Harry Potter and the Knights of Walpurgis

A/N: I don't know why I'm doing this now, but I want to, God help me I'm addicted to this. Anyway, this is my idea for the seventh book, I warn you from now, you may not like some things in it but this is what I might think may happen… and with considerable H/Hr shipping bias… can't be helped.

You may have questions after this chapter, leave them in a review, I'll answer in story later. It's just the way I work.

By the way, Harry doesn't appear in perspective till chapter three, bear with me, the stuff before is mucho importante… such as what's below now.

Disclaimer: Due to the fact that there is currently a forty-something year old British lady—definitely not my mother, or me—writing this somewhere in Scotland, you can see how this is not mine.

Take your time Ms Rowling, I will read a thousand pages if you write it.

*****

1981

As always whenever he was summoned, Peter Pettigrew presented himself before Lord Voldemort cowering, bowed and full of flattery. He was no fool, the tall, dark-haired and now faintly handsome man before him could despatch him at a moment's notice without a second thought. The Dark Lord had done so too many times before to too many others and Peter had no intention of being one of them.

So bowed, he went before him and said, “M-my-my Lord… you sent for me?”

Lord Voldemort merely glanced his way in acknowledgement, and asked, “You said you had news… what is it?”

The short, prostrated figure with the pointed nose, watery eyes and straw hair replied immediately, “My Dark Lord… what I have I assure you will please you greatly. I have for you what none of your followers so far can find or hope to. I have, my Lord, a gift, a Hallowe'en treat you will most enjoy, I—“

“What is it, I have no time for your nonsense tonight Peter!” demanded Voldemort, cutting him off impatiently.

“Ah… ah, indeed,” said Peter, bowing, if possible, lower. “My gift, my Lord, is the Potters…. I can tell you where they can be found, and not only that, the assurance that they are there right now.”

A hooded figure in the shadows laughed, along with a few others. Peter tried to ignore them, Voldemort's Inner Circle, they always laughed at him, always underestimated him.

A beautiful, dark-haired woman, Bellatrix Lestrange, appeared beside Voldemort's chair and said, “You… you can deliver the Potters? All you've given us for the past couple of months have only led to empty spaces, and now you finally have—”

“I am their Secret Keeper!” said Peter, cutting her off and daring to glare up at her.

She laughed.

“You? They have made you their Secret Keeper, even now when they are convinced that there's a spy in their midst? I don't believe it!” she said.

Peter ignored her, appealing to Voldemort, “Sirius Black convinced them to do it, my Lord. He suspects the werewolf, Lupin, as the spy, he believes that he has been corrupted by his friends… no one suspects me.”

Voldemort appeared completely indifferent, but asked, “And where are the Potters, Peter?”

Peter smiled, and smugly at Bellatrix, before replying, “In Godric's Hollow, I can give you the house number now… they should be at home tonight.”

Though there wasn't much noise present before, the room seemed to fall into a deafening silence. It was almost as if they had all stopped breathing. Bellatrix was silent too, and the picture of composure, though her eyes betrayed an internal confusion and astonishment. Peter dared to turn to smile at them all, but stopped quickly when one of them revealed a sharpened dagger beneath his robes. He immediately returned his attention to the now pensive Dark Lord.

“With their child?” asked Voldemort, his interest suspicious but of no concern to any present. Severus Snape was out tonight.

Peter nodded vigorously, “Yes, yes, they never let him out of their sight… he's only a year old, my Lord.”

Voldemort rose at once, “Give me the exact location, I'm going out.”

“Should we come with you, my Lord?” asked Bellatrix, quickly, and eagerly moving away from the chair to stand with him.

Her husband in the shadows pointedly looked away.

“No, I am going alone, the last time I sent you they escaped… but Peter comes with me… just to make sure. Remember what happened to Regulus Black…” he replied, narrowing his gaze at the cowering figure.

Peter squeaked and protested, “M-my Lord… if I am seen…”

“What are you afraid of Peter; you have been betraying them for over a year now! What does it matter if they see your face before they die?” demanded Voldemort, an unearthly red gleam filling his eyes.

Peter shook his head vigorously again, “N-no matter, m-my Lord… as you wish, my Lord…”
“Fine, I shall be back shortly… in the mean time I expect the rest of you to do something! Finding the Longbottoms should be a good place to start. Here is Peter, smaller, weaker and apparently undeniably more dedicated than you could ever dream to be, delivering my enemies as he swore he would. Fate brought him to me, Fate is on my side, determined that none should thwart me. Find the Longbottoms, and make sure of it!” he commanded to his gathered followers.

They all nodded quickly, and he made to leave, but not before pausing to say, “Oh, and remember, I want the entire family, alive.”

They nodded again, Bellatrix gave a little bow, and finally, with a sweep of his billowing robes, Voldemort turned from them and left, Peter Pettigrew hurriedly scurrying after.

None would know then that when they left, they would not return. For Fate, no matter how much he wished to believe it was not with the Dark Lord Voldemort tonight.

*****

Sirius Black may have been a perpetual troublemaker in his youth but he was no fool. Being an expert on the matter of trouble himself, he was rather good at spotting it. It was how he had managed to stay alive this long in the war. So when he arrived at the old Muggle house Peter Pettigrew was using as his hiding place and found it empty, and after a full half-hour saw no sign of him, he knew something was up.

Peter was not always the sharpest tool in the shed but even he knew it would be very stupid to be out and about on a night like this.

No one save Lily, James and himself, knew that he was Secret Keeper, but the danger of being caught in a random Death Eater attack, and especially as it was Hallowe'en, was too great to be ignored. They already had to deal with the trouble of a spy in their midst, they didn't have the time to find another friend to keep their secret.

In his Animagus form, he lay half-concealed in the bushes at the back of the house, waiting. With no signs of struggle, disturbance to the Muggle home or distress in the Muggles within, the only thing really keeping him there was the thought that Peter must have foolishly stepped out for a bit. To anyone within, the large, shaggy black dog in the backyard was nothing more than a stray, hoping for the scraps of dinner and a place to spend the night. They would probably never believe him a tall, handsome, dark-haired, grey-eyed man of twenty-one.

Of course, it helped that not many wizards knew that either.

Something stirred just beyond the fence; he stood immediately and growled, low. If it was Peter he would know he wasn't pleased, if it was anything else… he hoped it would heed his warning.

It stirred again, a sudden night wind cutting across then distorting the movement… and then it was still. Sirius waited a moment, and then resettled into his former position.

What the bloody hell was keeping Peter?

This wasn't entirely a surprise visit. Peter knew that at any given moment he would come by to check on him just in case. It was a safety measure so that James and Lily had adequate warning to pack up and leave before Voldemort or his Death Eaters stormed in. Tonight was one those moments, the first, in fact, since Peter had become Secret Keeper, and Sirius had to tell him, he wasn't doing too well. And especially, since Sirius was having second thoughts about Lupin being their traitor.

It was hard enough having to suspect him in the first place. They had all been at Hogwarts together—James Potter, Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew and Remus Lupin—all Gryffindors, trouble-makers and friends. They were almost like brothers.

Right out of school they had joined the war effort to end the reign of terror of the Dark Lord Voldemort, joining Professor Dumbledore's Order of the Phoenix. It was a secret, well-connected and carefully maintained network of spies, Aurors, semi-legal citizens, and—for lack of a better term—vigilantes working to put an end to what was becoming a very nasty Wizard war under the banner of pureblood rule. Pureblood rule fuelled by ancient prejudices like those that claimed only wizards of purely magical bloodlines fit to exist, above those of purely Muggle or mixed bloodlines. That also meant that the war had plenty of support and some of it outright.

So the four who usually made light of everything quickly found that there was no joke to be had this time. It was too dangerous; they had way too many close calls with them once almost coming face-to-face with the grandmaster himself.

Then James married Lily Evans.

For a time it wasn't so bad, and then it was, one more person to protect, though she was not at all useless. (And she better not ever hear that he had thought that.) Good at Potions, good in battles, quick on her feet and cheeky to boot, she never was the damsel in distress. She and James managed to escape Voldemort three times in fact, and on one occasion in an ambush. It actually brought them level with a pair of Aurors, Frank and Alice Longbottom who had done the same thing.

And then Lily and Alice got pregnant, and then it did get worse.

And for just over a year now, both families were in hiding. And in the case of James and Lily, unfortunately they had a traitor in their midst. One of the brothers was supplying information to the enemy, and in this war that could get them all killed.

This brought him back to Lupin being the traitor.

For as long as they knew him they had kept a secret that could have ruined his life, Remus Lupin was a werewolf.

If anyone ever found out, he could end up being hunted by the Ministry at worst or a penniless, wandering outcast at best. They had found this out at school and with Professor Dumbledore had kept his secret, though they failed to mention the part about them becoming unregistered Animagi as part of their assistance. For him to betray them now… it bordered on the impossible, he would probably sooner hang himself.

But he could have been… changed, persuaded somehow at his weakest times around the full moon. Or they could be blackmailing him, or… well, the point was it simply couldn't be Lupin.

And no matter what Severus Snape believed and tried to convince James of, Sirius wasn't the traitor either. He wasn't the fool his brother was, and had Snape ever seen him at any of the Death Eater get-togethers or how ever Voldemort got his information in the first place?

“How nice is this for Hallowe'en? It's a full moon out, you know what that means don't you?” a voice asked suddenly from within the house.

The night sky above was a dark navy blue, studded by twinkling blue diamond stars, traversed by clouds only a shade lighter than the sky. The newly risen full moon bathed all in its soft, silvery-blue light, making it as bright as day.

He could imagine Lupin out there now; running about in some forest trying to hold on to what little remained of his sanity. In the morning he would be properly bruised and probably sleep all day. He had some of the best scars and he rarely got into fights.

Sirius perked up his large ears.

“Ahrooooooo!” was the reply, a child's voice. “I'm a werewolf, Ahrooooooo! Watch out for my bite, I'll make you just like me!”

There was a moment of silence, some scuffling, and then… “Oh no, I've been bitten! I'm cursed! You have made me like you! Now, every month at the rise of the full moon I'll turn into a mindless beast, seeking blood and a neck to bite!”

There was a sigh, and in an authoritative manner the child told him, “That's a vampire, Daddy, werewolves can bite you anywhere.”

Sirius smirked… as best he could as a dog, which meant letting his tongue hang out and panting while flopping his tail.

These Muggles, the things they come up with.

Remus wasn't always a mindless beast. As a matter of fact he was rather intelligent, a swot if you will, always reading and researching. It was a wonder he had time to do anything else. And then, with Lily helping him sometimes, hoping for a cure to that furry condition with a tendency to bite he had every month.

Peter Pettigrew, on the other hand, now that was a mindless beast if he ever saw one, and he was speaking as a friend.

Small, squeaky little lump, no wonder he had become a rat as an Animagus. It actually suited him perfectly; he was small, amazingly agile despite his size and the perfect spy when they wanted to come up with something. Their vict… um, participants… never suspected him.

Who would believe that little fur-ball was going to get them in trouble?

Sirius stood up so fast he almost fell over.

Oh no.

Oh gods, no.

*****

“Peek-a-boo!”

Harry laughed.

“Peek-a-boo!”

He laughed again then became curious as his mother seemingly vanished behind her hands. He leaned over in his seat and tried to peer around them.

Where did she go?

“Peek-a-boo!”

He squealed, clapped and reached for her hands. Holding them he let her drag him unto his feet, took two wobbly steps unto her thighs and then dropped headfirst into her chest.

“Hey! As of the past six months, no longer your territory.” admonished James, coming over to lift the baby from her arms.

Harry immediately screamed.

Lily laughed, “Ah, as of the day he was born, no longer your territory.”

“Whatever,” grumbled James, as he returned his son to his mother and plopped down on the couch with them. “But sooner or later he's going to have to share. I don't think his three younger brothers are going to appreciate his selfishness.”

“Three younger brothers…? I only have one son,” Lily replied, turning Harry round in her lap and presenting him.

The baby smiled, revealing two rows of tiny, white teeth and said, “Ahh ba!”

“Put him to bed, and we'll get started on that,” James told her with a mischievous smirk, and ruffled his jet-black hair.

“Oh gods…” she groaned.

Her sentiment though, found an echo in the street just outside. Repeated, by a tall, cloaked figure with an unnatural reddish gleam in his eyes and a barely visible approving smile on his lips as he stood looking in on them.

“You've done well, Peter. You were telling the truth,” he said to no one in particular.

Well, there was someone, or rather, something. Trying his very best to conceal himself in the overgrowth of a vine-covered wall, Peter Pettigrew had transformed into his Animagus form. He squeaked at Lord Voldemort's address, and tried to burrow further into the vines.

“Why don't you stay here, Peter? I know you wouldn't like to come with me…. I'll be right back,” said Voldemort.

Peter squeaked again and peered out of the vines just in time to see Voldemort's shoes disappearing down the pavement as he headed down to the house.

If he could speak he would say two words, “Sorry, James.”

Bored, now that his mother had stopped playing the disappearing game, Harry squirmed and wriggled in her arms until she let him slip off her lap and the couch. He dropped unto his bum at their feet, comfortably cushioned by his pampers, stood up and toddled over to the coffee table. Almost before his father had time to think, he had snatched the bottle of butterbeer and put it to his mouth.

James snatched it back, “No, Harry, no butterbeer for you!”

The baby looked thoroughly affronted, and James whispered, “At least wait until Mummy's in the next room.”

“James…” began Lily, warningly.

A low creak, a groaning and they both looked to the front door.

Harry made to snatch the bottle of butterbeer again while they were distracted. James took it with him as he rose and went to the window, leaving Harry to stare wistfully after his almost treasure.

Lily stood behind him, and asked, “Is it Sirius? He said he was going to check on Peter tonight…”

James did not reply, but pushed the curtain back ever so slightly and peeked.

Within seconds he had drawn his wand.

“Lily, take Harry and go!” he yelled.

“What?” she asked, though she picked him up immediately.

The look on James' face as he turned to her was all the answer she needed. He almost didn't have to command, “Go! Run! I'll hold him off—”

Stumbling backwards, nearly falling over the chair, she scurried from the living room with Harry in her arms and headed for the stairs. Almost at the top of them she heard the door burst open, followed by a high-pitched cackling and stifled a scream as she realised what that meant.

Voldemort was here.

He had finally found them; he must have gotten to Peter… Peter who was probably dead….

Oh gods….

Running into the baby's room, she shut and locked the door and hoped James could hold him off. If Voldemort came up here….

Downstairs at the moment, Voldemort was having a bit of a problem trying to do just that.

The moment he had come through the door, James had sent a non-verbal Stunner after him.

It bounced away harmlessly, but before he was entirely able to send back one of his own, he was being rammed into a wall by a pair of antlers.

James had transformed himself, just in time to hit him, before diving back over the chair and standing once more as a man to send another Stunner, “STUPEFY!”

Again, Voldemort deflected the curse, and Disapparated just before another could hit him. He Apparated behind the same sofa James was using for cover and bellowed, “Incarcerous!”

James rolled out of the way and shot off, “Bombarda!” towards him.

He Disapparated, the curse obliterated a vase, and James sprang to his feet, wildly looking about for him. And then suddenly, Voldemort Apparated back into the same spot and immediately shot off the Killing Curse, “AVADA KEDAVRA!”

James didn't have the time to register surprise before the jet of brilliant green light hit him full in the chest. He slammed against the wall behind him, breaking a mirror, and fell forward, dead.

His wand rolled out his hand into the corner.

Out in the vines, Peter squeaked. Upstairs in the bedroom, where Lily was anxiously looking for an escape, Harry started screaming. She halted at once.

No… no, no… oh gods no….

Voldemort walked over to where James laid fallen, eyes open, glasses broken and exhaled.

“What a waste…” he said softly, nudging his head with the tip of his shoe.

And then he heard the baby's wail, and turned to look up at the ceiling.

Baby bag on her shoulder, Lily abandoned her quest to open the window and went to the crib trying her best to silence Harry.

“Come on, shh! Harry, look at Mummy! Shh Harry! Come on, you have to be quiet for Mummy! Please Harry, please be quiet for Mummy…” she coaxed, leaning over the crib and gently patting him on his back.

Harry wouldn't stop though. Lips trembling, mouth open wide and tears streaming from the corners of his bright green eyes he screamed for the world to hear. His father was dead; he wanted them to know it.

Lily was crying too, which wasn't helping matters any, but couldn't stop unless he did. He had to be quiet; if Voldemort heard him… he had to be quiet.

“Come on, Harry, shh! Please Harry, shh!” she pleaded.

“REDUCTO!”

She screamed as the door exploded behind her and Voldemort stepped into the bedroom.

Harry abruptly fell silent.

Oh no… too late… oh no….

She turned slowly, not daring to take her son from the crib, not wanting to see the face of her killer.

Voldemort, in comparison, stood calmly in the doorway waiting for her. She gasped, straightened her posture immediately, and asked, somewhat lamely, “Is he dead?”

“Yes,” he replied.

She gasped again, stifled a sob and looked away. After a moment, she turned back to him, and stammered, “A-and-and you've come for Harry now…?”

He nodded, coldly.

Lily looked back into the crib where Harry had risen to his feet and was peering through the bars, and said weakly, “No… please… no…”

Voldemort didn't move from where he stood, but raised his wand and said, “Stand aside, I don't have to kill you now, I only want the boy. You know why…”

“NO! Not Harry! Please… please, not my… not Harry!” she began to plead, her mind racing as to the location of her wand.

It was with horror that she realised that she had left it downstairs in the living room.

“Three times have you and your late husband stood in my way, I will not stand for it another! Stand aside and watch him die, that is all I will give you!” he told her, his voice becoming icy.

“Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!” she screamed, stepping to her left so that she completely blocked the baby from view.

Her mind was racing again. She had to find a way out, stop him, but how? How could she without her wand?

“Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside, now…” commanded Voldemort, and this time he did step closer.

“Not Harry, please, no, take me, kill me instead—” she begged, and gripped the bars of the crib.

Harry reached up and took hold of her wrist.

“I want the child, I will not say it again, stand aside!” Voldemort commanded, coldly, and took another step towards her.

“Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy….” she begged again.

Tears spilled down her cheeks and splashed unto her jumper. She was squeezing the handlebars so tight her knuckles were white. And yet Harry held onto her wrist and bobbed about in the crib, unaware of the danger and curious as to what was going on.

She couldn't let Voldemort kill him. She and James, they were the ones who had defied him. They were the ones fighting him, they were the ones trying to stop him, not Harry… he was just a baby, just an innocent baby.

She didn't care about prophecies, they could be wrong and given the source, this one could be a fake. Who's to say that this Sybil Trelawney hadn't thought up this fantastical “prophecy” before she even met Professor Dumbledore? Who's to say that she, desperate for a job and realising that she was losing him hadn't put on an act? And with the unexpected witness in Severus Snape struck some twisted form of gold?

But if that was the case it didn't matter anymore did it? Voldemort had heard it, and was hell-bent on making sure that it never came true.

Oh gods, the Longbottoms… Frank… Alice… their son….

Not Harry, she couldn't let that happen to Harry…. She would do anything, give anything…. If she couldn't save herself then she had to find some way, somehow, to save him.

And then suddenly in her distress, it came to her.

But Voldemort, already tired of her pleas was now halfway across the room and still advancing.

She screamed again, “Not Harry! Not Harry! Please—I'll do anything—”

She wasn't lying either.

It was old magic, very old magic, and as far as she knew it had never been used for something like this. No one had ever survived the Killing Curse, no one, ever… but she would have to do it anyway.

It would be a kind of trade, a sacrifice—and in this case, in blood—effectively cancelling his attempts to kill Harry. If he agreed to it—if he killed her—he could not take Harry's life, because she was offering him, hers instead. And for as long as her blood ran through Harry's veins—basically, forever—Voldemort would never be able to harm him. But again, this trade… it had never been used for something like this.

“Stand aside. Stand aside, girl!” he bellowed, stopping just some distance away, his wand trained on her but directed at the infant behind.

“Please, take me instead! Not Harry! Kill me!” she screamed, and in one movement, turned her back to him, reached into the crib and snatched the baby up into her arms.

Voldemort sighed, “Fine. AVADA KEDAVRA!”

The jet of light hit her square in the back, she screamed, crashed into the crib, dropping the baby and tumbled lifeless back over the edge and to the floor.

Voldemort never noticed the faint, grey-white luminescence that flowed from her body in the moment of her death to spread like a blanket over her son before dissipating. And even if he had, he would have probably considered it an after effect of the curse, nothing at all that could facilitate his downfall.

Peter squeaked even louder this time, and tumbled from his hiding place… once more a man.

Harry did not scream this time though. Water was filling his eyes but he didn't want to, Mummy was still there. As a matter of fact, he was feeling as warm as he usually did when she was holding him.

He sat up, crawled to the edge and looked through the bars to his mother on the floor.

She had fallen unto her back, arms outstretched reaching up to the bars, eyes—the same he had—open and staring blankly at him. He touched her fist, and then fell back unto his bum when the strange man who had been yelling at her came over and said, “Tragic, a brilliant mind that could have been of such great use… ah, hello little one.”

Harry looked up at him, and though his eyes were teary again, he did not cry. His mother's eyes, how much they lit up like hers had just moments before. Indeed, there seemed to be the barest traces of the faint, grey-white luminescence in them….

Voldemort continued, “You know, I've heard it on good authority that you're destined to kill me…. We can't have that now, can we? Of course, looking at you now I wonder wherever they got such a silly idea. Did they honestly think that I would let you grow up after I found out?”

He drew his wand and pointed it at the baby's head.

“Goodbye Harry Potter, don't cry now, you'll be with Mummy and Daddy soon enough…. AVADA KEDAVRA!”

A jet of green shot from the tip, at such close range there was no way that he would miss.

But then, it was as if he did.

Instead of the baby keeling over as his parents, and so many others, had as the light touched him, a lightening bolt-shaped cut appeared on his forehead and there was a loud, ear-piercing scream. It was almost the echo of his mother's just seconds before… and then the light turned into a flash and blasted back at Voldemort.

He barely had time to yell out in shock, it hit him full on and he was flung against the bedroom door. But he was alive; he was still alive, and gripping with all that he had left at the wall.

And then he realised that he was being drained.

He was alive then, but not for long.

“No… no… no! NO!” he screamed.

That didn't help. It almost seemed to make it worse. It was a terrible feeling already, as if he were standing before a giant vacuum, or the wrong way in a wind tunnel, and some invisible force were pulling at every inch of him.

It ripped the hairs from his scalp, pulled at the skin on his face, tore the gloves from his hand and the clothes from his body…. And then, when he was almost completely naked, it began to dig past the skin, plucking hairs from his chest and legs with leaving a sensation worst than a thousand bee stings. He opened his mouth and yelled and nearly choked as his tongue nearly left his throat.

Lights were flickering, bolts of electricity buzzed and sparked from the wall sockets, things not nailed down were torn from their places and set into an unnatural orbit, bursting through walls and crashing into pieces when they could no further.

Downstairs in the living room James' body was lifted, thrown against the wall again and dumped over the couch which tumbled over atop him. Lily's barely stirred from her place by the crib, but her red hair was whipped about in a gust before falling over her face like the veil.

Outside, Peter covered his ears with his hands and shut his eyes tight, hearing the sounds, seeing the flashing lights and not wanting to know.

He dared then, to look down at the crib and the cause of it and was startled to find the baby still alive and bawling while the cut on his forehead glowed a dazzling emerald green. In fact, if he was not mistaken, it looked as if there was a connection between them, forged by the light… and nothing was happening to the baby.

“NO!” he yelled again, and tried to fight it though he knew it a futile battle. He could feel his strength, his life… leaving him and all he could do was let it.

And then suddenly it was over. His body dropped and scattered as dust over the floor, his wand clattering aside just before it and the house suddenly collapsed upon itself as a terrible, high-pitched shrieking—a mixture of victory and horror—sounded through the ruin.

And then it was still.

For a time there wasn't a sound. Not the rustle of the wind through the trees, the hoot of an owl on the hunt or even Peter's muted terrified squeals. An unnatural silence, the sound of death, had fallen over Godric's Hollow.

And then a baby wailed.

It was a soft, short burst of sound that lasted no more than a few seconds so that at first Peter thought he had heard a cat. When it sounded again, he knew exactly what it was and he couldn't believe it.

It was Harry; it could be no one else.

Stumbling to his feet, Peter scurried down the street to the house and gasped at the sight of destruction. The house had imploded, there was no other way to put it, and the second floor seemed to have completely crushed the first.

The baby cried again, he transformed into a rat and bolted down the path, clambered through the front door and ground floor and found his way to the stairs. They were useless though; he hopped atop some fallen furniture and ran down a corridor to the bedroom from where the persistent cries were sounding. Skidding slightly on some dust in the doorway he came to a halt at the sight of Harry climbing out of his wrecked crib to his mother.

He could barely believe it, he had survived….

Unaware of the new arrival, Harry went down to his mother's shoulder and gently patted her arm like his father did when he was waking her. But she didn't respond, she just kept staring blankly up at his now vacant crib and clutching at bars with her hair in her face.

He patted her arm again, and this time he spoke, “Mama… Mumma… Ma… Ma…”

He was too young to understand that she would not respond… that she would never respond….

Peter had to get out of here. He couldn't stay here and look at this. He would not stand here and look at this, not feel guilty for this….

And then he spotted Voldemort's wand in the corner.

In, hopefully, the permanent absence of the owner, that would fetch a pretty price at a pawn shop.

With one last look at the baby and his mother, he dove into the corner, snatched up the wand, reverted to a man, and Disapparated.

*****

Bounding down the dark, vacant streets, ears alert, tongue hanging out, Sirius raced through Godric's Hollow desperately hoping that when he got there, there would be nothing to find.

He couldn't, didn't want to believe that Peter… that he would… that he would ever do what he thought he did. It wasn't Peter, it couldn't be Peter. They all knew him; he was a good man, a good friend, always was and always would be. He was not a traitor, he wouldn't sell his friends to the enemy for all the money in the world, he would rather die, they all would….

He came to an abrupt halt just before the gate.

The house… it was… it was destroyed….

In the dim moonlight he could clearly see that. It had fallen in on itself, the ground floor crushed under the weight of the upper and all the lights had gone out. All the upper rooms looked intact, and if he climbed atop the hedges he might even be able to jump in through a window. But the silence, like that of a mortuary, kept him frozen in the road. And then there was the scent of burning in the air, not of fire, but something worse, much worse… the scent of magic.

Rearing up and bearing his teeth, he growled and then barked at the ruin. If there was still something in there, he was ready for it, he would let it pay… and if it was someone who belonged there, they would know that he had come.

But there was still nothing but silence.

He dropped his head, and whined. He knew what that meant.

Curious though, that there was no Dark Mark in the sky, Voldemort had killed the Potters, surely someone would celebrate?

Walking to the gate, not at all willing to transform back to his human form in case of trouble, Sirius nudged it open and cautiously stalked up the path to the house. It yawned loudly, and his fur bristled, but there was no danger and he continued on his way.

As the upper floor had fallen forward atop the lower, there was no front entry to the house. Even if there was, he was too large even in his Animagus form to get through it. The back door though, had been blasted out as the house fell, and he climbed in sniffing and listening for life.

The interior looked very much as if a hurricane had run through it. Things were ripped out of their places and smashed on the floor; all glass in sight was broken and spread out across the tiles glittering like precious jewels. Dry foods, baby cereal, butterbeer, all the cupboards had been emptied, and the chemicals cupboard was smoking slightly. The broken pipe in the kitchen sink was spouting water like a fountain; he hoped the gas line wasn't doing the same. But if this was how the kitchen looked, did he really want to imagine the rest?

He carefully picked his way through the mess to the hall and then into the living room. This looked only slightly less damaged than kitchen, but probably because everything within had been crushed when the ceiling had caved.

And then he saw James' wand at the door.

Immediately he perked his nose for the scent, found it and crawled round to the tumbled couch under which his friend lay.

No….

Creeping as close as he could, he barked at him, loudly.

Nothing.

He nipped at his ear, nudged his head, and barked again.

Still nothing.

Whimpering, he bit the neck of his jumper and shirt and tugged until he dragged him free of the chair. Then he tugged and pulled and dragged him through the kitchen, out the backdoor and round to the front lawn under the moonlight. It was not an easy task, his dead-weight slowing the progress, but eventually he got him out, and James' now useless hazel eyes stared up at the moon.

Sirius transformed back into his human form, sat down on the grass, and began to cry.

He couldn't remember when last he had cried like this, tears running free, wretched sobs wracking his body, groans freely escaping his mouth, but he did it now. Lifting James' upper body as best he could into his arms, he cried over him, rocking him back and forth.

He was too late. He'd taken too long, waited too long…. If only he had been a little sooner, if only he had come as soon as he found Peter gone, if only he had realised before that Lupin could not have been the guilty one, if only, if only….

He looked to the moon and begged that Lupin forgive him, that Lily had somehow escaped, and for the strength to find Peter and make him pay.

Looking down again, he gently replaced James on the ground, kissed his rather cool forehead, and reluctantly pulled himself away. He had to find Lily and Harry; he couldn't leave them in there like that.

Going back the way he had the first time around, he carefully searched around the lower floor, tracking the faint scent of mother and child throughout. Failing to find them then, he went up to the second floor, scrambling up the broken staircase and sniffing the air to the room where the scent was heaviest.

He paused in the doorway.

Lily and Harry lay side by side on the floor near the crib. Lily reaching up to the broken crib, staring into it, Harry lying on his back beside his mother, his head resting on her chest, and all through the air was the scent of magic.

These two could not be dragged outside. Well, at least not Lily, he would have to carry her out. He didn't want to think of them like that, and especially not his godson, but it was not safe to break down in here. The house was not exactly stable.

Walking over to the pair, he whined and nudged at Lily's head. She was as cool as James, but had probably died after him. Voldemort had spared no one; he could only hope she hadn't watched Harry die.

Where was he anyway?

Reluctantly then, he turned to his godson. He would have preferred not to touch him, not to feel the hold of death on his tiny body, know that so little a life had been snuffed as well… but he had to.

He nudged his nose to Harry and then reared back in shock. He was as cold as ice, colder than Lily and James combined even, and that seemed impossible.

Even more so, he thought he had felt a breath.

Immediately, he reverted to his human form and knelt on the floor before the pair. Putting a trembling hand to the little chest he froze when he felt the unmistakeable “thump-thump-thump” of a tiny heart. And there was warmth there. And then Harry took a breath. And then he opened his eyes and looked up at Sirius, and Sirius nearly fell over.

Harry was alive.

Somehow, some way, by some form of higher power, and save for that odd cut on his forehead, Harry was alive.

Sirius immediately snatched the infant up into his arms—still strangely icy to the touch, but alive—and began to cry again, but this time for joy.

Harry was alive, he had survived….

All fingers, toes, feet, hands, head, torso, same black messy hair—he would never thank James for that—same bright green eyes—Lily's—same bright smile, a cry that echoed through the eerie silence… he had survived.

But when Sirius Black found Peter Pettigrew, he would make sure that he wouldn't.

For James, Lily and the little boy now crying and squirming in his dirty arms—more famous than he knew at the moment—he would make absolute sure of it.

Pity though, he would never have the pleasure.

As a matter of fact, by the end of November 1^st, 1981—the next day—he would become the traitor, hauled off kicking and screaming to Azkaban, and Peter, the innocent victim of a man he thought his friend. And this would be the 'truth' of that Hallowe'en for the next twelve years, along with the belief that Voldemort himself had finally gone.

Tragic, that neither was true.

But of course, by the time the real story, the entire story was known, Harry Potter himself would.

-->

A/N: More back-story people, pay attention. Man, this is fun.

Disclaimer: See chapter one, though the user name, bio and fact that this is here should be a clue.

*****

16 years later…

*****

Obituary

In four sharp, successive “pops” that sounded through the silent night, the small group Apparated into the thicket just beyond the gates of the crumbling, old mansion. Nearly breathless, their skin still stinging from the hexes and curses sent after them, every nerve in their body alive, they tumbled as they appeared. It could not be helped, after their hasty exit and the squeezing sensation of Apparition they felt as they were being thrown. They quickly recovered though, standing and straightening their robes as they gathered their bearings… only to be startled into cover by a fifth sudden “pop”.

It was a man dressed in black, tall and sallow, with dark eyes, crooked yellowed teeth and greasy black hair, and just as the others fell as he appeared. The new arrival though, stood quickly, dusted and straightened his robes, and called, “Where is Draco? I have to speak to him at once!”

Three of the four stepped back into the clearing and looked at him. No one smiled, he was not really welcome. In turn, the arrival stared right back at them; Professor Severus Snape was not a man easily intimidated and especially not by this bunch.

The first, a lumpy-looking man with a face that appeared distinctly lop-sided as he leered at him, said, “Snape come too! Snape follow, Snape kill Dumbledore! Snape kill Dumbledore, not Draco!”

His sister, a stocky woman of similar features, but not smiling as her brother now was, agreed, “Yes, Snape killed Dumbledore, instead of Draco… shut up the old fool once and for all.”

The third, a large, blond man, said nothing looking at Snape, and then reached out to a nearby tree and dragged the fourth—a tall, skinny, white-blonde haired, grey-eyed and pointy-faced boy still dressed in his school robes—out before him.

He struggled against the man's grip until Snape reached for him—then he recoiled as if burned—and said, “You killed him! Y-you actually… you killed him…! I was supposed to do it! He'll kill my parents now! I was supposed to do it!”

“Calm down, Draco,” said Snape. “If I hadn't done it, you wouldn't be here now; they'd be dragging you away to Azkaban.”

“Me? If you hadn't done it you'd be dead! Isn't that what you said, you'd made the Unbreakable Vow… everybody knows that once you've made the Vow, you can't break it or you'll die!” Draco yelled. “But what good did it do, Professor? My mother's as good as dead now!”

Snape took a quick glance at the other three and snatching hold of Draco's collar, dragged him away, “Excuse us…”

He took him even deeper into the thicket, stumbling over stones, undergrowth and through branches, before he felt they were sufficiently enough away to say, “Calm yourself, do you wish for him to see you like this? Weak and almost snivelling like a child?”

Draco said nothing, but twisted out of his grasp and straightened his robes and hair. Just away from them they could hear the others doing the same. The brother and sister, Amycus and Alecto, were even conversing excitedly over the night's earlier events. It was as if they hadn't just lost one of their comrades, or escaped from the scene of a murder….

The night around them too, seemed to contradict the very thought of the prior events. Cool, calm and quiet, the sky above was dark, dotted by many a sprinkling of tiny glittering stars. The waxing moon offered almost no light, but that of the mansion of their hiding place glowed softly through the trees, gently illuminating their faces. An owl hooted, something burrowed nearby, an animal above jumped branches in the trees… Snape could barely imagine the chaos they had just left behind….

Eventually though, Draco said, and almost quietly, “I don't need your help.”

“He gave you a mission you didn't fulfil, granted the deed is done, he could still do as he promised… why didn't you tell me what it was? Why did I have to figure it out on my own, wasting months of time, when you could have just told me?” demanded Snape.

Draco looked at him stunned, “It… it-it was my mission, mine! He gave it to me, not you, and you-and you didn't even give me the chance to—”

“To do what…? You would not have killed the Headmaster on your own and you know it, Draco. You would have waited right there for Potter to come to his senses and stop you,” Snape told him.

“No, I wouldn't!” protested Draco, childishly, but unable to control himself.

Before Snape could respond to this though, a strange, new voice sounded through the thicket, nasty and grasping, “Where is the boy? The Dark Lord wishes to see him immediately.”

It was Peter Pettigrew.

Draco blanched at once, and actually took a step back. There was some scuffling ahead and Peter suddenly appeared before them, same straw-hair, same watery-eyes—but no longer cowering, sporting a brilliant silver but ill-gained hand—and glared at Snape.

Snape's face was an emotionless mask, and Peter turned to Draco, “The Dark Lord is awaiting you… but why are you here?”

“That is none of your concern… Wormtail…” Snape replied, uttering his nickname like an insult.

Peter sneered, “I'm not your servant anymore, you are now completely one of us…” and without another word, turned, transformed and scurried away.

Snape—pointedly ignoring his jibe—turned to Draco again, “Come on, let's go.”

Still pale, Draco did as he was told, walking silently back into the clearing and out of the thicket to the rusted wrought-iron, vine covered gates that led to the mansion.

The other three had already gone in with Peter, their voices though, carried over the over-grown lawn through the dying and newborn grasses, past the decaying remains of the original owners, and the stagnant, filled-in fountain to the two making their way through the now-ruined gravel path. Noticeably absent though, were the usual black-clad patrols that skirted the shadows of the estate. In fact, the silence that had permeated the air without seemed to have followed them within, no sounds of Apparition, no murmuring voices, and no sign of the one who summoned them, the Dark Lord Voldemort.

They never made it to the mansion though, for just as they were to encounter the steps an explosion ripped through the back rooms and sent flames raging through to the front. Snape and Draco were sent tumbling to the ground as a burst of fire shot out the front doors towards them.

The heat dried all moisture from their robes and singed the edge of Snape's, but when it was gone and he looked up again, it was to find Peter smirking at them.

“The Dark Lord wishes all traces of his presence destroyed…” he offered, by way of explanation. “He has gone home now, and we're to join him.”

“H-home?” asked Draco nervously, rising and dusting himself clean once more.

The heat of the flames had brought a slight colour to his cheeks but did nothing to his clearly ashen appearance. He was terrified, but if he listened to Snape, would be fine.

Peter smiled, “The Heir of Slytherin is claiming his birthright as we speak… and we're the specially invited guests.”

Snape made a face, “You too, Peter?”

Peter ignored him, and instead addressed Draco, “Follow me.”

In the flickering orange-gold flames of the burning house, and under the mask of the choking, black smoke pouring through the windows and front door—eerily reminiscent of the scene they had just fled—they turned and followed him to the back of the house where the others were already assembled round an old sundial. It was a portkey, and once they all touched it, it would take them to wherever it was the Dark Lord had gotten to.

Draco looked distinctly ill, but there was no turning back now. “Avada Kedavra!” not by his hand, but his fate was sealed.

Peter nodded to one of the others, who flicked a glance Draco's way and took hold of the sundial. One by one then, they followed. Amycus, Alecto, the large blond Death Eater, three men with their hoods almost completely obscuring their faces, a beautiful young woman with long, dark red hair, Snape, Draco, whose hand trembled as his fingers grazed the gilt edge until he tightened his grip, and then finally Peter. There was a nauseating tugging at their navels, Draco gagged, and they tossed into a dizzying spin before finally tumbling—well Draco and Peter at least—into another clearing in a forest, but this time, miles away from their first location.

Staggering to their feet, and ignoring their clothes while they tried to steady themselves, the first thing they noticed about the place was that it was cold. Colder than their former North England base, the area was draped in a mist just heavier than the Dementors' breeding fog and quieter than a usual forest at night. The paranoia of its new host was no doubt responsible, and also for a faint flickering of light through the trees in the distance, but above them. They were on a hillside it appeared, craggy, forested and cold… which could be anywhere in England, Scotland or Wales.

Snape actually began to wonder aloud, “Was it Wormtail who set up this portkey… I think we're lost….”

Peter snapped at him at once, “We're not lost! This is the home of—”

And finally the missing black-clad patrols appeared.

Surrounding them immediately, wands drawn and curses at the tips of their lips, their leader commanded firmly, “Identify yourselves.”

Peter spoke quickly, “Lower your wands, it is only us, the boy has come.”

No one moved, the leader spoke again, “You are trespassers here unless you identify yourselves, who are you?”

Snape sighed, “The loyal servants of the Dark Lord with good tidings…”

“So I've heard,” a voice behind them sounded, “the most unearthly din. It appears that someone has killed the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry…. I wonder who it is.”

The little colour he had acquired in the flame drained from Draco's face and he went stiff where he stood, though the others, including Snape, immediately bowed.

Out of the shadows, dressed in dark robes, came Lord Voldemort himself—or at least, the new version of him—red eyes gleaming evilly, grey skin glinting in the faint light of his lit wand and smiling at them. Long gone were the handsome features of Tom Marvolo Riddle, lost with his body that night in Godric's Hollow. It did not matter though, not that ever did, he liked the new—and also ill-gained—serpentine visage and the fear it instilled. For example, take Draco.

Not entirely sure if he should speak or not, Draco stammered, “Y-yes sir, he's dead… as promised.”

“So I've heard,” was the reply, and then Lord Voldemort walked over to him and lowered his wand, only to draw it up to his chin and say, “But not by your hand… as promised.”

Draco swallowed, then stiffening his chin, said boldly, “I was going to, sir, I had him cornered sir… but… but he stopped me.”

He pointed across to Snape and all turned towards him. He gave no response.

Voldemort left Draco and looked at him, “What's this? Severus killed Dumbledore…? You, Severus, killed him…?”

Snape bowed, “Yes, my Lord.”

Voldemort laughed.

“Oh, I can barely imagine the look on his face! The surprise… the realisation of the betrayal… did he plead?” he asked, greedily, quickly stepping over to Snape.

But he didn't wait for his answer to say, “Oh, I'm sure he did… possibly in a long speech… or maybe a few short words for you to 'remember who you are'…. Tell me… was Potter there? Did the boy see his great mentor's fall?”

“Yes my Lord, he did, and the boy saw him,” replied Snape.

“Hah!” declared Voldemort, gleefully. “The great Dumbledore, 'the only one he ever feared', they called him… and he falls, pleading for his life before the boy they call 'the Chosen One'. We should celebrate this… we must… and isn't it wonderful that I have the perfect way to do it! Come, come see what I have found… after years of searching, come….”

With a sweep of his robes he turned and went back the way he came, the others quickly following, Snape and Draco at the head of the group.

Draco had gained some colour again, but in his eyes Snape could see his fear. The Dark Lord had said nothing about his parents….

Nearly there, the flickering light becoming steadier and stronger with each new step, a strong wind picked up, bowing the branches of the trees above them, whipping their robes around their legs. Already braving the low-lying branches and twigs, the craggy forest floor and the unnatural silence, the wind did nothing to comfort nerves. Peter actually squeaked when a branch scraped his cheek. But as it had begun, it suddenly died… just as they came out of the trees before the entrance of what, at first, looked a cave.

It took them just a second more, to realise what they were actually looking at.

It was a castle, cut into the rocky mountainside, buried for centuries among the trees. Partially built off from a rise that could have once been a cave, its walls were of rocks taken from the hillside. Despite the wrought-iron windows and entrance door, now slightly covered in the natural vegetation it seemingly disappeared into the landscape before their eyes. As far as they could see in the dark though, there were four towers, two forward, two against the back, four to five stories tall, the castle itself being a mere three. The pathway leading to it then was a series of oddly-cut steps lit by a dozen brilliantly burning torches that ended at a gate on which was carved a coiled serpent. And all around it was still.

Voldemort halted just ahead of them, and turning to face them on the bottommost step with arms raised, declared, “After years of searching, I have finally found it. Welcome, all of you, on this most wonderful night, to the home of my ancestor, the great Salazar Slytherin. When he left Hogwarts, this is where he retreated, and when he died it was lost, my family 'scattered to the winds' as they say…. But now, it is lost no more, the Heir of Slytherin has come home.”

Draco actually looked strangely relieved, despite the fact that 'home' was really a menacing fortress hidden deep in the middle of nowhere.

No sooner than had Lord Voldemort finished speaking though, than a woman's voice sailed down to them in reply, “Yes my Lord, your greatness has brought you here where the unworthy cannot enter….”

They looked up to the top of the steps just as she started down to them. Robes of black, lank, long black hair cascading her shoulders, beautiful dark eyes staring curiously out of a pallid face, it was Bellatrix Lestrange. She moved with the grace of a hostess and stepped down past the Dark Lord with a respectful bow before turning to the others and finding her nephew.

At once she asked, “Draco, is that you? But then the deed is done, isn't it?”

Her expression was almost as greedy as Voldemort's had been.

And then she spied Snape, “What are you doing here?”

“Professor Dumbledore is dead,” he told her, “His Lordship has invited us to celebrate.”

“Yes, all of us are,” said Voldemort, smiling slightly. “Come boy, you and I must talk… and all of you must see my home.”

Draco unsteadily stepped forward with Bellatrix; Voldemort turned away from them and began to ascend the steps, the others following in turn. And yet, the only sounds any could hear as they went were the crackling flames of the torches, their footsteps tapping against stone, the rustle of their robes as they walked and their own breathing. Magic and its design was keeping all else out, the patrols must have taken care of the rest and Slytherin's castle had become a fortress. Hidden away wherever it was, Voldemort had found the perfect hiding place.

Up the stairs and past the gate, they first came to a small courtyard in the centre of which was a towering statue of Slytherin himself. The courtyard was lined with arches giving a view of the land around: They were on a hillside, high in the forest of a mountain with a large lake in the valley before them. And as they knew when they first arrived, that could be anywhere in England, Scotland or Wales.

Out of the courtyard they came to another wrought-iron gate that opened to the main hall of the castle. There was a grand staircase at the end, but all along the hall smaller ones led off to the towers and upper rooms.

A few Death Eaters could be found within them now, patrolling the halls and staring curiously after the new arrivals with a bow to the Dark Lord as he passed them.

Lining the walls were serpentine torches, portraits—some of which heavily featured Muggles trapped in various devices of torture—that glared at them and suits of armour bearing the most gruesome of weapons. The arched windows were high above them and once past the outermost area of the castle, disappeared entirely so that even in daylight finding one's way depended heavily on the torches. This was the stuff of the darkest nightmares and Voldemort was leading them deep into the bowels of it.

Finally at the staircase, Voldemort dismissed the others and proceeded to the second floor with Draco, Bellatrix, Snape and Peter. They were going to his personal chambers, the place where among his followers, only his 'Inner Circle' could enter.

Draco could not bring himself to be cheerful about it. The further into the castle they went, the weaker his chances of escape should the Dark Lord see it fit to kill him.

At the top of the stairs they walked straight ahead down another, though smaller, hall to a pair of grand double doors that opened to a room larger than the Hogwarts Great Hall. But there was no enchanted ceiling, no windows and no other furniture save a large semi-circular main table along which were chairs enough for those high in his favour, a throne-like seat before it at the head of the room where Nagini, his snake, lay coiled at the foot, and a large metal cage to their left.

At Draco's curious stare, Voldemort announced, “That's where I intend to put Potter, Nagini needs a pet.”

Where normally he would agree, he still just could not bring himself to smile. He didn't know why, but he just couldn't.

But their tour was over, and Voldemort turned to him, “Now that you have all seen my home, tell me exactly what happened tonight, how did the headmaster die?”

And for the millionth time for the night, Draco felt ill. He had no desire whatsoever to recount, relive or otherwise remember what happened in Hogwarts' Astronomy Tower for as long as he still breathed.

He was supposed to kill the Headmaster—his Headmaster—Professor Albus Dumbledore on the orders of the Dark Lord Voldemort. That had been the plan for all the past year, and he had gone through a lot of trouble for it. It was his idea to use the poisoned necklace that got Katie Bell instead. It was his idea to use the poisoned mead from the Imperiused Madam Rosmerta that Weasel drank. It was his idea to use that Vanishing Cabinet that brought the Death Eaters into the castle—that one actually worked. And when finally it came down to it, his moment to prove himself… Snape did it. Without waiting for him, Snape had just come in and taken over….

Not that, if he wanted to be perfectly honest, he would have actually done it in the first place. But it was the principle of the whole thing, it was his mission.

“I'm waiting, Draco,” said Voldemort, jerking him from his thoughts.

Draco swallowed heavily, took a moment to compose himself and said bravely, “After two failed attempts sir, I-I I managed to trap the Headmaster in the Astronomy Tower. I relieved him of his wand and he-he… when I was going to… the others had come up to us and… Snape burst in and killed him.”

Voldemort looked from Draco to Snape, then back again, and said, “Hmm.”

Draco felt the need to properly explain himself, “Professor Dumbledore had gone out for the evening sir, so I called the others to take care of the Aurors and lay our ambush. On our way out though, Potter's friends stopped us, they had been waiting for us but we fought them off and got away. By that time the Headmaster was back and while the others kept up their distraction I went up to the tower and disarmed Dumbledore. There was no sign of Potter anywhere sir, and Dumbledore didn't put up much of a fight. Instead of even trying, he started some nonsense about—”

Voldemort cut him off coldly, “The great Albus Dumbledore just let you disarm him? And his little champion was no where to be found?”

“Well, not really sir, I-I had caught him by surprise, but Potter was somewhere in the Tower. After Dumbledore… fell, he was right behind us all the way out,” replied Draco.

Voldemort turned to Snape, “He fell?”

“After he was hit by the Curse, my Lord, his body fell off the tower. Quite an audience was assembled after,” said Snape, keeping his head at a respectful bow.

Between them, Bellatrix was staring after her nephew with a mixture of disappointment and disdain.

“And all of you escaped?” asked Voldemort, rising from where he had rested on the table and walking to his “throne”.

“Unfortunately my Lord, Fenrir Greyback did not. I expect they must consider this some sort of victory in the face of the loss of the Headmaster,” Snape replied. “Of course, this opens the werewolves towards a new leader, a complication I know you have foreseen.”

Voldemort gave no answer to this, but instead turned to Draco and said, “The Headmaster is dead. Not by your hand, one of my Death Eaters has been captured, but the Headmaster is dead. So, does this mean that your parents should be spared?”

Draco wanted to nod, profusely, but knew better. Though his tone was consultative, there was danger behind it.

Voldemort turned to the others instead, “Tell me Severus, should we spare his parents then? Bellatrix, your sister, brother-in-law…? Peter… well, this does not concern you, but do you think I should kill them? Imagine if they were the Potters….”

Finally, Draco could take it no more and began to plead, “Please sir, the Headmaster is dead as you wanted, I did everything I could to stop him! Potter—”

“Everything you could? You didn't kill him! Severus here did it for you,” snapped Voldemort.

Draco fell silent and looked at his feet.

Voldemort stared at him a while, and then continued calmly, “But you did do something, so… do you still believe in us, still desire to be one of us?”

Draco looked up again and nodded quickly.

“Then I will give you one more chance, your parents are spared for now,” he told him. “But the next time I give you an order, you are to do it… Crucio!”

No one had noticed when he had drawn his wand, but Draco felt it. The thousand white-hot, jagged edge daggers tearing through flesh that felt salted, under skin that felt constricting, through clothes that felt suffocating were a little hard to miss. Someone had screamed, was begging mercy but he doubted it was him, he could not speak, he could barely breathe. His lungs were near bursting, he could feel his fingernails digging into his palms, something warm, wet and metallic, blood, filled his mouth, he was going mad… and then it was over.

As sudden as it had begun the pain fell away and his body collapsed against the cold stone floor. But he barely had time to rest before he was being dragged upright and forced to stand by some sadist while a distant voice commanded them, “Take him away Peter, he's had a long day, he needs to rest… and we have to talk.”

Before he was completely out the door he collapsed.

All through this though, neither Bellatrix nor Snape had moved.

In the silence that followed his departure, Nagini slithered her way up to the arm rest of her master's chair and allowed him to stroke her gleaming dark green scales. Bellatrix stared emotionlessly after the door through which her nephew had just vanished, and Snape as well, before both turned back when Voldemort said, “I said we were going to celebrate, and we should, and shall. Order of Merlin awardee, Wizengamot member, the man who defeated the great but terribly misguided Grindelwald, Hogwarts Headmaster, former Transfiguration teacher, and of course, mentor to my young nemesis, Harry Potter, Professor Albus Dumbledore is dead. And more than that, taken by a man he vehemently defended in the face of the Ministry of Magic… this is something to celebrate indeed….”

He rose and walked down to them at the table, “But there are other things as well…. Severus, your loss as a spy on Dumbledore and his Order is regrettable, but then also inevitable. A man of your talents should not waste his life away on a teaching position. I assure you that I have great plans for you, with much better pay. Right now, out there, they are mourning a 'great blow' to their resistance. A 'symbol of strength, hope' has been killed… and by the time they realise the truth, that they are in more trouble than they think, it will be too late.”

“The Dementors' mist has been doing damage to the Muggle crops… their 'yields' this year, from those out of the greenhouses, are down. Their livestock aren't going to have a good summer, electrical supply—the very backbone of their existence now—seems to be in trouble, and everything is a bit… too cold. And then there are the unexplained attacks, 'violent, grotesque murders', the 'unfortunate' collapse of a castle ruin on a group of Muggle tourists, a 'wildfire' in the North Highlands that levelled a number of farms and sheep. The Muggle government would easily buckle if I wanted them to, what is the name of their military academy… Sandhurst is it? But these things take time, and of course, I must get through the Ministry of Magic first. Still, these assassinations, though effective, are taking far too long for my liking.”

“And yet, all the while this has been going on, when my opponents would think I have little time for any else, I was researching my noble roots… a search that led me to this fine place, and from here I can rule the world. The wards around it are ancient; rivalling Hogwarts in intensity and quantity, no enemy can easily trespass. At least, not without a price…. I am almost invincible now, and once Potter is behind that cage, waiting to die at my hand, I will be. Tell me, was he full of righteous rage at the loss of his beloved Headmaster, did the dear sainted 'Chosen One' once again attempt an Unforgivable?”

He directed his cold red gaze at Snape, who stared blankly back and replied, “Yes my Lord, useless, the boy is far from ready for any respectable fight. It is clearly pure luck alone he's made it this far, I wouldn't be surprised if he accidentally kills himself in his sleep.”

“One never should underestimate their enemies,” Voldemort reminded him, gravely but with not the slightest trace of concern.

Snape nodded his concession, “But then, one should never overestimate them either, and Dumbledore clearly did so… foolish trusting old man.”

Bellatrix scoffed, softly, and turned to Voldemort, “Should we then begin with the next phase of our plan, my Lord?”

Snape brows furrowed slightly, Voldemort replied, “Yes, yes, but give them a few days to mourn, Dumbledore deserves a proper burial. After all, he did, unlike me, die.”

“Next phase?” asked Snape, his curiosity finally getting the best of him.

“The Muggles' police force. And maybe I should add their military as well…” replied Voldemort, casually. “Pity, they are so weak and powerless, they don't stand a chance… it is almost 'inhumane' to dispose of them.”

“Wouldn't this open them to their enemies, my Lord, and especially those determined to make themselves nuisances?” asked Snape.

“It might… but they will be a bit too busy with a few problems of their own,” said Voldemort with a smile that relayed everything but amusement. “I have more under my power than a bunch of rabid, ragged werewolves; I will not be thwarted again.”

My, what a busy little Dark Wizard he was.

“Now, enough talk of this, I feel like celebrating,” said Voldemort suddenly, clasping his hands together and walking on towards the door. “A great adversary has fallen, and by default, another seriously weakened. We can have a night off, and tomorrow… tomorrow young Draco can tell me about Potter's friends.”

-->

A/N: Okay, this is really the last chapter out of Harry's perspective, according to plan. 1. The Past, 2. Bad Guys and 3. Good Guys, now we get on to the trio. Oh this is loads of fun, sorry about the delay ladylaughalot, but had to happen. And again, pay attention to chapter, important things mentioned.

