A/N: Hmm... I'm thinking this story is going to be a lot more Harry-centric than first planned. And I like that. Albus will definitely continue to play a main roll, but I see a lot more of Harry in the future. Thanks for reading, please review.

Chapter 5: To Awaken A Sleeping Giant

Tell me, did the wind sweep you off your feet?Did you finally get a change to dancealong the light of day, and head backtowards the Milky Way?

--Train

“Here we go,” Neville said, easing Albus down onto the stone bench outside of the staff quarters. “Now let's see that ankle.”

Albus winced as Neville took his swollen ankle in hand and tapped it with the tip of his wand. Through the dried dirt and blood his foot was pulsing with pain straight up his leg.

“Sprained,” Neville confirmed. “And that means we don't need a time-consuming stop at the hospital, and we can let poor Madam Pomfrey have a sleep-in.”

“Oh... I'll just hobble to Professor McGonagall's office then,” Aflbus said.

Neville chuckled. “Your father actually taught me this charm twenty-one years ago in a little club we called Dumbledore's Army. Vigoratus!”

A warm blue light flowed from Neville's wand and coated Albus's ankle. Albus watched with a rising relief as the swelling went down and the fierce pain throbbing up through his leg died away.

“Good as new, Al,” Neville said. “And can I see your arm, Mr Jackson?”

Frank hesitantly extended his injured arm away from his chest and Neville gently pulled back the torn and dirty sleeve of his tattered pyjama top, wincing when he saw the heavy bruising around Frank's elbow and the bulge of bone above the joint.

“Can you straighten it?”

“No,” Frank said through gritted teeth. He was holding back tears.

“Broken, then,” Neville said. “Or dislocated at the very least, Frank. Here, this should help with the pain but try not to move it - Poppy will need to have it set as soon as possible. Vigoratus!”

Frank breathed the same sigh of relief Albus had a moment ago, pulling his arm back in close to his chest.

“Thanks, Professor,” he said.

Neville winked. “You can call me Neville outside of the greenhouses - now let's go, we have to let the Headmistress know what's happened.”

“Can you tell my dad?” Albus asked. He would feel better just by knowing that his father, that Harry Potter, knew what had happened. “Can we owl him or...?”

Neville nodded. “Seeing as how I have no idea what attacked you boys, I'd feel better having Harry Potter know about it, too, Al. We'll see if Professor McGonagall can fire call him from her office.”

“Thanks, Neville,” Albus whispered, feeling another cord of strong relief run through him. And his ankle felt fine as he and Frank followed their professor up and through the moving staircases towards the seventh floor and Headmistress McGonagall's office.

*~*~*~*

Harry didn't like having to go into the office on a Saturday, and especially not this early in the morning. Being Head of Department was supposed to come with a few benefits, like weekends off - and prime box seats at the Quidditch for said weekends off. Yet the investigation he had ordered into the security breach at Azkaban and Dolores Umbridge's suicide had so far failed to return any results, and that annoyed him.

And he was beginning to think it less and less of a suicide, too.

No one had unnerved Harry the way he had been unnerved by the breach in Azkaban since Voldemort. Whoever had broken into the prison, and he had no doubt someone had broken in, had been powerful enough, clever enough, and insane enough to get in and out without leaving any trace of their presence - save a small piece of evidence, and that was inconclusive at best.

The autopsy he had asked the Unspeakables down in the Department of Mysteries to do on Umbridge had revealed one - perhaps vital - piece of information, one small clue. The woman had been possessed and her mind tortured so severely and efficiently in the ten minutes between breaking free and demanding to see Harry, and Harry actually arriving, that it had left her a raving lunatic - crazy, insane, with no hope of recovery, the Unspeakables' autopsy report had read.

And that unnerved Harry - there had only ever been one wizard capable of such an act, and that wizard had shared an all-too special link with Harry, and had on occasion attempted to invade Harry's mind and destroy his resolve and his sanity. But this was not Voldemort - Voldemort was dead.

This was someone who was clever enough to leave no trace except that which they wanted to be found - the mess in Umbridge's head - and someone clever enough to know Harry would take this personally, clever enough to know how Voldemort used to operate and to make it look like the Dark Lord was back in business.

But that was just ridiculous...

No, Harry thought. Whoever it is doesn't want me to think it's really Voldemort, they want me to know that they're out there, that they don't care that I know - they want me unnerved and off my guard.

And the hell of that was, it had worked.

“Who could it be...?” Harry whispered, staring blankly at the dead and sooty fireplace in his office.

A stack of Green One reports on his desk promised that the world was well, that nothing was amiss, and yet Harry couldn't help but feel Dolores Umbridge had been an arrow aimed straight for his heart, aimed personally at him and a cool and vicious strike against the competency of his Aurors...

He shook his head.

A fugitive Death Eater, maybe? No, none of them could have done this. Could they?

It was a possibility he could not rule out, but not a likely one. Then who? Someone new or someone unexpected...? Someone who had yet to put in a true appearance?

Harry was angry as well as unnerved. All the resources of the Ministry, the best security in the world, and this shadow had breached Azkaban, freed a maximum-security prisoner, drove her insane and then for all Harry knew twisted Umbridge's mind enough that she killed herself under orders... that fit the thin, transparent profile he had in his head of this clever someone.

Michelle Connolly, the Auror taken hostage, had reported no one else in the cell at any point save Umbridge herself and Harry when he had come to rescue her. Though Michelle had said that Umbridge had started screaming and raving once she had demanded to see Harry, there had been no one in the cell even then - no one she'd seen, anyway. There were ways of being there without actually being there.

