Assorted Beginnings
initii diversi
The post-owl that brought his news had a difficult time getting in. Mid- summer in Sussex tended to be hot and muggy, and this year was no exception. The humidity was unnaturally high, and this appeared to have interest effects on wooden objects, more specifically one window at 14 Privet drive. Harry had been trying for the last few days to get it open, to no avail, and so when he was drawn from his book by the harsh screech of an owl he jerked up, surprised.
There, perched at the foot of his bed, was a small brown owl, a letter attached to its leg. The bird pecked irritably at the bed-post for a moment, then fluttered its wings. On the other side of the room, safely in the confines of her cage, Hedwig gave the other owl a look of pure disgust. Harry smiled fondly at her, and took the letter from the leg of the strange bird. He waited, expecting the screech owl to take off now that its task had been completed, but instead it stayed perched on his bed, staring at him. Harry shrugged and turned to the letter.
It was sealed with the Hogwarts Crest, addressed in the shimmering ink that was the school's trademark. Harry broke the seal and took out a single peace of paper. When he saw the title written at the top of the page he winced.
Ordinary Wizarding Levels: Results for Mr. Harry Potter
Astronomy - A
Care of Magical Creatures - O
Charms - E
Defence Against the Dark Arts - O
Divination - P
Herbology - A
History of Magic - A
Potions - E
Transfiguration - E
Any students who wish to take a make-up practical examination should indicate this on the reverse side of this parchment. Make-up examinations will be conducted on the first day of classes, with the approval of the supervising professor. Students should indicate this, as well as the courses they wish to continue with next year, on the reverse side of this parchment.
Harry looked down at his grades, stunned. He had expected the 'P' in Divination, considering how horribly he'd done, but everything else was amazing. He'd hoped, of course, for the 'O' in Defence, and he had thought he might be able to scrape 'E's in Charms, but his grades for Care of Magical Creatures and Transfiguration were more than he had hoped for. And, wonder or wonders, he had gotten an 'E' in Potions! He was ecstatic, until he suddenly remembered something that Professor McGonagal said to him in his Careers Advice consultation.
"Poisons and antidotes are essential study for Aurors. And I must tell you that professor Snape absolutely refuses to take students who get anything other than "Outstanding" in their OWLs, so-"
His heart fell. He had managed to get high enough marks in every other subject he needed, except for Potions. The letter did say that he could try to make-up the mark for his examination, but he somehow doubted that Snape would be sympathetic. The Potion Master's dislike for him had grown intensely over the last year, and Harry didn't think that the summer would do anything to change it. Still, there weren't exactly many options for him. He flipped over the piece of parchment.
Along the left side was a list of possible classes. Beside each class were two small boxes. The heading above one read 'course selected', while the second column was marked 'proposed make-ups'. At the very top of the page was what seemed to be a demonstration row: in the box beside the words "your selected course", a black check-mark continued to tick itself off and then vanish.
Quickly Harry checked off the courses that Professor McGonagall had told him that he would need: Defence Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Transfiguration, and Potions, the latter checked in the 'proposed make-ups' column. Then he scanned the remaining options. Sixth-years were required to take eight classes, which left room for four other choices, except that it was really three; the box beside History of Magic already contained a heavy black check-mark. From the list Harry selected Advanced Magics, which looked interesting, and Magical Wards and Protections, which Harry thought might come in handy when facing Dudley. He debated for a moment longer, and then selected Herbology rather than Care of Magical Creatures. His love of Hagrid aside, he thought that Herbology stood a much greater chance of actually being useful to him. He would just have to visit Hagrid more often, that's all.
Choices made, Harry re-folded the letter and put it back in the Hogwarts envelope. He watched with some fascination as the letter resealed itself, then looked at the screech owl still perched at the foot of his bed. He attached the letter to its leg and watched as it circled his room once, then soared out of his bedroom door.
Harry looked over at Hedwig, then went to her cage and took a bag of Owl Treats from the table nearby. He opened the cage and she moved over to the door, rubbing against his hand almost like a cat. When he gave her the treat, Hedwig took it and hooted softly, then nibbled on his finger. Harry closed the door to her cage. Hedwig settled her feathers and returned to her perch in resigned acceptance.
Then Harry left his room. There were things he had to accomplish that day, he reflected. One thing in particular required the use of the telephone, which would mean that he would have to risk facing the Dursleys. Even so, he had better things to do than hide in his bedroom.
He had just entered the living room when he found them. Dudley and his friends seemed to have just come in; they were all red-faced and sweating horribly, gathered in the kitchen while one boy rooted through the fridge in search of something cold. When they saw Harry, all but the latter left the kitchen and moved into the living room. They formed a semi-circle, with Dudley in the centre.
"There was an owl in the kitchen," he said, staring at Harry. He crossed his arms, and his muscles bunched.
"That's not possible," Harry answered. He put an expression of knowing boredom on his face, not allowing himself to be intimidated. "Owls are nocturnal."
Dudley frowned for a moment, his giant forehead furrowing with intense concentration. His gang members seemed similarly confused.
"It means they only come out at night," Harry supplied feeling, for the first time, that he might have an idea of what Hermione felt sometimes talking to him and Ron. He vowed to be more intelligent in the future. Meanwhile, light had dawned on Dudley's face and then vanished, replaced with annoyance at being bested.
"Well," he said provocatively, "it was there. We all saw it; flew in the door and out the window, didn't it?" Noises of agreement came from the other members of the gang. Harry raised his eyebrows and shrugged dismissively.
"Whatever you say," he scoffed. There was a slight pause as Dudley struggled to come up with something to say.
"Let's beat him up!" one of the gang members suggested eagerly to fill in the gap.
"He thinks he's so smart," another boy agreed. "Thinks he's so much better than us; we could show him easy."
Harry grinned. This was a familiar environment, an easy win for him. He leaned on the wall crossing his arms and forcing himself to physically relax. He put on a look that actually reminded him quite a bit of Malfoy, and smirked.
"Yeah, Big D," he mocked. "You're going to try and take me on? I don't know, you really think you can? I mean there's, what, seven of you, and only one of me. Those odds really are against you here. Or," he paused somewhat theatrically. "do you think you really need your friends to help you? Can't take me on yourself?"
"There's nothing to stop me," Dudley growled. He uncrossed his arms and punched one fist into the other hand menacingly. "I heard what happened last year. You try any of your little tricks and they won't let you back into that little freak school of yours. No one'll help you this time; I hear you went to court and everything. You're not so great, are you? And you're precious Godfather's not showing his face much anymore. What happened to him?"
Harry swallowed quickly to steady his voice. "No," he agreed with forced cheer, ignoring the jibe at Sirius. "You're right, I can't do anything. But, if any of my Godfather's friends hear about it - well, there's nothing at all to stop any of them from using any tricks they want. And, you know, they're all just looking for an excuse to do something, now that they've heard what's been going on here."
Dudley's gang looked confused. Dudley looked murderous.
"Come on," he said briskly. "He's not worth our time."
"But Dud," one of the smaller boys protested with a whine. "He deserves a pounding, and it'd be so easy!"
"Let's go!" Dudley bellowed, giving the kid a shove and propelling him out of the room. As they left, Harry heard another one ask,
"But what did he mean?"
As soon as they were out of sight, Harry clenched his fists. Some day, he vowed, he would pay Dudley back for everything he'd done. While there was a certain satisfaction in outwitting him, it wasn't really very heard. Compared to Draco Malfoy, Dudley was a rotten vegetable mentally. A malicious rotten vegetable.
Slowly he closed his eyes and concentrated on absolutely nothing. He felt his irritation and hatred leaving him until he was floating in oblivion, much like the peace of the Imperius Curse. When he blinked free of it he was relatively certain that his voice would sound cheerful and untroubled. He picked up the telephone and dialled. After a few seconds, he heard the other end click and a voice spoke.
"Hello?"
"Professor Moody," Harry exclaimed. The ex-Auror's voice sounded uncertain, despite almost an entire month of frequent conversation. In fact, Harry could almost picture the old man sitting on a chair, wand pointed at the telephone. If dustbins could attack, logically telephones were almost more dangerous.
"Harry, my boy." Moody sounded relieved. "How are you? How've you been?"
"Not much has changed since I last called," Harry answered. "It's so hot out that there's really nothing to do, I've been doing a lot of reading. Not much else."
"And how have your relatives been treating you?" Moody pressed.
"Thanks to you, it's been great." Harry was thankful for the concern, but decided it would be prudent not to mention the events of the last five minutes. "Everyone's terrified of you; you made a great impression at the train. Uncle Vernon's terrified, and Dudley hasn't tried to do anything at all." A lie, technically or even not technically, but Harry didn't see the need to tell the precise truth.
"I'm glad." Moody sounded more relieved than seemed necessary. "Listen, Harry, I'm glad you called. If you hadn't, I would have probably been forced to . telephone . you instead. Remus wanted to talk to you as soon as possible. If you don't mind talking to him?"
"Of course not," Harry replied, mildly confused.
"Perfect. If you'll wait a moment I'll see if I can find him." There was a flurry of noise on the other end, and the sounds of people shouting. Harry thought he could make out the shrieking voice of Mrs. Black, some distance away, and there was a series of sharp bangs before the receiver was picked up again.
"Have you tried a Silencing charm?" Harry asked, suddenly getting the idea.
"Hello to you too, Harry," Lupin chuckled. "And yes, we have, early on. Blasted woman seems to have cast every possible charm on the canvas before she had herself painted onto it; we've tried silencing it, covering it up, we even tried to wipe the canvas; drastic measures, but . at any rate, the painting's remained impervious to everything we've done."
"Oh." Harry shrugged. "Just a thought."
"It's a good idea," Lupin agreed. "Pity it didn't work. Anyways, that's not why I wanted to talk to you. Molly told me that you normally spend most of August at the Borrow, with the Weasleys?"
"Yeah," Harry answered.
"Well, with recent events the way they are, the Weasleys have been spending the summer at Grimmauld Place. However," Lupin continued when Harry made a noise of disappointment, "that doesn't mean that you have to stay with your Aunt and Uncle. You would be most welcome here, if you wanted to come instead. In fact, I would request that you do come, unless something is preventing you for some reason or other."
"Um," Harry frowned. "Yeah, of course, I'd love to," he answered. "But, um, I don't understand why. Last year Mrs. Weasley was going on about how I was much too young to do anything and, well, it's only been a year and I'm still younger than Fred and George were last year."
"Yes," Lupin replied, "I know. Things have changed, though, and . well, I can't really explain very much over the telephone. Really, you never know what can be happening with these telephone taps you hear about these days."
Harry barely contained a snort at the thought of the Death Eaters using telephone taps. It was highly unlikely, given their unwillingness to acknowledge the Muggle world except as a lower life-form, and it was more amusing than frightening to think of wizards using technology of the British secret service.
Lupin seemed to pick up on his thoughts, and laughed warmly.
"You never know," he said with what sounded like a verbal shrug. "At any rate, suffice it to say that you would find yourself contributing this summer, and if nothing else it should be interesting. You'll also be able to start your Occlumency lessons early; Professor Snape stops by quite frequently, and I'm sure Albus will be able to coerce him."
Harry stifled a groan. Bonus lessons with Snape were more of a curse than a blessing, but he thought that after a month of practicing he might be able to hold his own. He forced a smile, hoping the expression would carry in his voice.
"That's great," he replied. "My Aunt and Uncle will be thrilled to get rid of me, I'm sure. Um, just, is Hermione going to be coming?"
There was a slight pause.
"Under normal circumstances it wouldn't be advisable to bring her in," Lupin answered finally. "However, things are slightly different the way they are now. You need to be here, for your safety as much as anything, and with Ron here as well, I think it will be difficult to keep any secrets from Hermione." Amusement laced his voice. "Despite their soulful claims of innocence, I know the twins have ways of hearing things they're not supposed to hear, and of course that information will just happen to find its way to you kids."
Harry chuckled. "How's their store going?" he asked.
"I think you should probably ask them," Lupin replied. "They've been keeping it awfully secretive, even now."
"I will," Harry agreed. "So, how exactly am I going to get there? Please not Floo, I beg you. Uncle Vernon nearly died when Mr. Weasley came the last time."
"Don't worry, I'll come by myself by car, or send someone else, we'll see who's available. It will be perfectly respectable; we don't want to give them anything else to worry about. I'm sure they have very busy lives."
"Yeah," Harry muttered. "Right."
"Well," Lupin coughed in a dismissive kind of way. "I have things I have to do, Harry. I'm not certain when we'll be ready to have you, but I'll send a letter with your second school letter, all right? Either way, someone should come at the end of this week, either Saturday or Sunday."
"Great," Harry said with genuine cheer.
"Have a good week, then." There was a click and then the line went dead.
Smiling, Harry put down the telephone receiver and hurried back up to his bedroom. Hedwig was sitting in her cage, and she stopped preening her feathers when he came in. As he closed the door she flapped her wings within the confines of the cage, and hooted softly. Harry smiled.