Disclaimer: Yep, not mine. Well, part of the plot is anyway, but that's beside the point, I can't use that part to make money can I? No, would get sued.

*****

The Minister's Condition

One week to the day of the Headmaster's funeral—two to the night of his murder—and the students' departure, Hogwarts had visitors. As a rule the school was never entirely empty at the end of the year, the groundskeeper, Rubeus Hagrid, and Sybill Trelawney, Divination teacher lived there, along with a number of ghosts, house elves, Peeves the Poltergeist, and innumerable inhabitants of the forest. But this was no summer picnic, the visitors were the school's governors and they had come to debate a matter of great importance. The question: In light of the spreading, violent Second Wizard War, should Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry remain open, or should it be closed?

They were gathered in the school's Great Hall, the white-gold light of the brilliant morning without filtering through the tall windows unto them at the Staff Table. They could clearly hear Hagrid's booming voice echoing over the grounds as he walked Fang, and Peeves destroying something just down the hall. It was peaceful, so very peaceful, but an illusion when one considered the wider world around it. And the wider world around it had to be carefully considered by Headmistress McGonagall and the governors in making their decision.

For one, there was the war at hand. Many feared Lord Voldemort and his supporters and since he had gotten to the Headmaster in the school, they would feel safer with their children at home.

That led to another concern, security. Hogwarts was many times declared the safest place to be throughout the war, 'no one could just walk in' it was claimed, but still the Death Eaters did get in for the attack, and then almost all of them, including the murderer, out again. There had been improvements since then, but still….

And, of course, there was also the habitual problem of the Defence Against the Dark Arts post, yet again they were in want of an instructor. The old curse on the position had struck again, but with upped ante, this time it was vacated after a murder.

An addition to this list was the Ministry of Magic, which had decided to lend—by which was actually meant 'impose'—their support to the deliberations in the form of Percy Weasley.

Seated just off from the main table with two assistants of his own, the bright red-haired, brown-eyed and bespectacled young Minister's aide and former student looked decidedly self-important in his drab grey robes. But he would not look Professor McGonagall in the face if she turned to him. Something about his presence today was discomforting to him and she had a feeling she didn't want to know what it was.

Raymond Pilkington, the head of the Hogwarts Board of Governors, a barrel-chested, stocky-built man with a pleasant round face but sharp eyes, called the meeting to order.

“My colleagues, Professor… or rather, I should say, Headmistress McGonagall, we are gathered here once again to debate the closing of the school. It was not more than four years ago that we were faced with such a decision, and before that, fifty, when Martha Bernville was Head, and in each instance we have discovered, the cause was He-Who-Must-Be-Named. We have not closed the school before, no matter how much was done to her, Hogwarts remained open. But today the world is much different, You-Know-Who has managed to do what we all thought impossible, break through the impregnable walls of this school and strike at the heart. This has obviously spread fear and concern, especially among parents and the Ministry, and rightly so, it cannot be ignored in our deliberations today. So the question is presented, what shall we do about the school?”

Professor McGonagall, as stern-faced as ever, greying dark hair drawn into a tight bun, square glasses set primly on her nose, and dressed in mourning robes of black, answered at once, “It is the desire of myself, the Heads of Houses, and, I'm sure, a number of students, including Harry Potter, that the school reopen in the fall as usual. As much as it pains me to say it, Professor Dumbledore did not build this school, though he did an exemplary job of keeping it. His presence will be sorely missed, but we must and will carry on without him.”

She tried not to think of the portrait currently behind her desk that had woken up some days ago and was spending the time catching up with his fellow former Headmasters and Headmistresses and offering various odd sweets to anyone who entered the room.

Raymond nodded his concession, “Yes, yes, this is true, Albus did not make this school, and he certainly went a long way in its maintenance… but he was murdered here. I'm sure Mr Potter, his schoolmates and the rest of you will agree that this can't simply be cast aside….”

Professor McGonagall nodded as well, “We understand that Mr Chairman, and since that night the security of the school has been thoroughly re-worked and every possible entry secured. In the coming term we may even cancel Hogsmeade visits and deliveries altogether. The safety of the students within these walls has always been top priority. You may protest that Severus Snape was a danger from within, and given his record we should have expected and looked out for, but Headmaster Dumbledore trusted him completely and we, in turn, were given no reason to doubt him. We know now that we cannot protect ourselves from everything, but we are trying, the parents can be assured of that.”

“Yes, 'assured', but can they be made to believe?” asked Raymond. “The groundskeeper and Care of Magical Creatures professor, Rubeus Hagrid, has been known to introduce students to some very dangerous creatures. Now, we as educators understand the importance of their knowledge of these creatures, but their parents may not.”

Percy noticeably perked up at this statement; Professor McGonagall tried to ignore it.

“With all due respect, and to quote Professor Dumbledore, we have always taken a chance instructing these children in magic. Some of the potions we brew, if done incorrectly, can be quite deadly. Mishaps with spells, misbehaviour or simple Quidditch accidents, can be fatal. But it is a risk we have to take. If the parents cannot understand this, then surely they can at least see the benefits of having their children here for some of the time during the war, where at least they would not be driven to idleness,” said Professor McGonagall.

“As I said before, we as educators understand, we know all this, and I myself believe that the students would be better off at school. We are all well informed of your security efforts, of the Ministry's contribution all last year of Aurors… but what good is all of this if we re-open and it is to an empty house? Parents may very well still keep their children at home,” reasoned Raymond.

“Yes, they can, but I am firmly convinced that they won't, and even if it is just one child I have the assurance of my colleagues that they will teach them,” replied Professor McGonagall.

“And this brings us to yet another problem, we are now in need of a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, again, a Transfiguration instructor, and unless Mr Slughorn would grace us with his presence again, a Potions Master. We hardly expect you to continue to teach when you have a school to run, where, are we to find three teachers?” asked Raymond, and the others nodded their agreement with him.

Professor McGonagall, at their (including Percy's) expectant looks, finally appeared unable to answer, but said anyway, “We will find a way, and I will teach, to that one student or a hundred.”

“Or the Ministry, can simply supply the three qualified replacements,” came Percy, suddenly, from his corner seat.

“Pardon?” asked Raymond.

Here it comes.

Percy stood from his place and announced, “I have the direct instruction of the Minister to assist in the school's reopening in any way I can. He too is of the belief that the school should remain open, if only to present some normalcy to life in the face of this insurgency. The Ministry will find and supply the missing teachers, protection and any other assistance you may need.”

There was a murmur of favourable whispers, nodded and discussion, and then one of the governors spoke up, “Tell me, what, is the price of this assistance?”

“The price?” asked Percy, feigning amusement at the thought.

It had to be soon, here it comes.

Raymond frowned, “We are grateful for the Minister's assistance, but this is still a privately run school, and such a gesture from anyone surely has some attachments… what is the price?”

“There are none, the Minister is merely showing his dedication towards education, as he should. As far as he is concerned the war is lost the day we let You-Know-Who disrupt our lives, and he cannot allow that to happen,” replied Percy, seriously.

Professor McGonagall made a low dissenting noise in her throat, but one of the governors quickly said, “You can tell the Minister that we are grateful for his support.”

Percy gave her a nod of acknowledgement and then added, “With all the rumours going about, Mr Potter's education is top priority to the Ministry of course. I'm sure you would agree that any unnecessary problems should be avoided at all cost.”

There it was.

“As they should be for all the students…” began to correct Raymond, but Percy cut him off.

“Surely you all can see the importance of Mr Potter's continued presence at the school. The Minister is concerned that an entire generation may be lost, attacked in their homes, parents must be convinced to send them here. They look to Mr Potter as a symbol of hope, of strength, and with him here they would be more than convinced of the new safety of the school,” said Percy.

Professor McGonagall was too angry to be shocked, “And the Ministry could have him where they could keep a very close eye on him. You would mean to use the boy?”

Percy feigned offence, “Use him? Please, ma'am, the Minister is concerned for all the students who attend this school, I am sorry if my statement was misinterpreted. I merely used him as an example of what I meant.”

“I don't think I was mistaken at all,” replied Professor McGonagall, coldly. Percy actually bowed his head as if he was once more one of her Gryffindors and caught sneaking out of the tower.

“You specifically mentioned the boy Percy Weasley; I take that for it what it was. On behalf of myself and my colleagues I thank the Ministry for their contribution, but I cannot allow them to harass one of my students within these halls. Mr Chairman I would rather see the school closed than something like this happen, Albus would never allow it!”

Percy raised his head, composed himself and smiled at her, “Now, Headmistress, I would say 'harass' is a strong word….”

“You would, but Harry Potter is just a boy who has had too many terrible things happen to him too soon and it would be insult to injury to allow anyone to make that worse,” snapped Professor McGonagall.

A silence descended over the Great Hall. Hagrid's voice now carried a conversation with Professor Trelawney from the front door through to them.

“I have a lot of work ter finish up, yer know…”

“But don't you see, the ambiguous arguer and the advocate are in trouble, another wishes to enter the debate—”

“I really have ter go, Professor Sprout asked me ter look out for her plants…”

“And here's another, the guards need guardians—”

“I'm sorry Professor…”

“CRASH!” but this sound came from within, and Argus Filch's cry of “PEEVES!” thereafter, confirmed it.

Finally Raymond spoke, “So, again I ask the question—as I'm afraid I will have to agree with the Headmistress, Mr Weasley—what are we to do about the school?”

*****

The Order of the Phoenix would hold its first meeting since the death of its leader, Albus Dumbledore, two weeks after his funeral in the cavernous, basement kitchen of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Unlike previous occasions where the room was filled with voices, the rustling of maps, building plans, short sentence reports and even shorter orders, this one was subdued. Seated at the main long table and unstable-looking chairs taken from the upper rooms, every shadowed face was solemn, the crackling flames of the fireplace and constant noises of the old house echoed around them and for quite some time no one could say a word.

It was hard to believe the persistent brilliant weather and clear-skied day outside.

The Dark Lord Voldemort had finally struck a potentially lethal blow, and in one night they had lost two important people. Considering the position of one of them, there was also the strong possibility that they would lose more.

As was to be expected, they didn't quite know how to proceed.

Finally breaking the silence, the first speaker began, “I-I think we should b-begin this by electing a new leader.”

The others looked around to him. A young Auror and their newest member, he continued, “We need someone like Dumbledore, someone with connections, someone we could call on whenever we need them, someone who—”

“We'll never find someone like Dumbledore,” protested Remus Lupin, one of their senior members who had been a member of the Order in the last war.

“But we have to do something, right?” asked the young man.

“And we shall, whether we like it or not the war is still raging beyond those doors. That ferry-sinking in the Thames today, how many was it that drowned? And just two days ago the mysterious murder of those two Muggle policemen. Their relatives are calling for guns but what good are those against a wizard, and if he's strong enough, wandless? And more than that who do we choose?” asked Remus.

The others, including the young Auror, had no suggestions and for a time they just sat looking at him. His greying dark hair fell lankly about his head, his complexion was sickly pale, his shabby, patched clothes in mild disarray and he had very much the appearance of a man who was often ill. The full moon had a tendency to do that to werewolves, and especially those who regretted their every transformation.

Finally, Alastor “Mad Eye” Moody, a retired old Auror who walked with a limp on account of his wooden leg and named for his constantly revolving magical eye (and paranoia) spoke up, “I think we should begin by finding a new meeting place. Albus was our Secret Keeper, and Snape (he uttered the name as if it were something sour) knows about this place, he could tell his master. The Dark Lord is no fool; he'll want to know everything about us within minutes of Snape becoming his permanent company… we should all observe constant vigilance now more than ever.”

“And Harry, he'll want to know about Harry too,” said Molly Weasley, sadly. The short, round, rosy-cheeked, red-haired matron of seven had been decidedly melancholy since they entered the house. The young Auror's suggestion that they search for a new leader and Moody's mention of Snape did little to improve that.

Remus spoke again, “Yes, he'll want to know about Harry. I find myself hoping that Severus will say nothing, but what of the Malfoy boy, Draco? He may not have such restraint.”

“If he's smart he won't say much, he tells the Dark Lord all he wants to know at once and he'll die quickly,” said Moody.

“But they're reopening the school,” said Molly, quickly. “Minerva told me just this morning—she's not here because there's a staff meeting at the school now—the Ministry will be assisting them, so that shouldn't be too bad. As long as they're in the school he can't hurt them.”

“They still got to Albus,” Moody told her. “No where is safe anymore, which is why we must be vigilant!”

“What about Snape?” someone asked. “What do we do about Snape? The murdering traitorous bastard….”

“Before we get into any of that, I think we should elect our new leader. Once we have that wouldn't it be easier to discuss all of this?” asked another from a shadowed corner.

“Yes, it would, but when I asked before if anyone had any suggestions no one answered,” said Lupin, “do you have someone then?”

“I nominate Alastor Moody,” was the reply.

Moody looked genuinely surprised, and then grunted in disagreement, “Too much trouble for me, I'm content where I am thank you very much, anyone else?”

“I nominate Remus Lupin,” said Tonks, unabashedly smiling at him. He determinedly looked away from her, though she was a bit difficult to miss.

As a Metamorphagus she had the ability to change her appearance at will, and today, with the exception of her heart-shaped face and dark eyes, had changed her hair to a brilliant purple streaked with grey.

However, she wasn't the only one to make that suggestion. Moments later Arthur Weasley, Molly's lanky, equally red-haired husband, concurred, “I nominate Remus as well—I think you would do a wonderful job, dear.”

Remus put his hands up to stop a third nomination, “I believe there is a problem with that idea, I'm swayed by the full moon, I must transform every month even with the Wolfsbane Potion. I am not someone to be called upon at every given moment…. But I would second that nomination of Alastor Moody.”

Bill Weasley, the long-haired, fang-tooth earring-wearing firstborn son of Arthur and Molly, gave his support immediately, “I third the nomination. You're an ex-Auror Moody, with your experience and some of Lupin's here, we would at least have a fighting chance… so I say, the both of you.”

The startled response to this was immediate, “What?”

Tonks quickly agreed with him, “He's right, the both of you, we need a strategist and a thinker, and Dumbledore was both of those things at once, if we have the two of you we at least get some of that back.”

“I don't know if that could work—” protested Lupin.

“I work alone!” declared Moody.

“At this point, I don't any of us can,” said Arthur. “As you said we'll never find another person like Albus, but we can at least compensate with the two of you. This was never truly a one-man operation, we all work together to uphold what we know to be right. You-Know-Who can't be stopped alone.”

There was silence at this, and then one by one the others conceded. The nominated pair could do nothing to stop them, and when Bill stood finally to announce above the voices the unanimous decision (“Then the new heads of the Order of the Phoenix are Remus Lupin and Alastor Moody,”) all they could do was nod. He smiled at them, his scarred face now clearly distinguishable in the orange-yellow firelight, and said, “Good, now that that's done, what's the first order of business?”

As Professor McGonagall had said a week before, they could and would go on without Albus Dumbledore. And that meant that the eerie noises of the old house and the sound of the fire were quickly lost under the tide of simultaneous suggestions that surged in.

“We need new headquarters,” said Moody, quickly.

“I've learned from Aberforth that Albus left a Will, Harry is mentioned,” said Molly.

“What's Arabella's report from Privet Drive?” asked someone else.

“There was a supposed sighting of Severus Snape, but no one's heard anything about that Malfoy boy,” said Tonks.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, a tall, black man with a clean-shaven head and a gold ring in his ear, stood and announced, “The Muggle Prime Minister's been having problems with the attacks, he can't explain them, his office is under threat and he just took up the position. He's been breathing down my neck since the police attack, he knows there's something 'wrong'.”

“I've heard that the Ministry's attached some 'stipulations' to their assistance to the school, do they have anything to do with Harry? The Minister was seen talking to him after the funeral, anybody knows what about?” asked a black-haired, pink-cheeked Auror named Hestia Jones.

Lupin raised his arms for silence, “One thing at a time, or we'll get nowhere. To take care of the problem of the Headquarters first, I think we do need to have another place—though we've yet to be attacked here—go back to where we were before?”

“Severus knows about that place too, we need somewhere new,” said Moody.

“Dumbledore might have had a place, in case of something like this, we should go over his Will,” said Molly. “But Arthur and I would suggest use of our home; they would not think to look there.”

“But they would if any of us are caught on our way over. Actually, I think Professor McGonagall would let us use Hogwarts for the summer. No one would really think much of it, with all the new security measures going up I doubt anyone would think much on our going there,” said Lupin. “I think we should check with her and then leave here as soon as possible, anyone agree?”

Almost every reply was “Aye.”

“Perfect, next matter, what's this about a Will?” he asked.

“Albus left a Will, Harry is mentioned but Aberforth wants to see him personally to tell him why,” replied Molly, and she looked distinctly displeased at the idea.

Despite his brother, Aberforth was not exactly an 'upstanding member of the Wizarding community' and one of his known associates, Mundungus Fletcher, also an Order member, was not one either. Mundungus strangely slipped into his seat at the mention of Aberforth.

“When did you see him, he wasn't at the funeral was he?” asked Moody.

“Yes, he was, but I was in Hogsmeade the other day, I went to see Minerva and I met him on my way to the castle,” said Molly. “I'm worried that the whole thing might just upset Harry though, he was so close to Albus.”

“Albus may have left explicit instructions. As soon as we can we'll get him from Privet Drive and take him there. None of us like it, but Harry is a very important part of this fight. Voldemort wants him dead and will not stop until he has that,” said Lupin. “And to quickly answer the third, Arabella says that it's been quiet in Little Whinging since Harry came home… anything else?”

“Have you made any headway with the werewolves?” asked someone from the back.

Lupin exhaled heavily, “I have to be cautious, Fenrir had a lot of supporters, his capture devastated them but some still agree with his ideas. We can't afford to lose their support.”

“That fire in Scotland… dragons, wasn't it?” asked the first speaker, the young Auror.

“Charlie said they must have captured one. They're doing their best with the vampires but he said we should be prepared for anything,” replied Bill.

“What about those 'stipulations' I heard about, what'd the Ministry want from the school?” asked Hestia again.

“Minerva said that they insisted 'nothing', but she thinks they want to spy on Harry, they're offering continued protection, and teachers for the newly vacant posts,” said Molly.

“Those teachers would be the spies,” said Moody.

“She thinks so,” admitted Molly.

“Then we need to get a spy of our own in there, just to keep an eye on them and make sure that doesn't happen,” he told her.

Lupin agreed, “Yes, but who, and for what?”

“Well, Hagrid's there, shouldn't he be enough?” asked Bill.

“No, we need someone appointed by the Ministry but working for us… and I think I have an idea who that could be,” said Lupin, after a moment's deliberation. “I think they would be very happy with 'their' choice too.”

“Fine then, that's done, what do we do now?” asked another corner occupant.

Lupin looked at those seated with him, at Moody, and then around at the others as well and said, “We put an end to the Dark Lord.”

-->

A/N: A line taken from this chapter is from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Lily's pleas in chapter one came from Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban. The story now begins fully, and in Harry's perspective. Doubtful that I may switch out of it later.

Disclaimer: JK Rowling is now, hopefully, writing the real book seven, I am just a bored and impatient university student who can't stand the wait, ergo, I don't own a thing.

*****

Secrets and Surprises

Yet again for a summer, the “mentally-imbalanced” fourth occupant of house number four, Privet Drive, was to be found shut up in his bedroom determinedly ignoring, and being ignored by, his relatives. Home from school early, (St Brutus' Home for Criminally Insane Boys to those who knew of him) he and they had come to an agreement that he would keep out of sight until the usual appointed time for his arrival. That day had long passed, but no one was too hurried to break the arrangement, the Dursleys liked to pretend that their nephew didn't exist.

But it wasn't exactly an easy job. Harry Potter, their nephew, was a tall and skinny boy of nearly seventeen with a head of messy black hair, bright green eyes, round-rimmed glasses and a curious lightening-bolt scar on his forehead. More than that, he also had a barely contained secret, he was a wizard.

Currently, he looked nothing like one. Lying curled up in the middle of his bed in only his shorts and a t-shirt, his room was a complete mess about him. Confined to it since his arrival he had not much bothered with tidiness. What was the point; it wasn't as if he was going anywhere.

Socks, underwear, clothes—dirty and clean—books, newspapers—Muggle (or non-magic folk) and Wizard—and owl treats lay strewn about the floor. Hedwig's cage was a mess, the snowy-white occupant secretly let out earlier that evening and doubtful to return in a hurry. His school trunk was still locked; he had no real reason to open it and didn't much care to get more clothes out for the floor. His wand lay on the nightstand, but was half-buried under letters from the Order, the Weasleys and his best friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger. If Aunt Petunia set foot in the room at that moment she would probably have a stroke.

Wishing that she would though, didn't seem to be working.

But Harry would eventually have to clean it up. In a few days he planned to leave number four, Privet Drive for good, and once he did, he meant to leave little of himself behind.

The day couldn't come fast enough.

Sixteen years before, Professor Dumbledore, his late Headmaster at Hogwarts—one of the best Wizarding schools in the world and his actual school—had enacted a special protection charm that meant as long as he could call number four “home” he would be safe from the attack of the Dark Lord Voldemort and his supporters. After Godric's Hollow, he knew well that the “Boy-Who-Lived” would be in constant danger of those thirsty for revenge. Just that last year Professor Dumbledore had told him and the Dursleys that the protection would fall on his seventeenth birthday: the day he became of age in the Wizarding world. The Dark Lord had been back for over a year then, but apparently it wasn't Harry who needed protection.

He could barely believe that just four weeks before he had been in Professor Dumbledore's office eagerly trying to join him on a secret mission. Hours later, he would be knelt beside his body at the foot of the school's Astronomy Tower while the murderer and his accomplices made their escape.

If it was to be the last thing he did, Harry would make sure that Voldemort and all in league with him paid.

And that was why he was leaving. He had always planned to leave the Dursleys, and at every chance he could get wondered at the possibility of it. After all, there was only so much of being treated like a house elf one boy could take.

At first it would have been to go to the Weasleys, Ron's large but poor family who treated him with love he had long forgotten existed. He would fit right in with them, he thought, and with Ginny, his… well ex-girlfriend now, he would probably never forget it again. But no, that couldn't work. It seemed that from the moment he met them he put them in danger. Hadn't Ron gotten hurt trying to help him with the Philosopher's Stone in First Year?

Then there was his godfather Sirius Black. Wrongfully accused of betraying Harry's parents, the murder of Peter Pettigrew and twelve Muggles, he had spent twelve years in Azkaban prison before escaping to go after the real culprit, Peter. Harry had spent an entire year thinking he was trying to kill him, and then one crazy evening with a Time Turner and Hermione trying to help him escape.

By rights then, he should have been able to go to his godfather instead of the Dursleys, despite his prison time Sirius would have made a much better guardian than them. But the Ministry would not hear of Sirius' innocence and since Peter had managed to escape, destroying their best attempt at proof, he couldn't. Nearly two years later, Sirius was killed by his own cousin in the Department of Mysteries trying to rescue Harry and his friends….

Harry then settled himself to leaving once his schooling was finished and he had somehow, if possible, figured out a way to stop Voldemort in-between. He generally didn't spend the entire summer with the Dursleys anyway; he might be able to stand them until then.

It would take secret lessons with Professor Dumbledore and the Killing Curse, yet again, to ensure that this happened prematurely.

He had arranged with Ron and Hermione that he would leave at the end of this week—that should be long enough for the protection charm—and go to the Weasley home, The Burrow, for the wedding of Ron's eldest brother, Bill, and Fleur Delacour. After that they would begin in earnest to stop Voldemort.

He actually would have preferred for Ron and Hermione to remain with their families, anyone near him was a target. His parents, Professor Dumbledore, his godfather Sirius, Cedric Diggory who was just his fellow competitor in the Tri-Wizard Tournament in Fourth Year, Ginny who was lucky to survive it, all paid for the association.

But neither would hear of it, as Hermione had said: “You said to us once before that there was time to turn back if we wanted to. We've had time, haven't we?”

And of course, locked up in his bedroom, he had also come to realise just how lonely he would be without them.

Just out his window all of Little Whinging was coated in a heavy mist that glowed, an eerie pale blue in the gentle moonlight. Somewhere out there Hedwig was on the hunt or returning with carefully cryptic mail from his friends. At the end of Privet Drive an Order member was most certainly standing guard, wary of all who passed, while Mrs Figg in her smelly old house looked out on them. Downstairs he knew the Dursleys, minus Dudley, were watching the evening news, he could hear the presenter's voice: “Authorities are still unable to provide an answer for what may have caused the ferry's sinking, while rescuers continue to fish bodies from the Thames. So far, thirty-six have been confirmed dead, seventeen injured and twelve missing. It's been an exceptionally bad couple of weeks for the year-old government: the source of Scotland's wildfire is yet to be determined, the murders of seven members of the Metropolitan Police are still unsolved with no immediate leads and the…”

To all three he had answers, the ferry was sunk by a sea monster the equivalent of a giant squid, the fire had been started by dragons and the policemen were killed by Death Eaters. Of course, no one could just tell the Muggles that. One, they may not believe them, or two; they would be terrified and react badly, very badly.

He also had an answer for Dudley's absence. Yesterday had been particularly hot, and as such, he had decided to free himself of his hermitage. Neither his aunt and uncle nor his Order guard had been too thrilled, but he went out anyway. How would they like to be shut up in a hot bedroom while the possibility of cooler air without mocked them?

Somewhere around the park though, he stumbled across his cousin and friends and a curious conversation that ran: “How long d'you reckon you'll be able to keep this quiet mate? Mr Gladstone's determined to find your parents.”

“I know that! That runt Benson was always a little snitch; at least I got him good before he squealed.”

“But you're expelled; they're going to get suspicious eventually.”

“I kept it quiet this long! Besides, my cousin's home early too, they're more concerned about keeping that quiet than about me.”

Actually he had found out about Dudley's expulsion the same day he got home. While they had been driving him back from the station he thought he had caught a glimpse of Dudley ducking his massive bulk into an alleyway. The conversation just confirmed it. But he had no plans of getting involved, in a few days he would be leaving; let them sort that out on their own after.

And again, that departure couldn't come soon enough.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had been particularly upset about his early return from Hogwarts.

They were waiting for him as he stepped out at the station between Platforms Nine and Ten. Uncle Vernon as large as ever, still dressed in his suit from the office, dark hair slightly messed and eyes glancing anxiously about at the passing passengers, had a distinctly peeved look. It translated to his voice as he surreptitiously tried to hurry Harry along as he parted from Hermione (Ron had left on the Wizard side of the platform) and then when an Auror decided to run over their car with a series of detectors.

Aunt Petunia, tall and thin with a slightly horse-like face, blue eyes and blonde hair, just looked somewhat sour, and to the point that Hermione's mother asked if there was anything wrong with her teeth.

Harry stifled his amusement to quickly assure his aunt and uncle that they were Muggle and dentists.

On the ride back from King's Cross, Uncle Vernon repeatedly complained that they should have just left Harry on the platform. Aunt Petunia, surprisingly, didn't join in, and when she did, to the astonishment of both Harry and Vernon, she firmly insisted that they couldn't. That shut him up.

For the first week then, Uncle Vernon had nothing to say about or to Harry other than barked commands to wash the dishes, mow the lawn or clean his room. In the second week though, with Professor Dumbledore's words in mind, he found that Harry had over-stayed his welcome and prepared to evict him. Harry was more than ready to leave and was halfway up the stairs to send out the letter to Ron and Hermione when Aunt Petunia yelled that Harry could not leave.

Harry halted and spun round just in time to catch her last words, “It's not been long enough, not nearly long enough for it to work!”

Harry didn't have to see him to know that Uncle Vernon's round fat face was probably an interesting shade of purple. After all they had done to “stamp out” Harry's magic, to pretend that magic didn't exist, here was Aunt Petunia advocating their role in the sustenance of a bit of it.

Uncle Vernon protested, “But Petunia, the boy has a house!”

“Not yet Vernon, he has to stay!” insisted Aunt Petunia, her tone as commanding as whenever she spoke to Harry.

What exactly had happened between Aunt Petunia and Professor Dumbledore anyway?

But before he had the chance to wonder if she had somehow had a change of heart towards it or him—and especially since she had not used her usual excuse of “the neighbours”—she barked, “You go back to your room and stay there!”

He did as he was told, but for the fact that it gave him a chance to think about something. He had no idea where Godric's Hollow was or for that matter, where his parents were buried. A map would have been useful, but that didn't tell him the house number and he didn't have one. Seeing that Aunt Petunia knew more about magic than she usually let on—the incident of two years before when the Dementors nearly got Dudley coming to mind—he decided to see if he would get it out of her. He had actually planned on asking Lupin, but with the availability of a less willing-to-go-along source, how could he pass up the opportunity?

Unfortunately, much like after that incident, Aunt Petunia refused to be forthcoming. And because he usually only came into contact with her during mealtimes, and on one occasion, when he was going for a bath—where she quickly hurried away—he was without the luxury of seeing her face. Surely some reaction would give her away.

Nevertheless, he was persistent, and this new mission had kept him preoccupied in the time that led to today, when he realised that it was nearly three weeks since his arrival. He had even temporarily forgotten that there was a war raging beyond their property line.

Ron and Hermione didn't though.

In his letters, Ron, using one of Fred and George's supposedly Spell-Checking quills, wrote of incidents where Order members were hurt, Tonks being pulled from the field and sent to the Ministry and their curious flitting about at the Burrow. The wedding plans were in full swing, Charlie was the Best Man, Fleur, Mrs Weasley and Ginny were getting along a little better and Bill's face had improved some, and they were all very concerned about security. More than that, he had been trying to find out about Godric's Hollow and Harry's parents without alerting suspicion. He was having a definite lack of success though; everyone was too busy or would start asking questions in return.

This information came about a bit sporadically too; Ron was not used to writing long letters and was having some trouble deciding how much he should mention. He was also working on the hope that the quills' tendency to misspell words would act as a cloak for his real meanings.

Harry could assure him that from the frustration he often felt at the end of attempting to read one of his paragraphs that it was working.

Hermione, by contrast, was much better at it. Her letters arrived as blank pages that looked very much like a simple stationery supply, but once held up to a light the words appeared. It was a Muggle method of invisible ink, using limes, and Hermione must have considered that if intercepted no one would be the wiser. It took him quite a while to figure it out too, and that was only because she had sent a cover letter with the supply that casually mentioned what to do.

Much more accustomed to long letters than Ron, Hermione explained in detail all she had been up to since she got home, including finding possible matches for the identity of RAB and “looking at cauldrons”, which he took to mean “Horcruxes”. As a treat, maybe to make him feel better, she even sent a clipping from a newspaper about a reported credible sighting and near escape of Snape near London.

It didn't really make him feel better, but it was the thought that counted.

Neither provided any hesitation about what they planned to do, asked questions about where they were to stay or even tried to change his mind.

Worryingly, also neither had mentioned if they had told their parents yet. His relatives would not mind his departure, and he didn't know about Hermione's parents but Mrs Weasley surely would have something to say. She was still upset about the twins leaving and they had done that last year.

That aside, such resolve encouraged him with Aunt Petunia, but then at times, such as tonight as he lay in his room alone in the dark, fuelled a sense of guilt.

If anything happened to them he would never forgive himself, and the best way to avoid it was to abandon them at the first possible opportunity. But he couldn't, he needed them… and they would probably track him down anyway. Especially Hermione, if she had been so determined to prove that the Half-Blood Prince was up to no good, and a girl, finding him would be a walk in the park.

There was a tapping at his window and he snapped out of his thoughts to find that the house had gone silent. His relatives had probably gone to bed, but he was sure Dudley hadn't come in yet.

The school term had officially ended so his ruse should have been up, but it seemed that Dudley too was in no hurry to end an arrangement.

The tapping at the window came again, and Harry rose and stumbled over to admit Hedwig. His limbs ached from disuse and he had to stretch a bit halfway there before continuing. Hedwig gave him a look as he opened the window that said plainly “Lazy boy.”

He ignored her, revelling instead in a blast of warm, fresh air that had rushed in after she entered, and then closed the window to head back to his bed. Before he did though, he managed to catch a glimpse of a black-cloaked figure checking some object in his hand before seemingly disappearing behind a lamppost. Order or Ministry security he could not tell, and didn't care to. It was very clear that if he wanted to keep his plans secret they were going to be a problem.

He was nearly at the bed then, when Hedwig hooted impatiently alerting his attention to the letter attached to her leg. Hurrying to silence her before Uncle Vernon woke up, (“Shut up that ruddy bird before I do!”) he removed the letter from her leg and went to his bedside lamp to read it.

It was the Order, or Lupin to be exact, and was rather brief: “I hope that you are well, though I know it must be difficult. However, we must get immediately to business. Dumbledore has left a Will to be read this Saturday and you have been requested by name. I'd like to talk to you about something before that, we are…”

But Harry was uninterested in the rest, no matter how little of it there was. For two years now they had excluded him from their plans, and granted this may have had something to do with their ignorance of the prophecy, he was no longer really interested. Let them attend to fighting the war; let him to the Dark Lord.

*****

From the day he was born, the world of one Dudley Dursley had been a comfortable one. His every whim and fancy was bended to, his every desire fulfilled, if he cried his mother came running, if he threw a tantrum his father would present a toy, and of course he was fed to his heart's content.

When he was a year old he suddenly found himself in the company of his orphaned cousin Harry. This changed nothing, Dudley took to his cousin as a punching bag rather than a possible little brother, encouraged by his parents' determination that the boy was a freak. They didn't like magic, Harry was a wizard, and they thought their world would be much better if he didn't exist. It was no surprise then that the blonde-haired, blue-eyed, unhealthily overweight boy would grow into a spoiled bully.

But unfortunately, and for him at least, that also meant that he was not entirely prepared for the day he finally did the impossible and displeased his parents.

For Harry though, it was long time coming.

The day before he was purported to leave, Harry cleaned his room. It was no easy task, as it was still some four weeks to his birthday he could not use magic and the room was a complete and utter pig-sty. Not only that, but a summer heat had dared to force its way through the mist and the humidity climbed. The sky was cloudless and pale blue above, the sun bearing down on them mercilessly, already had reports of heat-stroke related hospitalisations come over the television downstairs. Having washed his clothes and put them into the finally opened trunk, he was wearing some of Dudley's old things and they uncomfortably stuck to his skin.

It took him much of the morning, after Aunt Petunia slid his breakfast through the cat-flap and by the time he was finished it felt as if every muscle in his body was stretched and aching. The room though, looked in much better condition than it had been when he got it. At that time, after years of sleeping in a cupboard, the room, Dudley's second bedroom, was heavenly.

With this task done, he sent Hedwig out with a letter to Lupin replying that he would go with them for the reading of the Will. He, of course, made no mention of his intentions to leave the next day without them. He should have remembered that lesson from First Year, if he wanted to get something done he would have to depend on his own resources.

Harry had then just finished with his bath when voices wafted up the stairs to him of an argument. He ignored it, Aunt Petunia had told him earlier that day that Dudley's headmaster (former, but she didn't know that) was to come to tea that evening. That of course, had the added though unspoken command that Harry was to remain in his room—quiet—all through Mr Gladstone's visit. He thought Uncle Vernon and Mr Gladstone were disagreeing over politics or spark plugs, or maybe the heavy mist the meteorologists were at a loss to explain.

Uncle Vernon had just that morning grumbled something along the lines of “… those freaks… his lot's doing… weird….”

Over the racket he intentionally made in the room though, he couldn't be sure.

And then he heard a crucial statement: “Mr Gladstone, I have never been so offended in my entire life! How dare you come into our home and accuse our Dudders of something like that? He wouldn't hurt a flea!”

Harry snorted. He couldn't believe it; no one could be that ignorant…. Then again, he was dealing with the Dursleys….

His curiosity getting the best of him, Harry dressed quickly and slipped out of his bedroom to the landing where he would not be seen but could perfectly hear.

“Mr Dursley, I can assure you that I am not mistaken, I would not come into your home just to accuse your son. Matthew Benson positively identified his attackers, your son and a Simon Headley. According to Mr Benson they cornered him in the school's bathroom and assaulted him. Now, I know that such behaviour has occurred under previous administrations at Smeltings but I am not permitted to allow it to continue!”

Aunt Petunia stepped in, “I would like to meet this Matthew Benson, let him tell me to my face that Dudley hit him!”

“I would not consider that a good idea, when neither one of you showed up at my summons, expelling Dudley with immediate effect was all I could do to prevent his parents from taking this to the authorities.”

“The Authorities? Summons? This is the first we've heard of this incident!” protested Uncle Vernon.

“But I sent a summons… or maybe you should ask your son about that as well. I believe he has much to tell you.”

Now accusing (rightfully) Dudley of beating up someone the Dursleys could stand. Uncle Vernon surely had no problem with the possible many reports of attacks he and Aunt Petunia received throughout the year. But to say that Dudley lied to them… that was preposterous!

Harry grimaced slightly and braced himself for the storm.

Instead, he received a shove from behind that sent him staggering halfway down the stairs and alerted the others to his eavesdropping. But Harry didn't have to look behind him to know his attacker, he would know those hands anywhere, it was Dudley.

“What was that?” demanded Mr Gladstone from the living room.

“Find something funny?” demanded Dudley from the top of the stairs.

Uncle Vernon, already upset from the accusations of Mr Gladstone, explained impatiently, “My nephew, the boy… is a bit of a problem child….”

Harry straightened himself on the stairs and showed Dudley his wand in his pocket, (he paled) and replied, “Yeah.”

“You can't do magic, or they'll arrest you this time. I'm going to break that thing!” declared Dudley.

“I'm sure that they'll let me off with a warning… after all, I would be doing Muggles a public service,” Harry told him, and dared to smirk.

Dudley didn't seem to care. With agility Harry could not believe he possessed he raced down the steps to him and shoved him, hard, the rest of way. Harry immediately went tumbling and landed heavily unto the floor at the base of them, but thankfully, from what he could feel despite the stars in his eyes and the throbbing, breathtaking pain of his back, his wand was not broken.

Because of his place at the base of the stairs though, it meant that those in the living room could clearly see him lying there, and immediately Mr Gladstone was on his feet and advancing, asking, “My goodness boy, are you alright?”

Uncle Vernon feebly tried to explain, “He fell… he's always hurting himself… he's seriously imbalanced….”

“That's not true!” declared Harry, all desire to play along and keep out of it gone.

Forcing himself to sit up only alerted him to the acute pain of his rear end. It felt very much as if he were sitting directly on the bones.

“What happened to you? That sounded an awful spill…” asked Mr Gladstone before his voice trailed off when he saw Dudley standing frozen on the stairs where he had pushed Harry.

Dudley looked both surprised and alarmed and Harry had to wonder how he could not have heard his father and headmaster arguing below. Of course when he wasn't out Dudley sometimes lay about in his room looking at dirty pictures on his computer with the music of his stereo at top volume. He had probably been doing just that before, but with his headphones on.

Mr Gladstone, in contrast, didn't look surprised to see him at all, and said, “I should have known… your son is a dangerous bully and I will not have the like at my school. I have seen enough, good day to you sir, ma'am.”

Uncle Vernon hurried round the chairs to Mr Gladstone and tried to explain, “The boy is always hurting himself, and others. He doesn't like us; we had to send him to St Brutus'—”

Surprising himself, Harry cut in, “He pushed me! He's always pushing me! Just like I know he did that Benson boy, day before yesterday I heard him and his friends talking about it!”

“What's that nonsense boy?” demanded Uncle Vernon, seemingly forgetting Mr Gladstone there as he turned on Harry and began to go purple.

Now, nobody liked a snitch but under the circumstances….

“'Dudders' here and his friends were in the park talking about it. He beat up Benson and was boasting about it, just like he did the others before him. You think he's been going to tea or the library or even school in the last two weeks? He's been beating up kids, throwing stuff at people's cars and smoking all over the park and in Magnolia Crescent with his buddy Polkiss!” Harry declared.

“You're lying, boy!” snarled Uncle Vernon.

“No, he's not,” said Mr Gladstone, calmly. “I've repeatedly caught Dudley smoking at the school, and I've heard of this gang.”

“I think you should leave Mr Gladstone,” said Uncle Vernon then, turning to him and pointing to the door.

“Gladly,” said Mr Gladstone, and he immediately went to the door and retrieved his coat. But before he stepped out he turned back to them and said, “I will make sure to send his records to the next school he attends. This boy has a violent nature and they'll want to know about it.”

“How dare you…” began Uncle Vernon, but Mr Gladstone didn't wait to hear the rest.

He stepped out and shut the door, firmly, behind him. Moments later they heard his car start up in the driveway and then he was gone.

There was then a moment of heavy breathing and silence, where Harry realised that he was now alone with his furious relatives, and began to make plans for escape.

The vein at the back of Uncle Vernon's head had risen again and was throbbing somewhat worryingly, while his fists clenched and unclenched at his side. Dudley was glowering at him enraged, and gripping the stair-rail rather tightly he seemingly had no plans of letting Harry get back up them to his room. Aunt Petunia, however, was still standing where they had left her in the living room and staring oddly off to the side, and rather distantly at that. If ever there was a time to wish that he had Professor Dumbledore to ensure that they didn't kill him, it was now.

Finally deciding that whether he moved then or moments later it was inevitable that he would be attacked, he started towards Dudley. It was the excuse his cousin needed to launch at him, but Aunt Petunia's voice cut in sharply, “Go to your rooms, right now, both of you!”

Dudley, Vernon and Harry turned to her immediately, but after weeks of bearing witness to her strange behaviour, Harry was barely surprised.

Uncle Vernon, though, continued to be astounded by his wife and tried to protest, “Petunia, the boy has to go, he has a house! It's time for him to leave! This was the last straw; I will not have him thwarting our son's future!”

“We will find another school, a better school for Dudley. Mr Gladstone clearly doesn't know him,” said Aunt Petunia.

“Of course we will…” said Uncle Vernon. “But this boy (he snatched the back of Harry's shirt and fisted his collar) has to go! He has been nothing but trouble since day one! He's jealous of—”

“And Harry stays until tomorrow. You said you were going to leave tomorrow right?” she asked, turning to him.

Harry, struggling against Uncle Vernon's grip on the shirt, but not really as it was yet again another of Dudley's over-sized ones, replied, “Yes, but I can do it today.”

Aunt Petunia shook her head, “Tomorrow, you will go tomorrow as you wanted to. Until then go to your room and stay there. And you too Dudley.”

Shocked to be disciplined by his mother, Dudley stuttered through his protest, “B-but Mum, he-he—”

“Go! NOW!” she snapped at them both.

Harry wrenched free of his uncle's grip and started up the stairs, pushing past Dudley who was just standing there staring stupidly after his mother. Never had he ever heard her use that tone on him, that tone was strange, foreign… that wasn't his mother speaking to him.

He gripped the tail of Harry's shirt and pulled him back for his father, “He's done something to her… with that-that thing… he's done it! I'm sure he can, I know he can!”

“Let him go Dudley Dursley, I want you both up in your rooms right now!” commanded Aunt Petunia, furiously.

Uncle Vernon though, stopped them when he demanded, “Now look here, what's this about Petunia? The old man is dead, the boy has his own house, he's supposedly almost of age, I want him out of my house!”

“If you turn him out the neighbours will talk, he's only sixteen!” said Petunia, reverting to her old excuse.

Usually it was quite effective, but Uncle Vernon had seen about enough of his wife's strange behaviour to be unsatisfied this time, “Petunia, this is our chance to be rid of this little freak and his ruddy bird and little freak friends! I want him gone!”

“He can leave tomorrow, on his own,” insisted Aunt Petunia, her face as serious as a magistrate's.

“If this is about that nonsense with that Volde-whatever-he-is that the old man—who intruded into our home last year, mind you—told you, and some kind of 'protection' I've had it up to here with that magic nonsense! I want the boy gone, now!” nearly shouted Uncle Vernon.

Aunt Petunia snapped, and in more ways than one, “It-is-not-nonsense! He killed her and that boy she married, and he very well may come after us! When I heard them talking, it was about those things that went after Dudders, those hideous things had gone to him, that Lord Voldemort, was it? And he was going to use them to attack people's homes, not theirs alone! Let Harry leave on his own tomorrow, you heard his headmaster, as long as he can call us 'home' then the man can't come here.”

After all these years… she knew this whole time….

Deciding that there was no time like the present, Harry came bounding down the stairs and demanded, “Where are they buried?”

She sharply turned to him, and he was surprised to see what could have been tears in her eyes, “What?”

“My parents, where are they buried…? If nothing else, you have to at least tell me that,” replied Harry, boldly.

He was having a bit of difficulty keeping his emotions in check, but he didn't really want to now anyway. She had information he needed and she was willing to talk as long as he could force it out of her… if he could force it out of her. She owed it to him to tell him but she didn't have to, she had spent years not.

“She's letting you stay…” grumbled Uncle Vernon.

“At Godric's Hollow, that wizard town, it's in Oxford,” replied Aunt Petunia.

Harry's jaw dropped, and hung there for a few minutes as he looked from her to Uncle Vernon. That was too easy, had he somehow accidentally non-verbally Imperiused her?

But no, the Ministry of Magic would be flooding the house with owls by now. And in her eyes he thought he saw the flicker of something almost foreign to her, it definitely wasn't remorse, but it was certainly unusual coming from her.

He decided to push his luck a bit, “Um… do-d'you—”

“That's all I'm going to say, that's all I have to say. Go to your room!” she told him.

He was not prepared to, he did not want to, but just before his uncle reached out to force him back up the stairs, he did. He'd already gotten what he wanted and the flicker had gone. And at least he could content himself for the while with the sight of Dudley, still shocked from his mother's scolding, stamping and grumbling all the way back to his room.

-->

A/N: Note for this chapter and subsequent: shipping, and some other parts are based on theories found in the forum section of Portkey, Horcrux theory is all mine.

Thanks again, to Tacel, for the help, unfortunate mistake there.

Hope you all like this chap as the rest.

Disclaimer: I shouldn't have to do this; you all know this isn't my stuff no matter how much I wish it was.

*****

The Last Will and Testament of Albus Dumbledore

Sixteen years after he had been left on his aunt and uncle's doorstep with a note, Harry Potter would finally leave number four, Privet Drive. He wasted no time in setting about it either, for that morning he had awoken to find that life in the Dursley house had returned to the norm: Uncle Vernon loudly complaining about something or the other at breakfast, Aunt Petunia fretting about the house, cleaning up, and Dudley eating, lost in the television. It was as if the afternoon before had never happened, though Dudley noticeably ignored his mother whenever she approached him.

In the face of something like that, it was best to clear out as quickly as possible.

As arranged, Ron and Hermione would arrive early in the evening. The Dursleys, having determined that it was best they not be there and especially given past experiences, were not when they did. They left shortly after breakfast, Uncle Vernon delivering a parting warning as their car pulled out of the driveway, “I expect to find my house here and you gone when we get back, boy!”

Harry replied, “I expected to be properly fed, clothed and treated, but we never always get what we expect, do we?”

“What's that?” he demanded, the car now in the street and just out of earshot.

Harry replied again, a little louder, “Don't worry; you won't be seeing me again.”

And as she had done for the past few weeks, Aunt Petunia flushed slightly as the car drove away.

They were going off to visit Uncle Vernon's sister, Marge, and wouldn't be back before sunset. There, he could imagine them sitting around for hours disparaging Mr Gladstone “who clearly didn't know Dudders”, and him, while Ripper and her other dogs skipped round their feet. This suited Harry perfectly, he didn't have to see them before he finally left and neither did Ron and Hermione have to endure Uncle Vernon's hospitality when they arrived.

Now, if only it were so easy to rid himself of his guard. Just as he turned to go back into the house Harry noticed him trying to conceal himself in a neighbour's begonia bush as he took note of the Dursleys' departure. Before they were properly out of the house this evening Harry was sure the Order would know about it.

Once within the house again, and left to his own devices, Harry had brought down his trunk and settled into the living room to wait.

Hedwig had been released earlier, despatched to the Burrow with a final letter for Ron and would not return. He was planning to leave her with the Weasleys altogether; it would be too difficult to take her along and too easy for them to be caught if anyone found her delivering a message.

The less he was responsible for, the better.

The wait though, turned out to be harder than he thought it would.

He had decided against watching television. Almost every channel was carrying the report of a fire in Southampton which had destroyed a police station and killed four. He had no doubts that Death Eaters were involved, Voldemort was giving up no opportunities to wreak havoc nowadays and a copy of the wizard Daily Prophet said so. Other than that there wasn't much else to watch.

There was that letter from Hermione then, to consider. After Aunt Petunia had sent him up to his room, he had sent Hedwig out with her revelation. Hours later though, Hermione would send her back with a surprise: Aunt Petunia was wrong about the address; Godric's Hollow was a Muggle town in Wales, just west of Swansea.

She didn't think that Aunt Petunia had lied; it was just that the location of the Potter home in Godric's Hollow was protected by a Secret Keeper. That meant that only the Secret Keeper could reveal it, and no one else, not even Harry's parents themselves. Whatever the Oxford address, it was probably a safe house or the other for them to collect mail if necessary, and Aunt Petunia just assumed Godric's Hollow was wizard for the name.

Not to mention that they also didn't have the exact house number, a major detail they needed to have when they went looking.

He decided not to tell Aunt Petunia that she was wrong, if there was anything else she felt like telling him he didn't want to discourage her. But she didn't, she had long contented herself that her duty was done, her secrets given. And then she was also too busy preparing for the trip to Aunt Marge and staring daggers at Dudley in turn to notice his pointed stares.

Of course, there was something else.

After they left the Burrow, and had the exact house number, how were they to get to Godric's Hollow undetected?

He knew how to Apparate, but legally he couldn't and the last thing he needed was the Ministry on his back. The strange incidents and murders occurring since the year before also meant that they had the Muggle authorities to worry about too. It would have been better if it was just him, three teenagers travelling the country alone—no matter that they would all be of age eventually—was going to attract attention.

There was, of course, the Knight Bus which they were going to take to the Burrow today. But that was just it; they were going to the Weasley home which was not at all out of the ordinary for Harry Potter in the summer. With Stan Shunpike still imprisoned their chances of the new conductor not being a Ministry spy was rather slim, not to mention that Wales was way out of the ordinary.

That left flying, and Hermione did not own a broom.

But she could borrow one, or better yet, buy one, a nice new one guaranteed to work. He would have to talk to her about that later.

Finally, Harry spent the day looking out at the backyard and the dusty-grey clouds of a blustery afternoon from the relative safety of the conservatory, lost in his thoughts.

This was it, the final hours of his final day in Privet Drive. He could barely wait to get out, but even if he were going alone it was best to leave after dark, easier to slip away in case of trouble that way. All around him though, lingered the memories of a horrible life.

Under the stairs still, was the cupboard that had been his home to his eleventh birthday. Upstairs was the bedroom he was begrudgingly given once the Dursleys realised they were being watched. Its windowsill was still scratched where the bars had been pulled by Ron and his brothers in their flying Ford Anglia just before his Second Year.

Out in the small shed in the backyard were the gardening tools and lawnmower he had been forced to use to maintain their precious number four as soon as he was old enough to manage them. In a cupboard in the kitchen were the chemicals used to clean them and places within the house Aunt Petunia decided she herself would not. Her house had to be immaculate or the neighbours she spied on and they were yet to have over would talk.

Behind him in the living room he could barely make out the lines in the plaster where the wall had been repaired. There had been a neat hole there after the Weasleys came through it behind the electric heater to take him to the Quidditch World Cup, Fourth Year.

As a matter of fact, anywhere he looked around this house was a memory of some kind, happy or not. Within almost every room he had been pinched, pushed, punched and punished just because he was a wizard. The living room, the kitchen and his room—Dudley's once more—were the only places he had known rescue and escape.

Dumbledore thought he was protecting him, it was a wonder they hadn't killed him.

He took care to suppress an unbidden, seemingly faraway memory of a white tomb gleaming in the sunlight of a beautiful day. Of a eulogy he had barely heard, of a funeral he had never imagined he would attend, of a nightmare in a cave where the dead walked and a great man fell.

It was the perfect distraction though; he was beginning to contemplate arson.

And it was then, as a break in the cloud cover suddenly revealed the fading orange, violet and hot pink hues of what might have been a vivid sunset that the doorbell rang. Without looking, he knew who it must be, Ron and Hermione had come.

Which Death Eater come to kill him would ring the doorbell?

Not foolish to the danger though, he walked to the door, wondering slightly how they had come in the first place, and asked, “Who's there?”

There was a soft mew first, but the human reply was unmistakeably Ron's, “Crabbe and Goyle, who do you think it is? It's us!”

Hermione half-heartedly scolded, “Harry can't be sure of that, say something that only we would know.”

Unable to resist the opportunity, Harry said quickly, “If you're Ron Weasley… what was your ex-girlfriend's nickname for you?”

He didn't have to open the door to know that Ron's ears were probably as red as his hair. He spared him the need to answer though, and opened the door with a grin while Ron fumed, “That's not funny… I don't care what you think, that's not funny….”

Ron, lanky—though you wouldn't know it from how much he ate—and freckled, with blue eyes and his family's trademark red hair, at once grumpily pushed past him. The heavy mist and diminished light without distorted his appearance slightly at first, so that he didn't look quite solid, and with his peevish expression, reminded Harry strongly of a slightly pissed-off ghost.

Hermione behind him, by contrast, with brown eyes and a head of long, brown, bushy hair, appeared considerably more solid, and dwarfed. In her arms her pet cat, Crookshanks, an orange half-kneazle with a squashed face and a large bottlebrush tail, just looked bored.

As she came into the house she too was upset, though for an entirely different reason than Ron, and angrily hissed, “You should have let him answer, or at least asked another question, Harry, something less people know. What if we really were Death Eaters?”

The genuine look of fury intermingled with worry on her face killed a smart retort, but he said anyway, “Dumbledore's charm, remember. As long as I can still call this place home—until I leave here today—they can't touch me. Click twice around Umbridge, I've got nothing to worry about there either.”

That produced an unwilling smile and she said stiffly, “You just should have been a little more careful….”

“Always,” Ron replied for him, and looking around them in the foyer, asked, “Where's your relatives?”

“Out, thought it'd be best not to be here this time around, past incidents aside,” Harry told him.

To his surprise though, or maybe not really, Ron looked actually disappointed and said, “Well then, there's nothing left to do than get your stuff and get out of here. We're sharing with Charlie and Bill, with the wedding and all we're a little cramped for space. With everything she's got now Fleur practically has a room to herself. Hermione's with Gin and Gabrielle, Fred and George have some room in their apartment but no one's taking chances and Mum and Dad are sharing with Fleur's Mum and grandmother—”

During this speech they had gotten into the living room and Ron was cut off by Hermione's exclaim, “It's so… clean.”

