Harry Potter and the Burden of Becoming

Harry Potter and the Burden of Becoming

Chapter 50 - A Time to Grieve

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Todd was the last one to leave. For the past ten years he'd been classmates with Duncan. Two summers ago, the two had a falling out, and only really started talking again after Duncan's birthday party. Tonight, however, Todd had been as true a friend as there could ever be. He'd just finished hugging Gabriella and now had his arms around Harry. "Goodnight. I'll come by tomorrow after work." Then he whispered in Harry's ear, "Don't leave him alone tonight, Harry, not in that house. It has too many ghosts."

"Sure," Harry whispered back, "I... er... understand."

"Thanks, Todd," Gabriella said, kissing his cheek one last time. "You've been great." Harry had to push back a sudden pang of jealousy that diminished when Todd turned to Duncan and held him in his arms.

"I'll see you tomorrow, mate. When Emma's folks get back we'll see them together, okay?" Duncan nodded without saying a word. "You know I love you, don't you? We all love you. If you need anything... anything at all..."

"I know," said Duncan hoarsely. Todd squeezed his shoulders and left, Gabriella closing the door behind him.

"He's a great friend, Duncan," she said with a warm smile and turning back into the room. "Nearly everyone who knew you or Emma was here tonight. I'm amazed at how he got the word out so quickly."

"That's Todd." Duncan nodded. "Mr. Amazing." His words landed somewhere between admiration and resentment. He let out yet another long sigh and looked at the chair in the living-room. He thought about sitting back down, but instead turned and reached for his jacket. "Look, I better go too."

It was well past midnight; Grigor, who had been in his study going over photographs of the night before when Harry arrived, and Soseh whose emotions swung between tears and concern, had already gone to bed for the evening. Duncan looked exhausted. All day he had shared stories with friends about Emma. All day people had been sobbing on his shoulder. And yet he weathered each hour without shedding a tear. Gabriella was worried, and so was Harry. Duncan's heart had hardened and nothing they could do would soften it.

"Why don't you stay here tonight," Gabriella offered. "You heard what Mama said. You're welcome to stay as long as you like."

"No, I need to--"

"I don't like the idea of you going home to that big house of yours all alone."

"I'll be fine, really." He grabbed his jacket and folded it over his arm, pausing to look at the large Christmas tree filled with lights in the Darbinyan living room. The packages around the bottom had gone unopened. He gazed at the tree and scanned the room for a long time as if imagining what Christmas Day should have been like. Then he reached up and slipped the earring of thorns out of his ear, holding it out to Gabriella. "Here," he whispered. "Somethin' to remember her by."

"Oh, no, Duncan," she said, taking a step back. "I couldn't."

"Take it," he said firmly, thrusting it into Gabriella's hand. And then the tone of his voice softened. "I know she'd want you to have it. You... you were practically sisters." He was trying hard to maintain control.

"Thank you," she said, another tear falling down her cheek. Duncan began to open the door and a blast of frigid air swept into the room; Harry closed it.

"Harry," said Duncan, irritated, "I'm goin' home."

"I know we are," Harry said brightly. He reached over and grabbed Grigor's overcoat. "Babe, tell your dad I'll have this back first thing in the morning." He kissed Gabriella and gave her a look with open eyes. She nodded in agreement. Duncan was in no state to be left alone tonight, and giving such a personal gift was a sign of someone planning to terminate things. "See you in the morning?"

"I'll see you both for breakfast. Todd says Emma's mum should be home by noon, her father a bit later. Are you still okay with us going over together, Duncan? Duncan?"

"Er... right," he said, as if waking from a dream. "Tomorrow."

When the two walked outside, Harry slipped on Grigor's overcoat, but Duncan held his jacket folded over his arm. It was cold and the sky was threatening snow. Harry was surprised to find Grigor's jacket fit so well. The sleeves were a bit long, but that was the style.

