HARRY POTTER AND THE UNFORGIVEN

A Sixth Year Harry Potter Fanfiction

BY

Jayiin Mistaya

"Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus."

...never tickle a sleeping dragon


COPYRIGHT DISCLAIMER: I do not own Harry Potter or anything related to Harry Potter. Those rights are held, exclusively, by JK Rowling, and any other entities, corporations, subsidiaries, or groups not named here possessing legal rights to the aforementioned books and/or trademark.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I want to apologize in advance. This will be long note.

This is the final chapter of Part I. The first chapter of Part II will leave you with more questions than ever, but starting in CH26, I promise you'll start to get some answers. The first few chapters of Part II will be fraught with them, if you know where to look. Harry will finally have a bit of light in his life and there will be quite of bit H/G fluff as the story ramps itself up.

As always, thanks to everyone who has been reading, even if you haven't reviewed, and especially to those people who have me on author alert or favorites.

This last chapter of Part I will answer some of the questions I've had about Gracie, at least about what happened to her during the attack. This chapter is full of small clue that will give the insightful glimpses into some of what's going on behind the scenes.

A small teaser – CH25 reveals a bit of Voldemort's plans, and in CH26, Harry finally wakes up and Dumbledore comes face to face with what his choices for Harry have wrought.

Chapters are about to get longer, plots deeper, and mysteries will abound, despite many questions finally being answered.

On another note, I'm soon going to be starting a Livejournal about this story, including my comments about writing it. There will be spoilers, comments on character and motivation and even hints of the deeper plot.

You can find it at the masterscircle LJ. There's not much there now, but there will be soon. It'll be public, so you won't need to be a member of LJ to read it. Post comments and questions, and I may even answer.

More information on Harry Potter and the Unforgiven can be found at my website, which is linked in my Author Profile. This includes update dates, hints about upcoming chapters, and even a few spoilers.

Feedback of any kind is always appreciated. Remember, the more reviews I get, the faster I post.

And feel free to email, IM, PM or otherwise contact me to harass me to post. I enjoy talking to my readers.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS:Thanks to Elusive Evan for making me continue to post this and to ElvenLaughter for support, encouragement and not giving up on me when she probably should have washed her hands of me!

Check out her newest stories here on FFn – "Drabbles" and "The Shrieking Shack." Both are excellent reads.


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Aftershocks

Trembling hands fumbled with lock and key.

After seconds that felt like hours, Gracie stumbled into her tiny flat, her head spinning.

She had heard him scream.

She couldn't get the sound of it out of her head.

It had been a raw, primal sound, echoing through the gym that had become her sanctuary, her only place to hide from other memories. She staggered into her kitchen, splashing cold water on her face.

She turned the water hot and scrubbed the blood off her hands.

Come on, Gracie-girl. Pull yourself together and think. You've been jumped before. It should be old hat by now.

She stripped off her jacket and stared at the blood on her shirt.

They had been waiting for her, out by the back entrance.

Six of them, in dark robes and white masks, standing between her and the back door to the gym. They'd even waited while she parked her bike and climbed off. It almost felt as if they were giving her a strange sort of contemptuous courtesy.

Either that, or they were supremely arrogant.

She'd felt the first hints of fear; not for herself, but for Harry. She didn't want him caught up in her past. He shouldn't have to deal with her demons as well as his own.

She knew she still had enemies, and there was a part of her that wasn't surprised they'd tracked her to Little Whinging. The people who wanted her dead could reach her anywhere she hid. How had she ever thought to escape? How had she ever thought a few years of peace meant she was free of her past?

Strange she didn't recognize this group. New mob assassins with a penchant for the dramatic? Dark robes and white masks definitely had a certain theatric flair she almost admired.

She didn't recognize them, but they felt familiar. It was a nagging familiarity, one that had been playing at the back of her mind ever since she'd met Harry Potter.

"Top o' the morning to you, gents. Collecting for charity, or did Duncan forget to pay the rent?"

