Harry Potter and the Nexus

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!)

(A/N: Extremely sorry for the long delay! I sort of lost this chapter when I moved into college last week, and have been scrambling to get it back. Anyway, I got it back from one of my beta’s, and everything is fine again. This story will be on pause until I get settled into college, so I beg you to hold on! Thanks to my very loyal and patient readers!)

Harry was lying back in his bed, his family photo album propped up on a pillow, gazing at the pictures. He hadn't always done this on his birthday, but for some reason, it had become important to him.

No, that wasn't right. Not just some reason. He knew very well the exact reason. Last year he had come close to losing the entire collection. All of the photos featuring his mother had actually been destroyed.

No, that wasn’t right either. All of the photos featuring his mother that were in his possession.

By that monster Alexander Gates...

It didn't matter now, he knew. He had already paid for his mistakes twofold, and he wasn't going to dwell on them overmuch. At least he didn't want to.

But it was times like these, when he was looking through his album, that he would remember, and he hated himself for letting it happen. It was strange how he began to associate his family's pictures with the Hit Wizard Gates, and even stranger the memories it conjured.

The bastard would probably have a good laugh over that.

Of course, the bastard, better known to the world as Alexander Vladimir Black Gates, was in no position to laugh, or do much else for that matter. As far as Harry knew, Gates was still sitting in the dungeons of Hogwarts, his eyes glazed over, reliving his worst nightmares as the slow process of transforming into a Dementor trudged on.

Harry turned the page, and the most recent addition to his collection of photos temporarily stunned him. It was a photo of Lily alone, standing on one of the hills outside of Hogwarts, the castle in the background. Her back was towards the taker of the picture, but regardless, she was beautiful beyond words.

Professor McGonagall had given it to him in an envelope, saying that, as Head of House Gryffindor, it was her duty to return all non-threatening, confiscated articles back to their respective owners at the end of each year. Harry had never seen this particular picture before, and he was sure that nothing was confiscated from him over the course of his sixth year.

When he had told Professor McGonagall this, a stern look crossed her features and she glanced at the name on the envelope and said, "Yes, it definitely says Harry James Potter. The heads of house have free access to the confiscation box, so clearly one of us submitted it."

The only other item that came with it was a slip of parchment, which had written ambiguously on it: This doesn't belong to me.

Harry had no idea what the note meant, but, for some reason, he kept it anyway. It was placed behind the picture in the album in the hopes that he could at some point identify the writer.

The album of compiled pictures of him and Sirius at Grimmauld Place that he had received from Hermione last Christmas sat nearby, not yet looked through. Harry set aside his pictures of his parents and pulled up the other album. As he looked through the photos, it slowly dawned on him that the pain that he used to feel when he saw something that reminded him of Sirius had gone. Replacing it was a warm remembrance.

He wasn’t sure of the precise point in time when he began to accept and overcome Sirius’ death, but he knew now that he was past it. It had taken him a long time, however, and he could still clearly remember the times when a tumultuous mixture of depression and anger overcame him whenever he encountered something that bit deeply into his memories of Sirius.

Closing the books and setting them carefully away, he went downstairs and was only a little surprised to see the Dursley's weren't there. On the table was a scrawled note that seemed to have been written as an afterthought.

Boy,

Going to Aunt Marge's. Will be back in three days.

-Uncle Vernon

Harry threw the paper away and scrounged through the refrigerator for breakfast. A slice of meatloaf on the plate - last night’s dinner, he presumed - greeted him. Without bothering to heat it up, he placed it on the table and ate it cold. It was surprisingly delicious. He never knew Aunt Petunia was a good cook, he decided. But then, he never had too many opportunities to try her meals.

Harry checked the clock and found that it would not be too much longer before Dumbledore would arrive at the door to take him to the Burrow.

Taking advantage of the Dursleys' absence, Harry went into the living room and turned on the television. He was not prepared for the newscast that appeared.

"In a public announcement today, the Health Minister urged everyone to avoid public areas until more can be learned about the virus," said the reporter, wearing a grim expression that reflected the gravity of his words. "So far the virus, which had been dubbed the Morbus Plague, has claimed as many as one hundred and eleven lives, with more expected over the coming week."

The camera changed to show an elderly woman with a shawl wrapped around her neck, sitting down in what was apparently a hospital waiting room. She was joined by many others, all wearing identical expressions of mingled disbelief and shock. Several were holding their heads in their hands, sobbing gently. One woman was rubbing another's back, though she too had tears streaking down her face.

"I can't understand it," said the elderly woman, her voice cracking. "He was fine - just fine. Healthiest person I’ve ever known."

Harry put down the controller and, slightly dazed, sat down on the couch. Uncle Vernon never let him near the television, and the little news he had of the outside world came through Hermione.

The reporter's face returned to the screen. "Additionally, the Health Minister advised that if red swellings begin to grow on parts of your body, you should go to the nearest hospital immediately for treatment. It is unknown how the virus spreads, or how it can be cured, but scientists and doctors across the world have been working overtime to learn more about the plague and where it originated-"

-Knock knock-

Harry's attention was jolted away from the television, and he got up to answer the front door. Remembering his mistake from last year, he looked through the side window, and, upon seeing it was Dumbledore, promptly opened the door.

"Ah, good afternoon Harry, and happy birthday," Dumbledore said. "I take it that your relatives made an early departure to avoid me? No matter."

"Yeah, they won't be back for a few days," Harry said. He widened the door for Dumbledore to step inside. "They went to my Aunt Marge's."

"I see," Dumbledore said, stepping through. "I trust they haven't been as...confrontational as they were last year?"

"No, they've pretty much left me alone. Not that I mind," he added.

"Ah, I see you've been watching television," said Dumbledore when they entered the living room. "Fabulous innovation." He paused, watching the screen as the reporter continued discussing the plague.

"How bad has it been for the Order?" Harry asked quietly.

"Better than I expected," said Dumbledore. "But this plague is more deadly than I had originally feared. Tom has indeed infused several Dark Magicks into the virus, making it far more potent than anything we have encountered previously. The muggles can have all the scientists and doctors in the world studying the plague, but it won't make an ounce of difference. They're trying to gaze at the stars with a microscope."

"Can the Ministry of Magic do anything?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "They're allocating all their resources towards finding and capturing Death Eaters. I do believe, however, that the plague is also being studied in the Department of Mysteries. I am not hopeful of any imminent breakthroughs. If Tom has crafted this plague as carefully as I now suspect, then it might just be impossible to cure."

Dumbledore sighed, then continued. "There are no know preventions, either. Even Hogwarts is vulnerable to it. The enchantments placed around the school are useless against an attack of this type."

"What about Snape-"

"-Professor Snape-"

"Professor Snape, then," Harry said. "Has Professor Snape been able to uncover anything?"

"Yes, he has," Dumbledore said. "At great risk to himself, he's uncovered small but significant bits of information. I'll discuss this with you later. Voldemort is terrified of you, Harry. Of that much, he is certain."

Harry nodded. Last year he learned of how Snape had spied on Voldemort during the past couple of years, and, as it turned out, the Potions master had used his skills of Legilimency to subtly look through some of Voldemort's thoughts. The Dark Mark, which bound all Death Eaters to Voldemort, acted as a bridge between their minds so that Snape could accomplish this.

Of course, the process was exceptionally dangerous, and only Snape's exception Occlumency skills kept Voldemort from reversing the process, potentially driving the Potions master insane. Or worse, Voldemort could even possess Snape. The risks were high, and this, with little else, made Harry give the Potions master a grudging measure of respect.

"Enough of this talk," said Dumbledore. "We give Tom too much honor by speaking of him all the time. This is your birthday, and the day you come of age. As such, I have something that must be passed on to you."

Harry silenced the television with a button on the controller, and then pulled up a seat across from Dumbledore, who was folding up his spectacles. Harry was beginning to recognize this gesture as a prelude to something startling. The headmaster's eyes - shockingly blue without the muting glasses - bore into him. From his robe Dumbledore drew a spherical object. It was wrapped in a dark blue silk cloth which had fringes the color of burnt gold.

"This, Harry, is something that used to belong to your father," said Dumbledore softly. "Or, more specifically, your father's family. It's an artifact that's been going down through the Potter line for centuries. Needless to say, it's immensely valuable, and with it comes much responsibility. As you are now an adult in the eyes of the ministry, this now passes to you."

"I don't understand," said Harry. "I thought everything that used to belong to my parents was in the vault."

"When the sole heir of particular artifact is underage, it is customary for that artifact to go to a trusted individual for safekeeping," explained Dumbledore. "It's an old tradition that is supposed to prevent any less-than-honest relatives from taking advantage of the heir and acquiring the artifact. In your father's case, it was unnecessary, but in order to inherit an artifact, the heir must always name someone trustworthy enough to keep it in the event of his or her's death."

"So you're saying that I'll have to name someone too?"

Dumbledore nodded. "That's correct."

"Can I name two people?"

"Jointly holding an artifact has precedent. Yes."

"Hermione and Ron."

"It's refreshing to see such trust between people," said Dumbledore, laughing. "When you see them today, you'll have to ask for their consent."

"So what is it?" asked Harry. "It's shaped like one of Trel- Professor Trelawney's crystal balls."

"It is most assuredly more valuable than one of those," said Dumbledore lightly. He removed the cloth and left sitting in his hand was a rather large, clear glass globe. There was nothing remarkable about it at all.

Harry's brow furrowed. "What is it?"

"It’s called Tenbrook’s Sphere, and within it is time," Dumbledore said, looking distantly at the sphere in his hand. "Pure, undiluted time. Extraordinarily useful and powerful in the right hands. Dangerous in the wrong ones."

"You mean it's like a time turner?"

"No, not at all," explained Dumbledore. "You have to understand, Harry, that time is merely a resource. It's the device that uses the resource that determines what you can do." He held it out to Harry. "Feel it."

Harry placed the back of his hand against the globe and found that it was warm bordering on hot. "What does it do?"

"When activated, it creates a sort of vacuum around the wielder that allows him to move about freely, while everyone else is apparently frozen in time," said Dumbledore. "I say apparently because while it feels to the wielder like several minutes are passing, to everyone else - who are still in real-time, as I call it - only an instant has passed."

"So you're saying that when I activate it, I can, for example, walk over to the next room, walk back, deactivate it, without you noticing?"

"Essentially, yes," said Dumbledore. "And if you were to activate it, go to the next room, stay there, and deactivate it, it would seem to me that you simply vanished. Would you like me to demonstrate?"

Harry nodded, and, quite unexpectedly, his heart leapt into his throat, and a strange tingling feeling swept over him, leaving itself in his fingers and toes. Like his entire body had suddenly fallen asleep.

But, more importantly, Dumbledore was gone.

"Professor?" Harry asked aloud, looking around.

Dumbledore stepped into the living room from the kitchen, Tenbrook’s Sphere securely in his hand, and sat back in his seat. "I take it that my demonstration made things clearer? All I did was activate it and left the room. Of course, I could’ve done a number of other things. Such as-"

Another tingling sensation swept over Harry, and, again, the funny feeling of his heart leaping upwards occurred. He looked down and saw that his hand had somehow moved from its original position on his knee to the middle of the table. It was bizarre in that his brain and his eyes were giving conflicting information.

"You mean you can move stuff around too?"

"I can do almost anything I want to," said Dumbledore. "Do you now see the Tenbrook’s Sphere is so dangerous?"

Harry frowned. "But I noticed when it was happening? I could feel it."

"That is because you could - for a fraction of a second - sense that time had been manipulated," said Dumbledore. "The feeling, of course, it determined by proximity. While you may feel it, and perhaps the person next to you may feel it, nobody five hundred yards away could possibly feel a thing."

Harry looked once more at the clear glass globe. There was nothing there to betray its full power. "Why has it been in my family for so long? I mean, there were loads of time turners at the Department of Mysteries..."

"Like I said before, the time within this globe is pure in every sense of the word," said Dumbledore. "The wizard who originally made it - Lord Dante Tenbrook - was drained of all of his magical energy in the process, and, while others have tried to copy him, none have come close to creating it. The time used in time turners, while still enormously valuable, does not touch the purity that is within this globe. Tenbrook's Sphere is truly something that has not been and never will be duplicated."

"How long can you keep it activated?" asked Harry.

"Do you mean how long the effects can be sustained in real-time, or do you mean time as it is apparent to the wizard?" asked Dumbledore. "You have to remember that Tenbrook’s Sphere alters time for the wielder alone, so that, for the user, time does not truly exist so that he can move about freely. In real time, only an instant will pass, no matter how ‘long’ the Sphere is activated. However, to answer what I believe to be your question, the length of - I believe the appropriate word would be no-time - that can be achieved varies with the strength of the wielder. The exceptionally powerful can stretch the ‘length’ for hours, and even extend the temporary power of no-time to other people."

"So if you were powerful enough, you could bring other people under the influence of the Sphere, allowing them to move in no-time with you?"

"That’s correct," said Dumbledore. "But it’s not without risks. Using the Sphere too often has been known to cause insanity. It may also warp your body, causing it to age rapidly, or manipulate your mind so that you revert to the mentality of a two-year-old. The effects are numerous and, unfortunately, largely unstudied."

Harry frowned at this, and then slowly nodded.

"I know it’s a difficult concept to comprehend," said Dumbledore. "But perhaps understanding will come - forgive the pun - with time." He wrapped the silk cloth around the sphere and then tucked it back into his robes. "Our discussion has taken longer than I had originally planned, and now I fear we will be late to the Burrow. After you have established Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger as your - to use the legal term - Trusted Fellows, Tenbrook’s Sphere can come into your possession."

"Sorry for making us late."

Dumbledore’s sharply blue eyes twinkled. Like the flash of a star. "Time spent in the pursuit of knowledge is not time wasted." He got to his feet and drew large, wooly sock from his robe.

Harry simply stared at the ragged thing. "Uhhh, professor?"

"Take it, Harry," said Dumbledore.

Harry was no longer sure whether Dumbledore was still in a sound mind. The headmaster looked completely serious, and, while Dumbledore had once expressed a fondness for woolen socks, Harry was not about to take one for no apparent reason.

"I, uhhh, I have plenty of socks."

"That’s good to know," said Dumbledore. "Very good to know indeed. But, like I said once before, one can never have too many socks." He paused. "Are you ready for the portkey?"

Harry blinked, then mentally kicked himself. The sock was a portkey. "Oh! Yeah, I’m ready."

He reached out, touched it, and his last sensation was a strong pulling from somewhere behind his navel before he warped away.

OOOOO

Nori Katashi stood nonchalantly on the corner, unaffected by the sweltering temperatures, his eyes focused on the house at the end of the drive. To passerby he might have looked strange from wearing a white, long-sleeved silk shirt and an olive-colored vest in such oppressive heat, but he cared little. Strange looks were something he was used to by now.

Strange looks from his former colleagues and friends, when they found out he was a squib.

Strange looks from his long-ago relatives, who would only rarely accept him into their homes, and when they did, would rush him out again at the soonest possible time.

Presently he heard rather than saw Pierre approach him. The unusually long gap between footfalls was a trademark trait of the Frenchman, and he could recognize them in an instant. Katashi turned as Pierre stepped off of the black asphalt and onto the cracked sidewalk. He went to a nearby light-pole with peeling paint and leaned against it, drawing a cigarette as he did so.

"That’s a muggle habit, you know," said Katashi.

Pierre de Fontaine stared at him wearily. "So are your clothes." He lit the cigarette and put it in his mouth, taking a long drag. He sighed with pleasure.

Katashi simply watched him. Pierre was an insulting, uncouth man, but Katashi cared little for his excesses. "You look uncomfortable."

"Eet’s hot," Pierre said. "And ‘zese clothes that I ‘ave to wear…’zey make it worse." He picked at his thick woolen sweater.

"Little Whinging is a muggle neighborhood," said Katashi. "Therefore, you will wear muggle clothes."

"I know, I know," said Pierre. He sucked on his cigarette and exhaled through his nose. "’ow long will we ‘ave to wait?"

Katashi looked through the eyepiece of True Sight, confirming that there were no fatal hazards to them, then nodded. "We can start now."

It was a habit for him to use True Sight several times to check the infallibility of a plan before executing the said plan. There was always a slight distortion to his Sight, no matter how well he was feeling, and it oftentimes depended on how far into the future he was gazing. Like a building at a distance, Katashi could only make out a few details of the future, but, as it comes closer, more and more could be revealed.

But there were other barriers to his Sight as well.

Katashi could not See beyond his transference - or death, as they were both regarded as the same to the Sight - to another body.

Neither could he See into or beyond a Nexus, his term to describe a rare event where, in a short period of time, the fate of millions is determined. The assassination of Archduke Francis Ferdinand was one such example, where one murder changed the course of the world. In such cases, the threads of the future are so intricate and complicated that he cannot separate or simplify them. They become great, thick entanglements that he cannot distinguish or independently See.

And Katashi knew that a Nexus was approaching. He Saw it as a white, boiling point of convergence where every thread of the future went into and later came out of. It was sheer and blinding, and not even he could hope to understand what was happening within it. It was something that could only be passed through and then sorted afterwards.

But it was also this very same Nexus that drew him from solitude decades ago, when, after examining the little he could See leading up to it, he realized that this was his chance. A unique possibility to fulfill a dream.

"How can you call that a dream, Uncle?" asked a sweet, childish voice. "More like a nightmare."

Katashi closed his eyes. Not now.

"I know what you’re planning," continued the voice. "You’re not a nice person, Uncle Squib."

Don’t call me that! Katashi’s eyes opened and darted towards the small child in a black wool robe. He recognized the boy, of course. He had seen him many times previously. It was his nephew, Julius, who had died nearly two millennia ago.

Though Katashi knew that the figment of a boy that stood before him was nothing more than a twisted extension of his mind, that knowledge did not stop the frustration and anger he felt during their conversations.

"That’s what everyone else calls you, isn’t that right?" asked Julius in his childishly innocent voice. "Uncle Squib, the poor old man whose relatives keep him from sinking into poverty in his first life."

I don’t have time for this, Julius, Katashi said inwardly. There was no point of using his voice. Although he saw Julius and he heard the voice, no one else did, and the child’s body was as solid as a thought.

"Out for killing again?" asked Julius with feigned surprise.

You already know the answer to that.

His nephew stared at him with transparent eyes. "You’re a horrible, nasty old man, Uncle Squib."

You don’t understand the Sight like I do, said Katashi. You can’t understand.

The boy smiled. "Yes I do, because I am you."

Then you understand why the changes must be made. You understand why I alone can make this dream of mine a reality. You understand the cruel path that must be walked before utopia can be achieved.

"Utopia?" echoed Julius. "How could you call such a place a Utopia? I know what you think. I know what you dream. You cover your plans in a veil of altruism."

Then you’re an ignorant child, nothing more, Katashi thought. What’s the purpose of your existence? To question every last one of my actions?

"Not at all, Uncle. I told you once before that I am you. I’m everything you’d never dare to admit to yourself. And that is why you hate me so much."

Pierre’s hand drifted to a bulge in his side. His wand. "‘Zen let’s not wait."

Katashi, glanced at Pierre, and, when he looked back at where Julius had stood, the figment was gone.

Calm. Breathe. Focus on your goal: the attacker.

"Not yet, Pierre. First there is a minor issue that I must address."

"An izzue of the Sight?" Pierre asked. "Leave eet to me. ‘Zere is nothing I cannot…deal with." He puffed on his cigarette.

"That will be unnecessary, Pierre," said Katashi, his nostrils beginning to burn from the smoke. He intensely disliked the Frenchman’s habit, though he never said so. "I wish for you to prepare the portkey. I will let you know if there is more that you can do."

Pierre shrugged. "If you pay me ‘Zree ‘undred galleons a week to make a portkey, I’ll make you a portkey. If you pay me ‘Zree ‘undred galleons a week to carry your baggage, I’ll carry your baggage. All ‘ze same to me."

Katashi nodded and turned away from Pierre, his eyes once again sweeping over the placid neighborhood.

In Katashi’s opinion, Pierre was a mediocre wizard, with little skill and talent. His charms work was merely average and his powers of transfiguration were dismal. Though Pierre did display a certain flair in using the Unforgivable Curses, that alone did not attract Katashi’s attention. Neither did Katashi consider Pierre to be a human in the sense that he was accomplished.

Katashi’s sole purpose of paying Pierre such a lofty fee was to make up for his own shortfalls in the areas of wand magic. While many wizards could fulfill this requirement, Pierre was unique in the sense that his social life was limited to only a few, and there was little chance of Katashi’s deepest and best-kept secrets escaping into the outside world. Neither did the Frenchman have an exceptionally strong conscience. Also, Pierre was the type of man whose loyalty could be measured in gold, and, to Katashi, that was his most attractive trait.

When he had used the True Sight a moment ago, he followed a thread of the future involving himself approaching number four, Privet Drive - the home of a family called the Dursleys’, he recalled - and performing the necessary ritual to bring down the protective enchantments. However, as the scenario unfolded, he was struck with a curse.

Viewing a few more threads, and seeing that he never had a good view of the attacker, he came to the conclusion that the person was wearing an invisibility cloak. Focusing, he looked through yet another scenario, watching for the origin of the curse. He saw it - a brief glimmer of light - coming from the other side of the street, beside a house, under the shadow of a shed.

Undoubtedly trying to stay out of the sun.

Katashi viewed it once more, trying to confirm that the attacker had not moved during the ordeal. He decided that the attacker had not.

"I’ll return in a moment, Pierre," said Katashi. "Don’t approach me until I'm tie up this...loose end. Just make sure you cast the necessary charms to ensure that no noise escapes and alerts the muggles."

"As you wish," Pierre said indifferently. He took a long, pleasurable drag from his cigarette, blowing the smoke out into the air.

Katashi strode confidently down the sidewalk, looking from the corners of his eyes at the houses, ensuring that there was no one watching. Witnesses had the bad habit of needlessly complicating things. To his relief, all of the lights in the house whose yard he was about to enter were out. No one was home. No awkward questions.

Without warning he turned sharply to the right, into a yard, on the opposite side of the house from the faceless attacker. Becoming more wary, he stayed close to the wall, slinking along cautiously. While his True Sight gave him no warning of danger, the future was a vast and complex thing, and even the smallest deviation from his previously Viewed course could open up virtual Pandora's box of unforeseen consequences.

Katashi was now in the back yard, and, looking around once more, he could see only stillness. The trees that lined the rear property line effectively obscured him from view of anyone, and, from what he could tell, neither of the neighbors were outside. Too hot.

It was becoming too hot for him as well. His body - which he never considered as a part of his true 'self' - was becoming weary, and sweat was beginning to moisten the elbows and knees of his exquisite silk shirt and pants.

Then he laughed, silently. He could imagine what the muggles would think if they saw a well-dressed man - apparently wealthy - prowling through their yard.

A poorly placed step pushed the thoughts from his mind as pain fired up from his arthritic knees. His left foot had fallen into a gopher hole, and, had it not been for the nearby wall, he would have toppled over.

Katashi gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, waiting for the pain to subside. He really needed a new body. This one was already over a hundred years old. It was time...

...but that would come soon enough. If fortune came to him.

At last he peered around the corner of the house and squinted his eyes as he searched for any telltale sign of an invisibility cloak. He found one. Near the ground was a part of a heel - a dead giveaway. Evidently, the wizard hadn't covered himself properly.

Sloppy, thought Katashi disdainfully.

He checked for Pierre, who was on the sidewalk, and he sent a telepathic signal to the Frenchman. Pierre paused for a moment, and then went out of sight. Using the True Sight, he confirmed that Pierre had setup the necessary charms.

Katashi silently drew his sword, and, without hesitation, crept towards the man he knew to be there.

The man shifted his weight, revealing a little more of his heel, and Katashi held his breath, fearing that the man was about to turn around. When it became clear that he was not, Katashi crept ever closer, his back bent, his knees aching, sweating profusely, still feeling splinters of pain in his foot.

A twig from an overhanging tree snapped underneath his foot, and, to Katashi, the sound might as well have been a bomb going off. The man whirled, the invisibility cloak flapping away to reveal a short, heavyset man reaching for his wand.

Katashi lunged forward, grappling at the man's arm, thrusting his sword into his adversary's stomach. The man struggled, and together Katashi and him fell to the ground, but it was a useless fate. Like a needle draws blood, the sword was sapping the strength from its victim, weakening him, paralyzing the muscles. He jerked the sword and felt it hit bone, severing the spine. The wand lay forgotten nearby.

The man screamed, and, had it not been for Pierre’s surrounding silencing charms, it would have disturbed half the neighborhood.

Then, Katashi heard something quite different from the man’s dying gasps. Sounds of children playing. He looked up and saw, across the street, a small gathering of young boys horse playing in the yard, spraying each other with a hose. Laughing.

Fear struck Katashi's heart. The Sight had not revealed to him these children. Some minute difference had thrown off the alignment with what he Saw and what he did. Katashi looked at the man who was dying in his arms, then back to the children, and, painfully, he dragged the man to behind the shed, out of view. He would never have forgiven himself if those children had seen death at such a young age.

He had already made that mistake once before...and he had learned. Oh, how he had learned.

Katashi did not let up, but instead twisted the sword, bringing his head down to the man's shoulder, closing his eyes, feeling rather than seeing the variety of memories that practically dripped from the man's brain. He never understood how this phenomenon occurred, but decided that it was simply another effect of possessing such incredible mental strength. Such close proximity to another person’s brain resulted in his brain acting as a sponge, inadvertently soaking up all of the memories from the weaker mind.

At least that was his rationalization.

Katashi fleetingly thought of taking his connection with the man to the next level by thrusting himself into the man’s body. It would finally relieve him of his pathetically decrepit body, and would give him something young and new. He called it his transference.

The benefits were numerous, as he would be able to adopt the deceased man’s name and identity, leaving behind the tainted face of Nori Katashi, whose appearance was readily recognized by several overseas enforcement agencies.

A few of the old names and people he had used flashed through his mind. Ragnand Front. Elliot Desmond. Aida Santhanam – though, admittedly, he was in the female’s body for little more than a week before he left it again. It was probably the worst week in his entire existence.

Indeed, he now found himself thinking of diving into this body, and was now subconsciously weighing the risks.

But it was impossible. For one, the man was already on the verge of death. For another, he had to be more selective in whose body could act as a suitable vessel for him over the next century. Lastly, but most importantly, such change would leave him disoriented for several days, which, under current circumstances, was unacceptable.

Then something that hadn't happened in years occurred. The man was trying to speak. Faint murmurs issued forth from his mouth.

"What is it?" whispered Katashi. He was enjoying the personal feeling that conversation gave him.

"Wha-?" gasped the man, gurgling. "You- What are yo-" He choked.

Katashi could feel the man's hand search and find the blade of the sword that was plunged into his gut.

The man chuckled, or seemed to. With all the blood and gurgling, it was difficult to tell. He began to speak again, and Katashi leaned closer to hear.

"You're-" More coughing. "-Squib-" He chuckled, this time the sound being unmistakable.

Katashi's expression darkened. Ruthlessly, callously, he pulled himself off the man and tore the sword from the man's stomach without his normal style or grace. The pleasurable feeling of personal contact was gone.

"Arrogant wizarding scum," spat Katashi, louder than he intended. He was immensely thankful that the muggles weren't home.

His sword felt like it was burning as it slashed downward through the air, cleanly separating the man's head from his body in an instant. Coldly, he brought out his silk handkerchief and wiped the blade. The blood of Dolores Umbridge mixed with the blood of this nameless, faceless man.

"What use is your wand to you now?" Katashi said, his voice dripping with contempt.

Squib. The word echoed throughout his skull.

What did wizards know about magic? Katashi thought angrily. Nothing!

Suddenly a sweet voice whispered, "Do you feel better about yourself now, Uncle?"

This was necessary, Katashi argued. He spun and found that the child-figment was standing behind him, slowly circling him.

When he came to the dead wizard, Julius knelt. "Perhaps this was, but why all the others?"

Katashi did not answer.

"Remember, I know you, Uncle," said Julius. "You kill because it makes you feel superior. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that why you hate being called a squib?"

The term ‘squib’ was never meant to be a kind word, Julius.

"It’s what you are."

It’s not! Katashi found that he was losing his patience. And what are you? You’re just a rogue string of thoughts – a manifestation of some vague corner of my mind. Who are you to judge me?

"Don’t be silly, Uncle," said Julius. "I am not judging you. I am simply telling you what you are."

I am not a squib!

Julius’ elfin face looked up at him and smiled. "You are without the power to perform wand magic. You are, by definition, a squib."

I can move objects with a mere thought, Katashi retorted. I can See the future. I can shift my essence from body-to-body. My skill at Occlumency and Legilimency is beyond the level attainted by most masters-

"Mental powers, not magical ones. Some muggles have been known to possess such skills to a small degree. You’re still a squib."

Katashi opened his mouth, then closed it again, realizing that he had allowed his nephew to, once again, rile him to the point of anger. He turned away, allowing himself room to breathe, and when he looked around again Julius was gone.

Just then Pierre, unannounced, came out from the street, striding up to Katashi. "’Zat’s disgusting. The way you killed him. Disgusting."

"There’s nothing disgusting about death," said Katashi evenly, beginning to feel slightly unnerved at Julius’ words. He picked up the man’s invisibility cloak and laid it over the body.

"’Zere’s blood on your vest," Pierre said. Something about his expression betrayed repulsion.

Katashi said nothing, but, for the first time, noticed that Pierre wasn’t smoking, though it was obvious that the Frenchman wanted to. The stench of burning smoke, however, was still present. It surrounded Pierre like an aura.

"I never undorrstood eet," continued Pierre. "You kill 'zese men so easily, and you are so old."

"I've been in this world since the Romans, Pierre," said Katashi. "I know how to kill. It's difficult for them to struggle when their backbone is severed by the tip of my sword."

His thoughts once again strayed to what Julius had said. Still a squib.

No, the boy was wrong. Julius simply didn’t understand some things.

Feeling relieved, Katashi said, "Come, Pierre, we have work to finish."

He drew a long, black quill from his vest pocket and held it in the air. On its tip was the crusted remnants of blood. Barely more than a droplet, but enough for his purposes.

"Is 'zat the Blood Quill?" asked Pierre.

"Yes," said Katashi serenely. He offered it to Pierre. "Liquefy this. I need to fill a glass. Make sure you purify it, as the quill was used on several subjects."

"’Zimple enough," said Pierre, accepting the quill. He placed it into a heavy crystal goblet, and, with his wand in hand, incanted, "Sanguinus Harry James Potter, Separatis." A bit of red blood seemed to melt from the quill’s tip, coming to a rest at the bottom of the goblet.

"Engorgio!" Pierre said, and the liquid expanded, filling the goblet to the rim with the rich red liquid.

"Excellent work, Pierre," said Katashi, though, admittedly, the charm was not all that complicated. He took the goblet back from the Frenchman, discarding the quill on the ground, and put it to his lips.

He tasted it, finding it bitter. Like copper. A moment later he downed it all in one prolonged swallow, afterwards feeling nauseated but elated. His True Sight revealed that he would be able to enter the Dursley residence without being obstructed by the enchantments.

Nori Katashi was now of the mother's blood.

"Come, Pierre," said Katashi in a haze. "We have work at Number Four that calls to us."

He thought briefly of using his True Sight to See how his confrontation with Harry Potter would fare, but decided against it.

Some things were best left hidden in the future.

Katashi crossed the street, and then followed the sidewalk for a short distance before he came to the home that was supposedly occupied by Harry and a family called the Dursleys’. He stopped at the mailbox, straightening his vest and smoothing his slacks.

An elderly neighbor, who was sitting in a rocking chair on her porch, eyed him suspiciously. Katashi smiled, waved, and after a moment, the woman looked away.

He crossed the lawn, glancing behind him briefly to ensure that Pierre was following. He climbed the porch steps, pausing to admire the well-trimmed shrubbery and flowers that flanked either side of the white-washed wooden stair, and then approached the burgundy door.

For the sake of politeness, he knocked. Again, he was tempted to use his Sight, but, like last time, wanted to be surprised.

It used to be that he used the Sight every time he so much as stepped outside. Over the course of centuries, however, his sense of caution waned, and a desire for excitement eclipsed his borderline paranoia.

After no one answered, he turned to face Pierre, who was standing idly nearby.

"Unlock the door," said Katashi. "And make sure it’s not detected by the ministry."

Pierre nodded and almost lazily drew his wand and said, "Alohomora!" The door clicked open.

"Wait here," Katashi said. "Create a portkey and ensure that no one else enters. And don’t attract attention, either." He waited for a response, and, upon receiving none, said, "Well?"

"For ‘Zree ‘undred galleon a week, I’ll do anything you want," Pierre said, leaning back against the wall. He looked as though he was going to reach for a cigarette, but changed his mind at the last second. "Do you See any trouble?"

"I haven’t checked," Katashi said, then went through the door and entered the home, drawing his sword. He hoped to make it quick. At seventeen, Harry Potter was no longer a boy, but a man. He did not want to be taken unawares.

Katashi crept through the hall and into the living room, seeing no signs of activity. Frowning, he climbed the stairs and searched the second floor. Nothing.

Harry mustn’t be home, realized Katashi. After all, it was the boy’s birthday.

He checked the clock in the kitchen and saw that evening was approaching. It would be an hour or two before the organization that the dead man outside worked for realized something was wrong, and, for now, Katashi could wait.

He stood there for a moment, debating whether to gaze through True Sight to see when Harry would be returning, and, at length, came to the conclusion that the risk made it necessary. What if the boy was not alone when he came back? What if Harry wasn’t to return for several days?

Katashi suddenly felt an intense dislike for Riddle’s rushed plans and schedules. Stupid, he thought, to order it done on the boy’s birthday. Nonessential and purposeless.

No, Riddle could acquire power, but he could never hold it for long. Katashi had seen such men rise and fall before. They were powerful – oh yes, strong individuals – but lacked the cunning and leadership that was necessary for any sort of prolonged control over the world. But people would die in the process…many people. Not that Katashi was overly concerned with such a loss of human life, but with the artistic and technological achievements that were also destroyed in a cruel sort of collateral damage.

Katashi focused, worming his way through the threads, trying to See the moment when Harry would return. He found it. In less than an hour Harry would use a portkey to return, and then Katashi could confront him.

Katashi was pleased.

For a man who had been in existence for almost two millennia, an hour was a short time indeed.

(A/N: Hope it wasn’t a disappointment; it was longer than I planned, but that’s all right. To my fanfiction.net readers, due to FF.net policy, I can’t respond to your reviews anymore. Anyone with any questions, comments, etc can feel free to email me.)

(A/N: Guess who’s not dead?)

Harry landed in the Burrow’s kitchen, for a moment disoriented, and looked around to see that he was effectively surrounded by a mass of people, all grinning and turning to face him.

Mrs. Weasley was standing beside a gigantic chocolate cake, beaming down at Harry with a motherly adoration. Fred and George stood behind her, grinning mischievously. Ron was on the other side, looking towards the twins, then back to Harry, shooting him warning glances. Lupin, Moody, and Tonks were by a table stacked with plates and forks, tipping their party hats deferentially at him. Ginny and Luna were there too, the latter’s expression betraying a mixture of bemusement and wonder.

Then Harry looked up and saw that the ceiling was draped with red-and-gold streamers, with several candles floating magically in their air in the spaces between. A Gryffindor lion was presented on a banner that hung on opposite ends of the room, occasionally rearing up on its hind legs to roar. A miniature figure on a broom (which bore a striking resemblance to him) soared after a golden blur no bigger than a needle’s head, weaving among the decorations near the ceiling.

Harry turned and nearly bumped heads with Hermione, whom he saw for the first time. “What’s all this about?” he asked, looking around himself once more in confusion.

She smiled and pointed towards a banned that hung in an archway. Happy Birthday Harry Potter.

Suddenly it hit him. Everything was for him. Never in his life had he anything resembling a birthday party, and what he saw now tore his insides apart with emotion. Harry wanted to reach out and personally thank everyone, but he was too stunned to even move. He looked back at Hermione, whose eyes were shining.

“No-” said Harry, shaking his head. “No- This can’t all be for me-”

“Harry,” said Dumbledore gently, placing his hand on Harry’s shoulder and reaching into the young man’s eyes with his own magnetic gaze. “Remember what I told you at the end of last year concerning your friends? Enjoy yourself.”

