Chapter 60 What Makes a Man Most Dangerous

The core members of the Legion had met and planned, and Harry left everything in their capable hands. After everything they had been through, there was almost nothing that he did not trust the six members of the "Ministry Seven" with. But what he needed was time and space. He needed to getaway. He needed, in as few words as possible, to vent his frustrations and anger before it killed him. More than that, he needed someone to talk to, but nobody alive could really understand what he had been through.

With magic at his command, it was a simple matter to change his appearance and walk into the Ministry to extract the information that he wanted. It had been simple enough to find because nobody had thought to hide it. In all likelihood, nobody had ever gone looking for it. But he didn't trust what his eyes were telling him and he wanted it independently verified before he acted upon it.

Harry had stayed away from any form of alcohol ever since he had read Fleur's last letter to him. Perhaps she would be back, perhaps not. He didn't know. He tried to convince himself that he did not care and had failed miserably. As he stepped out of the Ministry of Magic, he pulled the half squashed packet from a pocket. With a practiced motion, he slapped the bottom of the pack, causing a single stick to rocket out and upwards. He caught it between his lips with ease as the pack vanished, replaced by a lighter. He cupped his hands against the gusting wind and the lower part of his face glowed in the gout of flame for an instant.

He took a long, powerful drag on the cigarette and exhaled a cloud of brackish blue smoke streaked with white. He shook his head, knowing full well that smoking was just a displacement activity. It kept his hands busy and by extension himself out of trouble. Suffice to say that his temper was on shivering neck hair sensitivity. Fleur had not exactly spared him or his feelings when she had broken the half connection that she shared. He didn't blame her - at least not entirely. He accepted that, while he was ultimately responsible, all the blame could not fall squarely on his shoulders. But then, it did not really matter what he thought. All that mattered was what she thought.

He apparated home.

It was a little after midday when the twins knocked and strode into the bedroom of the Boy-Who-Lived. It stopped them short. When he had dated Hermione, his room within The Residence had revealed a little about him, with the scattered books, neatly disorganized clothes together with a half-completed homework assignment or two. Few had seen the "Inner Sanctum" he and Fleur had shared. It had been a room that the couple had not just shared, but also begun building a life together – before Harry had blasted the room to oblivion. That particular room was off-limits, not even Dobby and Winky ventured in there. His new room was altogether different. It was impersonal, cold. Even though the curtains were thrown back, the sun seemed to lose, or leave, its warmth on the outside of the open window.

Fred actually thought it was, in a word, "lifeless." Every piece of furniture had been chosen to emphasize functionality and practicality.

In George's own words, "The bat git's private potions lab, with windows."

Harry looked up from his task and took a drag on the cigarette hanging between his lips. "That's definitely a muggle thing," said Fred, "Apologies for disturbing you when you are busy polishing your wand...."

"But you did ask us to confirm and get back to you as fast as possible," continued George.

"Well?" asked Harry, as he tossed the polishing cloth into the laundry basket by the door and restored his wand to its wrist holster.

"We found it," they chorused.

"Moony was nice enough to give us an address," added George.

"And Tonks was nice enough to double-check it." continued Fred, "So we're pretty sure it's solid." Harry took a final drag from the cigarette and reached for the packet to extract another cigarette. Only when the new cigarette was lit and burning did he exhale, grinding the first cigarette in the charmed ashtray. It was a single continuous motion and he waved to the empty table.

The twins unrolled a map of Godric's Hollow and quickly filled Harry in on everything that they had found, which merely confirmed what he had already learned from his own poking around the Ministry archives as his alter ego. He nodded his thanks and changed the subject, "How is training progressing?"

"Fair to good," replied George, "The biggest problem is getting the timings right so that we can meet in reasonably sized groups. Already, we're having to resort to private instruction here and there to keep people on the level and on track."

"You're managing?" he interrupted.

"We are," agreed Fred, "Might we inquire what you are planning?"

Harry smirked, "The obvious." The expression conveyed no warmth or humor. He rose to his feet and then the twins nodded and left. Walking out of his bedroom he gave Alnwick a mental command. The living entity of the manor brought to life the Travel Room fireplace and it began to glow a deep emerald green color. He stepped into the flames and vanished, emerging in the Leaky Cauldron. With a nod to the ghost of Tom who had lingered to ensure his beloved establishment would be in good hands, Harry slipped into an alley and grabbed the nearest piece of reasonably clean, odor-free garbage, "Portus."

The bicycle tire glowed blue for several seconds as he fixed his mind on his destination, using the map and photographs the Twins had provided. The Portkey charm took hold of the object and moments later he vanished.

