Knowing Where to Look

by la baguette

Meet Gawain Robards, Auror- This is the story of a man who had lost hope in the world, in humanity, in himself. And of his unexpected means of finding it again with some subtle help from the Boy Who Lived. But who is helping whom? A new POV of the Ministry reformation after the Battle of Hogwarts, tracking Harry's rather unusual assimilation into the Auror ranks. *Post-war canon

26. 25- The Boy Who Was Abused

Chapter 25: The Boy Who Was Abused

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The Gang was gathered around the kitchen table on Saturday evening. Across from Gawain, Ben was slumped with his cheek propped on one fist and not even trying to appear attentive. They'd been in this house for two and a half weeks and had been running out of things to talk about at their meetings, but Kingsley kept them up. Gawain was starting to think he did this out of a desire to maintain a routine to distract them from how utterly useless they all were.

Harry was at the table, but he paid them little attention. As was usual these days, his nose was buried in a text book, notes spread chaotically in front of him. Nayana was stirring some kind of spicy lentil dish at the cooker as vegetables sizzled in the frying pan.

Just as their meeting came to a rather dissatisfying close with little getting accomplished, the Floo flared and Susan Bones emerged from the fire.

"Susan!" exclaimed Edward Bones. Surprise and worry and relief all visible on his face at the appearance of his daughter.

"Hey, Dad," she replied going to hug him, just a little hesitancy in her posture. "Figured I'd come stay the night and see the boys before I get too busy next week. Where are they?" she asked, looking around.

"Upstairs with Amitra," replied Bones after kissing her on the cheek. "But exams start on Monday," he continued shrewdly, pulling away and eyeing her. "I hope you've been working hard. Are you ready?"

"I think so. As ready as I'm ever going to be. And Professor Sprout says it's better not to study on the final day before exams. That it only serves to tire you out and make you anxious, but doesn't actually leave the information enough time to make it into your memory bank. So here goes nothing!" She caught sight of Harry across the room. "How about you Harry? You ready?"

"Not even a little," came the response, but Harry shot her a grin. "Figured I'd take more of the cram-to-the-last-second approach, personally."

"Valid decision," laughed Susan. "What are you cramming today?" She walked around the table to look over his shoulder. A twitch was going in Edward's temple.

"Cultivation of conifers for wandwood." Harry set down his quill and leaned back in his chair to stretch his back. "Then tomorrow's reserved for a final review of all things Transfiguration and Potions."

"What's your first exam on Monday," Kingsley asked as he gathered his notes.

"Potions," Harry groaned.

Susan made a sympathetic noise in the back of her throat. "I'm so glad I dropped Potions. Never would have made it in NEWT level. I have Ancient Runes first which isn't so bad."

"Maybe it's best to get the hard one out of the way first," Kingsley offered Harry bracingly. As they spoke, Mary and Ella came into the kitchen in search of a small teatime snack. As she always did when she saw Harry relaxed and chatting, Mary smiled quietly to herself.

"That's true," Susan agreed. "And it's kinda nice for you that DADA is last. Because of course you're going to crush that one, even if you're feeling burned out by that point." She smiled kindly and Gawain caught a growl escaping Edward's chest that made him think he might be fixing to explode. "Hope that works out for me too, for that matter… After all the work I did with you last DA meeting to get the Patronus Charm down finally, I am going to be gutted if it doesn't come up on the practical!"

"I'm sure you'll do great. The whole DA seems really ready," Harry offered with a shy smile.

"Ugh. Glad the Patronus Charm didn't come up on mine," Ben commented. "Would have failed for sure. Never could manage it." He looked a little sour, and Gawain suspected he was thinking of his reaction to the Dementors.

"Well, you should have Harry teach you!" Susan said brightly, looking between the two. "He's really good! Almost everyone in the DA can produce a corporeal Patronus now, and it's definitely not thanks to any of our past Defence Against the Dark Arts professors, I can tell you!" She beamed at Harry and a splash of colour crossed Harry's cheekbones.

Harry was suddenly busying himself by tidying his notes. He got to his feet to reach some of the parchment that had been scattered out of his reach and shrugged at Ben. "She's exaggerating. But I'd be happy to try to teach you, if you like."

Ben opened his mouth to respond but before he could, "I imagine you'd be just as good if you'd had the advantages he's had." All eyes turned to look at Edward Bones who spoke to his daughter in a volume intentionally loud enough to garner the attention of the whole room. Gawain was instantly wary. "I mean, maybe if you'd had Dumbledore taking a special interest in you and giving you private lessons." Harry suddenly seemed to find the floor very fascinating, and he studied it intently. "Maybe if you had been raised with a silver spoon in your mouth, famous from infancy, spoiled rotten by—"

"Seriously, Dad?" Susan glared at her father. "I'm back for five minutes, and you're starting this again?" She sighed. "I thought spending a week away would give you time to get this out of your system and move on. It's pathetic."

"Move on from what, exactly? The fact that he put your life at risk? Or the fact that he as good as killed your mother?" A spasm ticked in Harry's cheek, but otherwise he continued to study the floor. Gawain felt his fingernails dig into his palms and a glance to Kingsley showed his jaw set in a firm line as he contemplated Bones. Kingsley's breathing was deep and steady and deliberate and Gawain recognised the signs of his inner secret battle to maintain control of his emotions. Kingsley opened his mouth to say something, but Susan beat him to it.

"He did neither of those things!" she spluttered disbelievingly. "You can't blame him for everything just because you don't like him! You don't even know him! You're just making judgments based on your own prejudices and rubbish from the Daily Prophet!"

Harry licked his lips and tentatively tried to break up the argument. "Susan, it's not worth it, really. You—"

But Susan was already barrelling on. "We're friends, Dad. Get over it! God, I'm so sick of this!"

"I'll get over it when you learn to choose your friends more carefully! I'm your father. It's my job to protect you! And can't you see what happens to his so-called 'friends?' He uses them to fight his battles and tosses them aside immediately after." Bones had circled the table and Susan squared off to face him.

"For the last time, Dad! Harry didn't ask me to fight at the Battle of Hogwarts! He told us all to clear out. We stayed because we chose to! We stayed because we believed in what we were fighting for. How dare you? How dare you say things like that about him while standing here in the house where he's offered you and your family protection?"

"Protection we probably wouldn't need if we had just stayed well shot of him!"

"What are you even talking about?" Susan cried exasperatedly.

She was shaking her head, her braid swinging, as she stared at her father disbelievingly. She opened her mouth to argue further, but in the brief instance of incredulous silence, Harry interjected, "Susan. You really don't have to—"

"DON'T YOU TALK TO HER!" Bones snarled, leaning into Harry's face. Harry's back was straight and his chin high and for a breath of a heartbeat, he looked back defiantly. At long last, Gawain thought he was going to defend himself. But then he lowered his gaze to the floor again and said nothing. "I don't want you anywhere near my daughter. Don't look at her, don't talk to her, don't—"

"I CAN TALK TO WHOMEVER I DAMN WELL PLEASE!" Susan interjected louder still. "I am an adult and you don't get to decide who I'm friends with!"

"YOU ARE MY DAUGHTER, AND I DON'T WANT YOU AROUND HIM!"

"That's not—"

"That boy's been causing trouble for years and bringing everyone around him right into that trouble alongside him! And every time, Dumbledore was right there to pat him on the head for it. Didn't matter how many people around him were hurt or killed in the process—" Harry was currently staring off across the room again pretending as though he couldn't hear the shouting match mere feet away from him. But Gawain saw another tiny wince at those words.

"Edward, that's enough," Kingsley interjected. From the tightness in his voice, Gawain thought he was speaking through clenched teeth.

"No! No, it's not enough," Bones rounded on Kingsley. "Because you're just as bad. For years, Dumbledore looked the other way as he broke rules at school and now you do the same." He actually shook a finger at Kingsley, but the Minister merely stared back boldly. "But it's all the more dangerous from you. You're the Minister of Magic! He admits to Apparating without a license for a year, and your response is to arrange for him to get a license without a test! You've offered him indemnity for any crimes he's committed while fighting He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! But no one is above the law! Especially not fat-headed, arrogant, delinquent—"

Gawain wasn't aware of deciding to do it. Perhaps if he had, in fact, taken a moment to consider it, he would have realised it was a very foolish thing to do. Perhaps he would have realised that both he and Bones had a daughter in the room watching them. Perhaps he would have realised that the intervention would not be welcomed; that a common Muggle brawl rarely solved anything; that this was not at all a good move for his career; that he would still be stuck with Bones's ire in this house but now it would be directed on him.

But none of this occurred to him at all in that moment. In that moment, the only feeling he had was the feeling of blood pounding in his ears and the feeling that his jaw might crack from clenching it as his anger rose in a crescendo and then the feeling of air whooshing by as he spun on his heal and then, at last, the feeling of quite remarkable pain in his right hand as his fist made very forceful contact with Bones's face. Bones, completely caught off guard staggered over and toppled a chair as he fell against the table.