Reluctantly he let Hermione take his hand and lead him to the table, where he was forced into a seat by Mrs. Weasley and then served a generous slice of cake, which was practically dripping with chocolate.

Harry was not able to eat it, however, as everyone made their way over to his seat to shake his hand, wish him congratulations, and place a present beside his plate.

When Ron approached him, Harry readied himself, unsure of what to expect. “Good to see you mate,” said Ron in a completely normal voice. “Happy birthday.” He handed Harry a wrapped parcel and moved on, briefly tossing Hermione an unreadable glance.

Harry had little time to dwell on Ron, as next the twins approached him, both wearing identical grins.

“Always good to see our favorite partner-”

“-our only partner, really-“

“-though business has taken off-”

“But back to the point, we figured that you deserved a little something-”

“-it’s not little as in small, but it’s definitely something…” George paused, searching for a word.

“-memorable,” finished Fred for him.

George winked and then set the gift on the top of the stack, patting it lightly. They both gave Harry a firm handshake and disappeared with smirks on their faces. Harry watched them leave suspiciously, remembering Ron’s warning look and wondering what the twins could possibly be up to.

“It’s been a while since I’ve last seen you, Potter,” Moody said as he added his gift to the pile. He turned and looked at Harry with his glass eye appraisingly. “How long has it been? A year?”

“Yeah that’s about right,” said Harry, feeling rather uncomfortable as he always did under the gaze of Moody’s artificial eye. “I reckon we’ve both been pretty busy.”

The gnarled Auror laughed, but it came out more like a rattling chuckle. “You could say that. Remember what I say, Potter-” Moody’s tone turned serious. “Constant vigilance. You-Know-Who will kill anyone in any way he can.”

Harry nodded. “Right.”

“You say that now,” growled Moody. “But just wait. I let my guard down for one minute, and look what it got me.” He pointed at his magical eye with one finger. “The damned Death Eaters captured me and dragged me back to their headquarters. Next thing I know I’m being strung up onto a wall and one of them is coming at me with a hot poker.” He grinned in a grotesque, lopsided fashion. “Took out my eye, and it was then when they started asking me questions. It was pretty unusual for them to be doing it with their hands, like muggles, but then, sometimes the muggle-way is best.” He laughed.

Harry tried to chuckle along with him, but failed.

Moody didn’t seem to notice. “This was also the same night that You-Know-Who came after you and your parents. I guess I sort of owe you my life then, eh?”

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean, Potter, is that the minute You-Know-Who was blown away, a shockwave ran through the Death Eaters," said Moody. "Every last one of them felt the mark on their arms and knew what happened." He grinned. "They were all too happy to claim they were on Imperious and let me go. That's the way it is with their type: lop off the head and the body crumbles. They're not motivated by their ideology or beliefs. Just power. If they don't see an opportunity to gain it, then they scamper like rats. That's what separates them from us. We'd fight to the last man. They wouldn't."

Harry didn’t reply, and it didn’t seem like Moody had expected him to.

“Regardless, you should remember what I told you,” continued the Auror. “So what did I say, Potter?”

“Don’t let your guard down unless you want your eye stabbed out with a flaming iron poker,” said Harry, figuring that that was probably the best answer.

Moody grunted, seemingly satisfied, and limped off towards Dumbledore.

When Hermione tentatively smiled and came up to him, Harry found himself unconsciously checking his shirt to ensure there weren’t any stray cake crumbs clinging to it. She wrapped her arms around him, gave him a swift kiss on the cheek, and whispered, “Happy birthday.”

A shiver ran down Harry’s spine. “Thanks,” he said, and, looking into her face, he could see that something was wrong. Perhaps it was his newfound talent at Occlumency and other mental skills that gave him special insight at noticing the small nuances in her expression, but he could detect a measure of concealment in her eyes that he otherwise wouldn’t have noticed. The conversation they had through the mirror the other day was not forgotten by him, and he suddenly felt anxious.

“Hermione, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said quickly. Then, “We’ll talk later – this is your birthday party, after all.”

Harry recalled her saying that her parents were to be relocated to the Burrow, and he checked his surroundings, trying to find any unfamiliar faces that could belong to them. “Weren’t your parents supposed to be here?”

“They’re at Hogwarts right now,” said Hermione. “Professor McGonagall is telling them what is, err, going on.”

“Oh,” said Harry, feeling some relief. He knew that meeting her parents was something that he was inevitably going to have to do, but he welcomed the delay.

“So you’re still going to talk to Ron, right?” ask Hermione quietly. “He hasn’t said a word to me all day. It’s worse than when we’re outright arguing.”

Harry frowned and looked at his redheaded friend, who was engaged in a conversation in Luna. He certainly didn’t look like he was carrying any sort of grudge, but then, Ron had become so hard to read since his possession during last year. While the personality that ensnared him was gone, it seems that Ron had been permanently changed.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Yeah I will.”

“Harry-”

-CRACK-

Harry leapt to his feet when sound like a gunshot split through the air. Moody had already whirled around, his wand drawn, his magical eye spinning in its socket.

“I do hope I’m not interrupting anything of consequence,” drawled an all too familiar voice. Harry cursed silently. He had hoped he wouldn’t have to see the Potions master until the school year began.

“You arrived early, Severus,” said Moody, withdrawing his wand.

“The headmaster requested for me to finish my task as soon as possible,” said Snape. “I decided not to delay in presenting him my report. Though if I had known that I would be subjected to such…” He eyed the candles and red-and-gold streamers. “…visually unique-”

“That’s enough, Severus,” interrupted Dumbledore. “What have you determined?”

Snape, having smoothed his robes after having apparated in, strode towards Dumbledore, looking rather pleased with the effect of his dramatic entrance. He drew a small package from his pocket and handed to the headmaster.

“Surprisingly, it’s perfectly harmless,” Snape said. “I’ve subjected it to the most rigorous of jinx-detecting potions with no discovery of anything malicious.” He smirked. “I believe this is the first gift the Dark Lord ever gave.”

“Gift?” Harry echoed, looking at Dumbledore.

Snape’s eyes flitted to Harry then back to Dumbledore. “So Potter doesn’t know, does he?”

Dumbledore looked sharply at Snape when the Potions master spoke those last words, but said, “If that’s all, Severus…”

“Yes, that’s all,” Snape said crisply. He paused, looking around the room once more. “Potter’s birthday party, is it?”

“Would you like to stay, Severus?” offered Mrs. Weasley, and Harry’s head turned so fast that he could hear it pop. She was wearing her most diplomatic smile.

Snape stared at her and said in a voice dripping with sarcasm, “As tempting as your offer is - No, I believe I have other work that needs to be done before I could possibly join in the…festivities. I must be returning to Hogwarts immediately.”

He moved apart from them, faced the wall, and vanished with a crack.

Dumbledore, however, did not seem to have noticed. “That was most illuminating,” he murmured, and carefully placed the package into his robes. Turning to Harry he added, “I do not want to speak now, but after your party, I wish to have a few words with you.”

Harry nodded, subtly aware that, whatever was inside that package, it had something to do with him.

Mrs. Weasley looked deeply annoyed. “And I would like a few words with you before you speak to Harry, Albus.”

“And I would be more than happy to discuss with you whatever you want to discuss…” said Dumbledore. “…after the party.”

Though it was apparent that she was not completely satisfied, Mrs. Weasley nodded and called out, “There’s more cake for those who want some! I don’t want to have any leftovers!”

While the cake he had was excellent, it was also filling. Harry wasn’t too sure if he could handle another slice, and, judging from the lack of people answering Mrs. Weasley’s call, he wasn’t the only one.

“I’m going to get a drink, Harry,” Hermione said. “Do you want anything?”

Harry shook his head. “No thanks, I’m fine.”

Hermione got up from her seat and crossed the room to the drink table. As she did so, Mrs. Weasley repeated her previous call.

“There’s plenty more cake,” she said, this time looking directly at Harry, as though sizing him up.

“She’s not going to let you out of here until you eat at least another three pounds of that cake,” said Ron, coming up and slapping him on the shoulder. “When Hermione told her that you never had a birthday party before, she nearly had a heart attack. You wouldn’t believe how long she and Hermione have been planning this.”

Harry laughed.

“Well it’s true!” insisted Ron. “We all helped a fair amount, but they worked like a pair of madwomen.” He shook his head. “Once she gets an idea…”

“Hey mate,” Harry began, suddenly remembering his assurance to Hermione. “How about after this we go out and play some Quidditch? It’s been months since I last got a chance to fly.”

Ron hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Sure mate, it’s your birthday.” Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Hermione. “Let me go check to, err, make sure my broom is in, uhhh, working condition. I’ll be right back.”

Before Harry could get another word off he strode away, just as Hermione had returned with her drink.

“How is he?” she asked quietly.

Harry considered her question for a long time. “I don’t know,” he answered honestly. “He seemed normal enough when I was talking with him, but-” He stopped suddenly.

“-when I came over, he clammed up,” finished Hermione for him.

“Yeah,” Harry muttered. “That must’ve been it. But why?”

Hermione gave him a brittle smile. “If it hadn’t been for you, Harry; Ron and I would never have been friends. Our personalities are nothing alike.” She sighed. “I think- I think it’s easier for him to forgive you than to forgive me. He…liked me, Harry, more than just as a friend. In a way, I believe he blames all of this – the awkwardness - on me.”

“But shouldn’t he have – you know – gotten over all this?” said Harry. “I thought Luna and him were, err, close to getting together.”

“Gates’ memory charm wiped all that away,” Hermione replied. “Including any sort of personal affections he developed for Luna during the second half of the year. Luna is taking it rather well, I think. It’s so hard to tell though. She’s so strange.” She sighed. “But the point remains that Ron feels betrayed – not by you so much as me. In fact, I think he is far stranger to me than he is with you right now.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Harry said, remembering vividly that the original reason they had hid their relationship was to prevent something like this from happening. “Wait, are you saying that he-?”

“No, he doesn’t hate me, if that’s what you’re asking. It’s more complex. I just shouldn’t expect to receive any updates on how the Chudley Cannons are performing this year.” Hermione gave a short, forced chuckle, though there was no humor in her eyes, and her tone once again turned serious. “But I hope your talk with him helps. I hate it being like this.”

Harry gulped but said nothing. So far, he had planned nothing regarding his ‘talk’ with Ron. He could only begin to imagine how badly such a conversation could turn, but, seeing Hermione in such distress, he resolved to approach his best friend within the hour.

Maybe after Quidditch I could talk to him, Harry thought. Not only would Ron be tired after the game, but he would likely be in a good mood.

“I think it’s about time that you opened your presents,” said Lupin, who had come up and sat next to him. “It’s nearly one-thirty.”

“I agree,” Moody growled. “Go on, boy, open them. You won’t get too many moments like these over the coming years.”

Harry went through the presents in short order, starting with the ones that were nearly slipping off the pile and then working his way down to the heavier ones.

Without knowing it, Harry first picked the present from the twins. He didn’t realize his error until the enclose box began to shake madly, and though he tried to keep it shut, it was too late. A self-inflating, nude, life-sized figure of a young witch blew out of the package, flying into the air before landing at Harry’s feet. His face turned beet red as soon as he realized what it was.

“FRED! GEORGE!” screamed Mrs. Weasley, though the twins had left the moment the deed had been completed. She stormed out of the room regardless, and echoes could be heard of her shouting threats, though it was becoming quite clear that both of the culprits were long gone.

Ron and Ginny – and, indeed, most of the people in the room – were roaring with laughter, and even Moody cracked a lopsided grin. Still blushing, Harry deflated the doll and moved onto the next present.

Luna gave him a pair of partially-enchanted Chattering Teeth. She said that, if Harry was to think of a specific person while tapping the teeth with his wand, a shadow of that person’s personality would enter the teeth, allowing Harry to have a conversation with the specified person whenever he wished. She added that personalities of the deceased could not be placed onto the teeth.

While a different pair of Chattering Teeth had saved his life last year, Harry had not quite gotten used to the idea of talking with a pair of teeth, and, while they could be useful in many situations, he had no plans to enchant them anytime soon.

From Moody he received a book titled How to be Paranoid, while Tonks gave him an add-on handle grip for his broom. Lupin’s gift was an assortment of Potion ingredients – some of which Harry suspected Lupin gathered himself.

When Harry came to the next present, however, he was brought to a pause when he did not recognize the giver’s name. “Who’s John Williams?”

“Ah,” said Dumbledore at once. “That must be a gift from an admirer. As your true address isn’t public information, Hogwarts received several parcels that were meant for you. Many of them, I believe, think that you are living in Hogwarts for protection. Regardless, I went to the liberty of subjecting them to several anti-jinx spells before bringing them here.”

“I can’t accept all of these,” said Harry, looking at the gift pile in a new light, wondering how many presents were from ‘admirers.’

“You’re going to have to,” Dumbledore said. “Many of the senders did not leave a return address.”

As it turned out, Harry received several gifts from such people, many of them so far consisting of books (which Hermione tried – and failed – to look disinterested in).

When he picked up the next one, however, he could tell that it was unique. Magical energy seemed to radiate off of it, tingling the tips of his fingers. When he tore through the plain brown wrapping, he found leather box with brass hinges along with a letter. When he went to open it, a wrinkled hand gently covered his, and he looked up to see Dumbledore shaking his head.

“Save that gift for later,” said Dumbledore, looking strangely perturbed. “That one, I sense, is something that should only be opened in private.”

Not quite sure what to make of the headmaster’s musings, Harry finally nodded and set the box aside, moving on to the next present. The warmth from the magic still lingered on his hands, and he found himself glancing more than once towards what he now decided was some sort of decorative case.

Ginny and Ron both gave him large portions of Hogsmeade chocolate, and Neville, though he was not present (due to his own birthday), sent him a new quill and a rare pot of ink intended for formal scrolls and writings. The ink, he explained in an accompanying letter, was from his grandmother, who had wanted to thank him for helping Neville through the Defense Association.

Last was Hermione’s, and when he set it on his lap to open it, he could feel rather than see Moody’s magical eye swivel to focus onto the gift. Harry spared a quick glance towards the gnarled Auror, and saw Moody fleetingly look from him, to the present, to Hermione, and then back to him again.

“Thanks Hermione,” said Harry, unraveling it and finding it to be a bottle of cologne. He opened the cap and sniffed. It was like a mixture of pine needles, lavender, and jasmine. Reminiscent of a forest.

Hermione just smiled at him. “I’m glad you like it, though you won’t know for sure until you put it on.”

This simple exchange had a strange effect on the surrounding people. Mrs. Weasley seemed to be reappraising the situation, while Moody’s eye shifted sharply between Harry and Hermione. Tonks began wearing a hint of a smile, and Lupin laughed softly under his breath. Dumbledore, however, showed no change, though perhaps the twinkle in his eye became a hint brighter.

Ron’s expression was stoic, impassive. At length he turned away, as though embarrassed or ashamed. Luna placed her hand on his shoulder and he abruptly stood up and stepped back. Luna gave him a small, unreadable smile, then returned her gaze to Harry.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said, his face turning a bit red though he didn’t know why. He got to his feet and looked around. “Thanks, everybody.”

“This is nothing,” Moody growled. “Nothing compared to what you’ll be facing in the future.”

Mrs. Weasley shot Moody a warning glance, which the ex-Auror didn’t seem to notice, then turned to Harry and said, “I am just happy I was able to give it to you.” She looked over him, then, with slightly shining eyes, added, “You’ve grown so much.”

There was a slightly awkward silence before Lupin raised his glass. “To Harry Potter. To another seventeen years.”

Everyone raised their glasses, and, together, they drank, murmuring Lupin’s words. Mrs. Weasley suppressed a sob. But Harry didn’t notice, and instead kept watching Hermione, even as they toasted.

Later, when everyone had fallen into socializing, Harry signaled Ron and they went outside with their brooms to fly. For an hour Harry felt like he was with his best friend again, and the tension – whether it be imagined or real – had gone, leaving only two boys, tossing a Quaffle between themselves. While Harry knew that Lupin and Hermione were looking through a window, watching him, he didn’t particularly care, though he did find himself taking a few more risky dives than usual. Ron, however, didn’t seem to notice at all, and repeatedly called out, “If your broom had been an inch lower to the ground you would be eating dirt right now!”

“I haven’t done that enough this summer,” Harry said, laughing, when Ron and him returned to the ground.

“You haven’t done it at all mate,” said Ron. “It helps to loosen you up.” He fell down into the grass and Harry sat next to him.

Sitting there, Harry slowly remembered his promise to Hermione, and it dawned on him that he would probably not get another chance like this for a while – if at all. They were both tired, exhausted after their flight. Ron’s temper would be significantly tamer.

“Hey mate,” said Harry. “You mind if I ask you something?”

“Sure,” said Ron with a bit of unnatural caution in his voice.

“Why have you been avoiding Hermione?”

“I haven’t been avoiding her. What’re you talking about?”

“Yes you have,” Harry said. “You know you have. You’ve been acting like she isn’t there. Have you even spoken to her today?”

Ron didn’t answer, but continued staring at the horizon. The sun was shone on his face and there was sweat from the afternoon heat.

“We’ve known each other for seven years now. Why aren’t two of my best friends talking anymore?” Harry paused for a moment before saying, “You like her, don’t you?”

“What? Of course not.”

Harry was less than convinced. “Ron-”

“Look, mate,” Ron interjected sharply. “I don’t care if you and Hermione are together. You two just keep the snogging out of sight, all right? I don’t need to see any of that when I wake up at seven in the morning.” He stood up to leave.

“What the-”

“I don’t care,” Ron snapped, and before Harry could get another word in he was already inside the house.

“That went well,” Harry muttered under his breath. He half-sat, half-fell to the ground, deciding to give Ron some time to cool off. He still wanted to have Ron and Hermione act as joint holders of Tenbrook’s Sphere in the event of his death – something, he knew, that had a fair chance of happening. The ultimate question was whether Ron would agree to hold the Sphere jointly with Hermione.

Damn it, why can’t we all just get along?

“You’re missing your own party, Harry,” said Dumbledore, who had come out of the house so quietly that Harry nearly jumped when he heard the headmaster’s voice. “Molly believes you to be outside playing Quidditch with young Mr. Weasley, but, as I had just passed him in the hallway a moment ago, I see that this is no longer true.”

Harry turned and saw that Dumbledore was not staring at him, but looking at the horizon contemplatively. It was almost like Ron had been only a few minutes ago.

“Well, we’re finished.”

“I hope you’re only referring to Quidditch,” Dumbledore said as he sat down on the grass.

“So you noticed?”

“If you mean the distance that opened up between you two, yes I have, though the distance is especially wide with Miss Granger. I daresay I have an idea of what triggered it as well.”

Harry nodded. “Yeah, so do I. That’s quite a problem, isn’t it?”

“A difficult and common one, yes.” There was a pause. “Harry, I do not wish to give you a lecture,” Dumbledore said at last. “You have learned more and experienced more than wizards twice your age. To lecture you would be an insult. But may I show you a second side of the problem?”

“Of course.”

“Ron had six months of his memory more or less wiped from his brain,” said Dumbledore. “More than that, he is still recovering from a malicious personality that had been forcibly purged from his mind. All that changes that had occurred over those six months came together to give him one sudden shock. There was no time for him to adjust. This, I believe, is the central factor in the problem.”

“I am not excusing or condoning his behavior, but explaining it,” he continued. “It won’t be easy to resolve, since much is beyond any individual party’s control.”

“It’s strange though,” said Harry. “I trust Ron and I he trusts me. It’s just…”

Dumbledore nodded. “A sensitive issue. An inch wide but a mile deep.”

“Yeah. Like that.” Only a few minutes had passed from when Dumbledore first spoke, but Harry felt that he had grasped a clearer view of the situation between Ron, Hermione, and him. The headmaster had a gift for bringing problems into perspective.

“Harry,” began Dumbledore after a moment. “Do you mind if I ask if it is still your intention to make Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley the joint heirs of Tenbrook’s Sphere? Or have recent events led you to change your mind?”

“No, I still want them to be.”

“Good,” Dumbledore said softly, and turned once again towards the horizon. “Very good.”

After another moment’s silence, Harry turned towards Dumbledore and looked over the aging headmaster. It was alarming to see how old he had become in the past few years. He had never considered Dumbledore to be ancient in the way that he truly was. Perhaps it was because Harry was young and naïve, but he almost thought that the headmaster could live forever. Now that he was gazing at the present-day headmaster – at the many wrinkles and the face like a sagging mask – he realized that he had been horribly wrong. There was strength in the shock-blue eyes, but it was like a spark. Quick to burn and quick extinguished. Then, Dumbledore shifted, and a package that he had been holding in his hands was revealed. Harry recognized it immediately. Snape had given it to him earlier.

“Professor,” said Harry. “Do you mind if I ask what’s in that package?”

“Tom’s vanity,” said Dumbledore. “But it’s not mine. Truly, this is the reason I wished to speak with you. An anonymous owl was spotted heading towards your home this morning. As unidentified owls are never allowed to deliver mail to you without testing for jinxes, the Order intercepted it. The involved Order members immediately forwarded to me.”

“Why? Couldn’t they test for jinxes?”

Dumbledore smiled faintly. “This one was a special case. When they saw the name on the return address, they forwarded it to me."

“When I received it I daresay I thought it was a prank,” Dumbledore continued. “But after several tests I found it to be authentic. Next I performed a series of charms to detect the taint of Dark Magic, but, surprisingly, I found nothing, even when I subjected it to my most rigorous tests. Not trusting myself, I sent it to a person who knows far more about Dark Magic than I do: Professor Snape. And, as you saw earlier, he reached the same conclusion. There was no outside tampering. Not even a trace of the Plague. Unfortunately, the inside lining was enchanted, so it was impossible to see the contents.”

“You want me to…open it?” asked Harry, now staring at the package as though it contained a viper ready to strike.

“I want nothing,” said Dumbledore. “I am only returning the package. I do not own it. I don’t have the right to destroy it.” Carefully, the headmaster set it on the ground between them. He sighed. “Molly will probably curse me for giving this to you.”

Harry made no move to take it. “What do you think I should do?”

“I don’t see any value in opening it,” Dumbledore said. “It is no coincidence that it arrived on your birthday – on the day you come of age. Tom probably sent it as a mock present, no doubt in an attempt to intimidate you.”

Slowly, Harry reached out and lifted the package off the ground. Its wrapping was coarse brown paper, nothing remarkable, and written on it in green ink was Number Four, Privet Drive.

“How did he know my address?”

“It is widely known in the wizarding world that you live with your muggle relatives. As your mother was muggleborn, and her family tree is available to the public, it would be an easy matter to discover where you live during the summer.”

Harry stared at it for another moment, as if waiting for it to explode. Curiosity was burning inside him. What could it possibly be? It was like Voldemort was daring him, challenging him to open it. Harry glanced at Dumbledore, who said nothing.

On impulse Harry released a small corner of the wrapping, and, after nothing happened, he slowly unfolded the other corner and revealed a slip of a box. Like the paper, it was plain and brown.

This was it, he knew. The point of no return.

Carefully, he opened the top and held his breath. He hadn’t the faintest idea of what to expect, but when he looked inside, he saw a simple wand lying on a bed of cotton.

“A wand?” Harry said. He passed the box to Dumbledore.

“Not just any wand,” said the headmaster quietly. “This one has been befouled.”

“Befouled?”

“Twisted by the Dark Arts,” explained Dumbledore, all the while staring at the wand as though trying to solve an enigma. “There are certain magicks that no wand is meant to perform, such as the Killing Curse. A wand is made out of the essence of pure beings – unicorns, phoenixes, and dragons. If the essence is repeatedly abused by such unnatural magic, then the wand core will become corrupted or befouled.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that it can only be used for the purpose of evil,” said Dumbledore gravely. “A wand such as this cannot perform Healing Charms or magic intended to bring happiness or amusement into life. It can only perform dark deeds, and is useless to anyone with any amount of decency in their hearts.”

"You mean it can only be used to perform Unforgivables?"

"No," said Dumbledore softly, still studying the wand. "Not at all. It's the intentions that determine the wand's effectiveness, not the spells themselves. If a wizard takes up this wand with the wish to do good in the world, then the wand will not work. If that same wizard wishes to inflict pain and suffering, well...you could hardly have a better tool. But now, looking at this, it brings a memory-“ Dumbledore paused. “This was your father’s wand, Harry. By Merlin…Tom found and corrupted James’ wand-” He got to his feet.

“Professor?” Harry asked quickly, standing too.

“This wand was buried with your father,” Dumbledore said, gingerly setting it back into its brown packaging. “In order to have this wand, Tom must have violated your parents’ graves. It was foolish of me to leave it unwatched.”

It was when Harry looked at the wand a second time that he received the full import of Voldemort’s package. It was more than a simple reminder of James’ death at the Dark Lord’s hands – it was a snide threat. Voldemort was saying that – like James’ wand – Harry too would succumb to the Dark Arts. Bellatrix had undoubtedly told her master what had occurred in the Ministry lobby when Harry had hurled a Cruciatus Curse in his blind rage. Voldemort was expressing what he believed to be an unnerving insight into Harry’s soul.

But he’s wrong, Harry thought. He might think otherwise, but he’s not God. Can even God tell me what I’m going to be?

“I must be leaving, Harry,” said Dumbledore, turning to go into the Burrow. “If Tom has broken into the Potter mausoleum, then at the very least I must be there to assess the full extent of the damage. Let their rest not have been disturbed.”

“My parents- they’re buried there?”

“Yes, but I cannot take you today,” said Dumbledore, as though reading Harry’s mind. “Remember that this trap was designed to be taken by you. While I highly doubt there will be Death Eaters present, I suspect that numerous traps will be involved. You can’t be subject to such danger unnecessarily. I will investigate the mausoleum, then contact the Ministry.”

“I’m supposed to fight Voldemort, right?” countered Harry. “Aren’t I a part of this war? Why shouldn’t I go?”

Contrary to what Harry expected, Dumbledore smiled warmly. “Ah, such impatience. But not now, not today. I’ll speak to Moody, and will ask him to return you to Number Four this evening, as it will be unlikely that I will be able to return.” He gazed at the surrounding grass, the gardens. “For now, enjoy this beautiful day. It is, after all, yours. Happy birthday.”

After that he went through the doorway and vanished, and a moment later Harry followed. He still had the box in his hands – the box that he was beginning to regret opening. The wand laid on the cotton, its polished features not betraying the Darkness that had undoubtedly been worked on it by Voldemort. By Merlin, his father’s wand!

He stood in the corridor for a moment, not quite feeling like returning to the party. Instead, he wandered further down the hall and sat down on the last step of the long stairwell leading to the second floor.

It wasn’t long before he saw Hermione. “So this is where you’ve been,” she said, sitting next to him. “Mrs. Weasley looked out the window and saw that you and Ron weren’t flying anymore.”

“Yeah, we took a break and I tried to talk to him. It didn’t go as well as I hoped.”

“What did he say?”

“He got angry and said that he didn’t care whether we were together or not.” Harry went on and related his entire conversation with Ron. After he finished, he stared at her for a moment. “Well?”

“What?”

“You’re the expert on feelings,” said Harry in a slightly playful tone. “What’re we-”

“Who says I’m the expert on feelings?”

“No one. You just have a reputation of being quite an authority on all things emotional.”

“Oh really?” said Hermione, laughing slightly.

“So? What do you think?”

Her expression turned serious and she began biting her lower lip. “I’ve known him for seven years, and now…I don’t know. I really don’t.”

“Ah, I see you found Harry, Hermione,” Mrs. Weasley said as she bustled through an adjacent corridor. “Come on, dear, I was beginning to worry. I always wonder about the safety of those brooms.”

Harry and Hermione followed Mrs. Weasley back to the dining room, and, when they entered, he noticed Ron look at him then quickly look away.

He went to the table, pulled out a seat for Hermione, and then found one for himself nearby. When he felt a gnarled hand slap onto his shoulder, he turned around and looked up at Moody’s pitted face.

“Dumbledore passed through a few minutes ago,” said the ex-Auror, his one eye swirling in its socket. “Said I should take you back this evening. Don’t go-” The eye settled on Hermione for a fraction of a second. “-fooling around. We’ll leave at five o’clock sharp.”

“Five? It doesn’t get dark until eight o’clock.”

“Dumbledore said this evening, not this night. We must return when it’s still daylight. It’s during the dusk and nighttime hours when you’re more susceptible to ambushes.” He tapped his head with one gnarled finger. “You must think like they do.”

“Oh, right.”

Moody nodded, saying, “You’re learning,” then left to speak with Lupin.

“If you’re leaving that early, then I have something to tell you,” said Hermione quietly. “About what’s going on with my parents.”

“Yeah, what’s happened to them?” Harry asked. The question had been burning in his mind since Hermione brought it up yesterday. “Why’d they have to move? And why would I be angry?” he added.

“Some of my neighbors have come down with Plague,” she said. “In fact, it’s just my neighbors. First an elderly couple across the street became sick, then the people next to us, and then the people behind us. There hasn’t just been some huge outbreak in our neighborhood – it’s just the people near us.”

“The Order members that have been guarding us told Dumbledore,” Hermione continued. “And Dumbledore came and brought us out. From what I heard the government came and quarantined the entire neighborhood soon after we left. Everyone’s been coming down with it.”

“Your parents don’t…have it, do they?”

“No,” she answered. “But that was what Dumbledore was afraid of. He said that Voldemort was trying to get to you through me. He also said it confirmed something that he had been suspecting all along: Death Eaters have been methodically spreading the Plague. It isn’t just random.”

“Merlin,” whispered Harry. “But that can’t be right. If they did that, they’d be at risk for infection too.”

“Maybe, but no one really knows anything about the Plague,” said Hermione. “We know next to nothing. We don’t know the manner of its distribution, we don’t know how it was made, we don’t even know if it’s contagious. All we know is that it’s terribly efficient at killing its victims. I don’t even know how I’m still alive. If one of those Death Eaters had had a chance…” She let out a shaky breath.

“I didn’t want to tell you earlier because I knew you’d insist on coming over, and with the shape my parents were in when Dumbledore told them about what was happening, that was a bad idea. I think they just began realizing that what happens in the wizarding world never stays in the wizarding world.”

Harry looked down at the box in his hands, realizing that Voldemort was trying to unnerve him. First an attempt on Hermione’s life, then the befouled wand…what next?

“What’s that?” Hermione asked, following his gaze to the shabby little box that he held.

He opened it to her. “A gift,” he replied dryly, then told her of his conversation with Dumbledore, and how the wand was befouled and corrupted beyond of any possibility for normal use.

“I’ve heard of those before,” she said, looking at the ash wand in something like mingled fear and curiosity. “Finding one is supposed to be a bad omen.” She looked up at him. “Total nonsense, of course,” she added matter-of-factly.

“Of course.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

Harry hesitated, having not really thought about it before. “Dunno. It was my dad’s, so it wouldn’t be right to destroy it, would it?”

“That’s- your dads?” asked Ron, and Harry had to check twice to ensure that it was indeed the tall, gangly redhead that he knew since his first year. He was even more amazed when Ron took a nearby seat, though the awkwardness was apparent. Harry looked towards Hermione, whose mouth was slightly agape, and then back to Ron. “And it’s befouled? Mate, that’s bad. Real bad.”

Harry’s mind immediately went to Ron’s dire warnings of the Grim, and, from Hermione’s expression, he could tell she was thinking the same. He could tell she was struggling not to speak and disturb the fragile bridge Ron had extended.

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“That’s what the Death Eaters used to do to the wands of the wizards they killed,” Ron said. He looked exceedingly uncomfortable, and avoided glancing at or even recognizing Hermione’s presence. “They’d sometimes leave huge piles of befouled wands in the middle of Diagon Alley and leave the families to sort through them. Doing that to a wizard’s wand is like attacking him in death. It’s supposed to curse the owner. Not even Death Eaters keep befouled wands. ‘Course, You-Know-Who always kept his wand, and that one’s sure as hell befouled.”

Harry slowly drew the wand from its box and held it in his hands, rolling it on his palms. Ron stared at it intently, then looked away.

“That might be a bunch of hogwash, though,” Ron conceded. “The part about the curse, that is.”

Harry envisioned Voldemort’s hands touching the wand, and immediately he set it back inside the box. Whether it had once belonged to his father or not, it was now tainted. He didn’t dare to imagine what horrible curses Voldemort had used with the wand to corrupt it so quickly, nor did he want to know how much Dark Magic now ran through the fine grains of the ash handle.

“I think I should destroy it,” said Harry finally.

Ron raised one eyebrow and Hermione looked rather shocked. “But Harry, that’s your dad’s. It doesn’t matter what Voldemort-” Ron shuddered. “-did to it, it was and is his wand.”

“Anything that was a part of my dad left that wand the minute Voldemort corrupted it. I don’t want to keep it around.”

“But what if it’s not the wand’s fault?” Hermione asked in a small voice.

Despite himself, Ron blinked. “Huh?” His ears darkened an instant later as he looked away.

Harry jerked his head sideways, looking at her. What did she mean by that?

Breaking from his brief reverie, Harry shut the box in an abrupt motion and got to his feet. “I’ll figure it out later,” he muttered. He suddenly felt queasy and avoided looking Hermione in the eye.

“Where’re you going now mate?” Ron asked, he too standing up.

Harry paused, considering, and then looked from Ron, to Hermione, then back to Ron. Now would be as good a time as any. Better, in fact.

“I need to talk to both of you. Away from here.”

Ron’s brow furrowed, and slowly – almost reluctantly – he nodded. Hermione looked at him questioningly, though she remained silent.

Harry led them both out of the dining room and down the hall. Seeing that the living room was occupied, he went upstairs and into the guest bedroom, letting Hermione and Ron in before closing the door behind them.

“What is it?” Ron asked, being the first to speak. Hermione merely watched, waiting.

“Look,” began Harry. “Earlier today, when he came to pick me up from the Dursley’s, Dumbledore told me that I’m old enough to inherit my family’s artifact. But before it can be passed on to me, I need to name someone to keep them in case that I, well, die. I want you both to hold it jointly.”

Ron’s mouth dropped open and Hermione’s eyes went wide.

“You’re not going to die, Harry,” she said slowly.

“It’s not impossible.” Inwardly, Harry felt it was quite likely. The only reasons he had survived his previous encounters was due to blind luck, not skill. Sometime, he knew, his luck would not be there. And then he would either win or he would lose; and against an opponent who’s supposed to be invincible, the odds were not in his favor.

“Mate,” said Ron heavily. “You’ve got the wrong person. I can’t do it. I know we’d only be holding it for a day or so before handing it over, but there’s no way I’d be giving your artifact to them.”

“What’re you talking about? Give it over to who?”

“The artifact heirs.”

“What heirs? I don’t have any heirs. It’d just go to you two, right?”

Ron shook his head. “No, mate. You do have heirs.”

“You’re not serious,” whispered Hermione, who was staring at Ron with disbelieving eyes.

“If you die, Harry, the artifact will go to your closest blood relatives,” said Ron. “It’ll go to the Dursley’s.”

“Impossible,” Harry countered. “There’s got to be a way to change heirs. And besides, they’re muggles!”

“Doesn’t really matter mate,” said Ron. “The entire system is designed so that artifacts couldn’t leave a family due to the whim of its owner. As for it going to muggles, well, that’s a bit of an oversight. Maybe if you told my dad and got the Ministry involved you could change the heir, but I doubt it. They have their hands full as it is. Never was a problem before since most of the families that use that system are pureblood, and have no connection to muggles anyway.”

“Damn,” Harry muttered. The last thing he wanted was to have the Tenbrook’s Sphere fall into the Dursley’s outstretched hands. He could almost see Dudley throwing it around like a softball, and Merlin knows what would happen if he smashed it.

“There’s no use worrying about it,” Hermione said briskly. “After all, Harry isn’t planning on dying anytime soon. By the time he does, he’ll already have an heir, so there won’t be any complications.” Suddenly blushing, she turned away.

“So, errr, mate,” began Ron, shifting his posture uneasily. “What is this artifact anyway?”

“Tenbrook’s Sphere.”

Ron said a silent ‘wow.’ “Better keep a lid on that, mate. There’re plenty of people out there that wouldn’t mind killing a few wizards to get their hands on Tenbrook's Sphere."

“Voldemort especially,” said Hermione. “If he could freeze time, even for a minute,” She shook her head. “I can’t even imagine the damage he could do.”

