A/N: Hey all

A/N: Hey all. This story is derived from ideas taken from Silverfox's Harry Potter Hogwarts Caretaker, which can be found at http://www.thedarkarts.org/

And any thing else that's familiar belongs to J.K. Rowling. Please go read Silverfox's story! And read mine too J This is rated R for some profanity and themes of suicide and violence. Goody Goody, enjoy!

Breaking the Heart of Darkness

No! No, please! Show mercy! Remember James and Lily! James would never approve of this! Think of them, all they sacrificed, how you'd hurt them if they…surge of magic. Scream falling down the chalk cliffs. No, that was him screaming. That wasn't seeing the man plunge into the sea. That was him, shivering in the cold as the black cloaks withdrew from the doorway. And Harry Potter awoke, as much as one can in Azkaban. That's right. He's being released today, after five years of numb skin and burning memories. But he had no time to think about all that. A gray, decaying hand was beckoning to him, a distant human voice calling his name.

"Potter! You aren't out here in one minute, you'll be staying in that cell for another five years!" Harry could never understand how the few wizard guards here remained sane, when the Dementors preyed on the decent memories of everything except the rats. But Harry couldn't think about rats, not ever again. Instead he stepped out of the cell, wondering if he'd ever be comfortable in the open again. The guard looked him up and down, checking for any injuries that could be construed as signs of abuse. There were plenty, but none from the guards. There was no need for physical punishment in Azkaban, not when a willing and violent hand was always there for you if you just looked down.

"Take off the robe," instructed the guard. No one here would ever divulge a name, not even a false one. The lost souls weren't worth the imagination. Harry stripped automatically, silently wishing that he'd leave him with one open wound, if only to remind him that he held that power, if it came to that. As Harry shifted his attention to the small window overlooking the courtyard, he gave an optimistic guess that it would come to that, probably within the year.

"Get dressed and follow me," said the guard, having healed all of Harry's visible wounds. Harry complied and followed the hall down past the A-level cells, where people who had committed petty offenses would spend the night and come out thoroughly reformed. Right now, they were all empty. Harry wasn't all that surprised. In the past year, more and more Death Eaters had been marched past his cell, on the way to maximum-security or something far worse. Despite having been a virtual ghost to the world for five years, Harry could easily guess that the war with Voldemort was tying up most of the Ministry's resources. By now, Harry and the guard were in the courtyard, and Harry was choking on the fresh air. The guard nodded towards the gate, the only goodbye Harry was to get from that place. Walking out unsteadily, he was met with an unwelcome visitor.

"Harry," greeted Albus Dumbledore, looking so much older than Harry had remembered. Of course, Harry must have looked older too. He was only a boy when he had been taken in, and now, at twenty-one, he found himself eye-level with the Headmaster, and feeling just as old.

"Headmaster," Harry replied, voice dead and grainy from years of whimpering, screaming, then disuse.

"Harry, I wish you would tell me…I wish…Harry, I've never believed that-" Dumbledore began, the first time Harry had ever heard him trip over his words. But he couldn't let that sway him.

"Whatever the court records say is what you must believe," Harry snapped, as he began to walk towards the docks that would carry him to the mainland. Even if he could have apparated, his wand was deep within the Ministry vaults and that was one of the many trips Harry refused to take.

"Even if what they say is true…" Dumbledore began again, casting a look at Harry's forearm. Harry hadn't known what they'd thought, but he knew now. "Even if you'd strayed, I know there must have been a reason, some threat. You can tell me this, you can have your second chance and you can come back to us."

Harry was boarding the barge at this point, his mind stretching beyond the conversation, trying to remember the plans he had made for this day. This life. "Headmaster, I've no intention on returning to the magical world. The barge is leaving and I'm going with it. You're welcome to join me, but once we hit the shore, I'm leaving."

Dumbledore made no hesitation as he climbed aboard and the two sat a distance away from each other, Harry watching Azkaban shrink into nothing, Dumbledore watching Harry do the same. "Harry," Dumbledore began, his voice strained with irritation and impatience, and a sense of having been here before, "I refuse to believe that your allegiances remain with Voldemort. I have trouble believing they ever did, but I'm left with that possibility by your refusal to say otherwise. Never the less, we need you. Your friends. Your community. They, we, are dying Harry. We need you to end this war for us."

Harry had expected as much, but what gall that man had! To come to him with needs, when…no, Harry couldn't fault him, not for anything. And this situation, and the five years leading up to it, was all of his own doing. "I doubt I have any friends at all, if most of you took Ron's point of view on the situation," Harry answered, fighting to keep his voice even as he spoke the name he had avoided for so long.

Is it true? The level of hurt on his friend's face had been nearly enough for him to confess all, that night the news broke that Harry had been sentenced to five years in Azkaban for manslaughter. But a decision had been made, an agreement had been reached, that half-lit afternoon in December. It was made quickly, as a throng of Ministry officials surrounded him, as he peered over the cliffs. So Harry just scowled, looked away, said nothing. You better leave town after you get out, Potter. That's what Ron had hissed at him, his judgement made. Harry had guessed what facts and misrepresentations of facts had been released concerning his case. He knew what Ron thought of him. But still, until now, he hadn't considered what everyone else thought of him.

"You have to give them time," Dumbledore answered, the urgency in his voice escalating as the shore drew closer. "They'll forgive you. If you tell them the entire story, I'm sure they'll forgive you."

"You sound as if you know the whole story," Harry snapped.

"I know that you could not be what they say you are."

"You always were trusting," Harry answered.

"Yes, I do believe in second chances. Severus is an example of that. Remus is an example of that. Sirius is an example of that."

Harry wished Dumbledore hadn't mentioned his godfather. His godfather that had looked so crushed, so disappointed, so furious, when Harry had been dragged before the assembly to confess his crime. I've killed a man. He begged for his life, but I used a disarming charm against him, knowing that it would knock him off the Cliffs of Dover, knowing that using an Unforgivable Curse would get me a life sentence. No names. No specifics. That was the agreement he'd made. It hadn't mattered anyway. What he'd said was true enough.

"I am not those men. And it seems your time is up," Harry answered, standing as the barge connected with the pier. Without a goodbye or backward glance, Harry was gone, committed to the path he had chosen five years earlier.

***

Harry stood on Platform 9 ¾, looking at the Hogwarts Express with a small amount of nostalgia, a larger amount of fear, a larger still amount of resentment. Ten years ago, he would have been boarding the train for the last time, preparing for his final year at Hogwarts. Of course, Harry had never finished school. Never even finished his sixth year. And here he was, as scared as all of the first years that were piling onto the train. Harry climbed on too, holding his light suitcase in front of him as he searched for an empty compartment, surprised when he found one. Then again, there weren't as many students now as when he'd gone to Hogwarts. There weren't as many wizards in the world either, for that matter. The war had seen to that. But now it was over, Voldemort was dead and heroes had been named and, just as he had wanted, he was not on that list. He couldn't even remember what being a hero felt like.

Sitting down on the seat, wishing he had exchanged the three American dollars in his pocket for something the Snack Witch would accept, Harry unfolded the beaten edition of the Daily Prophet that he had pulled out of the garbage can at King's Cross. When Harry had left England, only a few days after being released, he'd vowed to cut himself off from the magical world completely. Unfortunately, Hedwig hadn't agreed with that sentiment, and had continued bringing him copies of the wizard newspaper for a few years, until dying from the effort of frequent transatlantic flights. Harry couldn't bring himself to tear up the papers, not when his devoted pet had gone to such pains to bring it to him. Still, it was understood that, no matter what town he was in that week, no matter what job he was holding to make ends meet, she was not to stay with him for more than the time it took to recuperate. Thus, Harry had kept up with the reports of the war. He knew that Percy Weasley had been caught as a Death Eater and sentenced to life in Azkaban. He knew that George Weasley had died defending against a Muggle slaughter. He knew that Draco Malfoy had turned against his father and was awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class. He knew that Dumbledore defeated Voldemort in the siege against Hogwarts two years ago. And he knew that Severus Snape had come out the big hero. Harry couldn't think of a more deserving man.

Harry also couldn't think of a valid reason as to why he was currently heading back to Hogwarts. Of course, he knew the basics. He was at the end of his tether and Dumbledore had owled out of the blue, needing a replacement for Filch. At the time, a strange combination of desperation and apathy had made him accept, but even now, he did not understand why Dumbledore had contacted him, or why he still believed in him.

Harry was about to open the paper when the door to his compartment slid open and he was met with a very familiar voice and a very familiar question. "Sorry, have you seen my toad?"

"Neville?!" Harry asked, shocked at seeing his old housemate, all grown up and adorned in Professor's robes.

"Oh, Harry!" Neville answered, eyes moving towards the scar just to make sure. "I was wondering how you'd get to the school. Let Trevor fend for himself, how are you doing?" It's an understatement to characterize Harry as shocked. He'd been expecting open hostility on all fronts, not kindness from this man, and not this man that had nothing of the bumbling shyness of his youth.

"I'm doing well, Neville. Let me guess…Herbology?"

