Harry Thunderer and the Uru Hammer

Chapter Two

"If He Be Worthy…"

When the whirlwind spinning of the Portkey ended, Harry found himself standing in the headmaster's office. He dropped the telephone handset into a nearby chintz chair. His landing had been much smoother than other Portkey trips he remembered — he'd landed lightly on his feet rather than stumbling clumsily, as he usually did, and didn't feel dizzy at all.

Looking around, Harry saw the damage that had occurred earlier during Dumbledore's escape had been repaired. All of his delicate silver instruments were back on their spindly tables, puffing and whirring as before. The office was otherwise silent except for an occasional snoring sound from a few of the portraits hanging about the room.

Harry sighed, not knowing what he should do next. He did not want to be here — he had the unpleasant feeling that Dumbledore wanted him out of the Ministry before Fudge and his men figured out who the tall, broad-shouldered stranger in the dark leather suit and long, flowing robe really was. In fact, Harry had almost expected it to be obvious — Neville had recognized him from his green eyes, hadn't he?

Harry looked around the room, realizing that he had not yet seen his own reflection since he'd transformed. There were no mirrors on the any of the walls — apparently the headmaster did not feel the need to check his appearance — when Harry glanced down at the surface of the enormous desk Dumbledore used, seeing himself reflected in its highly polished finish. What he saw made him gasp.

His hair, though still black, was now long, past shoulder-length, giving him the same general appearance as his godfather, Sirius Black. Not that anyone except Harry would have made that connection, because of what else was on his head — a gleaming steel war helmet, with eagle's wings on each side. Harry slowly lifted the helmet off his head and stared at his reflection in the desk's surface, so similar to his godfather Sirius.

Dumbledore and Lupin had said that Sirius was dead. Harry couldn't accept that — he'd gone through the veil, too, and managed to find his way back across. That meant there had to be a way to get Sirius back from there as well!

A particularly loud snore behind him became a cough, and the voice of Phineas Nigellus spoke, "And what brings my great-great-grandson to the headmaster of Hogwarts once again, this early in the morning?"

Harry turned slowly, staring at the former headmaster's portrait. Nigellus raised an eyebrow, then said, "Ah — my mistake. From behind you somewhat resembled one of my worthless descendants. How did you gain entry to this office, pray tell?"

"Dumbledore sent me here," Harry said, flatly, not bothering to explain who he really was. The former headmaster's disdain for Sirius was irritating. For a moment Harry considered smashing the portrait with his hammer. Nigellus didn't know, however, that Sirius was dead. And Harry had no intention of telling him anything, now. With an effort he turned away.

"Well!" Nigellus sniffed. "That's hardly —" he cut himself off as emerald fire suddenly burst from the fireplace, and Harry turned to watch the tall form spinning into view within the flames, then step into the room. The other portraits suddenly awoke as well, and several, along with Nigellus, called out greetings to Dumbledore, who nodded, murmuring his thanks.

As Harry watched, the professor walked over to a shelf, selected a book from among the hundreds lining his office walls, then returned to the chair behind his desk. He did not place the book on the desk, but held it in both hands, in such a way Harry could not make out the title. Looking up at Harry, he said, "You will be pleased to hear that none of your fellow students suffered any lasting damage from tonight's events."

Harry nodded. "He started to say, "Good," but he could not — there was nothing good about anything that had happened that evening.

"Miss Tonks may spend some time at St. Mungo's," Dumbledore went on, "but she is expected to make a full recovery as well."

Harry nodded again. It was good to hear that, but there was only one person Harry wanted to talk about. "What are we going to do about Sirius?"

Dumbledore looked at him for a long moment, his blue eyes showing concern and sympathy. "Harry," he said, very quietly, "I know how you feel —"

"No, you don't." Harry cut him off. "If you did, you wouldn't be trying to tell me Sirius is —" he stopped, unable to make himself say it.

"Is…what?" Nigellus said, archly, looking expectantly at Dumbledore. "Has some further tragedy befallen my poor, beleaguered great-great-grandson —"

"Shut up!" Harry shouted. "You don't even care about him!"

"Typical!" Nigellus smirked, rolling his eyes as he turned back to Dumbledore. "In one breath this fellow tells us we don't understand his feelings — about my descendant, mind you! — and in the next he complains about what he thinks our feelings are! What rubbish!"

"Phineas," Dumbledore spoke slowly, almost reluctantly. "Sirius passed beyond the veil tonight."

Nigellus's expression froze. "Are you saying," he finally spoke, "that Sirius Black, the last descendant of the Black line — is dead?"
"No!" Harry said, loudly, but Dumbledore nodded slowly.

"I don't believe you," Nigellus said curtly, and stalked out of his portrait.

"I don't, either," Harry said to Dumbledore, after Nigellus left. "I returned from beyond the veil, didn't I? Why can't Sirius still be alive, if I am?"

Some of the other headmaster's portraits were murmuring among themselves, trying to determine who the tall, dark-haired stranger, whom Dumbledore seemed to know, really was. A few had heard him use the name Harry, but seemed preposterous — the only Harry Dumbledore regularly spoke to was a scrawny, black-haired student (who was also the Boy-Who-Lived, some of them pointed out)!

Dumbledore held up the book he'd taken from the shelf. "I do have a theory about how you survived passage through the veil." The headmasters stopped murmuring and began listening once again. "It is because of the hammer you are carrying. Mjolnir."

