Here's a random story I came up with. It is a bit silly, so I'll have a note at the bottom clarifying a couple things, if you care.

By the way, this can be assumed to be more or less canon-compliant up until the graveyard scene — a number of worldbuilding details have been modified, but mostly canon plotwise. Starting from there, things go somewhat mad. A few lines of dialog from the Goblet of Fire have been copied in.

And here we go.

One with the Power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches—
—born to Two who thrice defied Him, as the Seventh Month dies—
—the Dark Lord will Mark One as his Equal—
—One who will have Power the Dark Lord knows not—
—Both must fade at the Will of the Other—
—for Neither can endure while the Other lives—
—One will be born as the Seventh Month dies.

Harry didn't want to do it anymore. It was too much. It was far too much.

'Ah, what a story it is,' he said, he said, the most powerful, most evil of all wizards, back in physical form much, much earlier than Harry had thought he would have to deal with him. Not that it looked like he'd have to deal with him much longer. 'And it begins — and ends — with my young friend here.'

With all the force of all the concentration he had, he did his very, very best not to remember, not to think about that night in the graveyard. Not to remember his own paralysing dread he'd felt just being in his presence, how it'd torn open his head just to look at him, not to remember the agony in his ankle, the lesser injuries here and there, the cut on his arm where the traitor had taken his blood — his blood! — to resurrect him, not to think about it, no...

He crouched behind the tombstone, quivering from the aftereffects of quite possibly his most hated of the Unforgivables, trying to force off the panic, trying to get himself to think, dammit. There had to be something he could do, had to be a way to get out of this. But with his ankle like this, he would hardly be able to walk, really — it'd been an effort even to get himself behind this tombstone, temporarily shielded from Riddle's casual attempts to curse him. He hadn't a lot of time, he knew. He could hear Riddle and his disgusting little followers laughing to themselves, having themselves a hell of a good time. They'd stall as long as they could, playing with him, which gave him a little opportunity to maybe do something, but he didn't know what. He could do an okay ĭoto, but he thought his ankle might be broken, and that one he didn't—

Broken? Maybe he could just...

Shite, this was gonna hurt.

Gritting his teeth, he tapped his wand at his screaming ankle, muttering, 'Reparet.'

And his ankle wasn't the only thing screaming.

Not for the first time, he wondered how many more times this sort of shite could happen. Just how much could a person take before they completely lost it? He figured he had to be halfway to mad at this point already. A person's mind, a person's soul, he thought, was much like a bone, like any other part of them. They could only withstand so much force before they crack, and only endure so many cracks before they shatter.

'Is this all you have, Harry Potter?' the hissing voice twisted, slithered into his ears. 'I'm not sure whether I should be amused or disappointed.' The comment drew laughs from the Death Eaters surrounding.

Harry grit his teeth, his hand clenched around his wand so tight he thought it might snap. He tried to force himself out of his instinctive curl that fucking curse had left him in, tried to push himself to his feet, but it hurt too damn much, his muscles weren't obeying him, just twitching uselessly against themselves. He must have had other injuries, he knew he must have — Riddle's men had given him back worse than he'd given them, after all — but he couldn't feel any of it above the world-whitening agony of the cruciātus. He managed to at least look up a little, glaring as steadily as he could at that snake-faced, vile little arsehole.

That look on his face. That look. Riddle was just so fucking pleased with himself, wasn't he? For some reason, that amused, arrogant, self-congratulating look just made Harry furious. What did Riddle have to be so happy with himself about? Sure, he had a physical body again, whatever. But was beating the crap out of him like this really something to be so proud of? He was the self-proclaimed most powerful wizard in the world, surrounded by his closest followers, all full-grown men coming in various shades of deadly. Harry was an untrained, fourteen-year-old child. What was there to be so proud about?

The fury gave him strength, hardly any at all, but enough to force himself out of his fetal ball, push himself to his knees. He gave Riddle the most vicious, defiant look he could. He didn't care how outmatched he was, he didn't care that he'd be dying any second now. He would not give this piece of trash the satisfaction of seeing him surrender. He would never give up. He'd push himself to the very end out of spite alone, if need be.

Riddle, an almost bored look on his face, raised his wand. Harry mirrored the move, his hand so unsteady he doubted he'd be able to actually cast anything.

But it was at that very moment, the one he was sure was his last, from beyond the circle of Death Eaters, that the curses started to fall.

In an instant, everything around him was chaos. Riddle and his Death Eaters, temporarily trapped by their own defensive enchantments, were dancing around, interspersed with their attackers, some wearing faces he recognised, others the red and black figures of uniformed Aurors. The duels were too bright, too quick for him to follow, his eyes dazed with exhaustion and pain.

But he saw a silver hand, attached to the arm of a traitor, doing his best to creep up behind one of the multiple people crossing wands with Riddle. Harry pointed his wand at the disgusting excuse for a human being, keeping it as steady as possible. 'Stupeat.' Miraculously, his spell hit, and the traitor collapsed to the ground.

