Disclaimer: Hmm... some people do seem to read the disclaimers. Well, if you have read the last nine of them, there's no need for me to waste my virtual breath repeating myself. You know that I'm not JKR, otherwise I'd be earning boatloads of cash out of this and you would most certainly not be able to read this fic on any site. It wouldn't be a fic, for that matter, nor an AU. And it's both, you do the maths.

The best part is: It's free of charge! You only have to review loads to keep me happy and not thinking about smoking!

P.S. I mean it. Review.

Chapter Ten - Damage Assessment

"Harry! Wake up!"

Green eyes fluttered open, consciousness slowly returning as twin vices on his arms shook him like a rag doll.

It hurt.

"Gnmm...gnnoo..."

"Wake up!" the high-pitched, entirely too loud and panicky voice was still there, and he screwed his face against it. Tried, fruitlessly, to resist the painful shaking, to go back to the peaceful nothingness he'd been in.

If anything, the pain increased, sharp stabs of burning fires all over his chest, his arms, his head. He tried to make it stop, go back to sleep, where nothing hurt and silence reigned. Couldn't.

The shouting continued, now louder, with the addition of whimpering sobs, as did the increasingly harsh, convulsive shaking. This combination managed, at last, to irritate Harry into a very disgruntled, reluctant – and hopefully temporary – wakefulness.

He forced himself to focus his sight on whoever was shaking him, blinking slowly and with difficulty, as he tried to remember where he was and what he was doing on this unfamiliar floor, and whom that fat, round face belonged to.

"Harry!" Another shake.

Harry responded by squinting blearily at the blotchy, sweaty face of his cousin for the space of a breath, before he backed away from him with a movement that would have been qualified as a jerk if it hadn't come out as a feeble twitch. Images, sounds and smells came to him in a jumble. His eyes darted left and right, and his breath caught in his chest as the memories of past events replayed haphazardly in his head.

"Can you see me?" Dudley shook Harry once more, frantic in his efforts to return him to the waking world. Bloodshot eyes focused on Dudley for a moment, then Harry nodded, moving his head as little as possible.

"Yeah..." he breathed. After a pause, he added, "But I wish I couldn't." He closed his eyes again.

"Harry!" The grip on his arms did not relent, and he was shaken once again.

"What's it with you?" Harry tried to snap back, but he could as well have mouthed the words, if the pitiful whisper he managed was any indication.

"Are you awake? Can you hear me?" Dudley's face was shiny with sweat, and his anxious expression, along with his piggy, teary blue eyes, combined to give the most pathetic display of worry Harry had ever been forced to lay eyes on. He cut a grimace.

"Gods..." he groaned, turning his head away from Dudley, breathing heavily. He felt as if he would split in two at any given moment. A shaky, sob-like sound escaped him, and he blinked hard again, in an effort not to loose consciousness. His eyes caught the shine of silver lettering not an arm's length away.

FOR EMERGENCY USE ONLY, the trunk read.

Oh, yes. This is definitely an emergency...

Dudley's hands tightened around his arms, and Harry tried to glare up at him. It didn't work. If anything, he only managed to make his left eye begin to throb – altogether not a pleasant experience.

"You passed out!" Dudley exclaimed, still gripping Harry's arms convulsively.

Oh, really? I hadn't noticed, you lardbum. his mind's voice scoffed at the statement.

"What do you want?" Harry asked, annoyed. With a defeated sigh, he forced himself to assume a sitting position, wrenching himself from Dudley's grip. However tempting it was to simply let himself pass out again, he was aware that it would not help his current situation much. He winced, fumbling for his glasses.

"Y—you passed... out," Dudley stammered, his voice squeaky and trembling.

"So?" Harry retorted, scowling at the floor spinning around him, still looking for his glasses.

Dudley stared, slack-jawed, at his freak of a cousin, unable to believe his ears.

So! SO? That's all he's going to say?

Harry had abruptly slid to the floor some long moments earlier, the right side of his face wet with blood from his forehead. It had taken the Junior Heavyweight Boxing Champion of the North-and-South-East an additional moment to lower his gaze and find the many splotches of blood decorating Harry's old tee shirt, like the polka dots of his mum's favourite summer dress. Or, more accurately, like one of the extras in a random war flick.

Panic had set in sometime between the first and second shock, when all Harry did was let his eyes roll into the back of his head, no matter how hard Dudley shook him. And Dudley could shake hard.

Now he had finally managed to return him to the conscious world, Harry was suddenly in a rotten mood for being woken.

"What d'you mean, 'So?'" Dudley echoed nonetheless, trying to sound menacing, yet unable to keep the frightened squeak from his voice.

"Forget it, Big D," Harry pushed the one-lensed spectacles up his nose with a roll of his eyes and feebly made to stand, and Dudley found himself steadying his former punching bag, awkwardly helping him to his feet.

"You're... Harry, you're bleeding—"

"What else is new?" Harry gritted out, taking a tentative step towards the trunk. He brought a hand to his face and brushed some of the still-flowing wetness away, making a last effort to focus his eyesight.

Wiping his hand on his trouser leg, he peered into the trunk again, rummaging around with trembling hands and sore arms for a few moments, finally withdrawing a wooden chest that had been labelled "Magical First Aid" in brightly glowing golden letters.

He wordlessly handed the box to Dudley, leaned against the wall of the entrance hall and slid down to a sitting position.

"I'm going to need your help here, Dud." Harry had brought up his knees and was supporting his aching head in his hands. The world was spinning around him, and his left eye was beating a quite unpleasant tattoo against his eyelid.

"Uh..." The youngest Dursley gave him a blank look that made him look more like a pig than usual.

"Just read the labels on the bottles," Harry mumbled tiredly, wincing at the feeling talking brought. He brought a hand to his face, finding a lump the size of what felt like a golf ball on his jaw.

Sweet Merlin's spleen. This hurts, his mind's voice moaned. Ow.

Dudley stared stupidly at Harry for a few moments longer, before bringing himself to open the chest, seeing as his cousin seemed reluctant to move so much as an inch. The chest, which was made of a dark red wood, was filled with many bottles of different shapes and sizes that contained liquids of various colours.

"Stop gawping at them, and read the labels already," Harry gritted out, still steadying his head in his hands. He needed... What did he need? He'd never before tried to heal himself with potions – the incident at Privet Drive one week earlier didn't count, since he had rather limited options and had taken the potions at random anyway.

We need a Healer, his mind's voice supplied promptly, apparently much more awake than he felt. A Healer would do nicely, thank you ever so very raging much. I'll have one here and one to go, please. Payment by cash. Harry snorted darkly at the thought. Healer Express, at your fireplace in thirty seconds or your Galleons back. Heh. At the rate I'm going, I'd be a regular.

Dudley gave him an uneasy sideways glance. Harry looked frightening: the side of his face that wasn't caked in blood in various stages of dryness was bright red and swollen, his eyes were bloodshot, and the mass of red contrasted sharply with the bright green of Harry's irises. Not to mention his jaw had developed a bruise that made it look as if he were trying to chew on a ping-pong ball.

"Read," Harry whispered tightly, closing his eyes. He swallowed with difficulty. "Please."

Dudley hesitated for a moment, before deciding that reading the labels on those freaky bottles would not hurt him in any way. He picked up a bright yellow vial.

"Er... Pain-No-More..."

Harry's bloodshot eyes snapped open, causing Dudley to give a start.

"Give me that one." He stretched a leaden arm to receive the vial, trying to keep his hand from shaking.

"Er..." Dudley gave him an apprehensive look.

"It's not going to make you sprout feelers or anything, Dud." Harry rasped, his patience rapidly thinning. For all his battered-looking self, he still managed to give Dudley a pointed glare that had him gibbering again. "Just hand me the damned bottle."

Trembling with dread, Dudley made himself reach out and place the bottle on the floor in front of Harry.

"Cheers," Harry said through clenched teeth, gesturing for Dudley to read on and uncorking the bottle with a wave of his fingers. Dudley found himself staring as two beakers flew from the chest with an additional flick of Harry's wrist. His cousin filled one beaker to the brim and downed its contents without further ado, visibly relaxing after a few moments. A strong smell of peppermint wafted out of the bottle as Harry poured Dudley a dose, but he did not press for him to drink up. Instead, he gave him another pointed look and a raised eyebrow, reminding him of his reading tasks.

"Uh... right. There's Gunmore's Gash Gelatin... Pepper-Up-Potion... Burn Betterment Bevvy... SkeleGro, SkeleFix, Bubotuber Blemish Remover, Skitter Stopper, InstaStookie... Scarring Solution... Essence of Pickled Murtlap..."

"So, what we do know is that Potter managed to single-handedly incapacitate five Death Eaters and trap them in a solid chunk of... ah... ground—"

"Swamp," McGonagall corrected in her brisk tone.

