Harry Potter and the Eagle's Sapphire

Author's Note: Business as usual—I told you I'd do better now that I've begun the sequel. Chapter two's even been started already.

For the record, Eagle's Sapphire is pre-OotP canon, a sixth-year fic following Truest Power. The rape warning from my previous story will in some ways carry over, as it is a sequel, and that sort of thing doesn't just go away. I've had to take an “R” rating with this series of fan fictions, so I'm not going to feel bad about really using it in this one.

I plan on using some ideas from OotP and HBP, albeit not actual events. I know for sure you'll see characters like Nymphadora Tonks and Bellatrix Lestrange because I love them, and there's the concept of the Order and the notion of thestrals, and pretty much anything else I see fit to include later.

Sit back and enjoy. I want you to like ES more than you did TP (which I assume you liked since you're here, aren't you?) because I think it's going to be better now that everything's been set up. :) I'm still working on some kind of an update list, or else a Yahoo! group or LiveJournal—just let me know what would work best for you­, for you are what this is about. I love you all, and thank you for always reading.

-Elle (emoxley@kc.rr.com)

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Chapter One

FOUR PRIVET DRIVE

It had happened in November. After living at number four for close to twenty years, the Dursley family had moved away from Privet Drive. The street's other residents, for all their differences, had agreed at the time that the move hadn't come a moment too soon.

Mrs. Petunia Dursley was a snoop; Mr. Vernon Dursley, an arse. Their dread son, Dudley, was an over-grown git who picked on children half his age. The least obnoxious occupant of number four had been the Dursleys' nephew, and he had attended a school for the criminally insane! No, the other residents of Privet Drive were glad to see the Dursleys go—that is, until they met (or rather didn't meet) their new neighbor.

He was a small man, a sniveling sort of fellow with watery eyes. He was hardly taller than a number of the neighborhood children, and his skin was grey and unhealthy looking. He was a heavyset man, though the few residents on Privet Drive who had seen him more than once or twice claimed that he looked as if he had at one time lost all that weight only to gain it back again. He didn't have black hair, or brown, or blonde, or even grey, because he wasn't all that old. Rather, his hair was colorless, and wispy, and he was without a doubt balding. His clothes were all secondhand, or maybe just very, very old, but worse than anything, he had let the house at number four go even more than he had himself.

No one knew this man's name, though not for a lack of trying. Mrs. Georgina Gambette, of number six, who had only become the nosiest woman on Privet Drive after Mrs. Dursley moved away, had gone so far as to try stealing this man's mail. However, after a week of unsuccessful attempts, she had concluded that this man could not possibly take mail in the usual manner.

So Mrs. Gambette had given in and called Mrs. Dursley, asking for the man's name. And Mrs. Dursley, to her surprise, had not been able to tell her. She would ask her husband, though, Mrs. Dursley assured Mrs. Gambette, and she would call her back as soon as Mr. Dursley got home from work. They had driven by the day before; they were sorry to see the lawn looking so unkempt. Mrs. Dursley had typically been a woman of her word, however slippery the implications of it, so Mrs. Gambette had waited by the phone for days.

But Mrs. Dursley had never called.

Rarely did this little man come or go from number four, and perhaps it was that fact alone that had the neighbors so curious. If he did leave the house, it was usually around nightfall, though typically not at all. And one other thing that had their heads spinning: although the man would enter his home one day and not come out for seven more, it was hardly as if he was in the house in the meantime.

In other words, though the Dursleys had been the worst of the inhabitants of Privet Drive, the other residents weren't all that much better. Most of them were just as pretentious, just as cautious, just as snobby, and just as ready to snub those who did not fit in. It was no surprise that the little man attracted so much curiosity because even the nicest of neighbors in the kindest of neighborhoods would have wondered what could make a house dilapidate seven years in a span of seven months.

The little man's name was Peter Pettigrew. He wasn't the cleverest man, or the most observant, and he honestly did not realize how much curiosity he had generated. This was one of the few things Pettigrew came by honestly. He wasn't an ordinary man, Pettigrew, he was a wizard, even a special kind of wizard, called an Animagus. He could change into a rat whenever he liked, a transfiguration that generally took a great deal of skill. But Pettigrew wasn't particularly skilled or particularly smart, and he had only learned to transform himself with the help of much greater wizards.

These days Pettigrew did not transform much. Years before he had cut off his own finger to frame one of the much greater wizards for the murder of the other one. That had not stopped him from transforming; in fact, he had changed into a rat after that and spent the next twelve years as one. Then, about a year before present day, Pettigrew had lost the rest of his arm. Actually, he had cut it off, too. He had done it to help a particularly nasty wizard return to power. Other people who had powers like Pettigrew would not speak this wizard's name (which was Voldemort) and preferred to call him You-Know-Who. As one of this wizard's followers, Pettigrew just called him the Dark Lord.

It was one of the Dark Lord's assignments that had Pettigrew living at Four Privet Drive among Muggles, or non-magic folk, hiding his hand (wrought of silver, a gift from You-Know-Who for Pettigrew's many years of service) in his pocket whenever he did have to leave the house via the front door. His master had interest in one of number four's previous occupants, and to give a hint as to which one, none of the Dursleys were the least bit magical.

The nephew, on the other hand, was. He had long been a menace to the Dark Lord's cause, but as the sun set one evening in early July, it was the wizards and witches who followed You-Know-Who that were particularly annoyed with him.

Even Pettigrew was cursing the boy's name under his breath as he scrambled up the pathway to his home, carrying a sack of groceries from the Muggle store with one arm. He was to receive visitors that night, important visitors, and he had realized that he had nothing to serve them. He probably needn't serve them anything, but where his mother had failed to mold him into the most upstanding of men, she hadn't failed to teach him proper manners. There had been no time to done a disguise and Apparate to a wizarding center to shop. Disguises were necessary for Pettigrew when he ventured into the wizarding world, as his name had been on a death certificate for fifteen-odd years now.

In everything he did anymore, Pettigrew twittered. He made faces and wrinkled his nose and muttered things, “Potter this...” and “Potter that...” (for Potter was the nephew's surname). Cutting cheese into cubes and slicing up meat and placing olives on a tray was no exception.

“Potter's done something to Master!” murmured Pettigrew. His laugh was high and unnatural. “It's always Potter!” He laughed again. “It's when Potter makes a mess of things that the others make a mess of me!”

Pettigrew had not always been such a wrecked little man. At one time, he had been a sweet, round-faced boy. At another, he had been a decent wizard, in the way that he wasn't particularly skilled but stayed out of trouble. But he had also betrayed his best friends, lived twelve years as a rodent, lost a limb, and been tortured numerous times. Any one of those things would have changed a person. Experiencing all of them had reduced Pettigrew to something hardly human, to little more than the nerves and tics of one.

“Hah!” laughed Pettigrew. A floorboard had creaked, and it was enough to send him into nervous hysteria.

Although the structure at four Privet Drive had long since housed foul people and foul activities, it was nothing compared to what it had seen since Pettigrew had moved in, opening the house to a steady stream of Death Eater activity ever since. No, this was something the house had not been prepared to deal with, and it had quickly fallen into disrepair. No matter how often he cleaned, the counters were always filthy with grime, and by the second week he had lived there, the specially-designed curtains Mrs. Dursley had hung new in September were ratty tears of fabric.

Pettigrew was careful to avoid that floorboard as he scurried around the kitchen. “At least I held onto that bottle of wine,” he tittered, fetching the bottle in question and cleaning the proper number of glasses. One for Malfoy, one for Lestrange, one for Snape, one for himself. Pettigrew did not drink; he would have not more than a sip, but he knew that all three of the people he would serve that night were unlikely to trust the alcohol otherwise.

All of this was being done without magic. Pettigrew was hardly versed through seventh level charms and incantations, and he found that he sometimes preferred Muggle methods. He worked slowly, methodically, and he was so focused on the task at hand, as well as not making the floorboard creak again, that he did not hear Malfoy or Lestrange Apparate in.

“Hah!” exclaimed Pettigrew. His gasp of surprise rather resembled his laugh.

“Wormtail,” said Lucius Malfoy silkily, using the man's alias, “did I not warn you the last time I came to call to strengthen the anti-Apparation magic on the house?” Malfoy gave him a smooth smile, careful not to expose his teeth, though Pettigrew did not see why, as they were perfectly straight and white, as polished as every other aspect of the man. “Well?”

Bellatrix Lestrange snorted. “I'm sure he surely tried, Lucius. But really, did you think him capable of fulfilling your request when you made it?” Lestrange was Malfoy's sister-in-law, and Pettigrew imagined they had an interesting working relationship, as it had just come out that Malfoy had murdered her sister, his wife, months before. Either she was silently plotting revenge (something she was known for) or her stint in the wizard prison Azkaban had made her crazy enough not to care.

Pettigrew froze. “Master wants Travers to do it!” he sputtered. This was not a lie. The Dark Lord had insisted that his most powerful magician would strengthen the wards, eventually, and until then, it was unlikely he would call himself.

“Ah,” said Lestrange, the strange sound she made hardly a word. She had scooted around the kitchen and grabbed an olive from Pettigrew's neatly-prepared tray. She sucked it into her mouth with a pop. She smacked her lips together when she had finished chewing and clapped in front of her face. Her eyes were as black as ever, filled with more insanity than usual that night. Pettigrew gripped the counter behind him with his real hand.

“Now Bella,” scolded Lucius, “don't scare the rat.”

“Hah,” said Pettigrew nervously. “Hah—”

“Is that all you can say,” said Lestrange slowly, drawing her words out. Pettigrew, who had caught a Muggle movie several days before on the television, found himself instantly reminded of the lead actress's portrayal of an insane woman. She sing-songed, “I think it is!”

Malfoy beckoned Lestrange towards him, wrapping his arm around the woman's waist. He sensually tipped her head with the other hand and gazed into her eyes. “Bella... behave.”

Lestrange snapped to attention. She wiggled away from Malfoy and, unblinkingly, wrapped a long-fingered hand around Pettigrew's neck. “My husband is dead.”

“I-I-I'm sorry,” stammered Pettigrew. She had squeezed his throat just enough to make him uncomfortable, not enough to hurt him.

“He led a raid on a Muggle town,” said Lestrange. “That was one of the Dark Lord's final orders. He was a bad man—” she said this proudly “—trying to do his best for Master. And he was killed by a do-gooder.”

“B-b-by an Auror?” Pettigrew wanted to know. Now it seemed as if she might actually mean to choke him.

“By one of Dumbledore's little men,” Lestrange said airily. “He was killed by my own cousin, the fugitive Black. Had Master not disappeared on us, I think my dear Rodolphus would still be alive.”

“Master does always try to protect his most loyal servants!” squeaked Pettigrew. “And what servants are more loyal than those who went to Azkaban for him!”

He had not been careful enough with his words. Although Lestrange was appeased enough to stop pressing so hard against his jugular, Malfoy's eyes had flashed. While Lestrange spent many years in Azkaban with her husband, Malfoy was yet to see the inside of the place.

“Are you calling me traitorous?” whispered Malfoy, his hand resting atop his sister-in-law's in no time. “Or are you trying to tell us something, Wormtail? Have you switched sides? You live among Muggles, but that wouldn't change your loyalties.”

“Hah!” That was all Pettigrew could manage. He was quivering in fear, however, and Malfoy called it off. He cleared his throat, and Lestrange dropped her hand as well, averting her eyes.

“The Dark Lord has returned,” said Malfoy dramatically.

Pettigrew fell to his knees, kissing the hem of Malfoy's expensive robes just as he would those belonging to the one they served. “You bring me great joy,” he breathed. “Thank you, thank you, for delivering this news to me!”

At once, Lestrange kicked Pettigrew in the side, causing one of his ribs to crack sickeningly. “Get up,” she ordered, “up, up, up! He is not in physical form, you fool!”

Pettigrew's eyes widened in both pain and surprise. He clutched his remaining arm with his silvery hand. “Does he need my other arm?”

“What he needs,” said Malfoy coolly, “is for it to be October. You see, Wormtail, as a result of his recent battle with the Potter boy, Master has found himself suspended in time, and it won't be until Halloween that our reality catches up to his. He has managed to transcend his corporeal form and project his essence on our current reality.”

“He's a ghost,” snapped Lestrange. “A ghost, a ghost, a ghost! Not acceptable, Wormtail, not acceptable...”

Again Malfoy took Lestrange in his arms. This time, however, when he tilted her chin, he lowered his lips to hers. “Now Bella,” he said, still hardly more than a breath away from her when they parted, “you promised you wouldn't accuse.”