It was really. Aunt Petunia would not have left it otherwise. The carpet had been recently shampooed and this morning vacuumed. The chairs boasted new cushions, which Harry was not allowed to sit on but had had under his feet since they left, and he was responsible for the fresh varnish on the sideboards and tables. The pictures were exactly set, there was not a touch of dust on any ornament and the air smelled slightly of pine potpourri. No wonder Hermione's statement mirrored Tonks' of two years before; anyone coming into the house would say the same thing.

“Hey, they fixed the wall… not too good though, I wonder if I could just…” Ron began, turning to inspect it as well and drawing his wand.

“Let me…” said Harry, drawing his as well before Hermione reached over and stopped them both.

Crookshanks squirmed in her arms as if he too wanted to have a go at the impeccable Dursley living room.

“You can't do magic legally yet, Harry, and the Ministry's been watching every use of underage magic very closely of late, looking for Malfoy—”

“—they won't find him, he's already of age—” cut in Ron.

“—if you do anything, anything at all they'll swarm the house,” Hermione warned. “And you Ron, they might deserve it but the Ministry will find some way to use it against Harry. Let's just get out of here; it should be dark enough out by now.”

The sun had in fact just vanished beneath the horizon, casting Privet Drive in an almost complete darkness. If not for the soft glow of the streetlamps and houselights without, when they stepped out the door they would be completely masked in it.

Perfect.

Harry wasted no time in allowing it to do so either. Taking one last, quick look around, he lifted one end of his trunk and dragged it out the door with Ron and Hermione behind him. And then, for a moment that was much too brief, he had a taste of what freedom—the knowledge that he would never have to set foot within again—felt like.

It was as if a tremendous weight had been lifted from his shoulders and all his muscles relaxed with a long, slow exhale. It was almost exhilarating really, the feeling, and yet at the same time, slightly terrifying. But he was free of them and there was nothing that could take that away from him.

And then reality came surging back.

This was no time to revel in freedom; beyond this quiet world in Privet Drive people were dying, and he was the only one who had the key to stop the madman responsible.

His Order guard started from his hiding place at the sight of them on the doorstep and promptly sent off his Patronus. No doubt to alert the others that Harry was on the move, and more importantly, without their permission or knowledge. Ron, oblivious to this action, was already halfway down the path, ready to leave before he arrived. Hermione, as always, was still standing with him and talking.

He came in halfway through her sentence, “—that park you were near the last time, the Muggles might get suspicious if the Knight Bus just showed up here.”

“What… wait, how'd you get here?” he asked her.

“I took a taxi, I think Ron might have Apparated…” she replied, and Harry finally noticed that she also carried a backpack. His trunk looked vastly overdoing it.

Trying to distract that thought, he started with a grin, “Are you sure everything's there, I think we can actually see eye-to-eye, he might have lost a foot or two….”

She tried, and failed to stifle her own, (though Crookshanks yawned) but eventually managed, “Aren't you going to lock the door, we can't just leave the house open?”

“I haven't the key,” Harry told her.

“Oh, pity, I'll do it then,” she said, and before he could stop her, drew her wand and cast a whispered, “Colloportus!”

Harry arched an eyebrow at her, “What did you say about magic, how are they going to open the door?”

“I'm sure they'll figure it out,” she replied.

Just then, Ron turned back to them and demanded, “Hey, what's going on, aren't you two coming?”

They hurried down the path behind him, Harry didn't look back once.

Not long after they finally got down to the park—a short walk later during which they passed the Dursleys returning home and Ron had to be convinced to let it go—the Knight Bus arrived. They had all stuck out their wand-arms, the calling card for the bus, and with a loud bang that would have definitely attracted attention this early in the evening in the middle of the Privet Drive, it appeared. It was as violent purple as ever, its name still written above the front of the triple-decker in large gold letters and there was one noticeable change, the conductor.

The new conductor, a stern-faced, balding, red-haired man who was clearly an Auror and none too pleased about his new position, didn't even bother to read the usual greeting as he opened the door and indifferently waved them aboard.

The Knight Bus had not changed much on the interior as well. It was, thankfully, (or regrettably according to how one looked at it) still driven by the elderly Ernie Prang in his armchair driver's seat. Each of the three decks still boasted of half-dozen or so brass bedsteads with small candles glowing in brackets beside their heads, the walls were still wood-panelled and the windows still discreetly curtained.

Harry couldn't be sure why he had expected something different, less comfortable. Of course, the removal of Stan and the installation of his disgruntled replacement may have had something to do with it.

There were lots of changes going on and not all of them were good.

Most of the beds were occupied at the moment though, and Harry had to wonder if there was really any space left. The conductor, however, barely seemed to notice this as he noted their destination, collected for their tickets and then directed them to the back.

It took them a while to find two vacant beds, Ron and Harry having to share, and before they were properly there they were nearly tumbled unto them when the conductor suddenly barked, “They're aboard, let's go!”

“Stan Shunpike he isn't,” muttered Ron, as he finally sat upright on his side of the bed.

Crookshanks too, adopted a severely offended look.

“Don't say that so loud, he might eat you,” Harry whispered over, loud enough so that Hermione could hear.

“Oh you two!” she exclaimed in an exasperated whisper though there was a smile on her lips.

Both immediately produced their best innocent faces, Crookshanks opting not to, and she rolled her eyes. It was going to be a very long ride.

Apart from its constant veering, braking and careening though, the Knight Bus ride to Ottery St Catchpole was not as bad as it usually was. From their position at the back of the bus, huddled together on one bed after a few more passengers were collected, they actually had a vantage point to reconnoitre their fellow passengers, the latest news and of course, their Auror conductor.

Of the passengers, Harry couldn't be sure if any were really Ministry or Order members in disguise. Most of them kept to themselves—everyone was suspect now—and those who didn't were usually quite inebriated. But he had been right in one respect, even though no one really tried to approach them more than once he caught the last moments of a curious glance. If it wasn't for the three teenagers travelling alone, it had to be that someone was thinking they knew him from somewhere.

From the passengers, including an odd, shabbily dressed one who leered at Hermione and shifted closer each time the bus turned until the boys sat her between them, (and Crookshanks settled into her lap with his claws out) they learned some interesting developments. As Harry had thought, the ferry sinking, the fires and Muggle police murders were all Death Eater-related. But more than that, some Aurors had been lost in them as well, including one who disappeared while rescuing ferry survivors in the moments after it sank.

In a firewhiskey-scented breath he whispered to Harry, “Was a pretty wee lass too, like yer friend there, just out o' training they`s said… didn't stand a chance!”

“Oh, do they know what took her?” asked Hermione, trying to keep her voice low and herself just out of his reach.

He gave her a yellow, crooked-toothed smile, “Yer shouldn't worry yer wee head about such things… but, according to the witnesses, it was the followers of You-Know-Who.”

“Bet the Ministry's happy about that,” said Ron, and a little too loudly for comfort.

The conductor noticeably shifted in his place at the front though it seemed that he hadn't heard a thing.

“The Ministry?” asked the man, and narrowed his eyes conspiratorially. “Oh no, they don't like that at all, the new Minister's better than Fudge but if he doesn't do more soon, he'll end just like him. There's a rumour going about that the Chosen One doesn't trust him.”

Harry took a quick sideways glance to Ron and Hermione, and said casually, “Pity.”

The man flashed them a smile.

Shortly after this conversation though, he left and was replaced by a small, elderly woman who promptly fell asleep as her body touched the bed. She brought with her a rather unpleasant smell too that reminded Harry that he hadn't eaten in hours, and was grateful for it. Of course, that also meant that they were left to rely on what they overheard for information.

And then the conductor made his move.

He came slowly, taking his time to look around and pretend to be attending to each passenger on the bus before them. He walked with an odd limp that reminded Harry of Mad Eye Moody, though each step seemed to cause some pain and he stumbled heavily at every turn. He had to be a recent installation, and recently injured before it too.

His eyes though, never left the three set up on the bed at the back.

Harry and Hermione sat side by side leant against the emergency exit door of the bus, staring right back at him and for any signs that anyone else recognised Harry. Ron was now beginning to doze, his head lolling to aside and coming to rest on Hermione's shoulder. She let it rest there a moment though she visibly winced at his weight and Crookshanks threateningly pawed at his arm.

A sharp jab in the ribs though, would start him awake when the conductor finally came to a stop before them and said, “Sorry about the cramp, but with the war on, no one's quite willing to go about on their own. Bus is getting harder to catch everyday. Gareth Castle, at your service, Mr…?”

Crookshanks noticeably reared up, as best as he could under the circumstances. Hedwig may not come with them, but if they ever needed a reason not to trust someone, Crookshanks would sure come in handy.

“We're fine, really,” said Harry, as Hermione jabbed Ron with her elbow again and he finally sat up straight and looked up, somewhat stupidly, at the conductor.

“We can get the Miss a bed of her own as soon as we drop off a few more—I'm sorry, didn't catch your names, you were going to the Weasley house were you?” he asked.

He was determined to have them identify themselves, not content with the guess he had surely already made.

Harry though, was just as determined that they not, and said, “We'll be fine, we're just visiting, friends of the family.”

He betrayed no disappointment or annoyance, as he replied, “Oh, well then, we're almost there really, so your friend shouldn't be too uncomfortable for long. If you need anything I'll be up front, just call, good evening Sirs, Miss.”

With a slight bow then, he was gone. Anyone else would have persisted, a smart Auror, as it now appeared he was would know when to quit and check back later. He would probably linger around the Burrow's front yard for as long as he could too, if anyone there would just make the mistake of identifying them on sight.

This just continued to prove his point.

Ron whispered as soon as Gareth was far enough away, “Obvious bloke that one, the Ministry's slipping.”

As Gareth had said though, it wasn't long before they were lost in the deep countryside of familiar territory, speeding as usual. A short while later too, there was a screeching halt and the loud announcement, “The Burrow, Ottery St Catchpole! Next stop Kettlehorn House!” and it was over.

They stood shakily and headed to the door, but it was some time before Harry and Hermione realised that Ron wasn't quite with them. As a matter of fact, he was taking what appeared a leisurely stroll down to the door staring suspiciously about at the other passengers.

“Ron?” called Hermione, confused. “We're here….”

That seemed to bring him back, somewhat, and he quickly continued on with them out into the even cooler night and darkened front yard of the Weasley home.

Yellow lights flickered in the windows of the house just a short walk away, every now and then obscured by the dark shadow of a passing figure within. Beyond the house at the back, Harry could just make out the beginnings of some curious structure, no doubt set up for the wedding, and the sounds of the mixture of voices within floated through the windows to them.

There was no sign that anyone had missed Ron, though Harry had assumed he had told them he was going. He well remembered the last time he and his brothers had come to his rescue without alerting the rest of the family, and it wasn't entirely pleasant for them. Not to mention, there was also no sign that anyone had been alerted by his Order guard either, and he was sure he had seen him Disapparate when they boarded the Knight Bus.

Still, deciding not to leave anything to chance, he asked him, “You did tell them where you were going right?”

Ron though, was a million miles away, and despite the darkness Harry could see that the gears in his head were busy at work on something else.

He tried again, “Ron? Ron, you told them, right? Ron…?”

Finally, he came to and asked, “Did anyone see Mr Lovegood on that bus?”

Harry had to wonder if he had gone mad, and Hermione asked, “What?”

He gave no reply, and after a moment more answered Harry's instead, “I doubt they heard me, they just received the dresses today, from France, haven't seen Ginny since this morning.”

At the mention of Ginny, Harry felt an uncomfortable lump form itself in his throat. With merely three weeks of absence between them he had not forgotten about her, or their break-up, but still the realisation of what going back to the Burrow meant hit him with a jolt. For the next two weeks until the wedding he would have to be in very close proximity to her, and though he had by no means changed his mind about his decision, it was not going to be easy to endure.

Ron started to the house, “Come on, we shouldn't be out here now, they've set some wards up round the house but there's no telling what good that would do if someone brings an army.”

Hermione went on after him with Harry bringing up the rear, finding it a little difficult to walk. Hermione turning back and whispering sharply, “What's keeping you; we shouldn't be out here long!” quickly ended that.

At the door Ron soundly knocked three times, and called, “Hey, Mum, let us in!”

There was no answer, and he did it again, “It's me, Ron, with Harry and Hermione!”

The door sprang open and a very shocked and somewhat very angry Mrs Weasley looked out at them, directly at Harry in particular.

Crookshanks finally wriggled free of Hermione's grasp and slinked into the house, bottlebrush tail high.

“Harry? Here? Lupin and the others were just coming for you, why didn't you wait on the guard? Ron, did you put him up to this? Well? Did you?” she demanded, angrily.

Before he had time to answer though, she was off again, “Well don't just stand there, come in, come in! Quickly! It's not safe out there!”

Hermione seemed to be the only one thinking though, “Um, Mrs Weasley, aren't you going to ask us a question… to make sure it's us?”

“What?” she asked, distractedly, and then remembering, hastily shook her head, “No matter, just get in here, I know you three, and you are all in serious trouble, how could you just leave without a guard?”

“I'm sure they have better things to do,” said Harry, as she ushered them into the kitchen, took a quick look around and shut and locked the door.

Just then a voice asked from the table, “Better things to do, Harry? Voldemort is out there trying to kill you; there is nothing better at this moment than ensuring your safety.”

They all halted, it was Lupin… and a very tired looking Lupin at that.

Every time they saw him he looked haggard and worn, but tonight he looked especially so. The full moon was near, and he was once more deathly pale, almost unable to support himself at the table leaning heavily on an arm. He surveyed the three with what looked like absolute disapproval… and then, just a bit of pride.

Harry replied, coming over, “I can take care of myself, I have to. Voldemort's not going to wait for my guard if he wants to get me.”

Lupin nodded, “Well then, I guess we'll just have to re-route the Advance Guard for the night. That fire in Southampton's already keeping them busy at the Ministry… I'll tell Moody.”

He made to stand, but couldn't and Mrs Weasley rushed to his side, “No, you sit, I'll tell Alastor… you three can stay here, or better yet, Ron, show them to their rooms. After that, go find your brothers, they're looking for you, you two Harry, I'm sure they'll be happy to see you. Hermione, you're with Ginny and Gabrielle, Ron must have told you that we're a little cramped… no matter, everyone who's supposed to fit, will. Now, let me go talk to Alastor….”

And then she was gone, leaving them all in an awkward, somewhat embarrassed silence. It was quickly broken by Ron though, as he said, “See what I mean, been like this since we got home, I bet if I break something she won't remember until after the wedding and by that time—”

“—it'll be much too late,” Hermione cut in, and a little too eagerly at that.

If Lupin noticed though, he decided to let it go as he said, “Um, I was wondering if I could speak to Harry alone for a while, if the two of you don't mind… before I let him up with you…?”

Ron and Hermione both looked to him, curious, but Harry remembered the half-read letter he had sent before with Hedwig and said, “Oh, right, sure, why don't you guys go on up, I'll see you later.”

There was a hesitant look from Hermione, but Ron immediately headed out, “Yeah you will, but not for long, as long as you're staying here Mum's going to have you up on something as soon as she can. You won't remember what sleep feels like after a while.”

Once they were both gone then, Harry remained awkwardly where he stood with Lupin in the kitchen. Somewhere above them they could hear the other women as they fell upon Hermione, and then Ron's brothers as they saw him. They were a noisy bunch, the Weasleys, and especially so since the house now had a few more inhabitants.

It also gave him a chance to look around the kitchen too. Clean, neat, small and more than the Dursley house looked as if people lived there, it was home. Soon enough though, he would be abandoning this too, and he found his eyes lingering hungrily upon almost every feature. Mr Arthur Weasley's broken evidence of his Muggle obsessions, the remnants of a meal for one being magically self-cleaned in the sink, the practical décor that others would mock for the Weasley lack of wealth and, of course, Mrs Weasley's magical clock that told the location of the house's inhabitants rather than the time. Since the year before all its hands pointed to Mortal Peril.

“I don't think I should shout this conversation, have a seat—you did read my note didn't you?” asked Lupin, breaking into his thoughts and the silence once the noise above had quieted somewhat.

Harry started slightly and shook his head, mildly embarrassed now that he was facing him, “N-no, I was… it was….”

“It doesn't matter…. That reading was today, you know?” asked Lupin, waving away his attempt at excuse.

Harry stepped closer to the table and had a seat, “It was? I thought you were planning to take me?”

“You didn't have to be there, but Aberforth wanted to meet you. And that fire last night had the Aurors busy, we couldn't arrange a sufficient guard to ensure your safety… maybe we should have just told you instead,” Lupin told him, with a weak smile.

“What did it… say…?” asked Harry, not entirely sure why he was being named in Dumbledore's Will, and then still, also not sure that he wanted to know what it contained.

“I think even Aberforth wants to know that, he hasn't been told either. What he was given though, was this, for you,” said Lupin and he reached into his robe and presented Harry with a folded piece of parchment.

He hesitated for the barest of moments before taking it and then just sat there a while staring at it.

Why had Professor Dumbledore named him in his Will? Why would he have done that at all? Did he know that he was going to… die? Did he… what did he want to tell him?

Lupin was speaking again, drawing him from his thoughts, “I'm not going to ask you what's in it. I'm guessing, though, that it has something to do with whatever you two were doing before you ended up in the Tower that night. That, I'm also not going to ask you about, Professor Dumbledore always had his reasons. I just want you to know that whenever you need it we're going to be there to help you. The Ministry's promised more Aurors at the school, and we're going to be right there with them. There is no way that they're getting in again.”

Harry nodded mutely, still staring at the folded parchment in his hands. Eventually he would have to tell them that he and the others were not going back to school, but not tonight. Tonight he had other concerns.

Struggling to his feet, Lupin rose from the table and said, “Tell Molly that I'm grateful for dinner, but I should be off. As you can see, the tug of the moon, it's doing its worse now… goodnight Harry.”

“Goodnight… do you… do you need any help?” asked Harry, looking up with a bit of concern as Lupin heavily made for the door.

He smiled weakly at Harry again and waved off his offer, “I'm sure you have better things to do, I'll be fine.”

He drew his cloak tightly round his shoulders, opened the door and stepped out into the dark, misty night. Harry stared after it until he heard Lupin's footsteps disappear and then the “pop” as he Disapparated. Then he turned his attention back to the letter.

He had a feeling he knew why Dumbledore had named him in his Will, their clandestine misadventure foremost in his thoughts. But strangely, he found himself hoping that that wasn't the reason. That the words he would read was nothing more than a casual correspondence though in memory he had never really had that with his belated Headmaster. Their casual correspondence was maintained in private conversations that sometimes, usually, had more serious connotations.

But still, he hoped.

Finally, he unfolded the letter and read it silently.

“Dear Harry,

I should assume that if you are reading this now, that I must have died, or have been killed, before the end. How unfortunate, there is much that I should tell you, that I have to and must tell you… and then little that I can. This business that engages our attention has much that is incomplete.

As I have never been a man of many words, too many other things to be done in the time that is wasted, I should get on to what I can give you.

For the first of these you must ask permission, though I doubt Minerva would not give it to you. Gryffindor's gift to a deserving student, use it well—though I doubt gifts given should ever be useless. It may not look like it now but it should not be underestimated, remember what happened the last time it was.

The second and third of these are mine to give and freely so, they should be with the first and more than one eye wouldn't hurt.

A fourth item, is a word of warning. Dark and difficult a road lies ahead, and with companions one has comfort in its passage, but there will come a time when decisions most undesirable must be made. Be patient in making them for this is not a journey meant for one.

All this said, all I have left is to wish you good luck. You are not weak, you are not a child and most important of all, you will never be alone.

Yours Sincerely,

Albus P W B Dumbledore

P.S. You will find a fifth item in the keep of the bartender of the Hog's Head Inn. I should not expect its retrieval to be difficult, and you may find that it will be most useful in the days ahead.

Take care of yourself and your friends, Harry Potter, though I am sure you would do a much better job than I and those around you. I am most honoured to have known you.”

“What did he say?” someone asked from behind and Harry turned immediately to the speaker.

Ron and Hermione were standing at the bottom of the stairs waiting for him. It was Hermione who had spoken and as he looked to them they came down the final steps to join him at the table.

Ron began, before he could answer, “They're looking for you, but it's a mess up there….”

Harry folded the parchment again and stuffed it into his pocket, “I'll tell you later, let's go up.”

-->

A/N: This chapter is just filler, and I hate it, hopefully, you won't… and won't be confused.

The problem, though I doubt you would care, lies in the fact that I'm currently also trying to write a novel and can't decide between two ideas I have, while writing Last of the House of Black and school work.

This is how people have nervous breakdowns. *sigh*

Disclaimer: Whatever.

*****

One Big, Happy Weasley Wedding

Harry had, in all earnestness, really planned to tell Ron and Hermione about the contents of Dumbledore's letter later. They were in this together, any information that affected their future had to be shared and discussed. Dumbledore had even suggested in the letter that he not go alone, and if his memories of the cave were accurate he really couldn't. But, as the ongoing story of Harry's life, he never really got the chance.

That first night at the Burrow was an immediate bust. No sooner than had they gotten up the stairs, on their way to Ron's room, than were they separated by Ginny's call for Hermione from Fleur's bedroom.

“Hermione! Hermione? Where are you? Come see the dress! I need some help!”

Hermione somewhat reluctantly detached herself from them and hurried on up to the room at the end of the hall. The door was wide open, and from it loudly came a mixture of voices, rapid French and English, some which was broken, and the curious scent of new cloth. Their loud excitement poured into the hall, and joined by Hermione's strange shriek of delight shortly after, it became louder still.

As Hermione disappeared through the door though, someone spotted Harry and Ron on the landing and Fleur called throatily, “'Arry is `ere? 'Arry, is that you? Come, come see my gown! It is lovely, no? Will Bill not love it?”

Hesitantly, he made his way to the room with Ron at his heels. As much as he really wanted to offer his opinion on Fleur's wedding gown, he wanted to see Ginny even less. Hearing her voice alone, so excited, but then tinged with a slight disdain, was more than enough for the night. He had not changed his mind of course, he wouldn't, he couldn't, but that didn't make anything about this any easier.

Finally, tired of his slow walk, Ron helped his advance with a small push so that he stumbled through the door. He came in behind him smiling somewhat goofily at Fleur, who stepped off an ottoman in the centre of the room before some rather large mirrors and immediately turned about for them to have a look.

“What do you think? Is it not beautiful?” she asked, smiling brightly at them. There was no trace of doubt on her face though, so that Harry knew that despite his opinion (which was rather favourable) she loved it anyway.

Her newly imported wedding gown was of white silk, strapless and form-fitting, with a fishtail-cut lace skirt and small train. Her long, silvery-white blonde hair cascaded her shoulders almost like her veil eventually would and her dark blue eyes sparkled with barely contained delight. The complete ensemble, in the sunlit backyard of the Burrow two weeks from then would no doubt be even more breath-taking.

For quite some time he was rendered speechless.

Actually, it was mostly that he did not know what she wanted him to say. She was looking at him expectantly though, and finally he managed, “It's nice, I'm sure he'll like it.”

Her smile became a grin, and she turned to a woman behind her, undeniably her mother if he was remembering correctly, and said something happily in French. The equally blonde-haired and blue-eyed woman, who must have been stunning in her youth, gave a somewhat stiff smile, and then Harry found himself being dragged forward and introduced to her.

“'Arry, zis is my mother, Mama, zis is `Arry Potter. We all owe `im so much, is `e not as handsome as they say?”

Harry's face immediately reddened, but he eventually stammered, “Hi.”

Her mother appraised him a while, before nodding slightly, and then directing her daughter back to the ottoman. Her introduction complete, her question answered, Fleur released him at once and did as commanded. Harry remained where she had dragged him, wondering slightly what had just happened.

Ron behind him, despite the goofy grin and glazed look, could barely contain his amusement. His laughter though, came rather jerky and foreign so that it was creepier than it should have been and Harry made a mental note to kick him later.

But he wasn't the only one laughing.

From a corner behind them he distinctly heard Hermione and Ginny, and someone else, and from the sound of it, they were having quite a lot of fun.

He was always glad to be their source of entertainment. Really, he was.

He turned to let them know it too, but was rendered speechless at the sight that greeted him.

Ginny was dressed in her golden bridesmaid gown, a miniature, empire-waist mimic of Fleur's, shoulder-length fiery red hair dancing with each shake of her head, bright brown eyes shining gently in the light and the moment their gazes met he felt a seizing in his chest that mingled with a rising guilt.

Determinedly he directed his attention to the girl beside her, also dressed in a bridesmaid gown, with a head of hair to match Fleur's but with wide, clear blue eyes and a vaguely familiar face. She blushed a deep magenta and then he remembered her, it was Gabrielle Delacour. But despite her blushing, she stared at him unflinchingly and he had an unsettling feeling that he knew why.

His eyes were finally drawn from her at the sight of Hermione, standing behind them with Fleur's veil in her hair. As soon as he looked to her she pulled it out and determinedly looked away. He smirked, out of the corner of her eye she caught it and delivered a dignified eye-roll in return.

Just then, Mrs Weasley walked in and found them. Immediately, and to Harry's secret relief, she sent them out again.

“What are you two doing in here? You have to put away your things—I hope your dress robes are clean, Harry—Ron, help him put his things in your room. You can have some porridge in the kitchen afterwards dear; we haven't had time to make a proper dinner tonight. Well, what are you waiting for, don't just stand there!” she commanded and hastily chased them into the hall.

They went quickly, though Ron had to be pushed, (much to Harry's pleasure) and by the time they got to his room—still brilliantly orange and yellow and alive with his fully animated Chudley Cannons posters and Pig zooming excitedly about the ceiling—the letter was long forgotten.

And since he didn't unpack, only to retrieve a packet of owl treats for Hedwig—who nipped affectionately at his fingers before going off to hunt—and a change of clothes for bed, it was easy to.

He remembered the next morning though, not that that changed anything.

As Ron had predicted, shortly after breakfast both Harry and Hermione were thoroughly drafted into the final plans for the wedding. There were flowers to arrange, late invitations to mail, decorations to make and put up, dress robes to pass her inspection failing which new ones had to be procured and a million other little things she came up with along the way.

They actually spent the entire of that day combining literal thousands of tiny gold bells to white gardenias, chrysanthemums and hyacinths.

More than that, Mrs Weasley was reminded by the Daily Prophet, in bold letters of their late evening escapade the day before: “Harry Potter takes Bus: Chosen One on the Offensive?”

Harry was quite sure that they had more important matters to discuss, such as the smaller headline stuck near the bottom that read: “Another Auror Goes Missing!” No doubt there that the Ministry was behind it, the details of his Knight Bus ride to Ottery St Catchpole were far less interesting to the loss of Cynthia Bramble-Hurst. Who cared if he and “his companions” huddled together, looking around them “suspiciously” while “conversing in low voices” with a “smelly old codger who remarkably resembled a dodgy, recently released 'graduate' of Azkaban prison”? Surely the “broad daylight” kidnapping deserved some merit of respect?

But of course not, whether he wanted them to or not they would find a way to use him.

As he read the headline at breakfast, after greeting Harry who he had only just seen since their arrival, Mr Weasley merely adjusted his wear-shorn glasses on his nose and said, “They could be a problem.”

Harry tried not to start in surprise, but he couldn't help looking up at him. He knew that no one beyond him, Ron and Hermione had any idea of what they were planning but the statement so easily mirrored his thoughts that he was temporarily alarmed. Ron surreptitiously shook his head across the table, though he didn't really need to, and Harry returned to his breakfast as casually as he could.

Of course, when one is being stared at Gabrielle Delacour, who had made a point of inhabiting the seat beside him and smiling slightly every time he noticed her, “casual” was not easy to pull off.

It was then that he remembered the letter, safely tucked away in the pocket of his jeans upstairs. But he could go no further in thoughts on it for just then Mrs Weasley and Mrs Delacour arrived with the bells and flowers. And since three of the five (Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Gabrielle) could not use magic, the day was lost to the task.

Monday began rainy.

Harry awoke to the sound of the raindrops drumming a gentle lullaby against the roof and windows of the house. Ron was snoring loudly, Bill less so and with a noise now that strangely sounded like a growl. Harry could not bring himself to find it funny, it certainly wasn't, but in the still silent house it was one of the few things to listen to. He was sure he could hear a clock ticking somewhere though, and Crookshanks was scratching at something in the hall, while his own breathing came rhythmic and slow, audible to his own ears in his bunk against the wall.

It was so peaceful that it was only natural that he should go back to sleep. But then, it was so peaceful that it was also only natural that it should not last.

In what felt like only moments later, he was forcibly awoken by someone with a small voice saying repeatedly, “A letter for you `Arry, a letter…”

Alarmed, he started upright, only to find that his assailant was Gabrielle and the letter she was forcing into his hand had a Hogwarts seal. His alarm settled slightly, but not entirely and he rather self-consciously drew the covers closer over him. Ron and Hermione came up behind her, Hermione saying much like Mrs Weasley the year before, “You didn't have to bring it up for him; it would've still been there when he came down….”

Gabrielle ignored her, continuing to Harry, “Eet eez from your school—weel you dance weet me at zee wedding?”

Not entirely hearing what she had said he nodded absently, his attention solely with the letter she had just delivered.

Was the school reopening after all? Had they managed to convince the parents that it was safe to? How much harder was this going to make their plans?

But Gabrielle interrupted this, moments later as she suddenly stood, smiling brightly, leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

He looked at her surprised, but she merely gushed something in French and hurried from the room.

He turned back to Ron and Hermione for explanation but before they were able to, Mrs Weasley called from below, “Breakfast, you three, and hurry we have work to do!”

Ron groaned, “I can't wait for this to be over, I can't take much more… nothing but work and porridge for days now….”

Hermione ignored it, instead asking Harry, “They're just informing us that they're reopening the school…. Do you realise that you just agreed to be Gabrielle's date for the reception?”

“W-what, they are? Wait… when, did I agree to that?” he asked, ignoring the call too and discarding the letter.

“You didn't hear what she asked you? Oh… well, I'm sure you two will have fun, you'll look cute together,” she replied, making no attempts to conceal a smirk.

“Ha-ha, cute will be watching Ron step all over your toes,” he shot back.

“Hey, I'm not a bad dancer…” Ron protested without malice as Hermione blushed pink.

The humour Harry thought he would get though strangely did not completely materialise as he grinned at them. As a matter of fact he felt an odd, curious little twinge of discomfort looking at them—Ron, now also a little red in the face though sneering, Hermione determinedly ignoring him—that quickly dissipated when Ginny's head popped in the door.

He turned to her sharply a second, held a slightly guilty gaze for a few more and then looked away again, pretending to gather up his things as she said, “Didn't you lot hear Mum, it's breakfast—don't worry Ron, it's pancakes this time—and we've got work to do, I'm not doing everything by myself today….”

“You didn't yesterday,” said Ron, annoyed.

“But I had to do over everything you did you prat, it sure felt like it,” she declared.

Deciding to stop the pointless argument before it began, Harry stood quickly and said, “Let's go, Ron's beginning to get irritable, we've denied him food for too long.”

Breakfast was indeed pancakes, and after breakfast with the rain still pouring Mrs Weasley indeed found work for them. This time it was their dress robe fittings, and they all had to take turns standing on an Ottoman in the middle of the living room while she inspected them.

Crookshanks spent much of the time chasing after Arnold, Ginny's miniature puffskein, while Harry found himself the unchallenged centre of Gabrielle's attention. He couldn't take back his word, he had promised, no matter that it was an unconscious effort, and she looked genuinely excited. But knowing that didn't make him feel any more thrilled with the situation. And not even when Ginny found out and gave him an encouraging smile either.

The next two days were exercises in monotony as they waited for the rain to stop falling and made more decorations in the living room. They did have an entire half-hour alone at one point, but Harry had long forgotten the letter. Instead the time was used to discuss the latest attack on the Muggles while he and Ron engaged in a very lively game of Wizard Chess.

Lively because he finally had a stroke of luck and nearly beat Ron.

Hermione actually put down the paper to watch, and Ginny and Gabrielle had to stop in as the noise they made overtook their game of Exploding Snap.

Thursday dawned bright as the sun finally broke the horizon the triumphant marshal of a clear sky. After days of rain anyone would have been happy to see it too, it meant that they were finally free to go outside. The Burrow was by no means stuffy, just a little cramped with the extra inhabitants and their things.

Ron immediately began plans for a Quidditch to celebrate… and then Mrs Weasley ordered them to de-gnome the garden to stop the destruction of the “stage” they were setting up for the wedding in the backyard.

The stage was actually a large rectangular platform, lined with eleven pillars—four at the corners, three at the back and four at the front—with a small circular stage at the north-central position. They were to drape these pillars with cloth, flowers and bells, and on the night of the wedding there would be fairy lights, a few in large balls that would hang from the ceiling, or float casually about the backyard while guests danced. Completed it would surely, like the bride, be very beautiful, but until that time each saw it as just another chore to steal their summer freedom.

That day went the way of the others, and the next they spent putting up the decorations they had made and spreading a large white canopy over it.

Saturday brought the twins, and with them Charlie, Tonks and Lupin once more.

As they were now temporary roommates, he would meet Charlie first. The second son of Arthur and Molly Weasley, Charlie was stockier than his brothers, but had the family's trademark red hair and a snore that sounded through the room almost as loud as Ron's. He had probably arrived after they went to bed, but it was a wonder he hadn't woken the rest of them.

Or maybe he had, for when Harry awoke Ron was already gone down to breakfast. But then again, this was Ron; he probably sniffed breakfast in his sleep.

Leaving Charlie to his rest then, Harry rose and went down, and there discovered Lupin and Tonks engaged in a deep discussion with Mr and Mrs Weasley and Bill. There was no sign of Ron, Hermione or even Ginny and Gabrielle, and Harry wondered temporarily if he had missed something. The sun was up but they were not in.

Before he could turn around to take a second check through Ron's room though, he caught the tail-end of Lupin's statement, “… are too random for it to be nothing, there has to be a strategy here somewhere.”

He paused and tried his best to soften the sound of his own breathing.

“What kind of strategy? As far as I can see he's trying to wreak havoc, the Muggles need their police force for simple law and order and now that he's removing them… there's no telling what could happen,” said Mrs Weasley.

“Are you implying that there is some kind of system at work?” asked Mr Weasley.

Lupin took a moment before he replied, “Yes, there has to be. The mist has been doing a lot more damage than we thought, the Muggles' power sources are failing, their crops are withering, and the soil is compact, almost rocky now. The dragon fires and giant attacks are destroying some of their infrastructure, and now the loss of the police is affecting their ability to exert general control. There has to be a system at work here somewhere, and if there is, I think we have to find some way to stop him before he goes to the next phase.”

“I can see something like that at work, but not only on the Muggles. Prices are rising and money is hard to get, some businesses are closing down and Diagon Alley is being abandoned more and more everyday. No matter what the Ministry does people are scared, and its worse now that he has Snape completely in employ,” replied Bill, his last words distinctly bitter.

“We'll stop him still,” declared Mrs Weasley, confidently. “How are things with the were—”

Just then, Harry's eavesdropping was interrupted by the sound of familiar heavy footsteps in the hall behind him. Ron was coming, he had probably been in the bathroom, and he had a feeling that if he found him on the stairs his first question would loudly give him away.

He'd have to find out about Lupin and the werewolves later on then.

Boldly continuing down to the kitchen he began, “Good morning. Hey Lupin, Tonks….”

As he expected their conversation came to an abrupt end, and they all turned to look at him, (and Ron behind him, yawning loudly) as he entered and headed for the pile of toast Mrs Weasley had already prepared.

She rose at once, and sent him to his seat, “No, no dear, let me get that for you, have a seat….”

The others moved over to give him and Ron room, and Harry was happy to note that Lupin looked much better than he had the last time. Colour had returned to his skin, no longer did he lean heavily on the table and seated beside Tonks he betrayed no sign of illness. He even cheerfully greeted Harry as they sat down… and immediately reminded him of the letter.

For the past two days it had been the furthest thing from his thoughts. He had even worn the jeans it was in the day before, and surprisingly, not once had had cause to go into the pockets.

He returned Lupin's greeting and Tonks' classic “Wotcher Harry!” and smiled lightly at Mr Weasley and Bill, as Mrs Weasley brought over their toast. Beyond that though, no one said a word until the happy distraction of the arrival of Hermione, Gabrielle, Ginny and Fleur.

It was an arrival though, that also became an excuse for Lupin and Tonks to leave, making official the abrupt end of their discussion.

As usual they were doing their level best to keep him out of the loop.

“Well, we've already had breakfast, so I guess this is our cue to leave,” began Lupin, rising from his place at the table.

Tonks rose with him, “I have to get back to the Ministry—lot's of top secret stuff going on down there.”

She said this last bit to Harry and the others who turned to her with raised eyebrows. But no explanation came, and instead she went on out the door with Lupin, the faint mist gently swirling round them as they did.

Harry looked to Bill who replied, “Don't look at me; I don't know what that's about.”

The others filled their vacant seats comfortably, and soon they had all settled to their usual morning practice. They ate, discussed the wedding and finally Mrs Weasley gave the orders for the day.

But this time they were in for a surprise, their task was to rest. They had apparently earned it after working for much of the week, shut up in the house and then setting up decorations under the tent. She could not guarantee that they would be so fortunate tomorrow but at least they had that day, they barely heard her beyond her first sentence.

Ron took the news the only way he knew how, and immediately set up a game of Quidditch between him, Harry, Hermione and Ginny with Gabrielle as referee.

Again the letter slipped to the back of Harry's mind.

*****

The day William Weasley made Fleur Delacour his bride before friends and family in the beautifully decorated backyard of his childhood home, the sun ascended a tiny golden disk in a blaze of white to a nearly cloudless robin's egg-blue sky.

The light preceding it had already woken Harry, lancing reaches that quickly filled Ron's already brilliant bedroom and pierced the comfortable darkness of his sleep. He opened his eyes, and for a moment lay still listening to the different snores of the three brothers beside him. The combined noise sounded so much a jackhammer that he was surprised he hadn't heard it; he had to learn to sleep lighter than that.

And then the light fell on his forest green dress robes for the afternoon's wedding.

This was not a day for such thoughts.

The last week had been much more activity filled than the first. Over a hundred chairs had to be found and arranged in a semi-circle under the tent in the backyard. Each had to be assigned a decorated bell with a larger arrangement at the ends of the rows on which were mounted tiny candles. A white carpet had to be spread for the main aisle and the small stage on which Fleur, Bill and the officiating magistrate were to stand had to be draped in swaths of white tulle traced with tiny gold ribbon. In the reception the chairs would be removed for the guests to dance under the tent to the music of The Weird Sisters, somehow procured for the event.

After the decoration there was then the rehearsal to deal with. This turned out to be a rather hassle-free non-event where the wedding party and the magistrate practiced their arrangement before the guests. Harry and Hermione watched from the doorway, every now and then smiling encouragingly at an increasingly bored Ron.

Since he had learned of it, the only thing of interest to him now was Bill's much whispered about upcoming stag night.

That night, the night before, had been a rather exciting affair but tame by the usual standards. They all, Bill, Charlie, the twins—finally over since Harry's arrival—(“Hiya, Harry,” “Gave your guard the slip?” “Should have nicked his wand while you were at it—” “We have something in the works to help with future evasions—” “Don't tell Mum…”) and Ron, went into the orchard with butterbeers and their brooms for what should have been a game of late night Quidditch. Well, at least what they told Mrs Weasley and the others.

Somehow or the other, they eventually managed to slip off the property entirely and go flying wildly over their sleeping village. Here they played a new game, taking turns dropping a large steel ring, transfigured from a bottle cap, into the neighbours' backyards and in open fields for Bill to find. And despite the chill, the darkness and the constant threat of discovery, they played on well into the night.

They had only come back just a few hours ago in fact, to find Crookshanks glaring at them at the backdoor, though the rest of the house was thankfully silent. They would pay for their crimes later on of course, but with a little magical help they would at least be able to fight any residual drowsiness.

It would not do to be snoring loudly through the ceremony.

Beyond that though, for Harry the past week had also been filled with long days, the first arriving guests, (unsurprisingly all red-haired) trying to avoid Gabrielle, and Ginny, and waiting for the day where it would all end.

That day was today, this afternoon to be exact, and as soon as he got out of bed he would start getting ready for it.

Harry lay listening to the others' snoring for a moment longer before finally rolling over, away from the window and drifting gently off to sleep.

With a start that sharply contrasted the first time he had awoken that morning, Harry was roused the second time by Ron. He saw him, groaned and rolled over again to go back to sleep, he'd been having a wonderful dream of soaring over the countryside on the back of a hippogriff….

Ron though, was not in the mood and with a sharp tug of the sheets that nearly sent him tumbling, called loudly, “Wake up, mate! Mum's been calling you for breakfast for over an hour now, it's nearly midday!”

That woke him up immediately.

“Are they getting dressed yet?” he asked, scrambling off the bed and stumbling into his slippers on his way out the door.

“No, well Fleur is, and I think Ginny and Gabrielle just went up, Hermione too, Mum comes down every few minutes to check on the rest of us, but you know how long girls take,” Ron replied.

They had just made it past their bedrooms and could barely make out the muffled sound of activity within. Clearly though, they were busily getting dressed.

Down in the kitchen, Harry froze when he saw what was laid out for them. It seemed that every available space in the room had been taken over by some item of food, layers and mounds of rich, delicious food. There was enough there to feed an army, or rather, supplement Ron for a day, and Harry had to wonder how he was restraining himself from sneaking a bite.

As if reading his mind, Ron told him, as he headed for the sandwiches laid out, “Mum's charmed them, Fred and George tried to get a piece of cake and ended up with red hands, itching red hands…. I'm not taking any chances.”

Harry laughed, and said, “Don't worry, I'm sure they won't let you suffer… though you are looking a bit peaky, should I go up and tell them to get moving?”

Ron glared at him, and replied, “Just hurry up and eat okay? Mum's at least got a job for you somewhere, Fred and George are ushers.”

Harry peered out the window and caught a glimpse of them helping a relative over to a seat, a line of others stood by awaiting instruction. Somehow, he wasn't too sure he was entirely comfortable with the arrangement.

For the fact that it was merely an hour to the ceremony, Harry took his time getting through breakfast, then his shower after, and finally getting into his dress robes. He could do nothing with his hair, and didn't much try, but at least the rest of him could be neat.

Ron and the others dressed with him, Bill in matching white robes to Fleur's, and Charlie and Ron in a darker gold to match the bridesmaids. Harry refrained from commenting (they all had the considerable advantage of height, and some weight, on him) but could give no guarantees that he wouldn't when the twins saw them. In the end though, they didn't look all that odd, and he could imagine them standing at the platform with Bill and Fleur perfectly matched to the décor.

They were not finished by the time he was though, and Harry decided a little walk around the grounds wouldn't hurt. For some reason, somewhere between breakfast and his bath he had this unnatural idea that this was the last time he would see them this happy. It was irrational really, there was a war on and they were having a wedding in the middle of it, why wouldn't they be happy? But the feeling just persisted, and he had to take a walk.

As he stepped into the hall he bumped into Crookshanks, who irritably brushed him off and continued on his way. Curiously, there was an odd tuft of pink fluff tucked in-between a paw. This presented a feeling of discomfort far surpassing the sight of Fred and George being responsible. What had that cat done now?

He followed its path with his eyes until they fell on a touch of ice blue satin in a doorway. A little shoe, just barely matching the colour of the gown stuck up beneath it and he lifted his eyes, following the rises and falls of the material to where it became skin, and then led to a face: Hermione.

She smiled at him and he reddened, embarrassed. Mercifully, she was the one who spoke first, “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” he squeaked, and then clearing his throat, asked, “Are they?”

She shook her head, “Not for another hour or two.” Then, stepping away and shutting the door gently behind her, “Then again, you never know, could be days at this rate.”

“I can't be sure of this, but they might be able to hear you,” he told her, as seriously as he could though he really (thankfully) wanted to smile.

She simply shrugged, and said, “You should hear Ginny when she thinks they're not listening, she's having a bit of trouble adjusting. I just hope she'll be alright if Percy shows up.”

“Percy?” he asked, coming over to her before they continued to the stairs together.

“Mrs Weasley sent an invitation, I think, but they don't think he'll come,” she replied.

“It's just as well, Scrimgeour might just take advantage of the opportunity,” he told her.

“He can't do that Harry, you told him that you're not going to let him use you and he has to accept that,” she replied.

“I told him that before and he was there after the funeral,” he pointed out.

Hermione sighed, “The invitations are very specific, Harry, no one unless directly named can come. Now let's relieve Fred and George of their duty, I would hate to be in Fleur's way if anything goes wrong.”

“I was actually going for a walk,” he told her, and was surprised to find that he wasn't embarrassed to admit it.

“Oh, can I come with you?” she asked, “If you want to be alone, that's okay, but I just need something to do.”

“What? Have they been keeping you from your books too long? Ron's having the same problem with food,” he teased.

Downstairs, they found the twins admitting their latest guests, Neville and his grandmother, and Luna and her father. Curiously, Neville's grandmother was dressed in an outfit remarkably similar to one he had described back in Third Year. Luna's father had the same wide eyes as his daughter, but everything else she must have inherited from her mother as he was a short, plump, balding man with long dark brown hair. Today he was dressed in a set of sparkly grey robes to match his daughter's silver and shook earnestly every hand he encountered. They waved as they went over to their seats, but strangely Harry found himself remembering Ron's odd question that night on the Knight Bus.

“Did anyone see Mr Lovegood on that bus?”

Ron had never made reference to it again after that moment, but it with a sense of dread now that Harry thought of it. He knew that at any other time he would brush it off as simply that they had had a visitor, but not now.

Before he could make mention of it though, he was distracted by the arrival of Ron.

Completely dressed, he had been standing in the doorway behind them, looking out at the arrival of Neville and Luna too. They did not even notice him until Harry turned to speak to Hermione, and when they did he merely said, “They're ready.”

“All of them?” asked Hermione, furrowing her brow slightly at his rather sudden subdued mood.

He nodded, “They want to finish before sunset, and nobody wants to be out when it's dark.”

There went the fairy lights, and they had worked so hard on them.

“Oh, okay,” Harry replied, and then asked, “You okay mate?”

It was a moment before he said, “Let's just get this over with, we've been waiting for it for weeks now.”

Bill suddenly came out of the door behind him, the nearly completely healed scars on his face furious red slashes against his pale skin in the sunlight. He smiled for a moment at them too, before strolling out to the guests and the stage. Moments later, Charlie and Mrs Weasley did the same.

Looking at them go, surrounding by their colourfully dressed guests, in their fashionably decorated backyard, on a beautifully sunny day, Harry suddenly had an odd comprehension of Ron's mood. For all their hard work, for all their effort, for all his thoughts for the past week that had shoved away all thoughts of Dumbledore's letter, this was just a temporary diversion. And though they all had every right to be happy about it, to think about what they were going to wear, when it would be over, how far they get from Gabrielle, not looking at Ginny and so on, it did not take away the fact that it was all a bit false, really. It was actually a fancy dress party for a ceremony that could take just twenty minutes in the Ministry of Magic and at the end of which they would no closer to ending the war or finding the Horcruxes.

Well, at least, just Harry should have been thinking that way, but he wasn't. So maybe the party idea wasn't so bad, even though those who had organised it still had no idea of what they were up to.

But still….

And after the ceremony and celebration, it became far more poignant. For in that moment, as the sun, cushioned in its pillows of gold finally descended to a welcoming horizon traced in orange and dark red, Harry turned, and found the darkness rising to greet it.

-->

A/N: Sorry about the time this is taking (and to you laughalot, really sorry :D) but I've got other things to do, like upcoming end of semester schoolwork. (As if I really cared) Anyway, I'm on live journal now, though mine is probably not as cool as anyone else, but you can help with that if you like. I'm open to suggestions at http://princesstopaz.livejournal.com/ and also a bit of advice on how to join that Harry/Hermione community, if you know.

About this chapter, well, all I can say is enjoy and next chapter we finally get to Godric's Hollow. Whoopie!

Oh, one more thing, I see that someone figured out one of the clues in the letter. Congrats, you know who you are.

Disclaimer: My profile and livejournal cannot say it clearer, this ain't mine.

*****

Another Farewell

As it turned out, cleaning up after the wedding was much easier than preparing for it had been. As a matter of fact, by the time Harry awoke the next day, a little before noon, the Weasley backyard had returned to its former arrangement, complete with broom shed and disgruntled garden gnomes. It was as if the wedding the day before had not happened at all.

Well, until he realised he was still dressed in his dress robes from the night before and Bill was gone. Immediately a flood of memories came surging back.

The ceremony had actually not taken that long. The bride appeared half an hour after Mrs Weasley came out, but she looked so beautiful, so much more so than Harry had imagined, that it was easy to forgive her for it. She, like her golden bridesmaids before her, glided down the aisle to Bill seemingly unable to stop smiling. Harry took to looking at her to avoid looking at her bridesmaids, but could not before Hermione had whispered, “Don't they look beautiful?”

He had agreed, and so earnestly that Hermione smirked annoyingly. She stopped though, when he continued, “Just because Ginny and I broke up doesn't mean that I can't compliment her.”

That was unintentional, and probably not the best of places to finally relay that little piece of information, but he couldn't help himself.

Hermione's reacted accordingly, much to his irritation, “Oh… um… I didn't know, how…?”

The first deafening notes of the bridal march had begun though, and the rest of her sentence was drowned. And since the guests had all started to rise, and were turning to look for the approaching bride, he didn't have the chance to ask her to repeat it, not that he wanted to anyway. By the time Fleur had made it up the aisle he had forgotten it completely, and sat down again with the others to the ceremony.

It was then though, and for the rest of it too, that Harry had his mind repeatedly invaded by horrifying images of a blood-stained backyard, where Death Eaters cackled wickedly above the bodies of the fallen and amidst the screams of those soon to join them. He saw Bill fall trying to protect his bride, and then Fleur after crying over his limp body. He saw Mr and Mrs Weasley die together, and then the rest of their children, including Ginny, and most terribly, Ron. He saw Hermione trying her best to hide beneath a tangle of overturned chairs, before being dragged out by her hair while Voldemort stood over him and declared happily that he would “watch her die like his filthy Mudblood mother”….

At that Harry nearly started from his chair, but was thankfully stopped altogether by Hermione, and she looked none too pleased. He tried his best to look nonchalant, apologising nervously to a guest before him into whose chair he had knocked in his movement, but he could not ignore her when she angrily hissed, “What time did you all get back last night? I know you left, you were just sleeping!”

He did not answer her, he was much too pleased at the moment at learning it was all just a dream.

But now that he was alert, it was only just in time to hear the line “I now pronounce you husband and wife, you may kiss your bride!”

Bill happily obliged, and then stopped somewhat unwillingly when his brothers began a chanting that produced stern disapproving looks from Mrs Weasley and Mrs Delacour. As he and Fleur blushed (a strange sight for Bill now that he had the scars), the official announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, I now present Mr and Mrs William Weasley!”

At once the couple were up and walking down again past their congratulating guests, family and friends, and Harry rose to greet them too. Fleur actually stopped though, to kiss him firmly on the cheeks, and Bill to shake his hand, and then they were off again.

The ceremony over, it was now time for the reception that led to Harry waking the next morning in his room still dressed as the day before. It had been quite a party in fact, and especially with the Weird Sisters there. He vaguely remembered a time when he had been sitting at all after the late lunch, for he had kept his promise to dance with Gabrielle, and then ended up doing so with quite a few other people, including Luna, Ginny and Hermione. But his dance with Hermione was interrupted shortly after it began when she was taken away by Fred and somehow ended with Ron. Ron though, had quite a number of dances with Luna, much to the others' surprise, and even got one with his new sister-in-law.

And then he sampled the firewhiskey, and that was the last Harry saw of him for the night.

Curiously, Hermione disappeared from the reception before he did, and Ginny as well, but Harry barely noticed. He was trying not to look at Ginny, which had made their only dance rather awkward, and especially when she danced with others including Neville. They were back again when Fleur and Bill left anyway, gone off to a three week-long French honeymoon with the blessings of their parents and Harry's hope that nothing would ruin it. And then after that it was not until the wee hours of the morning that he himself finally went to bed.

Despite their concerns, none of the guests left until late and if they weren't concerned, he saw no reason not to enjoy himself as well.

Now though, now that the couple were married and their guests gone home, now that it was all done and gone, relinquished to memories and photographs, now he found himself thinking of the sunset and Ron's mood before it began.

Ron and Charlie were still, as usual, fast asleep in the room with him, snoring so loudly it was a wonder the walls still stood around them. They were both thankfully oblivious to his musings of course, but he was sure that when they were awake it would be on their minds too.

Well, the party at least, why did he have to be the one with whom these kinds of thoughts stuck?

He sat up and slipped off the bed, and his stomach noisily alerted him that it was time for breakfast. He opted to have a shower and change first instead; it would not do to have Mrs Weasley come down to find him dressed as he was.

Down in the kitchen though, he was to be greeted by a surprise. Molly Weasley hadn't come down to prepare breakfast, and as matter of fact, it seemed very much as if every one else was still asleep. If he wanted to eat, and he surely did, he would have to do it on his own.

No problem there, there was still quite a lot of now charm-less food and he had his pick… not that he was becoming Ron or anything. He was just hungry, a growing boy and all that.

Apparently though, going about it quietly was not.

First, when he drew off the cloth covering he dropped the cover of a dish. Then, when he went to pick that up he collided with the counter and a spoon fell to the floor. The noise startled Crookshanks from his hiding place in a cupboard and went he bent over to retrieve the spoon his wand fell out with a clatter. As he turned instead to retrieve this, a whisper came from the doorway, “Accio wand!” and it rolled over and slipped from his grasp and up into the Hermione's outstretched hand.

“Are you trying to wake up the house?” she asked, with that annoying smirk again. “Or are you always this clumsy?”

“Do you always have to be so nosey?” he shot back.

She said nothing, walked into the kitchen to the table, sat down and without returning his wand, asked, “What's for breakfast?”

“Can I have that back please?” he asked, ignoring her question.

“It's not like it's any use to you here—ooh, turkey sandwich—hey, what's that by your foot?” she continued, ignoring him until her eyes fell to his feet.

“I'll have my wand back now,” he repeated, walking over to her and deciding that he was not going to play this game.

“No seriously, what's that… wait, that isn't Dumbledore's letter is it?” she asked.

At that Harry finally allowed her to distract him and looked down at the floor behind him. Sure enough the letter Lupin had handed him in this very kitchen in what seemed a lifetime ago lay on the floor near the still fallen spoon. He snatched it up, “Give me the wand and I'll let you read it.”

She dropped the wand at once and snatched it from his grasp. Harry found himself slightly hurt that she seemed more interested in Dumbledore's words than concern for his things and protested childishly, “What if you broke it?”

“Broke what?” asked someone from the stairs, and they both turned to find Ron standing there eyeing them curiously.

Hermione spoke before Harry could, but not to Ron, “You had this in your pocket all this time, what if you lost it?”

Harry had to ignore Ron too, to reply, “I wouldn't have… I just, well, I just wanted us to focus on enjoying our time here that's all.”

