A.N.: Even though there were no reviews, I'm in a forgiving mood, and have decided to add another chapter (I now have twenty-two written and saved) for those of you who have added me to Story Alert lists.

Back to the Burrow

Harriet spent most of the next day in her bedroom, safe away from Daisy, who was on the war-path after Aunt Petunia had made the note of announcing she'd reached the two-month mark in her diet: eating the last of her raspberry-mousse birthday cake for breakfast, then the caramel-walnut cake for lunch, and grinning over the fact that she could gorge on birthday cake, and would be stuffing herself with Mrs Weasley's excellent cooking for the next two weeks while Daisy would be surviving on carrot sticks and cottage cheese, she did something she rarely did: she cleaned.

In anticipation of Dumbledore's arrival, and the promise of spending the last two weeks of holiday at The Burrow, Harriet had completely cleaned out her bedroom, having nothing better to do with the adrenaline that came with her excitement. There was nothing on her bedroom walls now except a few photographs of Daisy as a toddler (which she had always kept covered with Gryffindor banners and a Harpies flag) and everything had been cleaned so thoroughly even Aunt Petunia would be proud. Harriet had gained access to Aunt Petunia's vacuum and dustpan-and-brush and had reorganised her trunk four times. With Hedwig gone off to seek Sirius, she picked up Hedwig's empty, unclean cage, and made her way downstairs, outside to the dustbins. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon pointedly ignored her as she made her way through the house, but after a very tense dinner, Uncle Vernon started casting aspersions on Professor Dumbledore.

After hearing him question what kind of a 'crackpot old fool' Professor Dumbledore was, Harriet had had enough and decided that it was dangerous to be around her uncle, considering the last time anyone of his family had insulted people Harriet held close to her heart, and went up to her bedroom. She sat staring at the second-hand alarm clock on her bedside cabinet, counting down the minutes. She cursed Aunt Petunia for serving their dinner of celery and cottage cheese at such an early hour on Sundays and eventually found herself lying sprawled on her bed, staring up at the ceiling, chewing on a chunk of the sticky caramel-pecan cake.

Finally, with nothing left to do, she reached back into her trunk to one of the birthday presents Sirius had sent her. It had come from somewhere in Africa, a handsome writing-box of shining ebony inlaid with mother-of-pearl, with emerald-green velvet and silk linings, secret compartments, a calligraphy set, a personalised seal and sticks of emerald-green wax, and a lock that only worked for the owner with a little silver key that Sirius had put on a delicate little chain for her. This gift, Sirius had noted in the birthday card he had sent her attached to the second present, an old Leica camera she could use at Hogwarts, was to encourage her to write longer letters (the camera was so she documented her time at Hogwarts, something Sirius promised she would come to regret if she didn't). Beneath the emerald-green velvet writing surface was a compartment in which Harriet had folded neatly all her letters and the photographs that didn't fit into the album Hagrid had given her two years ago.

She took the stack of letters out of the compartment and started rereading them. And then she realised the last letter—the one Hedwig had delivered only two nights ago—she still hadn't replied to. It was from Cedric Diggory.

He had written at the beginning of the summer, apologising again for the Gryffindor-Hufflepuff match in which he had caught the snitch seconds before realising a hundred Dementors had caused Harriet to fall off her broom fifty feet above the pitch. According to Rhona, Hermes, and the other six members of the Gryffindor team, Cedric had attempted to call of the catch and have a rematch when he'd realised what had happened.

It had started, not a friendship, but a casual correspondence that made Harriet anticipate every return letter. It was lovely having another person to add to her list of people she could write to. Rhona and Hermes were at the top of the list, Sirius next, and Hagrid after them. And she had sent one or two letters to Professor Lupin to wonder how he was getting on now that he wasn't at Hogwarts. But that was it. She perused Cedric's letter, smiling to herself softly, and took a sheaf of hot-pressed parchment paper from the supply in one of the drawers and dipped her quill back into the depleting supply of ink.

Dear Cedric,

It was lovely to hear from you again. You were right—I've been invited to the Weasleys' for the rest of the summer, and to go and see the quidditch match. I'm really excited—I haven't seen a professional game before—you were right, guessing about that, too!

What was the Black Forest like? Is it anything as creepy as the Forbidden Forest? Don't Muggles go on holiday there, too? And what were those German students like? I never realised before there was another school besides Hogwarts. I suppose because the largest number of witches and wizards I've seen in any one place is Hogwarts, I forget that there must be wizards all over the world, and other schools.

It's quite a bizarre thought, really. Until four summers ago, I never knew anything about our world. It's still strange to think there's another world hidden from the Muggle one. The World Cup should be absolutely amazing, I'm really excited!

