Chaos Theory

Discount Ninja

Rating: PG13
Genres: Romance, Action & Adventure
Relationships: Harry & Hermione
Book: Harry & Hermione, Books 1 - 7
Published: 08/05/2011
Last Updated: 10/05/2011
Status: in_progress

What if Dumbledore hadn't been able to leave Harry with the Dursley family? What if he, in his loneliness, had taken Harry in? A planned slow-moving fic centred on Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore. A slow-build H/Hr.

Chapters

1. On a Butterflys Wings

2. Daggers in Friends

3. Youth

1. On a Butterflys Wings

Chaos Theory

A Harry Potter fan-fiction by DiscountNinja

A/N Alright ladies and gents, the premise is simple. Dumbledore doesn’t leave Harry at Privet Drive, and instead takes him in. A look at how Harry might have grown up, and how events may have changed. A planned slow-moving fic centred on Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore. A slow-build H/Hr.

-

November 1st 1981 – Early hours

Intent feline eyes peered through the darkness of the garden at Number Four Privet Drive, maintaining a day long vigil, unceasing in her constant observation of the, frankly, disgraceful muggles who called this place their home. She had been following the elder male as he waddled his way to work and back and had seen nothing whatsoever that had impressed her. It was his attitude especially that concerned her; she had been watching his reaction to running into poor Dedalus Diggle earlier in the day.

She worried as she waited in the bushes underneath the living room window, fretting for the poor babe that was soon to be delivered into the waiting hands of the wretches living inside, who had spent most of toady with their faces glued to the television set. Not that she disliked muggles, just this set of muggles in particular. It was true that aside from the parents of muggleborn children she actually had very little to do with the muggle world, but she gathered that these were particularly prime examples of the close-minded idiots that gave the non-magicals a bad name.

While on that note, she didn’t think much of the parenting skills of the mother. The young, bulbous muggle shouted all through the afternoon while she droned and chattered endlessly into the phone, then she started twitching the net curtains back every time someone interesting wandered down the street, and all the while her young child was doing his solemn best to destroy everything within reach of his grubby little hands. All three determined to be absolutely “normal”, not an iota of “oddity”, which she said in her mind as though that definition of ‘oddity’ was synonymous with ‘creative’, ‘expressive’ or ‘imaginative’.

This was not the right environment for any magical child, let alone the child who in the last 24 hours has done more for the people of the world than perhaps anyone else. A child who has already sacrificed so much, the lives of Lily and James were a huge price to pay for the defeat of the Dark Lord Voldemort, but to think that the life of poor Harry must be given to these insalubrious, greedy morons was nearly nauseating.

The street was dark, only sporadically lit by the muggle street lights, but despite this her eyes were well equipped to see the gentleman in the long purple cloak appear from nowhere at the end of Privet Drive, her sensitive ears barely able to detect the faint ‘pop’ of displaced air that was the trademark of apparition. He took a long glance around and reached deep into his pockets, his hand emerging clasped around a large silver lighter. Striking a pose, he aimed the lighter at the nearest street lamp, which flickered briefly before the light seemed to be transferred from the lamp to the tip of the lighter which burst into a small yellow flame. With a click it was extinguished, and he moved on to the next streetlamp.

A minute later the entire street was dark, nothing but the house lights dimmed by curtains illuminated the street, and the elderly and strangely dressed man advanced down the street towards four Privet Drive. He stopped, briefly, at the low wall that abutted the garden and waited.

He was not disappointed, and in one swift move that was one part leap and one part twist a women emerged seemingly from the shadows around his feet. She eased the muscles in her neck somewhat and placed her glasses on the bridge of her nose before greeting him.

“Albus, is it true? About Lily and James?” she asked, deep frown lines and the general gloom exaggerating her already aged features.

“I’m afraid so,” he replied, voice heavy with grief.

A small sob escaped from the woman and her shoulders slumped. Albus Dumbledore gingerly wrapped an arm around her in an attempt to console her. “There there, Minerva. At least Harry is safe.”

“Where is he Albus?” She eyed his cloak suspiciously, almost daring him to produce an infant from within its folds.

Dumbledore looked to the sky, his eyes scanning the horizon, “I entrusted him to Hagrid, I felt he would be safer with him.” Silently they understood the implication and the real reason they were there – there were people out there who would do harm to Harry Potter.

“Are you sure that is wise?”

“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” Albus replied, “and you know how fond he is of Harry. I thought that it might be easier for him if he had a chance to say a goodbye. At least for now.”

Somewhat placated, Professor McGonagall followed his line of sight and though she was unsure what she was looking for exactly, she watched with perhaps greater intensity than him. She opened her mouth to speak, and then hesitated slightly but now resolved to make her opinions known she forged onwards. “Albus, are you sure about this? They really are the worst sort of muggles, you know. Lily would not have approved, certainly not. Why must he grow up here of all places?”

“Because here he will be safe, Minerva, above all he must be safe. We failed, despite our best efforts, to save his parents and where we have failed so many times before little Harry has succeeded. He has afforded us all some measure of peace in our lives for the price of peace in his, that I am sure. The least we can do is make sure he is safe.”

“What makes you think he will be safe here, Albus?”

He was silent.

A rumble approached, the low growl of a powerful engine steadily increasing in the silence of the night, and a bright light grew in strength in the sky. Soon enough that growl become a roar and the light became blinding as a huge motorcycle with a giant rider descended from the black. Rubber squealed on tarmac, surely leaving behind large skid marks as the brakes worked their hardest to bring the careening bike to a stop.

The engine stalled, and the light flickered out. The giant astride the bike dismounted, pulled the goggles up his blackened face and smiled a wide, bushy smile towards the elderly professors. He reached down and extricated a bundle of cloth from the sidecar, which looked almost comically small cradled in his huge arms.

“’ullo, Professors,” he muttered, giving the street a suspicious, side-long glance.

“Ah, Hagrid! No problems, I trust?”

“Not at all, Sir, little ‘un fell asleep as we were flying over Bristol,” he looked fondly down at the little bundle, frowned and carried on, a little choked up, “I saw what’s left of the house, it’s ...”

“I know Hagrid, I know,” all three stood for a moment in the darkness, united and yet alone in their grief for friends they did not have time to mourn.

“Well, I ‘ad better be going Professor, I borrowed this bike from Sirius and I ‘pose I should be getting it back to him,”

“Where did you see him?” Albus gave Hagrid an intent look, and the trademark twinkle in his eyes seemed to both grow cold and amplify “This could be important, Hagrid.”

“At the ‘ouse, of course,” he looked confused, “he was there before I was ‘o course. Must have arrived on the bike. Was him who managed to pull Harry out of the house and found him these blankets. Looked almost half-mad, you know? Merlin only knows what it must feel like to lose a friend as close to him as James were.”

“And he just gave Harry to you?”

“Oh, aye, not a problem there. I told him that you knew somewhere he could be safe until things settled down an’ all. Seemed distracted to tell the truth, told me to take the bike and to see ‘arry here safely,” Hagrid frowned again, “He said that he didn’t expect he’d need the bike no more, odd I know, but to be frank, I was just glad of the lend.”

Dumbledore tried to make sense of this information, but try as he might there was still no way to get over the facts of the situation. Strange behaviour or not, there was no concrete explanation he knew of that allowed for his innocence. He would have to track Sirius down before the Aurors did if he ever expected to hear the full version of events. But the problem of Sirius Black would have to be solved another day, there were other things to take care of.

“Very well Hagrid, if you please?”

“’o course, Sir ...” he looked down at the rags, and the sweet little baby within, and tried his best to smile his big, bearded smile, but tears ruined it and it took Dumbledores’ steadying hand upon his shoulder to get the sobs under control, “Bye then Harry, just fer now, alright?” He placed a scratchy kiss on the baby’s forehead, before handing over the bundle.

Swiftly he turned around, fumbled for a handkerchief and blew loudly, almost humorously if it weren’t for the situation, before turning to face them again goggles in place, no doubt to hide red, bloodshot eyes. “Alright then, I best get this thing squared away ... G’night Professors.”

He swung his leg over the motorcycle, and with a twist of the ignition he was away, the load roar slowly subsiding into the night, a light blinking on the horizon.

Professor McGonagall had stayed quiet throughout this exchange, but now took this chance, “Albus, I hope you know what you’re doing. There’s a reason that they made Sirius the godfather you know?” She regretted saying it as soon as the words were out of her mouth.

“I know,” something flashed across his face, but it was there so fleetingly that Minerva couldn’t tell what exactly it was, “but there’s something decidedly strange about the behaviour of Mr. Black. If it all turns out alright, then Harry needs be here no longer than it takes to sort out what happened tonight. You know as well as I that we have no real clue what happened at Godric’s Hollow.”

“Are you really sugges-“ McGonagall managed, before Dumbledore cut in “I’m not suggesting anything, but this next week is going to be one long investigation. We have emerged, blinking, into a brand new dawn and it will take some time to figure out exactly what happened during that long night. Just because Voldemort is no longer a threat doesn’t mean that there aren’t those willing to do harm in his name. Furthermore, I am no more sure today than I was yesterday exactly who I can trust.”

McGonagall relented.

Albus walked up the perfect path, by the perfectly trimmed lawn bordered with perfect petunias. He reached the door, removed his wand, and with a swish, flick and a flash a wicker basket was whisked into existence on the doorstep of Number Four into which the small child was placed. A letter from the depths of Dumbledore’s cloak quickly followed it, safely tucked into the folds of cloth.

He straightened up, and peered through the curtains to the front room, on a whim. Before him lay the picture perfect vision of normalcy and stability. Everything the young Harry would surely need in the days, and perhaps even the years to come. It was really for the best that Harry stay here. He would be protected. Among family. Away from those he would seek to hurt him, use him or otherwise mistreat him. They would simply have to bear losing a third Potter this night, for his own safety.

He almost left.

With a heavy sigh, he grabbed the basket by the handle and turned around, and began to move back down the garden path. A small, dry smile confronted him, “I knew you couldn’t do it, Albus, you have too much heart.”

“Perhaps Minerva, perhaps ...” tucking the basket under his arm, the silver lighter was brought out and clicked just the once allowing the street to be filled with light once more, and with a single turn of the heel both the figures were gone.

-

The wind buffeted them as they reappeared many miles away, half the length of a country travelled in less time than it takes to blink. It was a dry, cold wind that billowed their cloaks behind them, teasing and taunting in equal measure, in the late October night.

The moon shone bright upon the heather on the North Yorkshire Moors that eve, the purple autumn heather made eerie in the weak light, a blanket of low-growing grass and scrub that stretched for miles around, up and down the rolling hills that went from horizon to horizon. At the top of the nearest and largest hill, stood proud a worn, yet sturdy spire.

The two figures began the climb up the hill, towards Warlocks Spire. Alone in the moors, a long old tower that was weather worn and stained from age, the bricks hewn from rock far from this, their final resting place. The weight of combined history that rested upon the slate roof might have been suffocating were if not for the outstanding beauty of the surrounding land, resulting in a feel that was something like the aura of the owner. Powerful, old, wise and enigmatic.

Easily five stories high it dominated the landscape, a bastion of civilisation in an otherwise untamed land, and even still the scrub was trying its level best to crawl up the wall while grass and the like grew out from cracks in the stone. The upper floors must have had windows added at some later point, though the remains of what must once have been holes for bows and arrows were visible in the patched up brickwork.

Approaching the doorway at the base of the tower, McGonagall could just about make out the sign etched into the lintel, above the large oak door, and frowned. Plain as day, the symbol of Gellert Grindelwald was carved deep into the grey stone. “Albus, why? I know that it must be important to you to remember, but ... really, guests might not understand.”

“I would not expect them to,” he said, simply. Once more a wand was procured and three times was tapped on the ornate silver door knob, causing the old door to swing back on shining hinges. With a further swish, the revealed room was lit warmly by torches in brackets on the wall and by a large brass chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Wall to wall was covered in bookcases that contained heaps and heaps of old, thick dusty tomes, many bound in elderly, cracked leather and others still with the spring in their spines.

Professor Dumbledore ushered his old friend into the hall, before hastily closing the door behind him. Warlocks Spire had been his home now for many decades, and it was his personal retreat during the summer when life at Hogwarts became too much for him. It had been a very long time since he had resided at Godric’s Hollow or Mould-on-the-Wold, places that held too many memories and too many bad times for him to really consider it a sanctuary he could trust to revitalise him for the next year, which in his increasing age was getting ever harder to face.

The room was small, and amongst the books stood a plain wooden table littered with papers. On the wall were hooks for a cloak or two, where he hung McGonagalls’ and his before leading her through into the sitting room, which had an altogether different feel. Whereas the hall had been crammed head to toe with books, the sitting room seemed to be filled with four high-backed chairs, a low coffee table, another bookcase or two, a sturdy oak writing desk and one massive fireplace, which is no small feat for such a small room to contain. As with the hall, there were no windows, so only the newly lit fireplace and candles were providing any light. Back when the tower had been built many centuries ago, ground floor windows would have been considered an unwise structural addition to an otherwise perfectly serviceable tower, and Dumbledore (or any of its many owners) had not seen fit to change it, for who was he to argue with the architect?

The room was homey, in a stuffy kind of way. Warm, kindly and at the same time somewhat stuck in the past. Outdated furniture, warm brown tones and something of a griffin theme amongst the decor put one instantly in mind of an eccentric grandfather, filling the mantle with various trophies; proudly displaying the results of a long and well lived life.

The basket was delicately placed upon the coffee table, once some of the papers were gathered away and hastily shoved into the drawers of the writing desk. Again, with a flick of the wand a kettle was suspended above the fire and several empty cups appeared from nowhere, “I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting this, so I haven’t any milk for the tea,” he smiled ruefully, “hopefully you can forgive me.”

“Not at all Albus,” she said, settling into one of the large armchairs, with the intent of warming herself by the fire, “I’m sure I will be able to cope.” She looked into the basket at the sleeping form of Harry Potter, already the trademark lightning bolt scar clearly visible on his forehead, the only mark upon the lad. She shivered, knowing exactly what it was that had caused the mark.

“So what now Albus?” She winced as the kettle began to whistle, and had to whisk it away from the fire before it awoke the infant, “What exactly is out next step? Where will he be safe?”

He sat down heavily in his favourite armchair and watched her gravely as she poured the boiling water into a waiting tea pot to brew. “I think the only sensible recourse for the next few days is for the boy to stay here with me, I shall have to ask Botzler to bring a few things back here for me, and I’m sure he’ll be only too happy to help me take care of Harry until things get sorted out.”

“Oh? And I suppose you’re an expert in the field of childcare, are you? You and your elderly house-elf will manage just fine by yourselves, eh?” McGonagall gave him a severe look over her spectacles, one which he returned with nought but furious twinkling.

“Oh, I imagine that I will pick it up.” He grinned cheekily, but grew pensive once more as he spoke, “Besides, if we are lucky Sirius will acquit himself, pull himself together and then it is only right that we abide by Lily and James’ wishes that we place Harry with him.”

“And if we are not?”

A pause. A sigh. “Then he will have to continue to stay here with me. I cannot think of anywhere else I would consider safe enough. Here in the moors there should hopefully be few snoopers, but he can be given a magical childhood,” a further sigh, “I suppose he will just have to learn to deal with his fame with humility somehow. I had hoped that I could protect him from it for some time yet ... but perhaps it is for the best that things have worked out this way?”

He took some time to think about this and finally did come to the conclusion that it was fortuitous in a way. He could personally see that the lad was well cared for, taught proper values, encouraged to know exactly when to misbehave, and perhaps he might be able to offer Harry a little edge that he may very well come to need in the future. Besides, it was no secret that he cared for little Harry. It had been a long time since Albus had known true family, a very long time, and looking down into the basket he felt a longing that ached somewhere within his chest.

They sat in silence, and drank their tea for a few minutes, warming themselves by the fire.

“Minerva, I’m going to have to ask you to take on the head duties for a few days while I try and sort this Merlin-almighty mess out. I’m sorry to impose on you so, but I’m sure that you and Filius can handle it. Besides, if Mr. Black becomes ... unavailable, I may have to ask you to take the position permanently. I can chair the Wizengamot and even attend the ICW meetings, Botzler could look after Harry on those occasions, but Headmaster of Hogwarts is too demanding an occupation to mix with children. Perhaps I could even convince Remus to take on a position, I suspect that after ... recent events, the contact might well be needed,” one more sigh, “it was so hard to bring him out of his shell in the first place.”

“Regardless,” he continued “I would be simply unable to look after Harry and continue to be headmaster. As much as it pains me to leave Hogwarts ...” he looked guiltily towards the writing desk, “I do suppose that I really ought to have gotten around to finishing some of my research sooner. It would be a shame if I managed to lose the answers to a few magical mysteries because I could not be bothered to write them down properly.”

She raised an eyebrow at him, “Are you sure about this Albus? Make no mistake, I would be delighted to step in for you, but ... I don’t know. I mean, can you even be sure that you would be allowed to keep the boy?”

“Yes, I think I could wrangle it, Minister Bagnold will have far more pressing matters to see to in the coming months, and besides, she won’t want to put him with the muggles, simply on principle, nor can she place him with Remus due to his condition. If Sirius is a possibility then there’s no problem. I suppose there is also Peter, but I was a friend of the family for many years so I feel confident that if it comes to push, that I could convince her I was the best option.”

He also thought, privately, that she might just feel the favour he would owe him would be more than worth placing the boy with trolls, politically Albus was at the top of his game, it had even been mentioned to him once or twice that he would make a fine candidate for the Minister for Magic. Dumbledore himself felt that he could make more of his talents in his current role, but with retirement from Hogwarts a possibility he might just take to showing at the Ministry more often. He felt that he ought to have some kind of hobby, after all.

She nodded, and agreed. “Very well Albus, but I can only imagine the furore that this is going to cause. The Governors will not like it.”

He smiled, and said, not unkindly, “Dear Minerva, you will soon come to see that the Governors do not approve of anything. Fortunately, ex-Headmasters automatically gain a seat on the board so you will have at least one friendly face. Besides, I rather think you will do far better at it than me.” He recalled, with genuine fondness, his very first meeting with the Governors, “Do you know, the first time I met with the board I managed insult at least half of them. Being purebloods they would, of course, have to share my Great Aunt Mavis and my little anecdote did not seem to break the ice as expected.”

She shook her head at him, her mouth forming an exasperated smile. He had always had the ability to alienate people almost accidentally, she supposed that was part of his charm. Not that he had been useless at the political game. Far from it, she knew from personal experience that Albus Dumbledore was like a shark when he wanted to be, he had done wonders for the school since his arrival and those were big shoes to fill.