“But this is important—oh my goodness, he's giving you Gryffindor's sword!” she gasped.

She had been reading and scolding at the same time, a talent she had perfected after years of practice. Apparently though, she had also added analysing riddles to the act, for Harry was sure he hadn't seen that there, just something about “Gryffindor's gift to a deserving—”… oh…. Heh-heh.

“What?” Ron asked, hurrying over to look and taking a seat beside her.

Harry sat too, breakfast abandoned, and listened while she began to explain, “Oh Harry, you should have told us earlier. He's left you a few things, and knowing Professor Dumbledore they're important, enjoying ourselves is nothing compared to this.”

He wasn't sure he agreed here, but he allowed her to continue, “For the first of these you must ask permission, though I doubt Minerva would not give it to you. Gryffindor's gift to a deserving student, use it well—though I doubt gifts given should ever be useless. It may not look like it now but it should not be underestimated, remember what happened the last time it was. This has to be the sword, 'the last time it was underestimated', don't you remember what you told us, Voldemort certainly did that in the chamber and you killed the basilisk.”

“Oh, right…” Harry replied, stupidly. He had long forgotten that little incident, though there were some points of it he remembered on occasion.

“I was in the chamber too…” Ron pointed out feebly, but Hermione was speaking again and apparently didn't hear him.

“The second and third of these are mine to give and freely so, they should be with the first and more than one eye wouldn't hurt. Well, this is just a rough guess, but I would estimate that they're memories. If they are then they certainly were his to give.”

“How do you figure that?” asked Ron, drawing the letter over to him for a look.

She snatched it back, “See this part here, about 'more than one eye wouldn't hurt'? That could mean that you might have to use his Pensieve, Harry, just like you went with him… oh goodness, to go with you!”

Harry couldn't help the smile that formed at the sight of her—eyes wide in excitement, face flushed brilliantly and radiant smile—as she hit on the implication. The sunlight now pouring gently into the kitchen seemed to pool in the corners of her eyes.

Ron was still puzzling over how she had figured that one out, and interrupted then, to ask, “Okay then, so what's this last part? 'You will find a fifth item in the keep of the bartender of the Hog's Head Inn. I should not expect its retrieval to be difficult, and you may find that it will be most useful in the days ahead.' What does that mean?”

Hermione took the letter back and read it over, but after a moment shrugged, “I have no idea, but I'm almost convinced of what the other things are. (She lowered her voice here.) The sword and the memories are certainly very useful enough as they are; I can barely imagine anything else that we might want.”

“Voldemort dropping dead?” asked Harry.

“Well, yes, but then we might want the others to do that too,” she replied, casually. “So now comes the hard part, we have to get these things, and before that we have to leave here undetected. We still have no idea who RAB is, or what he may have done to the real… Horcrux… and where the others are.”

“Which is why we're going to Godric's Hollow,” said Harry, “and I have a feeling I know just who to ask about that.”

Hermione and Ron were both about to ask “Who?” but they were interrupted by the arrival of a small girl yawning loudly while scratching her long tousled hair and bidding “Good morning” in rather sleepy French. It was Gabrielle, and the moment she had finally managed to pry open an eye, it was to rush forward and trap Harry in a tight embrace before hurrying back up the stairs again.

Harry turned to Ron and Hermione for explanation, and they both promptly laughed.

Gabrielle and her mother would leave early the next day, immediately taking with them not only a number of items of luggage brought over for the wedding, but the last remnants of an invisible but very present buffer between Harry, the Weasleys and the Order. With the wedding between them, they had an excuse to avoid and ignore the war and the world around them. By the last week before it in fact, newspapers had virtually vanished from the house altogether. But now that that was done, as Ron had recognised and Harry had discovered the day after, there was nothing now.

The Daily Prophet reintroduced them to Voldemort's latest atrocity in large bold: “Four Muggle Law Enforcement Officers Feared Taken by Death Eaters!”

They had only just settled to breakfast, Harry, Hermione, Ron, Ginny and Mrs Weasley, when the delivery owl arrived with the paper. At first it had been a welcome distraction, the house was quiet and felt rather empty now that it was just them once more, and the fluttering at the window interrupted Mrs Weasley as she began with an encouraging smile, “So… how are things with you two?

Ginny went to retrieve it, and hurriedly so that Harry irritably felt that she didn't have to be so relieved. Then again, considering that apart from her, only Hermione knew that they had broken up, (he was still a bit concerned about Ron's reaction) maybe it was best she not answer that.

When she returned, Ron asked mindlessly, “Who died?”

Mrs Weasley shot him a sharp look while Ginny read the headline, which made her turn to her instead and take it away. It took her a moment to quietly read it over herself before she suddenly began anxiously, “You know what; after all you've done you four should go outside for a little bit… I don't think it would be too bad if you had some sun, it's so bright out there now.” And before they could alert her to the fact that they had just sat down in the first place, she was up and ushering them out of the house to the backyard with Crookshanks at their heels.

The door shut solidly behind them too, but not before Harry noticed two things: One, the special Weasley clock still had all hands pointing to “Mortal Peril” but now had two more, one for Fleur, and another for himself; and two, as Mrs Weasley rushed them out he managed to glance at the paper, the front page having blown over as Ron opened the door, and read, “Attack in London Claims One, Family Searching for Krishna Patil!”

He could only hope that he wasn't who he thought he was.

But back to the matter at hand with them out of the house, and Ron looked about them for a moment, as if carefully surveying their surroundings for the first hints of trouble, and declared, “Quidditch it is then.”

“Can we do nothing else?” asked Hermione, though with noticeably feigned exasperation. Harry had to admit that she had improved somewhat in her game, by no means was she up to Ginny's level, but she certainly had improved.

“You want to de-gnome the garden?” asked Ron, as he headed over to the shed to gather some brooms.

She did not reply, and Harry was suddenly struck by something, and then at the same time had to wonder how he had not thought of it before. With the wedding past them, sooner or later they would have to announce to the family that they were going to have to leave. Somehow, with him not yet old enough to do magic without a Ministry hearing and Hermione still not the owner of a broom. But the solution to one of those problems had been standing in front of him all along; Hermione could borrow a broom from the Weasleys.

It was the perfect solution really. Hermione never owned a broom before and to go looking for one now with all the suspicious eyes and high prices would probably be a bad idea. But if she borrowed one from the Weasleys, no one would be the wiser. Who would know one was missing, or for that matter, who would care to look?

Two down, he thought, as he looked at her mounting one of the brooms and taking to the air to start the game.

Mrs Weasley firmly kept them out of the house until lunch and they were well and properly starved when she finally opened the backdoor and brought out their food.

Or was that just Ron? He barely waited until she had set down the first plate to start removing their covers, and Harry was sure he caught a hint of drool as the first whiff of the baked chicken filled the air around them. He couldn't help himself, he had to say, “Easy there, easy boy, give her a minute to get it all out….”

Behind Mrs Weasley's back Ron shot him a rude hand gesture.

But this time when they sat down, there was nothing to distract the silence that fell.

For the next two days though, silence was the last thing that filled their mealtimes. Though Mrs Weasley routinely kept them out of the house, or somewhere within washing up or merely playing a game or two of chess or Exploding Snap, she could not stop them discussing some of the reports they received from Mr Weasley, or Charlie or the twins: There was another Snape sighting, the body of one of the missing Aurors had finally been retrieved and there was still no sign of Draco Malfoy whom rumours swirled might be dead.

Harry doubted that last one, Professor Dumbledore was dead just like Voldemort wanted caused by Draco.

Then again, he probably would have been killed just because he hadn't actually done it, like Voldemort wanted.

Fred and George sent word that they “wouldn't mind” Harry paying them a visit, which garnered Hermione's interest more than his for the possibility of some “research”. When she made the mistake of blurting this at dinner one evening, she quickly covered with the excuse of “NEWTS,” to divert Mrs Weasley attention. Harry was sure that she may not have been believed and Mrs Weasley point blank refused to let them go anyway, her excuse simply, “It's too dangerous now to go out for no reason, we'll see them when we go shopping for your school things.”

That was weeks away, and that simply would not do.

Once again that weekend, they were visited by members of the Order. Lupin and Tonks were back, but this time, and surprisingly, Mad Eye Moody had come as well, taking up a post near the door with a clear view at all windows. This was what Harry had been waiting for, and then still, more than he had expected or could have possibly asked. It by no means made what he planned to do easier, but it certainly helped.

The day before, he had announced to Ron and Hermione that it was time for them to leave. He had meant it as a last chance for them to back out, but as before their response was firm, they were coming with him as soon as he was ready. In fact, they were going to stand with him tonight as he spoke to Lupin and the others. Their reinforcement would certainly strengthen his resolve, but he couldn't help hoping that it would also show the others that they were serious and had thought this through.

He hoped.

They walked into the kitchen in the midst of a discussion, that, as usual, came to an abrupt halt as they did though Lupin completed his sentence: “… we know he's going to use the Malfoy boy openly now, but at this point the best we can hope for is that he'll just be Snape's apprentice.”

“Some kind of hope,” said Harry.

He looked up at them, finally noticing their arrival and the others abrupt silence, and replied, “If what you told us is accurate, then he is much safer out of Voldemort's sight. It would be much worse if he sent him out on one of these raids I'm sure you've read about.”

Moody came away from the window adding, “His father was no fool, but I can't say the same for the son. You should be more vigilant, even if he's with Snape he'll be a problem, he knows you and your friends, and he hates you. There's no telling how much the both of them could have told their little master already.”

Hermione paled slightly, but stood her ground as Harry said, “Well, actually we've come to talk to you about that, I—”

Lupin cut him off before he began, “You want to go out there, on your own.”

Harry refused to register surprise, but corrected him, “No, I have to go out there. I'm supposed to be the key to Voldemort's downfall and I can't do it if I'm here… or at Hogwarts.”

“Absolutely not!” declared Mrs Weasley, cutting in. “You're safe at the school, out of his way while we try to find a way to stop him! You'll stay here, and go to school as usual at the end of the summer, you have your NEWTS!”

“Professor Dumbledore may have already given me a way—” Harry began to protest.

“Your secret excursions… do you honestly expect us to let you go about it on your own?” asked Lupin, and in his eyes Harry could read his concern.

“No, I don't,” he replied honestly. “But you can't expect me to tell you what I'm doing, or let you know what it is either. It's not that I don't trust you, but it's safer the less you actually know.”

“And you two are going with him?” asked Mrs Weasley, turning her attention now to Ron and Hermione standing behind him, her voice going shrill.

They didn't have to speak.

Ron's resolve showed in that he didn't once break eye contact with his mother, while Hermione just nodded firmly. Mrs Weasley kept staring at them though, as if trying to find the slightest trace of weakness before turning to her husband and commanding, “They're going out there to be killed, say something!”

He looked at her, and then at the three, then over to Lupin and Moody, and then back again before replying, “They seemed to have already made up their minds.”

It was not the answer she was looking for.

“You can't do this, it's not safe out of the school…” she insisted.

“It's not safe in there either, Voldemort got to Dumbledore didn't he, who knows who's next. I have to stop him if I can, and since I currently have a way to do that I'm going to take it,” Harry insisted in turn.

“Harry, you really cannot expect us to just let you go out there—” Lupin began, again.

“He doesn't,” said Hermione, taking over. “And you're right that we shouldn't, but you could help us still. We can't let anyone know that we're not going to be here, or at school, it's important that they don't suspect a thing, and especially the Ministry.”

“You want a cover?” asked Moody, almost cutting in before she finished having already picked up on the plan.

She nodded, “It has to look as if we've never left and you can do that, we can't on our own when there are other things to do….”

Mrs Weasley cut in again, determined to be heard, “You're not old enough to use magic yet, nor do you have your Apparation licence, you can't just go out there. You worry about the Ministry but if you leave they'll find you.”

“My birthday's next week, after that I'm gone,” Harry told her, calmly. “I'm sorry Mrs Weasley, I am grateful for everything you've done for me, you all were the first real family I've ever had that I can remember, but I can't stay here anymore. It's dangerous for us to be out there, I know, but it's far too dangerous for me to remain here too.”

“Nothing has happened so far. Do you even know where you're going to stay, if it's not here? Do you have a plan for what you're doing? Even if you're old enough you can't just expect to walk out of this house with nothing—” she continued, refusing to hear him.

He cut her off, but as gently and as respectfully as he could, “I do have a plan, but like I said I can't tell you what it is. I don't like that it came to this either, but it has…. So please, don't fight us, help us.”

“At least tell us something then,” said Lupin, “we can't prevent your birthday or you getting your licence, you're James' son, you won't be stopped… so we won't fight you. But help us help you, we can arrange the cover but we at least deserve some idea of where you're going.”

“To Godric's Hollow,” Harry replied, simply.

“There is nothing there to find,” said Moody, “nothing but trouble.”

“I think there is,” insisted Harry. “We just need to know where it is, and after that we'll try our best to keep you updated.”

“You will keep us updated,” corrected Mrs Weasley, firmly.

“We will,” repeated Harry, and turned to Lupin.

Lupin though, had gone slightly pale, and his eyes showed distance. He was physically there but Harry knew that his mind was elsewhere, gone back to the night where it had all begun…. It was clearly something painful, but it had to be done and Harry stifled another bout of rising guilt as he waited.

Finally, Lupin replied, “I was not James and Lily's Secret Keeper, as you know they did not trust me at the time… and unfortunately they could not trust their eventual choice either…. But after the house was destroyed, everyone knew… the Muggles around came flocking to the scene of destruction: a young couple, their child…. There is no number marking the house, not anymore… it is on the outskirts of the village near a thicket… Pettigrew must have escaped through it then… Stagge Lane, James' idea of a joke. The house no longer stands, of course, but strangely the ruin is there, the lower floor left by the Muggles to vine. Anyone there will tell you where they are buried, but that may not be safe… you will find their graves at the local cemetery simply marked in the earth nearest the road, I advise caution and I expect you will remember it.”

Harry nodded immediately, earnestly, while Mrs Weasley suddenly burst into tears. But before he completely fell into his shame, he heard a rumble of footsteps on the stairs and then a door slam above them.

Ginny had heard too.

He had to be grateful then that no one said a thing.

*****

When finally it arrived, Harry's seventeenth birthday turned out to be not much of the big deal everyone around him had made it out to be. As a matter of fact, he spent much of it trapped at the Ministry of Magic with Mrs Weasley trying to get his Apparation licence. Even so, as he sat in the Weasley kitchen at the end of it, savouring a slice of treacle fudge cake, he could not deny that it was much better than it could have been.

The rest of the night after his announcement to the Order and the Weasleys had been uncomfortably quiet. Mrs Weasley would not stop crying, and though she did manage to silence open sobbing, she could apparently do nothing for the tears that constantly ran down her cheeks. When he could take it no more he went up to bed and tried to will the night to pass.

It did not help that he had to pass Ginny's room on the way there and overhear Hermione trying to appease her either. The words of their conversation echoing into his dreams:

“He doesn't expect you to just sit around and do nothing, waiting for him, none of us can—”

“Oh what do you know of it? You're going with him; you're going to help—”

“Ron too, the three of us, if anyone else comes along, there's too many people—”

“You think I'll let someone know your little secret?”

“What? No, but….”

“Oh just let it go Hermione….”

The next morning though, was considerably, as he had hoped, better. Mrs Weasley was still somewhat upset at breakfast, but she betrayed no other emotion or voiced any more concerns as she set breakfast before them and spoke with Mr Weasley about a third and somewhat surprising reported sighting of Snape. He tried not to grit his teeth at the sound of the name; there would be plenty of time for that later.

Ginny was better too, actually smiling as she came down for breakfast and animatedly chatted with Hermione as if the night before had never happened. Unfortunately this must have reminded Ron of something for when he caught a hint of Harry's faintly relieved expression after she sat down, he narrowed his brow as if in deep thought. He said nothing as he did this, but Harry knew better than to hope he would let it go entirely.

They should have told the others a long time ago, and forgetting was no excuse. Before it got anymore awkward they would have to.

At the end of breakfast though, still no one had said a thing, and once more as in the week before, Harry and the others were left to their own devices.

Quidditch, as it had the year before, once again became the mainstay entertainment choice of the rest of their days. But the atmosphere had definitely changed around the Burrow. Harry continued to refuse to tell anyone where he and the others were to go or even what they were up to beyond the little he had revealed that night. Mrs Weasley sank into a silence that was only broken when necessary and if asked declared sternly, “Nothing's wrong, I'm fine, you all are grown now, I knew this day would come sooner or later.”

Of course, this was the answer no matter the question.

The twins, as per usual, took the news rather lightly, but again hinted that Harry visit them as soon as he got the chance. Bill, Fleur and Charlie took it more seriously, but gave words of encouragement in their letters and offers of assistance whenever he needed it. The members of the Order they chose to inform gave mixed reviews on the idea, and Harry was grateful that he didn't have to be there to hear the protests. It was probably difficult enough for those who knew him to understand that a mere sixteen year old boy was their only hope.

In the news though, and away from the Burrow and the safety and secrecy, Voldemort's war covered almost every page of the Daily and Evening Prophets and The Quibbler. It was clear now that Voldemort seemed to be systematically attacking the Muggle police force, and more so with the intention to create trouble. Harry allowed a small passing thought for the Dursleys in Little Whinging where there had been three break-ins in the past few days, and then turned the page to read the latest nonsense the Ministry had to spew.

Late in the week though, they had a jovial distraction: they finally received the wedding pictures, professionally sorted into a fancy white album.

Of course, jovial for whom soon became Harry's question after they got to the pictures of the reception. That strange, out-of-place, curious little twinge of… something… was back again. More than that, whenever they came across one of Ron and Hermione dancing, ice blue and dark gold robes fluttering, fairy lights encircling their heads… and would not go away if he looked away. Looking away actually led to photographs of Ginny and Neville dancing, and they seemed far happier than he and Ginny had in the single one they had thankfully captured of them.

Mrs Weasley and the others though, seemingly noticed nothing amiss as they pored over the photographs and Harry let it go. He was just being silly really. Seeing them happy without him was just not something he wanted to accept yet, that was all.

His birthday at last began early in the morning of the day. He had gone to bed just some three hours prior, determined to be at the Ministry and back again before too much of the day was gone. Promptly at midnight though, he was roused by a loud, and somewhat frightening “crack” that nearly sent him off unto the floor only to hear someone declare loudly, unnecessarily cheerily, “Happy Birthday Harry!”

Blinking open sleepy eyes and muttering curses under his breath, Harry tried to peer into the darkness at his unwelcome rousers. They seemed oblivious to his displeasure though, and a member of the chorus began again, “This is no time to be sleeping, you're wasting perfectly good hours!”

“I'm tired…” he tried to protest, but again was to be ignored.

“Unless you haven't noticed, we're trying to help you. You almost missed the chance to use your magic without the Ministry on your back for the first time. You should be thanking us,” continued another.

“I'm really grateful, really… but there's always tomorrow,” said Harry as he tried to get back unto the bed again while absently searching about for his glasses.

“Too long,” said the first, he now promptly recognised as Fred.

“Too late,” continued his brother, George.

They both suddenly descended on him by the arms and hoisted him upright between them.

“Forget the glasses—” said Fred.

“Yeah, all you need is your wand,” finished George, and then it was hurriedly thrust into his hands while the rest of him was enveloped in the awful, squeezing sensation of Apparation.

With three sharp “pops” it was over though, and Harry, still unable to see but quite capable of feeling, shivered slightly at the realisation that they were now in the Weasley backyard. He was quickly warmed though, by the sound of a sharp, disapproving hiss, “Did you wake him? We told you don't bother if he was sleeping… and where are his glasses, he can't see without them! Oh for goodness sake, at least you could have brought him with a blanket—”

“Oh hush, Hermione, you worry too much,” snapped Ginny.

“Yeah, loosen up, live a little,” conceded Ron, and then turning to Harry, “Hey mate, Happy Birthday… you know you almost slept through the big event.”

“I don't remember you being rudely awakened or being wide awake for yours,” said Harry, distinctly unhappy and feeling rather self-conscious of the fact that he was without his glasses. For some reason it made him rather naked, vulnerable, and knowing that otherwise he had to depend on twins made him feel worse.

And then he remembered the incident of Ron's birthday and stuttered, “Sorry… Ron… that was… sorry….”

Ron shrugged off his embarrassment, “Don't worry about it, I should probably be thanking you really….”

Suddenly, and thankfully, warm, soothing hands gently took possession of his own from the twins and Hermione said, “You can summon them in a minute, (she lowered her voice to a whisper) are you okay?”

He nodded, and then not sure that she had seen it, said, “Yeah, sure, just… you all do know that I have someplace to be tomorrow right, the Ministry of Magic?”
“You've got some hours… hey, look at the time, thirty—no—twenty-nine—no—okay, twenty-five seconds to midnight, here it comes…” began Fred again.

Almost unconsciously, Hermione's hands slipped into his and she led him over to the others asking, “Is the window open, Harry can't see and I don't think we want any accidents….”

“I can hear perfectly!” he snapped. “But… um… could someone please get me my glasses, I… can't see….”

“Fifteen… fourteen…” continued Fred, and no one else answered him.

Hermione suddenly released his hand as if burned and he had a moment of confusion before guessing that she must have had something else to do than being his guide. As if to confirm this, a moment later someone else turned him round, presumably to face the house, and another said, “Hey, that's the first thing you should do, get your glasses.”

“It would be much easier if one of you just went back and got them you know…” Harry protested.

“Ten… nine… eight…” counted George, taking over from his twin.

“Can you find nothing better to do at this hour of the night? Would someone please just get my glasses, I can't see!” he tried again, daring to raise his voice and not caring if Mrs Weasley heard.

“Five… oh bloody hell, fine!” said a rather exasperated Fred, breaking the count and then grabbing Harry's hand, thrust it to the air and said, “Get your glasses, you big baby!”

“Hey, who're you calling a baby? I can't see!” declared Harry, becoming even more irritated.

“Hush! You're going to wake Mum!” hissed Ron.

“Uh Harry…?” began Ginny, quietly.

“I don't care, I was sleeping pretty fine until you all got this brilliant idea!” he snapped at him, ignoring Ginny.

“Harry…” said Hermione, just as quietly as Ginny but tugging on his arm.

He rounded on her and nearly shouted, “What?”

“Um… it's your birthday now… you can… um… get them yourself…” she replied, meekly.

He paused with his mouth open and then lamely raised his wand arm and muttered, “Accio glasses.”

But nothing happened, and one of the twins started, “Louder, I don't think they heard you.”

“Fred,” warned Hermione, though Harry could hear the smile in her voice.

He said it again, louder this time, but still not daring to raise his voice to the level it had been in the argument, “Accio glasses!”

“What's wrong? Harry, are you okay?” asked Ginny, her voice filling with alarm.

“Nothing's wrong, maybe his wand is just broken or something, you know, from lack of use,” said Fred, and Harry could hear him smirk.

“You do want them right?” asked George, stepping closer and lifting his arm a bit higher.

“Of course he does!” snapped Hermione, unnecessarily. “Come on, Harry, get your glasses.”

He shook off George, raised his arm in the approximate direction of the house and said as clearly, as boldly as he could, “Accio glasses!”

With a sharp zipping sound he heard them swooping down from the open bedroom window and swiftly rose his other hand to catch them in one deft movement. As he secured them on his face his vision cleared to reveal Hermione standing directly before him with a smile on her face. She whispered then, “Happy Birthday.”

Some two hours later he was back in his room and drifting off to a sleep that was to be interrupted in what felt like ten minutes by a very sleepy Ron who grumbled, “Get up, Mum's been calling you for half an hour now, we have to get to the Ministry….”

Groaning as well, he sat up quickly and asked, “Mr Weasley gone already?”

Ron opened his eyes to look at him then, “Are you serious? No, but you're making him late.”

As if to support this, Mrs Weasley suddenly called from below, “Ron! Wake up Harry; you're all going to be late!”

“I'm up!” Harry called down, shoving off the bed sheets and standing up.

“Your eyes are still closed. Open them up and get dressed, you don't want to be there all day!” snapped Hermione from the doorway, before turning and heading down to breakfast.

Harry nearly fell over again as he realised she had been standing there the whole time, but he did as he was told. He took the time though, to call after her first, “I hope you weren't planning to watch us change!”

He turned around, and something soft collided with the back of his head but with such force that it nearly knocked him out. She had knocked him with his own pillow, and clearly was abusing her ability to use magic.

A long while later, he and Ron went down to breakfast together and rather childishly too, poking each other in the side as they did so. When one of them stumbled and both nearly fell, the others finally looked up but only to look away again shortly after, deciding to ignore them. They then continued to the table without further incident, and once seated, Mr Weasley began, “I don't expect us to be at the Ministry long, the Minister's in Wales this morning, and there are only eleven others taking their tests including Ron here.”

Harry sharply looked up at that. Didn't Ron supposedly Apparate to the Dursleys to get him without his licence already?

As if expecting his question, he whispered in reply, “I got Dad to give me permission, practice you know?”

Harry nodded; he had had practice too….

Ron broke through his thoughts when he asked his father, “The Ministry's sent a car?”

“It'll be around by the time you're dressed, and it will take us directly to the Ministry and back… unless you two will be travelling alone?” he asked, smiling unabashedly.

They both smiled back.

Breakfast was toast, orange juice and jam with a croissant as remnant of Fleur's presence. His shower was warm and his clothes neatly pressed and spread out on the bed by Mrs Weasley. As they stepped out of the house, the air was cool, but the day bright under the golden glare of the mid-morning sun and the cloudless cerulean sky.

As Mr Weasley had said the Ministry car was awaiting them in the driveway, but the driver was not alone. So concerned were they about his safety that someone had sent an Auror, and it wasn't even a member of the Order. They didn't know what he was up to, but they were rather suspicious.

The ride to the Ministry in London was brief and mostly uninterrupted. Through unspoken agreement they had all decided against speaking on the way, and Harry was amused to find that this strangely seemed to unsettle their Auror guard. He shifted constantly, or fidgeted with the car's radio, or stole glances at them in the back while they stared absently out the window, and on one occasion held a gaze until Harry stared right back. It very much appeared as if he were there solely to spy on them, and by all rights he probably was… for all the good it did him.

Today was Harry's birthday, if he didn't know, and nothing he could do was going to change that.

The Apparation Test Centre was on Level Six of the Ministry of Magic, two floors up (or five down depending on how you looked at it) and past the repaired golden fountain of magical creatures that made Harry's stomach lurch uncomfortably. Strolling past it had summoned the memory of two men, the one he had gone bursting in here to save, and the other who used it to save him. Of course, he wasn't the only one who hadn't forgotten. The Ministry security official who had met them at the phone box entrance at the back alley that led to this building had joked as he saw them, “Not planning on destroying anything in here while you're at it, are you?”

Harry refrained from reply or smile, but Mr Weasley said stiffly, “Just getting these boys their licences, Ulric, nothing else.”

The man seemed incapable of stopping himself though, as they entered the old box and declared their destinations, (“Level Six, Apparation Test Centre, Arthur Weasley, Ronald Weasley, Harry Potter and Ulric Stovepipe,”) saying, “Had to ask, we need the building in one piece this year.”

Harry was never happier to be setting off on a floor of the Ministry, and seriously doubted he would be again. And one look around the floor confirmed that too.

The entire floor of Level Six was one long corridor with two doors on the far end, separated into sections like a travel office with each booth representing a particular destination. All along the walls above them were lined hundreds of brilliant moving posters and photographs of various destinations, some exotic, some tranquil, where witch and wizard tourists waved to the viewer or feigned ignorance as they took in the sights. He had to wonder how those seated in the booths beneath them could work undisturbed. There was a Bulgarian one that particularly caught his eye, and especially since the witch seated in the desk beneath it was reading a copy of Witch Weekly with the bold headline: “Viktor Krum Headed To England: Reports of Seeker in Talks with Team Officials!”

Worthless rag really, but he took care to keep it out of Ron's line of sight. They were heading past this though, to the doors on the end: One that was poster-free and official looking, the administrative section no doubt, and the other, with a line of people going in for their Apparation licences.

With the office as easy to find as it was a wonder their licences were so difficult after.

It actually took the twelve gathered students, one of who was Neville Longbottom, smiling brightly and eagerly waving them over as soon as they entered, no more than half an hour to complete their tests each, and the wait between them was murder. Going in alphabetical order the applicants were required to Apparate and Disapparate three times to three separate locations. The first time was across the room, the second just outside, and the third a clear distance away into Diagon Alley, where the officials were waiting.

Everyone did it reasonably well, though Neville failed his last two attempts and was sternly advised to “try again later”. Harry cleared his rather admirably, he felt, but unlike those who before him, who had passed, he was not immediately told if he had. And as a matter of fact, the last student to receive his licence would leave before they came back and informed him that there was a problem.

At once Mr Weasley took over, “What kind of problem?”

The wizard who brought the news, apparently the same Mr Stovepipe, began gravely, “Well, though Mr Potter clearly achieved his last Apparation, there was an overshot, of about… say fifty centimetres, a serious error you understand.”

Harry felt his heart sink, he couldn't believe it. Fifty centimetres? He knew they were serious but this was ridiculous.

Apparently, Mr Weasley agreed with him, “Fifty centimetres? You don't want to give him his licence for fifty centimetres? How are you so sure he didn't step off as he landed? First time off everyone stumbles, and especially under stress.”

“Well, yes of course Arthur, but this is an important matter, we do not wish Mr Potter to accidentally end up in the English Channel—” Ulric continued, as if trying to reason.

“Nonsense! This is absolute nonsense and you know it! I demand that he have a review, fifty centimetres?” declared Mr Weasley and with anger that Harry had never known he possessed. Even Ron looked scared.

Ulric though, didn't look that perturbed, and after studying Mr Weasley's furious countenance for a moment more, said, “Give me a moment,” and went away.

Harry turned to Mr Weasley as soon as he was out of earshot, “You didn't have to do that, sir.”

He meant it too; if he got this licence he was free to leave with their son to their possible deaths after all.

Mr Weasley shook his head curtly, still furious, but said kindly, “They're playing games, you know it. This is all just a silly game….”

It would take three hours more for them to finally return with their result (“Mr Potter has passed, congratulations,”) and at that Mr Weasley hurriedly ushered Ron and Harry away, without waiting for further comment. It had taken them the entire day in fact, and as he sent them to the elevators he said with a conspiratorial wink, “I have some more work to do, but feel free to give the girls the good news before I get there.”

They took his advice, and soon as they were up (again, or down) and out of the building they Apparated into the backyard of the Burrow where Mrs Weasley, Ginny and Hermione were just beginning to set up for a feast. And for some reason they had decided to have blue and white balloons, including one marked, “It's a BOY!” and hats, paper plates, cups and forks and all the trappings of some Muggle child's, a very young Muggle child's. Fred and George would pay as soon as he found them, there was no other explanation.

The moment they were seen though, the preparations were abandoned for the clearly delighted squeal from Mrs Weasley as she rushed to hug them both. An overreaction by far, but Harry couldn't complain, they had taken forever to get back.

And as a matter of fact, after a moment's thought while the others came over to inspect the licences and laugh at the photographs (Harry banished his with a flick of his wand before Hermione could reach him), he decided he wouldn't. She deserved to have this day as much as he did.

-->

A/N: *really nervous laughter* Hi there, long time no see, heh-heh. I know there really is no excuse for the length of time it's taken me to get this chapter out but I've had a bit of writer's block, a lot of laziness and a shot of school to get through. Thankfully, the writer's block did me good. I've never been good with plans and during that time I lost the original plan for this story so everything from here onwards is based on memory and imagination, my two favourite things. I hope you like those things too.

Anyway, on the other front, I think I made a mistake with this chapter. I made it the pivotal chapter for the story and it isn't. Godric's Hollow may be where Harry goes to find out how this all started out, but it isn't going to just reveal something big all on one page. At least not here. Instead, it's where the foundations of the tale lie, and had I remembered that, you would have had this chapter sooner.

Disclaimer: Not mine, the owner is currently writing the real seventh book in Scotland and probably having a great laugh at the nonsense I'm trying to pull off.

*****

Godric's Hollow

Harry wasn't quite sure what he expected to find when they finally got to his parents' house in Godric's Hollow. His best thoughts were of a new house on the old lot, with a new family blissfully unaware of the history within their property lines. His worst, of Death Eaters using magic to turn it into a shrine for their master under the noses of the unsuspecting Muggles, or even more terrible, a meeting place to plan their attacks. But none of them came anything close to what they actually met, to this.

From what Lupin had told him, the house had basically imploded, fallen in on itself, in the apparent blast that had destroyed Voldemort's body. From what he was seeing now, the Muggle officials who had come round after the fact had removed the top half and basically cleared the lot, but left standing the severed ruin of the ground floor and foundation of the house. Not only that, but the residents had in fact created a shrine, a memorial to the young couple and their infant son, strewing the overgrown front yard and ruin with flowers, toys, candles and cards and some of it recent. He hadn't been sure of what would have been awaiting him in Godric's Hollow, but he was very glad that it was this.

Hermione and Ron stood silent behind him. Not wanting to disturb him yet, while themselves digesting the gravity of it, they chose to remain his bastions. When he was ready he would lead them on, when he knew what he wanted they would follow him to it. There was no hurry, not yet at least.

Out of the corner of his eye though, Harry could see Hermione fidgeting where she stood. Since they had arrived this morning she had been that way, antsy, as nervous as a rabbit too far from its hole, and it had increased with each step that brought them closer to the house. Ron fidgeted too, but his seemed more from concern of discovery than resisting the urge to say something comforting.

He had been that way since they first set out that morning before dawn. Deciding against waking the house—which would have probably made their early morning departure more conspicuous—they had slipped away under the cover of the darkness before dawn, Disillusionment Charms and the Invisibility Cloak.

They could not all fit under the cloak of course, but in the face of the united insistence of Ron and Hermione, Harry had to wear it.

No cloak in the world though, could have masked the rippling fear that temporarily overtook him as at last the Burrow, his foster home of sorts, vanished from view.

But at least he had the comfort in knowing that as much as he felt it, Ron and Hermione were feeling it too. They were probably the bravest people he knew, but this time it didn't matter as much that they were a little frightened.

Their departure from the house though, was not the complete secret they had hoped it to be. When they had gotten out of their rooms and down to the kitchen on their way out, they found that Mrs Weasley had prepared breakfast and lunch. In all likelihood, she had probably been preparing for the night they left as much as they had. Harry could just see her setting out the little packages night after night and then sighing with relief each morning she came down and saw them still there.

Harry could not resist a small “Thank you” note, after all she had done for him, it was the least he could do.

By now the others were surely all awake and carrying on as best they could as if they were still there. Though it would be suspicious that they were not out and playing Quidditch, the sky as they left Ottery St Catchpole threatened rain. It would not last forever, their ruse, but it would last as long as they needed it to. If their “Top Secret Mission” was to succeed, it had to.

When a slight wind blew through the trees surrounding the ruin of the Potter house, Harry dared to take his eyes away from the scene to finally have a good look around him. Anxious to get to the house that morning, wavering between apprehension and excitement, he had barely taken proper stock of the town. Alternatively it seemed that none of the residents had taken stock of the three teenagers emerging from their forest and walking somewhat aimlessly through their streets. Now though, under the light of the mid-morning sun shining gold over them and Stagge Lane, he allowed his eyes to wander.

The Potter house ruin stood as the second structure on the street that was Stagge Lane, comfortably surrounded by a few trees, a short stone wall with a rotted wooden gate and the neighbouring homes. The neighbours were nowhere to be seen, but Harry was sure that from quite a few windows they were being watched. It was the middle of summer, and if not adults, there were sure to be a few children in at least one of the wooden two-storey structures that lined either side of the lane.

He refused to think on the fact that were it not for a split-second decision he just might have been one of them. Were it not for a fraud's prophecy and the murderer who had overheard her, his parents would be alive.

Other than that, the street was pretty normal. Garages replaced broomstick sheds, post-boxes eliminated the need for owl post, and the sound of stereos and television sets left on too loud filled the air, drowning the sound of birds and small animals. The town bordered a forest and a river, so that a street adjoining Stagge Lane came to a dead-end at a line of trees and in the distance, just under the sound of the stereos but still there, a river slowly rambled. The earth was fairly craggy going off into the trees too, as they had come to know that morning when they descended to wait out the sunrise, but the residents didn't seem to mind. This was their home, and save for the frightful incident that had left an eyesore in their street, it was still and would always be beautiful.

Hermione, unable to stand it any longer, broke through Harry's thoughts then with a question, “We may have to spend the night… here…. Do you think there's an available inn downtown?”

She purposely avoided another one. He let her.

“That may not be a good idea. The longer we stay here, the greater the chance they're going to spot us,” he replied.

“I know, but… moving about too quickly when we're trying to keep a cover isn't such a great one either. If someone from either side sees us out when we should be at the Burrow…” she allowed her voice to trail off.

After a moment of silence where he seemed to be contemplating it, he said, “We'll ask someone. We're just passing through; backpacking through Wales… that shouldn't be too suspicious.”

Backpacking through Wales, it was the excuse they had come up with in case they were asked. Their backpacks were a little small, they didn't seem to be carrying around a lot of money, and they didn't even have bicycles, but they were “backpacking”. Oh how he wished it were true.

At this Ron could finally take it no more, and said, “I don't mean to… but I don't think we can just stand here forever looking at it.”

“Ron!” exclaimed Hermione, alarmed at his tactlessness.

Harry shrugged it off, “He's right, c'mon.” And with only a moment's hesitation longer, he took the lead to the gate that would take him home. Hermione looked to Ron, still glaring slightly, and followed him in.

As they stepped past the front gate, the first thing they encountered was the overgrown remains of a path. A moss-covered teddy bear and an old faded birthday card (“Now you're 3!”) in a clear plastic bag served as welcome mat. In the midst of the lawn to their left someone had erected a jungle gym and hung toy trucks, cars, a cricket bat, and more birthday cards, the newest attached to a football on the top “17teen Reasons You're Cool!” A few steps further brought them to the wire frame and strips of ribbon that may have once made up a wreath, with a startlingly realistic sketch of his parents.

Hermione fell so quiet that the only way Harry knew she was breathing was that she still walking behind him. Sneaking a glance to his left revealed that Ron had gone unhealthily pale, and it stood out starkly against his bright red hair. Harry's own heart felt as if were systematically climbing into his throat, and until he left this place it would not stop.

To distract himself, Harry looked up at the house again.

It had once been white, something barely discernable now that it was covered in ivy, with a dark red door and white windows. There was almost no front door now, but some of the walls within still stood all the way to the back. There were no visible furniture, of course, but the kitchen cupboards were mostly intact and with luck might still contain a few items. Other than that, the house was gone, and he could barely bring himself to imagine what it must have looked like.

But he wondered slightly then, what, if anything, there would be for them in there. For the past few weeks it had been drawing him, calling him to it with the promise of answers. But what answers? What answers could it possibly contain if he wasn't even sure of the question?

Well, that wasn't entirely accurate, he did know the question. What exactly happened that night when Voldemort “died” and he “lived”? But he had long learned that answer, “love” destroyed him. So what else was there?

When they got to what was left of the front door, he stopped and allowed himself a moment to calm down. Waves of anxiety had been rippling through him with each step he took, fury and sadness had been clawing at his heart with a knife and striking deep, and the ever-present fear had dared to rear its head. He had no idea what he might have to fear in the old ruin, but still it was there.

But once the moment had passed, he stepped past the threshold of the house and said, “I don't know what we might find here… if anything at all… so I think we should spread out a bit. Lupin didn't mention a cellar, but if there is one there might be something in there. Just call, okay?”

Ron and Hermione nodded, and they spread out into the house: him to the kitchen, Ron down the halls to the left, and Hermione to the right. In the absence of the upper floor it would not be long before they ran out of places and he declared the day wasted, but with less places to look they would be a lot more vigilant. For example, like how they all noticed they skeletal remains of a long dead something (Harry hoped it had happened naturally) in their path at the front door just before they stepped on it.

But Harry would be the first to find something on his own.

In the kitchen, as expected, a lot had been cleaned up and removed. The old appliances were gone, along with the linoleum, some paint and any decoration that was not stuck to the walls with glue. Even though it had been years, he could still see the small circular impressions where a kitchenette set must have been, and the back door still hung open on its bottom hinges. But the one thing that had caught his eye, and stood out sharply so, were the kitchen cupboards.

They had all had their doors removed, but two cupboards, in the corner closest the back door had been left as they were, shut up tight. And the moment he noticed this Harry made a beeline to them, surprisingly crunching pieces of glass under his trainers as he went.

The doors to the cupboard must have been magically sealed, drawing his wand; he knelt before them and almost whispered, “Alohomora!” At once they gently popped open and it was at this that he paused. Now that he had found something, he was assaulted by the anxiety, the fear, of before. But he steeled his nerve, and slowly drew open a door to peer in.

The first thing to hit him was the smell. This must have been a secret potions store, the acrid scent of the long expired ingredients burned his nostrils and made his eyes water. He drew back a bit and flung open the other door. The smell hit him full on and he was mildly alarmed to see a few wisps of coloured smoke come out after it.

But then something at the back, beyond the grey and decayed pile of ingredients caught his eye.

He dared to put his hand in and shift aside some of the mess, knocking over a bottle of something that must have once been lacewing flies? With the doors open and the roof gone, the mid-morning sun reflecting off the floor poured into the cupboard and lit it up. The object was a notebook, an old black notebook covered with grime and dirt, and yellowed by age, but there nonetheless.

He didn't have to remove it to know the owner.

“Lily Evans. One of the brightest I ever taught. Vivacious, you know. Charming girl. I used to tell her she ought to have been in my house. Very cheeky answers I used to get back too.”

It had belonged to his mother.

For a time he just remained kneeling before it, his hand still in the cupboard, not daring to reach over and touch it… but then the sound of Ron calling him from the room next door (“Hey Harry, I think I've got something!”) had him start and snatch it out. He shrunk and shoved it into his backpack at once, resealed the cupboard, and then rose and walked over to join him.

Hermione came hurrying over just as Harry did to find Ron standing in what must have once been a closet. In this closet there was an old battered door, and from the looks of it, the Muggles had been through it more than once. But it was something, the cellar it probably led to might have many more locked cupboards.

Ron was still standing at the door with an anxious look on his face. Harry reassured him, “If it's still intact it might have been specially sealed, the only thing is by whom and why?”

Ron visibly relaxed, just as Hermione warned, “Be careful, we don't know how stable this floor is.”

“It's stood this long hasn't it?” asked Ron.

To stop the argument before it began, Harry went to the door, took hold of its knob and turned. No surprise, it was locked, and tightly.

He drew his wand again, “Alohomora!”

Nothing, the door refused to budge.

At this he turned to them confused, and Hermione sighed heavily, “It must have been locked with a key. Look for one; hopefully it's still around here somewhere.”

They separated again at once, eyes to the floor and what remained of the walls, looking for something, anything that was out of place and could serve as a hiding place. This took Harry back to the kitchen and its door-less cupboards, and he immediately went back to the potions store.

This time though, there was nothing to find. And why would there be, it couldn't really be this easy could it?

He turned his attentions then to the others. After years of being exposed to the elements they were battered, rotting and falling apart. The ones mounted on the walls above the kitchen sink and counters were almost completely gone, though a few contained a complementary rack of spiders. As he had seen the first time, the ones below were all completely bare… save one.

The last one before the door leading out into the hall also still had its door attached, and he hadn't noticed it before. He noticed now though, and especially since his name was written on it in big colourful letters, “H-A-R-R-Y”.

This was his cupboard.

Immediately forgetting what he originally came here to look for, and mildly wondering why the people who came to the house after the explosion had left so much behind, he went to it. The door popped open before his fingers grazed the handle, but he barely noticed. He threw open the door and dropped to his knees to peer inside, but went no further.

Standing just as he might have left them sixteen years before, were six toy soldiers, twelve building blocks, five of which spelt his father's name, “J-A-M-E-S” and an old story book, placed, curiously, in the same position as his mother's notebook at the back of the shelf. For some reason he was not entirely surprised to see these things. Though he should have been far too young to remember them, he still felt a sense of familiarity, of recognition as he peered into the cupboard.

“Found it!” suddenly called Hermione, and then he heard her rushing down the hall again to Ron at the closet.

Oh right, he had come here looking for a key.

But now knowing this, Harry still did not hasten his departure. Instead, he removed his backpack, and not bothering to shrink anything, shoved it all in with his mother's notebook. He then carefully resealed the cupboard, took one last sweeping look round the kitchen and walked out to rejoin Ron and Hermione.

As he stepped out into the hall though, he ran into Hermione first.

They only narrowly avoided colliding, but Hermione still had to grab onto to him to stop herself from falling as he suddenly appeared before her. He grasped her arms to steady her as well, and then had to draw her into an embrace to stop them both from ending up on the floor. They exchanged embarrassed apologies, her cheek bumped his own as she pulled away from him and then they turned and headed back to Ron.

He had not heard her call out to him, and knowing her the moment he had not responded she went off looking for him. He had to remember that he wasn't alone and it was not safe to do that.

“Where were you?” asked Ron suspiciously, as he came up behind Hermione.

“The kitchen,” he replied, and then looking to his hand, asked, “Is that the key?”

Still looking at them warily, Ron nodded, and turning to the door again, slipped it into the lock, turned, and pushed. The door gave easily, and then they were treated to the musty scent of abandon and disuse. Clearly no one had been down here in years, all the more wonderful, and frightful, for them. But just as with the cupboards, the sunlight quickly flooded the stairwell, pouring into the hollow darkness of the cellar. The “hollow” of it was not at all comforting.

Harry tried to see beyond the glimmer of the light pool, but quickly gave up. If they wanted anything in there, they would have to go in.

Without waiting to debate it, he was first in, tentatively stepping onto an old wooden stair, and once sure that it would take his weight, continued down into the darkness with his wand drawn. Hermione and Ron were quickly at his heels, and after a moment to allow their eyes to adjust to the dim light they spread out around the room.

It was a small, neglected space, filled with cobwebs, dust and unseen insects skittering about just out of sight, devoid of anything else save an old wardrobe and some boxes. Ron took two steps into the room, walked into webbing, declared that he was going to “keep watch” and went back up again. Hermione, not at all affected, slipped Harry a mischievous grin, and asked, “What do you think we'll find here?”

He looked around the room, and walked to the wardrobe, “Nothing… anything.”

He heard her open up a box, cough on dust aspirated by her movements and then close it again with a muttered, “Empty….” She moved on to another and he turned his attention to the old wardrobe.

In silence they worked their way around the room, looking for the “nothing, anything”, and found a lot of the former and little of the latter. The cellar had probably been used to store items from when his parents moved there, and though he was grateful, he was a bit surprised that it hadn't been completely raided yet. There were plates and cutlery, Christmas decorations, extra drapes, and in the wardrobe, lots of old clothes. Every now and then they would find a stray toy, behind the wardrobe there was a side of an old pair of trainers, and under the stairs were the leavings of a cat that must have slipped in from an opening near the solitary still-shut window.

Otherwise there was nothing, absolutely nothing save that notebook and his toys; it was almost a wasted journey.

As he turned to Hermione to tell her so, he just caught her in the act of palming something off. He at once made to question her about it… but the sound of voices from above silenced him.

“—where are your friends? This place isn't some excuse for mischief!”

“'Mischief'? Sir, I don't know what you're talking about. We're just having a look around.”

“Now listen to me boy—”

At this Harry came running up the stairs with Hermione behind him, calling, “We're just having a look around, sir. We were passing through and—”

“Oh my God!” exclaimed the man, and started away from them slightly.

Harry stopped where he was, not expecting this reaction, and Hermione, not expecting his, walked right into him. He did not apologise or attempt to move though, and she was forced to step back and wait, as he repeated, “We haven't done anything wrong, sir….”

But the man, a stout middle-aged fellow with a full head of black and grey hair, kindly dark blue eyes and wearing a dark green sou'wester and a matching jacket, waved off his reply. He took a moment though, before he stammered, “You… you look just like him….”

At this Harry tensed slightly, and Ron took on a rather defensive stance. Hermione, still trapped behind Harry, was forced to step further down into the cellar again as he asked, “Who?”

“You look just like that young man… James… but it can't be… the baby disappeared…” continued the man, staring at Harry as if he had seen a ghost.

In all likelihood, as all who knew James and met Harry, he had.

Harry took a chance and decided to put him out of his misery, “My name is Harry Potter, sir, I'm his son. I was staying with my relatives… I haven't been here since—”

The man's expression changed from shock and astonishment to sympathy at lightening speed and he advanced to Harry with an outstretched hand.

“Ioan Llewellyn, I'm so terribly sorry, but it's a pleasure to meet you. I live just across the street, I wasn't home the night it happened but when I came back… how we had been hoping that you were alright.” He eagerly shook all their hands in turn—Hermione's from behind Harry who still would not let her pass—and asked, “This is your first time back here… since…. Have you-have you been to their graves yet?”

Harry shook his head, “We just got here….”

“I can take you there,” said Mr Llewellyn, quickly. “If you want…. We here, every year—well, the ones who remember really—we try to have a little memorial for your family. So young, to have their lives snuffed out like that… the gas company refused to accept blame, said nothing they had in the house was responsible….”

Harry shook his head again, “Some friends told us where they were… thanks, but—”

He caught on quickly, “—you would rather be alone. I see… well, um… I'll leave you to that then…. But I should tell you, they went over this place with a fine-tooth comb after the explosion, no one found a thing. There were some locked up cupboards in the kitchen, and one upstairs, but unless you had the key…. We took the other doors off just in case the other kids around got into them….”

“Well we were just looking around, don't expect to find anything,” Harry told him. “I mean, this place has been abandoned for years, whatever was there is gone now right?”

He refused to acknowledge how true the words rang in his head.

Mr Llewellyn nodded and smiled, somewhat sadly, then turned and left them to the house. He had a rather youthful gait for a man his age, and rather quickly vanished into his own cottage.

Once he was out of earshot, Ron said, “I don't think we should wait around and find out if he believes us or not.”

Harry looked at the man go and shook his head, “Neither do I, he has three choices of people to call. Let's just take one last look and get out of here.”

“To the cemetery?” asked Hermione, quietly, finally let by and surprisingly unruffled by it.

Harry nodded.

*****

Mr Llewellyn had apparently taken up one of the choices, they found some time later, as they walked away from the Potter cottage in search of the town cemetery. With each house they passed along Stagge Lane a curtain would part slightly and they would just catch a glimpse of the occupant within peering out. Everyone it seemed wanting to see themselves if it was true: that the Potter boy was alive and come with friends to visit the home and the parents he had lost.

Harry, for his part, took no notice of them. The cemetery of Godric's Hollow was conveniently within walking distance, just some twenty minutes away once they left Stagge Lane and were on the main street again. His thoughts were only focused on one thing at the moment, getting there.

Ron and Hermione were a little more attentive, and though they tried to hide it, more than a little concerned about Mr Llewellyn. If for nothing else Harry had to be grateful that they were there to worry when he couldn't.

The cemetery came into view on the left just as it got to midday. But the weather had shifted, the sun and sky were now masked behind an endless pale grey cloud, and the wind had completely died.

Harry wondered what the weather had been like the day they buried his parents. Had it been sunny, like with Dumbledore? Had the rain fallen like he wanted it too? Or had it been just been cold, and dull, and grey?

When they stood at the entrance all that stood in their way was small rusted old gate. It creaked and whined noisily as they opened it, dragged in the dirt as they shut it behind them and left Harry's hands coated in a fine sharp dust.

How many had attended the service? Were there many, though they did not want to draw attention to themselves? Were there a few, to keep it simple and private? Did his Aunt Petunia even bother to attend? Did (and he gritted his teeth as he thought of it) Peter Pettigrew?

They slowly and quietly weaved their way amongst the gravestones with their heads bowed, their eyes anxiously darting from marker to marker trying to find the familiar names. Lupin had told them that they were far from the gate, six rows up, and the eleventh and twelfth, side by side, in the seventh. The marker was small, dark grey stone and marble, but nothing too prominent to prevent desecration.

Someday he would get them a proper monument, something that everyone could see, and know and never forget. Someday he would visit them without having to worry about who the neighbours spoke to. Someday soon, he promised himself, someday….

At last they found them, and as Lupin had said they were simple and insignificant.

“Here lie James and Lily Evans-Potter, beloved friends and parents. 1960-1981. May their sacrifice, not be in vain, and they rest in peace together, forever.”

Harry dropped to his knees before them and felt a clenching in his throat. His fingers trembled as he traced their names etched into the cold dark stone. He was not going to cry, he never really had when he thought about it and he wasn't going to start now. Ron put his hand on his shoulder, Hermione did not touch him but he could feel her behind him, and that was more than enough.

It was some time before he moved. He looked up away from the gravestones towards Hermione… and then sprang to his feet and dragged her behind him. Alarmed, she cried out, but Ron had already spotted what had alerted Harry, and pushed her even further.

Standing just some ways off from them, poorly concealed by a tree, was Harry's Privet Drive Order guard. At first they had not recognised him, which was the reason for Harry's reaction, but now that they did, Harry was furious.

He made to go after him, but Hermione held his arm and pulled, “No Harry… you told Lupin where we were going remember? I don't think he would have let us go alone as long as he knew where we were.”

Ron looked just as ready to pounce too, but held back when Hermione spoke up and fumed, “We told him we have to do this alone!”

Harry wrenched his arm from Hermione's and said, “He should at least leave us alone here, he wasn't around at the house was he?”

Hermione grabbed him again, “He probably was, and we just didn't see him. Harry… no….”

He turned to her, annoyed, and demanded, “And why not?”

Ron joined him, “Yeah Hermione, why not? Why shouldn't we kick the git out of here?”

“Because,” she began and leaned forward and nodded back to the gate, “he's not the only one. You can't throw them out can you?”

The two followed her indication to the gate and found that they had more company. Mr Llewellyn stood unabashedly at the head of the group and as the boys spied him, gave what should have been an encouraging nod. Harry at first refused to acknowledge it, but Hermione glared at him and then hissed, “They don't care or know that you're the 'Boy-Who-Lived', (she said this contemptuously) to them you're Harry Potter, the boy they thought died! They cared about your parents and they just want to see you!”

He smiled stiffly at Mr Llewellyn, then and whispered, “We're going back to the Burrow, as soon as we can. I think we need to have another talk.”

At this Hermione suddenly stopped and blinked at him. And then she looked sharply between him and the people now beginning to file into the gate to join them, and her expression brightened into a smile.

“Yes… I think we do need to talk.”

Somehow, Harry didn't think she was talking about Lupin and the Order.

A/N: After all this time to leave you with a slight cliff-hanger… I am terrible. Sorry, couldn't be helped.

-->

A/N: See, I'm early this time, and all caught up in what JKR said in her interview about someone getting a reprieve but two people she hadn't expected to die, kicking the bucket. I have to say though; the people who are going to die in this story are absolutely going to, no changes. More may join the list, but no one's getting off. Now, I'll just leave on that ominous note.