"All right, Hedwig, you can come out soon." He slid an owl treat between the bars of her cage, and then opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a roll of parchment. Dipping his quill in ink, he began to write.
Dear Hermione,
I don't know if you've heard - you probably have, but Professor Lupin invited us all to go and stay with him and Ron's family later on this month . I'm sure you know what I mean. I think they might have finally decided to tell us something; who knows. Anyway, I'm planning on going into Diagon Alley, maybe we could meet up there once I get my list? Write back with Hedwig, and let me know what your parents are planning on doing.
~Harry
He checked the letter over and decided that it was cryptic enough to be safe, on the off chance that someone intercepted it. In fact, he realised, he hadn't really said anything. He let Hedwig out of her cage and tied the roll of parchment to her leg. She hooted softly again and nibbled on his finger gently, then looked inquiringly at his window. Harry groaned.
He went over to the window and pushed up on it tentatively, to no avail. Now more than ever he wished that he was in a wizarding household. He knew at least three spells that would open a window, but as it was he was stuck with his shoulder under the ledge, trying to shove the frame up without either breaking the glass or falling over his desk. Finally it shot upwards with a loud crack, leaving Harry sprawled across the desk with his head hanging out, looking onto the street. An elderly woman with a large hat that looked like a box waved cheerily at him as she walked by. Harry forced a weak grin and pulled himself in.
Hedwig let out a soft trill that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and soared out into the clear blue sky.
Harry walked away from his desk to the table beside his bed. A large black ball sat on it; a magic eight-ball, courtesy of Ron for his birthday. He picked it up idly, then looked at it again.
"Will I die this year?" he asked it, raising one eyebrow. He shook the ball hard, and watched the swirling blue liquid inside. It settled and a piece of white paper, which reminded Harry startlingly of the slips that came from the Goblet of Fire two years ago, rose to the top of the glass surface. Slowly writing appeared, in the spidery hand that appeared to be the trademark of all semi-intelligent magical items.
Stop being stupid.
"Thanks," Harry muttered. "So that means that the answer is obvious?" The writing disappeared, to be replaced by another answer.
Of course.
Harry waited, but more answers did not seem to be forthcoming. He scowled. "And that answer would be?"
If you can't figure it out for yourself, then why on earth should I tell
you?
"Because you're a magic eight ball, for goodness sakes," Harry exclaimed, tossing the irritating fortune teller onto the bed. "Personally," he added, feeling slightly silly for trying prove himself equal to a little glass ball, "I think you don't know the answer yourself." He looked at the ball from the corner of his eye.
Don't be ridiculous. Of course I know.
Harry snorted, and was turning away when he saw the message change once more.
Still, prophecies can be tricky things.
~*~*~*~
The village of Little Hangleton was quiet. Although it wasn't late, most of the townspeople were at home, tucked up with books or listening to the radio as they prepared for bed. The night owls who did choose to stay up were gathered in The Hanged Man, where drinks and stories flew around with equal concentration.
One man stayed out. He had long ago abandoned the comfort of the pub to keep his own company, and for the last month he had been walking the night, searching. He didn't know what he expected to find, and he was almost certain that he was a complete idiot for looking at all, but John Faulkner was different, in many ways.
At the Hanged Man, if one wanted to find out about him, they would find the rooms filled with people eager to share their tales.
"Oh, he's a strange one," a woman would titter, to the agreeing nods of her companions.
"I could tell you stories," a man would add. "He's always running around at indecent hours, always carrying that walking staff of his, and that little stick, too. I hear tell that he used to work in a school in The Americas, but they kicked him out for whipping little children with that stick. He's a weird fellow, eh Dot?"
"Ooh, very much so," Dot, the town gossiper, would happily reply. "He thinks very well of himself, too. You know, I've heard," Dot would pause for effect while the crowd around her would lean in conspiratorially. "I've heard him muttering, calling us all 'a bunch of muggles'. Hear tell that he and Frank Bryce were friends, too. Nah, it isn't respectable to be associating with him. Weird things happen ."
So, it wasn't completely by his own choice that John stayed away from the main crowd in Little Hangleton. As the only wizard in the town, segregated for many years because of what he knew and what they didn't John had made the early decision to not get himself involved, living in isolation, except for the little mail he received, carried by post owls. It was by this means of communication that he had, just over a month ago, come to hear the suspicious rumour that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned.
Immediately after that, dark clouds had begun to form over the town. John was not a naturally suspicious person, but when a village gets two and a half weeks of rain without stop, any fool can begin to realise that something isn't right. The Muggles had, of course, begun to investigate the unnatural weather patterns, but they could find no cause.
John was less concerned about the weather than what he knew to be the cause. And so, every night he cast a quick Impervius spell over himself and headed out into the night. As he left the boundaries of the town he called a light to the tip of his wand. Today, like every other day, he saw no one. The wind whistled around the barren moor, skimming over rocks and rustling the grasses around him. He spent what felt like an hour wandering the deserted lands, searching for a sign that something was happening. Then, dejected, he returned home.
The Riddle House stood deserted, as it had for the last three years when Frank Bryce was found dead. No one wanted to go near the cursed building, and for once that also included John. He had passed the building every night on his way home, after circling the town. This night, however, things were different. As he passed the old structure, he started in surprise.
In one of the back corner windows, a light was on. John rubbed at his eyes quickly, unwilling to believe what he saw. However, the light stubbornly refused to go away. As his heart began to beat faster, he realised that this was what he had been looking for.
A sensible man would have turned away, knowing what he was facing. However, something strange was in the air that night. Perhaps it was the fact that John had no friends, no special acquaintances to hold him to sense. Perhaps it was something more than that.
Looking back on the events that followed, it is possible that if John Faulkner had turned away, had told the people of Little Hangleton what he knew, what the dangers were, perhaps things would have turned out differently. Then again, the village being what it was, it is more likely that they would have once again laughed him out of the pub. Regardless, John did not turn away from the Riddle House. He went instead around the house, creeping up on the side door and testing it quickly.
It was locked. However, a simple opening charm was all that it took to cause it to swing open, inviting a visitor in. John entered, and was mildly surprised when it did not close behind him. He shut it himself, keeping the bolt off, and began to move through the halls in what he hoped was the direction of the light.
He was lost within seconds. Cursing himself for his stupidity, John quickly gave up his search for the light and instead focussed on trying to find the exit, any exit. He soon found himself in the bowels of the house. Staircases would vanish the instant he climbed them, and corridors would end precisely where they began. Overcome with fear, Faulkner moved on blindly, until suddenly he was stopped by a new noise.
It was so soft as to be almost unintelligible, but it was something. Instantly, that blinding curiosity that had gotten into so much trouble came over John once more. Ignoring his fear and the suffocating darkness of the house, he turned away from his search for the way out and began to follow the noise. It became clearer and clearer, until he was able to make out voices. Suddenly he rounded a corner and saw the light.
A fire was flickering in a hearth, with an armchair positioned on one side and a chesterfield located on the other. From his position, Faulkner could only see one occupant in the room; a tall, sticklike man paced in a slow circle. John swallowed, as realisation overcame him. Quickly, before anyone could notice him, he slipped away from the door and ran into an adjacent corridor as the voices washed over him.
"I am growing impatient." The voice was high and cold, devoid of all positive emotion.
"I'm sorry, Master," a second voice answered quickly, servile. "They were told to come; they will be here, I am certain of it."
"You have reason to be certain, Wormtail," the first man answered, cold amusement in his voice. "You well know that their failure will reflect on you, in your flesh."
"Of . course, Master," Wormtail squeaked, sounding much like the rat Faulkner knew him to be. "They will be here any second now."
"Indeed, it is good. I had hoped to have more time in this, in planning my return. Their failures have denied me the time I needed. Now time is one of the only things I do not have but - ah well, their mistakes have never been enough to defeat me. I am well used to their incompetence."
"Yes, Master," Wormtail agreed.
"If you have nothing to say, refrain from filling the air with your mindless blithering," cold man snapped sharply. "It is difficult enough to make my plans without your nonsense clouding my mind."
Whatever else he may have said was cut off abruptly with a loud bang. Faulkner flinched as a third voice came into the conversation.
"My Lord," the third man drawled. "You have my sincere apologies for my delay. I did not wish to keep you waiting, of course."
"Of course," the Dark Lord agreed mildly. "What have you to report, Lucius?"
"The spy is still secure, my Lord," Lucius Malfoy replied smoothly. "The first steps have been taken, and everything is moving perfectly. No one suspects, and no one will until it is far too late for them to correct the problem."
"Perfect," the Dark Lord hissed. "Now, you have been given two tasks. What of the boy?"
There was a pregnant pause.
"My Lord," Lucius began quickly, "the boy is being . difficult."
"Difficult." The flat statement sent shivers running through John's body.
"Well, Master, it is simply that . he has a strong hatred for the boy, of course. It's just that . he has not taken the fall of the High Inquisitor well. He . is questioning your - your strength."
There was another pause. Then the cold voice spoke again.
"Indeed. That is unfortunate for you. Crucio."
The halls were instantly filled with screams of agony.
"Wait . my Lord," Lucius cried out. "Please, let me explain, Master!"
A cold chuckle. "Well then, Lucius, explain. Don't waste my time with your screaming; I hear enough of it as it is."
There was a moment of stillness, broken by anguished moans and the sound of heavy breathing. When Lucius next spoke, his words were broken from pain.
"My Lord, I p-promise you that Draco will be at your side, just as I h-have always been. It is s-simply that he is young. H-he did not take well to his f-fall from power, but I will have him w-with you by the time the next year begins. Y-you have my word." He fell silent, gasping for breath.
"Indeed, Lucius," the Dark Lord agreed coldly. "You must know, of course, that it matters little to me precisely what happens regarding your son. He is only one of the many tools I have set out to use. If he does not come willingly he will not come at all, and you must know that he cannot be responsible for these choices. As you say, he is young. No, Lucius." The voice turned strangely melodic, alluring. "If Draco chooses against me, he will not suffer. The weight of my displeasure will fall onto you. Now." There were sounds of abrupt movement. "I gave you two duties. The progress of your first task shall be monitored. I hope that you fared better with the second?"
"Thank you, Master," Lucius said immediately. Faulkner heard the sounds of cloth swishing as he rose from the ground, robes making gentle noises against each other as they were settled into place. He cleared his throat once, and began to speak.
"I have seen the Dementors, my Lord," he began, voice still shaky with the aftershocks of pain. "Their Shadow Master does send his support, and allowed me to leave with my Soul intact as a proof of his lack of animosity."
"You are hiding things from me, Lucius," the Dark Lord said warningly. "It is not a good way to begin your second chance."
"Of course not, my Lord. I was only getting to the end. The Dementors have been mistreated under the ministry in the last decade. They view what we have to offer in a positive light, but are mistrustful of wizards who come bearing promises. They were human once, and some of the newly turned can remember human greed and treachery. I would not presume to offer a suggestion in this matter," he added hastily.
"Of course not." The Dark Lord's voice was bland.
"However, as I am sure you have already realised, it may take more effort to win their trust. They followed Umbrage for us, of course, however I think it will take more than her to form an Army, and Dolores is currently . out of commission. I spoke with our contact in St. Mugos, and he told me that he finds her chances of recovery to be positive."
"Umbrage was a useful woman, a proud member of our ranks. However she too is also a tool. I have many others that can do her job, and none will be needed to encourage the Shadow Master. What of the equilines?"
Again Lucius Malfoy cleared his throat, as if searching his mind for the proper sheaf of information before beginning.
"The Bicorn Mare and Chichevache Stallion have raced far from here," he said smoothly. "The Shadow Master of the Dementors stays in communication with all Dark creatures, naturally, however I have yet to see the equiline representatives myself. Even so, the Shadow Master has sent word to you from them. The Bicorn and Chichevache tribes will send steeds to surpass anything the Unicorns could do. As for the Thestrals, they remain neutral as they always have, but I'm certain that they will join us when we need them. They are Dark creatures, whatever the Hogwarts Giant has done to tame them. They still look forward to the feast."
"What a feast it will be," the Dark Lord agreed. "Is that all?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Then I think you have issues that may become pressing. I suggest you tend to them immediately. Keep the contact informed, make sure that they will be able to infiltrate without a problem."
"There will be no problems, my Lord."
"Of course not. I did not take you out of the Wizard's prison to have you fail." With that, a loud crack echoed through the halls of the Riddle House. Voldemort began to laugh softly.
Faulkner never knew which noise it was that made him act. Driven by a sudden curiosity, he cast a Disillusionment charm over himself and crept closer to the door. The room was dimly lit, with the fire flickering warmly. A stout, balding man who perched on the very edge of his seat, fidgeting horribly, occupied the chair nearest to the door. The other was empty. Off to one side, almost wrapped in shadows, stood the other man. He turned slowly, and John caught a glimmer of red as the firelight caught his eyes.
