Author's Note: Dear Readers: You may well be wondering why I'm suddenly deciding to publish this now, nearly four years after Half-Blood Prince came out and and a year and a half since the saga ended with Deathly Hallows. The simple answer is because I feel like it. The more complicated answer is that the post-Order of the Phoenix fics were always my favorite and my introduction to the Harry Potter fanfiction community, where I've read some outstanding stories. I always wanted to write one of my own, and this has been kicking since the summer of 2006. Circumstance has repeatedly gotten in the way, but my completion of college and lack of gainful employment at the moment have given me an opportunity to continue this story. Uploaded are the chapters I've currently finished over the last nearly three years (not nearly as many as I would like) and I'm writing more as you read this. So please sit back, relax, and enjoy this trip down Memory Lane to the heady days of the post-OotP fics. And what author's note would be complete without a plea for reviews? All comments welcomed, especially constructive criticism. If I've screwed up the pre-HPB canon, please let me know and I'll see what I can do to fix it. Now, on with the show!

--Snoofleglax

I.

An Abbreviated Purgatory

A crescent moon shone eerily down on the trim houses of Privet Drive and their beautifully manicured lawns, bathing everything in a pale, ghostly light. The streetlights threw a contrasting sickly orange hue over the sidewalks, creating more shadows than they banished. All was silent, save for the occasional bark of a dog or the faint roar of a distant car engine. In those trim houses, the perfectly normal people (and quite proud of it, thank you) that lived there were fast asleep, their slumber peaceful and uninterrupted. However, there was one unusual inhabitant of the neighborhood, and his sleep was anything but.

The light from the moon came in through the front window of Number Four and dimly illuminated the pale, thin face of a black-haired teenage boy. He had grown quite a bit recently, and was even thinner than he usually was. He tossed and turned and muttered in his sleep, sweat dotting his forehead, on which, half-obscured by sweaty bangs, was a curiously-shaped scar. Even more curiously, the scar was burning a dull red. The boy rolled over and groaned some more, caught in the throes of a living nightmare.

...A tall figure clad in flowing robes of black glided forward towards a cowering family...

...A father stood, trembling but defiant, ready to defend his loved ones against a threat of which he could not conceive...

...A pale, long, slender hand extended forward from the robe, grasping a intricately carved wooden rod...

...A pair of glowing red eyes flared malevolently...

...Two words, spoken gently, almost lovingly, followed by a blinding flash of green light...

...The father fell, eyes wide but unseeing, glazed over in death...

...Three more flashes of green and the remainder of the family joined the dead man on the ground...

...A screech of high-pitched laughter, cold as ice and tinged with madness...

...That same figure pointing his wand at the night sky and exclaiming, "Morsmordre!"

Harry Potter flew upright in bed, the incantation still echoing in his mind, the green skull and snake still in his eyes. Muggles. Voldemort was targeting Muggles now. He rubbed his forehead in a vain attempt to soothe the pain which was shooting through his scar, and sighed. The nightmares were getting worse, and Harry strongly suspected that what he saw during the night was more along the lines of visions, caused by the mysterious connection between he and Voldemort.

This was turning out to be an absolute hell of a summer. The nightmares happened almost every night and were depriving him of sleep, and he couldn't block them out, since Snape had been such an awful Occlumency teacher. For the umpteenth time that summer, Harry tried one of the few things Snape had taught him. He tried pushing the leering, serpentine face of Voldemort out of his mind and clearing it. When that didn't work (predictably, Harry thought to himself), he tried to concentrate instead on positive things. Snape hadn't taught him that, but he found that he felt less gloomy and depressed if he focused on things he loved. Unfortunately, the first thing that replaced the Dark Lord's face was that of his recently killed godfather, Sirius Black, and Harry felt his stomach clench.

