AN: I don't own Harry Potter. All affiliated properties belong to J.K. Rowling, Scholastic, Warner Bros, etc.

This is a DEEP AU. Any and all diversions from canon/fanon are intentional.

The stars hadn't yet faded in the early morning sky, sprinkled across the celestial blue canvas of the heavens. The moon had just begun to wander west, its cold light growing distant, casting long shadows in the sparse hillside. Tranquility was upon the waking world. In the isolation of darkness, in complete contrast to the nature around him, Harry Potter ran as a man possessed.

It had been three weeks since his arrival at Bones Manor. Three weeks since the death of his father. Three weeks since he found an all consuming purpose; the very thing that drove him to run as though the devil were chasing him. And he might as well have been, Harry felt. Because if Tom Riddle wasn't the closest thing to the devil, he didn't know what was. The information Phineas had provided him that night had been surprising, enlightening… and horrifying.

Over the course of the evening, and in spite of Harry's deadline at the time to return to Potter Manor before Tonks came to escort him, a suddenly invested Phineas had relayed more or less a summary of the entire man's life. Mountains of information, accumulated through decades of silent observation within the Headmasters Office at Hogwarts and within Grimmauld Place itself. Knowledge through three headmasters and two wizarding wars.

The picture that it all painted, fragmented that it was, frightened Harry.

The aftermath of the First Great Muggle War. A floundering magical society on the cusp of revolution. A lonely boy, abandoned and angry, with stygian ambition and unparalleled talent. A half-blood; a hypocrite, who would grow into a charming, power hungry mad-man. A patricidal, murderous fiend. A leader. A monster.

A Dark Lord.

Tom Marvolo Riddle, the mystery man whose name frequented his father's journal in hastily scribbled and scratched out notes, was none other than...

"Voldemort," Harry breathed out, stopping his run momentarily, his breathing labored and his thoughts a thousand miles away. He had no reason to fear the name. The taboo behind it was long broken, even before he was born. Yet doing so in anything more than a harsh whisper felt… wrong.

It wasn't that he feared the name, per se, like many in the magical world still did long after the Dark Lord's supposed 'defeat'. His father had taught him that fear of a name only ever increased the fear of the thing itself. Apparently, it had been sage advice given to him from an old friend, but his father hadn't elaborated by whom. Regardless, the wisdom had stuck, and what Harry feared wasn't the name.

It was the man behind the name. The monster. The wraith.

For that's what Tom Riddle was now, if his father's proposed ramblings were to be believed. He had concluded that the Dark Lord survived death, somehow, through some twisted means. Something no other wizard could claim to have done. Not even the legendary alchemist Nicholas Flamel could claim such a feat. He merely postponed it for himself and his wife somewhat indefinitely. What his father proposed Tom Riddle had accomplished was unheard of.

Phineas had reassured Harry as much. Any other attempts to go against nature in such a way always involved the darkest of magicks; dark sacraments and black rituals. "And sacrifice - always sacrifice," Phineas had emphasized. Always they ended poorly. Such practices were how inferi were born, and ghouls, and - to a more contested extent - the first of the balrogs. Dark, powerful, dangerous creatures to be sure, but not sentient. Not human. One could not bring oneself back from beyond and retain any part of their old selves, nor could you have someone else do it for you. When one died, the soul was gone, and no magic could undo that.

Yet in his heart of hearts, Harry knew Tom Riddle had managed it. Moreover, that he had somehow, someway, played part in his father's death. Phineas had accused him of being naive; of clinging on childishly to the notion that his idol was unbeatable, and he was leaping to unfounded conclusions to justify a tragedy, but Harry had remained steadfast in his logic. Sure, his father wasn't likely to die by anyone or anything short of a dozen capable wizards, or several duelists on someone like Professor Flitwick's level - or one conveniently undead Dark Lord - but that was irrelevant. It came down to not who or what persons had the ability to kill his father, who was single mindedly preparing for years to eviscerate the Antonin Dolohov and anything that stood in his way, but rather who had the ability and the motive, to do so and then vanish without a trace.

Harry, like his father before him, didn't believe in providence and was more likely to believe that the most impressive Dark Lord in recent history somehow achieved immortality than that an infant was miraculously able to destroy said Dark Lord permanently. Harry Potter attended classes with the supposed Boy Who Lived, and while Neville Longbottom wasn't half as repulsive as the likes of Theodore Nott or Draco Malfoy, the kid was no saint. He most certainly was no specimen of magical greatness, either.

Phineas was forced to grudgingly agree with his points, and so the discussion turned once more.

"If..." the portrait had spoken solemnly, his heavy whispers echoing off the empty walls of Grimmauld Place, "If such a thing were possible - and we're still not saying that it is - then it would have to be the foulest and most powerful of magicks. The likes of which I've never seen, and boy… I have seen much." Of that, Harry had no doubt. Phineas Black was also known for a short period as Phineas The Black. As though sensing his thoughts, the beady eyes of his ancestor narrowed within the painting, continuing. "Much in my lifetime and even more beyond it. The mere thought of it..."

The former Head of House Black had trailed off, lost in his dark, incomprehensible murmurs, but Harry had allowed him no moment of indulgence, pressed as he was for time. "How would I find such magic?"

The portrait of his ancestor looked at him sharply, and for a moment Harry thought the man would curse him if he were able, but then a realization must have occured as the murderous look fled the man's eyes and he searched his descendant evenly. "You wish to seek a way to undo such a thing," he stated more than asked.

Harry's eyes bulged. He thought he'd been clear in his intentions. "Of course! Why else would I..?" The realization hit him. "Oh.. Never, no! Are you mad!?"

Phineas didn't so much as shrug. "Power tempts all; old and young, foolish and wise, but none more so than the young and wise who are actually young and foolish, as one can be little else without the weight of experience." Were the circumstances not so dire, Harry would have rolled his eyes at the man who held a notorious distaste for children, curious once again how the wizard ever came to be a Headmaster for a school full of them. "You can understand my hesitancy. The power over death, if made known to a boy who's lost so much…"

The portrait trailed off, but Harry didn't deign to answer his suspicions and rise to the bait. "Again, how would I find such magic… and how would I undo it?"

Phineas gauged him for a moment longer before replying. "I don't know."

The wind left Harry in a heated breath he'd been holding.

"But we can find out together." Harry looked up, shock and confusion evident on his face, to meet the penetrating gaze of Phineas. "I will guide you, through the materials you will need to gather if you are to research this properly."

His eagerness must have shown in his eyes. Any hopes Harry had that he'd found a mentor of sorts were done away with as Phineas continued. "I shan't hold your hand, boy! Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I'm honor bound to wipe your nose or some such drivel! I am no last second savior in some fairytale. In fact, I would prefer you not come to me again until after you've discovered the truth of this matter, or your secrets may not be secrets much longer..."

It was harsh, but Harry understood the empty threat for what it was. A test of resolve. Phineas was helping him, more than Harry had any right to expect, but it seemed even in death that the man wanted his heirs to be strong and capable independently. Having grown up from what some would consider tough love, Harry wouldn't have it any other way.

"But I promise I shall keep an open ear if any relevant knowledge is revealed in my presence, though I doubt it will. I'm not fully convinced this Tom Riddle ever managed to cheat death, and if so, I'm still doubtful he was responsible for your father's demise…but you have a fire in your eyes, boy, sure as a storm… and just enough talent and power to properly ruin yourself - and by extension end my line in the process! I won't allow that to happen."

Harry couldn't help the grim smile that spread on his face as the portrait descended into an angry fit of coughs. His odds, while still astronomically small, were looking up.

