Amorous Relations

In the small suburb of Little Whinging outside of London, on a very plain street named Privet Drive, an owl hooted mournfully in the distance as the front door of Number Four opened and closed without a sound and seemingly without any assistance.

If any neighbor had been watching, they would have attributed it to the wind. But then, Harry Potter thought as he shifted his rucksack and checked to make sure that his Invisibility Cloak completely covered his feet, none of them had a clue (Arabella Figg notwithstanding) that the scrawny "delinquent" who shared their street over the summer was actually a wizard.

And if he played his cards right, he would walk out of their lives tonight--and would never come back.

After Dumbledore's death, Harry had come home to stay with his aunt's family--his last blood relatives on this side of life, as far as he knew--until he turned seventeen and came of age. But life with the Dursleys was worse than ever. Like the carrion predator who feeds on sick and dying animals, Vernon Dursley seemed to sense Harry's emotional turmoil and berated him all the more for his "freak" nature and friends. It had taken all of Harry's control, already worn thin by the death of the Headmaster, to keep from delivering Uncle Vernon to a worse fate than Aunt Marge.

Of course, Harry knew that it was inevitable--the waters always burst forth from the dam sooner or later. Two weeks into his stay, Uncle Vernon had, in a fit of temper, thrown a plate at Harry's head that Harry had not ducked in time, still groggy at seven in the morning. When Harry regained consciousness, he found himself locked into the dank cupboard under the stairs; he called out for hours, it seemed, but it wasn't until Aunt Petunia and Dudley came home much later that evening when he discovered what had happened.

It turned out that Vernon had had to be rushed to the hospital, as he had suddenly found himself unable to breathe while gloating over his prone nephew. A small heart attack, not life-threatening, was what the doctors diagnosed--but Harry knew better.

For one thing, he knew that if he stayed one moment longer with the Dursleys, someone, whether it was one of them or himself, would most likely die. And Harry was not yet ready to be a murderer--he was saving that for Voldemort. Nor did he want to die yet, as he was also saving that for Voldemort.

Harry pressed his hand to the jagged scab above his right eyebrow, winced at the sudden jump in the throbbing there, and kept walking. The Dursleys really were stupid, he reflected. They had locked him into the cupboard, expecting him to be as helpless as he had been when he was ten--he had gotten himself out of the cupboard and the house in under an hour. His Firebolt was packed with a simple Reduction charm, Hedwig had been sent to stay with the Weasleys, and now Harry himself was walking away from the life he had been forced to return to for the last seven years. . .

"Awful late to be walking around, isn't it, Potter?"

Harry froze as the gruff voice broke the midnight silence. His right hand silently reached for the wand in the pocket of his jeans, but he was interrupted by the same voice growling, "Come now, you know you can't hide from me with an Invisibility Cloak," as Mad-Eye Moody limped out from the nearest hedge and shook off the leaves that stuck to his cloak.

"Pro--Professor Moody, I--what are you doing here?" Harry stuttered, pulling off the Invisibility Cloak and stowing it in his pocket, as it was useless to wear it around Moody's magical eye.

"How many times do I have to tell you, I'm not your professor." Moody took a few steps closer on his peg-leg and squinted with his good eye. "Nasty cut you've got there, boy. And you haven't answered my first question. You're not supposed to leave the Dursleys for another month."

Harry touched the scab with a sardonic smile. "Same answer to both--Uncle Vernon threw a plate at my head. I'm leaving because one, I can't take it any more, and two, I really should be out fighting Voldemort, not sitting around locked up in a cupboard. So, if you'll excuse me, I'd best be on my way." Harry turned to leave--and nearly stumbled had Moody not grabbed him by the arm and pulled him upright. He was more tired than he thought he was.

"Steady there, Potter, you won't be up to fighting Voldemort in that condition," Moody retorted, tugging at the young man's elbow. "You're coming with me."

"Where to?" Harry tried to stay awake, but the throbbing in his head was pulling a dense fog over his thoughts.

"Headquarters," was all Moody would say before pulling Harry into a particularly nasty Side-Along Apparition that knocked the younger wizard out for the count.

AR AR AR AR AR

Harry woke up with a start. He was lying in a double-poster bed of the likes he had seen only in Hogwarts, in the middle of a room that looked as if it had waltzed straight out of the 19^th century. As he sat up, realizing that he was still fully dressed, Moody banged open the door without so much as a perfunctory knock.

"Good to see you're up, Potter," the old Auror huffed. "That was quite a concussion Dursley gave you there--remind me to turn him into a hog the next time I see him."

Harry swung his feet over the edge of the high bed and yawned. "Where am I? And why'd you bring me here?"

