Inner Demons

Inner Demons

"The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep
And miles to go before I sleep."

Robert Frost,

***Chapter Three***

Harry was curled up in bed while outside the autumn rain drummed on the roof. It had been four weeks since Stephen had been taken so cruelly away from him. The news reporters had painted the picture of a brave doctor who had stepped into the line of fire to protect his patient. At the funeral, his friends had evoked the image of him as an intelligent, caring man and his parents had remembered him as a loving, thoughtful son. The words had been so filled with emotion but to Harry they sounded empty. Stephen was all of how he had been described but he was also so much more; more than his partner of five years, his lover, his friend...Stephen had been a part of him and his death left a void in Harry's chest, as empty as the hole into which they had lowered the coffin.

The phone rang at that moment - Harry's phone. Stephen's phone had rung almost non stop for the first week with his friends calling to offer their condolences at the loss. Now they respected his desire for isolation and left him to wallow in his misery. Sighing, he rolled over and picked up the phone, imagining the look of sympathy that Stephen always gave him when he got a call this late.

"James, mate? Bloody hell, you sound awful."

Harry sighed again. "Thank you Bob...now would you like the salt to rub into that wound?"

"Sorry..." The other man sounded contrite. He reminded Harry of how Ron had been - not thinking before he opened his mouth but possessing of that same blunt, and often brutal honesty. "I'm calling because I just heard."

Harry nodded to himself. After three weeks of barely being able to function, he had quit his job - faxed his resignation form to the Chief Inspector this morning in fact. News travelled around the department quickly. He really didn't want to discuss the issue but felt awful for not offering his second-in-charge a proper explanation.

"I know...I just..." He ran his fingers through his hair. "I just can't go on."

"You're...you're not..." The voice on the other end was alarmed.

"No, I'm not going to throw myself into the Yarra, Bob. It would go against everything Stephen believed in. I just can't bear returning home to an empty house, knowing that it will always be so. Everywhere I look I'm reminded of him...I can smell him on the couch or his side of the bed! I can't get away from his memory!" Realising that he was shouting, he whispered. "It haunts me."

There was silence then in a resigned voice; "What are you going to do, mate?"

"I'm going home, Bob. You've been an amazing friend these past years...and especially in the last few weeks...but I've got to get out of a place that reminds me of him everywhere I turn. I'm going back to England."

*

Bob saw him off at the airport and the two friends embraced. Harry had already organised an apartment in London with the money that Sirius had left him and the few pieces of furniture that he couldn't bear to part with, namely the coffee table that Stephen had made in a mad fit of creativity and their favourite armchairs which had been sent ahead. Hedwig had been Portkeyed to England where she would be awaiting him. Aside from his clothes, wand and a couple of photographs, Harry had left everything behind to the tenants who were moving into his house. He could no longer call it a home...not without Stephen there.

"Write to me, James. Let me know if you need anything or want anything and I'll send it over."

Harry managed a weak smile. "Thank you...thank you so much. I promise to stay in touch." He hugged Bob's wife Miranda, who was trying not to cry and failing. "If you're ever in England...let me know. And good luck with the job, chief."

They shook hands once more and Harry turned to the boarding gate. He didn't look back.

*

Around him the sounds of the injured and dying assaulted his ears, floating above the crackle of fire or the shouts of curses being cast. He ignored them, his eyes focused straight ahead. Beside him his loved ones stood, ready to fight and die by his side, trusting him because he was Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. Stephen, brown eyes reflecting the lights of the curses that raged around them, placed his hand on Harry's shoulder.

"I trust you, love."

Harry opened his mouth to say something, to warn Stephen that it was not safe for him to be here but instead he nodded and turned back to the battle ahead. Hermione and Ron rushed forward, wands raised, ready to do battle. Sirius flashed his godson one of his reassuring smiles and followed. Slashing, Harry ran quickly after them, unwilling to lose his friends in the throng of Death Eaters that surged towards them. As though by some command, the enemy spread apart to reveal a robed figure behind them. Death Mask grinning maniacally at him, Harry could only watch in horror as first Hermione then Ron and finally Sirius, were cut down in flashes of green. Before he could cry out his grief, though, Stephen rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside their fallen comrades, not noticing the figure approach him, wand now transfigured into a gun, raised at the level of his heart.

