Baker Street Irregulars

Title: NO TITLE AS OF YET

Author: Kneazle

Disclaimer: Don’t own Potter. Try not to take weapons – I’ve worked hard on them with friends.

Summary: So Harry’s wrongly imprisoned in Azkaban. Nothing new there, right? Wrong. Harry’s tired of being Dumbledore’s weapon, Voldemort’s target and the press’ playboy. He takes matters into his own hands, especially when his loyal friends come to bust him out. Angry!Sexy!Harry makes an appearance.

>><<

Chapter One: Hit and Run

Harry had known that the summer before his sixth year at Hogwarts was going to be difficult. He just never realized how difficult. In fact, he had been planning to mope around, maybe yell and punch Dudley, and do his best to ignore the “guards” that were stationed around his house for his protection.

Then again, when Harry Potter is involved, things don’t exactly go by plan. Harry, who had been following to the best of his abilities, the Daily Prophet for news on Voldemort was sorely disappointed on the lack of Death Eater sightings. There wasn’t any, so instead he read about the arrival of the foreign vice-minister of France, a monsieur Pierre Laroux.

He was apparently a squib, meaning that he was born from a family that could do magic, but he himself couldn’t. He also happened to be married to a Muggle, and had a Muggle family, which made things worse for him because of his status in the French Ministry. He lived amongst Muggles, behaved like one, but was sent as a emissary to England’s Ministry of Magic to talk to Fudge in lieu of the French Minister of Magic.

Harry understood all this; it was a pretty big thing, especially with Voldemort on the loose these days. However, Harry couldn’t have known what was going to happen next.

On the morning of July 31, Harry woke up glad to be sixteen. He had survived another year, despite Voldemort’s best efforts to kill him, and was going to start his advanced classes at Hogwarts in a month’s time. He had been sent various nifty gifts from friends for his birthday, as well: defense books, sneak-o-scopes, a wand holster, his OWL results, his school books for the upcoming year, a diary that belonged to Sirius (from Remus), and a bunch of new clothes that Tonks and Kingsley had supplied for Harry after seeing him in the second-hand rags that he wore.

Mrs. Weasley had sent a birthday cake, but Harry didn’t get much of a chance to eat it. Rather, he was disgusted in its state: there were pieces and chunks missing from it and a hastily written notes stating, don’t worry, your cake isn’t poisoned. He was immediately swept downstairs by his Aunt to make the Dursley’s breakfast (as usual) and once he was done, started on the chores that he had to complete before the day was out.

The sun was bearing down on Harry; sweat made his t-shirt cling to the back of his neck and spine. He was on his knees (his pants were going to have grass stains), pulling weeds from Aunt Petunia’s garden in the backyard. The sun was sweltering, and the hose-ban had been placed back into effect as yet another extremely warm mid-summer began.

He longed for a chance to douse himself in water, but knew that he couldn’t. Apparently, because of the hose-ban, he could take washing Uncle Vernon’s car off the chores list, making it immensely shorter to his relief.

After weeding, Harry brought out the lawn mower and set to work first in the backyard, and then the front.

Crack!

Harry whirled and had his eyes roaming Privet Drive for the witch or wizard that had apparated. They weren’t even very conspicuous about it, because many neighbors stuck their heads out of the window and looked around for the source of the noise. Unperturbed, Harry turned back and continued to mow, looking dismally down at his white sneakers that now had green around the toes and sides. Oh well. He never liked them anyway.

Doing household chores that physically drained Harry was like Godsend. He couldn’t allow his brain to wander, or to think, because if he did, he would be painfully reminded of the last few seconds of his godfather’s life.

Immediately, flashes of memory blinked in and out of focus in front of him: visions of Neville under crucio, Hermione falling under the stunners, Ron being attacked by the brain, Sirius’s once handsome face filled with shock as he fell through the veil, Bellatrix’s voice taunting him.

Harry cringed and closed his eyes.

“No, not here, not here, please not here, not now,” he murmured under his breath, a mantra that continued until the faces and voices and smells receded and he was left with the smell of freshly cut grass, hamburgers being grilled near by, and the voices of children shrieking and laughing from number 5’s backyard swimming pool.

Harry was once again back in the safety of the real world, the Muggle world, a world where Voldemort was just a bunch of French words placed together and Death Eaters sounded like the latest video game.

Once he was finished with the lawn, Harry wiped a string of sweat from his brow and glanced around. Tonks’ latest disguise wasn’t very convincing: she was dressed up as a punk from the early 1980’s, and was currently being look at oddly from the rest of the Privet Drive conservative neighbors. She stuck out like a sore thumb.

Harry shrugged, turned, and walked inside 4 Privet Drive with the idea of a bowl of pasta for lunch from a tin. He entered through the front hall, glancing into the living room to see Dudley eating contently at a large plate of steak and side dishes watching the telly. Sighing, Harry made his way into the kitchen and set about to make his pasta.

Opening cupboards, he found that there was only one tin of Mythology Zoodles, so he took that. He dumped the contents into a bowl and heated it through the microwave, watching the digital numbers count down.

The microwave beeped, telling Harry it was done warming his meal, and Harry gathered a spoon and glass of milk. He then retrieved his bowl of Zoodles and sat at the table, staring into the orange pasta.

He blinked a couple of times before realizing he was not imagining the Zoodles characters: there were griffins, phoenixes, unicorns, dragons, Pegasus’s, Yeti’s, and even a basilisk. Harry suddenly didn’t feel very hungry anymore.

He was staring at the bowl when he realized that he needed to go for a walk. He needed to get his mind off everything that had happened, and he needed to have some quality time in a peaceful location where Dudley and his gang of bullies haven’t destroyed anything yet.

Cleaning his bowl and putting his utensils away, Harry grabbed his wand and jacket that were in his room and left the house, looking both ways. Another crack echoed through the area and Harry sighed. His guards were changing shifts.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, and ignoring the heat (it cooled down considerably at night, and Harry wasn’t sure how long he’d be), he started walking down Privet Drive, turning onto Wisteria and then further still, until he was out of his usual neighborhood.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he missed the loud crack.

>><<

Harry didn’t return to Privet Drive until it was well after sundown; in this case, it was nearly midnight when he returned to the house. He had rethought his opinions on the war, Dumbledore, and Sirius’ death. He didn’t want to become a weapon, but he realized that if he were going to be killed, he would rather fight back. It wasn’t in his nature to sit back and not fight, he realized. He had always fought.

He remembered when he was younger, back when he just started school. He was always alone; Dudley had made sure of that. Harry was used to being alone – throughout his whole life he had been pushed aside, yelled at, belittled all because he was that beastly Harry Potter, that little freak, the one that no one wanted. One particular memory was when he was starting his first day of school. Dudley already had Peter Polkis and his other friends, and Harry had hoped to make some of this own. He hoped there would be someone who would like him for him and that Dudley wouldn’t scare them away. Harry had met a nice boy, his age, who was shy and liked to read. Another liked to show off his magic tricks. Harry had befriended them, painfully shy and soft-spoken. They had gotten along until lunch when Dudley beat them up. They had refused to talk to Harry again after that.

Harry then remembered seeing Sirius’ face for the first time. It was on the telly, where the newscaster was saying he was a dangerous criminal. Then, he remember Mr. Weasley’s words: “It’s always the same thing. ‘He’s at Hogwarts.’ The guards say he talks in his sleep.” Sirius wasn’t after him thought – he was after Peter Pettigrew, who happened to still be at large. And Sirius had offered Harry a home. A real home, a real place to stay. The joy he had felt and the look of surprise and wonderment and amazement on Sirius’ face was enough for Harry at that moment of reminiscing to give a small chuckle. God, I miss you Sirius.

He sighed some more, and looked at the clouds, picking out ones that looked like Hogwarts, Mrs. Norris, Buckbeak, and Padfoot.

After lazing about the park for a while, watching clouds go by and getting a slight tan from being out in the warm sun, he decided to head back, still lost in happier memories involving himself and his godfather.

He walked through the back door of 4 Privet Drive, and immediately saw his Uncle’s purple face. He knew that they didn’t mind his late walks – in fact, they encouraged it as long as he kept quiet and came through the back. Unsure of this new rage, he glanced around and stepped into the living room – only to be accosted by dozens of wands pointing at him. Some of the wands, Harry saw with dismay, included Tonks’ and Kingsley’s. The Aurors were stationed around the room, sitting on the sofa and armchair, while the others were standing. Aunt Petunia and Dudley were huddled in one corner, with Uncle Vernon standing at the doorway to the kitchen and living room. Confused, and worried (as they were all Aurors), Harry asked, “What’s going on?”

One of the Aurors with the name Handler said gruffly, “Harry Potter, you are under arrest. You have the right to remain silent. Everything you say can and will be used against you. You have the right to a lawyer, and a right to contact three people to explain what is going on. Your guardians are allowed to come with you to the Wizengamot where you will stand trial tomorrow morning at nine o’clock.”

“What? What am I accused of?” Harry asked, panicking now, as Tonks came forward and confiscated Harry’s wand.

“Wotcher, Harry,” Tonks said quietly, her eyes sad and disappointed as she placed Harry’s wand in the folds of her Aurors robes.

Harry’s breathing deepened, and he swallowed convulsively. With his hands trembling, he allowed Tonks to place a hand on his shoulder and usher him toward the middle of the Auror group, where Kingsley was holding an old shoe – a portkey. A portkey that went straight into the Ministry, where he would be held, like a common criminal.

Oh, God, oh fuck, oh not again, Harry’s panicked mind whirled with thoughts and images of his last meeting with the Wizengamot. His eyes darted everywhere at once, wondering what was going to happen to him.

His hand unwillingly touched the portkey and immediately he disappeared with a tug on his navel. He didn’t know how he managed, but he remained upright when he finally appeared at the end of the portkey location.

He bit his lip to hold back a choked cry; he was in the entrance hall of the Ministry of Magic, staring at the repaired statue of the house elf, centaur and goblin looking up at the wizard. Harry felt sick as he looked at the gleaming gold. He remembered all too well what happened the last time he was here.

The Aurors led Harry down twisting and twining hallways until they reached their destination. Harry entered the room. The walls were whitewashed, and there was a single wood table with matching chairs surrounding it. Harry knew what the room was used for: interrogations.

“What’s going on?” he tried again, mustering up all his innocence. If he made it look like he was extremely nervous and scared (which wasn’t far off), someone might take pity on him and tell him.

No one did, however. He was pushed into one of the chairs, while Kingsley and Tonks stood behind him, their arms crossed. Handler, and two other Aurors Harry didn’t know took the seats opposite to him and leaned forward, their arms crossed.

“Where were you tonight, Harry?” Handler asked.

Harry swallowed again. “I went for a walk after lunch,” he answered truthfully, carefully.

“Where did you go?”

“I went to a park. There was a bit of forestry there and I sat on the ground. Meditated. I needed to go somewhere to think,” he answered again. “Did something happen? Why am I under arrest?”

Handler ignored him and brought out an official looking folder. He scribbled something using a quick-notes quill and raised his eyebrows as he looked at Harry again. “Do you have proof of this?”

“I was by myself. No one knew where I was going,” he said, inwardly grousing. No witnesses. Not a good sign.

“Do you know who this is, Potter?” Handler asked, sliding a photo across the table at Harry. The man on the photo looked back at him: he had a large forehead, brown hair that was thinning, kind brown eyes and laugh lines around his mouth.

“Sure, that’s Pierre Laroux. He’s been in the Daily Prophet for a while now. Why?”

Handler exchanged glances with the Aurors beside him. “Why, Potter? Because he was found dead in his hotel room this afternoon, at three-thirty two.”

Harry didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say.

“Why don’t you look over there, Potter?” Handler suggested, pointing to the far wall. Harry turned his head slightly, and then saw a picture appear on the wall. The room darkened, and Harry realized he was seeing the equivalent to a video.

But what he saw made his face pale and his hands tremble.

The time stamp on the bottom of the image was numbered at 3:04 pm, July 31, 1996. The image was of a fancy hotel lobby. The camera angle was pointed down, so that it could see all people walking in and out of the building through the front revolving doors. What he saw chilled him. A splitting image of himself appeared, walking confidently and slowly into the hotel lobby. He wore a similar jacket to Harry’s (down to the same colour and style), baggy and ripped jeans, and had the same glasses. The doppelganger looked up and stared into the camera for a few seconds before walking off screen.

The image changed to the elevator, where he saw his doppelganger again, this time he was removing a wand from his pocket and was cleaning it casually and meticulously. The elevator stopped at the tenth floor, and doppelganger Harry exited.

Again, a new scene: Harry walking down hallway of the tenth floor, stopping at an unidentifiable room number door. Harry knocked on it, and when it opened, the doppelganger’s arm came crashing down simultaneously as his lips formed two words: Avada Kedavra…

The figure standing in the doorway, a tall man in a business suit, fell to the floor dead. Harry threw his head back and appeared to cackle madly, before pocketing the wand and disappearing the way he came in.

The images on the wall faded and the lights in the white room came back on. The five Aurors stared at Harry, who was pale and ready to faint.

“You… y-you can’t be serious… me? Kill someone… no, I wouldn’t…” Harry breathlessly tried to convince the five that he was innocent.

“That was you, Mr. Potter,” sneered Handler. “No one else. That is our evidence. Nothing you say will change that. As you have no witnesses, and nothing to say in your defense, I’m afraid that you’ll be leaving this room within the next fifthteen minutes before transportation will arrive to take you to Azkaban.”

Harry’s eyes widened and stared at Handler at the mention of the prison. “Azkaban? No! You can’t!”

Handler’s eyes narrowed. “I can and will, Potter. I’m the head of the Auror Division here at the Ministry. Is there anyone you would like to speak to before you leave?”

Harry thought quickly. “Remus Lupin. Professor Dumbledore.”

Handler nodded at the two Aurors beside him, who got up and left through a cleverly hidden and camouflaged door. “I’ll give you ten minutes, Potter, to recover yourself.” He nodded at Harry, who was staring down at his hands. They were tightly clenched together, the knuckles turning white in his effort to stop from shaking and vomiting.

“I didn’t do it, Tonks. You have to believe me, I didn’t!” Harry suddenly said, glancing behind him at Kingsley and Tonks.

“Oh, Harry,” sniffled Tonks, “How could you? It was you, who else could it be? I know… his death affected you deeply.”

“Tonks! I didn’t! It could have been polyjuice! Why would I kill someone I don’t know?” Harry tried again. He glanced at Kingsley only to see the other Order member didn’t meet his eyes. Swallowing self-righteous anger, Harry nodded. He spoke coolly instead. “I see. Never mind silly, insane, attention-seeking Harry Potter. He only wants people to look at him, right? Who cares that he lost his parents? That he saw Voldemort return, and that he watched his only ever known father die. Who cares, right?”

He laughed humorlessly, and turned back in his seat to stare at the wall in front of him. He heard Tonks’ feet shuffle closer, and heard a small, “Harry…” but the sound of footsteps and then the door opening had her back against the wall.

Handler appeared with Dumbledore and Remus, both of them looking fatigued. Harry stood, feeling a bubble of relief. He’d be okay now.

“One at a time, Potter?” at Harry’s nod, Handler continued. “Tonks, Kingsley, leave. Which one do you want to talk to first?”

“Professor Dumbledore, please,” said Harry politely and quietly. Handler nodded and the others left the room.

Harry sat, and Dumbledore took the seat across from him. Harry looked at the Headmaster and with a start, realized that the twinkle was gone in his eyes and the man looked older than he ever had, even when Harry was up for expulsion last year. Realization pounded into Harry with the force of a two-by-four.

“You think I did it,” he accused the old man, shock lacing into his words. “You fucking think I killed the man.”

