"Good day?" Molly beamed at him, looking over her shoulder at the sink as Dumbledore arrived in the gloomy basement of Grimmauld Place.

A frown wound it's way onto his aged face as his gaze swept across the kitchen. Why was such a bleak location the place where most meetings were held? Good Godric, how long had they inhabited this place? Almost three years now, wasn't it! Surely they weren't this ignorant to cleaning issues of Grimmauld Place.

Were they...?

Ah, well, if they were—it wasn't essential, anyway. And besides, the house didn't depend on this, eh...

He swiveled his head to survey Molly Weasley. Ah, good old Molly, the feisty old witch who had somehow managed to keep her children in check. Well, there was the odd case of Fred and George, the amusing twins—but those two were destined for greatness, and couldn't be halted.

He surveyed the dining table—still smiling, for it was a joyful day. Harry Potter was in their custody, and the possibility of eradicating Voldemort's march to victory—practically unchallenged—was much stronger.

Ron Weasley was currently swiftly gobbling a cup of orange juice, a plate of pancakes stacked up frighteningly high. Situated beside him, a friend the ginger was effectively dependent on—Hermione Granger, her nose, amusingly, as usual, in a book.

Down the long table dedicated to meals and most notably: meetings, Ginevra Weasley—a plucky witch Dumbledore was proud of for persevering strongly after her poor and baffling start to Hogwarts.

And Susan Bones. Amelia Bones—the most recent addition to the Order and the Aunt and guardian of Susan—had literally demanded her niece reside with them in a "heavily fortified location."

"Yes." Dumbledore smiled at Molly. "It's a very good day."

Molly returned his smile. "That's good." She turned back to her fountain of plates.

"Has our guest been down yet?" he asked, expertly eschewing allowing the children present becoming aware of Harry Potter.

Molly stilled, and turned around. She looked stricken—a tad bit determined, and a little nervous, as well. Could the children already know of Harry Potter's presence? That hadn't been a part of his plans but could easily be fitted in. In fact, as he continuously assessed that notion, the more endearing the children becoming aware of Harry Potter sounded.

Besides, Harry Potter could do with some friends. And the chap could hardly do better than these fine students.

"They know, do they?"

Molly nodded.

"Planning to keep me a secret, were you, Dumbles?"

Dumbledore whirled around to find Harry Potter, casual and cool as you like, leaning against the wall—on the last stair.

He offered a benevolent smile, hoping to keep the boy in a good mood. Their past interactions had been okay. He'd been forced to cough up details of the prophecy to him. And then, to gain more trust from the boy—for it had not been come forthcoming—he had returned his wands, but had continued to hold onto the daggers. Those blades were sharp.

The boy in question run his hand through his hair. "Can I talk to you, old man?"

"Of course." Never mind that you called me old. Why not? "Where?"

Harry Potter shrugged. "How should I know? It is your house."

Willing to cooperative today? This could be massive. He glanced behind him and gave Molly a tight smile. She returned it quickly, glancing worriedly back at her children—who were watching them with hawk-eyes.

"Come on, follow me."

Dumbledore led him past the kitchen and towards a dark pantry spacious enough for two. Horribly uncouth—but understandably desperate, Harry chose not to complain on the setting of their gathering.

Dumbledore's wand provided subtle lighting—but enough to illuminate the grimy nature of the pantry. Dumbledore once again offered his encouraging smile. Harry restrained a growl. "You wanted to talk."

"Yes, I did," he confirmed. He nervously run over his words in his head. Everything had to be perfect. If not... Just think positive, he reprimanded himself. "What does the Order do, per se?"

Dumbledore seemed puzzled by his inquiry. No less than he'd expected. A wonderful start. "I'm sorry."

Harry shrugged. "I was curious, you know." Dumbledore raised a brow. "I figure seeing as I'm destined to defeat Voldemort, I might as well get to know the people who'll help me do so."

Dumbledore seemed pleased by that. This might be much easier than he'd expected. "That is pleasing news, Harry." He beamed at Harry, who tried hard not to gag under the intense stare. "What do you want to know?"

