Harry Potter and the Summer of Discovery

Chpt. 7 Every New Beginning...

After the whirlwind that was his birthday week, Harry settled himself into a nice routine: Wake up, go to work, come home, fake his way through a conversation with Aunt Marge, hide in his room. These weren't called the 'Dog Days of Summer' for nothing. With the sun beating down on his back day in and day out, he finally had some color in his skin. With the fact that he earned his own wages and paid his own way came a very small bit of grudging respect from the Dursley clan. And with the lack of correspondence from Cho rearing its ugly side once more, Harry's frustration grew.

He had, in fact, written her a letter in return thanking her profusely for the beautiful charm and chain, detailing that holding it helped him to think his problems through, and stating that she should take all the time she needed to sort out her own problems though he asked (and he hoped he hadn't come off begging) that she try not to take too long. Harry offered whatever help she may need, wishing she would at least share some of her confusion with him since he had opened up to her last term and shared his worries about life. Girls, he thought bitterly, they want and want and want, but when it comes time to give... he continually stopped himself from completing this thought for fear it would cause resentment towards Cho.

Kat, for her part, was a wonderful companion. Sure they flirted back and forth, but both fully understood that a continuation of a physical relationship would not be in either's best interest. Besides, it made Harry feel good about himself that he was attractive to others of the female species, especially to someone who knew him only as 'Harry', not 'The Boy Who Lived'. It gave him self-confidence and helped him mature as a person rather than try to live up to the 'Legend of Harry Potter'.

Harry often worried for Kat, what with Xander's warning and Ron's advice continually ringing in his ears. He wondered if, or when, anything would happen, and had once inquired to Xander about the situation. Xander stated that "covert intelligence is always sketchy at best" and that "we've made what moves we can right now, so we can only hope that Voldemort is forced to move before he's ready". Harry reasoned that an attack two houses away from a decorated Auror wasn't in Voldemort's best interests right now and asked his friend to keep him updated on the situation. It would also give him time to decide what his own move would be.

So it was this that Harry was thinking about while he added new shingles to the roof of the house he and Mr. Tompkins' crew were working on when he heard a voice call up to him:

"Hey Harry, here's the rest o' the roofing nails yeh need."

It came from one of his coworkers. Had he heard right?

"Why're yeh starin' at me like that?" asked the one named Dale. "I got warts on my face or somethin'?"

Harry chuckled to himself as he realized he was staring. With one day left in Aunt Marge's visit (meaning one week left on the jobsite), someone besides Mr. Tompkins had used his first name at work.

"Nah, just lost in thought. Wanted to be sure I heard what you said."

Dale was good to work with. He was one of those fortunate individuals who could carry an entire conversation while working, yet his performance didn't slow down at all. From what little Harry knew about him, Dale had been jumping jobs with regularity; saving money for six months a year, and living frugaly made it last the rest of the year. Dale hated working in the cold (he had an arthritic knee as a result from a motorcycle accident years back), but he loved working with his hands so much that he'd taken to making incredibly life-like wood sculptures during his 'vacation'.

"So how d'you like the construction business?" Dale asked as he joined Harry on the shingling chore.

"It feels good to work with my hands," answered Harry simply. An elongated answer would probably result in another smashed thumb.

"I hear ya," said Dale. "I love joinin' a new crew every year. Yeh get ta know loads o' good chaps. I been lucky ta meet some right fine ones. Always willin' ta help yeh out durin' the slow times. It's like a blue-collar fraternity."

Harry smiled at the thought. This summer had been so much different from every other holiday he'd had since he started Hogwarts. He'd spent all of the others holed up in his bedroom, sitting idly while his friends had their vacations, parties, whatever they chose to do. He relied on Ron's and Hermione's owls to keep up on news in the wizarding world. Now, however, he knew people outside of the magical community, people who taught him more than a simple trade skill. He learned that determination and loyalty earned you more than any magic spell could muster.

