The Auror's Duty

Prologue: Cold Sunday





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Sundays, she was certain, were only for eating big, family meals and playing Quidditch. Since she was a little girl, that had always been the case. Helping her mother with the potatoes, watching her brothers put on their 'uniform' robes, before hopping onto their well-used brooms and pushing off into the evening. She missed, quite frankly, those Sundays.



It seemed now, however, that it had been an eternity since she hadn't been working on a Sunday. Always, never failing, her fireplace lit up much too early in the morning, signalling an incoming Floo call, and beckoning her into work. How she hated being roused out of her much deserved sleep, and being summoned out to the field. She loved being a Auror; there was no hard feelings there, but sometimes she wished that she had chosen a simpler career path, like Muggle Relations.



Oh well, she sighed, and continued getting dressed, the sun only peeking over the horizon.





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"What is it?" she asked, stepping out onto the second level, and striding through the great oak doors. A very ruffled Dean Thomas looked up from his papers and smiled at Ginny Weasley as she strode in, robes dancing about her.

"I'm glad you're here. The preliminary group has gone out and back; there are no witnesses in Hogsmeade, at least, not anymore. The student was out by himself apparently, but only for a few moments, as his two friends were following just behind. They've said that they didn't hear a struggle, or any noise at all, for that matter."



Ginny grabbed a nearby chair and pulled it up to Dean's desk. There were locations listed on the top paper, with notes hastily scribbled in. A photo lay buried about three pages down, and she gently pulled it out, meeting the frozen eyes of a young, brown-eyed boy smiling as someone snapped a picture in time.



Dean looked over. "That's him, Alex Ryerson. We've managed to ascertain that he has only one living relative, his father James Ryerson. We've located him as living here in London."



She broke away from the captivating stare of the child stuck in time. "Has he been notified yet?"



The other Auror shook his head. "No, he's a Muggle. We thought it best if you could tell him in person."



Ginny started. "Me? Don't Ash or Faun usually do that sort of thing?"



"They're both already on assignment, Ginny. You're going to have to do this one by yourself." She could see the fatigue in her companion's face, and she quelled her urge to argue. Picking up the file, she stood up.



"Thanks, Dean," she smiled, "but you should go home now. I know your wife is probably worried sick."



Dean grinned back, weary but relieved. "Thank you, Ginny. And good luck. Muggles can be...strange."



"Don't I know it," she muttered, as she walked away, file tucked under her hand and wand hidden away.





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This was a part of London that she had never seen. Well, there was a lot of London she had never seen, but here it was different, strange. Maybe it was because she was alone, without her father beside her as in her youth, or her fellow Aurors as it usually was. Maybe it was just because of that brown-eyed boy, so mesmerizing and awkward, yet beautiful all the same. She hope that she could find him, and return him home.

Mr. James Ryerson lived on the second floor of one particularly grungy apartment building among an infinity of apartment buildings. Taking the stairs, she surveyed the escape routes around her, remembering and recognizing where and how fast it would take for her to leave. It was a skill, a habit, that she had retained from during the war, when every moment could be her last and every place could be her tomb.



Coming onto the landing, she made her way down the corridor, stopping at the fifth door on her left. She raised her hand to knock on the harsh brown wood, but it swung open before she could even make a sound.



"Oh!" exclaimed a short, square woman who emerged from the room. "I'm so sorry!"



Ginny smiled at the woman, before stepping back to let her pass by. "That's all right. I'm here to speak with Mr. Ryerson."



The woman grinned at her as she left the threshold of the apartment. "He's right inside. James!" she called out, even as she walked away, "someone here to see you!" And then the woman disappeared down the stairwell, leaving Ginny to cross the open door.



There was a cool, dry air inside, as if the sun rarely warmed the apartment. Sparsely decorated, there was a old sofa facing a Muggle television, next to the square window facing the communal community square. A small table littered with books and papers was the centrepiece of the small living space, and Ginny remarked to herself that it didn't seem like a child lived here at all.



"I'm sorry for the clutter; I've only recently moved in." A voice startled Ginny, and she chided herself for not paying more attention. She turned around, and met the gaze of a middle-aged man leaning against the adjacent bedroom door. He was thin, with greying brown hair, dressed in jeans and a dress shirt.



"Mr. Ryerson?" she asked, and he confirmed her inquiry with a nod. "My name is Ginny Weasley, and I am here about your son."



The man's face changed, and his muddy eyes seemed to dim, as she spoke. "Alex? What it is? Is he alright?" He moved forward from the doorway, sat down at the table, and motioned for her to do the same.



Taking a seat across from him, Ginny prepared herself for what she had to say, and whatever his reaction might be. "I'm an Auror from the Ministry of Magic, Mr. Ryerson. Has your son explained to you what an Auror is?"



He nodded, and kept his eyes focused on her.



"Your son was visiting a neighbouring town on Saturday, with the rest of his schoolmates. He was kidnapped, and I've been sent to investigate." She hoped she didn't sound too callous, too insensitive; she had absolutely no idea how to do this.



James Ryerson's hands whitened as he gripped the edge of the table. "Kidnapped? By who? I-" he trailed off, and looked away, shaking slightly.



"We don't know who took your son, Mr. Ryerson, but I will try my hardest to find out who did, and I will try to get back your son."



A long moment passed, uncomfortable for her, as she watched the poor man gaze outside, watching the trees in the square sway in the wind. He turned to her, finally, and gave her a sad half-smile. "Thank you, Ms. Weasley. Will you be in touch with me? Should I go to this Ministry of Magic place as well?"



"I will be notifying you of any developments as they happen. Do you have someone to stay with you? Perhaps that lady who left earlier?"



His eyes looked down, despondent in the depressing atmosphere. "She's the landlord; I have no family other than Alex." He looked up then, and suddenly those brown eyes seemed to glow. "Please find my son."



She stood up from the table. "I will do my very best, Mr. Ryerson."



He nodded, defeated. "That's all that I can ask."



Ginny strode to the door, more determined than ever to find this boy, to find Alex and return him to his father. She put her hand on the door, and looked back one final time. The man had turned to the window once more, and her heart skipped a beat for him, sympathy overtaking her. She moved to turn away.



Her hand clenched the doorknob hard, as her heartbeat quickened for an entirely different reason.



The Auror withdrew her wand and was at the window before the man could even react. "Ponera!" she exclaimed, the tip of her wand barely missing his face. He fell to the ground, as the disguise that covered his body, the spell that had faltered for a fraction of a second and revealed him to Ginny, evaporated.



And then Ginny's breath was struck out of her chest as two very emerald eyes stared right up at her.









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The Auror's Duty: The Resurrected Mr. Potter



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"No," breathed Ginny, as she crumpled to the ground, tears flowing from her eyes, unbidden and unwanted. "You died, I saw you die, I know you died..." Words continued to escape her, flowing and stopping, reflecting the utter horror and confusion that was her state of mind. Her heart silenced itself within her chest, and, for one moment, she could not breathe, shocked beyond unconscious thought.

The brown hair had changed to raven, the slight wrinkles and age lines softened, and the muddy brown eyes had been replaced by the irrepressible green of a man who had once been her lover. It was still hard to breathe, as she took in his eyes, and his face, and the chest that was still obviously breathing.

"I was never the best at Charms," he commented ruefully, before pulling himself up from the floor.

"Charms?" croaked Ginny, still slumped against the couch, unable to support her own weight. "Harry?"

He sighed, and reached a strong, calloused hand down to her. Pulling her up, he smiled, but there was no real emotion behind it, a facade he wore for the benefit of no one, for they both knew that it was not real. He motioned, once again, to the table before them. She sat down before him, silent. Her tears sat upon her cheeks, damp and untouched, solid reminders to Harry of what he had done.

He waited for her to start. He knew her questions; he had imagined them himself, on nights of cold and on days of rain, when thoughts of futures long lost ran rampant through his mind. She looked up from her hands, and opened her mouth to speak.

"Yo-you have a son?" Her voice was barely a whisper, but it felt like she had shouted it into his ear.

Surprise overtook him, and he almost answered differently, but he recovered his thoughts and knew what he had to say. "I-yes, I do, Ginny."

A sob escaped her, and she was livid with self-rage at letting her guarded emotions reveal themselves so easily, after so long. "I saw you die," she stated simply, changing the subject to something that she might be able to handle, a truth that she might be able to grasp.

"No, Ginny, you didn't. You saw Voldemort die, and you saw me fall to the ground, and I disappeared. I had a Portkey, Ginny. I knew from the beginning that I couldn't stay." His eyes drifted to the floor once more, and thought she could see those emerald orbs glisten before they moved out of her sight.

"You knew you were leaving, and didn't tell me? You never thought of telling me?" Her emotions grew stronger, but her voice never wavered, still calm and still deadly whispered, electric in the air between them.