"Swamp," Shacklebolt amended with a nod. "Besides that, we know that he was hit by the Killing Curse but did not die, that he had most of his things with him and yet carried no bag, and that he managed to apparate away, with his muggle cousin and without leaving a sliver of magic to trace him by, if I may add, without knowing how to apparate, am I correct?" Shacklebolt's deep voice gave away his scepticism as he summed up the main points of the riddle posed by Potter.

"So it would seem," Lupin murmured slowly, frowning thoughtfully at the dinner table.

"And you do not believe this is utter madness?" Shacklebolt gave Lupin a pointed look.

"That I do not." Lupin's eyes met Shacklebolt's steadily.

"Lupin, come on. I understand you do not want to believe Potter is dead, but you need to face the facts. He disappeared after the Killing Curse hit him square in the face. How would you explain that point?"

"Harry's survival? Blood magic," Lupin said offhandedly, the frown still on his face. "He was with his cousin when it happened."

"Oh, and what of Potter's things, then?" Shacklebolt inquired in a tone of forced calm. "He left only his first year books and cauldron behind—" the Auror cut himself off as Dumbledore, who had remained silent throughout the exchange, raised a hand.

"I think I might be able to answer that question," the wizened wizard said quietly, pulling a sheet of white parchment from his pocket. "Although by this, I fear that there shall be more questions posed than answers given."

There was an expectant silence as the Order members assembled there took turns reading Sirius' letter, only broken by the occasional muttered comments.

"How dare he... Percy, adopted?" Molly whispered angrily, being one of the last to receive the parchment. "Oh, so he did help them get that dreadful shop in Diagon Alley..." For all her muttering, she looked like she had developed a head cold by the time she passed the letter to her eldest son.

Bill actually snorted as he read the offending passages, earning himself a reproachful look from his mother. He shrugged helplessly at her. Although it was left unsaid, most wizards and witches present shared Sirius' view on the Weasleys' third son.

"So we couldn't organise a piss in a brewery?" Shacklebolt muttered, shaking his head ruefully. "I couldn't have put it better myself," he added in a low voice, checking his watch. Over two hours had passed since Potter had vanished into thin air, and still they had no clue as to where to start searching.

"It seems he left a lot unsaid," Arthur stated neutrally as he finished reading, handing the letter to Lupin.

"Maybe not all that much," Moody growled. "Potter would have understood a great deal more, particularly since he had the 'case' in his hands, whatever that is."

Lupin received the parchment again, feeling it with his hands like a blind man would.

"What have you done this time, Sirius?" McGonagall murmured. Then, louder, she asked, "What is a Phoenix Scroll? And, for that matter, the case the letter speaks of?" All eyes were on Lupin now, who gave the letter a last glance before looking up.

"The Phoenix Scroll was an invention of Sirius' and James', or, more accurately, a project of theirs," he said, smiling reminiscently. "They were worried about the trouble they had communicating whenever they were apart, for Harry's safety, I presume. In any case, they never got around to make it work – all they achieved was to get the parchment to light on fire when the first letter was read..."

"Can you please explain yourself, Lupin?" Snape hissed through clenched teeth.

"Yes, sorry." Lupin fingered the parchment once more. "A Phoenix Scroll was supposed to be a letter concealed within a letter. Anyone could read the nonsense written on the first, a normal-looking piece of parchment, but, if the reader was indeed the intended recipient of the letter, it would light on fire to reveal the real message, like a phoenix on a Burning Day. This would turn the interception of owls irrelevant, since all one had to do was send the message twice or thrice at the same time."

"Brilliant," McGonagall whispered, allowing herself a small, wistful smile. For all the trouble they had caused at school, upon joining the Order, James Potter and Sirius Black had always been bursting with ideas, and never been afraid to test their theories, no matter how impossible they sounded. They had been intelligent, frightfully so. She shook her head slightly, remembering the many urgent owls she had received, mostly in the middle of the night, with question upon question about Transfiguration processes so advanced, she had sometimes been at a loss as to what they referred to. Trust Potter and Black to continue giving them sleepless nights after they died.

"However, before James and Lily were killed, they had only managed to charm the letters to burn up whenever the information was read – It seems that Sirius finally managed to make it work, though." Lupin finished his account.

"What of the case?" Tonks asked next. "Sirius says here he included several items for battle purposes, mostly for concealment and defence."

Lupin shrugged, tapping his nose and rereading the letter.

"He never told me anything about it," he said in a low voice. "But then, he did not tell anyone much of anything... those last few months."

There was another, much more thoughtful silence. Lupin bit his lip. Once it had been decided, after Arthur Weasley had been taken to St. Mungo's, that Harry would not receive any information that Voldemort could potentially pick up on, Sirius had gone ballistic.

Lupin had been given the task to convince his hot-headed friend to listen to reason, and failed miserably; after a heated argument that ended with Sirius transforming into a dog and refusing to turn back for three days, Sirius had taken a vow of silence of sorts that lasted for the whole month of January. To say things between the long-time friends were tense, would have been the understatement of the year. Sirius insisted Harry needed not only Occlumency, but also guidance, and that by refusing him any sort of information, the Order was playing straight into Voldemort's hands—and he was proven right, of course.

At a dreadful cost.

"After Fred and George came to Headquarters," Molly Weasley said, her lips pursed, as she always did whenever she was faced with something she did not approve of, "Sirius spent a lot of time around them." Lupin nodded.

"True. Whatever he was working on, he found a way to pass it on to Harry, probably with the Twins' help," he said.

"I'll call them," Arthur offered at once. "They're most likely still in that shop of theirs."

"I'll come along, dad," Bill stood up. As the two left, a silence remained as the Order members stared at the letter on the dinner table.

"Do you think he might have found a way to cancel the Killing—" Tonks started suddenly, as an idea surfaced on her mind.

"Don't be foolish. Black couldn't possibly have managed to find a way to repel the Killing Curse," Snape interrupted furiously.

"I wouldn't put it past him," Remus murmured, remembering a project Sirius, James, and Lily had gotten underway some time before Black Lodge was burnt. "Although I don't believe he did. I think he merely provided Harry with some gadgets."

"A portkey, perhaps?" Moody, who had been pacing up and down the dining room, slumped down on a nearby chair and took a swig from his hip flask.

"To where?" Lupin shook his head. "If Sirius had given Harry a portkey, Harry would have been taken to three possible places: Here, Headquarters, or Hogwarts, and Harry has shown up in neither."

"We know Sirius wasn't... the sanest of men," Molly said hesitantly. "Maybe he just forgot—"

"Sirius might have been slightly nuts," Remus said firmly, "But he was neither stupid nor did he ignore the danger Harry is in. In fact," he added, "I doubt that anyone understood Harry's situation better than he did."

"But Azkaban—"

"Azkaban embittered him, yes. But it did not take his sanity. For all his foolhardiness, Sirius knew Harry best of us all. Yes Molly – even better than you or Ron or Hermione. Whatever he sent Harry in this case might have saved his life, and we ought to remember that." Lupin's voice was tight with remorse. "I think, this once, we should bear his advice in mind."

"Come off it, Lupin," Snape said angrily. "Black was completely insane. Who would listen to that madman?"

"Harry listened to him," Lupin said quietly. "He did not once doubt Sirius' advice. He never had any reason not to trust him blindly."

Snape scoffed in exasperation.

"And, for that matter, neither did we." Lupin heaved a great sigh, closing his eyes briefly. "Yet we did not listen to him when we had a chance." He pointed at the letter. "Harry, however, still does."

"Drink up, Dud." Harry prodded, sounding rather impatient. He was thirsty, and wondered, for what felt like the hundredth time since he had started prodding, why he didn't just leave Dudley sitting there in the hall and went to explore the tent.

Dudley shook his head resolutely, his lips pressed together in a thin line.

Harry snorted and shook his head. Never before had he witnessed Dudley refuse anything to eat or drink, and it was a comical sight. Well, it would be if he could manage to fix his glasses, which were still rather bent and lacked one lens. He took them off and picked up his wand.

"Reparo," he said, watching the frame straighten itself a little and the remaining cracks in the glass disappear. One lens was missing still, and he didn't know how to solve this part of his problem.

I need to start working on conjuring spells, he thought, scowling at his glasses before he replaced them on his nose, closing the eye that lacked a lens. Either that, or I need to get myself a second pair of glasses.

Harry still sat with his back against the stone wall of the entrance hall, but his countenance had visibly changed; he was no longer shivering, the cold sweat was already drying on his back, and the bleeding on his head and chest was gradually stopping. The world was still the familiar colourful blur it always was whenever he took off his glasses, but at least it had stopped spinning, and his head did not feel as heavy as it had a bit earlier.

