Weapon

Nymphadora Tonks had the watch. It was precisely 2:32 PM on Sunday the twenty-second of June. She was extremely bored.

Why couldn't she have had any watches last summer? When the kid was being attacked by dementors and wandering the streets at night like acting like a hooligan? Even before she asked the question she knew the answer.

Last summer the Order had nobody to spare. Every available Auror in the Order was needed to take missions that might involve skirmishes, while people like Dung watched the kid. It didn't take much skill, as it was impossible for Voldemort or his Death Eaters to gain access to number four, Privet Drive.

And this summer, what with the Ministry cooperating (and acting like they had been fighting Voldemort all along), there were many more experienced Ministry Aurors to take on the more challenging jobs. Consequently, she spent most of her time with people like Dung. Doing things like stakeout on number four, Privet Drive.

And again, she really wouldn't have minded stakeout if the kid did something interesting every once in a while. It just wasn't healthy for him to get thinner and thinner, paler and paler, until he looked like a green-eyed You-Know-Who.

Of course, certain recent events had to be taken into account: it had only been a month ago that Sirius had died. He had to be pretty broken up about that. And then there was the matter of that prophecy Dumbledore had been stupid enough to keep from him. (She wasn't supposed to know about the prophecy.) And, of course, after that night at Grimmauld Place where Sirius had said that "Harry had faced more than anyone in the Order, and then some."

After she'd heard that, she just had to figure out all that stuff, according to Sirius, that he'd faced. And it sure was a lot. Lupin had explained the whole thing, each year's adventure. She'd certainly never had that much fun at Hogwarts.

So if the kid could handle all that, then of course he'd be able to bounce back from this. He'd rally; he'd throw off his moping mood after he saw his friends again.

He had to. He was, after all, the kid who was going to defeat Voldemort. The only problem was, right now he wasn't looking, or acting, too much like it.

His days were going by at a crawl as they happened, but as a blur in retrospect. He supposed that was because he wasn't doing anything during them. Nothing was happening. Exactly a week of summer had gone by. It was Sunday the twenty-second of June, and he was bored.

That first day of summer seemed to have paved the way for a good many to come, and each followed the same mold. He could have recited it to anyone who asked.

First he spent the night being terrified by his nightmares.

Then he got up late and either ate what was left of the Dursleys' food, or made some more for himself. Cleaning and putting away all the dishes went, as Aunt Petunia had so kindly put it, without saying.

He didn't like to go out into the bright sunshine in the morning because the glaring light conflicted with his sorry little mood. Instead he retreated to his room. There he pondered the meaning of his life, the BLOODY ANNOYING PROPHECY, and reviewed his last year at Hogwarts in general.

Mostly the prophecy, though. It was like his mission in life had been decided for him. Sure, he hadn't really thought about what he would do after Hogwarts, but it was the principle of the thing. He had the right to decide what to do with his life, and that right had been taken away.

Instead of having a fun, wet, normal happy summer like a normal teenager, he spent his summer in the twilight of his room. Bloody prophecy. Bloody Trelawney who made the bloody prophecy. Bloody Voldemort who was going to kill him, according to the bloody prophecy.

Bloody prophecy.

After that, he went down for his meager dinner, during which Uncle Vernon talked loudly about Dudley's boxing accomplishments that particular day, as if hoping the neighbors were listening with their ears to the door.

And each night after dinner, he transformed into a dragon Animagus and torched the Dursleys' house.

Ha, ha.

He had fantasized about that after a meal of strained cabbage and Uncle Vernon's dark hints about exactly what someone like Dudley could do to someone like Harry. What he actually did every night was go up and mope some more before falling into a tortured and fragmented sleep.

Each morning of the past week he had looked successively worse. If he had looked like crap the first day of summer, by now he was that same crap chewed thoroughly by very angry cats and hocked up as a number of odd-shaped hairballs.

Suffice to say the lack of food, sleep, light, and exercise were taking their toll.