Sirius's death was still eating at him. Intellectually, he knew that it wasn't his fault that Sirius had died—Bellatrix Lestrange had cast the spell that had sent him behind the veil—but it was awfully hard to reconcile that with the fact that if Harry hadn't been thick enough to believe the illusion that Voldemort had sent to him, Sirius wouldn't have had to go to the Ministry of Magic to rescue him in the first place. Harry's stomach clenched again. It was still painful to think of him, but as the days went by, Harry had felt the pain diminish ever so slightly. The wound Sirius's death had left still stung terribly, but it was scabbing over a little. And the reason Voldemort had lured Harry to the Ministry's Department of Mysteries was a bigger weight on his shoulders than Sirius's death.

His stomach clenched again as he thought of the prophecy. He had to destroy the most powerful Dark Lord in history, and with the power of what? He still wasn't quite sure—the memory of his conversation with Dumbledore was rather hazy. Even if nothing else about that horrible fifteen minutes was clear, the content of the prophecy was perfectly replicated in his memory, and though he'd thought through it and analyzed the wording for more time than he really cared to admit, Harry still could not figure out for the life of him what power he could possibly have that Voldemort did not. He knew one thing, though. Voldemort had to be stopped somehow, at any cost. And to stop Voldemort, he needed help. A lot of it.

He shook his head. This was not helping. Brooding on death, both Sirius's and his own likely demise was not going to help him figure out a way to destroy Voldemort. Harry tried again to turn his mind to positive things, things that would calm him down. Ron. Hermione. Hagrid. Quidditch. He repeated them in his mind, doing his best to picture their faces until he felt a bit he remembered the letters that Ron and Hermione had written to him. Pig, Ron's tiny Scops owl, (which Harry remembered, with an unpleasant jolt, had been from Sirius as a replacement for his pet rat-slash-Death Eater) had delivered the latest ones right before Harry had gone to bed, and he'd put off reading them until morning. Well, he thought, glancing at his cheap alarm clock, it was technically morning now, so he got out of bed and snatched the letters off his desk. The first was addressed in Ron's untidy hand.

Harry—

Glad everything's going well with your aunt and uncle, mate. It must be a nice change not being locked in your room with bars on the window and your stuff under the stairs.

Mum says to tell you that you're invited to come stay at the Burrow, of course, and to let us know when you want to come. If you want to come right away, just tell me and I'll tell her.

Just a warning, though. People are going a bit mental here. Dad, Bill, and Charlie are coming and going all the time, Percy's still being the world's biggest git, there are more explosions in Fred and George's room every day, Ginny's going around in a fury because Dean was two-timing her, and Mum's going mad trying to deal with it all.

It's wicked not having any homework, isn't it? Course, we do have our OWLs on the way. I think Mum will be satisfied if I do better than Fred and George, and they didn't exactly set the bar high—they only got three each, remember?

I sent a letter to Hermione telling her that she's welcome to come, too, but she's in Italy and won't be back until August, so I don't know if or when she'll come. Anyway, I've got to go, since Mum is yelling at me and Ginny to de-gnome the garden again.

—Ron

Harry smiled. Ron's letters were always good for cheering him up. And no matter how crazy the Burrow was, Harry couldn't wait to get there. He'd write Ron later, telling him that Harry wanted to get out of Privet Drive as fast as a Portkey could take him. With a bit of luck and good timing on Hedwig's part, he could be at the Burrow tonight. He put Ron's letter on his nightstand and picked up Hermione's.

Dear Harry,

Rome is absolutely beautiful! It's such a wonderful city, and there's so much history! I've spent a lot of time in the library, and I've learned quite a bit about the Romans, especially ancient Roman wizards. I found out that wizards and witches were known to exist by the Muggle population, and, furthermore, were revered as oracles and heroes! There's so much more I want to find out; I can't believe I'm only going to be here for a couple more weeks.

I expect that by the time you get this, you'll be with Ron at the Burrow. He invited me along, as well, and I'll be happy to join you two, but it won't be until August, since we won't be back until then.

