Story title attributed to Mother Teresa. "Loneliness and the feeling of being unwanted is the most terrible poverty."
Credit where credit is due: this story is inspired by hhrfan4ever's challenge. With their permission, I have embarked on this project.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter and all related material is the property of J.K. Rowling and, to a lesser extent, Warner Brothers film. Characters not under that condition are the property of this author. Plot is dual property of author and above-mentioned person. No money is being made from producing this work of copyright infringement.
Chapter 1
June 2007. 'Ten years.' Dr Iain Menzies reflected over a glass of his finest Scotch. 'Three thousand, six hundred and fifty-two days of relative peace. And may it last for a until the seas boil and the skies fall.' Ten years ago, to the day and damn near close to the second, Iain and his colleagues had witnessed a miracle; The Dark Lord Voldemort, whose name no longer inspired fear in the hearts of men, had been struck down by Harry James Potter. Every year since then the heroes of the war, the Order of the Phoenix, had organized a celebratory shindig to commemorate the monumentous occasion. But for Iain it was a period of mourning. Some of his best friends had given their lives for the cause. It was for that reason that he stood alone in the corner, in his blackest suit and most formal kilt, speaking to no one. An even more practical reason was that it afforded him an unobstructed view of the Hogwarts Great Hall, the location of the soiree, and its occupants. In such a manner he identified a new face. It was an old face, older even than Iain's lined visage and grey hair.
Iain liked to think that he had a bit of fashion sense, despite the fact that he spent twelve months of the year in a knee-length skirt. This man, however, certainly did not. He wore a three-piece suit with the most horrific colour coordination Iain had ever seen. Black slate pants, dark purple vest, and single-breast brown jacket? Awful. And his tie, the cherry red bow was nearly as large as the man's head. Thankfully most of it was hidden by the medium-length white beard. He had a velvet purple top hat, but Iain could tell that he was bald. A prominent nose supported small, oval glasses. But it was not the old man's appearance that made Iain turn his head, it was the man's presence. The ageing professor and doctor had to strain to make out the lines beneath the lines, but he certainly was glad he did. Iain crossed himself, north, south, east, west, and repeated a short prayer for strength under his breath. That done, he broke his tradition for the first time in a decade. He came up behind the elderly man, who was approaching dangerously close to Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, and steered him away with an arm on his shoulders. "Walk with me, I believe we have much to discuss." He all but ordered the interloper.
"Forgive me sir, but I don't believe we've officially met. I am…" the old man began to introduce. Iain cut him off, turning a corner from the Hall and pressing him against the wall.
"Shut up." He advised. "What in God's name are you thinking?" he asked angrily.
His captive insisted on obstinacy. "I'm afraid you have me confused with someone else. My name is Paul Harry Stanton Howell III. I am…"
Iain cut him off with a hand over the mouth. After 'Paul' fell silent, Iain waved his hand over his face. The withered lines and white beard melted into a young face, long black hair pulled back in a ponytail. Three days of stubble adorned his chin. Round glasses on a bent nose, beneath large black eyebrows, covered vibrant green eyes. A thin red scar, in the shape of a lightning bolt, adorned his forehead above his left eye. "I ask you again, what in God's name are you thinking?" he asked his old friend angrily, again.
Harry Potter, for that was who the interloper was, sighed. "You know everything that I have done in the last ten years, and everything I hope to accomplish by returning." He informed his former Transfiguration professor. His voice held the flat tone of the utterly lost, which did not surprise Iain one iota.
"Aye, I do indeed." The Scotsman replied sadly.
***
Harry James Potter, aged twenty-six, entered his small home with a heavy heart. He had had a stressful day at work that day, and he could feel something worse on the horizon. "Hon?" he called out to the dark and quiet home. "Sarah, are you there?" his voice was weighed down with almost twelve hours of straight work. He wandered into the dining room, where a small stack of papers waited for him on the table. The first packet has in formal type, emblazoned with a letterhead declaring them to be No-Fault Divorce contracts. He flipped through them; they were all filled out in their entirety, except for where his signature was required. The very last page of the pile, a loose-leaf note, bore only three words. 'I'm sorry Harry.' How was he to feel about this? His work had taught him not to make accusations without evidence, and truth be told he had never really loved her. But his silent tears still fell, wet spots on the page announcing where they had struck, by the principle of it. Maybe it was a sign; he had been running for ten years. No longer.
***
Harry looked deep into Iain's profound brown eyes, humbled by being witness to a rare unguarded moment. He saw pain, he saw sorrow, he saw love, compassion, and knowledge. In the deepest depths he saw the most terrible of them all: memory. And he saw the deep brown pools searching his own. Finally, Iain nodded sadly. "She's getting a drink. Good luck." Was all the Scot could bear to say. Harry understood.
On the return journey, Harry couldn't help but reminisce. It was funny, in his mind, how when was younger a day had seemed like a lifetime. But now, he could look back eight years and remember like it had happened yesterday.
