A/N: At long last, here's the sequel to Harry Potter and the Maw. However, while it is recommended that you read HPM before reading this fanfic, it is not required, and I engineered this story so that you can get by perfectly well. For everyone who read HPM, this chapter is going to be mainly a recap to refresh everyone's memories and we all start on the same page. Without further ado…
Dear Harry,
As you well know, tomorrow will mark the day that you come of age. The ministry will officially consider you an adult, and you will be free to perform magic without restriction, provided that it does not conflict with any codes or laws.
This also means you are free to leave your relatives' home any time you wish.
I advise against doing this too soon, as, while you are legally an adult, the enchantment placed around Number Four, Privet Drive does not observe the ministry's regulations. You will still be under your mother's protection. Little will change in that respect.
For this reason, I am asking you to remain with your relatives until the term begins. Legally, you can do what you wish, of course, but I am asking you to persevere through the remaining month so that your safety can be guaranteed. Remember, not even Voldemort can break through the shield that your mother's blood provides.
As you may have already seen on muggle broadcasting, Voldemort and his underlings have been at work terrorizing both the muggle and wizarding worlds alike. Our worst fears have been confirmed. The plague that we spoke of has already claimed several hundred victims, and I dread that this is only the beginning.
Madam Bones has issued several orders to quarantine the virus, but I'm doubtful of their effectiveness. Tom has likely engineered the plague to resist most forms of protection. Indeed, the magic that was used to enchant this peculiar virus has so far been impossible to break, and there is little hope of a cure.
Tom is making a good start in his attempt to repeat the effects of the Black Plague.
Diagon Alley has remained unaffected, but it is inevitable that the virus will eventually spread to reach into even the farthest corners of Britain, and even the world. Hogwarts will be taking steps to counter the virus, which will be discussed in an official letter that you should be receiving soon.
I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news, as I so often am, but the time for your encounter with Voldemort is drawing near, and I do not wish you to be ignorant of your importance.
However, I do not send this letter without a bit of good news.
I have finished the necessary arrangements for you to visit the Burrow briefly on the 31st to see Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley. Please inform your relatives that I will be arriving to escort you to the Burrow tomorrow at twelve o'clock sharp.
We will talk more then.
-Albus Dumbledore
Harry, grinning, rolled up the parchment and tossed it on his dresser. He went through his door, and, ignoring the constant pounding of a blaring television from his cousin's room, passed through the hall. He paused at the top of stairs when he heard the voices of Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon resonating from the kitchen. It was not often that he managed to hear them. Usually when he entered the room they would fall silent, even if they were in mid-conversation.
"Look at this news, Petunia," said Uncle Vernon. "Every year it's some virus that's attacking something. Mad Cow disease it was one year, and now it's this so-called Morbus Plague. Bunch of hogwash, if you ask me. People panicking for no reason."
"I wouldn't be so sure, Vernon," Aunt Petunia said. Something clattered, and Harry guessed that she was washing dishes from lunch. "Mary was telling me that her husband - he's a doctor - had to read a pamphlet on it, and it apparently has scientists all over the world confused."
"How so?" grunted Uncle Vernon.
More clatter. "I'm not sure," she continued. "They're saying that the virus couldn't possibly exist. They can't find anything else like it."
"So it just came out of nowhere, did it?"
"That's what Mary said."
Uncle Vernon laughed. "That just goes to show you how much these scientists and doctors know. They act self-important with their degrees and all that nonsense, but can't even figure out a virus."
When Aunt Petunia didn't respond, Harry climbed down the steps and went into the kitchen where he saw Aunt Petunia cleaning dishes and Uncle Vernon tying up the garbage. No one spoke, or even acknowledged his presence.
Harry didn't really mind.
"Errr, Uncle Vernon?" Harry began. "One of my teachers is going to be coming over at noon tomorrow to take me to a friend's house. I probably won't be back till the next day." He paused, waiting for a reaction. "I thought you should know so that you could disappear or whatever."
Uncle Vernon pulled the garbage bag a little tighter with a single, quick jerk, and Harry took this as a signal that he was being heard. Not wanting to stay there any longer than he had to, he turned and made a beeline for his bedroom.
When he reached the top of the steps, however, he was greeted by Dudley, whose initial fearful expression was quickly masked by a facade of machismo. He stared at Harry in an attempt at intimidation, but Harry could sense the panic that was lurking just beneath the surface.
