The most terrible poverty

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.

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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.

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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.

Chapter 2

Harry stood quietly in a ‘corner’ of McGonagall’s office. His training had taught him to examine his surroundings carefully, so that is what he did. Physically the room had not changed one iota in ten years. Dumbledore was still a heavy presence, both physically and spiritually. Today it was the occupants of the room that interested him. McGonagall herself, who had politely yet firmly asked Harry to call her Minerva, was sitting behind the desk that would forever belong to Dumbledore in his mind. Iain was sitting on the other side, looking exactly like Iain Menzies always had. When the two were so close, the years that had passed seemed less pronounced. Oh sure Minerva’s face had a few dozen more lines, and Iain’s hair was more grey than black, but together they seemed to be the teenagers they had been when they dated for a short time (it was so long ago Iain had taken to calling it a courting. Harry didn’t understand the joke, which was perhaps why he always laughed at it)

The two were currently waiting on the final member of the golden trio of the 1940’s: Alastor ‘Mad-Eye’ Moody. The sound of mismatched footsteps, long muffled click followed by short thunk, announced the paranoid professor’s arrival moments before he actually arrived. The door flew open, revealing Mad-Eye with an outstretched wand. Where age did not seem so pronounced on his oldest friends, Mad-Eye looked easily thirty years older than he really was. His hair had gone off-white, and the multitude of scars had only been deepened by creases. He actually looked shorter, though that may be attributed to the harsh curve in his spine.

Mad-Eye’s left eye, for which he is named, never ceased its vigil, but his right looked Harry up and down with an appraising glint. “I like him.” He declared finally, turning to face Minerva. “Hire him.” Whether or not he remembered Harry is something so one had a chance to ask, since he clomped off immediately after. Harry met Iain’s eyes, eyebrows raised, and received only an amused smile and shrug.

Minerva looked as though she had been expecting the entire affair, which she probably had been, and scribbled something on a sheet of parchment on her desk. “That’s that then. Welcome aboard Mr Potter. You are required to submit a lesson plan and book list by the end of the month, and Iain will show you to your quarters. Good day.” Harry didn’t mind the brusqueness, he could sympathize with the pressure the headmistress must have been under.

***

For the first time in far too many years, Harry Potter’s life made sense. He had a well-paying job that he enjoyed and was rather good at, he had a beautiful girlfriend who he was going to propose to soon, and his favourite hockey team was having its best season in twelve years. Or at least, that was the way Harry would tell it. In reality, every one of his silver linings had a cloud to go with it. His job reminded him too much of his previous life, the Edmonton Oilers weren’t going to make it past the Conference quarterfinals this season, and he didn’t really love his girlfriend. His life was complicated.

Perhaps anyone reading his journal of those years (if he even kept one, which is unlikely) wouldn’t have classified the NHL as something to dwell on, but in Harry’s experience any happy distraction was a welcome distraction.

Work was becoming a stagnant mire of drudgery. Everyday he showed up at 6 fifth street west and read over reports that were increasingly repetitive. He had seen every kind of manslaughter, from alleged democide to attempted vivicide; He had seen assassinations, honour killings, lynching, proxy murder, and torture murder; Rape, kidnapping, battery, abuse in all shapes and forms; Fraud, larceny, arson, tax evasion; Perjury, bribery, malfeasance, and obstruction of justice. And that was just in the last few months. His resume over a span of three years was a veritable dictionary of criminal offences.

And then there was Sarah. She was beautiful, no doubt about it. In the year they had been dating Harry had been forced to intimidate his share of horny single men leering at her. It had felt oddly comfortable, which was maybe why they were still together. In his honest moments, Harry had no trouble admitting to himself that he didn’t love Sarah. Deep underneath the bags under his eyes, and the weeks worth of chin stubble, there was still a seventeen-year old boy screaming “I love Hermione Granger!” Those moments were becoming fewer and fewer, and the worst part was Harry didn’t know if that were a good thing or not. Sarah knew about Hermione. In fact she knew almost everything about his past, though he refused to divulge his treatment at the hands of the Dursleys. She wasn’t the jealous type, but she every time Hermione’s name was mentioned a satisfied look crossed her face. She was feeling pleased with herself that she had managed to snag this prize away from ‘that Granger girl,’ and hated herself for that. Harry knew he shouldn’t be reading her mind, but he had to know.

