Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12298476.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Underage, Rape/
      Non-Con
  Category:
      M/M, F/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Harry_Potter/Tom_Riddle
  Character:
      Harry_Potter, Tom_Riddle, Sirius_Black, Albus_Dumbledore, The_Grangers,
      Remus_Lupin, The_Weasleys
  Additional Tags:
      Criminal_AU, Murder, Crime, Weapons_Dealing, Assassination, Attempted
      Sexual_Assault, No_Magic_AU
  Series:
      Part 3 of Pick_Your_Poison
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-10-14 Chapters: 3/3 Words: 13508
****** Phoenix or the Flame ******
by TanninTele
Summary
     'I will always find you, Harry Potter.'
     He wanted a message from Riddle, and he'd gotten one.
     Finale to 'Pick Your Poison'
Notes
     Un-beta'd.
     Trigger warnings:
     Attempted sexual assault
     Graphic and disturbing descriptions of violence
See the end of the work for more notes
***** The Found *****
                                  TanninTele
===============================================================================
     Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original
                            content and characters.
===============================================================================
                                   The Found
Sitting in the backseat of Albus Dumbledore's car, Harry clenched his fists,
refusing to look at the old man. The man appeared genial and frail, too old to
be a threat, but his unabashed stare gave Harry the creeps. 
The last day had been a blur.
After a three hour plane ride, he'd been dropped off at his uncle's house,
infused with the joy and sorrow that came with Tom's farewell in Bulgaria. 'I
enjoyed spending these last few nights with you. But when you are eighteen, I
would like to bed you properly.'  That was the plan - Harry would wait out the
next month at Vernon's, while Tom would slip back into the facade of a
conniving politician. Scrimgeour would be taken care of, and when Harry came of
age, Tom would come for him. Albus Dumbledore's abrupt appearance
was unexpected and completely unwelcome . . .  along with the release of
Harry's godfather, Sirius Black. 
The paper held tight in his fist crinkled. Harry had read Sirius' letter over
and over, trying to find any hint of lingering insanity that would justify
Sirius' seventeen-year incarceration. The letterhead was marked with the letter
'M' for Saint Mungo's, the hospital. The handwriting was shaky and blotched. 
As soon as I was released I knew I had to contact you. Well, that sounds a bit
creepy, but regardless, my name is Sirius Black. If you've read any of the
newspapers lately or if your sister's  family explained anything, I'm sure you
already know a bit of who I am.
I have recently been released from Azkaban Prison - a horrid place, I'll tell
you - for reasons far too complicated for me to describe on paper. To make it
simple, I made a mistake.
After your mum and dad died, I was inconsolable. Your dad and I worked in the
Ministry, with Officer Dumbledore, and he'd recently captured some bad people.
His interrogation process was unorthodox, he admitted it, and he ended up
hurting a woman very badly. She was broken out of jail by a gang, of sorts, and
sought retribution. They killed James' partner first, before sending their
leader to track down James and Lily.  I had suspicions that one of our
childhood friends, Peter, had given your parent's address to them.
I'm still not sure whether or not he's innocent, but when I heard that James
was dead - I snapped. I nearly killed Peter in front of twelve witnesses, and
was rightfully jailed. It was supposed to be a life sentence, but Dumbledore
finally finagled a way to get me out. 
Since my release, I've been through a whirlwind of isolated cells and hospital
beds struggling to learn what had happened in the last ten years. When I heard
that you were placed with Lily's beast of a sister, I knew I had greatly
disappointed you in my duties as your godfather.
When I was in school, I was a great friend of your parents. James Potter was
one of my best friends; my partner-in-crime, a fellow trouble maker. Remus
Lupin was another friend of ours that I hope you'll meet soon. Your mother,
Lily Evans, was one of the smartest girls in our class. I was with your parents
all through their whirlwind of a relationship, and in Autumn of 1978, I was
made to be your father's Best Man in their wedding. As a testament to your
parent's trust in me, on  the day of your birth I was asked to be your
Godfather. I agreed, and have never regretted it.
I held you as a newborn, I changed your explosive diapers  and I was there on
your first birthday to see you smother your chubby baby face with chocolate
cake. You were like a son to me, and I deeply regret not being there for you
when Lily and James died.
After their deaths, I followed Peter rather than stay with my best friend's
orphaned son, a horrific realization I came to learn the moment I stepped into
that damned prison. You needed me, and I left you for my revenge. I was angry,
I was grieving, I was foolish. I don't know if I can ever redeem myself to you,
but I can sure as hell try.
I will soon be declared sane enough to be 'released into society', and when I
am, I want to offer you a sanctuary, a home far away from Petunia Dursley and
her pig of a husband. (Yes, I have met the unfortunate Dursley's, and I'm sure,
as sure I am of my name, that they have not grown any more pleasant through the
years). 
I don't care if you're seventeen or seventy, I cannot wait to meet you and see
the boy you've grown to become, to tell you stories of your parents, and be the
family you never had. 
Love, your godfather, 
Sirius Black
The tone was hopeful, regretful, reminiscent - everything you would expect from
a repentant criminal. The thing was, Harry has met criminals. And everything
about this was suspicious.  "Sir," Harry said abruptly. "I . . . I don't feel
very well." He wasn't lying. He felt sick to his stomach, sweat pooling on his
skin. 
A bushy brow lifted. "I'm sure they're just nerves," the man said. "There is no
need to be fearful of your godfather. He is a changed man."  
"Can't be that changed," Harry pointed out. "He's only been out of jail for a
day. How do you know that he's not a psychopath or something? "
Albus gave a strained smile. "I suppose that is a valid concern," the man
leaned backed into the seat, blue suit crinkling. "But rest assured, the
psychological evaluations at Saint Mungo's are very thorough." 
"Right." Harry was dubious.  When they arrived at the hospital, the boy
remained a few steps behind Dumbledore, allowing the older man to lead the way.
Harry stared at the back of his head, noticing the silver beads braided into
the frayed white hair.
 "Madam?" Dumbledore called out, nudging Harry forward. 
Peering over silver eyeglasses, the receptionist sighed. "Are you here for
visiting hours?" she shifted through a pile of manilla files.
"Um, yes," Harry hedged. "I'm here to see Sirius Black."
"We have an appointment," Dumbledore added. 
Her nose crinkled. "Yes, I know you, Officer Dumbledore," she snapped. "Finally
checking in, hm? MacDougal told me about you."  
The older man smiled charmingly. "All good things, I hope."  
She harrumphed, pulling out a clipboard. "Name? Relationship to the patient?" 
"Harry Potter. I'm, er, Sirius' godson."
"Room four hundred fifty-seven." She flicked a dismissive hand. 
Harry followed Dumbledore, struggling to keep up with the quick-paced old man.
They climbed a flight of steps, avoiding a woman with a mask over her mouth.
Harry heard the distinct sound of vomiting and shuddered. When they reached a
nondescript door, Dumbledore urged him to knock. "I will wait out here." 
Tentatively, Harry rapped against the door. 
"Come in! Harry," Sirius croaked, looking up from his place at the windowsill. 
The man had spent the last hour pacing the room, muttering furiously under his
breath. He had grown restless, waiting to see the boy he thought of as a son.
Sirius wasn't even sure the boy had gotten his letter, despite MacDougal's
assurances that he'd passed it along to Dumbledore.  He took in the sight of
James' son, with his dark hair and bright jade eyes. He looked so much like
James. "Harry, I'm - I'm so glad to see you," he smiled, eyes prickling.
Sirius was dressed in a pale white garb, the pants comfortable and the shirt
hanging on his thin, skeletal frame. The man had long jet-black hair, pulled
back into a ponytail that accentuated his sharp cheekbones. He had light eyes
than shone with something Harry couldn't identify. Certainly no one had ever
looked at him in such a way.
"Pleasure." He pulled a parchment out of his jeans pocket. Harry thrusted
forward the paper, which was heavily creased and clearly well-read. "I read
your letter. I . . I like what you said about my parents. I don't know much
about them."
Sirius gave a lopsided smile. "Yeah? I figured lovely Tuney wouldn't have told
you much."
Black curls bounced as Harry brushed his hair back. "She, erm. She died. About
three years ago. But yeah." 
"Oh - my condolences," his brow furrowed. "Is your Uncle . . . ?"  
"Let's not talk about them," Harry said shortly. Sirius' face slacked and the
boy made an effort to relax. He sat on the unmade bed, brushing non-existent
dust from the covers. "How are you?" 
"Amazing, compared to, you know, before." Sirius shrugged. "How about you? What
grade are you in? Oh - wait. You're nearly eighteen. Have you graduated? Of
course you did, Lily's son wouldn't be a drop-out," he barked a laugh. "Are you
planning on uni?" 
The boy leaned back, bombarded by the questions. "I - um, no. I hadn't really
planned on it." He truly hadn't. His life, until now, had largely consisted of
surviving until the next day, the next week, the next month until he was
finally able to leave Privet Drive. Vernon hadn't allowed him a job, and even
if the man had, Harry would never have earned enough for tuition. "I . . . I
actually wanted to be a police officer." Or, he had.  Circumstances had
obviously changed. 
Sirius lit up. "Like father like son! You know, Dumbledore is a dear friend of
mine, and he works with the Minister himself." 
"I'm aware," Harry said quietly. The stories that slipped from Sirius' lips
described a world where everything was black and white; good and bad. Sirius
and James were a daring team in these stories, battling criminals, wooing
damsels in distress and saving the day. How . . . perfect.  