"What?" Harry said. The last word Dumbledore said had no meaning for him.

"Mjolnir," Dumbledore repeated. "The hammer of Thor the Asgardian."

"That's what you told Fudge," Harry recalled. "He thought you were referring to some story until I went along with you. But I still never heard of this Thor, or a hammer named — Mee-yol-ner."

"I would not have expected you to, Harry," Dumbledore answered. "At least, no more than wizarding or Muggle books describe him, as the mythical Norse god of thunder.

"However, there are other sources of information about Thor and his people, who were called the Aesir, that were not accessible by most historians." The headmaster indicated the book he was holding. "This journal, for example. It was written in 1160 by one Snorri Sturluson, who is also credited with writing the Prose Edda, which consists partly of a narrative of Norse mythology.

"Albus, dear boy," one of the portraits shook her head disapprovingly, a woman with her hair in long silver ringlets. She was the only former Head of the school that could carry off calling Dumbledore "dear boy." "I believe your facts are somewhat in error. Snorri Sturluson indeed wrote the Prose Edda, among other things, but he was not born until 1179."

Dumbledore smiled. "Indeed, Dilys, you are correct as well. However, the Snorri I speak of was born nearly one hundred years earlier, around the year 1080 or so, to a branch of the Sturlungar family very few historians know of, Muggle or wizard. The Sturlungar family, you may recall, was powerful in the Icelandic Commonwealth in the thirteenth century."

Dilys gave a small nod of acknowledgement, and Dumbledore continued. "The book I hold is that Snorri's testament to Thor Odinson, whom he said he met in the flesh when he was a small boy, along with his hammer, Mjolnir. In the book, he describes some of the things Thor was able to do: he could command the wind and lightning with his hammer, and used it to fly through the air by throwing the hammer and catching the handle's strap. Snorri also wrote that Thor could use the hammer to disguise himself as a normal man, to walk among his followers unnoticed."

Harry shook his head in confusion, the long black hair he now wore swirling around him. "I don't understand any of that — and I don't care. What I do care about is what happened to Sirius, and what we're going to do to find him!"

"Harry," Dumbledore said, patiently. "I understand —"

"So you keep saying!" Harry cut over him, as the portraits frowned and muttered disapprovingly at his rudeness. "But you're standing there trying to tell me about some old book written hundreds of years ago, instead of figuring out what we can do to save Sirius!"

Dumbledore was silent for several moments. "It may be impossible to save Sirius," he said at last. When Harry's expression grew mutinous, the headmaster pointed toward the hammer Harry still held in his now-massive fist. "It may also be that the weapon you now carry can be the key to his return."
"What do you mean?" Harry held up the hammer before him.

"Before you, no one who had gone through the veil had ever returned, Harry," Dumbledore told him, as they both stared at the weapon Harry held between them. "When you did return, both Remus and I were amazed that anyone could have done so. Then, I saw what was written on the hammer and I realized what it actually was."

Harry looked down at the hammer, puzzled. "Written? Where? I don't see anything written on it." There were some markings along one side of the hammer, Harry saw, but they did not look like writing to him. Except —

"The writing is in runes," Dumbledore said. The inscription says,

WHOSOEVER HOLDS THIS HAMMER
IF HE BE WORTHY
SHALL POSSESS THE POWER OF
THOR

Harry frowned. "That seems like a stupid thing for someone to do, to put all of his power into an object like this."

Dumbledore gave him a small smile. "You might be surprised at what some people will place into objects, Harry."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry wanted to know.

"It's not important at the moment," the headmaster responded, dismissively, then held up Snorri's book once again. "What is important is that we can use this book to help us understand more about what you've found, and perhaps we can use it to help you achieve your goals."

"My only goal for now," Harry replied at once, "is to find Sirius and bring him back. Are you going to help me do that, or not?"

"Harry," Dumbledore tried to explain again. "You need to understand what you are capable of doing now that you have that weapon. It could be extremely dangerous for you otherwise."

Harry snorted. "Didn't I make it back from across the veil?" he said, in an argumentative tone. "You said nobody had done that before I did — I didn't see what was so dangerous about it."

"You young fool!" one of the portraits, the corpulent Fortescue, suddenly burst out at Harry. "Dumbledore's trying to help you, and yet you — yiii!" The red-nosed portrait shouted and barely got out of the frame as Harry suddenly flung the hammer he was holding at his picture. The hammer slammed into the empty frame, shattering the wall behind it. The empty frame and stone fragments fell to the ground, leaving a gaping hole in the wall of the Headmaster's office. The other portraits gasped in horror and outrage, though Dumbledore did not react at all. Harry held his hand out expectantly, and within a few moments the hammer returned to him through the hole. He turned to face Dumbledore.

"Whoever this Thor was, he was obviously a pretty powerful guy. That's probably why I was able to come back from the other side of the veil. I'm going to go think about this for a bit.

"Meanwhile, you can think about helping me find Sirius. Maybe, when I get back, and you've had time to think about it, you'll see it's the right thing to do."

"Where will you go?" Dumbledore asked.

Harry shrugged. "I dunno. Just away. I can't be around here now, not with you and not where Ron or Hermione can see me. I don't think they'd get the new me, 'cause I sure don't get me at the moment!"