He felt much better after taking handsome doses of a series of potions, and had learned a few things over the past few minutes. For example, he now knew that the SkeleFix tasted quite as bad as the SkeleGro did, it was every bit as unpleasant when it started to have an effect, but the ensuing stinging sensation was rather more manageable. He had also found out that the combination of the Alertness Ale with the Blood Clotting Bevvy and the Pain-No-More washed away the taste of the SkeleFix rather effectively, not to mention that the resulting mix tasted pleasantly of grape juice and also dissipated the coldness inside much better than the Pepper-Up Potion he had just washed down.

The only thing left to fix was the sudden longing for water that had taken a hold of him after taking the last potion.

Well, that, and the molar he'd lost. Harry explored the cavity in his mouth with his tongue, which gave him a curious expression as he looked encouragingly at Dudley, for whom he had served a cocktail of Pain-No-More, SkeleFix, and a bit of Calming Draught.

Dudley looked back at Harry, whose ears were smoking, with dread. There was no chance in hell he would follow Harry's example. He had witnessed Harry turn blue, green, even red in the past few minutes; no, he wouldn't risk it.

"I'm—I'm not drinking any of those!" Dudley squeezed out, pointing accusatorily at Harry. "Y—you're trying to... to poison me!"

Harry raised a faintly amused eyebrow.

"If I wanted to kill you, Popkin," he said in a low, yet carrying whisper, "I would not have bothered with poison. I'd turn you into a slug and then I'd step on you." He smiled at the horrified expression on his cousin's face. "Speaking of which..." he added as an afterthought, drawing his wand. Dudley recoiled with a frightened squeak, his face changing colours faster even than Uncle Vernon's.

"You would not!" he breathed, aghast.

"I'll give you a plaster," Harry explained shortly, tapping the bandage he had previously applied and muttering, "ferula gypsum" under his breath. The bandage on Dudley's leg glowed bright white for a moment. Harry watched the glow disappear, leaving a stark white, solid cast in its wake. He tapped his fingers against it, testing how the spell had come out, and bit back a smirk at Dudley's frightened reaction.

"Drink up." Harry rasped, pushing the beaker towards the shell-shocked Dudley with what meant to be a friendly smile but must have looked quite sinister, to judge by the way Dudley was trembling. "Go on," Harry prodded. "Drink up. These are to fix your leg."

Dudley eyed the glass container with mistrust. Well, Harry looked much better, didn't he? He didn't look like he would pass out soon at any rate, and the bleeding on his head had stopped. Dudley had seen the colourful liquids swirling red, yellow and pink in the glass served from the same bottles Harry had drunk... He hesitated. His knee gave a throb, and he made up his mind.

Shutting his eyes tightly and going against the core principle of his interaction with anything that had to do with the 'M' word (namely, 'Never, EVER drink or eat anything offered by those freaks'), he upended the beaker in one motion.

He had hardly swallowed when he choked. A burning sensation spread in his throat, making his eyes water. Those things tasted horrible!

Harry watched Dudley splutter and cough childishly, a smirk on his face. The Alertness Ale was working wonders for him already, and his surroundings finally caught his attention. Looking around him, Harry quickly came to the conclusion that he would be indebted to the Weasley Twins for life. They had really outdone themselves this time around.

The hall he was in looked both grand and homely, what with the wooden black floor, panelled walls, and arched ceiling. There were two suits of armour in the corners at the far end, and sets of carved ebony double doors to the left and right, under equally elegant archways, which held torches on either side that provided a warm, flickering light.

"How can you drink that stuff?" Dudley moaned, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I've often wondered, Dud," Harry answered absently, scrambling to his feet with a groan. He wanted to see the rest of the place, and his experience with wizarding camping equipment told him there were more comfortable places to spend their time in instead of the bare floor of the entrance hall.

He was parched. Without waiting any longer for Dudley, he made his way to the right of the hall, where the double doors opened into a kitchen with a table that could comfortably seat ten people. Harry felt a genuine grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

The tent was really a masterpiece of spellwork. His one lensed eye wandered around the room, until it fixed itself on the ornate tap by the sink.

Water!

Dudley peered in after his cousin, his eyes popping at the amazing sight. He had thought the empty chamber was something noteworthy, yes, but this was absolutely...

Unbelievable.

Dudley had thought the hall they'd been in was the whole tent – clearly, he had been wrong.

Forgetting his previous apprehension, he got to his feet and hobbled in after Harry, using the wooden crutch for support. The cast on his leg clunked at every step, and he had to grudgingly admit he felt much better already.

Dudley gaped at the room, then at Harry, who was perusing the contents of the pantry, a silver goblet in his hand. His cousin did not show any kind of amazement at the sight of the old-fashioned kitchen, or the fact that this tent had a kitchen table that would not have been out of place in Buckingham Palace.

Instead, Harry drained his goblet and refilled it from the tap, resuming his greedy drinking as soon as it was filled.

"Wow," Dudley said, his watery eyes about as wide as they could go as they roamed across the place. "There's a stove and everything!"

Harry shrugged, now halfway through his third gobletful of water.

"Feeling better, Diddy?" he asked in his raspy voice. Dudley scowled and huffily stared back at him, making him bite back a grin. The Dursley Policy on Freaky Magic was not something that could be ignored just like so, and he knew that Dudley would need much more than a bit of healing potion to admit that something magical was less than terrifying. Not that Harry cared what Dudley thought on the matter, either. As far as he was concerned, his cousin could continue to fear magic in any of its forms, he didn't mind. It made him easier to taunt and scare.

"I'm hungry." Dudley said flatly, sounding much more like his usual self, and glaring at the counter, which had been fitted in the same dark wood as the remainder of the tent.

"Figures," Harry muttered with amusement, refilling his goblet.

"Is there any food here?" Dudley asked next, regarding one of the leather armchairs that made the kitchen seats with mistrust before gingerly sitting down on it, as if he expected the chair to run away from under him. Which, incidentally, did not happen.

Given the identity of the makers, Harry was more than inclined to agree with his cousin. He wouldn't put it past the Weasley Twins to booby-trap every square inch of the tent. In fact, now he thought about it, the lack of pranks so far was rather disconcerting...

"I'm starving."

"There are a few things in the pantry," Harry told Dudley, waving his wand and causing a package to float towards the table. He sank down on another of the chairs and opened it, revealing a fresh-looking shepherd's pie with a side of baked potatoes.

Dudley instinctively shrank back from the floating package, but leaned forward with undisguised interest as its contents were uncovered. His eyes never leaving the food, he shook his head in honest bewilderment.

"Fervefacio," Harry muttered the heating charm, and in a blink, the pie was steaming. He summoned a plate and a goblet, which he pushed towards Dudley. "There you are, Dud."

He did not have to tell him twice. Dudley shook off his shock rather faster than Harry had expected and tucked in with gusto, apparently having sent all his misgivings about obviously magical food flying.

Harry wasn't hungry, however. He drank another gobletful of water and regarded the dark table, a thoughtful expression on his face. His weariness had faded now the Alertness Ale had kicked in, and the restlessness that usually plagued him made itself known. He approached the window overlooking the boulders they had sat at earlier. Looking out the large window onto the wasteland around, he felt something tighten around his chest. The sun had set some time earlier, and the moon, two-thirds towards its full, was rising to the left of the boulders, bathing the wide, open landscape in a silvery light.

He had been very lucky to have survived the last attack; he didn't know where he was, but he was fairly certain he'd managed to apparate them both away before the Killing Curse hit. Now he had to find a way to return to Surrey before the Death Eaters found them. The fact that the Order might be looking for him did not even cross his mind.

Reminding himself that they were safe, he shunted the feeling of uneasiness into the back of his head, deciding that he could explore the tent before letting his mind run amuck. Maybe even take a shower.

Yes, that sounded about right, he mused, passing a filthy hand over his grimy face. Turning around, he noticed two doors at the other end of the room.

"When you came to see him, did he tell you of Sirius' letter?" Dumbledore asked Moody, who gave a raspy laugh.

"No. He didn't tell me anything. He was sitting here, calm as you please, reading up on advanced offensive hexes. He received his mail, and simply read on."

Shacklebolt, Figg and Dung all had similar reports on their visits to Privet Drive. Harry had not spoken to any of them unless it was absolutely necessary, and nothing they did or said had sufficed to change this attitude. Harry had shown himself indifferent to their visits, and, although he had never been openly rude to them, he had made it quite clear he was less than content with the arrangements.

He had toed every rule set down for his safety, and seemed to have put up with the routine because he knew what was at stake, but he had not, as had been expected, warmed up any more to the Order members assigned to visit him than he would have to an ice cube.

Dumbledore sighed heavily.

"It seems I keep making mistakes with him," he murmured.

His defeated musings were cut short, however, as the main door opened to reveal a hectic-looking pair of red-headed twins.

"What happened?" Fred asked, fairly storming into the living room, his green dragonhide jacket reflecting the electrical light overhead.