"Look, Harry, you don't need to hold my hand. I'm fine. Go back to your girlfriend and let me be."

"So, I guess that means I have to sleep on the couch?"

Duncan walked over to his car. "I'm goin'... alone!" He only unlocked the driver side door and climbed inside.

"Come on, Duncan. Let me in."

Duncan turned the key in the ignition. "Alohomora," Harry whispered, holding the handle of the door with his right hand. It opened and he sat in the passenger seat. "Thanks," he said. Dumbledore had told Harry someone needed his help in Little Whinging. He hoped this was it. Duncan just glared for a moment and then shoved the gears, grinding it into reverse.

"You know," he spat, backing on to Privet Drive and throwing the car into drive, "I don't need you, Harry. I've been doin' just fine for the last ten years all... by... myself..." His breaths were growing quick and shallow. "I don't need my parents. I don't need friends. I don't need you. I don't need... I don't need..." He slammed on the brakes, stopping the car in the middle of the empty street. He gripped the steering wheel tightly with both hands, and then dropped his forehead down bursting into tears. "Oh, God, Harry," he heaved. "What am I gonna do without her?" In that moment, Duncan's heart broke open fully, and the tears streamed in torrents down his face. "What am I gonna do?" Harry had no answers; he didn't need to. He was there, and that's what mattered most.

For over thirty minutes Duncan heaved great sobs as the car idled in the middle of the street. Harry didn't say a word. Occasionally, he placed his hand on Duncan's shoulder or arm, just to let Duncan know he wasn't alone. Finally with a shudder, Duncan pulled in a chest-full of air, broadly stroking his face with his sleeve. "I can't... I can't do this. I won't do this anymore." He shoved the car back into drive, and drove to his house, pulling into the driveway. Turning the ignition off, he took out the keys and handed them to Harry.

"Look, the front door's open so I don't need these. Take the car back home. I'm fine, really." Sniffing hard, he wiped another tear from his face and stepped out of the car. So too did Harry. "Damn it, Harry. Let me alone!" Duncan ran to the front door, entered and locked it before Harry could catch him. Harry walked up to the door, opened the lock, and stepped inside. Duncan was headed upstairs when Harry came in.

"How'd you get in?" he cried out. Harry simply held up the keys and jangled them in the air.

"Magic," he said with a smile. He took off his overcoat and hung it on the hook by the door. The home interior was, as always, immaculate. Not in an Aunt Petunia sort of way. No, Duncan's parents never lifted a finger to clean it; they were never there. They hired a maid service to come in regularly. Harry knew Duncan had parents, but they were never seen in Little Whinging, at least not very often. Harry entered the main entryway and watched as Duncan's face grew stoic, and then his voice turned to ice.

"What? You came to watch? Is that what it is?" Duncan yelled, jumping up the stairs. Harry hurried after him.

"Come on, Dunc," Harry pleaded. "I just want to talk." But, before Harry made it to the top of the stairs, Duncan had emerged with a large silver revolver in his hand. Harry stopped cold. Duncan's hand was shaking and his eyes were wide.

"You've seen these Harry, haven't you?" he said, pointing the gun's muzzle directly at Harry's face. Harry took a step backwards down the stairs, as Duncan pressed him. "Well, have you seen 'em or not?" Duncan yelled.

Harry nodded at the question, and continued to back away.

"Of course you have; very good," Duncan said in a disparaging tone. "We sell them in the shop. Tell, me, Harry, what's it called?" He held the gun in profile, and slipped it back into his fingers. "Beauty don't you think? WHAT IS IT CALLED?" he screamed, taking a step down the stairs towards Harry.

"357," Harry whispered.

"Right again, mate. But not just any 357, Harry." Duncan's eyes had grown more wild, but his hand steadied as he took another step down backing Harry onto the bottom floor. "Go on, Harry, I know you know. You were the best bloody shopkeep that store's ever seen, but you... you left me, didn't you?"

