In a gloomy insulated kitchen, a large crowd had congregated around a large circular table. At the head of the table, a silver haired man sat—a morose slump about him and an odd desolate glint in his blue eyes behind half-moon spectacles.
He sighed, his eyes flickering over people from second to second. His gaze finally settled on a pale, sallow skinned man seated adjacent him. "What is Voldemort—" A queer shudder past through most of the occupants of the table. The man shook his head and heaved a sigh. "What is our little issue up to?"
The pale man straightened in his seat, evidently insouciant to the varying—hostile and invigorating—glances at him. He glanced sideways at the man who had queried him, looking him directly in the eye. "Our little issue—"
Little sniggers broke out.
The man sneered and continued, "He is of the opinion that victory in this war is ascertained." Little murmurs broke out, pacified by a hand held up the silver haired man at the head of the table. He gestured for the pale bloke to proceed with his report. "He appears apathetic to the recent mass loss of allies."
"Recent?" Someone questioned, followed by several unruly guffaws. "Whoever that person is—Merlin bless him. Why we aren't out there helping him, I don't know."
"Hear, hear," several murmured in agreement.
"Sirius, please," the old man reprimanded in a weak voice, glowering at the speaker. "Go on, Severus."
"I have nothing else to add," the man, Severus, said, leaning back into his seat—ignoring the sniffs of disdain that erupted. "Is this meeting over then, Headmaster." His gaze settled on the man who'd interrupted him. "Unlike others who have the comfort of home to hide behind—"
"Hide?" the man snarled furiously, pushing to his feet. He pointed a tremulous finger at Severus. "You call this place," a pained expression crossed his face, "a home. This is a prison, you slimy—"
"Sirius," the silver haired man interrupted in a steady voice. His crystal blue eyes shone with intensity behind his glasses. "Sit down," he instructed. Sirius scowled at him, but heeded his instruction.
"Now, any updates on the elusive Mr. Potter?"
The reaction was immediate. People shifted anxiously in their seats, glancing at each other—perturb clearly etched on their faces. "Why are we still searching for him anyway, Dumbledore? It's obvious the brat was disposed off immediately after being captured," Snape said.
An uproar ensued. Sirius rose to his feet, shaking with anger. By his side, a thin brown haired man had abandoned his seat, clenching his fists and shaking his head as if to convince himself not to thump Snape. Others had also jumped to their feet, shouting themselves hoarse at the pale man—who looked quite unbothered by this. In fact, he appeared content to simply sit back and admire his work.
"Enough," Dumbledore cried, resembling a portrait of cold fury. The room suddenly seemed sultry and too humid. People tugged at the hems of their robes as if considering stripping themselves of a few articles of clothing, all the while eschewing those piercing, electric blue eyes. "Take your seats!" the old man commanded.
Everyone immediately obeyed.
"Updates, anyone...?!"
Nobody responded. It was deathly silent for a while. Then, a man with short legs and straggly long ginger hair shakily rose to his feet. "I know where Harry Potter is," he said—as if in a trance.
Pandemonium swiftly followed—a fleeting one, abruptly terminated when Dumbledore rose his hand to quell the indignant bedlam. He fixed his gaze on the stout man who'd spoken out, intently scrutinizing him. "Astounding," he murmured, an impressed tone latched in his voice. He straightened in his seat, ignoring the bewildered and curious gazes from the others surrounding the edges of the table. "Now, where is Mr. Potter, Mundungus Fletcher?"
Harry scowled as he dug into his jeans shorts pocket. He rose his other hand to obstruct the path of the sun, who it seemed was determined to fry him by the end of summer. He pulled out a pear-shaped mirror, the screen flashing with a recent Whisper from Draco Malfoy.
Sup?
Harry shook his head and swiped the Whisper away. He leaned back into the brick wall behind him and Whispered a reply back. He might as well lax back and enjoy himself as he waited for Fletcher. And the sight of some sexy luscious pedestrians sauntering by was just an added bonus. Meeting with Fletcher for a report.
Fletcher.
Fun?
Total opposite. U?
Total opposite. Duh.
Harry chuckled. He'd almost completed typing in a reply when the distinct odor of cigars assaulted his nose. He hastily Whispered in a goodbye and stashed the mirror back into his pocket.
He snapped his head up, expecting to find Fletcher ambling towards him. But he didn't. Then where was the stench of those cigars coming from? It was certainly not emitting of the ladies sashaying past.
His instincts screamed to immediately utilize the phenomenal spell Theodore had created seven months ago and make a hurried escape. They'd never been wrong. They'd be fucking spot on two months ago when he'd decided he must be going barmy. Of course, the result had been a hour duel with the Dark Lord. He'd never criticize his instincts again, he'd promised—but right now, how could he not contradict his instincts.