Dumbledore heaved a heavy sigh. “Harry, the person on your watch, Joseph Appleby, said that you disappeared when you turned a corner. He couldn’t follow you, and when he turned the corner you were gone. He couldn’t find anything that belonged to you – he knew there was no forced abduction or the likes. He immediately went to the Headquarters and alerted all members. We went searching for you, until we learned what happened. Why?”

“I didn’t do it!” Harry protested. “I swear it on my parents’ graves, on Sirius! I didn’t – do – it!”

Dumbledore’s expression became grave. “Do not disrespect your parents’ sacrifice and Sirius’s death with such talk! How could you?”

Harry inwardly winced at the thundering tone of Dumbledore’s voice, but he knew it was a lost cause. Dumbledore didn’t believe him. If he didn’t, no one else would. Coldly, Harry said, “I believe our conversation is over. Please send Remus in.”

Dumbledore stood, his expression one of disappointment and weary acceptance. “I’m very disappointed in you, Harry.”

Harry turned his head away. “As I am in you.”

Ignoring Dumbledore’s frown, he drummed his fingers on the table and waited for Remus to come into the room. When he did, Harry stood, and watched him.

He looked into his eyes, and there he saw pain, loss, anger, but no disappointment, nothing condemning him. “You believe that I didn’t do it,” Harry breathed, relieved. He slumped tiredly into the chair.

Remus took three strides to his best friends’ son and swept Harry into a hug. “I don’t know how, pup, but we’ll get you out of this. I swear it.”

“It won’t work, Moony,” Harry whispered, feeling the hot sting of tears, as he gulped in air. “Dumbledore doesn’t believe me.”

Remus pulled back. “What? What do you mean, he doesn’t believe you?” His amber eyes flashed slightly, but his hands tightened on Harry’s shoulders in a gentle reminder of faith.

“He thinks I did it. He said he was disappointed in me. I swore it on my parents and Sirius’ deaths that I didn’t do it and he yelled. Said I disrespected them.”

Remus sighed and pulled Harry close to him again. “I’m so sorry, Harry. So sorry.”

“They say a new member was following me. I couldn’t have lost him, Remus! I was walking so slowly. I went to the park, and watched the clouds. I was thinking about everything that happened. I lost track of time and left when it was getting dark… but I didn’t do anything to that man, I promise!”

Sobs racked the teenager’s body. “I don’t want to go to Azkaban, Remus, I don’t want to go there. Sirius – Sirius was there for twelve years, and you know I won’t last. I can’t, when I’m around Dementors. I hear my mum and dad’s last moments… I see Cedric die. Oh, God, I’ll see Sirius die too…”

The teen sobbed against Remus for what seemed like hours, but was in reality minutes. A knock on the door interrupted the two in their comfort. It opened, revealing two Dementors, Dumbledore, Fudge, and a group of Aurors. Harry shivered, already hearing voices.

“Lily! Take Harry and go! It’s him, he’s here!”

Shuddering, Harry slowly stood, bracing his hands on Remus’s shoulders, as the older man was kneeling on the ground where Harry’s chair was. Remus glanced over his shoulder and shot Dumbledore a hard look, but the man didn’t do anything. Growling softly under his breath, Remus stood with Harry, and walked with him to the group.

As they stepped out of the room, Remus attached himself to Harry’s side and motioned for the Aurors to lead the way out. Confused, but determined, Handler nodded at Kingsley and Tonks, and three others to escort them to the entrance hall, where Handler explained a group of Unspeakables would take Harry to Azkaban.

The two Dementors followed the group, Harry giving them a wary glance as he did so, and caught Fudge’s gleeful expression. Horror wrapped itself around Harry’s stomach, and he gagged on air.

Remus’s hand smoothed down Harry’s back, comforting the teenager as he tried to valiantly ignore his mother’s screams in his head, that turned into Voldemort’s high, cold voice saying, “Kill the spare.”

As Harry and Remus and the odd group entered the main hall, Harry saw with a sickened feeling the large amount of press, wizarding society and school friends there.

“Potter! Over here Potter! Is it true, did you kill the Vice-Foreign Minister of France? Was it a conspiracy? Is You-Know-Who involved? Are you abused at home?” questions were flung at him from all sides of the press, but Harry only saw Rita Skeeter, an odd gleam in her eyes as she watched Harry and held his gaze. He continued to look at her while the Aurors in front of him slowly pushed their way through the throng of people.

“Did you do it?” she mouthed to him, her quick-quill hovering over her parchment. Harry shook his head slightly.

“Who?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at him. Harry let his eyes glance upwards to his scar, and then flicked his eyes to Fudge. By the speculative shine in her eyes, Harry knew she understood his message. He may not have liked the crap she wrote about him in his fourth year, but she did have a way with words when she helped him with her article about Voldemort’s return last year. Pleased that he’ll at least get a good laugh, even if he was in Azkaban, had Harry’s hopes climb a little higher from the pit of despair they were currently in.

“Steady, Harry,” murmured Remus, as Harry stumbled on the back of the Auror in front of him. His arms came around the only remaining living reminder of James, Lily and Sirius that he had. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Harry answered truthfully. “You do believe me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” replied Remus without any hesitation. “I’ll find more, Harry, I’ll get you out, and I promise it. Marauder’s oath.”

Harry allowed himself a small smile as his gaze swept over the crowd, picking out people he knew. The noise of people shouting at him, and jeers was reduced to nothing as he saw fellow DA members, schoolmates, and their parents.

Ron looked livid when he caught Harry’s eyes, but Ginny had tears and mouthed, “I believe you,” when he glanced at her. The twins were grim-faced, but nodded and had a mischievous twinkle in their eyes when they winked at Harry. Molly and Arthur were crying, comforting each other, and didn’t see Harry sweep his eyes over them.

Neville was pale, but met his gaze and Harry knew he didn’t believe the news; most of his DA that looked at him gave a reassuring nod, but it was a general consent of the populous that seemed to believe the news. Surprisingly, Draco Malfoy held Harry’s eye, smirk and sneer gone. His face instead was white and his eyes apologetic. Harry wasn’t sure what to make of that.

All too soon, Harry stepped out of the Ministry of Magic and saw with horror five Unspeakables, all wearing blood red robes and a question mark badge on their breasts. Remus swore under his breath and Fudge asked in a jovial voice, “Ready to go to your new home, Potter? Life in Azkaban will be quite an experience!”

Remus and Harry paused in their stride, faltering. Remus turned to Harry and gripped his shoulders. “I can’t go with you any further, Harry. I’m sorry… you need to do the rest on your own.”

Harry nodded. “I understand, Remus. Don’t worry.”

Remus’s eyes saddened. “How can I not, Harry? James and Lily’s son is going to Azkaban, the very hell Sirius was wrongly imprisoned in for twelve years… and now you’re going there too, innocent, and wrongfully accused.”

Harry shrugged. “That’s what you get when you’re Harry James Potter.” He glanced at Tonks, Kingsley, and then Dumbledore, all who refused to look at him. “Take care of yourself Remus. If you get the chance… send some people to visit. I’ll get lonely there.” He didn’t say mad or insane because he knew that spending time with the Dementors and seeing and hearing the last remaining moments with Sirius, Cedric, and his parents would break him faster than he could even conceive. Add to that the taunting and verbal abuse he received while with the Dursley’s would bring old wounds to the surface. He wasn’t sure if he was strong like Sirius. Strong enough to survive that little niche of hell that would soon become all he would know.

You have to be strong, Harry, a voice inside him, one eerily sounding like Sirius, said. You need to survive. Don’t let Voldemort and Fudge win. Beat them at their own machinations.

Harry, with a new feeling of resignation, sighed and clasped Remus to him tightly. “I’ll be okay. Just find a way to get me out of there, soon. Take care of yourself, Remus.”

Then, Harry left Remus’s comforting embrace, gave a small, sad smile to the last, true Marauder, and gave a jaunty little wave, catching Hermione Granger’s eye as she, and a few others came to watch him be taken away. She wiped her eyes and smiled at him, her eyes telling him all he needed to know.

He’d be okay.

With that, he turned to face the Unspeakables, and lifted his chin. He squared his shoulders and said, “Let’s go.”

>><<

Harry sat at the stern of the dingy that had been magically rowing itself from the mainland to Azkaban Island. There were two Unspeakables with Harry in the small boat, both silent and stony eyed. Harry tried to chat to them about Quidditch, but they seemed to ignore him, and so after a couple minutes, Harry ignored them too.

After all, he surmised, he should get used to being ignored in Azkaban. He’d be ignored, left alone to his own devices in his own cell, listening to the other occupants as they screamed and drooled and frothed at the mouth and went insane.

Azkaban was a fortress. It wasn’t a castle, or a square building that looked like a correctional center on the telly, but a giant gray building with pointy turrets, high gray walls and slivers of holes in the wall that served as an air vent and window. Harry wondered how Sirius survived.

At least he was an animagus. You’re not even that. How will you live there? He wondered, biting his lip. Worry and horror crept up on him again as he finally understood what he’d be facing. He’d be spending the rest of his days in a small, damp, dark and gray six by three cell.

Anguish at being treated like a criminal because of his name, Harry inwardly wailed and cried at the injustice that was being presented to him. Lost in his wallowing despair, Harry barely felt the boat hit the dock of Azkaban Island. He did, however, feel the cold seep into his bones, and the voices of his parents and others in his head. Trying his hardest to remain conscious, Harry forced his mind to place a block between himself and the Dementors that were slowly coming out of the fortress. They near floated above the damp grass, their rasping and rattling drowned out by the crash of waves hitting the sharp rocks that were situated around the gloomy island.

“Harry Potter, your newest inmate,” one of the Unspeakables finally said. Harry sneered and backed away from the Unspeakables and Dementors. When the two Unspeakables moved in on him, he lashed out with a fist in a move he saw Dudley do when boxing; the Unspeakable it went after however, caught his fist and squeezed, while the other punched Harry in the stomach. Collapsing to the ground, Harry clutched his stomach in pain and wheezed slightly, watching two polished shoes come toward him. He let the hand not clutching his stomach gather some sand on the rocky beach and waited. In a baited breath, he saw the two feet come close enough for Harry to stand and throw the sand and rocks at the man’s face.

He was startled and backed away with a strangled, “Arrgh!” sound, before the second Unspeakable who caught Harry’s fist stepped forward and knocked Harry down to the ground again with two punches to his temple. With spots and colours swirling in front of Harry’s vision, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to escape now.

He bowed his head and allowed the two to lead him through the Dementors, all who tried to be close to him, wanting to feed off his anger and emotions, and went into the building.

Harry was immediately struck at how gothic it was, when he entered. Tall, with wood beams criss-crossing and wrought iron gates separated the cells from the entrance hall. Floating candles were scattered around the entrance, more near a solitary desk where one man with greasy hair tied into a ponytail sat. He waved the Dementors away, all who disappeared into the surrounding darkness.

“Mr. Potter,” he man said. “Welcome to Azkaban Prison. Let’s see your quarters, shall we?”

He dismissed the two Unspeakables, who left in a hurry, and Harry, having no choice, followed the man.

“Your name, sir?” Harry ventured to ask.

The man’s eyebrows rose as he glanced over his shoulder, his waistcoat’s tails flapping in the air. “It’s Kilbourne, Mr. Potter.”

Harry nodded, looking left and right into various cells, hoping to recognized a Death Eater face, or someone who was still slightly sane. He saw none.

Kilbourne stopped on the third floor, after winding Harry through dark passages and creaky stairs.

“This is your cell, Mr. Potter,” Kilbourne stated, swinging open the bars of the cell. Harry caught the number: 358. Sirius had been in this cell before, Harry realized with a start. He had remembered hearing an off remark about it.

“Thank you,” Harry murmured, surprising himself and Kilbourne. He suspected that most people were brought in kicking and screaming, or stunned, not politely.

Kilbourne nodded, and Harry entered, looking around the dark cell. He sighed and sat on the rock bench attached to the left side of the cell and placed his elbows on his knees as he cradled and his. Then, he wept.

“Happy birthday to me,” he said in a wobbly voice when he finished crying, and fell into a deep, troubled sleep.

>>*<<

AN: Um… yeah. First off, this story is a collaborative effort between myself and a friend of mine. Well, truthfully, I write and come up with most of the ideas, but Braydon – knowing how much I am obsessed with Harry Potter, patiently listen as I explained OotP to him. Since then, he’s been on a kick to have a “bad” Harry Potter. I didn’t feel like making a bad Harry, because that would defeat the purpose of him being a traditional hero in the literary sense. So, instead, we made Harry to be slightly bad. He’s still going to have powers, will still be polite, but he’s not going to let someone manipulate him anymore.

So… yes, it’ll be violent. I’m a violent girl with an equally – if not more so – violently friend who wants to see Harry blow up a bus. I’m settling for the Underground. Um, no idea when the next chapter will be out. Or to any of my others stories. This is just written for tons and tons of fun, because Braydon and I don’t know why Harry wouldn’t pick up a gun and say, “fuck you Bella!” Anyway; no beta-reader. No spell or grammar check. Well, at least, nothing that was underlined in red or green. Those have been changed. So, enjoy. It’s a bit of a parody, you can say – because this would Harry in my perfect HP world. In world in which Harry who doesn’t give a shit and who’ll utilize his Muggleness to win the war.

Enjoy. Tell me what you think. Listen to the “Kill Bill” soundtrack. And “Toxic” by Britney Spears. Lots of dark, angry music, which can be translated into Seether, Evanescence, Disturbed, Finger 11, The Rasmus, The Strokes, The White Stripes, Lacuna Coil, Linkin Park (very much so), and above all, 3 Doors Down.

Read, review, enjoy. Yours, Kneazle [04.26.04]

AN2: [May.10.04] Thanks to those who caught the mistakes! I totally appreciate all you’ve done for BSI! Secondly, please give this story a chance. If you think that Dumbledore wouldn’t believe Harry… then think back: He didn’t believe Sirius either, who went to Azkaban without a trial – because Dumbledore is merely human and can’t read minds. He can only respond to scenarios that he has sufficient knowledge about. So, read the next chapter and then tell me what you think – but give it a try!

The Baker Street Irregulars

Disclaimer: Don’t own Potter. Try not to take weapons – I’ve worked hard on them with friends. Basic revenge plot from Alexandre Dumas’s Count of Monte Cristo (also a wicked movie), and scenes shamelessly stolen from Indiana Jones, Kill Bill, Pirates of the Caribbean and much more.

>><<

Chapter Two: Meeting

The door to Dumbledore’s office burst open through the use of wandless magic as Remus stormed into the room, pure werewolf emotion coming off of him in waves. Remus glanced at the door only briefly before stalking up to where Dumbledore sat behind his pristine, dark wood, completely clean desk.

“What in Merlin’s name were you thinking?” Remus snarled. “Sending a sixteen year old boy to Azkaban prison! Azkaban! Did you finally snap, old man? Tell me why, goddamnit, why?”

Dumbledore, who had not moved during Remus’ rant, looked up impassively. “Harry Potter killed that man, Remus. You saw the evidence. I regret that it is unfortunate that Lily and James’ son would—”

“Don’t you dare talk about them like you know how they would feel, Dumbledore,” snapped Remus, clenching his hands together tightly, and ignoring the warm oozing sensation, that was his blood, pooling around his fingers before dripping to the floor.

Dumbledore cleaned it up with a simple scourgify. His eyes didn’t twinkle, and his mouth was set in a straight, grim line. His face was a colour of paste, and his body was slumped over and smaller than usual. Remus wasn’t sure, but he was guessing that Harry’s incarceration was taking more of a toll than Dumbledore wanted to admit. For whatever reason, Dumbledore believed himself to be right, and that was all that mattered – after all, he was the most powerful wizard in the world.