Harry looked at Dudley's hands, which were beginning to tremble, then at his cousin's hard, angry face, and rolled his eyes. He moved to squeeze through.
"I'm not afraid of you," Dudley said suddenly. Harry just looked at him. "I'M NOT!"
"That's great, Dudders," Harry said, not caring, going down the hall past his cousin.
"What's that supposed to mean?" said Dudley, mistaking Harry's retreating back as a chance to fire a parting shot. "You know what? I bet the rest of the freaks at your school are just as stupid as you are!" He grinned, apparently pleased with himself at delivering such a potent insult.
Harry stopped and looked over his shoulder. "That's the best you could come up with Dudders?"
"I wasn't coming up with anything, it's the truth!" Dudley said recklessly. "Hey, Harry, who's Hermione and Ron? Huh? Are they freaks like you? I guess they'd have to be because that's all they use are those stupid owls."
"You've been reading my mail?"
Dudley smirked. "That's right. You're not in your room all the time, you know."
Harry didn't reply, but instead whirled around and drew his wand as if to strike Dudley, but at the last minute froze. Dudley let out a yelp and covered his head with hands, his legs quivering. Harry held his wand there for another moment, unmoving, and then, just as abruptly, withdrew it and entered his room, slamming the door behind him.
Damn! he cursed inwardly. Shouldn't have let Dudley get to me like that.
The fact was that Harry had heard only a precious few words from Ron, while Hermione's letters felt somewhat off, as though she was being extraordinarily careful in what she wrote to him.
Ron, of course, had become distant ever since he had learned that both of his best friends had been together without his knowledge for a good deal of the previous school year. He was still part of the trio in the sense that he was around, and would help Harry in tight spots, but their conversations were rarely as they used to be. Additionally, the tension between Hermione and Ron during the end of last year became awkward and uncomfortable.
Perhaps, Harry thought, it had to do with Ron's Obliviation by Alexander Gates, the Hit Wizard who, because of Sirius' will, had to protect Harry during his entire sixth year. Ron had been suffering from sporadic moments of possession because of the brains in the Department of Mysteries, and Obliviation, though done recklessly and rashly, had inadvertently healed his mind.
But at the cost of Ron losing memory of half of his sixth year.
As a result, Ron's letters consisted mostly of questions about charms and curses that they had learned the previous year, and sometimes requests for tips necessary for pulling off a successful incantation. The Weasley's had hired a tutor over the summer for him, and, with any luck, he'd be ready to start his seventh year without delay.
On the other hand, Hermione was a complete mystery. He had expected her to be distant from him after she learned that he had lied - and lied convincingly - to her about the prophecy for the majority of their sixth year. What he didn't expect was for her to act so...
...strange.
Harry looked towards his nightstand, where a small oval mirror was sitting underneath a pile of rolled parchment. The other end, he knew, was with Hermione. For some reason, he had used it only rarely over the summer. Hermione preferred to use letters by owl rather than have direct contact through the mirror.
On impulse he went over to the nightstand, brushed the paper off of it with a sweep of a hand, and picked up the mirror. He looked into his dusty reflection and said, "Hermione Granger."
For a moment the mirror was blank, and Harry was about to set it down again when Hermione appeared in a flurry of brown hair. She blinked, almost in surprise.
"Harry?" she said.
Harry could tell instantly that something was wrong. Her cheeks were a pale pink, while there were dried tracks of tears that came down from her eyes. Evidence that she had been crying.
"Is everything all right Hermione?" Harry asked, already knowing the answer whether she gave it or not. "Your letters have just seemed...off."
"I'm great Harry," Hermione said a little too brightly. "How're you? I've just been reading over some books from last year to refresh my memory, because from what I've heard, the N.E.W.T. exams are going to be far harder than our O.W.L.'s, and we're going to need all the practice that we can get-" She spoke faster and faster. "-Not only that, but I've been ordering more books on the house-elves, so I'm hoping to get S.P.E.W. back on track with some more activities. This might be a bit surprising, but I'm not the first one who tried to make an organization to protect house-elves. The first one was actually created in the early 1600's, though there's almost no records of it because it only had about eight members."
"That's news to me," Harry said, though he could sense the nervousness behind the words. "Are you sure you're okay?"
Hermione paused. "Well..."
Alarms began to go off in Harry's head. If Hermione was hesitating, something bad had happened.
"Well I'll be seeing you tomorrow at the Burrow, right?" said Hermione. "My parents will be there the day after, so you'll be able to meet them too. Dumbledore will be bringing them over."
