They had relocated back into Potter Manor. The entire warding system and much of the charms and runes hiding the house from sight would need to be replaced before it could be considered fully secure once more.
Albus Dumbledore was already deep in thought as the rest of the Order members finished filing in.
It had been such a near thing. Had Severus not risked his cover and by extension his life, the attack on the Potters would have gone flawlessly. It was by the skin of his teeth that the double agent managed to get a warning out in time. Had Snape failed, then the consequences were too dire to think about.
The Dark Lord had been aggressive ever since his rebirth. First the hit-order on Emmeline Vance. Now a planned assault on an Order safe house by over twenty Death Eaters.
What alarmed the old headmaster was not the attacks themselves, but the short span of time between them. It seemed like Voldemort's plan from the very beginning was to seize the initiative from the Order of the Phoenix. To strike repeatedly and frequently so the Order would be left with little time to organize and conduct a coordinated defense. To inflict a siege mentality on the resistance members so that they would be mentally broken and helpless before the final assault inevitably came.
Dumbledore was familiar with the tactic. Grindelwald had used a similar strategy to coerce and intimidate his enemies. Voldemort's method, however, was far more refined and precise in its implementation.
And unlike Gellert, whose support all but vanished with his defeat, Voldemort had maintained a strong base of followers that had steadily grown in number and zealotry even after his "death".
It was perhaps unsurprising then that after Riddle was revived his base of support had only grown.
Much of this was due to his own miscalculation, Dumbledore knew. After Grindelwald's downfall, the purges carried out by vengeful wizarding governments had been extensive and widespread. Many innocents and those only tangentially related to Gellert's followers had been caught in the Aurors' nets. To avoid this same mistake from repeating in history, Dumbledore had advised mercy and compassion when Voldemort's Death Eaters had finally been caught. He had hoped years spent in normal society without Riddle's influence would slowly cure whatever prejudices or hatreds were infesting in their hearts.
He had hoped that the cancerous tumor afflicting Great Britain's wizarding society could be healed benignly and would not have to be directly cut out from its flesh.
Yet, by advising lenient sentences, he had also inadvertently allowed these former Death Eaters to worm their ways back to their original positions of influence. And with predictable results.
When Voldemort was reborn, the Ministry of Magic had instantly been paralyzed. The acting minister, Cornelius Fudge, was not an evil man but was criminally incompetent. Had the circumstances been different and not involved the rise of a Dark Lord, the man's term in office might have been decidedly average. Just another middling politician in a long line of mediocrity. However, with the situation as it was, Fudge's ineptitude had lost him control of the government. It was rumored that entire branches of the Ministry were controlled from the shadows by either Death Eaters or Death Eater affiliates. Fudge, it seemed, had barricaded himself in his office and only came out to attend daily press conferences reassuring the panicking populace that there was no Dark Lord and no Death Eaters.
With the government in such a stricken state, basic services had started to shut down. The Aurors had been run ragged trying to placate the restless population. Voldemort had used the disorder among the law enforcement to begin anew the terror attacks that had so infamously characterized his first reign.
It was a general testament to the state of affairs that the attack on the Potter residence, despite being forewarned, had still nearly succeeded. It would have succeeded, had it not been for the intervention from a most unlikely source.
That source was currently sitting in the middle of the dining room, surrounded by stunned members of the Order. He was clad in a simple brown cloak, frayed and utilitarian. A solid metal breastplate, well-worn yet also well-maintained, protected his chest and abdomen. The winking blue lights around the steel edges told Dumbledore the armor had been rune-inscribed and enchanted. A pair of workman's goggles, the lenses dirty from overuse, sat perched on top his head. Behind this bizarre choice of attire, the aged headmaster caught glimpses of metal tools slotted in place on a leather belt.
Every time the boy shifted in his seat, the steel instruments hidden by his cloak clinked together like wind chimes.
Dumbledore's expression softened.
He had always suspected that Harry Potter had survived that fateful night fifteen years ago. There had been no body and Dumbledore's own deep understanding of magic had led him to form his own theory on the matter. But wizarding society at the time had desperately needed a hero and though Dumbledore had expressed his personal doubts, the story of the Girl-Who-Lived and the Boy-Who-Disappeared had become a household tale throughout magical Britain.
The Boy-Who-Disappeared and now who had apparently reappeared.
His companions, if they could be described as companions, waited for him outside. Their massive frames would simply not fit through the normal, human-sized doors of Potter Manor.
Dumbledore hesitated on calling them golems, like Lily had done. Golem implied a creation fashioned out of magic itself. These… things… looked like they had come out of a factory's assembly line. Yet, Dumbledore had felt the magic emanating from their bodies. So then, what was the correct word to use? Automata? Anima?