Careful now, he reminded himself. Had to appear simply curious. He shrugged casually. "What you guys do to help prevent Voldemort conquering the world? And how you do it?"

Silence ensued after his spiel. Dumbledore examined him critically. Harry eased back into a cupboard dedicated to utensils—trying to appear phlegmatic.

"I am the leader of the Order of the Phoenix," Dumbledore began. Harry restrained himself from rolling his eyes. Already knew that! Dumbledore appeared to be reminiscing. "I formed the Order during the throes of the previous war against Voldemort in a daring move to hinder Voldemort's ubiquitous plans." He paused, sighing heavily. "Several great students were recruited; Lily and James, Frank and Alice..." Dumbledore trailed off, his shoulders sagging.

Harry reluctantly admitted to himself how enthralling it was to experience Dumbledore expressing such an emotion such as sorrow. Wrinkles were pervasive. His eyes were twinkle-less. It seemed so odd now to Harry. What ever happened to the foolishly cheerful, benign old man who found amusement in the queerest of things.

Dumbledore straightened his shoulders. "At that time, Voldemort was on a rampage. The Ministry had lost almost all of it's aurors"—Kind of like now—"and several noble men stepped up to fight—dying by the day." Dumbledore sighed. "I was asked countless times to help but I couldn't abandon the safe fortress of Hogwarts. After all, that was the future. If the future wasn't secured, then what was the fighting for."

Flawless reasoning.

"So I recruited students from the past that I had kept contact with. Distant friends as well. About fifty great people. We congregated to fight Voldemort."

"Fifty people?"

"Most of them are now six feet underneath the earth."

"Fascinating," Harry drawled out, his patience running rugged. He cleared his throat, brushing off the affronted look Dumbledore had shot him. "History is wonderful and all but I already know it—what I need is the present news? What is it the Order is currently doing to hinder Voldemort's almost unchallenged march to victory."

Dumbledore studied him rivetedly. "Several missions are currently underway."

"Like what?" So close. Just a little further.

Dumbledore shrugged. "We have received word that Voldemort plans to attack the Ministry recently."

"Received word? From whom?" Snape. No doubt about it. So the man was playing double agent. At least that was confirmed. Harry crossed his hands across his chest, in order to prevent them from retrieving the communication mirrors on their own accord.

Dumbledore smiled inscrutably. "I'm afraid I can't tell you that, Harry... At least not the identity of the person."

No bother. It was Snape, he already knew. He just needed to appear curious and determined to figure Dumbledore out. But damn, this was hopeless!

"Anything else?"

"Yes." He run a frustrated hand through his hair. Gods, Dumbledore could be infuriating sometimes. Pacified himself. "What missions are currently underway or upcoming?"

"Why the sudden interest?"

Harry shrugged, cursing his temerarious, slippery tongue. "No reason." He feigned a defeated sigh. "Oh well then, see you around, Dumbles." He turned to leave.

"Wait," Dumbledore said.

Harry halted his egress, back to Dumbledore—furiously trying to slow his breath so as not to inadvertedly reveal his excitement. This could be it. "Let's work out a compromise..." Dumbledore suggested.

Fuck. Concentrate, he scolded himself. Everything could be fixed. "Why not? What are your terms?"

"I'll tell you one mission you've been working on,"—Ruddy brilliant—"But,"—Here we go—"I need something from you."

Sounded reasonable. "Sure...What do you need from me?"

"A secret from your past."

Now, that could be a problem. He was taking a colossal risk here. He was searching for information on Figg's capture. Unfortunately, the chances of him actually receiving that were despairingly minuscule. Then again, at least he had a chance. Dumbledore didn't have any guarantees on a sweet deal here, either. And besides, he controlled what he informed Dumbledore. Whereas the old man had no clue that details of Figg's capture was his objective. It was risky, of course. Almost asinine. But perhaps, if he delivered a canny performance—and received some luck from above—he could eschew having to reveal some intimate facts about himself. He shrugged, his back still towards Dumbledore so the old coot wouldn't notice the satisfied smile on his face.

"That is acceptable."

"Good..." Dumbledore trailed off.

