[I own nothing in the Harry Potter franchise, all such content belongs to J.K. Rowling.]
Number 4, Privet Drive, July 12th, 1996.
It's a blistering Friday afternoon for the residents of Little Whinging, including Harry James Potter as he sits in his bedroom at home. The sounds of Hedwig occasionally clicking her beak fills the room, and so do those of Harry drumming his fingers on his desk at the window. An empty bowl sits atop a piece of parchment covered in Professor Dumbledore's writing. For the umpteenth time, Harry picks it up and reads the letter once again.
Dear Harry,
If it is convenient to you, I shall call at your home on the 12th of this month at eleven p.m. Together, we may attend to the matter which we've thoroughly discussed at my office in June.
Kindly send your answer by return of this owl. I do hope to see you this Friday.
Most sincerely
Albus Dumbledore
Of course, that answer had already been sent three days ago by Harry, who now eagerly awaits his Headmaster's arrival. In the meantime, Harry stands up and begins pacing around the room (much to Hedwig's curiosity).
"What do you think of my chances, girl?" he asks, "I mean, it's not entirely my fault if this Slughorn guy sees me as Tom Riddle. Ooooh, look at the Half-Blood Slytherin that gets along with all the teachers! That's me, right?"
Hedwig hoots and flaps her wings in delight.
"That-a-girl, of course people like me." Harry grins and grabs his badge from the top drawer. "Mwahaha! Fear the Prefect Potter! Bow down or it's detention for you. Who needs Draco Malfoy anyway? He's a crap excuse of a Prefect."
Hedwig hoots again, and Harry stuffs a few treats into the owl's cage. He then leaves his window open for a breeze and exits the room to head downstairs. While standing three steps from the bottom, Harry spots Aunt Petunia mopping the wooden floor of the hall.
"Can't you have that man meet you somewhere else? Why does it have to be right here, in this house?" she asks, in reference to having been informed of Dumbledore's arrival tonight.
"I've already told you, aunt; the Headmaster wants to fetch me from here." Harry grins mischievously, much like Pansy Parkinson's so often done. "Are you scared he's going to embarrass this normal household? Professor Dumbledore's anything but normal, I'd say."
The mop hits the floor as Aunt Petunia, caught between fear, anger, and some expression which Harry cannot seem to read, stomps across the hall. She walks right up to Harry as he stands with folded arms on the bottommost step.
"For someone who's got his first decent summer holidays in two years, you're awfully smug," she says, glaring at Harry (who returns the gesture as they lock eyes). "Remind me how those... Dementors had you trapped exactly this time last year?"
"Oh, it was fun," says Harry, "I got framed for supposedly murdering a girl at the end of our interschool Tournament. But it obviously wasn't me, you see; it was Lord Voldemort and his minion in some graveyard."
"That wasn't my question, " says Aunt Petunia, now crossing her arms much like Harry so often does. "I demand that you take a moment to appreciate being in this house, as opposed to your people's prison."
"It was only three months in Azkaban," replies Harry, trying his best to suppress his shudder. "Had a nice chat with one of the inmates in there."
"Oh yes, I remember," Aunt Petunia narrows her eyes. "You said it was your godfather's cousin, right? Hmph, here, make yourself useful and do these rooms."
"Should I tend to the garden as well?" asks Harry, hardly taking offense to doing chores at home. "My St. Brutus excuse falls away when it's holidays, remember? So, I can be seen outside."
"Fine, make sure the plants are all neat and tidy. Marge is coming next week, and I might as well not give that woman yet another reason to complain."
If there's one person who Harry knows Aunt Petunia tolerates even less than him, it's her sister-in-law. Heck, even Uncle Vernon is forced to enjoy his sister's presence during her extended visits.
"Do yourself a favour and be gone before she arrives," says Aunt Petunia. "I'd rather not endure constant remarks against..."
"Against who?" asks Harry, although, deep down, he already knows the answer all too well.
"Finish your chores!"
The self-proclaimed King of Slytherin (a title meant more for amusement than anything else) picks up his aunt's mop and gets down to business. In just over an hour, the living room, dining room, and kitchen floors are left clean and shiny. Next, Harry exits the house and gets on his knees while working the garden. Some might argue that he shouldn't appease such neglectful Muggles, but Harry doesn't give a damn. In his opinion, it's not worth threatening and instilling even more fear in a bunch of ignorant family members.
As the afternoon moves on, Harry spots a familiar punk-like young woman slowly skateboarding down the pavement. She spots his dirt-covered jeans and stops to snigger while speaking:
"Work it, farm boy! Enjoying your manual labour out in the sun? You've got a mess on your head... oh wait, that's just your hair."
"Oh ha-ha," says Harry, discreetly gesturing his middle-finger in a manner preventing the neighbours from seeing. "With your balance issues, I'm surprised you haven't fallen face-first off that skateboard yet."
The young woman can't help but laugh while trying to think of a witty comeback. "Don't ruin those pampered nails of yours too much, Harry."
"Try not to fall into a drain, Nymphadora, although you must be pretty used to 'manholes' by now, huh?"
"Why, you little—" The disguised Tonks shakes her finger at Harry. "Hilarious, Mister I'm-soon-sweet-sixteen. I'll be sure to tell Sirius all about your drain joke."
"What's going on out here?" asks Aunt Petunia, standing on the front porch of her house. "And who's this trashy looking girl?"