"How'd you know?" Neville smiled, knowing full well that that had been the only subject he was competent in. "What have you been doing with yourself, Harry?" he asked, the emphasis on "have" implying that Harry looked rather dreadful, which he supposed he did. The wounds were hidden, but he was thinner and paler than he had ever been, even in Azkaban, and his one decent suit was threadbare at best. He had no money for robes, and the job didn't really require them.

"I know I'm a state. Long flight, and I'd been travelling around the States before now. Nothing a good feast and rest won't cure," Harry answered, amazed at his desire to appear friendly and confident, even if he didn't pull it off. He wasn't amazed at how easy the lie came. He'd perfected that years ago.

"Well, can't let Trevor roam for too long. I'll see you at school," Neville said, smiling over his shoulder as he left Harry alone. It was more than he had expected and Harry took no offense. As the train billowed on northward, the sky was filled with pink Scottish sun and Harry knew they'd arrive soon. Harry reached for his suitcase, rifling through its contents though he knew there was nowhere he could have left anything behind. Picking up the paper again, he skimmed the headlines and bylines, wondering what had happened to dear old Skeeter. "Minister Fudge to finalize plans for the memorial to the casualties of the Great War," read the front page. Sighing, Harry tossed the paper aside, too ashamed to read further. No matter what his limitations had been, he still wondered from time to time if one life would have been spared had he taken Dumbledore's forgiveness and joined the fight. Desperate not to assign any more deaths to his conscience, Harry instead turned his thoughts to Fudge and the last time that he had spoken to the man, eleven years ago.

"Certainly you don't want to go to Azkaban, Harry! No one could blame you for what happened. I'll take care of everything and-"

"No, no thanks. Of course I'd rather not be in this position but I'm not going to let you sweep it under the rug for me."

"Are you suggesting that I send The Boy Who Lived to that hell hole? I'd be hated, Harry! No, if it's punishment you want we can give you detention or something once you're back at school, but this is out of the question."

"Don't you think people who cause the deaths of others should be punished, minister?"

"Of course but-"

"Well, it occurs to me that you yourself were never brought to justice. Think of all of the lives you could have saved if you'd acknowledged the Return earlier, instead of ignoring it until last year, when Voldemort's army was already rebuilt. It occurs to me that you have some penance coming your way."

"What exactly are you implying?"

"I'm implying that Dumbledore and the others may have been too diplomatic to run to the press about your negligence in this matter, but I'd be more than happy to correct the oversight."

"Unless I send you to Azkaban?"

"Yes."

"I presume you have the whole thing planned out already, so why don't you spare us the time and tell me what you want me to do?"

"What's the penalty for manslaughter?"

"For someone your age, five years."

"Then I'll confess to that. You keep the details out of the papers. No lies about me, but you can hint at whatever you want."

"Harry, you don't need to do this. No one will blame-"

"I blame myself. Good day, Minister."

Harry wondered if the truth about what had happened that winter was documented somewhere. Then again, it didn't matter all that much to him. Vindication was of no interest at this point. And the last thing he wanted was to be treated like an innocent. Still, Neville's friendliness had given him some hope that his time at Hogwarts would not be saturated by confrontation. It amazed Harry that he had the capacity to hope at all.

The Hogwarts Express slowed to a stop and Harry waited for the deluge of students to pass his compartment before he stepped out and got off the train. "First years, this way!" bellowed a voice above the din, but it was not Hagrid who stood by the fleet of boats.

"Charlie took Hagrid's post a few years ago," explained Neville, who had pulled up to Harry's side. "You should see how the children idolize him and his tales of dragons."

"Did Hagrid die in the siege?" Harry asked, following Neville as he made his way towards Charlie.

"No, he's at Beauxbatons with Madam Maxim. Quite a pair, those two are. Hey Charlie, look who I've found?"

Harry tried not to wince at the sharp hate in Charlie's eyes when he looked at him. Harry had expected as much. From their view of things, Harry had both betrayed the Weasleys' trust and had earned a lighter sentence than Percy. "Neville," Charlie greeted. Turning towards Harry, he gestured towards the horse-less carriages. "You can ride in one of them," he grunted.

"I'll go with you," Neville said as Harry began to walk towards the carriage.

"No, it's fine. You go with Charlie," Harry answered, climbing aboard and shutting the door before Neville could insist. The carriage took off and Harry was left gazing at the castle with apprehension, wondering what other old friends he'd meet there.

Inevitably, the first was Minerva McGonagall, looking as strict as ever as she opened the doors for the entering students.

"Professor McGonagall," Harry greeted, suddenly wanting nothing more than to find his room and crawl into bed, feast be damned.

"You are to join the rest of the staff at the head table, Mr. Potter," she greeted tersely, before going off to collect the Sorting Hat. Glancing into the breastplate of a suit of armor and adjusting his shirt collar, Harry followed the upper years into the Great Hall, blinking at the sudden warm light and blinking again to readjust his contacts. The only people at the head table so far were Neville and Charlie. Harry took the seat at the edge of the table, minimizing the amount of people that would have to breathe common air with him. Soon the tables filled up, and Harry found himself staring at several familiar faces, faces that he had only seen in dreams this past decade. Albus Dumbledore. Severus Snape. Draco Malfoy. Fred Weasley. Remus Lupin. Hermione Granger-Weasley. Sirius Black. Harry took small comfort in the fact that Ron wasn't there, avoiding his gaze like most of the others were. Harry paid more attention to his hands than to the Sorting, but the overwhelming applause from the Slytherin table could not be ignored. It seems that the serpent house was quite popular these days, with one of the greatest war heroes being its head.

Harry nodded numbly to the crowd as he was introduced, his jaw locking down tighter and tighter with each whisper his name invoked. Once, they would have carried a tone of reverence, but now only disbelief and hatred. Harry could hardly blame them. He felt the same way. Harry Potter, Hogwarts Caretaker. Such a noble profession! Such a realization of all of the hopes the wizarding world had placed on his shoulders years ago! Such a role model for today's youth! But Harry knew that cleaning mud spots and supervising house elves was more dignity than a known killer deserved. As Harry picked at his food, he'd occasionally feel eyes upon him, only to look up and see Hermione and Sirius scowling at their plates. Looking further down the table, Harry could see that Dumbledore and Snape were having an engrossing conversation, no doubt about him. The lack of open hatred towards him reeked of Dumbledore's interference. No doubt the Headmaster had instructed the rest of the staff to "play nice". The thought of that meeting nearly made Harry sick, and as soon as enough people had left their seats, Harry followed by example, rushing off to Filch's old office.

After struggling with the door, Harry found himself back in the old miser's chambers, shackles still hanging from the walls and Harry's own suitcase in the adjoining bedroom. A fit of breathlessness seized him and Harry rushed into the bathroom, retching into the toilet. It wasn't enough and a familiar panic overwhelmed him, his hands instinctively reaching towards a medicine cabinet that did not exist in this world. Crossing back into his room, he practically tore his suitcase open, pressing his fingers into its corners after dumping the clothes onto his bed, disappointed at his lack of planning. But a soft knock at the door interrupted his search and Harry quickly wiped his mouth on his sleeve before letting the Headmaster in.

"Hello, Harry," Dumbledore greeted, with the same kindness and twinkling eyes that he had employed back when Harry was a golden boy. "You're looking well."

"I look like death warmed over, but thank you none the less," Harry smiled sadly, gesturing towards an empty chair.

Once seated, Dumbledore did a cursory glance of the place. "Been unpacking I see," he smiled. "But I don't expect you to find what you were looking for. I took the liberty of removing any…harmful substances from your things."

"I figured you knew about it," Harry answered, the question of his appointment answered.

"How are you feeling?"

"I've been out of the hospital for four months now."

"That's not an answer," Dumbledore reminded him. Harry held back the urge to tell him that it was all he'd get.

"Who have you told?" Harry asked instead. He hadn't detected any pity for him, but they'd have to actually care about his well being to pity him.

"The staff knows," Dumbledore admitted. "I had to justify my choice in you."

"You call a suicide attempt justification for hiring me to a post in a school? I bet that went over well," Harry said bitterly.

"I had been hoping that the overdose was accidental, but yes. It showed that you were remorseful for what you've done."

Harry did not want to be asked, yet again, what he had done. "What are my duties here?"

"The house elves see to most of the chores," Dumbledore answered. "You'll mainly deal with Peeves and whatever damage he does that cannot be repaired by the elves. You remember Argus Filch. Just patrol the halls a few nights a week, keep the students in line, though we don't seem to have many trouble makers anymore. There isn't much work involved in this post, but it is better than nothing. Perhaps you can resume your studies?" he concluded, rising to leave.

"And Harry, do consider speaking to Severus."

"Snape? Why?" Harry asked.

"He does have experience with…whatever it is that troubles you. He'd be happy to help."

"Thank you, Headmaster," Harry answered, shutting the door once the professor left. Snape? Yes, ex-Death Eater. Probably enough guilt to last two lifetimes. Mistrusted and disliked for years. But he had proved himself in the final battle against Voldemort. He had nearly died to protect Hogwarts and its inhabitants. Yes, Harry could see how Dumbledore had made the connection. Of course, it wasn't at all the same. Harry swept his clothes onto the floor and sat at the foot of the bed, letting the voices swarm him once again.