Gawain had a very brief moment while Bones regained his balance and while the rest of the room gaped at them in silent shock. In this moment, Gawain had just enough time to contemplate what a sodding idiot he was before Bones was suddenly barrelling at him. And then there was movement in every direction.

"HEY!" Kingsley's voice shouted as Bones charged at Gawain like an angry minotaur. But before Bones could make contact, several bodies were stepping between them, and he felt unnecessary arms pulling him back. He saw Ben was wrapping his arms around Bones from behind while Margaret wrestled a wand from his grip.

Gawain was breathing hard in anger, but he raised his open palms in supplication to show that he was done and was making no more move to fight. The arms pulling him back slackened, and only then did Gawain realise they were Sandeep's. Bones continued to fight against Ben's restraint to get at him, however.

"THAT'S ENOUGH! BOTH OF YOU!" Kingsley had manoeuvred himself between them, palm outstretched to each of them and looking backwards and forwards between the pair. "We are not resorting to Muggle duelling right here in the kitchen of the only safe house we have access to! You are grown adults, but if you insist on acting like children, I'll treat you as such! Now you'll shake hands, and we'll have no more of this!"

Both Gawain and Bones were breathing hard. Gawain met his stare from over Kingsley's shoulder. Neither moved to extend a hand. "NOW!" shouted Kingsley. He was angry. Very angry. It was not an emotion Kingsley often showed on his usually placid face. Gawain sighed and slowly reached out his hand. Extending his fingers made it ache; he wondered vaguely if he'd broken it again. Kingsley stepped to the side to make room.

But Bones merely glared at Gawain, nostrils flaring. Then he shrugged off Ben's grip and stormed out of the room. They could hear him thundering up the stairs. Gawain let his hand fall to his side. Good. He'd not wanted to shake anyway.

There was a moment of ringing silence in the room and Gawain felt several sets of eyes on him, but he did not meet them. He braced for the reprimand from Kingsley, but then, "What the hell was that?" The words weren't loud. But the fury in them echoed in the silence. And Gawain blinked as he turned around because the voice was not the one he'd expected.

When he met Harry's gaze, the boy was glowering at him with such anger as he had never directed at Gawain before. Gawain couldn't understand it. He'd acted in his defence, after all! And Harry never even looked that angry with Bones!

"Bloody brilliant is what it was," Ben said, not even attempting to hide his grin.

But Harry ignored Ben. He continued to glare at Gawain, demanding an answer. And somehow under that look, Gawain felt himself feeling like a chastised schoolboy. "Lost my temper," Gawain muttered at last by way of justification. He wanted to leave it there. It would have been the more mature course of action. But perhaps his temper was not so well quelled because after a brief pause he continued. "Weeks of all his snide remarks about you… they just started piling up. He's been driving us all mad."

Gawain heard a soft hear, hear from Ben and a throat clearing from Sandeep that may have been covering a laugh. But whatever Harry had wanted Gawain to say, this was not it. His face flashed with an even deeper fury at the words. "I don't need you to fight my battles for me!" he snarled at Gawain. Gawain found himself reflexively taking a step back. "In fact that goes for everyone," Harry glared around the room, settling on Susan. "I've had quite enough of people fighting for me. Didn't end great in the past, and I'm not looking for any more of that just now. And if you try to start a brawl like that again," he turned and looked back directly into Gawain's eye, "you can just clear off out of my house."

Harry stared into Gawain's eyes, his jaw a hard line. Gawain opened his mouth. Once. Twice. But he could think of no response. And at last, he just hung his head and stared at the floor. Harry must have taken this as agreement because finally his posture softened, and he turned away.

"Well, I'm still gonna go with bloody brilliant," said Ben quietly. Harry pretended not to hear him.

"Bloody childish, is more like," Kingsley contradicted. He too was looking at Gawain sternly.

"And a fine example for your daughter," said Mary sighed exasperatedly. She had come up beside him and was reaching out to examine his aching hand. Bloody hell, but was he going to have to endure a reprimand from everyone in turn? He didn't need it. He knew full well what a prat he'd been. He pulled his hand from Mary's gentle grip and brushed her off.

"It's fine," he muttered. He deserved the pain. He spared a glance toward Ella across the table. She was watching him with wide-eyed wonder, her mouth agape.

"Oh, com'on, Kingsley," Ben was saying. "We could all see you wanted to punch him in the face too. Gawain was just sparing you the political fallout by doing it for you." He sniggered.

"This is serious, Ben!" said Kingsley in as stern of voice as Gawain ever heard from him. Between Kingsley and Harry and Mary and Ella, Gawain felt his head hanging even lower in shame. Kingsley spoke to the room at large now. "I do understand that it has been longer in this house than any of us expected. I understand that is taking its toll. That tempers are running thin." Kingsley looked around the room, meeting everyone's eyes in turn. "We have a team on the outside working tirelessly to find a way to break this Trace that's been put on us and another working to track down those responsible. I know how frustrating it is to be here and not feel that we can help. But the best thing we can do is be patient. And support each other." With this last, he looked directly at Gawain who forced himself to meet his eye and nod. "Quarrelling amongst ourselves solves nothing." There were several other nods around the room and gradually people began to pack away notes and paperwork. Sandeep bent to right his chair which had been knocked over in the tussle.

"Well…" Susan Bones said sullenly as she pulled out a chair on the far side of the table. "In fairness, my dad's not doing much to inspire support. I think I'm with Ben on this one."

"I wish you wouldn't do that." All eyes turned to look at Harry who had collected a stack of plates from the cupboard and was setting the table for dinner.

"Do what?" Susan countered, her eyes flashing angrily. She was clearly still raring for a fight and didn't seem to particularly care with whom.

"Use me to pick fights with your dad," Harry replied dryly.

Susan spluttered. "I'm not… I was just… I'm defending you!"

"I didn't ask you to."

"Well, you're not exactly doing it for yourself! All those nasty things he keeps saying about you. I don't understand why you're just letting him get away with it!" Gawain remembered Harry's response when he'd asked him the same question: Because he's right. But Harry did not say it this time. Instead he lowered his gaze to the handful of cutlery he'd just retrieved from a drawer. All around the room, eyes were cautiously darting between the two as Susan's temper flared. "Fifth year, when Umbridge and the Ministry and the Daily Prophet were saying all those horrible things, you fought back. You started the DA, you gave that interview to the Quibbler, you talked back to Umbridge so much you were in detention practically every week! I don't understand how this is different."

Reflexively, Harry ran his fingers over the back of one hand. Then said quietly, "Your dad's hardly Umbridge."

"He's acting like her! I don't understand why you won't—"

"He's acting like a man who lost someone he loves in a very sudden and traumatic way. And so are you. And that's fine. You're both entitled to do that. So if he needs someone to blame and it helps if that someone is me, just let him do it. I've long-since accepted my role as society's scape-goat." At a frustrated grunt from Susan, Harry sighed. "Whatever your father finds to throw at me, I promise I've heard worse. I'm thick skinned," he added wryly. "I can take it."

Amitra had entered the kitchen. She looked around taking in the general mood and the two bickering teens before she rounded the table and seated herself next to Margaret. They began whispering together. Gawain caught a few phrases: –everything alright? And –in a temper. And –he's having the elf bring dinner upstairs for the boys.

"So is that supposed to be comforting then?" Susan was saying defiantly. "He's treating you like shit, but it's alright because other people have treated you like shit." Harry's mouth quirked in a small rueful smile but he didn't reply to this, merely continue to pass around forks and knives. "No. He's my dad. He's supposed to be better than that." Something in that comment tipped Harry's mirth at the first comment into soft laughter. He chuckled quietly to himself, not looking at Susan.

"Why is that funny?" she demanded. "That is not funny!"

"Sorry, it's just… I was just remembering this time when I was twelve. I walked into the library and there was this little gaggle of Hufflepuff students all whispering amongst themselves about how I was Slytherin's heir and out to kill Justin Finch-Fletchley for being a Muggle-born." Susan clapped a hand to her mouth and was suddenly staring at Harry with an utterly horrified expression. "And fourth year… what were those badges Draco Malfoy made? You and your friends were all wearing them. 'Potter stinks,' I think they said?"

He cocked his head mockingly as he waited for her response. But there was affection in his smile. Some spluttering was coming from behind Susan's fingers. Then, "That's not fair, I was a child," she mumbled through her fingers.

Harry laughed again, quite good-naturedly, all things considered. "So was I, as I recall."

"God, I can't believe I did all that…" she finally conceded, lowering her hands and looking mortified. "Now I feel really awful."

Harry smiled at her kindly. "I don't say it to make you feel awful. I say it to point out that everybody does it. If I didn't forgive people who prejudged me based on rumours or the newspaper… Well… I wouldn't have any friends. Not even Ron and Hermione, I think. Definitely no one in this room," he added with a laugh. And everybody in the room shifted uncomfortably at that. "So maybe we can go a little easier on your dad," he concluded.