Dumbledore held up the book in his hands. "What of learning what you're capable of doing now? That is essential if you are to make proper use —"

Harry pointed the hammer toward Dumbledore and said, "Accio Book!" and it leapt from the headmaster's fingers into Harry's hand. "I'll take it with me," he said, as Dumbledore blinked in surprise. "You've already told me how to use it to fly."

"Harry, I —"

But even as Dumbledore spoke, Harry turned and flung the hammer toward the opening in the wall, then disappeared as the hammer dragged him like a shot into the morning sky. The headmaster stepped forward, watching Harry's form in flight as the hammer carried him away, toward the northeast.

Fortescue spoke from Dilys Derwent's portrait. "Blast it, Albus, that young hothead might've damaged me severely! Why did you let him keep that ruddy hammer — it's much too dangerous for anyone to have, if it is what you say."

"It might have been difficult to take it from him, Dexter," Dumbledore said, staring down at the debris at the base of the tower, where Fortescue's empty frame lay, shattered across the rubble it had fallen upon. "As it is, it will be no simple matter to get you back into your frame."

"I hope you'll get to it soon, Albus," Dilys said, with a sidelong glance at her fellow headmaster, who was huffing nervously beside her. "It does make things a bit crowded here."

***

Draco Malfoy sat back, a smirk on his lips, and nodded toward Goyle, who reached out and smacked the boy next to him across the cheek with a meaty hand.

"It's still up to you," he told the boy, who stared at him with a combination of loathing and terror. "I'm sure neither of my friends mind that you don't want to talk — we can keep this up all the way to King's Cross."

The round-faced boy across from Draco only shook his head again. His face was cut and swollen from numerous blows. "Then I guess you're going to have to keep it up all the way there, Malfoy — I don't know."

Malfoy leaned forward again, his gray eyes cold but barely concealing the furious anger he felt. "You and five other students, including Potter, got into the Department of Mysteries for reasons unknown. My father and his associates tried to stop you —"

Neville chuckled weakly. "Tried to kill us, you mean! Unless you're so dim you don't even know he's a Death Eater —" he grunted as Malfoy nodded and Crabbe, on his opposite side, punched him in the cheek.

"I'd be careful about saying things like that, Longbottom," Draco said, in a low voice. "There are laws about slander, you know. Plus, it's rather rude." Both Crabbe and Goyle chuckled at this.

Draco sat back, thinking. They had brought Longbottom back to their compartment on the Hogwarts Express after catching him during a trip to the toilet. Ever since he'd heard what had happened at the Ministry with You-Know-Who, his father, and the others, Draco had been scheming for a confrontation with Potter. But the scrawny Gryffindor had never emerged from the school hospital, and no one had seen him since the day he, Professor Umbridge and that Mudblood Granger had disappeared into the Forbidden Forest. The others had gotten away from him and the Inquisition Squad, and since then he'd hoped to catch Potter's friend Weasley, or that insufferable Granger girl they hung out with, but they were both prefects like him; he had too much to lose if they squealed to their Head of House afterwards. It was safer to grab one of them on the train home. Longbottom, who was not very popular with most of the other Gryffindors, was a perfect choice, as he was unlikely to be missed during the ride.

"You're taking a lot of pounding for a person who doesn't care much about you, y'know," Draco drawled matter-of-factly, looking at Neville from beneath hooded eyelids. "Potter doesn't care about you."

"You're wrong about Harry," Neville told him, fiercely. "He does care!"

"Then why's he letting this happen to you?" Draco wanted to know. "We've got you tied up in knots — literally!" Neville had been propped up in the seat between Crabbe and Goyle, his legs jinxed with the Jelly-Legs spell and intertwined so they couldn't be released from the spell without shattering his bones. His arms had been hexed similarly and knotted behind him.

Neville actually laughed aloud. "Boy, leave it to you, Malfoy," he said, "to kidnap me and then blame Harry because he hasn't come to save me! Why don't you just admit you can't hold a candle compared to him!"

Malfoy nodded absently and Goyle slugged Neville in the stomach. Pansy Parkinson, who'd been watching all this silently from Draco's side, finally spoke up. "If you really want find out what he knows, Draco, you need to put the Crucio on him."

Crabbe, opposite her, grinned. "Yeah," he added in his soft voice, a voice that hardly seemed to fit someone as large as he. "Some real pain will make 'im talk."

"Not yet," Draco said, firmly, and Crabbe snorted disappointment. In truth, Draco was unsure of crossing that line just yet; his father had warned him that Unforgivable Curses, while effective, were not taken lightly by the Ministry, and at the moment his father was still in Azkaban, though the dementors were no longer there.

Pansy gave him a hard look. "Maybe you should let me, if you're afraid to, Draco…"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "Maybe I'll Crucio you, if you keep pushing me."

Pansy laughed but put up her hands in mock surrender. Draco turned back to Neville, who'd watched the exchange warily. "You can't say I'm not looking out for you, Longbottom. See, my friends want to Crucio you but I don't think it has to come to that. My aunt would probably curse me herself if she saw how soft I'm being on you —"

"Your aunt's a nutter," Neville spoke up. "A psychopath. Completely barking. She was one of your dad's 'associates' in the Ministry. The last I saw of her, she was —" Neville cut himself off suddenly.

"Was…what?" Draco said quickly, realizing that Longbottom had almost given something away. There was something he wanted to say about Bellatrix Lestrange. "Go on, say it."

Neville stared at him a long moment, an unreadable expression on his face. "Let's just say," he said at last, "I don't know if you're going to see her again. From what I heard, she got too close to the lightning."