"D'you know what I like best about working?" asked Harry as he lined up the last nail for the day. "Standing back and looking at the job when you're done. Knowing that you built this, seeing what you can do with just your hands and a few simple tools."

It was Dale's turn to smile. "Yer spot on, Harry. An' that kind o' satisfaction makes yeh want ta do a good number on the job."

Once they had climbed down the ladder and returned it to Mr. Tompkins' truck, the stood side-by-side to admire the work done on the house thus far. As far as remodeling, that part was finished as of today. On Manday they would begin the landscaping.

"Yeh ever heard o' Aristotle?" asked Dale.

Harry nodded. "From school. I know he was a philosopher in ancient Greece. But I don't know much of what he taught."

"He had a sayin' that's not as popular as it should be," said Dale. "He said 'We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act, but a habit'."

Harry was momentarily caught off-guard when Dale recited this quote. He'd dropped his loose use of English and had spoken in perfect, unbroken words that would have put any teacher at Oxford to shame. Pondering these words which were now burned into his mind by Dale's perfect recitation, he thought of his friends. Xander, who had to work and study so hard just to perform his magic. Hermione, who would rather be turned into a three-toed sloth before she had a less than perfect mark on her schoolwork. Ron, who refused to be unprepared when it came to a Quidditch match. Even Dobby, who took such pride in his work that he kept the fact that he earned wages hidden as much as possible.

"I see what you mean," said Harry. It tied in with something Dumbledore always said: You are what you choose to be. So if you wanted to be an extraordinary person, it took more than a good O.W.L. mark or a Quidditch Cup. It took excellence in even the most mundane tasks in life.

Dale took the tool chest from Harry's hand and loaded it into the truck. "Landscapin' Monday," he reminded Harry. "Remember, we can't start 'till the dew dries, so it's a ten A.M. call time."

"Right," said Harry absently.

"Have a good weekend, Harry," said Dale. "See yeh on Monday." Dale jumped on his motorcycle (his 'fatboy' as he called it) and rode off down the block, most likely to the pub for a quick nightcap as the crew was apt to do on Fridays.

Harry just stood there, waving at several other crew members, some of whom called him 'Harry', as they made to leave for the weekend. Mr. Tompkins came over to pay Harry for his week's worth, and Harry realized that he had received more than he usually did. He tried to give it back only to be waved off by Mr. Tompkins.

"You've earned it," he told Harry with a fatherly smile. "You've learned more in six weeks than most do in a year."

"Hey, handsome." Harry felt hands wrap around his waist from behind. "Put a shirt on before I lose my innocence."

Harry couldn't help but blush with Mr. Tompkins standing right there. "Before you lose your innocence?" He felt a strong pinch on his stomach.

"Excellent work this week, Harry," said Mr. Tompkins, who was grinning madly at Harry's embarassment. Thankfully, he left Harry to the teasing from the crew members within earshot and left the jobsite. Harry really wished he could hex them...

"So what brings you here today?" he asked Kat as he unceremoniously threw a shirt on.

"I just wanted to see what you do with your days," she said. "I can't believe you can do all this with just your hands and a few tools," she added, waving vaguely in the direction of the house.

Harry had to smirk at hearing his words repeated. "It's not as hard as it looks," he said dismissively.

"No, I'm serious," said Kat. "I'm really impressed. At first I thought you were a go-fer -"

"A gopher?" asked Harry.

"You know, the boss sends you to go-fer this-and-that," she answered. "So I sat and watched you today. I knew you were good with your hands," she added with a squeeze of the rear, "but to make something so tangible, something as important as a house..."

"You flatter me," said Harry. "But I didn't do it all by myself."

"Always so modest," said Kat, musing up Harry's already unruly hair. "Speaking of haircuts," which, of course, they weren't, "when was the last time you had one?"

"Never really thought on it before," said Harry. "It's never really been important to me."

Kat smiled mischieviously. "Leave it to me."