“And you promised you'd let me have more fun than Rudolphus did,” murmured Lestrange. “Ah, ah.”

Although he addressed Pettigrew, Malfoy did not break eye contact with Lestrange. “Wormtail. I have to say... even in light of the reappearance of the one we serve... I am not sure everyone is ready for your reappearance. It was fine that you came to the General Assembly when the Dark Lord first disappeared and Dumbledore killed Krum, but I would ignore the tinge of your mark until He calls on you after his return. I must say it is... tiring the rest of us to hear of his fervent search for Potter, when you are one of the few remaining souls who knows why he so seeks the boy.”

“So selfish,” muttered Lestrange. She finally slipped from Malfoy's grasp to widen her eyes for Pettigrew. “No one likes it that you won't tell... and had Master not returned to demand we leave you be, I would have been the first to torture it out of you. In fact, I might... still.”

Lestrange was known for her frequent use of the Cruciatus Curse, a method of torture forbidden by wizards with actually purity and light to their credit. It was said that the incantation was practically her child, for she said it every bit as lovingly as a mother would an infant's name. Pettigrew had been tortured by her before; in fact, she had been the one that had broken him years before and brought him over to this side. He had also been tortured by the Dark Lord for disobedience, yet Lestrange still scared Pettigrew more.

“Bella,” Malfoy said again, his tone increasingly more warning. Malfoy, with his sleek blond hair and amazing wealth and tremendous sadism, scared Pettigrew, even though he knew that the Dark Lord despised the man on most occasions. Besides blaming Pettigrew for their master's many downfalls before Harry Potter, many of the Death Eaters hated him for having achieved placement within the master's innermost circle. “We have to play nice with the stupid little man for the mean time.”

Pettigrew didn't know who whimpered more—him, over the prospect of what was to come, or Lestrange, over having her fun delayed. “Please...”

The corners of Lestrange's mouths curled into a smirk, as she did love it when they first began to plead. “Not yet,” she hissed anyway. “Not yet. Business before pleasure. You've found us nothing useful since you discovered Potter's blood and a few of his effects under the stairs—and even that took you long enough. Four months to yank boards from a crawl space?” She clucked her tongue.

“And we find it hard to believe,” continued Malfoy, “that there are no other traces of the boy elsewhere in the house.”

“No,” said Pettigrew fervently. “Hardly anything at all! They kept him locked up, it's the only explanation!”

Lestrange scoffed. “Dumbledore's prince? The Boy Who Lived? It's madness!”

Malfoy cleared his throat. “She means, Wormtail, that it was hard enough to believe that the one time savior of the wizarding world was raised by Muggles, and even harder to believe that Dumbledore would entrust his care to people that locked him up under the stairs.”

Pettigrew couldn't help but think of Malfoy's own son, who certainly had position and status, but had also spent a fair amount of his childhood beaten into a closet. “H-h-he did not like his Muggle relatives!”

“Something you learned as rat, isn't it?” demanded Lestrange. “While some of us lost almost fourteen years of our lives to maintain our loyalties, others would not even face the light of the wizarding world!”

“I-I-I—” stammered Pettigrew, but he had no idea what he was saying. Then he remembered something. “The boy did perform magic here once!” he exclaimed, pointing past the rickety kitchen table to where the Dursleys' had been. “Inadvertent! But perhaps it can be—”

Malfoy snarled at him. “A month ago it would have been great for you to detect that, Wormtail, but as it stands currently, Master believes that the boy's original powers have been lost forever, and that he has since gained new ones.” He had drawn his wand, leaving Pettigrew to cower against the kitchen counter.

“H-h-how is that possible?” Pettigrew wanted to know.

Lestrange's eyes flashed. “We should be asking you that!” she hissed, shoving the little man to the floor with one swift movement and yanking him up by the shirt collar with another. She had drawn her own wand, and the tip of it sparked as she traced Pettigrew's jaw. “You are the one who knows why Master so longs to be relieved of the Potter boy's presence!”

Pettigrew whimpered, all too aware of the fact that the other two Death Eaters had probably been sent to torture him, not tell him what had become of the Dark Lord. Lestrange smiled; her eyes began to twinkle at the sounds Pettigrew was making.

“Crucio,” she said lazily, but despite her drawl, the word still rolled from her tongue with ease and familiarity. There was a pause.

And Pettigrew began to shriek. His body began to shake first, and soon he broke into convulsions. As his arms and legs flailed, his tongue fell from his mouth and his eyes rolled back into his head as if he were having a seizure. His close proximity to the counter only added to the torment. Lestrange just watched serenely as Pettigrew's body twisted and turned until the back of his head pounded against the counter with every spasm. In the days to come, Pettigrew's Muggle neighbors would whisper about the shrieks and moans that permeated the humid air that night.

“Do you remember the night I broke you?” drawled Lestrange as she let up her wand, running her fingers down it in an admiring fashion, completely ignoring that Pettigrew continued to moan. “I tortured you for three hours, on and off—three hours. The Dark Lord laughed and clapped as I worked, singing praises, but when you began to shriek that you would tell him everything, he asked me to leave. I resented being used like that—not by Master. By you. This time, when I torture you, just blurt it out.”

Lestrange jabbed her wand into the flesh near Pettigrew's eye. As he howled, Malfoy carefully wrapped his arms around her from behind, reaching over her head and gripping the tip of her wand.

“Bella, my love, I cannot abide this,” said Malfoy, but the twinkle in his grey eyes betrayed him. He had lifted Lestrange's chin for a third time, and the two seemed lost in one another's eyes.

Pettigrew could only snivel from the floor. Whatever show they were putting on, it disturbed him, but it also gave him a moment's rest from her cruel games. He did not take it to catch his breath, however, or to regain his footing. Instead, he just stared at the two Death Eaters above him.

He hated them, and his stomach turned at the thought of what terror they managed individually, let alone together, but the more something frightened Pettigrew, the more something terrified him, the less likely he was to turn his head and ignore it. It would intrigue him to the point of transfixion, and he would remain, appalled, until the horror ended. Such was the case now—and so mesmerized were Lestrange and Malfoy with one another, so mesmerized was Pettigrew by them, that no one noticed a fourth person in the room until he cleared his throat.

“Bellatrix,” said the man, stepping through the shadowy kitchen doorway and staring at the Muggle light bulb overhead with disdain, “is Rodolphus's body even cold yet?”

Lestrange did not miss a beat as she spun around in Malfoy's arms, ducking around him to face Severus Snape directly. “I don't know, Severus—weren't you supposed to be seeing about it? Or were you too busy braiding Dumbledore's beard?”

Snape's dark eyes shifted and his large, hooked nose twitched as he stepped passed Lestrange and offered Pettigrew a hand up. The gesture wasn't as friendly as it seemed. As soon as he was back on his feet, Snape clapped his shoulder so hard that he very nearly toppled over again.

“My service to Albus Dumbledore has everything to do with my service to our mutual master,” said Snape silkily as he eased around the counter and surveyed Pettigrew's spread of food. “And while some of us spent fourteen years with the dementors, our natural allies, and others like us for company, I spent sixteen years in the service of a mad, righteous fool—and are in his service still. Wormtail, what is all this?”

“R-r-refreshments,” stammered Pettigrew, still gripping the counter for support. “P-p-please help yourself!”

“How you manage to say your own name has been a mystery to me for many years, and I remain, as ever, intrigued,” said Snape smoothly, going for a cheese cube. As Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, he had used the same voice to insult Pettigrew that he often used to insult students not from his own house, Slytherin, which produced more dark wizards than the other three combined. “Muggle products. How boringly predictable, Wormtail.”

Malfoy was studying Snape. “You're here early,” he said calmly. They had been friends once, until quite recently in fact, thanks to an unfortunate incident in Snape's classroom with Malfoy's son. “Why?”

“Change of plans,” said Snape, now helping himself to a slice of ham. “The Dark Lord is coming here.”

“Why?” repeated Malfoy.

Snape arched an eyebrow. “Should I tell him you now question his actions, Lucius?”

Malfoy tried another approach. “Why here?”

“Change of scenery,” said Snape coolly. He had poured himself a glass of wine. “He has just transcended a great setback, Lucius. Surely you can gather that he wishes to evaluate the state of things following his absence.”

“The one he caused?” Lestrange had inserted herself into the conversation, pointing an accusatory finger at Pettigrew.

“The one Potter caused,” corrected Snape. “Really, Bellatrix, it's been fifteen years. When are you going to get over Pettigrew?”

“Really, Severus,” Lestrange shot back, “it's been twenty-five years. When are you going to get over Potter?”

Snape often told Lestrange she needed to get over her hatred of Pettigrew, for the day would come where they had to work together and she couldn't just kill him. Just as often, she told him he needed to get over his hatred of the Potter boy's father, for the day would come where he would want to strangle the younger Potter and he couldn't just kill him. Lestrange was too sadistic for Snape's taste. Snape was too smart for Lestrange's.

The two stared calculating at each other.

“It's a General Assembly,” said Snape, shifting his focus to Malfoy. “The Dark Lord is going to induct new members tonight.” His eyes flashed.

“Oh?” said Malfoy, his eyes flashing just the same. Lestrange, her attention on Snape, had missed the second part of the exchange.

“I just thought you would be interested,” said Snape silkily, “when rumor has it that the only thing to prevent Draco from receiving the Mark in the past few weeks is the master's absence.”

“Draco is at home this evening, studying.” Malfoy was lying, and Snape knew this. “Since he was expelled from Hogwarts, per your directive, he has had to become twice as diligent in his schoolwork.”

Snape just smiled. “Your son has always been a ready mind,” he said. “What was he, thirteen, when you taught him to Apparate illegally?”

“Twelve when I taught him to Apparate,” said Malfoy evenly. “Thirteen when I taught him to Apparate from the Manor.”

“And he still hadn't managed to produce a properly chilled Swelling Solution,” Snape challenged. He shook his head sadly, daring Malfoy to keep his temper in check.

“You're supposed to be his godfather,” said Lestrange, her eyes dancing at the prospect of conflict. Pettigrew, on the other hand, had his eyes squeezed firmly shut.

“As your cousin Sirius was supposed to be Harry Potter's,” said Snape. “Until recently Lucius believed him to have betrayed the boy's parents as one of our number.” Under his breath, the Potions Master would add, “Fool.”

Had the crack of another wizard Apparating not resonated through the kitchen, it was likely Malfoy would have cursed Snape. Even when the two had been friends, and they had been for a number of years, they had often fought. Snape was the more level-headed of the two, and he was also the better wizard. Malfoy had money, and as a result, he had never learned to properly carry himself when things did not go his way.

This Death Eater had obviously come for the General Assembly. He donned the standard black robes and already wore his mask. He turned his head in the direction of the others before rolling down his sleeve. The Mark on his arm, something they all bore, had clearly cooled and faded now that he was where he was meant to be. The turn of his head was enough to prompt Snape, Malfoy and Lestrange to done their own masks before he could truly glimpse at them.

Pettigrew wasn't fortunate enough to have his on him, and he went scampering up the stairs to his room to change. In the process, he nearly splinched one Apparating Death Eater and tripped over two on the way up.

They came in groups, one after another, two or three arriving in any given minute. Pettigrew, bumbling down the stairs just as he had up them, frantically tried to put out more hors d'oeuvres, but Snape caught him by the shirttails and cleared what he had out already with a tricky wandless charm. In no time at all, the house teemed with Death Eaters, some daring to take off their masks and make small talk while waiting for the Dark Lord, others more sensibly hanging to the shadows.

Then came others, others that did not yet bear the Dark Mark. Some Apparated, others tumbled from the fireplace, having taken the Floo. A pug-faced girl. An olive-skinned boy. Twins with wide, dark eyes. There were about a dozen of them, most of them teenagers, all of them terrified. The Mark prickled on the arms of the others, signaling the Dark Lord's approach. Two more Apparated in.

The first was tall, and thin, with dark hair and dark eyes. He wore an expression of complete indifference. The second was an average height and of an average build, and his dark grey eyes and pale blond hair were reflections of his father's. In stark contrast with his black robes were the white bandages that extended from above his knee to his foot. He walked with the aid of a cane, but he still wore a smirk as he took his place with the others. This was Malfoy's son Draco.

It was typical, actually, that these two were not scared. There were always a few, a fraction of the new recruits brought in that did not shake and tremble, shriek as their arms were imprinted with the Mark, those that did not anger the Dark Lord enough to use the Cruciatus Curse. Unlike his son, Lucius had not been one to stand unaffected. Pettigrew had kicked and screamed more than anyone else in the room had. Snape, on the other hand, had taken his indifferently, and Lestrange had closed her eyes as if to savor the moment.