Anyway, I hope this gets to you in time, if not, I hope to see you at the final,

Yours,

Harriet

She tucked the letter into her overnight bag, in which she had put a fresh pair of pyjamas, her Leica camera, an extra few rolls of film, her Invisibility Cloak, Flying with the Harpies, her wand and her coin-purse, and glanced around her room, wondering what she should do now.

Eventually, anticipation wore her down and Harriet found herself lying sprawled on her bed. She couldn't stop thinking, though she was in a state of complete lethargy. Three times, she had plucked the letter to Cedric out of her bag, only to catch herself from ripping it up to rewrite it, and now she sat with her hands clamped under her bottom to stop herself from tearing the letter to shreds.

Cedric was, unfortunately, very handsome in person. She hadn't remembered this the first few letters she had sent back to him; his casual tone set her in mind that she was writing to Rhona or Hermes, but he had sent her a photograph of who she assumed were the German magic students he had met in the Black Forest. And he was very handsome—almost as handsome as Sirius in the only photograph Harriet had of her godfather. Dark brunette and fair, lovely eyes, he had a very roguish, good-natured grin and was tall and perfect. And he was an excellent Quidditch player and he was probably the only boy in the world who would do anything as honourable as try and call off a fair win because the opponent had collapsed off her broom. He hadn't visited her in the Hospital Wing after it had happened, but Harriet liked to believe this was more out of concern for his own survival if he came too close to the rest of Harriet's bitterly disappointed team.

It was a shock when she realised it was ten o'clock exactly—she barrelled downstairs, a jolt going through her when she heard Uncle Vernon's short, rude bark and a very familiar voice answering, completely casual and light as ever. She burst into the living-room to find the three Dursleys settled on the sofa, whilst Professor Dumbledore—in a magnificent midnight-blue travelling cloak and constellation-studded hat—sat in Uncle Vernon's favourite armchair closest to the fire.

"Professor Dumbledore," Harriet blurted, then grinned, breathless. "You're here."

"Doubtful I would turn up, Harriet?" Professor Dumbledore chuckled knowingly. Harriet blushed.

"Well—I was waiting, and I must've lost track of time—I was writing a letter to Cedric Diggory," she said, and then she blushed again. Dumbledore's eyes twinkled merrily. His light-hearted lectures on Inter-House cooperation were not forgotten by Harriet.

"You have been trading owls, then?" he smiled.

"Er…yeah. He sent me a letter at the beginning of the summer, apologising for the match," Harriet said, sidling into the room and taking her place on the other armchair, avoiding eye-contact with her relatives.

"Ah, Mr Diggory," Dumbledore chuckled happily. "Always the gentleman." Harriet nodded: she couldn't agree more. "Your aunt and I have just been discussing the state of the agapanthus," Professor Dumbledore said placidly, hands folded neatly in his lap over his long, shimmering silver beard. Harriet nodded, wondering if he wasn't telling the absolute truth: she glanced at Aunt Petunia and found her cheeks oddly flushed, staring at the floor. "However, the hour is late, and I think it best I do not encroach on your relatives' hospitality any longer, so therefore, my dear, let us depart. I shall wait for you in the hall, Harriet."

Harriet supposed he thought she might like to say goodbye to her aunt and uncle. He left the room after bidding her relatives goodbye and she heard him humming pleasantly to himself in the hall, and Harriet glanced at Uncle Vernon, who was purple, and Aunt Petunia, who was still pink about the cheeks, and Daisy, who looked confused.

"Um…Well, I suppose I'll see you next summer?" she said uneasily; Aunt Petunia may have nodded, or it may have just been Harriet's imagination. Either way, Harriet continued; "And, thank-you for yesterday, Aunt Petunia. Good luck at St Mary's, Daisy." And, not expecting any response and receiving none, Harriet made her way to the hall, where Dumbledore stood, hands clasped behind his back, examining the large family photograph of Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia and Daisy at the foot of the stairs, probably waiting for the figures to move.

"Er—Harriet." She whirled around, eyebrow quirked, and saw Aunt Petunia stepping tentatively over the threshold of the living-room, fiddling with her fingers. "Um… Have a good time at school…and… Write to—me." She had no sooner blurted this out breathlessly than she had disappeared back in the living-room, and Harriet, swearing she'd started hallucinating, turned slack-jawed to Professor Dumbledore.

He chuckled softly, opened the front door, and gestured Harriet outside. He stepped out too, and Harriet made to go and grab her trunk and Hedwig's cage from the bottom of the stairs, but they had vanished. "I have sent your belongings ahead to The Burrow, Harriet. We do not want to be encumbered with those just now."