Which led Harry to believe that whoever had messed in Umbridge's head had done so from a distance - and how many people on the planet were capable of that sort of dark magic? Were capable of traversing those blood-splattered and freezing avenues of the Dark?

The hell of it was, Harry knew he could do it, he understood almost uniquely how that sort of dark magic worked - had felt the rage himself more than once, the power. He absently rubbed at his infamous scar, remembering sore memories and stroking wounds that had never healed. He hated feeling like this - like he was running to catch up, a step behind a man who was going to laugh, and play... and slaughter the innocent.

The innocent would always pay for the ambition of the guilty.

And it was Harry's job, his duty, to stop them. But contrary to popular belief, Harry was not immortal and all-powerful, no matter how much this world revered him and applauded his deeds he was still, at times, stuck in that cupboard under the stairs - lost, lonely, never truly part of the world he lived in.

Ginny helped with that, as did the kids, and only on occasion did he let those feelings show... when a particular nasty case got to him, or all the old memories were dredged up to the surface every time he caught up to one of the rogue Death Eaters.

“It's not a Death Eater,” Harry whispered, ignoring the quaver in his own voice, the dryness in his throat. “This is something new... something powerful.”

And that was where the heart of Harry's unnerved fear lay - in a handful of dust, and where a Dark Lord could hide in the darkness and where the long howling between the idea and the reality, between the motion and the act... fell the shadow.

Harry snorted. He spent too much time reading dark muggle poetry. It was making him feel far too much like a little maudlin orphan. Yet more often than not reading muggle fantasy was like a reprieve from fighting and wallowing in the darkness that truly existed in the world, hidden just out of sight and under the bed.

The kind of darkness that grew in that old familiar cupboard under the stairs, and followed you wherever you went and no matter how many miles or years you crossed to try and outrun it... it was always there before that light of hope Harry carried with him, that the world believed he carried with him. The darkness was always there first, always travelling faster than the light, and it was always waiting.

And how could you beat that? You couldn't, Harry knew. You have to understand it, and fight with all the blood, sweat and tears you have just to hold on that extra second longer, even though when you wake up of a morning and look in the mirror you can see the darkness waiting - actually see it - hiding in the back of your eyes with a deep crimson malice and threatening to slither forward for all the world like a snake brought back from the dead...

“Stop it...” Harry whispered, rubbing his forehead. He always got like this when he was on his own, away from those he cared about and with a heavy case weighing down on his mind.

He hurled his coffee cup into the fireplace with a snarl and stood up, kicking his chair back into his desk as the cup shattered. No good, he thought, no good at all. A stack of a dozen or so files fell to the already paper-strewn floor. Harry knelt down and shuffled the files back together, slamming closed the door on that dark old cupboard as he did. He still needed to go through these files, sign-off on them and make sure there was nothing hidden in the reports that may or may not help to identify the mysterious Shadowman of Azkaban.

He looked up through his thin, silver wire-framed glasses as the fireplace flared to life with emerald green flames that danced in his own fiery eyes, eyes still alight with anger from the brief slip in his composure a moment ago. A familiar head formed in the fire.

“Headmistress McGonagall,” Harry said, crouching down in front of the fireplace.

“Ah, Harry, I'd just called at home and Ginny said you were here.”

“What's the matter?” Harry knew the signs - something had happened. Early morning fire call, his old professor's face looking slightly drawn and pinched, even though it was made of solid green flame. If anything the flame served to emphasise the worry in McGonagall's eyes.

“Albus, and another young Gryffindor named Frank Jackson, were attacked last night in Gryffindor Tower by a crea-.”

“What! Is Al okay-?” Harry's mind immediately assumed the worst, immediately assumed that one of his old enemies, or maybe his clever new enemy, had fired another arrow straight at his heart - and this time it had struck home.

“He's fine, Harry. Shaken, but fine. We're here in my office at Hogwarts - could I ask you to come straight away? There's quite a story to be told.”

Harry frowned, and felt his heart beat drop back down a few paces towards normal. Albus was okay. “Yeah, on my way, Professor.”

*~*~*~*

Albus accepted a warm cup of tea with muttered thanks from the Headmistress and sipped it with a sigh. He was tired, more tired than he had ever been in his life. Last night had drained him physically, emotionally... and magically.

Why did my blood glow and not Frank's?

“Your father should be here at any moment, Mr Potter,” McGonagall said. It was still early in the morning, barely an hour past dawn, and yet the Headmistress looked as if she had been awake and getting on with the day for hours.

“That's good.”

“Neville, perhaps it would be best if you took Mr Jackson to the infirmary now. And then please inform the rest of the staff what has occurred, have them do a head count before the day truly starts and we have students running all over the castle and grounds.”

“Will do,” Neville nodded. “Come on, Frank.”

Frank rose and placed his own tea cup carefully on the fine china saucer resting on McGonagall's polished oak desk. “See you later, Al,” he said, stifling a yawn. “Thanks for... whatever it was you did to them.”

“See you, Frank.”

No sooner had they left than the fireplace, smouldering softly with gentle yellow flames, roared with green fire and a figure came swirling out of the floo with a quick and hurried step.

“Dad!”

“Hey, kid,” Harry Potter said, his eyes fixing hard onto Albus and sweeping up and down his ruined pyjamas. “Not a week and you're already getting into trouble? You trying to break my record?”

“I fear that would be quite impossible, Harry,” Headmistress McGonagall said, warmly for her. She walked around her desk and embraced Harry in a brief hug. “It is always good to see you back at Hogwarts.”