But maybe not anymore, Remus thought sadly. “You realize,” he spoke, enunciating his words slowly and clearly, “That if you are wrong… and Harry is innocent, which he is, regardless of what you believe or not… you will most likely have either a puddle of meaningless goo – in which, if that is the case, be expected to turn into a werewolf for the rest of your pitiful life – or a very, very angry and dark wizard on your hands. One, who, I might mention, will not help you in fulfilling the prophecy.”

Dumbledore’s left eye gave a small twitch. “I don’t believe it will come to that. It is, after all, an unfortunate incident, but –”

“UNFORTUNATE INCIDENT!” roared Remus. “You’re sounding just like that fool, Fudge, Dumbledore!” Remus peered into the eyes of the headmaster, and without warning, quickly drew his wand and shouted, “Finite Incantatum!”

Neither Dumbledore’s expression, nor behavior changed. “I am under no spell, Remus.”

Remus, silent for a long time, sighed and hung his head, his hand with the wand in it falling to his side. “At least tell me why, Albus.”

Dumbledore sighed, his weary eyes dark as he remember something particularly discouraging. “Do you know who Tom Riddle is, Remus?”

Remus nodded his head slowly. “Top student here fifty years ago… now Voldemort. Why?”

“Do you remember learning a case in History of Magic, titled ‘R. v. Riddle’?” Dumbledore continued, leaning on his desktop with his elbows and propping his hands together.

Remus’s brow furrowed. “I believe so. It was a landmark case or something like that… Riddle, the boy, was charged with the murder of his father and grandparents. However, when they went to check his wand using Prior Incantatum, only the last spell he did was lumos, and they kept checking, but there was no Unforgivable.”

“What else?”

Remus continued, with his eyes glazed over as he remembered his sixth year, so many, many moons ago. “Well, Riddle got off. The Ministry took the blow because they couldn’t give Veritaserum to a sixteen-year-old boy, because pf the potent amount of some of the properties in it. Something like it would become a hallucinogen?”

“That is correct, Remus. The use of ayahuasca is in Veritaserum, and as you know, ayahuasca is a hallucinogen when drunk on it’s own,” Dumbledore sighed. “And then, a year later, Tom Riddle disappeared off the face of the earth, only to appear five years later as Lord Voldemort.”

Remus blinked. “And… what does this have to do with Harry and his case?”

“Do you know just how powerful Voldemort is, Remus?” asked Dumbledore carefully, glancing up at the agitated man.

Remus shook his head.

“Voldemort is extremely powerful. He is so powerful that he can do a minimum amount of wandless magic, which I myself cannot even do. Oh, well, we can do wandless magic when we are young or extremely emotional as you displayed earlier, of course, but once we receive a wand we channel our magic through it to do what we want.”

“Then what, Albus?” Remus sighed, his patience wearing thin.

Dumbledore’s eyes took on a hard quality. “He used wandless magic on his father and grandparents, Remus… just like Harry. You can say whatever you want a spell to be, but it’s the intent that comes out of the wand. For first years, you teach them that saying ‘lumos’ means your wand tip will light up. But, say someone doesn’t learn like that – they just want light and they have a wand. Their wand tip will glow. It’s the intent of magic.”

Remus stared. “You know Harry wouldn’t kill someone, Albus. You know that.” He paused. “What are you hiding from me?”

Dumbledore squirmed under the werewolf’s glare. “Nothing.”

“You’re not the only one who is good at Legilimency,” snapped Remus uncharacteristically. “Now, what is it that you’re hiding?”

Dumbledore sighed. “The last time I hid something from someone, Harry accused me of being the one who killed Sirius… fine. I shall tell you.”

Remus crossed his arms and waited.

Dumbledore took a deep breath and recited, “The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies … and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not … and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives … the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies …”

Remus stared. “You’re joking.” He paused, waiting to see Dumbledore’s reaction, and when he didn’t receive one, he let out a primal growl. “Harry would not kill someone for practice or pleasure, Dumbledore! He will kill Voldemort, if he has to, but he wouldn’t do it because he liked it!”

Dumbledore’s eyes shone in sadness. “Remus, please… understand that we can’t know that anymore. He was very upset that night, and he may have decided to try something on his own –”

“How can you say that?” Remus spat. “How can you say that about the one boy who ever looked up to you as a mentor?” He shook his graying head. “That’s just plain daft, Albus. I thought you knew better.”

Dumbledore turned away. “He will not be given a trial, Remus. Tonks had his wand and checked it. It’s clear, but that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have done the wandless magic. We both know Harry is powerful.”

Remus didn’t say anything, just set his teeth together with a firm, jutted chin.

Dumbledore sighed. “I see. I cannot change your mind, and you cannot change mine.”

“Harry is innocent. He will never trust you again!”

“He never trusted me anyway, Remus,” murmured Dumbledore, “We had a falling out before he left school. It would not have made much of a difference.”

“Say you’re wrong! Then what?” Remus begged. “Then what will you do?”

Dumbledore turned his head away. “I cannot believe that I am wrong about this, Remus. Harry will need to learn to kill, and with his emotions all over the place because of Sirius’s death, he will be likely to go Dark. Going to Azkaban, I’m afraid, is the best precaution we can have. I would rather deal with losing to Voldemort than see Harry turn.”

Remus snapped his mouth shut.

“Did you find what you were looking for, Remus?”

He blinked his eyes a couple times, hoping to remove the tears that he knew would soon fall when he would step out of the room, and nodded. “Yes. I did, Headmaster,” he whispered.

He turned and walked toward the door, pausing to look around at the office he once loved as a child. Dumbledore had given him a chance at a normal, wizard life and an education he would never have received because of his status as a werewolf. And now, Remus felt betrayed. The man that once swore to protect him was now turning away the one boy who needed protection, more than anything. And, in doing so, Dumbledore was turning away not only James and Lily’s child, but also Sirius’ godson, and the only boy Remus ever thought remotely as kin. He was destroying everything, everything the Order had worked for; everything Sirius and James and Lily died for.

Remus felt a lump in his throat, and squared his shoulders. “Goodbye, Dumbledore,” he said, before leaving the office in a brisk stride. Engrossed in his thoughts and his pain, he didn’t realize that the door to the office slammed shut behind him wandlessly.

He wouldn’t set foot again in Hogwarts for many, many years to come.

>><<

Severus Snape never liked James Potter. Or Sirius Black, now that he thought about it, and he hardly tolerated Remus Lupin (he didn’t like dogs. He really didn’t.). But, he did respect young Potter… er, well, Harry that is… even if he didn’t say it. But the boy did have a talent for miracles, if anything.

There was that time with the Philosopher’s Stone… and the basilisk fang… oh, oh, and meeting Voldemort when he was fourteen and somehow surviving it – really, can’t imagine how that came to be when most Death Eaters left that party under the effects of crucio – and then there was that rather spectacular moment in the Department of Mysteries, where Voldemort took over Harry’s body…

Severus shook his head. Oh yes, if anything, that boy was a kicker. He wasn’t going to roll over and die in Azkaban, Severus was quite sure about that. In fact, the more that he thought about it – and the conversation that he accidentally overheard just recently – he was quite sure that Harry was going to want some visitors. Oh, and books. And perhaps some decent food? Merlin knows that Azkaban only served Nutella and water. Severus was sure he could sneak something in… maybe an apple?

Planning, a foreboding sneer in place (must keep up appearances, of course), he strode toward his room in the dungeons and prepared to brief the Dark Lord on Potter’s latest misdemeanor.

He stopped before a gargoyle, glared at its beady eyes for a bit (there hadn’t been any students in his way, oh darn it!) and snapped out, “Belladonna.”

Entering his humble, dungeon abode, Severus made his way over a thick, padded green carpet and went straight for his liquor cabinet.

He was so engrossed in the thought of some hard liquor that he didn’t notice his godson until he spoke.

“Well, today was eventful, wasn’t it, Professor?” the drawling, I’m-so-better-than-you voice of Draco Malfoy stated.

Severus jumped, pathetically, especially since he was a spy, and clutched is hand to his chest where he felt his heart race. “Merlin’s balls, Draco – give an old man a heart attack, why don’t you?”

“Sorry,” the teenager grinned, not sorry at all. He sat in one of the large, black wingback chairs that were a pair. The flickering red and oranges of the fireplace that was before him illuminated his face. “I saw Potter.”

Severus’s head snapped up from the tan liquid he was pouring. He set the Firewhisky down and glanced at the young Slytherin. “When?”

“Before he was escorted out of the Ministry.”

Severus put down the shot glass. “How was he? Did he… say anything?”

Draco shook his head, the light bouncing off his blond hair. “No. Actually, he seemed very… resigned, content. Like he knew what he was facing, and was accepting it. Lupin was there, beside him, and helping him through the crowd. Looked pale, of course, with two Dementors near him… but he still held up pretty well.” Draco fell silent afterwards, only to ask minutes later, “Will he be sane when we get him out?”

Severus was silent. Finally, he said in a soft voice, “I don’t know.”

>><<

“This is absolutely, completely, and utterly useless,” came the sound of a melodic, female voice. The owner of that voice stepped out of a backroom that was located in Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, coughing and choking on a dusty text.

Ginny Weasley was a fairly tall girl, taking after Bill, Percy and Ron in the vertical department. Of course, she was her mother’s daughter and had the lungs to prove it too, so in reality, she was more like Molly Weasley than one would imagine.

“No, it’s not,” replied another girl, this one with brown bushy hair and cinnamon eyes. “We’ve got to help Harry get out of Azkaban. I doubt there will be a trial or anything like that… it’s going to be like Sirius all over again!”

Ginny fell silent. “I miss him. I wonder how Harry is going to deal with…” she trailed off, ending the message awkwardly.

Fred Weasley, one person of a pair, looked up from his notes. “Harry will be fine, Gin. Well, okay, not fine per se, but he’ll manage. He’s the Boy-Who-Lived.”

“That’s why he’s in that place! Because he’s their bloody hero!” snapped Hermione Granger, throwing a book at Fred. She looked surprised, then ashamed, and then horrified when she realized it came from Hogwarts.

“Good aim,” said Remus, as he wearily stepped out of the fireplace at 3W. Fred, Ginny, Hermione and the two others who had been silent looked up.

“Well?” Neville and George asked in unison. “What did Dumbledore say? When’s Harry getting out?”

Remus sighed. “Harry’s not getting out. Dumbledore believes he did it.”

Hermione paled. “He… he couldn’t.”

Fred and George shared a terrified glance and shouted; “He must have been under a spell, imperious or something… he wouldn’t do that on his own!”

“I tried, you two, I tried finite incantatum on him… and it didn’t work. There won’t even be a trial!” moaned Remus, sinking into a seat. His sandy brown hair was speckled with more grays than it had been before. “I’ve lost them both now. Both Sirius and Harry. What am I going to do?”

Hermione sighed. “Well, since there is no trial, we can’t have someone give Harry Veritaserum, either, despite the laws against underage usage. They say you can use it in controversial cases, and I’m sure this is one.”

Neville asked, “What about Prior Incantatum?”

Remus shook his head. “Dumbledore says Harry can do wandless magic. There’s also precedent for the case, so it looks bad for him.” He trailed off into silence, with the rest of the teenagers sullen.

Suddenly the fireplace turned a dark green, indicating someone was using the Floo. Immediately the people around the room and pranks and shelves slipped books away and hid floor plans, watching the hearth warily.

Severus Snape and Draco Malfoy stepped out regally, brushing the soot off their impeccable cloaks.

Severus turned and smirked at Remus. “Your conversation with the headmaster was enlightening, Lupin. I am surprised you could yell that loudly. You were always so quiet, even when you were with your… friends.” Severus sneered the last part.

Draco “ahem’ed,” and Severus glanced down at him, a mulish expression on his face. “Oh, fine,” he muttered. “I overheard you in the office and believe that you are correct in your assumptions. Potter was framed for the murder – most likely by the Dark Lord, but I wouldn’t put it past the Ministry either.”

“Fudge was looking like he caught the snitch,” inputted Draco, with a twitch of his nose when he thought of the expression.

“Cat that caught the cream,” Hermione giggled to herself, pleased at the expression. “So what do we do now? What can we do?”

“No trial, no Veritaserum, no nothing,” sighed Fred. “Harry’s going to rot in there.”

“We’ll come up with something,” protested Ginny, “We have to!”

Severus opened his mouth to say something, but instead he hissed, his right hand coming involuntarily up to clutch at his left forearm. Draco mimicked him, but an expression of extreme pain appeared on his face, despite his hope of keeping his apathetic mask on.

“We must go,” Severus grimaced. “We will discuss this more, soon.” He then turned on his heal, his cloak flaring out behind him as he strode to the 3W door, and then disappeared with a pop, Draco following him immediately after.

Hermione let her head fall slowly down to the tabletop, resting her chin on the edge. “What are we going to do at Hogwarts without Harry?”

No one answered.

>><<

A month and a some days later…

Hermione pulled out the gold Galleon that she had charmed for Harry as the leader of the DA and tapped it once with her wand, making the times and dates on it change. She watched as other members of the DA jumped slightly and felt around their pockets for the coin, glancing at her casually.

Hermione nodded back to a few of them, letting them know that it was a bona fide DA meeting. It was time to get back on track with Voldemort and his Death Eaters on the loose. She couldn’t afford to become slack – none of them could.

“Tonight? It’s only the second day of school,” sighed Neville, as he slid in the seat across from Hermione at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall. Ginny and Dean came behind him. Hermione wasn’t too sure what was between those two anymore, but she didn’t say anything. If Ginny wanted to gossip, she would listen.

“I know, Neville,” said Hermione carefully, “But Harry was the best dueler in the school, and now that… that he’s… well,” Hermione choked slightly, “gone, we need to keep up appearances of being the best in Defense Against the Darks Arts.”

Ginny sighed. “I wish… I wish things were different.”

Hermione nodded. “So do I.”

An hour later, once school was done and dinner had been served, Hermione was waiting for the members of the DA to arrive in the Room of Requirement. She stood in the middle, her hands folded behind her back as she worried her lip and paced restlessly.

Ginny, Neville, Dean and Seamus entered together, chatting and laughing before falling silent.

“It’ll be all right, you know,” commented Ginny with a wry smile on her lips. “I think you knew more spells and hexes than Harry ever did.”

“But Harry had more practice!” Hermione wailed, tugging at the end of her wiry hair. “I’m not cut out for this, really, I’m not. Harry had more practice, Harry was meant to be a leader. Not Hermione ‘The-Know-It-All’ Granger.”

“You might be a know-it-all,” inputted Luna, as she walked in to the room during Hermione’s wail, “but you happen to be our know-it-all.”

Ron entered soon afterwards, looking wary and nervous. When he spotted the group of Gryffindors and lone Ravenclaw comforting Hermione, he immediately moved in that direction. “Everything okay, Mione?”

Hermione just wailed louder. “I can’t take Harry’s place! I’m not Harry! I’m not strong enough like Harry!” she placed her head in her hands and moaned some more. Ron blinked, before slumping and awkwardly patting Hermione’s shoulder.

“You’re not a failure, I can’t believe you out of all people would say this. I mean, sure, there was that one time with Professor Lupin’s boggart when you didn’t manage to get perfect like Harry, but still…”

Ginny glared at her brother. “You’re not helping,” she warned in a singsong voice. Dean and Seamus chuckled while Luna tilted her head and studied both Ron and Hermione.

“Are you worried about something, Ronald?” she asked, blinking her owlish eyes at the redhead.

Ron sputtered. “What? No – I mean, why would I – oh, bugger…”

Hermione looked up at the admission. “What are you worried about? You’re not the one who’ll be leading the DA, Ron.”