A week ago, he might've hung on Sirius' every word. But Sirius was living proof
that real life wasn't so ideal. 
And Harry was proof that not all stories had a happy ending. 
===============================================================================
 " - he's wonderful, Remus," Sirius gushed, rocking back and forth in the bed.
"He seemed quite shy at first, but he's sharp as a whip and has a smile just
like James. Harry looks just like him, I swear, it was like I'd stepped back in
time. Except his eyes. He's got - "
"Lily's eyes, I know," Remus said indulgently, picking at his plain meal of
yorkshire pudding. Remus, while he acted much the same, hadn't aged well. He
appeared very tired, with peppered hair and a puckered scar running from his
left eyebrow and down to his jaw. A knife fight, he claimed, in the back of a
pub not long after James and Lily died. His eyes were just as kind, however,
just as gentle. "You've told me multiple times. I can't wait to meet him."
Sirius scowled. "You've already met him, Remus," he said petulantly.
"He was only a baby," Remus reminded gently. "I doubt he remembers ol' Moony."
"Well, perhaps you can come over for dinner sometime."
"You'd cook dinner?" Remus asked in disbelief. 
Sirius defended his statement. "Take-out quantifies as dinner. Swear you'll
send us covered dishes until I learn how to not burn the house down? I'm highly
anticipating your beef stroganoff."
Remus laughed.  "I haven't made that in years. It'll probably be a bit crispy
around the edges."
"Not a problem," the other man shrugged. "It'll still be leagues better than
prison food."
"Patty is the real chef in our house," Remus admitted. "She can make a gourmet
meal out of anything. And I mean anything. Her cravings have gotten a bit out
of hand," he shook his head fondly.
Sirius pressed his lips together. "Er, right. How is . . . Patty?"
"Moody," Remus smiled, eyes bright with fondness. "But glowing. She really
wants to meet you, but, well, she's not comfortable with hospitals. "
"Where's she going to give birth, then?" 
The man grimaced. "I've been taking classes on home-births. We've . . . we've
had to watch many videos." 
Sirius snorted. "Poor Moony! God, I can't believe you're going to be a dad. I
can't believe I'm going to be a dad." 
Remus bit his lip. "Well - Harry's awfully old. You ought not smother him." 
"Smother?" the man snarled, tone darkening. "Lily's sister and uncle never
even hugged the boy. I do wish Dumbledore hadn't put him with those horrid
creatures."
Remus swallowed tightly. "After your incarceration, I petitioned for Harry's
guardianship," he said in a low tone. "But the Ministry was against it,
especially that awful Umbridge woman. She thought me . . . unfit." 
"Really? Because of the  . . . " Remus nodded. Sirius growled. "But you're
recovered! I nearly murdered a man, spent more than a decade in jail and
they're still letting me take him." The Ministry was highly unfair in it's
proceedings - this was one of the reasons Sirius became a lawman, to
help change that. Still, even years later, Umbridge and toads like her were
making rash, thoughtless decisions that ruined people's lives. 
When Remus was fifteen, he had been in a dark place. 
His father had been killed by a man named Fenrir Greyback, a member of Thomas
Riddle's gang of criminals. His mother was a wreck, frantic and anxious, which
certainly didn't help Remus' mental state. His doctor placed him on medication
for depression.
It helped, at first, but over the course of a single summer, two pills a day
stretched to dozens. Remus lost weight fast, his hair began falling out in
clumps and he slept constantly. The days blurred together and when school came
around, Remus was no longer able to maintain his stellar grades. The
scholarship he'd been placed on was slipping between his fingers, but boarding
school was the only thing he lived for anymore. When he ran out of pills, he
had no idea what to do - the addiction was less of a draw, and more of an all-
encompassing burn. He knew that Sirius smoked weed and hoped that the boy would
provide something for Remus fill this raw need.
His hopes were shattered when Sirius shoved Remus in front of the school
therapist, Madam Pomfrey. The withdrawal was painful, both physically and
emotionally, and Remus had to face several truths that he had forced aside.
He hadn't touched a bottle in more than a decade, but Remus would forever be a
'recovering addict', because you never fully recovered from something like
that.
The hazel-eyed man sighed. "I've long ago accepted the fact my teenage choices
would forever affect my life. I could barely find a job because the overdose
was on my permanent records - and Dumbledore couldn't help. Perhaps wouldn't. I
don't know. I wanted to visit Harry, at least, but Dumbledore wouldn't tell me
where he was placed. He told me Harry was safe wherever he was. . . and I . . .
threw a tantrum."
"Really? Goody-goody Lupin threw a tantrum?" Sirius raised a brow. 
Remus shrugged. "Everyone was understandably out of sorts at that time," he
said quietly. "But I never forgot about Harry, believe me. I'd just lost three
of my friends and Peter was in the hospital, and I couldn't bring myself to
fight for the boy. I regret that all the time. Let me be clear, I don't regret
meeting Patty. If it weren't for my self-imposed hermitage, I'd have never met
her, I'd have never married her. But now that you're back and Harry's away from
Lily's vile relatives, we can be a family again," he smiled. 
Dark hairs tangled as Sirius ran a hand through his hair. "I like the idea of
being family," he said softly. "It seems we've both failed Harry." 
Remus' brows furrowed. "I've had many years to think on all the 'what-ifs'. But
I soon realized that is better to think 'what now?' and make things better.
Speaking of 'what now', I really ought to be getting back," he checked his
wristwatch. Remus tossed the remains of his supper and stood. "I don't like
Patty being home alone when she's this far along. Knowing her, she'll decide to
clean the basement or something and end up tripping down the steps."
"Wouldn't want that," Sirius chuckled, though the sound was strained. His blue
eyes were a bit wistful. "I wish you could stay longer. It gets so boring in
here with only stuffy McDougal to keep me company." 
"You get others visitors, don't you?" Remus asked.  
"Sometimes Dumbledore," Sirius snorted. "When he deigns to visit us mere
mortals. Give Patty my condolences, Moony. And kiss her belly, too." 
Remus saluted his old friend. "Ay, ay, Captain Black. Say 'hello' to Harry for
me. Just, uh, don't kiss his stomach. That'd be pushing a few boundaries." 
Sirius' laughter was contagious. 
===============================================================================
                                   Mid July
Even magpies, with their supposed penchant for mischief and skilled theft,
paled in comparison to Monica's keen eye for shiny things. Her hands were
smudged with polish and a faint shimmering dust, coating her nails with a
metallic sheen.  With the stillness of a wildcat, lying in wait for it’s prey,
Monica attempted to concentrate on the watch in front of her. Using slow,
deliberate movements, she took up a pair of tweezers and plucked up a round
green gem. Only years of practice allowed Monica to resist a flinch as the dark
workroom was swept up in daylight.
The hinges of the door creaked, followed by the thumping of her husband's boots
on the doormat. “Wipe your shoes, please, gentlemen,” he said to his guests,
propping the entrance open with a wooden doorstop.
Usually, Wendell and Monica Wilkins worked in a dim light and silence to reduce
the chance for distractions, but this deviation from usual was very calculated
on Wendell's part. The artifacts and precious metals scattered across the work
tables glimmered beatifically in the golden glow. Blinking their beady eyes,
the two men eyed the gems with clear avarice. They were both ministry men,
dressed in brown suits and their hair perfectly gelled. 
“Business is well then, Mister Wilkins?” the elder gentleman said, fingers
trailing across the table top. He wore a pair of cheater glasses, framing a
narrow face. “You seem to be working on quite a few projects.” 
Wendell winked at his wife and Monica was placated enough to continue her work.
“More than a few, Mister Rookwood. My wife and I are up to nearly twenty
commissions from this last month. Of course, we had to turn down a good number
because the materials were unattainable, but - “ 
“Yes, yes,” Rookwood flapped a hand. “Riddle has heard your complaints time and
time again. But you’ve made due on the - rather generous - supply we give you,
no?”
“We’ve made due, yes,” Wendell said noncommittally. He wore a plain uniform,
his curly black hair shaved to his head. He'd grown a thick beard in the last
few years, deviating greatly from the clean-cut, perfectionist of a man he was
over six years ago. 
“The artifacts are quite beautiful,” the other man spoke. 
Monica had set the gem into a hollowed out notch where the watch’s dial would
be. It was only with the steady hand of her previous profession that she was
able to remain steady with the heavy breathing of Barty Crouch Junior on her
neck. The man was vile and crude, seducing every widowed harridan that batted
her false eyelashes. 
But he paid well for their artifacts. 
"We only sell the best," Wendell said stiffly, glaring at Barty. "What is it
that Riddle needs this time?" 
Rookwood let out a long breath. "Something that would . . . cause a great
amount of destruction." 
"Naturally," Wendell sneered. "There is no need to be vague here, Rookwood.
There are no cameras. There are no bugs. We will keep your secrets. After all,
we specialize in subtlety."
"Not enough," Barty spat, turning away from Monica. "Our insiders tell us that
Dumbledore has reopened your missing persons case. He used someone good with
puzzles, an analyst. You may know him as the oldest son of your old
friend Weasley. Young William pieced together some shredded documents and found
mentions of Australia." 
Monica set down the tweezers, frowning at his words.  
"We left no evidence behind," Wendell swore vehemently.  
"Just your daughter, pretty thing," Barty grinned, revealing yellow teeth. His
tongue peeked out, the pink tip swiping at his lip. "She's all grown up now." 