Disclaimer: Did you not see the interview? Did you not hear her speak? It was in every paper in my country, and was probably on the news. Since I've never had an interview or was in the news, I'm guessing this isn't mine and I'm not her.

*****

Back to the Burrow

He was right.

Not more than ten minutes later, they were all seated together in Mr Llewellyn's living room having lunch, while he and his neighbours regaled them with tales of his parents. And not one person present missed out on the opportunity to inform him that though he looked very much like his father, he had his mother's eyes.

Harry had heard this enough to be sick of it, but in the name of civility decided to keep all snappish comments to himself… or at least was trying very hard to.

Hermione was in charge of the interrogation. As both he and Ron were preoccupied (him with being complimented on how much he had grown and such, Ron with some of the Muggle appliances including the television set—which they explained his interest in away as his having grown up with parents who spent much of their lives travelling the world's most remote places) she was the only one who could. But, as it turned out, it was not so difficult to get the answers she sought. Since the last time anyone in Stagge Lane had seen Harry and his parents together was that Hallowe'en, everyone wanted to recount the hours before and the aftermath.

Without waiting for prompting, Mr Llewellyn was the first to speak, “I was not around, you know, when it happened… but I was there afterwards. Terrible night, terrible, terrible night….”

Harry, seated between Hermione and Mr Llewellyn on the sofa, was about to ask, “What?” when Hermione took charge and said, “Well you see, we were hoping that maybe you could tell us about it. As much as we wanted to come here today and see the house, we also wanted to know, as much as you could tell us about what happened.”

(Nope, Harry had not been paying attention, none at all.)

At this Mr Llewellyn's expression become solemn, he exhaled heavily, put a hand on Harry's shoulder and gently squeezed. They waited, while he gathered his thoughts from that night, and then began, “Like I said, I wasn't around, and my neighbours here… well, they may be better suited to tell you what happened but… when I left for work that morning, you were out in the front yard with your mother, helping her put up decorations. When I came back that evening, there was a crowd around what was left of your house, your parents' bodies were in the front yard and you… well, we had no idea where you were.”

“Didn't you wonder what had happened?” asked Harry, suddenly beginning to wonder himself. If Hagrid had come for him surely they would have remembered the oversized man, and though Sirius had mentioned once of seeing their bodies, he didn't say anything about him.

“Well no,” replied another neighbour, who had earlier identified herself as Mrs Findlay. “There was this nice man, this elderly gentleman, who had come around before with some officials from the Children's Services and took you away. We didn't know where exactly they had taken you, but… well… Robert Tennyson—a boy who lived in the next street, he was barely about your age now—had gone into the house first and when he found you, well, he said you were dead. When he touched you, you were as cold as ice and he couldn't detect a breath at all.”

At this even Ron turned to her, the three teenagers thinking only one thing: the Killing Curse. But Harry was also thinking of Dumbledore, come personally to take him away and put him where…?

Mr Llewellyn took over, “But of course you're alive, so he was obviously mistaken. I can't say I blame him for the mistake though, the way your parents died… the house had exploded and there was barely a scratch on them. It was as if they had just… well… dropped dead.”

As they already knew the answer to that, Hermione allowed them some time for contemplative silence before asking, “Was there anyone else around…? After… after the explosion…? Like-like men…? Men in dark cloaks…?”

Mr Llewellyn looked up at her sharply and sat up away from them a bit, before replying, “Funny you should say that… there was this one young man… he was only there for a minute, lingering around the edges, just watching…. He was very pale, long black hair, very stringy—I noticed that even in the darkness—had a hooked nose, and was wearing some rather strange clothes, black… well, graduation robes. It was Hallowe'en of course, so I thought nothing of it, some of the people around here like to dress up, but I can't say I've ever seen him before. Why do you ask though, do you know who he is?”

Oh they knew who he was alright. They knew who he was even before he had finished describing him. It was Severus Snape and even thinking about him anywhere near their house that night made Harry grit his teeth again.

Really, he had to be quite grateful that Hermione was in charge of this conversation about now. He had very nearly cut off Mr Llewellyn to identify Snape, but at the last minute remembered that he was in the company of Muggles and not the Order.

Hermione again took control and steered the conversation away from them, “Was there anyone else? We've heard… rumours… from family friends about what happened….”

“Oh no, no one else like him, after he disappeared the police came, and then the rest of us were caught up in interrogations about what might have happened. Your parents were removed, a few days later the last of the debris from the house was gone and ever since then we've held little memorials for you all. So young…” replied Mr Llewellyn, with another of his sad smiles.

Harry returned it this time, saying softly but meaning it fully, “Thank you.”

Surprised, Mr Llewellyn told him, “There's no reason to thank me boy, I wasn't there, and I couldn't save your family.”

“I know that,” said Harry, “But thanks all the same.”

It was to be another hour before they finally left Mr Llewellyn and the neighbours, walking somewhat aimlessly again but in the general direction of the cemetery. The sun was low and golden in the pale blue mid-afternoon sky, lengthening black shadows through the town as they passed and sending beads of sweat tracing down their backs. It was a change from the cool midday, but not the only one for this time they were far from silent. The moment they were clear of Stagge Lane, Harry spat, “Snape!”

“He was here… I wonder if Professor Dumbledore knew that… he was here,” said Ron, his expression mirroring Harry's of shock and disgust.

Hermione though, strangely said nothing, and Harry continued, “He was probably here trying to make sure the deed was done, but it wasn't and he took off straight to Hogwarts to hide. Why, why did Dumbledore trust him?”

“I don't know,” said Hermione, needlessly. “But at least we know more about what happened that night, right? At least we know now who was there, and where to go from here.”

“Oh really?” asked Ron, but the malice was not there.

“Really, but we can't discuss it here, we should have asked them if they knew of an inn… or maybe we should just head downtown…” she replied, and immediately looked back to the lane they had just left.

But just as they came to the cemetery entrance again, Harry once more spied his Order guard and said, “We can't stay here. When it's dark again we'll go back to the Burrow, we have to lose this bloke or we'll definitely be noticed.”

Hermione looked across to the guard and replied, “He's probably a trained Auror, Harry. He would know not to draw attention to those he's looking at.”

“I know that Hermione, but we can't let anyone else find out what we're up to, can we?” he asked.

She said nothing to this, and Ron took the opportunity to speak up, asking, “So, what do we do until sunset?”

Silence descended over them again as they stood staring blankly off to Harry's parents' graves, and then Hermione stopped and turned to Harry, “Wait… who went into your house, again, the boy…?”

“Robert Tennyson?” Ron replied for him.

“We've got to talk to him,” said Hermione.

“Why?” Ron asked, again.

“Because he was the first person in the house, maybe he saw something or someone…” she replied.

But before she had finished speaking Harry was walking away from them back towards Stagge Lane.

*****

It was pitch black when they finally returned to the front yard of the Weasley home that night. There was no moon out, and so once more under Disillusionment Charms and the cloak, they had taken their brooms to the air. Harry though, couldn't shake the feeling that that had been entirely too easy.

He was very grateful that it had been, of course, but since when had anything in his life been easy?

Landing as silently as they could, Harry waited until he heard the soft “pop” that signalled that his guard had joined them, and then headed off to the broom shed to store his Firebolt with the others. All the way they walked though, Hermione could not help going over what they had learned that day.

Robert Tennyson, as it turned out, had unfortunately moved out of Stagge Lane years before. But he had not been the only one in the house as the neighbours believed, his friend, Teddy West, had been with him. Unfortunately, though she was quite young, Mrs Potter was dead weight, and therefore too heavy for one seventeen year old Muggle boy to remove on his own. Robert had called for Teddy, he climbed into the house through a window, and the two had carried her out and put her in the front yard with her husband. Then Robert went back for Harry, and as they were coming out, the old man with the long white hair and beard arrived.

The only significant thing they had learned from that conversation was that there had been a big black dog in the room watching them the whole time. Once Robert had gone back in for Harry, the dog left.

Funny that, no one mentioned that they had a dog and yet this one stuck around like a guard.

But back at the Burrow now, and stopping in the broom shed for privacy (oh, sweet déjà vu) Hermione decided to put the entire story together again.

She began as Ron put her broom away, “Peter Pettigrew was Secret Keeper, your parents made him so because Sirius thought he would be safer. Sirius' family made him an easy target, and they didn't trust Lupin.”

“—why was that by the way?” cut in Ron.

“I wonder how long it took him to go running off to his Master?” asked Harry, bitterly.

Ignoring them, she continued, “Voldemort had been looking for your parents because of the prophecy, and since Peter was a spy for Voldemort, he told him. Then that night Voldemort went after you, when he could have waited around for Neville's address, or at least, like you said, until you were old enough to see who was more dangerous. He killed your parents, but the spell backfired on you, he lost his body and the house exploded.”

“All of which we know already,” said Harry.

“But now,” she told them, stopping Ron before he began as well, “we know that Sirius had been around for much longer, and that maybe, if he had stuck around for just a little later he wouldn't have ended up in Azkaban. And more than that, Snape was there. We find out why, and—”

Harry, not at all interested in that venture, cut her off, “I told you already, he was there to make sure that his master had succeeded. And… and Voldemort had to get his wand from somewhere right?”

Hermione said nothing to this, and Harry opened the door to the shed and led them out. Strangely, her quick surrender irritated him, but that promptly evaporated when, halfway to the front door, he heard her say softly, “But you said that Peter Pettigrew had had his wand.”

He didn't know why, but he smiled.

Ron went up ahead to the door to knock, but instead paused with his hand hovering in mid-air. Harry started to ask why, but he shushed him, indicated the door with a nod and then put his ear to it to listen.

Harry and Hermione quickly joined him.

“—you would think that the Aurors were just suggestions, the way they tried to get past them. They had no wands, some of them were even too weak to properly run, and yet they just kept coming.”

“They thought that with the Dementors gone the Aurors would be nothing to get past, but I don't think they were anticipating the new traps in place. Lucius was so desperate and so furious that they had to pry his fingers off the door and drag him back to his cell.”

“Didn't You-Know-Who try to help them, and especially Lucius?”

“I think he's probably very disappointed in them… and besides, he has new friends now. Draco… Severus….”

“Where is the Malfoy boy anyway, we've heard of so many sightings of Severus but nothing of him.”

“Voldemort must be keeping him for something special. I don't even want to know what, but for the fact that his father is still alive… and that we have Narcissa in custody, that threat he used may not have much weight anymore.”

“I wouldn't underestimate him, not now.”

“I don't either; I just don't want to think of that boy actually going that far. Besides, those reported sightings of Severus are false, we haven't seen either one of them since….”

There was a moment of silence, and then someone else said, in a small voice, “Is it true that they found Krishna Patil…?”

“I don't know why they went after him, but yes…. His children are safe, but—”

And then suddenly all conversation was cut off by Ginny starting, “Oh… OH!”

And then there were the sound of footsteps, chairs grating across the floor, more excited shrieks, (“They're back! They're back!” “Already?” “You mean You-Know-Who's dead?”) and the door swung open blinding them when the light flooded out. Almost instantly Harry found himself assaulted by flowery perfume and red hair when Ginny slammed into him.

“Hey!” started Ron, with his eyes shut tight and trying to push her off. She had collided with him too as he was standing slightly before Harry.

“Oh my goodness, we were so worried…” said Ginny, ignoring him.

Hermione was protesting too, and with an edge to her voice, “We've been only gone one day! And isn't anyone going to ask us a question before letting us in? How do you know it's really us?”

“Never fear, Hermione dear,” went a voice that sounded suspiciously like Fred Weasley.

“We know it's you, only the one and only Hermione Granger could be that annoyed with her eyes shut and looking silly,” said another that had to be George.

“And who would want to be Ron anyway?” asked Fred.

“He's freakishly tall—” said George.

“And covered in freckles that clash horribly with his hair—”

“And terrified of spiders—by the way, have a gander at this…” and as Ron opened his eyes to yell at them, George drew out a large black tarantula by its legs and swung it before his face.

Ron nearly had a heart attack as he started away from the door, and if it wasn't for Hermione and Harry he might have fallen completely over.

But too angry to be grateful, he was up and out of their arms and launching himself at his brothers in fury.

Mr Weasley immediately stepped in. Catching Ron just as he was about to swing, he twisted so that his son's arm jammed against his shoulder and fell limp, and then he led him off to the living room. Mrs Weasley with him grabbed the twins by their ears and dragged them off as well, loudly yelling at both as she went. Harry, Hermione and Ginny then, were left standing in the doorway as they left, looking in nervously at Lupin and Tonks at the kitchen table.

It was a while before anyone moved, and it was Hermione, who broke the silence with an awkward, “Hi.”

Harry didn't know why, but just then it was the funniest thing he had ever heard and he burst out laughing. Hermione looked up at him confused, which made him laugh even more, and he walked into the house with all the others staring at him as if he had gone stark raving mad.

He stopped straight away though, when Lupin began, “I would assume then that your trip went well?”

Ron stopped struggling against his father, and Hermione stiffened.

“I guess not then… you noticed our guard?” he asked, resuming his place at the table.

“Well he wasn't really trying to hide, was he?” Harry replied. “He should be glad that the Muggles didn't notice him though… wait a minute, the Muggles didn't notice him….”

“Ah yes, the old Distraction Charm on the robe trick,” said Fred coming back into the kitchen. Ron glared at him from beside his father; Mr Weasley put a hand on his shoulder to stop him from going after his brother.

“Indeed,” agreed George, “and I bet that he kept a respectable distance, just to let anyone else who could see him know that he was on duty.”

Suddenly, they were all started from their places again by a small explosion that covered the immediate area with a purplish smoke. As it came from the table, it dyed it instantly and sent Mrs Weasley shrieking, “Fred and George Weasley, what have you done to my table?”

The twins though, were carrying on as if they hadn't heard her, Fred telling his brother, “It was supposed to explode in his face… this delay is a bit of a problem.”

“And only the area under it was dyed… it was supposed to cover the room from that position,” replied George.

Mrs Weasley stopped her shrieking temporarily to gawk at them, shocked. Mr Weasley and Lupin though, could barely contain their grins.

To cut her off before she began again though, Harry turned to Lupin, “Listen, we know that you all want to help, but this… what we're doing now, we can't have any help. We have to do it alone, I thought you understood that.”

Uncannily echoing Hermione, Lupin replied, “Surely you can't expect us to just let you go off on your own, knowing where you are and that we could help?”

“You can't help!” declared Harry, exasperated. Then, realising to whom he was speaking lowered his voice and tried again, “You can't help with this. I'm sorry; it's just the way it is. Dumbledore swore me to secrecy, and as far as I'm concerned, with good reason on this one. If we need your help we'll call for it, but right now… you're just going to have to let us go.”

Lupin stared at him for a moment, as if trying to assess the sincerity of his statement, and then changed the topic, “Did you find your parents alright… was everything—was everything in order like I told you…?”

“Um…” began Harry, and then was interrupted by George.

“I'll take this as our cue to leave,” he said, rising from where he had taken a place at the table.

“Yeah, why don't we introduce Hermione here to a few of our products… since Mohammed seemingly won't go to the mountain, we've brought some of it to Mohammed,” agreed Fred.

And before she could protest they were up and leading her by the shoulders out of the room, hotly pursued by Ron and a reluctant Ginny. Mr and Mrs Weasley and Tonks each made excuses about keeping an eye on the twins just in case, and were gone as well. For some reason, they all decided they didn't need to be around for this particular conversation.

Harry waited until he heard a door close above them, and then said, “They were there… and the house… they'd taken everything out of it, but it's a… they made a memorial there.”

Lupin looked up at him surprised, and Harry hastened to explain, “The Muggles… not the-the Death Eaters…. They said they wanted to remember them, 'the young couple and their son'.”

“Oh,” said Lupin, and he fell silent.

Harry, who had been standing all this time, took the opportunity to sit down at the table taking care to avoid the exploded dye-spider, and then said, “Snape was there.”

“What?” Lupin exclaimed, looking up sharply. Harry thought he could just see hints of something… feral… in his eyes as he did it.

He quickly explained again, “Not there today… before…. One of the neighbours said that he had seen someone—and he described him—looking at the house after… after Voldemort was in there….”

“Did he see him do anything… go closer?” asked Lupin, still with that feral glint.

“No, when he looked for him again he was gone. With his Master gone he ran off to Dumbledore,” said Harry, and his voice was filled with contempt.

Lupin gave him a sympathetic smile, and then sighed, causing the glint to disappear. Then he said, somewhat timidly, “I hope-I hope that you found what you were looking for… or that, it helped, going back there….”

Harry stopped for a moment to consider it. Had he really learned, had he really gained, anything from going to Godric's Hollow that day?

Yes he had seen his parents' graves and his home again. Yes he had found his old toys, there was that story book… and there was his mother's notebook… but had he really gotten anything helpful to their “Top Secret Mission” except the fact that Snape had been there?

Oh yes, Snape… that's what he had gained, the knowledge that Snape had been there the night his parents were killed. Once again at the scene of the crime when someone he hated ended up dead. (He gritted his teeth at the thought of him smiling down at their bodies in the front lawn.) Once again connected to something horrific happening in Harry's life, for after all, he was the one who had overheard the prophecy that started this whole mess.

There was that then, so that was something right?

He looked up at Lupin and nodded, “I think so.”

Lupin visibly relaxed, an overreaction as far as Harry was concerned, and then decided to change the topic again.

“I'm guessing you heard what we were discussing before?” he asked.

Harry looked at him confused, and then remembering, asked, “Lucius Malfoy and some of his friends attempting a prison break?”

“Yes, since the Dementors joined Voldemort they've been rather restless. Today they formed a riot and tried a mass escape, no one got past the floors they were on,” Lupin explained. “Lucius has been especially determined to get out, since he learned about his son's involvement in Dumbledore's murder. According to some reports, no one can be sure if he's proud or terrified.”

“I would go with proud,” said Harry disgustedly, though his mind went back to the night on the tower and a trembling hand that lowered just an inch before….

“Nevertheless, even if they had gotten past the Aurors they had no way off the island. Voldemort hadn't even troubled to send help, if he knew about their actions he ignored them,” continued Lupin.

“Any idea why?” asked Harry, not entirely sure he was comfortable with this.

“None, but I fear it's because he's too busy with other matters. I'm also assuming you heard about Krishna Patil… I remember his daughters were in your year…?” asked Lupin.

“Yes, and you all don't know why he went after him?” asked Harry.

“No… but he may have been attempting to recruit him, many who refused to join him last time were killed as well,” Lupin told him. “That's how we lost many good witches and wizards, in addition to those they considered too weak or unworthy of life in a Voldemort-ruled magical world.”

“Yeah, well I hope they hold onto that dream real tight, `cause that's all it's ever going to be,” said Harry then, and with an air of confidence and determination that surprised himself.

Lupin stared at him for a moment with a look of undisguised admiration, and then said, “Well then in that case, I wish you and your friends luck… but I have to tell you, for the time being at least, I would prefer that you let your guard stay.” Harry made to protest at once, but Lupin raised his hand and silenced him, “Even though you're on your own, his presence would at least give the impression that you're not. He won't get in your way, he knows better, and in case of trouble, he will keep you safe.”

Harry looked to protest again, but something in Lupin's eyes again, made him nod his agreement, albeit begrudgingly.

It was then that Lupin looked to his watch and stood up, “Well, I guess we better be going… there's um… some things we have to attend to. I'm sure you and Ron and Hermione must be hungry, and have things to discuss, so Tonks and I will leave you to it. You're on your own against the rest of them.”

Some “things” aye, so why was his face so red?

But deciding that that was not something he wanted to think about, Harry nodded, and stood as well, “I better go up there, Ron wasn't looking too happy, and the last time Hermione was introduced to something of Fred and George's she had a black eye.”

He didn't add, and if she gets another one, they will both put on spectacular impersonations of raccoons for the next few weeks.

He couldn't add that, he didn't even understand why the thought had come to him at all.

Some hours later, after an uncomfortable dinner (made so for Mrs Weasley had noticed that they hadn't touched her lunch and Ginny's constant attempts at drawing his attention all of a sudden) Harry finally had the time to talk with Ron and Hermione alone. It was more than helpful the way the family seemed to pretend that were it not for the Order guard they wouldn't have even been there for that night's dinner. And that nothing much had changed within the house on a whole. Harry knew that he had only been gone for a matter of hours, but it still felt like forever.

He quickly told them all that Lupin had told him, and once Ron had gotten over his glee at the thought of Lucius Malfoy being gracelessly dragged off, ranting wildly, and Hermione's alarm at the thought that they could have succeeded, he told them the location of their next trip out of the house.

“Hogsmeade? We're going to Hogsmeade, why?” asked Ron.

“Dumbledore, remember?” asked Hermione, and then turning to Harry, “Are we going up to the castle?”

“We might have to… Hagrid would let us in, but I'm not sure if McGonagall would be there,” Harry replied.

“Well, we'll just have to send her an owl before we get there—when are we going?” asked Hermione.

“Tomorrow, we might as well be quick about it,” Harry told them.

At this, Hermione put her hand on his arm and smiled, “We found out something today, you know that right?”

She was talking about Snape, he wondered if she had come to the same conclusion he had to about him being responsible for this whole mess. But when he spoke, he replied, “Yeah, I know.”

And then Ron broke them up declaring that they had to go to bed and there was more than enough room with Ginny. As Hermione left Harry could have sworn he heard her mutter something disagreeing with this, but shrugged it off, changed and hurriedly slipped into his bunk. And before Ron could put out the lights he drew his knapsack, which he hadn't opened since they arrived, closer to his bed, took off his glasses and settled down to sleep.

It was not an easy rest though, for, no sooner than had he closed his eyes, he fell into a dream. At least he preferred to think of a dream, but it could have been a nightmare. It was of a young woman with long dark red hair and bright, loving almond-shaped green eyes sitting on the front lawn of her house with her dark-haired infant son. They were carving pumpkins, well, she was anyway, the baby was too busy playing with the pumpkin seeds and puzzling over the face she was forming.

But it wasn't all well in this dream, despite the blissful scene, for if ever the baby looked over his mother's shoulder he would find a sallow young man with greasy black hair glaring down at him over her shoulder.

-->

A/N: Yet another chapter here and still none for Untitled. Don't worry, I'm working on it. ;)

In this chapter all you really need to know is right here waiting for you. You may not like me at the end, but I don't mind too much, it's a necessary evil.

Disclaimer: I'd like to think that this is mine, sometimes when I'm sitting around talking out the plans to myself and knowing that people would think I'm nuts if they heard me… but then I realise that it's best that this isn't mine. Because at least this way, it never has to end.

*****

Hogsmeade

Having never been to Hogsmeade village in the summer time Harry was to find, when they arrived the next morning that it looked rather different from the way he was used to.

Hogsmeade in August, as most places this late in the summer, was hot. The sky above was clear; a cloud-free pale blue where the sun mercilessly bore down on all unfortunate in the open beneath it and no wind blew. In the town around them, the residents were bustling about as nervously as in Diagon Alley, their heads bowed; their cloaks drawn round them protectively and any and all children in sight were jerked about by anxious mothers like frisky puppies on a short leash. More shops were boarded up than when he left school too, most prominently, The Three Broomsticks (which elicited a groan from Ron) and now Gladrags Wizard Wear. On the door of Zonko's Joke Shop though, a crudely made sign had been posted: “Coming soon, Weasley's Wizard Wheezes! The one-stop joke shop for all your funny-bone needs!”

Someone else must have made it, the slogan seemed to lack the twins somewhat lazy humour.

In the window of another a copy of Witch Weekly dated two weeks previously was still up for sale, slightly yellowed but the headline bold: “Rita Skeeter Comes to Witch Weekly!” Harry could see no good in that, the sneaky, under-handed gossip-loving, well… witch, would be in the Wizarding press' equivalent of heaven. Her new employers lived on gossip, and ominously, her first exclusive was scheduled for release that day.

But beyond this Harry was glad to find that at least one thing had not changed in Hogsmeade… well, maybe “glad” was a strong word, but he was relieved to see that the Hog's Head Inn was still open. For today they were going to collect on Dumbledore's Will.

“You will find a fifth item in the keep of the bartender of the Hog's Head Inn. I should not expect its retrieval to be difficult, and you may find that it will be most useful in the days ahead.”

After their stop there they would go on to Hogwarts Castle, which now loomed silent and dark but still welcoming in the distance. As requested, Professor McGonagall would be waiting for them, having been owled by Hermione almost as soon as she had left Harry and Ron for bed. She did not entirely trust the owl post service, but she did her best to encode the message as a letter requesting confirmation on the school's reopening and had jinxed it so that it would not be read by any other but the intended. Hagrid would let them in at the gate, and they were strongly advised against having him linger too long, for with Dumbledore gone they were sure that Voldemort would be coming after the school eventually.

Walking along the village's main street to the Inn with its familiar but nevertheless gruesome sign of a decapitated hog, Harry heard Ron grumble, “The Three Broomsticks… The Three Broomsticks had to close, but Madam Puddifoot's still here… why…? Of all places… why The Three Broomsticks…?”

Harry smiled, and then remembering Hermione's reaction to Ron's apparent interest in the pub's owner, quickly said, “I hope no one recognises us in there… this time it's more than Umbridge we'll have to worry about.”

That seemed to do it… for only a few moments before they passed the offending tea shop, which was also synonymous with the date and make-out spot for Hogwarts' teenage couples, and Ron peered in at an older pair already going at it. At once he started up again, “The Three Broomsticks had to close but this… this… this dump is still here!”

Harry attempted to distract him again, but was cut off by Hermione, who said first, and surprising him, “Madam Rosmerta had been put under the Imperius Curse by Malfoy last year, the way the Ministry's going nowadays they probably forced her to do it…. And besides, even Voldemort would not go near this place… unfortunately.”

That elicited a smile from Ron, and Harry promptly looked off to the Hog's Head Inn and declared, “We're here. But I wonder why Dumbledore left whatever it is he wanted me to have in this place… I mean, he surely knew what happened the last time….”

Ron and Hermione said nothing, they knew full well what, and even before that, one dark night in its upper rooms when a Sightless Seer was overheard….

They had now gotten to the front entrance of the pub where the battered wooden sign with its picture of a wild boar's severed and still bleeding head, still hung on rusty brackets above the door. But the sign was not the only thing that looked battered and derelict about the shop, the interior, which they now peered nervously in at, was just as unappealing.

As it had been in their Fifth Year, its bar consisted of one small and dingy room, lit by the stubs of candles on the rough wooden tables on a floor so covered in filth it look as if its walls had merely been set in the ground and nailed together. The room smelled strongly of goats, the windows were covered in grime—which accounted for the candles burning in broad daylight—and the regulars—the few of them that were around today—were all wearing dark hoods.

More prepared than they had been the last time, Harry, Ron and Hermione had all come dressed in robes onto which Mrs Weasley had sewn hoods. The moment they entered Hogsmeade they had drawn them over their heads and tried to mimic the dodgier residents of the village slinking their way along to their destination. As hoped, no one paid them any mind, too busy were they trying not to be noticed themselves, and save for a stop as soon as they had arrived by a curious Auror, their walk in had been uneventful.

Now they needed the hoods to work again. Harry wanted to get to Hogwarts Castle and back again with the least amount of trouble as possible.

Harry was first into the pub; stepping onto the unwashed floor and feeling his trainers sink to stone. No one looked up; the two men that currently made up all of the customers were deeply engrossed in some sort of card game, tall glasses of a smoking brew that Harry immediately recognised as Ogden's Old Firewhiskey at their side. It seemed to be the select brew of those who frequented the establishment.

With Ron and Hermione behind him then, he marched over to the bar where the bartender (and owner), a grey-haired, blue-eyed and bespectacled man, who looked vaguely familiar stood cleaning his glasses.

The sight immediately reminded Harry of Hermione's warning, “I've spoken to Professor Flitwick… he said to bring your own glasses” and then at the same time of Professor Dumbledore confessing, and rather reluctantly at that, of being overheard by Snape. He pushed both thoughts from his mind though, as he took a seat on a stool before him, cleared his throat and said, “Profess-Albus Dumbledore left something here… for us-me…?”

The man stopped polishing the rather dirty-looking glass in his hands with an equally soiled cloth and stared at the three. Then a moment later, resumed his work and replied, “The only room available is the first one on the right upstairs. Two beds, so you and your friend there might have to share or someone sleep in the tub. I'm sorry I can't make better arrangements for the Miss.”

Harry was only vaguely aware of their Order guard taking up a position at a table beside them as he protested, “What? I don't—”

Hermione cut in, “We'll take it.”

He did not respond, only finished with the glass, set it down at the counter and then said, “Follow me.”

After pausing to apply a jinx to his register, he walked round the counter and led them away to a backdoor Harry had not noticed before. It seemed to have materialised there, but they safely walked through it and then up a set of creaking, battered wooden stairs that seemed to stand only on a promise.

Upstairs, the upper rooms did not smell as strongly as those below, but they were nevertheless just as dingy, grimy and dank. Unseen creatures could be heard scurrying around just out of sight and of those that could be seen, tiny insects that looked very unfamiliar, they boldly clung to walls and doors stirring a rising discomfort in his chest. But again he suppressed it as the bartender took them immediately to the first room, opened it, and then stopped them with a hand.

Harry, who had just been about to enter, looked up at him confused, but he put a finger to his lips, shook his head and then shut it again. Quietly then, he led them away down the hall to the last room on their left, and after gently prying the door open, allowed them to file in before joining them and shutting this one as silently as he could. He then cast two quick spells, one an Imperturbable Charm and the other a Silencing one, apparently to dampen the sound of their voices, and then turned and ushered them further into the room.

They didn't have to go far. This small room had a single bed with moth-eaten, yellowed covers, fungus-covered and water-stained walls, a single night table with another of the stub candles, an unstable-looking chair near the door, and on the sole window a pair of old sun-bleached lace curtains. Harry, Ron and Hermione took a cautious seat on the bed, which creaked unnecessarily noisily as they sat down and the bartender took the chair. When they had all settled, as best as they could under the circumstances, he said, “I'm Aberforth Dumbledore, so you must be Harry Potter; I've been waiting for you.”

Harry, in the act of removing his hood, felt his heart leap into his throat, as something in his mind clicked and he realised why the man looked so familiar. He was Professor Dumbledore's brother, whose picture he had seen, who he had heard about from many others, nothing really promising, and yet still had never recognised.

But he could not be blamed. Though certain aspects of his features were similar, Aberforth Dumbledore was not much like his brother.

For example, he barely waited until Harry had recovered from his shock to demand, “So, why did my brother leave you a bag of gold?”

“What?” Harry asked, confused.

Ron took over, “Why should we tell you? And what right do you have to go through Harry's stuff?”

Aberforth refused to look ashamed, “I've been keeping it for nearly a month now, and if it's on my property I have every right.”

“No you don't,” declared Ron, his ears reddening as he grew angry. “Professor Dumbledore didn't leave it for you; he gave you to hold for Harry. You had no right to go nosing about!”

“Nevertheless, he left you a bag of gold and I want to know why,” said Aberforth, and levelled what he must have thought were authoritative glares at them.

Harry ignored it, “I'm afraid I can't tell you that, sir.”

Aberforth kept up his glare for as long as he could after this, and then finally, as if bored, said, “Look in the top drawer of that night table there. You'll find what you're looking for.”

Ron at once rose and went for it, while Hermione asked, and with slight alarm, “It's been in that drawer this whole time? What if… what if someone had—?”

“This room is never rented out,” he replied, somewhat irritably.

Harry turned just as Ron returned then with the bag, opened it, peered in, went strangely white, and then set it down beside them on the bed. Harry opened it and peered in himself. Just as Aberforth had told them, Professor Dumbledore had left him a bag of gold. There was nothing else in the bag save what looked like hundreds of Galleons… well, nothing else; save what was probably a note half-buried at a side.

Everyone was leaving him money, why couldn't they leave themselves instead.

He turned back to Aberforth and asked, with some politeness, “Is this all?”

Aberforth intentionally ignored it, and demanded instead, “Do you want to tell me where you and my brother were the night he died?”

“Was murdered,” corrected Ron, but Harry shook his head.

“I'm afraid I can't tell you that,” said Harry.

“So you were with him?” said Aberforth, sitting up in his seat and looking at them curiously. “What were you looking for?”

Harry could not respond though, for he was too busy trying to recover from the shock of how easily he had been tricked. But once he did, he angrily snapped, “That's none of your business!”

“I would think that it is. My brother has spent more than the past seventeen years tied up in something to do with you and You-Know-Who, it's killed him and I have a right to know why,” he told him, glaring again.

Hermione cut in now, and angrily so, “Don't you dare blame Harry for this!”

“I wasn't,” he said, turning to her with gritted teeth.

“I don't like your insinuation then!” she snapped. “Harry can't tell you what happened because Professor Dumbledore told him not to, not even to you.”

“But you know,” he prodded.

“No, we don't!” she lied at once.

At this he scoffed, and leaned forward with his hands on knees again, the nails dirty, the robes worn, “Such friends are these to blindly follow you about? I don't believe it.”

“I don't care,” said Harry, without missing a beat and all the earlier respectfulness gone.

Aberforth was glowering now, strangely reminding Harry of Viktor Krum, and then sat up again, and said, “Fine then, you may leave… Albus knew what he was doing.”

It was said with such a defeated tone, tinged with sadness that all three looked up to him surprised. He noticed this, and asked, “Does it surprise you that I cared for my brother?”

“What? No! No… it's just…” tried Harry until he gave up when Hermione put her hand on his arm.

She replied then, “Thank you.”

“It was nothing, don't mention it, I was just doing my service to the Order…. But some of the people you're going to meet are not going to give up as easily, I'm sure you know that,” he replied, rising from his place on the chair and moving to open the door for them.

“We know,” said Harry, as he shrunk the bag and slipped it into his pocket. And with one last look up at him, pulled his hood up again, and followed Ron and Hermione out of the room.

*****

Leaving the Hog's Head Inn was not as incident-free as their entrance. No sooner than had they stepped out of the room and were heading down the stairs again with Aberforth, than did they spot a dark-cloaked figure rushing away from the door of their original room to the stairs. Just as Aberforth had been expecting, someone was attempting to spy on them.

This made Harry immediately uneasy, but Aberforth appeared unconcerned, “I doubt they recognised you. I know that one; he just likes to have information on hand if he needs it.”

“He just likes to have information?” asked Hermione, appalled.

“Don't worry, I'll keep an eye on him… but you three should leave Hogsmeade as soon as possible. Unless you've got something more to do?” he asked.

Harry didn't fall for it this time, “Don't worry, we will.”

Once out of the Inn Harry turned and headed out as if adhering to his advice, walking along the street that would take them out of the village. Ron and Hermione followed behind wordlessly, and even stopped with him as he looked into the window of Scrivenshaft's Quill Shop, where there was today's copy of Witch Weekly, knowing that he was waiting for the Order guard to arrive.

He did some time later appear from the Hog's Head with a slight stagger as if drunk, but Harry barely noticed. He was too busy staring at the headline of the magazine in shock, “VIKTOR KRUM EXCLUSIVE with Rita Skeeter on Quidditch, Love and Plans for the Future!”

And though it was some distance away, through the glass and all, he could still make out the opening paragraph:

“Viktor Krum has returned, three years after the Quidditch World Cup, and the ill-fated Triwizard Tournament, in which he was a member alongside an unexpected three other champions, to play, what else, Quidditch. But we here at Witch Weekly can't help but wonder if there will be more than one reunion in store for the handsome young and unattached Seeker. Case in point: Harry Potter, against whom he was rumoured to be competing, not only for the Triwizard Cup, but the attentions of one-time girlfriend Hermione Granger.

He laughs as I ask him this particular question…”

Knowing the repercussions of either Ron or Hermione noticing the article, he quickly turned and headed off again, but this time back the way they came, to the castle.

“I wonder if Professor McGonagall got the message alright?” asked Hermione, adjusting her hood and having apparently noticed nothing.

Harry stifled a relieved sigh, and replied, “I'm sure she did, you fixed the message.”

“And even if she didn't, Dad said that she's been at the school most of the summer, making preparations for this year,” added Ron. “They don't expect a high turnout but they're going to make sure that it's safe enough for those who will come.”

“That's good, they shouldn't let Voldemort have control,” said Harry, absently.

He was still thinking about the article, and as it had been doing all day, his mind went back to Fourth Year and a growled inquiry: “I vont to know… vot there is between you and Hermy-own-ninny.” And beyond that, why that was the first thing, of the whole time that he knew Krum that came to him.

The road to Hogwarts Castle was deserted. Harry could clearly hear the sound of the loose pebbles and small stones being crushed under their trainers. Beads of sweat were beginning to trace down their backs again, and more than once did Harry hear his friends exhale slightly, at the heat. But they had to keep their hoods up, no matter how uncomfortable, or their journey would be over before it began.

Despite the advantage of going there first, so that the dodgy Hog's Head Inn would have been the last place they were before a speedy departure, Harry had decided to take the Inn first. The school bore too many memories and quite a few were still quite raw in his mind: a burned out hut, a 'Lightening-Struck Tower', a slumbering portrait in the Headmistress' office….

But then there was also the fact that after the trip to Godric's Hollow he was hanging onto the hope that this might be more fruitful. By retracing the events of that night, as he now sought to do, he might have an idea of what to do next, where to go next… for at the moment, as much as he hated to admit it, he had no idea.

There was one question though, that he absolutely had to ask, no matter how painful, and it would help if Dumbledore's portrait could answer it: Why, of all people, did he trust Severus Snape?

It took them nearly half an hour to arrive at the towering front gates of the school, where the warthog statuettes mounted on the walls stared serenely out at them, and the castle calmly beckoned from its perch on the hill. How strange it was to see it standing there alone, drenched in sunlight and not hear the sounds of the excited students within. How strange it was to walk to the gates, (though Harry had done so last year, and after Hogsmeade visits) to feel like an intruder now that they were here and not planning on returning to school. But that was how they felt, and Harry suppressed it as best he could, while looking around anxiously for Hagrid.

“Where is he? They told us not to let him linger, but we shouldn't be lingering here…” he began, walking to a gate and reaching a hand to the black wrought metal.

To his surprise and alarm, they immediately opened out away from his grasp to allow them entry. But no one moved forward, they had not been expecting this, and frightfully, it seemed like a trap.

Had the Death Eaters taken the school? But no, the Order would have known, someone would have told them. So, had Professor McGonagall arranged this? And if she had, why, where was Hagrid?

There was only one way to find out though, and with wand drawn, Harry led the way through.

Almost immediately after Ron was safely past them, the gates slammed shut and locked firmly behind them. They turned for only a moment to look at it, and then turned to look at each other. And then Harry shrugged and said, “I guess we better make a run for it then?”

In reply, and very childishly at that, they turned and raced up the path to the school, cloaks billowing behind them, hoods swept off their heads and bouncing over their backs and shoulders. And they did not stop until they were standing within sight of the great double doors that was the castle's entrance and could look over to the lake, glittering metallic blue-grey, and the solemn white marble tomb that glistened at its bank. They stopped running then, and walked silently up to the front doors.

Professor McGonagall was waiting for them on the front steps. Or rather, a small grey cat with square-shaped rings round its eyes was lazily sunning itself at the top of the stairs, giving the impression of awaiting them. But after six straight years of having her as Transfiguration Professor, they would know her Animagus form anywhere.

Hermione was first to the stairs and therefore the first to greet her, “Good day, Professor, I hope we didn't keep you too long.”

In response the cat stood up, stretched and then before their eyes transformed back into the familiar, small, thin and now greying witch now in charge of the school. Today she wore robes of dark grey, trimmed with tartan and though her hair was in its characteristic bun, they could see that she was wearing some rather fluffy shoes.

She gave a short smile, and replied, “I expected you to be here sooner, but otherwise, no, you didn't keep me waiting long. And besides, the Auror under the cloak who let you in made it easy for you. Let's go in quickly, we may be protected by the wards now but anyone looking in can still see us, and as I understand it Mr Potter, you wish to be as discrete as possible?”

She did not wait for them to reach her before she turned to the doors, pushed them open and walked in. They scurried in after her, and once more as they entered doors shut and locked firmly behind them. Harry did not bother to look back, choosing to ask after Professor McGonagall instead, “Um… Professor… where's Hagrid?”

She was heading down the corridors to the stairs, on her way up to her office. The paintings in the hall were all looking down at them, some suspiciously, some scowling, while others waved and greeted them with smiles. A ghost floated by above them, paused to have a look, and then floated off again. Somewhere in the distance they heard a purring that could only be Mrs Norris, the pet cat and assistant of Argus Filch, the Squib caretaker of the school. And now that they were inside Harry noticed that the intruder feeling had gone away, as if as long as they were in here and with Professor McGonagall's sanction, they were welcomed.

She did not reply until they were on the first landing, “Hagrid… is off on official business… he'll be back before the school term begins. I've actually been watching that hippogriff and his dog… of course; you're not in his class anymore are you?”

Harry shook his head, “I was just—”

“You're allowed to wonder, Mr Potter. As I understand it, you are off on official business yourself,” she replied. Harry said nothing, and she continued, “I would have preferred, if you had consulted more level heads before you made your decision. We can't do much to protect you if you're not here.”

“I'll be fine, we'll be fine,” he replied, quietly.

She said nothing to this, and they were silent for the rest of the way. Well she was, the closer they got to the office with its stone gargoyle guardian Harry found his mind flooded by a surge of questions. If he could get anything out of Dumbledore's portrait, for his was surely as active as the others around him had been, he knew he would probably ask them all at once. And then there was his anxiety, the feeling of anticipation mixed with a rising fear, as he realised that he would be seeing him again. Even though it was just a portrait, he would be seeing Dumbledore and he would not be dead.

This was why he had chosen to go to Hogwarts last. If he had had to face the portrait first, when he met Aberforth after he would have spilled all that he had been strictly told to keep to himself. There was no portrait of Sirius, as Nearly-Headless Nick had told him, he was truly gone.

He felt an uncomfortable clenching in throat, and he swallowed trying to alleviate it. It went away slightly, but not for long for as he looked up it was to find that they were there and Professor McGonagall was speaking.

“—leave you to your own devices. I trust that you will not destroy the office; I've already laid out everything that you were supposed to receive…. I should warn you though, you may not be able to take it all at once—are you sure you won't reconsider your decision, Mr Potter?”

Harry looked up at her, swallowed again and said with as much resolve as he could muster, “Yes.”

“I'll be back in half an hour… I have to find Sybill,” she said, and then turned to leave.

Hermione stopped her with a question, “Wait, Professor… is Professor Trelawney still here?”

Professor McGonagall's mouth became a thin line, as it often did when she was upset, “Yes. Professor Dumbledore declared in his Will that she was not to leave, though he did not give a proper reason why. Of course, with this assurance she's become a bit of nuisance…. I don't know where she gets it but just yesterday I found her in the Great Hall half-soaked in cooking sherry, playing with her cards and babbling to herself.”

The three looked at her surprised, since when did Professor McGonagall speak ill of a fellow teacher… and to students no less?

As if reading their minds then, she replied, “I feel no qualms telling you this… after all, you are no longer students.”

And then she was gone.

It was a while still, before the three teenagers turned to the gargoyle. And then Ron said, “Well, might as well get this over with—Golden Snitch.”

Of course Professor McGonagall had changed the password; Harry's expression of surprise was merely because he hadn't heard her tell it to Ron and Hermione.

The stone gargoyle, upon receiving the password lazily rolled aside to reveal the staircase that led up to the office. Harry again, was first one up, with Ron and Hermione close behind and therefore the first into the room. And once he was in there, he paused, slightly shocked and yet still telling himself that he should not be.

This was Professor McGonagall's office now; of course there would be a few changes.

And there really were few changes. Like her previous office there was an assortment of items covered in tartan, and she had possession of both the Quidditch and House Cups, (though those were won, and not being kept to be awarded to the winner) but now, they shared space with some of the strange spinning and whirling silver instruments of Professor Dumbledore's day, the portraits of the former heads and in a glass case by the door, the sword of Godric Gryffindor and the Sorting Hat.

Harry took his time to look around, purposely avoiding turning to the desk, which was the same, noting that Fawkes' stand was gone and that the room felt… well, to put it simply, different.

It was just as he had felt when they walked to the school before. It was as if they were intruders.

And then, as if to immediately disprove this, a familiar voice said cheerily, “Good day to you three, Mr Potter, Mr Weasley and Miss Granger. I know this isn't my office any more but I feel obligated to offer you a seat and um… ah yes, Minerva has biscuits.”

They all turned to the portrait now, and Harry realised one of two things: one, Ron and Hermione had been avoiding the portrait almost as much as he had, and two, though he was dead, in his portrait Professor Dumbledore was just as lively as he had been… alive.

So lively, that Ron went chalk-white and dropped heavily into a nearby chair. Hermione did not move, but she did spare Ron a quick glance before turning her worried eyes to Harry. He barely noticed her though, for he was walking towards the portrait until he was stopped by the desk.

Professor Dumbledore continued, “Don't look so alarmed, I don't think I look that much different, but I suppose I must slightly… these portraits tend to be flattering.”

Flattering? To Harry, Dumbledore looked as if he were capable of stepping right out of the painting and sitting with them.

In his robes of iridescent lilac and cobalt blue, spangled by tiny moons and stars at the hem and cuffs, he sat staring out at them with twinkling kindly blue eyes, through half-moon glasses while his long, white hair and beard tumbled gently down his back, shoulders and chest. If they had not seen his funeral, and known the portrait for what it was, he would not have believed it.

And just then they were interrupted by Phineas Nigellus, another of the former Headmasters and Sirius' great-great grandfather, “What's this… what are you three doing here?”

“I'm afraid that is none of your concern Phineas,” said Dumbledore, wearily. His tone though, was more from annoyance than exhaustion.

“You have no more authority here,” said Phineas, trying to turn to Dumbledore, “I was speaking to the boy.”

Harry spoke up at once, “'The boy' is speaking to Professor Dumbledore. Sir… I….”

But he could not finish, and Dumbledore smiled, “That's quite alright Mr Potter, why don't you and Miss Granger join Mr Weasley on a few of the chairs here, and properly recover before we continue.”

They did as they were told, but when Harry was seated, he noticed what was on Professor McGonagall's desk. Waiting there for him, as Hermione had guessed, were the Pensieve, over a dozen tiny bottles in which something silvery-white—memories—swirled slightly, and the gilt and ruby-encrusted sword of Gryffindor.

“Am I to assume, from your general lack of surprise, that you figured out my letter? What a shame, I was hoping to surprise you. Oh well, I hope you thanked Miss Granger,” said Dumbledore, and smiled.

Hermione blushed, and Harry went inexplicably red as well, before stammering, “You left me something else, sir… I'm not exactly sure why….”

“Of course you know that the goblins have been restricting access to the vaults at Gringotts, I just thought to make it easy for you to get around should anything happen to me. I know you're going to need it in the days ahead,” Dumbledore explained, and then added, “In light of your decision as well….”

Harry now felt that he needed to explain, “I have to do this, sir. I can't stay here while he's out there, I have to have the freedom to move when necessary, the school… doesn't have everything, and if there's a fight—”

“Oh, I can understand that,” said Dumbledore, “And there will be fights, that is guaranteed, but I find myself agreeing with the Headmistress that you are better off here, than out there. From what I can gather, Voldemort is convinced of his victory now that I am gone… he will not refrain from directly attacking you.”

“Then I think it is best to have as few people between him and me as possible,” said Harry.

At this Dumbledore smiled, “Indeed. And especially now that we have lessened his chances by one.”

As if on cue, Harry, Ron and Hermione dropped their heads and looked determinedly to the floor. Dumbledore took one look at them and said, “Should I amend my statement… what is the matter?”

Ron found his voice first, “It was a fake.”

“What?” Dumbledore asked, surprised.

“It was a fake, the H-Horcrux…” said Harry, “Someone else had already taken the real one, sir. There was a note inside the locket, I wrote it down—”

“—you will have to read it to me—” said Dumbledore.

“—oh, right. Um… er… here it is… here… (He fumbled through the folds of his robes to his pocket until he drew out a crumpled sheet of paper.) 'To the Dark Lord, I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more. R.A.B.”

Ron barely waited for him to properly assess this, before saying, “We think it might be a Death Eater, or at least someone close to him, they called him the 'Dark Lord', like all his followers do.”

Dumbledore seemed to agree, “A Death Eater… or a close follower… R.A.B…. I wonder who that is…. He discovered his secret and removed the Horcrux…. R.A.B….”

“Do you know anyone with those initials?” asked Hermione.

He looked down at her with a smile and said, “As a matter of fact I do… I know many… unfortunately… I taught them.”

The ray of hope that had begun to form in her eyes immediately died, but he quickly reassured her, “But that is quite alright, if this person was a Death Eater I can assure you that the field is considerably narrowed. I think though, that you all should focus your attentions on finding another, while I sort through my memories.”

Harry's eyes fell to the table again, and the small bottles lined up beside his Pensieve. “This is going to take longer than one visit.”

Dumbledore smiled, “I'm glad you noticed that. These are merely the select memories I could provide in hopes of locating another, the Cup.”

“How did you know where to look for the locket?” asked Hermione.

Professor Dumbledore almost laughed, “Your thirst for knowledge is insatiable my dear. But, as I'm sure Mr Potter has told you, as the Horcruxes are made of objects of significance, the heirlooms of the Hogwarts Four, I believe they were concealed in places of significance as well, but of significance to Tom himself. The ring, in his family's ancestral home, the diary… well, we don't know where that was originally, but it was definitely in the hands of his followers, the locket, in that cave… but the Cup, and the others… they were concealed after he left Hogwarts and they are much harder to find because of it.”

“They could be anywhere,” said Ron, sounding distinctly disheartened.

“Oh no, Mr Weasley, not anywhere… and you're going to find them,” Professor Dumbledore told him.

“So… when do we begin?” asked Harry, rising from his seat and going to the table.

And just then they heard the sound of the stone gargoyle rolling aside, Professor McGonagall was coming.

“Unfortunately, not today,” said Professor Dumbledore.

“What?” the three asked, simultaneously.

“In light of your new information I need some time…” he replied, simply.

“But sir,” began Harry, still shocked.

“And the Headmistress requires use of her office. I have a lot to tell you, and believe me, it cannot all take place in one day,” he continued. “I'm afraid this will have to go back where they came from.”

Ron's ears were turning pink again, and he shot a disgruntled look to Hermione, who looked equally as stunned. But when they began to hear footsteps on the steps, they knew they had to concede defeat.

Harry though, had to ask one last question before they were joined by the Headmistress.

“Sir! Sir, one question… about Snape…?” he began.

Dumbledore, who had been smoothing his robes turned to look at him, “Severus…? What about Severus?”

Harry looked worriedly to Hermione, who asked, “Sir… do you remember… how you died…?”

He gave her a sad smile, “Of course I do.”

Harry took over again, “Sir… why did you trust him?”

Dumbledore looked at Harry, and then looked away, for a time saying nothing, and then he asked, “Have you been to Godric's Hollow?”

Harry nodded impatiently; Professor McGonagall was surely almost upon them.

“I cannot tell you why I trusted Severus… you have to see it for yourself. Find out what happened that night, and it will lead you to that answer,” he replied, not looking at them.

Harry could barely contain his irritation as he said, “Would it be so hard to just tell us?”

“I fear, Mr Potter… no, I know that you would not believe me if I did,” he said, just as the door opened behind them and Professor McGonagall re-entered.

She was still grumbling about Professor Trelawney, but stopped when she saw them, “All done?”

Ron and Hermione looked at Harry, who looked at Professor Dumbledore's portrait and replied, “Yeah… all done.”

“Well then… if you don't mind, I think one of the house elves has provided you with lunch. You can have it in the Great Hall, and afterwards, if you like, I can provide the Floo back to the Burrow…” she told them.

Harry was too upset to speak, and Ron agreed with him, so Hermione spoke for them, “Yes, thank you. We flew in this morning and it was kind of cold….”

And then she had to lead the way out of the room. But just as the door shut behind them, they all heard Professor McGonagall's voice clearly through it, filled with exasperation, “Oh Albus….”

-->

A/N: Well hello there, this is going to be a double post of sorts, the next chapter may take a few minutes. I have decided to post these two chapters as I know I haven't updated this story in a while and well, it's about time if you're not going to see me again for a while. Hope you get what I'm trying to present in this chapter and that I haven't given away too much, that would just ruin everything, wouldn't it?

Disclaimer: Recently had dream in which JK Rowling came to my house (or was it former secondary school?) on a bus and asked to use my computer, but then began emailing all these cool websites and banning them from writing fics. As she was the one with the power to do that, and not me, and she hasn't banned us yet (and I hope never will) I guess this stuff isn't mine. I'm just playing with it, and boy is it fun. :D

*****

Interlude

This time when the sundial portkey deposited its passengers they landed with barely a missed step on the uneven forest floor. The three travellers, more surefooted than their predecessors, simply straightened their robes—the single female in the group adjusted her hold on the package she carried—and then they all turned to the light above them on the hill. In the cold darkness of the still night, the torches along the steps of the castle fortress burned high and red-orange bright.

But their arrival was far from unnoticed.

The black-cloaked guards concealed in the trees around them were on full alert. They had barely stirred when they arrived, as they were expected, but the closest to their clearing had their wands drawn and trained on the group. Invited to Slytherin's Castle they may have been, but trusted they were not.

Through the eerily still and silent forest then, which seemed to magically bend away before their path, the three quickly and quietly walked towards the castle steps. Before they were there the woman—small and slender, with a head of long, sleek white-blonde hair, clear blue eyes and a curious upturned nose—took the lead and almost ran the rest of the way.

For weeks now she had been waiting for the day she would finally be able to come here. For days now, since the blank parchment had arrived, she had been anxiously going over what she could and would carry. For hours she had been impatiently pacing the large and vacant living room of her house, awaiting the arrival of the two who would accompany her. And now that the opportunity was finally here she could barely wait to get in. After weeks of waiting, wondering, hoping, she would finally see her son again.

It almost took away the sting from the fact that her husband could not join her.

Before they were at the bottom step their host appeared.

As if from thin air, but with a “pop” that reverberated through the stillness, the Dark Lord Apparated before the first arrival, the woman, and said, “Mrs Malfoy, it is a pleasure to see you again.”

Illuminated by the torches around and behind him, the Dark Lord stood tall before her with his long black robes flowing behind him and his bald, grey head gleaming. The look on his face sharply contrasted with his greeting though, and the cold gaze he levelled at her confirmed it. Narcissa stopped at once and looked up at him, and then immediately gave a brief bow, “My Lord.”

He smiled at her, his eyes arctic, “And I see you've brought something for young Draco as well… if nothing else, you are the dedicated mother. Come along then, I know that he's been waiting to see you again too.”

He extended an arm for her, she took it, and together they ascended the cold stone steps to the castle entrance. The two that had come with her, followed wordlessly behind.

It was unnerving how quiet the forest area surrounding the castle, cloaked in fog and darkness, was. As their predecessors had, so they too noticed the unnatural quiet that resonated through the trees and air, how loud it made their every breath, the echo caused by every step and the sense of foreboding danger that seemed to permeate from every brick.