Kat grabbed his hand without another word and led him down Privet Drive, leaving Harry feeling more and more like a trained puppy with every passing minute. Anytime Harry would try to ask what she had in mind, Kat would steadfastly ignore his questions. She marched him past Xander's house without comment, though Xander (who had the hood up on his Aston Martin) did give Harry a covert wink.

"Um, Kat?" asked Harry. "My house is across the street. Why are we-"

"Hush," commanded Kat as she led him through the front door to her own house. What with the lack of a vehicle in the driveway and the fact that Kat had to unlock the front door, Harry knew that the house was empty. He only hoped that he wouldn't be forced to reject any advances from her part, and hoped even more that he would be able to should the situation arise.

Harry still couldn't tell what she had in mind after she led him upstairs (which momentarily worried him) and into the bathroom where she began running the shower.

"In you get," she ordered as she peeled his t-shirt off of him.

"Wait, what're you-" Harry tried to argue, but the shirt cut off his speech.

"Right," said Kat sarcastically. "Act like I haven't seen the whole package before. Now, get in. You're dirty and you stink."

"Thanks a pantload," said Harry.

Kat sighed. "Do I have to teach you everything about women? Seeing a man like you after a hard days' work is a female aphrodesiac."

"A man like me?"

"Yes, Harry, a man like you," she answered turning her back. "A man that most women would dearly love to shag stupid. Now, clean up so I can go calm down." And she disappeared.

She certainly has a way of making a guy feel good about himself, thought Harry. He decided to obey her orders, wondering the whole time if she were serious or merely stroking his ego. He came to the conclusion that he didn't really care much once the hot water relaxed his muscles and rinsed the marks of manual labor from his body. Whoever came up with the idea of hot showers should be given his weight in gold.

He wasn't sure how much time he spent just standing there, only knew that the water was steadily growing colder no matter how much he turned the faucet towards hot. Figuring he had spent enough time standing there and assured that he was clean and did not, as Kat had so charmingly stated, stink, he stepped out, thinking fondly of Hogwarts where he could perform a Warming Charm to keep the cool air off of his dripping back. Oh well, he'd have to rely on a simple towel right now.

Harry jumped at the loud banging on the bathroom door. "Are you done yet?" Kat called through the wood. "Or do I have to come in there and check for myself?"

"On my way out," he called back, giggling to himself.

"Good," said Kat as she marched into the bathroom. Harry had thankfully pulled his jeans on by that time, but still hadn't replaced his shirt. "No, leave it off," she ordered. "Let's go."

Once again, she led him by the hand that was feeling more like a leash today. In the kitchen, she had laid out another towel, some clippers, a pair of scissors, and some skin lotion. Ah, Harry thought to himself. I guess I get a haircut today. Kat pushed him unceremoniously into the chair, took the towel from his shoulders and began to vigorously dry his hair for him. He thought his scalp would rub off with the residual water.

"Easy," Harry begged her, fearing he was now bald.

"D'you always put up such a fight when someone tries to help you out?" she asked him. "This is the last time I'm asking you to keep quiet."

"I don't recall you asking a first time," he muttered, and was rewarded with a sharp smack on the back of the head.

Kat picked up the lotion and began to massage it into Harry's deeply suntanned shoulders. He immediately melted under her soft hands. He knew his skin was dry from the sun, but... had he known that lotion felt this good... Kat even took the time to work the kinks out of his shoulders, relaxing him even more. He was going to fall right out of the chair if he wasn't careful. 'Hogwarts should teach this kind of magic,' he thought to himself.

"Sit up a bit," ordered Kat.

Harry grinned stupidly, not realizing that he was hanging on to his seat with only the bottom half of his rear. The lotioning continued on his upper back, that meaty spot between the shoulder blades that always seemed to ache after work posing as the new target of Kat's magical hands. Now he was in danger of falling forward. Opening his eyes, he was surprised to find out that his nose was a hair away from banging onto the tabletop. His arms no longer worked properly, his shoulders seemed to hang on to his torso only by the thin tendons that connected them, his mouth may never again have the ability to form proper words.

