A million and one thanks to Snooowy, Delicious darkness, Phoenixx Rising, alc219, Ciara, Scarlett Woman, Tortus, Blue Luver5000, Azniro-Yes Me, SernaJ, The Other World, Abel Sephaos, jayfeather63, Cauchy and all guests. You guys are amazing :3 This chapter is written for you, hope you enjoy it!

In response to a few questions/concerns:

About never finishing this story because Harry is so young: well - just because the canon series started when Harry was 11 until he was 17 doesn't mean I'm going to do the same, neither does it mean I'll be taking my readers through every year as well. While it's still too early to say, I do fully intend to finish this story. :)

Oh and about Snape's involvement in the story... so far my plans for him indicates that he certainly won't be a minor character, though how major will depend on my inspiration and your feedback.

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing at all.

Chapter 14:

A few days later found an aged wizard with wispy white hair occupying the very same spot Tom and Harry had vacated the night before: in the quiet pub lying on the outskirts of Diagon Alley. His companion was a dark-haired wizard with a rather hooked nose, and with an unpleasant scowl to match. It was quite understandably, also the latter who shot a meaningful glare at the bartender, who had recognized his customers instantly and was trying to listen in to their conversation.

"Muffliato," Snape muttered under his breath, his wand discreetly pointed in the direction of the counter, before turning his attention back to the elder wizard who sat watching him. "Honestly Dumbledore, could you think of no better place to hold an important conversation in private?"

Dumbledore remained wholly unperturbed. "Merry New Year's Eve to you too, Severus," he responded calmly. When Snape continued to look infuriated, the Headmaster relented and put down his drink. "In response to your question: there's only one other man in this building besides us both, which you've just taken care of. I do think our conversation will remain between our ears only. And besides, they do serve a decent drink."

He paused, gauging Snape's reaction, who still didn't look convinced.

"Well, I'm afraid we'll have to trust the cat," Dumbledore added, and he tilted his head in the direction of an orange tabby cat sitting on a table not far from theirs, his blue eyes twinkling. It mewled at him meticulously.

Snape resisted the urge to roll his eyes. "Has he reported back yet?" he asked instead, jumping straight to the point.

The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes faded quickly. "Things with the Ministry have been rocky as of late, Severus," he said, sounding weary. "Fudge refuses to acknowledge my warnings that the Dark Lord is rising back to power. He thinks the Death-Eaters cast the Dark Mark themselves at the attack on that Muggle village. He won't even take my request for a cross-country Portkey seriously."

"So Mundungus hasn't even gone?" Snape interrupted disbelievingly.

"To be fair he only agreed to undertake the mission last week, but the Ministry denied his previous applications. Mundungus isn't exactly eager for the job either."

Snape rubbed the bridge of his nose furiously. "Dumbledore, you do realize if my warnings prove true, it would be too late by now to try to locate Potter."

"I do appreciate your concerns Severus, but I doubt the Dark Lord would know where to look for him at all. And besides, Mundungus has been checking up on the boy once in a while," Dumbledore began in a placating tone. "Last I heard Harry and the Dursleys appear to have settled into Germany pretty well. It's been many years after all."

Snape snorted. "And you trust that lying sneak thief?"

"I have no reason not to," Dumbledore answered. He gazed across at Snape steadily. "Though it does intrigue me, Severus, what triggered your sudden compulsion to check up on the boy? You certainly hadn't given us the impression you cared for the past decade."

Snape snapped his mouth shut. To say that he'd put forwards that suggestion on the basis of him meeting a strange green-eyed boy with magic during the raid on that Muggle village would be unacceptable. Rationally coincidence would be all it was, and yet… the word 'instinct' hovered at the tip of his tongue. But at the sight of Dumbledore looking back at him with that penetrating gaze of his, Snape immediately scrapped the notion.

"It also does intrigue me how you came to allow the so-called 'saviour' of Britain's wizarding world to be raised in a country not his own," he sneered, deflecting the question effortlessly.

"We've had this discussion before – Harry needs the protection of the blood wards more than anything else," Dumbledore returned. It was evident he'd picked up on Snape's evasion of the question, but he let it drop for the time being. "We'll send him an offer letter come his eleventh birthday. If he agrees to attend Hogwarts, he can always return to the Dursleys' over the holidays; I'm sure the Ministry can arrange an international Portkey if we put forth our applications early."