But Narcissa barely really noticed.

Her thoughts were focused only on seeing her son again; no matter if she had to descend to what looked like Hell on earth to do it.

When they were at the courtyard though, they stopped and the Dark Lord turned to her. The other two continued on past them without so much as a sideways glance.

Narcissa looked to him confused, but it was only to find him glowering at her, red eyes like slow-burning coals, hand suddenly tightly grasping her upper arm. She actually winced a little as he said, “Tell me, Mrs Malfoy… why is it, after I told you not to, did you interfere in your son's task?”

She made no attempt to lie, “I'm his mother, and I was worried about him.”

He released her arm to bring a hand to her face, gently lifting her chin with a long, grotesquely elegant finger, “You went against me, after I specifically told you not to.”

She held his gaze and repeated her answer, “I'm his mother, and I was worried about him…. He's my only son; I did not want him to fail. No mother wants that for their child.”

Withdrawing his hand, he folded his arms and took a slow walk round her, his robes sweeping over her feet and the flagstone ground as he went. It was strange how she could clearly hear her own heart pounding wildly in her chest, and yet barely catch a strain of his breathing. But she did not move otherwise, choosing instead to stare determinedly off to the castle entrance ahead until he stopped before her again and said, “You will not do that again, Mrs Malfoy.”

She looked to her feet then and said nothing. He took her silence for assent, grasped her arm again and led her on into the castle.

As they entered, those within seemingly melted away from their path into the shadows. The torches, mounted high on the walls above them, lengthened their own and cast parts of their faces in darkness. Curiously, they seemed to give the Dark Lord an unnatural beauty, but in Narcissa emphasised the signs of weeks of distress. In fact, it was then, and despite the colour of her eyes and hair, that any watching could see the slight similarities between her and Bellatrix.

Within the castle though, the silence that surrounded them was sharply replaced by the soft rumble of dozens of footfalls, low breathing and half-whispered conversations. It was slightly warmer too, but then still very much felt like a damp basement, complete with the smells. But no one around seemed to mind, for the Dark Lord considered it the height of palatial perfection, and that was really all that mattered.

The Dark Lord led her down the main hall, past the adjoining corridors and rooms, past the windows' end and the many nightmarish paintings, to the stairs, and then up those, but instead of to his chambers, along the hall to the left to a room with a heavy wooden door. Before they were at it Narcissa could hear Draco's voice within, and she could barely contain her relieved smile.

He was safe, alive, talking and almost cheerful. He was safe.

Oh, but not for long.

After the initial shock and fear had worn off, Draco had gradually slipped back into his old self. Somehow, in his new haunted prison he had made it as if he were still at Hogwarts and the de facto leader of the Slytherin students. He strutted about the ancient cave-like castle with his nose and chin held high, spoke loudly and lazily to everyone he met (except the Dark Lord), sneered at all who came and went (at least when the Dark Lord was no where in sight) and generally carried on as if he owned the place. The only people who could shock him out of it were the Dark Lord himself, Bellatrix, Peter Pettigrew (who he thought rather creepy) and Snape, who used him as his personal assistant while he stirred up strange potions in a room set aside just for him by the Dark Lord.

Any complaints about this position were bit down though, for the alternatives were to either join the other Death Eaters as they wreaked havoc or have the Dark Lord kill him. The thought of killing someone alarmingly set his knees shaking so badly he could barely stand, and he had no doubts that the Dark Lord, if given reason, would really kill him.

Potions assistant it was then.

Tonight, thinking himself free of the listed four, he was in the room he shared with Snape, holding court with some of the lesser Death Eaters. In his usual lazy, conceited drawl, he was saying loudly to someone, “You should have seen Potter's face when I caught him—he didn't know I'd seen his foot—complete horror, like if I'd come in on him wanking off. (The others erupted in loud sniggering.) And then he had the audacity to try to hit me, I had to teach him some manners right then, I bet that was the last time he tried to eavesdrop on his betters.”

The door suddenly swung open before Narcissa and the Dark Lord, and Draco abruptly fell silent.

From his elevated position on an old stool that faced the door, he had been holding court like a king, his crownless hair half-heartedly swept out of his face, his shabby, dirty robes a mantle. But the stool had been chosen for the advantage of the view he had now and with it the ability to shoot out of it as if it had caught fire when the view came. The Dark Lord stepped into the room first, Narcissa holding back in the doorway behind him, and all others present did the same, sharply, and awkwardly.

The Dark Lord spoke, “'His betters'? Young Master Malfoy, if I am not mistaken, according to some reports, you were thwarted by and then had to steal ideas from some Mudblood.”

Draco dropped his head, unable and unwilling to respond. The Dark Lord continued, undeterred, “Oh don't worry, I care little for that now, and you will tell me more about this Mudblood later… right now you have a visitor.”

Draco looked up again just as his mother finally stepped out of the doorway and nearly ran to him. A moment later he was being enveloped in her arms in a bone-crushing embrace, that for once, despite the snickering around them, (which was silenced with a look from the Dark Lord) he didn't mind. But it was only for a moment, before he protested and struggled out of her grasp, “Mother… please….”

She released him at once, and presented the package she had brought, “I've got you some fresh clothes and snacks. I know the Dark Lord has been most wonderfully and kindly supplying your needs but I'm sure you miss things from home. I couldn't bring much though because it would have been suspicious, there are Aurors watching the house now. Leaving the house today was difficult enough….”

The Dark Lord behind them spoke up then, “I shouldn't mind that too long, they'll soon have other concerns.”

Draco didn't know why, but that discomforted him a lot more than it should have. He could say nothing to that though, so instead nervously replied to his mother, “T-thank you….”

The Dark Lord continued, “I shall leave you two then, but Severus shall be along shortly to summon you. I have something I wish to discuss.”

And that just plain frightened him. The last time they had anything to “discuss” he had been ordered to murder the Headmaster. Suddenly, Draco didn't feel quite as his “old self” anymore.

With barely a sound then, the Dark Lord turned and vanished through the doors with the others hurrying behind him, and then Narcissa turned on her son again.

“Oh Draco, you look so pale, and thin… you have been eating, haven't you?” she asked, fretting over him with a hand to his forehead while the other forced him to sit.

“I'm fine mother,” he said, curtly, dropping back into his seat. He didn't mean to be rude, and he was very pleased to see her, but the Dark Lord… he couldn't help thinking about the Dark Lord.

She ignored his tone anyway, “Your father wanted to come, he should have been with you already, but the Aurors, they stopped him.”

“What?” Draco asked, confused, for he had only been half-listening to her.

“They tried to escape yesterday, but the Aurors… they found out and stopped them. He was so worried about you that he wanted to see you again as soon as he could,” she replied, releasing him and turning to open the package.

“Oh,” said Draco, lamely, but he couldn't help but thinking that it was good that he wasn't.

*****

Snape did appear to summon them, not some ten minutes later, to the Dark Lord's chambers as he had said he would. Draco had changed out of his old robes, which was basically what the Dark Lord had given him over his school uniform to the fresh ones Narcissa had brought and was eating heartily under her watchful gaze. She was also interrogating him about the work he did for Snape at the castle, which he absently told her about between bites, but both stopped when Snape loudly cleared his throat.

He looked not much different from the man Narcissa had last spoken to in the small derelict old house in Spinner's End more than a year before. He was long changed out of the robes he had worn the night of Dumbledore's murder, but these new ones were basically designed the same, and fell about him in somewhat elegant folds. But something was different still, for his greasy hair fell lankly to his shoulders, his dark eyes boasted bags and a haunted look, and though he excellently disguised it, there was an air of… something off… about him.

Narcissa was the first to speak, “Severus? Is that you…?”

He stepped further from the doorway and gave her a slight nod. She rose from her seat at the table and went to him smiling brightly, “Thank you, thank you…. You've saved him, thank you….”

Behind them, Draco looked up to give them an uncurious glance and then returned to his meal.

Snape allowed Narcissa to take his hands in her own and give them a gentle squeeze, before drawing away again and saying, “The Dark Lord wants you in his chambers. You'll have to leave that here, Draco…. Don't worry about it, Wormtail won't get his grubby hands on them, he has work to do.”

Draco actually choked at that, but the expression on Snape's face was unreadable, and he turned and left them without a word. When Narcissa turned to her son confused, Draco rearranged his features to blank as well, covered his snacks with his old robes and quietly followed him out into the hall.

The expression had been unreadable, but the eyes had already issued their warning.

As they got to the Dark Lord's chambers though, Draco temporarily lost his composure when he saw a band of no more than twelve Death Eaters leaving it. At the head of the group was Bellatrix (whose eyes widened in slight surprise when she saw her sister) and among them were the siblings who had been in the tower the night they went after Dumbledore. But the sight of them going out was commonplace, and though she was, well, mad, Bellatrix did not really inspire fear in him.

No, it was what they said that momentarily set his heart racing.

They must have been given a special assignment, for one of the siblings was laughing, “We go to Potty's house! We get Potty's house! I want—”

He forced himself not to hear the rest and head on through the doors from which they had just emerged.

He did not care about Potter or his friends, he didn't care about them at all, but for some strange reason he did not want to think about what would happen when that band got to wherever they were going….

The Dark Lord was on his throne when they entered the chambers with Nagini coiled at his feet. In some fantastic way he looked perfectly suited to the image he presented: the king of the castle about to hold court with his most trusted servants. But this was no benevolent monarch, not even a monarch at all, and the pet spread serenely at his feet was not his must trusted mastiff. This was the Dark Wizard that nightmares were made of, and in the court he was about to hold, he was going to create a few more.

Snape marched Draco and his mother into the centre of the room before the main table, and then started away, presumably to join the group. But the Dark Lord stopped him, “Oh no, don't go Severus, this concerns you as well….”

He stopped at once and quietly rejoined them.

For a time though, the Dark Lord sat silently watching them, making no attempt to rise. Narcissa allowed her eyes to wander throughout the room, and stopped, transfixed, at the cage. Snape said nothing, and did not move either, but out of the corner of his eyes he was carefully observing Narcissa's movements. Draco just plainly stared at his feet, uninterested in looking around him, unwilling to hear what the Dark Lord wanted and greatly desiring to be anywhere else. His life was just fine before he met him, thank you.

Eventually though, the Dark Lord did speak.

“Young Malfoy, you never did tell me everything you knew about Potter's friends….”

Draco's response was automatic, but he tried to be as respectful as he could, “You never asked, sir.”

The Dark Lord actually chuckled, and replied, “No, I guess I did not… but I'm surprised that you weren't as eager to tell me anyway.”

Draco could not bring himself to answer. The Dark Lord barely noticed. Rising from his throne, he walked down to them, stopping just before the circular table with his hands on the dusty stone top, and said, “It does not matter; I have a new mission for you. You know Potter's girlfriend, don't you?”

Draco looked up at him with what could be described as surprise, but did not allow the expression to form.

“Good, I want you to kill her,” replied the Dark Lord.

Draco's internal reaction to this was immediate and terrifying. It was as if he had just come off a marathon and someone had doused him with a bucket of ice cold water. His heart painfully skipped a few beats and then refused to adjust to it, so that he had to fight the urge to put a hand to his chest. His skin felt clammy, his hands themselves becoming sweaty and he could feel the first beads of that cold sweat already running down his prickling spine. His breathing became audibly laboured, but he fought to keep it away from the Dark Lord's ears. It was not an easy task though, all of a sudden the room felt as if was closing in on him and the world had flipped upside down.

How different was this reaction from the one he had had over a year before when the Dark Lord ordered him to kill the Headmaster. Then, though frightened of the man towering before him, he had been eager to prove himself worthy of the task. Now, still frightened of the man towering before him, he wanted nothing more than to run very far away.

But Snape had taught him well, he never let the reaction cross his face.

“W-what?” he stammered, and mentally cursed himself for it. He cleared his throat and tried again, “My Lord?”

“You heard me,” said the Dark Lord, coldly, glowering at him much as he had to his mother no more than some twenty minutes before.

“Oh yes, sir, of course… kill her…” he repeated, clearing his throat again, fighting the urge to scream.

At the throne before them, Nagini suddenly lazily uncoiled herself and slithered noiselessly off towards the door. Just before it though, she stopped and disappeared into a dark, narrow hole in the wall. It was a tunnel that Draco suspected would probably lead her off to another room or out of the castle entirely. It was hours since sunset, and she liked to hunt in the dark.

“My spies have confirmed that the boy has gone to their home… and has been there for quite some time. You are not to harm him; you are not to kill anyone else but her…. Do you understand me?” asked the Dark Lord.

Draco nodded, and then quickly replied, “Y-yes sir, I understand, sir.”

“Good,” said the Dark Lord, and then lifting his hands from the table, turned to look over Snape and his mother.

Neither moved, but Narcissa bowed her head and dropped her gaze to the floor. Draco, standing stiffly beside her, a myriad of thoughts racing through his mind, could actually feel her fear. Many times in his youth he had seen her afraid, and usually it was for something silly, like him, but never had it felt like this: the emotion almost literally pulsed through the air around her. A year before she had stood calmly by while he had received his orders, but not tonight. Tonight something was different, and he had a feeling he was not going to like it.

The Dark Lord, when next he spoke, spoke to them both, “You two will not interfere. Not you, Mrs Malfoy, for your 'only son' whom you 'love' and do not wish to see fail. Not you, Severus, for your 'dear friend', whose son you are godfather to and do not wish to see harmed. Draco must do this alone; he will do this on his own. He will go out there, he will find the little blood traitor, that foolish little Weasley girl, and he will kill her before Potter's eyes. You will not interfere.”

Snape gave no sign that he acknowledged him, but Narcissa looked so distressed she seemed on the verge of fainting. She nodded though, her gaze still on the floor and twisting and squeezing her hands desperately before her. Draco wanted to put his arms around her and reassure her that he would be alright, but he didn't, he couldn't.

Now the Dark Lord moved from the table. Folding his arms at his chest while bringing one to his chin, he stalked away before them for a moment in deep thought, and then said, “This little… Mudblood, Draco… she is another of Potter's friends…?”

Draco responded at once, “Yes sir.” He volunteered no more though, deciding, for some reason that he did not want to. If the Dark Lord wanted to know about them, he would have to lead the conversation.

Yes it was probably suicidal, but so was this mission he had just given him. He had seen Potter's face chasing after Snape.

“What is she like?” asked the Dark Lord.

Draco looked to Snape, surprised, not expecting this question. Now he wanted to know about them?

Snape did not turn to him, but out of the corner of his eyes, Draco thought he saw his eyes flicker to him for a moment. He took this as a signal to reply.

“She doesn't know her place,” he replied, disdainfully, trying to regain his usual confident and detached manner. “They call her 'the brightest witch of her generation', but she is nothing more than a filthy, jumped-up little 'know-it-all'. She walks around all high and mighty, bossing people around, showing off or acting the 'martyr' and since so many teachers like her she practically gets away with it. Only Professor Snape here saw her for what she really was: not good enough to share the air the rest of us breathe.”

The Dark Lord stopped his pacing to look back at him, “And yet you had to depend on her for ideas….”

It was not a question; Draco did not attempt to answer.

The Dark Lord began to walk again, and asked, “Any other friends…?”

Draco did not bother to look at Snape this time, “His girlfriend's brother, another Weasley, Ron… but he's nothing more than a bumbling buffoon. He serves no purpose, he's just there to act like Potter's bodyguard, most of the plan—I wouldn't worry about him.”

The Dark Lord stopped again and looked at him sceptically, possibly noticing his abrupt cut off, but then said, “Never underestimate your adversary.”

“I would never,” said Draco, “but they can't stop me. Even if they hadn't been so busy with each other last year—the Mudblood and Weasley—to notice, they couldn't help him.”

“They might have learned from their mistakes,” the Dark Lord told him.

“They don't,” said Snape suddenly, cutting into the conversation.

The Dark Lord looked up at him, and then at once advanced to the table, stopping only just before him to ask, “Is that so?”

“I have taught them for years, the boy is a fool and if you give him a chance he would get Potter killed for you. The girl… she is insufferable, convinced that she is always right and desperate to show it off. They have not changed, they will not change, it would do Potter good to leave them behind, maybe he will learn that someday,” said Snape, firmly.

The Dark Lord stood a while, quietly studying Snape, and then said something rather curious, to Draco at least, “Of course, you taught them, you should know… and especially as far as Mudbloods are concerned….”

Draco looked at Snape, mystified, but Snape gave no visible response to the comment, and the Dark Lord stood up away from him and said, “I will deal these friends in my own time, I have it anyway, their Order hasn't been able to show any serious opposition since Dumbledore fell. (He smiled at his own pun for a moment, and then continued.) If the Weasley boy is not as important as you say, but Potter still keeps him around then he will die anyway. Sentimentality breeds weakness, Potter should know this by now. However, the girl… well, Severus, I shall leave her to you….”

He smiled at Snape, who did not return it, and then walked round the table to them and said, “Now, Draco, you shall go back with your mother, the dear woman has provided some fresh clothes and a lovely meal I am sure you would like to get back to…? (Narcissa nodded, needlessly.) Good, why don't you two get back to that…? And Severus here will come with me.”

Snape, for the first time since they entered the room, revealed an emotion: surprise. He looked at the Dark Lord and asked, “My Lord?”

“We're going to pay a visit to Potter's family, as his teacher I would expect that you would jump at the opportunity to give them a personal progress report?” he asked.

Oh Draco did not like this; he did not like this at all. And as his mother dragged him from the room, behind the two men now heading to the door and the party that were surely waiting without, he could see that neither did Snape.

-->

A/N: And here it is, the second part. This is a double post, if you haven't read the first post please go back and do so. Thanks.

On a side note, if you don't want to, don't bother; it will be cool if you're surprised.

Disclaimer: Read the one in the last chapter, it goes the same here.

*****

The Siege of Privet Drive

The first to speak when Harry, Ron and Hermione finally returned to the Burrow again that night was Lupin. And with a grin that was far too cheery than it needed to be as they stepped heavily into the kitchen, he said, “You know, for people who insisted some weeks ago that they had to leave, you all sure keep coming back.”

“Remus!” exclaimed Mrs Weasley, shocked.

But Bill behind her agreed with Lupin, “It's a Weasley thing, just when you think you've gotten rid of us, we just keep drawing you back in.”

That brought a smile to Harry's face, and when Ron and Hermione saw it, it seemed to be the cue that it was alright for them to smile too. Since they had left Professor McGonagall's office that day he had been in an increasingly foul mood and for fear of his reaction they had been put a dampener on theirs. Maybe it was just that they were back at the Burrow again, with the sun long set and without much fanfare that was bringing up his mood, but they would take anything they got. They just couldn't believe Professor Dumbledore.

Hermione walked over to the table and dropped unceremoniously unto a seat before saying, “Hey Bill, you're back. How was France?”

He grinned at her, “Wonderful, Fleur's brought gifts for all of you, she upstairs unpacking them now.”

“Fleur's back?” asked Ron, happily… and a bit stupidly.

Hermione fixed him a look, and Harry, deciding to defuse the possible situation before it began, said, “Well today was a bust.”

That took some of the mirth out of the room. Only Bill managed a smile as he asked, “Oh really, what happened?”

“Not much really,” said Ron, looking at Harry with what could only be mild alarm. “We went to Hogwarts, saw Professor McGonagall, saw Professor Dumbledore's portrait—he looks really healthy for a dead man—had lunch in the Great Hall and came back here. Saw no Death Eaters, or suspicious characters, and did you know that Hagrid's off on some assignment?”

He had heavily edited the recount but they didn't need to know that or why.

Lupin replied for them, “Yes, he's making another go at the giants…. So you didn't have much luck with today's trip?”

Harry, looked miserably to Ron and Hermione, and then asked, “Lupin… do you have any idea why Professor Dumbledore trusted Snape?”

The three adults looked at each other a moment, surprised, and then Lupin asked, “No, why?”

Harry ignored the question, “Do you know of any reason why he would, anything that Snape could have told him that might have made him believe him?”

Lupin looked even more puzzled, “No, I am not Snape, Harry, or Dumbledore. I don't know what would qualify as irrefutable evidence of his innocence and trustworthiness in Dumbledore's eyes, or what lie Snape could have picked…. Where is this coming from?”

Hermione took over, “We asked him today, Professor Dumbledore, we asked him why he trusted Snape and he said that we had to find out why or Harry wouldn't believe him. He said we had to find out what happened that night and… and….”

She stopped then and looked to Harry for permission, he nodded slightly and she continued, “Well, when we went to Godric's Hollow we learned that Snape had been there—”

Lupin cut her off impatiently, he knew this, “Yes, yes, I'm sorry but Harry told me this already, that Snape had been there after the explosion.”

“Okay, so… can you honestly not think of any reason why Snape would have been there…? I mean, apart from going to make sure that Voldemort had succeeded?” she asked.

Her tone as she said this suggested that she did not wholly agree with that idea that she was merely going along with Harry's conclusion, but no one commented. It was more as if she wanted there to be another reason, and when Harry noticed it, he felt his irritation rising again.

Lupin instead, sighed heavily, and then took a moment to think it over, before replying with a much more sombre tone than before, “You know that-that I was not really trusted by my friends before… before Peter's betrayal?”

Now it was their turn to nod impatiently, Bill and Mrs Weasley saying nothing but clearly anxiously awaiting his answer as well.

“As you know, the Wolfsbane Potion is a new… a new development, back then, I couldn't help what happened when I transformed, and so I couldn't really risk being around my friends that much. I could draw attention to them, or hurt them… so I often went off on my own, went “underground” really, among those just like me,” he said.

Harry interjected, “But you're not just like—”

Lupin cut him off, continuing as before, “And it was easy to do it really. Even though I had graduated from Hogwarts with a full certificate that should have provided me with any job I wanted, once they found out I was a werewolf I would have to give it up. The best I could hope for, the best I had were teaching positions at Muggle schools. But these didn't last either. A student would be attacked sometimes, killed even—not by me though, I took care to avoid them when I transformed—but if anyone got suspicious, or I realised that I had been followed by another less scrupulous werewolf, I would have to leave. So, eventually, I just went off among the others like me, and well… Dark Creature and all…” he trailed off.

“But my Dad,” Harry spoke up again, protesting feebly.

Lupin hastily began again, “I know, I know, James and Sirius and Peter had all known me since I was a boy, and trusted me, but by then Peter had started poisoning their minds against me. He made them believe that I had changed, that I was no better than some of those they were fighting against in the Order, and since I wasn't there to defend myself, they eventually began to believe it. And then Snape appeared.”

His very countenance seemed to change at the name and his eyes regained the slight feral glint.

“I honestly don't know why Dumbledore trusted him, what he told him, but Snape reappeared and began sharing information with the Order. I hadn't seen him since school, nor, I think, James and Peter, and none of us wanted anything to do with him… but your mother…. Lily spoke to him, she, for some reason, like Dumbledore, spoke to him, believed him. I don't think she trusted him, no, I don't, but she did speak to him and because of her, James did as well,” said Lupin.

“My Mum spoke to Snape, even after all that had happened between them at school?” asked Harry, surprised.

Unnoticed, Crookshanks padded halfway down the stairs, stared at them, and then padded back up again.

“Yes, as strange as that is… and frankly, the only other reason he would have for being there I can think of… is her…. That is, if you believe Dumbledore and agree that he wasn't there to make sure he had succeeded,” said Lupin.

And then his brow was furrowed as if he was now considering something, as if he had more to say, but he didn't and Harry asked, “Did he know that you weren't bad, that you could be trusted?”

Lupin shrugged, apparently deciding to let whatever he was thinking over go and replied, “Maybe, maybe not. But if he did, he still did not like me and therefore made no attempt to help me. And however Peter passed on information to Voldemort he did it without Snape seeing him, so Snape had no reason not to think that I was the traitor as well.”

Harry sighed, sat up away from the table and said, “This is ridiculous, why didn't he just tell us and be done with it?”

Lupin looked to him pityingly, as did Mrs Weasley and Bill, but their looks were coloured with curiosity. They had only just learned of Snape's presence at Godric's Hollow, and with only part of the story, they were a bit lost. Ron's expression clearly told that he agreed with Harry, but Hermione's… she seemed to be deep in thought and the more she thought about whatever it was, the less she liked the conclusion she was coming to.

Lupin noticed it eventually, and made to ask her about it, but was interrupted by the noisy arrival of Fleur and Ginny and Hedwig.

The great white owl sailed fluidly down the stairs, through the kitchen and came to rest on Harry's shoulder, nipping affectionately at a finger as he reached up to pet her. Ginny was after, bounding down the stairs wearing a new set of robes no doubt brought by Fleur, and exclaimed as she saw them, “You're back again! Oh goodness, you're alright aren't you?”

She did not rush to them though, and Harry was thankful for it. He didn't need to deal with this now.

And finally there was Fleur, and the newest Mrs Weasley—as beautiful as the day she left them some weeks ago, also in new robes—grinned brightly and rushed to hug and kiss them all, even Hermione.

“Oh, you are back! I `ope you are alright, Bill told me zat you all `ad run off and did not tell them why. You should not `ave done that, you could `ave been hurt!” she cried, smothering each of them in turn in her hugs and kisses.

It was as if she had become Mrs Weasley's younger and more beautiful double, and it was frankly slightly scary. Harry watched Hermione struggle against her, and laughed with Ron. He cut it short though, when he saw Ginny looking at him, and for some reason, she didn't look happy.

Fleur was still talking though, “Oh, but you must come, all of you. Bill `as told you of the gifts I bought? Oh you will love them, come, come! No more talk! Come now!”

And with that she grasped Hermione's arm and dragged her off to the stairs. Harry looked hesitantly back to Bill, Mrs Weasley and Lupin, but knew they couldn't help them.

They would have to complete this conversation some other time then.

*****

Harry had gone to bed early to escape them. He didn't know which of the two was more terrifying, the newly-married-and-thoroughly-over-excited-to-see-them Fleur or the cold-as-ice-and-clearly-jealous-for-no-reason Ginny. One was far too cheerful as she handed over their presents, which were mostly clothes, and which they liked and appreciated if she needed to know. But the other… Harry couldn't believe that she was actually jealous of her sister-in-law still.

Fleur was happily (very, very so) married to her brother and not likely to leave him soon for the “leetle boy” his youngest brother was friends with. Not to mention that he and Ginny had broken up weeks ago, he had no interest or chance whatsoever with Fleur, Bill had won, hands down. And did she want him to point out that she had danced with Neville at the wedding and he hadn't thrown a fit over it?

And then there was Ron and Hermione.

Even though Fleur was now technically his sister, Ron had still gone a little glazed over her and Hermione had been right there. He just sat in the room with a sort of awed expression as she went through the gifts and recounted the places they had been on their honeymoon and pretended that Hermione didn't exist. Luckily, Hermione didn't seem to be too bothered, but after what they had been through that day Harry couldn't bring himself to play devil's advocate.

They were giving him a headache, the whole lot of them.

But nothing seemed to be in his favour. Though the room had been mercilessly empty when he retreated to it—Ron opting to stay behind and gawk at his bouncy happy sister-in-law and Hedwig and Pig had gone off to hunt—no sooner than had he fallen asleep, he began to dream again.

He was sitting in a boat over a very turbulent sea. It was dark, vast and perfectly mirrored the sky above, though he couldn't entirely be sure as his eyes refused to look upwards. There was no one else with him in it, he looked around him and couldn't see them, but oh he heard them still. They were in the sea; they were the sea, their voices in argument, their moods, their manners… if he looked down in the water he would see flashes of them floating like the Inferi in Voldemort's cave….

Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Aberforth in the pub, Professor McGonagall glaring, Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Mrs Weasley before his birthday, Lupin, Ron, Hermione, Ginny….

But more than that, their hands were the waves that rocked the boat, and as he tried to stay afloat above them they reached up and tried to pull him down, pull him in…. There didn't seem to be a safe harbour in sight, no matter where he looked, and tried, fighting to stay afloat…. And then along came Dumbledore, in the form of a phoenix, tantalisingly offering his tail, but keeping just out of reach telling him, “I can't tell you… you have to see it for yourself…. You won't believe me otherwise… you have to see it for yourself….”

And then the dream changed.

It changed in a way he hadn't had his dreams do in well over a year. One minute he was floating on the false sea, about to be tipped into the violent waters, and the next his feet were on solid ground and he was walking along a very familiar path in a very familiar park.

It felt real, too real to be a dream anymore. But what could it be, it was too dark out for him to see himself properly, but he felt like himself. It didn't feel like anything else.

And then his dream self looked up, and he realised why the path and park looked so familiar, it was because he was in Little Whinging, there was the street that led to Magnolia Crescent, there was the old bench he had been sitting on when he met Sirius, and he was apparently going back to Privet Drive.

This was not a dream he was sure he would like, he was done with Privet Drive, and they with him, and he didn't want to be there anymore.

But something was wrong with Little Whinging… there was fire; the entire place seemed on fire….

He tossed slightly in his sleep, beads of sweat forming on his forehead and he wiped them away with a fevered hand.

The dream went black for a moment, for a long moment so that he “forgot” about it, but then it was back again. And this time he was actually standing in the living room of the Dursley house. His aunt and uncle and cousin were nowhere in sight, but he was sure it was the same house; he recognised the mark in the wall where the heater had been ripped out.

The fire he had noticed earlier was still burning, but off in the distance through the window so that it was a faint orange glow on the horizon against a jet-black sky. He could smell smoke on his clothes, and something that was possibly blood—which was strange in a dream, but okay—and he had tracked soot into the house.

Aunt Petunia was not going to be happy when she saw that in the morning, though he didn't much care.

And then he heard the scuffling. Someone was fighting, struggling against someone else, and shouting too, he could clearly make out what they were saying.

“—in, we've been waiting for you—”

“—are you, how dare you just come into my house—”

“—neighbours will call the police! Let me go! Dudders… Dudders, what have you done to my son!”
And then he spoke, his voice cold and with a slightly serpentine hiss, “There's no need to make a scene, no one can hear you.”

He turned to the entrance of the living room, and standing there staring at him in muted shock and horror, were his aunt and uncle, held at wand-length by no more than six Death Eaters. And as they were forced forward into the room with him, a seventh came down the stairs with his cousin Dudley.

This was no dream.

But knowing that meant little. There was no escaping it; there was nothing he could do to get out of it, at least, not until something really awful happened….

Uncle Vernon, dressed in just his pyjamas, his feet bare—suggesting that they had all been dragged from their beds—was purple with rage, and bellowed at his dream self, “Who are you? What are you doing in my house?”

Aunt Petunia beside him feebly attempted to stop him, to calm him down. She knew, oh she knew, and if she didn't, she at least clearly had a strong idea….

Voldemort didn't keep them long in suspense. He raised his long grey fingers to his head and swept off his hood. Aunt Petunia shrieked in horror and snatched hold of Dudley, forcing his fat head into her bosom. Uncle Vernon's jaw dropped and he backed up a step, before grabbing at his wife and forcing her and their son behind them.

Voldemort laughed.

“Don't be tedious, you will all die no matter what you do,” he told them.

Uncle Vernon fought down his horror to say, “You… you… you're one of them, one of those freaks!”

Harry could feel the rage surging through Voldemort's veins at Uncle Vernon's gaffe, but he could only stand helplessly by as he rose his wand and whispered, “Crucio!”

In an instant Uncle Vernon was on the ground violently twitching at his feet. Aunt Petunia screamed now and made to go after him, but the other Death Eaters held her back, wands at her and Dudley's throat. Harry too, felt as if he was being held a literal captive audience to the nightmare that was really unfolding miles away. He couldn't close his eyes or look away as his uncle, a man he had grown to hate, a man who despised and abused him simply because he was a wizard, twitched and jerked about in violent spasms through a pain like he had never imagined.

And it was no doubt much worse as he was a Muggle and not a young or entirely healthy one at that.

Harry tossed about in his bed again, writhing slightly as he fought to escape….

Presently though, Voldemort let up the curse, and without looking away from Uncle Vernon—who was seemingly unable to recover, still on the ground with his eyes tightly shut and jerking at irregular intervals—said, “Oh don't stand out there, Severus, come in, come in, meet the relatives….”

Aunt Petunia turned to the doorway to see the new arrival, and then gasped, “You!”

Harry was nearly forced from his mind at what that meant. She didn't… she couldn't have… she, not Snape… but before he could wake up, could finally escape, he lost control again and was forced to watch the macabre presentation continue.

At once Voldemort turned to Snape, who, with his pallid complexion and greasy black hair, looked definitely out of place in the impeccable Dursley living room. He looked unmoved though, by Aunt Petunia's outburst, and said, “Potter is not here, why are we?”

“Harry…?” asked Aunt Petunia, drawing Voldemort's attention to her and just in time to see another realisation dawning on her face.

She squeezed Dudley to her tighter then, but Voldemort ignored her, “Oh Potter is here, (he turned and walked to a mirror mounted on the wall above the fireplace) can't you see him?”

As his red eyes levelled on the glass though, just for them and Harry to catch the hint of emerald green… he finally lost the connection and Harry shot up in his bed in the Burrow in the room he shared with Ron, his head throbbing and his pyjamas soaked through in sweat.

In an instant then he snatched up his glasses and sprung from the bed, racing out of the room and down the hall to the stairs to the living room. He didn't know what time it was, he didn't know who he was going to find or where exactly he was going, but surely there was someone still awake somewhere.

He had to get help, he needed their help… he couldn't just let Voldemort kill them….

Before he was at the top of the stairs he heard the sounds of doors opening behind him. He was halfway into the kitchen before one of the occupants called after him, panicked, “Harry, where are you going? Harry!”

He ignored them though, until he stood in the kitchen, where, just his luck, Lupin still sat with Mr and Mrs Weasley, Bill and the new addition of Moody. How fortunate was he that they had been having some kind of Order meeting or discussion then? And as he finally made it to the bottom step, Mrs Weasley looked up to him in alarm, “Harry… Harry, what's the matter…?”

Just then Hermione came down behind him, grabbing onto him as she stood with him and demanded, in the same panicked voice he had heard before, “Harry, Harry what's wrong? Why are you all w—did you have a nightmare?”

He turned to her, and she gasped, horrified, and then asked, “Where?”

“He's in Privet Drive,” he replied, and then, remembering why he had first come down, repeated, louder, “He's in Privet Drive! Voldemort, and Snape, he just used the Cruciatus on my uncle, I think he's going to kill them all, we have to stop him! He's in Privet Drive!”

At once Lupin and Moody sprang out of their seats, with Bill and Mr Weasley shortly thereafter. Moody quickly went to the door and sent off his Patronus, no doubt to summon all without guarding the place and those beyond. Lupin went into the living room, racing to the fireplace to call the other Order members who wouldn't be reached that way. Bill went for his cloak and his wand, as did his father, and Ron, halfway down the stairs behind them, quickly rushed back up again to do the same.

Harry took a moment watching the preparations and then raced back up behind Ron with Hermione.

She called after him as they went, “Harry, your scar, it wasn't hurting before, was it?”

He was too anxious to be out of the house to be angry, and absently replied, “No, he just… he just reopened the connection to let me see… but he can't control me in there…. He didn't really seem to be trying; he just wanted me to see….”

“Ha—Harry! You… are you sure?” she called again, trying her best to keep up with him. His longer legs meant that he was making three of her steps in one of his own.

“Yes, this time… I know it this time… it was too real, everything was too clear, this wasn't a trick!” he called back, refusing to slow down and let her catch up with him.

“But Harry—” she tried to protest, but just then they came to Ron's room again and he vanished through the door.

She didn't let it stop her.

In the room Ron was already pulling up his pants and nearly fell over when Hermione came in after Harry demanding, “But Harry… you can't go there! If he's still there now, if he's there at all it could be a trap.”

“Get out, Hermione!” yelled Ron, from the other side of his bed and desperately trying to work his zipper.

She ignored him, Harry had not responded to her, “Harry, I know we can't just let it happen, but the Order… you have to let the Order go, if you go then we can't stop him if he kills you!”

Now he responded, and now he was angry, “I can't stay here, Hermione! My aunt and uncle… they probably don't deserve anything from me but I can't just stay here and let him KILL THEM!”

“Don't yell at me!” she snapped, furious, stepping further into the room.

In response he turned away from her and began to sift around for his own pants. He had dropped them somewhere around when he had come in to sleep, and while he was at it he'd better get a shirt too. She found his pants first, and stepped back into the doorway, out of his reach, “Harry, you can't go! If he's there and he catches you, we can't stop him!”

Just outside they could hear the sound of mass Disapparation. The fireplace downstairs was roaring so loudly it vibrated the walls around it and rumbled the floorboards under their feet, despite Ron's room being near the top in the somewhat lop-sided house. But still Hermione stood firm in the doorway and repeated, “Harry, you can't! You can't go! If he catches you now, we can't stop him!”

He made to go after her, whispering dangerously, “Hermione, give me my pants…” and then nearly tripped over his trunk.

Fine then, she could have those, he would get another pair.

He at once wrenched it open and began digging wildly through it, looking for a clean pair, not caring where what he discarded, landed. That was, until he heard Ron go, “Hey! Watch what you're doing!” And then there was the sound of something metallic bouncing on the wooden floor, before skating its way into a wall.

He stopped at once.

“Accio locket!” called Hermione; it immediately flew into her outstretched hand.

Even Ron stopped moving then, staring, with Harry at the small gold locket and chain that swung lazily in Hermione's hand, glittering slightly in the light streaming through from the hall behind her. And then he dropped back onto the bed and searched around for his pyjama pants again. They weren't going anywhere, not if they wanted to stop Voldemort.

They would just have to sit there and hope for the best.

*****

It was nearly lunch before Lupin and the others returned, and they did not bring good news.

Harry, Ron and Hermione were in the living room with Ginny and Mrs Weasley, nervously and quietly awaiting their return. Fleur had left for work some time before, as it was her first day back since her honeymoon, and had sent an owl just an hour earlier to say that Bill had arrived there as well, straight off of his night in Little Whinging. Harry and the others had showered and changed, but had not gone back to bed since Harry had roused them with his dream. They refused to discuss the nightmare, or the locket that Hermione still held, twirling absently round her fingers, and so with no other messages, they were forced to wait anxiously in silence until someone arrived at the house.

This person was Lupin. He arrived with a “pop” in the deserted front yard, knocked on the door and then waited for Mrs Weasley to admit him with their pre-arranged question. Harry rose and followed her to the doorway, leaving Hermione and Ron with Ginny, to see him in. And as soon as Lupin stood in the kitchen, shrugging off his cloak and whispering to Mrs Weasley, he knew that it wasn't going to be good.

“Who is it?” he asked.

He felt, rather than heard, Hermione rise from the couch as well, to join him in the doorway, the locket swinging absently from her hand.

Lupin turned away from Mrs Weasley to them and replied, “Your uncle.”

Harry gave no reaction, but Mrs Weasley groaned and Hermione's mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out. Lupin continued, not noticing them, “He had a stroke… brought on by the curse… but the Muggle authorities won't know that.”

Ginny and Ron came up behind them. He felt Ginny slip her hand into his and squeeze it, but he drew his hand away and walked on into the kitchen.

“And Aunt Petunia and Dudley?” he asked, tonelessly. He was surprising himself really, that he could and was not showing any emotion.

Lupin gave no indication of surprise that he wanted to know, replying only, “They're fine, but their house is gone, the Death Eaters burnt it to the ground with them in it. They've gone to your uncle's sister's place, but I expect your aunt will be back in London for a few days… she has to make arrangements….”

“Voldemort just let them go?” asked Hermione, clearly surprised.

Lupin looked up, finally noticing that she and the others were there, and told her, “No, he was interrupted by a group of Aurors the Ministry had sent after they picked up on their use of magic in front of Muggles. He was interrogating them though, or at least just Harry's aunt—that won't be going into the official report—when they crashed in. He and Snape were there, like Harry said, but Bellatrix and company too, it was hours before we got them out.”

“Interrogating her?” asked Mrs Weasley.

“That's what the first group of Aurors said, or at least, those who survived…. Twenty Muggles dead in the entire siege, and six Aurors… with Dumbledore gone, he doesn't care anymore, he thinks he's invincible,” replied Lupin.

“He's not,” said Harry.

No one commented on this, and Lupin finally walked to the table and sat down. He looked truly tired, but still he added, “By the way, your aunt wants to speak to you.”

“What?” Harry asked, dully.

“Before she went off to her sister-in-law with her son, she told me that she wanted to speak to you, that she needed to tell you something else,” he replied.

“I already know what it is,” said Harry, this time finally let a measure of emotion through. He had not said a thing but it had been on his mind all night as the hours ticked slowly by, and he frankly couldn't believe it.

“Oh?” asked Lupin, looking up at him again.

He swallowed, and replied, trying his best to sound detached, to maintain his numbness, “My mother… and Snape…. As soon as Voldemort called him she recognised him. It had happened years ago, but she knew him well enough to recognise him on sight in a darkened living room after her husband had just been tortured.”

Ron's jaw dropped, Ginny looked confused, and Mrs Weasley, surprised, but Hermione simply stared off out the kitchen window at a gnome running around the backyard being chased by Crookshanks. Unsurprisingly, she had already figured it out.

“But Lily and Snape… they hadn't ever…” began Lupin.

“I don't think they… dated… but he was at the house,” said Harry. “He was at the house and often enough so that Aunt Petunia knew who he was….”

The room fell deafeningly silent. Everyone taking a moment to process what he had just said, what it could mean, the somewhat frightful and disturbing possibilities… and then Ron asked the last question Harry wanted anyone to, for it would commit him to an action that he now wasn't so eager to do, “So what does that mean, what do we do now?”

Harry exhaled slowly, looked back at him and replied, “We go talk to Dumbledore again.”

-->

A/N: Lady Luck is on my side today, which is why I can bring you this chapter. Unfortunately, it is only one. Hope you like it anyways.

Warning: Somewhat shocking revelation ahead…. Oh who am I kidding, you probably all suspected it by now.

Also, keep meaning to say this, always forgets: Thanks to all who reviewed and are still with me. May you still be with me at the end, which should hopefully come before the real book seven comes out and destroys this. Thanks a lot.

Disclaimer: Actual owner is in New York. I am not. You do the math.

*****

A Change of Plan

“My Mum and Snape… they were friends… is that what he told you, was that his proof of 'remorse'?” asked Harry, no sooner than had the door to the office shut behind their backs. They could barely hear the first of Professor McGonagall's steps as she started down to check on Peeves' latest disturbance. But Harry was long past caring; he had just spent the last two days impatiently, trapped at the Burrow waiting for the chance to interrogate Professor Dumbledore. Professors McGonagall and Trelawney, Peeves, Phineas Nigellus, glaring reproachfully at him from his painting, and even the bloody Minister of Magic could all hear if they liked.

He was upset and people had to know it.

Professor Dumbledore, by contrast, calmly looked up from his portrait and said genially, “Well hello Harry… Mr Weasley, Miss Granger, back again so soon?”

“My Mum and Snape…” repeated Harry, slowly, angrily, ignoring his greeting and formalities, “They were friends?”

Professor Dumbledore closed his eyes and sighed sadly, and then said, “Have a seat Mr Potter… all of you.”

Hermione immediately took the first available chair, but it was a few tense moments where Harry and Ron glared at Professor Dumbledore's portrait, before they joined her. And when they did, Harry again demanded, not missing a beat, “Is that what he told you, because that's a load of—”

“That's not quite what he told me Mr Potter,” said Professor Dumbledore, surprisingly wearily. “What he told me… I had hoped you would have found out, but then your aunt and uncle were attacked two days ago, as I understand it? Your uncle was killed?”

Harry said nothing, but Hermione did, “It was a stroke… brought on by the Cruciatus Curse….”

“Oh dear,” said Professor Dumbledore, thoughtfully. “He was not a young man.”

“Or a nice one,” said Ron.

Professor Dumbledore looked over to him then and agreed, “Indeed not, a most unfortunate temper and prejudiced world view…. But I can see that you two, or is it all three of you, are greatly upset with me?”

“You could have just told us,” replied Harry, sullenly.

“Would you have believed me?” Professor Dumbledore asked, weary again.

“Why wouldn't I?” asked Harry in turn, brow furrowing slightly. “If it was so important that you couldn't tell me before, why wouldn't I when you did?”

He replied simply, “I know how you feel about Severus… and I understand that he hasn't been the most pleasant person to deal with—”

“Well, in general many murderers aren't,” cut in Ron, loudly.

“And this especially… Harry… would you have believed me if I had just told you that Severus had been in love with your mother…? That they had come to be very close before she began to date your father, and that it was his fear that the Dark Lord would kill her that drove him here…?” asked Professor Dumbledore, staring at each of them in turn.

The world just out the windows of the office today was a blustery, clouded dark grey. Rain was threatening again, though they had not and need not worry for it, they would be leaving the castle the way they arrived, through the fireplace in Professor McGonagall's office. They noticed now though, because they had all apparently lost every ability and function save the need to breathe.

Harry was the first to recover though, “In-in love… he told you that he was in love with her?”

Professor Dumbledore nodded, “After he overheard the prophecy, after he had been discovered… I spoke to him, I pleaded with him not to relay the entire message, and for some reason he did not. But Tom got more than he needed, and knowing of only two couples who fit the 'criteria', went after them. Severus tried his best to stop him, he told me of how he pleaded with Tom that he would spare her, he showed me how he begged Tom to spare her… but your mother chose to die for you, making it all for nothing—”

“How could he expect any mother to—” cut in Hermione.

“I don't believe that he expected her to do anything, or at least he had been hoping that the spy, whoever he was, would never get as powerful information as Peter did,” Professor Dumbledore replied. “But he did, and she didn't, and he was sorry, very sorry that he could not have done anymore, anything else to save her, if not her husband and son.”

“I don't believe it,” declared Harry then.

Professor Dumbledore sighed, sadly, clearly expecting this reaction.

“I do,” said Hermione suddenly, and he, and Ron and Harry too, looked up at her at once, surprised.

Without saying a word she searched through the folds of her cloak to her pocket and from it withdrew a small, neatly folded piece of cloth. Setting it out in her lap she carefully unfolded it before them to reveal that someone had placed three carefully dried and pressed amaranths in the centre under a painstakingly elegantly scribed message:

“Like these flowers do not, our connection shall never fade. S.S.”

While Harry looked stunned, and Professor Dumbledore surprised, Ron burst into a fit of quiet sniggering that only increased when Hermione looked up to glare at him.

But Harry ignored him to ask, his voice barely above a whisper, “Where did you find that?”

He thought he knew the answer though, the sight of her palming something off just before they were interrupted by Mr Llewellyn and Ron in the basement flashing immediately to mind. But he had just spent the past two days flipping through his mother's notebook, among the other things they had found in the house, and found nothing….

“In the house, in the basement when we were searching the boxes… it had fallen out of a book,” she replied.

Ron struggled, and failed, to control himself, before he asked, “Snape gave this to Harry's Mum…? (Another failed attempt at restraint.) I mean, the idea of Snape giving flowers to anyone is disturbing enough, but he gave this to—”

“What are you laughing at Won-Won? Ginny told me about that necklace Lavender sent you, 'My Sweetheart'?” demanded Hermione, nastily.

He stopped at once, and glowering at her, asked, “How did you find out about that?”

“Does it matter?” she asked, in reply, and then turning to Harry, her tone and very demeanour softening, “I don't think—if you are—that she-that they were… well, you know… but, they were friends, they must have… she may have forgotten it was even in the book….”

Harry looked up at her, and asked, “Would you?”

Her face reddened at once, and she became rather flustered, stammering as she tried to reply, “Well I… I, well of course I might, he probably gave this to her long before she married your father….”

Professor Dumbledore cut in again, “As he told me, they developed a friendship in their Sixth Year… but it went no further. Harry, I trusted—I still do trust Severus Snape—for it, he did not lie to me, he did what he was supposed to do, and you will have to find it in yourself to trust him t—”

“What?” Harry exclaimed, cutting him off. “Us, trust Snape, after what he did? This (he pointed to the cloth in Hermione's lap) may have been enough for you, but it doesn't do anything for me. If he loved her so much he would have actually saved her, not left her to die—”

“—he did not—” protested Professor Dumbledore.

“—and then murder you in the Astronomy Tower and run off with Draco Malfoy and those Death Eaters after!” he continued furious. “There is nothing that you could say or he could do that would ever get me to trust him!”

“Is that so?” asked Professor Dumbledore, eyeing him carefully.

“Yes!” declared Harry.

“Even if I tell you that I asked him, that I told him to kill me?” he asked again, still eyeing him.

“Yes! Wait… what?” Harry asked, now completely confused.

Professor Dumbledore sighed, and sank his forehead into his palm before replying, “I had no choice. He had made the Unbreakable Vow and once we found out what Draco had done… he had to do it, to spare Mr Malfoy, to save him….”

All three teenagers stared at the portrait with mouths opened slightly and unable to speak, once more stunned into silence. The only ones who could were the other portraits, and they started a rush of low-whispering that only rose in volume and intensity until Phineas Nigellus declared, “No one of my flesh and blood would dare attack an administrator of this school!” and then, when one of the others gave him a sceptical look, added, “At least without reason….”

But eventually Harry regained his speech, “What if it had backfired, what if Draco had done what Voldemort had told him to do before Snape got there?”

Professor Dumbledore replied, “It was a risk we had to take, but you yourself saw him, had been following him… surely you knew that he would not have done it.”

Harry coloured slightly but insisted, “What if he had done it?”

“It was a risk we had to take,” Professor Dumbledore repeated.

Harry rose out of the chair and stalked to a window, feeling a mixture of disgust, anger and hurt. The weather in the distance before him was as angry as his mood, and as he looked a sharp, jagged white bolt suddenly cut across the sky to the earth in the direction of Hogsmeade. He wished he could strike out just like it. He couldn't believe what he had just heard; he didn't want to believe what he had just heard….

Professor Dumbledore continued behind his back, “Sometimes we have to make sacrifices for those we care about, and in war.”

Harry tried to ignore him, and at the same time shut out the image of Ron being knocked unconscious by a faceless queen on a chess board in their First Year. He had said almost the same thing, but this time, somewhat more so than that, he didn't want to hear it.

Finally he said, “You begged him….”

“I was asking him to do it. He did not want to, you saw his face, he did not want to, but I insisted, I made him… reminded him of how he had failed someone he cared about once before…” Professor Dumbledore replied, his self-disgust evident in his tone. “He could not allow Draco to fail….”

It was Ron who spoke next, “What good did that do anyway? Malfoy's still going to kill loads of people now that he's with You-Know-Who.”

“I have heard reports that he hasn't been spotted with anyone… even when they went to your aunt's house,” Professor Dumbledore replied, still looking to Harry.

“Doesn't matter, he's just saving him for something 'special' then,” said Ron.

“It was Severus' belief that young Draco was being used as a tool to punish his father. I'm sure you know of Lucius' attempt at escape recently, Voldemort gave Draco this task at once to be rid of me and then to punish him for failure. It was a suicide mission, and any purpose to which Draco is put anymore—though he may have 'succeeded' here—may be to that end, to kill him,” replied Professor Dumbledore. “He knows that Draco isn't a killer either, or at least suspects it… who knows, he could be of help to you.”

“He's not in love with Hermione is he?” asked Harry scathingly from the window, turning back to stare at the portrait.

“I beg your pardon?” said Professor Dumbledore.

“He hates us, he would rather stick with him than help us, and frankly I don't want his help,” replied Harry.

“You just might,” said Professor Dumbledore. “I know you two do not like each other, but if he offers you help, you would do well to take it, even with a pinch of salt.”

Harry said nothing to this, and then went back to his seat before the Headmistress' desk. For a time he sat staring at the piece of cloth in Hermione's lap, and then asked, “Do you know who R.A.B. is now?”

The change of topic was so sudden that it was a wonder that Professor Dumbledore so quickly replied, “No, I'm afraid that there are too few I would consider capable of something like this…. It may even be someone he met in Eastern Europe.”

“Eastern Europe?” asked Hermione, speaking up now.

“That was what I had originally planned to tell you the day you arrived. I believe that Voldemort took the cup to Eastern Europe, and specifically to Albania, Romania or Bulgaria,” he replied.

“That's not exactly specific,” she said.

“I know, but do you remember Mr Igor Karkaroff?” he asked.

They all nodded, Ron muttering something that sounded suspiciously like, “That coward helping Vicky cheat, who couldn't?”

“Well, yes, the former and late Headmaster of the Durmstrang Academy, as you should remember, was also a Death Eater, but one who refused to go back to his master and was subsequently killed for it. When Voldemort disappeared after the death of Miss Hephzibah Smith, I believe he may have gone there and recruited him, among others. It was almost instinctive the way he ran back after that night in Godric's Hollow,” Professor Dumbledore explained.

“But that was Albania, why Romania and Bulgaria too?” asked Harry.

“If one has a Dark and delicate item such as a Horcrux, it is not wise to keep it too close to one's person. If you are caught…” replied Professor Dumbledore, letting his voice trail off.

“That's a lot of ground to cover, we can't search every inch of those countries,” said Harry, trying to think of Dudley's unused globes and atlases and then remembering, with a slight jolt, that they were now all gone.

“I don't expect you to, that's where the memories come in. I had managed to procure a few from Mr Karkaroff himself, before his death, and along with a few of my own I hope we might be able to narrow the ground,” replied Professor Dumbledore.

“And if it's there… how do we get to it? How do we get there, and who will help us, if we need it?” asked Harry, now fully getting into the discussion. It seemed, if just for a moment, that the tension of before had temporarily dissipated.

Professor Dumbledore smiled, “Voldemort is not the only one with friends, you and I have a few as well, and I doubt that some well-worded letters and requests would go unanswered.”

The three looked at each other, slightly puzzled, and then back at him and Ron asked, “So when do we start looking at these memories?”

“Well you see, I'm glad you asked that,” said Professor Dumbledore.

Harry felt his heart sink a little; he didn't think he was going to be so glad about it.

Professor Dumbledore seemed to notice, and reassured, “Don't worry; it shouldn't be too awful for you: When school reopens in September, I want you to come back as usual.”

He was right, he didn't.

“But sir, if I was in school I would have less freedom. There are things that I can't do here, and the Ministry, they're not just going to let me—” he protested.

“As I understand it, secrecy in our venture is of the utmost importance?” asked Professor Dumbledore.

“Yes but—” protested Harry again.

“Then what better cover than that of Hogwarts itself? You don't have to stay the entire year, but you are still a student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to the day you sit your last NEWT exam, no one can be sure that the rumours of you being the 'Chosen One' are true, and we cannot afford to give Voldemort a chance to kill you before you can stop him… or find out what we're up to,” Professor Dumbledore reasoned.

“But—” Harry tried again.

“I can speak to Minerva about giving you a little leeway where bedtime is concerned, and though I cannot tell her exactly why, I'm sure she would understand. Your fellow students are used to you all ignoring the rules at times, they may not be so suspicious if you happen to 'disappear' once or twice during the term. And as for the Ministry… well, you shouldn't worry about them too much, I have it on good authority that the new Transfiguration and Defence Against the Dark Arts professors may be corruptible,” he continued, pleasantly.