"Order member," mutters Harry, pruning another tree near the porch. "She's been here before, but as a guy that one time."
"Regardless, tell her to leave! I will not have the neighbours seeing such an individual interacting with anyone here," says Aunt Petunia, to which Tonks waves and continues on her way down the road. By late afternoon, the Dursleys' car pulls into the garage as Uncle Vernon returns from work. Dudley, it seems, eventually returns home after spending most of his day out and about in the neighbourhood.
With his chores and everything else done, Harry heads for the stairs en route to his bedroom on the first floor. But he does take a moment to lean on the railing and watch his uncle kiss Aunt Petunia on the cheek upon entering the hall.
"What? Never seen a husband kiss his wife after coming home, boy? How long have you been living here?"
It would be easy to retort with 'long enough' or 'far too long', but Harry opts to save such hostilities for another time. Specifically, when he gets into arguments with degenerates such as Draco Malfoy, Blaise Zabini, Theodore Nott, etc.
"If anyone needs me, I'll once again be in my room, making no noise and pretending I'm not there," he says, climbing two steps at a time on his way up. Regardless of their lack of affection, Harry just can't bring himself to hate his family. Speaking of whom... he rummages through his middle drawer to retrieve a familiar handheld mirror. "Padfoot, are you there?"
Following a few seconds of silence, Sirius Black appears in the two-way mirror. "Hey there, N.E.W.T.-level man! I've almost thought you'd forgotten about me. How are things going over there? Tonks make contact with you yet?"
"No problems on my side, and yeah, she did," says a grinning Harry. "If you do see Tonks, ask if she's fallen down any manholes yet today."
"What?" laughs Sirius. "The heck does that mean? Dora's not that clumsy as to go down a drain or two."
"Just ask, Sirius."
Harry remains chatting with his godfather for nearly half an hour before retiring to bed. From 4:30 till 7pm, he sits with many an old textbook to revise whatever magical theory he can.
"BOY!" shouts Uncle Vernon from downstairs. "It's dinnertime."
Hurrying out his room and racing down the stairs, Harry's immediately at the table to satisfy his grumbling stomach. For once, he dishes himself a fair bit of helpings without so much as a frown from his aunt.
"We should let the boy fill himself up before our 'guest' arrives," she says, clearly unnerved by the prospect of Albus Dumbledore's imminent arrival.
"Listen here, Potter," says Uncle Vernon, although noticeably more fearful than usual. "Er... if that Doubledore gentleman—"
"Dumbledore," corrects Harry, casually shoving pasta into his mouth.
"—yes, that's what I meant. If this Dumbledore asks any questions... Look, we've raised you since you were a baby, we've given you the food off our table, even let you have Dudley's second bedroom, purely out of the goodness of our hearts."
An awkward silence follows as Harry tries his utmost best (even employing some basic Occlumency) to suppress his laughter.
"What time did you say that man's coming?" asks Dudley, halfway through his second plate of dinner.
"Eleven o'clock," replies Harry. "Do yourselves a favour and accept anything Professor Dumbledore offers you."
"What?" gasps Aunt Petunia. "We absolutely refuse to consume anything abnormal in this house!"
"Oh no, sir!" adds Uncle Vernon, flapping his hands about. "No, no, no, no! Hospitality is doable but consumables are the limit. Last thing we need is to wake up poisoned or something."
"You wouldn't wake up in that case," says Harry, secretly enjoying the looks of terror across the table. "If you're going to deny a simple treat or drink from the Headmaster, then my kind words will be fruitless."
"Alright, fine!" says Uncle Vernon, now leaning to grumble to his wife. "We've got the ambulance on speed dial, right?"
"Yes, and the police as well," says Aunt Petunia, before seeing the amused expression on Harry's face. "Don't you laugh at us, child!"
Ha! I love these silly people, thinks a grinning Harry. The next four hours pass by in a mix of cleaning, revising, and napping for him as he awaits the arrival of Albus Dumbledore. Finally, at precisely eleven o'clock, the streetlamp outside Harry's bedroom window goes out. No doubt it's the work of the Put-Outer device which he's seen a few times before. A tall, cloaked figure soon walks up the garden path right before the doorbell rings.
"Uh, good evening to you, sir!" Uncle Vernon can be heard greeting (with the occasional tremble in his voice) from the hall. "Yes, yes, Harry's told us all about your arrival."
"C-Come inside, sir," says Dudley, who Harry observes (from the staircase) nearly tripping over Uncle Vernon's feet before gesturing an awkward bow of sorts.
Aunt Petunia, as shocked as she is to actually have Dumbledore in her house, stammers out a begrudging greeting to the Headmaster. In response, Dumbledore makes mention of them having corresponded, which bewilders Harry for a moment.
"Ah, good evening to you, Harry," says Dumbledore, looking up from the hall as Harry waves from the staircase. "Excellent, excellent."
Uncle Vernon, meanwhile, remains staring in a stupor until Harry eventually pokes him on the shoulder. "Invite him to the living room already."
"Ahem, good sir, feel free to take a seat on our, uh, sitting surfaces... 'couches', yes." Uncle Vernon facepalms himself as Dumbledore enters the living room.
"Really?" asks Harry. "Do you honestly believe my kind of people aren't aware of what a couch is?"
"Don't blame me, boy! I thought you lot do your hocus-pocus and sit around on floating carpets or something."
