A/N: Hi, everyone! Couple of quick notes: first, I would like to apologize for a very subtle (but glaringly huge) mistake I made. I believe in discussing the Decree for Underage Wizardry, I insinuated that Harry only knew of it because his incident with Dobby. For some odd reason, I completely forgot that his incident with Aunt Marge did, indeed, happen before the fourth book. Secondly, thank you to everyone for all the encouragement! The reviews and favorites are encouraging! Finally, I would like to point out that though this story is post Goblet of Fire, it will not directly follow the 5th, 6th, and 7th book. Of course, some things will be very similar, but do expect some deviation.

Oh, and I don't own anything related to Harry Potter (although you may not steal my works). We have JK Rowling to thank for that. Enjoy this bit!

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After several hours of reading his new Ministry of Magic book, Harry had learned one thing, if nothing else: six-year-olds ran the Ministry of Magic.

Harry struggled to think of a messier institution. For example, it seemed as if the Minister failed to hold the most power, or even to command the most respect. The Head of the Auror Department, Head of the Wizengamot, and, strangely, the Head of International Magical Cooperation usually fought over the spot – quite literally. In fact, the three Heads had actually come to blows in 1786 in a fight that had two of the three men hospitalized for sprouting new fingers at any given moment in the day.

The size of the Ministry had increased haphazardly as well. Apparently, the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures had operated for four full years before the then-Minister was informed of its existence.

Sighing once more at the in competency of his government, Harry shut his book and shoved it under his bed. He was happy to have it; it made a great reference book. But no one in his or her right mind would read that for fun.

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Dudley Dursley and Piers Polkiss had a daily ritual: they would bicycle to the farthest neighborhood park (as that was all the physical activity Dudley could take, but it was still away from his mother's watchful eye) and seat themselves on the swings. They spent their hours taunting the neighborhood children and stealing ice cream or possessions as the pleased. There was little anyone could do to stop a crazed-looking boy (who stood at six foot tall) and his whale of a best friend.

Harry learned long ago to avoid that park. Not only was he not a fan of Piers or Dudley, nor they of him, but also he rather enjoyed having the home to himself. Uncle Vernon was at work; Aunt Petunia had her nose poked over the neighbor's fence; Dudley was out making the lives of others miserable. Harry was free to lounge about as he pleased.

Today, however, Harry had a mission. His workout routine would suffer as long as Harry possessed zero knowledge of how to further his progress. He planned to educate himself using Dudley's favorite toy, the Internet.

The destructive, still bitter and depressed side of Harry begged him to wait until Dudley returned home. If Harry was caught on Dudley's computer, Harry could only imagine the beating he would receive. The part of Harry that seemed to be recovering, though, urged him to not deliberately put himself into any more harm.

Sneaking into Dudley's room was much like prying open a heavy lid to a dumpster; Harry momentarily wished he was unable to smell. Even cracking the door to Dudley's room, the smell of stale cookies and unwashed socks drifted to his nostrils. How Dudley slept there was anybody's guess.

Harry made his way quickly to the large monitor and shook it awake with the mouse. It moved slowly, but it was reliable. It took him a moment to locate the block letter I, but he finally found himself surfing the web. He took a moment to shake his head at how thrilled Arthur Weasley would be.

It took Harry almost no time at all to find a site full of different exercises. He hesitated, noticing the pictures of people on the side; each of them had more muscle than was healthy, in Harry's opinion. He certainly had no wish to look that way. Finished and a little disturbed, Harry exited the site. He jumped fully in the air when another window opened, advertising several scantily clad women. Harry more quickly clicked to exit that particular window, cursing about Dudley's tastes in websites. He made for the exit.

He had only shut Dudley's door behind him when a voice met him in the hall.

"What are you doing in my room?"

"Wasn't in your room, Dudders," Harry replied. He gave a mock smile to his portly cousin. "Smells like an animal died there, or maybe rotten food? I won't have to tell Aunt Petunia you've broken your diet again, will I Diddykins?"

Dudley's face turned beet red. Harry might have been more terrified for his well being had Dudley not looked as if a run up the stairs would induce an instant heart attack.