Not for the first time, Harry contemplated his life over a glass of rum and coke. Each day it became harder and harder to convince himself that he had made the right decision. One of these days he was going to have to stop trying. But not today.

***

Harry woke from his reverie to find that Iain had led him to a room he had never seen before, and that was an accomplishment in itself. It was a simple one-bedroom suite. Living room with fireplace, bedroom, and bathroom. A large window overlooked the Quidditch pitch. The room was basically bare, but a large moth-eaten couch sat dead center in the living room. Iain shrugged apologetically. “It’s not much, but it’s your new home. I’m afraid Alastor is leaving his furniture, but that couch is surprisingly comfortable. I spent my last three dates on it, trust me.” He winked at Harry, which was returned with a glare.

“Keep in mind the reason I’m doing this. Now what?” One of his less intelligent moments, Harry had clean forgotten to plan a next step. Never fear, Iain is here!

He smiled his soft smile. “Don’t worry, she’ll be at lunch today. Noon in the Great Hall, I’ll save you a good seat. I would suggest you get started on those lesson plans. I think Alastor left some lying around, somewhere, but Min would appreciate you making your own.” Harry inclined his head. It was a given. Iain turned on his heel and strolled out of the room.

***

Iain’s stride did nothing to signify his inner haste. He strode through the halls at a leisurely pace, in no particular direction, greeting those portraits who he most enjoyed, until he found himself standing before the stone gargoyle that marked Minerva’s office. He looked the statue right in the eye. “Good morning.” He greeted cordially. The gargoyle shook its head disbelievingly and moved to the side. It was not the password, but the castle respected the Scottish transfiguration professor enough to pretty much let him come and go as he pleased. For no less than the third time in as many hours Iain found himself in the office of his old friend, headmistress of Hogwarts. “Well, what did I say?” his tone was that of a man who knew he was right. He plopped himself comfortably in a chair. A glass of Scotch appeared in his hand.

Minerva was forced to concede. “I’ve been saying it for ten years, they are meant for each other.” She rebuked the peculiar man. “I can’t say he’s really going about it the right way, which is your fault you know.” She glared at him.

Iain cocked an eyebrow in return. “And I’ve been saying it for twenty.” He reminded her, “But don’t blame me for his decisions. I can only advise, all his decisions are his own to make. But she does still care for him.”

Minerva nodded morosely. “She does, and he does, but she won’t admit it.” She poured a glass from a bottle of wine hidden in the desk.

Iain drained his own alcohol. “That is why me must be very careful. Have all the staff agreed?”

“Of course, they all saw exactly what I saw. All of them except Horace, that is. You’ll remember he was quite taken with Ms Weasley.”

Iain wouldn’t have remembered, under normal circumstances. But he had been watching. “Yes, but don’t worry about Horace. She never had much respect for him anyways.” Minerva conceded the point, and Iain took his leave.

***

During this interlude Harry found himself hard at work. The book lists would require a trip to Flourish and Blott’s, but he could write up a lesson plan in his spare time. His own formal training on the subject could be described as erratic, at best, but in between the layers of attempted murders and incompetent teachers he did find some sort of base structure to cling to. He knew the first years wouldn’t be up to the more advanced spells he knew, so he arranged a syllabus of low-level offensive magic. Defensive spells, which were more difficult by design, were saved for second year. That was as far as he got when a small clock Moody had installed awoke. Three sharp blasts of a sound Harry couldn’t recognize shook him out of the depths of his mind. Apparently that meant it was lunchtime.