"I couldn't stay," he repeated simply, and Ginny almost broke her whisper to unleash her anger, but the faint look in his eyes and the sorrow that had appeared on his face made her stop, for the moment. There were so many secrets between them, so many years of life she did not know of, and she knew that they weren't all for her to hear.

"You lived as a Muggle for all these years?"

He nodded.

She wiped away her infernal tears, getting rid of the evidence of her weakness. "Why this exile, Harry? Why didn't you come home?"

His hands were clutching the table again, white and tense, and a fleeting sensation of pain and fear swept over her. Harry finally answered moments later, as his grip weakened, and he relaxed just a little.

"I'm not who I was, Ginny. I'm no hero."

She didn't reply; folding her hands together, she tried to stop them from shaking as she absorbed everything. He stared at her, silent but concerned, and more than a bit apprehensive and nervous. He'd never expected that someone would find him, even with his son attending Hogwarts. He was always a step ahead, always waiting and watching for the signs that would indicate that someone was on to him. And Ginny had just arrived here, out of the blue, the bearer of life-shattering news.

"Ginny?" Now he whispered her name, as she stared down at her polished nails, her pale hands. She looked up, and there was a sudden detachment in her eyes, as the moisture faded from her eyes. All sign of emotion left her, as she adopted her neutral disguise. She stood up from the table.

"If I'm to catch those responsible for your son's kidnapping, I have to leave now. I promise you, I will do my best to find Alex."

Harry jumped back from the table, surprised and, strangely, angry. "What? You're leaving? Just like that?" The irony of his statement was not lost on him, and he cringed inwardly, just a little.

She nodded coldly, and to confirm her statement, returned back to the doorway once again.

He ran across the small room and pressed his hand against the door, keeping it shut. "By yourself? You're going to find Alex by yourself?"

"I'm an Auror, Harry, not a child. I can handle myself."

At this, he moved his hand off the door and grabbed her arm, just as she pulled on the doorknob. She turned, annoyed, and yanked his hand off of her arm. Somewhere at the back of his mind, Harry remarked the same strength, the same passion, of the Ginny that he had once known. Shaking his head, he pushed those thoughts away.

"Do you know who you're dealing with? The people who took Alex aren't just your run-of-the-mill wizards!"

Suspicion gleamed in Ginny's eyes. "You know who took your son?"

"I might." And now, Harry drew himself up, feeling once again that familiar drive, that familiar determination. "I'm coming with you." He moved to a nearby chair and grabbed his jacket.

"What?" exclaimed Ginny. "No, you can't! You're not an Auror, you're not prepared to do this!"

"He's my son," answered Harry, though so quietly it was whisper in the air where Ginny had yelled.

A silence followed, and there was a strange tension between them, as Ginny battled within herself the implications of each choice. "Fine," stated Ginny roughly. "Let's go." And with that, she walked briskly over the threshold, as the newly resurrected Mr. Potter followed close behind.

The Auror's Duty: A Father's Anguish


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Ginny had suggested that they Apparate to Hogsmeade, like she always did, but Harry had protested so much that she had abandonned that idea. He said that they would be monitoring for him, watching if Harry re-emgered from his exile, using magic once again.

"How about the Floo Network? Do you think that would be safe? Or are they watching that too?" Undertones of sarcasm flooded her words, and Harry ignored them.

"Only if it's a secure location," he paused, and looked over at her, as they walked the streets of London. "You said you were an Auror. Don't all Aurors have a secure Floo channel?"

"That's right, we do."

Another pause followed, and Harry felt compelled to continue. "Well, why don't we use yours? It'll be safer than Apparating right into the middle of Hogsmeade."

At this, Ginny smirked out of a half-concealed spite, and some of the pain she had been repressing since her early morning shock shone through, causing her bitter attitude. "Look, Harry, Hogsmeade's not a war zone. Apparating there isn't a death trap. There aren't people lurking around, waiting for us."

"They were there waiting for Alex, weren't they?" Harry's voice was soft, unaccusing, but right all the same. Ginny blushed out of embarrassment and guilt, and she felt badly, a little, for hurting him. She had no idea what it was like to lose a child, to wonder where he was, worrying if he was okay.

However, she had done the same for Harry, when he had gone off to fight, and she had been left behind. Those feelings were still close to the surface, stilll burning and angry at the nameless betrayal she felt towards him now. Trying to shake them away, she walked just a bit faster, as if they would fall behind and leave, like paper in the wind.

"We'll go to my flat, then," said Ginny quietly, recovering from the guilt of the moment past. Beside her, Harry nodded, happy with this plan, and they headed for the nearest underground station, on their way to Ginny's home.


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Ginny took out her hand, and whispered several incantations against the door, deactivating both the Muggle lock and the magical protection around her home. Stepping into her flat, she motioned for Harry to follow, leading him inside.

"I just need to do a few things; no more than five minutes, and we'll leave." Harry nodded his understand, and Ginny disappeared into her bedroom, leaving Harry alone in the living room.

There were photos all over, both magical and Muggle, of people he didn't know, and of course, of those that were once to him like family. His heart panged as he approached one of Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, waving as they smiled, the Burrow bright in the sunshine behind them. He'd never expected to confront the past this soon, or ever again, for that matter. All the feelings and emotions and memories came rushing back in a instant, flooding his heart and his mind.

Following the one of Ginny's parents, there was a beautiful snapshot of Bill and Fleur, and a pretty little girl with white hair that he assumed was their daughter. She was six or seven, and, with this realization, it occurred to Harry exactly how long he had been gone.

And the next picture, the next photograph, made his legs shake a little, as he remembered the two people that had been his two best friends, his two greatest allies. Grinning in disbelief, he looked down at the capture in time, the repeating image of Ron and Hermione, both holding the hands of a young boy no older than five, as he swung between his parents, smiling happily. He stared at the photograph for a long time, barely noticing as the door to the bedroom opened, and a refreshed and determined Ginny Weasley emerged.

"I've been gone a long time, haven't I?" whispered Harry, as he finally let go of the photo, placing it back where it belonged on the shelf, amongst the many other happy moments and loved people.

"Yes, you have," she said plainly, moving next to him, and picking up the frame he had placed among the others.

"I remember this day," she said, smiling slightly but strangely, as if she was trying to hold back tears. "It was one of Ron's games, and Hermione, Jack and I had gone to watch him play. We went for a walk in a park before, just enjoying the day." Her eyes glistened, but only for a moment, and the resolute expression returned, as she placed the picture back in its spot.

A silence came between them, and Harry knew that there was something unspoken there, hidden in the undertones around them. "What is it, Gin? What happened?"

She looked at him oddly, as if he'd said something strange, but ignored it and moved on. "Jack died," she stated bluntly, and he recognized that that was part of who she was now. "He was six. He'd always been sick, since he was a baby. It was... difficult." There was so much emotion, so much angst behind her words; it was palapable in the air between them.

Harry couldn't even comprehend losing his son; it was denial that kept him from considering the possibility now. Ron and Hermione had lost their son. Their little boy. There was a tremendous ache in Harry's heart, as if he had known the child for his whole life, and as if the boy had been snatched away from right under his watch. To lose a child... his heart burned with sorrow just thinking of it.

It was Ginny that spoke, that ripped him out of his reverie. "Ron... he's never been the same." There was a sadness in her eyes, and he thought it alien, out of place, and he wanted to fix it. But that was a long decade past, gone in the time before the war. "Harry?" she asked, and the question was sudden.

"Yes?"

"Why did you call me Gin before?"

And for the second time in one day, Harry started, surprised. Had he called her that? And why? The unconscious feeling behind that name, his nickname for her, when they had been together and when they had been in love. He didn't dare dwell on that.

"I... don't know," he murmured honestly, then quickly moved on, avoiding old emotions that were just too heavy in the air between them to be simply pushed away, "Are you ready to leave?"

Ginny knew he wasn't ready, not yet, to confront such things of the past, but she hadn't forgotten it. "Yes, I am."

She lead the way, once again, and as he left, Harry looked back one more time to that smiling image frozen in time, of his two best friends and of the boy he'd never know.

Conversations With an Unknown Captor


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The dark was oppressing, overwhelming, and he couldn't see anything, as the walls pressed in, closer and closer... He screamed, crying out in fear for someone, anyone to help him, and the door opened, releasing the sobbing boy into the strong and warm arms of his father, safe from the creeping dark.

Alex remembered being trapped in that evil closet, so long ago, when his father had saved him with a simple hug, rescuing him from the dark. It had been so simple, so easy, that Alex half-expected his father to come now, bursting through the metal door that held him in his cell, wrapping his arms around him and saving him once again. However, Alex was no longer four years old and this was not a simple closet, a false prison. Alex doubted his father would even know where he was or what had happened to him.