"What do you think," Lord Voldemort asked in a soft voice. Faulkner froze, then breathed again as a voice answered.
"He is a fool." The voice was female. The owner of the voice slowly seemed to materialize from the shadows. She was followed swiftly by four other cloaked shapes.
"We have followed him into disaster for the last time," a male voice agreed.
"Be patient, my pets," Voldemort interjected, raising one finger in warning. "He has another chance to prove himself. Need I remind you that you yourselves are here only because of my unending generosity? I could easily have killed you for what you allowed to happen last year."
"But he sees you only for your power," the woman exclaimed as the men hung their heads and murmured soft apologies and pleas.
"Bella!" Voldemort's voice was hard. "Do not be so quick to judge others whom you cannot know . I am neither bind nor stupid, not even when it comes to you yourself. You may wish for my mercy someday."
Bellatrix Lestrange dropped her head. "Yes, Master," she replied softly.
"She makes a point, though, my Lord," another man stated meekly. "If Lucius becomes overconfident and too sure of himself, he could cause damage to our plans."
"That is impossible," the Dark Lord disagreed. "I have been aware of Lucius for some time now, if my faithful servants have not." Special emphasis was placed on the word 'faithful'; the circle of Death Eaters shivered slightly. "No," Voldemort continued reflectively, "no, Lucius amuses me, I will not deny it. And he has competence enough to deal with issues now. I will give him a fair test, to show him my mercy."
"My Lord," Bellatrix spoke up again. "Lucius has escaped Azkaban, yes, but his reputation has been slandered, as have all of ours. How can we expect him to continue his former existence in our world? He will be rated worse than the Dog was."
"In normal situations you would be correct. However, Lucius is skilled when it comes to interacting with others. He has Fudge completely under control, and that means that I have him under my control. People will question, of course, but Lucius has the advantage of a rather large fortune. When I allowed him to remain where he was I ensured that there would be no problems. Now, what of the prophecy?"
A third man stepped forwards slightly, bowing. "The fool Dumbledore is now the only one in possession of it," he said, voice rough with anger. "The Potter boy is certain to have heard the beginning, and you are in possession of the end. It seems that we are at an impasse."
"Do not underestimate Albus Dumbledore," Voldemort warned in a low voice. "I would not place any faith in his oblivion. We will triumph only when we are in possession of the prophecy in its entirety. Only then will I be able to achieve what I have been working for."
"And what is that, my Lord?" the last man asked eagerly. The light glowed red in the Dark Lord's eyes as he turned to face the final speaker.
"You presume too much, Dolohov." He said coldly. He looked at the other Death Eaters. "His death will not be honoured, even among our ranks. He is not worthy of the Circle. Avada Kedavra." The figure crumpled to the ground in a flash of green light. Instantly, John's heard leapt to his throat. Voldemort continued to speak.
"There is another here who has made a fatal mistake tonight," he said in the same toneless voice. "He believes that I will not be able to spot him for who he truly is. I believe he even suspected that I would have forgotten him by now." He slowly pitched his voice to carry. "However, this man was incorrect. I have forgotten nothing, certainly not him, and I cannot be fooled by a simple charm. You will regret standing against me, John Faulkner."
He was dead before the words could register, eyes still open with confused shock. Voldemort laughed softly.
"It appears that we have begun, my pets," he said, something resembling glee creeping into his voice. "Thanks to the efforts of Albus Dumbledore, the world now knows that I have returned. It would be an injustice to keep them in suspense any longer. Come, my pets. Let us once more show the world the meaning of fear."
In a silent stream the Death Eaters left the Riddle House. They split up, quartering the town with almost military precision and with the same efficiency the buildings, the cottages and stores, began to crumble. The moon was beginning to fade before the screams stopped echoing around the ruined structures. Then, as the sun began to rise, a green mist began to pour out of all of the dwellings. It drifted up, gathering over the ruin of Little Hangleton, and began to take shape. Soon a glowing green skull hung in the air, a ghostly tongue flickering in the wind. Whether through fate or magic, twin stars glittered in the empty sockets like eyes. The Dark Mark had claimed another victim.
~*~*~*~
The Order of the Phoenix had met once more. The purpose of the meeting had been to yet again decide what to do about Harry Potter, and Albus had to privately admit that he was rather pleased with the decision. Propriety aside, he had spent quite a bit of time watching Harry as he grew, both in and out of Hogwarts. He was an intelligent boy, when he saw reason to be. He was also fiercely loyal, proud, and strong; the perfect Gryffindor. Albus felt something pull inside of him, but smothered it before it could form itself into a feeling. He knew what it would become, if he let it, and he knew that he didn't have time for it at the moment.
His thoughts mirroring his actions, he felt himself spin through the Floo Network to appear in his own fireplace, and only years of instinctive training kept him from tumbling unceremoniously onto the carpet. As it was, he stumbled slightly before righting himself to look around his empty office.
By giving Harry responsibility they were giving him a chance to become more than The Boy Who Lived, and Albus suspected that this would help him to move beyond the anger and the darkness that seemed to be consuming him.
The dark was consuming more than just Harry, though, and that was troubling. Voldemort had not shown his face since Albus had won the battle at the Ministry of Magic, but behind everything he still maintained his shadow, sending it creeping out slowly, inch by inch. People didn't see what was happening, but that was to be expected. Tom always had been a subtle creature. Despite proclamations to the contrary, he still managed to have the majority of the Wizarding world convinced that his reappearance was a figment of the imagination. Even the Ministry of Magic wasn't able to persuade everyone.
Looking down at his desk Albus sighed. It was covered with trinkets and trivialities, all of them seeming vastly unimportant in the light of recent events. However, truth of the matter was that Lord Voldemort had done nothing in the last months, and so there was nothing Albus could do in return. And, he had a school to consider. Parents had special considerations that he as Headmaster had to address individually, and among other things, Argus Filch had requested that he consider a special revision of the Code for Regulations and Punishments that Albus suspected had something to do with thumbscrews. The man was highly skilled, but many of his ideas fell slightly behind the times.
Beside the piles of parchment, a single scroll was placed with a certain reverence. A rare text, it was something that he had been looking forward to examining. He touched the ribbon holding it closed, brow furrowing in thought. He would have little time to read it later in August, when the staff became overburdened with preparing for the next year. They would be coming to the castle within the next few weeks, although Irma was insistent even now on making periodic stops to re-classify the library. Perhaps a few moments of decent reading would help to clear his head.
Taking the scroll up from his desk, Albus made his way over to the nearest window. He opened the shudders and let the summer air wash over him, the evening's bite still clinging to the wind despite the traces of colour beginning to stain the Eastern horizon - great Merlin, had he truly been away that long? Albus shook his head wryly and set his spectacles more firmly onto his nose.
Suddenly his breathing faltered. He inhaled sharply through his nose and blinked twice to make certain that he wasn't imagining things. The wind carried a faint scent; spicy and bitter, like cinnamon and burnt almonds. The sound of the breeze against the stone of the castle was like a low moan, helpless and forlorn. And, barely perceptible in the pre-dawn light, a faint green glow shone on the horizon.
With deliberated movements Albus set the scroll down on a convenient bookshelf. He extended one hand back towards his desk and beckoned with two fingers. His wand rose from the desk and floated across the span to land unerringly in his extended hand.
"Mactus locus," Albus whispered, pointing his wand directly at the glowing green smudge. There was a whistle of wind, and a faint mist poured out of the end of his wand. Slowly, magnified on the floating silvery field, the area of sky began to come into focus.
There, grinning at him with a soulless glee, hung a green skull balancing, it seemed, on the sun's first rays. Two morning stars shone like eyes, winking at him as the serpentine tongue swayed back and forth.
He turned away from the window in a swirl of midnight blue robes. Anger welled up and battled with other emotions before he locked it away. Righteous fury was a powerful tool that could be directed - he was, after all, a Gryffindor, and knew to appreciate virtuous wrath. However, now was not the time, nor the place. With forced deliberation Albus returned to his desk and banished the papers and notes with a sweep of his wand. They soared around his office in a flutter of chaos for a moment before settling in their proper places. A flick of his wrist summoned a roll of maps. Swallowing hard, he sat down.
"Winky," he called softly. There was a faint popping noise, and a small brown head appeared from behind one of the bookshelves.
"Master Dumbledore called, sir?"
Despite everything, Albus smiled at the House Elf.
"Yes. Winky, would you be so kind as to find Professor McGonagall for me? I need to speak with her as soon as possible."
The small creature nodded. Her eyes flicked up and over Albus's shoulder for a moment to rest on the silver screen suspended in the window and her large eyes bulged even more. She blinked, nodded again quickly, and vanished behind the book shelf. Albus looked back at his desk.
Before he could open the maps, a soft trill filled the room. Albus looked up as Fawkes soared off of his perch and came to rest on the back of the chair that faced the desk. The beautiful bird cocked its head and stared at him, and the Headmaster returned the look with the same gravity. Then he sighed and straightened his shoulders, reaching for a map. There was no time left in the world for an old man with a bit too much weight resting on his shoulders.
~*~*~*~
Albus Dumbledore had just left them, and the members of the Order of the Phoenix were starting to drift apart, wandering to separate corners of the house in search of peace and quiet. Determined to break the trend, Fred and George Weasley had vanished into some unknown room, and smells of sulphur and smoke were now drifting through number twelve, Grimmauld place.
Sensing the break-up of the meeting, Ron put down the Quidditch book he had been skimming through and opened the door to his room. From the hallway he could see some of the remaining members. They were gathered in the front hallway, examining the cloth that covered the portrait of Mrs. Black. He couldn't pick up the voices, but he could see the expressions on their faces.
One man in particular seemed to be rather displeased. Severus Snape's face was distorted with disgust, and he poked at the edge of the tapestry with his wand. Instantly, the front hallway erupted in noise that even Ron could hear. Bill and Charley Weasley both moved towards him, wands waving. On the other side of the room, Tonks, who had wisely chosen to stay away from the painting for fear of doing damage, rushed forwards. Trails of sound floated upwards.
" You idiot! Are you trying to provoke her?"
"Stop it!"
"Snape, don't wake her up, we've been keeping her blessedly quiet for weeks."
"If you must all act like anxious birds I will take my leave of you," Snape's cold voice snapped. Then, his voice dropped again and Ron lost the conversation.
Burned, he thought. No one could escape Snape's wrath, although he thought that if his Mother had been there she would have stood a decent chance. Rather than passing through the front hall, Ron avoided the main stairs and headed down the hallway. The door at the end led to another flight of stairs, which he took down into the Living Room.
He laughed slightly, being allowed into this room for the first time in weeks. Or, rather, not allowed, per say, just not stopped. He looked over at the couch, and debated sitting on it, before giving up on the idea. With another look around the room, he turned to leave.
Just then, the fire turned green. Ron dropped his book, startled, and hurried over to the hearth as a face appeared in the flames.
"Is your father around?" Cornelius Fudge asked. Ron gulped.
"Um ." he swallowed. "Yeah, he should be . I'll go and find him."
"Thanks."
Fortunately enough, because Grimmauld Place was a large house, Arthur Weasley hadn't gone far. Ron found him sitting in the kitchen with Kingsley Shacklebolt, discussing the implication of new policies within the Ministry of Magic, and how this would affect the Aurors working there. Both looked up when he entered.
"Ron," he smiled. "What is it?"
"The Minister for Magic is . in the fire," Ron relayed. A flash of irritation crossed over his father's face.
"Do you know what he wants?" he asked, already setting down his drink and beginning to rise.
"No," Ron answered. "He just asked if you were around. He sounded kind of pissed off, though."
A grunt came from across the room.
"Watch your language," Molly Weasley exclaimed, spinning around and wielding her spoon like a weapon. Even now, she appeared to be cooking something. Ron went over to investigate.
"Sorry, Mum," he said quickly. He poked a finger in one of the pots that were simmering on top of the stove and tasted the mixture. "Apple tart?"
"Not now," Molly hustled him across the room with her spoon. "It was supposed to be a treat. And Arthur," she turned to her husband. "You should go and see what Cornelius wants. He isn't a very patient man, you know."
"Oh, I know, I know." Arthur cast an apologetic glance at Kingsley, who nodded knowingly, and left the kitchen. Ron started to follow, but stopped at the look from his Mother.
"I wasn't going to do anything," he protested, hands up. "But I have to leave the kitchen somehow, don't I?" Molly scowled at him and made a shooing motion with her spoon.
The door to the living room was closed by the time Ron got to it; again. He sighed and made his way back upstairs In his room the Quidditch book was lying on his bed, and he picked it up. Suddenly, the silence was broken by two pops.
Fred and George stood side by side, wearing identical grins. George held out a hand, and with it a small piece of what looked like plastic.
"Need an Ear?" he asked. Ron frowned.
"What's that?"
Fred grinned.
