Not Your Savior

Harry's heart wrenched as he saw Lupin's face, now heavily lined with three more years of stress and troubles, pale in astonishment at his arrival. The werewolf's eyes stared into his brilliant green ones, disbelieving.

Harry now knew how showing up in a different time must have been like for his silver-eyed counterpart. So far, he had only seen one person that he knew in this alternate timeline, but one familiar face was enough. Things had changed. The Lupin of the past was ragged and drawn, but this one looked nothing short of desperate.

I guess it didn't work, Harry thought to himself, feeling miserable. This time was how the silver-eyed Harry had described it. Things were bad. They were losing. Voldemort was still alive.

And how was he going to explain all of this? His older self had vanished for a few minutes, and a younger version had taken his place. It wasn't exactly normal, and it probably wasn't going to help this Order of the Phoenix out too much. Harry knew his older self's powers were probably far greater than his own, what with the necromancer abilities, whatever those were. This timeline got the raw end of the deal in every way imaginable.

"Er, hi Remus," Harry said awkwardly.

Lupin strode forward, backing Harry into Sirius's room once again. He closed the door gently, as if trying to create silence in order to make up for his noise earlier, before speaking.

"He performed the time travel Portkey spell, didn't he?" Lupin asked, voice low and breathy. Harry wished he would stop staring at his eyes. Eventually he couldn't handle it anymore and looked away.

"Yes, and I took his place," Harry said. Then he remembered something. "My older self said to tell you to calm down, and to read the note on the desk."

Lupin stared for a moment more, then tore his gaze away to grasp a note from the desk. Harry joined him, watching as he unfolded the parchment to reveal a messily written letter:

To Remus,

I'm sorry I didn't tell you what I was doing, but you would have tried to stop me and I can't have that. This is the only way.

I have gone back three years in time to kill Voldemort at a time when it was still possible. I hope that you never read this, because if you are it means that things didn't go as I had planned. The Portkey spell may have created two separate timelines. I'm sorry if that's what happened. But I had to try this.

I have sent my sixteen-year-old self to your time to take my place while I take his. Please respect him as an adult, don't think of him as a child. I want him to take my place in the Order, age rule or not. Remember, he's the same person as me.

Please rescue Shea for me if he does not return in three days. He's a friend. I know many in the Order don't care about him as a person, but tell them this: Voldemort will use him if he can't escape, and that will not be good for anybody.

Don't stop fighting him, even if we're losing-

Harry wasn't done reading when Lupin crumpled the note up in a shaking hand. The werewolf looked down at him, and Harry fidgeted.

"This is all very confusing," Lupin said simply. Harry nodded in agreement. "And it didn't work."

"So what do we do now?" Harry asked.

Lupin hesitated, staring at Harry once again. "Your eyes may be the most obvious thing that has changed, but your voice is the most striking. The older Harry's voice is always soft. Soft and deadly. You're not quite there yet."

Harry was silent, unsure of how to respond to this. Lupin must have noticed his awkwardness, for he went back to the conversation at hand.

"We continue as if nothing has changed," he said.

"Because nothing has changed, really," Harry said.

Lupin smiled for the first time. "Yes, that's what the note said. You're the same person, just younger."

"Does that mean I'm in the Order?" Harry asked. Lupin frowned.

"We'll have to discuss that with the rest of the Order members, Harry," he said. "I think I trust the other Harry's judgment on this, but others will not."

"Why not?" Harry said, angry that they wouldn't trust either version of him.

Lupin sighed and turned away. Harry paused, worried that he had upset him somehow.

"You have to understand that the older Harry is the most powerful Auror--at least, he was the most powerful Auror while the Ministry still existed to hire Aurors. In fact, he's simply the most powerful wizard alive, except for Voldemort," Lupin said slowly. "When he gained some of Shea's abilities, he became...something truly terrifying. We thought our victory was assured the time he defeated Dumbledore in a sparring duel."

"I--He--can beat Dumbledore?" Harry repeated, shocked.

"When he was seventeen, yes," Lupin nodded. "But that's the thing, you're not him, even if he thinks you are." Lupin stopped to massage his forehead. "This is too confusing."

"But what does that have to do with anything?" Harry asked.

"We didn't allow the other Harry to be in the Order until his seventeenth birthday," Lupin said. "And even that was seriously stretching our rules."