"Why didn't you call us?" George followed Fred at the same quick pace, looking as pale and anxious as his brother.

"Is it true Harry's gone?"

Dumbledore raised a silencing hand, but was largely ignored. The twins were looking at Lupin for answers, not at him.

"Bill told us he's not dead, Professor, but—"

In a few short sentences, Lupin explained the main points of their current situation. They listened without interrupting him once, and seemed to accept the news about Harry not being dead without any protest. When they heard about Harry's chosen method to disarm the Death Eaters, Fred actually grinned with something like satisfaction.

"He froze the swamp? I'd never have thought of doing that," he said appreciatively, nudging his brother, who chuckled.

"I'd like to have seen it," George agreed, ignoring the pointed glare his mother levelled at him. "He's getting good, isn't he?"

"Yes, well, now he's disappeared, and all we have is this..." Lupin seemed to bite back a smile as he handed the twins Sirius' letter.

"Damn right he was about Per—" George muttered, earning himself an elbow to the ribs from his brother, who couldn't seem to stop smirking. Their eyes flew over the parchment, and both their smiles faded to be replaced by expressions of concern.

"Merlin, he asked about his..." George murmured.

"Well?" McGonagall asked briskly when all the twins did was look at the end part of the parchment.

"Harry must have felt horrible when he read this," Fred said in a low voice.

"Yeah," George agreed, rereading the letter. "He keeps blaming himself for stuff—this must not have helped much, eh?"

"Will you two tell us what you're talking about already?" Molly snapped impatiently, causing her sons to look at her with a start. "Don't you give me those looks, you two. It says there you and Sirius were in it together. Now what did you do this time?"

"We didn't know the letter was a Phoenix Scroll," Fred said grimly. "Sirius must have written it sometime before the Department of Mysteries. Otherwise we wouldn't have sent it with the package."

"What package?" Moody barked, and there was a startled whimper in the background. Petunia and Vernon Dursley were still there, sitting on a sofa, forgotten by the Order.

The twins gave each other a look and then Fred spoke.

"Sirius asked us to help him develop a series of... items he believed would help Harry if he got himself into another mess," he said carefully.

"Which he did, by the way," George added unnecessarily.

"He put us through our paces, Sirius did. He had some wicked ideas, mind—"

"Yeah, I don't think we learned half as much during all those years at Hogwarts as we did during the past four months."

"The Warning Wedges work a treat, too—"

"That, and the Animagus Potions..."

"...The Whispering Notepad is nothing short of amazing, and the Shopping Spree Satchel—"

"Would you two care to explain yourselves?" McGonagall snapped, beating Molly to it by a split second.

"Er, yes, sorry." Another glance was exchanged between the twins. "We helped him make a series of items, as Fred was saying, which would help Harry out of a mess or two. They were mostly Sirius' idea, really."

"There's a case mentioned here," Shacklebolt said shortly. "What about it?"

Fred began worrying his lower lip and shook his head almost ruefully.

"Can't tell you, sorry."

"What?"

"Sorry." George brought up his hands in defence. "Wizard's Oath."

"DO YOU TWO REALISE HARRY COULD BE DYING THIS VERY MOMENT? HOW STUPID CAN YOU GET THAT YOU DON'T TELL US WHAT IT IS YOU GAVE HIM?"

"Mum—"

"We can't—"

"We swore not to tell—"

"YOU TWO ARE THE MOST IRRESPONSIBLE—STUPID—" Molly rang for air, and the twins took the chance to speak as soon as it presented itself.

"But we can tell you about other things he's got," Fred said quickly, eyeing his enraged dragon of a mother warily. "We swore about the case, nothing more."

"WELL? GET ON WITH IT!"

Harry left Dudley to pig out in the kitchen, and opened a door to the far right. It led to a dining room.

"Wh- where are you going!" Dudley called at once.

"What, are you scared, Popkin?" Harry couldn't keep the annoyance from his voice this time as he turned to glare at his cousin.

"Shut your f—" Dudley started angrily, but choked on his mouthful as he saw the glinting glare levelled at him. He shrank back against his chair. "Sorry, sorry..."

Growling, Harry stepped out of the kitchen, closing the door behind him with a scowl that turned into a lopsided grin as soon as his back was turned. Some things did not change.

He looked at the dining room before him. A splendid dining room, at that, complete with two tall windows with dark crimson and gold curtains and a rather large fireplace. To his left, there was a door underneath a stone archway that led to another room so wide Harry needed a second take to identify it properly.

The living room, for that was what it looked like, was huge. Harry found it had a quite homely feel to it, despite the size, and entered it, closing his left eye to take in his surroundings a little better. It was almost half as big as the Gryffindor Common Room at Hogwarts, and had been outfitted with two fireplaces so big he could easily stand in them. There was an assortment of squashy armchairs and sofas, coffee tables and stools that could seat some twenty-odd people without being crowded, and there were a few games stacked on a tall bookshelf in one of the corners. Stepping on a wine-coloured rug, Harry took a seat in one of the armchairs.

It was comfortable, to say the least, a piece of furniture made to relax in. It simply called for taking a book and spending an afternoon reading. Harry's eye – the one he could more or less see with – wandered over the soft, dark red fabric, and from there to the remainder of the furniture, which was an assortment of equally comfortable, yet purposefully mismatched pieces, some covered in leather of varying shades, some in fabrics of dark reds and browns. The living room had, despite its elegance, a feel to it that made Harry feel at home. He could somehow picture a boisterous party taking place there, as well as a quiet game of wizard's chess, or, for some odd reason, a formal meeting; the only other place he had ever been in that had the same feeling to it was the Gryffindor Common Room, but it was not half as regal as this one.

The Weasley Twins surely knew their stuff.

To his left, he could see the kitchen door and the dining room he had just left, while a little further to the right, an arched corridor led to another area. The panelled wall section between the two fireplaces had been decorated with a large hanging tapestry that depicted a woodland landscape on which a few birds were flying. To the right of the fireplaces, there were two archways, one of which had been fitted with another set of double doors.

Amazing.

Harry's attention was caught by the tapestry, where the flock of birds was flying closer, as he caught some movement; a ferocious-looking, purple rhinoceros with three horns stomped past, followed closely by a very life-like panther that seemed to be stalking it.

The hunting scene developed before his eyes, as if he were looking at a quilted television screen; he smiled. The room had a certain air to it that made him feel as if he had lived here all his life, despite his arrival mere moments earlier. He couldn't quite put his finger on what it was that evoked this homeliness in him, but there it was. He felt calm, safe, protected—and it was only the conscious knowledge that he should not feel that way, which allowed him to realise that the feeling of being 'home' was there at all, so subtle did it come to him.

Still, berating himself about being more alert and grim did not work, the feeling of contentment taking up most of his will with it, and he allowed himself to feel at home, at ease, protected.

Because he was.

Safe.

He just knew it; whatever it was the Weasley Twins had done, it was working. Not to mention the handsome doses of healing potions he had gulped down like water earlier that were fully active. For starters, the pains and aches of his body had been reduced to a mere shadow of hurt, which did not impede his movements or thoughts at all, and his head did not feel like a balloon about to burst, either.

He was well aware of what had happened earlier at the play park, however. They had been lucky, yes, extraordinarily so. Or more specifically, he had been lucky. Again. Apparating away like that, a split second before the Killing Curse hit. Lestrange would go bonkers over that one, if she had managed to escape the Order, that was.

Harry's smile widened. He'd managed to single-handedly fight seven Death Eaters, save Dudley, and live to tell the tale. He'd also managed to heal his injuries, and he was completely hidden away from the rest of the world in this, erm, tiny tent. Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to be too bothered about being in the middle of Merlin knew where at the moment. He felt just like he had a couple of years earlier, after he'd faced the Hungarian Horntail at the Triwizard Tournament.

He could allow himself some gloating and shameless smugness, couldn't he?

He got to his feet once more and took a stroll around the tent, which turned out to be a bit of a walk. He started out from the living room and took the way to the right, taking a moment to peer into the chamber behind the doors at the far end.

He found there was a study there, and the beginning of a library – he decided to explore that part later on. Taking the arched hallway that started next to the entrance to the study, Harry saw a set of double doors to the left and a stone hall to the right, which held two sets of doors facing each other.

The hallway he was in turned out to be some sort of main corridor, which linked all the different rooms in a circle around a central chamber. There were white stone pillars on either side of the hallway, and here and there, he saw statues or the occasional suit of armour, a few tapestries which seemed to be a continuation of the one in the living room – the erumpent and the panther were still prowling around – as well as several sets of doors.

After a while of wandering, Harry had found two large chambers that shared an entrance hall bigger than his usual bedroom, a large corner room that had the highest ceiling and seemed to be filled with colourful things he didn't recognise – he was slightly put out at not being able to see much of anything, even despite his one-eyed squinting –, four smaller bedrooms, a high-ceilinged, long and dark chamber which he had been unable to take in properly, and now stood at the end of the hallway, facing a last set of doors straight ahead, and an arched corridor to his left. He peered into the room ahead, which was another sitting room or parlour that predictably led, through another set of doors, to the entrance hall he and Dudley had been in earlier.