He wasn't sure exactly when Kat took the time to rinse her hands, only that they were now a bit damp and weaving their way through the mop he called hair. Not that he cared, only that it was a bit disconcerting that he was losing track of time and movement. As far as Harry was concerned, Kat could damn well continue until the end of time...

"Hmm," she muttered to no one, "what should you look like... maybe here," she softly ran a finger over the top of his ear on each side, "shorten all this," her palm smoothed down the hair on the back of his head, "yes, that'll look wonderful..."

Harry heard the whirr of an electric motor and chanced a peek from the corner of his eye. Hmm, when did she bring out electric clippers, he wondered for a second. But that's as long as the thought lasted in his mind: a second. The attatchment coupled with the small vibration of the clippers was massaging his scalp, relaxing his mind as well as his body. It bordered on tickling; not the 'big-brother-torturing-his-little-sister' tickling, but the 'Good-Lord-I-hope-this-never-stops' tickling. Without concious thought, Harry began to moan along to the tune of the clippers.

"Do you need a box of tissues," said Kat with an immense amount of humor in her voice, "or should I tease you a bit longer?"

"Wha-?"

"I've only heard you moan like that once before," answered Kat. "And it had nothing to do with a haircut."

"Oh. Sorry." Deeply embarassed, Harry vowed to permanately shut off his vocal chords.

"Now," said Kat, more to herself than towards anybody, "what do we do with this..." She was now toying with the hair on top of his head, which she still hadn't trimmed. Kat circled Harry several times, moving the hair in a variety of positions, nothing seeming to satisfy her. "No, too Goth," she would say, or "nah, too preppy."

Again, Harry didn't care. He'd no idea that the head could be an erogenous zone. It was so relaxing, yet so... what was the word... stimulating. No, not that kind of stimulating. It touched nerves he never knew he had, relaxed him in a way meditation never could, cleared his mind better than the best memory charm.

"Yes, I think..." Kat continued to speak to nobody, "Yes... oooh, that'll look... yes," she confirmed a thought only she was aware of.

Picking up the scissors, she began to trim lock after lock from the top of his head. A rather large pile of hair began to form on the table, a bit larger than Harry expected. Hoping he wasn't misplacing his trust, he closed his eyes and kept to his vow of silence. Once again, the clippers began to mow down the mop of hair, though Kat moved them much slower this time around. Soon, she spent more time walking circles around Harry than she did trimming hair.

"Be right back," she said quickly, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Harry forced his eyes open, fearing he would fall asleep. Wow, that pile on the table had certainly added up in the absence of his sight. Rubbing his nose where a few hair clipping were bringing on a sneeze, he hear Kat coming back into the kitchen.

"No, you just lie back," Kat ordered, as though Harry were about to go on a mad rampage. He did notice, though, that she had a straight razor and a can of shaving gel. Praying that Kat was much more talented with a razor than she was at driving, Harry obeyed, trusting himself once again to whatever Kat had in mind.

Thankfully, Kat was aparently in no hurry to scrape the whiskers off Harry's face. She took her time applying the gel. In a weird sort of way, it kind of felt like a liquid form of minty bubble gum: soft, smooth, a fresh feeling if it was a very small bit sticky on his chin. Kat held the razor softly between her fingers and slowly traced the curves of his face. Granted, Harry was still trying to nail down his own technique, having yet to figure out how to maneuver about the shape of his face, but he was impressed nontheless with Kat's ability. Several times they locked eyes, causing Kat to blush momentarily before she continued to concentrate on his face.

"There," she said finally. "What do you think?"

Harry peered into the mirror she held in front of his now barely-recognizable appearance. The change was startling. His hair was very short on the sides and back, the top now brushed forward, just long enough to brush across the top of his scar. At first, he inwardly cringed at the sight of his scar being so visible, until he took a few moments to study his image. His scar wasn't being put on display, as he first thought. Somehow, Kat had managed to make it a minor detail yet an important part of his features, more or less like eyebrows. The scar wasn't something ugly that ruined his looks; it was a part of him. This was Harry Potter.

