Greetings, all! Before we get into the actual fic, I have a few quick things to say. First, this fic is AU branching from near the end of DH. The big change is that Ginny died in her fight against Bellatrix. Everything flows (loosely) from that, though it's not all related.
Second, this fic is totally complete. It's not all going to be posted at once, but if I don't forget, you can expect regular (weekly or bi-weekly) updates until it's all here. There's ten chapters and a short epilogue, which I'll likely post at the same time as 10.

Third, I am not dropping any other fics, nor will I ever. I wrote this while in a dry spell for my other stuff, so no whinging about it please. :)

Fourth, it's Harry/Lavender, as you should be able to see above. There are mentions of Harry/Ginny, but as I said before, Gin's dead. The whole Harry/Lavender thing isn't changing, since the story's complete.
Lastly, this story is M for a reason. There are three scenes of graphic(ish) sex, none of which has a warning to alert you. Hopefully I'll remember to let you know in each chapter's A/N, but no promises. Honestly, if you aren't comfortable reading it, you probably shouldn't be here since aside from the graphics, sex is discussed rather frankly throughout the second half. It's not a kid story. On top of that, there's also a few violent flashbacks, and so on. Move along if it doesn't appeal to you rather than flame me (uselessly), although, as always, actual critiques are more than welcome.

Enjoy the first chapter of Blue-Eyed Doe!

Chap. 1 Alone?

Harry Potter, resident of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, London, woke up in a cold sweat for the second time that night. With an exasperated, exhausted sigh, the young man- only just now a man in the muggle world- glanced at the dim green light of the only non-magical appliance he'd been able to make function in his home, a solitary alarm clock. Three fifteen... I slept a whole hour more than usual before that dream tonight. Damn it... Gin...

Rising, the raven-haired man sighed again, this time with an odd combination of frustration, resignation, and outright depression. He knew, in some part of his mind, that this behavior was both unhealthy and even life-threatening if it went on too long. Normal people did not live on four hours of sleep a night. They did not wake up with horriffic nightmares every single night. Normal people... they were not Harry James Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived-Again, or as he was known in some circles, The-Wanker-Who-Ruined-Us.
Yes, there were still Death Eaters, the followers of the recently vanquished Dark Lord, Voldemort, around. The vast majority had been killed at the Battle of Hogwarts, even more had been rounded up in a world-wide manhunt over the next few months, but he knew full well some were still out there. In the history of wizarding Britain's last two wars, both fought against Voldemort and his followers, only one of the Dark Lord's followers had truly left his service, devoting his life, if not to 'light', then to at least fight against the darkness. I still can't believe that bastard... all the things he sacrificed, and I never knew. No wonder he was so bitter and hateful to us all, but especially me.
Now, Harry knew he'd done it. He'd started thinking again. The bane of his current existence, thought.

Giving a third frustrated sigh, Harry moved toward the loo, getting started on his day once again. There were still families to talk to, even more than six months later. Many- almost everyone- had lost someone in the war, and he felt he owed it to them to help however he could. While he was due to start Auror training with the new year, Harry still had all of December and most of November to himself, having long since finished his preparations. After all, what more was there to do in the wee hours of the night and morning, when the world still slept, able to forget their losses and pain?

As we've already discussed, though, Harry Potter was not 'normal'.

Stepping out of the shower, wincing at the black scar on his left pectoral, the slowly-fading (and it was fading, several doctors and himself had confirmed) remnant of the second time he'd survived the Killing Curse. Even though the one on my head's empty and healing itself, now, you had to mark me one more time, didn't you, Moldyshorts?

His normal sarcastic, dry humor was not usually present in the early morning, but Harry found not attempting some form of it, no matter how pathetic, tantamount to failure in his mission- maintaining his sanity. He had to laugh at something. There was loss and pain everywhere, after all... especially in his heart.

Gin... Ron... 'Mione... Fred...

At least two of the people on that list had survived. Fred had died just meters away, struck by rubble that left a fist-sized hole in the back of his head when one of the walls of Hogwarts exploded.

Ginny Weasley, youngest of the clan and the first Weasley daughter in generations, had been killed by Bellatrix. She had almost gotten away, Harry knew. The Killing Curse could just have easily passed below her chin as the red-head spun to dodge, but her reflexes- and his own- had been just a millisecond too slow, and the green of the most hated spell had snuffed the love of his life out like a candle, just as it had taken almost everyone else he'd loved. Remus, Tonks... and their poor son, Teddy, now without both parents... just like me. I should go see him, today.