Hermione's parents at the Burrow? What was going on? "Why is Dumbledore bringing them over? What's happening?"
Hermione didn't answer at first. "I'll tell you about it at the Burrow," she said. "But you can't become angry, okay?"
"All right, but why would I become angry?"
"You'll see," said Hermione, sounding relieved. "Harry, have you talked to Ron lately?"
"Errr, sort of," said Harry, looking down on the floor where one of the pieces of parchment had landed. It had unfurled, and now he could see Ron's handwriting clearly. It was short, hardly more than a few lines.
Hey mate,
How's it going? Been working at Defense Against the Dark Arts some more. It's going well. Hopefully you'll be able to come over to the Burrow some time soon.
Ron
Hermione frowned at Harry's expression. "He's been writing like that to you too, hasn't he? I thought it might've been just me. All of his letters have been short and to the point." She sighed. "Ron's really changed."
"I think we all have, Hermione."
"But with Ron it's...different," she said. "I tried talking to him, but he insists everything is fine. Could you try?"
"I did before, and I got the same reaction as you did," Harry said, shaking his head. "But I'll try again. I'll be at the Burrow tomorrow, so maybe I'll have a chance to speak with him alone."
"Harry," said Hermione tentatively. "I think he's like that because of us. We never told him, and he took that as a betrayal of trust. Now he's distancing himself from us because he doesn't think there's, well, room for him."
Harry ran his free hand through his hair. "I don't want to lose him as a best friend. We've known each other since our first year." He exhaled. "This couldn't have been simple and easy, could it?"
"How could it be?" Hermione asked quietly. "Nothing can be like that. Not anymore."
Silence prevailed, and Harry had a burning desire to ask her once more what was wrong. He knew what the response would be, of course. He would have to wait.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Harry," said Hermione at length. She made to set her end of the mirror down.
"Wait," said Harry suddenly. She looked at him questioningly, and he found himself fumbling for words. "I - uhhhhh - I've missed you, Hermione. Errr, just wanted you to know."
Hermione smiled. Genuine. First time since Harry last saw her at the end of their sixth year. "I missed you too."
And, with that, the mirror went blank.
**
The children called him The-Rich-Old-Man-On-The-Bench or The-Old-Man-Who-Gives-Candy. He had sat on this very bench in Knockturn Alley for several days in a row now, and every time he would come with a bag of assorted sweets to hand out to any of the impoverished urchins who called this place home.
And they accepted it without question. Poor souls.
Of course, that was not his purpose for being there. He loved children, it is true. They would rob him blind as soon as smile at him, but he didn't care. He loved the innocence in them, and the enormous potential in each and every one of them. Behind their dirty faces he saw possibility.
Unfortunately, they only rarely blossomed into people that could proudly call themselves human. The majority succumbed to the weaker temptations, and turned into people who, in manner and behavior, were barely elevated above their ape ancestors. It was not their fault. The paths to becoming a human were few, and the paths to ruin many.
So that is why he handed out the candy. He saw, using his True Sight, their futures, and they were indeed effected by the simple gesture of generosity. With the candy, life opened up more routes to greatness that they may achieve. While the odds were still overwhelmingly against them, it was not quite as bad.
The wizards and witches who passed him as he handed out the sweets shot him strange looks, and this did not surprise him. He must have looked quite out of place amidst the debris that was Knockturn Alley. He was dressed in a pure-white Brooks Brothers muggle suit, complete with cufflinks and matching silk gloves. His shoes were the finest Italian leather. The picture was finished with a polished scabbard and sword that he held securely on his side. He enjoyed being exquisitely dressed, especially when others were not.
In his opinion, muggles were far ahead of wizards in terms of style. The wizarding world was very conservative in that respect, with their bulky, shapeless robes and clumsy hats. Nothing in the revered Madam Malkin's shop could hope to compare to the crisp and sharp feeling of wearing a hand-tailored muggle jacket and slacks.
His eyes did not help matters much, either. His centuries of existence had made them solid and glassy. The bizarre change in the texture of his eyes was a curious development that he did not fully understand, though he knew that they were strange to look at. They were similar in appearance to the enchanted substitute eyes that had become a sort of fashion among ex-Aurors from the first Voldemort era. Under most circumstances he would wear glasses to mask them, but, for his intentions today, he chose not to.