Gracie pressed her palms against her countertop. She'd been so confident, so bloody arrogant. There were just six of them. Only six. She was fully capable of taking on those six and more. What did she have to worry about, other than explaining six bodies to the kid?

She didn't relish coming clean with him, but maybe if she had, he would have trusted her enough to tell her what he was so afraid of.

Everything had changed when each of the six had drawn those slender wood rods, just like the one the kid carried. The rush of fear was like being plunged headfirst into ice water. The sight of those pieces of wood told her what she hadn't wanted to know.

They had not come for her.

They had come for him.

One of them spoke, raising his arm with a flourish of black robes, brandishing his stick at her: "We're here for the boy. Be a good muggle and stay where you are, and we might let you live."

Muggle? What the hell is a muggle? Even the word sounded ugly, but she'd never heard it before.

She didn't have a chance to answer before she'd heard his scream. The sound of it had cut her like a razor, leaving parts of her bloody. Parts of her she hadn't ever thought about before.

Leaning over her sink, she closed her eyes. There were only six of them. I should never have hesitated. I never used to hesitate.

She remembered her stomach tightening with dive-bombing butterflies as she struck out at them. She had attacked to disable. Not to kill. I should have just killed them.

The memories made her sick to her stomach.

She stepped forward, trying to push past them, trip them or throw them to the ground, but the six of them were good, and used to fighting together. They deftly avoided her, easily surrounding her.

The de facto leader had laughed. "This is going to be fun."

His arm had jerked and he thrust the stick out at her, screaming: "Avada Kedavra!"

From the tip of his stick, a streak of green light had lanced out toward her.

She turned sideways and it flew past her to splash against the wall of the closest building, blowing a chuck out of the wall.

Her hands tensed, curling into claws. Short fingernails scraped along the countertop. Bruised knuckles cracked.

What the fuck was that? Adabra cadabra? Something kept tugging at the back of her mind. Something she thought she should know. It was like a drunken memory or a half-remembered piece of a dream. Her mind rebelled against itself as it sought answers she didn't think she still had.

The scream hadn't stopped.

It was a hollow sound that now echoed in her mind, a constant pressure on her to do something, anything to get to him. But she had paused for a breath; no longer than a heartbeat. She'd hesitated to decide if she was going to do what she needed to do to get past them.

She pushed herself away from the sink, stripping off her bloodstained clothes.

I never used to hesitate. I used to be able to kill without thinking about it.

But wasn't that why she retired? Because it was too easy to kill? Too easy to strike first and worry about being wrong later?

Stupid. I am so bloody fucking stupid. If I'd just done what needed doing, I might have saved him.

She staggered into her bedroom, and pulled on clean clothes. She needed to get rid of the blood. It was like having his blood all over her.

The screaming had quieted. For the infinite pause between breaths, between heartbeats, it was silent.

Then he screamed again.

The leader swung his stick around to point at her again.

Gracie had stepped inside the arc of the leader's motion and one hand – fingers stiffened into a spear – stabbed into his throat. Taut flesh gave way, and he had choked and staggered, leaning forward; her foot whipped out in an arc, her heel smashing into the side of his knee. With a sickening crack, he had crumpled.

As he had fallen, she grabbed his hair, pulling him into her rising knee and driving his nose up into his brain.

She'd thrown the body aside, her leg extending as her body turned. The angle was perfect; her heel of her police boot caught the second assailant right behind his jaw, where the bone connected to the face. With the wet sound of bone splintering his jaw had torn loose from its hinge, tearing skin and muscle even as his neck had broken.

Two of them were screaming words she didn't understand at her, barely audible over the sound of Harry's screaming. Flashes of multicolored light had streaked by, flaying her peripheral vision, fireworks and tracers bleeding away her visual acuity.

As the second man had fallen, she'd taken his stick from his hand. Momentum had carried her forward and she drove the wood through a third man's eye, deep into his brain. Blood and viscera from the eye splattered on her face, her shirt, her hands.

