Don't Ask Questions

By: opopanax

Fandom: harry potter

Summary: AU. When Harry starts asking questions, he stumbles into the middle of a globe spanning conspiracy that encompasses not only the wizarding and Muggle worlds, but also entire universes. And he learns Voldemort is just the tip of the iceberg. The darkness is coming and he may not be able to stop it... First in a series, complete.

Status: Completed

Fic type: Books/Harry Potter

Pairings/Main char.: Harry P.

Published: 2012-07-04

Last updated: 2013-11-05

Words count: 118,516

Chapters count: 8

Converted using www.FF2EBOOK.com
Date: 2020-11-05

1. Chapter 1

Don't Ask Questions

By Opopanax

Note: This is a reboot of Harry Potter and the Adversary. Almost totally rewritten.

As with the previous story, the timeline is moved up so that Harry starts Hogwarts in 2001. This is done to bring things more in line with the series the story is crossed with.

As stated above, this is a crossover, like the former Adversary. It's crossed with F. Paul Wilson's Adversary Cycle and Repairman Jack series. Like the former story, you do not have to have knowledge of those series to enjoy this incarnation. Characters and situations from other universes may crop up from time to time too, and you get virtual house points if you spot them.

canon wil not always be followed terribly closely. There will also be original characters, violence, and death.

I will endeavour to keep notes to a minimum from this point on. Enjoy the story!…

Prologue

6 January, 1942

Jean Cole sighed to herself and slumped wearily against the wall of the kitchen for a moment. Snow flurried outside and spattered against the windows, drifting on the ledges and forming a rime of ice on the panes. It was bitterly cold outside and they still had to bring in more wood for the fires. The boiler was on the fritz-again-and a repairman wouldn't be out until January eighth. Luckily the blizzard was calming now, down to only a few flurries here and there.

It had been an exhausting day at the orphanage. Three kids sick, the milk running late, the usual food delivery putting an dent on the funding for the place, Martha the cook and Mrs Cole's all around girl Friday twisting her ankle on the snowy path-oh yes, it had been one exhausting thing after another.

Jean had been with the place since 1919, and she always felt like she wasn't doing enough, and especially on days like this one. The orphanage was a bottomless well of need that noone could ever fill, she was beginning to realize. Especially in the past twenty years or so. In the immediate aftermath of the Great War, many widows were left penniless and bereft. And many children were left without mothers or fathers.

When she arrived at the orphanage, it had almost thirty charges, up from ten back in 1916, according to the records.

The country had then started picking itself back up again, but now they were back at war, once again with Germany. What on earth was the world coming to?

Mrs Cole herself was a war widow. Her husband Richard had gone off with visions of heroic deeds dancing in his eyes and had come back in a pine box from Beleau Wood. Shortly before the end of the Great War, that had been, and Mrs Cole was doing her duty, being the dutiful wife, waiting for him to come back, keeping herself occupied with their little civarage in the farming country up in Yorkshire. Her tiny farming village was quite a different place from London. She had required quite a cultural adjustment when she'd first arrived in the back of a milk cart.

She was jerked out of her thoughts by the wailing of one of the infants living here. Straightening with the air of a woman picking up a heavy burden, Mrs Cole strode briskly out of the kitchen toward the front of the orphanage where the nursery was.

"There there, Eric," she crooned, rocking the child, who wailed even harder. "There there, now. Go to sleep, it's ok."

Eventually, Eric Whalley calmed, though he still hiccupped occasionally as his teething pains set in. Another infant, Billy Stubbs, was already asleep, sucking contentedly on his thumb and drooling slightly on a ratty teddybear.

"Need any help there, Mrs Cole?" Martha asked, leaning slightly on one foot as she stood in the doorway.

Martha Wellington had been abandoned here in 1899 at the age of two, when Her parents had decided to go off to America, following the rumors of gold being discovered in Alaska. She was now a rather hard faced forty-five, ten years younger than Mrs Cole, but a kind soul in spite of that.

"No," Mrs Cole sighed, mopping her forehead with a kerchief. "I think it's about as under control as it's ever going to be, dearie."

Martha smiled tiredly. "I hear that. D'you think-"

They were interrupted by a knocking at the front door.

"Who the blazes is out at this time of night?" Mrs Cole muttered, moving hurriedly down the worn hallway toward the door, Martha hobbling along in her wake.

Jerking the door open, Mrs Cole gasped as a woebegone girl dressed in rags and very obviously pregnant staggered on to the porch. Snow swirled around her on the biting

wind, which suddenly seemed to be picking up ferocity, and the girl was shivering like a leaf.

"Dear me, come inside, why don't you?" Mrs Cole fretted, taking the girls sticklike arm and guiding her into the foyer. Even over the roar of the wind she could hear the girl's teeth chattering like castanet's.

Mrs Cole slammed the door shut, causing the flurries of snow blowing about to settle to the worn floor. "What on earth are you doing out on a night like this?" she continued to scold the girl as she helped her into the steamy kitchen. "Could've frozen to death out there, you know. Well come now, off with those shoes and by the fire here. And fix her some tea, Martha dearie, why don't' you, that's a good lass."

The kitchen was bustling with activity while the girl huddled over her pregnant belly by the fire, lank dirty hair hiding her face. Mrs Cole could see though that under the dirt and grime of a life on the streets, no real beauty was going to emerge. Her eyes were set rather close together and stared in opposite directions and her face was rather dull looking.

"They told me I could come here," the girl muttered, clutching the mug of tea between dirty hands. "I have noplace else to turn to…"

Mrs Cole could see that the girl was sick, very sick indeed. Her skin had a yellowish cast and her fingers looked black. Frostbite. Her breathing had a thick undersea sound; she probably wasn't long for this world. As the old folks said, she was failing.

"How far along are you, dearie?" Mrs Cole asked, eyeing the girls' pregnancy.

"I should be having him any day now-"

But she was cut off by a sudden gush of fluid: her water had broken.

"Quick, get me hot water and towels," Mrs Cole snapped at Martha, who was already

busy. This girl wasn't the first one to have given birth at the orphanage in Martha's tenure, and she knew what to do.

The girl cried out in pain as the contractions hit, falling off the stool. Mrs Cole caught her and helped her limp over to a cot in the kitchen that they kept for times when babies were particularly needy.

"Here we are," Martha said, limping over with a pot of warm water and wet cloths. "Now let's get these, ah, clothes off and get the little chappy born."

The woman was scarred and skin and bones under her layers of rags. It looked as though she'd led a very hard life. Her belly stuck up almost comically from her gaunt frame

and it rippled as more contractions hit.

"This is gonna be a hard 'un," Mrs Cole muttered, washing her hands and pulling etermination around her almost visibly. "Let's get started!"

The wind picked up, howling like an angry spirit. Snow kicked against the windows, sounding like fine gravel.

They fought with the baby, who didn't appear to want to be born, for nearly two hours. And during the entire time, the storm increased in ferocity. The building rocked and shuddered, children wailed in terror. Shingles flew off the roof and a window upstairs shattered.

"What in the Lord's name," Mrs Cole said, looking around uneasily as the wind shrieked. "If I didn't know better, I'd say something didn't want this baby to be born."

Martha went to check on the children, who were wailing in fear as the building roared with the sound of shrieking nails from the roof and windows. Mrs Cole was left alone

with the girl, who was lying on the cot, sweating and bleeding. Lank strands of hair lay across her face. Her skin looked like parchment beneath the oil lamps in the kitchen.

And then the lamps, and the fires, and the candles on the counter all went out. At once.

The kitchen was plunged into stygian blackness.

From the cot, the girl wailed as another contraction hit. At the same time, another gust of wind rattled the building. More children screamed and Mrs Cole, thoroughly frightened herself now, lit another candle. Something otherworldly was going on.

The girl went into another contraction, causing her to arch off the bed. Over the shrieks from the children, the cry of the wind and the shaking of the building, Mrs Cole heard something tear inside the girl.

Thick arterial blood spurted from between her legs and Mrs Cole bit back a scream as it soaked her hands. The girl screamed in agony and appeared to have bitten through her own tongue; more blood was oozing out of her mouth.

Dimly, Mrs Cole heard Martha ushering the children into the dining room. Many of them were still crying. And the wind continued to howl.

The girl kept bleeding, she was not long for this world now. Mrs Cole bit back her revulsion and reached, reached for the crowning baby's head.

At last she had it and it came out, almost too easily. But just as she was going to set it on the cot, the building shook again and a heavy iron pot used for cooking big batches of stew and porridge fell off its hook, hurtling straight for the baby.

Mrs Cole gasped and jerked back, slipping in the blood that had dripped off the cot and falling on her rump. The massive iron pot clanged on the floor, gouging a dent in the stone, right where the baby had been a split second before. Something really did seem to not want this child to live.

Just as suddenly as it had begun, the storm died. The building stopped shaking, the windows stopped rattling and the snow stopped blowing. For a breathless five seconds, there was a deathly silence on the world. Something had changed, something was different.

A sense of foreboding stole across the orphanage. What had just happened here?

Then a child cried in relief and the girl who had just given birth gave a weak moan. Mrs Cole, terribly shaken by the previous events, leaned over her.

"He's delivered, dear. Now you just wait-"

The girl, exerting her last strength, reached up with a clawlike hand and seized the collar of Mrs Cole's dress.

"I hope he looks like his papa," she murmured, forcing the words out with what seemed like a massive effort. Her breath came out of her in a thick soft roar. Bright feverish splotches burned on her pale cheeks.

"His papa was about the handsomest man I ever seen," she muttered through the seaweed that seemed to have filled her lungs. "You'll name him Tom, after him, Marvolo after his grandfather, and his surname's to be Riddle. You'll do that, won't you? Wont…"

She drifted off into a delirious haze then, her grip on Jean's dress slackening.

"Aye," said Jean softly, patting the poor girl's cheek. "We'll name him so. Tom Marvolo Riddle, just as you wanted it.

The girl smiled and, with one last wheeze, died. Her chest flattened out slowly, like a deflated tire. Mrs cole wiped a tear and turned to the baby … and screamed. The baby boy was looking at her with black eyes. And he was aware, that was immediately obvious. Hideously aware.

"What have we done?" Mrs Cole murmured, shrinking back instinctively. "What have we loosed upon the world?"

Chapter 1: Questions

1

"You know, Cornelius, if you're dining with the headmaster, we'd better head back up to the castle," said Professor McGonagall.

One by one, the pairs of feet in front of Harry took the weight of their owners once more; hems of cloaks swung into sight, and Madam Rosemerta's glittering heels disappeared behind the bar. The door of the Three Broomsticks opened again, there was an other flurry of snow, and the teachers had disappeared.

"Harry?"

Ron's and Susan's faces appeared under the table. They were both staring at him, lost for words.

Harry barely noticed the cold and snow on his return journey through the secret passage under the candy store. He was thinking furiously and analytically, as was his way now. He had been filled in on a lot of information over the summer after his release from the hospital, but there were still gaps in his knowledge.

Harry made his way back to the entrance hall, where Ron and Susan were waiting for him, looking worried and scared. He hadn't filled them in on everything yet, due to their budding Occlumency, but he promised he would later. Bidding them goodnight, Harry went back to Gryffindor Tower, still thinking.

Ignoring the chattering crowds of students in the common room hovering over their acquisitions from Hogsmeade, trading candy, doing homework, and various other sundries, Harry trudged up to his dorm room.

Pulling the curtains on his four-poster, Harry took out his much treasured photo album and flipped through it until he came to a picture of his parents' wedding.

There he was. Looking a lot younger and healthier of course, but unmistakably Sirius Black. Harry recognized the eyes. He was standing with the wedding party, slyly making bunny ears behind James Potter's head while Lily laughed at him.

And Harry noticed something else. Standing off to one side in a Groomsman outfit and looking like he was trying to stay solemn but fighting back the urge to laugh, was Professor Lupin. Harry had of course known Lupin and his parents were friends, but he hadn't realized how close they really were. Up until this point he had been too busy with his new classes and meetings to flip through the album to find the man.

Harry was surprised to find out the true extent of their camaraderie. Thinking back, he now remembered that Lupin had been in almost every picture, and of course, he was important enough to be in the wedding party.

Where the hell had he been for the previous twelve years? If Lupin was such an important part of his parents' life, he should've been involved with their son. Why had he pretended to be a stranger all damn year? What the hell was going on?

Flipping toward the back of the album he saw a photo of himself as a baby cradled in Professor Lupin's arms. What the hell!

Momentarily forgetting about Black, Harry pulled the Marauder's Map out of his pocket and activated it, scanning for Lupin. He intended to go down there right now and ask him what the hell he was thinking.

But before he could, he spied Ron and Hermione sitting in the common room. Not together anymore though; Hermione was off by herself. Kind of sad, but it had to be that way.

He was about to look away when something caught his eye, something that drove almost everything out of his mind. He snapped instantly alert and stared, wide eyed, at a dot sitting on top of Ron, a dot that shouldn't be there. A dot that he was told would never, ever be anywhere. Icy waves of gooseflesh rose on his body, as connections were made and pieces fell into place. Staring at that dot, Harry felt his world crashing down around his ears.

The dot was labelled Peter Pettigrew.

Still staring, slack jawed at the dot, Harry reached slowly into his pocket and pulled out a notebook and carefully opened it, as though he were afraid it might explode. Then he began to write…

# # #

It all started at the end of first year for Harry. He had been recovering in the hospital wing after meeting Quirrell under the school. Dumbledore, Ron and Hermione had just left and Hagrid had sidled into the wing, as usual looking too big to be allowed. Harry had reassured Hagrid that he didn't blame him for Quirrell finding out how to get around that idiotic three-headed dog, and he had calmed Hagrid down from his mini crying fit.

Hagrid wiped his nose on the back of his hand and said, "That reminds me. I've got yeh a present."

"It's not a stoat sandwich, is it?" said Harry anxiously, and at last Hagrid gave a weak chuckle.

"Nah. Dumbledore gave me the day off yesterday ter fix it. 'Course, he shoulda sacked me instead-anyway, got yeh this …"

It seemed to be a handsome, leather-covered book. Harry opened it curiously. It was full of wizard photographs. Smiling and waving at him from every page were his mother and father.

"Sent owls off ter all yer parents' old school friends, askin' fer photos … knew yeh didn' have any … d'yeh like it?"

Harry couldn't speak, but Hagrid understood.

At last he got himself together and blurted out a question he'd wanted to ask ever since Christmas.

"Hagrid, d'you know where my parents are buried?

Hagrid blinked at him. "O' course I do. Yer wantin' to go there, righ'?"

Harry nodded, staring misty-eyed at the photos.

"Well, listen, I'll get permission from Professor Dumbledore and take yeh after school's out," he said kindly, patting Harry on the back.

"Thanks, Hagrid," Harry said, after sitting up again from his face plant in the photo album. "See you at the feast, ok?"

Hagrid nodded and shambled out of the hospital wing, leaving behind a thoughtful Harry.

# # #

The feast was over and Hagrid was studiously avoiding Harry's eyes, so Harry decided to approach the headmaster on his own.

"Professor Dumbledore, sir?" Harry asked, doing his best not to fidget as almost the entire staff table was watching, Snape with his usual sneer and McGonagall with thin lips, as if wanting to talk to the headmaster was a high crime..

"Yes, Harry?" Dumbledore responded, twinkling down at the small boy.

"C-can I talk to you about something, sir? In private?"

"Of course," said Dumbledore, putting his napkin on his empty plate. "Follow me to my office."

Ignoring the hiss from Snape and the huff from McGonagall, The headmaster led the way through the chattering crowd of students to a gargoyle on the second floor, which leapt aside at the mention of Acid Pops and revealed a spiral staircase rather like an escalator.

Dumbledore settled himself behind the massive oak desk and eyed Harry. The latter, however, had been distracted from his mission by the grandeur of the office and the magnificent swan-sized bird with red and gold plumage who trilled at him from his perch. The room was filled with countless odd tickings and whirrings from the numerous instruments puffing clouds of multi-coloured smoke on spindly-legged tables. Books lined the antique-looking shelves on the walls. Harry's much-suppressed scholastic side wanted to go and look at them, but he restrained himself.

"That is Fawkes, a phoenix," Dumbledore said, noticing Harry's curious look at the bird. "Marvelous companions, they are."

Fawkes trilled in agreement, and Harry cautiously went over to pet him, forgetting for a moment his purpose.

The bird arched his neck and Harry rubbed under his beak, the way Hedwig liked to have it done.

Dumbledore cleared his throat, bringing Harry back to the present.

"So, Harry. You had something you wished to discuss?"

Harry turned from the bird and went to sit in front of the massive oak desk. "Yes, sir. I was wondering if I could find out where my parents are buried."

Ever since that time in front of the Mirror of Erised, more, even before then, his origins had been a constant source of curiosity for the young Potter. Wanting to know about one's roots was a symptom of the human condition. For the previous ten years he had been told that they were no good drunks who died in a car crash and left him to be a burden on their decent, hardworking relatives to suffer through. In his later years Harry had come to seriously doubt this, since the Dursleys lied about everything else it made sense to him that they would lie about his parents, too. Then he had found out that they were in fact heroes, had died protecting him. The only reason he hadn't pressed for more details about them was that things had kept happening to distract him. The troll, the dog, the stone, Quidditch.

Late last night after Hagrid had left, Harry had sat in his bed, flipping slowly through the pages of the photo album he had been given. Fat tears had glistened in his eyes for the first time in many years. Here were his parents, laughing and smiling from every page. They were real people, not symbols or shadows in an enchanted mirror. They had lived, laughed, and loved. They had given him life, and, in a strange way, hope for an existence beyond his cupboard. And as he sat there flipping slowly through the pages, questions began to formulate in his mind.

Where were they buried? How come no one had taken him to see their graves? Why had not Hagrid told him anything about them? Where were all these people in the photographs? In particular, two men, one with long black hair and another with grey-flecked brown hair standing on either side of his father. The camaraderie between these three was glaringly obvious. They appeared as close as brothers because those two men appeared in almost every photograph in the album. Hagrid obviously knew how to get in touch with friends of his parents. Why had none of them ever tried to contact him? One could make the argument that just because they were friends in school didn't mean they had to necessarily keep in touch with them or him afterward, but that didn't hold a great deal of water.

Given the insular nature of the wizarding world and its rather small size (Harry remembered Hermione telling him that there were about seventy-five thousand magicals in the British Isles), and given the fact that James and Lily Potter had died in rather spectacular circumstances four years after they had left Hogwarts, it didn't make sense for every single one of their friends to forget about their son. Maybe none of them wanted to take him in, but they should have at least checked to make sure he was living in comfortable conditions. Why had none of them done so? And even if they hadn't, why had none of them tried to contact him when he was reintroduced back into the wizarding world?

All of these questions had fluttered in his mind, distracting him from the end of year festivities until he had to talk to the headmaster. Maybe Hagrid had been rebuffed, but how could a wizard of any decency deny him the opportunity to bring this chapter of his life to a close? Surely he would know where they were buried.

"I'm sorry, Harry, but I cannot allow you to visit their gravesites just yet," said Dumbledore, the twinkle in his eyes dimming. "Not all of Voldemort's supporters have been captured and some of them may be staking out the area hoping to find you. You will understand, I'm sure, that we cannot allow you to be captured."

Harry's immediate impulse was to start ranting, but he bit back a sharp retort and just nodded, not meeting Dumbledore's eyes. "I understand sir, thank you for letting me talk to you."

"Not a problem at all," said Dumbledore. "At some point you will be permitted to visit them, have no fear."

Harry nodded and headed out of the office. He was acquiescing for now, but he was angry. And he was going to get answers.

# # #

Sitting in his dorm later that night, Harry began writing down a list of questions he wanted answered. Wondering about his parents' graves had got him thinking about other things too.

1. Why did Dumbledore place me at the Dursleys? My parents gave their lives for me, would they want me living in the cupboard under the stairs and being bullied by them? Would they want me being starved and forced to wear rags? I saw my vault, surely there were provisions made for my upkeep.

He knew Dumbledore was the one to place him there because Hagrid had said so that fateful night on the rock when he had delivered the Hogwarts letter.

2. Nicholas Flamel has been alive for six hundred years. Why keep the Philosopher's Stone, the key to his immortality, the reason for his very survival, in a bank vault? Why bring it to a school full of children, and, especially, the year the Boy-Who-Lived is starting? Was the stone even real? Was it a test for me? A trap? All the obstacles were ridiculously easy, how were they supposed to stop a great and powerful wizard such as Voldemort? Dumbledore knows why Voldemort is after me but says I'm too young to know. Yet if these things were arranged for me, he obviously doesn't think I'm too young to face him. What's his agenda? If the easy traps were bait to lure Voldemort in, why set those traps in a school full of children?

3. Why did McGonagall send us into the Forbidden Forest where something powerful enough to kill and injure unicorns was running around? Or was it Hagrid's idea?

4. Where are all the people in those photographs?

5. Why deny me access to my parents' graves? After ten years it's doubtful any Voldemort supporters would still be looking for me there. What else is he denying me?

6. Why did Voldemort come after me in the first place? Why did he offer to spare my mother's life? From all reports that doesn't sound like him.

These might seem rather in depth questions for an eleven-year-old to ask, but Harry had grown up with the Dursleys. Even though he had been indoctrinated to not ask questions, he was highly observant of the world around him. You almost had to be, in that family. It was this trait, plus his nascent ability to manipulate which had almost led the hat into placing him in Slytherin House. Manipulating his relatives was necessary to gain necessities such as food and less time in his cupboard. Just because one did not ask the questions didn't mean the questions themselves didn't exist.

And so Harry, left to his own devices for the last part of term, had come up with the aforementioned list.

Using a spell Hermione had found for him, Harry blanked the parchment and stuck it in his bag, then finished packing for the train home. He was going to get answers tomorrow, and being locked in the cupboard under the stairs was not on his agenda.

# # #

Poppy Pomfrey sighed to herself as she closed her Muggle style notebook. It was filled with questions about young Harry Potter that she had jotted down over the course of the year. The first time she had raised concerns of malnutrition and outright neglect to Albus she had been brushed aside with an "I shall of course investigate with due diligence," twinkled at and dismissed. Albus could not Obliviate her; any healer worth the crest on her robes would know immediately that such a spell had been performed on her. Obliviating healers was a high crime in the wizarding world, almost as high as child abuse. Due to the rarity of wizards being born these days, laws had been passed in the Wizengamot that punished abusers with at least twenty years in Azkaban. Not that abuse had been all that common among wizarding families in the first place, due to the risk of accidental magic in retaliation. The only place were child abuse was still regrettably common was among the Muggle-born and half-bloods with Muggle parents.

Which brought Poppy back to Mr Potter.

Poppy Yarrofield had completed her healing education at St. Mungo's Hospital in 1958. She had met her husband, Richard Pomfrey, at Hyde Park where she had gone to listen to an outdoor concert. They had married in 1960 and had set off for the Middle East, where Richard, a Muggle, was working for the Iraq Petroleum Company, stationed in Baghdad. He had been delighted when he had found out she was a witch, but slightly crestfallen that she could not openly use her talents.

Iraq had been a very peaceful place for the British nationals who lived there from the fifties through the middle sixties. There were several good English schools there, and of course, a very rich magical heritage. Poppy had learned a lot of obscure magical knowledge, since that area was the supposed "cradle of civilization."

Then in July of 1968 the ba'ath Party had come into power, prompting a mass exodus of English nationals, including Poppy. Unfortunately her husband didn't make it. Richard had been stationed near Basra and, unable to use magic, had been caught up in a fire fight and killed. Bereft, Poppy had wandered around Europe for the next little while, throwing herself into her work and learning new skills for her profession in the rural vastnesses of mountains and the Black Forest.

On returning to England, she applied for and received the post of Hogwarts healer in 1979, just in time for the introduction of James Potter and his gang of rascals.

She never married again and threw herself into her work. Her children were the students of Hogwarts, her spouse the job itself. She was probably the most popular medi-witch the school had ever employed.

Now, she was sitting in her small office off the hospital wing, pondering Mr Potter. Had anyone not knowing her profession looked into this office, they would think it probably belonged to the darkest witch of modern times. Books outlining horrible curses and hexes lined the walls; more books on potions with truly gruesome effect were stacked on her desk. One had to know what one was dealing with in order to heal the damage done by the curses and potions. She was now flipping through one of the books on potions because, even with a steady diet of good food all year, Mr Potter was still as malnourished as ever. She was now seriously considering involving St. Mungo's and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. If what she suspected was true there would be some long overdue justice served on at least one individual.

She would have to be very, very careful, but she was confident in her abilities and in her discretion.

Grinning to herself in a slightly manic and predatory way that those who knew her would hardly recognize, Poppy started writing a letter. This would be fun indeed.

# # #

Albus Dumbledore sighed gratefully and settled into a comfy armchair in his personal quarters located off the main office on the second floor. The students were gone and summer peace would once more settle on the ancient castle.

As Dumbledore sipped his hot cocoa and idly perused end of year reports submitted by his staff and head boy and girl, he pondered, not for the first time, the issue of Harry Potter.

That the boy had come to him asking about his parents graves was unexpected, though it really should not have been, in hindsight. After permitting Hagrid to gather photographs of the Potters, he should've expected Harry to press for more information. That was not a concept the old wizard was comfortable with, sharing information.

The main thing Dumbledore was afraid of was the old "give him an inch, he'll take a mile" adage. If he allowed Harry to visit the grave, Harry would undoubtedly ask for more things. Then when he was denied he would rebel and maybe go off on his own and Dumbledore couldn't allow that to happen. He had sent a missive to the Dursleys urging them to not allow Harry out of the house. With the recent banishment of Voldemort, it was likely he might seek assistance from his followers and Harry would still be the number one target. Or so he said. He just couldn't allow Harry to receive more information than he needed to have. It was imperative that Dumbledore maintain control.

Yet still there were questions.

Just what had the Dursleys said to Harry about his parents? Hagrid had stormed into his office, indignant as you please, claiming that Harry told him the Dursleys had said that James and Lily had died in a car crash. So he had suggested that the staff drop hints about what wonderful people they were in subtle ways. Apparently all that, combined with Harry viewing them in the mirror, had engendered too much curiosity. If need be, Dumbledore could go to Privet Drive and Obliviate Harry, but he hated doing that; they were tricky at the best of times and could backfire in unexpected ways.

Another question was that of Poppy. Tampering with her memory was again not an option. She was a certified healer and would know instantly that such a spell had been cast. Yet she was raising troublesome questions about Harry's home life. If he was approached on the matter, he would claim that, while he was aware that the Dursleys provided a less than ideal child-rearing atmosphere, Lily's sacrifice made his placement with her sister necessary for his safety. He was Albus Dumbledore, his word would be taken for the unassailable fortress of truth that it was.

Certain that things were still well within his control, Dumbledore leaned back for a brief nap before dinner. He didn't know his world was going to unravel around him.

2

Ron Weasley looked up at his best mate Harry in shock. "He did what?"

"Yeah. He told me I couldn't visit my parents' graves. What's the idea?"

Harry and Ron were sitting in a compartment by themselves, Hermione having gone off to chat with some Ravenclaws. Ron had dropped his chess piece in surprise. "I need your help now, Ron," Harry said, fixing his friend with a determined gaze. "I need to find out what the bloody hell is going on here."

Ron was torn. Up until just now, all he had been able to see was the fact that his friend was the famous Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived. He had the adulation of the wizarding world and could have anything he could want.

Now, though, Harry had, with some reservations, told Ron the story of his life. About the cupboard and the abuse-though not all of it-and about how he had never got anything of his own. He had briefly touched on those things way back on their first train ride, but now he went into far more detail so that his friend would have a more accurate picture of what Harry was looking for.

Harry had decided on Ron because, of the two of them, Ron had leapt into the fray with him without hesitation. Hermione, while she was undoubtedly intelligent and an ally, would not be of much help here. She was all for following rules, whereas he, and to a slightly lesser extent Ron (due to his affiliation with his twin brothers), were more about doing things sneakily. Ron had impressed him deeply by his actions down under the school, sacrificing himself on that chessboard. Of course it wasn't a life-threatening trap, but it was still a good gesture and Harry appreciated the hell out of it. Most twelve-year-olds would have gone running at the daunting prospect of facing Voldemort, yet Ron had gone with him right away. That kind of loyalty had to count for something. Harry knew that Ron had a pretty deep jealous streak and, by sharing the story, he hoped to put a quick end to it. Sitting by Ron during dinnertime was like being front and centre at a Gallagher concert, but the guy had miles of heart if you could dig beneath the hard-headed black and white "I am a light wizard and there is only light and dark" exterior.

Now, having heard a slightly abbreviated version of Harry's life, Ron looked suitably appalled. To find out the hero of the wizarding world had been treated so was shocking. To find out that his close friend was treated so was saddening. It was only now when it was hitting him in the face that Ron Weasley began to see that he, in fact, had a far better life than his friend. He might not have gotten the newest and greatest brooms or top of the line clothing, but he had a family that loved him, even if they made him feel inferior sometimes. But now, given this fresh perspective, he felt rather stupid for ever having such an inferiority complex. He wasn't able to articulate these concepts in so many words-heavy emotional notions were far, far beyond his personal vocabulary and range of expression-but he was going to do his best to be there for him. Ron had taken the first steps to realizing that Harry was far more than a famous name and was a real human being and not a symbol.

"What do you need, mate?" Ron asked resolutely.

Harry breathed a sigh of relief. He had taken a risk but he knew Ron's simple facial expressions well enough to know that the redhead wouldn't rat him out.

"I need you to tell me about the wizarding world, Ron. I need to find my place."

And so Ron told him what he knew, which was a surprising amount. His father had regaled his family with tales of the Ministry of Magic and Ron had a fair grounding of who was who in that body. They worked out a plan, backed with Harry's manipulative streak and Ron's strategic mind whereby Harry would be able to escape from the Dursleys without Dumbledore being able to do much about it. Even Ron, who by his own admission was not the brightest candle in the chandelier knew that Harry's particular case had been handled with a great degree of irregularity, and that most if not all those irregularities could be laid right at the feet of Professor Albus Dumbledore.

The only problem was, things had to be done slowly. Harry might be the Boy-Who-Lived, but Dumbledore was very high up in the government and, with the summer holidays here, he would be in a position to more closely watch things in the ministry and could block them before they did too much damage to his reputation. Harry would then be locked away in Privet Drive unable to do anything and Ron would be banned from talking to him.

"Right," said Harry. "I'll go home and head to Gringotts tomorrow. I shouldn't have to wear rags. I'll look into my parent's will, and you can start the ball rolling with your family."

"Sounds like a plan, mate," Ron said. "Fancy a game of chess?"

# # #

Vernon Dursley was not having a good day. He had received a letter (thankfully by normal mail) telling him that the freak would be at King's Cross Station at five pm on the twenty-sixth of June. Unfortunately on that day an important client meeting had been scheduled for four pm and Vernon had to decide which was more important: a useless freak or increasing his firm's profit by a magnitude of two, said act to be hopefully rewarded by Vernon getting Parker's job and sliding up another rung on the corporate ladder. He was only sales director, but if he did his job right he could be put in charge of the whole marketing department.

The decision was an easy one, and so Vernon had given Petunia keys to the car (he couldn't have the freak going to someone and having their home looked into) and set off in a cab to Grunnings.

Petunia, meanwhile, furious at the nerve of her husband in making her have anything to do with that freakish spawn of her equally freakish sister, slammed about in a bad temper and even snapped at her son, who, astonished, stared goggle-eyed at her and kept silent all the way to King's Cross.

The freak was there, standing in front of Platform Nine, with a band of other freaks and his freaky owl. Petunia pursed her lips and waited, looking around to make sure that no one who knew her would spot her in the company of such people.

At last he broke away and headed for her.

"Get in the car, boy," she hissed at him, urging him away with frantic shooing motions.

Harry sent a wink to Ron behind Petunia's back and headed for the car, where a pale Dudley was squeezed into one corner of the back seat. Petunia, looking like a hat stand wearing a dress that looked as though it had been cut from a wall hanging, climbed in behind the wheel and took off with a squeal of tires, shooting half fearful, half furious glances at Harry.

The drive home was made in complete silence, Dudley pretending to be small and invisible, continuously munching his fingernails and sneaking looks at Harry out of the sides of his eyes. Petunia said nothing, but looked as though she wanted to hurl a torrent of invectives at him. My loving, charming family, Harry thought to himself. What would James Dodgson say if he could see this bucolic picture?

Harry pushed aside the usual vitriol. He had people in his corner and he no longer felt alone. He was going to have some fun with the Dursleys.

Unfortunately, his plans went awry very fast.

Vernon was home when they got there and he set upon Harry the instant he stepped in the door, swinging a large purple fist at him as soon as the door closed.

Harry, thanks to reflexes honed on the Quidditch field, ducked, and his uncle's fist slammed into the window sill on the side of the door, with an audible crack of knuckles. Vernon, completely forgetting about Harry, howled in agony and hopped around like a walrus on crack. Dudley, seeing his father hurt, and forgetting about his pig tail, rushed at Harry, who stepped aside, sending Dudley crashing into the wall, resulting in a shower of broken glass and clattering picture frames, and further resulting in the window pane at the top of the door falling out with a crash of broken glass.

The embroidered hat-stand, also known as Aunt Petunia, shrieked and too charged at Harry, long fingernails extend at him like cat's claws. Harry, having positioned himself in front of the newly broken front door due to his dodging, pushed it open and slammed it shut after slipping through; catching Petunia across the face with the closing door. Harry heard her thump to the floor in the entranceway.

Somewhat bemused by the rapid fire sequence of events, Harry stood on the front step, listening to the various groans from inside the house. Standing on tiptoes, he peered cautiously through the broken window.

Vernon was sitting on the floor clutching his hand and crying. Petunia was lying on the floor, blood possibly running into the back of her throat. Her nose canted over to the left, looking like a crooked tombstone.

Dudley too was nursing a broken nose and wailing as though the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels. In short, complete devastation reigned in Number Four.

To make the scene more chaotic, two pops were heard and a witch wearing a monocle and a young woman with bright pink hair appeared on the front lawn.

"Wow. Bit boring, isn't it?" said the woman with pink hair, peering interestedly around at the neighbourhood.

"Priorities, Ms Tonks, please," said the monocle wearing woman severely.

"Right, sorry," Tonks said sheepishly.

Just then, Vernon had recovered enough of himself to fling open the door. Unfortunately, the door opened outward instead of inward and the door caught Harry straight in the back, the boy having turned to goggle at the arrivals on the lawn. Such was the force with which the door was flung open that Harry was catapulted off his feet and landed in a bone-jarring heap at the feet of the two women on the lawn. Adding to the indignity of the situation, his glasses snapped in the fall and he was left sitting in a green-stained heap on the grass, blinking up at the new arrivals like a stoned owl.

Vernon, meanwhile, tore out of the door, murder in his eyes, and a bellow of "Boy!" on his lips, only to be brought up short by the two women on his green lawn.

"What in the name of Merlin's bloody balls is going on here!" the woman with the monocle asked, with astonishment writ large on her face.

"Er, excuse me, but who are you?" Harry asked, holding his broken glasses to his face and getting off the ground.

"I am Amelia Bones and this is Auror Trainee Tonks," the stern looking witch said, indicating the pink haired girl, who was eyeing Vernon, who in turn was still frozen on the front stoop clutching his hand, which was now roughly the size of a baseball glove.

Petunia was peering out the window, blood caking her face and looking like a demented raccoon. The neighbours were all eyeballing the chaotic scene at Number Four with keen interest.

"Er, right. I don't mean to be rude, but what exactly are you doing here?"

"Get out of my garden at once!" Vernon managed to bellow. "Your kind is not welcome here!"

Amelia stared at Vernon with distaste and, keeping her back to the neighbours so that they wouldn't see, flicked her wand at him, causing him to be pushed back into the house. Harry, still somewhat bemused, followed, giving a nod of thanks to Tonks, who had repaired his glasses, and admiring the dent Dudley's face had made in the plaster of the wall.

"What the hell are you freaks doing here!" Vernon bellowed, still clutching his hand and his face a purple Harry had never seen before, like black currant ice cream.

"It's people like him who make me wonder about that Muggle Protection Act," Amelia muttered to herself. Then, raising her voice, "Mr Dursley, be quiet for once in your life. And, if you'll stop bellowing, I'll fix your hand."

Vernon fell silent. Petunia was huddled in the corner, clutching a towel to her broken nose and sending hateful glares at Harry. Dudley was hiding behind the banister, also nursing a broken nose.

"Did he hit you, Mr Potter?" Amelia asked, turning to him and frowning rather like Professor McGonagall.

Harry pointed to the cracked window sill. "He missed. Petunia hit the door and Dudley hit the wall," he finished, pointing at the respective dents. "I'm good at dodging," he added unnecessarily.

"I … see," said Amelia, pinning the Dursleys with a gaze full of dislike. "I am the head of Magical Law Enforcement and can help you."

"Not at this time, Ma'am. There are things that need to be done first."

"Such as?"

"Are you just going to stand here cluttering up my house or are you going to do something about us? The freak injured us!" Vernon hollered, still clutching his swollen hand.

Without saying a word, Tonks, who had been examining the pictures of Dudley with distaste, advanced on them, wand raised and a mad little smile on her heart-shaped face, the tip of the wand glowing with what Harry recognized as a healing charm.

Vernon made an "eep" sound and scuttled backward like a fat cockroach until his back was to the wall. A small puddle of water appeared between his feet and the foyer was suddenly filled with an ammoniac stench. Harry snorted with disgust and tried not to laugh.

Tonks tapped Vernon's swollen hand and it knitted back together with a wet snapping sound. Vernon howled and looked as though he wanted to use the other hand to smack the petite pink-haired girl, but she was already moving toward Petunia and Dudley. With similar snapping sounds, both were healed. All three, however, appeared too terrified to speak.

"Now then," Amelia said, vanishing the puddle at Vernon's feet, "shall we move to the parlour and discuss why exactly you do not wish to put these … people on trial?"

Vernon, Petunia and Dudley decided to make themselves scarce and scuttled into the kitchen, while harry, Amelia and Tonks adjourned to the parlour with Harry and settled on the uncomfortable looking furniture.

"First off, what exactly are you doing here?" Harry asked.

Amelia thought she should take offence at the rather blunt question, but she didn't. She was a woman who appreciated forwardness and no beating around the bush.

"I received a letter from Susan, my niece, yesterday, detailing a rather remarkable series of events taking place over this year," she said, eyeing Harry shrewdly through her monocle. "She further states that you were involved right in the middle of things. Care to elaborate on that, Mr Potter? By all indications, several things have happened that should fall under my department's jurisdiction."

Harry sat there, thinking furiously. This was not at all how he wanted things to go. If he told everything to Madam Bones, she would go tearing off to the Ministry and start an investigation and Harry would never get answers to his questions. Dumbledore would no doubt block everything since he was Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Harry would henceforth be put under extreme scrutiny, never allowed to find any answers.

On the other hand, as Ron Weasley had told him, Bones could be one hell of an ally if he got her on his side. From gossip he had heard around school, she had lost a brother in the last war and would probably hear him out if he asked her to, if he used that angle.

"I can tell you some of it," he said, forcing just the right degree of hesitancy into his voice. "I don't know everything though, only what happened to me and what I personally saw."

Amelia, however, was a long time Auror and expert in the art of interrogation and she recognized an evasion tactic when she saw one. "Just what aren't you saying, Mr Potter?"

Harry suppressed a wince with great difficulty. This woman was cleverer than he had given her credit for. There was nothing for it but to tell everything.

"I have a lot of questions about things in my life and I don't want Dumbledore to necessarily find out that I'm investigating," he said, resigned. "He seems to have some kind of weird agendda of his own and doesn't like giving me straight answers. I don't like not having all the information at hand about my life, and too many people have not told me everything. So, I can tell you stuff but I don't want a full Ministry enquiry started because that would bring more scrutiny onto me than I am comfortable with."

"How about you tell me first and then I'll decide what to do? However it goes I can promise that I will do my utmost to both use only personnel I trust and to keep your name out of things wherever possible."

Harry realized that this was about the best deal he was going to get and nodded. "Okay, I can deal with that. Now this all started with Dumbledore telling us at the opening feast to avoid the third floor…"

Harry told the story to a rapt Amelia and Tonks, who was taking notes fast and furious. He shivered once again as he remembered the hideous face of Voldemort sticking out the back of Quirrell's head.

Then he got to the tricky bit. He paused here, trying to organize how he wanted to say this. The two women looked on, interested but patient. From the kitchen came the sound of the television and Petunia cooking dinner. The occasional mutter about freaks and abnormality came through too.

"I asked Dumbledore to let me visit my parents' graves. All my life I was told they died drunk, in a car crash. I also asked him why Voldemort came after me in the first place. He refused to answer both questions, and that got me wondering what else he was hiding."

He pulled the piece of parchment out of his pocket. "If you hit this with a Finite you'll see the list of questions I came up with."

Amelia tapped the parchment with her wand and blinked at the list of questions that appeared on it.

"These are very interesting questions, Mr Potter, and I don't really blame you for asking them. But what photos are you talking about?"

"I got a photo album which has pictures of my parents in it. They of course had a lot of friends and I was wondering where they all went."

"I see. Well it is getting late, how about we meet for lunch tomorrow and I can try and fill you in on some history. You might get a clearer picture on what's going on. I won't start an investigation without talking to you first, because you are right, Dumbledore is involved up to his neck in things and would try to block it. Similarly, I cannot remove you from here just yet. Dumbledore no doubt has monitoring charms to determine if something like that happens and we do not nearly have enough leverage to ensure your safety."

Harry nodded. "I figured as much, that's why I wanted to get as much information as I can. I grew up ignorant of the wizarding world, but I cannot let that continue. I need to learn."

"Until tomorrow, Mr Potter." And then, she paused, looking speculatively at him, then, with a sigh, shooting a look at the kitchen door behind which the Dursleys lurked. "I am going to do something I normally wouldn't even consider, but given the situation I think you will need it. Give me your wand."

Harry handed it over from inside his jeans pocket, hoping against hope that what he was suspecting was correct.

Amelia sighed, and tapped his wand with her own. A blue glow flared around it, then dissipated, and there was a slight snapping sound that was sensed rather than heard.

"I have broken the trace on you. In this … house, I feel you probably need all the protection you can get. Do not make me regret doing this, Mr Potter. There is a reason we watch Muggle areas more closely than wizarding areas. The Statute of Secrecy must be maintained. Am I in any way unclear?"

"No, Ma'am. Completely clear," Harry said solemnly, years of training at the Dursleys kicking in to help him hide his glee at being able to do magic. Dudley wouldn't know what hit him!

3

Amelia Bones muttered darkly to herself as she stormed through the Ministry, a cowed Tonks hurrying to keep up in her wake.

"That … that old bearded bastard!" Amelia muttered, throwing herself into her desk chair and throwing a glare at the wall, Tonks doing her best to be invisible.

"Oh stop it, Tonks," she snapped, turning her glare on the young trainee. "I won't bite you."

"Yes Ma'am," Tonks replied meekly.

"Now, go make yourself useful and get me the Potter file."

Tonks scuttled out of the office into the nearly deserted Department of Law Enforcement and toward the lifts.

Amelia sighed, took out her monocle and rubbed her eyes tiredly. She had been looking forward to spending some time with Susan and her parents tonight. Instead, she'd gotten that letter about rumours surrounding the Philosopher's Stone and three-headed dogs. Had it come from anyone but her niece, Amelia would have dismissed it out of hand. However, not five minutes after that letter arrived, another one showed up from Poppy Pomfrey, outlining concerns about Harry Potter's living situation, and further stating that Albus Dumbledore had just dismissed her out of hand when she brought it up to him in his capacity of headmaster.

Amelia, being head of the DMLE, knew that Harry had been sent off to live with Lily's Muggle sister. The area where Potter lived had always been carefully monitored for magical activity for his protection. It had never occurred to her, however, that the boy's relations would abuse him. In hindsight, she should've checked on him, if for no other reason than the fact that she had genuinely liked James Potter.

The boy had raised valid concerns. Absolutely none of his parents' friends had contacted him, including herself. It might have been a little awkward to have some unknown person send you a letter out of the blue, but it could've been handled. Now, she was going to make up for that oversight by doing the best she could for him. If all else failed, she could invite him to live with her brother and Susan. No wizarding child from one of the oldest families in Britain deserved to live in an abusive household and to wear rags.

Tonks knocked and entered, carrying a depressingly slim file.

"This was all I could find, Director," she said.

Amelia frowned at it. "Very well, Tonks. You can clock out now. I'll take it from here."

"See you in the morning, Director," the young trainee said, closing the door with a click.

Amelia sighed once more and opened the file. There were only a few pages in it-far too few pages for an orphan.

There was the magically updated birth certificate, signed, oddly enough, by Poppy Pomfrey. There were the two death certificates of Lily and James Potter. No last will and testament; those were held by Gringotts. Here was a basic medical summary sheet given by Pomfrey a week before the death of the Potters, and an acceptance letter for Hogwarts, plus a summary of his final marks, necessary in case Potter decided he wanted to change schools.

That was it. No assessments from wizarding child services. No medical records from before Hogwarts. No summary sheets from Gringotts detailing stipends for his guardianship.

Also of note was the fact that Dumbledore had had Voldemort running around in his school all year and had not bothered to report it to the Ministry. What in the name of Merlin was that man pulling? Didn't the DMLE deserve to know that he was still alive?

Something was really rotten in the state of Denmark and Amelia wanted to get to the bottom of it. Hopefully by interviewing Potter she could get some kind of idea, but for now she wanted to get home. She hoped she hadn't made a mistake by breaking the trace on Potter, but she got the feeling he would need every weapon he could lay his hands on, since it seemed the entire deck was stacked against him in the crapshoot he called his life.

Now there's a way to mix metaphors, she thought wryly as she got her traveling cloak off the back of the office door in preparation for going home. Either way, that young man would need a hell of a lot of luck, and he sure as hell didn't have any Felix Felicis.

# # #

Hermione Granger flipped a page in her History of Magic book and sipped lemonade. Her mind was not on her book, however; it was on her friend Harry Potter.

Hermione did not grow up in a very happy environment. Her parents were by-the-book people, which meant that they treated raising a child like something out of a manual. They were not mean, cruel or neglectful, it was more like performing a surgery. Step one: nurse baby. Step two: Teach baby how to walk. Step three: potty train baby. And so on. No love was present, they were just following a procedure, and when Hermione was old enough she would be chucked out into the world to fend for herself.

As a result, Hermione did her best to keep quiet at home, to learn as much as she could and to excel. She had spent endless hours in the school library after classes in primary school, gobbling up books on any subject she could get her hands on.

Then came the letter and the visit by Professor McGonagall. Her parents, for once, were shocked out of their complacency at learning that their daughter was a witch. However since they weren't all that emotionally involved with her it hadn't been too much of a stretch for them to give their consent for her to go to school at Hogwarts.

Now, she had thought, now I will find acceptance. She figured everybody else would be as eager to learn as she was, just as ready to make their mark on this new world.

Unfortunately, in her eagerness, she had overcompensated and turned herself into the thing that students hate most of all: a know it all. She had very quickly alienated the vast majority of her year mates. It had gotten bad enough that she had considered withdrawing from Hogwarts on Halloween.

Then Harry and Ron had come in on the back of that troll and she discovered there were worse things than being called a teacher's pet, which had caused her to tone down her over eagerness somewhat. Having your head almost bashed in by a five foot club was somehow scarier than failing a test.

At the end of term she had gone with Harry and Ron under the school to rescue the Philosopher's Stone, proving that the hat had placed her in Gryffindor for a reason. Doing something like that was far out of character for the logical Hermione Granger, who would've suggested calling the Aurors or at the very least a professor. That had all turned out well in the end though.

Now, as she sat on the back deck of her parents' home in Exeter, located in the southwest of England, she considered the train ride at the end of term.

Harry and Ron looked as though they were plotting something.

Picking up a quill, Hermione chewed thoughtfully on the end of it as she formulated what she was going to write. If they were plotting something as wild as the Philosopher's Stone caper, they ought to get outside help, like maybe from Professor Dumbledore. He was the greatest wizard of the age and could help them.

On the other hand, Hermione wasn't stupid. She had seen Harry shooting covert mistrustful looks at the Headmaster. Mightn't he see it as going behind his back if she wrote him asking about her concerns? Yes, it was much better to wait and see. After all, he wasn't even twelve years old; what damage could he cause? Also, she thought sheepishly, I don't have an owl, so I couldn't do anything anyway.

Nodding to herself, Hermione put her quills back and returned to her book. She was still troubled, but there wasn't much she could do. Maybe she would catch up with Ron and Harry in Diagon Alley. That would be nice.

4

Lucius Malfoy sipped from a fine Waterford crystal goblet filled with a good port. Say what you wanted about Muggles, but they knew how to make good alcohol.

Sitting on the desk in front of him was a small black leather diary. Embossed on its cover was the name Tom Marvolo Riddle, and the date, 1957.

Malfoy was not stupid, far from it. He knew that Tom Marvolo Riddle was the Dark Lord's real name. After all, who the hell name's their kid Voldemort? He also knew what this book was. He had known as soon as it passed through the manor's wards, which had been built upon since the very first Malfoy had set foot in here back in 1644.

The book was a Horcrux. It contained a piece of soul. The Dark Lord had told Malfoy that the book was enchanted to release the monster in the Chamber of Secrets in Hogwarts, and was a weapon in the war he would use to take control of the wards of the school. He was giving it to Malfoy to hold on to because he was the Death Eater he trusted above all others to keep this secret weapon safe.

But once Malfoy had taken it through the manor's wards, they had chimed urgently until he had consulted the book to discover which specific ward was jangling. Horcrux. The wards figured he was being possessed.

After silencing the ward he had hidden the deceptively innocent looking black book in the secret room under the drawing room floor as per his master's instructions. No way was he going to pick it apart with him still alive.

By the time the Dark Lord fell he had almost forgotten about that little black book, it having been pushed out of his mind by many other important matters; such as working from behind the scenes to overthrow the Ministry of Magic. A job that was almost done by that fateful Halloween nearly eleven years ago.

Then, afterwards, he had to work on clearing his name by liberal dispensation of Galleons. In fact almost a quarter of the Malfoy fortune was gone by January of 1992, paid off to various Wizengamot members.

Now, as he sat in his study with its golden oak furniture, he stared at the little black book and asked many questions of himself.

How many Horcruxes had the Dark Lord made? Was he aware of the side effects? Did he not care? Did he know that Horcruxes didn't really work?

But something was keeping the Dark Lord alive.

Malfoy rolled up his sleeve and stared at the faint outline of the Dark Mark etched onto his skin. Something, something possibly worse than Horcruxes, was keeping the man alive, but what?

More questions with no answers.

Malfoy took another gulp of Port and considered his options. His first plan had been to plant this diary on an unsuspecting Hogwarts student. The book was enchanted, and the only way to activate it was to write in it, obviously. And since it was also a Horcrux, logic dictated that the bit of soul in there would try to possess whosoever wrote in it. Then, the dogsbody would open the Chamber and unleash whatever lurked in there. Students would get killed, the old Muggle-loving fool Albus Dumbledore would be discredited, and the governors would name somebody more worthy as Headmaster-somebody like Lucius Malfoy-who was more in tune with the way the wizarding world ought to run.

Simple, elegant in its simplicity, very few things could go wrong.

But…

But Draco had come home with a story about the Philosopher's Stone and Harry Potter supposedly keeping the Dark Lord from obtaining it. Instantly he realized losing the Horcrux into the school-a Horcrux the Dark Lord had entrusted to him, would be suicide when the Dark Lord actually did manage to regain his body.

No, he had to come up with something new. He needed to be able to give an adequate reason for not seeking out the Dark Lord when he fell.

Obviously the Dark Lord could not kill his followers for not seeking him out. He would have almost none left. But he was not a man who forgave, or forgot. Malfoy doubted that he knew the meaning of the word forgiveness.

Malfoy already had the minister pretty much in his pocket. With the right incentive, Fudge would vote through any law he suggested. And he had friends as department heads who could also wield influence. He would be invaluable to the Dark Lord simply for the variety of dirt he could offer on just about anyone he could want.

But what he really needed was something on Dumbledore. The man was almost as sneaky as the Dark Lord used to be, before he went crazy. But if he managed to orchestrate something at Hogwarts, something the old man could be blamed for…

Yes, that was the answer. But what?

Lucius Malfoy slid the black diary into the Fidelius-protected desk drawer and poured another glass of port. He had a couple of months to come up with something before the school term started, and he was sure his Slytherin mind was up to the task.

In the meantime, he would watch and wait for news of the Dark Lord. And maybe try and discover how he'd managed to stay alive, since Horcruxes weren't the answer, or at least not all of it.

Malfoy too didn't know that his little world of plots and manipulations was about to tumble down around his ears.

5

He was standing in front of the mirror shaving when the bullet crashed into it.

He almost certainly would have died if he hadn't bent over to rinse the blade in the low sink, and also the window it had crashed through to get to him had slowed the bullet's velocity. A hot breeze redolent of hydrocarbons from the motorway and the smell of green from the small patch of woods by the hotel wafted in from the newly broken window. Glass pattered down onto his head from the mirror.

The razor fell from his hand with a clatter on the white porcelain and he dropped into a crouch, heart beating wildly, face still covered in foam.

Fuck. How had they found him here? And then he almost cursed out loud. He had registered using his own name, because all his false identification had burned up at the house last night.

He had driven a twenty mile circuitous route to get here to this little hotel out in the middle of nowhere, but that hadn't been enough. God damn it.

It didn't matter now. They had found him, that was all that mattered, and he had to get out. Now.

Another bullet whizzed overhead and slammed into the wall with a thud. Hadn't heard a report, which meant they were using a silenced rifle, such as a Vaime Mk2. It could only be coming from one place too-from the hill across the road. Now the choice of this little country hotel didn't seem so smart.

He crawled quickly out of the little hallway where the erstwhile mirror was located and quickly moved behind the TV stand.

That placed him out of direct line of sight, at least for maybe thirty seconds, before they came storming in here. He was on the second floor, so they had to waste time coming up the stairs, but that also meant he had to waste time going down. He hadn't wanted this room, but the first floors were all full since it was the summer season and he didn't figure they would catch his trail so soon. No more hotels for a while-assuming he could get out of this jam.

Listening carefully, he heard footsteps on the gravel driveway outside. He smiled. That was one good feature of this hotel. Even if you walked in barefoot, there was no way you could avoid making noise. He hadn't counted on the sniper rifle, though he really should have, given the calibre of people involved.

Continuing his crab impression, he crawled quickly to the suitcase open on the other bed. He hadn't bothered unpacking so the only thing out was the razor and shaving cream, which were replaceable. Everything was packed and ready to go at a moment's notice.

He snatched it down one-handed and, after pulling what he needed out of it, zipped it shut, still on the floor.

No sound from outside. Another bad feature of this hotel: the stairs were solid and didn't creak. Time to take a gamble.

Flesh cringing in anticipation of a bullet, he rose carefully into a crouch and scuttled toward the door. There was only one way in, and only one person could come in at a time. He was gambling that they figured the sniper rifle wouldn't work, so the guy working it would be in the invasion team. And it looked like he was right, because no more bullets came through the window.

Breathing heavily, he lowered into a sprinter's position at the side of the door with a Glock seventeen, fully loaded and ready in his hand. Seventeen rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Small but deadly, it represented his only chance for escape.

He waited.

A click sound was his first warning.

The door flew open and a man dressed all in black roared in, a big boxy Sig-Sauer nine-millimetre held in front of him. He went down with the first bullet from the Glock, which slammed into his throat. Blood fountained, coating the carpet and the wall above the sink. Never gonna get that stain out, he thought randomly, before the next man came in.

This one had faster reaction times and had dropped to his stomach before entering the door, causing the Glock's bullet to crash into the doorjamb. The guy snaked a hand out and snatched his ankle and yanked.

With a surprised grunt, he fell to the ground, maintaining his grip on the Glock by sheer stubbornness. But now he had lost control of the situation and other guests were peering cautiously out their doors. Shit. Meant they were now on a timer. Only a matter of time before somebody dialled 999 and the place would be swarming with police. He had to wrap this up.

"We got you now, arsehole," the guy who had grabbed his ankle said, grinning manically through his beard. "Thought you could run from us forever-"

He silenced the guy with a bullet to the face, and rolled out of the way of the final member of the strike team, who had come in from behind while his buddy was talking. The last guy was brandishing an H&K MP5 and had a face that would be right at home in a recasting of The Hills have Eyes. He came in the door shooting wildly, shell casings flying everywhere like rice at a wedding. A bullet slammed into the TV and shattered it with a bang, smoke that smelled like burned bacon and fried dog shit wafting in the breeze from the broken window. Another bullet slammed into the lamp with a sizzle. A tendril of flame shot out of the socket, and alighted on the dry wood of the table, which started to burn.

He fired the Glock at the Wes Craven extra, putting a bullet right into the bulging forehead. That was all of them. Now it was time to get out of here.

Grabbing his suitcase and tucking the little Glock into his belt at the small of his back, he hurried as fast as he could without running toward the stairs and freedom. The fire alarm was now wailing and more people were coming out to investigate. Soon a mass exodus was heading for the stairs too, as they saw the smoke billowing from down the hall. Sirens sounded from the motorway.

He lost himself in the crowd, putting on a panicked expression to match the rest, hurrying for his car. The guys he had taken out had been easy-at least this time. They were not expecting a fight from him and had no doubt sent some very low level operatives. Next time it wouldn't be so easy. The next crew might even include wizards.

He was now out of the hotel and heading around back where he had parked his car. On his way out, he spotted the dead desk clerk, who had obviously been killed to get his room number. He didn't have a choice but to register under his own name. Obtaining false ID was on his to-do list, but there hadn't been an opportunity before he'd had to leave.

He arrived at his car and threw the suitcase in the back, climbed in and drove off fast, but still within the speed limits toward the motorway. It was time to head for London, to the anonymity of the massive metropolitan area. He would have to ditch the car too. He needed to completely disappear. All he had to go on was one name, Potter. His father had told him, in a posthumous letter, to find James Potter, because only he could help bring things into the open. He now wondered if his father's death had been of natural causes, given the previous night's events and those of this morning.

He gripped the wheel hard as tears came to his eyes, remembering the previous night. The house fire, the billowing smoke and searing heat … the screams of his wife and little girl … his helplessness and inability to save them…

It was their memory which had allowed him to shoot those bottom feeders back there. Those low life scum sucking bastards had probably been in the crew at his house who had set the fire which had killed his beloved wife and daughter. Well, killing them had felt good, no doubt about it, but he wanted whoever was behind it.

On top of being pursued by the group behind those assholes back there, he would probably be wanted by the police too. He had left behind three bodies in a hotel room registered under his name. How long would it be before an all points bulletin was released, or whatever they called such a thing over here? And if there remained enough to identify the bodies burned in the house last night, it would be determined that they were his wife and daughter from the United States. Might take a while for that connection to be made, but it was likely that he was now operating on a time table.

In spite of his grief, he congratulated himself on slowly shifting his massive collection of evidence out of the house in New Jersey before trying to find James Potter. Most of it was now boxed up in a little cottage out in Essex, rented under the name of his dead uncle. He had figured they would want the information, but he hadn't counted on how ruthless they could be. And his wife and daughter had paid for it.

Blinking back tears, Richard Evans, cousin to Lily Evans, pressed his foot harder on the gas pedal and headed toward London, and his date with destiny.

2. Some History

Chapter 2: Some History

1

Fearing some vicious reprisals from the Dursleys after Bones and Tonks left, Harry had cast Muggle-repelling wards on his t shirt. He had learned them before leaving school and was going to cast them on the train, but then remembered that his aunt and uncle wouldn't have been able to find him in the station if he did. He had resigned himself to more bullying until he could escape, but then Bones had broken the trace on him and the first thing he did was cast the wards on every t shirt he owned.

Sighing in relief that his uncle's furious gaze slid right off him, Harry dragged his much lightened trunk upstairs and collapsed onto his bed, which groaned like a cheap haunted house record sound effect. Got to do something about that, he thought absently, before falling asleep.

The next morning, he transfigured some of Dudley's castoffs into something a little more suitable, at least until he could get to the department store in London near the Leaky Cauldron.

He had exchanged some Galleons for Muggle pounds last summer and hid them under a loose floorboard. Looking at them now, he remembered it had taken fifty Galleons to get five hundred pounds. Surely that couldn't be right?

He reached into his trunk and pulled out a fat gold Galleon and, after making sure none of his relatives were about, snuck into the kitchen and pulled out the kitchen scale. He had left his brass potions scales at school.

He sat the Galleon in the dish and watched the number on the dial: thirty grams, or just over an ounce.

Looking around, he spotted Vernon's newspaper, still open to the financial pages. Scanning quickly, he saw that, according to the Precious Metals Exchange, the price for gold was twenty-five pounds per gram. Which would mean that, assuming all Galleons were the same size and that they were all gold, those fifty galleons should've gotten him-

Harry almost fell into a kitchen chair.

Those fifty Galleons should've given him thirty seven thousand five hundred pounds, not five hundred.

"Holy fuck!" Harry muttered, staring wide-eyed at the scale..

This either meant that the goblins were extorting him, or that these Galleons weren't all gold, or both.

Harry picked up the Galleon out of the scale and bounced it thoughtfully on his palm. It gleamed fat and yellow under the kitchen's fluorescent lights, looking for all the world like pure gold.

Remembering something he had read in a book in primary school, Harry held up the Galleon and bit into the edge.

It was soft, like gold was supposed to be, and his teeth sank all the way through.

This meant that the goblins were ripping off everybody trying to convert to Muggle currency.

For what reason though? Pure greed? There had to be something else going on... Harry vowed he would find out, but obviously he couldn't ask them. Time to bring out his curious streak, but caution was required. Who knew what might happen to him if he overturned some dark deep secret that was better left buried.

Little did he know…

2

Harry applied a glamour charm to himself to make him look older (he didn't want to answer a lot of questions about where his parents were and why he was out on his own) and headed for the train station to catch a ride to London. Arriving at King's Cross he took a bus to Charing Cross Road and, still with the glamour but fingering his wand which was in the front pocket of his sweat shirt, headed into the Leaky Cauldron.

It barely being ten in the morning, the place was more deserted than it had been when he and Hagrid arrived last summer. Tom was leaning on his stool behind the bar reading the paper, giving only a bare glance to the newcomer. Only three customers were at the tables finishing breakfast.

Harry had two hours before he had to meet Bones. They had decided on a restaurant in Muggle London. There was more chance of privacy there.

With that in mind, he decided his first stop would be Gringotts. But there was no way that he was going to mention his thoughts on the gold thing. Harry doubted he was the first to notice the discrepancy, but nothing obviously had been done about it. No, he would do his own investigating.

Harry headed through the silent pub and out the back, tapping the requisite bricks in the alley, opening up the shopping district. There weren't many people out and about here either. A few straggled in and out of the apothecary, the Quidditch shop, and the menagerie. Sunshine gleamed off the cauldrons down street and heliographed off the telescopes in the magical instruments shop.

Harry strode up the cobblestone alley toward the snowy white building that was Gringotts. Two goblins bowed him into the lobby and Harry headed for an empty line in front of one of the teller stations, standing quietly waiting to be acknowledged.

"What?" the teller grumbled, barely looking up from his ledger.

"I wish to speak with someone about my account," Harry said, handing over his key.

The teller glanced at it disinterestedly and rang a bell on his desk. "Wait," he said, handing it back and pointedly returning to his ledger.

Rude little bastards, Harry thought, standing off to one side. He guessed they could afford to be though, since they had a monopoly on the economy.

Before too long a familiar goblin slouched up, looking not at all pleased to be there. "Follow me, Mr Potter," he said, barely looking at him.

"Of course, Griphook," Harry said, following in the goblin's wake.

The goblin didn't react at hearing his name, much to Harry's disappointment. He thought remembering the goblin's name would earn him some brownie points, but no luck.

Griphook led Harry down a rough stone hewn passageway into an office which resembled a cave more than anything else. He slammed the door and seated himself behind the roughly carved stone slab that looked more like a sacrificial altar than a desk.

"What do you want, Mr Potter?" he asked, pulling out a thick ledger.

"I want to see my parents' will, for starters," Harry said, deciding to be as brusque and business-like as the goblin. "Then, depending on what it says I want to see my family vault."

Griphook said nothing, but pulled out a short document. "Since all assets are held in the name of your father, this is his last will and testament."

Harry picked it up and perused it:

LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT of

James Charles Potter of the Line of Potter

128 Richmond Terrace, Godric's Hollow, Wales

1. Declaration

I hereby declare that this is my last will and testament and that I hereby revoke, cancel and annul all wills and codicils previously made by me, or third parties, either jointly or severally.

I declare that I am of legal age to make this will and of sound mind and that this last will and testament expresses my wishes without undue influence or duress, be it magical, physical or mental.

2. Family Details

I am married to Lily Rosemary Potter nee Evans hereinafter referred to as my spouse.

I have the following children:

Harry James Potter, born 31 (thirty-one) July 1990 (nineteen ninety)

3. Appointment of Executors

3.1. I hereby nominate, constitute and appoint Sirius Orion Black, of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black as Executor

If this Executor is unable or unwilling to serve then I appoint Franklin Pontificus Longbottom, of the Line of Longbottom as alternate Executor. Should he be unwilling or unable to serve, then I appoint Remus John Lupin as Executor.

3.3. Before my executor may take control of my estate, he must provide, via blood signed magical contract, an oath that he has not, nor will he at any time in the present, past, or future, have served or been in alliance with, in any shape or form, the wizard known as Tom Marvolo Riddle, or otherwise known as Lord Voldemort.

3.3. I hereby give and grant the Executor all powers and authority as are required or allowed in law, and especially that of assumption.

3.4. I hereby direct that my Executors shall not be required to furnish security and shall serve without any bond.

3.5. Pending the distribution of my estate my Executors shall have authority to carry on any business, venture or partnership in which I may have any interest at the time of my death.

3.6. My Executors shall have full and absolute power in his/her discretion to insure, repair, improve or to sell all or any assets of my estate, whether by public auction or private sale and shall be entitled to let any property in my estate on such terms and conditions as will be in the best interest of my beneficiaries.

3.7. My Executors shall have authority to borrow money for any purpose connected with the liquidation and administration of my estate and to that end may encumber any of the assets of my estate.

3.8. My Executors shall have authority to engage the services of attorneys, accountants and other advisors as he/she may deem necessary to assist with the execution of this last will and testament and to pay reasonable compensation for their services from my estate.