The rest of the Order had given the Potters space to reconnect with their long lost son. But reconnect was an easy thing to say and so much harder to do. The two sides had not seen each other for the better part of two decades. What could they say to each other without making it sound awkward? How could they express their feelings and thoughts without making it appear shallow and forced?
Lily sat face to face with him. The old headmaster could feel the pain and hope weighing on her shoulders as though they were his own. In intermittent intervals, her shaking hand would raise towards the boy's face before abruptly dropping back to her side.
James stood at his wife's side. The Auror Captain had reflexively gripped the wooden back of Lily's chair. His face displayed a range of emotions beginning with wonder and ending in fear. Wonder that something like this had happened. Fear that somehow it would all disappear before he fully realized it had happened.
Rose was the only one who seemed to stand apart. Unlike her parents who had already formed an attachment, the girl only knew her twin through stories and reputation. She fidgeted in place, seemingly knowing what was transpiring was important, but not understanding her role in it.
The boy, for his part, seemed content to sit in his seat and wait for his family to make the first move. Occasionally, his gloved hand would trace the edge of the strange sword lying in his lap. His eyes bored into theirs with such intensity that sometimes they had to look away.
Dumbledore had on occasion seen both Lily and Rose in moments of anger. When they were furious, their eyes glinted like the sides of a cold cut emerald. The boy's eyes were different. They burned. Burned like balefire. Burned like the way the machines standing outside burned fire out the smokestacks on their backs.
The tension in the room had grown to an almost unbearable level. The emotional wall built between the Potters and their son seemed insurmountable. For a split second, Dumbledore was afraid that this would continue on indefinitely and the two sides would never be able to speak.
And then suddenly, breaking the silence, a gasp.
The boy had taken Lily's hand and placed it on his own cheek.
++++++
He does not understand their hesitancy.
At first he thinks it is because they do not recognize him. The irony amuses him. For a cosmic force to hurl him back into his original timeline and for the inhabitants to have simply forgotten he existed. What a joke that would be.
Then he realizes that he is thinking solely from a warcaster's perspective.
It has always been rumored by those not gifted with the touch of the Mechanika that due to a lifetime spent working alongside machines, warcasters would slowly lose their humanity over time. That they would become more like the warjacks that marched by their side until they were no different from the engines that served them.
This was, of course, patently untrue.
Warcasters were flesh and blood, and contained the same vices and iniquities that made human beings explicitly human. However, a semblance of truth persisted in the rumor. A lifetime spent bonded to the cortexes of their mechanik thralls inevitably changed the thought processes of a warcaster. They approached problems from a more logic-based perspective and discounted outlooks based on emotion and feeling.
He has to shift perspective and re-approach the problem by viewing it through an additional, emotional layer. Then he understands.
It's not that they have forgotten him, lost to some memory. It's not that they're caught up in some dream that has no place for him.
It's because they are afraid of losing him again. It's because they are afraid that seeing him is, in itself, a dream, and disturbing it in any way would break that dream into a million pieces.
He looks at the woman and she looks demurely away. His gaze switches to the man standing behind the woman and whose grip on her chair is so tight that it seems almost painful. He focuses on the girl who out of the three, is the only one unfamiliar to him. She has not appeared in his dreams. He wonders why.
The girl shares his features. Unlike the others, she does not look away. He inclines his head towards her in a courteous gesture. She gives a half-smile in return.
The woman's hands are bothering him. In random intervals, she would make to reach out for him and then suddenly snatch her hand back. It is as though she thinks touching him would somehow shatter the illusion.
She does this for some time before his patience nears its end.
He sighs and grabs the woman's wrist before it can retreat again. He ignores her startled gasp and brings her trembling hand to his cheek.
"I am real," he tells her.
He knows they will not understand the words but hopes the implication behind the act will get through.
"Oh, Harry," is what she says back to him.
And then her arms are around him, pulling him into a tight embrace.
His shoulders stiffen automatically. He did not expect this sudden outburst of emotion. He is unused to such close physical contact.
"Ma'am," he says when the embrace continues on for quite some time, "You're suffocating me."
"Oh Harry! I knew you were still alive! All these years and I've never given up hope!"
The man joins the embrace and to his faint chagrin, begins tousling his hair.
"Lily, help me with this. I… I don't know what I should say… But all that matters is you're safe with us, Harry."
"Sir," he says politely back, "You're suffocating me too."
"Mom. Dad," the girl looks at her parents with mild embarrassment, "I think you need to give him some space."
Both the woman and the man release him. He nods gratefully at the girl. Whatever she just said to them has obviously worked.
