It occurs to Harry, as he is ushered into a beaten down looking townhouse apparently named 12, Grimmauld Place, hidden by a fidelius, that it is probably the least amount of time he has ever spent at the Dursleys. His birthday hasn't even passed yet, term only ended 10 days ago.

His Alpha used his blood in ritual to come back to life 16 days ago.

The age old adage is true, time flies when you're having fun. Strange how much more sense life makes now that he's accepted his oncoming death.

The dark and dank house they've stepped into is nearly empty, this much Harry can tell. He knows there are a few people there, but not more than four and he gets the feeling this is a circumstance that's going to change. The scrap of paper did say headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix, after all. Harry doesn't know what this order is but 'headquarters' implies enough for him to make inferences. Phoenix, well, the only one he knows who spends a lot of time with a phoenix is Dumbledore. A secret order then, probably created to fight Voldemort. No wonder the place is quiet, it's early days still.

Snape rushes him in and on quiet feet he walks into the house. The feeling of accomplishment has yet to leave him but he cannot let it show so he refrains from skipping down the hallways as he wants to and walks instead.

"Upstairs, Potter." Snape says and it is that simple fact that sets him a bit on edge. Snape has always ever ordered him, never simply said things. He looks at the man and finds the dark eyes gauging him carefully. Snape's hate for him is usually so exaggerated, so open and pronounced that Harry forgets that this is the man who's probably going to be playing the role of a double spy in this upcoming war. He plays a good game, Snape, so overtly malicious that people don't bother looking beyond the bad behaviour, beyond the hate to the way he measures them.

If there is one person he needs to be careful around it is Snape. If there is one person he needs to sway to his side, it is Snape. Quite a conundrum.

"Upstairs?" He asks and the man rolls his eyes, apparently satisfied with what he has seen in Harry.

"Your friends await you." He drawls and steps into the fireplace and floos away. Remus gives Harry a weak and wan smile.

"It's good to see you again Harry." Without another word he steps into another room on the ground floor and Harry trudges up the stairs.

A spring in his step once away from watching eyes, he all but skips into the dark, barely lit hallways. It isn't particularly surprising anyway, like a colder version of the Slytherin common room. In fact, he was even looking forward to exploring this place further. But before he can think upon it, the closest bedroom door opens and as arms encircle him, Harry was thrown into painful convulsions.

Hermione had thrown herself upon him and proceeded to choke him with her grip and her hair. It wasn't just that though, no, it was worse. It seemed precious little Hermione had finally presented as an Alpha.

And as an Omega in the middle of a courtship, already suffering from the lack of his Alpha, her pheromones filled his nose like the most toxic of poisons.

"Hermione, you don't just go throwing yourself upon people now that you've...you know." Ron chides her, red-faced and pulls her off Harry.

Harry takes the opportunity to all but hack up his lungs, trying to get that wretched smell out of his system before his magic decides to pain him further. He felt like a hand was reaching into his chest and clutching his heart tight with claw-tipped fingers, that ghastly foreign sensation coursing through him.

In the background Hermione and Ron continue to argue but Harry tunes them out, in no mood to play mediator to their idiotic arguments.

"But it's Harry and-"

"And I don't appreciate choking on your fucking stench when I'm recovering from smoke inhalation," Harry bites out and Hermione runs off all teary eyed, Ron following her with a sheepish look thrown at Harry.

He isn't surprised. Ron had presented as Omega last year in March, it was obvious that he and Hermione were going to make a match out of it. But he had hoped that perhaps he could include them in some bits and pieces of his plan, the 'acceptable' parts at least. Now, there was no way around it. They were going to be very absorbed in one another for some time now and he just couldn't depend on them anyway.

After all, as far as they know, his only family was dead, he's seen a fellow classmate murdered a little more than two weeks ago, his parents' murderer is back but well, he rejected her hug and so they were going to leave him to his own instruments.

Fucking wonderful.

And unfair of him, too. After all, Hermione is bound to be going through a lot of changes, physical, mental and magical as she matures into her secondary gender. Ron, as the last person to go through this is indubitably the best person to help her through this.

But the thing is, Harry doesn't give a shit. Not anymore. Life, his life in particular, is too short to be spent trying to understand where people are coming from. He has to do things for himself now. It's not like he's going to need people skills where he's going.

"Sorry about that, mate." Rom emerges from the room he entered just a few seconds ago and Harry's thoughts come to a halt. "Mione's not doing so well with the changes, she thought she'd be a Beta like her parents. We're working on boundaries. You get a room a of your own until she's sorted out, the third door down the hall, I put all your stuff in there and Hedwig's up in the owlery on the third floor." A wailing sound comes from the room and Ron flinches before retreating, "Better calm her down before her magic decides to make an appearance." Harry's best friend says before shutting the door behind him and Harry is overcome with a wave of fondness.

For a moment he regrets the path he's chosen. He wishes he could just tell them the truth. Wishes he could be a bit less selfish. Wishes this could be like one their end of the year adventures where they rush off into danger together.

But when he closes his eyes he sees the fire burning and those wishes turn to ash.

He's too far gone and can never return.


Harry wakes with a jolt. He looks at the clock on the wall and realised he's been sleeping for a good five hours and it is well into the evening now. It's the screaming that's woken him up but now he can tell that there are a lot more people in the house than there were before. Is it for his benefit or is it the norm around here, he wonders as he stumbles down the stairs. In the hallway he finds his godfather and Lupin wrestling with the curtain on a portrait that was screaming its head off.