"It's a Smith and Wesson 357 Magnum," Harry answered.

"Yes, go on; give me the bloody pitch!" yelled Duncan, consumed with forcing Harry to pretend he was talking to a customer at the store.

"It has a satin stainless finish and an Ahrens wood Cocobolo grip."

"The best gun we sell, eh mate?" said Duncan admiring the revolver in his hand. The great room's recessed lights flashed off the silver metal and speckled his face with false freckles.

"Come on, Duncan. Put the gun down." But Duncan wasn't putting anything down. He'd seen his end and Emma wasn't part of it. His life was forfeit. He began to hold the gun up and pulled back the hammer -- click... click. "Duncan..." Harry pleaded, holding up his hand, and then Duncan pointed it more directly at Harry.

"You know," he said clenching his jaw, "if you... if you would have stayed at the shop with me, we would have been in South Benton. I would have had you watch the store while I went with Emma to France."

"Then you'd both be dead," swallowed Harry. Duncan's hand began to shake violently.

"Exactly!" he cried out, his heart in agony. In that instant, Duncan turned the gun away from Harry and held the muzzle to his head. Harry had no choice.

"Expelliarmus!" he called, raising his right hand. The shot rang out, just as the revolver flew from Duncan's hand. It was as if everything was happening in slow motion. Harry heard the echo of splintering wood from the ceiling and looked up to see a small hole where the bullet had penetrated, dropping tiny shards of plaster down onto the floor. He watched the dust cascade through the air, and then saw Duncan, his eyes wide, as they rolled up into his head. A small stream of blood ran down the side of his face. He rocked backwards and then fell forwards down the stairs, landing in Harry's arms and knocking them both to the floor, Harry's head whipping onto the carpet.

The stars cleared from Harry's head as he rolled Duncan on to his back and looked at the wound. The bullet had split the skin open behind his right temple, but nothing more. He lay unconscious on the floor, the blood trickling in a slow steady stream passed his ear. Harry pulled his wand and held it over the wound, but he stopped short of sealing it completely. He pulled Duncan to the couch in the living room and hoisted him onto it. He put a pillow under Duncan's head, and went to retrieve the pistol from the steps. The smell of gunpowder hung in the air and for a moment Harry felt as if he would be sick. Quickly, he emptied the bullets into the trash, stuffed the gun in the pocket of Grigor's overcoat, and cleaned the spot of blood on the floor, but left the ceiling like it was. He sat on the recliner next to the stereo, turned on some music, slipped off his trainers, took a deep breath, and waited.

Harry was about to fall asleep when there was scratching at the door. He pulled his wand and slowly opened it only to find an owl carrying a parchment. Harry took the note and sent the bird on its way. It was an official notice from the Ministry.

Notice to recipient,

At 0130, the 26^th of December 1997, a Muggle of your acquaintance witnessed your magical spell. Because of recent events, the Ministry is unable to dispatch appropriate mind erasure members at this time.

Please note the name of the Muggle and send it to the Ministry within three days of receipt of this notice. In the meantime, take all necessary precautions in silencing the Muggle in question. Failure to do so may result in fine or imprisonment.

Cedil Perkins

Director, Muggle Relations Office

"Unbelievable," Harry whispered to himself, rubbing his eyes, and stuffing the note into his pocket. He was about to sit back down when Duncan began to stir.

"Don't look at me like that, Em!" Duncan yelled out from the couch. He was still on his back, his eyes closed, and he held his hands up in front of him as if trying to stop an attacker. "No! I won't let you hurt him! Stay away from--" Harry walked over to him and held his hands. The touch was enough to wake him, but not completely. He sat up and started hitting Harry who fell to his knees. Suddenly, Duncan realized what he was doing.