“It will truly be the schools loss Albus, but if this is what you want, then far be it for me to oppose you,” personally she thought that it might be good for him, she could hardly point the finger herself, having lost Mr McGonagall many, many years ago, but for the duration of their friendship she had seen him give everything he had to other people. He was so selfless in his unflagging attention to duty when it came to the running of Hogwarts, and he was certainly not unknown at the Ministry, if he wasn’t fighting the Governors for every knut then he was advancing some issue with the Minister.

The war had taken its toll upon him even further, on top of the fact he hardly ever had the time to make friendships. He had many professional relationships, and practically everyone who was anyone in Europe respected him (even if it was grudgingly), but real friends were a rarity so far as she could tell. The McKinnons had been good friends of Dumbledores and their sudden disappearance had thrown him into a fugue, which left his circle of friends even smaller than it had been before.

He really needed time for himself. She knew for a fact that most of the papers littered around the house were from back in the days of his collaboration with Nicolas Flamel, loose ends and corollaries yet to be tied up, perhaps he could make headway in producing a paper. He might even take up herbology, she had once been invited up to the greenhouse that he kept on the top floor of the tower, and she had been astonished at the beauty of the little artificial garden. He might even start to follow Quidditch again, a luxury she understood he had given up in his fifties.

She took a long draw from her tea cup, before setting it and the saucer down upon the coffee table, “I had best be getting back to the castle then Albus. I will have to talk to Filius, and I suspect that tomorrows classes will be cancelled,” she smiled, “ I can’t imagine that any of the students will be in a fit state to learn.”

He stood and showed her to the door, it was still dark outside though the wind had eased. “Good night Minerva, I wish you the best of luck when the students hear the news,” he grinned brightly, “the school may need all the luck it can get. I will see the Minister in the morning, and I expect to be in touch with you as soon as I can.”

“Good night Albus,” she said, returning his smile.

He watched her walk down the hill, until she was out from under the blanket of the apparition wards, swiftly turned upon her heels and was gone with a pop. Shivering slightly in the night air he closed the heavy oak door which groaned as it settled back into the frame. He almost absent mindedly waved his wand at the door, which caused a faint glow from deep within the cracks between door and frame, and it was sealed.

He returned to the sitting room, and looked at the sleeping baby with almost a polite amusement. “Well Harry m’boy, just you and me now. Between you and me, I think that’s the way it’s going to be for some time.”

The clock ticked by in the background, as he sat in a comfortable silence and contemplated the child he had brought into his home. He’d been close to the Potters, James and Lily were fine people and he was going to do his best for the boy he already secretly considered akin to a grandson. His, hazy, yet fondest memories of his own grandfather had been of the wonderful and exotic stories he’d told Aberforth, Ariana and he shortly before his death.

Pushing his glasses up his nose, he said “Harry, m’boy, did I ever tell you about the time Augusta Longbottom and I were chatting about ...”

-

Morning of November 2nd 1981

Dumbledore arrived at the Ministry for Magic early the next morning, with the intention of seeing Minister Bagnold as soon as he could. The business of placing Harry Potter was of paramount importance, and the sooner he could talk to her about matters then the less chance there was of someone bending her ear and persuading her otherwise. He was exhausted from the events of the previous night, as well as having stayed up attempting to prepare his home and house-elf for Harry’s residence.

However, upon arriving at the Ministry it was clear that he had arrived in the middle of a party. There was laughter, cheer, sparks, songs and a great deal of conjured confetti in the air. The whole building seemed to be a-buzz with excitement, infectious good will overflowed from those gathered in the atrium, all the pent up paranoia, worry and constant fear that had built up under the tyranny of Voldemort was being released as the shadow of darkness lifted.

He must have shook over a hundred hands before he managed to make his way over to the golden fountain of ‘Magical Cooperation’, where he was way-laid by Amos Diggory.

“Professor Dumbledore! It’s over, thank god!” The two shared a smile, but Diggory had clearly pulled him over for some reason, and Dumbledore couldn’t seem to find a polite excuse to leave. Amos had only graduated five years ago, and the two had been reasonably well acquainted, so Albus didn’t have a particular wish to burn that bridge. Amos leaned in, and whispered furtively, “A friend of mine in Magical Law Enforcement says that they’re planning to bring in some big names over the next few days. Some people who thought they were safe are going to be under a lot of pressure now that You-Know-Who is gone. They’re talking about full trials, apparently Crouch is lobbying for the use of Veritaserum.”

Dumbledore nodded gravely, “For some, that may well be the only way they can get the charges to stick. What worries me more is that we still have no idea who may or may not be compromised in the Ministry,” he sighed, “I can’t imagine what a farce this whole thing might turn into if they have someone on the inside. I’m actually planning on making a visit to Bartemius and Alastor before I leave.”

“Oh?” Diggory looked about surreptitiously, “Anything you can let me in on?”

“Not with all these people here, I am afraid. Besides, I suspect that secrecy and clear heads will be required to see the matter through smoothly, sorry Amos.”

Amos waved it off, wished Dumbledore a good day and moved on. As Albus entered the lift he was able to make out Amos shaking hands and making merry with everyone and anyone in his way. He was certainly young, but he was already gaining popularity inside the ministry.

The lift began to descend, doing down through the various levels of the ministry, and Albus found himself humming a jaunty tune, for which the other occupants of the lift gave him an odd look.

The lift arrived at the Ministers floor and Albus left the packed lift along with a small flotilla of Inter-Departmental Memos, which flew like arrows down the corridor to their various destinations. He took a leisurely stroll down the passageway, greeting people jovially as he passed, the atmosphere was one of pleased efficiency – say one thing for Minister Millicent Bagnold, say she was efficient.

He chatted politely with the secretary while he waited for a space in the Ministers appointments, which merely thanks to his political gravitas he was afforded at the earliest possible convenience. He watched with interest the various personnel that visited the office, mostly noticing people from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement (privately Dumbledore suspected that the Obliviators would have been run ragged last night, what with all of the blatantly magical celebrations that spread the length and breadth of the British Isles).

He was rudely interrupted during this period of reflection by Augustus Rookwood, who grabbed his hand and shook vigorously, knocking his spectacles askew. Rookwood was of medium build, but had such an incredible energy and waved his arms about that it seemed to not only make it hard to pin down exactly where he was standing, but somehow made him taller. His hair was slicked back, with an obscene amount of whatever wax he used, as though he’d been stood in a wind tunnel. Dumbledore awkwardly extricated his hand from the grip of the other man, and flashed him a small smile in way of an apology, however insincere it may have been.

“Fantastic news, eh, Albus?” Rookwood grinned, almost infectiously, “I knew it was only a matter of time! We’re having some drinks down at the gentleman’s club to celebrate tonight,” he held his hands up to quell any possible protests that might have formed,” I know, I know you’ve not been in such a long time, but you’d be more than welcome! And for such an occasion, too!”

It was easy to see why Rookwood was a popular man, especially for an Unspeakable (who were normally such a dour bunch), he exuded confidence and an aura of charm, which was easy to get suckered in by. Albus however, with the aid of Legilimency he was willing to admit, was able to detect without too much effort that Rookwood was not exactly sincere. Sadly, Dumbledore had never been able to dig up any concrete evidence of wrong doing, and now with the war over and no possible impetus to commit any further acts of espionage it was very likely that Rookwood would simply fade away and avoid justice altogether.

“Professor,” the secretary said, “the Minister will see you now.” Silently thanking the receptionist for saving him, and telling Augustus that perhaps he would seem him there another time, and walked through the wood paneled door and into the office of the Minister.

Minister for Magic Millicent Bagnold was, despite being in her 50s, still a woman who could command a room. She had blonde, slightly thinning hair, and something of an aristocratic air to her – every movement was carefully made, something in her poise that shouted grave consideration for every step she took. It wasn’t for nothing that behind closed doors she was often referred to as ‘the woman of steel’. Albus knew that, as a politician, all of this was a very carefully constructed persona, but even still she was a graceful, yet resilient woman, even in her private life.

She rose from behind her rather imposing desk, every inch the statesman, and smiled warmly as she shook his hand, “Albus Dumbledore! It is good to see you, and for once, under pleasant circumstances. Now, what is it that I can do for you?” She indicated that he should sit down in one of the leather chairs, and set about offering him a cup of tea. Dumbledore knew from previous experience that while she was honestly happy to help him, he would be expected to honestly help her at some point in the future.

“Well Millicent, it’s about the Harry Potter issue.” Albus felt heavy, this would not be a pleasant discussion. He had been hiding some of more hurtful truths about the situation from even himself, particularly those concerning Sirius Black.

“Indeed, I’ve dispatched a team of Unspeakables to the Potter residence earlier today,” he wondered if any of those had been Rookwood, “and we’re expecting results back in the next 48 hours, but preliminary reports are saying that they’re not making any significant discoveries. Our leading expert confided in me that she doesn’t think we’ll be able to make much progress past nailing down an accurate timeline. Furthermore, we were unable to recover You-Know-Who’s wand, which is something of a worry, especially considering that we found evidence that the body had been moved.”

“That is grave news, but it does fit well with established events as I know them. I am planning on going to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement to see Alastor Moody and Bartemius Crouch with this information afterwards, but I would like you to know as well. The nature of the protection on the Potter house was a Fidelus Charm, which your experts will tell you requires a secret keeper, with whom the knowledge of the location of the place to be hidden will be kept. It is clear from the nature of the attack that the secret keeper broke the spell, and betrayed the Potters to Lord Voldemort. It is my understanding that Sirius Black was the secret keeper for the Potters.”

At this, Bagnold gasped, “Black? But, I was under the impression that they had been best friends for years?”

“Indeed, that is true, but ...” Albus shrugged, his rage at his own failure threatening to break his outwardly stern countenance, “I don’t know, I must have judged Sirius wrong, even with my considerable skills it is possible to fool me.” He frowned, Sirius Black must have learnt some incredible Occlumency from somewhere. “Furthermore I have eyewitness evidence that he was at Godric’s Hollow sometime after the event, but before Harry Potter was removed from the dwelling. He would have had ample time with which to remove the wand and pull Lord Voldemort from the ruins.”

“Very well Albus, I will instruct the office to being him in for questioning – especially as he might be able to provide some insight into how matters took place. I am, however, worried about Bartemius Crouch. He has been a pillar of strength over the war, but ... I don’t know how peace will suit him. What with the failing health of his wife, Merlin may her condition improve, I wonder if he’s not heading towards a break down, and he might need time off to recuperate. On the other hand, reliving him from his office might just trigger that breakdown. On another note, I’m not so blind as to ignore the fact that we have passed some law enforcement bills that I would not have let through during peace time, and they need to be repealed. I will have to raise these issues with the Wizengamot soon.”

“That is a great comfort Millicent,” and it was, he had known that the end of the war would bring challenges such as this. The laws she was speaking of gave great authority to the Aurors, Barty will be reluctant to relinquish those powers, he thought, so the price is support against Couch, of whom it has been told will make a strong candidate for the Minister at the next election, eh Millicent?. Bartemius was a fine man, dedicated to his work to a fault, but he was one of the louder voices in the ministry calling for ever harsher measures. It made him very popular with the purebloods (those not aligned with Voldemort) and other such conservative or ‘traditional’ groups, and he had a fair amount of political weight as a result. A dangerous enemy for Millicent, but she was perhaps correct, the last thing Britain needed now was over zealous police corroding the trust in the Ministry, especially with the fallout from the war so great, so perhaps it was the best. “I’m afraid that I must ask to put off this discussion, but rest assured that you will have my support in the Wizengamot when these issues come up,” he gave Millicent a knowing look, and she returned it with a self satisfied smile.

“Thank you Albus. Now, that reminds me, you come in with a problem, what can the office of the Minister do for you?”

“Harry Potter, Millicent, I would like to talk to you about his placement. Obviously, knowing my concerns about Sirius Black, his legal guardian, I am left seeking an alternative placement if my suspicions hold. I have looked into his muggle relatives, and found them unsuitable, leaving me with little choice. Due to certain laws,” here, he gave a reproving look towards the Minister, “Remus Lupin is unable to take custody of the child. This leaves two choices. We could place him with Peter Pettigrew, though I have been unable to reach him as of yesterday.”

Bagnold nodded, “And the other choice?”

“That he stay with me, Minister. I suspect that will be where he will be safest, both from those who would seek to harm or use him. You and I both know that there may be many people in many places who allegiants do not lie where we think they do. Secondly ... I feel that I personally owe it to James and Lily,” he coughed, and found he could not meet Millicent’s eyes, “ ... I was unable to protect them as I promised, and as such I have a debt to pay.”

The Minister blinked. “I see, well, I will have to talk to the legal department – I want to help, but I don’t want to do anything illegal. Particularly if Mr. Pettigrew is in the Potters provisions by name. Otherwise, I don’t think that I will have a problem with that.”

-

It was not long after the conclusion of his meeting with Minister Bagnold that Albus Dumbledore entered into the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and the change of attitude was again noticeable. As the personnel around the Minister had been far less celebratory than those in the atrium, the staff at the DMLE were as much subdued again. Work was still taking place here, there was no room for frivolous confetti and handshakes while dark wizards were still a threat.

Under Bartemius Crouch the DMLE had weathered the storm of the Death Eaters, though if events had carried on as they had been defeat was looking inevitable, but despite that it was riddled with informants, moles and various leaks it had still managed to be enough of a stumbling block to stop the dark tide from sinking Britain.

Albus made his way through the mess of cubicles and offices that made up the bulk of the DMLE, ducking squadrons of memos and navigating around mountains of unfinished paperwork. He found his feet drawn, not towards the office of the Head Auror Alastor Moody, but to a small unremarkable cubicle on the other side of the floor.

He felt, upon walking into the small, confined space, as though his heart had been transfigured into a stone inside his chest. His face pale, he sat slowly into the chair and simply ran his fingers along the edge of the desk. He looked up at the cluttered workspace and saw unfamiliar faces looking at him from moving photographs, objects and mementos of a life he was not acquainted well enough to place. People and objects matched to unknown emotions and memories, the secrets to which now were resting with the grave.

Strange emotions filled him, as he sat in a chair that had lain empty for months now, the weight of his sadness and regret on his shoulders like an anchor, pulling him down to drown ...

He jumped, fear grabbing his stomach as a gnarled hand descended upon his shoulder and he instinctively went for his wand, but as he recognised the face of his assailant, he lowered his hand and tried to control his breathing.

“Don’t do this to yourself, Albus,” said Alastor, “Benjy Fenwick knew the risks.”

Albus was silent a moment. “And yet, I suspect you do the same thing whenever the office is quiet, old friend.”

At that Moody shrugged noncommittally, “I expected to see you at some point today, why don’t we take this into my office?”

The price of the war was a thing Albus expected to ruminate and regret for many years to come – and it would be harder to find that price more personified in another other person than Alastor Moody. A man who had given the devil his life and limbs to keep the country safe. Dumbledore could only hope that it would prove worth it.

Alastor moved a little unsteadily on his new leg, which made a disconcerting thunk as it hit the floor, something that all his fellow Aurors had clearly yet to adjust to, evidenced by the way they winced at his passing. Whether it was because of the fear that it could have been one of them, or simply fear of the man himself Dumbledore did not, nor want to, know. Moody had lost his leg in a fierce exchange of spells about a year ago with the Dark Lord Voldemort himself, and though he never spoke about it, Albus always suspect it was something Alastor was proud of.

“So then, he’s dead?” asked Alastor gruffly, “I won’t believe it until I’ve heard it from you.”

“I wish it were so, Alastor. No, I don’t think he’s dead, but he’s not exactly alive anymore either. Rest assured that it is only a matter of time until he returns. I intend to spend some of the next few years looking at possible hide-aways, but the world is a very large place and we cannot look under every stone.”

Moody sighed, and drank deep from his silver hipflask, which he had taken to carrying after a near-fatal poisoning in 1979. Paranoia was quickly becoming a problem for him, Dumbledore hoped that he would be able to curb its excess. The war had swallowed the life of Alastor Moody, as war often does to promising young men. Limbs, sanity and marriage were all casualties of this war when it came to the Auror before him. Perhaps worst of all was that he wife left, rather than was taken. A blow from which Moody had never recovered, and stripped him of the naivety that even this bloody war had not torn from his soul.

“I hear that you’re planning on brining in some big names?”

“Bah! How did you hear about that? I swear, the leaks are getting worse by the day – that should have been highly secret. But yeah, we’re going after a few names.” He incanted, and the room vibrated briefly and almost imperceptibly, the tell-tale mark of a privacy charm, “We’re getting warrants for Evan Rosier, Lucius Malfoy, Mulciber, Karkaroff and the Carrows. We’ll be pulling in some smaller names too, Goyle, Crabbe, Snape,” at this point Albus interrupted.

“I can vouch for Severus Snape – he is my spy in the Death Eater ranks, though I would appreciate it if that information was shared only with Barty until the time comes that we have to show our hand. He may yet be of use in tracking some of the others if they go to ground.”

Alastor nodded, “Hell of a spy you’ve got there Albus, I never would have thought. I just hope he’s not playing you for a fool. Then again, even if he is, he won’t be the only one who’ll get away scott free. I know for a fact we don’t have anywhere near enough dirt on Malfoy to get a conviction, even if he doesn’t plead Imperious.”

“Yes, well, I suppose that I will ...” this time it was Dumbeldore’s turn to be cut off mid sentence, as the warning siren sounded, and the lights in the DMLE office turned red. Faster than you would expect of an elderly gentleman and a man with a wooden leg, they were out of their seats and into the main office as soon as you could blink.

They cut an imposing figure, Albus Dumbledore wand in hand, an aura of power perceptibly rolling off of him, standing side by side with the legendary Auror Alastor Moody, the man credited with the most battlefield accolades since the Great War against Grindelwald. Aurors snapped to attention immediately, wands at the ready and waiting for orders.

“Swindon, nature of alarm and location?” growled Alastor at a lithe man with sandy brown hair who was attending the main desk, and the most senior Auror in the room bar Moody himself. Dumbledore was acquainted with Swindon and was confident that he was among the few untouched by dark influences, partly because of his steadfast nature but also partly because he was not important enough to be worth beguiling.

“Code Red Sir, location is Safe-house 19. We must have been compromised. Records show that this house is active.”