He sighed, resigned to his momentary fate, and leaned back against the cool stone wall.

He'd been awake for a long time it seemed, staring at the cramped, circular walls that entombed him. Alex recalled stepping out of Zonko's, just ahead of his friends, and then colliding with a tall man dressed in an ebony- shaded overcoat. A brilliant flash of light overtook him as the stranger drew his wand and Hogsmeade had faded away. And then he'd woken up here, unhurt but confused, locked in an unfamiliar hall.

Closing his eyes, he tried to examine what exactly had occurred so far. Had he been kidnapped specifically for a reason? If so, why? He didn't have much money, he wasn't an exemplary student by any means, and he was no shining star at Quidditch either. His father was a lower-middle- class Muggle and they certainly had nothing worth taking. So why had they captured him? And were they Muggles or wizards?

A sound tore him out of his thoughts and, in the distance, he caught the echo of footsteps approaching from outside his cell. Opening his eyes, he straightened himself up, but didn't stand; he really didn't think that his captor deserved much respect. Staring forwards at the door, he waited.

Someone stepped in front of the cell's exit and, with a strange hiss, the door opened letting in a statuesque man with a shock of blond hair. Alex craned his neck to meet the man's eyes and, involuntarily, he shivered, recognizing something both familiar and frightening there.

The man stared down at him with an air of detached curiosity, then withdrew his wand from inside his jacket, conjuring a chair and confirming to Alex that it was, indeed, denizens of the magical world that had captured him. The boy simply said nothing, waiting for the man to speak.

He didn't have to wait long. "Do you know where you are, Alex?"

"In a cell," said Alex dryly, then regretting it, realizing it best not to antagonize someone holding a wand.

The man ignored Alex's tone and continued. "That's correct, Alex, but what you don't realize is that you are in a cell buried underground, in a place that isn't supposed to exist. So if you think that a group of Aurors are going to come rushing through that door, you are very mistaken." He grinned then, a smile gleaming of malice and contempt. "I'm afraid there is no escape for you."

Alex's heart skipped a beat, in defiance of his resolve not to be unnerved by this man and his words. However, he had to admit that he had, somewhere deep inside, wished for someone to break through the doors and save him from his prison.

The blond-haired man leaned back in his seat, letting his long legs cross as he relaxed, but keeping his startlingly perceptive eyes focussed on the young boy before him. A moment of silence passed before he spoke again. "I don't need anything from you, boy."

"Then what do you want with me? Why did you take me?"asked Alex, trying his best not to sound desperate, attempting to be strong and confident.

"Don't you know, Alex? It's your father that I want." At this, the man's eyes darkened, and any air of rest or comfort was gone. There was true hatred burning in the older man's eyes, a inner despisal that ran deep. Involuntarily, the young student shivered.

"My father? What do you want with a Muggle?" he asked, confused. There had to be many more people - Muggles - that fit his captor's plans better than his father.

At this, the dark man laughed. "Muggle? Your father is no Muggle, Alex Ryerson." There was a biting tone as he spoke the boy's name, connotations of sarcasm and anger.

Alex could feel the fear and confusion rising inside. He felt speechless, helpless. "Wh-what?" he managed to say, though the words felt foreign and awkward in his mouth.

"Your father, James Ryerson, is no mere Muggle, boy. He is Harry Potter, the beloved hero of the Wizarding world, the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, and all the rest of those bloody lies."

It felt like he had been punched in the stomach, and suddenly, it was a struggle just to breathe. His father? Harry Potter? There was no way... Harry Potter was a hero among the students at his school - a legend, a champion. He had vanquished the world of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named; he had saved the entire world from descending into darkness. No, it wasn't possible. His father, the Muggle, the quiet, defeated man, could not be the triumphing saviour of the Wizarding world...

But, somehow, he felt it to be right, even though all he wanted to believe was that the man was lying, was trying to fool him into a false assumption. There were too many coincidences, too many mysteries now solved to disprove what his captor had told him. Always moving, hiding when he was a child, escaping from something that Alex never dared to question. The things, patterns, that his father had always done, shying away from crowds and always staying in the background.

His father.

Harry Potter.

Alex's heart was beating so fast that it began a simple roll of thunder coursing through him. He wanted nothing more than to just close his eyes and try to make sense of this, of everything. But the man on the chair was not done speaking yet.

Blond hair reflecting even in the dim light, he leaned forwards. "I need to find your father, Alex. By taking you, I've already assured that."

The young boy found the strength to speak. "What do you want with him?" he asked, once more, though knowing now so much more.

The man's eyes twinkled dangerously. "Something that should have been taken long ago," he said cryptically. He stood then, making the chair disappear in an instant, before smoothing out his jacket and opening the door.

Alex's heart burned with a sudden courage. "Who are you?" he asked, determined to finally attach a name to his captor.

The man answered as he walked away, never looking back. "Draco Malfoy."

And then he was gone, swallowed up by the outside, as Alex's prison locked itself behind him.

The DADA Professor


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Something strange was happening in Zonko's. In particular, an odd sound was emerging from the darkened fireplace in the joke house's basement, as a slight shaking overcame it. If one who was not accustomed to travelling by hearth, the shock would have been immense as the shaking gave way to the sudden and immediate emergcence of a man, quickly followed by a scarlet-haired woman. Brushing themselves off from the massive amounts of dust accumulated in the unused fireplace, they rose to their feet as they took in their surroundings.

"This way," said Harry, remembering another secret entrance into the same basement so many years ago. He led Ginny up the stairs and into the main shop.

The store was not overwhemingly busy, nor was it abandonned. A handful of women and men warily watching over their exuberant children milled about the establishment, as the youngsters tried out and selected many different things. Harry was pleasantly surprised with the confimation of the Weasley twins' ownership of the store, as he saw their smiling portrait above the cash register. The two waved excitedly at him, and he couldn't help but laugh and wave back. Beside him, unseen, Ginny grinned.

They stepped outside into the cold air, and Harry's breath came out in a gasp as he looked around. How different the small town had become! The streets had expanded and the buildings had grown tall, and he realized that Hogsmeade was no longer the quaint little wizard town of his youth.

Next to him, the Auror seemed to have noticed his shock. "Diagon Alley was destroyed in a massive Death Eater showdown about twelve years ago. It was their last great stand, and they were determined to bring down whoever and whatever they could," she said softly, remembering all too well with the skies above the village had been stained with the mark of the Dark Lord.

She jumped, slightly, when he touched her arm, bringing his eyes to meet hers. "I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about," she murmured, as a pause was held in the air between them, but only for a second. "Anyways, the Ministry decided to simply move everything here. Have a Wizarding city, where we could always find shelter."

Harry looked up and around, taking it all in. "It's incredible."

"Look, Harry," stated Ginny abruptly, as she turned to face him again. "The preliminary team was out here before, and they found nothing. Whoever took your son did it simply and efficiently, and we won't find any answers here." She was different, Harry remarked, as her brisk and abrupt nature manifested itself once more. He couldn't help to think to himself as he watched her: Did I cause that?

He shoved such thoughts away. "What do you suggest then?"

"He had his two best friends with him, right before he disappeared. Maybe we can find some answers with them, at Hogwarts."

Harry shifted his vision and concentrated his eyes on the familiar spires of the castle in the distance, seeing it from afar for the first time in fourteen years. He chuckled, amused. "And how are we going to get into there? We can't just go waltzing in!

At this, Ginny grinned. "You can when you belong to the same family as one of the teachers."


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Only a mere two hours after his arrival at Hogsmeade, and Harry Potter was already standng in one of the ancient halls of his old alma matter, staring at the familiar paintings that lined the walls. Some were new, some were old. He laughed when he saw the Fat Lady across from him, and smiled when she noticed his amusement.

She stopped gossipping with her friend, the resident of the painting, and turned to him. "Stop laughing, boy! Wait until you see who's next door!" At this, she smiled mischiviously. Harry, curious, looked past the Fat Lady and her companinon, and moved to the next frame. His heart nearly stopped when he realized what he was looking at.

It was him. Himself. A moving portrait of Harry Potter, although, it was a considerably younger one. The floppy mop of black hair, the intensely green eyes: it was all, completely, him. The portrait of himself stared right back, as they locked eyes, emerald versus emerald.

And it was weird.

"Harry," called a voice from behind him, and he broke his staring contest with himself. "The Headmaster's allowed us a visit with the students, although she asked to keep it brief."

"The Headmaster? McGonagall?" asked Harry, as they made their way down the hall and towards the ever-changing staircases.

Ginny smiled, again, and something within him fluttered, awkwardly. "Tonks. Nym-pha-dora," and she stressed the outrageously formal name with a laugh, "became Headmaster three years ago when Remus retired. They'd both been here for ages, the old couple."

