Disclaimer: I don't own the Harry Potter franchise.

Notes: After this chapter I can finally stop sticking to canon. W00T!

Chapter 1

In the months that follow the discovery of Voldemort's return, the wizarding world fell into despair. Paranoia haunted men's actions, the population of metaphorical tumble weeds increased in the streets, and the stomachs of every wizard was laden with several spoonfuls of fear. The dreary atmosphere hung about everywhere- everywhere except, of course, by the Weasley twins' new joke shop; bless them and their steadfast crusade of threatening laughter out of humans (and magical creatures). One could say the wizarding was going through puberty and was stuck in that angst phase- but that was neither here nor there.

Such were Harry's thoughts when he read the newspapers; and yes, there was a part that relished in the apologetic tones towards him. Being so far from the wizarding world, Harry had binged on reading newspapers, trying to get as up-to-date as possible. Given last summer's fiasco, Harry didn't want to be left out of the loop. This summer with the Dursleys had gone off like any other; Vernon set right to ignoring his existence, Petunia compiled a list of chores for Harry, and Dudley had- well, done nothing really. Actually, before Harry had even gotten around to thinking about dudley's nonexistent behavior, a neat little letter had arrived three days ago.

Dear Harry

If it is convenient to you, I shall call at number four, Privet Drive this coming Friday at eleven p.m. to escort you to The Burrow, where you have been invited to spend the remainder of your school holidays.

If you are agreeable, I should also be glad of your assistance in a matter to which I hope to attend on the way to The Burrow. I shall explain this more fully when I see you.

Kindly send your answer by the return of this owl. Hoping to see you this Friday,

I am, yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Harry had promptly replied a 'yes' through the owl. Since then, Harry's room had been in a state of disarray; books, clothes, and other necessities and oddities were packed, then unpacked, then packed again, then spewed about, and eventually began to coat most of the space in Harry's small room. Suffice to say, Harry was still trying to figure out if he had dreamt up the correspondence with Dumbledore; he did have the letter as proof, at least. Leaving the Dursleys so soon just seemed too good to be true. So when Friday rolled about Harry had steadfastly perched by the window at seven pm, behind him his trunk was still half packed. As the time drew closer to eleven, Harry began to doze off reading old newspaper articles and stealing glances at the letter. Eventually his face met window and he was out for the count.

As soon as the clock struck eleven, the street lamp outside went out. Harry jerked awake as though the darkness was an alarm and parted from the window. Quickly he wiped a bit of drool off his chin and righted his glasses to squint outside. A tall figure in a long, billowing cloak was walking up the garden path. Harry jumped up, knocking his chair out behind him, and scrambled to throw everything into his trunk; socks, quills, robes went flying in the general direction of the trunk. Then as he lobbed a set of robes, two spellbooks, and a packet of clasps across the room, the doorbell rang. Downstairs in the living room his Uncle Vernon shouted, 'Who the blazes is calling at this lime of night?'

Harry froze with a brass telescope in one hand and a pair of trainers in the other. He had completely forgotten to warn the Dursleys that Dumbledore might be coming. Feeling both panicky mid close to laughter, he clambered over the trunk and wrenched open his bedroom door in time to hear a deep voice say, 'Good evening. You must be Mr. Dursley. I daresay Harry has told you I would be coming for him?'

Harry ran down the stairs two at a time, coming to an abrupt halt several steps from the bottom, as long experience had taught him to remain out of arm's reach of his uncle whenever possible. There in the doorway stood a tall, thin man with waist-length silver hair and beard. Half-moon spectacles were perched on his crooked nose, and he was wearing a long black traveling cloak and pointed hat. Vernon Dursley, whose mustache was quite as bushy as Dumbledore's, though black, and who was wearing a puce dressing gown, was staring at the visitor as though he could not believe his tiny eyes.

'Judging by your look of stunned disbelief, Harry did not warn you that I was coming,' said Dumbledore pleasantly. 'However, let us assume that you have invited me warmly into your house. It is unwise to linger overlong on doorsteps in these troubled times.'