By half past ten, more than an hour after the first Death Eater had Apparated, the room had grown quite quiet. One of the new recruits, the second of two girls to arrive, had broken down into tears and a masked Death Eater had strode across the room to strike her across the face. When she had cried out, he had snapped back her left arm, the crack of the bone audible over her pleas to her father. He had thrown her to the floor and hissed, “It'll be twice as bad when you receive the Mark—and Master won't be half as kind as I.”

The incident had had a sobering effect on the houseful of Death Eaters. When the lower rooms chilled, and a breeze blew through the house, it wasn't too soon. As the house rattled around its occupants, another wizard arrived.

This man was Geoffrey Travers, an extremely powerful magician that the Dark Lord seemed to trust implicitly. This is why it was not surprising to his other followers that Travers had made such a grand entrance, especially not when the mist about him did not clear. It swirled and sparked and changed into a massive ball of blinding light, from which the hazy image of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named emerged.

The Dark Lord was far wispier than the vaguest of ghosts, his form blood red rather than pearly white, and parts of his body would fade in and out. He wandered a circle around Travers, who had Apparated to the very center of the living room and already cleared most of the Death Eaters from the floor. Voldemort's footfalls—or perhaps lack thereof, as he could scarcely do more than float—cleared it further. He drew his wand (which appeared only slightly more solid than his body), and in a low, angry whisper, demanded, “Crucio Merendé.”

Everyone else in the room, save for Travers, dropped to the ground in spasms at once. As Voldemort watched his followers writhe on the ground in pain, he found himself debating for a moment whether he valued the efficiency of that spell, which tortured them all at once but to a lesser extent, to the pleasure of the singular Cruciatus Curse, which tortured just one fully. He reasoned that he would have to spend time later punishing each Death Eater, as the hour grew late and he had much to achieve.

Before even half his supporters had managed to pick themselves off the floor, the Dark Lord had set his ghastly face to snarl. The ones that had stumbled to their feet were quick to notice that their master's arms were folded across his chest; it was Travers that still extended the curse with his wand. Voldemort's eyes flashed, causing him to fade out entirely for a moment.

“Yes, you have it,” he snapped. “Thanks to the Potter boy, I've been reduced to a shadow of my usual splendor, forced to rely on a mere magician to punish the insolent fools I will be forced to rely on until Samhain!”

Now most of the Death Eaters had risen to their feet, the exception being young Malfoy, who had taken a seat calmly on a tattered old sofa, his cane resting against his good knee with his hands rested across it. The Dark Lord took less than a second to hone in on this unusual display, and many of the Death Eaters were forced to mask their sudden intake of breath as coughs or sneezes. They were all thinking the same thing: He's lost it, his father's blood teachings have broken him, how could he not know that standing was expected?

But rather than channel his magic again through Travers to torture Draco, Voldemort sent his magician to enthusiastically pump the boy's hand. “Draco,” he said, his lips curling upwards in a disturbing smile. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I have come for the Mark,” said Draco composedly. “I wish for your initiation to the cause, Master.”

“Finally!” chortled Voldemort. “Finally. I shan't wait—who knows how long I have before your insufferable father changes his mind?” His ghostly form swiveled in midair, glaring at once at the masked figure that was almost certainly Lucius. “It is just my luck that he would come around when I am without the ability to mark you myself.”

Travers drew a canvas bag from beneath his plain robes as the Dark Lord spoke. He was not dressed like the other Death Eaters, but this was not unusual. His role in Voldemort's circle had always been peculiar, however, so no one thought anything of it as he drew a heavy, glowing stone from the bag and allowed the snake Nagini to twist around his left forearm. Nagini was suddenly the size of a coral snake not a boa, and beneath her coils, Travers's arm was strangely devoid of his master's telling mark. He held his arms out to Voldemort, who reached one translucent arm through him. Travers's head snapped back for a brief moment, but he recovered.

The Dark Lord was addressing the fourteen who would soon join his ranks. “I will feel better explicating my plans after you have formally entered into my service,” he said. He lifted his arms. “Draco? Will you begin?”

“Sure,” drawled the young Malfoy, causing more gasps to be covered with hiccoughs and the like. Voldemort just chuckled.

“Take the stone,” he urged, and the rock in question began to smoke immediately upon being dropped by Travers into Draco's waiting hands. He allowed the young man's hands to burn and blister to bleeding while he addressed his other followers. “You will come to envy this one, no doubt.”

Draco's hands were black beyond recognition when Travers removed the stone from them, but he maintained eye contact with the Dark Lord and did not seem to be affected by the pain. When two wands, one wispy and one real, were lowered to his exposed forearm and seared his flesh, he just arched his brows as if impressed by the scope of the magic.

The process used to induct Draco to the Death Eaters was repeated on the tall boy with the dark hair that had Apparated to four Privet Drive at the same time. He did not receive the praise Malfoy did, but he did not earn the Dark Lord's scorn either. Upon receiving his own Mark, he dropped to his knees and bowed low. “Master.”

The pug-faced girl was next. She was trembling in anticipation, her small, piggish eyes darting furtively in Draco's direction, as if she could channel his composure while receiving her own Mark. This girl was Pansy Parkinson, one of his housemates at school. Unlike the two boys before her, she squeezed her eyes shut while Voldemort's stone scarred her flesh, but the Dark Lord chose to overlook her nerves as she dropped to her knees and ducked her head. “Master.”

They were the only three not to suffer the Cruciatus Curse as part of their induction. Every new member after Pansy seemed to anger Voldemort for whatever reason, and while he merely tormented the boy whose induction came next for a few seconds, the ninth to be inducted shrieked and howled below his wand for a good five minutes. When it was the other girl's turn to take the stone, she could not even manage a brave face as the stone was dropped into her hand.

What happened then was peculiar. Immediately, it began to smoke, more than it had all night. The girl let out a shriek not of this world as it consumed her. Without much further ado, she had disappeared, the stone dropping to the ground. Travers retrieved it. A few heads cocked beneath masks, but no one dared breathe a word, even though many were confused. Voldemort had moved on, meaning they were expected to as well.

There were four wizards to go. What had happened to the girl was something that happened occasionally, though not often. The stone the Dark Lord possessed had once laid at the foundation of the great Salazar Slytherin's childhood home, and it had been one the famed founder of Hogwarts had taken with him when the house was destroyed. After his death, it had passed from one Dark wizard to another, forced into perverse activity such as this. Voldemort's enchantments to the rock included the tremendous heat it gave off, as well as its power to dissolve anyone he found unworthy.

The eleventh in line did well for himself, though he still endured the Cruciatus Curse. This wizard was Joseph Marks. He had long been in the service of Voldemort, his father of course longer, but he had only recently been offered the Mark by his master. The twelfth and thirteenth were the twins, who each cringed more for his brother's suffering than his own. The final inductee kept having twitching fits, for which he was tortured by three additional curses, and left to spasm when the Dark Lord turned his back to the newest members of his ever-growing circle of Dark wizards. Voldemort, of course, ignored this.

“Yes,” he breathed, his arms fading in and out as he raised them, “yes—it is hard for you to see me like this, it is equally hard for me to address you as I am currently. A mere shadow of my greatness, that is all I am before you tonight...”

He trailed off, and one nearby Death Eater seized the opportunity, dropping to his knees and kissing the wispy swirls that indicated the hem of Voldemort's robes. This man's daughter had been dissolved by the Stone of Slytherin, and perhaps he was trying to redeem himself in his master's eyes when he opened his mouth. He had no such luck.

“Master, Master—my lord! Surely you have not been taken from us again by the Dread Child! Whatever it will take to restore you, my lord, whatever means necessary, I for one, am willing to exploit them if only you will be whole again, Master!” the Death Eater begged. “I beseech you to consider my service!”

When will they learn not to beseech me?

Voldemort looked bored as Travers's arm rose behind him to cast the Killing Curse. Every bit as much as he wanted followers that would obey him blindly, he wanted those clever enough to terrorize within his constraints and smart enough to keep their mouths shut, as a rule. Maybe I'm asking too much, the Dark Wizard thought as he held the Death Eaters under the Cruciatus Curse. The corners of his mouth turned upwards.

“Fools,” hissed Voldemort, finally lowering his wand. “I was trying to remain humble, but it seems as though the words I spoke brought delusions of usefulness to heed. I need none of you, remember that. I have allowed you to be here tonight out of the blackness of my heart only. Try to avoid angering me—otherwise I cannot allow you to bow before me once I rule as pureblood king.

“Yes, yes, I intend to someday address you from that vantage, but tonight is not the time. I do not have long with you, I may only linger a few minutes more, for I have transcended time and body to be here as I am. Just a few short weeks ago, as I'm sure you are aware, we were prepared to take Hogwarts School, to overpower Dumbledore and crush his ill-conceived resistance movement, to slay the Potter boy and drain his blood.

“But things did not go as planned.” Voldemort's laugh was high, false, and cold above all. “I still cannot decide if it was to my delight or my horror to learn Potter was not yet a part of the headmaster's Order. He fights well, but not with any idea what for, and not nearly well enough—the rumors you have heard are true—I killed the Potter boy at long last.”

The Dark Lord's eyes flashed so intensely he seemed solid for a moment.

“I could feel my reign beginning. My magic pulsed within me, his blood was on my hands—but the manipulation of time I used to kill Potter worked against me. The boy, the Dread Child, lives still. And I, the greatest wizard of any time, have disappeared—suspended, caught in limbo between realities.” It irritated Voldemort to hear a strangled sob coming from the direction of the kitchen: Wormtail. He clucked his tongue impatiently, for he did not have time to discipline the idiotic rat. “Now, now, there is no cause for alarm. I only remain caught in the balance until Halloween, and I can promise you the most curious events on All Hallows Eve.

“Unfortunately, time is as long as it is short—the moon must wane and wax many times before I return, and with each moon cycle, communication between the realms will become more difficult. There will be sacrifices to be made the next few months—difficult ones, as I'm sure Bella Lestrange could tell you. To Rudolphus.”

It was a testament to how depraved the Lestranges were, given that Rudolphus's passing had brought pause to the Dark Lord himself.

“I will ask you to stay the moons,” said Voldemort. “I will ask that you wait for my return. The Ministry is not a threat anymore, not without Bom. Any army Dumbledore assembles can be fought. And yet you should prepare for the worst, for we will sustain many casualties. Your incentive to push forward is my promise of what is to come: a pureblood kingdom, where I rule and my court is those who served faithfully to put me in power.

“It is time that we restore society to what it was, only better. Remember the teaching of our fathers, the mythic battles fought between the Magicians and the Muggles. Recall the Forgotten Gates, consider the source of the magic that courses through your veins. Perhaps some of you doubt that if just one pureblood family could be eliminated entirely, then all the others could stand to triumph in unimaginable power.”

Suddenly the Dark Lord did not sound so silky. He had settled into a smooth rhythm, saying each word of his little speech with loving caress. His eyes flashed just as much as they had earlier with the mention of Harry Potter. “For those of you growing irritated with my preoccupation with the Potter boy—Avada Kedavra.”

The spell he worked through Travers was a complex version of the Killing Curse that dropped at least a half dozen Death Eaters outright. A second curse, Cruciatus again, tortured several others—including Lucius Malfoy and the otherwise praised “Bella” Lestrange—into quivering heaps. Granted, these two seemed to recover sooner than others, but it pleased Voldemort to see how disconcerted some of his other followers looked through their masks.

“Each and every one of you is to study and become familiar with the origin of our powers. Each and every one of you is to appreciate the significance of the Dread Child's demise to my plans for a pureblood kingdom. Each and every one of you is to seek out the boy's Muggleborn whore, Hermione Granger, and see that she does not live to see Samhain. Overseeing you will be the most trusted, most loyal of your ranks—examples to you all.”

It came as no surprise to anyone that Lestrange was put in command. (Even if she had until recently despised knowing why her Master sought the Potter boy, she had still followed every directive ever given to her exactly.) Malfoy was assigned several tasks, which also was not a surprise, for the pale-haired wizard was every bit as effective as he was irritating. Travers, the magician, could be called on as well, though the Dark Lord himself did not recommend it. It was only his last appointment, Lestrange's second-in-command, which seemed out of place.

Not that the wizard in question wasn't to be trusted, for he had a habit of poisoning anyone that dared question his loyalties.