“Right, Swindon pick a 5 man team and head to dispatch right away. Go in fast, but carefully – if you can, take them by surprise and take them out. If you can’t, then hang back for me, this could turn into a nasty hostage situation. Wilkes, Gordon and ...” Alastor cast his eyes across the office, looking over faces, deciding who the final man in his team would be. It was unspoken, but understood that the 4th man was Dumbledore, all that remained was the final choice. “You there rookie, what’s your name?”

“Dawlish, Sir, John Dawlish,” replied the lad, who had clearly been a recent addition to the DLME forces, as he was bereft of the myriad battles scars that adorned most of the veterans. He looked as green as he was, done up perfectly in his regulation uniform behind his tidy desk. Moody saw some raw talent in the lad, all that was left was the break that dogged determination to follow every rule right to the book – sometimes an Auror had to break rules to get the job done, even something Barty Crouch said in private, and Crouch was a right stickler for the rules.

“Okay lad, you’re with us. You look like you could do with some combat experience, grab your wand and cloak and meet us in the dispatch room ASAP.” The young man nodded nervously and rushed to grab his things, before sprinting after the receding sight of his more experienced comrades.

All ten men convened in a special room within the department designed for the dispatch of Aurors, Obliviators, Hit Wizards and Unspeakables in times of emergency. It was manned, at all times, by a Ministry Sanctioned Dispatch Wizard who was a specialist in the creation of portkeys, who had leapt into action the moment the location came through. Each squad leader, Moody and Swindon, grabbed a portkey and held them out to their squad.

They all each put a finger on the brick, so chosen for its innocuous nature for all standard Ministry portkeys, and the activation word was whispered by the dispatcher. They were all grabbed behind the navel by a powerful force and sent hurtling through the void at unimaginable speeds. Albus Dumbledore was a wizard who knew exactly what portkey travel was, and as such it made him queasy and he avoided it where ever he could. The truth about portkey travel was enough to put off some specialists from ever using them.

With a sudden lurch Moody, Dumbledore, Gordon, Dawlish and Wilkes appeared in a verdant English forest and fanned out behind trees in a standard attempt to escape any ambush that might have been laid. Someone knew where to find this house, then presumably they knew were the standard rally points would be. Swindon’s team would have arrived on the opposite side of the house.

The five of them advanced quickly through the woods, wands at the ready and eyes peeled for danger. Dawlish was sweating and clearly agitated, but credit to him, managing to hold himself together. Underbrush, leaves and trees all whisked past them as the house came into view, the sounds of spellfire, barked orders and the general commotion of battle was already upon them.

Alastor Moody signed to Gordon, who replied with his own set of gestures. Looks like four hostiles. Swindon and team pinned.

Gordon, Wilkes enter target building, retrieve hostages. Dumbledore, Dawlish long range support. Alastor signed back. Then, in a flash they were all moving. Dawlish and Dumbledore set up behind trees, Gordon and Wilkes sprinted as fast as they could towards the house and Alastor vanished with a turn of his heel.

Dawlish fired of a serious of explosion hexes towards the assailants who seemed to be firing from the windows of the dwelling down into the shields of Swindon’s wound and exposed team, who were strained and struggling under the massed fire of their opponents, barely able to return fire due to the sheer volume of the incoming barrage. His spells messed up the brickwork and forced the enemy back into the building, allowing Swindon to regroup his men and pull back the wounded.

Dumbledore raised his wand and cast the most majestic of magics, beseeching the very trees of the forest to help them. They creaked and groaned as the magic coerced them into beating down upon the house, each swipe causing a cascade of orange autumn leaves to fall, which only further served to confuse and obfuscate the assailants.

Gordon and Wilkes made it to the door, one on either side, and like practiced partners breached it with a spell and were gone inside the house searching, for the enemy.

Alastor Moody appeared like an avenging angel on the front lawn, cloak flowing out from behind him, wand swishing down, striking out with a barrage of spells faster than most men could name them, never mind cast. Explosions, gouts of flame, conjured projectiles all screamed their way into the house, a show of force clearly designed to shock and awe.

Sadly, he was facing foes who knew more about shock and awe than he ever would.

“YOU’LL NEVER TAKE ME ALIVE MOODY!” screamed a woman, and Alastor turned white. There was no hope for any hostages in the house now, not if Bellatrix LeStrange was here. There was an almighty crack and the shapely figure of a woman joined him outside, her long black cloak flowing freely in the wind just as his. Behind the porcelain mask he could not see, but still he knew there hid the face of a killer.

Alastor was merciless, and so was she. Spells collided and cascaded mid air as they ducked, rolled, dived and shielded themselves from the vicious attacks. Fatal spells were cast on both sides, no gloves for this fight, both had standing orders to capture if possible but kill if not.

All of a sudden the side of the house exploded, the tattered bodies of Gordon and Wilkes were blown clean through the walls, landing in heaps on the grass. Instantly Dumbledore and Dawlish were on their way over to them, attending to their fallen as they hoped their squad would do for them.

Dumbledore hastily deflected a cutting curse that streaked its way towards his head, and bent down to check on Gordon. He was bleeding profusely from many wounds, no doubt the results of a pitched battle inside the house, and a worrying head wound caused Albus some concern. He looked up at Dawlish, who was attending Wilkes and received a shake of the head. Crestfallen, Dumbledore stood up and turned towards the house.

Anger blazing like the sun, he thrust his wand outwards and the entire wall was wrenched from the building, exposing the Death Eaters within. He did not stop, nor care to attempt to identify them, simply pummelled them with relentless spells. One he dropped instantly with a lucky bone-breaker, shattering the arm in which his wand was held, leaving him all but defenceless against Dawlish’s follow-up stunner.

The second proved harder than the first, and fought with prowess but none could match Albus Dumbledore and he soon found himself cornered and on the defensive. Leading with a dazzling flash of light to distract, the Master of Transfiguration used a sly spell to enchant a wall pipe to rip itself free of the wall and wrap tightly around the hand of his adversary.

The Death Eater had time to look at his restrained hand, and then back to Dumbledore before he was struck with an unforgiving concussion curse. Leaving them in Dawlish’s hands, Albus dashed inside searching the rooms methodically for the people who had occupied the house.

Through a window he could see Bellatrix LeStrange and Alastor ablaze in shower of sparks and spells as they held a most impressive duel, completely oblivious to all else . They were evenly matched, he discipline, creativeness and skill, she sheer power, ferocity and will. All it took was one lucky break, and it came for Bellatrix when Alastor was forced onto his back foot and stumbled over a root.

She screamed in triumph and cast a scorching hellfire curse upon him, large gouts of flame exploded towards him, dark and smoky in their malice, their only intent to kill. His reflexes saved him, and he rolled just in time, but that still wasn’t quite quick enough.

The fire licked his left side, hideous flames seared him, horrendous burns appeared on him, clothes on fire, and worst of all was the pain in his eye. Oh, how it burnt! He screamed an almost inhuman cry, of fury, pain, despair, but most of all, defiance.

Hatred coursed through him, as though a side effect of the awful wounds he had suffered. Leaping to his feet he struck out with his wand and the tiles of the roof cascaded down towards Bellatrix. She, however, was too fast for this, and spun on her heel, appariting out of danger.

But into Moody.

His blasting hex struck her full force as she reappeared, and she was thrown off of her feet and into the wall. Alastor smiled as he heard bones crack. He doused himself in water, still smarting from the burns, and limped towards her with his wand at the ready.

He could see that she was down for the count but still, “Bitch,” he spat on her and stunned her to be sure. Taking stock of the situation, all was still and quiet, so he slumped down against the wall and removed a small tub of burn cream. The standard Auror issue anti-burn cream stung like hell, smelt like hell and (he was informed) taste like hell. All the same, he was glad to have it as he began the long job of soothing his battered frame.

The vision in his left eye was almost gone. He cursed, this would probably mean another medal.

Meanwhile, inside the house Albus Dumbledore crept through the ruined rooms in search of survivors. He silently made his way through blasted doors, and scarred spaces, signs that the battle here had been fierce even before Gordon and Wilkes had made their ill-fated entrance. Whoever had been hiding here had a fair amount of skill of their own.

He heard scuffing noises, and froze. The scuffing was following by low sobbing from the next room into which Albus advanced, wand held at the ready, where he was confronted by a prostrate man in a Death Eater uniform, the sleek mask smashed to pieces on the floor. The man was curled in corner, hands over his face, sobbing madly into them and muttering, half crazed.

“Come on son. Time to give it up,” he coaxed and soothed, “No one else needs to get hurt today. Come quietly now, and you’ll get a fair trial.” The thing in front of him screeched, and it took a moment for Dumbledore to realised he was laughing.

“Will I? Somehow I can’t imagine that’s true!” He looked up, and for the first time Albus saw his face. Shock rooted him to the spot, as Barty Crouch Junior raised his wand against him, and could do nothing as he saw the third and fatal Unforgiveable form on his lips.

“Avada K-“ Bright red light streaked from the other side of the room, where Auror Dawlish stood seemingly surprised that he had managed to simultaneously subdue the Death Eater and save the life of Albus Dumbledore in one fell swoop.

Albus turned and spoke with gratitude, “Thank you John, too slow on my part. I’d better look sharp, I won’t always have you about to help me, eh?” The two of them shared a small laugh, before Dawlish levitated Crouch Jnr. outside to join the others.

Dumbledore carried on searching, methodically room by room, his heart sinking all the while, until in the last room he discovered ...

“Alice? Oh, Alice!” There in the bedroom, were both the Longbottoms. In such a sorry state they were, as well. Frank had suffered some hideous wounds, torture most foul that Albus found it hard to look upon him, frankly he was glad that the man did not seem responsive – it would be a mercy to find blackness rather than the unspeakable pain he must be suffering. There were deep lacerations on his skin, repulsive and angry wounds that had clearly been infected on purpose in an attempt to break him. He had seen this before, a type of interrogation used by Rodolphus LeStrange, the physical counterpart to the metal barbarity that was Mulciber, the Imperious specialist.

Alice was rather a different matter. She was curled up on the bed, rocking backwards and forwards, a bundle clutched to her breast, staring wildly here there and everywhere.

“It’s alright Alice, it’s me, Albus – you’re safe n-“ he put his hand on her shoulder, and instantly regretted it, for she screamed, the horrible scream of one who was suffering under the Cruciatus curse.

In her eyes, he saw madness.

-

A/N – That’s the first chapter. This and the second chapter will mostly be post-war clear up, establishing the history of this fic. From then on we’ll start to see much more of our hero Harry. Hopefully you enjoyed this, and please, any constructive criticism you can offer would be marvellous.

Discount,

2. Daggers in Friends

Chaos Theory

A Harry Potter fan-fiction by DiscountNinja

A/N – Thanks again to all who’ve reviewed. So ... horribly, apocalyptically late, for which you are all due apologies for. Hope you all enjoy this, the second chapter, things won’t be all doom and gloom.

-

November 1st 1981 – 15:00 hours

It had been several hours since Albus Dumbledore had found the Longbottoms in Safe-house 19. He was exhausted, battered and bruised, but that was nothing compared to the injuries that his longest friend, Alastor Moody, had sustained. Most maladies were easily curable with the wonder of magic, anything from diseases to broken bones. It was not unheard of for an especially skilled Healer to be able to bring patients out of comas that Muggle doctors would have considered permanent.

Sadly, in the case of Alastor Moody, magic could not fix everything. Dumbledore had spent some very tense hours in St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, waiting for what seemed like forever for news of fallen friends. He sat, hoped and wished that the Healers would be able to do something for Alastor, Frank, Alice, Neville, Gordon and even Wilkes, or at the very least he could have some news of their progress.

When that news arrived, he very often found himself wishing that it had not. The first blow had been the confirmation that Auror Swindon had been killed in the intense crossfire that had pinned his group down upon their arrival. Albus had treated what wounds he could on the battlefield, but there was a reason he was Headmaster and not Healer, while his skill was admittedly considerably more than most, he could not simply wave his magic wand and cure all ails. This was tempered slightly by the report that Wilkes would make it through, but they had decided to keep him in overnight for observation due to the head wound. However, the same could not be said for Gordon, who would be in a critical condition in a spell damage ward tonight, still fighting for his life.

Second had come the news that little Neville would be fine. The poor child was sedated in the children’s wing, but other than superficial scratches, physically fine. This was a great relief, Bellatrix was a heartless lieutenant and Dumbledore had seen her handiwork personally before. He still shivered to think of the way they had found Edgar Bones and his family. On dark nights, he woke up in cold sweats, he would practically leap from the bed in fear that he might go back to the nightmare. His body, broken, children forced to watch before they too met their end. He had shaken himself of these thoughts, with great effort, only to learn of yet more ill-fortune.

When the healers told him, the breath left him as though he had been gut-punched. The heartbreak was physically painful. The war was supposed to be over! Why then, was he still losing friends? Frank and Alice, tortured to insanity, their minds lost in a fugue somewhere inside their heads. He could not imagine how horrible their last lucid moments must have been. Frank, a model of a man, strong-willed and determined brought low in his youth, the prime of his life, by foul cur like the LeStranges. In a strange, detached way he noted he had seen the passing of three generations of Longbottom males. Tobias Longbottom, Neville’s great-grandfather, had been a friend of Dumbledore’s father and Alfred Longbottom, Neville’s grandfather, had been in Europe with him in 1945. He had passed of natural causes not 4 months ago, Neville and family at his bedside. Worst of all, perhaps, was that it should happen to wonderful, little Alice. So full of life and vigor, and where Frank had been slow to rouse she had been all fire and passion. Nothing but shells sitting in their beds where lives should be.

The Potters, the Longbottoms, Black’s apparent treachery ... in the last two days alone. In a cold, sterilized and lonely corridor, Dumbledore had allowed himself to shed tears for those left by the wayside for the first time since he had broken down over Marlene McKinnon. He was not a man for tears, Albus had gotten as far as he had in life by a willingness to pick himself up when he was knocked down. Ariana, Kendra and so many others were lost to the grave, and he carried on. He even stomached those painful betrayals – Gellert, Sirius and his muggle-loathing father Percival, experiences that he could put behind him and make him a stronger man. Albus Dumbledore was a man tempered like steel, but even an iron man feels and today the weariness of a decade of dark, shadow war was catching up to him. Daggers in the shadows, and daggers in friends. It was another hour before the Healers came again, who gave him a moment to recover with as much dignity as he could muster.

Desensitized and numb, he then listened to how Alastor Moody, the greatest Auror of the age and the man with the highest catch and conviction rate in the last two decades, would lose the vision completely in his left eye. Flames were potent, they said, and they killed the cells faster and more thoroughly than any other weapon in a Wizards arsenal. By the time Moody arrived in St Mungo’s there simply wasn’t enough of his eye left for the Healers to repair, and they opted to remove rather than risk infection. There were artificial replacement options, but it was explained to him that given the severe damage to the muscles and nerves around the eyes it was likely that the magical eyeball would be incredibly sensitive. Healers had spoken of cases where the eye had constantly twitched, leaving most people to choose a simple eye patch.

Alastor Moody was never a man to be ordinary, however. While they could not undo the damage done, they could at least fix him up well enough that he was physically able to leave the hospital and nothing short of LeStrange herself showing up was going to convince him to stay a moment longer. He revealed to Albus, almost as soon as they met up in the waiting room, that he would be opting to get the replacement after all.

“Har! Are you kidding Albus? Of course I’ll be getting a replacement. Can’t fight wizards that I can’t see, am I right?” he grinned at Dumbledore, but the both of them knew it was false humour at best. “Anyway, the job’s what matters right now. Maybe someday down the line I can do without two good eyes, but right here and right now there’s work to be done, and I damn well don’t trust it to anyone else. Besides,” his expression grew grim, “someone is going to have to reign Barty in now. He was always like a dog, baying for blood, but now we’ve picked his son up as one of them, well ...”

“Between the two of us, the Minister mentioned that she thought Barty might be verging on a breakdown.”

“Barty? Breakdown? Never. She just wants him out of the way by the time the next election comes around. No, if anything, this will just spur him on. I honestly don’t know how I’m going to be able to temper him. There’ll be no mercy for anyone now. He was never exactly easy on the lad, and he can’t back down or let him off light, because he’s been saying for years that these people need firm punishment.”

There was a contemplative pause, “I was sorry to hear about Swindon.”

“So was I, he was a damn fine man,” Alastor looked away, hiding his one remaining eye, and Dumbledore fancied if the other had still been there he might have seen it mist over. “A damn fine man. Worked with him for 8 or 9 years now.”

Another, more pained pause, “Anyway, come on, let’s get me out of this hell-hole. I hate hospitals.”

Dumbledore frowned, and replied “You know that they don’t think you should be leaving, but you really ought to give yourself a few days to recover. You know that Barty won’t let you work without a clean bill of health, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” a superior smile formed on his face, “but he’ll have to fill out the damn forms first. Until then I’m on active duty, and I’ll be leading my team out tonight with the rest of them. I’ve got a date with some Death Eaters.”

“Really Alastor, please reconsider. Now, I can’t force you to-“

“No, you can’t”, growled Moody, “We’re so close to finishing this. I might be limping, but I’m going to make it past the finishing post on my own steam and still pull my weight. I might be blind in one eye, unsteady on my one good leg, but it takes more than this to take me ought of the fight.”

Dumbledore was taken aback, he could see the knuckles going white, the fingernails nearly drawing blood from Moody’s palm where he balled his fists “I never suggested that you weren’t capable,” Moody’s hard look softened, “far from it. You’re still the first man I’d trust to have my back.”

“Aye, well. You know I’ve always had your back. Heh, you know that Rufus has taken to calling me ‘Dumbledore’s Man’ at department meetings?” Rufus Scrimgeour was a couple of years younger than Moody, and had recently been promoted to oversee the Magical Law Enforcement Patrol. “Used to call Benjy that too, come to think of it.”

They shared a sober moment. “I’m sorry to have doubted you, I must remember that I ought to support you as much as you do me,” replied Albus, feeling more than a little guilty. Shame was always a surprisingly bitter medicine to swallow.

“That’s not what I meant, man ... but, it’s appreciated all the same. “

Alastor handed in some forms to the receptionist on the way out and, ignoring the advice of his healers, the two of them left the hospital, turned sharply on their heels and were gone with a crack.

-

November 1st 1981 – 22:30

Darkness had long since fallen over Warlocks Spire, where candles dimly lit the corridors and roaring fires lit the rooms. It was shaping up to be a cold winter and Dumbledore, who had never had a child of his own, decided it was better to be safe than sorry. A drafty spire is good enough for a sprightly man such as I, he thought wryly, but it would not do to allow my charge to acquire a cold on his first day. He had Botzler, his house-elf for these past 30 years, return to the Spire with his things and set about making the place properly habitable.