Rookward rolled his eyes at Barty's leer. "Your daughter pressured Dumbledore
into enlisting William. Perhaps it was all conjecture, or a lucky guess - but
he's on to you, now. Riddle will consider keeping up this charade of yours, so
long as you continue to provide us the equipment we need." 
Wendell clenched his large fists, letting out a long breath. These two men
never failed to rile him up. "What do you need?" he repeated through clenched
teeth.
Barty sidled up next to him, pulling a number of documents from his trench-
coat. The weaselly man was about as tall as Monica - that is to say, rather
compact - but the uncontrolled tremble to his body and the mad look in his
brown eyes warned Wendell against picking a fight. 
"A bomb," Barty murmured in distant fascination as he stared at the blueprints.
"Something small, undetectable, and above all - controlled. Isolated. Riddle
does not want to cause too much harm. Only enough to serve as a distraction
while we . . . takeout the current Minister."  
"Scrimgeour?" Wendell's lips turned down as he analyzed the plans. He passed
them over to Monica, who wiped her hands with a clean rag. "Yes, this is
doable."
"We will need some materials - " Monica started. 
"Yes, yes," Rookwood slapped a cheque onto the table. "Stop your complaining,
woman. This stipend will hopefully serve useful." 
"It won't bounce, will it?" Wendell asked skeptically, lifting the cheque
beneath a ceiling lamp for the correct watermarks.
Barty gave a slow smile, tongue flicking, but did not respond. He checked his
pocket-watch, the device poorly made and scratched. The
name Bartemius Crouch was inscribed into the back. "It is time for us to
depart," he straightened his tie.
"Where are you going?"
"Barty is joining me at an embassy meeting with the Australian Minister." 
"As Junior Assistant to our dear Minister, I'm serving as his representative,"
the man grinned. "Though, this meeting will prove to be terribly dull
business." 
As they were about to leave the door, Monica burst forward. "Rookwood, tell me
about my daughter, please. I need to know." 
Rookward sneered, removing her fingers from his elbow. "Ungrateful bitch.  You
were given these aliases to forget. Riddle gave you the chance to make a new
life - " 
"Riddle forced us to leave her behind!" She shouted, voice shrill. "We didn't
have a choice! But I can't - I can't just forget my own daughter!" 
"Your daughter is a weak bitch, hiding under Dumbledore's control," Barty spat.
"When Scrimgeour dies, the Order will crumble with it, leaving your girl
vulnerable and for the taking. And you have only yourself to blame for it. But
do as we ask, and Riddle may consider assimilating her into his new world
order. Rather than terminating her like the rest of Dumbledore's mindless
sycophants." 
Monica let out a sob as the two men swept away. She crumpled to the floor,
Wendell wrapping a strong arm around her, pressing his nose to her light brown
hair. She was a small woman, with long fingers and a sharper mind than most.
She was usually the more compassionate of the two, except on the rare occasion
that Wendell lost his temper. Every time those two men visited on behalf of
Riddle, Wendell was filled with grief and regret, and most of all anger - at
himself. 
More than six years ago, Wendell and Monica Wilkins went by different names -
their true names. Helen and Jack Granger. They had a daughter, only eleven at
the time, and led a quaint life. They always erred always on the right side of
the law; that is, until Jack killed a patient.
Malpractice is a fear of any doctor. A single lawsuit can ruin their career,
ruin their lives.
The Grangers ran their own dentistry in London, and Jack didn't realize until
halfway through a surgery that his three-year-old patient was having an
allergic reaction. It was just a simple surgery to remove some apple-juice
stained cavities, but the child's throat was closing up quick, his skin gaining
a red rash that Jack recognized as symptoms of anaphylaxis. There was little
time for them to react - Helen, serving as his assistant, screaming as though
it was her own child dying. The boy, with his blonde hair and sleepy grey eyes,
died on the surgery table. 
Panic flooding them, they slipped out of the office and packed their things,
trying in vain to order tickets to Australia that they had no money for. 
Eyes bloodshot, Helen had turned to him with a torn, desolate expression. 'You
know Serena Zabini, Hermione's friend's mum? She can help us.'  Jack never met
Zabini in person, but he had met Riddle. The man was imposing and seemingly
all-knowing, providing them money and fake names quicker than Jack thought
possible. Riddle even sent over a few men to destroy their house, to cover
their tracks.  
Riddle seemed like a lifesaver at the time, but his stipulations were high. Too
high. 
'You've already killed one child. Why should you be trusted with your own?' 
The image of red-tinted skin and chubby, slack features haunted Jack's mind. 
Wendell regretted many things, but he secretly couldn't help but agree with
Riddle. He was no different than Rookwood and Crouch, a lawless criminal. His
wife deserved much better, and for her, he would build this bomb - just like he
had all the other weapons of war Riddle had commissioned over the years. 
Just like six years ago, to save his daughter - and to save his own hide - he
would kill again. 
===============================================================================
To be continued 
In The Wicked
***** The Wicked *****
                                  TanninTele
===============================================================================
Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content
                                and characters.
===============================================================================
                                  The Wicked
Sirius Black swore as he stepped into the hall, tripping over a table leg.
"You alright?" Harry asked the man. Sirius grimaced, placing a balancing hand
atop Harry's curls.
This wasn't the first time the clumsy man had tripped over some sort of wayward
furniture. As daylight streamed through the front hall, it was made even
clearer how neglected Grimmauld Place was. The walls were crawling with cobwebs
and dust, the furniture in near-disrepair and the ambiance dreary. Sirius'
childhood home had always been a tragic space, but it had gotten worse over the
years.
"Yeah," Sirius breathed, massaging his foot. "But I suppose we should begin
fixing this place up. That alright, kiddo?"
Trying not to be annoyed at the pet name, Harry put the groceries away. They'd
moved in with only the bare necessities; by now, the ice box was empty and
there was no food to speak of. Harry gladly ventured out for the nearby market,
stockpiling on vegetable, fruits and snacks. "Can I explore some, too?"
Sirius smirked. "Of course you can. Just don't touch anything that seems . . .
vase-like. My mum hoarded the ashes of famous people. I know, gross, right?"
Harry made it a mission to restore the mansion to it's former glory.
Needing a suitable place to sleep, he redid his bedroom first. Technically, it
was Sirius' brother's bedroom, but Regulus had been killed in a car wreck in
the early 80s. Regulus' school things were placed into the attic, a dusty
repository for antique furniture and creepy portraits. Harry didn't have much
of his own to decorate, but amused himself with sticking drawings and torn book
pages onto the walls. The massive queen's size bed took up most of the room,
and the loose floorboard underneath? Highly useful for illicit magazines.
With the debatable chaperoning of Sirius, Grimmauld Place was soon cob-web and
mold free. Soon, the house was stocked with food and - thank God - a working
air conditioner. Walls were painted to Sirius' approval, the carpets clean of
grime, the furniture reupholstered and the expansive mothball scent all but a
distant memory.
The basement was mostly free of vermin - Sirius quickly took care of that.
Lying in his bedroom after a long day of work, Harry jerked at the sounds of a
broom smacking at the small colony of rats hiding in the walls. Harry peered
his head through the door, swallowing tightly as Sirius swore viciously. "You
damned rat! I'm going to kill you!" Sirius began laughing. "Like that, do you?
You disgusting beasts."
Sometimes, Harry had to wonder about Sirius. 
Nighttime was the worst, when his godfather would wake up screaming and clawing
at his body. The man never liked to talk about prison and Harry was smart
enough not to ask. If Sirius wasn't insane before Azkaban Prison, he certainly
was close to it now.
Stuck in Grimmauld Place, Harry was going a bit stir-crazy, himself. It had
been nearly three weeks since Bulgaria. Harry hadn't heard hide nor hair of Tom
in that time. He tried not to be upset by it. A head ache had been slowly
forming behind his temples, the words on his book squirming into slow
indecipherability. Just as he was about to give up, Harry was distracted from
his reading by Sirius' abrupt return from the mailbox.
"Harry! Harry!" the man slammed open his bedroom door, bouncing on his heels.
"What the hell, Sirius?" Harry sat up. "I could have been wanking."
"Good thing you weren't," With his short hair tousled and wavy, Sirius looked
younger than his thirty-something years. The man focused his attention on the
half-eaten sandwich sitting on the bedside table. "You finished with that?
Thanks." 
"I was not done with that, in fact," Harry said, eyes narrowing at the 'elder'.
"I'm hungry."
Harry grumbled. "So was I."
"I'll make you another later. Anyways, the Weasleys have invited us for dinner
the week after next." Green eyes blinked uncomprehendingly. "You know, the
Weasleys? That big, happy family I was telling you about?" he flapped a
dismissive hand. "The party's on the 30th, in celebration of your's and Neville
Longbottom's joint birthdays."
Harry arched a brow. "My birthday's the 31st."  
"Too bad. Dumbledore's invited us to some Ministry event on the 31st." 
Harry's stomach clenched. "A - a Ministry event? Do we have to?" 
Sirius gnawed on his sandwich, eyes darkening. "He thinks it would be good for
me to 're-immerse myself' into politics, once my house arrest is over," he
sighed. "The only good thing about prison was the complete lack of schmoozing."
The boy bit his lip. "Okay, but what about the Weasleys? I don't even know
them. Why would they - "
"Harry, I've got about seventeen years of gifts to make up for, and Molly is a
force to be reckoned with when it comes to party-planning. You'll love it."