"They got married?" he asked, and the same pain of a forgotten past haunted him yet again.

"Oh yes. Years ago," she answered, as she pointed him to a nearby door. "There. That one."

He moved to open the door, but before he could close his grip around the handle, he felt Ginny's arm grasp his, and he turned to face her. "What is it, Ginny?" he asked, as he looked into her eyes, meeting her orbs as she stared strangely at him.

"How is it that no one recognized you in Hogsmeade? And why here, of all places, wouldn't you disguise yourself? The children would mob you if they knew Harry Potter was in their midst..." But even as she asked the question, her hand was moving from his arm up to his face, moving to what she thought was the answer.

There. Something flickered along the line between his skin and the edge of his jacket, and she sighed. "You're wearing a disguise, aren't you?"

"I am," he answered. "I can't take any chances."

"How come I can see you?" she asked, confusion showing through her frown.

Now it was his turn to smile. "No disguise is impenetrable. If someone truly doesn't believe what they see, a disguise is nothing. Everyone thinks I'm dead, so there is no real danger for me." His grin turned slightly melancholy then, and he looked away. "Come on," he said, gesturing to the door, as he turned the handle and strode inside.

The chamber was one that he had seen many times before, and Harry realized that it was his ancient Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom. However, his heart stopped when his eyes met the figure of the resdient professor, and he froze where he stood, shocked yet again for the second time in less than a day.

"Ginny!" cried the Professor in greeting, movng forward to give the young Auror a hug. "Tonks told me that you wanted to speak with Anaise and Thomas. I've summoned them, and they should be along shortly." The teacher looked away from Ginny, and settled on Harry. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your companion?"

Ginny looked over to Harry anxiously, but he had already moved his hand forward in greeting. "Hello, Hermione," he said softly, as he stared into the deep brown eyes of his best friend.

Many Questions and Few Answers


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The bushy-haired woman blinked in confusion as she stared into the man's unremarkable brown eyes, trying in vain to place him somewhere in her expansive memory. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

He smiled sadly, almost with something akin to regret emanating from his muddy eyes. "A very long time ago," he said, even as something strange began to happen.

Hermione gasped as the man's face, as his whole body began to ripple and change, his torso expanding outward slightly as his shoulders moved outward, and as he straightened up, becoming several inches taller. The grey hair receded, replaced by the presence of intensely black locks, and the eyes, the unremarkable brown eyes, cleared and became a brilliant shade of green, haunted and familiar. She felt her legs shake beneath her and she reached a hand out to rest upon the desk beside her.

"No..." she moaned, even as the proof stood before her eyes, "Not possible. It's not possible. You died!" Tears formed unwillingly as she stared in disbelief at the strong and living figure of her best friend.

He smiled, but with a sadness that penetrated every part of him. "I'm so sorry, 'Mione," he whispered, "I'm so very sorry."

The young professor simply moved forward and enveloped him into her arms, even as her tears fell onto his jacket, soaking through the fabric as she cried with happiness and shock in the arms of her friend. Long moments passed as they remained in each other's arms, lost in the memories and emotions of a time long past.

Hermione eventually pushed herself away from him, letting his warm body go as she took a step back. A wide smile stretched across her lips as she wiped away the remaining moisture, joy evident in every facet of her face. "Well, what are you doing here? Both of you, I mean," she said, correcting herself as she threw a gaze sideways at her sister-in-law.

Harry looked away, pain appearing in his eyes as he thought of his lost son, and Ginny quickly intervened. "There's been a kidnapping. One of the third-year Ravenclaws was captured in Hogsmeade."

The mirth disappeared from Hermione's features as she recalled the incident that her friend had described. "I know; Nymphadora's briefed all of the teachers and the two Head students. I can't believe someone would take Alex! He's an excellent student, he's quiet and extremely bright. I can't imagine for the life of me why someone would want..." Her voice trailed off as she looked over once more to her newly resurrected friend. He was staring off into space, completely still, save for the hands that trembled in front of him, clutched into solid fists.

"Harry?" she asked, wondering. And then it dawned on her: an epiphany, suddenly and strangely, she knew the answer. For the second time in less than five minutes shock coursed through her veins, electrifying her mind with the truth. "He's your son, isn't he?" she breathed, realizing.

A moment passed, a moment that seemed like forever with the immense weight suspended in the air between them. "Yes," he answered, softly and quietly, as if saying it any louder would be an offense.

This time, Hermione sat down, placing herself on the edge of the desk. "I..." she began, as her mind raced ahead of her mouth, "Harry, how could you stay away for so long? And you have a son? Are you married? Who's his mother?"

At Hermione's sudden questions, Ginny stiffened. She herself had been riddled with the same queries about Alex since the morning, when Harry first revealed himself to her. Another woman. Was she a witch? A Muggle? Were they married? Did he love her? At this point in her thoughts a knot would form in the pit of her stomach, as she considered and wondered who exactly might the be mother of Harry's child. It had been years since their failed romance at Hogwarts and during the War; it had been years, eons, since they had been together. However, her love for him had not simply disappeared when he had; she had carried on thinking and wishing and praying for his safe return, his safe return into her arms long afterwards. And now what made it so difficult for Ginny Weasley was that whenever she had pictured Harry Potter ever having children, it was always her who was their mother.

Always.

The look in Harry's eyes had changed since Hermione had asked her questions, a strange and difficult look that neither woman could identify. "I..." he began, hesitantly, as if unsure how to begin, "I can't tell you. And I'm sorry, but it could ruin everything."

Disappointment was etched in Hermione's features, and Ginny struggled to take in her next breath. "You can't tell us?" asked Hermione incredulously.

"No, I can't. But I can tell you that she's dead now; she's been dead for eleven years."

"I'm sorry, Harry," said Hermione, as she reached out a comforting hand to her friend. "I'm sorry that you had to lose her."

He looked straight at her now, with another alien presence in his emerald eyes. "Thank you, 'Mione," he stated softly, giving her hand a small squeeze before letting go.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door to the classroom, and all three present inside jumped with surprise, forgetting in the moments of their reunion the students that had been summoned for them.

Hermione rose from her perch on the desk and strode to the room's threshold, swinging back the door and permitting entrance to two young students waiting outside. The first one to enter was a young girl, tall and sporting hair that was cropped close to her angular features, accentuating them and giving her air of aloofness. Following her was an adolescent boy, tall and gangly for his age, with dark brown hair that seemed to have a mind of its own.

Ginny gasped when she realized that Harry had removed his disguise for Hermione, and that the two children would be able to see him for who he truly was. She turned to him quickly, panic visible in her eyes as she mouthed her concerns to him.

He smiled at her, with amusement "Don't worry," he whispered, "I'm much better at concealment charms now; I've had thirteen years of practice."

The students, meanwhile, had sat down at a table in the classroom, anxiously awaiting for either their professor or one of the two strangers to speak. Harry remarked the redness of the girl's eyes, colour that could only seem to come from many tears. He realized that he was not the only one who was missing Alex.

"Anaise, Thomas, I would like to introduce you to two very good friends of mine, Aurora Ginny Weasley and Mr..." She paused, unsure at what to call him.

"James Ryerson," Harry answered quickly, hoping that the two students wouldn't notice the fact that Hermione had not known his name.

Hermione continued, as if nothing had occurred. "These are two of my third year students, Anaise Richards and Thomas Chang. They are close friends of Alex, and they were with him in Hogsmeade yesterday when- when it happened."

It was the boy's last name that caught Harry's attention, distracting him for a moment from his quest to find his son. "Chang?" he asked softly, realizing that it was a long shot, but he had to ask. "Is your mother Cho Chang?"

Thomas looked up and met the man's murky brown eyes. "Yes, she is. Do you know her?"

Harry grinned at the young boy. "I did, long ago."

Now it was the girl who stared at the unfamiliar man before her. "Are you Alex's father?" she asked, her intense features capturing his attention.

"Yes, I am. And I- we've- come to ask you about yesterday afternoon, about what happened in Hogsmeade."

The two third-years turned to each other, both staring into each other's eyes as they relived the day previous, and their trip to the wizarding city that had gone wrong. Anaise was the first to answer Harry, breaking her eye contact with Thomas as she looked up to her best friend's father.

"It happened really fast. I mean, we went into Zonko's, because Thomas and Alex wanted some sort of prank toy contraption to set on one of the Slytherins, and I was dragged along with them. We were in there for a long time, so I think that whoever took Alex must have been waiting there for us that whole time too, waiting to take him. Alex went in front of us, because Thomas dropped his bag and I waited for him. When we stepped outside after him, he was gone." She paused, her dark blue eyes boring into the emerald ones above her. "Why would anyone want to take Alex? Why h-him?" Her voice began to falter, and Thomas reached out a comforting hand to his best friend, holding her gently and protectively.