Susan was looking quite miserable. "I just don't get how you can be so calm about it. Doesn't it make you angry?"

Harry smiled at her a little sadly as though he envied her naivety. "Of course it makes me angry. But I also went several years sharing my head with a mass murdering lunatic." He shrugged and several people around the table exchanged uncomfortable glances. But Harry said it almost flippantly. "These days, any anger I can muster for myself seems pretty weak by comparison."

---

Gawain entered the kitchen to the usual morning bustle the next day. He found himself in quite a good mood this morning. His hand was feeling better and he'd been comforted by his most recent encounter with Harry. He'd been nervous about how his midnight chat would be the night before—worried that Harry would still be angry with him. But it seemed Harry's infamous forgiveness was proved true, because Harry was as friendly and chatty as ever. They'd enjoyed quite a pleasant evening exchanging stories about their school days and exams, and Harry did not mention the incident with Bones at all.

Harry and Ben were still upstairs in their make-shift sparring ring this morning, but the rest of the residents of Grimmauld Place were already gathered. Edward Bones, a bruise showing quite prettily on his high cheekbone paused just long enough to glare at Gawain and finger his wand in his pocket. But he seemed to decide Gawain was not worth the bother, because he turned away quite quickly. He attempted to usher his children around the table to their seats, but Susan made a point to ignore him and go the other way around. Gawain chuckled softly to himself.

Sandeep was fussing over Nayana, and she was swatting away his helping hands with loving affection. Kingsley and Margaret were mock battling for first rights to the coffee pot. Amitra was laughing at them as she turned the sizzling sausages at the hob. Brannagh was shaking her head with a small smile as she poured hot water into the teapot. Gawain felt affection turn up the corners of his mouth as he looked around the room. It was still a miserable situation, of course, but this ragtag family they had forged had come to mean something to him.

Margaret finally won custody of the coffee pot. She poured herself a cup and took her first sip with over-exaggerated relish. Kingsley laughed as he finally managed to pour his own helping. "Don't look so smug. You may have won the battle but not the war." They were still exchanging jibes as they each plucked up a newspaper and headed to their preferred seats at the table. Gawain smiled as he found his own seat.

"Oh, shite…"

The words were not loud. And indeed if they had been spoken by another, they may not have garnered attention. But coming from Kingsley's lips—Kingsley who swore rarely and never when the children were in the room—they made the whole company look around.

Kingsley had just taken his seat and flipped open the newspaper. He was now staring at the front page with a stony expression Gawain could not fully read. Margaret too was staring at the front page, her mouth slightly agape and a look of horror on her face. Her one good eye darted to Kingsely then back to her paper. Then began whizzing backwards and forwards across the page as she read.

Oh bloody hell, what now. Gawain leaned over to the stack of newspapers. He turned it over, bracing for another article attacking Kingsley's absence and inaction in the Ministry. But it was not Kingsley's face looking up from the photograph on the front page. Instead, the image of a young boy gazed back.

The boy was eerily stationary as he met Gawain's eye. It was a Muggle photo—the sort of portrait taken at Muggle schools for identification purposes. The child could not have been more than Ella's age. But unlike Ella, this boy had an air of unmistakable neglect. He was skinny—Gawain could see it even with the round cheeks of youth. He wore a threadbare t-shirt that was several sizes too big. The neckline was so stretched, it slipped down to expose one thin shoulder. The boy's glasses appeared to have been broken multiple times and were held together with sellotape. Behind them, large eyes looked back at Gawain with a sad expression as though he expected nothing from him.

Around him, Gawain was vaguely aware of the rustling as everyone moved to gather a newspaper with trepidation. Vaguely, he was aware as small gasps were heard around the room, as hands covered mouths, as people adjusted to share their papers with their neighbours. But these were the only sounds. Not a soul spoke.

Gawain's eyes darted again to the headline, his brain struggling to process its meaning, though it was far from subtle. He looked back to the photo, drew in a deep calming breath, and braced himself to learn more than he wanted to know.

THE BOY WHO WAS ABUSED

Graham Haversham, investigative journalist with the Daily Prophet, goes undercover to discover the truth about Harry Potter's life before he became The Chosen One

We, most of us, recall well the day that Harry Potter became the Boy Who Lived. It has long been a topic of conversation at parties, a story we tell our children or our grandchildren. "Where were you when you first heard that a baby had brought about the downfall of the most powerful and feared Dark Wizard ever known?" they might ask.

For myself, fresh out of Hogwarts, I had only recently started an entry-level position with the Daily Prophet—something I was terribly proud of, though, back then, I did little but Summon tea for the senior associates. I will never forget walking off the lift into the newsroom that day. The energy buzzing about permeated the very air: a frantic combination of excitement, stress, jubilation, and anxiety. People were dashing about all over the place, barking commands at each other. All desperate to get the revised morning paper to the presses. The very paper from which many of you were informed that the Dark Lord, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, was defeated, and the First Wizarding War was over.

The euphoria at the long-awaited end of the War did not last long before people began to question what was to become of young Harry Potter, of course. The celebrations were tainted by worries for, in becoming the Boy Who Lived, Harry Potter had also become an orphan at just fifteen months of age.

"Well, it came down to Albus [Dumbledore] to make arrangements, of course," said Elphias Doge (118), Special Advisor to the Wizengamot and long-time friend of Albus Dumbledore. "Albus was executor of the Potters' will. Lily and James had made arrangements for a guardian for young Harry before they'd died, but sadly, their requests were… er… not possible to fulfil."

Doge was hesitant to give details of the Potters' will, but given that the document is now public record, it was not difficult to retrieve it. The reason their choice of guardian was not entertained by Dumbledore was immediately apparent: the Potters' had chosen their close friend, Sirius Black, as Harry's guardian. Black, of course, was at that moment being sentenced to life in Azkaban as an alleged murderer and Death Eater spy.

"So naturally, Albus elected to send Harry to live with his mother's sister and her family. It was a very logical choice: they were Harry's only living relatives, and Albus used Lily and her sister's shared blood as the basis for some very complex protective enchantments to ensure Harry stayed safe from any retaliation by the Death Eaters—something that was a very real risk at the time."

Not everyone, however, considered Albus Dumbledore's choice 'logical'. There was immediate public outcry at the idea that young Harry would grow up outside of the Wizarding World. Several wizarding families were quick to offer to adopt Harry Potter and raise him as their own. "I just couldn't understand it!" said Doris Crockford (52), resident of Cardiff. "Why, for the love of Merlin, would they send that sweet boy off to live with Muggles? How could they ever understand him? Why would they not want him to stay in the Wizarding World with his own people? God did not bless my husband and me with a child, though we'd been trying for many years at that point. When I heard about sweet Harry, I thought it was a sign. I wrote to Dumbledore straight away to offer to adopt him myself. But Dumbledore was having none of it. He was adamant that Harry go to live with those Muggles."

When I posed this very question to Doge, he became quite defensive. "Now, see here! The fact that they're Muggles does not mean they couldn't be decent guardians for Harry!" said Doge. "Indeed, I think the fact they were Muggles was one of their chief attractions in Albus's eyes. It ensured a more sheltered upbringing in a world where he was not famous. Growing up with all that fame and publicity would have been enough to give anyone a fat head. Albus wanted to give Harry as normal a childhood as possible to help avoid him growing up to be entitled or arrogant. And I think Albus was quite successful in this; as any of us who have had the pleasure of meeting Mr Potter know, he is anything but entitled or arrogant."

But just how 'normal' was Harry Potter's childhood? For sixteen years, Potter's exact whereabouts were largely kept a mystery 'for the sake of his protection,' or so the Ministry told us. But was there a more sinister reason behind the secrecy? And how much did Albus Dumbledore know that he was not telling us? This Daily Prophet investigative journalist, seeks to find out more.

Eight years ago, when Potter at last re-joined the Wizarding World, a number of people noted him to be smaller and skinnier than expected for his age. "I will never forget the day that I saw him in the Leaky Cauldron when he was eleven years old," said Doris Crockford. "He was in Diagon Alley to buy his school supplies, and just the sweetest, shyest little thing you ever did see—blushed scarlet when I shook his hand. But one look at him, and I just wanted to give him a big hug and feed him biscuits for days. He looked positively malnourished and was wearing Muggle clothes that must have been three sizes too big. Can't imagine what those Muggles were doing to let him get so thin, and could they not even buy him decent clothing?"

"Well, he always hated those Muggles he lived with. Everyone at school knew that," said Zacharias Smith (17) a Hogwarts friend of Potter's and a member of the renowned Dumbledore's Army. "Never wanted to go home for the hols. Spent every school holiday at Hogwarts except summer, and I think he only went back then because students weren't allowed to stay. And I remember once hearing Weasley say he'd send Harry food over the summer since they never fed him properly, the Muggles didn't." (Ronald Weasley, one of Potter's best friends, declined comment on the validity of this statement).

