Hello! I can't believe it's reached the moment where I can finally post this monstrosity. I literally started it back in early 2012, so it doesn't fully line up with Pottermore canon or The Cursed Child. Sorry but really not that sorry, I probably would have ignored both even if they had existed at the time, haha.

I first started writing on this trusty site back in 2006. The good old days. If you'd like to check out the horrors of my past (nothing's been published since 2012, which was a particularly difficult year of grad school that I guess just caused me to *nope* out of writing), there's a couple of HP fics there. (ahem... ignore the Smallville and Gilmore Girls ones). And yes, I am embarrassed by my handle name. I was 16, okay? It was a more innocent time. I may slowly migrate all of my fics from here to AO3 as well - I have also posted this there under the username Lololly.

Enough about me. Please enjoy this rambling, self-indulgent mess!

Oh no. Oh no no no. It's out already? Today? Shacklebolt had estimated another three weeks at least, hadn't he?

Harry ran his fingers through his ever-disobedient hair, struggling to remember Kingsley's last visit.

HPHPHP

It was Friday last. That he knew. He had been dodging the slew of paper airplane memos that had been plaguing the Aurors ever since that ring of Death Eaters (resilient bastards, the lot of them) had been discovered holing up outside of Kent. The workers responsible for intercepting the owls that arrived at the Ministry were beginning to show signs of irritation.

As the tendency of owls to, well, do as all animals do had a history of creating messes, wizards adept at origami charms and good at dealing with the often overly emotive owls were employed to transcribe the letters into bright green memos, a color that would clearly distinguish them from the pale violet interdepartmental ones.

Harry had personally been called down to the mail room more than once to grab his own bloody note, so it seemed telling your owl to bite and scratch until the message was read didgrant some a more direct line to the Ministry workers. Particularly him.

Bully for them.

Almost every letter (at least those that weren't declarations of love for Harry or sketchy exposés of Ginny's "true nature")included patronizing warnings about the presence of these remaining Death Eaters. As if he weren't already aware. Harry swore that the next time a frenetic witch cited Rita Skeeter's February column connecting Ginny to Viktor Krum (as Harry's abandonment of the game had clearly angered his impetuous wife to the point of infidelity) he was going to flee the public eye and take refuge in that shack Vernon had brought them to so many years ago.

The Ministry's warning stating that confidentiality was compromised on all messages directed towards Ministry employees should have incited an exclusion of foul and threatening language.

It hadn't.

But yes, Friday last. A persistent airplane had been repeatedly poking Harry's right temple when he had run into Kingsley. He had been aiming to get home to Godric's Hollow as soon as possible: it was Albus' birthday the following day, and he, James, and Lily – now in her first year – had come from Hogwarts for part of the weekend to celebrate. Grimmauld Place, though it had been remodeled significantly, was ultimately too dreary for the Potters as well as too in the public eye. It was frustratingly easy for reporters to camp on the sidewalk and wait for Harry to make an appearance, and this had begun to make the Muggle neighbors quite suspicious.

"Mister Potter, what a pleasure!" Kingsley's voice boomed down the corridor, robes billowing out behind him. "I'm hoping you're not as busy as you appear to be," he said, with a good-natured smile.

Harry had been genuinely chuffed to see the Minister, momentarily forgetting the chaos of the day. The hallway had also instantly cleared upon the man's entrance, the planes falling lamely to the ground with a careless flick of Kingsley's wand. Harry rubbed the slightly sore spot on the side of his head caused by the pointy tip of the plane, looking gratefully down at the pile of discarded green paper. He really had to learn that charm.

"The pleasure is all mine, Minister," said Harry, smiling and extending his hand. Though he was certainly on a first-name basis with Kingsley, formalities were generally adhered to in public.

"And I'm less busy now that you've gotten rid of those memos," he answered. "Much obliged. Now I may actually be able to leave. Although, now that I think on it, it was you who instated the whole 'Ministry open to public suggestions' concept in the first place. Oh, and the above-ground mail room for the owls to fly to? Bloody brilliant, that was."

Kingsley offered nothing in response to Harry's observation but a sly grin.

The two men began walking in stride together to the lift, employees before them parting like the Red Sea. Harry's everyday presence over many years hadn't – to his most unpleasant surprise – dulled his star power within the Ministry. If anything, it had only been exacerbated by his meteoric rise to Head Auror three years previously. Kingsley's legend was also a powerful one; their combined company was one that tended to stun those around them into silence.

"I'm afraid there are only going to be more of them in the coming days, m'boy," Kingsley replied. "With your autobiography coming out, that is. That's what I've been meaning to talk to you about."

Harry sighed audibly. "Is it meant to be out already? Hermione mentioned that there was still more to do, you know, more details to add…" he trailed off, eyebrows raising hopefully.

"Most people would be thrilled to publish a book, you know," said Kingsley, ignoring Harry's inquiry (and with a hint of knowing sarcasm in his voice). You should be grateful for the opportunity." His smirk, however, betrayed his true feelings.

"Yes, grateful," said Harry. "I've always wanted to be famous." He looked at Kingsley, awaiting a further answer to his question, and pushed the button to the lift perhaps more forcefully than was necessary.

"Fame, though perhaps undesirable to the modest, can serve as an avenue for the truth to be widely told," Kingsley said wisely as the grate closed. "Particularly in this current climate – fear over these remaining Death Eaters, though they're hardly a threat… the doubts thrown your way, the slander, the misconceptions… People are hungering for the real story, and it's about time it's known."

Harry nodded silently. He knew all this. It's why he agreed to publish the dreaded thing in the first place. Well, that and a little convincing… by many people.

Kingsley's face grew kind upon seeing Harry's expression. "You're doing the right thing."

"It's a bit tiring always trying to do the right thing," said Harry, chucking a bit.

"That it is," admitted Kingsley. "Though I'd say your track record is fairly impressive."

"This is the first time I've really made a choice, though," said Harry. "Voldemort was sort of a 'Chosen One' destiny thing. Even becoming an Auror was something I never doubted once the idea was mentioned… I've felt it was meant to be since before the War, when I was still in school. But this… it's not like that. People will think I'm just out for more publicity."

"I expect not," said Kingsley thoughtfully. "At least not when they read your story. And your aversion to fame has been made abundantly clear by the incredible rarity of seeing you in public; it's become somewhat of a game to the Prophet photographers, you know, to snap the best picture. I suspect it's why the focus is so unfairly placed on your lovely wife."

"Fun, that," said Harry. "Luckily, only young women seem to actually believe the rumors." The metal frames of the lift slid open, providing a view into the wide Atrium. Ministry employees were queuing up to leave by Floo, as the end of the workday was fast approaching. Harry picked up his pace, aiming for the fireplace directly across from them. Kingsley kept stride.

Harry was getting excited, starting to think about Albus' birthday – worries about his autobiography were gradually lifting off his shoulders.

"As for the release date," continued Kingsley, "it will be a few days yet. Three or so, to be exact. Mrs. Granger-Weasley did not lie to you about the necessity to add details, though she is quite a quick worker."

"Mmmhm," Harry had said, without really hearing. "Hermione's always finished things ahead of schedule."

(Oh, thought Harry-in-the-present. Kingsley had said three days, not weeks. Bugger. This is what he got for having stopped reading the Prophet as a small form of protest, as all useful news came to him at work anyway. The press release had certainly been included, and he could have been spared this unpleasant surprise.)

Just as they both approached the glowing green flames, a bumbling, slightly balding wizard let loose a loud shriek, dropped the impressively tall stack of books he had been holding, and fell to his knees at Kingsley's feet; he kissed the hem of his superior's deep purple robes and instantly began to babble.

"Minister, Minister, you saved us all from unheard of corruption! Daniel Templeton, at your service… I have not yet had the pleasure, you see, it is my first day… Misuse of Muggle Artifacts… Have you ever heard of iPads? Quite amazing devices, to be sure, but they seem to have the unfortunate tendency to absorb spells cast upon them by mal-intentioned delinquents and spit them forth on unsuspecting Muggles… you know what the presence of magic does to electronics, after all... Tarantellegra has been the most common, lucky really that it's not more harmful…"

"Yes, yes, sounds fascinating," said Kingsley, masterfully disguising any irritation he may have felt. "I am sure you have the job securely under control, Mr. Templeton." The man began to unexpectedly weep at this display of confidence, and Kingsley's subtly widened eyes rose to meet Harry's; he then aimed them almost imperceptibly toward the fireplace, wordlessly giving Harry permission to leave.

"I wish young Albus a pleasant birthday," he said, pointedly cutting off the still prattling man's increasingly incomprehensible speech. "I quite regret that I will not be able to make the party, though I expect I shall see you all soon enough!"

"Of course!" said Harry. "You're always welcome in the Potter household." He beamed at Kingsley, hoping the already overworked Minister would soon be relieved of the new employee's presence (though the devotion he displayed was quite touching) and stepped into the flames.

Just as he was about to lose sight of the Atrium in a whir of color, he saw Daniel Templeton's head rise from the ground, gaze now fixed on Harry himself. The man's mouth opened wide with glee, arms spreading open as he began to run towards the fireplace.

"Harry Potter! Oh, what an honor, what a delight!"

Harry was never quite able to decipher whether or not choosing that exact moment to state his destination had been intentional or automatic, but the result was the same: he was gone before the quickly approaching man could encompass him in a bear hug. He felt a bit guilty, but he reasoned that the distraction had probably provided Kingsley an escape. He would make an effort to find the man and say hello first thing Monday morning.

Wait, no… Tuesday morning. He had Monday off, though he had no idea why. It had simply shown up on his schedule that way. No matter; he could use a day to rest. His memory was obviously suffering from overwork.

He was dreading the release of the autobiography – people like this were going to become more commonplace than they were now, both a flattering and a terrifying thought.

At least he had three more weeks.

(Bloody hell, thought Harry-in-the-present. I'm much too easily distracted.)

HPHPHP

So Harry found himself in front of Flourish and Blotts bright and early Monday morning, staring dumbly at the display in the shop's window. The book was featured prominently, and fans – who were currently oblivious to his presence – had formed an extremely long line that extended the majority of Diagon Alley.

He clenched the crumpled note from Hermione in his hand, the one that had reminded him to meet her that morning (he had simply assumed she had wanted him to accompany her to find a book, and that he had forgotten), feeling quite thick indeed. So this was why he had been given Monday free; Hermione must have arranged it that way.

Granted, he had been offered congratulations by various passers-by on his autobiography, but it's not as if extra attention were something out of the ordinary. He had thought people were just overly eager. Precedent for this idea was inarguably strong, after all.

Harry Potter

The Truth at Last

A Complete Autobiography

Edited by Hermione Granger-Weasley

He couldn't believe it. Today. It was today.

He had a biography. In truth, it was more than that – details of the war, as well as Voldemort's entire life, were also included. What had he gotten himself into?

And more importantly, how in bloody hell had he missed that today was its release date?

HPHPHP

It had taken extensive persuasion.

Kingsley, Ron, Hermione, Ginny – even his own children, for Merlin's sake – had pestered him 'til no end until he finally agreed to support the decision. The first turning point for Harry had been when James had sent an owl home during his first week at Hogwarts, confused about stories he had heard. Though most of his classmates were excited that James was Harry Potter's son (James had sent, along with this first letter, a bundle of photographs that his 'friends' wanted signed, weighing down their poor tawny owl Dobby), Harry's oldest son had realized there was much he didn't know:

Hi Mum and Dad,

I'm a Gryffindor! I just had to tell you straight away! I already want to be on the Quidditch team. There's a great big display for you two in the trophy room, you for being the youngest player in a century, Dad, and you Mum for Hogwarts and playing with the Harpies. Just thought you'd want to know.

