Hello and Welcome! And thank you for clicking on my story!

Our tale begins about one week into summer holidays after the events of Goblet of Fire. It's all canon up to that point, or at least as close to it as I can make it, having only seen the movies and spending a best left uncounted number of hours on the various Harry Potter wikis.

Reviews are most welcome, including the picking of Nit or Brit, as is pointing out any glaring or obvious errors that I, in my enthusiasm, completely overlooked.

The Standard Disclaimer: I own nothing of Harry Potter or his world; J.K. Rowling does. I can only express my gratitude that she allows us to play in her universe. I write this story for my own enjoyment (and hopefully yours). No copyright infringement is intended and I realize no profit, save for the delight I feel at seeing the "views" counter climbing upwards.

Angle of Incidence

Chapter One – A Most Unexpected Happenstance

The office was the picture of comfortable chaos.

A warm midday sun streamed through the tall windows, gleaming off of the gold accents that highlighted much of the furniture in the room.

The crimson carpet was thin but soft; a pair of plush purple chairs sat on opposite sides of a small lime-green table; the shelves lining the walls opposite the windows were stuffed with books, charts, and scrolls; above them hung portraits of wise-looking witches and wizards, all of them snoozing.

Some of those shelves played host to a few of the dozens of small knickknacks that whirred, hummed, clicked, and emitted small puffs of coloured smoke; their slight noises joining the muted ticks of the grandfather clock that sat in a corner, preventing the otherwise deep quiet from becoming oppressive.

In front of more shelves of ancient tomes and a ratty old hat, a Magnificent Oaken Desk presided over the room with a solemn, undisputed, authority.

Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, sat behind the aforementioned Magnificent Oaken Desk, picking halfheartedly at the mounds of year-end administrative detritus that threatened to overwhelm it.

He set down a red feather quill, took off his half-moon spectacles and rubbed his fingers in small circles around his temples, hoping to stave off the headache that was beginning to form. There were times that he seemed to feel every one of his hundred and fourteen years.

Summer was paradoxically the busiest time for the headmaster of a school. There were reports to read and policies to adjust; requisitions and orders to approve; the hundreds of small random tasks that an institution of learning needed to function. Minerva was a true blessing in that regard, how she managed to teach and keep the bulk of that work off of his desk was beyond him.

Returning his glasses to his eyes he continued slogging through the documents in front of him. A review for a new charms text for third-years, yet another request from Rolanda Hooch for new brooms, an order for potting soil for the greenhouses, a sheaf of complaints about his Potions professor... he sighed; it seemed unlikely that Severus would ever change, but Albus needed him close, especially now; and Potions instructors were in very short supply. Perhaps he could convince Horace Slughorn to come out of retirement.

That reminded him of the need to find a new Defence professor as well, as it was obvious that Alastor would not be returning to teach next year. He was about to make a note to that effect when he realized that he was unlikely to forget about his perennial staffing problem.

Which could prove to be a bigger issue this time around, he reflected; as Fudge had dropped an unsubtle hint to the effect that if the headmaster was unable to find a qualified candidate, the minister would suggest that the ministry make an appointment to the post. Albus snorted at that, as if anyone appointed by Cornelius Fudge would themselves be qualified in anything other than sycophancy.

Who would have thought that being Headmaster of a school would involve so much actual politics?

Albus usually enjoyed this position, unlike his others, which seemed to consist wholly of meetings whose entire purpose was to prevent anything from being accomplished; and arbitrating the disputes of various aristocrats, who somehow managed to act even less mature than his students.

He wished he could step down from his other roles; but by convention the Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards was whoever the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot was, and that was not a duty he could set aside. The purist faction, and Lucius Malfoy in particular, needed to be held in check; especially now.

They'd all be flocking back to their old master, whether out of fear or loyalty mattered little. After the fall of Voldemort in nineteen eighty-one the ministry had seen only partial success in prosecuting his Death Eaters; only the most devoted or depraved had been put away. The more quiet supporters, both financial and political, remained free. Thanks to generous bribes and friendly courts, Voldemort had returned with his support structure largely intact.

And in some ways, even improved. The current Minister for Magic was for all intents and purposes owned by Lucius Malfoy. It was Malfoy who had bankrolled his election campaign, Malfoy who pressured the Daily Prophet into supporting the administration, and Malfoy who kept the conservative bloc of the Wizengamot in line. Fudge listened to Malfoy.

And Malfoy would undoubtedly be manipulating the minister to ignore the signs, to dismiss the evidence that would arise when Voldemort resumed his activities, to keep the magical world ignorant of the threat until it was too late. Albus had to find a way to reason with Fudge; to convince him of the terrible truth facing them and to act on it.

