Prologue - After the Fall

The funny thing about the Pili Puniceus hex was that it was permanent, Albus Dumbledore reflected as he eyed the emaciated figure in the cell. Ulysses Grayson had been in that cell for close to four months, but the two extra inches of hair he had grown in that time, as well as the ragged beard sprouting from his chin, were the same absurd shade of fuschia that the rest of it was. The hex in question was simple and relatively harmless, popular as a practical joke among the younger students. It seemed obscenely out of place in Azkaban, where nothing was funny. The dementors saw to that. It was an island of misery, a fortress of sorrow, a square mile of absolute despair, and as close as you could get to hell without dying.

Seeing him approach, the prisoner rose to his feet and advanced across his tiny quarters, moving with his wonted dangerous grace despite his wretched condition. “Professor Dumbledore. Sir.”

“Hello, Mr. Grayson. I wish to speak with you,” Dumbledore said politely.

The disgraced Auror eyed his former mentor warily. “Concerning what?”

“That should be obvious, but it’s hard to think coherently in a place like this.” Dumbledore withdrew his wand from his inside pocket, and made a complex motion with it. “Sphera Impervia!”

A translucent sphere not unlike a soap bubble appeared around them, expanding further and further, driving the dementors back. As it engulfed the two men, the dark mood generated by the dementors immediately dissipated like a bad dream. Several of the foul black creatures clustered angrily at the fifteen-foot bubble’s edge, but they could neither penetrate it nor project their powers through it.

“Better?” Dumbledore queried, stowing his wand.

“Much,” Grayson replied. “So, don’t tell me, let me guess. Voldemort has returned, and you need me to go kick his skinny white bum. Right?” Unlike many, Grayson had never been afraid to speak the so-called dark lord’s name, and even make fun of it.

Despite the serious nature of his errand, Dumbledore allowed himself a smile at the younger man’s brash humor. “Sorry, but incorrect. He’s still gone.”

“Ah.” Grayson wasn’t sure whether to feel relieved or disappointed at that. “What do you want to discuss, then?”

The Hogwarts headmaster was incisive. He was 140 years old, and had no time for mincing words. “I want to know,” he said, “what prompted my most promising junior Auror ever to get himself jailed for using an Unforgivable curse.”

“Oh, that,” Grayson said, though he had known darn well that was why Dumbledore was there.

“Yes, that,” Dumbledore said succinctly. Under other circumstances, he might have enjoyed a spot of bantering, but there was a time when one needed to be serious. He reminded himself that Grayson, being only twenty-three, might not have figured that out yet.

“What do I get if I do?” Grayson queried.

“I may pull some strings,” Dumbledore said. “And see if we can get you out of here a bit sooner. I’m assuming you like that idea.”

“And leave all this?” Grayson indicated his cell, a 6 x 10 box, furnished only with a pile of rotten straw and a dented metal chamber pot.

Again, Dumbledore smiled in spite of himself. “It does have a primitive charm, but the company is hardly ideal.” He indicated the dementors.

“There is that,” Grayson admitted. “Well, pull up a chair then. Or conjure one up, whatever suits you.” That last was said when Dumbledore used his wand to do the latter. “I don’t suppose you brought any butterbeer.”

“No, but I do have sherbet lemons,” Dumbledore replied, producing a tin from his robes. “Would you care for one?”

“Delighted.” Grayson took three or four of them and popped one into his mouth. Azkaban food was so vile that even after four months of it, he couldn’t stomach it unless he held his nose while eating. The tangy-sweet candy was pure bliss. He pocketed the rest, all too aware that they could easily be the last candy he would ever enjoy. “Very well, Professor,” he said. “This is what happened.”

Ch. 1 - Facing the Abyss

Ulysses Grayson was in a less than chipper mood as he Apparated in the foyer of Arabella Figg’s residence. He knew that with Voldemort’s presumed destruction and the capture of most of the death-eaters, there were going to be cutbacks in the Auror Corps. He was lucky to have a job in Britain at all. But it was so boring to sit there and watch the Dursley house. And it became utterly heartbreaking when anyone did come out, to see that adorable little boy treated like yesterday’s cat litter. And Mrs. Figg was always brewing potions (which was about the only magic a Squib could do), so the whole house stank. And Grayson always had to bring his allergy potion because of all the cats.

But that was his life and he accepted it. No, what really saddened him was the dream he had just awoken from.

It was Estella again. It was always her. Grayson had met the beautiful blonde on a trip to America, training with the West American Aurors. They were among the few who were even close to the British ones in training and skill level, thanks to Mars McClane, their chief. He had known that she was older than he, figured her to be thirty or thirty-five. In fact, she had been fifty-seven, exactly three times his age at the time. A special longevity potion that she took monthly, plus her natural resistance to aging, made her look so young.

Of course, once he knew her age compared to his, they both understood that they could not be anything other than friends. But he had never quite been able to sustain a romance with anyone else since then. After Estella Chance, most other women just seemed kind of insubstantial in comparison. It seemed a unique curse, to finally find a soul mate, only to have her prove too old for you. Well, since the anti-aging potion in question didn’t work on him, she would age only half as fast as he did. Maybe in a few decades, he would catch up with her, in appearance if not in numbers.

Kingsley Shacklebolt was sitting at the window, idly gazing at the house across the street. He and Grayson had been four years apart at Hogwarts, and in different houses to boot, but they had still wound up spending a lot of time together, maybe because both had been wanting to be Aurors since they were barely out of nappies. They remained the best of friends to this day. Kingsley was detailed to watch over the Potter boy during the day.

The tall, black, shaven-headed wizard in question turned away from the window upon hearing the “pop” of his cohort’s arrival. “Finally decided to show up for work, did you?” he said.

“I know, sorry. I lay down for a quick catnap, and woke up three hours later,” Grayson said, telling the truth as always.

“Yeah, I’ve done that,” Kingsley said. “I need to go, though. Got a date and I’m already late for it.”

“A date, huh? Who with this time? Su Lin Chang again?”

“Not this time. I told you that she has to baby-sit her niece, Cho, on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. It’s with Mikayla Quirke.”

“Quirke. . . ” Grayson’s brow wrinkled. “Oh, yeah, I remember her. She was in my year. Ravenclaw, right?” Shacklebolt nodded, and he went on: “Well, just tell her it was my fault.”

“I planned to,” Kingsley replied. “See you later, mate.” He vanished.

Grayson headed over to the kitchen table, which had a window overlooking the street. “What’s it been like?” he asked Mrs. Figg, who was seated there, sipping a cup of Earl Gray with two cats curled on her lap. “Anything out of the ordinary?”

“It’s been quiet,” she replied. “That bag of lard, Vernon, hasn’t come home yet, so it’s just Petunia and the boys.”

“Otoengorgio,” Grayson said, tapping his left ear with his wand. Although he lacked the transfiguring skill to be a full Animagus, he could transform various body parts of his, to temporarily enhance his senses. His ear grew until it was the size of a serving platter and capable of hearing a whisper at five hundred yards.