Sirius Black and Peter Pettigrew were still out of contact, highly unusual for Order members who all had orders to check in with another member on a regular basis (a provision made after the disappearance of Caradoc Dearborn), and in his bones Albus knew that little Harry was here to stay. He was a curious thing, Dumbledore thought, small and pink but with black hair that contrasted so sharply. Those green eyes were painfully familiar in their own way, but Albus was thankful that they did not look at him accusingly as he had feared they might.

Harry was, thankfully, at an age where he mostly slept and ate – by all accounts from the Potters, Harry had been an unusually quiet child, there was little crying or screaming on his part (though James would often joke that Lily made up for that in spades). Words were starting to form, and bright little eyes peered at everything with a keen interest and, though Dumbledore was somewhat biased, obvious intellect.

Albus had never seen himself as a father figure, fatherly perhaps, but the practical aspect of raising children was a situation he had never expected himself to need to confront, so he was grateful for the (currently) pleasant nature of his charge. As he sat in his arm chair by the fire, a good book in his lap and dark-wood wand in his hand, which caused the cradle on the other side of the room to rock gently, he found himself looking forward to raising the boy.

Casting his gaze around his modest, yet pleasing, sitting room he saw that things were right for the first time in what seemed like an eon. A gorgeous fire to warm the bones, hot coco and a good book were three of the finest things a man can enjoy, at least in the opinion of the great Albus Dumbledore. The only thing missing was a good pair of woollen socks, and perhaps a plate of biscuits, but greed never lead anywhere good he supposed. Filled from wall to wall with books, old wooden furniture and comfy arm chairs it was the picture perfect grandfather’s house, complete with clock that pre-dated the owner, inherited in fact from his own father and wound with religious observance.

His own father had been a difficult man to like, and there had never been chance to learn to ride a broomstick or play chess or go fishing with him, something that Albus deeply regretted, though not always admitted. Percival Dumbledore had been a bigot, but he was still Dumbledore’s father. In darker hours Dumbledore had reflected upon the road not taken and, though he knew it was a case of the grass seeming greener on the other side, it was impossible for him not to mourn the loss. He resolved that he was not to be that sort of guardian, from day one he wanted to be involved.

Nobody had mourned the passing of Percival Dumbledore. Everyone would mourn the passing of Albus Dumbledore. It was a conceited thing to think, but true nonetheless. It was hard to disguise that he was the pride of British wizards and witches, a symbol of what can be achieved with effort, a guardian of the innocent and helpless and crusader against the unjust.

None mourned Percival, all would mourn Albus. Yet these things were the same. He would leave behind many friends, Elphias, Minerva and Alastor chief among them, but he had no family, or so claimed Aberforth, and certainly no lover. He lived in an almost literal Ivory Tower, at arms reach from others. Though he refused to let it claim him, he was a lonely man. Selfish of him surely, but little Harry Potter was the only hope for him. He knew one day that Harry would likely understand exactly how he felt. Heroes are often lonely men, and Albus had little doubt that Harry would be hero. History and fate would make him a hero regardless of his wishes.

Though he had only been in Dumbledore’s care for less than a day, it pained him to think of the boy growing up with such heavy expectations upon his shoulders. He had devised a plan to allow Harry a childhood, however meagre it may have been with such a family, but his own weakness had robbed Harry of that. He would be idolised from day one, and living with Albus Dumbledore it was likely that the boy would be built into some paragon of good. Such terrible, incredible expectations, but if anyone was capable of helping him deal with that, then surely it was Albus Dumbledore.

Perhaps it was the old teacher’s soul inside him, but he yearned to impart knowledge and wisdom. A smaller part of him thought of the small orb that even now resided in the Department of Mysteries, and began to consider exactly what the young boy would need to know. A strange pride filled Albus, and he could almost see the man that Harry would be.

I mean, there’s so much to start with! One needs a firm grounding in Latin to even begin with magic – from there I suppose it’s safest to start with some history and magical theory. See if the teacher in me remembers how to grab the classes attention, eh? Potions and perhaps some alchem-

His reverie was interrupted by the fireplace, which had been burning such a bright, comforting orange, suddenly turning the hideous green that was the indication of Floo powder. Immediately he stood, wand trained above the fireplace readying a spell to his lips that would see an unwelcome intruder introduced to 700 years of chimney.

Through the flames appeared a head, just the head, of a man who coughed violently. Soot and dust fell from his hair in a shower. “What in the blazes?! Albus! For Merlin’s sake, can’t you keep that chimney clean?” shouted Alastor Moody.

The wand was lowered, “What did I want for my birthday last year?” he asked.

“Ha! Woollen socks, of course.” The laugh was hollow.

“And what did I actually get from you?”

“Books and fire whisky, of course. Ogdens finest!” Alastor had presented him with the same present every year for the last 20 years, after the first 5 Albus has resigned himself to the fact and at around the tenth year he had come to look forward to it – on a cold night such as this, a new book and a drop of the good stuff could really see a man though the evening. “Really though, no need for your questions, war’s over didn’t you hear? At least, Barty Crouch has declared it officially over now.”

“Oh? What exactly do you mean by that?” Albus knelt down in front of the fire, the joints in his knees aching as he lowered himself to the ground, and hoped he wouldn’t need the help of Botzler to return to his feet. Sadly, as one aged, it become something you hoped every time you met the floor. He made the extra effort however, because he had charged Moody with keeping an ear open for him at the Ministry. To bother him at home so late would have to mean something big had gone down.

“We made a string of arrests while we were gadding around in the forest today,” the words were jovial and light, but his tone was terse and stressed, “I even made it back to the office in time to pick up a few myself. Karkaroff in particular,” the smug look on his face matched his attitude, though it was a little strained. Igor Karkaroff and he had shared bad blood for years, to have been the arresting officer should have made Moody positively gleeful, and yet speaking to Dumbledore he was nothing of the sort, “but there’s bad news for you Albus.”

“Sirius Black was brought in tonight, but ... we were too slow. I arrived on the scene too late, damn it!” his anger was palpable, and the colour drained slowly from Albus’ face as the diatribe continued, “If we’d have made it there sooner we could have avoided the whole bloody mess! I mean, “he took a deep breath, “we’d gotten reports of sketchy sightings for the last half an hour in the Kent area, maybe if I’d just sent a team to sweep the streets we could have done something about it...”

“Calm yourself, Alastor – I know you perhaps better than any other man, and if there’s one thing to be said about Alastor Moody it is that he does his duty, and he does it well. You have no need to be so hard on yourself. Take a breath and tell me straight, from the beginning, please.”

“I was practically the first man on the scene ... Albus, you couldn’t imagine. The smells and the sounds ... suffering, hell and the devil it was. Blood and fear and tears ... the street was torn to pieces, bits of ...” he coughed and choked, “everywhere. Mad man blew half the street to buggery just to get him, Albus. Twelve Muggles killed in a single spell, and the poor bastard at the centre was damn near obliterated by it ...”

Albus felt his mouth and lips go dry, he tricked to lick them and speak, but he couldn’t seem to move them. Instead he could look only into the haunted stare and wait for him to continue.

“He killed Peter, killed him. Poor, silly bastard should have known better than to try and track Black down. Black was always the better wizard, I mean, how did he think it could end? Shouted to the whole street that Sirius had betrayed them, sold them to the Dark Lord ... they only found his finger.”

Dumbledore could only sit there, speechless.

The stare grew distant and unfocused, as if he was looking at some point a thousand miles behind Albus, “You know what the worst part of it all was?” Dumbledore could only shake his head in response.

“He laughed Albus ...” Moody swung his gaze around to meet his, the left eye already covered by a black patch “he laughed. Damn well stood there and howled himself silly while we hauled him off in cuffs.” The visible left hand side of his face was pink and raw where the skin had sloughed off and his nose was a dried, bloody mess, the dread in Dumbledore’s gut increased as he really took in for the first time all the damage that had been done to his old friend these past ten years.

Dumbledore finally managed to part his cracked, dry lips to respond, but Moody shook his head clear and beat him to it.

“Thing is, Barty’s got him down in a cell now, with orders for an immediate transfer to Azkaban. He’ll be on his way by the end of the night, along with Karkaroff and Mulciber. Barty thinks we have enough evidence on those three that he’s declared them an open and shut case, there’s not even going to be a trail.”

“But that’s preposterous! It undermines the very foundation of our legal system!”

Moody’s head did it’s best to shrug. “If you’d seen that street Albus ...”

“Regardless, as a member of the Wizengamot I must protest. I will come down to see to Mr. Crouch myself! Stand back, if you would.”

Dumbledore called for Botzler who appeared with only a momentary pause, the old elf looking increasingly wrinkled and leathery, and left him with instructions to pay very close attention to Harry while he was away.

He stepped through the fireplace in a single stride to find himself inside the Head Auror Office. It was much the same as it had been earlier in the day, only now it was filled with mountains of paperwork that looked ready to cascade, like the deadliest of landslides. Moody himself sat at the desk, unconcerned, with his hip-flask of whiskey in hand. He placed the silver container against his lips and took a swig, decided it wasn’t enough and upended it, draining the last drops. He grimaced as it burnt inside, before slamming it to the desk and following Dumbledore as he swept from the room.

“Take me to the cells first, Alastor. I need to speak to Sirius Black.”

Moody looked incredibly uncomfortable, “You know that I can’t let you do that, more than my job’s worth to let non-DMLE personnel into the holding area without written permission.”

“Please, I promise you that it won’t take long. I simply wish to look Sirius in the eyes, that is all. Besides, if it turns out that Black is as guilty as it appears then ... well, there’s no hurry to appeal the decision. I will have to make a complaint regardless you understand, we can’t have Crouch deciding who goes to Azkaban on a whim but for guilty men it is hardly a rush.”

Moody grinned an awful grin, “Too right. I know we’ve got to watch we don’t go too far, but ... damn it all, I want to see Karkaroff sweat for what he’s done. I suppose if you’re only going to be a minute then I can let you into the block, come on.”

He lead them down a quiet corridor towards the back of the department, which was seemingly empty – staffed only by a skeleton crew tonight. All the same, Dumbledore could see the lights were on in Barty Crouch’s office, though thankfully the frosted glass obscured the view and they continued into more sensitive areas of the office unmolested.

At the end of a long corridor sat behind a desk was John Dawlish, who snapped off a salute to Moody as he approached, “Sorry Sir, no entry to non-authorised personnel beyond this point.” The foreboding door blocking their access to the cell block stood ominously, almost oppressively, before them, and only Dawlish stood in their way.

“Come on lad, this is Dumbledore and me, let us through,” cajoled Moody.

Unfortunately, John Dawlish was a man of rules and regulations. He felt safe knowing that there were guidelines to be followed, procedures for protection and he believed very strongly that rules were not meant to be broken. Alastor thought that he could disabuse the man of that notion, but John Dawlish was resolute, his firm belief in authority would never allow him to be compromised so.

“I’m sorry Sir, but that is clearly against regulations. Furthermore, how can I even be sure that you’re the real Chief Auror Moody and Professor Dumbledore? You could be here in disguise to enact an escape plan,” he gave them a wide smile, obviously amused by the idea, “Orders are orders, Sir.”

“Any other day I’d have commended you for thinking like that, constant vigilance is exactly what we need around here. However, if you’re so dead set on following your orders, then right now I am giving you a god damn order to open this blasted door! Do you understand me Auror Dawlish?”

Dawlish’s face was dead set. “Sir,” he said, coldly. He tapped his wand upon the desk and the door opened with a faint click.

“There,” Moody smirked, “not so hard, was it?”

The two of them entered the room, and the instant they crossed the threshold they heard awful, maudlin laugher emanating from one of the cells further down the hall. Moody shivered and said, “Alright Albus, do your thing then. I don’t want to go any closer, gives me the god damn creeps.”

Albus nodded and began to move along the row of cells, most of the occupants were unconscious – those who had chosen to attempt to resist arrest were considered too dangerous to risk waking them from the effects of various stunning charms. However, in the second cell to his left, the occupant had been pacing around nervously until he recognised Dumbledore, at which point he was desperately pressing himself against the bars of the cell.

“Dumbledore! Thank god you’re here! There’s been some kind of awful mistake!” Karkaroff pleaded.

Albus looked the man straight in the eyes and felt out with his Legilimency, reaching into Igor Karkaroff’s mind and searching hard for the truth. Vague emotions, feelings, memories assaulted Albus, not as any sort of mental defence, but simply because the human mind has no barriers to neatly separate these things into neat compartments. Legilimency in of itself was not a hard magic to perform, even wandless and silently, but it was the interpretation part that was the true art. It required skill and experience to sift through such a barrage of information to find the one thing the caster was looking for.

“No Igor, somehow I don’t think there has been,” the inevitable conclusion.

Karkaroff wailed, “I know na-“

“Quiet convict!” roared Moody, “just be glad that you didn’t resist, like your good buddy Rosier.” The shabby prisoner was clearly cowed by this violent outburst. Dumbledore smiled in thanks and continued down the corridor.

He looked from side to side, the prisoners were all dressed in regulation robes, their Death Eater garb and wands long since confiscated. He recognised some personally, some by description and others yet who were unknown to him, eleven of them all in all. The three LeStranges, Barty Crouch Jnr., Travers, Dolohov, Mulciber, three whose names he did not know and last of all Sirius Black.

As he got closer to that final cell the hollow laughter began to reverberate in his ears, a melancholy, manic laughter – as though the last joke had pushed him over the line between sanity and madness. The palms of his hands became sweaty, and he realised he was afraid. Not of Sirius Black, how could he be when he still remembered arriving for breakfast late one morning to find the entire faculty had grown antlers, but deathly afraid of his guilt.

To look into his eyes and to see the exact moment he had signed off on the Fidelus plan, effectively the moment that had condemned the Potters. To see the precise moment that had he failed to find the traitor in their midst. A fresh wave of guilt struck like lightening as he realised that if Sirius had been the traitor then Remus Lupin was innocent. The last three years they had been giving in to their prejudices and suspecting an innocent man.

Dumbledore felt intense shame. While he hadn’t been pointing any fingers, unlike Sturgis Podmore, as the war had progressed he found himself trying to limit the amount of sensitive information that the werewolf was exposed to. A painful reminder that even Albus Dumbledore, champion of Muggle rights and the first Headmaster to allow a werewolf student at Hogwarts, was not above the same narrow-minded thinking he strove so hard to defeat.

He rounded the corner of the cell, and saw for the first time the incarcerated Sirius Black. He was lying on the small cot towards the back of the room, face towards the ceiling, dressed in regulation clothing. One arm lay languid over the edge of the cot, as though boneless. An innocuous thing, but one that seemed almost sinister to Albus.

Dumbledore cleared his throat and stood expectantly. The laughter slowly died, and ended in a small sob. Black slowly turned his head from facing the roof to the cell door, resting his face on the thin pillow at the head of the bed. A moment later his eyes shot wide open.

“Dumbledore!” His voice was horse, coarse, no doubt from the unceasing laughter, and he winced as he tried to speak, “Thank Merlin.”

He pulled himself from the bed as quickly as he could, unsteady on his feet, and dashed towards the cell door. The parallels with Karkaroff were not unnoticed by Dumbledore. He clung tightly to the bars of the cell, and this close up Albus could see that his face was stained with soot and dust, except for two trails beneath the eyes were he had obviously been crying.

Albus steeled himself, and looked into Sirius Black’s eyes and found –

“DUMBLEDORE!” spat an enraged Bartemius Crouch, “What in the hell do you think you’re playing at?”

Eye contact lost too soon, Dumbledore span around to face Crouch who had come barrelling through the door that Moody had stayed beside. Crouch was a squat man, and even from this distance Albus could see the dark rings underneath his eyes were the fatigue was showing. Crouch, in his curious dark purple suit and matching bowler, began to waddle towards Dumbledore with John Dawlish in tow.

“I said what in the hell do you think you’re doing here? You know damn well that you’re not supposed to be here, as do you Auror Moody! This is my department and I’ll not have the interference of the Wizengamot here.”

“You are in direct contravention of some of our most cherished laws Mr Crouch,” Dumbledore replied serenely, “I am here in my official capacity to investigate that.” He could see plainly at the other end of the corridor that Moody and Dawlish were engaged in a quiet argument, it was painfully obvious that after they had pushed their way past his sentry that Dawlish had ran to Crouch for help.

“Bah, for this filth? They hardly count as human,” Crouch said derisively, “I intend to see them punished for what they’ve done, and I’ve the support of many behind me.”

“We shall see about that Bartemius,” said Dumbledore, thinking of the conversation he had shared with Minister Bagnold.

It was at this moment that Karkaroff choice once again to make an impassioned plea for his release.

“Barty Crouch! You’ve got to listen to me, help me, I know names! I’ll do any-“

“For the last time convict, shut your filthy mouth!” shouted an enraged Alastor.

“Quiet Moody, you’re in enough trouble as it is right now.” Crouch turned to face Moody, “You singlehandedly bring in Bellatrix LeStrange, take an injury that would buy most men retirement, return in time to pick up Karkaroff and Dolohov. You even manage to bring Rosier to justice, costing you your nose in the process,” he said gesturing towards his blood stained face. “It is only in light of these facts that I’m suspending you, and not demanding that you turn in your badge this very second for allowing non-department personnel in here. I’ll have no more from you.”

Finally he looked straight at Karkaroff, who was hanging from the bars in desperation, “Well then, talk. Prove to us you’re of some use and maybe there might be a deal for you.” Igor’s dark eyes lit up, the relief on his face evident.

“You’ve made the right choice Mr. Crouch, you won’t regret this, I assure you!”

“Get on with it, let’s have a name I don’t already know.”

“Avery! He’s one of them.” The words tumbled over his lips, eager to avoid the imminent transportation to Azkaban island.

Crouch remained impassive, “Is currently under house arrest for Death Eater association. Has claimed Imperious. Another name, last chance Karkaroff.”

“Wilkes, then! Jonah Wilkes.”

Moody, Dawlish and Crouch all gasped. Wilkes, the very same Wilkes who lay half-comatose in a St. Mungo’s hospital bed as they spoke. Flabbergasted, Moody could only reply “Liar! Filthy liar!”

“I said quiet Moody, I’ve had more than enough of you. Wilkes you say? It would explain the department leaks,” Crouch ruminated, “but I’m not saying I believe you yet. If you can provide more names like that Karkaroff, then perhaps we can do a deal.”