Ron’s ear tips turned red and he began to shuffle from one foot to another. “It’s just that… well, why are we starting the DA again?”

Dean paused before asking, “Why not?”

Ron cleared his throat, feeling extremely nervous with six pairs of eyes studying him. “It’s just, well… so Harry’s fought Death Eaters and Vol—Vol – You-Know-Who, but look where he is now—”

Ginny was sure that Ron would have continued to say more if he hadn’t been on the receiving end of one of Hermione’s famous slaps. In fact, if Ginny had to think about it, this slap was much more harder than the one Hermione had given Malfoy in the Trio’s third year.

“Bloody hell, Mione!”

Hermione’s eyes weren’t filled with tears anymore, but they were rimmed with red as the shorter witch glared at her thickheaded best friend. “How dare you!” she seethed. “How dare you say that about Harry! You know he’s innocent!” When Ron refused to meet her eyes, Hermione let out an unearthly shriek. “RONALD BILLUS WEASLEY!”

Cowering slightly, Ron watched as Hermione stormed toward him, her index finger wagging in his general direction as she opened her mouth and let out a string of insults (not one swear word, though) that had him feeling like a four-year-old with his hand caught in the cookie jar. Mortified, Ron muttered out, “But he’s in Azkaban, they wouldn’t put someone innocent there…”

Hermione’s face slackened. “I guess you forgot about Scabbers and Snuffles, then, didn’t you?” she replied nastily. Ron’s face paled at the statement.

“Well, that was a special case, really—”

“You listen to me, Ron! Harry is innocent. We’ve known him since we were all eleven years old, and never ever has Harry wanted to kill someone!”

“He killed the basilisk,” inputted Ginny helpfully. Ron nodded to enforce the point.

“It was trying to kill him first, I can’t believe you brought that up Ginny, Harry was there saving you from Voldemort!” let out Hermione in one sentence, whirling to face Ginny. She blushed before murmuring, “you’re right,” and then moved to hide behind Neville.

Facing Ron yet again, Hermione shouted, “Give me one reason – just one—where Harry deliberately hurt someone for pleasure!”

Ron didn’t move, or say anything. As the seconds ticked by, and the door to the Room of Requirement opened again, Ron bowed his head. Other members of the DA were looking curiously at the group, but none were brave enough to come up and ask what was happening.

“That’s what I thought,” Hermione hissed. “Now, are you his best friend or not?”

“I am!” protested Ron in a whisper. “I am and I would never betray him!”

Hermione nodded, satisfied. “Then remember that, Ron. Why on earth would you think differently, anyway?”

Ron glanced away, at the floor and murmured, “It was like the Potters all over again… the best friend betrays the family, kills someone.”

Hermione sighed, her hands falling lifelessly to her side as she shook her head. “Oh, Ron! Harry wouldn’t do that. First of all, even if that was the same situation, Sirius was innocent remember? He never betrayed James or Lily. So, I think we need to have a little more faith in Harry.”

“And how can we do that?” replied Ron sadly. “He’s in prison, not a correctional center.”

A Hufflepuff from near them overheard. “Why should we help him anyway?” he asked nastily. “He’s a murderer!”

Hermione’s face turned red again, but this time Ron pulled her back and warned her to be quiet. However, before Neville, Dean, Seamus, Ginny, Luna or Ron could say anything, a Ravenclaw from across the room shouted back.

“No, he’s not!”

All of a sudden, the room burst into colour as spells and hexes and curses went flying back and forth, with people wearing their spoils of war. Hermione watched in part fascination, part horror as the group divided themselves into those who believed in Harry’s innocence (all the Gryffindors, only a smattering of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws), and those who didn’t.

“This is insane!” breathed out Dean, his brown eyes wide as he watched from a safe distance. He shook his head, totally at a loss. “This is just wrong. We’ll never fight and win against Death Eaters this way.”

“STOP IT! STOP IT ALL OF YOU!”

Instantly, everyone lowered their wands and turned their multicoloured hair, body parts, boiled covered faces and hands, and the likes to face the speaker.

Luna Lovegood, normally the quiet, calm and odd Ravenclaw who saw things differently than everyone else, was glaring hard at the large group of witches and wizards. “How can you divide amongst yourselves when war is upon us? How can you not believe Harry? After everything he did for the school – for the DA – for all of you!”

“You heard what Fudge said! He killed the French Foreign Minister!” shouted Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Hermione rolled her eyes. Of course, he’d blame Harry. He did so when they were twelve, what’s three years between then?

“And you believe that idiot?” snorted Ron. Hermione elbowed him. Yeah, like that was the best way to win them over, Ron, she thought, rolling her eyes.

Justin puffed his chest out and began to rant. “He’s a Parselmouth! He’s connected to You-Know-Who through his scar! He killed Cedric!”

Hannah Abbott was fidgeting next to her friend, but she was nodding her head, while Susan Bones and Ernie Macmillan were scowling at the two.

Cho, who had been quiet for most of the meeting, snapped, “Harry didn’t kill Cedric, You-Know-Who did!”

“Technically,” Hermione murmured to Ron, “it was Wormtail who did the killing and Voldemort who did the ordering.”

He snorted but continued to watch the growing argument.

“I can’t believe you’d stick up for him after what he did to your boyfriend!” called out a Ravenclaw, Terry Boot.

“We need to stop this!” whispered furiously Neville. “Before things get out of hand.”

Seamus shook his head. “It’s already out of hand… look – there they go again.”

Indeed, some third year had hexed Terry, and then whole mess started up again. Hermione sighed and motioned for Luna to shout again. The younger girl did so, pleasantly.

“SPOT IT ALL OF YOU BEFORE YOU FIND YOURSELF DEALING WITH AN ANGRY CRUMPLE-HORNED SNORKACKS!”

With the attention of the room once again on her, Hermione took a deep breath and tilted her chin up. “If you don’t believe that Harry is innocent, I will ask you – kindly – to leave the DA. Harry created the Defense Association in good faith to help everyone who wanted it, and while he might have a kind heart and would have kept you all in here, I do not. Harry is my best friend and I will stand by him until the day I die. So I suggest you leave if you think a sixteen year old deserves Azkaban.”

Hannah, Justin, Terry and a group of seven or so other Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs left, muttering and shooting glares as they did so. Only when they left and the door shut behind them did Hermione sink to her knees.

Talk exploded all around her, Harry being the topic.

Oh, Harry, she thought, as she tipped her head back and closed her eyes, we need you. Don’t leave us. Please, don’t leave me.

>><<

Azkaban was dark. And grimy, and there was something wet and just plain icky dripping from the ceiling but the young man that sat in the corner of the cell, in the area farthest away from the iron bars, barely noticed.

His gray shirt didn’t offer any warmth and his meals were always brought to him cold. His eyes had faded from an expressive, vibrant emerald to a dull, unpolished jade. They stared unseeingly at the far wall, with no expression on the face. Black hair tumbled in wild disarray, stopping just before hitting the young man’s eyes, resting on the edge of his glasses.

Glasses. Surprised they would let me keep something with glass in them. I could cut myself, and then where would they be? But no – I won’t. Remus believes in me. So does Hermione. And Neville, Ginny, Fred and George.

I wonder what those two have been making since I arrived here. Here being Azkaban Prison, the notorious Azkaban prison, where no one escaped. No, that’s not right, Sirius escaped.

Sirius. My Godfather. The only person I ever looked up to – well, Dumbledore doesn’t count, really. Not anymore, anyway. No, Sirius was someone I loved. He was someone who was taken from me before his time, someone who I loved dearly. By Bellatrix, that fucking cousin of his – I will get my revenge. How she could kill her own family is beyond me.

Family. I had a family once. My mum and dad: also dead. They were taken from life when they were young too. No chance to live, no chance with me and that prophecy that is ruining my life.

The prophecy. I wonder if Dumbledore has told Remus or Hermione or Ron yet. No, not Ron… if he heard of it I’d have heard him yelling bloody murder at the top of his lungs. I wonder what he thinks of me. He looked so angry. So confused.

I’d be confused too. I am confused. I know I’m innocent, so I wonder how I was at that hotel. Probably polyjuice.

I remember the polyjuice potion. Hermione made it when we were twelve. Twelve. That was such a long time ago.

How long have I been in here? Days? Months? Hours? Seconds? Time meshes together in a place like this. There is no beginning, and no end. Will I even be sane if I get out? No, not if. When. When I get out. I will escape.

I wonder how Sirius escaped. He was an animagus. I’m not, so that doesn’t help. The Dementors couldn’t feed on him when he was a dog. Lunch. Speaking of Dementors, it’s getting cold again.

Cold. It’s really cold, and well – there goes mum again, screaming in my head for Voldemort to leave me and take her instead. He took her, all right. She’s dead and I’m not. Shame, really. After everything that’s happened to me, I should be dead.

Dad’s voice now. Telling my mum to run. Oh, and there’s Cedric. I’ve heard him at least a dozen times. And Pettigrew’s voice following afterward, saying those fateful words.

Words are a funny thing. They can mean something or when you say something it can come out differently than you intended. Words are only so good. I wonder if you can do magic without saying words.

Magic. It’s been so long since I’ve done magic. I miss it. I miss Hogwarts and the classes. Oh, hell, I even miss Snape. That bastard. Snivellus. Well… maybe I don’t miss him that much.

“Is that the best you can do?”

Sirius. I miss him. I miss Remus too. And Hermione. Did I think about this already? Maybe. I can’t remember. Remembering things is hard, especially with Dementors near by. All they do is make me remember horrible moments. Moments like when Ginny was almost dead, when I learned about Mr. Weasley being bitten. That one night… that night that started this all.

I’ll never forget that night. There’s not fear attached to it. No pain or happiness or anything. Indifference. Anger, if anything. That bloody night when Voldemort – no, Riddle – came back. Flesh, blood, bone.

That’s what a human is made up of. They’re only flesh, blood and bones. People are fragile things that can easily break. Their mind is even more fragile than we’d like to admit. Take Neville’s parents, for example. Their mind broke. Things break easily in this world.

I know I am not so easily broken. I won’t allow myself to be. I sleep, I wake up, and then I eat. I get lost in a storm of nightmares, and I dream of revenge on those who hurt me.

I will have my revenge. Bellatrix will die for what she did.

Death? No. Death is too good for them now. I’ve heard that before. A line from a book perhaps? Maybe not. Doesn’t matter, anymore, does it? I’m in Azkaban. Prisoner #86225, that’s me.

No, that’s not right either.

I’m Harry Potter. The Boy-Who-Lived.

And then Harry closed his eyes and slept.

>>*<<

AN [Braydon]: I just wanna thank you (I’m guessing he meant me :-P) for writing such a great story and for listening to my ideas. And I also want to thank John Woo for feeding my homicidal tendencies with his amazing action movies.

AN [Kneazle]: ‘Lo all! I see some of you disagreed with me listening to Britney Spears’ “Toxic.” Surprisingly the beat made writing and typing faster. No clue how that worked, lol! Thank you bamaslamma29, for pointing out my error in the first chapter. I will see to replacing it ASAP! Thank you again! I hope that this chapter has answered some of your questions (Truth serum, prior incantatum, underage magic [well, not that one just yet], and perhaps some of the OCC-ness there has been) and perhaps raised some more! And sorry, Heaven, no new S&C just yet – I’m on a bit of a pirate block ((cries)). Hopefully, I’ve got 27 days to meet my goal of getting the next chapter out. Unfortunately, I need to see some more ass-kicking movies for motivation. Ergo, until Troy and Kill Bill Vol. 2 become available for me (meaning I get more money… *sheepish grin*). Hang in there!

Read, review, and enjoy! Yours, Kneazle + Braydon [May.04.04]

AN2: [May.10.04] Thank you to all you lovelies that have reviewed so far! You guys totally make my – and Braydon’s – day. ‘Coz law is so boring… :-D

Title: Baker Street Irregulars

Author: Kneazle

Disclaimer: Don’t own Potter. Try not to take weapons – I’ve worked hard on them with friends. Basic revenge plot from Alexandre Dumas’s Count of Monte Cristo (also a wicked movie), and scenes shamelessly stolen from Indiana Jones, Kill Bill, Pirates of the Caribbean and much more.

>><<

Chapter Three: Jailbreak

The-boy-who-lived in jail - Conspiracy to imprison wizard?

RITA SKEETER - LONDON. It’s 11:00 pm on Wednesday, July 31st, and do you know where your local hero is? No? Well, let me give you some clues. Today’s his birthday, the day when he turns sixteen. He used to live with his Muggle relations but currently his place of residence is Azkaban Prison. Give up yet? I’m talking about Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, and all-round hero and scapegoat of the wizarding world.

Early this afternoon Mr. Potter was charged with the homicide of Pierre Laroux, emissary to England’s Ministry of Magic to talk to Fudge in lieu of the French Minister of Magic. Mr. Potter was taken straight into custody of the Aurors who arrived at his secret Muggle home, taking his wand and reading him his rights before taking him into the interrogation room. There, he was threatened under torture and was forced to waive his rights for a lawyer and jury. He will be given a bench trial early tomorrow morning.

Mr. Potter came out of the Ministry criminal holding cells shaken and pale with two Dementors flanking him, but in the safe protection of werewolf and Werewolf’s Rights Activist, Remus Lupin, close friend of the late Potter family. Both Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and Cornelius Fudge, Minister for Magic, kept their distance from their favourite boy. A sad situation indeed, as it seems that Harry Potter's magical charm has finally worn off.

When asked about the charges and proof to testify against Mr. Potter, Percy Weasley, personal assistant to the Minister of Magic, replied, “Mr. Potter has been the bane of the wizarding world from the moment he arrived six years ago. Because of him, the safety of Hogwarts had been twice compromised by Death Eaters – who posed as professors of the school – and twice by even He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named himself. It was also a known fact that Hogwarts had hosted a dangerous werewolf and a notorious escaped convict on its grounds – the latter whom Mr. Potter was alleged to have had repeated contact with. It seems he had had contact with all the aforementioned.”

“It is a shame that the son of Lily and James Potter has turned out [this way],” says one parent of a child who goes to Hogwarts and wishes to remain anonymous. “All of us had such high hopes for the boy, but well –I guess it’s all that Muggle background, it is.”

The trial is scheduled for tomorrow morning at 9:00 am, but this reporter believes it’s all a hoax. Knowing Mr. Potter personally to a degree, this reporter can say that he was never crazy, and never wanted the attention that the press and schoolmates gave to him.

Through contacts and personal research, this reporter has found some important documents that make her believe that Mr. Potter’s arrest is the work of our Prime Minister himself, and You-Know-Who. Some of this evidence is based on…

“Well, at least she’s on our side,” sighed Hermione. She folded up the Daily Prophet without reading the rest of the article. She had read it over and over again in the sixth year Gryffindor boy’s dorm room often enough.

Half a year had gone by since Harry’s incarceration, and Hermione didn’t know what to think or believe anymore. She knew Harry was innocent, yet Dumbledore refused to do anything. Hedwig had become her owl, and she used her as often as she could to send Remus information of what people in the school were doing. He, in turn, would send in outside information. Every once in a while Hermione, Ron, Luna and Neville would meet Rita Skeeter in the Shrieking Shack, who would give them information in return for some juicy school gossip. Fortunately no student had yet been caught giving away information.

Fred and George had all but consumed themselves in their store, setting up displays and making more joke items, but spent a majority of their time when the store was closed in the back room. Remus said he had no idea what they were up to. Hermione didn’t want to guess, either.

All Hermione really knew was that she missed Harry. Missed him a bit more than a best friend and pseudo-sister should miss him. However, Hermione rationalized that it was just the typical Harry-Potter-syndrome and she would get over it once they figured out a way to save him.