Please, show mercy! Remember James and Lily!

I killed a man.

Is it true?

Harry clamped his hands over his ears, shaking his head in an attempt to loosen the grip the memories had on his brain. Why had he gone to those cliffs? Why had he insisted on going to Azkaban? Why had he let himself be branded a traitor? Why hadn't Dumbledore left him for dead?

"Doesn't he understand that all I want to do is die?" Harry whispered to himself, easing onto the floor, still dependent on the hardness, and fell asleep, never knowing that he was being watched.

"How is he?" Dumbledore asked. It was a week later and the staff was gathered, half of them mumbling "Who cares?" under their breaths. Draco Malfoy cleared his throat and answered to the best of his ability. "He hasn't made any attempts on his life. He said he wanted to die, his first night here, but nothing's come of it. Still, anyone can see that he's not all there. He talks to himself. He must hear voices, since he covers his ears nearly every night, arguing with whomever he hears. He sleeps on the floor and he shivers in the heat, but he hasn't hurt himself."

Albus Dumbledore was very concerned about Harry. He hadn't seen the young man in days, and neither had the rest of the staff. Harry had been taking his meals in his office, doing his chores at night, and spending the days either holed up in his room or walking the grounds, sticking to the shadows in an effort to go unnoticed.

"Is it the drugs?" Hermione asked, her voice full of disdain at having to waste her free period discussing the likes of Harry Potter.

"More likely it's Azkaban," suggested Remus Lupin. Lupin had been meaning to talk to Harry ever since his arrival, but loyalty to Sirius held him back. It was clear to everyone that Harry was dead to Sirius, having twisted the sacrifice made by his best friends by serving the monster that had killed them.

"I spent twelve years in Azkaban and I never-" Sirius began, before being interrupted by Snape.

"You never were visited by demons? I find that hard to believe."

"Maybe, but he was only in their for five years," Sirius growled.

"And those five years began when he was sixteen," reminded Neville, who had sided with Dumbledore, Lupin, Snape and Draco in forgiving Harry.

"He wouldn't have been there if he hadn't-"

"Enough!" Dumbledore warned. "This is going no where. I want someone to approach him. I can try only so many times."

"I'll do it," Lupin volunteered, ignoring the reproach on Sirius's face. Somewhere, he knew that Sirius held out hope that this was all a misunderstanding. Maybe if he could convince Harry to apologize to Sirius for whatever he had done, both of them would be forgiven, Harry for his crime, Sirius for his failure in preventing it.

Harry had just sat down to dinner when a knock sounded at his office door. "Come in," he called tentatively, sensing that this was not the Headmaster.

"Hello, Harry," greeted Remus Lupin. Harry had wondered when Dumbledore would send down a peacemaker.

"Professor Lupin, take a seat," Harry answered. "Do you want some tea?"

"Yes, thank you."

It was an intense silence that followed, and Harry did not know if his old teacher was expecting an apology or merely afraid to speak to him.

"You are welcome in the Great Hall, you know," Lupin began, depressed by the loneliness Harry bathed in.

"I sincerely doubt that," Harry answered, the disappointment in his voice smacking of personal experience.

"Did someone say something to you?" Lupin asked, hoping against hope that it hadn't been Sirius.

"She didn't say anything, really. Only pushed me down the stairs," Harry smiled, not quite knowing why he was smiling.

"Who? When? Were you hurt?"

"Tuesday, Hermione, and it was only a few scrapes, nothing I couldn't take care of," Harry answered.

"What happened?"

"I tried to say hello. She didn't take it very well."

"I think you should try again. With Sirius," Lupin answered, seeing no other way but rushing right in. Harry's laugh wasn't the response he had been hoping for.

"I think that meeting would result in more than a few harmless scratches," Harry answered, warming Lupin's tea.

"Harry, he wants to forgive you. I'm sure of it. But you have to go to him. Tell him what happened, or don't, but just say you're sorry and have done with it. I know he misses you, he's just disappointed. We all were, but I know that I'm glad you're back. Please, Harry, don't stay locked up in here." Lupin left soon after, knowing that he couldn't face any counter-argument at the moment. He only hoped that his estimation of Sirius's feelings had been on the mark. Meanwhile, Harry was sitting still as stone, mulling over what had been suggested. How could he go beg Sirius for forgiveness? How could Sirius accept it? But Lupin was right about one thing. Hiding in his room wasn't making his life at Hogwarts any easier. Hadn't he come here with at least a slight hope to find something worth living for? And what did he have now? Dumbledore, Lupin and Neville had all forgiven him, but was it enough? No, it really wasn't. It was barely anything compared to the alluring nothing he had almost reached when he'd swallowed his entire prescription of anti-depressants. Knowing that, Harry couldn't help but reason that he had nothing left to lose. Anything that Sirius could say wouldn't be half as bad as what he heard every night in his dreams.

So it was that Harry found himself knocking on Sirius's door a half-hour later. Sirius had been pardoned, of course, and had taken over for Professor Binns when the ghost had finally retired.

"Can I help you?" Sirius asked coolly once seeing who it was.

Harry hadn't actually expected to get past the threshold and now he hadn't the foggiest idea what to say. Should he be honest with him? "Never mind," Harry stammered, retreating back down the hallway, practically running in fact, only to be stopped by a voice calling his name. "Mr. Potter, in my office if you please."

Harry had made his way unwittingly into the dungeons, and here was Severus Snape, almost smiling, inviting him in. "Is there something you needed, Professor Snape?" Harry asked, more in awe than afraid. He'd come to terms with the Potions master during his fifth year, and now he was just another great man that he had been a disappointment to.

"It looks like you're the one who needs something," Snape answered, taking in the tear-stained face that Harry was oblivious to. "Where were you just now?"

"I had gone to speak to Sirius, but I couldn't," Harry answered, tired of holding up pretenses.

Snape considered the young man for a long moment, obsidian eyes boring into his face, and then making their way to his forearm. Harry didn't know why, but he rolled up the sleeve of his shirt, and Snape saw it there. Nothing.

"We all assumed-" Snape sputtered, mind scrambling to make sense of it.

"What did the papers say?" Harry asked, though he knew already.

"You were apprehended with several known Death Eaters!"

"True enough. I was shipped to the Ministry along with Death Eaters caught in a separate raid."

"Then what-"

"I think I'm going to go to bed. Please don't speak of this," Harry answered, confessing enough for one night. As he began to leave, he was stopped by a soft grab on his elbow.

"I don't know what…Harry, I don't know if Sirius will forgive you, but I think you should go speak to him. Tonight. It could only help."

Sirius was interrupted by another knock on the door. "What is it that you want?" he snapped, face to face with Harry yet again.

"Sirius, I wanted to explain…I'm sorry…just let me-" Harry began, before finding himself shoved against the wall.

"The only reason you aren't in the hospital wing right now is because we all promised Dumbledore that we'd tolerate your presence, and some people understand the concept of loyalty," Sirius growled, before slamming the door in Harry's face.

Breathless, blinded, blundering for the pills and cursing when he remembered they weren't there. Cursing at the voices in his head, heart threatening to explode from the pressure, jaw threatening to break through his palate. Rushing into the bathroom, never mind the pain, detaching the razor blade, slashing and slipping onto the cold stone floor.

A third knock on Sirius's door and he was ready to make good on his threat. "Was I unclear last time?" he bellowed, opening the door.

"You were perfectly clear, I'm afraid," answered Snape, pushing past Sirius and sitting down inside. "So clear that Harry slit his wrists an hour ago."

Sirius would have been fooling himself if he thought Snape hadn't noticed his lip tremble and his color pale. "Is he dead?"

"No, Pomfrey fixed him up. He's back in his room now, refused to stay in the hospital wing. Draco only just slipped in with his Invisibility cloak to keep an eye on him. I don't know what exactly you said to him, but you really should forgive him, Sirius. You don't know the whole story. None of us do."

"Do you know something that I don't?" Sirius asked, his face flushed again with anger. He did not deserve this. He did not deserve to be seen as a callous man. He did not deserve this guilt. He hated Harry for it.

"Regardless of what he's done, he's still their son, Sirius, and you might have just killed him," Snape answered, rushing out before he was too tempted to betray Harry's confidence. He hoped that last comment would be enough to turn Sirius's heart, but instead it only enraged the man further. Yes, Harry was James's and Lily's son, and again he had written off their sacrifice and now he expected Sirius to atone for it. Well, he would not let that happen. Sirius needed to understand just what had sent Harry to Azkaban. He needed to justify his hatred, to prove that Harry Potter no longer existed, that he was a Death Eater bastard that didn't deserve his forgiveness.

"Draco, out!" Sirius shouted, having burst in to Harry's room, nearly tripping over Harry as he slept on the floor.

Draco Malfoy removed his invisibility cloak and flashed an embarrassed and apologetic smile in Harry's direction before turning to scowl at Sirius. "I really think you should leave, Sirius. You've said enough for one night."