The portkey trip ended with an abrupt suddenness as he was suddenly dumped on the sidewalk. He rolled back to his feet and almost drew his wand when he realized what had happened: There were basic wards in place that would have been a momentary hindrance to even a half-competent wizard. They were unraveling, he realized as he watched the tendrils of magic fade away: Nobody had recharged them, probably since that fateful night some fifteen years ago. "The ones who give their lives to vanquish Voldemort have never been properly honored," he thought darkly, "Useless bastards."

He gave himself a moment to orient himself and then set off down the street. There had never been any doubt as to the extensive wealth of the Potter Family, or that theirs was "old money" of the oldest sort. Where other families had opted for lavish mansions and manor houses, the Potters had opted for a real home that was just a house in your average neighborhood, quite literally hiding in plain sight, much as Grimmauld Place was.

The thought of Grimmauld Place reminded him of Sirius, and how he had spent his last year free, yet hiding in plain sight. He wished he could have done something different, made a real difference in his godfather's life. The guilt was still there, was still strong enough to draw a tear to his eye. He shook his head and looked up to the sky for a moment.

Simple charms had repelled the muggles for over a decade. With the house both out of their sight and mind, they never had any reason to question the "vacant" plot of land that was quite literally in the center of their community. While the house itself was shielded, Harry suspected that the grounds and garden were not, simply because the wards were unraveling.

The gardens were overgrown with long, tall grasses, as well as weeds that were almost waist-high. Stopping at the edge of the property, he frowned, "Homenum revelio," he muttered, confirming that there was nobody but himself, a few owls in the rafters and a long-abandoned fox den. He stepped over the property line and began clearing away the long grasses with waves of his wand. According to the twins and his own research, they should be somewhere here.

He had planned to this for a year, but meeting Fleur had changed, or at least put this particular journey of discovery on hold. He just had not counted on how much it would hurt, seeing the two rectangular pieces of stone, side by side. He wondered how it was possible for him to hurt even more than he already did as something forced him to stare at the headstones, rereading the inscriptions over and over, almost afraid that they would change between one reading and the next:

James Potter

Husband, Father, Son

Lily Potter

Wife, Mother, Daughter

More than one person had noticed the single braid of hair that had grown long enough to flick behind his ear. More than one person had noticed the beginnings of a second braid on the same side, barely a few inches in length. It was as if Harry was keeping score on the failures of his personal life. The dark circles under his eyes seemed to have dark circles of their own. Not previously known for his warmth and gaiety, most would have said that Harry had a sense of humor. But now he was diamond-hard, refusing all attempts to lighten his load. The scars carved into his soul were hidden from the world, perhaps too well, but the scars to his flesh - those that others saw at any rate - made clear that the wizarding world was, is, a terrifying place.

Himself, he felt nothing. Cold. Empty. He was going through the motions of life and living, but without purpose or meaning. His heart was heavy in his chest as a tsunami of emotional pain threatened to drown him in despair and he collapsed to his knees between the two headstones. No matter how hard he gritted his teeth, he could not keep the tears from falling. The sobs he fought to contain broke through those same clenched teeth, choked out against his will.

Realization, in the harsh rays of the setting sun's light, made it clear: He was broken.

His parents, Cedric, Hermione, Xenophilius, the Creeveys, his godfather, his daughter, and Fleur… Everything, everyone he had let close to him had wound up like his parent. Two things he had wanted all his life, he had never had, but at least had something of them, sort of. He stared at the matching headstones. He swore quietly to himself, slamming his fist into the ground as he brought himself under control with a series of deep breaths. He wiped his tears away hastily and stared for a few moments more. He struggled to find the right words, but then he wasn't sure what he was supposed to say.

"So many have died because of me," he whispered, "And more are going to die in this war until I kill Voldemort. It's just not fair," he muttered, "You didn't deserve to die, none of them did..." he traced their names with his finger. There was a distant rumble: Thunder. Acting on a reflex he was not even aware of, he found himself clenching the headstones, one in each hand.

"Mom, Dad," he whispered, "I know that there's something beyond... here. I've not seen it, but I can believe that there is something... there.... wherever there is. I'm hoping that you've already met Hermione..." He reached into his pocket and pulled a small box from his pocket.

There was a soft, pitter-patter as the rain began to fall, "Aimee... her mother is out of the picture," he extracted the small piece of stone and enlarged it, carefully placing the slab of marble next to the pair of headstones, "But you already knew that...and you've probably met your granddaughter, Aimee." A few carefully cast charms saw the new addition take root in the ground, "I'm hoping one day that her mother and I might... work things out."