"Extendible Ears, second run." He held out another bit of plastic and Ron took it. Faintly flesh coloured, it looked the same as the other Extendible Ears, save for a lack of cord coming from the end. "We thought it was a bit too obvious if there were little strings running around the house," George explained. "So, we charmed them. Now we just set up receivers around the house, and the ear-pieces can pick up sound from any of them. Take a look."
He took yet another ear-piece from inside his robes. Tapping it with his wand, he said,
"Living Room."
Suddenly, the room was filled with sound.
". completely without warning." It was Fudge's voice.
"What are you saying?" Arthur asked, in a slightly panicked tone.
"It's just gone, is what I'm saying. Nothing's been left standing . nothing at all. Just rubble and that blasted mark hanging over it all."
There was a pause.
"Sir," Arthur spoke at last. "Little Hangleton was where it all began. That . that means it's finally happening, then?"
"Indeed," Fudge answered. "We have had no warning, completely out of the blue. We'll have to do what we can now. Can you get to the office immediately?"
"Of course. But, sir," Arthur hesitated. "I'm in charge of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts . why do you need me?"
"I don't," came the flat reply. Then, "But, you never know, really. If You- Know-Who starts using handguns . well, you never know. I do not apologise," Fudge said gruffly.
"Of course not, Sir," Arthur answered. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Oh, and Arthur?"
"Yes, Minister?"
"Let's try and keep this private, eh? You can tell Molly, of course, and no doubt your little . group . will hear about it, but don't tell the children. An epidemic of panic running around Hogwarts is the last thing I need . I can deal with Dumbledore later."
"Of course, Sir. I'll be right there."
"Finis."
The three boys stood for a moment, looking at each other.
"Completely without warning?" Fred asked, looking incredulous. "They've had plenty of warning . the entire thing last year was at the Ministry of bloody Magic, for Merlin's sake. He gave a report to the Daily Profit and everything!"
"Yeah," Ron answered, "but he has a selective memory, doesn't he. I've never heard him bring it up again, and it'd certainly suit his purposes to pretend that it was just a memory lapse or something." He said the last words with disgust.
"Well, he can't deny this," George said finally. "No one except You-Know- Who could have taken out an entire village, there's no other explanation."
"Why doesn't that encourage me?" Fred asked. Not sure whether or not it was rhetorical, the other two shrugged. Ron looked around for an excuse to change the subject.
"Can anyone find the receiver for the Extendible Ears?" he asked. Both of the twins shook their heads.
"Not unless they can crack the chain of invisibility spells on it," George explained, "and even then, it's hidden behind the bookshelf."
"Took us hours to get it in place," Fred added. "Everyone went out to the Ministry one day, we got them all set up before they got back."
"Where have you got the receivers?" Ron asked, curious despite himself. Fred and George exchanged a glance, then shrugged in attempts at modesty.
"Oh, here and there," Fred answered.
"Everywhere people say interesting things," George added helpfully. "We listen in on all of the Order meetings, and some other stuff, you never know when people are going to say things that they don't want you to hear."
"But," Ron frowned, confused. "You're in the order meetings, why do you need to listen in on them?"
"Yeah, we thought of that," George agreed.
"But," Fred shrugged. "Never hurts to be prepared."
"Right." Ron took the ear-piece from his ear and held it out to the twins. Fred shook his head and pushed it back to him.
"Its on us," he said cheerily. "Of course, you'll have to buy the receivers if you want to put them anywhere we don't have one, or if you want to use them at Hogwarts, or anything."
"Two Sickles per receiver," George added helpfully.
"Erm, thanks." Ron put the ear-piece in the pocket of his robes. The twins also disposed of theirs, and then sat down uninvited on his bed. They sat for a moment, looking at each other, eyes twinkling. Then, identical expressions of glee spread across their faces.
"There's really no reason for us not to know any of this," Fred commented thoughtfully.
"None at all," George agreed. "After all, we are of age, and we are members of the Order, when it comes down to it. They'll tell us in the end."
"And we will be properly shocked and horrified."
"Of course. Now you," he turned to Ron. "You, poor little Sixth Year, you're not supposed to know about it at all. Wouldn't want something horrible running rampant around Hogwarts."
Ron scowled. "Oh, come on," he exclaimed.
"So," Fred continued, "as older and wiser members of the family," - Ron coughed and rolled his eyes. Fred glared. "As older and wiser members of the family," he repeated, "we must counsel you in this matter."
"Now you must be careful, Ron," George said in a serious tone, "to keep this knowledge secret from all adults other than us. When you tell other people, make sure to tell them in an adult-free zone."
"You are in a perilous position, younger brother." Fred picked up the talk. "Illegal knowledge can be a heavy burden to bear. Tread softly and carefully, and no harm shall befall you."
"Oh, please." Ron held up his hands. "You're making it sound like this is some secret club, or something. I've got to tell Hermione now."
"Go with caution!" Fred called out, before the two of them burst out in fits of laughter.
~*~*~*~
"It's not here."
"I'm telling you, it has to be. I saw it there yesterday morning."
Hermione looked through the cupboard again, then turned away. "That's great," she called down the stair, "except that it's not here."
There was an irritated pause, and a woman appeared at the foot of the staircase. She leaned on the banister, crossing her arms.
"Well then where has it gone?" she demanded in a pleading tone. "It isn't exactly like a lamp can wander off, now can it?"
Hermione decided not to point out the possibilities. In a Muggle household, it was unlikely, anyway. Instead she closed the cupboard and went to face her mother.
"You haven't looked at that lamp in years," she pointed out. "Why do you need it now?"
Jenny Granger spread her hands.
"Your father has gone on one of his kicks," she said wryly. "Wants to fix everything he can lay his hands on, starting with that lamp." She paused, and continued in a conspiratorial tone, "I think it's best if I just let him get it out of his system."
"Can he start on something else?" Hermione asked. "Why that lamp?"
"Well, if the lamp's gone, he'll have to, won't he?" Mrs. Granger pointed out. "He'll just have to make do with that lawn gnome."
Hermione shuddered.
"All right," Mrs. Granger sighed, turning away. "If you see it, let me know, will you?" In the distance from the other side of the house, the telephone began to ring.
"Of course," Hermione replied. She was about to return to her room when a thought struck her. "Are you sure Dad didn't get it this morning while you were out?" she asked.
Her mother frowned, considering. "You know," she said reflectively, "he just might have. Thanks. Oh, and would you get the phone?"
"Sure." Hermione raced across the hallway to pick up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Hermione?"
"Ron?" Hermione laughed and sat down in an armchair by the phone. "You're calling me? What's going on? How have you been?"
"Great," Ron replied, "you know, all things considered. Snape was here just now, I've been hiding in my room."
"Which is why you're calling me?" Hermione frowned sceptically. Ron seemed to hear it in her voice; he coughed awkwardly.
"Well, no, not exactly. And, I'm not really supposed to be telling you this at all . I'm not supposed to know, but I couldn't just keep it a secret."
"Ron?" Hermione cut in. "What on earth are you going on?"
"You-know-who is back," Ron answered shortly. Hermione frowned.
"Um, I don't quite know how to tell you this, Ron, but he was back a while ago. You were there, at the Ministry when he tried to kill all of us. It's not nice, but it's nothing new, exactly."
"No, no." There was impatience in Ron's voice now, and Hermione tried to understand it. "That's not what I mean, 'Mione. I mean, you know how he went kind of into hiding for a while at the beginning of the summer? How there's been no news of him at all?"
Hermione made some noise of agreement, as the pieces began to come together.
"Well, we've got news of him now. He blew up Little Hangleton."
"Blew up?" Hermione repeated. "What do you mean, blew up?"
"Well, I wasn't exactly there, or anything, but from what I heard it's just kind of been demolished. Like, no buildings still standing, no one's alive, everything just . blown up, like I said. Total destruction, from what Fudge was saying."
"You were talking to Fudge?" Hermione raised an eyebrow.
"No, I just . overheard what they were saying, that's all."
"Right. And why exactly are you calling me?"
There was another pause on the other end of the line. Finally Ron made a non-committal noise somewhere between a grunt and a squeak.
"I figured I had to tell someone, and I was going to tell Harry, but then, I didn't."
"Why not?"
"You want me to call there?" Ron exclaimed with surprising emotion. "I can't do that, 'Mione. You've never tried . his relatives are monsters. They don't let me talk to him half the time, if I get that cousin, and Harry says that they always listen to his end, anyway."
"You could have owled him," Hermione pointed out.
"No I couldn't," he replied. "Mum and Dad can get at letters that get sent out, and it's not like I think they're reading all of my mail, or anything, but I'm not supposed to know that anything's going on; I don't send out many owls, if I send Pig out now they'll get suspicious. And, you don't have Moody in your house for dinner, staring at you with that eye. He can see into souls, I swear."
Hermione laughed. "I don't think that's very likely," she scoffed. "But, I'll owl him about it if you want me to."
"Thanks." Suddenly, Ron's voice brightened. "Oh, Hermione, did you get that letter from Professor Lupin?"
"Yes," she answered. "And Harry told me about it, too. I can't wait to come; do you know when they want us to get there?"
"No, people still aren't really talking to me, much. But, it's great that you'll be staying over here, I've been bored out of my mind for the last few weeks. Even if they don't tell us anything, again, it'll be better than just sitting here doing nothing."
"Yeah," Hermione agreed. "I've been helping my parents around the house, but nothing really interesting. It'll be nice to be in a wizarding household again. I'm worried that I'm going to forget all of my spells."
"You can't do magic, though, 'Mione," Ron protested.
"I know, I know, but you hear spells around the house, and you can watch . you can learn so much without actually doing anything."
"You're sounding like Umbrage."
"Merlin, no!" Hermione exclaimed. "Just for that, I'm not talking to you any more. I'll see you in a few days, I guess."
"All right," Ron laughed. "Owl Harry for me."
"Of course."
Grinning, Hermione put down the phone and went off in search of a quill and parchment.
~*~*~*~
The response to his letter came within a few days, along with a small Hogwarts Post-Owl bearing two envelopes. Hedwig generously allowed the smaller bird too share her cage for a few hours, and Harry gave it an Owl Treat before it flew away again.
The letter Hedwig brought came from Hermione. It was brief, saying that she'd love to meet him at Diagon Alley, and that in fact it was probably best that they did, because she had some things to talk to him about. She would be going to get her supplies in two days, she said, if they could meet. Harry suspected he already knew what those things were, but decided that it was definitely worth seeing Hermione, even if he had to go over his dreams again.
He was going to wait before sending a reply, but Hedwig was shifting around in her cage impatiently, so he scratched out something about meeting her at Fortiscue's mid-afternoon on Thursday and sent Hedwig off once more.
The other two letters both came in official looking envelopes. One, bearing the Hogwarts Crest and written in shimmering green ink, told him that his proposed courses had been accepted, and that he was in fact taking the classes he wanted to take. Harry was mildly relieved. There was also the standard list of supplies that he would need, with the courses he was taking marked with golden stars. Harry stowed the letter in his trunk and opened the other one.
It was sealed with a crest that he didn't recognize; a stylized bird flew between two trees, with flames for leaves. He peeled off the wax and took out the letter. There was nothing special about the letter, except that Harry quickly recognized the handwriting.
Dear Harry,
I'm sure you've heard something about what's going on now. All things considered, we all think that it's for the for the best that you come here as quickly as possible. We don't expect any immediate danger, but even so you'll be safer here, even with Dumbledore's protection.
There are still things that need to be done around here before you and Hermione can come, but you can expect someone to come by and pick you up, probably me, mid-day on Sunday. If anything changes, I'll let you know by Owl, or when you next call.
Again, I don't want to say too much, in case the owl carrying this somehow gets intercepted, but don't worry; we'll explain everything that we can when you come. Until then, have a wonderful holiday. If you can find the time, it would be better for you to get your supplies before you get here, but otherwise I'm sure that we can arrange a trip later on.
Love from us all,
Remus Lupin
Harry read the letter twice. Lupin hadn't sounded as cheerful as he had by telephone, and Harry had dreamed nothing to indicate any changes on Voldemort's part, so he didn't quite understand the reference to no 'immediate danger', but the cryptic ending indicated that there were things going on that he was unaware of, and that was still rather exciting. He debated whether or not he needed to reply to this letter, but Hedwig had just left, and the Hogwarts Owl was gone as well. Harry reasoned that if he was supposed to send anything back it would have been told to stay, so instead he folded the letter neatly in the envelope and then it, too, joined the collection of items at the bottom of his trunk.
That done, he sat back down on his bed and picked up the discarded book, a birthday present from Hermione, naturally. A strange magical novel of sorts, it was spelled so that Harry would always open it to the right page, and whenever he got bored of the story he was reading it would change to something else completely. It hadn't yet turned into a Quidditch text, but Harry was still hopeful. That combined with the fact that he would be going to Diagon Alley in two days and Number Twelve, Grimmauld place in five days made life look a lot better as he lay down and began to read.