"We don't know," started Ginny, looking down at the children seated in front of her, "but that's what we are trying to find out. Can you remember anyone suspicious around you that day, even before you made it to Zonko's? Anything else out of the ordinary?"

Now it was Thomas who spoke, still keeping Anaise's hand enclosed within his. "There was a man, I think. I mean, we saw him like four or five times while we were walking, which I thought was weird. And I think I saw him right before we went into Zonko's, standing outside."

"Do you remember what he looked like? Clothing, hair, anything at all?"

"A black overcoat, I think," said Thomas, looking to Anaise for confirmation.

"And he was tall, taller than you," added the young girl, gesturing at Harry. "He made me uncomfortable, anxious. He was really strange."

Ginny and Harry looked at each other, their eyes meeting and communicating a single thought. Nothing. No new information that would help them in their quest to find Alex.

"Thank you very much for your help, Anaise, Thomas," Ginny said, as the two students rose to their feet.

The two nodded, said a quick goodbye to their professor, and made their way towards the door, as the adults watched them go. Just as they were about to leave, however, Anaise stopped suddenly and turned back around, meeting Harry's eyes once again. "Please find him," she whispered softly, azure eyes pleading.

"I won't stop until I do," he answered, recognizing the grief and worry in her eyes. She nodded in acknowledgement, and followed her friend out of the classroom, leaving the adults silently behind.

“What now?” asked Hermione, after the door had swung shut again.

“Now,” began Ginny, gazing outside through the window at the far side of the hall, “now we need Ron.”

Hermione’s heart threatened to skip a beat as she heard her estranged husband’s name. “Yes, I suppose we do.”

Harry stared in confusion at the two women before him. “Ron? Why Ron?”

Ginny turned and grinned at her former lover with sudden amusement, and despite himself, Harry almost smiled back. “He’s the Department Head of Transportation Control. It was a new department established during the war, designed to track all unauthorized Floo Network access, Apparition, and broom flight. He might be able to tell us who was Apparating in and out of Hogsmeade yesterday.”

The DADA teacher also smiled, though it was tinged with sadness and grief. Harry remembered the son that they had lost, and his heart was filled with a sudden pain for her and for his other best friend. “Are you coming with us, Hermione?” he asked, knowing that seeing Ron would most likely bring up more than just simple feelings of friendship.

“Of course,” she answered, as she strode over to her desk, grabbing her cloak and putting away her quill and parchment. “I don’t have any classes on Sunday, and I would really like to help you find Alex. I know what it’s like have a missing child.” Her eyes met his, and he could see the determination set in her eyes.

“Very well,” said Ginny, as she strode over to the fireplace. “Do you have any Floo powder handy, Hermione?” she asked.

The young professor held up a grey container, and brought it over to the entrance to the chimney. “I have enough for all of us,” she said, as she grabbed a handful of it, stepped over to the fireplace and placed herself inside its threshold.

“Ministry of Magic!” she cried, as she threw the powder down beside her, and disappeared, leaving the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom far behind.

The Ministry of Magic

It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and Ronald Weasley, former Keeper for the Western Defenders, best friend of the practically canonized Harry Potter, was sitting alone on the whole floor of Level Six, abandoned on a Sunday afternoon.

He blamed himself, really. He shouldn’t have left his assignments until the last minute, putting off and shunting them to the side until he realized, waking up in shock in the middle of the night, that his report on Northern Floo Travel was required for Monday morning. He had also realized with an even greater sigh of misery that he had barely started it.

And so, he had found himself sitting at his desk bright and early on a cold Sunday morning when he should have been at home, sleeping until noon and then making his way over to the Burrow for the weekly family dinner. He felt bad the most about the dinner, half for himself for missing out on an expertly cooked meal, and half for his mother, because he knew that she loved being able to see them all on Sundays.

However, he could console himself with the fact that he wouldn’t be the only one not there, meaning that he would at least have to share the guilt with Bill, Fleur, and Karine who were visiting Fleur's family in France. He would also bet a whole Galleon that Ginny wouldn’t be there, out doing some sort of Auror activity. And if they really wanted the whole family there, Hermione would have to be there because she was still Ron’s wife, estranged or not.

His wife.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered to himself; he had tried so hard to forget, to put it from his mind for just one day. And then he had to go and ruin it for himself by bringing up Hermione. He looked up from his report in anger and exasperation, and his eyes fell upon a picture frame resting on the desk, as the two people inside moved about, forever frozen.

Gingerly raising it from the desk, Ron brought it up to his face, mesmerized by the people inside, caught forever in a loop of time that would repeat itself for all eternity. He watched intently as the beautiful woman smiled up at the camera, cradling a sleeping infant in her arms, her eyes watering with unshed tears of pure euphoria. Her bushy chestnut hair was tied behind her head messily, and her body sagged in over-exertion and exhaustion, but in her face the light of a thousand suns was reflected, beaming down upon her newborn child.

The camera shook abruptly, and then the frame would begin again, never-ceasing and unstoppable. Ron stroked the photograph softly with a single finger over his son’s sleeping body, wishing with all his heart that he could be back in that moment again, back in the past when the world was different and happier and better.

A loud, chiming sound nosily broke his reminiscence, and he hastily replaced the photo back into its place on his desk, attempting to return to his report, hoping that perhaps he could make it to dinner after all.

It was only after a few moments that he realized the ringing sound had been the call of the elevator, possibly releasing someone onto his floor. He put down his quill, and strained to hear something, anything, to confirm to him that he was not alone.

“Are you sure this is the right floor?” he heard someone ask timidly, approaching him from down the corridor.

“Of course I’m sure!” exclaimed another floor, startlingly familiar. “I do work here too, you know.”

Ron’s face broke out into a smile as he realized it was his sister making her way over here, coming to see him. But who could she have with her? And what did she need from him on a Sunday afternoon?

The group came around the corner, and he was able to see that it was Ginny, followed by an strange man and...

“Her-hermione?” he croaked, stuttering in his surprise and shock.

“Hello, Ron,” she said softly, and he was able to see her then completely, from the long brown hair and thoughtful eyes, to the formal black robes of a Hogwarts professor. It had been so long, so long since he had seen her in person last, and it felt odd to be in his presence again, haunted by the familiar emotions and feelings resurfaced within him by the arrival of his wife, the mother of his child.

“I... I can’t believe you’re here- I mean, what do need from here on a Sunday? What, I-“ Flustered and shaken, Ron babbled on, until his fair skinned younger sibling cut him off.

“Nice to see you too, Ronald. But we don’t have much time, darling brother. We need your help with something. This man has lost... something. It was taken from Hogsmeade yesterday afternoon by someone using Apparition, and we would like you to find who that was for us,” Ginny said authoritatively, but Ron was used to her gruff and concise Auror attitude, always trying to be quick and precise.

“Yeah, I think I can do that for you. I, uh, actually have the report right here,” he said, gesturing to the long scroll of parchment before him. He made his way down the pages, jumping firstly from red line to red line, as it was these records of Apparition that had concealed arrival points, usually indicating a crime or otherwise un-lawful event.

He tapped his finger against the page as he found what he was looking for. “Here we go: departure from Hogsmeade, Northern Region, to unknown location. Accompanied by Side-Along Apparition.” At this, Ron looked up from his work, and stared at the man between his sister and his wife. “What exactly was it that you lost?”

“My son,” whispered the man quietly, before he turned his sight upwards and towards Ron.

The man met his gaze, and in that moment, Ronald Weasley felt overcome by the strangest sensation, the sensation of seeing two men at once: one the physical appearance before him, with the greying brown hair and time-lined face, and the other, a complete and entire sense of familiarity, as if he knew this man before him. And not just acquainted, but as if they had been so close that they had almost been a part of each other, and that now this reunion had made them complete.

Suddenly, the answer dawned on him, and as he said it, he saw the green eyes shine back at him, as the lightning shaped scar appeared. “Bloody hell. It’s you, isn’t it? Isn’t it, Harry?”

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, nodded at him and smiled half-heartedly, sorrow etched into the corners of his face. “Hello, Ron,” he said softly.

They stared at each other for an eternity, simply watched and studying each other with the shock of fourteen years of separation between them. There was a great chasm between them, the chasm of passed time and missed opportunities, a great impassable gulf that spanned the decade that separated them from each other. The two women looked on, worried and nervous.

And before either one of them could even react, they watched as the two men threw their arms around each other, throwing themselves off of the edge of the cliff, finally making the bridge that was necessary between them. At this sight, Ginny sighed softly and Hermione grinned a small smile of amusement.

“Boys,” she muttered.