Retracing his steps, he took the vaulted corridor, which linked the living room with the wide hallway, and stopped at the only set of doors he could see. Opening them, he entered a bathroom that could easily compete with the prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts in its grandeur.

There was a longish chamber at the entrance, which led to a bathing area to the left and a loo straight ahead, both separated from the main chamber through the now familiar type of heavy black doors. The chamber itself stretched to the right, where Harry made out what seemed like a towel rack.

"Wow," he whispered softly, "as soon as I get back to Privet Drive I'm setting this thing up and I'm never coming out again."

"My, my, aren't we looking beat up?" a loud voice called, making Harry jump and spin around, his wand drawn towards the intruder. There was an appreciative chuckle from the far end of the chamber, but all Harry could see was a round stone basin supported by a pillar in the shape of a lion's head and a single claw, probably the twins' version of a sink.

"You're getting better, mate – excellent reflexes." The voice sounded amused. Harry squinted in the direction of the sound, but there was no-one there. There was nothing there apart from the sink and towel rack— hang on. He took a few cautious steps towards the voice, his left eye shut while his right darted around every corner of the room he could see.

"Who're—" Harry began, as loudly as his constricted throat would allow, but the voice interrupted him.

"Long time no see, mate – where've you been?" it asked cheerfully. "I take it you've seen better days, but who am I to judge?"

A mirror.

It was. Just a mirror, right over the round stone basin.

Harry lowered his wand, taking a deep, steadying breath and leaning against the sink. His heart was drumming madly against his chest, and his knees felt rather weak. It was just a mirror.

Paranoia, anyone?

"Merlin's hairy wart, you look even worse from up close," the mirror commented.

Harry gave a defeated chuckle. Apparently the Weasley Twins had managed to take a hold of a more sardonic item than the snappish one in the Burrow.

Looking up once more, he couldn't but agree with the mirror; his reflection showed his left eye was very bloodshot and rather swollen, his jaw looked quite bruised, and the right side of his face was covered liberally in dried blood that came from a nasty cut right above his eyebrow... wait, no. That was his scar.

Somehow it had cracked open. Harry traced a finger along the closing wound in disbelief.

When did that happen?

"So, what happened to you? Get hit by a Bludger?" the mirror commented lightly, distracting him from his shock.

"No." Harry said shortly, not in the mood for chatting with a piece of furniture. He frowned at the sorry state of his face, his previous giddiness reluctantly giving way to a more critical state of mind. He took off his glasses, letting them fall into the basin with a clatter, and peered closer at his reflection, jumping back with a start as the outline of a round, smiling face appeared on the surface.

"Fall off your broom again, then?" the mirror asked next, in the same light tone it had been using so far.

Harry rolled his eyes. The mirror gave a little laugh and went on guessing, undeterred.

"Fall off a rooftop? Off some stairs? Fall off anything at all?"

"No." Harry rasped, nettled. He took off his large tee shirt and tossed it on the floor.

"Whoa, mate—and I thought your face looked bad," the mirror said conversationally.

"Shut it, you." Harry regarded his chest with a scowl on his face, dismissing the idea of a shower at the sight of the many half-closed cuts and bruises decorating it.

"Testy, aren't we?" The mirror sounded like it was trying hard not to laugh. "Blimey, you do look like you've been trampled by a hippogriff," it said knowledgeably. "They tend to leave such marks – what happened, forget to bow?"

"No." Harry gritted out, deciding it might be better just to have a quick wash. He turned the tap, regulated the jet of water issuing from the spout – shaped like a lion's head – and started to rinse the blood off his hands.

"Right, of course... the soap is right here, to your right," the mirror said, and a yellow arrow appeared next to its face, pointing at a bar of soap.

"Thanks." Harry reached for it and lathered up his face.

"That's what I'm here for," the mirror replied. After a moment of thought, it added, "Sirius convinced you to play Creaothceann without a helmet again, didn't he? It's happened before, after all."

Harry froze.

"Wh—what?" he breathed, aghast.

"What's wrong with your voice? Did you get hit by a screaming jinx?"

"N-no..."

"No?" the mirror said with a chuckle, oblivious to Harry's reaction "Perhaps... yes, I've got it! You two were duelling again, weren't you, James?"

The bar of soap fell to the floor as Harry clutched it convulsively, feeling his insides turn to ice.

The mirror thought he was his father.

"Cat got your tongue?" it asked next, sounding like it was holding back a laugh, no doubt at Harry's stricken face.

"I'm not James," he whispered, nonplussed, staring at the polished surface of the mirror.

There was a pause, during which the silvery outline of the face seemed to be analysing his every feature.

"Dragon's scales, you're right—I'd forgotten! Harry!" the mirror exclaimed after a moment. "Merlin, you're all grown up!"

Harry swallowed, his face dripping with soap and grime.

"Y-you knew my dad?"

"I... yes, I did. Sorry, I tend to get mixed up a little. They never thought they had to give me such a long memory, so I've become rather forgetful." The tone of the mirror was apologetic.

"Who...?" Harry started to ask, the odd constricting sensation rising up in him again, as if a hand were clutching at his chest.

"Your dad and Sirius charmed me. I was their mirror when they were at school," came the prompt reply. "Originally, I was to cover up for them whenever they snuck out at night, snoring and the like, but as time went on, they decided it would be better if I had a little more of a mind of my own, so I could make up different excuses for them. You should rinse that off, mate."

Harry gave himself a shake and continued washing, trying to make sense of what he was hearing.

"Then they left school and the new first years were scared of me, I think. So I was sent to James, and he kept me. He took me everywhere—"

"Everywhere?" Harry echoed blankly.

"Your mum and dad moved no less than thirteen times, you know."

"I didn't know that." Harry swallowed.

"Now you do." The mirror paused for a moment, during which Harry processed the new information he was hearing.

The mirror had been his father's... he felt an odd sensation creeping up in him, as he examined every inch of the silvery surface he could see. Somehow, this knowledge made a mixture of feelings rise up in him; part of him felt happy and warm, while another was rather sad. It was actually confusing.

"So, I take it you didn't get those during Quidditch practice," the mirror said shrewdly, smirking at him.

"If you must know, I had a spot of a fight with a handful of Death Eaters," Harry answered grimly, drying his face with a soft towel and peering at his reflection once more. His scar was half closed, red and raw.

"Death Eaters, you say? Don't you think that's getting a bit old?" the mirror inquired thoughtfully.

"You have no idea."

"How'd they get you?" the mirror asked next.

"Ambush." Harry said shortly. "They had my cousin."

"And there I was, thinking I'd seen it all."

"Obviously, you haven't."

"No need to get all snappish there, mate," the mirror answered. "I was just wondering..."

"Don't," Harry advised, picking up the soap and his tee shirt.

"You're not going to wear that filthy old rag again, are you?"

"It's not like I have any more clothes with me," Harry answered, nettled. As much as he wanted to bring himself to like his dad's old mirror, he found it too.. cheery.

"Try the wardrobe, why don't you, once you've cleaned up a bit."

"The wardrobe." Harry echoed blankly. He hadn't seen anything of the sort.

"Yeah, to get rid of those things you're wearing. I wouldn't go as far as calling them clothes, though – you look like a house-elf on the dole." At this point, a bright red arrow appeared, pointing at a pair of doors Harry had missed completely. "Right there, to your left," the mirror went on, "you can dump the lot in the blue basket – it'll clean them right up, although I'd recommend just binning them." Ignoring the surprised look on Harry's face, it carried on. "Of course, you should shower first – and rub a bit of... this on those cuts."

It swung forward, revealing a cabinet of sorts, which contained a vast inventory of grooming items, and a large jar of Gunmore's Gash Gelatin in pride of place.

"See how helpful I can be?"

"Yeah..." Harry took the jar of Gunmore's Gash Gelatin and made his way to the wardrobe, completely bewildered.

Inside, there were a few freshly-laundered outfits, underwear and socks. Harry decided that maybe he did want to take that shower after all.

When I get back to the Dursleys', I'm definitely setting this tent up and never coming out again, Harry decided moments later as he stepped under the self-adjusting spray of the shower and allowed a magical sponge to gently clean him up. Most definitely. A slow smile spread across his face.

He would remain indebted to the twins for the rest of his natural life, which would be much happier if he did not have to worry about leaving the tent ever again.

The shower was over too soon for his liking, and he towelled off carefully, covering what felt like his entire upper body with the cool jelly, which gave off a faint scent of raspberries. He felt a tingling sensation for a few moments, and when he looked down on himself, he noticed the cuts were mended, and only a few bruises remained. He raised an eyebrow.