4. Beneficiary

I bequeath the whole of my estate, property and effects, whether movable or immovable, wheresoever situated and of whatsoever nature to my spouse.

5. Alternate Beneficiaries

5.1. Should my spouse not survive me by thirty (30) days I direct that the whole of my estate, property and effects, whether movable or immovable, wheresoever situated and of whatsoever nature be divided amongst my children named in 2. above, in equal shares.

5.2. I direct that the inheritance devolving upon any of my children under my last will and testament as well as the proceeds, the reinvestment of such proceeds and the income thereon shall be free from the legal effects of any present or future marriage of any of my children, whether in or out of community of property including any accrual system and with or without the presence of any pre-marital agreement.

5.3. If any of my children are proved to be indebted to me by means of a legal instrument, then his / her share of my estate shall be reduced by the amount of such debt.

5.4. Should any of my children not survive me and my spouse by 30 (thirty) days I direct that the whole of my estate, property and effects, whether movable or immovable, wheresoever situated and of whatsoever nature be divided in equal shares between Sirius Orion Black, Franklin Pontificus Longbottom, Remus John Lupin, and Richard Evans.

6. Guardianship

6.1. Before any of the below may assume guardianship of my children, he / she must provide, via blood signed magical contract, an oath that he / she has not, nor will he / she at any time present, past, or future, served or been in alliance with, in any shape or form, the wizard known as Tom Marvolo Riddle, or otherwise known as Lord Voldemort.

6.2. I hereby direct that a vault shall be created and designated as the trust vault. All fees, transactions and funding necessary to aid in the execution of this will with regards to guardianship shall be deducted from this vault.

6.3. This trust vault shall contain five thousand (5000) Galleons and shall not be permitted to fall below one thousand (1000). It shall be replenished upon the first of January per annum.

6.4. Should neither I nor my spouse survive guardianship for my children shall fall to the following:

Sirius Orion Black

Franklin Pontificus Longbottom

Andromeda Celestina Tonks Nee Black

Amelia Susan Bones

Emmeline Artemis Vance

Richard Evans

Should any of the above listed be unwilling or unable to assume guardianship then custody of my children shall be granted to the appropriate ministerial office. At no point whatsoever should guardianship be granted to Petunia Dursley nee Evans.

6.5. Until my children have reached the age of 10 (ten) years the above named guardian shall receive from the trust vault (listed above) a sum of 100 (one hundred) Galleons, to be provided on the first day of every month. Once the children have reached the age of 11 (eleven) the sum shall be reduced to 50 (fifty) Galleons, to be provided on the first day of each month until all children have reached the age of majority, age 17 (seventeen.) Appropriate oversight shall be provided by Wizarding Child Services and Gringotts to ensure my children are receiving adequate financial and physical care.

Should any provision of this will be judged by an appropriate court of law as invalid it shall not affect any of the remaining provisions whatsoever.

Signed on this day, 21 (twenty-one) October, 1991 (nineteen ninety-one) at Gringotts Bank, Diagon Alley, London in the presence of the undersigned

James Charles Potter

Lily Rosemary Potter

Witnesses.

SIGNED:

Griphook, account manager

Bartholomew Huggins, Legal Department, Ministry of Magic

Sirius Orion Black

Franklin Pontificus Longbottom

Remus John Lupin

WITNESSES

As witnesses we declare that we are of sound mind and of legal age to witness a will and that to the best of our knowledge, James Charles Potter, the creator of this will, is of legal age to make a will, appears to be of sound mind and signed this will willingly and free of undue influence or duress. We declare that he / she signed this will in our presence as we then signed as witnesses in his presence and in the presence of each other witness, all being present at the same time.

Harry looked up. This will had raised a number of questions. It was all pretty straight forward and to the point, insofar as the division of assets went. He thought he might see a last letter or something from his parents, but no such luck.

It was of particular interest to him that he now knew Voldemort's real name-Tom Marvolo Riddle. He thought Dumbledore would've shared that with him at the end of the year, but Harry was beginning to realize that Dumbledore was very frugal with his information.

It irked him that it hadn't all been executed though, especially the provisions for guardianship. He hadn't heard of most of these people. He decided to get some answers.

He put the paper on the desk and tapped the witness signatures.

"Who are these blokes … Sirius Black, Remus Lupin and this Richard Evans? Maybe he's a cousin or something?" He already figured Franklin Longbottom had to be Neville's dad, of whom Neville never spoke.

Griphook looked briefly at the document. "Black is incarcerated in Azkaban Prison, accused of betraying your whereabouts to the Dark Lord and of killing Peter Pettigrew and twelve Muggles. Lupin is a werewolf and cannot handle legal matters beyond his own. We have no idea who this Richard Evans is. He never turned up. Of course, until now, this will had not been executed, obviously."

Harry wanted to pursue the Sirius Black issue, but he had something else he wanted to get into first. "Why hasn't it been executed?"

"Well, let's see," Griphook said, tapping his clawed fingers on the desk. "Sirius Black was incarcerated, Frank Longbottom and his wife were attacked three days after your parents, and Remus Lupin was out of contact with your parents at the time of their deaths. We think he was out of the country, working for Albus Dumbledore on something. Without any of the named executors, Gringotts was powerless to comply with the terms set forth in the will, since goblins cannot act in legal matters outside of financial issues with regards to wizards."

"What about this Bartholomew Huggins from the Ministry?"

"He died of an apparent heart attack on November Seventh," Griphook said blandly.

Harry frowned. This sounded far too convenient. All the possible executors were prevented, via one means or another, from executing his parents will. What the hell was happening? It smacked of a conspiracy, but why? And more importantly, who? His first thought was Dumbledore, but he wasn't listed anywhere in the will. But that didn't mean he didn't know who the executors were. Once again, there was not enough information to make a guess.

"Dumbledore is Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot. Could he have blocked the will?"

"He was not Chief Warlock at the time it was drafted. And even if he was, last wills and testaments do not fall under Wizengamot authority. They instead fall under ours. The only time the Ministry has authority over wills is to act as arbiters or witnesses."

"But he no doubt knew there was a will created, so could he have engineered events to make sure it was not executed?
Griphook shrugged. "Anything is possible," he said noncommittally.

"He had my vault key, could he have stolen money from my vault?"

"No," said Griphook, looking offended. "Vaults cannot be accessed without the owner being present, or an appropriate writ of permission given to the third party who is accessing it. He arrived on 30 July last year, telling us he would be giving you your key the next day, so he did not have it for the previous ten years."

Harry nodded, and moved on to something else. "You said that Sirius Black was accused of those crimes. Does that mean it was never proven?"

Griphook smiled for the first time. "Correct."

Harry sat back, thinking. "Why wasn't it ever proven?"

"Because he never got a trial."

Harry decided to shelve that issue for the moment. He didn't know nearly enough to ask the right questions, and the goblins never volunteered anything.

"What's this bit about the Line of Potter and Noble and Most Ancient House of Black? Are there nobles in the wizarding world?"

Griphook smiled again, a touch condescendingly. "Of course not. There are no lords, dukes, barons or anything else in the wizarding world. When you come of age, you will not be anything as grandiose as "Lord Potter". With the acute separation between the Muggle and wizarding worlds, no wizards want anything to do with titles designed by Muggles." Harry thought he saw a funny look of … what? Smugness? Go across Griphook's face, but it was gone too quick for him to be sure.

Shrugging it off, he asked, "So what's that noble thing about then?"

"It's all a big ego trip, Mr Potter. "Noble and Most Ancient just means they're old and have a high opinion of themselves. No lords or anything like that."

Harry was slightly disappointed. He had visions of putting on a ring or something and having instant access to all kinds of esoteric items from his ancestors. Not going to happen, apparently. Oh well, he'd make do with what he could get.

"So what does happen when I do come of age?"

Griphook shrugged again. "Not much. You can handle your own legal matters, you get the trace broken, and you can do whatever you want within the law. No titles, no seats on the Wizengamot. That body is filled with half ministerial appointees and the other half is made up through random selection, similar to the Muggle jury selection, though they don't like to think of that."

"That sounds entirely too easy to corrupt," Harry mused, thinking about Sirius Black.

"Oh it is, it is," said the goblin, and Harry was sure of it; there was a definite note of smugness there. "Most of the random selections are purebloods from so-called noble and ancient houses. I suggest you do some reading on the history of the Wizengamot and the ministry, Mr Potter."

"Oh, I will. Now, my family vault?"

"Right this way, Mr Potter."

Griphook rose and beckoned Harry to a door set flush against the wall which opened onto the familiar narrow hallway with railway tracks at the centre. A whistle from the goblin brought forth a rattling mine cart, and they climbed in.

The journey was as exhilarating as Harry remembered, and went farther beneath the bank than they had gone when retrieving the Philosopher's Stone.

At last, they arrived in a vast cavern lit by flickering spheres of what looked like swamp fire. Off in the distance, Harry heard what he thought was a subway train. He wondered idly what might happen if there was a cave-in down here. Would Muggle rescue workers accidentally open a wizard's vault and steal all the gold?

Griphook took the lantern hanging on the rail of the cart and headed for a metal door that resembled the side of a tank more than anything else. Or a missile silo. If the whole cavern came down, the door would probably stand there on its own, Harry thought, watching Griphook go through the same rigmarole of petting the door with his finger that he did last year on vault seven hundred and thirteen.

The door creaked open and Harry entered, leaving Griphook lounging out in the main cavern, doing whatever it was goblins did for fun.

"Remember that you cannot remove money from this vault, Mr Potter," he called after Harry.

The place wasn't all that interesting. There were bunches of Galleons lying around in stacks, more clusters of silver shining in the dimness. Lots of it too, but Harry wasn't as impressed as he might have been had he not discovered the duplicity of the goblins.

He went over and picked up a stack of Galleons. They were heavy and yellow, the way real gold should've been. But they couldn't be, not with the prices they were charging.

And then he thought he might have figured it out.

Putting the issue aside to deal with later (he sure had been doing that a lot,) Harry ignored the money and looked for other things.

Off in a corner were a couple of trunks. They looked like standard school trunks, but with magic involved, who knew? He went over and looked at them.

He spied two sets of initials, one on each trunk; LP and JP his parents. They must have left these here when they came to make the will, ten days before they died. This was all that was in the vault aside from the money, so they must be very important. You only kept important things in a bank vault, under all this security.

Harry picked up one of the trunks. It was very light, probably due to a spell or two. He studied the top and found a button that actually had a symbol on it. He pressed it and the luggage reduced to the size of a deck of cards.

"Magic is neat," Harry muttered, before tucking the shrunken trunk into his pocket and following the same procedure with the other one.

Since he had no need for more money Harry headed out of the vault. The massive doors cranked shut automatically and closed with a boom that Harry felt in his chest. Nothing was getting through those doors.

Griphook stayed silent all the way to the surface, and Harry didn't feel like talking either. He wanted to get into those trunks. Maybe they had some answers.

"Is there anything else Gringotts can assist you with, Mr Potter?" Griphook asked, once they had returned to his office.

"Does Gringotts have anything like a credit card?"

Griphook's lips twisted. "Of course not. Only hard currency is accepted in the wizarding world, Mr Potter."

Harry sighed regretfully. "I was afraid of that. In that case, I guess we are done here for now."

Without a word, Griphook led Harry to the lobby and ushered him out the door. Rude buggers, Harry thought again, stepping into the sunlight.

The alley had picked up in traffic while he was inside Gringotts. More people were coming into the bank, and Harry spotted some of his classmates apparently out with their families.

Glancing at his watch, Harry saw that he still had an hour before he was to meet Bones and so he decided that it was time to treat himself. This was going to be fun.

3

Harry left the department store after having purchased a few outfits. Since he didn't know how to Apparate he couldn't buy an entire wardrobe, and since he didn't know how long his meeting with Bones would take, he couldn't shrink packages since the shrinking charms would wear off after a couple of hours. Wouldn't do to have shrunken bags suddenly expand in your pockets bursting your clothes.

So he contented himself with two bags, containing three pairs of jeans and four shirts, plus socks and underwear. He would come back later for more stuff.

Now, he stood in front of the restaurant they had agreed to meet at, glancing at his watch. He was five minutes early, so he leaned against the wall and people-watched.

Here was a woman, even more gaunt looking than Aunt Petunia, wearing a dress that looked as if someone had puked blueberry Kool-Aid all over it. She was carrying a shopping bag and jabbering into her cell phone, meandering down the sidewalk without a care in the world. Here was another guy wearing a pinstripe business suit talking into two cell phones at once, the antennae giving him an insect-like look. The whole damn street looked like an ant farm. Harry remembered hearing Dudley wailing last night about how he wanted one of those cell phones himself and snorted. More power to you, Cuz, he thought, watching the Kool-Aid girl put her phone away as she crossed the street. He had heard that those things were supposed to give you brain cancer. Not that Dudley had a whole lot of brains to get eaten up, of course.

And here came Amelia Bones, not standing out at all amidst the crowd of Muggles. She was wearing a power suit and carrying what looked suspiciously like a Gucci handbag, recognizable because Aunt Petunia always drooled over them in the magazines she read.. Her monocle had been replaced with a pair of stylish looking glasses, and Harry was pleased to note that there wasn't a sign of a cell phone anywhere.

"Nice outfit, Madame Bones," Harry commented as she came up to him.

"Thank you, Mr Potter. If I need sartorial advice I'll be sure to ask you next time," she returned dryly.

Harry laughed. He liked this woman.

"No company today?" he asked, looking around for that girl she had with her yesterday. Tonks, wasn't it?

"No, not today," Bones replied. "Trainee Tonks is back at the academy. She left Hogwarts the year before you started and is now in her second year of Auror training. I had her with me yesterday as an exercise."

"I see. Shall we go in?"

Harry held the door open for the woman and they entered into the cool, dim interior of the restaurant.

"Bones, party of two," she said to the Maître d'.

"Of course, right this way, Madame," he said, giving a little bow and leading them past the other diners to a small room off to one side. "Your server will be with you shortly," he said, bowing again and shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. Nobody in this place did anything as crass as slamming a door.

"I hope everything went well after I left?" Bones asked, seating herself across from Harry and setting her handbag on the chair next to her.

"Yes, ma'am. I cast Muggle repelling wards on my clothes so I wouldn't have to deal with them."

"Good thinking, Mr Potter. Keep thinking like that and we might have to recruit you," she said with a smile.

Harry smiled back, but before he could reply, the door eased open and a waiter dressed all in white ghosted in efficiently.

"Good afternoon," he said in a soft voice that oozed refinement. "My name is Giovanni and I will be your server this afternoon." He proceeded to list off the specials and poured them glasses of water.

Both Harry and Amelia ordered lunch, and were supplied with a teapot. After Giovanni left, Harry leaned forward and spoke.

"You said you might have some answers for me about the wizarding world?"

"I do. I have been in the Ministry for a long time-ever since nineteen sixty eight, as a matter of fact-and I have made it my business to find out as much as I could about the way things are run."

Giovanni glided in and quietly and proficiently served them, and exhorted them to inform him should they have need of him again. Then he left them, in the space of about thirty seconds.

"I had a question that's been bugging me ever since I found out about Voldemort," Harry said, after buttering a roll. He was pleased to note that Bones didn't flinch at the name. "Hagrid told me that he started his little campaign in the eighties and that he was real close to taking over completely by the time he killed my parents. Why though? Why did you guys let him? Every witch and wizard carries a wand and that wand is a deadly weapon, why didn't you all band together to fight him? In the Muggle world, there is something called counterterrorism and military intelligence. Doesn't the wizarding world have such things?"

Bones looked angry for a moment, the skin around her eyes pinched tight. Then she took a deep breath and appeared to get a hold of herself.

"Believe me, Mr Potter, it's not that simple. To explain it though, I need to give you a small history lesson. Believe this, however, I and many more like me did fight him and his followers."

"In order to get the full picture, you have to remember that wizards as a whole are deathly afraid of Muggles. They have always outnumbered us more than a hundred to one. There is a department in the Ministry which watches Muggle technology very closely, and tries to come up with new wards to counter it, so that we won't be discovered."

"The International Statute of Secrecy was signed in the year sixteen eighty nine by King William III and Queen Mary II. The International Confederation of Wizards was formed for the sole purpose of drafting the statute."

Harry stayed silent.

"As a result, the wizarding community, especially here in Europe where we didn't have as much room to spread out, became rather insular. Today, it's like a small town, I guess you'd say. Everybody knows everybody, strangers are viewed with hostility, and there are all kinds of scandals. The Muggles have a little urban legend thing floating around called the Village of One Hundred Hypothesis, which posits what might happen if the world's population were to be reduced to a village of one hundred. It basically says that six people will have all the wealth, one will have a college education, and so on. The whole thing is errant nonsense of course, but they find it fun to speculate about. The wizarding world is like that, in a way.

"Also, as I say, we are afraid of Muggles. We have been ever since the Inquisition, which brought on the need for the Statute of Secrecy. So along comes Voldemort, and he says all the things wizards of a certain calibre want to hear.

"He played a very good game," Bones said as they finished their lunch. "Talked about equality and no more discrimination, that wizards would once more rise to prominence, everything most of the collective wizarding consciousness wants to hear. Contrary to popular belief, most wizards don't like hiding."

"So he basically seduced them," Harry said, sipping his tea.

"In a literal sense, yes. He was a very charismatic man and was very good at telling you what you wanted to hear. It wasn't until the late seventies that he started going crazy."

"You've met him?"

"Yes. He approached my family, but of course none of us were interested in joining him. Something about him made my father uneasy."

"Ok, so, he was good at getting wizards on his side, what's that got to do with fighting him properly?"

Bones tapped a finger on her chin, studying Harry. Would he understand?

"Because, simply put, most wizards agreed with his goals, if not his methods. As such, it was very difficult to find anyone to directly fight him. Many of us wondered the same thing as you did. But there was another reason."

She leaned forward urgently and looked around the room. "What I am about to tell you doesn't leave this room, am I clear?"

Chilled by her urgency, Harry nodded silently. "I swear on my oath as a wizard."

Bones nodded, but flipped her wand in odd patterns at the door, window and all four walls before she seemed satisfied. "Privacy charms," she said in response to Harry's puzzled look.

"as I said, the Statute of Secrecy was signed in 1689. Teams of a hundred wizards went to very specific sites on every continent," she said, keeping her voice low. "Stonehenge here in Europe, a place called Minya Konka in Asia, what's now called the Valley of the Kings in Africa, Macchu Picchu in South America, Chichen Itza in North America, Ayers Rock in Australia and of course, the very south pole itself. Lots of other places, but those were the main sites. As a side note, this was how the Portkey was created, to help with this project. It took them nearly a century and a half to develop the Portkey, and there were some very nasty accidents along the way, most notably the disappearances on Roanoke Island in the United States."

"So a Portkey is a magical means of travel?"

"Yes. It uses the wizard's own magic to power it, but not very much, more as a means of activation actually. That's why you feel like there's a hook behind your navel when you use one."

"Okay, so they develop this Portkey thing and go all over the world. What did they do then?"

"They performed a ritual that would erase wizard kind from history. The biggest Obliviation ever performed. Of course, it didn't entirely work, there are still legends and stories, but the Muggles have all forgotten that we used to live among them.

"There was a side effect though. This is one thing you must always remember, Mr Potter. Magic has consequences, everything must balance. The greater the magic performed, the greater the balance. As the Muggles say, there is no such thing as a free lunch. Especially in rituals: Something is sacrificed, always."

Harry felt his arms prickle. "And what was the sacrifice?" he whispered.

"Every so often, a child is born to the descendants of the ones who cast the ritual in 1689, and that child is a squib. This was the price to pay for hiding magic from the Muggles. In order to hide it, your descendants must be born without it every second generation.

"The Muggle-borns think it's because of inbreeding, and perhaps that is a contributory factor. But for the most part, squibs are only born to the descendants of those who performed the ritual to hide magic."

There was silence, while Harry pondered that. Bones lifted the privacy charms, seeing that Harry needed time to digest things. Shortly afterward, Giovanni came in and offered dessert, which they declined, before bringing in the coffee. He left the leather book with the check inside, which Harry absently started turning on the table.

"Why did you tell me this? Why is it a secret?"

"I told you because I think you are going to be instrumental in our world, not only because you are the Boy-Who-Lived-" Harry grimaced at the title "-but also because you have a keen mind and are willing to think beyond the surface. And the details of the ritual are secret because, should it get out that such a ritual is possible, and should an unscrupulous person or group find out that squibs are due to performing it, the descendants might find themselves in grave danger. They might think that killing the descendants would bring wizards back to prominence."

Bones stopped there to see if Potter would follow the natural train of thought. She wasn't disappointed, as he caught his breath.

"You're telling me that Voldemort found out about this ritual?"

"Well, Mr Potter, what do you think? All of a sudden he comes out in nineteen eighty and starts killing some very specific targets. My younger brother, your family, the Prewetts, the McKinnons, the Weasleys. There are only a few families who are left."

"Wait though. If he kills them all off, that won't lift the effects of the ritual, because there will still be squibs running around. So he must've had some other goal. And if the details of this ritual are so secret, how did he find out about it?"

"That's the problem," Bones whispered into the silent room. "Those details were known only to the families, and none of those families had members who supported the dark. And, in point of fact, only I and a couple others knew the specifics of the ritual. But all of a sudden the Dark Lord starts killing off the descendants of the original casters."

And then, in a shock of realization, Harry understood. "Voldemort wasn't acting alone," he breathed, ice travelling down his spine. "Somebody was feeding him information. There's a lot more going on here than meets the eye."

"Yes," Bones said quietly. "That's what I'm afraid of. On the surface, he was going after only those who stood contrary to his views, but I can't shake the feeling that something deeper, something darker, was going on. Very rarely did VOldemort himself go after specific targets; he usually got his henchmen to do it."

Harry looked around the bright, cheery private dining room. All of a sudden, reality seemed nothing more than a thin canvas stretched across a vast hungry blackness. He was scared, because Amelia Bones looked scared, and he got the feeling that didn't happen very often.

"Do you have any ideas?"

For just a fleeting moment Harry saw

(guilt)

Somethingg flash across her eyes, and then she took a deep breath and relaxed.

"I do, but we shall have to discuss things another time. I have to be getting back to the ministry just now. Would you perhaps be available to join myself and Susan for dinner in two days?"

Harry wanted to bang his head on the table. On one hand he was suspicious over this woman wanting to invite him into her house, and on the other he wanted to shake her until she gave him the information he wanted. He just knew she had more to tell, but for some reason was scared to do so. Taking a deep breath he decided to remain civil. "How do I get there?"

"Relax, Mr Potter," she said firmly. "There is no hurry. And you can take the Knight Bus to Tinworth in Cornwall, which is where my home is located. I will meet you at the market, since nobody is permitted to know my address. Just raise your wand hand and it will come for you."

Resigned to the fact that he wasn't going to get any more information from this source, Harry nodded and picked up the book with the check in it. "Until then, I guess, Madame Bones," he said, rising and offering his hand.

Bones shook it firmly. "Enjoy the rest of your day, Mr Potter," she said with a small smile, before dropping some Muggle pounds on the table to cover her half of the bill, and sweeping out the room.

Harry put his own half inside the leather book and waited for Giovanni to collect it. He would have to do something about starting a bank account in the Muggle world. Or maybe his parents already had one. That was something else to look into.

Feeling as if he was being pulled in too many directions, Harry decided to take the train home instead of finishing his shopping. Maybe he could pull a few pranks on Dudley.

Smiling, Harry headed for a deserted alleyway, lugging his shopping bags and feeling the effects of the storm of revelations today. Perhaps he would have a nap first.

4

Ron Weasley awoke the day after school let out and spent some time contemplating his life. He began to realize that he didn't like what he saw.

The previous year, hints had been dropped by his mother that he become friends with Harry Potter. She had known which buttons to push and he had fallen for it. He saw Harry as his path to fame and glory.

Then everything went downhill.

Ron met Harry and he wasn't anything like he was rumoured. The guy was jumpy, shy and not at all glory-seeking.

Then Harry came to him and told him all about his life before Hogwarts and the image of the Boy-Who-Lived was shattered forever in Ron's mind.

Ron also realized that he needed to apologize to Hermione for being a real prat for most of the first month of school. It was his fault that she had run crying from Charms class and had been trapped in a bathroom with a troll. Granted, he couldn't be held responsible for the troll being there, but he could sure own up to the reason she was in its path, and for he and Harry locking the thing in with her initially.

Also, if he wanted to be there for Harry, he needed to start realizing his desire as seen in that mirror. He wanted to be the best of all his brothers, and he wasn't going to be able to do that riding Hermione's skirts and letting her do his homework. Hearing about Harry's life made him realize his complaints were petty and irrelevant.

Ron rummaged in his trunk and pulled out a quill and some parchment. He was going to write Hermione and apologize, but in such a way that wouldn't betray Harry's confidence.

Dear Hermione,

I wanted to write this letter to apologize for being a prat the last year. I found out some things and it made me think, and I didn't like what I had turned into. I was a jealous idiot with delusions of grandeur, as you would probably say. Well that's going to change.

Can't write much more, Percy says he needs this owl, so maybe I'll catch up with you in Diagon Alley.

Your friend,

Ron

Rolling up the scroll, Ron headed down from the attic to borrow Hermes, Percy's owl. Fred and George were in their room, making things explode, and Ginny was somewhere doing something girly, no doubt.

Ginny had pestered him endlessly last night about Harry. Ron was a little disturbed by it, actually. His ten year old sister (she wouldn't be eleven till August) wasn't supposed to show this much interest in a boy. Ron wondered if he maybe ought to warn Harry.

He snorted. Yeah, that conversation is gonna go well, he thought, shaking his head. "Hey Harry, my sister, who has never met you, never even seen a picture of you outside those fake ones in the storybooks, thinks you're going to be the perfect husband." He could just imagine his friend's reaction to that. Perhaps it was better left imagined than seen.

It was a little worrying though. Ron had been getting nudged in the direction of befriending Harry Potter. Ginny, on the other hand, had been outright told that they would make wonderful babies someday. Something had to be done, but he wasn't sure what.

Coming to Percy's door on the second landing, Ron was about to knock when he saw it was open, with no owl in sight. Ron headed further down the stairs, avoiding the creaky ones automatically. He was about to enter the kitchen when he was brought up short by raised voices.

"I'm telling you, Molly, I will not have our children used in such games!"

Ron was so surprised that he almost didn't recognize the voice. His father never raised his voice. The last time had been seven years ago when the twins had almost gotten him to swear an Unbreakable Vow. Now, he was practically shouting.

"If you persist in using Ron and Ginny in your games to get money, I'm going to cast you out of this family! Am I in any way unclear?!"

"But dear, you know how wealthy the Potters are. If we can get Ginny to marry him-"

"No! No, no, no! You will not be feeding that boy love potions. I know you have been dropping hints the size of this house about how great they will be together, but I will not have it. If they are meant to be, they are meant to be, and you will not interfere!"

"If it weren't for you and your lack of ambition, I wouldn't have to be taking this into my own hands!" his mother yelled back suddenly, making Ron jump. "You come from a proud pureblood name and you are content to languish away in a dead-end department that barely gives us enough money to feed all our children! If I don't do something to advance the name of this family then no one will!"

Ron had inched up and peered through a gap in the hinge side of the door. He saw his father reel back as if slapped. Then something truly terrible happened. Ron saw his father's face contort into fury like never seen before.

"Molly Prewett, if you ever talk that way to me again, I will have to discipline you as is my right as head of the family," he said in a low, deadly voice none of his children had ever heard. "Yes, I work in a not very prestigious department, but my job is necessary to maintaining the safety of our world. I make enough to feed and clothe us, and if you wanted someone rich you should not have married me. If money means more to you than this family, then you can leave now and try to find it. But I will not have you ensnaring an orphaned boy you have never even met into your game, nor will I have you using our children in such a vile, despicable manner. Do we understand each other?"

Ron observed his mother, mouth hanging open in shock. He would be willing to bet that never, in all the years of their marriage, had his father spoken to her like that, and he found himself very proud all of a sudden to be a Weasley, with his father willing to take a stand on what was right.

At last his mother got herself together. "But-"

"No, Molly, that was a yes or no question. Do. You. Understand. Me?"

"Yes dear," she said, but Ron could hear that it was only a humouring tactic. His father obviously knew this as well. "Your oath, Molly. You will swear that you will not try to force Harry Potter and Ginny together. You will swear it now."

Again Molly gaped. She was obviously not used to her will being thwarted and it angered her. But she could also see that no amount of reasoning or wheedling was going to work, so she gritted her teeth and took out her wand.

Ron knew, suddenly, that something was going to happen. Just as the first syllable of the spell passed his mother's lips, He yanked open the door and slammed into her.

"Obliv- aaah!"

Both Ron and Molly crashed to the floor, the latter's wand clattering out of her hand and rolling under the table.

Arthur was stunned into momentary inactivity by Ron's sudden intrusion, and it took him a few seconds to react. "Incarcerous!" he snapped, bundling up Molly in a net of ropes before she could reach her wand. He wanted to ask Ron where he had come from, but he had a more pressing issue to deal with.

"Why, Molly?" he asked, staring at her as though he had never seen her before. Indeed, it felt like he never had. The sweet but strong willed red headed girl he knew in school never would have been capable of this. "Why did you attempt to tamper with my memory?"

"Because!" Molly shrieked all pretence of civility gone as she wrestled with the ropes. "This family needs to be picked up out of the gutter! We deserve recognition!"

By this time, the rest of the Weasley children were clustered in the doorway, drawn by the shouts. The twins, Percy and Ginny gaped at their mother, shocked. They had always known she didn't exactly approve of their father's job, but to hear the full extent of her feelings…

She looked mad, eyes bulging and face redder than her hair, fists clenched. "You have refused to try for a promotion in the Ministry which would bring us more gold and so it's up to me to get it for us since you don't have the guts for it!"

"Whoa," George or Fred said softly, his usual grin nowhere in evidence.

"She was going to try and get Ginny to marry Harry," Ron said sotto voce to Fred, George and Percy. This changes a lot of things, he thought privately. The initial plan he and Harry had developed was for Ron to drop carefully worded hints that Harry might need rescuing to his mother and father. Then, they would be more sympathetic to him and less so toward Dumbledore, since it was likely the Dursleys would, after a year of building resentment, be less afraid of repercussions from Hagrid and would likely make Harry's life harder, which would in turn probably require a much softened up Weasley family to rescue him. Harry would then have an ally against the headmaster who had placed him in that environment.

Now, though, with the recent crumbling of his safe and familiar family life, that plan had to be scrapped.

"Silencio," Mr Weasley snapped, silencing his wife's ranting. He sank into a chair at the scrubbed wooden table and rubbed his hands tiredly over his face.

"You'd better all come in. Ginny, would you be a dear and make us some tea, Firefly?"

Shooting nervous looks at their trussed up mother, the Weasley children filed into the kitchen and sat at the table. Ginny fluttered around the kitchen preparing a pot of tea.

"What the hell happened, Father?" Percy asked, to the shock of his siblings. The prim and proper perfect prefect Percy never swore.

"I found your mother studying a very dark potions book this morning. I had to invoke family magic to get her to tell me what she was up to. It is partially my fault, I suppose," he said, rubbing his face again.

"Your mother likes to tell the story of using a love potion in school. She used it on me. Of course, I already liked her and so it was mostly just a nudge in the right direction. But love potions are banned at Hogwarts and it is a serious offence. Your mother was never punished for it and I never took her to task myself."

"We've all heard that story, Dad," Ginny said. "So what's that got to do with anything?"

"Your mother was going to try and get Harry Potter here and feed him subtle love potions to get him to notice you, Ginny," he said, sorrowfully. She wants the Potter money, basically."

Ginny's hand flew to her mouth. "n-no, she said, eyes wide. "She wouldn't do that…" she shot a look at her bound and silenced mother. "... How did that happen? And what's going to happen now?" she asked, vocalizing what everyone else wanted to know.

Arthur Weasley looked like he didn't want to say what had happened. In spite of everything, it felt like he had let his wife down, not done enough … something anyway. So Ron said it for him.

"She tried to mess with Dad's memory when he told her that he would cast her out the family if she did what she was planning, and that he wanted a magical oath that she would stop interfering with Ginny and Harry. Lucky for Dad, I was standing outside the door, and I was able to stop her in time."

"Now what?" Percy asked again.

Arthur sighed again. "I can't see any other option but to cast her out of the family."

Tears came to every eye in the kitchen. Their whole world had just come crashing down around their ears.

"She clearly has issues," Percy said softly. "What if we send her to St Mungo's?"

"Yes, yes. That's a good idea," said his father, clearly grasping at any possibility for at least maintaining some kind of cohesion in their family unit. "As a Ministry worker I can get a little help with the bill, and I'm sure your brothers will help too."

"We'll help around the house whenever we can," George said. "This family has to work together now."

"Thank you, boys," Arthur said gratefully, before levitating his still bound wife and, with a heavy sigh, disappearing through the Floo with a cry of "St Mungo's Hospital!"

5

Richard Evans groaned and rolled off the stained mattress in the equally stained hotel room located in a grungy establishment in South London. South and East London held the dodgier levels of society, and it was here where he could disappear into places that wouldn't ask too many questions.

Richard had arrived at this falling down wreck of a hotel in Brixton. Half the sign's letters were missing, there were used condoms lying on the front steps and the desk clerk was a seventy year old James Dean wannabe. It was four in the morning and the room had cost him forty pounds-what the desk clerk called 'two ponies.'

Now it was high noon and the place was really stinking in the sun. The leather jacketed desk clerk was gone, replaced by a girl with enough piercings in her face that Richard wondered if she had been traumatized by a curtain rod as a child.

Feeling the comforting weight of his Glock at the small of his back, Richard set off down the narrow dirty street away from the hotel toward the Underground. Stinking rubbish bags bulged from overflowing bins on the front steps of the dirtier buildings. At the corner, clusters of kids were gathered around, listening to rap music and sipping stuff out of paper bags. Across the street from the hotel, a young Slavic-looking guy was wandering around, looking in the windows of parked cars. Richard would be willing to bet one of them would be gone in an hour. The beauty and classiness of South London.

He had ditched his own car four blocks away, doors open and keys in the ignition; it was probably being stripped and sold for parts already. From here out, it was public transport all the way, at least until he found James Potter. His father's letter indicated he might seek aid and succour from Potter, but Richard wasn't holding his breath. Aid and succour had been very scant commodities lately, the milk of human kindness seemingly curdled to sour cream long ago.

He would've ditched the suitcase too, except that it contained crucial papers he couldn't give up, not to mention a few magazines for his Glock. Among the papers, was a map of London, and a big book called the London Streetfinder. Having never been here before, those items would be most crucial at present. It was just lucky that the suitcase had been packed, ready to go, in his uncle's car when the house had burned down.

Emerging onto a slightly more reputable street, Richard headed towards his destination. He had a goal in mind, a place his father's letter said he might be able to get more help and answers from. "You won't be able to see it, Rick, but just hang out across the street and watch from some oddly dressed folks and follow them."

Richard shook his head. If he hadn't seen that thing in Iraq ten years ago, and the thing in New York last year, he wouldn't have believed it. It wasn't until those assholes had burned down his house that he really did start believing.

He had gotten his father's last effects in nineteen eighty nine, when the old man had passed on due to complications from throat cancer. The guy had never smoked a cigarette or a cigar, hell not even a damn joint in his life and he got fucking throat cancer. The world was really fucked up, if shit like that could happen.

What made it worse was that the stubborn old bastard hadn't told Richard until the last minute. Almost literally. Richard had been part of Operation Just Cause (what the soldiers had called Operation Just Because) when he was given bereavement leave and sent home to New Jersey.

He had gone to Mercy Hospital in Leeds Point, only to be brought up short by the cadaverous thing in the hospital bed. This thing couldn't be his father, could it?

"Ricky boy," the thing whispered in the sepulchral voice that the cancer had left him. "Glad you could make it."

"Dad! What the hell happened to you?" This thing in the bed in no way resembled the vigorous man his father had been. The only thing left were his eyes, burning with intensity in his ravaged face. One bird claw hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, and Richard could feel the hot cancer roaring through him, going through and gobbling whatever was left.

"No time for that now, son. You got to get out to the Smithville place. Get all the boxes out, quick as you can. They might be going after them now that I'm down and out."

In spite of the gravity of the situation, Richard had to restrain mightily the urge to roll his eyes. His family and their damn conspiracy theories.

Victor Evans had immigrated to America from Yorkshire in the late sixties with his wife Alesandra, who in turn had emigrated from Spain, leaving behind his brother and wife, plus their baby daughter Petunia, who, even at the tender age of a year, looked like a horse. They arrived in Newark just in time for Richard to be born in the autumn of 'sixty nine. Alesandra viewed with good natured bemusement her new family's tendency to see conspiracies everywhere. She found it interesting actually, at least for a while. Some of their discussions were highly entertaining.

Victor and his brother John kept in regular correspondence, uncaring about the horrendous phone bills. John and his wife Sarah had given birth to another daughter whom they called Lily at the end of January of 'seventy. Then for two years they heard almost nothing from England.

Then, in early 'seventy three, Alesandra had picked up the phone just in time to hear "she's one of them" before they became aware of her presence and switched to talking about something else. When pressed on what she had heard, Victor evaded the subject and asked what was for dinner.

Victor had watched Richard very carefully as he grew up, and as his eleventh birthday approached, seemed oddly relieved.

Then had come the long father-son talks that Alesandra was not privy to. Richard and Victor sometimes disappeared for a week at a time, Victor returning looking particularly grim at the end of each one. Richard kept the contents of these talks to himself, despite Alesandra's urging.

Then Alesandra had passed away in 'eighty three, the victim of a hit and run accident while going to the store for ice cream. In the late summer of 1988 John and Sarah died; another car accident. Were Richard like his father, he might've suspected something fishy going on, but he wasn't. He listened tolerantly like a good son should, but he never put stock in his father's theories.

After the deaths of his uncle and aunt, Richard had observed his father sink further and further into paranoia, buying RF jammers and steel shutters for all the windows, boxing up his vast collection of paper and moving them to a house rented in Smithville under a false name; removing all phones from the house. In 1988 Richard joined the army and was promptly shipped off to Panama after basic, and now here he was in the hospital watching his dad die.

"You'll take care of that stuff won't you, son?" his father wheezed.

"Yeah, Dad, I will," Richard said, not really meaning it, but you didn't argue with a dying man.

"Good boy … knew I could count on you. Now, I can't talk much. Fucking cancer... Left you a letter with instructions, read it after I'm gone, hear?"

"I will," Richard said solemnly. "Dad, why didn't you tell me you had cancer?"

Victor flapped his hand as though to wave it off. "Wasn't nothing you could do about it, son. I am gonna die, it's my time and I'm tired. You just be on the lookout for the things I've talked to you about."

By this time his voice was little more than a hiss, drowned out by the beeping of the cardiac monitors and sssht sssht of the oxygen mask. His other hand clawed weakly at the air and the monitors went into a long shrill note. An alarm sounded and two doctors and a nurse roared into the room, shoving Richard aside. "Out of the way, sir," one said brusquely.

Feeling helpless, Richard moved aside and watched as they tried to resuscitate his father. The cardiac monitor showed a few peaks as they defibrillated him. Finally, after five minutes, the presiding doctor, a round fellow with a nametag on his stained white coat that said he was gifted with the unfortunate name of Dr Carver, pronounced Victor Evans dead at fifteen minutes past one on the fifteenth of December 1989.

The funeral was sparsely attended, just a few guys from his father's work and Richard himself. Then, in January, he was shipped back to Panama, then later to Iraq as part of operation Desert Shield, where he saw some things that made him realize his father maybe wasn't as crazy as he'd previously thought.

He had humoured his father and moved all the boxes of paper from Smithville to a farm house on Long island. Sat all by itself in the middle of a bunch of potato fields, rented under one of the false identities his father had stashed in a safety deposit box. Now, he was glad he had.

After leaving the army, Richard had met and married a woman called Rachel, coincidentally a teller at the same bank the deposit box was in. After experiencing what he had, he was a believer in his father's theory, though he never let himself get as paranoid as his father had in his later days. As a result, he never told Rachel anything about what he was into. She no doubt thought him an odd duck, going off every weekend or two and not allowing cellular phones in the house. Had he told her, maybe she would still be alive.

In 1997 they had a daughter, Amanda, who was the apple of his eye. Then the World Trade Centre Bombings had occurred last year.

Yes, Richard thought, settling into a seat on the underground and closing his eyes. That's when everything went to hell.

He had made the mistake of posting on a 9/11 blog last November, underestimating the enemy's ability to find him.

The next day, his entry was gone, Rachel and Amanda were missing, and he found a termination notice from his job as a security guard at one of the high tech firms.

Frantic with worry, Richard searched all over town for his wife and daughter for three days, only to have them returned, minus their memories of the past three days. The enemy had given him a clear warning. He was easy to find and they would strike at him where it hurt without fear of retribution.

That was it for Richard. The house was sold. Using yet another false identity, although he didn't think it really mattered anymore whose name was on the papers since it seemed the enemy could find him anywhere, Richard shipped all the boxes in the Long Island house, having them placed in a cottage bought by his uncle John located in Essex, England.

They had bought passage on a fishing boat and snuck into England, stealing ashore at the coast of Cornwall. It was a harrowing journey made even more difficult by their four year old daughter, who didn't understand why they had to stay in this cold, damp place for three weeks, only let out for bathroom trips. On top of that, the boat's crew were ogling his wife in a manner which made Richard's blood boil, and only the certain knowledge that, paid or not, the captain wouldn't hesitate to throw them all overboard in the chilly Atlantic waters stayed his hand.

That had been three weeks ago. Upon arrival in Cornwall they had been faced with a new difficulty: lodging. England watched its citizens far more closely than the United States and obtaining false identification was not nearly as easy, although there were rumours of something called the Patriot Act being enacted in his home country that would apparently remedy that state of affairs.

Luckily, his Uncle John had been even more paranoid than his father. There were quite a few houses scattered about under various branches of the Evans family, and Richard moved his own little offshoot of the family into one of these. It was a small bungalow about twenty miles east of Norwich. The whole area was as flat as a pool table and windier than Chicago.

There they had stayed until those fuckers found them.

Now, sitting in a dirty train rattling over rusty tracks, Richard shuddered as he remembered how it all went down. He doubted very much if he would ever be able to erase the guilt from his soul stemming from his inability to save Amanda and Rachel. He would hear their screams until his dying day. Even if his mind got eaten by Alzheimer's, he would hear them.

All that remained now was for Richard to catch the animals responsible for their deaths. He would find this James Potter and make up for ten years of not really paying attention to his father, of only humouring the old man when he should've been taking every word, every warning to heart.

Shaking off his reminiscences, Richard glanced around the car, looking for any watchers. After the house fire, he was going to be on high alert.

Sitting directly across from him was a man wearing a denim jacket that looked like it hadn't been washed since Harold Macmillan was Prime Minister. The smell wafting across in the warm June air circulating in the train suggested that the coat's occupant hadn't been washed since then either.

A pretty brunette with one of those new media players that had been rolled out last October was sitting a couple seats away. What were those things called? Something weird … Ipods. Yes that was it. It sounded like a disease, but they were popular as hell. The brunette was bouncing very obviously to whatever was blasting out of her ear buds.

Bag ladies and business men, students and random cross sections of society sat and stood around him, all with eyes in the paper, out the window or on the floor. Nobody appeared to be watching him, but he wasn't going to take that for granted anymore.

He sat on the train all the way to Waterloo Station, where he got off hurriedly, losing himself in the morning rush of travellers.

Heading into the station, Richard went to the loo and pulled off his jacket, making sure the Glock didn't fall out of his S.O.B. holster and turned the jacket inside out. It was now green instead of grey and it gave him a different look. He pulled a peaked cap out his suitcase and put it on, then headed out of the loo and toward another over ground train. He would take this one to Elstree Station, which was at the very end of the London transport network. From there he would catch the underground to Tottenham Court Road, and then a bus to Charing Cross road.

Richard adopted a weary look similar to the rest of the commuters and sat on the train, keeping his eyes on the newspaper in front of him. He watched the reflection in the window to ensure nobody was paying him any undue interest.

At Elstree Station, Richard bought a token for the Underground and climbed on a train, standing just inside the doors. He ducked out just as the doors were closing and dodged quickly behind a pillar.

His subterfuge was rewarded, as he saw the bouncy brunette looking angry as the train roared into the tunnel.

That sent a chill through him. It meant he hadn't been nearly as sneaky as he thought he had been. Did this mean that they had an idea where he might be heading? Had they found his evidence stashed away and done something with it?

Of course, if they hadn't yet found it and he went there, they sure would know where it was then. No, he had to keep on. All the evidence was in his head anyway. With the right help, he could have his evidence properly catalogued.

Richard pulled out a wrinkled photo and stared at a man with glasses and messed up black hair. He was standing next to his cousin Lily, whom he'd never actually met. This photo was in the last correspondence his uncle had sent before he died. James Potter and Lily Evans had apparently gotten married right after school.

Tucking the photo back into his pocket, Richard got aboard a southbound train and headed for Tottenham Court Road. He pulled the same trick at two intervening stops, but caught no other watchers.

Feeling secure finally, he ditched the green jacket and bought another one in a tourist shop, then caught a bus for Charing Cross Road. It was time to set up vigil in front of the Leaky Cauldron.

6

Harry got off the train at the Little Whinging station and trudged wearily toward Privet Drive. Bones had told him how to use the Knight Bus and he probably could've taken that home instead, but he wanted to use the train trip to think. She had warned him that the driver of the bus wasn't bothered overmuch with using a steering wheel and the ride would've been not very conducive to cogitation.

The sun beat down on the back of his neck as he trudged through the small town centre. Rituals to hide magic? Squibs? Something even worse than VOldemort pulling the feared Dark Lord's strings like a puppet?

Harry somehow got the feeling that there was a hell of a lot more going on out there than anyone realized. He wanted to get back to the bookstore in Diagon Alley and read as much as he could on the history of the wizarding world. Something was going on out there and he wanted to know what it was.

Lots of people conspired to hold different pieces of the puzzle, but he was sure that if they were all fitted together they would produce a picture far more vast and complicated than blood purity or ideology. Harry wanted that picture. He needed to have it. He got the feeling that if he didn't put all the pieces together, he was going to die. Him, and a lot more others. Possibly the whole world, as melodramatic as that sounded.

Without realizing it, Harry arrived at Privet Drive. Jerked out of his thoughts by the sudden sound of a lawn mower, he looked up. Number Four loomed in front of him and he trudged wearily up the walk, peering at the flower beds which were going to seed since he hadn't been there to take care of them. Not that he ever would. He wasn't going to be the Dursleys slave all summer.

He was thinking about which books to look for when he opened the door, mind not really on his surroundings. As the fireplace poker came swishing through the air at his head, he remembered all of a sudden that he hadn't cast the Muggle repelling wards on his new clothes.

Then the hard metal sent him sliding into the blackness.

3. Developments

Chapter 3: Developments

Note: I have taken some liberties with the urban structure of London and its building. I hope those readers who live there will forgive me my monstrous impertinence.

1

Two days after meeting young Potter for lunch, Amelia Bones smiled grimly to herself as she headed up the approach road to Hogwarts Castle. This was the perfect time to catch Dumbledore. The summer session of the Wizengamot was due to start tomorrow, and the venerable Chief Warlock would be coming down off the end of the school year which had ended just days ago, before preparing to deal with politics.

The sun shone brightly in the Scottish highlands. The innkeeper of the Three Broomsticks waved as she was heading out of the edges of the Forbidden Forest carrying a basket full of herbs. And here she was, at the front gates of Hogwarts.

"Madame Bones!" boomed Hagrid, coming out of his hut with a massive bunch of keys jingling in his hand. "Yeh'll be wantin' ter see Professor Dumbledore, I s'pose?"

"That's correct, Hagrid," Amelia said, her stern visage breaking into a smile for the jovial gamekeeper. "Is he in?"

"Oh yeah, he's still here," Hagrid said, unlocking the gate with a click. "If yeh follow me I'll take yeh ter see him."

Nodding, Amelia followed Hagrid up the path.

"Amelia, what a surprise!" said the genial grandfatherly voice of Albus Dumbledore, who was standing on the front steps. "What brings you to Hogwarts today?"

"Albus," Amelia said coolly. "Good morning."

Hagrid looked uncertainly between Dumbledore and Amelia, feeling the sudden cold pocket of tension. "Well, I'd best be off," he said uncertainly, before turning and hurrying away.

"Shall we adjourn to my office?" Dumbledore said, waving Amelia forward and pretending not to have heard her tone.

"Yes, let's do that," Amelia responded, moving up the wide front steps and heading into the cool entrance hall. "I have a feeling the discussion will be most interesting."

The two of them wept through the summer-silent castle, their only accompaniment being the portraits who whispered interestedly and the clacking of their footsteps on the stones of the corridors.

At last they came to the gargoyle which guarded the headmaster's lair which, at the mention of Cockroach Clusters, leapt aside revealing the moving staircase.

"Would you care for a spot of tea, Amelia?" Albus asked, settling behind his desk.

"No thank you, Albus," Amelia said, settling into a chair which she had moved off to one side, taking away the slight psychological advantage the headmaster had given himself.

"Now, I received a most interesting letter from my niece the other day. Would you care to tell me why a Philosopher's Stone and a Cerberus were planted in this school?"

Seemingly to buy time, Albus called for a teapot and poured himself a cup, taking his time in adding a bit of lemon to it before taking a sip.

"I received a missive from my old friend, Nicholas Flamel. He and his wife are not at their best these days and they expressed concerns to me that they might not be able to adequately protect their Philosopher's Stone. To that end they entrusted it to my care via Gringotts."

"So let me guess, Albus," Bones said, feeling furious. "You decided to use it as bait to see if Voldemort was still alive and active, never mind the risk you posed to your students."

Dumbledore's famous composure slipped a little and a bit of anger showed through his usual serene mask. "I resent the implication you are trying to make, Amelia," he said a little harshly.

Amelia scoffed. "What else would you call it then, Albus? You dangled the philosopher's Stone as bait. What else is there to glean from such an action?"

"Hogwarts was the safest place for it," Dumbledore said placatingly.

"Somehow I really doubt that," Amelia said frostily. "We both know you'd do anything to achieve your goals, including putting the lives of students at risk. I asked around and just about every student knew you kept a Cerberus in the damn castle. You practically put a sign on that door at the opening feast."

Dumbledore was looking definitely angry now. "You overstep your bounds, Amelia," he snapped, all pretence of civility gone. "The Department of Law Enforcement has no jurisdiction over Hogwarts-"

"-Unless a situation arises which presents a clear and present danger to those residing within its walls," Amelia finished, smiling coldly at Dumbledore, not at all intimidated. "Using a dangerous magical artefact as bait and keeping dangerous animals in a hallway behind a door closed with a simple first year locking charm constitutes a clear and present danger. I am here to warn you, Albus, that if you pull anymore stunts like this I am going to be investigating you with every resource I can muster. My niece will be reporting to me anything unusual and," she added, even more icily, "she will be wearing a charmed pendant that blocks Obliviations."

"You think I would memory charm my students?" Dumbledore thundered, his aura showing now as he stood behind his desk.

"I think," Amelia said, rising as well, "that you would do whatever it takes to see your ends met. You will, however, not be using my niece." She deliberately did not mention Harry Potter, not wanting Dumbledore to know that she had been in contact with the lad. There were still things that needed doing, and having the old goat's crooked nose jammed into things would hinder her.

Dumbledore was clearly seething, his magical aura flickering in and out of view and fists clenched on the desk. Had it not been for her position, Amelia was certain the old wizard would have reached for his wand.

From the corner, Fawkes trilled a long note, easing the tension somewhat. Dumbledore relaxed and took a deep breath.

"Amelia, I assure you-"

"That kind of thing may work with your first years, but I am not going to be put off with platitudes. This is a school, not an experimental playground for the Great Albus Dumbledore to play his games in. You will stop playing your games and put your focus on educating the students, or I will involve the governors. Heed my warning, Albus."

Amelia swept out of the room leaving behind a speechless Dumbledore.

She had meant this as a first strike. You couldn't directly attack someone of Dumbledore's reputation. You had to go at him from the side or from behind. This little strike was to put him on notice that he was being watched and was no longer going to be the infallible old headmaster doing whatever he pleased safe behind his castle walls. Whether he liked it or not, Amelia Bones was taking a personal interest in his dealings now, and Amelia Bones was never one to be taken in by twinkling eyes and empty gestures.

That brought her back to thinking about young Mr Potter. She was supposed to meet him for dinner tonight. Telling him about that ritual and its possible after effects was a risky move, but it was better he find out about it from her than from other … more questionable sources. If Potter poked his nose into certain places, it was like to get chopped off, along with his entire head, and not necessarily in the metaphorical sense either.

Striding briskly, Amelia left the castle and headed across the grounds, waving a good bye to Hagrid, who was tending his hippogriffs. Reaching the gates she turned on the spot and Apparated back to the Apparition point in the Ministry lobby and headed for her office. She needed to get a hold of some of her more sympathetic allies on the Hogwarts Board of Governors. That would be almost all of them since eight of the members had children attending Hogwarts, including Lucius Malfoy. Malfoy might actually be the easiest one to persuade; he had no love for Dumbledore. They had wanted to implement change in Hogwarts for a long time, but had been put off by Dumbledore, who cited budget woes and other empty things.

Amelia settled behind her desk and started drafting letters. She hated politics but it was unavoidable in her position. And like anything else, she put her all into the effort. Smiling grimly, she had to stop herself rubbing her hands in anticipation. This was going to be interesting.

Letters written, Amelia looked around covertly and slammed her office door shut with four different locking charms, and implanted the ceiling and floor and all four walls with silencing and anti-scrying charms.

She reached into her desk drawer with a slightly sweaty hand and pulled out a mobile telephone. It was slightly thicker than the standard model to accommodate some special features.

Taking a deep breath, Amelia dialled the only number in its memory.

The phone did not ring. It never did. Instead, a thick silence echoed from the earpiece. It was like listening to the inside of a coffin. Amelia felt cold.

"Yes?" said the strange voice on the other end. It always reminded her of a skeletal scarecrow standing in a dead November field, across which a desolate wind blew.

"It's done," Amelia said, doing a credible job of keeping the fear out of her voice. "I went to see him today."

The voice laughed its cold laugh, like bones rattling in a crypt. "Excellent. How did he react?"

"He was … upset," said Amelia carefully. "He is not used to being questioned."

"That is the problem with you people," the voice spat, drilling into her ear like an ice-pick. "But no matter. You will proceed to the next step now. Go to Privet Drive and retrieve Potter."

"But he was going-"

"Do not question me," the voice spat again. "You know what'll happen if you make me upset. "You will go and retrieve him. I think he is in rather dire straits just now," the voice said with another of his cold laughs, before hanging up.

Amelia put the phone back into the warded desk drawer and took a shaky breath. She hated having to deal with whomever that voice belonged to, but she had no choice. That had been made abundantly clear.

Two years ago, when Susan was nine years old, she disappeared right in front of Florian Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour while her parents were up the street at Flourish and Blotts. Bored, the little girl had wandered off and was sitting in the sun counting butterflies, when she just disappeared.

They had mustered the entire Auror Corps and searched all over magical Britain for her, only for her to turn up in her bed two days later, drugged but safe and sound. She remembered absolutely nothing of the previous three days, her last memory being of a sharp pain at the back of her neck, and then there her parents were, looking frantic. The little girl was mystified at the fuss being made over her, but used it nonetheless to get more ice cream.

Amelia had gone into work one day and found the thicker than average mobile phone sitting on her desk. Being at least passingly familiar with the Muggle world, she recognized it for what it was and stared at it suspiciously. Before she could do anything though, it rang. Not the normal two-tone British ring either; rather, it rang in one long, high, endless note that drilled into your head and made you want to scream in irritation.

Amelia snatched it up and hit the send button.

"Yes?"

""Did you get our message?" came that cold voice for the first time.

"Message?"

"Why, the disappearance of your favourite niece of course. That was the message. It means we know where you are and we know how to find you whenever we need to."

"Who's we?" she asked, ever the consummate law officer.

"Never you mind," the voice responded icily. "There are a few little facts you might want to know.

"First, your niece has been implanted with an explosive device located adjacent to her spinal cord. It is only a couple of ounces, but enough to kill her instantly. That device will detonate if its surface temperature drops five degrees, if she leaves the British Isles, or if magic directly touches it. Do you understand what that means?"

Amelia went cold. "It means we can't remove it," she said, rage dripping from her every syllable. "Why? Why do this to a little girl?"

The voice laughed its brittle bones-rattling laugh. "Why, to insure your cooperation, of course, my dear Amelia," it snarled. "We of course can choose to detonate the device at any time, but we won't do so if you cooperate with us in a few matters here and there."

Amelia ground her teeth in frustration. Whoever the voice belonged to had done their research thoroughly. There was no greater way to hit Amelia where it hurt than through her favourite niece. And by abducting her directly from the heavily warded Diagon Alley and returning her to the equally warded Bone Yard with no one being aware of it spoke of resources beyond those of even the former Dark Lord Voldemort.

"What is it you want?" she asked, resigned.

The voice laughed again. "You will find out, my dear Amelia. And whatever it is we want you will do, or … boom." It then gave one last dry chuckle and hung up with a sharp click.

Over the next couple of years she had only gotten three phone calls from the voice, requesting that she block or allow certain legislation. Gradually she began to wonder if her ascension to Director of Law Enforcement might not have been done through her own merit. Maybe she had been manipulated into it because she was the one with the most leverage. The thought was chilling, and it made her wonder what else might be going on out there that she didn't know about. Who else was being manipulated? Was the entire magical world merely a stage set? Since explosives and mobile phones were Muggle devices, it followed that whoever had implanted Susan with it was probably a Muggle. And that was the most disturbing bit so far. Who in the Muggle world had that kind of resources to sneak in and out of heavily warded magical areas with absurd ease?

Susan of course knew about the device in her back. It made a small lump under her skin, right between her shoulder blades. Amelia and Susan's parents had gone round and round on revealing what the lump actually was, but Amelia won the day

Her parents were for leaving Susan in the dark but Amelia was not fond of lies and half-truths. The girl had taken it remarkably well, going white so that her lustrous auburn hair stood out in stark contrast, but quickly rallied. She wanted to know what it meant.

"It means you have to be very careful, Sue. Don't go rolling in the snow, or swimming in the lake. Try to avoid too much roughhousing. We don't know how much stress this thing can take." Susan was a quiet, shy girl, so the thought of roughhousing was somewhat unrealistic, but Amelia felt it necessary to cover all the bases.

"All right," Susan said, in her quiet way. "I'm sorry Aunty."

Amelia drew the girl into a hug. "It's not your fault, dear. I will do my best to keep trying to find a way to remove this thing from you and track down those responsible."

Susan smiled. In all her life, her favourite aunt had never let her down. If Aunt Amelia said she would find a way, she would find a way, and Susan no longer worried too much about it.

After receiving that first phone call, Amelia had probed very, very carefully, asking discrete questions and had found out nothing. Even Broderick Bode, who was in charge of watching Muggle technology and trends and who was as well-versed on the Muggle world as most Muggles, had no idea what she was talking about. He had never seen a phone like the one she had shown him either.

The most recent phone call had been around Easter, telling her to get to know Harry Potter. "He will be useful later," the voice said.

So she would've gotten in touch with him even if Poppy Pomfrey and Susan had not written those letters. She wouldn't have had a choice.

Contrary to all expectations, she found that she actually liked the young man. He was not the average eleven year old boy, concerned only with himself and only just beginning to realize that he did in fact know everything. He was funny in a quiet way, self-effacing and willing to listen.

The reasons the voice might have for wanting her to get to know him where worrisome however. As whomever it was had demonstrated, they had no scruples and no lines they wouldn't cross. What did they have in store for the young Potter?

Amelia removed her charms and, picking up her traveling cloak, set out from her office toward Privet Drive. Something was apparently wrong and, if she could help, she would do so to the best of her ability.

2

Hermione Granger was sitting in her kitchen drinking some morning tea before preparing to do her summer homework when the owl came.

Looking up at the tapping noise, Hermione recognized Hermes, Percy Weasley's owl. What could Percy possibly have to say to me? She wondered, getting up and opening the window to let in the owl, which perched on the counter with a hoot and held out a leg, to which a thin roll of parchment was tied.

Hermione recognized the untidy scrawl: it was Ron, not Percy who was writing to her. That makes more sense, she thought, untying the parchment. Hermes appeared to be waiting for a reply, so she read quickly.

It was a note apologizing for Ron's behaviour the past school year, and a hastily added postscript informing her that their mother was in St Mungo's Hospital.

Hermione was frankly amazed that Ron had apologized to her; she had thought it was beyond his capabilities. She wondered if someone (Harry perhaps) had talked him into it. The letter seemed to indicate something had happened to help change Ron's way of thinking at least a little, because the old Ron had not once apologized to her all year.

Hermione penned a letter expressing her gratitude for his apology and well wishes for his family, and also apologizing for perhaps being a bit too overbearing herself. She tied it to Hermes's leg and watched him fly into the warm summer day. She had the feeling the next school year was going to be even more interesting than the last. She could do without running into three-headed dogs this time, though, thank you very much.

# # #

The human forehead is possibly the second strongest structure in the body, next to the thigh bone. It is a perfect arch in all plains and the bone is, in a fully grown adult, very strong.

In a child, however, the skull does not stop developing until well into their teen years. There are still fragile places between the skull plates as they continue to grow. And two major plates are on either side of the forehead.

The human head is also very heavy, all sorts of neck muscles and tendons combining to give it perfect balance so that it can move in a variety of different ways. These two factors combine to make it so that a human head can withstand a great number of stress and trauma, the arch of the forehead combining with the myriad tendons and ligaments to make the head able to dissipate stresses easily, though with some pain involved.

The human brain is also situated such that front to back displacement is a little less damaging than side-to-side displacement, so that a blow to the forehead is less likely to cause a concussion than a blow to the side of the head.

When opening a door, you first have to stop and stand still. If it opens toward you, you have to stand aside and swing it around your leg. Then you have to move forward, then turn and stand still again to shut it. Or Kick it shut behind you. Either way, you are standing still for a couple of seconds, once on either side of the door.

Swinging a fireplace poker or a baseball bat at a prepared victim is not always a very smart move to make. You have to bring your arm all the way back and then swing it all the way forward, giving the intended victim a lot of time to prepare a defence. For example, grabbing the wrist as it's coming toward you with the weapon and then jerking them round using their momentum to shove them into the ground or the nearest wall. The best way to use a weapon like that is to jab it like a spear, not swing it all the way back and swing it all the way forward, which is what most people do.

Vernon Dursley was a fat, lazy man these days, but he hadn't always been. Back in his school days he still had quite a lot of muscle. He was the reigning Cricket champion at Smeltings, and he still had a hell of a swing. Some of the muscle was still there, firm cordage sheathed in the fat.

So when he saw Harry getting ready to come up onto the stoop and swing open the door, he hefted the four pound wrought iron poker and swung it back over his shoulder, ready to deliver one hell of a sixer.

Harry was not prepared at all for the strike of Vernon Dursley. As he stopped for the brief second necessary to close the door behind him, the end of the poker slammed with a wet crack right over the scar on his forehead, punching a crater into the still-developing bone structure. His neck was wrenched backward with a ripping of ligaments, blood dripped in a torrent over his right eye and he went down like a bucket of sand, striking the back of his head this time on the hard wooden door on the way down. His brain sloshed in his skull, the hydrostatic pressure much lessened due to the crater in the bone. One sharp splinter poked a half a millimetre into the frontal lobe.

Vernon Dursley, though wincing at the horrible vibration in his hand, dragged the unconscious boy into the second bedroom by the ankles, knocking his head even more against the stair risers and causing blood to drip all over Petunia's carpet. The boy was deposited like a sack of laundry on the bare floorboards and Vernon slammed the door, upon which he had installed six deadbolts. He then proceeded to board up that door with two by fours and heavy nails; that freak was not getting out this time. The window had been barred from the outside and boarded from the inside, turning the room into a killing bottle. Petunia had told him that those freaks couldn't use magic outside of school in the summertime, so Vernon felt safe. Too bad he couldn't have caught and killed the damn owl, but he would take what he could get.

Whistling Tiptoe Through the Tulips again, Vernon set about cheerfully cleaning up the splatters of blood in the entranceway and stairs before they could set. The mess was worth it for getting rid of that goddamned abnormal brat.

Cackling to himself in a satisfied manner, Vernon went back down stairs to watch the telly with his normal family and forgot about the freak.

Upstairs, meanwhile, a series of very unusual magical phenomena was taking place.

When his head had struck the door on the way down and the bone splinters from the punched in portion of his skull penetrated his brain, Harry died for about ten seconds.

Contrary to popular misconception, there is no such thing as a magical core. There is no little ball of energy waiting inside a wizard bubbling under their sternum. If that were the case, they'd be setting off light bulbs everywhere they went and couldn't even use airports.

Magic comes from the brain manipulated the life force in the body and drawing it in from outside. Specifically, the frontal lobe, where rational thought exists. Right under where Vernon Dursley slammed the poker.

Had things been normal, Harry would've died instantly, but things were not normal. There were several things happening concurrently to make Harry Potter unique among all of magical history.

Because his mother had left upon him the protection of her sacrifice, and because that sacrifice had been made at the moment of her death to protect himself from his own death, all the wards set up around the Dursley house imploded upon Harry, causing his body to glow fiercely and levitate off the bare boards of the floor a few inches.

Because he was so close to death, his soul had slipped almost completely out of his body, including its passenger, the tiny fragment of Tom Marvolo Riddle. The tendrils of magic linking him to the wards, however, yanked him back and, because the little soul fragment wasn't his, it was annihilated. All the excess magic in the air seeped into him and his brain case began to knit slowly back together.

So Harry was still alive, if barely, with a cracked skull and a stain of intracranial fluid leaking around his head. And if it wasn't for some timely intervention, he would've died anyway, excess magic or not; it was working too slowly to save him in a timely manner.

# # #

Dobby the house-elf was worried, worried. Bad master was fingering bad book in his study. Dobby had seen him doing it. Bad master was planning something and Dobby didn't like that.

The little house-elf wrung his ears nervously, wishing his father, Dibby, was still alive. But Dibby had been killed by Master Abraxas before the Great Day many years ago, leaving Dobby all alone.

Now Master Lucius was shut up in his study looking at that black book. Dobby had heard him muttering about the Chamber of Secrets and Mudbloods at Hogwarts. He figured out Master Lucius was planning something. More ominously, he had stopped muttering and had gone very quiet, something dangerous was afoot. But who to warn?

