Harry Potter fell out of the bed in his sparse room at number 4, Privet Drive shouting "No! No! NO!!" at the top of his lungs. It was later in the afternoon. Harry had been up all night staring out of the window at nothing. His Uncle Vernon was not pleased with this at all, but it was only two days after the "train station incident" as he called it, when he had to mention it. He hated and despised the humiliating circumstances of that event and its requirement to treat Harry better than ever before. But even Vernon was frightened by the terror in Harry's voice. The very portly householder did not fear for Harry, but if he was being attacked up there, would the attackers leave after finishing off "that boy," or would they come down the stairs? Dudley, the big, strong and very 'broad' Smeltings boxing champion, rolled out of his chair and hid behind it. The notion that parts of Dudley could be seen on either side of the chair at the same time had somehow eluded him in choosing this hiding place. It was Aunt Petunia's action that was the most surprising. She had been in the kitchen preparing dinner. When Harry began shouting, Petunia was just starting to cut vegetables with her sharpest knife. Like a race horse when the starting gun goes off, the horse-faced woman bolted out of the kitchen and was on her way up the stairs before Vernon could sputter, "Petunia?" She had treated Harry with the most kindness of the three since his eventful homecoming. During the school year she had often pondered the questions: had Harry been telling the truth? Had he saved Dudley's life... er, soul from the dementors? Finally, in February, she had gone up into the attic when Vernon was at work and re-read the original letter from Dumbledore that had accompanied Harry's baby basket - the letter her husband thought she had destroyed. With tears in her eyes, she came down from the attic that day believing Harry's story. Relatively speaking, she had been much more civil to Harry than before - she now was outwardly as kind as most people were to complete strangers. Harry and Aunt Petunia nearly collided at the top of the stairs. Their hearts were already beating as fast as a machine-gun in their chests, and this near collision startled them even more. At the exact moment they both yelled, "What's wrong?" and a second later, after noticing the wand in his hand and the knife in hers, they simultaneously shouted, "Don't point that at me!" Both took a deep breath and Harry said, "Voldemort is sending Death Eaters to attack the Grangers! I've got to warn them!" "Who are the Grangers? Are they outside? How do you know this?" These were all good questions. All a bit disjointed, but the woman wielding the knife looked ready to fight, so Harry instinctively included her as a possible ally for the next few moments. (At random times over the weeks to come, he would think about the idea of Aunt Petunia fighting Death Eaters with her sharpest paring knife.) "You stay up all night boy..." Uncle Vernon had waddled up the stairs fairly quickly. "Please, Vernon! Now, Harry, who are the Grangers?" "...you sleep all day..." Uncle Vernon continued, ignoring his wife's interruption."That's not helping, Vernon." Petunia's growing impatience was evident in her voice."...now you have a bloody afternoon nightmare..." "SILENCE, VERNON! Tell me quickly, Harry." For entirely different reasons, both Vernon and Harry were dumbstruck by this outburst. Dudley, still cowering in the den, hunkered down even more when he heard her outburst, squeezing more of himself out into view on both sides of the chair. Harry spoke in short, rapid-fire sentences. "Hermione Granger is a classmate. Her parents are Muggles like you. They live...well I don't know where, but not too far from Oxford. They're both dentists. I just dreamed Voldemort was sending Death Eaters to their house and office to kill them." "Boy! All this for a dream..." "VERNON!" she screamed turning the knife she had been pointing at Harry towards him. He cringed and shrank against the wall with a whimper. That was the last sound he made, except for his ragged breathing. "Do your dreams warrant investigation?" Harry was even more surprised by her calm, pertinent question. How to explain this? "I have dreams that are just dreams. Also, Voldemort has used them to mislead me, but I also saved a life because I saw his evil actions in my dreams. True or false, I have to warn them of the possibility." "How should we proceed? Do we call the police? Is there any way I can help?" Who was this woman talking to him like this? "I...erm...the police will just be more people for the Death Eaters to kill. Muggles can't fight Death Eaters. I s'ppose I should go to Mrs. Fi... go where I can contact Professor Dumbledore or someone who can get Aurors or Magical Law Enforcement officers to the Grangers' as quickly as possible." "Well then, go and save your friends if you can. If there's anything..." she trailed off. "Thank you, Aunt Petunia!" he half-shouted as he ran out the door. Harry ran towards Mrs. Figg's house to use the Floo network. However, Harry had been wrong about one thing.