“Lestrange, Malfoy, Travers, and Snape,” concluded Voldemort. “My loyal servants, listen to them as you would me, as from now on I may only be able to communicate with them—and someone do something about these bodies.”

And so the Dark Lord parted. The air crackled around him before there was a great burst of light, consuming not only him, but Travers and Nagini as well. Outside the house, the temperature dropped so severely that the next morning reports of light snow near Privet Drive would make the Muggle news and be ignored by the Daily Prophet. And there wasn't any arguing, and so the Death Eaters parted as well.

As the others Disapparated from four Privet Drive, one of the masked figures elbowed his way through the group waiting to use the Floo. He had hovered in the kitchen doorway throughout Voldemort's visit, remaining perfectly still, even when his role as lieutenant had been announced. His movement across the living room was equally calculated. From each pocket he withdrew a vial of potion, and he slipped one into the folds of Draco's robes as he passed. The second vial went to the tall boy.

“For your hands,” muttered Snape. “Shrieking shack, half an hour.” Without breaking his stride, he Disapparated, the young wizards careful not to exchange even a glance before following suit.

* * *

HARRY POTTER AND THE EAGLE'S SAPPHIRE (full summary)

Failing marks are the least of Harry's worries after arriving at Hogwarts for his sixth year. Still recovering from his last confrontation with the Dark Lord Voldemort, he can scarcely handle the intensive defense training he is thrown into just hours after stepping off the Hogwarts Express. Hermione's unwillingness to deal with the events of the year before has her and Harry's relationship at a standstill while another relationship progresses much too quickly. Working with Draco proves more challenging than working against him, and there's a third-year causing more trouble than even the Weasley twins ever managed. The new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor just wants to be everyone's friend, and members of one Hogwarts house seem to draw Harry into uneasy alliance after uneasy alliance. Outside of the castle, Voldemort's attacks on Muggle towns grow bolder with each passing day, to the point that the corrupt wizarding government cannot maintain even the slightest sense of order.

Yet the war brewing between Dark and Light is nothing compared to the war Harry is waging within. By day, Harry struggles to understand the blood burden he bears. By night, he dreams of the life he was meant to have. It is torment unlike the Boy-Who-Lived has ever known, and it is torment he's ill-prepared to handle. He can't forget about everything, no matter how much he wants to.

Because while the fate of the wizarding world might lie in the usual hands, its destruction lies in those long-forgotten.

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Chapter Two

SEVEN WAVERLY COURT

Four Privet Drive had not really had a basement, only a crawlspace good for storing things and a cupboard under the stairs that usually had spiders. This was why the Dursleys never wanted to use it for anything real, only as a place for their nephew, who they didn't really like. Of course, he had finally grown up, and gone to boarding school, and after four extra summers with the boy, the Dursleys finally thought themselves rid of him.

After the nephew's last departure, (which had been in the middle of the night, for he was of the mad sort, a horrible, wretched child), the exterminator came, went, and left a horrible stench that gave Mr. Dursley no choice but to seal the cupboard off for good. It was for the best, really, because the next week he was promoted, and it was away from Four Privet Drive, with all its foul memories of the nephew, to Seven Waverly Court, twenty-some miles away in the town where Mr. Dursley had been transferred.

He had not wanted those interested in Four Privet Drive house to think it might possibly be tainted, or that anything foul had been afoot there. So he fed many lies to the little man in the worn suit who ultimately purchased the house.

“Petrol's gone up,” Mr. Dursley had said. “Going to again, certainly, and it's bad traffic in the mornings. But it's not the extra money I mind, it's the wasted time. I've a good feeling about this new position, I'll have it for a long while, but there's no reason to delay transitioning.”

In other words, he had given no indication that he and his wife and his son had decided to oust the nephew, and the little man had given no indicator that it was because of the nephew he was so interested in the house.

So the Dursleys left, settling into their new home at number seven, often taking the very long way around to pass by the house on Privet Drive and complain it wasn't being kept up by the new owner, as well as to gloat over the number of bedrooms they now had and the grand plans they had for the unfinished basement.

However, a first small stone was thrown into the Dursleys' plans when they discovered the previous owners of seven Waverly Court had left them with a small wiring problem, and a small rat problem, in the house's bowels. So the basement remained unoccupied until a second stone was thrown into the Dursleys' plans: the headmaster at their nephew's school wrote to them in June, requesting the nephew be allowed to spend just one more summer with them.

Seven Waverly Court did not have a cupboard. It had a basement that had rats. In no time, the Dursleys had relegated the nephew to the basement. This was doing the nephew, whose name was Harry Potter, a particular disservice, given the availability of two spare bedrooms and his rotten luck with a rat two years before. Not that the Dursleys would have known about that, for their choice in accommodating Harry reflected their desire to keep him out of sight and out of mind.

It was all of the above that found Harry as he was one night during his third week at the Dursleys'—standing on his bed (cot, rather), peering out the short window that was just level with the ground. He found it easier not to think, not to worry, as he strained his neck to see the moon than he did when he laid flat on his back on his bed with nothing to focus on but the concrete walls around him and single flickering light bulb above him. At the moment, it was his throbbing hand that staring out the window was helping him ignore.

Harry had been fixing breakfast for his aunt, uncle and cousin when Uncle Vernon had accused him of stealing post stamps to send letters to his friends. Harry had, in fact, purchased the stamps himself, but a fight had resulted anyway, ending with Harry's palm pressed firmly to a hot burner.

Certainly makes you appreciate Hogwarts, Harry thought bitterly, flexing his hand and letting the blisters that popped and squished serve as a reminder. Already the strips of cloth he had torn up and tied around his hand looked grubby. He heard someone turning the locks on the basement door, so he hastily hopped down from his bed, skidding enough he almost tripped over his trunk. Funny how it worked out that the first year he had been allowed to keep his school things with him, he had no desire to take them out, fearing to have them gnawed on by a rat. The table Harry had so carefully pulled from a neighbor's rubbish pile the week before to use as a desk already tipped horribly when he sat a schoolbook on its surface.

Grabbing his crutch (for he had sustained a gruesome leg injury at school last term), Harry bravely left his corner of the basement. A rat was scurrying by.

Also makes you appreciate certain things about Hogwarts. Like the fact that the Gryffindor dormitories are in a tower, not a dungeon.

One of the ways Harry's school was unusual was that classes were taught in a 1,000-year-old castle. Another way it was different was that students learned magic in those classes. Far from being a mad or wretched teenager, Harry was just a wizard, but that was all the difference the Dursleys had ever needed to despise him.

“Harry?” called a female voice.

The boy wizard breathed a sigh of relief, withdrawing his hand from his pocket, where he had been gripping his wand. He was mad enough at his uncle that, had it been him, the ban on underage wizardry would not have mattered much to Harry. “Yes, Aunt Petunia?”

Aunt Petunia, a stick of a woman with stringy hair and a long face, could be heard bustling down the stairs. Harry just retreated into the shadows and plopped back down on his bed. “Just wanted to make sure you were still up, didn't want to disturb you, I have your dinner...”

Harry did not point out that the shrill way she had said his name would have surely woken him, especially given how poorly he had been sleeping lately. It was an observation he had made so far, however, in the brief time that he had spent this summer at the Dursleys'. Uncle Vernon's hatred of him might have intensified, as had his cousin Dudley's, but his aunt related to him in a way far from the firm hand she had used the summer before. Things between them could be downright civil, but that did not mean Harry said anything as she set a plate and a glass on his table.

“No,” said Aunt Petunia when Harry stood to grab his supper. He gave her a quizzical look, which he knew she could see because she had actually pulled the cord to turn on the light. “That stew will burn your mouth yet, so just you sit and let me see your hand.”

Harry just shrugged, holding out his injured hand as it was, wrapped in strips torn from an old Quidditch undershirt. (Quidditch was a broom sport wizards preferred over football; Harry was on the house team at school.) If she wanted a look, she could have one, Harry supposed, though he wondered if he should have warned her. His hand had bled; there were grotesque blisters rising on the charred flesh, strings of skin barely hanging on. Had her touching the wound not sent pain down through Harry to the bone, he probably would have said something as a warning. Aunt Petunia removed the last layer of Harry's makeshift dressing.

“Oh goodness,” she exclaimed, actually jolting back. “Why on earth?”

“Apparently I had to have stolen stamps from his desk to have sent letters, and how was he to stand back when I could go on to hold up the corner store, when in this day and age he could get in trouble too as my guardian?” said Harry darkly. “He wanted to ensure I wouldn't get grabby anytime soon.”

Aunt Petunia was pulling things from her apron, a tube of this, a bottle of that, some swabs and bandages. Harry flinched as she began to dab at his palm, having to clutch at his forearm with his other hand to keep from jerking away.

“I went to the chemist this afternoon,” Aunt Petunia said apologetically. “He did say it would sting.” She finished dressing the wound wordlessly, and when she was done, Harry had to admit it had brought some relief to his hand.

“Thanks,” he said quietly.

“I'm sorry,” she said just as quietly. From her apron, Aunt Petunia drew one more thing, a small bottle from which she shook out two small blue pills and offered them to Harry. He gave her a narrow look.

“What are these?” he demanded.

“Just painkillers,” said Aunt Petunia. “They're meant to help you sleep.”

Harry swallowed the pills dry and gave her a dark look. “I hope they're not from Uncle Vernon's supply. He probably keeps count.”

“Tomorrow's Tuesday,” said Aunt Petunia. “You're to mow the lawn, but I'll talk to him because how could you manage—”

Harry cut her off. “I'll do it,” he said sharply.

“But—”

“It's just easier,” Harry growled.

Aunt Petunia just nodded and retreated to the stairs. Harry watched her leave, then scooted to his meal. Not only was the stew still warm and quite tasty, his aunt had also managed to save him a sliver of pie, and he sort of felt bad for being short with her as he drifted into an uneasy rest.

* * *

The teenage boy that during the summer holidays occupied the uppermost bedroom of number twelve Lion Hearth Lane was not sure which he hated more—the squeak of his bedroom curtains being flung open or the light that poured into his bedroom afterward. He groaned loudly as he buried his head beneath his pillow, but it did nothing to silence the approaching footsteps or even quiet the humming.

“No... Just no. Go away,” he muttered, slinging one arm over the pillow that was already covering his head. “You're just going to have me mow the lawn, but if I don't get out of bed today, you can't exactly make me.”

“I'd remind you that the last time you used a line like that,” said a cheerful female voice, “your godfather magnetized your dress robes and attached you to the fridge, but I'm sure you... honestly, Harry, have you straightened this room even once in the last week and a half?”

“No,” said Harry. He grunted in protest as his pillow sailed off his bed, knocking over the framed photo on his nightstand in the process. “Mum...”

“As charming as your honesty might be, I would prefer you pick up your clothes,” the woman, whose name was Lily Potter, said dryly. “At the very least... have your father cast a cleaning charm in here for you and not tell me about it?”

“Sure,” the teenager muttered, just wanting his mother to leave him alone. He had been out late the night before, perhaps a little later than she might have realized, though he had only been playing Quidditch in the next town with his best friend Ron and a handful of others. It certainly wasn't like the week before, the night she had caught him stepping out of the Floo at three in the morning, when he had been all the way to his girlfriend's house in Dorchester and not just in Ottery St. Catchpole with Ron.

When his mother said nothing for several minutes, Harry was tricked into a false sense of complacency. He reached for his stolen pillow, but before resting his cheek on it once again, he opened one eye. Sure enough, Mrs. Potter was still standing over him. He just groaned.

“Now Harry,” continued Mrs. Potter, using her wand to tidy this and that around his room—his school books jumped from a messy pile on the floor to his bookcase, the Gryffindor pendant above his bed straightened itself, and the framed photo of him and his girlfriend from his nightstand righted itself. “If you don't get yourself up, I'll bring in your sister.”

Harry groped around for his glasses on his bedside table and, sliding them on, slipped his mother a look of a death. She just smirked. His younger sister, Gabrielle, was six, and though he loved her dearly, she approached everything with an extraordinary amount of energy. Her waking him up in the morning involved her shrieking loudly, leaping onto his bed, latching onto him and refusing to let go.

“You tricked me into agreeing to a sibling,” grumbled Harry as he swung his legs over the edge of his bed. “You promised me a baby sister. I got a bundle of twitchy energy instead.”

“Come now,” Mrs. Potter reasoned. “You're in school ten months a year, and you spent the last holiday at Hermione's. Your sister hasn't seen you since Christmas, and she absolutely adores you. You can't blame her for being clingy.”