He stepped smartly over the threshold and closed the front door behind him.

'It is a long time since my last visit,' said Dumbledore, peering down his crooked nose at Uncle Vernon.

Vernon Dursley said nothing at all. Harry did not doubt that speech would return to him, and soon-the vein pulsing in his uncle's temple was reaching danger point-but something about Dumbledore seemed to have robbed him temporarily of breath. It might have been the blatant wizardishness of his appearance, but it might, too, have been that even Uncle Vernon could sense that here was a man whom it would be very difficult to bully.

'Ah, good evening Harry,' said Dumbledore, looking up at him through his half-moon glasses with a most satisfied expression. 'Excellent, excellent.'

These words seemed to rouse Uncle Vernon. It was clear that as far as he was concerned, any man who could look at Harry and say 'excellent' was a man with whom he could never see eye to eye.

'I don't mean to be rude –' he began, in a tone that threatened rudeness in every syllable.

'- yet, sadly, accidental rudeness occurs alarmingly often,' Dumbledore finished the sentence gravely. 'Best to say nothing at all, my dear man. Ah, and this must be Petunia.'

The kitchen door had opened, and there stood Harry's aunt, wearing rubber gloves and a housecoat over her nightdress, clearly halfway through her usual pre-bedtime wipe-down of all the kitchen surfaces. Her rather horsey face registered nothing but shock.

'Albus Dumbledore," said Dumbledore, when Uncle Vernon failed to effect an introduction. 'We have corresponded, of course.' Harry thought this an odd way of reminding Aunt Petunia that he had once sent her an exploding letter, but Aunt Petunia did not challenge the term. 'And this must be your son, Dudley?'

Dudley had that moment peered round the living room door, his large, blond head rising out of the stripy collar of his pajamas looked oddly disembodied, his mouth gaping in astonishment and fear. Dumbledore waited a moment or two, apparently to see whether any of the Dursleys were going to say anything, but as the silence stretched on he smiled.

'Shall we assume that you have invited me into your sitting room?'

Dudley scrambled out of the way as Dumbledore passed him. Harry, still clutching the telescope and trainers, jumped the last few stairs and followed Dumbledore, who had settled himself in the armchair nearest the fire. He looked quite extraordinarily out of place.

'Aren't - aren't we leaving, sir?' Harry asked anxiously.

'Yes, indeed we are, but there are a few matters we need to discuss first,' said Dumbledore. 'And I would prefer not to do so in the open. We shall trespass upon your aunt and uncle's hospitality only a little longer.'

He drew his wand so rapidly that Harry barely saw it; with a casual flick, the sofa zoomed forward and knocked the knees out from under all three of the Dursleys so that they collapsed upon it in a heap. Another flick of the wand and the sofa zoomed back to its original position.

'We may as well be comfortable,' said Dumbledore pleasantly. The Dursleys didn't look very comfortable.

As he replaced his wand in his pocket, Harry saw that his hand was blackened and shriveled; it looked as though his flesh had been burned away.

'Sir - what happened to your - ?'

'Later, Harry,' said Dumbledore. 'Please sit down.'

Harry took the remaining armchair, choosing not to look at the Dursleys, who seemed stunned into silence.

'Well, Harry,' said Dumbledore, turning toward him, 'a difficulty has arisen which I hope you will be able to solve for us. By us, I mean the Order of the Phoenix.'

The difficulty, it turned out, was Sirius' will which left everything he inherited as a Black to Harry. Traditionally the inheritance would be left to the next Black, which would have been Bellatrix Lestrange. That, by itself, was a problem as Grimmauld Place would then be hers.

'The situation is fraught with complications. We do not know whether the enchantments we ourselves have placed upon it, for example, making it Unplottable, will hold now that ownership has passed from Sirius's hands. It might be that Bellatrix will arrive on the doorstep at any moment. Naturally we had to move out until such time as we have clarified the position,'

'But how are you going to find out if I'm allowed to own it?'

'Fortunately,' said Dumbledore, 'there is a simple test.