As it turned out the professor’s quarters were accessed through their respective offices. From there it was quite easy for Harry to manoeuvre himself to the Great Hall, though he did have to wonder at first if he had come to the right spot. The hall was completely devoid of the usual house tables and head table, only a large round piece of wood sat in the center. Currently every place was filled, but Iain waved him over to where he was. Harry felt the trickle of power, and saw the table fold out to produce another setting between the Scot and his neighbour: Hermione. Harry shot him a grateful look at the same time as Hermione sent a hateful glare. Somehow, in a manner known to only a handful of people, the Transfiguration professor satisfied the both with one expression.

Harry took the proffered seat gratefully, both for its placement and the plate of food that had appeared in front of him. As he ate, in relative silence, he examined the professors curiously. There was Iain, Minerva, and Hermione of course. Flitwick was looking even more ancient than when Harry had seen him last, and gathered that the dwarfish fellow would be retiring soon. Slughorn seemed to have actually gained weight, and his moustache was rapidly turning from silver to white. Professors Vector, Sinistra and Burbage were all in attendance, but in place of Professor Sprout was none other than Neville Longbottom. Harry vowed to play catch up later.

“Good afternoon.” He greeted Hermione cheerfully as he sat. She ignored him. Harry engaged Iain in a conversation regarding the intricacies of various novels he had read in his absence. The Scot was particularly pleased when he commented on the parallels between William Golding’s Lord of the Flies and John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men. Harry noted that Hermione strained to hear every word of the conversation, but pretended not to. It gave him a small measure of hope, and even that was better than no hope at all. Sometime after the food had vanished, and some of the professors had begun to meander of to their respective haunts, Harry rose and departed. As such he did not notice Hermione’s eyes tracking him out, or sense Iain’s uncanny perception noting that development. Midway through working out a lesson plan for the third years, he was reminded of fear.

***

Harry was perspiring heavily as he crept through the dark warehouse. What was he doing? This was police work and he was only a detective. But McGray had Sarah, and that was reason enough for Harry to forget about the badge and load his gun. He rounded another stack of crates and was hit in the face with an immense spotlight beam. Damn it, McGray had been waiting for him.

“Good evening Inspector Potter, how good of you to join us.” Michael Wayne McGray’s voice was unnaturally deep. Harry had read the case file, which guessed that he suffered from some sort of psychological disorder. Auditory hallucination was cited as the most likely.

Harry brought his Colt M1911 up. “You have something I want McGray. Hand it over and I might just forget this ever happened.” It was a shallow gesture. No serial killer in his right mind would fall for it. Too bad McGray was one of the few who actually was in his right mind.

“Nice try Inspector, but I’d prefer to keep an insurance policy. You can see her if you like.” By now Harry could make out the form of his quarry next to the source of blinding light, but something swung from a long rope before the lamp. It was a human figure, female, well bound and dangling from a cord. Not around the neck, he noticed with relief. When the swinging shape next blocked the light, Harry could identify it. When he did his heart plummeted. It was Sarah. “Now you just back up and leave me be, and I won’t have to drop your girlfriend.” Harry wasn’t even aware of McGray’s words anymore. He was devising a plan.

There was no safe way to take out the serial murderer without hitting Sarah, so he would have to improvise. He timed the manoeuvre carefully, wishing that Hermione were there to help him with the calculations and hating himself for it. Finally, when Sarah was at exactly the right point in her swing, he fired. There was a loud crack, an explosion of glass, an angry cry from McGray, and the sound of a rope snapping. Harry rushed forward and was quite pleased when a wriggling, human sized bundle dropped into his arms. It seemed like an unlikely occurrence, and Harry would have to heavily doctor his formal report later to remove any trace of his magic from the equation. But now McGray was blind.

Of course he hadn’t stuck around. Harry had felt him leave when the light exploded. Leave the police to get him, which they would in eight months.

***

“Harry?” the new Defence professor spun around, shocked out of his memories. It was something he was glad for, especially when he saw his visitor. It was Hermione, come to speak to him. She looked fully confident, without a trace of insecurities or fear. It didn’t look like her.

“Well, well. And here I thought you weren’t speaking to me.” Maybe he was being a bit cruel, but what the hell. It was true after all.