"I love it," said Harry in all sincerety. "It... wow... I didn't know you were so good... wow..."

"Are you sure you like it?" asked Kat, somewhat fearful that Harry was pulling her leg.

"Very."

Harry placed a soft, tender kiss on her forhead, which had the same effect on Kat as if he kissed her deeply and passionately on the lips.

"So," began Kat in a husky sort of voice, "what are your plans for tonight?"

"Mmm" grumbled Harry. "It's the last night of my Aunt Marge's visit, so I have to suffer through a semi-formal dinner at home tonight."

"Pity Poor Potter," teased Kat. Was she standing this close to Harry on purpose? "Is dinner really that bad for you to spend an hour or two at home?"

Harry 'hmph-ed'. Kat had just repeated Aunt Petunia's exact words from this morning. Visions of his last "Aunt Marge Dinner" passed through his head. He had to be careful tonight. He was certain the the Minitry of Magic wouldn't be so willing to let him slide this time.

He was forced to blink as his scar prickled a bit, which really caught him off guard. His scar hadn't so much as tickled in over a year, something he could never figure out since he was just face-to-face with Voldemort two short months ago. Harry blinked very fast, trying to shake off his fear more than the pain, which felt like nothing more than an insect bite.

"Harry, you okay?" Kat asked, looking into his eyes.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Something in my eye."

"Well, if you're really bored after dinner, I'll be around-"

"Do me a big favor," Harry cut her off. "Don't go any farther than this street tonight."

"You're starting to sound like my father," pouted Kat, stepping back from Harry.

"Please," said Harry, trying very hard not to sound desperate. "I... want to see you later tonight. Please don't be hard to find."

"Okay, okay," said Kat, holding up her hands. "I solemly swear that I won't get up to no good."

Harry smiled. These being almost the exact words that activated his Marauder's Map of Hogwarts (a map invented by his father and his friends during their school days which showed every secret passage in the school as well as any person withing the poperty limits), it felt almost prophetic that she would remain within his sights this evening. Now, if only he could figure out why his scar suddenly prickled...

"Thank you."

"For what?" asked Kat.

"Thank you for the haircut, and Thank you for the promise."

"It's nothing," said Kat. "Now off you get. Don't get into trouble on my account."

Harry left for home, sighing at Kat's last remarks. The haircut wasn't 'nothing', in fact, he was very fond of it. Her promise was more important than she may realize. And that's besides the fact that if his sense of foreboding was correct, he may well be getting into loads of trouble tonight on her account: he may have to defend her against whatever Voldemort was planning and may have to use magic to do it. Using magic outside of school was a big no-no, and using magic in front of Muggles was an even bigger one.

Deciding on his course of action before he realized he was thinking of it, Harry rushed to his bedroom to fire off a note to Sirius and Dumbledore. That is, until he realized that it will probably take Hedwig all night to deliver it, and he didn't have that kind of time. Now stuck with a half-written note, his frustration grew immeasurably. Why couldn't Uncle Vernon have a real fireplace like a normal person? After all, the Dursleys prided themselves so much on being 'normal'...

The rumble of a souped-up engine brought a brilliant idea to Harry. Of course. There was an Auror across the street, after all. Re-writing his note for Xander, Harry chided himself for not thinking of him sooner. He resigned himself to the fact that he had never had to call on Xander for something like this, it had always been Sirius or Dumbledore.

Harry added a small post-script to mention to Sirius or Dumbledore about the circumstances of his scar, tied the letter to Hedwig, and watched as she landed on Xander's shoulder. Feeling much more relieved when Xander looked up at his window, Harry waved a small 'thank you for being here'. He began to prepare himself for the upcoming dinner. It couldn't end soon enough.