There was nobody in sight. Cars hurdled down the road; some miscreant teenager stuck his head out of his vehicle to scream, "Summer, baby." Harry's eyes were efficacious, thank you very much. He couldn't detect any potential combatant in his current vicinity.
So why was his skin tingling with adrenaline?
He run a frustrated hand through his hair. He could always contact Fletcher some time later, he conceded. Decision made, he broke into a brisk walk and headed towards the Leaky Cauldron. Perhaps after a bottle of fire-whiskey, his reliable rationality would return to him.
"Potter, for the last time, I demand you answer my question?" his latest interrogator snarled at him, her lips set in a thin line as she paced the room.
"Not bloody likely," Harry retorted, just to spite the witch. Of course, to quench his anger as well. It wasn't very nice to hold someone prisoner for hours, he'd recently discovered.
She ceased pacing and stared at him. She harrumphed loudly and sniffed at him in disdain. "You're nothing like your parents."
He felt his eyes morph color. He felt his temperature mount. He felt the predator in him awaken. He felt a desperate need to lash out and attack her. But he resisted. It would be futile. To begin with, he was incapacitated and bound in a chair—admittedly a comfy one. And showing emotions in front of strangers was for weaklings.
And he most definitely wasn't a weakling.
So instead, he permitted his lips to curl. "We're all entitled to our opinions." He let his gaze rake her body and forced a plausible sneer. She really was quite desirable.
She scowled at him and made to reply but was interrupted by a streak of silver that whizzed in through the wall. It morphed into a small household cat. "Dumbledore has arrived," a stern voice said. The patronus dissipated in a splash.
A patronus, Harry knew. And his life was so much more difficult with arguably the most powerful wizard ever about to interrogate him. He closed his eyes, taking a moment to straighten his Occulmency shields—and patch up his poker face. When he opened his eyes, he saw his interrogator smirking at him, ostensibly savoring his quandary.
"Who are you anyway?" Harry growled.
She flashed him perfect white teeth. "I am Hestia Jones."
Harry shrugged. "Haven't heard about you."
Her smile was definitely amorous. "I'm relatively young."
Young enough to be shagged? "How—"
The door creaked open. A man with an imposing stature ambled in, a benign smile on his face, eyes twinkling merrily behind half-moon glasses.
Dumbledore!
The ancient and revered wizard whipped out a thin, long wand from his robe and conjured a stuffy sofa. He eased into the chair, stuffing his wand back into his eccentric robe. He nodded at Hestia. "Good day, Hestia." He put up a thoughtful expression. "Anything you found?"
Hestia shook her head, glaring at Harry. "Mulishly reticent, sir."
Dumbledore chuckled, perusing Harry in a fraught manner. The man appeared to be pulling out all his intimate secrets. He felt bare and naked. His fear bubbled up in the pit of his stomach. It was arduous work, but he managed to swallow it down. He couldn't show fear. He couldn't reveal anything, period!
"Please leave us, Hestia,"Dumbledore commanded.
"Of course." She glanced hesitantly at Harry before strolling out. She paused at the door, and Harry winked at her—hoping to fluster her. She blushed crimson and scurried out of the room. Harry felt his heart warm and once again sent a silent thanks to his father for the rakish looks that he'd inherited.
Dumbledore's long beard twitched. "Apparently you have a way with the witches, Harry."
Harry shrugged, recognizing the old man's attempt to lighten the mood. "Not just the witches." He'd keep it light—for now. But he'd also maintain his guard. The last thing he needed right now was a gaffe. He'd never envisaged he could be found—never even considered the possibility. He'd been confident in his abilities. But now he realized he might have been a little too cocky when dealing with Fletcher.
Dumbledore's eyebrow flew. "Myriad preferences? How odd."
Was he insinuating Harry was gay? "I am merely trying to explain that I also spend time with muggle females." He looked up at Dumbledore, successfully batting off the man's mental incursion. He sneered at the man. "Pathetic."
He leaned back into his seat, trying to convey a sense of casualness—so as to push the man towards a blunder. But from the tranquil look on the old man's face, his tactics would need improvement. Dumbledore was no amateur.
"Do you know who I am?"
Was that a joke? Of course, he did. Which wizard or witch wasn't aware of the identity of Dumbledore. With an absurd number of titles to his name—Defeater of Grindewald, Headmaster of the most prestigious magical school, etc.—it was no wonder his name was so well known. And being the only wizard Voldemort ever truly was wary of, the man was even more in the news with the acknowledged—finally!—return of the Dark Lord.