"What the hell does that mean?" Draco growled. Crabbe balled his fist, but Draco waved him off. The stupid git was liable to knock Longbottom out before he could explain himself! "Talk, or I'll have them pound you some more."

"You're going to have them pound me anyway, Draco," Neville said, wearily. "I may as well not give you the satisfaction of telling you anything that happened at the Ministry. Ask your daddy the next time you see him."

"You may end up seeing your parents soon," Draco threatened. "They're in St. Mungo's, aren't they — in the closed ward?"

"You ought to know," Neville shot back. "Your family put them there!"

Draco looked at Crabbe and Goyle. "Go ahead," he told them, and both of them began slapping and punching Neville in the face, chest and stomach. Frustrated, Draco jumped to his feet and walked out of the compartment, followed by Pansy.

"Damn Potter!" Draco swore, once outside the compartment. He was nearly shaking with anger — at Longbottom, for being so stubborn and withholding information, probably out of misguided loyalty to Potter; and at himself, for lacking the resolve to use an Unforgivable on the Gryffindor as Pansy and Crabbe suggested.

"So now what?" Pansy asked in a bored tone. "Try the Crucio on him?"

"You're a sadistic little bitch, aren't you?" Draco snapped, and the Slytherin girl bridled.

"Listen to the little ferret," she hissed, and Draco shot her a dangerous glare. She knew now much he hated being reminded of the time he'd been turned into a ferret, as it turned out by Barty Crouch, Jr., a Death Eater posing as the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher for that year, Alastor Moody.

"Crabbe and Goyle can have their fun," he said "I'll give him a Stunner when we get to the station. We'll all be long gone before he's found, and there'll be no evidence — fists leave bruises, but magic leaves traces. Snape warned me about that."
"What about the jinxes on his arms and legs?" Pansy recalled. "Who cast them?"

"I had Crabbe and Goyle do them," Malfoy said, with a grin. "Maybe I'll let one of them do the Stunner as well. Then nothing can be traced back to me or you." Pansy nodded, smiling as well. They were covered.

They left Neville unconscious in the compartment at King's Cross. After Crabbe Stunned him, Malfoy had him and Goyle untangle his limbs and stretch him out flat on the seat, his hands folded across his chest, as if he'd been sleeping. His round face was still marked with bruises and cuts, and there were markings over most of his upper torso, but nobody would be the wiser. Besides, for all his misguided loyalty to Potter, Longbottom was a fellow pureblood, and Draco's father had reminded him that they stuck together. Except, of course, for blood traitors like the Weasleys.

Pansy had gone to gather her belongings and find her parents. On the platform, Draco, Crabbe and Goyle had gathered for one last meeting before parting for the summer. "Have a good holiday," Draco muttered, slipping each of them a small pouch filled with Galleons, a quick and easy token of appreciation. In the early days, he'd kept them filled with treats from the food trolley on the trips to and from Hogwarts, but these last few years nothing guaranteed continued loyal service like the clink of money.

Crabbe and Goyle murmured thanks, then saw their parents at the far side of the platform. They nodded to Malfoy, picked up their trunks, and headed off. Malfoy glanced around carefully; this time was the most unsettling for him, when his muscle was gone and he was vulnerable to attack. His parents usually appeared within moments of the train's arrival, but it would be different this year…

Malfoy's mouth twisted in anger again as he thought of his father — his father! — in Azkaban prison, because of Harry Potter! Whatever had happened to Potter, wherever he'd gone, Draco would hunt him down and hurt him for heaping that indignity upon him and his mother!

"Draco." Draco spun. The voice was his mother's, but barely above a whisper. She was gesturing toward him from a small doorway in a nearby wall, hidden so that only a few, special Wizarding families knew about it, or where it led to. He started to walk toward her but she whispered, "Get your trunk!" Draco stopped, confused for a moment, then grabbed the handle and wheeled it behind him over to where she was. "Hurry," she said, holding the door open for him, then glanced behind him as he passed through, to be sure no one had seen them.

"What's all this about?" Draco asked once inside the room, but his mother only shook her long blonde locks and hurried him over to the room's only other fixture, a large stone fireplace. There was a bowl of Floo powder on the roughly-cut wooden mantle. Draco reached for a pinch of the powder, but she held up a hand before he threw it into the flames.

"There have been some changes," she said quickly. "The Ministry is monitoring the Floo system, so we cannot travel home from here."

Draco shook his head, incredulous. "What difference does it make? We've been going home this way for years now!"

"Things have changed since you were home this spring, Draco," his mother said, weariness in her voice. "Our home is no longer on the Floo system."

"Well, that's bloody inconvenient, Mother!" Draco snapped. Why had she even bothered to bring him in here, if they couldn't even floo home?

As if she knew what he was thinking, Narcissa said, "This link is off the system — it's a private connection now. The Ministry thinks it's been shut down."

"Where does it go?" Draco wanted to know.

"To Borgin and Burke's," Narcissa said. "Now hurry up — he's expecting us."

"Who — that old fool, Borgin?" Draco said, disdainfully. His mother hesitated for a moment, then nodded. Draco sniffed and shrugged, tossed the powder into the flames, then said loudly "Borgin and Burke's!" and stepped into the swirling emerald flames.