It took several minutes to do the same with a second. Neither had a grave, or a coffin, but the headstones were enough. They would have to be enough. He shook slightly as he straightened up, "I hope that you're all happy together, a… family of sorts." He took a step back to study the latest additions to the garden, "It gives me, strength, I suppose, knowing that you are all beyond harm's reach forever, and while it gives me strength and courage knowing that you're all watching..."

He hesitated, not sure how to put the request into words. He turned his face skywards, letting the raindrops pelt his face and slide down his cheeks like the tears he refused to shed, "Light and Darkness are always at odds, as a means to preserve the balance, and no matter how far the scales tip in one direction, they will always tip the other way." he said, "The problem is, Light and Dark are extremes, and I'm going to have to walk through those grey areas where not all is light or dark."

He ran his fingers through the inscription on his daughter's headstone, "I have done... things. Killed men and women," his fingers traced through the other headstone, that bore the name of his first love, Hermione Granger, "No matter their allegiances or beliefs, they were, they are the sons, daughters, fathers, sisters, mothers, brothers of somebody else, possibly somebody innocent."

He took a breath and steadied himself, "I am a killer. And I'm going to kill so many more. I'm going to make killers out of children, who should be worried about boyfriends, girlfriends, OWLs, and NEWTs. I should ask for strength to see this through, but I'd rather ask for forgiveness, for what I'm going to do, to my friends, to my enemies even."

"What I'm going to do," he repeated softly, "Whatever happens, please don't think less of me." He sat there, not caring as the rain-soaked him to the bone. A charm could have kept him warm and dry, but he didn't bother. The cold. The chill. He wanted to feel it. Needed to feel it. He watched the sun dip beneath the horizon. He was cold, uncomfortable. It was nice to be able to feel.... something. His eyes slid close, almost against his will but he found that he didn't have the energy to make himself care.

He woke with a start. At some point, the rain had stopped. But more importantly, was the hand gently running down his cheek. He recognized the touch almost instantly as his eyes snapped open. She smiled at him, and wiped away a single tear, "Hello love." Her voice haunted his dreams and was the source of his nightmares, and now she was standing before him. He pulled back from her touch, rising to his feet, wand outstretched as he took a most careful aim, "It's ok," she said softly, soothingly.

"I've either died, and gone to heaven," he said, "Or I'm dreaming, and wishing I was dead."

She shook her head, "Given the way things are, you know you can't die just yet. You made a deal with Death...."

"And nobody cheats Death of his due," agreed Harry as he lowered his wand, "Seriously, I am dreaming?"

"I'm Sirius, you're Harry," interjected another voice, "And yeah. You could call this a dream, but considering you passed out in the rain in the garden of your parent's home in Godric's Hollow, most would say it's a hallucination brought on by overexposure to cold." Harry turned to find his Godfather standing just a few steps behind, wearing exactly the same robes he had worn the night of the Ministry debacle, "Alright pup?"

Harry shrugged, and gave a bitter-sounding laugh, "Could be better," he said candidly, "But you both already know that." He stated it as a fact, not a question. The pair of...people standing before him said nothing at that remark. They stared at each other for a long moment and Sirius finally interrupted them with a discreet cough.

"We're here, to pass you some information," he said quietly, "About Horcruxes, so that you can uphold your bargain with Death."

Harry nodded, "You made a bargain with Death to be the messengers?"

Hermione shook her head, "No. Death... he gave me this.... chance to... tell you a few things. But business first," She nodded to Sirius.

Harry turned his attention to his godfather who began to speak, "Voldemort created six Horcruxes. You are, or were, the seventh, created by accident the night he murdered your parents and tried to kill you." Sirius tapped the scar on his godson's forehead, "That leaves another six."

"Five," corrected Harry, "A Diary, from Vauxhall Road in London. I destroyed that during my second year. So where are the last five Horcruxes?"

"Death knows only the current locations of these... things and Voldemort will move them if he learns that you," he smiled, "Well, you and the Legion, are hunting them." His godfather gave him a look that Harry had never seen before: One of complete and utter seriousness: "Harry if you don't uphold your end of the bargain, your soul is forfeit.... same as a Dementor's kiss..."

Harry nodded. He'd figured that part on his own already, "Get on with it." Sirius spoke, and Harry listened as Sirius went down the list: The Gaunt Ring. Hufflepuff's Cup. Ravenclaw's Diadem. Slytherin's Locket. "The last of them is Nagini... Voldemort's familiar. Where Nagini is, Voldemort is, protected by charms and enchantments, including the Fidilius..."

"The dead can see through that but the living can't," said Hermione, "The fundamental laws of magic themselves mean that we cannot tell you, even though we know." She smiled sadly, "Doing what is right, is never easy."