After that, he'd been given a comprehensive list of books and tomes to pursue, both from the Black Library and Hogwarts Library once he returned to school. Some books on spellcasting - charms and transfiguration - and even a few on runes and potions, but mostly books on the dark arts. Many of them, Harry noted humorlessly, were written by members of the Black family and unpublished for the rest of the world. Private journals, leather bound and messy. Heirlooms, in a twisted manor of speaking, and Phineas drilled him on the importance of not losing them.

Other books, such as the recherche 'Secrets of the Darkest Arts', would come later, when he was back in the castle. With the invisibility cloak his father had given him on his eleventh birthday and a few choice spells for added measure, Phineas assured him he would be able to access not just the Restricted Section - something Harry had already frequented in the past, looking for an explanation to his unique wandless abilities and finding none - but also the Headmasters' private library, which was added to by each Headmaster during their tenure. It went against everything Phineas believed in as a former educator, allowing a student to have knowledge of such a thing let alone helping him break into it, but he could not deny Harry's fervor.

The conversation - and ensuing collecting of items - had gone on so long that Harry had only just gotten away in time to meet Tonks, who already was searching for him in the rain outside of Potter Manor. The books and various trinkets he'd found remained hidden in his charmed moleskin satchel, if only just. He didn't have time to process any of the information that night, everything had happened so fast before he was whisked away to Bones' Manor, which is where the past three weeks came in.

Three weeks of thinking. Three weeks of reading. Three weeks of training, in private, coming off as a little more than a somber recluse to his hosts, though it was to be expected. All the while digesting what Phineas Black had told him.

Absentmindedly, Harry marvelled at the power some portraits possessed. The storage of a lifetime of memories and character traits alongside the ability to retain new information over several generations. It was a wonder he'd hit such a lucky break, stumbling across the one portrait at Hogwarts with access outside of the school, let alone a former Headmaster at that.

He wished his own parents, and grandparents even, had taken the time and spent the money to create portraits of themselves. It cost more than most pureblood families had in their vaults, he was aware, and the art of preservation via portrait was a fast dying one. Nonetheless, the Potters both had the means and the methods at their disposal, yet forewent the process. He'd questioned his father on it once, why there were no portraits in Potter Manor. Why there hadn't been any in their lodge in Godric's Hollow, prior to its destruction. The answer should have occurred to him.

"You know… I once asked my father the same question, son." James Potter turned in his chair to address Harry with a half-smile.

The sun hit him from the window in his study, silhouetting a sad, tired face. His father looked worn out and the sight of it caused Harry's curious smile to falter. His father removed his glasses and turned fully to him.

"I'll tell you now the same truth he told me." James took him in his arms, gently, and looked him in the eye so intently that Harry couldn't have looked away if he'd wanted to. "That 'what's dead is dead', son. There's no changing that. Not by the most complex of magics or with all the gold in the world."

Harry felt his hopes plummet. His father winced, as though saying it aloud pained him, but it was something he knew he had to do. "Portraits can be useful..." he continued. "...cathartic even, but they're more for the vanity of the subject than for the fulfillment of those left behind; those living. You can easily lose yourself to them; indulge in their knowledge, bask in their stories.. but in the end, they're just paint and canvas. Hollow. The rest of the world may put weight in such things, but we Potters are the descendants of deaths equal -" he referred now to the Peverell's they famously hailed from, a fact Harry was always fascinated by "-and are made of sturner things than such sentiment, are we not?"

Harry, being all of eight years, had simply nodded morosely. It did little to quell the disappointment he felt, knowing now that he'd never see a portrait of his grandparents, or his uncle Sirius… or his mother. Or even, when his time came, his father.

"Hollow," he'd repeated obediently, his head bowed, a piece inside of him falling away.

"Aye. Accept this simple fact son - that all men die. What matters is how we live, and as an afterthought, that we let the dead see to the dead. We…" here his father had lifted his chin comfortingly, in a rare display of tenderness. "...must look to the living."

Receiving a pat on the head, Harry had left his father to his devices then, dejected, but doing his best not to show it. His father had seen right through him and had stopped him at the doorway to the study. "Remember Harry… paint and canvas."

"Paint and canvas," he had nodded back.

Harry put the memory away, violently burying it before it could build momentum. Processing the information from Phineas and the various books he was pouring over was one thing. Time consuming, headache inducing, exhausting, but ultimately doable.

Processing his grief was another matter entirely.

Which is why he continued jogging once more, in the early twilight hour, alone. As he ran through the countryside, open pastures stretching for miles and miles, he thought back to the letter he'd received the day after his arrival at Bones' Manor. One of only a few letters he'd received all summer. The same letter he found himself reading every night before bed.

Harry,

I am sorry.

Harry picked up his pace. Daylight was fast approaching and he wanted to finish his routine before either Susan or her aunt awoke. While they knew he rose early and suspected he trained, they didn't know what his training entailed. He prefered to keep it that way.

I am so, so very sorry for your loss.

His heart rate grew erratic as he pushed himself, challenging himself to make it to a small outcrop of trees and the little river that was but a mile away in record time.

We only just found out via the Daily Prophet, and we couldn't believe it. We understand why the news couldn't come from you. I'm sure 'loss' doesn't even begin to describe what you must be feeling right now.

What he felt was winded. His muscles were on fire, as though his veins were pumping with battery acid, but still he ran faster.

I would be incapable of anything, were I in your shoes, let alone writing to my best friends to tell them my father had died.

His father used to coach him on the importance of endurance during a fight. How some wizards were such experts, fully in control of their environment, that they were capable of commanding the field with the barest, most economic of movements, so much so that they seemed as though they were standing still. Duellists like his Uncle Remus or his own mother had been, and to a far greater extent, the likes of Albus Dumbledore.

Harry, like James Potter before him, was not that type of duelist.

My heart aches at the mere thought. I can't imagine the state you must be in, Harry. The pain must be unimaginable.

A burning pain developed in his side despite his thorough stretching before hand. He grit his teeth in frustration, forcing himself to breathe evenly, almost at his destination.

I've no experience on the subject of death . In fact, we're fortunate that none of us do, Su, Morag, and I , which only makes it all the worse considering how… acquainted you're becoming to it.

He got used to the pain in his side, endorphins flowing freely as he neared his goal...

Life, as you've always told me, just isn't fair.

...only to trip on a downward incline in the darkness and stumble headlong down the hill.

You don't deserve this.

It was a long way down.

You, of all people.

"Ouch…"' he breathed mirthlessly. He groaned when he'd finally settled before chuckling in spite of his bruised state, noting that one way or another, he had arrived at the river.

I know you know this, but your father was truly a wonderful man. Honorable and heroic.

"Fuck honor. Fight dirty," his father had once said. In contrast to such graceful and controlled duellers like Remus or his mother, his father instead taught him to fight the Potter way - to cast hard and fast and instinctively, to harness their agility and notable spellwork into a crafty, deceptively calculated, and rage-fuelled onslaught that overwhelmed most opponents senses.

He was always kind and polite and even playful on the rare occasion that we'd visit your home.

His father was a tough man, less prone to sentiment the older he grew, but a prudent one. He'd seen immediately where Harry's strengths would lie and helped cultivate them with diligence - and no small payment of blood and sweat, though not tears. Never tears.

The Daily Prophet even featured several articles on him, full of testimonies from wizards and witches singing his praise for his many valiant efforts during and after the war.

His father taught him the hard lesson that being heroic in one's actions meant doing so when no one was looking. That an act of kindness, unseen, always outweighed a performance of bravery in front of an audience. That a hero shouldn't care what anyone else thought about them, because they're doing what they know in their hearts is right.

I'm sure you care less about what we or the Daily Prophet or anyone else thinks about him.