Dad, I love you a lot, but you never told me or Albus or Lily anything. You just said you fought in the war and helped stop Voldemort, but everyone's saying that there was some prophecy and you were chosen and famous even when you were in school… and that you killed him by yourself! And loads of other things, like that you and Uncle Ron and Aunt Hermione even have Chocolate Frog cards. Is that why you never let us get them in Hogsmeade?! I think maybe they're making things up, but when I tell them that they look at me like I'm a stupid Muggle or something and like how can I not know? About my own dad? They keep asking me questions and I can't answer them!

Anyway, if the stories are true then you're really awesome. But I'm still really confused. You didn't tell me this would happen when I got to school! Can you please tell me more? There's a statue with your name on and everything!

Tell Aunt Hermione and Uncle Ron that I miss them, and I'm already excited about Christmas when I come home! I kind of even miss Albus and Lily, but don't tell them that. And Binns really IS impossible!

Love,

James

P.S. : You are going to tell me the truth, right?

P.P.S. : Oh, and some people wanted autographs, Dad. Hope you don't mind.

When James had come home for the holidays, Harry had sat him down and told him the truth, as requested – the very brief version, that was. He was reluctant; his children had an innocence that he had never possessed, and he had simply wanted them to enjoy their childhoods. But leaving his eldest in the dark had clearly been nothing more than a disservice. Albus and Lily were still so young; he could hold off for a while on telling them more. In the meantime, he'd just continue to hide certain pages of the Prophet for fear of something offensive meeting their eyes.

That was good parenting, right?

Ginny seemed to ally with him, but would, on occasion, urge him to employ a bit more honesty. "Fine, leave them in the dark," she once said, casually turning the page of Witch Weekly. "Just don't blame me when they think I'm a wanton harlot and you're a lying egomaniac." The corners of her mouth twitched as she laid the magazine on the kitchen table for him to see, opened to a headline that had boldly proclaimed Harry's most recent tattoo acquisition to be a Hungarian Horntail violently exhaling a golden inferno of Snitches. "Or, you know, completely bonkers."

Though he gave small concessions here and there (Did admitting there was a war at all count as a concession?), he had not yet reached full disclosure with his children.

Was he ashamed of himself? Embarrassed by his childhood? He didn't think so. All he knew for sure was that he wanted the past to be done with. Over. Voldemort's hold should be completely alleviated from their lives; talking about him gave him a power he didn't deserve.

After a couple of years, however, his other two children asked him the same questions, and James reinstated his previous ones. They wanted to know more.

The Prophet was making things much worse. As news of the Death Eaters spread, doubt was cast on Harry's ability to deal with the situation. He's too young for the job, too secretive too trust, too much of a recluse to understand the needs of the public, he only got the job for his name, he must have had help killing Voldemort, why else hasn't he told the story? The fact that he and Ron had led the reforms of Azkaban, captured and imprisoned scores of Death Eaters, ferreted out remaining corruption, and spearheaded reforms of the Defense curriculum taught at Hogwarts – among other such accomplishments – had not yet proven sufficient to quell the naysayers.

Most people still idolized him, however. In fact, he really had to do something about the twenty-six fan clubs, as they had started to literally battle one another for members and for his sponsorship; three witches were currently in St. Mungo's, sporting curious symptoms that ranged from incessant squealing to steam coming from all orifices. But when the subversive rumors, gradually rising in number, started to affect his children in school – Slytherins would always latch onto gossip – he knew he had to do something.

He would write the book.

And he asked Hermione to help him.

No one else would do.

HPHPHP

As Harry stood at the front of Flourish and Blotts, still delaying alerting the massive crowd to his arrival (he hardly went anywhere without a Disillusionment Charm anymore, and he had since given the too-small Cloak to James), he stared at the cover of his recently published book. It was simple, gold with black lettering and a scarlet spine. The idea of placing his face on the front – though strongly supported by all three of his eager children – had reminded him unpleasantly of a pompous Lockhart, who had possessed exactly the sort of persona that Harry never wished to exude.

He was fiercely proud of the content as well. Hermione had brought the final edit with her the day of Albus' party, asking for approval – though, as this had also been the day after Kingsley's visit, Harry had still believed that three weeks was the remaining timeframe. He now felt guilty for talking so briefly with her about it in the drawing room that day. If only he had known… Merlin, even as Head Auror, sometimes he still felt like the awkward schoolboy he used to be, absorbed in everything dark and dangerous and often oblivious to the outside world.

Hermione had seemed pleased that his endorsement of her edits came so swiftly, surely happy not to wield the pre-planned arguments she had undoubtedly crafted in preparation for any possible objections by Harry. She obliged him (albeit somewhat reluctantly) in not mentioning the debut of the autobiography for the rest of the day. Albus was the one who should receive all the attention, after all; Harry had even forewarned his guests – perhaps a bit churlishly – that no one was to indulge in talk of the book's impending release, especially since the children would return to Hogwarts the following morning. The two-day excursion for the party had only grudgingly been allowed by Minerva McGonagall, who had a bit of a soft spot when it came to any requests of Harry's.

This supplication was not completely followed, of course ("Oi mate, I'd better be painted a hero on a majestic steed in this book of yours!" George had shouted first thing upon entering the house), but somehow the entire party had passed with no specific details of the autobiography being mentioned.

As he contentedly watched Albus blow out his candles (which took quite a while, as Lee and George had enchanted them to be ever-lit), Ginny had come up beside him and squeezed his hand. Perhaps innately sensing his anxiety, she whispered into his ear. "Don't worry, love. It's brilliant."

Despite himself (and the fact that Ginny had broken his rule for the day), Harry had grinned and kissed his wife, more passionately than was probably warranted outside of the bedroom – led by an ever-mature George, all of the children had begun to make retching sounds in response to this display of affection – and had felt his stomach temporarily settle.

It wasn't until that night, while he laid in bed, that the lingering doubts began to creep back up his spine about the book. He had truly borne his soul, his deepest secrets. They all had.

If he wanted the questioning to stop, he had to provide all of the answers in one go.

HPHPHP

Harry shuffled his feet – still somewhat visible, with the right lighting, in their Disillusioned state – and prepared to lift the charm. The crowd was getting anxious, wide-eyed witches looking eagerly around; those close enough to the shop were peering in the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of him. Harry approached the front door, careful not to step on any toes (though this was an unfounded concern, as those in the crowd were coming close to blows in order to keep their place in line).

It was time, then.

He steeled himself, wishing fleetingly that he were facing a Horntail rather than this potential horror, and took his wand out from inside his robes. As he did so, he couldn't help but think again of the doubts that had frequently crept up on him these past weeks. He thought about the stories he had woven, the time it had taken.

And about one memory that still brought him a smile.

HPHPHP

The autobiography had certainly proven a difficult chore. It extended far past Harry's own life and into the war itself. Hours had been spent between the four of them, Ron and Ginny included, to cover all possible angles of the past that could prove important. Hermione took copious notes as each person shared their stories, writing so feverishly that Harry feared her hand would permanently affix itself to the stem of her quill.

For the past year and a half, Harry had been scrawling down – as best he could – the complete story of his life, starting with the Dursleys. He had handed over the pages to Hermione every couple of weeks, watching nervously as she read his words. Her face often displayed surprise; Harry had begun to realize just how little he had told anyone of his early childhood. Living in a cupboard. Being beaten, bullied and ostracized as a young boy. Ignored. And then in school – how much his scar had truly pained him.

This was the point at which those doubts had begun to form.

"Listen, Hermione, maybe none of this is necessary…" he had said awkwardly during one of their first late-night editing sessions. "The Dursleys, I mean…"

Hermione shook her head furiously, stray wisps of hair flying free from her tight bun. "No, Harry, it's absolutely necessary! I just wasn't prepared for it is all, but it's so incredibly powerful… I can clean up your grammar and sentence structure, of course, but besides that it's quite brilliantly told… Honestly, I'm so sorry I never knew all the details…"

"That's the rub, isn't it?" replied Harry quietly. I never wanted anyone to know. And now everyone will. I still can't grasp that I'm actually doing this… I remember completely writing off the idea when that Slug Club bloke mentioned it… granted, he wanted to be the one to write it, which just seemed odd…"

"Yes, but Harry, don't you see? The rumors about you being spoiled, having things handed to you, not earning your position… Well, they'll be stamped out when people read this, won't they?"

"I s'pose," said Harry softly.

Hermione had pursed her lips then, staring into space and holding her quill tightly; it hovered just over the paper, threatening to drip ink onto the newly penned words. Harry was about to warn her of this indiscretion – though hesitant to interrupt what was obviously a session of deep thinking – when Hermione shook her head quickly, waking herself from the brief reverie. She gasped a sharp "Oh!" as she noticed the situation on her own, moving the quill just in time to have the threatening globule of ink plop harmlessly onto the mahogany desk.

"What is it, Hermione?" Harry had asked, though a bit afraid of her apparent revelation.

"Oh, it's nothing, Harry," Hermione insisted, waving her hand dismissively and immediately getting to work correcting Harry's grammar. Harry raised his eyebrows, watching her circle his mistakes (really, were there that many errors?) and waiting for her to tell him what she had been thinking.

After a fair number of minutes – and as soon as he had actually opened his mouth to ask her – Hermione stopped writing and looked up, questioning eyes looking straight into his own. She carefully placed the well-used quill on the table, then sighed as she put her head in her hands.

"It's just… well… it's obvious the Dursleys need to be included, but I wonder… well, wizarding laws are different from Muggle ones, particularly when it comes to confidentiality and the use of names without permission, and I don't suppose it would be problematic to any wizards that you told the truth about Muggles, and such a horrid lot at that, but…"

"You're wondering if the Dursleys know about this," said Harry, wry smile creeping onto his face.

Hermione's rapidly blushing cheeks quite obviously displayed her embarrassment at possessing such a concern. She suddenly began talking very quickly, as if desperate to dispel the hesitations she was certain Harry would have.

"Listen, Harry, it's simply a matter of safety. If too much is revealed, people could try to locate and injure them, even though you haven't included their address or last names, and I was thinking that warning them to the possibility might be prudent, or even paying a visit to increase the security charms around Privet Drive. Really, I could even do that, if you don't want to see them; I'm sure I could convince Ronald to come along, as I think he would enjoy telling them off a bit – if you don't mind, that is, but of course only if you think it's a good idea… And Dudley, well, you've hinted that he could have some redeeming qualities, he does send those Christmas cards, and has that charming wife of his now, and perhaps it would be considerate to make at least him aware of how the family is being portrayed. It may even be beneficial to provide them a copy, you know, to clear some things up between you, at least for Dudley, and–"

Harry, whose smile had steadily been growing bigger (though Hermione was much too absorbed in what she was saying to take note of this fact), decided to cut her off there. "–Rehearsed this much, Hermione?"

"Yes, well, I admit that it's been on my mind some…" she trailed off a bit as she finally noticed Harry's amused expression. "Are you… I mean, why are you… you're not angry?"

"Not at all," Harry answered calmly.

Hermione leaned on her elbows, face an interesting mixture of bemusement, frustration, and good-natured sarcasm. "Any intention of telling me why, Mr. Potter?"

Harry grinned. "It's just that it's been taken care of, that's all."

Hermione let out an overly dramatic groan. "Yes, yes, that seems clear! But to be honest, Harry, the last thing I would have expected was for you to willingly go back to that place, especially not after all that you've told me lately."

Harry shrugged. "I dunno, they haven't really scared me since after fourth year," he said, suddenly realizing the truth in his words and lowering his voice a bit. "Something about seeing the extent of true evil just… well. They weren't worth being frightened over, not when there was so much else to be worried about." He nodded, as if affirming the validity of this statement, and looked down at his hands.

