I feel the need to make an obligatory disclaimer that no I am not JK Rowling, and thus do not own Harry Potter. That's probably obvious from the fact that my writing is probably bad.
A/N I – This is the first time I've ever tried to write any sort of fiction, so I'd greatly appreciate any feedback, either positive or negative (please try to be constructive where possible). Any updates will probably not be until I am on my summer holidays in about 3 weeks' time.
A/N II – This will be canon-compliant as for what the reader knows up to the point of divergence (right after the DoM battle in OotP). However, there are certain things that are AU which happened before this point, but are not mentioned at all until the 6th or 7th books. The population of Wizarding Britain is also going to be slightly larger than it is portrayed as in most fanfiction – there will be other magical settlements, not just Hogsmeade. I don't really have an idea of exact numbers though.
Rambling aside, let the story begin.
Chapter 1 – Child of Prophecy
Harry's feet hit the ground, his legs buckling and giving way almost instantly from exhaustion. The golden head of the decapitated ministry statue that Dumbledore had decided to use as a portkey slipped from his fingers as he fell to the ground of the Headmaster's office, jarring his elbow as he hit it awkwardly.
Harry looked around the room, taking stock of his surroundings. The room, in Dumbledore's absence, had somehow managed to revert to its undamaged state, as it had been before Umbridge completed her coup d'état by driving the headmaster from his school in spectacular fashion. His strange devices continued to make soft whirring noises, apparently all completely repaired from all damage taken during from missed spells. Harry briefly wondered if the devices had a purpose at all, or if they were just appealing to the old man's sense of curiosity. Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak indeed.
Closing his eyes, Harry laid his head back against the floor. Sirius. Gone. All my fault. Harry hated no one in that moment more than he loathed himself. He wanted nothing more than to mope for as long as he could, but before he could begin that, he was interrupted by a voice from the wall.
"Oh. It's you," the snarky voice of Phineas Nigellus broke the silence that had settled over the Headmaster's office. Harry groaned as he lifted his upper body up off of the ground too look at the portrait, taking much more effort than it normally would in his completely exhausted state. As Harry turned to face the portrait, a new, rather raspy but not unpleasant, voice spoke up, sounding vaguely familiar to Harry.
"Might we presume that your presence indicates that Dumbledore will be returning soon?" Harry turned to face the portrait of Armando Dippet, the Headmaster who preceded Professor Dumbledore, and had been Headmaster during the time that Tom Riddle spent at school. Harry nodded, not trusting his voice to stay steady. "Good," the old wizard's portrait replied, "We've been lonely. This office hasn't been vacated for such a long time since Albus first became Headmaster. He spends all of his holidays here, you know?"
That was news to Harry, but not altogether unsurprising. It seemed impossible to imagine Professor Dumbledore anywhere else anyway – images of Dumbledore standing on the beach, beard swaying in the wind, with a pointed wizard's hat, briefly swam through Harry's mind, and he couldn't help but let out a short laugh at the thought of the 'Greatest Wizard since Merlin' applying suncream to his face before going for a swim in the sea.
A new voice, this one female, and rather young compared to Dippet and Phineas Nigellus, spoke up suddenly. "Something funny, boy?" Harry turned around to see the portrait of a woman, likely in her forties (though in the wizarding world that could mean seventies), with dark hair tied up above her head in a bun reminiscent of McGonagall's, and bright blue eyes. Her voice was sharp and a little unwelcoming, her accent indicating a likely aristocratic upbringing. The plaque underneath her portrait read 'Isabella MacMillan, Headmistress 1707 – 1723.'
While she bore no resemblance to Ernie, a lot could change in almost 300 years, and Harry did remember Ernie proclaiming his pureblood heritage when he had believed Harry to be the heir of Slytherin three years ago. Harry, finally finding his voice, managed to mumble out a barely comprehensible answer.