Snape privately thought it'd be easier to apply for the Portkey under the vacation department, rather than for 'security/emergency' reasons. While the Order had been combining its resistance efforts with the Ministry ever since almost a decade ago, lately it seemed as though Fudge was tightening any leash he could over the Order just so he could regain some form of leadership. More than that, the Ministry always kicked up a huge fuss whenever an issue which required withdrawing from their funds cropped up. Snape wouldn't be surprised if Mundungus only managed to get his permit by next year.

Outwardly though, Snape only lifted a sardonic eyebrow.

"Special treatment for the golden boy… why am I not surprised?"

Dumbledore sighed. "You know as well as I do that the boy is the only reason why the wizarding world still stands a fighting chance," the elder wizard said wearily. "Before the prophecy came along and was publicized so much, hardly anyone thought it was worth it to take a stand against the Dark Lord. He was already too powerful… and while many looked to me, to put it mildly - most remained reluctant to follow my leadership ever since my truce with Grindelwald." Dumbledore looked at him solemnly. "What the wizarding world needs, and relies on, Severus, is hope. Harry's return to Britain will boost the public morale. Even if he is merely a boy, the public will put their faith in him. And with that belief, our resistance can remain strong."

Snape's lip curled at the mention of the dreaded prophecy.

It couldn't have come at a worse time: with Rita Skeeter lurking outside the doors in hope of catching Dumbledore and pressing him for an interview about the second rising Dark Lord, the reporter had overheard every word between the school Headmaster and Trelawney. It was the juiciest news Skeeter had heard in a while – and when Dumbledore had reacted so strongly to it, Skeeter immediately knew that this piece of news was a gem.

Within the next day the prophecy was printed out in full and widely publicized: and as the wizarding world often swallowed up Skeeter's stories as the truth, for better or for worse: very soon a seed of hope was planted within the wizarding world. Shortly after Dumbledore had gathered enough forces to form the Order of Phoenix. But it also meant that the Chosen One was now painted as a threat against Voldemort, not only because of the prophecy: but because the whole wizarding world believed in him.

Skeeter had been the first one who'd 'suggested' the identities of the Chosen One: Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter. But when rumours of Longbottom's child being born a Squib started to spread, Skeeter quickly ditched the notion and focused solely on the Potter's heir. Snape had no idea how she managed it, but soon the whole wizarding world was starting to believe in her speculations. Dumbledore said it was perhaps due to the fact that they were desperate to find something to believe in and hold onto. But because of her actions the Potters were quickly put in danger, and when Snape suspected of the Dark Lord's plans – he'd run straight to the Order and begged Dumbledore to keep Lily safe.

Of course, all of it had been for naught. Lily ultimately died protecting her son, and the Chosen One was forced under the roof of Lily's sister.

The Dursleys moved abroad not long after, wanting to leave Dumbledore and the Order as far behind in their lives as possible. Mundungus was sent on their trail, and quickly discovered that the family had left for Germany. They'd been living there ever since.

Snape however was far from convinced. Mundungus rarely ever took his job seriously, and he wouldn't be surprised if the man had never even been to Germany in the first place. His reports were flimsy and uninformative to say the least, though Dumbledore seemed to be placated. So far there seemed to be no cause for alarm, but ever since that day at the raid, Snape had been feeling very uneasy.

If no one was going to take things seriously, he was going to take things into his own hands. He would not fail Lily's last request of him for anything.

"If it means putting my trust in a con-man who lies for a living, forgive me if I do not share that belief," Snape retorted waspishly. He stood up and drained his drink, before meeting Dumbledore's gaze head-on for one last parting message. "I'm freeing myself of all duties for a week. Therefore I will also remain uncontactable until I have returned."

Dumbledore looked surprised, but he didn't try to stop him. "You are undertaking the mission yourself?"

Snape lifted an eyebrow at the implication.

"Oh no I'm not. As far as the Ministry is concerned, I'm taking a cross-country vacation to Europe."

After all, the Ministry rarely refused anyone when money was involved.

…

A moment later, Snape had stepped out into the heart of the frigid winter. Despite his cloak and robes, the wind bit into his skin deeply. He raised his wand and casted a non-verbal Warming Charm over himself, but while he was sure he'd managed it – no glow lit up his wand-tip, and the cold remained as unbearable as ever. It was as if nothing had happened at all.

A slight tingle ran up his spine. He frowned to himself and cast the Warming Charm again, verbally. This time, a pulsing yellow light lit up his wand-tip, and a rush of warmth spread through his body from his wand.

He stopped. Any other ordinary wizard might have missed it, but Snape had been working as a spy for almost a decade. He was certain that he'd heard a rustle somewhere behind him. It was almost as soft as the frantic scurrying of an animal.