“But sir,” began Hermione when Harry didn't, “If Harry is here, and Voldemort wants to k-kill him… wouldn't that concentrate his efforts here…? Make Hogsmeade and the school even bigger targets…?”

He seemed to think about it for a moment, before replying, “I thought of this, I've worried over it… but he cannot breach this school, he will not do it again. Hogsmeade… I don't know what can be done for the village, but the Ministry and the Order will not leave it unguarded. And if our deception succeeds, we will save it all yet. In the end you must all understand that we cannot do everything, that we must leave some things to others while we focus on a single goal. The Order will take care of the War, but you all, and you especially Harry, must take care of Voldemort.”

Harry scoffed slightly and turned to the window again. The tension was back again and Professor Dumbledore hastened to quell it.

“Of course, this all depends on you. If you have some place better to hide for a while, to plan, to offer assistance where you think it might be wise, then by all means you are free to do so. You are no longer a boy who must obey; you are now a man who can choose… I would just prefer it if you would choose to stay here. To take advantage of the protection Hogwarts has to offer for now,” he told him, his voice halting, and his tone hopeful.

Harry still said nothing, but after a while asked, “Are you sure that Professor McGonagall would give us the ability to move when we need to, when we have to, and that you can get us into Albania or wherever without Voldemort knowing?”

“I can't promise he won't find out, or that she would be willing, but I can try,” replied Professor Dumbledore.

Harry looked away from the window, to Hermione, who gave him a meaningful look, and then to Ron, who just shrugged, and then to the portrait, and said, “I'll think about it.”

*****

There was a surprise awaiting them at the other end of the Floo in the Weasley family living room, and it was neither pleasant nor welcome: the Minister for Magic had come to see him.

As Harry stepped through the fireplace after Ron, absently dusting his robes before turning to help Hermione, someone said, “At last, Mr Potter, I was beginning to wonder if I would have to send a search party.”

Harry spun back in surprise. Seated on one of Mrs Weasley's comfortable, bulky, but rather patched sofas, was Rufus Scrimgeour. He looked very much as if he had come over for tea, dressed as he was in his comfortable robes, his lion-like yellowed gaze and wild hair tamed to reassure. But Harry knew he was up to no good, the Minister for Magic didn't just pay courtesy calls to the homes of the heads of his departments, and the last time he had been to the Burrow it was only to try and persuade Harry to become the Ministry's “poster boy” for instilling confidence in his administration.

He did not smile as Harry turned to look, and then eventually glare, at him, but he did when Hermione finally came through and said, “There, that should be last of you, Miss Hermione Granger I believe…? Where have you three been off to?”

“That's none of your business!” snapped Ron, furious. “What are you doing in my house, where's my Mum and Ginny?”

“In the kitchen making tea, I requested though, the opportunity to speak to young Harry alone… so if you two don't mind…” he replied, and it was clearly not a request.

They did not move, and Harry said, “I don't think so; I have nothing to say to you.”

“Oh? Well I do have something to say to you… I've heard that you were asked that awful night, whether you wished to see the school closed or remain open. And I believe it is mostly on your reply alone that the school has, so far, decided to… such power in the hands of one so young,” said Scrimgeour.

“So? What's this about then? You want to know why they asked me, I can't tell you that, I don't know myself,” replied Harry.

Scrimgeour smiled tightly, “No, I wanted to know if you wish to see to it that the school remains open.”

“What?” Harry asked, confused.

But Hermione wasn't, “You… you….”

“My dear, please do not complete that statement, I don't deserve it, I was merely making an enquiry,” he replied, coldly, glaring at her.

“No you weren't,” she snapped. “You want to use Harry; you're threatening the school to get him to do what you want! But you don't own Hogwarts and neither does he, they can expel him if they wish, he can quit if he likes or Voldemort can kill him and make your little threat all moot!”

He flinched only barely at the name, and said, “No confidence in your friend then?”

“No confidence? How dare you? You're the ones making him out to be the 'Chosen One', you're the one making useless threats!” she raged.

“They're hardly useless. Whether or not he is this prophesised 'Chosen One' parents all over are looking to him as a symbol. They see hope in your boyfriend, and may make the decision to send their children back to Hogwarts or keep them home depending on whether or not he goes himself,” he replied.

“He's not my boyfriend,” protested Hermione. “And where ever would they get the idea that Harry's not going back?”

“Haven't you all been reading the papers? The rumours are swirling, and when I arrived here and found you absent, I have to wonder if there isn't some truth to it all,” said Scrimgeour, fixing each of them with a suspicious glare.

Hermione could only say then, “As a politician I'm surprised that you would take any stock in rumours.”

“As a politician, it's always good to know what the people are thinking and if any of them are potentially harmful. As an Auror with more years experience than you three have life combined I can smell a rat,” he replied.

“Then how'd you miss Peter Pettigrew?” asked Harry, finally speaking again.

Scrimgeour visibly bristled, and appeared on the verge of saying something awful, when Mrs Weasley and Ginny arrived with a serving tray and tea. And Mrs Weasley nearly dropped it when she saw them, “Ron, Harry, Hermione…? When did you get back, I didn't hear you come in….”

Scrimgeour barely moved, though they all knew that he must have cast a Silencing Charm to give them privacy.

“We're back,” said Ron.
“Is everything alright then?” asked Ginny, coming in with her mother and eyeing the quartet suspiciously.

“Yes, we're very tired and going upstairs, we'll leave you to your tea,” Harry replied.

Mrs Weasley began, “Oh but Harry, the Minister wished to speak to you.”

“We spoke,” he replied, and at that marched out of the room with Ron and Hermione leaving Scrimgeour to fume quietly behind them.

Up in Ron's room, with a Silencing Charm up and an Imperturbable on the door, they knew exactly when the Minister left, moments later, with his escort of two. Neither one was Percy, though they didn't expect him to be there, he wasn't welcome either. In the fading pink and gold light of the sunny afternoon, they all three looked up at the many windows of the Weasley house until they came to the one where Ron sat peering out, held his gaze a moment and then Disapparated, the aides first, and then the Minister. Almost immediately then, two black cloaked Aurors disappeared into the trees, members of a now semi-permanent guard round the Burrow.

Ron grumbled as he left, “Git's gone, can't believe Mum let him in after Christmas.”

“He's the Minister of Magic, you know, your Dad's boss?” said Hermione.

“That doesn't give him the right to just pay a visit whenever he likes, what happened to owls? The Floo?” asked Ron, glaring off at the spot from which he had just Disapparated. The light filtering through now dusting his hair rose gold and slightly bronzing his features. On Harry and Hermione further away it spread white and yellow-gold and silver.

“He's gone now, and he will be back if he has to,” said Harry then, cutting into the conversation.

“He can't make you go back, you're of age,” Hermione told him.

“I know that, I have a choice, like Professor Dumbledore said, I can do what I want,” he replied, peevishly. “But you know that I can't go rushing off to help every time Voldemort attacks someone and lets me see—”

“—you know I didn't mean it like that—” she protested.

“—and we need to keep what we're doing quiet as long as we can. I have a choice alright, either go off and get killed and let Voldemort win, or go along with everyone else and hope that I don't,” he said.

“You won't,” insisted Hermione, at which he rolled his eyes away from her and fell back on the bed to glare at the ceiling. She lay on her stomach beside him and continued, “And besides, going along with 'everyone else' just might get us to Eastern Europe and back before anyone's the wiser.”

He grunted unintelligibly, before asking, “Why didn't you tell me about the handkerchief?”

She sat up again and folded her hands into her lap, just as Ron came away from the window and joined them. Harry rolled over and looked up at her, and she replied, “I didn't… I didn't think it was anything significant… until-until we spoke to Lupin… and then, you know….”

“So you were just going to keep it?” he asked, neutrally.

She was flustered again and stammering, “Well… no… I-I wasn't… I just, well I didn't know how to give it to you… I mean what if you overreacted… or something….”

“Overreacted?” he asked, his voice still calm.

“Well, I didn't know what you were going to think when you saw it. I mean, she kept it in a book in a box in the basement of her house, and your Dad clearly hated Snape…. I don't mean that she was…” she tried, stumbling through the sentence.

He rolled over again and said, “It's okay, I don't think my mother was some kind of 'scarlet woman'.”

Hermione fell into a clearly relieved silence.

Ron spoke next, changing the topic, “So we're going to Eastern Europe?”

Without moving, Harry replied, “If that's where the cup is.”

“And Dumbledore expects us to buy Snape's story to him? That twenty-odd years ago he was in love with your Mum, she chose your Dad over him but he never stopped loving her and tried to save her life when he told Voldemort the half-prophecy?” he asked, barely himself able to contain his disbelief.

“And it might be true according to that handkerchief,” said Harry.

“Do you believe it?” asked Ron.

“Do you want to believe it?” asked Harry.

Ron sat quietly for a while and asked, “Are we going back to Hogwarts?”

Harry exhaled slowly, and lay for a while staring at the ceiling before replying, “Do I have a choice?”

-->

A/N: Alright, this is supposed to be a double post and an excellent chapter of weeks of interruption. Emphasis on the word “supposed”. I'm not sure if I like how this chapter turned out, however I'm completely satisfied that I've conveyed what I wanted to. That said I would also like to say that you are not allowed to start humming Beyoncé's track while reading this. The two things, though of the same name, don't really go together. Then again… I'm already singing away with my iPod.

On a side-note: This story may be paused in November as I have insanely decided to enter the NaNoWriMo competition and my insane British-based story idea will require writing time and research. Hopefully though, I will be well into this story by then. Cheers.

Disclaimer: JKR would not write this travesty of a chapter. Also, she has said that there is something crucial about Dumbledore-James's Cloak. I don't know what that is, hence, this isn't mine.

*****

Déjà vu

One week later, their school letters arrived at breakfast. Harry didn't realise he was dreading them though, until he saw the owls at the window and Hermione suddenly became vastly interested in her toast. He knew at once the problem. This time, instead of OWLS results, she was wondering whether or not she got Head Girl, knowing full well that if she got it, she might not be able to accept it.

To think, just a week ago this was a concern furthest from their minds. When she was refusing it though, they would have to find a way to do it quietly, as far as the Order and the Weasleys were concerned they really were going back to school.

Ron and Ginny seemed not to notice a thing. Ron's letter, like his, was sure only to contain notification on whether or not Professor McGonagall had accepted the terms they had carefully dictated in their letter to her the night they announced their changed plans. They might have agreed to go back to school after all, but they were not going to do it without conditions. Otherwise, they were to use the same books as the year before, only really needing new stationery and the odd uniform adjustment. But Ginny, on the other hand, was finally receiving her OWLS results weeks after the usual time because of some obscure Ministry delay.

Somehow though, Mrs Weasley managed to incorporate Hermione's worries along with her daughter's OWLS affairs, saying reassuringly as she went to let in the post, “I'm sure you got it, dear, you deserve it far more than anyone. The only person who should be concerned here is Ginny.”

Ginny paled immediately, she apparently agreed. But Hermione did not respond, and instead poured herself another glass of juice and buttered two more slices of toast.

Poor girl, thought Harry, she must have been dreaming about being Head Girl before she even entered Hogwarts. Thanks to him she had almost missed on the chance, and now that she had it again didn't want to be too excited in front of him.

Suddenly, Crookshanks who had been sitting in her lap while she ate jolted and sank his claws into her thigh, causing her knees to jerk into his. Harry was so startled he dropped his spoon with a clatter and nearly spurted his juice all over Ron before him. But instead of being sympathetic, or amused (though Hermione achieved this, tittering slightly while rubbing her thigh) Ron narrowed his eyes into a suspicious look. He looked as if he was going to say something too, but Mrs Weasley was back and dropping their letters before them.

One each for him, Ron and Hermione—they dragged them aside and left them there—and two for Ginny. Ginny snatched up hers and tore open the first at once. After a tense moment where no one said a word, just stared at her over the bowl, she visibly relaxed with a smile. Mrs Weasley snatched away the letter, and quickly grinned broadly too.

“Oh thank goodness, nine OWLS! And four Os! I've got to tell your father, and your brothers, they'll be so proud of you Ginny! I'm so proud of you!” she exclaimed and after stopping to tightly hug and kiss her only daughter, hurriedly left the table again for the living room.

Ginny, now a dark shade of red from embarrassment sheepishly took her second letter and began to open it. Ron couldn't help snickering quietly though, and even when both Harry and Hermione poked and glared at him. Eventually, she broke the moment by asking, “Did you get Head Girl, Hermione?”

He stopped laughing then to look down to Hermione's as yet unopened letter on the table beside her. Hermione looked down at it too, as if seeing it for the first time then took it up and opened it. As she was drawing out her letter though, something fell out, collided with her plate with a soft “clink” and landed silently on the table. There was no mistaking it; she had gotten the badge, she was Hogwarts' newest Head Girl.

“Hey, congratulations,” smiled Ginny across the table.

“Yeah, you got it,” agreed Harry, with a grin.

Hermione merely gave them mild smiles, but made no attempt to pick up the badge. Harry suspected that within it must be killing her to have received it, and that touching it would probably break through the carefully built barrier she had drawn up.

He was being very thoughtful about Hermione today, hmm….

Ron though, mumbled something incoherent and then tore into his letter as if in search of something. But whatever it was he didn't get, for after discarding the letter, he turned the envelope over and nothing fell out. Undeterred, he snatched up Harry's without asking and repeated the process, to the same result. It was only then that he said, “So who got Head Boy?”

The other three just looked at him.

He rolled his eyes, and said meaningfully to Harry and Hermione, “It's good to know who it is.”

Unfortunately, all three caught on, and Ginny asked, “Why? What's so important in knowing who Head Boy is? It's only Hermione who's got to worry….”

“Mind your business, Ginny,” snapped Ron.

Her eyes narrowed dangerously, “This is my business, you three are up to something, we all know it, and I want to know what it is.”

“No!” declared Harry and Ron simultaneously.

Ginny looked to Harry directly, “Why not?”

“Because…” was his reply, and he said no more.

And then Mrs Weasley was back again and shrieking with joy when she spotted the Head Girl badge. Hermione only barely finished her breakfast after that, and then went off to tell her parents leaving Harry alone to the others. But it didn't take him long to leave as well, retreating to the room he shared with Ron. The excitement and breakfast was pretty much over anyway.

For much of the past week he had been going off on his own to think though. He couldn't help it, Professor Dumbledore's words kept resonating in his mind: “Would you have believed me if I had just told you that Severus had been in love with your mother…?”

At every opportunity he got then, he would go off with his mother's old notebook, desperately perusing the pages for signs that it wasn't true. There was no way that she could have been anything with Snape, he had called her a “Mudblood”, he had betrayed them… there was no way.

But on more than one occasion he had fancied that he saw Snape's writing in the margins. After an entire year unwittingly receiving his help in Potions, how could he not know his hand if he saw it?

He never bothered with his old toys. They had remained in his bag even to his last trip to Hogwarts, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to take them out. What would he do with them if he did anyway? Leave them out on the night table for whatever grandchildren the Weasleys were to have? He was not going to be playing with them, that much he was sure, but he didn't want to leave them behind.

It took him less than half an hour to give up with the Potions book. It always did. Though the book would have been a useful, and probably safer, thing to have instead of Snape's (and maybe in Charms as well, for his mother seemed to have been experimenting with a few) there was really nothing to see. It was wonderful at times to sit and wonder over the fact that her hands once turned the pages, scribbled the instructions and results, and touched it, but then so painful that he could not bring himself to go further. He had to put it aside for another day.

But this time when he did, he looked up and found Hermione in the doorway looking at him. And when she noticed him she seemed torn between embarrassment at discovery and the desire to say something. He spoke first and freed her from further internal conflict, “You told your parents?”

She looked visibly relieved and replied, “Yes, they're very proud. It's some—”

“—thing they can understand, I remember,” he said.

She gave a weak smile and then walked into the room and took a seat on the bed beside him. For a time after that they both just sat in silence, watching the sunlight stretch lazily across the floor while birds idly floated by the intermittently. What a brilliant day it was outside, but since they had changed their plans, now more than ever did they avoid the outside. The Order guards were still there of course, but the danger of others watching too, waiting for a chance to repeat the Little Whinging siege was too great to risk it. But oh what a beautiful day it was. Eventually Hermione asked, “So… find anything useful?”

He glanced back at the notebook and shook his head, “It's just a notebook, filled with notes, nothing….”

“Oh Harry,” she sighed. “It's not 'nothing'… there must be something in there that might help.”

“But what good is that? Thanks to Dumbledore we know how many Horcruxes there are and even where they might be, we don't need to know anything else. The job is pretty straightforward beyond that: find Horcruxes, destroy Horcruxes, k-kill Voldemort…” he replied, and mentally cursed himself for stammering over the word.

“Don't you want to know what happened between your Mum and Snape?” she asked, ignoring his interrupted linguistic performance.

“No,” he said, coldly.

“What about what your aunt might have to say?” she asked.

Surprised and confused, he asked, “What?”

“Remember that she wanted to talk to you?” she replied.

“Oh,” said Harry, and then shook his head, “No, I don't want to know.”

“We're going to London tomorrow, to get our school things, you know, we might just see her,” she continued, as if he had not just refused.

“Hermione…” he began, warningly.

“You could just talk to her for a few minutes and then go to the Alley,” she said.

“No, Hermione, no I couldn't and I can't believe you're suggesting that I should,” he told her, looking for all the world like she had just told him that she was really Stubby Boardman under Polyjuice.

“I'm not asking you to excuse your history with her just because your uncle's dead and she seems repentant, I'm asking you to find out what she had to say because it might be able to help us,” she replied.

“And how, Hermione, how could anything she could possibly have to say be of any use?” he demanded. “She's a Muggle, and a mean one at that, and probably knows nothing. She might really just want me to attend the funeral so that the neighbours wouldn't talk.”

“Has she ever wanted you to appear so that the neighbours 'wouldn't talk'? Isn't this the same woman who used to tell you to keep quiet and stay out of sight?” she challenged.

“I don't want to talk to her and I'm not doing it! Tomorrow we're just going to Diagon Alley to get school supplies and maybe pop in on Fred and George, I'm not going to have her ruin my day!” he declared, his voice rising with his temper the more he spoke.

Hermione made to protest, but just then Ginny's head appeared in the doorway and she asked, “Oy, what's all the hullabaloo?”

“Nothing,” they replied simultaneously.

She didn't look convinced, and a dark look in her eyes told that she clearly suspected something else, but Harry didn't care. He couldn't believe Hermione sometimes, what made her think that after he left the Dursleys he would ever want to see them again? And even and especially after he witnessed his uncle's murder? He always knew letting Hermione and Ron along with him was going to be trouble. There was simply no way he was going to do it.

*****

He couldn't believe he was actually doing this. But then, he also couldn't believe that Aunt Petunia had actually agreed to meet him in Diagon Alley. He had been hoping she would refuse so that he could get out of it. It made giving the Weasleys and his Order guard the slip difficult and dangerous, of course, but she had wanted to talk and he agreed. After years of silence, he had to admit that he wanted—no needed—to know more about his parents, and at this point she was one of the few who could tell him.

Hermione, between him and Ron under the Invisibility Cloak, was doing well to conceal her delight at the fact that he was going along with the idea. But he knew she was quite pleased, for whatever it was worth. As far as he and Ron were concerned this meeting was a waste of time that was better spent putting forward the image of innocence. If he was caught away from the others shopping without a solid excuse, the carefully built illusion that they were going back to school as normal would be shattered. Not to mention that the Weasleys themselves would be greatly displeased that they had slipped away in the first place.

But Hermione would have her way.

Or at least, she almost had her way… until, of all people to be walking in the Alley, Harry spied Draco Malfoy sneaking off to Knockturn Alley.

He couldn't believe his eyes.

There was a manhunt, an extensive one, out for him. There was the chance of being caught up accidentally in one of the now many Ministry raids in Knockturn. There was the utter stupidity and absurdity of the whole thing to be considered, but there was Malfoy—Harry would know that pale blonde hair and pointy face anywhere—slipping into the Alley as the year before as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

And so, also naturally, Harry had to follow him.

He started to do just that… and then was quickly reminded that there were two others beneath the cloak with him when his sudden movement shifted the material half off of them. Hermione squeaked and yanked him back while Ron secured them again and hissed, “What are you doing?”

“I just saw Malfoy,” replied Harry.

“What?” Ron and Hermione asked, surprised and understandably not convinced.

“I just saw Draco Malfoy, walking into Knockturn Alley,” he repeated.

“That's impossible,” Ron protested. “There's over a hundred Aurors looking for him and Snape, not to mention the Order.”

Hermione protested as well, “Harry, are you sure? Maybe you think you saw him and it was really—”

“—someone who looks like him or my eyes playing tricks on me? I don't think so, I know what I saw, that was Malfoy, and we've got to follow him,” he replied, and started walking again so that they were forced to follow to keep themselves under the cloak.

“What about meeting your aunt?” Hermione asked, trying to keep pace with him and Ron.

“She's a Muggle, it'll take her a while to get in here anyway, and I don't care if I'm late, this is more important,” he told her.

With the number of people in Diagon Alley then, mostly current and future Hogwarts students and their parents, it was almost impossible to move without bumping into someone. It seemed that they had all planned to go shopping on the same day, as if their sheer number would deter Death Eater attack. But for the three it became an advantage, for in the crowd no one could tell who was who.

This was of course lost in the more deserted Knockturn Alley.

Just as the year before no one apparently wanted to be caught dead wandering its streets and of the few who dared to be there, anyone they bumped into would probably turn to look, and possibly pull off the Cloak. They took care then, to huddle closer and give all they passed a wide berth.

The person Harry thought was Malfoy was well ahead of them but very much within their sight. Harry made sure of it, not wanting to waste time searching for him again. But even if they did lose them, with a profound sense of déjà vu, he had an idea of where they were headed… and it was not long before he was proven right. The person kept stopping and turning off and changing direction along the way, at times even pausing to stare at the many closed shops and stalls he encountered before his destination, but eventually he walked right up to it and went in. He had gone to Borgin and Burke's.

And Harry, Ron and Hermione, as they had done the year before, went right up to the window to listen in.

Malfoy though, didn't seem to care that he might have been followed. With nonchalance others would have seen as foolhardy, he swept his hood off his head and irritably worked the bell on the counter. Hermione and Ron gasped, shocked, but could not say a thing for just then Borgin appeared and he did not look too pleased.

“What are you doing here? Are you mad? What if you are seen? Because of you my establishment has been searched three times by the Ministry looking for you,” he told him, with more gusto than he would have dared the year before.

“You would have been searched on principle,” said Malfoy, still casual, and then seriously, announced, “I need another favour.”

Borgin refused point blank, “Absolutely not. I'm not afraid of your father, Greyback has been captured, and you are in the same boat as them and therefore powerless. Right now you're just an insolent boy who needs to get out of my shop.”

“I have more powerful people behind me now,” drawled Malfoy, looking very much as if he wanted to yawn. “I need a favour and you are going to grant it.”

Borgin tried his best to look disbelieving but failed miserably, he knew that he was most certainly speaking the truth; after all he was the one who fixed the cupboard. So, thoroughly unsettled by Malfoy's announcement, he asked, “What is it?”

“I need a place to hide something, someplace heavily protected and well out of the way of the usual and unusual visitor,” Malfoy replied.

Borgin knitted his brows, confused, and suspicious, “Why do you need this place?”

“I have to hide something, it's no concern of yours what!” he snapped, authoritatively.

Borgin stared at him a while, and then replied, “There is a place, actually, if you wish to hide. It's been abandoned some time now; I used to use it for storage but with the Ministry—”

“Where is it?” demanded Malfoy, impatiently cutting him off.

But before he could reply his words were drowned out by a scream, and then the sound of mass Apparition. Harry felt his blood run cold as he and Ron and Hermione turned to the source.

Behind them a group of Aurors had appeared at the entrance to the Alley, surrounding the entrance of the Leaky Cauldron. The woman who had screamed was with them, and it was a sinking heart that Harry recognised Aunt Petunia.

Hermione whispered the obvious, “We have to go help her.”

Harry sighed heavily, and looked back into the shop. Malfoy and Borgin were nowhere in sight; they must have fled when they heard the Apparating Aurors. Accepting defeat then, he replied, “Come on….”

Aunt Petunia was neatly dressed in black, but apart from that she was unrecognisable. Her eyes were puffy and red, her hair slightly wild—her hat struggling, and failing, to contain it—and worst of all, she looked distinctly distressed at the state of the Alley and its inhabitants. As the Aurors tried to interrogate her, some even attempting to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, she withdrew further into the doorway. Harry couldn't believe that he was actually going to have to “save” her, but he couldn't just stand there and let her be. If the Aurors couldn't get a proper answer she would probably end up in the Ministry, which would be much, much worse. And he was sure that Hermione would have a lot to say about that.

Throwing off the Invisibility Cloak as soon as they were clear of Knockturn Alley, he called to them, “Hey, she's with me! She's my Aunt, she's with me!”

An Auror sharply turned to him and asked, “What's wrong with her?”

Coming to a halt just before them he said, nearly breathless, “She's a Muggle, it's her first time in the Alley… and she's just a little upset….”

“She's a Muggle and you just left her to wander through Diagon Alley alone, in times like this?” asked another he thought looked slightly familiar.

“She was waiting on him,” spoke up Hermione, now joining them. “He went off to get something, but as we were going we heard the scream… you beat us here….”

“Who are you two… three?” asked the first, just as Ron brought up the rear, the Invisibility Cloak secured in his backpack.

It was a question Harry had been dreading, not wanting to draw attention to himself, but then he was saved from answering by the arrival of Arthur Weasley himself, saying, “It's okay Braddock, they're with me… shopping for school supplies….”

“The boy said that he was with his aunt, this woman,” said the second, indicating Aunt Petunia with a jerk of her wand.

Harry had to be thankful then that Mr Weasley had met Aunt Petunia on numerous occasions before, for he said casually, “She was actually coming to meet us, she's with us too.”

The Aurors did not look completely convinced, but then with a warning to Harry, (“Keep a closer eye on your relatives next time,”) they turned and left. Aunt Petunia looked quite relieved, and surprisingly, grateful, to Mr Weasley, but Mr Weasley was another story.

Glaring at them all, he said to Aunt Petunia kindly, “I'm sorry about that, when you first come here it can be a bit overwhelming.”

Aunt Petunia continued to shock, as she replied, “It's my fault, I bumped into a little man….”

Mr Weasley gave her a sympathetic smile and then said, “How about we go to sit somewhere, these three have some shopping to do….”

“But I came to speak to Harry,” replied Aunt Petunia, looking warily to him.

“Oh? Well then we can all go have a seat, we have a lot to discuss,” he said.

Harry had a feeling it wasn't going to be good, and from the look on Ron's face, he was sure of it.

*****

When they met up with Mrs Weasley and Ginny in WWW half an hour later, Harry was too, well, shocked, to be worried about fall-out. For one, Aunt Petunia had been nice, and not only to them but also to Mr Weasley, who was about as wizard as you could get. Two, she had been open, very open with him about a number of things, all of which, as he suspected, were connected to Snape. Hermione might have been disappointed to learn that there was nothing more to tell that Harry didn't know, but Harry was the one left feeling vindicated.

Of course, all vindication vanished when Mr Weasley, as soon as they had seen her safely out of the Alley again, declared, “None of you—I don't care that you're all adults—are to leave the house for the rest of the summer!”

“But that's the next two weeks!” protested Ron.

“I know, but what you three did this morning was reckless and hurtful. You could have told us that you were going to meet your aunt, Harry,” said Mr Weasley, sternly.

“I didn't really set out to,” he said, with a cross look to Hermione.

She ignored it.

Of course Mr Weasley was right though. They should have told them that they were going to meet Aunt Petunia; Lupin had basically announced that she wanted to speak to him weeks before. But all reflection on the matter disappeared when Fred and George both greeted them at the doorway of their ridiculously cheerful shop with a smile and a large duffel bag.

Mr Weasley slipped on into the shop to give them some privacy.

“Good afternoon, Harry,” began Fred, grinning broadly.

“And to you Hermione, and Ron, dear brother,” said George, also grinning.

With good reason, Harry, Ron and Hermione all drew back a bit into the doorway. Whatever made the twins smile like that could not and never usually was good for them or anyone else, and they all knew it. The twins though, tried to reassure.

“No, no, don't worry, we're not up to the usual mischief,” said Fred, quite unconvincingly.

“Yes, we're just delivering on that promise,” continued George.

“What promise?” asked Harry.

“The promise that when next you came by the shop we would have something worth your while, and here it is,” explained George, and he presented the duffel bag.

None of them made a move to take it.

“Oh come on!” exclaimed Fred, and tore open the bag before them, revealing it to be filled, not with stink-sap-or-whatever-spewing bottles, but an assortment of odds and ends from their workshop. A quick glance to the shelves around them also revealed that none of this stuff was for sale.

“What do you think?” asked George, with a winning grin. “Since we know that you three aren't really going back to school—”

“—and that whatever you're going to do will be dangerous—” continued Fred.

“—we've decided to give you a few of our new inventions that we thought you might find useful,” finished George.

The three still looked sceptical, Fred sighed heavily and dipped into the bag. When he took his hand out though, Ron made a rather girlish shriek and stepped behind Hermione, who immediately rolled her eyes.

“Oh Ron,” she scoffed, “it's just a fake spider—isn't it?”

George nodded at once, while looking at his brother disdainfully, “Yes—are you sure you want him to go along with you?”

Knowing that lying would be futile, Harry replied almost unnecessarily, “Yes, he's plenty braver than he looks.”

Ron stepped away from Hermione and for a moment looked undecided on whether or not Harry was making fun of him, before finally settling on “not” and said, “But that thing's moving.”

“Well of course it is,” said Fred, sighing again. “We've charmed it to move like Chocolate Frogs do so that you can release it wherever you need to and after a moment, say when the baddies have surrounded it, it'll explode—”

“—covering them in a well-earned serving of bubotuber pus, Stink Sap and purple dye,” finished George, again.

Harry laughed, “Brilliant.”

Ron seemed willing to give laughing a go too, but Hermione had already moved on, digging into the bag to look at the rest. A moment later she drew out a shrivelled, skeletal hand and asked, “Is this-is this what I think it is, a Hand of Glory?”

Fred looked it over, “Oh no, this is much better. If you ever meet Malfoy and make a little switch, he probably won't agree, but it will be effective—”

“—and most important of all, funny,” said George.

Satisfied with this answer, Hermione returned to exploring the contents of the bag. That was, until Mrs Weasley showed up and demanded angrily, “Where have you three been?”

They all turned to find her and Ginny standing on the pavement behind them looking thoroughly upset. Thankfully though, Mr Weasley decided to save them, again, stepping into view in the doorway and replying, “With me dear, have you gotten everything?”

She looked him over sceptically, not entirely sure if she wanted to accept the simple explanation, but replied, “Yes, we're done.”

“Well then, let's get going,” he replied.

At this Ginny protested, “But we just got here.”

“It's not safe to be out any longer than necessary, we have to go home and some of us especially,” he said meaningfully to Harry, Ron and Hermione.

Ginny looked on the verge of protesting, as were Fred and George, but before they could vocalise any of it, Mr Weasley bustled the three out of the shop to them and from there to the Ministry-sent car that would take them back to the Burrow. Harry did not miss that he took care to collect the duffel bag from Fred and George, or the curious, wistful look after the store window that Ginny gave, before they were set back into the car and driven away.

Well for them the day hadn't been a total bust; they had seen Malfoy and gotten some free stuff. Of course, they were also “grounded”.

Pshaw, it wasn't like they were going anywhere for the next two weeks anyway. And in time to come, they would come to appreciate the benefits of that “grounding” more than anything.

-->

A/N: Second chapter, I think it's better than the first, you decide. Should mention here, there is a “character death” in this chapter, be warned from now, don't flame me later. Also, it's the strangest thing writing a scene here, I was ten years old when Princess Diana died and up until then I didn't really think that princesses still existed.

Disclaimer: Not mine, never was, never shall be. Damn!

*****

A Malfoy's Fall

For a time after Harry opened his eyes, he actually forgot that today was not going to be the usual way. Yes, he was going back to school with Ron, Hermione and Ginny and whoever else's parents had decided to send them along, and yes they were taking the Hogwarts Express as usual and then the Thestral-ride to the castle itself. But this year they would not be greeted by Professor Albus Dumbledore, tormented by Severus Snape or harassed by Draco Malfoy. This year, if all went well, they weren't even going to stay the whole term.

By the time he sat up he remembered though, and reminded himself to properly “thank” Voldemort as soon as he got the chance.

His and Ron's trunks were already packed at the foot of their beds. Hermione had insisted on it to ensure that they concealed and took everything that would be going with them. When Ginny noticed them doing this it further fuelled her already growing suspicions about their plans. No one had acknowledged her questions though, and she was forced to let it go amidst frustrated fury.

Downstairs he knew Mrs Weasley was preparing their breakfast, the smell seemed to waft through the very floorboards beneath them. After their little escapade in Diagon Alley she had displayed no more signs that she suspected they were up to something—clearly Mr Weasley and his grounding had done their jobs—but she had settled into a quiet anxiety over the reopening of the school. It was, for the three of them, their final official year at Hogwarts, and it was also happening in the midst of a war. A war in which he was possibly the most wanted.

Outside he could hear the Ministry-sent car being run over by the Aurors guarding the Weasley house. It would take them to the station where he would be met by more Aurors and guarded all the way to school. They were taking no chances with his safety; he hoped they would continue it after he was gone.

From the window he could see the first reaches of the brilliant morning without creeping into the room. It was going to be sunny again, a lovely mask to the darkness that was slowly covering the earth. They did not know how far Voldemort's campaign had gotten—Mrs Weasley's doing no doubt—but they could guess. And when they got to Platform Nine and Three-Quarters later they would know. Just because they had been temporarily put out of action didn't mean that he had been too… frustrating as that thought was.

With a yawn and a stretch he threw off the covers and shakily stood up. From this moment onward they would be on their own. They could not risk the Order's assistance, or interference in the weeks and months to come. It was a scary thought, being all alone, no matter what he had planned weeks before. He tried to imagine it though—where he would be today without Ron and Hermione—and while sure that he would be well on his way after the Horcruxes, he knew that he would not have gotten very far.

It was not only scary to be alone now; in this case it could be downright dangerous.

Ron was still asleep so he left him that way and stumbled out into the hall to the bathroom. The house was completely silent, as if he was the sole one awake though the smell of breakfast said otherwise. For the past two weeks he had woken late but it was still like this. Hopefully, for the people who had to endure the silence, Mr and Mrs Weasley, it would not be too bad for long.

Back out of the bathroom on his way down to the kitchen though, he finally had confirmation of other life. Hermione and Ginny were awake, and despite the fact that with the others gone there was more than enough room for Hermione to have her own room she had apparently shared with Ginny the night before.

Whatever their conversation this morning though it was not entirely pleasant. The whispers coming through Ginny's bedroom door were loud and angry. He wondered why but did not eavesdrop. Something had been wrong with their friendship since last year; they would work it out eventually.

Before he was at the kitchen he heard the sound of other voices. Apparently Lupin, Tonks (surprisingly, they hadn't seen her in weeks) and Bill had decided to join them this morning and they were already deep in discussion.

“It was the Malfoy boy, again. I don't understand it, he's a wanted man and he's walking around as if he doesn't have a care in the world,” said Lupin.

“Do you think it's a plan of You-Know-Who's?” asked Mrs Weasley.

“We can't be sure,” said Tonks. “With Dumbledore gone the boy's no use unless he's a full-fledged Death Eater and so far he hasn't used him for anything else. If anything he's waiting for something special, or he just has no use for him.”

“You-Know-Who never has 'no use' for anyone,” said Bill. “It's either you work for him or you die.”

He heard Mrs Weasley sigh sadly, “He's just a boy.”

“He's a bad boy, Mum,” said Bill. “He can't claim misguidance knowing that he tried to kill Professor Dumbledore twice before he got him in the tower. What if one of those plots had succeeded? We would have to be worrying about him too instead of just wondering what he's there for. Not to mention that one of those plots nearly got—”

“I know that,” said Mrs Weasley, forcefully cutting him off. “He's an unpleasant boy, a very contemptuous and unpleasant boy… but he's still a boy nevertheless.”

There was a moment of silence, where Harry was sure everyone was giving her exasperated and pitying looks and then Lupin said, “And then there's Snape.”

Harry's ears perked up at the name and slipping as close as possible to the wall, and as close as he dared to the room, he tried to listen.

“They've seen him too?” asked Mrs Weasley, her voice almost dripping with contempt.

“Well that's the odd thing, since the night that Harry's uncle was killed and his house burnt, no one's seen him,” explained Lupin. “He wasn't a visible person before, but now no one's seen him at all and for the life of us we don't know why. Why is Voldemort hiding him? What could he possibly want with him that doesn't involve going out and terrorising innocent people, many of whom are former students and colleagues?”

“I can think of a reason,” said Bill, grimly. “Poisons or something like them, Muggles have used chemical warfare, why can't You-Know-Who?”

For a moment again there was silence in the kitchen, this time everyone contemplating the horror that could come, and then Tonks said, “And then there was that accident in France yesterday. Their Ministry's investigating it on the advice of Scrimgeour, Kingsley says, but at the moment they can't be sure or can't confirm that it might be Voldemort's European following's doing.”

“I hope not, but if it was he has probably found an excellent, albeit temporary distraction. This has affected Muggles the world over, and if he acts quickly here, by the time they begin to recover he will have more control over Muggle Britain than they could begin to fathom,” said Lupin.

“What are we to do then?” asked Mrs Weasley.

Harry loudly stepped down to them and said, “Make sure that that doesn't happen. Keep him busy so that he never gets the chance.”

They all looked up to him surprised, not expecting to be overheard. Bill though, said quickly, “You know, we've got to find more secure places to have top secret conversations.”

Harry gave him a slightly embarrassed grin; he really should not have been eavesdropping, and asked, “Good morning. Have they seen any Death Eaters lurking around Hogsmeade?”

Lupin returned his greeting, “Good morning, Harry. No, they must know that we'll be taking extra precautions around the school.”

“Wotcher Harry!” chimed in Tonks, smiling under a mop of wild, shocking green hair. She then morphed her face slightly, so that she resembled a slightly skewed version of the Minister of Magic, and said, “You know the Ministry hype by now. 'You-Know-Who is a dangerous wizard but he will not destroy our lives. We will put this “war” to an end and bring the perpetrators to justice. They will not go unpunished.'”

Harry tried not to laugh, and asked, “Is that what they're saying now?”

“The Ministry wants to maintain confidence, and one of the ways is to downplay the damage as much as possible. A test of whether or not it is working is today, how many will be returning, how many going to Hogwarts today?” replied Lupin.

“I wish them luck,” said Harry.

And then from behind they heard the sound of footsteps. The others were coming down to the breakfast, and as was their usual pattern, those gathered in the kitchen quickly dispersed. Lupin excused himself as he had some business with the Order, Bill to go to work and Tonks as well, oddly calling before she vanished through the door, “Catch you later, Harry.” Harry watched them go and mildly wondered when the day would come that they would be comfortable involving them in their plans.

*****

It was not long before the house descended into the usual first-day-of-school madness. He, Ron, Hermione and Ginny were hurried through breakfast and getting dressed, all the while answering Mrs Weasley's fretful questions about whether or not they had packed everything. Then they were hurriedly rushed out of the house with trunks and pets in tow and bundled into the car that would drive them to King's Cross.

It was a long and uneventful ride after that. Hermione and Ginny were determinedly not looking each others way, Ron was still fighting to wake up, and failing miserably, and Mr and Mrs Weasley in the front seat were doing their best to keep the Ministry body-guard (a new one this time, Nigel Carlton, still a spy though) focused on matters other than the messy-haired, green-eyed young wizard in the back seat.

Before they were at King's Cross station though, they saw the headlines, posters and signs. They could be assured that today the Muggles would notice nothing unusual, even more so than yesterday as the news spread.

After all their favourite royal princess had been killed, who wouldn't be affected?

At the station was crowded, Muggles pouring into London to get to Buckingham Palace, Clarence House and just about everywhere they could to leave their tributes. Harry stood with Hermione and Mr Weasley a moment watching the people go, and then hurried away after Mrs Weasley, Ginny, Ron and their guard. But through the barrier, despite the crowd on the Muggle side, it was business as usual on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Well, as much business as could be done with half the usual number.

It was not deserted, no; there were quite a number of parents and prospective and returning students. But there were noticeably less people on the platform, and those that were there hurried onto the bright red Hogwarts Express almost as soon as they arrived.

Mrs Weasley decided to follow the crowd. Doing something that she had never before, she turned to them as soon as they were all through, and said, “I want you all to be careful, I know you know how dangerous it is now, but I just want you to promise me that you will be. You should have nothing to worry about, Hogwarts is the safest place to be now and the Order is going to make sure that it is. Have a good year—now, go on and join your friends.”

Their guard stopped them on their way to the train, making a show of insisting on clearing the path to the doors. Mr Weasley took the opportunity to pull them aside too, and told Harry, “I know you're up to something, I don't know what, and frankly, I don't think it's my place anymore to ask—”

“—Mr Weasley, sir—” Harry began to protest but he stopped him.

“—no, I know, just take care of yourselves… and if you need it, ask for help, we will give it to you. We know that Professor Dumbledore was preparing you for something, or at least had set you on the right path before he… well, just take care of yourselves,” he said.

Harry didn't know what to say to that. He was sure that he was supposed to say something, but “Thanks” and “Okay” were either insufficient or saying too much. He settled on a slight nod, and then had to hurry away when Hermione called, “Come on, Harry, it's time to go!”

Walking onto the train was like walking into school in a nightmare where he had forgotten his clothes. But where his schoolmates would usually point and laugh and whisper, here they just stared and whispered and moved out of the way to let him and the others through. Harry dropped his gaze and tried to seek out a deserted cabin, while at the same time keeping a look out for sign of Neville or Luna or just about anyone they knew. Unfortunately, he could see no one.

There were the new students, and more likely than not most of those present were Muggle-born, knowing nothing or little of the war at hand. There were some he knew only by sight in lower years, and then those by name, like Romilda Vane (who Ron glared at) and Demelza Robbins (who was on their Quidditch team). But they would walk almost the full length of the train before they would see someone they knew well. As they had been hoping, Neville and Luna were already seated in a compartment waiting for them, and Neville got up to admit them and greeted them with a smile, “Hey guys… we were wondering if you'd be coming back.”

“Hey Neville, really?” asked Harry, stepping in with the others.

“Yes, we thought that after what happened you wouldn't, everyone knows how close you were to Professor Dumbledore,” he replied.

“And that whatever you were up to was probably too important to wait for the end of the year,” added Luna.

Accustomed to her by then, Harry asked, “What makes you think that whatever we were doing was important?”

“Professor Dumbledore would never take a student out of school if it wasn't,” she told him, simply.

Harry shrugged and put his trunk and Hedwig up in the overhead compartment and then stopped to help Hermione and Ginny do the same. When they sat though, he took a seat beside Neville with Hermione and Ron sat beside Luna, facing them, with Ginny. A strange silence descended over them, something that almost never happened before, and then Ron asked, “So who's the new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor?”

“You don't know?” asked Neville, his eyebrows disappearing into his fringe.

“No, do you?” asked Ron. “Wait let me guess, its Percy right?”

Luna replied for him, “Nobody knows, and they're keeping it top secret. Father says it's because they're doing a favour for one of Minister Scrimgeour's co-conspirators.”

“Co-what?” asked Hermione, brow furrowed slightly. Harry quickly caught on though and tried to stop her. He gently tapped her shoulder and when she turned to face him shook his head, but Luna was already replying.

“One of his co-conspirators in the Rotfang Conspiracy, they're demanding payment to keep quiet and so he's paying them off,” she explained.

Harry internally cringed, waiting for Hermione's inevitable and undoubtedly harsh dismissal. But instead, all she said was, “Oh,” with a tone that stated plainly, “Sorry I asked.”

Okay now something was up. Since when did Hermione not argue logic with Luna?

There was a mild shaking and then they heard the sound of the train's engine coming to life, the intermittent puffs of steam and dark smoke increasing their pace. It was time to go and Harry took a momentary glance out the window, wondering if the Weasleys were still waiting around to see them off. They probably hadn't—for again, it was not safe no matter what the Ministry said—but he immediately spotted them and their somewhat forlorn expressions.

He continued to watch them as the train pulled away, and fancied for a moment he saw something black slip across the platform behind them. It was probably their guard though, and it was confirmed when he stepped out to join them and usher them away. Harry watched them until they disappeared still, and then turned back into the cabin to hear, “—horn is still here.”

“What?” he asked the speaker, Luna.

“Professor Slughorn is back again,” said Ron, “and guess who's Transfiguration.”

Harry did not bother, “Who?”

“Tonks,” he announced.

“What?” Harry asked.

“That Auror who was guarding the school last year, and who came for us in the Ministry,” replied Neville.

“Really?” asked Harry, looking to Hermione and Ron. They both nodded and he exclaimed, “Well, blow me!”

And then the door to their cabin drew back and in stepped Ernie Macmillan, a Hufflepuff in their year who was a bit pompous but Harry liked well enough… and he was sporting the missing Head Boy badge. When he saw them he smiled and said, “Well hello there Harry, you all… ah Hermione, I knew you'd gotten it, congratulations.”

He had apparently tried to make it look like he'd spotted her wearing her badge, how he found out was beyond everyone. But unfortunately for him, when they all looked she wasn't wearing it at all. They decided to let it go though, and she replied, “Congratulations to you too… are we supposed to hold a meeting or something?”

Harry did a double take. Hermione didn't even know what her duties were supposed to be, since when?

“Well, not yet, but I just wanted to remind you that we're supposed to hold a meeting with the new prefects and patrol the train. We'll also have to organise the crossing for the First Years as Professor Hagrid's not in this year and it appears that there isn't anyone available at the school to help,” he replied.

“Oh, okay,” she said, and then with another smile he was gone.

Harry waited until she turned back to them to give her a meaningful look but she ignored it. And then he realised that she was probably going to give the badge back at school—something she hadn't mentioned or discussed at the Burrow—and he decided to let her be.

The rest of the ride then, seemed very much as if it would continue as usual. The day turned to afternoon the closer they drew to Scotland and Hogsmeade village. The old lady with the trolley, still dressed in mourning black, came round with the sweets. Lost or curious students came by their cabin and peered in the door or asked directions to the loo. A group of Slytherins, comprising of Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson, Crabbe and Goyle, trekked past them off somewhere, but did not look in. And then halfway through the ride, Ernie Macmillan came back again to take Hermione off to the meeting while informing Harry and Ginny that Professor Slughorn wanted to see them.

Again Neville, Luna and Ron were left out, but when Harry made to refuse, surprisingly Ron just waved him off. Harry paused, looked at him and said, “I wasn't going.”

“Ginny's going, and that Zabini is there, go look out for her,” he told him.

Ginny scoffed, “I don't need anyone to 'look out' for me.”

“He's your boyfriend, isn't he?” asked Ron, with a slightly pained expression on his face.

It was then that Harry remembered that he and Ginny were yet to tell anyone that they had broken up. He had to marvel though, at the fact that Ron had apparently not figured it out yet. And Hermione, who was still in the doorway for some reason, had apparently not told him either. He was sure that Ron would have taken it so much better if she had told him for them. With a slight sigh he decided to confess, despite their audience, “Listen Ron, about that….”

But something in his expression must have given it away for Ron took one look at him, then looked at Ginny and went, “He's not… anymore? What—”

Hermione cut in to save them, “You two better hurry up, he might send someone to come looking if you don't go.”

Both Harry and Ginny gave her a grateful look and they hurried out of the cabin and went their separate ways. Harry and Ginny walked the way in silence; spared of embarrassment they seemed to have nothing to say to each other. That was odd, all last year Harry had been trying to find something to say to her, now it never even crossed his mind.

Before they were actually to the cabin though, there was a violent shuddering, the brakes screeched horribly and the train came to a dead stop. This time Harry and Ginny did look to each other, and Harry hustled her into Slughorn's cabin.

As the year before the short, squat, heavily overweight and elderly Potions Master was seated on a pile of cushions in his cabin, a tray of food—including crystallised pineapple cubes—on the table before him and a group of less than happy students arranged around him. Blaise Zabini and Cormac McLaggen were there as expected, and looked up at the two late arrivals with mingled expressions of surprise and alarm. The question on their lips though no one dared voice it: Why had the train stopped?

Slughorn though, seemed entirely unaffected, and greeted them cheerfully, “Harry my boy, and Miss Weasley… but where is Miss Granger… or has she gone off on her duties already?”

Stiffly, Harry replied, “Yes.”

The Potions Master continued, “Could you tell me though, dear boy, why the train has stopped?”

“I-I…” and here Harry paused, thinking of the last time the train had stopped. It was his Third Year in fact, and while he, Ron and Hermione sat in their cabin, a group of dangerous Dementors boarded the train and swept immediately to his cabin. He looked to the windows mildly alarmed, but then realised that all the lights were still on, and that he wasn't cold… so that meant…?

That was when they heard the first scream.

Without thinking, Harry shoved open the door to the cabin and tried to go back out. He was stopped by Ginny though, demanding anxiously, “Where are you going?”

“Hermione… and Ron…” he said, and tried to wrench free of her.

He stopped cold again though when he heard a voice, a very familiar and arrogant drawl calling down the corridor, “Where's Harry Potter?”

Recovering quickly, he finally freed himself from Ginny and slipped out the cabin and down the corridor until he was standing before the door to the car. Through a window he could see that they had stopped over a bridge, and knowing where this bridge was, they would never be heard. No one would probably even notice, in fact, that they were missing until later that evening when the train didn't arrive at Hogsmeade Station.

Clever Malfoy, very clever….

Then Harry remembered that there were Aurors on board, and, as if on cue, three dark cloaked men suddenly rushed past him on their way to Malfoy and whoever else was with him on the train. There was some minor scuffling, a shout, (“STUPEFY!”) and someone fell. But then the scuffles started again and somehow or the other, through more screams and shouts—some of which tore into Harry's chest like a double-edged, serrated knife—the door at the other end of the car before him tore open and into it rushed Draco Malfoy.

Harry nearly started where he stood, and flashed worried looks to the cabins in his path. He wasn't afraid of Malfoy, but there was no telling what he or the others with him—for he could hear them coming—would do. Malfoy paid them no mind though, with his pointy chin in the air he marched down the corridor towards him with a determined look in his cold grey eyes.

Harry slipped back beside the door, ready to stun him just as he came through. But when Malfoy came in he turned on him, clearly having seen him through the glass on the door and sneered, “Well hello Potter, long time no see.”

Harry drew his wand too, though Malfoy ignored it, and said, “Give yourself up, Malfoy, you don't stand a chance. If the Aurors find you they won't show mercy.”

Malfoy arched a brow, “And you'll show it to me?”

Harry gritted his teeth at his arrogance. How could he stand there so confident knowing that Harry knew what he had done? He had more than enough cause to harm him now, for, in addition to facilitating the Headmaster's death, he had also nearly killed Ron, his best friend, and poor Katie Bell. But he was probably haughtily counting on the fact that Harry wouldn't do it, and for some reason in that moment, Harry couldn't summon the anger to. Well, at least, not for the moment.

Malfoy continued, “You must be so pleased, aren't you Potter? To see me standing here, knowing that I am being chased by those incompetent Ministry officers?”

Harry refused to answer.

“But that's quite alright by me. So tell me, where's that filthy jumped-up Mudbl—”

Harry cut him off with a flick of his wrist and suddenly Draco found himself suspended by a leg with his robes hanging down over his head. Furious, Malfoy sent Harry sliding under him across the floor and into another door. The door to Slughorn's cabin finally flew open and Ginny and various students within hurried into the corridor. A quick look around and some rushed to Harry while the others rushed to Malfoy.

Oh the trouble of fighting in a small, crowded area.

The first to his side was Ginny and she hastened to bring him to his feet. Once standing he tried to reach over them to hex Malfoy, but Ginny got him first, hitting him with a well-aimed Bat Bogey Hex, while the others barely had time to get out of the way. Malfoy though, deflected it at the last minute, freed himself from Harry's spell and wildly cast a mixture of childish jinxes so that they would go further. They hastily dashed off to the closest available cabins and fought to get in while the occupants of which were standing against the door peering out in shock.

But he wasn't finished yet. Once the path was clear and all that stood between him were Ginny, Blaise and Harry, he announced, “At last the Weaselette, I've been looking all over for you.”

Harry's eyes widened in alarm and he hurriedly grabbed hold of Ginny's arm and dragged her behind him. She protested though, yelling over his shoulder, “Let him try! Let him try! I'll get you Malfoy!”

Malfoy looked bored, and drawled, “You heard her Potter, step aside; this is between me and the Weasley.”

And then Blaise, who had been standing in the corridor with his wand drawn, though not pointed at his former friend, said, “Draco, what are you doing? You're surrounded.”

Harry couldn't be sure if he was trying to help him or not. But apparently, neither did Malfoy, not that he, Malfoy, apparently cared for he said, “I came here for her, and I've brought friends.”

He enunciated the last word slowly, so that Blaise would take the meaning. Blaise though, spoke up again, “There are more Aurors than Death Eaters on this train.”

Malfoy decided to ignore him, “Step aside Potter, your girlfriend and I have something to discuss.”

Harry, irrationally, began to protest, “She's not my—” when the door sprang open behind Malfoy and into the car stumbled Ron and Hermione with three Aurors in tow. Behind Harry he could hear the sounds of others, but this time he was sure they were mostly students. Where were the teachers when they needed them?

Draco took one look at the situation, and discovered that Blaise was right. There were more Aurors, and students, and teachers than Death Eaters on the train. If he attempted to do what he was ordered to do he would be captured, or worse, killed. And it was with horror that he also realised that the Dark Lord must have known this, must have been counting on this….

Thank goodness he had been prepared, he supposed numbly.

He did the only thing he could do then, he Disapparated with a loud crack unto the roof of the train. The crowd surged back into the halls after him, Harry, Ginny, Blaise, Ron and Hermione becoming lost in their midst, Cormac McLaggen finally stepping out of Slughorn's cabin. But Harry pushed his way through them to Hermione, and once with her, grabbed her arm and asked Ron, “Did you see where he went?”

Someone else answered, a small Second Year girl calling from her cabin, “He's on the roof!”

They fought their way through to her, the first cabin after the door, but before they got there they saw a flash of black and heard her scream. They all stopped cold and the train was silent.

Draco had jumped, he had actually jumped….

Harry was only vaguely conscious of putting an arm around Hermione's shoulders while she just stared blankly ahead, as if not quite believing what she was seeing. As a matter of fact they all were. Though wizards were probably the most difficult to kill by Muggle means, they were apparently not impervious to suicide.

