A.N./ Hello, and welcome my good peoples. This here be my first HP fic, so take it easy on me. Anyways, yes I realize Tonks hasn't shown up yet. Well, she won't for a few chapters really, but she'll show up soon. And without further adieu, I give you the first chapter of Harry Potter and The Boy Who Lived.

Chapter 1- The Fruits of His Labour

A cold wind snaked through the trees surrounding the quiet village of Hogsmead. Normally, this cheerful little town would be alive with fun, alight with fires roaring inside the taverns and littered with students who had snuck out of Hogwarts for moonlit rendezvous with their lovers.

Tonight, the town was asleep, the taverns closed and the Hogwarts students absent. In fact, Hogsmead was almost completely dark. Only one light was on. This light came from the window second on the right above Madame Rosmerta's tavern. Sitting in this room, which Rosmerta kept for her close friends and personal guests to stay in to visit, was Harry Potter, now 22.

His hair was as untamed as it had been when he was 16, although considerably longer. In fact it went down to just about his neck. His bangs hung down into his piercing green eyes, which were looking out into the darkness of Hogsmead's main square. Harry was no longer the scrawny boy he was in his youth. His chasseur training had filled him out considerably. Now instead of giving the impression of being about to get blown away by a gust of wind, Harry exuded a sense of unmovable power.

There was a soft knock on the door before the lovely Rosmerta pushed it open. Despite the fact that Rosmerta was no longer young, she still exuded beauty, her raven hair cascading down onto her crimson red night gown.

"Harry?" Responding to the calling of his voice, Harry looked at the aging barmaid, and let out a rare smile. Rosmerta was one of the few people who didn't treat Harry like a hero, but treated him like… Harry. Maybe it was because she had been entertaining students from Hogwarts for most of her life, but she also had a very calming presence. The fact that she had known his parents and god father only underlined this connection.

Harry had been staying at the tavern ever since he graduated from Hogwarts. At first it was because he wanted to be as close to the first real home he had ever had as possible, but over the course of the summer following graduation the little room had really became home to him, and when he left in September for France to begin training for his profession of choice, it almost broke his heart.

Harry was a chasseur, although in English this means "hunter", his profession was similar to that of a muggle bounty hunter, although with no limitations to the amount of force he could apply to capture his targets. Really, this was one of the two reasons Harry had chosen this career over that of the auror. As an auror he'd have to answer to the Ministry of Magic's authority, but as a chasseur he was his own boss. He only regretted that he had to take his training overseas, specifically, in France. For although most countries employed the expertise of chasseurs, they didn't condone the training of them within their borders.

Why? Because they didn't want to seem like heartless, training people to use any force necessary (including the dark arts) to dispatch of a mark. It was because of this that Harry tried to be quite quiet about what he did for a living. It was generally seen as unclean, dirty. Thank god for the French, who despite their "oui oui!"s and generally uptight behavior, still trained chasseurs. The one country in the world who didn't give a damn about what other people thought, is the one country that got a horrible rap. In fact, during his two year stint in Paris (rooming with Ms. Fleur Delacour, nonetheless) Harry had come to love the French as much as the people from his native Britain. A fleeting memory of a steamy night underneath Le Tour de Eiffel with Madam Delacour caused Harry's smile to grow just a little bit more.

"Go to bed, Rosmerta. I'm just thinking." Reassured Harry, waving his hand at his land lady. Rosmerta gave Harry a concerned look, before closing the door. Harry listened closely before he was sure she had settled comfortably in her bed, before dimming his room's light, opening the window, and shimmying out onto the roof.

As Harry's eyes adjusted to the darkness of the main plaza, and proceeded cautiously atop the moonlight tavern, his conscious mind began to stray. He began to remember times from his days at Hogwarts; memories of Ron, Hermione and himself sitting around the fire, laughing along with the rest of Gryffindor house at Fred and George's antics. A small smile flitted across his face as he vaulted from roof to roof, making sure to remain quiet at all times, slowly making his way towards the outer edge of town.

His smile became more pronounced as he reflected on his embarrassment and inexperience during his first kiss with Cho, and his confidence and romanticism with Fleur during his training. He also recalled the brief but… hot relationships he had shared with Alicia Spinnet and Ginny Weasley. As Harry reached the final rooftop, he slid down a drain pipe, grimacing as he slid over a metal bolt.

With his feet on firm ground again, Harry's mind now wandered back to the graveyard of Voldermort's father where this nightmare had all started again. The fresh dew on the ground as well as the thin mist made it easy for Harry to think of a blinding green light piercing his eyelids and seeing Cedric falling to the ground, his eyes blank and lifeless. He swiftly dashed into the darkness of the Forbidden forest, and as he was shrouded by the shadows of the trees he was reminded of Sirius falling into the veil, that unforgiving darkness, engulfing the handsome face he would never see again.

Harry slipped from tree to tree, remembering himself and Dumbledore retrieving what they believed to be one of Voldemort's horcruxes. Silently, the young hunter released his wands from his arm holsters. In his left hand popped out the same wand he had received from Ollivander 11 years earlier, complete with Fawkes' tail feather, and in his right had popped out an extremely ornamental ebony wand. Gold highlights snaked around it to form a grip, all of this concealing the powerful core of veela hair. Fleur's, to be precise. Turns out, half veela- half human hair makes a far more reliable core than pure veela.

Harry slowed from his brisk pace to a stealthy crawl as a green glow began to permeate the air around him. As he neared the clearing where his fate would be decided, his mind recalled one of his last memories at Hogwarts - Dumbledore being hit by Snape's killing curse and flying off the towers of the school that the old professor loved oh so dearly.

Harry continued forward practically. He knew this would be either where he died, or where he could begin to truly live his own life, without the shadow of this burden plaguing him. And as this crossed his mind, he remembered another time when he thought the same thing, specifically, at Godric's hollow, when he had been consumed by arrogance and challenged Voldemort to a duel. He had not been ready then, and had only survived due to sheer luck. A repeat of the events in his fourth year. Priori Incantatem. But this time, Harry was sure that he wouldn't be running into that lucky break again. Why? Because after priori incantatem was split, the core of Voldemort's wand was shattered. Channeling the evil that was Voldemort's magic for the past 30 years had been too much for the tail feather of the noblest creature Harry had ever laid eyes upon.

But now, 5 years later, Harry was ready to face old snake face once more. The green tinge in the air surrounding Harry was like a fog now. Harry remembered how he had come to the knowledge that Voldemort was planning an attack on Hogsmead tonight, and how he had made preparations.

Harry came to a silent halt and looked into the clearing in front of him. Black robed death eaters circled the dark mark which was hanging a few meters off the ground. Underneath the mark, stood the Lord of Darkness.

Harry took in a breath. Now.

Now was the time to witness the fruits of his labour.