* * *

"So what's this I hear about ruffians running about, unchecked, attacking the innocent eldery of this country?," barked Aunt Marge as she stuffed her face full of apple tart (her third serving of desert).

"I've heard they use some sort of glow-in-the-dark knives to threaten them," Aunt Petunia informed the dinner party. Aunt Marge's inability to keep food from falling out of her chowing maw forced a rather annoyed tone out of Aunt Petunia.

"Something like those glow sticks that those over-pampered, future-criminals-of-today's-teenagers use at their rove parties, I hear," said Uncle Vernon.

"Rave Parties," corrected Harry, and received a sour look in return for his helpfulness.

"I hear that they were kidnapped by aliens and are being forced to attack innocent old people," sputtered Dudley through a mouthful of chewed-up chocolate cake. Dudley's interest in boxing only served the excuse to eat double what he used to, in order to 'make weight'. With all of the food Dudley ate tonight, Harry would bet ten galleons that his cousin could make weight for two people. "When they attack, they speak funny, nonsense words as if something freakish might happen." He stared hard at Harry as he said these words.

Knowing he shouldn't take the bait but not caring much, Harry asked, "What, like magic words?" in a very innocent voice.

Aunt Petunia concealed a gasp with a cough while Uncle Vernon's fork slipped from his hands. "Don't talk nonsense, boy," warned Uncle Vernon. Well, the warning was more in his eyes than in his voice, but Harry knew he touched the nerve that he wanted to.

"You seem full of stories this trip," said Aunt Marge after an enormously disgusting an very un-ladylike belch. "First, you learn some form of manners, then you go out and get a job to pay your way, now you cut that unruly mop of hair off your head. What's next, boy, you gonna tell your uncle that you want to be a magician with all this talk of magic?"

Thanking all dieties for small miracles, Harry avoided an outburst of laughter when the doorbell broke up the conversation. Somehow managing an "Excuse me" as he left the table, he hurried to the door before anyone else could. Harry used the opportunity to suffer from a fit of silent giggles before the doorbell rang twice more.

"Good evening." There were two Muggle policemen at the door. "May we speak to the gentleman of the house?" More an order than a question, but Harry guided them into the Dining Room.

"Whatever he's done," began Uncle Vernon when he saw the official badges, "you can lock him up for as long as you can. A few good years of hard time will do him some good, let me tell you!"

The policeman who introduced himself as Sergeant Wallace raised an eyebrow. "You'll forgive me if I refuse to lock up an innocent teenage boy."

Uncle Vernon snorted something that could have been interperated as "Innocent my arse".

"We are asking everyone in the neighborhood if they saw anybody unusual in the area this afternoon," asked the cop named Miner. "Have you?"

"What's this about?" asked Nosy Aunt Petunia instantly.

"This is a neighborhood inquiry as to whether or not anybody was in this neighborhood this afternoon who shouldn't have been here," snapped Sergeant Wallace. Harry liked him immediately.

"No, Sergeant," said Uncle Vernon cooly. "We've been here preparing dinner for my sister's last night of holiday. Would you care for a plate?"

Miner took a step forward with a bright smile before Wallace cut him off with a terse "No thank you". Wallace flipped open a notepad and scanned across the pages for a few moments before speaking again.

"How well do you know one Mrs. Arabella Figg?"

Harry's head snapped around. Harry was always dropped off at Mrs. Figg's house whenever the Dursleys went on vacation, and ever since he had heard Dumbledore bring up her name a little over a year ago, Harry'd had his suspicions about the cat-loving neighbor.

"Has something happened to her, sir?" asked Harry in a concerned voice, hoping that none of his own curiosities were apparent.

"She's been attacked in her home this afternoon and is currently comatose," Miner blurted out, receiving a glare of reprimand from his sergeant.

Somehow, Harry had to find a way to see her. When in doubt, use your youth. "Please, sir, may I see her? She was my sitter before I started secondary school, and she always worried that her cats would starve if anything happened to her, and she always made me this really great choclate cake when I would stay there and I know I shouldn't have neglected a visit to her this summer but I got a job for the holiday and it's been ages since I've seen her and I want to make sure she's okay..." babbled Harry, forcing his voice to grow more hysterical with every word.