He didn't know how many more times he could do this. And it would keep coming, he knew it would. He was Harry Potter, after all, the Boy-Who-Lived. It would keep coming, and it would never stop. Not just Riddle and his damn followers either. He had people coming from the other side now, too. He could see that. The way Fudge had looked at him and Dumbledore, surrounded by his Aurors telling him the incontrovertible truth. Harry suggesting he get a trial for Sirius, now that Pettigrew had been captured, obviously alive — carefully keeping himself from saying any variations on I told you so. Dumbledore had helped with that one. Fudge had been involved in the original capture of Sirius, yes, but he hadn't been the man in charge at the time. It could be a political coup if he played his cards right, not only laying all wrongdoing at the feet of his predecessor, but emboldening his own supporters at the same time, rallying the nation around him to fight the resurgent Death Eater threat.

Fudge had drawn himself up with all the reluctant gravity of a leader in wartime, but Harry could see it in his eyes. So very plainly. Fudge was terrified. And why shouldn't he be? With Voldemort returned, the Death Eaters again on the rise, everyone had every reason to be terrified. This was very much not something Fudge was able to handle on his own. He wasn't that kind of man. He would be leaning, very heavily, on Dumbledore. And, of course, Harry himself. In what capacity he wasn't sure — likely as some kind of symbol to secure his political position and keep up morale, something like that. But he would definitely be used somehow. Dumbledore, he was sure, had plans for him too.

Because people just couldn't leave him alone.

Dumbledore spoke with finality, the end of their dreadful conversation, his face and voice somehow grave, somehow gentle. 'You have shown bravery beyond anything I could have expected of you tonight, Harry. You have shown bravery equal to those who died fighting Voldemort at the height of his powers.' Was that supposed to make Harry, what, proud or something? Was he supposed to be pleased by that? 'You have shouldered a grown wizard's burden and found yourself equal to it — and you have now given us all that we have a right to expect.'

By his reckoning, he'd given them more than they had any right to expect. Several times more. Just living with the Dursleys as long as he had was more torture than he felt most people should ask. But twice now, that he knew about, Dumbledore had maneuvered him into a potentially deadly situation for one reason or another. The first was in first year — he hadn't realised it at the time, but Hermione had since talked him through the logic suggesting he was supposed to have gone down there after Quirrel, that was exactly what Dumbledore had intended, for some inscrutable purpose only he could understand. And the second, of course, being the Tournament this year. He wasn't an idiot, he was sure there should have been a way to get him out of it, Dumbledore wasn't that stupid. Even weird magical contracts like that one required consent. But he'd kept him in, most likely in an attempt to catch whoever had entered his name in the first place, foil their plan — and hadn't that backfired on Dumbledore spectacularly! This time Harry had been tortured in a way much more immediate than usual, and he had been seconds away from dying when the cavalry had arrived. And he still didn't know how they had managed to find him, and he wasn't really sure he wanted to.

Everyone kept doing this shite to him. He was fourteen years old.

He couldn't imagine how they could ask for any more.

At least he and Sirius were in agreement on that point.

Not that it mattered at the moment. He'd been keeping an eye on the Prophet, so he'd known immediately that Fudge had very well made good on his word to get Sirius a trial, a kangaroo court if he'd ever seen one, and Pettigrew was now in Azkaban, his godfather now a free man — though he'd apparently had to pay a fine for failure to comply with a writ of detainment, he thought the exact term was, the much more minor crime they'd negotiated down his escape from Azkaban to. But still, Harry was stuck at the Dursleys'. In the short term, because Sirius was being seen by a slew of Healers, for problems both physical and emotional. Apparently, though Sirius hadn't mentioned this and Harry hadn't noticed, his godfather had developed a bit of an alcohol problem over the last year, in reaction and addition to the problems he still had lingering from his time in Azkaban. Not really surprising, but Harry couldn't help feeling a little paranoid all of a sudden. And, well, in the long term...

There were still those blood wards, the protection his mother had given him, paid for with her very life. If Harry left, he would be down one layer of defense. It was safer, they all said, that Harry stay. In his letter, Sirius had obviously been beside himself with helpless fury at the idea, but even he had to admit they had a point.

Safety, of course, was relative.

If anything, the Dursleys were getting worse. Near as Harry could tell, even Vernon had been somewhat leery of striking a child. As Harry was getting older, less a boy and more a teenager, that reticence seemed to be fading. Not that Vernon had never hit him before, of course. The level of anger he needed to be at to resort to it was simply lesser than it once had been. It'd started getting bad enough a couple years ago that he'd spent as much time away from the house as he could — which had perhaps only made him less accustomed to it, just in time for that incident with Marge nearly two years ago now. Last summer and so far this one he'd managed to keep in the reactionary magic, no matter what Vernon did. Vernon hadn't seriously hurt him so far, but it still wasn't pleasant. It was better to be out, walking around.

Trying to ignore the person who always seemed to be following him. Never the same person twice, and they were discreet about it, but Harry had spent enough time hiding from Dudley and his gang around here that he knew the patterns intimately. An Auror, he thought. Keeping an eye on him, just in case some Death Eater decided to try something. He didn't actually mind. Which honestly surprised him — he'd have expected himself to be at least a bit annoyed — but he couldn't really summon the will to care. After the last two years, he hadn't had the most confidence in the Ministry. Largely due to their complete incompetence in catching Sirius — though how exactly he felt about that had changed rather significantly somewhere in the middle. Maybe, after their successful intervention in the graveyard, he'd developed perhaps a little appreciation for the Aurors, at the very least. Not a lot, sure, but a little. Maybe, he thought, he'd have a peaceful summer this time.