'You see," Dumbledore said, 'if you have indeed inherited the house, you have also inherited – '

He flicked his wand. There was a loud crack, and a house-elf appeared, with a snout for a nose, giant bat's ears, and enormous bloodshot eyes, crouching on the Dursleys' shag carpet and covered in grimy rags.

'Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't!' croaked the house-elf, quite as loudly as Uncle Vernon, stamping his long, gnarled feet and pulling his ears. 'Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix, oh yes, Kreacher belongs to the Blacks, Kreacher wants his new mistress, Kreacher won't go to the Potter brat, Kreacher won't, won't, won't –'

'As you can see, Harry,' said Dumbledore loudly, over Kreacher's continued croaks of 'wont, won't, won't,' 'Kreacher is showing a certain reluctance to pass into your ownership.'

'I don't care,' said Harry again, looking with disgust at the writhing, stamping house-elf. 'I don't want him.'

'Won't, won't, won't, won't—'

'You would prefer him to pass into the ownership of Bellatrix Lestrange? Bearing in mind that he has lived at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix for the past year?'

Harry stared at Dumbledore. He knew that Kreacher could not be permitted to go and live with Bellatrix Lestrange, but the idea of owning him, of having responsibility for the creature that had betrayed Sirius, was repugnant.

'Give him an order,' said Dumbledore. 'If he has passed into your ownership, he will have to obey. If not, then we shall have to think of some other means of keeping him from his rightful mistress.'

'Won't, won't, won't, WON'T!'

Kreacher's voice had risen to a scream. Harry could think of nothing to say, except, 'Kreacher, shut up!'

It looked for a moment as though Kreacher was going to choke. He grabbed his throat, his mouth still working furiously, his eyes bulging. After a few seconds of frantic gulping, he threw himself face forward onto the carpet (Aunt Petunia whimpered) and beat the floor with his hands and feet, giving himself over to a violent, but entirely silent, tantrum.

'Well, that simplifies matters,' said Dumbledore cheerfully. 'It means that Sirius knew what he was doing. You are the rightful owner of number twelve, Grimmauld Place and of Kreacher.'

'Do I-do I have to keep him with me?' Harry asked, aghast, as Kreacher thrashed around at his feet.

'Not if you don't want to,' said Dumbledore. 'If I might make a suggestion, you could send him to Hogwarts to work in the kitchen there. In that way, the other house-elves could keep an eye on him.'

'Yeah,' said Harry in relief, 'yeah, I'll do that. Er-Kreacher-I want you to go to Hogwarts and work in the kitchens there with the other house-elves.'

Kreacher, who was now lying flat on his back with his arms and legs in the air, gave Harry one upside-down look of deepest loathing and, with another loud crack, vanished.

'Good,' said Dumbledore. 'There is also the matter of the hippogriff, Buckbeak. Hagrid has been looking after him since Sirius died, but Buckbeak is yours now, so if you would prefer to make different arrangements –'

'No,' said Harry at once, 'he can stay with Hagrid. I think Buckbeak would prefer that.'

'Hagrid will be delighted,' said Dumbledore, smiling. 'He was thrilled to see Buckbeak again. Incidentally, we have decided, in the interests of Buckbeak's safety, to rechristen him "Witherwings" for the time being, though I doubt that the Ministry would ever guess he is the hippogriff they once sentenced to death. Now, Harry, is your trunk packed?'

'Erm...'

'Doubtful that I would turn up?' Dumbledore suggested shrewdly.

'I'll just go and – er – finish off,' said Harry hastily, hurrying to pick up his fallen telescope and trainers.

'I believe the job will be done much quicker if I were to help,' Dumbledore smiled amicably and rose as well.

'No, sir. It's al –' An audible crack rang through the room, successfully cutting Harry off.

'Ah, I see old age has reared its ugly head,' said Dumbledore though he didn't seem at all bothered as he straightened with more adjoining pops from his bones. 'No matter. Lead the way, Harry.'

At a loss at words, Harry nodded dumbly and trailed off towards his room, Dumbledore in tow. When he opened his door, only then did he realize the truly horrible state of his room; a truly horrible state that he would be showing his headmaster. Harry felt a distinct burn on his cheeks and an urge to smack his head.