He remained silent for a while. Harry refrained from turning around, clutching onto patience he hadn't been aware existed.

Finally, Dumbledore spoke. "We will soon be attempting a rescue mission."

His heart hammered in his chest. Closed his eyes in a futile attempt to placate it. Accepted that he was too jittery to modify his heart rate. He turned to face Dumbledore, suddenly glad the lighting was dim in the pantry. Cursed inwardly when Dumbledore flashed the light from his wand on his face. This could be difficult. But he'd been playing this game his whole life. There was nobody better than him. He had to succeed, he reminded himself.

That did it. He glanced up into Dumbledore's eyes. No twinkle there. Perhaps, the old man realized how important this was. Either way, the old coot would have to yield to defeat—sooner or later. "Elaborate, could you? I don't want to divulge information about my clandestine past if you are reluctant to spill worthy news."

A sparkle shone on those ancient eyes. Harry cursed mentally in Parseltongue. "Clandestine past, Harry?" Harry winced inwardly—shrugged lackadaisically on the outside.

Dumbledore heaved a sigh. "If that is your wish..." he trailed off.

"It is." Harry scowled at the impatient tone in his voice. He couldn't display emotion—otherwise Dumbledore would feel encouraged to prolong this. And then he'd be liable to blunders.

He couldn't afford blunders. Not if he ever wanted to see Figg again. The name somehow rejuvenated him. Energy coursed through his veins. He hadn't felt this alive since he'd dueled the Dark Lord three months ago.

"Who are you attempting to rescue?"

"Ms. Figgs," Dumbledore responded promptly.

Harry forced his brows to scrunch together in the middle—indicating false mystification.

Dumbledore chuckled. "Unfamiliar with the name, are you? That's alright, not many are familiar with the name."

Oh, I'm familiar all right, you sodding idiot—but you won't be familiar with your body if you don't hurry up. Glad his hands were across his chest were the alluring scent of his wand couldn't entice him, Harry worked on a suitable response. In the end, he decided on an indifferent shrug of his shoulder, and a roll of his finger stipulating Dumbledore continue his spiel.

"Ms. Figg's identity's unimportant right now."

Annoyed, Harry concocted a vague response. He gasped—as if he'd just come across a startling epiphany. "That batty old neighbour who loved cats." He fought a smile as his memory conjured a picture of Tom—an old house cat—licking his armpits as he slept, arousing him from said slumber. Good times—back in the day.

Dumbledore regarded Harry with suspicion. "Yes, she was your neighbour."

How the hell did Dumbles know that, anyway? From what he'd been informed and eventually confirmed, Dumbledore should have no insight to his past. And neither should the other superpower: Voldemort. And yet, here was Dumbledore spewing classified information on his history.

Or perhaps Figg had let one or two things slip. That was forgivable.

Harry could already imagine Draco's incredulous reaction to that. There was the difference, however, between Figg and Draco. Figg had literally revived him to life, and steered away from a plane spiralling towards a horrendous crash. Wheras Draco had provided company he relied upon—but could survive without.

But if Figg had slipped, she would have immediately notified Harry. So that couldn't possibly be the reason behind it.

Legilimency?

Son of a bitch!

Calm down. "How did you know that, Dumb-arse?"

Dumbledore's eyes flashed at the blatant disrespect. An aura—almost as large as Voldemort's—emitted off him. Harry detected nothing dark in this. And yet it was beguiling still.

Unwilling to reveal the true extent of his magical potency, Harry didn't flare off his magical aura. He barely shivered at the sudden chill—all but embraced it. He just coolly stared back at Dumbledore, conveying nothing at all.

He waited patiently until Dumbledore's furious face mollified, and those chilling blue eyes softened until they resembled the Dumbledore Harry was becoming familiar with.

"What do you want to know?" Dumbledore asked tersely.

Harry released a smirk, glad Dumbledore was losing his cool. Victory was within touching distance. "I already told you, Dumbledore," he said with a smirk, peering into those darkening frosty orbs of fury. "Tell me what you plan to do in regard with Ms. Figg."