"I suppose you're a delusional old man," he quipped.
Dumbledore chuckled, leaning back into his stuffy sofa. "No, I am not delusional." He adopted a thoughtful expression. "Odd, you're not the first to assume that—"
"I wonder why," Harry muttered resentfully, his gaze raking Dumbledore's purple cloak.
Dumbledore smiled and clapped his hands together. "I am Professor Dumbledore—"
Harry rolled his eyes. "Obviously," Harry said unctuously.
Dumbledore shook his head. "Anyway, I am currently headmaster of Hogwarts—"
"I know who you are, Dumbledore," Harry snarled, cutting off the man.
Dumbledore beamed brightly. "Excellent." He leaned forward. "Now, we can get serious." He cleared his throat. "Where have you been for the past seven years—if you don't mind?"
"Oh, but I do mind," Harry retorted.
Dumbledore heaved a huge sigh and sagged back into his seat. "Why won't you trust me, Harry?"
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you just tried to breach my mental defenses without my consent," he said sarcastically.
Dumbledore sighed. "I detected an ornery block emitting of you and simply attempted to bring this to your notice." He shook his head at Harry, a distraught expression on his face. "I was merely trying to help," he said hopelessly.
He really was quite the actor. The forlorn look on his face. The defeated glint in his eyes. The despondent slump in his shoulders. It was a sensational combination. But it was obviously just an pretence. A masquerade to persuade Harry to relax. And it wouldn't work. "Your help wasn't required."
"We are on the same side, you know," Dumbledore reminded him—apparently abandoning the despairing grandfather pursuing a relationship with his grandson.
Harry run his hands through his hair, ruffling it up. "What side is that?" He was playing dumb.
"The Light Side. It includes several notable magical figures including," Dumbledore caught Harry's eye—though on this occasion Dumbledore did not attempt a mental probe—"your parents."
A worthy attempt to rattle him, Harry conceded. "Fascinating," he drawled.
"It is," Dumbledore agreed with much more fervor than Harry had anticipated. Harry cocked an eyebrow. Dumbledore continued, leaning forward, an urgency about him that bothered Harry, "You are pivotal to Voldemort's defeat, Harry."
Well, duh. "I'm aware."
Dumbledore nodded and offered a small smile. He waved his hand and muttered a few words under his breath. Harry recognized the hand motions to an intricate warding enchantment.
"Now that you have consented to return—"
"Excuse me," Harry interrupted. "Consented to return?"
Dumbledore's beard twitched—and a twinkle blossomed in Dumbledore's eyes. He cleared his throat, looking quite uncomfortable. "Er, perhaps not my best sentence."
Harry scowled at him. A silence stretched between them. Dumbledore remained silent, evidently lost in contemplation whilst Harry glowered at him.
"There is a prophecy," Dumbledore suddenly said.
Harry blinked—the only emotion he evinced to the statement. "A prophecy?" he asked dubiously. What a lame tactic. And odd. He hadn't forecasted this. Perhaps, he'd over-estimated Dumbledore.
Dumbledore nodded sorrowfully. "I'm afraid I had ample reason for retrieving you, Mr. Potter."
Harry snorted. "Right."
"You obviously have no reason to believe me. You are here against your will and have been interrogated beyond belief. I fear I only added to your reasonable anger when I endeavored to lure you into dropping the steel guard you have in regard to me."
Harry shrugged. He had nothing to add. Everything the old man had uttered was accurate. Dead-on accurate.
Dumbledore continued, "But I speak the truth, you see." He waved his hand in the air, and words formed at his touch to form a little poem.
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... and the Dark Lord shall mark him as his equal, but he will have the power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...
"What was that?" Harry asked, shell-shocked. His brain was screaming that he was the person the poem referred to. But he refused to accept. It had to be a mistake. An error. Or something...
Over the rushing roar of waves in his ear, he barely caught Dumbledore's reply. The man seemed too nonchalant for a person who'd just quite possibly altered another's life. Then again—as Dumbledore—such things were probably the norm. "That was a prophecy made seventeen years ago."
"Is that why you and your barmy Order have been searching for me this long?" he asked. Dumbledore frowned, apparently not pleased by his description of the Order of Phoenix, but nodded.
"Yes, that's the motive—to prepare you for Voldemort."
"What the hell!" he exclaimed in shock.
"You are the one destined to defeat the Dark Lord," Dumbledore explained patiently, his eyes expressing deep sorrow. He shook his head sadly. "It's a huge burden and now I hope you understand why I put in desperate efforts to retrieve you once I noticed you had escaped your relatives home seven years ago."