"I remember one year when he must have been thirteen or so," laughed Duncan MacFarlane (47), proprietor of Quality Quidditch Supplies in Diagon Alley. "He ran away from home—caused a right fuss at the Ministry to boot— and came to the Alley. Old Tom over at the Leaky Cauldron said he had a row with his family, but I reckon he just wanted to come and see the new Firebolt I had on display, because he practically lived in my shop that summer."

The situation sounded more and more curious and concerning when I overheard the account of Rubeus Hagrid, groundskeeper and Care of Magical Creatures teacher at Hogwarts, and reputed long-time friend of Harry Potter's. "I was the one ter fetch him from his aunt and uncle's house, yeh know?" he was telling a collection of people at the bar of the Three Broomsticks, one evening while I was there on business. "Back when he were first comin' ter Hogwarts. Those Muggles he lived with, they didn't want him ter come to school, an' they weren't lettin' him have his school letters. Dumbledore musta sent a thousand letters, but he knew Harry wasn' getting' 'em. So he sent me ter go an' tell 'im meself an' take 'im ter buy his school things an' all. Dumbledore trusted me with important stuff like tha', yeh know."

When I inquired if Hagrid would be willing to give an interview of his experience and his relationship with Harry Potter, however, like most of Potter's close personal friends, Hagrid declined further comment and left the pub shortly thereafter. But that which he had said was enough to pique my interest.

As the largest and most prestigious institution of magical learning in Britain and Ireland, Hogwarts works in close cooperation with the Ministry of Magic, Department of Magical Education when sending out their acceptance letters. At the first sign of magical aptitude in a child, a magical quill inscribes the child's name in the Book of Admittance which is kept at Hogwarts. Meanwhile, at the Ministry of Magic, all children born to magical parents are also recorded and a Trace Charm is placed upon the children to ensure that the Ministry can track their whereabouts to prevent transgressions to the Statue of Secrecy which may arise from accidental magic. These two lists are carefully cross-referenced to ensure all (and only) children with magical aptitude are admitted, and when it comes time to send out admissions letters, Hogwarts relies on the Trace spell to address the letters.

"Right," explained a member of the Department of Magical Education who preferred to remain anonymous. "So the Hogwarts Deputy Headmaster or Headmistress writes up the admittance letters. If the kid is Muggle-born, they'll arrange for a Hogwarts staff member to visit the home to personally explain everything to the parents. But if they're on our list of kids born to wizarding parents, they'll automatically get sent here, see? So we can send them off to the right place based on where the Trace tells us they reside. So Harry Potter's would have come through here. Seeing as his mum and dad were wizards."

The anonymous Ministry worker confirmed that Hogwarts would be notified if a child had not received his letter for any reason. "Exactly. So, these letters are tracked, so if it doesn't reach the intended recipient, Hogwarts is notified that they may need to send someone in person. But we'll continue to send letters until the child in question has been reached. And Dumbledore had a reputation for taking a personal interest if it seemed that the letters were being withheld for any reason. He enjoyed adding his own… whimsy… to how those letters were delivered."

When asked if records would be kept of repeated attempts at contact, the worker produced a tome in which every delivery attempt is recorded. "Blimey, you weren't kidding. We did send a lot of letters to him!" The worker said, scrolling down a list in the book. "July 24th, 1991: one letter addressed to Mr H. Potter, the Cupboard under the Stairs—well that's odd, innit—delivered through letter-box. July 25th: one letter addressed to Mr H. Potter, The Smallest Bedroom, delivered through letter-box. July 26th: three letters, The Smallest Bedroom, letter-box. July 27th: twelve letters, The Smallest Bedroom, under the front door as letterbox had been boarded up. July 28th: twenty-four letters, Confunded milkman to deliver inside two dozen eggs. July 29th: fifty letters delivered down chimney. July 30th: one hundred letters to the Railview Hotel in Cokeworth. Then finally, looks like he got it at last on July 31st. One letter addressed to Mr H Potter, The Floor, Hut-on-the-Rock, The Sea, hand-delivered by Rubeus Hagrid. Bloody hell, but they were really trying to avoid us, weren't they?"

For my part, I could not decide which of this I found more disturbing. The various destinations to which these letters were addressed; the fact that clearly Harry Potter's guardians were attempting to evade contact with the Wizarding World; or the fact that Albus Dumbledore was likely aware of all this and still stood by his decision to send Harry Potter to live with his Muggle relations every summer holiday. Unable to question the late Albus Dumbledore, I decided it was time to go straight to the source and have a little chat with Harry Potter's aunt and uncle, Petunia and Vernon Dursley.

My first interaction with Mr Vernon Dursley, however, was less than fruitful. I arrived at their home, a modest middle-class suburban house in Little Whinging, Surrey, eager to at last have some answers to my questions. When I knocked on the front door, however, Dursley answered and immediately bristled as he took in my appearance. Before I could even introduce myself, Dursley was hissing at me that they didn't "want anything to do with you lot, and why can't you freaks just leave us alone? We haven't seen the boy in over a year and whatever he's gone and done now, it's got nothing to do with us!" Then, before slamming the door in my face, he advised I should clear out before the neighbours caught sight of "that getup you're wearing" or he'd call the Muggle law enforcement. Clearly, I was going to need to rethink my approach.

Continued Potter, A5

Gawain's heart was beating unnaturally fast as he fumbled for page A5. His fingers felt cold and didn't seem to be able to grasp the page, but he finally managed it after several attempts. As he folded back the newspaper to continue the article, he spared the briefest glance to the rest of the room, but everyone's eyes were fixed on the papers before them and no one looked his way. They did, however, all have quite equal looks of horror on their faces, an expression he suspected was mirrored on his own.

Several smaller photos accompanied the continuation of the article on page A5. There was a the photo of a remarkably average suburban house; a living room mantel covered in photographs of a fat blond boy; a small austere bedroom that appeared to have a cat flap installed in the door and bars across the window; and finally— Gawain found his eyes pausing on it with some trepidation— a small cot crammed into a cupboard under the stairs. Gawain swallowed before he continued to read.

Denied entry to the Dursley house, I set about to interview some nearby neighbours and members of the Muggle community to try to get a better picture of who the Dursleys were. By most accounts, the Dursley Family seemed perfectly ordinary and respectable. When I inquired about Potter, however, I found I received much more curious answers and indeed stories that did not seem to mesh with the hero we all know Harry Potter to be.

"Nephew? Is that that scrawny boy they used to have over to do the gardening?" said Eustace Clarence (84), a neighbour who lives a few doors down from the Dursley's home. "Don't think I even realised he lived there. Never saw him if he wasn't working out there, pulling weeds or mowing the lawn or what have you."

But he seems to have made more of a name for himself at the local primary school. "I was warned about Harry Potter by Mrs Bryant before he started in my Year Four class," said Agatha Myers, a teacher at the local primary school. "Mrs Bryant had had him Year Three, and she swore he'd somehow managed to sneak blue hair dye into her wig—I mean her hair! But they never could figure out how he'd done it. He never did anything like that with me, thank goodness. He was quiet in my class. Sat in the back. Didn't have a lot of friends. But I remember him getting into terrible trouble while out on the schoolyard once during playtime. He was caught climbing school buildings. Found him just sitting up on the chimney over the kitchens and no one had any idea how he'd gotten up there! Nearly got suspended, as I recall. Why did you say you're interested in him?"

"Yeah, I knew Potter, alright," said Piers Polkiss, a former classmate at primary school with Potter. "He always thought he was right clever, but me and Dudley [The Dursley's son and Potter's cousin] would show him. He hasn't been back here for a long time. Reckon he's scared. He knows me and the boys would have a thing to say if he showed his face around here again."

Jessica Evans, a nearby resident looked scared and angry at the very mention of Potter. "Oh, I remember that Potter boy, alright! He went and beat up my sweet Mark a few years back, I'm sure of it," she said struggling to contain her tears. "That is, Mark refused to say who did it—he was so scared— but Mr Barker saw him wandering the streets that night. And I don't think it's a coincidence that it happened just after the Potter boy can back from that school of his for the summer."

It was then that I discovered that the cover story the Dursleys had been using to explain Potter's disappearances to Hogwarts each year was that he had been sent off to Saint Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys. "So you know he's a hooligan!" said Evans. "I won't let my Mark anywhere near him. Dangerous boy, to be sure."

"Definitely heard a lot more shouting from the house whenever the boy was home for the summer!" commented Rose Wilson, next door neighbour to the Dursleys. "Dunno what the lad was getting up to, but Vernon Dursley's got a voice that carries when he's angry! And Potter must have been good at making him angry, whatever it was he did. And it always seemed they'd get rid of him back to school as quickly as they could each year. Sometimes he'd be gone after no more than a few weeks into the holidays."

Indeed, the more I questioned the neighbourhood, the more I saw a pattern. The surrounding Muggle community had been carefully trained to fear and steer well clear of Harry Potter, despite the fact that none of them could cite a solid example of his behaviour being disruptive. But why? What were they hiding? And who was doing the hiding? There was nothing for it. To find out more, I was going to have to return to the Dursley home.