"Is he going to be staying long?" whispers Aunt Petunia to Harry. "Didn't you say this was a pick-up and go?"
Shrugging, Harry enters the living room and takes a seat facing Dumbledore. The Headmaster, however, flicks his wand to have a couch knock the Dursleys behind their knees. Once they're seated, Dumbledore flicks his wand again to have the couch zoom back to its original position. Now Harry sees it, and Dumbledore immediately smiles. "We can discuss my hand at a later stage, Harry. In the meantime, we shall trespass upon your family's hospitality only a little longer."
Harry tries to signal the Dursleys to bring some form of refreshments, but it's too late as Dumbledore merely smiles.
"I would have assumed that you might be offering me some refreshments," he says, "but one's optimism can only extend so far." Another flick of the wand sees Dumbledore summon a bottle which pours its contents into five glasses. Each of them are now hovered across the room, and Harry widens his eyes at his stammering uncle.
"Er, um—"
"You are most welcome," says Dumbledore, watching as the Dursleys grab hold of, and fearfully peer into, their glasses. "Madam Rosmerta's finest, oak-matured mead. I daresay a drink or two would be quite a necessity in these troubled times we find ourselves in."
"Underaged drinking," mutters Aunt Petunia, watching her son tentatively sip at his glass.
"It's... not too bad, mum," admits Dudley.
"Hmph," adds Uncle Vernon, refusing to admit the deliciousness of his drink, although his expression betrays him a tad.
"Right," says Dumbledore, "now that we are all settled down, there are a few things which need to be said." He looks intently at the Dursleys. "Are you aware of the dangers—magical dangers, that is— running amok these days?"
"He"—Uncle Vernon points his finger at a calm Harry—"told us a fair bit about Lord Thingy, uh, Voldymore's things going around."
"Excellent," replies Dumbledore, giving Harry a smile. "Dementors? Inferi? Suspicious 'accidents' on the road especially at night?"
"Yes, sir, I've told them all about that," says Harry. "They also know that Dementors are invisible to Muggles, though."
"The bo— I mean, Harry said it's like depression and all negative things going around in the air like a chill," says Uncle Vernon.
"An acceptable manner of explaining it to your family, Harry," says Dumbledore, before turning to address the fearful Dursleys, "You need not worry excessively about those foul creatures. For members from the Order of the Phoenix are stationed in and around your areas of travel."
"So, what happens if we do see some of your zombie things lurking about?" asks Uncle Vernon. "Call the police? The army? The Regiment? The morgue, perhaps?"
"I have the utmost confidence that neither you, your family, this neighbourhood, nor any Muggle will truly stumble upon an Inferius," says Dumbledore. "Even Lord Voldemort is not foolish enough to risk the secrecy of our society like that. It is us witches and wizards who are left to face the threat of such an attack."
"Utterly barbaric," grumbles Aunt Petunia, shaking her head. "Imagine a zombie on my lawn."
"Are there any more questions you would like to discuss before Harry and I take our leave?" asks Dumbledore, to which the Dursleys vehemently shake their heads. "Very well." He flicks his wand to vanish the glasses that were summoned minutes ago. "There is, however, a matter which I would like to discuss..."
Dumbledore proceeds to explain about Harry coming of age next year, and the necessity of him staying over for one last summer. Then he begins admonishing the Dursleys over their treatment of Harry all these years, to which the latter raises his hand.
"They weren't that bad, sir—"
"Y-Yes!" stammers a furiously nodding Uncle Vernon. "What the boy just said indeed; our hearts are purely good, sir."
"You are kind to defend them, Harry, but I would be lying if I said those years have not been a disappointment to me. And it seems you are not the only child to have been mistreated in this house..."
The Dursleys' bewildered expressions both amuse and elicit nothing less than pity from Harry, who's now asked to retrieve his possessions from upstairs. Wasting no time, he sprints out the living room and up the steps en route to his bedroom.
"I think we'll send you to the Burrow first, girl," says Harry to his owl. "Unless you'd prefer being cooped up at Sirius' place?"
Hedwig gives a hoot of defiance while ripping off an apple core dangling in her cage.
"Alright, sheesh, relax!" says a chuckling Harry. "The Burrow for you it is."
It takes a few minutes to double check and pack everything accordingly. From stacks of books to clothes to ink bottles and quills, Harry scrambles to neaten his trunk. Checking under his bed, he reaches to grab hold of his green and silver tie which is tossed atop his House robes. Once again, he yanks open each of his desk drawers to retrieve whatever he's stashed in there. From swiping up his Prefect badge to Pansy's old 'Support HARRY POTTER — Our little star' one, the drawers are finally emptied.
"Okay, what else is still left? Ah! The last remaining reserves, I see." Harry counts a handful of flasks containing last year's Polyjuice Potion which he'd brewed. These are stacked neatly beside his Hand of Glory artefact which had been gifted last year. With Invisibility Cloak, trunk and cage in hand, Harry rushes down the stairs to meet Dumbledore in the hall.
"B-Be..." Uncle Vernon appears to be struggling for words as Harry departs with Dumbledore. "Best of luck with whatever the blazes you're doing this year, boy."
"Sure, and best of luck to you all as well," says Harry, exiting number 4, Privet Drive, alongside Dumbledore under cover of darkness. The Headmaster flicks his wand to vanish Harry's trunk to Grimmauld Place, and his owl cage to the Burrow.
