Fame Isn\\\'t Everything

Chapter One ~ New Lives Lived

*seven years later*

If you asked anyone what ever had happened to Harry Potter, the immediate response would be, "Harry who?"

The name on everyone's lips now was Jack Barnes. He was the wizarding world's darling, their prince. He was their saviour, and no one ever forgot it. His name graced the cover of millions of books and magazines, his face was on posters in every magical establishment. The words 'Jack Barnes ate here!' outside a restaurant meant you had to make reservations months in advance. He had his own line of designer robes and even his own chocolate bar. His birthday was a widely celebrated holiday.

And he loved it.

Something that set Jack Barnes apart from Harry Potter, and made him an infinitely better celebrity, was that he craved the spotlight. He was made for it. With handsome, thick brown hair that combed neatly, deep blue eyes, and a smile that could melt plastic, Jack was meant to be photographed. He was also in possession of a bubbly, outgoing personality, and was only too happy to speak to anyone who would listen. He was a reporter's dream.

One couldn't have asked for a better star.

The papers had christened him 'The Man Who Killed Voldemort.' Every modern book on the Dark Arts had an account of how he defeated the most feared wizard of all time. It was a thrilling tale, suspenseful and dangerous. He was gracious and generous, giving credit to his comrades where credit was due, and still came out glowing.

Jack's Magical Militia were hailed as the new Aurors, and leaders from around the globe were all clamouring for Jack to take the vacant position of Minister of Magic. He could have easily set himself up as dictator, but he declined the position and instead took charge of his Militia, which he set at the disposal of the Ministry.

The people adored him.

Well, almost all the people.