Starting Two Days Earlier - - He stared out the window at number four, Privet Drive, and saw
nothing of the beautiful sunset or the sunrise the next morning, but he rarely blinked and did not sleep during the
hours of the night. He had been there since they had arrived from the station. He had ignored the call for dinner,
given to him once, but loud enough. The owl had flown out of that window immediately upon the opening of her cage, but
she had not returned. However, the parchment had been waiting on his desk for him. Sometime after midnight, but before
dawn, the parchment fell from his fingers. Its fall was no more noticed than the soundless electric clock in the
kitchen, or the ticking of the mantel clock in the living room.
Dear Harry,I trust your train trip and drive to the Dursleys' home was pleasant and uneventful. Misters Crabbe, Goyle, and Malfoy were released from their "constrictions" and are safely home. I am grateful that you have such faithful friends.Harry, I consider myself the oldest of your many faithful friends. I am also the one who has failed you the most - as I have served you and preserved you the most.Most children grow up with loving parents, to some degree or another, and for a while think them perfect, or infallible, or at least omnipotent. You grew up with no one loving you, and daily demonstrations of your aunt and uncle's imperfections - often gross imperfections.Then you entered our world and heard of your dead parents' true lives and true fates. Within that same conversation, even before you learned of their fate, I believe, you learned of the 'wonderful' Professor Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts. What are Hagrid's words? "Great man, Dumbledore, great man." I believe that's how he expresses it.You learned from Percy Weasley that first night that I am a bit mad, but brilliant. Since I have spent years using all of the tools and magic available to me as headmaster to promote and extend the illusion of greatness, you had come to expect that I was somehow faultless. Even the problem of Alastor Moody not being Alastor Moody in your fourth year did not dissuade you from my infallibility.And now I have spent a year ignoring you, confusing you, and helping you only in ways that you could not see. Finally, I tell you of my culpability in denying you the information you should have been told years ago.Well, I am undone, and I am truly sorry, Harry.And except for keeping you a little better informed the last few months leading up to your O.W.L.s exams, I would have done it all the exact same way, given the same circumstances.I am fallible and will go on making mistakes. I wish that were not so, but it has been, is, and always will be so.You will fight Voldemort, and I believe you will defeat him, if for no other reason than the alternative is unthinkable. But I do think you will defeat him when the time comes. Goodness has always ultimately triumphed over evil, but a lot of good men and women have lost their lives in the process. This is a timeless truth.Few have known ahead of time that they were the deciding factor. You have been given the dubious gift and the magnificent burden of knowing you are the deciding factor - you will make all of the difference as to whether the world goes forward in darkness or light.Now I must ask the nearly impossible from you - but not impossible at all. I have great plans for you and all of your fellow Hogwarts students, but most of all for you. Plans to help make you as ready and able to face Voldemort as possible.But there is a price that you alone must pay that they will never understand.The price? You must trust me.Each of them learned of a parent's or guardian's failings at a young enough age, and in a simple enough situation, to have recovered from the discovery of the parent's human-ness, and be able grow through the shock with little ill effects.You have been shown my failings late in your life, relatively speaking, and the effect of my failings have been to cause the death of your godfather and the traumatizing of your world.At fifteen, almost sixteen, you are perhaps more mature and world-wise than any other young witch or wizard in history, but:...you are still too young to decide the most important things in life all by yourself!I should have told you more about your life sooner - I have admitted that and confess that gross error again. But you have to trust me like you have in the past. Trust in proper authority - human and flawed as I am - is essential for you to go ahead with the best plans for your life.I cannot try to sway your decision with additional information - good, bad, or indifferent.You must do what I confess I would also find very difficult - trust me without me telling you why.To tell me that you trust me, and to activate the program for your life that is the best I can provide to help you succeed with your burden, please sign your name at the bottom of this parchment. It will activate all things necessary.Once again, I am contritely sorry, Harry. Once again, I am proud of you. Once again, please trust me.Yours truly,A. P. W. B. Dumbledore
The soon to be sixteen year old ate a lonely half breakfast/half lunch at 10:21 AM. He slept through the afternoon and ate a silent dinner with his wary relatives. He began another night of sightless staring out of the window. Harry had one piece of toast that next midmorning and no lunch. He hardly read the letter Hedwig delivered from Hermione. The snowy white left minutes later, as though the pain of her master hurt her too. Harry dozed off and slept restlessly through the afternoon.And still the parchment from Dumbledore lay on the floor unsigned.