Aunt Petunia was talking to Dudley while she fed him, even though he was two and a half and more than capable of feeding himself. “Duddiekins? Try the nice peas. You like peas, Duddy Duddy. How about the yummy peachies? Eat the peeeeeachies, sweetie, eat them all gone.”

“No!” Dudley yelled. “Me want cupcake!”

“Of course, sweetiekins. You can have cupcake after you eat your din-din.”

“No! Me want cupcake now!”

“Finite,” Grayson said in disgust, and his ear shrank back to its usual size. “That woman is totally disgusting.”

“Not as bad as her husband. He threw a rock at poor Muffin.” She pointed out one of her cats, a fat gray tabby with a bandaged paw.

Grayson nodded gravely. He liked animals, especially cats, but couldn’t own one unless he wanted to be constantly guzzling anti-allergy potion. “I’m not a bit surprised.”

He sat at the window, sometimes reading the latest defensive spell book he had acquired, sometimes playing solitaire with a deck of muggle cards, and sometimes just staring out the window at Number 4, Privet Drive. He sometimes fantasized about seeing Voldemort pop into existence in front of the house, and terminating him on the spot. With him gone, little Harry would not have to hide out in the muggle world; he could be taken in by a proper wizarding family. Grayson knew several good ones: the Corners, perhaps, or the Bones’. Or even the Weasleys. They already had seven of their own, but they would be only too happy to take one more. And they had a son Harry’s age, and a younger daughter who was just the most adorable baby you could imagine. Grayson had met the whole clan at the Ministry Christmas gathering.

His thoughts returned to Voldemort. He often wondered why people were so scared of the snake-kissing freak. Even his sister and her husband refused to say his name, and they were the Gryffindors. He, Ulysses, was the first of his line in six generations not to be sorted into that noble and well-regarded house. No one could figure out why, everyone had been sure that he was the bravest of the bunch. But the Hogwarts Sorting Hat had barely hesitated before declaring him a Hufflepuff.

He had taken occasional ridicule from his family for being placed there, in the so-called “leftovers house” (so called because Helga Hufflepuff had been known for being willing to take the students that the other three houses didn’t want). That came to an end when, in his seventh year, he led his house to their first house cup since the 1890's. His name was still on a plaque in the Hogwarts Trophy Hall for having single-handedly earned over 900 house points that year.

His reverie was interrupted by the arrival of a taxicab, in front of number four. It was nearly dark outside, only some of the streetlights on Privet Drive still worked. “Oculus Nox,” Grayson said, tapping his head with his wand. Immediately, he had night vision better than a cat’s.

Vernon Dursley staggered from the cab, yelled something foul at the driver, and made his way up to the door. He pounded on it. Grayson had gone on a bender or two at Muggle pubs, and could safely assume that the barkeep at Vernon’s had taken his car keys, to prevent him from killing himself or someone else while driving drunk.

A long pause; one assumed that it was for Petunia to hear the racket and hurry to the door let her husband in. The door opened and he barged in. Dimly, a scream of surprise and a thud. Then, bellowing. Grayson powered up his ear.

“Where is he?! Where is the little freak?!”

“In his cupboard. Vernon, what’s the problem? You’re. . . ”

“I’ll fix the little brat!” Lumbering sounds, then screams, crying, struggling, thuds, smacks, breaking glass. Then a long and ominous silence.

“What’s going on?” Mrs. Figg queried.

“I don’t know, but it doesn’t sound good. Should I go see?” Grayson snatched up his Invisibility Cloak. He was directly forbidden to intervene in anything unless he thought Harry was in terminal danger, but invisible reconnaissance was tolerated.

“No. Wait a few,” Mrs. Figg said.

Although Grayson was nominally in charge, he generally deferred to Mrs. Figg’s judgment, so he stood down, but kept the Invisibility cloak handy. He heard Petunia on the phone, summoning an ambulance. “I think something bad’s happened,” he said. “Maybe to the kid.”

“It might also be Vernon. Maybe the fat prat fell downstairs. We just don’t know.”

Grayson’s eyes were hard. “If he’s hurt that boy, I’ll tear his head off and use it for a Quaffle.”

Tense minutes ticked by, then the ambulance arrived. Two young people in paramed uniforms emerged, wheeling a stretcher. They returned with it laden, and the size of its occupant left no question.

“Oh, no,” gasped Mrs. Figg.

Grayson swept up his cloak. “Accio, Nimbus,” he said, and his Nimbus 1500 sprang into his hand. “I’m going to see what’s up.”

“Your cloak will blow. You’ll be seen.”

Grayson draped the cloak around himself. “It’s dark out; I should be okay if I stay above two hundred. I’ll take off from the back, it’s fenced in.” At two hundred feet, partially cloaked, he would most likely be mistaken for a bird. “Besides, I need some air.”

Ch. 2 - Approaching the Edge

The Nimbus 1500 was not the newest broom ever made, and it was far from the fastest, but it was dependable and maneuverable. Grayson didn’t own this one, it was Ministry property; they kept it lying around for the Aurors’ emergency use. The only broom he had ever actually owned had been a 1200, which he had gotten for Christmas of his second year, and he had left it to his younger sister upon leaving school. He was very fond of flying, but far less so of brooms. The Muggles had the right idea, he thought; when you flew in one of their contraptions, you didn’t have wind in your eyes and hair, and you could get to a far more impressive speed. Shacklebolt sometimes made fun of his newest aquisition, an old but operational World War II-era P-51 Mustang, but it was the perfect mode of transportation as far as he was concerned.

Of course, that didn’t mean he couldn’t handle a broomstick, not after four years on the house Quidditch team. He had not been a top-drawer player, even for Hufflepuff, but he had muddled along as Keeper simply because he was quick and agile and not afraid of anything you were likely to find on a pitch. More important, though, he was a natural strategist, and his position gave him a perfect view of the rest of the game. Although he had let in quite a few goals, his coaching had turned his more talented teammates from jokes to contenders. He had never led them to the cup, but the Hufflepuffs had been a going concern on the Quidditch pitch for the first time in ages, and they still were.

So, after chasing down fast-flying Quaffles for four years, following the flashing lights of the ambulance was a simple task for him. He maintained a flight level of 250 feet (better safe than sorry, he thought), and he rarely had to exceed fifty miles per hour. Normally, flying in wintertime in Britain wasn’t much fun, but it was unseasonably warm for February, and the stars were out, at least in places. Had he not been so worried, he might have enjoyed the ride.

He was not worried for himself. He had done exactly what Moody had ordered him to. Even if Harry was badly hurt or killed, he would be in the clear. But his career ambitions came a distant second to the life of the little boy he had committed himself to protecting, even disregarding the fact that he was supposedly the only one who could stop Voldemort from conquering the world. If little Harry could have been saved by his intervention, he would never forgive himself.