The long forgotten Harry Potter was among the small contingent who couldn't stand the obnoxious little bugger.

~~~

Jack placed his hands behind his head and sighed contentedly. This was the life. He had everything he could possibly want, and more. He had a photo shoot in half an hour, to promote some spattergroit cream, but until then he had an entire glorious thirty minutes to himself. Not that he minded his busy life, he didn't mind at all. In fact he wouldn't have traded it for anything. Everything up until his greatest triumph had become a blurred memory. All that mattered was who he had become.

His press secretary, Andrea Rudolph, entered and dropped a pile of contracts for him to sign on his mahogany desk, simpering at him as she turned to leave. He smiled back at her and she giggled, practically skipping back to her desk outside in the foyer.

Her heels echoed on the marble floor as she exited. The cavernous room was built to echo; Jack had it specially commissioned. He wanted to have people's words hang about after they had been said. The room was everything he had asked for, from the Persian rugs to the imported glass chandeliers. It was also a reasonable distance from the Minister's office so he wasn't often disturbed.

Just as the door had closed behind Andrea, it burst open again and an older woman in a hideous excuse for a power suit stormed through. Jack sat up in his expensive dragon hide chair and hid a grimace.

"Rita," he exclaimed with false enthusiasm. "What can I do for you?"

Rita Skeeter, aged reporter, threw a crumpled newspaper at him. "This," she growled, her spectacles lopsided, "is dragon dung."

He picked it up carefully by the edges, and read a few sentences, his lips moving as he went. After a moment's consideration, he folded the paper neatly and placed it on his desk, looking up at her with a carefully constructed expression of polite interest on his face.

"What precisely about the article do you take offence with, Rita?"

She snarled at him and he smiled benignly back at her.

"It's utter bullshit, Jack. We both know that the Dementors are still a major issue, as well as all of the former Death Eaters, who, thanks to you, no longer have a master. How many unreported murders have there been, Jack? How many have been Kissed in the past ten years? I can get those numbers up here faster than you can breathe. Why the hell is this rag," she looked at The Daily Prophet contemptuously, "still printing this crap?"

"Watch your language," Jack said mildly. "And I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"Cut the crap, Jack," Rita ordered. "Or should I just print your dirty little secrets for the world to read? We both know who has the power in this sick, twisted relationship."

"Rita, you're old enough to be my mother," Jack said, still smiling. "And don't try to blackmail me. We both know you don't have anything worth a knut. Besides, I already reinstated you as a reporter. You're living in the lap of luxury now, why would you want to go and risk that?"

"You wouldn't happen to be threatening me, would you?" Rita asked innocently, although her eyes flashed furiously. "Not the good, kind, and all-powerful Jack Barnes."

"Of course I'm not threatening you," he soothed. "Calm down. I'll speak to the paper, put out a press release warning people to be careful. I'll even send out some Militia, if it'll please you."

Her frown lessened slightly. She started to tap her foot nervously on the floor. Tap, tap, tap.

"There's something else."

Jack's innocuous smile froze on his face.

"Of course. What do you need?"

"The favour you owe me. That is how the political game is played, is it not? I need cash. I owe some very scary people a large amount of money and you're going to give it to me." She smirked. Finally, she had him where she wanted him.

"And why would I do that?" Jack inquired.

"Because then I won't tell the hundreds of Death Eaters out for your blood the password to your office."

He continued to smile. "Well, we can't have that. My secretary will give you a cheque."

"I knew you were a reasonable man, Jack," Rita purred. "And so good for our kind. What ever would we do without you?"

"I have no idea," Jack grinned. His good humour returned. "I have a photo shoot shortly, so I'll have to end this meeting."

She nodded and turned to leave, when Jack stood up and came to her side, holding a box.

"Oh, and could you hand these out to a few of the girls in the news department?" he asked, holding up a button upon which his picture was beaming. "I'm afraid they've been knocking down the doors in their haste to get them again. Heaven knows what they do with them all."

She said nothing, only scowled, and threw open the doors, slamming them shut behind her. As she stepped into the plush entry hall, she tossed the box into one of the gilded waste-paper bins, and kept walking.

Nearly at the door, Rita stopped short when a person stepped in her path.

"Excuse me," Rita said in her haughtiest tones. "Get out of the way."

"I'm afraid I can't do so," the woman replied smoothly. Several others stepped out from behind marble pillars and blocked Rita from all exits.

She recognised the insignia embroidered on their robes and her expression changed. "Ah, Militia, are you? How can I be of service?"

One of the men shoved her roughly and she turned her ankle. It throbbed and she clutched it, looking at the man with pure hatred.

"You can shut up," said the first woman pleasantly. "That was the last time you bother the boss."

Two of the others grabbed her arms and marched her into a side room filled with fireplaces. Each one had a small gold plaque above it, indicating where it went. When the woman snapped her fingers fires sprang up in the grates. She took a pinch of Floo powder from a ceramic urn in the centre of the otherwise empty room and let it poor slowly into her other hand.

Rita swallowed hard. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Merely give you a passage out of the office," the woman replied, watching the powder dribble through her fingers.

Relief flooded Rita's body until she was forced toward one of the fireplaces and she read the plaque above it.

"No!" she screamed. "I don't have their money! I don't stand a chance!"

The Militia acted as if she hadn't spoken. The woman, the leader, threw the powder on the flames and Rita, screaming, pleading, was thrown in after.

Seconds later she was gone. The woman, mesmerised by the flames, murmured, "We protect the boss. He is all that matters. He is our savior. Our protector."

In a single-file line, the Magical Militia marched out of the Floo Room and returned to work.

~~~

REPORTER RITA SKEETER FOUND DEAD IN FLAT

MINISTRY CLAIMS NO EVIDENCE OF FOUL PLAY

Veteran journalist, Rita Skeeter, 51, was found dead in her London flat

yesterday. Originally assumed that she was merely ill and had taken to her bed,

the truth was not discovered for several days until neighbour Portia Moore

decided to bring the deceased some soup and discovered the body. Skeeter,

best known for her columns in The Daily Prophet more than a decade ago, had

a long list of enemies, but the Ministry denies Skeeter was murdered.

"She was not in the best of health," claimed spokeswizard Edward

Carmichael. "She was getting on in years and didn't bother to take good

care of herself. She had a heart attack and passed on." Healers have confirmed

that Skeeter died of a heart condition that had gone previously unnoticed

although no autopsy post-mortem was performed.

"What, do you think we can't recognise a heart attack when we see one?"

one Healer from St. Mungo's snapped. "We're not incompetent. She clearly

died of a heart attack. And that's that."

A memorial service will be held today at one o'clock.

Hermione Granger-Weasley folded back the paper. She couldn't say she was sorry, because she wasn't. She had detested Rita Skeeter, although in the grand scheme of things Rita hadn't been particularly evil. She had just had a nasty streak that made it impossible for any decent person to like her.