How are you doing, Harry? I know this summer has to be hard for you, and I just want you to know that Ron and I are here for you if you ever need to talk about anything. Please, Harry, talk to us. It's not good to keep everything bottled up inside you. I know you hate it when I push, so I'll try not to, but please remember what I've said. Please.

I'll see you at the Burrow.

Love,

Hermione

Harry tossed Hermione's letter on top of Ron's and sighed. She was right, as usual, and she was even going about it with more tact than normal, but how did he talk about this stuff? How was he supposed to tell his two best friends in the world that he was destined to kill or be killed, that his life or Voldemort's must end by the other's hand? He knew he had to tell them, and he knew that they would offer to help him, and that was what frightened him so much. Suppose Ron or Hermione, or worse, both of them, was killed by a Death Eater or Voldemort? Harry didn't think he could take that. As terrible a guilt as he felt for Sirius's death, at least Sirius had been a fully-qualified wizard, and had known the risks going in. Ron and Hermione were still students, and losing them—Harry didn't know if he would recover from such a blow. He did know he needed help, badly, and if he didn't have someone's, the Wizarding world was already lost.

Harry resolved to tell them when Hermione got to the Burrow. They needed to know, and they deserved to know after all the three of them had been through together. At least they would stick with him, if no one else would.

He yawned. Hearing from Ron and Hermione had cheered him up, despite his dark thoughts on telling them the prophecy, and he felt a bit more relaxed. It really did feel good to know that, no matter what else happened, those two would stick with him, whether he wanted them to or not. With that pleasant thought, he laid back down, and closed his eyes.

***

Harry awoke a second time to a heavy banging on his door and a yell. "Potter! Get out of bed! You've got chores to do, and I'll not have you lying about all day like some useless lump! Your aunt has a list of what's to be done, and I want each thing finished by the time I get home!"

He rolled over and looked at the clock. It was eight-thirty, right on time for Uncle Vernon to leave for work and give Harry his daily to-do list. He groaned and put on his glasses and clothes, then trudged downstairs to face the day. At least he could tell Ron that he was ready to come, and hopefully be out by evening.

In the kitchen, Dudley was staring avidly at the television, his bulk taking up most of the space between the table and the back wall of the kitchen. Aunt Petunia, her face as sour as ever, was standing at the stove, putting the last of the bacon on a plate. She handed it to Harry, along with a scrap of paper.

"Do everything on the list by the time your uncle gets home tonight," she said, and without any further words, she turned off the stove and went over to the sink to clean the breakfast dishes, pointedly ignoring his presence. Harry sighed. He wasn't going to get any more communication than that. His aunt and uncle had taken Moody's warning at King's Cross seriously, and, though their behavior couldn't remotely be considered friendly, it was much less hostile than it used to be. They simply reverted to their old tactic of ignoring him completely, save when they had work for him to do. For his part, Harry thought it was quite an improvement, and he found that as long as he did what they asked, it wasn't as hard to live with them as it used to be. That was one bright spot in an otherwise uniformly dark summer.

The list was long, but not entirely unreasonable. They'd even given him twenty minutes to eat lunch. Without another word, he washed his plate and headed outside to begin his first task, which was to mow the lawn.

Harry dragged the mower out of the garage and started it. He was just about to start cutting the front lawn when a pile of trash cans across the street fell over for no readily apparent reason. This was followed by a muffled curse that was nevertheless audible from where he was standing, though there was no one in sight. He chuckled to himself. It had to be Tonks under an Invisibility Cloak or something. Only she had a penchant for such clumsiness. He waved in the direction of the trash cans, then began to mow the lawn.

He had just finished with the front lawn and was sitting down to rest for a moment on the freshly-cut grass, when Tonks's voice spoke softly in his ear.

"Harry, I have a message from Dumbledore. He says to be ready to go. He's coming to get you sometime in the next twenty-four hours. Sorry I can't give you anything else, he said that was the best time estimate he had. Oh, and he knows the Weasleys invited you, and he says not to worry, he'll take you there after you're done."