It all made sense now. The relentless hunt for him. Not just from Dumbledore. He'd had his own share of encounters with Death Eaters—and six times now with Voldemort or some configuration of the dark wizard. He'd assured himself the only reason Voldemort still pursued him was because the Dark Lord craved to complete the annihilation of the Potters. But now he knew that wasn't exactly true. He was wanted by both sides. He'd always been well aware. Now, at least he knew why.
He was destined to defeat Voldemort. Or die trying.
Should he, though? Or should he instead remain hidden. Continue to employ the method that had carried him through three years of Voldemort's return. But, he admitted to himself—chancing a look at Dumbledore—he didn't have a choice, really. Would they allow him to leave? He doubted it.
He averted his eyes.
But did he want to escape back to his life, though? The answer had him staggered. An overwhelming No! Inordinate enough to quench the raging fire of his logic struggling to object.
How could he ignore it?! Even without the prophecy, he'd been fighting. Just for a chance to satiate the fierce desire to rage at everything in sight. The man (no, demon) who'd killed his parents was on another fulmination. Well, this time he planned to halt the march!
His parent's sacrifices would not be ignored. He wouldn't brush his concerns aside and simply party with his friends or shag a random girl—all in the forlorn hope to forget the issues he had to encounter regularly.
He would fight. Not just Death Eaters, like he'd been doing with the Versace. No, he was taking the fight to Voldemort. It was asinine, he knew. Voldemort was extremely powerful. In each of their six meetings, he'd barely escaped alive. But he had escaped. No matter how slim the chances of another escape was, or the chances he'd be able to snuff Voldemort's life, he was going to at least attempt it.
A smile touched his lips as he turned back to Dumbledore, noting the rapt attention that Dumbledore studied him with. He could imagine Draco's and Theodore's vehement protesting to his decision. But that was it. It was his decision. Not theirs. Not a group thing. Just his. Alone. Because they didn't have a gaping hole in their heart for the mother and father they never had the opportunity to meet. Or hear their laugh. Or experience their love. They didn't have to settle for stories and old portraits. Because they weren't him—no matter how strong their friendship was.
Dumbledore offered a small—comforting—smile. "Will you fight Voldemort?"
Harry took in a deep breath, closing his eyes as he frantically tried to conceal the discord of emotions running through his head—his head hanging down. "I'll do it," he said tonelessly. "I'll kill Voldemort once and for all." He glanced up to catch Dumbledore's reaction.
The headmaster blinked, evidently baffled by Harry's swift response. His eyes brightened and his twinkle . He beamed at Harry. "A Potter indeed."
Harry rolled his eyes. He had a death sentence and this mad old man was over here was enunciating hogwash. Ruddy brilliant! He needed a drink—the one that he'd been denied at the Leaky Cauldron.
Dumbledore's gaze became criticizing. "You know how dangerous this is?"
"Weren't you the one who tried to convince me of this?" Harry snapped angrily. He'd made his decision and it was final. He had no intentions of altering it no matter the purpose—regardless of outsider's opinions.
"He is very dangerous, Harry."
He was a Dark Lord, wasn't he? "I know that, Captain Obvious, but thank you for bringing it to my attention."
Dumbledore frowned. "Captain Obvious? What—" he shook his head, "—I believe you stand a good chance, Harry." His gaze swept across Harry and a miniscule scowl ensued. "Not what I expected," he murmured. He beamed at Harry. "Much better than I expected, actually."
What a quirky man. Draco had frequently informed Harry of Dumbledore's peculiar attitude but he'd dismissed this—unable to find a scenario where one of the most powerful wizards of all time could be mentally unhinged. The evidence, though, stared him right in the face. Perhaps he owed Draco an apology.
Dumbledore rubbed his hand together and rose from his seat. With a casual wave of his hand, the stuffy chair disappeared. He walked past Harry and dawdled towards the door. He lagged behind, his back to Harry. "There's the little issue of where you'll be staying over the summer."
Harry obstructed a smirk he felt developing—time to make an escape. "I could stay at Hogwarts," he offered with a convincing casual shrug. "Always wanted to see the great castle." Never mind that he'd already seen it.
"Really?" Dumbledore seemed to be considering it.
So close. Now for the kill. Harry nodded. "Heard so much about it, you know. The kids are almost always speaking about it." He looked up into Dumbledore's face. "And I figure if death is close, I might as well visit the grounds in which my parents met."