Which is why Harry never understood how his father could never see himself as anything less than a hero. Some days, it was as though the man hated himself.

I didn't know him as well as I'd like, but I do know for a fact that he was a good father. He raised you right; into the most caring, wonderful, loyal person one could hope to meet.

Harry picked himself up, not bothering to dust himself off. He'd be dirty again in a second. He always felt dirty when it came to the dark arts; every time he'd come out here and practice his budding arsenal of spells. Spells he wasn't sure his father intended for him to learn, though the man no doubt knew them himself.

Harry fired off a quick salvo. 'Leg-locking, 'limb-numbing', and the dicey 'blood freezing' curses to start. The combo was meant to quickly take an opponent out of the fight permanently without killing them right away. Immobilizing them before numbing their limbs, so they were then unaware of their blood slowly freezing. Without a proper counter, they'd die a few minutes later without ever knowing what happened. A frighteningly simple combination he'd picked from yet another Black ancestor.

The spells impacted the closest tree harmlessly, fizzling on the bark as such magic would against a legless, limbless, bloodless thing. They didn't leave so much as a mark, but they felt… right. Harry pressed on, not daring to test it on an animal to gauge its full effects.

That, I think, would be his greatest accomplishment;

The Dark Arts required a certain mindset, a specific intent. To hurt, to maim, to do something wicked. That, more than their actual effects or their nature, is what deemed them 'dark' in comparison to other spells. Intent.

Harry, for better or worse, found himself unnaturally suited to the material.

his true pride

He moved closer to the tree, hurling bone-breakers and severing curses now. This time, the tree didn't weather the storm. Three spells in, chunks of it flying every which way, and it groaned before falling with a mighty thud against its brothers.

- you.

Harry stared at it with a look of indifference. A tree was nothing. He needed more.

I can't imagine a bit of scribbled ink on parchment can offer any comfort to you.

With that, the flood gates opened ever so slightly, and a portion of the pain and anger and guilt he felt swam to the surface. A mere fraction, that's all he could allow to bubble to the surface, loosed upon the world.

Two more trees fell instantly, the spells unseen and unspoken as dark intent flooded the area.

You may see them as pretty words from a naive girl, and you'd perhaps be right. But what I can't put into words…

He allowed the hate to course through his veins, guiding his arm. His wand was a blur as another tree combusted, soon catching its neighbors alight.

what I know to be true…

Hate. For that split moment, it was all he knew.

...is that I love you, Harry James Potter.

Harry paused, remembering his friend's words. And then he shut it out again, or at least tried to.

We all do.

It still wasn't enough.

His father could have decimated the same amount of trees with but a couple flicks of his wand. The final spell his father had cast, one of the legendary fiends, would have obliterated the entire clearing and then some by now. And James Potter had died nonetheless, leaving Harry alone...

And you are not alone, no matter how you might be feeling in the moment.

...just as he was now. He could feel the energy curling beneath his skin, feel it bristle at the thought of facing his father's murderers, yearning to be unleashed. To be let loose.

We won't pester you with letters, which is why Su and Morag are here with me as I write this, sending their love and thoughts alongside me. We know you need your space.

He couldn't breathe. He felt like he was suffocating from the weight in his chest. Everything was too close.

We know you need time to heal…

The trees, burning and splintered, were too close.

...if, indeed, you can.

The stubborn river, flowing with no thought to him, no regard for his pain, was too close.

But when you're ready - the very moment you are - we will be here for you. Waiting.

The energy pressed harder, churned violently inside of him. Waiting.

Only don't take too long. You know how we like to worry, especially at the possibility of those same monsters - whoever they are - coming after you.

He tried to bring it under control, to reign it in, knowing he had the power to do so. Then Antonin Dolohov's face flashed in his mind..

And more importantly, don't do that thing you do; don't internalize the pain, don't bottle it up.

It was his to control. His energy. His power.

It's too much to keep contained, even for you.

Only now, he didn't want to control it.

If not with us, at least share the burden with someone, anyone, anything.

The energy was building to a crescendo. His arms shook. His face, painted red by the burning trees, froze in agony.

Just don't keep it to yourself. It'll eat you from the inside and turn you into something you're not.

Silence descended for a split second.

Then Harry let go.

Then we'd really be upset with you, and wherever your father is, you know that he would be, too.

An unholy wind. That's what it felt like. An explosion of magical energy, visible to the eye, shimmering blue and gold, rocked forth from his body. It tore through the ground in an expanding sphere that grew to encompass everything within five meters. Kinetic energy broke down molecules of water, earth, and vegetation with abandon.

Even the river stopped flowing momentarily.

Chaos reigned. When the sphere broke a second later, everything around Harry was decimated.

And I know how you hate to disappoint him.

Embers danced around his slumped form, standing - barely - in the midst of the destruction. He felt beyond exhausted. He felt truly spent. Like a toy whose batteries had run dry. And as always, he felt unclean and dirty and utterly wrong.

He is, after all, your hero...

His last vestige of energy spent, he collapsed to his knees, panting, flooded by thoughts of his father.

...and you, Harry Potter, are ours.

Surrounded by smoke and blanketed in ash, in the midst of several burning husks - some belatedly collapsing to the ground - that were the sole remainder of a once beautiful crop of trees, Harry Potter didn't feel like a hero.

He felt ashamed. He felt sick, with death surrounding him; the aftermath of his power an ugly sight to look at. He'd lost yet another training ground in the process. If the Bones didn't live so isolated, someone might have grown suspicious.

More than anything, he felt like he finally understood what his father felt like. Why he'd always insisted he wasn't a hero to his adoring son, with that faraway look in his eyes. 'Is this also the path you took, father?'

He took in his surroundings and knew with bitter truth… it still wasn't enough.

Love

always,

Mandy ~ and Morag and Su

The locket around his neck burned, almost contentedly, awakening Harry to his senses. He breathed in his surrounding one last time before standing on shaky legs and looking to the east. Light, golden instead of pale, peaked over the closest hills. Dawn had come, and the day must go on.

He must go on.

An hour later, Harry descended the main stairway, eagerly following the wafting smell of bacon to the dining room. His hair still dripped from the shower he'd just gotten out of. It had been cold and long, but only somewhat refreshing. No matter how hard he'd scrubbed, he couldn't remove the feeling of uncleanliness; of impurity. It was beyond skin deep, he knew, like an infection, and it lasted longer every time he returned from the woods. Not that he had any intention of stopping.

As he entered the dining room and saw the pair of witches already seated, he put such concerns to the back of his mind, compartmentalizing it like he did everything else.

"Morning," Madame Bones said. She sat at the head of the table, a cuppa in hand, pouring over something undoubtedly related to work. She was an early riser, Harry knew, but she rarely joined him at the table aside from dinner. Neither did she have guests - in this case Tonks - over so early in the morning.

"Morning," he said evenly, casually making his way to the seat across from the pink haired auror. He was tempted to sit at the far end of the table and allow both himself and the witches their respective space, but he didn't want to come off rude or suspicious. He had far too much to hide to look as though he were hiding anything.

"Wotcher," groused Tonks, clearly not a morning person.

Harry smirked at his friend, pouring himself a glass of pumpkin juice. "Six months of auror training and you're still not a fan of the mornings, I see."

"Ha. You'd think six months of working under Mad-Eye would get me accustomed to waking early. Turns out the old codger isn't a morning person either."

Harry hummed absently, somewhat aware of Moody's eccentricities through his father. The retired auror had not only been James Potter's captain in the auror service before his retirement and James' promotion to Head Auror, but also his co-leader of the Order in the last phases of the war. A good man, if a little excessive at times.