"'Zis is becoming tedious," said Pierre de Fontaine after taking a long drag from a cigarette. "Why must we keep coming back 'ere? I say zat we do the job and go."
"You must learn patience some time, Pierre," he said. "It would do you well to learn it now. I can See for myself the best time to...do the job, as you so aptly put it."
Indeed, the True Sight was one of his few gifts. There were Seers with various degrees of strength, and he could safely say that he was, if not the strongest, among the top few that have ever been born. He had honed his talent to the point where he could See at will. For example, he could See where, in all likelihood, the man in the olive-green robe would be in an hour. He could See where, in all likelihood, the witch that had just passed him would be meeting her husband in a day. He could See when, in all likelihood, the best time to complete his task would be.
The power of True Sight was a difficult thing to comprehend, even for him. When focused on a single person, it could outline all the possible fates of him or her. For the young, the branches and twists of fate were unfathomable, while as they got older, the paths became fewer and fewer.
His power of Prophecy, however, vanished from him centuries ago. At one time, he would have sporadic, uncontrollable seizures, and would spout words that would lock a person onto one, unalterable thread of fate. His understanding of such events was limited, and how or why such fates were locked into position he could not decipher.
It did not come without a price. Despite his extensive powers of the mind, he could not wield a wand, and performing even a simple Lighting Charm was beyond him. He had all of the magical powers of a squib.
He wondered what the passing wizards would say if they knew that this well-dressed stranger was a squib. He played out a scenario in his mind, and, as he had expected, the wizard's tone quickly turned from deferential to supercilious. It was like that centuries ago, and it would undoubtedly be like that centuries into the future, even past the True Sight barrier of his death or transference.
He knew that his interference would change the inherent arrogance of wizards, but that was a goal that was far from recognized.
"I zee 'er now," said Pierre, dropping his cigarette and crushing it with the heel of his shoe.
He roused himself from his reverie. "Yes, right on time," he said, and shakily got to his knees. His joints were riddled with arthritis, making him feel as though his bones were grinding against crushed glass.
I'll need a new body soon, he thought wearily.
Pierre, meanwhile, was drawing his wand. "Shall I interzzept 'er?"
"No," he said quickly. "Leave this to me. Finish with the candy."
He shoved a pouch of various chocolates and candies into Pierre's hand, and the Frenchman scowled but nodded. He did what he was told...at least he was for now. He went to the bench, sat down, and idly began handing out sweets to the various children who came by. He looked severely displeased.
Surprising how many parents let their children eat candy from a stranger, even in these troubled times, he thought as he crossed the street, following a heavyset lady into the apartment building. But then, the parents probably don't care. Homeless, probably. This is Knockturn Alley, after all, home of the nonhuman.
The sight of one of the children - the one with a thick head of black hair and the face of a hawk - brought up a horrible memory of another child. His innocent face was twisted with terror as he cowered in a well-lit, aristocratic room.
No time for that now. Focus on your goal.
The woman he knew as Dolores Umbridge climbed the steps, oblivious to the stranger that was following her. He made his way to the doorway.
Just then, a freckled child, no older than seven, leapt in from of him, grinning playfully. "Hiya sir!"
Despite himself, he smiled back. The grim task that awaited him vanished from his mind. "Hello Nicholas," he said.
The boy's eyes went wide. "You remembered me?"
"Of course," he said with a laugh, and dug in his pocket in the hopes of finding a spare piece of candy. When he did, he added, "And here's a little something for you. Don't get into any trouble, now. Also, stay away from Jeremy. He's a doomed soul."
The child blinked several times, then gratefully accepted the candy. "How'd you know about him?"
"I know many things," he replied. He oftentimes wondered why the children took the candy without suspicion. Perhaps it was his dress that inspired the sense of trust, and they never expected treachery from such a man. Poor young souls. He would never do such a thing, but there were many in Knockturn Alley that would. "Now run along, and stay away from this building for today, alright?"
The boy nodded. "Okay," Nicholas said, and ran away into an alley.
He watched the child go, and then took the tarnished brass handle of the front door and pushed. A cool darkness swept over him as he went inside. He glimpsed Dolores heading upwards, climbing the long, rickety stairwell.
Using the Sight, he could now see that the alternate branches of the future were indeed narrowing, and nearly all led to her room. The image was becoming clearer by the second. With every step he took, his future became more and more focused.