She felt a kiss on the top of her head and the frown lines on her forehead disappeared.

"Morning, love," Ron Weasley said, giving her a proper kiss. "What're you reading?"

"The Prophet," Hermione replied honestly, even though she knew how Ron felt about it. "If you read between the lines..."

He shrugged. "You don't have to explain yourself to me. If you want to read that pitiful excuse for a newspaper, it's your choice. Anything special?"

Delighted that he was actually taking an interest in the magical world, Hermione wisely bypassed the article on Minister of Magic Percy Weasley and several gleaming pictures of Jack Barnes, and commented instead on the obituary.

"Rita Skeeter died," she said, perusing the rest of the paper for Ron-appropriate articles.

"Really?" he said taking a seat at their kitchen table and pouring himself some juice. "Does it say who killed her?"

Hermione looked up, surprised. "Why do you assume she was murdered?"

He frowned slightly in thought. "I'm not sure, it seemed like a logical conclusion. I mean, you remember her, the woman was just asking to be killed. She wasn't murdered, then?"

"Not according to the article, no," Hermione answered. "But I agree with you. And we ought to feel just a little sad. Surely someone out there cared about her."

"Not bloody likely," Ron replied cheerfully. "And, I'm sorry, but I can't feel sorry for that cow. Not after everything she did. She was a nuisance, and I won't go so far as to say I'm pleased, but I'm certainly not upset."

Hermione looked up and her look of reproach turned into a beaming smile; she changed the subject. "Are you all packed?"

Ron groaned slightly. "Are you really dead set on this idea, Hermione? It means uprooting again. And I don't know about you but I've moved enough for several lifetimes."

Hermione ignored him and carried her dishes to the sink. "It's for my career, and you told me you supported that. I can't help it that the firm wants to send me to America. Besides, it's hardly moving, we still have that loft in New York. Consider it a holiday."

Ron came up behind her, slid his hands around her waist and rested his chin in the hollow between her neck and shoulder blades.

"Don't you want to take a break from Healing? Isn't it time we settled down somewhere?" he murmured. "Started a family?"

Making a noise of indecision she tried to pull away, but he held her tighter.

"Look out there, Hermione," he said, gesturing out the kitchen window to the gorgeous landscape. "That's Greece out there. It doesn't get much more beautiful than that. Do you really want to trade that in for some crowded, congested, noisy city?"

And it was beautiful. They owned a small one bedroom house on the island of Crete, completely isolated and peaceful. There were no other witches or wizards for miles, and few Muggles. The view every morning was glorious.

Removing his hands from her waist, Hermione turned from the glowing sunrise and looked up at him. She hesitated and bit her lip, but she knew she had to say it.

"I don't want to start a family until I'm sure our family has a family."

Ron stepped back as if she had struck him. His expression darkened and Hermione flinched. It was too late to take it back now.

"Stop it," he said harshly. "We've had this discussion several times and my answer hasn't changed. You can't pin all the responsibility on me. It's as much their fault as it is mine."

"You could at least owl your father," Hermione argued. "He needs to hear from you."

"I do owl my father," Ron snapped.

"Only when I make you during the holidays. A few times a year is not enough, Ron!" Hermione cried. "We should go and see him. It's been ages and he's not a young man anymore. Ginny say's he's been ill lately and keeps asking for you."

At the sound of his sister's name Ron's scowl deepened.

"Have you been owling her?" he demanded. "I told you I wanted nothing to do with her!"

"You don't!" Hermione shouted back. "She's been going through a wretched time with the divorce, and she needs someone to talk to. She was, is, my friend, too, you know! She just left her husband and has been taking care of your father all by herself, the girl is exhausted, and your animosity towards her is tearing her apart! She only wants your love and forgiveness, Ron."

"I will never forgive her," Ron exclaimed, furious. He threw a plate down into the sink with a crash. "I won't forgive any of them. They held me back, and she betrayed me. She deserves what she's got."

Shaking, Hermione slapped him. "How dare you! That is the most evil thing I have ever heard you say." Tears filled her eyes. "Is this what Molly would have wanted? Is it?"

Holding a hand to his cheek where she had struck him, Ron breathed raggedly. "Don't talk about Mum. Don't." His voice took on a strangled tone. "No, stop, Hermione, please."