Done? Done with what? Harry turned to pose this question to Tonks, but as he did so, he heard the trash cans in the drive clatter as something bumped into them, and he realized that Tonks had started back to her post across the street.

He was now feeling a bit light-headed. Why was Dumbledore coming for Harry himself? Was something really bad about to happen? Did the Headmaster want to take him somewhere? Head spinning with questions, Harry got up off the ground and dragged the mower around to cut the back lawn.

The last time he'd spoken to the Headmaster, Harry remembered with a twinge of embarrassment, he'd wrecked his office. Rather thoroughly. He didn't remember exactly what he'd said and done in the haze of grief and rage, but he distinctly remembered throwing things. Small shiny things that had been smashed to bits. He dragged the mower around to the backyard and started it, feeling slightly ashamed of the outburst.

***

Time seemed to run agonizingly slow, starting from the moment that Tonks had told Harry Dumbledore was coming to get him. Even the twenty minutes for lunch seemed long, and the more often he glanced at a clock, the slower time seemed to move.

It was only half past three when Harry finished his final chore (trimming the rose bushes), and he rushed into the house to get cleaned up and pack his things. Aunt Petunia seemed astounded at the speed with which he'd done his work, and was eyeing him suspiciously, probably thinking he'd somehow performed magic. He avoided her glance as he walked on the paper she'd put down, then rushed up the stairs and into the bathroom, peeling off his sweaty clothes and tossing them on the floor.

After a quick shower, Harry pulled on some clean clothes and started tossing his things haphazardly into his open trunk. The accumulated litter of five years of school had gathered at the bottom and was making it hard to close, but after some creative rearranging and a casual treatment of his books that would have sent Madam Pince into a fit, he managed to force it shut. After closing it and making sure it was latched properly, he sat on his bed, now quite bored. Hedwig had come back some time during the day, and was asleep in her cage, head under her wing. Harry looked around for something to do, and his eyes fell on the letters from Ron and Hermione, sitting on his desk. He might as well answer them now.

Harry briefly considered opening his trunk to get out his quill and parchment, thought better of it, and found a scrap of looseleaf and a pen instead.

Ron—

Thanks for inviting me to the Burrow again. I was going to write and ask you to pick me up tonight, but Tonks told me today while I was mowing the lawn that Dumbledore was coming to pick me up for something, and he was going to drop me off with you when we're finished. I'll tell you all about it when I get there.

—Harry

Putting the newly written letter down on the desk, Harry picked up more parchment and started his response to Hermione.

Hermione—

Glad to hear that Italy's nice. I'm not at the Burrow yet, but by the time you get this, I will be. Dumbledore's going to pick me up sometime tonight or tomorrow—apparently there's something he wants to do—and he'll leave me at the Burrow once we're done.

I do have something important to tell you and Ron, but I'm not going to until you're at the Burrow with us. Hope you're enjoying yourself in Rome.

Best,

—Harry

Harry put the letters in envelopes and addressed them, then poked Hedwig awake. She looked rather disgruntled at being awakened in the middle of the day, and made her displeasure known by nipping his finger harder than was really necessary, but put out her leg after a bit of coaxing and an owl treat from Harry. "Deliver Ron's letter first," he said. "Hermione's in Italy, so be careful, won't you?" Hedwig hooted softly and nipped his finger again, more gently this time, before gliding noiselessly out the open window.

Now that that was done, Harry sat back down on his bed and waited. Time was passing very, very slowly. He finally gave in and opened his trunk, pulling out his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook, but Defensive Magical Theory was such a useless, dull book that it was an exercise in futility to attempt a first reading, let alone a second or third. The words just seemed to blur together on the page, and Harry understood why Dolores Umbridge had selected it as the fifth-year Defense book: it was completely free of anything remotely resembling useful. Finally sighing in frustration, he tossed the book aside and laid back on the bed. The sun was finally starting to set when Uncle Vernon came upstairs.