"Just something I imagined." Harry's musing was further interrupted by the appearance of the bearded man who had been the source of his laughter. Suddenly, this brought him back to the real world, and what had just happened. And the world began to crumble around him. He felt… lost. As if he would never be found. Sirius was gone. His first ever family was gone. And it was all his fault. All of it. He once again let his upper body fall to the floor, all his effort expended in his prior attempt to stay strong.
Harry felt a presence near him and opened his eyes to see that Dumbledore had knelt down beside him. "I know how you feel," those five words cutting into Harry's composure like a hot knife through butter. Oh no you don't, old man. Oh no you don't.
Harry's indignity allowed him to once again find his voice, his strength bolstered by his anger. "Are you sure?" came the blunt response. "Are you sure you know what I feel? You know what it's like to grow up with no parents for your entire life, then to lose the first person to act like one?" Harry's voice was tempered with steel, cold and hard, completely unlike the fiery temper he usually exhibited in similar situations.
"Not as such, no." Harry raised an eyebrow, expecting more than just an admission of defeat. Not one to disappoint, Dumbledore continued, "But something… comparable. I certainly do know grief."
The raw emotion in Dumbledore's voice was enough to shock Harry, he had never heard him sound so regretful. The eye twinkle was practically non-existent by this point, replaced instead by a glint of sadness. Harry hadn't a clue what his Headmaster was thinking about, but he couldn't help but realise that he was not being lied to – the old man had been through great pain in the past, there was no question about that. Guilt for asking him about what he saw in the Mirror of Erised so long ago began to wash over him. Why did I actually believe he saw himself getting socks?
The sombre mood in the room was broken by a soft song from the now very ugly phoenix on Dumbledore's shoulder. As Professor Dumbledore had once said, music was a magic beyond that which is taught at Hogwarts – and Phoenix Song was no different. Much like the tears could heal physical injuries, the song helped to heal mental injuries. As such, the room suddenly felt lighter, as the pressure seemed to decrease. They stood up and headed to the desk, Dumbledore offering Harry a lemon drop, who politely refused.
As the song came to an end, Dumbledore spoke up to prevent the return of silence. "I would like to be the first to tell you that you are not to blame. The blame lies solely on Bellatrix Lestrange, Voldemort, and also myself. I have – in hindsight foolishly – withheld information from you this year. Information, which, had you known, you would not have fallen for the trap. Another thing I must tell you is that, Sirius aside, all who fought will make a full recovery."
Still feeling the effects of the Phoenix Song, Harry managed to remain calm, even though all he wanted was to destroy the room, purely to be a pain for Dumbledore. He had noticed something was up for the entire year, but had never had the chance to ask. Until now.
"I had wondered, Professor," managing to put a scary amount of contempt into a single word, "why you had been avoiding me, for this entire year at school." Harry worried that if the answer was not good enough, he would not be able to control his temper.
"A number of reasons, Harry, some better than others." His twinkle briefly returned, as the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a slight sad smile, before continuing. "I'll start with the most important. You remember, I presume, three years ago, when you fought the basilisk at the end of your second year, that I told you that I suspected a connection between you and Tom Riddle, through your scar. Since then, more events have occurred, causing me to be certain of this fact. The dreams, and the pain whenever he is around, are the prominent signs, far more convincing than the fact that you speak the language of snakes.
"So I believed, correctly, apparently, that the connection between you and Lord Voldemort could be used for far more nefarious purposes than causing pain and seeing visions. Today, he supplied you with a fake vision, and proceeded to try to possess you, take over your body, and in turn, learn your secrets. I knew he would try this one day, so I distanced myself from you, and had Professor Snape teach you occlumency, in an attempt to keep suspicions low that you were treated as anything other than a normal student. Favouritism would not help in this situation, or so I believed. I also felt that being close to you would be unsafe as Tom might witness some secrets of the Order, which must not happen."
Nothing had been completely unreasonable in the Headmaster's excuses, so Harry's temper managed to stay in check. However, he does raise an interesting question. "Was Snape ("Professor Snape, Harry"), at any point, actually trying to teach me occlumency? Or was he just using it as an excuse to attack me?"