“You know,” began Dean, from where he lay on his bed, facing the ceiling as he played with a Rubik’s Cube, “It’s pretty sad that Azkaban is so well fortified. If we had someone on the inside we could do a jailbreak.”

“Unlikely,” Seamus snorted. “Me mam’s said that Azkaban’s got tons more enchantments than Hogwarts, and it’s near impossible to get the floor plans.”

Hermione, who had looked up at Dean’s statement, found herself suddenly enthralled. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes turned strangely glassy.

“But there are floor plans, right?” she asked, breathlessly. She sat up a bit straighter and waved her hand for Seamus to continue. “What else do you know?”

Seamus paused. “Well, the floor plans are real enough, me mam’s seen them. Say’s they are a part of the Unspeakables department. So, the Department of Mysteries.”

Hermione and Ron exchanged a quick glance with Neville.

“Apparently, ”Dean continued, “That place is nearly impossibly to break into. Or as far as so the rumors go.”

Hermione grinned. “Nothing is impossible.”

Dean and Seamus quirked their eyebrows in Hermione’s direction. “What are you talking about, ‘Mione?”

“Ron, Neville and I have been in the Department of Mysteries,” she revealed. “And if we’ve gotten in once, we’ll get in again.”

“No,” inputted Neville, “they’ve got wards stopping us from getting in.” Hermione’s eyes glazed over because taking on a speculative gleam. Neville continued nervously, “I heard Gran talking about it over the summer, right after Harry’s interrogation.”

“Us specifically, or the Grangers, Weasleys, Longbottoms and Lovegoods?”

Neville swallowed. “Us specifically.”

A wide smile broke over Hermione’s face. “Right. Ron, send Remus an owl. Let him know about the wards. Tell him to send the twins over. He’ll know what it’s about.”

Ron raised his own red eyebrows but nodded, whistling for Pig, who was sitting on his perch in their room (Pig had delivered a letter from Ron’s mother earlier). “I think ‘Mione’s got a plan,” he said in a singsong voice.

The only reply he got was a mysterious smile.

>><<

Harry wasn’t having much luck sleeping. Voldemort had decided to play a little game of hide-and-seek involving a specially designed maze with the Muggles and his Death Eaters as the players. So far the score was Death Eaters: 5, Muggles: Dead.

He wasn’t quite sure how much time had passed, either. Sometimes he thought it was only a few days, and on other days when the Dementors weren’t near him and he wasn’t quite so wonky, he believed it to be nearly a year. And, if that was the case, he had wasted away when he was going insane. Harry could now see that his normally scrawny form had become skeletal, but not to the point of horror-movie grotesque. His ebony hair was much longer, becoming quite the shag, and it seemed it grew – how, he didn’t know.

Glancing from the corner of his extremely narrow cell (Harry could only stretch his legs out when he was on the ledge of rock that served as his bed), Harry saw that his lunch had been brought to him. He crawled toward it, on his pointy knees, and gathered his loaf of bread in his shaking hands.

“Pitiful, Potter. And here I thought that living with your Muggle relatives would condition you to this form of starvation.”

Harry grinned. He couldn’t help it, because there was only one person he knew who would act that way.

“Professor.”

His voice was hoarse from disuse and his throat felt dry; until he felt something warm and slow tickle its way down the back of his throat. With a start, he realized it was actually bleeding.

Severus Snape stood outside Harry’s cell, arms crossed and one foot tapping in visible impatience, something slightly uncharacteristic of him. He scowled.

“Indeed. Anyway; I was sent here to check up on you by your mutt,” he said. Harry’s brain began to work.

Mutt? What mutt? I don’t own a dog. Sirius was a dog. Animagus. Dog… family of dog. Wolf. Werewolf? Remus!

In the span of three seconds, Harry nodded and the flood of questions came pouring in. “Is he all right, then? And Hermione? Ron? Was Ron mad? Are you okay? What’s Voldemort planning? Why was Draco looking at me like that? What’s going on?”

“Pity you never seemed to ask questions in potions. You could have received more answers and better marks that way,” Snape sighed, but readied himself for a brief description. “Now, listen here and listen well, lad, because I’m not going to repeat myself. It’s been two years since your incarceration.”

TWO FUCKING YEARS??

Harry gaped at him.

He’s got to be shitting me. Wait, this is Snape.

“Wow,” Harry murmured, sliding to the floor. His voice was whispery and soft, spoken lightly to alleviate the pain from talking a normal voice brought to him.

Snape’s eyebrows rose. “Granger and Weasley-boy have been working with their… ah, study group, to find ways to get you out of Azkaban. Granger seems to be onto something as well.”

“That’s good.”

“Apparently Mr. Weasley believes in authority figures but Ms. Granger made him change his mind after a few chosen words. Draco was forced to take the Mark on the evening of his father’s… um, how shall I put this? On the, ah, evening of his father’s removal of the Death Eaters in the Department of Mysteries two years and some ago. Malfoy senior took quite a blow, but managed to come out victorious, yet again.”

“Nothing new there,” Harry murmured, taking a bite out of his loaf of bread.

“Yes, well, it’s Malfoy,” Snape agreed. “Anyway. Lupin wanted me to give you something.”

Harry’s emerald eyes locked with Snape’s onyx. “What is it? A skeleton key?”

“A what?”

“Muggle thing. A skeleton key is a key that can fit into any lock. I would have liked one of those so I could get myself out,” explained Harry, now done half of his loaf. He brushed his fringe away from his eyes. “Or something to do. It gets fairly boring here.”

“I can imagine,” said Snape dryly. Instead, he reached into his robes and pulled out a leather square.

Oh. Book.

“What is it about?” Harry asked, standing now. The remaining pieces of his bread lay unfinished on the ground.

“It’s your sixth and seventh year curriculum. Lupin and I figured that if you do escape –”

“When!”

“—Then you’ll want to know everything your classmates know, and maybe more. Apparently, it’s based on the idea of that dratted map of your father’s,” continued Snape, ignoring Harry’s interruption. “All your books are in here: just look at the index and study. I’ll be back when I can. The Dark Lord mustn’t know of my being involved.”

Harry suddenly looked pensive. “Professor Snape –” he stammered, “when I get out, if you ever need help… well, find me. I’ll do whatever is in my power.”

Snape’s eyebrows shot up but he said nothing. He barely nodded, acknowledging Harry’s offer, and then turned with a swirl of his robes, and left the building.

Odd, that one is.

Harry, picking up his unfinished loaf, munched on it unconsciously as he opened the book to the first page and began reading.

>><<

Fred and George Weasley were completely identical down to the scruffy-looking goatees they were sporting. Both of them had blues eyes, light auburn hair, and exactly eighty-nine freckles on their cheeks. Both wore medium-sized Quidditch jerseys, and both enjoyed foreign films over British films. They were able to finish each other’s sentences and were even known from time to time to wear each other’s clothes in an effort to fool their family and friends – which worked remarkably well.

When the Weasley Twins had been in Hogwarts, they were considered to be the reincarnates of the Marauders, mischief-makers extraordinaire. They left Hogwarts in their seventh year with a bang, and no one could ever accuse them of not being intelligent enough to plan their pranks and escape.

They were immensely smart, and were able to be quite devious and Slytherin in nature, and they were extremely loyal to Harry Potter. He had given them the first down payment to their joke shop, Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, and had always been there for them and their family. It was because of this amount of loyalty and kindness that Harry had shown them that the twins were doing what they were doing as a favour to Remus, Hermione and more importantly, Harry.

So when they received Hermione’s forwarded letter from Remus Lupin nearly a year and half ago, the twins had dedicated as much time as they could to trying to figure out ways that could help Harry. They had created many prototypes that would be of use later on – hopefully – but they were now nearing the completion of their mission.

“I can’t believe it took us this long!” complained Fred. “You’re supposed to be the smart twin, anyway. Why haven’t we found what we’re looking for yet?”

George sighed and rolled his eyes. “Gred, Gred, really… patience is a virtue, as our dear Know-It-All would tell us. We’re just doing what we do best.”

“Which is…?”

George frowned. “Well… we’re breaking into the Department of Mysteries. Ergo, we are using our skills acquired through the fabulous use of a special map by equally special creators.”

“Oh. You mean we’re breaking into a highly dangerous and guarded Ministry department because our younger brother’s best friend thinks we’re the only ones who can do this?” Fred clarified, dropping his voice to a whisper as they entered the telephone booth that would lead to the Ministry of Magic.

“Yes,” answered George, punching in 62442. “That’s exactly it.”

An instant later, a monotonous voice sounded from the telephone. “Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business.”

Fred and George shared a wicked grin before announcing together, “Fred and George Weasley, here to steal very important documents from the Department of Mysteries.”

“Thank you. Visitors, please take the badges and attach them to the front of your robes.”

Out of the coin return slot came two badges that George and Fred eagerly clamored for, gibbering at what was written on them. George held his up to the light and crowed, “George Weasley—”

“—Professional Borrower!” roared Fred.

They shared a hearty laugh, before descending into the bowels of the Ministry of Magic, bypassing the Aurors and wand weighing and the crush of people trying to go to work.

They kept their heads down and put on hats to cover their red hair, moving swiftly to the elevators, avoiding the flying messages as they did so. They just hoped that they wouldn’t run into anyone they knew.

“Where to?” a kind looking woman asked them as they stepped in.

“Department of Mysteries,” Fred said in what he hoped was the clipped tone of an Unspeakable.

The woman nodded, her lips pinched in a straight line, which reminded the twins greatly of McGonagall.

She got off a level before them, and with no one else in the elevator, the two were able to toss their hats and transfigure them back into a box. While Fred undid the lid of the box, George hit a red button near the elevator’s floor buttons that stopped the elevator completely.

“We’ve got about a minute to do this,” George informed his twin. “Are you ready?” the twinkle of mischief was gone from his eyes as he stared at his older brother seriously. They had never done this sort of thing before; in fact, George was sure that if he and Fred had decided to join the Order of the Phoenix when they were given a chance to two years ago, they wouldn’t be doing this either.

Fred nodded, solemn. “I’ve never been more ready than I am now. For Harry.”

George nodded back, and helped his brother unpack the contents of the box. He pulled out a mobile phone, six electronic dogs that had been modified to yap and do back flips and something extra, ten necklaces that had bottle cap pendants hanging from the string with swirling white clouds in the caps, and a pair of sunglasses for each twin.

While George continued to remove items from the box, Fred was muttering under his breath and flicking his wand back and forth. Sweat began to bead on his forehead as he continued mumbling continuously, hoping to get rid of the majority of the spells that surrounded the entrance to the Department of Mysteries.

The elevator gave a shudder and began to move again, making Fred and George glance at each other while hastily putting the sunglasses on. Fred gave one last flourish of his wand before pocketing it. They then gathered the small dogs – three in each arm – and the mobile was stuffed into George’s pocket. They rushed to put on their necklaces, and when they did, they quickly dropped one dog each. George then pointed his wand at them and shouted, “Activus!”

The dogs began to yap, walking on their tiny legs out toward the Aurors who were guarding the rotating doors in the Department of Mysteries. Fred and George had spent the last seconds placing themselves flat against the elevator panels so they were out of the view of the doors.

Fred’s countdown was cut off as the twins heard the yapping stop, and an Auror say, “What the?” before a loud explosion rocked the department, making the elevator shudder and groan.

Immediately, sirens blared and a grid began to fall in front of the elevator. George crouched and then rolled out from under the grid while Fred crawled forward quickly on his hands and knees.

Both Aurors were on the ground, their faces bruised and bloodied with pieces of their skin flapping off from the force of the explosion. Plaster had fallen from the ceiling, and there was a feeling of residual magic that was being leaked. Some tiles where the dogs had been were blackened by the blast, and there was an odd ringing in the twin’s ears.

Fred winced, “Oops.”

“Gruesome,” sighed George. “Sometime I wish wizards weren’t so inquisitive about Muggle toys. So, which door?”

His twin shrugged. “We need those Azkaban papers. And quick.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, the doors stopped spinning and the one directly in front of them began to glow. Fred and George shared a wary glance, but hesitantly stepped forward. They knew that Ron had been attacked behind one of these doors, but they forced themselves to be steeled and opened the glowing door.

George glanced up at the ceiling, wincing as the sirens continued. “Can’t you shut those up?”

Fred shook his head. “I didn’t get time to do those.” He then pointed his wand at the door in front of the two and began pinpointing the wards that surrounded the doors. George glanced at his wristwatch and began murmuring, “come on, come on!”

Fred, after a minute of spellcasting, finally jerked his wand away from the door, a gleeful, “ah-ha!” erupting from his mouth. “We’re in!”

The room was dark and circular, but as they stepped in torches flare to life, going around clockwise from Fred’s left. Once the room was completely lit up, George whistled.

Papers of everything and anything littered the tables, walls, and chairs. Scrolls were rolled up or half-stretched out. A light coating of dust enveloped everything.

“Well,” said George with a slight smile on his face. “How much time do you think we have before someone comes and investigate that blast?”

“Oh, maybe two minutes at the most,” replied Fred, his eyes greedily taking in his surrounding. “Shall we begin, brother of mine?”

“Yes!” George agreed, pointing his wand at the center of the room, before murmuring, “Accio Azkaban blueprints!”

Amazingly, three rolled-up scrolls from a very dark and forgotten corner hovered and zoomed into George’s outstretched hand. He passed them to Fred who murmured a copying charm, and then shrunk the newly copied papers. George then banished the scrolls back to their proper place.

“Anything else we might find interesting?” Fred wondered out loud. He and George shared a wicked grin before calling out accio’s to several places, including the Malfoy residence, the Ministry of Magic, and Fudge’s summer home. After copying, they nodded in grim satisfaction and turned on their heels to leave.

As they entered the room with the doors, they heard the clank and grinding of the elevator as it came down the shaft to the Department over the wail of the alarm.

George looked around the room, wondering where to hide. Fred grabbed his upper arm, through his jacket as he pointed directly up. “There, an air duct! Think we can fit in it?”

George nodded. “I’ll levitate you up, undo the screws or whatever, and then levitate me up once you’re in it. Hurry!”

Following his brother’s plan, Fred climbed into the dusty and dark tunnel, pointed his wand at his brother as the elevator clanged and announced its destination. Eyes widening, he hurriedly whispered the incantation.

George zoomed upward, catching the edge of the air duct and swiftly pulled himself in, rolling on his side and opposite his twin as they replaced the grid that was serving as the bars to the duct. They then settled in to watch who would show up.

First to exit were Tonks and Kingsley followed by five other Aurors. They kneeled down beside their obviously dead comrades, looking around and tracing the room for hidden enemies. Fudge came out with Albus Dumbledore, looking around the room and bemoaning.

“Albus!” he asked, flustered. “What the Devil has been going on here? Who would do such a terrible thing?” He twisted his bowler hat uneasily in his hands, and then wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

“I do not know, Cornelius,” replied Albus, his eyes devoid of any twinkle. “It seems too… hurried, rushed to be a Death Eater attack.”

“Could—could it be supporters of that boy, Potter?” stammered Fudge, turning pale at the sight of the bloody bodies.

Albus frowned. “I don’t know.”

“Well, you’d best find out, Albus! They could be students of yours!” Fudge shouted, his face turning an ugly shade of red.

Albus sighed. “School is in session, Cornelius. None of Harry’s supporters can be out of class right now without the professors noticing. I assure you, that this was done by no current student of mine.”

“Current?”

“Yes. These tricks look rather… familiar.”

In the air duct, Fred and George shared an amused, but worried glance before opening the stolen Ministry of Magic layout. They quickly found where they were and began crawling away from that level on the Department of Mysteries, stopping every once in a while to look at the map again.