"Mrs. Weasley will understand, I'm sure," he says. "Harry, I implore that you keep both your Invisibility Cloak and wand at the ready."
Harry does exactly this, gripping his thirteen-and-a-half inches of yew and phoenix core tightly in his pocket. The wand, which has deliberately been made to resemble Voldemort's, has grown every bit as loyal to Harry as his former holly and phoenix core one.
"Sometimes, I miss my old wand," admits Harry, walking down Privet Drive beside his Headmaster.
"Cornelius Fudge and his top level associates personally visited my office to ensure that it was destroyed," says Dumbledore. "I am truly sorry, Harry."
"At least I got 10,000 Galleons out of that whole ordeal," mumbles Harry, making a mental note to delay assisting Fudge should the latter ever find himself in life-threatening trouble.
"If we do find ourselves being attacked tonight, then I permit you every right to defend yourself. Use whatever spell you'd prefer except for the Unforgivables. Do not worry, though, for such an event is highly unlikely to occur."
Harry grins while feeling a surge of pride in his Headmaster. "Of course there's no need to worry, because I'm with the greatest wizard in existence."
Dumbledore smiles most warmly before speaking. "This will do, Harry. I take it you're well familiar with side-along Apparition?"
"Indeed, Professor." Harry recalls the numerous times he's been whisked away by either Sirius, Tonks, Dobby, or Dumbledore himself. "Sir, your right hand looks like it's... died or something. What happened?"
"Everything is under control, for now," says Dumbledore, extending his left hand. "I would prefer that you hold onto this one, for fairly obvious reasons, Harry."
In a matter of seconds, Harry is side-along Apparated away from Privet Drive and into a deserted village square. Looking around, he spots an old war memorial as well as a few benches. The Headmaster's ability to perform Disapparition, and Apparition, with barely a sound has always marvelled Harry.
"Sir, what if this Horace Slughorn gentleman simply refuses to rejoin Hogwarts?" asks Harry, looking up at a thoughtful Dumbledore as they walk past an empty inn. "What if he sees too much of Tom Riddle in me?"
Dumbledore abruptly stops in his tracks, as if something about Harry's words have had quite an effect on him. "Ah, figuratively, you mean. No worries, Harry, I understand your concerns; but do take a moment to remember the plan. You have given it some thought over the past few weeks, correct?"
"Yes sir; I remember you said it might help if Professor Slughorn initially likened me to Tom Riddle. And then I ought to start breaking down that image and gain his trust," says Harry.
"Under no circumstances should you mention Lord Voldemort by his childhood name here tonight," says Dumbledore. "Please remember that very few people are actually aware of Voldemort's past identity, Horace Slughorn being one of those people. For you to mention Tom by name would greatly arouse Horace's suspicions."
They now round a corner, passing a telephone box in addition to a bus shelter, before Harry inquires about their location. As it turns out, they're currently traversing the village of Budleigh Babberton. Soon, Dumbledore and Harry climb a steep, narrow street lined with houses. Midnight arrives as they turn left down a side-street before, eventually, coming across a small, neat stone house.
"Oh man," says Harry, surveying the heavily battered front door. "Looks like there's been an attack. You don't think this Slughorn man's been kidnapped?"
Dumbledore stops right at the bashed front door to look at Harry. "Suppose this place has indeed been attacked by Lord Voldemort and/or his Death Eaters. Take a good look at the scene, from the outside, and let's hear your thoughts, Harry."
Having spent the past few weeks fearing for his friends' (especially Hermione's) lives, Harry swiftly spots the missing link. "There's no Dark Mark over this house, Professor."
"Excellent! Such an observation would have earned you six points to Slytherin had this been during term. Anyway, I think you ought to make mention of the Dark Mark, or lack thereof, later on," says Dumbledore. "I have little doubt that Horace would see and hear us once we're inside. Lumos."
A scene of total devastation greets the pair of Harry and Dumbledore as they enter the house. From a smashed grandfather clock to a decimated piano, as well as a wrecked chandelier, the house resembles nothing less than a warzone. Slashed cushions lay spread across the floor beside splatters of what appears to be blood on the walls.
"Oh dear," says Dumbledore, treading carefully around the decimated living room. "It appears that something terrible has happened here indeed. Perhaps Hogwarts has lost yet another fine member of its staff..."
Keeping his expression neutral, Harry looks around yet again. "Seems like someone's had quite a fight in here; quite a fight with themselves, that is."
"Do share some of your thoughts, Harry," says Dumbledore, peering over an overturned couch.
"Firstly, I'm sure the Death Eaters wouldn't injure their intended abduction victim this badly," says Harry, gesturing to the copious amounts of blood on the wallpaper. "Secondly, they would've left the body behind if this had been a murder. It's all about scare tactics and leaving a message to their opposition. But this is all just speculation, Professor; the fact is that there's no Dark Mark around this 'attacked' dwelling. I'm calling this nothing more than a nice work of art."
"Indeed, Harry," says Dumbledore, poking his wand into the overturned couch. "And this should be our renowned artist himself. Good evening, Horace. Unfortunately, your efforts could not evade the keen eye of Harry Potter himself."
To Harry's surprise, the 'couch' un-Transfigures itself into a crouched fat, and balding, old man massaging his belly while squinting up at Dumbledore.