Horrified at what she had just done, Hermione went to him and buried her face in his sweater. Hot tears dripped down her face and she sniffled, anguished by the pain she had caused him.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered. "I am so sorry. I love you so much, I'm so sorry."

Ron held her there in the kitchen and rocked back and forth slightly, smoothing her hair. "It's all right," he whispered. "It's all right. I'm sorry, too. I want to, Hermione, but I just can't. Not with Mum...you know."

"I know," Hermione replied, although she wasn't satisfied. "But couldn't we just go to Ottery St. Catchpole--"

"No," he said quietly but with conviction. "I know it's been a long time, but I'm not ready yet. I don't know if I ever will be. I know it's irrational, but I've never been a rational bloke. I can only act based on how I feel. And I can't see my sister yet." After a moment's hesitation he added, "If you want to keep owling her, I won't object. And I'll owl Dad today."

Hermione nodded and returned to her breakfast, wiping her eyes. "Sometimes I regret this self-imposed exile, Ron."

"So do I," he admitted. "But we have each other. Not everyone has that. And we both know it's for the best. Better to be alone than to be used by the government."

"But don't you miss it? Don't you miss everyone?" she asked in a small voice, sitting down again.

There was a few moment's silence. "Yes," he said eventually. "I suppose I do. But it's for the best."

"Are you sure about that? Maybe we left the wizarding world in the lurch."

Ron raised a red eyebrow. "There's another article about that Barnes idiot, isn't there? Now you see why I don't read the Prophet anymore."

"Just because they have Barnes doesn't mean the wizarding world couldn't use us, you know," Hermione pointed out, waving a piece of melon at him.

"You're being useful, you Heal people. And I'm doing my piece. Just because we aren't in the spotlight, trying to fix the problems of the world, doesn't mean we're not helping."

"I know," she sighed. "I just miss the days when we saved the world."

"Those days are long gone," Ron replied. "And I for one am glad for the peace and quiet."