"It's not like I told him to off himself!" Sirius retorted, again angered by his perceived accountability in this situation. "Now get out so I can have a word with my godson alone," Sirius smiled. Draco wasn't fooled by the charade but he left anyway, heading to update Dumbledore and Lupin on the situation. Both men had lingered in the hospital wing, debating on whether they should send Harry to St. Mungo's or keep him on at Hogwarts in the hopes that they'd get through to him.

Once Draco was gone, Sirius rounded on Harry, who was now alert and standing, though still weak from blood loss and whatever sedative Pomfrey had stuffed down his throat before he fled from the infirmary.

"You've got some bloody nerve trying to pin this on me, you Death Eater bastard!" Sirius shouted.

"Now, now, Sirius, I don't think my father would appreciate that remark," hissed Harry, aware of what buttons to push if he really wanted to hurt himself. Predictably, he was thrown to the floor, nose cracked and bleeding from where Sirius had hit him.

"You should be rotting in Azkaban!" Sirius answered, his stomach turning at the sight of his godson, bleeding on the floor. How had it come to this? How could he have hit Harry? But still, he went on. "I don't understand why they set you free."

That was it. Harry broke at that. Why had they set him free? Had they even? For years, he'd felt pressed into the ground, held underwater, and he was clawing for air. Had he been given a Dementor's Kiss, and not even known it? And who was this man to yell at him, after all he'd done. How dare he! How dare they believe such things of him? What had he ever done to lose their trust, beyond confessing? Hadn't that been enough? "And why are you a free man, Sirius?" Harry asked, picking himself up off the floor, not bothering to clean the blood from his face. Blood he could deal with. "How did that come about, exactly?"

"They found Wormtail's body," Sirius barked.

"Did they now? How interesting. Where, exactly?" Harry couldn't help it, he was crying freely now. He wanted this so much. It didn't mean anything, it would probably hurt them more than help them, but God did he want it.

"In the Channel, near the cliffs of…" and the bottom fell out. Harry was crying, looking like someone had finally let him up. The trial. How had Sirius never put them together? "Oh my God," he whispered, half wishing that Harry was still a Death Eater that deserved those five years in Azkaban. Why? "Harry, I-"

But that was all he could get out before being struck hard by Harry's fist. "Don't fucking bother!" Harry shouted, running off before Sirius could regain his balance and follow.

In the hospital wing, Albus Dumbledore was having a conversation with Minister Fudge via fireplace. Snape had broken and told him what he had seen and now the Headmaster was demanding to know the truth.

"I'm sorry, Albus, but his files are sealed," answered a perturbed Fudge, not very happy at being awoken to discuss this matter.

"Cornelius, Harry tried to kill himself tonight. I already know that he is not a Death Eater, but I insist that you tell me the whole story.'

"Is he alright?" Fudge asked, his hand nervously fluttering over a stack of paper work on his mantle.

"He is right now, but he needs help and most of my staff refuse to trust him. Whatever arrangement the two of you have, surely it's not worth all this."

Fudge was silent for a few minutes, weighing his options. If Harry's name was cleared, he'd be hated for letting the boy rot in Azkaban. If Fudge kept the agreement, Harry might actually succeed in killing himself and then what would keep Dumbledore from spreading some story around anyway?

"You're right. He's not a Death Eater. The man he killed was Peter Pettigrew. Apparently, Pettigrew had made an attempt on Harry's life and failed. He lost his wand, and the boy chased him out to the cliffs, cursed him off the edge. I could have gotten Harry off the hook, claimed self-defense, anything, but he wouldn't hear of it. To this day I've never understood it," Fudge concluded.

Harry was running through the Forbidden Forest, pushing loudly past the trees and silently praying that something deadly would hunt him down. But then, he was really too tired to die. Harry nearly laughed to think it, but it was true. He'd been tired since the day he returned it seemed. And besides, wouldn't it be glorious to return to the castle a hero? A wrongfully accused and mistreated hero? No, it wouldn't. That was why Harry was running away from Hogwarts, trying to break clear through the forest. Occasionally, his mind would remind him that it was still there, that his muscles hadn't taken over, that there was more to him than a set of lungs burning for breath. He would think silly little things, like how he could have been so scared of the werewolves of the forest even when the moon was a mere sliver in the sky. Little harmless things that were far removed from all that lay behind him. And still Harry ran, half like a scared rabbit, half like a man that had some sense of direction. And it was only until he'd stopped to catch his breath that he was caught.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Harry wondered if he'd ever hear that voice without such anger.

"Don't worry, I'm leaving. I'm sure Dumbledore will find a replacement to take care of that wobbly desk in your classroom," Harry answered, sitting down in the grass and stretching his legs out before him, giving them a rest and a chance to become solid again before he pressed on.

"Why didn't you come back, after you were released? You could have explained things and gone on with your life. We all would have died to have you back, you know."

"I could really tell by the welcome I've gotten," Harry murmured. He hardly had enough heart left to be angry. And he'd just noticed that his wrists were bleeding again. Madam Pomfrey must have done a rushed job. Harry tore at the rolled up sleeves of his shirt, wrapping a strip of linen around each wrist, tying it so tight that his fingers were left numb.

"Kind of like the welcome I got, first time around? Harry, really, you could have come home."

Harry winced at that word. Home. What did it mean, for him? Eleven years with the Dursleys. Almost six at Hogwarts. Five in Azkaban. The rest all scattered across America. What was a home? Did Harry ever know? Maybe it was the place he felt most safe. Harry winced again when he thought of it. Azkaban. That had been a safe place. No Dudley. No Vernon. No constant worry that Voldemort would come for him or his friends. But somehow, Harry didn't think that answer would be accepted. Would he have been accepted?

"Maybe," Harry answered, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper. "Maybe I didn't think I deserved it. I honestly don't know. But I think it was more than just that. I'm not a strong man, Sirius. And I wasn't a strong boy either. You all thought I was, maybe even I thought I was, but it all melted in the end, didn't it? You had your innocence to hold you when the Dementors came, but I didn't. I had very dark things to keep me company. They broke me in there. They're breaking me even now. I didn't think I could show that to anyone. And you'd all expect me to put up a fight when the time came. Deny it all you want, but you would. And at the time, I couldn't even hold a wand without wanting to use it on myself. Maybe I was underestimating your belief in me, but you don't leave that place without an understanding of what you are. And I knew what I wasn't. I wasn't a hero anymore. And thinking that you and Ron and Hermione might have died trying to protect The Boy Who Lived, I was almost grateful that he'd died in that place."

Harry stood again, adjusting the bandages in his wrist as he stared out into the tree line, peering into the distance and trying to guess how far he had to go to get anywhere. Damn near impossible, trying to see through a forest. All you get is solid earth.

"Where do you think you're going?" Sirius repeated, his voice much softer now, but stretched, pulled from that achy place just behind your tonsils, that place you speak from when you're fighting a breakdown.

"I'm going home."

"Harry, it's not there," Sirius whispered. Harry knew better than to ask what he knew about it. Of course he knew, in some sense. He understood the withdrawal from constant pain. It hurt. It got to hurt so bad that you would almost run through a brick wall just to feel something close to it again. Sirius knew that.

"I know, really," Harry answered. "They wouldn't let me in if I begged, now. No doubt Fudge explained everything to everyone and the whole world will cry 'Poor Harry,' tomorrow morning when they pick up the Prophet."

"They'll even throw you a parade," Sirius grinned.

"With a big float?" Harry asked.

"Anything you want."

"I want it to run over me," Harry smirked, turning away and walking into the forest.

"Harry?" Sirius called, amazed at how soon the young man had vanished into the trees.

"You'll hear from me in a few days, Sirius," Harry answered. And then he was gone.

The news spread like light into a darkened room, reaching every corner of the wizarding world and leaving everyone blinking and blinded until it set in. Harry Potter was a hero again, a poor orphan boy sacrificed to the cause, humble and selfless and returned unharmed. They knew it all along, of course. They knew their boy hadn't failed them. He had caught Pettigrew! Right hand to Voldemort, heartless Death Eater, and betrayer of the Potters. Harry deserved a medal for all he'd done.

Of course, the enlightenment did not include intelligence that Harry Potter had disappeared. Two days later, his old friends were still teaching their classes, weary and wondering and re-writing history. The children of Hogwarts knew about Harry Potter, of course. He had been a Gryffindor, a Quidditch legend, and had thrown it all away in his sixth year to become a Death Eater. Their parents had whispered his name, sighing that Harry had nearly cost them the war by defecting, warning them never to turn out like him, a traitor to everything good. A few of the older children understood what it meant. They'd heard the story of Voldemort's first downfall, how he'd been broken by that infant. It was these sixth and seventh years that jeered the loudest when his appointment had been announced. It was they that understood the betrayal. And it was they that had to be swept off the floor of the Great Hall when the morning owl post had arrived with the news. A real hero, reduced to cleaning out classrooms, and they had taunted him. What he must think of them.

While Hermione, Sirius and the rest of the professors picked up the pieces and explained that good, sweet Harry would never harbor any ill will, they privately worried that he was no longer capable of it. He was lying dead, at the foot of the great chalk cliffs, in their minds. Dumbledore's insistence that Harry would return in a matter of days did nothing for them. It was all he, Remus, Neville and Draco could do, trying to keep Sirius and Hermione from drowning in self-hatred and regret. Meanwhile, Harry's mind was focused on a trying conversation.