“Yeah, but it's also a good way to lose your mind,” said Harry. “From what Dumbledore told me, you can end up in a madhouse if you use it too much. Whenever we go to Diagon Alley, I’ll put it in my vault. So will you two…hold it for me if something happens?”

“Sure, mate,” said Ron. “But you better not go out and die. I’d rather see the thing smashed into a thousand pieces than watching your relatives inherit it. After all the stuff they’ve done to you…”

Hermione, on the other hand, didn’t answer right away, but seemed torn between something.

“Hermione?” he asked gently.

“Well…all right,” she said at last. “But you’re not going to die.”

Harry chose not to reply, and for several moments no one spoke.

Ron, however, looked between the two of them, and suddenly blinked. “Oh, right-” he said, his ears turning red with embarrassment. Harry looked at him, confused. “Um, sorry.”

“Yeah, I, err, should probably- I’ll go, uhh, grab something to eat. I’ll, errr, see you later,” Ron stammered, and quickly he went through the doorway. Harry only managed to catch a glimpse of his reddening neck before he was gone.

“Uhhh…” Harry turned to Hermione. “Do you know what just happened?”

“I might,” she said.

“Really? What?”

“He thought we were about to snog right there in front of him.”

Harry laughed. “What would’ve made him think that?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said, though a bit of pink in her face betrayed otherwise.

“Hmmm,” Harry said with mock contemplation. “You think it could’ve had anything to do with you saying that I’d have an heir before I die?”

“It’s hypothetically true!” she said with burning cheeks. .

Harry grinned. “I know. But why were you blushing?”

“What do you mean why was I blushing?” Hermione asked, crossing her arms. “What are you implying Harry?”

“This,” he said, and, stepping closer, he brought his hands to her sides.

“What?” she whispered, looking up at him.

“This,” he repeated, and, as he closed his eyes, he kissed her. Gently, just barely tasting her lips. His hands ran up and down her sides, and then to her back as he pulled her closer.

“I love you Harry.”

In response, he kissed her again, deeper, more forcefully, tasting a bit more. He could feel her kissing him back, grabbing the back of his head, urging him even closer.

And then he kissed her again and again and again…lowering down to her neck as she tilted her head back.

Suddenly, a fist began pounding on the door, startling them both. Hermione stared at Harry, then at the rattling door, at an utter loss of what to say.

“Potter!” growled Moody from the other side. “I know you’re in there. It’s thirty minutes till five. No delays!” A moment later and Harry could hear the heavy clunking of the ex-Auror’s wooden leg going down the stairs, and he swore that he heard a faint laugh.

(A/N: All right, in the beginning, college life sucked up most of my time, and I had only about 1 or 2 hours a week that I could devote to this fanfic. Luckily, my course work settled down, and my itch to write again returned, and I plan on once again producing these chapters on a fairly regular basis.

But: the next chapter might be a little while. Since I’ve barely touched/thought about this story for several months, the specific plans I had for the next chapter (and, indeed, some future parts of the story) have been forgotten. I never, ever outline my plans on paper, and it was all stored in my head. Thankfully, it’s all coming back to me, and I doubt that much will be lost in regards to the plot.

Anyway, I’m not going to set a date for the release of the next chapter. It won’t take as long as this one did.

And for those who’re taking midterms right now I wish you Godspeed.)

The remainder of Harry's time at the Burrow went by in a short blur, and in no time Moody was calling for him to leave. "It's nearly five o'clock," Moody warned repeatedly, much to Mrs. Weasley's displeasure.

"Let him stay as long as he wants," she said.

"I don't travel during or after dusk," growled Moody. "Doing that nowadays can get you killed."

"It's his birthday, Alastor."

"And I'm trying to make sure he lives to see another one."

"You know as well as I that Harry's home is always being watched. Don't you think you're being a bit...excessive?"

Moody simply stared at her with both eyes. "No."

"Well-"

"No, it's all right Mrs. Weasley," interrupted Harry. "Moody's right. I really shouldn't risk being out too late." The ex-Auror cast him an appreciative glance.

In truth, Harry strongly doubted that Moody's worries were warranted. Death Eaters were unlikely to be able to set up ambushes around a house that was both protected by magical charms as well as the Order. But, because he was feeling increasingly uncomfortable from Mrs. Weasley's arguing on his behalf, he took the initiative and sided with the ex-Auror since Moody showed no signs of backing down. Additionally, he was hoping he would be able glean some information from Moody about the Order: something that he didn't have time to do with Dumbledore.

And besides, wasn't it his decision to make to begin with?

"Well, if you're sure Harry...you're more than welcome..."

As the time to leave drew nearer, Harry made his way around the room, saying goodbye to each of the guests and thanking them for coming. To Hermione and then Ron, who were now on opposite sides of the room again, he promised he'd come back to the Burrow as soon as he could.

"I don't want to spend my whole summer there," Harry said.

"Just send us the word mate," Ron said. "And we'll come to pick you up."

"It's five o'clock, Potter," Moody told Harry, sweeping up next to him. "We should've left ten seconds ago."

"Alright, I know," said Harry, and he eased his way through the room in search of Mrs. Weasley with Moody behind him.

Finding her, he said, "Thanks for the party, Mrs. Weasley. Ron told me how much effort you all put into it, and, well-" He reddened, though he wasn't immediately sure why. "-it was my first birthday party."

"It wasn't any trouble at all dear," she replied, her eyes slightly wet. She wiped them. "I know how your relatives treat you. If it was up to me- well, it's not up to me. You'll always be a part of our home, Harry." She took his shoulders and hugged him strongly, and while he was no longer eleven years old, it still had the same chest-crunching effect it had on him when he was younger. At last she released. "Take care of yourself."

For an instant, Harry thought of staying for a bit longer. While a few of the guests were - upon hearing of Harry's plans to leave - preparing to depart, he still wanted to stay among them. All of them - in one way or another - were his friends, and they were the closest thing to a family he had.

When he saw Hermione nearby, he went up to her. "It's five o'clock," he said.

"I know," she said. "You're leaving?"

"Yeah," he said, but, again, he felt a twinge of regret.

"Was everything-?"

"It was perfect."

Without warning, she wrapped him into an embrace, and gave him a chaste kiss. "Don't forget to write."

"What's wrong with using the mirror?" he asked, puzzled.

"It's not the same. The mirror is too cloudy. Besides, letters are much better because you can read them over again."

"Oh…right."

"Ready, Potter?" asked Moody from behind him. He was holding a white quill in his right hand, which Harry guessed to be a portkey. "Five minutes past."

"Alright," Harry said, then, to Hermione, "I'll write soon."

He quickly picked up his gifts, which had been gathered into a large bag nearby. Lying on top was the yet-unopened wooden box. He made a mental note to open that when he returned.

She smiled. "Goodbye."

He mirrored her, then touched the tip of Moody's quill. Immediately, he felt a sensation behind his navel and the world disappeared in a swirl of white.

OOO

A second later and Harry felt his feet hit the whitewashed wooden porch of his relatives' home. He leaned against the wall for a moment, steadying himself after the disorienting experience of instantaneous travel, and stared out across the emerald green lawn. The sun was still well above the horizon, its heat oppressive, its light making Harry turn away. He looked towards Moody, who was opening the front door's locks.

"Why didn't we just teleport inside the house?" Harry asked.

"Only Dumbledore has access to apparate or teleport into it," said Moody. "No one else is able to."

"Why? Aren't the blood wards impossible to break?"

"Yes," Moody growled. "And that's why we have them. You-Know-Who would never expect us to have anti-apparation and anti-portkey charms behind an impenetrable blood ward, would he?" He paused suddenly and turned, his magical eye swiveling in its socket. "Do you smell something Potter?"

He sniffed the air. "Yeah, I can smell smoke." While the residents of Little Whinging tended to burn leaves in the fall, and build fires in their chimneys during the long winter, there was no reason for there to be either of those to be taking place in the middle of summer.

Moody drew his wand and swung open the front door. "Let's get inside."

Harry went in and Moody followed, closing the door behind them. The ex-Auror looked up and around, apparently gazing into each and every one of the rooms. Taking the cue, Harry drew his own wand.

"We should be safe now," said Moody, still staring through the walls. He looked rigid, intent. Searching for an enemy but not finding one. "No one could've crossed the threshold."

"The threshold?"

"The doorway," Moody said. "Your mother's protection ensures that no one who wants you dead can enter this home. No one can go through the front door." He limped into the living room, his eye still sweeping the area.

Harry, setting his bag of gifts near a wall in the family room, went to a window and looked outside, seeing nothing. "What's going on? What're you looking for?"

"Something's wrong," Moody growled. "All I know is that something's wrong. I need to find Samson. He should be out there, across the street in an invisibility cloak. He's the one that's on duty." He stalked over to the window and gazed out. "Damn, that's out of my eye's range." Harry supposed he meant his magical eye.

Harry waited, unsure of how seriously to take Moody's sudden attack of paranoia. He didn't understand how the ex-Auror could translate a hint of smoke in the air into a Death Eater strike. But then again, Moody was considered one of the Order's best fighters, and not without good reason.

"I'm going to go out there and find Samson," said Moody at last. "This could be nothing, but I don't think so. Regardless, I want you to stay in here. Remus mentioned to me at the party that you had some sort of mirror that you could use to contact someone, is that right?"

Harry nodded.

"Then you watch me from the house. If you see signs of trouble, use the mirror and get help."

"You mean I'm going to sit here and watch?" Harry asked, somewhat irritated.

"Better one of us get hit than both of us," Moody said. "Then the other will be able to get reinforcements."

"Why don't we just get help right now?"

"We're stretched thin as it is, Potter. We can't afford to pull Order members from the posts because of a suspicion. Now I'm going to give you a password, and don't anyone inside without them giving you that password. Not even me."

"So what's the password?"

"Janus," growled Moody. "Now watch me."

Moody glanced through the window once more and went to the door, going through it and limping down the porch stairs. His wand was poised by his side, and while his head never turned, Harry knew that Moody's magical eye was going in every direction. While the presence of a man with a wand and a wooden leg limping down Privet Drive would undoubtedly attract the attention of muggles, Harry doubted that secrecy was a very high priority in the ex-Auror's mind.

Harry went back to the window and watched as Moody stepped onto the lawn across the street, paused, then crossed to the house's side. He seemed vaguely surprised, and as he approached the backyard he slowly lowered his wand and picked up speed. He stopped again for a full minute, physically turning around as if checking for Death Eaters, then pocketed his wand and continued out of sight behind the house.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. If Moody had holstered his wand, then it was unlikely that there was any trouble.

Several minutes passed with Harry staring out the window, awaiting Moody's reappearance. Finally a figure emerged from behind the house, though it was not Moody. There was no mistaking the man's olive-green vest, white slacks and long-sleeved shirt for Moody's dull gray robe, and Harry unconsciously drew his wand as the figured strolled across the street and - avoiding the lawn - into the driveway before climbing the sidewalk to the porch. His polished shoes shone in the light.

Who would wear slacks in the middle of summer?

Harry switched to another window to get a better look at the stranger. The clothes of the man betrayed a muggle background, though there was something else about him that made Harry believe that there was more to it than that. The way he carelessly strode up onto the porch, for example, and the way his head never moved left nor right as he walked. Absolute self-assurance.

Finally, three knocks came from the door. "Mr. Potter?"

Harry stood there, unsure of what to do. Moody had not yet reappeared, and he did not recognize the man as being part of the Order.

"Who is it?" Harry answered, though he made no move to open the door. It was rather pointless, he decided, considering that if the man wished to get inside he could do so whether the door was open or not.

"Hiroshi," said the man. A pause. "I'm from the Order."

"And the password?"

"Oh, of course. It's Janus."

Tentatively, Harry unlatched the door and opened it, then stepped back. The man - Hiroshi - was older than Harry had initially guessed. He was perhaps fifty or sixty years in muggle age, with a carefully trimmed beard and a sword on his side that Harry had not originally seen. The eyes, however, were what caught his attention the most. They seemed hard somehow, reflecting light rather than absorbing it. Like they were made of glass.

"Ah, Mr. Potter, it's a pleasure to meet you," Hiroshi said, stepping through the door.

Harry felt simultaneous relief and apprehension. He remembered Moody's words: Your mother's protection ensures that no one who wants you dead can enter this home. No one can go through the front door. But still, something about the man's eyes bothered him. He felt that he should know this man, that he had seen his face before.

"Errr, good to meet you too," Harry said, and extended his hand.

OOO

There was a charge in Harry's handshake, like a shock of electricity, and when Katashi released his hand he could still feel a faint tingle in his fingertips.

He was more than a little distracted. There was something unusual in Harry. At first Katashi attributed the feeling to the various wards that surrounded the home, and then to the large infusion of enchanted blood that he recently put into his system. But when he shook Harry's hand, he instantly knew the origin of what he was sensing. The boy - no, the man - was brimming with power, and for a moment this fact both surprised and daunted him.

Part of him wished to kill Harry right now and finish the mission, but the other part wanted to wait.

There's no rush, he told himself. No reason why he must be skewered this moment.

Harry spoke again. "Where's Moody? Did he send you over there?"

"Yes," said Katashi. "He's returned to the rest of the Order." He had learned of the Order of the Phoenix from Riddle, who had told him that it was a society formed and maintained by Albus Dumbledore. While Riddle knew little more than the name, that information still proved useful. "May I sit down? My joints need a rest. I just need a few minutes away from that heat."

"Oh, sure," Harry said, and guided him to the family room. “So what was wrong?”

“Wrong? Oh, nothing,” he said. “It was nothing.”

Katashi skimmed through Harry's mind - without eye contact - trying to discover what he was thinking. Harry believed him to be from the Order, that much was true, but he did not trust him. Katashi was surprised to meet a small measure of resistance when he tried to probe deeper into his mind, quite strong for one so young. Rather than overriding the barrier, he let it go for fear that Harry might detect the intrusion. While it did not matter in the long term, Katashi still wanted to learn more about Harry before throwing him into the afterlife. He wanted to further investigate this strange power that emanated from the young wizard.

They entered the family room, and Katashi took a seat on deep, cushy sofa that he had sat on earlier. He closed his eyes and stretched his joints, the pain feeling strong and delicious. He considered himself to be the type of man who could appreciate style and taste, but, looking around the room, he found nothing appealing. It was far too modern, with its oversized television set and a far-too-gaudy coffee table. The glass case of vases were a nice touch, and gave a feel of authenticity, but did little to improve the room's overall effect. He decided he was far too used to the warm wood-paneled walls of mansions, with hanging tapestries and marble busts.

Why are you toying with him uncle? asked a sweet, familiar voice that made Katashi want to do nothing more than storm out of the room instantly. It was his young nephew, Julius.

I have no time for you, Katashi thought, opening his eyes. The transparent figure of his nephew Julius was standing in the middle of the room, and Harry, oblivious, strode right through him.

"I've never seen you before," said Harry, sitting down as well. "How long have you been in the Order?"

"Many years," Katashi lied. "Though not in any fields that would attract any degree of attention." He paused, wondering how to proceed. "My contribution, however, in negligible. I can't imagine how you live with one such as Tom Riddle seeking to take you to your end."

Julius' elfin face brightened into a smile. Oh, uncle, how ironic you are.

How Katashi detested that face.

Harry stared up at Katashi, as though seeing him in another light. "You said Voldemort's name."

"I am too old to fear a name," said Katashi, meaning it. “So how do you do it? How do you evade the greatest Dark Wizard of your time?”

Or you're too terrified to admit your fear, Julius said.

Shut up.

"Honestly, I only managed to survive because of luck.”

Katashi shook his head sharply. "There's no such thing as luck." He turned towards Harry, gazing at him, feeling the power radiating off of him like heat.

Such power and he attributes his successes to luck! Katashi thought furiously. It was times like these that made him want to stand up and scream. Do you know what your future can hold? Do you know of what you can potentially achieve? Too many times he had seen brilliant people - people who could one day obtain the hallowed title of human - fail or give up in their quest. He wanted to take such people and shriek, "What are you doing!"

But regardless, Katashi knew that he would have to end this young life today. He regretted it, and would receive no pleasure in the kill, but it had to be done. If Harry's death was necessary to his own personal plan, then so be it. He would sever the wizard's path in an instant.

The path to your dream is made with corpses, uncle, Julius said, floating towards Harry. You'll use their blood to grease the cogs of your plan and their hair to fasten your-

Enough of the sensational metaphors, Katashi thought angrily.

And you feel you're doing the world a service, Julius said with wide, gleeful eyes. Yes, you've convinced yourself, haven't you? We both know what this is all really about. Vengeance. And for you the price is never too high.

"If it's not luck, then I don't know what to call it," said Harry. "I don't know how I survived all those times. I don't plan anything, it just...happens."

"Then you're resourceful," Katashi said. "And that's a rare trait. I understand that you're an exceptional dueler as well." Riddle had already warned him of Harry's past exploits, as well as most of his history. And, of course, the prophecy, which, more than anything else at the moment, was on Katashi's mind the most.

After all, the prophecy was the only reason Riddle had contacted him. Voldemort was afraid, and, sitting there, Katashi understood why. Harry Potter, while undisciplined, was not a weakling in regards to power. Riddle, having no desire to physically confront his opponent, summoned an old acquaintance. While those trapped in a thread of prophecy were like flies caught in a web, the Seers were like the spiders, able to act freely. The power of True Sight prevented any such restriction on them.

Hence, if Katashi wished to kill Harry, he could do it and effectively sever the prophecy. It was for this reason that Riddle had summoned him.

But you have your own plans, don't you uncle?

Harry shrugged. "Maybe I am. But I need to get out of here. I feel like I'm wasting time by sitting in this house. The books can't help if I can't practice, and I can forget about practicing magic in my relatives' house."

"Ah, they don't know about magic?"

"No, they just hate it. Plus this isn’t exactly the best place to be trying out some of the stronger spells.” Then, as an afterthought, he added, “What sort of curses do you prefer to use in a duel? Any books you could recommend?”

“I usually don’t involve myself with that sort of magic,” said Katashi vaguely.

“What do you mean?”

Katashi didn’t answer immediately. “I specialize in other fields other than spell casting. A wand is useless to me.”

"Useless?"

""I can't perform wand magic," he admitted.

“You mean you’re a squib?”

Katashi felt a burning in his bowels. “No, I just can’t use a wand.”

“Oh,” said Harry, looking a little confused. “Right.”

"Tell me," said Katashi after a moment, beginning one of the questions he had wanted to ask since the start of the conversation. "Do you feel that you can defeat Voldemort?"

Harry turned to look at him, whether at surprise at the question or something else he could not tell.

Maybe he had never thought of it before, said Julius. What do you think, uncle? Do you think he could beat You-Know-Who?

Perhaps, but I doubt it. If he were to duel with Riddle at this very moment, I think he would lose. And don't say "You-Know-Who." That's a ridiculous name, fit for comic book villains.

You keep forgetting who I am, uncle.

"I think so," Harry said. "But then, I can't really know, can I?"

Katashi frowned, unimpressed with the response. The business with the prophecy was beginning to irritate him, and he was beginning to think of the ways he could end this young wizard's life and fulfill his deal with Riddle.

There were several ways in which he could kill Harry within the next hour, most of them involving a sword jutting into his body, and if Katashi stuck rigidly to one of those paths, he could succeed. But in reality, there were too many variables. He could start the fight a fraction of a second too early, or move just a little bit too slowly, or do something in a way that deviated just slightly from the path, but was enough to derail everything. His Sight gave him the ability to See what would happen in certain scenarios, not the ability to fulfill them. His Sight warned him that if he did not kill Harry quickly enough, another wizard would join the fight and he would be stopped. Katashi would have preferred better odds, with more paths to Harry's death, but still, what he Saw ahead gave him a fair chance.

But there was still time enough for that.

Julius hovered closer to Katashi, his pale body suspended in the air like a frozen wisp of smoke. Stop toying with him. You’ve existed for two millennia and still can’t come up with a better way to amuse yourself?

I’m curious. That’s all.

You’re not curious. You’re bored.

Red flooded Katashi’s cheeks and, had it not been for a last minute reflex, he would have spoken out loud. Are you suggesting that I enjoy this?

Why else would you take so long? Do you like seeing the look of betrayal in their eyes after you’ve earned their trust? Isn’t cutting through their vertebrae, disemboweling them, and then draining the memories from their minds enough anymore? Perhaps you would like to rape their corpse afterwards as well-

Shut up you fiend! Katashi glanced towards the imaginary figure before catching himself and turning away. You’ll never understand. You can’t understand.

“Is something wrong?” Harry asked.

Katashi, realizing that he must have been lost in his thoughts for several minutes now, shook his head. “Nothing. Just thinking, that’s all.” He made a swift change of subject. “Today’s your coming of age, is it not? Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

He caught a glimmer of something behind Harry’s eyes that made him pause, and for a moment he wondered what memories he had inadvertently triggered. Harry was thinking of something, Katashi decided. Something important.

Once again, Katashi skimmed Harry’s mind, and, like last time, he met with resistance. He prodded further as he spoke.

“It’s been too many years since I was that age,” he said. Faintly, he could hear Julius’ childish laugh.

“Do you mind if I ask what you did before you joined the Order?”

“Not at all,” Katashi said. The distraction of dialogue was allowing him to probe deeper into Harry’s mind with fewer barriers. “I used to travel, doing a variety of jobs for galleons.”

At last he hit the core of something. There was vague reference to a sphere. He searched.

“So how’d you end up getting involved with the Order?”

Katashi paused suddenly, realizing that he was being lightly interrogated. Carefully he reevaluated the young wizard across from him. What was making him suspicious? Was he skilled enough to detect the mental intrusions? Katashi was tempted to use the Sight to run a few scenarios, but decided against it. He needed to answer soon.

“I came to England during Voldemort’s first coming,” he lied. “I needed work. What I ended up finding was a cause, something that I never had before.”

This seemed to satisfy Harry, and - more delicately - Katashi resumed his probing.

“Did you know my parents?”

“No, I’m afraid I never had that honor,” Katashi said.

At last, he had success. This wizard is going to inherit Tenbrook’s Sphere? At such a young age?

You want another instrument in your arsenal? Julius said. Or is it for You-Know-Who? Or haven’t you decided?

It would curry Riddle’s favor, certainly.

Julius frowned. You should disentangle yourself from that serpent right now, uncle. You think yourself too clever to be killed by Him, but he is stronger than you dare suspect. You are blinded by your own motivations.

I need to be close to Riddle for any of this to work, Katashi thought. That’s the reason I’m here. That’s why I must kill this wizard in front of me.

He’s going to kill you. You can’t fool him for long. Eventually he’ll drag it out of you and then you’ll be dead. And I won’t cry for you, uncle.

“That’s strange, as both of them were in the Order as well,” Harry said, referring to his parents.

Katashi stared into Harry’s eyes, trying to read what was behind them. There was too much resistance for him to sneak in without detection. “I never was able to work with them.”

Harry’s eyes closed and Katashi felt his back stiffen. There was something he missed here, he realized. Something wrong. What had he given away? Surely his response was adequate.

Unless Potter had some way of knowing all the Order members from back then.

You’re caught in your lies now, Julius said in an innocent voice. He knows, he knows.

“Who are you?” Harry asked. The question was simple, unavoidable.

Katashi glanced quickly through True Sight, confirming what he already knew. Harry knew he wasn’t from the Order and there was no way to convince him otherwise. The lying was over.

And you were just beginning to enjoy yourself, Julius said. To think that you were outsmarted by a wizard not even a fraction of your true age.

I shouldn’t have tried to juggle Legilimency and conversation. That was foolish of me. I was bound to slip up.

Slowly, Katashi got to his feet, his hand drifting to his sword hilt. “My real name is Nori Katashi. Do you know it?”

“You’re dead,” Harry said, his eyes suddenly wide. “You were killed!” He drew his wand.

UP! Katashi forced the thought out of his mind and into the chair that Harry was sitting on, and, obediently, the chair followed the nonverbal command. It flipped into the air, and its occupant barely had time to push himself away before it crashed to the floor.

Harry scrambled for his wand and ducked backwards as Katashi advanced upon him with a drawn sword.

Katashi grinned inwardly. None of them ever expected telekinesis. He focused on a glass lamp that sat on the end table. FLY!

The lamp shot through the air, but Harry, who had gathered his bearings, poised his wand and shouted, “Reducto!” It blew apart into dust. “How the hell did you get in here?”

Katashi just smiled. He looked at the overturned chair. STRIKE HIM!

Harry dived sideways to avoid the hurtling object, but was not fast enough and was given a glancing blow. He crashed to the ground.

Katashi calmly stepped around the fallen furniture and, seeing that his adversary was vulnerable, lunged with his sword.

Harry, still on the ground, pushed himself backwards just as the sword slashed into the place he was laying a moment ago. Trying and not completely succeeding in dodging another sword stroke, he struggled to his feet, just barely aware that his jeans were split open from where the tip of Katashi’s blade met flesh.

Free to move, Harry whirled onto his opponent and incanted, “Infligo!”

Katashi, who was expecting a lesser Stunning Spell, tried to sidestep the growing cone of light that shot from Harry’s wand. Instead he was struck in shoulder and thrown backwards, colliding with the chair. His aging body and back screamed pain.

Through the splitting agony, Katashi spotted a massive entertainment center, and, set in the center, a widescreen television fit for a movie theater. Harry was close to it, raising his wand for a second curse. Straining to concentrate, he forced the command, HIT HIM!

The television wobbled from its position and then, clumsily, flew at its target, though its path went awry and it ended up crashing down at Harry’s feet, startling him.

It was all the time Katashi needed. UP! he commanded, and the scattered fragments of the bashed television shot skywards, enveloping Harry in a whirlwind of shattered glass and plastic as the pieces made their way to the ceiling, crashed, then fell back down again.

His joints defying his every movement with a shock of pain, Katashi began pulling himself to his feet with the help of the overturned chair. With another effort he commanded the entire entertainment center to hurl itself to the center of the room, allowing himself more time to recover without the threat of Harry’s curses.

Damn this worthless body!

“Stupefy!” Harry, his arms and clothes cut from the glass in the television, had already made his way around the massive entertainment center and began a volley of curses. “Stupefy! Stupefy!”

Katashi ducked into kitchen, hearing each of the curses smashing into the walls, burying themselves into the plaster. Powerful, but inaccurate.

He quickly scanned the new room and made a mental note of the carving knives in a glass cabinet. Spotting a door on the far end, he ordered, COME!

The brass hinges snapped like twigs and swiftly he guided it to slam into the wizard behind him.

“Wingardium Leviosa!” Harry shouted, and, when the door stopped, he followed with, “Waddiwasi!” Instantly it reversed direction and swung wildly into the wall, breaking into two.

Quickly Katashi looked to the knives in the glass cabinet, but before he could summon them, he was hit in the back by a silent Infligo. He was thrown forwards and fell heavily on his right arm, his sword skidding out of reach. Stabs of pain ran up and down his forearm.

“Who the bloody hell are you?” Harry spat. “And how did you get in here?”

Katashi looked at his arm and saw that it was bent at an odd angle. Broken.

Damn!

“’Zir?” called someone from the front. “Is everyzing all right in ‘zere?”

Katashi recognized Pierre’s voice instantly, though he knew that the Frenchman could not come in due to the wards. He looked up and saw that, instinctively, Harry had turned away for a few seconds from the surprise of hearing a new voice.

Grabbing his sword, he turned and focused on Harry’s wand, hoping that the grip was loose enough to allow it to be summoned. COME!

At the same moment, Harry’s attention returned to Katashi and, as the wand began to slip from his fingers, he tightened his grip.

“The Order will sort you out,” said Harry. “Stup-“

He was cut off by a jet of green that sliced through the plaster walls and between the two of them, missing his face by inches before crashing into the metal sink. Katashi began to crawl to his feet and Harry ducked for cover.

Pierre’s muffled voice called again, “Avada Kedavra!”

Another, brighter flash of green streaked past, this time burning out in the bottom row of cabinets.

Katashi spotted Harry ducking near the refrigerator, avoiding the Killing Curses that were zooming over their heads.

“Infligo!” Harry incanted, and Katashi struggled to avoid the cone, managing to get behind the oven that had been pushed far out of place due to the force of one of the curses.

Having a burst of inspiration, Katashi stared up at the ceiling above Harry, still safely under cover, and with as much concentration as his aching body would allow he commanded, DOWN!

At first, nothing happened, and another one of Pierre’s Killing Curses blindly struck the refrigerator Harry was using as cover, almost knocking it over. Then, the ceiling began to creak, and though he could barely hear it over Pierre’s shouts and the bursting of curses, the supporting boards within it began to snap.

The ceiling bulged, then, more rapidly, it began to cave, with loose bits of plaster falling, then larger chunks. Harry, realizing what was happening, took one swift glance upwards then sprinted across the kitchen as the entire second floor began to fall in from above.

FLY! Katashi summoned the couch from the next room and threw it into the archway, blocking Harry from escaping.

“Reducto!” Harry shouted, but while the couch broke into pieces, Katashi ordered another chunk of wall to fill the gap.

Harry looked desperately around as more of the ceiling fell.

Katashi, realizing his own life was in danger, crawled out from his spot behind the oven and pushed any fallen debris out of his way with his gift of Telekinesis.

“Accio vest!” Harry bellowed, and it took a moment for Katashi to register the fact that it was his vest that was being summoned.

He grabbed at anything to hold on, but the charm was stronger, and he could not keep his grip. He was haplessly dragged towards Harry, and with some anger, he saw that a large chunk of ceiling crashed to the floor before him, effectively blocking the way.

Quickly he went for his sword in its scabbard, drawing it and turning to meet Harry head-on.

“Stupefy!” Harry said, but the moment he spoke the first syllable Katashi lunged and the spell went awry.

Harry stumbled backwards and Katashi, his balance lost from the pain in his legs, fell sideways. More of the ceiling fell and a large oaken bed crashed down between them. More, heavier pieces of plaster and wooden beams followed it, splitting the kitchen horizontally.

Katashi climbed to his feet, his head spinning, and tried to establish his bearings. The air was full of dust from pulverized plaster, and the ceiling split and cracked around the edges as more and more debris fell. He barely noticed a playstation fall and shatter at his feet, followed by a dresser further off. Little fires were building in corners from where Killing Curses had landed. Even the walls were buckling, and it dawned on him that the entire house was on the verge of collapse.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack like a gunshot, and Katashi recognized it instantly. Someone had apparated nearby.

“’Zir, we need to leave,” he could hear Pierre shout. “’Ze muggle police are coming.”

Damn, Katashi thought, gritting his teeth. He tasted blood. He looked around and, through the haze of smoke, he saw Albus Dumbledore standing next to Harry. Damn it!

OOO

Harry jumped back as Albus Dumbledore apparated in front of him, his half-moon glasses surveying his surroundings in a fraction of a second.

“Harry?” he asked quickly. “Are you all right?”

Harry nodded, feeling slightly choked by the dust.

The headmaster sounded relieved. “Where’s Alastor?”

“Outside,” said Harry, coughing. “He’s outside.”

“Death Eaters?”

“It’s him, he came in-“ He pointed where he last saw Katashi and made to go after him.

Dumbledore moved - unnecessarily, it seemed to Harry - in front of him, guiding the way with his wand, pushing his way through the debris when necessary. They caught sight of Katashi, who had just moved a large piece of debris from the archway. He looked back at him, a glassy stare, then replaced the blockade with a nod of his head, vanishing the instant they saw him. Dumbledore seemed frozen, as though he didn’t quite believe what he saw.

Even more debris crashed downwards, pieces hitting him on the head and shoulders. He looked up and it seemed that even the attic was beginning to fall now.

A wooden stand from upstairs falling next to him broke Dumbledore from his reverie, and, swiftly, he drew a sock and tapped it twice with his wand. He held it out to Harry.

“More Order members are on their way,” he said. “But I’m afraid your home won’t stand that long, and it wouldn’t be wise to chase after-“ He searched for words. “-that man.”

“He said he was Nori Katashi. But wasn’t he killed by Gates?”

Dumbledore didn’t reply, but looked around once more. “Quickly, we must go.”

The next moment Harry grabbed hold of the sock, and, as he felt the familiar feeling behind his navel, he could not help but think: The Dursley’s are going to have a surprise when they get back.

OOO

Katashi stepped through the doorway and onto the porch, which was starting to be stained gray from the ash and the smoke. He looked for Pierre, and when he found him, he wasn’t in the least surprised to see a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

He licked his dry lips, then turned to stare into the firey home, almost expecting a tall figure, swathed in a midnight blue robe, to emerge from the obscuring smoke. Then he remembered the heavy piece of wall he had thrown into the corridor, and felt better.

“Is ‘ze boy dead?” Pierre asked. He took a long, exhausting drag from the cigarette, his shoulders slumping and his face slick with sweat from the heat.

“He’s not a boy,” said Katashi. “And he’s not dead.” He heard sirens in the distance, and didn’t need to use True Sight to know that they had little time to escape. “Do you have the portkey prepared?”

Pierre searched his pockets. “Of course.”

Again, Katashi looked back into the collapsing building, wondering if Dumbledore and Harry were still in there. No, he decided. I trapped them thoroughly. They have no choice but to teleport out.

This brought him some comfort. Few times in his existence had he felt his mortality as keenly as he did then. It was close, closer than he had intended. Albus Dumbledore was not like other wizards, Katashi knew, and not one to be underestimated. He was a true human, and could die without the slightest regret, knowing he lived a full life.

And Katashi knew very well that he could've been killed by such a man.

People began gathering on the front lawn, gawking at the two strangers on the porch. Katashi ignored them, instead focusing on how he’d lost his fight with Harry.

While Julius wasn’t there, he could still hear his childish voice. Your Sight warned you of Dumbledore’s arrival yet you were not fast enough to kill Harry in time.

“No, that’s wrong,” said Katashi aloud, and Pierre looked at him with a puzzled expression. No, I shouldn’t have engaged in conversation with the boy. I didn’t use enough of the Sight. I should’ve been more careful. Next time I won’t be direct. Next time I will kill from the back and it will be over.

“Ah, here it is,” said Pierre, holding up a velvet cloth.

“Good, very good,” said Katashi. “Next time, Pierre, we’ll kill him. Next time.” He looked down at his broken arm, frowning at how he had badly he had failed.

“What about the Auror? Should we go and get him?”

Katashi thought about this for a moment. The wizard he had captured had been stunned by Pierre after giving up the password, as he did not have time to deal with him properly. “No, we’ll leave him. He’s not important. There’ll be wizards here soon.” He reached for the cloth.

The Frenchman nodded, and, when Katashi’s fingers touched the portkey, they both warped away as five Order members apparated onto the lawn.

"Well, we managed to get there in time to stop your relatives’ house from collapsing," said Lupin, addressing Harry in Grimmauld Place. It was the next day, and Order members were flooing in and out of headquarters every half hour. "The real problem was with the magical fires from the curses. They were tough to put out, so we weren’t able to save everything. Of course, the Ministry still has to track down and modify the memories of those who, err, saw the unexplainable parts. As far as I know, the muggles are writing it off as a simple house fire. But with Samson…" He shook his head. "There was nothing we could do. He was dead when we arrived."

"And Moody?" The Order had found Mad-Eye unconscious in the backyard of Harry’s neighbor. While there was no physical injury, the spell that struck him was strong enough to warrant a short stay at St. Mungo’s.

"He’s coming around," replied Lupin. "The healers were able to revive him an hour after we brought him in. From what I hear, they can’t wait to be rid of him. Apparently he’s been demanding to be allowed to make a background check on all of those treating him, and he refuses to take any potions that he hasn’t personally checked for poison."

Harry grinned. He never thought Moody to be the type to stay in a hospital quietly. "So has he said anything about what happened?"

"No, the healers won't let us see him," Lupin said. "They just gave us a report of his condition. Stunners can be tricky sometimes and they want a little more time to assess him."

"But he'll be out soon?"

"If all goes well? Very soon."

"Has anything come up about Katashi? How’d he get past the blood wards?"

"I don’t know anything about that," said Lupin earnestly. "Apparently Dumbledore has a few ideas of what happened, but he says he wants to speak with you first."

Harry felt a mixture of disappointment and satisfaction. He was glad that Dumbledore was beginning to treat him like an adult and taking him into his confidence, but he had too many questions on his mind, and Dumbledore, it seemed, had little time to answer them.

"As for your relatives’ house," continued Lupin. "We’re doing what we can to restore it. It’s not completely destroyed, as most of the damage occurred in the kitchen and living room areas, but its still severe. You’ll be glad to know that your birthday gifts – through sheer luck – were untouched."

