A/N: Hi all,

all right, I've returned with a brand new story. It's a multi-crossover between Harry Potter, Resident Evil and Buffy the Vampire slayer.

A few preliminary notes:

My knowledge of Buffy and of Resident Evil are pretty weak. If I screw up the timelines, or narratives, well, I don't really care. Also, any Resident Evil storyline elements will be based on the video games and not the movies.

I'm not sure how many different POVs there's going to be. If you read this, you may have to content yourself with the fact that Harry, while being the single largest protagonist in this story, will not enjoy screen time exclusively.

Also, I've no clue where this story's going. Feel free to make suggestions, and I'll do my best to accommodate anything that I think is cool. Generally speaking though, I intend for this story to be almost completely outside the scope of the wizarding world.

For those of you who have read Blessed, you may recognize some lines or phrases that are reminiscent. I wrote this chapter a week before I started Blessed, having been spurred on by the discovery of the FWG Horcrux Challenge. Do forgive the slight lack of originality. I was writing them at roughly the same time and so I ended up swapping a few phrases between them.

Reviews are, of course, welcome.

Finally, this fic is post-OOtP, though I may include HBP elements.

Disclaimer: I'm only going to say this once, so listen up. I own Harry Potter, and Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and Resident Evil. So come on and sue me. I dare you.

Harry Potter and the Dawn of the Dead.

Prologue

The Unravelling

Brigadier General Brett Hayes had, for the most part, been a staunch opponent of the bilateral agreement signed between the United States government and MedGen Inc. Still, there hadn't been much he could do about it at the time, and even less now. The idea of selling off control of research and development in the area of biotech warfare had rubbed him the wrong way, it seemed, and had earned him a reputation as a dinosaur of an extinct world of international politics. Once upon a time, it had been easy to see who the enemies were; the war games had tractable solutions, comprehensible ends. Not anymore. Now, it was research for research's sake, and, for some inexplicable, inarticulable reason, it rubbed him the wrong way. Almost as though the subject of the research had taken on a life of its own, had acquired sentience, had taken control and the so-called experimenters had in turn become the objects of experimentation.

And now, at that moment in time, he found himself walking through the antiseptic, underground halls of a very top secret, very elite, very state-of-the-art biotech research facility, whereupon he would come to learn of a great many things. Things which would shatter his world belief, once he came to accept them.

His standard issue army boots clicked flatly against the tri-titanium alloy that made up the floors and walls of that strange place.

Stopping before a large, thick, magnetically sealed door, and submitting to a retinal scan, Brett silently waited for the computer to recognize him and admit him to the boardroom. Absently, he fingered the compact Colt Python strapped to his waist, long ago memories of secret wars surfacing from time-darkened pits in his memory, inescapable visions of gruesome torture taking yet another little piece of his conscience away into the recesses of his own mind.

The door opened, and he went inside. He swiftly catalogued the identities of the room's occupants. There was the senior General Dobson, who also happened to be Brett's mentor, a lab coat named Ada, and an unknown who Brett keenly measured with his eyes. A thin, wisp of a man with reddish brown hair, a deceptively placid expression on his face. Brett took a post between them, completing the circle and not bothering to sit down, as all of the others were standing. Built into the wall was a viewscreen with all kinds of electronic gizmos attached to it, one of them being a simple DVD player.

"Now that we're all here," began Dobson, not bothering to introduce the unknown, which Brett decided to call John, for his own benefit, "we can begin." Dobson then tapped a button on the DVD player, bringing to life the viewscreen. "Pay close attention," said Dobson to the other three watchers, though, by John's expression, Brett suspected that he was the one who provided the DVD in the first place, if his casual disinterest in the events playing out on the screen in front of them were any indication. Ada, by contrast, was scrutinizing the video acutely. Brett simply wanted to find out what the fuss was about and then move on to the discussion.

Very quickly, it became apparent that he was watching some sort of spycam and that it was unfolding a story about a cult of some sort. No doubt heathen cannibals or some other such thing. They wore girly looking robes that hid their form and white masks that made him think of KKK members depicted in Birth of the Nation, the old Griffith film from 1915. Most curious of all was that they all seemed to possess sticks that were about a foot in length, maybe less. Mostly they were hidden in the fabric of their robes or cloaks or whatever, but, sometimes, one would pull out the trinket and wave it around, at which point a light show would follow. The effects generally were rather curious, often involving floating objects or disappearing persons. At one point, an adult female was brought into the room and thrown before the group of psychos, only to be tortured by the people. Mostly with the sticks no less, which Brett was starting to think were some sort of tazer, like a cattle prod. Eventually, the girl was killed from what looked like an overexposure to the electrical charge. From there, the cult members disappeared from view.

Once the video feed ended, Dobson ejected the DVD and placed it gently back in its case, at which point he handed it to John, confirming Brett's initial suspicion that the unknown was the originator. From there, they all took a seat at the board table, at which point Dobson turned to Brett and Ada and said, "Tell me what you think."

Brett Hayes knew he wasn't the smartest guy in the world, but he also knew that he wasn't an idiot. He was familiar with Dobson's process of edification. He liked to show people the evidence first and then see what conclusions they came to. Knowing this, Brett tried to be as thorough with his analysis of the video he just watched. He said, "Their dress suggests a manner of a religious sect. Robes are medieval, if I understand correctly. Their choice of weapon is unusual. From what I gather, it's some sort of electrical tool, like a cattle prodder. There are a few unexplainable occurrences worth noting, including the ability to appear and disappear, as well as floating objects, though I am inclined to view it as a hoax. I have seen more intricate special effects on seventies Star Trek episodes."

"Anything else?" Dobson prompted.

Brett considered it and then added. "The leader kept his face obscured, so there was little I could glean, though it appeared from time to time as though he were talking to the snake that was curled around his feet. It sounds like a psych tactic."

Dobson nodded, as if confirming something and then turned his brown eyes to Ada. "And you, Ms. O'Reilly?"