“I can’t believe we’re crawling around in dirty air ducts,” grumbled Fred, folding the map up.

George whacked his brother’s calves. “We’re doing this for Harry. Come on, we need to hurry back to the store so Dumbledore doesn’t think it was us.”

“We can apparate at the next corner,” informed Fred, coming across a split in the ducts. “Here!”

Both concentrated and ended up in their storeroom in the 3W. Both were covered in dust and powder from the ducts and Ministry attack.

“Shall we blow something up so this is covered?” asked Fred with a grin. George nodded back, an identical wicked grin on his face.

Fred walked to a workbench in the back of a square room, opened a wooden case and pulled out a handful of marbles.

“Be careful with those, brother,” said George. “They’re highly reactive.”

Fred smirked. “That’s why we’re going to use them.” He then let it drop and took a running dive behind a sofa. George turned on his heel and ducked under a table when a loud explosion sounded and puff of pink smoke obscured the twin’s vision. They stood coughing, waving the smoke away with their hands, only to hear someone banging on their shop door, followed by silence.

The two left the storage and workroom, only to see Dumbledore standing casually at the register table.

“Hello,” he said kindly. Immediately, Fred and George knew that Dumbledore was there to question them.

“Hello Headmaster,” they replied in kind together.

Albus smiled and asked them the question they knew was coming, “have you two been here all day?”

George laughed. “We came up with a new prank, Headmaster. Only… it didn’t work the way we thought it would.” He indicated with a lazy hand the storeroom door, where pink smoke was wafting out of the room and slowly into the shop.

The twinkle seemed to return to Dumbledore’s eyes. He frowned thoughtfully, and replied, “Glad to hear. We’ll see you again soon at Grimmauld Place for the weekly Weasley dinner, I hope?”

Fred and George nodded, saying their goodbye’s to the Professor when he disapparated. They then looked at each other and smirked.

>><<

Hermione was just finishing getting ready when a knock on her bedroom door forced her to look up from the black Lycra bands she was wrapping around her wrists.

“Come in!” she called.

Remus Lupin strode into the room, looking around Hermione’s nicely furnished bedroom. She had managed to find the townhouse all on her own, and even managed to manipulate the stock market to a degree. He was so very proud of the young woman who was risking everything to save the only young man in the world Remus loved more than anything.

“Is everything prepared?” he asked.

Hermione nodded. Now eighteen, she had changed from the bushy-haired fifthteen-year-old. Her hair though tamer, was no less thick. Her body was lean and toned from various sports she played to keep in shape, yet her mind was still as brilliant as ever. “Have Fred and George rung in yet?”

Remus shook his head. “You know what those two are like. They’re still at the mansion going over their new experiments. They swear they’ve come up with something, and I quote, ‘positively charming.’”

“I’m scared,” Hermione stated calmly at Remus’s replayed words. “Oh, well. What about the others? Are they ready?”

Remus nodded. “Good luck, Hermione.”

She smiled at the older man. “Harry will be coming home tonight, Remus. We’re not leaving Azkaban without him.”

>><<

Draco’s pale blond hair glittered off the moonlight as his voice traveled over the purr of the tugboat’s engine. “I can’t believe you got me involved in this Granger! Potter thinks I’m an evil, bouncing ferret, anyway.”

“Well, now is a great way to show him you’ve changed!” put in Fred as he looked up from the knot he was tying to secure a bowtie to, something that was covered in shadows.

Draco rolled his eyes and looked off in the horizon. The group that consisted of Draco, Fred, Hermione, Luna, George, Neville, Ginny and Colin had procured a tugboat and were currently heading as far North as they could, each of them could feel the cold and despairing thoughts creeping closer as they neared Azkaban Island.

“Why couldn’t Harry just pretend he was dead and get this all over with like Edmund Dantès?” griped Colin, shivering, as he looked frighteningly up at the large hooks that fishing nets were attached to. Tonight, there would be no fishing net but Colin attached to them.

“Who?” asked Luna, looking up from a long parchment that she was editing for The Quibbler. She was absently patting her head every once in a while, wishing she still had her feathered hat on. She was rather fond of it.

Colin shook his head. “Never mind.”

“Potter had better appreciate this,” muttered Draco, as Azkaban loomed silently over them.

“Once we’re there, there’s no going back. We’re moving right in. Does everyone understand this?” Hermione asked from where she stood with one pale hand in front of her, and her other encased in a rounded-off mitten. Everyone looked up from what they were doing and nodded.

George cut the engine, and dropped the anchor only a couple yards from the dock of Azkaban Prison. The boat bobbed gently in the dark, murky waters, their lights extinguished in an attempt to prevent any of the guards from catching a glimpse of it.

Neville held up two pieces of wood tied crudely together in the shape of a cross. The top half of the wood on the cross had a watermelon driven onto the stake, and Luna’s feathered hat covered it. Draco was loath to give up his hundred-plus pound Oakley sunglasses, but by a sticking charm, they had served their purpose on the watermelon. One of Hermione’s mittens was on the left end of the cross’ stick, and George’s fingered glove was on the opposite end. Fred had tied his bowtie around the neck of the scarecrow, and poor Colin stood shivering on deck without his rain slicker on. In his hands were one of Ginny’s yellow bucket boots, and Neville’s trainer.

“Why me?” he moaned, closing his eyes tightly as he felt someone secure the rope that was tied around his waist. He was lifted into the air and spun slowly out over the water, where he finally opened his eyes.

Floating in the air along side him was the mixed-and-match scarecrow. Colin whimpered again, but remembered his duty to Harry and was cranked out to the dock where he sprinted across the Azkaban grounds. He stopped only a couple meters from the main doors, and spurred on by panic and growing numbness from Dementors, drove the hovering scarecrow into the hard earth, tossed the two footwear pieces to the ground and ran.

He jumped into the icy water surrounding Azkaban from off the dock and began dog-paddling all the way back to the boat. “Let me on, let me on!” he cried.

As soon as he reached the boat, Fred and Draco hauled him over, and Hermione wrapped him in a soft blanket.

“Ready?” she murmured, fingering the necklace Fred and George had given everyone. This had been one of their greater achievements.

Everyone nodded grimly back, except Colin whose teeth were chattering and whose body was shivering dreadfully. They climbed into a tiny dinghy and started the engine to Azkaban, their determination and fear calling some of the more curious Dementors toward them.

Luna was the first to use one of the pendants on her necklace, ripping it from the chain and tossing it at the Dementors. The six that gathered around the pendant stared at it, as it began glowing, until a bright, pure white light shrouded the Dementors and decimated them to a smoldering pile of black robes and bones.

“Well,” Luna decided finally, with clarity, “I think we can safely say these necklaces work.”

While Luna, Hermione, Draco, Ginny and Neville were standing ahead of Fred and George, waiting for the Dementors to come closer to them, the twins had begun to move their wands about in complicated wrist movements, removing the wards one-by-one so their attack on the impenetrable fortress would not be noticed. Once done, they nodded at Hermione to let her know they had managed to remove most of the wards and charms.

Hermione stepped forward and wound up a couple yapping dogs she had brought with her. “Let’s stand back and watch this show!”

The others dropped to their knees and each helped to wind up dogs of their own. Once they were done and the dogs had started yapping and walking toward the Azkaban doors, Hermione muttered, “Alohomora.” The doors immediately opened.

The group of eight moved steadily forward but far enough from the dogs. They heard the exclamation of the human guards at the sight of electronic Muggle dogs walking through their front door, and a while later, their short screams of pain when the dogs spontaneously and simultaneously stopped yapping and. blew up.

After the explosion, the group ran into Azkaban’s front entrance and surveyed the damage. The whole area around the doors was blackened and there were pieces of charred human flesh and bones – the guards had been too close.

The screams had alerted the Dementors, who came swooping from the Prison cells. Everyone, at once, ripped pendants from their necklaces and surged forward, tossing them around as the light enshrouded the Dementors and left no trace of them Hermione left the group as she turned down a hallway she had memorized from Fred and George’s copied Azkaban floor plans, counting the cell numbers until she came to the one she wanted.

“Harry!” she cried, seeing her best friend lying on a stone slab that was cut into the wall. The figure stirred slightly.

“S-Si’rus?” A dry raspy voice asked

Hermione gave a dry sob and clutched the bars. “Stay back Harry, I’m going to blow open the cell, okay?”

Harry didn’t reply, and Hermione didn’t know what to think, but she took out a marble and held it between her index and forefinger. She then tossed it to the ground, jumping back as she did so. The cell door exploded with a loud crash, but was then surrounded by a bright light that raced up the edges of the cell’s structure.

She landed painfully on her side, elbows scraping the hard rock floor as she covered her face. When the pink smoke cleared, Hermione stood and looked at the non-existent bars to Harry’s cell.

He had sat up now, clutching a book to his chest, and hacking profusely. But then, he fell back, unconscious.

“Harry!” Hermione cried, rushing forward, only to be thrown back as she hit an invisible barrier. Sitting gingerly up from where she landed across from the entrance to the cell, she watched in awe and horror as shards of white light criss-crossed and formed a chain-link barrier of magic between her and Harry.

Resolutely, Hermione whipped her wand out and began to determine what spells were holding her best friend in. After revealing numerous hexes and charms that would keep a dragon in its pen, Hermione began the laborious work of removing the spells singularly, hoping against all hope that a Dementor would not come by.

Luckily, she managed, and five minutes later she rushed into the cell, checking the side of Harry’s neck for a pulse. Feeling a strong one, Hermione gave a sigh of relief and then proceeded to gaze hungrily at her best friend, taking the chance to see how his three years in Azkaban had changed him.

Harry’s hair was long and covered most of his face, hanging down slightly past his shoulders; his skin had an unhealthy yellow tint to it. Hermione could clearly see his aristocratic cheekbones, which stood out prominently against his taunt skin.

“Oh, Harry,” she whispered, leaning down to cover him in his tattered clothes, wrapping her arms around him. As she did this, however, she noticed how well toned his muscles were and how hard his body felt. Hermione sat up slightly; frowning as she looked over his body, but then brushed a lock of his hair from is forehead, looking at the scar, which had started everything.

“Hermione!” she heard a voice shout from down the hall. It echoed around the rock building, but the sound of running footsteps came closer and Hermione looked up and over her shoulder to see Draco, George, and Ginny appear.

Ginny stopped short of the cell, one hand to her mouth while Draco placed a comforting hand on her shoulder.

George took a step forward and swallowed before asking, “Is… is he okay? Is…?”

Hermione forced a small smile. “He called out Sirius’ name when I got to him. He was awake but fell back into unconsciousness. We need to get him out of here before the Ministry is alerted at the fallen wards.”

George nodded and helped Hermione bring Harry into a sitting position. Draco immediately moved forward and wrapped a hand around Harry’s waist. “We’ll haul him if we have to,” he grunted, standing carefully with George on his other side. He was glad that he and the Weasley twin were relatively the same height – and that Harry was the taller one of the three. Ginny took Harry’s book.

They moved slowly down the hallway, tossing pendant stones behind them at the screeching sound of the Dementors or ahead if they needed to “see” around corners. Finally, they arrived back in the blackened and sooty entrance hall.

There, Luna and Fred, helping the others make it back swiftly to the dinghy. Neville yanked the engine’s cord, and the engine sputtered to life. “Hurry!” he shouted, waving his hands to catch the groups’ attention: Dementors were closing in on them.

The group managed to arrive at the dock and piled into the dinghy, quickly making their way back to the tugboat. Colin had already started the engine there, and as soon as the eight of them climbed onboard, he lifted the anchor and the boat speedily turned away from Azkaban Prison.

Fred and George were sitting on a fishing crate against one white wall of the boat, in the galley, while Ginny and Draco sat at the breakfast table with Neville and Luna across from them. Colin stayed on top, watching the horizon and checking the now-working GPS that they had installed. It had conked out when they arrived in Azkaban’s wards.

Hermione, however, sat on the floor, surrounded by pillows and had Harry wrapped loosely in a blanket. His head was resting in her lap, and she had her hands running through his ebony hair.

Suddenly, his breathing quickened and then evened out, and his eyelids fluttered. Emerald eyes met soft and warm chocolate ones.

“Hi, Hermione,” he whispered hoarsely.

Hermione smiled, feeling tears well up in her eyes.

“Hello Harry.”

>><<

AN [Kneazle]: Holy shit! Thanks so much to Lin and Serena for beta’ing – you guys totally rock! I can’t thank you enough for tweaking the chapter to what it is now.

In case you lots are wondering – the weapons? Fred and George will be explaining them in the next chapter, so just sit back and wait (a while, exams in the upcoming weeks, ick!). Also, I want to thank EVERYONE for reviewing – you guys totally make our day!

Read, review, and enjoy! Yours, Kneazle [May.25.04]

Title: Baker Street Irregulars

Author: Kneazle

Disclaimer: Don’t own Potter. Try not to take weapons – I’ve worked hard on them with friends. Basic revenge plot from Alexandre Dumas’s Count of Monte Cristo (also a wicked movie), and scenes shamelessly stolen from Indiana Jones, Kill Bill, Pirates of the Caribbean, Snatch., Fight Club and much more.

>><<

Chapter Four: Baker Street

The first thing Harry noticed when he accustomed his “sea legs” to dry land when the boat docked, was that it was dark and wet. It had been raining while the large mismatched group of misfits broke Harry out of his cell in Azkaban. However, it didn’t escape Harry’s notice that there was a very dry, and very nice looking, neon orange 1968 Shelby GT350. Remus sat in the driver’s seat, looking tired and a bit worn with some more gray at his temples, but smiled broadly when he saw Harry.

He bounded out of the car, not bothering to use the door, and swept Harry up in a tight hug. “I’ve missed you so!”

Harry grinned and hugged his closest thing to a father figure firmly. “I’ve missed you too, Remus. I suppose that they didn’t allow werewolves – and one that happens to be my friend – in to visit.”

“No,” sighed Remus, “they don’t. I wish they had. You look like you haven’t had a decent meal in, well, years!” Holding Harry at an arm’s length, Remus surveyed what he thought to be his pseudo-godson. Inwardly, he raged the fates for making Harry suffer more than he had, but also thanking them for making sure he stayed sane.

Gently pushing Harry toward the Shelby, and consciously aware of Hermione’s hovering, Remus nudged Harry to the middle of where a magically extended backseat existed. Hermione immediately sat next to him, with Fred, George, Colin, Luna and Neville all shoving around a bit to settle comfortably. Ginny and Draco chose to sit close together in the front seat next to Remus.

Silence reigned over the large group, all who were settled in their contentment that they had retrieved their leader and close friend. Remus started the car down the motorway, humming tunelessly.

After a near hour of passing blurs at an incomprehensible speed (the speedometer was registering near 300 km/h average), Harry asked, “Er, where exactly are we heading?”

Hermione pursed her lips. “Headquarters, Harry.”

“Sorry?”

Draco sighed. “Christ, Granger, just explain to the poor chap what’s been going on lately. He’s been in Azkaban, it’s not like the prisoners get the Daily Prophet delivered to them every morning.”

Harry turned back to his friends for answers. George, who sat all the way on the other side of the extended backside, behind Remus on the driver’s right side, cleared his throat. He scratched absently at his goatee. “Well, it’s like this, Harry – Dumbledore didn’t want anything to do with you when it had been ‘discovered’—” He held up his two finds and used his index and middle finger to create quotation marks “—that you were responsible for the emissary’s death.”

Fred picked up where George left off, continuing the chain. “He wouldn’t do anything to listen to us plea month after month, year after year, so finally, Hermione here came up with a brilliant scheme. We would break you out of Azkaban.” He paused, frowning slightly. “However, it was a bit hard coming up with adults who believed you outside of Remus here. It seemed like there was only Remus, a certain paranoid retired Auror, chronic journalistic liar and a few of the graduates that you taught in your fifth year.”