"There was no need to poke it in that hard, ouch! Caught out by my student yet aga—" Slughorn clambers to his feet and looks at the smirking Harry. "Of all the people you bring into my house, Albus Dumbledore..."
"Horace Slughorn, meet Harry Potter; Harry, this is a dear old colleague of mine," says a smiling Dumbledore.
Surprisingly, Harry notes that Slughorn does not offer to shake his hand. Instead, the overweight old man glances most disappointingly around his room. "I've barely just put the finishing touches to my upholstery when you two had arrived."
"Would you like some assistance cleaning up?" asks Dumbledore, to which Slughorn accepts. Harry, however, also draws his wand (which instantly catches Slughorn's eye).
"W-What do you think you're doing with that wand, young man?"
"It's mine," says Harry, suppressing his grin as much as possible. "Is there a problem with it, Professor?"
"Oh no, forget I said anything, Mister Potter," says a wide-eyed Slughorn. Judging by his expression, it's clear that he's utterly gobsmacked by Harry's highly suspicious wand. "Put that away; I'm sure you're well aware that underage magic is forbidden outside of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."
"Oh yeah? Watch me," Harry swiftly looks right at Dumbledore, who gives a slight nod. "Reparo."
Slughorn gawks as his piano is repaired by Harry. "That's illegal, that is! You could get expelled for that, young man."
Harry shrugs and smiles. "Been there, done that. Been to jail too, in case the newspapers weren't clear enough, Professor. Besides, it's not like the Trace knows exactly who just did this spell, eh? It'll be on alert throughout the night with the two of you casting your stuff around me anyway."
"Oho! Looks like we have a smart one over here," says Slughorn, eyeing Harry with an appraising look. "So this is how the great Headmaster Dumbledore tries to persuade me, eh? I'm afraid the answer's still 'no', Albus. And as for you, Mister Potter, well played."
"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about, sir," says Harry, trying his best to mimic the arrogant, pompous body language displayed by Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets.
"And you just so happened to be here at the right place, and the right time?" Slughorn draws himself up to his full height (which is just about taller than Harry). "Hmph, I will not be played for a fool again."
"With all due respect, sir," says Harry, screwing up his face in exaggerated confusion. "What in blazes are you talking about?"
"As if you don't know," mutters Slughorn. "I'll bet Dumbledore over here's told you all about me. He probably put you up to this, didn't he? Didn't he?"
Harry turns to look at an impassive Dumbledore while speaking. "Professor, I thought you said we were going to Sirius' place after picking me up from my Muggle family? I still don't understand why we're detouring to talk to some random old man."
"I beg your pardon?" asks Slughorn, "Random old man, me? My dear boy, do you have any idea just who you're speaking to?"
"Not really, no," replies Harry, shrugging as if he doesn't have a care in the world. "Anyway, let's clean up this place before the real Death Eaters show up and take offense to your arts and crafts. Or, if you're lucky, Lord Voldemort"—He spots the gasp by Slughorn at using the name—"himself might come and have a look."
"Hmph, and what would He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, or the Death Eaters, want with a poor, broken-down old buffer like me?"
"You tell me," says Harry, deliberately staring into Slughorn's eyes.
"Nothing; I'm no threat at all to those madmen."
Harry folds his arms and sneers smugly. "Odd thing to say for someone who's gone to such extreme lengths to cover his tracks. Who's blood is that on the wall, anyway? Oh I see, the old buffer's perhaps a murderer..."
"Now, now, there's no need to jump to such dreadful conclusions about an old Potions Master," says Slughorn. "That would be dragon's blood, yes. Paid a pretty hefty sum to purchase this amount, which you've so keenly seen through."
"Well, if you pre-ordered over a year ago, then I could've slashed you some from the Hungarian Horntail which I've taken down in the Triwizard Tournament," says Harry.
"Once again, nice try," says Slughorn, folding his arms much like Harry's doing. "Go on, then; list all the accomplishments you'd like, Harry Potter, but nothing's going to persuade me."
"Professor Dumbledore," says Harry calmly, "I don't know why we're here or what's the need to recruit this dodgy old codger, but how about I just stun and drag him away?"
"By all means, do try!" says a fuming Slughorn, drawing his wand and aiming it at Harry, who speaks:
"You could take me on three-to-one and still not win, Professor Slughorn."
"Now that is surely exaggeration, young Potter. I will not be subjected to such threats from a... uh...how old are you again?"
"Old enough to recognise a demented ex-teacher when I see one," Harry sniggers with a laugh. "I can't tell who's worse between you and Gilderoy Lockhart."
"How dare you—" Slughorn's words are interrupted upon seeing even Dumbledore having a slight chuckle. "Albus, surely you'd have taught your best student better manners than this?"
"He doesn't really teach me," says Harry. "He just sits on his arse all day in his office."
Slughorn gawks and gasps while looking from Harry to Dumbledore and back. "I have never seen a student speak so freely since— You are in dire need of manners, young Potter. What would your mother say if she were here?"
"It takes two to make a kid, Professor. I wonder what my late father would say if he were here to see me chatting with such a hostile old man?"
"James would have had a good laugh, I'd reckon," says Slughorn, with a glimmer of sadness in his eyes. "Always was up to mischief, that one. You look so much like him, you know?"
"Just don't let Professor Snape catch you complimenting my father like that. Oh no, my Head of House supposedly has some deep personal issues with me, Professor," Harry keenly observes the reaction from Slughorn, and the latter lowers his wand.