It was a task easier said than done. Fudge was absolutely terrified at the prospect of a resurrected Dark Lord, and he wasn't alone in that fear. Much of the magical population would find it all too easy to slip into denial and ignore the problem, their collective memory of the dark times past had not diminished in strength.

Still there had to be some avenue he could pursue.

Perhaps appeal to Fudge's sense of self-preservation? Albus mused. Whatever means he chose to use, it would take far too much precious time; except perhaps staging a coup. He mentally filed that under 'Plan B'.

There was also the issue of his own allies in the government. While he still commanded a great deal of respect, especially among the older generations, many saw him as 'past-his-prime' and even a political novice could tell that he had lost considerable credibility in the aftermath of the Tri-Wizard Tournament.

The tournament had been a catastrophe of the highest order.

First and foremost, he'd been hoodwinked by a supposedly dead man who had successfully impersonated his close friend Alastor Moody for the entire year, and that was only the beginning. He had no idea what kind of information Barty Crouch Junior could have happened across and reported back to his master. The problem was made worse by Fudge's summary execution of the man before he could even be questioned.

Even Amelia Bones, the director of magical law enforcement, well known for her hardline stance towards the Death Eaters during the war, had been furious when she learned of the minister's rash action.

Albus cursed himself a fool, the signs were obvious in hindsight, but he had mistakenly attributed 'Moody's' bouts of odd behaviour to the man's usual eccentricity. He was not looking forward to the conversation – doubtless punctuated with exhortations of 'Constant Vigilance!' – that was to come when Alastor was released from St. Mungo's.

The imposter had operated freely within the school, first sabotaging the goblet of fire so as to commit Harry Potter into the tournament, subjecting him to the dangerous tasks and greatly damaging his reputation among his peers. Crouch had also directly interfered in the final task, preventing the other champions from navigating the maze to ensure that only Harry reached the trapped Triwizard cup.

Albus had to admit that part of the plan had been clever. As headmaster, only he could create a portkey that would take someone to or from the grounds of the school. But Crouch had laid a second portus on the cup, allowing his spell to piggyback on the keying that would permit it to pass through the mighty Hogwarts wards. It had, at least, provided an escape route for Harry when the original portkey spell was activated.

Harry had behaved as a true Gryffindor that night; standing up to an impossible foe and even retrieving the body of his fallen classmate. Despite how horrified Albus had been by the revelation of the events in the Little Hangleton graveyard he was very proud of his favourite student. He hoped the boy did not blame himself for what happened to poor Cedric Diggory. Harry had tried to do the honourable thing and split the victory between them, only to have his noble intentions backfire horribly.

Harry. He'd had no choice but to send the boy back to the muggles.

Sirius had been livid and Albus couldn't blame him. After Sirius Black had escaped Azkaban and subsequently been proven innocent last year, Albus had hoped that Harry would soon have a real home; the indications that he had been neglected by his relatives were all too clear.

Following the revelation of Peter Pettigrew's treachery in the Shrieking Shack and the time-turned rescue operation, Albus had suggested that the escaped animagus take some time to recover before taking up the duties of being Harry's godfather and de-facto guardian; to which Sirius had agreed. There were some complications with that as Sirius was still a wanted fugitive, but he would be a fugitive with or without Harry's presence, and there was little chance of him being caught at Grimmauld Place. Albus thought that Harry and Sirius spending some time together would go a long way towards helping both of them heal.

They had made plans for Harry to live with Sirius this summer, which would also have made it easier for Harry to spend time with his friends, each of whom Albus was sure could be trusted with the knowledge of Sirius' location.

But with Voldemort actually returned and at large there had been no choice. Even Sirius had eventually conceded to the necessity of keeping Harry behind the blood wards. Looking to one of the silver instruments on the shelves, he saw that it was sluggish and slow, seeming barely able to whirl itself around. The protections around Privet Drive most certainly needed a recharge.

Had they been normal wards, he could have positioned an Order member nearby periodically and allowed their presence to trigger the ward's regeneration, but the protections were tied to and dependent upon Harry alone.

His resources were being stretched terribly thin. Maintaining the watch over Privet Drive and gathering what information he could on the movements of known and suspected Death Eaters was taking a toll on his volunteers. The newly reconstituted Order was still getting up to speed with recent events, and not all of it's original membership was able or willing to return.

Albus sighed. There was so much to be done. The magical world was not nearly ready to deal with another conflict. The light side was woefully out of position and he had few ideas of how to wrest it back.