"Is it true?" Harry noticed how disgusted Ron looked with himself, and nearly smiled at it before he remembered that he would never wish that feeling on anyone, even on his worst day.

"I had a feeling you'd be the first to come looking," Harry answered. After clearing the forest, Harry had hitchhiked his way deeper into the heart of Scotland, sticking to moors and outlying farms and villages, anything Muggle and safe. He knew that it was only a matter of time. If he hadn't returned to Hogwarts of his own free will, someone would have come or someone would have been sent. And Ron Weasley, still quick-tempered and stubborn, would not stand around and wait for answers.

"Is it true?" Ron repeated, watching Harry lower himself unsteadily to the ground. Ron had caught up with him halfway up the Devil's Staircase in Glencoe, a Muggle aversion spell keeping tourists away.

Harry skimmed the paper that Ron had shoved at his chest, a letter in Hermione's still girlish scrawl. "It's true." And Harry's head flew back, compelled by the pressure on the bridge of his nose as Ron hit him with all of his might.

"Holy fuck! What'd you do that for?" Harry whined, unwrapping the torn sleeve from his wrist and moving the bandage to the more demanding wound. Ron blanched when he saw the tear revealed, angry and red from the sudden onslaught of oxygen.

"I thought Pomfrey fixed that," he snapped, angry that he'd had to see it, and he pulled out his wand.

"Leave it alone!" Harry growled, shoving Ron off him and standing, throwing the soaked cuff to the ground. Ron just sighed and pointed the wand at Harry's nose instead, undoing the damage he'd done.

"Thanks," Harry said, rubbing his face on his other sleeve. "Now why did you hit me?"

"Did it ever occur to you that we needed you, that we've needed you all these years? You're so bloody selfish!"

Harry privately agreed with Ron but it was tempered by a sense that he had paid enough to make up for it. What had Ron paid, really? One friend. Two brothers. That was a lot, but his account had been settled years ago, when Voldemort fell. Harry was always paying.

"Well?" Ron asked.

"What do you want me to say? I could tell you that I needed you, that night I was sent to Azkaban. I could tell you that I might have come back had I thought anyone would have wanted it. I could tell you should have known me. I could blame Voldemort or you or Fudge or the Dementors. Or I could apologize and ask for forgiveness. But none of that is going to happen, so you can just hold your breath. Whatever you think I owe you, I think it was settled eleven years ago."

"But why-" Ron began, only to be stopped by Harry's cold stare.

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Go talk to Sirius if you want to hear the why and how and where. I'm sick of it, to tell you the truth. But haven't you ever done anything that you had to pay for? Or thought you had to pay for?"

"No." Ron couldn't have guessed where all his anger was coming from. Things were being mended before his eyes, and all he wanted to do was to beat Harry down into a pulp for destroying all the pain and effort it had taken to come to terms with what everyone thought had been the truth. Suddenly, his respect for Remus Lupin grew in leaps and bounds, but then, that was entirely different. This wrongful imprisonment had been Harry's choice. That should have been even sadder, right? But Ron still hated…

"No? Is it true?" Harry mocked, wondering if Ron remembered the first time he'd asked him that. "You never thought you'd done something, or failed someone? I find that hard to believe."

"Believe what you want. Or say what you want, since you're obviously hinting at something."

"What did you do, when you found out about Percy?" Harry hated the softness, the concern in his voice. Ron was angry and Harry thought he should be too. He should be furious, being reunited with his best friend and finding a bitter backlash of memories and bad blood. Harry suddenly felt very heavy again, pulled into the center of his stomach where his guilt dwelt. He should have been there to comfort Ron when Percy had turned, when George was killed, when he'd married Hermione. He should have come back, after Azkaban. Or he should have stayed dead to them. Anything but this in-between. Anything but this hovering between return and final goodbye. He felt like a bloody ghost.

"Why don't you go back to your wife? And tell Sirius that I'll be true to my word," Harry said, no longer up to hearing Ron's answer. He still had the rest of the Devil's Staircase to climb and he couldn't stop now. Ron saw Harry staring up at the peak, getting a sinking feeling that Harry would never stop. He never could, even when they were children.

"What are you going to do when you get to the top?" Ron asked, words stretching over the lump in his throat.

"I'm not going to jump," Harry answered before continuing the climb, trusting Ron not to follow.

Harry returned to Hogwarts in the pre-dawn hours two days later, heading straight to the Owlery to send word to Minister Fudge, apologizing for any damage the whole matter had done to his reputation, offering to make a statement to the press to boost public opinion and asking for his wand to be returned and the hold on his Gringotts account lifted. Harry didn't really care what people thought of the man, but Fudge had kept his secret all these years and it was only fair. Then, Harry returned to his room as if nothing had happened. Of course, it was glaringly obvious that something had happened. His room was no longer a lonely, antiseptic place. In the few days he had been gone, all of his old things that had been seized upon his arrest had been returned, arranged about the room. The bookshelf full of old texts and Quidditch manuals smacked of Hermione's hand, but the rest was too haphazard. His old school trunk was blocking the closet, an invisibility cloak in a pile at the foot of a coat rack, having been clumsily hung. Harry supposed it was Sirius, trying to create a home. The desk in the office was covered by gifts from old friends and acquaintances, some with cards that Harry dreaded to read, some simple enough, like no one was willing to admit that time had passed. There was an interesting Puffapod hybrid, obviously from Neville. A jumper from Mrs. Weasley. A tin of rock cakes from Hagrid and the "little lady". A vile of Wit-Sharpening potion from Snape (Harry couldn't help but laugh at this). And there, laid out with care, was a timeworn parchment: The Marauder's Map. A gift from Remus Lupin, who had reclaimed possession of it in Harry's fifth year after he was caught sneaking off to Honeydukes. Harry quickly scanned the map, making sure Draco Malfoy was not spying on him. He could see no movement within the castle. Ron was with Hermione in one of the guestrooms, probably staying on until they were sure Harry would return. Everyone was in place, except a flurry of movement out on the Quidditch pitch. It was the Ravenclaw team, captained by Maxwell Wood, who had inherited his brother's obsession with the sport.

After changing into a clean set of his old school robes which someone had altered in his absence, Harry carried the map back into the bedroom and sat down on the bed, his back too sore for the floor. Having slept away most of the previous day, Harry was wide awake and staring at the map, waiting for the dots to move and wondering with a smile how long it would take for them to figure out he had returned. He was hoping for at least a day. He had had time to think, up at the summit of the Devil's Staircase, but it wasn't enough. He had relived the last six years in his mind, running from town to town, inching his way across America. He had thought about returning to Oregon, where he had stood still the longest before the nightmares became too disruptive and he'd been fired from his job at a small town bookshop. He had thought about settling down in New Mexico, in a small magical community he had stumbled upon, where his story was not known. He had thought about trying some other country. Africa? China? But always it came down to a promise he had made to Sirius. Well, he'd only said that he'd contact him. He could easily just send a letter and be done with it. But looking out over the lonely mountains of Glencoe, Harry knew that it wasn't what he wanted anymore. He knew that running this time wouldn't be the easy way out. Running this time, and leaving everything blown open and bleeding, would be harder than staying, even if it was only just long enough to heal. So Harry had come back. He didn't know if he was going to stay. He didn't know if it was possible.

A few hours later the castle was awake. Small dots with nearly illegible labels filled the Great Hall, while some lingered in the dormitories and in offices. Sirius was pacing about his quarters, Ron and Hermione rushing up to the Headmaster's office, probably to insist that Harry be sent for. Soon, all four of them joined the others in the Great Hall and then dispersed, spreading into classrooms and offices, Ron heading out to join his brother Charlie near Hagrid's old hut. Harry watched the house elves scattering about the kitchen. Harry watched Snape and someone named Bryson Thacker rush from the Potions lab to the Hospital wing, probably following an accidental explosion in class. Harry watched as Hermione seemed to fly across her classroom, probably levitated by a less-than-competent student. Soon the dots became dull and Harry turned his attention to redecorating, unpacking his trunk even though the length of his stay was uncertain. He didn't find it likely that, after all that had happened, Dumbledore would hold him to his contract. Maybe he could finish his magical training and move on with his life? In all honesty, Harry had left Hogwarts with more magical ability than a few of its teachers, but he wasn't certain if he'd be allowed to even use his wand without having finished the school program. But listen to him! Making plans, and so soon after…

Digging through his things, Harry was delighted to come across his Firebolt. He still couldn't believe that someone had kept all of his belongings, and now that he had his old broom, he was itching to take flight. In the few hours that the Dementors had left him alone each day, that was what Harry had dreamt about, soaring over the pitch, or playing a pickup game with the Weasleys in Ottery St. Catchpole. He made sure not to see anyone's face. He had to save all of the happiness he could and could only afford to think such things once every few weeks. Any hint of nostalgia would attract the Dementors in swarms, and they'd linger at his door, leeching him of every good thing, until he could barely remember his name. With his Firebolt in hand, Harry couldn't wait to get outside, but he'd be seen. Neville and Charlie were still out there with their classes, and anyone could see him from the windows of the castle. And Harry was rather amused with himself, staying hidden for several hours already. Of course, he had the feeling that Dumbledore knew. He always knew. One of the house elves or paintings must have seen Harry slip in. But the possibility that they were all wringing their hands with worry over him made Harry feel giddy. He felt guilty for that, but he was giddy none the less. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn't eaten in three days. Or maybe it was the infection in his left wrist, which had turned rather yellow in the past twelve hours. Desperate for something, Harry opened the tin of Hagrid's rock cakes, smiling again as his teeth threatened to crack. He was glad to see that some things hadn't changed.