As he finished spinning, Draco stepped into the room he'd arrived at, expecting to see Borgin's slick, unctuous features. But the office he was in was cold and dusty; it looked long unused. Draco wondered briefly if the connection had failed, somehow, when his mother arrived behind him, with his trunk. With barely a glance at him she stepped toward the door of the room, gave it a final withering glare, then disappeared through the exit. Starting to follow, Draco spied a name plaque on the dusty desk that read CARACTACUS BURKE. Suppressing a snort reminiscent of his father, Draco stepped after her.

Only a few steps down a shabby hallway, Narcissa stopped at a door marked OFFICE and gave three sharp knocks. "Enter," a voice said, and she opened the door and pushed Draco inside, following behind him. This office, Draco saw, was occupied by the store's proprietor, Borgin, who was watching them from his desk, quill in hand, as Narcissa strode up to his desk. He smiled at them, though the smile didn't seem to extend to his eyes, which remained cold and shifting to every corner of the room. "Ah, Mrs. Malfoy. You've returned with young Draco, I see."

"Yes," Draco's mother said. She was glancing around the room as well, though Draco could see her expression was filled with disgust rather than nervousness. "You have our transportation arrangements made?" she asked. "I would not want my son and I to impose on your hospitality." Draco smiled thinly; it was his mother's subtle way of saying she didn't fancy hanging around this dump.

Borgin smiled and stood, gesturing them, not toward the fireplace, but toward another door leading from his office. Taking out his wand, he tapped the doorknob with an odd little rhythm, then opened the door, leading them down a short corridor to another room. This room had only a tall accountant's desk and a fireplace in it. There was a book on the desk, which Borgin opened and wrote briefly in, then turned and gestured to the fireplace.

"You may now travel to your home, Mrs. Malfoy," he said. "The private connection will be in effect for the next five minutes."

"Good," Narcissa nodded.

"A lot of bother just to get home," Draco grumbled, not noticing the look that passed between his mother and the oily shopkeeper, both of whom were quite old and clever enough to understand the danger their new situation had placed everyone in the Wizarding world in, not just the Mudbloods and blood traitors that Draco concerned himself with.

"Wait for me when you get there," Narcissa told him, as Draco grabbed a pinch of Floo powder and began to toss it into the flames. "We need to talk before you get settled."

Draco looked at her a long moment, then shrugged and stepped into the flames, saying "Malfoy Manor!" Moments later he was standing on the grate in front of the fireplace in his father's study. He stepped out, looking around, pleased to be home again, though it had only been a few months since spring break. This time, he would have over two months of holiday before having to go back. Now that O.W.L.s were finished, he would have an easy time before preparing for N.E.W.T.s the following year — though with any luck, the Dark Lord's return would make the need for further schoolwork unnecessary.

Narcissa appeared in a flash of emerald fire — at almost the same moment the door to the study opened and a raven-haired woman with heavily-lidded eyes leaned in — his aunt Bella! "I see you two finally made it back," Bellatrix said, in a softer, less condescending voice than she usually used with Draco. "He's been wanting to talk to Draco," she said to her younger sister.

"Who is?" Draco asked, curious. His mother turned to him and for a second there was a moment of elation on Draco's face — his father was home and they had waited to tell him! he decided.

Narcissa looked at him, her expression tense. "It was what I wanted to talk to you about," she said in a low, almost guttering voice. "He wants to talk to you."

There was something about the way she said that. Draco glanced at his aunt—she was giving him a calculating look, as if she were gauging his reaction. "Who do you mean by 'he'?"

Bellatrix smiled at him. "You know who," she said, and for a moment Draco thought she meant his father, until her crooked smile made him realize, she meant the phrase literally: You-Know-Who!

"M-me?" Draco sputtered. "He wants t-to talk — to me?"

"Bella!" Narcissa hissed. "He's just returned home! The Master doesn't need to put him to work so soon!"

"The Master doesn't like to be kept waiting, either, Cissy!" Bellatrix retorted. "I only know he told me to bring Draco to him as soon as he got here!"

"I'll — I'll go," Draco said, slowly. His aunt beamed at him.

"Very good, Draco!" she told him, ignoring the worried look on her younger sister's face. "He'll like that you show no fear of him — but remember to show him proper respect!" she hastened to say.

"What — what does he want from me?" Draco asked her.

"I don't know," Bellatrix said, seriously. "But he must have something special in mind, to ask for your personally!"

That was what both Draco and Narcissa were afraid of. Draco nodded. "Where is he?"

"In the drawing room," Bellatrix said. "That's his room, now. Knock three times and wait for him to tell you to enter. If he does not answer, don't go in the room — come back here."

Draco nodded again, nervously. "What do I say to him? What do I call him?" Draco didn't want to call him Master — the idea both galled and frightened him.

Bellatrix thought for a moment. "Call him 'lord' or 'Dark Lord' — refer to him in the third person. He prefers that." She frowned at him. "And for mercy's sake, Draco! — get that attitude out of your head! Doing that with the Dark Lord is only going to get you killed!"

"What?!" both Draco and Narcissa said, startled.

"You're radiating hostility!" Bellatrix said, shaking her head disapprovingly. She looked up at Narcissa. "He's got quite a little chip on his shoulder, doesn't he!"

Narcissa sighed. "I'm sure he has good reason — most of the staff at that school is biased against the students in his House."

Bellatrix sniffed. "When I was at that school everyone kept out of our way. Professor Slughorn was a pompous old fool but he did make sure his House received proper respect!"