While Dobby was cleaning a chandelier so vigorously his ears flapped, he thought and thought and finally it came to him. He would warn the one responsible for the Great Day, Harry Potter. Danger lurked for him in the halls of Hogwarts and he must not return!

He waited until the family was busy and, twisting his ears nervously, he popped into a nightmare.

There was the Great Harry Potter, glowing slightly, a small crater in his head, leaking blood on the floor! Oh no! Dobby was frantic and he dithered on the spot, once again twisting his ears as he tried to decide what to do.

At last the solution came to him. It wasn't a great one but it was the only thing the poor little house-elf could think of and, with a crack, he popped away to Hogwarts.

# # #

Poppy Pomfrey was busy performing last minute checks on infirmary supplied, putting potions under stasis and preservative spells, making sure there were enough bandages, folding clean bed sheets, etc., when a frantic house-elf popped into the middle of the floor, startling her so badly that she let out a shriek and dropped a bottle of Skele-Gro on the floor, causing a small crater to be burned into the stone.

Before she could say anything, the little elf gasped, "Dobby is sorry, Madam Pomfrey, but you is must be coming to help!" The Great Harry Potter be dying, Dobby is thinking!"

That was all she needed to hear. Setting aside all other questions, like what was a house-elf knowing about Harry, for example, Poppy summoned an emergency medical kit and held out her hand. "Take me to him then," she said brusquely.

Dobby nodded frantically and, seizing her hand, popped them out of the hospital wing with another loud crack.

Despite her years of training and everything she had seen, Poppy Pomfrey gasped audibly and went white when she saw Harry on the floor. Quickly she took note of the boarded up and barred windows and the many lock plates on the door, before her attention was captured by the bleeding wreck on the floor.

His limbs were sprawled out at odd angles and his head had leaked blood and fluids in a wide muddy circle on the floor that had dried to a thin crust, like spilled milk...

Dropping to her knees she ran her wand over the mess and discovered what was happening. She reached into her magically expanded bag and pulled out a metal collar similar to those used in Muggle hospitals and carefully snapped it around Harry's neck. The collar expanded into a puffy cloud that wrapped around the back of his head and ears, totally eliminating any movement that would further aggravate the injuries.

Thus immobilized, Poppy began her diagnostic scans, trying to ignore the way the greyish brain bulged out of the crater in his head like a third eye. The wild magic had done a reasonably good job of stopping the further depressurizing, but Harry was still in very critical condition. It was, in fact, a miracle that he was still alive.

So engrossed was she that she didn't notice the pop of Dobby's disappearance. His warning would no longer be needed, it looked like Harry Potter sir would be in the hospital a long while, and thus would not be able to go to Hogwarts.

Unfortunately all the wild magic in the air from the collapsed wards interfered with Poppy's charms and, according to the scan, Harry was dead, suffering from a ruptured appendix and about to give birth all at once. All she was able to tell for certain, was that he had been lying here, slowly dying, for almost two days. She could tell some kind of broken warding scheme was interfering with her scans, but she didn't have time to untangle them; her primary concern was the patient. There was no overtly harmful magic running around, as far as she could tell, so it was safe to evacuate him to more suitable facilities at St Mungo's.

Poppy pulled out a magical stretcher and laid it flush on the floor. Tapping it with her wands caused it to slide under Harry and close around him in a cocoon like capsule that further immobilized him. It also had the effect of cutting him off from any magical interference. This kind of stretcher was only used in the direst of emergencies, since it contained the magical equivalent of a complete life support system. As the stretcher sucked shut, all the wards were cut off from access to their anchor and, thus freed, they fizzled out into nothingness, causing a loud alarm to go off in the headmaster's office at Hogwarts.

Dumbledore, who had been poring over this summer's Wizengamot agenda, jerked his head up and paled dramatically as he saw which alarm was sounding. Rising with a lithe ease remarkable for his age, Dumbledore picked up a quill, tapped it with his wand and vanished to Privet Drive.

Poppy Pomfrey was about to begin the process of activating the medical Portkey implanted into the stretcher when there was an almighty boom from downstairs, followed by the sound of splintering wood. "Dursley!" a voice hollered. "What have you done now?!"

Poppy almost dropped the stretcher, but quickly got hold of herself and spun round, wand raised, to face the boarded up door.

There was a muffled thump from downstairs and then: "Get out of my house, you freak!" Then there was a massive thud that shook the whole house. Poppy assumed that was Dursley falling down.

Then came a voice Poppy didn't expect to hear.

"What have you done with Potter," said the sharp cold voice of Amelia Bones in full Auror mode.

There was silence, followed shortly by the stomping of feet on the stairs.

The boards blasted off the door and fell in a heap, and there stood Amelia Bones, looking angrier than Poppy had ever seen her.

"Poppy? What are you doing here?"

"A house-elf brought me oddly enough. Never mind that, we need to get Harry to St Mungo's. I'm not sure what those … beasts did to him, but he needs help right away."

"Fine," Amelia said brusquely. "I'll deal with them and Dumbledore. I can, of course, count on you to testify?"

"Of course. I'll make sure we collect evidence for trial." It wasn't the first time the two women had worked on a similar case. This was, however, the most severe child abuse case they had ever seen.

Poppy nodded and, grasping one end of the stretcher, tapped it with her wand and disappeared in a flash of colour.

3

Amelia's expression was thunderous as she turned and rushed back down the stairs. She went into the living room, where she interrupted Dudley Dursley trying to untie his parents.

"Leave them!" she snapped, causing the boy to flinch and scuttle off to a corner.

"You," she said softly to the Dursleys, "are in a great deal of trouble. Unfortunately, trying you doesn't fall under my jurisdiction. Evidence will be collected and turned over to the Surrey Constabulary and I think I can safely say that you, Mr Dursley, will be going away for a long, long time."

Leaving the Dursleys bound in their chairs, Amelia went back upstairs and started snapping photos of the room Potter was locked in. She saw the muddy stain of intracranial fluids and blood on the bare boards, the barred and boarded window and the many locks on the door, all of which were photographed with a Muggle style camera for the police.

Coming back down she saw a few spatters of blood Dursley had missed. In the process of photographing them, she saw something odd: a padlock on the cupboard under the stairs.

Tapping it curiously with her wand, the lock sprang open and revealed a cupboard turned into a bedroom.

It was only the years of training that allowed Amelia Bones to calmly photograph the thing, including the telling little crayon scribble on the back wall that said "Harry's Room" in straggling just-learning-to-print letters, instead of going in and hexing the Dursleys into piles of goo. She was just about to go in and call the police, when the door opened revealing Albus Dumbledore in his purple robed glory.

"Ah, Albus, just the man I wanted to see," she said in a low purr that anyone who knew her would be running from had they heard it. "I want you to come and look at something."

"I must insist-"

"Insist later. First you will come and look at this," Amelia said implacably.

She swept up the stairs, Albus Dumbledore trailing after her like he was one of his own recalcitrant students.

"This," Amelia said, pointing to the boards and the blood-stained floor, "is the home you entrusted the Boy-Who-Lived to. Poppy Pomfrey is taking him to St Mungo's Hospital for treatment of a cracked skull and possibly magical reduction. Because you left him here. Who do you think is going to get the blame if Harry Potter dies, Albus? Just who do you think?"

Dumbledore had gone white as a sheet, swaying on the spot, staring at the floor with its bloodstains. Amelia got the feeling something more was involved, quite apart from the possible death of a student, but she had more pressing concerns. "If you don't want me to tell the Daily Prophet and the Wizengamot that Albus Dumbledore allowed Harry Potter to be abused, then you will not interfere with Potter anymore and let me handle his case personally."

Finally bringing his gaze up from the stained floor, Dumbledore took a deep breath. "It is imperative that Harry remains alive and healthy. This home offers greater protection-"

Amelia barely restrained herself from grabbing his beard and strangling him with it. Pointing angrily at the floor, she growled, "That is how safe it is here! His own uncle did that to him with a fireplace poker! If he continues here he is going to die. Dursley and his wife will be going up on criminal charges in the Muggle justice system. If I handle it right your name will be kept out of it, but as I say, fight me on this and I will shout your name from the rooftops as loud as I possibly can, and even you won't survive the fallout!"

Dumbledore bowed his head. Amelia didn't buy it for a minute. As soon as he could, Dumbledore would try to find an advantage; that was his way. "Very well. It appears you, as the Muggles say, have me over a barrel. I will not interfere but I wish to be involved with any protections Harry might have."

"We'll see, Albus," Amelia said coldly, leading the way back downstairs. "Your involvement didn't do him a whole lot of good, did it?"

She dismissed Dumbledore, who stood off to one side and went to call the police on the still-bound Dursleys, pulling out her own Muggle identification, which listed her as part of the Health Service.

Fifteen minutes later, she was standing in the front yard, talking to one of the constables discussing exactly what would happen to the Dursleys, who were being read their rights in the living room. It wasn't the first time her office had to deal with Muggle constabulary.

"We've had reports coming from this neighbourhood, PC Farnham said, closing his notebook. "Accusations of abuse of one type or another centering on their nephew; vandalism reports on that kid in there. Nothing ever came of it though. Funny, that…"

Amelia knew the answer: Dumbledore. Dumbledore and his agents suppressed any police reports with the judicious application of diversion wards and memory charms. What was so damned important that Potter needed to stay here?

"No chance of hiding this," Amelia said, nodding at the evidence van which housed samples of bloodstained carpet and the fireplace poker that had been used to do the deed. "Mr Potter is currently on his way to a private clinic that specializes in injuries like his."

"How'd you find out about this anyway?" Farnham asked, making notes on his clipboard.

"My niece attends the same school as Mr Potter and had invited him over to dinner today. When I hadn't heard from him I came round to investigate."Only half a lie; it was she herself who had invited him, not Susan.

"I see. Well, he won't need to testify, we've got enough evidence to nail them. We've got your contact information should we need you for anything else." Farnham snapped his notebook shut and tipped his cap. "Good day, Madam."

Amelia nodded and set off down the street, leaving the loudly swearing Vernon Dursley behind. It was time to visit St Mungo's hospital to see just how bad Mr Potter really was.

4

A soldier knows that a satisfactory observation point provides an unobstructed view to the front and adequate security to the flanks and the rear. He knows it provides protection from the elements and concealment of the observers. He knows it offers a reasonable likelihood of undisturbed occupation for the full duration of the operation.

Richard Evans recited this to himself as he stood in a small alleyway off Charing Cross Road, with the flank of a bookstore to his rear, a gate leading to another alley on his left and a row of dumpsters by a café to his right. This was not a satisfactory observation point. It did not provide adequate protection to the flanks and the rear, and, more importantly, did not offer very much concealment to the observer, namely himself.

That was the problem with working in an urban environment. Without adequate cover, loitering of any kind was noticed.

Especially here.

This was a shopping district. People hurried in and out of the stores and restaurants, not hanging around on the sidewalk. If Richard hung around much longer, he would be spotted, and maybe by the wrong sort.

Stepping out onto the footpath again, he straightened his back and removed all furtiveness from his movements. The best way to blend in was to look as though you belonged.

He was wearing a tourist outfit consisting of a black and purple nylon windbreaker and jeans, plus a little fanny pack he had picked up in one of the station shops at King's Cross. He had changed in the loo there before making his way to Charing Cross Road. Now, he stood on the footpath about five hundred yards from the Leaky Cauldron and turned a slow circle, acting like a tourist taking in everything.

And he spotted it: the perfect lookout.

Just up the street was a five storey building, which was rather remarkable for London, it being a mostly low-built city. The bottom two stories were occupied by a café and a set of office suites, but the top three stories were rent-by-the month apartments. He could rent one of them and be reasonably assured of adequate security, protection from the elements and the likelihood of undisturbed occupation for the duration of the operation, however long it would be.

Richard glanced casually around, checking for any observers, like the bouncy brunette from earlier, saw none and proceeded and a slow amble across the street, acting like a country bumpkin on his first jaunt to the big city.

Jammed between the building with the apartments and the building next to it was a door covered in six million layers of paint, alongside which was a row of six buttons and a speaker grill.

He rang the bell marked 'Super' and waited.

"Yeah?" came a garbled voice.

"Got any vacancies?"

"Yeah. Wait."

The battered door opened inward, revealing a guy built like a beanpole and with a face that had all the charm of a steam shovel. "What d'you want?" the steam shovel asked truculently.

"Got a vacancy?" Richard repeated himself.

"Yeah. Cash up front, no refund, due on the first of each month."

"Fine. Let's get it done." He wanted to get off the street as fast as possible.

Without a word, the steam shovel turned and led the way into the murky interior of the building, Richard following in his wake.

# # #

Steam shovel led the way to his own unit on the first residential floor and handed Richard a single sheet that constituted the application. Richard filled it out with false information, handed over six hundred pounds in small bills and was led by a much happier steam shovel to the top floor and handed a key.

The door creaked open on rusty hinges, allowing a musty smell of dry rot and closed space to waft out into the hall, mingling with the lovely scent of boiled vegetables that seemed to permeate all such buildings. Richard stepped onto the hilly linoleum which crackled like thin ice under his shoes and looked around.

There was a decent window that gave a perfect downward angle shot in a ninety degree arc, the Leaky Cauldron being dead centre in the panorama.

It was one of those studio alcove apartments, the kind with a crooked L that was theoretically large enough for a bed. A bed for chimps anyway. A tiny kitchen corner and an open bathroom door completed the decor. The place was completely empty. The only things on show were dust bunnies and the stale breeze wafting out through the open door.

Richard pushed the door shut with his heel and did a slow circle in the middle of the apartment. Saw a door that locked. Saw three solid walls. Saw a clean window with an unobstructed view. A soldier knows that a satisfactory observation point provides an unobstructed view to the front and adequate security to the flanks and the rear, provides protection from the elements and concealment of the observers, and offers a reasonable likelihood of undisturbed occupation for the full duration of the operation. Yes, this would do nicely. Time to make arrangements.

# # #

The problem with London, Richard griped to himself, as he trudged along yet another street, was that it had no god damn rhyme or reason to it. Streets wound and turned and twisted all over the place, like a pile of spaghetti tossed by a kid having a tantrum. He had caught another train back to Paddington Station and come up in central London, which was where one of the properties purchased by his uncle was located. The place seemed full of trees and old buildings with sagging roofs. The streets were heavily painted with instructions for pedestrians and drivers, but they still did not make any sense at all to a newcomer. Even his copy of the London Streetfinder was of little use here, because the same street, when it made a little turn, was named something else.

As he came around a corner onto yet another twisting side street, he caught sight of a woman with long flowing auburn hair and a little girl, skipping down the sidewalk together. He was suddenly gripped with the irrational conviction that it was Rachel and Amanda. He was intelligent enough to realize what this was: searching behaviour, but it didn't stop the sudden surety that, if he could just catch up to them, could turn them around, it would be his wife and daughter, alive and whole in spite of what had been done to them. Intellectually he knew that he hadn't had time to deal with his grief, what with being on the run from their killers and the order for which they worked. That did not, however, mitigate his sudden visceral response in the slightest.

He picked up speed, his heart pounding, sweat breaking on his brow. It was Amanda and Rachel, vibrant as they had been, returned to him. They had been lost for a little while, but they had found him again, if he could just catch up…

He came up behind them and then paused, stopping dead in the middle of the sidewalk.

It was not Rachel and Amanda.

The sudden torrent of grief that overwhelmed him was greater than any he had thus far experienced. His knees felt as though they had turned to jelly and he staggered, leaning drunkenly against a lamp post. Tears came to his eyes, his throat tightened and he seemed to hear his little girl laughing in his ears. For the first time since the incident in which he had lost his wife and daughter, Richard Evans wept, leaning there against a dirty sign post in central London.

A hand tentatively touched his shoulder. Turning, he saw that the woman with the auburn hair had come up, looking quite alarmed. Through the blurry veil of his tears he saw that she had very large, remarkably blue eyes, blue as a Norwegian fjord. Almost like Rachel's eyes. This woman had a smaller nose, thinner lips and a wider mouth, and he felt, dimly, that he really must have made a fool of himself.

In spite of the alarmed expression on her face, her eyes betrayed a remarkable tranquillity, as though the troubles of this world were somewhere beyond her. Somewhere in a small portion of his mind not overcome with this sudden paroxysm of grief and disappointment, Richard thought they were the kind of eyes a man could fall in love with.

And then she opened her mouth and the illusion of peace and tranquillity was shattered.

"Oy, yer aright there, guv?" she asked.

That harsh, grating Cockney accent jarred horribly with her serene blue eyes and also had the effect of knocking Richard out of his morass of grief, at least for a moment. Looking into those remarkable cerulean orbs, Richard had expected to hear a soft, warm voice and not the cawing of a crow. He could tell that she was a kind woman, however, avian voice or not.

"Yeah, fine. I thought you and the little girl were people I knew, once," he said, scrubbing at his face in embarrassment, his voice sounding as cracked as that of an adolescent.

The woman smiled, causing even more discord. "Well, I 'ope yer find what yer lookin for, but I gotta say you looked a wee bit off yer bacon for a sec there," she cawed. Richard almost expected to see a beak shoot out of her face.

Instead of asking for a translation, Richard said, "I'm sorry I caused a scene. Really."

"Don't make no matter," the woman said kindly, patting his shoulder again. "Jes' remember it gets better 'ventually."

Before he could ask her what she meant, the woman had taken her little girl's hand again and they were skipping off, singing Pop Goes the Weasel. Dimly Richard remembered the song had actually originated around here somewhere, and why did one have to think of such irrelevancies at the oddest times anyway?

The unexpected incident of searching behaviour had caught him totally off guard and had, as a consequence, derailed his schedule considerably. He had lost track of where in the labyrinthine tangle of streets he was and had to quickly reorient himself. His legs trembled after his crying fit and his head felt fuzzy, but he took a deep breath and got a grip on himself. His adversaries would not care about his grief, in fact, they would relish it and hope it would cause him to make a stupid mistake that would allow them to capture him and do unspeakable things. Just shooting him in the head would not be good enough for them.

Taking his map out of his pocket he headed for Westbourne Terrace, which is where one of his uncle's properties was located. Uncle John had cached supplies and arms here, quite a feat in the big brother state of England, and Richard would need new identification documents before too long. There were lots of those stashed in various places too, backed up with solid histories in the Highways Agency and all with good bank ratings. All of his current IDs were American and that wouldn't do, not at all.

Richard turned onto Westbourne Terrace and, without turning his head, kept a close watch on his surroundings. Here were takeout curry shops and car rental services, drycleaners and cheap hotels. A hodgepodge of various ethnicities and social classes all around him. Stopping to check out a menu in a kebab place, Richard checked the reflection of the street behind him in the window and saw no watchers. Didn't mean there weren't any, though. Constant vigilance was the key. He couldn't allow searching behaviour or cawing crows disguised as beautiful women to distract him. Rachel would want him to stay alive.

Taking a deep breath, Richard headed down the street again, acting like he had no particular destination in mind. Even if there weren't watchers present, it would behoove him to pretend like there were. The sun was going down in a blaze of smog. He hoped to be able to slip into the house after sunset. According to his Uncle there was a small manhole cover in the alley behind the house that provided an additional entrance and exit route in the event that the house was under surveillance. The tunnel was the remnant of a passage leading to a bomb shelter not far away. Once again, Richard admonished himself for not paying more attention to his father and uncle's lessons, for mostly dismissing them as raving paranoids. If he had paid more attention, maybe Rachel and Amanda would still be alive.

Bringing a swift halt to that train of thought before it could leave the station and carry him into a fresh well of grief Richard spotted his uncle's house up ahead. It was Number Eleven, and looked like all the other row houses surrounding it-slightly run down with a sagging roof and a somewhat newer front. The yard (garden, he reminded himself; it's a garden here) was overgrown with shrubs of an unknown variety and what Richard thought were a couple of hydrangea bushes, though he was no horticulturalist. A battered set of lawn furniture skulked in the greenery, casting shadows that made him wonder for a moment if there was a team of demonic entities watching for his arrival. Down the street in front of number thirteen, a bald man and towheaded boy were tossing a ball back and forth, and down even further Richard thought he caught sight of his crow-voiced friend from earlier, but he couldn't be sure in the gloaming.

More importantly, his casual survey detected no suspicious vehicles lurking on the street, though, not being a native to the country, let alone to this specific area, Richard wouldn't know what was suspicious and not.

Deciding to take no chances, Richard did not turn into the little side street where the house was actually located. Instead, he circled around and came at it from behind. There were no windows on any of the houses facing this side of the street. Back here was where the rubbish bins were stored for pickup. Not a very nice place. It smelled vaguely of coffee grounds. Why did all such areas smell like coffee grounds even when there were no coffee shops in sight? More irrelevancies.

Listening carefully, Richard heard nothing but normal street ambience, muffled beyond the walls of the houses. The wind blew pieces of litter on the sidewalk, making a sound like claws scraping on pavement. He felt unaccountably chilled for no good reason at all. This was just an ordinary alleyway, with no supernatural entities at all. Just an ordinary alleyway, but he felt like something momentous was going to happen and soon.

Sweat trickled down his back and pooled uncomfortably behind the holster in which his Glock was located. The air seemed to become heavier with ominous portents and the setting sun glared at him blearily through the city smog like a malevolent eye. The breeze picked up and Richard huddled against the back wall of a neighbouring house, eyes wide, staring around in puzzlement. What had been a simple breaking and entering operation had suddenly taken on the surreal aspect of a nightmare. He was gripped by an unnameable, inexplicable fear.

And then, to his horror, he felt control of his body slip from him. His head was jerked up to stare at the setting sun. Something took control of his voice and he heard himself say, in sepulchral tones: "The darkness is coming." And somehow he knew that it meant more than the upcoming sunset. He suddenly saw it in his mind-a roaring, hungry, insatiable darkness that swept across the land and gobbled everything up in its path.

And then it was gone, the vision, the controlling presence. All that was left was fear. And Richard Evans shivered in the dark alley.

5

Healer Robin Johnson was sitting at his desk after a long, gruelling shift, wishing that he could retire to his small flat and sleep at least a week. He was staring at a copy of the New England Journal of Magical Medicine but not taking in any of the text of the article he was reading.

It had started out fairly normally twelve hours ago. The most catastrophic patient was a man inflicted with a case of cursed shoes, which was easy enough to remove. Fellow was a regular visitor here, and with the same problem. He always fell for the biting shoes trick every time.

Then there were a bunch of Aurors who had come in a couple hours later, and it seemed that his prayers for a nice quiet rest of shift were doomed to failure. One of them had his head magically displaced into his thorax. Another had his eyelids sewn shut. Still another had his intestines vanished, and the last had half his face chewed off with magically conjured acid. One fuck of a giant goddamn mess.

The fellow with the chest monster head had died shortly after his arrival, in spite of the double speed medical Portkeys issued to Aurors upon their acceptance of the oath to serve. The one with the vanished intestines died just an hour ago, and the fellow with the sewn together eyelids was probably never going to see again. Needless to say, the acid burn victim also died. His face looked like an accident in a cheese grater factory.

The only survivor of the whole team was the team leader, who had hung back to provide rear reconnaissance, and who probably was going to be, if not fired, then at least ostracized from the rest of the Auror Corps for being the only survivor in his whole team.

To make matters worse, the dark wizards they had cornered got away, or so Johnson had inferred from the talk of the other team who had come in with the devastated one. He didn't care about that; his only concern was getting through the rest of today with a minimum of death.

Merlin, but some days I wish I hadn't signed in for this kind of crap, Johnson thought as he scrubbed his hands wearily across his stubbled face. He stared back down at the article and was about to begin making notes when a loud and urgent knock sounded on his office door. "What!' he shouted.

The door flew open with a bang and a sweaty faced intern-Johnson thought his name was Augustus something or other-burst into the office, robes in disarray and hair tousled.

Before Johnson could berate the young upstart for his extremely discourteous intrusion, the man was babbling something, looking even more frantic.

Johnson pulled out his wand and, rising to his feet, performed a small cannon blast charm, just enough to shut up the kid and maybe get some sense out of him.

"Now," he said once silence had been restored, "quietly and carefully tell me your problem. This is a hospital, not a Muggle drama department."

"It's Harry Potter," the kid said breathlessly. "He's in very bad shape and we need your help."

Johnson didn't drop his wand, though it was a close thing. What the hell else can go wrong today, he wondered as he hurried from behind his desk, snagging his healer robe as he went and shrugging it on over his trousers and shirt.

He rushed through the bustling fourth floor of the hospital, dancing around a woman who seemed to have wandered out of the long term care ward and sprinted toward the emergency room.

"What's the situation?" he asked the intern puffing along beside him.

"Boy was brought in by Poppy Pomfrey. Severe cranial trauma. Think it was a blunt instrument like a fire poker. Miracle he's still alive, actually," the intern said, speaking in a choppy, more professional manner. The veneer of professionalism seemed to have calmed over the panic of having a national icon in his ward.

"Fine," Johnson said, speeding up. "Where's Pomfrey now?"

"Waiting room," the intern said, as he rushed ahead and opened the emergency ward doors for his superior. "She's giving a history to the receptionist."

Johnson nodded and, donning a medical sterile robe, hurried into the suite.

A swarm of technicians was milling around the emergency life support stretcher, which had been parked in one of the bays of the emergency room and connected to the more extensive magical life support equipment at the hospital. Beneath the semi-transparent top of the pod, the boy's face floated, like a deep sea diver. His eyelids were filmed with a thin crust of blood and dried cranial fluid, and there was a dent in his forehead with a scab over top. Johnson's stomach dropped when he saw that. "Merlin, how the hell is he still alive?" he asked, more to himself than anyone else.

"We've been trying to figure that out since he got here," one of the technicians said, stabbing frantically at a magical display unit with his wand. "There's some kind of haywire warding scheme going on here and I don't think it's a good idea to take him out of that pod until we can get an accurate fix on exactly what is happening," he said, barely looking at Johnson.

"He should be dead, look at that," Johnson said, pointing at the crater in Potter's skull, before visibly getting a grip on himself. At least it was not a case of having his head displaced into his thorax, or having his face burned off with acid.

Johnson stepped over and fitted his wand into the receptacle on the pod that was designed for that purpose. Only those wands registered as belonging to certified healers could release the pod's locking mechanism. It was similar to the signature reader at the security desk of the Ministry.

"What are you doing?" the technician squawked. "He'll die if you take him outta there!"

"Shut up, Hodkins," Johnson muttered, as the pod opened. "This warding scheme isn't keeping him alive anymore; we are. It's just getting in the way."

Indeed, as the excess magic in the stasis field of the pod dissipated, Potter's vital signs remained unchanged. Sighing with relief, Johnson began running diagnostic scans without the magical interference that Pomfrey had experienced.

The bone was dented, but would be easily fixed. The pressure inside the skull had been reduced, however, causing the brain to bulge outward slightly. It glared through the hole in his head, and would have to be replaced. Also easy enough to do.

Whatever magic had been instrumental in keeping Potter alive had managed to begin to regrow the bones, but very slowly. More than likely, it would've failed soon, and the Boy-Who-Lived would have turned into the Boy-Who-Didn't before too long. Of more importance than the structural damage was the possibility that there were bone fragments embedded within the soft tissue of the brain itself, which could cause unforeseen consequences even if they were removed. Fortunately, the autonomic functions of the brain were handled farther back and appeared to be unaffected. However, if the damage to the frontal lobe was severe enough-and it didn't take much for that to be the case-then Potter would have roughly the mental capacity of a head of lettuce.

Unfortunately, the field of neurology and brain surgery were almost non-existent in the wizarding world. Most magical means of injury or death were instant and catastrophic with little hope of healing beyond reversing more obvious magical damage. A prime example of the shortcomings of magical healing methods was located two doors down: Frank and Alice Longbottom. Tortured until their minds had gone away somewhere from the pain.

Since Potter's injury was not magically inflicted, many healers were ill equipped to deal with them, beyond treating the obvious damage-the skull crater and removal of any bone fragments that might be lodged within the brain. But Robin Johnson had taken it upon himself to seek medical training at Oxford, and was thus at least passingly familiar with neurology.

While the technicians and intern looked on, Johnson cast a spell that would be used to determine if there was any foreign matter on or near a specific target. It was vaguely based off the Homenum Revelio charm, but altered for fine detail work, such as in organs or body cavities.

Three small fragments had embedded themselves scant millimetres into the brain tissue beneath the dura, the thin membrane that coated the outside of the brain.

With the delicacy of a demolitions expert defusing a bomb, Johnson animated a pair of forceps to go in and retrieve the fragments. Human beings were ill equipped for such a delicate task. They are quivering, shuddering masses of muscle. Their hearts are slamming away in their chests, lungs are displacing huge quantities of air every second. Every muscle is spasming with tiny amounts of energy. Nobody is ever perfectly still.

All of this would be translated into any piece of equipment Johnson used to extract the fragments, causing the end of the forceps to jitter left and right, up and down. Normally it wouldn't be a big deal, but in an area like the brain where important, non-regenerating cells were packed together tighter than London commuters riding the tube on Friday evening, where even half a millimetre of error could spell catastrophe, Johnson wasn't going to take any chances.

The animated forceps crawled across Potter's forehead like an industrious spider, to the area where he had been struck and eased in. With precise movements, each tiny bone fragment was extracted and carried to a sterile tray, as though the forceps was a diligent worker ant on urgent business for its colony.

"Nice work, boss," the intern said admiringly. The technicians clapped.

"We're not out of the woods yet," Johnson said grimly, grabbing a beaker of Skele-Gro and a soft tissue knitting potion that would help regrow the dura. "We don't know if the kid's going to be healed or turn into a turnip, so let's keep the celebrations till we know for sure one way or another."

"You have the bedside manner of Attila the Hun," the intern sniped, preparing a gurney to transport Potter to a private ward.

Johnson ignored the intern and started going through the boy's pockets, removing a couple of shrunken trunks, some Muggle shopping bags, and his wand, which had been shoved in his hip pocket. "Mad-Eye would have a fit about that," he muttered, shoving everything into a magically expanded effects bag and hanging it on the head rail of the gurney.

"Let's take him to Ward B," he said to the intern, tapping the gurney with his wand and following it as it rolled off like a kid's remote control car. "I think we got a few empty rooms down there. If we put him in a public ward he's going to get mobbed by well-wishers, but, more importantly, somebody might think that, since he's so weak already, it'd be just the right time to finish what Voldemort started all those years ago. And we don't want him dying on our watch."

Shuddering at the dreaded name, the intern said, "Yeah, can you see the headlines? All our funding would be pulled and we'd be lucky to get jobs cleaning the Ministry floors with a toothbrush."

"Exactly. So I'm going to ask you not to mention he's a patient here. We were lucky; all the techs down there are people I know can keep their mouths shut. We're going to register him under the name of Roger Stewart, who was struck by a Muggle car as he was leaving the Leaky Cauldron."

"Right, I got it," said the intern, as they headed into the private ward. "Nobody's going to hear about it from me."

"Good man," Johnson said, clapping the lad on the shoulder. "Knew I could count on you."

The intern flushed with pleasure, but pretended to be unaffected. "I'll go start the files," he said, hurrying toward the nursing station.

Johnson levitated Potter off the gurney into the hospital bed and stowed his effects in the bedside cabinet. There was one other reason he didn't want Potter's whereabouts known, a reason he hadn't shared with the crew down the hall. Upon completing his diagnostic scans, Johnson discovered that Potter had been hit with a Confundus charm. Not much of one, admittedly, just enough to … to do what, exactly? It would've normally been lost, the residue dissipated naturally, but due to the unknown magical interference, the remnants of the charm were still present. Johnson had quickly removed them before anyone else could discover it. What was the purpose of the charm in this particular instance? Had it not been cast, would Potter still be lying here, fighting for his life? Who had cast it, and when?

Johnson decided it might be wise to talk to Amelia Bones. As the head healer on the floor he sometimes came into contact with her. Since this was a child abuse (more like attempted murder, actually, even if the victim was a child) case, he would have to talk to her anyway. And, even more conveniently, she would be coming by later this evening to discuss the deceased Auror team so he wouldn't have to get in touch with her himself and possibly be overheard.

"I'll be back to check on you in an hour or so," he told the unconscious boy, as though he could be heard. For all Johnson knew, maybe he was aware, even in his comatose state. That kind of thing wasn't unheard of in the literature. "You're going to pull through just fine. I'm the best there is," he said, patting the boy's cold hand and turning to head out of the room, thinking about arranging all the reports he would have to finish, and about his meeting with Bones.

Robin Johnson's hand was on the doorknob, when there was a sudden gathering in the air, as though a lightning storm was about to be unleashed. But before he could do anything, the boy spoke. In a voice that sounded as though it was echoing up from the bottom of a freshly dug grave, Harry Potter said: "The darkness hunts me."

6

Crouched along the ivy-shrouded back wall of the house next door to his uncle's property, Richard Evans was feeling watched.

Normally he would have dismissed his paranoid feelings as stress-induced delusions, but with the calibre of people after him, he dare not do so this time. It was entirely possible that they had stationed at least one operative here. Richard did not know the exact circumstances under which his uncle had died, nor did he know if he might have been persuaded with physical or chemical means to spill his guts to any interrogators. All he knew was that Uncle John had died with Aunt Sarah in a car accident, but it was likely that story was faked.

Trying to breathe in the suddenly too thick air, Richard peered cautiously around once more. He saw nothing, hearing only the sound of the wind. The sun was almost entirely down now, the alley he was crouched in covered in thick gloom.

There was nothing for it. He couldn't sit here, crouching forever, scared as a rabbit. He was a damned trained soldier, for Christ's sake, and he knew better than to get spooked in the dark. At any moment now one of the nearby householders would be coming to toss a bag of rubbish in one of the bins and no doubt raise an alarm, thinking him a prowler.

Richard dropped to his belly and felt for the manhole cover. He shortly found it, under a tangle of weeds, right where Uncle John had said it would be, next to the third brick on the back side of Number Thirteen. Richard pulled it up with a faint grind of metal on concrete, revealing a perfect square of blackness.

Before he could begin to descend into the ground, Richard heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps. Running footsteps. Heading in his direction.

It was too late to put the manhole cover back, get up and pretend to be lost, too late by far. The only thing he could do was head down into the hole and hope he wasn't spotted.

Moving with the speed born of desperation, Richard squeezed into the narrow gap left by the manhole cover and onto the first riser. For a breathless, heart-freezing moment, his Glock and holster got hung up on the pavement and he dangled there, his shirt up around his armpits, vulnerable to a swift kick in the face. The footsteps were closer, although with the distorting effect of the house walls around him, it was impossible to tell exactly how far they were. In the few seconds he had left, Richard estimated that they were about to turn into the alley, which meant he had less than three seconds to get under the manhole cover and hide.

Then, he slipped free and his feet found the concrete stair. Ducking low, Richard pulled the cover shut, the sound of scraping metal on concrete masked by a fortuitously passing car.

He stood there, sweat coating his body, his heart pounding like a jackhammer, listening in the absolute blackness. He removed the Glock that had almost gotten him caught from the holster and held it, its weight reassuring in his hand. The gun was only seven inches from firing pin to muzzle tip, but right now it was his best friend in the world.

The footsteps clanged to a stop right over his head, what sounded like a heavy work shoe banging loud enough on the metal to make him wince. This is what it's like to be in a tin can on restocking day, Richard thought.

"Richard? Yoo-hoo, Richard, I know you're here somewhere."

Uncle John had painted the manhole cover to match the rest of the concrete and had installed special rubber foam on the bottom to dampen any metallic sounds that might result from walking on it. All the access points to the phone and power lines were handled at the front of the house, decreasing the likelihood that utility workers would stumble on this forgotten tunnel under the earth. It wasn't much of a tunnel, anyway, extending only about twenty feet, concrete having been poured in the rest of it. It was only sheer dumb luck that this tiny offshoot had been missed.

However, if the Order knew about this house, would they also know about this back entrance? It seemed not, because the guy was walking around up there, sounding angry. Like Richard, he couldn't hang around in that alley for very long either, because every minute increased the possibility that one of the householders would stumble upon him.

Then an awful thought struck Richard. Turning around quickly but noiselessly, he peered with growing urgency into the blackness, wishing bitterly that he'd thought to get a flashlight. Or, if you prefer, a torch. While the first guy was stomping around up there, making distracting noises, might it not be possible that another operative was sneaking up behind him, coming noiselessly up the stairs to capture him that way?

Spinning carefully on the top step, ignoring the sounds of the operative stamping around overhead, Richard peered into the darkness. It was unrelieved by even the slightest ray of light, however, and he could discern nothing from it. No shadows moved; the darkness was thick, seamless and impenetrable.

However, there was no choice, he must proceed.

Stepping carefully, lest some rocks or dirt be in his path, having filtered through the manhole, Richard crabbed sideways down the steps, keeping his back to the rough concrete wall. It felt cold, smooth and damp through his windcheater and against his thin shirt, and, for no discernible reason, Richard had the irrational conviction that something would shoot out of the wall and drag him, kicking and screaming into some unknowable darkness.

However, he reached the bottom of the short flight of stairs without incident, leaving behind the sound of footsteps of whoever was stomping around on the manhole cover above. Richard paused on the dirt floor of the tunnel, listening, trying to determine if the unknown assailant would wise up to the fact that he was standing right above his quarry. There were more stomping footsteps and then, thank god, they were retreating, going, going … gone. It looked like he'd managed to pull it off.

Richard let out a deep breath he hadn't been aware of holding and crept down the black tunnel, hand held out in front of him like a blind man, shins cringing in anticipation of crashing into an unknown object. His feet shuffled along the dirt floor, stirring up an earthy aroma. He tried to shake off the conviction that his hand would sink into something jelly-like and noisome, or that something would reach out and clamp around his wrist like a manacle. Richard wasn't normally afraid of the dark, but there was something about being in a completely dark tunnel under the earth that smelled of dirt and the limey odour of concrete that was seriously creepy.

At long last, although it couldn't have been more than a minute, Richard's outstretched hand came in contact with a rough wooden surface. He almost cried out, still half expecting that it was some unthinkable creature lurking there in the darkness to get him, but his rational mind kicked in and, with a shaky hand, he felt for the doorknob.

The door creaked inward on rusty hinges, sounding like the opening of Frankenstein's closet door. The tunnel exited into a cluttered basement, the entrance cleverly concealed behind a section of fake pine panelling next to a tidy little water heater. Dim light filtered in through high-set cellar windows which had been mostly concealed behind the verdant shrubbery that had taken over the yard in the years of the house's abandonment. Boxes and trunks hulked in the dimness and off to one side was a set of rickety wooden stairs which granted access to the upper reaches of the house.

Now, however, he was faced with another problem. Upon discovering that his quarry had escaped him yet again, the man stomping around on the manhole cover would undoubtedly summon other agents and, with the additional manpower, set up a stake out around the house to catch him when he came out. What was more puzzling at the moment, though, was the reason why they hadn't already broken down the door to the house. The only reason Richard could think of for them not taking this course of action was the possibility that well-meaning neighbours would call the local constabulary upon hearing the disturbance.

Richard could not count on his adversaries' need for discretion forever. He needed to get what he came for and then get the hell out, then back to his apartment. He didn't think they had managed to tail him there. It was likely that an operative already knew about this particular property and had expected him to come here, it being the closest property he could get to from his current whereabouts. Likely the bouncy brunette on the subway had called to inform her superiors that he had escaped and they had hurried to set up surveillance in the immediate neighbourhood should he turn up there.

Now, with the benefit of hindsight, Richard kicked himself for not choosing another property. This location wasn't the only cache of documents and arms. But it was too late now, he was stuck with his decision and he couldn't waste time with might-have-beens.

Richard moved quietly through the cluttered basement, acutely aware that the light was fading fast. Indeed, it was almost gone by the time he made it to the rickety splintery steps. They creaked ominously under him, and he hoped madly that there wasn't already an operative in the house, crouched in the kitchen to one side of the kitchen door, waiting to shoot at him with a tranquilizer dart. The Glock felt slippery in his hand and before he reached for the doorknob, Richard transferred the weapon from his right hand to his left and wiped that hand on his jeans. Then he cracked open the door.

It, like the door to the tunnel entrance, creaked, its hinges sounding like small tortured animals in the otherwise silent house. A cloud of dust was stirred by the opening door and Richard repressed, with great difficulty, the urge to sneeze explosively.

No operative was crouched to the side of the door. No helmeted bogeyman lurked behind the kitchen table. The kitchen was utterly deserted, the shapes of the old fashioned refrigerator and stove looming in the darkness in square shapes. And Richard caught a break.

The kitchen had a small window over the sink, covered by a thick set of curtains. But, over the curtains the windows were boarded up, the curtains having hid the structure from outside. Daring to hope, Richard moved through the kitchen, which was floored with knotty tongue-in-groove flooring, into the living room.

Here some of the boards across the windows had warped a little, allowing tiny wedges of dim lighting to creep through. This was what had allowed Richard to navigate through the deserted house, and it meant that he couldn't turn on any lights, and would, instead, have to rely on the ambient lighting from without.

Richard dropped quickly below window level so as not to cast a shadow on the drapes which might alert any watchers to his presence. Crawling on hands and knees, he crossed the bare boards of the living room and headed toward the back of the house.

Arriving at a short hallway, off which were two bedrooms and a bath, Richard finally stood up and headed toward the back bedroom. This side of the house faced onto the alley from which he had entered it and was thus shielded from any viewers on the street. It was unlikely that they had anyone stationed back there, because it was pretty much a dead end, as far as anyone knew and thus would not offer an additional avenue of escape. Nevertheless, before investigating the cache stored here, Richard carefully searched any possible hiding places. The only things he found were gigantic dust bunnies and ancient mouse droppings. The house was totally empty. The only furniture present was two large items, a bureau hulked in the shadows of one bedroom and a large claw-footed desk loomed in the other one.

Thus assured that he was alone, Richard stepped confidently into the bedroom that housed the large desk, found his way to the closet and opened it up.

Inside, was a neatly racked set of shelves, upon which sat a variety of weaponry still in their manufacturer's boxes. In spite of being forewarned, Richard was quite impressed at the selection his Uncle John had managed to squirrel away in here. Assuming his other properties were similarly cached, there was enough combined ordnance to outfit an entire platoon.

Richard of course could not take everything with him. He would draw far too much attention. He could, however, retrieve an extra handgun and ammunition, plus some of the false documents, and then get the hell out of London, after arranging a rendezvous with James Potter. Tomorrow he would hole up in his apartment and watch the Leaky Cauldron, and there would be no gallivanting around. He'd already had too many close calls.

Thinking about that, Richard spied an item that would be extremely useful in his reconnaissance mission: a box containing extremely high power binoculars with included night vision ability. Bending down, he discovered, stacked beneath the shelving units, a couple of army style rucksacks, one of which he proceeded to load with nine millimetre ammunition and another Glock Seventeen.

Thus armed, Richard closed the closet door with some regret. He could not return to this particular property, it having been compromised. Turning around, he headed for the desk that loomed in the middle of the room. Opening the desk drawers revealed a treasure trove of various documents: Identification cards, passports, driver's licenses. And the bottom drawer was lined from side to side and end to end with British currency. And, sitting atop them all, was a dusty envelope with his name on it.

Who had left this envelope here? Was it Uncle John? But why would he leave an envelope in this particular house? Had he left similar envelopes in all his properties in case Richard might stumble on it? The dust coating the envelope seemed to indicate that it had been here, lurking in this drawer, for a long time. Nevertheless, Richard felt that it held some news of dire import, and that, rather than being an inanimate object, it was staring at him, daring him to open it. Completely stupid and irrational, but he wouldn't be surprised if it did attempt to bite him, and not just in the metaphorical sense either, given the rollercoaster of events he had been riding on since November of 2001, eight months ago.

Stop it, he told himself, reaching for the envelope, shaking the dust off it. It's just a damn letter, no need to be stupid about it.

The envelope was thin enough that it probably only contained a couple of pieces of paper, and there was the square outline of what was probably a photograph. The adhesive with which the envelope was sealed had worn away, and the paper felt brittle with age. Carefully, Richard pulled the envelope open and extracted the two sheets and photograph that rested within, and read:

Dear Richard,

My name is Argus Filch. I was a friend of your father's and he told me about the mission upon which he and your family have embarked upon. I have hidden copies of this letter in all six of the properties he has purchased, not knowing which one you would be entering. Yes, I knew you would eventually come to Britain. I work as a caretaker for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, of which I'm sure your father, has told you about. During one of my off days in 1995, I went to visit a friend of mine, who can sometimes see things if you hand him objects belonging to a person of interest. His name is Uri Rosenzweig, although that wasn't the name on his birth certificate. He came here from Israel in 1969. We-that is, me and some of the people I work with-think that he was fleeing from the Mossad, although he won't talk about it.

In any case, I brought him a book that John Evans had once owned and, Richard, what followed was one of the most frightening experiences of my life. It is because of this experience that I am writing this letter. It is imperative that you receive this information and that you do not disregard it.

There is darkness coming, Richard, darkness like you've never seen it. Uri died when he saw it coming. I handed him the book, he told me that John's brother-your father, that is-had passed away, that you would make it here in a few years … and then, Richard, and then, his mouth dropped open and he let out the most awful scream I've ever heard in my life. Blood gushed out his nose and ears and he said one last thing before he died. "The darkness is coming," was all he said, and then he died, just like that. But there was a chill in the room, Richard, like something wanted to come through whatever hole in reality it could find or create and gobble me up.

So, be very careful in how you proceed. The Septimus Order is not your only enemy, although they are, perhaps, agents of the darkness of which Uri spoke. I'm afraid I don't have too many more details; I dared not probe any further. I am old and just about used up. I do not have the fervour of a younger man.

John told me that you would be looking for James Potter. He also passed away, on Halloween of 1991, with your cousin Lily, killed by Lord Voldemort, a magical terrorist at the time. He tried to kill their fifteen-month-old son too, but was rebuffed, knocked out of his body. We think he's still around somewhere, though with powers gone. The boy survived and was shipped off to live with your other cousin Petunia. Little is known about his life there, though we don't think it was a great one. Your cousin Petunia dislikes magic and all it stands for and would thus view her nephew as a blight upon her existence.

Harry Potter too we can discuss when we meet. Included is a map to a location in Newmarket where we can get together. There is a set of keys to a Fiat which is parked in the car-park at King's Cross. I take it out every second Sunday so that it doesn't sit there too long to draw attention to itself.

With respect,

Argus Apolyon Filch

Richard pulled out the map. Filch had been kind enough to mark the most direct route from this particular house to the parked Fiat. He had even thoughtfully provided instructions on finding the vehicle in the vast maze of cars that were located there.

Of more importance to him just now, however, was the revelation of Uri Rosenzweig. He, too, had been gripped by a force outside himself and had spoken about a coming darkness. Just like Richard himself. Thankfully, though, Richard had not died.

What did it mean that Rosenzweig himself had died, though? Did it mean that something out there didn't like being specifically sought after, and that it would only be the one doing the seeking? That thought frankly gave Richard the creeps.

All questions without answers just yet. Right now he needed to rest. This meant going back to his apartment. And that further meant trying to sneak past any observers that might be stationed outside, waiting for him.

Richard thought he might have a way to get it done.

Stuffing the map into the envelope again, Richard tore the letter itself into tiny strips and headed for the bathroom, hoping the water was still on. He was in luck and he turned it on to a slow trickle, dissolving the paper strips and tearing them even further until they were small enough to be washed down the drain. He didn't want to flush the toilet because he did not know how noisy it would be. Sometimes in these old houses, the toilets went with bangs like gunfire, and that sound might carry to any watchers who might be present outside.

After insuring that every scrap of the letter was down into the London sewer system, Richard headed toward the other room that he had left alone after searching it. His intention was to climb out through the window and make his way up the drainpipe and across the roofs of the houses to an adjacent street. The houses in this neighbourhood were set together cheek by jowl and navigating across their roofs would be relatively easy, assuming an accessible sturdy drainpipe was available and he took sufficient care to insure that he didn't make enough noise that a worried resident would think there was a second-storey burglar loose in the neighbourhood.‑

Upon arriving in the other bedroom, however, Richard discovered that this window too was boarded up from the inside. This was not meant to be a residential house, a fact which he had briefly forgotten. All the windows would be boarded up to prevent intrusion.

Wrenching the boards out of their mountings was out of the question as well. Way too much racket would be made. But maybe…

Maybe Uncle John might have foreseen that the house would be under surveillance at some point. What might he have done in the event that he couldn't go out the front door or through the little tunnel behind the house?

Richard turned slowly and stared at the wardrobe in the corner. And he smiled.

# # #

Fifteen minutes later, Richard stepped out from behind a neighbour's hedge into their side yard. The sun was fully down now and this tiny street was quiet, or at least as quiet as a street in the heart of a massive city like London ever got.

His hunch had proved correct: the wardrobe hid yet another secret escape hatch. The idea had come to him as he stood there in the empty bedroom. The desk and the wardrobe were the only furniture in the entire house. The desk held a bunch of important papers, but the wardrobe was empty. Why was it here? Unless it served as camouflage.

Sure enough, the wardrobe hid a stairwell which led to the attic, and a skylight granted access to the roof. It is a human truism that most people never look up. Left, right, front back, side to side, yes, but for the most part, even the best trained surveillance team never looks up. It takes a lot of discipline to get around that.

Richard belly-crawled across the roof of his uncle's house, then leaped, catlike, to the neighbouring roof. Luckily, there was a loud stereo thudding below him, masking any sounds he made. There was a heart-stopping moment when his shoes had slid briefly on the moist shingles but he regained his footing and quickly crawled across the roof, slid down, partially shredding his windcheater on the rough boards and then hung briefly on the rain gutter and dropped and rolled to the ground in the neighbour's side yard. Free.

Richard pulled off the shredded jacket, wadded it into a ball, and power walked from behind the hedge, not looking back or walking stealthily. Any surveillance team would be watching the Evans house, sure that he was in there trying to wait the team out.

Sure enough, no shout rang out behind him, no alarmed footsteps pursued him, and he made it back to the busier restaurant district unchallenged. He stuffed the wadded up jacket into a rubbish bin and hurried to catch a train back to Charing Cross Road and his little apartment. Sleeping on the floor wouldn't be great, but it couldn't be helped. He hopefully would only need it for tonight anyway. With the large amount of currency stuffed into his rucksack, he could afford better accommodations later.

He tried not to think about the sudden spell of possession he encountered earlier. He would like to pretend his enemies were purely mundane, if the Septimus Order could be called that. But he realized that he was being drawn into a struggle of unknown, yet immense proportions and that the Septimus Order was only a tiny, infinitesimal part of the big picture. And just where did a little boy named Harry Potter fit into it?

While Harry Potter lay fighting for his life in St Mungo's Hospital; while Albus Dumbledore schemed, thinking he was the only puppet master on the stage; and while a man named Ernst Drexler contemplated volumes of arcane lore, Richard Evans moved through the city nights, troubled, being drawn further and further into things which he did not understand. But he would understand soon enough. But it may be too late to make a difference.

4. The Balance Shifts

Chapter 4: The Balance Shifts

1

He was ready.

Lucius Malfoy was sweating slightly as he stood before a table in his secret chamber beneath the drawing room floor. Upon this table sat three objects. Such was the dark magic encapsulated in these objects that they appeared to distort the air above them, as heat-waves above a furnace would. Normally such an effect would not be visible, but within this chamber was a specialized magic suppression and revealing field, designed by previous Malfoys to house any number of disparate objects, many of which could not coexist within a certain area. By enacting the field, it enabled the residents of the manor to store sometimes conflicting objects within the same space.

Like these objects on the table in front of him.

A little black diary, a cup with the emblem of Helga Hufflepuff, and an ugly ring with a black stone.

The ring had been the toughest to obtain. It had taken him nearly four weeks of poking at the ward scheme around the decrepit shack in which it was housed before he was at last able to store it in a lead-lined box. After, of course, shaking off the strong compulsion to put it on and see wonders.

Oh yes, he recognized what it was. Lucius Malfoy, however, had no one he wished to resurrect from the dead, and so was able to shake off the charm ... Mostly.

So now here he was, four weeks after the Hogwarts term had ended. It hadn't been easy, chasing down the Dark Lord's Horcruxes, but it was actually easier than he'd feared. Once he came to the realization that the Dark Lord did in fact survive (as revealed by Draco) he began trolling through the Dark Lord's past. Having the diary with T.M. Riddle on it made things much easier. With his access to high placed Ministry records, he was able to find out about a man named Gaunt attacking a Muggle named Riddle in the thirties, which led him to the village of Little Hangleton. Discrete enquiries led him to the Gaunt shack and there was the ring Horcrux.

Chasing it down had taken the first two weeks of summer. Knowing the Dark Lord as he had, Malfoy was reasonably certain he wouldn't have stopped at two. Over-the-top was the Dark Lord's motto, so he figured on at least three and as many as five. Since one of the Horcruxes had been given to him, Malfoy wondered if another might not have been given to a different Death Eater. And who, other than himself, was a better candidate for most favoured? Why Bellatrix Black of course. For this mission he had to enlist the aid of Narcissa, but he told her only that he needed some papers out of the vault. Since Bellatrix was a convicted criminal and since Narcissa was her sister, they were able to gain access to the vault, after, of course, bribing one of the goblins. While Narcissa wasn't looking, Malfoy had slipped the only object that was sitting isolated on a high shelf: the cup with Hufflepuff's mark upon it into his bag. So that was three down.

Malfoy was reasonably certain there was at least one more hidden out there. Since there was a Hufflepuff Horcrux, logically there was probably at least one other founders item out there. Like the diadem of Ravenclaw, or the locket of Slytherin, or both. Malfoy, however, had absolutely no idea where either one might be. So he would settle for destroying these now and finding the others later.

It was almost a sacrilege to destroy a priceless founders-era relic like the Hufflepuff cup, but it had to be done. The Resurrection Stone he couldn't care less about; all that mattered was getting this over with.

At first he had been afraid, the old fear of the Death Eater for his master. But, after reading more on the effects of splitting the soul, however, and after realizing just how far his former master had gone down this road, Malfoy was more certain than ever that this task must be completed. Such abominations should not be allowed to exist. The world would be much safer without an insane man with the power of Tom Riddle running around in it.

Malfoy levitated each object individually into a specially designed kiln built to withstand the heat and force generated by Fiendfyre. With a clang, the door shut, making a sound like a tiny dungeon door. The walls of the kiln instantly began to grow red, then blue, then white with heat.

And then things started to go wrong.

# # #

Somewhere in a forested area of Eastern Europe, a black cloud hung, to all appearances, motionless in the still summer air. For a square mile surrounding this cloud, no birds sang, no squirrels chattered and no snake slithered in the dead leaves on the forest floor. Even the trees seemed to slump, appearing to voice a collective moan of death agony into the unseasonably cool air. Limbs were twisted, and trunks were distorted. To all outward appearances, this area of the forest was dead.

The truth, however, was far from the appearance.

The man once known as Tom Marvolo Riddle was raging. More, he was afraid. He was more afraid than he could ever remember being, even more afraid than when he was four and David Casper from the orphanage had him cornered and was beating him with a stick because he was talking to a snake. That same feeling, of being cornered and trapped and helpless, was prevalent now, overwhelming his rage at being in this condition.

As he fought desperately to maintain his tenuous grip on life, Tom Riddle remembered what had brought him to this point.

# # #

He Apparated silently into the outskirts of a small village called Godric's Hollow on Halloween. Tonight he would eliminate his final thrust to power, the final threat to his growing ascension, named in prophecy, named by fate.

It had been a very long crusade, his rise to power. Nothing more than an obscure orphan from London, Tom Riddle quickly rose through the hierarchy of Slytherin House at Hogwarts, taking on the name of Lord Voldemort, rallying the purebloods to his cause. It was surprisingly easy to do so; they respected power, and power was something Tom had in spades. He had forged connections with various unsavoury strata of wizarding society across the world, learned questionable magics, arcane spells and potions. He had come back to Britain, very changed and different. Yet sometimes he wondered. Where had all his power come from? He knew, even if no one else did, that his origins were less than ideal to produce the powerhouse that was himself. A mating between a near squib and a Muggle did not often produce such a powerful wizard as himself. So what had happened?

He had been plagued with horrific dreams all his life, dreams in which unseen, nebulous horrors stalked the darkness, dreams of depravity and war-torn landscapes. Even he, with his dark, twisted soul, found himself shuddering at some of these dreams, which felt more like memories than dreams. One time, he could've sworn he was present at the murder of all the first-borns in Israel, an atrocity mentioned only in passing in the Bible. Tom had attended chapel at the orphanage and was vaguely familiar with some biblical concepts, but this…

He shuddered as he recalled…

You watch with glee as the Judean infants are torn from the arms of their screaming mothers. Those who protest in a more physical manner are brutally and efficiently subdued by the Roman soldiers in your command.

The fathers who run to their families' aid are threatened with swords, and those who will not be cowed are hacked down. The cries of the parents and children alike are music to you, their pain and anguish exquisite ambrosia.

Only infants of one month or younger may be taken, and only in and around this little town south of Jerusalem. You wish it could be all the children for miles around, but your limits have been set.

Finally all the helpless, squalling infants have been piled in a clearing in a nearby field. The soldiers hesitate in their duty. You scream at them to follow their orders. You pull a sword from the nearest and wade into the tangle of tiny arms and legs. You swing the short, broad blade back and forth in a scything motion, feeling it slice through smooth skin and soft bones as easily as a heated knife through ripe cheese. Tiny crimson geysers shoot up, spraying you. The spilling insides steam in the cold air.

You laugh. You don't care if the soldiers hang back. You'll gladly finish the job yourself. And why not? It's your right, isn't it? After all, weren't you the one who told that doddering old fool, Herod, that the King of the Jews was rumoured to have been born in this very area within the last week or two? Weren't you the one who convinced him that this was the only sure way to guarantee that his little corner of the world would pass on to his sons as he has planned? …

He would always wake from these dreams, shivering and sweating with fear. But by the light of day, they were forgotten again. As time went on, though, he found himself wondering more and more if he was the master of events, but again only in the times of solitude. The feeling of self-doubt was a foreign one for him and he quickly shed his misgivings.

By the 1980's, his domination of the Wizarding world was well under way.

Now, he was on his way to eliminate the last threat to his power. A new and promising young Death Eater by the name of Severus Snape had overheard part of a prophecy in the Hog's Head pub in Hogsmeade, before getting tossed out on his ear by the proprietor.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches,

Born to those who have thrice defied him…,

Born as the seventh month dies….

Lord Voldemort did not know the rest, unfortunately. Perhaps he should've waited, but he was so close to finishing his rise. The Ministry of Magic was almost done for, one final thrust and it would be in his hands, pathetic bunch of fools that they were. Only a few more moves, and he could go about the purification of the world.

Voldemort sneered under his hood at the decorations in the town and the silly costumes the filthy Muggle children were wearing. Fools, he thought, if only they knew…

Dead leaves crunched under his boots as he glided up the high street of the town, listening to the stupid Muggles singing in the pub and the random knocks on house doors as the children scurried about like the cockroaches they were, collecting those disgusting sugar-filled foods. He could see the lights of the house he was looking for as he concentrated on the secret his spy had given them. Fools, he thought again, placing their trust in the wrong person … True Gryffindors, the whole lot of them.

Voldemort turned up the path and opened the gate with a lazy wave of his wand and glided silently up to the front door. Another lazy flick of his wand and the door was blasted off its hinges and slammed into the floor, cracking into pieces.

"Lily! It's him! Take Harry and go, I'll hold him off!" James Potter hollered. There was the quick patter of light footsteps and a baby's surprised squeak.

Voldemort laughed a high laugh. "Really, Potter? You are going to hold me off? What on earth do you think you could possibly do to oppose Lord Voldemort? Avada Kedavra!" And just like that, James Potter was dead, lying unmarked and still on the living room floor. The stupid idiot had left his wand on the coffee table. Stupid Gryffindors!

Voldemort chuckled mirthlessly and stepped into the house. He could hear frantic footsteps upstairs, the bang of a door, and the scraping of furniture. Silly Mudblood, he thought to himself. As if barricading the door would help.

Voldemort stepped over Potter's body and ambled casually up the stairs, twirling his yew and phoenix wand in his fingers. He was enjoying himself immensely. Tomorrow all the world would know. They would know that not even prophecy could stand in the way of Lord Voldemort.

On the right side of the hallway, a brightly painted door was firmly shut against him. There was not a sound behind it. Voldemort gave his wand an almost negligent wave and the door, and all the furniture barricaded against it, was blasted into pieces. Stepping casually through the debris, Voldemort entered the nursery.

Lily Potter was standing in front of the crib, arms spread wide, blocking her baby from sight. Her red hair fanned out behind her, her green eyes flashing pleadingly up at him.

"Stand aside, girl," Voldemort hissed, raising his wand. "You need not die this night."

"Please, not Harry," Lily cried, spreading her arms a little wider as if that would help. "Kill me instead, please, not Harry!"

"Stand aside, you silly girl," Voldemort cried, exasperated. Severus had requested her life be spared, and, feeling particularly generous, Voldemort agreed. But she would still die if she insisted on standing in the way.

"Take me instead, I'll do anything, just please, don't kill Harry!"

Voldemort sighed, as if dealing with a particularly stubborn child. "Very well, Mudblood, as you wish. Avada Kedavra!"

Lily Potter slumped lifelessly to the floor. Voldemort ignored her and moved to stand in front of the crib.

The little baby stood shakily in it, holding on to the railing, the same green eyes as his mother's meeting Voldemort's red ones.

"So, Harry Potter. You are the child of my downfall," Voldemort said musingly, twirling his wand idly in his fingers.

"You hardly seem threatening at all, child. But I suppose I can take no chances. Avada Kedavra!"

As soon as he said the fatal words, Voldemort knew something was wrong. The jet of green light issued from his wand, traveling impossibly slowly toward the child's forehead, his green eyes staring at it curiously. Voldemort began to move slowly, oh so slowly, out of the way, but he wasn't fast enough. The green light hit the child, and bounced back off, leaving a small cut shaped like a bolt of lightning. As soon as it hit, time sped back up again and the green light, now a weird yellow colour, zoomed back and slammed straight into Voldemort.

Pain ... Agony beyond all imagining. Voldemort's body was blasted to ash, and his soul rose up, a black mist in the cool air of the nursery. The magical backlash slammed into the walls and ceiling, causing them to explode outward in clouds of debris.

Thus he remained until that doddering idiot Quirrell had found him last year. He didn't know how long he had hung there, suspended between life and death, neither here nor there. It wasn't until he had possessed Quirrell that he had found out. Ten long years he had hung there, but those ten years had felt like eternity.

Then the idiot had failed to retrieve the Philosopher's Stone. Tom had found out about that when he had possessed Quirrell. Dumbledore was moving the stone to Hogwarts. It of course was most likely a trap, but there wasn't a whole lot that could be done to Tom in his current form

But Quirrell had failed, thanks to Harry Potter. And when the boy's touch had burned Tom's host to ashes, Tom was afraid for the first time. At first he had believed that the boy had survived and he had been kicked out of his body through the protection of the boy's mother's sacrifice, and that had undoubtedly played a part, but as he was ejected forcibly out of his second body he began to wonder if something else was protecting the boy. Something darker. Something inimical to him.

That theory seemed to be borne out when, as the weeks passed, he felt himself getting weaker and weaker. He felt as though he were hanging on a cliff, his fingernails slipping, slipping toward the edge, the feel of the gaping maw of death moving closer and closer.

And then it felt as though a shock wave hit his incorporeal essence. He found himself suddenly zooming across Europe until, with a wrench, he was floating in the air of a confined space. Standing in front of a magical oven was Lucius Malfoy.

"Malfoy! What are you doing?!"

It sounded stupid, but that was the best the former dark lord could come up with. He got the feeling that whatever was happening was bad, very bad … for him anyway.

Malfoy whirled and went white. Floating in front of him was a black cloud that he instantly knew in his gut was the essence of his former master. But before Malfoy could say anything, the black cloud gave a horrible shriek: it had looked in through the porthole and seen the three burning objects.

Everything happened very fast then.

Just as the objects in the oven started wailing, two more small balls of black mist came soaring through the wall and joined with the larger black cloud. It then started to head for Lucius Malfoy, undoubtedly attempting a possession. Before it made contact, however, a smaller ball of pure blackness detached itself from the main mass and dove out through the wall, and the main cloud was sucked, screaming, into the oven.

All of this happened in a space of about two seconds, not giving Malfoy time to do anything. He collapsed into a chair and stared at the oven, where the three objects he had placed in there had burned into piles of ash. Of the black cloud that had joined them, there was no sign. It appeared the Dark Lord was dead.

Malfoy shakily rolled up his sleeve and stared wonderingly at the bare skin of his forearm. He was free. Free from servitude, free from being at the beck and call of a deceiving half-blood monster.

But was he?

He remembered seeing the smaller cloud of pure blackness zooming out just before the mass of spirit had gone into the oven with the rest of its fragments. That small cloud was blacker than black, blacker than midnight in a goblin mineshaft. What was it? And what did it mean?

Lucius Malfoy shivered as he stared at the hot oven.

2

Adrian Polard grinned to himself as he pedalled his bicycle carefully through the twisting sidestreets of his small village in Wilkshire. He studiously obeyed all the traffic laws that had been drummed into him, carefully watching for oncoming vehicles and pedestrians and always riding carefully.

Adrian was a janitor at the local town hall, a job which he had held and cherished faithfully for four years, ever since he had graduated from the school of kids with special needs. Every day, his sister packed his lunch bucket with his favourites, a peanut butter and olive sandwich, an oatmeal cookie and a carton of apple juice. He always took great pains to ensure that he arrived precisely on time every day, be it rain or shine or snow. With Adrian Polard on the job, the floors of the council chambers were always meticulously cleaned, the bathrooms gleamed and the old oak banisters on the stairwells shone so bright you could see your reflection in their burnished surfaces. Nobody approached their job with more zeal than Adrian Polard.

Now, on this, the last day of his life, Adrian was carefully riding his bicycle down Melbourne Lane, which fed into the town square upon which the town hall was located. As he turned the corner into the square, he was looking the wrong way for a brief second, admiring the shape of a girl sunning herself on a bench by the post office. This lapse in attention was the last one he would ever make.

Adrian heard the sound of squealing breaks which sounded as though they were mere inches away. Jeerking his eyes away from the girl on the bench, his mouth dropped open as an out of control delivery van roared at him, the driver apparently having lost traction on the twisty street. Adrian jerked on his own brake handle, but it was already far too late. The back of the van broadsided him and Adrian catapulted off his bike, crashing into a light pole and breaking his neck instantly. The last sound Adrian Polard heard was the girl on the bench screaming.

