Disclaimer in chapter 1.

Chapter XII: Tooth and Nail

Dear Harry:

I hope you didn't feel too uncomfortable in Transfiguration, I heard there was a bit of a commotion. Something about you saving the Queen from a jinxed walking cane, or some rubbish? Anyway, I'm done with my schoolwork for the weekend. How would you like to get your mind off of being a celebrity for a while?

Ginny

Harry neatly folded the parchment and put it in his top drawer, where he stored all his letters. Having not gotten any post for so long, he wasn't about to take it for granted. Most of the letters were from Ginny and Ron, but occasionally Hermione would send one. It was the only way for them to reach him consistently, since he had been making it a habit to disappear once he was no longer in class or eating. And Harry was quite skilled at disappearing.

With a heavy sigh, the Boy who Lived wondered if he'd ever be free from all this attention. Free to get back to his missions, his life. He had been feeling useless for nearly a month, ever since he got back to Hogwarts. His magical capacity was back to normal, with no permanent side-effects of the strange potion he'd been given over Winter Holiday. While he was grateful that his mistake was not impossible to fix, it was a mistake nonetheless and Harry Potter had been making far too many mistakes lately.

He buried his head in his hands, running his fingers through his close-cropped black hair in a slow, soothing motion. Frustration was nearly a permanent fixture in his emotional repertoire now. A lot of this new emotion was focused on his fellow students, who had somehow gone completely mad over Holiday. They were constantly asking for autographs, spilling their insides out as if he could do something about their situation, following him around and pushing people out of the way so he could pass... as if Harry Potter needed a bodyguard, and a student at that! Even Quidditch had fallen victim to this curse, with Harry's supporters filling the stands during practice and cheering whenever he did anything at all. It was intensely frustrating, being made out to be some kind of celebrity.

Just as much aggravation, however, was focused on a single, constantly grating entity: Julia Peverell. His aggravation was mixed with rage sometimes, which was a very dangerous combination when you were the Boy who Lived. She appeared to have good intentions, but her stories were indirectly the cause of all his problems. She'd been by Sirius' office at least twice a week for the last month, trying in vain to get an exclusive from the focal point of her pathetic career.

With this new emotion running through his system in torrents, Harry found himself disappearing more and more, taking solace in the quiet solitude. It wasn't that he enjoyed being alone, exactly, it was more like he did not enjoy being around frustrating people. Which was almost everybody.

The notable exceptions were his friends, of course, and a thankfully serious and respectful 6th year named Neville Longbottom. After Defense Against the Dark Arts on a rather quiet Monday, Harry noticed that the overzealous blonde Hufflepuff who usually ambushed him shortly after class was backed into a corner by Neville, who was talking to her in a soft whisper. Whatever the quiet Gryffindor was saying had the girl on the verge of tears, but she didn't approach Harry again. The Boy who Lived admired that sort of tact and delicacy in corrosive situations. It was always beneficial to establish a positive rapport with such people.

Harry made his way out to the Quidditch Pitch, signature pitch-black broom concealed discreetly in his closed hand in miniature form. There wasn't a cloud in the sky or a flake of snow on the ground, one could almost forget that it was still winter. The air was still cold and crisp, which contrasted magnificently with the brightness of the sun, reaching out from just above the horizon. Ginny was already in the air by the time he reached the pitch, doing lazy barrel rolls and figure eights. He enlarged his broom and mounted it, rocketing up to her level. "Sorry I'm late."

Ginny pulled in beside him and shook her head, her windblown hair beginning to come out of her tightly-drawn ponytail. She tucked the fiery strands behind her ear, grinning up at the Boy who Lived. His abdomen began contracting rapidly again, an uncomfortable occurrence that was happening more and more frequently. "I didn't set a time for you to be here, you know. Don't worry about it." With a small smirk, she took off towards the far goals.