The ambulance arrived, and Grayson swept down after it, landing in a nice shadowy spot and burying the broom in some shrubbery. Invisibly, he walked alongside the paramedics as they rolled the stretcher to the entrance, and slipped in behind them.

Harry Potter, two and a half years old, lay on the stretcher. His nose was crusted with dried blood, one of his startlingly green eyes closed and the pale skin around it swelling up like a purplish-brown balloon, and his arm bound up in some plastic and metal Muggle contraption. He had stopped crying and now lay there, looking warily around with the one eye he could still use. He had experienced much hostility in the past year and a half, and had come to expect it from everyone.

Still invisible, Grayson tiptoed into a men’s restroom as another man entered, and then stood in a corner and waited for him to leave. Once he had privacy, he shucked off his cloak and outer robe, revealing a pair of jeans and a black polo shirt. He rolled the clothes he had removed into a bundle, the cloak on the inside. From the back, it looked like a simple silver cloak, but better safe than sorry. Grayson was not in the mood for the paperwork that came with Muggle obliviation.

Reluctantly, he also tapped his hair with his wand. “Pili natural,” he muttered, and his mop of hair faded to its natural color, a revolting shade of cowpie-brown. His ex-girlfriend from school, upon dumping him, had blasted him with the harmless but silly Pili Puniceus hex. Looking in a mirror, he had been amazed how much better it had made him look. He had adopted the change permanently, but there were times when his duty required him to operate among muggles, and blend in. The last thing he did was stuff his wand, which was fifteen inches long and impossible to hide in a pocket, into the bundle of clothes.

The alterations had the desired effect: Grayson now appeared to be a perfectly nondescript muggle. Only a trained observer would notice the hard muscle beneath his clothes, or the dangerous grace with which he moved. Calmly, he exited the restroom. Harry was gone, of course, but Grayson knew where they had taken him. He made his way to the emergency room and addressed the nurse on duty. “The Potter boy, where is he?”

Some hospitals had gone to computers, but this one had not; it was after all only 1982. “I’ll need to check.”

Grayson nodded. “Do it. Please.”

The woman returned shortly. “He’s being treated right now, but the doctor says it’s just a simple fracture to the arm and a few bruises. He hit his head, though, and we’re going to hold him overnight for observation.” She eyed him oddly. “You got here fast.”

“I work only half a mile away,” Grayson said. He disliked lying and did it as little as possible, but he sometimes had no choice. “When can I see him?”

She eyed him carefully. He seemed caring and concerned, but rules were rules. “Well, that depends,” she said carefully. “Are you a relative?”

“I’m a friend of his parents,” Grayson said, and that was true. “His aunt and uncle are in crisis and can’t make it.” Also true, he rationalized. The Dursleys were perpetually in crisis.

“I’m afraid that only relatives are allowed in, except during visiting hours.”

“Listen very carefully,” Grayson said. “There is a little boy in there. He is alone. He is terrified. He needs someone to be with him tonight. And come hell or high water, he will.”

The receptionist eyed the young man carefully. Ulysses Grayson was not an overly large man, but he was not someone to be crossed, she knew that much from his eyes and the way he moved. He had not threatened her, but she did not want to find out if he intended to do so. “All right. You can see him as soon as they get a cast on his arm.”

“Of course,” Grayson said. “Thank you. I wasn’t looking forward to hassling your superiors tonight.”

“Don’t mention it, sir.”

There were no fireplaces at the hospital, making Floo conversation impossible, but that was not a problem. Since her life required her to live as a muggle much of the time, Arabella Figg had a telephone. Grayson made a point of carrying a few muggle one- and five-pound notes at all times, mostly so that he could buy food. So it was no great difficulty for him to contact her via payphone.

“Where are you, exactly,” Mrs. Figg wanted to know. “I know you’re at a Muggle hospital, but which?”

Grayson gave her the hospital’s name and location.

“Yes, I know that place. The ladies in my garden club all go there.” Mrs. Figg herself had no need for a hospital. If she got sick, she could simply brew up a potion. Rumor had it that she was slipping some of her less potent stuff to other Muggles on the sly (calling it “medicinal herbal tea”). This practice was not uncommon among Squibs or wizards who lived alongside muggles, and the Ministry generally chose to look the other way. “How is the boy?”

“They’re saying he should be all right. They’re going to keep him here for observation. I’ll stay with him, of course.”

“Someone has to.” Disgust flared in Mrs. Figg’s usually mild tone. “His relatives just went to bed.”

“Bastards,” Grayson said.

“I Flooed Albus before you called. He says you were wise not to intervene directly.” Very few people called Dumbledore by his first name, but Mrs. Figg, never having attended Hogwarts, saw no reason to call him anything else.

Grayson sighed and stared at the tile floor. “I don’t feel wise.”

“He wants you to keep us up to speed on the Muggle police. Are they there? Do they think it might have been abuse?”

“I have no doubt it was. Hopefully, they’ll figure it out, and get social services involved. Harry shouldn’t have to spend another hour with those slimebags.” Grayson saw a gurney being wheeled out, with a familiar dark-haired figure on it. “Harry’s out. I’ll go talk to his doctor. See you.”

A graying man in a white coat followed the orderly pushing the gurney out. Grayson hurried up to him. “Are you Harry’s doctor?”

The doctor turned to him. “Yes,” he replied cooly.

“Have you been able to ascertain what happened to him?”

“Are you a relative?”

Grayson, aware that he would likely have to produce ID if he said yes, admitted that he was not.

The man’s tone went from cool to frosty. “Then I’m afraid I can’t reveal that. If you’ll excuse me.”

Grayson did just that, slipping into an unattended linen closet and donning his Invisibility Cloak. He followed the doctor down the hall to his office, slipping in behind him undetected. He couldn’t get into the office, the door was closed too fast for that, but it was a simple matter to expand his ear again. If the doctor dropped a pin in there, he would know.

The sawbones wasted no time. He picked up his telephone and dialed the Operator. “Get me the police.” A pause. “This is Doctor Kirby in the ER. I need to report a suspicious injury.” A pause. “Two-year-old male, isolated contusions to the face, fractured wrist. Looks like a fairly strong man used him for boxing practice.” Another pause. “Yes, do that. I’m off at ten, but I’ll be happy to stay. I’ll either be with a patient or in my office.”

He left the office again. Grayson followed him out, then ducked into the private washroom to resume visibility. When he arrived in the ER waiting room, the receptionist stopped him. “Oh, there you are, sir. Your little patient’s been taken to pediatrics. Room 807.”

“Thank you,” Grayson said. “Can you tell me where that is?”

Ch. 3 - Dancing on the Brink

Since Harry had no family present, there was a nurse in the room with him. In the time it had taken for Grayson to listen in on Dr. Kirby’s phone call, she had changed Harry out of his soiled clothes. Not only were they bloodied up, but he had wet his pants at some point. Unlike his oversized cousin, Harry only wore nappies overnight.