“It's always good to be back, especially in this old office, Professor.”

Albus watched his dad genuinely smile and felt his own grin creeping across his face. This was the first time he had ever been in the Headmistress's office, but he knew his father had been a regular visitor back in his days at the school. Albus Dumbledore had been headmaster then.

He looked briefly around the room at the dozens of portraits hanging from the walls and the rows and rows of shelves full of books and sheaves of parchment. The Sorting Hat rested on a shelf of its own high up near the top of the vaulted ceiling. On the far side of the room were desks and long tables covered in strange and wonderful silver instruments, some of them puffing small clouds of smoke, others glowing with a soft light. In a glass cabinet just to one side stood a shining silver sword with a gem-encrusted hilt, glittering magnificently in the early morning light streaming in through the tall windows.

The sword of Godric Gryffindor, Albus thought, almost whispering the words. He knew the stories - his dad had slain a basilisk with that blade, and Neville had cut the head of Voldemort's snake, Nagini.

Directly behind McGonagall's desk, just to the left of a spiral staircase that supposedly led up to her personal quarters at the top of the seventh floor tower, hung a portrait in an ornate frame. Albus Potter stared up into the twinkling eyes of his namesake, and Albus Dumbledore stared back at him through his half moon spectacles and smiled warmly, with all the care and love of an elderly grandfather.

“Good morning, sir,” Harry said, following his youngest son's gaze to Dumbledore's portrait.

“Dear boy, what unforseen tragedy and circumstance calls you to your offices this early of a morning? Is change afoot in the world? Are we once again beset on all sides?”

Harry grinned. “Still the same old world, Professor, just new faces upsetting the balance of things.”

“Ah, is there adventure on the high wind, Harry?”

Harry shrugged, and winked at his son. “I don't know, but I think Albus may have had his fill last night. What happened, Al? You look like you got into a fight with a tree - and lost.”

Albus sighed and looked down at his torn striped pyjamas. He took a deep breath to start his story for the third, and what he considered the most important, time.

Harry moved back around the desk away from Dumbledore's portrait and sat down in the cushioned armchair next to Albus, where Frank had been sitting five minutes ago. He put a hand on his son's shoulder and Albus let out his breath slowly.

“I was asleep,” he began, meeting his father's eyes, “in my bed up in Gryffindor Tower and...”

It came easier this time, already lived through and twice-rehearsed. Albus told his dad about being pulled out of the window and literally sliding down into the forest on the river of freezing mist, pulled by the creatures with burning crimson eyes. He told him about punching through the canopy of trees and landing in more of the same mist, of Frank following soon after, and then the creatures attacking.

Harry's face grew darker and darker as Albus related what had happened to him in the early hours of that morning. And he released his grip on his son's shoulder before it became too hard. He clenched his fists across his lap, emerald eyes sparkling all too dangerously.

“Your blood?” Harry said sharply, as Albus spoke of punching a mist-creature and having it explode in a fountain of golden sparks. “You're sure, Al, your blood was glowing?”

Albus nodded quickly, toward the dried blood that stained his hands from the half a dozen cuts and scrapes all over his arms. “Only it didn't work for Frank, just me.”

Harry stood grimly, his jaw set hard. “So you got one of them,” he said, a proud note in his voice. “Then what? I imagine the other creature was none too happy.”

Albus shook his head. “It tried to take Frank back into the mist, but I ran over and hit it as well, and the same thing happened.”

“Good lad,” Harry said fiercely. There was no mistaking the pride in his voice now. “You got out of the forest after that?”

“Not just like that,” Albus said. “There were more of them...”

Albus told Harry how he and Frank had been surrounded, and how he had raised his glowing hands, shining with his hot blood, to clear a broken path through the army of mist creatures. He told his dad how they had escaped the forest just moments before dawn, and how the creatures had shrieked with rage before disappearing.

“Back into the forest?” Harry asked.

“No, they just disappeared, faded away like ghosts.”

Harry frowned and muttered to himself, running his mind through the catalogue of dark and dangerous creatures he had met and knew about. None of them matched what Albus had described. “And they didn't follow you out of the forest?”

“A few of them did, but they didn't get far before turning back. I think... I think the sun scared them away.”

“Hmm...” Harry nodded, he agreed with that. It made no sense. Were these creatures of mist vampiric in some way? No, Albus's blood had destroyed half a dozen of them - but Frank's hadn't even touched them - and vampires loved blood. Harry had bite mark scars on his left wrist to attest to that - a mission turned bad some ten years ago. He had almost ended up becoming that which he had been hunting. It made no sense.

Albus took another deep breath and let it out slowly. He was hungry, hungry and tired. And also afraid - the sun would set tonight, after all, and who knew what would come out of the forest then? The creatures would definitely have a personal hate for him after he had hurt them and escaped. He had even felt that, right at the end there on the edge of the forest - a cold and patient fury for the boy who had lived.

Harry seemed to read something of what was running through his son's mind. “It'll be okay, Al. With Professor McGonagall's permission, I'll have Aurors on guard here until we sort his out - just to make sure nothing more comes out of that forest.”

“I think that would be wise,” McGonagall said, a rare smile directed towards Harry.

“Can I go and have a shower now?” Albus asked, yawning. “And some breakfast.”

Harry nodded. “I'll come see you before I go, kid, and James. Are you sure you're okay?”

Albus - not wanting to appear weak in front of his father or the headmistress - nodded. “I'm okay. Don't let mum worry about me.”