Dumbledore sighed, looking rather dejected. "I had hoped that Professor Snape would be able to forget grudges for something so important, but alas, he was unable to. I cannot apologise for him, or justify his actions, but I hope they are forgivable. Your cryptic warning to him is the only reason the order managed to make it to the ministry in time. Kreacher misinformed you as he took one of Sirius' orders of 'Go away' too literally – he found Narcissa Malfoy, a member of the Black family by birth, and followed her orders to lead you to the ministry. Professor Snape contacted the order as soon as possible when he realised you had not returned from the forest. This is not the first time he has saved your life, mind you."
Harry nodded his understanding. He disliked the teacher, but so far, it had seemed he was indeed working against Voldemort. He was a terrible teacher, and not a good person, but there was no doubt that his spying ability was unrivalled. The house elf, however, he decided he now hated with a burning passion. "Surely, Professor, if it was so important, you could have taught me yourself?" Harry glanced around the room, and to his surprise, found that many of the portraits were nodding with him, in agreement against the Headmaster.
Again, when he replied, Professor Dumbledore seemed troubled. "Two reasons. One is that during use of the mind arts, it is possible that the connection to Voldemort could have broadcasted my own thoughts while I tested your shields. I did not want that. Professor Snape is more skilled at Legilimency than I am, so he was more able to avoid this. I have no way of knowing if Lord Voldemort would have learnt anything, but I do not want to test the hypothesis just in case."
Harry felt that was a reasonable answer, but Dumbledore had mentioned two reasons, and didn't appear to want to go on. Guess I'll have to prod him then. "You mentioned two reasons, sir?"
Dumbledore took a deep breath before replying. "Yes. The second was that if I appeared to be giving extra lessons to you, I'd be unable to effectively control Dolores Umbridge from taking over the school."
Harry snorted rather loudly, before rather bluntly saying, "Well, you did a pretty terrible job of that." Dumbledore looked slightly affronted at the fact that he was effectively being told off by a student, so Harry continued, this time a little sheepishly. He held out his hand for his Headmaster to see, and apologised. "Sorry sir, but if there's one thing I've had ingrained into me by Umbridge this year, it's that 'I must not tell lies.'"
The Professor lost composure and gasped at the wound on the back of Harry's hand, shocked that Umbridge would go to such lengths. Quickly regaining his ability to speak, after briefly gaping at the though of something so illegal, he asked, "A blood quill? Whatever did she make you use that for? Blood quills are highly restricted items, used only for binding magical contracts. Private possession of one lands you a fine, so use on children could easily land her in Azkaban."
Slightly smiling at the thought of the wicked witch receiving her punishment, but still too soon after Sirius' death to feel truly happy, Harry decided to explain Umbridge's detentions in detail, including that he wasn't sure if anyone else had managed to get scars from them. A few minutes later, Dumbledore looked furious – it seemed if Umbridge had escaped the forest, she would soon find herself in a much darker, much less pleasant atmosphere, with instead of pictures of cats for company, she would have the decidedly less cuddly companions known as dementors, whose hobbies included sucking the happiness out of anything they could, and devouring souls.
All of a sudden, Harry's eyes clouded over, and he felt tears start to slide down his face. Azkaban had reminded him of Sirius, and suddenly everything came flooding back. Sirius was dead. Dead and not coming back. There's no point denying it – I'll just prolong the pain that way. Harry felt himself be enveloped in a hug – Professor Dumbledore, acting slightly out of character, at least in Harry's experience, had taken a rather direct manner of consolation.
"I lost a friend today too, Harry. Sirius will be missed by us all. He went down fighting though, and that's the only thing he ever wanted. No one blames you for his death, Harry." Both wizards stayed as they were, losing track of time, neither saying a word. The silence (or relative silence, Fawkes had started singing again), was broken roughly half an hour later when Dumbledore spoke up.
"Sirius told me to inform you, that in the event of his death, he has left everything to you, and Grimmauld Place to the Order of the Phoenix. I dare say you have a great deal of gold that you can put to use now. Though I'm sure that is no replacement at all for Sirius. More importantly, Sirius has left you with some memories, which I will show to you after I have told you this next important piece of information.