But presently they became aware of another sound. Pansy Parkinson, who had finally fought her way in behind them just in time to see the flash of fluttering black cloth, suddenly collapsed against Blaise Zabini sobbing uncontrollably. And though in the nearly seven years they had known each other they had never liked each other, Harry could not help but feel sorry for her.

*****

It was a silent and subdued train that finally pulled into Hogsmeade Station some two hours later. It had taken the teachers, prefects and Aurors—themselves a little shell-shocked—less than half an hour to get the other students back into their cabins and the train off again. But there was nothing they could do to stop the tears and vomiting and dazed looks. Though most of them had had a reason to hate Draco Malfoy, and others not known of him, his death….

When it was time for the Head Boy and Girl to gather the First Years to take them across on boats, Hermione left their cabin with more reluctance than usual. Harry and the others mutely followed the crowd to the carriages, and he tried not to look for those who would spot the thestrals—the black, red-eyed, skeletal-faced and winged “horses” that pulled them. But no one seemed to notice them, they were walking as if led by invisible strings and Harry, after stopping a moment to pat the head of one of them, climbed into the carriage for the ride to school, uninterested in the Aurors and other students around them.

But despite sitting in the same compartment with Ron, Luna and Ginny none of them said a word. Well, no one save Luna, who, upon sitting herself beside the window, said, “Someone should tell his mother.”

Harry thought of Narcissa Malfoy, supposedly a slightly less evil version of her sister, Bellatrix, and said, “Someone will.”

How foolish he had been to think this morning that today would be the usual, and he blamed the precious two-week vacation for that. The Dark Lord had managed to infiltrate every other aspect of Harry's life, why couldn't he interfere here? Harry could only hope that he would be as irked by Draco's death as they all were disturbed.

A/N: Sorry Draco lovers, it had to be done, you'll see.

-->

A/N: It seems that I am always apologising for late posts, but it really can't be helped. I've just lost interest in this story somehow, and then there's NaNoWriMo. I will not abandon it though, I refuse to, I've started too many stories and not finished and I have a really elaborate plan for this one and everything. So, with that in mind, three things:

1) There is a statement here that may seem inaccurate given events of the fic; I know about it, I'm leaving it for a reason.

2) The new student included, though way off canon, is here for a reason.

And 3) Further updates, again, will be slow, and so I've paused A Tale of Winter, with luck that won't happen here.

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling, nothing here except most of the plot is mine, and frankly, I don't want it. This way it never has to end.

*****

Percy the Professor

Though he was sure that it had, Hogwarts did not look as if it had changed a bit from the day they left it mere months before. As Harry walked through the front doors with Ginny, Ron, Neville and Luna, he couldn't help but be struck by how familiar it all felt, and then still foreign. Of course, considering that three people would now never walk through its doors again—one of who he would personally see to if he could—how could it not?

There were the same moving suits of armour standing tall against the castle walls; there were the same smiling and waving portraits—though a few looked rather grim now—welcoming back the returning students; there were the ghosts (Nearly Headless Nick actually sought his eyes to give a feeble nod) floating somewhat cheerily to the Great Hall for dinner and there were the proud banners of the four houses still fluttering tall as they themselves walked in. But it was all changed; it would never, ever be the same again.

Firstly, in the Headmaster's seat sat a new person. In robes of tartan with her hair pulled back in its usual stiff bun, Professor McGonagall greeted all the returning students with a slight smile (almost uncharacteristic of her) and a polite nod. Harry returned it and then scanned the seats beside her to see who else was there. Most of the other teachers had returned but four seats still sat empty, three of which would be filled later on that evening he supposed.

Second, as they took their seats in the Great Hall all noticed that half their number had not returned. There were large gaps between groups of students as they sat down, and though they were directed to come forward and together by Professor Grubbly-Plank—who had only just entered and was probably taking over Hagrid's classes again until he returned—it just emphasised how many parents had not been assured by the Ministry's promises.

At least a few had though, for as Harry sat down with Ron, Neville and Ginny, they were pleasantly surprised to find that Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas and the Creevey brothers, among others, had returned as well.

“Hey Harry,” greeted Colin Creevey, and for once he was without his camera. His brother, Dennis, beside him shyly waved.

“Hello Colin, Dennis,” replied Harry, returning the greeting as cheerfully as he could.

The obviously missing students, which included the Patil sisters, jarred his eyes as he went back to checking the tables. Lavender Brown, who was usually already giggling and speaking low with Parvati, looked completely miserable, and even more so when she saw Ron. Ron, for his part, made a point of not looking her way.

And, of course, third, under a querulous night sky, the hall was decorated by a series of black banners, the head table covered in a black table cloth decorated with the school's emblem in varying degrees of black, grey and white. They were still in mourning.

Gradually, everyone was seated and settled and Professor McGonagall unsteadily stood to speak. She said nothing at first though, just surveyed the room as if counting the vacant seats and seemed to note them with an increasingly dejected look. But when she spoke at last, finally finished with her count nearly five minutes later, she said firmly, “On behalf of myself and the staff, I would like to formally welcome all of you back to another year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry… if lesser in number than we had expected. But before we get to the much anticipated meal and important announcements, let us have our Sorting.”

She sat again and Argus Filch, the caretaker, opened the doors to admit Hermione, Ernie and the First Years. And Harry could not contain the very relieved but short exhale he gave when he saw them either.

For their part, the newly appointed Head Boy and Girl marched the students to the front of the hall without ceremony. Hermione, having apparently finally cleaned up her act, managed a smile at them while she passed their table, and Ernie did the same to his friends in Hufflepuff, but otherwise they gave no indication of any real joy in their new positions. Being Head Boy and Girl, considering the outer environment, was no longer what either must have felt it originally. And when they were at last at the head table, they deposited their young charges without a word, greeted the teachers, and then lamely returned to their friends.

Harry slid a space down for Hermione to sit between him and Ron, and when she did she exclaimed, “Thank goodness that's done, getting First Years into the boats and across the lake is harder than it looks! And half of them are still crying over Dr-Dr—Malfoy!”

There were indeed quite a number of red faces and puffy eyes in the group, making them very much a miserable-looking lot. Harry looked away from them to avoid thinking about Malfoy's death, and despite Hermione's exclaim she had actually faltered pronouncing his name. They had not been and possibly would never have been friends, but none of them could just ignore the fact that he was gone.

At the head table though, Professor Sprout had risen and was walking to the group with list and Sorting Hat in hand. While all eyes were directed to this, Harry took the opportunity to lean over and whisper to Ron and Hermione, “When this is done we go directly to Professor McGonagall.”

They both nodded and turned back to the head table.

The Sorting Ceremony, the means by which Hogwarts students had been selected for one of the school's four houses—Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin, and of course, Gryffindor—since time immemorial was somewhat a much-hallowed event at the school. For almost as long as the Sorting Ceremony existed too, it had conducted by an old, worn mangy-looking hat—the Sorting Hat—which had once belonged to school founder, Godric Gryffindor. This Hat, being a magical hat, had a song that it usually sang before the sorting too, to introduce the new students to the houses and their qualities. On rare occasions though, and once in Harry's memory, the Sorting Hat could change its song, and this night was once more to be one of them.

When Professor Sprout brought the Hat and rested it on a stool that had been previously set out for the ceremony, the First Years stood a while staring at it both curious and surprised. And then the rip in its brim opened, and it began to sing… and repeated the warning song of two years previous.

Though now a song that they had heard three years in a row, when it was done no one could speak nor was there a dry eye in the room. The only sound that did prevail though was a thunderous silence that filled Harry's ears to shut out the world and fill his head with images of people, and all of them now dead.

He saw and heard Professor Dumbledore with him leaving the cave, the fake Horcrux in his pocket, his body weak and yet his declaration clear: “I am not worried Harry, I am with you.”

He could feel the anger radiating in Snape's eyes—and in turn felt his own burning in his chest—as he called him coward and chased him to the gates, and then the hollow triumph as he revealed himself the Half-Blood Prince.

He could see the shock in Draco's eyes as the same Half-Blood Prince's spell cut through his chest, spraying Myrtle's bathroom and almost everything in it in his hot red blood. It quickly changed though, to a flutter of black cloth, and Harry's imagination procured and fuelled an image of a mangled, broken body, a white-haired boy with pointy chin, lying at the bottom of a dried-out river bed under the train tracks.

He shook his head to clear the image and saw Hermione studying him with an expression of deep concern. He looked away just as the first student (“Abdul, Corinne!”) went off to Ravenclaw.

It soon settled into the pattern of the Sorting Ceremonies previous—moment of anticipation as the name called, loud cheers from the house who “won”—and Harry allowed his mind to wander. There were a far many other interesting things to look at, including around at the Aurors for who might have claimed the none-too-coveted Defence Against the Dark Arts post. Until, that was, he heard a name that had no business in the Sorting, unless he was mistaken.

Even Ginny and Ron snapped up to the head table when they heard Professor Sprout read, “Weasley, Mafalda!” from her list.

The last student standing: a small girl with her family's trademark bright red hair, bright brown eyes like Ginny, but freckled like Ron, and an upturned sort of nose that curiously produced an image of Narcissa Malfoy, walked timidly to the bench and sat down. Harry quickly leaned over and whispered to Ron, “Who's that?”

“O-our cousin I guess…” Ginny replied for him. “Our stockbroker cousin… he… he has a witch….”

Harry turned back to the stool and the girl atop it, vaguely remembering Ron's passing mention of him back in their first year. But as he did so, the Sorting Hat announced her new house, and shocked them all, “SLYTHERIN!”

Harry was quite sure that the gasp that seemed to resonate through the hall did not come from him alone.

Mafalda though, looked completely unimpressed, and merely hopped off the stool and joined her strangely cool new housemates. Ron looked at her go and said, “Expected as much.”

Hermione, Ginny and Harry all looked at him with slightly arched brows.

Ron replied to Ginny, “What? You heard what he's like, where'd you think she'd go?”

Further discussion was interrupted though, by Professor McGonagall rising once more, and after sternly, and loudly clearing her throat, beginning, “I have some announcements to make.”

Everyone sat straighter in their seats and went silent.

“First of all, the new rules: This year, in light of the on-going… situation… all Hogsmeade visits, Quidditch games and unnecessary deliveries to the school have been cancelled.”

The groans and shouts of protest rose quickly, she determinedly spoke on over them.

“At the advice of the Ministry and our board of Governors, we have deemed it too unsafe at this time to allow them. Only mail and necessary deliveries are allowed, no student is to leave the school unless for a family emergency and for the foreseeable future brooms are only to be used for flying lessons. Students with their own brooms are only to use them with official permission.”

The groans grew louder, but if any looked at Professor McGonagall, they might have noticed her own displeasure at the loss of Quidditch. Given the fact that the house last in possession of the cup was Gryffindor though, the disappointment could not be that bad.

Presently she silenced them once more, continuing, “Also, a strict curfew has been set in place. Students are expected to be in their houses by eight p.m. every night, and nine on weekends and during the Christmas and Easter breaks. The only exceptions of course, are for Astronomy lessons and detentions. Any students out after that time must have signed permission from a teacher or be escorted by a prefect. There will be no exceptions.”

Harry thought that she gave him a meaningful look then. He maintained his expressionless one.

There was a pause, a soft sigh, and then she began again, “Now, I would like to introduce two new members of staff that will be joining us this year. You already know Professor Horace Slughorn, who teaches Potions….”

She looked to him and they all turned to Slughorn seated at the head table between Professors Trelawney and Flitwick. Still short and overweight with his shiny bald head, prominent eyes (in no way reminiscent of Luna) and enormous walrus-like moustache, he was dressed in yet another gold-buttoned waistcoat over some expensive-looking but somewhat shabby old-fashioned clothes. But despite this sameness in his eyes they could clearly see some exhaustion and though Harry could not be sure, fear. He greeted them all with a modest, deprecating smile though and winked at Harry.

“He has graciously agreed to retain his post to ensure that idleness is kept at bay. But he will have some specially trained assistance, as our new Transfiguration Professor—temporarily of course—is in fact, an Auror. Auror Nymphadora Tonks.”

As her name was called, Tonks finally appeared, stumbling out of the shadows where she had been waiting, quietly observing them all, to the staff table. Her hair was a brilliant green, her robes just a size too big—and open, to reveal her Weird Sisters t-shirt beneath—and though she tried her best to look authoritative, no one believed it. Professor McGonagall quietly sighed when she sat down and knocked over a goblet. Harry wondered then, why, if she had obviously known of Tonks' clumsiness and slightly non-conformist behaviour, she had selected her for the position anyway.

She waved at them, and they returned it with bright smiles.

Professor McGonagall then said, “And lastly, but certainly not least, I'm sure… we have a new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor… Percy Weasley.”

Simultaneously, the jaws of Ron, Ginny, Hermione and Harry, dropped.

But sure enough, stepping out of the shadows where Tonks had been was the tall, skinny Weasley-outcast with his red hair slicked neat and his wear-shorn glasses set primly on his nose. He gave the entire hall a look of obvious disdain and quietly and contemptuously took a seat beside Professor Slughorn.

“I don't believe this…” said Ron.

“Me either…” said Harry.

“Whatever makes them think that that prat is going to make a good teacher?” asked Ginny, as bewildered as the rest of them.

“Remember Umbridge?” asked Harry, and she paused as if actually considering it, and flashed him a grin.

“Now that that's done, I have only one thing to say. I know that we have all been through and are going through a terrible time. I know that we are afraid, that we are concerned, but I also do know that we are all going to do our best to carry on as usual. Professor Dumbledore… was a great man, and a good teacher, and would have most certainly loved to be here today. But he isn't. And we, who are, while we are not going to forget him, are going to do exactly as he would have wanted us to….”

She paused a moment for silence, as well as to gather her composure, before continuing, “I have been informed of the occurrence on the train this afternoon. I know that you are all distressed and disturbed by what transpired. But I ask you to remember that Draco Malfoy was a very troubled boy; there is nothing that any of us could have done no matter how much we wanted to. Our thoughts are with his family, and his friends, we know you all miss him.”

There was a moment of silence again that even Ron and Harry had to observe, and then she announced, smiling now, “Welcome to Hogwarts, let the feast begin.”

Piles upon piles of delicious-smelling and tastefully arranged food appeared on the tables before them. Professor McGonagall resumed her place at the head table, and Harry did not miss the distinctly peeved expression on Percy's face. If he had been planning on making a speech he was not going to get the chance. Harry looked away though, to whisper again to Ron and Hermione, “Remember, we see McGonagall after this.”

They both nodded as they reached for their plates.

*****

Two hours later, the feast was over and the students were being herded off to their dormitories. Harry and Ron though, slipped out of the group of Gryffindors (a more difficult task than usual, but given past experiences no one batted an eyelid) and waited around for Hermione at the top of the staircase.

She would return a full half hour later—during which time Harry and Ron had taken advantage of the opportunity to look at the Slytherins slinking off to bed, the Weasley with them conspicuously at the back of the group—and sighing, said, “I like Ernie, I really do, he's a wonderful boy, but would it kill him to shut up?”

Both boys had to stifle their grins; she didn't look in the mood for it.

“So, ready to go?” she asked, having exhausted her complaints on Ernie.

Harry sobered at once. “Yes, McGonagall's supposed to be in the office and everyone else's supposed to be in their rooms.”

They started off to the headmistress' office and Hermione asked, “Did you hear the new rules?”

“Yes, no Quidditch, don't remind me. Why don't they just put us into comas until this is over? Whose brilliant idea it was anyway?” muttered Ron, angrily.

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance and Hermione continued, “No, I mean the rules about being out after curfew. It's going to make getting around a lot harder.”

“No, it won't,” said Harry. “Not for us anyway, we have the Map, and as soon as we talk to McGonagall we should have more. Dumbledore knows we can't hide here for an entire year while Voldemort's out there killing people.”

But just as they rounded the corner they came face to face with Filch's red-eyed grey cat, Mrs Norris. And she did not look amused to find them out of bed.

Harry and Ron though, made a point of walking round her and carrying on as usual. Ron whispering as they went, “Expect Filch soon, wherever that cat is, he isn't too far behind.”

For once though, he wasn't, and they were able to continue up to the Headmistress' office without incident. (Well save for the occasional portrait hailing Harry the closer they got to it.) At the stone gargoyle, Harry gave the password—it had not changed from the vacation, or at least, not yet—and led the winding staircase up to the office. Professor McGonagall, once again, was awaiting them at her desk.

“Good evening Mr Potter, Mr Weasley, Miss Granger, I was wondering how long it would take you to come here.”

Harry spoke first, “Good evening, Professor. You said in your letter that you wanted to speak to us first before you agreed to anything?”

“Yes, Mr Potter,” she replied, sitting up. “I have some terms of my own.”

The three exchanged glances and sat together before the table. Professor Dumbledore joined his fellow former heads in feigning sleep to listen.

“According to your letter, the three of you do not intend on spending the entire school year here. That you may leave, though you won't tell me why, and that you expect to be allowed to do so and as discreetly as possible.”

She stopped and looked at them, Harry nodded, unnecessarily, and she continued.

“After speaking to Albus, I have agreed to your terms. But, as I said, I have some of my own. Firstly, as long as you are here you are to obey the rules of the school as they are. That means you won't be out after curfew, you will go to your classes, and if you have to be out, you will not do so without first making a formal request for permission or being previously invited. I don't want you just bursting in here every time you like, this is still your school.”

The three nodded again.

“Also, as you expect discretion from me, I expect the same of you. You know the Minister's intentions, so that when you do leave I am sure that you have some way of doing it without attracting too much suspicion…?”

“Yes ma'am,” Harry replied.

“Good,” she said, sighed for what felt like the millionth time for the evening, and then asked, “Now, is there anything you would like to tell me?”

Hermione at once leaned over and placed the Head Girl badge on her desk, “I can't accept this.”

“Why not?” asked Professor McGonagall and she looked rather displeased. But then, so was Ron, who was looking at Hermione confused and upset. Only Harry said nothing, having come to the general conclusion on her intention while he and Ron waited for her to return.

“I can't be Head Girl if we're not going to be here all year,” she replied, simply. Her expression though, was more of surprise herself, than steely determination.

Professor McGonagall paused, considering this, and then told her, “My dear, at this point the school may not be open the entire year, unless Mr Potter here decides to hurry, so I think there's nothing wrong with you keeping the badge.”

“But—” Hermione made to protest before she was cut off.

“No `buts', the badge is yours, and while you're here I know you shall maintain the prestige the position has always held,” replied Professor McGonagall, firmly. “So again, is there anything else you would like to tell me?”

Ron looked for a moment as if he were engaged in a fierce internal war, and then said, “Percy…?”

Professor McGonagall's mouth became a thin line, and she replied, “The Minister personally recommended him, we had no choice. Don't worry though; I'm sure you and your brother can get along.”

Ron looked away, immediately disproving that, but Hermione poked him in the arm and, turning back to the Headmistress, asked, “And Tonks?”

Professor McGonagall looked down then, with a little chuckle so uncharacteristic that it startled them all, and said, “Another one of the Ministry's 'choices'. We all know that she can be a bit clumsy but she assured me and I have seen myself that she can be trusted. If it helps, I will also have some eyes on her, she is a trained professional though, so the only ones who will be in any real danger will be the Ministry. She won't let us down.”

Harry tried to convince himself of that—sure that she herself was going trying the same—and said, “Okay… well, I guess we'd better go then—”

“I have something to say,” spoke up Professor Dumbledore's portrait at last, and they all turned to him.

“Our first meeting should be Wednesday night, the adventure, I'm afraid, is far from over,” he replied.

“It was no adventure,” said Harry, his voice cold.

Professor Dumbledore stopped a moment, considering this, and replied, “No, you're right, it wasn't. But one should never take life too seriously, it depresses the soul and makes it more vulnerable to harm than anything.”

Harry said nothing to this; Professor McGonagall rose and bid them all goodnight.

*****

There was a surprise in the common room. As soon as they came through the portrait hole they were greeted by all of Gryffindor house gathered on couches, cushions and every available sitting place awaiting them. They stopped where they stood, and looked right back at them.

Eventually, the Gryffindor emissary, Ginny, stood and asked, “When's the first meeting?”

“What?” Harry asked, confused and then just a little concerned.

“For Dumbledore's Army, you've got some new members. The others would be here, but the curfew is up and the teachers are patrolling tonight,” she replied.

Only slightly relieved, Harry began to say, “Who said I was starting the DA again?” but was cut off by Hermione, “You're going to have to give Harry some time to settle in, we'll have an answer for you next week.”

The sounds of angry protest quickly filled the air, as everyone began to complain at once. Ron and Harry both turned on Hermione and Harry demanded, “What do you mean 'we'll have an answer for you next week', we can't do this!”

“I know what I'm doing,” she insisted.

“You better,” said Ron.

“Are you sure?” asked Harry.

“Yes, tell them,” she told him.

Harry turned back to the others and raised his hands. Surprisingly, they all fell silent, and he said, “Next week, we'll have our first meeting in a week. We've only just got here, and I'm tired.”

The groans of protest rose again, but they were weaker now and very quickly more than half of the gathered Gryffindors dispersed. Harry decided not to wait around for the rest, as of those that remained, including Neville, Seamus, Dean and Lavender, looked as if they wanted to talk. He nodded to Ron and Hermione and they separated and went up to bed. After all, tomorrow was the first day of school.

Before Harry fell asleep though, he remembered Draco, and Professor Dumbledore's voice running in his head, “It was Severus' belief that young Draco was being used as a tool to punish his father. I'm sure you know of Lucius' attempt at escape recently, Voldemort gave Draco this task at once to be rid of me and then to punish him for failure. It was a suicide mission, and any purpose to which Draco is put anymore—though he may have 'succeeded' here—may be to that end, to kill him.”

For the first time since he met him he wondered about Lucius Malfoy. How would he take the news, and his wife, and then Voldemort? Voldemort would be happy of course, Narcissa would probably be distraught, but Lucius…. Harry had never liked him, was quite sure that he never would, but he remembered the way he had allowed his son to bully him…. He swiftly cut of the thought, they were a terrible family. They had brought this on themselves.

Yet when Harry finally fell asleep, he dreamt of trains.

-->

A/N: Ah yes, hi there! *waves* I'm taking a break from my floundering NaNoWriMo attempt to post this chapter. I was going to last Wednesday on my birthday but I couldn't. Had a little trouble with an Antivirus programme that seems to think it has permission to ruin my life. *waves fist threateningly at computer* Anyway, hope you understand what I'm trying to do, cause I know what it is, the problem, as always, seems to lie in the execution.

Disclaimer: Yeah, not mine, nor some of the future references that will be made to Elizabeth Kostova's The Historian, (good book, long and sometimes rather convenient in the action, but good nevertheless).

*****

Igor the Reluctant

Very quickly, Harry, Ron and Hermione fell back into their old school routine: go to classes, get homework, sneak around the castle after hours and speculate on what the outside world was up to. It was not as if they any other choice, they had a Ministry and Voldemort to fool, not to mention that Professor McGonagall had no intention of allowing them otherwise. And as such, by the end of the first week Harry felt as if nothing had really changed.

Their first day they received their class schedules at breakfast. Professor Sprout gave them out and hand-delivered theirs; they quickly discovered why, there was a note attached from the new Headmistress. And a hasty reading revealed that they had unrestricted access to the library's Restricted Section “on the advice of Professor Dumbledore”. Harry thought in that moment that Hermione had died and gone to heaven, so brightly had her eyes lit up. But it quickly went away (which disappointed him immensely) and she groaned, “But I didn't find anything the last time….”

With no small amount of pain or difficulty, Ron told her, “Well now… now you've got us to help you.”

Both Harry and Hermione turned to him sceptically, and shocked. He glared at them, “What? I want to help, we have to do this together remember?” They still looked unconvinced and finally he said, “They cancelled Quidditch didn't they? What else are we supposed to do?”

Harry and Hermione turned to each other and smiled, and Hermione announced, “I'm glad to hear you say that Ron, because apparently we've all got some free time this morning, so we can go right now.”

His face fell faster than a Chaser incapacitated by the Bludger a Beater missed.

Before breakfast was over though, they received two things: the post, which included the Daily Prophet with the bold headline “MALFOY HEIR DIES IN TRAGIC INCIDENT!: Distraught Mother Refuses Interviews”, and their first conversation with Mafalda Weasley.

The former stunned them all, and very quickly the hall was filled with loud, angry exchanges, as one by one the other students protested the entire article, beginning with the headline. How dare they describe what happened on the Hogwarts Express an “accident”? Malfoy had clearly attacked the train in search of a student, and when he realised he could not kill her, took his own life instead. And did they forget that he was also responsible for another attack which had not only brought in very dangerous Death Eaters, but a werewolf, and led to the murder of the Headmaster?

Harry could not resist looking over to the Slytherin table, and was greeted by the sight of Pansy crying inconsolably in the arms of a rather unhappy-looking Blaise.

But he was forced to look back to his own table though, when a small, red-haired girl suddenly appeared in his line of sight. For a moment he was worried that his old fan club of the year before was back—for they certainly hadn't gone anywhere if the “unintentional” run-ins he had so far had with them were anything to go by—but closer inspection proved otherwise. It was a First Year with Weasley features but wearing the Slytherin colours: Mafalda.

And better still, the person she directed her conversation to at first was not him, but Ron.

“Hello,” she said, looking directly at her cousin in a manner that suggested that she was less than impressed with what she was seeing, but speaking anyway.

“Hello… Mafalda…?” replied Ron, staring right back at her decidedly uninterested.

Undeterred, she began, “My father said that I was supposed to speak to you as soon as I got here, that you would show me around this place? We tried to contact you all during the vacation but we didn't get any response.”

Ron refused to attempt embarrassment or concern, “We were… busy, your letters probably got lost in the confusion—did you say that I would?”

“He was supposed to send an… owl, to your mother this morning, and I'm new here so he didn't think you'd mind. I don't know much about wizards and magic you see—”

“—lucky you,” muttered Harry in a manner someone else had once, though he couldn't be sure who.

“—so he thought you wouldn't mind showing me around,” she continued, ignoring him. “After all, I am your cousin.”

As far as both Ron and Ginny appeared to be concerned that was subject to further investigation on their part, but Ginny quickly took over, “Oh no, we don't mind. It's just that we didn't know about you until last night, you know, because of the confusion at the house and all….”

Mafalda at once beamed at them both. “Wonderful, when can we begin? Is it true that you all are really poor? Daddy says that you don't have a lot of money and that Uncle Arthur's really obsessed with Muggle-things that he doesn't understand. Mum says that if you're really wizards you shouldn't be poor, can't you all just make mo—”

“Lunchtime,” said Ginny, quickly cutting her off, for Ron's eyes had been narrowing steadily from the minute she asked her first question and any retort wouldn't have been pleasant, even though she was their cousin. “We have classes all morning and so do you.”

Mafalda didn't look even mildly apologetic or disappointed. “Okay, see you at lunchtime then….”

And then she was gone, and Ron finally spoke, “Slytherin through-and-through that one, just when you think you've gotten rid of Malfoy, someone comes to take his place.”

He forced his way around the lump that formed in his throat at the name. They had hated Malfoy and he had hated them, his death was inevitable given his father's position.

Ginny left shortly after that and Hermione dragged them both off to the library. Harry resented the sunny, clear morning out the windows as they passed, but acknowledged that they would have to give them up now to enjoy them later. And he kept repeating this to himself all the way to the library where Madam Pince greeted them frowning slightly. But Professor McGonagall's note was clear and they were ushered into the Restricted Section with nothing more than a warning glare.

He did his best, he really tried, but in the end it would take Ron all of ten minutes to get tired and give up. For Harry and Hermione then, he presented the appearance of a search, he had no less than four books open before him and he occasionally turned a page, but they weren't fooled. And especially when he stopped turning pages altogether and they heard a low snore.

Harry nudged Hermione and jerked his head towards him. But instead of looking up and grinning as he had, she sighed wistfully and said, “This is hopeless, I didn't find anything in here the last time and unless they've gotten new books, we certainly aren't going to now.”

Harry pretended the optimist. “Then how about we look for something else? If there isn't anything on Horcruxes, then maybe we can find something on how… how… how I can use love as a weapon.”

She turned to give him a sceptical look, but then perked up, apparently changing her mind, and said, “You know… I've never actually heard of an emotion being transferred like that, it doesn't take much emotion to perform a spell. You want something done, you will it to be done and magic bends to the purpose, like wanting a fire and creating it with Incendio.”

“That helps,” said Harry, glumly, forgetting at once his pretence.

“But it doesn't mean that it can't be done. Your mother certainly was not the first to sacrifice herself for her child, but something was different here. Whatever she did… she-she willed you to survive… and you did…? It can't be that simple,” she muttered, more to herself than him. And suddenly she found something new to puzzle out in the Restricted Section while Ron slept and he sat wondering what to do about Horcruxes.

With Professor Dumbledore's help they may be able to find and destroy them, but without knowing how they were first created, the dangers of that were endless. He'd seen the power of the diary; would all Horcruxes act like that? He'd seen what happened to Professor Dumbledore's hand and could still vividly recall the night in the cave; would all be so elaborately hidden? He involuntarily shuddered at the thought, which earned him a curious look from Hermione, noticing the tiny movement even though she was apparently lost in her thoughts. And then there was the problem of Voldemort; how long would it take him to start noticing that something wasn't right?

“It's going to be alright, Harry. Ron and me, we're going to be with you all the way,” Hermione said then, breaking into his thoughts and yet knowing them.

He looked into her eyes, bright with emotion, and gave her his best lopsided grin. “What makes you think I was worrying about Voldemort?”

His attempt at humour did not amuse. “I know you Harry. But as long as we're together, Voldemort doesn't stand a chance. We've said this before, and I'll say it again: we're going to go with you as far as we can and we're going to do as much as we can until we can't help anymore…. And, and the first thing I'm going to do, is figure out how to turn an emotion into will and magic.”

Just then, in his sleep, Ron mumbled, “… Patronum… Ginny go with….”

Harry and Hermione stared at him a moment confused, and then Hermione's eyes widened and she exclaimed, “Oh but it has been done!”

“What?” Harry asked and his brow furrowed again for he was completely lost.

“To create a Patronus you need happy thoughts, you need to feel happy, and happiness is an emotion. When you say Expecto Patronum, you expel the magical representation of that, your Patronus,” she explained, excitement building in her eyes.

“So then what, when I face Voldemort I have to find some way to channel that emotion into a force that will protect me and kill him?” asked Harry, catching on, feeling the excitement building in his chest as well.

“Exactly, so all we have to do is figure out how to do that, come up with a spell that you can use and you win,” she said excitedly, grinning now.

Harry could not bring himself to join her, “But Hermione, I don't think I'll be looking to Voldemort with thoughts of confetti-throwing Cupids and singing Valentines in my head.”

“That's where Occlumency and Legilimency come in,” she told him.

“But I never learned Occlumency… and you want me to learn Legilimency too?” he asked in reply.

She sighed in exasperation, “Then you're going to learn Harry, somehow, someway, you're going to have to learn.”

He was about to voice another problem when they were interrupted by the arrival of Madam Pince, glowering at them now as she said, “I believe you all have classes at this time—is Mr Weasley asleep on my books?”

Ron shot up immediately, protesting, “No ma'am!”

Harry and Hermione steered clear of him all the way out of the library, laughing all the while as Madam Pince set the books snapping at the back of his head.

*****

Despite their fears, their first class with Professor Percy Weasley was not the remake of Dolores Umbridge they assumed. As it was, Percy was more than a little nervous about having Seventh Years so early on his first day and initially struggled to maintain control. He had long lost Harry and Ron, for obvious reasons, but Hermione tried to pay attention, and angrily shushed all around her who didn't. His pleas of: “I'm the teacher, please be quiet!” “Settle down now, you won't understand unless you do!” “I'll report this to the Headmistress!” fell on deaf ears until Harry, entirely by accident, silenced them.

He had been shushing back Hermione for interrupting his and Ron's rather exciting Quidditch conversation, but the class had simultaneously silenced then and they all heard him. No one spoke after that, even the Slytherins, and Percy begrudgingly spared him a grateful look before attempting to resume the lesson again.

He began, “On the advice of the Headmistress, we will be reviewing your knowledge of non-verbal spells. (The groans arose immediately and increased in volume as he struggled on.) This is just to see how far you came before… before the incident last term. Once we know how far along you are, then we'll get into Occlumency.”

The groans subsided abruptly as the class all looked to one another, some wondering what Occlumency was, others explaining and Harry, Ron and Hermione just turned to each other surprised. The Ministry was allowing him to teach the entire class Occlumency?

But Percy, when next he spoke, did not choose to elaborate, and instead spent the rest of the class putting them all to the test. And by the end of it he had determined that Hermione was best and Neville was possibly the worst. They would then have remedial classes for the rest of the month, or at least until he was sure that they could handle Occlumency. Why this was a requirement for learning Occlumency given past experience Harry could not tell, but they had to go along with it. He could then chalk it up to Ministry interference, unsure of what he would do with it but unwilling to allow him to learn as easily nevertheless. What did Percy know of Occlumency anyway?

At lunch they met Luna, after taking care to avoid Ginny and Mafalda. True to her word and interest Mafalda had appeared at the Gryffindor table the moment she spied them in the hall. It probably wasn't fair then to abandon her to Ginny but they had more pressing concerns, like Hermione filling in Ron on what they had come up with.

And it was in the midst of this whispered conversation—which Harry sat across from them and carefully observed, noting not only Ron's initial confusion that mirrored his own, but also their closeness—that Luna appeared. He had been so busy with Ginny the last few weeks of school the year before that he hadn't noticed if they had done anything about their situation after Ron and Lavender broke up. He hadn't noticed anything either during the vacation, but that meant nothing, and now that they were in school again with possibly weeks of free time until they found Hufflepuff's Cup… well, anything could happen. And then Luna's voice broke into his thoughts, asking, “What are they talking about?”

Ron and Hermione separated immediately; Ron jerked away from Hermione almost guiltily and said loudly, “Nothing, nothing! H-hello Luna… didn't see you come over….”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other in mild bewilderment, while Luna replied, “You looked like you were having an important conversation, don't stop on my account.”

“Oh no it's fine, Luna. Um… where were you going?” he asked, apparently completely forgetting the presence of Harry and Hermione. Or, for that matter that what Hermione had been trying to tell him was anything but “nothing”.

“Nowhere really,” she replied, but then her gaze wandered down the table to Ginny and Mafalda and she asked, “Is that girl your cousin?”

Ron turned to Mafalda and frowned, “Yeah… didn't find out about her until we got here.”

“Oh,” said Luna, and she turned back to them, “Well, just wanted to say hello….”

Harry and Hermione both returned her greeting and she quietly left. But she wasn't to be the first to visit them at lunch, for shortly thereafter they were visited by Romilda Vane, (who swiftly left again with a murderous glare from Ron) a group of Fourth Year Ravenclaws, (Ron was this time joined by Hermione) and a Hufflepuff who hastily asked, even through the Ron and Hermione's looks, “Is everything alright with you and Ginny Weasley?”

Harry, in response, stood up sharply and said to Ron and Hermione, “I think we should go back to the library, it's too noisy in here.”

They quickly followed, and together hid in the library until Transfiguration. He should have answered though, for by the end of the day the entire school was abuzz with rumours that Harry Potter and Ginny Weasley had broken up. No one attempted to speak directly to either one, but it was a much debated topic for days to come.

In Transfiguration, Tonks turned out to be a much better teacher than they feared. It seemed that all their concerns were being refuted that day, which was good. Though terrible teachers were furthest from their concern, when they disappeared the worse the teacher the more the fuss stirred up over it.

She greeted them all with her characteristic “Wotcher!” but then, catching herself, began again, “Good afternoon everyone, I'm Tonks, your Transfiguration professor for the time being…. Um, guess I should get this out of the way seeing that we'll be continuing from where the Headmistress left off in human transfiguration. I'm a Metamorphagus.”

There was a moment of silence after this where those who didn't know this were stunned speechless… and then there was a surge of voices speaking at once, “No way!” “Prove it!” “You can't be a Metamorphagus!”

At the last she stopped them by turning her shocking pink hair a lurid yellow and streaking the ends orange. All protest stopped, and then restarted again with demands for her transfigure other parts of her body. She firmly refused, “I can do as many as I want to naturally, but you can't. Well, according to Professor McGonagall, you can, but not to NEWT standard… and that we can't have, now can we?”

Harry was more than a little concerned then, when she winked at him and gave the rest of the class a very bright smile.

By the time class had ended she had them all transfigure their hair colour, and Harry left a blonde, Hermione a redhead and Ron a brunette. They left it that way too, for the rest of the day and Harry and Ron both had quite a laugh at their bemused teachers wondering where both had gone. Ending the day on a light note was much better than the school year had begun, and Harry was glad for it.

The next morning their first class was Potions and Slughorn was once again very happy to have them. With an air that simply exuded joviality he began the class, “Still here Harry my boy, you're disappointing many a newspaper.”
Harry smiled weakly, “I don't think it would kill them, sir.”

Hermione scoffed, “Don't they have anything better to do?”

Slughorn beamed at them both, and said, “Ah Miss Granger, we can't be serious all the time. It's bad for the funny bone and even worse for the health.”

She didn't look convinced, but Slughorn didn't give her a chance to say anymore as he announced to the class, “I think I want us to do something special today, in light of the horrible event that precipitated the beginning of the term and the ending of the last: we're all going to brew Wolfsbane.”

At once Hermione's hand shot up, and without prompting, she asked, “But sir, isn't that a terribly precise solution… and some of the ingredients hard to come by?”

He smiled at her still, in response, “So they are, but I've managed to acquire some, and since this is the NEWT-level class, we're going to be getting into some serious potions, longer brewing times and all.”

Harry, Ron and Hermione gave each other significant looks; as long as they were at school their lives were going to get increasingly complicated.

But like their first, their second day ended light-heartedly, and in this case with Ginny ranting for half-an-hour about how awful Mafalda was. It appeared that the girl had a habit for repeating what she heard from both sides—which earned Ginny more than a few reproachful looks all day—and seemed to hold the Burrow and all in it in low regard—which understandably upset her. Harry had to be grateful then, that they had yet managed to avoid a conversation with her. Though he at this point didn't much care what the Slytherins thought of him, he didn't want them to know any of his.

*****

Wednesday night, shortly after curfew, no one noticed when Harry, Ron and Hermione left the Gryffindor Common Room. Under the safety of the Invisibility Cloak and guided by the Marauder's Map—though they had permission—they were on their way to the Headmistress' Office. The message had been relayed at lunch that day by a First Year; Professor Dumbledore was ready for them.

Professor McGonagall was nowhere to be found when they arrived. The Pensieve was out and two small vials awaited them on the Headmistress' desk beneath Dumbledore's portrait. He greeted them with a brief smile as they entered, though they were still under the cloak, and once they had shut the door behind them said, “Mr Igor Karkaroff, the belated Headmaster of the Durmstrang Academy, as you know, was once a Death Eater.”

Harry swept out from under the cloak and said, “I saw him in this same Pensieve, in your memory of the Wizengamot hearings.”

Ron and Hermione came out from under it after him and walked to the desk where the memories were. Hermione picked up one of the vials and peered curiously at the silver-white strand that swirled inside. Harry reached over and took it from her, “Is this his memory?”

Professor Dumbledore nodded, “One of them. I believe you have the second there though and unless you see the first you may not understand it.”

Ron took up the second and squinted at it, “Not sure I really want to get into that slimy git's head.”

“Yeah, well I have no choice,” said Harry, staring at the vial in his hand.

Professor Dumbledore looked over the two for a moment and then began, “Igor Karkaroff was a student of the Durmstrang Academy. As you know the school has a reputation for teaching the Dark Arts and I guess it was inevitable that Tom Riddle would be drawn there. Karkaroff at the time was a recent graduate of the academy, and according to what he told me, couldn't resist him… much like almost anyone else he ever tried to charm….”

Harry thought of Hephzibah Smith, and the way she had prepared herself for his visit, the way she had stared longingly after Voldemort and the fact that he coldly disposed of her once he was sure he had located what he wanted. He could be quite charming when he wanted to be, when he needed to be.

“But didn't You-Know-Who get him last year?” asked Ron.

“Yes, unfortunately… but Igor knew that refusing to return was fatal. I'm beginning to suspect though, that he was killed for more than simple insubordination,” replied Professor Dumbledore. “And that is what we're here to figure out tonight.”

“You think he knew where one of the Horcruxes was?” asked Hermione.

Professor Dumbledore shook his head, “No, Tom would have never risked it; I don't think he trusted him enough. As I've told Harry, on principle he would not trust any of his followers; merely let them believe that he did. Igor was not a part of the Inner Circle, of the ones he was supposedly closest to, therefore I don't think he knew exactly what or where it was, but that doesn't mean that he doesn't know something that might help us.”

“So what are we supposed to do, just go in there and hope one of us sees something useful?” asked Ron.

“Precisely, now as I cannot go with you—for obvious reasons—I expect that you will be careful, don't be afraid to follow your own intuition and, to quote my old friend Alastor, be ever vigilant,” said Professor Dumbledore, smiling slightly. “Where you, or rather the memory will take you, is a small magical village on the outskirts of the town of Vratsa, in the Balkan Mountains in north-western Bulgaria. This is where Igor came from, and this is where he stumbled upon Tom a few years after he left England with his ill-gotten treasure. In the Muggle world all that area was under the Iron Curtain, but, as you may see in the memory, someone may have forgotten to tell the wizards. Good luck.”

The stop was so sudden that for a moment they stood waiting for more, but presently they realised that there was none and Ron handed the vial to Harry. The Pensieve awaited them across the room, glowing brightly, inviting them over and they didn't hesitate to oblige it. Harry led the way, drew his wand, opened the vial and poured the memory into the luminescent solution of the Pensieve. Then, standing together round the stone basin, the light reflecting off their eager, anxious faces, they joined hands and dove in.

They descended into twilight on a craggy dirt road leading into a village that was clearly a good way above sea level. They were thankfully protected from it, but they could almost feel the thin, chilly air around them, a fixture in a landscape of jutting cliffs and sharp peaks. But the villagers didn't seem to mind, of the ones they could see as their eyes fell away from the mountains and descended upon the village ahead. They bustled, staggered and hurried about as if this were Diagon Alley and the day had just begun. Ron couldn't help himself, he had to ask: “I wonder if Vicky came from a place like this?”

Hermione glared, but said nothing.

They were not the only ones standing on the dirt path staring at the collection of derelict, lop-sided wooden buildings and the curiously dressed people who lived in them though. A tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed youth, dressed in thick woollen dark brown robes lined with what looked like wolf fur and black boots, stood in the path before them. They needed no help to identify him, it was Igor Karkaroff.

A villager hailed him from the distance with a bottle of something possibly alcoholic, “Igor!”

He raised a hand to return it, but then said something in a stream of Bulgarian that left Harry, Ron and Hermione staring on confused.

Ron groaned at once, “Oh no, we won't understand a word they're saying!”

Thinking quickly, Hermione conjured a quill and a sheet of parchment and set it to work much like Rita Skeeter's Quik-Quotes Quill, recording the conversation. Ron made to praise her, realising her intentions, but when he saw the transcript was still in Bulgarian, said, “Hey, we still can't read it.”

“I know that, but we can get it translated later,” she explained.

Ron was still upset and looking around contemptuously, asked, “Why'd Professor Dumbledore send us in here? Didn't he know that no one in this memory actually speaks English?”

Hermione sighed, “I'm sure Professor Dumbledore knew that they wouldn't be speaking English… or Parseltongue, Ron, but that doesn't matter. We're supposed to be looking as well as listening, the quill will copy what we can't understand and in the meantime we'll look—”

She stopped so suddenly that Harry and Ron both sharply turned back to her, wondering what was the matter… and found her standing stock still staring straight ahead. Following her line of sight revealed why, Voldemort was there. Walking towards the village under the cover of dusk, dressed similarly to Karkaroff still standing with them staring forlornly at his village home, he already looked much like a shadow of his handsome youth. In fact, he looked just as he did in Dumbledore's memory of when he had come to apply for the Defence Against the Dark Arts post, though, according to Professor Dumbledore, chronologically this had taken place just a few years after his disappearance from England. Karkaroff apparently hadn't noticed him yet, but the future dictated that he would soon, and until then Ron and Hermione took the time to see the young Voldemort as they had never known him.

Tall, pale as porcelain and handsome as ever, he moved slowly along the path into the village, looking for no one, missing nothing. His clothes were patched and worn, his boots regrettable and his sleek black hair hung limply about his head, sharply contrasting with the elegant visage beneath. He looked at once exhausted and determined, and Harry, Ron and Hermione began to wonder if this meeting was planned. He may have appeared the lost stranger, but he was clearly walking on a determined path to Karkaroff. But more curious than that was the fact that he was alone, of course, that didn't mean that his companions, if he'd already acquired any, weren't waiting somewhere.

Finally Karkaroff noticed him, and after a puzzled moment, he hailed him in Bulgarian.

Voldemort looked up at once, his dark red eyes narrowing immediately onto Karkaroff, and then he asked, “Do you speak English?”

Karkaroff's eyes widened, and he called, this time with a smile, “You are not from here, vat brings you here stranger?”

Now it was Voldemort's turn to smile, and he called back, “I'm looking for a friend.”

“A friend, here?” asked Karkaroff, somewhat surprised.

“Yes, and I just found him,” he replied.

Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged a look, and turned back just in time to see Voldemort and Karkaroff walking off towards the village.

Karkaroff had apparently not figured this out yet though, and asked, “Vu is your friend? I did not know that anyone here has friends away from here.”

“No one, you've never left this place?” asked Voldemort, at once looking unsettled by this news.

Karkaroff hurried to correct him, “No, no, I've just returned from school, the Durmstrang Academy, you see.”

Voldemort relaxed at once, “Well then, let's have a drink to celebrate that. You know, I've always wanted to attend the Academy….”

For the fact that he had never met him before, as they walked on into the village, Karkaroff almost couldn't tell Voldemort about himself fast enough. Speaking with an accent that would vanish by the time of their Fourth Year, by the time they had reached the village centre, Voldemort, and by default, Harry Ron and Hermione, knew when he was born, who his parents were, where he lived—a large, ancient stone fortress to the south east—and of course, that he was the pureblood heir of an old, respected family. At this he finally stopped and asked, “Say stranger, I do not know your name but you now know much of me… what, is your name?”

Voldemort smiled, “Don't you trust me?”

Karkaroff shrugged, “I don't know, ve do not haff strangers here often.”

“I am Lord Voldemort,” said Voldemort, relenting. “I come from England, and I am here in search of, as I said, friends…. But more important than that… I wonder, what can you tell me of Vlad Dracul?”

“The Romanian Muggle king?” asked Karkaroff with clear distaste. His distrust and dislike of those associated with Muggles already deep-seated.

But Voldemort was ready for him, “Forgive me, friend, I meant of his home. What would I want with a Muggle, self say a Muggle 'king'.”

And then suddenly it was over, as if someone had reached in and yanked them out by the collars of their shirts. Harry very nearly fell over, managed to catch Hermione just in time and despite his own dizziness, but in doing so couldn't help Ron who ended up flat on his rear.

He didn't seem to mind though, for he was too busy yelling at Professor Dumbledore. “What the bloody hell just happened?”

Professor Dumbledore looked only slightly troubled as he said, “I take it you were ejected… well, yes, Igor had warned me that that might happen.”

“Why didn't you warn us then?” demanded Ron, scrambling to his feet and gingerly rubbing his bruised rear. “And since when does that happen?”

“Voldemort,” said Harry, simply. “What did he do, erase the rest of their conversation?”

Professor Dumbledore nodded. “As much of the conversation as he needed to, or blocked it completely, in case he needed to retrieve it, for you see a foreign wizard asking about that bloodthirsty Muggle king is not as suspicious as you would think. If you must research vampires, as he probably posed to young Igor shortly after this, then you must ask of him.”

“The stories are true then, he was a vampire?” asked Hermione.

“No, just another psychopath I'm afraid. But the wizard he gave shelter to was, and he made sure that the stories never died. Quite a partnership that was,” Professor Dumbledore replied, distaste now etched unto his painted features.

“Does this mean that the Horcrux, that Hufflepuff's Cup is in Bulgaria?” asked Harry.

“No, Vlad III Dracul was of Romania, of Transylvania or Wallachia as it was called then,” replied Hermione, and turning to Professor Dumbledore, asked, “You think it's in Transylvania?”

“Tom always liked symbols of greatness… and if my theory is correct, then he must have placed it in Dracula's (he chuckled softly) castle,” replied Professor Dumbledore.

Harry was so angry in that moment he wanted to kick something, “Surrounded by vampires, and who knows what else… just like in the cave!”

Professor Dumbledore spared him a sad look, and then said, “All things considered, that should be the easiest part of your hunting expedition.”

Harry scoffed, “'Easiest', what could be worse than a castle full of vampires in a foreign country?”

“Not being able to get into the foreign country in the first place,” said Hermione. “The Ministry's not just going to let us walk in there and use the International Floo, we're supposed to be at school.”

“Well, yes, there is that,” agreed Professor Dumbledore. “But that's not quite it, have a look at his second memory, which I managed to retrieve shortly before he was killed. It took me quite some time to find him, but… well; when you see it you shall see why I was so insistent.”

Hesitating only slightly, Ron retrieved the second memory and poured it into the Pensieve. Then, after they all took a moment to steel their reserve in the event of another forceful ejection, the three once again joined hands and tumbled headfirst into the past.

This was now the Igor Karkaroff that they knew and distrusted… and then, yet still, was not. However he had heard of Voldemort's return, he had not taken it well and it showed.

Gone were the furs and stiff boots and threatening air that had made him such an imposing figure at Krum's side. Gone was the pretence of calm, controlled composure, gone was the man who protested vehemently at Harry's selection by the Confunded Goblet of Fire, gone for good and never to return. Whatever Voldemort had done to him, he had almost completely destroyed the “innocent” trusting village boy in his quest to create the intimidating loyal man.

Professor Dumbledore was standing before them in the memory, alone with Karkaroff in what was possibly an abandoned house much like the one he and Harry had found Slughorn hiding in. But this was nowhere near the intentional dishevelment of Slughorn's design, this place was actually run down and torn up: pictures and mirrors smashed, furniture rotting away and fabric ripped, the carpet a memory and the curtains nonexistent, replaced with sturdy wooden boards. It looked like the Shrieking Shack, which was probably why Karkaroff had chosen it. No Death Eater would be insane enough to come in here if they thought a werewolf had recently been resident. But Harry, Ron and Hermione didn't notice any of this. No, their eyes were focused on Dumbledore and his clearly unburned hand. This was before the injury with the ring, but not by much, Karkaroff had been found dead before they started their Sixth Year.

The conversation began without preamble; Karkaroff was midway through one in fact, as the sound reached their ears, “… can't tell you, I can't show you, that part of my past is gone!”

Professor Dumbledore was stern but gentle, “I need your help, Igor, and I know that you are afraid—”

Karkaroff cut him off, furious, “I am not afraid!”

Professor Dumbledore must have given him something of a sceptical look, because he quickly corrected, “I have every right to be! This monster has killed hundreds, and I refuse to be a part of it anymore!”

Soothingly came Professor Dumbledore's response, “I understand that, and I respect that, but there are those who are capable of stopping him—”

“A boy?” spat Karkaroff, disbelieving. “A little boy, Albus? Surely you know that the Dark Lord has killed hundreds of little boys before—”

“He failed to kill this one, and with your help he'll fail again. If you say you can't show me, tell me what I want to know and this boy… no, he's almost a man now, this young man will stop him,” said Professor Dumbledore, his tone still soothing, his manner still calm, and his very air placating.

Karkaroff though, had degenerated to frenzy and frantically paced the open space in the floor before Professor Dumbledore. He was clearly debating whether he should do it or not, they could all see it behind those wild blue eyes which had once been so cold and penetrating. And then at last, he stopped and said, “Go to Transylvania—take the boy with you if you must—and there you will find a former student of mine, half-vampire by the name of Casimir Å¢epeÅŸ. He will take you to the place where the dark prince lies, from there you will find your own way… now go, I can tell you no more and in the interest of my own safety it is best you leave.”

Professor Dumbledore remained though, reluctant still even though he now apparently had what he wanted. He tried to start again, “Igor, are you—”

“GO Albus!” he yelled, turning on him with the wild eyes of a trapped animal. “Go now, before they come here! Forgive me but you are not as young as you used to be and if they find you I have no doubt it would please them greatly to take your wand to the Dark Lord! Go!”

“What is this 'place where the dark prince lies'? Is it not his castle?” asked Professor Dumbledore.

“Castle?” asked Karkaroff, confused. “Why would you want to go there? There is nothing there for anyone but death. I thought you wanted to make allies among the vampires, not go to—”

“I have my reasons, I need to find that castle,” said Professor Dumbledore simply.

“Ask Casimir then,” said Karkaroff. “And tell him I sent you, for there is a rumour now that any wizard who asks to go there is to be killed on sight. Maybe… maybe he'll spare you if you say I sent you. Now please… please go!”

Professor Dumbledore didn't hesitate a moment longer, he turned at once and left. But before he left the house and the memory ended, he made a backward glance and found that Karkaroff had sunk into his seat with his head in his hands. He was dead already; his body just didn't know it yet.

When Harry, Ron and Hermione came out of the Pensieve this time they landed on their feet and turned to Professor Dumbledore. And it was Hermione who stated the obvious, for once, “That was your memory.”

Professor Dumbledore looked down from his portrait and sighed, “Yes. I set aside quite a few for you, so if you are going to be startled I suggest you prepare yourselves.”

Harry brought them back to the main topic, “They'll kill anyone who asks for it… Voldemort's orders no doubt, now he has vampires on his side….”

He trailed off with a grim expression, remembering the Inferi and forcefully suppressed a shudder. He did not even want to think of them again… but no doubt they were used here too, they and their more dangerous cousins who would do more than just drag you back to their resting places.

“That's the problem, and I'm afraid I can help you no more. Karkaroff is dead now, and there is no way of knowing if his name still holds weight. Remember what happened to the school's reputation after his death,” said Professor Dumbledore.

Harry looked to Ron and Hermione and asked quietly, “Still want to follow me now?”

They both looked ghostly white and slightly ill, no doubt thinking along the same lines as he. But at his voice they shook it off as a bird shaking water from its back, and Hermione said, “Absolutely. We'll just have to figure out how to get around this little problem and we'll have the cup.”

He liked how she called it “little”, trying her best to trivialise it not only for him but for herself as well.

He turned to Professor Dumbledore then, who had been looking on at the exchange with interest, and said, “Well then, what do we do first?”

Professor Dumbledore smiled, “Go to bed.”

Stunned, they asked, “What?”

He nodded towards the clock behind them, “It's late and you have classes tomorrow. But I suggest you use that time wisely, and even though I'm gone you can still use my name. I've kept quite a few healthy relationships and over the years, as I'm sure you all should have as well, and I'm sure they'll prove quite useful now.”

Not sure of what to make of that, they left the office as ordered.

-->