Harry smiled and knelt down to wrap his arms around his son in a tight hug. He stood up, ruffling his unruly hair. “Try not to get into too much trouble between now and breakfast, Al.”

Albus grinned. His dad would know what to do now, because his dad was Harry Potter, and Harry Potter protected the whole world from the worst that was out there. “No promises, dad.”

“Ha, cheeky little bugger - off with you now.”

The large mahogany door of the Headmistress's office closed silently behind small Albus Potter as he left, and his soft footsteps soon faded away on the cool castle stone.

“None of the wards picked up anything?” Harry asked McGonagall once his son was gone, still staring at the door.

“Not a whisper, Dark magic or otherwise,” the Headmistress replied, and Harry could tell that that unnerved her.

It unnerved him, too - unnerved twice in a week now - that was a record since Voldemort and a point to whatever dark forces were conspiring against him.

“Something targets not just the school but the dormitory where my youngest son is fast asleep, drags him and the Jackson lad into the Forbidden Forest, and then tries to strangle them both...” Harry was thinking fast, playing it through in his mind, putting himself in Albus's place. “Only they get a surprise because for some reason Albus can defend himself, he escapes the creatures - kills a few of them, even - and threatens them all with this unknown power in his blood.” Harry let out the same slow breath his son had a moment ago, only his was laced not with anxious fear but with barely contained fury.

“He performed admirably, Harry, not leaving his young friend behind,” Dumbledore's portrait said, and Harry turned to look up at the deceased headmaster. “Although he is far too young to be making such unknown and mysterious enemies.”

Harry wiped his brow, feeling hot and nervous, worried for his son's well-being. “You're never too young to die, Dumbledore,” he said softly. “Voldemort taught me that, and in the end taught me not to fear it. Crimson eyes...” he finished, muttering away to nothing. Why would the creatures have crimson eyes?

A few small items on McGonagall's desk began to shake, as did the books nestled in the shelves across the room. The small tinkling of Dumbledore's old instruments brought Harry back out of his thoughts as they nearly fell from the tables in the corner. He took a deep breath and got a hold on his power before his anger released an outburst of raw magic that would cause considerable damage.

“Are you okay, Harry?” McGonagall asked, glancing at Dumbledore.

“No I don't think I am, Minerva,” Harry said, and grit his teeth hard. At that moment it was clear who commanded the highest authority and respect in the room, portraits included. “It's one thing to attack me, but whatever happened to Albus was aimed personally at Albus, and it was only aimed at him so I'd get the message. Whoever or whatever did this crossed a line last night, and they're going to regret it.”

Dumbledore cleared his throat, cleared the tension building in the room. “And they did so with magic beyond even my extensive knowledge.”

Harry blinked and the shelves across the room stopped shaking. The scent of his magic was still heavy on the air, however, almost humming. Like burning electricity, it was a power that had defeated a Dark Lord, a power that could have been multiplied a hundredfold through the Elder Wand...

“You have no idea, Professor, what these mist creatures were?”

“None at all,” Dumbledore replied. “Perhaps you should ask Hagrid if he has ever seen such beasts in the forest before.”

Harry doubted that, but it was a lead he'd follow to a probable dead-end anyhow. At the very least he could warn Hagrid, have the half-giant keep an eye out should the mist creatures attempt a repeat performance.

Or whoever was in command of such monsters.

Harry had not forgotten the reference Umbridge had made back in Azkaban to a Lord Mist. Was that a coincidence? Insane psycho-babble from a woman whose mind had been raped and torn asunder in mere minutes? Crimson eyes... He did not believe in coincidence, not when it came to something as serious as this. His son attacked, Azkaban and Hogwarts both breached inside a week, and both attacks struck a strong, emotional cord in Harry's soul.

He scowled at the far wall, thinking dark thoughts. He reminded himself that Albus was okay. That didn't lessen his anger much at all, because it was only through sheer luck that his son was not lying dead and cold in the Forbidden Forest right now.

“A warning, Potter-boy, a lightning bolt, a key to the Lord Myst.” 

Harry cracked the knuckles of his right hand against the palm of his left.

“I'll have a full security detail here before sunset, Professor,” he said, turning to McGonagall who had been conversing with Dumbledore's portrait. “Two six-man teams that will patrol the grounds until sunrise.”

McGonagall sighed but nodded. “There's been no need for Aurors at Hogwarts since the Battle all those years ago.”

“And again, if it's okay with you, Professor, I'd like to ask a few of the Unspeakables to come and test the air, take a few samples and do whatever it is they do to decode Dark magic use.”

“If you think it will help, Harry.”

“I do.” Harry nodded. “I want to know who or what summoned these unknown creatures, and why they attacked my son. There's more to what happened to Albus than just getting my attention.” Harry paused and moved his hand slowly through the air before him, as if he were brushing aside a curtain. He clenched his fist around those same invisible drapes. “I can feel it, that old familiar sense of... mystery and unease.”

Harry turned as the door to McGonagall's office swung open with a small creak. Neville Longbottom walked back into the room after leaving with Frank just over half an hour ago. He smiled when he saw Harry and Harry returned it with genuine warmth in his eyes.

The two men shook hands and greeted each other kindly.

“All students and staff present and accounted for, Professor McGonagall,” Neville said. “Hope I'm not interrupting though, Harry.”

“Not at all,” Harry said. “Did you see James? Does he know about Al?”

Neville shook his head. “Don't think he knows yet, though rumours are spreading fast that something happened last night, and that it involved two first-year Gryffindors, one of which is having a broken arm tended to in the hospital as we speak. No doubt the full story and a hundred different rumours will have circulated throughout the school ten times over by lunch.”