“NO! Not after I worked so hard Crouch, damn it all! Karkaroff is mine, you can’t just let him go like that.” Alastor was bright red in the face, anger swelling within him, almost close to drawing his wand. But Bartemius wasn’t fazed by the legendary Auror’s legendary anger, he had faced down the exact same expression in departmental meetings long enough to have gained a resistance.

“I said I’d had enough of your outbursts Moody. Remember your suspension? Dawlish and I will be leaving to pay a visit to Auror Wilkes, now, I know the two of you worked together for quite some time. As a personal favour to you, I will allow you and Dumbledore to accompany us, if you can keep your temper to yourself.”

Still furious, but desperate to prove Crouch and Karkaroff wrong about Wilkes, he controlled his anger and nodded his ascent, and silently hobbled towards the exit, making painfully clear to stand on Dawlish’s foot with his wooden leg.

Dumbledore suppressed a smile, and motioned for Crouch and Dawlish to go first. He followed, casting a forlorn glance behind him at the cell of Sirius Black, who stood still by the bars of the cell, arms wrapped tightly around the iron with his face cast down.

-

November 1st 1981 – 23:00

Moody took a deep breath. He pushed open the ward doors and entered, leaving Crouch, Dawlish and Dumbledore in the corridor. It had meant an argument in the lobby and an extra week of suspension, but he had fought Barty tooth and nail – he would go in first, and alone, to talk to Jonah Wilkes. He felt he deserved the right to confront him. Years of honourable service together tarnished in the face of Karkaroff’s allegations. At this moment he didn’t know who to hate more, Karkaroff or Wilkes.

The ward was quiet and empty as the more serious, but not permanent, spell damage wards are. With magic, nine times out of ten if they can’t heal it right away they never can, so overnight wards tended to be next to empty. The sound of his wooden leg was incredibly disquieting, the only other noise breaking the silence his heavy breathing and the pounding of his angry heart in his chest.

The short walk from door to bed seem to last forever to Alastor, but all too soon he stood and stared at Jonah, who lay asleep recovering from his wounds. He sat down heavily on the visitors chair and tried for a moment to control the nervous twitch in his face.

It was quiet in the ward, much quieter than Moody had anticipated, and it was easy to sit there and simply do nothing. So much easier than the confrontation he’d arrived to have. At first he wouldn’t even entertain the notion that Karkaroff was telling the truth, but now he was here doubt was beginning to creep in. It would certainly explain a lot of the leaks the department had suffered, and ... frankly, he was no longer surprised by duplicity and betrayal. It had been a long decade, during which he’d been stabbed in the back, though only once literally, by friends and colleagues too many times for this one to surprise him. It only seemed to prove to him just how little we really know those around us.

Finally he steeled himself and, ignoring the ailing, nervous jittering in his gut, gently he shook Wilkes’ sleeping form. He did not doubt that Crouch and the Department would have hell to pay with the nurses and healers, but this had to be done. Jonah roused slowly, still sluggish from whatever they had used to sedate him earlier, but already Moody could see that he wasn’t anywhere near as battered as when he had been brought in.

The various bruises, cuts and scrapes were gone and the horrible looking head wound was now just red swelling and a scar, plainly visible where the healers had vanished the hair to get a better look. Alastor had, on more than one occasion, taken a foul smelling potion to re-grow hair lost to the healers.

“Huh?” Jonah looked up hazily, still trying to shake off that weird sensation that sleeping potions left you with when you woke. It always felt like trying to think through molasses, or so Moody thought.

“Thought you might-could do with a visitor Wilkes” Moody said, softly.

Wilkes smiled slightly, but grimaced and hissed as he hoisted himself up into a sitting position. “They say it’s not so bad now. Think they said something about releasing me tomorrow morning, back at work two or three days. How’d we make out?”

“Pretty good, in some ways, pretty bad in others. We pulled in a bunch of-“ he cut himself off, having been close to irrationally spitting ‘your friends’, swallowed and continued “suspects. Gordon will be fine, they think. It was close for a while, but he’s pulling through. The Longbottoms on the other hand haven’t been so lucky.”

He clasped his hands together, and put them on his lap. Heart still beating madly, he realised he didn’t want to know. He shifted uncomfortably, which Wilkes noticed “Something bothering you, Chief?”

Moody sighed, chest constricting, “Yeah, yeah there is ... Karkaroff wants to talk. And Crouch wants to listen.”

Wilkes rapidly went white, a deathly pallor went over him and the bottom of Moody’s stomach dropped. That sickly feeling brewed in his gut, churning and acidic. Wilkes tried to meet Moody’s eye, but he wouldn’t let him, just stared somewhere to the left above Jonah’s head.

“He mention any names?” Wilkes began to shake slightly.

“Yeah. He may have done. Yours might’ve come up.” Try as he might Moody couldn’t summon the hate, that red blood lust that the white porcelain conjured. He couldn’t hate the trembling wreck of a man before him. But he had a job to do, a duty to fulfil. And no one could say Alastor Moody did not do his duty. “I’m going to have to take you back to the Ministry with me, Jonah.”

“No! No, I can’t!” He looked about wildly, positively rabid, then reached out with sudden, surprising speed and grabbed Moody’s robes, great big fist fulls of cloth, nearly tearing them in his desperation and he didn’t even seem to notice Alastor trying to prise himself free of his grip. “I’m not one of them, not really, not really. I can’t go there, you know that.” Wilkes shook him, forced Alastor to look into his eyes and begged. Eyes like pits of bottomless fear that stretched, yawning at him.

Moody knew what he meant, Wilkes could never stand Azkaban. He had been there once, thrown up and fallen unconscious before he had even reached the shore. Refused to go a second time, which Moody understood – that terrible, foreboding hulk of a castle perched like some hideous vulture on the cliffs of Azkaban Isle would chew men inside out in the worst possible way. Minds and souls, like tatters when they left. If they ever did.

Fear had hold of Wilkes in its icy, vice grip as sure as he had hold of Moody. Dementors were foul, blasted, god-forsaken things. Husks of hate and fear, with nothing even close to approximating a soul. Death Eaters might have blackened, pestilent souls but Dementors were a void. A void which was always looking to be filled but never full, hungry and envious and hateful.

“ENOUGH!” The double doors at the entrance to the ward slammed open and Barty Crouch came striding through them, Dawlish and Dumbledore in tow. “Jonah Wilkes, you are under arrest for espionage and treason, and the charge of alleged membership of an illegal terrorist organisation.”

There was no mercy in the stone face of Crouch Snr. Dumbledore pleaded “Let Alastor go and come in quietly, Jonah.”

“No! I was never one of them, I swear!” Wilkes heaved himself from the bed, dragging Moody with him. Incredible strength fuelled by fear allowed him to stand and nearly lift Alastor from his feet.

“But you did, at the very least, pass them vital departmental information and that alone is a treasonous act. You allowed Voldemort and his Death Eaters to gain a foothold in my department and my ministry, and elongated a war. You will come with Auror Dawlish and I,” Crouch responded, and Alastor could see that he wasn’t interested in talking. The shape of the confrontation was laid out in front of him, and he knew it was only a matter of time before one of them resorted to slinging spells.

Wilkes hesitated, and realised for the first time that he was holding onto Moody when he spoke to him. “Come on lad, let’s do as Barty asks, eh?” desperate to do anything to avoid the coming fight.

Wilkes swung his captive around and snatched the wand that Moody kept concealed within his robes before levelling it to face his former boss and comrades. “I’m sorry Al,” he whispered, eying the unguarded door at the other end of the ward “but I can’t go there.”

“Auror Dawlish, detain him. If he resists you are authorised to use lethal force.” Anger was etched into every line and wrinkle of Crouch’s face as he spat his orders. Dumbledore fumbled for his wand, intent upon diffusing the situation, perhaps to disarm both Dawlish and Wilkes, but the fact of the matter was he was too slow. Wilkes and Dawlish already had wands drawn, Aurors in their prime.

Wilkes threw Moody forward and cast a shield charm to cover himself while he turned his back and ran.

He didn’t even make it half way.

Even face down on the floor Moody could feel the awful nausea that was left in the wake of the killing curse and the dull thud of Wilkes’ body reverberating through the wooden floorboards.

-

November 3rd 1981 – 15:00

Two days had passed since the incident in St Mungo’s and they had been a mixed bag for Albus Dumbledore. The deal Barty Crouch was making (though who knew if he’d keep to his word?) with Karkaroff rankled with him but he could not deny that it was filling in some of the holes in the story and making the Ministry more secure in general.

Sadly, he had been unable to make any headway in the case of Sirius Black and Mulciber. While there was no doubt that Mulciber was guilty and no proof that Black was innocent it was in direct contradiction of some of the most basic of human rights, no matter Baty’s opinion on their membership of that group.

Minister Bagnold had been content to let them be transported to Azkaban, assured of their guilt by Barty and by the weight of public pressure on her. It was remarkable that the other suspects were getting trials at all in light of the angry and revenge driven public. Albus supposed that it was all she could do to keep them from being Kissed.

Harry had been placed with him without legal trouble and the Potters will finalised. In truth, there was little to distribute. A few personal effects were given to various friends (including some trinkets for Black and Peter) and Harry. The money, what very little of it there was, was rationed out into a trust fund for Harry, in order to see him through Hogwarts. The land at Godric’s Hollow was to be left moribund until Harry was old enough to decide what he wanted to do with it, and the frankly disturbing aura the area had left him with little concern that anyone would disturb it.

It had, however, become apparent that Minerva was not entirely incorrect when she had asked if he and his house-elf were up to the task of raising the child. They were both old, one already had his hands full with maintaining the Spire and the other had his hands full of Wizengamot business. They needed another pair of hands, and Dumbledore could think of no one better than Remus Lupin.

He ignored the small voice that told him he could think of no one else because of his silent assent to Lupin’s position as the chief spy suspect, and that this was simply a way to try and make amends.

Remus lived in a small cottage in the very heart of the Whinfell Forrest in Cumbria, another advantage in that it was relatively close to the Spire. It was a fairly small forest and hardly the densest in England, but it was enough for the purpose of secluding Remus from the world during the full moon.

Albus had always been partial to visiting Remus here, before the suspicion set in, simply because of the peaceful and calming nature of the woodland. Nature was a luxury that Dumbledore savoured whenever he could. The winding forest path was a pleasant walk and the temperature was unseasonably reasonable, the last of the rusty leaves falling from trees and last bright blooms of autumn flowers conspired to fill this copse with colour before it’s long winter sleep.

Through the trees Albus could see Whinfell Cottage, though he was at least another five minutes from his destination, and the small barn that belonged to his erstwhile werewolf friend. Rustic perhaps, but well kept – Dumbledore could hardly imagine Remus allowing it to become disorganised, his scrap of land in the British heartland was his pride and joy. It was difficult for a werewolf to own property, simply due to the harsh employment laws and general prejudice that meant a steady income was impossible, so Lupin maintained this house with a vigour that almost bordered on fervour.

The barn and the house made a right angle with each other and a chest height fence created a small courtyard in the centre, which had been cobbled. You could be fooled that it might once have been an actual farm, but Remus had been the first occupant and never kept anything larger than chickens.

Just past the open barn doors Albus could make out a large shape covered with brown tarpaulin that he assumed was Sirius Black’s motorcycle. Hagrid, being unable to find Sirius, had naturally left it with one of Black’s oldest friends and what with the subsequent arrest Albus supposed the motorbike would be there to stay. If Whinfell Cottage was Lupin’s prize possession then it would be apt to compare it to the sleek Triumph Bonneville that Sirius had spent so many hours enchanting himself.

Albus strode past the open gate and made straight for the front door of the one-story cottage. He could not see inside the house, haphazardly drawn curtains were obscuring his view and for an instant he imagined he would find some terrible scene inside, just like how LeStrange had caught up with the Longbottoms.

However, he swallowed such fears and rapped on the green door. He was greeted seconds later by the face of Remus Lupin and the smell of Fire Whisky. The door opened wide enough to admit his head, but Albus could quite clearly see the bolt and chain allowing it no further.

“Afternoon Professor, how do you do?” croaked Lupin, who looked the opposite of the building. He always looked ill (especially as the full moon was due on the 11th), but this time he even looked scruffy.

“How do you do? How are things?” replied Dumbledore.

“Oh, doing fine considering.”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow, “Helped along by Mr Ogden I assume?”

A thin, weary smile pulled the corners of Lupin’s mouth skyward, “Hardly. One side effect of being a lycanthrope is an unfortunate resistance to the effects of alcohol.”

Albus grinned, “Then perhaps Mr Ogden would be better off aiding me. I’m sorry to impose, but perhaps I might have ten minutes of your time?”

Remus nodded and disappeared to undo the chain.

The door closed, rattled and opened again. Remus gestured for him to come inside with a tired wave of his hand, and promptly turned his back on Albus before walking off away down the hall. Dumbledore took a few moments to divest himself of his hat, cloak and scarf which he hung upon the hat stand in the corner before following him with a sigh.

It was dark and smoky in Lupin’s living room, small rays of light barely made their way past the curtains and what little light did venture in only served to illuminate the cigar smoke that hung in the air. Dumbledore could see a tumbler of amber liquid on a small table by an armchair. Also plainly visible was a crystal ash-tray, which contained ash, a finished cigar butt and a second, still lit and softly burning. A fancy, polished wooden box lay open on the table, and Albus would hazard that there was another 10 or so cigars left inside it.

“Taken up smoking, Remus?” Albus asked, surprised. He was unaware of what effect smoking would have on a werewolf, but he couldn’t imagine they would get off any easier than the rest in the long term.

“No ... They were a gift. Bought in Cuba, as a matter of fact. It was told to me that they were particularly fine,” he sat down heavily, and cast his gaze around, despondent, “He said that when the war was over we would smoke them together. In the light of what Sirius did though, they just taste like ash to me.”

“I’m sorry for your loss Remus. I can’t imagine ...” Albus trailed off to nothing.

“No,” Remus said softly, after a moment “I don’t suppose you can.”

Albus could see the pain engraved on Lupin’s face. He had no blood family, both parents had passed away many years ago, no lover and now the three men who had been akin to brothers had been taken from him in one night.

“How are you handling things? You look rough.”

“I know Albus,” Remus smiled thinly, “full moon in a few days, nothing more.”

Dumbledore looked at him, disbelieving.

Lupin looked at the floor, clearly abashed “I won’t lie, it’s been hard, for ... many reasons. But I’m doing alright now.” Classic British stiff-upper lip, but then Remus always had been reluctant to share his troubles – even more so than the average male reflected Dumbledore.

“Very well Remus, just remember that you may place your confidence in me. You’ve done it once before, as I recall,” they shared a smile, and that helped Remus more than Albus would ever know. He might never take Dumbledore up on that offer, but it was enough to know that someone was willing to listen. Especially considering it was the same man who granted him a childhood that he would never have been capable of otherwise.

“However, now it is my turn to confide in you, I think. Please listen carefully Remus, for the apologies from this old man are often difficult. I have done you a great disservice,” Lupin looked confused and moved to dismiss Dumbledores claims but Albus was adamant, and now that he had come this far would not be stopped.

“No, I have Remus.” Dumbledore looked down at his hands, the apology gurgling in this throat, “I allowed others to give in to their prejudice. I allowed others to treat you unfairly, unjustly. I am a great believer in that old motto ‘Innocent until proven guilty’, but it seems that even I am not infallible.”

Lupin sat back in his chair, and crossed his legs, though Albus could not bring himself to look at him. “I even began to believe the rumours that I had neglected to quash. I can do nothing now but apologise unreservedly for ever allowing myself to entertain the notion that ... that you might have been the spy in our midst.”

Lupin sighed, “You really ought not to worry too much Professor. It’s behaviour I am used to. Truthfully ... we all suspected each other. No one was above suspicion, about the only person we never seriously considered as a candidate for the spy was you, Albus. My condition amplifies these things,” Remus shrugged, “I forgave you long ago.”

“Thank you,” Albus croaked, “Another regret to add to the list, but I am glad at least that I was able to find a certain amount of absolution. I would hope that you will still consider me to be one of your friends.”

Lupin smiled, “Of course I do Albus. In turn, I really must thank you. It was ... a long, hard war. Yet you did your level best to keep us all safe, each and every one of us. You’re not infallible, but you guided us through better than anyone else could have. I know Alastor thinks so, and Caradoc felt the same. We’re proud to call ourselves your friends.”

Dumbledore nodded his thanks, not trusting his voice to stay level.

“So,” Remus breaking the silence and changing the subject. He shifted his weight to the edge of the chair in subconscious concern, “what has become of Harry?”

“I have been granted guardianship, though I assure you I was not the only one who expressed a desire to house him. I’m certain that half of the families who sent letters to the Minister had never met the Potters.”

“Yes, he’s going to be quite the figure when he grows up, isn’t he?” he paused a moment, “Did my letter even make it through to the Ministers office, do you know?”

Albus smiled regretfully, “I’m sorry, not to my knowledge Remus. However, that does make it easier to bring up my main reason for my visit. Am I correct in surmising you are between jobs?”

Remus bristled for a moment, “Well, there are some options I’m looking into.” He only held the elderly Professors gaze for a few seconds, before sighing heavily and conceding, “but yes, I am.”

“Good!” to which exclamation Remus looked surprised, “By which I mean, I have an offer for you. I am going to need some help at home with Harry. I don’t mean in terms of maintaining my home or any other menial domestic work, but even having resigned as Headmaster of Hogwarts – to which you are invited to the ‘surprise’ retirement bash the staff and students are throwing me, by the way – I will still find myself unable to look after him all day everyday due to my Wizengamot commitments. Chief Mugwump is a life-time position, one that I could not retire from even if I felt I could. So, I would like for you to come and work for me, to care for the boy when I am required to be elsewhere.”

“No,” Remus said firmly, “you know full well that I would have done that for free. I don’t need to be some kind of glorified babysitter. You’ve been careful not to call it babysitting, but that’s what it would be, at least for the first few years. I know you mean well, and I thank you ... but I’m afraid I must decline.”

Dumbledore sighed, “I suspected you would say as much. I apologise if I have offended you by suggesting this. I simply wished to reimburse you for your time.”

“I understand, and while my ego might be taking a knock, I can handle it” he smiled slightly, but his tense hands betrayed him, “I don’t need charity, though. I’m sure you had the best of intentions and didn’t mean it that way, but ... you must forgive me if I am a little sensitive. I will however, if you still need someone to help you look after him, be more than pleased to give you what time I can spare. He’s practically my nephew anyway.”