"Didn't take you for the morning type," Tonks replied, watching with amusement as Harry hungrily eyed the various plates of sausage, bacon, toast, kippers, and eggs, among others.

"Oh?" Harry was famished, but manners demanded he wait for the women present to serve themselves first. "And what did you think my type was?"

"A teenager," Tonks smirked back, a smile coming to her face as an audible rumble was heard by all three of them.

"For goodness sake, Mr. Potter, don't sit on ceremony. Eat." Harry tipped his head in thanks before doing just that. "You must be famished after the morning you've had" He turned to Madame Bones with a searching expression. "Your training is rather rigorous, I assume?"

Harry managed to keep calm, if only just. "Yes, very rigorous. Father put me through the paces every day during the summers.. Said the muggle exercises made for a better chaser and would eventually carry over to my benefit as an auror."

Madame Bones closed her book, her tone curious. "I can understand the auror aspect, though I daresay hardly anyone else on the force bothers. It's one of the many things that had set your father apart from his peers… However, I wasn't aware you played quidditch."

Harry often enjoyed the way Madame Bones spoke of his father. Casually, fondly, almost wistfully, though the times were few as they rarely ran into one another. It would always be after he'd brought the subject up first, but at least she didn't skirt the issue once it was broached. Susan, his only other source of interaction in the last three weeks, avoided the subject almost altogether. He could understand her approach, not wanting to upset him with talk of the dead, but in comparison Madame Bones treated him like an adult. Harry appreciated it, even if it brought up memories he'd just as soon not dwell on.

"No, I don't," he conceded. Tonks looked up from buttering some toast, surprised. "Not anymore, at least. Susan informed you well." Madame Bones blinked at his accurate guess on her source. "I was on the team previously."

"Bloody brilliant, he was."

"Language, auror," corrected Madame Bones absently. "So you used to play? What made you change your mind?"

"I was banned from the team," Harry replied bluntly, too busy forging a massive plate filled with chicken, bangers and mash, eggs and toast, as well as a side plate full of yogurt and nuts and berries. His metabolism had been insane ever since he'd started another growth spurt, though he was already taller than most of his classmates.

Madame Bones blinked at his response and blinked again at his portion sizes. "Care to elaborate?"

"Perhaps banned is the wrong word." He swallowed a whole banger before wiping his mouth to properly explain. "Let's just say I had a falling out with the captain at the end of my third year and coincidentally was not chosen by said captain at trials the following year."

"That prissy git Davis kicked you off?" Tonks looked invested now, having been on the Hufflepuff team herself and playing against the bastard. "Why, you were their best chaser."

"I don't know about all that," Tonks scoffed but Harry pressed on, "but it basically had to do with Davis and I getting into an argument after our loss against Gryffindor. The brooms Longbottom had bought the team were one thing, a sudden disadvantage we couldn't have done much about, but Davis' refusal to replace Cho - our seeker - after a nasty hit from the Weasley twins was a colossal mistake and I called him on it afterwards."

"Those Weasley twins are right bastards with those bats, I tell ya." Tonks nodded in understanding. "Their brother Charlie was something else though."

"Weasleys? Arthur Weasleys boys?" Madame Bones couldn't help but chime in. Harry suspected it had been quite a while since she'd been able to reminisce about her alma mater, busy as she was.

"Yes, the whole lot of them are, from what I understand. Anyway, Davis retaliated to my criticism by saying some rather unbecoming things about me and, by extension, my mother."

Madame Bones remained impassive but Tonks narrowed her eyes. "Oh. Called you a son of a bitch, did he?"

"Right in one," Harry said in a clipped tone. "Suffice to say, I disagreed with such a sentiment. Strongly. Coincidentally, on our trek back from the pitch to our common room, my esteemed captain managed to fall."

"Fall?" Madame Bones deadpanned. Harry could practically hear the disbelief in her voice, and Tonks smirk wasn't helping matters.

"Yes, fall… you know how the castles staircases are: moving and shuffling about unexpectedly. Downright dangerous if you ask me. I, of course, was held accountable for not preventing Mr. Davis' falls, being the only one in the vicinity."

Harry's pink haired friend was almost beaming as she tried to hold in her laughter, but the monocle wearing witch to his left looked less amused. "'Falls', as in plural?" Harry nodded. "And do tell, how many times did Mr. Davis fall?"

"You know…" Harry tapped his chin innocently, "...it all becomes a bit of a blur. Four, five, twelve... I couldn't say for sure. Neither could Roger, come to think of it."

Tonks erupted in laughter, unable to contain herself, and her genuine happiness brought an equally genuine smile from Harry. A smile that grew wider still when Madame Bones, blinking once again, gave up the fight to remain impassive and let loose a lovely chuckle herself.

"Very well, Mr. Potter. I can only hope it was a fair trade," she commented lightly when they'd all settled down. She blinked once more when she took in the empty plates in front of Harry, the mountains of food somehow having been consumed in the span of a few minutes.

"I miss the heat of the game, but…" Harry thought back to the girly scream Davis let out as Harry beat 'the man' out of him. "Mm, definitely worth the trade."

"Ravenclaw will be hopeless without you," Tonks praised him while shaking her head, though Harry brushed it off. Cho, Randall and the others were no pushovers themselves. The way he saw it, his private training only increased without so much time spent in practices and games, so it was for the best in the end.

Madame Bones cleared her plate and stood with all the grace befitting her station.

"As fun as this has been, I do have work to attend to, and unlike someone here -" she shot a look at Tonks, who was busy stuffing her mouth full of kippers " - I am not, as they say, on the clock yet. So while I'd like to explain what all is going on to you, Mr. Potter, I will instead leave you in Auror Tonks capable -" Tonks smiled at her boss, food still packed in her mouth, " - sticky, erm, hands. She will no doubt fill you in. I shall see you this evening Mr. Potter. Good morning to you both." With that the monocle wearing woman walked away to her study, and from there, undoubtedly flooed to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.

Harry stood and nodded a farewell as the lady of the manor left, several scenarios playing through his head at once. At first, he'd assumed Tonks had been there to help corner Harry. That they'd somehow followed him and discovered what he'd been up to in the early mornings, or worse yet, had managed to unlock his trunk and discovered all the questionable literature within.

When that proved to not be the case throughout breakfast, he knew there could only be one other explanation for Tonks' presence.

"Soooo…." said Tonks, breaking the uncomfortable silence Madame Bones had left in her wake. "To business?"

"In a moment…" Harry wanted to savor the moment, seeing Tonks wipe her chin free of any fish bits. "Not kissing anyone this morning, I see." Harry smiled into his coffee, having switched his pumpkin juice out for something a little stronger. He didn't need to jump into business right away. Catching up with Tonks was something he could stand more of, if he were being honest with himself.

Tonks adopted an affronted look. "Rude as ever, I see," she replied in the same knowing tone he'd used, slurping noisily from her cup of tea. "My lover happens to enjoy a fine woman unafraid of a proper english breakfast - kippers, eggs, cupa."

Harry cleared his throat. "Riight, because everyone loves the smell of oily fish in the morning." Tonks nodded imperiously and Harry smirked. "Now, would this 'lover' of yours be the seven foot tall Hit-Wizard with 'Lockharts good looks', or the twenty-stone Puddlemere United player who has 'Merlin's abs'?"

"Pfft. It would be the aristocratic foreign delegate from Bolgaria who's worth a fortune and prettier than the other two combined," Tonks corrected.

Harry nodded sagely, as though he'd just realized his mistake. "Ah, yes. How could I forget Andrei Bumkissian, Bard of the Sodom Hills."