"Do the Dursley’s know yet?"

"They’ll be told," Lupin said bluntly. "Though I’m not sure when. Not too many Order members are keen on going out of their way to give your Aunt and Uncle the courtesy of knowing what happened to their home. I have plans on going this evening."

Harry said nothing, feeling guilty at the fact that – in a tiny corner of his mind – he harbored a slight satisfaction with what happened to the Dursleys’ home.

So it was for most of the afternoon that Harry was left to wander through Grimmauld Place at his leisure, though, admittedly, he spent most of his time in the kitchen, half-heartedly glancing through a book of hexes while watching Order members going to and from the fireplace. The Gryffindor part of him wanted to stand up and take action – to take up his wand and play an active role in the Order. But a small, more honest side of him said he wasn’t ready, and the duel he had with Katashi the previous day was testimony to that.

Looking back, he realized he could’ve beaten Katashi in several key instances, but, due to a slow reaction or an inaccurate curse, he failed. His spellwork – due to the length of time without practice – had gone downhill, and he had been using magic that could’ve been performed by any fifth year.

So, standing up, he climbed the steps in search of a room suitable for practicing curses. Something akin to what the Room of Requirement provided, or even a simple square room with a few targets and reinforced walls would do. When he found one, he began throwing the spells he remembered using late in his sixth year, and, to his dismay, they were wild and off the mark.

"I don’t understand," said Ron, entering the room. "Are you trying to hit the targets or the wall?"

"What do you think?"

"For your sake, I’m hoping the wall."

Harry laughed. "So when did you get here?"

"Just now," said Ron. "So I hear you pretty much demolished the Dursleys’ house…" There was a short, barely noticeable pause. "You all right?"

"Yeah, I’m fine," said Harry. The wounds he had suffered were small, and, for the most part, superficial. Healing Charms had fixed those in an instant. "But Moody was hurt pretty bad, and Samson, well, he’s dead." He had never met the Auror, but still felt the loss.

"Dad told me," Ron said. "He came in pretty messed up – his insides were cut apart." He shook his head. "Hit from the back. Has Dumbledore said anything yet?"

"No, I haven’t even heard from him since he brought me back," said Harry.

"Can’t say that’s surprising. He’s been running around so much lately that nobody can keep track of where he’s going. He could disappear one day and nobody would know where to look."

"How about Hermione," Harry said. "Is she around?"

"Uhh, I don’t think so mate," said Ron uncertainly. "Last I heard she went with her parents when Dumbledore moved them to a safe house."

"A safe house? Where?"

"Dumbledore didn’t say anything about it," said Ron, shaking his head.

Harry made a mental note to ask Dumbledore more about the safe house whenever he next met him.

"So what happened anyway?" Ron added. "I thought your house was supposed to have all sorts of wards around it."

"I don’t know any more than you do," said Harry. "He just walked in, that’s it. I didn’t even think he was a Death Eater till some of what he was saying didn’t make sense. That’s when he, well, I don’t even know what it was. It was like he was doing wandless magic, except he was a squib." He went on in detail to explain what had happened, ending when he had warped via portkey to safety.

"A squib that’s also a Death Eater? That doesn’t sound right."

"Maybe he was lying," said Harry, shrugging. "That would make the most sense."

"Dunno mate," said Ron. "Some things just don't add up."

"Like what?"

"Like why he even bothered to talk to you in the first place. I mean, if he was there to kill you, why waste any time?"

Harry, who hadn't yet thought of what Ron said, considered that for a moment. "I dunno-" He stopped suddenly, a revelation hitting him. "What if he was using Legilimency? What if he was trying to dig information out of my mind before killing me? I might still be alive, but he still has all that information-"

"Wait I thought you were supposed to be taking Occlumency?" asked Ron. "Doesn't that keep people from prying into your mind?"

"Yeah," admitted Harry. "But what other reason is there for him delaying it? My Occlumency ability might've gone downhill over the summer and he could've gone through my mind without me even knowing it." Cold chill after cold chill ran through Harry as he thought of all the things Katashi could've discovered. Secrets about the Order, his own private thoughts, and even details of his relationship with Hermione were now all in danger of being passed on to Voldemort.

"Mate, you don't look too good."

"I need to find Dumbledore," Harry muttered, scarcely aware of his own words. He turned around, running his hands through his hair, his mind racing.

Merlin, what if he found out the full prophecy?

"Where're you going?" Ron called, but Harry was already out the door, almost running down the corridor.

He needed to talk to someone in the Order - warn them of what happened. He was only vaguely aware that he had left Ron - without an explanation - in the training room.

The names of everyone in the Order - what if those were taken?

He went down the steps, scanning the room. He was hoping that Lupin was still around, or possibly Tonks, but his heart surged when he saw-

"Dumbledore," Harry breathed. From the looks of it, the headmaster had just come out of the fireplace, and was now refusing Mrs. Weasley's offer of a meal.

"But Albus you have to eat," she said, holding out what appeared to be two sandwiches. "You've been running around all last night, this morning, and most of this afternoon. You can't convince me you're not hungry."

Now that he was closer, Harry agreed with Mrs. Weasley's assessment. It looked as though Dumbledore had aged ten years - the lines on his face more pronounced, his overall posture that of an elderly wizard. And if Dumbledore was anything, he was not old.

"I'm afraid I cannot stay," said Dumbledore apologetically. "I only stopped by to give news of Alastor's condition, and must be going."

"Err, professor?" Harry asked, not wanting to interrupt but forcing himself to.

Dumbledore turned, his face lightening up considerably. He smiled, and the energy in his blue eyes seemed to contradict his aging appearance.

"Do you have a few-?" Harry was about to say minutes, but, after remembering what the headmaster had just told Mrs. Weasley, he felt rather foolish.

Dumbledore paused for a moment, and Harry knew very well that it was unlikely that the headmaster had a moment to spare. If there was no time to eat, then there was no time to talk.

"Certainly, Harry," Dumbledore said finally. Again, his eyes twinkled and with that twinkle he once again became the Dumbledore from Hogwarts that Harry had known for seven years of his life. "Give me just a moment."

Harry, surprised, nodded, and watched as Dumbledore crossed the kitchen floor to where Lupin sat, reading the Daily Prophet.

"Remus, would you be so kind as to complete an errand for me? First, go to Hogwarts and ask Severus to meet me here at Grimmauld Place. After that, meet with Filius and Minerva and give them these plans for the wards-" He drew a scroll from his robe.

Lupin simply looked at Dumbledore for a moment, confused, and Harry took it to mean that this was a task normally performed by the headmaster personally. "Of course," he said, and accepted the scroll.

"Send them my apologies for not coming," said Dumbledore. "But I trust that they will understand that something of greater importance came up." Then, to Harry, "Shall we proceed to somewhere...out of the way?"

As Harry made to follow Dumbledore, Mrs. Weasley seized her chance and ran up to shove a plateful of food into the headmaster's hands. "Don't forget your lunch."

Dumbledore, yielding, thanked her and, as they crossed into the next room, whispered to Harry, "She is forever concerned about my health. I eat almost twice as much food as normal whenever she chooses my diet."

They came into a massive living room, which, at one point, Harry was sure would've contained an array of luxurious couches, chairs, and elegant wood furnishings. However, the once-beautiful furniture had been eaten by moths and beetles, and was one of the first things to have been removed from the mansion. Now, in their place, were a few winged chairs huddled around the stone fireplace, the only other adornments being the bookcases along the wall and the brass chandelier hanging above.

"It's good to see that those wounds healed up so quickly," said Dumbledore, moving to occupy one of the seats. He set his plate down, then watched as Harry took the seat next to him.

"Yeah they weren't too bad," Harry replied. "None of them were serious."

"I must admit, Hogwarts is very lucky to have such a skilled healer as Madam Pomfrey," Dumbledore said. "While she doesn't play an active role in the Order, she does heal our members from time to time. For that I am in her debt." He paused, seeming to reflect for a moment. "But I suspect you have questions for me, Harry. Given what occurred last evening, you should have many."

"Yes I do, but I wanted to talk to you about something else first," he said, and then, to Dumbledore's curious expression, he added, "I think I might have accidentally leaked information to Voldemort." He didn't need to explain the entire story. He already had related to Dumbledore what had happened during his meeting with Katashi.

Dumbledore looked rather pleased. "You mean you fear that Nori Katashi - your attacker - might've stolen information from your mind while you two spoke?" Another moment paused, where he seemed to absorb the statement. "Yes, I have thought of that, and am pleasantly surprised that you have as well. It is entirely possible that he did, as he would've had direct eye contact with you the entire time, and your guard would've been down as you had at the time thought you were in the presence of a friendly Order member."

Harry's worst fears were confirmed. "So you think he did then?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "But remember that a Legilimentist can only detect thoughts that are tied to emotion. And even then, they are oftentimes tied to vague pictures or memories. Hence, the less emotionally-valuable the information is, the less likely it is to be detected. Thus raw facts about the Order would require more aggressive probing. Since you are a skilled Occlumens, it's unlikely that he could've delved too far into your mind without you knowing."

For a moment, Harry said nothing, carefully thinking over the words Dumbledore had spoken. At last he said, "But thoughts about the prophecy, or about Hermione-"

"Would be easily seen, yes," said Dumbledore. "But I would advise against worrying overly much about the prophecy. I doubt Tom would find the exact wording of the full prophecy overly valuable, as it didn't contain that which he had hoped for: a way to kill you. I'm sorry if this invades your privacy, but I must ask you if you believe any feelings you have towards Miss Granger are...sensitive in nature? We must consider another, more dangerous possibility: that Katashi uncovered your more personal relationships with other people."

Harry could feel himself blushing, but struggled to keep his voice even. "Yes, they're, umm, sensitive."

Slowly, Dumbledore extended his hand and rested it on the arm of Harry's chair. He was smiling gently, and his face was brighter than the hanging chandelier could possibly have made it. "I believed as much. Don't let that get away from you. It's a rare thing to find love in these times."

Was what Dumbledore implied true? Did he love Hermione?

Suddenly, he remembered what she had said yesterday. I love you Harry. And he didn't respond. At the time, he hadn't thought of it, his mind was elsewhere.

He couldn't answer definitely. He refused to answer. His brain demanded proof, something comparable to how he felt, and found that had nothing to draw it from. He felt that if he spoke those three words, he was making a long-term pledge, and that, more than anything, made him afraid.

"Her parents are in a safe house now, aren't they?" Harry said at length. "She's protected, right?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "I have spoken with her parents, and they have voluntarily relocated. They were resistant at first, I admit, but once I explained the origin of the plague, and what its presence in their neighborhood meant, they began to understand the need. Their safety is now one of the Order's priorities."

The door opened and both Dumbledore and Harry looked towards who had entered.

Snape strode in, wearing his usual black, his eyes sweeping across the room. "Good afternoon, headmaster-" He stopped when he saw Harry. "I was under the impression that this was to be a private meeting."

Harry took a moment to look at the Potions master, and was surprised to see that he looked rather ill. While there was never much color in the Potions master's face, today there was even less, and there was a certain slowness in Snape's movements that could only be attributed to sickness. None of this, Harry was sure, was beneficial to Snape's eternally sour mood.

"Given the purpose of the Order's entire existence," said Dumbledore. "Harry being absent would prove to be counterproductive. You are aware of the details concerning the attack on Privet Drive yesterday?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"Of course," Snape said, moving to an empty chair away from both Harry and Dumbledore. "I doubt there is much I can add. The Dark Lord has been very...resistant to my attempts to intrude on his thoughts."

Harry assumed that Snape meant that, since he was no longer under Voldemort’s wing, he was making attempts to traverse the distance between himself and the Dark Lord by reversing the Dark Mark on his forearm. By using the psychic connection the Dark Mark forged between them, Snape could - with great difficulty - see into Voldemort's mind. Such it was with everyone who bore the Dark Mark; they were all servants bound to their master. It was only through great skill that Snape managed to capture Voldemort's thoughts without revealing his own. Harry had only learned this last year, though the exact details of Snape’s role were still unknown to him.

Though at times, Harry wondered whether it was a charade, with Snape feeding information to Voldemort while working under the pretense of serving the Order.

But if Dumbledore trusted him, so did Harry.

"This meeting doesn't concern your attempts into Voldemort's mind," said Dumbledore. "It has more to do with a detail I left out when addressing what had occurred yesterday. It wasn't simply a faceless Death Eater that attacked Harry's home, but Nori Katashi."

For the first time, Snape turned towards Harry, a nasty look on his face. "So Potter told you he saw Katashi? He's either hallucinating or lying."

"I assure you that he was doing neither," said Dumbledore quietly, though Harry felt a slight hardness in his voice. "Especially since I saw Katashi for myself."

Snape's expression quickly changed. "That's impossible. He's dead."

"I saw him," said Dumbledore. "I met his eyes and saw the glassy texture. Not even polyjuice could replicate the eyes of a Mind Leaper. It was him."

"Mind Leaper?" Harry echoed.

Before Dumbledore could clear Harry's confusion, Snape said, "You're sure?" He was on the edge of his seat. "He hasn't been seen for decades-"

"I'm sure, Severus," said Dumbledore. "There is no doubt. Alex misled us. One of his targets escaped him."

Harry remembered the Hit Wizard, who had gone across the world with the goal of avenging his family by slaying the three men at fault. While it was never known for certain that the three had been killed, it had been widely assumed so. Evidently, that assumption was wrong.

Snape sunk back into his chair, as though absorbing Dumbledore's words. His eyes - slowly - fell onto Harry. "If he's after Potter, Albus..."

"I know."

Harry glanced between the two of them, not quite understanding the meaning that had been exchanged. "I take it I'm missing something?"

"You're dealing with a true savant, Potter," said Snape absently. "Do you have any idea what that means?"

"No," Harry admitted.

"It's a rare condition - extraordinarily rare -" said Dumbledore when Snape didn't elaborate. "For most wizards, magical ability is evenly distributed. While some may display a certain aptitude towards Charms, Transfiguration, or any of the schools of magic, everyone has, more or less, the same amount of innate magical ability."

"And savants don't?"

"No," Dumbledore continued. "They are the exceptions. Perhaps only a handful are born each century, and, while they can only use their magic in one field, they excel in that field. Once, long ago, I had the pleasure of meeting such a person who worked at the Department of Mysteries. His specialty was Transfiguration, and, though he could transform water into diamonds, he could not so much as perform a simple lighting charm."

"So what're you saying Katashi is?" asked Harry. "What kind of savant?"

"His ability rests with the mind," said Dumbledore. "Perhaps you, Severus, should be the one to explain." He looked towards the Potions master, who seemed not to hear.

At last, Snape spoke, though it was almost like he was reciting the words out loud to himself. He was staring into the air, not looking at either of them. "Mind magic is far different from spellwork- from mere wand waving. There are those that argue it is not really magic at all, as it has been recorded that some muggles have had the ability to perform Legilimency and other mind skills as easily as wizards. Unlike conventional magic, mind magic centers in the cerebral cortex, and is little influenced by the use of a wand."

"So what're you saying he can do?"

"Besides Legilimency?" said Snape vaguely. "I know for certain he can perform Occlumency and Telekinesis, though he also claims to be able to see into the future." He stopped, seeming to choose his next words carefully. "Or, rather, he has the reputation for having True Sight-"

"True Sight?" repeated Harry. "Is that like Divination-?"

"No," said Snape. "And do not interrupt me again. There's a very fine distinction between Divination and True Sight. Divination is performed by aging gypsies in broken-down alley shops using tea cups and crystal balls, while authentic Seers have True Sight. It involves the ability to see the consequences of every action ahead of time, the length of which is determined by the strength of the Seer."

"The Dark Lord uses him to kill some of his more difficult targets," continued Snape. "And I daresay that's why he attacked your home. He was hired to do it."

Hired? Harry thought. "He's not a Death Eater?"

Snape shook his head. "No he's not. It's not unusual for the Dark Lord to look outside for assistance to particular problems. On the whole, Death Eaters are not exceptional spellcasters or brilliant wizards. Indeed, those that join only have one common trait: they have an insatiable appetite for power."

"So you have an insatiable appetite too?" Harry asked before he could stop himself.

Dumbledore spoke quietly. "Harry..."

"My reasons for joining were different from the others," said Snape sharply, turning to Harry. "My own, personal reasons are none of your concern."

Before Harry could reply, Dumbledore interjected, "The reason I asked Professor Snape to be here was so you could understand who this man is, Harry-"

"Who he is?" asked Snape, almost mockingly. He snorted. "If you really want to know who he is, Potter, then I'll tell you. He's conscienceless. He's never what he says he is, and he's a liar. Want to know what else? He's a bloody Mind Leaper."

"A what?"

"He can jump into other people," said Snape, talking faster and more vehemently as he went. "He can push himself out of his own body and into another, fully possessing it. It's a feat only a few can perform, but if you can do it successfully, you can achieve a sort of immortality if you make wise decisions. And wise decisions are easy to make when you have True Sight."

Suddenly, Harry remembered the brains in the Department of Mysteries, and what they had done to Ron. Was that what the Unspeakables were doing? Trying to imitate a Mind Leaping?

Dumbledore raised his hand to slow Snape's tirade but the Potions master didn't stop. "You call him Nori Katashi but that's only the name of his body. He's old, so old that the Ministry's records of his suspected activities start five hundred years ago, though he's easily far older. He's practically like another species-"

"Calm yourself, Severus," Dumbledore said. "He's not immortal, and certainly not a threat if we are careful. Voldemort is still-"

"Not a threat?" Snape countered. "How then did he break through the wards around Potter's home on Privet Drive?"

"I don't know," admitted Dumbledore. "Though it is now clear that they were becoming weaker."

"Wards can become weaker?" Harry asked in confusion.

"No, not all wards," said Dumbledore. "But you must remember, these wards were based on your mother's love." Snape stirred in his seat. "You are older, Harry, than you were when your mother gave her life for you. You have matured, and have grown independent from her. That is not to say that her love for you has faded, but just that you have found...other sources of love that have detracted from the ward's effect. Perhaps they were not strong enough to cause a Killing Curse to rebound as it had once done with you."

"However, none of this would cause the wards to be weak enough to admit Nori Katashi into the household," continued Dumbledore. "And I'm afraid that until we learn more, it will remain unknown to us. I have no feasible theories as of yet, as all would require a small amount of your blood, which, I strongly doubt, would find its way into his hands. Nonetheless, it's clear what all this means."

"Privet Drive is no longer safe for me," Harry finished for him.

"I'm afraid not."

OOO

It wasn't until later, when Hermione arrived at Grimmauld Place, that he was able to relate what he had learned. Ron was no where to be found, and when he asked, Mrs. Weasley told him that he was visiting Fred and George in their shop. With the way he had abandoned Ron so suddenly and without explanation in the training room, Harry felt more than a little guilty. He had left Ron behind.

Regardless, he told Hermione what happened at Privet Drive and in his subsequent interview with Dumbledore and Snape, answering her questions along the way. He wondered whether Ron's absence wasn't a blessing in disguise, as he doubted that he would've had the willpower to tell everything with such a heavy, awkward feeling between the two of them. In many ways, it was worse than their usual outright bickering.

"I don't even know what to say," she said when he had finished, her eyes wide. "You're- You're all right, aren't you?" She moved from her chair and came closer, seeming to try to get a better look at him. "I don't see any wounds-"

"Madam Pomfrey took care of those," said Harry. "Her potions healed them overnight." He was surprised by both her and Dumbledore's concern over his wounds. They were nothing, hardly worth mentioning. Considering the damage that could have been done to him from that bloody sword, he got away without so much as a scrape.

"Are you sure-?"

"They're fine," he said with a reassuring smile. "If Madam Pomfrey says they're fine, they are." He couldn't even imagine her response should he actually get any real wounds that left lasting scars.

"How did he even get inside?" Hermione asked, frowning. "Some of what Dumbledore didn't make sense. It's obvious that whoever was firing those Killing Curses couldn't get come in, so how could Katashi do it? If you were protected, how could Killing Curses come in at all?"

"Oh, right," said Harry, who had left out that particular part of Dumbledore's explanation. "Well, he said the wards were becoming weaker." He deliberately didn't state the full explanation, for it strongly implied something that he didn't feel ready to commit to.

That he might be in love with Hermione.

Hermione looked puzzled. "How could the wards be getting weaker?"

"Err, dunno."

"That's strange..." she said, raising one eyebrow. "Dumbledore doesn't have any theories?"

"No, not really," said Harry quickly, then, changing the subject, he added, "Are you parents all right? Ron told me they were moving to a safe house."

"They're fine," Hermione said. "They're still getting used to being around wizards and witches, but overall I think they're taking it well. Speaking of Ron-" She looked around. "-where is he?"

"Fred and George's," replied Harry. "Dunno when he'll be back."

"Oh," she said, frowning, and just then, the kitchen fireplace roared to life and two figures stepped out.

"Unbelievable how they run that place," growled Moody to Kingsley, who had emerged after him. "Small wonder that Bode was killed in there. Hardly any security measures in place at all." He stopped when he saw Harry, his magical eye seeming to take a moment to sweep over him. "Well, Potter, you seem to have made it out all right. Kingsley gave me the watered down version of what happened. How do you think you fared?"

"My spellwork felt off," said Harry. "And I wasn't really prepared for him in the first place-"

"Wasn't prepared?" echoed Moody, both eyes locking onto him.

Harry realized there probably wasn't a worse thing he could've said to the ex-Auror. "I figured since he crossed the threshold, he was safe. You said that enemies couldn't cross the threshold."

"So I did," Moody said. "So what? You never relax your vigilance." He limped towards the kitchen counter, then turned to Kingsley. "You're going back to the Ministry next, right? Dumbledore should be there with Madam Bones. See if you can send him back here so he can hear a firsthand account of what happened. I don't want to leave any details out."

Kingsley nodded and left, vanishing in a swirl of flame in the fireplace.

"Have you been training, Potter?" Moody asked, turning once more towards Harry. "Haven't been idle, have you?"

"I was practicing this afternoon."

"Good," said Moody. "Don't want to waste that experience you earned. It's best to train while it's all still fresh in your mind, so you can better learn from it. So what happened, Potter? How'd he catch you off guard?"

"Well, when he knocked on my door, he said he was from the Order," explained Harry. "Since he crossed the street from where you, I figured you saw him and cleared him, and besides, Death Eaters don't exactly knock on your door before coming in, do they? Anyway, I let him in, and then we sat down and talked for a while- me and Dumbledore figured he was trying to perform Legilimency on me. Then I started realizing that parts of his story didn't quite add up: like his claim that he was in the Order the same time as my mom and dad. I remembered the group photo of the Order you showed to me two years ago, and he was definitely not in it. That's pretty much when he attacked me."

"Not bad, Potter," growled Moody, looking slightly impressed. "You recovered, and picked up discrepancies. You still let him make the first strike, which was foolish, but you lacked the experience. Now you know, Potter, so don't make the same mistake twice. You're lucky to have escaped from that one."

"But Harry," said Hermione. "How'd you know when the photo was taken? I mean, it's clear now that he wasn't from the Order, but what if he was authentic and had joined after the picture was taken, you wouldn't have realized the difference."

Moody's eye swiveled towards her. "Granger's right, he could've been a real Order member. But I would've done the same as Potter in that situation. When your gut tells you something, you better follow it, whether it's logical or not."

Hermione frowned, seeming to reflect on that for a moment, while Harry said, "So what ended up happening to you?"

"I'll tell you when Dumbledore arrives," Moody said. "No point in telling the same story twice."

He lifted himself from the table and limped to the counter, flicking his wand so that a nearby pitcher of water poured itself into a fresh glass. "In the meantime," he continued. "I'd like to speak with you, Potter. Alone."

Harry nodded, unsure of what Moody wanted. He met up with the ex-Auror as he left the kitchen, and, in a lowered voice, Moody asked, "Do you make sure you're protected when you're with her?"

Startled, Harry stared at Moody, surprised at the bluntness of the question. He searched for amusement or sarcasm in Moody's face, but found that he was deadly serious. "Excuse me?" Harry asked.

"Do you make sure you're protected when you're with her?" Moody repeated gruffly. "You don't want to run into any problems because you weren't using protection."

"Errr, well, I don't think- uhhh, I don't really need to, umm, worry about that right now."

Moody stopped immediately, both of his eyes focusing onto Harry. "Are you saying you aren't using protection Potter?"

"I just haven't had the chance to use it yet," said Harry awkwardly.

"Do you know what kind of protection you need?" growled Moody. "I'm sure you need a demonstration-"

"No," said Harry instantly. He could only imagine how that kind of demonstration would go. "I think I got the, err, general idea behind it. I already know the charms and such."

"Good," he said. "You can never be too careful in those situations. You don't want anything going in or coming out without your knowledge."

"Yeah, of course," said Harry, wanting the conversation to end. There was something very wrong in having this particular discussion with Mad-Eye Moody.

"One time," continued Moody. "When I was young and foolish, I didn't use protection. I was with Arthur Weasley at the time-"

This is not happening, Harry told himself. This is just a nightmare Voldemort created to drive me insane.

"As it turns out, Death Eaters were right on the other side of the wall, and we didn't even know about it," He gave a rattling chuckle. "You can only imagine the surprise that was."

"Yeah...really..."

"We found them and captured them, of course," said Moody. "But they could've escaped, and that would've been disastrous. So that's why you wear protection, because you just don't know."

"Uhhh," Harry had a strange feeling that he had missed out on part of the story. Suddenly it dawned on him. "Wait, are you talking about...room protection? To stop eavesdroppers?"

"Of course," Moody growled. "What did you think I was talking about?"

"Errr, nothing. Nevermind." Harry swore he saw Mad-Eye grinning, but when he turned to look, he saw he was mistaken. He had a strange feeling that he had just been fooled.

"Good then, Potter. Because protection is something every wizard needs to have."

(A/N: Good to be back writing again; though I see I lost a lot of my readership over my long hiatus. Anyway, would anyone appreciate me adding a summary of The Maw as an introductory chapter to this story, so this story could be better understood? I know that I’ve forgotten some points of the Maw, and I wrote it all. It might be useful to help refresh everyone’s memory better.

Regardless, the next update won’t be until after the holidays. I know these chapters are a bit shorter than they used to be, and the time between updates longer, but they’re coming.)

"It's fortunate that you made such a quick return to health, Alastor," said Dumbledore, who had returned from the Ministry early that evening. Harry, Hermione, and Ron sat in seats by the fireplace with the headmaster while Moody paced incessantly.

"I suppose I took enough of those Stunning Spells to build up a resistance," Moody said. "So where should I start? I take it from Potter that you already know most of the story."

"Begin with when you left the house," said Dumbledore.

"Well, nothing was really unusual until I came to the side of the house across the street," Moody began. "It was then when I saw Samson leaning against the rear wall. Nothing seemed wrong with him, I figured he was sleeping on the job. He'd done it before," he added with a tinge of annoyance.

"So you simply went up to him?" Dumbledore asked, sounding surprised.

"Of course I didn't," growled Moody. "I checked around for Death Eaters, but all I saw was a couple of muggles sitting inside the house - at least I thought they were muggles. They were wearing muggle clothing, and neither of them bore the Mark. Didn't think much of it. Later I would." He gave a slight, grim smile.

"So I went up to Samson," he continued, still pacing. "I didn't want to call his name since there were muggles around, so I went up to him and pulled off his invisibility cloak. That's when I saw he was dead and had wounds that had been mended together with a crude charm. The next thing I know I was hit with a Stunning Spell by the wizards I thought were muggles. I was taken in, captured. They were damned lucky and clever to pull off a stunt like that." He turned to Harry. "That's why you have to be vigilant, Potter."

"What happened next, Alastor?" asked Dumbledore.

"They revived me," Moody said, coming across the room. "And asked me questions. Asked me about the password. One of them I didn't recognize, but the other I did: Nori Katashi. I didn't tell him a thing, but he ended up digging the password out of me anyway. After that they stunned me again and I woke up in St. Mungo's. It’s lucky you arrived when you did, Albus- how did you arrive anyway? I thought you weren’t to return till later in the evening.”

“I had a suspicion,” said Dumbledore vaguely. "Can you tell us anything more about the second man? Neither I nor Harry have seen him, much less know his identity."

Moody paused by the fireplace. "They had just revived me from a Stunning Spell, so my memory of that moment isn't too clear. He had a heavy French accent, and smelled like tobacco smoke...that's all I can remember."

Dumbledore frowned. “Can you describe to me how Katashi acquired the password?”

“Easy,” said Moody gruffly. “He shoved Veritaserum down my throat. I was still recovering from the Stunning Spell and couldn’t put up much resistance. Surprising thing is that he didn’t waste any time, he already knew that there was a password involved.”

“He has the Sight,” said Dumbledore. “Undoubtedly he would know.”

“It’ll be hard to counter the Sight,” said Moody. “If it’s even possible at all. Katashi will be able to See our future plans and raids…”

“But he isn’t interested in any of that,” said Hermione slowly, speaking for the first time. “Voldemort didn’t summon Katashi to do that type of work, did he? After all, he’s not even a Death Eater.”

Dumbledore looked at her and smiled. “Miss Granger brings up an excellent point. It is likely Katashi is separated from Tom’s main forces, and is working towards a very separate goal.”

Moody seemed to catch on immediately. “The Death Eaters spread terror and fear, while Katashi goes after something else entirely…” His magical eye centered on Harry. “We won’t have to worry about him disrupting our raids, because he’ll be focusing on killing you, Potter.”

“But he can’t, can he?” Ron said. “He can’t kill Harry because of the prophecy.”

Moody’s one eye switched between Dumbledore, Harry and Ron. “I take it this is about the full prophecy?”

“Yeah-” Harry started.

“Then I don’t want to hear it,” Moody cut in, going towards the heavy oak doorway. “Only a few should know it.”

“No, stay-”

“Absolutely not,” growled Moody. “You need to learn caution, Potter. I was captured once, it could happen again. It could happen to anyone here. No one in the Order would willingly give up the Prophecy, but there is no defense against Veritaserum.”

Harry nodded, letting him go. Once he had left, Dumbledore said, “To answer your question, Mr. Weasley, we believe Katashi would be able to kill Harry, or at the very least capture him for Tom. Seers such as Nori Katashi can operate outside the bounds of Prophecy. They are not held rigidly to it, as their own ability of True Sight gives them power over such Prophecies.”

“So any Seer in the world can alter a Prophecy?” asked Harry, dubious in spite of himself.

“It would require a conscious effort, but yes,” said Dumbledore. “However, Seers are extraordinarily rare, and even while the Seer may have the power to declare Prophecies, they may not have the power of True Sight. Think of them as two different abilities of foresight that are almost opposite of each other. The Power of Prophecy will give a Seer the uncontrollable ability to establish the future, while True Sight allows a Seer to view and even manipulate the future.”

Harry took a moment to understand the implications of this. “Wait, you mean to tell me Trelawney created my future, and not just foretold it?”

“Created…” repeated Dumbledore, seeming to taste the word. “If you mean her personally, then no. The Power of Prophecy has been in all known Seers impossible to control, and what causes each specific prophecy to be made is unknown. It was created, but not by her. I could go into the theories made by the Unspeakables, but they would take more time to explain than is available to us.”

“Ahh, and I have one last thing I wish to discuss with you,” continued Dumbledore. “It has to do with what your parents left you. I’m sure you know what this concerns, Harry.”

“Tenbrook’s Sphere?”

“So they’ve agreed then?” asked Dumbledore, then at Ron and Hermiones’ nods, continued, “Very good. I suppose you will be wanting your artifact then?”

Gingerly Dumbledore reached into his robes and drew a sphere wrapped in the same cloth that Harry had seen before. He unwrapped it, then handed it to him.

Harry accepted it, surprised at how lightweight it was. To anyone else, it would look only like Hayy was holding a clear glass globe, but he was aware of the immensely valuable resource this globe actually contained: time.

"There you go, mate," said Ron. "You're holding something worth more than most of the vaults at Gringotts. Now just don't go and die and force me- us to give it to the Dursley's."

Harry cracked a smile, then looked up at Dumbledore. "Do you think this would be useful to the Order? I doubt it'll be too useful in Hogwarts."

"I cannot speak for the rest of the Order, but I would never use the Sphere save for absolute emergencies," said Dumbledore. "I trust you have not forgotten the observed side effects of using Tenbrook's Sphere for a prolonged timespan? Only the exceptionally powerful and strong willed can use the Sphere without fear of suffering insanity. I will not lie. I am too old to use such an artifact, and I don't believe anyone in the Order is strong enough to use it."

"But we could stop Voldemort without a problem" Harry said. "I mean, one of us could go right up to the Death Eaters and eliminate them all."

Dumbledore smiled lightly, then said, "Try using it, Harry."

Hermione's eyes went wide. "Professor, are you sure that is-"

"Harry will be fine, Miss Granger," assured Dumbledore.

"Yeah," said Ron. "That or he'll end up sharing a room with Lockhart in St. Mungo's."

"There's nothing for Harry to fear. He has accomplished enough at such a young age that I believe he'll be able to withstand a short session of time manipulation without incurring any irreparable damage."

Harry stared indecisively at the Sphere in his hands. It felt unnaturally hot, like there was a flame in the apparently empty center. "How would I activate it?"

"Put both your hands on it, and ask it to."

"What?" Harry was sure he misheard.

"You have to ask it to activate, Harry. Mentally, of course."

"You're saying it's alive?" Ron asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Not in the sense that you and me are alive, no," said Dumbledore. "But it is conscious to an extent. In order to activate, it has to be told. While time does not have eyes and ears, it can sense and understand simple mental requests."

"I never had to do that with the time turner," said Hermione.

"The time in a time turner is far more diluted than the time in Tenbrook's Sphere," said Dumbledore. "It was not in it's pure, conscious form."

"Well, that's simple enough. I'll go ahead then..." Harry said, thinking the Sphere was bizarre beyond words. Hermione looked ready to protest, but said nothing. Harry, noticing, said quietly, "Dumbledore wouldn't recommend it if it wasn't safe."

"Dumbledore has made mistakes before," whispered Hermione back to him. "It just seems rather pointless."

Harry didn't reply, having already made up his mind. The Sphere in his hands, he consciously thought: Please activate.

For a moment nothing happened, and then the world flickered black and his senses deadened.. When the world returned to him, it was completely black and white, as though someone had sucked all the color from the room and left in in grayscale. A sourceless wind slapped at his face, at his clothes, as though he was in a tornado, and an accompanying sound like static from a television threatened to make him deaf from its raw intensity. Low, indistinguishable moans were carried along with the static, giving him chills, and wildly he stood up and spun around, expecting to see a phantom or a ghost of whatever were causing those moans, but instead finding nothing. The wind, he noticed with some confusion, was still blowing into his face, despite his change in direction.

Turning back around, he saw that Dumbledore, Ron, and Hermione were still sitting motionless in their seats, their expressions frozen. He stepped forwards, wanting to experiment, and took Dumbledore's hand and move it from his lap to his side. It was strangely simple and easy, and Harry reckoned that he could move Dumbledore all the way across the room if he wanted to without a problem.

Looking at Hermione, he moved a few strands of hair that had fallen from behind ear back into place, thinking of how strange it was for her face...her eyes...her shirt to all have become various shades of gray in whatever world or place he was in now.

Increasingly, however, Harry was becoming aware of another presence. It was almost physical in its strength, as though it was standing in the very same room but Harry was too blind to see it. Harry felt it, and became conscious that he was not in the same plane of existence as he was before, and that he was practically in another world...an alien world. Except the aliens didn't want him there.

He felt anger there, like heat, strangely akin to the heat that he had felt earlier on the Sphere itself. It was menacing, warning him, wanting him out of its place and its home.

Strangely, Harry felt a vague pain in head and ears, like there were needles being worked directly into his brain. Shaking his head, trying to clear it, he looked around again, the static, the wind, and the grayness beginning to inexplicably anger him. Suddenly he had bizarre, unbidden flashbacks on his childhood, vague images of him with the Dursley's. Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temple, trying to rid himself of his migraine, but it only intensified.

At last, the right words became clear to him. Please deactivate.

The world went black again, and, a moment later, he opened his eyes and realized that he had returned. The wall tapestry that he had been leaning against had color again; and, most significantly, the pain in his head was gone. All that was left was a slight ache.

"Wow," was all Harry could mutter.