In the late afternoon, Harry was startled by a light tapping at his office door. The map hadn't shown any visitors, but still the tapping continued, soft and unsteady. Opening the door, Harry thought he was being attacked before he saw the outlines of feathers. It was an owl, bearing a parcel with the official Ministry insignia. Fudge had written back. Harry ripped open the box, nearly crying when he held his wand for the first time in over a decade. He shakily waved it about, relieved when red and gold sparks issued forth, clouding the air. The box also included a bag of what must have been at least five thousand galleons, and a letter from Fudge explaining that the Ministry invested what remained of his inheritance and that these were the profits (Harry wasn't so stupid as to not recognize a payoff, but he accepted the gift just the same). Fudge went on to say that he'd taken the liberty of drafting a statement for Harry to sign upon approval. Basically, it said that Harry had wanted no special treatment in his case and that any misrepresentations of the truth in Minister Fudge's part, if they were indeed deliberate, had been made at his request in his wish to keep the matter private. Harry signed the statement and returned to Fudge's letter. Harry was being offered a position at the Ministry, in any department he'd like at any time. Harry wrote a brief reply, asking for time to consider and thanking Fudge for the offer. Attaching this note and the press release to the owl's leg, Harry opened his door again and watched as the Tawny made its way down the hall.

The sun was getting low in the sky, and Harry was unsure of what to do. He'd had thought someone would have come to his offices by now. Earlier that morning, he had laughed to himself at the image of him waltzing into the Great Hall, seeing the stunned look on everyone's faces. But now even the thought of that embarrassed him. He'd waited too long for the joke to be funny. And where were the House Elves? They normally checked on every room in the castle at some point in the day. Or maybe they hadn't noticed his return, as he had thought. Harry returned to his bed, resigning himself to wake up some time after the students were done eating. He'd go to the kitchens for some food and then he'd make his rounds around the castle, see if Peeves had done any damage while he was away.

Throwing a simple locking charm on his bedroom door, Harry fell into a silent sleep, almost missing the demons that had left him the night he left Hogwarts. Things were nearly unbearably quiet within him and Harry wished he could have brought his Muggle tape player with him, to fill the void.

It was nearly eleven when Harry woke up. His years in Azkaban, and even in the tense terms before, had taught him the value of his internal time clock. It was something that Lupin had insisted he practiced, training himself to take hour-long naps whenever he wasn't on the move. It was to come in handy in the war, between battles and on journeys. Of course, Harry had never had to use his skill in the war, but it served a purpose in Azkaban. When he'd hear screaming or whimpering a few cells down from him, he'd fall asleep. It was easier that way, being attacked in his dreams. He did less harm to himself, clawed at his flesh just a fraction less than when he was awake during their visits. And a fraction could mean a lot, depending on when the mediwizard was due for his weekly check.

Glancing at the map, Harry saw that most of the staff was in Dumbledore's office. It would have been easy for him to just go to them, but Harry felt slightly ashamed of his behavior and he couldn't lie to them, tell them that he had just arrived. He had the feeling that he would never lie to any of them ever again. So instead of heading towards the stone gargoyle that still stood vigil at the entrance to the Headmaster's quarters, Harry made his way to the kitchens, where he was bombarded by pumpkin juice and puddings and several main courses before he could even say hello. Harry was relieved that Dobby was nowhere in sight, feeling too tired from his short rest to have an over-emotional reunion. Harry ate in silence, watching the House Elves rushing about, doing God knows what. They moved so fast that Harry wondered how they had any work left to do at all. Soon he was finished, sputtering his thanks and backing out of the room, politely refusing second and third helpings.

Checking the map again, Harry turned away from the dot labeled "Draco Malfoy" which was close by but heading in the opposite direction. Harry systematically began popping in to the classrooms, adjusting things here and there. A crooked painting. A broken table leg. Nothing exciting until Harry happened into Sirius's classroom. There, at the blackboard, was Peeves, writing the foulest things Harry had ever seen this side of the Atlantic.

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Harry laughed as Peeves began to draw a rather graphic picture. Peeves whipped around, clearly startled.

"Potter the Rotter!" he exclaimed with glee. "His Headship has been looking for you. I should tell him you're hear, I should," Peeves grinned, obviously assuming that this was some great threat. Harry merely shrugged.

"Like I was saying, you're wasting your time, doing that in here," Harry answered.

"Why?" Peeves asked, frowning at his work, which he was genuinely proud of.

"Well, Sirius, I mean Professor Black, is more likely to appreciate this gift than get upset by it," Harry grinned. "If mayhem is what you're after, I'd suggest going to Professor Granger-Weasley's class."

"I miss Filch," Peeves grumbled as he floated out the door. Harry knew that Peeves was positively put out if he wasn't yelled at every other minute. Sighing, Harry cleaned off the graffiti and headed down the hall into Sirius's office, where he remembered seeing Peeves's dot earlier. Sure enough, there was some type of…goo blocking covering the door handle. After cleaning it off, grateful once again for his wand, he ventured inside. Had he ever been in here? No, he hadn't gotten very far before being physically removed. Remembering the look his godfather had gotten after he hit Harry, that look of shock and regret and disgust that Sirius had tried to hide, Harry had to sit down. As he sat at the desk, taking note of the squeak in the warm leather chair, Harry suddenly felt very happy for Sirius, who was finally free and doing what he had meant to do. Harry's eyes lingered over the paperwork scattered on the desk. Essays on Goblin rebellions. He would have thought that Sirius would choose more entertaining topics of discussion, but apparently such things were important. How long since Harry had left now? Four days? Five? If he waited any longer, it would really be stretching the "few" limit he had assigned himself. Harry knew it was only a technicality, but he hated the thought of going back on his word so soon after re-establishing his credibility, so he picked up a spare parchment and quill and drafted a letter to Sirius right then, sitting in the man's office.

Sirius,

I said you'd hear from me in a few days, but you'll have to settle for this letter and the message I sent with Ron. Though now that I think about it, you probably won't have to settle at all. You'll read this and then you'll come drag me out of bed. I wouldn't be surprised if you knew this already and were just waiting for me to make the first move, but I've been in the castle all day. If you did know, I'll take comfort in the fact that you knew I wouldn't do myself a harm. I'd hate it if you all thought I needed to be supervised. And if you honestly didn't know, I suppose I should apologize for any added worry, or apprehension, on your part. It must sound stupid to you, me hiding away in my room without bothering to say hello. I'm not planning on making a habit of it, just so you know. In fact, if you don't read this before morning, I'll most likely find you first. I'm only writing this because I said you'd hear from me and I wanted to keep my word. What was I saying? Oh, I was trying to explain what I've been doing all day but that's proving rather difficult. How did you return to society, after the pardon? Did you stride right in and say "I told you so!"? You had the right to, but can you just imagine it? I'd be so embarrassed. Strange, the thought I've put into this when it really doesn't mean anything. When you were on the run, did you ever go to Glencoe? Ron probably told you he found me there, but he might not have mentioned how peaceful the place is. I don't know why I'm mentioning it, actually. I'll tell you about my letter from Fudge tomorrow. I'm thinking about building a home there, or maybe somewhere closer to Killiecrankie, if I stay. Things are still up in the air, aren't they? I got the impression that you forgave me, that night, but I'd understand if you didn't. I'm almost sorry that you had to find out. What am I saying? It's not like you figured it out. I told you, I told you because I wanted to hurt you. I really am sorry. It would have been so much easier if I had stayed in America. Hell, if things had worked out, everything would be easier. Odd, how things almost seem worse. Well, I'm going to bed. The Devil's Staircase is beautiful but it's one hell of a climb!

I'll speak to you tomorrow, or tonight if you feel the need to drag me out of bed for this,

Harry

Sirius was nearly ready to collapse from exhaustion as he made his way back to his office after the meeting with Dumbledore. He had only been able to sleep for a few minutes at a time since Harry had left, and when Ron came back with the news that Harry was out in the middle of nowhere, climbing mountains and "talking rubbish", Sirius couldn't even close his eyes anymore. But what was most infuriating was the lack of action. In fact, the meeting in Dumbledore's office had nothing to do with trying to find out where Harry was. Instead, it was a question of what to do with him once he came back. It seemed a little premature, or even futile, to Sirius, who did not share Dumbledore's confidence in Harry's safe return. Still, he struggled through the meeting, trying to protect his godson from some of the intolerable scenarios his colleagues were suggesting.

"I think we should just have him committed," Ron had snorted.