I came prepared this time: a few charms to alter my appearance and fake identification showing me to be from the electricity company. Electricity is a kind of energy Muggles use as a replacement for magic to power their homes and daily lives. Muggles are very reliant on this energy source, so when presented with the possibility that she may lose her access to this power, Petunia Dursley was quite quick to grant me entrance into the house this time around.

My first observation inside the house was of the numerous photographs of a large blond boy having what appeared to be a very loved and happy childhood. Photographs of Harry were conspicuous only in their absence. One would never have known that another boy grew up in this home. I conversationally asked Mrs Dursley if she only had the one child, to which she gave me a look that said only too clearly that she did not approve of chitchat, replied, "Yes," and told me to "get on with whatever you're here to do," before retreating to the kitchen. This, however, conveniently left me with the opportunity to explore the house under the pretence of looking for the fuse board (a unit attached to the wall that appears to distribute the electricity Muggles are so reliant on).

Remembering the address of Potter's first Hogwarts letter, I naturally went straight to the cupboard under the stairs. Sure enough, among a collection of Muggle cleaning supplies, there were subtle but unmistakable hints that a child once lived here. A small cot was crammed inside, just big enough for a child to sleep on. A few stickers shaped like stars were adhered to the underside of the stairs as decoration, and written in childish crayon lettering in a forgotten spot over the inside of the door, the name "Harry" is spelt out. I could almost see a lonely child sitting here sad and forgotten.

If I hoped for a less ominous sight when I explored the upstairs in search of "The Smallest Bedroom", I was sadly disappointed. Despite that Potter's cousin's room was large and filled with various gadgets powered by Muggle electricity, Potter's room was small and barren. But more worrisome was the lock strangely positioned on the outside of the door rather than inside and bars across the only window. A cat flap was installed in the door but I saw no other evidence of a pet, making me nervous about what it may have been used for. No personal effects remained in the room.

I left the Dursley house a little later, never managing to glean even the vaguest mention of a nephew from Mrs Dursley. My heart was heavy imagining the kind of childhood Potter endured.

With so much evidence of abuse and neglect everywhere I turned, I struggled to understand how the revered saviour of the Wizarding World could have spent so many tragic years forgotten and unloved. And a more important question plagued my mind. Was it really possible that Albus Dumbledore, executor of the Potter's will, knew nothing of the boy's tragic home-life? I find it hard to believe that one as well-informed as Dumbledore always was could have been oblivious to the situation. And if he was indeed aware, what possible reason could he have had to keep Potter there?

"Abused and neglected children often feel such a desperate need for approval as to drive them to compulsively place others' needs before their own," said Leon Schneider, Healer in the psychiatric unit of Saint Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. "And likely to especially prioritise the wants of authority figures. A child with such an upbringing would tend to have little self-worth, and consequently is far less likely to question self-sacrifice."

Given the level of self-sacrifice we all know that Potter showed in his recent defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, one has to wonder if Dumbledore orchestrated this sad neglectful childhood in order to mould Potter into the kind of hero he needed. Concern has long been raised about the nature of Dumbledore's relationship with Potter, as the former Headmaster of Hogwarts took an unusual interest in his young student during his years at school. This new evidence only serves to add another sinister layer to an already disturbing association.

Harry Potter declined to give an interview on the topic of his childhood. We can only assume that such trauma is too painful for him to face.

The stillness in the room was palpable. Slowly, as though fearing his movement may cause the dam to break, Gawain raised his head to look around the room. Brannagh was shaking her head back and forth silently as she stared at the page. Sandeep was lowering the paper as he finished the article and Nayana, who had been reading over his shoulder, pulled it toward herself to finish it with an air of desperation. Margaret's eye was darting around the room but focusing on nothing as though she were thinking hard. And tears streamed down Mary's cheeks. She was drawing in sharp stuttering breaths, trembling hands clamped over her mouth as she stared at the paper resting on the table. Ella gazed from her mother to the paper and back again, looking utterly bewildered.

Finally, Gawain turned his head to look at Kingsley. The Minister was staring at the empty seat where Harry generally sat, the furrow between his brow the only show of emotion. Gawain turned his head to see what he was staring at. Harry's copy of the Daily Prophet, set out dutifully by his loyal House-elf, awaited Harry innocently on the table. Gawain stared at it for a moment too, then looked at Kingsley, then back to the paper. After a moment of quiet consideration, Gawain reached over, and tore the front page off Harry's copy of the newspaper. His eyes met Kingsley's who made no objection as, mimicking Harry's morning routine, Gawain crumpled the page and threw it across the table in the direction of the fire. The sound of the crumpling paper had drawn the eyes of everyone in the room and Gawain stared around defiantly. But no one argued. An unspoken agreement went around the room.

The sounds of cheery conversation came from the stairs. Gawain found himself annoyed at them for a moment—couldn't they read the mood? Didn't they know this was no time for cheer and laughter? Then he remembered that it was Harry and Ben coming to join for breakfast after their morning spar.

Gawain slid his copy of the Daily Prophet under his plate. A rustle ran through the kitchen as the others did likewise, tucking their papers down onto laps under the table or hastily under dishes. Gawain noticed Mary turn her back on the door, not trusting her control of the emotions spread blatantly across her face.

The kitchen door opened. Harry was chortling at a story Ben was telling. "So, apparently, to make my Patronus, all I should be doing is picturing Uncle Eamon running stark naked down the street after that bloody kneazle." Then to the room at large, "Morning," he said lightly. "You're a gloomy lot today. Who died?" Then he blinked and glanced around taking in person after person as his grin slipped from his face. "Oh God, who died?" his tone changing to one of genuine concern.

No one answered. They all exchanged glances with each other, as though hoping someone else would take charge with some clever lie or distraction. But Harry looked around at them all shrewdly before his eyes darted to the newspaper waiting for him. The missing front page seemed conspicuous in his absence, and Gawain knew immediately he had made a wrong move. He averted his eyes reflexively, and he was sure he was not the only one. A soft sigh sounded from behind him. "Alright. Let's see it," said Harry quietly.

"See what?" said Kingsley over his coffee cup, probably the only one who managed a show of nonchalance.

It must not have been sufficiently convincing, however, because when Gawain glanced over his shoulder, Harry was giving him an exasperated look. "The newspaper everyone just shoved out of my line of sight oh-so-casually as I walked in? Come on. If it's that bad, I'm gonna hear about it eventually. Might as well rip the plaster off." When still no one moved to respond, Harry sighed. "So out with it. What did I do this time? Head up a crime syndicate hell-bent on drug smuggling, world domination, and drowning puppies?"

As he spoke, he walked up behind Gawain, but he still did not look around. From his periphery, however, he saw Harry cock his head in his direction and nimble fingers twitched Gawain's paper out from under his plate. Gawain winced and resisted the urge to snatch it back. But Harry was still chatting lightly as he shook open the paper, "I mean, I killed Dumbledore, remember? Can it really be worse than—"

The words died on his lips as he took in the front page headline and photograph. Gawain glanced falteringly up to see his expression. But Harry's face had fallen determinedly blank. He was utterly still for a moment, then his eyes began whizzing back and forth across the page as he read.

Ben was rounding the table toward his seat. "What's going on? What's happened?" he asked, his frustration evident as no one responded. After a moment's hesitation, Margaret sighed, pulled her newspaper out from her sleeve, and passed it to Ben. He'd see it eventually, anyway. Ben stared at the front page, his mouth hanging open. Then he looked across at Harry, then back to the page, then back to Harry.

All around the room, people sat in silence as Harry read the paper. No one spoke, no one moved. Gawain thought they barely breathed. The rustling of the paper as Harry turned to page A5 drew eyes, but then they all hastily looked away again. Still Harry's face was determinedly blank. Gawain surreptitiously watched Harry as his eyes raked across the photos of his childhood home, taking in each in turn. Ben, meanwhile, was also reading the article, slumped at the table, his elbow propped on its surface, his head in his hand, and his mouth still hanging open.

After another minute, or maybe an hour, Harry at last lowered the paper. He did not immediately move from where he stood. He did not look at any of them. And still his face was deadly blank. "Well, now they're just getting annoying," he said to nobody in particular. He sighed and handed Gawain back his paper. Then, without sitting down, he poured himself a cup of tea, drained it in one gulp, and plucked up two pieces of toast to wrap them in a napkin before turning from the table.

"Where are you going?" Kingsley asked. Gawain thought the question took some bravery, but Kingsley seemed not to have the emotional energy to care if Harry decided to snap at him for it.

Harry, however, must have been in a forgiving mood—or perhaps he was merely in too much of a hurry to be gone to waste time with such arguments— because he merely gave Kingsley an exasperated look over his shoulder as he made to pluck up his cloak from the hook on the wall. His hand stilled just over the cloak, then instead grasped a Muggle jumper. He folded this over his arm, still clutching the toast as he turned back to Kingsley.