"I take it you understand why it would be unwise to attempt to use Tenbrook's Sphere to fight Voldemort?" Dumbledore asked.

"Yeah, the static, and the moans," Harry said, looking around again. The vibrancy in the color of the world was astonishing to him, with Ron's hair appearing even more fiery than ever and Hermione's seeming, well, browner than ever. "You can't stay in there for too long..."

"You have experienced what few other wizards have," said Dumbledore. "Did you feel the hostility? The resistance?"

"Something didn't want me there. It's difficult to stay."

"That's why you shouldn't use it against Death Eaters," said Hermione as if just realizing something. "If the member using it were to lose control, then he might get killed and the Sphere would go to Voldemort."

"Excellent deduction Miss Granger," said Dumbledore. "I only wanted Harry to use the Sphere to impress on him the difficulty of using the Sphere. While I daresay you and Tom are equals in terms of power, Harry, he is far more disciplined, and discipline is key to control. Tom could use it to destroy us all. I don't doubt that he could use it for an entire day of no-time without any ill effects if need be."

"But you also mentioned more than one person can use Tenbrook's Sphere," said Harry. "Couldn't more than one member go?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "But the effort of maintaining the Sphere's influence is dependent on the person that first activated it. While others may join, the stress lies on the activator alone."

"So if I were to activate it, and bring Hermione and Ron under the Sphere's influence," said Harry. "Then they could go ahead of me without having to bear any of the, err, stress?"

"Yes, but you'd never be able to support them for long."

"Then it looks like I won't be getting too much use out of it," said Harry. Truthfully, he was not at all eager to use the Sphere again. He could remember the foreignness of the place, the overwhelming sense that he didn't belong. And the menace.

"For now," said Dumbledore. "But in the future, however, the Sphere could become quite useful to you."

But where can I store it in the meantime? Harry wondered. Again, he felt the heat in his hands, though this time the heat had new meaning.

"Is Gringotts still safe?" Hermione asked, as though reading Harry's mind.

"The goblins, as they have always been, are staying carefully neutral," said Dumbledore. "The vaults should be safe. I don't think Tom wants to give the goblins any reason to get involved in this war."

"Then maybe I could keep it in my vault," said Harry slowly.

"Keep it in Gringotts? Mate, that's a bad idea," Ron said. "Bill has been talking to the goblins on and off for a year now, and they haven't so much as hinted as to what side they're on."

"That's not exactly unusual, Ron," said Hermione lightly. "It takes goblins years to make any sort of long-term decision."

"Well until we know for sure where the goblins are headed Harry should keep the Sphere to himself," said Ron sharply. "They've never liked wizards, and You-Know-Who convinces them to come to his side, the Sphere will come right with them."

"They'll probably just stay neutral like they always have," Hermione said.

Harry looked between them, wondering if this was about to explode into a full-blown argument. It seemed unlikely with Dumbledore there.

"Then why are they in negotiations with Bill then?" retorted Ron. "They wouldn't be talking to Bill if they weren't planning to take sides. They just want to see who will give them the better deal." To Harry he added, "If I were you, I'd withdraw everything and store it somewhere else. That's what some of the Order members have already done."

Harry said nothing, impressed with Ron's shrewd interpretation of the goblins' actions. Ron had always outdone him when it came to strategy, and perhaps the spark of insight was simply chess taken to another level.

"What you say is a real possibility, Mr. Weasley," said Dumbledore. "Though Bill has told me that the goblins have no inclination to join Tom, we cannot entirely rule out the possibility."

"We'll be going to Diagon Alley next week, right?" Harry asked Ron.

"Yeah, we'll be needing new books for the classes," said Ron. "Did you see what we'll need for Defense Against the Dark Arts? Fundamentals of Necromancy."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Isn't a copy of that kept in the restricted section in the library?"

"Yes," said Hermione. "It's about halfway down the last aisle on the second shelf. But isn't it a sort of strange subject to be teaching?"

"Indeed it is, Miss Granger," said Dumbledore. "But, given the times, it is most appropriate."

"But it's also illegal too," added Ron. "I mean, that book is in the restricted section for a reason."

"The new professor has assured me he will take great care when covering the subject matter. He is an...expert in that field, and there is no better teacher I could've hired for that topic than him."

That's not saying much, Harry thought. Nobody wants that job in the first place. "So who is he?"

"Ahh, I cannot say," said Dumbledore apologetically. "I promised him that I would not announce his name to anyone until the day Hogwarts opens. I confess, secrecy saves us both a great deal of trouble. I am the only one that knows his identity."

"Albus," interrupted a voice. Harry turned his head and saw Arthur Weasley standing in the doorway. "Minerva just floo'd us. She says she's ready to put the finishing touches on the new wards."

"Excellent," said Dumbledore. Then, to Harry, he said, "I'm afraid I must return to Hogwarts briefly...we're in the middle of installing new wards around the castle. As last year showed, the existing ones are inadequate."

"But before I go," continued Dumbledore. "I believe it is necessary to continue your Occlumency sessions with Professor Snape. Your training in that area is of the utmost importance, and while I an able Occlumens, Professor Snape's skill surpasses mine. For him, Occlumency is necessary for his very survival, and you will find no better teacher than him. But, ultimately, it's up to you. Do you wish to resume your Occlumency lessons?"

"Of course," said Harry. While he was not excited at the prospect of spending an hour each week during the evenings in Snape's dungeon, he understood its purpose. Voldemort would pillage his mind the instant he had the chance.

"Good," said Dumbledore, pleased. "Then you also might be open to the occasional lesson with me? Not with Occlumency, of course, but I feel it's time that you began learning some of the spells more specialized for combat. I cannot say how often we can have such lessons, as time has become scarce for me."

"Yeah, absolutely."

Dumbledore's face lit up, a gentle twinkle in his eye. "Then we'll start as soon as Hogwarts opens," he said. "In the meantime, learn what you can."

Once Dumbledore had gone, Harry got from his seat, feeling ready to practice a few more curses.

"You're so lucky," said Hermione. "Personal lessons with the headmaster...I don't think it's been done before."

"Well, I'm going to see what's in the kitchen," Ron said to Harry. "I'll see you later."

"I'm fairly hungry too," added Hermione. "I wonder-"

"On second thought," said Ron instantly. "I need to finish up a report for Care of Magical Creatures. I'll eat later..." A second later and he was through the door and around the corner.

Harry shook his head, sighing, beginning to tire of the giant elephant that was in every room they ever went in, and left without saying a word to Hermione. He went to his room, saw that the gifts from his birthday party were in a bad by his nightstand, and suddenly recalled something. He searched through the bag, looking for a leather chest, the same one Dumbledore had advised to open privately. Ron had just come in the room, and when Harry had found the gift he was searching for, he left wordlessly as he had done with Hermione. He wasn't irritated with either of them, but just didn't feel like talking to them.

He remembered the brief exchange of words before he had left the study. Ron stating his hunger, Hermione stating the same, then Ron's sudden, inexplicable change in appetite. He couldn't understand how this was happening between three if them. The falling out.

Harry felt strangely out of the mood for conversation, and wandered through Grimmauld Place until he found an empty room. It didn't take long.

He took a seat, and then set the leather chest on a cleared table. He hesitated for a moment, wondering what was in it. It had come from someone anonymous...someone he didn't even know. Gently he released the brass lock, and peered inside. Lying there, surrounded in velvet lining, was an aged scroll. Harry broke the seal and read it.

Dear Harry Potter,

This anonymous letter is the only chance I have to be honest with myself. It scarcely concerns you personally, but perhaps it will help you understand why I am sending you this letter, and why I have the undying belief that it will be you who defeats Voldemort for a second time.

I have spent my life fighting the Dark Arts. I am beginning to reach the end of my ability, and I feel myself weakening a little more every day. I have no heirs, and know only a few people who I can truly call close, personal friends. I'm sure you understand the difficulty of allowing people to get too close to you in times such as these...in times when you have powerful enemies.

It is to you that the responsibility of defeating the strongest dark wizard in known history goes. I trust you will overcome him, I know you will. I have earned some renown for what I accomplished, but none of it matters in the face of what you must do. You fought a grown basilisk in your second year, you fought one of the greatest wizards alive in your sixth. You are brave, you are powerful, and to you I will give what I know you can use.

My great grandfather was a Ravenclaw, and as such he experimented in various areas of magic. He developed spells. These spells are now a part of my family's heritage, but, as I have no heirs, they will be lost with my death. So, to prevent it, I will pass them on to you. At the bottom of this scroll is a description of each of the spells, and how to use it.

Use them with care, and be discrete. If anyone recognizes the curses you're using, it could lead to them asking difficult questions.

As Harry expected, it was not signed. Further down were the curses, and he grinned.

Finally, he would have something new to try out.

OOO


It was freezing. It could only be expected to be cold in an ancient stone underground bunker in southern Scotland, but, with what Katashi was expecting, it felt far colder. The torches in their rusted holders did little to take away the bite from the chill. He dared to suspect that all this was intentional.

One could forget it was the height of summer.

He had been through worse cold, it was true, but never in this body, and the joints in his knees ached from it. His arm, so recently mended, felt the chill even more. He was bordering on asking Pierre to perform a numbing charm to dull the pain, but knew that he shouldn't. The pain was a reminder of his physical limitations, and he needed that.

"Where should I wait?" It was Pierre, a few steps behind. Smoking, as usual. The tobacco smell somehow managed to eclipse the smoke from the surrounding torches.

"Doesn't matter," said Katashi. He watched a group of Death Eaters pass by him, giving him little more than a passing glance. "Outside of the room, I should think. He won't want you to be present."

"As you wish," said Pierre indifferently.

Katashi didn't understand how Pierre could seem so unaffected by the cold, by the swift drafts that ran up and down the sloping corridor. They were wearing the same, simple robes that Katashi reserved for his meetings with Riddle, yet only he was feeling the dropping temperature.

Perhaps it's the fear of meeting Him, uncle, Julius whispered in his ear. His nephew was not in his corporeal form, but rather as a strangely detached voice.

"Ahh, look," said a nearby wizard, two others on either side of him. Death Eaters, all of them, though Katashi recalled the center one's name. Walden Macnair. "So the Dark Lord summoned his pet squib, has he? He’s heard of your failing, though it shouldn’t come as too much of a surprise…”

Katashi barely glanced at them before he continued on, saying nothing.

Macnair watched him pass, sneering. “I’m talking to you, squib. You know, if the Dark Lord doesn’t kill you in there, and just throws you out, you can come work for me. We always need an extra servant around, so maybe you could work with the elves.” There was a round of laughter.

Keeping his self-control, Katashi didn’t reply. He knew that they were envious of his status in the eyes of Riddle, despite his disability. He ignored the jeers and walked on, remembering their faces, knowing that one day…one day…

But that was for later. The present was what was important.

Riddle had summoned him for a personal meeting the moment he caught word of Katashi's failure. Such meetings were the dread of every Death Eater, and though he did not wear the Mark, he felt the fear as acutely as any of the Death Eaters. True Sight had revealed that there was an alarmingly good chance of him not surviving this meeting, and that Riddle would at some point take insult and put out the life that Katashi had so delicately held for so many centuries. But avoiding the meeting put him in an even worse position, as Voldemort was one who did not take disobedience lightly, and would put forth enormous amounts of resources to ensure that Katashi was tracked down and killed. Not only that, but his own private plan would be thrown astray, and all that he had been building for the past few decades would be for nothing.

He did not feel much like testing the resources of one of the greatest Dark Lords of all time, so, in the end, Katashi chose the meeting, and hoped that his own cunning would pull him through alive.

"Eez everyzing all right?" asked Pierre, looking at him sideways. "Ze Dark Lord won't be...killing you, will he?"

Katashi glanced at him, seeing the concern: concern for future payments of galleons rather than personal attachment. He hadn't really expected to see the latter. Indeed, he would have been disappointed if he had. "He might," he replied vaguely. "There is no absolute answer."

He tried to use his Sight to See the questions Riddle would ask of him, but found he could not. Puzzled, he focused harder.

Nervous, uncle. Too nervous for the Sight.

At last they came to an intersection, and they took the left corridor. It was only a short walk before they came to a sturdy wooden door hinged with iron. Inconspicuous considering what was behind it.

"Wait here," said Katashi. "It should only be a short while."

Pierre nodded, and Katashi knocked twice.

"Come in," rasped a voice. Even through the thick door, Katashi recognized it as belonging to Riddle.

He pulled the handle and entered.

The chamber was small, hardly fit for the wizard that occupied it. But Riddle was not the type to care for extravagances. It was simply lit, with torches on either side of the room, and a carpet spread across the floor. The carpet was old and heavily stained, not the type one would keep to furnish a mansion on the surface, but perhaps an aging castle. A table and a pile of books was shoved in a far corner, barely noticeable, but apparently well used. A long, glistening serpent lay there, apparently sleeping, curled between the table and chair legs.

And Katashi felt the cold more acutely than ever.

But then, most prominently, there was Riddle himself, sitting on a high winged chair cushioned with velvet - the type Katashi would normally consider tacky, but, considering the overall atmosphere and purpose of this room, it seemed oddly appropriate. Voldemort was almost formless in the dim light from the torches, the shadows flickering, the two red eyes the only constant.

"Nori..." Riddle hissed.

"Lord," said Katashi, and gave a submissive bow. He scarcely meant it, but did not want to offend Riddle's ego.

Voldemort stirred and stood, coming into full view, the torch lights, whether by design or chance, suddenly burning more brightly. The robe he wore was plain black, with cut fringes that extended all the way up his neck. Only one hand was visible, the other concealed inside the robes, undoubtedly holding onto the wand. It was scaled and dark, with hard, unnaturally long fingernails that gave it almost a clawish appearance. His face, which had shed its human mask a long time ago, was almost reptilian in nature, with a slitted nose and narrow pupils. One side was dimly illuminated, the scales glistening, the only mark of humanity on it being a curved mouth. Even the ears seemed to be falling away...

What men will do for immortality, thought Katashi, trying to suppress it all the same. Riddle's skill with Legilimency was not unknown to him, and Katashi knew that not even he could risk lying in his presence.

"You failed me," hissed Riddle. "Never again will such a chance be available..."

"Forgive me," said Katashi, going to his knees and not looking up. His cloudy breath rose to the ceiling. "It was a difficult task to perform alone. The drop of blood was just barely enough for me to go through the wards, much less for another as well. I regret that Potter slipped through my hands."

"Potter is scarely more than a boy!" snarled Voldemort, sweeping towards him. Katashi did not dare to move from his bow. "A boy, damn you, a boy! Look at me!"

Katashi's head jolted upwards, and he could almost feel Riddle's red eyes bore into his. A slight tingling sensation told him he was being mentally probed.

Riddle's gaze didn't waver. "How did you fail? Explain yourself."

"I wasted too much time," Katashi said, not lying. "Potter resisted too strongly, and I was unable to finish it. Dumbledore arrived and I had to escape."

There was a flash in Voldemort's eyes, and they suddenly darkened to a deeper shade of scarlet. Katashi knew that flash: fear. Though at what Katashi was unsure.

"I want to know what Potter did," said Voldemort, his face rock-still. "What has he been taught?"

"Nothing exceptional, Lord," Katashi said. "He used standard spells, though they were surprisingly strong. He could become a powerful wizard one day, with the right teaching."

"So how did you fail?"

"His reactions were too fast. I did not expect that from one so young. I will not make the same mistake, Lord."

"Presuming you leave here with your life," said Riddle. "I know you're deceiving me, Nori. You're twisting the truth. I can see it."

Slowly, Riddle took his wand and put it to Katashi's neck, pressing the tip against the jugular like it was a knife point.

"I can kill you and you wouldn't even know it," hissed Voldemort.

Katashi felt himself sweat despite the abomidably low temperatures. "I am loyal to only you, Lord."

"You lie! You take me for a fool?" Voldemort's wand pushed deeper. "Why do I use you?"

This is it, Katashi said inwardly. His Sight told him he had reached a turning point, and that the answer to Riddle's question would determine whether he lived or died. He focused, concentrated, testing answers, Seeing their results, finding them all so far to be failures. What was Voldemort looking for?

He'll kill you, uncle.

Another, almost painful nudge of Riddle's wand told him his time was running out. His heart was thundering in his chest, he felt his lower jaw begin to shake, and the concentration that he had always prided himself on having was beginning to fall away to animal panic.

Two thousand years of existence to come to such an end!

"Tell me!" snarled Riddle.

Katashi's breath hitched, his mouth feeling dry, and he said, "Because I will further you, Lord."

Voldemort's face twisted into a grin, though he did not remove the wand. "None here are loyal to me. They cling to me for the sole reason of having everything to gain by doing it. I allow them to because through their service my plans are executed. But they are not enough. They are masters of chaos, but they are too foolhardy to be dependable in tasks that require a finesse. This is why I allow you to be here."

Relief swept through Katashi's body like a wave, and, for the first time in a hundred years, he felt alive. Truly alive. The blood pumping through his system never felt so rich, and he actually welcomed the ache in his joints. It reminded him that he had knees and legs to feel pain with.

He breathed again.

"What else is there, Nori," Riddle said. "Hide nothing."

"Harry has Tenbrook's Sphere," Katashi said. "I saw it in his mind. He's inherited it."

Voldemort was quiet for a long while. "I want that sphere, and Potter..." His voice trailed into a hiss, as though contemplating something.

"Killed, Lord?" Katashi offered.

"I told you before," said Riddle sharply. "Another chance will not be available...the opportunity is gone."

Voldemort whirled away, breaking eye contact, and wandered back to his throne. His back was towards Katashi, and he was staring at the far wall, as though trying to reach some sort decision.

But Katashi knew better. He knew that there was only one reason a Legilimentist would turn away from his subject, and that was to prevent any of his thoughts or feelings from leaking from his mind. However, Katashi had detected a snatch of it before Riddle had turned away, and it was unmistakeable. It was the same as he had seen earlier: fear.

"No, you won't go after Potter," said Voldemort slowly. There was a new sinister tone in it that made the hairs on Katashi's neck stand up. "I came close once before to slaying Potter, and he was only saved by Dumbledore's intervention. To drive him to foolhardiness, you attack his loved ones. I want the girl dead, Nori. Her name is Hermione Granger, and I've seen her in Potter's mind. She is close to him...very close. I want her killed in the most brutal way you can imagine. I want her death to be so violent that when he sees her body he will go intro a rage, and, in his blindness, stumble before me to die." He turned back to Katashi, his eyes flashing. "Do that, but first I want that sphere."

"Yes, Lord," said Katashi, not knowing why the task of the sphere had been assigned to him, but not daring to ask. He knew that Riddle was listening to his voice, interpreting it, trying to detect any hint of hesitation.

At length Voldemort slid back to him, once again standing over him, his eyes boring into Katashi's. "Do this for me, and after this is done and finished I'll give you the power to fulfill what you desire." His scaled hand came down to rest on Katashi's shoulder - a gesture, if it had been made by any other man, could have been interpreted as benevolent.

Think of it, uncle! Power over wizards!

"Yes, think of it," said Riddle. "I will give what has been denied to you."

Katashi's eyes went wide with surprise. He heard Julius? Another moment passed, he wasn't sure if Riddle's words were intentional or simply coincidence.

"You and I know how the wizarding world truly works," continued Voldemort. "It's headed by mewling infants and staffed by incompetent fools. It's destined for a change, and I am that change, Nori. The oppressed, the unjustly prosecuted have flocked to me. The giants and soon the goblins will have joined me. And why? They tire of being second class and tire of being discriminated against. Even squibs have come to me..."

Despite himself, Katashi listened to the words, recognizing them, and felt the appeal in them. They were all lies, his logic told him. Riddle didn't care for the giants or the goblins or for social equality: he cared only for himself. Such injustices couldn't be cured with a war. But still, the appeal was there, and for a moment he wished he could become ignorant and believe Voldemort to be a leader like the deluded others, but experience reminded him of the lies made by wizards in the past, and that, in the end, only he could lead, not follow. There was no hope for change to come naturally. Only he could make change and he alone.

But the very fact that he had believed Riddle's words - if only for a moment - told him how cunning of a serpent he was dealing with. The tall, red-eyed figure before him had no predecessor, no equal to his power. While many before had tried what Voldemort was trying, none had succeeded and held their success for any length of time. However, looking at this one, Katashi was afraid. Unlike any of the others, Riddle had the power to grab hold of the world and keep it in his iron fist. He would lose in the far future, as all inevitably do, but the destruction would be great, and humanity would feel his presence long after he fell from favor.

And it was for those reasons that Katashi had approached Riddle in the first place. Alone, he knew he could not gain such power, but Riddle could. And then, when he had the chance, after Riddle had come to rule the world, he would grab hold of his chance and Leap into Riddle's body. Katashi could do it...he knew he could...but it depended on Voldemort winning and Katashi being close enough to perform the deed.

"And when would my Lord wish all this to be done by?" asked Katashi.

"Before Hogwarts closes for the summer," said Riddle, his voice like ice. "I want the sphere in my hands and the girl dead by that time."

Suddenly it all became frighteningly clear what Voldemort was planning. He bowed his head as an excuse to break eye contact so he could recover.

Hogwarts...he wants Hogwarts. What better way to fight a war than to kill some of the most talented wizards and witches in Britain, as well as the next generation in one fell swoop? More than that, the taking of Hogwarts would be a great symbolic victory...

"Yes, Lord," said Katashi, raising his head, doing his best to conceal the horror within. He had known that Hogwarts would play a role in the future, but he had never thought that the slaughter of children would be a part of that future.

Riddle may have seen something different in him, but if he did, he didn't reveal it. "Then our meeting is finished. You are dismissed." He turned away and went to his throne.

"Yes, Lord," repeated Katashi, and quietly he slipped through the door. Closing it behind him, he leaned against it, breathing heavily.

Hogwarts!

"Sir?" It was Pierre, still smelling of smoke, one eyebrow raised.

Wordlessly, Katashi went past him and practically stumbled down the stone corridor. His knees were aching from kneeling so long, and the full realization of how close he had come to death in that room hit him. And then: Hogwarts, Hogwarts!

Riddle wanted to murder a castle full of children to remove the enemies he would undoubtedly have years from now. It was an unbelievably cunning and cruel move, a masterstroke that would guarantee Riddle's position of power.

By Merlin, children!

And you're going to help him, uncle, said Julius, who had appeared further down the hallway. You're going to help him kill children.

His left hand trailed on and off the wall as he continued, still barely aware of anything else around him, only knowing that Julius was - irrefutably - right. Katashi vaguely heard Pierre rushing after him, asking him questions, but he didn't reply.

All he knew was that if he didn't do what Riddle asked, his plan would ultimately fail, but if he followed orders...

What's wrong? asked Julius. You never had such problems before, did you? You hacked my head clean off when I was only nine years old. And then you were banished from the family, never to return...

He felt a distant tingling of anger working its way through his veins, and he trudged through Julius' ghost, only to see it reappear five meters in front of him.

Oh yes, a total embarrassment, continued Julius. The family had difficulty explaining that one. Yes, they let their mad, insane, horrible squib into their house and it betrayed their trust-

"Get out of my way!" shrieked Katashi, and he drew his sword and blindly lunged at the figment of Julius. He slashed through empty air, and would have tipped over had Pierre not grabbed his shoulders.

Still stumbling, Katashi shook himself free from Pierre's grasp and wandered further down the corridor. He felt the blood rushing into his face and his heart pounding as inside his skull he chanted: Hogwarts, Hogwarts! The Plan or the children!

Then, almost a million miles away, he heard, "So the Dark Lord's pet squib has returned alive? I thought he might've finally been given the Mark. But then, he really isn't fit for the Mark is he? I'd expect maybe just a collar and leash..."

This caught Katashi's attention, breaking him from his thoughts. He stared at Macnair, who was still flanked by two Death Eaters, and was met with an equal stare. Katashi tried to focus the True Sight onto this man, hoping to See and understand something about him...

He could See Macnair, in one string of events, leaving where he stood, going up a dark staircase, then completing his day's duties for the Dark Lord. Then, when he was finished-

Katashi checked the scenario again, not daring to believe himself, and what he saw was so repulsive he wanted to retch. Macnair...a pedophile.

"You better move along, squib," Macnair said, grinning, though there was now a new meaning in his grin. "This isn't the place for your type."

In one, fluid action, Katashi drew his sword and advanced onto Macnair, his rationale gone, his entire body feeling like it was burning. This man he was approaching violated children and killed them. This man was the embodiment of what had thrown Katashi into a confused madness a few moments ago, and killing him would somehow resolve Katashi's internal conflict and end the confusion. Somehow, it all made an incredible amount of sense. There was no style in Katashi's approach, just rage and the vague hope that this was somehow right.

Macnair, seeing Katashi's intent, drew his wand, and just as Katashi's sword lashed out he leaped backwards. "Infligo!" he bellowed, and laughed as he saw his opponent fly backwards and crash to the ground, the sword skidding away.

Katashi had landed on a bad angle, and pain, originating in his back, seared to his skull and legs, making him groan. He tried to get to his feet, but collapsed again and distantly he heard the Death Eaters’ laughs. Pierre’s voice, demanding that they back off, was mingled with the sounds.

I'll make them pay, he thought furiously, even as the agony threatened to overwhelm him. Every last one of them will pay.

Slowly, Pierre's face floated above him, and he only heard the sounds of more laughter as he drifted off into unconsciousness.

Beyond that, in a wild yet strong possible thread of the future, he Saw Macnair and the boy, and, by all the Gods, he wanted to cry.

The week passed quickly, with Harry having spent much of it practicing the three spells he had learned from the scroll he had received anonymously. He could see why they were considered to be sort of like family heirlooms to the sender, as, if used in the right situation, they could save lives.

The first was, at heart, a wall that could be expanded to fit into almost any hallway. Its main purpose was to serve as a makeshift blockade that would prevent anyone who was chasing the caster from following him further. While it was enchanted to block curses as well, it could not stop higher-level spells, including the Killing Curse. Despite its shortcomings, it would still provide him with an extra few seconds in an escape situation, and for that reason alone Harry practiced until he could reproduce it consistently.

Second, called Stonemason's Charm, was more difficult, as it required him to concentrate on the Charm for a prolonged amount of time. It gave him the ability to bring statues to life, bringing them under a control not unlike the Imperious curse. Unlike Imperious, however, it could not be used on humans and worked only on inanimate objects in the shape of creatures or people. Harry found that, while starting the Charm was easy enough, sustaining it was not, and it took him several tries before he was able to hold control for any amount of time.

The last curse was by far the most difficult of the three, but it was also Harry's favorite. When he spoke the incantation, a small tornado no taller than ten feet would be summoned, taking and throwing anything that came into its path. While it was not worth using against lone Death Eaters, Harry envisioned its use against concentrated groups in closed corridors. He knew that it would be an important spell to know when outnumbered, and worked especially hard on mastering it.

All and all, he spent much of the time in the training room in Grimmauld Place than anywhere else, as besides the usual comings and goings of Order members, only Hermione and Ron were with him, and there was very little the three of them could do together until the school year began.

More than that, Ron and Hermione's friendship had not mended...indeed, Harry sometimes wondered if there had been progress at all. When Harry and Ron were alone, things couldn't have been any more normal. Ron still cracked jokes - even bad ones - and still beat Harry in wizard's chess, and never hesitated to point out where Harry had gone wrong. If Hermione had come in, however, Ron's mood would suddenly change, and his jokes would vanish. Of course, they still argued, but there was none of the slight playfulness that was there before, and Harry felt more obliged to step in during some of these rows.

And it didn't help that, during some nights, Harry would wake up with his scar blazing. After a few minutes and a splash of cold water, the pain would fade, but that did not the new worry he was beginning to have. He had been dreaming of Hermione during those nights, and while those dreams had undoubtedly stopped Voldemort from invading his mind, they were also giving him a target. Something that, above all, Harry did not want Voldemort to have.

He had told Hermione of the dreams, and she had told him that Voldemort wasn't enough to scare her away. But damn it, he thought, that didn't do anything for her security. He was suddenly very grateful for Dumbledore's foresight to put her parents outside of Voldemort's reach.

So, when the time came around to go to Diagon Alley to pick up their new books, Harry was thankful for the break away from the stagnant corridors of Grimmauld Place.

The prepared themselves to leave early afternoon, and when Lupin asked where they were going, Harry told him.

"You three are going alone?" asked Lupin, turning away from the Daily Prophet to look at Harry. "Well, you're all old enough, that's for sure. You mind if I come along though? I have a stop by the Apothecary that I've been meaning to make."

"Sure," said Harry.

"Have you already performed the charms for protection against disease?" asked Lupin. "Diagon Alley still hasn't been hit with the plague yet, but there's no point in taking risks." He stood up and tapped his wrist with his wand.

"You mean that'll protect us against the plague?" Hermione said. "I thought we didn't know how the plague spreads."

"We don't," said Lupin grimly. "But a disease protection charm couldn't hurt."

After Lupin had performed the charm on the three of them, they each threw a pinch of floo powder into the fireplace and warped into The Leaky Cauldron. Harry was the last to arrive, and when he did, he was momentarily confused. The place was barren, and he was beginning to think that it was closed when Tom appeared.

"Tom, what's happened?" Lupin asked. Harry exchanged looks with Hermione and Ron, feeling uncomfortable. The place felt very strange without the usual din of clattering plates, loud voices, and the occasional squeaking of a barstool.

"Ah, you didn't hear?" said Tom, going behind the bartender's table. "One wizard walks out of here, and two hours later drops dead of plague. The news went around like wildfire, and people started clearing out of here, saying this place hosts the plague. I've been around here by myself for two days now and haven't gotten so much as a cough. Everyone's become terrified, irrational, afraid that Diagon Alley is going to be hit. I swear, the waiting part is worse than the real thing." He sighed, shaking his head. "But then, there's nothing I can do about that. Can I offer you something to drink?"

Harry, more out of sympathy for Tom than actual thirst, bought them a round of drinks with what money he had left in his pocket. He had been needing to stop at Gringott's anyway.

"So you aren't planning to move out then?" Lupin asked, accepting a Butterbeer.

"No, of course not," said Tom. "Well, not yet, at any rate. After this war passes over, Diagon Alley will still be the place to have a business, and I'm not about to give up this bar."

"But won't it be...dangerous to stay around here?" said Hermione.

"It might be," said Tom. "But I figure it's safe for the meantime. A lot of folks have been keeping an eye out on the purebloods in Diagon Alley. A lot of them have connections to the Death Eaters, and when they start moving out, you know it's time for you to get out too. So as long as the purebloods are around, we're safe."

Harry finished his drink, thanked Tom, and then left, coming onto the main street of Diagon Alley. He had been slightly apprehensive, as it had been a year since he had last seen it, and, while it remained untouched by plague, he was not naive enough to believe that it remained unchanged.

Once outside he stared around blankly, the hairs on the back of his neck twisting as he saw that the street was practically empty. A few wizards were hurriedly walking from shop to shop, staying under the eaves, looking paranoid and afraid. Previously, Harry remembered stands that merchants had set outside their store advertising their goods, but no such stands existed now. The only prominent figures visible were two Aurors, and even they appeared wary of their surroundings.

“Everything looks closed,” said Hermione.

“No, not closed,” grunted Ron. “They’re just staying inside. It was like this when I was at Fred and George’s before.”

They continued down the street towards Gringott’s bank, getting a strange look from one Auror, and a slight nod from the other. Lupin nodded back.

Looking through the windows of the shops, Harry noticed that several were actually rather full with customers. He realized that they must be using the floo network in order to avoid walking along the main street.

Hermione, who must have been making the same observation, leaned close and whispered, “Why do you think they’re all avoiding the main street?”

Harry shrugged, not quite able to understand that himself.

“They’re all terrified,” said Lupin, and Harry was surprised that he had overheard the question. “People are beginning to remember what happened during the first war.”

Suddenly, Harry began feeling the full weight of the glass sphere he had kept wrapped in his pocket. He had brought Tenbrook's Sphere along, intending to deposit it into his vault, and was becoming more and more aware of his vulnerability. If the Death Eaters were to swarm Diagon Alley at that moment, there was a very good chance that they would be overwhelmed, and Tenbrook’s Sphere would go as a prize to Voldemort.

At last, they arrived at the base of the marble steps leading into Gringott’s bank. Harry was pleasantly surprised to see that the bank, at least, was normal, and most wizards were not afraid to mingle in the cleared space before it. That was more than a little due, Harry suspected, to the two large security trolls with accompanying goblins that were flanking Gringott’s massive entrance.

They were halfway up the steps when they were stopped by a rather stern-looking Goblin who wore something like an overcoat that was several sizes too large for him. It was thick and dyed deep purple, the fabric unidentifiable, with a gold badge over the breast.

“I am Ludwig,” said the Goblin, bowing low. “Enforcer of Gringott’s. I ask for a moment of your time before entering so that we can be sure that you carry no traces of plague.”

They consented, and Ludwig began going over Ron with a long, comb-like instrument, carefully keeping it several inches away from Ron’s body at all times, the whole procedure taking no more than a few seconds. When the Goblin finished, he moved on to Lupin, then Hermione, and finally Harry. He had only felt a slight warmth coming from the instrument before Ludwig withdrew it again, bowing as he retreated.

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” said Ludwig. “You may continue.”

They climbed the last of the stairs, receiving nothing more than a disinterested glance from one of the trolls the rest of the way.

“We can detect plague now?” Hermione asked Lupin. “I didn’t know we could do that.”

“We can’t,” said Lupin quietly. “Only the Goblins can, and they’re not telling us how they do it.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know,” Lupin said. “I suppose they’re using it as a bargaining chip in their negotiations with us. Bill would have a better idea why.”

They entered the lobby, Harry then splitting off towards one of the free counters. The Goblin behind the counter, who was busily scribbling into an oversized logbook, looked up at him with one eye, then sighed and set his quill aside.

“Name?” the Goblin asked shortly.

“Harry Potter.”

“Key?”

Harry drew it, and the Goblin barely glanced at it before returning his gaze to his logbook. He picked up his quill again. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” said Harry, surprised at the Goblin’s terse manner.

“Mungrub!” called the Goblin, and when his assistant finally arrived, he continued, “Take Mr. Potter to vault 687.”

“Please follow me, Mr. Potter,” said Mungrub, bowing once then turning to go to the back of the bank. Harry followed, looking around as he did so, noticing the new security measures that had been put in place.

Goblins with purple cloaks identical to the one Ludwig wore outside stood at various points along the walls like statues, all wearing grim expressions and quite unlike the reserve-minded Goblins that Harry had so far encountered. Suddenly it dawned on Harry that they were sentries; a Goblin counterpart to the ministry’s Aurors. What had Ludwig called himself? An Enforcer…they were all Enforcers.

“This way, Mr. Potter,” Mungrub said, leading Harry down a side corridor and to a track with a few spare carts waiting.

They went into the first one, and the Goblin warned him to hold on before they began barreling down the tracks at a speed Harry never quite got used to. A few sharp turns later Mungrub yanked on the hand brake, bringing the cart to a screeching halt and almost sending Harry flying forward.

“Ah, here we are,” said Mungrub, lightly jumping from the cart. “Vault 687.”

Harry left the cart a little more slowly, feeling a bit sick. Once out, he went to the vault’s door and set the key into the lock, quickly turning it and swinging the door open.

He scarcely took a moment to look over his huge pile of wealth before stepping forward and scooping a couple handfuls of sickles and galleons into a pouch that he had brought along. Then, remembering, he drew the wrapped sphere from his robes, and slowly pulled away the covering silk cloth.

It was as clear and pure as he had remembered it, and, with some reluctance, he set Tenbrook’s Sphere into a niche built into the vault specifically designed to hold rare artifacts.

He turned around, and he caught a fleeting glimpse of Mudgrub staring at him before the Goblin quickly looked away. Harry, now watching Mungrub from the corner of his eye, shoved the pouch of coins into the pocket of his robe and shut the vault door behind him. He went back into the cart, the Goblin followed him, and they returned to the main bank complex at the same breakneck pace as they had arrived.

“Thank you for doing business at Gringott’s,” said Mungrub once they had left the maze of vaults and were out of the cart. He bowed, but somehow Harry saw something mocking in it.

Looking Harry straight in the eye, Mungrub added, “We hope to see you again very soon.”

Harry met up with Hermione, Ron and Lupin in the lobby, and they looked relieve to be able to go.

“They must’ve asked us three times whether we had business here,” said Hermione. “It was like they wanted us to leave.”