"Harry?" he asked weakly. He grabbed Harry's face in his hands. "Harry? Thank God! I thought I had shot you!" He began to tremble and then wrapped Harry in both his arms, and pulled him close. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He whispered over and over again. Finally, the whispers gave way to tears, and Duncan, still holding Harry, fell to the floor on his knees and wept. He began to shake as Harry held him in his arms. He would hold Duncan for however long it took. It was much easier than looking down the barrel of a 357 Magnum.

When Duncan finally let go, he grabbed a pillow, clutched it in his arms, dropped down on his side, and curled up in a ball. The sun was just beginning to break the light of day, and Harry leaned back against the foot of the couch.

"I'm so bloody pitiful," whispered Duncan into the pillow.

"No you're not," said Harry warmly.

"I can't even shoot straight from one inch away."

"Thank God for that."

"Hmm. God and I have a few things we need to discuss."

"Let's just put off the face-to-face for awhile," Harry tried to say lightly. Duncan did not reply. Instead he looked up at the stairs and held his hand to his wound. Then he looked up at the hole in the ceiling.

"I don't know what I was doin', Harry. What I said... I didn't mean it. I can't believe I pointed the gun at you like that. It's like I was possessed," Duncan said, turning the night's events over in his mind. "Your scream saved my life, Harry... for what it's worth."

"For what it's worth?" Harry asked. "Do you know how many lives you've touched in Little Whinging? Those people showed up yesterday at Gabriella's to give you back just a small portion of what you've given them over the years. Your friends would walk through fire for you, Duncan." Harry started thinking about his own words. "You don't see it because you're too close. You think about Tom Spinner, and only remember how you helped hook him up with Wes to get a deal on fixing his car. Or maybe old Ms. Sword down by the park who couldn't afford to have her house painted, but you got the paint free and a bunch of guys from the neighborhood took care of her place in one weekend. And when the Boy's Club caught fire last year, who's sports shop was it that donated a dozen gaming tables for the new building? I know how hard you pushed Mr. Fettle to make that happen." Duncan sat up on the floor, looking down at his hands and shaking his head.

"Duncan, it's... it's like a patchwork quilt. Maybe you see each patch you've made, and maybe you don't. But the rest of us see the quilt that has helped keep the town of Little Whinging warm since any of us can remember." Duncan looked up at Harry, tears welling in his eyes once again. "Let your friends be here for you. Let us help you get through this, okay?" For a long time he looked at Harry, his eyes glistening and then, finally, Duncan nodded with a sniff, the first hint of a smile on his face. Harry stood up, reached his hand down and pulled Duncan to his feet. "Let's get cleaned up. Soseh will be angry if we're late for breakfast."

Harry waited as Duncan showered, shaved, and dressed. He had combed his blonde hair back and was wearing a pair of dark dress slacks, with a burgundy shirt and a black tie. Harry shivered thinking about how he would have to buy some nice clothes for Emma's funeral. The mark on the side of Duncan's head had bruised a little over the night, but the cut was covered with a single bandage. No thorns hung from his ear.

"Let's do this," Duncan breathed. The two took Duncan's car back to the Darbinyan's and stepped out. It was a quiet ride, but already he could tell that Duncan was beginning to feel again. A light snow was falling that, with the warming day, would soon turn to rain. Harry decided to walk Duncan to Gabriella's door before going home to change himself. It was Soseh that answered their knock.

"Grigor?" she questioned blankly, looking at Harry. He realized he was still wearing Grigor's overcoat.

"Oh, no, Soseh," he corrected. "It's me, Harry."

"Harry?" she asked again blankly. It was clearly one of her 'bad' mornings.

He sighed, slipping his cold fingers into the pockets, and discovered with one hand that Duncan's pistol was still there, and with the other he felt the thin roundness of what was most certainly a wand. His eyes widened.

"You know Harry, Soseh," Duncan said brightly, stepping forward. "Harry Potter."

"Potter?" Soseh questioned again, her eyes flashing with sparks of recognition. "Yes... yes, I know Harry Potter. Quite famous you know." Suddenly Grigor came bursting through the door.