Ada took a deep, calming breath before speaking. "I tended to focus my attention on what exactly the subjects were doing with their tools. At first glance, I was prepared to dismiss them, but, after continuing to watch their performance, I noticed some oddities. The first is that all the peculiar occurrences took place immediately following some sort of action by the subjects' use of the instrument. As it has been noted, some sort of energy extends from the instrument. That in and of itself is not impressive. However, the first thing to note is that the colour of the discharge varies depending on certain circumstances. For example, the lighting of the fire in the fireplace was predicated on an orange glow, while the levitation discharge was predicated on a pale yellow. The pain discharge was amber and the final discharge against the cult's victim was a bright green. If it is true that these discharges were simply electrical, then the discharge in all cases should be white. I cannot think of anything that would explain the various colours. Secondly, there were precisely two levitation discharges that occurred, and, oddly enough, they both were of the same colour, which suggests that there is something systematic in the use of the instruments. Possibly, the instruments have multiple settings. Apart from that, the most curious thing are the types of events that the various discharges precipitate. It is not uncommon to have a device that ignites wood, for example, though I will admit that to do so at a distance of five feet is most impressive. But to cause an object to float is an entirely different story. My first inclination is to say electromagnetic fields, since, apart from gravity, it is the only other known force that can alter the inertia of objects without the use of intermediary mass. However, in one example, the levitated object was a glass of water. Even if it were possible to create a tool so effective in such a concise form as to make objects move with such control from a distance, it would only be effective on objects that were subject to magnetic influences. Glass, unfortunately, is not one of them. As such, I am at a loss as to explain the phenomena I witnessed on the video."

Dobson nodded to Ada's assessment before finally turning to John and saying, "Perhaps now would be the time for you to tell us what you know of this phenomenon."

The person that Brett had dubbed John merely nodded before proceeding. "This recording is far from the first of its kind, though I will admit it is the most in-depth thus far in terms of its ability to provide information on the activities of this organization. Over the last six weeks, we have secured video tapes with similar types of occurrences that have been recorded on security cameras. More often than not, the cameras are rendered inoperable before much can be discerned. Only through the diligent efforts of some amateur experimenters who sought to recover footage from a damaged security tape were we able to uncover the barest glimpse of this activity taking place. More disturbingly, these camera failures take place at locations where major accidents occur at around the same time as the camera malfunction. Individuals with black cloaks and sticks are always at the scene before the footage is rendered ineffective. Through sophisticated surveillance and some reconnaissance employing satellite technology, we have been able to track the movements of these individuals to a particular town, and, more precisely, to a particular house. More importantly, we have sent in an undercover reconnaissance team. However, they returned disoriented and experiencing memory loss. All attempts to approach the house, which we are now calling a facility, have been unsuccessful."

"So how did you plant the spycam?" Ada asked, leaning forward and intently curious.

"We spent some time calculating the effect of the memory field and posted a spycam just outside it, calculating the trajectory of the camera's line of sight in order to line it up with a window of the facility. We have stationed soldiers there who set up the camera one hour after dark and take it down one hour before sunrise so as to avoid suspicion. Fortunately, the facility is away from lights and civilization, making detection of our presence extremely unlikely.

"Interesting," Ada muttered. "Memory fields, you say?"

John nodded. "It is the only way that we can think of to describe such a thing. Never before have we seen something like it."

Ada nodded, and Brett had to concede that it was the strangest thing he had ever heard of. Before he could get too far into his own musings however, General Dobson spoke. "Brett, it's critical that we find out what exactly these people are."

Brett nodded, a picture of his involvement in the affair starting to form. "You want me to organize a team to go in there, don't you?"

Dobson merely nodded.

Ada, however, interjected. "But how?" she asked. "You're soldiers will simply turn back the moment they run across this special barrier."

Brett, however, did not seem to be terribly concerned with this apparent problem. He had learned a thing or two during

his lifetime. No matter how fancy this memory field was, it was just a fence, and all fences had their weaknesses. Consequently, he just smiled and said, "Leave it to me."

So it was, muggles would soon discover the consequences of interfering in a prophecy seventeen years running.

Chapter One

Harry's Summer

Late June.

Being sequestered at his aunt and uncle's place for the summer had been both a blessing and a curse for Harry. It gave him time to ponder, and it gave him time to brood, neither of which were very healthy for him, but both of which were necessary. As rain slashed down across his window, he stared out seeing and unseeing.

I made a mistake. I wanted you to have a childhood. I cared too much.

Despite the passage of time, Harry found that the anger that rose up within him at Dumbledore's words did not subside. If anything, it was settling into a clinical hatred that was permanently etching itself onto his soul. It wasn't even hatred at Dumbledore so much, or even hatred at the world, or himself. No, it was a hatred that was nebulous, that fanned out around him, trying to lash out at circumstance, or God or Fate. Time, even. A book of curses lay shredded across his bed, the names of various offensive spells pooled together into an incoherent mass. After spending a day in his own tortured mind, idly moving through the various stages of restlessness, he came to his schoolwork at around mid-evening, determined to be at least somewhat productive. That strategy, however, failed miserably. It failed not because he couldn't focus, or because he was weak-minded or incompetent. No, Harry was anything but those things. No, it failed, because he simply did not see the point.

"Who gives a rat's ass whether I hit a Death Eater with a jelly legs jinx or the bat bogey hex? Or a stunner or a body bind?" Did it really make a difference whether he bothered to learn how to castrate his opponents? Oh sure, it looked cool and all, and would probably scare the Molly Weasleys of the world into pissing their pants, but there were simpler and more straightforward ways of doing it. What was the use of knowing ten spells that all did functionally the same thing, when one would suffice? Full of disgust for himself, for the wasted time, for his own wretched childhood, which was nothing more than a mockery of one, really, especially now knowing how far he needed to go in order to move from his position of average competence to superhuman war machine, Harry took a pair of scissors and began systematically demolishing his book on curses and jinxes and hexes. As far as he was concerned, a clear, simple reductor curse would suffice to drop his opponents, and he would make sure he put enough power behind it to ensure that the motherfuckers weren't going to be getting up anytime soon. Past that, he didn't give a shit.