“Will you watch out for him?” Harry asked. “Make sure no one gives him a hard time about it.”

Neville saluted. “You got it, but I reckon Albus is one who can watch out for himself.”

Harry tried to suppress his proud grin. It had been a nightmare, what his son had been through, yet he had pulled through with the same tenacity and strength of character that had led Harry to the Philosopher's Stone in his first year, that had led him down into the Chamber of Secrets only a year later. A tenacity that had grown hard and fast into courage enough to challenge a Dark Lord in a godforsaken grave yard at the tender age of fourteen.

“All the same, Nev, make sure he doesn't go off on his own,” Harry said. “Or try to do anything... rash.”

“You mean like his dad would have?” Neville raised an eyebrow. “You think something's going on?”

Harry shook his head slowly, looking between Neville, McGonagall, and then finally up to Dumbledore. “I don't know,” he said, and that was the truth. All he had were hollow suspicions and very little evidence of foul play. Someone was pulling invisible strings, that much was certain - but the how and why of it was masked in shadow... shadow and mist. 

“If there is something going on, I'll drag it out into the light kicking and screaming, Nev,” he said softly, certain and sure.

*~*~*~*

Albus felt a whole world of better after he stepped out of the steaming hot shower, having washed away the blood and dirt and what he imagined was the cold, lingering touch of the mist.

He slipped on a pair of loose blue jeans and a white polo shirt, dispensing with the robes for today, and headed out down to the common room just as the rest of Gryffindor Tower was slowly beginning to wake up for the weekend.

“Spill it,” James Potter said as soon as he reached the bottom of the spiralling staircase. He stood with Marcus and Ethan, both of them looking disgruntled at being up so early. “Neville comes in, waves his wand around to make sure everyone's here where they should be, and you stumble in looking like you went three rounds with a mountain troll.”

Albus opened his mouth to talk but-

“Was it the Slytherins?” James asked, his voice heated. “They gave me a bit of a hard time beginning of last year because of dad, only a few of them, but it was just words. There's a Malfoy here now though, isn't there? Did that little turd Scorpius and his mates trick you into a duel?”

Albus shook his head. “No-”

“We'll sort them, Al,” James ploughed right on ahead. “Just tell us who it was and we'll make sure they won't bother you again.”

“Eh, James,” Marcus said, tapping his friend on the shoulder. “Shut it, would you, and let the kid speak.”

Albus grinned, already putting behind him the night in the forest. It was just a memory, after all, and although he was still worried the creatures might come back for him, he knew his dad wouldn't allow that. Nothing could get past his dad.

And before a certain blond-haired Slytherin ended up on the wrong end of a bat-bogey hex or something much more inventive, Albus began to tell James and his friends what happened, moving over into the comfy armchairs by the fireplace as he did.

“And I punched it and it kind of exploded,” Albus said a few minutes later, looking into the wide, disbelieving eyes of his brother and two mates. “It's true, dad's here now, with Professor McGonagall. He said he'd see us before he left.”

James was, for once, speechless. His lips moved soundlessly for a few moments, but Ethan broke the silence first. “Where's your friend, the little fella, Frank?”

“Infirmary getting his arm looked at by Madam Pomfrey. He broke it in the fall.”

“You obviously got out of the forest okay?” Marcus said, nodding for Albus to continue his story.

Albus nodded, but said, “Can we go down for breakfast now? I'm starving.” He made to stand up but James pushed him back down.

“Not until you tell me how you escaped these Slytherins disguised as mist-creatures.”

Albus snorted and rolled his eyes. “Me and Frank ran out of the forest as fast as we could, and when the sun came up all the mist disappeared. Then we came back to the castle, Filch spotted us and took us to Neville, who took us to Professor McGonagall, who fire called dad.”

“Hold up a minute,” Ethan said. “So Harry Potter's really here in the castle right now?”

Albus nodded. “Er... yeah.”

“Wicked.”

“What the real question is though,” Marcus said thoughtfully, tapping his chin, “is how you did magic without a wand, Al? That's... amazing.”

“It just happened.” Albus shrugged, looking down at the cuts on his hands. “Lucky it did. Now I'm going to get pancakes, you coming with me?”

James stood and nodded fiercely. “Oh yeah, no Slytherins are going to jump you again, Al, not while I'm around.”

“I really don't think the Slytherins had anything to do with this one, James,” Ethan remarked, as the four of them headed for the portrait hole and beyond that the Great Hall.

“That's what they want you to think, Ethan,” James said. “Oh that's exactly what they want you to think.”

*~*~*~*

Harry found Alfred Drogin, one of his Senior Aurors, and the man he had assigned to the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher at McGonagall's request, doing chin-ups from a bar he had installed between two of the crenulated walls in his office above the DADA rooms.

“Commander,” Drogin said, as Harry entered his office. He fell down off the bar, his bare chest coated in a sheen of sweat and his thinning grey hair stuck down against his forehead. “What brings you all the way out to the fringes of the most exciting assignment in the world?”

Harry smiled and tossed Drogin a white towel draped over the back of the chair before his heavy oak desk. Alfred Drogin had not wanted to be stuck in an office job, yet Harry had insisted. Drogin was the best of the best, the most senior Auror in the Department, and the only reason he wasn't Commander himself was because he hadn't wanted the promotion when it came up all those years ago. Drogin was a field Auror, always had been and always will be. Teaching a bunch of kids the disarming hex would seem about as exciting as watching paint dry to a man who had served in both Dark Wars against Voldemort, and all the dozens of dangerous assignments before, in between, and after the Dark Lord's rise to power.