"There you are!" he yelled. "Give me that, boy." He nearly tore the jacket from Harry's back.

"Sir, wait!" Harry pleaded, but it was too late. Grigor was already to his car.

"I may not be back for dinner, Soseh," he called back to his wife at the door. "Don't wait up."

"But..." Harry tried again. Grigor ignored him and left. "Aye," Harry grimaced, biting his knuckle.

"What is it, Harry?" Duncan asked.

"Your, er..." he looked at Soseh and then back to Duncan, "Cocobolo grip was in Grigor's pocket." Still on the front step, they watched as the car drove off down Privet Drive, and disappeared around the corner.

"Good," Duncan whispered, taking Soseh by the arm and helping her back inside. "Watch your step, Mrs. Darbinyan. Whatever you've got cookin' certainly smells wonderful."

"Look, I'll be back after I clean up," said Harry as Duncan disappeared into the Darbinyan's. Duncan stuck his head out the door.

"Sure thing, Mr. Potter. We'll wait. You're famous you know? Hah!" Duncan snickered, closing the door. Harry hoped Soseh would simply forget, and turned to walk back home.

He entered the Dursley's and once again found the living room was still a disaster. For a while, Harry started to pile some of the splintered wood next to the now opened fireplace, but realized it would take far too long, and his stomach was grumbling a bit with hunger. "It can wait till tonight," he shrugged to himself.

Before long, he had showered and dressed, and was lacing up his old battered trainers (his new ones having been soaked in Dementor blood) when he noticed the small red package that Tonks had given him lying on his dresser. She had asked that Harry wait for Christmas and today was the day after. He picked up the small box and took a glance out his window at the house across the street. How had it gotten so complicated? He couldn't help but think that somehow he was responsible for Mr. Fudge's death, but what about Emma's? It was his blood that had brought Voldemort back to corporeal life. For the thinnest of moments, his mind wondered if the murders would stop if he gave himself over to the Dark Lord. But of course, they wouldn't. He sat next to the window and watched the skyline as the morning snow turned into rain.

Rolling the package in his hands a few times, he slipped off the green bow and opened it. Out fell a thin golden rod about eight inches long. Hollow on one end and about the width of a straw, its other end was capped with something akin to a skull-like gargoyle head. There were no inscriptions, no other markings. Harry held it in his hand for quite some time, staring intently at the masque that looked mockingly back at him. He didn't understand why Tonks would give him such a gift, and then noticed two folded slips of paper tucked into the box. He pulled them out and examined both carefully. They had been torn from the pages of books... old books. The first page was small, and bordered with the image of the same figure that capped the golden rod still in his hand.

The key to futures past and present

Depends on wit and wile

Blend the three and turn the key

Use wisdom for the dial

Select the mark to throw them hence

Select the mark to keep them

Select the mark to bring them whence

the darkness now doth steep them

The next page was larger, and older. Indeed, it had a stale, moldy smell to it that reminded Harry of the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts library. It was stained with small, dark spots... blood, Harry thought.

Liquid of life that springs eternal

From birth of light to death infernal

Welled from source of endless magic

To bring back those whose loss was tragic

Liquid of life that courses pure

Split in spite without a cure

Yet saved from death by hated foe

Who stopped the ebb and staved the flow

Liquid of life in molten state

Cast to let its brethren mate

Spin the lock and turn the key

To let our captured allies free

Then to the side, written by hand in fresh ink were the lines

Set the mark before the brew

to slay the ignorance once thought true.

Then as the three mix into one,

and breathe the mist through which they'll come,

spirit, soul, and purity,

protect yourself from enmity.

Harry read each poem through a few times, trying to get his mind around why Tonks would send him such a thing. "I hate riddles," he whispered to himself. Part of him wanted to toss the papers aside and wait to ask her when he returned, but there was something intriguing about the words, and he continued to focus his mind.