"But I want to help," Harry insisted. "I mean, I don't want it to seem like you've lost an Order member, because he changed places with himself!"

"I understand that," Lupin said gently. "I just said that the others might not."

Harry went silent. Here he was, already acting like a child while he was trying to convince someone that he was mature.

"We should call a meeting and explain the situation," Lupin said, breaking the sudden silence between them. Harry nodded, and the two of them went downstairs to the kitchen.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

June 28, three years prior

Harry watched himself disappear in a glowing blue light. He hoped that he was doing the right thing. If not, he could always return using the same spell, but there was something finite about watching his younger self fade away three years into the future.

The room was silent now, except for the familiar creaking of the old house. Harry turned to Dumbledore, looking at the wizard that he hadn't seen in two years. Dumbledore's death had hit him hard. To see him alive and well again was almost overpowering. He started to wonder what it would be like to see Sirius again, but stomped these thoughts out of his head before they took hold. He knew it was for the best that Sirius remain dead.

"What will you do now, Harry?" Dumbledore asked. His blue eyes, so shocked at the arrival of a second Harry, then hurt and stricken after finding out that he had contemplated and attempted suicide, were twinkling behind his half-moon glasses like usual again. Harry had always associated that twinkle with a combination of mischief and knowing too much.

Harry clasped his hands behind his back and paced the room, thinking for a moment. He hadn't really considered his plans after the task of getting to the past time. Now he was capable of killing the Dark Lord, but how would he go about doing it?

"I think I'll pretend to be sixteen, at least for a while," Harry said, facing the older wizard again. "I wonder, though, if I can join the Order of the Phoenix in this time and take part in the fight?"

Dumbledore took a seat on the bed as he considered this. "You said you are an Auror?"

"The Ministry hired me straight out of Hogwarts," Harry affirmed. Then his shoulders slumped a little. "Not that the Ministry exists anymore."

"What happened?" Dumbledore asked, leaning forward.

Harry sighed heavily, the memories of yet another bitter defeat taking over. "Last year, it looked like we were making some progress in the fight. The Ministry was finally starting to take action, so Voldemort decided to destroy it."

"Destroy it how?"

"Blowing the underground complex up using a spell of his own invention and killing most of the workers within it during the day," Harry said impassively. Arthur Weasley and Alastor Moody had died that day.

"I see," Dumbledore said, staring at some random spot on the wall. "Tell me, what did he do after that?"

"What do you mean, sir?"

"Did he take over England? Did he have any form of organized power put in place?" Dumbledore clarified.

Harry shook his head. That was a puzzle that the Order of his time had been pondering ever since that blow. "No. He continued on as if everything was normal. The rest of the Order thinks this is because he just enjoys terrorizing people in a small group."

Dumbledore's all-seeing eyes met his own. "And what do you think, Harry?"

"I think he knows that an organized government is easier to take down from the outside or collapse on its own from the inside."

Harry watched as Dumbledore's bright gaze slipped to the ground, the same stricken look as earlier taking hold. Harry wondered if he had said something to upset him.

"You've grown up," Dumbledore said simply.

Harry paused, waiting for the old headmaster to say more. Nothing more was coming. "I suppose I have, yes."

"I am sorry that things have never worked out very well for you, Harry," Dumbledore said sadly. "I am, after all, responsible for most of it."

Harry wasn't about to deny this, but he didn't want to outright agree, either. He opted for silence. Dumbledore seemed to take this as a sign to continue the earlier conversation.

"How many people are you going to tell the truth?" Dumbledore asked. "The Order will not allow a sixteen-year-old to join. You know that, I'm sure."

"That's a good point," Harry admitted. Then he remembered the circumstances under which he had been allowed to join the first time around, in the future. "What if I could show them that I'm a powerful asset, even at sixteen?"

"How would you do that?" Dumbledore asked.

"Duel with someone, perhaps," Harry suggested. He couldn't contain a small smile. "Or I could duel the whole Order at once."

Dumbledore's beard twitched. "You're rather confident in your old age."

Harry inclined his head.

"I take it you took lessons from Shea?" Dumbledore asked, interested in how the future played out.

"I did. He's the best teacher I've ever had," Harry said. "He still teaches me, actually. I've only beaten him in a duel once, and we practice often."