A smile flickered across her face, and she took a bite of her toast. Returning to the paper, she read out loud, "'Giant Flobberworm Destroys Small Village.' Honestly, where do they find this garbage?"

~~~

"'Giant Flobberworm Destroys Small Village,' we had that story months ago!" Luna raged. "That damned paper, can't get news of it's own so it goes and steals out of old Quibblers. Dad'd be furious if he knew."

Several minutes later Luna realised she was talking to herself. Somewhere in the middle of her rant the staff of The Quibbler had snuck out for an early lunch.

Of course, referring to the eighty-year old copy editor and The Quibbler's one reporter as staff was exaggerating things a bit, but it was second nature to Luna Lovegood, recently appointed editor of the popular magazine.

Glancing around the empty storeroom, Luna shrugged and left it, returning to the front desk of the Moonstone Bookshop that was the honest front for Quibbler operations, to protect her from government intervention. She knew the Minister's army of garganibians was just dying to put her out of business. As if she'd let that happen. She had a responsibility to the public to keep publishing, and she would, even if her two staff members were off doing who knew what.

"Dratted Militia," she muttered under her breath as she picked up torn and crumpled books from the floor. They just stomped into every shop along the street and did whatever they felt like. She wanted nothing more than to release a few Pluthas on them, but she hadn't had any luck capturing one yet.

She had written up several stories focused on the MM, mostly about how it was a tool of evil and ought to be disbanded immediately. To her shock and disgust every copy she had printed somehow became stories about funny shaped vegetables. Luna hated the Militia; it was the only thing other than The Quibbler she paid special attention to. And her life's goal (as of ten months ago) was to bring them down and rescue her father and others from their secret prison hidden on an island no one knew how to find.

Imagine, her father, a threat to magical society! The idea was laughable, but Luna never laughed about it.

The bell tinkled at the front door and she looked up to see Neville Longbottom approach.

"Afternoon, Luna," he said casually, reciting the carefully prepared script that had been prepared for meetings such as this. "I'm here for that book on Flitterblooms that I owled about."

Luna nodded, took out her wand, and waved it about, muttering under her breath. Nothing seemed to change about the shop, but both of its occupants seemed happy with the result. Luna lifted a trapdoor behind the counter and they walked down the rickety wooden staircase.

Neville took a seat on a flowered ottoman and Luna put the kettle on. Then she sat opposite him in an enormous wing back chair and stared at him in that slightly disturbing way of hers.

"Any news?" he asked nervously. Luna never failed to unnerve him, no matter how often they met together.

She shrugged. "Dad says he's not suffering. Nothing about your gran, sorry. I'm afraid we're not getting much closer."

"That damned Militia!" Neville shouted in a sudden fit of anger. "How in Merlin's name did they get so much power?"

Luna stood up to pour some tea for the two of them. "Hornswagglers," she said vaguely.

"Beg pardon?" Neville returned, confused.

"They've got Icelandic Hornswagglers," Luna repeated. "They're valued for the mystical mind control powers in their blood."

Goggling at her, Neville cleared his throat and looked away. "Uh, right." He stood up. "Right, well I only dropped by to see if there was any more news. I suppose I'll be going."

"Wait, don't go yet," Luna said thrusting a tea cup at him. "We need to start making plans."

She smoothed the afghan that covered a worn and torn sofa. Neville looked over at her and suddenly felt pity for her. She knew what it felt like to lose those you love. And she looked as if she could use some companionship. So he sat back down and took a biscuit off the tray that sat on the broken coffee table. As soon as he took a bite he spat it out again, choking.

"Carob and garlic, aren't they good?" Luna said, breezing by as she collected picture frames from a trunk in the back of the room.

"Wonderful," Neville gagged. "What sort of plans did you have in mind?"

"I'm not sure," she mused. "But we have to get rid of the Militia. They positively destroyed the bookshop this afternoon."

"But," Neville stammered, "Jack Barnes..."

"Yes," Luna replied, sitting down on the sofa. "He will be a problem."

"Problem! He saved us all!"

"No, Harry saved us all," Luna replied, staring off into space again.

Neville, despite having lost his Gran and Great Uncle Algie to the Militia's roundup, still found no fault in the mesmerising Jack Barnes. After all, he was in charge, but he couldn't control every movement of every militia member. Neville often found himself making excuses for Jack, as the man had defeated Voldemort. Not many wizards could lay claim to a success like that. Even his Gran in her last owl had praised the man.

"Harry," he said vaguely, still tasting that vile biscuit. "Ah, Harry Potter. I haven't thought him in ages."

Luna looked at him in surprise. "But he's Harry. How could you not have thought about him? What about the Order? What about everything?"

Shrugging, he replied, "When he took off, I just sort of forgot him. It seemed easier that way. Besides, it wasn't exactly as if he wanted to be remembered. And we had Jack."

"Of course," Luna said distantly. "I sent him owls, you know."

"Who, Jack?"

"No, Harry. He never answered, not one. Neither did anyone else. It was as if we had never existed. Sometimes I think I made the Order of the Phoenix up. But I remember Stubby Boardman and it all comes back. And, of course, there's you...to some extent."

Neville had the vague feeling he had just been insulted. Looking around the dusty little basement, he coughed slightly and wondered when this painfully dull conversation would be over.

Luna's piercing gaze was boring a hole into his forehead. "Do you have a girlfriend?" she asked, suddenly curious.

"What? No." Neville turned red. He was not about to discuss his love life with Loony Lovegood. For all he knew the information would end up in the next issue of The Quibbler.

"Have you ever been kissed even?" she asked, leaning across the coffee table. "Properly, not a peck on the cheek."

"I don't see how that's any of your business," Neville spluttered.

"You're far too tense," Luna murmured.

Then she leaned the rest of the way over the table and planted a kiss directly on his lips. It lasted a surprisingly long time while Neville was frozen in shock. When Luna pulled away, she appeared to consider it, as if tasting a freshly baked pie.

"Not bad," she said after a while, licking her lips. Neville was still struck dumb. "Your lips are dry though."

Then she looked over his shoulder towards the ladder and trapdoor and knocked over the tray of foul biscuits.

"Oh, bugger."

~~~

"Bugger," she cursed quietly as another kangaroo hopped past, drawn by her noisy fall. She was surely done for now. Stealth was really not her strong point.

Nymphadora Tonks, just Tonks if you wished to keep your organs inside your body, turned to look at her partner, a tall gangly witch, and whispered, "What now?"

"Keep goin', sheila," the witch whispered back. "We're still all right."