"I'm going to check in on the protective enchantments around the Dursley's house in case some well-meaning person decides they'd be doing me a favour by murdering them. Then I'm going to yell at my aunt and uncle a bit until I found out why they let Haversham into the house. And then well… the day's young. Maybe I'll pay the Daily Prophet a visit and see if they'd like to write a story about the effects of the Bat-Bogey Hex."

He made to turn toward the door, but Kingsley called after him, "Are they worth it?"

"Who? The Prophet?"

"Your aunt and uncle," Kingsley clarified firmly, clearly not falling for Harry's dumb act. "Are they worth it?"

But Harry looked back at him with a hard expression. "Don't," he said, his voice dangerously soft. And there was a shadow of anger in his voice. "Don't ask me that. They're my family. You know better than to ask me that." And without a word of farewell, he was gone, and silence again fell in the kitchen.

"I hope you know what an idiot you look."

All eyes turned to look at Susan. She was glaring at her father down the table. Gawain saw Kingsley sigh softly and pinch the bridge of his nose. Perhaps he, like Gawain, was bracing for another screaming match. But Bones did not acknowledge his daughters words. Merely stared down at the newspaper on the table before him with a furrowed brow.

"God, you can't even admit when you're wrong, can you?" Susan grumbled under her breath. "I'm going to head back to school," she said to the room at large, rising to her feet.

"Do you have to?" said Brandon in a small voice.

Susan's face softened as she looked at her little brother. "Sorry, Bran. I have exams starting tomorrow. But I'll come back next week and we'll have more time together." And she hugged each of her brothers in turn. She hesitated a brief moment, but her father did not look round or offer a hug or a farewell. And so she walked to the fireplace and flooed away.

The plate of fried eggs and sausages sat waiting on the table, but no one made to eat. Gawain picked distractedly at his nails as he sat watching the steam from the plate slowly dissipate.

When the Floo flared again a few minutes later, several people jumped at the sudden sound. One after the other, Granger and Weasley stepped out and looked around. They paused just beside the hearth, looking at all the faces turned in their direction.

"Er… hey," said Weasley awkwardly noting all the eyes turned his way.

"Hi," replied Kingsley, a bit tersely. He turned back to his sullen examination of his own thoughts.

"Is er… Harry down yet," Granger asked hesitantly.

"You just missed him," said Kingsley. "He just left. To go see the Dursleys," he added darkly.

"Ah…" Granger and Weasley exchanged a significant look. "So he's seen the paper, I gather."

"I don't get why he'd go back there," Weasley grumbled.

"They're his family, Ron," replied Granger as though this should be quite obvious, but Gawain was wondering the same thing. "And this article will lay them open to retribution. It's only natural that Harry would want to be sure they're safe."

"Yeah, but they're a bunch of gits. Who cares if they're safe?"

"Harry cares."

"And that's exactly what I'm talking about! He shouldn't! It's him risking his neck to save Malfoy at the Battle all over again!"

Granger sighed. "Harry doesn't see it that way."

"Well, it would do him some good if he did. Every time he—" abruptly he cut off with a look from Granger, then glanced around realising that their bickering had the attention of the full room.

Kingsley was frowning slightly as he considered the pair. "So all this is true, I take it," he said gesturing with his newspaper.

Granger and Weasley exchanged another glance.

"It's not really our place to—" said Granger at the same time that Weasley said, "Harry doesn't really like to talk about—" They both cut off and glanced at each other.

"You should talk to Harry," Granger finally answered Kingsley without answering Kingsley.

Kingsley eyed them both shrewdly for a moment. Then, as though Granger had really said, yes, it's all true, every bit of it, which she may as well have done, Kingsley continued his questioning, "And Dumbledore knew?"

Granger and Weasley looked at each other again, then back to Kingsley. "Might want to be careful how you ask that bit when you talk to him, mate," offered Weasley. "Touchy subject." Kingsley grimaced at that answer that seemed to again be confirmation enough in his eyes.

"Dumbledore loved Harry, Kingsley," Granger hastened to add. She almost seemed to be pleading with him. "I know he did. And… Harry… he doesn't blame Dumbledore. And if you… He won't appreciate it if you…"

"Dumbledore did apologise to Harry, you know," Weasley added as Granger faltered, though his tone was a bit more begrudging. "For sending him there every summer. Mum said he said he had to. To keep Harry safe. But she's not exactly thrilled with him at the moment either."

Granger looked rather miserable as she looked between Weasley and Kingsley. "We should go," she said. "You'll tell him we stopped by?"

"Yeah and…er… if you could tell him… Mum's a bit of a hot mess. She wants to see him. So if he could come by the Burrow…" Weasley trailed off, but Kingsley seemed to understand because he just nodded solemnly.

And the room again settled into quiet.

"Mam?" Ella's voice sounded high and sharp in the silence. "What's going on? How come everyone is so upset?" Gawain glanced at her fleetingly before returning to his own miserable thoughts.

But it was Nayana who made him look up again. "… Ella, beti… How about I show you how to make chai," said Nayana gently. Gawain looked at her and saw her eyes were not on Ella, however. They were on Mary. Brannagh too was looking Mary's way with pity and worry evident on her face. But as Gawain followed her gaze and as Ella was ushered over to the cooker by Nayana, Mary pushed away from the table and rose to her feet. Her face was turned from Gawain, and she moved too fast around the table for Gawain to get a good look at her as she made for the door.

"Mary?" he said softly, blinking confusedly. But she did not look around nor acknowledge him in anyway. Gawain got to his feet and hesitated. He glanced back toward Ella, but Nayana nodded to him as she set about showing Ella how to grate ginger. Gawain spared her a grateful look before he was out the door following Mary.

Mary had maintained a fast pace, and even though he took the stairs two at a time, she had reached the entrance hall before he caught up with her. "Mary!" he called to her, even as she started the climb up the next flight of stairs. "Mary, wait!" She ignored him. Mystification mounting, he took off after her. Her hair began to tumble out of the knot on the back of her neck as she jogged up the steps. "Would you just wait for a minute," he said, grasping her hand from behind and gently tugging to stop her.

Gawain opened his mouth, but the question died on his lips as she turned reluctantly to face him. The despair in her face was beyond the sorrow he had expected. Beyond grief. Beyond pain. In the mere second that she met his eye before she looked away, he read a bitter shame and self-loathing.

But then she turned away from him and impatiently pulled first her hand from his grip, then the elastic from her bun, letting her hair fall. She distractedly secured the hair tie around her wrist, shaking her head as she avoided his eye. "Wait," she repeated softly. "All I ever do, isn't it?"

And with those words, her shoulders slumped as she began again to climb the stairs. But now, she pulled herself up the banister, and her posture was weary, a stark contrast to the brisk strides she had shown just a moment before. Gawain blinked after her confusedly, then followed after quietly.

Mary entered the drawing room, seeming disinterested on whether or not Gawain followed. But she waited for him before she shut the door and slumped against it. Gawain stared at her, taking in the raw pain that poured from her, but not knowing how to stem the flow. Not even fully understanding the cause. And so he just stared at her. Trying to think of something to say. And cursing himself for never knowing what to say.

The silence stretched and still she didn't speak. Didn't meet his eye. It felt so loud as to make his ears ring with it. Sunlight was streaming through the windows at sharp angles. It highlighted specks of dust floating in the air. They danced on the silence.

Just as Gawain was beginning to think he was going to have to say something, she spoke, so soft he nearly missed it.

"I failed her."

Gawain didn't need to ask who she meant.

He licked his lips. She wasn't looking at him, barely seemed to remember he was in the room. He reached out a hand to rest it on her arm. But she pulled away from his touch. Rejected his comfort. And without acknowledging it, she pushed off the door and crossed the room to sink onto the settee. Gawain hesitated a moment before following suit. He perched himself hesitantly beside her, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

They sat that way for a long time, not looking at each other. Gawain continued to watch the dust swirling in the sunlight until a cloud must have drifted across the sun and the light dulled. "How old were you when Lily died?" Gawain asked into the silence. He knew of course. The day Lily Potter died was one well-remembered, though for different reasons for Gawain than for Mary. But he wanted her to answer.

She didn't. She merely slowly turned her head to look at him, her expression torn between tired and annoyed and wary.

"Twenty-one?" he answered for her. Still she said nothing. "You would have been in Healing Academy then, right? Single. Living with those roommates in that tiny flat in London, as I recall." Mary looked away. She knew what he was getting at, but she didn't want to hear it. No, she'd rather just torture herself with guilt. That seems healthy.

"So what should you have done, I'm curious? Adopted a one-year-old baby? All on your own? You would have had to give up Healing of course. It had been your dream to be a Healer since you were six, but no way you could have maintained that kind of workload with a baby at home. You'd still need gold, of course. So what would your plan be to provide for him while also managing childcare? I suppose you would have had to find work—"

"I could have checked on him," Mary cut him off, at last goaded out of her silence. "Lily would have expected me to check in on him. How could I have been so stupid? Lily and her sister never got on well. I should known. I should have checked in."

"Mary," Gawain sighed. "You didn't know. You couldn't have known."