***
Two years. Two long, arduous years isolated from the world he had known for all his life. "Rum and coke." He requested of the bartender. He was at a party thrown by one of his colleagues, treating it like an anniversary; the anniversary of his putting life as 'the-boy-who-lived' behind him forever. As he looked into the swirling darkness of his newly delivered drink, he couldn't help but wonder: 'What have I done?' he hoisted the glass before him, toasting an imaginary audience. "To two years of endless misery." He announced dourly, draining a large portion.
"You to, huh?" came an unexpectedly sweet voice to his left. He turned to face its source. "Hi, I'm Sarah."
***
Aberforth Dumbledore, unsurprisingly, had set up a bar table for the party. Old Abe adamantly refused to look a day older than ninety, despite the fact that Harry knew he was Professor Dumbledore's fraternal twin. From his safe vantage point a fair ways away he could see a head of brown hair talking to a stern-faced elderly woman and a middle-aged man with more grey hair than he rightly should. Harry had discarded his disguise entirely; he was trying to go with a good impression after all. His absurd suit had been replaced with black boots, slate grey trench coat, mint-coloured safari shirt, and dark blue slacks. With his modified shoulder holster underneath his coat, Harry felt like himself again. He strode to confidently where Aberforth was cleaning a glass, incidentally quite near his actual target. "Rum and coke Abe." He requested of the unusually muggle-savvy bartender. It was delivered promptly, but more important were the three sets of eyes that had been drawn to the sound of his voice. Two of them, one pale green and one sapphire blue, immediately found their hosts' bodies moving in opposite directions. But the ones that mattered, deep chocolate brown, were flashing angrily.
"Well look who decided to finally show up." Hermione spat at her former boyfriend viciously. Harry flinched. He had expected it; that was true. It still didn't remove the sting.
"Hello to you too Hermione." He replied in the same flat, defeated voice that Iain had heard.
Hermione fumed silently for a moment, giving Harry the opportunity to sip his drink. Abe had good rum, though it couldn't compare to true Newfoundland screech. Hermione slapped him hard, causing him to spit out the second mouthful he had taken. With only the barest quiver of an eyebrow the puddle of liquor vanished: he was out of practice. "Did you really think that you could just stroll in here, calm as can be, after what you did, after ten years, and expect me to run into your arms like some stupid fangirl?" she inquired of him. She was angry, undoubtedly so, but she was also sad.
Harry didn't have an answer. He didn't really know why he had come back, or what he had expected to come of his blasé entrance. He drained what remained of his drink and stood, the glass setting on the table with an audible thud. "I don't know." He told her simply, truthfully. "Keep in touch." He barely heard Hermione murmur something that didn't sound promising, and sensed her stiffen when the stretching of his back revealed the butt of a Sig Sauer P230 in his shoulder holster and a Colt M1911 in a thigh holster. Without a backwards glance he strode off, to the door of the Great Hall where Iain was waiting with the ghost of a smile dancing on his lips. Harry went right past him through the door, and the Scotsman fell in step beside his former pupil.
"That went well." Iain commented dryly. Harry grunted noncommittally. "So what's the plan now?" he asked the frustratingly silent young man. Correction: most men would have found Harry Potter's silence to be infuriating. Iain Menzies was not most men.
Harry shrugged. "I tried. She obviously isn't over her resentment, so I guess I'll just have to give it another couple of years." The manically depressed man returned glumly. "I always wanted to go to Africa…" he trailed off into cheerless silence. More time away was not a prospect he looked forward to.
Iain knew this; Iain knew a lot of things. "Take my advice kid, you won't help yourself if you take another decade or two off. That resentment Hermione has for you isn't just going to evaporate; trust me the old adage 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' is horseshit." The Scottish psychologist advised. "If you intend to carry on a conversation that will neither start nor end with you getting abused in any way, you're going to need my help."
Harry was touched, but he couldn't accept. "No, I couldn't ask that of you. You have enough on your plate, and this is my path. I need to walk it, alone." Harry left his former professor standing gobsmacked. But something the Scot shouted towards him made him stop and turn.
"Aye? Dare I ask who of the two of us knows more about human behaviour? And I certainly shouldn't have to ask who has seen Hermione through more of her life." Harry looked back, defeat written on his face. Iain's armour was back up; Harry couldn't detect ay emotion save for the triumph in his voice as he spoke again. "Congratulations lad, your chances just went from none to slim."
***
To the casual observer, the Menzies household looked like a simple cottage in the rolling hills of the Scottish Highlands. In actuality however, it was a marvellous amalgamation of magic and technology. Though Harry had been ushered through to the comfortable sitting room, he had seen enough of the home to impress him. The room in which he sat was warm and inviting, the glow of the fire reflecting off the wooden panelling and an extensive home bar. It was from that structure that Iain came from, towards the well-padded armchairs by the fire, a Cuba Libre in one hand and a Rusty Nail without ice in the other. Handing the Libre to Harry, the Scot took a seat and regarded his guest very hard.
"We need a plan." He postulated bluntly. Harry nodded and took a sip of his drink. It was good; Iain had always had good taste. "Do you have any ideas?" the Scottish brogue sounded mocking to Harry's ears, though he knew its owner well enough to know that it wasn't.