"Professor Snape does okay!" Draco spoke up. His aunt made a rude noise.

"That little hooked-nose snot is wrapped around Bumblebore's pinkie," she grumbled. Taking out her wand, Bellatrix waved it over Draco's robes, removing wrinkles, dust and soot in moments, then examined him carefully. "There! You're ready to for your audience. Now, stop thinking," she commanded. Draco looked at her, confused. "Clear your mind. The less you think, the less chance you have of thinking something the Dark Lord won't like. I'll have to teach you some Occlumency. Now, go on," she nodded toward the door.

Draco stepped into the hallway, looking up and down the dimly-lit room at the various family portraits on the walls before slowly turning and making his way to the drawing room door. He composed himself as his aunt said, clearing his mind of all extraneous thought (at least, as much as he could), then knocked three times on the door as she'd said.

"Enter," a high, clear voice replied, and Draco stepped in. The curtains were drawn across the windows, making the room darker than normal in the late afternoon. Even though it was the beginning of summer, there was a fire going in the large marble fireplace at the front of the room, with a figure seated in a large, ornate chair placed directly in front of the flames, so that his features were hidden in flickering shadows. Most of the room's furnishings were missing or pushed to the walls, so that nothing stood between Draco and the tall, thin man sitting before him, his red eyes burning into Draco's. "Approach, boy."

Draco stepped forward slowly, willing himself to think of nothing. "Y-yes, lord," he said, stopping a dozen feet from Voldemort. "My aunt said — said you needed something from me."

Voldemort smiled thinly. "Does that trouble you, Draco?"

Draco began to shake his head automatically, but the Dark Lord spoke. "The truth, Draco — I hate liars."

"Well," Draco said, after a moment, "it concerned me, yes."

"And why is that?"

"Well, I — I just didn't know what someone like me would be able to do for a powerful wizard like you, lord."

Voldemort chuckled softly. "Nicely phrased, young Draco. And I see your aunt coached you on guarding your thoughts in my presence." Draco shifted uncomfortably, and the man leaned forward, studying him, one arm under his chin resting on his knee. "In fact, I think you will be able to do quite a bit for me."

Voldemort sat back in his chair. "You have just completed your fifth year of education at Dumbledore's little school, haven't you." It wasn't really a question, Draco noticed. He nodded, murmuring assent. "How did you do on your O.W.L.s?"

Draco was taken aback. Was the Dark Lord asking about his grades? "Uh, Professor Snape said we would be notified in a couple of weeks. He said he thought I did well enough to continue in his Potions class," Draco couldn't help adding, with a bit of pride.

Voldemort smiled. "Do you think he was being truthful?" At Draco's confused expression, he shrugged and waved a long-fingered hand dismissively. "At any rate, I am more interested in your researching abilities than your Potions grades. I know a great many things, Draco, but one thing I do not have now is the freedom to move about unnoticed in the Wizarding world." Voldemort spread his arms slightly. "I am a bit noticeable these days. You, on the other hand, may come and go to the various libraries and bookdealers I send you to."

Draco nodded. He wasn't happy at the though of doing what amounted to school work during the holidays, but on the other hand —

"On the other hand," Voldemort said, finishing his unspoken thought. "I am not sending you out to murder anyway, eh? Well, not yet…" and he laughed, coldly, sending a thrill of fear up Draco's spine.

"What — what will I be researching, lord?" Draco asked, to distract himself from breaking into shivers.

Voldemort took out his wand, and Draco was instantly wary. But the Dark Lord merely waved it toward a low cabinet along a nearby wall, and it slid forward between them. With another gesture, the cabinet opened and a stone bowl floated out of it and onto its top. Draco could see symbols inscribed along the edge of the bowl, and inside it was a swirling silver substance. Voldemort tapped the edge of the bowl, and a figure rose out of the bowl, revolving slowly in place.

"Your aunt Bella gave me this memory of one of her attackers in the Department of Mysteries shortly after I rescued her from him. Look at him." Draco looked at the image of the tall, long-haired man, dressed in leather leggings and vest, boots, cloak and winged helmet. "Notice the weapon he's carrying, a war hammer. According to your aunt, he was able to throw this weapon at her from across the Atrium of the Ministry, striking the visitor's entrance box and foiling her escape. Afterwards, the hammer reversed its course and returned to the thrower's hand."

Impressed in spite of the danger to his aunt, Draco asked, "Who is he?"

"It will be your task to find out," Voldemort told him. The figure sank into the swirling liquid. "Now you know what he looks like." The Dark Lord folded his hands in front of himself and leaned toward Draco. "There have been mutterings among the intelligent idiots at the Ministry that the figure was Thor of Asgard, but I think that an overly facile deduction."

Not really knowing what that meant, Draco decided to ask a question, hoping to get a response he did understand. "How did my aunt Bella get such a vivid mental image of this person? What was he doing at the Ministry?"

Voldemort gave him a look that told Draco it wasn't wise to ask too many questions — he tired quickly of being interrogated by his underlings. "He was helping Harry Potter and his little friends in the Department of Mysteries."

"Potter? What were they —" Draco cut himself off. "I mean, I wondered what they were doing there," he said, trying not to sound as if he were demanding an answer.

Voldemort had looked away from him. "Not important," he said in a quiet, dangerous voice. He glanced back at Draco. "You will begin your research at once," he said, waving his hand in dismissal. "Return when you have found something of importance."