“What Remus and Hermione came up with was a group of witches and wizards who believed in you – and let me say what a lot there was in the magical community, especially between the magical creatures,” elaborated Colin, smiling broadly despite his occasional shivers. Ginny turned around from the front seat, handing him a steaming cup.

“Pepper-Up Potion,” she informed him, before facing front again, Draco’s arm coming to rest behind her shoulders.

Colin gulped the potion down, steam rising from wet spots on his clothes and through his ears. “Anyway, the lot of what we gathered was enough to… eh, manipulate some of the goblins to help us.”

Luna smiled dreamily at a very confused Harry. She had rolled up her latest Quibbler edition and was waving it around as she spoke in her soft, lilting voice. “That help allowed us – the main group that supported you – to gain enough funds to acquire a secret townhouse quite like Grimmauld Place in London, under the Fidelius Charm as well! On a famous street, no less! Once acquired, the townhouse became our main headquarters.”

“And what exactly do you do?” asked Harry, frowning slightly. “I mean, it’s nice and all that you believe in me, but what exactly is the purpose of the townhouse and all this secrecy?”

Neville sighed. “Harry… Fudge, Dumbledore and V-V-Voldemort condemned us all for helping and believing in you. None of us, other than the Twins and Draco, can get jobs. The rest of us lot, unless influential or Muggle-raised, are unemployed and blacklisted. We knew what we were doing, though,” Neville hastened to add when he saw Harry’s face harden, “so don’t go thinking we just did it sorely for you. We all know that innocents are sent to Azkaban – Sirius Black and Hagrid to name two of them.”

Hermione, sitting on Harry’s left between him and the door, placed her hand gently on Harry’s shoulder. He stared down at it, fighting the urge to pick it up and cradle it in his own rough and hardened hands.

“Harry, we all love and believe in you. We did what we thought best, and because of our… unfortunate circumstance with the Ministry and Dumbledore, we need the secrecy to protect ourselves.”

“From what?” asked Harry ridiculously. His eyebrows had disappeared under his long fringe.

When no one replied immediately, Harry began to scowl. The air around him began to hum, making the car’s occupants stare at Harry in surprise. Draco offered an answer with a slight smirk on his face. “From the Ministry, the Death Eaters, and from the Order of the Phoenix, Potter.”

“The Order? I can understand the Ministry or the Death Eaters, but why the Order?” Harry pondered aloud.

Remus’s shoulders tensed and his knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. “Because the Ministry has issued a warrant for your arrest should you ever escape Azkaban, quite like Sirius; because the Death Eaters and Voldemort want you dead for the reason I’m sure you explicitly know; and because the Order has all of us on their Grimoire list.”

“The what?” Harry gapped.

Hermione took over. “The Grimoire is the name of the list. We’re all on it including Fred and George, despite the fact that they are Order members. We’re all to be watched, to see what we’re doing day-in-day-out. Tonight was the only night that Mundungus had been placed on watch in months, so we used it to our advantage. The Order has us on their watch list, the Death Eaters have us on their hit list, and the Ministry has us blacklisted. Quite a feat, I’d say.”

Harry shook his head, running his hands through his unruly hair. “But, that still doesn’t tell me how or why you are all on the lists.”

Remus put the blinker on and turned a corner at neck-breaking speeds. “It’s because we stood up for you, if you want the Ministry’s excuse. The Death Eater’s need no excuse, and the Order…” He faltered, as if gripped with an age-old memory before saying softly, “the Order has us on the Grimoire because we are opposing their forces.”

Harry’s jaw dropped. As soon as he realized how he looked, he snapped his mouth closed and said roughly, “Explain. NOW.”

Ginny turned in the seat and rested her chin on the back of the upholstered seat. “It’s like this Harry: when you were stuck in that God-forsaken place, Dumbledore went a little… off his rocker, to be told. He didn’t do anything when it came to Death Eater attacks, and tons of people died. Then, he got his act together and started opposing Voldemort openly. However, there was a complication with this. The complication was that without his spokesperson, you, he lacked motivation from the public. This caused Dumbledore to take time off from Headmaster duties to lead the Order.”

Harry absorbed what he was being told. He then finished when Ginny was getting at slowly. “And so he became slightly fanatical? Is that what you’re saying?”

“To the degree,” drawled Draco, “that one human life means nothing to him if he can achieve his goal.”

Harry let his head drop, his chin resting on his chest. He crossed his arms and slouched slightly. His jaw tightened and his eyes disappeared under the long fringe.

Hermione ran a soothing hand down Harry’s exposed back. “Harry?”

“I’m fine, Hermione.” Harry’s gravelly voice allowed everyone in the car to ease a sigh. “But there are going to be some more questions and answers to get on with.”

Hermione nodded, only to feel foolish afterward as Harry couldn’t see her.

“Are you a Death Eater, Draco?”

Draco stiffened but answered. “Yes. A spy, like Severus.”

“For?”

“You, you bloody dolt. Why else do you think I’d waste my brand new pair of Oakley sunglasses for that brainless scheme Longbottom came up with?” Draco snarled. His silver-blue eyes flashed in the streetlights, and his signet Malfoy ring glittered.

“What about Snape? Whom does he work for?” Harry asked, looking through his fringe at anyone who’d meet his gaze.

“He ‘officially’ works for the Order, but he spies on them and the Death Eaters for us,” Remus clarified.

“Why?” Harry wondered. “Why did he and you, Draco, decide to help me of all people?”

Hermione tensed as Harry continued to speak. Harry was sure that if he poked at her, she’d break into thousands of tiny pieces. She spoke stiffly when he turned his questioning stare on her. “Severus heard an argument between Remus and Dumbledore, which sealed his loyalty. Draco, being Severus’s ward and apprentice at that time, was given a choice. Seeing that he is also a Malfoy and a Slytherin, someone who’d join the ‘right’ side to save his own skin, he decided to join us. Although, for a while there, it seemed as though he’d joined the losing side.”

Draco sniffed piously, his nose in the air. “Thank you for the psycho-analysis, Granger.”

Remus slowed the car as they entered Westminster, London. Houses began to pop up, as did other cars on the road. He slowed to a more reasonable speed (50 km/h, which was still 10 km over the maximum limit) and began to cruise.

“We’re almost at the house,” he announced. Hermione dug around in her jacket pocket, pulling out the one mitt, before handing Harry a piece of lined paper. Written in Hermione’s tidy cursive was 221A Baker Street.

Harry recited it over and over in his head, surprised to see a nice, well-groomed townhouse appear between 220 and 222, despite the blaringly obvious number 221 on the opposite side of the street.

A paved path from the street curved in front of the townhouse and wove around to the back where a large garage appeared, stretching from a normal-looking garden shed. The only difference was that there was a brick arch that led as a passageway to the back. The houses were all still stuck together.

The group got out of the Shelby, murmuring to each other as Harry took a look around.

Finally, Hermione gently took Harry’s arm (once again surprised at his muscle underneath) and pulled him toward the backdoor. “Welcome home, Harry.” She smiled up at him. “Let’s show you around, shall we?”

>><<

The backdoor led into the kitchen, where Harry seemed almost unsurprised to see Dobby and Winky covered in flour and baking what appeared to be a feast for nearly fifty people. As soon as Dobby saw Harry, he stopped, his rolling pin dropping to the floor with a resounding clack!

“Harry Potter has returned,” he whispered reverently. Winky turned from where she was at the other counter, beating some dough, with wide eyes. She watched as Dobby launched himself at Harry and tackled him around one leg. “Dobby is so happy the great Harry Potter has returned! Now the great Harry Potter can help lead the resistance group?”

“Um… yeah,” Harry answered blandly, turning his searching gaze to Remus who scuffed his foot on the aluminum floor. “Yeah, I’ll be doing that.”

Dobby beamed and detangled himself from Harry, taking a couple steps back before bowing and returning to his rolling pin.

Hermione tugged on Harry’s arm and motioned him to follow her through a narrow hallway as she pointed things out.

“This door to the left leads to the basement, where we have a large training facility for combat and magical practice. Mad-Eye practically never leaves. He finally had Remus and some of us make him his own bedroom down there,” she whispered conspiringly. Harry just nodded, glancing at a polished looking room, where he saw a long table with nearly six chairs on either side of the table, plus one at each head. Long, heavy blue drapes covered three floor-to-ceiling windows with a golden whorl design covering the glass. “To the right is the dining room. We have nearly three shifts to fit everyone in for meals.”

They passed through an arched passage, entering a large comfortable living room. The walls were painted a pale, faded robin egg blue. A bay window with the same design as the dining room windows faced the street and front yard. Matching navy drapes with golden tassels to tie the drapes apart were trimmed to fit the bay window and its window seat. Two leather couches were placed facing each other near the fireplace, and several armchairs with side tables were placed in the darker corners of the room. There was a Tiffany standing lamp near one of the corners, and two wall lamps at the other. A billiards table was set up near an open space to Harry’s left, away from the fireplace and couches. Across from the open space where the billiards table was located was the front door, and facing it, beside the billiards table, was a staircase.

Many people were scattered around the room, all involved with their own activities. Harry stood in the shadows with Hermione, watching where everyone went. Ginny and Draco immediately monopolized a single armchair in one of the dark corners, while Neville and Colin disappeared up the stairs to their rooms. Remus went straight to a distinguished looking gentleman in a business suit, falling deep into conversation. Fred settled on one of the leather couches, starting to chat with the group of women – all who Harry recognized as Alicia Spinnet, Angelina Johnson and Katie Bell – while George went to sit with a leggy brunette with short hair, wrapping his arms around her. Luna, Harry saw, glided toward the billiards and stopped beside a tall, gangly looking man with a mop of red hair.

Ron.

He wore a simple black button-up and jeans. He was still tall and gangly and hadn’t grown into his nose like Harry once thought he would. Currently, Ron was leaning over the billiards table, pole in hand, and tongue stuck out at the corner of his mouth.

He hit the 7-ball, and watched as it struck the 8, 3 and 5, pocketing them all.

“Bugger!” he moaned, slapping some money into one of the other men’s hands. Harry recognized someone who might have been Ernie Macmillan collect the money with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. Ron sighed and turned around to greet his girlfriend, his hands on her waist before he looked past her to see Harry and Hermione standing in the shadows.

Harry took a single step forward into the soft, muted glow of the room. “I see time has been treating you well, Ron.”

A small, nostalgic smile found its way onto Ron’s freckled face. “Azkaban didn’t do you justice, Harry. You look just as peachy as you did after a rough-and-tumble Slytherin versus Gryffindor Quidditch match!”

Harry grinned, before the two met and shared a hug that only two male best friends, very aware of their sexuality, could pull off. The chatter had fallen into a hush, as everyone watched the trio reunite after being apart for three years. The time had taken a toll on them; all three had a haunted look in their eyes, and looked weary of what hardships they endured, but they had managed. Managed just so that they could have that moment where they were all together again.

As the two broke away, Harry clasped Ron’s shoulders tightly. “It’s good to see you again, Ron.”

“You too, mate,” replied Ron roughly, giving his friend a one-over before wafting his hand between the two of them. “Whew-ee! You smell, Potter. Take a bath!”

Harry laughed. It was neither humorous or joyous, but merely cold and rough. Azkaban, it seemed, changed more than Harry’s appearance.

Hermione appeared at Harry’s side once again. “C’mon, Harry, I’ll show you to your room.”

Harry nodded his goodbye to Ron, and glanced over at Remus, before following Hermione up the stairs. Harry took the time to really look at Hermione, see how she changed. Her hair was shorter now, to her shoulders, and still as bushy and wild as ever, only now in a frizzy corkscrew mass. She had an athletic hourglass figure, nipping in at the waist and flaring slightly at the hips. Harry forcefully removed his gaze from her heart-shaped butt, reminding himself that this was his best friend.

Best female friend, that is. And Harry could easily appreciate the finer sex after being alone for quite some time.

The hallway on the second floor landing was dark and eerie, with small oil lamps glowing dimly every few feet. Hermione, however, had turned to her left and stopped immediately at the door in front of her.

“My room is right next to yours, here,” she said, pointing to the door on her left. “Remus and I decided that you should have the master bedroom.”

Harry frowned at the continuous reference to Remus. He shouldn’t be feeling jealous of his best friend and his guardian, but couldn’t help it. Three years in Azkaban had made him a possessive man. He wanted to keep Hermione all to himself now that they had met again after such a long time, and not share her with a boyfriend or love interest. He made a mental note to ask her about Remus and herself later.

Hermione pushed open the door and waved her hand. The room filled with the shine of several wall oil lamps, illuminating the poster king sized bed, Oriental rug, leather couch and mahogany writing desk. The room itself was spacious and very 1920’s inspired. Harry almost laughed when he saw Hermione admire a Casablanca poster that had been framed. Two untidy scrawls at the bottom of the framed poster revealed themselves to be the names Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman.

When Harry turned back to Hermione, he saw that her hands were placed in front of her, trembling slightly.

“Hermione?” questioned Harry, concerned.

She flung herself at him with no warning. Harry instinctively wrapped his arms around her trembling form and offered what little comfort he could.

“Is everything all right Hermione?”

She sniffled and looked up at him, her head coming just up to his chin. “I was so worried!” she revealed. “I was so worried that I’d never get to see you again, never get to be near you again!”

Uncomfortable with having someone so close to him after being alienated and alone for three years, Harry gently began to extract Hermione from him, only to feel her arms clamp tighter. Sweating and blushing slightly, Harry took a step back, trying to get some room between the two. However, the bed sheets were long and pooling on the floor near where Harry’s foot was, allowing his calf and foot to become tangled when he tried to detach it. Instead of helping, Harry felt gravity take control of the situation and landed on the soft, fluffy bed with Hermione on top of him.

Harry’s eyes widened, a twitch appearing under his left, when Hermione shifted to look up at him. “All right, Harry?”

“Fine,” he squeaked, before clearing his throat. “I’m fine, Hermione. Really. Just… don’t move.”

Hermione, confused, frowned. “Why?” She deliberately shifted against Harry and then stopped abruptly. “Oh.”

Her eyes met his, brown to emerald green, quite like when he had been on the boat. Something flickered in her eyes – emotions ranging from desire, compassion, to confusion and plain, naked lust. Harry took in a sharp breath, aware that although his face was a mask, his eyes matched hers.

The moment was lost when they heard someone laugh and hit the wall as they came up the stairs.

“I’m sorry, Harry!” gasped Hermione, scrambling off him, making Harry groan out loud. Hermione took three giant steps back, watching with wide eyes as Harry slowly sat up, propped on his elbows. He then subtly reached for a throw pillow and placed it on his lap.

“That’s all right,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “It happens all the time.”

Neither spoke for a couple of breaths, before Hermione murmured, “I’d best be off. If you need anything, you know where I am. Goodnight Harry.”

“Night Hermione.” Harry replied in turn, offering a smile to her as she backed out of the room slowly, before slamming the door shut behind her.

Harry lifted the pillow off his lap and stuck it over his face as he fell backward onto the bed with a groan. It was going to be a long night.

>><<

The next morning dawned bright and warm; Harry could hear birds chirping from his window, and the lull of voices as they floated up the stairs and through the floor vents. He had fallen immediately asleep after his embarrassing encounter with Hermione and little Harry, grateful for a warm and fluffy bed.

Now, however, necessities were calling. The first was telling him to go to the loo. Harry scampered out from between his scarlet sheets. He nearly tripped on their unusually long length (again), but made his way to the loo on unsteady legs and through half-lidded and sleep-filled eyes.