Fat chance.

He was alone in the house now, though. Lying in his bed, ignoring the sunlight streaming in, ignoring Hedwig staring at him — despite the fact that owls couldn't really make facial expressions like humans could, she looked oddly concerned to him. Ignoring everything floating around in his own head best he could. He was, as he remembered Vernon ordering him a few years ago, trying to pretend he didn't exist.

The Dursleys had gone on vacation somewhere. He honestly didn't even know where, he didn't care. Somewhat to his surprise, they had decided to leave him alone, in their house without them present, for right around a week. He didn't plan on doing anything to the place, but he was a little surprised they trusted that he wouldn't. Well, perhaps trust wasn't the most accurate word — he'd been threatened with severe retribution should he get up to any "funny business" resulting in damage to the house or their belongings. It'd gone on so long, Harry had gotten annoyed, and finally snapped something back. He didn't even remember what. He thought maybe something about how he wouldn't have anywhere to sleep if he burned the house down, so it wouldn't exactly be to his benefit. Something like that. Vernon hadn't been happy.

His face still hurt.

But at least they were gone, and he was left alone. Something he really wished people would do more often.

He just—

This was a hard thought to articulate, he wasn't sure what he was trying to think. Wasn't sure what words were most appropriate for the hard, tight, cold feeling in his chest, for how tired he was, so tired he doubted he'd be able to get out of bed.

He...

He just didn't want to do this anymore. He didn't know exactly what he meant. He knew that he couldn't not do this anymore. He didn't have a lot of choice in the matter. Riddle would chase him down wherever he went, he knew that. He wasn't entirely sure why, exactly what motivated him, but he knew Riddle would never give up until he was dead. And the further he fled, the longer he hid, the more people Riddle would kill. People Harry cared about. They weren't exactly close, but he knew Cedric would have died if dodging a curse from Pettigrew hadn't sent him accidentally stumbling onto the Triwizard Cup, porting him away to safety — if Cedric had died, Harry knew he'd just feel worse. But Riddle would kill people to get to him, he knew that. Just because of who he was.

At some level, he didn't really care. That was horrible, he knew that, but he couldn't help it. A part of him, a part steadily growing every day, would be perfectly willing to flee. No matter who ended up getting hurt, dying, because of it. Enough of him — the Hufflepuff part, he guessed — wouldn't be able to live with himself if he did, he knew. Even as the thought tempted him, he felt absolutely awful for thinking it.

This whole situation was just impossible. He was so completely helpless, so completely hopeless, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Suddenly, he put words to that thought, translating the unspoken emotion to language.

He didn't want to be Harry Potter anymore. He didn't want anything to do with it all.

He didn't want to be himself. Anyone else, really, would be better.

That was the whole crux of the matter, after all. Harry Potter's parents, who had died in the fight against Voldemort. Harry Potter who had miraculously survived when he shouldn't have. Harry Potter who had become famous, quite nearly deified in absentia, turned legend for his assumed role in the downfall of Voldemort. Harry Potter who, he knew, people would turn to in the renewed fight.

He didn't want any of it. He didn't. He didn't want to be Harry Potter anymore.

What good was there in Harry Potter, anyway? He didn't mean himself, necessarily — or not strictly himself. He wasn't sure, this whole thought process was confusing. What benefit was there in being Harry Potter, specifically Harry Potter? For the purpose of having something to think about as long as he was lying here, if he were magically not Harry Potter tomorrow, what would he have lost?

The right to the inheritance his parents had left him, he guessed. But he honestly didn't care about that so much. It was nice to be able to buy things he needed for himself, he guessed, not having to rely on the charity of others, and he absolutely loved being able to buy things for other people just because he wanted to, and he could. But it wasn't that critically important. He could live without it.

Anything else? Well, Sirius wouldn't be his godfather in the strictest sense anymore, he guessed. But he sincerely doubted Sirius would just up and abandon him. They certainly weren't close by any means — they'd hardly known each other for a year, hadn't really spent any time together — but they'd at least established enough of a relationship Sirius wouldn't leave. Same went for his other friends. Hell, his relationship with his friends, or at least most of them, was less about who he was than what he was, if that made sense. If anything, not being Harry Potter anymore would make those relationships easier, simpler, smoother.

If he weren't Harry Potter, he would be free.

He didn't want to be Harry Potter anymore

Things would be simpler, he would be happier—

If anything, thinking about this seemed to be making him feel worse. The tightness got tighter, the hardness got harder. He felt the edge of tears scratching at his eyes and his throat, but he forced them down without even thinking. Crying was dangerous.

An elusive song of magic rose in the air, but he was not sensitive enough to such things, too distracted besides, to really notice.

He was almost positive he would be happier if he were quite literally anyone else.