"Fine! We know that Ms. Figg is being held in a remote building in Bristol. Unfortunately, we cannot exactly trust this intel—"

"Why not?"

"Because it came from Fletcher—who we now know has been under your control for some time now."

Harry snorted, drinking in desperate amusement from effectively fooling the Order for months. "So you think you can't trust Mundungus?"

"Can we?" Dumbledore retaliated, his gaze piercing into Harry's.

Harry shrugged, mentally acknowledging Dumbledore's effort. Damn, he liked challenges and all, but there was a certain level when it got irritating. "Don't know. Personally, I wouldn't trust him. Nearly died several times because of him." Huge fib. Fletcher had been insanely helpful. Going as far as to all but save the life of Theodore—who, unfortunately now, didn't have the backing of a pureblood father to pacify the hunt for him.

Dumbledore cocked a brow. "You've utilized Fletcher's help in the past." A twinkle shone in the old man's eyes.

The old man believed he'd let something slip. Excellent. Harry shrugged. "A few times... Here and there.

"Now, you were saying..."

Dumbledore smiled. "Yes. We have word coming from Fletcher telling us that Ms. Figg is being held captive in Bristol!"

"Where exactly in Bristol?"

"Lestrange Manor."

Bingo.

Smirking so as to withhold his façade of being apathetic, Harry pushed himself off the wall and slinked past Dumbledore surveying the kitchen like it was his first time. He was a growing boy and food was a pivotal requirement to his growing.

He slipped into a seat at the head of the table, next to a red-haired bloke who was glaring at an empty plate like it'd offended him somehow. Harry raised an eyebrow at the sight, quite surprised his presence hadn't warranted a reaction stimulating enough to abandon a grip on a fork.

On the red-head's left, his entrance had garnered a reaction. A female—big brown eyes... enticing body... book in hand...curious frown—studied him. Bookworm. Shouldn't be a problem. Probably played by the books.

His gaze sought out Ginny, seated next to the bookworm. She was frowning at him. Eyebrows scrunched up in the middle of her head—all cute... He wondered if she'd discovered anything to help him leave this prison. Unlikely, considering her assistance had been enlisted simply hours ago.

Seated beside her, was the girl who'd relieved him off a few worries the night before. Red-head. Pretty face. Muggle clothing—like all the children inhabiting the home, Harry had noticed. Susan Bones—Ginevra had informed him. Niece of Amelia Bones—Draco had enlightened him. Was Susan even aware he was the person responsible for her becoming a woman. He chuckled in amusement. Doubtful.

He heard Dumbledore walk towards him and grab a seat at the table. At this, the dimwitted red-head looked up. He thumped a finger at Harry. "Who's that?"

"We'd all like to know that, Ron," Ginny piped up, glowering at her brother.

Impressive, Harry admitted to herself. Maybe Ginny could actually play spy for him. He still couldn't believe the girl he'd rescued from the Chamber felt it was her obligation to assist him. He shook his head. People and morals. Then again, he wasn't immune. He had his own strict set of rules that he required himself to obey.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at a plumb woman standing at her sink, facing them—her cheeks flushed.

She shrugged at Dumbledore. "I had thought they would be aware but obviously that is not the case." She cleared her throat. "Er, children, this young man has business with Dumbledore...And the kitchen is needed, so..."

Harry shook his head, resisting the temptation to cup his face in his hands. Poor, poor performance. The whole sentence held a cryptic underlining underneath that would no doubt lure the children into wanting to discover more. Frankly, he'd be amazed if his identity wasn't explicit in an hour or so.

The bookworm rose to her feet—book still in hands. She offered Harry an amiable smile—one he didn't return, lounging back in his chair. She gulped nervously, cast Ron an importuning glare and made to exit the basement.

"No," Dumbledore said with a regal smile, halting the bookworm's egress. "Sit down, Ms. Granger, nothing here you shouldn't know."

The bookworm blushed. "Oh—Um, thank you…Sir," she mumbled. Avoiding Dumbledore's eyes (which seemed to be having their very own, entirely different Fourth of July celebrations, although that occasion had long past), Granger clumsily returned to her seat.

Ronald Weasley shot her a concerned glance. "You okay?"