Harry shifted, remembering the last 'party' he went to.
But Sirius looked so hopeful to see his old friends that it was impossible to
say no.
===============================================================================
It had been late on the twenty-first of July that Patty's water broke. Several
long, painful hours later, Sirius received phone call telling them the news.
"It's a healthy baby girl. We've named her Lily - Lily Renata Lupin."
The near eighteen-year-old had never met a baby before and was smitten with the
pink, squalling bundle squirming in her mother's arms. In their bedroom at
home, Patrica was glowing, wearing nothing but a thin blue robe around her
plump figure. Her long, lank brown hair was being tugged by a small fist.
Patricia was of Spaniard descent, with tan skin and darker features. 
Lily Renata had a shock of bronze hair and wrinkled dark blue eyes. "They'll
lighten as she ages," Patricia told Harry quietly, stroking a finger down
Lily's soft cheek. "I suspect she'll have my eyes." Harry never took his gaze
off the child. Patricia smiled fondly. "Would you like to hold her? She's named
for your mother, you know."
The boy swallowed tightly, Lily's head to be settled into the crook of his
elbow, keeping her neck elevated. "Just like that," Remus said, voice gentle.
"You're a natural, Harry. Much like your mother."
Lily blinked lazily at him, squinted eyes finding interest in the gleam of his
glasses. "She's beautiful," Harry said softly. 
"Yeah? Harry, I've been meaning to ask you - how would you like to be
godfather?"
The boy had to sit down quite suddenly.
Sirius lingered behind awkwardly, jealousy rearing it's ugly head. He tightly
clenched the pink teddy-bear that he'd bought for Lily. His house arrest was
finally over, and seeing Remus' home was a bit surreal for Sirius.
While the man was immensely happy for his friend, there was a pang in his chest
at the reminder that Sirius had missed so much of Remus' adult life. He wasn't
there to tease Remus over losing his virginity, he wasn't there to hide behind
a tree when Remus proposed to Patty, he completely missed the wedding - and
now, he was overlooked as godfather. The man grimaced slightly, conceding to
the point that he rather failed at that job before. But it still hurt.
Like most negative feelings, Sirius forced it to the back of his mind,
plastering on his usual, chipper grin. "Congratulations, Harry. Let the cycle
continue, eh?" The bitter words left his mouth without thinking.
Harry's eyes met his, confused and hurt. But the boy said nothing, merely
pulling Lily closer to his chest.
===============================================================================
It was nighttime in London.
Mister Mason was dressed to the nines in a tight grey suit, a champagne glass
dangling between his fingers. The night had been lazy and calm; Mason had been
invited to a rather sordid bar with a few select members of his friend group.
Vernon Dursley arrived alone, his lovely nephew nowhere to be found.
Although he mourned the loss of young Harry, Mason was not one to cross with
Thomas Riddle. Mason had done as Tom asked, spreading the word of Thicknesse's
rise in politics. Pius, the old chap, was popular among the bourgeois, who were
largely conservative in their ways. If Pius managed to gain the popular vote,
things would certainly be changing in the Ministry, with Tom pulling the
strings from his high horse.
Mason licked his lips, eyes lingering on Missus Zabini - Serena, if he was not
mistaken.
It seemed Zabini was recently widowed, looking for potential suitors among the
older aristocrats, perhaps. She had a son, too, but Mason always liked young
boys. Serena was slim and dark, with cornrow braids in her ebony hair. Her long
pink dress had a slit down the side, showing off long legs. She wore it with a
confidence that went straight to Mason's groin. He hadn't had sex in a while.
Mister and Missus Mason no longer shared a bed, barely in the company of each
other. They were long past the precipice of divorce, but remained together
against all odds. Point was, Mason wasn't getting any. 
The man stood slowly, approaching Serena with a slow, leering smile. Mason
wasn't an ugly man, he knew. He'd been a rugby player in his prime, the muscles
existing behind a slight layer of pudge. He was cleanly shaven today, his
greying hair recently dyed.
Serena stiffened as Mason approached from behind, a hand caressing her sharp
hip. "Hello, lovely," he purred into her ear. "Looking for some company?"
Serena tilted her head up to peer at Mason, her sharp cheeks softened by the
dim light. Her lips were stained red from the strawberry tarts and Mason was
sure her mouth would taste just as sweet. Kohl lined her dark eyes, the irises
appearing almost black. "Get me out of here," she whispered.
She writhed beautifully as he pressed a knee between her legs, feeling a slight
lump on her thigh. "Wearing a garter, honey?" Mason whispered. "Naughty girl."
Serena smirked, leaning forward to breathe against his neck. "You'll have to
find out."
They cut through the crowd, evading the scantily-dressed hoards of men and
women grinding on the marble floor. Vivid lights strobed across the chamber,
illuminating the diverse skins and the glittering outfits. Very little could be
heard through the blaring music, masking a cacophony of tittering laughter,
sensual moans and sultry whispers.
Mason glided along with the girl, catching the knowing gazes of his
compatriots. Vernon was inebriated beyond reconcile, his eyes catching on
Serena's supple arse. He licked his lips and finished his drink, waving a
farewell to Mason. As they reached the back exit, the man practically thrummed
with excitement at bedding the infamous 'black widow'. The woman was known for
her prowess in bed.
He pressed Serena against the stone wall, gnawing at her exposed collarbone.
His hand slipped up her skirt, gliding over smooth skin before the pad of his
thumb was pierced by something cold, and sharp. Mason dropped his hand, pulling
away with a pained hiss. "What the fuck was that?"
Ample blood was spilling from the slice, staining his shoes. Serena smiled in
the dark, teeth gleaming dangerously. She slipped aside her dress, revealing a
knife strapped to her inner thigh. "A chastity device, Mister Mason," Serena
said sweetly, drawing the blade. "One that I intend to use." In a swift
movement, the point was pressed against his jugular.
Mason tried not to swallow, sweat beading on his forehead. "You're - you're
just a girl," he defended weakly.
Serena's gaze sharpened, and the blade tore into his fat gullet. "One 'girl' of
many that you've assaulted, I'm sure," she murmured. "Boys, too, if what Riddle
said was any indication."
Mason's eyes went wide. "R - Riddle? But I did as he asked! I campaigned for
Thicknesse, I'm certain he'll have the full support of the mid-to-upper
classes!"
"Fantastic," Serena said sarcastically. "I'm sure Riddle will be pleased to
hear it. But why would Riddle keep someone as vile as you around once you've
served his purpose?"
"He's kept worse," Mason gasped out, glaring vehemently at her.
Serena tipped his head. "True," she agreed easily. "But they have worth to
him. You were never anything more than a means to an end - a loose canon and,
frankly, loose."
The man spluttered incoherently. Serena smiled, rearing back to stab him
directly in the crotch. She pulled out quickly, bringing a hand up to muffle
his screams. As Mason fell to the floor, whimpering pitifully, she straddled
his soft stomach, knife once more to his made a helpless groan. Serena revelled
at the sounds. "Honey traps are my least favorite assignments, you know?" She
sighed sadly. "I despise being touched by slimy, handsy creatures like you.
Fortunately, my next target is Vernon Dursley. I believe you know him? Well,
he's really quite drunk right now," she whispered conspiratorially. "And it's
very easy to pass a murder off as a drunken car wreck."
"Vernon's . . . done . . . nothing," Mason rasped.
"That's exactly the problem," Serena hissed. "He let you perve on underage
children and blackmailed you for his own profit. Riddle has no need for
spineless pimps like him. Now, as much as I'd love to draw this out, I really
must be going. It was . . . " Serena pressed a light kiss to his cheek. "Quite
a pleasure." Mason's screams were drowned out in blood as she stabbed him in
the throat.
===============================================================================
It arrived in the mail, attached to a single, blood red rose, its thorns sharp
enough to sting. The tag was an excerpt from the Daily Prophet.
Grunnings Builder and Head Director Found Dead
Discovered in the back of a pub the night after a company celebration was
Melvin Mason, supplier and shareholder of Grunnings Drills. Marked with the
calling card of the infamous Black Widow killer, Mason was brutally stabbed
twice with a killing blow to his throat. Mason is survived by his wife of
thirty-five years, Susan Mason.
That same night, in an unrelated event, Vernon Dursley of Grunnings Drills was
apart of a deadly collision on an abandoned road in Surrey. Suspected drunk,
Dursley was the only victim. Dursley is survived by his nephew, Harry Evans-
Potter (18).
Grunnings Drills refuses comment.
Written in the margins in sharp black ink was a simple note. 'I will always
find you, Harry Potter.' Breathing heavily, Harry crinkled the note in his
hands. He hadn't been intentionally keeping his identity from Tom - though he
vaguely recalled introducing himself as simply 'Harry Evans'.
Tom was not a bloody idiot. It was Harry that should have connected the dots
earlier. His father was a policeman, who interrogated a woman until she
miscarried. Tom broke Bellatrix out of jail and helped to enact her revenge,
and James and Lily Potter are murdered in cold blood by the leader of a
mysterious 'gang'. Yet, somehow, Harry miraculously survived - all because Tom
supposedly 'doesn't take kindly to murdering children'.
The boy laughed hollowly. At least his lover, the murderer of his parents,
had some morals.
Snapping Harry's from his epiphany, his goddaughter mewled from her place on
the ground. She was on a colorful mat, staring up at a number of plush animals
dangling from an arch. Harry was at Remus' house babysitting, while Patricia
and Remus were getting some much needed rest elsewhere.
