Summary: Sixth year is over, and with it all pretenses of safety. The End is approaching; Harry can't go back.
Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any associated characters
WARNING: HALF-BLOOD PRINCE SPOILERS! If you have not read the book, turn back now! I will not be held responsible for ruining the story for anyone.
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Chapter One
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Unlike the previous year, Harry did not mope on the way back to King's Cross. His gaze was constantly riveted on a spot a foot away from his face, his eyes exhibiting the dull sheen of one lost in thought.
Ron gave him a small nudge, jarring him from his mental mantra of the locket… the cup… the snake…something of Gryffindor's or Ravenclaw's…
"Hm?" Harry murmured questioningly.
"We're here mate," Ron said somberly, gesturing to the platform outside their window. Gone was the bustling happiness of parents and relatives welcoming their children home; the inhabitants of the platform were instead a grim sight: stony faces and suspicious glances. Harry heaved a sigh.
"Let's go, then," he said, standing up and stretching out his arms.
"Owl us when you decide to head to Godric's Hollow," Hermione ordered, giving Harry a hug which he half-heartedly returned.
"I will. Stay safe for me," Harry replied. The trio was silent, letting the weight of their situation sink in.
"You do the same, Harry," Ron said at last, pulling his trunk from the luggage rack and trudging out. Hermione shot Harry a sad look and followed the redhead, leaving Harry alone. He stared out the window for a moment, before removing his own trunk from the luggage rack above his seat and exiting the compartment.
He was greeted with complete silence as he descended the train. Harry ignored the stares and made his way toward the platform barrier, hardly noticing as the crowds parted like the Red Sea. He paused as he reached the barrier, turning back and searching for the familiar faces of his two best friends.
They waved to him, and he nodded back, before turning and materializing through the barrier.
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Number Four Privet Drive had not changed much, in spite of the immense changes that had occurred in the wizarding world. Harry took a bizarre comfort in this; no matter how bad things got in the wizarding world, his Muggle relatives would still hate him.
In the week he resided at Number Four, he was almost totally ignored— free to come and go as he pleased, free to grab a bite to eat from the refrigerator at any time of day, and most of all, free to ignore his relatives in return and focus on more important things than petty rivalry.
The location of Godric's Hollow, for instance.
Thus, he spent most of his days at Privet Drive pouring over maps of Britain, searching for any sign of the place. It was the afternoon of the third day when he finally found it, a small town in northern Scotland. He ran a finger over the dot that represented Godric's Hollow, contemplating whether he would actually be able to face the memories the town would bring to mind.
Then he remembered Dumbledore's blank face as the old man fell to the floor.
Harry spent the rest of the week preparing. He sent a letter to Hermione and Ron (both were stationed at Order Headquarters) informing them that he would meet them at the end of the week at Grimmauld Place, and they would continue to Godric's Hollow from there.
Knowing he would be missed, Harry wrote a letter to McGonagall, detailing his plans. He didn't expect her to be too happy with him, and waited until the last possible moment to send it, ensuring her inability to involve herself. This was Harry's war, and he would fight it as he pleased, McGonagall be damned.
When at last the week ended, Harry had erased all sign of his presence at Privet Drive, managing to stuff every last item of his into his trunk. He did not expect to return. It was ten o'clock in the evening when he left the house, not bothering to write a note to Petunia or Vernon; they'd catch on to his absence sooner or later.
He held out his wand and summoned the Knight Bus, pleased to see that Stan Shunpike was back at work, albeit a bit worse for wear. Harry wasn't surprised; Dementors or no, Azkaban was no place for the faint of heart.
"Hello, Stan," Harry said, before the young conductor could begin his customary introduction. "How are you?"
"Blimey!" Stan gasped, blinking owlishly. "'Arry Potter! Wha' are you doin' 'ere?"
"Catching the Knight Bus, of course," Harry said. "How much for Grimmauld Place?" Stan stood aside to let Harry on, staring at him as if he had grown another head.
"O-one galleon, three sickles," Stan stuttered. "One galleon-five fer 'ot chocolate, an' one-seven fer an 'ot water bottle an' a—"
"Toothbrush in the color of my choice, I know," Harry said with a small smile, recalling his first trip on the Knight Bus, when he had used Neville Longbottom's name as an alias. "I'll take the hot chocolate, please." Harry rummaged around in his pocket until he had collected on large gold coin and five silver ones. He handed them to Stan, and then sat down on the bed directly behind the driver's seat. Ernie gave him a crooked smile.