The girl wearing his likeness steps closer. She peers at him warily. He cannot help but notice just how closely her eyes resemble his own in color and hue.
"It's really you, isn't it? My twin. Mom and dad said the reason you disappeared was because you protected me from Voldemort. So thanks, I guess."
Her face grows mischievous.
"Though if you really were my twin, you'd tell me what you did to those Death Eaters out there. The rest of the Order won't tell me."
"Rose!" the woman exclaims, scandalized.
"The Death Eaters," the girl ignores her mother's warning and makes a motion mimicking the act of taking off a mask, "What did you do to them?"
He believes he understands. She is trying to ask the status of the foe outside.
There is no point in explaining in words so he copies her attempt to speak through gestures.
He taps a finger on the sword resting in his lap and then makes a slitting motion across his throat. It is the standard callsign for Llaelese resistance fighters when they wanted to signify the complete annihilation of the enemy.
Ever since his participation in their ranks, the Llaelese Resistance had more cause than ever to use that sign.
The girl grins at him fiercely.
"Yup! We're going to get along just fine!"
He ignores her friendly outburst. His eye for detail has picked out something incriminating on her features.
He directs a single finger towards her face, pointing to the faint red imprint that is unmistakably a scar. A scar shaped in the form of a single lightning bolt.
"Ah, that. Voldemort left it. I get a little self-conscious about it at times, but what can you do?"
Something in her tone tells him the confidence behind the words is not exactly assured. But that is not the reason why he has directed his attention to the scar.
He removes the mechanist goggles sitting above his head. The hair above his crown springs free. He parts the bangs to reveal what has been unintentionally hidden from their sight.
The same lightning bolt scar etched across his forehead.
++++++
"What do you make of all of this, Albus?" Minerva was saying.
The boy had gone outside to tend to his machines. If he noticed the consternation his revelation had cause, he certainly didn't show it.
Dumbledore stroked his beard in thought.
"I am not sure, old friend. What happened that night had always been a theory. We do not currently possess the methods to either prove it or disprove it," he turned to Lily, "You mentioned that when he first appeared, there was a tremendous magical explosion?"
"Yes," the woman, still emotional, said back.
"We felt it, Dumbledore," Sirius spoke up, "The magical backlash. We all did."
Sitting by Sirius's side, Remus nodded.
"And the language barrier?" the old headmaster pressed, "Have any of you heard of such a language spoken before?"
They all shook their heads.
"Neither have I and I have traveled extensively in my youth. It is a language that is unheard of in this world."
"What are you implying, Headmaster?" James asked.
"I am implying there is a possibility," Dumbledore said simply.
Realization slowly dawned.
"If all of this is true," Arthur Weasley swallowed, "Then the Department of Mysteries will want to be involved."
"The Department of Mysteries is rumored to be infiltrated by Death Eaters," growled Moody.
Dumbledore turned.
"Kingsley?"
"I cannot confirm or deny those rumors," Shacklebolt said calmly, "But with current events as they are, it would be foolish to assume otherwise."
"I won't let them take my son," Lily looked up at them fiercely.
"What makes you think he'll let them take him?" Moody grinned darkly.
The old headmaster raised an eyebrow.
"What do you mean by that, Alastor?"
"You saw what happened out there. What he did to those Death Eaters. The boy's strong. Those metal clunkers of his aren't bad in a fight either. We could damn well use the help."
James glared at the ex-Auror.
"Our son just came back to us and you're already wanting to involve him in this war?"
"He certainly didn't mind involving himself, did he?" Moody shot back.
"I was hoping a more nuanced conversation would happen before any talk about the Order could occur," Dumbledore said mildly.
"We don't have the time."
All eyes turned to figure leaning against the wall. Snape scowled back at them.
"You think this recent attack was it? That somehow he'll stop after this? He has more attacks planned. And they will get harder and harder to stop until all of us are dead. We've already denied him the first time. The second time… He's going to try his damndest to make sure the second time won't be like the first."
The double agent glared at them before slouching back against the wall.
"We don't have the time," he repeated.
++++++
Lily had escaped the confines of the room for a breath of fresh air. The argument had grown heated and she no longer wanted to be a part of it. Not when the subject was her son.
She made her way towards where she knew he would have gone.
Even though she could not speak with him, just watching him at a distance was enough for her.
He was standing in front of his golems. Lily noticed that he had taken off the traveling cloak and the armored plating covering his front. A rumpled undershirt was all he wore over his upper body.
What she saw on his bare arms and back made her forget about anything else.
"James!"
++++++
He has stripped to his waist to combat the relentless heat.