"I see," Dumbledore said. "So what are you going to tell everyone about your new eye colour?"

"I was thinking we could tell them the truth, to an extent," Harry said. He had thought about this part. "That I tried to kill myself, and Shea saved me. In the process, some of his abilities were transferred to me."

Dumbledore was silent. "Why did you do that, Harry?"

Harry shifted awkwardly on his feet. "I'll tell you when I tell everyone else."

"Fair enough," Dumbledore said. "There is, however, a slight glitch in your plan. Shea isn't due to arrive until tomorrow."

"That's fine," Harry told him. "I can disguise myself until then."

"Well, if you can do that, you can disguise yourself indefinitely," Dumbledore suggested.

"I could," Harry agreed. "But this was actually a good thing to happen, from Voldemort's point of view. He underestimated me the next time we met, because I had a lot of health problems for about a year."

"Okay," Dumbledore agreed. "It sounds like you plan on telling Shea everything, as well, if he is to be included in this plot."

Harry nodded. "He'll pick up on my powers the moment he sees me, there's no point trying to hide the full truth from him. Plus, I'd like to continue my lessons from where I actually am, not from where I was as a sixteen-year-old."

"Very well," Dumbledore said. He stood up. "Is that everything, then?"

Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Everything, sir?"

"The arrangements for your plans for now, Harry."

"I suppose so, yes."

"Then you may want to don your disguise now, for we will be going downstairs to face the group," Dumbledore said, opening the door.

"Right," Harry said. He produced a case for contacts from his pocket, and Dumbledore chuckled.

"Somehow, I thought you were referring to a magical disguise, Harry," he said.

"Muggle methods work just fine for many things," Harry said as he took his glasses off and tilted his head back to insert the green-coloured lenses. "These are the kind with coloured lenses only, not prescription. How do I look?"

Dumbledore's beard twitched again. "Fine, if you plan on dueling Voldemort this evening. You may want to change into Muggle clothing. We're on summer holiday, remember."

"Right," Harry said, somewhat embarrassed.

Dumbledore stood outside the door while Harry found some clothes to change into. When Harry left the room and closed the door behind him, the headmaster said, "You should try and look more depressed or angry. That's all we've seen of Harry for the past few days."

Harry felt a fleeting pang at these words as he remembered one of the reasons he had come to this exact time. Suicide had not been a good idea.

"I'll try, sir."

Harry looked around in wonder as they descended the stairs to enter the kitchen. Everything was exactly the same as when he had left. The grimness of the walls, the dank character of the hallways...it was as if there was no passage of time at all. Right down to the portrait of Mrs. Black on the wall in the next hallway, which was now screaming at someone as they entered the house.

"Filthy half-breeds! Dogs! Blood traitors! In my house! How dare you!"

"This is getting old," Remus Lupin observed as he entered the kitchen. Dumbledore nodded for Harry to have a seat at the table. Harry did so, trying not to look like he was in shock, and more like he was angry or depressed. He wasn't a very good actor anymore.

"How did it go, Remus?" Dumbledore asked as he poured himself a cup of tea from a pot on the table and his own conjured mug.

"Not well," Lupin said wearily. He accepted a mug from Dumbledore with a nod of thanks.

"Harry, dear!" Molly Weasley's voice filled the room as she entered to confront Harry. "You haven't eaten all day! Shall I fix something up for you?"

"Er, no thank you, Mrs. Weasley, I'm fine," Harry said quietly, thankful that so far the past was exactly as he remembered it. Instead of acting, he could simply quote himself from three years ago.

"Nonsense, Harry," she said, as he knew she would. Mrs. Weasley donned her apron and pulled out her wand, setting pots and pans on the kitchen stove. "I'll just start dinner for everyone, then. It's almost five now, isn't it?"

"On the dot, Molly," Lupin said, sipping his tea.

"Remus! I'm so glad you're safe!" Mrs. Weasley said. The she looked down at Harry and seemed to refrain from asking more questions. Harry knew that in the past he had asked what had happened, but he didn't now. He couldn't bear to make Mrs. Weasley cry again after the same conversation.

My first change to the timeline, he thought grimly. Hopefully I can make a few more.