"Why, you're in the Blacks' place, of course." Moody gestured around him; sure enough, Harry recognized his surroundings as one of the guestrooms on the second floor of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. "As to the reason--well, let's say old Dumbledore wanted me to watch out for you. Seems like you've had a right dearth of good Defense teachers--I think it's high time to make up for that now."

"You--you're going to teach me? How to fight?" Harry squeaked, much to his embarrassment.

"Nay, lad, I'll be training you, not teaching you. Mighty big difference, there." Moody gave Harry a roguish wink before turning to go. "Come downstairs, breakfast is ready," he grunted over his shoulder. "You might want to enjoy yourself, as that's the last decent meal you'll have for the foreseeable future. Fighting Death Eaters isn't a cakewalk, you know, and neither is learning how."

AR AR AR AR AR

Moody did not lie, that was for certain. Harry had never been pushed to work so hard in his life.

Every morning, Moody woke him at six, just as the sun was peeking over the London horizon. After a light breakfast and mug of coffee, they warmed up and began training. Harry felt as if every defensive and offensive spell known to wizard-kind was being crammed into his unwilling brain. Then, lunch, and more drills against Moody, sometimes a mock duel or two; it took Harry nearly a month to be able to pull Moody to a draw. Finally, a light dinner, and studying books on defense from the Black's enormous library before Harry crawled to his room and collapsed, most nights not even having the energy to undress. The only difference was on Sunday nights, when Moody would grant him the evening off to rest up for the next day; Harry used the time to send letters to Ron and Hermione, Hedwig having been sent back to him with a concerned letter from the Weasleys shortly after he had seemingly disappeared from the face of the wizarding world.

By the time the end of July rolled around, Harry cherished a small hope that he would be able to defeat Voldemort on his own merits--if Moody didn't kill him during training first.

AR AR AR AR AR

On July thirty-first, Harry's seventeenth birthday, Moody woke him at the crack of dawn without a single hint of what day it was. Harry stumbled down the stairs, eagerly sniffing out the pot of coffee on the stove, only to be greeted by a huge red-and-yellow banner that stretched across the kitchen: HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HARRY!

"Your father was an Auror, you know that?" Moody leaned awkwardly against the back wall, his peg-leg jutting out at a strange angle. "One of the best recruits I'd ever seen. He was my apprentice, I chose him myself--he went through the very same training I've been giving you. And he didn't make half the progress you're making--always trying to cavort off with your godfather or your mother instead of studying." Moody limped across the kitchen to where Harry was still gaping at his surroundings and handed Harry a brown-paper parcel. Harry slowly opened it, letting the wrapping drop to the floor when he saw what was inside.

It was a golden pocket-watch, merrily ticking away, a fleur-de-lis and lion intertwined on the cover. When Harry flipped it over, he read a short inscription: To JP from LE, with all my love.

"Your father loved that watch," Moody said, slightly smiling at the memory. "A wedding present from your mother. Carried it with him until the day he died." As Harry turned the watch over and over in his fingers, still stunned, Moody pulled the boy into a brief (and uncharacteristic) hug. "James would be mighty proud of you, Potter, just remember that," Moody mumbled before releasing Harry.

Harry sniffled a little and wiped at his eyes as he continued to study the watch. "Er--sir? Can I ask a question?" At Moody's affirmative nod, Harry continued tentatively, "Since it's my birthday, can we take a day off, and--and can you tell me more about my parents?"

There was a long silence. Then, Moody broke into the first full smile that Harry had ever seen on him. It was a bit lopsided, what with all the scars on his face, but it was a smile nevertheless.

As he and Moody sat down around the kitchen table and Moody launched into the story of how James had first brought a beautiful red-head into Moody's office, Harry realized that this was the very best birthday he had ever had.

AR AR AR AR AR

One afternoon in late August, as Harry and Moody were silently eating lunch in the kitchen, two official-looking owls swooped in through the open window and dropped their letters on the table in front of their plates before flying out with loud hoots. Moody immediately grabbed his and ripped it open; Harry leisurely finished his mouthful and, after glancing at the seal on the envelope, merely pushed it to the side and continued eating.

Moody caught the gesture, looked at the envelope for himself, and gave Harry a strange look. "Aren't you opening that, Potter? It's from Hogwarts."

Harry shrugged. "I don't need it--I'm not going," he replied after swallowing another mouthful.

Moody's knife clattered to the table. "I don't think I heard you correctly, boy," Moody growled, returning to his hardened-Auror routine. "You seemed to say that you weren't going back to finish your studies--but that can't have been what you said, right?"