It was 4:58 pm. Ted Granger locked the door to his dental office turned to take the lift down to the enclosed car park
below the medical complex. It had been a long day but the week was over and he and his family were going to spend the
next three weeks on holiday in Germany. His daughter, Hermione, had come home from Hogwarts where her friends had
proclaimed her the smartest witch of her generation. He chuckled with incredulity that soon settled into concern.
"My daughter, a witch," he mused. That phrase now meant something entirely different from what he had
understood when he'd first heard it applied to her by the Hogwarts Letter. There had been odd relief at that time
because finally there was a "logical" explanation for the inexplicable occurrences in their family. Until he
and his wife had helped Hermione control her temper, they had noticed things breaking a lot, and other children
skinning their knees quite often. She had always been able to get books off of top shelves when she wanted them, and
she'd sworn she'd not climbed up to reach them. An awful lot of her childhood coincidences had suddenly made
more sense. She had always made 'Outstanding' on every graded test and assignment in primary school, with only
two exceptions. Both times she'd made 'Exceeds Expectations' she'd viewed them as abject failures.
Those two subjects were never in question again. Though he had been a very good student, always near the top of his
class, his daughter had received her brilliance and her drive for top marks from her mother. Now she was the smartest
witch of her generation. Not exactly how he'd always dreamed his little girl would excel. But excel she had.
She'd always enjoyed studying and school, but at Hogwarts it was as if she had found her reason for being.
She'd come home that first year feeling like she had a destiny. Each succeeding summer she'd come home even
more certain that she was where she ought to be. After her fourth year she had matured well past the youthful
enthusiasm of previous summers. Since then she'd been a young woman, seemingly with a serious mission - which she
would not share with her parents - until the day she'd arrived home from finishing her fifth year.There had been
one subject - not an academic subject - in primary school where Hermione had not been a star. Of course Physical
Education was graded on a pass/fail basis and Ted Granger had no illusions that his daughter would take after him in
that area. He had starred on every team in every sport in school except golf. In his opinion, any activity like golf,
where overweight people could do well, couldn't be a sport at all. Ted Granger had been a rarity - an athlete who
had made very good grades. He'd been accepted to two good universities, and there had been talk of some financial
assistance based on his athletic abilities, but he had shocked everyone when he went into the army in the ranks. Ten
years later, having taken longer than he had expected, he'd left the army. He had slowly achieved a degree while in
the military. Upon leaving, he'd enrolled in dental school and paid for it with savings from his soldier's pay,
and with some academic scholarship help. He wanted to spend all of his time studying and not let his grades suffer by
being required on the pitch for so many hours a day. No, Hermione was never going to be an athlete excelling in sports
as he had, but he was disappointed that she'd let her running lapse while away at school. For the last two years
before Hermione had gone off to Hogwarts, she'd met him for the last mile and then two miles of his daily run. Ted
had used the time to cool down and chat with his daughter. She'd enjoyed the running after getting over the initial
difficulties. Now, she'd lost the physical edge that running had given her. She never had joined him for the
strenuous exercises and training he did daily in the Grangers' basement. Ted had run at least five miles, usually
more, every day since the age of ten, except when military service had other activities for him, and except the day of
Hermione's birth and the terrifying few days that followed. He'd spent those days alternating between crying
for joy when he looked at or held his newborn daughter, and crying beside his wife's bed, not knowing if she'd
survive the complications of a wretchedly difficult childbirth. His wife eventually did pull through and regained all
of her former vitality, but Hermione would be their only child. Ted could never be sad about it when he looked at his
daughter. His only sadness regarding her had been that he did not understand her new world well at all. That had all
begun to change a few days after the battle of the Department of Mysteries. It was standing practice at Hogwarts that
when a student was admitted to the Infirmary over night, an owl post would be sent telling the student's parents or
guardians what had happened. The Dursleys had sent word back by Harry that they did not care if he was injured or sick,
so stop sending the owls unless Harry died or something worse. The Grangers had received only three such notes in the
five years Hermione had attended the school. The first two were from her second year. Her stay while she slowly
transformed back from half cat after the Polyjuice Potion incident, had been written up as a school prank gone bad and