"Oh. Alright."

Professor Dumbledore started walking towards the entrance of Privet Drive, his heeled shoes clicking on the pavement, and Harriet had to speed-walk to keep up with his long strides.

"Professor," she said quietly, frowning and biting her lip at the ground as she walked beside him. Professor Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles flashed in the light of the streetlamp as they passed beneath it and Harriet took a deep breath. "What did you say to my aunt?"

"What do you mean, Harriet?" Dumbledore asked gently.

"Well—she—she—Aunt Petunia—yesterday, she took me shopping for new clothes and makeup and things," Harriet blurted, frowning even more. "She's never done that before, and she agreed to let me stay at the Weasleys without any shouting or blackmail or anything."

"Ah," Professor Dumbledore said heavily, glancing at Harriet. "I must admit I did write a few strongly-worded sentences to your aunt. When I delivered you to the Dursleys' doorstep thirteen years ago, I asked your aunt to take you in as her own daughter… When I saw you at the Sorting Ceremony at the beginning of your first year, it was immediately clear to me that my wish—and consequently, the very wish of Petunia's own sister—was not met. I knew instantly the night I first saw you, that you have known nothing but neglect and often cruelty at the hands of your aunt and uncle. And, for this reason, I wrote to your aunt."

An odd sinking feeling made her stomach feel funny, and Harriet looked down sadly at the ground. "My interference makes you unhappy?" Professor Dumbledore asked quietly.

"It's just…well…I thought something like that might've happened," Harriet admitted in a mumble. Had she not thought that her aunt was trying to make up for the abominable treatment she had subjected Harriet to over the years, afraid of what Harriet might say when Dumbledore showed up at number four?

"But?" Dumbledore prompted, a sombre twinkle in his eyes.

"I…I wish she had done it…out of kindness," Harriet admitted, flushing with shame at the thought. She wanted her mother's sister to like her, to be good to her, if only because Harriet was her sister's daughter, and she'd had no one else in the world when she showed up on the doorstep of number 4, Privet Drive. "Kindness, not fear."

"How exceptionally like your mother you are becoming, Harriet," Professor Dumbledore said suddenly, with such emotion in his voice that his words might have broken, had he continued talking. They walked a few paces before he spoke again, Harriet's eyes intent on his wizened, familiar face. When he glanced at her again, his eyes were sparkling. "She, too, was uncommonly kind, even to those who perhaps did not deserve it… I had always thought you a little more like your dear father, I suppose, mostly, because of your certain, shall we say, taste for breaking the rules," he chuckled and winked. Harriet beamed; she loved hearing about her parents. She had never heard more about them than the night Sirius had uncovered Peter Pettigrew's ruse.

They walked a few more paces.

"Sir?"

"Yes, Harriet?"

"What do you do during the summer?" Harriet asked. It had been bothering her for a while, since that vision of him rubbing sun-screen on his nose. "Do you go on holiday?"

"Oh, no," Professor Dumbledore sighed. "I'm afraid I am kept busy during the summer, with meetings and owls at all hours and all sorts of other dull business. I am hardly less needed during the summer than during the rest of the year, though I find the latter work far more gratifying. Yet all this work leaves me very little time to, as you say, 'go on holiday'." Harriet, who had never been on holiday in her life, unless she counted an odd week at Mrs Figg's when the Dursleys went away, sympathised.

"Oh. Bummer," Harriet said.

"Isn't it?" Dumbledore sighed. They had reached the end of Privet Drive, and Professor Dumbledore offered her his right arm. Harriet noticed in the lamplight that his left hand had an odd discolouration at the fingertips. "If you will take my arm, Harriet—grip it tight—I will transport us to the village of Ottery St Catchpole." Harriet glanced at Dumbledore's arm, but did as she was told, and Dumbledore smiled slightly at her apprehension. "I wish to Apparate us," he explained calmly. "As you are not yet of-age. Brooms would, I think, even in this weather, throw Mrs Weasley off her schedule, and I do not wish to deprive her the opportunity of feeding you a very large meal before bed." Harriet grinned.

"Aunt Petunia put us all on a diet when I got back to Privet Drive," she whispered confidentially. Professor Dumbledore tutted softly, offered his arm, and Harriet clutched it. She felt his arm twist away from him and redoubled her grip; the next thing she knew, the stars had been put out, and she couldn't breathe, the feeling of being pressed through a too-small tube, like iron bands being tightened around her chest; her eyes were forced back into her head, her eardrums strained painfully and then—

She spluttered, staggering to the side, gulping down great lungfuls of crisp, country air, opening her streaming eyes and wondering if she hadn't lost her contact lenses (she had worn them all day yesterday and today, but was still getting used to them).