“Hogwarts can be full of surprises, Drogin,” Harry said, with a grin that only just touched his eyes. “I told you that at the assignment briefing. Why, just last night my youngest son was attacked by creatures I can't identify,” Drogin looked up sharply, “stolen right out of the castle, and did battle with them in the Forbidden Forest.”

“You're serious?” Drogin tossed the towel aside, motioning for Harry to sit as he moved around his desk and leaned back into his chair. “What happened?”

Harry related the story that Albus had told him only a short hour ago, watching Drogin's eyebrows raise almost right under his fringe before turning down into a harsh and unforgiving scowl.

“That kid's an apple that didn't fall far from the tree,” Drogin said once Harry had finished. “Smart as well, Commander, I can tell you that much.”

“He's doing well in your class? He wrote home to say he'd passed your first quiz with flying colours.”

“He did at that. Top mark, perfect score, his knowledge of defence is excellent for an eleven year-old. He knew the difference between an angular and forced-jab wand movement when casting protective magic. Only one in my first- to third-years to get that right. Forced me to hand out some house points, which I'd so far managed to avoid.”

Drogin laughed and Harry steered the conversation back to more important matters. “Do you have any idea of what attacked him, Alfred? Have you heard of these mist-creature things before?

Drogin shook his head, sharp and sure. “Can't say that I have. Although it's a big world out there, and a lot of darkness for the unknown to hide in.”

Harry nodded. He had expected as much. If Dumbledore hadn't known anything then it was unlikely that these creatures could be so easily identified. But darkness such as this didn't just come out of nowhere - somewhere, some record would exist, and Harry would employ the full resources of his Department in hunting that record down, and finding whoever was responsible for endangering his son's life.

“I'm sending a protective detail - twelve good Aurors - to patrol the grounds tonight and over the next week or so. I'm placing them under your direct command, Drogin, reporting directly to me. I want to keep this under wraps until we know exactly what we're dealing with.”

“You think this is more than just a random dark creature attack?”

“I do,” Harry nodded. “And so do you. The very fact alone that it was my son that was attacked rules out anything other than a pre-planned assault.”

Drogin had his wand in hand and he tapped it thoughtfully against the side of his chair. Harry saw the wheels turning in the man's head, already formulating a plan of attack and defence, spreading his twelve-man team into the most strategic positions he could see about the castle.

“You knew something was wrong, didn't you?” Drogin said after a long moment. “That's why you forced this teaching assignment down my throat.”

Harry sat up straight with his hands crossed gently over his lap, his face emotionless and calm. “You're the third Defence Against the Dark Arts professor in as many years, Drogin. Believe me, that's something to be concerned about.”

“How do you mean?”

Harry shook his head. “Just watch your back, and if you're still teaching next year then I'm worrying over nothing... but curses can sometimes have lingering effects, even after they're broken. I'm hoping that's all this is, but preparing for the worst at the same time.”

Drogin was no idiot. “This goes back to Voldemort somehow, doesn't it?”

“I get the feeling that someone's messing with me, Drogin. And may have been planning to do so for years... You heard about Azkaban?”

Drogin nodded, yet said nothing.

Harry fell silent as well, contemplating all the thoughts running through his mind. Coincidences and strange happenings piling up all over the place, and somehow all connected to him... and now Albus.

“Constant vigilance, Commander.”

Harry nodded, remembering old Mad-Eye Moody just for a moment before pulling himself back to the present. He reached into the deep pocket of his robes and removed a small square of old parchment.

“Here,” he said, handing it carefully to Drogin.

“What's this?” the Senoir Auror asked, unfolding the leaf of parchment to find it dusty and empty. “Just a bit of old parchment.”

Harry smiled fondly and leant forward to tap his wand against the parchment. “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Drogin's amused surprise faded away into appreciation as the parchment began to fill fast with smooth lines of ink, mapping the castle and all those who walked within its walls and out on the grounds.

“This has been gathering dust in my office for many years,” Harry said. “I still look at it sometimes - last year, just to check on James now and again - but I think it will prove more use to you at the moment.”

“It's an enchanted map of the school, in real-time from the look's of things,” Drogin said, looking at the small dots in his office that read Harry Potter and Alfred Drogin.

“The Marauder's Map. Made by my father and his friends back when they were at school. Possibly the most comprehensive aid to mischief ever conceived of by school children.”

“It's incomplete in parts,” Drogin said, casting his eyes across the whole thing. “There are parts of the castle missing here, and here... here, too. I can't tell if anybody's in there.”

Harry nodded. “Those are parts of the castle that were destroyed and rebuilt in the Battle of Hogwarts. The map was made about twenty years before that. I didn't want to try and update it in case it lost whatever magic made it work - and the four people who made it took that secret to the grave.”

“An impressive bit of magic. I'll keep an eye on it, make sure no one's on the grounds or in the castle that shouldn't be.”

Harry nodded. “Constant vigilance,” he said.

*~*~*~*

By the time Frank Jackson came down from the infirmary with his arm bandaged and hanging in a sling around his neck, two dozen different rumours about what had happened in the early hours of that morning had grown from the Gryffindor breakfast table in the Great Hall and spread to every house in new and strange ways.

Albus kept his head down, talking to Rose, Hannah, and Gary about mist-creatures, but couldn't escape the whispers and hurried glances that reached his eyes and ears.

“He was in the Forest after-hours...”

“Filch caught them both setting off wizz-bangs in the Entrance Hall...”