Quelling the sensations of nausea and unrest, Harry lifted Lily and cradled her
against his chest. "You're so loved, Lily," he whispered to her. "So loved."
He wanted a message from Riddle, and he'd gotten one.
===============================================================================
To be continued
In The Sinner
***** The Sinner *****
                                  TanninTele
===============================================================================
     Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original
                            content and characters.
===============================================================================
                                   The Sinner
Leaning back into his desk chair, Percy Weasley scrubbed at his eyes, sighing
deeply. His hair was lank and unwashed, the orange color dull and -
horrifyingly - already speckled with grey. There were bags beneath his eyes,
skin so pale that his freckles seemed more like the chicken pox.
His mother wouldn't leave him alone, bombarding his personal phone with
concerned voicemails and pleas for him to return home. Percy had begun bringing
his toothbrush and a fresh pair of clothes to work, prone to falling asleep at
his desk, ink staining his cheek. A pile of ridiculously large papers was
waiting for him, barely a dent made even after a night of frantic, coffee-
fueled work. Percy had no personal life to speak of and hadn't slept a full
eight hours for a month.
Impeccable grades and a full tuition to uni did not prepare Percy for the
stress of being Junior Assistant to Undersecretary Madam Umbridge. The woman
was a cruel mistress, with the invasiveness of his mother, the sternness of old
Professor McGonagall and the sickeningly sweet, condescending tone of Bill's
wife, the French bitch.
Misery loves company, but Percy didn't even have that.
He sent a bitter look at Barty Crouch Junior's empty desk. Barty was,
technically, Percy's superior, but the man did half the work for double the
pay. Through his father's connections, Barty had weaseled his way into
politics; his crude but effective prowess secured him the influential position
as Junior Assistant to the Minister, himself. Percy was green with envy.
Something about Crouch always struck Percy as wrong. Perhaps it was the tongue-
flicking tick or the leering eyes, giving the impression that Barty was
laughing at everyone. Laughing at Percy, especially.
The company Barty kept was powerful. Barty was nearly twenty years their junior
and somehow managed to gain the respect of the embassy head, Rookwood, and the
despicable likes of Malfoy, who ruled the Board of Education with an iron fist.
Percy didn't trust Barty one bit.
Speak of the devil, and he shall appear.
The door to their joint office opened, revealing a smirking Crouch Junior,
teeth stained from coffee. Just as Percy was about to say something snide,
someone stepped in behind him. 
He stood up quickly, straightening his second-hand suit. "Mister Crouch, sir." 
As the Head of Recreation and Events, Bartemius Crouch Senior was everything
his son was not; poised, eloquent and responsible. Personally, Percy thought
the man should be elected for Minister, but as it was, the Head of Events was
integral to the upcoming campaign event. 
Despite the creeping deadline, Crouch Senior looked collected, not a moustache
hair out of place. "Weatherby," the man inclined his head. Percy flushed
brightly at both the moniker and the disapproving glance toward his mountain of
unfinished paperwork. 
Sniggering softly, Barty began sifting through his drawers, finding a copy of
the Minister's campaign speech. It was nearly three pages long and edited a
dozen times by Barty, the minister, Umbridge, Dumbledore and Percy, himself. He
was rather proud, in fact -
"No, no, this won't do at all," Crouch Senior rumbled, stroking his chin. "A
bit excessive, no? Cut it down to one page."
"What?" Percy gaped. "Why?"
 "A leak has revealed that Thicknesse's address will be short and succinct.
This, in comparision, will make Scrimgeour seemed long-winded. The audience
will fall asleep!" 
"Or . . . perhaps they'll be impressed?" Percy weakly suggested.
Crouch shot him a disgusted look. "Doubtful. Get on it, boys."
"What are we going to do?" Percy groaned the moment their door slammed shut.
Barty's watch began to beep, the screen flashing. "I honestly don't care
what you do, Weatherby," he tossed the speech onto Percy's desk. "I've got a
meeting with the Minister in five. Have fun killing your darlings."
Percy spluttered, face as red as his hair. "You can't possibly - this isn't -
Crouch!" Barty lent him a crude hand gesture in goodbye, sweeping away. The
ginger-haired man groaned, feeling close to tears. Worse than negligence and
his horrid attitude was the way Barty walked all over him; and the fact
Percy let him.
When this damn election was over, he'd be grateful.
===============================================================================
"I see a monarch, Luna," a soft voice whispered, a pale finger aimed at a
orange-winged insect.
Lips rounding in a pink 'o', Luna hiked up her skirt and padded across the
underbrush, stray leaves crunching beneath her sandalled feet.
Xenophilius Lovegood lingered a bit behind, smiling fondly at Luna's delighted
squeals.
His eyes suddenly widened. "Oh, it's the urtica dioica!" His white-blond head
of curls disappeared behind a bush of stinging nettles. Luna stopped at his
exclamation of pain, watching in concern as Xeno popped up a few seconds later,
suckling at his pointer finger. "It stung me," the man said, staring down at
the plant in interest. "I wonder what other sort of natural defenses the urtica
has. . . "
"We could ask Neville," Luna tilted her head. "He's majoring in botany. We'll
see him at the party."
"Respectable profession," Xeno nodded. "Look!"
Luna gasped and lunged toward the butterfly, disappearing behind some trees.
"Papa! Come quick!" Luna shouted beyond the bend.
She had stopped in the midst of tall grass, cradling the monarch in her dirt-
smudged hands. As Xeno leaned forward to inspect it, the butterfly panicked and
took off into the trees.
Pouting slightly, Luna watched it disappear into the horizon, fluttering toward
the Burrow. Suddenly exuberant, Luna twirled on her heel and pranced away.
Crickets scattering at his feet, Xeno followed at a more sedate place, colorful
harem pants dragging behind.
"It's the Lovegoods!" Came a heady call from the yard.
Two identical gingers swooped in to grab the small blonde and Luna giggled as
the twins spun her in the air. "We've got you, little Luna!" Fred proclaimed
before setting her down. "Well, not so little anymore. Last time we saw you, I
could swear you were shorter." 
"Oh dear," George said in concern. "She's fallen to the terrible malady that's
sweeping the nation; growing up. First Ron and Hermione, then Ginny, and now
you!"
"Not to mention our birthday boys," Fred piped up, sending a glance at the
dark-haired Longbottom heir gracelessly tripping out of the house, Ginny at his
heels.
Ginny stomped up to them, stained overalls rolled up and her hair kept in a
ragged braid. "I can't believe you two, assaulting her like that!"
"Oh, are you jealous, little sister? Well, the fair lady is mine!" George
declared, yanking Luna to his chest. "Gold of sunshine in her hair," he recited
loudly.
"Lips that shame the red, red rose - " Fred joined in.
The youngest Weasley stepped forward warningly. "If you don't let her go, I'll
hit you in the nose."
George released Luna immediately, raising his hands. "Alright, alright," he
muttered. "I shall relinquish my claim of the Moon Princess to Ginny the Great,
oh fearsome one."
Glaring, Ginny hooked her arm with Luna's, brushing the grass from her flaxen
hair. "Since Bill and Fleur married and Ron and Hermione got engaged, those two
have been flirting with anything that breaths. I think mum's been pressuring
them into finding wives," Ginny mumbled.
"How are Bill and Fleur?" 
"Bill is back in Egypt with his wife," The redhead grumbled, just the thought
of Phlegm making her face tint pink. "Fleur is a month pregnant, did you know?
Mum's all aglow." 
Luna smiled. "Lovely. And how are your other brothers?"
"Charlie's in Romania and Percy is stifled with work," she shrugged. "As
always."
Neville came up beside them, smiling shyly at Luna.
"Happy birthday, Neville," she said serenely, bringing from her robes a small
box. "This is for you. Open it now?"  
"I, er," Neville stammered. "Yes, of course." He inspected the gift, wary under
Luna's sharp gaze. The box was made of velvet, likely once holding woman's
jewelry. "Oh, um," he blinked, staring down at the radish earrings. "For me?
You shouldn't have."  
"They're clip-ons," Luna said breezily. "Papa says that plums enhance the
wisdom of their wearers, but I've also learned that they help with
forgetfulness."
Neville gave a small smile, slowly bringing them up to his ears.
Ginny snorted in amusement, shaking her head at the ridiculous accessory. "If
anything else, they're very good conversation points. Nev, I've been meaning to
ask you," she began seriously. "Are you sure you're okay sharing your birthday
with this Potter fellow? Mum kind of just leapt at the chance to meet him,
without really thinking about the fact none of us know him at all - " 
"It's fine, Gin," Neville said soothingly. "I get that you're a bit wary around
strangers, especially since Fleur just swaggered her way into your lives, but,
really, it'll be fine." 
"But what about Sirius Black? The bloke was in jail for more than a decade."
"I'm sure Black is a . . . lovely fellow."
"You mean Stubby Boardman?" Luna piped up, tilting her head. "He's never been
in jail, he's just a retired singer." 
Her friends stared at her in bewilderment.
Molly Weasley glanced out her window just then, smiling at the heads of red,
blonde and brown spotting her yard.
The screen-door was pushed open, Xeno striding in with an easy smile. "Oh,
Xeno, I'm glad you could make it," Molly exclaimed, wiping her hands on the
patched apron hanging across her hips. "Arthur's in the garage, if you two want
to . . . er, collaborate." 