"I ought to have a word with Severus about harbouring old grudges," mutters Slughorn, to which Harry shakes his head in refusal. "You do know that I've taught him, right? Oh yes, Severus was the brightest student in Potions, followed by your mother."
"Well, she's dead and there's no point in talking about her," says Harry coldly. "Don't expect me to just tear up and melt down at the mention of my parents. I hardly even knew them at all! At least the Muggles were somewhat accepting of me."
"I did not mean to cause any offense—" says Slughorn, although Harry ignores him while carrying on:
"They weren't perfect, mind you. It's not my fault that I could make things move without touching them, or make animals do what I want them to do, without training them."
Dumbledore briefly gives a slightly alarmed look at Harry, which the latter fails to spot or understand.
"Look," says Harry, "I don't care about some Trace nonsense out here with two adults. So, shall we clean up this dump, sir?"
The trio of wizards cast their spells which soon rearranges, repairs, and cleans the room until it's in immaculate condition.
"I would say this looks far better than your handiwork before, Horace," says a smiling Dumbledore.
Harry, meanwhile, spots Slughorn watching him from the corner of his eye before the latter speaks. "Yes, well, I suppose it was tiring on these joints in having to prepare the place for your arrival. Two minutes are all I had to get things in order, or out of order, really."
"May I use your bathroom, Horace?" asks Dumbledore, to which he's directed second on the left down the hall. This leaves just Slughorn and Harry standing in the neatened living room, and the latter turns his back on the old Potions Master.
An awkward silence ensues for a minute or two before it's Slughorn who first speaks. "You ought to be weary around Professor Dumbledore, young Potter. A very shrewd one he can be at times, that man."
Harry remains standing with his back to Slughorn as the former once again folds his arms. The gesture being something of a habit he's picked up from both Pansy and Hermione over the years.
"Giving me the cold shoulder, eh? Alright, two can play at that game, young man."
Not even the vast collection of old photos on display can distract Harry from his deliberate disregard of Slughorn. This, however, seems to agitate the old man quite a bit as he walks towards his collection. Now it seems that Slughorn fidgets and fiddles with his items as if wanting to draw Harry's attention.
The sounds of a toilet can be heard just minutes before Dumbledore re-enters the living room. "Well, Harry, I suppose we ought to be leaving right now."
"You're leaving?" asks Slughorn, partly hopeful and yet equally hesitant.
"I think I know a lost cause on sight," says Dumbledore, eliciting a sigh from Harry.
"Why the heck are we even here, Professor? I've got places to go and people to see! Sirius is waiting back home, you know."
"Sirius... Sirius Black?" asks Slughorn, having apparently not quite heard the name being brought up earlier. "Do you know him?"
"Sirius Black is essentially Harry Potter's godfather, Horace. I suppose it goes to show the importance of... family." Dumbledore gives an odd smile while scratching his hair with his left hand. Suddenly, Harry spots a ring which he's never seen Dumbledore wear before. The large golden ring, set with a cracked heavy black stone, momentarily catches Slughorn's eye too.
"Goodness me! How could I have forgotten? Of course, now I remember... it was quite the news a few years back," says Slughorn, eyeing Harry with an even greater look of interest. "Then that makes you a friend of the prestigious Black family too!"
"I've done my research," says Harry, still deliberately avoiding eye contact with Slughorn. "And I've seen your photo collection over there too."
"Ah yes, it is quite impressive, isn't—"
"I could outfly all your previous players, Professor Slughorn," boasts Harry. "Name a Slytherin that I would never be able to beat for a spot on the team; you can't, because that's quite unlikely. Beater, Chaser, Keeper, or Seeker, I'm Salazar's finest in the air. Okay, you said you don't care about my accomplishments, so, whatever." He turns to look at Dumbledore. "I think we've intruded on Mister Slughorn's hospitality long enough. Let's go, Headmaster."
"Goodbye, Horace; all the best for your future endeavours out here in this defenceless, dangerous world these days." Dumbledore smiles and waves as he heads for the front door.
"Farewell, Mister Slughorn," says Harry. "Should I cast the Dark Mark above this house for you? I know the incantation and, I think, the wand movement too. Shouldn't be that much harder compared to, for example, using the Killing Curse." He leaves before Slughorn can respond. Then, once back outside, Harry takes aim and raises his voice. "MORSMOR—"
"Okay, alright, I'll do it!" Slughorn comes jogging and huffing from the front door. "For God's sake, Albus, control your star student over here!"
"I don't see a Dark Mark in the air, Horace," says Dumbledore. "So, perhaps Harry's merely toying with us?"
"One can never be too sure these days. Listen, I want a pay rise, Albus! I must be mad to go back and basically align myself with the Order of the Phoenix in this case," says Slughorn to Dumbledore. "Practically a death sentence for me, given the mortality rate of your organisation."
"Rejoining Hogwarts does not mean joining the Order," says Harry. "Although, that offer is still open—"
"No! Absolutely not! These are mad times we're living in... mad!" says Slughorn, "I'll come out of retirement and teach; I daresay it's been a tad too long since I've graced the old castle indeed."
"Then I take it we shall see you on the 1st of September, Horace?" asks Dumbledore, standing hopefully beside Harry.