Right now it was exactly- he checked his clock- 2:34. He was still lying on his bed dressed in a T-shirt that hung to his knees and pyjama bottoms. He was motionless. All his fears, hopes, angers, thoughts, and daydreams had petered out to a monotonous boredom.

He needed something, anything, to break his routine. He didn't have enough willpower left to do it himself. All the willpower he possessed had wilted like Aunt Petunia's cabbage dinners during the past week.

All he could do now was think. And even that he did slowly and lethargically. He was going to go crazy if he kept this up and he knew it. But he couldn't stop it. He just kept replaying Sirius' death, Cedric's death, Voldemort's eyes, all the most distressing memories he had. Maybe this was what being in Azkaban was like.

He wondered about Voldemort more now, too. At least the Prophet was bringing some news, corrupt though it was. Everything shown in the magical newspaper was headlined, "Ministry Chalks up another Win!" or "Ministry of Magic Pushing You-Know-Who Back!" There was no way every battle was won with no casualties, and there was no way Dumbledore regularly made foolish, shortsighted decisions as shown in the paper.

Basically, Fudge was pretending now that he was defeating Voldemort with the wizardly might of his government and Dumbledore was trying to help in a clumsy sort of way, and that they only put up with him because he had so kindly alerted them to You-Know-Who's return. They had even gone so far as to say once that if only Dumbledore had cooperated and given them the message sooner, lives could have been saved.

He wondered if this was an improvement over last summer's editions. At least the public was alerted now. That was a good thing.

And speaking of Dumbledore, what was he planning with Harry this summer? Shall we keep him completely out of the information loop? Shall we stop his mail, send dementors after him, or just forget about him until he returns to Hogwarts?

Or. . . . shall we station an armed guard around his house to keep an eye on him?

At once he saw a possibility. Anything to break the monotony would be great, but this would be even better. The Dursleys were out again, so the timing was perfect. He quickly pulled on some black shorts, changed his shirt, and hurried outside.

From inside Moody's invisibility cloak, Tonks perked up. Something out of the ordinary. Finally.

"Hello?" he called into the glaring light. "I know there's somebody following me around right now, so could you please come out."

A bird twittered as it flew overhead, but that was about the only sound.

That was very strange. Dumbledore had to have someone trailing him; he was probably Voldemort's number one target!

Still sitting on the stoop invisibly, Tonks considered. Harry already knew the Order was watching him, obviously, but what if it was an ambush? What if there were Death Eaters waiting around until the Order member on guard materialized to attack them? Thinking hard, an idea came to her.

She quickly danced inside the half-open door, ripped off the cloak, and concentrated very hard on a horse-toothed, long-necked, bony-faced woman. And when Harry turned dejectedly and shuffled inside, he came face-to-face with a livid Aunt Petunia.

He jumped about a foot in the air and yelped as Tonks hissed, "Who the blazes were you talking to out there, boy? If you've got any freaks over here I should know it!" She yanked open the door and peered suspiciously left and right.

"Aunt-Aunt Petunia, I didn't know you got home," Harry offered in a strangled whisper.

"I didn't," she responded sharply.

"But then- what? I don't really understand what you're saying."

His puzzled look grew even more puzzled, almost frightened, as his Aunt Petunia's nose shortened and widened, its nostrils flaring out and turning pinkish. She now had the nose of a pig.

"Wotcher, Harry."

She laughed at his shocked face dropped his chin onto his chest. "You should have seen your face! It was priceless!" she cackled. "Jumped about a foot in the air, you did."

Then he smiled. "Tonks!" he whispered enthusiastically. "So you're the guard today?'

"Guess so," she replied in Aunt Petunia's strict voice, with much less enthusiasm than he had shown.

"What's wrong?"

"Well blimey, Harry, you haven't been up to much, have you? I've been on duty most of this week and I have been bored out of my mind. By the way, I reckon a Dreamless Sleep potion could be useful for you."

"You're not the only one who's been bored."

"Well, why didn't you do something, then? I have to follow you around. You're free to do whatever you want."