“Very well, thank you Remus. I will more than gladly take whatever you can offer me.” They stood, as Dumbledore left they shook hands amiably at the door, and despite the miscommunication there was a new energy in the tired eyes of Remus Lupin.

Back in his lounge, he pulled the curtains open, bight rays invaded the room illuminating the faded furniture, cloying smoke and the gossamer dust which hung suspended in the air. He pushed open a window, took a deep breath of fresh air and felt like a younger man. With surprise he realised he was probably feeling, for the first time in a long time, the age he actually was.

He stoppered the whisky bottle and returned it to the creaky drinks cabinet, poured the last of his glass down the kitchen sink before washing his face in the water trough by the barn. The November-cold water was another wakeup call, but this was far more sharp, intense and frankly freezing.

Feeling happier than he had in months he returned to the sitting room, and his eyes landed upon the still-open cigar box. Sirius had brought them for Remus, James, Peter and he. He lifted up the cigar that he had been smoking when Dumbledore had called, and stubbed it out in the ash tray purposefully. It had been his fathers, and it had taken some hours rummaging through boxes in the loft before he found it. Remus’ father had been a smoker for many years, but had mostly smoked a pipe. It spoke volumes about the relationship Remus had with Romulus Lupin, his father, that the pipe was the only item mounted on the mantelpiece above the hearth.

Slowly he closed the mahogany lid and ran his hand over the bas-relief on the lid. Gently his fingers traced the silhouettes of dog, rat, stag and wolf. It was a beautiful box, he thought, either custom made or carved by Sirius himself, but the peaceful woodland scene was forever marred by harsh realities.

He stood up and hid the box beneath his bed, where it stayed for many years after.

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A/N – Thanks for sticking with me so far -please keep the comments, questions and critiques coming as they all go towards making this a better story!

Discount,

3. Youth

Chaos Theory

A Harry Potter fan-fiction by DiscountNinja

A/N – A new update! The previous two chapters were reposts, that I’ve only just got round to doing after Portkey was having site issues many months ago. We’re kicking right off now –jumping forward a whole ten years. We’ll start to get an idea of some of the changes made, and a couple of twists to keep you interested until major divergence happens.

September 1st 1991 – 10:55 am

The platform 9 and three quarters at Kings Cross station was heaving. Parents, students, pets and baggage swarmed in an effort to board the train in the final 5 minutes before the whistle would blow, signalling the departure for Scotland and Hogwarts.

Steam billowed from the red engine, the fire in its belly slowly growing hotter and hotter, hungry for coal and pistons aching, as though a runner crouched before a sprint. Bright red paint gleamed, the Hogwarts crest adorned every door and carriage, proudly displaying is affiliation to that ancient institution. The brass work shone under the summer sun, more than a fine day to start the year. The excitement was almost palpable, students bursting with enthusiasm and eager to see their school friends and to practice magic again. Particularly to practice the magic.

Stood in a small circle of calm was Remus Lupin, his eyes scanning the crowd, searching for some figure amongst the throng of people. In contrast to usual, he looked almost healthy with the barest of colour to his skin, for the full moon was at least another three weeks away, though still dressed in his normal attire of brown suit and shirt.

“He’s not coming, is he Remus?” asked a small voice to his left.

“We don’t know that, Albus said he’d try his best to be here,” he replied, looking down at the boy. He was reasonably tall for his age, a healthy weight, had black hair, brilliant green eyes behind reasonably classy wire-frame glasses and a lightning bolt scar partially hidden beneath his bangs. He was dressed casually in blue muggle jeans and a plain black t-shirt, some of his wizarding friends thought the choice a bit odd but he was slowly convincing them of the merits of jeans. Given the mischief they got up to together, robes were very restrictive and not exactly conductive to climbing or quick getaways.

“I know that,” Harry Potter shifted uncomfortably, “it’s just ...” he shrugged. Harry Potter had so desperately wanted Albus to be here. His first day at Hogwarts, the train and everything. Hogwarts, the place where his foster father had spent his youth and so many of his later years, a place that he’d been hearing about ever since he was a small child. And Albus was going to miss it. He liked Remus very much, but he wanted Albus to be here so badly.

“I know,” said Remus sadly, “there’s still a few minutes, he might make it yet.”

“No,” he replied dully, “this is going to be like the Junior Quidditch League all over again.” Remus winced, and though he knew full well that Albus had done his best to be there for Harry’s first real game and really couldn’t have skipped his meeting with the ICW delegation from Italy, he knew just how much it had hurt Harry that he’d not been there to see him play that day. Remus had been there, swelled with pride when Harry caught the Golden Snitch, but he knew it wasn’t the same. Harry was more than gifted on a broom, his natural skill and association with the Weasleys (where he had gained some tutelage under Charlie Weasley, who could have played for England if he’d wanted to) had made the rest of the players in the local children’s Quidditch games look almost laughable in comparison.

Remus could remember keenly the look of disappointment on Harry’s face when he learnt that Albus wasn’t in the crowd that first day, but what broke his heart further was it would flash across his face every time Albus missed a match. Which, if Remus was honest, was more often than not.

It wasn’t that Albus was inattentive, by all means he loved his adopted son very much, but he was always incredibly busy. If it wasn’t the Wizengamot then it was the ICW, and if it wasn’t the ICW then it was the Ministry and if it wasn’t then Ministry then it was the Hogwarts Governor Board and so on. Dumbledore did his best to fulfil these obligations and find time to spend with Harry, but sometimes that was an impossible goal.

Harry and Albus had an unusual relationship as far as parents and children go. Albus had been called Albus and Remus was called Remus, neither wanted to even slightly replace James, not even accidentally or unconsciously. The guilt they both carried would never have allowed them to do so. Harry knew who his father was and though he loved Albus and to some extent Remus as if they were he’d not called either of them ‘dad’ since he was very, very young. Harry spent a lot of his time with Remus, doing the things that a normal child does and the rest he spent learning with Albus. It was rare these days that there was time to do the fun things that they had done so often long ago. Harry missed deeply the Albus of yesteryear, not that he didn’t enjoy his lessons with Albus which were always profoundly fascinating, but sometimes he ached for the days when there was always time for chess or kite flying or whatever latest thing had caught Harry’s interest.

Harry, in fact, loved learning. It certainly had something to do with the fact that Albus taught him (and taught him such wonderful things, magic that those his age would not even look at for several years), but he did have an ingrained thirst for knowledge. Again, having Albus raise him it was no wonder that child-like desire to understand had transferred across the generations. Magic was an incredible thing to study and Harry relished every moment. He hated tests and homework of course, but the actual learning, physical discovery and the ‘eureka’ moments that came with them really enthused him, which was a large part of why he was so looking forward to going to Hogwarts.

This returned his attention to the station, and the journey he would soon be making, where he stood in a storm of nervous, excited students and confused, gloomy parents. Harry frowned and edged closer to Remus, he really hated crowds.

He’d never really gotten over the public mobbings that occurred when he was younger – a poor frightened child, trying his best to keep up with Albus through the busy streets of Diagon Alley. A sea of swimming faces all trying to force their way forward almost smothering him with their strange admiration and affection. Dumbledore had worried needlessly that Harry Potter would become enamoured with fame because he instead despised it, feared it and was even humbled by it. He hadn’t even been old enough to understand what he had done, but he knew well that those crowds and flashing faces frightened him.

Again, contrary to Dumbledore’s thoughts public interest in Harry had waned somewhat as he grew up – there had certainly been a surge of interest around about the time Harry was old enough to attend school, a muggle one Albus had insisted, but eventually people had been distracted by whatever the latest scandal was or what this Quidditch player had or had not done. That was not to say that there weren’t expectations of Harry, far from it. Britain was watching and it expected great things from the Boy-Who-Lived, now the protégé of Albus Dumbledore. Remus was privately sure that they wouldn’t be disappointed.

Trunk already stashed in a compartment on the train, Harry watched the seconds tick by on Remus’ watch until there was barely less than a minute before the train was due to depart.

Remus knelt down, “I hope you have a fantastic year Harry, I look forward to getting some letters from you! Remember, I’m proud of you. Most importantly of all,” he looked straight into green eyes, “I want you to have some fun, alright?”

Harry smiled, “Don’t worry, I’ll remember to enjoy myself.”

“I mean it Harry – I know what you get like sometimes.” Harry would almost always throw himself deep into whatever his latest hobby was, Remus was amazed at what he could accomplish when the boy really gave himself over fully to some discipline. He supposed that when you’ve been tutored your whole life by Albus Dumbledore that sort of thing would wind up coming to you naturally.

Wrapping the poor boy tightly in his arms, Remus wished dearly that Albus had managed to make it here. He remembered his first trip on the Hogwarts express. He remembered even clearer the pride on his own fathers face, a thought that had fuelled more than one Patronus Charm, and could only imagine the intense disappointment Harry was feeling.

The whistle blew.

“Alright Remus, I’ll see you at Christmas! Tell Albus the same, will you?” he flashed a small, sad smile as he extricated himself from the hug and turned away before jumping aboard the train. A second, louder whistle went off and, though he didn’t think it was possible, the station was flooded with more steam than before as the train gently lurched forward. Disheartened, Harry cast one final forlorn glance out of the window at the platform, and squinted through the dense mist trying to make out the vague shape of Remus Lupin.

The fog began to clear and his heart leapt into his throat. Standing beside Remus, resplendent in purple cloak and slightly out of breath, was Dumbledore. An uncontrollable grin spread across his face as Harry began to wave madly out of the carriage, absolutely ecstatic that he hadn’t missed it and that this wouldn’t be like Quidditch after all. Not this time, at least.

Even above the shouted goodbyes of all the other parents Harry could hear “Have a great time Harry! I’ll be seeing you sooner than you think!” and though he was now too far away to see it, there was no doubt that it was accompanied by the trademark twinkle behind those half-moon glasses. Sure, Albus hadn’t been on the platform with him but at least he’d been there to see the train go. Harry had already learnt that sometimes you just have to take what you can get and be happy with it.

Infinitely more cheerful than when he had boarded the train, Harry began to move down the corridor squeezing his way past bragging seventh years, avoiding timid second years and dodging positively bewildered first years as he made his way towards the compartment he’d seen his friend Ron Weasley secure soon after he and his brothers had arrived.

Humming happily, Harry moved past the seemingly endless streams of people, ignoring the calls of Prefects shouting at students who simply couldn’t wait to cast spells and absolutely had to make mischief on the train. People peered at him curiously as he passed, and he felt a twinge of discomfort at that but he supposed that it really could have been worse, people would look at him clearly intrigued now and then, though mostly at the scar, but it was rare for anyone to actually stop and stare these days. It had been very awkward for him in the past, particularly to hear that some of Ron’s bedtime stories had been about him and that was not to mention one or two of the Ginny fiascos. This had all served to make him incredibly cautious when meeting new people, as a result of the misplaced interest of strangers.

Lost deeply in his thoughts as he was Harry completely failed to notice a young girl coming the other way down the corridor. She was doing her best to avoid those milling about talking to friends, those searching for a compartment and the odd one or two (mostly George and Fred Weasley) running rampant with excitement about the new school year. She was somewhat hampered in her task by the large tower of books she was carrying, a pile nearly tall enough that she had to crane over them to see where she was going.

The collision was inevitable. Even his quick reflexes weren’t enough to save him from the slightly embarrassing fall that sent books and people tumbling to the floor. A cheer went up from the occupants of the carriage, followed by a brief laugh, but chatter soon returned to normal and they were left to pick up the pieces of their accident.

Harry felt mortified. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there, here let me help ...” he looked up at her, and was confronted by a girl of about his age with large bushy, brown hair. She’d already changed into her school robes, and was bright red from embarrassment too which made Harry feel a bit better about the whole thing. He smiled at her ruefully, and she returned it. Given that her school robes didn’t have a house crest on them yet he assumed that she was starting this year, just like him.

“No, that’s okay, I’ve got it.” She said, her petite hands darting out to grab the books before they were trod on or worse by those moving through the carriage. She actually managed to get most of them together, but Harry had ignored her and collected a few of them regardless. As he stood up, he skimmed the titles which mostly consisted of the first year text books and “An Introductory Guide to Magic”, a book Harry knew was written mostly with muggle-born children and their parents in mind.

She smiled shyly as she took the books off of him, “Thanks, sorry about that.”

“No problem, my fault. I’m Harry, nice to meet you. I guess you’re a first year as well?” he asked her.

“I’m Hermione Granger, nice to meet you too, and yes this is my first year,” she said a little timidly. Given that, if she was a muggle-born this must be a pretty stressful experience for her, Harry could understand her reticence, considering his own aversion to people and crowds.

“Looks like you’re a bit of a reading fan then? Thinking you might end up in Ravenclaw?”

At the mention of her books, her eyes lit up. “Oh yes, it’s all very fascinating. I can’t say that I’m all that impressed with Herbology, but I suppose you can’t really get the measure of such a practical subject from a textbook, can you? Transfiguration seems captivating though, I really can’t wait to get started on that one! It’s not just the idea of turning something into something else, it’s that the course seems to have a solid grounding in magical theory too. I mean,” she said without taking a break, and looking for all the world like she could continue for a very long time, “I think it’s incredible that these things are even possible, I’d just love to know how it works. Have you read your Transfiguration text book yet? The section on Mandelbrot’s Laws was simply fascinating.”

She finally stopped, thinking that Harry probably didn’t really want to talk about magical theory like most other normal children, so she finished “And I don’t know about Ravenclaw. It seems like a perfectly fine house to me, but I’m rather hoping for Gryffindor actually.”

Given her impressive rant Harry was prepared to believe that she would do well in Ravenclaw, but the fire in her eyes as she talked about something she was passionate about lead him believe she’d make a sterling Gryffindor too. Everyone always talks about bravery and courage, which she could have in spades for all he knew, but they often forget that Gryffindors are usaually people with strong very beliefs and goals, driven not in the Slytherin way but simply for the love of a thing, or a strong moral opinion. Noble was the forgotten attribute of Gryffindor house.

Grinning he replied, “I’ve done some reading yeah, but if you really want to blow your mind then you’ll want to check out Rosen’s Conversion Theory in the third year book. I won’t pretend to understand it properly yet or anything, but it’s got some pretty interesting applications. Still, the fact that you know of Mandelbrot’s Laws at all is impressive, most everyone starts off not knowing anything, muggle-born and pure-blood alike.”

Her smile wavered for a second, “How could you tell I was from a non-magical family so quickly? Was it something I said? Don’t get me wrong,” she continued quickly and firmly, eager to send the right impression “I’m not ashamed of it, and I’m not going to lie if anyone asks me, but ...” She shrugged, “I was hoping that I’d be able to get to know people at least a little bit before it came up. Are your parents non-magical too?” she waved a hand towards his attire, as though to indicate it was a bit of a giveaway.

Harry laughed, “Nah, it was the Introduction to Magic book you’re carrying. I couldn’t even begin to guess otherwise. Anyways, it really doesn’t matter to most people. The vast majority are half-blood after all, even most pure-bloods are lying about it. I’m half and half myself, magical family but I went to a regular primary school.”

Nodding, she began to move past him, “Right, well, it was nice to meet you Harry but I’d better get back to my carriage. I suppose I might see you in class.”

“Sure, take care.” He continued down the carriage, looking into each compartment as he went, intent on finding Ron. He’d loaded his trunk with his red-headed friend as soon as they had arrived in order to make sure they could get good seats and he was keen to change into his uniform as soon as he could. Not to mention swap stories and make plans with his best friend.

Soon enough he found his way to the right place and was greeted by Ron, hair aflame and grinning madly.

“Harry! Great to see you mate! Come on in, I’ve stashed your trunk over there,” he pointed to the battered looking trunk haphazardly stacked in the luggage rack, “this year is going to be so awesome. By Merlin, we’re going to have some crazy good times.”

Harry closed the door behind him and sat down, already feeling a lot more relaxed than he had been. Ron always did seem to have that effect, his easy going nature and sense of humour had been one of Harry’s constant companions since a young age. The warm summers he had spent begging Albus to let him go to the Burrow so that he and Ron could embark on a childhood adventure were some of the best memories he had. They had roamed the countryside for miles around that wonky house, swam in clear country streams and had even built themselves a secret tree house in the apple orchard last year. They’d even got Bill, who had been sworn to secrecy, to put some charms on it to make sure that nobody but them could find it.

“Good to see you too Ron, but I’ve only been gone about ten minutes.”

“Yeah, but the train’s been going for that long and I’ve been sat on my own in here like Johnny-no-mates. Can’t keep a guy hanging like that man,” the two smiled and began to dig out their school robes. “So, what house?”

Genuine laughter escaped Harry, “We’ve been over this a thousand times Ron, we’re both gonna’ wind up in Gryffindor. How else could it go, yeah?” He pulled his robes on over his muggle clothes, and for a moment he felt odd. This was a moment of no going back. He and Ron were going to Hogwarts, away from their family for the first real time. Sure, they’d gone camping out in the garden – even a little bit in the moors outside Warlocks Spire, but this was very different. But it passed, and soon enough he was grinning again at Ron.

“I’m not sure about that. I think we both know you’d do alright in Ravenclaw, and who knows, maybe I’ll end up a Hufflepuff?”

“Gryffindor, the both of us.” Harry said firmly, “Remember the time you and I took on that gnome army with our bare hands! That’s courage right there.”

Snorting, Ron shot back, “I don’t think that counts. They were garden gnomes, there was hardly an army of them, and we’re about three feet taller than them!”

At this point they were interrupted, “Anything off the trolley dears?” asked a kindly looking woman pushing a trolley filled with sweets, treats and other assorted goodies. Privately, Harry wondered how wise it was to offer sweets to a train filled with excitable teens, but sugar was sugar.

“Yes please, I’ll have a few of those Cauldron Cakes and a chocolate frog. What about you?” he asked Ron.

“I’ve got sandwiches,” the both of them pulled a face, knowing full well what horrors lay in wait inside the Weasley packed lunch, the dreaded corned beef sandwich. It only took a moment thinking about that for Ron to relent, “Alright, but this means I owe you a fantastic Christmas present.”

Ron preceded to reel off a list of sweets as long as Harry’s arm.

Harry counted out the money, which he just about had enough of. He supposed it wasn’t like there was much opportunity to use it at Hogwarts until third year and the Hogsmeade visits started anyway. Still, it was nearly all of his allowance. He didn’t mind too much, really. It was a common misconception that some people made though, that being the Boy-Who-Lived would make him rich.