“Yeah, Harry Potter's son, went looking in the Forbidden Forest and found more than he bargained for.”

“Something broke into Gryffindor Tower and Albus Potter fought it off with his bare hands.”

“I heard it was just a bunch of poltergeists, nothing to be worried about...”

All the talk and rumours couldn't put Albus off his pancakes and syrup, however, which had fast become his favourite meal of the day. He started every morning off with a stack of fluffy-brown cakes, fresh from the pan and practically dripping with thick, hot syrup. It left him feeling full and bloated till around about lunch time. He loved his breakfast, did Al.

“Frank!” Albus managed through a mouthful of food.

Frank slipped onto the long polished bench between Albus and Gary, mindful to keep his arm from banging against the table. “Never broken my arm before,” he said.

“Will it be okay?” Rose asked.

Frank nodded. “Madam Pomfrey said she'd seen worse.”

“Albus told us what happened,” Hannah whispered. “How frightening! Are you okay?”

Frank grinned. “Thanks to Albus, I am.”

“Half the school knows,” Albus grumbled, picking up his goblet. “James thinks it was the Slytherins who did it somehow.”

“Well, he's about as useful as a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest then, isn't he?” Frank surmised, trying to butter himself some toast with his good arm, which was no easy task.

Albus snorted and pumpkin juice came flying out of his nose and down his shirt. Both Gary and Frank burst into fits of laughter.

“Gross,” Rose and Hannah said at the same time.

The loud chatter and laughter from the House tables died away to nothing as a lone figure entered through the large open doors from the Entrance Hall. It was eerie, how quick and fast the talk fell down to furious murmurs and startled gasps, as the most recognisable face in the wizarding world entered the Great Hall, his eyes scanning the Gryffindor table up and down.

Harry Potter walked with a smile down the length of the table and came to Albus and his friends with a hundred whispers flying through the air around him.

“Hi, Rose,” Harry said, upon seeing Ron and Hermione's daughter.

“Hello, Uncle Harry,” she said, blushing.

Harry laughed and clapped Albus on the shoulder. “You're supposed to drink your pumpkin juice, Al, not wear it.”

“Frank made me laugh!”

“Well, at least his sense of humour isn't broken. How's the arm, Mr Jackson?” Harry asked.

“Fine, sir,” Frank replied. “Madam Pomfrey said it should be all healed by tonight.”

Talk had resumed in the Hall around the Gryffindor table, yet not as loudly or as animatedly as before. Most were still staring in awe at Harry Potter, who for all the world looked just like any other wizard. A few of the people nearby could even see his scar through his unruly fringe. Yet the rumours were flying faster than ever now. If Harry Potter was here then maybe something really had happened last night...

“I just wanted to say goodbye to you and...”

“Hey, dad!” James said, having slipped out of his seat further up the table and walked up.

“There's my other one,” Harry said, ruffling James's hair. He crouched down on his ankles so that he was eye-level with Albus, and pulled James in close, shielding them all from most of the eavesdroppers. “You've heard what happened by now James.” It wasn't a question.

“Yeah, dad. I reckon the Slytherins had something to do with it.”

Harry grinned, but his heart wasn't in it. “No, this is something else,” he said. “Something attacked your brother, tried to kill him, James. This wasn't inter-house rivalry.”

“Told you,” Albus said, shoving James's arm.

“What are you going to do about it?” James asked, keeping his voice low and steady, gazing hard into his father's eyes.

And although James was only twelve years old, Harry saw in his son's eyes the same cool anger that had, at times, seen him through some of the worst situations in his life. Young, he thought, too young, yet it had been no different for Harry - just a lot more intense. After all, it was well known that Harry Potter shouldn't have lived to see his second birthday.

“There'll be Aurors hanging around the castle at night, just to keep an eye out, and that's all good and well, but I want you two to do something for me as well.”

“What...?” Albus asked.

Harry tried to make his voice a little less hard, a little less demanding. “Just look out for each other, and for everyone else. You boys are Potters, and that's what we do best. Try to stay out of trouble - and let me know if you see and hear anything suspicious. You kids see a lot more of the goings on at Hogwarts than the staff ever does! Just... just take care and let me know if you find anything.”

Albus wasn't sure why at that moment he thought of the vision he had suffered during Transfiguration the other day. It had left his mind almost entirely over the last few days, just something odd that had happened in a castle where odd things were happening all the time - and how could they not, with the sheer level of magic flying about this place? - but think of it he did and he opened his mouth to tell his father about it but then paused, the words dying before leaving his throat.

I have nothing more to say to you, Potter, he said quietly. You have irked me too often, for too long. AVADA KEDAVRA!

Albus didn't want to tell his father about this with Frank and Rose listening in nearby, not even with James able to hear. There were already enough rumours flying around without adding another to the pile - that Albus Potter was soft in the head, and had visions of dead Dark Lords whilst learning how to transfigure a match into a needle. The more he thought about it the crazier it sounded in his head. No, it wasn't important, really, and nothing like it had happened for the rest of the week.

If death is nothing, Dumbledore, kill the boy...

He couldn't even say with all certainty now that it had even happened. A few brief seconds, a voice in his head and a flash of dark eyes. He could've imagined it, and he didn't want to distract his dad from what was really important - the mist-creatures - with something that could just as easily have been his imagination.

Harry seemed to sense that Albus was hesitating over something, however, as he gripped his son's shoulder and knocked him out of his thoughts.

“Al,” Harry said, gazing at his son through his glasses, his eyes kind and old, “is there something you wish to tell me?”