Harry's eyes darkened dangerously. "Free, am I? Free to do whatever I want?"

You're not supposed to know about the prophecy, you're not supposed to know about the prophecy, you're not supposed to know about the prophecy. She couldn't let on that she had an inkling of why Harry Potter was so important.

"You aren't locked in your room, are you? Relatives haven't shut you in the cupboard? Not assigned to follow some kid who sits in the dark in his room all day, are you?" Her anger was starting to show slightly as well. She wasn't angry at the boy. She was angry at Dumbledore, she was angry at Kingsley, mostly she was angry at herself, but she was not angry at Harry.

Harry had opened his mouth with an angry retort of his own primed and ready, but the sound of the Dursleys slamming their car doors and heading up to the house stopped it before it fired.

Tonks nearly ripped the invisibility cloak in her haste to get it back on, and knocked over a vase with her elbow as she turned this way and that to get her arm in. Quickly casting a Repairing Charm, she had just managed to pull her wand back behind the silvery threads before the door opened with a sight Harry had been longing to see for quite a while.

Uncle Vernon was helping Dudley totter up the steps

Dudley looked like he rather needed the help. He had a black eye that was actually more of a sickly green color, he was bleeding from the mouth, and he seemed to be walking strangely.

Ah, that would be it. He wasn't walking at all, he was being carried by Uncle Vernon with his toes dragging on the ground. Harry smirked but held the door open for Aunt Petunia, was hopping from foot to foot and babbling on hysterically about calling an ambulance.

Harry could surmise from the boxing shorts Dudley still wore and the fact that he seemed to be out cold that he'd lost a fight. Either that or he'd been trampled by a hippogriff.

His aunt and uncle didn't seem to realize he was there, and as he shut the door behind his panicking Aunt Petunia he heard Uncle Vernon roaring about how could they not have a decent medic at the gym, because boys were injured all the time and as soon as they got Dudley to the hospital he was going back there to make the bloody f-ing owner of the bloody f-ing gym pay through his bloody f-ing nose!

Harry found it amusing how Uncle Vernon didn't realize that by suing the gym for tremendous amounts of money he was only making it even more difficult for its owner to hire a medic. Some people over in America on the eastern seaboard in New Jersey in Burlington County could do to remember that as well. He trudged through the hall and sat down in the light-spangled kitchen, watching with interest the procedure of throwing water over Dudley while trying to call an ambulance. Neither seemed to be working, because Aunt Petunia was still hysterical and Uncle Vernon didn't want to use cold water because he'd heard it stained.

He probably could have woken Dudley up by magic, but the stupid lump was unconscious, so who was he to complain? He heard a siren wailing out on the street. Either Aunt Petunia had spoken a coherent sentence or the police had actually used one of the phone-tracking devices they employed.

Harry held the door open again as the still-unconscious and now dripping Dudley was hustled through the door by Uncle Vernon with Aunt Petunia worrying along behind. Carefully attempting to slam the door on the end of her dress, Harry turned around with a carefully constructed neutral expression.

He burst into laughter. The stupid Dursleys! Hurrying in, scurrying out, Dudley unconscious, Aunt Petunia in tears- it was all too much! He wasn't the only one laughing.

Of course, the second he stopped laughing his mysterious fellow did, as well. There was silence once more. Very off-putting silence, it was. Not the type of silence people resumed their laughing into.

It had to be Tonks. She was obviously still here and she would laugh at something like that. So why was she hiding?

He opened his mouth to ask the empty house why she had to hide, but a strong hand covered in cloth clamped over his mouth. He fought it, swinging an elbow around into something soft and hearing a small "oomph" in reward.

"Oy, idiot, you could've killed me!" wheezed a pained voice from the region of the floor.

Errrr, whoops. He'd forgotten for a moment there.

Comprehension was finally dawning in the lunatic's face, Tonks noted with detached interest. There actually was a little thing called operational security that prevented her from just kicking her heels up and throwing a party. He didn't seem to realize that there could be Death Eaters just waiting around for her to give a sign of where she was.