The two men separated, and Ron grinned stupidly at his long-lost friend. “I can’t believe it’s you! Where you been, mate? And you have a son? I-“ His voice died off as he tried to absorb everything. And then his happy expression faded away as he spoke once more, the emotions of thirteen years past all rushing back to him in an instant: “Why didn’t you come back?”

Harry tried to smile, but the attempt only partly worked, and his grin was a poor facsimile of the real thing. “I never meant to stay away so long, Ron,” though his eyes darted to Ginny and Hermione as he spoke, “I wanted only to get away for a little while, get rid of some of the Death Eaters still following me, take care of wounds that Voldemort inflicted on me. But then, then something else happened, and I couldn’t come back, even though I wanted to with everything I had.”

His three friends could all see the pain etched into his features as he spoke, and without speaking to each other, they agreed not to press the matter, not so soon, though so many questions were weighing on their minds, so much information about their long-lost friend that they simply didn’t have.

Ron cleared his throat, finally breaking the silent and slightly awkward moment that had overcome them. “So, it’s your son that was taken from Hogsmeade then, Harry?” he asked softly, and fought the urge to hold the picture frame still standing on his desk, the photograph that held forever the frozen image of his son.

“Yes,” whispered Harry.

“And you want to know where he went?” asked Ron, already looking down at the parchment before him, his eyes locating once more the listings for yesterday and identifying the red line that indicated the disappearance of his best friend’s young son.

This time, it was Ginny that answered, “Yes, Ron, we would like to know, and we don’t have a lot of time.”

He shot a glaring look at his sister, then resumed his work. “Well, this is a red-tag Apparition, which means that wherever they went, the location was Unplottable, since those are the only ones to which we have no destination identification,” he said, glancing back upwards at them, “which means that you’ll have to find out all the Unplottable locations in Britain, since that is the Apparition radius for Hogsmeade.”

“In all of Britain?” exclaimed Ginny, incredulous.

Ron shrugged. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way for us to know where they went otherwise. That’s what makes something Unplottable: so that you can’t track it or find it on a map.”

“I can help you,” called a soft voice from behind Ginny, and the two siblings turned to look at Hermione. She smiled weakly, before settling her eyes upon Harry. “Being a Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher has its advantages,” she explained, “and, I really want to help you Harry. I want to help you find your son.”

Ron could feel his stomach tighten, and he made a point of avoiding looking at Hermione. He couldn’t face that memory today. He couldn’t relive the death of his son, his only child, his little boy. And he knew that Hermione couldn’t help but feel the same, for there was still the death of their child standing between them, an issue they had never been able to face and challenge together. He tried to push it out of his mind, and stood up from his desk, attempting to distract himself.

“I’m coming too,” he stated, grabbing his cloak and stuffing his wand into his back pocket. When he met no argument, he turned to stare at all three of them. “So, uh, where are we going, exactly?”

The other two both turned to Hermione, who turned a slightest shade of pink at all the attention, and it was like they were all teenagers again, reliving memories of a past long gone. “The Archives, I suppose?”

The two red-haired siblings nodded in agreement, but Harry turned to his old friend, slightly confused. “The Archives?” he asked, “where are those?”

At this, Hermione blushed a violent shade of red, and Ron and Ginny laughed at her embarrassment, amused. “They, uh, they’re at my house,” she muttered, looking down at the ground, “the Archives are what Ron here used to call my collection of books.”

Harry began to laugh as well, and it felt so good, and so right, to joking with his friends again, to be happy again. It felt like the years had never gone, and that he had finally wound up exactly where he belonged.

“Let’s go,” said Hermione quickly, turning to leave first so that the colour of her face could not be seen. Ginny followed, and as Ron turned to leave, Harry grabbed his arm, stopping him.

“You should probably put your wand somewhere else,” he began, gesturing at the long silver instrument resting in the back pocket of Ron’s jeans, “Mad-Eye told me once that wizards have lost buttocks that way.”

Ron hastily grabbed his wand and followed his laughing best friend down the corridor, even as he called after him: “Who does Mad-Eye know that lost a buttocks?”

Interlude: The-Boy-Who-Left


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“Potter,” spat the pale and bloodless lips, curling downwards in a grimace of hate and anger. Two crimson eyes met twin orbs of brilliant emerald, uniting together in both fate and in finality.

The lord of darkness retrieved his wand with angular and spider-like fingers, brandishing his weapon and smirking with spite at his opponent. For his part, the face of the man opposite him betrayed nothing, silent and simply determined in the dim light around them. Below them, at the base of the hill, the sounds of battle reverberated and climbed upwards to them, curses and spells flying in the air below.

The man of the light held his wand out before him, meeting his weapon’s sibling in mid-air. He grinned suddenly, though it held no mirth, only a grim conformation. “This is your end,” he whispered, green eyes shining brightly, the strength and courage born from years of suffering revealing themselves.

“You are mistaken, child,” hissed the evil of a thousand names, the one who incited fear in the hearts of every wizard and witch the world over, and who had thrown all of the lands into a second great war. He was the man who destroyed all who rose up against him, merely casting them aside and gaining more power.

Until this moment.

In this moment, the Boy-Who-Lived finally felt it within him, felt the truth of the fate that had controlled and dictated his life from his infancy. The fate that had robbed him of his parents, his godfather, his mentor; the fate that had shattered his heart and aged him too quickly and too severely. In this moment, he ceased to be the Boy, but became the Man, the Man-Who-Lived, and the Man who could- and would- save the world.

Harry Potter closed his eyes briefly, for smallest measure of time, then struck his first blow: “Expelliarmus!” he cried, and the Dark Lord swayed out of the way, returning the attack with one of his own.

The Final Battle had begun.


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Below, underneath the hill where the future of everything lay in the outcome of a fight between two men, another battle waged. Dark-minded wizards unleashed their fury upon the army of the good, Death Eaters pitted against the Order of the Phoenix in the ultimate confrontation.

Ginny Weasley ducked yet another Cruciatus curse, pushing her body down into a roll and rebounding to her feet in an instant. Eyes blazing with a fervent fire, she shot off a spell immediately, taking her attacker by surprise and knocking back with a sudden blow to the chest. “Pertrificus Totalus!” she commanded, and her wand obeyed, contorting the body in front of her into a rigid and immobile form. Satisfied, she turned and moved on, spotting her best friend before her, sparring with a gangly and incredibly tall man that still somehow managed to evade most of Hermione’s attacks.

Red hair flying behind her, Ginny leapt into action, blasting the Death Eater with a vicious “Sectumsempra!” Dozens of crimson lines appeared onto his body, as the blood began to seep out onto his robes. She had long ago abandoned any thought of remorse for her actions: she was at war, and war was a terrible and gruesome thing.

Hermione nodded her thanks to the younger woman, and together they moved onwards, between the tandem team of Neville Longbottom and Luna Lovegood, past the determined figure of Nymphadora Tonks, and finally up to the struggling form of Ronald Weasley, locked in an intense battle with the cackling Bellatrix Lestrange.

“Aww, the wittle weasel is trying so hard!” taunted the heavy-lidded woman, her black hair shading her face and making her look all the wilder. “Time to end our dance, little boy! Crucio!” she cried, and Ron fell to the ground, his body seizing horribly as pain overtook him. He screamed in that instant as he began to writhe on the ground, and before Ginny could stop her, Hermione rushed forward and cried out a curse of her own, a curse that she had never used before.

“Crucio!” cried the young woman who had felt the sharp pang of hatred strike her when Bellatrix had begun to torture the man that she loved. The curse hit the unsuspecting witch, and she fell to the ground beside her former victim, crying out as the spell stimulated every pain receptor in her body, overloading her nervous system and contorting her body into an unnatural form.

Hermione froze the right hand of the Dark Lord into place, flattening out the protruding limbs in a moment and solidifying her into a harmless state. She reached down then, and grabbed Ron’s hand, pulling him up and throwing herself into his arms. They embraced quickly, and then separated once more, looking at the battle around them.

The Death Eaters had been almost completely obliterated. Their frozen, bleeding, and in some cases, lifeless forms were strewn about the field, testament to the fight that had just occurred. Several others had escaped, Apparating away to safety, running like the cowards that they were. Slowly, Hermione and Ron turned to look up to the top of the tall mound before them, and to the two figures that were still locking in their epic and fateful clash. One of them stumbled to the ground, his tall figure illuminated in the spell’s fading flight, and the red-haired woman beside them started.

“Harry,” breathed Ginny, and the young woman was gone, sprinting up to the top of the hill, determined to help the man she loved.


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The young man rose to his feet, body bruised and broken, as the newly carved gashes in his body bled profusely, staining his clothing and the ground beneath him. He would not -could not- afford to fail, not now, not when his victory and the victory of world was so close at hand.

“Goodbye, Tom Riddle,” he muttered with eighteen years of pent up hate, anger, grief, and iron resolve.