The screaming had stopped again.

She staggered from her bedroom to her small liquor cabinet. She just didn't want to remember anymore.

The other three had spread out, trying to keep her too occupied to strike effectively. She'd kicked one in the throat, crushing him between her foot and the brick wall behind her. The fifth of them had stepped out of her way and was spinning, bringing his stick around to point at her as she slid up behind him, bodies pressed together as intimately as lovers, her arms wrapped around him as she broke his neck.

The sixth one had waved his stick in the air and vanished with the sound of thunder.

Gracie had hesitated, and one of them had gotten away. She searched her cabinet for a tumbler, setting the heavy glass on the counter.

She tried to get into the gym. She could hear commotion, chaos behind the door, but even after her key had opened the lock, the door wouldn't open. She battered it with feet and fists until the wooden doorframe had given way.

She stepped past the doorway, into the back storeroom, and had been frozen, as if some unseen force was pushing her back. She'd fought every step of the way as if running through quicksand. It seemed a timeless struggle. She couldn't go backwards; she could barely move forward. She stepped into the void, driving her mind with will alone, focusing her thoughts into a single sharp point, pushing past the invisible barrier.

Step by step.

It took an eternity to get free.

She finally staggered into the gym to find nothing. No one at all. The air had been still, with the faint hint of a quickly fading chill and the air had smelled burnt, heavy with the sweet scent of scorched flesh and the acrid tang of burnt hair.

She pulled out the only hard liquor she had in her house – an unopened bottle of very good whisky.

It doesn't make sense. There has to be an explanation...but there isn't. First the kid glows in the dark, now this.

What had those bolts of red and green light flashing around her been? How had the black-robes been able to summon them with shouted words, somehow shooting from the ends of their wood rods?

Part of her wanted to chalk it up to special effects – pyrotechnics and flash powder. But she'd seen the kid glow.

Why would the kid carry one of those things, anyway? He'd never shown any sign of having that kind of pyrotechnical skill – or the money to pay for the equipment. And her robed assailants had certainly acted like they thought those blasts of light would do something to her.

There had to be an explanation.

One of those lights blew a chunk out of the wall. And the kid glowed in the dark.

The gym had been empty.

She had found blood on the floor – still warm to the touch. Blood on the mats, and splinters of broken wood littering the floor.

And why in the fuck do I think I know more than I do? Why do I feel like there's something here I'm missing, something that should be so fucking obvious, but isn't?

She didn't know if the kid was alive or dead, and she needed to drown the sound of his scream long enough to think clearly. She poured a generous portion of whisky, but as she put the glass to her lips, she saw her couch. Neatly folded sheets lay on top of fluffed pillows – but there was no sign of any of the kid's things.

"Damn it!" Gracie screamed, hurling both bottle and glass against the wall. They hit, and shattered.

They'd come into her home and taken away any sign Harry had ever been there.

Whoever 'they' were.

The anger washed away the confusion, the despair, the guilt. It galvanized her long enough that she was able to brush it away, leaving her with the iron will and expressionless face that had served her for years with the Yard.

She was a teacher who had failed to protect her student. A cop who had become as bad as the criminals she hunted.

He was a skinny child with more secrets than she could understand. A kid with enemies scarier and more dangerous than any she'd ever had.

As far as Gracie knew, he really didn't have anyone.

Would anyone from wherever he does go to school even care if he went missing? Will anybody but me care that Harry Potter has vanished or was killed?

It didn't matter. She cared.

He had her.

She was going to find him. And if he was dead, she was going to find the people who had killed him.

She wouldn't hesitate a second time.

- 0 -

It was a strange late afternoon in Little Whinging, though most people living there didn't know it, mostly because they didn't notice the commotion around McAllister's Gym. That in itself was strange, because most people in Little Whinging would notice a group of oddly dressed people congregating at a well-known downtown building.