The coal furnaces and steam boilers that are the heart and lungs of each warjack also makes working near them a sweltering experience. The temperature radiating from their mighty frames was hot enough that it could cause heat strokes to those unused to such hostile operating conditions. But he had learned to endure just as all warcasters had learned to endure.
Out in the field, warcasters were expected to perform the rituals of maintenance and repair themselves.
And this, technically, counts as out in the field.
He pulls a wrench out of the holster from his belt. The Crusader has taken some superficial hits in the skirmish with the masked figures. There is no outward sign of damage but he wants to make sure.
He raps the head of his wrench against the warjack's side.
"Kneel you old bastard. I can't reach you."
The Crusader swivels to stare at him. Through its steel and brass faceplate, it gives a warbling growl of complaint.
"Yes, so you say. Knights only kneel to lords. Well, I am your warcaster so I am, by definition, your lord. So kneel."
The warjack lets out a huff but obliges him. It sinks to one knee.
He ducks under the arm holding the Inferno Mace and opens a bolted panel directly under the Crusader's immense shoulder. Inside, he can see grinding pistons and hissing pneumatic engines furiously at work. The inner walls within the armature shine with arcane sigils.
He nods, satisfied.
Some of those runes he has inscribed himself into the Crusader's towering frame. They link the magic controlling and operating the warjack to his own magical core. Thus far there has been nothing to suggest arcane decay within the runic command system.
He closes the panel and rebolts it shut. The Crusader is still staring at him. A questioning grunt sounds from the warjack's brass face grille.
"Nothing's wrong with you," he replies and taps the Crusader on the head with his wrench, "You're just too old."
The response he receives is a jet of warm steam blasted directly into his face.
He smiles as he bats away the fumes. He pats the warjack's side affectionately before moving on.
He will need to perform the same diagnostic check on the rest of his engines to guarantee operational stability.
"Harry!"
He turns at the voice. It is the woman's. He is not yet used to the idea of calling her anything else despite the all evidence to the contrary.
"James! Come quick!"
He frowns as the woman grinds to a halt in front of him.
"Is something amiss?" he enquires, knowing she would not understand but figuring it was polite to ask anyway.
The frenzied way the woman's eyes dart across his body almost makes him want to take a step back. Her hands grasp his shoulders.
"Harry, what happened here? Please tell me!"
He gazes at the spot where she is indicating. The area below his left shoulder, now exposed after shedding his armor and outer clothes. The flesh there is warped and ugly. Extensive tissue damage has left the skin permanently scarred.
He looks back at the woman.
"Khadoran war-axe. It bit deep. I had to self-cauterize the wound before I bled out."
By this time the man and the girl had also come out of the house, along with some of the others he had seen in the room.
"Lily, what's wrong?"
"Look at him, James! Just look at him!"
"Harry?" the man begins to say before his eyes drop down, "What… What happened, son? Who did this to you?"
He looks down to where the man is staring. His right arm, pockmarked with scars. He nods.
"Field gun emplacement. It missed me but I was caught within the radius of the blast. My armor protected me from the worst of the shrapnel, but some managed to get through."
"Merlin, Harry! You have more scars than Mad-Eye," the girl's tone suggests she is trying to make light of the situation, but the concern radiating from her body dispels the notion, "What happened to you when you were away?"
He blinks. Their behavior puzzles him. He does not understand why they are hounding him about his scars. He had taken wounds during his career as a warcaster, yes, but didn't all soldiers inevitably take wounds on the battlefield? Was there something abnormal about the amount or scope that caused them to be in such an elevated emotional state?
His confusion turns to annoyance when the woman grabs his shoulders again. It looks like she might honestly start crying.
His irritation translates over to the bond he shares with his warjacks. They are attuned to his magic via the cortex-controllers implanted in their hulls. They feel what he feels and behave accordingly.
The Crusader growls low in its throat. The Cyclone clenches and unclenches its fists. The Berserker stomps its foot into the ground. Snorting noises, like those of an enraged bull, emits from its gullet.
The Reaper stares at their audience and tilts its head. The insectoid mandibles located directly under its tusked face clack together in a vaguely intimidating way.
The threat-signals displayed by his warjacks cause most of those present to back away.
His family do not. It is strange to use that term to describe them but it is technically the correct one.
He holds a hand up in midair. His engines immediately fall still.
Again, he tries to rethink things from a different perspective.
It's not that they are worried about the damage itself. They are worried because the damage has been done to him.
Such a minute variance in the equation and yet it makes all the difference.
Gently but persistently, he pries the woman's hands off his shoulders.
"I am a warcaster," he sweeps his arm towards the behemoths of steel and steam standing at his back, "This is what I do."