Hermione quickly rubbed her eyes, coughing uncomfortably and needlessly shuffling the papers arranged in front. She tried to play off the act as being out of weariness (yawning subtly and muttering something about lack of sleep), but Harry's sharp senses noticed the mist that had formed over her eyes. He cleared his throat, both uncomfortably and apologetically. "Listen, Hermione, I'm fine. Wonderful, even. That was darker than I intended. I just meant – they're nothing, y'know?"

Hermione laughed quietly, shaking her head. "No, Harry, I don't know," she said with a smile. "But if you're 'wonderful', as you say, then that's brilliant. It is. But what in bloody hell happened!?"

Harry guffawed at this unexpected profanity. "Going to send some birds after me?" he said, without thinking. Hermione's expression was mutinous.

Recognizing defeat (and withering under his friend's glare), Harry threw his hands in the air. "Look, it's really no big deal. I went back to Privet Drive last – October, I think it was – and... explained the situation to them."

"Oh, 'explained' it, did you?" said Hermione, smirking. "Can't imagine that went over too well. And you didn't mention this because...?"

"Don't much like talking about them if I don't need to," said Harry, quickly and truthfully. "But yes, Hermione, I explained everything." The corners of his mouth twitched as he tried to contain his laughter, and Hermione's once stern expression softened as she sensed the levity of Harry's mood.

"Well, get on with it then!" prodded Hermione.

"Right," said Harry, beaming. "So I sent a Muggle letter to Dudley – yes, a letter Hermione, not all of us can figure out smartphones – telling him to come to Privet Drive on the day that I planned on visiting..."

HPHPHP

Sometime "last October"...

Vernon Dursley's face had turned an impressive shade of puce, the likes of which Harry had never seen (which was truly saying something). His uncle's tiny eyes darted around the room, as if hesitant to settle on Harry himself; his mouth kept slightly opening and then immediately shutting again. Yelling, of course, was his default when it came to Harry, but he was no doubt aware that this adult version of his nephew was not someone he wanted to provoke.

"Right then," said Harry, clearing his throat. He plopped himself down in the armchair (which he knew full well was Vernon's preferred spot), calmly crossed his hands over his lap, and waited. His stomach was roiling a bit unpleasantly at being back in the house – which was remarkably (though unsurprisingly) unchanged, much like the Dursleys themselves – but he simultaneously felt a lightness within himself he had never before enjoyed in the presence of his aunt and uncle.

He conjured himself a glass of water, ignoring the sharp gasp from Petunia and the muttered curses from Vernon, feeling just as Dumbledore must have felt all those years ago; the headmaster had barely concealed his pleasure as he expressed his mind to the Dursleys in their own living room. As Harry took a slow sip, he watched as the two reluctantly settled themselves on the sofa. Vernon was resentfully eyeing the armchair that Harry inhabited, but wisely kept silent.

"Well," began Harry, "If no one's going to wish me so much as a hello after more than two decades–"

Harry was stopped mid-speech by the door opening. Dudley was standing in the entryway. He was as large as ever, though his body fat seemed to have been converted into more defined muscle. He was not handsome – his blond hair stood up in an awkward tuft at the back of his head, and his eyes remained small on his still pudgy face – but he was looking directly at Harry now, smiling hesitantly. This expression made all the difference in his appearance.

"Hullo, Harry," he said, almost whispering. "You all right?"

Harry stood, extending a hand to his cousin, who shook it with gusto. "Sure I am, Big D," he said. "And you? The family?"

"Good, good," replied Dudley, sitting heavily on the loveseat. He glanced over at his parents, tight-lipped, and nodded his head. "Mum, Dad."

Harry thought he may have imagined the tears pooling in Petunia's eyes but realized he had not as his aunt gave a great sniff before quietly saying "Hello, Diddy."

Vernon nodded curtly and said, "Son." He patted his wife on the back, who had begun hiccoughing slightly, and aimed a pointed glare at Harry.

Family problems, then, thought Harry. He actually felt a swell of pride for Dudley, as this surely meant he had taken some sort of stand against them. But now was not the time to discuss such things; he didn't want to be at Privet Drive any longer than was necessary. He waved his wand and conjured a hot cup of tea for Dudley, who accepted it with a bewildered expression.

Perhaps it made him petty, and Harry knew that Dumbledore would have displayed better manners – he had, after all, conjured beverages for all of the Dursleys when he himself had visited, not that they had accepted (preferring, apparently, for them to bump persistently against their foreheads) or offered him anything in return – but Harry was greatly enjoying the idea of leaving out his aunt and uncle.

Besides, he owed Dudley a cup of tea... Harry had stepped on the last one his cousin had left for him, hadn't he?

"Okay then," said Harry. "Now that we're all here, I wanted to tell you something very important."

"Well obviously, boy, now what is it?" spat Vernon. His consternation at Petunia's tears seemed to have returned his voice.

"I'd like it if you'd stop calling me 'boy', thanks," said Harry briskly, with a tight smile. "Those days are long past us." He absentmindedly began twirling his wand, very aware of the effect this would have on the Dursleys.

Without waiting for anyone else to speak (Vernon was sitting in stunned silence while Petunia looked at her husband with concern), Harry continued. "I am in the process of writing an autobiography, to be released sometime within the next year."

"Good one," said Dudley. "I wouldn't mind knowing a bit more about things, you know..."

Petunia opened her mouth in outrage, though she said nothing. Dudley couldn't have chosen more offensive words than those, thought Harry. The thought made him smile broadly.

"Thanks, Dudley. The biography will include–"

"–Oho!" interrupted Vernon, desperate to reverse Dudley's favorable reaction. "A biography, huh? And what makes you think that anyone will want to read what you have to say?"

Harry shrugged, unperturbed. "You mean aside from your son?" Dudley, pleasantly surprised, stared in open-mouthed glee at Vernon, who looked as though he'd been slapped. He was intentionally ignoring Dudley's gaze; his teeth were clenched, and he had begun to shake in some sort of silent rage.

Assuming his uncle wasn't going to verbally acknowledge the retort, Harry decided to provide an answer. "Well, as I'm currently the most famous wizard in Britain – as well as one of the most powerful – I think they might."

Harry was not normally one to brag. He did, after all, despise his fame, resent the publishing of the autobiography, and often find himself wishing that the important job of Head Auror brought with it a bit less notoriety. It was simply too tempting, however, not to rub a bit of his success in the face of the Dursleys – and his answer was, in fact, true.

No one said anything (though Dudley looked suitably impressed and gave a low whistle), which Harry took as his cue to continue. "I've been asked to write one by the public for years, but I haven't been keen on getting even more attention. I've been famous since I was eleven, see – since I was a baby, really, but I had no way of knowing that living under the stairs, did I? – and haven't much enjoyed it."

Petunia snorted in obvious disbelief, then quickly turned it into a cough after seeing Harry's fierce expression.

"I hope you're not sick," said Harry tightly. He wordlessly summoned the bag of lozenges he knew were always present in the second-floor master bathroom from his days of scrubbing it; they zoomed down the stairs and hit the side of Petunia's head with a plop.

Vernon's face now resembled an inflating red balloon, and he began to sputter. "Listen here, b-...Harry... that is no way to treat... in this house, you're expected to show respect, I don't care how famous you are..."

"That's interesting, that is," replied Harry lightly. "Does 'respect' entail forcing a child to live in a cupboard, act as a servant, and face starvation as a punishment? Maybe we have different definitions of the word, Vernon. I was just trying to help my aunt with her cough."

Dudley looked down at his hands. Vernon suddenly looked terrified. Petunia fumbled with the bag of lozenges and stuck one in her mouth, sucking furiously; it appeared she now wanted Harry to believe that the snort had been unintentional.

"Anyway," continued Harry, "it seems that this autobiography is necessary. Not only would I like to clear up some lies about my own past and document the war as accurately as possible to honor those who died, I also want to stop my children being pestered in school with questions about me that they have no way of answering. You see, then, why this account must be all-inclusive."

"You need to include information about us," said Dudley matter-of-factly.

Harry nodded slowly, looking enquiringly over at Vernon for his reaction. And a swift reaction it was – he had already risen to his feet, the prominent vein in his forehead throbbing and spit spraying from his mouth as he struggled to form words. "LOOK HERE, BOY – HARRY – YOU EXPECT US TO JUST... YOU'LL WRITE LIES! AND WE'RE MEANT TO SIT HERE AND... NO! I REFUSE!" Petunia was pulling at the back of Vernon's shirt, trying in vain to get him to sit back down, looking in terror at Harry's wand.

"You refuse, hmm? Well, that's unfortunate, but it doesn't exactly change things," said Harry calmly. "You see, I didn't come here to ask your permission." He was still twirling his wand; he gave it a casual flick, and Vernon, who had opened his mouth (surely to angrily retort), was suddenly unable to do so. He clenched his fists and tried again, but no sound came out.

"That's better. Give your voice a rest," said Harry. "Sit."

Vernon sat, dramatically clutching his throat and eyes widened in terror.

"But... but you're not..." began Petunia, pointing an accusatory finger at Harry. "You're not supposed to do... m-magic... to... or in front of... us! I remember... she was told that, even after school..."

Harry shrugged. "For one, that's not very important when Muggles like you already know about magic. Also, I am more than overage, and adult wizards are allowed a bit more discretion. For another, I happen to be in charge of the Aurors, those responsible for catching bad wizards, the job that Kingsley used to have, remember? Though he is now Minister of Magic. I daresay he will not mind a couple of harmless spells. My close friend Hermione is also Head of Magical Law Enforcement, so my bases are pretty well-covered, I'd say. Besides, surely you know that magic already surrounds and protects this house, a little more will not register."

Petunia looked at her husband for his reaction, momentarily forgetting his forced muteness, and then decided to take matters in her own hands. "As a matter of fact, we did not know that m-magic was 'surrounding this house', as you say! (Vernon was emphatically nodding in agreement as his wife spoke). Were any of your lot going to ask our permission? You know full well that we're... averse to it! Protective custody all those years ago was bad enough!"

Harry burst out laughing at the absurdity of this, which badly startled Petunia, who visibly jumped in her seat. "First of all," Harry began, after his laughter had abated, "you have definitely received notices by Muggle mail informing you of this protection – the Ministry were considerate enough not to use owls, since they know of your sentiments – and it seems you did not even bother to read them. That is not my fault. And I'd also think you'd be more 'averse' to wizards attempting to kill you, yes? I will not apologize on behalf of the wizarding world for preventing harm from coming your way, though sometimes I wonder why any of us bother, if this is the thanks we get."

Petunia pursed her lips, and Dudley snorted and shook his head in disbelief, shooting Harry a slight smile.

"We're getting a bit off-point here," continued Harry. "Though I did mean up to bring up the protective enchantments, so I may as well explain that now: I will strengthen and renew them today." He stared quite intently at his aunt and uncle, as they needed to understand what he was saying. "You might not care 'how famous' I am, Vernon, but much of the wizarding world does – I happen to have quite a few fan clubs, and I would hate for witches crazed by anger at how you treated me to come after you, see. This will make it impossible. I have also not included your full names or address, and I can assure you I was not followed today."

Dudley was sitting with his mouth slightly agape, perhaps astonished to see the tables turn so dramatically in the relationship between Harry and the Dursleys. "You killed him, right?" he asked. "Vold – Vold something? The one who started everything?"

"Yes, I did," said Harry, sighing. "I almost died, and many of my friends did die. They are the ones I want to pay tribute to with this book."

"But... how did you do it? Nobody else could, right? When we were in protection, everyone was so scared, they were saying that he was the most powerful and dangerous wizard to ever live..." Dudley spoke very deliberately, leaning forward in his seat so as to look at Harry more closely. It was clear he had wanted to ask this question for quite some time.

Harry took a second to appreciate the situation – Dudley, who had tormented Harry throughout his childhood, was finally looking at him as a human being... and beyond that, as someone worthy of admiration. It touched him more than he would have expected, and he was suddenly very strongly reminded that they were cousins.