"Listen, you've had Auror training, right? Could you tell what was wrong with Dudley? Can you tell when he'll-"

Tonks overrode his voice with a quiet whisper that didn't allow a word in edgewise. "There could be Death Eaters out there just waiting for a sign of where the current Order member is and if they find out they'll attack in an instant. Then I'll be dead, and you might be too."

The classic ohhhh expression was forming on Harry's face, but he wiped it off and shrugged nonchalantly at the section of floor he had just been talking to. As he started up the stairs, however, he spoke quietly out of the side of his mouth.

"It feels kind of weird, to have somebody watching you all the time."

He could see the eye roll she had to be pulling right now as she replied exasperatedly, "Not all the time, stupid. I only need to be near you at all times. Not even in the same room. I don't come into the loo with you, Harry."

He flushed slightly but remembered to keep his head straight forward, pretending he was the only one in the house. She smirked and went up to sit on the roof, her favorite vantage point.

The sky was clear and the stars were bright, so Harry didn't hear from Tonks again. The Dursleys didn't turn up, either, so he was completely undisturbed in his room. As always.

Deciding to have a few rounds of blowing up aliens on Dudley's computer, he logged on to the brand new Microsoft and dialed up the internet. This wasn't the first time he'd used the thing; he often shot down enemy spaceships when the Dursleys were out.

Putting off Mega-Mutilation Part VII for the moment, he typed his own name into the little search box in the corner. Websites flooded in to fill the screen, and he caught glimpses of their summaries as they piled up. Interestingly enough, there seemed to be a book out about a fictional boy named Harry Potter. It was intriguing. However, he heard alien guts calling to him and closed the web to boot up Dudley's game.

And across the world, members of the Statue of Muggle Secrecy heaved a sigh of relief. One of these days, they thought, the wizards will find out how much we really know.

But Harry, oblivious to the millions of people studying his life and happily engrossed in laser cannons and splatters of blood, didn't even realize that he felt a whole lot better once he took his mind off things.

A good four and a half hours later, when it had gotten dark and he had fed himself more of his favorite food (you guessed it, bacon) in a BLT, he begun to settle into bed. Thoughts chased each other around in a normal, comforting, sleepy sort of way, but along the well-worn track of falling asleep something was niggling at him.

Confronting the problem in his head with a tipsy, wobbly focus directed towards the offending thought, he attempted to determine what exactly was bugging him. After a frantic scuffle in the dark corridors of his mind, it was revealed to be Tonks' words to him earlier that day. What had she said? Something about he was allowed to do whatever he wanted. There really wasn't anything required of him at the moment, was there? There wasn't anything expected of him.

Now he was wide awake. So what did he want to do? He wasn't having much fun at the moment, that was for sure. Maybe. . . well, there wasn't much for him to do except wait. There was no magic available and nobody in a twenty mile radius wanted to be in the same room as the Potter hooligan. Blowing up aliens was. . . all right, but the glare of the screen hurt his eyes after a while. He massaged them now.

Fine, then. What did he want to do in order to pass the time until he want to the Weasleys and/or Hogwarts?

It was a new idea for him. He hadn't ever really thought what he wanted mattered, but, as Tonks had said, he was free. At the moment. Whatever he felt like, he could do.

Erm. . . he could always do homework. . . write to his friends. . . pound around the streets a bit. . . wow, he had a pretty pathetic existence during the summer, didn't he?

His thoughts spiraled downwards and he fell asleep.

Dudley still hadn't returned from the hospital the next morning, and Harry was glad. It wasn't that he hated him, but it gave him a bit more freedom around the house. Truthfully, he didn't care one way or the other.

So he got up early, stumbled into some clothes and dropped off the concrete steps of the Dursleys' porch with a lighthearted air. Somehow he could breathe deeper, his shoulders were lighter, and the air was crisper.

Well, the unusual crispness of the air might have had something to do with it being seven in the morning, but that was beside the point. The point was, he was feeling good.