As Grayson entered, she was helping the boy into a hospital-issue pajama top. “Oh, hello. Are you Mr. Potter?”

“Mr. Potter’s dead, I’m afraid,” Grayson said. “But I am looking after Harry. I’ll be staying the night with him, if that’s all right.” The carefully modulated tinge of steel in his voice made it clear that he didn’t care if she thought it was all right or not.

“Of course,” the nurse said, too embarassed at her faux pas to ask who Grayson was. “I’m . . . uh, glad he won’t be alone.”

“Thank you for seeing to him,” Grayson said, a bit more gently. “Is there anything I need to know?”

“Uh, no, not really. Doctor Kirby gave him something for the pain. The bathroom’s right there. Spare pajamas are on the dressing table, and nappies and wipes as well, of course. If you’re hungry, the kitchen’s closed, but there are vending machines downstairs. And here’s the call button, if you do need anything.”

“All right, fair enough,” Grayson said. “But I think all he needs now is a decent night’s sleep.”

“I could use the same,” the nurse admitted. “Good night, then.”

Grayson nodded, then turned to her silent and wary-eyed patient. “Hello, Harry. Long time no see,” he said, unbuttening the youngster’s PJ top. The nurse, flustered by their conversation, had put the wrong buttons in the wrong holes. He redid the job, fumbling a bit, since he was not used to manipulating such teensy little buttons.

Harry was shivering, despite the warmth of the hospital room. His brilliantly green eyes were brimming with fear. As an Auror and a member of the Order, Grayson had been acquainted with James and Lily, but they had not known each other well. The last time he had seen Harry, he had been eight months old, a happy and healthy little fellow. The change was enough to break one’s heart. “You were still crawling last time I saw you up close, but look at you now,” Grayson said. “What a big boy you are.”

Harry still didn’t speak, but anyone who understood kids (and Grayson did) was aware that few children his age would have been willing to talk to a stranger right away. Never mind the fact that the only man in his life was the one who had put him here. But, he observed that this one’s eyes and voice were kind. And somewhere in his head, a memory stirred, of a brown-eyed, black haired man who had been kind to him as well.

“You poor little guy,” Grayson said. “It’s OK. I understand. I wouldn’t blame you if you were scared of pretty much everyone these days, aren’t you? Well, it’s going to be over soon. Those muggles know what that fat bastard did to you, and they’re going to put a stop to it.”

Harry did not look comforted. How, Grayson wondered, could you explain to a toddler that he was out of danger, that the year of hell he had endured was finally at an end? He knew the answer all too well: You couldn’t, of course. Not even a grown-up, delivered from long-term trauma of that magnitude, could recover right away. All you could do was try to reverse the damage a bit at a time. Su Lin Chang, one of Kingsley’s several girlfriends, was a counselor, and she was full of stories about how hard it was to do that.

“Ooops,” Grayson added, lowering his voice a bit. “I shouldn’t have said that B-word in front of you. Don’t tell anyone, OK?”

Harry still made no response, and that was fine. Right now, the point was to soothe him, not engage him in conversation. He noticed that the boy didn’t smell very good. It wasn’t a surprise, really. Petunia was fussy about Dudley’s cleanliness, but she only bathed Harry about twice a week, and she used cold water out of sheer mean-spiritedness. She and Vernon seemed determined to give Harry as nasty a life as possible, even if it was less convenient for them. Had they walked in on this scene, they would have immediately tried to put a stop to it. Not because Grayson was being mean to them, but solely because he was being kind to Harry.

Grayson sighed, then gathered the boy up in his arms and made his way to a rocking chair, which had been placed there for the purpose. “Yeah, I know,” he said. “You didn’t ask for any of this. Taking down Voldemort, becoming famous, having bodyguards . . . you’d rather be at home right now, dressed in your cute little sleepers. When I saw you, you were wearing a pair of fuzzy ones, covered with little Gryffindor lions. Your mum and dad were sure you’d grow up to be a Gryffindor. Of course, so were mine, and look what happened.” He laughed. “You’d like to be in your crib right now, I’ll bet, with Lily and James coming up to kiss you goodnight.” He affectionately stroked the unruly black hair. “I wish I could have been there, lad. I wish I could have stopped him for you.”

Harry said nothing, but Grayson felt his small body gradually relaxing, cuddling itself against his body heat. It was hours past his bedtime, and the emotiuonal trauma had probably drained him completely. Grayson fetched a blanket from the bed and draped it around his charge, and went on. “Oh, no one believes I could have, and maybe they’re right. Whatever Voldemort is, or was, or whatever . . . he had to be pretty tough if all those dangerous dark wizards were sucking up to him the way they were. But that’s not the point, is it? It was our job, the Aurors’ job, to put ourselves between him and you guys. And if it cost us our lives, then so be it. Maybe I could have at least bought them some escape time.” He discreetly scrubbed at an annoying wetness at the corner of his eye. “Sorry, lad. I’m sorry we failed you.”

He sat there, rocking slowly, thinking. What was it like, he wondered. What was it like to have the world you were born into come crashing down about your ears in a flash of green light? What was it like to be thrust into a new world, one where you were hated and rejected, for reasons you were incapable of comprehending? He could not imagine the turmoil and torment that the small, flaccid bundle that lay in his arms had endured.

He stroked Harry’s hair again, and gently beeped his stubby nose. “I won’t fail again, boy. Not you, not anyone. That’s a promise.”

He continued to sit and rock in the dimly lit room, staring out the window as though mesmerized by the night. He noticed that Harry’s breathing had subtly shifted, indicating that he had fallen asleep. Soon, he would be sleeping deeply, and Grayson would be able to quietly get up and slide him into bed. But it was nice to just sit there, still rocking, and watch little Harry experience his first sleep in ages where he wouldn’t have to worry about what would happen to him when he awakened.

“Awww, wook what we has here. A cornucopia of wuv.”

Grayson looked up, embarassed at being caught in such an unmacho position, but Shacklebolt only chuckled. “You didn’t report in, so Moody sent me to check. What should I tell him?”

“The truth,” Grayson said. “Tell him I’m guarding Harry, just like I’m supposed to.”

Shacklebolt’s grin was startlingly white against his black skin. “Do you cuddle all the people you’re protecting?”

“Only if I think they need cuddling.”

The obligatory matter of ribbing his best mate over with, Shacklebolt turned to business. “Right. Now what’s going on? Does the doctor suspect abuse?”

“Thankfully, yes. He’s called the bobbies, and they should be here by now. What should I tell them if they interview me?”

“You know the drill, you silly git. Tell them as little as possible,” Kingsley said. “Moody’s stationed a couple Aurors to patrol the hospital, just in case. Do you want someone to take over here for you?”

Grayson shook his head. “I’m fine.”

Shacklebolt gave him an evil grin. “Yeah, of course you are. Exploring your feminine side, are you? What’s next?” (He went on in a squeaky voice) “Quilting? A spot of flower arranging, then?”