June 29

Harry didn't sleep well his first night in the past. He wasn't used to Ron's snores anymore. Sharing a room with him again after a few years was noisier than he remembered.

Harry arose early in the morning, after determining that he was not going to catch any more sleep. His wristwatch said it was eight, but the absence of light coming from underneath the grimy door told him that it was much earlier. He sat up in his bed and reached for his glasses on the nightstand, stopping midway when a jolt of pain shot through his ribs. He had completely forgotten about that injury, but there wasn't much he could do about it right now. And it didn't matter. It would heal on its own.

Harry dressed and glided out of the room in catlike silence to avoid waking Ron, as he was unsure of the exact time. He hadn't reset his watch upon arrival. He sighed softly as he caught sight of an ancient grandfather clock in the hallway below the darkened staircase. If that was right, it was only four in the morning.

The amount of sleep Harry managed to get wasn't too important anymore. He was used to catching one or two full nights of sleep per week, with the average night consisting of only two or three hours. His work in the Order kept him busy, possibly more so than everyone else. But to have the time to sleep and the inability to do so was still mildly disappointing for Harry.

He was almost to the kitchen to fix himself some tea when he heard low murmurs of conversation emerging from the room. Harry paused and hesitated just out of sight, completely silent and listening. It was Lupin and Dumbledore, and they were in deep conversation about something. He could feel the discontent within the room. He didn't remember this occurring in his own past, probably because he had been asleep. After a moment's internal debate, he decided that eavesdropping probably wasn't the best idea, and to this end he entered the room.

"I appreciate the offer, Remus, that's very generous of you, but I have my reasons," Dumbledore was saying. The old wizard looked up as Harry entered and quietly took a seat at the table. "Good morning, Harry. Whatever brings you down here at this horrible hour?"

"Couldn't sleep," Harry said, pouring himself a cup of tea. He stole a look at Lupin, wondering what he had interrupted. The werewolf was staring into his own mug, preoccupied with his thoughts. "And what about you, sir?"

"I'm just about to pick up your new teacher," Dumbledore said cheerily. Harry marveled at how the man's eyes maintained their blue sparkle all the time.

"And I'm still advising against bringing him here," Lupin said softly, looking up. His eyes held a quiet desperation. "Albus, you know what he is, you know who he worked for--"

Harry's cup almost fell from his hands as he registered what was going on. Lupin hadn't trusted Shea at first. His former teacher hid his emotions regarding others well, Harry mused. Most of the Order members were outwardly vicious to Shea in the beginning, and some still were, but Lupin had never taken part in that.

"I do know, Remus," Dumbledore said carefully. "It's possible that I know better than you do."

Lupin flushed slightly, chastised. But he continued, "I still think it's an unnecessary risk."

"You may think that," Dumbledore said, "but it won't change my decision."

Lupin shrugged and returned to his tea. Harry felt the awkwardness and resentment crackling in the air and decided to break the silence.

"Why are you picking him up at four in the morning, sir?" he asked solemnly.

"Because his plane is arriving just about now, Harry," Dumbledore said, standing up to leave. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

And he was gone. Lupin sighed and returned to his tea. Harry wanted to talk about this, but he knew he was going to stage his suicide today, and socializing wasn't a suicidal trait. He therefore drank his tea in silence.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

October 3, three years ahead

"Absolutely not!"

Mrs. Weasley's fist connected with the table on her last shouted word for more emphasis, if the point wasn't clear enough already. Harry squirmed in his seat.

"He's sixteen years old!" she protested. "Not even out of Hogwarts yet! And you want him to take our Harry's place in the Order?"

The familiar table of Grimmauld Place's kitchen, covered in a few more years of grime than Harry remembered, was currently surrounded by a few members of the Order of the Phoenix. Minerva McGonagall, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Fred and George Weasley, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, Remus Lupin, and the currently irate Mrs. Weasley were present. They had taken the situation surprisingly well, Harry thought. It was almost as if they were used to time travel and other strange phenomena. He was going to have to ask Lupin for a full description of the events of the past three years. But for now, he had other worries.

"Our Harry almost died today!" Mrs. Weasley shouted. "Even he can't handle You-Know-Who! I hate to send him into those situations, but he's the best we've got! And this younger version won't be able to take his place."