Silence proceeded his little spiel. Dumbledore stood with his hand on the handle, apparently mulling over Harry's suggestion. The seconds ticked. Harry cocked his head around, patiently awaiting the verdict—ignoring the voices in his head. The room was bare. No pictures. Wooden walls. A lantern hang from the ceiling, the only illumination. It was horribly desolate. It was stark empty except from the chair he was plumbed in.
"What do you think about Hogwarts, Harry?" Dumbledore finally asked.
Harry frowned, perplexed by the query. Hadn't he just answered that? "I don't know. Apparently it's nice—"
Dumbledore shook his head. "No, no, no." He chuckled. "I mean what do you think about attending Hogwarts?"
Him! Go to school? He didn't go to school! Hadn't received any sort of formal education after the age of nine. Didn't envision himself obtaining any either. He was a perfectly competent person. He wasn't illiterate. So what was the need for school? "Excuse me; school...?" He cleared his throat, deciding to maintain his polite tone. "I don't think that's necessary." He rose from his seat.
Dumbledore abandoned his hold on the doorknob. He peered levelly at Harry. Harry felt warmth enclose him. He was taller than Dumbledore and thus the man was—in some ways—compelled to look at Harry as an equal. "And why not?" the old man countered.
Oh, I don't know. Could it possibly be because there's a fucking war raging outside the walls of Hogwarts. A war that incidentally revolves around my life. Oh yeah, that could be it. "Because I'd like to participate in the war."
Dumbledore blinked. "Participate? In the war?" He chuckled. "I think not, Harry." Harry opened his mouth to interrupt but Dumbledore quickly rushed on. "You are entirely too valuable to simply toss away like that, Mr. Potter."
Well, I'm going to be in the war soon anyway. "I'll be in the midst of things in the future anyway—why wait?"
Dumbledore sighed. "You are strong, Harry. You pose as a strong threat against Voldemort." Harry smirked. "But," Dumbledore continued, "I doubt you can defeat Voldemort at this moment, so you shall head to Hogwarts where assistance shall be provided to further enhance your already formidable skills?"
Harry scowled—quite alarmed by a particular portion of Dumbledore's aforementioned sentence. "What makes you think I'm a formidable opponent?" That was information he fought indefatigably to keep classified. His casual attires. His flirty attitude. Those were all ploys to disguise the danger he lived in, and the skill he possessed to constantly defeat his adversaries. Of course, that was done so constantly it was literally a part of him now. But still, Dumbledore shouldn't be aware of that!
"You took out fifteen members of my Order," Dumbledore responded flatly, his eyes twinkling merrily.
Oh yeah. In justification, what was a bloke supposed to think when a myriad of wizards and witches suddenly apparated into the Leaky Cauldron and began firing spells at him. They were at war, for Merlin's sake. He couldn't be held guilty for attempting to defend himself. He wasn't going to be contrite about it, either. He shrugged at Dumbledore.
"Not your fault," Dumbledore admitted. "Not ours, either."
Harry brushed this off, his thoughts seguing towards other bothersome ones. "I don't need school, Dumbledore," Harry said.
"Oh really?"
"Yes, really," he deadpanned. He was quite put off and infuriated by Dumbledore's casual snub. "I think I'm ready for the outside world." Dumbledore already knew about his talents. No reason to conceal them anymore.
"I understand," Dumbledore responded patiently, an irritating compassionate glint in those blue eyes. "But you just can't defeat Voldemort as of yet," Harry opened his mouth to protest but Dumbledore forged ahead. "Your ability wasn't subject to my statement, Harry." He looked Harry in the eye. "Voldemort is—at the moment—immortal."
Harry felt his blood ran cold. Immortal?! Well, that explained the return of Voldemort. A return that shouldn't have been possible to begin with considering that said Dark Lord had collided with his own stray Killing Curse fifteen years ago.
And what did Dumbledore mean by "at the moment". "At the moment?"
"It's a working process," Dumbledore said cryptically. "Hogwarts it is, then!" He pulled the handle of the door and had almost completed his egress when Harry's mind managed to register what was happening.
"Wait!" he called.
Dumbledore turned around, a puzzled look on his face. Then his face brightened. "Ah, yes. Where you'll stay?" Harry nodded, unable to wipe the scowl off his face. "How about right here?"
Harry run a hand through his hair. "And where exactly is here?"
"The home of the Black's. Headquarters of the Order of Phoenix. 12 Grimmauld Place."
Harry took a look around. This was the Headquarters for the Order of Phoenix. How odd. It was so...bare. Where was everybody? Nice place for covert purposes, he conceded. Yes, very nice.
"It's late," Dumbledore said. "Come with me. I'll show you to your room for the night, and the remaining weeks of summer."