"I'm fine."

"Hungry, my dear?" the woman—probably Mother Weasley Harry reasoned—asked him, a genial smile playing on her lips.

Harry smiled back without even thinking. The woman's smile diffused intriguing warmth. "Yeah, I'm ravenous."

Mother Weasley chuckled. "Just hold on another quarter of an hour, yeah? Can you do it?" she teased playfully.

Harry snorted. If only she knew as a wee child he'd gone days without meals. A quarter of an hour was a congenial compromise. "Sounds fantastic, Mrs. Weasley." He smiled beguilingly.

Mrs. Weasley winked. "None of this Mrs. Weasley, dear…Just Molly, you hear, my dear." She gave Harry a playful frisky glower, then turned back to the sink.

"Yes, Mrs. Weasley." Mrs. Weasley turned around, hands on her hips, looking—Harry admitted to himself—a tad intimidating. He grinned sheepishly and made a swift rectification to his error, "Yes, Molly—forgive my blunder, will you?"

"Since I'm a dear."

Harry laughed.

Ron Weasley cleared his throat in a bid for the speaking floor. Unchallenged, he directed his query towards Harry, "Who are you?"

Harry smirked at the boy. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

The boy frowned at him, looking comically bewildered. He glanced at Granger for assistance. The bookworm, unlike him, looked unperturbed by his rebuttal. She smiled timidly at Harry, her elbows propped on the table. "Well, I would assume that Ronald is understandably curious of your identity because for the past two summers, the Weasley family, and in extension, myself, and," she paused, glancing behind Harry where Dumbledore was still standing. Seemingly granted permission for something, she continued after a sharp nod, "Others... But we've never seen you before. So…" She fidgeted in her seat, ostensibly uncomfortable, "yeah. Perhaps that's why."

"How have you survived six years with her?" Harry directed his inquiry at Weasley, who looked slightly tipsy after Granger's spiel.

Weasley grimaced at him. "Believe me, mate, it's not been easy—but the last thing I need is to be kicked out of Hogwarts for unsatisfactory marks, so…" He laughed, utterly unaware of Granger's fierce scowl.

"You know what, Ron, if you find me so irksome, you can find some other method to scrape past seventh year—and it better be legal." Lips set in a thin line, Granger pushed to her feet— glaring venomously at Weasley still—she stormed past Dumbledore and took the stairs out of the kitchen, her footfalls echoing loudly—causing the utensils perched precariously above the kitchen to sway dangerously.

A bright white light whistled away and connected with the ceiling, and the danger immediately ceased.

"You better apologize to Hermione, young man," Mrs. Weasley—er, Molly, Harry corrected himself—informed Weasley, sternly, a genuine scowl on her face.

Weasley gulped and hurriedly gave chase to Granger.

Dumbledore quickly replaced Ron in his seat. He smiled at Ginerva. "Wonderful evening, wouldn't you agree, Miss Weasley?"

Ginny blinked at him, evidently baffled by Dumbledore addressing her. "Um, yeah… I guess."

Dumbledore beamed. "Excellent…" He turned towards Bones—nodded at the girl— "and you, Miss Bones?"

Bones actually had the grace to attempt a smile. Attempt being the key word. The result was something between a scowl and a grimace. Harry instantly regretted getting intimate with her body. "Fantastic day, sir." She smiled wistfully.

Dumbledore cocked a brow, appearing curious. Apparently deciding to examine Bones's cryptic response later, Dumbledore turned towards Harry. "And how are you today, Mr. Potter?"

Two gasps ensued after Dumbledore's statement. "Harry Potter?" Bones asked, her eyes nearly popping out of their sockets. "How long has he been living here without our knowledge?"

Dumbledore chuckled merrily. "Oh, a mere two days, Miss Bones."

"All done," Molly exclaimed. Harry turned around in time to see Mrs. Weasley amble towards him, her wand levitating a bowl holding a sumptuous meal—if the aroma was anything to decide by. She smiled at him, lowering the meal onto the table. "Onion soup," she told Harry, her smile brightening the dim kitchen.