"That, Dudley," he said, "is a question I often ask myself. My book explains everything to the best of my ability. It is written for witches and wizards, of course, so if you don't understand the terminology feel free to ask me any time.

"Now, what I CAN tell you," continued Harry, (though he was still addressing Dudley, his gaze had shifted pointedly to Petunia, who suddenly sat bolt upright), "Is that my mother – Lily – had a lot to do with it. See, she died trying to save me. That love became a form of powerful magic that protected me from Voldemort as a baby, when he tried to kill me, and for many years after that. It is her everyone should be thanking for Voldemort finally being gone from this world. Including you, Petunia. Lily was your sister. I'd like it if you could remember her from time to time."

Petunia looked stunned; her mouth hung open, and tears were slowly forming in her eyes. "I... I... she was..." Harry waited patiently for her to form a more coherent thought, but it seemed she was unable to. He would have felt sorry for his aunt had she not treated him horribly for so many years, though he still wished – whether for Dudley's sake or his own, he was not sure – that her perspective on magic would change.

"As for the book itself," Harry continued, after clearing his throat a bit uncomfortably, "I would like to provide you a bit of common courtesy and explain your part in it. I talk about you in the most limited way possible. I don't really like dwelling on that time of my life, you see. It's just the basics, but... well, the basics are more than enough to anger a lot of people, which is why I'm here in the first place."

Not expecting an answer – Dudley nodded in resolute acceptance, while Petunia stared at her hands and Vernon had apparently decided that a piece of lint on his shirt was worthy of his attention – Harry took a deep breath, pursed his lips, and stood briskly. "That's really all I had come to say," he stated.

"Dudley, when the book is printed, I will send you a copy. Just – well, don't leave it lying around for your family or friends to see, all right? I should probably place some Muggle-repelling charms on it, to be sure... of course, that would repel you as well, I'll ask Hermione to figure something out about that... the photographs move, see, which could raise questions..."

Dudley's eyebrows rose in interest, though Vernon huffed as though he'd never heard anything so ridiculous.

"Anyway," concluded Harry quickly, realizing he had begun to prattle, "feel free to stay in touch, yeah?" He extended his hand, and Dudley rose to shake it.

"Sure thing, Harry," his cousin said quietly. "And listen, I'm sorry for... well, you know..." his eyes had darted to the cupboard under the stairs.

"Not your fault, Dudley," said Harry (glaring intently at Vernon instead), "But thanks anyway. I suppose I'll take my leave; I'll just Disillusion myself so I can go outside and place some additional protective charms around the house–"

"–Fix Vernon first!" interrupted Petunia with a desperate shriek.

Harry hadn't forgotten about the Silencing Charm, of course; despite himself, he had been waiting to be reminded of it, for his aunt to actually ask him to use magic. Being back in this house, it seemed, had brought out his more trivial nature.

"Okay, okay," said Harry, nodding. He took out his wand, making to lift the enchantment; Vernon had risen to face him, eyes widened in expectation, pointing desperately to his throat –

– Harry then shook his head slightly, scrunched up his face in doubt, and lowered his wand hand, causing Petunia to let out an exasperated groan. Vernon bared his teeth in frustration, then pursed his lips and pouted like a petulant child.

"Hold on just a second!" exclaimed Harry. "I'm not leaving you this way permanently – though that's really quite tempting. I'd just like to say something before you regain your ability to speak. It's hard to get a word in edgewise, see...

"You said that I'd write lies about you, yeah? Just wondering why you'd think I'd need to when the reality is so much more horrible than anything I could create."

On that note, and without stopping to gauge anyone's reaction, Harry wordlessly lifted the Silencing Charm, Disillusioned himself (again disregarding the predictable curses and frightened gasps from his aunt and uncle), and left the house, grudgingly performing the necessary spells to protect the wretched place.

He then Disapparated, quite satisfied indeed with how the afternoon had gone but with no intention of ever returning.

HPHPHP

"So that's it?" said Ron. He had knocked on the door to check on the progress of his two friends towards the beginning of Harry's story, and had, of course, stayed to listen to the remainder of the tale.

"That's it," confirmed Harry, grinning widely.

"So you just..." Ron seemed at a loss for words, but had begun to wildly gesticulate. "And then..." He threw his hands in the air, laughing and shaking his head in disbelief. "Bloody brilliant, Harry, really. And the Silencing Charm? Oh, I wish I could have–"

"–About that, Harry," Hermione cut in suddenly. "You know, Petunia was actually right, using unnecessary, non-life saving spells on a Muggle is really not–"

"–Oh come on, 'Mione!" Ron interrupted again (the two had never quite stopped their bickering). "Harry's been wanting to do that for ages, haven't you mate? You know he deserved it."

"I really, really have, Hermione," confirmed Harry, trying hard not to laugh.

Both men donned their best sincere expressions, hands clutched as if in desperate prayer and looking to Hermione for approval. "You know I love you, right?" added Ron as an additional softening ploy. "But if you send Harry to Azkaban, I really don't know..."

That last comment caused sly smile to appear on Hermione's face. "Oh, all right," she sighed in defeat. "I suppose there's no harm done." (Ron gave Harry a high-five while Hermione rolled her eyes.)

"About those protective charms, Harry, you really should describe to me exactly which ones you performed and how..."

HPHPHP

Harry was smiling to himself at the memory, temporarily lost in thought. He was unable, however, to remember what Hermione had said next about the protective charms – she had a (generally endearing) tendency to delve into tedious detail – and the abrupt ending to his recollection suddenly brought him back to the present. Right.

His book.

It was being released today.

Not in three weeks.

He was still Disillusioned, standing just to the side of the steadily growing line near the front entrance. He could see Hermione frowning a bit inside the shop, seated next to a display table and unnecessarily perfecting the already meticulous stack of books. Ron was proudly standing behind her, hand resting on the back of her chair, looking much less concerned; he kept tilting his head to the side and staring out the window, as if to alter the light's refraction – he suddenly grinned and looked right at Harry, nodding slightly in acknowledgement.

Ron had become quite attuned to spotting Harry in his Disillusioned state over the years, after all; there was even a rumor going around that the young Auror and war hero was going a bit daft, as he could often be seen animatedly talking to someone who did not seem to be there. Ron reveled in this fact: "But this is great, Harry! Think of Mad-Eye! Maybe I'll get more respect if they think I've gone nutty..." His tendency to stare at people's mouths as they spoke ("I swear lipreading will come in clutch one day, Harry, you'll see!") didn't exactly help matters.

Ron then leaned down and whispered something in Hermione's ear. Her shoulders actually rose with her sigh of exasperation, eyes directed approximately towards Harry's location and widening in quiet supplication as she pointed to the clock on the wall. Ron chortled, shook his head a bit, and shrugged at Harry. "What are you gonna do?" he mouthed with a smile. Ginny, who was standing beside Ron (looking, in Harry's humble opinion, more beautiful than ever in robes of pale yellow), smiled radiantly after Ron whispered what was undoubtedly Harry's location to her. She nodded at him encouragingly, and Harry felt his heart lift.

Had Ginny not spent the entirety of yesterday, including last night, in London (as Quidditch Correspondent for the Prophet, she always attended the lengthy yearly meeting for international Quidditch players to report on the most recent happenings), she would have been present with Harry this morning... he would have known ahead of time that the book would be released. Perhaps her absence had been fortuitous, though, as Harry had been able to lead a productive Sunday in blissful ignorance of what was soon to come. He thought a bit regretfully of his choice of attire that day, however – he would have selected his best dress robes for this occasion had he been suitably prepared (there had been some pressed and hanging in the closet, but he'd assumed they were for that wedding they were attending next month), and Ginny certainly wouldn't have permitted him to leave the house in anything less.

There was a small crowd of some of Harry's favorite people to the right of the display table, seated in chairs against the wall so they could face the room. Harry supposed that Hermione had placed them on a special list, allowing them to enter before the masses outside. Teddy, his hair a shocking turquoise for the occasion, was sitting with his arm around Victoire; her own strawberry-blonde hair caught the light perfectly as she tilted her head back to laugh at something he had just said. George sat next to Angelina, and they were flanked by Percy and his wife Daphne, Bill and Fleur, Arthur and a tearfully happy Molly, and Luna, who was smiling contentedly, hands folded in her lap. Harry supposed that her husband, Rolf, was on some grand international adventure at the moment, as was usual for him. Charlie was in Romania, and Hagrid, Neville and Professor McGonagall would be at Hogwarts, Harry knew; it was not a small matter to miss classes. Kingsley was, of course, at the Ministry.

Hermione had told Harry since the beginning that the book should be released during the week, so as to ensure smaller crowds – she knew that Harry hated being the center of attention. Though the amount of people present today was slightly overwhelming, Harry was sure that the numbers would have been far greater on a weekend.

He was mentally thanking Hermione for her foresight, preparing to lift the charm, when –

– "Oi, I bet he's not even coming!" arose an agitated voice from the crowd. Harry quickly spotted the source: a young man with blonde hair, standing quite close to the entrance and very near to Harry. "The 'Great Harry Potter' is too important for us, I guess!" An older boy next to him chuckled, but the remainder of the people within earshot shot the boy a look of deepest loathing.

Harry steeled himself with a smirk and – finally – reversed the Disillusionment Charm.

It must have been a shock to those standing in line to see their hero suddenly materialize out of thin air; several people screamed, and then began to applaud excitedly. Harry rose his hand in what he hoped was a humble acknowledgement of this support, suddenly grateful for the fact that people wanted to save their places in the queue and were, as such, refraining from running at him at full speed (which was what usually happened).

Before further acknowledging the rest of the admirers, Harry looked down at the boy. "I wonder," began Harry thoughtfully, "why you decided to purchase a copy of my autobiography – and to arrive early enough, even, to be at the front of the line – when you think me so pompous as to not even show?"

It took a moment for the boy to find his voice; he was gaping at Harry for a full few seconds before he finally gulped and attempted to answer Harry's question.

"Wha- well, you see... I just... my father always told me... dra-dramatic claims, he told me to tell you that you've always embellished your stories, wa-wanted me to get a copy for him so... so he could see if it's... believable, you know..." The boy's face had turned red, and he was quite visibly trembling.

"Your father? He 'told you to tell me'? And he gave you permission to miss school for this occasion?" asked Harry calmly.

"He... well, he explained to me... how to... ahem... travel by Thestral, you know, from the Forest... or perhaps you wouldn't know, Father always said he was the only one to figure out their abilities to fly on command, he was quite annoyed to resort to me having to sneak out when McGonagall said I couldn't skive off classes, he's out of the country and couldn't come to the release himself, I'm going to owl him a copy..." The boy's speech became increasingly more confident as he paraphrased his father, and Harry was forcibly reminded of someone from his past... the blonde hair, proud stance... as Harry already knew this boy wasn't Scorpius Malfoy, there was only one other option...

"Your father is Zacharias Smith, is that correct?" said Harry.

The boy's face momentarily brightened at the unexpected acknowledgement, then just as quickly became haughty. "You remember him? Well, of course you do, he was part of the important Defense group at Hogwarts during your time, after all... I suppose I look like him..."

"A bit," confirmed Harry, nodding, still extraordinarily calm. "Though it was more your personality I recognized, to be honest... what is your name?"

"Bennett," he answered quickly.

I think I'll write your father a strongly worded letter about this little incident, what do you think, Bennett? About the danger of 'embellishing stories' and sending your children on errands for you? So he says that he's the only one to know about Thestrals... Well, I say he'll be quite displeased by this book, if that's his claim." Harry let out a small chuckle.

Bennett stared at him wordlessly.

"I'll also have to let Headmistress McGonagall know about this, of course," Harry continued (ignoring the groan of protest that followed this statement), "but I really must begin now. People are waiting on me, you see," concluded Harry, with a tight smile. "You'll receive a fair punishment later, but for now, feel free to purchase a copy for your father. I imagine he'll find it enlightening. It was nice to meet you, Bennett."