"Okay," Tonks replied. She took out her wand again and muttered another unlocking spell. Nothing happened. "Remind me why we're breaking into this compound again?"

"We're lookin' for a key," Wilma Gorgon, a Sydney native, replied. "Hurry up, would you? I'm gettin' some weird vibes."

Tonks chose not to reply and instead focused on getting the damned door open. After several muttered 'Alohomoras,' she removed a hair pin from her precarious hairstyle, and stuck it in the key hole, twisted it a couple times, and heard a faint, victorious click.

Wilma looked at her in grudging admiration. "Impressive, Tonks."

"Thanks," Tonks grinned, her hand on the door knob. "Saw it in a Yank film once. And my dad loves things like this. Ready?"

The other witch nodded, and wands in hand, they pushed the door open and slipped inside. It was pitch black, but even the naturally clumsy Tonks knew better than to light her wand. After a few wasted moments her eyes adjusted to the darkness and she gestured towards Wilma to move forward.

For something that was obviously important to her superiors, meaning it was valuable, it was left unguarded. Tonks was instantly on her guard. Something was suspicious about this whole set up. She took a moment to change her hair from brown to blonde, shortened it slightly, and dulled her eye colour. She wished, not for the first time, that she had the ability to change her clothing too, but beggars can't be choosers.

It, whatever it was, was lying on a cylindrical pedestal, a single light hanging from a rusty chain overhead. It omitted a pulsating glow that made her reluctant to go near it.

Wilma made as if to pick it up, but Tonks ran into her and pushed her to the floor before she could touch it.

"Are you dotty?" Tonks hissed. "This thing is obviously important with absolutely no guard detail. Doesn't that strike you as odd? There have to be complex hexes and curses placed over it. If there's one thing old Mad--Eye Moody always told me it was that you can never be too careful."

Folding her arms across her chest, Wilma looked disgruntled. "This Moody you always talk about, he is your mentor?"

"I suppose you could say that," Tonks answered grimly, preparing to exercise every anti-jinx she knew. "He was also the most paranoid bugger you could ever meet."

"What are you doing here in Australia anyway?" Wilma asked as Tonks fired off spells towards the glowing whatever-it-was.

Tonks rolled her eyes. Wilma made no secret of her dislike. She apparently disliked anyone who had "special talents." Tonks, in return, used her Metamorphmagus power whenever she had the chance. The Sydney witch also apparently took issue with any member of the team who was not originally from Australia. Her eight years in Melbourne were apparently not enough to earn Wilma's respect.

"Needed a job," Tonks grunted, as her last spell rebounded off an invisible shield and came flying back towards her. Fortunately it did no damage, although her brown hair fell down into her face. "The Aussie Magi Corp seemed like a good idea."

"And you couldn't get a job in your own country?" Wilma persisted.

"I needed a change of scenery as well. Isn't much call for Aurors anymore." She really didn't want to think about the reasons she left England. She had buried them long ago. "You know, this might go faster if you helped me instead of interrogating me."

Suddenly Wilma thrust out a hand and grabbed Tonks's wrist. Astonished at this random act of violence, she struggled to pull away, but Wilma pointed toward the pedestal. There was a crack and metal bars floated in and out of visibility until they fell to the ground with a loud clatter.

"Bonzer," she said reverently. "Now that's somethin' special."

"Why, yes, I did do a brilliant job," Tonks said loudly and cheerfully. "So kind of you to notice."

The key, which was hardly key shaped to Tonks's trained eye, had stopped glowing. Taking this as a sign of safety, Wilma bounded towards it and picked it up, her eyes shining.

"Lordy. The boss'll love this."

"Come on," Tonks urged, looking nervously over her shoulder. "Let's get out of here."

She headed toward the compound door, but stopped short when she saw shapes prowling around outside. Turning back to warn Wilma, Tonks found herself face to wand with the witch in question.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, her eyes darting around. All her exits were blocked. "Have you gone completely barmy?"

"No," Wilma answered coolly. "I'm just doing my job."

The answer hit Tonks so quickly she wondered how on earth she could have missed it before.

"You don't work for the A.M.C., do you?"

"That bunch of incompetent idiots? Of course not." She reached out and patted Tonks's cheek heavily.

"Don't touch me," Tonks snapped. "So you've been a traitor the entire time. Waiting until the opportune moment, have you? Scum."