“How about you suck my big fat. . . .”

“Head? That’s the only part of you that’s big and fat.”

Grayson was ready for that, and deftly retaliated. “Of course, you would know. Been peeking at me in the shower lately, honey bunch?”

Shacklebolt gave him the two-finger V-salute, equivalent to giving the bird in America. “I have to go. Moody’s there, and he’s waiting for a report. Rather impatiently, I might add.”

Grayson nodded. “All right, then. I’ll see you after the muggle authorities pick up Harry. We can hit the Cauldron and drink a toast to his deliverance And I’ll even buy.”

Shacklebolt grinned. “Sounds great, mate.” Then, he was gone. Since he knew where he was going, he could apparate the few miles easily.

Grayson sat with Harry awhile longer, then put him to bed and went to the bathroom, then sat back down in the rocking chair and dozed for awhile. Waking up hungry, he visited the vending machines and bought a meal of diet soda and the less awful of the foods offered. He had never had a body fat percent above ten, and preferred to keep it around seven or so, it made him quicker and more agile, better at dodging unfriendly hexes. It was that speed that had saved his life when Voldemort (tired of hearing about the brash and pink-haired young Auror who not only spoke his name, but dared to mock it), had sent a troop of death-eaters to give him a fatal crash course in manners.

He smiled at the memory. They had taken his wand, and Rodolfus LeStrange himself had levelled his wand at Grayson’s nose, and gotten out half of the Killing Curse at the young man who was apparently frozen with fear. But it had been an act; as LeStrange was saying “Kadavra,” Grayson had exploded into motion, grabbed the wizard who had taken his wand and thrust him into the deadly hex’s path, rendering him quite dead. Being dead, he was unable to resist when Grayson swiped back his wand and somersaulted aside to avoid a blizzard of stunning spells. Half the Death Eaters had been stunned by their own mates, and Grayson had used the shocking spell to briefly incapacitate the rest. Then, he had made his escape. The story of the nineteen-year-old Auror trainee who defeated seven Death Eaters singlehanded had been front page news, and had made him a hero in a world that had too few heroes.

At about 3:30 in the morning, secure in the knowledge that his comrades were standing guard outside, he allowed himself to sleep. When he awoke, the sun was rising outside, flooding the room with orangey light. It was a new day, and Harry was starting to stir.

While he was waking up, Grayson called Mrs. Figg. He was informed that the Dursleys had not budged, and instructed to remain with his charge until the Muggle authorities arrived.

And he was more than happy to do so. Once Harry awoke, first on the order of business was to get the several days worth of grime off of him. This took some doing; Harry had learned to associate bathtubs with frigid water and angry yells. Grayson had to let him carefully dip his fingers into the water before putting him in it. Once he realized that the water was warm, not cold, he was willing, though he remained nervous. Grayson scrubbed him down as quickly as possible, careful to keep his cast dry, then dressed him and took him to breakfast. He was voraciously hungry: Grayson filled his plate three times before he was ready to be done. With the necessary matters seen to, Grayson led him by the hand down the hall to the children’s playroom, and turned him loose there.

He kept an eye out, not because he was expecting hostile action (the death-eaters were careful to enforce the statutes of secrecy; a public muggle place was anathema to them), but because he was expecting visitors. A couple hours later, he was rewarded: a police officer showed up, along with a woman in a nice suit and Dr. Kirby. The latter looked into the playroom and indicated Harry. “There he is.”

“Is that Dursley?” the cop wanted to know, looking like he would very much like to club the man in question unconscious.

“No, he’s a family friend,” volunteered another man behind him. That fellow was dressed in a Muggle leisure suit, but Grayson recognized him and his cohort. But why, he wondered, had they sent professional obliviators?

Obliviation was a tricky field. Erasing memory was easy enough, but the real trick was the careful use of legilimency to provide the obliviatee with a new and convincing memory. They didn’t want muggles wandering around with blank spots in their brains; that would just make them suspicious, and they would undoubtedly try to figure out what had happened. The point was for them not to think anything was amiss.

Still wondering, Grayson accompanied the group to the doctor’s office. As they proceeded, he was introduced to the group. The woman was a social worker; she was there to take Harry into protective custody. The police officer had been assigned the case the previous night; his job now was to make sure that the social worker was safe. Sometimes, relatives got violent when their children were taken away.

Grayson fell back a bit to talk to Miles, the junior obliviator. “What’s going on? What’re you doing here?”

“Our jobs, obviously.” Miles was all business, like always. “Does anyone else know that Harry’s uncle beat him up?”

“Probably dozens of people. This is a big hospital, and rumors spread.”

“All right, let’s put it another way. Did anyone other than Dr. Kirby, his nurse, and the ER receptionist see Harry’s injuries?”

“Not that I’m aware of. There was a nurse who was dressing him last night, but I think it was the same one who examined him.” Warning lights flashed in Grayson’s mind. These weren’t the questions he was expecting to have to answer.

“We’ll talk to Kirby.”

“Why are you here, anyway? Are you going to place Harry with a wizarding family?” If that were the case, perhaps they would need to erase the muggle authorities’ knowledge of his existence.

Miles shook his head, and his tone became bitter. “No. We’re here to make the evidence go away.”

Grayson’s jaw dropped. “WHAT?! But that will send Harry back to the bastards who did this to him.”

The obliviator beckoned Grayson into a nearby men’s room, verified that they were alone, and then secured the door with a tap of the wand. “Look,” he said. “I don’t like it either. But the order is down from Moody himself. Come hell or high water, Harry stays with his aunt and uncle.”

“So they can kill him next time? You really think I’m going to stand for. . . .”

Miles drew his wand. “I don’t like it either, Ulysses. I think it’s fricking insane. But orders are orders, and we’re authorized to obliviate you as well if we have to. It won’t look good on your record, but we. . . .” He trailed off as Grayson suddenly vanished before his eyes.

Miles cursed. His young colleague’s actions had been incredibly dangerous. Proper apparition took time to execute. A speed disapparition was just asking for a splinch or a mixing, unless you knew exactly where you were going, to the inch. He spun on his heel to leave the room, and was knocked off his feet by a powerful right cross by Grayson, who had appeared directly behind him. He dropped to the floor, his wand clattering away, and his addled mind heard Grayson’s voice: “Rictusempra!”

Grayson disapparated from the bathroom, leaving the door locked and Miles writhing on the floor, howling with laughter from the tickling hex.

Ch. 4 - Free Falling

Grayson knew that if he was on the loose for long, the Dursley house would be staked out. An Auror who decided to take the law into his or her own hands, generally referred to as a rogue Auror, was no laughing matter. For a time, however, they would probably assume that he had just resisted being obliviated. This was entirely within the law; Aurors were not required to submit to obliviation unless their superiors demanded they do so. Grayson could have terminated the situation by reporting to Moody. Had he questioned him, calmly and diplomatically, he might have escaped the situation with both his memory and his erstwhile perfect service record intact. Not that the latter really mattered; Moody’s record had more black marks on it than a roomful of dalmatians, and he was still a hero.