Harry, of course, had lost it. He had practically flown across the hall, still covered by his invisibility cloak, to destroy the foul, mad woman who'd ruined his friend, Neville's, family, had killed Sirius Black, had killed... no, not killed... she can't be dead... But Harry knew she was.
After all, that battle was more than six months ago. He had attended her funeral, locked in misery so deep that he felt he would never recover. He had been unable to face Fred's funeral the next day. Could not face the pain in the faces of the only family he'd ever known. The steam had left the ginger all at once, the angry tears turned to sorrow so deep that Harry wasn't sure if even he could understand it. Ron had lost his family. Harry had never known his. But then... Sirius... Gin... maybe I do understand, after all.

Hermione had been a savior, as she had so many times before. She had chosen Ron, Harry knew, and he was happy for it. While some might wonder just how well suited for each other the two were, the Boy-Who-Lived-Again understood his best friends quite well, thank you, and knew that each of them both complemented each other's strengths, and covered their weaknesses- and were madly in love. That was enough for him.
So when she chose to devote her time to helping the Weasley clan heal, he was perfectly fine with it, and didn't begrudge her a moment. However, when she was able to visit (usually alone, since most of the family couldn't bear to be around him most times), she was able to maintain his connection to his family, as well as be the friend that he needed... most of the time.

But Harry still hurt, still suffered. He just preferred to do so in silence. After all, he had been raised in pain, raised in torment, and he could deal with it. Why should anyone else have to suffer, when he could do it for them?

At least until I go mad. Once I break, I'll just go find a quiet spot in the woods somewhere and end it. No fuss, no muss, just a quick letter to let everyone know so they can grieve instead of worry, and I won't have to hurt anyone else again. Until then, I'll help all I can. I owe it to everyone for all they sacrificed for me.

Harry blinked, brushing a hand over the black spider-web scar, wincing again, then turned away from the mirror to begin dressing.

It was a little early for Diagon Alley's businesses to be open, but Harry didn't mind. Honestly, he preferred the quiet to the hustle and bustle of the busy days. Gringotts, though, was open as early as always. That was convenient, since he was headed there in the first place.

"Mr. Potter," the goblins flanking the door bowed in unison. Harry nodded as well, not breaking his stride.

For two months after the battle, Harry had been in a difficult legal battle with the Goblin Nation. They were furious with him for costing them a dragon, not to mention the damage to the bank themselves. In the end, only donating the entire Black fortune to the goblins had basically bought them off. All he'd kept from that line were a few personal treasures of Sirius', and the house itself, which he couldn't give to the goblins anyway with the Fidelius on it.

Now, though, having recieved a 'gift' of several million Galleons and numerous treasures- many goblin-wrought and 'missing' from their kind's care for centuries- the goblins were, in general, quite happy with him. After all, they had not been treated well by the Dark Lord this time, either, and did not forget that it had been Harry who had finished Voldemort in the end.

Stepping up to the queue- only two deep- Harry was ushered to a goblin almost immediately.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Potter?" the goblin asked, his voice raspy and deep.
Harry had to work not to smile. This was the goblin he'd been forced to Imperius when they'd broken into Gringotts last year. However, he now knew that a wizard baring teeth to a goblin was considered a threat, so restrained himself. "I'm sorry, I've forgotten your name. I'd like to speak with your bank manager, if possible."

The goblin chose not to answer the first implied query, focusing on the business, "Ragnok is with a client, currently. If you would be willing to wait, I am certain he will be done shortly. The Malfoy family has little to offer us these days."

This time, Harry couldn't hold back his smile, though his lips were tightly closed. He wasn't sure exactly how Lucius had escaped prison, but he had not forgotten either Narcissa's part in bringing down Voldemort, nor Draco's reluctance- fear- of becoming truly evil. Still... daddy still able to fix all your problems with a few words, Draco? The real world sucks, doesn't it?

A few minutes later, he was led by another familiar goblin- Griphook- deep into the labyrinthine bowels of the financial institution. After several confusing twists and turns- Harry was sure they'd passed one portrait at least three times- the goblin croaked, "Wait here," then knocked twice on a thick, steel-reinforced oak door.

A moment later, Griphook pushed it open and gestured Harry inside with an inscrutable expression.

Several hours later, Harry's head was aching. Who knew setting up a will was so much work? No wonder mum and dad's were so out of date.

"Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Potter?" Ragnok asked, the aged goblin's beady black eyes staring straight into Harry's, much as they had been the entire time.

The young wizard began to shake his head, but stopped before completing one turn. "Actually... I have all this information, but I don't know who's been managing my account. Is there a specific goblin that takes care of the investments?"

The old goblin blinked twice, then leaned back in his seat in a relaxed posture, the first sign of 'humanity' Harry had seen from him since their meeting had begun. "I'm surprised you ask that, Mr. Potter. Rarely does wizardkind ask about the details of our work. Usually they only complain if they feel their worth's increase is insufficient, and say nothing when it grows by leaps and bounds through our labor."