~*~*~*~
initii diversi
The post-owl that brought his news had a difficult time getting in. Mid- summer in Sussex tended to be hot and muggy, and this year was no exception. The humidity was unnaturally high, and this appeared to have interest effects on wooden objects, more specifically one window at 14 Privet drive. Harry had been trying for the last few days to get it open, to no avail, and so when he was drawn from his book by the harsh screech of an owl he jerked up, surprised.
There, perched at the foot of his bed, was a small brown owl, a letter attached to its leg. The bird pecked irritably at the bed-post for a moment, then fluttered its wings. On the other side of the room, safely in the confines of her cage, Hedwig gave the other owl a look of pure disgust. Harry smiled fondly at her, and took the letter from the leg of the strange bird. He waited, expecting the screech owl to take off now that its task had been completed, but instead it stayed perched on his bed, staring at him. Harry shrugged and turned to the letter.
It was sealed with the Hogwarts Crest, addressed in the shimmering ink that was the school's trademark. Harry broke the seal and took out a single peace of paper. When he saw the title written at the top of the page he winced.
Ordinary Wizarding Levels: Results for Mr. Harry Potter
Astronomy - A
Care of Magical Creatures - O
Charms - E
Defence Against the Dark Arts - O
Divination - P
Herbology - A
History of Magic - A
Potions - E
Transfiguration - E
Any students who wish to take a make-up practical examination should indicate this on the reverse side of this parchment. Make-up examinations will be conducted on the first day of classes, with the approval of the supervising professor. Students should indicate this, as well as the courses they wish to continue with next year, on the reverse side of this parchment.
Harry looked down at his grades, stunned. He had expected the 'P' in Divination, considering how horribly he'd done, but everything else was amazing. He'd hoped, of course, for the 'O' in Defence, and he had thought he might be able to scrape 'E's in Charms, but his grades for Care of Magical Creatures and Transfiguration were more than he had hoped for. And, wonder or wonders, he had gotten an 'E' in Potions! He was ecstatic, until he suddenly remembered something that Professor McGonagal said to him in his Careers Advice consultation.
"Poisons and antidotes are essential study for Aurors. And I must tell you that professor Snape absolutely refuses to take students who get anything other than "Outstanding" in their OWLs, so-"
His heart fell. He had managed to get high enough marks in every other subject he needed, except for Potions. The letter did say that he could try to make-up the mark for his examination, but he somehow doubted that Snape would be sympathetic. The Potion Master's dislike for him had grown intensely over the last year, and Harry didn't think that the summer would do anything to change it. Still, there weren't exactly many options for him. He flipped over the piece of parchment.
Along the left side was a list of possible classes. Beside each class were two small boxes. The heading above one read 'course selected', while the second column was marked 'proposed make-ups'. At the very top of the page was what seemed to be a demonstration row: in the box beside the words "your selected course", a black check-mark continued to tick itself off and then vanish.
Quickly Harry checked off the courses that Professor McGonagall had told him that he would need: Defence Against the Dark Arts, Charms, Transfiguration, and Potions, the latter checked in the 'proposed make-ups' column. Then he scanned the remaining options. Sixth-years were required to take eight classes, which left room for four other choices, except that it was really three; the box beside History of Magic already contained a heavy black check-mark. From the list Harry selected Advanced Magics, which looked interesting, and Magical Wards and Protections, which Harry thought might come in handy when facing Dudley. He debated for a moment longer, and then selected Herbology rather than Care of Magical Creatures. His love of Hagrid aside, he thought that Herbology stood a much greater chance of actually being useful to him. He would just have to visit Hagrid more often, that's all.
Choices made, Harry re-folded the letter and put it back in the Hogwarts envelope. He watched with some fascination as the letter resealed itself, then looked at the screech owl still perched at the foot of his bed. He attached the letter to its leg and watched as it circled his room once, then soared out of his bedroom door.
Harry looked over at Hedwig, then went to her cage and took a bag of Owl Treats from the table nearby. He opened the cage and she moved over to the door, rubbing against his hand almost like a cat. When he gave her the treat, Hedwig took it and hooted softly, then nibbled on his finger. Harry closed the door to her cage. Hedwig settled her feathers and returned to her perch in resigned acceptance.
Then Harry left his room. There were things he had to accomplish that day, he reflected. One thing in particular required the use of the telephone, which would mean that he would have to risk facing the Dursleys. Even so, he had better things to do than hide in his bedroom.
He had just entered the living room when he found them. Dudley and his friends seemed to have just come in; they were all red-faced and sweating horribly, gathered in the kitchen while one boy rooted through the fridge in search of something cold. When they saw Harry, all but the latter left the kitchen and moved into the living room. They formed a semi-circle, with Dudley in the centre.
"There was an owl in the kitchen," he said, staring at Harry. He crossed his arms, and his muscles bunched.
"That's not possible," Harry answered. He put an expression of knowing boredom on his face, not allowing himself to be intimidated. "Owls are nocturnal."
Dudley frowned for a moment, his giant forehead furrowing with intense concentration. His gang members seemed similarly confused.
"It means they only come out at night," Harry supplied feeling, for the first time, that he might have an idea of what Hermione felt sometimes talking to him and Ron. He vowed to be more intelligent in the future. Meanwhile, light had dawned on Dudley's face and then vanished, replaced with annoyance at being bested.
"Well," he said provocatively, "it was there. We all saw it; flew in the door and out the window, didn't it?" Noises of agreement came from the other members of the gang. Harry raised his eyebrows and shrugged dismissively.
"Whatever you say," he scoffed. There was a slight pause as Dudley struggled to come up with something to say.
"Let's beat him up!" one of the gang members suggested eagerly to fill in the gap.
"He thinks he's so smart," another boy agreed. "Thinks he's so much better than us; we could show him easy."
Harry grinned. This was a familiar environment, an easy win for him. He leaned on the wall crossing his arms and forcing himself to physically relax. He put on a look that actually reminded him quite a bit of Malfoy, and smirked.
"Yeah, Big D," he mocked. "You're going to try and take me on? I don't know, you really think you can? I mean there's, what, seven of you, and only one of me. Those odds really are against you here. Or," he paused somewhat theatrically. "do you think you really need your friends to help you? Can't take me on yourself?"
"There's nothing to stop me," Dudley growled. He uncrossed his arms and punched one fist into the other hand menacingly. "I heard what happened last year. You try any of your little tricks and they won't let you back into that little freak school of yours. No one'll help you this time; I hear you went to court and everything. You're not so great, are you? And you're precious Godfather's not showing his face much anymore. What happened to him?"
Harry swallowed quickly to steady his voice. "No," he agreed with forced cheer, ignoring the jibe at Sirius. "You're right, I can't do anything. But, if any of my Godfather's friends hear about it - well, there's nothing at all to stop any of them from using any tricks they want. And, you know, they're all just looking for an excuse to do something, now that they've heard what's been going on here."
Dudley's gang looked confused. Dudley looked murderous.
"Come on," he said briskly. "He's not worth our time."
"But Dud," one of the smaller boys protested with a whine. "He deserves a pounding, and it'd be so easy!"
"Let's go!" Dudley bellowed, giving the kid a shove and propelling him out of the room. As they left, Harry heard another one ask,
"But what did he mean?"
As soon as they were out of sight, Harry clenched his fists. Some day, he vowed, he would pay Dudley back for everything he'd done. While there was a certain satisfaction in outwitting him, it wasn't really very heard. Compared to Draco Malfoy, Dudley was a rotten vegetable mentally. A malicious rotten vegetable.
Slowly he closed his eyes and concentrated on absolutely nothing. He felt his irritation and hatred leaving him until he was floating in oblivion, much like the peace of the Imperius Curse. When he blinked free of it he was relatively certain that his voice would sound cheerful and untroubled. He picked up the telephone and dialled. After a few seconds, he heard the other end click and a voice spoke.
"Hello?"
"Professor Moody," Harry exclaimed. The ex-Auror's voice sounded uncertain, despite almost an entire month of frequent conversation. In fact, Harry could almost picture the old man sitting on a chair, wand pointed at the telephone. If dustbins could attack, logically telephones were almost more dangerous.
"Harry, my boy." Moody sounded relieved. "How are you? How've you been?"
"Not much has changed since I last called," Harry answered. "It's so hot out that there's really nothing to do, I've been doing a lot of reading. Not much else."
"And how have your relatives been treating you?" Moody pressed.
"Thanks to you, it's been great." Harry was thankful for the concern, but decided it would be prudent not to mention the events of the last five minutes. "Everyone's terrified of you; you made a great impression at the train. Uncle Vernon's terrified, and Dudley hasn't tried to do anything at all." A lie, technically or even not technically, but Harry didn't see the need to tell the precise truth.
"I'm glad." Moody sounded more relieved than seemed necessary. "Listen, Harry, I'm glad you called. If you hadn't, I would have probably been forced to . telephone . you instead. Remus wanted to talk to you as soon as possible. If you don't mind talking to him?"
"Of course not," Harry replied, mildly confused.
"Perfect. If you'll wait a moment I'll see if I can find him." There was a flurry of noise on the other end, and the sounds of people shouting. Harry thought he could make out the shrieking voice of Mrs. Black, some distance away, and there was a series of sharp bangs before the receiver was picked up again.
"Have you tried a Silencing charm?" Harry asked, suddenly getting the idea.
"Hello to you too, Harry," Lupin chuckled. "And yes, we have, early on. Blasted woman seems to have cast every possible charm on the canvas before she had herself painted onto it; we've tried silencing it, covering it up, we even tried to wipe the canvas; drastic measures, but . at any rate, the painting's remained impervious to everything we've done."
"Oh." Harry shrugged. "Just a thought."
"It's a good idea," Lupin agreed. "Pity it didn't work. Anyways, that's not why I wanted to talk to you. Molly told me that you normally spend most of August at the Borrow, with the Weasleys?"
"Yeah," Harry answered.
"Well, with recent events the way they are, the Weasleys have been spending the summer at Grimmauld Place. However," Lupin continued when Harry made a noise of disappointment, "that doesn't mean that you have to stay with your Aunt and Uncle. You would be most welcome here, if you wanted to come instead. In fact, I would request that you do come, unless something is preventing you for some reason or other."
"Um," Harry frowned. "Yeah, of course, I'd love to," he answered. "But, um, I don't understand why. Last year Mrs. Weasley was going on about how I was much too young to do anything and, well, it's only been a year and I'm still younger than Fred and George were last year."
"Yes," Lupin replied, "I know. Things have changed, though, and . well, I can't really explain very much over the telephone. Really, you never know what can be happening with these telephone taps you hear about these days."
Harry barely contained a snort at the thought of the Death Eaters using telephone taps. It was highly unlikely, given their unwillingness to acknowledge the Muggle world except as a lower life-form, and it was more amusing than frightening to think of wizards using technology of the British secret service.
Lupin seemed to pick up on his thoughts, and laughed warmly.
"You never know," he said with what sounded like a verbal shrug. "At any rate, suffice it to say that you would find yourself contributing this summer, and if nothing else it should be interesting. You'll also be able to start your Occlumency lessons early; Professor Snape stops by quite frequently, and I'm sure Albus will be able to coerce him."
Harry stifled a groan. Bonus lessons with Snape were more of a curse than a blessing, but he thought that after a month of practicing he might be able to hold his own. He forced a smile, hoping the expression would carry in his voice.
"That's great," he replied. "My Aunt and Uncle will be thrilled to get rid of me, I'm sure. Um, just, is Hermione going to be coming?"
There was a slight pause.
"Under normal circumstances it wouldn't be advisable to bring her in," Lupin answered finally. "However, things are slightly different the way they are now. You need to be here, for your safety as much as anything, and with Ron here as well, I think it will be difficult to keep any secrets from Hermione." Amusement laced his voice. "Despite their soulful claims of innocence, I know the twins have ways of hearing things they're not supposed to hear, and of course that information will just happen to find its way to you kids."
Harry chuckled. "How's their store going?" he asked.
"I think you should probably ask them," Lupin replied. "They've been keeping it awfully secretive, even now."
"I will," Harry agreed. "So, how exactly am I going to get there? Please not Floo, I beg you. Uncle Vernon nearly died when Mr. Weasley came the last time."
"Don't worry, I'll come by myself by car, or send someone else, we'll see who's available. It will be perfectly respectable; we don't want to give them anything else to worry about. I'm sure they have very busy lives."
"Yeah," Harry muttered. "Right."
"Well," Lupin coughed in a dismissive kind of way. "I have things I have to do, Harry. I'm not certain when we'll be ready to have you, but I'll send a letter with your second school letter, all right? Either way, someone should come at the end of this week, either Saturday or Sunday."
"Great," Harry said with genuine cheer.
"Have a good week, then." There was a click and then the line went dead.
Smiling, Harry put down the telephone receiver and hurried back up to his bedroom. Hedwig was sitting in her cage, and she stopped preening her feathers when he came in. As he closed the door she flapped her wings within the confines of the cage, and hooted softly. Harry smiled.
