Hello! Welcome to Staple it Back Together; I think I got the title form a song, so I don't own that, but I don't remember the song.

I started writing this about a year ago, so I already have a number of chapters finished, but it was a busy year, so it's not as many as I'm probably making it sound, so I'll be updating each time I write a new chapter, as is to be expected, but don't expect miracles, I don't update regularly, it depends how much work I've had to do and so how much I get done. But then it's the same with more folks :P

Disclaimer - I don't own Harry Potter, that belongs to J., Warner Brothers and Bloomsbury.

Enjoy.

Chapter One

Harry sighed heavily as he shut the door to Number Twelve Grimmauld Place. The screeching of Misses Black pierced through the tired fog of his mind and he sighed heavily, wishing that he knew how to get rid of the damned portrait. He turned around to face the ghosts that filled the building; the house was dark and dingy, dusty with age, more so than dirt. He hated this place, but he remained living there anyway, had done for the past year and a half, since the end of the war. He wasn't there very often, he spent most of his time at work, even choosing to stay in the office if he was on call, to be on hand to help, so he only really ever slept there, and even then only three days of the week, on average. But it was still were he had to return, when he had nowhere else to be, and he very rarely did have anywhere else to be.

Tiredly he trudged up the stairs and to his room; the same room that he had shared with Ron when they had all been staying at Headquarters together, it had not been changed in the slightest since that time, right down to the two twin beds, each pushed against a wall. His old Hogwarts trunk was at the end of the bed that he slept in and in the wardrobe to the side of the door, at the foot of what he still thought of as Ron's bed, were hanging only his Auror robes, to keep them neat, or as neat as he possibly could, for work. With a flump he dropped onto the edge of the bed and began to shuffle out of his heavy duty, protective robes; he was interrupted, however, by a shrill ringing, almost as painful as the screeching of the portrait at the bottom of the stairs. For the longest of times he was confused, wondering if he was so tired that he was beginning to hear things. That is, before he realised that it was the telephone he had managed to install, in case of emergencies. He frowned, confused, wondering who could possibly be phoning him; it was the first time that anybody had contacted him this way, other than the insident back at the Dursley's when he'd had that disastrous call from Ron, he remembered with a flash of pain.

With all the energy that he could muster, Harry leaped to his feet and stumbled from the room and down the stairs, to the small side table that he had placed by the front door, on the other side to the vile portrait.

"Hello?" He asked, almost dropping the phone in his haste, his seeker-like reflexes enabling him to grab the cord of the phone before it could hit the ground and pressing the phone to his ear, all in one swift movement.

"H-Harry?" a voice, quivering and nervous, responded. Harry frowned, he recognised that voice, but never before had he ever expected to hear it again, let alone for them to be the one to contact him.

"Dudley?" he couldn't help the incredulity that oozed into his voice. Even more unexpected was the worry that seeped through his veins "Is something wrong?"

On the other end of the line, Dudley's breath hitched, as if he were trying not to cry. "Dudley?" He asked, a little louder this time, by now beginning to seriously panic.

""I need to talk to you Harry. I know that this is a big ask, and that it's late and all, but I really need to talk to you." He garbled. Harry looked at the simple watch he wore, it was ten-thirty, he had not even been aware of the time before that, he was used to being awake and sleeping at unusual times.

"Sure, Dud', sure. Just tell me where you want me to be." He said, exhaling his breath.

"The Red Lion, in Dorking, it's about half-an-hour east of Little Winging." He said.

"Sure thing, Dud, I'll be there as quick as I can." He said, and hung up the phone.

He sighed heavily, so much for a long sleep before having to get up for work tomorrow. He slipped back upstairs in order to change into his muggle clothing, thinking that there was no need to antagonise his cousin. He carefully hung his Auror robe on a hanger, they were expensive and he did not want to damage them and need a new set and began unbuttoning his shirt one handed. The shoulder of his left arm was aching, a stinging hex had caught him before he was able to apprehend the criminal, a fanatic follower of Voldemort, one of his lesser minions before the man's demise, that had managed to evade them for a week; he had worked non-stop for a week, and Robards had told him to take the day off, but he had declined, not wanting a reason to be at Grimmauld Place. That didn't exactly stop the throbbing in his arm though. His white undershirt was caked in blood, dry and crispy, crackling as he balled the clothing up and threw into the corner, but he managed to get out of it, and pull on a faded green t-shirt.

Although Harry was reluctant to do anything but sleep at this moment in time, he nonetheless felt that he could stand a little straighter once out of Grimmauld Place and let out a small sigh of relief when the door was shut and locked behind him. He walked briskly down the street, broom in hand, until he was at point that he knew to be safe to apparate from. He apparated to Little Winging, to Surrey, his childhood home. Mounting his Firebolt he pushed off and exalted in the exhilarating feeling of the wind ruffling his overgrown hair. Tilting his body he directed his body towards the east and settled in to cruising towards a town that he had never before visited. Each time he saw a cluster of lights from his vantage point Harry would swoop down and follow the road until he saw the Welcome sign for whatever settlement he was approaching before continuing until eventually, after thirty-five minutes, just as Dudley had said, he saw a sign that said Welcome to Dorking.

Nimbly, he hopped off his broom and shrunk it down to an inch, which he then tucked into the wallet that he kept in his pocket and began the, what he hoped would be short, walk into the town. The road in was a simple two-lane A-road, with a ditch at the edges and a hedge-row after that; there were no street lamps along the stretch of road and Harry felt as if he was being swallowed by the darkness, but he was used to the darkness and, although he had atrocious vision, the darkness had never bothered him, and like a sixth sense, as he always had, he knew where objects were, he thought that this was a benefit of chronic blindness, but it certainly had a benefit in his line of work.