"Don't take it so personally, Nymphadora." Tonks scowled. "You're hardly the first partner I've betrayed. I've made a lucrative career of it. I join organisations when they're about to go after something I've had my eye on, using my excellent recommendations from former employers, of course, let my new partner do all the dangerous work involved, and then take it off their hands. Of course it's always a tragedy when I return alone and ask for some time off to grieve...but it is such a lethal line of work."

"And people call me a chatter-box," Tonks muttered.

Wilma's smirk began to bother her. She felt like such a twit. She wasn't a girl fresh from the Auror's Academy anymore, she should have known better! She could only imagine what Charlie would have said if he could see her. She often thought about him as sort of her inner critic. It was bloody annoying. This never would have happened to Charlie.

~~~

Charlie Weasley had his back to the stone wall, he was heaving and clutching his side where he sported a broken rib, blood oozed from a cut over his right eye, and there was nowhere to go but up.

Trouble was, up was not an option.

"Look, mates, can't we discuss this?"

"We're sick of your meddling, Weasley," Jeto snarled. "We're done with your excuses."

Reflecting on his current situation, Charlie came to the conclusion that he hadn't gone about his latest assignment very well. Jeto and his boys were a rough and tumble bunch, prone to killing before interrogating. Pirates, he really hated pirates.

In exchange for allowing him to continue with his long term work with dragons, Charlie owed the Romanian magical government a few favours. One of those favours was to do a bit of policing, a job he often regretted accepting.

The side job took him out at all hours of the day, left him physically and emotionally drained, and often placed him in life-threatening situations, such as this one. He was not particularly bad at it, it was just very difficult.

He wouldn't have been cornered by Jeto, whom he had been tailing for billywig smuggling, if his globe hadn't gone off. The glass sphere emitted a blinding blue glow and Katelyn's ear-piercing wail, which could be seen and heard for kilometres. He'd forgotten to set the damn thing to vibrate.

"Look," he said, returning to the present. "My daughter needs me. This really isn't the best time."

"You used your brat as an excuse last time," Jeto leered. "How many times do you think I'm going to accept that?"

"She only has me," Charlie growled in return. When it came to his daughter, nothing else mattered. "And I don't care if you buy it or not. I'm not about to abandon her."

"How do you propose to get away?" Jeto sighed. "Weasley, I'm not really in the habit of making orphans, but you bother me. You killed my cousin just last week and toted dear Aunt Sally off to prison."

"It was kill or be killed," Charlie bared his teeth in a grin. "And dear Aunt Sally was selling Amphora powder to children."

Jeto shrugged as if to say, 'So what?' "I hope you kissed your daughter before you left the house."

"Shut your mouth, you arse," snapped Charlie between heavy breaths. "My daughter is the reason I put filth like you away for good."

"Really?" Jeto said, not the least bit interested. "But we always manage to get out. Filth like us have excellent connections. And our nefarious business deals net us a lot of money which often comes in handy bribing government officials."

"You and your men don't conduct business, you ruin lives."

"Why such the interest in what we do, anyway? Could it have to do with Sofiya?"

That was the final straw. Ignoring the fact that Jeto's men outnumbered him greatly and he couldn't reach his wand, he simply pulled back and then punched Jeto in the gut. In the half a second while everyone tried to figure out what the hell had just happened, Charlie took the opportunity to kick and punch his way through the gang until he reached the outside. Then he broke into a run.

His run was somewhat impaired by all his injuries, but assuming correctly that he had perhaps a minute's head start at most, he refused to stop and catch his breath. He just had to make it back to Constanta and pray he didn't run into any of the region's hungry vampires. Looking the way he did they might mistake him for dinner. Jeto had been enough trouble for one night.

An avid outdoorsman, Charlie had never been happier to see the city's lights.

He decided that it was dark enough to risk Apparation, now that he was so close to home. He only hoped he wasn't too tired.

Arriving safely in the living room of his small bungalow, situated on the outskirts of the city, Charlie released the breath he had been holding and collapsed on the sofa. Wincing, he took out his wand and messily healed some of his cuts and bruises so as not to alarm Katelyn or his sister-in-law Ionna. He'd have to go to a Healer in the morning.

This task having been completed, he tiptoed into the back room where a single lamp was lit. Ionna was dozing in a rocking chair with three--year old Katelyn on her lap, also asleep. Apparently whatever crisis that had caused his globe to go off had passed. He picked up his daughter and placed her gently in her bed, kissing her on the forehead and smoothing back her red curls. Then he gently woke Ionna up and escorted her to her room where she fell back asleep almost immediately.

He placed wards around both their rooms just in case Jeto took it into his head to follow him home and went into his bedroom. Several people waved to him from inside their picture frames, others were already dozing. Charlie smiled at the picture of his late wife Sofiya, curled up on the grass. Charlie missed her terribly. They had only been married two years and she was one of two women he had ever loved. The other was a long forgotten memory.

Charlie crawled into bed, moaning softly from the pain, and fell asleep, not in the least comforted by the fact that he had to repeat the charade again the next day.

In his exhaustion he failed to notice the note propped up against his mirror.