"Ron, do you really think being locked up for another five years will help him?" Hermione snapped back. She had told Sirius earlier how disappointed she was in Ron's reaction to the situation. Whether it was due to guilt at having failed his friend, apprehension at the possibility of being demoted to the sidekick position after The Boy Who Lived returned, or genuine anger at Harry's decision, Hermione did not know. All she and everyone else in that room knew was that Ron was acting like a jilted boyfriend.

"I agree with Hermione," Remus had offered. "Harry doesn't need to be committed but he obviously needs some help. We haven't done a very good job of things."

That was an understatement if Sirius had every heard one.

"One of my concerns is the effect this is having on the students," entered McGonagall. "Some of them are already feeling guilty for having doubted him, as if it was their fault. But we can't let someone that is suicidal back into the castle."

"We don't know if Harry is suicidal anymore," Dumbledore had pointed out. "Perhaps we should find someone else for the Caretaker position however."

"Where is Harry going to go?" Sirius had demanded.

"He can stay here if he'd like," Dumbledore answered. "I'm not suggesting that we turn our back on him, by any means. But I am sure that, with things being as they are, Harry will be in the position to be much more than a glorified handyman, when he's ready that is."

That was how they left it, with plans to find a replacement caretaker. Sirius had tried to linger in the office, but Dumbledore simply said that they'd be seeing Harry soon enough and gently closed the door in his face. So Sirius wearily dragged himself down to his rooms, hoping to find some sleep that wasn't plagued by visions of Harry flying off he Devil's Staircase. He entered his office, intent on going straight through to his bedroom, when he saw the stack of papers on his desk and groaned. These were essays that should have been returned to the students days ago, but he had never found the patience to grade them. He knew it was late, but since he was somewhat afraid to go to sleep, Sirius sat on the desk, picked up the first piece of parchment he saw, and nearly fell out of his chair.

Harry awoke to a loud banging and jumped out of bed, trying to remember when he'd fallen asleep. And why he was on the bed. The knock on his door persisted, but Harry let it go on as he sat back down, trying to regain his balance and slow his pulse. It was strange, how skittish he'd become around loud sounds. It wasn't as if the Dementors knocked when they visited his cell. They didn't even have to open the door for their influence to be felt.

"Harry?" It was more of a shout than a question and it was effective in rousing him and getting him to the door.

"Hello," Harry mumbled, pointing to a chair and shuffling back into his room to grab his extra pair of glasses.

"Now that's the Harry Potter I know," Sirius smiled. "When did you stop wearing them?"

"When a few people in New York recognized me. That was the first place I went after…well, I wasn't up for it. Strange how these glasses are such a trademark," Harry shrugged. He pulled up a seat across from Sirius. "What time is it?" he yawned.

"A little after one, but it couldn't wait until morning," Sirius answered.

"Afraid I wouldn't really be here?"

"No."

"What did you have on your mind?"

"I'm not really sure," Sirius laughed nervously. It was true. After he had read Harry's note, he'd gotten the urge to go and speak to him, but now that he was there in his quarters, he couldn't think of a thing to say. "I have been to Glencoe and that area," he settled on.

Harry's eyes brightened, like two shining emeralds in the dark. "Really? Did you like it?"

"Very much," Sirius smiled, amused at his godson's fervor for the place. When Sirius was Harry's age, he'd have hated the isolation. He'd probably be screaming for a pub after ten minutes in that lonely country. But then, Sirius hadn't gone through half of what Harry had when he was still young. And now, with all he had seen in Azkaban and in the war, Sirius could understand what Glencoe held for Harry. Peace. Stillness. Untarnished beauty. Permanence. "Do you know Dickens?"

"Yes. How do you?" Harry asked incredulously.

"Well I can read you know," Sirius smirked, though he understood Harry's shock. Most wizards wouldn't "waste their time" on Muggle literature, but Sirius had always found it useful when it came to…courting the ladies. "Anyway, Dickens called Glencoe 'a burial ground of a race of giants'."

"Good thing I'm not a giant then," Harry answered.

"You might as well be. You're larger than life."

Harry didn't like the tone of this conversation. He didn't want to hear about anything related to death, or to his status, and he didn't want to be reminded that he often linked those two things together in his mind. "Fudge offered me a position in the Ministry," Harry announced, knowing that Sirius would notice the subject change but not caring if he did.

"Where?"

"Anywhere. Any time, too."

"What are you going to do?"

"What do you think I should do?" Sirius was thrilled to hear Harry ask this. He didn't know why. Harry was so desperate for some direction that he'd probably run to a First Year for help if he could. But the fact that he was there made Sirius feel needed. It made him feel forgiven. Now, how to answer? Harry obviously wasn't ready to jump into the bureaucracy. But he also wasn't meant to be sweeping the halls.

"What is it that you want, Harry? What would make you happiest?" Sirius nearly crossed his fingers, hoping that there was nothing fatal in the response.

"A house out there. Fudge gave me a whole sack of galleons in exchange for me clearing his good name. I'd like to build a home out there, in the middle of nowhere. Most beautiful sun I've ever seen," Harry sighed, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He wasn't used to the weight there.

"Are you running again? So soon?" Sirius frowned.

"No. Not running away. I'm running to something. There's a piece of me out there, Sirius. I wish I knew why that is."

Sirius knew the answer, but he dreaded saying it. James had come from that corner of the world. Bur Sirius didn't want Harry to go. He wanted him to stay forever. "Don't you think here would be a better place for you? At least for now? There are so many people that need to come to terms with this. That need you to be here," Sirius added, almost desperate.

"I know. I need to be here. I wasn't planning on going today or anything. I wasn't planning on leaving everyone again. I was just thinking that it would be a nice place to live, after things settle down. I'd go out there and be alone with my Scottish sun for a few months, and then take things as they come. Have everyone out for a visit. Troll around for a job. Act my age for once, instead of someone in their hundreds. Don't you think it would be a good life?" Harry asked, sounding as desperate as Sirius had a moment ago.

"It sounds perfect to me," Sirius smiled, not even bothering to mask his relief.

"Now what do I do in the meantime?" Harry asked. This was the question he had been asking himself while he was gone.

Sirius looked for a long moment into Harry's eyes. Everyone always said he had Lily's eyes, and it was true that the green was a strong and painful reminder of that beautiful and absent woman. But there was something of James in those eyes that people rarely noticed. They were open like a book. Truly the windows into the soul. James could keep a straight face through anything, but if you looked into his eyes and cared enough to see what was there, it was like you could see into him. But now, as Sirius looked into Harry's eyes, it was like he could see right through him.

"Don't worry, Harry," he answered. "They'll come to you."

Sirius was right, of course. Harry had gone back to sleep after his godfather left, and in the morning he breakfasted in the Great Hall for the first time since his sixth year. It was quite amusing, actually. Harry had been dreading resurfacing. He had been praying to go unnoticed as a matter of fact. But it was worth it, walking resolutely into the hall and hearing nearly a hundred dishes fall to the ground in an instant. Draco Malfoy, in a rather undignified manner, carelessly drooled pumpkin juice onto his robes. Harry exercised all of his restraint and refrained from laughing. He even ignored all of the frantic whispering of the students as he took the empty seat at the staff table. But this was all the pleasure the event could afford. Harry had no idea what to say, looking down the table at a teary-eyed Hermione, a concerned Charlie Weasley, and a Minerva McGonagall who would have no mouth if her lips were pulled any tighter. So Harry fell back on his fail-safe: he said good morning rather quietly, shot a smile at Dumbledore, and proceeded to eat his breakfast.

The staff table was eerily silent throughout the meal and more than once did Harry wonder if he had made a mistake in coming. As the minutes dragged on and not even Remus Lupin or Neville Longbottom made any attempt at lightening the mood, Harry rushed the rest of his breakfast and left the table, intent on retrieving his Firebolt and flying over the Quidditch pitch. Of course, he had expected that at least one person would not be content with his decision, and Harry hadn't even reached the doors with his broom in hand when Hermione suddenly grabbed him firmly by his arm.

"Harry, I wanted to apologize for the whole stairs thing," she blurted out, eyes wide from shock that that was the thing she chose to bring up. Harry couldn't help but laugh.

"It's fine. I suppose you thought I would bounce," he smiled. "I was just going out to the Quidditch pitch, to stretch my wings and all that. Care to come along?"

Hermione wordlessly followed Harry outside and watched him as he soared and dove, soared and dove, like he was born in the air. Harry felt like he was, when he was up there. He'd forgotten how much he lived for the free fall when he dove towards the ground and for the sudden pressure on his abdomen when he reversed the dive and pushed back into the sky. He held out his hand, grasping at nothing, just trying to imagine the fluttering weight of the Golden Snitch. But it eluded him, even as a fantasy, and he landed feeling winded, more from the loss than from the exertion.

"You look exactly how I remembered you," Hermione said, the sadness and regret in her voice threatening to choke Harry.

"Except the whole puberty thing finally kicked in, just like Trelawney said it would," Harry smiled. He knew it would have been a good time to apologize, but he couldn't bring himself to do it. "Does he hate me?" he asked instead, a little surprised that it had even been on his mind.

"Of course not," Hermione scoffed, waving her hand as if the idea was inconceivable.