The two stared at each other, deadpan. Then Tonks' nose wrinkled and Harry's lips twitched, and the two erupted into laughter, scaring poor Morgan visible, having invisibly popped in to collect Madame Bones' dishes. It must have been an usual sight for the Bones' house elf, two magicals banging their fists on the table to steady themselves, one nearly falling out of her chair.

For Harry, it was a familiar site and a welcome one. They'd been relatively close once, he and Tonks. She was several years older than he was at Hogwarts, but despite her chipper personality, she didn't have many friends. Not because of any rubbish that people couldn't accept her or treated her like a freak due to her gifts; quite the opposite in fact. Tonks could easily have been popular with all the people hounding after her, but she had opted to be a recluse instead. "Comes with being a girl more than being a metamorphmagus", she'd explained when he'd asked. "I'm fine with friends, but I'm by no means eager to tether myself to people willy-nilly. You never know what can ruin something good after you get close to people - envy, paranoia, or worse yet, love." The latter part had struck Harry as odd at the time, but Tonks hadn't elaborated on it. "Best to just avoid most people altogether unless you're sure they're special. Like you." She had tousled his messy hair at the time, back when she was still taller than him, but his mind had long lingered on what she'd said.

Looking at her now, only half-seated and clutching the table for support, her bubblegum pink hair bouncing in the light of the golden hour, Harry felt he could understand it quite easily. Who wouldn't fall in love with her, given time. He also understood that Tonks - beautiful, vivacious, free spirited Tonks - wouldn't want their love if it meant compromising her plans and dreams. People were anchors, sometimes, and her ship was free and directionless without a bunch of them. Yes, he could understand that perfectly as well, which made it all the more flattering that she chose him to be one of her few friends.

In many ways, they were alike. Beyond just their dorky humor and their chosen career paths (aspiring in his case) and even their love of muggle trends and music. Harry knew that they were both, on some level, loveless. Loveless and yet perfectly alright with that.

"Andrei BUM-KISSian? Really, Harry? I forgot what a filthy prat you were!" She smiled toothily, her teeth unnaturally perfect. "And Duke of the Sodom Hills? Oh, merlin, where do you come up with these things? What're they teaching you in that school of yours." She tried to adopt an authoritative look, but it was ruined by her nose twitching and, well, her everything.

"Same thing they taught you when you attended," Harry shrugged. "Why Bolivia? I expected something like Ireland or France."

"Pfft. Still know nothing, I see. Bolivian lads are fit! Everyone knows that." Harry rolled his eyes. "'Sides, Irish wizards are hardly exotic here, rascals the lot of them, and the French are… well, French." Tonks shook her head as though to rid herself of an image, and Harry was glad she didn't elaborate. "Suffice to say, not my type."

Harry raised an eyebrow at that. "Oh? And pray tell, what is your type?"

"Why do you want to know that?" she countered, holding her cuppa in front of her mouth with both hands.

"Curious," Harry shrugged. He found he did that often these days; shrug.

Tonks quirked an eyebrow. "You know what they say about curiosity."

"What's that?"

"That it killed the cat."

"..."

"..."

"...what cat?"

Tonks nearly choked on her tea. "What cat?" What do you mean, 'What Cat'?"

"You said it killed the cat-"

"-yes, the cat from the story! You mean you've really never heard of that expression before? It's quite common in the mug-"

Tonks stopped at the teasing glint in Harry's eye. Of course he knew.

"Oh, you cheeky bugger. Remind me why I put up with you again?" Her glare had no effect on him.

"Because you secretly fancy me," Harry replied without missing a beat. Tonks looked at him funny. "Now are you going to tell me this 'type' you claim to have, or do the qualifications simply end at 'imaginary'?"

"Har-har. Laugh it up, Potter. Jealousy is an ill fit for you."

"Hard to be jealous of what isn't there," replied Harry drolly before downing his coffee.

"It is, isn't it?" Tonks tone had taken on a strange quality, almost sad, and it caught Harry off guard.

"Tonks, I-"

"To business then!" And just like that, Harry's eccentric auror friend stood from her chair, clumsily knocking it back in the process, and put her hands on her hips as though she were posing for something. Harry could only shake his head at her usual method of dealing with things; avoidance. It was not dissimilar to his own methods.

"To business!" He instead matched her enthusiasm, chair knock-back and all. No doubt the house elf Morgan would not be amused. "Erm… exactly what is business?"

Tonks stopped mid-sprint to the floo and turned to Harry, bashful. "Aha. Riight... Nearly forgot to tell you." She straightened up in what Harry understood to be her Auror persona. "The investigation of Potter Manor finished yesterday."

Harry knew it, and a part of him was thrilled at the prospect of returning home. Another part of him, however, dreaded it. Could a home be a home if everything that made it a home was gone?

"I am to take you to Podmore, who should be waiting for us there by now. He conducted the investigation, rather thoroughly, and is meeting us for a debriefing of sorts." Harry raised a brow at that, certain they hadn't found anything foul in the house, though Tonks was quick to assure him. "Just a few questions, from what I understand. Afterwards, the place is obviously yours, but seeing as your guardian won't be here for another week or so yet, it's strongly recommended that you stay with Madame Bones a few days longer, 'til Ms. Vance arrives."

'That's right,' Harry recalled. One of the other letters he'd received that summer. From Emmeline Vance.

His new guardian.

Harry often forgot he has one, still acclimating to being an orphan. The Bones' had been wonderful in giving him space and autonomy, or at least as much as could be reasonable for a grieving fourteen year old. He wasn't sure he'd receive the same consideration from Vance, and such freedom was essential for his plans.

After finding out who was named in his father's will to adopt him, more or less, Harry had cocked his head in numbed confusion. Emmeline Vance. An image of a slim, beautiful, auburn haired witch popped into view. Not unlike his mother, only the witch he remembered was less vibrant, her hair less red, her smile less wholesome. A twitch of her lips, a glassy look in her eye. Harry didn't remember the woman well, as he'd only ever met her at parties, and before his mother had passed at that. Still, nearly eight years later and he remember that she always looked distant. Sad.

She hadn't kept in touch with Harry over the years, though he could only assume she and his father had if they'd been so close. He understood that he couldn't go with Lupin. The man was too damaged, and that was aside from his furry little problem. His constant and lengthy travels outside the country were also a roadblock. Plus the Ministry, while more lenient towards supposed 'dark creatures' thanks to the efforts of James Potter, would still have made a fuss. Still, he'd expected a handful of people before Emmeline.

She'd sent one letter since his father had died. One.

It had summarily expressed her condolences and affirmed that she would be staying with him at Potter Manor and wouldn't be forcing him to uproot. She apologized in advance for the inconvenience, as she was abroad on confidential business and would return as soon as possible to assume her duties as his legal guardian and caretaker, and that she trusted he could manage with the Bones' a little longer.

That was it. Nothing further, no explanation as to what took precedence over her newly inherited responsibility, no questioning of how such a thing as his father's death occurred, no long winded messages of grief. Harry's numbed confusion - and it could only be numb because no matter who took him in, they weren't his father - only increased. Madame Bones, however, had seemed completely unsurprised. Piecing together what Harry knew of Vance - worked with his father but wasn't an auror, worked for the ministry but wasn't in law enforcement, often travelled, but could never speak about her work - paired with Madame Bones mild awe, and he quickly came to a conclusion.

Emmeline Vance was an Unspeakable.

Despite their namesake, Harry had heard all about the people who worked in the Department of Ministries, testing all manor of magic and pushing the boundaries of the science. All of it confidential work, conducted by the most intelligent and secretive wizards in the country. If his suspicions were correct, he'd soon be living under the same roof as one. The prospect was oddly exciting, if a little worrying, as he had no way of knowing how it would affect his plans.