"Come with us," ordered Wallace, though there was no sympathy in his voice. "No, you all stay right here, I didn't ask you," he shot at the Dursleys, who all began to stand up from their five-times-empty plates. If he kept this up, Wallace just might be the coolest Muggle that Harry ever met.

Once outdoors, Harry could see that there were several more cops throughout the neighborhood talking to residents. What possibly could have happened to cause this type of sweep? Was Mrs. Figg the only one who was attacked, or has this happened before? Why didn't Harry pay more attention to neighborhood gossip?

Kat, who was keeping true to her promise to stay in the neighborhood, passed Harry on the other side of the road, and began to cross before a slight shake of Harry's head told her "Later". Kat replied with a look that said "Don't you dare forget" before continuing on her way home.

"You know her?" asked Wallace, whose keen eye noticed the exchange.

"Not very well," said Herry evasively. "She and her family moved in across the street about a month ago. We talk whenever we see each other, that's all." You know, this whole 'not telling the truth yet telling no lies' thing was becoming second nature... and quite a handy skill.

Finally, Mrs. Figg's house was in sight. Hoping to keep up the distressed child act, Harry began to speed-walk ahead of the policemen while randomly calling out "Mrs. Figg? Mrs. Figg? It's me, Harry Potter. Mrs. Figg?" One of her cats came striding out the front door and began to rub up against Harry's leg. Now what the hell was it's name?

"Here here, Mr. Tibbles, where's mummy?" he cooed to the cat, feeling extremely foolish. Wallace and Miner seemed to be buying it, and that was all that mattered at this point.

"Come this way," motioned Officer Miner, who led Harry into the den. The room was full of medical technicians, all of whom were talking amongst themselves.

"Have you checked her meds?" asked one.

"Yes," said another. "Nothing to indicate that she's a hemopheliac."

"Then why won't the bleeding stop?"

They cut off their conversation when they noticed Harry eavesdropping and left the room. Officer Miner and Sergeant Wallace stood off to the side of the room, staring meaningfully at Harry, as if silently urging him to hurry up so that they can continue their job. Harry wanted details, so he took his time with Mrs. Figg.

Mrs. Figg looked dreadful indeed. Her wrists were wrapped in gauze, which did very little to stem the bleeding. She was unconcious, yet her eyes were moving rapidly behind her eyelids. Her skin had an ashen color; a weird mixture of blue, pink, and white.

"Mrs. Figg," said Harry, just loud enough for the policemen to hear him, "what happened to you?" He held her hands. "You didn't hurt yourself, did you?"

"We don't believe so," said Sergeant Wallace. "There's no knife around. Whoever did this to her slipped up and took the attack weapon with them."

"Excuse me, coming through, coming through, oh, so sorry there," came a voice from the front door. A dusty-looking man in a lab coat came stumbling into the room with a type of tacklebox clutched under his arm. He'd inadvertently stepped on the foot of one of the officers, who grumbled something about clumsy lab geeks.

"Josh Densley, forensic scientist," said the new arrival, brandishing an identification card. "Please vacate the room, I have-oh, forgive me." He'd stepped on Harry's hand this time.

Harry made to leave, anxious to get away from the moldy stench of the lab coat, until Josh grabbed his hand. "No, you stay. It helps if someone close to the victim aids me. It subconciously relaxes the vicitim."

Officer Miner left the room, but Sergeant Wallace seemed loath to go. After a minor discussion, he agreed to stand by the front door and allow Josh to continue his work, but not without a warning look at Harry.

"Now, now, I'm told we have two open wounds that won't stop bleeding?" asked Josh.

"That's what the paramedics said," answered Harry, showing the gauze-wrapped wrists of Mrs. Figg.

"Dear dear me," said Josh absentmindedly. "So tell me, Mr. Tibbles, was this an attempted suicide?"