So it was with relief that Mundungus Fletcher switched with Tonks for his next eight-hour shift and followed him down the street, taking care to aim a kick at one of "Figgy's damn cats," which were, in actuality, kneazles.

Not many people were around at seven on a Monday. Cars were starting up as the earliest businessmen went out on their daily commute, but Harry was well-dressed enough not to attract disapproving attentions from the early morning inhabitants of Little Whinging.

He could have skipped as he headed towards the park, but the worn soles of his trainers might have come off with any more friction than that of normal walking. They had been secondhand to begin with, and that was three years ago (Aunt Petunia, when forced to buy him something, liked to get it as large as was practical to avoid the necessity of doing it again for a while).

It was small comfort that his toes were finally reaching the ends of the shoes, because that meant they would be in pain until he finally got a new pair. He would have to buy himself some, possibly a pair that fit. He reached the park.

He kicked a few rocks and sat down on the new swing. The town had a bought new, nearly unbreakable set that appeared to have iron seats thinly coated with rubber. Almost an inch thick, the chains could pinch your skin right off if you held them wrong. Unsurprisingly, Dudley and his gang had already assaulted all of them. The one he sat on had borne the brunt of their efforts, but every one of the little fleet of six swings had stood firm. He doubted that would last the whole summer.

Morosely, he cast around for something to do. He remembered muddy Quidditch practices where Wood had taken the whole team for laps around the pitch. It was there that he really came to understand exactly how long 260 meters were (the diameter of a Quidditch pitch).

So, he hopped down off the swing and ran towards the woods. He ran as he always ran, because it seemed to work, and he usually went pretty fast, but by the time he reached the park he was really sucking wind. An generous observer could have said he was "sprinting, but with legs flying all over and arms swinging over the head." Panting, he stopped and put his hands on his skinny knees, which gave a much-more-heavily puffing Mundungus time to catch up. Harry would have heard him had it not been for the Silencing Charm Moody regularly renewed on his rather shabby cloak of invisibility.

This time Harry set off rather more slowly down along a path that led deeper into the woods. This was where the jogging population of Little Whinging seemed to go jogging, so there didn't seem to be any alternative place to run.

Mundungus, meanwhile, decided to Apparate every couple of meters to avoid the strenuosity of running. That was a big word he'd heard the bartender use yesterday. As a result, Harry heard an unusual number of unusual sticks snapping with a pop in the trees as he ran by.

Twenty minutes later, Harry Potter arrived home to an unlocked front door and a gnawing hunger. It was a very good thing the Dursleys hadn't arrived while the door was unlocked. Running for so long had left him with a horrible thirst, so he guzzled a glass of water out of the sink while he fried the remainder of the Dursleys' bacon.

Mundungus watched longingly. It had only been the thought of Dumbledore's wrath that kept him after the boy, all three long kilometers. And, of course, the thought of his next paycheck. Course, he was forever indebted to Dumbledore. But it never hurt to have a nice base income, without really doing much. He'd have to see if he could get a raise, what with this new running thing.

The old man would probably make some benign comment about how he was finally earning his wages, now, wasn't he? Harry didn't notice two pieces of bacon go missing off his pile.

After cleaning off the countertops, scrubbing his dishes, and restoring the kitchen to perfect order, Harry went upstairs to Dudley's room. After a good forty minutes on the computer (enjoyable for Harry, fascinatingly educational for Mundungus) he decided that was enough. And it was still only eight thirty.

So, he decided upon the old standby, and flopped onto his bed. Surprisingly, no new thoughts to ponder or wallow in popped up. All there was was a desire to be doing something else. He waited a few boring minutes, and then obliged.

Wandering around the house, looking for something to do, he spotted Dudley's boxing gloves scattered on the floor near the door. He picked them up and trotted into the basement. There, waiting for him, was Dudley's entire setup of weights, punching bags, and various other boxing equipment. He put the gloves on and started hitting things, and, for the first time that summer, realized that he was happy.

Mundungus wondered what type of boy this was that was only happy when beating the snot out of leather-bound sacks.