A few even waved to the man standing out front. He wasn't tall or short, and his features were so ordinary that he tended to fade from memory as soon as someone saw him. His eyes and hair were a nondescript brown, and he was almost always smiling. There was just something so normal about him, people tended not to notice he was wearing a dark gray cloak.

Mum always said I should have been an Obliviator. Drake Stevens waved at another couple walking to an early dinner and kept his watch while the rest of Squad Four did their work. He had been a Hit Wizard since graduating Hogwarts a decade before, and was happy with his job, despite it not being what he had wanted to be when he grew up. Then again, not everyone was sure Drake had ever grown up. Though, Drake suspected, if he hadn't already, he would be growing up very soon.

Squad Four wasn't the most famous of the Ministry Hit Squads, or even the best. They certainly weren't the Silver Griffons, which was composed of mostly Aurors. But Squad Four had faced more than their share of Dark Wizards and had the distinction of having done so at home as well as abroad. They were known for their subtlety and their light touch. It was just that light touch that was called for at the site of the first Death Eater attack since You-Know-Who had made his return just a few weeks before.

No one was really surprised the Boy Who Lived had been the subject of the attack. Nor was anyone really surprised the attack had failed. But the clean-up was hell. Drake still cringed when he thought about the five mangled bodies they'd found behind the gym and the condition of the Death Eaters inside the gym, most of whom had been beaten into unconsciousness.

To say nothing of what looked to be tampering with the scene before the Ministry had arrived. Drake had no idea why the Ministry had waited almost four hours to send anyone to the scene, but they had. They'd gotten the alert at the Ministry as a massive surge of magical energy had broken through wards around a location in Little Whinging, but had gotten word from Senior Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt that he was on scene.

It wasn't much of a surprise; Shacklebolt was one of the best the Ministry had to offer. Near-instantaneous response from him was expected. But for someone of Shacklebolt's skill and reputation taking four hours to call for a squad?

That didn't make sense. Yet, for some reason, the Ministry had taken it in stride and sent Squad Four in to investigate. They'd found battered and dead Death Eaters, a neat and tidy crime scene with all the truly important evidence already gone, and Kingsley Shacklebolt nowhere in sight. They'd secured the scene, incarcerated the Death Eaters – who refused to talk – and waited for further orders.

Even worse, they had found Harry Potter missing. He had apparently cast a Patronus Charm and then disappeared in flash of silver light, at least according to what their Squad Leader had been able to learn from his limited Legilimency. Right through the wards the Death Eaters had erected around the gym. Wards Squad Four hadn't yet managed to take down.

Their Squad Leader had also learned six Death Eaters had been dispatched to delay the muggle owner of the gym from arriving on time, and another six had been sent to kill the muggle woman who was apparently teaching Harry Potter, though they couldn't figure what she'd been teaching him.

All the remaining evidence pointed to her having killed five of the Death Eaters and escaped.

They'd informed the Minister, who had informed his Undersecretary. His Undersecretary had acted with admirable haste and efficiency and sent word to Squad Four that backup was on the way. All the backup they needed and never would have wanted. No one ever asked for him.

Percy Weasley hadn't given them a choice. He was coming. Which left Drake standing outside, waiting for him.

He didn't have to wait long before he appeared. Like Dumbledore, his Apparition was nearly silent. Like Potter, he seemed to ignore the wards. He stood tall, despite age and injury. His dark blue Auror's cloak had obviously seen better days but his wand, held tightly in one gnarled fist, looked as good as new. Both of his eyes – one mundane, one magic - fixed on Drake Stevens. To his credit, the young man didn't flinch – much.

"Where is she? The muggle woman." His voice was harsh and impatient.

Drake just smiled as politely as he could. If nothing else, he would follow procedure, even if procedure had been all but ignored so far. "Your orders, sir, and the password."

Was it his imagination, or was there an approving glint in the old man's eye?