"And one last thing: Dumbledore knows. He's had his suspicions and he has been trying to get rid of them for years. He's close to locating the ring, and he thinks he's close to the locket. My job here's done," said Sirius, "Harry, I've got to go. But before I do, you need to know that Moony... I did everything I could for the Legion, not because it was right. Well, not just because it was right, but because it was something I could do for you. I only wish I could have done more..."

"Sirius," Harry cut him off with a sharp gesture, "You did more than I imagined possible. I only wish that we could have had more time to... get to know each other more, as individuals.... family."

"I know," he smiled and shrugged, "But as they say, "them's the breaks kid." He pulled his godson into a hug, "I love you. Your parents love you. When the time comes we'll be waiting. All of us." They pulled apart, "I'm gonna give you two a few minutes alone. Goodbye Harry. Good luck."

The couple watched Sirius Black, friend, Legionnaire, godfather, and perhaps most importantly, family walk away. Within a matter of seconds, he began to disappear. For the first time, Harry noticed that they were standing on soft sand.... beach sand unless he was mistaken. It was like he was apparating in slow motion until all that was left was his footprints. Moments later, even those he left behind vanished. He was gone.

"So," said Harry.

"So," she replied.

He stared at her. Her robes were a simple off-white, cream, or pearl color, but he could not stop staring at her. Her hair was as wild and untamed as ever. Her eyes reflected the same soul he remembered. "Do you have to go?" he asked quietly.

"Afraid that I have to," she replied, "and soon." Gently, she took his hand in her own, "I want you to know that I don't hate you and that I understand, about you and Fleur and Aimee. You deserve to be happy. I only wish that you could have had it... that...."

"We could have shared the same happiness?" he asked quietly.

"If things had been different, we would have," she agreed readily, "But them's the breaks," she said in a near-perfect impression of Sirius.

"What's it like?" he asked, "Beyond this... life?" she hesitated, "Death told me... its good there. I don't need to know the specifics, the details… I want to know that you, that everyone is safe, happy."

"Blue skies, green fields, the sun shines, the rain smells of spring. It's a peaceful, happy place where you only have good memories to relive. I could call it heaven, but everyone's idea of heaven is a little different. After all, everyone has a different idea of happiness and what heaven should be like."

"Do I...." his grip tightened slightly, "will I have a place there, in heaven?"

"Surrounded by family and friends," she said, "You fight against a lunatic who can never be satisfied, not until the entire world is his. He'll purge it of life and leave nothing but a barren wasteland behind him. You will do what you have to do and will earn a place in the Light, and in heaven. Not just for yourself, but for every Legionnaire that stands against the Dark. "

"Will you be there?" the words came out awkward, wrong even. What he really wanted to ask, he wasn't sure he had the right to ask of her. But then again, Hermione Granger still knew him better than any human ever could.

She pulled him into a hug, and kissed him, gently, "I'll be waiting for you, my love." They just held each other, and she felt real. Warm. Alive. That was the word to describe the way she felt. She looked at something, over his shoulder and he knew that her time was up, that she had to leave, "Harry, I have to go." He didn't let go, "Remember, I'll see you in your dreams before we will be together again."

She turned to smoke and dust in his arms, but she was still there, she was still real, "Remember," she vanished, becoming a twisting trail of grey smoke. Her voice echoed upon the wind, "I'll be waiting, right here for you, my love."

His eyes sprang open. It was the middle of the night. It had stopped raining. It was cold. But then, he was soaked by the rain, and he was still leaning against his daughter's headstone. He rose slowly, his limbs protesting against the movement as he dusted himself off, and then dried and cleaned his clothes before casting a warming charm upon himself. He stared down at the quartet of headstones, "I... should be going," he said, "I know you're watching. I know you can hear me," he hesitated, "Don't watch what I do... just, be there to pull me back."

He had carried the burdens of these few deaths for so long that finally coming to face with them all was something of a relief. They were gone. There was nothing he could do to bring them back.

He drew Hermione's wand, and walked the perimeter of the property, taking time to carefully draw out its boundaries. It was a slow process, one of many minutes, but he didn't mind, taking the time to do it right. The incantation took only a few minutes. The house, its grounds, everything up to the property line shimmered in gold for a few long moments before vanishing completely from view, forever hidden from all but those few he would reveal it to as he spoke the final words of the incantation in Latin, "I will keep this secret."

It was dark, the street deserted as Harry activated the Portkey, beginning the first leg of his trip back to the Manor. But he was more at peace, happier even, as the Fidelius Charm protected the final resting place of Lily and James Potter, Aimee Delacour Potter, and Hermione Granger, who should have been "Hermione Potter" if things had been a little different. But what was more important than all of that was that Harry Potter would stand and fight.

Nothing in the world can make a person, man or woman, more dangerous than having something to fight for and nothing to lose, all at the same time.