Harry tried to scream but no sound came from his mouth. He tried to run forward but his feet were stuck to the ground as if entangled by Devil's Snare. The Death Mask turned to him as if mocking him in his impotence, then raised his other hand to remove the mask. The pale, snakelike face of Voldemort smiled horribly at him as he aimed the gun at Stephen who knelt by Sirius's body oblivious to the danger. Harry glanced down at his watch as the hand that represented Stephen swung around to 'mortal peril'. The gun shot rung out silencing all other sounds and as his lover's body crumpled beside Sirius's, Harry felt as though he could feel the bullet tearing through his own flesh.

Feet suddenly released, he rushed forward and gathered Stephen's body into his arms. All was silent as it started to hail, the tiny shards of ice reverberating on Stephen's glasses that were identical to Harry's own. Tap, tap, tap. They beat out the sound of his broken heart. Tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

Harry jerked awake, breathing hard, his heart racing. Tap, tap, tap. He turned, confused and then saw the owl that was pecking impatiently on his window. Rubbing his eyes wearily, he got up and opened the window to let the delivery owl in, hoping none of the neighbours would notice an owl flying in at 7:30 in the morning with a newspaper clutched in its talons. Paying it five bronze knuts, he untied the letter from the bird's leg and it flew off into the bright spring morning.

He'd been back in England for a month and a half now and had decided early on to get reacquainted with the Wizarding world again - though he kept his alias, not wanting the attention that he would undoubtedly get if he showed his real face to the world. Remembering that Stephen was the only one to see who he really was in the last eight years brought the pain back. Squelching the feeling as best he could, though not very successfully, he conjured himself a cup of tea and headed into the kitchen.

"Good morning, Hedwig," he yawned, stroking her soft feathers.

She fluffed herself up a bit and affectionately nipped his finger as he put more water into her tray and got ready for the morning. His apartment was small but more than adequate for one person and had the added advantage of being close enough to Diagon Alley to walk there whenever he needed something. He had already been there a few times for basic supplies, books and new sets of robes and had spent a day there settling his accounts with Gringotts.

With the combined wealth of Sirius' vault, which was substantial seeing as the Blacks had been an ancient family, and his own accounts, Harry had the option of spending the rest of his life in considerable comfort for the rest of his life, if he so chose. When he had asked the Goblins to withdraw some money and his Firebolt which someone had deposited for him, from his own vault they had asked no questions. He had the right key and they were either extremely discreet or extremely apathetic as to his affairs.

Opening the morning paper, he skimmed through it, reading articles on the state of the Ministry, the status of Wizarding finance and about the new summer fashions from France. Dismissing it, he incendio-ed it so that the rubbish collectors wouldn't get a shock when they came to collect the old papers.

*

Later that morning he found himself in Diagon Alley, more on a whim than for any other reason. He had sent off a letter to Bob by Muggle post and his feet had taken him into the Alley and to Flourish and Blotts. There, he bought a Wizarding version of Sherlock Holmes which featured the famous detective smoking his pipe on the front cover, tendrils of smoke curling around the borders of the page while Doctor Watson coughed and waved his hand in front of his face.

Enjoying the summer sun, he walked down Diagon Alley, and paused briefly in front of a red sign which proclaimed in large, gold letters: Weasley's Wizard Wheezes Providing Hours of Laughs Since 1996. The sign was different from what it had been before Harry graduated. Before the Great War, Fred Weasley's name was painted beside his brother's, proclaiming the twins to be the proud owners of the joke shop. Now George's name stood alone below the other words, painted in black.

In the time that he had been back in London, he had yet to gather up the courage to step inside the shop. He knew that he would not be able to look into George's smiling face without seeing the vacant eyes of his twin, struck down by the Killing Curse. Today, as always, the shop was busy with holidaying students, eager to catch up on the latest prank. Floating Fairy Floss, proclaimed the lurid pink sign in the shop window, was infused with a mild Levitating Potion to allow the consumer to rise - not too high, it assured parents, only half a meter - off the ground. Fred, had he been alive, would have been thrilled with the success of the shop. Feeling the grief return, he headed to Florean Fortescue's Ice-Cream Parlour.

"Ah, Mr Evans! What can I get you on such a fine day?" The proprietor beamed.

Harry was enough of a regular that the man knew him on site. "I think I'll have the peanut butter and snozzberry sundae, thank you."

"Coming right up!" He bustled about, doling out large scoops of ice cream into an enormous glass.