A pool of warm orange light landed on his face, looking up Harry realised that he was at the town, having reached the first lamp-post, there was one every few meters, their beams illuminating the ground for a couple of feet before again being submerged by the gloom. A row of brick cottages lined the edge of the road, passed them was a mishmash of houses, all of different styles and times, like a quick trip through time. He walked for ten minutes through the town, taking a left when he met what he thought to be the main high street through Dorking. Although it was only eleven o'clock the town was empty.

A man in a pair of faded denim jeans and a white shirt, top button undone, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, turned the corner; Harry hurried over to him, hoping he could give him directions, as he had no idea where it was that he was going.

"Excuse me, you couldn't tell me where The Red Lion is, could you?" He asked, smiling in what he hoped to be an unthreatening manner.

"Sure." The man said, brushing his over-grown fringe out of his eyes and pointed behind him "Just follow the road, take the first right, it's on your left then, you can't miss it."

"Thanks." Harry said, and hurried off in the direction that he had been heading in.

The Red Lion Inn looked exactly the same as all other local pubs blanketing the nation. It was obviously an old building, probably an old cottage, the façade white washed and the roof polished slate, glittering in the light of the street lamp positioned on the pavement in front. There was a large bay window to either side of the door, which was positioned in the centre of building. The door was small, and a step down from the curb, a small frosted window set about head level.

The pub beyond the door was dimly lit, illuminated only by a couple of wall mounted lights, casting the room in a warm, orange glow; the air was smoky and tinged with the scent of cigarettes and beer. There were a handful of dark wood tables dotted around the room, little islands that the patrons had to weave in and out of, intimate booths lined the edges. It reminded Harry of The Three Broomsticks, the similarities both comforting in their familiarity and like a punch to the gut as he remembered a happier time. Ahead of him was a bar, its counter stretching right across the length of the establishment. It was at this bar that Dudley was sat.

He slid into the seat beside his cousin. "Hey Dud'" he whispered, unwilling to break the hush of the near empty pub.

He jumped, startled, having not heard the soft-footed Harry. "Hey Har'" he replied, his voice equally soft.

Harry couldn't help but be shocked; this was not the same Dudley that he had left behind two and a half years ago. While he was still large, it was the broad shoulders of a rugby player, he had lost weight on his face and much of the tyre that he carried around his middle. But more than that, there was a softness that hadn't been there before, a gentleness about the eyes.

Harry felt a twitch in his arm. "Listen, can we move?" Dudley frowned at him slightly, but it was lacking the usual vicious bite that he remembered, was simply confused. "Just over there," he said, gesturing vaguely, "To one of those booths."

Dudley didn't respond, but picked up the glass that he held before him and stood. Gratefully, Harry slipped into one of the booths, sitting so that his back was to the back wall of the pub, one eye could see the door that led to both the toilets and the rest of the pub and the rest of his attention was focused on the front door. He sat perched on the edge of the bench, body angled so that he could slip out easily. Ok, so he was a little bit paranoid. Constant vigilance, a voice in the back of his head growled.

Once Harry was assured that there were no threats within the immediate vicinity he turned his attention to the cousin that he had not seen in over two years. Dudley was watching him intently, head cocked to one side.

"So what exactly is the problem, Dud?" Harry asked tiredly; he had only finished work an hour and a half ago and had spent the past week hunting down one of Voldemort's fanatics; he was exhausted, his arm ached and he wanted to sleep; for a month.

"Well..you see…" Dudley kept trailing off, as if unsure of what to say, in a very uncharacteristic manner. His hands, which were resting on the table, he was wringing together nervously.

"Just start at the beginning, Dud." He said softly.

Dudley looked down, staring into the depths of his pint, his attention lost somewhere in the depths of the amber liquid. Heavily lines marred his forehead as he frowned deeply. Harry didn't say anything, he hadn't gotten this far in life without learning how to read people; if he pushed Dudley now, then he would clam up for sure, it was like dealing with a particularly skittish horse, too much too soon and he would shy away, but be patient and gentle, and he would tell Harry what was bothering him.

Five minutes passed, but Harry had also learnt patience, staking out the enemy, and this was really no different.

"I've got a kid." Dudley suddenly blurted out, before his eyes widened in surprise, as if he hadn't quite expected to tell Harry that, even though it had been him to initiate the contact and it was obvious that it had something to do with this child.

"Congratulations." His cousin smiled goofily, his eyes twinkling with barely supressed happiness, glowing with affection.

Harry said nothing else, choosing instead to wait him out.

"Pippa." He said instead, "She's eighteen months."

They drifted into silence again. Harry took a sip of his lemonade, the glass silent when he returned it to its place on the table.

"Last week," Dudley began, after working his jaw a few times "Pip had been crying, but by the time I got to her, she had already stopped and the bottle was in her hands. I know that I left it on the other side of the room and she was in her playpen, she can't get out."

Harry felt his eyes widen; he could remember Remus telling him that he had done that a lot as a baby.

"I tried to ignore it but it happened again." His voice had dropped to a whisper.

"You know what this means, right Dud?" He asked softly.

Dudley nodded jerkily "I'm scared Harry. And I don't know what to do."

Harry couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the boy that had made his life a hell when they were children; he was, after all, a product of his upbringing, as much as Harry was of his.

See you next time guys, Koosh.