Harry glanced into the bowl, and promptly felt his mouth water. He gripped the spoon and began his quest to satiate his stomach.

Dumbledore chuckled as Harry fetched a few spoons and swiftly gobbled them down— eradicating nearly a quarter of the meal. "Come on, Ms. Weasley, Ms. Bones…Let's give Mr. Potter some privacy.

"He'll need it," Dumbledore finished, a cryptic note in his speech that Harry readily dismissed, gobbling another delicious spoon.

"You're sure?" Draco asked once more.

"Yes!"

"Alright—grab your Hippogriph, will you?" Draco murmured. Harry had to bridle his tongue. "I'll get in contact with Theo and we'll arrange something with—"

"Don't cock this up, Malfoy," Harry warned.

Draco gasped in a sarcastic manner. "Oh no, I wouldn't possibly dream of something like that."

Harry shook his head—furious at his own amusement. "Piss off."

Harry was forced to interrupt Draco's jovial foghorn laughter when the creak of the stairs reached his ears. Thankfully, Draco—perhaps employing some of his exceptional instincts—without Harry's instruction was silent, awaiting an order with subdued breathing.

Another creak sounded—confirming Harry's fears: Someone was coming. "Bye," Harry hissed, obstruting his mind from completing the similarities between proceedings and his introdution to Ginny Weasley.

He waved his hand across the screen of the mirror. "Versace." He beamed at his reflection—taking Draco's exit from sight as success.

Harry run his hand through his hair just as his door groaned open—and Albus Dumbledore walked in to his bedroom. Harry cocked a brow at the sight—his only physical depiction of his disconcert.

Belying his unsettled state, Harry sagged into his bed. "Dumbledore," he greeted—making an effort to sound decorous in hopes to discourage a lengthy conversation.

Dumbledore didn't respond to his courteous greeting—he was a bit occupied gawping at Harry's alteration to the bedroom.

To begin with—Harry had quadrupled the size of the bedroom. And had used his proliferation wisely—to include a punching bag, a duelling platform where his opponent was a motionless Voldemort, and also an abnormally large bathroom; he figured it was a brilliant method to siphon himself off anxiety.

"Astounding," Dumbledore murmured, his eyes falling upon Harry. "You inherited your father's remarkable affinity for Transfiguration, didn't you." It was a statement.

Harry shrugged his shoulders. "Yes, I do give that impression, don't I?"

Dumbledore nodded his agreement—and swatted his hand in a twirling motion. A comfy chair emerged into existence and Dumbledore sank into his conjured chair.

"You are—no doubt—curious as to why I have come here." Dumbledore surveyed Harry, who nodded dutifully. "You see—you never did commit to your end of the deal: a secret from your clandestine past... Forgot, no doubt." Dumbledore's smile said it all.

Forgot, my arse. Harry had purposefully slinked past Dumbledore towards company that would avert Dumbledore's probing. In retrospect, he admitted to himself that it'd been inane of him to assume that Dumbledore's silence would be incessant.

He glanced up into those daunting orbs—ignoring the tremors racking through him. Dumbledore's eye were twinkling merrily and the old man was patently enjoying himself. "Do you have a secret, my dear boy?"

"Don't 'dear boy' me," Harry snarled at the wretched man, infuriated at Dumbledore's subtle subduing. Dumbledore smiled penitently, raised his hands in apparent surrender and left Harry to sort out his thoughts.

Secrets...

He happened to have many. Which one to sacrifice.

His actual relationship with Figg. Nah... too personal, that was. Something vague...

His friendship with Draco Malfoy? Harry very nearly scoffed at the idea. Or perhaps reveal his friendship with Theodore Nott? This time Harry lost the battle to evince his amusement and was forced to imperceptibly shake his head at Dumbledore to ward off his despicable concern.

Something less important...

Why he'd decided to undertake the streets rather than continue his life at Provet Drive. The thought made Harry pause. That was generally classified information—but Harry was prepared to... unclassify it. Especially if it meant Dumbledore became aware of just how much damage his colossal errenous decision to place Harry with the Dursleys had inflicted upon Harry.

"I've made a decision."