# # #

At the exact same instant that poor, simpleminded Adrian Polard's neck snapped, the small black cloud that had been violently ejected from the remnants of Tom Riddle's spirit floated out of the cellar of malfoy Manor. Pure, undiluted evil was loose upon the wind, touched by only the barest remnant of the humanity it had once been. And it was looking for a host. It would not die, not now, not due to the actions of a stupid wizard.

And then it felt a subtle shift, the tiny vibration of an escaping soul. And with a thought, expending the last of it's inertia, the black cloud moved into the abandoned body of Adrian Polard, the goodhearted man who only wanted to go on being the best janitor he could be.

The cloud had also taken with it a good portion of Tom Riddle's magic before it was ejected, and it used this to quickly make its host invisible. Before the first bystander could arrive, the thing formerly known as Adrian Polard rose to its feet, its neck fully mended and waved a hand in a wide arc, causing the witnesses to remember only that the van had skidded and slammed into the lightpole. And then it left with a small pop, drowned out by ambient noise.

The Adversary was alive again.

3

If this was dying, it wasn't so bad.

So Harry Potter thought as he floated in the deep darkness of coma, buried under a wave of somnolent nothingness.

He didn't remember a whole lot of things. He knew he was a wizard, but it was like being aware that he was a boy-it had no real significance to him, it just was. He remembered that something very important had happened to him recently but he didn't know what that was either.

Gradually he became aware of more. He had changed, somehow, changed in a fundamental way that was not all that good for him. But the nature of that change eluded him.

After a while, fragments of memory began to drift by, ghostly faces walking with him in this emptiness.

"Always wanted a dragon, ever since I was a kid…"

"I can teach you to brew glory, bottle fame…"

"We could all have been killed or worse, expelled…"

Then those past ghosts faded out and he was left floating beneath the surface of his mind, separated from reality by a thin gauzy membrane that nonetheless dampened all perception. More faces floated past. They thundered nonsense syllables at him, locked away behind the thin gauzy barrier of unreality, and then drifted away again.

He floated like that for an eternity, but no time at all. Gradually, like water seeping into a leaking boat, he became aware that something was happening to him. He remembered Vernon's angry purple face and the sharp, searing second of agony as something slammed into his forehead, sending him into this dark nowhere. He vaguely remembered two opposing forces yanking at him, as though he were a piece of rope between two Dobermans, pulling and yanking at the ethereal substance of his being until, with a mighty wrench that was more intuited than felt, he snapped back to wherever he was.

Gradually, the gauzy curtain that separated him from reality began to tear away in thin filaments. Finally, after he knew not how long, he woke up.

The first thing he became aware of outside the realms of coma was a nurse bustling on the other side of the room. She was straightening the get-well cards on the bedside table of a patient who was battling the last stages of Dragon Pox and separated from the rest of the room by a magical ward which was used to prevent the disease from spreading. The nurse was moving rapidly and efficiently, humming to herself.

Harry watched for a while, content to observe and not speak. He didn't feel much of anything actually. He knew he should be feeling something; after all, his uncle had put him here (just where was here, exactly?) and he should be angry or sad or something at that realization. Right? Right?

Yet all he felt was a kind of numb detachment. He remembered Ron and Hermione, and was aware they had been friends, but all he could garner was a kind of memory of the affection they had shared. He wondered if his emotionlessness was permanent as a result of his head injury.

The nurse came over to him after straightening up the other patient's area. She adjusted his pillows, looking down at him but not taking any special notice. My eyes have been open before, he thought. That's why she hasn't said anything.

"Hello," he said.

The nurse spun on her heel, eyes wide. "Dear sweet Merlin … you're awake! We didn't think it'd happen…"

"How long have I been out?" he asked, his voice dry, like a puff of wind in the desert.

"Four weeks! My but you were in a terrible state. I'd better get the Healer. What a miracle! I'm all a-flutter!"

And before he could ask anything else, the nurse, who Harry thought looked vaguely familiar, was hurrying out of the room, still muttering about miracles.

Before Harry could ponder on the possible identity of the nurse, he was drifting away again. Despite being in a coma for four weeks he was exhausted.

# # #

"I swear he was awake!" said a voice in the distance.

"I believe you, dear. If he woke up once he'll no doubt wake again," said another voice, this one in soothing tones.

Harry moaned slightly and opened his eyes. "Where am I?" he asked in his desert wind voice.

"Oh good, you're back with us," said the soothing voice. Harry couldn't see much beyond the white surgical mask the man was wearing. He caught sight of a shock of brown hair and blue eyes, but that was about it. Behind his right shoulder hovered the nurse with a tray of instruments and a pitcher of water. Right now that water looked to be the most precious thing in the universe, and Harry wanted it, wanted it very badly. His tongue lay on the floor of his mouth like an agonized rootlet in a place of drought; his lips felt as cracked as old paper.

"Water," he croaked, and raised his hand weakly.

Before the nurse or the Healer could do or say anything, however, the water pitcher levitated off the tray and shattered in the midst of its wobbly arc of descent toward Harry. Water poured all over the floor and a piece of ice bonked off the end of the nurse's nose. The fragments of the pitcher, however, vanished into thin air.

There was a tense silence. They stared at him. Harry felt like a bug in a box.

"Um, what happened?"

"Well, that was … interesting," said the Healer in the mask, and he moved to Harry and started waving his wand.

"My name is Healer Robin Johnson and I have to ask you some questions. Do you remember your name?"

"Harry Potter. I want to know where I am."

Ignoring him, the Healer continued. "Do you know your parents' names?"

"James and Lily Potter. Where the hell am I?"

"Time enough for that later. Where do you live?"

"Number Four Privet Drive, Little Whinging …" he coughed, "Surrey."

"Do you know your age?"

"Eleven, unless I've had a birthday."

"And do you know when that is?"

"July … thirty-first … Now, what the hell is happening?"

The Healer had put away his wand, but to Harry, it appeared as though he didn't really want to meet Harry's eyes. Like he was afraid of Harry or something. The nurse continued to stand there with the tray of instruments, still looking at Harry like he was a bug in a box.

"You received a massive blow to the forehead which resulted in a fracture of the skull and a couple of bone fragments embedded in your frontal lobe. In addition, you had some torn neck ligaments and other minor soft tissue damage. You collapsed instantly to the floor upon being struck and your ... uncle did not do any follow through, so the damage is a lot less severe than it otherwise might have been.

"The long term effects of such an injury have yet to be determined, but I will say that it is extremely lucky that you are alive. By all rights, you should've died, especially since you were found lying on the floor of a locked room and had, by all indications, been left there for two days."

"Who found me? And once more, where am I?" Harry asked. He should've felt surprised, but all he felt was a mild academic interest at finding out the extent of his injuries.

"You are at St Mungo's Hospital. Poppy Pomfrey and Amelia Bones found you. You have been in a coma for four weeks. Your … relatives are in jail, and won't ever be seeing you again.

"In jail? I didn't think Dumbledore would go for that."

"I don't believe he had much of a choice," Johnson said with a bit of a grin. "As I understand it, Madam Bones handled the case personally."

"So what's next for me?

Johnson gave him a strange look, but answered him anyway. "Well, we're going to have to give you some cognition and magical aptitude tests. The fact that you are performing accidental magic is worrisome," he said, glancing at the water on the floor. "For now, though, it is more important that you rest."

"But I've been resting for four weeks."

"Then another night won't hurt," said the Healer inexorably, producing a vial of potion and advancing on Harry. He had the same look Madam Pomfrey got when one of her patients was being irascible.

With a resigned grimace, Harry downed the potion and sank once more into velvety blackness.

4

Robin Johnson turned to the nurse after administering the Dreamless Sleep potion to Potter. "Go and get me Healer Palmer and have her come to my office. We have much to discuss."

The nurse gave a last wary glance to the curled up form in the bed and scurried away, taking the tray of instruments with her.

Johnson stared thoughtfully at Potter, before he, too, exited the room and headed for his office.

The past four weeks had been interesting for him. So far, the real identity of the patient in that room had not been leaked. Johnson had spoken severely to the nursing staff on that floor and had threatened them with severe consequences should they breathe a word that the patient in that room was not actually named Roger Stewart. Amelia Bones had intimated to the press that she had Potter under Ministerial protection at a secret location, once the news of the trial of his relatives had gotten out.

There was only one problem. Down at the other end of the hall was Molly Weasley, who had been heavily sedated ever since she arrived. She had been ranting nonstop at the Healers trying to treat her and had to be drugged up to get some peace. Johnson had heard that the Weasleys were close with Potter and, if one of them were to wander down the hall peeking into rooms … well, things could get interesting in a hurry. The Ministerial protection fiction wouldn't hold up for long, but he didn't want somebody at his hospital responsible for ending the status quo.

Dumbledore had been by as well. He had intimated that Potter would be far safer at Hogwarts under the care of Poppy Pomfrey. While Johnson had faith that Poppy was one of the best healers in the country, he couldn't shake the suspicion that Dumbledore wanted Potter under his crooked nose for some other reason. Johnson had let him know in no uncertain terms that the young man would be staying right here, thank you very much. Dumbledore, though obviously displeased that his will had been thwarted, had gone away.

Bones had told him that it was Dumbledore himself who had placed Potter in the home, and that she had him somewhat over a barrel over it. If word got out that Dumbledore, the so called leader of the light, had just dumped their savior in an abusive home and left him to rot for ten years… well. Even someone of Dumbledore's reputation might not survive for very long. So Dumbledore wouldn't be making too much of a fuss, he hoped.

Arriving at his office, Johnson slumped tiredly behind his desk and stared unseeingly at the files stacked helter-skelter on it.

What was happening with Potter? Did his outburst on the day of his arrival here

(The darkness hunts me)

Have anything to do with his injury? Johnson knew that sometimes people with frontal lobe injuries suffered emotional stunting or reduction in their decision-making capabilities. Potter really wanted that water and had performed accidental magic to get it, much like a child, or one without inhibitions. In addition, he showed absolutely no reaction to the news about his relatives, none at all. All he was interested in was what was going to happen to him. His speech was not at all indicative of childlike thought patterns, however, and he seemed to exhibit normal responses to inquiries, although the young man had been awake barely fifteen minutes.

In other words, Johnson was worried that Potter might have lost a conscience as a result of his injuries. And just what did he mean by

(the darkness hunts me the darkness…)

What he said when he got here? Four weeks on, the thought of that moment in the dim hospital room still gave him chills. Sometimes, he would wake up in his narrow bed in his narrow apartment, with the sounds of the vast metropolis boiling around him and think, 'the darkness is coming," and then have no recollection of it in the morning. Sometimes he knew on a primal level what Potter was talking about. But that knowing, too, blew away like gossamer by daylight.

A knock on the office door interrupted his reverie. "Enter," he called, raising his gaze from his clasped hands.

The door opened, revealing the short form of Healer Theresa 'don't call me Tess" Palmer, wearing her usual smile. She was their one and only Muggle-trained psychologist on staff, only having joined this past year. She had retired from her Muggle practice, having left the wizarding world shortly after Grindelwald's defeat for personal reasons which Johnson had never found out. Now, in her retirement, she needed something to do, so she volunteered her time at St Mungo's, not that many wizard-trained Healers knew anything about psychology.

She was perpetually cheerful. She was a grandmotherly type who insisted on bringing baked goods to the staff lounge and always had a kind word for anyone.

"You wanted to see me, Robin?" she said, entering and settling across from him, setting her briefcase on the floor at her feet.

"Thanks for stopping by, Theresa," he said, smiling back at her. "Got a new patient you might be interested in."

"Let me guess, Harry Potter, with the brain injury?" she said innocently.

"How…who…" Johnson was spluttering, much to the amusement of Palmer.

"Relax, Robin, nobody leaked," she said, still smiling. "I worked it out with the stories about his relatives' trial and his disappearance."

Johnson nodded, taking a deep breath to get a hold of himself. "Don't do that to me!" he said, throwing a mock glare at the thoroughly unrepentant witch in front of him, who was continuing to smile. "I was about to have a heart attack!"

"Good job we're sitting in a hospital then, isn't it?" she asked, before allowing the smile to fade and become serious. "What's wrong with Mr Potter that requires my particular expertise?"

Johnson too lost the lighter mood and settled into Healer Mode. He told Palmer about the full extent of his injuries and what had occurred earlier when the young man had awoken from his coma. "So, what do you think some of the long term effects might be? I went to Oxford but I only took the basic psychology requisites for my medical degree and I'm not fully qualified to diagnose such issues," he finished, looking over his fingers.

Palmer sat for a moment, her face wrinkled in thought. At last, she turned from staring at the magical window and spoke.

"Without actually testing him, I can only speak generally. But, often times, injuries to the frontal lobe can result in severe emotional stunting. They basically lose inhibitions and have a hard time understanding the consequences of their actions. They will have to relearn the difference between right and wrong and even then, they will only understand the concept academically, sort of like explaining colour to a blind person. Have you heard of Phineas Gage?"

"Wasn't he that guy who had a rod slam through his head?"

Palmer nodded. "The rod is actually on display at Harvard Medical School across the pond. Anyway he had a similar injury to Mr Potter from what you're telling me, but actual reports on his behaviour after the accident are pretty sparse, or exaggerated. In other words, there's no real way to tell what Mr Potter will be like before hand."

"Do you think there will be cognitive consequences? What about his magic?"

Palmer sighed and turned her hands up in a helpless gesture. "It's hard to say, Robin. We will need to conduct a whole lot of tests and I will probably have to call in other specialists. And this will not work very well if you are trying to keep Mr Potter's identity a secret."

Johnson closed his eyes and massaged his temples. "And if this gets out, the papers will ignore all the medical diagnoses and claim he's probably a dark wizard. Great, just bloody great."

"I'm afraid so. And, with what might be wrong with him, it's entirely possible that he could be the worst dark wizard our world has ever seen."

There was a heavy silence, while Johnson thought of the shattered water pitcher, and replaced it with a shattered body.

The two Healers sat and stared at each other in the quiet office.

5

Ron Weasley was bored. At first, when his mother had been remanded to the care of St Mungo's he thought they would find something really wrong with her. But as the weeks dragged by, she continued to just sit there in a drugged stupor. They had to put her on some kind of weird potion regimen to quiet her ranting. Unfortunately, Ron and his father knew nothing about psychiatry, and even if they had, they couldn't afford a psychiatrist, not with the fees the hospital charged. So Molly Weasley languished away, drugged to the eyeballs with nobody doing anything for her. They had not discovered a weird esoteric spell rotting away her brains. They had not discovered a curse changing her behaviour. She just sat there, drugged and humming to herself.

Today, on the twenty-ninth of July, Ron, Percy, Ginny and their father were sitting in the coffee shop on the fifth floor, debating what to do with their mother. Unbeknownst to them, however, a small beetle was hidden in a planter, listening to every word.

"I don't know what to do, kids," Arthur said tiredly, taking a sip from his tea and staring sightlessly at a spot on the table-top. "She seems fixated on the idea that we have to make friends with Harry Potter so we can drain his vaults."

"Has anyone thought of a structured Obliviation?" Percy wondered, nervously toying with his Prefect badge.

"That won't work. It's an idea she has, not a memory. Obliviation can't really change behaviours, only hide the symptoms. Much like the drugs she's on right now."

"There's got to be something we can do! What about the Muggle world?" Ginny said, still distressed after four weeks. Of all of them, save Arthur, Ginny was the one most affected. She had no idea that all those sessions where her mother taught her to cook and sew were just lessons geared toward grooming her to be the perfect wife for Harry Potter. To find out she had been so used by her own mother made her very sad.

"I don't think the Muggle world will work. You see, in order for your mother to get help, she has to admit she has a problem, and she isn't doing that."

"There's another problem, Father, the bill. We can't keep her here indefinitely," Percy said.

"I know," Arthur said. "Your brothers are helping me a little bit and the Ministry is helping some, but since I'm not part of an important department I don't get much in the way of benefits."

"What'll happen if we can't pay the whole bill?" Ron wondered.

"Well then, she'll have to come home. And Merlin help us then," said Arthur sadly.

Finally Ron couldn't hang on to his news anymore. "Dad, I found out something earlier today while I was walking back from the end of the hall by Mum's room. Harry's here!"

The beetle listening in the planter almost fell out in shock. The reactions around the little coffee shop table weren't much better.

"Are you sure?" Arthur asked, staring at his son.

"Yeah, absolutely. The door was left open and I saw that hair, I spent a whole year with the bloke, I'd know it anywhere. I stepped in and there he was, scar and all."

"Since I haven't seen anything in the paper about him being here, I guess they're trying to keep it quiet. Let's not go shouting it about," said Arthur gravely.

"Yeah, he's had enough trouble already," said Ron. "I hope those Muggles he's living with didn't do anything too bad to him."

"The word being put out is that he's under Ministerial protection at a safe house somewhere. I can see why they're keeping his actual location secret though," Arthur mused, toying with his teacup.

The beetle in the planter had heard enough. She would come back with her photographer and get pictures of the Weasleys with their insane mother and then, oh baby, then she would get the money shot. The Great Boy-Who-Lived, lying trussed up in a hospital bed, the victim of common Muggles! Oh yeah, this would keep her on the front page for weeks!

With a gleeful buzz, the beetle shot through the leaves and up through a ventilation duct toward the Prophet's offices. Within half an hour she would be back with her photographer and the shit would really hit the fan, to quote the Muggles.

Meanwhile, back at the table, the talk had turned once again to their mother.

"What if we cast her out of the family?" Percy wondered.

Arthur flinched. "I'd rather not do that if I can avoid it, but yes, that's one option."

"It may be the only option we have, Dad," Ginny said softly. "She's fixated on Harry and seems to want me involved. If she's not a family member she can't use me in whatever scheme she might cook up."

Ron couldn't help himself. "Come on, Ginny, you know you've been dreaming about Harry Potter all your life."

Ginny turned red, but did not answer, instead becoming very interested in the potted plant next to their table.

"Stop that, Ron," Arthur said tiredly, shooting a quelling look at his son. "Ginny, I think you might be right, but as long as she's under our roof we can keep an eye on her."

"For a while anyway. We have to go back to school in a month and you'll be at work all day," said Percy reasonably.

"There's that," said Arthur. "Well, I guess we'll have to see what happens."

At that moment, a most unwelcome voice intruded on their family discussion, causing Ron's pet rat, Scabbers, to come crawling out of his pocket just at the time that a photographer clicked his camera, wafting purple stinky smoke across the coffee shop.

"Arthur! How charming, and with your kids too. What brings you here today?"

"Rita," Arthur responded coldly, turning in his seat to eye the reporter. "Didn't think they'd have you walking the beat at the hospital these days. By the way," he said, turning to his children, "this is Rita Skeeter and she works for the Prophet." He didn't bother introducing them to Rita.

Rita ignored the cold reception and pulled up another chair, leaving the photographer to stand in the corner behind the potted plant. "I heard your wife was a patient here, Arthur. And what's this I hear about Harry Potter?"

"Whether or not my wife is a patient here does not belong on the pages of the Prophet, Rita," Arthur said, still coldly. "And I have no idea about Harry Potter."

Continuing to ignore the snubs, Rita pressed on. "I heard your son Ronald was Potter's best friend. Isn't it funny that now that he's been introduced to the wizarding world nobody's heard from him in four weeks? What do you all think of that?"

"I think it's time we got going, boys and Ginny," Arthur said, causing all of them to rush to comply. "Nice seeing you, Rita," he lied, and then hurried away with his brood in tow.

Rita smiled at her photographer. "Let's go see if we can find Potter. I bet he's down on the fourth floor by Weasley's room. Ooh boy this is going to be big."

By the time Robin Johnson had been alerted (he was off shift at the time) Rita had already procured a photograph of a sleeping Harry Potter and had left the hospital. The nurse responsible for leaving his door open was transferred to another floor. But the damage was done.

6

It had been a rather dull four weeks for Richard Evans.

Most of the time had been spent in his new squalid little apartment watching the Leaky Cauldron and subsisting on takeaway food bought with his stash of money taken from his uncle's house. Since the floors he was living on were full of other short-term transients, the delivery people went unremarked; he was just one more customer.

He hadn't actually seen a whole lot of traffic going into the Leaky Cauldron. He guessed most wizards used their crazy fireplaces to travel there, trying to avoid as much contamination from the so called Muggle world as possible. He only saw what he guessed were Muggle borns going in and out, and in the entire four weeks he stayed in his dingy little apartment he only saw four of those.

The building where he was living frankly was horrible. Next door on his right was a guy who played the harmonica. Every morning without fail he would pick up the mouth organ and blare show tunes or old rock tunes. The guy was old as Methuselah and had, according to him, had that same harmonica since his days in an old orphanage. It had been stolen by a kid named Tom Riddle but had mysteriously returned to him. Now he was washed up on the shores of senility and living out his days in a ratty apartment and playing that self-same harmonica to annoy everybody else.

On the other side of him, there was a newlywed couple who never seemed to get out of bed. The springs on that bed were very loud and the headboard thumped rhythmically against the thin walls. Richard grudgingly had to admire their stamina.

Yeah, the place was a dump all right.

Richard decided to hole up here for a month to shake any surveillance details that might be watching him. It was possibly the longest month of his life. Luckily he was able to sneak to a bookstore and buy a few novels to keep him occupied or he might've gone stir crazy. But if there was one thing army life had taught him, it was how to hurry up and wait.

Now, on the twenty-ninth of July, Richard decided it was time to meet Argus Filch. It had been a month since his break-in and his rather unsettling experience. He was confident that the Order's stooges didn't know where he was, and had probably relaxed their vigil. If he was careful he would be able to evade them for a while longer. That was, of course, if they didn't have Filch under surveillance too. If they didn't, it would be nice to have an ally. The worst part of this whole ordeal was the feeling that the whole world was pitted against you, the feeling of watching over your shoulder no matter where you went. It got to a man after a while. Just yesterday in the bookstore he had spied a clerk watching him and he had to stop himself from making a mad dash to the back door. It was only later, back in his apartment that he realized that his fly was down.

Not for the first time, Richard wished he had dared to get one of those Smartphones. With one of those, he could use GPS to plot out an exact route to Filch's location, and plot out different routes to get there.

Unfortunately, there was a flip side to the GPS. Just as he could find locations, so too could his enemies find him. All they would need was access to the phone company's computers and they could triangulate upon his phone signal using two cars with mobile trackers and a home base to coordinate. The same technology that suggested locations of interest and eateries based on your location could also bring guys with guns.

No, no mobile phones for him. This meant he was stuck using the old fashioned method of atlases and compasses.

After plotting his probable route, Richard folded up the map and stuck it in his rucksack. Before heading out on the motorways he needed to get that car out of King's Cross's car park.

Richard stepped out into the bright morning sun, mercifully leaving behind harmonicas and eternally rutting newlyweds. Traffic was heavy, it being close to the lunch hour on a major thoroughfare.

After taking the tube to King's Cross, he consulted the map Filch left him and, sure enough, he found the little Fiat parked on the bottom of the multi-level car park complete with up-to-date MOT inspection paperwork in the glove-box. The interior of the car was an oven, so, after waiting a few minutes, Richard pulled out into traffic. He was also pleased to note that the car did not have GPS or a satellite radio setup; no means of tracking him through it either.

Richard was glad, very glad, that Filch had given him a map. The UK had a population of sixty million people or thereabouts and most all of them were crammed into this area, spreading out from the Thames in a vast sprawling metropolis that seemed to go on forever. The country was about 90 thousand square miles, smaller than the state of Oregon, but had nearly three times as many people. Very easy to hide, if you kept your head down and didn't draw attention to yourself from nosey neighbours.

The little car rode reasonably fine-at least, once you got used to the wheel being on the wrong side and the stick shift and the congested traffic at lunch hour. When he had driven the car left by his uncle at the house out in East Anglia, he had almost crashed into ditches more than once; it was luck the roads were pretty quiet up that way. But he still wasn't entirely used to the crazy British cars and roads. He hoped to hell he wasn't stopped by a traffic cop, because if he was, and they threw him in jail-and it was most likely they would, once they found out he was carrying … well, if he was in jail, he'd never ever get back out.

Traffic was everywhere-bicycles, five-door sedans, pedestrians, motorcycles. The streets were narrow, since London had not originally been built to provide space for automobiles. Cops patrolled in pairs in bullet proof vests, and surveillance cameras mounted on poles dominated every street corner. Big brother in action. He was watching your every move. Richard hated it. He was damned lucky not to have been spotted thus far on those fucking cameras. Lucky indeed ... But how long would his luck continue to hold?

At long last, after navigating through contradictory exchanges, he found himself on the M-25 which was kind of a beltway around London. London was really one of those cities were you couldn't get there from here; you had to go left to go right and go right to go left. Fucking confusing city to drive in.

A little while later, he got off the M-25 and onto the M-11, and headed northeast, toward his destination, finally in a little less traffic.

The address was in a little place called Newmarket, a small cottage set off on a side street away from many of the other residences.

Richard drove beyond the house, hardly giving it a glance. He continued on down the narrow lane to the end and drove onto a smaller, gravel road, which led off into the countryside, eventually coming up behind the address he had been given. He didn't spot any cars or anyone paying particular attention to the area, so he parked the car in the car park of a small grocery store and hiked back to the street upon which the house sat. Birds sang in the trees and a soft wind blew, smelling like grass.

Satisfied that he wasn't being watched, Richard hefted his rucksack a little more securely on his back and strode up the cobblestone walkway, up the two steps to the front porch and knocked on the door.

The door opened slowly, revealing a rather cadaverous man with an unpleasant face and an asthmatic wheeze. Behind him, a dust colored cat crouched on the floor, eyeing him balefully.

"Richard Evans?" the man said, eyeing him warily from pouchy slightly bloodshot eyes. Richard noticed with some alarm that the guy's hand was behind his back.

"In the flesh," he responded cautiously, not moving an inch. He had a strong suspicion that he would be shot in the back if he tried to leave anyway.

"Sure you wasn't followed?" the man, whom Richard assumed was Filch, asked, looking around in a paranoid manner at the deserted countryside.

"Absolutely," Richard soothed, understanding all too well what brought it on. He knew the kinds of enemies they faced.

"Well you'd better come in then. Hope you didn't buy one of them damn mobile phones?"

"No, of course not, far too easy to track with the built-in GPS. Although I wish sometimes I had one; London is confusing as hell."

Filch nodded and beckoned Richard inside. Just as Richard turned to close it, however, he heard an all too familiar clicking sound. "Don't move," said the suddenly hard voice of Filch.

Richard froze and felt stupid. Had he walked into a trap? Had he been so desperate for an ally, any ally, that he had become too complacent and willing to trust anyone who had sounded like he wanted to help?

"Are you armed?" Filch asked, sounding a little farther away than before. This guy clearly knew how to intimidate.

"Yes, I have a pistol in an SOB holster and another one in my backpack," Richard said, figuring honesty would be the best policy here. How had he gotten himself into this mess?

"Reach behind you with two fingers and pull it out slowly by the handle. Do not turn around, drop it on the floor and kick it behind you," Filch instructed. "Remove the rucksack and drop it on the floor behind you as well."

Richard did as he was told, feeling naked. The sound of the hard plastic of the Glock hitting the wooden floor sounded like the sealing of his tomb.

"Now, turn around slowly and take two steps to your left," Filch instructed.

Richard did so, and noticed with grudging approval that Filch was a dozen feet away, holding an Ithaca Mag-10 shotgun. Serious weapon. It only fired three cartridges, but you only really needed one. Just one cartridge would be enough to cut him in half, literally.

"Good. Now you see that doorway to your right? Take off your shoes and socks and walk through it, slowly."

Richard looked over there and saw a metal detector wired into the doorjamb. This guy was good, he thought as he complied. Most commercial metal detectors had a dead zone down by the floor because a lot of shoes had metal braces in the soles. Detectors were designed to ignore shoes because they would beep anytime a guy with good footwear passed through.

Richard walked through the doorway into a Spartan living room. The metal detector beeped once.

"What's in your pocket?" Filch asked, his hands tightening on the shotgun. Richard paused and then, remembering the car keys, pulled them out slowly with thumb and forefinger and dropped them on the floor.

Without further instruction he walked through the metal detector again, which remained silent.

"One more test," Filch said, reaching into a breakfront and holding up what Richard recognized as an RF scanner. Filched wanted to be sure he wasn't wired. This guy was seriously, seriously paranoid. He also exchanged the shotgun for a combat Magnum, which was much better for close in work. Necessary because he had to wave the wand clos to Richard to avoid air contamination of stray RF signals that might be naturally occurring. And he couldn't do that while holding a two-handed weapon.

Richard stood perfectly still while Filch wanded him and breathed much easier when the scanner did not beep.

# # #

"Sorry about that, Richard," Filch said only semi-apologetically a few minutes later as they sat at his kitchen table. "Can't be too careful these days."

"I would've done the same," Richard reassured him. "I know what we're up against."

"Do you really?" Filch asked, leaning forward intently. "Do you really understand?"

Richard thought of his wife and daughter, burned up at the beginning of the summer. He thought of the several times he had woken up only to find that he had wept in the night. And he thought of his father's charge and the histories he'd shared before Richard had left home. "Yes, I understand. The bastards burned up my wife and daughter earlier this summer," he whispered.

"I'm sorry for your loss, and I am not surprised. Want to tell me about it?" Filch asked, his face looking compassionate in spite of its rather bitter and unpleasant cast.

Richard paused. "First, will you tell me how you and my uncle met? I'm sort of confused."

Filch nodded thoughtfully. "I wasn't able to go into a lot of detail in the letter I left for you, was I?" He paused and took a sip of tea.

"You know about the ritual, Richard?"

"You mean the one the wizards did back in the 1600's to hide magic?"

"Yes, that one. Well, as you probably know, every so often there are descendants of those families who performed the ritual that are born squibs, unable to do magic. Price we paid for peace, I guess you'd say. I was one of those, although I didn't find out until your uncle told me about it. Until then I was just the useless squib of the family," Filch said, his face screwing up in bitterness. "They threw me out of the house when I was fifteen, back in 1955. I bummed around the UK until '68, doing odd jobs in the regular world, since the magical world looks down on squibs like they're trash.

"Albus Dumbledore then approached me, asking if I'd come be the caretaker at Hogwarts, since Apollyon Pringle was retiring. Not entirely clear why he approached me, maybe thought he was doing me a favour since I had trouble finding a job at the time.

"Your uncle found me through old records he'd managed to get a hold of somehow. I think the goblins might've helped him but he never would say. He put me in touch with your father late in the eighties after you had joined the army. Between the three of us we were able to put together most of the puzzle pieces of what's going on. How much do you know?"

"I know a little bit about the Conflict, the Septimus Order, the Adversary and the Sentinel. I know the ritual to hide magic fits in somehow. And I have a bunch of stuff in a house out in Essex full of evidence about the Order's meddling through history. I'm ashamed to say that I didn't really pay too much attention to my father growing up."

Richard paused and took a deep breath, smelling the smell of a building that didn't get used much.

"I saw some things in Iraq and even then, I didn't take the Order and their sponsors too seriously. I didn't start to do that, until that thing in New York, last September. I mean, I knew there was something going on out there, something beyond what we were told in the history books. But it all sounded so… so…"

"Crazy?" Filch said, non-judgmentally.

"Well, yeah," Richard said uncomfortably. "I didn't allow cell phones in my house and I didn't tell my wife about the trips I took to the library to check newspapers, but that was mostly out of habit. It all sounded so wild, this vast secret organization controlling everything. Life isn't a Ludlum novel. Even after what I saw out in Iraq I didn't want to believe, I guess."

Richard suddenly felt a need to justify himself to this stranger. "How could I know!" he said, getting off the threadbare chair and pacing rapidly around the kitchen. "But if I had paid more attention to my father, Amanda and Rachel would still be alive! I should've-"

"No!" Filch cut across him sharply. "Do not start down that road, Richard, you will drive yourself crazy if you do and the things that need to be done will not get accomplished! Place the blame squarely where it belongs: on the Order and those whom they work for!"

Abruptly Richard felt all the self-loathing and rage drop away, leaving him tired and depressed. Not for the first time either. He'd been going through fits like this all month.

He slumped into the chair and buried his face in his hands.

"We came over from the States on this rickety boat," he said in a flat, dead voice, speaking to the floor. "Hired a guy out of a little outfit on the coast of New Jersey ... Longest trip of my life."

"We arrived at this little place my uncle had rented out. Near a place called Norwich. They found us shortly after, I'm not sure how. Probably asked around on the coast about a father/mother/daughter unit that arrived and traced us that way."

Richard shuddered, still staring at the floor. Filch stayed silent, perhaps realizing that Richard needed to get this off his chest.

"I remember how it all went down. I doubt I'll ever be able to forget…"

# # #

"Well, Evans, it seems we found you. Did you think you could be hiding from us forever?"

Richard came coldly awake in the dead of night to the sound of a vaguely Eastern European accented voice, wafting into his ear on a tide of stale garlic breath. He instantly tried to move but discovered a large knife was pressed into the hollow at the base of his jaw where it met his ear. The tip felt as cold as an iceberg and was pressed hard enough to draw a small drop of blood. The pain was excruciating; that was one of the more painful pressure points on the body.

"Oh no you don't, asshole," Garlic said, wiggling the knife like a reproving finger and causing even more sharp spikes of pain to fire down Richard's neck. "You're gonna put your hands behind you nice and easy like or I'm going to cut off your fucking head. But before I do that I'm going to let you listen to what happens to your wife and kid."

Almost crying with futility and cursing himself for allowing his army training to drop so far as to allow them to be ambushed in their own home, Richard grudgingly did as he was told. Instantly he felt zip cuffs slap around his wrists and the pressure against his jaw eased. A slow trickle of blood continued to run down his neck, irritating and itching, burning with the fire of his failure.

"Very good," Garlic purred, jerking up Richard by his cuffs and making him cry out involuntarily as his shoulders were wrenched brutally. "Come with me now, we got a little bit of entertainment planned for you."

As if on cue, he heard what was unmistakably the sound of his little girl, crying out in agony. Then the sound of a sharp slap that sounded like a fist hitting her in the face.

"You fucking bastard! She's only five years old! By God if you hurt a hair on her head I'll kill your fucking asses!" Richard began struggling now that the knife was away from his jaw, but he had barely taken three steps when there was a massive blow to the back of his head and everything went grey for a little while. Like the voice of a mocking spirit, Garlic's voice floated down to him.

"I don't think so, Richard. You see, we have you right where we want you. We could kill you now, but that would be so boring. Don't you agree, boys?"

Richard became suddenly aware of three other shapes floating in the room. Blinking and still dazed from the blow, he could only tell that one of them had a strawberry coloured birthmark on the side of his nose and another one had a wart on his right eyelid. The final shape moved from behind him, tucking a blackjack into his leather jacket, obviously what had slammed into the back of his head. Lucky he wasn't unconscious yet, since hitting a guy in the head was not an exact science. Hit him too hard and he never wakes up, don't hit him hard enough and he keeps right on fighting. Lastly there was Garlic whom he still hadn't seen and was still holding the cuffs.

"Absolutely right," Blackjack said, now standing in front of Richard, who was starting to blink his eyes into some kind of reasonable focus. He still had a concussion and his ears were ringing like mad, but he was bound and determined to go down fighting.

"Damn straight," Birthmark and Warty chimed in, grinning like ghouls.

"We're going to show you what it means to mess with us," Richy boy," Garlic said, shoving him forward toward the door. "We're going to leave you alive because let's face it, what the fuck can you do, eh? And it'd be sooo much fun to watch you suffer!"

Richard became aware of his wife and daughter crying in agony. Their wails tore at his heart, just what the hell were these assholes doing to them? He became aware of rhythmic slapping sounds and then was all too aware of what was happening. Before he could start struggling though, the barrel of a Sig Sauer nine millimetre was shoved into his eye so hard it made his head hurt worse and eye water. "Don't even think about it, fuck-face. It'll go a lot worse for them if you do."

Richard almost-but only almost-started crying. His wife and possibly his daughter were being raped in the next room and he was cuffed, with a gun in his eye and unable to do anything about it. He would've struggled anyway if it wasn't for what Garlic said next from behind him.

"By all means struggle. You might even overpower us, I know your history, Richy boy. But in the next room is a guy with an H&K MP5 submachine gun. Know what that'll do to your brat and whore?"

Richard gave up. He was stuck. And in spite of his every effort, a single tear trailed down his face.

They dragged him outside and tied him to a telephone pole a couple of yards from the house. They snaked a bike chain through his cuffs and locked it around the pole with a padlock, and stuffed a wad of dirty cloth into his mouth, securing it with duct tape. "Now watch and learn," Garlic said, and they all laughed as they walked away.

It was then that Richard realized he was only about twenty feet from the window to the room where Amanda and Rachel slept that night (Amanda had a bit of a cold and Rachel had stayed with her that night.) As he realized that, the window came open with a bang and he began to hear more clearly what was going on in that room.

"Your precious Richard ran away saving his own skin," he heard what was unmistakably Garlic's voice. "He left you both here for us to play with, isn't that nice of him?"

"Liar!" Rachel spat at him. "He wouldn't do that."

There was roaring laughter at that. "No? Let me read you the note he left behind. Dear Rachel, I'm sorry but I don't think I can win here. There's money in the cabinet and tickets back to New Jersey if you want them. Love, Richard," Garlic read in a mocking falsetto.

"Brave man," a voice Richard didn't recognize sneered. "And oh so generous, leaving these two delectable pieces of meat for us. Man, look at them tits!"

"You touch one hair on my daughter's head and I'll rip your balls off and feed them to you," Rachel said menacingly.

They all laughed again. And then the sounds started. And most heart wrenchingly of all was when Amanda had cried and wailed for him to save them, while they were doing horrible things to her. Richard scraped his wrists bloody and raw trying to get away from that telephone pole. Tears and snot collected on his face as he almost choked on the wad of cloth, trying to get it out, trying to tell his wife and daughter that he was trying to save them, begging them not to believe Garlic's lies. He heard his daughter violated, his wife clubbed into submission, bones breaking, everything a father and husband shouldn't have to hear. And it was all his fault. If he'd only listened… if he'd only taken more precautions… The only thing that was merciful about that night was that he didn't have to see what went on. But hearing-and imagining- was bad enough. Worse, in fact.

Finally, after both girls were reduced to sobbing wrecks barely audible over the sound of the wind blowing across the countryside, Garlic came back out, looking immensely satisfied with himself. Richard saw one scratch on his cheek … and blood on his arms up to the elbows.

"Well, Richard," I hope you're satisfied with yourself," Garlic said, smiling and showing yellow teeth like corn kernels. "You ran away and left your wife and daughter to the bad men," he grinned. "And now, you're going to watch them die. Isn't it nice to know that you could've prevented all this, Richie boy?"

Richard levelled his most hate-filled glare at Garlic, who just laughed and wandered off. Over the sounds of whatever they were doing out front, Richard could still hear his daughter crying. His heart broke all over again.

Then an acrid stench floated to him through the open window. Gasoline. They were going to burn his wife and daughter alive in front of him. To teach him a lesson. To show him they shouldn't be messed with.

The stench grew thicker and thicker. They were laying a pattern through the house and were going to lay a gasoline fuse out the front door, lighting it up as they drove away. While his wife and daughter lay upstairs, no doubt chained to their bed. Listening as the flames crackled below, probably choking on smoke. Dying slowly, and agonizingly … all because of him.

Finally they were done. Gasoline fumes hung in the air like a miasma, sweet and acrid all at once. Garlic came back around and stood in front of Richard.

"Well, young Richard, I hope you've learned something tonight," he said in a mockingly pedantic voice. "Do not mess with us. We know how to find you whenever we want you. And let's face it, who'd listen to you anyway, other than paranoid fuckers like your daddy?

"We're going to let you live, because my superiors find you rather amusing. And because it's always fun to see a strong man battered into despair and hopelessness. How does it feel knowing that your wife and daughter died because you were too arrogant, hmm?"

Garlic laughed once more and went behind Richard. He heard the padlock click and fall to the ground. "We're leaving now. If you work fast you can get outa here before the flames spread to you. Have a pleasant life and always remember this lesson."

Richard immediately started struggling, twisting this way and that, scraping his wrists even rawer. Garlic just chuckled and crunched off through the gravel. Then there was a whoosh as the gasoline fuse went up, followed by the sound of tires squealing away into the night.

The fire roared hungrily through the house, crackling and hissing like an angry beast. And then, the screams came.

"Daddy! Daddy! Please come save me, daddy!"

It was his daughter, wailing in agony as the smoke built up, funnelling through the stairwell to engulf the upper floor, suffocating the two most precious people in his world.

Then the windows exploded outward, sending dangerous shards of glass whizzing in all directions. Richard finally managed to get his cuffs free of the chain and dropped to the ground not a moment too soon. A piece of glass shaped like a scimitar whickered through the air with a whooshing sound, thudding into the telephone pole right where his neck had been with a solid thunk. There were no more screams from within the house and, as tears came to his eyes both from the smoke and grief, he caught the faint aroma of burning flesh. An aroma that was not new to him. Even if he had been able to save them, it was too late now.

# # #

The kitchen was silent after Richard finished his tale. Filch had gone a little more white and his arthritic hands were clenched on the table.

"Jesus," Filch said. "I knew they were ruthless bastards but this…"

"Yeah I know," Richard said, still in that dead voice. "I wake up sometimes at night still hearing them scream for me to save them."

"What are you going to do?"

Richard's head came up and Filch almost shrank back from the hatred and anger in his gaze. "I'm going to finish them," he said, rage dripping off his every syllable. "I'm going to make those bastards and the bastards they work for sorry they were ever born. They may have started it but I'm going to be the one to fucking finish it."

"That's what I wanted to hear," Filch said, nodding approvingly. "Now, I suspect the first thing you'll want to do is get some magical friends. I may be from the wizarding world but I can't do magic. I suggest you make friends with Harry Potter though. He may only be turning twelve in two days, but he's a polarizing figure in our world and he's going to be able to garner a lot of influence.

"Your letter mentioned him. Why's he an influential figure?"

"As I said in my letter, he survived an attack by Lord Voldemort, or as the magicals call him, You-Know-Who or He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. He was waging war on us through the eighties, although of course he started in secret way before that. He was within no more than days of taking over the country. Then he attacked the Potters, Harry survived and was dubbed the Boy-Who-Lived."

"Ah, and since he's so admired it'd be easy to get people to follow him," Richard said, only halfway following the conversation after having relived the most horrific night of his life. He knew the nightmares would be bad when he fell asleep.

"Exactly," Filch said, deciding not to mention the haunted look in the younger man's eyes. He really didn't need to be reminded and Filch suspected he would never stop torturing himself.

"You said you were working with people, who?"

"Mostly other squibs," Filch replied. "The magicals think they kept the details of that ritual completely secret, but a lot of us found out anyway."

"What's your group's interest in this? Surely it was in the best interest of the wizards to perform that ritual and disappear?"

"Of course it was. But the problem is, never mind that they upset the balance of magic and doomed a hundred generations to be squibs, they were messing with the collective consciousness."

"The what? My family was involved with this mostly because of the Septimus Order. The whole wizard/squib thing wasn't really a factor for us as far as I know."

"That's only part of it, Richard," Filch said, leaning forward intently. "You see, when they did that ritual all those years ago, they were messing with the thoughts and memories of the entire world, not just a few Muggles. Have you ever heard of something called the Noosphere?"

"Vaguely. Some kind of a philosophical constant or something, wasn't it?"

"The whole concept is rather obscure, so I'm not surprised you don't know more about it. Basically, when the interactions between all the self-aware creatures on this planet reach a certain critical mass, it will give rise to a separate consciousness. Eventually that consciousness will gain form."

"So what does this have to do with-?"

"Hold on, I'm getting to it," Filch said a little impatiently. "By performing this ritual, those wizards back then dealt a pretty severe blow to the sentient biomass. In the sixteen hundreds, magic and witchcraft were real and a part of many people's lives. By relegating it to the realm of myth and legend it took away a lot of interactions. The noosphere recovered, but we don't want anything like that to happen again. And, more importantly, if the noosphere dies, so too ends our status as a sentient world."

Richard suddenly got it. "If the Noosphere dies, the Otherness will snatch us up."

"Precisely. My group is watching the Septimus Order, because we think that it was Otherness sponsored. It is their job to bring the Adversary back to power, and thus the Otherness."

Richard closed his eyes and tried to picture it. His father had tried to tell him, about the two vast, incomprehensible cosmic forces called for lack of a better term the Ally and the Otherness. One would give us benign neglect, important only in that it kept the world from its opposing force, giving no more thought to us than a collector of rocks would give each individual rock. The Otherness, however, would begin to warp any reality it got a hold of into something more like itself: Utterly inimical to human life and happiness ... Truly Armageddon.

"What happened to the Adversary and the Sentinel?" Richard wondered dredging up old memories.

Filch shrugged wearily. "The last we heard, the Adversary had been trapped in a remote Keep located in Romania's Dinu Pass sometime back in the fifteenth century. The German army broke him out in May of 1941, but after that, we don't know what happened to him, although we have guesses."

"And the Sentinel?"

"Of him, we have no intelligence. He seems to have dropped off the face of the earth. When the Adversary appeared to have been destroyed back in World War II, we think the Ally released him."

Richard felt icy dread crawl up his back. "Which means it's likely he's dead by now," he whispered.

"Yes," Filch said heavily. "Most likely."

"So this means that the Adversary might be completely unopposed in this sphere."

Filch's silence was all the confirmation Richard needed.

"That means there isn't a whole lot we can do," Richard said, defeated.

"No! It means we need to find out what the Order's plans are and disrupt them. We must stop The Adversary from gaining power again. He will make Voldemort look like a child throwing a tantrum."

"And you think Harry Potter might be the answer?"

"If not an answer, he will at least be valuable to us and get us more resources, both human and financial. The Potter's were very wealthy."

"Where is he?"

"Supposedly in Ministry for Magic custody. His Muggle relatives' went on trial for attempted murder last month. We don't know where he went after that. Our best chance to get hold of him would probably be when he returns to Hogwarts. I can slip him a letter."

"Attempted murder? What the hell happened to him?"

"His uncle, Petunia's husband that is, hit him in the head with a poker apparently. I think he's at our hospital, St Mungo's, under an alias."

"Nice guy," Richard muttered. "So, right after getting hit in the head, we have to lay this on him. What does Harry Potter have to do with any of this, other than being my cousin? Where's the Adversary? What's the Order up to? They want to kill me because my family has been tracking them for years and they're afraid of what I might reveal, but what are they doing other than that?"

"Yes, our information is not complete and we don't have an asset within the Order to give us more. We don't have a lot of time either. Haven't you felt it? Something is going to be happening soon."

Richard felt the gooseflesh again. "Yes," he said quietly. "I had to sneak into my uncle's house in London to find your letter and while I was there, something … took me over and made me say that the darkness was coming. I had to dodge an Order stooge too."

"Exactly. Something big is happening and it is important that we find out. I think we're on the brink of something very bad very soon."

"So our game plan is to get hold of Harry and get him on our side, and use his influence to get him to help us and possibly get assets inside the Order?"

"Roughly, yes. Only we're going to tell him everything and not manipulate him. Albus Dumbledore-that's the headmaster of Hogwarts-is fond of manipulations and half-truths. If we don't step in, I'm afraid Harry Potter is going to be a subject in one of his schemes. And Dumbledore doesn't have nearly all of the information we do, so he could hasten the decline."

"I've heard of him: Head of the Wizengamot and the International Confederation of Wizards. If anyone should have all the information, it's him."

"No, you don't understand. Albus Dumbledore cannot be trusted with this kind of information. Powerful both politically and magically as he may be, he would try to take control of the situation, using memory charms and compulsions to get his way, not caring that he might be blundering down the wrong path, not willing to listen to alternative views other than his own. For instance he still thinks Voldemort is the greatest threat we have to deal with. We both know that he's the least of our worries."

"You're saying he can't be made to see reason?" Richard said sceptically. "When the welfare of the entire world is at stake?"

"Perhaps he can," Filch conceded, "but he is fundamentally convinced that he knows better than anyone else. If we went to him and told him our story, he would probably twinkle his eyes at us, offer us a candy and Obliviate us to keep us from spreading our story around. Maybe he'll listen and maybe he won't but I'd rather not take the chance."

"I'll have to trust your judgement since you know him," Richard said, a little unwillingly. "But I'd rather not have someone with that kind of political power working against us too."

"I see your point. Tell you what. I'll get everyone in the group together along with Potter once he's been filled in and we'll have a vote on whether or not to include Dumbledore. Good enough?"

"I suppose so. I don't really have a vested interest in Dumbledore. I'd just rather not have him working against us. Who all's in your group anyway?"

"Mostly a bunch of old ragtag squibs like myself, as I said a bit ago. Although, we do have one large asset that has provided us with invaluable information. His name is Croaker, and he's head of the Ministry for Magic's Department of Mysteries."

"Someday you'll have to tell me how your group all came together," Richard said, glancing at the clock and seeing that they had been chatting for almost two hours. "Why don't we go and find some dinner. I've been surviving on bad takeout ever since I got here."

"Capital idea. I know a nice little place we can go to. Just let me go get ready. And, Richard, you're welcome to stay here. I'm reasonably certain the Order doesn't know about this house."

Not having many other options and having brought just about everything he owned in his rucksack, Richard was quick to agree. And thus, Richard Evans forged his first alliance in Britain.

7

The next morning, Harry woke up very abruptly from a hazy dream he forgot the instant his eyes came open. He sat up, not feeling the least bit of aftereffect from his brain injury. In fact, he felt much better than he could ever remember feeling in his life. Somehow, stronger, and more in command of himself… Something had changed.

Harry got out of bed and stretched, feeling very alive. He rotated his neck, feeling nothing wrong with it. His forehead felt normal too, no scarring at all, other than the faint outlines of the lightning bolt scar he was famous for. Harry smiled. He was on top of the world.

He knew something was weird about this-after all, he had been in a coma, flat on his back for a month. He should be at least a little weak and wobbly. But, like hearing the news regarding the fate of his relatives and the full extent of his injuries, he couldn't bring himself to care too much. It was like all his emotions were dead for the most part, or at least severely dampened.

Before he could think further, his room door burst open and a short, grey haired woman and the Healer (Johnson was his name, right?) burst in.

"Mr Potter! Get back in that bed this instant!" the woman shrieked, waving her wand at him.

"I don't think so," Harry said, and before she could blink the wand had left her hand and soared into Harry's.

They all gaped at him. Like a bug in a box. Harry felt himself getting angry and the windows rattled. It appeared anger was still something he could feel.

Johnson was the first to react. "Mr Potter, calm down. We mean you no harm. Take a deep breath and relax. We're Healers, not dark wizards … that's it, just relax."

Harry did just that and finally got a grip on himself. "Sorry," he said, handing the woman's wand back to her. She was continuing to stare at him like he was a funny new species.

"Quite all right. But Healer Palmer does have a point, you have been in a coma for four weeks and you need your rest."

"I'm perfectly fine," Harry said. "Since my relatives are in jail, I guess I need to find a place to live."

"Ah young Harry, I was hoping to address that very issue with you," said a most unwelcome voice. The room's three occupants turned to see the lurid-robed figure of Albus Dumbledore standing in the doorway, twinkling benignly at all of them.

"Mr Dumbledore," Johnson said, turning to face the old schemer and enjoying the wince as he was addressed as 'Mister', "your presence is not required at this time. This patient is still in need of care and will need to remain under the auspices of St Mungo's until either Healer Palmeror I deem him ready to re-enter society. The question of his placement thereafter will be decided at that time, dependent upon the recommendations of both myself and Healer Palmer."

"It simply isn't safe for Mr Potter to be out here and so vulnerable. I must insist that he be remanded into my care where he can be kept safe behind the wards of Hogwarts."

"Mr Potter is right here and will be staying at the hospital until they let me go, Headmaster," Harry said, interjecting himself into the conversation. "Might I remind you that we are out of school and what I do or do not do during my holiday isn't any of your business?"

"My dear boy, I'm only trying to look out for you," Dumbledore twinkled, ignoring the confrontational tone. "Madam Pomfrey is perfectly capable of seeing to any care you might need."

Harry was getting angry again. He remembered all the thoughts he'd had about Dumbledore and his motives before Vernon smacked him with that poker. Given that, Harry didn't want to be anywhere near the man until he absolutely had to. That he was barging in, uninvited and unwanted lent fuel to the fire. Albus' magnificent two foot beard lit up in a fiery flume and burned very fast toward his chin. Only Palmer's quick reflexes saved the old man from a severely burned face.

"Out," Harry said in a flat voice.

Dumbledore, looking ridiculous with no beard, shuffled out of the room, looking cowed. Johnson slammed the door shut after him.

"Well that was interesting," Palmer remarked, seating herself at the desk under the window and eyeing Harry with that speculative gaze again. "Harry, we're going to have to do some tests with you to find out why your magic is so wild, and we also need to find out what kind of effects that injury did to your brain. Do you understand?"

"You want to find out if I'm dumb or crazy?"

"Absolutely," Johnson spoke up before Palmer, ignoring the woman's scandalized look at his bluntness. He sensed Harry wasn't a fan of beating around the bush. "We need to find out if you need to stay in the permanent spell damage ward or if we can work with you to get back into society."

Harry nodded and didn't get angry. He liked Johnsons' direct approach.

"So what do we need to do?"

Palmer and Johnson both grinned. "Let's get started!"

8

Cornelius Fudge muttered to himself as he got off the boat at Azkaban Island on July thirty-first, clutching his newspaper and squinting against the icy ocean spray. He hated coming out here, absolutely hated it. However it was part of his duty as Minister for Magic to make an inspection of the prison and its inmates every year before August. Fudge, of course, put it off till the very last minute.

"Watch your step here, Minister," said the slow, deep voice of Kingsley Shacklebolt, newly promoted senior Auror. "It is a bit slippery."

Fudge nodded absently and stepped distastefully onto the barren rocks of Azkaban, already wishing he was back in his warm comfortable office.

Also occupying the mind of the illustrious minister was today's headlines. Rita Skeeter had uncovered the fact that Harry Potter was at St Mungo's Hospital and not in Ministry custody. She also had uncovered the fact that the Weasley woman had been planning on ensnaring Potter for her daughter so that she could help her family to Potter's vaults, complete with a picture of the entire family on the front page. The Ministry was no doubt going to be inundated with howlers and upset citizens demanding news on their saviour and expressing outrage to Arthur Weasley that his family was involved in such a plan. Yes, things were in a right mess and he resented the fact that he had to come out here to this god-forsaken rock when he had real issues to deal with.

"Good morning, Minister," said the voice of John Cristo, warden of Azkaban prison. "I hope your journey was pleasant?"

Fudge only glared at the insolent idiot and brushed past him. "Yes, a real scenic tour of the north sea," he snapped.

He missed the smirk the warden sent at the pompous minister's back. Cristo didn't like Fudge any more than Fudge liked him; this visit was something they both just had to deal with.

The Minister, still deep in thought, entered in through the massive doors of the fortress, ignoring the algae-covered rocks under foot and the howling insane prisoners. The air smelled of rot and decay from the shallow graveyard nearby, and of poorly sanitized cells and the open sewer that fed straight into the North Sea.

He glanced quickly around the office out front, which had runes that kept the Dementors away from it etched onto the walls. A magical hotplate was installed in one corner and heating charms were active on all the walls.

"Anything I should be informed about before I make my rounds of the prisoners?"

"Not a thing. Everything is just peachy out here as usual," Cristo said, settling in behind his desk and giving a slow dry smile to the Minister. "By all means, enjoy your rounds."

Fudge snarled silently and left the office, pulling his cloak tighter around him in the chill.

The prison was laid out in three floors. This first floor was minimum security with only a couple of dementors. Only those receiving light sentences were sent here. Above this floor was medium security, and on the top floor was maximum, where Dementors floated around twenty-four hours a day.

"Expecto Patronum," Kingsley said from behind him. Fudge jumped, he almost forgot the tall dark man was there.

"Thank you, Kingsley," Fudge said, appreciatively eyeing the silver lynx as it pranced ahead of them, clearing the area of Dementors.

"No problem, Minister," Shacklebolt responded. "I don't like this place any more than you do."

They made quick work of the bottom two floors before they advanced up to the top. Every prisoner was accounted for, checked off against the list Fudge clutched on a magical clipboard. Up here, though, were the remnants of the Death Eaters of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and full attention must be paid here.

The first prisoner in the cellblock was Sirius Black. The man was looking very corpselike, long matted hair hanging around him and lice visible hopping in it. Fudge shuddered as he looked into the cell.

"Good morning, Minister. Is it that time again already?" Black asked, sounding entirely too sane.

"Yes it is, Black," Fudge spat at the deranged murderer. "I hope your stay in here is comfortable, because you're going to be here for a nice long time."

Black smiled, showing off broken teeth. "I'm sure I will be, Fudge. My protestations of innocence will be ignored, like always. Do you think I can have your paper? I miss doing the crossword."

Fudge was about to refuse, but then he got a thought and grinned, thrusting the paper through the bars. Let Black find out that if he hadn't sold out to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named Harry Potter would not be in the hospital with possible brain damage.

"Sure, Black, by all means," Fudge sneered. "While we nice normal people are leading productive lives, you can rot in here with the rest of the vermin. Enjoy reading about the real world." And with a laugh, Cornelius Fudge stomped off down the corridor toward the rest of the howling prisoners.

Sirius Black debated calling something snarky after the ugly little Minister, but changed his mind and clutched his paper. This was his first bit of news since he had been tossed in here to rot. The front page drove all other thoughts out of his mind. There were two headlines above and below the fold.

Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived in Hospital with Brain Damage

Weasley Family Schemes Against Ancient Noble House of Potter

It was this latter headline that caught his attention most. Because, peering out of the pocket of a young redheaded boy in the photograph, was a very familiar rat with a mark over its right eye ... And a missing digit on its front paw…

Sirius stared at the paper. "I'll come for you, Harry. And Wormtail, you'll regret that you were ever born."

5. Hogwarts Again

Note: If you have followed this story since I first published it, please go back and read the first four chapters again. I made a few changes here and there.

Chapter Six should be up by next Friday, I hope. After that I'm not sure.

Chapter 5: Hogwarts Again

1

Harry was getting sick of hospitals.

It was August fifteen and he had been put through so many tests and jumped through so many hoops that he felt like a rat in a maze. The only bright spot in his personal life just now was the fact that he had run into Ron on his third day awake.

The morning after Dumbledore had been sent packing (that memory still managed to coax a smile from under the blanket smothering his lighter emotions) Madam Bones and an Auror who was almost a dead ringer for Michael Clark Duncan strolled into his room.

"Good morning, Mr Potter," Madam Bones said, eyeing him speculatively like everyone else had done. "Glad to see you are awake."

Irritated anew by the looks he'd been getting, Harry had to almost physically restrain himself from blurting out the first thing that came into his head: "stop staring at me like some kind of freak!" Instead, he said, "Thanks. What brings you here today?"

"A couple of things," Bones said, finally taking that look away from him and pulling some parchments out of a bag. "First, your relatives are all in Muggle prison, except for Dudley Dursley, who has been remanded into the care of his aunt. Mr Vernon Dursley is now serving ten to twenty for attempted murder, and Mrs Petunia Dursley is in a women's correctional institute for aiding and abetting child abuse."

"What did Dumbledore have to say about that," Harry wondered, once again seeing the image of a beardless Dumbledore shuffling out of the room.

Bones smiled a grim smile. "He was less than pleased, but I have him under control. Don't forget that it was he who placed you there and is thus responsible."

Harry got it. "Ah. I see."

Bones nodded, pleased. "So," she continued, "that leaves us with a problem: where to place you?"

"I assume you have suggestions?"

"Normally you would fall under the jurisdiction of Wizarding Child Services, however that would probably not be the best option just now, you being who you are."

Harry grimaced at the reminder of his fame, but it was more out of habbit than anything else; he didn't really feel much now except mild annoyance, nothing compared to the near crippling embarrassment he had felt the summer before.

"what do you suggest we do then?"

"You'll come stay with me, at least for a while. One of my young Auror trainees,, Miss Tonks-you probably remember her-has offered to take you in, but she is gone most of the day and probably couldn't provide adequate care."

Harry got irritated. "I'm not helpless, I just got a knock in the head. Why can't I just stay in the Leaky Cauldron until school starts?"

"There is a good reason, which leads me to the next item on my agenda. Have you heard of Sirius Black?"

Harry thought back, the name rang a faint bell … then he had it.

"Wasn't he the one who was supposed to have given my parents up to Voldemort?"

Bones gave him a strange look at the phrasing, but nodded. "Yes, that's the one. Well, he escaped from Azkaban this morning. The minister did his annual inspection of the prison yesterday, and today Black escaped. We think he might be coming after you."

"That doesn't make any sense," Harry said. "If he was gonna come after me, why wait until now? He's been in there for ten years, why break out now of all times?"

"We don't know," said Bones heavily. "But that doesn't matter just now. Until school starts in four weeks you'll be under my jurisdiction."

Harry thought it did matter, but also decided to hold his peace for now. He could think about it later. Despite her willingness to listen to him, Amelia Bones was still and adult and he was a child, and thus anything he said would be viewed from that lense until he could provide some kind of incontrovertible proof of his suspicions. According to the goblins, Sirius Black hadn't received a trial, but that was hardly proof; the goblins might have an agenda of their own. Harry would have to do his own digging, but he couldn't do that from the hospital. He didn't have any real objection to Madam Bones herself-at least she was sharing information with him and not keeping him in the dark like Dumbledore-but he felt like everybody was trying to make his decisions for him, working their own agendas, using them for their own ends. All he wanted to do was be Harry, damn it.

"All right, I suppose I see your point," he said. "But I think they're probably going to keep me here till school starts anyway. They're afraid I might be crazy."

"And what do you think?" rumbled the Michael Clark Duncan look-alike from the corner. An earring dangled from one ear and his head, bald as a cue ball, gleamed under the floating glass globes that provided light in the hospital.

Harry gave a start; he had almost forgotten he was there.

"Oh, pardon me," Bones said, looking apologetically at Harry. "This is Kingsley Shacklebolt, newly appointed Senior Auror. He's the one I put in charge of recapturing Sirius Black."

"Nice to meet you, Auror Shacklebolt," Harry said politely. "And I don't think I'm crazy, but they all say that, don't they?"

"That they do," Shacklebolt rumbled. "And you can call me Kingsley." He smiled, teeth gleaming white in his dark face.

They were interrupted by Healer Johnson, who came bustling in through the door, followed by a gaggle of technicians and other healers.

"Since everybody knows you're here anyway, I thought we might as well get all your tests done as soon as possible," Johnson said in an undertone to Harry, upon spying his quizzical look at all the hangers-on.

"Harry, I'll catch up with you this evening," Bones said, rising and beckoning Shacklebolt to follow her. "Lots to do, and I'm sure you're going to be pretty busy too."

"Thanks for the update, Madam Bones," Harry said, waving as they headed out.

# # #

What followed were several exhausting days of magical tests, emotional and personality tests issued by Healer Palmer, physical response and reflex tests, cognition tests … they threw the whole book at him.

Harry was sitting in the coffee shop for breakfast, already dreading the day's rounds and wishing to whomever might be listening up there that it'd be all over soon. He was in the middle of taking a drink of tea, when a familiar voice jolted him out of his mildly self-pitying thoughts.

"Harry! I've been looking for you!"

Harry looked up and there was Ron Weasley, grinning at him over a tray piled high with food.

After Ron had set down his laden tray and after the backslaps and "glad to see you're ok" stage was over with, Harry got down to what he really wanted to know. "What're you doing here?"

"It's my mum," Ron said, his face morphing into a serious expression. "Our plan didn't exactly work out."

"What happened?"

Ron told him about his mother's plots and what had been done about it, and about the fact that his family was currently out of ideas about what to do with her. "We just can't afford to keep her here forever," he wrapped up, his ears going a little red as they always did when forced to discuss his family's poverty.

Harry sipped his tea and pondered; any distraction from the inquisition, AKA the hospital staff, was welcome.

"I think your best option is to Obliviate her memory of magic and put her in a Muggle mental hospital," Harry said. "I know it's lousy, but I don't really see any other option."

"We've thought of that, but Dad says if we erase her memory of magic there won't be much of her left. Magic's all she knows."

"Exactly. She won't be a threat to anyone after that."

Ron stared at him, looking a little uneasy. "That's a little cold, don't you think, mate?"

Harry shrugged. "Just realistic. You can't keep her here forever, you can't keep her at home because you won't be able to watch her twenty-four hours a day. What else is there?"

"Yeah, I guess, but … I dunno." Ron looked at a loss for words. How could he tell Harry that this coldly calculating side wasn't like him? But then, he had been clobbered in the head with a fireplace poker. Maybe that had something to do with it. Harry was different now, not just his looks either. He had filled out from the scrawny little thing he had been and shot up a couple of inches. But his face … that was where things were really different. Instead of the open, smiling face of his friend, Ron was prevented with a blank mask that seemed to reflect nothing at all of his emotions except when it suited him to do so. It was creepy, but Ron had vowed to stick by him, and so he would.

"I guess," Ron said, reluctantly, shaking off his train of thought. "It's just … she's my mum."

Harry nodded as though he understood, but he really didn't. He had the memory of wanting to know his family, but that was all it was, a memory of emotion. He still wanted to visit his parents' graves, but now it was more like a desire to bring closure to that part of his life, rather than a real yearning to get to know them better. They were dead, end of story.

"Well there's another option," Harry said. "You could just bring her home and let her do her thing. She's not head of the family and there isn't a whole lot she can do to me, not with Madam Bones on my side."

"Yeah," Ron said, brightening. "I forgot about that. What's happened since we got off the train anyway? You wouldn't believe all the rumours flying around."

So Harry told him an edited version of his summer, about going to the bank and finding his parent' trunks (which he still hadn't oepened yet), about meeting Madam Bones and finally waking up here in the hospital three days ago. He left out a lot, but he wasn't comfortable going into full details out here in the hospital coffee shop.

"Wow you were busy," Ron said, whistling through his teeth. "Any idea when they're going to let you out?"

Harry glanced at the clock. "Well, today is supposedly my last day of tests, so I guess I'll find out after they're all done. Should be sometime after lunch."

"Well, when you're done, you're welcome to come and visit us, mate," Ron said.

"Thanks, but Madam Bones says she wants me to stay at her house. She thinks Sirius Black might be after me."