Harry flushed slightly. He knew he was only one person, but there was still so much hatred, injustice, and outright bigotry... "I'm not a common wizard, I guess, Ragnok. If it's a secret, you needn't tell me, of course. My track record aside, I really do respect your way of life. I don't want to threaten it, so..."

The goblin shook his head firmly, "No, Mr. Potter, it is not a problem at all. I was simply surprised. At this time, your account manager is not listed. As you are aware, you have had no active investments since your parents death. This decision was set out in their will. They have only collected interest, it is that which has fuelled your trust fund for your education. I take it by your question that you wish to rectify this?"

Harry nodded, "Yes, but I don't know much about finances aside from the basics. Is there a goblin I could pay a fee- say, annually or monthly- to manage it all for me? Someone trustworthy, of course."
"Of course," Ragnok replied, "goblins make the most money themselves when left to their own devices. If we cheat our clients, they find out, and our profits diminish in a ripple. Goblins are taught this practically from birth, it is part of our way of life. We do not deal dishonorably... though it is my understanding that wizardkind does not always agree."

Harry smiled, remembering the lecture he'd gotten from Bill shortly before breaking into Gringotts about the goblin's views of 'ownership'. "Then there is someone? Anyone you can recommend?"

"I can check around, Mr. Potter, but to be honest... I'm not sure how helpful I can be. With the recent legislation your Ministry has placed upon wizardkind, and our own laws, it has been more difficult for us to solicit on our client's behalf. Is there a goblin you know, that you trust? That would be the easiest way. You need only give me a name, and by the end of today, he will be in your employ for a modest fee."

Harry's face scrunched as he thought. He really didn't know that many goblins by name, but... "Well, what about Griphook?"
Again, the old goblin leaned back in his chair, letting out a surprisingly long breath for such a small creature, "Griphook? If I may ask, why him? He is not of any particular standing, though he is justifiably well-known for returning the 'sword of Gryffindor' to us."

Harry ignored the indirect allusion to the circumstances behind that event again, "Well, he's the only one I know fairly well, for one thing. For another... well, despite our disagreements, I like to think that we understand each other. I don't bear him ill will, and I think I've proved that to him by my own actions, so... is there a reason you don't think he'd work?"
"No," Ragnok replied, "nothing like that. Again, I find myself surprised. I don't expect wizardkind to know our customs aside from basic facts, but asking a cart driver to manage accounts is a significant step up in our social heirarchy for him. However... I must admit that he is intelligent. If you find him trustworthy, I see no reason why he cannot perform adequately for you."

Harry smiled, but fortunately, Ragnok did not seem to take offense, since he smiled back. Harry shuddered at the glimpse of some bloody residue on the old goblin's pointed teeth. "I think that's everything then, Ragnok. Thank you for meeting me today without an appointment."

The goblin rose, shaking Harry's hand as he did so, then hopped off his chair and came around the desk to stand next to the wizard. His head came up to just over Harry's belt. As they walked toward the door, Ragnok replied, "Think nothing of it, Mr. Potter. Your accounts are filled with gold that has sat idle for many years. Now it flows, and our own wealth will increase because of it. In particular, you have made one average goblin very happy today, though he does not yet know it."
Harry laughed.

As he left Gringotts, Harry began to plan the rest of his day. It was early in the season, perhaps, but maybe a little Christmas shopping was in order. What else was he to do? Besides, the weather had been foul for days, and this was likely to be the last clear one of the season before the holidays began in earnest.

(O)(O)(O)

Laden with packages, Harry stumbled into Grimmauld Place just after eight. Cursing, he dropped two bags, one of which rolled down the stairs to the kitchen. The portrait of Walburga Black, Sirius' mother, immediately attempted to scream, but Kreacher beat her to it. "Sorry, Master, but my old Mistress... Kreacher can't seem to get that portrait down."

This was a long-standing issue for Harry and Kreacher, but at least the ancient elf seemed sincere in his desire to follow his owner's instructions. However, the permanent-sticking charm- or whatever was holding the portrait there- was truly powerful, as not even one of Harry's rage- and sorrow-fuelled reducto spells had affected the painting. Only stunners and his direct orders seemed to work, though even those and Kreacher's magic were temporary at best.

"Would Master Harry like dinner now?"

"No, Kreacher, thank you," the wizard responded, "I actually saw a new fast food place from the States a couple blocks away, I want to try that out. I've heard it's good."
The elf nodded with a bow, "Shall I take these bags, Master?" he asked, already levitating the one from downstairs back up.
"Sure, if you aren't busy," Harry replied, "just stick them up in the attic for now. They're presents."
The elf nodded, and made a single gesture, causing the bags that had almost caused Harry to careen down the stairs head-first to follow him in single-file up the stairs.