"What're my other options, if I chose to return to Potter Manor now." Harry put aside his theories for now.

"You'd be allowed to return home, but we'd place an auror on duty with you at all times for your own protection." Tonks bit her lip. "Me, to be precise."

Harry had to admit, the idea of sharing a house with Tonks for a week wasn't horrible. Under different circumstances, it would be downright appealing to the boy admittedly going through all that puberty entailed. However, he had an unexpected amount of autonomy with the Bones'. They gave him space, assured he couldn't be up to any trouble whilst at their home. With Tonks hovering by him all day at Potter Manor, he doubted he could continue his training proper.

Harry made his choice.

"Tempting as that is, Tonks," he wiggled an eyebrow at his friend, "I don't know if I'm quite ready to return home yet. You know…"

The trepidation evident in his voice wasn't entirely put on, and Tonks immediately crossed the distance to put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "Hey, of course. Don't worry about it. Potter Manor isn't going anywhere. You'll return when you're ready and not a second sooner, alright? Promise."

Harry nodded his thanks at her understanding before quirking an eyebrow as Tonks had yet to release his shoulder, rubbing it absently in a weird cross between intimate and motherly.. "Erm, Tonks?"

"Mm?"

"Aren't we returning to Potter Manor now?"

Tonks blinked, no doubt registering the promise she'd just made seconds earlier, and sighed. "Bugger.."

The floo deposited Harry at a spin, and he had to damn near twist his ankle off to counter the rotation and not fall on his arse. Apparition? Easy, if not necessarily enjoyable. Flying? A breeze, like second nature. Portkeys? Nauseating, but he was good with those as well. Floo travel? The eternal bane of Harry's existence.

Brushing the soot off of his shirt, Harry took in the entrance hall to his home. Potter Manor was exactly the same as he'd left it. Spartan, clean, almost like a spatial void. Tall ceilings, wide hallways, and otherwise sharp architecture. It lacked the feeling that it had been lived in for any long amount of time. It had never emulated the warmth found in every corner of their cottage back in Godric's Hollow. Back when they'd been a whole family.

"Funny," Harry mused out loud. Tonks had just come out of the fireplace without missing a step, and Harry was somewhat jealous of the normally clumsy girl's success. "My father had moved out of Potter Manor during the war, after his parents had died. Mum told be that the wound was too deep for him to live here any longer. That's why he and mum had settled in the Godric's Hollow property. Then, after Dolohov…" Harry could feel his face tightening despite keeping his tone casual. "It's just funny is all; what makes you block out the pain from old wounds."

"Often new ones," Tonks nodded, though she looked concerned.

"Auror Tonks, down here." A voice that Harry recognized as Sturgis Podmore's echoed down the hallway. The two made their way to James Potter's study and found the normally aloof Podmore sitting atop the desk, frown firmly fixed in place.

"Wotcher Podmore," Tonks voiced, though it was subdued. Harry sensed a fracture in their work relationship. Podmore's stiff nod didn't say otherwise.

"Auror Tonks." Podmore turned his gaze to Harry fully. "Mr. Potter."

"Auror Podmore." Harry didn't feel comfortable calling the man by his name alone, or Uncle Podmore or anything overly familial. Despite seeing the wizard on numerous occasions at Potter Manor and the Ministry, they had never developed a rapport like Harry had with some of his father's other friends, few though they were. Harry was rarely one to initiate conversations with anyone and Podmore was usually a very aloof and indifferent man. Now, though, he seemed entirely serious - and completely focused on Harry.

"The reason I've asked you here today is to notify you that the investigation which protocol demanded we conduct on your home has been completed. In the aftermath of our search, we've come across a few things and I have a few questions for you."

Harry nodded, Tonks having said the same thing. "Alright, but do you mind if we do it elsewhere? This was my fathers study and being back here…"

Podmore looked as though he wanted to deny Harry even that, but Tonks quickly aqueased on their behalf, so the party of three made their way to the living room proper. Harry sat on the large, dark leather sofa - the same he often found his father passed out on in the early morning hours - with Tonks sitting in a love seat she had turned in order to face him, and Podmore hovering next to her, standing as stiff as a statue.

"Right... Well, I'll cut to the chase, Mr. Potter. While nothing strictly speaking illegal or 'dark' was found in the home, not that we expected to find anything of that nature, we did stumble upon a curious thing; a secret compartment in your father's desk back there that contained what appears to be his private journal."

Podmore paused to see if Harry would comment. Silence lingered for a moment. "My father kept a journal? Can I read it?"

Tonks' face remained blank, which was never a good sign, and Podmore almost smiled. "I believe you already have."

Harry blinked at the accusation but remained silent, and the auror took the opportunity to pounce on his prey, pulling from behind him the journal in question. "You see, inside this journal, we found a great deal of information. Some insightful, others… troubling."

Podmore began to pace back and forth in front of Harry. "Your father was obsessed - for lack of a better word -" Harry bristled in his seat but remained silent. " -with Antonin Dolohov and the remaining Death Eaters still in the wind. No doubt a result of what happened at Godric's Hollow and none can blame him. Now, there's nothing overly incriminating there. For all we know, he was being a good auror and searching for priority targets with the intent to capture them and bring them to justice."

The three of them looked at each other. They all knew that was not James Potter's intentions.

"Full of information on these targets; known associates, aliases, hideouts, and travel patterns. Even their duelling tactics employed during the war. Now he couldn't have accumulated this all on his own, but regardless, I admit -" Podmore stopped his pacing to look directly at Harry. "- your father was a fantastic auror, and a part of me is taking his findings to heart for the future." Tonks nodded in firm agreement, but still remained quiet. "However…" Once again, Podmore resumed pacing. "...there were also other things in the journal."

"Such as?"

"Don't play coy, Mr. Potter. Spells, an abundance of them, riddled those pages, all of them questionable at best. While it's perhaps understandable for the Head Auror to be familiar with the Dark Arts, presumably to counter such things in the field-" again, the look the three of them shared was beyond skeptical "-the same knowledge is not essential in any way for a child. In fact, it's strictly forbidden and quite literally illegal."

Harry 'hmmed' to himself at Podmore's piercing gaze. "Well… 'suppose it's a good thing I didn't find that journal then."

Podmore stared hard at Harry, who didn't look away. The atmosphere was getting tense now.

"You're not half as clever as you think, boy."

"Still makes me twice as clever as you, old man."

"Okay, enough, both of you." Tonks had put her arms up warningly. Harry didn't like the accusations the man was throwing around, even if they were completely true. Podmore, for his part, looked like Christmas had come early.

"Oh? Well then I'm sure you've heard of this spell." Podmore silently cast a charm on the journal and Harry saw the book glow a faint blue. "You see? This is an advanced charm we aurors are taught, along with a great deal of other spells tailored for investigations and acts of subterfuge." Harry was aware of many of those, his powerful listening charm being one such spell, but he was unfamiliar with the one Podmore had just used. "This one in particular reveals to us when an object has been copied. Still feeling clever?"

Harry felt his pulse quicken rapidly, but remained impassive on the outside. "Alright?"

"Alright? 'Alright?' Is that all you have to say. Mr. Potter?" Podmore tutted in disappointment.

"What else do you wan-"

"Cut the act, boy, and give us the copy."

"What copy?"

"The copy you made the day we came to visit you! You thought you were so smart, leaving everything just so, but magic always leaves a footprint. One simply needs to know how to look for it. Unfortunately for you, I do." He stepped closer to Harry. "You copied your father's journal, just like you copied several other books from the library. Why you felt the need to hide your interest in them, I don't know, but it doesn't point to anything good, to say nothing of possessing a book filled with information on the dark arts."