He and Albus did alright for sure, but they weren’t affluent by any stretch of the imagination. Money was a bit of a sore spot for Ron, and while Harry was probably a bit better off than the Weasley boy it hadn’t really been cause for a fall out in a long time. Given that the two of them usually pooled their cash to buy sweets and pranks from Fred and George anyway the issue hadn’t actually come up in a long time. Sometimes Ron looked at Harry’s Nimbus 2000 with envy, but it wasn’t anything that burnt Ron up inside.

The two of them devoured their purchases, relaxed in the gentle sunlight that streamed in through the windows and generally told jokes and made wild plans for the year ahead easily spending the next hour chatting about nothing else before the conversation turned to magic.

“Right, so you’re saying now that we’re on the train we can do all the magic we want?” Ron asked, almost suspicious that Harry was playing a trick on him.

“Honest to Merlin mate, Albus told me and everything. Here, I’ll even do it first,” reaching through his robes he pulled out his holly wand and brandished it like a sword, feeling that familiar rush of energy course down his arm. It had been a few years since he’d first felt that in Ollivander’s shop, thanks to Albus’ insistence that he should be able to practice magic early though only under his close supervision, but he would never forget the way it felt to wield magic. However, before he could begin a spell they were interrupted once more.

The door slid back to reveal one familiar face, that of Neville Longbottom, and a stranger. After a second Harry remembered her face, and shortly after that the name Hermione came to him as well. “Hey there Nev!” beamed Ron, “Where’ve you been hiding? Want to come in?”

“Oh, hey guys, I’d have dropped in sooner but, erm ... I’ve lost Trevor again,” Neville said, looking crestfallen, “This is Hermione, she’s been nice enough to help me try and find him.” Neville was a nervous, stout boy, but both Harry and Ron knew him well enough to know that he had a strong heart inside him, somewhere. The three of them had often played together as children, though Mrs Longbottom, Neville’s grandmother, was never entirely approving of their influence and had lately been denying them the chance to meet up.

Hermione had spotted the wand however, and true to her nature, her curiosity was piqued. “Are you going to do some magic? I’ve tried a few simple spells already, and they seemed to work pretty well. What were you going to do?”

“Well, I was going to turn Ron the same shade of orange as his hair,” he continued, ignoring the indignant squawk from Ron, “but since Nev has lost Trevor maybe there’s something I can do to help him out. It’s, ah ..., a bit advanced really, but I’ve been able to do it before. Fortune favours the bold, right?”

He stood up and motioned Neville and Hermione out of the doorway, furrowed his brow and drew upon his magic, which welled up inside of him in response, eager to respond to his call.

“Accio Trevor!” he called, moving the tip of the wand in what he hoped was the correct set of motions, and waited.

“Mate,” said Ron teasingly, “I don’t think that worked. Is that even a real spell?”

No sooner than he had spoken they heard a shriek in the corridor as Trevor the toad flew through past a bunch of second year girls and in through the open doorway. Harry had to take a step forward to catch the frog in both hands as the magic gave out just a little bit too soon.

“Here you go Nev, not quite strong enough as spells go, but it’s a pretty good start right?” Neville, who didn’t have an awful lot of confidence with magic was more than a little bit awed, and Hermione, who already thought she knew some pretty good spellwork when she saw it, were suitably impressed. Ron already had some idea that Harry was pretty good, but he clapped along with the others at the feat his best friend had just pulled off.

“Cheers Harry! Hang on, I’ll just go and get the rest of my stuff then I’ll join you guys in here. Thanks for all your help Hermione,” said Neville, waving and smiling shying at her as he left.

“Anytime Neville. Do you think you could show me how to do that sometime, Harry? That wasn’t covered anywhere in our textbooks this year at all! I even skimmed some of the second year books I got in advance and I didn’t see anything at all like that in there, just how far ahead is that spell?” she asked eagerly.

“I don’t see why not, it just depends on how much time and effort you want to put into it,” he responded, he could see that Ron had already switched off though. Ron was capable, he just wasn’t that interested. Things he could see a good use to or that could pull off a good prank with he could really study and master, but otherwise he’d rather play chess. “I’m not sure what year they teach it though,” Harry mumbled.

Ron looked around at that, “Come off it Harry, you know when they teach it. It’s end of fourth year, start of fifth year material that.” Hermione looked slightly surprised, to which Ron responded, “Don’t worry about that, most of us don’t know much magic when we arrive. By the end of the first year it mostly evens out. Harry’s just a bit of a freak that’s all.”

“Oi!”

“What?” and a cheeky smile, followed by, “You know it’s true. Harry’s been taking lessons with Albus Dumbledore for years now. He could probably waltz through the first three years of practical work, the written exams would probably give him trouble though. He only ever really learns the theory that interests him. It’s no wonder he’s on 4th or 5th year stuff now.”

Harry felt his face heat up, and it was only made worse when Hermione realised that Ron had mentioned Albus. “Wait, Albus Dumbledore? That must make you Harry Potter! You never said your last name was Potter. I knew that you’d be starting a magical school about now but I had no idea that I’d actually meet you. I’ve read about you,” she said gravely, as if it were some solemn accolade.

“Yes, he’s Harry Potter. Didn’t you see the scar? Anyways, I’m Ron Weasley, thanks for asking,” bristled Ron slightly.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean any offense. My name is Hermione Granger. I just met Harry in the corridor that’s all, just a bit of a shock.” She stood there for a few seconds more, Harry just looking self-conscious and a little uncomfortable and Ron a little bit peeved that she’d skipped over introductions with him. “I suppose I really had better get back to my carriage, I didn’t think finding Neville’s toad would take so long.”

As she left Ron turned to Harry and made a ‘huh’ sound, and it was easy to see that he hadn’t exactly been impressed by Hermione Granger. Still, Harry thought she seemed nice so maybe Ron might come round. Having said that, they might never even hang out once they got assigned houses so it wasn’t really worth worrying about how Ron and Hermione interacted.

Harry and Ron continued showing each other some of the spells they had learnt, Ron in particular told Harry all about a useful set of spells that weren’t exactly spells in their own right but were able to alter other spells. For example, it was possible to set a time delay or trigger a spell. It was something that the twins had been showing him, though Harry suspected that they’d get better results out of runes they were often time consuming to make and it would be relatively easy to tell who had made them so perhaps they had it right. Harry suspected you didn’t last long as troublemakers if you couldn’t cover your tracks. Neville had joined them soon after Harry had shown Ron a couple of the colour changing charms he’d learnt. The three of them spent the time together in the arms of blissful childhood camaraderie of the kind that we sadly only recognise after it and innocence has gone.

Suddenly, and in complete contrast to the easy going nature of the discussion, Ron and Neville fell quiet and were staring intently out of the glass compartment door. The two of them were tense, and Harry could even see Ron starting to go red behind the ears as he often did when his temper was feeling the strain. Slowly Harry turned to see exactly what had such a pronounced effect on his usually vivacious friends, and was not at all pleased with what he saw.

Draco Malfoy. He was stood on the other side of the door, glaring malevolently at the occupants of the carriage. He was the picture of pure-blood arrogance, slick platinum blond hair, self-assured smirk with his nose turned up slightly so that despite being a short boy he seemed to be looking down on you all the same.

It didn’t help that he was flanked by the massive frames of Crabbe and Goyle. They were mountains of men, shoulders broader than barrels, and they managed to look pretty threatening. Crabbe was clearly cracking his knuckles.

They all stood staring for at least a minute, maybe even two before Malfoy simply raised his right hand and sharply brought one finger across his throat in a deliberate slashing motion. He held his gaze with them all in turn, before he turned sharply on his heel and left, henchmen in tow.

“Asshole,” they all muttered in unison.

Neville looked a little bit shaken all the same. They’d had run ins with the Malfoy boy, but had generally come out on top before. It was slightly unnerving to think that they’d be living in the same place as that spiteful little boy, especially when he was a spiteful little boy who ordered around larger, spiteful boys.

It was sometime later that they and Neville disembarked from the Hogwarts Express and found themselves standing on the platform in Hogsmeade. Steam pooled around their feet, the engine having completed its marathon, the massive pistons were still and now resting once more.

“Firs’ yers, over ‘ere!” bellowed an incredible voice, one that spread uncontrollable grins across the faces of the three friends.

“Hagrid!” They all cried in unison, rushing towards him. Hagrid would sometimes come and visit Harry during the summers, usually with some fantastic creature in tow or a tall tale to tell and he always, always, brought cake. The massive man was bearded and hairy to the extreme, but he had large kind eyes that stood out from the sea of hair and made him seem almost docile.

“Hey! Good ter’ see you there Harry, how’s your old man? Great man Dumbledore, great man. Speaking o’ Albus, he’ll be stopping by tonight after the feast is over and I’m sure he’ll want ter’ see you.”

This was, as far as Harry was concerned, great news. “Thanks Hagrid, it’s good to see you too.” Harry saw Hagrid when his job would allow, he remembered the time they went to Diagon Alley together to get his school things. He’d hated the crowds, but it was obvious just how much pride Hagrid had in Harry by the way he beamed the whole time as people would stop to shake the boys hand. As much as Harry hated being the centre of attention, he didn’t really want to let Hagrid down, who would always take the first opportunity to boast about some accomplishment of his. He’d left the Alley that day with a beautiful snowy owl as a birthday present, and he’d never been more grateful to Hagrid.

“Right, well, you’d best follow me now. You’ll ‘ave to come down to me hut sometime fer tea fellers, and have a proper catch up. Right now I’ve gotta’ wrangle the rest o’ your classmates down to the lake.”

It wasn’t long after that they were bundled, four apiece, into little boats. Hagrid, of course, had one to himself but looked like he could have used a second one. Harry, Ron, Neville and another boy who, if they stretched their memories would vaguely be able to recall was called Justin, were all doing their level best not to fall into the lake.

They all set off from the shore at once, just as the sun was setting over the horizon. It cast massive orange shadows that reflected off the lake surface, that contrasted sharply with the gorgeous, rolling green of the Scottish country and deep blue of the lake. Harry thought he could vaguely make out a massive shape moving somewhere in the depths, but maybe that was just him wanting to see the giant squid. Plenty of Hagrid’s tales had revolved around tangling with the leviathan that lived at the bottom.

His breath caught in his chest as the castle loomed into view, around the steep hills and valleys and over the forest , and again he felt the gravitas of the moment very keenly. Here he was striking out, if not on his own then at least without the safety net who were Albus and Remus. He yearned to make them proud, to make the both of them glow when he came home with the stories of his exploits. Most of all he wanted to bring back some piece of magic that would astound them both, something that would make Albus look up and tell him that he’d done well.

The spires and towers of Hogwarts were calling to him, and he didn’t intend to let them down.

It wasn’t long after that the entire first year of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had congregated in the entrance hall, some waiting eagerly and others nervously for the sorting. Neville was among those with anxiety issues.

Of course it didn’t help when Ron told him that his brothers said they’d have to wrestle a troll as a test. Harry couldn’t help but snort at that, who’d be fool enough to go toe-to-toe with a troll?

They’d been milling about aimlessly for nearly five minutes, studiously avoiding Draco and his cronies, when an incredibly elderly man in a rather stupid hat entered the room. Harry recognised him as Elphias Doge, one of Albus’ friends from school. Harry had met him on occasion, but he didn’t know him anywhere near as well as he did Hagrid. He was a pretty tall wizard with short grey hair that was mostly hidden by an absolutely ridiculous purple hat. When you looked at him it was hard not to think about dust.

“Good evening First Years, welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. I am Professor Doge, I teach Transfiguration here and I will be seeing you all in classes very shortly.” His voice put you in mind of old, cracked paper or kindling that was dry, tried and extremely flammable. “In but a few moments you will be sorted into the houses that will become like your family here. I imagine many of you will be nervous but you have little need to be. Follow me.”

He lead them through two massive wooden doors, that towered at least three heights of man above even the tall Professor, and into what Harry assumed must be the Great Hall, because surely there couldn’t be a room grander. It was massive, at least twice the height of the doors and with an incredible ceiling that was currently rendering the evening twilight in all its glory.

Long tables were set out separating the four great houses. Harry wondered which one he’d end up sitting at. He hoped he’d be with Ron. He supposed that Hupplepuff wasn’t really that bad when he thought about it, but in his heart he knew he was bound for Gryffindor or Ravenclaw.

The hall was silent as they made their way towards the head table, the faces of their Professors looking down on them from high. Hagrid, the game keeper, on the far left smiled and waved at Harry. The others were far more taciturn. Several of them Harry didn’t know, including the nervous looking guy wearing the turban.

Unfortunately Harry was acquainted with Professor Severus Snape. The man was about as warm as a glacier, and his stern countenance belied no trace of kindness. Especially not when he was looking at Harry. He’d never really understood exactly why Snape disliked him so much, even after Albus had explained about the childhood feud he’d perused so vigorously with James Potter. Albus had never let Snape take it out on him, as he so dearly wanted to do, but it was clear that the two of them would never be cordial with each other. Potions was going to be something of a nightmare.

Some were pleasantly familiar though. The ever friendly and excitable Professor Flitwick was looking as merry and cheerful as he ever did, and Headmistress McGonagall was sitting in her rightful place as head of the institution. She nodded to Professor Doge to continue with the ceremony.

Doge removed his wand from his robes, and with a swish had materialised a three-legged stool and placed upon it gently a battered old hat. “Each of you will wear this hat in turn when I call your name. It will call out the name of your house and then you will join your table.”

Harry, who already knew how this was going to work, wasn’t surprised. Neville and Ron were clearly a lot happier now they knew for certain they didn’t have to try wrestling with a dangerous creature. He could also her a faint, incredulous “A hat decides?” from someone in the crowd who may have been Hermione Granger.

Though Doge clearly hadn’t heard her, he went on to say “The Sorting Hat will look into your hearts and minds and assign you to the place where you most belong,” he droned, “now, let us begin.”

In alphabetical order the sorting began, and notably Hermione Granger was sent to Gryffindor, who let out a fantastic cheer for her. She blushed a little, but recovered her compose and ran, grinning to join the house table.

Neville Longbottom was the first of Harry’s two closest friends to be sorted, and he also drew Gryffindor. He stood up looking a little bit dazed, flashed a delighted smile towards Harry and Ron and went to join his table. Harry thought that he was maybe standing a little bit taller than he had been before. Neville had been convinced he was going to Hufflepuff, and while it was a perfectly fine house, his grandmother had always told him that it was for duffers and fools and that the only real house was Gryffindor. Privately he wondered just what damage Augusta Longbottom had done to her grandson with talk like that, but at least Neville would be able to make her happy this time.

Harry Potter was next to be called, and as he sat down on the wooden stool he had time to think Maybe having a hat sort us is a little silly... before the fabric touched his head and descended to a point just above his nose. It was far too big to be sorting first years for a start. He sat there for a second, feeling rather like a fool before the horrible worry crept in that maybe the hat wouldn’t give him a house and that he’d sit there until they told him there’d been some kind of mistake and that he’d have to go home.

“So, where to put you, eh? “ The thing whispered inside his skull, “You seem like a tough nut to crack. You’d do well in Ravenclaw, m’boy that’s for sure. You’ve got that thirst for knowledge. Hufflepuff’d make a good bet too, I’m sure, especially how you promised the Weasley boy it was the same house for the both of you, regardless of what it was. On the other hand,” it continued, “I can rather see you at home in Slytherin too. You’ve got one almighty drive to prove yourself, haven’t you? There’s ambition in here, oh yes.”

Harry balked, and thought back “I don’t want to be in there with Malfoy, I’m not some kind of power hungry, attention grabbing brat like he is.”

“Now now, there’s no need for that. I didn’t say anything of the sort, I know what your ambition is Harry. You want to be the kind of man Albus Dumbledore is, don’t you? You want so very desperately to be worthy of his praise, to some day be his equal, and that is high ambition indeed. Slytherin would help you on your way to greatness ...”

He sat stock still, ramrod straight in the stool, before coolly replying “No thank you, not Slytherin. I think you’re wrong about that, and I’d rather be in Gryffindor if it was all the same with you, that’s where all my friends are going to be after all.”

“What a loyal statement! Surely that makes your worthy of Hufflepuff? No? I suppose standing up to the Sorting Hat, the object that was created for the very purpose of divining your potential perfectly, and telling it that it’s just plain wrong is a rather brave act. I guess it had better be Gryffindor!” The last word was shouted aloud, and the table decked out in red and gold went crazy.

“WE GOT POTTER!” the Weasley twins chanted, until it was picked up by most of the table who screamed it into the hall. Harry, more than a little bit embarrassed by it all, muttered his thanks to the hat before climbing down from the stool and making his way over to the table amidst the pandemonium that his sorting had caused.

The entire hall immediately fell silent a moment later when McGonagall stood up, even Fred and George decided now would be a good time to shut up. Very quietly, but very firmly, she said “Thank you, please proceed with the sorting.”

Harry sat down between the two Weasley twins, who had pushed the 3rd years on either side of them out of the way to make room, where he was greeted him warmly, “Harry old chum! Glad you could make it, pip pip, you’re one of us now!” cried George.

“Thanks guys,” he muttered shaking their hands, nearly having his arm wrenched off each time as they comically pulled him about, to the delight of the assembled students, ”What was that all about with McGonagall though?”

Fred looked solemn, “If there’s one thing to learn mate, it’s that the Headmistress isn’t a lady to cross. I think she has a soft spot for us Gryffindors, but since the rest of her is made of granite it’s hardly that soft. Best thing to do with her is just make sure you don’t get caught.”

The three turned back in time to see the hat fall down over even Ron’s amazingly big ears, which were probably turning red by now, and it was a good job that they looked over when they had as it was finished practically before it began. The hat hadn’t been on his head for much longer than a few seconds before it shouted, confidently, “Gryffindor!”

Once more the table erupted with laughter, cheers and general merriment. The poor third years were shoved aside once more to make room for Ron between Fred and Harry as the twins went just as mad for their brother as they had done for Harry.

“Good show old bean! We knew you’d pull though in the end, eh what?” said Fred, with false pomp.

“What ho!” agreed George.

“Thanks guys,” Ron replied, enthusiastically, before they settled in to watch the rest of the sorting. It didn’t hold any particular surprises, Malfoy and his goons were already sorted into Slytherin and the rest of the students had been filed away into one house or another with nothing to cause any particular commotion.

As Doge cleared away the hat and stool, once more the entire school fell silent as Professor McGonagall stood up to address the new year.

“Greetings Hogwarts, it is a pleasure to see you all here again,” she said, in her distinctive accent, “I trust that the summer has left you refreshed and ready to tackle a new year of learning.” A groan rose up from the assembled students, to which she allowed herself the smallest of smiles.