“Do I have to mow the lawn?” Harry wanted to know. “When I'm not home, I know you and Dad—”

“Your father thinks it builds character for you to have to do some of these things without magic,” said Mrs. Potter, trying to hide her smile.

Harry just gave her another look of utter damnation as he yanked jeans on over his boxers and pulled a t-shirt over the undershirt he slept in. He didn't even try to disguise the fact he was pulling these things right off his floor. “Did he ever have to mow the lawn during one of the hottest summers on record?”

“I'm sure,” said Mrs. Potter, whose love of organization had clearly gotten the better of her, for a few more wand swishes had her son's bed made and the clothes on his floor sorted between dirty and clean. In no time at all, the clean ones were hanging in his closet and the dirty ones on their way down the laundry chute. “Why else would he torment you so?”

Harry was already on his way out the door and down the stairs. He called back, “I'm not going to mow on an empty stomach, you'll just have to wait until I've eaten breakfast.”

Mrs. Potter took this all in stride. “I had breakfast ready an hour ago, I'll have you know. It's cold now, and I'll have you know the microwave's still not fixed, and if I even catch you casting a heating charm...”

Harry just smirked, though he did feel his stomach growl a little bit when he saw the plate his mother had prepared for him. No, he would ignore it. He could stand cold cereal, so he began to rummage around the cabinets. He was so intent on finding something that he hardly noticed his sister fly through the doorway. She must have known she didn't have his complete, undivided attention, because in no time at all she had hopped up on him.

“Harry!” shrieked Gabbie, using her full lung capacity, as six-year-olds were wont to do. Her auburn curls were a tangled mess, like always, and it also wasn't a surprise that her chubby cheeks were flushed from running in so fast from the living room.

“Gabbie!” said Harry back, humoring her as he lowered her to the ground. He didn't mind her much at all, really, but he also knew it was his duty as her older brother to torment her just as much as it was to protect her. “Hey squirt, do you know what happened to that one cereal with the dragon marshmallows?”

Gabbie rolled her eyes. “Don't call me that!” she insisted primly, ducking around him and opening a lower cabinet. She produced the cereal and looked at him expectantly. “I'm usually the only one that eats it, Harry, it's going to be where I can get to it.”

“Ah, okay,” said Harry, grabbing a jug of milk from the fridge and taking a swig off the top before pouring some over the bowl of cereal he had gotten. He made a show of putting the box back where Gabbie had found it.

“You should come color with me while you eat,” Gabbie insisted. “Though then you'll have to mow, Daddy was saying before he left for work...”

Harry wasn't one to argue with anything that delayed his doing chores. He followed Gabbie into the living room, where she plopped down on her stomach and returned to one of her coloring books. Most six-year-olds scribbled. His sister meticulously stayed within every line. As he took a seat on an ottoman, he realized, pleased, that Gabbie was not only working on a Quidditch scene, but she was also wearing the Gryffindor Quidditch jersey he had outgrown and passed on to her.

“Hermione's coming over tomorrow,” said Harry, studying a color-changing dragon marshmallow in his cereal. His younger sister adored his girlfriend, who he had been seeing for about a year now but had been friends with for much longer.

“Really?” Gabbie stopped coloring. “You promise?”

“Mmhmm,” said Harry, thankful he had remembered to keep his mouth closed while chewing. Where his mother's manners had yet to sink in with him, Gabbie had long since grasped them. “She got you something on our last Hogsmeade visit, and she's been saving it for when she saw you next.”

If he hadn't had Gabbie's interest before, he certainly had it then. “Hermione gives the best presents,” she said happily. “Like at Christmas, you gave me that boring Quidditch—”

“Hey!” said Harry indignantly. His little sister just gave him an appraising look before selecting another crayon. A dark red, scarlet like the color of his house at school.

“Well one of these days you and Dad and Sirius are going to realize I don't like Quidditch as much as you three like Quidditch,” said Gabbie. “So of course Hermione's present was better. She got me books.”

“Most kids your age can't read,” said Harry grumpily.

Gabbie just turned her nose up at him, “Oh, go mow the lawn!”

Harry made the same face back. He just took another bite of cereal and chewed thoughtfully. “You know—”

“—your sister has a point.” Mrs. Potter had walked in, a small smile playing on her face. “Out already! Go mow the—”

* * *

“—LAWN!” roared Uncle Vernon.

Harry opened one eye lazily. He certainly wasn't in a comfortable living room with his younger sister. He opened his other eye. That certainly hadn't sounded anything like his mother. This was probably because he didn't have a younger sister, and his mother had passed away so long ago he hardly remembered her. He did have a foul-tempered uncle, who forced him to live in the dank basement of an otherwise elegant home, and he would be who was making all the noise.

There was only one thing that hadn't changed, it seemed. And that was the fact that Harry still had to grope around for his glasses in order to see a damn thing. He sighed heavily, which was the exact wrong thing to do, and he found that a second later he had been extracted from his cot by one of Uncle Vernon's beefy hands on the collar of his shirt, picked up rather like a dog.

Which is scarcely more than what I am to them.

“What's taking you so long, boy?” Uncle Vernon. “Get a move on!”

He scarcely left Harry time to put on his shoes, and grabbing the crutch he was supposed to be walking on was out of the question. He was hauled out of the basement, up the stairs, and shoved by one of Uncle Vernon's pajama clad arms out the front door, told to get the lines straight this time or else. After the door slammed, Harry had managed just one wobbly step towards the tool shed before it opened again.

“And before the Prices take their breakfast, if you know what's good for you!” Uncle Vernon had added.

The Prices were the Dursleys' elderly neighbors, and as far as Harry could tell, their greatest crime was Mrs. Price's kind-hearted reputation. Uncle Vernon would go off on all the neighbors occasionally, but none so often as the Prices. In fact, Harry could have sworn he heard his uncle ranting about them from the basement just the night before. Something, it seemed, about the hardware store, Mr. Price, and putting your nose into other people's business.

Harry thought this was rich coming from his relatives, when Uncle Vernon had, since moving to Waverly Court, become as much of a snoop as Aunt Petunia had always been. As for the Prices, Harry had a mind to ask what the Dursleys had to fear from them: a whisper that he was being mistreated? He wasn't a fool—for as long as he could remember, Harry had gone to great lengths to hide his uncle's abuse. If after five years of friendship, not even Ron and Hermione could guess how terrible things got over the summer, Uncle Vernon had nothing to fear from the neighbors.

I know what Hermione would say if she knew - which is why I can't let her know.

Just the thought of her left him with a longing to just talk to her again. Maybe he could find a way to sneak a telephone call?

No. I can't. I can't think like this. I have to survive this summer. I can't survive if I think if ways to see her, to talk to her.

He forced himself to stop thinking about her. Forced himself to force her out of his mind and concentrate only on mowing the lawn.

Later, stumbling for the umpteenth time since he had started the lawn, Harry began to grimace but ended up doing a double take. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn that a newspaper had just materialized on the neighbor's driveway across the street. Squinting, he looked to the sun. That was part of the problem. The last few times he had finished mowing before daybreak, as per Uncle Vernon's request, but his injured hand was now slowing him as much as his leg. To keep his balance, he had to grip tightly to the mower's handle, to relieve pressure on his blisters, he would have to be steadier on his feet.

Accepting that he would not win in this situation, Harry went to wipe his hands on his jeans. This time he did grimace, not considering for one second what pain that would cause. He resignedly gripped the mower's cord and gave it a hearty tug, as it was quite old and would sputter even with Harry not so prone to stumbling. He started around one of Aunt Petunia's flower boxes, keeping a close eye on number nine. One of the windows opened, but the front door, at least, remained firmly shut.

As Harry stashed the mower in the shed around the house, he was too exhausted to think on the mysterious newspaper. His luck had held; that's all he knew. He scrambled in the back door of the Dursleys' as Mrs. Price, across the street, left her house.

So relieved was Harry to have avoided the awkwardness that could have ensued, he slumped against the door as it closed, his eyes shut. He exhaled slowly. Certainly he would not have to cook breakfast after all that—or so he hoped, until he felt a rough pair of hands at his collar, grasping at more than fabric this time. Harry sputtered slightly as Uncle Vernon's hands encircled his neck.

“This close, boy, this close,” said Uncle Vernon tersely, withdrawing one hand and holding his thumb and forefinger millimeters apart so that Harry would not mistake him (not that Harry would have). “You'll get done sooner next time.”

It was hard to talk with that much pressure against his vocal cords, but Harry managed. “Yes Uncle Vernon.”

“I've left a list with your aunt,” said Uncle Vernon, his eyes narrowed to slits. “It'd be in your best interest to see to it that you don't miss another step today.”

Harry coughed. Uncle Vernon's eyes bulged. He dropped his hand from Harry's throat and swung at the boy's face, before jabbing a meaty elbow into the boy's side. It made contact with an audible crunch, and Harry couldn't help but screwing his face up in pain. He doubled over with a groan, and a second later, he could hear his aunt's voice on the staircase on the opposite side of the room.

“Vernon?” Aunt Petunia called, concern evident in her voice. “What was—?”

“Nothing,” hissed Uncle Vernon loudly, his eyes darkening as he hastily took Harry's shoulders and propelled the boy roughly towards the basement stairs. Harry was shoved in with such force that he promptly lost his footing and slid down several steps. He'd tried to break his fall with his good arm and hand, which had only resulted in a deep scrape from elbow to wrist.

As the door clicked shut behind him, Harry heard his aunt step onto the main level and his uncle quickly tell her that he had tripped in the living room. Harry sucked in his breath, trying to steady himself, but it only intensified the stabbing pain in his side. Some days he hated more than others.

Harry's bad leg could hardly bear his weight, and between his burnt hand and bleeding arm and probably cracked rib, he had a time of it getting down the rickety wooden staircase and across the room to his cot. He squeezed his eyes shut and flopped down on the worn blankets, ignoring whatever rock-hard object pressed solidly into his back. He longed for just hours before, when he had been resting however uneasily there. Even delusions of his dead mother and nonexistent sister beat being on the receiving end of his uncle's punches. Harry finally groped beneath his right side and produced a polished garden pebble bearing the inscription:

Midnight

Chowdhury Park

Tom Ginnever

Harry squeezed his eyes shut again and flung the stone across the room, so it hit the opposite wall and scuttled out of sight. He hate, hate, hated this summer, and he didn't really care at that point that he would have to track the pebble down again later.

For as long as Harry could remember, he'd lived with his aunt and uncle and lied about the bruises, broken bones and black eyes that frequently plagued his condition. The Dursleys had hated him for what his parents had been—a witch and a wizard—and what he had become. Aunt Petunia generally turned her nose up at the sight of him, but Uncle Vernon took out his frustration with his fists. They spent the first ten years he lived with them lying about who his parents were and what had become of them.

On Harry's eleventh birthday, when he had been accepted into Hogwarts and first learned of magic in the world, he had also learned the truth about his parents' deaths. A car crash had not killed Lily and James Potter, but rather a dark wizard called Voldemort.

And maybe that would have stung more than it did if at the time Harry hadn't been trying to familiarize himself with a world so different than the one he had grown up in, surrounded at last by people who cared for and loved him, rather than those who abused and despised. He'd returned to the Dursleys' every summer since, but the threat of magic had previously kept Uncle Vernon's fists clenched but not swinging.

But then the summer before, something had changed. It had been bad. This summer had been worse. In addition to the stabbing pain hovering about his ribcage, Harry also had to worry about meeting some Tom Ginnever in Chowdhury Park at midnight. The dark wizard that had killed Harry's parents and tried to kill him had returned one year previously, and since then he had reached a new level of power and concern for the wizarding community.

Harry, who had long been denied knowledge of an ancient blood rite and Voldemort's reasons for wanting him dead, had finally learned of his connection to the dark wizard at the end of last term. So now he had responsibilities, middle-of-the-night obligations to a group known as the Order of the Phoenix. It somewhat irritated Harry that he was not allowed to attend meetings of the society that fought against Voldemort, the belief being that habitual meetings would concern his relatives more than his sneaking out for a midnight rendezvous twice a week. It was always the same, stones from just outside engraved with meeting times and places, names of different Order members. There was a lot of intrigue and bother; he was at the point he just wanted to be told when he could fight Voldemort and be done with it.

Not that I'm likely to be done with it, only to die trying, thought Harry pessimistically, keeping his eyes squeezed shut and back flat against the cot. When school had ended the month before, it had been Harry's insistence that he not be left out of Order meetings for two months. He had insisted upon the midnight meetings if allowed nothing else. After just four, however, Harry was feeling woefully inept, between the leg injury he sustained in the last battle with Voldemort and the frequent mishaps that befell him at the Dursleys'.