"Yeah, Dad told us about that this morning. They've put the whole Ministry on alert apparently."

"What's the whole story, do you know? I only know that he supposedly betrayed my parents."

"He cornered Peter Pettigrew on a street, killed him and blew up the street, killing thirteen Muggles. Only bit of Pettigrew left was his finger."

Then Ron shot Harry a strange look. "What do you mean supposedly?"

Harry shot a look around and, seeing nobody near, leaned across the table. "I found out at the bank that Black never got a trial," he whispered. "According to the goblins he was just tossed into Azkaban and left to rot."

"But there were so many witnesses … surely he's guilty?"

"Don't forget, Ron, we live in a world of magic and the witnesses were all Muggles who no doubt got their memories wiped later. And in a world of magic, maybe not everything is at it seems."

Ron looked thoughtful. "Maybe, but I dunno, Harry. Surely they wouldn't just throw somebody in Azkaban without a trial … I mean, it's one of the most awful places in the world, why would they do that?"

"Because it was a time of war and maybe they didn't have time for trials?" Harry had other ideas, but he left them out for now.

Ron shrugged, looking unconvinced. "Seems like maybe there's more going on than just that."

Oh yeah there is, Harry thought. "We need a lot more information first before we can know anything for sure. I gotta go to my tests, catch you later?"

"Yeah, Dad says we're going to Diagon Alley later but we'll be back tonight I think."

"Okay, till then," Harry said, waving as he headed back down to his room.

# # #

"Well, Harry, are you ready to find out what's going to happen to you?"

It was two weeks later, August fifteenth, and harry was sitting in Robin Johnson's cluttered office. The man himself smiled at him, tapping the impressively thick file on the desk in front of him. Sitting around the office were Healers Palmer, Cook, and Casey, all of whom had equally thick files on their laps, and all of whom were staring at Harry like a bug in a box. He wanted to lash out at them and smack that stupid expression off their faces. He was Harry James fucking Potter, not Specimin NO. 3530 or whatever the fucked they called him in their god damned reports.

He bit back the million things he wanted to say, not because he felt they didn't need to hear it, but because he wanted to get out of this damned hospital and among real people again, and going on an angry diatribe wouldn't help him accomplish that goal. He was getting better at controlling his magic, so the windows didn't rattle and nothing exploded while he got angry, sitting here with all these smug sanctimonious idiots who thought they knew everything about him. He could feel his magic now, bubbling like a barely restrained attack dog, ready to do whatever he wanted. Secretly he had been practicing doing things wandlessly, and it was so very easy now, now that he had no restraints on what he thought was possible.

But he said nothing of this to the gaggle of idiots staring at him, and simply said, "By all means, let's hear it."

Palmer went first. "I'm going to cut through the psychobabble and say that you appear to have very little grasp on the concept of right or wrong anymore. You will have to exercise diligence to make sure that you don't go overboard. This is balanced out, however, by your sharpened logic centers. You seem to have a very good grasp on calculating the costs of your actions. Your decision making capabilities are not off, thankfully, but you calculate your decisions more carefully than most."

Harry bit back a snort with great difficulty. That had nothing to do with his head injury; that had to do with growing up with the Dursleys. Maybe the head injury had actually knocked some sense back into him. Knocked him conscious, if you will. All last year he had been charging along like a reckless Gryffindor without weighing the costs. He vowed to change that.

"Which all means what?" he said, looking up at Palmer.

"Which all means that you're very lucky, Mr Potter," she said, flipping her thumb across the parchments in her file. "It was theoretically possible that your cognition would've sunk to infancy levels and you would be a creature of pure impulse. That would mean you'd have to have your magic bound and have to be incarcerated for your own good and that of society."

Healer Roberta Cook cleared her throat and glanced down at her notes. She was the magic specialist, the one who could diagnose problems with spellcasting, magic resistance and various other things that could go wrong with a wizard's magic.

"Your magic appears to be intact, Mr Potter, with no adverse effects. We have gotten you over your control issues, I think, but you will need to keep a close watch on your stronger emotions to ensure future success. To that end I am recommending that you learn Occlumency, which is, in its simplest form, the magical defense of the mind against external penetration. In its more complex forms you will be able to gain total recall, organize your mind and categorize your emotions and reactions. In consulting with Healer Palmer, we have both decided that you are able to handle this branch of magic and will be recommending several books for you that will guide you. Should you have any questions, you are, of course, free to ask me or Healer Palmer for further advice."

"Occlumency? External penetration? What's that form called?"

"The act of penetrating the mind is called Legilimency," Cook said. "It is only taught under strict guidelines and the act of using that art on a person without their permission is an offense punishable by a sentence in Azkban and a hefty fine. Of course, actually proving that such a breach has taken place is a very hard thing to do, so the whole field of mind arts is a bit of a gray area."

Snape, Harry thought viciously. I bet he uses Legilimency on students and maybe even Dumbledore too.

Damping his anger at the two men down, Harry nodded. "I'd love to learn this Occlumency thing. How long will it take?"

"It takes as long as it takes, Mr Potter," Johnson spoke up. "It took me nearly three years, but then I wasn't in a big hurry to learn it. I understand it took Healer Palmer here, about six months. It really all depends on you."

"Ah," Harry frowned. That wasn't very useful as an answer, but he guessed it made some sense.

Healer Benjamin Casey spoke up from his dark corner. He was a dark, brooding man, by all appearances, but he was the healer Harry disliked least out of the whole bunch. He was in charge of Harry's physical healing.

"Your brain is almost recovered," he said in his slow, nothing-is-important-enough-to-talk-fast way. "There's a tiny bit of scar tissue where the bone fragments penetrated, but I don't hink it's gonna cause you any problems. You might have major headaches every so often, and in that case you just need to lie down somewhere quiet.

"We also fixed your malnutrition, so that you are where you should be, growth-wise, for a kid your age." Casey stopped and frowned, remembering all the damage that had been done. And somebody had fed him potions to stunt his growth. The only one with the requisite knowledge of those kinds of potions was Severus Snape. Casey had watched as that man's teaching methods had steadily whittled down the numbers of healers and Aurors applying to their respective academies over the previous ten years. And Dumbledore, the stupid idiot, did nothing about it. More than once, Casey wondered if Dumbledore knew this was happening and if it was on purpose. But following that line of thought inevitably left him feeling more paranoid than smoking pot, which he had done only once with some Muggle doctor friends way back when, so he left it alone; its implications were too horrifying to contemplate.

He did not share with Harry the fact that there were stunting potions in his system. With Harry's new brain wiring, the kid might go off and try to hunt down Snape on his own, and likely get himself killed in the process. Or even worse Snape would get killed and his patient would be shunted into Azkaban. Who knew what else the Dementors might unlock in his brain?

He had showed Madam Bones and Robin Johnson his findings, however, and they had promised to investigate. Of more pressing interest to Casey, though, was the reason such potions had been given to Harry Potter in the first place. What was the reasoning behind keeping the boy weak and malnourished? Was he being set up to die? Following that line of thought also made him feel paranoid. Best to let others worry about the why and the how, he would be treating the what and leaving it at that.

"Yeah," Harry said, bringing Casey out of his retrospection, "I feel better than I have in a long time. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, Harry," Casey replied, nodding at the boy and feeling a little proud.

"So," Johnson said, after everybody had finished their reports, "this basically means that you are free to go. I understand that Madam Bones is taking custody of you at least for the foreseeable future. You will have to come back here on Christmas break for a follow-up, and possibly every six months thereafter, but all it is is making sure you're staying healthy."

As if on cue, a knock sounded on the office door and, at being bid to enter, Madam Bones strolled in, followed by a girl Harry recognized from school. She was wearing a sleeveless blouse that did little to hide her already burgeoning curves, auburn hair spilling freely over her shoulders. She smiled at Harry, who nodded back.

"This is Susan, my niece," Madam Bones said, noticing Harry's look. "She and her parents live with me and I brought her along to keep you company in Diagon Alley, where we will be going to get your school supplies."

"Hi, Harry," Susan said in a soft voice, standing shyly at a distance and smiling tentatively.

"Hi," Harry replied, forcing himself to smile back. It felt stilted and, judging by the expression on Susan's face, not very convincing, so he let it drop. Susan had been warned ahead of time that Harry was different, so she didn't let anything show, but she was a little afraid of this new version. She was a Hufflepuff, however, and Harry had always been a nice guy, if a little standoffish, so she would get to know him.

"Here's a copy of the final results for Harry's Ministry file," Johnson was saying to Bones, handing the folder to her. She shrunk it and put it in her handbag. "I'll see that the file gets updated with the proper security clearances," she said. "You've all done a marvelous job."

"Yes, I appreciate the care you've given me," Harry said, moving to stand by Susan at the doorway. "But, and I hope you don't take offense, I don't ever want to see you again in your official capacities if I can help it."

They all smiled. "Just try to avoid fireplace pokers and life changing head injuries from here out and you won't have to," Johnson said, rising from behind his desk and offering his hand. "Good luck, Harry, and I believe I can speak for all of us when I say that we are glad to see you up and about and mostly recovered."

One by one the healers shook his hand and wished him well, until at last he was free and striding through the corridors toward his room to gather his stuff.

"You're glad to be out of here, aren't you?" Susan said, walking beside him and speaking softly so that Bones couldn't hear."

"Absolutely. Thought I was gonna go spare if I stayed in here one more day," Harry muttered.

Susan smiled. "I bet. We have a big garden, so you'll be able to get as much fresh air as you want once you get to our place."

They arrived at his room and harry went in to change out of his hospital garb, while the two women waited outside, Susan with a faint blush. Harry opened the wardrobe on his side of the room. The other side was currently empty, the dragon pox guy having been moved out shortly after Harry's arrival.

Pulling out the shopping bags he had arrived with, Harry dressed in one of his new outfits. He would have to get more soon, he only had enough clothes for maybe a week.

Harry tucked the shrunken trunks from his parents' vault into his pockets. He wasn't sure what had happened to his school trunk. Hopefully it had been rescued from Privet Drive by Bones. His wand was in his jacket, so he didn't have to worry about that, at least. And where in the world was Hedwig? He hadn't seen her since the night before his shopping trip and subsequent injury. Did Vernon get her too?

"There you are," Bones said as Harry emerged. "The healers told me it probably wasn't a good idea to go to Diagon Alley just yet, so We're going to floo to my house. Ever flooed before?"

"No, only heard of it," Harry said, thinking back to a long, rather rambling conversation he and Ron had had shortly before the end of term feast. "Fireplace travel, right?"
"Exactly. We'll use the one in the lobby designated for Ministry personnel."

"Brace yourself," Susan said to Harry as they headed down the stairs to the lobby. "The trick to successful floo travel is to start walking as soon as you feel yourself slow down."

"That's right, or else you'll come flying out the other end and look very funny," Bones agreed, ushering them ahead of her into the chaotic waiting room.

The designated Ministry floo point was behind a small door tucked discretely into a corner behind a pillar, which had a plack on it giving a brief history of the hospital. Bones tapped her wand on the door and it clicked quietly open, admitting them into a small, more plush waiting room with nobody in it.

Harry and Susan followed her in and the door shut by itself, locking them in a cocoon of silence that jarred in contrast to the chaos outside.

"Now, this floo only goes to the Ministry, so there's no risk of you ending up in the wrong fire," Bones said to Harry, removing a small pouch of powder from her handbag. "Just throw a pinch on and say "ministry for Magic" and you'll go. Remember to start walking when the spinning sensation slows down."

Harry nodded and watched as Bones put action to word and was whisked away in a whoosh of green flames, after handing Harry the pouch of powder.

"I'll go after you," Susan said. "I've got my own powder here so just give that back to Auntie."

"Okay, catch you on the other side."

Harry stepped gingerly into the fireplace, tossed the powder down and tried not to flinch as the fire flared up around him in green warmth. "Ministry for Magic," he said, and was whisked away.

2

Harry arrived in the Ministry atrium, a long high room with a wooden floor and aridiculous looking fountain in the middle. He stepped out of the fire and only stumbled a bit. Looking around, he spotted Bones in conversation with Michael Clark Duncan, AKA Kingsley Shacklebolt. As Harry watched, Shacklebolt nodded, handed her a piece of parchment and wandered away toward a set of lifts at the far end of the Atrium.

Just then Susan strolled out of the fireplace and the two of them headed for her aunt.

"Good, you're both here. We're going to go home now, through those fireplaces over there." Turning to Harry, she continued, "Don't mind the odd tingly feeling you get as you arrive, that's the wards at my house making sure you don't have tracking charms or other such spells put on you."

"Auntie's paranoid," Susan smiled. "Don't let it bother you."

"Don't worry. Not being paranoid enough is what got me here," Harry said, pointing at his forehead."

"Got a point there," Susan agreed.

"Okay, let's get this show on the road, Mr Potter looks tired already," Bones said.

Indeed he was. He found himself getting woozy and sleepy at times when he normally wouldn't. They told him it would pass eventually, but it was still irritating..

After one more floo trip, Harry found himself in a rather spartan lounge furnished in modern styles. A leather sofa and matching love seat, oak coffee table and a couple of end tables, and a wall full of built in bookshelves. Two armchairs were on either side of the central fireplace, which acted as a divider for the rest of the room.

Oddly out of place against the spines of all the magic books, a Muggle stereo squatted between a row of texts on Herbology and astronomy. A row of cd's ran beneath the stereo. Harry had to crack a small smile at seeing the equipment.

"Yeah, I like Muggle music," Susan said, following the direction of Harry's gaze and shrugging. "Mum and Dad like it too, they have their own telly upstairs."

"I didn't think most wizards even knew what a television was," Harry said.

"We see no reason why we shouldn't embrace the rest of the world," Bones said, settling in one of the armchairs by the fireplace. "I have tried for years to get others to see the value of technology, but only a few listen."

Harry settled gingerly on the couch, which was on the opposite side of the room from the fireplace. Susan settled next to him; she seemed to have taken on a little bit of a mother hen role. Harry thought a shadow crossed Susan's face at the mention of the value of technology, but then he decided the firelight had played tricks on him, because a half second later she was smiling again.

"Why not? Seems the more you know about their technology the better you can stay hidden."

Bones nodded. "That's true. As I told you, we do have a department in the Ministry that watches technological trends and tries to come up with new wards to counter them, but the wizarding public as a whole still thinks Muggle technology isn't much more than a novelty."

Harry frowned. "That's kinda silly, isn't it? I mean surely there are wizards who remember what happened to Hiroshima and Nagasaki."

Bones turned up her hands and shrugged. "I think they believe that those atom bombs were once in a lifetime things, never to be repeated again."

Before the discussion could go any further, there was a knock at the door.

Instantly, Harry saw Bones go into Auror mode. "Harry, Susan, behind the couch there," she barked, and, in spite of Harry's tiredness, they obeyed without question. Harry wanted to point out that anyone wishing them harm most likely wouldn't bother to knock, but decided against it.

Bones tapped something on the wall and there was a soft chime, and a sudden tingling on Harry's skin. "Who's there?" she called out, facing the door with wand in hand.

"No one who wishes you harm, Amelia Bones," came a woman's voice from the other side of the door. "Nor do I mean any harm to your two charges."

Harry suddenly heard a familiar hoot from the other side of the door. "Hedwig," he whispered quietly, but not quiet enough. Bones heard him.

"That's your owl? What on earth-"

Still looking wary, Bones waved her wand and the door opened. Standing on the other side was a tall woman with grey hair and a kerchief, wearing a long white dress. At her side was a large black Labrador, tongue lolling as he panted. And sitting on her shoulder was a familiar, snowy white owl, who hooted and flapped her wings joyfully at spotting her wizard.

Harry stood from behind the couch and held his arm out, as he'd done countless times over the past year. The owl hopped off the woman's shoulder and landed with a gentle squeeze of her talons on Harry's arm.

"Where did you come from, eh?" he whispered to the owl.

To Harry's astonishment, he saw a faint image in his head, as the owl stared him in the eye. He saw her flying from King's Cross Station toward Little Whinging. He felt her exhilaration as the thermals held her aloft and she looked down at the goings on below, reduced to insignificance by her great height.

Then, as she was coming to roost in a tree outside her wizard's window, the lady and her dog showed up and said: "You face trouble here. Come with me and I will keep you safe."

Hedwig, though worried for her wizard, went with her. And then over the next month she didn't feel him at all, and she was frantic, worried and rather unmanageable. Until finally a couple of weeks ago, she felt him again, and Harry felt her joy. The owl broke eye contact and snuggled her head under Harry's chin. Harry was glad to see his friend back and he stroked her feathers in just the way she liked.

A throat cleared and Harry looked up from petting his owl. He had to smile a little at the tableau. The lady was perched serenely in one of the armchairs, the dog sitting at her feet and watching the room, tongue hanging out. Harry swore the animal was laughing. Amelia Bones was standing uncertainly in the middle of the room, wand half raised, looking rather foolish. And Susan was sitting on the couch again, smiling at her aunt.

"Relax," Harry said, continuing to stroke Hedwig, who had hopped to his shoulder. "She means no harm to us. And this is my owl Hedwig."

Bones lowered her wand back to her side. "Just who are you?" she addressed the newcomer.

"That doesn't matter right now," the lady said serenely. "You may call me Herta for the time being. I only came to deliver this fine bird back to her friend. And to deliver a message."

Bones finally returned to her own armchair. Harry went back around the couch and sat by Susan with Hedwig in his lap.

"What message might that be?" Bones asked neutrally, still not quite over the shock of this stranger waltzing through all her defensive wards and knocking on her door neat as you please.

The lady turned an inexorable gaze toward Harry and pinned him with a blue stare. "I speak to you, Harry Potter. The darkness is coming and you must prepare. Be wary for those who would entrap you, and maintain your alliances. And learn as much as you can. Remember, not all is as it seems."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "That so? What's this darkness that's coming? I thank you very much for Hedwig here, but that message doesn't mean much to me. It sounds like a lot of doubletalk from someone who wants to say something but doesn't feel that I'm worthy of hearing it. So just spit it out, okay?"

The lady looked unruffled at Harry's harsh tone or words. "That is all I can tell you right now. Should I have further information I will seek you out."

The lady rose, and, before anyone could stop her, had left the house with her dog. When Harry and Bones hurried to the windows to find her, she had already vanished. Harry snarled in frustration, earning a reproving hoot from his feathered friend.

# # #

Susan's parents, Esther and Godfrey, returned shortly thereafter, and Harry was introduced to them. They were a little awed to be in the presence of the Boy-Who-Lived, but that quickly passed when Amelia gave a capsulized summary of the reasons Harry was there.

She, Esther and Godfrey gave Harry permission to use their first names, at least while under their roof. They didn't hold with a lot of the stiff formality that many of the older pure-blood families insisted upon, at least in private, although they did know the old ways. Godfrey would start his instruction, to be carried on by Susan over the year, due to the fact that he was at least on paper the head of House Potter.

"why bother though?" Harry asked Amelia. "That doesn't really mean anything. I was told that there were no such things as real nobility in the wizarding world."

"That may be, but the pure-bloods still insist on pomp and ceremony and you should learn the ways and manners. As the Boy-Who-Lived, you have a position in our society. And besides, wouldn't you like to be known for yourself and not for your title? Bring honor to the title instead of letting people make up things to suit the fantasy."

Harry couldn't argue with that, and so began his instruction with Godfrey in the evenings, when he returned from his job managing the business end of a farming enterprise.

3

Before long it was September first and time to go to Hogwarts again, for his second year. Harry had gotten together with Ron and introduced him to Susan, who had become something of a limpet. She didn't talk a lot, but she was always around, like a quiet shadow. Harry kind of liked having her there. When she did talk, she revealed a rather quiet sense of humor, tempered by a keen mind. She wasn't a foppish fan girl, but seemed to just like being around him.

When he asked her straight out why she hung around him so much, she didn't blush, but smiled at him. "Because I like you," she said, and that was the end of it.

Harry also had opened his parents' trunks, finally. In them he had found their old schoolbooks with annotations in the margins, a blank piece of parchment, and most remarkable of all, a large book in his mother's trunk, with covers of stamped metal and two lines of eerie squiggles that transformed into two words:

Compendium

Srem

There was a letter with the book that told him, in no uncertain terms, never to let anyone know he had it. Absolutely no one must know of its existence. According to the letter, the book was banned in both worlds, magical and non. James and Lily had come across it while on their honeymoon, which had been a tour of Europe. On their stop in Bucharest, they had visited in a tiny, dusty antiques shop located on a side street, owned and operated by a man named Alexandru, a thoroughly unpleasant looking old fellow with round shoulders and a bald head like a coconut. According to the story, which James and Lily assumed was at least partially exaggerated, this book and many others had been liberated from a remote fortress in Dinu Pass in 1941, shortly after having been broached by the German army. Alexandru was apparently the son of one of the keep's caretakers and had ransacked the place, selling off forbidden books to unscrupulous collectors. James, having recognized the Compendium of Srem from various stories whispered about in the higher echelons of Pure-blood society, had performed discrete Legilimency upon the shopkeeper To determine the truth. Owning this book meant an immediate life sentence in Azkaban, but the risk of somebody with less than honorable intentions might find this book was too high. So James Obliviated the shopkeeper's memory of finding this particular book, took it, and secreted it in his Gringotts vault. There were many other forbidden volumes in the shop too, but this one was the worst of the lot, containing descriptions of horrific rituals, ceremonies with malevolent purposes; and of course the mythical seven Infernals, devices with horrible functions best left to the imagination.

"We know this book can't be destroyed, Harry, so we place our faith in you that you do not use this book to the detriment of the Potter family and the world as a whole. Keep it safe, guard it with your life and again, we urge you, do not ever share with anyone that you have it."

Harry had time only to briefly glance through the pages of the book, but he already saw it's incalculable value as a learning tool. It dated back to the First Age, when the laws of nature were a lot more flexible, when magic was new and wild and had yet to be harnessed into the set patterns of modern spellcasting. The First Age was only mentioned briefly in the beginning chapters of A History of Magic, and then only parenthetically as a myth, so almost nothing was known about it. Harry determined that he would try to relearn those old ways of magic, because virtually no one knew how to do anything beyond the rigid presets of prepackaged spells taught by modern magical schools.

Unfortunately he did not have the time to study the Compendium in depth, due to the virtual lack of privacy at the Bone Yard. Everyone seemed to hover around him, perhaps afraid that he might slide into another relapse. Or maybe just afraid Sirius Black would come busting in through one of the windows. It got annoying after a while.

The blank piece of parchment in the trunk turned out to be a stylized and charmed map of Hogwarts Castle, showing all the schools' inhabitants and a set of additional passages that Harry had not yet found. The small scrap of parchment affixed to the map with a Muggle paper clip instructed him on the map's use, including a zoom-in and a search feature. There was even an alarm feature that could be activated to let you know if any professor's were within twenty feet of the map's holder. The long letter that discussed the Compendium informed him that this map was version two of the creation, James and Sirius having purposely allowed Version One to be confiscated by Argus Filch, the caretaker, for the use of future generations of pranksters. Harry wondered if the Weasley twins had found it. Most likely they had, since they seemed to know all the secret passages already.

Harry had also made significant strides in learning Occlumency. Due to the fact that most of his emotions were walled away by physical trauma, he had already skipped over most of the beginning steps in the art. Legilemency operated by reading emotions. By summoning up a specific emotion, the Legilimens could then scan through the memories associated with it. This was how passive Legilimency could discern lies from truth. Since Harry was a borderline sociopath now, such a trick would not work on him anymore. So the only steps left for him was to organize his mind and memories, and to maintain that organization.

"You have to take a break sometime," Susan said to him on August twentieth, five days after his arrival at the Bone Yard. "Why not let's go fly for a while?"

Harry was sitting in the library at one of the long oak tables, studying ahead in the next year's textbooks for Charms. He started out with a set of books shelved in the fiction section by a man named Gilderoy Lockhart, filled with extravagant adventured and overlapping timelines. They were allegedly true, but Harry could see why Amelia had shelved them in the fiction section.

He was by no means a Defense Against The Dark Arts expert, but even he could tell that trapping a ghoul in a tea strainer would never work, and who gave a flying fuck about how to keep your hair in a perfect wave while fighting a banshee?

Susan was sitting not far away, idly poring over an out-of-date Auror training manual and occasionally shooting longing glances at the bright summer sky through the windows.

Harry glanced up at her, then followed her gaze to the sunny vista outside. "Yeah, I suppose that's a good idea," Harry said, shutting the Charms book and sliding it into his bag. "Let me just put this in my room and I'll meet you outside."

Susan beamed. "It'll do you some good to get out for a while, Harry. You're too pale."

Harry smiled a little. "Says the girl who's white as milk herself."

Susan blushed a little. "Hey, I'm a woman, I'm supposed to have alabaster creamy skin. You're a bloke and supposed to be tough and rugged."

"Really," Harry drawled. "I must have missed that in the manual."

"Not my fault," Susan retorted, tossing her auburn tresses haughtily. "I have proclaimed it so, no matter what the manual might say."

"Oh? So you're the expert now?"

"Absolutely."

"when did that happen?"

"I'm female, therefore I'm always right."

Harry snorted. "Right," he said, shaking his head. "I'll be right back."

Susan stuck her tongue out at him and skipped off down the hall toward the back door leading to the expensive gardens behind the house.

When they got back in after a rather exhilarating hour of flying, Harry was pleased to see Hedwig fluttering through the open window with a letter clutched in her talons. "Who's this from, then?" he wondered, relieving his friend of her burden.

Harry got an image of bushy brown hair from Hedwig before she closed her eyes and tucked her head under her wing. "Ah, Hermione," he said, smiling slightly.

Harry opened the letter and read a rather gushing apology from Hermione about not coming to visit him or writing him. Without access to an owl, she could not send mail in the wizarding world and by the time Ron had written to her, telling her that Harry was in St Mungo's Harry was discharged from the hospital and out of reach. Then Hedwig had turned up that morning

"-she looked at me kind of like Professor McGonagall does to a student who hasn't done her homework!"

-and Hermione had quickly penned the letter. She hoped he was feeling better, or as good as he could feel under the circumstances, and concluded with: "I'll be seeing you at King's Cross. You just have to tell me what everything's like now for you."

Typical Hermione, Harry thought, folding the letter and thanking Hedwig once more. It was nice hearing from her though. He only hoped she would be able to accept the changes in him. She was a person with a rather black and white view on the way things were.

# # #

The next ten days passed uneventfully. No news on Sirius Black. No visits from mysterious ladies with dogs. It was the quietest ten days in Harry's life. And he would probably not see another quiet day for a long, long time.

# # #

The morning of the first, Harry woke up early. His trunk was already packed, the secret trunk containing the Compendium shrunken and hidden among his clothes and sealed with blood locks so that no one could open it but him. He had learned that trick from a book here at the Bone Yard, and he did not intend to open it until he was guaranteed complete privacy. That meant that he would probably have to wait until the Christmas holidays, when the dorms would be mostly empty, before delving into the Compendium again.

Harry lounged in the parlor by the fireplace, listening with exasperation to Susan clattering about upstairs rushing to pack last minute articles in her already jammed trunk. The girl seriously needed to learn some organization.

"Are you ready yet?" called Esther from the bottom of the stairs. "It's nearly ten-thirty!"

A breathless Susan bounced down the stairs, dragging her trunk on it's castors. "Ready now, Mum," she panted. "Sorry-"

Esther snorted and tapped Susan's trunk with her wand, shrinking it so that Susan could put it in her pocket. Looking at this, Harry wondered why more people didn't do that; he remembered all too vividly the struggle he had had the previous year with his massive trunk, and watching others struggle with them.

Filing it away as yet another example of the silliness of wizards, Harry shook his head fondly at Susan, who scowled back, spotting the gesture. "Don't you dare, Mister," she said, glowering.

Harry held up his hands. "Didn't say a word."

"Okay, children, let's get going," Esther admonished, shooting a glance at the clock. "Your aunt said she would meet us at the platform. Something about extra security in case Sirius Black should turn up."

"Doubt he'd do that," Harry said, moving toward the fireplace and patting his pockets to make sure his trunk was still there. "That wouldn't be a very smart thing to do."

"Well, who knows what Azkaban has done to his mental acuity," Godfrey said, handing Harry the Floo pot. "See you on the other side."

When Harry emerged into the platform waiting room, he saw Amelia with several Aurors, including Kingsley Shacklebolt, who loomed in a corner like a dark stone idol. Amelia greeted Harry, and when Susan came through next followed by her parents, she pulled the group aside. "Just a quick word," she said rapidly in a low, urgent voice. "The Minister in his infinite wisdom has decided to post Dementors around the school. I have tried arguing till I was blue in the face but it has done no good. I only found out early this morning, else I would've brought the Wizengamot into session and got them to stop this madness."

She turned to Harry. "I don't know what effect they will have on you, given your recent condition, but stay away from them if you can. You're only second years so can't go to Hogsmeade, so your exposure should be minimal."

Susan looked very frightened. "But Auntie, isn't there anything you can do? Dementors, really?"

Amelia squeezed her niece's shoulder reassuringly. "Don't worry, Suze. I'll be working to get those foul things away from the school as fast as I can. You just stay away from them," she finished, including Harry with a stern look.

"What's a Dementor?"

"Susan will fill you in, you'd better get moving," Amelia said, glancing at the clock on the wall which read ten-forty five. "Send me an owl when you both arrive."

They assured her they would, and after Susan hugged and said farewell to her parents, she put her arm through Harry's and headed out onto the bustling platform.

There sat the scarlet Hogwarts Express, gleaming in the sun, clouds of steam wafting over the students and families waiting to board. The sound of owls, cats and clattering trunks assaulted their ears.

Harry tensed at the sudden noise, but a reassuring squeeze from Susan calmed him down. Harry didn't know why but the girl really was growing on him.

"Harry! Over here!"

Harry and Susan turned and saw Hermione and Ron waving at him, their trunks perched on trolleys. Standing behind them were Mr Weasley, the twins, Percy and a little girl whom Harry was certain was Ron's sister. Susan noticed something that Harry didn't, however. As soon as Hermione Granger caught sight of her arm through Harry's, her expressioned soured for just a moment, before the smile returned, more forced than usual. Susan made a vow to watch the situation. Harry did not need a jealous female in his life at the moment. Susan herself wasn't exactly sure of her feelings for the boy now. AT first she had been a little afraid of him, because he always seemed so aloof and a little cold, but as she had spent more time around him, she realized that it wasn't intentional. And it didn't help that the sight of his eyes made her heart speed up either. She wondered if she would ever tell him about the bomb beneath her skin. Her aunt had not specifically mentioned it, but had indicated that Harry was someone to trust, probably for her own reasons. Susan wondered what was going on that she didn't know. What had her aunt and Harry talked about before his accident? Unbeknownst to Harry, Susan was also studying Occlumency, and by the Christmas holidays she hoped to be sufficiently advanced in the art that Harry might share his secrets with her. Susan wanted to be an important part of his life, and if that meant spending hours in meditation and facing her less than pleasant memories, so be it.

Shaking her head and bringing herself back to the present, Susan looked up to see Harry waving at Ron and Hermione, a small smile on his face. That small smile was as much emotion as he seemed able to show nowadays.

"Hey, Ron, Hermione," Harry said, as they came together. "Mr Weasley, and you must be Ginny. And of course you two miscreants," he said, indicating the twins, who bowed and pretended to blush at being called miscreants.

"Oh Harry, I was so worried," Hermione gushed, and threw her arms around him. "When I heard you had been put in the hospital yet again, and by your own relatives … well, I didn't know what to do!"

Harry stiffened at the contact but out of sight of Hermione, Susan rested a hand on the small of his back and he relaxed slightly. "Don't worry Hermione, I'm mostly okay now," he said into the vast quantity of bushy hair in his face.

Hermione released him and moved back, studying his face intently. "Your scar's mostly gone," she noticed, eyes widening a little. "How did that happen?"

Harry shrugged. "Dunno. I woke up with it mostly gone. Course there's also a small dent in my skull where old Vernon's poker smashed me, but I don't think that had anything to do with the scar."

She bit her lip and seemed about to ask something, but then she spotted Susan standing quietly behind Harry. "Hi," she said, spearing Susan with a cold glance.

"Hi,," the other girl said, inwardly frowning. It appeared they weren't going to be friends after all. Susan regretted what she had said last year, but judging by the look on the other girl's face, an apology wasn't going to fix things. It appeared she was going to hold a grudge.

Harry, oblivious to the byplay between the two girls, moved on to greet the rest of the Weasleys.

"Glad to see you're doing well, Harry," Mr Weasley said, pumping his hand. "We would've had you over to visit, but with one thing and another…" he trailed off a little uncomfortably.

"I understand," Harry said, shooting a glance at Ron.

Mr Weasley nodded. "Ah, Ron told you. Should've known… Anwyhow, my wife is at home for the moment and I think under control. I'll watch the situation and make sure she doesn't do anything foolish."

"I appreciate that, and don't worry. I don't blame you guys for what she was trying to do," Harry said, guessing the direction the Weasley patriarch's thoughts might've gone. "Ron's still my friend and so are the rest of the Weasleys."

"Thank you, Harry. None of us condone what she was trying to do."

Just then, the train whistle blew shrilly over the crowd. "We'd better get on board," Harry said. "It was nice meeting you, Mr Weasley."

"You too, Harry. Have a good term," he said, including the rest of his brood."

Turning from the hubbub of the Weasley farewells for a moment, Harry looked back to see Hermione and Susan standing in a rather uncomfortable silence. Something was going on between the two of them, but he was absolutely clueless on how to address the situation.

Ron, oblivious as ever, inadvertently aided the situation by moving between Harry and Susan and helping Hermione with her trunk. The twins offered Harry a greeting perfectly keeping in line with their unique style.

"Hey, Harrykins-"

"If you wanted the attention of the ladies-"

"You didn't have to go and get hit in the head," they finished together.

"Maybe, but it sure worked anyway," Harry said.

"We have better tactics for you to try next time," one of them said, giving Harry an exaggerated conspiratorial leer. "Just come to us if you ever need advice."

"Ignore them, Harry, their advice probably consists of turning their shoes into frogspawn so that you get to rescue them when they squeal,"Ginny said, rolling her eyes at her brothers. Ginny had been cured of her Boy-Who-Lived infatuation over the past month, hearing about his condition from Ron. He was still handsome, but she no longer viewed him through the lense of a storybook hero.

"Ginny! How could you think such a thing of us?"

"We who are living legends of romance and irresistible to all females!"

"Yeah, maybe if you're Mrs Noris," Ginny snorted, sauntering away to join a group of first years, with a friendly wave at Harry.

Percy shepherded the four second years aboard the train, bid them all behave and headed off to the prefects' compartment, badge proudly stuck out before him. No sooner did Ron and Hermione get their trunks on the luggage rack When harry spoke up.

"I wonder who that is?"

Harry was looking at a shabbily dressed man slumbering in one corner of the compartment.

"That's Professor R. J. Lupin," Hermione whispered at once.

"How-Oh," Harry said, noticing the battered case above the man's head, with Professor R. J. Lupin stamped on one corner in peeling letters.

"Doesn't look like much," Ron said, glancing doubtfully at Lupin's tatterd appearance.

"Neither did I," Harry reminded him, settling down on a bench.

"Point," Ron agreed, settling across from him.

Susan settled next to Harry, earning another small glare from Hermione who settled next to Ron. Harry frowned, still not entirely sure what to do about the situation. It was clear from Susan's demeanor that she had no intention of leaving, and Hermione was far too stubborn to give in to anyone, let alone the girl beside him.

Harry watched, bemused, as the two girls engaged in a furious staring competition, like a couple of owls. Ron, who was busy rummaging in his bag for something, looked up at the sudden silence and stopped rummaging, his rat Scabbers peeking out of his pocket. Harry noticed absently that the rat was looking rather woebegone, some fur falling out and his formerly plump body beginning to thin out a little. He wondered if maybe old Scabbers was finally beginning to wind down. How long had it been around, anyway?

"What's going on," Ron said, glancing between Hermione and Susan.

"Hermione's staking out her territory and doesn't like Susan being here," Harry said, cutting through whatever Hermione or Susan might have said.

Both girls turned a violent shade of red and broke their staring contest to gaze murderously at Harry, who just leaned back placidly in his seat.

"I am not!" Hermione squawked indignantly. "But what is she doing here?"

"I stayed with her and her family after I got out of the hospital. They have been helping me a lot, both with getting better and showing me another perspective on the wizarding world," Harry said, giving a nod to Ron. "Ron and I have been talking as well."

Hermione opened and closed her mouth, stumped. Harry had just fixed it so that anything she said would make her sound rude, shrewish and mean. How could she give any rebuttal to that?

"I see," hermione mumbled, quickly retreating behind a third year Charms book. "Don't let me get in your way."

Harry stared for a moment at the book hiding his friend's face, then shrugged. She would either accept it or she wouldn't. If he tried forcing her to, it would mean she stuck around for the wrong reasons, because he made her, not because she really wanted to.

Harry shrugged at Susan and Ron, who looked by turns outraged and somewhat amused. He nodded toward Hermione and turned his hands up. They nodded back and also shrugged, Susan looking a little hurt now that the outrage had passed.

"Care for a game of chess?" Ron asked.

In spite of the awkward situation, Harry had to smile.

# # #

The trolley lady had come and gone and Harry, Susan and Ron were munching on sandwiches and sweets. Hermione had left, mumbling something about finding Padma Patil to ask about their summer homework.

"She'll come around," Ron had said to Harry, who was staring after the departed Hermione. "Just give her a little time."

"Yeah, maybe," Harry muttered.

"Do … do you want me to leave?" Susan asked in a small voice. Now that Hermione was gone, she probably felt safer asking.

"No, not at all. It's her problem and I'm not going to force her to accept you," Harry said firmly. "You've done a lot for me and I'm not going to send you away."

Susan smiled, relieved and pleased. She was sorry for Hermione, but she also knew what Harry was saying was true. It was Hermione's problem and her choice on whether or not to accept Susan's presence.

With all the drama surrounding Hermione and Susan, Harry had not had time to contemplate the sudden arrival of Lupin into his life. The man had continued to snore obliviously through the entire ride thus far. Now that Ron and Susan were both napping themselves, Harry sat back in his corner and thought.

Remus John Lupin was a signatory on his parents' will. The goblins had told Harry that he was a werewolf and thus couldn't take any kind of guardianship, but where had he been all of Harry's life? Not taking guardianship didn't mean he couldn't be otherwise involved.

Harry decided to hold judgement on Lupin and see how he acted. If he acknowledged Harry as nothing more than a student, then he probably was not any kind of ally. If, however, he acknowledged their shared link, then Harry would begin to work on him. Logically Harry knew he needed an adult on his side who believed in him utterly, and wouldn't go running to outside sources at every opportunity, or if Harry needed to do something questionable. Perhaps Lupin could fill that role, but Harry had his doubts.

Harry was yanked abruptly out of his thoughts by the sudden slowing of the train. Ron almost fell out of his seat and Susan grabbed Harry to keep herself steady. "Wha-?"

"We can't be there yet," Harry said, glancing out the window at the empty countryside.

"I think there's somebody out there," Ron said, peering out the opposite window. "Yes … people are coming aboard … what the bloody hell?"

Ominously, frost started appearing on the windowpanes. The temperature dropped precipitously and Harry saw his breath in the icy air. The lights all went out and they were plunged into stygian, frigid blackness.

"Oh no," Susan said in horror. "It's the Dementors…"

"I thought they were going to be at the bloody school," Harry said, hugging himself in the frosty air, "not on the god damn train!"

Out in the corridors they could hear the sounds of people crashing into each other as they stumbled about in the darkness. Harry had a thought and quickly sent a locking charm at the door and shut the blinds in its window for good measure.

"What's going on," said a hoarse voice. Lupin had woken up at last.

"Dementors," Harry said shortly, not taking his eyes or wand off the door.

There was a brief silence, broken only by the sounds of the chaos outside, then a crackling sound from Lupin's corner. Harry glanced briefly in that direction and saw Lupin holding what looked like a handful of flames. They filled the compartment with a quivering light and illuminated his tired, lined face. His eyes were bright and wary, however, and he got slowly to his feet, his wand also trained on the door.

"Stay where you are," he said in his hoarse voice. "I think-"

But before he could continue, the door creaked slowly open, in spite of Harry's locking charm. Susan moaned in terror and burrowed against Harry, who only felt cold. Ron whimpered from the other side of the compartment, but Susan had a death grip on Harry and he couldn't go to his friend just yet.

A tall, hooded figure glided slowly into the compartment, causing the temperature to drop even more. Harry saw a gray, scabbed hand grasping the doorhandle, something that looked as though it had decayed in a swamp. As if aware of his scrutiny, the hand was withdrawn beneath the rotten looking gray robe. The Dementor drew a long, rattling breath, as though trying to suck something more than oxygen out of the air.

Harry heard a faint screaming sound in his head and felt the cold seep into his body, but he was able to shake off most of the effects with Occlumency. Susan, however, moaned again and slumped against him, thoroughly terrified. Ron didn't cry out again, but his mouth was wide open and working like a fish.

Lupin was shaky but he stood firmand said: "None of us is hiding Sirius Black under our cloaks. Go now."

The Dementor didn't, but continued to suck the air. Harry was shivering violently now, but only as a physical reaction to the cold. The faint screaming in his head didn't bother him and the Dementor seemed to be sucking harder.

Lupin muttered something and a silvery shape shot out of his wand toward the Dementor. The disgusting looking hand protruded from beneath the robe and tried waving the shape away, but it kept coming and, with a last rattling breath, the Dementor was driven from the compartment.

"Are you all right?" Lupin asked Harry, giving a long look into the corridor to make sure it was gone. The silver shape, whatever it had been, faded away and the air gradually began to warm again.

"Yeah, just cold," Harry said, still shivering. "Susan here's in bad shape though."

Harry bit back his discomfort and laid Susan across his lap, patting her cheeks to wake her up. Her hair hung in a curtain to the floor. She's not going to thank me for letting her precious hair get dirty, Harry thought, as Susan's eyes fluttered and opened. Ron also began to stir, tended by Lupin.

"Oh Harry, it was awful," she whispered, wrapping her arms around his waist and shivering. "I remembered the night my Uncle Edgar and his family got killed, I was there, in the closet…"

Harry stroked her back, at a loss for what to say. Thankfully he wasn't left hanging long as Lupin suddenly appeared, clutching a large bar of chocolate in his hand.

"Here," he said, handing Harry the bar. "This will help you both. Excuse me, but I need to speak to the conductor and make sure everyone else is all right."

Harry first pried Susan's arms loose and helped her sit up, then handed her a large piece. Color flooded back into her pale cheeks as she crunched the sweet, and she stopped shivering.

Harry ate his own piece and also instantly felt better. The train started moving as he swallowed the last bite, and the lanterns came back on.

"I don't ever want to go through that again," Ron said fervently from his side of the compartment, also finishing a piece of chocolate.

"How come you don't seem to be affected?" Susan wondered. She was looking better, but not quite her old self. A ghost of painful memories lingered in her eyes.

Harry shrugged. "Maybe there's nothing left in my head for them to get at."

They rode in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts, until they arrived at Hogsmeade Station. Disembarking from the train amidst the crowds, Harry and Ron were separated by the throng nd ended up taking different carriages. Hermione he hadn't spotted at all, despite looking for her.

"See you tomorrow, Harry," Susan said, a little sadly, as they climbed the stairs into the entrance hall and headed toward the Great Hall. They would be separated by house tables, at least for tonight.

"Yeah, I'll have breakfast with you at the Hufflepuff table," Harry said, awkwardly patting Susan's back.

She beamed at him and joined her housemates, all of whom clustered around her, eager to hear about her time with the Boy-Who-Lived.

"Mr Potter," said a sharp voice behind him. "A word, if you please?"

Harry turned to see Professor McGonagall, looking as stern as ever.

"Of course, Professor, how can I help you?"

"Follow me to my office for a moment. You will not miss the feast."

After they had settled into the chairs on either side of her desk, Professor McGonagall started. "First, I wish to extend my congratulations upon your recovery. I was there when Albus left you at their house and I expressed my … doubts on their ability to care for you. It saddens me to see that I was right."

"Thank you, Professor," Harry said guardedly. So she was there and did nothing. Typical, utterly typical.

She nodded briskly. "Did the healer's say that your school work might be affected by your … condition?"

"No, Professor. They said I might get headaches for a while and get tired, but that should wear off soon."

"Very well. Now, I understand a Dementor boarded the Express. Were you adversely affected by it?"

"No Ma'am. Just cold. Susan Bones and Ron Weasley were pretty bad off, but our new Defense instructor gave us all chocolate."

"Excellent. Madam Pomfrey is requesting that students who encountered the Dementor visit the hospital wing after the feast. Please do so, if only to make her feel better."

"I will, Professor." Harry liked Madam Pomfrey, even if she was a bit overzealous.

She nodded again and rose. "In that case, let us go to the feast."

4

Harry was just coming away from the Gryffindor table after the feast. Dumbledore had enjoined the students to stay away from the Dementors, introduced Professor Lupin, and gave the usual admonitions about the Forbidden Forest and Filch's notorious banned items list.

Harry had missed the sorting, but was pleased to note that Ginny Weasley was in Gryffindor with he and Ron. Also of note was the fact that Draco Malfoy did not come over for his usual taunting session with his buddies Crabb and Goyle. The Malfoy heir, in fact, did not look his usual snide self and was rather distracted looking. Harry wondered if it was something he should be worried about, but then decided that, if Draco wasn't looking happy, he, Harry, should be, and let it go at that.

Snape, too, was looking distracted and not sweeping the hall with his usal cold gaze, keeping a sharp eye out for troublemakers. The man was sitting there eating his dinner and absently rubbing his left forearm every so often. He looked worried, an expression Harry was not used to seeing on that greasy countenance. He did stir himself, however, to direct hateful glances at Professor Lupin, something which Harry was accustomed to. He, after all, had been the recipient of such tender looks all through his previous year. Harry wondered what Lupin had done to earn the ire of Snape, and tentatively ranked Lupin higher in his estimation. Anyone who could make Snape look at them like that maybe was not an enemy.

"Wonder what's up with him," Ron said, nodding in Draco's direction.

"And look at Snape," Harry said.

Ron glanced briefly up at the staff table, just in time to see Snape send one of his loathing looks at Lupin. "Well, I don't know, but Lupin can't be all that bad if Snape looks at him like that."

"Just what I was thinking."

They heard a sniff and Harry looked down the table to see Hermione shooting disapproving looks at him.

Harry repressed a sigh. It was just like the old days now. Hermione had relaxed a little bit over the course of the last year and Ron had told him that she was going to try and be a little less rigid, but clearly that wasn't going to happen now. Harry wondered if he would get his friend back.

After the feast was over, he and Ron got up and headed out the doors, following the fifth year prefect and the first years, Ginny standing out in their midst due to her fiery hair. She was already busy chattering with her yearmates; their shrill giggles drifted back over the clamoring students. Hermione was ahead of them, studiously not looking at Harry but in close conversation with Parvati, of all people. Harry wondered what was up with that. Hermione had always said she couldn't really stand the gossipy girl.

Before he could think any farther, he crashed suddenly into Argus Filch. "Watch where you're going, boy," the dour caretaker snarled, wheezing and glaring. Then, completely befuddling Harry, the caretaker winked at him while Ron wasn't looking and scuttled off, muttering about clumsy students who needed to be hung from his office ceiling.

Harry was about to mention Filch's odd behavior to Ron, but something told him not to. And, as he walked up the stairs, he noticed a crinkling sensation in his pocket. As he passed through a crowd of chattering Ravenclaws, he snuck his hand in to the pocket and felt the thickness of a parchment envelope. The man had slipped him a letter. What the hell?

"Somebody needs to give him a performance review," Ron said sourly, looking down the stairs at Filch's retreating moth-eaten figure. "Man's a menace, I tell you."

"Maybe he has dirt on Dumbledore and that's why he lets Filch stay around," Harry speculated, as they moved through a passage behind a tapestry.

"I heard he and Madam Pince had a thing going and that's why he sticks around," Ron said.

Harry shuddered. "Oh dear Merlin I hope not. Imagine their kids."

"Geez, why'd you have to go there, mate," Ron groaned.

"I gotta visit the hospital wing to keep Pomfrey happy. Catch you in the tower?"

"Yeah, but let's keep going so you can find out the password."

"Oh, right, silly me."

They arrived at the portrait of the Fat Lady, which opened at the mention of Wattlebird. Harry split from Ron and headed back down to the hospital wing.

"Well well, Mr Potter, I thought I would never see the day when a Potter would visit my wing voluntarily," the smiling matron greeted him when he stepped into her antiseptic smelling domain.

"I figured it was better than having you come chase me down," Harry said, pretending to shudder.

She gave a mock evil smile. "You bet it is, bucko." Then she got serious.

"I got your complete medical file from Robin Johnson at St Mungo's. Based on the findings of he and his team, you weren't really that affected by the Dementor, were you? Don't worry, confidentiality rules still apply here."

Harry stared at the matron for a long moment. Could he trust her? Why hadn't she done anything about the malnutrition and abuse she had to have seen when he was under her care last June? Then Harry remembered that she actually worked for Dumbledore and couldn't do a hell of a lot. But it was she who had contacted Madam Bones and gotten someone involved who could actually do something.

"You can trust me, Harry," she said softly.

"No, they didn't really affect me. I just got cold and heard a faint scream in my head or something."

Pomfrey nodded, not surprised. "I figured that might be the case. But even though they don't affect you with their aura, they can still suck out your soul. So avoid them, okay?"

"Oh, I planned on it," Harry said fervently. "Ugly, nasty things they are. Can't believe Fudge thought it was a good idea to put them here."

"I quite agree. I'm going to be purchasing more chocolate for the wing. I've got the feeling you won't be the only one who comes to see me over them."

"Professor Lupin gave us some chocolate on the train. Why does it work to make you feel better after dealing with Dementors?"

"There's a chemical derivative of Tetrahydrocannabinol in chocolate that's responsible for the effects."

"Tetra what?" Harry asked, baffled.

Pomfrey chuckled. "It's a mouthful, isn't it? THC is better. It's pure form is found in the cannabis plant, but there's a different form in chocolate, and that's why it helps magic users regenerate after prolonged magical exhaustion or Dementor exposure."

"I … see. Thanks for clearing that up," he said, backing away slightly, to the amusement of the matron.

"Good night Mr Potter and I hope I don't have to see you at all this year."

"You and me both," Harry whispered fervently, before hurrying back to Gryffindor tower.

He hurried through the quiet corridors of the school and climbed through the portrait hole into the comfortable Gryffindor common room, a circular chamber filled with battered squashy armchairs and rickety tables. A fire was laid in the grate, crackling cheerfully and filling the room with the scent of smoke and heat. Older years were congregated in the choice seats by the fire, doing last minute homework and catching up on their summers. The fifth year prefect was standing in the gaggle of first years giving them Gryffindor speeches and telling them about the school.

Harry spotted Ron loitering by the entrance way.

"Good to be back here," Harry said to Ron as they headed for the stairs and the dorms. On his way through the common room, Harry looked around for Hermione, but didn't spot her anywhere. She hadn't even bothered to stay up and say good night, which somewhat irritated him. But Harry once again told himself that what was happening was her problem.

"Yeah it is," Ron yawned, after they had arrived in the dorm. He pulled Scabbers out of his pocket and set him on his pillow, where the rat curled up and fell asleep again. "Need to see Hagrid about him," he said, noticing Harry's concerned look at the state of the rat. "He's been rather ill over the past month."

"Hey Harry," Neville Longbottom said, looking up from his trunk. "Glad to see you well, mate."

"Yeah, I didn't hear about it until I got on the train," Dean piped up from where he was pinning his West Ham poster to the wall. "Tough luck, Harry."

Seamus came over and pumped Harry's hand. "I heard those vile relatives of yours are in prison now. Good on you, mate."

"That's right, guys. No more Dursleys for me," Harry said, making himself smile. "And thanks for your support."

"You're going to be back on the team this year, right?" Seamus asked, returning to his trunk and getting out his pajamas.

"Should be, yeah," Harry said. "Just have to watch those bludgers and keep them away from my head, eh?"

They all laughed and started getting ready for bed, and the dorm was filled with the sounds of showers and clattering trunks and bawdy jokes.

At last, Harry was alone in his bed, hangings pulled shut and privacy wards up. He had made a point to learn them over the last month so that he could retreat into a nice cone of silence when the headaches were particularly bad.

He reached into his discarded robe pocket and gingerly retrieved the letter Filch had left there. It was in a parchment envelope, but the paper within felt like Muggle paper. Curious…

Harry opened the envelope, pulled out the letter and read:

Dear Harry Potter:

You don't know me, but my name is Richard Evans. I am your cousin on your mother's side. My family moved to America and I only recently returned to Britain, this summer, in fact. How I came in contact with Argus Filch is a long story and one best told in person.

I don't know how much you know about what is going on, but Mr Filch tells me that you have spent the past years living with your aunt Petunia, which I imagine was not a pleasant environment. I learned that her husband put you in the hospital and that you went into Ministry for Magic custody after your release.

I believe we have a lot to discuss, because there is a larger picture that I think you need to know about. I don't want to get into too much detail here, but let me just say that your friend Voldemort may not be what you think he is. In fact, if I'm right, Voldemort might be a fitting playmate for your children compared with the real threat.

If a meeting between us is agreeable to you, I propose that we get together at eleven in the morning on Halloween, which is the date of the first Hogsmeade weekend, according to Mr Filch. You are a second year and thus cannot legally go to the village, but I feel that this information can't wait and I trust that you will find a way to meet me. I will be at what the residents call the Shrieking Shack. Mr Filch has said that he will help you get out as necessary. He tells me that he has a reputation to uphold at the school so he cannot directly aid you but he will do what he can.

With hopes of seeing you on Halloween, I remain your cousin,

Richard Evans

Harry vanished the letter, another trick he had learned while helping out in the Bones's kitchen. So this was the Richard Evans mentioned in his parents' will. People seemed to be cropping up all over the place. Where the hell had they all come from?

This Richard Evans wasn't the only one who told him he didn't have a full grasp on what was going on. That mysterious lady with the dog had shown up too, and told him to make new alliances. And, if he didn't know what was going on, just what was? He did not like not being the master of his own life, but as the days went by he kept feeling like things were spiraling farther and farther out of his control.

Dumbledore knew something ("One day, when you are ready,"), but he wasn't going to tell him. Madam Bones knew something too, although they hadn't had the opportunity to touch further on what she knew since somebody was always around. This long lost cousin knew something, the goblins knew something … everybody knew bits and pieces and Harry knew nothing. It was maddening.

Punching his pillow into a comforting lump, Harry sighed and lay down and closed his eyes. He would get his answers, whatever it took, he would get them. And if what he suspected deep in the back of his mind about the shape of events was true … well then. Even he with his deadened emotions was terrified. Because he didn't think he could do anything about it.

Harry rolled over and finally fell into a troubled sleep, where suspicions solidified in his unconscious mind and a terrifying vision of the future took shape…

6. Secret History of the World

Chapter 6: The Secret History of the World

1

Sitting behind his broad oak desk in a book-lined office located in the American Embassy off Grosvenor Square, Ernst Drexler II, Actuator tapped his fingers idly on his blotter as he contemplated.

He had been called in yesterday, September fourth, from the Order's lodge in New York City to deal with a problem, the traitor Richard Evans. That was what an actuator did, got things done, solved problems. Drexler had been sent all over the world to solve problems for the Order, to get things done in whatever way he deemed necessary. Just like his father before him, and his father before him, all the way back to the First Age, when the ancient Septimus Order had first begun.

Swiveling in his chair, Drexler gazed out the window at the bustling London metropolis. He wondered how many of the teeming masses of humanity down there knew just how illusory their sense of freedom really was. How many of them were aware that their government wasn't really the master of events?

The Septimus Order had been pulling strings and manipulating history for a long, long time. It wasn't even really that hard. The vast majority of people were sheep, preferring to be told what to think and how to think it. In the aftermath of the destruction of civilization after the First Age, the far-flung roots of the battered Septimus Order had come together and helped redraw the tattered fabric of civilization, shaping it into something more to their liking.

Most of the people doing the Order's bidding didn't know they were doing it. The Order insulated itself from its more dubious activities, using many many layers of separation to shield itself from any fallout. The only ones aware of the big picture were the High Council of Seven and its actuators, such as Drexler himself. Even Drexler wasn't aware of everything, but he knew the overall goal, if not every activity the Council engaged into see that it was met.

Now, here he was in London, trying to solve the Richard Evans problem.

The man had gone to ground, however, and hadn't been seen since July. Drexler scanned the report saying that he had been spotted going into one of his uncle's properties here, but had since eluded the searchers and hadn't been seen since. The operatives didn't know why Evans was wanted, they only knew to capture him. It wasn't their job to know.

Drexler could only hypothesize that Evans had met up with some wizards sympathetic to his cause and had gone to ground with them, hiding behind their wards. Sooner or later though, he would have to come out from hiding. The Order had ways of breaking through wards, but that would call far more attention to itself than was prudent or necessary, at least so far.

Drexler chuckled to himself as he thought of the British magical community. They thought they were so safe and hidden, when all the time there were people in their midst watching their activities and reporting to other people, layers upon layers until the reports finally got back to the Council. The Septimus Order had its hand in almost every government on earth, magical or mundane, because it had had a hand in forming them from the beginning.

Drexler rose from his desk straightened his white suit, picked up his cane and headed out of the office. He needed to begin to neutralize Richard Evans, and he knew just how to do it. Maybe even bring him from underground. The man was without roots and no longer had anything to lose. Killing his wife and child might've been a mistake; after all a man who loves is a man who is vulnerable. A man who loves has leverage. But Richard had no one anymore, and he could do whatever he pleased. So the only thing left to do was eliminate him, by any means necessary.

Emerging from the Order's block of offices which was nestled in with the CIA station, Drexler headed downstairs into the basement, where his Bentley was garaged. After dealing with the present errand, he would then have to visit Century House and borrow some operatives from the Secret Intelligence Service, or SIS-more popularly if inaccurately known as MI-6. That agency was already rather shadowy, none of its staff being listed on any government rolls and its budget hidden in the account books of a dozen different ministries. The Order had several people in both the SIS and Security Service-or MI-5 in the vernacular, which is responsible for counterintelligence within the borders of the UK.

Drexler wanted to station a few people in key locations around the country, and he wanted to use SIS operatives rather than the counterintelligence people because they were better at being low key and covert. Through the miracle of modern technology, Drexler-or rather, somebody working for him here in the Order's suite-could create a false case history for Evans, making him appear to be public enemy number one.

But first, to take care of baiting the trap.

Drexler ignored the functionaries rushing around, conducting ordinary embassy business and pressed a button on his cell phone, summoning his driver, an Eastern European by the name of Kristof Szeto. His family too had been involved with the Order a very very long time, and Szeto went with Drexler wherever he went as his right hand man.

They met in the underground carpark under the embassy. "Where we going, boss?" Szeto asked, holding open the back door for Drexler.

"We're going to go solve a problem. Essex," Drexler said, with a wintry smile that barely moved his thin lips.

"Ah, the Evans man," Szeto said grimly, getting in behind the wheel. "I have score to settle with him."

"Yes, I imagine you do," Drexler said absently, already thinking of the best way to handle things. "Any news on his whereabouts that hasn't made it to the reports yet?"

"No, sir. Not since he left Josef and Max at his uncle's house. Nadia say she think she see him on underground again, but was wrong man."

"I see. Well, hopefully today we will take the first steps in bringing him back into the light," Drexler said with another cold smile.

"Yes and I very much wish to discuss things with him," Szeto said, clenching the wheel as though he wished it were Evans's neck.

Evans had killed the strike team, hand picked operatives of Szeto's, that had gone after him in that hotel earlier this summer. Luckily, those men were all Order operatives and not borrowed from anywhere, and sanitation was easy.

At first, Drexler had toyed with the idea of fingering Evans for the murders. His name was on the register as a guest in the room where the bodies had been found, since he hadn't had time to obtain any other identification. The police would then scoop him up and throw him in prison, where it would be easy to pick him off, since his whereabouts would always be known.

But it wasn't going to be that easy.

For one thing, the reason the bodies were there in the first place had to be explained. There were multiple bullet holes in the wall, two of them caused by a sniper rifle. Who would be shooting at a quiet little country hotel with a sniper rifle? It could be explained-records erased, officers transferred; any number of ways-but Drexler preferred to keep things as simple as possible-the mark of a good actuator. Getting involved with the entrenched bureaucracy wouldn't be simple. So Evans had gotten away with murder, literally.

Then he had eluded the operatives on the underground and at his uncle's house, and now he was gone. But Drexler had found out where his stash of evidence was. Through shipping records numerous boxes had been traced coming from New Jersey to Essex, and finally to a little house there.

At this point, burning the house wouldn't really accomplish much. It would, however, sow the seeds of uncertainty in Evans's mind. Did the Order find his stash, or was it a random act of arson? It wasn't known if the man had other caches of material elsewhere, so hopefully the burning of this stockpile would aid in bringing him out from underground and lead the Order to any other locations where evidence was kept. And then, the Order, through Drexler's borrowed operatives, would pounce.

"We are here, sir," Szeto said an hour or so later, pulling up in the far corner of an Asda carpark not far from the house.

Szeto opened the back door for his boss, then hefted a canvas bag loaded with glass bottles of petrol from the boot. The two of them walked casually through the town of Chelmsford, looking not too badly out of place. Drexler wanted to be along on this operation because he had a personal stake in its outcome.

"This is the place," Szeto said, nodding toward a small cottage on a side street.

"Doesn't look like much," Drexler said, shifting the grip on his cane and glancing around.

Nobody was watching them, so the two of them strolled casually up the front walk and, so quickly Drexler would've missed it had he not been watching, Szeto picked the lock and they were inside.

Where they found the place totally empty.

2

The first week of classes for Harry was rather uneventful, at least by comparison with his summer.

On his first morning back at Hogwarts, Harry had gone down to breakfast with Ron and joined Susan at the Hufflepuff table, earning a glare from Hermione and an approving smile from Professors Sprout and McGonagall.

"Hey guys," Susan greeted them, sliding over to make room for Harry. Ron settled across from them next to Hannah Abbot and Zacharias Smith.

"What're you doing here?" Smith asked snidely, glaring at Ron and Harry.

"Eating breakfast," Harry replied blandly, dishing up a plate of bacon and eggs.

Smith flushed. "Why here? You belong at your own table."

"I invited them, Zacharias," Susan said coolly, "so I thank you not to use that tone."

Smith gave them a hostile look and moved further down the table to sit by some other second years, where they began whispering.

"Don't mind him," Hannah Abbot said, catching Ron's uncomfortable look (Harry had sat calmly eating his breakfast during the last little exchange.) "He doesn't really like anybody."

"Not sure how he ended up here to be honest," Susan said.

"His family's always been here and there are rumors that he's a Hufflepuff heir through his grandmother," Cedric Diggory, a fourth year, put in. "He won't confirm or deny that though."

"Don't worry, he doesn't bother me at all," harry spoke up. "Had to deal with people like him all my life."

Just then, Professor McGonagall strode up, clutching their schedules. "I'm glad to see you fostering interhouse cooperation," she said to Harry, Ron and Susan, with one of her rare smiles. "Here are your schedules. Make sure you are not late."

"Yes ma'am," they chorused.

Harry glanced down at his schedule and saw that they had Herbology with the Hufflepuffs first, but before he could point this out, a throat cleared from behind him.

"Good morning Harry," came the voice of the Headmaster. "Might I have a word with you in my office?"

Harry suppressed a scowl and a sigh. "If you must, Headmaster, however I don't want to be late."

"Don't worry. I will provide you a pass for Professor Sprout," Dumbledore twinkled.

"Okay then. Lead the way."

"Excellent. If you'll just follow me…"

Harry shrugged at Susan and Ron, who both made faces of pity. Then he got up and, grabbing his bag, followed Dumbledore through the school, flashing back to the time at the end of term feast last year when they had made a similar journey. Who could've guessed the path that journey had taken him down?

At the mention of "ice mice" the gargoyle leapt aside and they ascended up the spiraling stairs into the cluttered round room that was Dumbledore's office.

Harry went over to pet Fawkes, who trilled a greeting and sucked up the attention like it was his due.

Dumbledore chuckled from behind his desk. "I see Fawkes missed you."

"Seems that way," Harry said, giving Fawkes one last scratch and settling in front of the desk. "What did you wish to see me about, sir?" Harry wondered if Dumbledore would mention his rather hostile outburst in the hospital. He saw with some amusement that his beard hadn't quite grown back yet and was still curling sadly around his chin.

Dumbledore stared at Harry over his steepled fingers for a moment. Harry felt an odd prickle in his mind, kind of like the feeling of déjà vou, but artificially induced. It was bizarre.

With a start, he realized Dumbledore must be using passive Legilimency, and with a mental snap he sent up memories that meant nothing at all-what he'd had for breakfast, his class schedule, curiosity about why Dumbledore wanted to see him; anything unimportant. He at first wanted to slam up a wall blocking Dumbledore completely, but that would've raised too many questions and he didn't want it known that he knew Occlumency just yet.

"First, I wanted to once again express my apologies for the full extent of your suffering. I admit to some culpability in your upbringing," he said, dipping his head in apparent sadness. "I knew you would suffer when I placed you on your aunt's doorstep. I knew I was condemning you to ten dark and difficult years."

"But why, sir?" Harry wondered, doing his best to keep the anger out of his voice. At this point, being angry at Dumbledore wouldn't serve any purpose. Harry and Amelia of course wondered if Dumbledore had placed him in that environment on purpose, meaning for him to be treated the way he was. The fact that he had been fed weakening potions that were normally given to large dangerous creatures on zoological reserves did a lot to foster this suspicion. Harry was surprised to hear Dumbledore come straight out and admit it though; from his talks with Amelia he had learned that Dumbledore rarely gave straight answers.

She had told him the night before leaving on the train about the potions, and when pressed about why she hadn't told him sooner, she said that she was waiting until he mastered Occlumency and could protect the information. She had given him a heavily regulated neutralizer potion designed to counteract most substances, including Veritaserum and the ones he had been dosed with last year. The potion was so secret that only she and the head of the Unspeakables knew about it. She had also shown him some detection charms to try surreptitiously upon his food and drink. There were no potions in either dinner or breakfast, however. Now, Harry began to wonder what Dumbledore was up to, admitting all this to him.

"A very good question, Harry," Dumbledore said heavily. "You might ask-and with good reason-why it had to be so. Why could some wizarding family not have taken you in? Many would have done so more than gladly, would have been honored and delighted to raise you as a son.