"I am going to answer a question you asked four years ago, Harry. Do you remember what that question was?" The look on Dumbledore's face told Harry that the information he was about to be told was not happy – he had a regretful look on his face. It was almost pity. The twinkle was now non-existent. Let's see, what did I ask you after the Philosopher's Stone. Hmm, why couldn't Quirrel touch me, he answered that one. What happened to the Stone? Answered that one too… Ah ha! He never told me… "Why did Voldemort want me dead as a child?"
The twinkle was there for a fraction of a second. "Very good, Harry, right in one," the noticeably warmer voice sounded out. I am sure you remember Professor Trelawny's prophecy two years ago? I believe I told you that that specific prophecy had brought her up to two correct predictions. I am about to show you the first." His face reset into a stony line as he walked over to his pensieve extracted the memory, the thin white train from his wand looking a little like a very thick spider's web as he lowered the memory into the heavily enchanted bowl. Harry walked over to where his Professor was standing and lowered his face into the bowl, feeling the now rather familiar sensation of being sucked into another person's memory. Dumbledore landed just beside him.
Harry looked around, seeing that a slightly younger Albus Dumbledore and Sybill Trelawny were sat in a dark, dank room, lit only by a single candle in the middle of the table. Everything was made of a dark wood which seemed as if it could be rotting, and the table seemed awfully unbalanced. Memory-Dumbledore asked memory-Trelawny why she considered herself capable of a job as a divination teacher at Hogwarts.
Memory-Trelawny's reply was something rather expected after three years of being taught by her, thank Merlin that's over, as she begun with, "My inner eye is clear, and I can see possible futures ahead. But I fear – No! - I can sense – you are in grave danger!" Trelawny reached out to grab a crystal ball from her bag and placed it on the table before claiming that Dumbledore's future was very grim – Harry thought the wording was a very Trelawny-esque choice of vocabulary, making as many connotations to death as at all possible.
As she went to put her crystal ball away again, she abruptly went rigid, dropping it to the floor. The crystal ball smashed to pieces, but Trelawny didn't seem to realise at all. Harry felt a sense of déjà vu back to third year, this was exactly how she had seemed when she gave her other prophecy. Her voice starting to ring out, in harsh tones, her voice oozing with the power of prophecy.
"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches… Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies… And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal… But he will have power the Dark Lord knows not… And either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives… The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies…"
As soon as the prophecy finished, Trelawny gasped, looking down at her crystal ball in dismay. Dumbledore, on the other hand, looked a little frightened; he hadn't managed to ward the room from listeners until the part about the Dark Lord marking him. Abruptly, the memory ended and Harry found himself and his Professor once more standing around the pensieve.
"So, Harry. I am sure you have managed to figure out who this prophecy was about." Harry's quick glare was all the answer Dumbledore needed. "Alas, before I managed to ward the room against eavesdroppers, one of the Death Eaters of the Dark Lord Voldemort was listening at the keyhole. I regret that initial lapse of security still to this day. Riddle learned of the prophecy that a baby boy would be born at the end of July, to parents having fought against him on three occasions, who would possess the power to defeat him. Two children met these criteria. You were one. The other was your friend Neville.
"Both families went into hiding under the Fidelius Charm. As you know, Peter Pettigrew was the Secret Keeper for your parents. The Secret Keeper for the Longbottoms was never identified, however they came out of hiding after Voldemort died, and in the following few days, they were attacked and tortured in the raid led by Bellatrix Lestrange, who was searching for information on the whereabouts of her Lord, convinced that the Longbottoms had something to do with his disappearance."
"Tom never received the whole prophecy, so he still is not aware of the full contents. That is what he was after today, and a piece of information I should not have withheld from you. Only you or he could pick it up from the shelf of the Hall of Prophecies. Unwilling to enter the ministry himself, in case word got out that he was once again alive, he tried to lure you there. If you had known that, you would not have been at the ministry today." Dumbledore finished his monologue with a sigh, as if the mere thought of the war tired him, beyond even his age. And, Harry thought, if the tales of the last war had any truth to them, it probably did.