"All right, Hedwig, you can come out soon." He slid an owl treat between the bars of her cage, and then opened the top drawer of his desk and took out a roll of parchment. Dipping his quill in ink, he began to write.
Dear Hermione,
I don't know if you've heard - you probably have, but Professor Lupin invited us all to go and stay with him and Ron's family later on this month . I'm sure you know what I mean. I think they might have finally decided to tell us something; who knows. Anyway, I'm planning on going into Diagon Alley, maybe we could meet up there once I get my list? Write back with Hedwig, and let me know what your parents are planning on doing.
~Harry
He checked the letter over and decided that it was cryptic enough to be safe, on the off chance that someone intercepted it. In fact, he realised, he hadn't really said anything. He let Hedwig out of her cage and tied the roll of parchment to her leg. She hooted softly again and nibbled on his finger gently, then looked inquiringly at his window. Harry groaned.
He went over to the window and pushed up on it tentatively, to no avail. Now more than ever he wished that he was in a wizarding household. He knew at least three spells that would open a window, but as it was he was stuck with his shoulder under the ledge, trying to shove the frame up without either breaking the glass or falling over his desk. Finally it shot upwards with a loud crack, leaving Harry sprawled across the desk with his head hanging out, looking onto the street. An elderly woman with a large hat that looked like a box waved cheerily at him as she walked by. Harry forced a weak grin and pulled himself in.
Hedwig let out a soft trill that sounded suspiciously like a laugh, and soared out into the clear blue sky.
Harry walked away from his desk to the table beside his bed. A large black ball sat on it; a magic eight-ball, courtesy of Ron for his birthday. He picked it up idly, then looked at it again.
"Will I die this year?" he asked it, raising one eyebrow. He shook the ball hard, and watched the swirling blue liquid inside. It settled and a piece of white paper, which reminded Harry startlingly of the slips that came from the Goblet of Fire two years ago, rose to the top of the glass surface. Slowly writing appeared, in the spidery hand that appeared to be the trademark of all semi-intelligent magical items.
Stop being stupid.
"Thanks," Harry muttered. "So that means that the answer is obvious?" The writing disappeared, to be replaced by another answer.
Of course.
Harry waited, but more answers did not seem to be forthcoming. He scowled. "And that answer would be?"
If you can't figure it out for yourself, then why on earth should I tell
you?
"Because you're a magic eight ball, for goodness sakes," Harry exclaimed, tossing the irritating fortune teller onto the bed. "Personally," he added, feeling slightly silly for trying prove himself equal to a little glass ball, "I think you don't know the answer yourself." He looked at the ball from the corner of his eye.
Don't be ridiculous. Of course I know.
Harry snorted, and was turning away when he saw the message change once more.
Still, prophecies can be tricky things.
~*~*~*~
The village of Little Hangleton was quiet. Although it wasn't late, most of the townspeople were at home, tucked up with books or listening to the radio as they prepared for bed. The night owls who did choose to stay up were gathered in The Hanged Man, where drinks and stories flew around with equal concentration.
One man stayed out. He had long ago abandoned the comfort of the pub to keep his own company, and for the last month he had been walking the night, searching. He didn't know what he expected to find, and he was almost certain that he was a complete idiot for looking at all, but John Faulkner was different, in many ways.
At the Hanged Man, if one wanted to find out about him, they would find the rooms filled with people eager to share their tales.
"Oh, he's a strange one," a woman would titter, to the agreeing nods of her companions.
"I could tell you stories," a man would add. "He's always running around at indecent hours, always carrying that walking staff of his, and that little stick, too. I hear tell that he used to work in a school in The Americas, but they kicked him out for whipping little children with that stick. He's a weird fellow, eh Dot?"
"Ooh, very much so," Dot, the town gossiper, would happily reply. "He thinks very well of himself, too. You know, I've heard," Dot would pause for effect while the crowd around her would lean in conspiratorially. "I've heard him muttering, calling us all 'a bunch of muggles'. Hear tell that he and Frank Bryce were friends, too. Nah, it isn't respectable to be associating with him. Weird things happen ."
So, it wasn't completely by his own choice that John stayed away from the main crowd in Little Hangleton. As the only wizard in the town, segregated for many years because of what he knew and what they didn't John had made the early decision to not get himself involved, living in isolation, except for the little mail he received, carried by post owls. It was by this means of communication that he had, just over a month ago, come to hear the suspicious rumour that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named had returned.
Immediately after that, dark clouds had begun to form over the town. John was not a naturally suspicious person, but when a village gets two and a half weeks of rain without stop, any fool can begin to realise that something isn't right. The Muggles had, of course, begun to investigate the unnatural weather patterns, but they could find no cause.
John was less concerned about the weather than what he knew to be the cause. And so, every night he cast a quick Impervius spell over himself and headed out into the night. As he left the boundaries of the town he called a light to the tip of his wand. Today, like every other day, he saw no one. The wind whistled around the barren moor, skimming over rocks and rustling the grasses around him. He spent what felt like an hour wandering the deserted lands, searching for a sign that something was happening. Then, dejected, he returned home.
The Riddle House stood deserted, as it had for the last three years when Frank Bryce was found dead. No one wanted to go near the cursed building, and for once that also included John. He had passed the building every night on his way home, after circling the town. This night, however, things were different. As he passed the old structure, he started in surprise.
In one of the back corner windows, a light was on. John rubbed at his eyes quickly, unwilling to believe what he saw. However, the light stubbornly refused to go away. As his heart began to beat faster, he realised that this was what he had been looking for.
A sensible man would have turned away, knowing what he was facing. However, something strange was in the air that night. Perhaps it was the fact that John had no friends, no special acquaintances to hold him to sense. Perhaps it was something more than that.
Looking back on the events that followed, it is possible that if John Faulkner had turned away, had told the people of Little Hangleton what he knew, what the dangers were, perhaps things would have turned out differently. Then again, the village being what it was, it is more likely that they would have once again laughed him out of the pub. Regardless, John did not turn away from the Riddle House. He went instead around the house, creeping up on the side door and testing it quickly.
It was locked. However, a simple opening charm was all that it took to cause it to swing open, inviting a visitor in. John entered, and was mildly surprised when it did not close behind him. He shut it himself, keeping the bolt off, and began to move through the halls in what he hoped was the direction of the light.
He was lost within seconds. Cursing himself for his stupidity, John quickly gave up his search for the light and instead focussed on trying to find the exit, any exit. He soon found himself in the bowels of the house. Staircases would vanish the instant he climbed them, and corridors would end precisely where they began. Overcome with fear, Faulkner moved on blindly, until suddenly he was stopped by a new noise.
It was so soft as to be almost unintelligible, but it was something. Instantly, that blinding curiosity that had gotten into so much trouble came over John once more. Ignoring his fear and the suffocating darkness of the house, he turned away from his search for the way out and began to follow the noise. It became clearer and clearer, until he was able to make out voices. Suddenly he rounded a corner and saw the light.
A fire was flickering in a hearth, with an armchair positioned on one side and a chesterfield located on the other. From his position, Faulkner could only see one occupant in the room; a tall, sticklike man paced in a slow circle. John swallowed, as realisation overcame him. Quickly, before anyone could notice him, he slipped away from the door and ran into an adjacent corridor as the voices washed over him.
"I am growing impatient." The voice was high and cold, devoid of all positive emotion.
"I'm sorry, Master," a second voice answered quickly, servile. "They were told to come; they will be here, I am certain of it."
"You have reason to be certain, Wormtail," the first man answered, cold amusement in his voice. "You well know that their failure will reflect on you, in your flesh."
"Of . course, Master," Wormtail squeaked, sounding much like the rat Faulkner knew him to be. "They will be here any second now."
"Indeed, it is good. I had hoped to have more time in this, in planning my return. Their failures have denied me the time I needed. Now time is one of the only things I do not have but - ah well, their mistakes have never been enough to defeat me. I am well used to their incompetence."
"Yes, Master," Wormtail agreed.
"If you have nothing to say, refrain from filling the air with your mindless blithering," cold man snapped sharply. "It is difficult enough to make my plans without your nonsense clouding my mind."
Whatever else he may have said was cut off abruptly with a loud bang. Faulkner flinched as a third voice came into the conversation.
"My Lord," the third man drawled. "You have my sincere apologies for my delay. I did not wish to keep you waiting, of course."
"Of course," the Dark Lord agreed mildly. "What have you to report, Lucius?"
"The spy is still secure, my Lord," Lucius Malfoy replied smoothly. "The first steps have been taken, and everything is moving perfectly. No one suspects, and no one will until it is far too late for them to correct the problem."
"Perfect," the Dark Lord hissed. "Now, you have been given two tasks. What of the boy?"
There was a pregnant pause.
"My Lord," Lucius began quickly, "the boy is being . difficult."
"Difficult." The flat statement sent shivers running through John's body.
"Well, Master, it is simply that . he has a strong hatred for the boy, of course. It's just that . he has not taken the fall of the High Inquisitor well. He . is questioning your - your strength."
There was another pause. Then the cold voice spoke again.
"Indeed. That is unfortunate for you. Crucio."
The halls were instantly filled with screams of agony.
"Wait . my Lord," Lucius cried out. "Please, let me explain, Master!"
A cold chuckle. "Well then, Lucius, explain. Don't waste my time with your screaming; I hear enough of it as it is."
There was a moment of stillness, broken by anguished moans and the sound of heavy breathing. When Lucius next spoke, his words were broken from pain.
"My Lord, I p-promise you that Draco will be at your side, just as I h-have always been. It is s-simply that he is young. H-he did not take well to his f-fall from power, but I will have him w-with you by the time the next year begins. Y-you have my word." He fell silent, gasping for breath.
"Indeed, Lucius," the Dark Lord agreed coldly. "You must know, of course, that it matters little to me precisely what happens regarding your son. He is only one of the many tools I have set out to use. If he does not come willingly he will not come at all, and you must know that he cannot be responsible for these choices. As you say, he is young. No, Lucius." The voice turned strangely melodic, alluring. "If Draco chooses against me, he will not suffer. The weight of my displeasure will fall onto you. Now." There were sounds of abrupt movement. "I gave you two duties. The progress of your first task shall be monitored. I hope that you fared better with the second?"
"Thank you, Master," Lucius said immediately. Faulkner heard the sounds of cloth swishing as he rose from the ground, robes making gentle noises against each other as they were settled into place. He cleared his throat once, and began to speak.
"I have seen the Dementors, my Lord," he began, voice still shaky with the aftershocks of pain. "Their Shadow Master does send his support, and allowed me to leave with my Soul intact as a proof of his lack of animosity."
"You are hiding things from me, Lucius," the Dark Lord said warningly. "It is not a good way to begin your second chance."
"Of course not, my Lord. I was only getting to the end. The Dementors have been mistreated under the ministry in the last decade. They view what we have to offer in a positive light, but are mistrustful of wizards who come bearing promises. They were human once, and some of the newly turned can remember human greed and treachery. I would not presume to offer a suggestion in this matter," he added hastily.
"Of course not." The Dark Lord's voice was bland.
"However, as I am sure you have already realised, it may take more effort to win their trust. They followed Umbrage for us, of course, however I think it will take more than her to form an Army, and Dolores is currently . out of commission. I spoke with our contact in St. Mugos, and he told me that he finds her chances of recovery to be positive."
"Umbrage was a useful woman, a proud member of our ranks. However she too is also a tool. I have many others that can do her job, and none will be needed to encourage the Shadow Master. What of the equilines?"
Again Lucius Malfoy cleared his throat, as if searching his mind for the proper sheaf of information before beginning.
"The Bicorn Mare and Chichevache Stallion have raced far from here," he said smoothly. "The Shadow Master of the Dementors stays in communication with all Dark creatures, naturally, however I have yet to see the equiline representatives myself. Even so, the Shadow Master has sent word to you from them. The Bicorn and Chichevache tribes will send steeds to surpass anything the Unicorns could do. As for the Thestrals, they remain neutral as they always have, but I'm certain that they will join us when we need them. They are Dark creatures, whatever the Hogwarts Giant has done to tame them. They still look forward to the feast."
"What a feast it will be," the Dark Lord agreed. "Is that all?"
"Yes, my Lord."
"Then I think you have issues that may become pressing. I suggest you tend to them immediately. Keep the contact informed, make sure that they will be able to infiltrate without a problem."
"There will be no problems, my Lord."
"Of course not. I did not take you out of the Wizard's prison to have you fail." With that, a loud crack echoed through the halls of the Riddle House. Voldemort began to laugh softly.
Faulkner never knew which noise it was that made him act. Driven by a sudden curiosity, he cast a Disillusionment charm over himself and crept closer to the door. The room was dimly lit, with the fire flickering warmly. A stout, balding man who perched on the very edge of his seat, fidgeting horribly, occupied the chair nearest to the door. The other was empty. Off to one side, almost wrapped in shadows, stood the other man. He turned slowly, and John caught a glimmer of red as the firelight caught his eyes.