"My answer is that my priority was to keep you alive. You were in more danger than perhaps anyone but I realised. Voldemort had been vanquished hours before, but his supporters-and many of them are almost as terrible as he-were still at large, angry, desperate and violent. And I had to make my decision, too, with regard to the years ahead. Did I believe that Voldemort was gone for ever? No. I knew not whether it would be ten, twenty or fifty years before he returned, but I was sure he would do so, and I was sure, too, knowing him as I have done, that he would not rest until he killed you.

"I knew that Voldemort's knowledge of magic is perhaps more extensive than any wizard alive. I knew that even my most complex and powerful protective spells and charms were unlikely to be invincible if he ever returned to full power.

"But I knew, too, where Voldemort was weak. And so I made my decision. You would be protected by an ancient magic of which he knows, which he despises, and which he has always, therefore, underestimated-to his cost. I am speaking, of course, of the fact that your mother died to save you. She gave you a lingering protection he never expected, a protection that flows in your veins to this day. I put my trust, therefore, in your mother's blood. I delivered you to her sister, her only remaining relative."

Harry saw a number of problems with this explanation, but decided to let it go. "I see," he said slowly. "Just one more question: if your plan was for me to grow up anonymous in the Muggle world, how come everybody knew it was me at the Leaky Cauldron when I got here? How come everybody knows I have a scar, if you took me from my parents' house to the Dursleys'?"

For a moment, Harry thought he saw a flash of discomfort cross Dumbledore's face, but it was gone too quickly to be sure. "Ah, well, that was my fault. There was so much turmoil following the defeat of Voldemort, so many conflicting stories, that I felt I had to set the record straight. It was known, of course, that your parents' house was destroyed, but not that you survived. I felt that it was better that the populace have something more substantial to celebrate than mere rumors."

Harry once more saw problems but, again, decided not to press the issue. "Okay, I suppose I understand," he lied again. "So that brings us to this summer."

"Yes. I am afraid I badly underestimated the animosity your relatives felt toward you. I wanted to bring you to Hogwarts once you were admitted to St Mungo's, where the castle wards could protect you, but was blocked by Madam Bones and Healer Johnson. I was wondering if you could tell me what their final prognosis was for your recovery?"

Harry thought about it. On the whole, he decided to tell Dumbledore what he wanted to know. There wasn't really any damaging information there. He would of course leave out the potions and the full extent of his abuse.

So he told the Headmaster about his brain injury and how lucky he was to escape further damage. "It shouldn't affect my schooling, but I don't appear to have much imagination anymore."

Dumbledore hummed thoughtfully. "Did they tell you what effect it might have on your magic?"

"At first I had some control issues, but everything should be back to normal now. But I don't have any problems with spellcasting."

"That's good. Now, there remains one more issue to discuss, and that is where you will be staying for the summer holidays. I of course cannot force you to stay here, but I would like it if you did. The castle wards are the next best thing to your aunt's home and you will be safe here."

Harry almost laughed at Dumbledore, but held it back. "Well, sir, I'll have to talk with Madam Bones and see what she says first. She's done a lot for me and I feel like I owe her to at least ask if she has plans for me."

Dumbledore's expression didn't change, but Harry felt a slight chill of disapproval and he wondered what the old man had against Bones. He didn't say anything except, "I understand, Harry. If I can be of any assistance don't hesitate to ask. And now I believe you have HErbology?"

"Yes, sir. Good morning." And, after Dumbledore gave him a pass, Harry left the office.

# # #

After dealing with the Mandrakes Professor Sprout assigned them in class, Harry and the rest of the Gryffindors headed up to Transfiguration, after a quick wash.

"What'd Dumbledore want?" Ron asked, as they headed through the corridors toward the Transfiguration classroom.

Harry shrugged. "Just to try and get me to stay over the summer holidays here at Hogwarts. I told him I needed to talk with Madam Bones first. He wasn't pleased but he let me go. Didn't want to make too big a stink and get me wondering why, I guess."

Before they could carry on any further, Professor McGonagall started class, lecturing them on review topics from last year. Harry, with his newfound Occlumency training found that he could remember everything from his previous year rather easily, but Ron was having problems.

"Stupid … thing," Ron muttered, glaring at the beetle he was supposed to be turning into a button. The beetle was scuttling all over the desktop and Ron was having a hard time directing his spell.

Hermione shot a slightly smug look at Ron, which he luckily missed, as she transfigured a whole row of buttons.

"Here," Harry said, after flipping through his Charms book. He shot a freezing charm at the beetle and Ron was able to complete his assignment.

Harry also finished. Bored, he began playing, augmenting his spoken spells with his new wandless ability. The beetle turned into a button, then into a zipper, and finally into a piece of Velcro, before reverting back to his insect form.

"How the bloody hell are you doing that?" Ron said, gaping at Harry.

"Magic?"

Ron hit him on the shoulder. "Cheeky arse. Really, how are you doing that?"

"Visualization. Concentrate really hard and you can do whatever you want with your transfiguration, within limits of course."

"Very good, Mr Potter, ten points to Gryffindor," said Professor McGonagall's voice behind him. "I've been trying to drum that into your heads ever since you came in to my class for the first time."

"Maybe it's time I started paying attention," Harry said.

"Quite," Professor McGonagall said, nodding briskly and heading toward Hermione and also awarding her points.

"You'll have to help me out with this Harry, I'm still a bit stumped," Ron said later at lunch, dejectedly staring at the pile of transfiguration notes he had made in preparation for the essay he would have to write for homework, since he couldn't get the spell right.

"No problem, it's easy enough once you get the hang of it."

"What is?" Susan asked, coming to join them at the Gryffindor table.

"Transfiguration," Harry replied. "I'm gonna help Ron master it by the end of the week."

Ron snorted. "Dunno if you can do that, mate, but I appreciate the effort."

"What've you guys got after lunch?"

Harry swallowed a bite of his sandwich and fished out his schedule. "Defense after lunch. We'll be able to see what Lupin is made of."

"Remember Lockhart?" Susan asked, giggling a bit. "If it hadn't been for Professor Lupin we'd have him as a defense instructor."

Harry shuddered. The foppish idiot had been there at Diagon Alley when he, and the Bones family had gone to get their school supplies, doing a book signing. "We'd have to put up with him telling us how to curl our hair in just the right way to fend off a banshee or something," he said. "Your aunt has his books right where they belong, in the fiction section."

"How can you say that Harry, he's so brave and smart," Hermione said, shooting him an offended look over a copy of Travels with Trolls. "I mean, he's an honorary member of the Dark Force Defense League."

Harry restrained himself, barely, from rolling his eyes. He thought Hermione was smarter than that. "Check the timelines in the books, Hermione, and then come to me and tell me how brave and smart he is. And he's only an honorary member because he's not good enough to be a full one."

Before Hermione could answer, the end of lunch bell sounded and they had to hurry to get to Defense.

# # #

Lupin was something of an unexpected treat. After Quirrelmort last year, with his fake stutter and barely competent teaching style, Harry expected yet another disappointment. But, in spite of his shabby robes and careworn appearance, Lupin was a good instructor. The Slytherins-well, mostly Draco-whispered snide things about his robes, but even they were quickly quieted by his little demonstration.

"So," he said with a little smile, facing Draco and his cronies. "You think that because I don't look like much of a threat that I'm easy pickings? That about right?"

Draco didn't say anything, but a little sneer twisted his lips.

Before the class could blink, Draco was hanging upside down from the ceiling, Crabb was stuck to the wall, Goyle was tied up in a contorted position on the floor and Pansy's hands were stuck to the desk so that she couldn't reach her wand. Lupin had moved so fast that even Harry missed it.

There was a collective gasp at the exhibition of speed, and Lupin looked around smiling, before releasing the Slytherins, who all gave him murderous looks before settling down.

"You see? Never, ever underestimate your opponent because they don't look like much. When going into a fight, always assume your opponent knows more than you do, even if you know they don't. Can anyone tell me something else we just learned?"

There was silence, before, to Harry's slight surprise, Ron raised his hand. "Yes Mr Weasley?"

"Uh," Ron sputtered, his ears going red, "any spell can be used defensively?"

"Precisely, take five points for Gryffindor," Lupin said, still smiling. "The only true defensive spell that I used was Incarcerus. Any spell in your arsenal can be used for defense or offense."

He then went on to outline some more examples, to a fascinated class, and gave them a foot long essay for homework on adapting things they had learned in their Charms classes to defense. By the end of class, even the Slytherins had to admit that Remus J. Lupin really did know his stuff, and, for the rest of the year, not one single comment about his robes was ever heard from them again.

One thing Harry did notice, though, was that in spite of his relationship with Harry's parents (and Harry was assuming it was rather close being that Lupin was a signatory on their will) the man never once looked at him beyond another face in the crowd.

3

Before long it was Halloween. Harry had been kept incredibly busy with his classes and teaching Ron and Susan Occlumency, a skill Susan was slightly better at than Ron. Hermione had stopped giving him nasty glares when she saw that they weren't having any effect on him, and now she kept her head down and did her work in silence. She reminded Harry of the time last year when they had lost all those points for Gryffindor and the whole house had shunned them. He really wished there was something he could do to bring her back to his side, but attempts to do so had failed. Hermione felt threatened by Susan's presence and absolutely refused to have anything to do with Harry or Ron while she was around. Harry didn't understand why, and about a week after the first day of classes he set out to discover the reason.

It was after Herbology and Harry hurried to catch up with Hannah Abbot, who was walking and chattering with Sally-Anne Perks. It was raining mistily, the kind of rain that fals for hours and hours and doesn't really soak anything, but gets under your clothes and chills you to the bone.

"Hey, Hannah, can I have a word?" Harry asked, squelching up behind them through the wet grass.

"Sure Harry, what do you need?"

Harry shot a look at Sally-Anne, who got the hint. "I'll catch you at lunch," she said to Hannah, and hurried up toward the castle.

"Over here," Harry said, taking Hannah's elbow and leading her under the peaked roof of an outbuilding by the greenhouses. "I need to talk to you."

"What's the matter, Harry?"

"What the hell is going on between Susan and Hermione? It's like they have a history or something, it's not like Hermione to act this way."

Hannah shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know that I'm the one to be talking about it. It seems you should be asking Suze."

"I did that, and she didn't want to talk to me. I got the feeling she did something and that's why Hermione won't talk to me, and Susan is uncomfortable admitting it.."

Hannah let out a long sigh and slumped in defeat. "I see your problem, but you didn't hear this from me, okay?"

"Okay. I promise my lips are sealed."

Hannah sighed again. "Well, it goes back to last year. Your problem probably stems from the fact that Susan called Hermione stupid and narrow minded."

"Why would she do that?" Harry was surprised, that didn't sound at all like sweet, gentle Susan.

"Remember last Halloween, when Granger was hiding in the bathroom?"

"yeeeesss," Harry said, drawing out the word, suspicious now. He had thought that was because of Ron's mouth. Now…

"Well, Susan, Daphne Greengrass-you know, the other 'Puff in our year with Sally-Anne-and me-they took Granger aside and tried to educate her a little bit. She was always trying to butt in, telling us the Muggle world was better at this and that, and they thought she needed a little education on the way things were.

"Well she refused to listen and went as far as calling the wizarding world backward and barbaric, and that's when Susan called her stupid and narrow minded. I dread to think what Granger will do when she finds out about something like house-elves."

Harry shuddered involuntarily. He had learned a little about house-elves from Gaddy, the Bones elf. "She would probably start a free the elves movement and badger everyone into signing petitions or something."

Hannah nodded. "So when your friend Weasley did what he did I guess it was the last straw for her and she went off into that bathroom. And that's why she doesn't want anything to do with Susan."

"I see. Well, thanks for sharing that with me. It was really making me wonder."

"You're welcome, Harry. See you later, and remember you didn't hear it from me."

Harry promised silence and strolled thoughtfully back up to the castle for Transfiguration. Now he realized that any reconciliation would have to take place between the two girls and he would have nothing to do with it. Any further intervention on his part would probably just make things worse.

# # #

Another class that Harry discovered was different this year was Potions. Instead of his usual snide comments, Snape simply put the directions on the board and sat at the front of the class, staring at his notebooks. If Harry didn't know better, he would guess that old Snape was scared and worried. Aside from throwing glares, he also kept his distance from Harry. Without Snape breathing down his neck and Draco trying to sabotage his work, Harry actually managed a decent effort in the class.

There was also the addition of a creepy first year named Colin Creevey who seemed to take great delight in stalking Harry. He, Harry, would come around a corner and there Colin would be, snapping away with his camera and yelling, "All right, Harry?"

Finally, on Friday morning after Charms class, Harry had had enough.

Colin jumped out from around the corner beaming at Harry, but before he could raise his camera, Harry had darted forward and seized the little firsty by the front of his shirt and hoisted him up until their faces were inches apart. Several onlookers loitered in the hall watching, many looking amused, but most looking worried.

"Never," Harry snarled into the now terrified boy's face, "do that again. The next time you take my picture without permission I'm going to take that camera and shove it somewhere very painful. Do. We. Understand. Each other?"

The boy's mouth worked like a fish and his eyes were wide as saucers, he seemed too terrified to speak.

Harry gave him a little shake, causing the camera to fall to the floor and shatter. "I said, do we understand each other?"

"Y-yes," Colin squeaked. "I'm s-sorry!"

Harry released Colin and smiled, suddenly seeming to be a totally different person to the scared little first year. "Excellent. Now that we have a little understanding, I believe you are late for class?"

"I th-think so, yes," Colin muttered, hurriedly scooping up his shattered camera and scuttling off as fast as his legs could carry him.

"Did you have to be so hard on him, mate?" Ron asked, his lips twitching. "He's just a little first year."

A few people laughed as the hallway emptied, but most of the watchers gave him wary looks.

"I was sick and tired of him doing that," Harry said, heading for lunch. "If I didn't put a stop to it he might take it upon himself to hide in my dorm room or something just as creepy."

"Still, you could've been a little nicer."

Harry shrugged, unconcerned. "Doesn't matter. The message got across, I hope."

# # #

So the months of September and October passed, a sameness of classes and Occlumency and silent treatment from Hermione. Lupin continued avoiding him and the Hheadmaster was sending speculative glances at him. Filch did not acknowledge Harry in any way and Harry almost believed he imagined the letter the grumpy caretaker had slipped into his pocket. Colin, too, kept his distance, for which Harry was thankful.

On the third weekend of school, Oliver Wood came charging into Harry's dorm at five in the morning, far too bouncy for such an hour, and dragged him out into the Quidditch locker rooms where, for the next two hours, he lectured a sleeping team about tactics.

Their practice session was promptly ruined by the arrival onto the field of the Slytherin team, all seven of whom sported brand new shiny brooms with Nimbus Two Thousand and One in gold lettering on the handles.

"Nice, aren't they?" drawled a thoroughly delighted Draco from behind his hulking teammates. "My father's just gifted the entire team with these, and I'm the new seeker," he finished with a delighted little smile.

"You are only here because you were jealous of me joining the team last year and wanted to try and beat me, and because you are actually a lousy flier you had daddy buy your way for you," Harry said, keeping a completely deadpan expression.

Malfoy flushed a deep ugly red. "I am not jealous of you, scarface. At least I didn't get taken down by a filthy Muggle!"

There was a gasp from the team and a "How dare you!" from Alicia,, but Harry just smiled tolerantly at Malfoy. "You're absolutely right," he said, causing Malfoy to look uncertain. "But I learned a lesson from that, and that is to never underestimate anybody, just like Professor Lupin says." And with reflexes honed on the Quidditch field, Harry's hand snaked out and seized Malfoy's wrist, which was coming up with his wand.

"See?" Harry gave Malfoy a cold smile, causing the blond Slytherin to cringe. "I'm never letting down my guard again. And you, my little ferrety friend, might try doing things on your own rather than on daddy's coattails.

Leaving behind a spluttering Malfoy, Harry strolled off the field, the team trailing in his wake, with a new respect for their seeker.

# # #

Harry had not had time, between classes and practice and teaching Ron and Susan, to browse through any more of the Compendium of Srem. He was saving that for the Christmas holidays, when he would probably be the only one in the dorm. It was calling to him, so many wondrous things to learn, but he was resisting.

When Halloween finally arrived, he told Ron and Susan that he had a meeting to go to, and promised to fill them in on everything once he returned. Harry couldn't help but compare their reactions with what Hermione's might have been. She would've badgered him into telling her everything, insisted on coming with him, thus possibly blowing the whole thing to kingdom come, or gone rushing off to tell a professor that Harry was sneaking out of school. Ron and Susan accepted his explanation, but told him that, if he hadn't returned within three hours they were going to go to Professor Sprout or Flitwick. Harry realized these were reasonable safety precautions; after all he was going to meet unknown people in secret and who knew what might happen to him.

"But why Sprout or Flitwick?" Harry wondered.

"We tried going to McGonagall last year, and she didn't believe us," Ron said.

"Professor Snape would just sneer at us and go to the Headmaster; and the Headmaster himself would probably use this as leverage to get you to do what he wants," Susan added.

Harry thought about it. "Well, maybe we weren't the only ones to suspect someone of going after the stone. I wonder how many people actually saw Fluffy-that's the three headed dog they had guarding the hallway," harry said, spying Susan's questioning glance. "Maybe we were just another in a long line of reports and she didn't think anything of it."

"Still, she had to at least investigate. I mean, Dumbledore was gone off to the Ministry and she was the acting head. She just cut us off and told us to mind our own business and wouldn't even let us explain. And," Ron said triumphantly, as though driving a point home, "she sent you off into the Forbidden Forest where something was killing unicorns and you know how dangerous that could have been. Hell, you did meet Voldemort out there."

"I think she just turned us over to Hagrid, who probably felt guilty that it was because of him we were in trouble. I don't think she had any idea he would drag us off into the forest."

"Maybe, but I'd still feel better with Flitwick and Sprout. We don't have a history with them."

Harry had his own reasons for not completely trusting McGonagall: her involvement with his placement at the Dursleys. Granted, she was only a school administrator and not really under any kind of legal obligation to do anything, but still. She had doubts about the suitability of the environment Dumbledore placed him in and basically did nothing. So he went along with Ron and Susan and agreed to Flitwick and Sprout as possible aids.

After breakfast on Halloween, while the third years were getting ready to go to Hogsmeade for the first time, Harry Pulled out his map and headed for the statue of the humpbacked witch. According to the tatty parchment, no professors were near, the closest being Lupin in his office on the second floor. Filch was downstairs supervising the exodus of students and no doubt making snide comments as he checked their names off his list. Harry still found it hard to believe the pinched faced man could possibly be an ally. It was mind boggling.

Pulling his invisibility cloak on, Harryslid into the small opening and slid down the chute, hearing the statue clunk shut behind him. He wiped the map when he arrived on the dirt floor of the tunnel and made his way rapidly through it, with his wand lit up and held overhead.

Harry began to hear the loud clamor of voices overhead and slowed down. There was a rickety wooden staircase leading up to what looked like a trapdoor. Inching carefully upward, Harry pushed the door open a tiny crack and put an eye to it.

It looked like the basement of a shop. Big wooden crates loomed in the dimness and there were strews of what looked like packing material all over the wooden floor.

Harry quickly climbed through the trapdoor and doused his wandlight. No sooner did the plank clank shut (hardly leaving a seam; Harry was afraid he might have to actually get down and crawl to find the door again) when he heard footsteps on the stairs.

"And get another box of Jelly Slugs, dear, they've nearly cleaned us out…" said a woman's voice.

Harry quickly shrank into the shadows behind a giant crate and pulled his cloak tighter about him as the storeowner came down the cellar stairs.

Harry waited until he heard rummaging on the opposite side of the cellar and quickly darted out from behind the crate. He came up and found himself behind the counter of Honeydukes sweet shop. The place was so crowded with other students already that Harry figured he could get by without his cloak. So he ducked under the counter, pulled the cloak off and stuffed it into his shirt. Then he straightened up and moved quickly behind a large pack of sixth years and out the door onto the High Street. On any other day Harry would've been rather eager to explore the full array of wizarding sweets available, but today he was in a hurry.

It was ten-thirty in the morning on a rather windy cloudy day. Students called to each other from the sidewalk in front of the stores, showing each other what they'd bought and trading things back and forth. The Three Broomsticks was already doing a brisk business, and Harry wanted to go in and try the butter beer which was supposed to be the best in town.

He hurried up the hill, keeping to the side streets and avoiding crowds after leaving the High Street. He didn't want to be spotted and interrogated as to what he was doing out here.

He had gotten directions to the Shrieking Shack (along with dire warnings about visiting it) from the Weasley twins, who were regaling all the second years with stories of the things they would be missing in Hogsmeade last night at dinner. Harry, oh so casually, asked them where the Shack was and got precise directions.

Now, he saw slivers of light shining through gaps in the boarded up windows. Somebody was there, waiting for him.

Taking a deep breath, Harry went up on to the stoop and knocked on the door.

4

The door was opened at once by a tall, grey haired man in his late sixties. He was wearing a muggle business suit, shiny shoes and a grim expression.

"Good morning Harry. I'm Algernon Croaker, head of the Department of Mysteries."

The man held out his hand, ushering Harry inside, and taking a quick look around before shutting the door and tapping it with his wand. The door glowed blue, then purple, then magenta, the glow racing around all four wals, the floor and the ceiling before fading.

"Heavy duty anti eavesdropping and scrying charms," he said, in response to Harry's look. "Can't be too careful these days… Did anyone see you come up here?"

"No, sir. But I have friends covering for me. If I'm not heard from in three hours they will get help."

Croaker nodded approvingly. "Good planning. But you won't be in here three hours."

"I won't?"

Croaker reached into his pocket and pulled out two very ugly looking stones that resembled mutant potatoes. "Not with these. These little babies are what you might crudely call time distorters. Once I set them up, only eleven minutes pass outside, no matter how long you are inside the field. We've got a lot to cover so you will be in here a while."

"I didn't think that was possible." Harry looked at the ugly rocks with trepidation.

"Oh, we didn't make these. How we got a hold of them is part of the story we're going to tell you. And that reminds me…"

"Hello, Harry," said a voice from deeper in the interior of the parlor.

Harry looked around. The place was beat up, scarred and torn apart. Gouges were torn out of the furniture, there were long scratches on the floor and the wallpaper was hanging from the walls like bits of dead skin. The only thing he could think of was: Ghosts didn't do this, that's for sure.

Sitting at a very battered table obviously now held together with magic but still leaning rather drunkenly to one side was a trim looking man in his thirties. His face was lined, not with age, but with the weight of some heavy burden that had been placed upon him. Flecks of grey were appearing in his thick blond hair and his green eyes, rather like Harry's own, held a haunted look. Like he'd seen too much. He was wearing ordinary jeans and a long sleeved t-shirt, and a canvas bag was settled on the floor beside him, along with a medium sized cardboard box.

"You must be Richard Evans," Harry guessed, coming closer. "I'm Harry Potter."

"Pleased to meet you, even under these circumstances," the man said in an American accent, shaking Harry's hand and smiling slightly. "I'm sorry we couldn't have met sooner and in less unhappy times."

"What is is, Mr Evans," Harry said. "It was beyond our control."

"You can call me Richard, being as how we're cousins and all."

Croaker cleared his throat. "Before we go any further, I have to ask you for an oath not to reveal what we're going to discuss, and that includes my little friends here," he said, patting the ugly rocks. "If you do reveal anything, you have to bring them to one of us first."

"I can agree to that," Harry said.

After the oath was given, Croaker tapped the rocks with his wand and muttered something too low for Harry to hear. There was a lurching sensation, like the feeling you get when you are climbing a flight of stairs and you think there is one more step at the top, but all you encounter is level floor.

"What was that?" Harry asked, rubbing his chest.

"That was the field being activated. Since you can't actually stop time, we have to move to an area where time goes more slowly. The fabric of space time is not a smooth, flat canvas, but rather something like a sheet tossed on the floor. There are all kinds of folds and wrinkles and dark, empty places. We are in one of those places. Don't ask me how, we never learned, even though we've had these for about fifty years."

"Fascinating," Harry muttered. The thought of being in some other dimension was rather scary, but he didn't really have a choice in the matter.

"Before we do get started, though, I wish to examine your Occlumency, Mr Potter. I will swear an oat that anything I see in your mind will not be discussed by me with anyone else without your permission."

"What makes you think I know anything about Occlumency, Mr Croaker?" Harry asked, instantly on guard.

"Come now, Mr Potter," Croaker said, managing a grim little smile. "I know that healers Johnson and Palmer would have taught you after your unfortunate … injury earlier this year. So how about it? Will you let me test you?"

Faced with the knowledge that this man knew far more than he let on, Harry slumped in defeat. "All right, but I want that oath. My head is private territory."

Croaker obliged him and, with a whispered "Legilimens" was probing Harry's defenses.

The sensation was quite different from when Dumbledore was working on his shields. Normally, an untrained mind would feel absolutely nothing from a Legilimens probe, be it passive or active. The sensations were, according to the literature, different from person to person. Harry felt like he was experiencing that dreamy, yet prosaic feeling of déjà vu when Dumbledore was using passive Legilimency in his office. Being aware of the possibility, Harry had thrown up innocuous thoughts and emotions and kept his real thoughts behind that barricade.

When Croaker used a full fledged Legilimency assault against him, it felt like there were fingers in his head, cold, hard fingers prying against his brain. Like something wanted to get in and peel it out of his head like a walnut. Harry instinctively lashed out against the intruder and shoved, hard, on the fingers. Croaker stumbled backward and fell over in an undignified heap, his wand clattering to the floor. The fingers were gone, instantly. Richard looked on, with a slightly amused expression./P

"Well now," Croaker said, getting up off the floor with as much dignity as he could muster under the circumstances. "A great deal of enthusiasm but little finesse."

"I don't know, seems he got the job done," Richard said, not trying to hide his amusement now.

Croaker huffed slightly, straightening his hair and mussed suit. "True enough, Evans, but what you just witnessed was something like using an atom bomb to kill a beetle."

"I do have to work on that. I experienced passive Legilemency and that was something odd, but a full on assault kind of took me by surprise and I just did what came instinctively."

"I understand. You have been pretty much learning this by yourself and have had no real training in it yet. That is because your healers did not know the full urgency with which you must approach this task. What I and Mr Evans here have to say, however, necessitates a more rapid approach to be taken."

"Am I good enough to keep the information secret for now?"

Croaker contemplated for a moment, rubbing his chin. "Yes, I think so, but that is only because nobody knows that you know anything important. You are not sufficiently advanced to withstand something like a double legilimency assault from, say, Dumbledore and his pet Death Eater, who are the ones you need to be guarded against for the moment."

"Do you mean Snape?"

"Precisely."

Harry frowned slightly. He had always suspected Snape could read minds. To have it confirmed wasn't a surprise. He wanted to know more about Snape's Death Eater ties, but suspected that the matter was of little importance just now.

"Okay, more about that later. What is it that I need to know?"

Croaker and Evans looked at each other for a moment.

"You start," Croaker said. "I'll fill in what we know later."

There was a beat of silence, and then Evans began.

"I don't really know where to start. There are a lot of places I could begin, but I guess to really get a full picture I should start with what's called the First Age."

It took every bit of Hary's newfound Occlumency to not flinch. The First Age? That was the era from which the Compendium of Srem came. It seemed everything was coming together now.

"The First Age is widely thought to be little more than a myth, despite numerous publications on the subject, such as a book called Fingerprints of the Gods. We won't get into prevailing theories-that would take all damn day, but I will tell you what I know.

"To cut through a whole lot of extra background, I'll start with something we in the know call the Conflict.

"Basically, two vast, unknowable and unmeasurable cosmic forces have been at war for billions of years. The prize of their game is all reality, all worlds, all dimensions, and one cannot call itself the winner until all of them are in its pocket."

"Are we talking good versus evil?" Harry said, sounding a little bored.

"No, not quite. More like truly awful versus indifferent. We call the forces the Ally and the Otherness, although they really don't have or want names; that's just something somebody came up with to segregate them.

"If the Otherness gets its hands on us, it will change our reality to be something more like itself, and that change will not behuman-friendly. Not at all."

"So I take it that's the side of truly awful?"

"Correct. The most we can expect from the so-called Ally is benign neglect. It guards us only to keep its playing card out of the hands of the Otherness, but we're not more valuable than any other piece in its collection. We're just one piece, a backwater, not at all important in the grand scheme of things, but as I said, in order for one side to call itself the winner it must have all the pieces."

"Where do you think the whole concept of the battle between good and evil came from," Croaker spoke up. "Why do you think there are stories upon stories about good trying to triumph over evil, about keeping powerful artifacts out of the hands of evil wizards? Deep deep down in the furthest reaches of racial memory, the human race remembers the Conflict and it comes out in lots of ways. Religion, heaven and hell, all kinds of things."

Harry knew, somehow, that what he was hearing was the truth. He could feel something in the depths of his hindbrain resonating what what he was hearing. Perhaps that racial memory Croaker mentioned.

"Anyway, before we get too far off track, back in the First Age, the Conflict was more open than it is now. Each side had agents working for it, whole armies and societies supporting one side or another. And each force had its champion, the spearhead of its individual movement.

"To cut through even more backstory, the Otherness's champion is called the Adversary, and the Ally's champion is the Sentinel or the Guardian. They're essentially immortal and have now been alive something like fifteen thousand years.

"The Otherness was pretty close to winning after a while, loosing foul creatures and hybrids on the world, along with its regular human armies. When it was clear that he was about to win, the Adversary figured that he no longer needed his council of mages to back him. So he, unwilling to share power, killed them off one by one until he alone remained. The Seven became the One and that's how he is known to his supporters, as the One."

"After the cataclysm destroyed the First Age civilization, the ragtag remnants of his non-magical followers then formed the Septimus Fraternal Order."

"Seems to be a lot of sevens," Harry mused.

"It, along with the number thirteen, is one of the two most powerful numbers in dark magic and arithmancy. You would do well to remember that," Croaker said.

Harry nodded. "What happened to this Sentinel fellow after all that, and where does this Septimus Order fit in?"

"Over the next several thousand years, the Adversary and Sentinel battled each other, sometimes directly but more often through agents. Finally in the fifteenth century the Adversary was locked away in afortress located in Romania, where he remained until spring of 1941, when the German army inadvertently released him. After that, I have no idea what became of either the Adversary or the Sentinel."

"I'll tell you what we think happened to them after you finish your story," Croaker said.

Richard nodded. "Good, because I think we need to know and rather urgently."

"I agree. Do continue."

"The Septimus Fraternal Order continued on down through the centuries. It moved into the background, manipulating events to suit its needs. It had a hand in forming just about every government on earth. Its main goal is to bring the Otherness back to ascension, and it has numerous programs trying to achieve that goal."

"What, do they think they'll be rewarded if they do?"

"I imagine so. They probably think that they will be given ruling positions over the remnants of humanity that are left after the Otherness does its thing."

Harry looked skeptical. "Doubt that'll happen, if what you say is true our world will turn into hell."

"Exactly, but you can't tell them that. There's no one more fanatical than a true believer. Logic does not work on them.

"The Order has seven levels of membership. To most outsiders, it looks like something benign, something like the Masons or the Elks, just another good ol boy network where you can make business contacts and connections. It has lodges and its own little membership rituals, and each member gets the Septimus Seal branded onto their backs upon induction. The vast majority of members have absolutely no idea what the higher-ups in the Order are up to. You are asked to join the Order, you don't just walk up and invite yourself in. And each member has their own sponsor.

"So it progresses, until you reach the highest ring of membership and you are let in on the real history of the world. And if you don't like what you learn, too bad. There is no retirement."

Harry suddenly had a flash of insight. "That's how you know so much," he breathed. "You got that high and ran away from them, and they've been after you ever since."

"Almost," Richardd said heavily. "Almost correct. It was my grandfather Henry Evans who did that. He learned about the secret history of the world and was appalled at what the Order was doing. He tried to escape, and he managed to evade them for a while with my father and uncle, who were just babies at the time. But they eventually got him, and my mother escaped again."

"So now they're after you because they think your grandfather shared information with the rest of his family?"

"Exactly. If you give away Order secrets, you and your descendants are then named traitors and must be brought to justice. My grandfather left letters in a safety deposit box and there's a whole collection of diaries and mimeographed notes stolen from Order lodges where he went. It's all in here shrunken by Mr Croaker here," Richard said, tapping the cardboard box.

"My father emigrated to America and had me, and my uncle John stayed here and had your mother and aunt Petunia. They got my uncle in the eighties through a fake car accident and my father died of cancer in 1989."

For the first time, Richard looked guilty. "I'm ashamed to admit that I … didn't take my father very seriously. I thought he was a raving paranoid and while I did listen to him, I dismissed just about everything he said until I was forced to adjust my thinking."

"What happened?" Harry was caught up in the story.

"I went into the army and was sent over to Iraq during Operation Desert Shield. There's a very long history in that region, you know, and my father did manage to instill some respect for history into me, in between what I thought then were his paranoid ramblings about ancient conflicts and the Septimus Order.

"So one day I was out by myself, behind enemy lines, on a reconnaissance mission, when…"

# # #

The sun beats down on the top of Richard's head as he crawls over the crest of a sand dune. Behind him, the camel purchased from the farms outside Sulaibiya grumbles in ill-tempered protest and paws restlessly at the sands.

Richard is in full camouflage mode. He has not bathed or brushed his teeth for two weeks, his hair has been dyed black and hangs in filthy strings almost to his collar, and he is wearing a stained shift and a dirty keffiyeh is tied loosely across his lower face. He is disguised as a bedou, one of the ubiquitous wanderers of the desert. They are famous for staying out of conflicts, and could care less who is at war with whom.

Richard's mission is to scout around in the desert around the Kuwaiti/Iraqi border and report troop movements. Word had reached allied command that something big was in the offing and several scouts had been sent out into the desolation. His camel is carrying two panniers loaded with equipment, on top of which are piled some coffee bags to disguise the real contents. He is carrying a small radio transmitter, some plastic explosive, a broken down sniper rifle, a couple of handguns with ammunition, rope, and various other items.

Below him in a cleft between boulders, an Iraqi patrol is hunkered down during the hottest part of the day. They are driving a battered jeep which is covered with tattered camouflage netting. A square shape bulges from beneath the netting. It looks like an animal cage. The main road is four miles to the west, so what is this patrol doing way the hell out here, with an animal cage?

Richard lies there, watching the soldiers for a good half an hour. Finally, they are all snoring in the heat and he decides to make his move.

Rising carefully to his feet, Richard moves down the face of the dune, careful not to kick any rocks that might clatter and give his movements away. The ccamel is snuffling around behind him, trying to find a tasty thorn bush to munch on. There is also an odd sound coming from the jeep, a growling, clicking sound. That doesn't sound like any animal he has ever heard, and it makes Richard very uneasy. It, in fact, scares the hell out of him, for no discernible reason. Something deep within the recesses of his mind tells him that whatever is making that noise doesn't … belong, whatever that means. He is a special forces man, one of the few and the brave, and, through intense training, has been taught to pay attention to his instincts.

This time is no exception. He knows something dangerous lies over the crest of that dune. So he goes back to the camel and, ignoring her spitting and snarling, quietly rummages through the saddlebags until he pulls out his Desert Eagle pistol. It is his personal sidearm (since he is special forces each member of the team gets to pick their own sidearms instead of sticking with the army issue Berettas) and it fires a round big enough to stop an elephant.

He carefully opens the chamber and checks to make sure it is full and just as carefully closes it. The sound of metal on metal will echo loudly across the flat wasteland and might alert the patrol up ahead.

He creeps carefully back up to the top of the dune and peers over, checking to be sure the soldiers are still dozing in the heat. Flies buzz around his head and the wind blows a single high, empty note across the desert, feeling like the breeze from an open crematorium. It is probably about one hundred fifteen degrees out and sweat trails down his back. He will have to drink water soon, or risk dehydration.

He creeps carefully in a wide arc around the huddle of soldiers and comes up from behind, facing the rear of the jeep. Moving with as much caution as a novice martial artist over wet rice paper, Richard eases up to the tailgate and peers through the camouflage netting.

He has to stuff his hand in his mouth to stifle the scream.

It couldn't be. It just couldn't be. These were only stories told to him by his paranoid crazy father.

Yet there it is, staring at him, its fanged snout twitching, drool dangling off its lower jaw. A Q'qr.

How the fuck had the Iraqis found a god damn Q'qr? They are supposed to be dead!

Before Richard can do anything, the Q'qr leaps up from its recumbent position and snarls. It raises all four of its arms and grasps the iron bars of its cage and howls, sniffing madly in Richard's direction. The soldiers wake up and catch sight of him, and Richard breaks out of his shock and starts running as fast as he can.

Despite the urgency of the situation, armed men coming after him and his life possibly forfeit, Richard mind is yammering. Oh my god, he wasn't lying, there's a Q'qr alive. Oh my God he wasn't lying…

It is hard to make any kind of decision with that yammering going on. Behind him, there are screams in Arabic for him to halt, and then a shot is fired, the bullet whining off a rock a foot to his right. He hears the sounds of pursuit behind him too, and he begins weaving desperately, zigzagging left and right to make himself a harder target. It is just like basic training back at Fort Dix, only instead of paint balls, it's real bullets and he would really die if hit.

The only get-away vehicle for him is the camel, but camels are irascible at the best of times and he would probably be shot dead before she deigned to rise off her knees and plod.

His only hope is to outdistance his pursuers and then sneak around and steal their vehicle. After of course killing that Q'qr. How the fuck was it alive in the first place! They were supposed to have died out fifteen thousand years ago at the end of the god damn First Age.

No time for that now. Just now he has to get the hell away from here.

Richard swerves to the right and races around a stone outcropping, hoping the firmer sand around the rocks will hide his footprints. He has managed to put a little distance between him and the soldiers, but he still hears them chasing after him. These are not the usual conscripted army, but real soldiers, no doubt hand picked to transport this Q'qr. After that first shot, no others have been fired; they are no doubt saving their ammunition for when they have him directly in sight.

He doubles around through the outcropping of rocks, hoping madly he doesn't disturb a nest of scorpions. They will expect him to keep running out into the open desert or toward the road, not to come right back at them. At least, he hopes they don't expect it.

He is only half lucky. When he comes out from between the rocks on the other side of their camp, there is a guard at the Jeep, holding an AK-47 and looking warily around. He is very obviously uneasy about being in the presence of the Q'qr, and Richard wonders how many of the eight soldiers know what the hell they are transporting. But then, he realizes, they will no doubt be shot upon the completion of their mission. That's how old Saddam operates.

The Q'qr is still agitated, snarling loudly, rattling the bars of its cage and flailing its boneless extra limbs around. Richard is chilled to notice that the bars around the door lock are giving way slowly due to metal fatigue, as the creature wrenches with incredibly strong fingers at them.

Richard now needs to find a way to get that rifle away from the soldier without him firing it and alerting his comrades, or without Richard himself firing his Desert Eagle, and he needs to do it fast, before that thing breaks loose. He only has seconds to act. There is only one way he can think of to do it.

Richard leans down, picks up a baseball sized rock from the ground and, aiming carefully, pegs it at the back of the soldier's head.

As soon as the rock leaves his hand, Richard is rushing toward the cage. The bars are giving way faster now, and the Q'qr is almost out. He can see the triumph in its eyes, as they glare at him with murderous intent.

The soldier falls to the ground with a boneless thud and Richard, heedless of the other soldiers out there after him, fires his Desert Eagle at the Q'qr-and misses!

The huge .45 caliber bullet instead slams into the door lock and shatters it. And the Q'qr is loose.

"Oh shit oh fuck," Richard mutters, nearly dropping his pistol and almost soiling himself.

The Q'qr roars in triumph and lunges out of the cage straight at Richard, who begins backpedaling frantically, and only just stops himself from screaming. Richard also notes that each of the boneless, snakelike tentacles in the creatures armpits are equipped with gasping suckers lined with tiny teeth like miniature saw blades.

Richard leaps to the side as the creature roars at him, only just barely missing him in its charge. He can see that it is extremely angry and intends to wreak vengeance upon its captors. It doesn't care that he isn't one of them,; the Q'qr are bred killing machines, only a step below a rakosh. Richard hopes fervently that the insane Iraqis haven't found one of those floating around wherever they got this monstrosity.

Meanwhile, the creature is coming at him again, and Richard lifts his pistol for a fresh shot, while still moving. Faster than he can believe, the thing is on him and slams his hand with its own clawed fist, causing the appendage to shriek in outrage then go numb, and the pistol to go flying.

Richard lets out a wail of fear now, he can't help it. The thing snarls and bears him down to the ground and rears back for a final strike, preparing to tear his throat out.

# # #

Richard stopped there and took a deep breath. His hands are clenched in white-knuckled fists as he recalled that terrifying afternoon in the desert.

"What happened then?" Harry was riveted by the story.

"Well, the soldiers came back and shot the thing. They knew they didn't have a chance in hell of getting it re-caged. And then they shot themselves, because they were going to report to Saddam or whoever he had put in charge of getting it to wherever it was going. They no doubt would've been shot anyway, or turned over to Saddam's secret police."

"You were lucky," Harry said, shaking his head at the depths some people would sink to for fanatical leaders.

"Yes I was. I beat feet out of their as fast as I could."

"Did you ever find out where that … what was it? Kicker? Came from?"

"Q'qr," Richard corrected. "Yes, I did find out. It was found in an underground cavern located near Sanliurfa, Turkey. There's a lot of archaeology going on in that region and a rather unscrupulous antiquities dealer found a coffin with the creature in a kind of suspended animation inside it. Saddam Hussein got wind of it somehow and killed the dealer, taking it for himself. He was going to try and create more of them to unleash against the coalition forces."

"So, moving things on a little, you found this First Age creature and that forced you to accept what your dad was trying to say?"

"Yes, although I didn't really do much about it until September eleventh last year. That's when everything went to hell for me. I knew, somehow, that the Order was behind it, but what I didn't know was why. I saw all the stock trading going on before and after, but I got the feeling those were diversions, red herrings to keep the real goal from being discovered. I made the mistake of posting on a 9/11 blog site and the next day my wife and daughter were missing.

"Eventually I came over here, trying to find your father. The Order tracked me and killed my wife and daughter." He sniffled a bit, and Harry saw the painful memories dancing in his eyes. Whatever had happened was extremely horrible, and Harry had the common sense not to press for more details. Instead, he diverted onto a somewhat safer subject.

"Why were you looking for my father?"

Croaker, who had been silently listening up to this point, cleared his throat and spoke up. "I believe I will take this one. That is, if it's all right with you, Evans?"

"Sure. I need a drink anyway."

"Richard pulled a bottle of water out of his rucksack and sipped from it as Croaker told his tale.

"We in the Department of Mysteries have known for a long time about the Conflict. We were originally started as an organization back in the late seventeen hundreds as an effort to consolidate a number of research groups from all over the world. We do not fall under the authority of the British Ministry, but are pretty much a self-contained unit. We can't have any government prying into the things we study.

"Unbeknownst to a lot of people-well, most everyone actually-the ministry building in London is located where it is for a reason. There is an artifact down there called the Veil, and the building was built around it. There are other veils located in specific spots on the globe, too.

"Anyway, every so often beings or things come through the veil and must be contained or destroyed. We got the idea to send an operative through to see what would happen, not a very good idea, I admit, given the caliber of material we were dealing with. One of these days I'll tell you some of the horror stories about what's come through…

"So we sent this fellow through, his name is … was Hermann Franks. We tied a magically enhanced rope around his waist in a harness arrangement. If he felt threatened he was to tug on it three times and we would activate the portkey feature on it and he would be returned to us. In theory anyway."

Croaker fell silent, fiddling with his shirt cuffs.

"Well?" Harry said, eager for more.

"Hermann was a young man, Mr Potter, about twenty-one. One of our brightest and strongest new recruits. I personally invited him to join us straight from Hogwarts. He breezed right through our own training program, which was put in place to help make up for Hogwarts's increasingly falling standards (a matter we won't get into today.) I haven't seen such a brilliant mind before or since." He left unsaid that he hoped Mr Potter would surpass even Hermann in many areas, especially with his new brain configuration.

"When we put out the word that we were looking for volunteers to go through, he was first on the list. I tried to talk him out of it, but he could be pretty stubborn. So he went through and…"

Harry didn't press him this time. He got an ominous feeling, looking at Croaker's lined face. He saw fear there, and he got the impression fear was not an emotion the old researcher was wont to feel very often.

"He was gone exactly fifteen seconds. But somehow the portkey function on his rope activated by itself. And when he came back, he was … old. Not just old-ancient. His hair had mostly fallen out, and what was left was white and dead looking, like bits of dry grass on his head. He was blind, his teeth were gone and he probably weighed less than fifty kilos. But worst of all, he was totally, and irrevocably insane."

Silence hung in the decrepit little parlor. Even Richard, who had been thumbing through a notebook, was still, spellbound by the story. Harry felt gooseflesh rise on his arms. What the hell had happened to this man?

"What happened to him?" Harry asked, voicing the thought.

Croaker bowed his head and stared at the tabletop. "That we never did get a full picture of. He was babbling in many different languages, some of which we'd never heard before. He was clutching those rocks over there in his fist, however, and we discovered that they could fold space time around.

"When we performed Legilimency upon him, we found his mind to be a disaster area. He had apparently been to a great many places and had somehow managed to age about two hundred years in those fifteen seconds he was gone. He saw something in the last place he visited, however, that completely blasted his conscious mind into smithereens.

"We learned about the Conflict, because apparently in one of the worlds he visited he was fighting against the Otherness, and later he was actually on an Otherness-ruled world. We deduced that the veils are located in spots were Otherness influence can seep through, places were the canvas of our reality is thin. I wake up in a sweat at night sometimes wondering what might happen if the remaining barrier were to just … rub away."

"That won't happen by accident," Richard said.

"I know, but I still worry about it."

Croaker rubbed his face wearily and continued. "So anyway, to continue the story. Hermann went through in September of 1989 and we learned what happened to the Adversary, based upon information we gleaned through Legilimency done on him, and from your father, Mr Potter."

Richard sat up straight. "I've been wondering about that ever since I finally accepted the truth. What happened to him?"

"Through John Evans, your maternal grandfather, Mr Potter, your father learned about the Septimus Order. He-your father, I mean-was also working for us, one of our outside agents not directly connected to the department. He was recruited by a man named Gideon Prewett who was one of our top recruiters. Never met a man with finer personnel instincts. Took five Death Eaters to kill him and his brother Fabian..."

"Anyway, we found out that the Order uses certain factions in the ICW to do its business in the wizarding world.. We won't go into that for now. I'll just tell you what we have managed to put together over the past eleven years regarding the Adversary and Guardian."."

There was a brief pause, while the three of them took refreshment from a bag Croaker had brought with him. By Harry's watch it was already almost six in the evening. Had the distortion field not been there, Sprout and Flitwick would've come busting in here four hours ago. Magic was amazing. But what if they got trapped in the field? What if they came out, insane and screaming and white haired, like Hermann Franks? Harry shivered.

Once they were all back at the table, Croaker began again.

"We already found out from Richard here that the Adversary was seemingly vanquished in 1941 when the German army inadvertently turned him loose. But instead of dying, his essence was shunted off into an embryo that would later form into a baby named Tom Marvolo Riddle."

Harry gasped. He couldn't help it.

"You know who that is, Mr Potter?"

"That's Voldemort's real name. So he's this Adversary?"

"Sort of. I'm impressed that you know his name, not many do. Where did you find out?"

"In my parents' will."

"Ah, they would have made any witnesses and executors swear not to be involved with him," Croaker said, nodding approvingly.

"By the way, does this Adversary have a name?"

"He does, but you don't want to speak it. Unlike with the silly thing about not saying Voldemort's name, it really will draw his attention."

"Can you write it down?" Harry asked, having a Hagrid flashback.

Croaker studied him for a moment, then nodded slowly. "Yes, but I must impress upon you the importance of not actualy saying the name. I am not doing it just to be superstitions, like the greater populace does with Voldemort. You really don't want this fellow's attention."

"Okay, I get it," Harry said. I'll keep calling him the Adversary."

Croaker nodded once more and scribbled on a piece of parchment.

Harry peered at it.

Rasalom

"He will use variants on that name. Names have power, and he does not wish anyone to know his true name. He will kill anyone who speaks it, and he is very inventive at the art of killing."

Croaker burned the parchment and resumed his story.

"So the Adversary was reborn in a London orphanage in January of 1942. According to one of the kids there, who is now a rather old man whiling away his last days in a nursing home, his birth was particularly violent. He talked about a freak earthquake and how the boy seemed awake and aware from the moment he entered the world."

"I met another refugee from that orphanage earlier this summer. He was a horrible harmonica player living in a dirty little apartment in London. Said his harmonica was taken by a kid named Tom Riddle but mysteriously returned later."

Croaker smiled humorlessly. "Dumbledore himself came to give Tom his Hogwarts letter. I bet it was he who made Tom return the harmonica. He always did have a funny way of doing things.

"So the Adversary is basically trapped inside an inert vessel. He can influence Tom in little ways, but he's basically powerless. Tom, however, is already plenty evil enough without the Adversary's help. And one day, he makes the catastrophic mistake of splitting his soul."

"What? You can do that?" Richard asked, aghast.

"Yes you can. It's called a Horcrux. Tom thought it would give him immortality, because while part of the soul is earthbound, when your body is destroyed you won't die. Utter rubbish of course. You'll still die, because the soul isn't meant to be split."

"So what's the point of having a spell to do that then?" Harry asked.

"It was one avenue explored by ancient Egyptian wizards to immortalize their pharaohs. They had a couple of horrible failures, such as the Dementors, but they eventually figured out how to do it. But of course, it didn't work."

"So what does happen if you split the soul?"

"Put simply, you go crazy. Tom lost his humanity and went further and further into the realms of madness the more he split his soul. And, of course, there was a further consequence. The Adversary was able to gain a greater foothold in him."

"So when he got kicked out of his body, what was keeping him here if it wasn't his Horcruxes?" Harry wanted to know.

"That was the Adversary. As Tom split his soul more and more, the Adversary was able to draw upon that which gives him strength to power himself. He thrives on human misery, on greed, on base emotions, and on terror. And Tom was spreading terror everywhere he went. And surrounded himself with greedy, power hungry and immoral men. All of that, plus the normal woes of every day life, strengthened the Adversary, and so he was able to hang on to life even while Tom was disembodied.

"Even that probably would've failed eventually, if it hadn't been for Lucius Malfoy."

"What? Malfoy? Where does he get into it?" Harry exclaimed, really surprised now.

"I don't yet know how, but he somehow managed to destroy all the Horcruxes. There was a magical pulse that traveled very rapidly across the continent earlier this summer, and headed toward Malfoy Manor. Also, we have devices in the department that track magical births and deaths. And one Tom Marvolo Riddle's name popped up on the death register."

"Holy hell, Lucius Malfoy killed Voldemort. No wonder Snape and Draco have been looking worried all year," Harry breathed, absolutely astonished.

"Indeed. The Dark Marks on every Death Eater will have faded. Lucius dare not reveal that he was the one to kill their lord, because he will probably be killed faster than blinking."

"But wait, doesn't that solve our Adversary problem?"

"No," Croaker said gravely. "You see, as Tom split his soul, the Adversary was able to become more and more separate from him. By the time Lucius did whatever it was that he did, they were almost two separate entities. My guess, based on some hurriedly done research, is that the Adversary used some of Voldemort's own magical energy to propel himself away from the departing spirit, kind of like the way space shuttles use gravity wells to slingshot into deeper space.

"Also, a little while before Hogwarts term started and about two minutes after that pulse was detected, a young man by the name of Adrian Pollard was killed in a bicycle accident not far from Malfoy Manor and shortly thereafter disappeared. There was a hastily and crudely done Obliviation of the witnesses, but we managed to figure out that a delivery van knocked him into a light pole and apparently broke his neck. He then got up, apparently uninjured, made the witnesses forget and disappeared. We finished the Obliviation on them and finally put the last pieces of the puzzle together. The Adversary is alive again, in the body of Adrian Pollard. He's not a passenger anymore. He's free and can do whatever he pleases. And Merlin help us all"

5

An hour later (or eleven minutes, if you liked that better) Harry was creeping through the corridors of the school under his invisibility cloak. The Marauder's Map was open and active, showing him to be nearly all by himself on this floor.

Quickly, he ducked into an alcove next to the library doors and slipped the cloak off, stuffing it back into his shirt. Then he strolled casually toward Gryffindor tower, as though he didn't have a care in the world.

It was hard to wrap his head around the fact that it was still only just after eleven in the morning, yet he had spent nearly six hours learning devastating things about the nature of reality and his personal history. His father had left him the Compendium of Srem, which meant that he likely had an inkling about the horrible possible future ahead. Else why not give it to the Department of Mysteries? He must've figured Harry might need the book himself.

Then there was another thing. Why tell him all this? What could Harry do? He was only twelve. They had had to cut the meeting short, they were all getting tired and the Shrieking Shack was hardly a comfortable abode. They had made arrangements to get together at Filch's place over the holidays. Harry would have to come up with a reason to leave school, but he was sure he could come up with something. Maybe sneak away during his St Mungo's checkup.

"Password?"

Harry looked up. His feet had managed to carry him all the way to the tower without him being the wiser.

Giving the password, Harry entered and found Ron sitting off in a corner, working on his transfiguration. Through his tutoring session in Occlumency, the redhead had managed to improve his marks a great deal, much to the delight of his teachers, except Snape of course.

"Hey mate, that didn't take long. Something come up?" Ron asked as Harry settled across from him and picked up the button he had just transfigured. It still had a single leg, but it was much better than his original efforts at the beginning of the year.

"I can't tell you everything until you've fully mastered Occlumency, but when I do it'll blow your mind. I was gone for six hours, but the people I was meeting had these rock things that are apparently enchanted to distort time or something weird like that."

"Really? Way cool. Give me a hint, will ya?"

Harry thought a moment. "Ron, I don't even know where to start. Let's just say old Voldemort is the least of our worries now. Oh, and I have a real cousin too."

Ron sighed in defeat. "Teasing little bugger," he muttered. "Okay, I'll work harder. That's cool about your cousin though. Gotta be an improvement on Dudley, eh?"

"You're not kidding! He's pretty neat."

Discussion on Richard carried them through until the lunch bell sounded, and they traipsed off down the many staircases toward the Great Hall. Harry was famished. Neither of them saw the sad eyes of Hermione Granger following them as they left.

6

After the excitement of Sirius Black breaking into Gryffindor tower that night, school quickly settled into a quiet routine over the month of November. Harry wondered why Black went to Ron's bed. Since the man never got a trial, Harry assumed he was wrongfully imprisoned. However, he was seen carrying a great big knife, obviously meaning to do harm to someone or something. Had the years in Azkaban unhinged him?

Croaker had given Harry and Richard linked notebooks with which they could communicate. Both of them wanted to take the intervening month to strengthen the family bond and get to know each other a little better.

Harry asked Richard what he knew about Sirius Black on the morning after his break-in. There were a lot of things that didn't add up and he wanted to get to the bottom of things.

Unfortunately Richard didn't know much other than that Black was harry's father's good friend; personal details about the Potter family weren't very well known because Richard's father mostly dealt with his brother and saw James as only a potential ally, not a real friend.

Richard did know some about Peter Pettigrew, however. It turned out that the Pettigrews were aligned with the Order, or at least had been according to the dossier of UK members compiled way back in the time of Richard's grandfather. Whether or not that relationship continued to the present wasn't known. Just one more piece to the puzzle.

Harry and his team won their first match against Slytherin when Draco, the idiot, missed the damn Snitch hanging sneakily over his left ear. Flint was still yelling at him six hours later, according to what Harry heard through the Hogwarts rumor mill.

Finally, it was the last day of term before the Christmas holidays.

It was the second Hogsmeade weekend and Ron had been pestering Harry about sneaking into the village using the Marauder's Map. Harry, tired of listening to him whine, finally acquiesced and agreed to lead him through a secret passage. "Just like having a real adventure again," Ron had said the day before. "It's always you who gets the fun!"

"What's like having an adventure?" Susan asked, joining them at their library table.

Before Harry could answer, Ron piped up. "Harry's gonna take me into Hogsmeade through a secret passage."

"Ooh, I want to come," Susan said, a mischievous light dancing in her eyes. "It does sound like fun!"

Harry banged his head on the table. "If you two get us caught, I'm going to make sure you end up as Lupin's demonstration partners for the rest of the year!"

The next day after breakfast, amidst the chatter of happy students discussing the last day of term and plans for the holidays, Harry, Susan and Ron met in a deserted classroom on the third floor.

"We want to go now, while Filch and the teachers are all occupied downstairs," Harry said, activating the map and scanning the corridors around them. "Nobody's around, so let's get to the statue."

They all got into Honeydukes's cellar without incident and gleefully mingled in with the other students, nobody giving them a second look. Harry got to sample a bunch of new candies he'd never heard of and he was actually beginning to enjoy himself, or at least as much as he was able to feel enjoyment.

Then there was that overheard conversation in the Three Broomsticks. And his day promptly went downhill.

Shaking off the flashes of memory, Harry finished writing his message, which was very short. "I've found Peter Pettigrew. He's not dead, he's hiding in plain sight right here in Hogwarts, and I think the best option would be to kill him, like Sirius tried to do."

Not waiting for an answer, Harry slammed the notebook shut which activated its seals, deactivated the map and opened his hangings. It was time to get answers. And maybe even correct a great injustice.

7. Reassessment

Chapter 7: Reassessments

Note: I have played fast and loose with the layout of King's Cross Station, altering it to best suit my story.

# # #

1

Sirius Black was cold.

At least on the sunny island of Azkaban, you could curl up under a ragged blanket for a little bit of warmth, and the cell walls provided a bit of a buffer between you and the icy wind off the north Atlantic.

Out here, though, in the highlands of Scotland in the middle of December ... forget about it.

Sirius huddled in Padfoot form at the back of a cave, while snow blew in the front and the wind howled. While it was still only about 0 degrees (Centigrade) it was warm enough to snow. When night came and the clouds cleared, the temperature would drop like the chance of survival of a chocolate bar around old Moony.

If only he had taken the time to stop off on the continent to get a wand. He could've transfigured some rocks into a tent of sorts and built a fire. Instead, he had charged across the sea in usual reckless fashion, without a plan but lots of desire. Stupid, stupid Sirius Black.

As the temperature dropped, Sirius thought again about going up to Hogwarts and hiding in one of the unused towers. It would at least be warm(er) up there. And the students would be leaving tomorrow, so he likely wouldn't be seen.

Getting up there would be tricky, though, especially after his reckless charge to Gryffindor tower on Halloween. There were probably even more stringent security measures in place now. The only reason he had gotten away with it before was the use of the passage underneath the Whomping Willow. Since that tunnel had been constructed under the auspices of Dumbledore for Remus's use, it wouldn't be wise to use it again. There was probably an alarm ward on it now.

Going to Grimmauld Place wasn't an option either; that was too far from his godson. But maybe he could Apparate down there and borrow one of the old family wands?

Sirius shifted miserably and shivered in the cold. He felt a burning hatred for the old man, Dumbledore. It was this along with the knowledge of his innocence that had kept him mostly sane over the past eleven years. Because Dumbledore knew full well he was innocent.

Sirius didn't like Barty Crouch either, but he could understand, at least intellectually, why Crouch acted in the manner that he did. With Voldemort's supporters running wild all over the place, there often wasn't time for such niceties as trials. And in the uproar of discovering that his own son was a Death Eater, little matters like Sirius Black got shoved by the wayside. Dumbledore ascended to the position of Chief Warlock shortly thereafter, from what he'd managed to glean from old newspapers and gossip overheard from the Auror guards. Dumbledore should've taken it upon himself to ensure that everybody in Azkaban actually deserved to be there. Even the god damn Lestranges had gotten a trial, even though they had proclaimed loudly and often their support for Voldemort. They had been captured, along with Bartemius, Junior, while attacking the Longbottoms. Thus ended his father's fast track through the Ministry..

Dumbledore, however, knew from the beginning that Sirius was no Death Eater. His family had disowned him for not following the old ways, and for having the audacity to be sorted into Gryffindor. In addition, he had killed in the line of duty, killed three Death Eaters. He didn't like having to do it, but it was either him or them, and how could he charm witches out of their panties if he was pushing up daisies?

But there was one more important consideration. Dumbledore knew that he wasn't a follower of Voldemort, because he had sworn an unbreakable vow as Harry's godfather. Leading a murderer to the house where James, Lily and Harry were staying would've been a betrayal of that oath, and he would've lost his life. Dumbledore had been there when Sirius had made the vow, twinkling in the corner. The naming of a godparent in the wizarding world was serious business.

Why, though? Why had Dumbledore let him rot in Azkaban, when a word from him would've seen the case reopened?

Sirius had lain awake many a night, pondering that question, and could only come to one conclusion: Harry. Dumbledore needed Sirius out of the way so he could do something to or with his godson.

2

The line of Black stretched back into the distant past, before the founding of Hogwarts, and had major and minor branches across most of Europe. One of the things drilled into both Sirius and Regulus was the proud history of the family. So even if Sirius didn't follow the old ways, he was still cognizant of them.

Since the Black family had integrated itself so thoroughly into the fabric of European magical society, and since the general family proclivity was to find an advantage for itself wherever it could, the heads of the various branches had amassed a great deal of material on various people throughout history. Dirt, if you will. Blackmail material, if you want to be crude. Potential leverage if you want to be more elegant.

All of this material was cached in various locations across the continent. All children of the house of Black were expected to learn at least rudimentary Occlumency to protect the fact that so many key figures in the echelons of wizarding society were so vulnerable. They were also taught basic combat magic, beginning at age seven, a tradition that had begun several hundred years ago to protect the offspring from any kidnapping attempts from those trying to gain their own leverage over the family heads.

Being of a somewhat rebellious and unconventional nature, Sirius had taken it upon himself to learn some of the secrets his family guarded. He was the oldest and designated heir, so it was his right. Even though his mother, may she rot in hell, had blasted him off the family tree, she was not head of the family, that position only being allowed to pass from male to male. Therefore he was still the heir.

He was quite astonished to see the sheer variety of material the family had collected over the years. He also was very curious to discover why some of this stuff had not found its way into the hands of Voldemort and his merry pranksters. He investigated, and discovered that only family heads had access to the material, and that they could only access it by swearing an Unbreakable Vow that the material would only be used for the betterment of the family, and furthermore that it would not be shared with anyone outside the family. This would explain why Regulus and Bellatrix had not given Voldemort any of the dirt on Ministry and Wizengamot officials that lay in the repository.

Then, Sirius had been tossed into Azkaban, rendering everything moot.

As he lay there, shivering in the miserable cave, Sirius wondered at that. He wasn't the only one to be tossed into Azkaban without a trial, but every one of the suspected Death Eaters had received one after Voldemort fell. Why hadn't he?

More importantly, what was he going to do now?

At first, when he had spotted Wormtail in the paper, he had no real goal in mind other than commit the crime he had been imprisoned for. But now, faced with harsh reality, Sirius had to come up with a new plan.

And then there was his godson.

Details on what had happened to Harry were scarce. He had known from Hagrid that Harry had gone to live with his aunt and uncle. That could only mean Petunia. Sirius knew that Petunia was not exactly Lily's biggest fan, especially when the invitation to their wedding had been returned unopened. Then, to find out that her husband had put Harry in the hospital with brain damage… well, that information had made Sirius want to team up with Moony and visit the Dursleys on the full moon.

Sirius had caught a whiff of Harry's scent in town this afternoon, and followed the smell. His devious little godson was sneaking up to the Shrieking Shack. It did his old marauding heart proud. Sneaking out of the castle into town as a second year ... Even he and James hadn't managed that one. Well at least not close till the end of the year anyway.

What puzzled the Animagus was the fact that he came back out exactly eleven minutes later, looking somehow grimmer than he had when he'd entered. Like he'd received a great shock. What the hell could've happened in there in eleven minutes to make his godson look like that?

Sirius was jerked out of his thoughts by crunching footsteps on the snow outside the cave. Before he could scuttle deeper into the blackness, he was trapped in a beam of bright light.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" said a voice from behind the light. "Sirius Black ... My, but these accommodations sure do leave a great deal to be desired."

Sirius was then hit with a blue spell and suddenly yanked out of dog form. "Who are you?"

There was a laugh from out of the darkness. "Just a friend interested in justice, Mr Black. If you'll come with me, I'll ensure that you are reunited with Harry … and some good, hot meals too."

"You know about Harry?"

"Silly question: Everybody knows about your famous godson. He alerted us just fifteen minutes ago that Pettigrew was in Hogwarts-"

"That traitorous rat!" Sirius snarled, lunging to his feet. "I'll-"

He was hit with a body bind before he could take three steps. "Stop that, Mr Black. You know what your last reckless charge got you into. Do you really want to do it again, and end up with the kiss?"

This was like a splash of icy north Atlantic water in the face for the old dog. "You're right, it's just … I hate the thought of that filthy betraying bastard running loose around my godson. And you still haven't told me who you are."

"All in due time, Mr Black … all in due time... Will you come with me? You will see your godson tomorrow when he gets off the express."

Faced with few palatable alternatives, Sirius Black agreed. He was released from the body bind and handed a piece of rope. "I promise that nothing harmful awaits you at the other end of this Portkey," the unknown benefactor assured. "Just say 'activate' and my friends will help take care of you."

As the wind gave a particularly cold and fierce howl that cut straight through his ragged prison robes, Sirius clutched the rope tighter. "Okay, but if this is all some kind of trap…"

"I give you my word as a wizard that we wish you no harm."

Sirius nodded at that. "Activate."

3

Albus Dumbledore paced restlessly around his office, as the school term came to a close. He had just finished dining with the pompous fool that currently held the Minister for Magic post. That man exemplified the old saying that you could lead a man to parliament but you couldn't make him think.

That was all to Albus Dumbledore's good though. Leave the thinking to me, he thought to himself, smiling slightly.

The small smile slid right off his face, though, as his mind turned once more to Harry Potter, his current social experiment and prophesied saviour.

Things had not gone as expected with that little plan, and Dumbledore wasn't sure what, if anything, he could do to bring it back on track. It was looking more and more like he would have to totally scrap it and move on to something else.

Dumbledore picked a lemon sweet out of his dish, something he had heard about from one of the Muggleborns called 'warheads', and sucked on it thoughtfully.

Albus Dumbledore was a man of many faces, each one suited to achieve one of his goals, and each goal aimed at achieving one thing. The driving purpose of his life, established many years ago, in Godric's Hollow.