Oddly enough, the cat that Harry had picked up on the doorstep shook its head.

"A pair of young gentlemen, perhaps?" asked Josh.

Mr. Tibbles nodded.

"Probably used a number of spells to disable blood-clotting?"

Mr. Tibbles shook his head.

Josh's eyebrows raised. "One spell?"

Mr. Tibbles nodded.

"Dear dear me," said Josh vaguely.

Harry'd had enough. He stared hard at Josh as he prepared some sort of mixture, intent on catching his eye. Josh apparently had other plans, all of which included ignoring Harry.

"So tell me, Mr. Tibbles," said Harry. "Will any of this ever make sense to me?"

Mr. Tibbles nodded.

"Shut up and put my goatee back on," said Josh, who, now without the absurd facial hair, looked very much like-

"Sirius, you moron, you're gonna get caught," whispered Harry, as he replaced the fake hair that had fallen onto Mrs. Figg's chest.

"If by 'moron' you mean 'brilliant undercover agent', you're spot on," said Sirius. "Now shut up and pour this on her wrists, it'll stop the bleeding... no, unwrap her wrists first," ordered Sirius.

After the first-aid lesson was finished and the policemen ushered them out of the house (Sirius's identification card had mysteriously 'disappeared' while in the sergeant's posession), Harry and Sirius spent the remainder of the evening at Xander's house reviewing theories about Mrs. Figg's attack. It made very little sense to attack a little old lady, even if she was really a witch pretending to be a Muggle-

"That's it, isn't it?" asked Harry. "She was attacked because she removed herself from the wizarding world, wasn't she?"

"That could very well be," answered Sirius, "but it could also be any number of other reasons. She was still in contact with Dumbledore. She lives near you. She's old. She probably forgot most of her defense spells. Each reason as likely as the next."

"So you're saying we may never know?"

"That's always a possibility whenever you're an investgator."

Typical Sirius. End a conversation with a ton of questions left to ask. Oh well, at least they were able to steal an evening together.

"So, any news on Pettigrew?" Harry ventured. The silence was becoming almost unnerving.

Sirius heaved a heavy sigh. "First, you have to promise not to be too upset with me..."

"About what?"

Another heavy sigh. "Well, seeing as how Wormtail has 'been out of work' for fifteen years, the ministry is funding his defense team."

"Meaning?" asked Harry.

"Meaning, that he can have any and as many lawyers as he likes," answered Sirius. "He can have a Dream Team of lawyers at his disposal, all on the Minitrsy's bill."

"Ok," said Harry cautiously, "That's not too bad, but what am I supposed to be upset about?"

"According to old laws, convicts have to supply their own defense, unless somebody volunteers to defend them," said Sirius.

"So, in a nutshell, you're telling me that since you haven't held a job in fifteen years, you can't afford a lawyer?" asked Harry, anger slowly rising in his voice.

Sirius only nodded, unable to look Harry in the eye. Harry wasn't mad at Sirius. After all, why should he be? It was the complete unfairness of the situation that had Harry upset. A murderer can have all the help he needs, while the innocent has to prove he did nothing wrong. Not that Sirius saw it that way; on the contrary, he blamed himself every day for the death of Harry's parents. But now was not the time for that conversation.

"Here," said Harry, digging into his pockets. "It's not much, but maybe it can get you a consultaion." He handed Sirius his pile of money, the money he worked all summer for. All four hundred pounds. So what if he went a few days without eating? It's not like he hadn't accomplished that before.

"Put that back in your pocket," said Sirius, maybe a little irritably. "I'm not asking for your money. I still have some left in my Gringott's vault."

"Take it," ordered Harry. "It's what I've been working for all summer anyway. Do you honestly think I want to pay my aunt and uncle for room and board?"

Sirius chuckled, and reluctantly accepted Harry's donation. "If all godsons were like you, everyone would be rich," said Sirius. "And that's only a half joke."