Shaking his head at his own ineptitude- Are you a wizard, or not?- rang through his head as he stepped back outside, pulling his cloak- fashioned to at least superficially resemble a trench coat, so it was acceptable for muggle London- tight around his neck.

Snow had begun falling shortly before he reached home, and in the few minutes he'd been inside had begun to pile up.
He shivered, then set off at a brisk walk.

In the tiny parking lot- room for six small autos at most- Harry passed a slight beggar woman, whose crude sign advertised "will do anything for food" in a surprisingly elegant script. Without a thought, he dropped the entire contents of his muggle wallet, minus ten pounds he saved for dinner, into the woman's tin without breaking stride.
The weak call of thanks caused him to turn with a forced smile on his face, "Happy Christmas!" before turning back, still without stopping his progress toward the warm interior.

However delicious the roast beef sandwich that this "Arby's" place sold, Harry found himself having a hard time enjoying it.

I wonder if she has a place to stay? It's awfully cold. She should be able to get a motel for the night- or the year- with the money I gave her, though. I wonder if she noticed? I don't think she looked...

He tried to put the street beggar out of his mind and enjoy the sandwich, but something about her kept pulling at his attention.

A half-hour later, two sandwiches down and three more in a take-out bag (one for Kreacher and two for the beggar) and an insulated cup of coffee (he'd been forced to serrupticiously transfigure a post-ad for a martial arts studio nearby into a five-pound note for the last), he made his way back out into the now-blinding snow.

When he reached the sign, though, Harry's last thought was on feeding the poor woman.

Her skin was blue.

Fortunately, Harry was known for his quick thinking. He debated several options, and in seconds came up with a simple conclusion. St. Mungo's. Obliviation be damned, she needs help now.

(O)(O)(O)

Two hours later, an assistant healer came out to find Harry in the empty waiting room of the wizarding hospital. "Mr... Harry Potter?"

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Harry nodded, "Yes. Is she going to...?"

The healer smiled, "She's going to be fine, Mr. Potter. She's asking to meet her savior. Would you like to?"

Harry nodded, following the young witch through the doors she'd just come from.
He turned right, she turned left. "Er... aren't we going up to...?" Harry asked, but the witch, who had turned when he began to speak, shook her head sadly. "No, she's down this way. We had to put her in a secure room."

Surprised, Harry's eyebrows rose. The healer frowned, "It's not something I like... and believe me, I applaud your kindness helping someone like her, but... she's just not safe around the other patients, or maybe it'd be better to say they aren't safe around her. Healer Madsen insisted we treat her with the others like her."

Dumbstruck, Harry shrugged and followed, trying not to watch the witch's shapely backside. Ginny... what would Ginny think? ... damn. No, don't think of Gin... but don't think about this woman you don't even know, either!

After a few minutes, after the witch had lead him down four staircases into what must have been the deepest part of the hospital, she stopped outside a heavy, locked door. "She's in here, Mr. Potter. I don't believe she's a danger, but again, Healer Madsen warned us to tell everyone who visits her to be careful, just in case."

He nodded, making sure his wand was loose in it's holster, before knocking and stepping into the brightly-lit room.

The woman on the bed was blonde, with long, curly hair. It was a lot cleaner than it had appeared in the Arby's parking lot; it was a safe bet the woman had been thoroughly cleaned and sanitized. She might have been pretty, he thought, were it not for the scars. One across her left eye, a matching one from the left ear to mid-way down that cheek, and a line of puncture wounds across both sides of her throat, as if some great beast had tried to rip it out, and she'd only just gotten away.

Blue eyes blinked open and focused on him. The skin- rosy, now, instead of blue thanks to the healer's efforts- paled.

"H- Harry?"
The wizard could only stare in shock. He'd barely remembered this girl from school, though he'd seen her less than a year ago. Back then, she had been savaged, bloody, but he knew she would survive- Hermione had made sure of that.

"L... Lavender?"

All of his shock at meeting the once-beautiful Lavender Brown again faded into one terrible question. Why is a witch begging for scraps in muggle London in the dead of winter?

A/N: I suppose this is really two, but meh. I hope you liked it, but remember- this is just set-up. It's almost all important (at least a little) later, and most or all of the puzzles will be explained... eventually.

If you enjoyed this teaser-ish chapter, please review. Not holding anything hostage (I've already committed as much as I can to one or two weeks between chapters), but if I break, say, 100 reviews I'll post another chapter immediately (and continue the trend, of course).

'till next time!