He shook his head. "Other than showing up and making a complete ass of myself? Not a one." He admitted glumly. Iain made a motion with his head that clearly said 'I thought not.' Iain took a sip and his mind went out from behind his eyes. Harry couldn't explain it any better; his old friend was still alive, still conscious, but it was as though he was no longer in the room. He heard footsteps, then felt more than heard another person enter the room. Heavy footsteps, long strides, they brought the newcomer into his view.
The newcomer was a woman, tall and broad. She wore pale green robes that resembled surgical greens, and carried a black bag in one hand. A golden band was visible on the fourth finger of her left hand, just above a thin circlet inlaid with a single reddish-pink stone that Harry didn't recognize. Her shoulder-length black hair gave way to tanned skin as she turned, dark eyes fixing on Harry, dark red lips breaking into a tight smile. "Oh, hello Harry. I didn't know you were there." Harry returned her smile, though it didn't feel quite right to him.
"Hello Síle, how's your brother?" he asked politely. She rolled her eyes, as the subject certainly deserved it.
"About the same as always." The answer was oddly satisfying to all present in the room. "Well I'd love to catch up, but I'm on duty in a few minutes." She turned to Iain, who had come back to himself.
"So you're off then, dear?" he asked his wife, his tongue giving the last word an almost loving caress. She nodded and they shared a comfortable peck, feigning modesty for the sake of propriety. "Don't be too late, dinner's on me." They smiled at each other, and she vanished with a pop. Iain turned back to Harry with a long draft from his own drink.
"When?" Harry asked with a genuine smile. It was a cleansing experience.
Iain shared the smile. "About a year after you left. We'd have sent you an invitation, but no one knew where you had went." Iain's smile turned from reminiscing to apologizing.
Harry was sceptical. "Few did, but I'm willing to stake the entire Potter fortune that you were one of those few." He accused.
Iain's smile was now half-condescending, half-triumphant. "I had suspicions." He dismissed airily. Harry was unconvinced. "But, as my beloved so aptly put, we can catch up later. We need to put our heads together. Anything that can work, we need to try."
Harry gave him an odd look. "I wouldn't say anything. Even your style of magic has limits, and last I checked neither the Menzies or Morris families were particularly rich." Iain's smile grew.
"Correct, on both counts. However the resources of the Potter family are, I am told, nearly limitless." Harry's confusion was growing, but he didn't need to speak this time. "While, ordinarily, a persons funds will be distributed as per their will after seven years en absentia, thanks to some mysterious red tape the Potter funds have been stuck in escrow for several years now." The nature of Iain's voice made the source of that red tape perfectly clear. Harry was touched that someone he had essentially abandoned would have such faith in him.
"Frankly, all I can think of is just staying in her hair until she gets used to me being around again." Harry disclosed, a note of embarrassment in his voice.
Iain considered the plan, both men's drinks forgotten. "I feel obligated to tell you that it will never work, but it's a step in the right direction." Iain considered it further, then snapped his fingers. Harry noticed a golden Celtic knot on the fourth finger on his left hand. "Fortunately enough I have a way this might work. Alastor has been talking about retiring recently, but Minerva won't let him go until she can find a replacement. I'm sure she'd be delighted to have you."
Harry's eyebrows rose. "This helps me how?" he asked suspiciously. Iain was many things, but he was certainly not above playing the odd joke. Though to be honest, he did have his suspicions.
Now it was time for the Scotsman's own thin brows to rise, nearly to his impeccable grey hairline. "All your research, and you didn't think to check into your friends' employment records? Our dear Miss Granger, and yes it she is still a Miss, became the Hogwarts Transfiguration professor nine years ago."
Harry's heart soared in such a way that he had not felt in over a decade. He had a chance. Not much, but it was definitely a chance. "Set up a meeting with Minerva. I think we need to talk."
***
"Mr Potter, are you aware of the potential repercussions of your actions?" Minerva McGonagall asked the raven-haired young man before her sternly. The portrait of her husband looked down from above her curiously.
Harry sighed. "Does anyone?" he responded sagely. Albus Dumbledore's canvas likeness chuckled. "Please, can you just give this to her?" he asked, again pushing a single envelope towards the headmistress.
She looked at it for a long time, then nodded. "Very well, Mr Potter. I will do as you ask." Harry nodded solemnly, then rose to leave.
"Harry." He turned back at Dumbledore's voice. The portrait regarded him sadly. "Hogwarts will always be home for you. Come home soon." The corners of Harry's mouth rose, but it did not look right on him. As Harry left the office, he wondered if what he had done the right thing. Not for the last time, he made himself wonder if the ends justified the means.
Cuba Libre is the 'original' rum and coke, which is basically rum and coke with lime juice.
Rusty Nail is a duo cocktail of blended Scotch and Drambuie.
In case you're wondering the jewl in Síle's engagement ring is a bixbite gem, a red variety of emerald. Gem quality bixbite is extremely rare.