Harry raced after her, nearly catching up as she rounded the golden hoops. He cornered hard, turning inward to keep from flying off of his broom as he pulled up on the nose. The front of his broom nearly brushed her cloak as he passed her on the outside, ducking low and speeding towards the opposite hoops. He heard an exhilarated shout from Ginny, "No fair!" as the distance between them grew. For reasons that he didn't quite understand, it spurred him to go even faster. Watch this. He thought with a small smirk.

This was one of the few things that could take his mind off of his situation and forced his frustration to melt away to nothingness. It was so relaxing, being on a broom with no crowded stadiums or cheering fans, no overzealous girls or misguided reporters to watch him. He missed the anonymity of his job, and this was as close as he could come to disappearing off the map.

On the return lap, Harry pulled into a corkscrew and flew directly underneath Ginny, eliciting a shriek from the red-headed Gryffindor. It was a bright, musical sound, one which he particularly enjoyed causing. Smiling, he completed the lap and waited for her to catch up to him at the invisible finish line.

The black-haired Gryffindor didn't know why he felt the sudden urge to share, nor did he know why the thought of her on his broom sent a spark of electricity shooting down his spine. It wasn't as if she hadn't ridden on his broom before, she'd been on the polished black masterpiece with him for the better part of two hours when he had rescued her from that mansion at the beginning of term. All the same, when she crossed the finish line, he asked, "Would you like to try my broom?"

Ginny smiled, nodding enthusiastically as she said, "Are you kidding? I'd love to try your broom! The question is, will you want to keep flying once you realize that I'm better on your broom than you are?!" She shouted the last part, fighting to be heard over the stiff breeze that was whistling around them.

He felt better already.

Harry looked out of his window at the clear night sky, reciting constellations in his head as he let his mind quietly wander. Were Saturdays always this monotonous? How long would it take Ginny to finish her History of Magic homework, anyway? He was tempted to go down there and start dictating, just so she would be free for the night. More and more these days, he found himself wishing for the constant company of the youngest Weasley. He didn't know quite how she did it, though he had a few viable hypotheses, but she could calm him down without fail. No matter how frustrated he was at Julia Peverell, no matter how many times he tried to ignore the stares he was receiving, she could make him forget his problems. That, he had decided, was a skill worthy of merit.

Perhaps he should get her some sort of medal or certificate, recognizing her for her continued efforts? Material rewards were a great way of boosting morale, and also a way of showing appreciation in an acceptable manner. She probably wouldn't want a medal, what sort of material reward could he present to her? It had to be something that she would enjoy wearing or using, something that adequately conveyed the gratitude he felt. Honestly, he had no idea what she would like. He should ask Ron or Hermione, perhaps during class when Ginny was guaranteed not to be in the immediate vicinity.

His musings were interrupted as the door to the dormitory burst open, revealing the figure of his godfather. It had been weeks since he'd made contact with Sirius, and rarely had he missed anyone as much as he missed the Auror in Charge of Executive Protection. "Sir." He said, snapping to attention and taking in every feature of his surrogate father.

"There's been a report of a kidnapping in London, a simple snatch and grab operation. You were asked for by name. It'll be dark and fast enough that nobody will know or care if you're the Boy who Lived. I'm not saying you have to do it, but if you're still up for a mission..." He trailed off, watching his godson closely for a reaction.

Harry's heart leapt in his chest. He had a mission again! From the sound of it, this was a temporary reinstatement for a freelance assignment. Perhaps if he performed well enough, he would get his job back. Merlin, he missed his job...

"Yes Sir!" He said, barely containing the excited tremor in his voice. Snapping a rigid salute, he listened intently as his godfather explained the details and parameters of his mission. A smile came unbidden to his face.

Julia Peverell pushed the parchment away from her in disgust, her eyes narrowed in cold fury. "And you sincerely believed I would go along with this, Mr. Malfoy? That I'd let you get away with it? You're more naïve than I expected." Standing up, she reached into her bag for a pinch of floo powder. She knew it was foolish to make a deal with a Malfoy, but deal or no deal there was no amount of money that could buy her integrity.