Few remembered that Albus had a sister, or that his father had been sent to Azkaban for attacking the Muggles that had attacked her. That was fine with Albus. Those old family secrets were better off buried. And the ones who did remember were content to keep quiet … or could be made to be quiet in various ways.

The first seeds of purpose had been planted all those years ago, as the young Albus watched the Aurors taking his father away. They grew a little more when, in a burst of wild uncontrolled accidental magic from his poor sister, his mother had died. And they took deeper root as he skated his way through Hogwarts, and finally began to sprout when he made the acquaintance of a young, fair-haired man named Gellert Grindelwald, when Albus was seventeen and just graduated.

During that eventful summer, Albus had been carried away, swept up in the vision of a future vision shared by the young man for whom he had developed something of an infatuation. Only a few times since had he faced someone who was on an intellectual level with him. They talked and plotted and schemed, until…

Dumbledore sighed heavily to himself and rubbed his eyes tiredly. He did not like dredging up all those old memories. Who had actually cast the spell which had killed his sister was a question which continued to plague him, on those nights (and they were many) when he could not sleep. Even when viewing the memory in a Pensieve, he could not tell. There were too many varied spells flying about. It could've been either he, Aberforth or Gellert; it could've even been herself. No way to know. No certainty.

Aberforth was devastated. He had been Ariana's favourite, and she, his. To this day, Albus believed that his brother blamed him for Ariana's death, and not Gellert. Oftentimes, Albus wondered if Aberforth wasn't right about it all.

After that summer, Albus sold a few articles to various publications to earn enough gold to send Aberforth back to Hogwarts. He finished all the way up to sixth year, but did not return for the seventh, leaving Godric's Hollow immediately after he turned seventeen.

Albus, meanwhile, began to work toward his goals. Using his studies in Alchemy, he fashioned for himself a crude imitation of the Elixir of Life. It would not a Philosopher's Stone, but close. To make a Philosopher's Stone, you had to impregnate a woman, and then kill the baby immediately upon its birth, adding its new, untainted life force to the potion. When he had discovered this, Albus had been horrified, and a little let down. How could his mentor have such feet of clay? To steal a new life, just to prolong his own?

Then he rationalized it to himself. Back in those days, it wasn't uncommon for babies to die suddenly, or to even be put to death if the family into which it had been born was ill equipped to care for it. It was by and large a lawless era and the feudal overlords cared little what might happen to serfs under their dominions as long as the work got done.

However, Albus was many things, but a direct killer was not one of them.

His pseudo elixir would slow his aging, but he would still die. He guessed if he continued taking it he might live an additional twenty years beyond his normal life span. He hoped that would be enough. Because achieving his goals promised to be a long, drawn out process.

After ascending to the position of Headmaster in 1955, ten years after his old friend Gellert was sent to prison, he began phase one of his plan.

Slowly, gradually, the teaching at Hogwarts began to decline. Defence Against the Dark Arts teaching especially. Unbeknownst to everyone, it was he, Albus, who had put a geas on the position, not Voldemort. But funnily enough, nobody ever drew the connection. Nobody realized that, ever since he had become Headmaster, no teacher of defence had lasted more than a year. Sheep.

He hadn't wanted to appoint Lupin as the Defence teacher this year, but the man had insisted, claiming that if Sirius Black was indeed coming after Harry Potter, he, Lupin, being one of Black's closest friends, would be able to more easily keep an eye out for the escaped prisoner. Dumbledore had demurred; he wanted Gilderoy Lockhart to teach this year. But Lupin had insisted, and not wanting to raise any suspicions, Dumbledore had acquiesced. He would get Severus to "accidentally" let slip that Lupin was a werewolf toward the end of the year, and then offer the man sanctuary, thus further aligning him to Dumbledore's side.

When Horace Slughorn (finally!) retired in 1991 after teaching for nearly sixty years, Albus was very pleased. That man was far too good at his job for Albus's purposes. So he appointed Severus Snape as the new potions teacher, and instantly, potions began to decline as well. The number of Auror and healer graduates had been dropping slowly ever since Snape had started teaching. And Albus was even more pleased.

His work as Supreme Mugwump of the ICW, which he had gained in 1964, after a particularly fine piece of work in the colonies in November 1963, and as Chief Warlock of the British Wizengamot, which he had gained in 1993, also had begun to bear fruit, though very slowly. A word here, a gentle nudge there … that was the way to do things.

Things had taken an unexpected turn when he had overheard that prophecy after Harry Potter was born. It was something that he had not counted on, and he had to quickly think up something to deal with this new move in the game.

The previous divination teacher, a man from the colonies called Arnold Farseer, had come to him and indicated that he would be retiring at the end of the 1990-91 school term. Dumbledore had been inclined to just let the course drop from the curriculum, but he had been approached by the great granddaughter of a very famous and gifted seer, a woman called Sybil Trelawney.

Due to the Death Eaters yanking random people out of the Floo for sport, the network had been shut down that weekend for security upgrades. So Dumbledore had decided to pay Sybil a visit in her accommodations at his brother's nasty little inn. It was raining buckets out, so he had made a Portkey to take him to just outside the Hog's Head. He spotted Severus Snape sitting at a filthy table with Avery, and suppressed a grimace. Snape too had owled him looking for a job, teaching Defence Against the Dark Arts, but he had declined that request. He might have use for Snape and he couldn't risk the man getting caught up in the geas on the position.

Things were not going well- it seemed this lady had not a spark of the seer's gift in her, being only a creature of mysticism and palmistry and tarot cards. But then…

Then she had given that prophecy.

Snape overheard the whole thing before getting caught by Aberforth. And a plan, brilliant in its simplicity, was born.

All but the first line was carefully excised from Snape's memory. He was a good Occlumens, but not good enough yet. He was then sent off back to Voldemort.

Dumbledore then advised the Potters and the Longbottoms, both of whom had children born at the end of July, the previous year, to go into hiding, as Voldemort would be targeting them. By singling them out and putting them under special protection, it allowed Voldemort to finally narrow down his list of targets. And the prophecy would be fulfilled, and the war would end.

The fact that Voldemort had gone after the Potters first was pure chance. They had made the mistake of choosing a Death Eater as their secret keeper, and paid the ultimate price. The Longbottoms had not been attacked until after their Fidelius Charm had been dropped. Nothing of any importance was gained by such an attack, so Dumbledore ignored it and continued his plans.

On that Halloween night, Dumbledore had been in his office, fresh from the feast, when the alarms he had tied into the Potters' wards at Godric's Hollow had gone off shrilly. He felt a burst of triumph. Everything was going to plan.

Hagrid was sent to fetch the child and bring him to Hogwarts; Dumbledore had something else to do.

Dumbledore followed behind Hagrid, watching from under a Disillusionment Charm as Black gave him the motorcycle. While the two men were talking, Dumbledore scanned around and found the battered form of Peter Pettigrew, who had been knocked into a hedge across the street by the explosion. Dumbledore implanted a few suggestions in Pettigrew's mind - the man was frightfully weak-minded - and spelled him to sleep for twelve hours. A Portkey was then planted on him, made from a dead leaf and stuck to his robes with a weak sticking charm. It sent him to a deserted alleyway in Birmingham, at which time the sticking charm would wear off and the leaf would blow away, its purpose fulfilled.

Just before Black Disapparated, Dumbledore implanted the whereabouts of Pettigrew in his mind. It went unnoticed, because Black was already thinking about tracking down Pettigrew, and he thought Dumbledore's suggestion was his own idea. Dumbledore was proud of his Legilimency ability.

Dumbledore returned to Hogwarts, his mission complete, and began to check over Harry. He detected residues of an incomplete Killing Curse on his forehead, and most intriguing of all, a strange type of dark magic that he had only read about. It looked as though there were two souls sharing his body.

All the books on Horcruxes had, of course, been removed from the restricted section of the library and stored in the Headmaster's office. Some things had to be kept out of circulation. Some things were better off not known.

If he were to attempt to remove it himself, it was likely that he might remove Harry's soul as well. Only the creator of the Horcrux could safely remove any soul pieces from a living being. The only thing Dumbledore could do was block the fragment from the main soul, and hope for the best.

That took the better part of six hours. By the time he was done, Dumbledore was exhausted. He wasn't done yet, though.

Since the next day was a Sunday, he told Minerva to go to Privet Drive, the home of Lily's Muggle sister and stand guard, in case there might be retaliation against them. He then sowed the seeds of the next stage of his plan.

After dealing with the distraught Severus Snape, and procuring his promise to watch over Lily's son in the years to come, Dumbledore carefully modified Hagrid's memories, excising most of the past twenty four hours. Then it was off to Privet Drive.

Dumbledore set up the wards around the home, anchoring them into the block he set up between the soul fragments, keeping it strong on a dose of Harry's own magic. That would do for the next ten years; a solution would have to be found when the boy reached Hogwarts.

After giving an interview as head of the main Voldemort resistance movement, the legend of the Boy-Who-Lived was born. With some rue, Dumbledore realized that he should've modified Hagrid's memory sooner; the poor man couldn't keep a secret to save his life. He had gone to a pub after dropping off his burden and sobbed into his cups about the death of Lily and James and survival of Harry. Oh well, no use crying over spilt potion.

So things had progressed over the next ten years. The legend of the Boy Who Lived had grown until he was almost mythical. A very few wizards knew the boy had been sent to live with his Muggle relatives, but they were mostly dismissed. Surely the vanquisher of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named would not be sent into such a deplorable environment!

Word had reached him about how the Dursleys were treating young Harry, but he for the most part dismissed the reports. It was more important that the soul fragment be kept isolated than for the boy to be happy.

Then the whole thing fell apart this summer.

Dumbledore absently fished another candy out of the dish, still thinking.

When he had seen the monitors on the wards at Privet Drive go off, Dumbledore had hurriedly created a Portkey to Arabella Figg's back garden and strode up the sidewalk, expecting to see Death Eaters throwing fire spells at the house, or the Dursleys under the Cruciatus.

Instead, what he saw was Amelia Bones, the Dursleys bound in the living room, and a huge circle of blood on Harry Potter's bedroom floor. With no Harry Potter in it.

Displaying a rare moment of panic, he had considered Obliviating Bones and removing Harry back to Hogwarts, but not being very good with medical spells, he would have to call on Pomfrey, who would no doubt call in other specialists from St Mungo's, given how large that bloody splotch on the floor was.

And so it came to pass that the great Albus Dumbledore found himself blackmailed. All those years wherein the Boy-Who-Lived story was built up into a heroic figure for the wizarding public to rally around were now working against him. Should it get out that Dumbledore placed him into a situation wherein he was abused nearly to the point of death, Dumbledore would find himself lynched from the tallest tree in the Forbidden Forest. It was like Frankenstein's monster turning against his creator.

Then Harry had been removed to the Bones estate and thus out of Dumbledore's reach. He had been different when Dumbledore interviewed him earlier this term. Somehow closed off, less in awe, and more guarded. Efforts at gently probing his mind had met with little success. Dumbledore could only conclude that with his injury, Occlumency had been required as part of his treatment. But with a more guarded Harry, who had powerful allies on his side … well, adjustments would have to be made.

Then there was the issue of Sirius Black.

Dumbledore wasn't sure what to do about that one. It would be easy enough to find him; Black was probably hiding in one of the caves near Hogsmeade. Of more importance was why the man had broken out of prison now, of all times. Why now and not as soon as he got in there? What had prompted his escape?

Upon further reflection, Dumbledore decided that by and large, his grand plan remained intact. Barring anything else unforeseen, things would progress normally, although he did have to find a new way to defeat Voldemort. The original idea of having Harry let Voldemort hit him with a Killing Curse was out, since Dumbledore was pretty sure the soul fragment was gone from behind Harry's scar. Although it was slightly worrying that nobody had approached him on the matter.

Overall, however, Dumbledore was reasonably confident things would work out to his satisfaction. With Harry Potter back in the game, Voldemort was sure to find a way to resurrect himself soon, and things could go to the next step.

Dumbledore smiled to himself as he heard the final bell signalling curfew for the students. Little did they know what awaited them. For Dumbledore's grand plan was not to save them. It was not to foster future cooperation between wizard and Muggle. It was not even to foster greater tolerance between pure blood and Muggle-born, nor was it for Harry Potter to die in glorious battle with Lord Voldemort and for Dumbledore to take the credit and further elevate his name. Dumbledore's grand plan was to destroy the world. All of it.

But he didn't know that he was the one without a clue. Events had already spiralled out of his control. And pretty soon, he would have competition.

4

Severus Snape put his quill down and leaned back from his desk, where he was grading first year essays. He couldn't concentrate for all the other worries in his mind.

Chief among those worries was the sudden disappearance of his Dark Mark the previous summer. He had not, as of yet, informed the Headmaster about it, mostly because he himself wasn't exactly sure what it meant for him.

Even more interesting, none of the other Death Eaters had been in touch with him about the sudden disappearance of the mark, although Draco and some of the other children of the Death Eaters were somewhat more subdued this term.

Shortly after the mark's disappearance, it felt as though he was suddenly out from under a cloud he never knew was there. The thing had been overshadowing his thinking processes and emotions for so long that it was almost part of him. When it left, it was extremely liberating … and frightening at the same time.

What had happened? The Dark Lord had assured his followers that he was immortal. Had something happened with the Potter brat under the school that had finished him off?

Snape sighed gustily and stood from behind his desk, absently rubbing his forearm where the mark used to be.

Something was up with Potter too, this year. He had to admit to feeling a certain, bitter glee that the brat had been put into the hospital by Muggles. It was the first chink in Dumbledore's armour. And Snape hated Dumbledore more than almost anyone, except James Potter and Sirius Black … and of course the Dark Lord.

As the years had crawled by in a mind numbing succession of stupid children, mediocre potions and endless stupid staff meetings, Snape had continued to improve himself, and more specifically his Occlumency. About five years ago he had discovered within himself a skilfully executed memory charm. It took him a long time to break it, but he eventually managed it. Discovering what it was that needed to be wiped out made him sick for a day.

Severus Snape did not like being used as a pawn. Discovering that he had been used to take down the Dark Lord had made him very angry, not because of what had been done, but how. If Dumbledore had come to him and said, "Severus, in order to end this war more quickly, we think it advisable that only the first line of the prophecy reach the Dark Lord. And to be sure that he does not pluck the rest out of your mind, I will remove the remainder from your memory." If Dumbledore had said that … why, everything would've been different. But that wasn't what had happened. Instead, he had been given no choice in the matter, and had spent the next five years believing that he himself had pointed the Dark Lord at Lily.

Once the Dark Lord had heard the prophecy, he had immediately started enquiries into who the prophesied one might be. That whining, snivelling coward, Peter Pettigrew, made himself useful for once and told him that both the Longbottoms and the Potters had a son born the previous July - as the seventh month died. Those two families had gone under the Fidelius Charm, the Potters choosing Pettigrew (oh, how that little craven rat had gloated) and the Longbottoms choosing Augusta, the grand matriarch as their secret keeper.

Prior to this, Snape had, upon discovering that the Dark Lord was targeting his old friend Lily, gone to Dumbledore for help. Dumbledore blackmailed him into being a spy, and then further blackmailed him into teaching at Hogwarts to keep the Potter brat protected. He had begun thinking going to Dumbledore was the biggest mistake he ever made, even before discovering the manipulations the old man had enacted upon himself and almost the entire wizarding community.

After learning to what extent Dumbledore had used him, Snape had begun thinking of ways to get out from under his thumb. One idea that had been tossed around was the possibility of ingratiating himself to Harry Potter. He was the Boy-Who-Lived, all doors would be open to him, he need only ask and whatever he wanted would be handed to him. He could then slowly train the boy and use him to further his own goals: total freedom. Alliances with people such as Malfoy, Parkinson, Greengrass and even Goldstein would aid him and Snape could be the one pulling the strings in the background. That was how a true Slytherin operated. You did not in the least let on that you didn't like people. Instead you used them to help you achieve your goals.

All that promptly went out the window upon first contact, however. Seeing the miniature James Potter look-alike standing next to that idiotic buffoon, Weasley, had sent Snape's plans down the drain. He suddenly remembered all the reasons he had to hate James Potter, and seeing his son standing there, bold as brass, had sent him careening back to his school days. And by the time the brat's potions class had rolled around, it was too late. Dumbledore had him thoroughly Gryffindorized.

And then there was the matter of the potions the esteemed headmaster had him brew for Potter. Those potions were normally restricted for use on such creatures as dragons and Cerberuses to keep them somewhat manageable. Why Dumbledore wanted them administered to an eleven-year-old boy was something Snape couldn't understand. Even diluted as they were, the little brat would still be very easy pickings for anyone who might come along.

Sure enough, Potter ended up in the hospital, with his brains bashed in by a fireplace poker. Aside from the somewhat bitter glee that the son of his old school rival had been laid low, Snape also felt guilty that he had contributed to the whole sorry mess. He was Lily's son too, after all.

Tied in with the Dark Mark disappearing, Draco's father and his associates not communicating with him, Black escaping from Azkaban, the bloody werewolf back in his life as a colleague, and Potter being different this year, Snape had a lot to think about. Potter now also had Occlumency, a fact he discovered during the brat's first potions class. His work was also improving, no doubt as a side effect.

All in all, Severus Snape was one very uneasy wizard.

He paced around his office, rubbing his forearm again. What did this mean? Who was involved? Why were the other Death Eaters so quiet? Was there another player on the scene?

Snape felt a chill slide down his back. Something in the world was different. And something also told him not to inform Dumbledore about it. The old man was not his ally. Whatever was coming, Snape needed to form his own alliances, apart from Dumbledore.

Severus Snape sat alone in his dark, cold office, and he wondered.

5

Molly Weasley nee Prewett was hunched over a bubbling cauldron located in a rickety outbuilding of the Burrow. Those who knew her would hardly recognize her. Her normally calm visage was beset with purpose, the lips pinched together in concentration, the eyes narrowed to slits, her normally neat red hair in a matted tangle. Drug her and keep her locked up, would they? She'd show them!

Adding one more counter-clockwise stir, she removed the cauldron from the fire, before adding the fairy tears and then plunging the whole thing into an ice bath to cool.

After waiting the required five minutes, she ladled out a dose of the potion and gulped it down, feeling the effects immediately.

This potion would neutralize the tranquilizing drugs the hospital insisted she be placed on. She had things to do and being turned into a drugged out zombie was not on the list.

Molly Prewett was a potions mistress in all but name, having skipped the final exams after marrying Arthur Weasley. The Weasley name was once great, but gambling debts incurred by Arthur's great grandfather had reduced the family to only slightly above the Gaunts in poverty, before Arthur was born. In Arthur, Molly saw the possibility of elevating the name, and by extension herself, back up to prominence. The man was bright, personable, and apt. Only for the whole sorry mess to go down the drain when the fool went and got a job In the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts office, where he continued to languish to this day.

So life had dragged on, until, seven children later, Harry Potter had come into their lives. And with him came hope.

Molly quickly ladled out the rest of the potion into vials which she then stored in her voluminous apron pocket, before quickly cleaning out the cauldron for an even more important task. Her children would be arriving home tomorrow and the potions needed to be ready.

For two weeks now, Molly had been carefully vanishing the vials of drugs Arthur had been feeding her (she had been allowed use of her wand, being the principle maintainer of the household.) She still could not believe her husband would do such a thing to her. But she would show them, yes she would. Molly Prewett was a witch you crossed at your own peril.

An hour later, with the new potions safely stored, Molly used a levitation charm to quickly coat the cauldron with dust, to match the others on the shelf in the disused building, and then quickly left, carefully not making the building look any more or less than its previous state. She was about to start toward the house to start dinner in her usual slow, drugged out state, when a voice cracked like a whip from behind her.

"Molly, what have you done now?"

Molly whirled to see her husband standing there, with a wand out. Not knowing how long he had been there, she decided to bluff her way through it. "I was just out for a walk, Arthur. You're home early, is everything all right?"

"You were brewing a potion in there, Molly. I saw you. What was it?"

Realizing the gig was up, Molly put on a sad face. "Arthur, I'm your wife and you wanted to keep me drugged like a … a beast or something," she said, letting a tear creep down her cheek. "It isn't right!"

With an inward grin of triumph, Molly noticed Arthur's hard face soften a little.

"I'm sorry, Mollywobbles, but those were prescribed by your healer," he said, coming closer and his wand lowering a little. "I don't like doing this to you anymore than you like it."

"Well I won't stand for it anymore. I'm not a beast that needs taming," Molly flared, stepping closer and glaring a little bit. "You don't have any right to do this to me, Arthur."

"Molly, you were going to try to wipe my memories and you were plotting against a young boy," Arthur responded. "Neither I or Harry Potter deserved that. And you still don't think you were wrong in doing that. Until you do, things have to go on. Now, what were you brewing in there?"

"Harry's the key to all our difficulties, Arthur. If we get him to marry Ginny-"

"Molly! Why don't you give it up?" Arthur near shouted, throwing his hands up. "He's got Amelia Bones on his side and if she catches wind of what you're up to, you could find yourself in serious trouble."

"Too late Arthur," said a voice behind them. Before Molly could move, she was hit by a disarming charm and bound in ropes… Again.

"Amelia? What's going on?" a bewildered Arthur said, turning from his wife to peer at the monocle-wearing witch, who was accompanied by two Aurors.

"Your wife here ordered some highly restricted potion ingredients from a dealer we had under surveillance," she replied. "Namely fairy tears and chimera scales. She is going to be spending some time in one of our holding cells until the holiday is over."

Arthur slumped in defeat. All his careful manoeuvring to keep his wife out of the eye of law enforcement had been for naught. What the hell had happened to his Molly?

"Is this really necessary?" he tried, already knowing it was hopeless.

Amelia sent him a compassionate, yet stern look. "No one is above the law, Arthur, you know that. I'm sorry but it has to be done. You have a good holiday, now."

As if he could. Arthur watched helplessly as his wife was taken away by Portkey, quickly followed by Amelia, while another Auror went to search the shed Arthur indicated. After boxing up the ingredients Molly had secreted there, the last Auror Disapparated, with another apology to Arthur.

Arthur stood alone in the frosty back garden and wept. He weapt for the loss of his wife, and the dissolution of his family. And he nursed an deep anger, although, as yet, it was directionless. But even simple,, affable Arthur knew something was different in the world.

6

Harry was halfway to the door of his dormitory when reason slammed back into his mind, causing him to skid to a halt. No, no, he must not do this.

As if to underscore the point, his notebook let out a loud chime, alerting him to the arrival of an urgent message.

Harry took a deep breath, willing himself calm again, and went back to pick up the notebook.

Inside was a message from Richard, telling him that Croaker was going to a certain cave near Hogsmeade, where he guessed Sirius might be hiding. He would then be brought to Filch's house to recuperate, and Harry would be reunited with him tomorrow. Due to the fact that he now had places to be, Harry had put his name down on the list of those going home for the holiday. Ron and his siblings were going to Romania to see Charlie, which meant that Pettigrew would be out of reach in a distant land and thus provided with ample opportunity to escape and never be seen again.

Harry wrote back, asking what he should do about Pettigrew. The instant response was that he should do nothing at all. An Auror guard would be at King's Cross and would capture Pettigrew there. The man was a dangerous Death Eater, after all, and not meant for the likes of a twelve year old boy to handle. Harry had been quietly improving his skills, but he was, much to his frustration, only a second year, even with his limited wandless abilities. With so many eyes on him, he could not train in any of the advanced magic discussed in the Compendium, and he had no idea whatsoever where he could do such training. He was hoping he would be given some alone time during the upcoming holiday during which he could study and practice.

Harry wrote back his acceptance of the arrangements and headed down to dinner. No sense staying up here brooding.

Ron was down in the common room, playing solitaire, and looking worried. He looked up when Harry came down the stairs, a relieved smile lighting his face.

"Alright there, mate?" he asked, pocketing the deck and rising.

"Yeah," Harry said, repressing the urge to hex the rat poking its nose inquisitively out of Ron's pocket. "Just was doing a little thinking."

"Hope it didn't hurt," Ron joked.

"Only a little," Harry responded, sticking his tongue out at the other boy.

"Well, that's what you get for putting your head in the way of a bloody fire poker, you daft git," Ron teased.

Susan popped up from an adjacent corridor just in time to hear this last and swatted Ron on the back of the head. "Be nice, Ron, or I'll put you in touch with Lockhart and have him make you address all his fan mail."

"Now that's just cruel and unusual," Harry said, leading the way into the Great Hall. They took places at the Gryffindor table, and a good time was had by all as they celebrated the end of term. For a little while Harry forgot about the ominous state of the world around him, and he allowed himself to relax.

# # #

Meanwhile, up at the staff table, Remus Lupin was not feeling very relaxed at all. Not for the first time, he found his gaze being drawn as though by a magnet, to Harry Potter, the last reminder of his old life. The boy's resemblance to James at that age was astounding. And of course he had his mother's eyes, although those eyes held a cool, almost remote look that he wasn't used to seeing from eyes of that particular colour. Lily's emerald orbs had been filled with a merry glint. The Lily Evans of Remus's memories was a girl who was filled with a zest for life, always ready with a smile and a kind word, although you had better not anger her. The girl was quite scary when angered, and she never forgot a sleight.

Harry's eyes held none of this. They were flat, almost cold. If the eyes were the windows to the soul, there were thick drapes in place over them.

When Remus had read in a discarded issue of the Prophet about Harry Potter being in hospital, put there by his Muggle relations, he had immediately given notice to his current job and set off back to London. By the time he had gotten there, Harry had been discharged and taken to parts unknown (the issue of the Prophet wherein he'd discovered what had become of the boy was already days old.) Hastening through the Muggle transport network to the Leaky Cauldron and using a couple of his last precious Sickles, Remus had gotten a butterbeer (alcohol and lycanthropy did not mix) and had eagerly snatched up one of the pub's complimentary copies of the day's paper, looking for more news.

It was then that he had become aware of the escape of that traitor, Sirius Black. He had been quite frankly amazed that the man had lasted long enough in that hellhole to formulate any kind of workable escape strategy. Why stay in there for eleven years? If he was really working for Voldemort - an assumption which, in spite of all the evidence, Remus found very hard to believe, even now - why did Sirius just surrender and languish in there? It made no sense to the greying marauder.

In the same paper was an ad for a Defence Against the Dark Arts professor. Black's most likely target was Hogwarts, because that was where Harry was.

So Remus had applied for, and, although Dumbledore had been reluctant, had been given the post. As part of his contract he was provided with Wolfsbane Potion, the cost of which was deducted from his salary.

Contrary to Harry's belief, Remus did not stay away from him because Dumbledore told him to (although he had), nor did he stay away because he didn't want anything to do with Harry. There was just no way in hell he could be responsible for a child, never mind the Boy-Who-Lived. He could barely take care of himself; it was all he could do to provide himself with adequate food and shelter, even in the best of times. Bringing a child into that kind of life was silly, out of the question, totally wrong.

He had toyed with the idea of getting in contact with the boy the previous summer, after Hagrid had corresponded with him, asking for photographs. In the end, however, he had chickened out, not wanting to face the look of accusation that might fall upon him, especially after reading of how his relations had put him in the hospital.

And there was one other thing, something that had troubled him in the intervening ten years or so, and that was a deepening distrust of Albus Dumbledore. Even though the man had given him permission to attend Hogwarts, when it was likely that no other headmaster would've done so, and even though he was even now exceedingly grateful, both for that and for giving him the opportunity to teach, Remus was uneasy.

Remus had personal knowledge of several werewolf packs residing within the borders of the UK, many of whom had school age cubs. Yet none of them were allowed to attend Hogwarts. Why had Dumbledore not granted them admission, even though it was in the school charter that no student should be turned away, should they have the ability to perform magic? The scholarship fund was well stocked, due to the lower numbers of eligible students after the last war, so it wasn't a financial concern. It wasn't lack of desire on the families' part, because Remus had specifically asked them if they wanted their children to attend Hogwarts. Some of them expressed concern about discrimination and ostracism on the part of both the staff and students of the institution, but by far the majority were willing to attend. They had been told, however, that facilities did not exist presently to handle werewolf transformation and thus, out of concern for the safety of those residing within its walls and with the utmost regret, Dumbledore rejected them. This had led to a growing resentment among the UK werewolves, many of whom had joined the feral pack of Fenrir Greyback, who had originally been the one to turn the young Remus Lupin.

Why? What was different about Remus that had allowed him to attend when no werewolf had been granted admittance since? Was it the near-biting of Severus Snape in their fifth year, that had made Dumbledore think twice?

Of course, that was Snape's own fault. Sirius might've told him where Remus was going every month, but it was Snape who ultimately made the decision to go there; nobody held a wand to his head. Nosey, greasy little bastard.

Remus glanced along the table and noticed, with some interest, that the nosey, greasy little bastard was absent from tonight's festivities. Curious. He hadn't even complained about brewing the Wolfsbane all term, contenting himself with sneers and looks filled with loathing, as if Lupin had deliberately put himself in Snape's path on that long ago spring night.

Remus gave a small sigh, still troubled by his thoughts, and finished the last of his dinner. He decided that, for better or for worse, he should face his demons and try to forge a relationship with Harry. Something was up. Something was different in the world lately, an impending sense of time running out, of approaching doom, of ominous portents. It was akin to the same sense that made animals jumpy prior to big storms. A psychic barometric pressure, rather than atmospheric. During the last full moon, Remus had found himself whining and whimpering in atavistic terror. The wolf inside, although suppressed by the potion, was nevertheless deeply afraid of something. Remus found himself wanting to run, run far and fast, as though from a great fire, or a flood. Whatever was coming seemed to be almost as unstoppable as a force of nature, only immeasurably worse.

All this combined to make Remus realize that there wasn't much time for being a coward. Harry was going to need protection and help, and he was done being a whipped cur, hiding in the shadows and eager to accept scraps. It was time to stand up and be counted.

# # #

Another Gryffindor wrestling with herself was Hermione Granger. It was not in her nature to admit that she was ever wrong about something, even to herself, but it looked as though this was what she was going to have to do if she was to regain her friends.

She had been so happy to see Harry, looking almost undamaged after his ordeal. The whole thing had come crashing down when she had seen Susan Bones standing protectively behind him. That position was supposed to be hers! She did not have feelings for Harry beyond platonic interest, but he was immensely special to her. There was just something about him that called to her, something that made her want to help him. It went far beyond the fact that he had been the one to find her cowering in that bathroom at the mercy of that troll. Instinctually, she sensed that Harry was special, not for being the Boy-Who-Lived, but in his own right.

The only thing that had stopped her from talking to him this term was her own hurt pride. She had a lot of time to think, being all alone again. Here she was, being thrust into a totally new culture, and she had to go and call them barbaric, when she knew very little about them. How would she like it if some virtual strangers turned up in her house, observed them for a few days and then arrogantly called her family stupid and barbaric, with little or no information to go on?

Yet something in her could not apologize. But apologize she must, for only in that way could she regain what was lost. That battered old hat had placed her in Gryffindor for a reason. And she was lonely; Harry and Ron were the only ones who ever talked to her. Ron was different this year too; more thoughtful, less prone to speaking without thinking, more studious. Something had changed within him.

As she finished the last bite of her dinner, Hermione took a deep breath and rose, heading for Susan, Harry and Ron.

"Harry?" she said timidly from behind him.

Both Harry and Susan turned, the latter of whom looking wary. "Yes?" Harry answered.

"Can … can I talk to you both, in private?"

Harry and Susan looked at each other and shrugged. "Sure. Catch you in the common room, Ron," Harry said.

"Okay," Ron agreed, still going strong on another plate of food, although his manners had improved along with a lot of other things about him.

The trio exited the Great Hall, and Hermione led the way to an abandoned classroom a couple of corridors away.

Once they had settled into chairs, Hermione fidgeted nervously with her hands and, taking another fortifying breath, looked up at Susan.

"I'm sorry for calling your world barbaric," she said, not letting her gaze drop. "Sometimes I say things without thinking and it can get me into trouble. I had no right to say what I did."

Susan studied her eyes for a moment. She had seen Hermione looking more and more lonely and lost as the term progressed. She had stopped glaring at Susan after the first week, and, as the months passed, just looked sad. She seemed sincere, like she had done a lot of self-assessment.

"I accept your apology, and I too apologize for calling you stupid and narrow minded," she said evenly. "I understand that we sometimes say things we don't mean. But you have to apologize to Daphne, too."

Hermione fought valiantly not to drop her gaze. "I know," she said softly. "I'll do that tomorrow morning."

At last Susan smiled. "You really missed Harry didn't you?"

Hermione blushed. "Y-yes," she whispered. "And it's my own fault."

"Hermione?" Harry spoke up for the first time.

She looked at him, eyes open, vulnerable, a little wet. "Hmmm?"

"I know it wasn't easy. Things are happening, these days, and it's better if we all stay together."

"What do you mean?" she asked, unable to suppress her natural curiosity.

He regarded her for a moment. There was something different in his eyes. They were colder, less open than they used to be. She could no longer get an accurate fix on his feelings, could no longer gauge the emotional weather there. This was the new Harry, altered not by the maturation of puberty or the application of life experiences, but through the viciousness of a hate-filled Muggle with a fireplace poker. Yet it was still fundamentally Harry Potter, the shy, somewhat sweet boy who had saved her from a troll, whom she had herself saved later from a jinxing professor.

At last he spoke, breaking the spell. "What're you doing for Christmas, Hermione?"

Taken aback by the non-sequitur, Hermione blinked. "Er, I had planned to stay here, actually. Why?"

He paused a long beat, looking back and forth between Hermione and Susan, who shrugged minutely, as if to say it was up to him.

"The train gets back on Saturday the fourth. Meet us on Sunday at three, us in the classroom at the bottom of the astronomy tower. We need to teach you Occlumency ... And Hermione?"

"Yes?"

Harry got up and moved closer to her, his green eyes blazing into hers with cold intensity. "What we're going to tell you goes far, far beyond simply saving a Philosopher's Stone from Voldemort. You cannot tell anyone at all what we share with you. In fact, you're going to have to make an Unbreakable Vow to that. Do you understand?"

Hermione, pinned by the intensity of his gaze, couldn't move. Had she thought, just a minute ago, that this was still basically the same Harry? Well, she was over that little misconception. This one burned with some dark purpose she didn't understand. She wasn't even sure she wanted to. But she also got the feeling that she didn't really have a choice.

"Yes, I understand," she said at last, still meeting him eye to eye. "Is an Unbreakable Vow really necessary though?"

"I'm not sure an Unbreakable Vow is enough," Harry said without blinking. "But you are my friend, and I trust you. You, Ron, Susan, and a couple others, are all I trust right now. I can't tell you guys more until I get permission, but I want you to know because I'm going to need all the help I can get."

"What about Dumbledore?" Hermione asked.

She instantly realized she'd made a mistake when Harry's eyes darkened. The air seemed to get colder as he spoke.

"That man is no friend of ours, Hermione. It was his meddling that got me put in the hospital. And he did more, but I can't tell you until I get permission. And the vow from you."

"O-Okay," she said, feeling slightly intimidated. "But surely Dumbledore didn't really mean you harm. I mean, it's Dumbledore," she said, looking at Susan for support.

Susan stared back blank faced, but shook her head minutely, out of Harry's line of sight. Don't go there, the gesture said, but it was too late.

Harry was pacing, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. With each movement of his hands, the air seemed to become harder to breathe, only to ease up again as his fingers opened. It was raw power beginning to become unrestrained, and it frightened Hermione, who had never felt such a thing in her admittedly brief exposure to the magical world.

"Harry! Remember your exercises!" Susan spoke urgently, rising and going to stand in front of him and grasping his shoulders. "Relax!"

Harry shuddered and closed his eyes. Gradually, the sense of building power dissipated, the air returning to normal. Hermione let out a slow breath of relief. Clearly there were now unknown depths to her friend, and she would have to tread carefully from here out.

"Sorry about that," Harry said, sheepishly rubbing the back of his head. This gesture was so quintessentially Harry that Hermione had to fight back a smile, in spite of the situation. "When I think of what that man has done to me … I just get a little irritated."

Susan snorted. "I'd hate to see you when you're really hacked off about something," she said, tossing her auburn hair and going back to sit at one of the old desks in the centre of the abandoned classroom.

"Dumbledore isn't our ally and will do whatever he can to stop us," Harry said, much calmer now. "He has tunnel vision and only sees what he wants to see, and tries to force everything into that pattern. If we were to keep following him, we'd die, for sure."

"What pattern?" Hermione was confused.

"All I can say is that Dumbledore thinks Voldemort is all we have to deal with. But compared to what's really happening Voldemort would be a fitting babysitter for your children. Can't say more than that just yet, except you'd never guess what's really happening, not in a million years."

"You will tell me, though?" she pressed, not liking being kept in the dark.

"If I can. I'll try to get permission tomorrow."

"Okay. Well it's almost curfew, we'd better get moving," Hermione said bossily, reverting to her old role almost by instinct.

Harry had to hide a slight smile. Some things never changed.

7

A man who was something more than a man leaned quietly against a wall of a home in Cornwall, where the most delicious depravities were taking place. He was sitting behind a shrub, watching the waves roll in a few hundred yards away. He paid no heed to the biting wind as it came off the ocean, but was focused more on what was going on a scant two feet from his head.

On the other side of the wall, a young boy was tied up. He had been hung up by his arms for the better part of a week, while the family took turns torturing him with needles and cigarettes. Even more deliciously, it wasn't just the mother and father, oh no. The delicious part was that they had corrupted their twelve-year-old daughter into doing it too. She was now standing there, a small smile on her lips while she slowly slid a white hot knitting needle up the boy's penis. Delicious indeed. The exquisite agony was only part of it; the man who was something more than a man could tell that the boy's mind was close to snapping. Ah, ambrosia, nectar, all things good!

The man who was something more than a man was not quite up to full strength yet. All those years trapped in the vessel that was known as Tom Riddle had weakened him considerably. It was sheer dumb luck that he had been able to find a new body so soon. Although, when one worked for such sponsors as those for whom the man who was something more than a man worked, dumb luck rarely entered into it.

The body itself was young, strong, and capable. He did not have all his powers back yet, but he was close, close. And then he could begin his campaign, the purpose to which he had dedicated his life, many lives, for.

The man who was something more than a man smiled. The hot needle had proved too much for the little boy, and he had finally expired. The man who was something more than a man caught the faint screams of his soul as it blasted into the great beyond and his smile broadened.

He rose from his crouch next to the house and tilted his head back toward the cold, gunmetal grey sky. Where to go next?

Spinning slowly on the spot like a radar dish, his gaze settled on the direction of London, and his face broke into a smile of evil hilarity. The smile seemed to make his face less, rather than more handsome, imbuing the cast of his features with a hideous vitality.

He swung his gaze toward the house and his smile broadened. Inside, the father suddenly backhanded his daughter for no reason at all, and the woman cut her hand on a glass, randomly. Yes, he was getting there. Slowly but surely. In the old days, they would've all dropped dead.

The man who was something more than a man set off through the back gardens of the neighbourhood, heading for the train station and the vast, rotten metropolis of London, where he could find endless sustenance for his particular appetites. Numerous perversions, countless small evils, depression, child molesters, rapists, murderers, right down to petty pickpockets all would provide him with nourishment.

He wanted to go and see the British chapter of the Septimus Order, but he was not ready yet. He would require a great deal of strengthening, in order to appear as the figure those dolts would need to see. The One, as the Order called him, had been absent for almost five hundred years, first locked into that Romanian keep and then in the body of that idiotic Tom Riddle. Meanwhile, the legend of the One had continued to grow among the believers, until he had obtained a near mythical status. He would have to convince them that he was who he said he was. Because they were crucial in his plans, able to provide misdirection while he went about his real task.

And then there was the matter of his mortal enemy … and the Lady … and Harry Potter. At first he had thought, while trapped in Tom's body and hearing the prophecy for the first time, that Potter might be his enemy reborn. He realized, however, that this wasn't the case, after re-emerging into the abandoned body of Adrian Polard. He could still feel his enemy out there in the world, and it wasn't Potter. It still felt the same as it had before the treacherous bastard had run him through with that damned sword…

So what exactly did Potter represent?

The most obvious answer was that Potter was an heir. There had been a very suppressed sense of power about the boy, it was true. But he had been too trapped, even in the weakened spirit form he had been in to determine the exact nature of the power.

Deciding that the boy wasn't worth his time, as he could still sense his enemy, albeit very faintly, the man who was something more than a man smiled once more, and set off. There were things to do.

8

"Harry, can I talk to you a moment?"

Harry looked up from his book in the library, to see a nervous Professor Lupin standing at the end of the table, fiddling with his fingers and looking uncomfortable.

Harry exchanged a glance with Ron, who was once more engrossed in his transfiguration notes, before looking back at the professor. What did he want, after all this time?

"Sure, Professor, what did you need?"

"Er, could we go to my office? I know it's close to curfew, so I will give you a pass once we're done."

"Okay, see you in a while," he said to Ron, before rising and following the Professor out of the library. Ron nodded and gave Harry a smile.

They didn't speak as they went through the nearly silent corridors, both of them wondering how to handle this initial meeting.

Seemingly as a delaying tactic, Lupin started preparing a pot of tea, somewhat more slowly and noisily than normal. Finally, however, he could put off things no longer.

"What did you wish to see me about?" Harry asked, remaining on guard.

Remus thoughtfully sipped his tea and regarded the boy before him, who bore scant resemblance to the happy, bouncy baby he had held on his knee all those years ago. The eyes were closed off, almost cold. How the hell did he proceed?

Being a Gryffindor, however, Remus decided to just charge ahead and let the chips fall where they may.

"I'm sorry, Harry, for not trying to see you before now," Lupin said boldly, catching Harry a little off guard. "I was a good friend to your father, and I should've tried to talk with you sooner. There are a few reasons why. I know they're not much, but all I have."

He took a fortifying gulp of tea and continued.

"After your parents were killed, I was a little lost. I had just lost the most important friends in my life, in a single night. And then, too, there is the fact that I am a werewolf. This means that I cannot easily find work in the magical world, due to discrimination, and I am not … exactly well off. Bringing a young child into that kind of life is something that I couldn't rationalize to myself."

Lupin stopped and rubbed his face tiredly. "And … I'm ashamed to admit, I was too cowardly to come and see you while you were growing up. Even if I couldn't raise you, I could've at least visited every once in a while. I was too scared to do that … and, and, I want to apologize for it here and now."

Harry blinked. He certainly hadn't seen this coming. In the same spirit of disclosure, Harry decided to be honest.

"I have to say, I am extremely disappointed with you, Mr Lupin. I can understand where you're coming from, a little bit, but you are right, you could've come to see me. I would've been delighted to meet a friend of my parents growing up. Petunia and Vernon told me they were drunks who died in a car crash-"

"What?" Lupin reeled back, stunned. "You grew up thinking … that? I knew Petunia didn't like Lily, but I never thought … I'm so sorry, Harry. What can I do to help make things up to you?"

"Tell me what you know about Sirius Black," Harry said instantly.

Lupin blinked. "Well, you sure go right to the heart of the matter, don't you?" he asked, a faint hint of amusement in his eyes.

"Bear in mind that I'm now approaching you as Remus Lupin, not as your professor. That being said, your father, Sirius, Peter Pettigrew, and I formed a group calling ourselves the Marauders. We were all four as close as brothers, and we got up to what you might call activities of a rather dubious nature." Lupin stopped here, his gaze going out of focus and a faint smile on his lips, clearly reliving better days.

"Anyway," he went on, with a visible wrench, we continued to be pretty close even after graduation, but with the war escalating, things weren't like they used to be. Then your parents were killed and Peter went after Sirius, and you know the rest."

"But why would Sirius Black betray my parents to Voldemort? If they were as close as you say… and he was my godfather…"

"That is something I have wondered about over the years," Lupin said gravely. "I have to admit, I find it very hard to believe Sirius was working for Voldemort. He hated his family, ran away from them when he was sixteen to live with your father. He was the first one in generations to be sorted into Gryffindor, and he apparently had a large shouting match with his brother, Regulus, when it came out Regulus had joined the Death Eaters. And…"

Lupin trailed off, his eyes widening. He shot a look at Harry, and the window, then back to Harry, his face going paler. "Oh, how could I have forgotten?" he whispered, mostly to himself.

Harry perked up. Something had just occurred to the man.

"What, Professor?"

"Sirius made an Unbreakable Vow as your godfather," Lupin whispered. "I can't believe I forgot that. Leading someone to kill your family would've seen him die, for breaking the vow. And that means…"

Harry decided it was time. "Can we keep pretending that you're not my professor for a little while longer, Mr Lupin?"

"I suppose so," Lupin said. "And, since we're pretending, call me Remus or Moony, if you don't mind."

Harry smiled inwardly, one of his suspicions confirmed. He reached into a pocket and pulled out the blank piece of parchment that was the Marauder's Map.

"I won't ask you where you got that," Remus said dryly.

"We're still pretending, remember?"

"Of course." He couldn't hide his amusement, even in the situation.

Harry activated the map and directed his finger toward the hallway outside the library, where Ron was walking with Susan toward the stairs leading down to the Hufflepuff common room. "Look here," he said.

Lupin studied the map. "What're you…" then he caught a glimpse of the name

Peter Pettigrew

And his eyes widened again.

"Dear sweet Merlin, that means Peter faked his own death," he breathed, swaying on the spot. "And that means Sirius really is innocent."

"Best I can figure, Pettigrew cut off his own finger, then transformed into a rat and fled down the sewers. I found a letter in my parents' vault that said they all became Animagi during their fifth year."

"They did it to accompany me," Remus said absently, still staring at the map. "Your father was a stag, Sirius was a dog … and Peter was a dirty, stinking rat."

Harry blanked the map and returned it to his pocket. "I know why he broke out this summer, too. I bet he saw that newspaper where the story about me being in hospital broke. Ron had the rat, which they called 'Scabbers', in his pocket that day when they took my picture. Sirius must've seen it and come to try and catch him again."

"That sounds like Sirius," Lupin said fondly. He was starting to get over the sudden shock of seeing his formerly dead friend alive and well, and to put his keen mind to use again. "The question is what do we do now?"

"Well, I already have arrangements made to capture Pettigrew tomorrow, at King's Cross. Then we can see about trying to clear Sirius's name, although I don't think it's going to be quite that easy. But capturing the rat should be. He's not expecting to be ousted, since he's stayed hidden for eleven years."

"What arrangements have you made?" Remus asked, looking worried.

"Long story and we don't have time for it now," Harry said. "I'll find you in the morning and maybe we can get together over the break, to bring you in on all that's going on. I have to get permission, but I'll let you know."

Wondering just what Harry had gotten himself into, Remus agreed with some trepidation and, after scribbling a permission slip for being out of bounds at that hour, sent him off to bed.

"What'd Lupin want?" Ron asked, once Harry was back in the common room. He and Hermione were once again sitting together at a small table in the corner, the latter looking much happier than she had all year.

Mindful of the fact that Scabbers nee Wormtail was likely listening, Harry remained circumspect in his reply. "Oh, he was an old friend of my parents and he wanted to chat. He might be seeing me over the break." He gave both of them a look which said there was more but he couldn't discuss it. They both looked puzzled, but nodded.

"That's great," Ron said. "I know you always wondered about them. Now you can find out what they were like."

"No trying to get the final exam answers out of him, Harry, Hermione quipped.

Harry had to smile. Some things never changed.

9

Geoffrey Nix was bored.

Of all the things an experienced spook could be doing, surveillance detail was by far the most boring.

Nix sighed heavily and shifted on the bench in King's Cross station, where he had been stationed since eight this morning. He was supposed to have been given leave from the SAS for Christmas, but he had been called in to Hereford yesterday by that arsehole Major Chalmers.

Under normal circumstances, the SAS was not used for counterintelligence operations within the borders of the United Kingdom. The acronym stood for Special Air Service, which was exactly what they were trained for. During times of war, the SAS would drop behind enemy lines to gather intelligence or conduct guerrilla operations, using five man teams.

It was also not uncommon for the Secret Intelligence Service (SIS) to borrow individuals from the SAS for operations of their own, usually infiltration of one type or another into hostile countries.

The Security Service, which is responsible for counterintelligence within the United Kingdom, did not do this, relying on their own operatives for information gathering, or relying on electronic intelligence gathered by the Government Communications Headquarters, or GCHQ, located in Gloucestershire. GCHQ was the answer to the American National Security Agency, which also had listening posts within Britain.

So when Major Chalmers had called Nix's cell phone yesterday, while he was Christmas shopping with his wife and young daughter, Nix had protested loudly. "We don't work for the Box, Major, you know that. What's the deal?"

The Box, or Box 500, was slang for the Security Service, or MI-5, derived from the fact that once upon a time, its mailing address had indeed been P.O. Box 500, London.

"Never mind that, bucko. Order comes down from the very tippy top. If we don't follow, we could both find ourselves facing worse than a court martial."

Now here he was, sitting on a bench in a train station, watching for a bloke matching a grainy black and white surveillance photograph that was probably wildly inaccurate by now. He had been handed a very sanitized dossier and told to find the man and keep tabs on him. It was likely, the report said, that the subject would put in an appearance between eleven o'clock and seven o'clock, on the twenty-first of December, at King's Cross Station. The subject might or might not be unaccompanied, and would require special handling, being presumed armed and dangerous. It was advisable, therefore, that he not be engaged until such time as sufficient force could be mustered to assure success.

All of which was simply a fancier way of saying 'watch, don't touch,' which in turn translated to an excruciatingly boring operation. It was an insult to his training to be used for such a stupid job.

Nix sighed to himself, affecting the put-upon air of an impatient commuter or a greeter waiting for one. It was only four-thirty, meaning he had about three more hours to go. Why did it have to be him?

Nix was on the verge of giving up the detail and never mind a bunch of orders that he already doubted the validity of, when, who should he see walking toward Platform Ten but his target.

In spite of the dullness of the operation, Nix felt a spike of adrenaline enter his system. Maybe the spooks actually had something right after all.

The subject was a reasonably tall guy with a deep tan that was just starting to fade after being in Britain for a while. Upon initial inspection, Nix could tell that this man was military or ex-military. It was in his bearing, and in the way he scanned the station looking for observers.

Nix did not allow his attention to linger on the man more than a second or two, nor did he move off the bench he was perched on. He continued to watch Platform Eight, waiting for the one twenty-five from Birmingham. Carefully, he dialled his cell phone, equipped with a hands-free headset, while still not paying attention to his man.

"Subject has been spotted," he said quietly into the little microphone. "Standing by Platform Nine, leaning against a pole by the ticket stand … appears to be alone."

"Affirmative. Keep watching," said the voice in his ear.

Not a minute later, an old man with his back bent slightly by arthritis joined the target. They engaged in what appeared to be a somewhat heated conversation, replete with hand gestures. Then the target through his hands up and stalked off toward one of the restaurants in the station, leaving the old man behind.

"Target is heading for café. Secondary subject is still in view," Nix murmured.

"Follow the target," said the voice in his ear.

Nix muttered something unintelligible, pretending to be giving up on waiting for whoever he was meeting, then closed his newspaper, and tucked it under his arm. He rose from the bench, did a little stretch and, not looking toward where his target had gone, strolled rapidly toward a kiosk where one could purchase maps of London and its environs. It just so happened that the kiosk was located next to a large window, in which he could watch the reflection of the station behind him. King's Cross was a chaotic hive of activity this close to the holiday, and Nix could've possibly gotten away with going a little closer to his target, but something about this fellow warned him that it might not be a good idea. He who dares may win, but he who plays it safe lives to dare another day.

Nix watched the subject come away from the counter with two cups and head for a table. Was he meeting somebody?

He watched as the subject bent down under the table. Was he made? Nix was dressed like just about everybody else- jeans, hooded sweat shirt and a windcheater. He had made it a point not to look directly at the subject.

Before he could give the matter anymore thought, the guy straightened up again, took a sip from one of the cups and then threw it away. Was this a signal, or did the guy not like what he had ordered?

Nix relayed everything he was seeing to the unknown voice, and flipped through a promotional booklet about the Tower of London.

After about half an hour, in which Nix had melded in and out of various groups in front of the shops on his side of the station so as not to be stationary, a huge mass of tourists came between him and the subject, blocking him from view for about thirty seconds as they all milled about, checking route maps and tickets and god knew what all. And when they all cleared out to the various platforms, the subject was gone.

# # #

Close call, Richard Evans thought as he hid behind a pillar near Platform Ten. He had spotted the tail right away, sitting on a bench, hidden behind a newspaper. The guy was good, but not that good; the paper was two days old. He was obviously a military man, the way he was sitting and the buzzed hair cut providing the most obvious clues. Since he was in Britain, Richard figured the guy was probably an SAS man. The SAS were often borrowed by the intelligence apparatus for covert operations, although having one operate on domestic soil was, in years past, highly irregular. Nowadays, however, it was not completely unknown, due to the higher awareness of international terrorism. The agencies that comprised the British intelligence apparatus were, on paper, supposed to cooperate with each other, although long-standing rivalries sometimes complicated matters, the same as in the United States, between the CIA, the FBI and the NSA.

The more important question was, exactly what was this guy doing here at the station? Was it just a coincidence that somebody was watching for him here, now? Or was it just a random sweep? Was there a traitor in the small group that he had managed to gather with the help of Filch and Croaker?

Keeping careful note of the observer on the bench, Richard said to Croaker, "There's a guy watching us. Over there on that bench, with the old copy of the Times."

Croaker nodded. "I saw him. You know this kind of thing better than I do. What would you recommend?"

"Wait for a fresh batch of tourists to hide you from view, then go on to the platform and get Harry when the train comes in. I'm going to disappear after a while; need to make sure he's the only one watching. Meet me in the parking lot- excuse me, car park- and we'll leave by Portkey. We can't have Harry in the middle of shaking a tail."

"Fine, but I have to be there when the Aurors arrest Pettigrew. He's unpredictable, and we don't know what will happen when his cover is finally blown. I'll give Harry the Portkey and he will meet you in the car park. Nobody's watching for him. I hope."

"Fine," Richard said, although he didn't want to involve his young cousin in this. They didn't have a choice, however, and he couldn't come up with a better plan in the short timeframe allotted to them.

They pretended to have an argument and, throwing up his hands in faux disgust, Richard stalked off toward one of the cafes dotting the station, while Croaker casually disappeared through the barrier between platforms nine and ten.

Behind the café's counter, a heavily tattooed girl with enough metal in her face to make her look like a shrapnel victim lurked, taking orders and snapping gum. In front of Richard, a rail-thin girl with waist-length green hair ordered something called chai, which she was handed. She sipped with a look of ecstasy, before wandering off.

Richard scanned the menu and saw that chai was listed as Indian tea, the drink of all the cool, contemporary and contemplative people. He wasn't sure if he was all that cool, contemporary or contemplative, but he certainly was looking for something to kill a few minutes. It was just about six-thirty, and the train was due to pull in at seven, so, taking a deep breath, Richard placed his order.

"Want that in skinny or regular?" the shrapnel victim asked, sounding to be about the most bored sentient creature in the universe.

"I beg your pardon?" Richard wondered if they were speaking the same language.

She huffed, as though he were being deliberately dense. "Skim milk or regular?" she asked, as though to a slow child.

"Oh, right. Regular, and one coffee, black," he said, fishing out the appropriate sum. Just in case he didn't like the cool, contemporary and contemplative chai.

As he moved down to the receiving area where he would be given his order, Richard kept an eye on the station behind him, using the reflective surfaces of the various metallic coffee pots and teapots arranged on shelves in the coffee shop. His watcher was still on him, now about ten yards away flipping through a booklet in front of an information kiosk. Richard was pretty sure he was keeping tabs on him and relaying information via a wireless headset in his ear, connected to a mobile telephone. Where was the watcher's handler? Outside, waiting to snatch him, or somewhere else in the station, out of sight?

Somewhere behind him, Richard heard a baby start to cry. It reminded him painfully of his daughter, bringing back all the old pain. Although it had been almost six months since the deaths of his wife and daughter, sometimes Richard would still catch a glimpse of a woman on his infrequent outings and be painfully reminded of her. Or, like now, he would hear the sound of a baby crying and have to forcibly stop himself from looking around for Amanda.

Now, he received his two cups and headed for a table, off to one side of the seating area, closest to an entrance leading to a tube station. If all else failed, he would slip down there and circle around again, coming into one of the office towers that dotted the area near King's Cross.

He sat facing a wall, with the bulk of the station to his right and the doors to his left. Bending down to tie his shoe, he peered under the tables between a forest of various pants, skirts, dresses and slacks out toward the station.

For a moment, Richard thought the watcher had gone, but no, there he was, no in front of a rack of t-shirts. Clever: Joining various groups in front of different shops, always moving so as not to present a pattern.

Well, he would be easy enough to shake when the time came, always assuming, of course, that he was operating alone. This was not a safe assumption to make, however, because it wouldn't be the smart thing to do. The SAS or whoever was watching him could be called many things, but dumb was not one of them.

Meanwhile, it was time to try this chai stuff.

Richard lifted the lid and caught a milky, spicy aroma like potpourri. Didn't smell all that appetizing, but oh well.

Lifting the cup and puckering as though he was expecting to slurp up a mouthful of liquefied worms, Richard sipped the chai.

And promptly gagged, spitting the mouthful back into the cup. The goop tasted like a catastrophic meltdown in a clove factory. Britain was wildly in love with Indian cuisine; there were curry shops on just about every corner, it seemed, and Richard himself had sampled a number of delicious dishes while here, but this stuff … ugh. He could now say, with complete certainty that, while he might be cool and contemporary, he was also contemplating why he had bothered to spend any money on this swill.

With that having been decided, Richard tossed the chai into the bin and gulped gratefully at the hot coffee. Much better.

Richard was jolted out of his caffeine appreciation by the chiming of his watch. It was now ten minutes to seven, and time to get moving. He needed to smoke out any other watchers.

The coffee was finished and the empty cup tossed into the bin. He rose and headed toward a different exit than the one he was planning on using, carefully not looking behind him.

Richard and Croaker had originally arrived by Portkey in a little alley off Euston Road, and had come into the station on foot. The original plan had been for Croaker to take Richard through the barrier, and then to leave by Portkey after Pettigrew had been captured. But with Richard being watched, he couldn't just disappear into the wall.

So now he had to shake the tail and meet Harry at the Great Northern Hotel car park, near the service way that housed the dumpsters.

Richard slid into the middle of a huge group of tourists and, moving with the flow, headed up to the walkway above platforms nine and ten, where he secreted himself behind a pillar and watched the station below.

Sure enough, about thirty seconds later, the watcher looked frantically around, and even up, putting him slightly above the operatives who had been at Richard's uncle's house earlier in the summer. Richard was wearing a dark blue jacket, however, and he stood perfectly still so as to blend in with the surrounding stonework.

Richard checked his watch. He had five minutes to get down to the car park, five minutes in which to find any other tails. The first watcher was still down there, looking frustrated, so Richard dare not move. If, as he suspected, the man was military, he would have a highly tuned situational awareness.

Eventually, about a minute later, the man threw his hands up and headed toward the east end of the station, away from platforms nine and ten. There was a lot of construction on that side- new platforms being added and more offices being built. Perhaps the watcher figured Richard would try to lose himself in there. Under ordinary circumstances, that might be a good idea, but hiding among construction debris didn't fit in with the agenda.

Richard gave it two more minutes, during which time nobody who could be a tail appeared. At last assured he was alone, he went back down to the main level of the station and started toward the exit that would lead him onto Euston Road and the car park in which he was to meet Harry.

He had gone no more than a dozen paces, however, when, with a loud, horrifying roar, the brick barrier between platforms nine and ten blew outward toward him. And all hell broke loose.

8. Forging the Spear

Chapter 8: Forging the Spear

1

While Harry Potter was just awaking for his momentous trip to London on the Hogwarts Express, an old man located in New York City, who was far older than anyone else on the planet, was in a hospital bed in his living room, awaiting the end of his life. The end was nigh, and he was glad.

He had lived a rich, full life after being released in May of 1942. Sixty long years with the woman he loved, sixty years of just enjoying life, with no pressures from cosmic sources, no fires to start or put out. Damn near idyllic. And now it was over. Of course, the past year hadn't been all that idyllic-had, in fact, been almost pure torture- but he still wouldn't have traded it for anything.

The only relic of his past extant now was the sword hilt, that sword which had been with him since time immemorial. After it was over, the hilt had transmuted into iron from gold and silver. It was now wrapped in an old bed sheet in the linen closet down the hall. Some part of him just couldn't give it up, not after all they had gone through together.

Then last year everything started going to hell.

She had begun to decline, her brain eaten up by Alzheimer's disease. Of all the things in his long, long life, that was the thing he regretted most. To watch his beautiful Magda warp from the lovely Romanian girl into this … this shrewish harpy who didn't even remember him from day to day … well, that was hard.

Her mind was a chaotic stew of half-formed delusions, crazy, short-lived prejudices and paranoid fantasies. They flared in the dimness of more rational cogitation, like malignant bottle rockets spewing poisonous gas. They only lasted a short while, but she fully believed every delusion or paranoid raving that she spouted. Every cutting word she spoke was fully believed, and then forgotten again shortly thereafter.

The old man closed his eyes as he lay in his silent penthouse apartment and remembered how Magda used to be, back when they had first met: Her long, lustrous hair, her pale skin, her wide luminous eyes. Even after her beauty had faded, she was still Magda the poet, the scholar, the musician, with her passion for art, music, and literature. Her book, Songs of the Rom, a compendium of Romanian Gypsy music, was still in print and graced the shelves of many of the world's finer bookstores.

Then a year ago she had begun to disappear, replaced by the querulous, mad, and often incoherent stranger.

Watching her slip away relentlessly into the murkiness of Alzheimer's had been harder than just about anything he had ever faced, including the Adversary. Down she went, into vacuity, then into infancy, until, finally, she just slipped away one night, probably without even remembering that she had even lived.

The Adversary- in theory, anyhow- could be beaten. Not so this disease. No cure, no hope. Perhaps, in the old days, when knowledge of such things was greater, but no longer. He himself had never much dabbled in the sciences, being a creature of steel and tactics.

In any case, it was all moot now. Magda had passed away the previous week, and he would soon follow.

Thankfully, it was a peaceful death. One of the very few he had seen in his life. No screaming or bloody frothing at the mouth, no beheadings. She just went to sleep the previous Thursday and never woke up.

He had not been able to cry at her funeral. It was attended by only himself, the private nurse he had hired to help care for both of them, and the doorman of their building, and he had stood there, leaning on his cane, dry eyed, but full of hurt.

Now he, himself, after nearly fifteen thousand years, was on his last breaths. In the end, it had been cancer which had gotten him: Lung cancer. And lately; kidney failure - and of course, the inevitable arthritis. He was on pain killers almost all the time now. He had refused chemotherapy, having seen too many people wither up and die on it to be completely comfortable with the concept. He had lived long enough. It was time to move on.

Lately, though, he had been afflicted with an odd malaise, reminders of old nightmares and old wounds. Something seemed to be off in his world, aside from the physical maladies and the grief caused by the loss of his wife. But what, he couldn't say.

He was calling himself Mr Veilleur these days- Gaston Veilleur- and he had purchased an apartment building in New York City, living in the penthouse suite. Money was no problem, after all. He had a great deal of gold, which he could easily melt down and sell. Tonight, however, he could not sleep. Something was wrong. Something that should be over but wasn't. It wasn't the first time he'd had these feelings, but they had become more and more pronounced since the previous summer.

Mr Veilleur frowned into the dimness of his living room and shifted creakily in his hospital bed. Whatever was wrong would have to sort itself out. He couldn't do anything about it anymore. He was almost dead, husked out and dried up and put away wet. He had done his time.

He was just about to drift to sleep on a comforting cloud of Morphine when light caught his eye. Light from a place it shouldn't be coming from … A bluish glow from down the hall.

Reflexes dulled by painkillers, Mr Veilleur eased himself carefully into his wheelchair, as though he were a Ming vase and rolled down the hall to the linen closet.

He knew what was here, and his old heart sank in despair.

The light was coming from the bottom shelf, buried in the piles of sheets and blankets. Blue-white radiance was flowing out, seeming to chill the very air with its eerie effulgence.

Reaching into the pile of cloth, Mr Veilleur pulled all the sheets and blankets out, and slammed his hands over his eyes as the radiance lanced into his brain.

Then the brilliance faded down to a dimmer light.

Reaching carefully in, he took out what looked to be a huge iron cross. He gripped it with easy familiarity in his old, wrinkled hands. It wasn't a cross, but a sword hilt. He lifted it and held onto the lower crosspiece with both hands. Once it had been gold and silver, but after serving its purpose, it had changed to iron … Glowing iron.

The metal was still pulsing with blue-white radiance.

Then it died completely. What was happening?

Mr Veilleur stared at the dull grey surface of the cross. Watched it change yet again. The metal grew porous. Fine cracks started appearing in it, until suddenly it turned into coarse powder which ran through his old gnarled hands like grains of sand.

Something had happened something had gone wrong … But what?

Feeling very unnerved, Mr Veilleur sat in his wheelchair, suddenly very aware of how quiet the world had become. The only sound was a faint echo of cold laughter.

He was about to roll down the hall and climb back into bed, when a sharp pain shot down his left arm. So this is how it ends, he thought bitterly, as his breathing locked up. Let somebody else carry the mantle, I yield it at last. May the gods have mercy on your soul, whoever you are.

And then Mr Veilleur, known to a few as the Sentinel, to others as the Guardian, or the Defender, the man formerly known as Glaeken, who his wife knew as Glenn, passed away into the blackness.

2

Harry was having one of his headaches.

He cursed silently to himself as another wave of agony tore through his head. Why did it pick now, of all times, to flare up? His head buzzed and snarled, like a horde of hungry rats with jackboots on their paws. No, even worse than that; it felt as though Dudley and his gang, all pumped up on speed, were rattling around in his skull with cricket bats. Every noise was amplified. The mellow lantern light on the train flared into white sheets of horrible, coruscating brightness, even when he closed his eyes, and his stomach churned with barely suppressed nausea. This was one of the worst headaches he'd experienced since leaving the hospital. Why now of all times?

It felt different than his other headaches too. Normally, he would feel a few hard stabs of pain behind his forehead, above his eyebrow, and he would become a little dozy for a while, and be very sensitive to light. A few hours in the dark cocoon of his bed usually did the trick, and he would be right as rain.

This was completely different. It literally did feel like something was trying to get out of his head.

Or to get in, which was even more disturbing.

Worse, the train ride was only just starting. They had another seven hours to go before they arrived at King's Cross. Seven hours of torture.