It stung Harry that Mrs. Weasley, the most maternal figure he had ever known, kept referring to his creepy older self as "our Harry." It was as if Harry didn't exist, or was an imposter--

But I am, he reminded himself. I'm not the all-powerful wizard they're used to.

"Molly," Lupin said calmly while Mrs. Weasley stopped for breath, "The nineteen-year-old Harry believes his younger self to be valuable to the Order, even if he's not as powerful as he is. He's still Harry."

"But he's a child," she insisted. She looked directly at Harry for the first time, then looked away immediately with a sob, her shoulders heaving.

Harry wanted to say something in his defense, but thought better of it. He didn't want to make himself sound immature again, like he had done with Lupin earlier.

"I agree with Mrs. Weasley's judgment on this," Professor McGonagall spoke from the other end of the table. Harry's heart sank. "We didn't let the more experienced Harry in until he was at least seventeen. Sixteen is far too young. And we cannot have Harry Potter get himself killed trying to do something that he isn't capable of."

"I don't know," Hermione piped up for the first time. She looked at Harry uneasily. "It's not like he's any less experienced than the rest of us. Yes, it's dangerous for him, but it's dangerous for us too. It always is."

Hermione had changed, Harry thought with regret. Her hair, formerly bushy and full of life, hung drab and unkempt. A pair of tortoise-shell framed glasses graced her face now, and a strange scar ran down her cheek. Not that Harry was one to comment on strange scars...

"This is just weird," Ron said into the silence. At least Ron was the same. He stared at Harry now. "I mean, I look at you, and it's like seeing my best mate again."

"Ron," Hermione hissed.

Harry blinked, suddenly feeling very awkward. Ron wasn't his best friend in the future? Was that what he meant?

"I think Harry was always good at dealing with You-Know-Who," Ron finished lamely, his ears beginning to turn red.

" 'Always good at dealing with You-Know-Who?'" Mrs. Weasley quoted, her wind coming back. "How many times has he nearly died, or been captured and--" she broke off.

"And what?" Harry asked, curiosity overcoming his desire to remain quiet.

No one answered him. Harry felt even more confused than he had been before.

"Well, he seems to be Harry-like enough for me," Fred put in.

"Right, inquisitive chap as always, our Harry," George agreed. "I think he should be in the Order."

"After all, what are we going to do with him otherwise?" Fred asked. "Lock him upstairs and tell him to plug his ears?"

The imposing figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt stood up from his seat, leaning over the table to give Harry the most intimidating stare he had endured yet. "I have no problems with the younger Potter joining. So long as he can defend himself. Expell-"

"Protego!" Harry shouted, standing with his wand out and Shield Charm cast before Kingsley could finish.

Kingsley sat down, satisfied. "I have no problems," he repeated.

Harry took a few deep breaths and pocketed his wand slowly, reluctant to leave it without his fingers safely clutched around it. "Is that really all my future self is to you? A weapon?"

Everyone was silent, until Hermione spoke, her voice quiet and childlike.

"No, Harry," she said. "You're our friend. But you're also our weapon. You always have been."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

June 29, three years prior

Harry found himself becoming nervous as the hours crawled by. The idea of reliving his suicide attempt, even staged and with Shea on hand if he was to actually succeed, was not appealing. He had his general plan in mind. He was going to inform Shea of the situation, then go to Sirius's room and lightly slit his wrist, just like he had the first time around. If things went the same way as they had in the past, Mrs. Weasley would be the one to find him--her sobs of grief and terror that he had heard the moment after revival were some of the reasons he was feeling nervous. It had been horrible to go through once, let alone twice, with full knowledge of what would happen.

It was now nine in the morning, and the kitchen was full of Harry's friends. Guilt crept into the edges of his mind. He had been so stupid at sixteen. He looked around at all the people around him, enjoying a hearty breakfast cooked by Mrs. Weasley. Ron and his brothers were chatting animatedly, while Hermione and Ginny were discussing something more serious. Even a few Order members were present, such as Lupin, Tonks, and Moody. All of them cared about him as much as he cared about them.

He sat in silence, reveling in the feeling of camaraderie in a time were things were not as desperate as they were to become. The fair mood in the room evaporated too soon.

The door to Grimmauld Place opened and shut, and the portrait of Mrs. Black, so mercifully quiet for the morning, began to shriek more loudly and more terribly than ever before. Her words ran together incoherently, until all that could be heard were plain screams.