glossed over by Hermione's accompanying letter. The second notice that year had informed the Grangers that Hermione
had been Petrified. Professor McGonagall had visited the Grangers within the hour of that owl's delivery. It had
been a Saturday, the Quidditch match had been cancelled, and Dumbledore had insisted she go to the Grangers to help
explain what had occurred. The Transfiguration teacher had been torn between staying at the school to protect her young
lions and going to the Muggle parents who would be confused and distraught. The headmaster had made the decision easier
for her. When, in her fifth year, the third owl message had arrived telling of Hermione's injuries in the
Department of Mysteries, it had been sent with two other sealed parchments. There had been a letter from Hermione
herself, explaining that she was fine and improving, and trying to make light of the situation. Dumbledore had sent the
third missive with the official infirmary Notice of Extended Stay. He had outlined in some detail what had happened,
and had told the Grangers that the school owl would stay with them if they wanted to respond with any additional
questions or concerns. The headmaster and the parents had corresponded numerous times before the day they had arrived
to pick up Hermione outside the barrier to Platform nine and three quarters. Their written discussions evolved from
specific questions about the battle to broadly penned conversations regarding the conditions of the magical world at
this juncture. The Headmaster had answered all questions concisely, but completely.Her parents had said nothing about
her injuries at the station or during the trip home, other than a quick 'are you all right,' just as she came
off of the train. In the car they'd had an interesting discussion regarding Hermione's role as a part of the
delegation that "encouraged" the Dursleys to improve Harry's treatment during the summer. That
conversation with Harry's relations had occurred within earshot of the two dentists. Both parents were appalled at
the scraps of home-life horror stories Hermione had pieced together over the years from Harry's brief comments to
her and Ron.When the three Grangers arrived at home, there had been the smell of baked chocolate in the air. Before
leaving for the station, Mrs. Granger had set a large tray of walnut-chocolate biscuits in the oven on time bake.
Arthur Weasley would have wanted to talk for hours about the concept of time baking, (he never would have guessed
Muggles could do that to time) but that was not the discussion in their home that day. Mr. Granger had taken
Hermione's trunk upstairs, and in a few minutes she had come back down to the kitchen. The fresh baked goods were
on a plate, ready for consumption, and the tea was poured. Her father said, "Please sit down, young lady.
We've a lot to discuss."
Flashback to 1968 - - "All right, you young pups. You've been in for a year and you
think you're the big cocks in the barnyard. Somehow you've staggered through our initial training and
now you're in the bleedin' SAS. You think you're ten feet tall, six inches off the ground, and
bullet-proof. One of you's even the bleedin' enlisted knife champion of the bleedin' b'tallion.
"Well, I've picked up better stuff on the bottom of my brogans when I wasn't too careful in a back alley.
"You! The arrogant young pup with a pie-eatin grin on yer mug. Stand an' pull your blade." Out of his
left sleeve his right hand pulled a knife almost a foot long. It was a Fairbairn, a street fighting knife designed in
the 1930's by a Hong Kong chief inspector of detectives for his men who fought the Tong gangs. The Fairbairn,
legend has it, was the favorite knife of Major David Stirling, founder of the Special Air Service in WWII - the SAS.
The sleeve knife holder was a lesser-known part of the legend of the knife. The sergeant shook his head in disgust.
"Ruination of our service to let you young snotties carry a Fairbairn, even if you are a knife champion. I comes
along when a man had to see battle a'fore they lets 'im carry one. And in a bleedin' sleeve holder no less.
Thinks he's soddin' Stirlin' hisself re-in-CAR-nate." He was muttering this tirade to himself, but
with a raised voice so all could hear. The young soldier was standing easy but wary. He was supremely confident in his
abilities, but he was no fool. During initial SAS training, he had been surprised by his hand-to-hand instructor. The
instructor had acted as if he had a head cold, and was six inches shorter and two stone lighter. The little sergeant
had the young soldier on his back with his foot at his throat in less than three seconds. That had been the first day
of primary SAS training, but being caught unprepared had never happened to him again. He had learned from that first
embarrassment and was now not only the battalion knife champion, but tops in all other forms of close-quarters combat.
Now, in advanced training, this sergeant was six inches taller than him, and had to be over three stone heavier. But he
looked big and lumbering. And the younger man had his Fairbairn. He'd seen it in a pawnbroker's window and had
to have it. It was WWII issue and had been well maintained. The sleeve holder had been six pounds extra and well worth
it. "Put a protective blade cover on your bleedin' toad sticker. I don't want you holdin' back."