"Done with your chores, are you?" he asked, not quite rudely.

Harry simply nodded. He could tell it was driving Uncle Vernon crazy not to be able to insult Harry or his parents, and it was amusing to see his normally bullying uncle attempting to be polite, or, more appropriately, not as unpleasant as usual.

"There will be more tomorrow—the tool shed needs painting again, and I want two coats on it by the time I get home."

Harry turned to his uncle. Uncle Vernon wasn't going to like this, and he smirked inwardly. "I'm probably not going to be here tomorrow," he said matter-of-factly.

Uncle Vernon's face started to take on a more familiar red tinge. "What the ruddy hell d'you mean you're not going to be here tomorrow?" His voice started to rise, and his mustache began to twitch.

Harry tried hard not to let his internal smirk become an external one. Far from upsetting Harry, he'd discovered the therapeutic effects of riling up his uncle's temper. He was as tall as Vernon was now, something which was not lost on his uncle, and between his growth spurt and Moody's warning, Harry enjoyed taking the piss out of his uncle on occasion. "The Headmaster of my school's coming to get me tonight or tomorrow."

Uncle Vernon's face was now a definite shade of puce. "I'll not have any more freaks in my home!" he roared, then calmed slightly as Harry cocked an eyebrow at him. "If your ruddy head freak is coming to get you, you can damn well wait outside!" he snarled, then launched into a rant.

Harry simply stared at a point above Uncle Vernon's head as his uncle's tirade continued. He caught something about ingratitude and abnormal, but for the most part, he tuned out the shouting, and thought about that evening. Waiting outside wouldn't be that big of a deal, and it would probably preclude any unpleasantness when Dumbledore arrived at the house. Of course, if Dumbledore didn't arrive until tomorrow, it wouldn't be good, but Harry knew how to sneak in. He'd been locked out before. "All right," he said, in the most serene, agreeable tone of voice he could muster.

Whatever he had been expecting Harry's response to be, Uncle Vernon had not been prepared for calm agreement. It interrupted the rhythm of his yelling, and the rant came to a crashing halt. He looked uncertain of how to reply for a moment, then finally barked, "Right! Get outside then. And take the trash out when you go!"

Harry dragged his trunk down the stairs and left it by the front door, then headed into the kitchen and obediently took the trash outside. He shoved it into the trash cans, then dragged his trunk out, and plopped down on the front stoop next to it and Hedwig's empty cage. His wand was in his right front pocket, and his invisibility cloak was jammed in his left.

The wait was better outside than it was inside. The house was still stuffy from the heat of the day, and it felt much cooler outside. It was a fair evening and Harry watched the sun set over Little Whingig. A few cars passed, but Privet Drive was rather quiet this evening. There was a whisper of a breeze, and Harry turned his face into it, enjoying the feel of the wind ruffling his hair.

He waited like that for a while. Then a while longer. As the stars came out, Harry amused himself by trying to remember their names, but somehow, five years of Astronomy classes still hadn't enabled him to do much more than find the North Star and a few others. He recognized the star Sirius shining in the sky, and belatedly remembered it was also called the Dog Star, which to Harry's thinking, was entirely appropriate. Finally, beginning to wonder if Dumbledore was coming at all that night, Harry stood up and stretched. It had to be around midnight, and he was seriously debating on whether or not he should sneak back into the house and wait for tomorrow when there was a sound like the swish of a cloak, and Albus Dumbledore stood in front of Harry, smiling benignly. Harry had never heard anyone Apparate quite that silently, and it was an impressive entrance.

"Good evening, Harry," he said pleasantly. "I'm gratified to see that you're ready for our little expedition. Do you have your wand and cloak?"

Harry nodded.

"Excellent. Well, then, if you'll just leave your trunk and your owl's cage here, I'm sure that the Order will get it to the Burrow. Let's go." Dumbledore set off down the road, humming cheerfully to himself, and Harry followed, still wondering what they were off to do.