However, Dumbledore only hummed good-naturedly. 'To be young…' he murmured to himself. Harry sheepishly stepped in and began, once again, pitching his things towards his trunk, though with severely less gusto than before; Hedwig hooted awake at the noise and seem quite miffed at being woken. 'Harry,' Dumbledore called out, giving Harry pause. 'Allow me,' and with a flick of his wand once more, Harry's possession were neatly being packed into his trunk. Harry was reminded distinctly of a muggle movie he'd watched - well Dudley had watched, he'd seen parts of it – where an old wizard had magicked his belongings into a small traveling bag.

As the last of his few items flew towards the bag, Harry and Dumbledore both noticed distinct glimmers. Upon closer inspection, they found the glimmers to be shards of glass from a broken mirror.

Harry slowly walked over to his trunk and bent to pick up the item, the gift from Sirius that brought about the most pain in his chest. He hadn't a chance to think much after the letter came, but seeing this mirror again brought an onslaught of memories of his last night at Hogwarts. He was reminded again of the Veil, of Luna's haunting words; they were just lurking out of sight, that's all. You heard them.

Even after his chat with Dumbledore, Harry hadn't been able to free his mind from any thoughts on the Veil. That nagging feeling, that there truly was something beyond the Veil, that Sirius was still there, had kept him awake for most of the night. He had been quiet for most of the train ride, trying hard to forget but failing. And now, Harry was once again drowning in those thoughts.

Behind him Dumbledore picked up a few broken shards that had separated from the main piece. 'If you would like,' Dumbledore began, 'I could repair it.' Harry snapped out of his reverie. He shook his head and instead packed the mirror pieces away into the paper they came out from.

A bit unsettled at Harry's behavior, though not visibly, Dumbledore asked, 'If there is something you would like to unburden from your heart, I would gladly lend an ear.'

Before Harry could stop himself he blurted out, 'I was just thinking about Veil and if Sirius is still there.' A split second later, Harry cringed at his own words.

'Harry – '

'It's nothing, professor, I know Sirius is – is gone, I was just thinking, is all' Harry dearly hoped Dumbledore wouldn't catch his lie and pursue the subject. He turned to smile sheepishly at the Headmaster. 'Anyway, we've got to get going, right?'

Dumbledore hesitated moment, before nodding. 'Right you are,' he said and turned to leave the room. The wizened old man didn't show it, but he was once again deeply perturbed by his student's musings.

Harry gave an inaudible sigh of relief before picking up Hedwig's cage and his trunk and following his professor out.

Before heading to The Burrow, the two wizards made a stop at Budleigh Babberton where a paranoid, former professor resided. Horace Slughorn was his name. Using Harry, Dumbledore managed to manipulate him into taking up a post as a professor. From there the two apparated to their final destination: a country lane by a crooked silhouette of a tall building.

'If you don't mind, Harry,' said Dumbledore, as they passed through a gate onto the Weasley property, 'I'd like a few words with you before we part. In private. Perhaps in here?'

Dumbledore pointed toward a run-down stone outhouse where the Weasleys kept their broomsticks. A little puzzled, Harry followed Dumbledore through the creaking door into a space a little smaller than the average cupboard. Dumbledore illuminated the tip of his wand, so that it glowed like a torch, and smiled down at Harry.

'I hope you will forgive me for mentioning it, Harry, but I am pleased and a little proud at how well you seem to be coping after everything that happened at the Ministry. Permit me to say that I think Sirius would have been proud of you.'

Harry swallowed; his voice seemed to have deserted him. He did not think he could stand to discuss Sirius, partly because a part of him still refused to think of him as dead.

'It was cruel,' said Dumbledore softly, 'that you and Sirius had such a short time together. A brutal ending to what should have been a long and happy relationship.'

Harry nodded, his eyes fixed resolutely on the spider now climbing Dumbledore's hat. He could tell that Dumbledore understood, that he might even suspect that until his letter arrived, Harry had spent nearly all his time at the Dursleys' lying on his bed, refusing meals, and staring at the misted window, full of the chill emptiness that he had come to associate with dementors.

