AN: A huge thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review. I was extremely disappointed by the low response to the previous chapter and I hope, it being the Christmas season, maybe I could have a few more reviews than before?

That being said I'd like to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.

A few people have pointed out that this is supposed to be a time travel story- Yes it is but I am trying to build up and set the general mood and tone for the story before Harry is transported to the past. Fear not, Harry will be in the past at chapter six, which is almost complete and will be sent to my beta by the end of the holidays (hopefully!).

A huge thank you to my beta Laughableblackstorm, who has been great throughout and has helped a great deal with the polishing up of my story.

Chapter IX: Confrontations

Previously: "Harry? Harry? What are you doing, Harry? Put the wand away, Harry."

Harry's attention snapped to the newcomer, and slowly the blinding rage dissipated from his eyes, only to be replaced with confusion. "Professor Lupin? What are you doing here?"

***
"Harry, lower your wand," he repeated carefully.

The confusion almost disappeared from his eyes as he frowned fiercely and gripped his wand tighter.

"Harry, please put the wand down. Sirius wouldn't want you to do this."

He lowered it slightly, but did not loosen his grip.

"Harry, I need to talk to you, shall we go up to your room?"

He nodded sharply and strode out the room, his footsteps heavier than they should have been.

*~*~*

"Harry, what was that all about? You know you're not allowed to use your wand out of school."

"I know," he mumbled.

Remus looked at him carefully and decided that now wasn't the best time to pursue this line of discussion.

"Strictly speaking, I'm not supposed to be here. I just wanted to see how you were doing and give you the heads up that we're picking you up later today."

Harry ducked his head and remained silent.

"How are you, Harry? Really?"

"I'm okay."

Remus raised his eyebrows.

"No, really, I am, I'm fine."

"The truth, please."

"I'm fine, I just get so mad sometimes when they talk about…you know," he replied, turning his face so that he didn't meet Remus' eyes. A horrible, mad feeling bubbled up inside him before he could think over his reply properly and threatened to overspill. What was wrong with him? He couldn't even say his name. He'd lowered Sirius below Voldemort's level. The feeling continued to rise up inside him, getting angrier and angrier, bubbling more furiously, and before he could make heads or tails of what he was feeling, it escaped in the form of a deep belly laugh, and he laughed and laughed, until he had forgotten what it was he had found so funny in the first place. The tears spilling down his cheeks unchecked finally culminated in deep gasping breaths that he struggled to take, braced with his arms outstretched in front of him, fixing his shoulder joint in place so that he could use his pectoral muscles to aid his breathing in his fight to regain control of his raging emotions. The struggle for control was finally won by his brutal suppression of the despair he felt following his bout of hysteria, forcibly choking down his sobs.

"Harry! Harry!"

He raised his eyes slightly and took another shuddering breath. "I'm fine," he said automatically, hating the way his voice cracked.

"Harry, I don't want to go until I'm sure you're okay."

"Professor Lupin, I'm fine, see," he said, stretching out his arms in front of him and turning them over, "nothing wrong with me."

"Fine? You're anything but fine! What was that about then?"

"I am fine. Leave. Me. Alone."

"You are obviously not fine, Harry. Want to tell me what that was about? How about what happened downstairs? What would have happened had I not come in?"

"Nothing would have happened. Nothing," he replied firmly, unsure of who he was trying to convince. "Anyway, what's it to you? Since when did you care? Huh?" he added, flaring up. He didn't know where all this anger was coming from, but it felt so much better just to be angry. To just shut down and think of nothing and let his tongue take over from his brain.

"Harry, I've always cared about you."

"Yeah, sure you have," he said sarcastically, stretching out the 'sure' over several beats. "Where were you when my parents were murdered? Where were you when I was left in this god-forsaken hole? Huh?" He paused to stand up and take a step towards Remus, ignoring the stricken look on his face. "I only met you when I was in my third year and even then you didn't say anything. Where were you last year after the Triwizard Tournament? Why should I trust you? Why should I believe you? You don't care about me. You. Don't. Give. A. Damn," he finished, looking straight into his eyes and holding his gaze for a moment, as he spat the last word at him.

"Harry, I do care about you. I lost everything the night your parents were murdered, I know it's not an excuse, but I was a mess, in no fit state to look after myself let alone a baby, even if the ministry didn't have restrictions on werewolves. Harry, let me make it up to you. Give me another chance. Please. You can stay with me at Headquarters instead of coming back here."

"You're not Sirius, okay? Stop trying to take his place."

Remus visibly flinched, swallowing the bitter feelings that threatened to overcome him. "I'm not trying to take his place," he croaked at last. His eyes were shuttered, and the lines around his mouth stood out in sharp contrast to the pasty white, his face had turned. He stood up stiffly. "I'm going now, be ready to leave at seven," he added coolly.

Harry watched him leave through narrowed eyes with a perverse sense of satisfaction. No one, no one would take Sirius' place, ever.