But a floodgate appeared to have opened, and Mary was just sitting there, staring at nothing, shaking her head in denial and babbling. "He told me—Dumbledore—at the funeral he told me Harry was safe and well provided for. I trusted him. But I shouldn't have done. I knew. On some level I knew."

"You didn't know. This is hindsight talking."

"I chose to believe him. Even though I knew Lily would never have wanted Harry to go there. I chose to believe him because it was inconvenient to not. Because I was prioritising myself. My career. My grief. And later because I thought it would be awkward to go to introduce myself to him when he was older and he would have no memory of who I was. Because I was busy starting my own family."

Mary was wringing her hands so fiercely as she spoke, Gawain was sure she must be hurting herself. He reached over and grasped her hands to still them. "You're putting too much on yourself," he told her earnestly. "The Potters went into hiding before Harry was even born. You'd never even met Harry back then! And you were so busy with your training… You and Lily were just exchanging owls, what? Once a month maybe? No one could have possibly expected anything like that from you."

"I'd expect it," and finally he saw a tear escape and trickle down her cheek. "Lily was my best friend for ten years. If the tables were turned… If it were Ella… I'd expect it. I should have been there for him. I wish I'd been there for him." She all but whispered this last.

"You're here now," Gawain pointed out, admitting defeat that he was never going to change her mind, not deep down.

A small humourless laugh came by way of response. "I missed my chance. You said it yourself. He doesn't want a parent. And who could blame him? How could he if that's what he thinks a parent is?" Another tear trickled down her cheek as Gawain studied her profile, following the path laid out by the first. "How could he want anything to do with me? I missed my chance."

Gawain tried to think of what to say. Think what could possibly make this better. But abruptly she turned to look at him as though she'd just had a sudden and surprising thought. He found himself distracted by the expression on her face. She looked at him… appraisingly. Then, at last, she said, "He doesn't want a parent. But a friend… a mentor… someone who understands loss and trauma…" The words seemed difficult for Mary to get out. And he saw an undercurrent of that same look of jealousy she had worn when he'd admitted to having late-night tea with Harry. But there was also trust. And pride. And love. "I don't suppose you'll squander your chance like I did."

And Gawain could think of nothing to say to that either. For this was a torch he was not at all sure he was prepared to be passed. A burden he was not at all sure he was qualified to carry. A trust he was not at all sure he had earned.

Gawain opened and closed his mouth several times as he considered this. But Mary had already turned away and was again staring toward the window, lost in thought. Gawain drew in a deep breath in preparation to tell her…something… but she spoke first.

"We need to write a new will," Mary said abruptly, her tone business-like. Gawain blinked at the change in topic. But Mary nodded determinedly to herself as though this made perfect sense, frowning at the window. "If anything were to happen to us… We had my mother as Ella's guardian, but…" Her voice broke and she seemed unable to finish that thought. She took a deep calming breath in through her nose. "We need to write a new will."

Gawain studied her for a moment as she gathered her pragmatism around her like a shield. Drew comfort in it. Slowly, he put his arm around her and drew her close. He brushed her hair back from her face and pressed his lips to her temple. And he felt rather than saw her face screw up as she squeezed her eyes shut against the tears that she was too strong to let flow free. "Okay," he whispered softly against her hair.

She pulled back just enough to be able to look at him. Her eyes roved across his face, but he couldn't say for what she was seeking. Her hand gently played with the fingers of his free hand, a thumb brushing across his wedding band absently. "Okay," she breathed, barely audibly.

And as he looked into hazel eyes brightened by unshed tears, there was something unspoken there. And Gawain felt they had just agreed to something far different, far more raw, far more intangible than a will.

---

It was dinner time before Harry returned to Grimmauld Place. The day had been sombre with little chitchat or merriment and dinner started just the same. They were all unenthusiastically picking at their plates of spaghetti when Harry entered the kitchen. Everyone turned to look at him, then turned hastily away. Harry looked around, taking in the mood from the doorway before moving in.

"That looks good," said Harry, a forced air of casualness. "I'm starving." He helped himself to a serving of pasta before plopping down heavily into his seat. He looked terribly tired.

"Thought you might have decided to stay at your aunt and uncle's for dinner," said Kingsley. Harry turned to look at him. They surveyed each other quietly for a moment and Gawain had the distinct impression there was some battle of wills happening across the table.

But when Harry spoke, his tone was pleasant. "Aunt Petunia has Uncle Vernon on a diet. Apparently he recently had… 'an episode' I guess we're calling it. The doctors are worried about his heart. I remember well Aunt Petunia's idea of a diet. Wouldn't want to sit through those temper tantrums. Even Dudley seems to have made a run for it and decided to go settle in at uni a week early." He forced a smile, but Kingsley did not return it.

Kingsley waited as Harry sprinkled some cheese on his pasta and took a few bites. Then he said into the quiet, "So how are they? Your… family." The artfully timed pause spoke volumes.

Harry looked at him again in silence then said, "Fine, thank you. As good at pissing me off as ever they were." Then after a moment in which they stared at each other, "They were well fooled by Haversham's play as an electrician. They let him all over the house to 'check the fuse boards.' Never mind that the fuse board isn't in any of the rooms he photographed. Idiots." He sighed. "In fairness, I think a Confundus Charm might have been involved. They seemed a little… spacy… about it all."

Silence stretched in the kitchen. The tension was palpable despite Harry's valiant effort at nonchalance. After a time in which Harry ate a few bites of food and Kingsley watched him, not touching his own plate, Kingsley said, "Ron and Hermione stopped by while you were out."

Harry finished chewing his mouthful slowly before saying, "Oh?"

"Ron asked if you could stop by the Burrow. When you're free." Still Kingsley just watched him. Gauged his every response. "It sounds like Molly is… rather upset."

Harry's face finally fell. And again Gawain was struck by how tired he looked. Beyond tired. He looked down at his half-eaten plate of food a little wistfully. "Right," he said softly. Then the chair legs scraped against the floor as he pushed off the table to rise to his feet.

Kingsley blinked. "I didn't mean now! Finish your meal, at the very least. You don't have to go right this second."

"Oh, but I do," said Harry as he circled the table on his way to the fire, and sarcasm dripped from his words. "'Abused children often feel such a desperate need for approval as to drive them to compulsively place others' needs before their own,' after all." He sighed when this was met with nothing but silence and looks of heartbreak from the room at large. "Lighten up, people. That was a joke." And without a pause, he'd thrown a pinch of Floo Powder into the fire from the urn on the mantel, muttering, "The Burrow."

As the Floo carried him away, Kingsley sighed and ran a hand over his eyes and back across his bald pate.

Gawain didn't know what he was doing. He had no idea what he was going to say or why he should even be the one to say it. But late that evening, after the others had retired to their rooms, he found himself boiling water for a pot of tea and setting out two teacups. Harry had not yet returned from the Burrow, but he felt sure he would. And so he would wait. All night if he had to.

---

It was a quarter to eleven when the fire finally flared and Harry stepped out. Or perhaps stumbled out was more appropriate. He looked dead on his feet as he braced himself against the mantel as he swayed.

Dully, he raised his head to look to Gawain. Neither spoke for a moment and they just considered each other. At last Gawain nodded toward the teapot questioningly and moved to pour him a cup.

But Harry just sighed. "I had to spend the day with my family. That calls for something stronger," he said wryly. And he moved to the pantry. A moment later, he'd returned with the bottle of Firewhisky Bill Weasley had given him for his birthday and paused to retrieve two tumblers from a cupboard with his free hand.

He didn't look to Gawain or say anything as he took up his usual seat and set about pealing the foil off the cork. It wasn't until they were each nursing a small pour of whisky that Harry finally spoke again. "Well… Didn't get a lot of studying done today, did I?" He gave Gawain a small ironic grin as he sat back in his chair. He then took a small sip from his glass and sighed. Gawain could see his muscles relax deeper into the chair as he lulled his head back against the chair back, eyes closed.

"You alright?" Gawain asked softly. What a stupid question.

Harry must have thought so too, because he turned his head without raising it and opened one eye to look at Gawain. "Peachy," he replied sardonically.

More to give himself something to do to cover his embarrassment than anything, Gawain took a sip from his glass and relished the smooth warmth that trickled down his throat and coated his stomach.

Abruptly, Harry's head turned in the direction of the doorway, and an instant later, Gawain heard it too. Someone was coming down the stairs. By the time the door opened, both were staring expectantly. Gawain realised that his hand had gone reflexively to his wand.

But it was Kingsley standing in the doorway. He blinked at the pair of them, looking mildly surprised.

"Hey," said Harry, returning to his slouch in the chair. "Come to join the Insomnia Club, have you? It's three Sickles and a depressing life story to join." Gawain huffed a small laugh in spite of himself. "Should have badges made."

"I… yeah… Couldn't sleep. Thought I'd…wait up for you." Kingsley didn't seem to be a state of mind to comprehend humour. His eyes darted toward Gawain appraisingly. There was something similar in that look to the way Mary had looked at him before. Surprise, consideration, assessment. Gawain turned his attention back to his glass.