Draco nodded. "Yes, lord." He backed up slowly to the door, bowing as he exited. He closed the door softly, then walked slowly down the hallway to the front entrance. He stepped out the front door, walking slowly down the steps into the dimming sunlight of early summer evening. The air was fresh and cool, but Draco felt nothing as he walked onto the lawn, in the freshly mown grass, not hearing the sounds of the albino pheasants as they moved away from him.

When he'd walked as far from the house as he could go, nearly to the hedgerow that separated the Malfoy estate from the country lane that led up to it, he fell to his knees, leaned forward on his hands, and vomited.

***

Harry strode along the mountain path, glancing at the passing trees and rock formations, the sound of running water and tree limbs swaying in the summer breeze. He had noticed, in the past few days, a strange but welcome calmness that had begun to fall over him as he moved further and further north in this land across the North Sea, where he'd been led after leaving the school.

When Harry had left Hogwarts he'd been upset, angry — angry at Dumbledore, angry at himself. If the headmaster was right, he possessed the power to save Sirius from beyond the veil, yet he'd spent what now seemed like weeks wandering through this strange land, mostly avoiding contact with people, though every so often he found himself wanting to eat or sleep in comfort. He did not seem to get hungry or sleepy from need, however, but simply desired to eat or sleep. He did not speak the language of this country, but he was usually able to show shopkeepers or villagers he could perform quite a lot of work in return for a meal or cot to sleep on, and most of the people he met seemed eager to help him, for some reason. As if they recognized him — or at least, his hammer, since a few times he was only required to knock down a tree or two before he would be treated to a sumptuous dinner and given a huge bed to sleep in. And in some villages the women there, well, threw themselves at him! Often the bed he came to was already filled with a buxom young girl (or two!) who expected him to — well, Harry was embarrassed when he thought of the gestures some of them made, trying to get him to understand. While his body liked the idea (as Harry realized to his horror while staring at a beautiful blonde's bare and ample bosoms), he didn't feel like his head was quite ready for sex yet. He just got the young women out of his bedroom, locked or barred the doors as necessary, and made sure not to remove his leggings. Though he was often offered a bath, he learned it was safer to bathe in streams or lakes in unpopulated regions. There he didn't have to worry about naked young ladies jumping into the bath with him, to scrub his back (and anything else they could get a hold of)!

The path he was on was well inland from the nearest seashore, though this country had numerous large rivers running toward it from the mountains that covered its interior part. It was an unusual sensation, but Harry felt something like "kinship" for his surroundings, a sense of peace and belonging that he'd never felt, either at Privet Drive or at Hogwarts, though he'd regarded Hogwarts as his real home for years now. Harry touched the hammer, now fastened by a hook on his belt with the thong handle strap, and felt further reassured. Undoubtedly it was the source of these feelings.

Harry stopped. His eyes, much sharper since his transformation, had detected movement further up the path. He might have expected an animal, like a ram or some predator, but was surprised to see it was — an old man.

Harry stopped, watching the figure warily. He was much too far up in the mountain passes for an old man to simply be enjoying a leisurely stroll on a summer afternoon. He was even using a staff for support, Harry could see. What was he doing up here? He was moving up the trail, in the same direction Harry was going — but there were no towns or villages in that direction, only a few behind him, some miles back.

A suspicion filtered into Harry's brain, one he had wondered if and when it would happen for some time — Dumbledore had come looking for him! The idea both pleased and rankled Harry — he hoped the headmaster was ready to help him find Sirius, but at the same time he wasn't sure if he wanted to leave where he was now, when he felt so…peaceful being here. He moved carefully up the trail behind the old man, staying out of sight, to see where he was heading.

The old man moved at a slow but steady pace. He seemed to be limping slightly, but that could simply be part of his guise, Harry decided. It just didn't make sense that an old, lame man would be tramping through the mountains of Norway (which Harry had managed to deduce from a number of signs he'd seen; though he couldn't read the language, some of the signs had French or English on them as well), even on as nice and sunny a day as this. As Harry drew closer to the old man, he became more and more convinced it was Dumbledore: the man was wearing blue robes, one of the headmaster's favorite colors. He was also wearing an old, beaten wizard's hat, pointed with a wide brim. Every so often he would stop and look around, as if expecting to see someone. Probably looking for him, Harry decided as he watched the old man stop at a point where a barely discernable path forked off into a crevasse. Looking around, the old man turned and started along the path, passing out of sight into the crevasse. Harry followed, now very curious to see what the old man was up to.

The crevasse was not very deep but it ended at the mouth of a cave into the side of the mountain. Of the old man there was no sign. Evidently he had gone into the cave. Harry strode briskly to the mouth of the cave, looking inside.

The old man was seated on a flat rock, his back to the cave entrance, his gnarled hands held over a fire burning in a circle of rocks. Even though it was pleasantly warm outside, the cave was certainly cool enough for an old man to need to warm himself. "Hello," the old man said, without turning around.

It wasn't Dumbledore's voice. But again, that was meaningless — the headmaster could certainly disguise it. "Hello," Harry answered. "Do you speak English?"

There was a chuckle. "I speak several languages," the old man said, rubbing his hands together briskly. "We can use English, if you like." He pointed to another nearby flat rock. "Will you join me?"