When the cover was in place the sergeant smeared axle grease on the blade cover. "There. Iffen you cuts me
we'll all know." The sergeant's uniform was immaculately clean and starched. "And I'll fight you
with these." He pulled out a deck of cards. The whole mob laughed but the young soldier was still cautious. The
sergeant shuffled the cards and made two card fans in his hands. "Okay, prepare yerself. Five. Four. Three.
Two." The young knife expert tried to take a step back but the fanned cards were flung with such force into his
face that he had three small cuts on his right cheek. The younger man took a step forward to slash at the big man, but
the sergeant fell forward and stomped on the young man's foot. As the young soldier lowered his hand to comfort his
toes, the sergeant knocked the blade flying with his left hand and punched him in the nose with his right. The punch
did not break his nose, but there was blood. Instead of in the previous three seconds, the new knife expert was on the
ground in seven seconds. "You okay there, laddie?" The sergeant offered him a hand to stand. The young boy
pivoted on the ground and was on his hands and feet and backing away in moments, standing when he was over eight feet
away. The sergeant roared with laughter. "That, lads, is the first youngin' to do that in fifteen years.
He's also the first one to NOT be thrown arse over teakettle." He turned to the young man with his hand
extended. "Truce!" A little closer, as they shook hands, the sergeant said in confidence, "You, last
year at the championship, finest knife fightin' I've seen since I won it in '42." The bloodied but
vindicated young soldier took his place with the rest of the men. The sergeant paced as he taught. "Here's
what you must always remember in hand-to-hand when you face a better armed opponent. "One. Close with the enemy.
Two. Anything is a weapon. Three. Hurt 'em to distract 'em. Four. Hurt 'em to disarm 'em. Five. Kill
'em! This is war! It's you or them!" "Now, repeat after me. One...."
The three Grangers had talked for over six hours. They had talked through the preparation and eating of dinner and
still they had kept talking. At first, Hermione had spoken the most, with her parents stopping her narrative with a few
questions to clarify a detail here or there. Eventually, the conversation flow had become a general question and answer
period. Hermione was not really surprised at the depth and perceptiveness of the questions they had asked. After all,
she had to have received her intelligence from somewhere. They asked very specific questions about a host of related
issues, but the most unexpected queries were concerned with actual Death Eater fighting methods and battle tactics. She
remembered her father had been some sort of medical orderly or something in the army, but he'd never wanted to
discuss it. Those experiences might be why he'd asked those specific questions, but her mother had also made
inquiries of equal insight and clarity on the same subject. "Now, Hermione," Madge Granger said with a bit
of... hesitation, perhaps. "Are you sweet on one of these young men? Harry, maybe?" "Mother,
these two are the closet thing I've ever had to brothers. Although, Ron's belated interest in asking me to the
Yule Ball our fourth year might.... But that's probably... over. "And as for Harry.... Harry... he has so much
to face.... I'm sure you've mistaken my concern for interest." "If you say so, dear." Then Ted
Granger called her attention to Death Eater squad tactics, which he had to explain as a concept before Hermione could
tell him that Death Eaters seemed to have no group action tactics that she'd seen. The idea of romantic involvement
with either Harry or Ron slipped far into the recesses of her mind, where they'd always been - but closer to the
forefront than she'd admit. Fighting Death Eaters was the all-consuming discussion point for the rest of the
evening. Hermione knew that both of her parents were as inquisitive as she was. It never occurred to her that the
questions posed by her mild and gentle father and mother could come from anywhere else but their curiosity.
Though his daughter did not know it, there was little that frightened Ted Granger. Initially, Hermione's
description of the battle she'd been in had scared him to no end. In the summer before Hermione's second year
at Hogwarts, the dentist had observed the fight at Flourish and Blott's between Arthur Weasley and Lucius Malfoy.