Harry just made a nondescript noise in the back of his throat. And Kingsley's attention went back to Harry.

"How are you feeling," Kingsley asked after a moment's pause, his expression wary.

Harry sighed. "Why does everyone keep asking me that? I'm not sick."

Kingsley just stood there awkwardly for a moment, clearly trying to think how to respond. "I only meant—" he began cautiously, but Harry cut him off.

"I know what you meant. But I'm fine. Just as fine as I was yesterday. And the day before that. And the day before that. Nothing's changed. And I don't see why everyone seems to think it should have." Restlessly, he rose to his feet, crossed to the cupboard and retrieved a third tumbler. Picking up the bottle of whisky, he poured a splash and held it out to Kingsley. This unspoken invitation softened the harshness of his tone and movements. Slightly. Very slightly.

Kingsley took the glass, glancing down at it for a moment, then back to Harry before he slowly pulled out a chair and seated himself.

An awkward silence stretched. Gawain leaned back in his chair and sipped from his glass, his eyes darting between Kingsley and Harry. The former was watching the latter with a frown on his face. The latter was watching the ceiling with a frown on his face. All in all, not the cheeriest of moods. After a moment in which Harry said nothing, Kingsley's eyes darted up to Gawain's. He seemed to contemplate him for a moment again as though he had never quite seen him before. Then he returned his gaze to Harry. Then to the bottle of Firewhisky.

"So the Insomnia Club, huh? You two do this often, I gather?" Kingsley at last broke the silence. His eyes were still on the bottle of Firewhisky and Harry's gaze followed them.

"Usually over a pot of tea, if you're concerned we're in the habit of seeking the answers to our problems at the bottom of a bottle," Harry said wryly.

Kingsley raised an eyebrow at him. "So perhaps something has changed today, after all…?"

Harry grimaced at his mistake. "Kingsley. Your Auror is showing. Might want to see to that."

Kingsley let out a small begrudging laugh as though it were against his better judgment, and finally took a sip of his whisky. He sighed softly, and Gawain thought he could see as the liquid warmed him and relaxed his muscles. Gawain took another sip from his own glass.

It was a long while before any of them spoke again. The silence stretched and evolved. Gradually, it was not awkward as it had felt initially. But comforting. Companionable. All three men sat, quietly sipping their drinks, each lost in his own thoughts. And while Gawain doubted any of their thoughts were particularly pleasant, it was at least soothing to think that they were not alone in them. And so he made no attempt to break the silence. Nor did he find himself worrying that it needed breaking. Instead he embraced it. Savoured it just as he did the glass of whisky in his hands.

"God, he's such a git," Harry muttered after a long while as though continuing a conversation they had just been having.

Kingsley and Gawain exchanged a glance, trying to determine if the other knew of whom Harry was referring. "Your uncle?" Gawain clarified, wondering if he was about to be the subject of Harry's ire instead of Kingsley as he probed that particular topic.

"Hm?" said Harry as though he'd rather forgotten they were there. "Oh. No. Well… yes," he added with a laugh. "Him too. But I was actually referring to Graham Haversham. Git."

Gawain and Kingsley exchanged another quiet look.

"He's trying to draw you out," Kingsley observed softly. "Goad you into giving an interview."

Harry rolled his eyes. "Yeah. I got that, thanks," he said, a bitter sarcasm dripping off every word. "But if he could stick to doing that without putting the lives of my only surviving family members at risk, that would be great." He took another sip of his whisky and grimaced, but Gawain did not think the expression a response to the burning of his throat.

There was a silence in which Gawain saw Kingsley choosing his words very cautiously. "Whatever the faults in his motivations, Haversham… I will say there were elements in that article that… that rang truer than most stories I've read about you in the past."

Very slowly, Harry turned his face to look at him. He said nothing, but Gawain saw great flashing warning signs screaming DANGER! in his expression. Kingsley must have seen them too, for he visibly steeled himself before continuing. "Can we just talk about—"

"No." Harry cut him off firmly, though not particularly loudly. "No," he repeated, softer this time. When Kingsley looked away, a look of frustrated disappointment on his face, however, Harry sighed and ran a hand across his face tiredly. "What's the point, Kingsley? I haven't spent more time in that house than I could avoid since I was ten years old. And since I started learning magic, they've had a nice healthy fear of me to make sure things weren't so bad, so…" Harry gave his lopsided grin but neither Kingsley nor Gawain returned it, and it slid back of his face quite quickly.

"Dunno what everyone's so shocked and upset about anyway. It's not like any of this was a big secret," he sighed after another awkward silence, crossing his arms over his chest sullenly.

Kingsley looked as though he wanted to retort that there was plenty of reason to be shocked and upset, but he visibly swallowed it back. "Not a big secret…" he echoed softly to himself. "So Dumbledore did know about all this, I take it," he said louder, looking to Harry to gauge his response to that. And the response was immediate.

Harry stiffened, back straightening. He barely seemed to breathe. He sat, perfectly still, muscles tensed, staring down at his hands wrapped around his tumbler. Then, without turning his head, his eyes rose to meet Kingsley's. DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!

"So what?" Harry asked, his tone casual. "Are we going to sit here and pretend that you didn't?"

Kingsley choked on his firewhiskey and spluttered. Gawain glanced at him and suddenly very much wished he was not in the room. Harry just silently watched him as Kingsley caught his breath. They stared at each other, Kingsley opening and closing his mouth incredulously.

"I… What?"

"Oh come off it, Kingsley. You've met them. And three summers ago? I had Order members trailing me everywhere all summer. The hols, as I recall, culminated in me getting locked in that bedroom and the Order needing to draw my family away just so you lot could come and break me out to take me here. So let's not pretend you were all clueless about it."

Kingsley was looking more and more devastated by the second. Gawain shifted uncomfortably and wondered if he should just excuse himself from this conversation and head up to bed. "I…" Kingsley looked across the room, collecting his thoughts. "You're right," he said softly, at last, his voice breaking. "Of course, you're right. I'm sorry. I didn't think…"

"Oh, for goodness sake, relax," sighed Harry. "I'm not asking for an apology. I don't blame you. No more than I do Dumbledore—which is not at all, by the way, not that anybody's asked my opinion on that."

"I don't understand how you can not," objected Kingsley. "The more I hear… It just seems that everything he did, he did with the motivation to… He was using you to…"

"Everything he did," Harry said firmly, cutting him off. "He did out of an effort to keep me alive. Including sending me to the Dursleys. You know why he did that. You know full well how quickly I would have been murdered as a child without the magic protecting me in that house. "

Kingsley shook his head disbelievingly and seemed to be trying to muster the words to make Harry see. But Harry was having none of it.

"I'm curious," he said. And he seemed angry now. Angrier by far than he'd seemed at the idea that Kingsley and the rest of the Order of the Phoenix had been aware of the conditions in which he was living in the Dursley household. "Do I come across as stupid to you? Weak? Inept?"

Kingsley blinked. A small crease appeared between his eyes. He looked confused. But also wary. "No. Of course not."

"Well, it sure seems that way. Because everyone seems to think that I only killed Voldemort because Dumbledore told me to. But maybe you could do me the courtesy of giving me a little credit where credit is due. And I don't mean some bloody statue in the Ministry or an Order of Merlin or whatever your blasted political advisors might be suggesting to you. What I want is the respect to think that maybe, just maybe, I killed Voldemort because I wanted to. Not because of a prophesy. Not because Dumbledore made me. But because I wanted to. I could have bowed out at any moment—Dumbledore even said as much. But I wanted him dead. And I wanted to do it. So giving all the credit to Dumbledore is a bit offensive, mate."

For a moment there was quiet save for the crackling of the fire. Gawain merely stared at Harry, his jaw slack. It was perhaps the first time Gawain had even paused to think of Harry as a killer. He had famously killed a dark wizard in front of hundreds of witnesses, and yet he had never thought of him as such until this moment.

When Kingsley continued to look dissatisfied, Harry said earnestly. "I didn't fight in this war because of Dumbledore, Kingsley. I survived it because of him." The anger had melted from his face. Now he just looked… sad. And tired.

"A lot of things in my life haven't been perfect," Harry went on softly. His posture had changed again. He was slumped and staring into his tumbler. "And yeah. I guess my childhood was one of them. But you should get it... You're in a position of power now. And sometimes you're going to have to make some decisions. And sometimes things aren't going to turn out perfect for everybody. Sometimes making a choice for "the greater good" is the best that you can do."

Harry looked up at Kingsley, and they stared at each other with quite equally miserable expressions for some time. But it seemed Kingsley had no rebuttal for any of this. And no more did Gawain. And some time later, after Harry had excused himself up to bed muttering something about his NEWTs in the morning and trying to get some sleep, Kingsley and Gawain continued to sit at the kitchen table in silence.

And while Gawain doubted that any of their thoughts were particularly pleasant, it was at least soothing to think that they were not alone in them.