He didn't want to be himself anymore. Very, very much.

Mind consumed with those very thoughts, power swirling in an unnoticed dance within and around him, Harry Potter slowly drifted off to sleep.

Hedwig, ever-vigilant and ever-loyal — but ultimately incapable of sensing the subtle crescendo around her — waited until she was sure her master was out before winging off to hunt.

The Auror outside, carefully concealed in the hedges, equally vigilant but a bit bored nonetheless, made a mental note of the same, before settling in to keep a metaphorical eye on her slew of monitoring charms overnight — monitoring charms which did not extend into the house proper, ensorceled as it was with arcane wards laid by a woman long dead.

As night descended, there was calm on Privet Drive.

Harry wouldn't wake for over forty-eight hours.

The first thing Harry noticed was that it was still dark out. Normally, he'd assume that must have meant he hadn't slept for very long. But he didn't think that impression was accurate. He had a vague feeling he'd been asleep for a while, a series of all-but-forgotten dreams that, while all he could recall were blurry shapes and feelings mostly meaningless, still gave a sense of time having passed. It was a bit odd.

The second thing he noticed was that he really, really needed to get to the toilet. Immediately.

Feeling oddly numb and tingly, he nonetheless forced himself up to his feet, stumbled drunkenly into the hall, over to the bathroom. He felt much more uncoordinated than he should, clumsy. He was reminded of those practice sessions with Hermione, casting far too many spells in a row, for hours and hours, left both physically and magically drained. Those had left him feeling much like this — like his body weren't quite responding to him the way he wanted it to, like his nerves were shot, so badly he could barely walk straight, couldn't even feel his own skin. It seemed to be getting a little better with each step he took, the reverberations from his feet hitting the floor sending dull tingles up his legs and all the way to his head, but the process was very slow. If this were magical exhaustion, he knew, it would take hours, days even, to get back to normal.

But it couldn't be peripheral effects of magical exhaustion — he hadn't been doing any magic. Maybe his whole body had managed to fall asleep. The physical symptoms were pretty similar, sometimes.

He stepped into the bathroom, flicked on the light. He paused for a moment, temporarily blinded by the sudden brightness, before moving on. Glanced at the mirror quick on his way to—

He froze, his need to relieve himself instantly forgotten.

Something was very, very wrong here.

He stepped closer to the mirror, staring as hard as he could, forcing his still bleary eyes to focus. He'd managed to fall asleep with his glasses still on, so he didn't have to worry about that — though they were a little awkwardly bent from their ordeal, he'd have to fix that later. But what he saw in that reflective surface made absolutely zero sense. The walls of the bathroom, parts of the ceiling and floor, the shower over there, sections of the counter and a curve of the sink, all that was fine. But Harry didn't see himself in the mirror.

Instead there was a girl, maybe thirteen or fourteen, staring back at him.

He took a slow breath, trying not to panic.

How the girl in the mirror took the breath with him was really, really not helping.

He took a step closer to the mirror, staring at the girl on the other side of the glass — noting, with rising dread, that the girl moved with him. Every detail he gathered just made it worse. She was wearing the clothes he'd gone to sleep in, the same he was now wearing — just flannel pants and a tee shirt he'd bought one day, silver exchanged to pounds for the occasion. Complete with the same glasses. She was thin, perhaps unhealthily thin, which was probably why those clothes actually more or less fit her. Wavy black hair stretching down her back nearly to her elbows — or so he assumed from the strands he could see poking out from behind. There was something oddly familiar about her face, but he couldn't quite place it. He had the very distinct impression that—

Ah, he had it now. She looked a bit like someone he'd seen one of those moving magical photographs of before — Bellatrix Lestrange. Not exactly like her, which is why it'd taken him a moment to put it together. Of course, this girl was younger — in the photo he'd seen, Lestrange had been maybe eighteen, but still, younger — but that wasn't all of it. They looked similar, but not identical. If he had to put words to it, he'd say she looked like maybe the daughter of Lestrange and Neville, of all people.

And if that wasn't one of the more disturbing thoughts he'd ever had the displeasure of thinking.

Except the eyes, of course. He recognised those instantly. She had—

It took all he had to keep standing, to stay in the moment, to not completely lose his head.

She had his mother's eyes.

His eyes.

Not just his eyes, either. She had his bruise. He'd gone to bed too soon after to see it, but that parting hit to the face Vernon had given him would surely have left a bruise. On his cheek, he would expect, just under his left eye. And there was a partially-faded bruise there, deep purple with sickly yellow around the edges, on the girl's right cheek, just under her very familiar eye.

This was—

He swallowed. It wasn't easy, his pounding heart quite nearly blocking his throat.

This was really starting to freak him out.

He shook his head a little, sending the girl's hair shuddering with the motion. He felt the barest sense of tickling against his upper arms — he was still rather numb, numb enough he barely felt it. He was more concerned with the fact that he'd felt it at all. His hair wasn't nearly that long.

This wasn't good.

He started lifting his left hand — the girl simultaneously followed with her right. He brought his fingers to his bruise, gently touching it, even as the girl did. He put a little pressure on it, winced as pain flared even through the numbness. The girl winced in unison.