Mr. Granger had felt useless. He had held the impression that there was nothing he could do to help the red haired man
he had liked immediately. Most Muggles, upon learning that the magical world actually did exist, assumed that
everything they knew of magic from fairy tales and fiction was true. Much of it was, but quite a bit of it had been
placed in Muggle lore and writings as disinformation. Most witches and wizards wanted Muggles to think that their world
did not exist at all, so the outlandish was included to make its existence "impossible." Now, war, actual
fighting with serious wounds and death had touched Ted's daughter. And it had happened right here in England, not
in some foreign jungle or rice paddy. The innate desire of a father to protect his family rose up within him. And the
answers to those specific questions that night gave him hope that he was not as helpless as he'd feared. He'd
tried to intersperse asking questions regarding fighting with inquiries on other subjects. His daughter was brilliant
and keenly observant, and he took great pains to hopefully keep his biggest secret from her. He would soon fail in
that.
Harry ran out of the house and straight to Mrs. Figg's. He did not even consider using Hedwig because he felt for
sure that if he had overheard a real assignment from Voldemort, the Grangers would be dead before the owl could reach
anyone. It did not occur to him to call out to his minder. (Mundungus Fletcher had seen Harry fall asleep for the
second afternoon in a row, so he'd "just nipped out for a quick cuppa," as he would later explain, hands
wringing in contrition.) Harry took the steps in one leap and started banging on Mrs. Figg's front door. He
considered crashing through it. He hoped she had a Floo network connection or some way to communicate this summer. She
hadn't the previous summer, and Harry had heard talk of "doing something about that" as Order of the
Phoenix members had discussed his narrow escape from dementors right there in Little Whinging. Mrs. Figg opened the
door and started right in on her feeble cat-lady routine, but Harry barged right past her and into the sitting room,
shutting the door over her shoulder. She quickly looked out of the windows and then pulled down the shades. She
didn't want a neighbor to report to the police that "that terrifying child that goes to St. Brutus's
Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys" had forced her door. She straightened a little from her hunched over
state. "What is it, Harry, more dementors?" the Squib asked with genuine fear. In record time he told her
what had transpired and begged for some means of communication with someone, anyone, who might help. She had heard
about the events leading up to the battle of the Department of Mysteries. She knew about Harry being deceived.
"Harry, are you sure this isn't...?" "AAUUGHH! You can have me locked away at St. Mungo's after
we call for help. Seconds count! If I am right, and if you delay one more moment and the Aurors arrive too late,
I'll hex you into next year! This is Hermione we're talking about! What can we do?" Mrs. Figg physically
shrank before his verbal assault, but realized he was absolutely correct. She moved as quickly as she could. She
wasn't playing a little old lady; she was a little old lady. She grabbed two jars from her mantel muttering to no
one in particular, "Hotter than blue blazes but I keep this fire going just for...." She threw in an
imprecise amount of the regular green Floo powder and then measured an exact amount from the other jar. "Now the
Secure Floo Powder..." she continued to mutter. When the green fire turned bright red, she stuck her head in the
fireplace and yelled, "Twelve Grimmauld Place. Potter emergency! Come to Figg's!" As she stepped back,
almost right behind her tumbled out Kingsley Shacklebolt, Bill Weasley, and Remus Lupin. All three fell over each other
onto the floor. Mrs. Figg barely dodged the sprawling bodies. Mad-Eye Moody stumped out of the fireplace and to the
side of the entangled trio two seconds later. They were all up on their feet in short order. They all proceeded to
verbally fall all over themselves asking her and Harry why they had called. Moody slammed his walking stick on the end
table near the couch, bringing instant silence. "Potter, what's wrong?" Harry rushed to explain, and as
had happened with Arabella, Remus Lupin asked, "Harry, is there any possibility that this is another trap set for
you?" This hurt Harry but he understood why he had to be asked. Moody spoke before Harry drew breath to respond,
"We cannot afford to gamble that this is not true. This is war! We are honor bound to go to their aid instantly.
Where were they Harry? All at home or on holiday now?" Harry did not think about how well informed Moody was.
"Voldemort sent two Death Eaters to their dental office and two to their home, wherever those locations are.
Hermione owled me that only her father was working today, and her mother was taking her shopping this morning. The two
of them will be at home this afternoon and all three will be there this evening, packing. They leave on holiday in the
morning." Moody had a notepad open before Harry'd finished speaking. "Kingsley and Remus go to their
home, at number thirty-seven, Beckett Court off of Beckett St. in Oxford. Bill, you come with me to the Manor Road
Medical Center six miles east of Oxford. We will Apparate to the underground car park to the back west wall. It is dark
there. Potter, any idea what time they will attack?" "Voldemort said to coordinate their attacks at 5:00 this
afternoon." Moody had his pocket watch in his hand before Harry completed the sentence. He looked up at them and
said, "5:02." All four Disapparated within two seconds of his last syllable.
