Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic, was fighting to keep his job. He was on probation for failing to provide adequate protection for the Department of Mysteries. He had a bad feeling about recent developments in the Black case, as well. Sightings of a short man, balding, with thin, colorless hair, grubby skin, a rat-like face, and small, watery eyes, had been reported from Germany and the South of France. Pictures had been obtained, and everyone who saw them agreed that it seemed to be Peter Pettigrew, back from the dead, somewhat worse for wear. And Remus Lupin had scheduled an appointment to talk privately with the Minister the next day, hinting that he had information that would change everything.

Fudge exited his office, rubbing his eyes tiredly. Percy Weasley sat behind the desk in the next room. Dolores Umbridge had been fired following her teaching fiasco, and Weasley had been promoted.

Percy leaped out of his chair when he heard the door close behind the minister, and practically bowed before rushing forward to stand before him.

Percy began, "Minister, the party from the American Ministry has arrived. They are currently taking a tour of the premises. Your meeting with them is scheduled for one half hour from now—"

Fudge waved Percy's speech wearily aside. He had more important things on his mind, namely, trying to rectify at least some of his many mistakes. The most immediate was the situation with Harry Potter and Albus Dumbledore.

Fudge looked Percy in the eye and began to speak. "Percy, we need to face the facts. We were wrong. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is back. I owe the country an apology, and you owe your family an apology. And we need people close to Dumbledore."

"Why, Minister?" Percy asked coldly, his voice losing the pompousness it had gained with his promotion.

Fudge didn't like admitting his mistakes, and he certainly didn't like admitting them twice. "Because we were wrong," he replied grudgingly. "Truth is, we need support from Dumbledore more than we need support from the American Ministry, much as their help is appreciated. Your family never wavered in showing loyalty toward Dumbledore, even when it would have been profitable not to. Because we need people like your family, and you patching things up with them might help us to get them."

Percy looked at the minister, and said, "I'll think about it." He then seated himself at his desk and tried to regain his composure.

XXXX

Ginny Weasley was washing dishes. She sighed heavily and turned on the radio, left it on for a couple seconds, then turned it off again in frustration. She banged a couple pots and pans together to relieve a bit of stress. It didn't work. She growled at a couple of the plates and banged more pots and pans. Ron has the right idea, she thought grimly. A Howler's sure to get his attention even if regular letters won't. Maybe she'd send him one herself. The thought made her smile. Maybe she just would.

Pig came flying in through the kitchen window, hooting excitedly. So many deliveries so close together! He flapped around the kitchen a few times before vanishing into the living room.

That had better be from Harry, Ginny thought. She wiped her hands on a dishtowel and followed the tiny owl.

XXXX

Night fell over Privet Drive. Harry fell into an uneasy sleep, and began to dream.

"Is he dead?" demanded a high-pitched, cold voice.

Harry shivered. His dreaming mind could see a tall figure surrounded by masked, groveling ones.

"No, master," they whispered.

"I am most disappointed." The tall figure scowled and took out a wand. The masked figures flinched. A couple threw themselves on the ground in front of the tall figure, screaming for mercy. They received none.

"Crucio!" the tall figure shouted, pointing his wand at each in turn. Screams filled the dark night.

Harry woke up, thrashing in the tangled covers, his scar hurting so badly he thought it might have split open, but there was no blood. The pain faded to a pulsing rhythm, and then to a low throb. Soon the pain was gone entirely, but Harry couldn't persuade himself to go back to sleep, or to stop thinking about the dream. He looked at his clock. It was only 10:30. He needed something to distract himself. Sighing, he flicked on the light and reached for the letters on his bedside table. They would do.

XXXX

Not quite half-way across the world, Salina McConnell sat bolt upright in bed. She looked at her clock. 6:30. Much too early for any sane teenager to be awake, at least during the summer. Something had awakened her. She thought it might have been a dream, but she was almost convinced that it wasn't. She usually remembered her dreams, at least for a few minutes after waking up. Her forehead had been throbbing, a sign of an impending migraine, but it had stopped and now she didn't feel anything.

She began to feel a slight sense of déjà vu. This had happened many times during her life. She would suddenly waken during the night, with an almost-memory of a dream or pain or something hiding just out of sight beyond her conscious mind, but however hard she thought about it, she could make nothing of it. She was normally a very sound sleeper. Sometimes she experienced twinges of sometimes violent pain in some part of her body, usually her forehead but frequently an arm or a leg. She had even consulted a mediwizard about it, but he couldn't offer any viable explanation other than some people just experienced phantom pains for no apparent reason. He had promised to look for other cases and consult with his colleagues, but so far he had been able to offer her nothing solid. Salina looked at the clock again, growled, and pulled her blanket over her head.