Dolores Umbridge, he knew, was now working as a clerk for some decrepit shop deeper in Knockturn Alley, the only job she could get after being fired from the ministry. He had watched her go back and forth to work every day as he sat on the bench, and he learned a great deal from tracing the various roads she could have traveled on, if she had made different decisions. Many were very nasty. She was, like most of the wizarding world, not rich enough to be called human. Her life was a pointless one.
He no longer judged things as good and evil. When one was as old as he, one no longer cared. Death was a phobia as meritless as a fear of spiders or insects. Human and nonhuman took the place of good and evil. A life that was full and accomplished - even if the deeds were evil - was classified as a human life. An existence wasted away on trivialities could only be classified as a nonhuman existence.
The woman he was watching could have become human had she been wiser, but, like most others, she was not.
His hand fell down to the hilt of his sword, but he did not dare to draw it. His Sight warned him of the possibility that she would hear his sword unsheathing, turn around, and disrupt the plan. He wanted to complete his task as quickly and as silently as possible. He needed patience.
Dolores fumbled with her wand as she performed an unlocking charm that was unique to her apartment. His knees ached from climbing the steps, and he used this time to rub them with his own gnarled hands. He cursed his aging body. He would need a new one soon.
The door's lock unlatched, and she shuffled her way in. He sprung from his position down the steps, and strode to the door. She turned around and stared at him as he came towards her, puzzled. She did not move.
In a flash he drew his sword and, before she could as much as blink, he plunged the blade into her gut and pushed her back into her apartment, shutting the door behind him with his leg. She struggled, but he was stronger, and held her close. He closed his eyes and placed his chin on her shoulder, twisting his sword in her stomach, feeling every tremor that ran through her skewered body.
As he killed her, he brought his left hand under her arm and up to the back of her neck, pressing his fingers against the most sensitive part of her spine. Focusing, he drained her memories and thoughts, drinking in her past. He enjoyed the personal sensation he received whenever he did this. It was like he had spent a lifetime learning about a person, when he had only spent a few seconds.
She gasped and gurgled, her arms flailing against him, and he had nearly lost his hold. His knees screamed with pain, and had he not braced himself for such a shock, they would have fallen out from under him. Umbridge was a heavy woman, but her strength mattered little in the face of this unexpected attack.
The tap of his pleasure was quickly drying up, and he jerked the sword upwards, into her chest, then thrust it deeper. He could see her about to perform the Cruciatus Curse. He could see her effortlessly manipulating the minister. Brilliant, but clumsy, he thought regretfully. Another unfulfilled life.
He withdrew his sword and let her corpse drop to the floor. He brought a silk white handkerchief out from his pocket, wiped the blade clean, and then placed it in its scabbard, cleaning the hilt for good measure. He peeled off his gloves, wet with blood, from his hands, and then tossed both the gloves and the handkerchief on her body. He felt no pity for her. Death comes to everyone, after all.
He quickly went to the bathroom and washed his hands, dying the sink red with the blood that had managed to seep through his gloves, and then returned to the heavyset corpse of Dolores Umbridge, his hands fresh and smelling clean.
He bent down and gingerly plucked the black quill that he knew she had from her pocket. He held it for a moment and examined it, ensuring that it was, indeed, the right one. It was. The Blood Quill, that uses the blood of the wielder as ink. The quill once used by Harry James Potter.
Strange, he thought, how she always kept it on her person. It held a special sort of significance.
He carefully placed it into the inside pocket of his jacket, and then left the apartment, locking the door behind him. Upon seeing some blood smeared across the front of his suit, he took his jacket off, rolled it up, and tossed it into a nearby trash bin, but not before removing the quill. After all, he could buy a new jacket easily.
He slid the quill once more through his fingers, appreciating the advantages of the True Sight. How horribly risky it was for common people to go through their lives without knowing!
But now he knew what he had. It was all he needed to break the enchantments. Blood from the mother's line. It was just as Riddle had said.
Comforted with this new knowledge, he went down the stairs and through the front door. Nori Katashi knew that he was one step closer to his ultimate goal.
And this road, he knew, and all other paths led to Hogwarts.
A/N: For those who read HPM, the name I mentioned in that second-to-last sentence should ring a bell. For those who didn't, don't worry, he was little more than barely mentioned in HPM. Hopefully I didn't overdo anything in this chapter; this story is intended to be - overall - a light fic.
Additionally, if you are my beta, and you have not heard from me in 2+weeks ( and did not receive the chapter), email me because I lost it and am in no way of contacting you! (You know who you are!)