Bennett obviously did not share this sentiment; he continued to glare at Harry in stony silence.

Harry shook his head slightly, trying to clear his mind after that unexpected detour. The crowd had largely quieted, and he was suddenly and acutely aware that all eyes were on him. It wasn't an unfamiliar sensation, but it never failed to increase his heart rate and cause a few nerves to flutter in his gut.

Harry touched his wand to his throat, muttered "Sonorus", and promptly let out an awkward cough that was subsequently projected throughout all of Diagon Alley. There were scattered titters at this. Excellent start, Potter, he chided himself.

"Erm, hello," he said, after the giggles had finally died down.

There was deafening applause. Harry glanced furtively inside the shop and noticed with chagrin that Ron had begun laughing into his hand, clearly amused by Harry's blatant discomfort. The prat. Harry took a deep breath and plastered what he hoped appeared to be a genuine smile on his face, waiting patiently for the clapping to subside.

"I would like to thank all of you for coming here today," Harry began, raising his hand quickly to deflect the rise of additional cheers that had already started to surface.

"This amount of support is frankly overwhelming, and greatly appreciated. As you know, I tend to shy away from public appearances and media attention, but I felt – for many reasons – that it was finally time for all of you to know the truth. About me, about Voldemort," (only a few gasps of horror arose at this utterance, as Voldemort's demise and Harry's continued insistence on freely speaking his name had, over the years, greatly lessened its power), "...about everything. You all deserve that. My children deserve that. Those we lost in the War deserve that. And I hope, once the Wizarding World knows the entire story, that my own name is demystified as well. I am simply a man who has experienced a strange combination of awful and exceptional luck, as well as one who has benefitted from the unconditional support and love of many friends. Without the continuous help of those I discuss in this autobiography, I never would have accomplished any of what I have done, and Voldemort might still be at large. Others deserve much of the credit that is so often heaped upon me, and I hope that you will prove yourselves open to the truth at last."

Harry inclined his head slightly to indicate he was finished, lips pursing into a tight smile. He really hadn't planned any of that... hopefully it had been well-received.

The ear-splitting cheers that immediately erupted after his last syllable was uttered effectively dispelled this momentary doubt, and Harry felt his spirits rise. He grinned, waving to a few familiar faces in the crowd and taking a moment to relax and breathe. Quite predictably, he spied a harried Rita Skeeter several feet away, scribbling away on a notepad. She had ditched her Quick-Quotes Quill after Harry's formal complaint to Witch Weekly more than fifteen years prior (this was now her main publisher, as the Prophet had long since demoted her to "gossip correspondent" rather than full-fledged reporter), and was now carefully avoiding meeting his eye – she had been afraid of talking directly to him for a while now. Harry was so used to her presence at this point that not even the promise of libel could dampen his mood.

He often forgot to be thankful for his fame, for all of this love – it was easy to be distracted by the few dissenters, by the remaining Death Eaters, by the rumors and the hate. He glanced back inside Flourish and Blotts, nodding his head in acknowledgement of his friends and family. Hermione was beaming, Ron's arm around her shoulders, and Ginny had placed both hands over her heart. I love you, she mouthed at him.

I love you too, he mouthed back.

After the screams had quieted, a general shuffling noise arose as the crowd started to inch closer to the door of Flourish and Blotts; Harry could see through the window that Hermione had already risen to her feet and was walking towards the entrance of the shop, presumably to let everyone in. This was Harry's cue.

"Again, thank you so much," said Harry, to slightly dimmer applause, and with his voice now at normal volume. "At this time, you may begin to enter in order to purchase your own copy – I will be signing the books for the next few hours-"

-It was then that chaos ensued.

The first thing Harry was aware of was screaming. He instantly drew his wand, looking frantically around for the source of the panic.

Did the sky just darken?

Oh no.

He steeled himself before looking up and cursed out loud at the sight that met him.

The Dark Mark.

He had hoped his suspicions were wrong. The noise of the crowd must have obfuscated the sound of the caster's curse.

Some people ran. Even more Disapparated, Rita Skeeter included – loud cracks were audible from all around. The remaining admirers moved outward en masse, pressed against the walls of the shops and creating a wide berth around Harry. A few brave souls held their wands at the ready.

Harry stood in the center of this sudden round clearing, breathing heavily and waiting for the culprit – or culprits – to emerge from the crowd. He clutched his wand tightly in his hand. Various sounds of rushed movement came from inside the store... crashes as chairs were pushed away and books fell from their stacks...

Ron, Hermione, and the rest of Harry's group were hurrying to make their way outside and help...

But the door wouldn't open. Harry could hear fists pounding against the unrelenting wood, Ron's loud and frequent curses as he tried all of the counter-spells in his reservoir...

He barely had time to register his own confusion and to reflect upon how quickly the day had changed before a deep, foreign-sounding voice made itself known.

"Permanent Sticking Charm," the voice explained. "I had my brother place it upon the door before you even arrived, see," the speaker continued, his gloating tone inflecting a definite lilt at the end of each accented word. Russian, Harry thought. Definitely Russian. The accent wasn't as strong as Krum's or Karkaroff's had been, but it was there.

Harry spun on his heel and spied the source of the pronouncement. A bulky man with dark hair and beady eyes was looking fondly at something or someone just over Harry's shoulder.

Harry's own eyes followed the wizard's gaze; he slowly turned his head around, now face-to-face with a young man standing very near to the front of the shop: it was the cruel-looking bloke who had laughed at Bennett Smith's derisive comments against Harry a few minutes before. He was small, no more than eighteen, with wispy brown hair.

Bennett himself looked terrified, eyes wide – he had pressed himself against the shop door, separating himself as much as possible from his former sympathizer. They were clearly not friends, then, as Harry had first assumed.

Harry sighed, turning his head back around. "Of course. I suppose I wouldn't expect anything less from today," he groaned, more to himself than to anyone else. "Who are you two, then?" he continued, addressing whichever of the pair would answer. "Friends of those Death Eaters we just arrested in Kent? Come to finish me off, have you?"

Before any response came, Harry, with the effortless speed of a Seeker, quickly reached over and easily grabbed the wand from the deviously grinning teenager behind him (it had been pointed at Harry's back), not even requiring a spell. As the boy gaped, mouth hung wide open, Harry spun the newly acquired wand between his fingers, waiting patiently for his reply.

This unexpected act seemed to stun the elder brother – most likely the caster of the Dark Mark – into silence; there was a pause before he recovered his wits enough to answer Harry's question.

"Ahem. Uh," he began awkwardly, evidently choosing to ignore Harry's embarrassing triumph over his younger brother. The man cleared his throat, squaring his shoulders and standing up a bit straighter than he had been. "Yes, you're damn right we're friends of those Death Eaters! I was their leader!"

As he spoke, two more men emerged silently from the masses, flanking him on either side. The one on the left held a struggling wizard within his thick arms, an older, balding man...

Harry swallowed, having recognized the unfortunate hostage, and didn't hesitate before wordlessly conjuring a shimmering dome that settled over himself, the young man to his back, the three Death Eaters, and their captive.

He caught Ron's eye, who had been poised to break through the window with a heavy dictionary – seemingly forgetting, in his haste, that a Blasting Curse likely would have been more effective at getting the job done. Hermione, who had been calmly reassuring Molly and Victoire, threw her head back and sighed deeply in slightly amused exasperation.

I'm sorry, Harry mouthed to his friend. Ron knew full well what the glittering golden shield meant – no one inside or outside of its borders would be able to enter or exit the clearing. There was no time to wait for the window to be broken and for his friends to come to his aid. Harry had to protect the onlookers before anybody else was taken or got hurt.

And, while Ron was fully qualified as an Auror – and most people in the shop had proven themselves quite capable in battle, including Ginny and Luna – he couldn't bring himself to place anyone else in danger.

Harry had effectively isolated himself and the attackers from the innocent bystanders.

He was on his own.

It didn't escape his notice that the aggressors were looking at the brilliantly twinkling dome with somewhat shocked expressions. Some of the people standing outside of its shimmering boundary were also examining the indestructible shield, touching it gingerly, mouths open in surprise and reverence. This particular Shield Charm wasn't exactly of Harry's own invention, but it was certainly stronger than what most wizards could manage to produce; it had become a powerful tool in Harry's arsenal over the years. He took a deep breath, feeling calmer now that the innocent people who currently populated Diagon Alley were fully protected.

"Mr. Templeton," said Harry in his most reassuring voice, acknowledging the hostage in the newly emerged man's grip. "Okay there?"

"O-oh, Mr. P-Potter! You r-remember my name! What a-an amazing honor! I suppose... yes, I am fine, I was just chatting with this grumpy fellow here, he... he obviously wasn't a fan-"

"-'Course not," cut in the Death Eater. "Kept prattling on about A-pades and his spectacular job in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office with that idiot Arthur Weasley, I couldn't stand it anymore..."

"iPads," murmured Daniel Templeton almost inaudibly.

His captor elbowed him harshly in the gut, causing Daniel to double over in pain.

Outside of the golden barrier, many of the bystanders shouted in protest.

Harry grimaced in sympathy. "AGAIN," he said, voice rising in anger. "I believe I asked you who you were. I'll need names before I arrest you."

"That's brazen, that is," said the leader, taking over from the partner on his left. "Considering we've got you four to one. But if you insist... I am Vasily Dolohov, and standing behind you is my brother Boris."

The young man behind Harry walked out to meet his sibling, managing a cocky grin even despite the loss of his wand, which Harry had since pocketed in his robes.

"Ah," said Harry, a slightly cold feeling settling in his gut. Dolohov, who had participated in the murder of two of Molly's siblings, was among those whose names he most despised hearing. "I wasn't aware that Antonin Dolohov had any remaining family."

"We are his great-nephews," said Boris, now standing amongst his brother and the two additional Death Eaters. "Our mother was no follower... she tried to keep us away from everything – she even got rid of our records at the Ministry somehow, a friend in the Department of Mysteries, and moved us back to Russia – but we admired him... and after her death, and with Antonin in Azkaban, it is our turn..."

"And who are your two silent friends?" asked Harry. Yaxley's hair dresser? Rowle's cousin's friend's sister? You're not hiding behind masks, which is either incredibly stupid or... no, it's incredibly stupid no matter the reason. Your friends in Kent made the same mistake. There are hundreds of witnesses here. You've just signed your Azkaban sentences, I'm afraid."

There were a few laughs from the onlookers outside of the dome, but most of them shot Harry looks of complete disbelief. How was he so calm?

Harry's flippancy certainly seemed to confuse the remaining two strangers as well, who both sputtered a bit and looked red in the face.

"We are... no, not related to Yaxley or Rowle or any of the... original... Death Eaters," the man on the right said, after recovering his composure. "We are just friends of Vasily and Boris, we believe they have the right idea. I am Roderick Mapleton, and that over there – with our little Muggle-loving friend – is Charles Trummle. We WANT credit! We WANT our names known!"

"I see," said Harry, strolling a bit around the outside of the perimeter. He had yet to raise his wand against the attackers, a bit fearful of what the one on the left – Charles, apparently – would do to poor Daniel Templeton.

"So let me get this straight – none of you have worked directly for Voldemort. You were not present during the War. You do not possess the Dark Mark in its true form on your forearms, nor do you wear masks in an attempt to protect your identity. You, Vasily, claim leadership of a sorry group that was discovered hiding in a shack, guilty only of a few minor attacks against Muggles and completely incapable of any sort of defense against three Aurors. Forgive me, but I hardly think I would call you Death Eaters at all. I'm quite curious as to how you even knew Morsmorde, though I suppose it became rather in fashion during the War. And you have come here today, without a clear plan that I can see, with what goal in mind? Killing me in front of so many witnesses hardly seems wise."