This wasn't good at all.

He leaned a little closer to the mirror, lifted his left hand a little higher, pushing his bangs off his forehead — which felt completely wrong, his hair drooping in a way it shouldn't, as though it were heavier, longer. The girl obligingly did the same. Revealing a horridly familiar scar.

Dizziness hit him in a sudden wave, his vision turning grey, and Harry had to put both hands against the counter, one on either side of the sink, just to steady himself, stop himself from collapsing to the floor. He tried to keep his breaths slow and even, but it was harder than it'd been a moment ago, the all-too-familiar panic settling over him like a black, suffocating wave. Settling a bit faster than usual, actually. Shapes were already blurring into indistinction, the grey turning darker and darker, the dizziness becoming the sort of lightheadedness that shortly precedes unconsciousness. He settled down to the floor on shaky limbs, back against the wall, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

Focused on nothing but breathing.

After a few minutes, he wasn't sure how long exactly, the colours were back, the dizziness was gone, and he was mostly back to normal. He knew what that had been, though only because Hermione had told him back in second year — panic attack. Or at least something rather like one. Hermione had doubted her own diagnosis a bit when Harry had failed to describe the usual emotional symptoms along with the physical — he usually felt hardly anything at all during them, really — but she'd declared after a moment she was probably right anyway. But it'd been a while since he'd had one. Since second year, actually. The worst of his accidental magic incidents had been during such episodes, but they'd dropped precipitously in frequency with, well, not having to deal with the Dursleys nearly so much. Second year had just been...

Second year.

He guessed it made sense for them to come back now. This was only quite possibly the strangest thing that had ever happened to him in his life. And, for him, that was saying something.

Okay. Well. He was so far outside of his realm of experience, dealing with something like this. He hadn't even known this was possible, much less what to do about it. Well, okay, he supposed Polyjuice could do this, but he'd just woken up, and hadn't drunk anything...as far as he knew. Someone would have had to sneak past the Auror outside to force a potion down his—

The Auror! There was an Auror keeping an eye on him! Right, he'd go to the back door, call out to the Auror he needed help. They'd probably know what to do. Or at least be able to contact someone who would know what to do. What with being underage and all, even if he did know what to do, he'd need someone else to actually do the doing. Okay, that was a weird thing he just thought there, but he'd just come out of a panic attack, and he was still trying not to freak out too much, so maybe he was getting a little giddy. He should do that.

Except, he still hadn't done what he'd come here to do, and he really did need to—

He broke off the thought, lightly bopping his head against the wall behind him a couple times.

Yeah, he would really rather not.

He gradually made his way downstairs — still a little numb and disoriented, but slowly getting better. Before too long, he was standing at the back door, slid the big glass panel open, looking out into the back yard. He didn't see signs of anyone out there, the place empty and calm in the — he glanced at the microwave clock — early morning darkness. But he knew he wasn't alone. 'I know you're out there,' he called into the darkness. And then winced at the experience of the unfamiliar voice coming out of his own throat. Really reminding him of that ill-advised adventure with Polyjuice. 'I could use some Aurorly assistance in here.'

He guessed it was the word Auror that had done it — he was the only one in the area who should know that word. In a flash, someone was standing in the yard, a few meters away, wearing the by now familiar black and red uniform of an Auror. She hadn't apparated in, Harry knew that instantly. Partially because it'd been almost completely silent, but partially because she'd moved into place in an odd blurring motion — like she'd come in from his left, but so fast his eyes couldn't follow the motion.

He hadn't met very many Aurors before, so it wasn't surprising he didn't recognise her. She was a bit taller than him and, as odd as a thought as it might seem, everything about her seemed to scream adorable. The softly round face, the slightly pouting lips, the tiny little nose, the eyes seeming just a little brighter and larger than he thought they should be, the short, messy hair an absolutely flamboyant pink.

Everything except the chilling glare and the fact that her wand was pointed unerringly at Harry's heart, that is. 'Who the hell are you?' she said, her voice frightfully cold and dangerously flat.

Right. Auror. Just because she was cute didn't mean she wasn't deadly.

And this was just incredibly awkward. He took a breath in through his teeth, considering how to answer that question. 'Well, er, I don't...'

But the Auror had already dropped her wand arm, her eyes narrowing into a frown. 'Okay, Harry, how did that happen?'

For a couple seconds, all Harry could do was blink at her, his mouth working uselessly. Finally, he managed to hiss out, 'How did you know?'

The woman sighed, shaking her head to herself in what seemed oddly like patient exasperation. 'Please. It'd take more than looking different for me to not recognise you.' The Auror started walking toward the door, eyes flicking around the yard, so Harry stepped out of the way.

'But you've never even met me,' he said as she walked in, the door sliding closed behind her, seemingly by itself.

She shrugged. 'I pulled one of the Potter-watching shifts. I've watched you long enough to pick up what you move like.' He was really too distracted to be disturbed by the thought. 'That's a matter of habit and personality, not so easily altered as appearance.' As though to demonstrate her point, even as she spoke, the woman smoothly changed into a completely different person. Face turned a bit sharper, dark eyes shifted to a light blue, hair growing longer and switching colour to a deep, shining purple-blue. If he hadn't watched it happen, he'd never guess she was the same woman.