The man's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes." Xeno pulled from his fanny pack a folded
paper, detailing the sale price for a vintage car. "I contacted a dealer that
used to work at that auction show in Dorset, and he's selling an old Ford
Angela - " the man babbled on. 
Molly gave a strained smile. "I'm sure Arthur will enjoy that very much," she
pushed Xeno out towards the garage. "You two go have fun. I'll holler when the
other man of honor arrives."
She busied herself with dinner, adding a sprig of basil into the large pot of
soup. Cooking was usually a source of calm for Molly, qualming her rampant and
anxious thoughts - but today, she was only reminded of who the meal was truly
for; James and Lily's son. 
Molly was certain he would be a sweet boy, and young Harry could do with some
friends his own age. It couldn't be healthy, trapped at home with an erratic
and irresponsible middle-aged man.
Don't get Molly wrong, Sirius had been a charming man seventeen years ago.
While Sirius and James were lawmen on the field, Arthur was a lieutenant,
largely sequestered at his desk. Regardless, over a decade in jail did nothing
to help Sirius. Though he put on a smile, Molly knew enough of war-torn men
that something darker was brewing inside.
Poor Harry. 
After that suspicious note from Tonks, Dumbledore had been obsessed with the
boy. It had been Albus' idea for the party, in fact, and Molly wasn't one to
say no to her husband's boss.
Besides, perhaps a nice celebration was something everyone needed.
===============================================================================
Harry stepped off Sirius' motorbike, hands deep in his sweater pockets.
Sirius encouraged the boy to make friends with the Weasleys and the Longbottom
boy - he apparently 'needed friends close to his age, other than Lily.' Problem
was, the last teenager Harry had willing engaged in conversation with was his
cousin. That was several years ago, before Dudley died via stray bullet.
Harry removed the motorcycle helmet Sirius had lent him, smoothing down his
hair. "Say hello," Sirius said pointedly, knocking into Harry's ribs. 
Two red-headed boys careened towards them, with bright, welcoming grins on
their faces. "If it isn't Sirius Black," one of them exclaimed.  
"Overgrown delinquient,"
"Scoundrel,"
"Mischief-maker!" They said in union.
Sirius broke out in a grin. "Just like your uncles, you are."
The twins shot each other smug smirks. "Worse, we'd hope."
"Stop heckling our guests!" came a voice from the house. A tan, homely woman
bustled into the yard, her long floral dress stained with cooking oil. "Sirius,
dear. And Harry!" she surged forward, wrapping her arms around him. Harry
stiffened, the soft, warm embrace unfamiliar but not entirely unpleasant. She
took his cheeks and squeezed them, cooing. "You look just like your father! But
your eyes, they're -"
"His mother's eyes," Sirius chimed.
Molly blushed, releasing the boy. "I'm sorry, darling. The last time I saw you,
you were in your mum's belly. I was pregnant with Ronnie at the time, Lily and
I were very excited to be having babies together." 
"You'll be meeting Ronniekins soon," one of the twins smirked. "He's likely
with his fiancée, smooching beneath the apple tree. We'll go fetch them."
"Fiancée?" Sirius said in surprise. "Miss Granger, I presume. They're rather
young, aren't they?" 
Molly shook her head. "They've known each other many years, since poor
Hermione's mum and father disappeared. Though Hermione's accepted the
engagement, they won't be marrying until she's finished uni," the woman sighed.
"Gives me a good few years to plan the wedding, at least. Oh! And Fleur is
pregnant!"  
The green-eyed boy, who'd begun glazing over at the small talk, jerked in
surprise. Fleur Delacour? That was right - Tom mentioned her husband was a
Weasley. Harry wondered if the baby was Krum's or Weasleys. Either way, he
hoped the promiscuous woman would finally settle down once her child was born. 
Another head of hair, this one bright white, peered out the front door. "Oh!
Hello, folks," the man said awkwardly. "Erm, Molly, the oven's going off." 
The yard was suddenly flooded with people, most of them red-haired. There was a
small, blonde girl holding hands with a dark haired boy. "Neville Longbottom,"
the boy introduced quietly. "Happy Birthday, Harry,"
"Er, you too," Harry shook his hand. "We're eating already, then?"
Neville shrugged, giving a lopsided smile. "Just go with it. Once food enters
the equation, things will soon descend into chaos. Best to get it out of the
way."
This logic was odd, but Harry soon realized that 'chaos' was good term for the
Weasleys. But it was a . . . loving, lively kind of chaos. 
He found himself smiling easier, laughing along with the others and exchanging
glib comments with the other three outsiders; Hermione, Neville and Luna.
Hermione seemed awfully familiar, though Harry didn't linger on that sensation
long. 
"So, how is it? Living with a criminal." 
"Ronald!" Hermione scolded, her dark hair frizzing in the slight heat.
"It's, er, mad," Harry admitted. "But not nearly as mad as this." The Weasleys
laughed. 
Molly peeked her head out. "Food's ready!" Fred or George cheered, rushing
after their mother. The others followed suit, the delicious smells assaulting
their nose. 
"Come on, Harry," Neville smiled at him, snapping the boy from his shock.
"Wouldn't want to miss the meal of the century."
===============================================================================
The calm before the storm was not meant to last long. 
The gala had begun, men and women from all over the United Kingdom heeding the
invitation. Percy smiled and thanked the guests, standing stiff-backed next to
his boss. Madam Umbridge was dressed in her usual hue of nauseating pastels,
with pink pearls, stockings and a too-tight dress that accentuated her hips. It
made her look even more toad-like than usual. 
"It's a pleasure to see you again, Cornelius," Umbridge crooned at an over-
large, wrinkled man. Percy recognized him as a former minister - the one
Scrimgeour usurped several terms ago. Scrimgeour had been in power for four
five-year terms, and Percy was almost grateful. The Ministry was far better off
with Scrimgeour than the likes of Fudge, the doddering fool. 
Stomach rumbling painfully, Percy turned his attention toward the buffet table.
Knowing Umbridge would be occupied flirting with Fudge, Percy slipped away. His
hunger could suddenly rival that of all his brothers, combined.
Percy wasn't alone at the buffet. 
Barty Crouch Jr. looked well-rested and put together, wearing his usual pin-
striped suit. "Finally detach yourself from the Umbitch?" Barty moved
uncomfortably close to Percy.
Startled, the red-head fumbled with his plate. "It - it's Umbridge, Crouch.
Though I wouldn't expect you to have any respect for your betters," he
sniffed. 
"Oh, I do have respect for my betters," Barty assured. "You're just not one of
them."
Fuming, Percy tried to focus on spearing a chunk of chicken. Barty took the
opportunity to surreptitiously slip a device out of his pocket, placing it
beneath the tablecloth. "Enjoy the food while you can, Weatherby," the man
whispered ominously. Percy stilled, and the man pulled away, smiling
innocently. "It seems your herd of a family have arrived. I quite expect their
stomachs to be as enlarged as your ego by the end of the night." The man stole
a grape from Percy's plate, popping it with his teeth. 
"Oh," his tongue flicked out momentarily, gaze dark with amusement. "And tell
lovely Miss Granger that the Wilkins family says 'hello'." 
As Barty swaggered away, Percy angrily stuffed a piece of cheese into his
mouth. Though Crouch Jr. was infuriating, Percy's family was even worse. All of
them were here, except Billy and Charlie, who were busy with their own lives,
and considerate enough not to meddle in his.  "Oi! It's Perfect Percy," a heavy
clap descended on his back, causing the man to choke.
"You look like shite, mate," Fred chimed in, leaning around to steal from
Percy's plate. 
"I daresay he's a sight better than the rest of these uppity Ministry folk,"
George sent a heated glance at the Malfoy family. Their noses were so far in
the air that he suspected they were stuck that way. 
"Guys," Percy hissed, feeling his face flush. The commotion they were making
had begun to draw eyes. 
"God, Percy," Fred laughed loudly.  "Do they all have sticks up their arses, or
is it just you?"
Percy went as red as his hair. 
Lucius Malfoy sneered at the scene, lips curling in disgust. "Don't look now,
darling, but it's our least favorite brood." Narcissa arched a dark brow at the
crowd of red-haired hooligans swarming the food table. 
"They just can't stop procreating, it seems," Draco drawled from beside them,
his expression bored. "The amount of red hair and freckles in that family
is revolting." 
"And there are a few add-ons, as well," Lucius added, spotting a girl with dark
skin clutching the hand of the youngest son. His eyes slid over to Sirius Black
and a small, black-haired boy. Lucius recognized them both immediately.
Meanwhile, Narcissa was staring at her niece, Dora Tonks. The girl had dyed her
hair an obnoxious shade of green that made her stand out even more than the
Weasleys. She wore a blue pantsuit with a leather belt. A hint of black metal
peeked out from beneath her shirt - a gun. 
Lucius shared a look with Narcissa. 
"Draco," she abruptly said to her son, squeezing his shoulder. "If you'll
excuse me, I have to speak to my niece about the company she keeps. Why don't
you find Mister Greengrass' daughters, Daphne and Astoria." By the way Draco's
eyes lit up and scanned the crowd, Narcissa had hit the nail on the head. Her
son was hopelessly in love with the younger girl.
Draco quickly disappeared in search of his crush.  
"Once the message is delivered, feign an urgent call from Abraxas," Narcissa
murmured urgently. "We will not place my son in anymore danger. Understood?" 