Hermione didn’t seem to think so. “Fine, be like that. I come in here to have a serious discussion and you can’t muster the maturity. I’ll come back later. Maybe.” The menacing quality of her voice on the final word did not escape Harry, nor did its potential implications. As she tried to leave his quarters, she found the door locked behind her. She turned to see Harry looking at her, equally stony-faced.

“Don’t. Maybe we do need to talk.” He offered her a seat, which she accepted, and a drink, which she did not. “May I ask what persuaded you to break your silence?” she shot him a scathing look, which he ignored.

“I wanted to apologize.” He was shocked, though we would not give her the satisfaction of showing it. “I was too harsh at the party, but I was angry. You pushed me and Ron out of your life like we meant nothing to you, and then you vanish for ten years. But that doesn’t excuse my actions.” By now Harry’s eyes had widened, but he showed no other signs of reaction. “When you left, it hurt. I cried for weeks, and I couldn’t even tell anyone why. Then I realized something. In seven years, I had stood by you every time, no matter what anyone else said. But you, you turned on me over a broomstick. A bloody broomstick! And then, at the most important moment in your life, you tossed me aside like a used rag. So, in a way, I’m also here to thank you.”

Harry did not stand, but he had to fight to keep his hands unclenched. “And just what are you implying?” he asked, trying and failing to keep anger out of his voice.

“Nothing.” She responded simply. “I’m just describing my feelings.” She rose to leave, but Harry’s next words stopped her.

“Oh? That didn’t sound like a feeling.” He had risen as well, and was facing her when she turned back to him.

Her eyebrow rose challengingly. “Really? What’s the sound of a feeling?” her armour was down. Harry could hear anger and amusement in her voice, the latter being devoured by the former. His answer was thoroughly non-verbal. He closed the short distance between them and kissed her. In one kiss he released his inner tensions of ten years as a muggle, without his friends, six of them spent in a loveless and childless marriage. At first she had resisted, but as his arms pressing against held her back she had gradually returned the gesture with equal vigour.

Time stood still. They had entered the immeasurable expanse of time between heartbeats. If either of them could look around without breaking the moment, they would find themselves surrounded by complete and utter blackness. But no moment can last forever, and this one reached its inevitable end. “This doesn’t make up for the last ten years you know.” She informed him.

“I know.” He responded simply. They re-entered the moment, and didn’t exit it again until the next morning. Somewhere, a painting of an incalculably ancient wizard with a long silver beard and twinkling blue eyes smiled softly in his sleep. There was a little bit more love in the world.

---

No, it is not the end. Almost, but not quite. As you may be guessing this will not be a long fic. In fact it will probably end in the next chapter or two.

Micheal Wayne McGray was a real Canadian serial killer. He was arrested in May of 2001 and is serving several consecutive life sentences.

BTW: Oilers rule!

R&R, eternally.

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.

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Chapter 3

Harry awoke the next morning feeling better than he had in a long time. In his professional opinion it had something to do with either being more or less on speaking terms with Hermione again, or that he had just spent half the night having unbelievably wild and passionate sex. He was leaning towards the former, even if the latter certainly had merit. Being trapped in a loveless marriage for half a decade tended to make any kind of physical contact appealing.

Truth be told, the only dark spot Harry could find to his morning as of yet was the suspiciously large amounts of empty space on his bed. There he was, almost falling off of one side, and there was a human-sized indentation next to him among an ocean of mussed sheets. Harry pulled on some jeans and a shirt, in a vain attempt to look like he had gotten any amount of sleep the previous night, and stumbled down to breakfast.

Hallelujah, no Hermione. He spent breakfast drinking an endless stream of coffee (a bad habit he picked up in Canada), and pretending to listen to Neville ramble about some sort of mosquito-eating vegetable from Southeast Asia. He excused himself once he felt the blood welling up in his ears, metaphorically of course, and set off to see where she had gone. She was nowhere to be found, until he had the brilliant idea to get the Marauder’s map. It had been many years since he had last seen it, and he hoped it was where he had left it.