"Draco dormiens nunquam titillandus," he said, handing Drake the sheet of parchment with his hastily written orders. "Master Auror Alastor Moody, recalled to service by Ministry Undersecretary Percival Weasley. Now, I want to talk to Gracie McAllister."

Drake read over the orders and cast a quick charm to verify them. "I'm afraid that's impossible, sir. You see, she got away."

"What do you mean, she got away?" Moody growled, taking a step closer to Drake.

The Hit Wizard stood his ground. "We didn't catch her, sir. She was gone before we got here."

Moody's magical eye rolled around in its socket, but his remaining real eye was focused on the man in front of him. At least the answer had the virtue of being honest. He huffed. "So who in the bloody hell are you, and what moron gave you the dead messenger detail?"

"Drake Stevens, Hit Wizard. Undersecretary Weasley assigned me as your liaison." The Hit Wizard managed to stay somewhat cheerful.

"Hmph," Moody grunted, and took a swallow from his hip flask. "We'll see about that, boy. I'd better not see you eat or drink a bloody thing for the next two hours. Liaise me to whatever useless tosser is running this puppet show so I can tell him what he's doing wrong and get on with locating this Muggle motorcycle woman you lot managed to let escape."

Drake decided not to ask how Moody knew so much about the muggle woman who had killed five Death Eaters, and led Moody to a statuesque blond man with a chiseled, heroic face. Immaculately dressed in blue Auror's robes, he was smugly watching the Obliviator squad work their magic on the gym.

Moody looked him up and down and snorted. "You're an Auror?"

Turning, the man offered Moody a dazzling smile, holding out his hand. "Reginald Lockhart, Auror and Special Investigator in command of Squad Four, assigned directly to Minister Fudge. You might have heard of my cousin, Gilderoy. Quite the adventurer, until that dreadful Chamber debacle at Hogwarts. But be assured, he taught me everything he knows, which is why Minister Fudge assigned me to find out how Death Eaters managed to slip in past our surveillance of The Boy Who Lived."

Moody ignored Reginald's hand. "Apparition or Portkey." The aging Auror snapped as he stalked across the gym, stopping at a spot near the door.

"Well, yes, obviously, Auror Moody, but I shall discover how they discovered his whereabouts."

The old Auror was ignoring him and looking around at the scene. Shards of broken glass littered the floor and there were bloodstains everywhere. Unconscious Death Eaters were bound, lined up against the back wall of the gym.

"Sloppy." Moody growled. "Harry Potter is missing and you managed to losea Muggle woman who killed five Death Eaters. Damn sloppy."

"Yes, well," Reginald started to spin his excuses, but Alastor Moody had heard them all before. At least twice.

"Either you know where Potter is or you don't give a bloody shit about where the Death Eaters took him, because you're too damn busy trying to figure out how to shove more of your head up your ass."

Reginald sighed dramatically. "Aren't you retired?"

Moody smiled. It was an expression reminiscent of a rabid dog. "I'll retire when I'm dead. Maybe. Undersecretary Weasley seemed to think you needed some help, so he re-activated my commission." His expression twisted into a sour grimace. "I never thought I'd say Percy Weasley was right about anything."

He walked back towards the back gym, his wooden leg clunking on the linoleum.

"Just where do you think you're going, Auror Moody? This is my investigation, and I am instructing you to remain here!" Reginald followed after Moody, trying and failing to look dignified as he scrambled after the old man.

"To find Potter and the McAllister woman." Moody waved at Stevens. "You coming?"

The Hit Wizard fell into step behind Moody, his eyes wide. Moody was well known for working alone; he was a living legend. He had dueled more Death Eaters than anyone except Dumbledore – and rumor had it that Alastor had lost his leg dueling Voldemort himself.

Drake was a Hit Wizard, a magical brawler for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. He was good at what he did, and could have been an Auror if not for his poor scores in Potions, but his job at the gym was purely and simply as a guard – Undersecretary Weasley had assigned him to Moody solely based on the virtue of him being there, not for any other reason. Who was he to tag along with Mad-Eye on an investigation?