“And what’s more,” added Ron. “Is that Goblin over there has been watching us for the past five minutes.” He motioned to the far corner, and, sure enough, a purple-robed Enforcer was staring at them intently.

“I don’t remember Gringott’s being this way,” said Lupin. “But the war changes things. Everyone has become paranoid, even the Goblins. They’re in charge of enormous amounts of gold, and can’t afford to take risks.”

They left the bank, ignoring the grunts of restless security trolls as they passed, and went across the small plaza and back onto the main street of Diagon Alley.

“So you deposited the artifact then?” Ron asked quietly.

“Yeah,” said Harry, surprised Ron had noticed.

Ron shook his head. “That was a mistake.” He stepped away, not saying anything more on the subject.

A short way down they came to Flourish And Blotts, and when they entered, a rush of noise hit them like a wall.

The store was packed with customers, and an active fireplace confirmed Harry’s suspicion that they were going from shop to shop through the floo network. It was uncomfortably warm, especially since it was mid-August, but Harry figured it was just from the fireplace being used far more frequently than it normally was. He recognized several of his classmates, but, when he tried to call their names, he was drowned out by other, louder, voices.

“I’m going to stop at the Apothecary,” said Lupin, speaking directly into Harry’s ear. “I’ll meet you there.”

Harry, Hermione and Ron did their best to pick their way through the crowd, and, eventually, they reached the far end of the room where the press of people had thinned considerably.

Quickly they split up in search of the books on their list, and, after a few hectic minutes of trying to ease his way through the store, he managed to collect all but one of them. He looked through the Defense Against the Dark Arts section twice, but was unable to find Fundamentals of Necromancy. Soon, he was joined by Hermione and later Ron.

“Where is it?” Hermione said, frowning. “It should be right here.” She pointed at an empty on the third shelf.

“You reckon they’re out?” Ron asked Harry.

“They can’t be,” said Harry. “It’s never happened before.”

“Are you three in your seventh year of Hogwarts?” asked an assistant who had come up from behind. Her rimmed glasses and prim expression gave her a passing resemblance to Madam Pince.

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Where are-“

“Right this way,” she interrupted, and motioned them to follow her as she went through a back door into the storage room.

“Fundamentals of Necromancy, correct?” she asked. When they nodded, she continued, “I have no idea what possessed your professor to assign such a controversial – and not to mention strictly regulated – book, but we’ve been keeping all of the copies in the back room. We don’t want to give any of our other customers that we deal in that sort of merchandise. Normally we wouldn’t have it in stock, but as it’s required reading in Hogwarts, we’ve made an exception.”

When they came to a tall stack of books near the back of the room, she took three and passed them out.

They returned to the main store and stood in the long line at the counter. After they paid for their books, they left and continued to the Apothecary, enjoying the silence of the empty street.

When they arrived at the Apothecary, it was as bad as – or possibly even worse than – Flourish and Blotts. He caught site of Lupin in the back, and, rather than attempting to ease his way through the thick crowd, took a spare seat near the door and waited, letting Hermione go ahead and get her ingredients. Harry had plenty of ingredients leftover from the past several years, as Snape had a habit of declaring him a failure and wiping away his potion before Harry could use them all. Ron, who had stopped taking Potions last year, took the seat next to him.

“Finally, the ministry got one,” said a wizard to himself. He was sitting next to Harry and reading a newspaper, obviously waiting for someone else. “It’s about time, too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said the old witch next to him. Harry guessed that they were husband and wife. “The man wasn’t even a Death Eater. Just a Necromancer. Not even worth worrying about nowadays.”

Subtly, Harry leaned over and glanced at the headlines on the newspaper. He read: Necromancer Stuart Glasser to Face Wizengamot Trial. Underneath the headline was a picture of middle-aged wizard – no older than Lupin – with a very weary expression on his face. Occasionally, he would bring up his hands and crack his knuckles.

“Still, the world’s better off without him,” said the wizard gruffly. “It’s just good to see the ministry hasn’t been sitting on their hands this whole time.”

“Hey, mate,” said Ron, tapping on Harry’s shoulder to get his attention. The noise almost filtered out his voice completely.

“Yeah?” said Harry, leaning away from the newspaper and turning towards Ron.

“I’m going to need a lot of your help this year in Defense Against the Dark Arts, I think,” said Ron. “I’ve been trying all summer to catch up, and still haven’t gotten around to all the material from the last half of last year.”

Harry nodded, remembering the memory wipe Ron had experienced near the end of his sixth year. It was a mixed blessing. While it had removed all traces of Dren’s influence, it had also taken away much of the school year.

“That’s not a problem,” said Harry. “You know it’s not.” He paused, wondering why Ron had chosen this specific time to bring the subject up. “How have your other courses been going?”

Ron shook his head. “Not so good either, but I’ll be able handle those.”

“Ron,” Harry started, beginning to realize why Ron had not mentioned it earlier. “Hermione would probably be able to help you a lot in the other classes-“

“I’ll be all right in those,” said Ron instantly. “No, really, I will. It’s just Defense Against the Dark Arts that’s been the problem…”

Harry raised an eyebrow, not quite believing that. If anything, Transfiguration had always been Ron’s hardest subject. “You sure?”

“Yeah, of course,” assured Ron. “I’m not planning to fail my last year at Hogwarts.”

“Well, all right…” said Harry, though he remained unconvinced. Year after year, Ron had received help with almost all of his classes from Hermione, and Harry had trouble believing that this one would be any different. He shuddered to think of what his own grades would be like if Hermione wasn’t around to check his work.

Soon after, Harry caught sight of Lupin and Hermione heading up to the counter with armfuls of ingredients, and, after they had both purchased them, they eased their way to the exit. Harry and Ron got up and followed them outside They began heading back towards The Leaky Cauldron, still very aware that the streets were nearly empty. The two Aurors, who didn’t look like they had moved an inch, stood ever vigilant.

“I can’t wait to open these books and see what we’re going to be learning about this year,” said Hermione, who held up her bag and looked inside. She began reading off the titles. “Exceptionally Excessive Arithmancy, Comprehensive Transfiguration, and More Charms Than You’ll Ever Need to Know.”

“You want to look through these with me later?” Hermione asked.

It was a general question, but Harry almost knew it was directed towards him. “Sure, why not?”

Hermione beamed at him. “After dinner, then.”

Once they arrived at The Leaky Cauldron, Lupin gave out pinches of floo powder, and one by one they went through the fireplace. When it was Harry’s turn, however, Lupin held him back.

“Harry, may I ask you a personal question?” Lupin said.

Harry, wondering what this might be entailing, slowly nodded.

“Forgive me for being obtuse,” he began. “But I am fairly unclear about this. Are you and Hermione…together?”

Harry felt himself redden, but, confidently, he said, “Yeah, since the middle of last year about.”

“Last year?” Lupin repeated, eyes wide. “I missed a lot then, didn’t I?” He broke eye contact and seemed to stare into space for a moment.

“Yeah, well,” said Harry awkwardly. “It wasn’t really your fault.” He remembered that, during a long stretch of time, Lupin had gone looking for creature. Eventually, he abandoned his quest, but it was apparent that he had never forgiven himself for what he saw as abandoning his best friend’s son.

“Let’s not rehash old arguments,” said Lupin, smiling slightly and again meeting Harry’s eyes. He looked younger; a smile seemed to suit him better than most people. “Sirius…James…they’d all be proud.”

Harry, not knowing what to say, nodded. He didn’t feel the sadness that the mention of Sirius’ death used to bring. That void was full, though with what, Harry wasn’t entirely sure.

“Go on,” Lupin said, giving him a bit of floo powder. “I’ll follow.”

Harry tossed it into the flames, and then, saying “Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place,” he warped away.

OOOOO

"Now look at this," Hermione said, pointing to a section on the page. She was sitting crosslegged on the floor with the Fundamentals of Necromancy open in front of her. "It's talking about resurrecting the dead! No wonder this book was in the restricted section. Performing any of the curses or spells in this book would put you in Azkaban for years!"

"Mmmm," said Harry, barely aware of what was on the page. It was late evening, with Grimmauld Place mostly empty, and they had the room to themselves. He was sitting next to her, close enough to smell her perfume, and his mind was definitely not on the book. The invisible wire, which always seemed to be pulling him towards her, was pulling more strongly than ever.

“What's the point of it?” said Hermione. “You can really use any of the magic in this. Not unless you fancy a Wizengamot trial to be worth it. Why do you suppose our new professor assigned this book?” She looked towards him. “Harry?”

Harry, suddenly aware that an answer was expected of him, said quickly, “Err, yeah.”

She gave him a crooked smile in return. “Have you even been following along?”

“Well...not really,” Harry confessed. Then, somewhat slyly, he added, “It's difficult to concentrate on books with you.”

“Nice try,” said Hermione, though grinning all the same. “But it's not going to work. We need to look through our new books at least once before school begins.” Then, returning her attentions to the book in front of her, she continued, “One thing that's strange about it is that some of the concepts are rather...old. I wonder when it was published...”

Harry moved closer to Hermione under the pretense of looking over her shoulder as she flipped to the front of the book. He brushed some of her hair back from her face with his hand.

Unwilling to be distracted, she read aloud, “Fundamentals of Necromancy, 5th edition, published 1134.”

“Pretty old then,” Harry said, still looking over her shoulder. He felt her shift her position a bit closer to him.

“The date would make sense,” she said. “The last edition was made right before Necromancy was officially outlawed. I suppose they keep the books around for research purposes.”

“Really? That seems a bit dangerous, doesn't it?” Harry said, then lightly he kissed her neck. He practically felt her shiver.

“I'm sure there are regulations,” she said. “But, to return to the chapter...” She paused as Harry once again brushed her neck with his lips. “What chapter were we on again?”

“Who knows?” he whispered into her ear.

“I think- mmmmm...” She trailed off and closed her eyes, the book open on her lap.

“So what was all that about resurrections?” Harry asked, teasing her.

“Resurrections?” Hermione repeated, seemingly unaware of what Harry was referring to. “Oh, that's in chapter...mmmm...I don't remember too much of what we were reading.”

“Same here,” said Harry, and he let his hand trail from her shoulder to her side, feeling the heat under his touch through the clothes.

“I think we might've wasted our time earlier,” said Hermione.

“Then let's make up for it.”

Suddenly Hermione turned around and kissed him - gently at first, then more strongly. When they parted - Hermione to catch her breath - Harry kissed her, and she pulled him closer.

Soon the book was abandoned and Hermione was completely turned around, pushing him onto his back. He felt something heavy on his thigh, and it took him a moment to realize that it was the book.

“The, err-” He was about to get up to put the book aside, but Hermione had already taken it, practically throwing it out of the way. Harry raised an eyebrow. “Madam Pince would be disappointed.”

Smirking, she climbed over him, and then leaned down to kiss him...deeply. Far more deeply than ever before. And, for once, the invisible wire that was pulling him towards her was satisfied. One step away from completely merging was all it took.

"It's a nightmare at the ministry," said Arthur Weasley to Lupin in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, slumping down into a chair. He looked as if he had just stepped out of a wind tunnel. "The Aurors are absolutely furious, and when the Aurors aren't happy, nobody is happy. But you don't need me to tell you that. Kingsley and Tonks know how it is in the ministry."

Both Aurors, who were hovering nearby, nodded in silent agreement.

"What do you mean Mr. Weasley?" Harry asked. He had just joined in the conversation, and wasn't sure what Arthur was referring to.

"Stuart Glasser was released today," explained Mr. Weasley. He limped more than walked to the kitchen, searching through a few of the cupboards before finally finding a vial of a thin green liquid – a cure-all for headaches. He removed the stopper and downed it in one gulp. Finally, he continued, "The Aurors haven't had much success in apprehending Death Eaters, so his arrest last month gave them a bit of a morale boost." He shook his head. "Today the Wizengamot ended his trial and released him. He's free."

"But he wasn't even a Death Eater, was he?" Harry vaguely remembered hearing about the arrest.

"No," said Mr. Weasley, grabbing a newspaper and then finding a seat at the table. "But it was still an insult to everyone who worked to catch him. When the Wizengamot released him, they took away one of the Auror department's few recent victories. A lot of people were quite angry, especially since the evidence against Glasser was overwhelming. Or so I've heard," he added.

"That's not completely true," Kingsley said. "But there was enough evidence to warrant at least a conviction on Magical Deviance."

"Well, anyway," continued Mr. Weasley. "Not too many Aurors were happy with their jobs today. That made it practically impossible to get anything done. Every time we confiscate a muggle object that's been tampered with, we need to have an Auror present. The Auror we normally work with in our department called off sick halfway through the day without telling the main office, so we had to find a new one to replace him. The new one took an hour to show up, and by that time two more muggles fell victim to the prankster's enchanted toilet."

"The worst part is that the Wizengamot never even gave a reason for why they released him," said Kingsley. "Usually they give an official statement of some sort, but this time they didn't even comment on it. Makes me wonder if Glasser just has some very influential friends..."

"Oh, don't be so paranoid," said Tonks. "The Wizengamot wouldn't dismiss Glasser without having a very good reason. Especially with Madam Bones in charge. Besides, Dumbledore doesn't seem particularly upset about it, and he's the one who's in best position to know what was going on."

"Regardless of whether it was right or wrong, you'd think that the Aurors would give a better show than that," Mr. Weasley said. "With You-Know-Who around we can't afford this nonsense. They were putting muggles and wizards alike in danger by neglecting their duties."

"Not much they've been doing in the first place," growled Moody, who came down the steps in his usual staggering walk. "Even when they're on duty, they scarcely catch more than a cold. The main enemy isn't the Death eaters, though they're a problem by themselves, it's this blasted plague. It's spreading and killing and nobody in Britain can do anything about it. Dumbledore says he has some sort of plan, and the Unspeakables probably are concocting something by themselves, but other than that we're all more or less useless."

"The goblins know a bit about the plague," Harry said. "They're at least able to detect it before the people get sick - something more than we're able to do."

"That's not much of a surprise," said Moody. "You-Know-Who's been trying to get the goblins on his side. He probably leaked them a bit of information to entice them."

"Or they discovered it on their own," said Mr. Weasley quietly. "Since goblin magic is far different than our magic, it's entirely possible that they were able to discover that about the plague by themselves. We don't know either way yet, so there's no point in jumping to conclusions."

"Not when the conclusions make the most logical sense, Arthur," Moody replied, then took a seat around the table. "Potter-" he said suddenly, turning his head in a queer motion. "-have you been keeping up with your dueling?"

“Sure, I've been practicing some new curses."

"Good," said Moody, his magical eye doing a full 360 degree revolution in its socket. "School will begin in about a week now, is that right?"

"A few days, actually," corrected Mr. Weasley.

"A few days?" Moody said with some surprise. Both eyes now focused on Harry. "Then you better be brushing up on your core dueling too. You don't want to be going to school unprepared."

"Unprepared?" Harry asked, somewhat confused.

"For dueling!" said Moody. "Rules aren't going to matter as much with You-Know-Who around. Young Death Eaters-to-be might become a little more reckless. One might try to make a name for himself by killing the Boy-Who-Lived. Rules, punishments, expulsions - all that - won't matter. You need to watch your back."

"Yeah," said Harry, unable to think of anything else to say. He thought that Moody might actually have a point on this one. He had saved Draco Malfoy's life the previous year, but he doubted very much that it would matter. He knew plenty of Slytherins that might strike out at him unthinkingly.

"And your two friends - Granger and Weasley," continued Moody. "They'll be targets too. All three of you should watch out for each other. Granger is going to be Head Girl this year, yes?" He looked towards Mr. Weasley for confirmation, and, upon receiving it, continued. "Then her especially."

Harry nodded. Hermione had received her badge in the mail only a few days ago. It was not normal for badges to be sent separately from the book list, Harry thought, but since Ron had received his new prefect badge the same day Hermione received her badge, Harry decided it must've become the norm for this year.

Just as strangely, the name of the Head Boy was not given in the letter that came with Hermione's badge.

"Good," said Moody shortly, then, turning to Tonks and Kingsley, he asked, "One of you two happen to know where Albus went? The man is making himself impossible to contact."

"I think he mentioned something about meeting with the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor," said Tonks. "But I don't know more than that."

"Well that gives me somewhere to start, if nothing else," said Moody, sounding irritated. "Minerva might know more, I'll have to check with her."

“Is there something you need us to relay to him?” Mr. Weasley asked. He had fallen out of the conversation and was now idly flicking through the newspaper.

With an awkward turn of his hips and fake leg, Moody swiveled in the chair and got to his feet. “No, I just have a few more questions about those new wards he’s planning on putting up,” growled Moody. “He’s reactivating the old magic in Hogwarts. The Founder’s Wall.” There was a curled sort of grin that crept into his face as he said that.

“You can’t be serious,” Mr. Weasley said disbelievingly, his interest in the newspaper vanishing. He turned in his seat to face Moody. “That hasn’t been in use for ages – does it even still work?”

“Minerva and Severus have already etched in their runes.”

“He isn’t concerned at all with what might happen?” Tonks said slowly, joining the conversation. Her eyes flickered from Moody to Mr. Weasley. “I can completely understand how security is necessary, but at what cost?”

“What is the Founder’s Wall?” Harry asked tentatively. “And what do you mean by cost?”

“The Founder’s Wall was the original warding system in Hogwarts,” explained Tonks, moving from her position against the wall to a seat at the table next to Harry. “It’s unusual in that it’s a smart system that actively removes those who it deems to be a danger to the students and staff. For it to be set up, the headmaster and the heads of each of the houses have to carve certain runes into a certain wall, and once that is accomplished, the wards are activated.”

Harry took a moment to absorb this. “How does it decide who’s a danger to the school?”

Tonks gave a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “And that, Harry, is the problem. No one is quite sure.”

“And don’t forget,” added Mr. Weasley. “That sometimes it removes the wrong people. That’s one of the reasons for why it was shut down five hundred years ago. The original warding system is like any other aspect of Hogwarts. Asking why it removes certain people is like asking why the staircase to the fourth floor labs only appears on certain Wednesday’s.”

“But you cannot deny that it is effective,” growled Moody from the background. “During the period that it was in place, there were absolutely no violence within Hogwarts, and the walls were never breached by any enemy.” He stomped his wooden leg for emphasis. “And that is what’s important.”

“You know there’s more to it than that,” said Mr. Weasley quietly, clearly referring to something that Harry wasn’t privy to.

“Superstitions and rumor are just that: superstitions and rumor,” Moody said, both of his eyes coming to focus on Mr. Weasley.

His ear tips turned red – reminding Harry vaguely of Ron. “They’re not rumors when they start being based on verifiable fact!” he countered.

“This is something that should probably be discussed between Dumbledore and the different heads of houses,” added Tonks. She seemed to be in a hurry to end the conversation. “Arguing about it here won’t accomplish anything.”

“It won’t matter anyway,” Moody continued. “If Minerva and Severus have set in their runes, then it’s nearly complete. Whether everyone in the Order agrees with it or not,” he added with some finality.

And with that, Moody grabbed a handful of powder, threw it in the fireplace and floo’d out before anyone spoke another word.

**

When the day came to leave Grimmauld Place for Hogwarts, Harry woke up early to pack, and met up with a bleary-eyed Ron, Ginny, and Hermione in the kitchen. After eating, Mr. Weasley drove them to the train station, and dropped them off on Platform 9 3/4.

One thing that Harry noticed immediately was the presence of Aurors. A pair of them were standing loosely near a booth, trying their best to look inconspicuous to the flow of muggles around them, but failing miserably. While they were wearing muggle clothes, their uncomfortable expressions and the bizarre set of clothing they were each wearing betrayed their identities. One even had a wand clearly sticking out of his back pocket.

Moody would have a field day, thought Harry wryly.

"Someone should tell them that ties don't go well with sweatpants and tennis shoes," said Hermione, grinning.

Quickly they unloaded their luggage from the car, and when they finished Mr. Weasley said, "Well, if you four are ready, I need to head to the Ministry. Molly told me to tell you all to stay out of trouble, but honestly I think she has it the wrong way around." He paused momentarily. "Just be smart."

Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, they each took their luggage through the portal and into King's Cross, where, for the first time ever, the platform wasn't overcrowded with witches and wizards trying to stuff their baggage into the storage area and climb into the compartments. Indeed, it was rather empty.

"Where is everyone?" Harry said aloud. He had been hoping to meet up with some of his classmates before going on the train.

"Didn't you see the Aurors?" Ron said. "People are afraid that You-Know-Who's going to attack the station. Of course, people are always afraid You-Know-Who's going to attack, so most parents are playing it safe and using portkeys to get to Hogwarts - or at least somewhere nearby so they can walk the rest of the way."

"Well," Hermione began. "I'm not sure if Voldemort-"

"Shhhh!" hissed a nearby woman, who looked at Hermione as though she were mad. "Not his name!" She shook her head once and then continued on her way to the train with her daughter - a first year, by the looks of it.

"I'm not sure if he would be able to attack the train," continued Hermione, more quietly. "I mean, it's certainly not undefended, and I'm sure Dumbledore has taken precautions."

"No, we definitely won't have anything to worry about," Ron said after a moment.

"Why's that?" asked Harry curiously.

"Look over there," Ron said, pointing towards the train. It only took a second for Harry to see a slick blonde head climbing the steps into the train. Draco Malfoy. "I don't think he'd be going on the train if there was going to be an attack. If anything, his parents would keep him home."

They continued to the storage area and began loading their luggage, Harry taking a moment to help Hermione with hers. When they finished, they climbed into the train, and Ron and Hermione had to leave for their usual officer meeting.

"We'll be back soon," said Hermione. "It shouldn't take too long." And with that both she and Ron headed towards the front of the train.

Ginny went into the first compartment with a group of sixth years girls, and Harry continued heading through the train, trying to find Neville or Luna or someone familiar to sit with. He passed through several compartments without any luck, and decided that most of the Gryffindors had gone to the back of the train where they had become accustomed to sitting over the years.

Considering Harry was still relatively close to the middle of train, he would most likely have to cross through the Slytherin compartment to get to the back.

He debated for a moment whether to not just get off the train and walk outside to the back entrance, but after feeling the train beginning to lurch forward, he decided to just take the most direct route – straight through each of the cars.

He passed through several before coming to the door to the Slytherins. Without hesitating he pushed it open and strode through, ignoring the surprised and annoyed glances he was receiving. He caught a glimpse of Malfoy's pale face, and saw the Slytherin's lips curve into a smirk. He leaned towards Crabbe and Goyle to whisper something – Harry looked away.

He couldn’t even imagine the lecture he knew he’d be receiving from Moody right now if the former Auror was watching, but he certainly wasn’t being stupid. His hand was tightly gripping his wand in the pocket of his robes, ready to whip it out at the slightest hint of trouble. So far, the Slytherin’s had restricted themselves to giving Harry sly looks and a few jeers.

But then again, I doubt they’d give much warning, Harry thought to himself.

"What're you doing here Potter?" someone called out - Harry didn't see who. "Mudbloods and muggle-lovers are in the back."

The hairs on Harry’s neck bristled as the Slytherin’s grew more hostile. He gripped his wand, ready to draw it on a moment’s notice.

"Watch out, you never know what disease you'll catch from the mudbloods - I heard they spread plague," someone added. Harry ignored it, instead focusing on what the Slytherin’s were holding.

No drawn wands yet, Harry observed.

“Aren’t you going the wrong way? The mudblood bitch should be in the front compartment now since she’s head girl, right?”

The entire Slytherin section broke into raucous laughter at the last comment, and Harry felt his face burn, though he did nothing. He didn’t take their bait, and instead continued his way through the compartment. He wasn't about to start anything that might lead to a fight with the Slytherins. The last thing he needed now was a duel with the entire Slytherin house on the train to Hogwarts.

When Harry reached the end of the compartment, he opened the door and shut it behind him. All things considered, that went rather well, he thought.

Looking on either side of the new compartment he had entered, he found that it was empty, and decided that the Gryffindor compartment must be further back.

He was halfway through the empty compartment when he heard the door to the Slytherin compartment open behind him. When he heard footsteps he turned around, expecting to see a few bored Slytherins who had come to throw insults.

What he saw instead was Crabbe and Goyle charging towards him, their arms stretched forward, and, strangely, their wands nowhere in sight. Harry reached for his wand and drew it, thrusting it forward in warning. He waited a second, and when Crabbe and Goyle did not stop, he said "Stupefy!"

Nothing happened.

The next few seconds were a blur. Crabbe was the first to reach Harry, and in a wide, clumsy swing of his arm knocked Harry's wand to the ground. Goyle went in second, and, having the advantage of sheer size and weight, grabbed Harry's arm with his one hand and neck with the other. Harry twisted and threw out his fist, feeling it connect with Goyle's jaw, but strength eclipsed agility when Crabbe joined in. Harry, being overpowered, was slammed into the compartment wall face-first, his glasses falling and skidding across the floor.

Harry wasn't sure what to expect, and suddenly he found himself remembering Moody's warning: "You need to watch your back," he had said. Harry cursed himself for underestimating the importance of the advice. In a sudden burst of energy, he tried to pull himself away from Crabbe and Goyle, but their gorilla-like strength forced him back again.

Harry's mind raced. What were Crabbe and Goyle up to? Were they acting on their own? And, more importantly, why didn't his damned wand work?

"Stop struggling, Potter," grunted Crabbe. He thrust his fist into Harry's back for emphasis, and he recoiled from the pain. "Stop moving or we'll break your face."

"Potter..." whispered a voice in his ear. Draco Malfoy. "Who the hell do you think you are?" He was speaking low and threateningly, and although Harry couldn't turn far enough to see Malfoy's face, he imagined it red with anger.

Malfoy paused for a moment, as though expecting a response. When none came, he continued, "What, are you surprised? Didn't you expect this? Wait, let me guess..." There was another momentary pause. "You thought I owed you something? You thought saving my life last year-" He was almost spitting the words. "-would make me forget about you Potter?"

Harry was shoved against the wall even further, and he began to taste the blood coming from his cut lip. "Never wanted anything from you, Malfoy," Harry said with all the venom he could muster. Goyle jabbed him painfully in the side and he grunted, pain shooting through him.

"Don't lie to me you piece of Gryffindor shit," Malfoy snarled. "You wanted something the moment you pulled me away from that Grendel. Well as of now, I owe you nothing. You saved my life, and, this time, I will spare yours. I can have you killed, Potter. Right now, on this train, this very second. It might trace back to me, it might not." He grinned - Harry could practically hear the grin in Malfoy's voice. "Wouldn't matter either way. The Dark Lord will rule soon, and he'll be the one making the decisions."

Harry heard him move away, Malfoy's footsteps going further down the compartment.

"So you're wearing the Mark now?" Harry said through his teeth, blood dribbling as he spoke. Crabbe and Goyle had him pressed so hard against the wall that he could barely move his jaw. Better judgement would've had him stop there, but he added, "Or are you still talking through your arse?" It was a bare taunt, and though Harry knew in the back of his head that he was in no position to taunt Malfoy, he had said it anyway.

"Shut up," Malfoy spat.

Goyle kneed Harry in the side. Hard. Harry almost buckled.

"Father says I'll get it soon," Malfoy said, walking back to Harry and speaking directly into his ear again. "And you- you'll be dead. You picked the wrong side, Potter. If you can't see that now you're blind."

"I'm not blind," said Harry. "But you're deaf. Didn't the speeches Dumbledore made about choices get through your thick skull? About what was right and what was easy?" Crabbe smashed his fist against Harry’s ribcage – this time for no apparent reason.

Malfoy gave a short, forced laugh. "You'll go nowhere if you listen to that old fool. He'll be dead soon too, you know. The Dark Lord has plans for you – for you and that mudblood bitch." Harry felt anger flare up in him, though he could scarcely move. Slowly, Malfoy began to walk away. "Crabbe, Goyle. You two can let him go now. We're done here."

They grunted and simultaneously released him, and Harry staggered, nearly falling, but gaining enough balance to turn towards Malfoy.

He barely caught a glimpse of Malfoy’s robes before he disappeared back into the Slytherin compartment. Crabbe and Goyle, glancing back at him only once, followed suit, and soon Harry was alone in the empty compartment.

“Sodding bastard,” he muttered, wiping the blood from his chin. He knelt to pick up his glasses, his body protesting his every move.

Breathing hard, he grabbed onto a seat and pulled himself to it. He fell into the cushion, letting himself sink into it, its softness being delicious. His entire body ached, and he felt bruises forming on his sides and back – where Crabbe and Goyle had struck him. Still more he felt a burning sensation above his eye and on his cheek. He knew the sensation well – bleeding. Slowly, he put the tip of his wand to his cut lip and muttered a weak healing charm.

Nothing happened. He repeated himself. Still nothing.

Frustrated, he shook his wand, and then tried yet again. What happened with my wand?

Finding a tissue in his pocket, he wiped the cuts on his face and then carefully got to his feet. He remembered Moody’s somewhat dramatic warning about what other the Slytherin’s might try, and decided that he had better leave in case Malfoy decided to come back. Without a functioning wand, he didn’t stand a chance.

He went through a few more cars, feeling a bit better with each step, until finally he came upon Neville and Luna sitting in a relatively empty compartment. Neville stood up the moment he saw Harry.

“What happened?” Neville said, instinctively going for his wand. His eyes grazed over the cuts on Harry’s face, and then towards the door that Harry had just come through. “Behind you?” he asked quickly.

“No, no,” said Harry, waving him to put away his wand. “I’m fine.”

Neville relaxed visibly, but Luna asked, “Malfoy?”

Harry nodded. “Him and his two goons grabbed me, and my wand wasn’t working.” He paused. “Is yours?”

Neville frowned, then, drawing his wand, muttered “Lumos!” His eyes went wide as nothing happened. “What the- it was working just before I got on the train.”

Harry turned to Luna as she tried the same spell, with an identical result. “So none of our wands are working?” Harry asked rhetorically, suddenly feeling very vulnerable.

“Malfoy’s wand must not be working either,” said Luna. “That would explain why he had Crabbe and Goyle grab you rather than simply stunning and immobilizing you.”

“Yeah, it would,” Harry said, not thinking of that. He found a chair and sat in it, Neville and Luna following him.

“That cut isn’t looking too good Harry,” Neville said as he sat down across from Harry. “Do you have any bandages?” Harry shook his head.

“I do,” said Luna quickly as she reached into her pocket. “I never come unprepared – father always warned me about what sort of creatures can inhabit trains.” Finally, she drew a white, cottony patch and offered it to Harry. “It’s made from genuine sinew of a Snorack – sterilized, of course,” she added quickly.

Harry accepted it, thanking her and knowing her too well to ask any questions. He cut it in half and applied one on the cut above his eye and the other on his cheek.

“There, much better,” she said, and to Harry’s surprise, the pain from the cuts slowly ebbed away. He let his head fall against the back cushion and closed his eyes. The bandages seemed to have a built-in cooling charm that both relaxed him and numbed the cut.

"So, Harry," Neville said. He shifted in his seat nervously, as if he was about to ask a burning question. "What about the D.A.? Are you going to organize it again this year?"

"The D.A...." Harry echoed, still reveling in the coldness of the bandage. In all reality, he hadn't even given the D.A. a thought yet. He opened one eye, seeing that Neville was sitting at the edge of his seat, eagerly waiting for his answer. He closed his eye again.

Harry wasn't so sure if he wanted to organize Dumbledore's Army again. For one, he had his own plate full with his Occlumency lessons and his meetings with Dumbledore, and for another he wasn't entirely sure if the training he was providing was even effective. For the most part, he hadn't seen any of the D.A. in live combat - which, he reminded himself, was a good thing. It also went without saying that every member of the D.A. was another weakness that Voldemort could exploit. If Voldemort had any confusion as to who Harry was friends with inside Hogwarts, all he would need to know would be who attended the D.A. meetings regularly - something not terribly difficult to find out with Malfoy and his goons in the castle.

However, Harry also knew the boosts in confidence the meetings gave to each and every member of the D.A. That was unquestionable - and was evident in the eyes of Neville as Harry had seen them when he opened his own.

"Sure," Harry found himself saying. "That's what I'm planning."

"Great," Neville said. "What do you think we'll start practicing this year? Will it still be in the Room of Requirement? What about-"

Luna, who had been listening to the conversation carefully, smiled at Neville's questions and began gazing outside of the train window, her eyes misting over in the way they had a habit of doing. Harry took each of his questions one at a time, a little surprised at Neville's eagerness, but answering them regardless.

Harry had barely responded to three of the questions before Ron and Hermione entered the compartment, both looking exhausted from the long officer meeting. Hermione's tired expression vanished into one of concern when she saw Harry.

"Bandages?" Hermione asked, moving quickly to Harry's side. She scanned him for other injuries "Harry, what happened?"

Ron moved a bit slower, but it only took him a moment to guess what had happened. "Malfoy, right?"

Hermione glanced up at Harry for a response, and when he nodded she said, "Did you report him to Professor McGonagall? She's in the front compartment-"

"No," Harry said quickly. He sat up in his chair and met her eyes. "There wouldn't be a point."

"Harry-" she urged.

"Nobody even saw it happen," Harry said. He shifted in his seat - partly to be more comfortable, partly to avoid her eyes. "It would be my word against their's. And even then, I'm sure there would be a car full of Slytherin's willing to tell her that Malfoy never left the compartment." He gave her a bit of a grin. "He's just lucky my wand wasn't working properly."

"There's a suppression field on the train," said Hermione lightly. "That's why your wand wasn't working."

Harry gave her a silent "oh" as she peeled back his bandage to see the wound, replacing it right after.

"That doesn't look too bad," Hermione said, furrowing her forehead. "What kind of bandages are these?"

"My father orders them from a catalogue," Luna said, her voice seeming to drift from her corner of the compartment. "They're genuine Snorack sinew - you won't find better bandages anywhere," she added somewhat proudly.

Hermione looked ready to refute Luna, but took another look at the cut on Harry's cheek, and said nothing. Her fingertips slowly found their way to his sides and back, where she began applying pressure. "Feel anything?" she asked.

"Not really," Harry replied - enjoying Hermione's touch more than he felt he should. He felt some heat rise to his cheeks.

"I'm not a mediwitch," Hermione said at length. "But you seem fine - all things considered. Once we get off the train you'll need to apply some healing charms, but those bandages seemed very...effective." Hermione seemed to have trouble admitting the last part. She gave Harry a quick, chaste kiss on the cheek and then sat back in her seat next to him.

"Where'd they hit you mate?" Ron asked, suddenly looking uncomfortable. "It doesn't look like they got you too bad. I reckon a healing charm or two would take care of the bruises."

"Mostly in the back and sides," Harry said. At Ron's questioning look, he added, "They had me pressed against the wall."

"Pressed against the wall?" Ron repeated, sounding puzzled. "I always thought Malfoy favored kicking people while they're on the ground."

"Well, Malfoy wanted to talk to me," Harry said, the tone of his voice betraying that he used the term 'talk' loosely. "He was telling me that he could kill me, and that his sparing me this time meant that he now owed me nothing. He seemed pretty set on the idea that I only saved his life from the Grendel to earn some sort of favor from him. Like I wanted to earn his favor," Harry added with biting sarcasm.

Ron snorted, but Hermione said, "Maybe you saving him had more of an impact than you thought. It had to have been bothering him for a long time - his worst enemy risking his life to pull him away from the monster's jaws."

"I doubt the ferret cares," said Ron, his ears tinging red. "After what he did last year, I wonder if he was-" He stopped and fell silent.

"Worth saving?" Harry said, finishing Ron's sentence for him. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Harry had been asking himself the same question that Ron presented. Was Malfoy worth it? Then, in a strange sort of answer, he remembered another time when he had saved an enemy's life. Peter Pettigrew.

What had Dumbledore said then? He struggled to remember.

"I don't think Malfoy's done anything bad enough to warrant his death," Hermione said sharply. She turned towards Harry, her eyes turning soft. "You were right to save him. Isn't that what separates us from Death Eaters?"

"Hasn't done anything yet, you mean," Ron muttered, his eyes telling Harry all that he needed to know. Ron outright hated Malfoy - there was no question or variation in his opinion of the blonde Slytherin. Where Harry could sometimes control his feelings towards Malfoy, Ron could not, and Harry wondered - in the deepest recesses of his mind - whether, if Ron had been in Harry's position, he would have saved Malfoy from the Grendel.

Harry never dared to try to answer that question.