The doorway to the Head’s dorm opened for him swiftly, a benefit of being a professor, and he entered. Where had it been? Ah, yes; now he remembered. From one of the bookcases he withdrew the copy of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson’s Elementary Transfiguration through Psychokinesis, the Transfiguration book Iain had assigned them years ago. As the bookcase dissolved to reveal a wooden door, he remarked on how astonishing it was that no one had picked up the book in ten years. He opened the door, and entered his past.

Not literally of course, it had been hard enough to carve a full-sized room into one of the walls without adding time-travel spells onto the entrance. No, what Harry entered was a room he had built before he left; a room that held the items of his old life he could not bear to take with him. His father’s invisibility cloak hung on a rack to one side, next to his Firebolt. The shattered remains of his trusty Nimbus 2000, carefully kept by Remus, lay on a table in the center. The flute he had used to charm Fluffy, the fang he had used to destroy his first Horcrux, one of Buckbeak’s feathers, and many other things. What he sought, the magical map of the castle, lay on a nearby shelf, folded reverently. He opened it. As though the map was guiding his eyes, he found her immediately. In the Room of Requirement no less. Curious, he didn’t think the room appeared on the map.

---

Even more curious, but the door to the room was quite visible. Usually, at least in Harry’s experiences, the door would remain inert and undetectable to all but those who were using it. Harry’s only conclusion was that Hermione wanted to be found. He pushed the door open and found her facing away from him, sitting in the middle of an exact replica of her childhood home. She must have known he was there, somehow, because she began to speak. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.” He could hear the tears in her voice, and longed to be able to sooth them. Despite his desires, he felt it would be better if he waited until she was finished. “If you came back…when you came back…I was supposed to be cold. I wasn’t supposed to let you in, let you hurt me again.” She broke down, and Harry could see her shoulders shaking with silent sobs. “You were supposed to be the bad guy.” She choked out.

“The best laid schemes o’ mice and men gang aft a-gley; And leave us naught but grief and pain for promised joy.” He quoted sadly. He knew the pain she felt well enough. He had meant to go somewhere that held no memories, and be happy to forget. So much for that plan.

She turned to face him. He saw how red and swollen her eyes were, and saw the tracks of fresh tears on her cheeks, and loved her even more. His words had, at least, earned a small smile. “You’ve been reading.” It was not a question, but Harry nodded anyway.

He saw the indecision on her face, the conflict. Part of her wanted to trust him again, but part was still rebelling. It was paining her, and he responded to that pain in the only way he knew how: he embraced her, held her tight, and wished that he could have spared her from the pain of long ago.

---

He sat in their common room, staring into the fire. Of his top ten ‘worst possible things Fate may have in store for Harry Potter’ list, number three just happened: Ron had left. It had started as a typical library search, and escalated into a full-blown argument resulting in Ron declaring that he had had enough and storming out of the room. Even three hours later, Harry knew there would be no hope of reconciliation. It was the parting of the ways, where their paths diverged and Harry was forced to take the one less travelled. He would never begrudge Ron of his choice, he did have a family to go back to when it was all over, but he could not help feeling sad.

Number two on his list was the one his efforts were trying to avoid, so it may be skipped for the sake of time-management. It was the first that Harry knew he would have to deal with, when he heard approaching footsteps from the Head Girl room. “Harry?” he didn’t respond. “I know you’re mad at Ron for leaving, but he’ll come around. I know he will.” He could not believe her; not when she didn’t believe herself. He had heard it in her voice, and she knew he had heard.

“I’m not mad at him Hermione.” He told her in an unnaturally calm voice. It chilled her straight to the bone. He knew what he had to do, but that didn’t make it any easier. “I’m mad at myself for letting him help, when he has something to go back to. I could never forgive myself if the Weasley’s lost another son, even if Percy wasn’t much of one.” The entire room had grown silent, like it was a black hole for noise. Even the crackling of the fire and the breathing of the two teenagers had been lost in respect for what was to come. “And you too.”