"You forget our hostage!" interjected Roderick, eyes shining in anger. "You do as we say or he dies, Potter." Mr. Templeton sputtered as his captor's wand pressed against his neck, far too close for Harry's comfort.

"What is it you would like me to do, then?" asked Harry, trying to keep the incredulous sarcasm from his voice. The four men facing him grinned, unaware of Harry's true lack of fear; they looked at one another, as if waiting for a cue–

"–IMPERIO!"

"Imperio!"

"Imperio!"

Everyone except for Boris – whose wand, of course, Harry had stolen – shouted the curse one after the other, staggering their incantations in order to decrease Harry's chances of deflection. Charles had replaced the threatening wand at Daniel Templeton's neck with a meaty arm wrapped tightly around the man's throat.

Harry easily and automatically blocked these first three curses, wand striking away the blasts without difficulty, but he paused briefly after noticing that Daniel Templeton's face had begun to turn purple; Charles had him in quite a strong chokehold.

He shot a quick Stunning Spell at the beefy man, who fell backwards like a felled tree onto the cobblestone streets, releasing a gasping Daniel to run to the farthest boundary of the glimmering circle they stood within.

Slightly distracted, Harry barely heard the additional Imperius Curse directed at him by Roderick before he felt its unmistakable, euphoric effect.

The bystanders outside of the shield screamed. Vasily and his comrades were laughing uproariously, delighted at this successful casting of an Unforgivable Curse against Harry Potter. Boris high-fived his brother, who had crouched beside Charles and whispered "Rennervate"; he happily helped his formerly Stunned friend to his feet (who, Harry happily noticed, was massaging a large lump on the back of his head that had resulted from his fall), pointing a proud finger in Harry's direction and quickly explaining what had happened.

Not one of them glanced inside Flourish and Blotts to see the reactions of Harry's family and friends, however. If they had done so, they would have noticed a distinct lack of concern on the part of those closest to him. Harry wasn't sure if they could overhear the conversation outside or if Ron's lipreading really had (finally) come in clutch. He was rolling his eyes, smirking at Hermione out of the corner of his mouth, and Ginny shouted – loudly enough that even Harry could hear, and much to George's amusement – "Really?"

Harry could hear Roderick's soothing, suggestive voice in his mind: You will announce your defeat and our triumph. You will give us your wand, and kneel before us, pledging your loyalty. You will work for us, helping us kill Mudbloods and instate a new reign of terror. You will kill anyone who stands in your way.

A small part of him wished to comply, of course, to give into the effects of the curse. Brilliant idea, the darkest corner of his brain whispered. No it's not, Harry shot back at himself. Bugger off.

Harry couldn't help but shudder a bit after quickly negating the pull of the Imperius Curse; a cold chill had settled over his bones despite his mental clarity. It could have been a Killing Curse. I could have been killed. Harry was not invincible – having children had made him more aware of this fact than he ever had been – and his weakness had always been helping others, just as he had paused in his brief bid to save Daniel Templeton. His ability to resist the Imperius Curse had been a closely guarded secret (not anymore, he thought resentfully), and that's what had likely saved his life.

Well, that and the fact that attackers were often quite wary of throwing Killing Curses at Harry after he had survived it a second time.

"You're bold," Harry finally said to the triumphant individuals in front of him. "I'll give you that." He shot a grin at the four men, whose stunned expressions were (rather inexplicably) proving amusing to him.

The situation wasn't at all funny, but he couldn't stop himself. He laughed. Loudly. Thunderous cheers arose from outside of the shield – people had started to shout his name, just as they had on the Quidditch pitch back at Hogwarts. So much for trying to stay out of the limelight, he thought to himself with an internal groan.

Harry stepped protectively in front of a cowering Daniel Templeton – whom he now realized was unarmed – and threw Boris' stolen wand for the Ministry employee to catch. "Just in case," Harry whispered with a wink, though he was confident that he had things securely in control. He simply wanted Mr. Templeton to regain some semblance of power. Being without a wand, Harry knew, brought with it the worst feeling of vulnerability.

This act of Harry's seemed to remind Charles of something; he reached into his own robes and pulled out what must have been Daniel Templeton's confiscated wand, tossing it to scowling Boris, who appeared quite resentful that his friend hadn't thought of this any earlier. Harry shook his head in disbelief, and then assumed a dueling stance.

"Expelliarmus!" Harry shouted at Boris. Though he tended to use wordless magic, as it was more efficient, this was one spell that he almost always said aloud, especially when he wished to make a point.

As he did now.

The red jet of light sent Boris sprawling, Daniel Templeton's stolen wand zooming directly back into its owner's awaiting hand. His new friend smiled in gratitude, pocketing Boris' extra wand and standing behind Harry, newly reclaimed weapon at the ready.

There. Now Harry felt better.

He faced his attackers, who were proving themselves miserably unskilled at dueling and unable to land a curse or spell. Harry repelled their curses, grateful at the lack of danger these ill-prepared "Death Eaters" presented (though he also was ashamed to say that he was minutely disappointed at the absence of a real challenge).

A twice-unarmed Boris cowered unashamedly behind his elder brother, who at least had the dignity to look repulsed by this display of cowardice. Harry paid the scared boy – for that's what he was – little attention.

Daniel Templeton stood behind him, shaking a bit out of nerves, though doing his part to deflect and occasionally shoot a curse or a jinx of his own. Onlookers outside of the golden shield would later laugh as they recounted the Ministry employee's broad grin as he stared at Harry's back during brief moments of inactivity, overwhelmed at this incredible chance to fight alongside (or, rather, behind) his hero.

Finally tired of this pointless exchange, Harry took advantage of a slight lull – brought on by his opponents' growing doubt – to shoot binding ropes from the top of his wand, which efficiently wound themselves around the torsos of each of the men; the clatter of three wands dropping on cobblestone briefly resounded within the dome before the remaining witnesses outside of it began to loudly applaud.

The four men stood unhappily, outstretched fingers – gradually reddening from the tight pressure of the ropes – opening and closing to desperately try and gain some semblance of movement. Or perhaps, thought Harry, to wordlessly summon their dropped wands.

Harry sighed, throwing his head back and letting out a deep breath. He didn't generally have an audience at work, and he had found the experience off-putting. It hadn't been a show; there was nothing that had merited something so blithe as clapping. Despite the lack of danger ultimately presented by the four men, a more well-organized attack could easily have been disastrous.

"All right there, Mr. Templeton?"

Wheezing, hands on his knees, Daniel lifted his right arm into a thumbs-up.

"Ah… Ah… Y-Yes, yes… I shall never forget this moment, Mr. Potter… what a thrill, ahem! What an honor…., I…" He then erupted into coughs, desperately apologizing for them between shuddering breaths.

"I… I… must've forgotten my asthma potion this morning. I really am t-terribly forgetful…"

Vasily rolled his eyes, eliciting a titter from Charles. Harry glared at them.

"Okay then, okay then," said Harry, kindly patting the gasping man on the back and keeping his gaze upon the captured men, whose faces were suddenly fearful. "You fought well, and I thank you for your bravery."

He really should have expected the subsequent crying.

He also should have expected the flashes of camera bulbs and Rita Skeeter's sudden reappearance. Maybe he'd keep the shield up for another minute or two, then.

"Voldemort was a half-blood, by the way," Harry pointedly stated as he walked over to his captives, preparing to escort them via side-along Apparition to the recently established pre-trial holding cells at Azkaban. "His father was a Muggle. He was nothing more than a psychopathic, insecure narcissist who hated the man who abandoned him and wanted to place himself into the position of hurting others of his kind instead. Do you want to fight his misguided and ultimately failed personal vendetta for him?"

Boris now resembled a gasping fish, hopefully glancing to Vasily for guidance.

Momentarily dumbfounded, Vasily recovered his composure. "Lies! You sully the name of the Dark Lord!"

"Oh that's right," said Harry, feigning deep thought. "I s'pose you all weren't really… erm, alive for my Quibbler interview of '95. Fortunately you'll have plenty of time to read my full book in Azkaban."

A sudden sharp pain then caused Harry to grimace, briefly holding a sore muscle in his back that tended to flare up after such encounters – at least within the last two years or so, that is – and he glanced at the scene now before him. Eyes drifting past the four bound and sputtering men and mentally drowning out the raucous shouts and cheers, he scanned the faces of the crowd.

The relatively orderly line that had once been present had now completely dissipated; many of his future customers had physically pressed themselves against the dome in order to get a closer look at him, cheeks comically flattened against the impenetrable surface. Wandering hands and wand tips appeared to be searching for weaknesses in the structure.

He most definitely wasn't lifting the Shield Charm yet, then.

Harry rose his hand in a vain attempt to block the bright flashes of light to his left and brusquely shouted commands of "Look here, Potter!" Suddenly he was back to feeling as he did during the Triwizard Tournament. Like a spectacle.

Gazing beyond the masses, Harry noticed that a sighing Hermione, grinning Ron, exasperated Ginny, and a tearful Molly had begun climbing out the storefront window of Flourish and Blotts; one of them must have finally Vanished the glass. Arthur remained in the store with the rest of Harry's small entourage, helping them re-tidy the space and conjuring a couple of stairs in front of and behind the gaping space the window had once inhabited in order for customers to later enter; the front door would still not budge.

"Where are your dress robes?" Ginny immediately shouted over to him. "I specifically made sure they were pressed and ready!" There were a few chortles from the crowd.

"Honestly Harry, and you were twelve minutes late! Did you forget?" Hermione's familiar voice pierced above all the others. Despite the lightly accusatory tone, the voices of both the most important women in his life were an unfailing source of comfort.

Harry let out a deep breath, waiting for his heartbeat to slow down.

"I promise I have an answer, love," Harry directed to Ginny, not at all surprised. "Just give me a few moments to catch my breath.

"And no, Hermione, of course I didn't forget, just let's- let's not talk about that yet, yeah?"

Hermione sighed, but her eyes sparkled with moisture. Harry knew both of them were doing their best to dissipate the tension.

Ron, gripping a copy of the autobiography, strode ahead of his sister and Hermione and thrust the book into the hands of a tight-lipped Bennet, whose face had become startlingly pale. "Just take it and leave, okay kid? It's on me. I want your father to read it – oh yes, I remember him too – but you're still in trouble. This one's not going to get signed, so no need to keep waiting in line."

Again, Harry wondered if Ron had managed to overhear the conversation or had simply been improving at his lip reading during Auror training. Zacharias Smith… Harry's mind again flashed back to the accusatory glare he had been thrown all of those years ago in the Hog's Head; he involuntarily gave a bitter half-smile.

Harry nodded at his oldest friend, shaking his head a little bit to clear his mind and letting out a deep sigh. He knew the others would defuse the situation and restore some order. It was time.

"Ahem," Harry started. "Oh right, Sonorus," Harry muttered, holding his wand to his throat.

"Hello again everyone," There was a sudden hush as Harry's voice boomed over the onlookers. "Is everyone okay? Well, yes. Good then. Erm… I'll- I'll be right back to sign some copies, I s'pose. Thank you for returning."

Merlin, how he wished his public speaking skills improved at the same rate as his non-verbal wandwork or as Ron's lipreading ability – and ability to spot him in his Disillusioned state – had. He had his moments (he felt that his earlier speech had been at least mildly successful), but as a whole he was rather hopeless with it. Especially now that he felt a bit like a deflated balloon.

"He's fine, Mum," Ron was currently saying, rubbing his mother's back. Though unerringly fierce, Molly had become quite a bit more sensitive and fearful of confrontation after the Battle. "That was all a joke, okay? He'll be back from the holding cells in ten minutes and we'll all have a right laugh."

Harry shot Molly what he hoped was a convincing smile as a means of reassurance; she gratefully placed her hands on her heart. How much longer could he keep doing this to her? To Ginny? To his children?