However, he knew that he would not be able to change the man’s mind. In a matter of hours, a defenseless little kid would be returned to his abusive relatives, and the next temper tantrum might well send him to the morgue. Ulysses Grayson was an Auror, a sworn guardian of the innocent and helpless, and he would die before allowing such an atrocity. He also knew that Moody felt as he did; that meant that the grizzled old Auror had received orders from even higher up. Obviously, those bunglers in the Ministry wanted Harry to stay hidden in the Muggle world, despite the risk. Ulysses Grayson simply did not have the power to prevent that. But maybe, just maybe, he could convince the boy’s jailers (nothing would convince Grayson to regard that hateful scum as his family) to treat him a little more decently.

Unfortunately, diplomacy would not work against such as them. Some of the wizarding world’s most intelligent and silver-tongued people had already talked to the Dursleys, or at least tried to. Vernon and Petunia had refused to even speak with them, and had demanded that they leave at once. Clearly, more persuasive methods were indicated. But that was fine with Grayson: He was a poor diplomat, but he was very good at alternate methods of persuasion.

He rematerialized in Mrs. Figg’s house, but did not remain there long. He was only there long enough to march to the door and leave through it, without explaining anything to her. He caught sight of himself in the mirror in the entryway and gagged. It was unfortunate that the hair color he had been born with was so similar to the color of a freshly laid cow patty. “Pili puniceus,” he said, restoring it to its proper hue with a wave of the wand. Then he was out the door and advancing across the street, locked on #4 Privet Drive like an incoming cruise missile.

It was a quiet Saturday morning in that peaceful if rather dull muggle neighborhood. A light rain was falling. A few people were outside, but most were either having lie-ins or relaxing indoors. The person nearest #4 stared in amazement at the fuschia-haired young man with what looked like a teacher’s pointer clutched in his paw. The redness of his face and the fire in his eyes screamed to the neighbor to keep his distance.

Grayson turned to the man in question. He spoke with a deadly softness. “Go inside. Close your curtains. And if you call the bobbies, I will be very unhappy with you.”

The man fled in terror. He didn’t particularly like Vernon, or his obnoxious wife, so he was more than happy to do as instructed.

The door to the Dursley residence was closed and locked. A simple spell would have opened it. Grayson didn’t bother. His foot was cruder, but equally effective, and more pleasurable in his enraged state. When he was angry, he had found that his magical nature enhanced his speed and striking power, and that effect was vastly intensified here: He was not merely angry, he was utterly furious. The door didn’t merely open, it was wrenched from its hinges, hurtling into the entry amid splintered pieces of doorframe. Grayson strode into the house, drawing his wand and conjuring up a whirlwind as he went. Pictures were torn from the walls, toys raised from the floor, dishes and papers swept from the table. He set all of it whipping around at 150 miles an hour, and it continued to swirl madly about him as he strode into the family area. “DURSLEY!!” he roared, face still red, eyes ablaze, fists clenched.

Vernon had been watching television in the living room. Because he was badly hung over, the volume was turned low. Hearing the sudden commotion, he stood, and then stared in utter disbelief as his unexpected guest strode into the room. Grayson let the whirlwind carry on a little longer, then cut loose with an omnidirectional shockwave, far weaker than the unidirectional one he would have used in a duel but strong enough nonetheless. It pulverized everything he had swept up previously and decorated the room with a mixture of splintered wood, fragmented plastic, paper confetti, and powdered glass. Then, with two snarled spells, he loosed two sizzling blue-hot fireballs, targeting the Dursleys’ most valued possessions. The expensive color TV and the fully stocked refrigerator in the adjoining kitchen were instantly reduced to pools of flaming slag.

Having made his initial point, Grayson addressed Petunia, levelling his wand at the tip of her nose. “Get your fat brat and both of you clear out of here. Your husband and I are going to have a conversation, one that you don’t want to watch.”

White as a sheet, Petunia Dursley scooped up Dudley and raced out. Grayson didn’t bother to watch her flight. He advanced on Vernon, bringing his wand to bear on him. The latter shrank back into his armchair. “Get out!” he shrilled. “Get out of my house, you freak!”

“Nothing will make me happier to do so, you filthy child-beating puke sack,” Grayson snarled. “But I’m not going anywhere until we’ve made one thing quite clear. You will not hurt your nephew again. Not because he’s your wife’s flesh and blood. Not because it’s wrong. And not because of what the other ‘freaks’ might do to you. But because of me.”

He stepped forward and seized Vernon by the throat and lifted him, one-handed. He was exceptionally strong. Without tapping into his powers, he could have lifted an average-sized man thus. But he had to resort to them to maneuver Vernon’s 240-pound bulk, especially with his weak arm. But that was fine with him: He had the talent; no reason not to use it. He went on, in a deadly whisper: “Because if you hurt that boy again, I’m going to come back and have some more fun. And I won’t limit myself to property destruction, either. Get it?”

“You can’t hurt me!” Vernon Dursley gasped out. “There are laws! Even among your kind!”

Grayson grinned horribly as he lowered his adversary to the floor, none too gently. “I know. I enforce those laws. But even so, I’ll do it. I really don’t like people who attack small children.”

“He’s a little freak!” Vernon snarled. “And if your people care so much about him, why stick him with us? Take him off with your kind. He doesn’t belong among decent people.” A deadly snarling noise in Grayson’s throat. Vernon presumed it to be helpless rage. He got even braver. “I know your rules, freak. You don’t dare hurt me. If you did, you already would have tried to. By tomorrow, you’ll be locked up. And without your silly magic toothpick. And I will continue treating that disgusting little brat exactly as I see fi... ”

“Crucio!” Ulysses Grayson hissed.

Vernon Dursley fell to the floor shrieking as the unimaginable pain roared through him, every nerve in his body burning like fire, every cell in his anatomy slashed by a razor. Petunia had never mentioned the Cruciatus curse to him, but even if she had, he would not have been able to imagine just how horrible it was.

Dimly, he heard screaming behind him, and wails, and realized that Petunia had disobeyed his order to clear out; she and Dudley were there and watching the horror show, but he was beyond caring at that point. As horrified as he was about what he had just done, he could not stop himself. The memory of little Harry Potter’s brutally battered face was just too vivid.

He was still doing it when Kingsley Shacklebolt apparated behind him. The older Auror did not hesitate, he knew his duty. He knew also that his friend, in his rage, might turn on him before he realized what he was doing. He raised his wand. “Stupefy!” he shouted, and the blast of fire-red energy threw Grayson down and forward to land in a limp heap on Vernon Dursley’s still-writhing body.

Ch. 5 - Smashed on the Ground

“And that was the end of it, more or less,” Grayson finished. “I woke up at a portkey station, wrapped in chains, with Shacklebolt, Moody, and two others pointing wands at my head. Five minutes later, I was materializing here, and I don’t want to talk about that.” Life in Azkaban was bad for all prisoners, but it was worst for new arrivals, who had not yet learned to inure themselves to the life-sucking power of the dementors.