Harry walked over slowly, sitting on the rock the old man pointed to. Strangely, the fire died down as he was seated, so that even with the superior vision his new body had given him, he was barely able to see the old man's features. He sat hunched over the fire, the brim of his hat hiding most of his face. "Why have you been following me?" the old man asked, suddenly.

Right to the point, Harry thought. Not always something the headmaster did in conversation, but in this case he had no desire to mince words, either. "I think you have that backwards — I think you've been looking for me."

The old man chuckled again. "I wondered when you'd notice. I've been following you around for a week, now." Harry blinked; today was the first time he'd seen the man. "You picked an apt place for us to talk."

Harry looked around. "This cave? Why's it apt?"

The old man sat up straighter, though the hat still hid half his features. The brim, tilted at an angle, showed a single blue eye staring at Harry with interest. Harry didn't see a half-moon spectacle in front of it, but of course it would hardly be a disguise if the professor wore his trademark glasses. "Don't you recognize this cave?"

"Why would I recognize this cave, Professor?" Harry said, deciding the game was up. "I've never been in here before!"

The fire suddenly flared, burning brightly, and Harry blinked at the increased light. "Tell me how you received that hammer!" the old man demanded.

"What?" Why would Dumbledore ask him that, he wondered. "You know where I found it!" he said, standing. He reached into the pouch in his cloak, pulling out the book he'd taken from Dumbledore that day in his office he'd left Hogwarts to come here. He'd glanced through it a few times but since he'd never learned to read runes, it had been pretty useless to him. "You remember the book, don't you?"

The old man put out his hand and the book leaped from Harry's hand to his. He looked at the cover for several seconds, smiling, then hid the book away in his robes. He stood, hefting his staff, and looked evenly at Harry. "You are not Thor."

Harry shook his head. "I'm not. And you are not just an old man."
"Neither of us are what we seem to be," the old man agreed. He was no longer the stooped, limping person Harry had watched hobble along the path to this cave — he stood straighter, holding his staff rather than supporting himself upon it, and now gazed upon Harry with a look that made him think, not of Dumbledore, but of a wrathful patriarch. "But your appearance betrays the baseness of your deception, and cries out to be avenged. I have said, you are not Thor. Now tell me who you are!"

Before the old man's anger Harry felt a sudden apprehension. "I'm — I'm Harry Potter," he explained. "When I was in the Department of Mysteries at the Ministry of Magic, I found a long stick that was supposed to be a giant's wand. I was trying to use it and it turned me into this." Harry spread his arms, indicating his appearance. "The stick also changed into the hammer."

"And did you not wonder at this marvelous transformation," the old man asked, his voice taut with anger. "Did you not read the inscription on the hammer?"

"My — my headmaster at school told me what it said," Harry replied.

"And do you think yourself worthy, Harry Potter," the old man wanted to know, "of possessing Mjolnir?"

In answer, Harry reached down and slipped Mjolnir off his belt, holding before him. "I do possess it," he said evenly. "I saw a powerful man try to pick it up — he could not even budge it! Yet I hold it easily in my hand!"
The old man squared off in front of him, then spread his arms wide. "Then prove your worthiness. Strike me!"

Harry laughed. "Don't be foolish! Even if you aren't Professor Dumbledore, you don't stand a chance against me and this hammer! I've knocked down trees as big around as I am with one blow from this hammer — it would tear you apart!"

"You seem convinced of your own power," the old man said. "If I thought you could harm me, I would not let you strike." When Harry did not move for several seconds, the old man's staff suddenly lashed out with his staff, striking Harry in the side of the head, bowling him off his feet. Sitting up on the ground, Harry touched the side of his face in surprise. A few of the men in some of the villages he'd visited had asked him to wrestle them, and he had tossed them about like rag dolls, though he knew little about grappling. But an almost casual blow from this old man and a wooden stick had knocked him down! Incensed, Harry leaped to his feet.

"You think you can withstand one of my blows?" he snarled. "We'll just see!" And he swung the hammer at the old man's head.

As the hammer came down at his forehead, the old man's left hand came up, catching the flat of the hammer in his palm. He jerked the hammer out of Harry's hand, the thong slipping off of his wrist, and flipped it into the air, catching it by the handle. "As I thought," he said, his anger still present but seeming to abate some. "Now, let us see what your true appearance is." He bent down and tapped the head of the hammer on the ground.

There was a flash of light and the rumble of thunder rolled through the mountains, echoing along the walls of the cave that stretched off into darkness behind them. The tall, long-haired man was gone — in his place was a scrawny teenager with black hair, green eyes and round glasses, and a lightning scar on his forehead. Harry looked down at himself, seeing his t-shirt, jeans and trainers. "I'm me again," he said, in an awed, and somehow resigned voice. "I'm Harry Potter."

"Yes," the old man nodded. What he had just done did not seem to give him any satisfaction. "And my search continues."

Harry looked up at the old man. Now, from the perspective of his normal form, he could see he was tall and powerfully built. His face, now shining in the light of the fire blazing between them, held a powerful dignity, even though Harry could now see that one eye, his left one, was closed; the eyelid hung as if the socket was empty. "You were looking for this Thor?"

The man nodded. "Yes, for a very long time. He has been gone for many years. I felt his presence again on Earth only a few weeks ago, and have been searching here since then. I came upon you a week ago and waited until you discovered I was tracking you. I wondered why it took you so long, but now I know it is because you are not my son."

"And who are you?"

"I am One-Eyed Odin, Lord of the Hanged," the old man said.