"Oh my god!" she croaked, wiping her sodden cheeks.

"The feeling does take some getting used to," Professor Dumbledore said mildly, and Harriet glanced around, realising she stood in the charming little thatched village of Ottery St Catchpole. Old-fashioned gas lamps rigged with electricity burned in wide orange circles, illuminating the cobbled ground and the low brick-and-flint walls of gardens overflowing with summer flowers.

"I think I prefer brooms," Harriet said, walking back to Professor Dumbledore slowly, testing her knees.

"A common consensus, I assure you," Dumbledore smiled. "Now, let us make our way to The Burrow." Harriet followed Dumbledore's lead as they walked past the small village pub, which was still open but the doors were closed, only the windows illuminated with amber, a gentle stream trickling out the front, which owed to the little bridges outside each house on that side of the street before their gardens. She had never been to Ottery St Catchpole before, and she took in her surroundings; there was a large well, a beautiful horse-chestnut tree on the green, and a communal grinding-stone the villagers would have use to sharpen their blades years ago.

"There is a matter I wish to discuss with you, Harriet, before we reach The Burrow," Professor Dumbledore said quietly. But for the brilliant sickle-moon and his company, Harriet might have been a little wary of the darkness pressing on all sides as they made their way up a country lane trimmed with tall blackberry bushes.

"Oh?"

"I wish to become more involved, personally, with your education at Hogwarts," Professor Dumbledore said, glancing at Harriet: his glasses flashed in the moonlight. "Something has occurred of a most important nature, and I wish you to take private lessons with me."

"With—you?" Harriet stared. She knew Professor Dumbledore had taught Transfiguration back in Tom Riddle's day, but she had never really thought of Dumbledore as a teacher before.

"You seem surprised."

"Well—yeah. What will you teach me?" Harriet asked excitedly. Knowing Dumbledore, it could be anything, the thing she least expected.

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that," Professor Dumbledore said vaguely, but Harriet knew she wasn't being snubbed, and was at her leisure to keep asking questions. She glanced at Professor Dumbledore, wondering if she shouldn't mention her scar hurting. She decided to be safe.

"Professor… Does this have anything to do with Voldemort?" she asked quietly, and the blackberry bushes seemed to shiver in a breeze that wasn't there.

"Perceptive, Harriet. But why do you ask?" Professor Dumbledore asked gently. Harriet bit her lip. She had already sent her letter to Sirius, but perhaps Dumbledore would know more about the dream.

"Well, it's just…yesterday morning, really early, I woke up with my scar hurting," Harriet admitted tremulously. "And…and I think I was dreaming of Voldemort before it started to hurt…I think he killed someone."

Professor Dumbledore turned to her, his normally serene face pulled together in a frown that was at once anxious and insightful. He examined her face for a few moments, then sighed softly and started walking again, stroking his beard in thought.

"Do you remember, Harriet, who he killed?" he asked.

"Yes—it was an old man," Harriet said, hurrying to keep up with Dumbledore's long strides, breathless and a little excited that Dumbledore didn't think she was mad, or that the dream was unimportant. She had been worried about it, after all…even if only for a short time. "And Voldemort was with Wormtail—you know, Peter Pettigrew—and they were in a really old house; I could tell because the hearth-rug was really threadbare. And there was a ginormous snake coiled up on it."

"A snake?" Professor Dumbledore frowned again. "Do you remember anything else about this dream, Harriet?"

"Um…well…" Harriet flushed deeply, but Professor Dumbledore glanced at her and she didn't feel quite as stupid saying this to him as she might anyone else. "They were plotting to kill me—but that's old news, isn't it?"

"Thank you for telling me about this, Harriet," Professor Dumbledore said calmly. "You have helped me understand something far more than you realise at present."

"Something about Voldemort?" Harriet asked, almost running to keep up. She realised how tall Professor Dumbledore was, especially in his pointed hat.

"Something that has everything to do with Lord Voldemort," Professor Dumbledore said.

"Is it—that—what you're going to be teaching me about?" Harriet asked curiously. Professor Dumbledore's eyes twinkled.

"You have a sharp mind, Harriet, just like your father," he smiled. "Harriet, have you told anybody else about your scar hurting?"

"Um…" Now came the crux of it: she knew Sirius had told Professor Dumbledore everything that night, before they'd helped him escape, but would Dumbledore be angry for her keeping in touch with her godfather. "Um…I sent a letter, last night, to Sirius—But I didn't tell him about the dream. Only my scar hurting, and about going to the Weasleys'." Professor Dumbledore said nothing for a few paces, just stared at Harriet with those inscrutable, twinkling forget-me-not blue eyes.