"We can't predict the future, Ron," Hermione said in a tone that warned Harry that they were about to have a row. "And it's obvious that Malfoy did care about Harry saving his life - otherwise he wouldn't be so bothered by it, would he?"

Ron opened his mouth to speak but Harry replied first. "I don't regret what I did," Harry said, feeling rather than seeing Ron's stare. his eyes were focused on Neville, Luna, and Hermione, who were all watching him with rapt attention. "I don't think Malfoy being a git is worth becoming a murderer." He turned towards Ron and before Ron could respond he added, "And that's exactly what it would be if I stood by and did nothing - murder."

"That's not what I meant," Ron said, sounding irritated. "What I'm saying is that you shouldn't be expecting to be receiving candy and flowers from Malfoy anytime soon, and whether you saved his life or not he'll still stab you in the back if you give him the chance."

"Let's hope I won't have to find that out," said Harry, wanting to extinguish the increasingly heated discussion.

Ron took a long moment to answer. "Agreed."

**

The three of them strode through the ancient doors of Hogwarts and climbed the short flight of steps to the dining hall. It was – like every other year – choked with people, and Harry had trouble squeezing his way through. Ron was definitely correct when he had said most of the students had chosen simply not to take the train. It seemed like people were stopping right at the entrance of the hall for some reason, holding up the students behind them, though Harry could not discern why.

When he finally entered the Great Hall, however, he understood. It looked nothing like it had been in years past. In previous years, there had been portraits, house banners, and various posters strung up along the wall, but that had all changed. Instead there were battle axes, swords, war standards, and a plethora of military memorabilia. It no longer looked like a social area where students met to eat their meals, but like a medieval armory.

Harry never really thought of Hogwarts as a castle before. In his mind, it was simply a school that happened to be made of stone and have battlements and dungeons to boot. Now he was becoming increasingly aware that Hogwarts in peacetime and Hogwarts in wartime were two very different places, and that the school – and home – that he was used to was gone with the house banners and posters.

Ron summed up Harry’s thoughts in one statement. “What the bloody hell did Dumbledore do to this place?”

“I doubt he did anything to it,” Hermione said. “This place is alive, Ron, and it adapts. It knows what’s been going on in the outside world and is preparing.”

Ron raised one eyebrow. “For?”

“Voldemort,” Harry said quietly, causing several people around him to jump, then to glare at him as though he had offended them. Harry simply shook his head, finding it difficult to believe that – even now – Voldemort’s mere name was enough to defeat some so-called wizards.

“Yeah, I s’ppose that makes sense, but I don’t see how much help a couple of swords is going to be,” Ron said. “But then again, that’s probably not the point, is it?”

Harry nodded. The gears of war were churning, and not even the castle was left unaffected.

“So where do you want to sit?” Ron asked idly, still gazing around the Great Hall. The new décor was going to take some getting used to.

Harry instinctively searched for the house table, but remembered a moment later that they no longer existed. They had been removed in his sixth year, when Dumbledore consolidated all the house tables into one, gigantic table where students of all houses were forced to sit together. Though the idea had potential, it more or less failed due to the students taking it upon themselves to reserve certain seats for people of their respective houses.

“Here should be fine,” Harry said, picking the seat closest to them. Ron and Hermione sat on either side of him, and he had difficulty in not letting out an exasperated sigh.

Why is it always so awkward around the two of them? He thought to himself.

“The ceiling works like it always has,” Hermione observed.

Harry looked up too. She was right. It reflected a moonless summer sky, bright with stars, that seemed to hover far above their heads. Harry used to think that the Great Hall’s ceiling would get old to look at after a while. But it never did.

“At least something is the same as it was at the beginning of last year,” Ron commented. Harry looked sideways at him, unsure of the depth of Ron’s remark. An awkward silence followed, where neither Harry or Hermione could fine anything else to say.

“Attention, everybody, if you please,” announced the familiar voice of Dumbledore. Harry turned the face the headmaster, quickly glancing across the staff table as he did so.

“No Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, I see,” said Hermione, and sure enough the spot that had always been reserved for the new teacher was empty.

“Didn’t Dumbledore say he had someone?” Harry asked.

“Yeah he did,” said Hermione and Ron simultaneously. Ron quickly fell silent, while Hermione continued, “He mentioned him to us before, saying that he was an expert in his field.”

“An expert?” Ron asked sardonically. “Then what is he doing teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts?” All three of them laughed, and, for a fleeting moment, Harry felt that everything was normal again between the three of them. For a moment.

“Now that everybody has settled down,” continued Dumbledore. “I have a few topics to discuss with you. First, I would like to discuss the new warding system that has been put in place.”

“As many of you recall from last year, the school’s existing warding system was revealed to have several flaws and errors in its design,” Dumbledore said. “Not only will those errors be fixed, but we have also altered the basic nature of the warding system. I will not go into details, but I strongly advise that none of you test the new warding system for weaknesses, or try to alter it in any way. Doing so could have rather undesirable consequences.”

“However, I’m sure you all understand the necessity for these changes, and how they will improve your security while you stay at Hogwarts.”

“With that out of the way,” Dumbledore continued in a lighter tone, clasping his hands together. “I would like to introduce the new professor for Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

Dumbledore made a hand gesture towards the back entrance of the Great Hall, and nearly everyone turned to look at the newcomer. Tall, lean, and seemingly young, he smiled and gave a short bow. Harry’s forehead creased – for some reason the man’s face looked familiar.

“He’s awfully young for Dumbledore to call him an expert in his field,” said Hermione.

“Oh…no…” mumbled Ron. His jaw was hanging and it seemed like half the hall fell to dead silence. “Dumbledore has absolutely, positively lost his mind.”

“What is it?” Harry asked, somewhat distracted. He was still trying to figure out why he recognized the new professor’s face. Diagon Alley, maybe?

“This has got to be a joke,” Ron continued, forcing a laugh. “Maybe he drank some polyjuice before he came in here. You know…to test security?”

Hermione looked at Ron dubiously. “Well he looks sane, he looks competent…what’s wrong?”

“The man is a convicted necromancer!”

“Let us welcome Stuart Glasser to Hogwarts,” Dumbledore continued, ignoring the silence that permeated the entire room. “May his stay here be a fulfilling one.”

“Thank you Albus, you are too kind,” Professor Glasser said, bowing once more. “I look forward to seeing everyone at some point this year, and hope to make this year a most productive one.” He then proceeded to his spot on the staff table. Almost immediately, dull murmurs and whispers broke out.

“Thank you,” Dumbledore said, bowing in return. Turning his attention back to the students he continued, “Now, without further delays, let’s eat!”

In a flash, the tables filled with trays and platters with the usual assortment of Hogwarts fare. Roasted goose, turkey, and even lamb popped onto the table before them. Ron wasted no time in grabbing a fork and piling hearty portions of everything onto his plate.

As he reached for the turkey, Harry suddenly remembered where he had seen that man’s face before. The Daily Prophet.

“Dumbledore couldn’t possibly let a necromancer teach us Defense Against the Dark Arts,” Hermione hissed to Ron. “You must be mistaking him with someone else.”

“No, I’m very positive,” insisted Ron, helping himself to some mashed potatoes. “My dad and Kingsley were talking about him – they were both angry that the Wizengamot let him off the hook.”

Hermione raised one eyebrow. “So is he a convicted Necromancer or not?”

“Well,” Ron said at length. “No. Not convicted, but Kingsley and the rest of the Aurors were completely sure that he performed Necromancy. I mean, this explains that book we got. What was it called? Fundamentals of Necromancy!”

“An unusual taste in books is hardly the same as performing Necromancy.”

Ron stared at her like he couldn’t believe what she was saying. “Everyone knows he’s a Necromancer! Everyone!” He speared a nearby sausage and dropped it on his plate.

“Everyone…except the Wizengamot, it would seem…” said Hermione slowly. “And I doubt Dumbledore would hire him if he was an actual Necromancer.”

“He’s made bad choices before,” countered Ron. He started on the goose. “He hired Professor Quirrell. You can’t say the entire wizarding community is wrong, Hermione.”

“So you’re saying the entire wizarding community was right when they bought into Rita Skeeter’s dribble in our fourth year?”

“That’s not the same. Dumbledore…” Ron’s eyes lit up in an unusual fashion. “You don’t suppose Dumbledore’s the one who got him released, do you? I mean, that’s an awfully strange coincidence…him being released and then Dumbledore hiring him right after.”

Hermione stayed silent, seeming to consider this, while Harry said, “Well one thing’s for sure. Dumbledore’s going to be receiving a lot of Howlers tonight over his choice in professors.”

“And don’t be surprised if a lot of people withdraw,” Ron added. He finished the last of his roasted goose and moved on to the lamb. “Or if Dumbledore loses his job.

“Dumbledore’s word carries too much weight now,” Hermione said. “I doubt there’s anyone more influential than him.”

Harry didn’t say anything, but he now began to understand why Dumbledore had kept the new professor’s identity secret for so long. There would be plenty of people in the Ministry – as well as the Order – that would be uncomfortable with his pick. While he did not believe that Glasser was totally innocent of his former charges, he also did not believe that Dumbledore was irrational. He had known the headmaster for too long to believe that, and knew that – whatever the reasoning – there was a point to having Stuart Glasser in Hogwarts.

Ron shook his head, deciding not to pursue that thread of conversation. “Well,” he said, looking around. “It doesn’t seem like Snape is too pleased that he lost the position for another year running to a Necromancer.”

Harry swiveled in his chair, suddenly curious to see the Potions master, and found him sitting at the staff table. Ron was right when he said Snape didn’t look pleased, but then, Harry wondered, when did Snape ever look pleased?

“Actually,” said Hermione slowly, who had followed Harry’s gaze to Snape’s spot at the table. “He looks rather sick.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at Hermione and then reevaluated Snape’s appearance – and found that she had a point. The Potions master’s hair – which, if nothing else, had at least been combed properly – was thin and scraggly, and his forehead shone with sweat. More than once as Harry watched he raised a handkerchief to sneeze. A fever, maybe.

“It’s about time, honestly,” Ron said. “He practically lives in the dungeons – what did he expect?”

“It probably won’t matter,” said Harry. “I think it would take a lot more than a cold for him to miss a class.”

“Yeah, I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” said Ron, stretching in his chair. “I’m just glad I’m done with that git. I’m through with Potions. I took what was required – and that’s all I’m taking.”

"That's not very ambitious," Hermione said, frowning. "Higher level Potions courses will get you-"

"I know, Hermione," Ron interjected, forcing on a smile. "I know."

Hermione bit her lower lip, looking ready to argue, but, when she saw Ron's expression, she said nothing. The giant pink elephant came rumbling into the room.

After dinner, the trio left the table and strode through the halls to the Gryffindor dormitories. Harry barely noticed the train of first years behind them, which he had just realized were following Hermione to the common room.

Head Girl. He had nearly forgotten.

As Hermione turned towards the first years to explain about the switching staircases, the portraits, and all the other oddities within Hogwarts that would impede their route to class, Harry's eyes wandered, taking in the surroundings. The changes in the castle weren't restricted to the Great Hall, he noticed as they passed sturdy shield crossed with swords. Even the portraits had changed, with the themes changing from subdued pictures of forests, valleys, and homely cabins, to dark scenes of war.

Harry paused at one such painting, and watched as two medieval armies struggled on a grass field, their armor glinting, smoke rising here and there where supplies and structures burned. The soldiers looked like little more than ants with their glinting armor, sometimes smeared red, othertimes polished with painstaking detail. He could not see any faces, and whether this was by design or accident Harry was unsure, but seeing the masses of metal, lumbering soldiers fighting and killing and crumpling to the ground to be an anonymous death - it made him nauseated. Even as the battle raged on, the lake grew steadily darker with the same liquid that was spilling out of the dying warriors. A grisly sign of how long the battle had been going on. And then he saw it - the castle at the top of the painting that Harry couldn't possibly believe he missed. The long battlements, the towers, the lake and the surrounding forest - it was disturbingly familiar.

"Hogwarts," Harry said aloud, causing several first years to look up at him questioningly. He tore his eyes from the painting. "Nevermind," he said, then moved to catch up to Hermione and Ron.

The castle was trying to tell them something, Harry decided. Something beyond the surface message of war axes and swords and battle. He was reminded of how Dumbledore had once said that Hogwarts has a will of its own. After passing underneath an archway that had been newly donned with a war banner, Harry wondered whether the castle was trying to protect itself as much as the students. But then, what did mortar and stone have to fear from Voldemort?

(A/N: Not dead - I realize it's been an unbelievably long time since I last updated, but bear with me.)

"I'm telling you, Harry," said Ron the next morning in an unusually spirited voice. He reached over and speared a sausage before dropping it onto his plate. "There's one thought that gets me out of bed."

"The thought that breakfast is right down in the Great Hall?" Harry guessed, not quite in the same mood as Ron.

"Nope," he replied breezily. He took another sausage and took a large bite. "'Mo 'Nape," he said through a mouth full of food.

Hermione crinkled her nose and looked away from Ron.

Ron swallowed and repeated, "No Snape. It never gets old." A satisfied expression crossed his face, and Harry laughed.

Hermione simply rolled her eyes. "Aren't you worried about being in any of Malfoy's classes."

Ron groaned. "Stop trying to ruin my day." He sighed, picking up the remaining piece of sausage with his fork, then putting it down again. "What's on the schedule for today?"

"Defense Against the Dark Arts, Potions, and Charms I think," Harry said. "At least that's for me and Hermione."

"I have the same except Astronomy instead of Potions," Ron said, nodding. "Drawing constellations all day is a lot easier than sitting in the dungeons and listening to Snape for an hour." He paused for a moment and then continued, "So when are you planning our first D.A. meeting?"

"Wednesday, maybe," Harry said. "I'm not sure though."

"Good," said Ron, stuffing some egg in his mouth. "Water ee doon?" He swallowed, then repeated, "What're we doing?"

"Probably just going to refresh what we learned from last year," said Harry. "I don't want to jump into the advanced stuff this early." Something suddenly occurred to him. He turned to Hermione. "Are you going to be organizing S.P.E.W. this year?"

"Well I'm certainly not abandoning it!" Hermione said with conviction. "Not with such inequality running rampant."

Ron mumbled something under his breath, but Harry didn't hear.

"It's not a non-issue, Ron," snapped Hermione. "The balance of power won't always be like it is today. Voldemort knows this, and is moving to exploit it." Several people glanced curiously in her direction but she ignored them. "Why else do you think he'd be meeting with the goblins?"

"So, about S.P.E.W.," Harry said quickly, trying to change the subject before a row broke out. "When do you plan on starting the meetings?"

"As soon as I'm ready," she replied. "Which might be a while, especially with the projects I'm planning..."

By the end of breakfast Hermione was already detailing her ideas for the year, and Harry, doing his best to sound interested, asked a conversational question every now and then. More than once Harry glance towards Ron and saw him roll his eyes as if to say, "You should've known better than to get her started."

They left the table, heading towards a passageway that would take them to their first class. The themes of war seemed to spread through all areas of the school, Harry noticed. The crude iron weapons, the medieval banners - all of it was present, as though to make sure no one could forget the war, no matter where they were or what they were doing within the castle.

They climbed the staircase to the next floor, coming to a large crowd of students standing outside the door that led to their Defense Against the Dark Arts class.

"What's this about?" Ron asked, almost to himself. "You reckon its locked, Harry?"

"Let's find out," said Harry, easing his way through everyone as he made his way to the door. Behind him, he heard Ron asking someone why they were standing outside the class. Before they could answer, Harry reached for the handle.

Harry recoiled as he opened the door, his hand involuntarily going to his nose to stop the stench that flooded his senses. He looked towards Ron, seeing that he was covering his mouth and nose with his hand, while Hermione simply backed away from the door in disgust.

"What is that smell?" she said, seeming unable to believe that such a smell could be wafting out from the room.

Harry shook his head. The smell was like something had died a long while ago and had sat rotting since then. He could almost taste bile in the back of his throat.

Looking around, he saw that no one had entered the room yet, and instead stood waiting a good distance away looking at their schedule - perhaps hoping that they had simply gone to the wrong room. Harry did the same, confirming what he already knew to be true. This was the correct classroom.

At last Professor Glasser arrived, striding up in formal lavender robes fringed with Victorian lace - not at all similar to Ron's old dress robes. Unlike Ron's, the lace was much more sparse and tastefully done.

"Is something wrong?" Professor Glasser asked, glancing once over the group of students standing outside the room. He raised an eyebrow when he received no response.

Harry suddenly remembered the label Ron gave Professor Glasser: Necromancer.

"I am quite certain that I left the door unlocked," continued the professor, reaching for the handle and swinging open the door. A fresh wave of the stench washed over everyone, making Harry slightly nauseous.

"Professor," Seamus said through a cough. "It's the smell." He was practically gasping.

"Ah, of course," said Professor Glasser, completely unfazed by the smell. "I nearly forgot - some of my, err, equipment has been stored away for too long. I'm afraid it picked up an unusual odor. It takes some getting used to, but if you wish you can use a charm to mask the scent." He walked into the room, leaving the students in the hallway.

"First we're going to need something to mask it with," Ron said, pinching his nose. "Ideas?"

Harry's mind was blank. Before he could apply any sort of charm, he would need to find a scent to work with. The charm could not conjure a scent from thin air - but could only make it so that he would only smell one scent for a certain period of time. The scent, of course, was determined by what he could find.

"I reckon I'll find something back there," said Ron, waving his hand further down the hallway. "Just need to get away from that stench." Still covering his nose and mouth, he quickly strode away, releasing his hand once he was far enough away to breath in the odorless air.

Harry, however, had no idea of what he could use. Looking around, he saw his classmates conjuring flowers or even perfume bottles to use for the charm.

Suddenly, he had an idea. He quietly walked behind Hermione, drawing his wand and lightly tapping her hair with its tip.

Hermione turned around. "Harry what-" She stopped when she saw him repeat an incantation and then tap his nose with his wand. Heat entered her cheeks and she looked away, smiling.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Dean nudge Seamus with his elbow and then point at Hermione and then at Harry. Seamus nodded and whispered something to Dean, who then nodded with understanding.

Hermione must have seen as well, because she leaned towards and Harry and said in a low voice, "People are starting to see."

"We haven't been making it a secret, Hermione."

"So that's fine with you? I know- I mean I realize that-"

"Of course," said Harry. "People can talk all they want, it won't bother me." A second passed where Harry realized something. He met here eyes. "Is it bothering you?"

"No, of course not," she said quickly. "That's not what I meant. I just know that a lot of things are said about you and I don't want to be adding to it."

"This is our last year in Hogwarts," said Harry with a wisp of a grin. "I don't care what people think."

Professor Glasser reappeared in the doorway, looking impatient if not slightly irritated. "You all had ample time to prepare you charms - class was supposed to begin several minutes ago and I will delay it no longer. Please take your seats - quietly."

In a jumbled line they began to file into the room, some still flinching under the stench from not having a strong enough masking scent. Professor Glasser watched them casually, sometimes bringing his hands together to crack his joints. He seemed altogether bored.

"Oh, and Harry," added Hermione, her cheeks reddening. "My hair does not smell that good."

Harry half-smiled, about to respond, but stopped as the professor gave Hermione a sharp glance and said, "I would like to repeat that I asked you to come in quietly. Please refrain from talking."

Hermione, looking slightly embarrassed, took a seat at the front, while Harry took a seat next to her. Ron, who was the last to enter, sat just to his left. Harry gazed around the room, seeing that, despite the change in professors, the room looked very much the same. Boxes were stacked high in the back of the room along with empty glass containers and dusty file cabinets that appeared to have not been touched since his fifth year. Crumpled papers and manilla folders lay scattered around on unused tables and desks - leftovers from Professor Whams, Harry was sure. The only real difference was the addition of several wooden cases that looked suspiciously like coffins at the back of the room. They leaned against the wall in a neat row, their surfaces unmarred, looking impeccably cared for.

"So, this is my seventh year class, is it?" said Professor Glasser, once again bringing his hands together, cracking each and every knuckle in his left hand. He picked up the roster and glanced over it once. "Well, let us begin by-"

The door opened and Malfoy stepped through, looking supremely unhurried. Without a word, he casually walked down the aisle, pausing once to smirk at Harry.

"Mr. Malfoy," called Professor Glasser as it became apparent that Draco wasn't going to explain his tardiness on his own. "Do you care to explain why you are late?"

"Professor Snape held me back," Malfoy said, and with a smirk sat down.

"Hm," said Professor Glasser indifferently, then, after making a short mark on his roster, continued, "As I was saying before I was interrupted, I will begin this class by stating precisely how I am going to teach this course, and what I will be expecting of each of you."

"First of all, there will be no tests. At all." He paused. "Neither will there be homework. Ever."

Hermione widened her eyes in surprise while the rest of the class simply stared at their professor in disbelief. A few students exchanged furtive glances, as though thinking this too good to be true.

Hermione raised a tentative hand, and when Professor Glasser pointed at her she asked, "But how will we be graded?" Several people stared daggers at her.

"You will receive what I believe you should receive," said Professor Glasser at length. "If it is clear to me that you are trying to improve yourself, you will receive a grade that reflects that. I will say this, however, that you will not be able to sit back and relax during class no matter how much you think you know." He glanced once at Harry, and then continued. "The times are changing, and this class is not only relevant to your future employment, but to your very survival. If you don't feel that is enough of an initiative, I very much doubt a mark on a list will be, either."

"So," he continued in a business-like tone. "Anyone have any questions?"

A moment passed where it was evident that everyone in the room had a question but no one dared to ask. Finally, Ron slowly raised his hand, and Professor Glasser motioned towards him. "Name?" the professor asked.

"Ronald Weasley."

"And what is your question?"

"Are you a Necromancer or not, professor?" Ron asked conversationally, as though he were discussing Quidditch or maybe the daily news.

Professor Glasser hardly moved. "I will not pretend that I did not expect your question, Mr. Weasley," he said carefully. "Everyone here knows very well that the practice of Necromancy is banned under Ministry law."

"Isn't that why you were arrested?" Ron asked, a hint of defiance in his voice.

Harry and Hermione exchanged nervous glances. Ron could be unbearable at times, but how far would this new professor let himself be pushed?

Glasser faintly smiled, as though he found Ron's question amusing. "Arrest and conviction are two very different things. I will not deny that I studied Necromancy for a period. Indeed, the studying of Necromancy is very common for wizards in my field."

"But Aurors arrested you," insisted Ron. "They wouldn't do that without hard evidence."

Professor Glasser stayed silent for a short while, as though stuck. "I admit that the only reason I am humoring these questions is because I suspected many of you would see me as guilty because of a mere arrest," he said, sounding annoyed. He paused for a moment. "However, whether or not I practiced Necromancy is irrelevant to this class and to this school. The Wizengamot dismissed my case, and beyond that it is not your place to decide whether the charges against me were true."

"Any other questions?" he asked, almost as an afterthought.

"So this is just one big misunderstanding, is it?" Ron said, unable to completely keep the sarcasm out of his voice.

"Be careful of your tone in this class, Mr. Weasley," said Glasser sharply. "Next time it will be detention." He paused, as though waiting for Ron to reply. A moment later he said, "I will ask again. Any other questions?"

Glasser stared over the room, as though challenging someone to argue. Despite himself, Harry could not help but notice that the professor did not once flatly state that he did not practice Necromancy.

"Then we can move on," said Professor Glasser. He flipped open a heavy, thickly bound book on his desk, briefly searching through the text. After a moment he nodded and tapped his finger twice on the page.

"Since there seems to be a budding interest in Necromancy," Professor Glasser said. "We'll start the year off on that topic. Who can tell me precisely what Necromancy is?"

Hermione instantly raised her hand.

"Hermione Granger, correct?" Glasser asked. When she nodded, he picked up his roster sheet and made another mark. "So, what is your answer?"

"Necromancy is a method of communicating with the dead through the summoning of spirits, reanimation of the dead, or other means."

"Excellent," he replied. "Five points to Gryffindor. So can someone tell me why it's illegal?"

Hermione raised her hand again, but Glasser waved her down. "I would like someone other than Miss Granger to participate." Seconds passed with no one replying, until at last Seamus raised his hand from the back.

"Is it because Fudge hasn't found a way to make money off it yet?" Seamus said, causing the class break into a fit of laughter. Even Glasser grinned slightly.

"Not quite, Mister -?"

"Finnegan"

"Ah, yes," Glasser said. "The actual reason is because Necromancy gives control over the spirits and corpses that are summoned. Needless to say, Necromancy can be used in many terrible ways. Oh, and one point from Gryffindor," he added. "I don't appreciate frivolous answers in my class, Mr. Finnegan."

Glasser continued. "For this class we are going to concentrate on the most dangerous form of Necromancy - that is the creation of liches." He flicked his wand towards the blackboard behind him, and his words slowly began scrolling across it. "Liches are the end result of when too much power and too much knowledge comes into the hand of one individual. A lich is, in a word, immortality." He paused for a moment, as though wanting the words to sink in.

"Someone-" His eyes flickered to Harry. "-give me an example of a lich."

"Voldemort," Harry said immediately, without raising his hand. To Harry's relief, only a few gasped.

Glasser smiled grimly. "Indeed. Along with enormous amounts of willpower, becoming a lich requires power, knowledge, and - most of all - sacrifice. Immortality does not come without a cost, for a lich, that cost comes in the form of humanity. Compassion. Trust. Love. None of that means anything to a lich - to the Dark Lord."

"But Harry killed him once," Ron said, speaking up.

"And he came back," Glasser said. "And you can kill him once more, and he'll come back again. That's not to say he's unbeatable - as there are ways of destroying all things. But do not simply expect to stroll up to a lich, use a Killing Curse, and expect that to be the end." Harry looked up at Glasser, unable to shake the persistent feeling that the professor wasn't talking to the class at large - but specifically to him. "At least, that's how it is with liches in their second stage."

Stage? Harry asked to himself.

"Take precise notes for this," Glasser warned. "This is vital. There are three stages to every lich. The first stage is the initial transformation - where the lich isn't particularly vulnerable, but has still retained much of his human features. However, all the necessary rituals have been completed, and all that's required is time for the transformation to take place."

"The second stage starts at the end of the transformation," continued Glasser. "The lich no longer appears to be human at all - indeed, the lich takes on the appearance of a serpent, with two slits for a nose and black ovals for eyes. Hands become scaled claws. Hair falls away. At this stage, he is a full lich. He cannot be killed by traditional means, and, for all intents and purposes, is immortal. The vast majority do not pass this stage, and this is all that I require you to know."

Hermione raised her hand. "What is the third stage professor?"

Glasser's eyes glittered. He did not answer immediately. "I do not require you to know the third and final stage." His eyes fell on Harry, then went back to Hermione. "If you truly desire to know more, I can recommend several books. After class."

Hermione looked slightly crestfallen. "Well could you tell us why the lich always takes on serpentine features in the second stage? I mean, isn't that sort of...unnecessary?"

"The answer is actually quite simple," said Professor Glasser. He smiled, and Harry could not help but think that Glasser was one of the few people he had ever seen whose smile did not suit them. Where many people had smiles that were relaxing or reassuring, Glasser's smile was discomfiting. "You must remember the wizard who had originally discovered and established all these rituals in becoming a lich. This wizard was an egotistical man, a self-centered man. He wanted to leave his mark on the ritual, and thus made the serpentine appearance necessary for becoming a lich."

"Who was the man?" Harry asked, having a feeling he already knew.

Glasser smiled again. An uneasy, crooked smile. He flicked his wand on the board and a name appeared.

Salazar Slytherin.

***

"Looks like it's off to the dungeons for you two," Ron said after class. "Potions, right?"

Harry nodded, deeply dreading the upcoming class. He had not left Hogwarts last year on good terms with Snape, and didn't care much for returning to his class. He turned to Hermione and saw she was giving him an encouraging smile.

"I'm sure Professor Snape will be better than last year," she said with a little too much optimism.

"You say that every year, Hermione," said Ron, sighing. "Dropping that class was one of the best decisions I've ever made, I think."

"Speaking of decisions," Hermione said bitingly, turning towards Ron. "What were you thinking when you were talking to Professor Glasser like that?"

Ron's earns burned red. "Excuse me if I don't care much for Necromancers, Hermione," he replied heatedly. "But someone had to do it."

Harry suddenly recalled last year's events - Ron's possession. Dren was a Necromancer, wasn't he?

"You practically called him a criminal in front of the entire classroom!" Hermione said, now rounding fully on Ron. "His case was dismissed! It's over!"

"You can get anything dismissed if you pay the right people," Ron retorted. "Lucius never stepped foot in Azkaban until a couple years ago - are you saying he got away just from dumb luck? Nothing's different Hermione, nothing!"

"He's-Not-A-Necromancer! Don't compare it to Malfoy because it's not the same!" Hermione said shrilly. People began to look towards the three of them curiously, though neither Ron nor Hermione seemed to notice. "Otherwise Dumbledore wouldn't have hired him!"

"Hermione-" Harry started, seeing the argument was spiraling out of control. "Ron- both of you-"

Ron took two steps towards her and cut Harry off. "I'm sure Dumbledore used the same sound judgment that led him to hire Quirrell and Lockhart," Ron said. "Stuart Glasser is a Necromancer and that's all there is to it!"

"Really?" said Professor Glasser as he stepped out of the classroom, books in hand. His head was tilted ever-so-slightly and taut lines ran up and down his face. Harry groaned. "I daresay that this isn't the time nor place to be holding such discussions, now is it?"

"Sorry professor," Hermione said, biting her lower lip. Her cheeks were bright red with embarrassment. "Me and Ron - we were arguing and it got out of hand."

"Is that so? About what?" The tone of his voice suggested that he knew precisely what the argument was about.

"You being a Necromancer," said Ron flatly, staring defiantly at Glasser. Harry subtly shook his head at Ron, but Ron either didn't see it or ignored it.

"I don't see a reason for that particular discussion to have left the room" said Glasser sharply. "I don't believe I need to state that I find it rather insulting that you're attempting to spread rumors through the school concerning my character."

Ron didn't stop. "They aren't rumors."

"Ron-" Hermione pleaded.

"What is that supposed to mean, Mr. Weasley?" said Glasser in a low, dangerous voice.

"It means that I know you're a Necromancer," Ron countered. "And one way or another, I'll prove it before this year ends." He stopped, then turned to Hermione, glowering. "And I won't need you or your boyfriend to help."

Hermione's mouth sagged open, and Harry, who had been watching the entire event unfold, was entirely sure of even how to respond. He simply stared at Ron in a sort of stunned disbelief.

Professor Glasser stared at Ron a moment, as though trying to decide how to react. "Don't threaten me. You've earned yourself a detention and lost Gryffindor thirty points. I'll see you tonight at seven in my office."

Ron nodded, then threw once last glare at Hermione and stormed off to Astronomy. Harry, wanting to get Hermione away from the crowd of onlookers, gently put his arm around her back and guided her further down the hallway. About halfway to the stairwell, tears began to gather along the rims of her eyes.

"I can't believe I got him in trouble, Harry," she said quietly. "I'm the one who started that fight, not him."

"That doesn't mean he had to add to it, Hermione."

Hermione shook her head. "But that's not it. I knew about the hard time he's been having with us since the summer, I just- I just didn't think. What did I expect him to do when I talked to him like that?"

"He's had all summer to get used to us," said Harry. "And besides, I think we've all been a lot better since then."

"It's not just that," she said. "If he keeps getting detention and arguing with Professor Glasser, he might end up losing his Prefect position..."

"Hey Hermione!" came a voice from behind, and Harry whirled to see Terry Boot running up to them. He slowed as he saw Hermione, a look of concern crossing his face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," said Hermione. She quickly wiped the wetness from her eyes and turned around. "Just a row with Ron, that's all."

"Yeah, it was about Professor Glasser," Harry added.

"Oh, hey Harry," Terry said, seeming to just see Harry for the first time. "What about him?"

"It doesn't matter," Hermione said, shaking her head. She gave Terry a tentative smile, and Harry felt suddenly felt an intense dislike for the Ravenclaw. "So do you have duty tonight then?"

Subtly, Harry let his hand find Hermione's and looked pointedly at Terry.

"No-" Terry said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. He looked towards Harry then back at Hermione, then at their entwined hands. "I was going to ask you if you would be able to review a few chapters of Arithimancy before class tomorrow but if you're busy..."

"No, that's fine, Terry," said Hermione.

"Alright, sounds great," said Terry, beaming. "Well, I've got to head to my next class - I'll talk to you later Hermione. You too, Harry," he added, almost as an afterthought.

"Bye," said Hermione.

"You know him?" Harry asked casually once Terry was out of hearing distance.

"Of course I do," said Hermione. "He's Head Boy and has been in my Arithimancy classes for the past few years."

"Mmmm," said Harry neutrally.

She looked at him as though in sudden understanding. "Mmmm? What's that supposed to mean?" Hermione asked, smiling. "You're not jealous, are you?"

"No, of course not," said Harry a little too quickly. "I mean I know you're not interested, but I don't think he has the same idea."

Hermione laughed. "You can't be serious, Harry. We're just friends." She touched his shoulder and looked up at him. "There's no reason to be jealous."

"I'm not jealous," Harry said immediately, flushing. "Well, okay, maybe a little bit," he conceded. "But that's beside the point."

Despite his admission, Harry had trouble pinpointing the exact reason he was jealous.

"You won't lose me, Harry," said Hermione, going on the tips of her toes to give him a kiss on the cheek. "I promise. I'm only interested in you."

Harry turned to meet her lips, holding her briefly, vaguely aware of first-years giggling in the background. The ambiguous connection that he felt with her - and her alone - rose. He released her, though did not stop looking into her eyes.

"Come on," she said, her eyes sparkling. She blushed as she realized how public their display was. "We'll be late to Potions."

Harry followed, his brief surge of jealousy vanishing. However, in the back of his mind, he could not help but remember how quickly Hermione's mood had changed when she saw Terry.

***

In the past six years that Harry had had Potions, the dungeons had never been a particularly welcoming place, and this year was no exception. He walked into the classroom on the heavy stone floor worn down by centuries and centuries of students, finding a seat near that back where he hoped Snape would forget him. The neat, organized front desk, the bookcase stuffed with tomes on various alchemical research, the simmering cauldron in the corner - none of it betrayed any sort of change in the Potions master that Harry knew was there.

It was clear as glass. Harry had first seen the change in Grimmauld Place - during his brief meeting with Dumbledore, and had seen again yesterday in the Great Hall. In the past six years, Harry had never seen Snape become sick. Not once. Indeed, Harry had no doubt that Snape had potions stored away that could cure any ailment that he might have.

But the Potions master was obviously ill, and Harry noticed. He noticed again as Snape entered the room; his normally sleek robe ruffled as though he had just woken up, and the unshakable look of exhaustion that imprinted itself on his face.

"Get out your cauldrons," Snape said sharply. His eyes crossed over the room once, as though he was taking in what material he had to work with for the year.

"Draco," said Snape with barely hidden irritation. "When I ask the class to take out their cauldrons, understand that you are not exempt from this request." The Potions master was clearly not in the best of moods, though that was not necessarily attributable to his sickness.

Malfoy, who had been reading the Daily Prophet, smirked and pulled a cauldron out from under his table.

Snape turned his attention to the book on his desk, flicking through the pages. "Let's make today's potion be..."

Harry subconsciously finished Snape's sentence. Difficult, strenuous, impossible...

"...dangerous," Snape said at length his finger coming to rest on one particular spot of the page. He waved his wand at the blackboard and writing appeared, filling it up entirely.

"The Dervish Potion," Snape said, sounding like he enjoyed his selection. He burst into a fit of coughing, then, when he collected himself, continued. "It has no practical use in any field, though it is an easy way to ruin expensive equipment and possibly appendages if you have absolutely no idea of what you're doing." He glanced pointedly at Harry then continued. "I trust you all were studying over the summer rather than wasting your time on frivolous activities? If you were doing your work, then you should have no problem with this particular brew..."

While Harry brought out the necessary ingredients, he could not help but look up as Snape began coughing once more, this time bringing up a cloth handkerchief to his mouth. Once the coughing passed, he blew his nose and threw the handkerchief aside.

"Make sure you do not add any wormwood until the water reaches the precise temperature," Snape warned, his voice rasping as though sore. He cleared his throat and continued. "Precision is vital."

Harry double-checked the water, finding it to be too cold. He sliced the wormwood as he waited.