"Grimmauld Place it is," he said. Stan served up a mug of hot chocolate as Ernie put his foot down, causing the bus to jump forward. "But first stop, Elm Tree Close."
"So, Stan, are you doing all right?" Harry asked as Stan handed him the hot chocolate.
"Yeah, f-fine," Stan said uncomfortably. "I'm jus' glad the Dementors aren't at Azkaban anymore. Couldna stood that, I don't fink."
"I'm glad the Ministry's finally decided to let you go. Using innocent people to make them look good… it's just wrong." Harry took a sip of the hot chocolate, watching as Ernie stopped the bus in front of a series of attached houses and a ragged young man stumbled off the bus.
The bus continued on, and Stan made himself scarce, obviously not wanting to talk about his experience with the Ministry. Harry didn't blame him. Ernie pulled the bus to a stop at last in front of Grimmauld Place; Harry realized with a jolt that Number Twelve was completely visible. He had forgotten that with Dumbledore's death, so ended the numerous enchantments he'd held— including the Fidelius Charm.
"Thanks," Harry said distractedly, heaving his trunk and exiting the bus. The bus took off with a bang, leaving Harry to stare at the grungy old house that now belonged to him.
With a deep breath and a torrent of memories assailing his mind, Harry trudged to the front door and opened it, relieved and a bit annoyed when in opened without trouble. He was in, yes, but didn't that mean anyone could enter without trying?
"Merlin!" Harry looked up to see a bubblegum-pink-haired Tonks, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. "Harry, what are you doing here?"
"Just dropping by," Harry said. "Why isn't the door locked?" Tonks gave him a puzzled look.
"What do you— Oh! The house must have an ownership trigger on it. You own the house, so of course it opened for you. I had wondered…" Harry nodded, and a suspicious expression crossed his face.
"Forgive me, Tonks, but—" In a flash, Harry had Tonks subdued and a wand pointed at her throat. "Last year, there was an animal residing here. It has since been removed. What is its new name?"
"Witherwings," Tonks replied with a smile. Harry released her, looking apologetic. "Constant vigilance, eh, Harry?"
"Quite. Where are Ron and Hermione?" he asked. Tonks shrugged, waving a hand in the direction of the stairs.
"Somewhere up there. They've had 'up-to-something' expressions all week. Care to comment?"
"Not really," Harry said, returning with a noncommittal shrug of his own. He smiled and headed toward the stairs, and then paused. "Hey, Tonks? Why isn't the old hag awake and screaming at us?" he asked, gesturing to the curtain-covered frame. Tonks looked rueful.
"Remus got furious with her and slashed the portrait. She's left, now. I don't know why we didn't think of it sooner." Harry chuckled and continued on his quest to find Ron and Hermione.
He checked the room where Hermione had slept the previous summer, only mildly surprised when he discovered it devoid of any sign of inhabitance. He proceded to what was once his and Ron's room, and smiled as he set his eyes on his two best friends, who were perusing a large tome entitled Practical Defense and Offense.
"I see you've wasted no time in preparing yourselves for a battle," Harry said loudly, causing the duo to jump and stare at him bewilderedly.
"Harry! You startled us!" Hermione said, uncharacteristically obvious. Ron could only stutter. Harry chuckled softly.
"Apparently. Are you ready to leave? I want to be gone before McGonagall catches on. She wouldn't like us going off on our own."
"Oi!" Ron objected. "At least we're over age, which is more than can be said for some people!" Harry raised an eyebrow, and Hermione rolled her eyes.
"Yes, we're ready," Hermione said. "How will we get there?"
"By broom," Harry said with a shrug. At Hermione's sudden palor, he explained, "None of us has ever been there, so it's not as if we can Apparate. Relax, 'Mione, Ron and I will make sure you don't fall off."
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Eventually they had managed to convince Hermione that flying was the only way to get to Godric's Hollow. She had her own Cleansweep 8, a well-meant gift from her parents for doing well on her OWLs, and thus the trio were on their way.
It was a long flight, even without the frequent stops they'd made so that Hermione could regain her confidence, and all three were exhausted by the time they reached their destination.
Harry led the way into a nearby inn, slapping down a handful of galleons at the front desk— they might not be Muggle money, but it was gold. The attendant stared at it in awe for a few moments, before ushering the three teenagers into very comfortable rooms.
Harry's last thought before he fall asleep was a satisfied one; at last, he had made it to Godric's Hollow… his true home town.
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A/N: That was remarkably easy to write. As you can probably tell, this story will detail what I would have happen in the seventh book. Fortunately for you, I'm not J.K. Rowling and this is only fanfiction. :grin:
--Pocky