Shea's here, Harry mused to himself. He looked up from his plate of toast to stare at the entranceway to the kitchen. Most of the room was doing the same. While they were all used to the painting by now, it had been a particularly violent outburst.

Dumbledore entered first, his tall wizard's hat scraping some dust from the top of the door. His beard twitched as he looked around at all the staring faces in the suddenly silent kitchen.

"Good morning," he said cheerily. "I see you've made kippers, Molly, I'd be delighted to join you for breakfast."

Harry felt the tension in the room relax, then return in full force as a stranger appeared next to Dumbledore.

He was broken, Harry thought in sympathy and shock as he watched his "new" private dueling instructor. He had forgotten what a wreck he was when he first came to Grimmauld Place. Already a head shorter than Harry, Shea Quin stood in a cowering manner to make himself even smaller, radiating fear of the wizards in front of him. His pale, gleaming silver gaze flicked around as if looking for possible exits. And behind him, his long, pointed tail flicked nervously from side to side.

"Ah," Dumbledore said, noting the change in the atmosphere. "This is Shea Quin. He will be staying with us for the summer. Why don't you sit down for breakfast, Shea?"

Quin made no response beyond a quick, shy nod.

And that was all Dumbledore said on the matter. He sat down next to Harry and helped himself to the plate of kippers, munching contentedly on a piece of toast. Quin sat across from the two of them, silent and apprehensive.

It was hard for Harry to see Shea like this. Shea had just come out of therapy for suicidal behavior himself, Harry remembered. To return to the country and people that had made him so miserable for the first half of his life must have been one of the hardest things he had ever done. His fist clenched as he thought of all the prejudice based upon old stories that faced him while he was with the Order. It wasn't fair.

Well, this time he won't think I tried to kill myself because I met him, Harry thought. This time, he'll know he has a friend.

The silence of the entire kitchen, save for Dumbledore's chewing, continued for another few seconds until Moody harshly broke it. "Why did you bring that thing here, Albus?"

Quin winced as if he had been slapped and stared at the table, dark brown locks falling into his metallic eyes. Dumbledore gently set his toast down and fixed Moody with an icy blue stare over his glasses.

"I would appreciate it if you could show some courtesy toward guests, Alastor," he said softly.

"Guests and monsters are two different things in my book," he continued in his growl of a voice, magical eye glaring back at Dumbledore.

"Monsters and friends are two different things in my book, as well," Dumbledore said.

Harry tried to catch Quin's eye, and succeeded when the necromancer looked up from the table in confusion. Harry knew from long experience that Quin's empathic abilities were so sensitive that they were often overwhelming. Shea was sensing Harry's sympathy and odd aura of power... the necromancer's own power. Their eyes met for a moment.

"And friends don't join the enemy's side in a time of war," Moody breathed, standing up slowly. "Because that makes them enemies, doesn't it, Albus?"

"Please sit down, Alastor," Dumbledore said patiently.

"I won't share a table with this filth," Moody said adamantly, limping out of the kitchen.

Everyone stared after him except for Dumbledore, who was back to his kippers, and Quin, who was staring at the table again. Hermione, Ron, Ginny, and all the adults excused themselves and hurriedly followed Moody out of the room.

Harry took an angry bite of toast, which was now cold after the long period of awkward silence. Across from him, Quin finally found the courage to speak.

"Albus, maybe I should go," he said softly. Harry started; he had forgotten that Quin had once possessed an American accent after living abroad for twenty years.

"I need you, Shea," Dumbledore told him as he buttered another piece of toast. "They will all accept you in time."

Quin seemed too upset to argue the point. He sat in silence once more, eyes occasionally flicking to Harry and back to the table. Dumbledore daintily wiped his mouth with a napkin conjured from thin air once he finished his meal and looked at Harry and Quin.

"Why don't you two get to know each other?" Dumbledore suggested, a twinkle in his eyes. Student and teacher stood up at the same time, both loaded springs from the tension of the table. Harry could also sense Quin's burning curiosity about his aura and odd feelings toward him.

"Okay," Harry said simply. "We can go to the drawing room."