Harry just stared at Moody over his plate in silence.

Moody snorted. "Give me three good reasons why you shouldn't go to Hogwarts, and I'll consider not tanning your hide from now until September first."

You already tan my hide during training every day, Harry wanted to point out, but sighed instead and began to tick off the requested reasons on his fingers. "One: Dumbledore's dead, and there's nothing but a few stone walls and three hundred other students between me and Voldemort. Two: there's never any good Defense teachers anyway, so it's not as if I'm missing anything important. And three: I have to find and destroy some things that Dumbledore left me in charge of before I can even think about destroying Voldemort."

"What special things are you talking about?" Moody asked, one shaggy eyebrow raised.

"Only Dumbledore and I knew what they were, and I won't break my promises," Harry replied mulishly.

Moody chuckled, much to Harry's surprise, then leaned across the table and whispered, "If you're talking about Horcruxes, Potter, it's no secret to me." Harry started and backed away from Moody's wildly-spinning eye in his face. "Dumbledore left me his Pensieve when he passed on, with all the memories he showed you before."

"Oh," was all that Harry could say. Fortunately, or unfortunately, Moody continued.

"And I can come up with more reasons than you can for why you should go to Hogwarts this year," he was saying, mimicking Harry by ticking off his fingers as well. "One: Hogwarts is more than just stone walls. Dumbledore may have been a powerful wizard, but nothing can top Olde Magick--the oldest and purest magic from a time when wizards hadn't invented wands yet. Hogwarts breathes Olde Magick--in fact, it's one of the two Fonts of Olde Magick on the British Isles. That's the reason why you've been so well protected at Hogwarts these last six years. The real Voldemort, the one in his evil body, never was able to get you while you were at school, was he?

"Two: I have word from McGonagall here--she's the new Headmistress--that your Defense professor this year is the cream of the crop. An American witch, top honors from the Salem Witches' Institute, who turned down a spot at the West Point Wizarding Academy to come teach at Hogwarts--sounds promising enough to me.

"Three: Horcruxes can be hunted while you're still at school, boy, whether it's you or me that does it. For one, I'd much rather you had a solid, safe place to return to every evening rather than be camping out in the Merlin-forsaken wilderness. For another, once this bloody war's over, you'd be better off having taken your N.E.W.T.s and being prepared for the real world, as McGonagall's told me you wanted to be an Auror.

"Finally: Snape's going to be teaching Potions this year."

"WHAT?!" Harry spluttered, shooting up from his chair. "Isn't that a good enough reason for me NOT to go?"

"Sit DOWN, Potter," Moody growled dangerously, "and let me finish!" Harry sank into his seat, staring at Moody as if he had turned into a ghost mid-sentence. "It'll be a good chance to keep an eye on the snarky dungeon bat, to make sure he doesn't make any Death Eater mischief. Merlin knows why the Board of Governors agreed to let a murderer teach again, but that's probably Voldemort's doing. You're well trained, better than he is--it'll be an easy match, should it ever come to that. To top it off, Tonks will be teaching Transfiguration for the year, so she'll be there to keep an eye on you and back you up if the need arises."

Harry continued to stare. Moody pushed the unopened Hogwarts letter across the table and gently chucked Harry in the arm. "Better see what your school supplies are--we're going to Diagon Alley in the morning," Moody added in a tone that left no room for disagreement.

Harry muffled a sigh and broke the seal reluctantly. He knew when was the proper time to surrender--yet another useful element of his training.

AR AR AR AR AR

The rest of the summer flew by in a flash, it seemed; and all too soon, Harry was standing on the bustling Platform 9 and 3/4. Unlike previous years, however, he had an escort: Mad-Eye Moody, whose grim appearance and frightening eye sent the younger students scurrying for cover and the older ones staring at his retreating form.

"Now, I want you to write to me the very instant that Snape puts one toenail over the line," Moody was growling. Harry grimaced at the mental image, but Moody ignored him. "And remember, constant, constant, CONSTANT vigilance! I don't know about that Defense woman, but she could have ties to Voldemort, like half of those professors from the past six years have. Keep a watchful eye on her and Snape, and write often. I'll be out from Headquarters for the most part, but Hedwig will know where to find me."

As he and Harry reached the end of the platform, Moody paused and drew a sealed packet of parchment out of his cloak, which he handed to Harry. "Just a bit of news I thought you might enjoy--have a good year," he muttered, then clapped Harry on the back one last time and stumped off, leaving Harry standing alone in front of the puffing train.