“First of all, a few announcements. I’d like you all to welcome back Professor Quirrell, who is moving from Professor of Muggle Studies to Defense Against the Dark Arts and a very warm welcome to Professor Burbage who will be taking over the duties of Muggle Studies.” A polite applause followed.

“Next, mostly for the benefit of our newer students, a full list of banned items is available for you to view in Mr Filch’s office. Please note that the Forbidden Forest is so called for a reason, I will be most displeased if I have to fetch any of you from its depths. Finally, a new announcement,” at this plenty of heads turned with interest, “the Third Floor Corridor is out of bounds this year due to extensive refurbishment work.” This was not the interesting news the student body was hoping for.

“So, with that let the feast begin.” She clapped grandly and the plates and bowls became filled with mouth-watering food. It was actually possible to hear the groan of the tables as they strained under the new weight. It took Ron less than 5 seconds to have a chicken leg in each hand.

“So guys, what about that third floor corridor then? Thinking you’ll get up to some mischief in there this year?” Ron asked the twins.

“Hardly, that’s below our level as master pranksters now,” Fred sniffed, waving the matter off.

“Yeah,” agreed George, “We’ll be spending our time mostly invading the Forbidden Forest I think. I hear that there’s all sorts of things hidden in there, places that people have forgotten about for centuries.” He nodded with authority and wide eyed in honesty.

“So,” considered Harry, “If people have forgotten about them, how have you two heard about them?” The twins looked at each other for a moment, and then grinned.

“Nice try Harry, nearly had us with that one.” Harry just shook his head in confusion and got down to eating before Ron had devoured everything on the table within reach.

Pretty soon the feast was over, and everyone was getting ready to leave for the common rooms just as Harry was finishing his last piece of treacle tart. Everyone was full and glad to be heading to bed as they all slowly dragged themselves out into the entrance hall.

“Hey, you – Potter,” hailed a tall, brown haired boy with a mild Scottish accent, “I want to talk to you. Name’s Oliver Wood, I’m the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch team. I hear you like to play.”

“No Oliver, I goddamn love to play,” Harry replied.

“Well, that’s a start Potter. Some people think that Quidditch is a matter of life and death, and I’m disappointed in them because it’s so much more than that.” Oliver was grinning, clearly pleased with the answer he’d received. “I hear from the Weasley twins that you’re a pretty good seeker. Actually, what they said was that you were a damn good seeker, the equal of Charlie Weasley and maybe even better but I’ll decide that for myself. I expect to see you at the tryouts in November Potter, understand? If you make it on the team it won’t be an easy ride – there’ll be training at least three times a week. You’ll need to get up early and work damn hard.”

“I won’t let you down Wood.”

“Good, it’s going to be a fine year for Quidditch, I can just feel it,” he said with genuine relish and it was easy to see that he was insanely dedicated to the game, and for a moment the mad, almost possessed look in Wood’s eye made Harry wonder if he was getting in over his head, “I’ll see you on the pitch.”

Oliver left for common room, and Harry made to follow him but through the mess of people he could just about see Albus Dumbledore standing in one corner of the entrance hall, animatedly talking with Hagrid and McGonagall. He pushed his way through the crowds, shouting for Ron to go on without him, striving against the current of people to reach the three who were still deep in conversation.

As he got close he could see Hagrid pass a small parcel to Albus, and could just about make out “... good job I went when I did, given the news, eh?” rumbled Hagrid, though thanks to the upheaval in the corridor it was only the fact that Hagrid didn’t know how to be quiet that let him hear it. McGonagall said something that he couldn’t possibly have heard, but he managed to get just close enough to hear Albus say something that really caught his attention.

“Don’t fret Minerva, I will organise a more effective defence within next two months.” She pursed her lips in response, and bit back all the same. “I don’t want it here in the castle any longer than it has to be, Albus. If it’s really so important then it shouldn’t be in a school ...”

However, it was at that point the three noticed him making his way towards them and abruptly changed topic. “Rubeus and I will meet you there, it seems there is someone who’d like to talk to you. Don’t let him out past curfew Albus, I know what you’re like.” She gave the old man a disapproving look and then the two of them strode off, moving through the crowd and out of the large double doors that led deeper into the school before Harry could even make it over to Albus.

“Harry, m’boy,” he said, and smiled down warmly and clapped his hand on the boys shoulder, “Though it’s hardly been a day it’s already good to see you. Since your prefect seems to have left you behind, how about we talk while I show you the way to the common room?”

Harry smiled, “Which one though, Albus? I could tell you I was in Ravenclaw and you’d show me the wrong one.”

Dumbledore laughed, and looked over the half-moon glasses at him. “I am willing to bet my considerable collection of woolly socks that I am looking at a brand new Gryffindor. You and young Ronald are ideally suited to that house. I was a Gryffindor in my day, you know?”

The two walked companionably through the halls of Hogwarts, their chatter generally inconsequential as Albus pointed out various places and even one or two of the lesser known shortcuts. As far as Harry was concerned they were confronted with the portrait of the Fat Lady, and the hidden entrance to the Gryffindor common room, all too soon.

“ So,” followed by an awkward pause, “This is where I must say goodnight Harry. I’m told the password is Chrono Trigger.”

“Yeah, sure ... yeah.” Harry looked down at his feet awkwardly. It was weird, certainly. Especially given that the two of them hadn’t spent a lot of recreational time together in the last year or two. Now there wouldn’t be any opportunities at all. He didn’t want to bring up how Albus had almost missed him at the platform, because that would eventually bring up all the Quidditch games and that discussion never ended well.

Dumbledore coughed awkwardly. “Goodnight Harry,” there was yet another slight pause, “I will miss you.”

Harry smiled back at him, “Thanks. I’ll write to you, if you promise you’ll write back.” Albus nodded and held out his hand, which Harry shook. Neither of them had been particularly good with physical affection. He watched Dumbledore for a few seconds before he turned and disappeared behind the portrait.

It was now Halloween, and it had been three weeks since Harry had last received a letter from Albus Dumbledore. He keenly felt a bitter disappointment about this, but he didn’t want to bug Albus like a little child. It had started off well, Harry had written loads about his first month at school though he missed out just how much he hated Snape. Potions class was a nightmare and there was no respite from the mean things his instructor would breathe down his neck as he tried to make a decent potion. It was to his credit as a student that he usually managed to correctly brew the potion, but it was rare that he’d make anything that could be called ‘good’ while that greasy bat hovered around. He’d managed to avoid disaster a couple of times when Malfoy had sabotaged his or Neville’s work but it was only a matter of time.

Transfiguration was a difficult class. The spell work Harry had absolutely no problem with, he’d turned a match into a needle on his first try, and the reading was fascinating but Professor Doge didn’t have incredible oratory skills. He managed to make even some of the most amazing facts sound really dull. Some of the harsher students called him Dogbreath Doge behind his back, apparently a nickname from his youth he’d never been able to get rid of. Flying was also a boring class – Harry craved the freedom of the sky and the tedious, uneventful flying lessons were doing nothing to help.

He, Neville and Ron had all visited Hagrid on a number of occasions and always had great fun. Harry had been surreptitiously been trying to sneak in questions about the brown package that the huge man had hand delivered to Albus on the night of the sorting. Hagrid got very uncomfortable when Harry had pieced together that the parcel and the Gringotts break in that had been reported in the papers a while back were related, and it only took a little bit of pressure from there before he’d blurted out the name Nicholas Flamel and something about a stone. He’d spent a good five minutes after that muttering nothing but ‘I shouldn’t ‘ave told you tha’. Ron wasn’t too interested, and Neville wasn’t really a big fan of snooping around other peoples secrets, figuring that if Dumbledore was involved then everything must be alright.

Harry and Ron were now running as fast as they could down the main staircase, Ron in the lead and chiding him for being too slow. “Come on mate, we’re gonna’ miss the start of the Halloween feast if you don’t hurry up!” Harry rolled his eyes, Ron was never thinking about anything much other than food.

Unfortunately for Ron and his dinner plans they came across a situation in the Entrance Hall.

“Give it back! That’s mine!” shouted a voice the two easily recognised as Neville. They exchanged a quick glace and put on a burst of speed, rushing down the last flight of stairs and straight into what looked like a nasty confrontation.

Crabbe and Goyle were standing a few feet either side of Neville laughing uproariously. Harry could make out the flash of something red as Goyle threw something over Neville’s head, which Crabbe caught despite the attempt that Neville made to intercept it. Harry quickly guessed it was the fragile Remembrall that Neville’s grandmother had sent him a few days earlier.

Not far to the side of that a separate confrontation was going on between Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy. It was obvious that Malfoy had somehow gained the upper hand in this verbal duel, because he was leaning casually against a suit of armour, watching his goons work, while Hermione was bright red with anger and looked close to tears.

Harry and Ron looked at each, and nodded in an unspoken agreement.

Ron pealed left and shouted “Oi, what the hell do you think you’re doing?” Harry, confident that Ron and Neville together could handle those two buffoons especially while Malfoy was distracted, went right to back up Hermione.

Draco looked up, and sneered maliciously at Harry. “Move along Potter. Useless thing like her isn’t worth your time,” he drawled, shooting a sly sideways glance at Granger, before raising a hand to smooth his hair. Hermione looked like she choked back a sob before she balled her fists in rage.

“She’s more important than a little maggot like you, Draco” Harry replied coolly.

Irritation graced his aristocratic features as he snarled at Harry, clearly done with even the meagre pretence of civility, “Quiet you little blood-traitor,” before making a horrible, ignoble noise in the back of his throat and spitting on Harry’s shoe, “and while you’re at it why don’t you take your orange performing monkey and the fat one away with you? It leaves a foul taste in my mouth just talking to you, so leave before I have Crabbe make you.”

Hermione fumed, “Don’t talk to people like that, you worm. We’re not going anywhere until you give Neville his Remembrall back, we won’t let you get away with this.”

“Oh, it’s not his anymore Granger, it’s mine. I think you’ll find that’s what happens when you steal something,” his voice oozed smugness, “and I think you’ll find I will get away with it, because I’m a pure-blood and frankly, just better than you.”

“I think you’ve had more than enough of a chance Draco, if you don’t give him it back right now then so help me Merlin I will hex you into next week,” Harry drew his wand menacingly, and advanced one more foot towards Malfoy who stood up straight and eyed it nervously.

“Looking for a fight Potter? How about a duel then, or are you just a big coward?”

Harry laughed, “I’ll fight you anytime Draco, anytime you like. Are you sure it’s a good idea to challenge me to a duel? Remember how that turned out the last time?” Malfoy had challenged Harry to a duel two years previously at Tracey Davis’s birthday party and the two of them had even begun to square off, which was ridiculous because neither of them had wands on them at the time. Both Lucius Malfoy and Albus Dumbledore had intervened before any serious commotion could occur. Draco still managed to come out of it looking the fool as his father had dragged him away by his ear, howling the whole time.

“Dumbledore isn’t here to save you this time Potter,” but even still, Draco looked anxious as he fiddled nervously with his family signet ring and his face turned blotchy and pink in barely concealed embarrassment.

“And precious Daddy isn’t here to save you either.”

“Whatever you say, Potter,” he practically spat the name, words laden with venom, “Crabbe, Goyle! Give him back his dumb toy, we can always take it back another time. Now take those morons you call friends and this pathetic mudblood whore away with you.”

There was a sharp crack as Hermione’s palm connected with Draco’s face. She had exploded into tears, absolutely distraught. Whatever he’d said before coupled with this latest comment had clearly pushed her over the edge. Malfoy rolled his head with her hand completely taking whatever power she had managed to muster out of the slap. He just smiled back at her sickly as she turned tail and fled down the corridor.

“I swear to Merlin Malfoy –“

“What Potter? Just what, exactly, will you do?” Malfoy looked back condescendingly. “I thought so,” he said, satisfied, after a moment of silence, “Come on you two.” He then sauntered away through the doors, waving haughtily over his shoulder without even looking back, and into the Great Hall flanked by his mammoth friends.

Harry turned back to the guys, and checked to make sure they’d managed to get the Remembrall back from those heavyset thugs and Neville nodded in confirmation and asked, “Is she alright? What happened? Should we go after her?”

“She could be anywhere in the castle by now ...” muttered Ron.

“I heard Lavender say that she sometimes goes into the girls toilets on the first floor to cry...” Harry said softly.

“But ... we’re already late for the feast guys!” complained Ron, who at least had the grace to look ashamed of what he’d just said.

Neville was stoic, “She stopped and helped me. Didn’t have to, so I reckon I owe her ... least I can do is make sure she’s alright.” He looked at Harry, already apparently their de facto leader, who was pretty sure that Neville was going to go even if Harry and Ron didn’t.

“Alright Nev, you’ve made your case. I’m coming too. What about you?” Ron spluttered for a few seconds and made gestures towards the feast in a futile effort to impress upon them the importance of the culinary event that was happening on just the other side of those doors. The two boys sighed at him, turned and left.

“Well ... shit,” mumbled Ron as he grudgingly followed, jogging to make up the ground they’d gained on him. When he caught up there was a small smile on Harry’s face, “What? What’s got you so happy?”

“Nothing Ron, just glad you’re coming too.” The three boys continued in silence until they reached the girls bathroom on the first floor.Neville knocked gently. There was no reply from within, but Harry was pretty sure that he could hear small sobs from inside the room. Harry knocked, pushed the door open a fraction and said “Hermione? Is that you?”

“Go away Harry, I don’t want to see anyone,” sniffled Hermione.

“We’re not going anywhere Hermione. I’d ask if you were okay, but that would be a bit of a dumb question ...” he said in response, “Can we come in?”

“Harry, mate -” said Ron.

“Not right now Ron,” a little agitated at the interruption.

“Harry!” exclaimed Ron and Neville both. He turned to look at them and they were both pointing at some place behind him. Distantly he could hear the noise of a lot of people moving, it sounded like the feast had finished, but this was still far too early for it to be over. With trepidation he glanced over his shoulder.

He could only partially see the massive creature that stood behind him. It was at least 8 feet tall, and nearly 6 feet wide. Green, with a massive trail of saliva still hanging from its open mouth, it dragged a massive tree trunk behind it with one hand, soil and dirt still clinging to the tree’s base as though it had been freshly uprooted. It looked at them with a quizzical expression. Harry suspected the only reason the three of them weren’t dead already was that it hadn’t expected to see anyone as it had rounded the corner.

“Troll,” gasped Ron, completely redundantly.

“Yeah, I got that Ron. Neville, get Hermione out of there now!” Neville dashed into the bathroom, and the troll seemed to register this, beginning the slow process of overcoming it’s surprise. “I’ve got a plan Ron, but you won’t like it.”

“Just hurry up and tell me,” the two of them backed off slowly, “I need you to distract it for me. I need you to get it to follow you down the stairs and through the entrance hall, alright? Can you do that?”

“You want me to what?! You want me to let that thing chase me?”

“Trust me Ron,” Harry shouted, “have I ever let you down before? I’ll be there, ready and waiting, okay?”

“Oh shit, I can’t believe I’m letting you talk me into doing this ...” he pulled out his wand and nearly dropped it, his hands sweaty in fear, and shot brightly coloured sparks towards the troll before running as though Voldemort himself was behind him. The troll was momentarily blinded by this, but was made more furious on a more long-term basis. Harry ducked into the bathroom and watched from the doorway as it bellowed and gave chase. He really hoped that Ron would be alright.

After it had passed he turned and looked at his two remaining friends, grabbed hold of the still protesting Hermione and shouted “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here now!”

They ran faster than they’d ever ran before, Harry leading them down a secret staircase that cut out the first floor corridor and main staircase and brought them practically straight out into the entrance hall. He did his best to explain the plan en route, “Look it boils down to this – I need the two of you to stand outside and close the main doors as soon as Ron runs through, okay?”

“Those doors on their own won’t hold a mountain troll, Harry!” cried Neville, who was puffing and panting with the effort required to keep up with them.

“Just do it!” he shouted, as they screamed to a halt in the hall. Neville and Hermione, who was busy muttering ‘Where are all the professors? Where?!’, took up their positions outside by the main doors while Harry retrieved his wand and got to work.

When he was done laying his trap, he incanted a final spell and tapped himself on the head with his wand. He hoped that it would work, he’d never really been very good at this spell when Albus had shown him it and now his life depended upon it. Fortunately, he felt the weird sensation akin to an egg breaking upon his head and he slowly, too slowly for Harry’s liking, faded in to the background.

Not a second later did a screaming Ron come pounding down the main staircase and through the first set of wooden double doors. Following close behind was the massive mountain troll swinging the tree, knocking paintings from the wall and suits of armour from their alcoves in great swathes in front of it. Harry winced as he saw the club come down right where Ron had been standing just a second ago.

As the sprinting, red-headed blur made it through the main doors he could hear Hermione shout “Now!” as she and Neville pushed the doors shut from the outside. Harry, who had remained hidden inside the entrance hall behind a suit or armour, flicked his wand at the first set of doors and they slammed shut too.

Deeply burnt into the wood of only doors leading in or out of this room were mystical symbols. A reasonably complicated rune had been carved by magical fire into the antique wood of the Hogwarts doors, perhaps ruining them forever in the process. However, as the two halves of the symbols joined together Harry was able to activate them.

The doors glowed for a second, and not a moment too soon for the troll threw its entire body against the main doors, in a desperate attempt to follow the funny creature it had been chasing, but was deeply confused when it simply slammed into the heavy wood which refused to move even an inch.

It followed to do exactly what trolls do when they are confused, which is throw a tantrum followed quickly by forgetting what it was that had annoyed them. It waved it’s club about, breaking priceless furniture and destroying paintings (the occupants of which had long since vanished into frames green) and generally wrecked the room before calming down slightly. But only slightly.

With one hand it scratched its mighty behind and with the other raised its heavy, menacing club. The troll tilted its head to one side and sniffed. Invisible or not, Harry realised that it could probably still smell him, though how it ever managed to sense anything with its nose other than its own ripe stench was beyond him.

This left Harry with a dilemma. He’d had to remain inside the room to magically seal it. So he was now stuck, the only doors out fastened to curb the rampage of the foul beast before him, in a room with an enraged mountain troll.

It slammed it’s club down on the floor in Harry’s general direction then stared towards his hiding place and, nostrils flaring, began to advance.

A/N – Thanks for coming back, especially after such a long hiatus. I hope that some of you have some comments or constructive criticisms you’d like to share with me, as all of that goes to making me a better writer so I can, hopefully, deliver you a better story.

Discount,