That was the unhappy truth of his situation. The great and shameful secret of his past twenty-five years. Many looked to him for guidance and leadership, especially in matters regarding Dark Lords. Albus knew his strengths, he was an exceptionally powerful wizard and well learned in magic both common and obscure; it was that which had allowed him to stand up to and defeat his former friend Gellert all those years ago. But he had merely struck the final blow, not organized the campaign. He was not a General, he simply did not have the mindset that was required to lead and win a war. Unfortunately, it seemed no one else on their side did either.

He had tried his best when thrust into a leadership role during Voldemort's reign of terror. He had formed the Order of the Phoenix as an information-gathering and logistical support group, intended to help prevent attacks on innocents and assist those who had been victimized, but not as a guerrilla fighting force.

Sadly though, that was what they had been pressured into becoming, much to their detriment. So many had been lost when they tried to take on roles they were not suited or prepared for. Most of whom he had once taught as students. Marlene McKinnon, Dorcas Meadows, Lily Potter's friend Mary McDonald; the list went on. Molly Weasley still respected and followed him, but he knew in his heart that she had never quite forgiven him for his part in what had happened to her brothers Fabian and Gideon.

Albus was sure he would have a fight on his hands when Molly found out he was involving Harry in what was happening; she loved the boy as if he were her own. He doubted his protestations that it was the circumstances that were involving Harry, not the other way around, would go very far in assuaging the fiercely protective Weasley matriarch's displeasure.

He also knew the time was fast approaching when he would have to inform Harry of the prophecy.

Part of his mind rebelled at the idea. The same part that had prevented him from telling Harry after he'd faced the shade of Tom in the chamber of secrets, and the year before following the death of Quirrell.

He just couldn't bring himself to do it, knowing that it would destroy whatever remained of the lad's childhood. It would be a terrible burden to bear, knowing that you were the key to the final defeat of an evil madman.

He was also hesitant after discovering the apparent mental connection between the two.

Voldemort would be obsessed with the prophecy. He must know that his knowledge of it was incomplete, and would stop at nothing to discover the full wording. If he could see into Harry's mind, he could gain whatever information Harry possessed.

He might even try to possess the boy entirely, as he had with Quirrell. Although that would be difficult in the extreme against an unwilling host, it would not be impossible. Worse still, he may try to attack others through him.

While Albus was confident in his own occlumency skills, the thought of Voldemort trying to read him by proxy though Harry sickened him. He did not want Harry to be subjected to that, but that would mean distancing himself from the boy, and at a time when Harry would need his help most of all.

It might be possible that occlumency could block the connection. He did not understand the nature of it well enough to say for sure, but the headaches and general malaise that Harry reported after feeling Voldemort's mind were consistent with a focused legilimency attack. If Harry were to acquire general proficiency in shielding his mind, Albus would feel a great deal more comfortable confiding in him.

The trouble though was that the only person Albus trusted to teach Harry that was Severus, and he was unlikely to be able to provide the necessary calm and patience that occlumency training required. There was the possibility that Sirius had some skill in the subject, the Blacks being an old and powerful pureblood family; and as a trusted figure to Harry he would be well suited to teaching him that particular art. Albus would ask when he next met with Sirius.

If so, he might move Harry to headquarters as early as mid-July.

Perhaps he should look into putting Grimmauld Place under a fidelius. That would offer a level of security comparable to the wards around Privet drive; he made a note to check into that. He still had the source materials he'd loaned to Lily Potter all those years ago.

Feeling better now that he had the beginnings of a plan taking shape, Albus sat back in his chair and reached over to the dish at the edge of the desk for a lemon drop.

Then the explosion hit.

At least, that was the term that came to mind when he felt the wave of magic erupt from somewhere inside the castle.

Albus shot to his feet, upsetting the bowl of lemon drops and sending them skittering across the floor. With parchmentwork, politicking, and planning forgotten, he raced for the exit to his office and the stairs beyond. Reaching out with his senses, he queried the wards of the school. The 'explosion' had overloaded some of the charms that told him when there was danger, but he noticed the gap in his senses was mostly centred around a room on the ground floor. Whatever was happening, it was happening there.

Hurrying down the spiral stairs and moving past the stone gargoyle that leapt aside at his rapid approach, he headed in the direction of the tower's stairs. There was something familiar about the action.

Deja-vu, he thought, now what does this remind me of?

As he neared the stairs of the tower, they stopped their random meanderings and shot into a position to allow him the quickest descent. Being the headmaster had its advantages. Taking the steps two at a time, he mentally planned his route to the-

Now he remembered! He knew what was significant about that location; and why hurrying to investigate it seemed so familiar. That was the same room in which he had placed the Mirror of Erised; the last obstacle in his ill-fated attempt to safeguard Nicolas' philosopher's stone.

But what could have happened to the Mirror? he wondered. It had to have been the Mirror, nothing else in the castle was powerful enough to release that kind magical maelstrom.