The only question was whether he was going to get close enough to his quarry to hit them in the first place. That question, was proving to be much more problematic, and, to his dismay, none of his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbooks managed to conjure up a single intelligent thought on the subject. No, instead, he had a lexicon of water demons, characteristics, taxonomy, physiology, weaknesses, likes and dislikes. It made him want to kill people and curl up into a little ball and cry, all at the same time. Worse yet, he knew that out there, probably drunk and sleeping on someone's lawn was Fletcher or Mr. Tibbles or some other worthless sod that was stuck with the unenviable task of babysitting the world's saviour. It made him feel boxed in, and it did so in the same way that he had felt trapped long ago in that graveyard in Little Hangleton. And Harry was coming to realize that he didn't like that feeling one bit. A part of him wanted to kick and scream and get all angry and ruffled at Dumbledore, the old coot, for manipulating his life to serve the wizarding world. All of it seemed disturbingly calculated, though Harry had matured enough to realize that he himself may not have acted any differently if he were in Dumbledore's shoes. The old man had consigned Harry to a life of sorrow, not for Harry's sake, but for the sake of the wizarding world. Sure, if Harry had lived with wizards or, at the very least, some random muggle with a warm heart, he might be dead, but he also might have enjoyed his days on Earth a little more. And it seemed a bit false for the same person who consoled people by telling them to accept death as a transition to another adventure, to then turn around and force life upon a boy at whatever cost.

Harry still wasn't sure whether Dumbledore was mocking him in some way. Maybe he felt it was safe to tell him the prophecy, because he saw that Harry was galactically useless with a wand when pitted against Voldemort. Maybe Dumbledore had all kinds of theories, and, only after seeing Harry's wretched performance in the Ministry did he realize that the only possible interpretation of the prophecy was that it was Harry's haywire emotions that the prophecy must have been referring to. After all, what the hell else did he have going for him? He was scrawny, four-eyed and only managed to survive thus far because he had a veritable army working behind the scenes to keep him that way. And if it were truly his emotions that were the key why not love? It made a romantic sort of sense, especially since it was the one thing that the Dark Lord couldn't understand. Well, Harry supposed that weariness, or fatigue, or a sense of hopelessness were also emotions outside Voldemort's range, since the bastard was relentless. But of course, those feelings don't give people a warm fuzzy feeling at night, and somehow, Harry wasn't quite able to buy suicide as the critical decision that would ultimately annihilate the Dark Lord. As such, he was stuck with love.

"And look where that got Lily Evans Potter," he muttered, picking viciously at a loose thread in his already torn and ragged duvet. "The morgue."

With all of that as a backdrop to Harry's attempt at studying, it was no wonder that he found the spleen expulsion curse to be rather useless. Did Voldemort even need a spleen? Wouldn't he have seen to it that his body were immunized from these sorts of curses? Whatever Dumbledore had cast at the Ministry had been incredibly powerful. Harry still remembered the resounding vibration that ran through the floors when Dumbledore's first offense impacted with Voldemort's silver shield. It made no difference what curse Harry used. All that mattered was how powerful it was. The only thing remotely resembling the kind of ludicrous power that Dumbledore had demonstrated that Harry felt he could do was the Patronus Charm, and that was only effective against dementors. And still, he had no clue how to translate that superior magical output to his other spells. Maybe if he just practiced them enough times.

Not that he could practice fuck all stuck in Dudley's second bedroom.

With these thoughts plaguing him, Harry fell into a fitful sleep, unaware that his mind was continuing to process his thoughts, his worries, his concerns, and that, by tomorrow, he would have come to a conclusion about certain things.

Two days after Harry's ruminations, he decided to act. With an air of casualness that belied his resolve, Harry stepped out into the bright morning sunshine of Privet Drive. He wasn't sure whether he was happy or whether he was simply resigned; all he knew for sure was that there were things to do, and it wasn't going to help to just sit around and mope day in and day out. He stopped at the foot of the drive and glanced about, somewhat irritated with himself that he couldn't spot his minders, even though he knew that they were there. Jesus fuck me, he thought with more than a little self-disgust. Like it matters whether I've got a mean evisceration curse when I can't even figure out where the wizards are. Briefly, he remembered Dumbledore being able to spot him sneaking about the castle in his invisibility cloak in first year. He had seen you then, Harry recalled, the thought threatening to ignite the bitterness all over again. Surely if Harry asked, he would get some patronizing response about being a child.

He was also pretty certain that any attempts to study advanced magic would be met with concern. It was bad enough people knew he was a parselmouth, an attribute that he was only now starting to realize could be a gift rather than a curse. All those stupid, Goddamned little Huffelpuffs running around terrified that he was the heir of Slytherin. He let other people push him around, beat him down because he was special. They made him fear his talents. Fucking Huffelpuffs. Well, not anymore. All these years he could have learned from a completely different species, and he threw it away, because of some dim-witted comments from a bunch of twelve year olds.

Snape it seemed, really did have the right of it. Harry was an idiot.

Again, not anymore.

Despite the fact that he couldn't sense them, he knew they were there, watching, bored out of their minds, probably bitter or spiteful that they were stuck babysitting an average talent whelp. With those thoughts in mind, Harry made a point of smirking at the seemingly empty streets, and drawing his wand slowly and casually, as if daring anybody to stop him. Then, with a flick, he summoned the Knight bus and stepped inside just as Stan was beginning his opening speech, Harry catching the sight of a wizard appearing out of thin air to his left, the shimmering fabric of an invisibility cloak being folded up as his minder hastily rushed forward and planted one foot in the doorway of the bus in order to make it on. Harry swiftly dropped the required fare into the drop slot and moved to a vacant part of the bus near the back, not even bothering to check to see who was following him.

A conversation was coming.