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Harry roused again at 6am. He dressed in similar clothes and pulled on his trainers. He happily (and loudly) shut the door behind him, chuckling as he heard Uncle Vernon jump in his sleep. Harry planned to once again make his run across the neighborhood. He enjoyed the cool absence of the sun, but the mystery runner also intrigued him. No other neighborhood kid, with the exception of Stephen, would speak to him because of his cousin, but even Dudley wouldn't hit a girl. Maybe he stood a chance at finding a friend?

Jumping up and down several times to loosen his legs, Harry started off once more. He was elated to find his muscles did not hurt at all; perhaps running wasn't such a bad thing, after all.

At nearly the same point in the sidewalk, Harry saw another person come into shape. A few seconds later, she saw him as well.

She grinned, not slowing her pace. "Good morning, Mystery Man!"

"Morning," Harry called, grinning back. He hoped she would stop, but she seemed set to finish – she was running faster than the previous day. He found his tongue just as she was passing. "What's your name?"

"Robin!" She glanced back and threw him a wink.

Harry nearly melted into his shoes. No girl at Hogwarts had ever treated him in such a brilliantly friendly manner. Of course, Lavender had tried, but what Gryffindor boy had she not pined after for at least a week? Ginny Weasley was a very pretty girl, if Harry was perfectly honest, but he was certain her hero-crush would wear thin over time.

Something about his mystery runner, or Robin, he now knew, was very intriguing.

Harry stopped once again at his neighborhood park to try out his new exercises. Most of them seemed pretty standard, and several, such as lunges, he remembered seeing at some point on his life.

Toward the end of his workout, Harry decided he wanted to try something for agility that he had once seen his muggle classmates do. Standing, now, at the edge of the park, Harry felt rather silly. He still couldn't believe this was a sport.

He shook his head before taking off from his stance, exploding with speed. He ran as fast as he could to the other edge of the park. When he reached his final destination, he was panting hard, but pleased with his results.

Harry continued his sprinting eight more times. It was on his final sprint that anything out of the ordinary happened. Harry was just nearing the edge of the park, when he stepped in a bit of mud. His feet flew out from under him, and he skidded on his chest several feet further. He landed with a defeated oomph and took a moment to reorient himself. He promptly stopped whiping the mud away when he heard a distant giggle.

Harry could clearly see a blond ponytail bouncing away down the street.

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Harry once again found himself with little to do. Surprisingly, he wasn't upset about this, as he might have been several days previously. Harry Potter sat cross-legged on the floor of his room, books surrounding him, and curtains closed.

Albus Dumbledore had been absolutely uncooperative after the murder of Cedric, the return of Voldemort, and the discovery that one of Harry's teachers was actually locked in a room at the bottom of his own trunk. Harry insisted he was old enough to shoulder the burden that he already knew would one day be upon him; he simply didn't know what that burden was. Albus Dumbledore had been everything in his power to keep the truth from Harry, and Albus was a powerful man.

Regardless, Harry was determined to find some hint of what his destiny may entail. Dumbledore had let slip the word destiny in their most recent argument, and Harry couldn't help but wonder if there was a connection between he and Voldemort that he was oblivious too. Harry wanted, in a disgusted sort of way, to know everything he could about the man.

The book in his hands was silver, decorated with burgundy speckles of what was undoubtedly blood. It was hardly larger than a journal; upon opening it, Harry wondered if it once was. The book was written entirely by hand, in a curly, distinctive script.

Harry flipped through from cover to cover; there was no more than fifty pages of stories and notes about Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, and notable Death Eaters. Harry wondered who had ever wanted to keep notes on such a deranged man.

That being said, he opened to the first page. Harry was very surprised to find it was the story he had thought of just the previous day. Harry took care to keep his fingers away from the blood stained bits of parchment.

Tom returned to Little Hangleton at age 16, still under the influence of staff at Hogwarts. By this time, he had drifted far from his friends, although his followers, for lack of a better term, remained loyal.

Tom's parents, Tom Sr. and Merope, were married shortly. Tom Sr. left his wife after the love potion she concocted for him wore thin. Tom was not pleased with his father for leaving his mother. He returned to his birth town to discuss with his father his heritage. Tom Sr., it seems, was hardly aware he was a father. Tom murdered his father and two paternal grandparents.