Reginald waved his wand and the door to the back gym slammed shut. "Auror Moody, I will not have this insubordination."

Moody grunted, tugging the door open. "Count your blessings, Lockhart. You couldn't find your ass with both hands and a map. You haven't even bothered to verify my orders or my commission." He spun around to face Lockhart. "Constant vigilance!"

Lockhart stumbled backwards, spluttering.

Moody looked at Stevens, reaching for his hip flask. "Let's go."

Stevens shrugged. Why not? When was he going to get another chance like this? In for a knut, in for galleon. "Nothing for you to eat or drink for at least two hours. Sir."

Moody grinned, and clipped the flask back on his belt. "We're gonna get along just fine, Stevens."

- 0 -

Remus Lupin had been an active participant in more than a few awkward silences over the years, but none as profound or awkward as the silence that existed between him and Dudley Dursley.

They were walking along an empty street, trying to figure out what to do with one another. They were quite a pair, if anyone had been looking. A tall, massively built boy in expensive clothes walking next to a slender man dressed in a ragged and stained cloth jacket.

Remus had been assigned to take to get the boy home before the Ministry arrived to investigate the battle. If they were careful, and Alastor did his job, officially speaking, Dudley would never have been there.

He wasn't happy about the assignment, but he understood it. Kingsley and Moody had plausible excuses to be there, if they didn't get away before the Ministry arrived. Remus, especially being a werewolf, didn't, and he was capable of blending in with muggles easier than others.

So far, their plan was working well. They'd managed to use illusion to hide most of the evidence of the battle from the muggle woman Dudley had identified as Gracie McAllister, even if she had slipped away before they could Obliviate her, and the three Order members had vanished before the Ministry had arrived.

Given their response time, we could have had the scene completely clean and the captured Death Eaters spirited away before they arrived. Remus thought darkly. Kingsley had done a good job delaying the Ministry, giving the Order time to hide their involvement and to find out what they needed from the Death Eaters. They'd all been glad to find out Duncan McAllister hadn't been killed; he'd just beenImperio'd and told to stay at home. The Order could modify his memory and relocate him easily enough. Gracie McAllister was another matter, but she wasn't Remus' problem.

Dudley was.

The only loose ends were Gracie McAllister and Dudley Dursley. No one was quite sure how to handle McAllister, but

He didn't want to be escorting Dudley home. He wanted to be with Harry. He'd failed James' son enough in his life, leaving the boy alone for the first thirteen years of his life out of a sense of misplaced nobility. He knew Harry was safe – and alive – at the Burrow. Tonks had gotten word to Kingsley quickly, but it still didn't make Remus itch to be at the Burrow any less.

But he had given his word to the Order to do what was necessary, and someone had to get Dudley home. It wasn't fair to the boy – who had acquitted himself well defending Harry – to leave him without a chance to ask questions.

The irony of answering Dudley's questions when the Order would so rarely answer Harry's was not lost on Remus.

The two of them were taking their sweet time getting Dudley home. Neither one of them were eager to face Vernon or Petunia, so they had ended up wandering silently, walking the distance instead of taking a bus or cab.

"It doesn't seem right," Dudley finally muttered. "Someone gets attacked, you call the police. Someone gets hurt, you take them to the hospital. They don't get dragged off to nowhere by a silver deer. You don't just walk away."

Remus was having a hard time seeing the young man next to him as the fat bully who had tortured Lily and James' son for so many years. He had the haggard expression of someone who had been pushed to his limits and beyond, and his flesh had the unhealthy look of a person who had lost a lot of weight very quickly. But beneath the remaining layers of fat, there were slabs of solid muscle overlaying his heavy bones. Even hunched over with his hands shoved into his pockets, he walked with a motion that would someday become the precise, controlled step of a trained figher.

"You didn't walk away," Remus answered. "You stayed and fought."