Just as he himself turned around and sat down, so did the tall, masculine figure of Kingsley Shacklebolt, who took a seat right next to him, a gold earring glinting in the sunlight as the bus took off at a ludicrous pace through the streets of London. For a moment, both of them sat in utter silence, Harry wondering idly if they were engaging in some sort of test of wills. Eventually, Shacklebolt decided to speak up and break the silence, and Harry felt what was an admittedly irrational pang of victory. Keep your cool, whatever the cost, Harry thought.

"So, Diagon Alley," Shacklebolt said, his gaze determinedly fixed to the passing landscape outside.

"Yeah," Harry agreed.

"A bit early isn't it?"

Harry simply nodded, and wondered if Shacklebolt were an occlumans or if he just had a natural control over his emotions. "Thought I'd break things up a bit. Go for a stroll, you know."

"I see."

Time passed in what suddenly seemed to Harry to be a more companionable silence. Eventually, he turned his gaze to the intimidating auror and studied him for a long while before inciting conversation. "Don't you get tired of guarding me?" he asked suddenly.

Kingsley glanced his way for a moment, his dark eyes piercing, before returning to look at the passing streets, clearly not intending to provide an answer to that question.

Harry, however, for whatever reason, decided to persist in his inquiry. "I know it may not be the most rational thing in the world, but I admit that I find it rather tiring to be guarded. It makes me wonder a great many things, you see. Like, for example, why is it so important that I be guarded in the first place?" Harry paused and gave the auror a sideways glance, and was elated to see that a flicker of uncertainty crossed his guard's otherwise impassive features. Harry continued, "You're a veteran auror. Highly skilled. Lots of raw power. I saw you duel at the Ministry. There's a war going on, and I can't help but wonder why it is that you're stuck guarding some kid who's apparently already protected by a battery of super powerful wards. Seems like a bit of a waste. Oh sure, I saved the world and all, or at least, that's what the world thinks. Of course, Dumbledore and I know better. It was simply my mother's sacrifice that protected me from the killing curse. As good a gesture as it was, it really only bought us a decade and a half of peace, which has now come to an end. I understand that people are thankful to me and my parents for that reprieve, but does it really warrant twenty-four hour protection? It's not like I can contribute anything to the war now, can I?" Harry paused again to let that question work its way through the auror's mind. When Harry was satisfied that Kingsley had studied the question from all different angles, he continued once more, "Unless of course, there's some missing piece of the puzzle. Maybe I do still have something to contribute to this war. If that were the case, you would have to ask yourself, what exactly is that contribution? What does it consist of? Am I going to be a good fighter? Will I bring down Death Eaters? If so, how many? Am I equal to a Tonks, or a Shacklebolt? How many resources should be deployed to protect me? At what point is the cost of my protection too high? How important am I?" Again, Harry paused before continuing. "So far, it looks like I'm pretty damned important. Not even Albus Dumbledore has twenty-four hour guard protection, and he's pretty damned critical to this war."

"Albus can take care of himself," Kingsley said, though Harry could hear the hesitation in his voice, and, knowing he was breaking down the auror's barriers, he pressed the attack.

"Ah, but there you have it, don't you? The very reason he's so critical to the war is the very reason he doesn't need protection. He can protect himself. He can protect others. He's also incredibly smart, and incredibly knowledgeable. So, I ask you again, what am I? do I have vast reservoirs of knowledge? Do I have superlative cunning with which to strategize? Do I have untapped potential somewhere? Because from where I'm sitting, I'm pretty much useless. Oh sure, I can cast a mean stunner, but I'm hardly in a position to take down more than one Death Eater at a time. Sure, I've still got schooling to go through, an education to receive, but why is it that there's some reason to believe that I'll be better than anyone else when I graduate? Surely you should be protecting someone like Hermione Granger, who no doubt secured the highest test scores since Voldemort, who is keen, brilliant, powerful, so on and so forth. She has just as much invested in this war, since she's a muggle-born, and she's going to be a prime target when Voldemort gets rolling."

Harry fell silent and let Kingsley digest his words. They were almost to Diagon Alley now. Harry determinedly looked away from Shacklebolt, instead choosing to let him work out Harry's words, scrutinize them, mull them over, beat out any flaws in his questioning, and do whatever it is that a logical, analytical, trained professional would do. In the end, he just hoped it would be enough to win the man over, because, while it hadn't been part of his initial plan, he couldn't help but feel that it would be a great benefit to have Shacklebolt on his side.

Finally, Kingsley spoke, "So what's the plan, then?"

There was something in the tone of his voice that made Harry smile, for, as the bus came to a stop and they exited, he knew somehow he had won the auror over, and that sent a thrill of energy rushing through him as palpable and as potent as the victory he felt slaying the basilisk, rescuing Ginny and freeing Dobby. Quite possibly, things were going to change.

Exactly one week later, Harry could be found sitting at his desk in his bedroom at number 4 Privet Drive, intently spilling words onto a page with his feather quill, madly trying to get his work done before his new mentor came knocking on his door. Harry had learned a great many things in the last week, so many things in fact, he was having trouble keeping it all in his head. Some of it he hadn't even really understood, though he was assured great pain and torment if he couldn't perform to Kingsley's standards. He still remembered that conversation as if it were yesterday.

"There are twelve standard spells that I expect you to have mastered by the time we meet next week," Kingsley had said as the pair of them stood at the entrance to Knockturn Alley. Casually, Kingsley was changing Harry's features one at a time, applying strong glamour charms as well as cosmetic charms to ensure that Harry was unrecognizable before he was sent into the dark alley. "These are standard fare for efficient operation, and will form the basis of any future learning that you undertake. The first is illusionment. The second is disillusionment. The third is legilimancy. The fourth is occlumancy. The fifth is apparation. The sixth is portkeys. the seventh is conjuration. The eighth is transfiguration. The ninth is the Imperius curse. The tenth is the Obliviation charm. The eleventh is the Constrictus curse. And, last but not least, the Levitation charm."

"But I know the Levitation charm," Harry piped up, wondering how the hell a first year charm got onto that incredibly daunting list.