Merope died shortly after giving birth to Tom. He was birthed in an orphanage and often terrorized the children present. Several children claimed him to be an evil sent from the depths of hell.

I did not find the ring of Tom's Uncle Morfin, Merope's brother. Their previous home was in ruins. Morfin almost certainly spoke parseltounge. Several of the locals describe him as "the deranged boy who hissed at the ground." One terrified individual, who only opened up after I procured a calming draught, swore she saw Morfin levitating sticks through the air with his hands.

And that was where the entry ended. Harry closed the book and rested it on his stomach, his hands coming to rest behind his head. He stared pensively up at the ceiling. He suddenly felt very thankful to have found this particular book.

Curious to Harry was that the book did not sound as if written by a follower or someone who wished ill upon Voldemort. It was merely a record. Someone who wanted to meticulously learn about the man before the insanity took hold.

Most curious, Harry thought, was the author was undoubtedly looking for something: a ring of the family.

Harry felt very thrown by these short four paragraphs. He had always known that Lord Voldemort was not a pureblood, but something had always caused Harry to think it was his father who possessed magical abilities. Harry was surprised to find it was, in fact, his mother. He was also surprised to learn that Tom had not murdered his mother; at least, not intentionally. From Ginny's story, that had been his assumption.

Harry shivered. He wondered fleetingly if that was Tom's first murder.

Lost in his thoughts, Harry nearly fell off the bed when a loud crack resounded through the room. He did manage to smash his head against the back wall of his bed. Harry failed about until he caught his balance, staring with wide eyes at the ugly creature now standing in the middle of his room. Harry had seen a house elf before, but this creature looked nothing short of a house elf with a serious aversion to personal hygiene.

The creature stood no more than three feet tall. His legs and arms were the thickness of Harry's wrist, and Harry was a small boy. A pillowcase that adorned many horrible looking stains (Harry was fairly sure he recognized blood) hung limply from his shoulders. His cheekbones stretched the darkened skin across his face to a level that was surely unnatural. Unlike Dobby, his ears did not stand pointed and tall. Rather, they fell limply against his face, and Harry saw a part distinctly missing.

"Master sent me," the elf drawled, obviously displeased. He took one look around Harry's room and muttered. Harry caught the words 'filthy' and 'disgraceful'.

Harry spoke cautiously. "Who is your master?"

The elf made a pained face before spitting out the word, "Sirius."

"Sirius?" Harry's eyebrows disappeared somewhere into his hairline. The elf pulled from his pillowcase (which had several crude pocket sewn on) an envelope. Harry accepted it graciously, and the elf looked at him pointedly (with disgust). Harry nodded. "I guess you're free to go."

Harry had not even finished the word 'go' before a second crack resounded and the elf disappeared from sight. Shaking his head in confusion, Harry looked at the letter in his hands and opened it.

He grinned very widely.

Dear Mr. Harry James Potter, world class hero and jolly good friend:

We do hope that nasty little elf didn't scare you too badly. He's become Sirius' best mate, if you hadn't guessed. Of course, we couldn't owl you. Quite surprised, I was myself, to see that Dumbledore allowed your letter to get to us – what, with your mischievous question and all. Of course, delivering through Kreacher bypasses the old man althogether. It's beautiful, is it not?

Georgie and I were tickled pink to hear from you. You must tell us, ol' chap, how is your summer? Are the flowers blooming? Is the sun shining, birds chirping happily?

We were quite surprised to receive your letter, but so very proud. Our little Harry has finally acknowledge his calling and found mischief. I do believe you will find it quite a fulfilling hobby.

In answer, George and I concocted a simple aging potion, tweaked slightly to our liking. I believe it is in the fourth year potions book. Instead of 2 grams of liverwort, add only 1. It ensures the potion will last just a tad longer. Of course, you yourself saw it was unable to trick the Tournament's Age Line. I do hope you find use for it, however. Wooing an older woman, perhaps? Harry, I believe it's high time we had a discussion before your hands get you into trouble.

You see, young man, there are birds in this world and there are bees. You are a bee. Go sting yourself a bird.