"Wicked," Harry murmured, reaching for the pile of clothes he'd taken from the wardrobe. He had chosen a set of black cargo trousers and a dark grey jumper, which looked too big for him, but would have to do. As he tried them on for size, however, the clothes shrank until they fit him comfortably.

"Wow," he breathed, a disbelieving smile on his face.

"There are shoes in there as well, you know," the mirror said, as Harry was about to stick his foot in one of Dudley's old trainers.

"Er—right," Harry muttered, earning himself an amused chuckle from the mirror. He returned to the wardrobe, and picked himself a pair of tall black dragonhide boots that looked both comfortable and like they'd fit him.

"Much better, I think," the mirror said appreciatively as Harry adjusted the bootstraps and threw on the black robes that completed his outfit, to examine his reflection in it. Harry couldn't help but agree. He felt much more refreshed and alert now, and his mood had lifted considerably.

Still...

He regarded himself thoughtfully in the mirror. His hair had grown since he last had given himself a good look, and, perhaps it was a trick of the light, but his eyes seemed shadowed, sunken, bloodshot as they were. A twinge of guilt made his insides clench.

"I look like..." he trailed off, his whisper dying before the name was uttered.

"Like you should," the mirror said in a final tone of voice. "You only need your glasses," it added as an afterthought, and swung open to reveal the cabinet once more. In the very spot the jar of healing ointment had been, lay a pair of spectacles, wire-rimmed as his previous pair, but much better fitting.

Harry took them and placed them gratefully on his nose, blinking a few times as the lenses adjusted themselves to his needs.

"How'd you do that?" he asked, now grinning outright.

"Sirius usually forgets something or other whenever he's about to take a shower," the mirror replied, "so he charmed the cabinet to summon whatever it is he needs. Saves a lot of time. Speaking of the devil, I haven't seen him for ages, how's he doing?"

Harry's grin faded, the words of the mirror sinking in.

It wasn't the Twins who had made the tent.

So this was what Sirius had had in mind when he said he'd found a way to avoid detection. Harry swallowed again, his mouth suddenly dry.

"Is he here?" the mirror asked once more, clearly excited about the prospect of talking with its maker. Harry slowly shook his head, feeling like he'd just been slapped in the face. For a moment, he just stared at the mirror, unable to find the words he needed to say.

"Sirius..." Harry whispered, choking on the words as the invisible hand squeezing his chest took hold of his heart. "Sirius won't be coming," he said in a small voice, looking away from the silvery face. It was hard to tell anyone of Sirius' death, even an inanimate object with a mind of its own.

The mirror fell silent.

"So it happened." It said softly. "It happened at last."

Harry nodded, blinking back a tear. He swallowed again, guilt and remorse writhing and twisting his burning stomach into knots.

"That... that changes things a bit," the mirror went on after a moment, its voice deepening a little, becoming more gruff. "I take it you are hiding, then?"

"Sorry?" Harry looked up, and saw the face of the mirror had two silvery streaks on it.

He had never seen a mirror cry.

"Sirius told me it would happen at some point," the mirror said quietly. "He said... you would come when you were in trouble and I was to help you if you came without him."

"He knew he was going to die?" Harry blurted out before he could help himself.

"Don't be so naïve," the mirror said, in the same quiet tone. "James... Sirius, Remus, Lily... they all grew up fighting in a war. They were well aware that... this could happen at any given moment. They knew it would, sooner or later." It regarded Harry gravely for a long moment. "They simply prepared for it as best as they could."

"It's not working, Minerva." Lupin's voice was quiet as he reached out to stay the hand of the Transfiguration Teacher, as she was about to cast the same spell for the third time on the last remaining shard of glass from Harry's spectacles. All other pieces had been obliterated by the many spells cast on them, and they needed that one piece, should they manage to find a spell that promised better results.

"I know that." McGonagall snapped angrily. At once, she gave Lupin an apologetic look, sighing in something akin to despair, but lowering her wand nonetheless.

"What now? That was the most powerful Tracking Charm we know." Molly Weasley's voice was trembling, and she looked close to tears at the uselessness of their efforts so far.

"So, wherever Harry is, he can't be detected by magic," Arabella Figg said redundantly. She had come to help the Order keep the Dursleys calm, and had successfully managed to slip them both some potion that put an end to the gibbering that had issued from Vernon's mouth for the past half hour.

"Do you think You-Know-Who can sense him?" McGonagall asked abruptly.

"Beats me." Lupin ran a hand through his hair, his nose nearly level with the map of Britain they were using to pinpoint the possible locations Harry could have apparated to.

"Well, we have searched in London, Surrey, Hogsmeade and St. Mungo's. Where else could we look?" Arthur Weasley asked tiredly. He and Moody had spent the last hour apparating from one likely place to another, with results only comparable to McGonagall's failed attempts to track Harry down.

After the Weasley Twins had given their report, everything had become a flurry of activity. They had made a list of the magical things Harry had been given, bar the contents of the case. For the most part, the items were pranking material, and the twins had voiced their doubts as to how exactly some of them worked. They had been certain, however, that there was no portkey amongst the things Harry now carried, and, since Snape had insisted the Death Eaters did not know where Harry was either, the spontaneous apparition theory had become their last resort.

"Bill and the twins are still near the Burrow, aren't they?" Molly asked.

"Yes, and Kingsley and Tonks are in Diagon Alley."

"Maybe he's over at the 'Nest," Dung muttered, but Lupin shook his head.

"He can only have apparated to places he knows, remember that."

"Then add Knockturn Alley to the list. Harry got there once by mistake." Arthur rested his head wearily on the back of a chair. His head was throbbing, but he could not rest. Not when Harry could be found by the Death Eaters first.

"What if someone found him and took him to the 'Nest?" Dung insisted, referring to the underground pub where magical crooks usually assembled.

"You go there, then, and find out. Go to Knockturn Alley first, though."

"Hagrid is searching the Forbidden Forest as we speak." Dumbledore had returned from a comprehensive search of the area surrounding Hogwarts, as empty-handed as the rest of them, even as Dung hurried out the door, his muggle overcoat dragging on the floor.

"Try Platform Nine-and-Three-Quarters next, and... Maybe the Shrieking Shack? There are no anti-apparition wards around it," Lupin told Arthur, who nodded and followed Dung outside. Moody had not even bothered to enter the house.

"Any luck, Remus?" Dumbledore asked in a low voice. Lupin shook his head.

"We need another map. This one is rather scorched already."

"Where've you been?" Dudley asked upon seeing Harry step into the kitchen through the entrance hall door. He hadn't moved from his seat since Harry had left, probably too frightened to leave. Or too busy stuffing his face, if the assortment of empty plates was any indication.

"Took a shower," Harry rasped heavily, slumping down on one of the dark leather armchairs and burying his head in his hands.

"A shower?" Dudley echoed incredulously. "You people do like to camp out in style, don't you?"

"I s'pose..." Harry's sole camping experience had taken place two years earlier, during the Quidditch World Cup, and he had witnessed some of the most bizarre camping trends there.

"Oy, where did you get that freaky coat?" Dudley asked, having finally deigned himself to look at his skinny cousin properly. Harry was barely recognisable. Dressed entirely in black, with an outfit that would not have gone amiss amongst the members of a SWAT team, and wearing angular glasses instead of the geeky round ones his mum had chosen, the only thing that gave his identity away was the stark red scar jutting out above his right eyebrow.

"It's not a coat. These are robes." Harry muttered flatly, his voice every bit as raspy as before.

"Looks girly." Dudley commented, scooping up a bit of leftover gravy from the dish that once had contained a shepherd's pie and sticking it in his mouth with relish.

Harry didn't answer, his attention focused on the window, or more specifically, what lay beyond it.

He looked down at his hands. His chat with the mirror – by the name of Tingly, of all things – had reminded him of his present, less than enviable situation. Apparently the tent was Untrackable as well as Unplottable, or so Sirius had claimed it to be. They were safe, Tingly said, as long as the Disillusionment, Imperturbable, Iron Roof, Approach Alarm and Bludger Hail spells had been activated, which would render the tent virtually non-existent, or so Sirius had said.

Harry had then hurried out of the bathroom to press the remaining buttons on the trunk's lid, his insides churning with something worse than guilt and stronger than grief, a feeling that dispelled every last sliver of the wholesomeness of safety he'd been revelling in mere moments earlier.

The knowledge that the tent was made by Sirius so as to be able to spend a while with him, tucked away from prying eyes, brought the helpless, frustrated feelings of remorse back home stronger than he had ever thought possible. He forced his thoughts away from the tender subject.

There was no time to wallow.

He needed to get them both back to Surrey, and soon.

He decided it would be best to travel at night, on his Firebolt, using the cover of clouds and hopefully arrive at Privet Drive by daybreak, before the Death Eaters found them.