"What's new this morning, Florean?" asked Harry when his sundae, an elaborate chocolate and peanut topped affair, was deposited with a flourish in front of him.

Always trusted to be up-to-date on the latest events, Fortescue sat opposite Harry and crossed his hands across his expansive middle. Harry remembered when he, as a third year, had sat at the same table while a younger (and leaner) Mr Fortescue had helped him with his History of Magic essay.

"Well James, the Ministry is still bumbling about as per usual so nothing new there...The last Quidditch match between the Cannons and the Kestrels went to the Cannons so they're undefeated and are on top of the pool."

Harry shook his head in amazement. "Given their massive losing streak in the past, that is certainly something new."

"Quite so...My son's ecstatic of course - he's a big fan although I tried to convince him earlier on that Puddlemere United were the team to back!" He laughed, his belly wobbling with him. "Guess even I can be wrong about Quidditch! Anyway...where was I...? Oh yes, something that might interest you."

Reaching into his apron pocket, he drew out a cutting from the Daily Prophet and left Harry to read it as he rose to serve another customer. A familiar crest caught his eye.

Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry has an opening for a professorial position teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts. Applicants should have considerable experience in the subject and should be able to relate well to students. All applicants should send a letter of interest to Headmaster Albus Dumbledore by May 31^st. Draco Dormiens Nunquam Titilandus.

So, thought Harry as he leaned back contemplatively, Dumbledore was still Headmaster of the school. He wondered which other staff members still served. He'd deliberately avoided chasing up information as to the whereabouts of his old teachers and friends. Stephen would tell him that 'denial was not just a river in Egypt'.

"So...what do you think?" Florean was back, dropping down into the chair, which creaked in protest.

"I don't know..."

"James." The other man leaned forward and put a hand on his. "I know you have suffered a deep wound. You have not told me what it is, and that is your right, but I see the pain that lingers in your eyes. You have nothing to occupy your days...maybe this will take your mind away from your suffering."

"How do you know I'm qualified?"

"You have told me that you fought in the war." shrugged Fortescue his giant shoulders heaving. "From what I have heard of the DADA teachers in the past, it is experience enough."

*

A few days after his conversation with Fortescue, he had tried to forget about applying but for some reason it niggled at his subconscious like an itch that refused to go away. He sighed and looked up at Hedwig who sat on a perch next to the kitchen table, nibbling daintily on a mouse-shaped Owl Treat.

"What do you think I should do old girl?" he asked her, pulling the battered scrap of newspaper out of his pocket.

In lieu of a reply, she spread her large white wings and took off, flying past him, only to return a second later, a piece of parchment clutched in her claws. She dropped it on his head and he looked at her in askance. Sometimes he wondered if Hedwig was not an Animagus.

"You certainly don't quibble do you?"

Summoning a quill and a bottle of ink to the kitchen table and making himself a cup of coffee for fortitude, he began writing:

Dear Headmaster Dumbledore,

I am writing to you in regards to the job application placed in the Daily Prophet a number of days ago and would like to express my interest in applying for the position as Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher...

He was happy with the opening but it took a few drafts to get what he wanted to say across without revealing too much. He wasn't quite sure if he wanted Dumbledore to know that he was back in England and ended the letter with Best regards, James Evans. He rolled up the parchment and a copy of his resume and tied it to a very eager looking Hedwig; she already had a leg extended to him before he finished signing the letter.

"Off you go then." He stroked her feathers and she was off with a flutter of wings.

Figuring that he wouldn't hear from the Headmaster for a few days, he picked up his new novel and began reading.

*

Later that evening, when he was wondering when Hedwig would arrive home when he was given one of the greatest shocks of his life. With a loud pop a familiar old man with half-moon glasses and white beard and hair, Apparated into his lounge room, barely two steps from where he was sitting.

"Ah, Harry. I quite suspected that I would find you here."

Albus Dumbledore smiled at Harry, eyes twinkling over his glasses, as if he knew the funniest secret in the world and was not about to divulge it to Harry. Absolutely flabbergasted that the Headmaster should know his location, Harry said the first thing that came to his mind.

"How...how did you find me?"

"My dear boy, when you left us all those years ago, we all searched frantically for you. Eventually, I designed a tracking spell to locate you but you were too far away for it to find you. It has been a long time since I last looked at it but when I got your letter, I found, to my utter amazement and delight that it was flashing."