"Lucius?" he wondered out loud. He took out his own quill, about to jot down some thoughts, when he heard a car come to a stop across the street. He looked out the window and watched as Todd, dressed in a black suit, stepped out of his bright blue sports car and walked up to the Darbinyan front door.

Gabriella met him, giving him a hug and kissing his cheek. Without good reason, Harry's face flushed with anger, and in an instant he was down at Gabriella's door. He opened it not bothering to knock, ready to pound Todd into a bloody pulp, to hex him into oblivion. But, when he entered, he found Gabriella helping her mother in the kitchen and Todd holding Duncan in his arms. Duncan was crying. When Todd saw Harry enter, he turned to face him, still holding an arm about Duncan as he wiped his face with a white handkerchief. Todd's face was nearly as white, and his eyes uncharacteristically frightened. He gestured to Harry to come closer.

"Jesus Christ, Harry!" he hissed under his breath. "Where's the gun?" At Todd's words, Duncan sniggered. "What? This isn't funny," said Todd reproachfully.

"I borrowed Grigor's overcoat last night," Harry swallowed. "When I came back this morning, he grabbed it off my back and left." There was a long pause, just as Gabriella looked up to see that Harry had arrived. A gentle smile broke across her face, as she and Soseh set the food on the table. "It's... it's in his pocket." Again, Duncan laughed under his breath.

"Bloody hell," Todd hissed again rolling his eyes, then he looked at Harry's side. "What's that?" In Harry's hand was the tube with the gargoyle head on it.

"Oh this? Er, nothing." He quickly slid the tube in his back pocket next to his wand. Todd watched the gold intently until Harry slipped it away, and then he moved to set Duncan down.

"Well... well maybe he won't look," Todd said hopefully. But Harry knew that when Grigor reached to make sure his wand was there, he would most certainly find the heavy chunk of metal in the other pocket.

"He'll find it," Harry muttered darkly.

"Find what?" Gabriella asked walking over to the three young men now huddled so conspiratorially.

"Find this."

They all turned to the front door to find Grigor dangling the Smith & Wesson by the trigger guard with his left index finger. Gabriella looked confused, while the boys simply stood frozen. Grigor stepped briskly up to the young man with green eyes.

"Papa?" Gabriella asked, but he ignored her.

"Harry, a word if you please." It was not a request, and Harry followed Grigor to his study.

"Mr. Darbinyan," Duncan called out, "it's my--"

"This is not your concern, Duncan," Grigor said sternly as he opened the study door. Harry walked through and Grigor followed.

"But--"

Grigor shut the door firmly.

"Mr. Darbinyan--"

"Please sit," Grigor interrupted as he walked behind his desk. Again, Harry found himself sitting in the leather chair, looking up at the father of his true love, who looked back at him with eyes of pure hate. He would have much rather been in this room talking to Grigor about the various instruments that were scattered about like so many toys in a child's playroom. Instead, he was looking into fire and brimstone and he could feel himself noticeably begin to perspire. "My daughter is very precious to me," Grigor began.

"She's precious to me, too." The words fell uncontrollably out of Harry's mouth. Grigor's face reddened as he cocked his neck, and then his fingertips began to explore the wood grain of his desk.

"I told you... to stay away from my daughter!" he breathed quietly. His face seemed almost calm, but his eyes were on fire. "And now, you bring a gun into my house? I will not have her life placed at risk at the whim of some... some..." Harry knew he wanted to say Muggle -- an incurable criminal. Inside, now more than ever, Harry wanted to scream out that he wasn't, but he had given his word to Gabriella. Instead, he tried another truth. A truth he needed to discuss with an adult.