Draco reached into his pocket, his gleaming grey eyes reflecting pinpoints of firelight as she threw the powder into the fire and said, "Diagon Alley." The fire did not turn green, however, and she nearly stepped onto the log before she realized it had singed her shoe. Letting out a yelp and leaping back from the fireplace, she stomped the fire out of her pump and whirled around towards Draco with a murderous look on her face.

"What did you do?!" She shouted at the young heir, all pretense of civility dissolving. She would teach this little brat...

Draco pulled his hand out of his pocket in a flash, and before she could even scream for help she felt her body grow stiff under the body-bind curse. She swore at herself mentally for not expecting the teenager to use a wand on her. She should've been more careful, she should've...

Malfoy stood with a calculating stare and walked over to the frozen young reporter. "On the contrary, Ms. Peverell," he whispered, his voice dripping with malice as he pulled a vial out of his pocket and held it up for her to see. It had a thick, dark green liquid inside. He emptied it in one gulp. "I fully expect you to fight this tooth and nail. Obliviate."

According to recently acquired intel, the hostage was being held by 2 kidnappers in a run-down apartment in the south end of London. It gave the room number, 207, along with the necessary blueprints and highly detailed backgrounds and sketches of the two criminals, which included likely tactics employed by each. The accuracy and sheer amount of information he'd been given was incredible. It was so incredible that it bordered on suspicious.

The Boy who Lived entered the unlocked front door silently, noting no magical signatures of any sort and no guard presence. His hearing was hypersensitive, searching for any hint of movement. A door closing upstairs was the only hint he needed.

40 seconds later, Harry made his way out of the run-down apartment complex with the hostage, an 8-year old girl with blonde wavy hair and the bluest eyes he'd ever seen, latched tightly onto his chest. As the tactical information had suggested, there were only 2 guards, both easily subdued. As their background information confirmed, they were not well-trained nor did they have wands. One of them was smoking during his mission, which was easily the stupidest mistake he'd made since kidnapping someone.

But it sure made his job easier. In fact, as the Boy who Lived dropped the hostage off at the Mobile Command Post he couldn't remember having a smoother mission, everything went perfectly according to plan. Had that ever happened before?

A mission that easy felt ...wrong, somehow.

After his first real mission in months, sitting in the Transfiguration classroom with the rest of the 6th year Gryffindors and turning stones into dogs seemed positively boring. Still, it was his standing assignment and he wasn't about to start slacking now. He still had to ask one of his friends about a material reward for Ginny's efforts, but at the moment his assignment required his full attention. It was actually quite difficult in some ways, seeing how detailed you could make the dogs. He was busy perfecting the baying of his basset hound with Hermione when the door burst open.

Instinctively, he pushed his partner's head down and whirled around, wand extended towards the threat. His focus faltered when he saw who the intruder was.

"Harry Potter, you are under arrest. Please come quietly." Kingsley Shacklebolt said in a commanding voice, his wand leveled at the Boy who Lived. 5 Aurors filed in behind him, forming a semi-circle around him. He recognized all of them, and each man looked afraid. Why were they afraid of him? He let Hermione up and put his wand away, but made no move to stand.

Ron, who was sitting at the next table over, pushed his chair out and stood to face the black Auror. "On what grounds?!" He practically shouted; his hands clenched into fists. His wand, fresh from mutilating another slab of stone, was still in his right hand.

Shacklebolt's wand shifted over to him. "This is official Ministry business. If you interfere, you will be held responsible for your actions. Sit down."

He took a step towards the tall man, blocking his view of Harry. "I will not! You can't arrest Harry, he hasn't done anything. This is preposterous!"

Kingsley extended his wand forward. "I won't warn you again, Ron. Go back to your seat or we will be forced to detain you as well." His eyes were hard, Harry noted as adrenaline coursing through his veins. This would not end well for his friend if this conversation continued.

"No! Harry's my friend, and I won't let you take him!" Ron shouted, raising his wand up towards Kingsley.