A thought struck Harry. "Sir, my scar, the connection to him. He has marked me as his equal, hasn't he? The prophecy can't be Neville anymore." Professor Dumbledore merely nodded in response. Harry had never felt so unready, so unprepared, in his life. He had to fight the Dark Lord. And either must die at the hand of the other.Kill or be killed. He needed to train. And he needed allies. "Do you know what the Power is sir?" Harry seemed almost afraid to ask.
Dumbledore knew why he was afraid to ask – with a connection to Voldemort, he was probably worried that it would be something dark that he may have inherited along with Parseltongue. "It is of my belief, Harry, that your Power is not evil or unnatural in any way. Quite the opposite, I think it is the strongest magic of them all."
Harry's face contorted in obvious confusion before lighting up. Dumbledore already knew he'd guessed correctly. "You are, of course, correct, Harry. I am talking about Love." Harry seemed to think for a few moments before changing the subject.
"The memories, sir, Sirius' memories. Do you know what they are about?" He asked, moving back towards the desk, this time taking a lemon drop from the bowl in the centre of the table and promptly popping it in his mouth, letting the sourness overpower the bitter taste in his mouth from the new level of importance he'd just been given.
Dumbledore reached over to the portrait of Isabella MacMillan that had spoken earlier and tapped his wand in four places along the frame. The portrait swung open, revealing a set of vials, one of which Dumbledore retrieved before once again closing the portrait. Turning back to Harry, he begun, "These are some memories Sirius had of fighting the Dark Lord and his Death Eaters, between the years of 1978 and 1981. Included are the three fights in which James and Lily defied Lord Voldemort, holding him off long enough to escape. Sirius hoped that if he died, you'd be ready to start your training to fight. While I am loathe to put so much pressure on a student of mine, I'm afraid you will need to prepare."
Harry chuckled slightly. "With all due respect sir, I had figured that one out for myself. I would like to see the memories, but for now, could I rest? I am pretty much ready to collapse here, and I'm not even standing up right now." Yawning for good measure, Harry tipped his head back and closed his eyes.
Amused, Dumbledore watched Harry for a few seconds before speaking. "Of course you may rest, Harry. But I ask you this, could you spend the night in the company of Madam Pomfrey with the rest of your friends? I would like for her to check you for any spell damage that may have so far gone unnoticed. And I daresay you'd like to see your friends as soon as possible." Harry opened his eyes at the sound of the voice, and hardly followed what he was saying, before nodding absentmindedly.
"One more thing, Professor," Harry said, standing up from his seat, a little wobbly, but managing to stay standing.
His Professor, not at the moment likely to refuse Harry anything, smiled and nodded, "Of course, was there something you wanted?" Harry stopped for a second, thinking about how best to word his next request, his tiredness slowing the thinking process dramatically.
"With the war coming, it's probably going to be just as bad as the last one. Our defence teachers have been… inconsistent, if you don't mind me saying." Dumbledore just nodded, that was a fair, and realistically generous assessment. "Well, we're going to need more training, and I can't leave my classmates behind. Do you mind if I restart Dumbledore's Army, and we focus on coordination, as well as learning how to fight? That way, as we start to leave school, the number of people fighting against him will increase, and the people leaving Hogwarts won't just be cannon fodder for the Aurors. If I'm going to fight in this war, I want friends by my side."
Seeing the determined look on Harry's face, momentarily overpowering his tiredness, Dumbledore nodded his agreement. He knew of Harry's ability to lead, and had his full faith in Miss Granger's ability to keep out those who wished harm upon any who would oppose Voldemort. A student population that could fight may well turn the tides in the coming war. Internally, he pledged to give his support wherever possible.
Pocketing the vial of memories, Harry turned to begin walking down to the infirmary. Inside Harry's mind, excitement started to boil over and he smiled. If he were to win this war, he would need allies. What better allies than an army? Maybe the Power isn't Love. Maybe it is Leadership.