For as long as Albus Dumbledore, the headmaster of Harry's school, had withheld from him his blood burden, he reckoned he would be introduced just as slowly to means of coping with it. He had been wrong. In two weeks he'd already had four training sessions, and it was far more demanding than Harry had been prepared to deal with it. He couldn't keep up, and he was already discouraged. I'm just going to get killed. Dumbledore's just trying to soften the blow at this point, make me feel a little better about the inevitable.

Harry allowed himself a few more minutes of self-pity before picking himself up off his cot. He didn't have the trouble he thought he would finding the pebble, and he turned it over in his hand several times, grimacing and clutching his still-aching side with the other. He sat down at his desk and spent the next hour scribbling two more pages of the essay that was his summer Potions assignment. He worked through the pain in his hand, knowing no other way to put the Dursleys' abuse out of his mind, and for quite some time he did not look up. It was to his surprise that, when he did, a plain envelope had appeared on the corner of his desk.

Before flipping it over, Harry vowed to light the parchment up if it was any kind of summons from the Order. He was overcome with relief at the sight of Hermione's tiny, precise handwriting—and his excitement led him to some amount of guilt. He wasn't sure how she managed to turn around letters to him in such a short amount of time (he had sent his response to her last letter by Muggle post just two days before), but he had a feeling it had to do with her keeping his owl Hedwig for the summer an extraordinary amount of stealth.

He also had a feeling the way his heart raced as he opened the envelope violated his resolution to keep Hermione at arm's length.

Give it up, a voice inside Harry's edge urged, and before he could convince himself otherwise, he had worked through two and a half pages of near-pointless ramble about her parents, her sister, and her schoolwork. Harry knew immediately it was her attempt to obscure how concerned she was for him. Try as he might, he had been unable to convince her he would hold out fine for the rest of the summer.

So, as wrong as he felt deceiving her, Harry grabbed his quill and a fresh sheet of parchment, he went about trying for a sixth time to convince her all was all right. As the summer wore on, he was having more trouble convincing himself it was the right thing to do.

* * *

Chowdhury Park wasn't like the playground near Privet Drive. Dudley didn't yet have a gang to help him vandalize it, but there wasn't as much to vandalize. A couple of tennis courts that had seen better days and rotting wood playground equipment was all it had to offer. Weeds had long since choked the grass and were well on their way to crumbling the sidewalk.

Even at midnight, there weren't many shadows to hide in. Harry knew there was a good chance he was going to be seen by someone who would tell the Dursleys.

The moonlight was dimmed by heavy cloud cover and cut by the feeble flickering yellow glow of the single working streetlamp, still vigilantly keeping watch against the night. The still air was heavy with the threat of rain, sticky humidity that clung to the skin and clothes, almost-fog that felt more like steam. And the only sound was his battered trainers scuffing over the concrete.

His breathing echoed in his ears, and his sweaty palm was tight around his wand. Green eyes darted around, trying to find any sign that he wasn't alone.

If he couldn't hide, it didn't make sense someone else could else could either.

Tom Ginever wasn't there.

Or so it seemed. Harry knew full well wizards who didn't want to be seen didn't have to be seen.

His leg hurt, and his hand hurt. He was tired and hungry and the Order was playing games with him. "Is this another bloody test? What else do I have to do? Die?"

His voice fell flat.

But something rustled in the bushes. Harry whipped around just in time to see a plain-looking cat dart from the undergrowth. One... Two... Three... Four...

He had half-expected the cat to turn into Tom Ginever, but that would have been too easy, of course. As the cat stalked towards the street, hissing, Harry pounded a fist onto the dirty plastic slide. He turned to go.

“Leaving so soon?”

Harry forgot to be startled as he whirled on the stranger who had tapped his shoulder. Wand extended, he jabbed at the fleshy part of the man's throat. He instinctively knew this man was Tom Ginever, but he was angry for having been startled—as if training wasn't bad enough already.

“I have half a mind to—” Harry growled, but he was cut short when Ginever raised his own wand at his waist and fired his Patronus at Harry, who wasn't sure whether to be more startled by the majestic stag that leapt from Ginever's wand or the sensation of it passing through him.

Ginever had gripped Harry's shoulder and shoved him back a few paces. He was tall and shabbily dressed, with one arm of a trench coat swinging where an arm clearly didn't extend. His eyes were pale, almost colorless, and across his cheek ran a scar so deep and etched it seemed to extend to the bone. Ginever did not blink.

“Expecto Patronum,” said Harry shakily, further unnerved by the fact he sounded so unnerved. The stag that burst from his own wand bounded towards Ginever's, and the two animals' friendly meeting signified that, contrary to the summersaults Harry's stomach was doing, Ginever was not the enemy.

Ginever pocketed his wand. He grabbed for a walking stick leaning against his knee and ambled comfortably forward. “Dumbledore said you had an invisibility cloak, boy.”

Harry cringed inwardly, Ginever's speech reminding him of Uncle Vernon's. “Can't walk under it, sir,” he said crisply. “Too hard to manage with my leg, and I thought it would frighten the Muggles if they saw a single leg limping its way through Surrey.”

“Elena's nephew said your leg was bad,” said Ginever, though he explained neither Elena nor her nephew. “Didn't mention your hand.”

“You haven't mentioned yours,” said Harry, indicating Ginever's pinned sleeve. He relaxed somewhat when the man finally blinked. Matching Ginever's composure seemed like the trick.

However, Ginever hardly missed a bit. “Dumbledore's sent me here to teach you to Apparate,” he announced. His eyes narrowed. “But by the shambles you're in, I reckon you'll do even worse than your redheaded friend—not that I'm entirely certain that's possible.”

Harry felt dual surges of anger: indignation for Ginever's doubt in his abilities, ire for Ginever insulting Ron. “Try me,” he shot back coldly.

Ginever shrugged with indifference. “Just Apparate yourself from here to the far tennis court, and I'll believe you.”

“You haven't taught me anything yet,” Harry said through gritted teeth. He could not gauge how serious Ginever was.

“Even my good-for-nothing summer charge knows how to Apparate already,” said Ginever, his voice low and gravelly. “And your friend could get himself halfway across his yard, albeit without his cloak, but you expect me to be impressed when you can't even make it to the far court to start?”

“I didn't actually grow up in a wizarding home,” said Harry angrily. “If you haven't forgotten, we're meeting in a Muggle park because it's where I live. Give me some guidance and let's see how I do.”

Ginever leaned forward on his walking stick so he was just inches from Harry's face. “Picture yourself,” he said, “over there.” He swung the stick out as a pointer.

Harry glared at him.

Ginever said nothing.

Harry frowned.

Ginever continued to extend his walking stick.

Harry felt his stomach sink. Ginever really wasn't going to give him anything else. Feeling absolutely ridiculous, he shut his eyes. He imagined standing on the park's far side, in a patch of brown grass free from overgrowth. He waited. Nothing happened. He exhaled slowly, running the image through his mind again.

This time, it felt as if the air was swirling around him. He could feel the wind rushing in his ears, as if riding his Firebolt at breakneck speeds. When he opened his eyes, he half expected to be on the park's other side, if not halfway across the country.

But he had not moved even an inch, though for a second his skin seemed to be giving off steam. Ginever's expression had not changed, and Harry had half a mind to stalk away from the training session. At least in all the others, he had worked up a sweat learning new spells, shields, and techniques.

Just as Harry began to shut his eyes for a second time, Ginever chuckled lightly to himself.

“You have to concentrate,” he said dully, but then he shifted his tone to one of interest. “You wouldn't want to splinch yourself. Eventually you collect your parts, but in the interim, the pain's pretty unbearable. Makes Lupin's grueling bit with wandless magic seem like a nice rest.”

This time when he visualized travel, Harry felt an even stronger pull around him, and he was certain smoke was rising off his skin.

“Concentrate,” reminded Ginever.

Harry clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut and rocketed upwards faster than he had ever flown by broomstick. He opened his eyes. He was clearly somewhere above Ginever, but after glancing in all directions, he saw no part of himself in the air around him or on the ground.

You're doing it, then, Harry thought. This isn't so bad, just imagine landing somewhere over there.

Harry's body felt as if it were on fire, especially his injured leg. When it suddenly stopped tingling, Harry was very much relieved—not to mention how interesting it was to see his foot materialize on the grass, then his ankle, and the rest of his body, slowly spreading upward.

His entire left side and head had made it to the opposite side of the park when Ginever began to hum. Harry felt himself quickly lose grasp on his visualization. Which part of my body comes next?

But he couldn't remember, and the pleasant cooling sensation that had followed each of his limbs as they reached their destination was replaced by what Harry had always imagined quartering to feel like. He found himself screaming as the rest of him made its way to the grassy patch, dropping to the ground with all his limbs intact but little to no control over any of them. One second he was being pulled apart, the next, shoved back together. He finally stopped trying to move, honestly expecting to see his limbs flung to opposite corners of the park. Yet they were all attached, and ultimately, they all grew numb.

Harry stopped screaming, trying to catch his breath instead. He heard someone in the distance put his hands together in a mocking clap.

“Hmm,” said Ginever, peering over and poking him with his cane. “Everyone always talks about splinching, but it's reverse some beginners have so much trouble with.”

And Ginever, turning away, left the park, but not before calling over his shoulder, “Might want to stay in bed tomorrow morning, you'll hurt something awful!”

Harry, who already hurt something awful, found himself unable to even get off the ground, so he lay there for a good hour, miserable and aching, until his eyes grew heavy and he started to drift off.

Only then did Ginever return, gently floating the boy back to Seven Waverly Court, where he realized that his student didn't have a place in the house to call a bedroom. Instead, the boy only had a cot in the dark basement to look forward to when he awoke, limbs invariably aching, the next morning.

* * *

The first thing Harry noticed was how much light was pouring through his small window. He craned his neck up, trying to see out, and at the same time groped blindly for his glasses. Curiously absent was Uncle Vernon's screaming, something to which he'd grown accustomed.

Sliding on his glasses, Harry groaned. His arm ached from the simple movement, and his legs felt numb as he swung them off the side of the bad. The concrete was cool against his feet, and he reached back to rub his neck. Ginever had obviously kept his promise to leave Harry sore the next morning.

As he limped over to his makeshift desk, Harry peeled off his jeans and t-shirt, having collapsed in bed after walking back from the park.

Wait, thought Harry, I don't actually remember walking home last night.

Stripped down to his boxers, he surveyed himself for some kind of evidence he'd been ripped apart the night back before only to be snapped back together like magical elastic, but Harry's skin had no blemishes beyond the usual marks and scars. He changed quickly, wracking his brain for any conscious memory of making it home. The only proof he had, however, of the night before lie in the pain that wracked his body with every footfall. It was worse than usual, when just his leg was bothering him, and he was somewhat surprised when his body actually moved in the direction he willed it.

Forget it. You made it back here. Last night was too bizarre to think much on, anyway.

Harry swore when he saw how late it was. All worries about Apparation and Tom Ginever aside, Uncle Vernon was a much more immediate threat.

Harry ignored the stabbing pain in his leg as he jabbed on mismatched socks and shoes. Still cursing under his breath, he nearly wiped out on the stairs as he attempted to take them two at a time. Uncle Vernon would have his head for how later it was.

“Sleep well, boy?” Uncle Vernon sneered.

It was hard to tell which hurt his ears worse: Uncle Vernon's angry voice at the door, or the fact that he had caught Harry by the ear. He used his considerable grip to yank his nephew's head down until Harry's cheek met his shoulder.

“Get my breakfast.”

Harry didn't respond, only gave his head a savage jerk to free his ear from his uncle's grasp. Uncle Vernon acted as though he wished to spit on his nephew, but thought better of making a mess on his own floor.

Exhaling slowly, Harry scrambled into the kitchen, already under the intense glares of Uncle Vernon and Dudley. Aunt Petunia joined them, and Harry knew better than to mutter anything—greeting or excuse—as he served them.

Half a loaf of toast, a pound of bacon and a dozen eggs later, Harry silently scrubbed at the skillet. He closed his eyes and allowed his hands to move autonomously as he replayed the events of the night before in his head.

Harry was downright angry at Ginever's attitude of indifference. At least the others had offered him a hand up at the end or an “All right, Harry?” He didn't care about much his midnight instructors had taught him, in all honesty. Even something as interesting as Apparition lost its appeal when the intensified stabbing in his bad leg reminded Harry he didn't even know what he'd managed the night before, if it wasn't splinching.