"Take him down!" Shacklebolt shouted, and the next moment 6 bright red beams were streaking towards his tall, red-haired friend.

Shit! Harry thought, rising from his chair. Grabbing hold of Ron's shoulder, he swung him around and pushed him backwards, out of the way of the stunners. All 6 of them struck him in the back, propelling him clean over his table and into the wall in front of him. He struck hard on his left side. Colors exploded inside his eyelids as the pain flooded his mind.

His ribs made creaking sounds from the impact, and bit back a curse as his internal organs compressed painfully from the power of the stunners. Motes of light floated across his vision as he came to rest in a heap on the cold granite floor.

"Harry!" Ron shouted, clambering over chairs to reach his friend's side.

The Boy who Lived grunted, then gathered his feet under him and pushed himself up to an unsteady standing position. His legs were shaking, so he leaned on his table for support as Hermione looked up at him with brown eyes widened in shock. Those were some very substantial stunners. He could almost hear her mind racing as she calculated the cumulative effect of 6 simultaneous stunners. At least one of his experimental surgeries had paid off, it seemed. In another half minute he'd be back to normal, theoretically.

Coughing once, he raised his head and stood as straight as he could manage. "Leave him alone and I'll come quietly." He said in his signature monotone, making no motion towards his wand holster.

Kingsley looked thoughtful for a moment, staring searchingly at the Boy who Lived. After a moment, he nodded slightly.

Harry looked at his friend, who was willing to face fully-trained Aurors for him. A strange emotion he'd never felt before flooded him, filling him with the kind of warmth that came from long evenings in front of a blazing campfire. Unfortunately, he had no time to examine that feeling. He made a deal, it was time to keep his end of it. "Thank you, Ron. Please sit down."

Ron opened his mouth to say something, and then he glanced at the Aurors again. His shoulders slumped as he turned and sat down in Harry's recently vacated chair next to his girlfriend. He couldn't even meet his friend's eyes as Harry walked steadily towards Shacklebolt. Surely this was a simple mistake.

"Put these on, Mr. Potter." The black Auror handed Harry a thick pair of interlocking circles. His heart sank as he recognized the markings on them. They were a special pair of limiters called limit shackles, they were like his usual ones but bled off 100 of his focused magical energy as heat and couldn't be removed by anyone wearing them. There was only one pair in existence, to the best of his knowledge, and they belonged to his godfather.

Sirius? His eyes widened in disbelief. If they had his limit shackles, it validated his arrest. This was no mistake about it, he was really being charged with committing a crime. He'd only worn the iron circles once before, and it was the worst 8 hours of his life. It was like living in muted black and white.

But if this was his punishment, even if he did not know what he was being punished for, it was his duty to accept it. Without another word he clicked off his limiters, handing them to Kingsley. A quiet rustling of fabric confirmed that every other Auror had taken a step away from him as his limiters came off. The world shrank as his magic expanded inside his body, filling him to capacity, and quickly to overflowing. He tried to commit to memory every sensation happening inside of him, as he had no idea when he would be allowed to take these off again. He spared a glance back at his friends, who were watching him with confusion and no small amount of panic. Exhaling slowly, he resigned himself to his fate.

He took the shackles and mechanically slipped them around his wrists. The iron circles constricted until they were painfully tight against his wrists. The audible click of the joint locking mechanism resonated in his head as his vision grew dim and the sounds in the classroom faded into nothingness. The only sound he could hear was his own heartbeat, thrumming slowly in his head. When he had used these before, he had gotten used to the lower level of sensation eventually, but for the first half hour he had to fight to keep from hyperventilating. He had gotten better at dealing with the nearly claustrophobic feeling of blunted senses.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Harry Potter looked down at his hands and felt ... ashamed. What had he done wrong? Hadn't he done everything asked of him, without complaint?

The cell wasn't as dank or dark as others he'd seen, but Harry had never felt worse in his life. He had only been locked up for a day and a half, but it felt like the better part of a month.