"I said master it, not just knowing it, Potter." Kingsley said, a bit snappishly. And then, stroking his chin and looking thoughtful, he added, "And learn everything you can about elemental spells. In particular, fire, water, air and earth. You may also wish to look into dark, and light, as well as combination elementals, like lightning, magma, etc. Also, I'll expect you to inform me whether you have an animagus form or not."

Oh. My. God, Harry thought, profoundly perturbed by the growing list of ludicrous and incredibly complex and illegal things he was being asked to learn. Not to mention dangerous. "Er, isn't that stuff dangerous to learn without proper supervision?" he asked tentatively.

Kingsley at first, merely narrowed his eyes. And then, after studying Harry in such a way as to make him start to fidget, the auror leaned down so that he was in Harry's face and said in a deadly low voice, "Is that what you plan to tell the Dark Lord when he strips your skin from your flesh one bit at a time?" And then, parroting Harry's voice, he said, "But I didn't have proper supervision for that!" Kingsley then stood up and said in a cold voice, "The Dark Lord learned every single one of those things without the aid of an instructor. If you truly expect to come out of an encounter with him unscathed, I imagine it would do well for you to set similar goals."

"But you just can't learn things like occlumancy in a week! And without a teacher, no less," Harry insisted.

Kingsley took a calming breath and closed his eyes and seemed to be counting to ten. "Tell me, Potter, why in God's name are you going into Knockturn Alley?"

"Er-" Harry tried to respond.

However, Kingsley clearly wasn't interested in hearing what Harry had to say, because he simply continued onward. "There are things in there that will help you in ways you can't even imagine. Things that are dark, things that are borderline illegal, and things that are supremely dangerous. Part of your task is to go in there, even when you know nothing, and come out having comprehended a great many things. It will take more than sheer braun to survive the Dark Lord. Knockturn Alley is your test of brains."

Harry listened carefully to Kingsley's words, though he found he was having difficulty figuring out just what the hell it all meant. Were there things that could speed up his training? Or enhance him magically? Maybe act as substitutes for the things he was supposed to learn? Kingsley, however, was not interested in hanging around while he pondered these things.

"Oh, and Potter," Kingsley said, already walking away and stopping only to add one more thing to the list. "Lose the glasses. No self-respecting wizard in the auror corps has them."

And with that, Harry had been left to fend for himself. He turned to the entrance to Knockturn Alley, and, after a moment of horror at the prospect of tackling the ludicrous task he had been assigned, Harry proceeded to head into the dark depths, his wand in hand, and an enchanted dagger strapped to his sleeve. He would not fail, and not just because he felt there was an underlying warning in Shacklebolt's words if he did not succeed, but because he understood acutely the importance of every single one of the skills that Kingsley had instructed him to learn. Unconsciously, his mind flitted back to those grueling sessions in third year with Remus Lupin where Harry subjected himself to the presence of a boggart-dementor in order to master the Patronus charm. "Again," he had said after having passed out. Again, and again, and again, he had been prepared to suffer without pause, without reprieve to catch his breath, despite the difficulty of the charm, despite the fact that it was hopeless to even try to master it at the tender age of thirteen. And yet he had done so, and he had done it spectacularly. And why? Because he was stubborn. Mindlessly so, in fact. Because the power the Dark Lord knows not, is Harry's sheer, inexorable obstinacy.

And so, one week later, having trained sixteen hours a day for nearly seven consecutive days, amounting to over a hundred hours of practice time, Harry having put himself through the most intensive and extensive magical training he had ever undergone, a task which tested his magical limits to its very edge and then some, sending his magical core clear into the abyss, forcing him to tap into pools of energy he never knew he had, he came out partly manic, partly depressed, partly insane, and feeling more alive than he ever had in his entire life.

Harry finished scribbling down everything he knew about elemental spells just as the doorbell rang. He jumped up and out of his chair and raced downstairs, passing Dudley who was lying down on the sofa like a mindless log, a glassy look still in his eyes from the over fifty obliviations that he had been subjected to. Harry wondered if he had been a bit too enthusiastic in his attempts. In truth, every single time one of his relatives so much as looked his way, he had cast a spell on them, whether it be the imperius, the obliviation, or a minor transfiguration. It was good practice, after all.

"Hey," Harry said, looking up at the tall auror.

Kingsley just nodded in acknowledgement before stepping inside and surveying the landscape. "I trust you've done what I instructed you to do."

In response, Harry conjured a nondescript flat disc, twisting his wand at the last second in order to stabilize the conjuration, in the same way one ties a knot in a balloon to hold the air in. Once satisfied with his work, he then muttered under his breath, "Portis," causing the disc to glow blue momentarily. "Ready?" Harry asked, turning to the auror and smirking.

Kingsley merely nodded, his eyes still fixed on the conjured object. "You've programmed it using the coordinates I specified?"

"The very ones I just picked out of your thoughts," Harry said, his smirk broadening into a full blown grin.

Kingsley merely nodded again and then placed one hand on the portkey. Harry followed suit and soon, they were whisked away to an undisclosed location of Kingsley's own making in order to train the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Again," commanded Kingsley.

Harry fired off another stunner, which streaked across an empty room and hit what looked like a dartboard on the far wall. A number momentarily appeared: 2.2. Not very impressive, especially since he had started off at 1.9 and, after thirty minutes of continually firing off stunners, he had hardly improved.

"Useless," Kingsley roared, he having lost his temper at Harry's mediocre performance and firing a stunner at the dartboard, a 5 showing up. "The Dark Lord can easily generate a ten, and possibly twelve or thirteen if provoked. That's enough to stun a dragon, and kill an adult male in his prime. You need a stunner strong enough to knock out an enemy for the entire battle. A two will only serve to knock them out long enough for one of their allies to enervate them. I expect at least a three by the end of the day. If you really are a magical prodigy, then I expect a stunner powerful enough to punch through a shield and still incapacitate an opponent with enough force to hospitalize them."

"But-" Harry began.

"No buts!" Kingsley pointed his wand at Harry and made a jabbing motion so that a pinprick of blood appeared on his wrist. "One for every failure. Now begin."