The older man squeezed Narcissa's hand tightly, pressing a light, adoring kiss
to the knuckles. "Be swift, my dear." 
Smoothing back her long, bleached hair, Narcissa approached her niece with
slight trepidation. Tonks looked up from a deep conversation with Remus Lupin,
the older man stepping back awkwardly. "Aunty," she said. "I thought I'd see
you here." 
Narcissa forced on a sneer. "Naturally, Nymphadora. How is your mother?" 
"Same as ever. Have you met Remus Lupin? He's a dear friend of mine," Tonks
gestured toward Remus, who blanched at the direct introduction. 
"I don't believe I've had the pleasure." Narcissa eyed the man's threadbare
suit and the tired marks beneath his eyes. "Narcissa Malfoy. I'm sure you've
heard of my husband." 
"Of course he has," someone barked. The woman closed her eyes in exasperation.
She had hoped to avoid her rambunctious relative. Even though Narcissa had a
hand in Albus' decision to release the man from jail, she certainly didn't wish
for a reunion. "Cousin Sissy, it's been a while." 
Sirius sidled into her line of sight, his hair long and crimped. He was just as
ungainly as ever, though a bit on the sickly side. "I do hope you remember the
bouquet of roses I sent over in honor of your engagement to Malfoy?"
"That was nearly twenty years ago, but, yes. Dead roses, if I remember
correctly," Narcissa said dryly. "Thought you were being funny, Sirius?"  
"I am funny, Cissy," Sirius grinned roguishly. "But I see that the betrothal
turned out for the best. An heir, Narcissa? However did you manage it?"
"Lucius is not celibate, Sirius, regardless of the crude groin attack you
delivered during that game of rugby in school." 
"You did what?" Dora exclaimed. 
Remus and Sirius smirked in tandem at the memory. "He deserved it." 
"Hm," Narcissa was doubtful. "Or you two and Potter were horrid bullies. How is
James' son? I've heard through the grapevine that you've taken custody of the
lad." 
Sirius lit up. "He's here! I'm not sure where - probably with the Weasley boys.
But he's a lot like James." 
"So I wouldn't like him, then," the woman mused. "Well, this was certainly
an interesting conversation." In a motion very much unlike her, she pulled her
niece into a loose hug. Tonks squeaked in surprise. "Be careful," Narcissa
whispered into Tonk's ear, slipping something into the girl's hand. 
The woman then swept away without a mother word. 
Tonks and the two men stared after her in amazement. "What a character," Remus
shook his head. "Come on, Sirius, let's find our wayward godson." 
As the two left Tonks by herself, the girl slowly uncrumpled the slip of paper
Narcissa had pressed into her palm. The motion felt very familiar, and Tonks
was hit with the same sense of urgency that she had over a month ago. 
The warning made her tremble, her expression darkening in an instant. 
===============================================================================
It was the second party Harry had attended in two days. As the band played a
smooth classical piece, Harry drifted over to a secluded portion of the hall. 
He was frayed at the edges, flinching at every loud noise. Harry had begged
Sirius to stay at home with him, but the man thought Harry's anxiety was him
simply being shy. 
There were moments that Harry considered telling Sirius or Dumbledore about
Tom's plan - But remembering Tom's disarming smiles and sweet words made him
falter. Against all odds, Harry still trusted the man.
The boy stared out a large window, watching as a sleek car pulled up to the
hall. Their nation's flag fluttered on the antennae. It was Rufus Scrimgeour,
the Minister, accompanied by Dumbledore. They were instantly swarmed by
reporters.
"There you are!" Sirius came up behind him, scooping the boy into a harsh
noogie.
Harry disentangled himself from his godfather, trying in vain to fix his hair.
"Sirius! It took me half an hour to get it to lie flat." 
Sirius snorted. "Your father used to spend hours in the bathroom. He used about
a vat of gel for his wedding and he looked like a right ponce. It's better this
way." The boy disagreed but reluctantly left his hair alone.  "Where'd you run
off to? I thought you were with Ron and 'Mione." 
"Hermione dragged Ron off to talk with some Ministry folk about women's
rights," He gave a one-armed shrug. "I'd have joined in, but that Umbridge
woman is a piece of work." 
The man laughed. "That's one word for her," Sirius swung an arm around Harry's
shoulder. "Remus found us a place right by the stage. He suspects the speeches
will start soon." As they made their way back to Remus, Dumbledore and
Scrimgeour made their joint entrance.
As predicted, Umbridge bustled on stage, pink lips stretched into a coy smile.
Percy handed her a microphone while Barty Crouch Senior gestured for the band
to finish their sonata.
"Welcome, welcome!" the woman began, voice sweet as a peach. "I personally
thank you all for attending this momentous event," her words gained a
smattering of claps. "Before the proceedings continue, Minister Scrimgeour
himself would like to say a few words." 
The tall, thin man stepped on stage. He resembled a lion, with wild, peppered
orange hair. The strands curled around his ears, a pair of golden glasses on
the tip of his crooked nose. He looked remarkably similar to Dumbledore, making
Harry wonder if a bit of nepotism was involved. The man lifted a bony hand to
silence the applauding crowd, pinched lips smirking.
"Thank you," his voice resonated. It was deep and scratchy, holding behind it a
great deal of power. "Your support is much appreciated. After over twenty years
of serving as your Minister, you'd think that I'd finally be nearing
retirement. In these past terms, I've altered the economy for the better, I've
increased rights for minorities and -with the help of Albus Dumbledore, our
Head of Law Enforcement -  the justice system is stronger than ever. Rest
assured, I am not about to walk away from my duties as Minister," the crowd
went silent with awe. He lifted his head high. "I'd like to announce my intent
to once more run in this year's election for Minister." 
A round of cheers reverberated through the building. Percy Weasley applauded
the hardest, standing beside a beaming Umbridge."Great speech, Weatherby,"
Barty jabbed Percy in the side, gesturing to his face. "But you've got a bit of
food on your mouth."  
Percy flushed, wiping his lips. 
"Now, to introduce my opponent," Rufus spoke over the crowd. "Mister Pius
Thicknesse!"
A stout, brown-haired man with a short goatee bounded up the steps, waving a
hand in greeting. The floor began to vibrate as a group of well-dressed men -
among them the likes of Crabbe and Goyle - stomping their feet. Lucius Malfoy
sneered at them, steering his wife and son out of the building, murmuring a
hurried apology to Rookwood and his co-workers. Harry noticed Malfoy's hasty
exit, a sense of anticipation thrumming toward him. 
"Sirius," Harry tugged the man's arm, trying to drag him away from the stage.
The older man was booing Thicknesse enthusiastically, egged on by one of the
Weasley twins. Remus was frowning in disapproval, but he was nothing but an
enabler. "Sirius, we should go." 
Pius took the stage. He tapped the microphone, rearing back as the speakers
squealed. The crowd laughed, but Barty Crouch Junior rolled his eyes, pulling
out his phone. Percy frowned at the man, opening his mouth the admonish Barty's
rudeness. 
"Sorry," Pius laughed. "Well, thank you, Minister, for that uplifting speech,"
his words were shrill and oily. "I have to say, your speech writers really are
impeccable. Most everything you said was true - you are getting old on years.
Four terms seems gruelling, but somehow, you've managed it. Astonishing," his
tone dripped with sarcasm. "And yet, while it is undeniable that you've
certainly changed things in our government, the real question is . . . were
they for the better?"  
Barty shut his phone with a click. 
With that, the Granger's bomb went off. The buffet exploded in a shudder of
mash and burnt tablecloth, Fred Weasley - who'd been reaching for another
finger-sandwich - along with it.
Molly Weasley released a piercing cry, and the others followed soon after. 
===============================================================================
Bellatrix was hiding in the control booth, a series of sniper equipment lain
out around her. The dead body of a blonde lighting technician was slumped
against the wall, his headset discarded on the ground.
Bellatrix smirked as she stared into the crosshairs. Scrimgeour was just in
sight, standing only a few feet away from the microphone. As her finger curled
around the trigger, a sudden clatter was heard directly behind her. 
"Step away from the gun, Aunt Bella," came a tight voice. "Turn around slowly,"
Tonks' gun pressed into the back of Bellatrix's curly hair. "And maybe I won't
shoot you." 
"You wouldn't shoot me anyways," Bella spat, but she pulled away from the gun.
"You're too much like your mother, Nymphadora." 
Tonks stood over the crouched woman, her pantsuit disheveled and her hair
bright. She was trembling from head to toe, her heart beating a mile a minute. 
"I take that as a compliment," Tonks said. "Stand up. I'm taking you to
Dumbledore." 
Bellatrix inspected her niece slowly, before laughing. "You're such a liar,
dear. I've killed some of Dumbledore's best men without breaking a sweat.
Unless he thinks you're expendable, he'd have never trusted a low-ranking meter
maid with," she waved her hand. "Whatever this pathetic display is."  
Tonks flinched. Bellatrix's eyes narrowed. "Someone tipped you off, didn't
they? Once I kill you, I'm going to tear their tongue out slowly and
painfully." 
The girl's nostrils expanded. "You - you'd torture your own sister?" 
Bella paused. "Your mother?" 
"Narcissa," Tonks spat, eyes smug. "My mum isn't the only white sheep of the
Black family." 
Betrayal shot through Bellatrix, though she hid it well. "Then she's just as
pathetic as you." 