Harry had been charged with the rape and torture of Ms. Julia Peverell, if the Wizengamot found him guilty he could be punished by a seizure of up to 50 of his total aggregate wealth and up to 15 years imprisonment in Azkaban. He would also be banned permanently from working in a Ministry-funded position. This meant he would never go on another mission again.

Through a short self-checkup, Harry realized that he had almost no appetite, his interest was blunted and his muscles were refusing to operate at full capacity. Symptoms of depression. He'd never been depressed before, but he supposed that he'd never had reason before now.

He had been chained to the wall, forced to wear the hated limit shackles while people in dress robes who knew nothing of war decided his fate. He wouldn't even be allowed to admit his testimony until the next morning, meaning he would have almost nothing to do until then.

Visitors were allowed, but Sirius was the only one who had stopped by. He couldn't blame anyone, however, as it was the middle of the school week and he would bet a pile of galleons that nobody at Hogwarts had been told where he was being held.

Dropping to the cold granite floor, Harry squeezed out 100 more pushups and 200 more situps, and then sat up against the side of his prison to allow his muscles to recuperate. The chains rested heavy and cold on his legs and the only sounds he could make out were his heartbeat and a slow drip of some liquid out in the hall. It seemed to patter in an irregular beat, but Harry had seen odder things in his short life.

The Boy who Lived stared out at nothing, trying desperately to recall the feeling of power he felt when he took his limiters off. It seemed a distant memory already...

"Harry?" His godfather's voice snapped him out of his recollections.

"Sir." He whispered in an acquiescent voice, unmoving.

Sirius Black stared through the iron bars into the dark cell that held his godson, the last living Potter. How had this happened?

Sirius asked Harry, "How are you feeling?" For anyone else, the answer would have seemed obvious. But he was asking a different kind of question.

The green-eyed boy replied, "Not well, Sir. My muscles refuse to respond forcefully, my mind is slow and I have lost my appetite. I believe I am suffering from depression."

"I'm doing everything in my power to get you out of here, Harry. You have to believe me." Sirius repeated, his stomach twisting painfully inside of him.

"I understand, Sir." Harry said in his signature monotone.

With a heavy sigh, Sirius turned to leave. A question, one he'd been meaning to ask for months, escaped his mouth. "Does being a soldier really make you happy?"

Harry sighed. He'd been thinking far too much about that question over the last few weeks. "I don't think it was ever about happiness. It's about identity."

Turning his head, the Boy who Lived stared at his godfather with achingly sharp eyes. "Being a soldier doesn't make me happy. It's not designed to. Being a soldier is my job. It's what I need to do to feel complete. It's the reason I know who I am, the reason I go to sleep at night knowing I've made a difference. That's all it's ever been about."

It was near midnight when Harry heard another pair of footsteps echoing down the hallway. The wall sconces flickered uncertainly in the damp corridor.

"Harry, where are you?" A distinctly feminine voice said in a hushed whisper, peering into the cell across the way from him. She was wearing a Hogwarts robe and had bright red hair tied in a ponytail.

"I'm here, Ginny." The black-haired Gryffindor answered quietly, standing up and taking two steps forward. That was as far as his chains allowed.

Ginny whirled around and grabbed the cold iron bars of his cell, leaning forward so she could see him in the low light. "Hey. I ... just wanted to see how you were holding up."

"I have been better." Harry looked down at the iron bands encircling his wrists. How he hated them.

The youngest Weasley winced at the answer. Of course he's not doing well, he's in prison! Are you daft?! Struggling to find something innocuous to say, she blurted, "Ron got poisoned this morning." Dammit! Why does this always happen to me? She cursed her traitorous mouth as Harry clenched his fists.

"How did it happen?!" He asked; his agitation showing clearly in the firelight.