And so, Harry continued for another fifteen minutes, casting one stunner after the next. Watching hopelessly as the numbers appearing on the dartboard went from 2.2 slowly to 2.3 and then, to his horror, after the tenth pinprick, down to 2.2 again and, shortly thereafter,, down to 2.1. "Oh my God," Harry said, dropping his wand, horrified. "It's not possible. It's like I'm getting weaker!"

Kingsley, did not bother inflicting another miniscule cut on the boy, his mind working furiously to understand the problem. He had seen firsthand Harry's patronus, and, while it wasn't going to repel a hundred dementors, it was corporeal and above average in strength, even for a professional. Clearly, it could deflect a half a dozen dementors, and Kingsley did not believe that Sirius had been lying when he claimed that Harry's patronus had saved him from a hundred of the dark creatures. The most obvious difference between now and then, of course, was that then, it was a life threatening situation.

Is that what Harry needed to act? Real live danger? It hardly seemed like the kind of thing that Kingsley wanted to be doing, though he supposed he could try to simply trick the boy into thinking there was danger when there really wasn't any at all. Still, he couldn't rely on adrenalin alone. Often times, he would be called upon to perform complex magic where adrenaline wouldn't be useful, and he would still need to draw on that reservoir of energy which he apparently had. Perhaps the boy simply needs a better goal. Something more tangible; something which appears to produce better results. He never tried hard academically. Not unless he could see a real benefit, like working in front of a dementor. Curious that Lupin had made him practice in front of one instead of having him perfect the charm beforehand. That is how he did it with the kids in the DA.

"All right," Kingsley said, still showing nothing more than a cold, menacing facade, he levitated Harry's wand, which had fallen uselessly to the floor and banished it at the boy, who had gone off to go sulk in a corner. "Come here. We're going to try this again, only with a slightly different angle. Cast the Levitation charm on the spellchecker."

Harry sighed and seemed to drag his feet enough that Kingsley sent a small electrical shock at him, causing Harry to jolt upright at the pain and glare at his mentor. Kingsley just raised an eyebrow, and Harry, deciding it was not worth getting electrocuted a second time, swiftly made it to Kingsley's side.

"Wingardiem leviosa," Harry said in a weary, resigned tone. The spell hit dead on, once again impressing Kingsley with the boy's pinpoint accuracy. The number 1.2 showed up. Clearly, the natural aptitude the boy had with defense spells did not transfer over to any other subject in the world. Harry was about to cast again, when Kingsley stopped him.

"No," the auror said. "I want you to instead levitate that block of balsa wood." About ten feet from the dartboard was a block of lightweight wood one cubic foot in volume. Harry shrugged and did as he was instructed. The wood rose easily enough.

"Good," Kingsley said. "Now, put it down."

Kingsley then transfigured the wood from balsa to pine. "All right," he said. "Again."

Harry did so, though this time with greater difficulty.

"Was that harder?" Kingsley asked.

"Harry just grunted before letting the object fall to the ground. Kingsley transfigured it again, this time to oak. "Again," he instructed.

Harry did so, though the wood did not come off the ground so much as it simply trembled.

"Don't stop," Kingsley commanded fiercely. "Keep it coming."

As instructed, Harry continued to maintain the connection between his wand and the object, fiercely trying to lift it. The object came off the ground just a little, but no more than that.

Kingsley transfigured the wood from oak to mahogany, making it that much heavier. "More," Kingsley commanded.

Harry was now visibly straining, sweat starting to pour down his face. "I can't," Harry said through gritted teeth, his wand arm trembling.

"Oh, you can't, can't you?" Kingsley asked, starting to grow frustrated. "Well, let's see then." He turned his wand on Harry, but instead of hitting him with a pain curse, he hit Harry with something else. Harry felt a tingling sensation wash over him and then he felt something form inside him, like a barrier. he glanced over at Kingsley and wandlessly ghosted his surface thoughts, realizing that the auror had bound his magic so that he could only perform the Levitation charm with his wand. Harry wasn't sure how that was going to help. That is, until he saw Kingsley point his wand at the block of wood and transfigure it into a Siberian timberwolf. A Siberian timberwolf with heavy chains all over its body. Kingsley then cast the Imperius curse on it and said aloud, "Come forward and kill the boy."

At that pronouncement, the wolf began to drag its weighted down body forward inch by agonizing inch, its dark eyes now fixed on Harry, who was looking at Kingsley with shock and a whole new level of dawning fear. "You can't! You wouldn't!"

Kingsley, however, simply turned to face Harry and said in a disturbingly expressionless voice. "You've wasted enough of my time as it is, Potter. I have no qualms about feeding you to my new pet. Especially since you're already convinced that your existence is merely hampering the fight against the Dark Lord, an assertion that I have already come to believe. If we can't turn you into something useful, then we may as well get you out of the way."

Harry, his mouth agape, turned back to the wolf, which had closed the distance from ten feet to eight. Kingsley took a step back and, in a fit of pure genius, calmly said, "If it's too heavy for you, I can always strip off some of its chains." Kingsley then vanished some of the weights that were holding down the wolf so that it was both lighter and able to move toward Harry at a faster rate.

"NO!" Harry cried out instinctively, the creature now only five feet from him. Having nothing else to do, Harry pointed his wand and bellowed, "Wingardiem Leviosa!" The spell struck home and, just as before, it did not manage to levitate the creature, which Harry suspected was close to half a metric tonne. Maintaining the connection, Harry continued to pour energy into the creature, his mind whirling, desperately searching for the energy that would permit him to arrest the wolves motion.

Three feet away. "WINGARDIEM LEVIOSA!" Harry practically shrieked, and, after a brief second where he thought he had failed yet again, the creature seemed to tremble before slowly rising, its outstretched claws less than a foot from his wand.