He could feel her anger; like waves on a beach it surrounded him and penetrated him, searing flames cutting into his very soul. “And what do I have to go back to? My parents were killed, or have you already forgotten?” he could never forget, not when the aftermath of their murders was etched into the walls of his mind.

“Someday you will meet someone, and he will make you happy. You’ll fall in love, marry, have children, grow old and die together. But you can’t do that if you die helping me.”

She was still angry, but the anger was rapidly giving way to sadness. ‘But I want you to be that someone, and you can’t be if you die because I couldn’t help you. If you really love me, you won’t push me away.”

He had no answer to give for some time. He just watched the fire crackle silently, and sensed her watching him with growing apprehension. “What if I don’t?” he asked her lowly.

He could hear her choke on a sob. “You don’t mean that, you can’t.” Was she right? She certainly was, but he could never tell her that.

“Maybe I do.”

The tears were coming freely, and Harry longed to be able to wipe them away. But doing that would destroy his carefully crafted lie. “If you have something to say, come out and say it.” She spat through the physical manifestation of her grief, willing him to take back what he was implying.

He looked up at her for the first time, knowing that she wouldn’t believe him if he didn’t. Looking into those eyes, glistening with tears, and lying was the hardest thing he had ever had to do. It would maintain that place of twisted honour until the end of time. “I don’t love you Hermione.” He told her, mustering up all of his courage to do it.

He could see her jaw quivering, but she steadied it. Her eyes darkened with rage, and he could almost hear something inside her break. He knew it was her heart, and never again in his life would he feel as terrible as he did at that moment. “You bastard.” Her voice was shaking with rage and pain. She fled back to her room, and they never again spoke. Harry hoped beyond hope that he would die in the final battle, taking Tom with him of course, just so that he could escape the pain.

---

But he didn’t die that day, six months later. When it was all over he looked up and met her gaze for the first time since their fight, which seemed a lifetime ago. It was empty. There was no joy, no sorrow, no love and no pain. There was just emptiness, and he knew what he had to do. Later that night he left her a letter with McGonagall, a letter that she tore up without ever reading, and he left.

---

He held her close, the pain leaving her by way of the tears that stained his shirt. He didn’t have to say it, because she knew anyway. Part of her, the part that was campaigning her to trust him, had always known. Slowly, little by little, that part was winning. “How do we go on, with all the pain? What do we do now?” she asked his chest, where her face was firmly implanted.

He stroked her hair softly. “The best we can.” He responded quietly. How long they stood coping with loss no one will ever know, but one thing is for sure; when they finally emerged, hand-in-hand, they were the stronger for having felt it.

---

*triumphant trumpeting* I think that, except for an epilogue, I am finished this fic! Thanks to all who reviewed, both of you on FF and all six of you on PK (so far)

The poem that Harry recites is a small part of Scottish poet Robert Burns’ (not to be confused with American Robert Frost) poem To a Mouse. It is often paraphrased as “The best laid plans of mice and men oft go astray,” and that is how you have probably heard it. (oft go astray is the approximate translation of Burns’ original Gaelic line gang aft a-gley) The poem was also the inspiration for John Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men, mentioned last chapter.

The allusion to divergent paths in the flashback is an allusion to the poem The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost (the American, not the Scot above)

R&R, even with so little left it is still appreciated.

Potter continues not to be mine, and it is highly doubtful this will ever change.

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Chapter 4

They ate lunch in Harry’s sparsely decorated quarters the evening. It wasn’t that they didn’t want to face their co-workers and friends, it was more that they preferred to just spend some time together; some time that did not involve a bed that is. So they talked. As friends who had been out of contact for many years, the stories and questions burst forth. She told him about teaching: how she had come to be offered the job, memorable students and the like. He told her about life in Canada, some of the friends he had made in the small-town setting, climbing the ranks in the Ontario Provincial Police. Finally, the topic of discussion turned to romance.

“So,” Hermione began, somewhat awkwardly, after swallowing a spoonful of soup. “Any special ladies in Ontario?” her tone was nonchalant, but Harry knew better. He knew that she was really dying to find out, even though she wasn’t sure if she wanted to know, so that she could be ready for any potential retribution.