Dumbledore nodded. “Quite a story,” he said. He eyed the younger man sadly. The hat had known its business, he reflected. Grayson’s courage was beyond question, but his sense of justice was what truly defined him. He found the very existence of evil and injustice to be deeply offensive, and was fanatically dedicated to their destruction. That was simultaneously his greatest strength and his greatest weakness.

“I just have one question,” Grayson stated bitterly. “What were those imbeciles at the ministry thinking? They wanted Harry safe. How could they leave him with a man who was capable of killing him in a fit of temper?”

“It wasn’t their decision, Ulysses,” Dumbledore explained. “It was mine.”

A long silence, then Grayson spoke again, his voice dripping with venom. “You’d better have a very good explanation for that decision.”

Dumbledore gave the disgraced Auror a hard look. “Are you threatening me, Mr. Grayson?”

Grayson chose his words carefully. “No, professor, even if I had a wand, I would not stand a chance against you. But until you spoke those words, you were the person I admired more than any other. If the loss of my respect means nothing to you, then you have nothing to fear.”

“I don’t blame you for feeling as you do,” Dumbledore replied. “If I had your knowledge of the situation, I would agree. However, there are some things you are not aware of.”

He went on to explain, in far more detail than he would explain later with Harry, the nature of the ward he had set, tied in to his mother’s blood, which ran in Putunia’s veins, and unfortunately nowhere else. As a fully trained Auror, Grayson had a detailed knowledge of the nature of protective charms. He had never heard of this one, but that was no great surprise. Dumbledore was, after all, six times his age.

“As long as Harry lives where his mother’s blood dwells," Dumbledore concluded, "as long as he can in some way call it home, his life is safeguarded. Against all enemies.”

“Except the ones who live there as well,” Grayson said. “What happens when that fat freak has another temper tantrum, and the boy who lived becomes a red splatter on the wall?”

“I anticipated that. The nature of the charm is that young Harry's life is absolutely safeguarded. Mr. Dursley cannot do the boy any life-threatening injury. He is, unfortunately, still vulnerable to non-life threatening harm.” Dumbledore sighed. “Ulysses, the decision to leave Harry with his aunt was a difficult and heartbreaking one for me, more so than you realize. I knew that I was not just sentencing him to ten very hard years, but also to an upbringing frighteningly similar to the one that made Voldemort the monster he was. I would not have taken this risk unless I considered it absolutely essential.”

“How could what happened to Harry four months ago be 'absolutely essential'?” Grayson asked wearily.

“Because there are death-eaters still out there, dozens of them. And if they know the prophecy, they will be aware that Harry is the greatest threat to their master’s return to power. And Voldemort himself is out there as well, in some weakened form. What happens to Harry if he rises again?”

Ulysses Grayson rose to his full height. “He finds me, waiting at the door, and he has all the fight he can handle.”

Dumbledore laughed in spite of himself. “You’re really something else, Ulysses. And there is no doubt, you have exceptional potential. But you’re not ready to face Voldemort, not now. Perhaps the day will come when you are a match for him, but that day is not today.” He smiled grimly. “In any case, there will be no more acts of abuse. Kingsley has seen to that.”

“How?”

“When he led the obliviation team to wipe the memories of the Dursleys and their neighbors, he exercised his authority and left Vernon’s intact. And he quietly told him that if Harry ever showed up in a hospital with another suspicious-looking injury, he would personally pull you out of prison and turn you loose on him. And that you would have all the quality time together you wanted.”

“Good old Kingsley. Remind me to buy him a butterbeer, if I ever get out of here. Make that a steak dinner.”

“I’ll do that,” Dumbledore said. “Now, I’m afraid the air in our little space is becoming stale. I’m going to have to leave you.” He rose to his feet, and the chair faded from existence.

Grayson sighed. “What happens now?”

“Your hearing before the Wizengamot is in three days. Dionysus Filch will be presiding. He’s hard, but he’s fair.”

“A man after my own heart.”

“And he owes me a small favor; I gave his Squib nephew, Argus, a job. You probably remember him from your days at Hogwarts."

Grayson made a face. "All too well."

"Anyway, I will address the Wizengamot and recommend clemency. So, ironically, will Lucius Malfoy.”

Grayson laughed bitterly at the thought. “Yeah, he thinks muggle-torturing should be legal anyway.”

“But he is influential, and we will use him to our advantage. I cannot guarantee success, but I think our chances are good.” Dumbledore turned toward the door. “You are a good man, Ulysses. I thought it before, and I still think so today.”

“And you still have my respect, Professor. Even if I think you were wrong this time. About putting Harry with the Dursleys, I mean.”

“You have mine as well, Ulysses, for that very reason. You are one of only a handful of wizards who would dare tell me I was wrong about anything. Rather than simply assume the beliefs of your superiors without question, you choose to think for yourself. This world needs more people who possess that quality.” Dumbledore winked. “Good-bye, Ulysses.”

“Good-bye, Professor.”

Dumbledore turned to go, and the bubble went with him. As Grayson passed out of it, the tidal wave of dementor-powered despair smashed over him and drove him to his knees.

Ch. 6 - Picking Up the Pieces

CASE RESULT: Grayson vs. Wizengamot

JUSTICE PRESIDING: Dionysus Filch

CHARGES AND RESULTS
Defendant was tried by a jury of 39 witches and wizards. At least a three-fourths majority must vote to convict on each of the specifications for the charge to stand. No hung juries are possible, and no appeals are allowed.

1. First Degree Unforgiveable Curse Use: Delibrate and premeditated use of the Imperius, Cruciatus, or Killing Curse.
To Convict: 0 --- To Acquit: 39
Verdict: CLEARED

2. Second Degree Unforgivable Curse Use: Deliberate but spontaneous use of the Imperius, Cruciatus, or Killing Curse, or premeditated use of the same with mitigating circumstances.
To Convict: 8 --- To Acquit: 31
Verdict: CLEARED

3. Third Degree Unforgivable Curse Use: Deliberate but spontaneous use of the Imperius, Cruciatus, or Killing Curse, with mitigating circumstances.
To Convict: 39 --- To Acquit: 0
Verdict: CONVICTED

4. Magically Assaulting a Muggle: Use of magic to delibrately cause a muggle to suffer physical or emotional harm.
To Convict: 39 --- To Acquit: 0
Verdict: CONVICTED

5. Trespass on Muggle Grounds: Proceeding onto muggle private property without an invitation, without just cause.
To Convict: 35 --- To Acquit: 4
Verdict: CONVICTED

6. Willful Violation of Statutes of Secrecy: Any actions that might risk exposing the existence of the magical world to uninitiated muggles.
To Convict: 22 --- To Acquit: 17
Verdict: CLEARED

RECOMMENDED SENTENCING GUIDELINES
Charge 3: 12-30 months imprisonment, 5000 galleon fine
Charge 4: 6-12 months imprisonment, 2500 galleon fine
Charge 5: 30 days imprisonment, 500 galleon fine

SENTENCE: Recommended sentence is 12-30 months in Azkaban, plus a minimum 5000-galleon fine (sentences for lesser charges will run concurrent with primary charge). Due to requests for clemency and other mitigating circumstances, the Defendant is sentenced to time already served (4 months, 11 days), plus a 1000-galleon fine.