"Blatant stupidity while concocting this potion will have disastrous results," continued Snape. "And while I understand that with some of you stupidity is genetic, I assure you that that will not be an acceptable excuse when you destroy school property."

He checked the temperature again, and, finding it to be exactly what he required, he tossed in the wormwood. Gently, he began to stir, consciously making sure not to disturb the wormwood at the bottom of the cauldron.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Hermione had just begun to add her wormwood, and he fleetingly wondered if he possibly added his too early.

No, the temperature was exact, he assured himself.

"Already adding the snake scales?" Snape's cold voice rose over the bubbling of the cauldrons. "You must have added something too early."

Harry looked up and saw that the Potions master was hovering over a Ravenclaw's cauldron, his nose inches away from it's surface. Black fumes began to rise up from the surface and Snape recoiled.

"As I suspected," Snape said, tapping the girl's cauldron once, clearing it. "It continues to baffle me how some of you manage to foul up your Potion when we are scarcely ten minute into class time. Ten points from Ravenclaw."

He coughed twice, then, as though holding it in, abruptly stopped. He sighed and rubbed his temple, muttering something under his breath.

"He's not looking too well, is he?" Harry whispered to Hermione.

Snape's attention snapped to Harry, though his hand did not leave his temple.

Harry immediately returned his attention to his cauldron, briefly checking the temperature before grinding the dried python scales. The heat from the cauldron was causing beads of sweat to form on his forehead, and somehow the classroom began to feel very warm.

"So how is Potter performing?" Snape said, his glittering black eyes boring down on Harry as he strode over.

Harry didn't look up, instead beginning to grind the scales with his mortar and pestle. He could feel rather than see Hermione glance nervously at him before returning to her own work.

I don't need this, Harry thought angrily to himself. Not on the first day of class.

"Not impressive, Potter," Snape said. He paused suddenly, covering his mouth, as though trying to suppress a cough. A second later he continued, "The temperature of your water is clearly raising too slowly, and if you wait too long the wormwood will become worthless."

Harry met Snape's eyes, seeing his professor up close for the first time since last year. Dark circles sagged under his eyes, and his face was lined from strain.

But Snape's voice had lost none of its biting undertones. "I don't expect second grade work in seventh year potions, Potter. It's clear you used the time you had this summer unwisely..."

Harry, did not reply, instead finishing the scales, and, without checking the temperature, threw them into the cauldron. His body froze as he realized what he had done, and hastily he looked at the temperature. It was just two degrees short.

Shit.

Snape's mouth twisted into a grin, and, without saying a word, he strode to Hermione's cauldron. Harry closed his eyes, his mind racing. How could he salvage his potion? He bordered on asking Hermione to help, but when he saw Snape was hovering over her, he stopped his tongue.

A smell like vinegar and rotten eggs began to rise from his cauldron accompanied with thick green smoke. Harry's heart sank.

He quickly went through his ingredient chest, searching for Screechsnap root, and, upon finding it, quickly threw it on the table and began dicing it into pieces. He glanced at his cauldron and saw that it was on the verge of boiling over. Snape watched him curiously, the same grin on his face.

Harry was counting on the roots to counteract the effects of the python scales, which would possibly allow him to continue from the point where he added the wormwood. He finished chopping the root and immediately gathered it with his hands and tossed it into the cauldron, hearing the potion hiss in protest.

For a moment it appeared to have worked. The smoke thinned, and the smell faded slightly. Even Snape raised an eyebrow.

Then, when Harry stood to peer into the cauldron, it began to boil furiously, and soon a thick, greenish liquid began frothing over the sides, onto the desk. The stench returned in all its potency, and Harry jumped back as the liquid began burning into his desk.

"Well, Potter," said Snape smoothly. He took a small vial of clear liquid from his pocket and downed it, then continued. "I can't say I'm not surprised. Ten points from Gryffindor, as well as detention."

Harry's spun towards Snape. "What?"

"Your gross negligence resulted in the destruction of my equipment, Potter," said Snape, nodding to the melting desk. He cleared his throat, then continued. "I said it before, stupidity will not be excused." Malfoy began laughing from the other side of the room, though Snape ignored it.

"But he didn't mean to, Professor," Hermione protested, causing both Snape and Harry to suddenly look at her. Harry subtly shook his head in warning. "Isn't detention a bit...excessive?"

You don't want to get involved, Hermione, Harry said as though she could hear. This has nothing to do with my potion.

"I don't believe it to be necessary for you to argue on Potter's behalf, Miss Granger," said Snape slowly. "And neither do you have any reason to speak out of turn-" He paused, as if seeing something, then smiled darkly. "-especially when you should've added your bat fur about five seconds ago."

Hermione's eyes went wide, and reached around for her reagent, but it was already too late. Her cauldron was already beginning to overflow with a greenish slime.

"What neither of you seem to understand," said Snape in a raised voice. "is that negligence breeds disaster." He waved his wand over Hermione's and Harry's cauldrons, wiping them both clean even as the liquid continued to sizzle down both their desks.

"Detention for you as well, Miss Granger," continued Snape. He sniffed and reached for his handkerchief but found that it was no longer there. "And ten points from Gryffindor."

Snape paused to look once over both their marred desks, then continued on to other cauldrons, many of which were meeting a similar fate. Hermione appeared to be in shock, her eyes still wide with surprise.

The class continued as, slowly be surely, each and every student in the class ruined their potion. While all of them were fortunate enough to not have a reaction from the potion similar to the one Harry had, Snape deducted points from them anyway. The lone exception had been Malfoy who, miraculously, was the last one to lose his potion.

"I trust that today's lesson was not missed," Snape said, his voice cold. "Timing, like in so many other areas, is vital to brewing a successful potion." With a short glance back towards Hermione and Harry, he returned to his desk.

Suddenly looking rather weary, Snape sat in his chair behind his desk and continued. "As not a single one of you managed to successfully brew the potion, we're going to try again next class. Barely any of you managed to get past the first paragraph of instructions, so I strongly recommend that you study and prepare for next time, as I won't be so lenient. Class is dismissed."

"I can't believe I talked to Professor Snape like that," Hermione breathed when she had left the classroom with Harry. "How am I going to explain to Professor McGonagall that I have detention?"

"I don't think she's going to put much stock in Snape's detentions," Harry said. "She knows how Snape is."

"So the mudblood and Potter got detention the first day of class, did they?" Malfoy asked aloud to no one in particular. He smirked at Harry as he passed by them.

Harry felt a flare of rage, and then Hermione's calming hand on his shoulder.

Malfoy turned, seeing Harry's clenched fists, and then Hermione's hand. He smirked again - more widely - as though he found them amusing. "I'd watch it, Potter," he said, nodding his head toward the end of the hall. Crabbe and Goyle stood by the staircase like hulking bodyguards. "Don't forget what I said on the train. You're both walking dead."

Harry gritted his teeth, but before he could say anything, Hermione said, "If you haven't forgotten, Malfoy, I'm Head Girl. If you keep harassing Harry-"

"You'll what?" Malfoy snapped. "Write me up?" He snorted with laughter.

"I don't think Dumbledore would like hearing about you threatening his students," said Hermione coolly. "I don't think daddy will be around to keep you in here like last time, Draco."

"Watch it, Granger," Malfoy said, an edge to his voice. "Don't act like you understand a thing that's been going on."

"Pray do enlighten me," said Hermione. "Or maybe you're just acting bigger than you really are, since I doubt Voldemort trusts you enough to do his laundry."

Malfoy paused at the mention of Voldemort's name, the humor gone from his eyes. "You'll scream when the Dark Lord cuts you open and makes you bleed filth like the mudblood bitch that you are," he snarled.

Something in Harry snapped, and he lashed out at Malfoy, snatching his collar and pulling him forward. Crabbe and Goyle started towards them.

Harry could feel Hermione grab him to try to pull him away, but his mind was too focused on Malfoy. "Don't you dare talk to her like that-"

"Or you'll what?" sneered Malfoy, his eyes gleaming. "The Dark Lord is the future now, not that old man in the office."

Harry clenched his fist, pulling it back, but felt himself suddenly thrown backwards, his head smacking on the hard stone floor, the wand in his pocket skidding away. At first he though Malfoy performed some sort of wandless magic, but as he looked back, he saw that Malfoy too was on the ground. Crabbe and Goyle stopped in their tracks.

Snape's voice cut through the air like a knife. "Enough!"

The anger Harry felt building deep inside him suddenly cooled, and he looked at the classroom doorway to see Snape standing there, his wand drawn, his face twisted with fury. "What is the meaning of this?"

Hermione remained standing between the two boys, seemingly torn between worry for Harry and anger at him. Harry averted her gaze, feeling suddenly embarrassed, and instead looked back towards Snape.

Malfoy was already on his feet, dusting his robes. "Potter grabbed me, sir. He said I sabotaged his cauldron."

"That's a lie," retorted Harry. "He threatened Hermione, calling her a- a mudblood and saying Voldemort was going to kill her."

"Professor-" Hermione began.

"If I wanted your version of what happened, Miss Granger," interrupted Snape. "I would ask for it." He paused for a fraction of a second. "Twenty points from Gryffindor. Now both of you get out of here, I don't have time for this."

"Thank you, sir," said Malfoy, glancing once at Harry. A brief, barely concealed smirk crossed his face. "Come on," he said, motioning to Crabbe and Goyle to follow him.

Harry, however, did not leave. Hermione came up to him, whispering urgently, "Just leave it - it's just house points-"

"It's not just house points," said Harry with finality, then turned back to Snape, who had been watching them curiously.

"What are you still doing here, Potter?"

"You're just going to let Malfoy get away with that?" Harry said, old anger rising again. "With threatening-"

"Get in the classroom," snapped Snape. To Hermione he continued, "You wait outside, Miss Granger."

Harry followed Snape into the classroom, and once inside, the Potions master rounded on him fully. "What is it I said that was unable to penetrate your thick skull?"

"Malfoy threatened Hermione," Harry said, getting tired of repeating himself. "He was telling her how Voldemort was going to torture and kill her-"

"I strongly doubt that Mr. Malfoy's claim has any substance to it," said Snape icily. "And besides which, what exactly would you have me do, Potter? Give him a detention? Perhaps dock a few points?" He snorted. "Don't involve yourself in my decisions Potter." He turned and started towards his desk.

"So nothing, then?" Harry said angrily to Snape's back. "Nothing at all?"

Snape did not answer immediately. He sunk into his chair, beginning to rub his temple in a way that suggested he had a migraine. "Yes, nothing," he repeated.

Harry shook his head, feeling frustrated, then whirled and strode towards the door. Snape's voice stopped him as his hand touched the door handle.

"Do not concern yourself with Miss Granger's welfare," said Snape. "As long as she's within the protection of these wards, no harm will come to her or anyone else."

Harry did not acknowledge the words. He yanked open the door and went through, letting it slam shut behind him. When he looked to see Hermione watching him, her face carefully blank, he suddenly felt ashamed, though he could not pinpoint why.

"Sorry," he said, mumbling, the dungeon suddenly feeling very cold - colder than usual.

Hermione's head tilted a bit, and he went up to her. "I just don't like seeing you fighting Malfoy, that's all," she said quietly. "You- you could've gotten hurt, and what would've it been for?"

"I'm not going to let him threaten you right in front of me," Harry said, somewhat defensively.

"I can take care of myself, Harry," Hermione countered.

Harry felt a sudden surge of frustration. Frustration at Snape's refusal to do anything about Malfoy, frustration at being stuck in the role that the Prophecy had set for him, frustration at Hermione's stubborn idea that he was more important than her, and, most of all, frustration at being unable to do anything about it.

"Hermione..." Harry said, his voice trailing off.

Her eyes softened. "I know, Harry," she said, taking his hand. "Believe me, Harry. I know."

The dungeon reeked of decay. The strong, bitter smell of spilled blood and rotting flesh was still strong despite the bodies being properly thrown in a far, dark corner of the stone room. The distance alone should have been enough to keep the odor away, but, as Voldemort learned, it was not.

It did not particularly bother him. The corpses were those Death Eaters who had failed him, and the smell - which rose up like a wall when one first came through the door - reminded all those who came before him that he would not tolerate failure. In that rotting, vile stench, there was a warning.

And woe to those who entered and did not heed the warning.

Presently, he was staring at the Death Eater kneeling before him, scarcely listening to the man's words, too caught up in his own thoughts. The Death Eater was rambling on about something regarding the latest muggle killings. Unimportant.

Yet the Death Eater - Macnair - seemed to think it something worthy of praise.

None of it was relevant. He fleetingly considered killing Macnair, almost whimsically. Why not? The death would have no impact on any of his future plans. Instead, his plans relied on the performance of Katashi and a select few others.

Voldemort detested relying on others.

"Dark Lord," Macnair said suddenly. "May I- can I ask whether the squib is trustworthy? Would it not be better to task us to kill Potter, rather than him?"

The squib. The Seer.

Voldemort did not answer immediately. Indeed, he did not feel inclined to answer at all. He sat there a moment, feeling old embers stir in his stomach at the mention of Potter's name. Nagini slithered restlessly between the legs of his chair, raising her head to match Macnair's gaze, as though sensing her master's growing anger.

Sweat began to gather on Macnair's forehead and neck, and Voldemort could almost smell the Death Eater's fear.

"He is not tasked with killing Potter," said Voldemort. An edge crept into his voice as it always did when he had to deal with incompetent subordinates.

It was only a half lie. His orders to Katashi had been clear. However, they were nothing more than an insurance policy. He never allowed himself to be without a second plan and a shadow of a third.

It would not be Katashi who would kill Potter. Voldemort himself would arrange Potter's death.

"I see, sire," said Macnair, making it blindingly clear that he understood nothing at all.

Voldemort suddenly felt a surge of intense hatred towards Macnair, and Nagini, sensing it, reared her head and hissed. His hand involuntarily drifted to his wand.

He stopped himself.

Not now, he thought to himself. Not until this tool has outlived its usefulness.

"Do not concern yourself with Potter," continued Voldemort. He paused, bothered by something foreign, then continued. "Potter will be fortunate to see the first snowfall this year. I will be taking this into my own hands now, as trusted Death Eaters such as yourself have proved to be adept at nothing but failing."

"Forgive us, Lord," muttered Macnair, bowing his head until his forehead touched the ground. "Forgive us."

"I already told you," Voldemort said irritably. "Do not concern yourself with Potter any longer. The plague is the future, and the key to my eventual ascension."

Voldemort stopped again, his mind prickling. He felt another sensation - a presence of another. Cold, freezing anger rose.

Potter! His mind abandoned its original train of thought and focused instead on the intruder probing it.

What business do you have here? Voldemort hissed. Get out, Potter. Get out now.

"Lord?" Macnair asked, daring to raise his eyes from the stone floor. Harry could barely hear him. "What is it?"

"Shut up, you fool," Voldemort hissed. Harry felt himself being pushed out by an irresistible force.

Voldemort's mind closed, shutting everything out. The vision of a dark, crumbling dungeon began to blur and fade, the accompanying stench slowly vanishing.

A lingering malice held Harry there for a moment, as though not completely willing to let go. "You have already lost, Potter," something whispered, and then, abruptly Harry felt himself released.

Voldemort spoke again - his voice getting faint as Harry fell away. "I will kill your little bitch and she will bleed at my feet."

Sound was the last sense to disappear - starting with the faint wet dripping, and ending with Macnair's louder whimpering. Distantly, as though the words were being spoken a mile away, Harry heard "Crucio!" followed by a scream, and, immediately, he was thrown away.

Harry nearly leaped from his bed when he woke, his hand reaching for his wand, then freezing as he realized what had occurred. For a moment he wondered if he had yelled out as he was wont to do during the nightmares, but, judging from the soft snores coming from behind Ron's curtains, he had not.

He relaxed slightly, rubbing his forehead, trying to massage away the burning sensation from his scar. His hair and face was damp with cold sweat, and he struggled to recall the specifics of his dream.

Voldemort. Mcnair kneeling before him. The array of thoughts and schemes that whirled through Voldemort's mind. Macnair speaking, questioning. The threat on Hermione's life.

A cold chill ran down Harry's spine. He had not had a dream in many months - indeed, he had originally thought that Voldemort had somehow blocked the connection between them completely.

Now, it was blindingly obvious that that was untrue. He even wondered if it was intentional. What if, like in his fifth year, Voldemort showed him what he wanted Harry to see.

However, there was one big question: What the bloody hell for?

Harry sighed, slipping out of his bed and walking barefoot to the open window, letting the cool breeze blow against his face. He doubted he'd be able to get back to sleep tonight. He was rarely ever able to - after a nightmare.

The more he thought about it, the more he decided that the dream was initiated by Voldemort. Most times, their minds simply connected when one of them experienced a particularly strong emotion. This time, there was none of that emotion present, and, indeed, there was little actual information given away from the dream.

Its goal was simply to instill fear and to intimidate Harry before Voldemort even reached the walls of Hogwarts.

Harry's mouth twisted in a slight sort of grin as he stared out across the blackened grounds and forest. The moon was nowhere to be seen, and the stars were gone.

Maybe it was time to try something different, Harry thought to himself. The same faint grin remained on his face. Voldemort has thrown nightmares at me for the past two years.

Maybe...just maybe...it was time for Voldemort to receive some of the same.

OO

The next evening was their scheduled detention time, and, after finishing up some last minute Charms work, Harry and Hermione left the Gryffindor common room to go to Snape's office where the Potions master would undoubtedly be waiting for them.

It was a relatively short walk, with Harry vaguely wondering how Ron's detention with Professor Glasser was going, and when they reached the door to the office, Harry knocked twice before receiving the customary "Enter."

Harry pushed open the heavy Slytherin-engraved door and followed Hermione into the room, glancing once over the office that he was becoming all too familiar with over the past few years. Snape was sitting behind his desk, his arm outstretched expectantly, staring at them in a fashion that could only be considered condescending.

"Wands," Snape said shortly.

After receiving their wands, Snape stood up from his desk and strode to the door. Not daring to speak, Harry and Hermione followed him, both becoming aware that they were being led to the dungeons. Hermione caught Harry's eye and he gave her a soft, reassuring smile as they came to the first staircase.

Harry and Hermione followed Snape down the spiraling dungeon stair as cold, sourceless drafts of air whirled around them. It was only a minor detour away from the Potions classroom, though Harry had never been down this section of the dungeons before. Indeed, it was a very different section from the storage area he had been to last year.

"Due to an unfortunate...change in the storage area I used last year," said Snape, as though reading Harry's mind. "I moved all of the Potions supplies to this wing of the dungeons. I trust you won't get lost.

Snape halted abruptly as he approached the corner, his hand reaching for his wand. Harry, alarmed, instinctively drifted to his pocket, but, upon remembering that Snape had confiscated it in his office, froze. He looked towards Hermione, who appeared equally uneasy.

Suddenly, he began to hear footsteps, and Harry watched as Snape's face tightened.

Who would be wandering through the dungeons at this hour? Harry thought as Snape waved them against the wall. He and Hermione quickly complied - pressing their backs to the cold, mossy stone, hearing the footsteps grow louder as they approached. His mind raced as he tried to think of ways he could fight in the empty corridor, but he could come up with nothing.

Harry hated feeling defenseless, and angrily wondered why Snape had to take his bloody wand. He felt Hermione squeezing his arm, and he cast her a reassuring nod before turning back towards Snape.

Snape motioned them to remain still, and, quietly, he approached the corner. His wand was drawn and ready, and Harry felt an unbidden surge of confidence in the Potions master. Under any other set of circumstances, Harry would've hesitated to feel any danger from the mere sound of footsteps. However, the lower dungeons were exclusively Snape's territory, and Harry felt far more trust in Snape's judgment than his own while in them.

Finally, Snape reached the corner. He paused for a moment, as though listening. His back went tense, his wand hand rigid, and even from at a distance Harry could tell that Snape was taking long, labored breaths.

In a flash Snape whirled around the corner, thrusting his wand forward, his mouth opening as though preparing to shout a curse. The next second he froze, his eyes wide with surprise, and then at once relaxed. Looking supremely agitated, he withdrew his wand, casting a glare down the hallway that would melt many a brave Gryffindor.

"Terry Boot," Snape snarled, his face white with anger. "What in Merlin's name are you doing in the dungeons at this time of night? Have you no sense? Are you looking to be cursed?"

Terry began apologizing profusely, and Harry caught up with Snape and looked down the hall. Terry looked absolutely horrified - though whether it was from Snape's wrath or something else Harry couldn't tell.

"I didn't mean to-" Terry stammered. "I mean-"

"You have no business being in these dungeons," Snape said, sounding slightly calmer though still furious. "None at all. Explain yourself now to me or you will be explaining yourself to the headmaster."

"I saw- I mean I heard sounds down here while on my rounds," Terry said quickly. He was rubbing his hands together and looking rather frightened at the prospect of meeting Dumbledore. "I went down here to investigate to make sure everything was fine. I know I shouldn't have, but I only planned on taking a moment."

"And so you decided that while you're down there you might as well take a stroll through the east wing?" Snape said scathingly.

"I was looking-" Terry stuttered, his forehead sheened with sweat."The sounds- I was trying-"

"Spit it out," Snape snapped. "What were the sounds? Describe them to me. Now."

"Like footsteps! Like people whispering!"

"There are many things down here that make such sounds," said Snape, sounding as though he found Terry to be incredibly incompetent. "These dungeons are never empty." He paused for a fraction of a second. "Did you find anyone? Or evidence of anyone?"

"No, but I was sure I heard voiced," Terry insisted. "Even when I came down here, I thought I could hear some of the words-"

"Then obviously you were mistaken," interrupted Snape. "And regardless, you do not come down here under any circumstances. Do you understand this? Does this penetrate your thick Ravenclaw skull?"

Terry paled. "Yes."

"As Head Boy, you should already know this," Snape continued. "Protocol dictates that you find a Head of House before coming down here. Was this not already explained to you?"

"Yes, it was sir," Terry managed, his face paling.

"The Headmaster and the House Heads have enough troubles to deal with,"Snape said, seeming to gather himself. He sounded a touch calmer. "You do not need to add to those troubles by blatantly ignoring well-founded rules and forcing us to repeat ourselves. Twenty points from Ravenclaw, and you can expect word of this to get back to Filius. Now get out."

Terry did not need to be asked twice. He quickly skirted around Snape and passed down the hall, looking rather surprised at seeing Harry and Hermione, but saying nothing. Snape watched him leave, his entire face taut, and Harry felt an odd sort of satisfaction at seeing Terry being told off by the Potions master.

"What are you waiting for, Potter?" Snape said. "This wasted time isn't cutting into your detention, so I suggest you stop standing there." Then, now coughing, he turned down the corridor, his black robes billowing out behind him.

Harry and Hermione hurried behind him, managing to quickly catch up with Snape shortly around the corner.

Harry could not help but think that this detention would be worse than most. Terry had put Snape in a terribly foul mood, and that was never a good thing. Harry had seen Snape's apprehensive expression when he first heard the approaching footsteps. He had never seen such an expression on Snape before. It was as though he knew precisely what was around the corner, but he didn't want to see it.

And Harry knew what it was from.

The Death Eaters were after Snape too - though for very different reasons than they were after Harry. Snape was a known traitor, but, more than that, he was dangerous to the Dark Lord. It was now clear to Harry that Snape had long been reaching out to Voldemort's mind, carefully snatching bits of information then retreating before he was detected. He was playing a dangerous game with one of the most deadly wizards in history - and he could only survive for so long before an end was brought to his life, one way or another.

What Snape had expected to be around that corner was what he had expected to be around every corner for the past seventeen years - Death Eaters. And it wasn't personal fear that he was experiencing, but fear for what his death would cost the Order. Information - vital information - on Voldemort's latest schemes.

But it was only Terry, and that fear did not vanish, but turned into the burning wrath that the poor Ravenclaw fell victim to.

"These dungeons have some new tenants, Potter," Snape said at length. "Nasty creatures - feed mostly on rot, though I have no idea what they are. Where they came from, I don't know, though I daresay the castle had something to do with it. Most of them we have been able to herd into certain sections of the dungeon, which we then warded off. I cannot, however, say that all of them have been accounted for. There may be one or more loose in the dungeon."

"Why would the castle bring them here?" Harry asked.

"You would have to ask the castle, Potter," Snape said with a hint of irritation. "I certainly cannot account for the various...changes that have taken place."

They rounded one last corner, coming to a long, dank corridor almost identical to every other one in the dungeons. There were two iron doors a short distance away, and, just beyond them, was a semi-transparent shimmering blue wall that seemed to cut them off from proceeding any further into the dungeons. Harry squinted, trying to see through it, but saw only inky blackness, as not even torches went past the barrier.

Harry paused. "What is-"

"A barrier, Potter," Snape interjected. "Intended to keep the creatures out. Do not tinker with it or in any way compromise its effectiveness - I do not believe I need to mention the danger that will be created if the barrier falls."

Harry nodded, following Snape down the hallway and to the twin doors before the barrier.

"This is where you will be serving your detention," said Snape, striding up to the door on the right. From his pocket he drew a long, silver key and set it into the rusted lock, turning it three times before the latch finally loosened. He took the handle and pulled it open. Harry and Hermione stepped forward, peering into the opening as a gust of stale air washed out from it.

"You two are going to have a long night," said Snape, crossing his arms and smirking in the self-satisfied way that only the Potions master could manage. "I daresay you and the bottles have some catching up to do, Potter."

Harry groaned. The relatively small room - which, Harry guessed, was formerly a prisoner's room - was made cramped by countless boxes and crates. Many were falling apart and rotting from age, while others looked like they were new additions.

Harry stepped forward, kneeling to inspect a partially opened box on the floor. Snape's words held true. It was packed with rows of grimy, crusted glass bottles that looked older than the castle itself. Given that every box in the room was of similar shape and proportion, Harry had very little reason to doubt that every single one of them contained the same bottles.

"Many of the boxes in this room haven't breathed air since my predecessor's time," said Snape sleekly. "I never really bothered with them, as normally I have plenty of bottles on hand. However, due to budget cutbacks, I've been encouraged to make the most of what I have. Thankfully I now have the two of you to clean these before using them in the classroom."

Snape drew his wand and flicked it twice, conjuring two buckets of water, towels, and several rags. "You will be doing this by hand, so I encourage you both to exercise caution while washing these bottles. You can never quite be sure the reaction you will get when the potion residue is doused with water, and it would be a pity of either of you lose your hands due to negligence..."

Suddenly, there was a sound like a snarl that echoed off the wall. Hermione grabbed Harry's arm, and Snape quickly drew his wand. The Potions master quietly moved up to the door way, peering out, his eyes flashing.

A second snarl came out from the dungeon, accompanied by a quick scampering of claws. Snape, listening, seemed to relax and slowly withdrew his wand.

"It's coming from the other side of the barrier," said Snape. "The creatures on the other side should be of no concern."

"What if the barrier fails?" Hermione asked, not completely letting go of Harry.

"It won't fail," said Snape as though he found Hermione to be impertinent. "The Headmaster himself established the barrier."

“I suggest starting now, Potter,” Snape continued. He coughed and cleared his throat, and when he spoke again, his voice was strained and scratched. “Don’t waste any time. Miss Granger, come with me. You’ll be working in the other room to ensure that neither of you are…” His eyes furtively switched between Harry and Hermione. “…misusing your time.”

Hermione picked up her bucket and followed Snape to the room across the hall, which was filled with a roughly equal amount of boxes. He spoke with her briefly, and, after she nodded, he turned and swept out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Snape returned to Harry. “I will be returning to my office, though I will be periodically stopping by to check on your progress. How quickly you get through the bottles, Potter, will determine the amount of time you’ll serve in this detention.”

Like I expected it to be any difference, Harry said inwardly.

Snape’s eyes narrowed as though he had read Harry’s thoughts. However, he only said, “I will remind you once more to keep your attention focused on your work, rather than spending time dwelling on…distractions. I trust that it is not too much to expect you to put aside your base and instinctive urges for a few hours to properly perform what is assigned?”

Though Snape did not flatly state it, Harry knew precisely what he was referring to.

And found that the Potions master was becoming more unbearable than ever.

“I’ll try, sir,” Harry said as sarcastically as he could manage. “But something about these dungeons just really puts me in the mood.”

“Another hour then, Potter?” Snape said, his voice biting through the freezing air. “It is very easy to arrange.”

Harry did not reply, but instead pulled a box towards him and carefully began drawing the bottles.

Snape waited there, as if expecting a response. When he did not receive one he added, “Well, so you finally learned something about shutting your mouth, have you? Maybe tomorrow you can try shutting your mind.”

Without another word, Snape whirled around and strode through the door. It closed with a metallic clang, and, faintly, Harry could hear Snape’s footsteps quickly go down the corridor and fade away.

Sighing, Harry picked up his rag and dipped it in the lukewarm water. Taking a bottle from the box, he mindlessly began scrubbing away at the years of built-up grime and filth that had slowly settled and hardened on the glass bottom. After a moment he glanced at the bottle he was cleaning, and, regardless of how clean it was, set it aside before getting another.

Bottle-cleaning was something that he had become used to. Last year, Snape assigned him record numbers of detentions, and in nearly every case he was tasked to clean a portion of the bottles from the Potion master's horde. The reek of aging potion residue and Merlin-knows-what-else in the storage room, however, is something that he had not yet gotten used to, and after a while he pushed open the door to let some of the air drift out.

Harry saw that Hermione was working diligently in the cell across from him - her door being already open, her back towards him. Her hair was tied back in a practical, inelegant fashion that, for some reason, made him see her as more beautiful than if it had been done up with Sleekeasy's.

Harry watched her for a moment, not at all in a hurry, and then, reluctantly, returned to his cleaning. Finding his rag, he dipped it once more in the water and then began wiping yet another bottle.

His thoughts drifted back to Hermione, and then, indirectly to the dream he had during the night. Of Voldemort's threat.

"I will kill your little bitch and she will bleed at my feet."

He knows, Harry thought, suddenly feeling very cold. He glanced furtively at Hermione, who was still dutifully washing the bottles. She turned, catching him watching, and smiled.

It was as if one of his worst nightmares had come to life. One of the biggest problems that he sought to avoid had now risen. While it had been common knowledge that Harry's best two friends were Hermione and Ron, his new - more personal - relationship with Hermione had been very much private. While Harry entertained no illusions that Ron and Hermione weren't always on Voldemort's kill list, he also knew that Voldemort was much more selective about who he would specifically target.

Harry knew that, if Voldemort ever found out the full extent of his relationship with Hermione, Voldemort would spare no resources in order to have her killed.

And, now, it was clear that Voldemort did know, though Harry didn't have the faintest idea how.

Harry, now suddenly seeing Hermione's smile, weakly smiled back. Her brow furrowed with concern.

I'll never let Tom near her, Harry resolved. Never.

Harry knew that his silent promise meant nothing until it was challenged. He also knew that one day, Voldemort would come, and what could he do then? Harry had escaped death at Voldemort's hand many times, but merely escaping was a far cry from actually defeating Voldemort. Protecting Hermione - keeping her out the Dark Lord's clutches - was something that Harry's rational mind was not entirely sure he could do.

But it was not Harry's rational mind that made the promise, either.

"Harry?" Hermione said, concern in her voice.

Harry jerked himself away from his reverie, and, that same moment, the glass bottle he had been cleaning for the past several minutes burst into countless shards. Harry leapt to his feet in surprise, dropping the rag, feeling stings of pain on his palm as glass blew in all directions.

Hermione ran over to him. "Harry!" she said, then, looking at the shattered glass on the floor, "What happened?"

Harry did not answer her immediately, his mind still reeling over Voldemort and the promise and-

"Harry?" Hermione said again, looking up into his eyes.

"Involuntary magic," Harry said finally. "I guess I was-" Angry? Nervous? Afraid? "-bothered by something."

"Your hand!"

Harry looked down, seeing blood seep from cuts in his palm from where he held the bottle. He quickly grabbed a yet-unused towel that Snape left behind and wiped the blood away. None of the cuts looked particularly deep.

"Let me see," Hermione said, taking his hand and examining it. She grimaced. "Does it hurt?"

"Stings," said Harry. "But doesn't hurt. I'm fine, Hermione, I barely feel it at all-"

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione said, and Harry knew better than to argue. After a moment of examining his hand she said, "Well, I don't see any glass in your cuts - what about your other hand?"

"Didn't get touched," Harry said, showing her.

"Well, you're still going to want to see Madam Pomfrey," Hermione said. "These bottles aren't exactly sanitary, and I doubt those are clean wounds."

"I will, but not now," said Harry. "I doubt Snape would care much for me leaving detention early, and I don't want to be any further on his bad side than necessary. The explosion looked nastier than it was."

Hermione looked ready to argue, but didn't.

"That was quite a bit of involuntary magic," said Hermione finally, glancing up at him before taking a fresh towel and wrapping it around Harry's hand. "I haven't seen you do anything like that in a long while. What happened?"

"Voldemort knows," said Harry. Simply. Flatly.

Hermione froze, and even her hands - which were still wrapping the towel around his cuts - went rigid. Harry said nothing, not daring to imagine what she was thinking. There had always been an unspoken knowledge between them that Voldemort would inevitably find out. But that day was here. Now.

Harry tried to look at her, but her eyes were downcast, still focused on his hand. He was suddenly regretting his words, thinking that perhaps he should have told her later.

There's no better time nor place than during detention while in the dungeons, Harry thought, inwardly seething at himself.

"Well, we both sort of expected it, didn't we?" Hermione said at length, looking up and giving him a reassuring smile. "That's why my parents are being guarded by the Order. It was going to happen eventually."

Harry had trouble deciding what to say. "You don't think this...changes anything?"

Hermione's eyes searched his expression. "Only if one of us want it to."

Harry immediately knew what she meant. She was expecting him to distance himself from her, to slow their relationship, or do a million other things that he knew he could never do. He could not lie to her and say that he could stop caring for her. It could've been Grindewald and Voldemort and all the Dark Lords in the history of the world, but it wouldn't have made an ounce of difference. To try and stop feeling whatever he was feeling for her was impossible.

Hermione must have known on some level what he was thinking, because after a moment she stepped towards him and, standing on her toes, kissed him. It was a chaste kiss, full of distraction, and Harry felt rather than saw her wrap her arms around him and rest her head on his chest.

Slowly, Harry wrapped his arms around her, and said quietly, "I don't want this to change."

"Good," Hermione said. "Because neither do I."

Harry bordered on letting down his mental barriers to send a taunting message to Voldemort. You hear that Tom? You'll never come between us. Never!

Harry did not, however, and instead focused Hermione, who was still in his arms. "Did you ever wonder what made Tom become what he is?" Harry asked suddenly, unsure of why he even raised the question. Faintly, his scar began to tingle, though he ignored it.

"What do you mean, Harry?"

"I mean, what made him become a Dark Lord?" Harry said. "Why not a professor? Or an Auror? Or anything?"

Hermione lifted her head and began chewing her lower lip, as though trying to formulate an answer. "Are you asking if some people are just born evil?"

"No, not that," Harry said quickly, and then paused. The tingling in his scar rose to a slight burning sensation. "Do you- do you think that's what it is?"

"No, not at all," Hermione replied. "Well, I think the answer your looking for is in the prophecy. The Power-He-Knows-Not. What is the power that he doesn't know?"

"Love," said Harry. "Dumbledore said it was love."

Hermione did not respond at first, and instead watched him, as though deep in thought. "Well that's it then, isn't it?" Hermione said at length. "Just like loving someone can take you somewhere, not loving someone - or being unable to love someone - can take you somewhere else."

Harry did not say so, but to him Hermione's words sounded incredibly right.

"Harry," Hermione continued, just barely disentangling herself from him. "There's something-"

But before she could finish her words, the door to the cell slammed shut, startling them both, the resounding clang echoing through the room and in the hall. Harry went to the door and grabbed the handle, trying to push it open, his scar flaring as though on fire then suddenly dying back.

"It's jammed," Harry said, grunting as he tried the move the rusted handle. It refused to budge.

Hermione moved next to him, looking once at the handle and then at the door. "No," she said in a small voice. "Not jammed. Locked."

(A/N: I normally make it a rule not to use cliffhangers - but sometimes I just have to make an exception. Again, I greatly appreciate some of the ridiculously loyal - and forgiving - readers I have. I certainly know that I would not be reading a story that took such a long hiatus. Thanks for sticking with it, I'm hoping to be able to reward your persistence - the more I write this story the more ideas I'm getting, much like I did with the Maw.)