He stumbled into the loo, banging his knee on the low, polished marble sink, cursing colourfully. Harry then managed to find the shower and collapsed against the parallel wall, turning the tap to make the cold water pour out. Alternatively, he then twisted the hot water tap, enjoying the feel of dirt and grim that he had collected for three years wash off his body.

After his shower, Harry stepped out of the bathroom butt naked, relishing in a sense of freedom he hadn’t enjoyed in years. He stopped immediately when he saw Ginny sitting on his bed, Dobby bouncing on the downy fabric.

“Shit, Ginerva!” Harry swore, using his Seeker skills to snatch a table clock from a nearby side table. “Knock, why don’t you?”

Dobby stared at Harry with wide eyes, before snapping his fingers and conjuring Harry’s old Azkaban prisoner clothes.

“Mister Moony said he’d bring some of his clothes for Master Harry soon, Harry Potter sir!” said Dobby in his high, house-elf voice. Ginny sat on the bed with a smug smile.

“Really, Harry, you can put the clock down to change, it’s not like I’ve never seen them manly bits before,” she smirked.

Harry rolled his eyes, slowly reaching for the pants. “I’m sure you have, Gin.”

“But I must say, yours are more impressive than Draco’s.”

“Ginny, honestly – I’m trying to get changed here!”

Ginny chuckled and stood, swinging her hair over one shoulder. “Sorry, Harry. I just wanted to let you know that George and Fred want to meet you in the kitchen, where you’ll be eating breakfast. Remus said he needed to talk to you, too, before you went to see Hermione.”

“How’d you know I was going to see her later?” Harry asked, his face expressionless. Ginny shrugged.

“It’s kinda obvious, Harry.”

“What is?”

“How you don’t let her out of your sight.” Ginny inspected her nails. “You were like, glue to her last night when you came in.”

Harry snarled openly. “Well, it’s not like I haven’t seen my two best friends in years, Ginny – I mean, hell, I’ve just been in Azkaban, so pardon me for wanting to spend some time with someone who understands me!”

Ginny shrugged, completely unfazed by Harry’s outburst. “Harry, really. You’ve got eyes. You’ve got a heart and a mind. Use them, please, and just shag the girl before the two of you spontaneously combust from residue sexual tension.”

The petite redhead then walked out of the room, her hips swinging and her hair shining. Harry stared open-mouth after her, before snorting. He shook his head and dragged on his Azkaban pants, leaving his shirt off. He didn’t feel like wearing anything more than he needed; he even left his socks and shoes off.

He padded down into the kitchen, enjoying the delicious scent of French toast, strawberries, and more importantly, coffee.

Fred, George and Remus all sat at the four-person kitchen table, coffee mugs or plates of French toast before them. Remus had two plates; Harry suspected he had to fulfill his werewolf appetite.

“So what can I do for you three this morning?” Harry asked bluntly. “Ginny said you wanted to see me?”

“I had a feeling that some of your questions weren’t answered last night, Harry,” said Remus slowly. “So, let’s sit over breakfast and finish this up so we can move forward.”

Harry nodded. “Right. How’d you break into Azkaban? There are hundreds of spells cast on that place.”

Fred grinned. “Easy. Dean and Seamus were talking about the Department when Seamus happened to mention floor plans. George and I managed to sneak in to the Department of Mysteries, steal and copy the floor plans, and then leave without a hitch.”

“Well, Dumbledore and Fudge showed up briefly and talked about some stuff, thinking we were behind the attack – two guards were there, you know – but we managed to escape just fine,” George inputted cheerfully, pouring a generous amount of maple syrup (imported from Canada) onto his French toast.

Harry raised a single eyebrow. George caught sight of it and shrugged. “Well, really, what else could we have done? We didn’t mean to hurt anybody; they were just there. In Dumbledore’s words: casualties of war.”

Fred snorted. “Poor blighters.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “Continue.”

Fred chewed thoughtfully on his piece of breakfast before continuing. “Well, anyway; George and I invented these goodies.” He reached into his pocket and drew out a mini electronic dog that had been a popular Muggle toy a couple years back. Then, Fred unclasped the necklace he wore. The baubles that hung on the necklace glowed and swirled in the morning sunlight.

“What are these?” Harry asked, reaching for the dog.

George grabbed his hand suddenly. “You don’t want to touch that, mate.” His eyes were dark and dangerous. “That’s not just any dog. Fred and I call it the yapping dog bomb. It barks, then back flips. While it flips, it explodes. A mini-bomb that cause considerable damage.”

Harry pointed at the necklace.

“Patronus charms. Luna came up with the idea. We took some of our happiest memories, extracting them like one would in a Pensieve (we kept the memories, though), and placed them in these tiny little bauble-pensieves. Each of these has the same force of someone shouting, ‘expecto patronum,’ at a Dementor. However, when in contact with a Dementor, it uh… blows them up from the high concentration of happy memories. It’s like a sensory overload for them, I think.”

Harry’s eyes betrayed his interest. “Brilliant idea.”

Fred and George chimed, “Thank you!”

Remus smiled against the rim of his coffee cup before stating, “Harry, I think you need a new change of clothes. Come with me to my room. I have some of Sirius’ old things that you’d fit. You’re quite similar to him in height.”

Harry smiled gently at the werewolf. “Thank you, Remus, that means a lot to me.”

Harry followed Remus to his room, taking in the tattered and scratched bed pieces. He said nothing, conveying the aura of ignorance, as Remus pulled out a handful of shirts, jumpers, and jeans.

“The jeans might be a little long on you, you were always lean and wiry, while Sirius was more sturdy and muscular.” Remus appraised Harry as the young man changed impatiently, inhaling Sirius’ unique, and still clinging, scent of pine and muskiness that was pure Sirius.

Harry did have to roll up the end of the jeans, but the jumper fit. Sirius’ shoulders were slightly broader than Harry’s, but Harry made up for it in wiry muscle.

“I couldn’t help but notice how well you look,” Remus began uncomfortably. “When… when I met Sirius after he escaped, he was worn and scrawny… worse than you are now. However, he was in for twelve years…”

Harry shook his head, a fire in his eyes. “I trained while in my tiny hole of a cell.”

“Trained?”

Harry shook his hands through his hair, an eerily replication of James’ fluff. “I had nothing else to do after that first year when I thought I was insane; Snape only came once to give me a book.”

“Book?” Remus asked. “The one I sent? I wasn’t sure if he managed.”

Harry shot Remus a grateful look. “I got it.”

“Did it help?”

“Without a wand it was difficult. I had to master wandless magic first,” reveled Harry slowly. He didn’t want to part with too many secrets. “After reading and practicing, I began physical training. The bars that hung on the wall from that tiny window served their purpose for pull ups and the likes.”

Remus nodded. “Hermione had told me she wondered why you felt so strong and managed so well once we were in the car. I reckoned it for you being… well, you.”

Harry frowned. “Is there something going on between you and Hermione? The two of you seem very cozy.” He did his best to not let his anger and jealously creep into his words, but they were nonetheless laced with a slight tinge of venom.

Remus started in surprise. “Good heavens, no!” He shook his sandy brown head feverishly. “Hermione and I were two of your most ardent supporters. We did everything we could to help you – we spent much time together but if I think of her in any other way… Harry Potter! She’s your best friend! And younger than me by twenty years! Please.” It was Remus’ turn to roll his eyes. “She is nothing more than a very good friend, but above all, she is your Hermione.”

Harry’s frown deepened. “My Hermione?”

Remus sighed. “You, if anything, are worse than your mother.”

“Pardon me?”

“She couldn’t even tell after seven years of being around James, that he loved her.” With that said, Remus left the room, and Harry standing by himself.

>><<

Harry left the Baker Street townhouse, walking around the back to look for Hermione when he couldn’t find her in the house. He pulled at the neck of the jumper, sweating in the balmy summer weather.

Whistling pleasantly, he turned the corner to see the Shelby glistening in the sun, covered in soapsuds and drops of water. The car radio was on, blaring the Weird Sisters over the sound of Hermione’s off-tune humming.

Hermione, Harry saw (feeling his jaw drop), wore a bright yellow bikini and a pair of unzipped and unbuttoned jean shorts. Her corkscrew hair was wild and stuck out in every direction; her bangs were forced back from her head by a matching, vibrant yellow band, and there were tan lines on her shoulders and back from when she was wearing another top. Harry nearly died.

He stood still as he watched Hermione reach down, her heart-shaped butt facing him directly. She gathered a sponge and squeezed it, letting drops of water leave the soapy sponge and fall back into the bucket. She then straightened and began to lather up the hood of the car in slow, sensual circles.

Harry’s throat went dry and his blood rushed away from his brain. His jaw was working itself silently, opening as to shout a hello, and closing again as to remain a pepping tom.

Instead, he fell back into the shadows of the wall, and watched Hermione.

After lathering up the hood, she disappeared into the shed and returned minutes later, carrying a water hose. The handle had a grip that allowed her to spray when she wanted – which was when she arrived next to the car and adjusted the spray to remove the soapsuds from the hood.

She laughed, her voice like bells tinkling. She then rolled over the hood to reach the other side, her back completely wet, including those now molded shorts. She let go of the grip on the handle, and the water stopped; only a few droplets of water escaped from the end.

Grinning, Hermione dropped the water hose and slipped on her flip-flops, stretching with her arms high in the arm.

Her eyes closed as she slowly pivoted on her feet to face Harry, unintentionally, showing him her complete front. A smile graced her full, slightly parted lip, her nose turned up to catch the sun’s rays, and her hair glowed auburn in the light.

Her neck was long and graceful, her breasts full and perfectly cupped in the yellow triangles of the bikini. Her stomach was flat with the faint hint of muscle to be shown when she sucked in air. Two twin yellow bows peaked out from above the edge of the shorts, tempting Harry to wonder if her bikini bottom was a thong, or high cut, or shorts. His eyes lingered on the tiny yellow line of the top of her bikini bottom that peeked out from between the folds of the zipper and buttons of the jeans.

He squinted, wondering if the sun was playing tricks on him, but no – there, off to Hermione’s right side, near her hip, was a splattering of colour. Intrigued, Harry left his hiding place and moved slowly, predatory toward Hermione.

Her eyes opened, widening in surprised as she saw Harry stalk toward her, his eyes dark and focused squarely on her right hip.

Hermione glanced down at it, and smiled when she saw her tattoo. Her head lifted, her eyes meeting Harry’s emerald eyes. She cast an appreciative glance at him: from his forest green jumper to dark blue jeans. He looked delicious.

Harry took another step toward her, stopping a mere inch away. Hermione could feel the heat from his body.

Harry’s hands reached out and flexed before grasping Hermione’s hips tightly. While his right hand remained idle, Harry’s left hand moved with feather-light touches. His index finger stroked her right hip, making Hermione shiver.

“What’s that?” he asked, his voice deep and rumbling. Hermione felt her knees wobble.

“Just a tattoo I got,” she whispered back, closing her eyes and swallowing hard. She concentrated on her breathing, managing to keep from collapsing into Harry’s strong arms. However, when she felt him push the shorts and yellow bikini bottom down on that side of her hip, Hermione swooned.

Harry wrapped his right arm around Hermione tightly, letting her head nestled comfortably underneath his chin and in the nook of his shoulder. Her breath came against his neck in fast, erratic bursts, and she was shivering. With a tiny half-smile, Harry realized it wasn’t because she was cold.

After pealing away the offending clothes on that side of her hip, Harry took his time to run his fingers over the picture. Standing out against her golden tan was a tiny Snitch with pure white wings. When he looked carefully, Harry could see that there was something ‘engraved’ into the Snitch as well: the words Harry Potter.

With a quick intake of breath, Harry realized that Hermione had marked herself for him. No other man, Harry thought, would like seeing his girlfriend or love wear another man’s name. Another man’s name that happened to be his! Feeling elated, Harry realized that while three years in Hell had changed him, it had also changed those around him. Unaware at first, Remus’s words came back to haunt Harry.

Hermione and I were two of your most ardent supporters. We did everything we could to help you…

And then what Hermione had said herself to him: I was so worried that I’d never get to see you again…

Releasing his left hand from Hermione’s hip, Harry placed it at the back of Hermione’s head, holding his best friend close. Oh, Hermione. You never gave up on me, did you?

Hermione shifted in his arms, and he held on to her tighter. “I really missed you,” she murmured suddenly. “More than you could imagine.”

“I think I have an idea,” replied Harry with humor. He placed a butterfly kiss on top of her bushy hair. “I missed you too, ‘Mione.”

“I don’t want to lose you,” she whispered, snuggling against him. A rather joyous and goofy grin spread across Harry’s face, but he buried his head against Hermione’s hair before anyone – if they had been watching – could see.

“You won’t.”

“Can you make that a promise?”

Harry paused. “Well, no. I can’t make promises with my plans.”

“Plans?” Hermione raised her head to look into Harry’s eyes. “What plans?”

Harry winced and looked away. At Hermione’s warning, “Harry,” he turned back to face her and said softly, “My plans of revenge.” When Hermione didn’t respond, he continued on, breathing in her scent. “They must suffer as I have suffered, see everything that meant something in their lives be ripped from them as it was ripped from me.”

“We’re together again, though, what more can matter?” Hermione protested.

Harry’s eyes glowed as he felt the familiar pull of anger well in him. “What matters, Hermione, is the justice that I never saw – that Hagrid and Sirius never saw. Honor, integrity, justice – those matter and that is what I will make sure is given back to me.”

“How? How Harry?” Hermione asked, taking a small step back to look at his face better. “How will you achieve that? Going openly against Dumbledore, or the Ministry will not work.”

Harry smiled, smoothing a piece of errant hair behind Hermione’s hair. “I’ll find a way to make it work.”

“You’re the people’s hero, Harry, their Boy-Who-Lived. If you do something unfavourable, you may lose everything!”

Harry’s jaw tightened. “I never wanted to be their hero. I never wanted to be the Boy-Who-Lived, a name given to me for something I can’t even remember doing!” he ground out between clenched teeth.

Hermione sighed. “I know, Harry,” she smoothed her hand against his roughened cheek and felt him lean into it. “Sometimes though, the world needs a reluctant hero.”

“Not from me,” he gritted. Hermione sighed again, and let her eyes meet Harry’s. His locked on hers, and his head tilted and moved down to meet Hermione’s.

Their breath mingled and they could practically taste each other by the mere millimeters separating to two.

“Harry!” a voice shouted out urgently. “We’ve got a problem that you should see!”

Harry swore under his breath and glanced over his shoulder to see a haggard, out-of-breath and very apologetic Colin Creevey leaning with one hand braced against the townhouse wall.

“What is it, Colin?” Harry asked, cursing himself as he fell into the role of leader. Hermione glanced around Harry and then back to him curiously.

Colin ran his free hand through his longish brown hair. “It’s the Order and Death Eaters, Harry. They’re on the move.”

“Move?”

Colin sighed exasperatedly. “On the move for the next relic Voldemort thinks will help him win the war. But this time it’s a big relic. A big, historical, if-it’s-real-we’re-all-doomed, relic.”

“Which, Colin?” Hermione asked, removing herself from Harry’s embrace.

A muscle under Colin’s eye twitched. “The Holy Grail.”

>><<

AN: [July.20.04] Hey all – this chapter is currently being beta’ed by Lin, who unfortunately has her GCE ‘O’ levels coming up, so I’m posting it here until the polished version can be put up instead. Sorry for the wait! But expect more in the future. I’ve taken two summer part-time jobs, and am catching up with friends I haven’t seen in weeks. I was also in Cuba a couple weeks ago. Enjoy this chapter. To let you know, I’m a bit disappointed with it. I don’t know if I want BSI to go after the Holy Grail, but for now, it’ll stay. Read, review, and enjoy. Yours, Kneazle