"Hold it," said Kingsley. "Feel it. Feel that energy, because, Potter, I swear to God, when you cast that spell again, I expect to see the same level of output." And then, to Harry's horror, Kingsley made the initial chains reappear, so that Harry's spell faltered under the new weight. when Harry seemed to have regained control of the spell, Kingsley simply added more chains, and then more chains and yet more, until Harry could hold the spell no longer. The wolf fell to the ground, and Harry scampered backward to get away from it, only after a moment realizing that the creature was being crushed under the added weight of metal. The wolf growled and whimpered and, before long, Kingsley transfigured it back and banished the block of innocent looking wood to the far wall.

"Get up," Kingsley commanded. "And cast the Levitation charm on the spellchecker."

Harry did so, and, to his surprise, he scored a 3.0.

"No doubt you reached an output somewhat higher when you were confronted with the wolf. Probably closer to 5. That's to be expected. Everybody puts out more when confronted with dangerous situations."

"Would you have really let it kill me?" Harry asked quietly, his gaze cast down to the floor.

For a moment, Kingsley considered lying and saying yes, but, seeing that Harry was starting to wilt under his iron fist regime, decided to relax a bit. "No, Potter, I wouldn't have. Though I might have let it take a swipe at you. Still though, I cannot guarantee that you won't come very close to death while we train. It simply wouldn't be realistic otherwise. Also, as it is clear from today's exercise, you respond much better under pressure."

"Like you said. Everybody-"

"No," Kingsley responded vehemently. "Your scores are significantly higher when under pressure. You jumped from a resting spell count of 1.2 to 3.0, and in less than fifteen minutes. I have no doubt you're thinking that others, most probably, Hermione Granger, could do likewise, but I am telling you right now that she could not. I suspect that her starting output will be higher than yours, but she will not make the significant leaps and bounds that you are. I am confident that you, given the right impetus, will exceed all your peers. Your patronus proves it, Potter. never forget that."

"Yeah, well, we can't have me trying everything on a weighted down timberwolf, can we?" Harry muttered, still irritable from the whole affair.

"No, we can't, which is why you're going to think long and hard about channeling your flow of energy to create powerful spells." Kingsley summoned the spellchecker and handed it to Harry. "Our time is up. You're going to take this home and use it relentlessly. I expect to see some serious results by the time we meet next week. I expect that not a single spell will score less than a 3.0. If it does, the consequences will be dire."

"Dire?" Harry repeated, trying to figure out how much more dire things could get.

Kingsley nodded. "Especially since next week, we will duel."

Ah, Harry thought grimly. That was quite the incentive indeed.

By the time Harry's birthday rolled around, he had spent five weeks engaging in virtually non-stop magical and physical and mental training. It was probably safe to say that, in his mind's eye, at least, he was gearing up for war.

"There is not much more that I can teach you, Harry," said Kingsley, conjuring a cup of tea as they sat across from one another in the Dursley's dining room. Currently, Vernon was under the imperius, Dudley was stunned and Petunia had been drugged with a sleeping potion.

Harry simply looked incredulous, but before he could speak, Kingsley raised a hand to forestall his objections.

"Let me explain. I have spoken very little of your achievements thus far, and for very good reason. You learn best while under pressure. Do you remember the list of things I instructed you to learn that very first week?"

"How could I forget?" Harry replied dryly. "I was scared shitless."

Kingsley smiled. "You know, I didn't honestly expect you to make headway in half of those things. The fact that you learned portkeys, permanent conjuration and rudimentary legilimancy were astonishing enough, not to mention the obliviation charm and the imperius curse. I don't even know how you went about correcting your eyesight. I'd thought that task was impossible. And not a week after that, you successfully disillusioned yourself, as well as remote objects, and created illusions and glamours, and developed basic occlumancy shields that were enough to hide your presence from powerful legilimans. You not only managed the Constrictus curse, but you also intuitively understood how it could be applied in a duel to circumvent barriers and magical shields. Your transfiguration has improved significantly, and your control over elements is progressing at a reasonable pace. You've also developed your magical output to a range of four to five, which, incidentally, is approximately the same as my magical output. And let me tell you, Harry, I'm hardly a slouch." Kingsley then shook his head and stared off at a point somewhere over Harry's head. "Each week, I set more complex and more difficult goals - goals which I did not expect you to be able to meet, and yet you persisted and succeeded each time. Whatever it is that has spurred you on, has worked miracles."

"Yeah, but it's not like I can fight the Dark Lord. He'd still mop the floor with me," Harry said. "So how can you say that my training is complete?"

A flash of irritation stretched across Kingsley's face before it disappeared. "Did I say your training is complete, Harry?"

"Er, no," replied Harry, a bit sheepishly.

"Honestly. Learning to hold your tongue should be your very next lesson."

"Sorry."

Kingsley then continued. "As you no doubt are aware, I am proficient in a wide range of areas. Areas which we have already covered. However, I am not a master in any one of them. That is the difference between someone like me and someone like the Dark Lord. He has spent decades learning transfiguration and curses and arithmancy and runes and God only knows what else to a level that has allowed him to understand magic in ways that I have no idea about. He has also undergone transformations, from what I understand, that have increased his magical strength, his stamina, his durability, so on and so forth. He has travelled the world studying under masters, learning, participating in dozens of battles, building himself, learning himself, understanding others. He has probably undergone transformations that have supplied him with unique skills that I could only guess at."

Harry nodded. "I see."

"I am confident that wherever you go from here, whatever you put your mind to, you will succeed at. We've only touched upon the most basic of healing, though it is sufficient for combat purposes. Unfortunately, combat healing is something that I am relatively weak in. Tonks would be a better bet, if you're interested in pursuing that area. Within a week, I'm sure you'll need Pomfrey's expertise, however."

"They can't teach me," Harry said in a calm, but firm tone.

Kingsley raised an eyebrow in a questioning way.

Seeing that he was being prompted to continue, Harry went on, "You said it yourself. I'm not properly motivated to learn those things. Everything you've shown me I've understood on an intuitive level that it's really important for fighting and survival. But when Professor McGonagall teaches us transfiguration, she teaches us in an academic sort of way, not in a technical, military application way. It's hard to see the use in that. Often, the value is so far down the road, I have trouble getting motivated to pursue it."