Flashback to the Fall of 1977 - - "Who is that crustacean two rows over, Madge?"
"Quiet, Meg, he'll hear you. Besides, he's rather fit, don't you think? He's not that old, and
quite dashing, really." "Are you daft? Look, he has gray hair! And his hair is so short. I bet he is retired
military. He's at least late thirties." Meg's Irish accent came out stronger when she was joking and when
she was angry. She was both right now. The class ended and Meg and Madge walked out under the burden of their class
assignment. Behind them they heard in a clear yet not loud voice, "Twenty-nine." They stopped and turned.
"I am only twenty-nine-years-old. I'm probably not more than eight or nine years older than either of you. I
was in the regiment, but I de-mobbed after ten years service to become a dentist." Meg did not like soldiers.
Before her friend could speak, Meg was in high dudgeon. "The regiment. The regiment. What were you? Coldstream
Guards?" The venom could be heard now as well as the Irish lilt. "The South Essex? Per'aps even the
bloody SAS?" Madge was 5' 8" and Meg was only slightly shorter, but the footwear of the time added two
inches to both of the young ladies. He was 5' 11" but because of his parade-ground stance, he looked taller.
Though he did have a very straight bearing, when she said "SAS," he, if anything, stood even more
erect and proud. This was not going to work out as he had hoped. "The SAS," Meg spat. "The bloody,
bleeding, blinding SAS! Your kind killed my Uncle Caley! Why you are..." Meg's Uncle Caley had taught her how
to swear and she honored his memory at that moment.Meg dropped her books and ran at him, fists up. Of course he
had been in the SAS, so this attacking female was easy enough to handle. Madge, standing open-mouthed and
speechless, was surprised at how gently he held her wrists and turned her so her kicks were ineffectual. As Meg
softened into a puddle of tears and drooped in his hands, Madge came up and took her from him. As he turned to leave he
quietly stated, "I'm sorry. I was never stationed in Ireland." Madge knew he meant his apology, but Meg
wailed louder with his words, and their contact with him was over. When they were next in a class together, he had
moved as far away from Meg as he could, and likewise in all the other classes they shared. Dental School was not that
big, and distance within a classroom was their only hope of not being near each other.
"Hermione, please move your wand to the table. I need the space on the counter to prepare dinner." Mrs.
Granger realized that was one more strange sentence to add to the many strange sentences she had constructed since the
summer of her daughter's eleventh year. And of course the conversations over the past twenty-four hours had been
the most improbable. She didn't know what bothered her more, her daughter's account of what sounded like a
horror fantasy movie, or her husband's grim mood due to that conversation. Her husband had ignored her when Madge
tried to comment on the idea of Hermione's romantic interest in Harry, or possibly Ron. It had worried her so much
when she had seen Ted pull down his dusty old chest from their bedroom cupboard. But she had known he was right in
doing so. The summer after her first year, Hermione had initially kept her wand on her person at all times, just
because she could. She had explained how she was not allowed to do magic away from school except in an emergency, but
she also said that she felt funny without it. She had left it in her room more and more often as that summer
progressed. After her second and third years she'd kept the wand in her room most of the time, but took it with her
on their holiday trips. After her fourth year, she had only been with her parents for less than a month, and she had
her wand near at hand at all times. It had even been on the side of the water basin when she had flossed and cleaned
her teeth. This year, her parents had insisted that she carry it with her always. And that wasn't the only
precaution. Mrs. Granger was a runner like her husband, running not always as far but almost as often as he did. She
did not go to their basement for further physical training as often as he did, but she was there with him several times
a week. And she did a number of toning exercises during the day at the office and when she was at home. She had never
forgotten her extensive training, none of it. The doorbell rang and Hermione shouted that she would answer it. Mrs.
Granger felt a fearful chill go up her back. Women's intuition or whatever it was, the shiver was instinctual, and
Ted had taught her that feelings of foreboding should only be ignored after the situation had been checked
thoroughly.
Author's Note - For those who do not know, the Special Air Service (SAS) of the
British Army is one of the finest small unit, special tactics, fighting organizations in the world. They are the only
organization that can rival the US Navy Seals in my opinion.