"Duncan tried to kill himself last night," he said simply. Grigor's glaring eyes blinked. "I took the gun away from him. I was going to take it to my house and put it away before I entered your home, sir, but you took the coat before I could." Grigor's right index finger began to quickly tap the top of his desk. He was rolling over Harry's words in his mind. The fire flashing in his eyes abated. For a moment, he looked at the door and Harry could have sworn he heard it click. Then, Grigor sat down in his own chair, pulled open a desk drawer and dropped the gun inside. Before he closed it, he retrieved a pipe and tobacco and a moment later, still not having said a word, he was blowing plumes of smoke about the room, pacing to and fro. Harry remained silent while, for some time, Grigor examined one of his more antique looking telescopes. Finally, he turned to look toward Harry and blew a grand billowing gray cloud.

"Suicide?" he whispered, as if he only now comprehended. Harry nodded slowly. "Stand up, boy," he commanded. The tone suddenly made Harry feel angry. It reminded him of his uncle, and he didn't like it. He stood knowing there was an expression on his face that bore the look of insolence, but there was nothing he could do. Grigor walked over and stood close, then looked him up and down. He was only a few inches taller than Harry, but much more stout. Very stout for an astronomy professor, Harry thought. And then Grigor caught Harry's eyes and looked transfixed. Harry couldn't help but think he saw tears begin to well up just as Grigor turned away.

"I know that look of insolence too well, child. How old are you, Harry, sixteen?"

"Yes, sir," Harry replied, still standing as Grigor looked out the large pane window of his office. It overlooked the Darbinyan's large backyard, and even from Harry's perspective one could tell it had fallen into disrepair since his visits with Gabriella over the summer.

"I won't lose my daughter, Harry." His words were quiet, and intense. "Not to a mere boy incapable of--"

"I love her, sir. And I know she loves me," Harry interrupted. "Our paths have come together, and they won't fork." Grigor spun on Harry's words.

"Do you think love is enough?" he spat, the fire returning to his eyes. "Do you think love is enough to hold on to someone? Don't think for an instant that love will prevent Gabriella from being torn from your very grasp, and crushed to pieces like dried bread on a summer's day. Don't think that love will keep those you hold dear from harm, Harry, because it won't! Love clouds the eyes, and dulls the senses. It robs you of your ability to truly protect those most precious. And when it's too late, when all has been lost, it flees from your heart leaving nothing but despair, and then flitters about trying to tempt you to love again.

"On my daughter's birthday, my only son, a son I loved more than anything on earth, was killed by ignorance, and greed. I turned to my best friend, my colleague, for solace only to have him murdered days later. In a few short weeks everything I loved was taken from me... everything, but my wife and daughter, and I won't have them put in danger again."

Grigor returned to the window, stretched out an arm, and leaned against the frame. "Tell me young Mr. Dursley, if it were in your power, what would you give to bring back the loved ones you've lost?" The question filled the room and swirled about with the lingering smoke. For a moment Harry considered an answer, but said nothing. "I don't want you to love my daughter, but I will sleep knowing that you do your best to keep her safe. That's your only value to me." The words were hollow and dark and when he turned back to look at Harry his face had turned ashen, and his hands began to tremble. "This too... for now, keep her happy. She has seen so much death, it is not fair that she should suffer more, and yet it is so once again." Grigor looked back out the window. "If only she could know the truth," he said with a sigh. "Would that I could set things right," he whispered. Another moment passed, and he took a deep breath and walked back over to Harry.

"Go... eat... be with your friends, and grieve. I'm afraid Mars has had the better of me today, and it is not yet noon." Grigor tried to muster a smile and reached for Harry's hand. "On my honor, I will see what I can do to help your friend Duncan." Harry reached for Grigor's hand, when Grigor slid his hand higher and pressed it firmly about Harry's forearm. Harry did likewise. Snapshots of Harry's first visit with Grigor in this study flashed in front of Harry. He was trying to remember something, as if his mind was culling through his memories, tossing pages of thoughts all about the room, when it hit him: it was the handshake... a very foreign handshake.