We send every ounce of our love. Hugs and kisses, my dearest boy!

The Attractive Weasley Brothers

Harry read the letter several times over before bursting out laughing. He shouldn't have expected anything less from Fred and George; they were never serious. Harry was simply happy to know which potion they had used to age themselves. Ever since reading the Trace broke upon a wizard's seventeenth birthday, Harry was itching to know if it could be fooled by, perhaps, a fake seventeenth birthday.

Fishing around in his trunk, Harry found the book in question and, eventually, the correct potion. He glared mildly at the page. There were two ingredients he did not have in his possession. He would have to write the Apothecary for them. Hedwig, however, was currently out.

Harry lay back down on his bed and resumed staring at the ceiling. Harry chuckled at the letter from Fred and George. They had insisted Harry's own hands might find him in a spot, and he was certain they had insinuated a sexual one. He shook his head just barely; Harry Potter was the last boy to be found in a compromising position. His hands would be staying firmly in his pockets, despite Fred and George's jokes; what a ludicrous thought.

Harry sat bolt upright; another ludicrous thought occurred to him. He looked down at his own two hands, turning them over several times.

His answer to the Trace solution sat right in front of him: his hands.

Harry knew it was ludicrous, but he had to try.

Shaking away the silly feeling, he held both of his hands directly in front of him and paused for a moment. He finally found on a quill lying on his desk. He focused on it, his brow furrowing intensely. After several moments, Harry realized he had been holding his breath, and expelled his lungs of air. He shook his head and refocused.

Accio quill. Accio quill. Accio quill.

Harry thought the words over and over. The quill did not come, but Harry swore he saw it move. He took a different approach, shutting his eyes and picturing the quill in his mind.

Accio quill. Accio quill. Accio quill.

Harry yelped when something feathery landed directly in the palm of his hand.

In the palm of his hand, his nicest quill sat, just as lifelessly as it had upon his desk. Rather instinctively, Harry swiveled his head around his room; he expected an owl, a letter, or an angry official to appear at any moment. He had, in fact, broken a Ministry decree (and one he had previously broken, at that). A great grin broke out across his face, and Harry laughed – he laughed deeply for the first time in weeks, grinning uncontrollably into his hands.

He set the quill down, still grinning, and tried once more. After several moments, his quill floated into his hand; he watched it happen this time. It was surely shakier than had he used his wand, but it was a start.

Returning the quill to his desk, Harry stared at it once more, visualizing it clearly.

Wingardium leviosa. Wingardium leviosa.

Harry frowned, as nothing happened – nothing at all. He tried multiple times to no avail. He felt himself growing angry, and took a moment to take a deep breath. He tried to summon his quill once more, and it came easily. His frown became more pronounced.

Of course, Harry thought, summoning was one of the first spells taught at Hogwarts. Perhaps it was simply that much easier.

Harry tried again, shutting his eyes to focus on his quill. It zoomed directly into his hands. He put it back; at least that was a start. He turned his palms upward and looked at them once more. There had to be something to this business he was missing.

"Lumos," he muttered carelessly the simplest spell he knew. Harry jumped as his hands began to burn. It was a dull burn; much more like rubbing his hand across the carpet, but it was a strange sensation. He stared, entranced, at his hands. "Nox."

The sensation ceased.

Harry vaulted from his bed and swatted at the light switch like an annoyed feline. Although not fully dark, as the sun still shone brightly just outside, much of the light left the room. Harry walked slowly to the middle of his room, and then he tried again. "Lumos."

The sensation returned; small, invisible flames licked Harry's fingers and palm. But there was no light. He stared, mystified at his hands, still standing the dark. Was it necessary to have a wand for light to shine? He returned to the light switch and reached out. What he saw made his breath catch: the light switch was clearly visible. Harry pulled his hands away, and it returned to shadow.

Harry tried again to the same results. His hands emitted no light, but objects near them glowed. He ran his hands over nearly everything in his room, watching with interest as the light danced across his possessions, though there was seemingly no source to it. Harry's hand hovered over his quill once more. Nox, he thought.

Everything fell into shadow once more. Harry grinned. "Wicked."