"Who's there?" Snape called sharply, his wandlight glowing brighter as he tried to peer into the gloom.

No one replied.

His eyes fell to study the snow-covered ground. It looked choppy, as if someone had dragged a rake through it and given up halfway – but there was no evidence of footprints.

"Homenum revelio" Snape muttered. He wasn't taking any chances.

But try as he might, the spell only revealed two other beings in his vicinity – and both led back to the pub. Dumbledore and the bartender. None of them led him through the small space between the next shop and the pub to the backdoor, where Snape could catch a glimpse of a high-fence which ran down the length of the street, separating the higher ground and the latter. A high, steep slope of snow ran upwards on the other side of the fence; there was no way anyone could manage to climb it without leaving a mark in that short span of time.

He spared the lump of snow which balanced precariously on the other side one last glance before stalking away abruptly, his black cloak billowing behind him. He had a mission to complete.

…

-X-

Crouching in the long evening shadows and barely breathing, Harry finally allowed himself to heave a sigh of relief.

It had been pure bad luck that he'd chosen to cast the Forsildan rune the moment the paranoid dark-haired wizard had chosen to leave the pub. He'd barely managed to tighten the circle back towards himself just in time. Thankfully the man had only decided to probe about using magic, which meant the Forsildan rune would easily hide Harry's presence. It probably wouldn't have boded well if the wizard had chosen to follow him. Even after a fortnight's worth of practice, Harry's Disillusionment Charm was still shaky at best.

He approached the tall fence, and with some effort managed to get a good grip on the ledge by burrowing his fingers into the hardened snow. A few clumps of snow were dislodged by the movement and fell directly on top of his face, including his glasses. Time to move fast, or he would soon be buried a foot under.

With a terrifying leap, he pushed off the fence and propelled himself into the air. He flipped once before landing on the other side of the fence, before the snow slide caused him to slip backwards until he was pressed against the fence. Gritting his teeth against the cold, Harry wrenched up one of his legs out of the sinking pool of slush and used his momentum to scramble quickly and lightly up and over the snowdrift. When he reached the top, he looked back and waved the wand he'd kept in his boot, and a wave of white dust rose to cover his prints.

Satisfied, Harry tucked the wand back into its hiding place and considered his surroundings.

For the moment all he could see was a patch of forest, but he could make out a slight clearing where a thin row of houses were standing by a narrow street. Tom had showed him the way before, just in case there were still people milling around the main gates. Of course, given that it was apparently, currently New Years' Eve and that the temperature was recorded to be at its worst for the past decade, that in itself was unlikely, but Harry wasn't about to take any chances.

After all, this wasn't just a simple mission for a gang of street bullies needing money.

Very soon he reached the edge of the forest, and after climbing over another gate, he soon reached his destination.

A large building loomed up ahead of him, its massive structure majestic even in the dimming light. It was easily one of the biggest buildings Harry had ever seen – rising up to five-stories high, with fancy pillars and doors and gates wrought of steel and bronze. The main entrance was on the opposite end of the building, in which Harry had yet to actually see before. Apparently there was a path leading from the heart of Diagon Alley right up to the steps of the museum, which bordered on the outskirts.

He looked around him, and noting that he was the only one in sight, he silently cast the Forsildan rune again. The silver-blue circle expanded once more, pulsing regularly like a bizarre shield. Harry then took hold of the tall spear-like structures which formed the gates and began to climb.

…

A moment later found Harry walking down the aisle of the hallways quietly.

After he'd infiltrated the grounds, the rest was relatively easy. The Forsildan nullified any wards set in place – he only needed to be careful to allow it to expand and cover enough vicinity so that his presence remained hidden. With the doors stripped bare of any magical protection, Harry then picked through the locks using the skills he'd learnt back from his days at the orphanage, and then he was in.

The interior was dark as it was cold, with the only source of light being the strange blue circle which pulsed around him. For a while he confined it to him within a one-metre radius, but when he reached another set of double doors, he let it expand and fill the hallway. The invisible wards and charms became instantly neutralized upon contact with the blue arc. Confidently he pushed through them, and let himself in.

The sight of numerous artefacts on glittering display shelves greeted him. On normal days, a golden scroll would unfurl from thin air to introduce the magical relics and their splendid and more often than not, bloody history when the visitors approached. But of course, the museum was currently closed for the holiday, and besides it was way past its normal operating hours. Harry didn't allow himself to pause as he continued to make his way towards the heart of the museum, but he felt an ironic stir of regret as he did.