“Avada Kedavra!” he screamed, and in the same infinitesimal moment, Voldemort cried out his final curse. An explosion of green light covered them both, and two bodies fell down towards the earth, fallen angels in the pale moonlight.

And as Harry fell, clutching the Portkey he had hidden in his left pocket, he could hear the woman he loved cry out into the night, as all the sadness in the world gathered in her voice:

“Harry!”


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“Harry!”

Harry James Potter awoke suddenly, drenched in a cold sweat, as the echo of Ginny Weasley’s anguished tones rushed through his mind. He closed his eyes and sighed, wishing nothing more than to go back to the world where he belonged; to the woman he knew he should be with.

“Damn,” he swore softly to himself as he rose out of his bed, rubbing his temples gingerly as the vestiges of his chronic nightmare faded away. He grabbed a pair of pants that had fallen to the ground in his cramped and deteriorating apartment, as outside the morning sounds of a stirring city began to sound. He wouldn’t be here long, he knew: he had barely stayed for a fortnight in Berlin before he had left, and he had been in Prague for perhaps two months, at the most. And before that, before that he couldn’t even really remember, because he had simply kept moving, always going somewhere, never waiting for the Death Eaters to catch up to him.

Soon. Soon, he would be able to return. When the last of his wounds had healed, when the last of the Death Eaters had been defeated, he would be able to go back to country of his birth, back to the people who loved him.

“Ginny,” he whispered softly, remembering the love that he had abandoned. He shook his head slightly, ignoring the pain that the action caused, and pulled a shirt over his head, dressed and ready to face another day.

He moved across the hall into his garishly decorated kitchen and grabbed an apple to eat, too lethargic and too apathetic to prepare anything substantial. Is this what he had been reduced to? He had gone from a man who had once been a hero to someone who could barely extract himself from his bed every morning, dreading every waking hour. For that is what it truly was; he could not stand to be awake, for it reminded him of everything he had ever lost, and everything that could have been his.

A knock on the door interrupted his self-pitying reverie, as his well-honed reflexes took over. He grabbed his wand from his front pocket (never the back), and moved swiftly without a sound to the door of his flat, silently cursing the fact that he had never invested in a Foe-glass. He paused, waiting.

“Harry?” called a soft voice, and he was surprised, not only for the fact that someone had found him, but that he recognized the voice. He unlocked the door cautiously then, and stood up, still clutching his wand, prepared for anything.

For almost anything, it turned out. As the door swung open and revealed the young woman on his doorstep, his heartbeat quickened in shock, and his grip on his weapon faltered slightly, as he studied not the woman before him but the small child in her arms, silent and curious.

“Hello, Harry,” she said softly, smiling sadly as she met very shocked emerald eyes. “May we come in?”

The Northern Wind

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Alex remembered the northern wind and emerald eyes.

He couldn’t have been very old, that year when he and his father had wandered throughout the cold winter of North America. Places and towns and cities were blurs in his mind, snippets of a skating rink, and children throwing snow at each other in gleeful warfare. He scarcely remembered anything from those early days, not even his mother’s face. In fact, he couldn’t even remember seeing his parents together, only a flash of red light and someone’s painful sobs.

But he could, in fact, remember the northern wind.

It had been in Canada, he suspected, or maybe the low-lying plains of America, but at any rate there had been no ocean for thousands of miles, only a frozen wasteland and the barest reminders of past bountiful crops. There had been animals huddled in groups, cattle and horses and even the strange emus, uniting in their own tiny communities, sharing the communal warmth between them, warmth that was a necessity in the face of such a wild and biting northern wind. And though in his memories all the towns bled into a single street of nameless stores and identical houses, he could recall a set of curious emerald eyes that now seemed so familiar, and the harsh feeling of the northern wind.


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Snowflakes drifted down from the sky slowly, giving the young boy enough time to stick his crimson tongue out into the cool air and capture the tiny white object, smiling at his success. There was so much snow here, much more than when they had stayed in New York, and exponentially more than there had been in Portland. He liked it so far, studying its confusing but entertaining nature, as the solid faded away and became cool water before he could even bring it into his mouth.

His father smiled at him, and Alex returned the grin, flopping backwards into the snowdrift in front of the parked vehicle and carving a silhouette into the fluffy white snow. They were miles from the nearest town, stopped at a nearby wilderness park simply in order to enjoy the wonders of the weather.

The sun warmed his face while the snow cooled his hand, and he found it the most curious sensation he’d ever felt. Sighing, the young boy found himself content amidst the snow, finding pleasure the simplest of sensations.

“Can we live in the snow, Dad?” he asked excitedly, throwing up into the air above him a handful of the white material, laughing as it tumbled back down onto his face.

He could hear the smile in his father’s voice as he responded, and that only made Alex smile even more, for his father seemed to smile less and less these days. “It would get pretty cold at night, Alex, and where would we live in the summer?”

This stumped the young boy, but only momentarily. “We could build a sand castle by the ocean for the summer and an ice palace for the winter! So then we could play in the snow in the winter, and swim in the ocean in the summer!” And the notion seemed so simple and so easy to Alex, he couldn’t help but sit up in the snowdrift and look over at his father for approval.

The man smiled down at his son and laughed, but it was a gentle and amused laugh, not at all condescending or harsh. The boy grinned and tossed a hidden missile of snow at his father, previously hidden by the fabric of his mittens.

“Oh, is that a challenge?” asked his father, and Alex couldn’t help the giggle that escaped him. He quickly dove behind the snowdrift once more, peeking over the edge to get a clearer view of his opponent. A bomb of pure white exploded beside him, covering him in snow. The battle raged back and forth between them, the son trying his best to hit his father, the father trying his best not to get his son.

And then it happened.

Everything changed in a heartbeat, so fast that Alex wasn’t entirely sure that anything had changed at all. He had sunk back down behind his fortress for a mere moment, only to dodge a snowball that had been launched against him, but when he looked up once more, his father had gone suddenly still.

“Dad?” he asked cautiously, instantly forgetting the battle. In a life of constant movement and inexplicable occurrences, Alex had learned long before his time when to drop the antics of childhood.

His father, with his back still to Alex, called out to his son. “Get back into the vehicle, Alex.”

A shiver ran down his back, and the boy found himself strangely nervous. “Dad?” he asked again, though his voice faltered at the end of the word, his body on edge.

Suddenly, his father turned and all Alex could see was the intense flash of brilliant emerald eyes that had replaced the dull grey of his father’s gaze, and the boy knew instantly that something had gone horribly wrong. “Alex!” he cried out, and something shimmered around his father’s familiar form, replacing the usual figure with a young man, ebony hair reflecting the midday sun.

The boy needed no other prompt. He sprinted to the vehicle, throwing himself into the backseat and locking the doors, though he knew somehow that the locks would most likely accomplish nothing if the threat came for him. He pulled the blanket up from underneath him and wrapped himself up completely in it, save for a small slit around his eyes.

All he could do was watch as the threat that had frightened his father so emerged from the forest beyond the car.


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James Ryerson realized suddenly, in the middle of the snow battle between himself and his son, that they were being watched. This realization frightened him, because at any other time his defenses would have been prepared and he would have been ready, as he was always ready. But the winter had been a long one, and it was such a beautiful day way out in the countryside, and all he had wanted to do was enjoy himself, if only for a little while.

However, he was not really the Muggle James Ryerson, and as a result he could never achieve the simple pleasures that he so desperately craved. He quickly ordered his son back to the vehicle, but in that moment, the presence in the trees moved forward swiftly, and he grew distracted, his disguise collapsing in his panic. He could see the shock in Alex’s eyes as he saw his father replaced by Harry Potter, the façade of James Ryerson brutally pulled away. But his son was clever and loyal, and quickly ran to safety, as Harry breathed a sigh of relief and could finally turn all of his attention to the threat that had so suddenly come upon them.

Then he felt himself flying through the air, the wind knocked out of him as he was roughly thrown into the snow, and he knew instantly that the danger was completely and utterly real.


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Alex barely stopped himself from crying out as some invisible force blasted his father into the snow, but the boy remembered the lessons ingrained into him from before he could remember, becoming almost instinct. Stay quiet, don’t move, and trust no one, his father had told him countless times, never jokingly or lightly, always with a half-desperate look in his eyes.

So all he could do was watch silently as his father pulled himself out of the snow and faced the hooded figure that had appeared out of nowhere, seemingly out of thin air.


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“Oh, I always hoped it would be me that would find you!” exclaimed the hooded figure hungrily, the sneer apparent even though Harry could not see the figure’s visage. “Imagine that, little old me finding Harry Potter out in the middle of a cold and desolate winter! Draco will praise me for this, no doubt, and Mistress Bellatrix will finally elevate me to the position that I so greatly deserve.”