Quin nodded and followed him, looking slightly lost and intimidated by the house. Mrs. Black let out another shrill scream as they passed before dissolving into sobs. Harry ignored her and led his instructor to the somewhat-recently-cleaned drawing room. He cast a Silencing charm on the door after closing it firmly and fastening the lock with another spell. They could not be overheard.

"You know me somehow," Shea said the moment Harry turned to face him. "And you're not a normal wizard. Nor are you an upcoming sixth year."

"All correct," Harry said, smiling. "I figured you would know in about two seconds."

"Okay," Shea said, still confused. "So what's going on?"

Harry noted how his shyness disappeared in the presence of a friendly person. A person whom Shea knew would not hurt him. It made Harry sick to think about what had happened to the little necromancer.

Harry sat down on a leather chair, releasing a puff of dust from the cushion to the air as he did. "It's complicated..." he said, and explained the whole situation.

Shea stood staring with those piercing silver eyes the whole time, his tail hanging motionless as he listened in awe. When Harry finished, Shea's mouth opened and closed a few times before he could find something to say in response.

"That is complicated," he said finally.

"You trust me on all of this, right?" Harry verified.

Shea tentatively stepped closer to him. It pained Harry to see and sense Shea's obvious fear of him. It hadn't been so apparent in the past, when Harry lacked Shea's empathic abilities. Harry's sense of others' emotions was not as overpowering as Shea's, but it was still present and sometimes helpful. Now was one of those "not helpful" times. Harry was used to sharing a special bond with Shea, an understanding. Shea was Harry's best friend as well as a mentor. Starting from scratch was both exasperating and sad.

"I think so," Shea said softly. "It makes sense. Well, sort of."

"Okay," Harry said, relieved. He had hoped Shea would go with this easily.

"Why did you tell me all of this?" Shea asked, tilting his head to the side.

Another pang. Harry sighed and decided to divulge the future some more. "In the future, I trust you more than anyone else. You're my best friend."

Shea blinked in amazement. "Really?"

Harry smiled at his innocence. "Really. Besides that, you pretty much figured me out after looking at me once in the kitchen. It was going to be a task hiding from you. And I didn't see the point in hiding from you."

Shea nodded, eyes now shyly fixed upon the floor. "Can you-can you really kill him?" he changed the subject.

Harry nodded impassively. "I've hit him with the killing curse before. It didn't do anything, but I can hit him."

"And I taught you how?" Shea asked, looking up and meeting his gaze again.

"You did," Harry confirmed.

Shea bit his lip and looked at the floor again. "I feel kind of sick," he said weakly.

Harry sighed. Shea, the most powerful being he had ever met, the most capable person with or without a wand in a duel, the man, no, the child with more of an excuse than anyone Harry knew to be bitter and vengeful, was hopelessly pacifistic. He was absolutely incapable of hurting another living creature unless he himself was being threatened. Harry had watched his teacher cry for hours, and sometimes resort to cutting his own skin after cursing Death Eaters in battle. And he never killed. Shea had always been reluctant to teach Harry how to fight, for he knew that his instruction would one day lead to murder.

Harry sometimes wished that he could remain so sympathetic and innocent.

Harry let him feel sick for a moment before charging ahead with his plan to stage his own suicide. Shea didn't look up until he was finished, and he agreed to the plan with a tiny nod. Harry couldn't blame him for being unenthused. He wasn't looking forward to it either.

Harry and Shea went back to the kitchen so that the others would see them, and not suspect Shea of hurting him, as they were bound to do. Then Shea stayed while Harry traveled silently up the rickety stairs to Sirius's room.

Harry seated himself cross-legged on the stained wooden floor of the darkened bedchamber. He took a few deep breaths as memories rushed into his mind's eye, then pushed them away. He didn't want to cut too deep, just enough to make it look good.

He conjured a knife. It was just a simple kitchen knife. He knew from watching and trying to stop Shea that razors actually worked best, but the knife would do well enough. Harry rolled up his Muggle shirt's sleeve and dragged the blade along his flesh. Sharp pain ignited along his wrist, but it was nothing compared to other pains that he had endured. He watched with mixed satisfaction and disgust as his blood, black against the white of his skin in the dark, trailed down his hand and dripped onto the floor, a single drop.

It wasn't enough to kill him, but that would be the assumption when someone found him. Harry lay down, curling up slightly, and closed his eyes.