Harry had time to glance at the outside of the parchment--it looked official--before hearing his name being called from inside the train. Looking up, he saw Ron and Hermione waving to him from one of the compartment windows; he stuffed the packet into his pocket and leaped aboard the train to find them, setting the curiosity of the packet aside for a better time.

What with his two best friends pelting him with questions about the summer--"We were so worried, you left home before Dumbledore said you should, and then no news for ages!" "Yeah, mate, and did you find out anything else about the You-Know-Whats of You-Know-Who?"--Harry forgot about the packet until he was sitting at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, mind glazing over as the Sorting Hat sang a different song of unity and house pride before starting in on "Atwood, Amanda." With a glance to make sure that no one was watching (Hermione was too busy studying the new students, Ron was too busy falling asleep), Harry slipped the packet from his pocket and broke the seal, eagerly scanning its contents.

He was disappointed to find that it was a contract of some sort, written in the most dry and pedantic language. He would have folded it up again had not one sentence jumped out at him (not surprisingly, as it had his name in it): "And thus do I, Alastor Moody, wish to name Harry James Potter as my one and only heir."

Harry blinked, re-read the sentence, and blinked again. Quickly, he flipped through to the very end. Signed at the bottom were Moody's scrawl, the dignified signatures of three Ministry officials, and one blank. That blank had his name printed underneath.

Harry closed his eyes, his mind racing. Moody, the man who had taken him in over the summer and taught him how to truly fight for the first time, wanted to adopt him, Harry Potter. It was something Harry had always dreamed of from the time he was living with the Dursleys. . . but he had always imagined it would be someone like Sirius, or even Dumbledore, signing that first line. Moody was the last person he would ever have dreamed of adopting himself--although, Harry thought as he put the packet safely back in his pocket, after the course of events from the past three months, maybe he shouldn't have been so surprised.

And then, Gryffindor was cheering raucously for their newest addition, Bryce Zimmerman, and Headmistress McGonagall was standing up at the staff table to make her beginning-of-the-year speech. Snape was sitting on her left, looking as snide and greasy as usual (and making Harry's blood boil), while a black-haired and somber Tonks was sitting to McGonagall's right. There was an empty seat at the far left, next to Hagrid; Harry assumed it was reserved for the Defense professor, who obviously had not arrived yet.

"Welcome, everyone, to a new year at Hogwarts," McGonagall began, looking around at the sea of students before her through her wire-rimmed spectacles. "Before the feast begins, I have just a few introductions to make, and then I shall let you enjoy the wonderful meal that the kitchens have prepared for us." At her words, the entire male portion of the returning student population applauded.

When the cheers died down, McGonagall continued, "First, as Professor Slughorn has returned to his quiet retirement, we would like to welcome back Professor Severus Snape, who will be teaching Potions again this year." Every table (with the exception of Slytherin) booed loudly, but they were all quickly silenced with a glare from McGonagall. Snape did nothing more than sneer at the students, as he always did.

"There will be respect for every professor here." McGonagall glared one last time before continuing again. "Second, as I will not be able to continue teaching or being Head of Gryffindor House due to Headmistress duties, Professor Nymphadora Tonks will be taking over Transfiguration for the year, while Professor Rubeus Hagrid will be Head of Gryffindor House."

Hagrid stood and bowed deeply, and Tonks nodded unsmilingly while most of the students applauded, Harry being the loudest of all. Strange, Harry thought as McGonagall prepared to speak again. Tonks hasn't looked this depressed since Sirius died. . .

"And finally, let me introduce our new Defense professor, who has not yet arrived. This year, out of the twelve contenders for the position, this young witch from New England surpassed everyone by far. She graduated from the Salem Witches' Institute last year with the highest honors ever awarded to a student there; and she chose to teach at Hogwarts rather than continue her studies at the elite West Point Wizarding Academy. I do hope everyone will treat her with the due respect she deserves--"

At that moment, the doors of the Great Hall swung open, and the entire student population swung around to see a young woman in a light blue traveling cloak striding briskly to the front between the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables. A small black cat trotted at her feet, its fine whiskers twitching as it went. From her dark hair, Harry assumed she didn't have Veela powers; and yet, every young man there was stunned by the presence of this witch as if she was one--Ron was gaping slack-jawed, Malfoy was particularly affected, and Harry himself couldn't keep himself from staring.

And from the high table, the normally-detached Snape knocked over his goblet of pumpkin juice with a loud clang.

"My apologies, Headmistress." The woman's lilting American accent rang through the now-silent hall. "I was held up at customs--"

"Of course, of course, not a problem at all--welcome to Hogwarts." McGonagall smiled at the newcomer before turning to the student body.

"May I introduce your new Defense professor this year. . . Professor Susannah Snape."