In addition, the Defendant is sentenced to 12 months in Azkaban, sentence suspended. Should he be convicted of any felonious act in the ensuing ten years, this sentence shall be served in addition to whatever other punishment is decreed.

Finally, the Defendant is permanently barred from serving as an Auror, or in any other aspect of Magical Law Enforcement, anywhere in the U.K.
...............................................................................

Ulysses Grayson breathed deeply the fresh air of freedom and thanked his Creator for it. Four months with Dementors breathing down his neck had aged him, wearied him, and yet taught him the true depths of his own inner strength. He hoped his next lesson was less painful.

His P-51, which he had christened the Flying Badger, was fully loaded, with everything he had that had not been sold to pay his fine. The bright yellow fighter plane was the only thing of value that he still owned. Its cargo consisted pretty much of clothes, books, and knicknacks. He just had one stop before he apparated out to it, and he still didn’t know what he was going to do there.

He blinked into existence atop the roof of Arabella Figg. Eight feet below him, Kingsley was now keeping the depressing vigil, guarding against Voldemort. Even though the blood-powered magic that Dumbledore had instituted was supposedly impenetrable against anyone who wished to seriously harm the child.

Grayson crouched down. He was dressed all in black, but not invisible; the cloak he had used, like his broom, had been ministry property. And he, of course, was no longer employed by the ministry. He stared across the street at the dark bulk of #4. It would be so easy, he thought. Materialize in Harry’s bedroom, scoop him up, and then disapparate. One couldn’t take another adult along when apparating, but it was possible to take a small toddler, if you were competent at it. They would appear next to the Badger. The little fighter plane was fully fueled and ready to go, and its excellent British-made Merlin engine could get it up to 450 mph in a pinch. By the time Harry’s absence was detected, they would be long gone, with a whole planet full of hiding places to choose from.

The Aurors might search, but Grayson knew how they operated, and could evade them with reasonable ease. Voldemort or his death-eaters might give chase, but Grayson knew most of the tricks a wizard could use to make himself untraceable. And while both sides diddled around searching for him, Grayson would continue to do what had been his obsession since before he even started at Hogwarts, to fashion himself into the ultimate warrior/wizard, learning swordplay and empty-handed fighting along with magical combat. By the time Voldemort found him, if he ever did, he would be ready.

It would be so easy. And yet. ...

... many things held him back. Part of it was the disgrace to his good name. A larger part was the disgrace to his family. Also significant was the knowledge that even after eight years in exile, after he deposited the boy on the front steps of Hogwarts, his run would not end. As a wizard, he could expect to see a century easily. A long time to live in the dark. And what if he couldn’t be the loving parent that Harry needed? What if a life with him was just as damaging to the boy as a life with his awful relatives?

When the Sorting Hat had been placed on his head, some fifteen years before, it had seen into Grayson’s head. And it had not been fooled by what most people saw as bravery, but was in fact a simple lack of fear. Ulysses Grayson did not back away from danger because he wasn’t afraid to die. But there were things he was afraid of, and those fears had far more power over him than he liked to admit. Maybe that was why he got on so well with Estella. Most women saw only the warrior he was on the outside. She understood his weaknesses and complexities, and valued him in spite of them.

Was he making a sound decision, or was he being afraid? Was he motivated by wisdom, or simple cowardice? Were his reasons valid, or was he only rationalizing his chickenheartedness? He knew that he would ponder these questions for many years. But right or wrong, he made his decision. He could only hope and pray that it was the right one.

He was not stupid enough to apparate inside the Dursley house. Until he left British soil, they would be tracking him: It was not exactly legal, but it was done all the same. It was known that criminals, upon their release, often sought revenge against those responsible for their imprisonment. The practice of quietly monitoring them had saved quite a few innocent lives. And while trespassing was a misdemeanor, if he was caught at the Dursley house, they might just decide to stick him with the extra year anyway. If he never saw a Dementor again, it would be too soon.

Instead, he simply dropped eight feet of altitude, rematerializing in Mrs. Figg’s kitchen. “Howdy,” he said.

Kingsley stood up. “Whatever you’re going to do, mate, don’t. He’s not worth it.”

Grayson laughed at that. “Relax, Kingsley,” he said. “If that had been my intention, do you think I would have showed up here? I just came to say good-bye to a friend. I hope we are still friends.”

“Of course we are.”

“And there is one more thing, but obviously it would be a bad idea for me to do it.” He quickly explained what he wanted done, and showed him the single item he had brought.

Kingsley grinned despite himself. “It’s not a bad thought, but you know I talked to him already, right?”

“Yes. But I want to make sure he gets the message.”

The older Auror considered, then reluctantly nodded assent. “All right. I’ll take care of it.” A pause. “Where are you heading, anyway?”

“Western U.S. An old friend offered me a job there.”

“Well, best of luck to you.” Being exceedingly manly best mates, they shook hands instead of embracing. “Will you be back?”

“Of course. I’ll be off during summers and at Christmas. You’ll probably see me around.” He checked his watch. “I guess I better go.”

“All right, then,” Kingsley said. “I’ll deliver your message.”

Grayson nodded and disapparated. He knew that Kingsley would keep his word, and that Arabella would be only too happy to forget it happened. She disliked the Dursleys intensely.

When Vernon awoke that morning, the first thing he realized was that something had been tucked in his hand while he slept. The second thing he realized was that it was a small square of old-fashioned parchment, with some writing on it, and that something was stapled to it. He decided to read the note first:

To Vernon Dursley:

You have been made aware of why Harry needs to be with your wife, to stay safe. However, remember this: Harry ONLY needs to be with your wife. You are expendable.

We will be watching you. You will never know when or where or how, but rest assured, we will be watching.

The note was unsigned. Puzzled, Vernon turned it over, and saw that a single lock of bright fuschia hair had been stapled to the note. He recoiled in horror at the sight, nearly wetting himself.

He would continue to treat Harry with nothing but disdain and cruelty, over the ensuing eight years, and make many nasty threats of violence against him. However, he would never, ever strike him again.

At the moment that Vernon was discovering this final message; a bright yellow P-51 Mustang with a fierce-looking badger painted on its side passed over the Hebridian Islands. Its destination: an obscure wizard settlement in central Wyoming, and the hope of a new life and new horizons for its owner.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is just the beginning of the exciting adventures of Ulysses Grayson. His story will continue in "Ginny's Journey -- Book 1", which I will submit shortly.