~~~

Nearly a hundred people waved and smiled at him from the two pictures on his bedside table as he lay there in bed. He watched as the blurry digital clock turned to twelve.

Harry Potter was twenty five.

Funny

, he thought, my birthday used to be widely celebrated. My friends, at the very least, used to send birthday cakes and cards. People used to care.

It was his own fault, he knew, that no one had bothered to acknowledge his birthday. He barely acknowledged the changing years himself. He didn't speak to anyone, he didn't see anyone, hell, for all he knew, everyone thought he was dead.

He smiled grimly to himself. When he had exiled himself, that was how he wanted it. He wanted to forget, and he wanted everyone to forget him. Well, he had got half of his wish.

The pictures were there to remind him because he discovered shortly after his disappearance that he didn't really want to forget. He needed the pain that the memories caused to keep him sane. It was all that stopped him from getting a thousand cats and calling it a day.

His parents, Remus, Sirius, Gideon Prewett, Marlene McKinnon, Edgar Bones, Frank and Alice Longbottom, and all the rest were toasting one another and appeared to be getting rather smashed in the one photograph. Harry blinked back the tears that always threatened to fall when he looked at those who died before he even had a chance to meet them.

In the second picture frame, jostling one another to get a good look, was the Order as it was when he, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Neville, and none other than Luna Lovegood were initiated. They had insisted, despite not being wanted. The existing members of the Order were dead set against it, but Dumbledore had intervened. They had earned it, he said. They had risked their lives and survived. That made them worthy. It had been Ginny's idea. She said she wanted proof of that monumental day. So they all gathered, the last time they would all be together, and the picture was taken.

He swallowed back the wave of anger that washed over him every time he looked at all those smiling faces. Pain and anger, this was what rescued him from insanity. It was like medication. He looked at the pictures every morning and every night.

His therapist declared it an unhealthy obsession and then prescribed Prozac. He stopped seeing a therapist.

If Harry had had any friends in the Muggle world, or even any friends left from the wizarding world, they surely would have thought he lost his mind. Oh, poor, Harry, they'd all say. He never really got over it. It started to eat him up inside. Between you and me, I think he's a bit barmy. But, shush, we mustn't talk about the poor dear.

But Harry didn't have any friends.

He kept a notebook full of Daily Prophet clippings. Every article about Jack Barnes was neatly cut out and pasted in. Owing to the man's constant presence in the paper, the notebook was quite thick. Harry never opened it except to paste a new clipping in.

"Happy Birthday to me," he murmured, half-asleep.

The time was nearly upon him. He just had to wait it out. And Harry Potter was good at waiting. He had been practising for seven years.

~~~

The owl flew about in confusion, unable to find the recipient of the letter it was supposed to deliver. It didn't know where to start. Finally after much hooting and frazzled flapping, it returned to its owner.

Ginny sighed as her owl dropped its letter back in her hands. It had been a forlorn hope, she hadn't really expected it to work. It hadn't worked in the past seven years, she didn't know why she even bothered to try anymore.

Actually, she knew exactly why. She did it because she needed to cling to the hope that one day her owl would fly back, not with the letter she wrote, but with a response.

The golden script glittered in the darkness as Ginny stood out on the third floor balcony. The wind rustled her night-dress and tossed her hair about. She brushed her fingers over the card in a fleeting caress before returning inside.

Happy Birthday, Harry...