Harry didn’t answer immediately. He had been wondering for a while now how he was going to tell her about Sarah. In a split-second, he decided that being forthright was the best policy. “Just one, the former Mrs Sarah Potter.” He deadpanned. His time with her had been happy, but only at first. He didn’t like to be reminded of it.

He wasn’t looking at her, but he knew her eyes would be wide as saucers. “How long?” she asked in a quiet voice. He told her six years. She was silent for another stretch. “Any kids?” she was gaining confidence. He told her no. He realized that she was taking this news exceedingly well.

“Out of curiosity, why are you not hitting me for getting married and not telling you?” he asked her, unable to keep the hint of amusement out of his voice.

She smirked at him, and stuck out her hand. “Ms Hermione Granger Boot Seino Gough Bouvier Coombes Brown Terwilliger Hutz McClure Weasley Weasley Weasley Granger, at your service.” She recited, chuckling slightly.

His eyebrows were, at this point, full indistinguishable from his hair. “You’re joking right?” She shook her head slowly. He rubbed his chin for a moment. “You do realize you said ‘Weasley’ twice, right?” She nodded, a meditative smile on her face.

“Ah yes, that was an interesting weekend.” Harry could actually hear the bottom of his jaw hitting the floor. She cast him a look. “Don’t look at me like that. We were in Las Vegas and we got very, very drunk.” She explained. Harry decided he didn’t really want to know, and told her that. Hermione chuckled to herself. “Sure you do.” She told him. However she did not push to point, something for which Harry was indescribably grateful. The conversation turned to lighter topics, and they finished their meal in relative peace. Hermione begged leave, saying she had some paperwork to finish up. Harry didn’t mind, still having to put the finishing touches on his lesson plan, and they parted on good terms for the first time in almost ten years.

***

Later on in the afternoon, Harry found himself on the receiving end of a note instructing him to visit Iain’s office. Having little else to do, he accepted the not-so-subtly worded command. The office was just as cluttered as it ever was. Books still crammed into bookshelves innumerable, and it looked like the ceiling had been extended to accommodate even higher stacks. Harpsichord music still wafted from the floating record in the corner, select books continued to earn their places of honour on the Scot’s desk, and the black-and-white photos of North American sports stars still adorned the wall. The only significant change, which wasn’t really saying much, was an increase of photographs on the desk.

Iain himself was seated behind the desk, fingers tented, eyes closed comfortably. When Harry sat, the older man immediately roused himself. “Well?” he asked the new professor with a smile. “Any progress so far?”

Harry matched the grin. “Against all the odds, she doesn’t hate me anymore. Why do I get the feeling you had something to do with it?” he responded to the man’s expression, which was not at all surprised.

Iain shrugged innocently. “I may have suggested to the staff that we should grease the wheels a bit, but it was entirely up to them. I didn’t expect it to work so well, however.” He looked thoughtful. The room descended into silence, even the music volume turned down to a low hum. Finally he turned down to his desk, opening drawers in search of something. “I know a guy, who knows a guy, who knows several guys, one of whom is married to a woman whose brother happens to be a wizarding jeweller.” The Scotsman explained during his search. He straightened, holding a small black box. “At my request, this was made.”

Inside the box was a thin golden band. The metal was adorned the likeness of a forget-me-not, formed from sapphire and cat’s eye, intertwined with a larkspur of ruby and emerald. It may have been his imagination, but he was sure he saw the design reflect the letters ‘HHR’ as well. Harry took the box reverently. “I am told that it is identical, in concept, to the ring that once adorned the finger of Lillian Evans Potter.” Harry looked up in surprise, and discovered that he was no longer in Iain’s office. He was sitting in his great room, on the incredibly comfortable couch in the middle. Not bothering to comprehend the enigmatic doctor, Harry slipped the box into his pocket. Soon, he would give it to her.