*~*~*

It was ten to seven; his relatives had steered clear of him, after Remus had left. He hadn't gone back downstairs and they hadn't come up, but they sounded strangely subdued. There was none of the usual shuffling and occasional bumps. He imagined them to be seated in the sitting room, an atmosphere of high strung tension, eyes glued on the television screen but not really watching, with Petunia taking up the role of a good host and getting up every now and then to bring platters of food to serve in an attempt to break the tense atmosphere. All of the plates were most likely returned to the kitchen untouched. Vernon would be seated in his favorite armchair clutching a can of Heinekens', vein throbbing in his temple, action mirrored by his beefy sister and Dudley, in the midst of it all, unsure what to make of what just happened.

*~*~*

He had tossed everything into his trunk haphazardly, where it lay in a jumbled mess of worn-out clothes, books and miscellaneous little artifacts he had gathered over the years, mostly gifts from Ron. The Ireland rosette he had bought two years previously was still there, albeit a little crumpled at the edges and the animation spell had long worn off. He picked up the miniature model of the Hungarian Horntail and traced the outline of its wings. That dragon had been very protective of its young. It was cruel really, to capture nesting mothers and threaten the destruction or theft of their eggs. It must be instinct – the protectiveness of a mother towards her young. He threw the model roughly into the trunk and it flapped its wings feebly in protest as it hit the hard wooden back. He slammed the lid shut and sat, head in his hands, breathing heavily.

*~*~*

The convoy had finally arrived, and reluctantly he made his way down the stairs dragging his trunk behind him. Every thump it made felt like an extra weight in his stomach. Every step was suddenly harder to take, as if his shoes were not the worn out fabric they were, but heavy leaden boots.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and took a deep breath to steady himself against the impeding sense of doom that threatened to overtake his senses, and when he reached out to open the door, he noticed, with dismay, that his hands were trembling uncontrollably. Another deep breath later, he opened the door and resolutely strode outside. A green Vauxhall Astra was parked on the street outside the door. The path from the door to the street seemed to be longer than it usually was. Tonks, in the guise of a middle-aged woman in a white blouse and fitted black trousers, slotted perfectly in the mundane neighbourhood and was, unsurprisingly, considering her Muggle background, standing outside the driver's door of the car. Moody was in the passenger seat, hat pulled down low to cover his spinning eye, and surprisingly, Mundungus Fletcher sat at the back, looking as tramp-like as ever. Remus was suspiciously absent. He didn't know how he felt about that. He felt his stomach sink slightly. Was he perhaps a little disappointed, betrayed? But it wasn't like he wanted him there, anyway – he had practically kicked Remus out. His emotions were a jumbled mess that he couldn't even begin to sort out; whether Remus was there or not was the least of his worries. At least, he tried to tell himself that, anyway.

Tonks smiled at him in greeting, and the most he could manage was a sort of half- grimace.

"What, no hello?" she asked, eyebrow quirked, amusement dancing in her eyes.

"Tonks, where are we going?" he interrupted, ignoring her last question.

She looked surprised at the question. "HQ, of course."

He froze. He had suspected that to be the case, but to have it confirmed was almost like a nightmare come true. He didn't want to go there; he was going back to his relatives' house. Just as he was about to turn around and go back, Moody's gruff voice came floating through the window: "Quit dilly-dallying, someone could be watching us. Get your stuff in the trunk and let's go. Hurry up."

"I'm not coming," he said firmly.

"Harry, everyone's expecting you," said Tonks softly.

"I don't care. I'm not coming."

"Get in the car, boy," said Moody through clenched teeth.

"I said, I'm not coming," he repeated, jaw set in a stubborn line.

"Now."

"Harry, get in the car. Please."

It was the pleading note in Tonks' voice that made him hesitate, at war with himself, knowing that they would not leave him alone, yet unwilling to go to his house and face the pitying looks that would be bestowed upon him. Resigning himself, he swallowed and climbed into the car, leaving his trunk to be carried into the boot by Tonks.

He was going to Grimmauld Place, the place that held most of the memories he had of Sirius. The house that Sirius hated. The house that had been a virtual prison for Sirius. A house that held bitter memories for him. A house, that to Sirius, was what Privet Drive was to Harry. Dumbledore, he thought maliciously. Dumbledore did this to us.

The trip from Surrey to London should have taken, at most, an hour and a half. It took four. Moody insisted on a detour through Bath, Bristol and up towards Oxford, and then back to London. He pushed to go up to Manchester, but that was quickly vetoed by both Tonks and Fletcher. They finally arrived at eleven-thirty and parked the car on the kerb a little away from where number twelve should have been.

Harry wearily crawled out of the vehicle. The long journey and the reluctance to be here, coupled with a month's worth of sleepless nights, was finally catching up to him. He surveyed the darkened street, lit by the unnatural orange glow of streetlamps, and picked out where headquarters should have stood. Concentrating for a brief moment, he made the house visible to himself and found himself being dragged roughly in its direction by Moody. His grip was tight but Harry couldn't bring himself to care enough to pull away, as he was led by the arm towards the threshold of the house.

He had finally arrived.

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AN: Merry Christamas! Please review.