Some day, he thought. I'll come back here as a visitor in broad daylight.

Focusing back on the task at hand, Harry directed his eyes on the silver plaque sealed into each glass case. Each silver plaque had a number embossed into it, numbering every artefact displayed in the museum. Even so the numbers only indicated the hall they would be displayed in, and were not arranged in any specific numerical order. Harry spent a few minutes going through the strange yet fascinating array of magical artefacts, though he forced himself to keep his eyes peeled for their numbers instead of anything else. And soon enough, Harry found the display case numbered seventy-seven.

Immediately he could recognize why Tom would want it. Tom liked collecting trophies he knew, and the wizard had introduced Harry to countless priceless artefacts found all over Britain. After their visit to the pub as well as their landmark study, they'd visited plenty of little shabby shops squeezed at the end of Knockturn alley: and though many of the things he found there disgusted him, some were intriguing to say the least. Even more than that, it seemed that talking about magical objects and their histories was one of the few things which Harry recognized could make Tom seem almost… pleased. A shade of normalcy in the other's persona which oddly seemed refreshing and special because the more he got to know Tom to more he knew the other was anything but ordinary. And during those times it was easier to forget the shade of darkness he knew came with the other, but for the moment still chose to ignore.

Currently in the absolute darkness of the museum, there was no illumination of light save the pulsing blue circle which was only visible to Harry's eyes. Trying his best to maintain his concentration, he fueled more magic into the rune and the circle flared up into a brilliant blue. Then he neared the glass case numbered 77 and pressed a gloved hand against it.

There, on a high threshold sealed off in a beautiful case of glass, lay a long, curious wand. There were intricate carvings which ran down the length of the wood, right from the hilt to the middle tapering off to the tip. It sat there, silent and still: but Harry could sense a strange sort of life in it which seemed to tug at an age-old memory far beyond his capabilities to recall.

He'd never really thought much of wands, with what he was currently using a fragile and ill-fitting one – but seeing it brought a different light of understanding to his eyes. He could practically feel its magic singing out to him, foreign yet hauntingly familiar in a way. He spent a few moments admiring it before he reluctantly tore his eyes away from the artefact and cast his eyes down to study the edge of the glass case, measuring his breakthrough: but at that moment something else caught his eye.

There was a single monochromatic picture framed at the bottom of the glass, reflected only in hues of blue by the illumination of the hovering circle around him. He could barely see properly – he repeated, night vision was not his strong point – but it was clearly the picture of a family. Two parents, cradling a child still wrapped in a bundle. Nothing else. No words, no explanation – just three figures standing frozen in time behind the lens of a camera.

A strange tingle ran up his spine. His breath soon fogged up the glass and made the picture blurry, but he continued to study it.

His gaze wandered curiously around the glass dome holding the wand, but there was nothing else to explain it or its history. He wondered why Tom had chosen to send him after this wand specifically: after all, he knew Tom already had one. But he assumed that it was probably because it was better and more powerful or something. Why else would it be so heavily warded in a magical museum anyway?

A slight tug at his temples reminded him of his mission, and the magic which was draining out of him the longer he used the rune. He shook away his curiousity, lowered his hand and wiped away the fog which had misted over the glass, and turned to fumble in his inner robe pockets. It was time to set to work – what he'd been doing for almost his entire life.

He produced a coil of string, twirling it around his fingers as he estimated its length. He shrugged off his backpack, and checked that the alcohol and lighter were still in place, as was the heavy weight of the slush he'd collected. It would weaken if not break the glass – and hidden in his other boot was a diamond-edged knife Tom had bought for him.

It was funny to think that it had been Jack who'd taught him most of the basic tricks he knew many years ago. Not Tom. And now his skills were coming in useful in the Wizarding world as well.

The whole time Harry was working, the photo lying on the mantelpiece stared at him silently, as if imploring him to turn back and leave the wand alone.

…

A/N: Double cookies to those who can guess what all of this means. There are plenty of clues scattered around by now, but still. Explanations will come anyway, in the form of future chapters. Massive drama and twists awaits!

Anyhow, a better question would be: What am I doing here?!

I keep working on this story literally every day. Even if it's just to further outline my draft. It's super addicting, and this is super bad. My exams are so screwed. *sobs and moans in corner*

You can either thank me for the chapter or scold me for my own good. Either is welcome. I need some aggressive motivation. Seriously there is something wrong with me.

Please review, or rate, and comfort this oh-so-forlorn soul.

Rating system:

:D for amazing

O for okay

X for terrible