She ducked her head to hide her blush, rather embarrassed that she couldn't seem to say anything right. "Someone slipped something in his pumpkin juice, apparently; they're still searching the kitchens for clues. Thank Merlin that Hermione was there. She recognized the symptoms for what they were and had him taken to the Hospital Wing immediately. Madam Pomfrey says she saved his life. I think Dad about had a coronary when he found out, it's like me and Ron are just magnets for this sort of thing..." She chuckled before she could stop herself, and then covered her mouth with both hands. "Sorry, Harry." The sound was heavily muffled, but he still made it out.

The Boy who Lived shook his head slowly. "You did nothing wrong. I am sorry that I wasn't there. I might have been able to catch whoever did this..."

"You can't save everyone, Harry. Just ... worry about yourself for now. We can take care of ourselves." Ginny reached through the bars and patted his hand reassuringly. Her mouth was hanging open slightly and she was staring downward, which he immediately recognized as meaning that she wanted to say something but wasn't sure how he would take it.

"Why haven't you broken out?" She asked in a surprisingly timid voice.

Harry blinked. Honestly, he'd never thought of leaving without permission. It would be considered disobeying a direct order, not to mention breaking out of prison was a very serious crime. "I can't. Even if I wanted to, my shackles bleed off all of my magical energy as heat. I have my orders."

"Forget about your orders! They locked you up and put those awful things on your wrists, for what? What did you do to deserve this?!" Her voice was elevating in pitch, indicating a high level of stress.

"The court has formally charged me with the rape and torture of Julia Peverell. I testify tomorrow." Harry said quietly.

Ginny's heart stopped. There's no way he could've... She shook her head to clear it. "And did you?" The question terrified her.

"No. I was on a mission at the time but I cannot divulge classified information, not even to the Wizengamot. They do not have the requisite security clearance. Sirius is trying to negotiate with Ms. Peverell, but she is adamant about prosecuting me. Ginny, I didn't do it." He looked her straight in the eye, willing her to believe his innocence. Even if the Wizarding court did find him guilty, if he could just convince the red-haired girl in front of him that he was innocent, that would be enough.

"You know I believe you, Harry. I know you're capable of a lot of things, but you're not capable of this." Ginny said, squeezing his hand. "I'll find out who did this to you, Harry." Her eyes held unshed tears but her voice had an edge of furious determination, something the Boy who Lived hadn't noticed before.

"I'll be back tomorrow night at-" she thought for a moment, then said, "2300 to visit you again. See you then, soldier." She flashed him a grin and padded off down the hallway.

Kingsley Shacklebolt unlocked Harry's door at precisely 9:00 am, but Harry hadn't moved since the last time the Auror had checked up on him. Something wasn't right, he knew it from the moment he received his orders.

He had known of Harry Potter long before he ever met the boy, of course, and he'd heard nothing but incredible things about him. Sirius bragged about him on a near-daily basis, though he never shared information that was above Kingsley's security clearance. Disciplined, intelligent, powerful and honest. Straightforward and always ready to go the extra mile for his mission. Always for the mission.

Truthfully, he was afraid of Harry's reaction when he came to apprehend him. After all, this was the boy who had recently killed the darkest wizard since Grindelwald. Sirius had called him the most powerful wizard alive, and Shacklebolt didn't think it was much of a stretch.

What had happened? What circumstances could have possibly landed Harry in Julia Peverell's flat, caused him to commit such alleged atrocities? The tall black wizard felt a stab of pity as he unlocked the restraining chain from around the prisoner. It looked as if the green-eyed Gryffindor hadn't slept at all. His eyes were bloodshot and his lips were cracked, his fingers were trembling slightly as Kingsley helped him stand. His legs didn't seem to support his own weight. What happened to the strong young man Sirius always spoke of, the man who took 6 stunners including his own for a friend less than two days ago and was walking steadily a minute later? Were his limit shackles truly that bad?

"Come on, Harry, let's get you cleaned up." Without another word, Kingsley Shacklebolt led the Boy who Lived down the hall towards the bathrooms, the courtrooms and the inexorable pull of Justice.