He walks up behind to see just who is this person yelling loudly of blood purity and traitors and the dark lord. The woman in the portrait resembles a rabid dog, the snarls, the mad eyes, the foaming mouth. Come to think of it, she resembles Petunia when 'Magic' came into play.

Her eyes land on him and he smiles. Even as she screams, even Sirius and Remus attempt to close the curtains, Harry can see her eyes widening. She saw something in him that surprised her.

The curtains heave closed and his godfather's pants fill the air.

"Hello Harry," Sirius says when he finally notices Harry there, "I see you've met my mother."

"We didn't quite have the time for introductions, I'm afraid." Harry says and his godfather barks in laughter. Absently, Harry wonders if it was his animagus form bleeding into his personality.

Sirius' mother. She must be old enough to remember Tom Marvolo Riddle from school, Harry realises and resolves to have a chat with her later. But she didn't seem the calm, talking types. Oh, well, Harry would find a way.

"Oil painting, right?" Sirius nods after a careful look at the moth eaten curtains, "a little bit of turpentine will clear that right up."

"Aww, kid, I've missed you." Sirius slings an arm over his shoulder and leads him down the hallways to a kitchen. The Weasleys are all there, a new arrangement as far as Harry can tell, judging by the mess of trunks lying around. "Had an exciting summer so far haven't you?" He says wistfully and Mrs Weasley all but shrieks in response.

"Exciting summer indeed, he just saw his family die in front of him, Sirius!"

Guilty faces abound but Harry's godfather remains undaunted.

"Yeah I've seen the Dursleys, can't say it was much of a loss."

An argument starts up between the two, about family and loss and what not. Harry tunes it out completely, family means nothing to him, and instead focuses his attention on the tugging in his sternum that's started up again. It felt stronger somehow, here in house of Black than it did even in the graveyard. It feels as if Voldemort is close by, so close that the bond that was stretched thin feels like it is relaxing.

As Harry is busy contemplating this, Dumbledore arrives. He walks in and everyone stands at attention, loving adoring gazes directed at him that are reminiscent of the way Barty Crouch had looked when asking about the Dark Lord.

He wants to engage Dumbledore in conversation, ask him about Figg and the investigation but Dumbledore is intent upon Mrs Weasley and Sirius' fight instead, avoiding any attempt on Harry's part to catch his eye.

The tugging of the bond shifts and it catches Harry's attention again as he tries to pinpoint its source only to be jolted out of his thoughts when he catches a certain word being thrown about by Dumbledore.

"-the Fidelius is the only thing keeping you safe, you must stay in the house at all times for your own good, Sirius."

"Because it did me and my parents so much good, did it?" Harry interjects and there is a silence that he relishes, "Mum and dad are dying to testify about its effectiveness. So much so, that they went and actually fucking died."

"Harry, your parents wanted-" Dumbledore starts but Harry's not in the mood to give the old man an inch so that he might take a mile.

"I think I know my parents and their wants fairly well considering I was the last one to see them, only sixteen days ago too, when their ghost emerged from the Priori Incantem. And even before that I think their best friend knew pretty well what they wanted too. Their former headmaster on the other hand, well that's a bit of a stretch. See, I remember my mum's ghost saying this was not what she wanted for me, not the Dursleys or Voldemort, none of it." It's a lie, of course, but after planning murder, Harry finds that lying doesn't particularly ping his moral radar, "But their former headmaster kidnapped me with Hagrid's help, put me with the Dursleys before my godfather was even accused of murdering Pettigrew. Isn't that convenient?"

"Harry-" Dumbledore starts again, but Harry's on a roll now.

"And every year since, their former headmaster, my current one, has failed to keep me and his other students safe from Voldemort, letting his spirit into Hogwarts each and every year. Why, just a couple of week ago, under his careful eye I was kidnapped from the school he runs and very nearly died while a fellow student actually did. And then the headmaster even failed to keep the Dursleys safe which was the only reason they ever took me in in the first place. You keep telling people what they should do to be safe and they keep dying, headmaster . So you see,I don't really care what you have to say about anyone's safety."

Finally Dumbledore looks Harry in the eye and in his mind Harry remembers what is now his most precious memory. He sees Number 4, Privet Drive go up in flames, he sees what was once Dudley's bedroom explode as he watches and he sees Dumbledore look away from him that very second.

"I'm very sorry you think that, Harry," Dumbledore says in a grandfatherly disappointed tone and Harry snorts.

"And I'm sorry that all your many many failures are what have caused me to think that, headmaster."

"I see you cannot be reasoned with," Dumbledore says and leaves in haste and Harry has to suppress the urge to smirk in victory. He only manages to control it because in that moment of haste Dumbledore almost stumbles over an old house elf, an old house elf that Harry can tell is the source of whatever it is that has his bond with Voldemort twisting and turning and jumping in joy.


In the small village of Little Hangleton in Yorkshire, in Riddle house, a dark lord once known by the name of Tom Marvolo Riddle shivers and clutches his heart. A strange warmth blooms in his chest, spreading throughout his extremities and he panics on the inside even as his serpentine visage remains unchanged.

For the first time in years, decades , the Dark Lord Voldemort feels pleasure without having to cast the Cruciatus. Where casting the torturous unforgivable is a searing pleasure, this is a warm glow like the first sip of butterbeer on a cold Scottish winter night.

What strange magic is this?