"You certainly will," replies Slughorn. "Alright, now I must be off planning the remainder of these summer holidays." He once again eyes Harry with a sense of apprehension.
"Oh come off it, Horace," says Dumbledore. "Harry Potter's one of the most pleasant students I've had the privilege of overseeing."
"Hmph, well, we shall see about that then. Good evening to you both." Slughorn retreats back into his house while Harry and Dumbledore exit through the garden gate. Once out in the clear and walking down the darkened hill, the latter looks at Harry.
"Your improvisation was spot-on, Harry, well done."
"Professor, about some of those things I've said. Trust me when I say that I didn't mean that part about you sitting on your ar—"
Dumbledore smiles nonetheless. "As I've said, you've thought things out quite well on the spot. Trust me when I say that I might've said similar things as well, should our roles have been reversed."
Regardless, it's still an awkward, guilty walk for Harry as they reach the base of this steep street. "How much of Tom Riddle do you reckon Professor Slughorn now sees in me, sir?"
"Enough to show that our mission will be one monumental task indeed, Harry. In all honesty, I was expecting Horace to have been on better terms with you, of all people. But it seems that he's well-guarded at the moment. However, poor Horace is also caught in an awkward struggle between wanting to avoid a potential 'future Voldemort', and seeing the Chosen One up close for himself. Ah yes, this is precisely as we have previously discussed, isn't it?"
"You said he's going to 'collect' me as part of his illustrious Slug Club group, I remember," says an amused Harry. "I'll be both his crown jewel and greatest source of trepidation indeed."
"Before we depart for Grimmauld Place," says Dumbledore, "I'd like to discuss one last holiday matter, and I presume you're quite aware of what it might entail?"
Harry nods and looks up rather hopefully at his Headmaster. "Everyone thinks I'm completely bonkers with this. Perhaps it is a stupid, foolish idea to think—"
"That she can made to see reason?" interrupts Dumbledore. "As long as you've taken the necessary precautions and guarded yourself appropriately for this visit, then I see no excuse to deprive you of doing what you feel is right, Harry. Even within the darkest of hearts, there dwells a sliver of light. The sole exception to this might be Tom Riddle himself; but, perhaps, we cannot completely write him off as a lost cause yet."
"No, Voldemort is a lost cause indeed," says Harry resolutely. "Bellatrix Lestrange, however, is still what I call family. If there's even the tiniest of chances to crack that black—no pun intended—heart, then I'll chance it. I shall relish the opportunity to turn Voldemort's most trusted associate against him, just as he turned Peter Pettigrew against my father. And should I fail in the end, then at least I can rest easy knowing that I've tried my best. Whatever happens to Bella after that will no longer weigh on my conscience."
Although Dumbledore seems oddly silent at Harry's family values, his (all but tearful) smile says it all. He now extends his left arm which Harry grabs to initiate their side-along Apparition. Seconds later, they step through the gate at Claremont Square opposite Grimmauld Place. As soon as they enter number twelve, Harry's greeted by Tonks in her usual, purple-haired style.
"Very funny, eh? How about you go and play with men's manholes and—" She spots Dumbledore and immediately goes a deep shade of red in her cheeks. "Oh, blimey! Professor Dumbledore, sir, it's not quite what you might think. Inside joke, yes."
"Poor choice of words, Tonks," says a softly laughing Harry.
"I shall be off then," says a beaming Dumbledore "Do pass on my regards to Sirius and Kreacher as well, cheers!" He exits the house and silently Disapparates under cover of darkness.
"Come here, you smart-arse." Tonks grabs Harry into a headlock while leading him to the dining room where Sirius awaits. "Special delivery: one naughty godson."
"Let go of my head, seriously, argh!" Harry groans as Tonks noogies him until being stopped by Sirius.
"Hey, I just passed on your message to her, Harry. So, what went down between you and Dumbledore earlier? He never told us anything about this nightly trip."
Harry proceeds to explain about Horace Slughorn, although he omits the part about requiring some form of information from the Potions Master.
"Wait, wait, wait," says Tonks, sitting both herself and Harry down at the lengthy table. "So, you're telling us that Snape's predecessor is coming back? Then what's going to happen to... oh no..."
"OH YES!" cheers Sirius, fist-pumping the air and doing a little dance. "Finally, that prat's getting his much-loved accursed post! What do you guys think is going to happen to ol' Snivellus by the end of this year, huh? Death by choking on his robes or smelling his hair? Death by an Inferius or two... or three.. or thirty three... or three hundred and three?"
"Knock it off, man," sighs Harry, having grown all too used to his godfather's remarks against the Head of Slytherin House. "I'm not even 100% sure that it's going to be Snape. And, for all we know, he might turn out to be the best Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher I've yet had."
"Fat chance of beating Mad-Eye," scoffs Sirius, "or Moony or Tonks, for that matter."
"I guess it was nice teaching you all while it lasted," says Tonks, with more than a hint of sadness in her eyes. "Really, though, it was quite enjoyable."
"Aww, are you crying, Dora?" asks Harry, leaning forward on the table. "To be fair, you three were the best Defence teachers we've ever had. Want a hug?"
"Brown-nosing teacher's pet," says Tonks, scoffing as Harry runs around the table to hug her from behind. "Yes, okay, don't break your sweet sixteen heart. Gosh, hard to believe you're turning sixteen soon! One more year and Sirius is definitely taking you out to drink and all that stuff."