Maybe I wouldn't be so angry if they had just given me the summer to heal, Harry thought, scrubbing angrily at a gravy pan. He wondered if maybe he wasn't cut out for training at all, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind. It did not matter how suited or unsuited he was for what the Order had planned for him. Harry had come to see it two ways: he could either go quickly at the hands of Voldemort, or he could give the Dark Lord all the fight he had in him. At worst, it was pessimistic of him to assume he would not get out alive at any rate. At best, he remained unwilling to give Voldemort the satisfaction of another easy kill. But already the Order's training was taking its toll. If they continued to push him to his limit by night and continued to allow him to suffer Uncle Vernon's abuse by day, Harry wasn't going to last much longer.

He could say something about it, sure, but the Dursleys' treatment of him was never something Harry had been comfortable talking about. Behind him, Uncle Vernon cleared his throat. He learned in uncomfortably close.

“Where were you last night?” Uncle Vernon demanded, his voice a dangerous hiss.

Harry tried to play dumb. “What do you mean?”

“You weren't in your bed.”

“You must be mistaken.”

Uncle Vernon gripped Harry's neck with one beefy hand. “Where were you last night?”

“Out,” said Harry this time, clenching his teeth.

“Out where?”

“The park.”

“Was it a drug deal?”

“No.”

“Were you meeting someone?”

Bracing himself for Uncle Vernon's hard shove just in time, Harry continued to stare straight ahead as his uncle filed out of the kitchen. He was lucky; his uncle usually did not give up so easily. Dudley scooted his chair out from the table, cramming one last sausage into his mouth before offering Harry a hard shove himself. Only Aunt Petunia hovered behind, patting his shoulder carefully when no one remained to see.

Her gesture only made him feel worse—he almost couldn't stand her bursts of affection. They always left him craving more, left him wishing he was somewhere someone actually cared, left him missing Hermione more than he would have though possible just one year before. As he tidied the kitchen, Harry found himself unable to push his thoughts of her aside, and for the rest of the day, she swam through his mind.

* * *

Some ways away in Dorchester, Hermione Granger was also thinking about Harry Potter—more specifically, the letter she had received from him. Absently, Hermione stroked the feathers of Harry's post owl, Hedwig, as she read his letter for the fourth time. It was possible, of course, she was trying to extrapolate a hidden meaning which was not there.

But she doubted it.

Hermione—

It's scarcely the third week of vacation, Hermione, I cannot believe you've already finished your summer lessons. In fact, I find the thought so appalling I ought not write to you, but since I can only use Muggle post, you're all I have.

Well, and if I don't write to you, I worry you won't help me through Snape's potions analysis, and I'll fail without you.

Things are as to be expected at the Dursleys'. I have more than enough chores to keep me busy, which is why I let you get two letters in between my last and this. I'm ready to be back at Hogwarts, but I'm all right for the meantime, and you needn't worry about me.

—Harry

Hermione had finished re-reading the letter and started back in for a fifth go when a sharp tugging on her hair reminded her of what she should be doing—tending her year-old sister, Angelica.

“Hermee, play!” Angelica said, thrusting a plastic block at her older sister. Somehow, even at one, the baby's gurgles already seemed authoritative—something Hermione's parents had humorously suggested the baby had picked up from her older sister.

Pulling the baby into her lap, Hermione stacked the block on top of the pile Angelica had accumulated. Angelica followed her sister's precise gesture with a sloppy one, sending the blocks crashing. She giggled. Hermione sighed.

“I wish you were older sometimes,” said Hermione, tickling Angelica's stomach until she started to coo. The older Granger daughter smiled in spite of herself. “If we were close in age, I would make you read this letter and tell me what on earth is going on with my boyfri—well, whatever he is. You know how I worry.”

To all of this, Angelica said, “I want cookie.”

Hermione scooped her sister onto her hip, purposely leaving Harry's letter behind as she headed for the kitchen. “That's what you said before we went to the park, and all you did was crumble it up and make a mess of your pushchair.” She leaned in, kissing the baby's cheek. “Not that I blame you. It was one of those terrible sugar-free ones Mum buys.”

In the kitchen, the girls' father, Mr. Edward Granger, was chopping up some vegetables for dinner. With his wife, he owned a dental practice, and he was clearly starting dinner for her as she worked late. He had come through the lounge with the post to hand off Harry's letter, so he had already seen his daughters, but he gave them a little wave anyway as Hermione deposited Angelica in her highchair.

“How's Harry?” Mr. Granger wanted to know.

Hermione shrugged, grabbing a second knife from the chopping block and starting on an onion. “He's fine, I suppose,” she said. “He didn't write much.”

“No?”

“No,” said Hermione, trying to keep the frustration out of her voice. Her father gave her a sympathetic smile as he walked to the sink to rinse off his hands. Hermione sighed. “I just—well, you've heard me rant before. His relatives just bother me, they don't try to understand our world, and I fret.”

Mr. Granger patted her shoulder reassuringly. “He's welcome to stay here.”

“I keep offering,” said Hermione. “He keeps turning me down.” To herself, she remembered what Harry had said—he could only leave the Dursleys with Dumbledore's blessing, and presently, Hermione's patience with the school headmaster was waning.

“He might have his reasons,” said Mr. Granger, wandering over to Angelica, who was absorbed with a stuffed penguin on the high chair. “Thanks for taking over, by the way.”

Hermione laughed. “You're woefully inept at this, though I will admit you're off to a strong start.”

“Mmm,” Mr. Granger muttered, at which moment the door chimed. “I'll get it.”

Hermione was secretly thankful at that moment she had stepped in to help with dinner, as she had neglected to tell her father about the persistence of a neighborhood child attempting to sell homemade planters all afternoon. She figured he had earned his turn to bargain with the boy next door.

But much to Hermione's surprised, after the door creaked open, no one started, “Hi Mr. Granger! Won't you take the time to look over my selection of hand-painted flower pots?”

Instead, a smooth, familiar voice asked, “Hello sir, my name is Draco Malfoy. I presume you're Hermione's father—I'm a friend of hers from school. I was hoping to speak with her?”

Hermione had already dropped her knife and wiped her hands on a towel; she imagined her father taking Draco's hand and for whatever reason, the thought of the Slytherin meeting her father did not sit well. She heard her father introduce himself, obviously waiting for her to duck into the foyer.

Draco saw her immediately. “Gra—” he started, but he refrained from his usual smirk and greeting. “Hermione,” he said pleasantly.

Mr. Granger glanced at his daughter, as if seeking approval. “Dad, this is Draco Malfoy—he's a year behind me in school, which is good, or else I would constantly outstrip him in academics, leaving him woefully second in our year.”

This was mostly true, as before being expelled Draco had been second in their year. Hermione wondered if her father would question the fact that Draco clearly looked older than her, but he didn't.

“I apologize for just dropping by, but I was actually calling on an aunt who lives nearby, and I remembered I needed to speak to Hermione about—” he paused, but so subtly that Mr. Granger did not question this, either “—a project that would allow me to get ahead a year in Potions.”

“Oh, is this where Professor Snape wants you to find an older mentor?” Hermione said casually, surprised how easily the lie came to her. An alarm bell in her head had sounded, however, and she knew there was a real reason why Draco had come to call.

Whatever the reason might be, she hadn't the faintest clue.

“Go ahead and talk to your friend, Hermione,” said Mr. Granger. Although he had seemed to take Draco's appearance in stride, his tone clearly stated he was as concerned by the visit as his daughter—albeit, probably, because a boy was calling on his eldest daughter.

“Are you sure?” Hermione wanted to know. She cringed inwardly, not having meant to leave him an out. “I mean, I hate for you to have to continue dinner and look after—”

“Go on,” said Mr. Granger.

Hermione bit her lip, catching Draco's subtle nod to the door. “Is it all right if we walk to the park, Dad?”

“Just be back soon,” he said. He hesitated, “I believe my mother might come to dinner.”

“Oh,” said Hermione knowingly, and she practically pushed Draco out onto the step.

“Why does your family still talk to her even though you all think she's nutters?” Draco asked as soon as the door clicked behind her. She glared at him.

“Don't read my mind,” she said.

“Don't make your thoughts so easily read,” Draco shot back. Even though she had marched past him, he stopped and folded his arms across his chest. “Come on, Granger, don't I get a hello?”

“No, you get a kick for being such a pain in the arse,” said Hermione irritably. “How am I supposed to explain to my father why so many boys stop by?”

Draco arched an eyebrow. “So many boys?” he drawled.

Hermione set her lips. “Oh, like you don't know—Ron came over yesterday, though he announced his visit, something you should try, and of course there's the letters from Harry, and—”

“How is Potter?”

Hermione looked at him, suspicious. “You can hardly stand him… why do you want to know?”

“First, I don't listen to your every thought, as I've gotten quite good at shutting you out. Fortunately so, what with you carrying on about Potter constantly,” said Draco.

“I do not carry on about Harry constantly! I've mentioned him but twice to my parents, and of course Ron and I talked about him, but—”

“You think about him all the bloody time,” said Draco exasperatedly. “I only get you when you're really emotional, and he tends to bring it out in—”

Hermione whirled on him. “Did you come all the way to Dorchester to taunt me, Draco, because if so—” She stopped, shaking her head angrily, wringing her hands and imagining the air to be his neck. “Ooooh, are you coming or not?”

Draco sat down on her front step. “No, my leg won't get me as far as the park. It's a half mile or so, isn't it?”

Hermione softened, and she joined him. He looked well, healthier than the last time she had seen him. He was wearing neat grey trousers, and though they fit him well, they clearly were not the expensive pairs he used to substitute for use with his school uniform. His shirt was a charcoal that offset his pale eyes. His hair seemed darker, and his skin, though pale, did not seem ashy or colorless.

“How's your aunt?” Hermione asked quietly, resting her elbows on her knees and her cheek on her clasped hands. “You look well.”

“I am well,” said Draco. “My aunt's… she's interesting. I reckon you would like her—she's positively batty, but she has an incredible library. I've spent half the summer reading, actually.”

“What have you spent the other half doing?” Hermione questioned.

Draco rolled up his shirtsleeve. A sinister black snake wriggled through a skull on his forearm, and ugly mark on pink flesh. It was a recent brand. Hermione found herself blinking back tears. She'd known he would do it, but it upset her just the same.

“Be careful,” she admonished. “You promise me you'll be careful.”

With an annoyed expression, Draco rolled his sleeve back down. “It's easy to toe the line as a servant of the Dark Lord, Hermione, easy.”

He rarely called her by anything but her surname.

“Have you had to deal much with your father?”

“He thinks I'm living with Snape,” said Draco. He heaved a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “It's only a matter of time before he invites me to stay at the Manor—and I'll have no choice but to go, you know, lest I make him more suspicious.”

“And things with the Order?” Hermione said. Even if he had not been able to sense her thoughts, her desire to know what he had seen of Harry went without saying.

“You had butterbeers with Ron last night,” said Draco. “He's not coming to Order Meetings, at least not with the rest of us, but I hear he's going through similar training.”

“What are you learning?”

“How to be fast. How to surprise another wizard. Hexes and jinxes that would—well, your hair's curly enough already,” said Draco breezily. “Mostly I've worked with Snape. What's Ron up to?”

Hermione sighed. “He's learned to Apparate. I'm getting quite irritated that the invitation to do so has not been extended to me.”

“Eh, it's illegal,” said Draco. “Wouldn't want to rile the Ministry's feathers, would you? You don't step out of line much.”

Hermione very much would have liked to hit the Slytherin. Sensing this, Draco stopped talking. He reached down and plucked a flower from a neighboring rosebush. He twirled it around between his fingers until a thorn pricked him, causing Hermione to take the bloom from him.

“Don't destroy my mother's plants,” Hermione said.

“You need to get Potter away from the Muggles,” Draco replied.

“Beg your pardon?” said Hermione.

“His relatives,” said Draco. “Get Potter away from his relatives.”

His tone frightened Hermione. “What's going on, Draco?”

“My aunt? My crazy aunt? Well, she's married. I use the word married loosely, since she and the guy can't stand each other but won't separate. But at any rate, this guy is tough. His name's Tom, and he makes the real Mad Eye Moody look soft. He doesn't feel, not from what I can tell. He's some kind of anti-Dark Warrior from the first war, with questionable methods and without one arm. He's been training younger Order Members, and he's merciless.”