'He's good', Harry thought. 'Tonks wasn't kidding when she said the man had been thorough. No wonder it's taken three weeks.' His mind spun looking for ways to get out of this, to prove his innocence, before the solution hit him. 'Proof.'

"I can't speak as to why he would copy anything from the library, but its possible my father copied his journal at some point if he didn't want to risk the original out in the field? Or perhaps as a safety measure?" He ended his thoughts sounding more like a question, as though he had no experience in such matters.

"What?"

"I didn't copy anything, but I'm sure my father had his reasons for doing so." Harry lied through his teeth. Tonks seemed to mull the possibility over, no doubt eager to believe her friend, but Podmore looked stricken. "Does the spell say when exactly he copied it?"

"No," Podmore ground out. "But of course, you already guessed that, based off your quick cover."

"Podmore," warned Tonks.

"He's a liar, Tonks, and a good one at that." Harry met his accusation unflinchingly, but the auror switched tactics. "Tell me - where were you the afternoon Tonks came to whisk you away. She said you weren't here."

"I was out running," Harry maintained the same pretense he'd established that day. "I needed to clear my head."

"Running?" Podmore's voice dripped with skepticism.

"Yes, running. It's a new trend that's going around to do with staying in shape. You ought to try it some time."

The locket around Harry's neck burned. Podmore stepped closer to Harry with a controlled anger in his eyes, who then rose from his seat in retaliation. Normally neither man would get this riled up, and Harry knew he was being far more emotional than he usually was, compromising his footing in the argument, but the way Podmore pressed him got on his nerves. So much so that he didn't back down when the auror stepped into his personal space. He wasn't even half a hand taller than Harry, who was undoubtedly going to grow past the man within a years time to tower over him, just as his father had.

Tonks, too, had risen, wand in hand. "Enough, both of you." They both ignored her, staring at each other challengingly.

"You think this is a game, boy." There it was again. The word 'boy', just like Phineas. Harry didn't feel like a little boy, so why did others insist on calling him such. "That's what you are, after all - a boy. You think you can avenge your father, is that it? Want to keep your secrets, play the hero. What in Merlin's name do you think you can do?"

Harry grit his teeth. He hated how Podmore seemed capable of reading his mind, able to give voice to his own fears of inadequacy. He lashed out without thinking, desperate as he was to get one over on the man. "Who is Tom Riddle?"

"What?"

The conversation came to a lull, the momentum reset. Tonks backed off from having inched closer during the argument. Podmore took a step back, dumbfoundment on his face. "Who?"

"Tom Riddle, do you know who he is?" Harry breathed steadily, but his fists were clenched at his sides. He hated that he'd allowed his emotions to control him. He'd been called a boy and he'd retaliated by acting like one. 'Pathetic', a voice in his mind said.

"No." Podmore looked suspicious. "If this is yo-"

"You asked me what I could do, auror? Well, seeing as you don't even know who Tom Riddle is, it would seem a damn sight more than you." Harry planted the seed and successfully avoided the previous topic of his disappearance. Or so he thought.

"I don't care what you're on about." Indeed, it looked as though Podmore had already forgotten the name. "What I do know is that I ought to drag you down to the DMLE and give you some veritaserum to get through this web you're weaving."

"Podmore!" Tonks seemed to be at her wits end with her partner. "Harry isn't a suspect in James' murder, clearly. Veritaserum is out of the question, as is any further questioning for that matter!" She'd finally taken a side. Harry was glad to see it was his.

"'Harry.'" Podmore repeated her words. "Listen to yourself, auror. So familiar. So doting. You're not seeing him objectively."

Tonks looked abashed but held her ground. Podmore walked to the windows, looking out at the colossal mountain that was Snowdon.

"I know he had nothing to do with his father's death. He loved the man."

That single comment brought Harry up short. Both he and Tonks saw the man staring into the distance, eyes out of focus, and for a fraction of a second something akin to sorrow entered his voice. It was gone before Harry could convince himself it was there.

"Which is exactly why he, himself, is suspect; a boy just foolish enough to think himself clever and just smart enough to try something idiotic. A murdered father, an angsty teen. A book of dark spells and years of research on his probable killers? He's going to go do something dangerous out of some juvenile need to avenge his father, you can see it in those angry eyes of his." He turned from Tonks to Harry and back to the metamorphmagus. "And who do you think is going to be held accountable when he fails? When he hurts someone, or gets hurt himself? Who will be accountable when he dies?"

Every word hung in the air, a weight to it. Tonks looked conflicted, convinced of Podmore's motives but likely not his actions. Harry pitied her, having to balance personal and professional points of view, but he was more amazed at how astute the man in front of him was.

Podmore had always looked so apathetic, so indifferent whenever he'd come home with Harry's father. Now, in a brief glimpse, the stubborn - proactive! - man seemed full of regret.

"Give us your wand," said Podmore suddenly, though it came out in a reserved tone. He turned from the window, jaw set, as though he expected Harry to fight him on it. His eyes widened imperceptibly when Harry walked over and passed his wand to him without missing a beat.

Tonks reluctantly made to stop him. "Y-you don't have to do that, Harry. You're not on bloody trial here."

"I've nothing to hide," Harry said softly. Another lie.

Podmore waved his wand over Harry's, his eyes never leaving the boys except to check the floating apparition of his last spell.

"The banishing charm," Tonks needlessly intoned, happy to see her partners suspicions wrong once more.

Podmore wasn't satisfied, and went back as far as priori incantatem would allow him, listing off the last four spells used by Harry. They were all basic charms used in school, though they were sixth year level, as one would expect from someone with Harry's reputation. Harry had long since been 'clearing' his wand history after every mock duel with his father during the holidays, on the off chance anything ever occured where his wand would be searched. Paranoia had its benefits.

"Satisfied?" Tonks asked. She sounded almost relieved, Harry noted.

"Not even close," mumbled Podmore through gritted teeth before turning and leaving without a backwards glance, taking James' journal with him.

"Wait! What about my fa-"

"I'm confiscating this, though something tells me you won't miss it overly much." He held up said journal tauntingly over his shoulder. "This is not over, Mr. Potter, tempted as I am to wash my hands of you. In the meantime, do your father a favor and try not to get yourself killed." With a final side-eye, Podmore turned and left towards the fireplace. Tonks and Harry heard the flames of the floo rise and then go out, signalling the abrupt departure of Sturgis Podmore.

"I'm sorry," Tonks said at long last. The two didn't meet each other's eyes for a minute. "I walked you into an ambush, I know, but I swear I didn't expect it to go on like that. He's normally more devil-may-care on the job, ya know? I don't know what's come over him lately. I'm sorry," she finished lamely, repeating herself with a sigh.

Harry shook his head. "It's alright. It's not your fault… It's not his, either. He's just doing his job."

'Doing it too well,' he thought.

"He's a prat," Tonks stated bluntly, and Harry almost smiled. "That being said, you didn't do yourself any favors either. You've got quite a mouth on you, Harry."

He nodded, well aware that he was quiet so often because his mouth tended to get him in trouble. Case in point; "All the better for kissing, Tonks."

Tonks rolled her eyes at his avoidance, but he saw her lips twitch in a smile. "Be serious for a moment. Didn't the two of you know each other before?"

Harry sighed but nodded. "Yeah, but not like you and I. He was my father's colleague. His friend as well, I suppose, but we never really made a connection, Podmore and I. He always seemed more interested in the furniture or the weather outside than he did in having a conversation with a 'boy'. Nice to see not much has changed."