Well, he needed to find out where he had to get back from first, and then find a way to avoid being seen until they were back at the Dursleys'.

"You lot do eat well," Dudley said, patting his bloated belly with one of his bear-like hands and giving a hearty belch, his piggy face flushed, out of the exertion involved out of eating the whole pie, no doubt.

"What time is it?" Harry said by way of a reply. If he wanted to use the shelter of the night, they would have to leave as soon as possible.

"Half past ten," Dudley answered with a yawn.

"I think we ought to try and return to Surrey," Harry rasped, more to himself than to his cousin.

"Aren't your freaky friends coming to get us?" Dudley said aloud, making Harry look up at him, unsure if he had heard properly. At Harry's blank look, Dudley rolled his eyes.

"I said, aren't your weirdo friends—"

"I heard you the first time." Harry regarded his cousin for a moment. It was odd to hear Dudley talk about magical folk so... naturally. Then he remembered. The Calming Draught must have worked.

"Well, are they?"

"I don't know, Dud." Harry's tone was dark. "I think we should try and get back on our own."

"What, now?"

"When would you like to leave, then?" Harry snapped, suddenly angry, rapping his fingers on the table as he turned his back on Dudley and stepped towards the kitchen window. "The Death Eaters might be looking for us as we speak. Would you like to stay put until they find us?"

"The... Death...?" Dudley echoed blankly.

"Eaters. Death Eaters," Harry said impatiently, glaring at the cluster of rocks outside, barely visible in the thick fog that now covered the landscape around them. "The ones who attacked you in the play park, remember?"

"Th-they... eat death?" Something about Dudley's clueless tone made Harry's lips curl into a grim, cheerless smile. He rolled his eyes.

"Would you like to find out?" he asked, surprised at the sudden lightness of his tone.

"But—"

"But what, Dudley?"

"It's just... I don't feel so well..."

"Well you did just eat a pie meant for four, you moron." Harry turned to glare at Dudley. He didn't like what he saw at all.

Dudley's face was flushed still, and sweaty. His fat arms wobbled as he trembled slightly, and his eyes looked rather more watery than usual.

A bloody fever. Just what I need.

A soft touch to Dudley's cheek provided the necessary confirmation. It was usual for a fever to follow a fracture, as Harry had experienced firsthand, but now, when he had a plan half-formed in his mind and was anxious to get underway, it was most unwelcome.

"Was it s-some of your m-m-magic stuff?" Dudley asked in a small, frightened voice, looking at Harry almost beseechingly.

"No... I guess it was everything else that happened," Harry replied quietly, forgetting his anger for a moment and throwing his head back to stare at the vaulted grey ceiling of the kitchen. When he spoke, it was in a tone of forced calm. "There's nothing for it, Dud—we'll have to stay here until it's over. You can't possibly travel like this." He waved his wand at his cousin, who didn't even flinch. "Mobilicorpus."

"This is just—bollocks." Harry's voice was tight with anger. At his rotten luck, at Dudley's fever, at the world in general.

After administering Dudley a double dose of Fever-Away, he had dumped him in one of the bedrooms and watched him sleep deeply while he proceeded to curse every single deity he had ever heard of.

Not that it helped his situation any, but at least he was able to vent some of his frustration at the current state of affairs.

He had retreated to the living room, lit a fire, and upended his Emergency Escape Kit, with the intention to rearrange its contents. As the avalanche of things tumbled out of the dragonhide case, he saw the old Sneakoscope Ron had given him before his third year. Placing it carefully on the coffee table, Harry set to organise his things and his thoughts.

It was nearly midnight when he finished, and his eyes were beginning to itch with tiredness. So far, there had been no indication of movement outside the tent, and the only sound to be heard was Dudley's occasional snore. The silence weighed heavily on him, as if he had been covered with a heavy quilt and left to slowly suffocate.

"Holding up, are you?" a voice said from somewhere overhead. In a flash, Harry's wand was in his hand, pointed at the source of the noise, a hex ready on his lips.

"Stupef—" Harry said, cutting himself off as he saw a silvery outline on a highly polished helmet, which had been placed on a tall shelf.

"Whoa, whoa... easy on the mirror," the shrewd voice of Tingly, the mirror, resounded once more.

"You shouldn't sneak up on people like that," Harry muttered, lowering his wand.

"And you shouldn't be so jumpy," Tingly replied easily. "The protection charms are all up, and the Approach Alarm hasn't gone off."

"Right." Harry replied, pocketing his EEK and slumping back on his armchair with a heavy sigh. Try as he might, this logic refused to sink in. "How come you can move around?" he asked after a while.

"Sirius charmed me to," was the simple answer. "I am the watcher, you see."

Harry glanced at the beaming face on the helmet, fairly certain that, if he could, Tingly would have been drawing his silvery self up in pride.

"The watcher?" Harry asked, more out of having a source of distraction than anything else.

"Your watcher," Tingly replied smugly. "Lily gave me the task when you were born, and charmed me to keep an eye on you."

"You were my babysitter." Harry couldn't hold back a little disbelieving laugh.

"Watcher. There's a world of difference," Tingly said shortly. "I still am your watcher. Sirius set me to it when he made this place."

"Sounds a lot like babysitting to me."

"Well, it's not," Tingly huffed.

"I see."

"You do not, but it's not my fault."

"You still haven't told me how come you can move around," Harry reminded him.

"Sirius did that as well. He said it was too quiet in here, and sometimes he fancied a chat without having to go to the loo," Tingly said with a chuckle. "Besides, a watcher cannot be confined to the bathroom—couldn't do my duty otherwise."

Harry fell silent and stared into the fire, feeling a lump rise in his throat again.

"Care to get a tour of your new... er, haunts?"

"Yeah, why not." Harry abruptly got to his feet and followed the silvery arrows Tingly left for him, casting a last glance out the window and seeing nothing but thick fog. He'd have to sit it out here until dawn, so he figured it wouldn't hurt to explore the tent more thoroughly.

Now he could see properly once more, his eyes picked up a series of details he had completely missed before. For example, the carvings on the doors showed a dog, a wolf, a stag and a fleur-de-lis surrounding a lightning bolt. Moony, Padfoot, Prongs, and Lily. And they moved. Harry could not help gazing at the playful antics of the carved Padfoot, who followed him along the panelled walls, wagging his tail and trying to jump at him.

Not that all doors were the same; Tingly led him to a library and study, which had a small depiction of the Monster Book of Monsters on the double doors, which snapped at the handle, and a corner room that turned out to be the games room – Harry could now see all the colourful trinkets stacked there were, in fact, board games, a pool table, and a rack full of Quidditch things – had a door with what seemed like a Quidditch match going on.

Tingly led him through every room, chatting merrily about what the different chambers contained and their uses. Apart from the library, play room and guest bedrooms Harry had seen, there was a long, high-ceilinged duelling chamber with a stairway into a basement room, which seemed to be used for both potion-making and as a storage room of sorts, a series of hidden passages – "To save time in an emergency," Tingly commented lightly –, as well as two main bed chambers which shared an entrance parlour, in which very life-like statues of a griffin and, rather unsurprisingly, a hippogriff, were moving about, ruffling their feathers.

"You don't need to bow," Tingly said, chuckling as Harry was about to do so. "Your rooms are to the left, Harry."

His rooms, all four of them, were the most comfortable-looking chambers he had ever set foot in, hands down. In fact, the whole tent was unlike anything he remembered ever seeing, and yet he couldn't shake off a certain sense of familiarity.

It wasn't the elegance of the furniture, or even the gothic archways and stone statues that made it feel familiar, yet he felt like he had been there before. Even the air smelled familiar. It seemed to impregnated with a faint, elusive scent he could not place, hovering at the edge of his conscious thoughts, and yet so much a part of the environment that, should any other smell be present, it would feel... wrong.

As Tingly ended the tour of the tent, Harry wore an expression that betrayed his mixed feelings. He knew he ought to feel glad for the present Sirius had taken so many pains to make, yet every single inch of the tent reminded him that he would never be able to share a moment with his godfather again. The lump now seemed to have lodged itself forever in his throat.

"Thus ends the tour, mate," Tingly said from a mirror in the corner as Harry sat on his soft four-poster bed. "You really ought to get some sleep."

"Yeah... cheers, Tingly," Harry said without much conviction.

"And you should do something to fix that voice of yours."

"Uh-huh."

The silver face disappeared, leaving Harry to his own devices.

Albus Dumbledore heaved a sigh, taking off his half-moon spectacles and casting a cleaning charm on them before replacing them on his crooked nose.

The witches and wizards gathered around him in the Dursley living room were exhausted, and so was he. The clock on the mantelpiece indicated the beginning of the ungodly hours of the morning, and still they did not have the slightest idea as to where to start looking, now that the obvious possibilities had been tackled and all members that had formed the search parties had either sent word of their fruitless results or returned.