Dudley barked a sharp chuckle. "I guess I did, didn't I?" He shrugged, shifting his weight uncomfortably as he walked. "Will Pot – Harry - be all right?" It was an effort of will for Dudley to choke out his cousin's first name, but he did.

Remus closed his eyes and let out a slow breath. "I don't know. I want him to be."

"Yeah, so do I." Dudley kicked a rock, sending it skittering ahead of them. He suddenly jerked upright, looking around fearfully in case someone had overheard him.

"Don't worry." Remus patted his shoulder. "I won't tell if you don't."

"Thanks."

They walked in silence for a few more steps.

"They really hurt him."

"Yes, they did," Remus answered softly. He was glad he hadn't seen Harry before he'd escaped. He'd arrived at the battle late, and by the time the Order had fought off the seemingly endless number of Death Eaters hiding in and around the gym, Harry had been gone.

There had been over twenty of them at the gym alone; nine more at the Burrow.

Either Voldemort's stronger than we think, or he risked everything on this one chance to capture Harry.

"You lot probably hate me, don't you?"

Remus almost missed a step. There was a depth of pain and longing in Dudley's voice he never expected to hear. I wonder how many real friends Harry's cousin has?

"I don't. You saved his life, Dudley."

The boy nodded. "That's probably something huge, something so big I just can't really get it, because I just don't know enough. I don't know anything about him, not really."

Lupin was surprise Dudley had come to that conclusion, but Dudley also knew a lot of powerful witches and wizards were working to protect Harry, and he'd seen the number of people sent after his cousin.

"If you can understand that, then you know more than you think." Remus put his hands in his pockets.

The big teenager shuddered. "Back there. That's been his life, hasn't it? In your world and mine. Everyone just hurting him until he breaks."

"Sometimes." Lupin wasn't sure where Dudley was going with the conversation – but it was obvious the boy needed to talk. He saved Harry's life. It's the least I can give him.

"I did. I used to. Hurt him, I mean."

"Why?" Remus was genuinely curious.

"Because it made Dad proud of me. Because he was smarter than me. Because he was special and I'm not."

"It takes a very special kind of man to stand and fight like you did today, Dudley Dursley."

Dudley had fought on even after Harry was gone, his raw physical power on top of the Order's magical expertise had made quicker work of the Death Eaters than Remus would have expected. If he always fights like that, and can become something other than a bully, he's someone I wouldn't mind having at my side.

"Maybe." Dudley shook his head. "But it's not enough."

"What isn't enough?" Remus looked up at the sun, feeling it beating down on him. Tonight was a crescent moon; he could feel it, hiding behind the blue skies. It never seems enough to erase the taint of what we are, does it?

"Remus, right?" Dudley asked hesitantly.

Lupin nodded.

"Last summer. Those...dementoid things attacked me. I saw what I fear the most, and I haven't been able to stop seeing it since."

"What did you see?" Lupin was walking a tightrope. He wanted to help Dudley, but he wasn't sure if he could, not without compromising the Order.

"Me. I saw me like other people saw me. Then I found out what I saw was real. At school all last year everyone was afraid of me and hated me. It never used to bother me, but last year it did. What I did back there, it's not enough to not make me who I am."

"A wise man once told me that it is our choices which make us who we are," Remus answered. "I think he's right. You can choose to not change or to ignore who you were becoming. Or you can choose to keep fighting the right fights and trying to make yourself something different."

Dudley nodded, and they lapsed back into silence for a time.

"You lot can fix him, right? I mean, you can fix anything."

Remus shook his head. "No, we can't fix anything. Most of the time, we don't do much fixing at all. But I think he'll pull through."

"Good." Dudley nodded again. "I'd like to see it sometime. Harry's world, I mean."

Remus smiled. "I'm sure Harry would love to give you a tour of Hogwarts over the holidays."

Dudley smiled back. "Yeah, well, I just might come to visit."

Lupin settled himself and let Dudley lead the way back to Privet Drive. It was start – a small start, but it was a start.

End Chapter

Posted 02-05-08