***

Two Years Later:

The harsh ringing of the bell interrupted Harry mid-demonstration. “Well, I guess that’s it.” He told his fourth-year class. “Don’t forget to bring your wands on Monday, we’re going to do some practical work.” Cheers from the fourteen-year-olds. “Class dismissed.” Even more cheers as his students hurriedly packed their things and rushed out of the room. He didn’t blame them; the last class on Fridays was always a test of patience. He retreated to the desk in his office and began grading the short assignments he had requested for that class. A knock at his door interrupted him quickly.

The wooden structure swung open, revealing his very, very pregnant wife. He immediately found himself on the other side of the desk, arms wrapping her in a tender hug. “How are my girls?” he asked Hermione’s hair, where his face was buried.

“Girls and boy.” She corrected him sternly.

He quickly agreed, “Girls and boy,” still awkwardly holding her.

She chuckled at his attempts to hold her close and not harm the baby. “Honestly Harry, I’m not going to break.” She told him irritably. Damn mood swings. “And we’re all fine, honestly.” She sounded like she was trying to convince herself, but Harry knew this was not the case; she was just going slightly crazy with hormones.

And those hormones were certainly a bitch. He remembered each little fluctuation vividly. In the first three months she had been alternately glowing, because she was going to have Harry’s children, and sulking, because her stomach was growing and she though he wouldn’t find her attractive anymore. Those first few weeks were the hardest, mostly because her off-again-on-again depression significantly lowered her sex drive. For a healthy male of twenty-seven, this was all but unbearable. Then the cravings had come. Never in his life had Harry been more grateful he had paid attention in Transfiguration class. Every time he went out to get something, she was craving something else by the time he got back. He’d go out to get pizza; he’d come home to requests for pizza-flavoured ice cream. It was enough to drive the average person mad.

The next three months were little better. She had finally overcome her sporadic cravings, but then her libido shot through the roof. The memory of her walking into his class, pushing him over onto the desk, and mounting him, would haunt him to his dying day. Fortunately it had been a class of seventh-years, who at least knew what they were seeing. They still humbly requested to be obliviated, but it could have been much worse.

After that incident, Minerva had practically ordered Hermione to stay at home. Iain would take over her classes, she assured the hormonal witch. Even the healer’s orders for bed-rest, even more important now in her third trimester (swollen and brittle ankles, don’t you know.), weren’t enough to keep her from dropping in on him from time to time.

“I’m sure you are.” Harry agreed. He found that, when dealing with a woman who was prone to frequent (and sometimes violent) shifts in mood, it was best just to agree with her. “But I thought the whole reason we put Iain back on teaching duty was so you could get some rest, and not put too much pressure on your ankles.”

Hermione smiled to herself, an action her husband shared. Minerva had been treated to a howler from a very irate, and fortunately no-longer-pregnant, Síle Menzies. The entire school heard the headmistress get a very hard, metaphorical, smack on the wrist for ‘taking her husband away throughout the day and leaving her with a newborn child for hours on end.’ It had been an interesting breakfast that day. “Oh come on, we all know Minerva sent me home was so I wouldn’t jump your bones in class again.” Her tone was condescending, and just a tad irritated.

Harry treated her to a loving smile. “Never could slip one past you.” He commented softly, leaning forward to capture his wife’s lips. She stiffened and pushed him away slowly. He gave her an odd look, not failing to notice the expression of pure shock on her face. “What’s wrong?”

“Harry, I think my water just broke.” She responded, still sounding shocked. A very long, and extremely painful for all parties involved, sixteen hours later, Arthur and Rosemary Potter were born in St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Illnesses. As Harry looked down at his newborn children, he was overcome with contentment. Finally, after ten years living the worst mistake he could have possibly made, he had what he had always wanted: a family.

---

So there we go, that’s the end. Hope you all enjoyed this foray into ‘what-ifs,’ even though it may have progressed too quickly for some of you. On the suggestion of the esteemed cosmopolitan411, I will likely be doing a re-write of this at a later date. I can’t put an exact timeframe on it, unfortunately, but look out for it. It will be in addition to this version, not in place of it, if that makes any difference.