He just stared. He'd had no idea people could do that.

'So,' she said, smirking to herself a little, 'how did this happen?'

'I have no idea.'

She raised an eyebrow at that, stood silent for maybe two seconds. 'Alright, then. In here.' Dragging him by the wrist, the woman moved the both of them into the living room, plopped Harry down on the couch — he didn't bother wondering how she knew where it was. She didn't sit, just stood in front of Harry. After a second gathering herself, she again flicked her wand up to point at him.

Instantly, he felt a wave of magic crash over him. He recognised the feeling of it — a fīniat, but a powerful one, more powerful than he could ever cast. It felt a bit like standing against a strong gust of wind, but striking him at all sides.

He knew immediately it hadn't worked. Partially from the slightly surprised expression on the Auror's face, and partially from... Well, feeling was gradually coming back, so he had started to notice that things didn't feel like they should around, erm, certain places. Which was something he was quite desperately trying to not pay attention to.

The Auror frowned at him for a moment, then paused, eyes closed. She took a long breath, slowly drawing in for what must have been over five seconds. Then she hit him with the same spell again. This one was even more powerful, probably several times more powerful, such an oncoming rush of magic he grit his teeth against the sudden headache, waiting for the spell to stop.

It finally did, the Auror now giving him an even deeper frown. She hummed to herself, then started casting more spells — by the way they pricked and tickled at him, he figured they were detection and diagnostic spells, one after another. With each one, the Auror's frown just grew deeper and harsher, until she looked rather worried herself.

Which really, really wasn't making him feel better.

The last spell, he wasn't even entirely sure what was going on. The way the Auror cast it was...strange. She flicked her wand in a quick series of delicate motions, little strands of glowing purple something trailing behind the tip, floating in the air. After a few more flicks, Harry started to notice they were runes — though he didn't know enough to decipher the spell just looking at it, especially backwards. When she was finished drawing the runes, she just sort of twitched her wand at Harry, and the runes flashed out of existence, the sensation of another detection spell crawling over him, not feeling particularly different from any of the others, for what little he could tell.

But when it was done, the Auror didn't look any more pleased. 'Well, I got nothing. Gonna call in help.'

Great. More people. That's just what he wanted right now. 'Ministry or Order?' Or, wait, was the Ministry supposed to know about the Order? Damn. This was what happened when Dumbledore didn't actually explain things.

The woman snorted out a laugh. 'Right, like I'm telling the Ministry about this one.'

Oh. Well. Good. The fewer people who knew, the better. He didn't trust the Ministry to not let this...whatever this was get out for two seconds. He could just imagine the campaign of scathing mockery Malfoy would assault him with should he ever learn about this. Not that he knew all that much about the Order — just that Dumbledore was in charge of it, his parents had been in it once upon a time, and Sirius was re-joining as soon as the Healers would leave him out of their sight for five minutes. That was pretty much it.

He watched as the woman silently cast a patrōnus. He barely caught a glimpse of the thing before, with two quick words from her — 'Fledgling. Yellow.' — the silvery rabbit-thing shot up through the ceiling and vanished. 'He'll be here in a minute,' she said, crossing her arms.

He didn't bother asking who would be here in a minute. He had a more pressing matter to attend to. 'Erm, sorry, but is there a spell you could do so I don't have to, erm...'

The woman gave him a look, an eyebrow slightly raised. 'Don't have to what?'

God, this was awkward. Looking resolutely at the wall, he muttered, 'Use the toilet.' Even in his peripheral vision, he saw the woman's lips tighten, as though she were trying very, very hard not to laugh at him. Another gesture of her wand, and relief came to Harry so instantly and so powerfully it took all he had not to moan. He was pretty sure the Auror wouldn't be able to hold her amusement in if he had. 'Thanks.'

She shook her head to herself, a trace of a smile on her face. 'Still baffles me the things that bother other people.'

Harry had to wonder about that, and almost asked if she could make herself look like men as well as women — or...was she actually a man making himself look like a woman right now? — but decided at the last second he didn't really want to know. That would just open doors to all kinds of new thoughts he didn't want to dirty his brain with at the moment. Instead, he just asked, 'What's your name, anyway?'

'You can call me Tonks.' Harry had to wonder about that wording — did that mean that wasn't her name? But he didn't have long to wonder, because she said something even more distracting immediately afterward. 'I doubt you'd know, but we happen to be cousins.'

Harry just blinked at her. It took him maybe ten seconds just to find his voice again. 'Cousins.'

'Well, second cousins.'

'I have cousins?'

Tonks gave him something of a pained look at that, let out a little sigh. 'Don't bother asking me why we haven't been introduced — I have no idea either. Dumbledore would be the one to ask about that.'

He had no idea what to think about that. Absolutely no idea at all. He'd been told, repeatedly, that everyone on his father's side of the family was dead — and he assumed Tonks had to be related to him through his father, what with being a witch and all. He'd never really been given much reason to doubt that.

He should have learned not to take what people tell him for granted by now.