"Hermione?"

Hermione sighed. She never was a good liar, at least when it concerned her two best friends. "He hasn't spoken to me about it. But he did want Dumbledore to send someone to collect you, the day after he got back. That has to mean something, right?"

"Not if he wanted me carted off," Harry snorted.

"Well you have to admit that your decisions of late have not been entirely rational," Hermione gently reminded him.

"I'm sorry." Harry couldn't help it.

"Well, I did push you down the stairs, so I suppose we're even," she smiled. Harry didn't have the heart to tell her that it hadn't really hurt. He barely even felt it. Not after the pain he'd put himself through.

"Where is he?"

"Ron? He went home to collect some things so we could stay at the castle. He doesn't even know you're back. When did you come back, by the way?"

"Wait, where do you two live? What's he do?" Harry asked, delaying his confession. Besides, he was curious. He'd always thought that professors had to live on school grounds.

"We have a house in Hogsmeade. He didn't want to be bothered with living around a bunch of teenagers and we wouldn't dream of being apart. But sometimes we stay in the guest quarters here, if there's something important going on or if there's a Hogsmeade weekend. He's the manager for the Cannons if you can believe it. Flies around the country all season but he Apparates home every night. Now answer my question!"

"A few hours before dawn."

"Oh."

"Yesterday."

"What?!" Harry covered his ears through most of the shrieking, but caught a few phrases like "do you know how worried we were?" and "what on earth did you do all day?" and "why the bloody hell did you wait so long to say something?".

"Sirius knew!" Harry answered, picking one of the questions and taking delight in getting his godfather in some innocent trouble.

"He knew? He was whining and pacing and wearing a hole in the floor and he knew?" Hermione asked, turning bright pink from the ranting.

"Well, to be fair, he only found out a little after midnight. I left him a note," Harry explained.

"A note?!"

"It was a very nice note?" Harry offered. "Besides, I didn't know how to come back," he confessed.

Hermione was silent for a few minutes. "Well, I think you came back in a good fashion. Did you see Draco's accident with his juice?"

They both laughed and talked for the rest of the morning, since Hermione didn't have a class until after lunch. Harry told her about his life in America, about Fudge's offer and about his plans, which were still in the development stage. Hermione told him about her and Ron's wedding, about her past two years teaching, and about the possibility that she was going to try to have a baby. Both were carefully sidestepping anything related to Azkaban or the war, at least for now. They eventually made their way back to the Great Hall for lunch and Harry stopped short at the door, seeing Ron sitting at the staff table and speaking with Severus Snape. Hermione saw the apprehension on his face and gently pushed him forward before going to greet her husband. As Harry slowly made his way to the table, he noticed her whispering into Ron's ear, and Ron's face set into forced indifference. Harry sat on the other side of Snape, even though there was an empty chair next to Hermione.

"Harry," Snape greeted. Harry was unaccustomed the Potions Master's smile, let alone speaking to him on a genuinely friendly basis.

"Professor Snape," Harry acknowledged.

"You can call me Severus," Snape smiled. "I understand that you've been here for a while now?"

"Has Sirius told everyone?" Harry knew he was blushing to his roots.

"No, the Headmaster told me before you came to breakfast this morning. Wanted to spare me from making a spectacle of myself, I'd imagine. Pity he didn't do Draco the same courtesy," he laughed.

"I don't know, it was a nice welcome. Repayment for the shock of finding him and his Invisibility Cloak in my room," Harry answered, but stopping himself from complaining when he noticed how uncomfortable Snape was looking. "Not that I blame him for wanting to keep an eye on me that night," he continued.

"It was more than just that one night, to be honest," Snape answered.

Harry froze his fork mid-air. "How long?" he asked, his voice incredibly still.

"Since you first came."

"How much did he see?" Snape didn't answer, only frowned.

"Was he there when I…" Harry began again, but he couldn't ask the question.

"Yes. He hadn't realized what you were doing in the bathroom until he heard you fall."

Harry thought he was going to be sick. The thought of someone watching him, of Draco watching him, at his weakest moment made his insides shrivel into nothing. It was hard enough to face everyone with them knowing what he had done, but with this…Draco must have told them how he talked to himself at nights, how he slept on the floor and whimpered and cried. He must have told them how he'd looked when he was huddled in the corner of the bathroom, covered in his own blood and vomit.

"I have to go," Harry whispered, standing so fast that he knocked his chair over. But he couldn't stop to pick it up. He only just made it to his room before he lost what he had finished of his lunch. He hadn't even closed the door.

"Here." The sudden voice nearly stopped Harry's heart. He looked up from the toilet and saw Ron, handing him a towel to wipe his face.

"Thanks. The salmon didn't agree with me," Harry smiled ruefully.

"What was it?" Ron asked. He didn't sound overly concerned, or even curious, which told Harry that he was only hiding it very well. Harry could recognize a mask when he saw one.

"I hadn't known how much Malfoy had seen," Harry answered, getting back on his feet and splashing some cool water on his face, running a shaking hand through his hair before going back into the main room.

"Does it matter now?"

"No, I suppose it doesn't. But when I think about what he had to witness, it doesn't exactly set me at ease," Harry answered, sitting behind his desk. "Hermione tells me you're a manager for the Cannons?" Harry knew how trivial it was, talking Quidditch when there was so much to say, but the sport had always been the subject that could ground Ron, a magic word that made everything ok for a few minutes.

"Yes. Number two in the league," Ron answered, not even trying to muster a smile. "I saw you flying this morning."

"I thought you were in Hogsmeade," Harry frowned. He hated the feeling of being watched.

"It hadn't taken very long. I would have said something, but I figured you two needed to say some things."

"Well, we said a lot of things but nothing real. I suppose talking to you won't be as easy, will it?" Harry asked.

"Not unless you'd rather not talk at all," Ron admitted.

So Harry talked. He talked about the night in their sixth year when it had happened. That winter, no one was permitted to stay at Hogwarts for Christmas holidays because all of the professors were using the time to work with the Order of the Phoenix to help find Voldemort. Harry had waited at Kings Cross for an hour after the train arrived before taking the Knight Bus back to Privet Drive, assuming that the Dursleys had merely forgotten that he was returning this Christmas. Of course, he was wrong. When he opened the door of Number Four, he came face to face with Peter Pettigrew. The Dursleys were no where to be seen, and Harry later learned that they had gone to Aunt Marge's for the holiday, the note conveying his return having been intercepted by Wormtail. Wormtail grabbed Harry with his metal hand and they both apparated to Dover, where Wormtail had planned on killing Harry. He hadn't even bothered to see if he had his wand. The duel seemed to drag on for hours and Harry was nearly about to drop from exhaustion and pain from the Cruciatus curse that he was constantly fighting, but then he'd noticed Pettigrew's arm was slowly dropping to his side and Harry took his chance, shouting out a quick disarming spell. Wormtail's wand went flying past Harry as he failed to catch it. Harry would never understand what happened next. Wormtail did not transform into his Animagus form. Maybe he was too tired. Maybe he had just forgotten that he could. What he did do was turn around and run, forcing Harry to give chase. Harry hadn't even thought about stunning him. Maybe that was what Wormtail had planned on, Harry being so surprised and exhausted that he forgot he still held a wand. Wormtail did not however count on the edge of the cliffs. They came up on them within seconds, and Wormtail turned and began to beg. It wasn't until he started pleading that Harry remembered that Wormtail's life was in his hand. He was prepared to stun the man, until the traitor mentioned Harry's parents and everything collapsed on top of him. Harry poured all of himself into the next disarming spell, and that had been it. He watched Pettigrew fall into the see, bouncing against the chalk walls on the way down. Harry collapsed, his legs dangling off the edge, and he stayed there until a group of Aurors arrived on the scene. They looked him over, took his statement, comforted him. Acted like he hadn't just killed a man. It was then that Harry decided that he needed Azkaban. Wormtail had been right. Harry's parents would have hated him for doing this. He had to show them he was sorry.

Harry told Ron all of this, his voice conveying none of the emotion that had coursed through him on that night. He'd spent it all, and now he was mercifully empty.

Ron had been silent during the entire release, holding in his anger about Pettigrew and his sympathy about the pain and his approval of Harry's reaction, but he could not keep his disagreement within him. "Harry, you know now that your parents would never have wanted that for you, right? You know that you made a mistake, right?"

"The only mistake I made was in killing Pettigrew," Harry answered bitterly.

"I can't believe you!" Ron shouted, looking like he was about to break Harry's nose a second time.

"Ron, I would have been worse off if I hadn't gone to Azkaban. I don't expect you to understand that. I don't think I could explain it to anybody, really. But I should have come back after I got out. I know that running away was a mistake, and I'm sorry for that."

"I thought you weren't going to apologize?" Ron smiled.

"Well, I didn't beg for forgiveness, did I?" Harry answered, nearly crying at seeing Ron's smile. He had forgotten how much it meant to him.

"So, are we alright?"

"We're fine," Harry answered.

"We're bloody perfect!" Ron laughed, and the two of them returned to the Great Hall, hardly daring to dream of the future, but just knowing that there was one was enough for them both.