“Just to take care as well, dad,” Albus replied. “And say hi to mum and Lily.”

Harry held his son's gaze for a moment and then nodded, pulling both his boy's in for a quick hug. “I love you, lads. Remember what I said - look out for each other, and keep your friends close, they'll watch your back while you take care of whatever's coming at you from the front.”

Harry received two very mumbled and embarrassed replies of 'love you too, dad,' from Albus and James, who were definitely trying hard not to be overheard by their classmates now.

Harry stood and let them go. “Be good, expect a letter from mum, Al, demanding you write home immediately and assure her you're okay. If not before then I'll see you boys for Christmas.”

“Bye, dad.”

“Try and stay out of detention, James,” Harry said, but his eldest was already racing back down the elongated table to his friends and breakfast.

“Bye, dad,” Albus said. “Sorry to drag you all the way out here.”

Harry smiled. “You handled yourself well, Al, don't let anyone tell you different. Ten years down the line I'd be proud to have someone as brave as you training to be an Auror with Uncle Ron - he'd love that. Watch out for your brother, he's liable to dive headfirst into a nest of banshees if he's not careful.”

“I will.”

“Good lad.”

*~*~*~*

Harry decided he'd save himself a trip back up to the fireplace in Professor McGonagall's office and head for the castle gates and apparate back to the Ministry. He also wanted to have a quick word with Hagrid and take a look at the Forbidden Forest for himself.

The morning was cool and it was still early enough that his breath hung condensed on the air like a wisp of cloud as Harry made his way to Hagrid's cabin. He guessed his old friend was home and awake as smoke lazily chuffed out of his chimney.

The border of the forest looked as dark and impenetrable as ever. No long, cold fingers of mist spiralled up and around any of the trees and only a breeze disturbed the leaves on what was an otherwise silent, brooding mass of ancient wood and dangerous creatures.

Harry looked up and over his shoulder as he walked down the castle lawn, up to Gryffindor Tower and the several hundred feet of clear air between the ground and even the lower windows of the tower...

He judged the distance between the windows and the border of the forest at about a quarter mile, and was thankful only that the mist-creatures had decided to play with their prey first, and take them into the forest. Albus and Frank could have just as easily plummeted to their deaths, and when the mist faded at dawn no one would have been any the wiser.

Was that a mistake on behalf of whoever was behind the attempted murder of his son? Had the Shadowman of Azkaban been responsible for this, too, and if so had he revealed more than intended? It was a definite possibility, one that Harry would exploit ruthlessly.

“Who's calling this early?” Hagrid said from inside his cabin as Harry knocked three quick times on the door. “Harry!”

“Hey, Hagrid,” Harry said, his hands in his pockets. “Nice pyjamas.”

Hagrid, grinning from ear to ear and looking great in his bright orange polka-dot nightwear, invited Harry in for a cup of tea but Harry declined, and proceeded to tell him about what had happened to Albus and Frank Jackson.

Hargid's face grew pale and then hard as Harry explained what had happened just a few short hours ago, and Hagrid joined him outside looking into the forest as he finished the story.

“Didn't hear a thing during the night,” Hagrid said. “Yer sure about all this?”

“Albus put on a brave face, but he was shaken up, Hagrid. I believe him, so does Professor McGonagall.”

Hagrid nodded, stroking his wiry beard as Fang strolled slowly down the steps and nudged Harry's hand. Harry obliged and stroked the old hound behind the ears.

“Nothin' I've heard of in the forest that could do what yer saying, Harry, but I'll go and ask the centaurs later on today.”

“Be careful,” Harry said. “We've no idea at all what we're dealing with.”

“Right you are,” Hagrid nodded. “Sure yer can't stay for a cup of tea?”

“Sorry, no. I've got a team to prep for tonight as well as half a dozen leads to follow up now.” Harry paused, wondering if he should actually head into the forest and poke around. He decided against it. The last time he had entered the forest was to burn and bury Voldemort, nearly twenty years ago now. “And Ginny,” he said suddenly. “I'll have to tell her what's happened before anything else. Thanks, Hagrid, I'll see you later.”

“Take care, Harry.”

“You too.”

It was only five minutes walk to the large wrought-iron gates that marked the beginning of the road to Hogsmeade and also the edge of the castle's anti-apparation wards, and those five minutes passed by in a blur of thought and detective work for Harry.

He'd prioritise this case alongside the Azkaban breach as soon as he got back to the Ministry. There was a link here, he knew, and that link was him - was Harry Potter. Dumbledore's portrait had been right to ask if change was afoot in the world. It was, and even Voldemort had started out small, hadn't he?

That was a lesson learned the hard way, all those years ago.

Harry intended to stamp out this virus, this Shadowman, before he had a chance to multiply and do some real damage.

Yet so far there was not a shred of evidence to even suggest the Shadowman existed, only what Harry's instincts were telling him and a lifetime of fighting the worst of the worst. And that would be enough to justify the expense of a full investigation to the Ministry.

With a small pop Harry Disapparated as soon as he passed the castle gates, and reappeared hundreds of miles away just on the edge of his own driveway, on the edge of his own anti-apparation protection.

“Ginny's going to go mental...” he said, beginning the walk up the drive as the wards recognised him and the house sprang into view.

Harry sighed. Barely nine o'clock on Saturday morning... it was going to be a long weekend. Why couldn't the bad guys find something better to do? Or bother someone else?

He didn't know the answer to that, all he did know was that it had been a mistake to attack his son. A mistake someone would pay dearly for.

*~*~*~*