"I understand. That is why I think you'd make a lousy auror."

Displaying uncharacteristically sophisticated insight, Harry simply agreed. "I know. I'd be better off as some sort of independent contractor."

"Precisely."

"So what now then?" Harry asked. "Is that it?"

"I can only suggest to you avenues to go. If I could train you myself in these areas, I would be happy to," Kingsley said sincerely. "I have had the misfortune of training auror recruits, and let me tell you, they don't learn half the things you've learned in twice as much time. It has been a pleasure working with you."

Harry blushed.

"From here," Kingsley continued, not missing a beat and seemingly oblivious of the effect his praise was having on his protégé, "I would suggest that you study enchantments, wards and wandless magic. You should also learn complex conjurations, like pistols, and other such objects that have moving parts. It is probably the most difficult conjuration you can do, but it is highly rewarding. The ability to pull a pistol out of midair will give you an unprecedented advantage against your opponents. In particular if you can do it wandlessly. There is also time magic, though I cannot think of a single person who would be able to teach it to you. You have also only learned the most basic form of apparation. I also understand that you are a parselmouth. I would suggest exploring that talent as well. You should also continue to master mass levitation and conjuration spells, both increasing the quantity and the precision. Lastly, I would suggest that you continue with your animagus project. I can take you little further in that area."

"You're going to tell me to go to McGonagall, aren't you?" Harry asked.

Kingsley nodded.

"There's no way she'll teach me."

"Don't be so certain. I have no doubt that you will surprise many people in your class this coming year. She may be suitably impressed. Especially as you have already begun the process. However, she will most likely require you to register with the Ministry, which is something you may not wish to do. Black's animagus form proved invaluable, as you well know, and partly that was because nobody knew of it. I also understand that he is self-taught. While I wouldn't condone such a thing generally, given how dangerous it is, I am sure that if you embark on that same path, you will likely succeed. It is your way, after all. Incidentally, how's it coming along?"

"I know what my form is, or at least I think I do. Still, I'm rather baffled by it all."

"Why is that?" Kingsley asked.

"Because it's magical."

Kingsley chuckled. "I suppose I should have known. It would be like you to defy convention. Let me guess, it's something truly astounding like a dragon or a nundu. Hell, perhaps a phoenix."

"A unicorn," Harry said, scowling.

Kingsley merely raised an eyebrow yet again. "Interesting. Have you begun any kind of work on it?"

Harry nodded. "Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"I have done what you suggested and began studying the anatomy of unicorns in-depth. At first I had to study from books on horses, because nobody would dare desecrate a unicorn body by dissecting it. That is, until I remembered that Voldemort was all too happy killing unicorns. As such, I went back to Knockturn Alley and found a dark arts book that detailed with gruesome precision the finer points of unicorn physiology. I've also done a lot of meditating, as you suggested. It's helped a great deal with my occlumancy and my spell casting as well. Sometimes, I think I can even feel my magic. You know, the way you feel it when you pick up your wand after a long time."

"Unicorns are magically powerful creatures. It will be most interesting to see if you develop any of their talents."

Harry agreed enthusiastically. "They are highly sensitive to dark magic, and are spell resistant. They have a very powerful sixth sense."

"I've been told that it's nearly impossible to sneak up on a unicorn," Kingsley added. "If that ability translates to your human self, you will have a great advantage."

"Do you reckon I'm in a position to help with the Order?" Harry asked.

Kingsley considered the question carefully. After a several seconds, he responded, "I believe that, if Albus thinks there's a critical role for you to play, such as destroying the Dark Lord, then I think it would be irresponsible not to expose you to many of the dangers that you will eventually face, at least in some form or degree. Unless of course there are other circumstances that I am not aware of."

"yeah, I thought so. But he'll never do that."

"No, I don't believe he will."

"I'll instead just be forced to sit here ad nauseum, toying with my relatives." Harry let out a long, suffering sigh. "All the magical knowledge in the world won't help me if I lack much needed experience. It's like you said, the Dark Lord's been through innumerable battles. he's had a great deal of experience through which to examine his own self, identify his weaknesses and then take steps to correct them. I'm afraid I will need that kind of experience as well. The kind where you learn never to hesitate drawing your wand. Where you either cast a 5.0 or you die trying. If I weren't just a thing to be protected, if I could just have held my own a little bit better like I can now, Bellatrix would not have gotten away. Sirius may still be alive."

"I was under the impression that his death was the catalyst that galvanized you to become a fighter."

Harry shook his head, it now being his turn to stare off into the distance. "No, or at least, it was only a part of it. You see, Albus told me right afterwards why it was that I had to be protected. Why it was that the Dark Lord was hell bent on killing me. It all revolves around this prophecy. Apparently I have some sort of special power that the Dark Lord knows not, and that only that power can be used to vanquish him."

"That is a rather severe thing to tell you. Especially when you clearly have no clue what that special power is."

"Dumbledore thinks it's love."

Kingsley nodded. "I imagine he would. Especially in light of what you told me about your mother's sacrifice."

Harry just nodded. "Yeah."

They sat in silence for a long time, the sound of the wind rushing through the hedges filtering in through the open windows, the taste of mulberry in the summer air.

"You didn't hear this from me," Kingsley spoke up suddenly, "but there are other places where battles are fought in this world. Not just here in Britain. There are dark wizard hunters on the continent, skirmishes in the Americas. Explorations in deep jungles and forests where all manner of dangerous creatures live. I've been told that some people elect to do practicum work in lieu of their NEWTS. There might be something available for you in places like that."

Kingsley's words awakened some dormant need in Harry. Whether it was because he needed to be in the thick of life threatening situations, or whether it was because he wanted to test out his new skills, or whether it was because he needed an escape from the emotional baggage that Britain and Hogwarts and Death Eaters carried with them, he did not know. "What kind of things?" Harry asked eagerly, leaning close to hear his mentor's response.

"Hmm," Kingsley said, leaning back and thinking about it. "Where to begin..."