For a moment, Hermione forgot what this might have to do with Harry, and found herself rushing in. “Tom? Tom Ginever? Apparently Ron splinched himself the other day, and Ginever kept his arm until the next time they trained!”

Draco nodded grimly. “That's him,” he said. “Hermione—he came home two hours later than usual after a training session with Harry last night, demanding of my Aunt, `Elena, where's that nephew of yours? I believe in a firm hand to keep a child in place, but if Potter's relatives keep on him, there won't be anyone left to save the wizarding world.' He sent me here to make sure you got Harry out of there.”

Hermione could feel her pulse quickening. “Draco—you seem scared.”

“I am, a little, for Potter,” said Draco reluctantly. Hermione was immediately struck with an image of Draco, several years younger, being beaten by his own father. She found herself touching his shoulder, and he found himself wriggling away. Clearly aware of the fact she had gotten one of her rare glimpses into his mind, he tersely declared, “Don't say a word, Granger, just get him out of there.”

“I've been trying to get him to come all summer,” said Hermione. “How do I convince Dumbledore?”

“Don't convince Dumbledore,” said Draco. “Inform him. Whatever you send his way will arrive after whatever greeting my uncle has in store, and Ginever's mind is made up.”

Hermione swallowed hard. “Do you think he's all right?” Surprisingly, Draco gave her the slightest pat on the back.

“Potter's tough.”

It wasn't exactly comforting, but it did make her feel better. Hermione stood up, brushing off her pants. “Thanks for telling me, Draco.”

“No problem,” said Draco. He didn't meet her eye. At the top of the street, Hermione could see her mother's car.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Hermione found herself asking.

Draco shook his head vehemently. “No thanks,” he said. “The wards I set up for Apparation will wear off any minute. But—”

“What?”

“Does it ever bother you,” Draco said, seemingly contemplative, “that Potter is so… I don't know, pure and good you just want to help him?”

“No,” said Hermione. She looked at him strangely. “Draco, he's just Harry.”

“He twitches foolhardy Gryffindor bravery at all times, and it really doesn't bother you?”

Hermione gave him a shove just as her mother pulled into the drive, and Draco chose that moment to Disapparate.

And though she appreciated his warning (it terrified her as well), she could have just killed him for leaving her to explain Apparation to her mother.

* * *

On Friday afternoon, Harry found himself seated at a small pub in Surrey, ordering lunch. Across from him sat Remus Lupin, a friend and former professor. In his pocket, he had yet another letter from Hermione, this one informing him he would be spending the rest of the summer with her. And his mind was still trying to wrap itself around the fact his uncle had actually let him out of the house midday.

Remus tossed his menu down and cleared his throat. He did not meet Harry's eye, and he hadn't said much since picking him up from the Dursleys', so Harry braced himself.

“You look like hell,” said Remus.

Harry, who had been playing with the salt and pepper shakers, looked up. Now his mentor was looking at him with pity, and he glanced away quickly. “The last few weeks have been rough,” he said quietly. “It's the training with the Order.”

Remus's expression told Harry he knew it wasn't just the Order.

Silence.

Do I tell him I'm just not ready yet? Harry wondered. Remus was a friend, but not a week before, he had been the one wearing Harry down to nothing in midnight training. The Order has a way of knowing everything. He's probably just come to tell me I can't go to Hermione's, not now, not anytime this summer.

The thought crushed him, as he'd held out hope that by Sunday, it would all be over.

“My leg still hasn't healed,” Harry said. Under the table, he fidgeted with the bandages on his hand. He'd been careful to obscure it from Remus's view, though perhaps not careful enough.

“I know,” said Remus, even more quietly.

“I miss her,” said Harry, and averting his eyes, he offered Remus the letter. The older wizard did not take it.

“I know.”

“And I know I can't,” said Harry. He rushed on, “It would be nice to spend the rest of the summer with Hermione, but I have obligations to the Order, and Dumbledore wants me to stay with the Muggles, and—”

“Actually,” Remus interrupted, “you may go.”

Harry, who had been nursing a cola, sputtered soda across the table. “You're letting me go?”

“We are releasing you from the Order until September first, yes,” said Remus. He still would not meet Harry's eye.

“Until school starts?”

Remus nodded.

“Why?”

“You are not ready,” said Remus flatly. Harry cringed; he had not expected the assessment to hurt, not when he knew it to be true. “No, Harry—you are doing remarkably well under the circumstances, but your body cannot handle it. After you squelched yourself the other—”

“Squelched?” Harry broke in.

“Reverse process of Splinching. Really rare, really dangerous. Basically being smashed together instead of sucked apart, and it only happens when someone's in too bad a condition to Apparate,” explained Remus. And, meeting Harry's eye at last, he added, “You realize why you keep getting different instructors, do you not?”

Harry shook his head. “No.”

Remus exhaled slowly. “Everyone so far has refused to come back for a second session because we all were so damn worried for you. I have reservations putting Ron through the paces, and he walks. You hobble. Ginever is the toughest Dumbledore has, and even he refuses to risk you again.”

They sat quietly for a few minutes: the waitress came with their food, and they both dug in quietly.

“So you are done,” said Remus quietly. “At least for the summer, until you heal. You are free to go to Hermione's until the start of term—in fact, you are encouraged to leave. And Harry?”

“What?”

“I am truly sorry I let Dumbledore send you back to the Dursleys.” He sighed. “And for what it is worth, I am proud of you for hanging on.”

* * *

When Uncle Vernon looked up in disgust from his Sunday paper, Harry averted his eyes, hoisting the end of his trunk again. He'd stumbled on the stairs going upstairs, accidentally letting go of the handle and inadvertently letting it coming crashing down to the landing. Needless to say, hauling all of his things to the second floor so he could take them out the front door an hour later wasn't Harry's idea. Uncle Vernon had roused him even earlier than usual, so not only would he have more time to tend the lawn for the last time, but he would also be able to move his things up to the largest guest bedroom to give the appearance of having been kept properly all summer.

Uncle Vernon had stood in the upstairs hall, keeping a close eye on Harry. His arms folded across his chest, he gave his nephew an appraising look as Harry let the end of his trunk drop just beyond the entrance of the room.

“Further,” directed Uncle Vernon.

Harry bit his tongue. “Yes, Uncle Vernon,” he said, panting slightly as he heaved the trunk up one more time. He dragged it to the end of the bed. Uncle Vernon shook his head. Harry gave the trunk another yank. He let it drop below the window seat. Uncle Vernon narrowed his eyes.

“Open it up!” barked Uncle Vernon. Harry did as he was told, yanked up by his collar as his uncle shoved him out of his way. Immediately a mess was made of the clothes Harry had finished folding neatly just an hour before. Uncle Vernon tossed one of Harry's jackets over his shoulder without a second glance. Harry had to duck to avoid being decked by his own shoe. “Got to... make it... look... like... you've lived here,” said Uncle Vernon, glaring with disgust at one of Harry's spell books as he slammed it down atop the corner desk. “Get your wand out of there!”

Harry bit his lip, averting his eyes as he retrieved the wand from the back pocket of his jeans instead. Uncle Vernon's eyes flashed, and he motioned suddenly as if he would pluck the stick from Harry's hand. He thought better of it and pointed jerkily to the desk.

“Put it down! And open that book to a lesson your friend would recognize!”

Harry glanced at the book his Uncle had selected. Modern Magical History. He switched the history text for Achievements in Charming, and flipped to a page on advanced Switching Spells. Uncle Vernon's eyes challenged him to explain.

“We can't use magic over the summer holiday,” said Harry, ignoring how the corners of his uncle's mouth turned upward in a smile. “The only summer lesson that requires the use of a wand is practicing the motions for the advanced Charms spells we'll learn in fall. My friend's a good student; she'd wonder otherwise why I had my wand out.”

“Tell me about your friend,” growled Uncle Vernon.

They had gone over this already. “Her name is Hermione. Hermione Granger. Her parents are dentists.”

Uncle Vernon made an odd sound between a cough and a bark. “They hold with this nonsense?” He didn't give Harry a chance to respond. “She the one you kissed in the train station? She your girlfriend?” Harry wouldn't have had an answer for his uncle had his uncle expected one. “Disgusting.” He shoved past Harry.

Harry exhaled slowly, flopping backwards on the guest bed when Uncle Vernon had gone. He was exhausted. In one week's time, he had gone from having his hand pressed against a hot burner, to meeting Tom Ginnever in Chowdhury Park, to being excused from his obligations to the Order, to finally being retrieved from the Dursleys' by Hermione and her father. He was nervous about seeing her again, but he'd put it aside to escape Seven Waverly Court. He withdrew the parchment upon which she had written her last letter, already crumpled along the folds from having been read so many times. He reviewed the last paragraph:

I'll see you Sunday, Harry, 9 a.m. (That's regardless of what your uncle has to say about it to my father!) I so miss Hogwarts, but having you here will make it better I'm sure.

Love from

Hermione

It was a quarter to nine by the clock on the dresser, and Harry checked his own wristwatch just to make sure it wasn't running fast or slow. He could hear his relatives milling about downstairs, and he reckoned he should get up and make the last minutes he spent there as pleasant as possible. He had to hope this was the last summer he would spend with the Dursleys'. He'd nearly be of age at the end of the next term, plenty old enough to stay where he pleased over the holiday.

Even with that hope, Harry could not bring himself to leave the guest room. He waited until the minute hand hovered a hair's breath from the Roman numeral at the top of the clock's face. Clutching the railing tightly on his way down the stairs, he hoped Hermione and her father would not be late—it was not the sort of thing that would sit well with Uncle Vernon. Unsurprisingly, the crutch Dudley had hidden from him the day before stood propped up on the end of the stair rail. Harry tucked it under his arm and padded into the kitchen. The conversation ceased, the only noise coming from the program Dudley continued to watch on television.

Harry cleared his throat. He wanted to say something, to do the right thing, to thank them for keeping him and wish Dudley luck in the fall. But he didn't have it in him, and as he stared at Uncle Vernon, he felt a real surge of anger, unlike anything he had ever felt before. How could he, all of those years? He was Harry's uncle, for Christ's sake.

But it didn't matter now, Harry told himself, squeezing his eyes shut. He waited, and the doorbell chimed precisely with the grandfather clock in the foyer.

Already turning his usual purple, Uncle Vernon vacated his seat only to wrench Harry over and sit him in front of his half-eaten sausages. He headed to the front door, Aunt Petunia shedding her apron and patting her hair before following. Harry waited what he figured was an appropriate number of seconds before getting up. Dudley did not look away from the television.

Harry stepped into the hall just as Uncle Vernon opened the front door. He stepped cautiously forward, just in time to hear Aunt Petunia's falsely sincere greeting and Uncle Vernon's forced chuckle. He suddenly found himself very tense—but hearing Hermione's father heartily introduce himself as Edward Granger relaxed him. Harry had scarcely allowed himself to believe this would actually work out, but it was, and it had, and he suddenly spotted Hermione, and a grin spread across her face, and probably without thinking she called out to him.

“Harry!” she said brightly. Harry thought she looked beautiful, her curly brown hair somewhat shorter than he remembered, her brown eyes shining. Hermione bustled past his aunt and uncle and seemed ready to hug him, but she must have thought better of it.

“Hi,” said Harry softly, grasping her hand, but so the adults would not see. He peered over her head. “I'll just... get my trunk then?”

Uncle Vernon was staring at him, so purple he seemed ready to explode, and Harry had to wonder if perhaps the hold he had on Hermione was more visible than he intended. “Yes, yes!”

“I'll go with you,” said Hermione immediately, not allowing Harry to let go.

Harry cringed slightly. “I can manage,” he protested weakly, but Hermione dismissed him with a wave. He was still decidedly more aware of the fact that no one else was talking.

“Nonsense,” Hermione said breezily, “with your leg in its state!”

Mr. Granger actually nodded from the door. “I'll be up to help in a minute, Harry, Hermione.” Harry managed the slightest of smiles before making a beeline up the staircase, moving faster, he could tell, than Hermione had anticipated he would. He was just relieved when he heard conversation resume in the front hall. Hermione's father assuring his aunt and uncle Harry was no burden. Uncle Vernon wheedling Grunnings into the conversation. Aunt Petunia laughing forcedly at her husband's jokes.

Harry and Hermione didn't say anything to one another. They didn't have to. She squeezed his hand, and he shut the door of the bedroom that wasn't really his behind them. And then Hermione threw herself quite soundly into Harry's arms.

* * *

A/N: Thanks, Alan. I'd hope you know by now how loved you are. <3

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