Harry lifted his wand to unravel the ropes that bound his prisoners just enough for their hands and forearms to gain some freedom; he quickly summoned the four dropped wands and placed them in his robes.

"Hold hands or link arms, two on each side," said Harry, standing between the group. Without any further instruction, he spun to his side and saw the world blur into swirled and dizzying colors.

Off to Azkaban.

HPHPHP

"I just can't win," groaned Harry, dropping Ginny's most recent copy of Witch Weekly onto the kitchen table and putting his head in his hands. "I wish she were still a beetle in Hermione's jar."

Underneath a photo of Harry looking his most ruffled and awkward, mid-stumbling through his closing statement and clutching his sore back, an accusatory headline boomed.

Hero or Hoaxer? Death Eater Fight Mars Potter's Book Release

By Rita Skeeter, Gossip Correspondent

Regardless of your opinion on Harry Potter, it cannot be denied that the veracity of the conflict witnessed by dozens at Diagon Alley last Monday could reasonably be called into question. Is it possible that the reclusive and erstwhile hero who conquered the Dark Lord could have staged a false threat in order to restore his former glory and drum up some publicity for his certainly biased autobiography? Inquiring minds would like to know…

"They were convicted," said Ginny. "Everyone there knows what they saw, love. It's a trashy rumor-mill column, that's all. Everyone else's gone quite mad for you, really. Eddie's told me to give you a kiss from him, but well…"

"Eddie?" inquired Harry, momentarily distracted. "That other bloke with dark hair and glasses at your office who keeps trying to get an invite here?"

Ginny grinned. "The very one. I expect he'll start making t-shirts with your face on soon. He's not bad-looking, Harry, but I'll admit if you leave me for him you'll look ridiculous. Like you're dating a clone of yourself. But I hear he bakes great mince pies, so if he makes you happy…"

"Wait, is it me he fancies or you?" Harry asked, quite despite himself.

"What a question to ponder," laughed Ginny. "Perhaps both."

"Please stop," Harry groaned, huffing a bit and rolling his head back. His neck audibly cracked, but he stayed in that position – leaning back on the old wooden chair – for a good few seconds.

There was silence. Harry noted that there was a spot of mildew growing in the far-right corner of the ceiling. Had he stopped recently to observe the very surroundings around him? Taken a breath?

Ginny seemed to know he was stalling.

"There are so many amazing reviews of the book already – people are saying the veil has been lifted. That was all you." Her voice was gentle, briefly shocking Harry out of his reverie. He tilted the front legs of his chair back onto solid ground and sat up straight, groaning a little as his head whirled with momentary dizziness.

"All Hermione, you mean," said Harry glumly. The room still spun a little.

He really couldn't explain his mood. Since he'd been hit with that blasted Imperius Curse, however, he couldn't shake the subtle feeling of wrongness that had seemed to follow him around like an invisible raincloud.

He should never have stolen a glimpse at Ginny's guilty pleasure of a gossip rag (though she generally skipped Rita's pieces).

Perhaps he just wished his name weren't up for public consumption.

"I've told you this a million times already, Harry, but there's a reason I saved the Prophet's first review. For moments like this, remember?" Ginny quietly slipped the clipped article across the table, then stood and kissed him on the top of his head. "That was from Eddie."

Harry snorted, then leaned up to give her a proper kiss. "Give him that from me, then," he replied. Ginny contorted her face into an expression of false shock.

"Off to snog Eddie then," she said lightly. "Now that my husband has so clearly expressed his lack of regard for marital fidelity! Wonder which one of us nabs him first." Her voice was bright and cheery, which he knew was for his own benefit. Harry reached for her small, soft hand and squeezed it. She gave him a slight smile and left.

Though Harry had read the words now in front of him at least four times already, he glanced down to read them again.

The Truth at Last: The Unknown Heroism of Harry Potter

By Annie Finch-Fletchley, Senior Arts Reporter

His name is known to all of us. Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. The Chosen One. We've all grown up with the story of his triumph over Voldemort (yes, this book should empower all of us to use Tom Riddle's invented title), but what happened after that fateful night in 1981 remained largely a mystery. Rumors surfaced as soon as Mr. Potter entered Hogwarts, of course, though the truth of these rumors was certainly twisted and diluted as they were passed amongst gossiping lips. In 1995, a huge piece of the puzzle and of Voldemort's own story was revealed by a teenaged Potter, a boy bullied into revealing the recent trauma of Voldemort's deadly return in the desperate hope that he would be believed. And yet this wasn't the case. Because the only source who would agree to run his story was hardly known for telling the truth.

The infamous Quibbler article, though it convinced many who had picked up on the deceptive behavior of the Ministry, failed to sway all of the dissenters; for them, it placed poor young Harry's tale squarely in the realm of fantasy for the foreseeable future. The article was run directly after an exposé of fictional creatures called "Crumple-Horned Snorkacks", a fact that the most cynical of witches and wizards couldn't reconcile.

Though the horrors Potter suffered at the hands of Voldemort and his Death Eaters cannot be overstated, the mistreatment he suffered directed by his own community – the magical world he had seen as an escape from a parentless childhood of neglect and abuse – remain, to me, the most affecting and unforgivable part of Potter's memoir. We may no longer be shocked by the cruelty of Voldemort and his followers, but we should be shocked by the more everyday cruelty that followed Harry throughout his life, beginning with his Muggle aunt and uncle. Though Potter's mature and carefully-crafted words carry only a hint of well-earned resentment, the rest of us should remove any respect we may once have held for important Ministry officials such as Cornelius Fudge, Bartemius Crouch, Dolores Umbridge (despite her imprisonment for war crimes, she had her share of ardent defenders comprised of those lucky enough not to have been at Hogwarts during her term), and yes – to an extent – even the murdered Rufus Scrimgeour, though reports indicate that he may well have redeemed himself in the end. This very newspaper, in fact, is not without its lion's share of the blame.

In turn, those whose names were once tarnished should be celebrated; Severus Snape, with all of his flaws – graciously forgiven by Harry Potter, though I'll admit a bit harder for me to overlook – nonetheless proved an indispensable part of Voldemort's downfall. Sirius Black was not only innocent, but a valiant and loyal protector. Remus Lupin was no more dangerous to anyone than a flobberworm, and the story of his own abuse by the Wizarding World is nothing short of a tragedy. Rubeus Hagrid is much more than the simple, monster-loving Hogwarts gamekeeper most write him off as. And Albus Dumbledore – Albus Dumbledore was more profoundly human, mistakes and questionable actions included, than Skeeter's perhaps truthful but skewed biography could ever have illustrated. It may be difficult to understand his approach as Harry's de facto guide along the fateful path he shared with Voldemort, but his care and love for a young Potter was apparent in each word written about him.

The unsung heroes of Harry's shockingly difficult life were, of course, the Weasley family. As I read through the pages of this beautiful book, each one more enlightening than the last, I struggled to imagine what would have happened had Harry not been accepted with open arms by Molly and Arthur Weasley. We may all now be facing a different future had they not seen it within them to adopt a lonely, scared boy into their family, despite neither having the space nor the money; many lessons can be learned from their described actions throughout The Truth at Last.

Love is what saved Harry as a baby, and love is what got him through his dark and dangerous adolescence. The love of his new family, love of his friends, the love of his future wife. We are certainly in good hands with the brilliant and unyielding Mrs. Hermione Granger-Weasley as head of Magical Law Enforcement, and certainly have her to thank for the masterful prosody of this book. In a similar vein, Mr. Ronald Weasley should not continue to be underestimated for his skill as an Auror. Both have endured and conquered situations most of us could scarcely imagine, and Harry has remained steadfastly close to the two of them for a reason. They should never stop being admired and thanked for their role in saving our world.

It also seems the soft-spoken and well-liked Herbology professor Mr. Neville Longbottom should start expecting some fan mail for his heroic actions – now that I have heard at least part of his vital role in the collapse of Voldemort's regime, I feel it is about time he gained some recognition.

It is no place of mine to summarize the events described within the pages of such a monumentally important autobiography, but it is my place to offer what I hope is one of the first apologies received by Mr. Potter: I am sorry for how you were treated by the Wizarding World. I am sorry for how you were treated by my own employer, The Daily Prophet, though I didn't work there at the time. And I am sorry I have never thanked you in person for defending both me and my husband when we were at school together. My parents removed me from Hogwarts far prior to the Battle and I never spoke a word to you in the halls, but I regret that I failed to vocally express my support to you. I could have, and I didn't. I see now what a difference that could have made.

Readers, I don't simply encourage you to purchase a copy of The Truth at Last and absorb every detail recounted in its pages. I implore it.

The words made Harry itch somewhere deep inside. He wasn't sure why. It was as if they activated something within him; reawakened a part of himself he had long since left behind. He shifted on his seat, cracking his sore joints and stretching his scarred, suntanned arms towards his (apparently mildewing – really, how had he not noticed before?) ceiling.

They had recalled the importance of the adults in his life who – despite not being related to him – had stepped in and saved him in more ways than one.

His job was important. He knew this truth from the core of his being. He had done good for their world. Things were so much better than they used to be.

But the job would never end. He would continue to feel as if he were jogging along a Muggle treadmill that gradually inclined higher and higher until he eventually fell down its insurmountable, ever-moving slope without having covered any distance. And what would happen when he finally did retire? Would there be those ready and able to take over?

He knew that he, Ron, and the other determined post-War Aurors (as well as Hermione, who had stepped above all of them) had covered very real distance in the beginning, though. The treadmill that had now become his life had then been broken; the world had needed immediate and long-lasting repairs after the Battle. They had stepped in because of course they had stepped in. They had been stepping in for as long as they had been physically able. There had never been any other choice.

But then the treadmill had turned back on. It had been fixed. The facility within which it had been housed reopened. Life resumed its normal pace. Well, normal for others who weren't Harry, as he supposed he had never really learned what the word meant.

It was now late autumn of 2020.

Though Harry was 40 years old, he quite honestly felt a lifetime older. Whereas he knew colleagues in the midst of a crisis because of their advancing ages, Harry was left calmly bemused by it. Is that it? his mind frequently pondered. Has it really only been 40 years?

His body protested the simplest of movements he made lately, despite potions recommended and occasionally brewed by a perpetually energetic Slughorn (he had insisted on remaining in contact and still didn't understand why Harry couldn't simply brew the potions himself), frequent correspondence with Madam Pomfrey, and the healing spells he had managed to learn the hard way on the job. He had always thought it a small price to pay for ensuring the safety of the Wizarding World – and it was, of course – but who had paid a larger price than him already?

He flashed back to Molly's white, tearstained face as she exited Flourish and Blotts that last Monday. To Ginny's stricken expression on the countless occasions he had come home bleeding or concussed. To the anguished cries of "No!" he had heard as Hagrid carried him back to Hogwarts. His first real home.

To Lupin's kind face as he handed Harry some chocolate on the train.

To Hagrid's unreserved belly-laugh and full-bodied hugs.

To McGonagall's fierce determination as she resolved herself to assist Harry to become an Auror if it was the last thing she ever did.

To Neville's delight as he successfully disarmed an (admittedly distracted) Harry for the first time.

To Luna's smiles as she increasingly came out of her shell and formed friendships.

To his own fear as he walked into the Great Hall as a tiny first year and flashed his eyes to the staff table, assessing those who he knew would be his future instructors, and was immediately met with a malevolent glare from Snape.

Could I really…? Should I really…?

"Oi Harry! Breakfast time or what? Hermione's left early and I thought we could get a cuppa, should be a slow morning, yeah?"

Had Harry not heard the door open, or had Ron entered his house unannounced so often that it was no longer a noise his brain registered? Ron may be just the person he needed to see, however.

"Harry? Where are you?" Ron's voice sounded from the living room.