Harry had not heard of Imitrex inhalers until a solicitous Hermione, who was fussing over him with a wet cloth, mentioned them to Susan, who was holding his other hand. He did not know that some of the symptoms could've possibly been alleviated with Muggle remedies. The wizarding world could cure the common cold, regrow bones overnight and give you working, prosthetic eyeballs, but it could not deal reliably with migraines. Something was wrong with this picture.

Hermione had changed her mind and had signed up during the last call for those going home for the holidays. In typical Hermione fashion, she did not want to wait two whole weeks for information, so she was going with Harry and Susan to the latter's home.

Ron was sitting on the other side of the compartment, looking worried. Both he and Susan had seen him when he had a headache, but not like this. As a fresh snarl of pain shot through his head, Harry moaned and scrunched his eyes shut.

"This is awful," Susan said, watching her friend's white face with its scrunched up eyes.

"Maybe he should've stayed at Hogwarts," Hermione said, sponging Harry's forehead, which streamed with cold sweat. "Madam Pomfrey could've helped him more…"

"I've never seen him like this," Susan fretted. "Usually it's over in a few hours and he's right as rain, but this has been going on for two hours with no let up."

"He's had headaches before?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah, but nothing like this," Ron piped up. "This is something new."

Harry was only vaguely aware of the conversation, which was being held in hushed tones. He was trying to fight through the headache, because he needed to be at his sharpest for what was coming at the end of this train ride. And something was bothering him about the headache itself.

He had woken up with a bad feeling that morning, a sense that something was bound to go wrong. Harry usually felt that way about a lot of things, however, and he couldn't tell if this one was something new or just his usual pessimism.

Nevertheless, Harry double checked with Richard, through the notebooks, that arrangements had been made for Aurors to be present on the platform. Richard had reassured him that, indeed, there was a team ready to be dispatched forthwith, and to "relax and let us handle things."

Harry was also informed that his godfather had been rescued. Croaker had gone to see Amelia, telling her that they had a good chance to catch a criminal hiding as an illegal animagus on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters after the Hogwarts Express pulled in. He did not tell her that the criminal they hoped to capture was Peter Pettigrew; he felt that trying to convince her would take too much time and might not work anyway. It was best to let her find out for herself. Seeing is believing, after all.

Remus Lupin had also promised to be there; he would be taking the Knight Bus later, as he had final papers to grade.

Things had been fine until Harry had started packing for the trip home, or rather, to the Bone Yard, which was where he was calling home until more permanent arrangements could be made. The headache had sprung up without warning. At first, only a few, sudden stabs of pain, like usual. No big deal, he had gone through this before. Everything would be okay. He would just pull the shades on his compartment and hide all through the trip. No problem.

But then, as the carriages had clattered into Hogsmeade, the pain in his head increased. And by the time the train had gone twenty miles, it was unbearable. It felt like something trying to get out of his head … Or into it.

Yes, Harry realized, definitely trying to get in.

He had sunk into his meditative state; a feat made increasingly difficult as the miles wore on, shutting out the waves of pain, the nausea, the light in the compartment and the sounds of his friends' voices. Everything finally shrunk down until he alone remained, floating in the void of his mind.

And, in the silent, formless darkness, he saw it.

A pulsing light, shining in the void … right where his scar used to be … Trying to get in…

The sight of it made him afraid, the way the unknown had always made man afraid since he could walk upright and huddle over his tiny fires, whimpering at the sounds in the night as the beasts howled in the darkness.

Now, in his own internal darkness, Harry was afraid. There was something about that light pulsing out there in the void between thoughts that represented a threat to him. What the exact nature of that threat was he didn't know, but he knew it was there, the way he knew his right hand was there.

The light was chipping steadily away at the barrier between him and the outside world, demanding entrance, like a conquering army outside a castle. And he didn't want to let it in, not at all.

Desperately, he repeated the mantra he had learned while in the hospital, when he was first studying Occlumency and had to come to terms with everything that had happened to him.

"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

He repeated this to himself three times and felt himself grow calmer … more steady. It had worked, the way it always did.

But before he could muster up any kind of a defence against the light trying to get into his head from wherever, the light suddenly grew brighter, blindingly bright, like a small supernova. It pummelled its way into his head like a bulldozer through a Papier Mache building, and lodged into the blank spot in his mind where the scar used to be. Harry was knocked, screaming, into the void of unconsciousness.

# # #

Susan, who was sitting with Harry's head in her lap, saw his face suddenly go slack. There was a sudden feeling of power in the compartment, the way the air feels just before a big electrical storm. Feeling unaccountably nervous, Susan peeled back Harry's right eyelid gently, and saw that his green eye was rolled up in his head, showing only white.

"Oh no," she said, looking frantically up at Ron and Hermione. "He's unconscious now."

"Maybe I better go see the conductor," Hermione fretted, rising and heading for the door.

Before her hand could touch the door knob, Harry sat up suddenly, startling Susan into a muffled shriek.

"I'm okay now," Harry said, rising smoothly from his position in Susan's lap and shooting her a smile. Susan noticed, with a sense of unease, that Harry was different somehow. For one thing, the face looking back at her had no sign of the headache upon it. It was as though he'd made a complete recovery in a matter of minutes. Fast enough to be a little alarming, anyway. And for another … well … she wouldn't go as far as to say that it was an older man looking out of his young face, but what she was feeling wasn't far from that, either. It was still Harry, but something was new.

"What happened?" Hermione asked, beating Susan to the question.

"Tell you later. No time now," Harry said, moving restlessly to the window and peering outside. They had moved, by this time, into the outskirts of London, and were only about half an hour from King's Cross.

"But-"

"Never mind. We don't have time to get into all of it now," Harry said, cutting off Hermione, who looked miffed. "Everybody," he said shortly to the rest, "into Muggle clothes."

Harry's curt tone of command looked as though it upset Hermione even more, but looking at the set, determined expression on Harry's face made her snap her mouth shut and head off with Susan for the loo.

Ron didn't argue either, once he really got a good look at Harry's expression. He didn't know what was up, but he was sure something was afoot; and he trusted his friend to tell him what it was.

The guy didn't look to be in much of a forthcoming mood, however; he was pacing around the compartment, looking out the windows on each side like he was expecting something to leap out of the wintry daylight and snatch at them. Ron thought, as he pulled on his worn Muggle jacket, that Harry looked about as jumpy as Scabbers in a room full of hungry cats and no door.

Scabbers was settled in his pocket now, still asleep, the lazy thing. And Harry kept pacing.

"Sit down before you have a haemorrhage," Ron advised. "We're going to be there soon."

Harry shot him a glance, but continued watching the windows. The feeling that something was about to go wrong had increased. Combined with the blank spot in his memory after he had been knocked out by whatever that light was; Harry was more on edge that Ron could've guessed. His nerves hummed like guitar strings wound up three octaves beyond their normal pitch.

Something had happened to him earlier. Something

(May the gods have mercy on your soul)

he couldn't remember. But whatever it was

(I yield the mantle at last)

couldn't be good. His head didn't hurt anymore; it was as though a switch had been turned off in there. It felt peculiar still, however, in a way he could not quite define, as though something had been added.

At the moment, he did not have time to delve too deeply into the fundamental changes which had taken place in him. They were now approaching the station, visible now through the smog that comprised London's atmosphere. Harry needed to alert Hermione and Susan to what was coming, without alerting Ron, and by extension Pettigrew.

"I'll be right back. Need to go check something. Stay here and hold down the fort in case Malfoy or one of his buddies decides to come rifle our trunks," Harry said to Ron, heading for the compartment door. It was a flimsy excuse, but the best thing he could come up with for getting his friend to stay behind on short notice.

"All right, mate, but don't be too long. We're almost there," Ron said, packing his Quidditch magazine into his trunk.

"Right," Harry said, somewhat distracted.

He met the girls coming toward the compartment, both now wearing Muggle jeans and jumpers. Quickly, he took both their arms and shepherded them toward the back of the train, which held a baggage car.

"Harry?" Hermione asked, looking at him, puzzled.

"I need to speak to you both, now," Harry said. "In about fifteen minutes we'll pull into the platform, and there are going to be Aurors there waiting for us. They are here to catch Peter Pettigrew, who has been hiding as Scabbers the rat for the past decade or so. Ron can't know this, because he keeps that thing with him wherever he goes. I need you to stay out of the way and don't interfere, okay?"

"Harry," Susan said, looking at him as though he were a little slow, "Sirius Black killed Peter Pettigrew. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Now listen to me, we don't have much time. I want you two to come out behind me and off to the side. Ron is going to be in front of me, facing the Aurors, and we need to stay out of their way and any blast zone."

"Blast zone? Don't you think you're being a little paranoid?" Hermione asked.

"Hermione, we don't have time. This isn't going off to deal with a discorporated spirit like we did last year. There's real danger here and I need for you to follow my instructions. Now can I count on you?"

"I guess so," Hermione said, shooting him a somewhat frightened look.

Harry felt as though he was floating along in a glass ball of utter calm, watching things from a distance. Still, the sense of impending disaster loomed large on his internal horizon, like a hurricane. He felt helpless to stop it though, like he was merely along for the ride, as though things were preordained. And where the hell had that word, 'discorporated', come from? He'd never heard that word in his life.

Before they could go any farther the train began to slow down. Harry felt the urgency level rise a bit.

"Now," he said, grabbing the girls' arms and leading them toward their compartment. "Let's go."

# # #

When they got back to the compartment, Ron was double checking everything in his trunk was present and accounted for. Satisfied, he lined up all their trunks on the rack, ready to go. Harry tapped his with his wand and shrunk it, as did Susan (she had smacked herself on the forehead when Harry pointed out the obviousness of shrinking the trunk so they wouldn't have to deal with hauling them through the station.) Harry didn't know the time delay spells, so he couldn't do Hermione's trunk too. Of course, she did know them, and shrunk hers, tucking it into her pocket and muttering about the unfairness dealt out to all the Muggle-borns.

Harry sighed. He had hoped Hermione would begin to start thinking more instead of just going off on a wild rant about things which she had little understanding of, but no such luck. Perhaps he could sit her down with Godfrey over the holidays and have him explain things to her. No time for it now though; they had to move.

"What's with you, Harry?" Ron asked, as they joined the press of students in the hallway, shouting to be heard over the roar.

Harry gave him a distracted smile, still floating along in that ball of detachment. "Just glad this term's over, is all," he said, moving aside to let a pack of seventh years squeeze by.

Harry felt a steel wire twisting around his guts, making the feeling of expectant catastrophe stronger. This was insane. Why hadn't he suggested they catch Pettigrew at Ron's house, where the possibility of collateral damage was severely lessened? The man had been hiding out for over a decade already, so there was no real urgency about it. They could've set a better trap than this.

It was too late now. They were in the queue heading for the platform, Ron in front of Harry, Hermione and Susan just behind each of Harry's shoulders. They were jostled about in the crowd, buffeted by laughing, shouting students eager to get home for Christmas. Tales of presents they wished to receive and- in the case of the Muggle-borns - football matches they wanted to watch echoed around the train corridors, melding with the clatter of trunks, the rattle of wheels, the howling of outraged cats and the hooting of irritated owls into an ear splitting cacophony perhaps found nowhere else but the Hogwarts Express.

And then finally they were out on the platform.

3

Later, Harry Potter told himself, over and over, that there was nothing he could've done to prevent the death of Hermione Granger. Events had transpired in such a disintegrating cascade of chaos that there was little anyone could've done to prevent the almost foregone conclusion.

When they emerged onto the platform, Harry noticed, with approval, the presence of four Aurors. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Amelia were there, with two Aurors he didn't know. Both pairs were stationed on the opposite side of the entrance leading into King's Cross.

Shacklebolt saw Harry and waved discretely. Harry nodded back and waved to the girls behind him. They spread out into the crowd, just as he had asked them to do. Now, for some delaying tactics.

Drawing his wand behind Ron, Harry sent a mild tripping jinx at his friend. Ron sprawled out on the platform, his trunk shooting out of his other jacket pocket. Harry sent a finite at it, causing it to expand and spill everywhere.

Laughter rang out from those in the immediate area, causing Ron's ears to go violently red.

"Well, with feet that size, you shouldn't be surprised," Draco Malfoy snickered from nearby.

"You're a lousy poet, Malfoy," Harry said.

Malfoy looked caught on the hop for a second, then snickered. "Yeah, I guess I am, but he's still funny," he said, pointing toward Ron, who was now scrambling about, ears still dangerously crimson. He was trying, with little success, to scoop everything back into his trunk neatly, but only succeeding in making a bigger mess.

"Get outa here, Malfoy. Don't you have a silver spoon to polish?" Harry said, taking a step toward him.

Malfoy sneered in his usual condescending way. "Very witty, Potter. I suppose-"

"Now, now, Draco, you should know better than to rise to people such as these," came a drawling voice that could only originate with Draco's father. He was identical to Draco in every respect, right down to the way they parted their too-coiffed hair. Or, more accurately, Draco was identical to his father.

The elder Malfoy put his hand on his son's shoulder and gave a chilly smile to Harry. "So glad to see you up and about, Mr Potter," he said, although his eyes said otherwise. "We were all worried after your, ah, unfortunate … accident."

"Thank you for your concern, Mr Malfoy," Harry said, imitating the man's frosty tone. "The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated, I assure you."

The remark sailed right over the head of the pure-blood. "Splendid," Malfoy lied. "Well, we must be off. Come along, Draco, Vincent, Gregory." And he led the three of them toward the barrier. Draco sent a last smirk over his shoulder at the still scrambling Ron and followed.

"Stupid bloody shoes," Ron muttered, rising with his trunk once again packed. "Let's get out of here."

The crowd on the platform had thinned out considerably- there were only about a dozen people left, including the twins, Ginny, Percy, Harry's group and the Aurors- so Harry stepped away from Ron to allow the Aurors to do their work.

"What's going on?" Fred asked, eyeing the red-robed Aurors and Amelia with a worried expression.

Ginny moved closer to Percy, who put a protective arm around her shoulder. "I'm sure they're not here for us," Harry heard him say, before things started going wrong.

Shacklebolt stepped forward, blocking their path and looking like the proverbial immovable object. "Ronald Weasley, you have in your possession a rat, is this correct?" he rumbled.

"Er, yeah. Scabbers … he's been in the family for years."

Ron reached into his pocket and pulled out the bedraggled looking rat. "He's not been looking too well recently."

Shacklebolt's eyebrows rose in search of the Lost City of Hair as he beheld the rat. Faster than Harry could follow, his wand was in hand and a spell hit the rat, causing him to glow blue.

"This isn't a rat, Mr Weasley, it's-"

But before he could continue, the rat was suddenly transformed into a man. It was like watching a speeded up film of a growing tree. A head shot up from the ground and there in front of them was a ragged man with colourless hair and watery eyes; something of the rat still showed around his nose.

Harry had little time to marvel at this sudden transformation. The man's wand was in hand and a curse speeding toward Hermione faster than he could blink. Harry lunged to knock her out of his path, but his foot slipped on a wet patch of platform and he went down hard, his knee cap smashing with excruciating force on a pebble.

When the spell hit Hermione, she was yanked off her feet toward Pettigrew. The man was breathing hard, his crazy eyes darting everywhere. He looked like a man with nothing to lose. Nobody more dangerous than a guy like that.

"Let me pass," he panted, seizing the squealing Hermione around the throat and jamming his wand into her ear, "or I'll send a blasting curse into this girl's head. I swear I will!"

Hermione's own eyes were wide, full of tears. Her face was the colour of a freshly plucked oyster. The wand was pressing into her ear so hard that her head was forced onto her left shoulder.

One of the Aurors, who up to that point had been leaning against the wall, munching on his fingernails and looking to be mentally out somewhere near the moon, raised his wand and moved forward.

"Don't move!" Amelia barked, grabbing the kid's arm and lowering the wand.

"Smart move," Pettigrew said, beginning to edge toward one of the Apparition points on the platform, arm still locked tight around Hermione's throat and wand still jammed in her ear. Her face was beginning to purple from oxygen deprivation, and her eyes were more frightened than they had been when going after the Philosopher's Stone. Harry noticed a wet patch begin to spread on the poor girl's jeans. The sight ignited something in him and before he fully realized what he intended to do, his hand was up and pointing at Pettigrew. He did not feel contempt toward Hermione for wetting herself; he felt sheer rage at this … this rat for driving her to it.

A white beam of light speared out from his forefinger and struck the little man dead centre in the ribs.

Pettigrew squealed and his wand loosened from Hermione's ear for just a fraction of a second. That was all that was necessary though. Faster than Harry could follow, Shacklebolt shot a disarming charm at Pettigrew, and Harry sent a light summoning charm at Hermione's shoes, causing her to fall to the platform- and thus safely out of the way. Hermione quickly crawled away, hair hanging in her face, sobbing. Ginny Weasley helped her up and they ran off to one side (one of the first things the Aurors had done was to seal the barrier so nobody could leave.

Pettigrew was fast, too- scary fast. He ducked the disarming charm and shot a purple spell Harry didn't recognize at Shacklebolt. Harry noticed with some satisfaction that he favoured his right side a little more than before.

"Give it up, Pettigrew," Amelia said in her booming official voice. She shot spells at the man, too, but Pettigrew apparently had more than the nose of a rat; he could move like one too. Fred, George and Percy were protecting the girls, while Ron stood next to Harry, looking a little lost. His pet had turned into this raving psychopath, who had just tried to murder one of his friends.

"And have you ship me off to Azkaban? I don't think so," Pettigrew panted, sending curses wildly in every direction, trying to keep everybody pinned down so they couldn't mount a concerted attack against him.

"There's four of us and only one of you, Pettigrew," Shacklebolt said. He sounded unruffled even in the middle of this tense situation. Harry admired him for it. "Eventually we're going to win. It's going to happen, so give it up."

Pettigrew didn't answer, but continued sending random spells in every direction, most of which Harry didn't recognize. Due to the ducking and dodging the Aurors were engaged in, however, he could hazard a guess that their effects wouldn't be pleasant should they hit.

And then, with a cold shock of realization, Harry saw what Pettigrew was up to. He was edging closer and closer to the girls again, keeping the Aurors pinned down on the other side of the platform so that they could not rush to their aid. He discounted Ron and Harry as non-threats; and indeed Ron was just standing there, still looking lost. Fred, George and Percy drew closer together in front of Ginny, Hermione and Susan, readying their wands for use.

Harry, however, was not going to stand idly by. Pulling his wand, he started to try something of which he'd only read about: dual casting. According to the outdated training manuals he'd looked at back at Susan's house, it was possible to train oneself to cast spells from two wands. Such an effort required superior mental discipline and focus, two skills which the average wizard lacked in sufficient quantities to make such an effort worthwhile.

Having only the one wand, however, Harry was taking the concept further by both casting from his wand and his fingers. He had practiced the technique, albeit in a limited manner, over the preceding term, and he put his new skills to work now.

Thus it was a thoroughly surprised Pettigrew who was hit in the back by a low-powered punching curse. He was mere feet from the girls now, and Harry was a little desperate.

Pettigrew spun, raising his wand, only to be struck by another punching curse square on his beady little nose. The nose gushed blood and Pettigrew almost dropped his wand. Unfortunately, the punch knocked him back a few steps- right into the middle of the group comprised of the twins, Percy and the girls.

Events developed with the inevitability of a train wreck. Harry knew what was going to happen, but was powerless to stop it. He couldn't fire curses at Pettigrew without the possibility of hitting his friends, and neither could the Aurors; all they could do was watch in helpless horror.

"Pettigrew!" Amelia called, urgently. She too had spotted what was going to happen. "Don't do it!"

It was this scene that Algernon Croaker suddenly Apparated into. He took in the positions of all the players with a glance, but he was prevented from doing anything by what happened next.

Pettigrew laughed crazily. His eyes glittered. "Fuck you, Bones. The Dark Lord may be gone, but his cause lives on!" And, before anyone could react, he spun and fired a green Killing Curse from point blank range directly at Hermione.

There was an ominous silence that lasted only a split second, but seemed to stretch on into eternity. And then every wand on the platform fired at Pettigrew simultaneously. He transformed into his rat form, however, causing all the various curses to shoot over his head and crash into the barrier separating the platform from Muggle London. The barrier blew outward in a spray of debris, sending commuters scattering in all directions and letting in the sounds of trains and traffic. And of course, Pettigrew disappeared in the melee.

Harry saw his cousin, Richard, standing nearby, only to be struck on the chin by a flying chunk of shrapnel. He disappeared like a conjurer's trick, and Harry hoped he wasn't going to be trampled.

A wail from Susan focused Harry's attention back to the platform. Susan was kneeling over Hermione's body, crying, along with Ginny. Ron looked like he was close to tearing up, too. Harry wasn't; he just felt angry.

There was no time to provide any sort of comfort to his friends. Out in the main station, people were running, screaming, and getting trampled upon. Pettigrew had lost himself in the crowd and was firing destructive curses at kiosks and benches and parts of the floor, causing chaos and allowing him to get closer and closer to the doors out to the street. Amelia and her Aurors, along with Croaker and Harry, tore off after him. Ron, after an anguished glance at Hermione's body, let out a roar and charged along, his face red with rage.

"Harry, Ron - no!" Bones shouted, but they ignored her. This piece of shit had killed their friend and they weren't paying any attention. They ran, neck and neck, through the masses of screaming, yelling and frantically scattering pedestrians, Ron with a homicidal look of fury on his face, and Harry looking coldly enraged. Ahead, they could hear Pettigrew cackling madly, sounding as though he was more than a little unhinged.

Croaker, after being updated on what had just happened on the platform, tore off after them. Aside from catching Pettigrew, there was one other thing that must be accomplished: muffling the witnesses. It had only been fifteen seconds since the barrier blew, so there was time still to prevent anyone in the crowded station from leaving. While in motion, Croaker ran his fingers in a specific sequence over the runes on a wristband he wore, very similar to a Muggle hospital ID bracelet. This activated an emergency distress signal available to Unspeakables in the field. It would sound an alarm in the department's ready room, where there was supposed to be a team on standby twenty-four hours a day. Of course, the emergency response system had not been required since the last war, so things might be a little slack.

The station was in chaos. British transport police officers were trying to manage things, but with little success. Croaker saw one officer run down by a man in a wheelchair, his eyes wide with fright and his cheek dripping blood, apparently cut by a ricochet from a piece of stone.

Croaker lost sight of Pettigrew in the mess, but he heard his mad laughter up ahead, echoing off the glass roof and tile floor, like the sounds one might hear in a drug-induced nightmare. It blended with the sounds of exploding benches and the screams of commuters into a montage from hell. When did things start going so wrong?

Meanwhile, Richard Evans sat up, his head ringing like a bell, a thin trickle of blood running down his chin as though he was a vampire fresh from a banquet. He blinked dazedly- and then everything came back in a rush.

Ignoring the rush of dizziness that resulted, Richard shot to his feet, just in time to avoid being trampled by a mass of tourists, all shouting in birdy Japanese. He had caught just a glimpse of Harry before he was clipped on the chin by that brick. Where was he now?

Richard spun in a circle, trying to spot him. The station looked like an outpost in Iraq or Lebanon. Blasted apart benches, holes into floor, singed pillars … and more than a few still, lifeless bodies. One man had done all this?

But he wasn't just any man, Richard reminded himself, moving through the chaos. He was a wizard- a particularly violent wizard with nothing to lose and only a date with Dementors to gain. Guess I'd do whatever I could to avoid that, too, Richard thought.

There was Harry, running hell bent for leather toward the fleeing form of Pettigrew, dodging in and out of the running commuters like an American football quarterback. He made a flying tackle and struck the ratty little man in the back, sending his wand flying. Pettigrew's chin contacted the station floor with a crack, audible even over the horrendous noise of the panicking commuters. Teeth went flying. A second later, Ron Weasley, who Richard recognized from the descriptions Harry had given him over their nearly two-month correspondence, joined the pile. They instantly began pummelling Pettigrew into a pulp. He was reduced from terrible threat to sobbing, feeble, pathetic wreck in about ten seconds flat.

Richard noticed a team of red-clad wizards appear by the entrance onto Euston Road. One of them whipped out a stone tablet from his robe and did something to it. Richard didn't see anything happen, but a sense of calm overcame all the people in the station. They stopped running about and stood perfectly still. The only sound in the station now was the arrival of a few more trains.

"Tranquilizing wide area runes," said a voice behind Richard. "We use it for situations like this, to avoid too many people running away. After all, we have got to contain this."

Richard turned to see Croaker standing there, looking grim. "Haven't had time to debrief anyone yet, so I don't know what all happened. Pettigrew had apparently killed one of Harry's friends on the platform, and then … this happened," he said, gesturing vaguely at the carnage.

Richard shook his head and looked toward where he had last seen Pettigrew, Ron and Harry. Harry was standing there, with fists clenched, eyeing the little man like a cat eyeing a mouse as two red-robed wizards slapped him in handcuffs. Ron was next to him, still looking murderous, although Richard thought he saw tears in the boy's eyes.

"How the hell did this happen?" Richard wondered.

"We underestimated Pettigrew, that's how. I guess he didn't spend all those years as a rat, because it looks as though he's kept up his training. We'll have to wait until we shove some Veritaserum down his throat before we know for sure, though."

"I'd better go check on Harry," Richard said. "If one of his friends is dead, he'll need all the help he can get."

Croaker nodded. "I'll go and supervise the Obliviators. What a damn mess."

Richard walked toward Harry and Ron, while teams of wizards moved rapidly through the station. There must have been fifty of them, all working very fast, like battle surgeons under an aerial bombardment. They took no more than three or four seconds per person. And in a remarkably short time- Richard guessed about four minutes- the station was restored to normal again. Another team worked rapidly to restore the barrier between Nine and Three-Quarters and the rest of the station.

# # #

Harry watched Shacklebolt slap a Portkey on Pettigrew and send him away to a Ministry holding cell. He was only marginally aware of the frantic activity of the Obliviators and repair teams around him. Now that it was all over, he felt himself growing sleepy and at the same time shaky, like he had taken too much caffeine.

Ron was standing there next to him, looking sick. Harry was about to say something to him, when the lanky boy rushed over to a planter and hurled into it. He came back, face the colour of lime Gatorade, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"All right there, mate?" Harry asked, gripping Ron's shoulder reassuringly.

"Yeah, guess so," he replied in a hoarse voice. "Just … I never expected that. And Hermione…"

"I know, I know," Harry said. "Want to go check on her?"

"Suppose so," Ron said, now sending extremely tired. "Let's go."

4

Six hours later, while everyone else was asleep, Harry Potter sat in the dark lounge at the Bone Yard, thinking. It had been a rather eventful evening and he was having trouble sleeping as a result.

Hermione's parents had been notified by Amelia. They had not shown a whole lot of reaction to finding out their only chick and child had been murdered, but Harry had seen something in Mr Granger's eyes that he didn't like. Something contemplative… He would require watching.

Lupin had shown up about ten minutes after the last of the repair teams had left. He had been quite shocked indeed that one of his students had been murdered by a former friend, but even more so when he found out that the former friend was Peter Pettigrew and not Sirius Black. The two men, Black and Lupin, had stared at one another, and then embraced, but Harry could tell that Black wasn't all that enthusiastic at seeing Lupin. He wondered why, and made a note to ask Black later.

Ron had been given a calming draught after they had arrived at the Bone Yard. Hearing that his mother had been arrested the day before, on top of Hermione's death, had sent him into some kind of shock. They called it emotional overload or some such. Harry had never met Ron's mother, so he had not much of a reaction at all.

Fortunately, there was plenty of room for all the younger Weasleys at Susan's house. Amelia had even invited them all to stay over the holidays. Mr Weasley had gratefully accepted, promising the siblings that he would visit every day after his shift at work.

There hadn't been time for any kind of reunion between Black and Harry. He wasn't entirely sure how to feel about his godfather yet, the man being a virtual stranger as he was. Things were being put off until Black had swallowed a few nutrient potions (Harry had winced in sympathy, remembering his own course of treatment) and rested up a little bit. He had done no more than give Harry his own embrace and apologize for not being there when Harry needed him. Harry didn't quite know how to answer that, so said only, "We'll discuss it later. We both need rest now."

Croaker had gone back to the Ministry to debrief the response teams along with a weird looking fellow named Arnold Peasegood, whom Amelia had introduced as the head of the Obliviation squad. Although not strictly necessary, Richard had gone with them to oversee the erasing of the security cameras (wouldn't do for someone to see a wand firing spells on the footage) and he hadn't returned yet. Harry guessed Richard wanted to make himself feel useful, a feeling he could sympathise with.

Susan had stuck by Harry's side all evening, her eyes wet. She was just starting to become friends with Hermione, only for the brunette's life to be cruelly snatched away. It was the first loss in this war (not counting Adrian Pollard) but it wouldn't be the last. They would all have to get used to it, Harry knew, because there were going to be a lot more deaths in the future.

Harry had no idea how to comfort Susan, so he said nothing, but held her hand and held her when she cried. It seemed to be enough.

Now Harry shifted restlessly on the couch in front of the fire. Outside, a cold winter wind blew through the bare branches of the trees and rattled a loose window pane. The fire crackled, and Cottontail, the Bones' cat lay curled up on the hearth rug. Hedwig was out somewhere, Harry having released her before the train ride. It was a cosy, cheery scene, but Harry was not cheered. Chief among his concerns was where he went from here. During the fight at King's Cross, he had been almost useless. He had, in fact, contributed toward getting Hermione killed. It was his spell that had knocked Pettigrew into the middle of the group, after all. Now that he looked back on it, what he should have done was to use the summoning charm on some part of Pettigrew to drag him out of the way. He had reacted without thinking, something he would have to break himself of in future. Stupid, stupid Harry.

Then his logical side would kick in, telling him that he was only twelve, and thus not on par with an Auror, or even a junior league Death Eater like Pettigrew. But he hated feeling helpless. He had hated it ever since he was tiny and locked in his cupboard. He would have to do something about that, and very soon.

The mildly self-castigated run of his thoughts was interrupted by the sound of a door opening. Harry turned on the couch to see Richard coming in, face red from the cold and drawn with tiredness.

"Hi," Harry said, speaking softly.

"Can't sleep?"

Harry shook his head and sighed. "Too much to think about. How'd it go?"

Richard took his coat off and hung it on the tree, before flopping into an easy chair across from Harry. "It was an absolute mess, my friend. I had to team up with one of Peasegood's men to get into the security room. Must've been a hundred transport police officers there, all gawking at the footage. Took a long time to trace back all the calls they made and erase their memories. Then of course we had to go to the hospital over on Euston Square and do damage control there as well."

"I get the feeling you don't exactly approve of what the Obliviators do," Harry said, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't," Richard said evenly, "but I understand why the think they need to do it. I find the thought of someone monkeying with my mind to be utterly reprehensible and abhorrent, which is why I got our friend Croaker to give me a charmed amulet that blocks Legilimency and other mind magic. My thoughts are mine and nobody else's and that's how it's going to stay."

"But-"

"I know the magical world has to stay secret. But it can't last, Harry. Sooner or later, somebody is going to spill the beans. Or somebody will see something who can't be Obliviated. I have heard from Argus how the magical world treats squibs. Suppose a bunch of them got together with the military? The Muggle repelling wards would be no good, and they could waltz right into Diagon Alley or Hogwarts with a nuclear suitcase bomb. Might take down half of London with them but if they're mad enough to do that, they probably won't care much. Or what if a disgruntled Muggle-born got on TV and spilled the beans? Not enough Obliviators in the world to handle that. The magical world creates its own problems."

"All that might be true, but right now a bunched of panicky Muggles running around yammering about a group of people with unknown powers loose in the world is more headache than we need right now."

"I suppose you're right. Just remember … it can't last forever."

There was a brief silence.

"What was the final toll of the injured and dead?" Harry asked, not wanting to know, but feeling he should.

"Forty with various injuries, four dead from trampling. Don't blame yourself, Harry. We all underestimated Pettigrew."

"I know, I know. It doesn't make it any easier though."

"Met your pal Dumbledore today," Richard said. "Quite a piece of work, that guy is."

"Really, now? I wondered about him. Thought he'd turn up here, matter of fact."

Richard nodded. "He came into the DMLE offices, while we were still trying to sort out the mess. Wanted to be in on the questioning of Pettigrew, tried to get Amelia to tell him where the guy was stashed. Guess he wants to try and censor what Pettigrew reveals."

"That sounds like Dumbledore. I'm more worried about somebody like Lucius Malfoy getting into the Ministry and killing Pettigrew before he can testify."

"Amelia was worried about that too, so she set up some safety precautions on the holding area. Didn't tell me what they were, but she seems pretty confident."

"Any idea when he'll go on trial?"

"Some time after the new year, is what I heard. Amelia needs to do some spinning for the minister. But by February you should have your godfather back."

But what a price, Harry thought to himself. Hermione dead because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. What a fucked up mess.

"Suppose we both better get to bed," Richard said at last, rising and yawning. "Busy day tomorrow."

"Yeah, suppose so," Harry agreed. "Meetings and a check-up. Do you know if Filch and Croaker are coming here, or are we going to Filch's place?"

"They're coming here. Amelia's been filled in on most of it, and your friends need to know what's happening too. You need to start gathering allies."

"It's really coming, isn't it?" Harry said, staring at the darkness outside the windows. "It's coming and there's not a whole lot we can do to stop it."

"I'm afraid so, Harry," Richard said, also glancing outside. "It really is."

They stared at each other in the silent room, and then, without a word, they both proceeded upstairs for a night of restless sleep.

5

Vernon Dursley was terrified.

As he stood in the steamy communal shower stall, water from the multiple heads splashing onto the floor and echoing around the concrete chamber, he was closer to death than he had ever been.

Vernon had been held at Coldingley Prison in Surrey from his arrest until August, when his day in court finally rolled around on the docket. That had been no picnic; many a night he had lain awake, waiting for somebody to come and try to sodomize him like in the movies. Nothing had happened- at least not until he got here after his trial.

The trial had been a farce, a real kangaroo court, and Vernon had been convicted so fast it made his head spin. Twenty years for attempted murder, another ten for child abuse, and another ten for child neglect. He wouldn't be getting out of here before he was old and decrepit. His lawyer tried to fight it, but the evidence was overwhelming. Vernon heard that Petunia had received a similar sentence. Nobody would tell him where she ended up. Not that it really mattered; Vernon had only married her because it was expected of him, and he needed a wife and family if he wanted to make any kind of advancement in the firm. He liked her well enough, but he did not, and never did love her.

Marge had taken Dudley in after his arrest, and after that Vernon didn't know what happened to him.

Once the trial was over, Vernon had then been shipped to Albany Prison, Isle of Wight, where the real fun had begun.

At first it was the small things. Vernon would be walking to a table after getting his dinner from the serving line, and somebody would stick a leg out and send him sprawling onto the hard tile floor, whereupon the cafeteria would fill with raucous male laughter. Once, Vernon tried going after the offender, but a guard smacked him across the back of the neck with his baton. Vernon was once again sent sprawling, and he quickly gave up that idea. Derisive laughter followed him as he slunk to his table, no longer having an appetite.

Or when he would be led out for his scheduled shower, guys would thwack him randomly with wet towels, as though this was high school gym class and not life in prison. He began to love his cell, an eight by eight box roughly carved out of concrete. They had done away with barred doors in modern prisons, and his door was a thick, solid piece of steel that clanged shut with a grim sense of finality, like it planned on keeping him there for a thousand years. But that closed door meant he could have some peace and quiet.

Still, the harassment was not a big deal. It was, in fact, mostly harmless stuff. Juvenile…

Then word started to spread about why he was here in prison. Vernon Dursley had been sent here because he had hit an eleven-year-old with a fireplace poker and put him in the hospital. Those who committed crimes against children were not particularly well regarded in prisons, and the level of harassment steadily increased until…

"Not so tough are you now, fatso?" the Arab looking fellow in front of him grinned, waving a knife made of a toothbrush in front of Vernon's face back and forth in mystic passes. "Not like beating up a baby, is it, you tub of guts?"

"What do you think we should do about him, eh?" asked a guy with crudely drawn tattoos all over his arms standing to Vernon's right, brandishing another knife, this one made out of a comb. "Think we oughta teach him a lesson?"

"Absolutely," a third guy said. He was behind Vernon, a huge fellow named Briggs. One of Briggs's thumbs was planted squarely and painfully over Vernon's Carotid artery, and his fingers were clamped with equally excruciating pressure over his Jugular. The guy had hands the size of wicket keeping gloves, and was all muscle. Vernon was afraid to move.

"I'll call the guards!" Vernon squeaked, sweating from fear. He wished he'd never heard of the freak. This was all his fault.

"Nope, not happening, Toothbrush said softly, shoving the crude shank toward Vernon's belly. It touched him and Vernon gasped. It felt cold, like it had just come out of a freezer. Vernon did not understand how that could be, but it was. At the same time, Gorilla Hands squeezed a little tighter, and Tattoos shoved his comb blade toward Vernon's eyeball, stopping about a quarter of an inch from the lid. Vernon reflexively closed his eyes, but just as quickly reopened them; he didn't want to chance missing a move this guy might make.

"Guards are all on the other side of the prison, Fatso," Gorilla said into Vernon's ear, squeezing a little more. Vernon moaned in terror. "No rescue coming for you."

"I got a kid about your nephew's age out there," Toothbrush said, poking the crude blade a little more into Vernon. "Anybody ever hit him the head with a fireplace poker … let's just say they ain't never gonna find his body."

Vernon decided right then and there that he wasn't going to take any more of this. That brat was an unnatural freak and deserved whatever he got. Not that he could tell these thugs- Who'd believe that he had raised a fucking wizard for ten years? He tensed, ready to send one of his fists through Toothbrush's face, which was wearing a Saddam Hussein moustache to dwarf Vernon's own, but the guy must've seen it coming, because all of a sudden Vernon was in more pain than he could ever remember having experienced. A roaring fire of agony lit in his gut and Vernon felt something warm and wet flop onto his naked feet. Another flare of agony, like being at ground zero of a nuclear blast, lit in his head, and he felt his eyeball pop like a rotten grape. All his dazed mind could think was: they did it, they actually did it…

Behind him, Gorilla gave his neck a shove and Vernon was sent sprawling into the mass of his own guts. With the last of his strength, he reached out for Toothbrush's ankle and jerked as hard as he could. Felt the guy's feet skid out from under him on the blood and water-slippery floor. Saw out of his good eye as Toothbrush flailed wildly with both hands, catching Tattoos square in the side of the neck with his weapon. Heard them start to scuffle, Gorilla joining in two seconds later. The last thing he heard as darkness overtook him was the sounds of flesh smacking flesh, and a mortal scream.

6

The whole household met in the big kitchen at the Bone Yard the next morning. It was a subdued group; even the twins were quiet. Ron was a little pale but otherwise mostly normal, especially with all his family around him.

"You sleep okay, Harry?" Susan fretted, serving him more bacon.

"Reasonably," Harry said.

Amelia, who had arrived while everybody was asleep and now sat to Godfrey's right at the head of the table, looked up from where she was tiredly stirring a cup of tea and nibbling at a piece of toast. "I wanted to say that I'm proud of you kids for handling things the way you did yesterday. You did a good job of keeping your heads and trying to keep things contained. There's going to be a ministerial hearing on what happened, but it's only a formality. Nobody's going to be facing any charges. And-" she cleared her throat, suddenly looking awkward, as though she didn't quite know how to handle what she was going to say next "-I'm sorry for the loss of your friend. Just remember the blame lies with Peter Pettigrew, not any of you."

"I could've done things a lot differently," Harry said, sounding bitter. "If-"

"You can 'if only' yourself into a straitjacket," Sirius spoke up. "Believe me, I know. Don't beat yourself up, Harry."

"That's right. It was a battle situation, and you acted with your best judgment," Richard put in. "Many career soldiers I've known would've froze up completely in a situation like that."

"Same with me. Most of my Aurors have not yet had to draw their wands in real combat. Not that I have a lot of them these days…"

Harry nodded, but he was already thinking about something else. Logically he accepted what they were saying as correct. He would take this as an object lesson and move on, learning from it.

No, his mind had switched to his dreams.

He didn't remember all of them, but he did have vaguely unsettling recollections of strange landscapes and surreal battles fought in some unimaginably distant past. They had all dissolved upon waking, as dreams are wont to do, leaving him with the even more chilling realization that his life was no longer his own. What had happened to him yesterday on the Hogwarts Express? What had gotten into his head? And how much longer could he remain himself?

Harry absentmindedly reached for a papaya in the middle of the table. He was not paying much attention to the conversation flowing around him- Sirius was telling some kind of funny story that involved the Slytherin girls' bathroom, vegetable oil and illusory insects. He began to cut the fruit out of the rind, still considering what might be happening to him, when the knife slipped and sliced a huge gash in his left thumb.

Harry gasped as the blood came out of his finger in scarlet billows. The knife had cut the tendon in his thumb, and it slumped over like a dead puppet.

Susan, who was sitting next to him, screamed and leapt to her feet. "Don't move, Harry, I'll get the-"

But she stopped speaking and gaped, along with everybody else, all of them having risen at her scream. They all watched, in mute astonishment as the bleeding stopped and the wound closed, right before their eyes. In forty seconds or so, it was as though it had never been, and the only evidence to the contrary was the spreading bloodstain on the tablecloth.

Harry flexed his hand. No pain, nothing wrong with it at all. Then he became aware of the silence.

Slowly, he looked up. The whole table was looking at him. Looking at him as though he was a bug in a box.

He got up and left the table. Nobody followed.

# # #

Ron found him outside an hour later, walking through the winter-denuded trees on the Bones property.

"All right, Harry?" he asked.

"Sure. What's up?"

Ron shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable. "Just wanted to make sure you're all right. You left pretty fast."

"Just fine," Harry said, kicking moodily at a rock on the ground.

"You know, Hermione would've had an answer for us," Ron said, looking sad. "She would've dragged us off to the library for hours until she found something."

Harry gave a reluctant smile at that. "I suppose she would at that. I just wish I knew what it was."

"It's pretty cool. Just think of the advantage you'd have on the Quidditch pitch."

"Suppose so," Harry said. "And I'd never need to see Madam Pomfrey again either."

"Yeah! So don't get all moody, mate. Just think of all the advantages."

Harry laughed a genuine laugh. Who'd have thought it? Ron, the comforter. Maybe something good had come out of this whole mess after all.

When they went back inside Susan rushed up to him and gave him a hug. "I'm sorry," she whispered in his ear. "I was just surprised. Don't run from me, okay?"

Harry hugged her back, feeling relieved. "Yeah, okay. I'll try anyway."

"You'd better tell the healers about what happened this morning," Amelia spoke up. "They'll want to know."

Harry frowned- he didn't want even more people looking at him like some strange form of alien life- but he knew she was right. "I'd better go get ready. Appointment's in half an hour."

# # #

Harry arrived back from St Mungo's with no more information than he had left with. The healers had no idea what had happened to him. Even after he had granted permission for Healer Palmer to enter his mind with Legilimency, they didn't come away with any new information, although she did say his thought patterns had changed. "They're those of an older man, somehow, is the best way I can put it," she had frowned. "I have no idea how that could be, though."

They had all been shocked at the rapidity with which he had healed himself at breakfast, too. Harry had declined the running of further tests. He did not want to come back here anymore than absolutely necessary. So other than his odd thought patterns, he was in good health. Better, in fact, than he had ever been. They told him that, barring further complications, he wouldn't have to return, although they had tried to convince him otherwise. Spontaneous self-healing was something they had never seen. Harry wasn't willing to be their lab rat, however.

Then Harry learned why Dumbledore had been feeding him weakening potions, and another explanation for why he had been left to rot at the Dursleys for all those years.

"I did not want to tell you this until we were certain," Robin Johnson said, once they had given up trying to convince him to allow them to run more tests. "Your scar was more than a scar. It was holding a piece of soul belonging to Voldemort. We think that, by isolating you in a magic-less environment, Dumbledore was hoping to keep it weak and marginalized. He had you put on those weakening potions for the same reason. By keeping you magically weak, he was also keeping the fragment subjugated."

"How did it get out of me, then?" Harry wanted to know, shuddering at the thought that he had been carrying around a bit of his parents' killer.

"We are not entirely sure. Our best guess is that the warding scheme around your house got rid of it, once it had exited from your body. Since it was attached to your life force and you almost died, the wards recognized it as a foreign body and zapped it out. We saw a bit of the leftover magic when you brought in here using an isolation pod, which I saved for further analysis."

"So it's completely gone, now?"

"Completely. Not a trace."

"Are you going to confront Dumbledore about this?"

Johnson shook his head. "We are going to tell Amelia Bones, since she is MLE head, and it will be up to her to press charges. Or you, of course."

"I'll have to give that some serious thought. I guess I can sort of understand why he did it, but he should've had that thing removed from me before dumping me at the Dursleys."

"He should have, indeed. As to why, you'll have to ask him."

"Oh, I will, don't you worry."

They had all shaken hands and harry left, hopefully never to return.

When Harry came in from the Floo, he found quite a gathering in the library. Richard, Argus Filch, Sirius (looking better even after only a day of solid meals and nutrient potions), Croaker, and a few other old wizards he didn't know were all scattered around a huge table that hadn't been there before. Ron, Susan and all the Weasley siblings except Percy were all there, too. A fire had been laid and there were decanters of hot drinks scattered along the table.

"What's this?" Harry wondered, coming in and taking a chair by Susan and eyeing the throng.

"It's time to fill your friends in on what we know," Croaker said. "These-" he indicated all the old wizards "-are the best brains in my department, all of whom are under oath. None of us are in fighting trim, however, being scholars, and we need to start building our forces. The Adversary won't wait for us to be ready, so we need to move fast."

"Who's this Adversary? Are you talking about Voldemort?" Ron asked, only stumbling a little over the name.

"No, Mr Weasley. Voldemort is dead. We're-"

"Whoa!" Susan exclaimed. "When did that happen? Does Dumbledore know? How come I haven't seen anything in the paper about it?"

"I was coming to that," Croaker said, frowning a little. "Voldemort is dead, but that isn't the good news it would ordinarily be. As to Dumbledore's knowledge or lack thereof, I don't know. He has Severus Snape working for him, and Snape is definitely a former Death Eater. What he might've told Dumbledore we have no idea; Dumbledore likes to keep his own council."

"As to how it happened," a sallow-skinned Unspeakable introduced as Broderick Bode put in, "Lucius Malfoy did it, although his reasons are as yet unclear. Harry can fill you in on all the details later, if you really want to know how it was done."

"Wait," Ron said slowly, frowning in concentration, "yesterday before he … killed Hermione, Pettigrew said the Dark Lord was gone. I just remembered."

"They all would've felt the Mark go," Croaker said, nodding. "What surprises me is that they haven't all gotten together to compare notes, at least not that we've seen."

"That's because none of them want the others to think they had anything to do with it," Sirius spoke up. "Cowardly bastards are all hiding in their holes, probably thinking somebody's going to be coming after them soon."

"It may come to that, but we need to get back on topic," Croaker added, heading off any further discussion.

What followed left the Weasleys, Sirius and Susan wide-eyed with wonder and dread.

"Let me see if I understand you here," Sirius said, rubbing his temples. "There's a shadow war between two giant cosmic forces, one of which is horrible and the other of which is, uh, less bad. You call the horrible one the Otherness and the less bad one the Ally. There's a point man for each force here, and you think Voldemort played host to the point man for the horrible force. That about right?"

"Basically. We don't know where the Guardian is, though. And I dare not ask too many questions about him, lest the Adversary get wind of it."

"Incredible," Fred or George said, no sign of their usually cheery expressions evident. "So, where do we come in," he asked, gesturing at his siblings and Susan.

Filch took that one. "You are all only second and fourth years, but you need to begin to prepare now. The Adversary has disappeared, and we don't know what he's up to. When you return to school, you all need to start feeling out likeminded people who you can count on to do what needs to be done. That will be your job, Fred and George, since you know people in almost all the houses."

"I still can't believe it," one of them said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Mr Filch, the secret agent. I mean, honestly."

"Yeah, after all the times we have been in your office, you'd think you would've said something to us. Us being your favourite students and all," the other twin said, mock pouting.

Filch snorted in spite of himself. "The only students here who have given me more trouble are Sirius here and his three friends."

"Yeah, the Marauders were quite a terror," Sirius beamed.

"Wait, you are a Marauder?" one of the twins asked.

"Padfoot, at your service," Sirius smiled.

"Wow, today is just full of surprises."

"Professor Lupin is Moony, and my Dad was Prongs. And," Harry finished darkly, "Peter Pettigrew was Wormtail."

As a conversation stopper, not much could beat that. Eventually it was Richard who broke it.

"Back in the Roman Empire, Rome had a corps of fire fighters called the Militia Vigilum. I think that's what you should call yourselves, once you get organized. Because that is, in a sense, what you will be doing."

"You need to get on that as soon as you get to school, too. Don't delay. This may be the most important thing you ever do in your lives," Croaker added.

"We will," all the kids chorused. "Don't worry."

Before the discussion could continue, the door to the library burst opened, admitting a very sombre looking Amelia Bones. She looked directly at Harry and said, "I need you to come with me, Harry. I have bad news."

# # #

"So now I really am an orphan," Harry mused a few minutes later in Amelia's private study. He had just learned that his uncle and aunt had died in prison the day before. Vernon, by stabbing, and his aunt, by being beaten to death. A bunch of women in Eastwood Park (a women's prison in Yorkshire) had thrown Petunia a, what Amelia said was called, 'a blanket party'. Three women had held her under a blanket while a bunch of others had beaten her to death with socks wrapped around bars of soap. By the time the guards had broken things up Petunia was dead, face battered into pulp.

"Why is this happening now? They've been in prison since the summer. Then they both die on the same day?"

"I don't know, but I don't like it either," Amelia said, frowning and toying with her monocle. "I sent Kingsley over to the Prison Service to dig around, just because I don't like the coincidence. You certainly aren't catching many breaks these days, are you?"

"To be honest, I don't care too much," Harry shrugged. "They were horrible people and the world is better without them. Where's my dear cousin?"

"Still with Marjorie Dursley, although it is looking as though he is going to find his way into a juvenile detention centre before long."

"Big shock there," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "He'll come to a sticky end, I have no doubt."

"Do you want us to watch him, maybe intervene if he might be in danger?"

"No, don't waste resources on him. We have more important things to worry about. Speaking of, what's the latest with Pettigrew?"

Amelia sighed. "We haven't dosed him with the Veritaserum yet, but we learned some things. For one thing, he was there the night your parents were killed, and he had Voldemort's wand on him. This was an invaluable resource because, by deconstructing it, we can get a full record of all the spells he cast with it and perhaps get to know what he got up to, other than killing."

Harry's expression darkened at hearing the little bastard had been there on that fateful night, but he had one more important question. "Did you learn why Pettigrew led him there?"

"No. That will have to wait until we can get some Veritaserum into him, but maybe Sirius knows. All that we know for sure is Voldemort really wanted you and your parents dead for some reason."

"I'll ask him," Harry said. "I really need to know."

"Yes, you do, but I want to be there for it. I need to know the right questions to ask Pettigrew at his public trial after the holidays."

"No time like the present. We got an hour or so before dinner."

Harry went out and found Sirius entertaining the Weasley twins with more of his exploits and brought him back to the office.

"Do you know why Voldemort went after my parents?" Harry asked abruptly, once Sirius was settled.

Sirius blinked at the blunt question, but nodded. "There was a prophecy that involved you and Voldemort. They didn't tell me what it was, and I didn't ask, figuring it was their business."

"So Voldemort found out about this prophecy, decided it meant my parents and I, and came after us. And Pettigrew led him straight there."

"Basically," Sirius growled.

"I wonder if this prophecy has anything to do with this Otherness business," Harry wondered.

"No way to know until you hear it. It's probably stored down in Croaker's department. I can get you in there on the twenty-sixth and you can listen to it," Bones offered.

"Maybe I'd better. It probably isn't valid anymore since Voldemort is dead, but better safe than sorry."

"That would explain Dumbledore's actions too," Bones mused. "If he knew the prophecy, he probably interpreted it his own way and tried to make things fit his view."

"He knew. It was Dumbledore who told James and Lily about it," Sirius said. "Said he had a spy who reported that the Potters were targets."

"Bet it was Snape," Harry said, thinking back to the potions master's odd behaviour over the past term and putting it together with the equally odd behaviour of the other Death Eaters out there.

"Well, Snape was definitely a Death Eater, although Dumbledore vouched for him. Said he had turned spy. So it could've been Snape who told Voldemort the prophecy. It certainly fits," Amelia said.

A wave of icy shock broke through Harry's usual apathy and he shot to his feet. "That son of a bitch," he breathed. "I can't believe it!"

Magic poured off Harry in waves and a shelf full of glass snow globes in the corner of the room broke with a horrendous crash. "I'll kill him!"

Sirius was standing up right alongside Harry, his still skeletal face twisted with fury as well. "And I'll be right there with you!"

"Calm down, both of you!" Amelia yelled, shooting to her feet. "Destroying my office won't accomplish anything. Now calm down before I have to stun you!"

Harry looked up at Amelia and what she saw there almost sent her staggering back a step. Shining out of the face of this twelve-year-old were eyes filled with a dark, seething rage. It was alive with the promise of violence, roiling with magical fury. She prayed that she would never, ever have that look directed at her personally. It took all her years of experience to not flinch back. What had happened to Harry? He was different now.

"That cowardly, greasy bastard set an even more cowardly, slimy bastard on my family, and he's going to pay!"

"That may be, but you're not going to accomplish anything by wrecking my office," Amelia repeated, as one of her bookcases shattered, throwing heavy volumes everywhere. It was unclear as to which of the wizards did it, since Sirius looked almost as enraged as Harry.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had really surprised himself there. It felt as though someone else had invaded his mind for a second there, filling him with a rage not entirely his own. And the thought of that happening to him sobered him up fast. What was wrong with him?

Sirius too looked sheepish, and got himself under control. "Sorry about that," he said, as Amelia waved her wand to repair her office. "But the thought of that grease-ball wandering around free while Harry here was living in a fucking cupboard…"

"He's over there taking points from Gryffindors for breathing too loud, while I was being worked like a slave in the garden," Harry said, glaring at nothing in particular.

"Snape will see justice done, I promise you, but we have to move carefully. Right now we have other things to worry about. What did the healers tell you today, Harry? Anything I should know?"

Blinking at the subject change, Harry mentally shifted gears and explained about the potions and Johnson's theory about why he had been dumped at the Dursleys. Sirius was livid when Harry told him the background.

"Something's gotta be done about Dumbledore," he said, pacing the office. "He knew I couldn't have given you up to Voldemort since I swore an oath as your godfather. I'd love to hear what he has to say for himself while under Veritaserum."

"That will happen," Amelia vowed. "I can guarantee it. Maybe not today or next week, but it will happen. Bet on it."

# # #

Albus Dumbledore sat in his office at Hogwarts, only partly enjoying the holiday quiet. Once again, he had been caught out in left field by the sudden capture of Peter Pettigrew. The death of Hermione Granger in said capture was only a minor blip on his internal radar. No, Dumbledore's main fear was what Pettigrew might reveal under Veritaserum questioning. If it came out that Dumbledore had been utilizing his services as a spy even before Snape, and that he had been aware that Sirius Black was innocent all the time, yet allowed him to be sent to prison … well, things could get very uncomfortable.

He had also not been able to find a trace of Sirius Black. There was evidence that the man had been hiding up there in the caves above Hogsmeade, but he was gone now. There were traces of an activated Portkey, but who could've given it to him? The man didn't have a wand to make one.

Also among the missing was Severus. He had disappeared yesterday after the students left, and had not been heard from since. He had been acting oddly all term, however. When he came back, Dumbledore was going to have to have a chat with him and remind him of the debts he owed.

Dumbledore's nice stable little world had been in a constant state of upheaval since last summer, and he didn't have any plans yet on what to do about it. Something momentous was in the offing that much he knew, and Harry Potter was right in the middle of it. A closer watch would have to be kept on him than had heretofore been done. Dumbledore needed to adjust his plans and he couldn't do that without all the information.

Also, he felt a growing sense of urgency to get his goals accomplished as quickly as possible. Not for the first time, he wished he had been able to make a full Philosopher's Stone. Two things had prevented him, however. One, he felt that by directly taking a life he would playing the game wrong. How the goal was accomplished was just as important as the goal itself. And two, he was sterile as a rock. One of the curses that had been flying around that fateful day in Godric's Hollow did something to him. To make a stone, it had to be your baby you killed, and Albus Dumbledore could not make any babies.

Dumbledore rose wearily from his desk and trudged into his quarters. So many loose ends dangling out there and no neat, elegant way to tie them up yet. He would have to make a new batch of his faux elixir. Normally it only needed to be taken every six months, but before too long he feared he would have to guzzle a fresh dose every day to keep himself going.

Yes, he thought to himself, settling in his large comfortable bed. I'll have to sit Harry down for a long, "clear the air" chat. No more of this Occlumency nonsense. And I have a way to get it done.

So thinking, Dumbledore fell asleep, unaware that things were already well out of his control.

7

The funeral of Hermione Granger was scheduled for December the twenty-ninth, down in Exeter. Amelia had made enquiries and found out the time and place, so that Harry, Susan and the younger Weasleys could attend. It was drizzling and misty when they arrived in an alleyway near the church using a Portkey. Harry promptly fell over upon landing, much to the twins' amusement.

"Like the Floo, Harry, you need to move your feet like you're walking just before you land," Susan informed him, smiling in spite of the grim occasion.

"Yeah, yeah," Harry muttered, discretely using a bit of his still-developing wandless magic to clean the mud off his Muggle suit. "Let's go."

They found the church sparsely populated. Only Hermione's parents and a few older people whom Harry guessed were her aunts and uncles were in attendance. Harry's group received a nasty look from Mr Granger, but he didn't say anything.

Mrs Granger did, however, at the cemetery. There were standing in a tight little clump off to one side, Susan crying, Ron with wet eyes and Harry feeling bitter, when she walked carefully over in her good for-church shoes. Harry noticed she made Aunt Petunia look as warm as a summer day in the Sahara. This woman was cold, and it explained a lot about how Hermione had grown up acting the way she did.

"I want to thank you all for being friends to our daughter. I know she was very happy to finally have you all in her life. I'm afraid we weren't very enthusiastic about having a child and we didn't exactly do our best by her." Her icy mask slipped and she sniffled, but just once. "So thank you again, and good luck."

And before any of them could reply, she had spun and marched off, holding herself as stiff as though there was a broomstick studded with needles up her arse.

"Well what do you make of that?" Harry said, looking around at the Weasleys and Susan.

"I feel sorry for Hermione," Susan said softly, staring after the retreating Grangers with a look of distaste. "Imagine having to grow up with those."

"They have nothing on the Dursleys," Harry commented.

"I guess so, but still."

They were once again interrupted, this time by the sight of Albus Dumbledore, looking extremely out of place in a suit of emerald velvet striding across the neatly landscaped cemetery lawns.

"Harry, my boy," he said, smiling genially, "I thought I'd find you here. Do you mind, if we have a chat?"

Harry blinked. Seeing Albus Dumbledore in an Exeter cemetery was about the least likely thing he could think of. About the only thing that might top it would be Snape in a discothèque.

But before he could give any kind of answer, Dumbledore had whipped his wand out and, faster than his old body seemed capable of, beams of light had struck everybody in Harry's group, including Shacklebolt. They were frozen stiff and upright, like stone decorations.

Not for nothing, though, was Harry the youngest Seeker in a century. He was already moving as soon as he saw Dumbledore coming, and when the beam of light came at him, he was six feet away from where he started from.

"Stop this, Dumbledore. You don't know what you're doing."

"Oh but I do, Harry. You have information, and I must have it too. You were less than forthcoming in my office, and things are happening, things I think you know about. So you can either tell me voluntarily, or I can force you to. Don't worry; you will not remember that we had this talk."

"I don't think so, old man." Harry ducked another spell and tried to keep his eyes going in a three-sixty arc. He had learned his lesson after the Pettigrew fiasco, so he quickly moved to a clear area, far away from his friends, and stepped behind a tall headstone. "I have nothing to say that you need to hear."

"But I think you do," Dumbledore said, advancing on Harry's position behind the headstone. "I hate to do this, Harry, because it is not at all the way I like to operate, but I need that information."

The headstone was blasted apart, but when Harry tried to move, the grass wrapped around his ankles and held him fast in thick vine-like tendrils. He was stuck, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"I'm not a weak, barely competent wizard like Mr Pettigrew," Dumbledore smiled, coming to stand before Harry. "Now there'll be no more of this nonsense."

Harry strained with all his might, trying to break the grip of the tendrils which held him, but they were stone like and immovable. There was also some kind of blocking spell too, because he couldn't access his power as readily as before. If the fight with Pettigrew had made him feel powerless, then dealing with Dumbledore made him feel like a new born babe.

"Now," let's see what we have here," Dumbledore said. "Legil-"

"No, Albus, I don't think so," said a woman's voice behind Dumbledore.

Harry looked up and saw the same woman who had brought Hedwig to him earlier in the summer. Her dog, the same black Labrador as before, was standing at her side, hackles raised and teeth bared at Dumbledore.

Harry felt the vines released him and he quickly moved away, hands shaking. Never had he felt so useless.

"Who are you," Dumbledore said, wand still raised. From the look of astonishment on his face, he was trying to cast a spell and not having any luck at all.

"That does not matter," the lady said serenely. "Just know that others have their eye on this one, and he is off limits."

"What does that mean?" Dumbledore said, no longer smiling. His expression looked rather petulant.

"That does not matter either. Now, be gone from this place. And remember, someone is watching."

Dumbledore tried to wave his wand, but nothing happened. At last, throwing a frustrated and furious glance at the lady, he turned on the spot and Disapparated with a loud crack.

"Thank you," Harry said, sitting on a low headstone with his hands dangling between his knees.

"You are welcome," the lady said, still serene. "Be on your guard where he is concerned. There may come a time when you must deal with him, and I may not be here to help."

"Because of that prophecy?"

"Partially. Albus Dumbledore is a very dangerous man. You are one of the pieces in his game, but not the only one."

"What is his game?" This was something Harry had been wondering about ever since he began to ask questions last summer. Don't ask questions, you might not like the answer, he thought bitterly.

"Albus Dumbledore believes human beings are too corrupt to live, and so he wants to engineer the destruction of the world. Or at least of humanity. He wants to pit magical against non-magical, magical against magical and everybody else against everybody else. What he doesn't know, though, is that he is not entirely captain of his own ship. He has been nudged in certain directions by the Otherness."

"I wondered if it might be something like that. Some of his actions begin to make a little more sense."

"You are not the captain of your own ship anymore either, Harry," she said, and now there was sadness in her expression.

"What?"

"Five days ago, the Sentinel died. He was released in 1942 after it was thought that the Adversary had been vanquished, and he lived to be around ninety something, at least physically. Chronologically of course he is much older. And now that he is dead, you have been chosen to succeed him."

"Chosen? Don't I get a choice in the matter?" Harry got up and started pacing. He wanted to rage and scream, but how did you rage and scream at a cosmic entity? It was like fighting air.

"It is too late now. Perhaps something might've been done earlier, but once the death of your family started, it became clear that you were indeed slated to become the Sentinel. I had my suspicions once you received your head injury. You are now less emotionally involved and more willing to see things in a pragmatic manner, qualities which are important in a man so selected."

"Wait, so everything that's happened in my life has been managed by this cosmic entity called the Ally? With friends like that, who needs enemies."

"You forget, to the Ally we are nothing more than natural resources to be used. You are a spear, its spear to use against the Otherness. And a spear has no branches. That's why there will be no more coincidences in your life.

No more coincidences … Something about that sent a chill through Harry. He had thought Dumbledore was a manipulative bastard. He could take lessons from the Ally.

"What do you mean, a spear has no branches?" That sounded ominous too, and he wanted clarification.

"A spear must be cut from a tree branch, the straightest branch on the trunk. Only if it is perfectly straight can it fly true. But before that branch can be made into a spear, its own branches must be removed. Too many branches will slow it down, make it wobble, less capable as a spear. And your family and friends are your branches."

Harry sank onto the headstone again and stared at the still frozen group of his friends. "So there's nothing I can do? They're all going to die, just because they know me?"

"It has already started," the lady said, nodding toward Hermione's freshly dug grave. "No more coincidences, remember?"

Harry stayed silent, feeling like a trapped animal. "Isn't there anything I can do?"

"I'm afraid not. You are now more involved in this conflict than you could possibly imagine."

Desperately looking for a safer subject, Harry asked, "What does it mean … to become this Sentinel?"

"You'll change. The most noticeable thing is that you'll stop aging once you hit your full maturity. It's likely you'll be twenty or so forever, or at least until, or if, the Adversary is defeated. And you'll heal faster. Aside from a direct hit from a killing curse or a bullet in the heart or head, you'll be able to survive almost anything."

Harry flashed back to a few days ago, when he had cut his finger sectioning the papaya. And he was already starting to notice fuzz on his chin. So he was growing older more rapidly so as to assume his role.

He explained this to the lady, who nodded. "I figured as much. I wish it didn't have to be you, Harry. I really do. I will do what I can to aid you but I must go now."

"Wait, who exactly are you, and where do you fit in?"

"No time for that now. I will find you again."

Harry had a lot more questions, but she was already leaving. Before she disappeared over the crest of the hill, she waved her hand and the group of frozen wizards was reanimated.

Harry wasn't paying attention though. He was standing by Hermione's grave again, and he barely noticed when Susan slipped an arm around his waist.

"What happened, Harry?" Shacklebolt asked.

"Someone chased Dumbledore off. I'll tell you more later."

Harry bowed his head and stared at the grave, ignoring further questions. Only Susan felt him shaking. And only Susan saw the single tear that fell from Harry's eye onto the grave at his feet.

Who would be the next to pay for being his friend? Who would be the next person to die, just for the crime of knowing him and being close to him?

As Harry stared at the grave of one of his first ever friends, he heard the lady's words.

"You are now involved, more than you could possibly imagine…"

The End

# # #

Here ends the first installment in what I have decided to call the Darkness Rising Cycle. What will become of Harry? Will he adjust to his role as the Sentinel, or will outside forces destroy him before he can come into his own? Will he be able to protect his friends? What will he learn from the Compendium of Srem? What will Dumbledore do? And what is the Adversary up to?

Coming next summer, Darkness Rising will seek to answer these and many more questions. We have a long way to go, folks, and there is a lot of wonder, terror and drama ahead. I hope you will come back and join me on the trip.

-R. W. Hudson, AKA Opopanax.