Severus Snape had left some time earlier, to help the Death Eaters with a "situation", but he had sent a message that it had "nothing to do with Potter", which offered only minimal reassurance. While they were debating as to what Harry's current whereabouts were, Voldemort and his followers were actively pursuing their goals.

For the headmaster, the priorities were clear. Harry Potter was their only hope to defeat the dark, and everything else had to wait. It had to, even if he knew it would not wait; the world would not stop at their request, but there was little else they could do—if lives were lost tonight, tomorrow... it would be a sacrifice he was willing to make. He would let it happen, he was letting it happen now, so that Harry was found and brought back.

Trouble was, the earth could have swallowed him for all they knew. Nowhere had they found so much as a trace of the boy or his cousin, and, although Hedwig was nowhere to be found and they only assumed she had followed him, Harry had not sent a message.

Dumbledore thought of sending him an owl, perhaps...

Why not?

"If Hedwig has followed Harry, then maybe Fawkes can help," Dumbledore said abruptly.

Lupin raised his head, fully alert. He had been resting it in his arms, and the headmaster thought he had fallen asleep.

"Of course," Lupin whispered, his eyes alight with new hope. Why hadn't they thought of it before? "So simple..."

Moments later, in a flash of fire that did not even elicit a start from the equally exhausted Dursleys, Fawkes disappeared from Privet Drive.

"What now?" Fred asked, slumping next to Lupin on a sofa, handing him a cup of hot tea.

"We wait." Lupin said quietly, taking a sip and looking out the window, where the first signs of dawn could be seen.

"Do you think Fawkes will find him?" Fred asked.

"If anyone can find Harry, it's a phoenix," Lupin said with calm certainty. "They're powerfully magical animals, and their magic works differently from ours." He regarded George, who was just entering the room, thoughtfully for a few moments. "So, a Wizard's Oath, eh?"

"Yeah. He wouldn't let us in the secret otherwise." George's tone was apologetic.

"Sorry." Fred looked down at his knees.

"Don't be," Lupin waved a hand dismissively. "Sirius must have had his reasons. Besides... I wouldn't wish the Curse of the Eunuch on my worst enemy." He smiled mildly.

"How'd you—hang on, how'd you know?" Fred stared, wide-eyed, at his former professor, receiving a knowing smile in return.

"It's all part of the Marauder's Oath, boys."

"We thought it was... some sort of joke..." George said, all colour draining from his face.

"Knowing Sirius, I doubt it." Lupin's tone was so certain it was scary.

"Yeah..." Fred said after a moment. Sirius had been adamant on not revealing the contents of the Emergency Escape Kit to anyone, out of fear a spy could make use of this information. Betrayal, he had told the twins, was something that you let happen once.

"I still wonder how he came up with that." George wondered aloud.

"Oh, it wasn't him." Lupin said pleasantly. "The Marauder's Oath – and the standard punishment for traitors – were James' idea."

"Really?"

"Oh, yes. It was a favourite pastime of theirs, thinking out bizarre, complicated spells like that. The Curse of the Eunuch was one of their preferred threats."

"But... does it... you know, actually work?"

"Tell me what was in the case and find out." Came the pleasant reply.

"No way!" the twins chorused, scandalised.

"I thought so. What was the exact wording Sirius used?"

"Erm... something of... well, our... bits... falling off and turning into dust so fine that it would seem they'd dissolved into thin air..." Fred mumbled, turning bright red in the face.

Lupin actually gave a hearty laugh at this.

"Oh, he got good," he chuckled. "Don't worry, I shall not press you to test if the curse works. I wouldn't risk it myself."

"Did you also take the Marauder's Oath?"

"More times than I can remember. Didn't you ever wonder why it was that I never told anyone about Sirius' Animagus form in your fifth year?"

"Oh."

"Yeah," Lupin's smile widened. "The Marauder's Oath can only be broken if the one involved in the secret chooses to spill the beans to protect another under the oath, and in the case of their Animagus forms, both James and Sirius took extra care." He paused, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Somewhere out there, a certain rat will have great trouble having children..."

"But doesn't that mean that... you know... Sirius... He told Dumbledore about Pettigrew's..."

"What if Sirius told Dumbledore?" Lupin's eyes were glinting, and a wide grin spread across his face. "You don't think he and James were so thick as to subject themselves to such a potentially harmful punishment, do you?"

He couldn't sleep, although his eyes were itching with tiredness. Unable as he was to so much as sit still in his regal bedroom, Harry doused the fire he had lit and made his way back to the living room.

His watch informed him, quite unhelpfully, that it was past three in the morning.

Harry gave himself yet another shake and punched the armrest of his armchair in exasperation. Something felt wrong, like there was something he needed to do but had forgotten about it. Chalking it up to his overall uneasiness did not help at all.

Get a grip on yourself, Potter, he chided himself. You're safe as can be, stop fretting!

If Sirius was able to endure twelve years in Azkaban, surrounded by Dementors, he could surely last for twenty-four hours in the middle of nowhere, couldn't he?

Couldn't he?

Abruptly, he got to his feet, in an attempt to shake off the uneasiness and expectation that had taken a hold on him. Keeping his eyes and ears peeled for any sort of indication from the Approach Alarm and the Sneakoscope, he paced up and down the room, trying to calm down.

Surprisingly enough, it worked.

There was that elusive smell in the air, which wafted every now and then to his nose, bringing thoughts of laughter and wellness to his mind... almost making him remember... something. While he stood in the living room, trying to remember when he had felt so content, he noticed he didn't feel anxious anymore.

This realisation, in turn, took the almost-there memory clean out of his mind. His jaw set, and he made his way to the kitchen, resolving to have a Butterbeer, at least.

He was positively exhausted, the Alertness Ale having worn off some time earlier. He took a long swig from his butterbeer, ignoring the remains of Dudley's prolonged dinner – the plates and a pitcher of water littered the table still – and gazing at the whitish fog swirling outside. Ever so slowly, his eyes drooped, and he let them.

Then he realised what was bothering him.

My scar.

Harry sat bolt upright again, all sense of weariness forgotten. His scar.

It was not hurting.

It wasn't even prickling.

This realisation sent alarm bells off in his head.

Fear! Fire! Foes!

The one constant in his life since the previous summer, Harry had grown accustomed to ignoring the pain in his scar, and the flashes of Voldemort's moods that came with it. What did this mean?

At some point, during the mad duel with the Death Eaters, his scar had burst open, but it had not bothered him any more than a regular cut would.

Shouldn't his scar be throbbing in anticipation for the results of the Death Eaters' latest raid? Shouldn't it be stinging with Voldemort's fury at their failure to kill, maim, or otherwise incapacitate him?

Instead, there was nothing except a little twinge here and there whenever he touched it. Nothing.

It should be hurting, Harry's confused inner voice said. The rotten bastard should be furious because you gave him the slip, and he should be casting Unforgivables left and right in a rage.

This was completely unnerving.

Harry was hopeless at Occlumency, otherwise he might have thought he was blocking Voldemort out successfully for the first time in his life. No; something else must have happened, but what?

Wild thoughts succeeded themselves in his head, tumbling haphazardly in his mind as he felt his heart race in his throat.

Voldemort slipped in the bathtub and broke his neck; he died of a lethal stroke, he couldn't have had a heart attack, seeing as he didn't have a heart, did he? Maybe the rotten bastard was asleep, impossible as this notion came to Harry, or maybe he... maybe he had apparated Harry here to finish him off himself?

Fear! Foes! Fire! His mind continued to scream, running in circles in a panicked frenzy.

He would have done it by now.

His wildly screaming mind's voice skidded to a halt.

They had been here for half the night; there was no chance Voldemort was near. If there was something Voldemort had learned, it was that Harry had to die before he could make one of his escapes, and he would likely not sit calmly outside for hours, waiting for Harry to decide to come out.

There simply had to be another explanation for this.

But what?

Harry could not tell. Wide awake once more, he leapt to his feet and resumed his pacing, his wand drawn in a white-knuckled hold.

There was a flash of golden light, high in the overcast sky somewhere in the northernmost part of Scotland. The Phoenix flew in wide circles over a mountainous countryside bordered by thick woodlands, gracefully flying ever lower, its eyes searching as it announced its coming with its carrying song, eerie in the greying twilight preceding sunrise.

There was no answer to its call, no indication of human presence as far as it could see.

Undeterred, the phoenix swooped lower, its sharp eyes picking up a shape that did not belong to the wild landscape.

It circled the tiny fragment of bone for a moment, before diving sharply and retrieving it, taking it cautiously in its beak, as if it were made of crystal.

The sun was beginning to rise, bathing the world in blood red hues that made it look like it was on fire, when Fawkes gave a last cry and made his defeated way back to his master, in a flash of red flame.

TBC