Only another fifteen seconds or so of awkward silence and he heard the front door opening. A short moment later, walking into the living room was...Professor Moody. What? Shouldn't he still be in bed or something? He still looked horrible — well, more horrible than usual, he meant, frail and weak from his time in captivity on top of the varied panoply of scars. He was even walking with a cane, which Harry hadn't seen him do before.

Although, now that Harry thought about it, he couldn't remember if he'd ever seen the real Moody walk before, so maybe that didn't actually mean anything.

Whatever Moody had been about to say, he'd been maybe two syllables into it when he suddenly snapped into motion, his wand instantly in his hand and pointed straight at Harry. But even as he moved, Tonks did too, stepping half in front of him, her hand out. 'Slow down, there, old man. It's Harry.'

Moody's real eye flicked to Tonks, but Harry noticed the always distressingly fake-looking blue one was moving around in a dizzying dance, seemingly trying to take in all directions at once — though still coming back to fix on him every second or so. 'Are you sure about that?'

'Yes,' Tonks said, the word coming out in a distinctly aggravated-sounding sigh.

Both eyes now turning to him, Moody asked, 'What's the first thing Alastor Moody ever said to Harry Potter?'

Harry took a moment, trying to think back to the beginning of the previous year at Hogwarts, before pausing with a slight frown. That hadn't been Moody — he'd just looked like him. He was pretty sure this was the first time he'd actually met the real person. 'Erm, "What's the first thing Alastor Moody ever said to Harry Potter?"'

Moody's wand arm dropped with a nod — though he didn't pocket it, Harry noticed. 'What happened to him?'

'Dunno,' Tonks said with a slight shake of her head. 'He's not a metamorphmagus, he hasn't taken Polyjuice — or any other potion, for that matter — it's not any sort of glamour or illusion, and it's not a transfiguration. There isn't any magic on him at all, actually, or at least none that I could detect.'

Moody frowned at that. 'None at all?'

'Not that I—' Tonks broke off, her head snapping back over to Harry. 'The blood wards.'

'What?' Harry's first thought in reaction to the possibility of this supposedly all-important suite of protective enchantments over him being gone, he had to admit to himself, was probably a bit silly. He knew this would mean he was in more danger. But mostly, all he could think was that he'd gone back to Privet Drive for nothing.

But Moody didn't seem concerned — or even surprised. 'Albus been wondering about that, ever since the boy first came to Hogwarts. Apparently said the wards weren't nearly as powerful as he'd expect them to be. Came up with all kinds of nonsense explanations, while ignoring the most obvious one.' He turned to Harry again. 'Do you like living here, boy?'

Harry blinked at him. 'What?'

'Do you like it here? Do you love these muggles? Do you get homesick when you're at school, counting the days until you can go home?'

'Erm.' Harry hesitated for a moment. The words that had immediately occurred to him weren't exactly a nice thing to say, but they were certainly true. Oh, well. Moody hardly seemed the type to judge him for it anyway. 'Not at all. If someone told me I never had to come back, it would be the best news I'd gotten in my entire life.'

Tonks looked a little sick at that, but Moody just nodded. 'The specific class of blood wards young Lily put on the boy are a form of emotionally-charged runic magic fueled by, as Albus is so sickeningly fond of explaining, love. But since Lily isn't around, that love has to come from somewhere, someone who shares her blood. If whatever the woman's name is doesn't care for the boy, and he her, the wards should gradually weaken until they vanish entirely. Can't tell you how many times I've tried to explain that to the old fool, but he never listens when he's already convinced he's right.'

'Sounds like another stubborn old man I know.'

Moody gave Tonks a withering look at that, but didn't respond. 'Potter, where are the muggles?'

'Vacation,' he said with a shrug. 'Dunno where.' He didn't miss Tonks give him another look at that — couldn't say exactly what kind, but definitely a look.

'Know when they're coming back?'

'Sunday.'

He nodded again. 'Dora, help the boy pack up.' Wait. What? 'I'll put the house in stasis after you leave, so Albus can come in here and pick over the trace magics like I know he'll want to. Hand him over to Black, make the man's bloody day.'

Harry couldn't believe what he was hearing. He really couldn't believe what he was hearing. He was leaving Privet Drive? Already? But...it was still July! And he was going to live with Sirius? He couldn't believe it. No, he honestly couldn't believe it. The thought just didn't make sense in his head, sticking in an odd way, like one of those runic diagrams he couldn't quite figure out...

'No, Sirius can't take him,' Tonks said. With a glance at Harry, she said, 'At least not right away. He's still got Healers all over him, and a cleaning crew tearing his house apart. Two weeks, maybe, they'll be done, but until then he needs to go somewhere else.'

Moody considered that, but only for a fraction of a second. 'Alright. Got somewhere in mind?'

An uncertain look crossing her face, Tonks hesitated, glancing between Harry and Moody. 'Ah, my parents'?'

Both Harry and Moody stared at Tonks for long seconds, Harry in disbelief — what the hell was going on today? — and Moody in simple calculation. Finally, he nodded. 'That'll work. Get moving, then.'