As Tonks opened her mouth to respond, the screams began. Tonks lowered the gun,
surging over to the small window, eyes blown with horror. Bellatrix threw her
head back with laughter. "It's begun, dear niece. This is my revenge,"
she bared her teeth. "And even if you do have the balls to kill me, Tom will
avenge me - like he always does." 
Tonks turned, her gun once more raised. Bella smirked. 
Even if she couldn't kill Scrimgeour, she wasn't about to go down easily.
Bellatrix leapt forward with an animalistic snarl, grabbing Tonks by the hair,
yanking roughly. 
A shot went off. 
===============================================================================
The chaos was delightful. 
When the bomb exploded, screams and laughter created a sickening harmony.
Crabbe and Goyle wiped the crumbs from their hands, pivoting towards the stage.
Dumbledore had rushed toward Scrimgeour, dragging him toward the exit. 
Assuming that Bella had choked, Tom's less sane companions took things into
their own hands. A volley of gun-shots came from every direction - you couldn't
pinpoint a single shooter. Scrimgeour was hit first, bullets piercing his
chest. Barty Crouch Junior then shot his father straight through the heart,
right in front of a wide-eyed Percy. 
Dumbledore abandoned the Minister quickly, sparing barely a glance at his
superior.  Just before he slipped away, the Head of Law Enforcement was stuck
in the back of his head, white hair soaked in red. 
"Albus!" Sirius howled, surging forward. Remus scratched at his arms, trying to
drag Sirius back. Harry tried to catch up, but he slipped forward in a pool of
blood, his scalp cracking against the ground. 
"Harry!" 
Sirius finally tore his gaze from Albus' collapsed body. Dazed green eyes met
silver and Harry watched in horror as Sirius was struck in the chest. The man
looked at the bullet wound in shock, falling to his knees.
"Sirius," Harry whispered.  
The man fell flat on his face, blood trickling from his mouth. Harry screamed.
Rough hands grabbed him by the armpits, dragging him up and away from the body.
"Leave him," Remus sobbed, tugging Harry away. "Leave him." 
Sirens wailed, police cars pulling up to the Ministry, but the sounds faded
into a blur. Harry stumbled through the hall, pushing past a sobbing man, who
clutched his dead wife's hand to his chest.
Gunshots still rang, both friendly fire and otherwise. Remus' grasp slipped
away as the man was swept into the throng of fleeing bodies.  
As a bullet grazed his ear, Harry ducked beneath a table, breathing heavily. He
curled up into a ball, tears slipping from his eyes. His head hurt like hell,
something warm and wet trickling from his forehead. But all he could do was
chant to himself; Tom's coming.
Tom's coming. 
Tom's coming.  
===============================================================================
"We've all been riveted by the events that occurred just a few hours ago at the
Minister's Gala," Rita Skeeter reported from in front of the yellow-taped
building. Her hair was an unnatural shade of read, her cat-eye glass
sparkling. 
"Several arrests have been made, but with the death of Albus Dumbledore -
former Head of Law Enforcement - the justice system is reportedly in disarray.
Amelia Bones has been temporarily promoted to chief of staff and has made this
statement.
"'While we are all grieving the loss of two great leaders and a number of just-
as-valued bystanders, the Ministry is doing all we can to bring justice for the
victims' families'. Potential suspects for the death of Rufus Scrimgeour
include Gustavus Goyle, Paschal Crabbe, Fenrir Greyback, Aloysius Avery - " 
Harry tuned out the rest, sitting stiffly in the back of the ambulance. Doctor
McDougal gently applied a bandage around Harry's head, murmuring about
a 'possible concussion' and 'scarring'. A scratchy blanket was around Harry's
shoulders, providing little to no warmth. He was chilled to the bone, his
pupils blown and expression slack from what McDougal claimed was shock.  
But Harry knew that from all that he'd seen and all that he's done - or
hasn't done - he would never feel anything the same ever again. 
Sensing that Harry wasn't listening to a word McDougal was saying, the man
patted his shoulder consolingly. "You'll be fine, lad," he murmured. "I'm sorry
about your godfather." The rest was unspoken. 
And Remus. And Fred. And Tonks. 
Their bodies had been found only recently, brought out on cots, faces covered
by black tarps. Harry recognized Tonks from her hair, Remus by his wedding ring
and Fred - well, only pieces of Fred had been found.
Tonks had been found next to Bellatrix Lestrange; she had killed her aunt with
a single bullet to the throat, only to turn the gun on herself. Remus was
simply a victim of flying bullets. After the two had gotten separated, Remus
bled out from a bullet to the stomach. 
Harry tried to think of baby Lily and of Patty, both of them safe at home. But
Lily was without a father now, and her mother likely wracked with grief. 
Sometimes, cycles really did continue. 
As McDougal left to help the other injured, Harry fingered the blood-stained
hem of his shirt, wondering if it was his blood or someone else's. 
"Harry," came a sharp voice. His name echoed, sibilant and familiar. Harry
glanced up, heart hammering a tattoo against his ribs. "Moya lyubov." 
A slim figure lingered several meters away, the soft glow of the moon
illuminating his hair. It looked like a dark halo. "T - Tom?" Harry wondered
aloud, hopping down from the ambulance. He was instantly hit with a wave of
nausea and vertigo. He stumbled briefly, but single-mindedly ignored the pain.
Pushing through the bustling medical personal and blue-blooded policemen, he
peered into the alley. 
"Tom," he breathed, rushing forward to bury his face into the man's suit. 
Even if the man's hair was ruffled and his clothing haphazardly thrown on, he
looked resplendent to Harry. Bags were beneath his eyes, the blue orbs jaded
and tired, like his entire world had recently come crashing down. 
At least Tom and Harry were similar in that.
"My god, Harry," Tom abandoned all sense of decorum, falling to his knees and
tugging the boy onto his lap. "I'm so sorry." 
"What happened?" Harry whispered into the man's lapel, his voice breaking. "I'm
glad you're alright, but please - I have to know." 
Tom buried his nose into Harry's curls. "Bellatrix failed," he murmured after a
moment, red-rimmed eyes slipping shut. "She was ambushed by one of Dumbledore's
officers, and when the bomb was activated, the rest of my men went rogue. They
couldn't be stopped."  
Harry pulled away, cheeks wet. "They killed my godfather! And Remus, and Fred
and countless others - " 
"I know," Tom hissed, pinching his nose in frustration. "Trust me, I know. But
I had no hand in that. And I didn't expect you to be here today. I didn't
expect Dumbledore to release Black from jail, much less try and drag you into
his sphere of influence. I didn't know Dumbledore would invite you to the gala,
and I certainly didn't want you to be hurt," his hand brushed against the
bandage wrapped tight around Harry's head. "Please believe me, Harry. I really
am sorry about your godfather, and the rest."  
Green eyes fluttered shut. "You mean my mum and dad?" 
"I - " Tom faltered. "Yes, them too." 
"Tell me. Tell me about them." 
The man released a shuttering breath. "Peter Pettigrew gave me their address
and - out of my loyalty to Bella - I killed them. It wasn't anything personal, 
they were just victims of this unending war between me and Dumbledore. Even if
you think me awful, I will never regret sparing you. I will never regret being
with you." 
Harry was quiet for a moment, though his tight grip on Tom never slackened. "I
don't blame you, Tom, not really."
"Really?" 
"I've been thinking . . . Sirius made his choice seventeen years ago to chase
after Peter Pettigrew. By making that choice, he left me alone. Peter may have
betrayed my mum and dad - but Sirius betrayed me. Dumbledore betrayed me. They
may have made up for their mistakes in the past few weeks, but I can never
forget being lost and unloved.  
"But you - " he pressed his fist to Tom's heart. "You changed my life. You made
me feel loved and wanted. Not like Sirius and Remus did; they loved the idea of
their best friend reincarnated, but you loved me for me. And why shouldn't I
give you the same benefit?" he sniffed wetly, setting his shoulders. "It's time
for me to make choices for myself, and whether or not I regret it in the
future, I'm sticking with it. I'm sticking with you." 
Tom smiled - a real, genuine smile - and it was beautiful. "Good," he
whispered, meeting his forehead with Harry's. "Because I'm never letting you
go." 
Harry laughed at the words, an indescribable lightness breaking through the
sorrow that had consumed him the last few hours. Surging up, his lips met Tom's
in a wet, messy kiss that was more amazing than expected. Tom pressed forward,
clutching Harry's waist in a desperate, possessive manner. 
The necessity of  breath overcoming them both, Harry pulled away, panting. 
"What now, then?" he asked, tasting Tom in his mouth and fighting the need for
more. Tom required a moment to conduct himself, his blue eyes slightly glazed.
"With the arrests," he began jerkingly. "Of spineless, jabbering fools like
Goyle and Crabbe, I suspect I'll need to flee the country."
Harry blinked at the words.
"W-where? Bulgaria?" 
Tom pondered this for a moment. "No, Viktor would not appreciate harboring a
wanted criminal. It'd be horrid for his reputation. However, I know a family in
Australia that owe me many favors," the man grinned inexplicably at that. 
"You aren't going to make me regret this, are you?" Harry grimaced, getting
unsteadily back to his feet. Tom helped him, allowing the boy to lean into his
side. They fit like two puzzle-pieces, a riddle finally solved. 
Tom pressed his lips into Harry's curls, a smile on his face. 
"Never." 
===============================================================================
The End 
End Notes
     Thank you, everyone who has supported me through this venture. I love
     and appreciate you all, and - as always - feel free to comment and
     critique.
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