"I wouldn't say that," Tonks said, a finger absentmindedly gliding down her jawline. "Like I said, he's been different ever since, well, your father's death. Colder, more focused. Maybe he really is just looking out for you in his own special way? He owes it to your father."

"What do you mean?" This was the first Harry had heard of Podmore owing his father anything. In fact, it was the first time anyone other than his father even discussed the man. He wasn't exactly a popular guy. "Like a life debt?"

"You mean your father never told you?"

Harry shook his head in the negative. Tonks seemed to hesitate, which only made his curiosity grow. "Tonks?"

She shook her head clear, as though gathering the information. "It was during the First Wizarding War with You-Know-Who." Harry was fully invested now. "Podmore had been an auror then as he is now, just a few years ahead of your father and Uncle Sirius."

Tonks paused at the mention of her uncle; Harry's godfather and the man who'd named him heir to the Black family. Harry had to remind himself that she had spent more time with the charismatic, care-free man than he had, her loss just as deep if not deeper than his when Sirius had died.

Tonks cleared her throat. "I don't know the details, but Moody told me that Podmore was very different back then. He was talented and ambitious and, somehow - though I can't picture it - goofy. A clear contrast to his apathetic, murose self. He was a rising star in the ranks of the DMLE, even for an auror, and his standing in the Order was solid. Then came the night of the Christmas ambush in Diagon Alley…"

Harry knew what night she was referring to. His father told him about that night, along with many others. It was the night the Order lost five members in one fell swoop… including two of its greatest. Already, he could see pieces of the puzzle coming together.

"Podmore had been in rotation that night. Diagon patrol, along with Auror Hammish and a few others. The Prewett Twins, Fabian and Gideon were some of the Order's best and bravest. Priority targets to the Death Eater scum, almost as much as your father and mother were. They were on holiday and off duty, shopping in Diagon Alley when the ambush began. Podmore and several other patrolling aurors, some of them order members, responded immediately. That's when the anti-apparition wards kicked in…" A small amount of fear entered the rookie aurors voice. "It was a slaughter. They killed them all to a man, a dozen dark cloaks, led by Dolohov and, as we'd later find out, Augustus Rockwood."

The mere mention of his mother's killer even after all these years - and now the main suspect behind his father's death - made Harry's blood boil. He hadn't needed to rely on his father's stories to know how dangerous and foul the man was. Harry had done his own extensive research into the supposed fastest spellcaster in the country at the time. He'd killed many people, including…

"The Prewett twins gave a hell of a fight," Tonks continued. "They'd gone down riddled with all manor of spells, taking over half of the attacking forces with them as best as we could sort out. But fall they did. They all did…" Tonks looked into Harry's eyes. "All, that is, except Podmore. Soon as the wards came down, he'd taken a cutting curse across the chest. A nasty wound leaving an equally nasty scar, but not quite lethal enough. It took him out of the fight, momentarily, and he bled out as his brothers and sisters in arms died around him. He saw Dolohov personally execute Gideon, Fabian having passed seconds prior. His memories of the ordeal were used to verify the events, of course, which led to an unfortunate discovery…"

"He played possum," Harry surmised, a strange feeling in his chest.

Tonks nodded sadly. "Far as I can tell, he'd been brave all his life up to then, but in that moment… when the cutter sliced his chest and the wards blocked escape and the spellfire rained hell upon them... well, I guess you can only be brave for so long. He pretended to be dead, and no one could have blamed him, except that the Prewett twins hadn't. They'd gotten up time and time again, fighting whilst dying. Brave to the end. Not like Podmore, or so others thought. Before he knew it, word got out about his cowardice, some even going so far as to call him a traitor. Why else would Rockwood and Dolohov leave him alive? They were clever enough to know he wasn't dead. I mustered the courage to ask Podmore that once…"

"What did he say?"

"He said it was a punishment on Rockwood's part. He'd stayed Dolohov's eager hand before smiling - smiling - at Podmore. Like he knew that Podmore's life would never be the same again. And it wasn't. Everywhere he turned, he got the cold shoulder. Men who'd been his friends, partners whose lives he'd even saved in previous skirmishes, even his fiancé at the time. They all turned their backs on him, unable to stand being associated with a coward. Not then, not during a war that had already taken so much…"

Harry tried to process all of this. Tried to put himself in Podmore's shoes. He felt with every fibre of his being he would have done things differently; he would have gotten up, kept fighting until the end, just as his parents did.

But how could he be sure?

"Everyone, that is, except your father." Harry looked up, only partially surprised. "He vouched for Podmore with the Order, who were all suspicious of each other by that time. It was because of him that Podmore was able to keep his career, the ostracization of his peers threatening to cause enough backlash where he'd either be fired or want to quit himself. Just as he credits James' forgiveness as to what made him a better man, a better auror - a braver one, responsible for apprehending Avery and several others near the end of the war - I feel the loneliness drove him to be the man you may know him as now."

Harry didn't say anything for a while.

Tonks seemed content to let him work things out himself, as she paced around the living room, picking at the few items lining the glass and mahogany cabinets in the otherwise spartan house. She seemed particularly enamored by a pendant with a triangle surrounding a circle, bisected by a sharp vertical line.

"Fear makes us do regrettable things," Harry said at last, his voice pulling her away from the odd trinket. "But his tragedy won't be my undoing either, Tonks."

"Harry-"

"No, I understand. I do." His eyes were earnest. "At least… as much as I possibly can without going through it. And I hope I never have to. I can see the demons driving him, forcing him to be so harsh on me. He may even think it's for my own good."

"It is," Tonks mumbled, but Harry plowed on.

"But I can't back down either, Tonks. I've nothing to hide," the auror fixed with with a searching look, but Harry pressed his point, "and I won't be bullied or coerced into saying otherwise, regardless of the man's intentions."

Tonks looked murose at this.

"But... " He caught her attention and tried to offer a small smile. "I'll do my best to go easy on him."

It took a moment, but Tonks smiled. Harry knew her suspicions of him weren't put away yet, but he appreciated her gesture nonetheless. The fact that she wanted him to see Podmore's point of view on things showed that she truly cared, for better or worse. It hurt him to know that; people who cared about him usually wound up dead.

"Your eyes are always so distant, Harry."

He'd been caught staring at her -through her, far away - and no concerned bubblegum pink eyes gazed at him. "You always look so old when you do. Like you've got some impossible weight on you."

"What can I say?" Harry, turning coy at her beautiful if penetrating look, shrugged for the umpteenth time that day, as he turned to stare off towards the mountain as rain fell once more upon the Welsh countryside. "I have bad posture."

Tonks didn't deign his incredibly lame joke with so much as a smile. Instead, her concern increased as she drew up alongside him. "You can't keep running from these things with humor, Harry. It's alright to be overwhelmed - it's alright to be afraid." She grabbed his hand gently, having to look up ever so slightly into his eyes.

Eyes that remained distant, fixed on the storm clouds above. "I'm not afraid, Tonks. Death doesn't frighten me."

She squeezed his hand, though he didn't squeeze back. "And that's what worries me. Besides, there's more to fear than dying."

"Whether there is or not, it makes no difference to me." He turned to look at her now, his eyes as cold and sharp as ice in a moment of pure transparency. "I'm not afraid."

Tonks could only gaze back sadly, words failing her in that moment. "You're running from it again…"

Harry turned back to the window, the look on his face - the vulnerability, the anger - disappearing without a trace. Storm clouds loomed overhead and a crack of thunder was heard in the distance as the rain fell and fell.

"Everyone runs, Tonks."

AN: Sorry for the long wait. Life has been rough. Wishing you all well, wherever you are.

Next chapter, the plot progresses and the actions picks up with a duel… or two.

Mahalo for any and all support.