"My letter? How did you know?"

"Ah, as to that," the familiar blue eyes twinkled, "Taking your father's first name and your mother's last to create a new identity was not very original."

Harry felt like slapping his hand against his head - the name had served him well enough in Australia, especially in the Muggle world, but he'd completely forgotten that here, the names of James Potter and Lily Evans were almost as well known as his own.

"Oh...right...." He flushed. "I'm sorry I didn't get in touch with you...but I...I..."

"Hush, my boy." The old man smiled understandingly. "Your reasons are your own and I am sure they are good ones. You need not share them with me, or anyone, until you are ready. Your friends will be so anxious to see you again - they do not yet know that you are back with us since I left the school in such a rush."

"Ron and Hermione? How are they?" Harry leaned forward eagerly.

"They are well...but much has happened since you left."

Harry smiled, then realising that they were still standing, motioned to the kitchen. "Let me make you a cup of tea. I want to know everything and there are things about me that you deserve to know as well."

*

The two of them were sitting around the kitchen table sipping tea and eating biscuits. After a few minutes of companionable silence, Harry related all that had happened to him since he had left England - his journey to Australia, becoming a detective and quickly rising through the ranks to head of his department, meeting and loving Stephen, and finally the events of two months ago which had brought him back home. He felt his eyes stinging as he reopened the wounds and felt Dumbledore take his hands in his own and pat them gently in a paternally comforting gesture. He showed the Headmaster the photo of him and Stephen that he kept by his bedside, and rather than offering him false sympathy, which Harry could not have stood, all Dumbledore said was:

"He must have been a remarkable young man to win your heart, Harry. I would have liked to have met him."

Harry turned away, ostensibly to make another cup of tea, and when he turned back, emotions in check, he asked Dumbledore to relate his story.

"When we discovered your flight from the hospital we immediately began a massive search. But by the time I came up with the idea of the Tracking Spell you had already left us. Your friends were frantic, of course, but we respected your decision. After all that you had given the Wizarding world since you began at Hogwarts, you had more right than any to do what was right by yourself."

Harry glanced down at the table with a bit of guilt.

"We spent a long time recovering from the aftermath of the war, of course. Cornelius Fudge was overthrown as Minister of Magic and was replaced by none other than Arthur Weasley, one of the most universally supported Ministers in many years. Molly is still at home, caring for her children, though, barring George who is the extremely successful owner of the joke shop that he and Fred started in Diagon Alley, none now live at home. Charlie returned from Romania after the war and is now serving on the Hogwarts Faculty. Percy is Head of the Department of Muggle Affairs and Virginia is an editor of a popular magazine and has a delightful year old daughter named Alice.

"The youngest Mr Weasley and Mr Malfoy, who is now the head of his family, were both accepted into the Auror Academy after graduating from Hogwarts. Ms Granger, graduated at the top of the class as expected, and was accepted into Stonehenge University, one of our most prestigious institutes of learning, and now has a doctorate in the Development and Research of Charms. Four years ago, all three agreed to join the Hogwarts faculty."

"Well I'm not surprised about Hermione but Ron? And Malfoy!? They're teaching?" Harry stared in amazement.

"Oh yes and they are quite popular with their students. Ah, and another faculty member that you will know - Remus Lupin is professor of Muggle Studies and Head of Gryffindor House."

"Remus is on staff? Why isn't he the DADA professor?"

"He felt that it was too...fast paced...for his liking." This was said with a benign smile that Harry had come to realise was more dangerous than a Blast-Ended Skrewt. "If you are still interested in the position, my dear boy, it is yours."

Harry blinked. Well...that was easy...he thought, a little surprised. "Surely there are others who are more qualified for the job. I've been living as a Muggle for eight years...my magic is a little rusty."

"That can be rectified without difficulty. My choices in the past have been...unfortunate."

This prompted an unsuppressed snigger from Harry. To say that Quirrel or Lockhart had been 'unfortunate' was a massive understatement. Dumbledore gave him a knowing smile, eyes twinkling over his half-moon glasses.

"Very few have either your credentials or your experience. You need not decide this minute Harry. I will give you some time to think it over and contact to me with your decision once it has been made." The old man rose with the grace of someone a century younger and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder. "It's good to have you back, my boy."

*

Four days later Albus was in his office when Hedwig flew in with Harry's reply.