'It's just hard,' Harry said finally, in a low voice, 'to realize he won't write to me again.'

His eyes burned suddenly and he blinked. He felt stupid for admitting it, but the fact that he had had someone outside Hogwarts who cared what happened to him, almost like a parent, had been one of the best things about discovering his godfather... and now the post owls would never bring him that comfort again...

'Sirius represented much to you that you had never known before,' said Dumbledore gently. 'Naturally, the loss is devastating...' Dumbledore hesitated before continuing, 'Forgive me for saying this Harry, but I felt you have not truly accepted Sirius' death.'

Harry turned to him sharply, 'What makes you think that, sir?' he said slowly.

'Earlier this night, you claimed to think that Sirius may still be beyond the Veil,' Dumbledore hardened his gaze. 'I suspect you remember our conversation on the Veil. Sirius is dead, Harry.'

'But you don't know that!' Harry burst out. The words came before he could stop them, 'You said it yourself, not a lot is known about the Veil. How could you know that people who went through actually died?'

Dumbledore stood stock still, shocked at Harry's outburst; he hadn't realized how far Harry's mind had gone with this obsession on the Veil. A heavy silence fell in the air, suffocating Harry. His throat constricted and his cheeks began to burn. 'Sorry, I hadn't meant for it to come out like that. I know Sirius is de- gone. It- it frustrates me that Sirius was suddenly proclaimed dead because he fell through a curtain.' He bore his rampaging emotions down, calming his thudding heart. With a sniffle he tried to hide, he turned to his professor, 'Somehow I ended up shouting at you again, sir.' He gave a small, apologetic smile.

'It's quite alright. I seem to be treading on sore wounds. I apologize for my brashness, Harry; I confess to being very protective of your wellbeing,' he gave a gentle smile in return.

A small, warm feeling erupted in his chest at Dumbledore's words, perhaps because it had been a while since someone claimed to genuinely care for him, someone akin to a parent. 'Thank you, sir. It means a lot to me. Sometimes I think of you as a grandfather,' said Harry. And then he realized what he said. And so did Dumbledore, who opened his mouth to say something and then closed it, apparently at a loss of words. Harry had to look away, one because his face decided to ignite and two because Dumbledore's bright blue eyes began to look rather watery.

When Dumbledore spoke, his voice was a little unsteady, 'And now, Harry, on a closely related subject...,' he coughed to get rid of a slight tremor in his voice. 'I gather that you have been taking the Daily Prophet over the last two weeks?'

'Yes,' said Harry, and his heart beat a little faster as he looked up at his professor.

'Then you will have seen that there have been not so much leaks as floods concerning your adventure in the Hall of Prophecy?'

'Yes,' said Harry again. 'And now everyone knows that I'm the one—'

'No, they do not,' interrupted Dumbledore. 'There are only two people in the whole world who know the full contents of the prophecy made about you and Lord Voldemort, and they are both standing in this smelly, spidery broom shed. It is true, however, that many have guessed, correctly, that Voldemort sent his Death Eaters to steal a prophecy, and that the prophecy concerned you.'

'It doesn't change the fact that I have to fight Voldemort,' Harry said tightly.

'My dear boy, is that what you think?' Harry gave him look that said 'What else am I supposed to think'. Dumbledore shook his and said, 'No, no, you mustn't misunderstand. The prophecy is just that - a prophecy. It is not an outcome. A prophecy can be left unfulfilled.'

Now Harry gave him an incredulous look; he hadn't thought of it like that. 'So I don't have to fight him?' Dumbledore nodded. 'But if I want to stop him…?'

'Then, that is your choice.'

So the fate of wizarding world doesn't rest on my shoulders. Well that's a load off… not really.

Dumbledore glanced outside and nodded to himself. "Very well, then," said Dumbledore, pushing open the broom shed door and stepping out into the yard. "I see a light in the kitchen. Let us not deprive Molly any longer of the chance to deplore how thin you are."