“You haven’t captured me yet, Death Eater,” spat out Harry, his wand finally back in his hand, and it was old habit again, back in the days of the war when the next danger was always only a few moments away.

The figure laughed. “Death Eater? You have been gone a long time, haven’t you, Potter? No, I am no Death Eater, but I suppose you could call me one of their successors. Why-” The figure was cut off abruptly, crying out in anger as the spell hit him squarely in the chest mid-sentence, throwing him tumbling through the air onto the frozen road, a sickening crack announcing his landing. He groaned, and Harry knew for certain that it was a man then, as the hood fell back and revealed unfamiliar features but a familiar hatred burning fiercely in the man’s eyes.

“Crucio!” he called out, and Harry barely got out of the way, dropping down and rolling several paces away. He rebounded quickly off of the balls of his feet, springing back up into a fighting stance, firing off another curse at the man. His opponent cried out in pain, body convulsing as he dropped his wand, and Harry quickly made his way over to him, pinning the man’s hands and putting his wand squarely in front of the man’s eyes.

“Did you tell anyone else that I was here?” commanded Harry, a fierce passion apparent in his face, causing the man pinned beneath him to shiver in sudden fright.

“No,” he gasped, spots dancing in his vision as he struggled for air, “I swear it.”

“Good,” whispered Harry, and there was desperation behind his green eyes, as he raised his wand and uttered two disgusting and horrifying words. Green light erupted around the two men, and suddenly there was only one man recovering his breath on the desolate and frozen road.

Harry ignored the voice that screamed in horror at his actions, and it was easier now than it had been years before, for it was not the first time he had used the Killing Curse, and another, pessimistic, voice whispered to him that it would not be the last. He murmured another spell, reducing the body before him to ashes, as he put his wand away and turned back to the vehicle.

It was then that he saw two brown eyes staring in open horror out of the rear window.

He moved quickly to the vehicle, all other thoughts and memories pushed away, unlocking the car doors with a simple whisper in his mind, and opening the door. Alex scrambled to the other side of the vehicle, still wrapped up tightly in his blanket, though he clutched it now almost as a shield.

“Alex, everything’s alright,” soothed Harry, reaching out his hand.

His son only recoiled further into his blanket, brown eyes reflecting a world of pain and fright.

“Alex, please,” breathed Harry, guilt and shame hanging on every word, born of the pain he had inflicted on the one person in the entire world that still mattered to him.

The boy, though still frightened and shocked, recognized the plea in his father’s voice, though the face and the hair and the eyes were not those he was used to. He did, however, find the young face and the emerald eyes familiar, as if he had seen them before, long ago.

He climbed out of the vehicle, still wrapped up in his blanket, and waited. The man who had the voice of his father said absolutely nothing at all, simply falling to his knees and throwing his arms around his son, holding him close and tight and safe.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathed against his son’s shoulder, and the boy felt some of his fright fading away.

“It’s okay, Dad,” he said softly, as his father dropped his arms from around him and drew something of his pocket. A wind had started to blow outside, a harsh and unrelenting wind, blowing away the warmth of the day striking cold and fast against the boy’s cheeks.

Suddenly, his father’s wand was in front of his face, and his heart skipped a beat, afraid once more.

“Dad?” he whispered, starting to shake with fear.

His father’s strange green eyes held unshed tears, as the northern wind whistled harshly against Alex’s face.

“Forget all of this,” his father whispered, and a bright light enveloped Alex’s view, blinding him. The last thing he saw before fading into oblivion was those curious emerald eyes, and the strength of the northern wind striking coldly upon his face.


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Lying cold and tired in his cell, Alex Ryerson remembered so clearly the strong whistle of the northern wind and the pair of brilliant green eyes, and he knew then without a doubt that his father would come and save him.

“Dad!”

The boy’s voice reverberated through the hall, bouncing off the walls and reaching his father’s ears only moments before Alex crashed into the room.

“Dad!”

His father had his back to him, quietly working at the second-hand desk they had purchased at a garage sale the year before. It had been their first purchase, arriving in a new and unfamiliar town, and Alex remembered thinking that maybe they would be here for a while.

“Yes, Alex?” his father responded, turning to face his son. Alex remarked the fatigue and weariness apart in his father’s face and eyes, and this troubled him. He wanted to see his father smile, to laugh like he used to when Alex was just a child and his father would take him to the park, watching him climb up the slide and catching him in his strong and warm arms. But that was years ago, and neither of them were the persons they used to be.

Alex waved the paper he held tightly in hands at his father, excited beyond belief. “You’ll never guess what happened, Dad! This letter came for me! But it didn’t come by post or anything, or even by the front door! An owl came and pecked at the window! Can you believe that? I was in the kitchen and then all of a sudden there was an owl at the window and he had this letter in his beak and he was pecking on the window like he wanted me to open it! Isn’t that so crazy? Dad?”

The boy’s excitement drained away as he watched his father blanch visibly, all color seeping away from his already pale and drawn face. Something flashed behind his eyes, almost imperceptibly, and Alex couldn’t quite tell what it was. Worry? Fright? Regret? But as quickly as the emotion had appeared, it vanished, leaving behind only a look of genuine confusion upon his father’s features.

“An owl? Pecking at the window? With a letter? Alex,” his father started gently, “I know you’ve been feeling a little lonely lately, but you really don’t need to be making up stories just to-”

At that, Alex interrupted. “No, Dad, I’m serious! I’m not making things up, there really was an owl that came up to the window and tapped away until I opened it! And then he stuck out his beak, so I grabbed the letter, and then he left! Just look at it!” cried Alex, as he thrust the letter at his father.

James grabbed the letter from his son, willing himself to keep his hands steady and calm, to be ready for anything.

The problem was, he knew all too well what it was he was holding, and that what was frightened him the most.

His eyes scanned the letter quickly, though he made sure, under the intense gaze of his son, to seem surprised as he went through the letter, past the mentions of wizards and witches, of an enchanted school and of the magic they taught there. Briefly, selfishly, James closed his eyes and tried to remember when he had first gotten the letter, and how excited he had been to get out, to leave the Dursleys behind, to explore the new world that had just offered him everything he had ever wanted, and everything he had never been able to have.

A memory of red hair, framing ivory skin and a dazzling smile, flashed by in his mind’s eye, and he was so overwhelmed that he felt faint, and he reached out a hand to steady himself on the desk.

“Dad?” asked Alex worriedly, his excitement fading as he nervously watched his father.

James took a deep breath and faced his son once more. “I’m fine, Alex, just stunned by this letter,” he lied, lifting the letter up and shaking it lightly, as he attempted to feign anger and disappointment. “This is not funny, Alex. A prank like this just tells me that you have too much time on your hands, and if you are really displeased with your school this year, you could have just told-”

Once again, his son cut him off. “No, Dad, I’m not making anything up! Even this is a little too far-fetched for me! Dad,” and at this, his son paused, realizing, “I think this is real.”

And as James looked into his son’s eyes, eager and hopeful and overwhelmingly sincere, he knew that there was nothing he could say to stop his son from going; there was nothing he would say to stop his son from going. Why should Alex continue to suffer for the mistakes of others? Why couldn’t his son have the life that James had tried to have for himself?

“I think it’s real, too,” said James, his voice barely a murmur, as he handed the letter back to his son.

Alex took the letter from his father’s hands, and suddenly saw it in a whole new light. This piece of paper was the ticket to a new life, a life full of people and creatures and places that no one else in his life had ever seen. He could feel his heart beat faster in his chest, and the excitement of a brand new start, away from the nomadic life that had been his childhood, was almost too much to bear.

However, there was still a part of him that worried about something else.

“What about you, Dad?”

“What do you mean, Alex?” his father asked, as he rose from the desk and straightened out, releasing some of the tension that had built up over the last few moments.

Alex knew what he wanted to say, to tell his father, but he couldn’t find the right words. As long as he could remember, it had only been him and his father, Alex and James, the two fugitives running from the past. Alex had made friends over the years, whenever they’d make it to a new town and start at a new school, but his father had always been alone. From town to town, and from country to country, James had never had any other substantial human relationship other than the one he shared with his son. And now, if Alex went, what would his father have? What would be left?

Would he be alright, alone?

He stared into his father’s eyes, and James seemed to know precisely what Alex was thinking, and it was a gift of their bond that let them leave it at that. “I’ll be fine,” stated James gently, and he quickly brought his son into his arms, feeling at that moment a strange sensation of immense pride and anxiety. Pride for his son and the courage he had, the willingness to accept the unknown. Anxiety, for his son, as Alex headed off into the world that they had left so long ago; and for himself as he faced the cold Muggle world without his sole companion, and without being able to watch over his son as he had for so long.

His son was going to Hogwarts.

Hogwarts and everything Harry had left behind.