"What do you think," Lord Voldemort asked in a soft voice. Faulkner froze, then breathed again as a voice answered.
"He is a fool." The voice was female. The owner of the voice slowly seemed to materialize from the shadows. She was followed swiftly by four other cloaked shapes.
"We have followed him into disaster for the last time," a male voice agreed.
"Be patient, my pets," Voldemort interjected, raising one finger in warning. "He has another chance to prove himself. Need I remind you that you yourselves are here only because of my unending generosity? I could easily have killed you for what you allowed to happen last year."
"But he sees you only for your power," the woman exclaimed as the men hung their heads and murmured soft apologies and pleas.
"Bella!" Voldemort's voice was hard. "Do not be so quick to judge others whom you cannot know . I am neither bind nor stupid, not even when it comes to you yourself. You may wish for my mercy someday."
Bellatrix Lestrange dropped her head. "Yes, Master," she replied softly.
"She makes a point, though, my Lord," another man stated meekly. "If Lucius becomes overconfident and too sure of himself, he could cause damage to our plans."
"That is impossible," the Dark Lord disagreed. "I have been aware of Lucius for some time now, if my faithful servants have not." Special emphasis was placed on the word 'faithful'; the circle of Death Eaters shivered slightly. "No," Voldemort continued reflectively, "no, Lucius amuses me, I will not deny it. And he has competence enough to deal with issues now. I will give him a fair test, to show him my mercy."
"My Lord," Bellatrix spoke up again. "Lucius has escaped Azkaban, yes, but his reputation has been slandered, as have all of ours. How can we expect him to continue his former existence in our world? He will be rated worse than the Dog was."
"In normal situations you would be correct. However, Lucius is skilled when it comes to interacting with others. He has Fudge completely under control, and that means that I have him under my control. People will question, of course, but Lucius has the advantage of a rather large fortune. When I allowed him to remain where he was I ensured that there would be no problems. Now, what of the prophecy?"
A third man stepped forwards slightly, bowing. "The fool Dumbledore is now the only one in possession of it," he said, voice rough with anger. "The Potter boy is certain to have heard the beginning, and you are in possession of the end. It seems that we are at an impasse."
"Do not underestimate Albus Dumbledore," Voldemort warned in a low voice. "I would not place any faith in his oblivion. We will triumph only when we are in possession of the prophecy in its entirety. Only then will I be able to achieve what I have been working for."
"And what is that, my Lord?" the last man asked eagerly. The light glowed red in the Dark Lord's eyes as he turned to face the final speaker.
"You presume too much, Dolohov." He said coldly. He looked at the other Death Eaters. "His death will not be honoured, even among our ranks. He is not worthy of the Circle. Avada Kedavra." The figure crumpled to the ground in a flash of green light. Instantly, John's heard leapt to his throat. Voldemort continued to speak.
"There is another here who has made a fatal mistake tonight," he said in the same toneless voice. "He believes that I will not be able to spot him for who he truly is. I believe he even suspected that I would have forgotten him by now." He slowly pitched his voice to carry. "However, this man was incorrect. I have forgotten nothing, certainly not him, and I cannot be fooled by a simple charm. You will regret standing against me, John Faulkner."
He was dead before the words could register, eyes still open with confused shock. Voldemort laughed softly.
"It appears that we have begun, my pets," he said, something resembling glee creeping into his voice. "Thanks to the efforts of Albus Dumbledore, the world now knows that I have returned. It would be an injustice to keep them in suspense any longer. Come, my pets. Let us once more show the world the meaning of fear."
In a silent stream the Death Eaters left the Riddle House. They split up, quartering the town with almost military precision and with the same efficiency the buildings, the cottages and stores, began to crumble. The moon was beginning to fade before the screams stopped echoing around the ruined structures. Then, as the sun began to rise, a green mist began to pour out of all of the dwellings. It drifted up, gathering over the ruin of Little Hangleton, and began to take shape. Soon a glowing green skull hung in the air, a ghostly tongue flickering in the wind. Whether through fate or magic, twin stars glittered in the empty sockets like eyes. The Dark Mark had claimed another victim.
~*~*~*~
The Order of the Phoenix had met once more. The purpose of the meeting had been to yet again decide what to do about Harry Potter, and Albus had to privately admit that he was rather pleased with the decision. Propriety aside, he had spent quite a bit of time watching Harry as he grew, both in and out of Hogwarts. He was an intelligent boy, when he saw reason to be. He was also fiercely loyal, proud, and strong; the perfect Gryffindor. Albus felt something pull inside of him, but smothered it before it could form itself into a feeling. He knew what it would become, if he let it, and he knew that he didn't have time for it at the moment.
His thoughts mirroring his actions, he felt himself spin through the Floo Network to appear in his own fireplace, and only years of instinctive training kept him from tumbling unceremoniously onto the carpet. As it was, he stumbled slightly before righting himself to look around his empty office.
By giving Harry responsibility they were giving him a chance to become more than The Boy Who Lived, and Albus suspected that this would help him to move beyond the anger and the darkness that seemed to be consuming him.
The dark was consuming more than just Harry, though, and that was troubling. Voldemort had not shown his face since Albus had won the battle at the Ministry of Magic, but behind everything he still maintained his shadow, sending it creeping out slowly, inch by inch. People didn't see what was happening, but that was to be expected. Tom always had been a subtle creature. Despite proclamations to the contrary, he still managed to have the majority of the Wizarding world convinced that his reappearance was a figment of the imagination. Even the Ministry of Magic wasn't able to persuade everyone.
Looking down at his desk Albus sighed. It was covered with trinkets and trivialities, all of them seeming vastly unimportant in the light of recent events. However, truth of the matter was that Lord Voldemort had done nothing in the last months, and so there was nothing Albus could do in return. And, he had a school to consider. Parents had special considerations that he as Headmaster had to address individually, and among other things, Argus Filch had requested that he consider a special revision of the Code for Regulations and Punishments that Albus suspected had something to do with thumbscrews. The man was highly skilled, but many of his ideas fell slightly behind the times.
Beside the piles of parchment, a single scroll was placed with a certain reverence. A rare text, it was something that he had been looking forward to examining. He touched the ribbon holding it closed, brow furrowing in thought. He would have little time to read it later in August, when the staff became overburdened with preparing for the next year. They would be coming to the castle within the next few weeks, although Irma was insistent even now on making periodic stops to re-classify the library. Perhaps a few moments of decent reading would help to clear his head.
Taking the scroll up from his desk, Albus made his way over to the nearest window. He opened the shudders and let the summer air wash over him, the evening's bite still clinging to the wind despite the traces of colour beginning to stain the Eastern horizon - great Merlin, had he truly been away that long? Albus shook his head wryly and set his spectacles more firmly onto his nose.
Suddenly his breathing faltered. He inhaled sharply through his nose and blinked twice to make certain that he wasn't imagining things. The wind carried a faint scent; spicy and bitter, like cinnamon and burnt almonds. The sound of the breeze against the stone of the castle was like a low moan, helpless and forlorn. And, barely perceptible in the pre-dawn light, a faint green glow shone on the horizon.
With deliberated movements Albus set the scroll down on a convenient bookshelf. He extended one hand back towards his desk and beckoned with two fingers. His wand rose from the desk and floated across the span to land unerringly in his extended hand.
"Mactus locus," Albus whispered, pointing his wand directly at the glowing green smudge. There was a whistle of wind, and a faint mist poured out of the end of his wand. Slowly, magnified on the floating silvery field, the area of sky began to come into focus.
There, grinning at him with a soulless glee, hung a green skull balancing, it seemed, on the sun's first rays. Two morning stars shone like eyes, winking at him as the serpentine tongue swayed back and forth.
He turned away from the window in a swirl of midnight blue robes. Anger welled up and battled with other emotions before he locked it away. Righteous fury was a powerful tool that could be directed - he was, after all, a Gryffindor, and knew to appreciate virtuous wrath. However, now was not the time, nor the place. With forced deliberation Albus returned to his desk and banished the papers and notes with a sweep of his wand. They soared around his office in a flutter of chaos for a moment before settling in their proper places. A flick of his wrist summoned a roll of maps. Swallowing hard, he sat down.
"Winky," he called softly. There was a faint popping noise, and a small brown head appeared from behind one of the bookshelves.
"Master Dumbledore called, sir?"
Despite everything, Albus smiled at the House Elf.
"Yes. Winky, would you be so kind as to find Professor McGonagall for me? I need to speak with her as soon as possible."
The small creature nodded. Her eyes flicked up and over Albus's shoulder for a moment to rest on the silver screen suspended in the window and her large eyes bulged even more. She blinked, nodded again quickly, and vanished behind the book shelf. Albus looked back at his desk.
Before he could open the maps, a soft trill filled the room. Albus looked up as Fawkes soared off of his perch and came to rest on the back of the chair that faced the desk. The beautiful bird cocked its head and stared at him, and the Headmaster returned the look with the same gravity. Then he sighed and straightened his shoulders, reaching for a map. There was no time left in the world for an old man with a bit too much weight resting on his shoulders.
~*~*~*~
Albus Dumbledore had just left them, and the members of the Order of the Phoenix were starting to drift apart, wandering to separate corners of the house in search of peace and quiet. Determined to break the trend, Fred and George Weasley had vanished into some unknown room, and smells of sulphur and smoke were now drifting through number twelve, Grimmauld place.
Sensing the break-up of the meeting, Ron put down the Quidditch book he had been skimming through and opened the door to his room. From the hallway he could see some of the remaining members. They were gathered in the front hallway, examining the cloth that covered the portrait of Mrs. Black. He couldn't pick up the voices, but he could see the expressions on their faces.
One man in particular seemed to be rather displeased. Severus Snape's face was distorted with disgust, and he poked at the edge of the tapestry with his wand. Instantly, the front hallway erupted in noise that even Ron could hear. Bill and Charley Weasley both moved towards him, wands waving. On the other side of the room, Tonks, who had wisely chosen to stay away from the painting for fear of doing damage, rushed forwards. Trails of sound floated upwards.
" You idiot! Are you trying to provoke her?"
"Stop it!"
"Snape, don't wake her up, we've been keeping her blessedly quiet for weeks."
"If you must all act like anxious birds I will take my leave of you," Snape's cold voice snapped. Then, his voice dropped again and Ron lost the conversation.
Burned, he thought. No one could escape Snape's wrath, although he thought that if his Mother had been there she would have stood a decent chance. Rather than passing through the front hall, Ron avoided the main stairs and headed down the hallway. The door at the end led to another flight of stairs, which he took down into the Living Room.
He laughed slightly, being allowed into this room for the first time in weeks. Or, rather, not allowed, per say, just not stopped. He looked over at the couch, and debated sitting on it, before giving up on the idea. With another look around the room, he turned to leave.
Just then, the fire turned green. Ron dropped his book, startled, and hurried over to the hearth as a face appeared in the flames.
"Is your father around?" Cornelius Fudge asked. Ron gulped.
"Um ." he swallowed. "Yeah, he should be . I'll go and find him."
"Thanks."
Fortunately enough, because Grimmauld Place was a large house, Arthur Weasley hadn't gone far. Ron found him sitting in the kitchen with Kingsley Shacklebolt, discussing the implication of new policies within the Ministry of Magic, and how this would affect the Aurors working there. Both looked up when he entered.
"Ron," he smiled. "What is it?"
"The Minister for Magic is . in the fire," Ron relayed. A flash of irritation crossed over his father's face.
"Do you know what he wants?" he asked, already setting down his drink and beginning to rise.
"No," Ron answered. "He just asked if you were around. He sounded kind of pissed off, though."
A grunt came from across the room.
"Watch your language," Molly Weasley exclaimed, spinning around and wielding her spoon like a weapon. Even now, she appeared to be cooking something. Ron went over to investigate.
"Sorry, Mum," he said quickly. He poked a finger in one of the pots that were simmering on top of the stove and tasted the mixture. "Apple tart?"
"Not now," Molly hustled him across the room with her spoon. "It was supposed to be a treat. And Arthur," she turned to her husband. "You should go and see what Cornelius wants. He isn't a very patient man, you know."
"Oh, I know, I know." Arthur cast an apologetic glance at Kingsley, who nodded knowingly, and left the kitchen. Ron started to follow, but stopped at the look from his Mother.
"I wasn't going to do anything," he protested, hands up. "But I have to leave the kitchen somehow, don't I?" Molly scowled at him and made a shooing motion with her spoon.
The door to the living room was closed by the time Ron got to it; again. He sighed and made his way back upstairs In his room the Quidditch book was lying on his bed, and he picked it up. Suddenly, the silence was broken by two pops.
Fred and George stood side by side, wearing identical grins. George held out a hand, and with it a small piece of what looked like plastic.
"Need an Ear?" he asked. Ron frowned.
"What's that?"
Fred grinned.
