?"

"What do you mean?" She points at the old scroll she's been slowly decoding for the past few weeks, which is being held open by a bronze spidery apparatus with several pivoting glass lenses attached. "I think I've been going about this..."

The old wizard cleans his throat, interrupting her. "No, child. You've been placed on mandatory leave. Two weeks. Go home."

Rose blinks. "Mandatory leave?"

"Are you deaf? Stupid?"

"Who placed me on leave?"

He shakes his head. "It doesn't matter, does it.? I'm your supervisor, and I'm informing you."

Rose stares at him with narrowed eyes. "Can I have this in writing?"

He grumbles but looks through a pile of loose parchment for a minute. "Ha! Here." He gives he the memo.

Targus is on paid leave for two weeks beginning Monday. She will report to the division chief upon return. D.

A small round seal at the parchment's corner glows as she reads. Gingerly, she places the memo on Ocelot's desk, where it smokes and then burns to fine ash.

She turns around and leaves. She is hopping mad.

=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=o=

The minister's office has a small reception area, with a window facing nowhere, a couple of washed-out paintings, a dark leather sofa and a desk. And a young, serious-looking wizard sitting behind it. Before Harry opens his mouth, the wizard speaks into a small copper funnel to one side of his desk. "Madam Minister, Mr. Potter is here."

The voice from the office is tired. "Send him in."

She is wearing formal robes in an off-purple color. She has her back to the door, while she is looking out a dusty window. Her shoulders are tense. Harry approaches without a word and massages her shoulders, pushing a little magic into it. Hemione moans softly.

"What was the first spell I ever saw you performing?"

"Oculo Reparo. Who's your momma?"

"You, of course." She turns around and gives him one of her trademark hugs. "Hi."

"Hi. What's up?"

He laughs and answers in a sinister voice. "So much to do and so little time..."

"I like Heath Ledger's Joker better..."

"You get no argument from me."

Hermione rotates her shoulders around and sits in one of the leather chairs near one of the corners of her office. "Tea?"

"Sure."

She speaks to the air. "Tea, honey" A tray appears in the center table. Hemione serves Harry and herself, sits back with her cup, takes a small sip and sighs in pleasure.

Harry smiles at the happy little ritual and sips his own cup. "Nice."

"Only the best for you." They drink quietly for a couple of minutes, letting their comfort at each others presence work its soothing magic. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Rose." Harry's frozen countenance and slight tick in the corner of his left eye tells Hermione that something deadly serious happened with her daughter and that she does not want to know the details.

Her heart frozen in fear, she forces herself to smile. "What about Rose?"

"She ended things with the Montague heir."

"When?"

"Friday night."

Hermione shakes her head. "Miserable taste in men."

"Right." She has no idea how bad. "At least, he's history."

"How is she?"

"A little heartbroken. She's been staying with me."

Hermione frowns. "Why?" Rose has her own place, which she loves, and a large group of friends to console her after a break-up.

Harry lifts one eyebrow and smirks. Hermione is a little slow today. She then colors prettily, embarrassed by her little slip into stupidity. Harry decides to distract Hermione with a change of subject. "I'm thinking of asking her to work with me for a while."

That would be amazingly good news, if it wasn't Rose they were talking about. Hermione knows how vitally important Harry's work is, for Magical Britain and beyond. But sabotage and assassination isn't the life she would choose for her only daughter. Her voice is strangled. "She's got what it takes?" She asks weakly, already knowing the answer.

Harry nods solemnly."I think so. She follows the script. The wild magic of a powerful muggleborn joined to a tired, old pureblood lineage. Myself, Riddle, Dumbledore..."

Hermione's eyes shine with a mix of pride and concern. "She's twenty-one. Surely you don't need our permission."

"I just thought you should know."

She nods. "When will you ask her?"

"In a couple of weeks, maybe."

Hermione gets up, their conversation ended. "Do what's best for her, please."

There's tension around Harry's eyes. He thinks about something else that seems to be happening between himself and Rose, which definitely shouldn't. He shrugs. "What else can a Godfather do?"