"This is quite remarkable," he said gently, after a few seconds.

"What is?"

"You spent less than six hours with your godfather, and yet here you are, as attached to him as if you'd spent your entire lives together," Professor Dumbledore smiled.

"Which we should've done," Harriet murmured angrily to herself, kicking at a large stone in the path.

"You miss Sirius, then? You wish to see him more often," Professor Dumbledore guessed.

"I want him to be safe," Harriet said, glancing up. "As long as he's safe…"

"Mm…yes, uncommonly like your parents," Professor Dumbledore remarked, almost to himself. Harriet glanced up and he smiled, and elaborated. "They, too, would have put his safety above their own, as they did with you." Harriet nodded.

"Sirius said he would've died for my parents, rather than betray their trust," Harriet said softly, wondering, not for the first time this summer, what might've happened if her parents hadn't chosen Pettigrew as their Secret-Keeper. If Harriet had lived with her godfather, if she had never met Rhona and Hermes that first day on the train.

"And so he would for you, too," Professor Dumbledore said quietly. "Ah, I see the Weasleys are waiting for you."

Harriet grinned upon her first glimpse of The Burrow. It was not quite the feeling she got upon seeing Hogwarts, her first home, but it was something close to it, seeing the higgledy-piggledy structure that had stemmed once from an overlarge sty. Every window—in the oddest places, up the several stories—was aglow with warm amber light, and even from here, Harriet could hear the excited chatter and deep, rumbling laughs of Rhona's many brothers.

"Sir?" Harriet paused, biting her lip; she glanced at Dumbledore. "Should I tell…anyone?"

"I believe you would be doing your friendship a disservice by not divulging what we have spoken about," Dumbledore smiled. "You need your friends, Harriet. The people who love us are the only chance any of us has…That is something Tom Riddle never understood."

"So I can tell them about the lessons, and the dream?" Harriet said quietly. Professor Dumbledore nodded, smiled, and rapped his knuckles on the back door.

The door burst open. "HARRIET'S HERE!!!!!" Fred Weasley bellowed, over his shoulder, and he grinned from ear to ear as Professor Dumbledore gestured Harriet over the threshold, following her inside. The kitchen, more crowded than Harriet had ever remembered it, exploded with greetings; Rhona and George were sitting at the kitchen table, with mugs of tea and talking to red-haired people Harriet assumed could only be the two eldest Weasley brothers, Bill and Charlie.

"Hullo Harriet," the nearer of the two said, his broad, good-natured face (weather-beaten and so covered in freckles he looked tanned) spreading into a grin. Harriet took his hand and felt blisters and calluses beneath her fingers; this couldn't be anybody but Charlie, who worked with dragons in Romania. He was built like the twins, shorter and stockier than lanky Rhona and Percy; his arms were gorgeously muscular and one of them had a large, shiny burn on it. "It's nice to meet you, finally."

"Yeah—Rhona hasn't shut up about you," said Bill, who came as a bit of a shock for Harriet. Bill had been Head Boy in his time at Hogwarts (Charlie, the Gryffindor Quidditch team captain) and Harriet had always envisioned him being a lot like, well, Percy, who had worn the badge last year. Plus, Bill worked for the wizard's bank, Gringotts, so whatever knowledge Harriet knew about Muggle bankers had been applied to Bill. He was, however, and there was no other way to say it—cool. It was no wonder Rhona idolised him more than any of her other brothers. He was tall, like Rhona, with long hair that he tied back in a ponytail; an earring caught the light, from which dangled a small fang. He wouldn't have been out of place at a rock-concert, although, Harriet noticed, his boots were made of dragon-hide, not leather.

"So," Charlie said, tugging out the chair beside him and patting the seat. "Rhona says you own a Firebolt. How long have you been flying?" Whilst Mrs Weasley sorted out tea for Professor Dumbledore, and doled out bowlfuls of crème-fraiche tomato soup to Harriet, declaring that, "You're just like Rhona—you're both far too skinny," and Hermes dropped downstairs with Crookshanks in his arms (for whom Harriet had a newfound appreciation after the events of June), Harriet and Charlie had a sparring match about Quidditch that only ended with Professor Dumbledore making his departure.

"I shall see you all on September the first, I hope," Dumbledore said, eyes twinkling. Harriet called her thanks above everyone else's goodbyes and Dumbledore smiled, made a bow to Mrs Weasley, and departed out of the back door.

A.N.: PLEASE REVIEW!!!!!