The wards were slowly recovering – like vision clearing after seeing a bright light – enough to determine that there was no danger. Albus slowed as he came to a corner, then stopped altogether as a new piece of information came to him. There was someone in the room!

He resumed his journey with new haste; rounding the corner in which stood a ten-foot tall suit of armour, he nearly ran into Flitwick who was heading in the opposite direction.

"Albus!" the Charms professor called upon seeing him, "I was just looking for you. I think something's happened..." he said worriedly.

"I sensed it as well Filius. I'm looking into it now." Albus paused and considered. The castle wards did not indicate an immediate threat, but recent events had reminded him to the virtues of caution. Cheerful demeanour aside, Flitwick had been a duelling champion, and could be downright dangerous when necessary. A second, friendly, wand nearby could prove most helpful. Reaching a decision he continued, "Filius, I've reason to suspect that there is an intruder within the castle. I'm on my way to investigate; while I don't sense any hostile intent, could I impose upon you to accompany me just in case?" he asked.

At this, Flitwick's expression turned serious. With a grim nod, he turned in the same direction and started moving.

They walked swiftly, Flitwick easily keeping pace with the headmaster's long strides, despite his small stature. Coming to a seemingly blank patch of wall, Dumbledore stopped, drew his wand and tapped on one of the large grey stones.

No one knew exactly how many secret passages there were threading their way through the castle. Some were only accessible at certain times, or to certain individuals, or only when absolutely necessary, or seemingly whenever the castle felt like it.

This one however, the headmaster knew well. The room it led to was well hidden, near forgotten, and for good reason. It had once been a safe place for the study and practice of rituals, but with such magic falling into disrepute, the room had been closed off.

Glancing back at Flitwick, Dumbledore motioned that they had arrived. The head of Ravenclaw drew his wand and silenced their feet with a single wordless spell. Nodding in appreciation, he stepped into the opening. Crouching as he entered the passage that was more tunnel than hallway, he crept cautiously towards the epicentre of the magical shockwave that had torn through his school.

The room that now held the Mirror of Erised had clearly not been touched since Harry had faced the unfortunate professor Quirrell three years ago. Circular, with seven stone pillars surrounding a sunken centre, the room's ceiling arced gracefully upwards into a flattened dome. A light dust hung in the stale air and covered the floor. Signs of an old struggle were still visible near a discarded length of purple cloth.

The first thing that drew Dumbledore's attention was the Mirror itself. It was facing slightly towards him at an oblique angle; the ornate gilded frame had been blasted away into lines of splinters and dust extending from either edge of the Mirror and a small pile directly around it, leaving only the solid rectangle of the Mirror itself hovering, preternaturally still, just above the floor.

But it was the surface of the Mirror that caught Dumbledore's breath. It no longer reflected the room as a mirror ought. Within the confines of that once perfect surface, plainly visible, was another room entirely. Had he not known there was supposed to be a mirror there, he would have thought that a hole had simply opened in the world itself. What seemed to be sunlight poured out of the Mirror into the dim room, illuminating a swath of dust that floated in the still air.

A slight movement on the other side of the room shifted his focus and Albus got his first glimpse of the intruder. The tall man was facing away from him, in dark blue robes he stood with an easy, confident posture, hands clasped behind his back, looking upwards at the tiled designs that patterned the walls.

Flitwick moved from beside him and took up a position across the room from which he would be able to provide both covering and cross- fire; he pointed his wand at the man and nodded to Dumbledore.

Facing the man, but keeping his wand at his side, Albus cleared his throat loudly.

Hearing the noise the man turned towards him and upon seeing the headmaster, his face lit up in a friendly smile.

"Professor Dumbledore!" he exclaimed happily.

Glancing towards Flitwick, Albus saw him mirroring his own puzzled expression. Returning his gaze, the small professor just shrugged. He looked back towards the man who had just stepped into the heart of his school from nowhere.

Seeing his confusion, a look of understanding came into the stranger's eyes, and his smile took on a wistful mien.

In an expectant tone much like he would use towards a student caught in an act of mischief, Dumbledore spoke: "Perhaps you might favour us with an explanation?"

His eyes shining with amusement, in a cheeky voice the interloper replied, "of course sir, where would you like me to begin?"

Author's Notes:

Fair Warning: This story will include an Original Character (OC) in a significant, albeit secondary, role. I thought about making the traveller an alternate version of Harry, but that would not allow me to take the story in the direction I want it to go. Also, I'm not really comfortable making massive changes to canon characters; I think it's one thing to interpret a character, another to completely rewrite them. While I have no personal objection to such – we should be allowed to write the stories we want after all – if you do, you basically are creating an OC, just with the same name and appearance.

- LJSi