"Yeah," says Sirius, "one of these days I ought to get my bike back from Hagrid. Then you and I can go flying around at night just like James and I used to do."
"Gotta get rid of Voldemort first, though," says Harry, standing beside a nodding Tonks. "Until that swine is gone, there's no such thing as carefree fun for any of us. So, uh, when are the others coming over?"
"Well, Molly would prefer that you kids come over and run around at the Burrow this summer. Grimmauld's mainly for Order meetings and stuff, you know? Come to think of it, this place is looking somewhat acceptable these days," says Sirius. "Still a craphole, though."
Harry stretches out and yawns at the table. "Man, I'm tired. How are those bathrooms looking? Still as clean as we got them years back?"
"I suppose Kreacher's done his part in tidying things up," mutters Sirius begrudgingly. "Perhaps he's finally started getting over all those family stuff we've wrecked back then."
"Could I have a word with Kreacher?" asks Harry, to which Sirius nods and summons the elf in as 'polite' a manner as he can manage.
"Why has the ungrateful excuse of a Master summoned Kreacher at this late hour? Come to gloat again about thwarting the Dark Lord at the Ministry? Master has caused Miss Bellatrix to be locked up; his own flesh and blood! Oh, how my poor Mistress would be in tears knowing her sorry excuse of a son had sent his own cousin to Azkaban..."
Harry glares warningly at Sirius to remind him of being civil to his House Elf.
"Kreacher," says Sirius, forcing himself to adopt a neutral expression, "my godson wishes to speak with you."
"The Half-Blood, which they are all calling the 'Chosen One', wishes to speak with Kreacher? Why should his words be taken in at all by Kreacher? He is nothing more than a Half-Breed sullying the name of Slytherin House."
"Just say the word, Harry, and I'll—"
"Shush, Sirius!" mutters Harry, before addressing the Black family elf. "Kreacher, I know this might sound stupid..."
"As usual," mutters the elf (which Harry actually finds amusing).
"...but I do feel very sorry for Miss Bellatrix." He spots the House Elf looking at him most curiously now. "Do you remember that time I was checking the family tapestry? Well, I think Miss Bellatrix isn't totally an evil person."
"She is not evil!" insists Kreacher, growing fierce in his defence of Sirius' cousin. "What does the Half-Blood want with Miss Bellatrix? She will put an end to someone of lesser blood than her."
"I want what you want," says Harry truthfully, "and that's to see the Black family as together as can be. But the problem is the Dark Lord himself! He's the one who's twisting Miss Bellatrix to do bad things to others."
"Harry," sighs a facepalming Tonks, "there is absolutely no way even Kreacher is going to believe that. Aunt Walburga was enamoured by You-Know-Who, and her mindset had spread to everyone, except Sirius, in this house."
To Harry's surprise, Kreacher doesn't protest this stance against Voldemort. In fact, it makes the House Elf pause for thought before replying. "Kreacher does not like the Dark Lord."
"WHAT?" shouts Sirius, clearly in disbelief. "Since when do House Elves lie so blatantly?"
"I don't think he's lying," says Harry, looking down with much curiosity at the grumbling House Elf. "Why don't you like the Dark Lord, Kreacher?"
"Kreacher cannot, and will not, say."
"I command you to tell us why you'd bad-mouth the very same man who my 'dearest' mother admired," says Sirius, eliciting a noticeable amount of hesitancy from the House Elf.
"Kreacher does not wish to say... but Kreacher has to obey the ungrateful Master's commands! The Dark Lord is responsible for hurting Master's family."
"Come on, Sirius," says Harry, taking pity on the trembling, near self-harming, Kreacher. "Didn't I just tell him that Voldemort's responsible for twisting your cousin?"
"Hmm," Sirius narrows his eyes at the nodding House Elf. "Fine, I suppose you're right, Harry. No need to keep on telling us why you dislike Voldemort, Kreacher."
"Yes! Harry Potter is right," says a much-relieved Kreacher, "What the Potter boy has said is correct. Kreacher thinks the Dark Lord is responsible for making Miss Bellatrix do wrong things!"
"He sounds like he's trying to convince himself more than us," says the observant Tonks. "I get the feeling there's more to this than just my 'aunt'."
"If Harry Potter thinks he can help save Miss Bellatrix, then Kreacher will be most, most grateful indeed. She must not end up hurt and gone like—" Kreacher suddenly bursts into tears, causing Sirius to immediately dismiss him back to the basement.
"See? I've always said Kreacher's every bit as mad as my mother," scoffs Sirius, vanishing the splatters of tears from his feet. "Ugh, disgusting. Anyway, get some sleep as everything's been set for your oh so special visit, Harry."
"Mm-hmm," says Tonks. "Lupin, Mad-Eye, Sirius, and I will accompany you to Azkaban this Sunday evening. I'm not even going to bother reminding you how much of a useless idea this is."
"What happens if I do get Bella on the right side someday?" asks a defiant Harry, folding his arms once again.
"No offense, but she's far more taken by Voldemort to ever even care about you, Harry. Sure, she had her fun at the Ministry in April, but that was likely a once-off. Don't forget that this is the very same deranged woman who tortured the Longbottoms into insanity. All that just in the hopes of getting scraps of information on her Lord's whereabouts back then."
"Yeah," says Harry, readying himself for a much-needed shower in the early hours of this morning. "But she's still your cousin, Sirius."