"Kitchen," he replied. His voice sounded flat even to his own ears.

As Harry's head was now in his hands, the patter of Ron's footsteps preceded his entry. Harry registered the sound of a chair sliding across hardwood and Ron sitting heavily into its seat. He slowly looked up, blinking the room back into focus.

Ron hadn't yet said anything, but his eyes slowly moved from the article spread across the table and back to Harry's surely conflicted-looking face.

The silence stretched for a comfortable few seconds. Ron knew Harry's moods well – better than anyone really, perhaps even Ginny – and knew that he would speak when ready.

"I think I'm done," Harry finally proclaimed.

"Done with that book review?" Ron asked, purposefully being obtuse to get Harry to explain. "Took you a while to read it, then," he said, smirking just a little.

"Done with…"

"Yeah," Ron finished for him. "I know."

HPHPHP

A persistent airplane was poking Harry's right temple. He absentmindedly lifted his wand, muttering the charm Kingsley had finally shown him two weeks ago, and the now-unfolded bright green piece of paper fluttered down almost lugubriously onto his empty desk. Harry sighed; he was really getting weary of public complaints.

And of the ever-growing number of hastily scrawled full names and addresses begging for more sordid details he had (surely, Mr. Potter!) left out of his biography to be personally delivered to them.

It was either one or the other, really. Hard to discern which was worse.

Out of a steadfast sense of duty more than of any actual desire, he picked up the memo and squinted a little to clearly make out the handwriting.

Oh.

Oh.

Thank you for your service, Mr. Potter. It's your time now.

The room blurred a bit as Harry felt his eyes mist. He took a deep breath, shaking his head to steel himself, and glanced around the small office he had spent the greater part of the last three years inhabiting (on a floor of the Ministry he had been dutifully walking for the last twenty-two years of his life, at that).

The back wall seemed so stark without the web of suspect photographs he had pinned on its right-hand side. His desk (his old desk, he reminded himself) appeared larger than he ever remembered it being; clearing all of the books and paperwork away had revealed a frankly shocking amount of initial surface area. No wonder Hermione hadn't been able to shut up about space maximization.

He wouldn't miss it, though he felt a pang of fear at the sudden change he was about to experience; a stab of stubborn sentimentality. Harry took a final spin around the small room, scanning for anything he may have forgotten to pack away within the last week. His brain sappily conjured whispered echoes of conversations – pivotal, sometimes life-changing, moments that had occurred in this very space, all of which had irreversibly been committed to memory.

Important. Worth it. Over.

No, no. He definitely wouldn't miss this office.

A sudden thud from the hallway rudely intruded upon his mental valediction.

"For goodness sake, Ronald, there goes the potted Wiggentree, though I suppose you won't need it anymore..."

"As if I could have kept one hand on it at all times anyway. What should I do, glue it to my arm?"

"It was a gift, and a thoughtful one at that, from Neville, as you know full well–"

"–He's got more!"

"Like that excuses it! And oh no, this ink's been spilled... Scourgify!... That's acceptable, I suppose this carpet's endured worse, but really, I told you not to carry so much at once!"

"Yeah, you want the trainees to do it for the honor of it, hauling away my moldy old coffee mugs is quite the treat."

"Well, that's not quite what I meant!" Hermione was giggling.

"Truly, Hermione, you must work your trainees like right... house elves or something–"

Harry rolled his eyes as he heard the unmistakable sound of more items dropping and then of something... wet?

"Mates, is now really the time for snogging?" shouted Harry after a good ten seconds of this. "We're in the workplace, after all."

Harry grinned as Ron's flushed face finally popped into the entryway. His hair was a bit mussed, and the large box he was carrying had been so hastily and messily repacked that a few of the items within it appeared set to (again) fall over its edge.

"Not anymore, Harry! I say let this place go to the dogs."

Hermione suddenly appeared beside her husband, similarly disheveled and grinning; she was holding two large, plain canvas bags.

"Well, I still work at the Ministry," she huffed.

"Exactly," said Ron, affectionally pulling her close with his one free arm. "The dogs, I tell you." He sloppily kissed the side of her head, eliciting a squeal from Hermione as she wiped the saliva from her hair.

Harry gave a hearty laugh, placing his own box on the ground and his hands on his hips, surveying his surroundings once more. "That's it, then?"

"Good riddance," said Ron, more sensitively than the words themselves would indicate. He held out his hand, which contained a bright green, crumpled-up piece of paper. A memo.

"That's what this airplane says, anyway. 'Good riddance, Weasley.' Well, who am I to ignore the will of the people?"

"Funnily enough, I just received quite a sweet one," said Harry with false imperiousness.

"Oh is that right, mate?" said Ron. "It just so bloody figures."

Suddenly and perhaps inexplicably – though it wasn't truly inexplicable, was it? – Ron had stridden across the room and they were locked in a tight embrace; Hermione had wordlessly taken Ron's box and emptied its contents into one of her canvas bags, watching them with a small smile.

Ah, an Extension charm. She really thought of everything.

"I'm proud of us, Harry," Ron murmured lowly, just before pulling away from their hug.

"But it's time," said Harry.

Ron nodded in confirmation. "It's time."

HPHPHP

"I know."

"You know?" repeated Harry dumbly.

Ron scooted the kitchen chair he was occupying closer towards the table, leaning down on folded arms and looking up at Harry.

"I've been waiting for you, mate," Ron said matter-of-factly. "You know I've been spending some weekends at the joke shop, yeah? With George? Well with all of the expansion and the fourth location opening soon, he's offered me a managerial job any time I'd want it. Open invitation."

Harry's eyes widened a bit in mild surprise, then he sighed deeply. It wasn't actually surprising, not really. He hadn't necessarily expected Ron to stay an Auror forever, but- wait.

Wait.

"Waiting for me? Why in bloody hell, as if I'm stopping you from... I'd never–"

"–No Harry, no, not like that," Ron quickly interceded. "No. I- well, mate, I didn't tell you because I knew you'd want me to go."

Harry was silent for a beat. Then two. This didn't make sense. Ron had hidden this from him... because he knew he'd be okay with it?

"Don't you get it?" pleaded Ron. "Don't you really?" He lifted his head from his arms, gently pounding his fists on the table.

And suddenly, he did. He felt tears welling in his eyes, momentarily overwhelmed by the devout loyalty and love he had managed to stumble upon in a best friend. He said nothing, pursing his lips together and nodding.

"I get it," said Harry.

"I couldn't let you fight alone, Harry," said Ron, unnecessarily confirming what Harry had just realized. "I mean it wasn't always like that, you know I was just as raring as you were to save the world in the beginning and for a while after that. But later, y'know? I could see it was mostly done. We had done it, right? But you- you- I didn't know when you'd be ready. When you'd feel safe."

Harry nodded, a lump in his throat.

"And you're so... so bloody good at this stuff. The best. So you kept going and I kept following because I know you're the best, Harry, I know, but I couldn't imagine not being there if something happened... you know, after..."

And Harry knew. Of course. After.

The Battle.

"No fighting alone," said Ron.

"No," echoed Harry. "No fighting alone."

They sat in silence for a few moments, both aware that they still needed to go about their regular routine – as if this huge revelation had not just occurred – but quietly letting visions of a newly imagined future set in.

Perhaps a bit abruptly (judging by Ron's small jump in his chair), Harry clapped his hands together, grinning as he scrambled out of the room and into the office for a quill and a spare piece of parchment. He came back into the kitchen and plopped back down at the table, then began to address his letter.

Ron had been observing him with raised eyebrows, then smiled in understanding as he saw what Harry had started to write.

"McGonagall?"

"Who else?"

"I heard that job's cursed, you know," commented Ron with a smirk (they both knew full well that the curse hadn't seemed to hold since May 2, 1998, but they'd heard through the grapevine that prospective professors still approached the position with some... healthy caution).

"We'd better hope it still is," said Harry flippantly. "Because the school year's already about halfway over and I need there to be an opening."

HPHPHP

There had been a party yesterday. There had been, right? Harry thought to himself. I didn't imagine it?

No, certainly not. There had been bloody cake and everything. Kingsley had led a round of applause, given a sentimental speech filled with tales of past exploits, and pounded both him and Ron on the back repeatedly as he proclaimed the start of a new era. Celeste Spinnaker had fallen off of her chair in a fit of drunken hiccups about 40 minutes into the post-shift festivities, and the generally stoic (at work, that is) Minister of Magic himself had indulged enough to admit – with a bit of poorly-disguised smugness – that he had been chuffed that the Dursleys had liked him.

"Me, of all people!" he proclaimed. "Flamboyant as I am and utterly despising them as much as I do. This book of yours is full of surprises, I tell you!"

He had then waved his wand, sending the dozen or so green memos into the room into a flurry of spirals and coordinated movements.

Daniel Templeton – who'd clearly been working late – had tentatively poked his head around the corner at the height of the drunken festivities; Harry had greeted him warmly, with a solid handshake and clap on the back, but the enthusiastic employee had then quickly been whisked away by a particularly ardent admirer of his own.

Young Philip Appletree had, according to a winding and drunken (and boldly publicly proclaimed) story, been to Harry's disastrous book release and had – apparently – taken quite a shining to Daniel after his heroic duel. Seemed he was also just as fascinated by Apple products. They were exchanging and examining matching iPhones (both of which were rendered completely useless due the magic buzzing throughout the air), though this seemed an inconsequential obstacle to either of them.

Wonderful news, really, for Mr. Templeton. What he and Philip began doing in the corner of the room about twenty minutes later had been a bit indecorous even for the irreverent goings-on in the office, however.

Arthur had arrived shortly after his protégé, a bit harried (as he always appeared to be) but beaming with pride and hugging both Harry and his son fiercely. Cheers erupted.

Out of respect.

Out of the newfound, deep understanding of Arthur's own role in Harry's storied adventures and the War.

Arthur had shot a (then quite occupied) Daniel a raised eyebrow, then grinned wryly as he helped himself to the piece of spiced cake Hermione had been holding out to him.

Yes, there had definitely been a party. His and Ron's last day as Aurors had been sufficiently acknowledged.

So no, Harry wasn't quite expecting the thunderous applause and the sea of faces that greeted him, Ron, and Hermione that evening as they strolled into the Ministry lobby. It was a full ovation of what appeared to be the entirety of the Ministry's employees.

Blimey, if young Harry (aged roughly fifteen to seventeen, that is) could have glimpsed such an occurrence in this very lobby.

The Boy Who Lied.

Undesirable Number 1.

How things had changed.

Ron seemed to have been thinking something similar; he pulled at Harry's sleeve, laughing almost too hard to clearly enunciate his words.

"R-R-Remember when– ha ha ha! – remember when we were running through here as f-f-fugitives as the P-P-Polyjuice Potion wore off?"

Hermione looked a bit stricken, shooting Ron a sharp look. It wasn't the best of memories, after all.

But Harry understood and cracked his own grin. "Now there's a plaque for us, Ron," he said, pointing to a plinth displaying a short inscription that had magically (well, of course magically) appeared at the base of the fountain.

"A plaque! Ha ha ha!"

Despite the twinge of heartache and nostalgia that came with the end of his final shift as Head Auror, the hysterical irony of it all was too sweet to ignore. Harry and Ron's laughter mingled with the cheers as they acknowledged their praise – Ron taking a dramatic bow – and headed to the fireplaces.

Time to go home.

THE END

I was originally going to write more. I actually fully intended to - that's what I was sitting down to do today, really. But it just suddenly felt like an ending to me. Plus, this has been an ongoing part of my life for like 8 years now and I'm just... tired, haha. It's also like a third the length of my doctoral dissertation (though that's still nothing on some of the badasses here and AO3, I know).

Let me know if you'd like to see an epilogue; it would likely take place at Hogwarts. That's where I was going with it, anyway. If not, please forget I ever said anything!