"Extendible Ears, second run." He held out another bit of plastic and Ron took it. Faintly flesh coloured, it looked the same as the other Extendible Ears, save for a lack of cord coming from the end. "We thought it was a bit too obvious if there were little strings running around the house," George explained. "So, we charmed them. Now we just set up receivers around the house, and the ear-pieces can pick up sound from any of them. Take a look."
He took yet another ear-piece from inside his robes. Tapping it with his wand, he said,
"Living Room."
Suddenly, the room was filled with sound.
". completely without warning." It was Fudge's voice.
"What are you saying?" Arthur asked, in a slightly panicked tone.
"It's just gone, is what I'm saying. Nothing's been left standing . nothing at all. Just rubble and that blasted mark hanging over it all."
There was a pause.
"Sir," Arthur spoke at last. "Little Hangleton was where it all began. That . that means it's finally happening, then?"
"Indeed," Fudge answered. "We have had no warning, completely out of the blue. We'll have to do what we can now. Can you get to the office immediately?"
"Of course. But, sir," Arthur hesitated. "I'm in charge of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts . why do you need me?"
"I don't," came the flat reply. Then, "But, you never know, really. If You- Know-Who starts using handguns . well, you never know. I do not apologise," Fudge said gruffly.
"Of course not, Sir," Arthur answered. "I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Oh, and Arthur?"
"Yes, Minister?"
"Let's try and keep this private, eh? You can tell Molly, of course, and no doubt your little . group . will hear about it, but don't tell the children. An epidemic of panic running around Hogwarts is the last thing I need . I can deal with Dumbledore later."
"Of course, Sir. I'll be right there."
"Finis."
The three boys stood for a moment, looking at each other.
"Completely without warning?" Fred asked, looking incredulous. "They've had plenty of warning . the entire thing last year was at the Ministry of bloody Magic, for Merlin's sake. He gave a report to the Daily Profit and everything!"
"Yeah," Ron answered, "but he has a selective memory, doesn't he. I've never heard him bring it up again, and it'd certainly suit his purposes to pretend that it was just a memory lapse or something." He said the last words with disgust.
"Well, he can't deny this," George said finally. "No one except You-Know- Who could have taken out an entire village, there's no other explanation."
"Why doesn't that encourage me?" Fred asked. Not sure whether or not it was rhetorical, the other two shrugged. Ron looked around for an excuse to change the subject.
"Can anyone find the receiver for the Extendible Ears?" he asked. Both of the twins shook their heads.
"Not unless they can crack the chain of invisibility spells on it," George explained, "and even then, it's hidden behind the bookshelf."
"Took us hours to get it in place," Fred added. "Everyone went out to the Ministry one day, we got them all set up before they got back."
"Where have you got the receivers?" Ron asked, curious despite himself. Fred and George exchanged a glance, then shrugged in attempts at modesty.
"Oh, here and there," Fred answered.
"Everywhere people say interesting things," George added helpfully. "We listen in on all of the Order meetings, and some other stuff, you never know when people are going to say things that they don't want you to hear."
"But," Ron frowned, confused. "You're in the order meetings, why do you need to listen in on them?"
"Yeah, we thought of that," George agreed.
"But," Fred shrugged. "Never hurts to be prepared."
"Right." Ron took the ear-piece from his ear and held it out to the twins. Fred shook his head and pushed it back to him.
"Its on us," he said cheerily. "Of course, you'll have to buy the receivers if you want to put them anywhere we don't have one, or if you want to use them at Hogwarts, or anything."
"Two Sickles per receiver," George added helpfully.
"Erm, thanks." Ron put the ear-piece in the pocket of his robes. The twins also disposed of theirs, and then sat down uninvited on his bed. They sat for a moment, looking at each other, eyes twinkling. Then, identical expressions of glee spread across their faces.
"There's really no reason for us not to know any of this," Fred commented thoughtfully.
"None at all," George agreed. "After all, we are of age, and we are members of the Order, when it comes down to it. They'll tell us in the end."
"And we will be properly shocked and horrified."
"Of course. Now you," he turned to Ron. "You, poor little Sixth Year, you're not supposed to know about it at all. Wouldn't want something horrible running rampant around Hogwarts."
Ron scowled. "Oh, come on," he exclaimed.
"So," Fred continued, "as older and wiser members of the family," - Ron coughed and rolled his eyes. Fred glared. "As older and wiser members of the family," he repeated, "we must counsel you in this matter."
"Now you must be careful, Ron," George said in a serious tone, "to keep this knowledge secret from all adults other than us. When you tell other people, make sure to tell them in an adult-free zone."
"You are in a perilous position, younger brother." Fred picked up the talk. "Illegal knowledge can be a heavy burden to bear. Tread softly and carefully, and no harm shall befall you."
"Oh, please." Ron held up his hands. "You're making it sound like this is some secret club, or something. I've got to tell Hermione now."
"Go with caution!" Fred called out, before the two of them burst out in fits of laughter.
~*~*~*~
"It's not here."
"I'm telling you, it has to be. I saw it there yesterday morning."
Hermione looked through the cupboard again, then turned away. "That's great," she called down the stair, "except that it's not here."
There was an irritated pause, and a woman appeared at the foot of the staircase. She leaned on the banister, crossing her arms.
"Well then where has it gone?" she demanded in a pleading tone. "It isn't exactly like a lamp can wander off, now can it?"
Hermione decided not to point out the possibilities. In a Muggle household, it was unlikely, anyway. Instead she closed the cupboard and went to face her mother.
"You haven't looked at that lamp in years," she pointed out. "Why do you need it now?"
Jenny Granger spread her hands.
"Your father has gone on one of his kicks," she said wryly. "Wants to fix everything he can lay his hands on, starting with that lamp." She paused, and continued in a conspiratorial tone, "I think it's best if I just let him get it out of his system."
"Can he start on something else?" Hermione asked. "Why that lamp?"
"Well, if the lamp's gone, he'll have to, won't he?" Mrs. Granger pointed out. "He'll just have to make do with that lawn gnome."
Hermione shuddered.
"All right," Mrs. Granger sighed, turning away. "If you see it, let me know, will you?" In the distance from the other side of the house, the telephone began to ring.
"Of course," Hermione replied. She was about to return to her room when a thought struck her. "Are you sure Dad didn't get it this morning while you were out?" she asked.
Her mother frowned, considering. "You know," she said reflectively, "he just might have. Thanks. Oh, and would you get the phone?"
"Sure." Hermione raced across the hallway to pick up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Hermione?"
"Ron?" Hermione laughed and sat down in an armchair by the phone. "You're calling me? What's going on? How have you been?"
"Great," Ron replied, "you know, all things considered. Snape was here just now, I've been hiding in my room."
"Which is why you're calling me?" Hermione frowned sceptically. Ron seemed to hear it in her voice; he coughed awkwardly.
"Well, no, not exactly. And, I'm not really supposed to be telling you this at all . I'm not supposed to know, but I couldn't just keep it a secret."
"Ron?" Hermione cut in. "What on earth are you going on?"
"You-know-who is back," Ron answered shortly. Hermione frowned.
"Um, I don't quite know how to tell you this, Ron, but he was back a while ago. You were there, at the Ministry when he tried to kill all of us. It's not nice, but it's nothing new, exactly."
"No, no." There was impatience in Ron's voice now, and Hermione tried to understand it. "That's not what I mean, 'Mione. I mean, you know how he went kind of into hiding for a while at the beginning of the summer? How there's been no news of him at all?"
Hermione made some noise of agreement, as the pieces began to come together.
"Well, we've got news of him now. He blew up Little Hangleton."
"Blew up?" Hermione repeated. "What do you mean, blew up?"
"Well, I wasn't exactly there, or anything, but from what I heard it's just kind of been demolished. Like, no buildings still standing, no one's alive, everything just . blown up, like I said. Total destruction, from what Fudge was saying."
"You were talking to Fudge?" Hermione raised an eyebrow.
"No, I just . overheard what they were saying, that's all."
"Right. And why exactly are you calling me?"
There was another pause on the other end of the line. Finally Ron made a non-committal noise somewhere between a grunt and a squeak.
"I figured I had to tell someone, and I was going to tell Harry, but then, I didn't."
"Why not?"
"You want me to call there?" Ron exclaimed with surprising emotion. "I can't do that, 'Mione. You've never tried . his relatives are monsters. They don't let me talk to him half the time, if I get that cousin, and Harry says that they always listen to his end, anyway."
"You could have owled him," Hermione pointed out.
"No I couldn't," he replied. "Mum and Dad can get at letters that get sent out, and it's not like I think they're reading all of my mail, or anything, but I'm not supposed to know that anything's going on; I don't send out many owls, if I send Pig out now they'll get suspicious. And, you don't have Moody in your house for dinner, staring at you with that eye. He can see into souls, I swear."
Hermione laughed. "I don't think that's very likely," she scoffed. "But, I'll owl him about it if you want me to."
"Thanks." Suddenly, Ron's voice brightened. "Oh, Hermione, did you get that letter from Professor Lupin?"
"Yes," she answered. "And Harry told me about it, too. I can't wait to come; do you know when they want us to get there?"
"No, people still aren't really talking to me, much. But, it's great that you'll be staying over here, I've been bored out of my mind for the last few weeks. Even if they don't tell us anything, again, it'll be better than just sitting here doing nothing."
"Yeah," Hermione agreed. "I've been helping my parents around the house, but nothing really interesting. It'll be nice to be in a wizarding household again. I'm worried that I'm going to forget all of my spells."
"You can't do magic, though, 'Mione," Ron protested.
"I know, I know, but you hear spells around the house, and you can watch . you can learn so much without actually doing anything."
"You're sounding like Umbrage."
"Merlin, no!" Hermione exclaimed. "Just for that, I'm not talking to you any more. I'll see you in a few days, I guess."
"All right," Ron laughed. "Owl Harry for me."
"Of course."
Grinning, Hermione put down the phone and went off in search of a quill and parchment.
~*~*~*~
The response to his letter came within a few days, along with a small Hogwarts Post-Owl bearing two envelopes. Hedwig generously allowed the smaller bird too share her cage for a few hours, and Harry gave it an Owl Treat before it flew away again.
The letter Hedwig brought came from Hermione. It was brief, saying that she'd love to meet him at Diagon Alley, and that in fact it was probably best that they did, because she had some things to talk to him about. She would be going to get her supplies in two days, she said, if they could meet. Harry suspected he already knew what those things were, but decided that it was definitely worth seeing Hermione, even if he had to go over his dreams again.
He was going to wait before sending a reply, but Hedwig was shifting around in her cage impatiently, so he scratched out something about meeting her at Fortiscue's mid-afternoon on Thursday and sent Hedwig off once more.
The other two letters both came in official looking envelopes. One, bearing the Hogwarts Crest and written in shimmering green ink, told him that his proposed courses had been accepted, and that he was in fact taking the classes he wanted to take. Harry was mildly relieved. There was also the standard list of supplies that he would need, with the courses he was taking marked with golden stars. Harry stowed the letter in his trunk and opened the other one.
It was sealed with a crest that he didn't recognize; a stylized bird flew between two trees, with flames for leaves. He peeled off the wax and took out the letter. There was nothing special about the letter, except that Harry quickly recognized the handwriting.
Dear Harry,
I'm sure you've heard something about what's going on now. All things considered, we all think that it's for the for the best that you come here as quickly as possible. We don't expect any immediate danger, but even so you'll be safer here, even with Dumbledore's protection.
There are still things that need to be done around here before you and Hermione can come, but you can expect someone to come by and pick you up, probably me, mid-day on Sunday. If anything changes, I'll let you know by Owl, or when you next call.
Again, I don't want to say too much, in case the owl carrying this somehow gets intercepted, but don't worry; we'll explain everything that we can when you come. Until then, have a wonderful holiday. If you can find the time, it would be better for you to get your supplies before you get here, but otherwise I'm sure that we can arrange a trip later on.
Love from us all,
Remus Lupin
Harry read the letter twice. Lupin hadn't sounded as cheerful as he had by telephone, and Harry had dreamed nothing to indicate any changes on Voldemort's part, so he didn't quite understand the reference to no 'immediate danger', but the cryptic ending indicated that there were things going on that he was unaware of, and that was still rather exciting. He debated whether or not he needed to reply to this letter, but Hedwig had just left, and the Hogwarts Owl was gone as well. Harry reasoned that if he was supposed to send anything back it would have been told to stay, so instead he folded the letter neatly in the envelope and then it, too, joined the collection of items at the bottom of his trunk.
That done, he sat back down on his bed and picked up the discarded book, a birthday present from Hermione, naturally. A strange magical novel of sorts, it was spelled so that Harry would always open it to the right page, and whenever he got bored of the story he was reading it would change to something else completely. It hadn't yet turned into a Quidditch text, but Harry was still hopeful. That combined with the fact that he would be going to Diagon Alley in two days and Number Twelve, Grimmauld place in five days made life look a lot better as he lay down and began to read.
~*~*~*~