A moment later, Harry was up in his room again, Tonks at his shoulder, looking around with another peculiar look on her face. It didn't take long to pack up everything he owned. Most of his books had already been in his trunk — since he didn't have a bookshelf or anything, he'd been putting them back whenever he was done — but he did have some papers and clothes to get squared away and tetrissed into place. While Tonks shrunk Hedwig's (empty) cage, putting it in his trunk with everything else — Hedwig would catch up, wherever he went — he got down to the floor, prying open the loose board he'd found years ago. Out came everything he'd put in there — letters from friends and Sirius, mostly, but also a bit of homework he'd hidden away in case the Dursleys locked all his school stuff up again, along with his wand. That was all packed away too, though he hesitated a second before throwing his wand in with everything else. It wasn't like he could legally use it right now anyway.

When literally everything he owned had been packed away, Tonks tapped his trunk once with her wand, the whole thing immediately shrinking down to a size Tonks could easily pick up and slip into a pocket. For a moment, Harry almost felt like panicking again — very, very few spells could actually be cast on a wand without completely ruining it, and his was inside there — but the Auror was far more knowledgeable than he was, and she didn't seem concerned, so he dropped it.

A moment later, the two of them were walking out of the house — the back door, not the front. Moody was already waiting out in the yard, leaning on his cane with a distinct impression of impatience. Tonks led him along until they were behind him, then held out a hand. Harry hesitated for a moment. He was pretty sure Tonks was intending to apparate the both of them out. Harry had never actually done that before and, to be completely honest, the thought of teleporting hundreds of miles in an instant through nothing but the focused will of a complete stranger — who was apparently his second cousin, not that he was entirely sure exactly how a second cousin differed from a normal cousin — was making him a bit uneasy.

He frowned at himself, shook the thought off. What was wrong with him? Here he was, unprotected by his mother's blood wards for the first time in his life, leaving the Dursleys' weeks earlier than he'd had any reason to expect, and also a girl for some inexplicable reason — and, from what he'd understood of Tonks and Moody talking to each other, it was possible it was permanent. He was really, really, really trying not to think about that last one, pretend it wasn't happening, but at least the first two were doing a...decent job of distracting him. What was he getting so worked up over a simple apparation for?

But before his own disturbingly unfamiliar hand got to hers, Moody said, 'Potter.' He blinked, looked over to Moody to find him staring down at him, a crooked sort of smirk on his face. But, then, Harry guessed all his expressions were crooked — a burn on one side of his marred face limited his expressions in such a way they all came out like that. 'Don't hold me to this, but I'm almost entirely sure you'll never have to come back.'

Later, looking back on that moment, he would concede it was probably a good thing Tonks had chosen just then to grab his wrist and apparate the both of them away.

He had no idea how Moody would have reacted to Harry unexpectedly hugging him.

My usual nerdiness:

ĭoto (roughly "yoh-toh") — slightly modified from an optative of an ancient Greek verb meaning "to heal". A basic healing charm students are taught in Charms class, used for small cuts and scrapes.

reparet — subjunctive form of Latin verb meaning "to repair/recover" (where canon reparo comes from). Harry kinda cheated, using the non-healing spell to repair his broken bones by simply conceptualising them as solid, broken objects to be fixed. Not the smartest thing to do, so Pomfrey would have had to do some work on his ankle when he got back to Hogwarts.

stupeat — subjunctive form of Latin verb meaning "to be stunned/dazed." English "stupefy" is from stupefacere — "to make/become stupid/numb" — but I figured the simpler stupēre was better.

About the graveyard scene — Yeah. It's always bothered me how much everyone, Dumbledore especially, completely failed to react to Harry mysteriously vanishing like that. The cavalry arriving, I feel, is a far more likely outcome to that confrontation. Though I can understand why JKR did it the way she did — heroic narrative focus and all that — it still annoys me.

Yes. It's one of those stories.

Part of my intention going into this is to make the portrayal of characters at least somewhat more emotionally believable. As far as Harry is concerned, that refers to the consequences of his upbringing, scarring from the multiple serious traumas he's gone through over the years, and then dealing with this little transformation of his. He is in something of a detached survival mode at the moment, something a number of trauma victims have been known to do, and will be for a while, so it won't be blatantly obvious for a few chapters. And there are other characters I've been considering too. But that is the intention.

So, if you're thinking this is going to be one of those stories where Harry Potter suddenly becomes a perfectly well-adjusted, sophisticated woman of grace and awesomeness... Yeah, that's not exactly how this is going to work. Not saying I'm going to go too heavy on the angst, but things will be more complicated than that. And not to say there won't be fun and fluff later either — it just might take a little bit to get there.

As is true in my other posted HP fanfic — and likely any I may post in the future — Dorea (Black) Potter is Harry's grandmother. Hence, he and Tonks are second cousins (second/third once removed, technically, but who cares).

There will be mild Dumbledore-bashing. Not to say he's evil or especially stupid or anything — canon Dumbledore has simply made a lot of very questionable decisions, and this Harry, along with a few other characters, are just far more willing to point out his mistakes.

Yes, how I changed the prophecy is plot-relevant.

I think I've rambled more than enough. Until next time,
~Wings