AN: This is my version of the fifth book, Harry Potter and the Sword of Gryffindor (begun before the title was announced), which I began writing for my brothers, who insisted on it. I have not worked on it for some time and may not finish it--however, here is the first chapter. If you like it, please review, and I may post other parts I have done, and possibly complete the book.

Disclaimer: It all belongs to J. K. Rowling.

Chapter One

A Stranger on Privet Drive

Privet Drive was quiet, as usual, on a warm summer night. It was nearly midnight, and all the windows in the neat, orderly rows of houses were dark--all except one. Nothing moved in the street until, quite suddenly, a figure in a long black cloak was walking up the sidewalk. As it walked, a flash of silver was visible from under the cloak. It gazed up critically at each of the houses. When it reached the single lighted window in number four, it stopped and stared upwards. There was movement in the room beyond the window.

There was a boy in the room--short and skinny, with a mop of untidy black hair, bright green eyes, and thick-rimmed black glasses, which he had removed from his face and was rubbing absently with the sleeve of his shirt (several sizes too large for him), while pacing up and down the length of his bedroom. He sighed, and as he raised a hand to push his bangs away from his eyes, a scar was visible on his forehead--a scar shaped like a bolt of lightning.

One glance around the room would have made most people believe that Harry Potter was no ordinary fifteen-year-old boy. A large cage in one corner contained a real, live snowy owl. In the other corner was a black pewter cauldron with a stack of spellbooks inside it. A broomstick leaned against the bed, and there was what appeared to be a wand on the desk near the window.

The truth of the matter was that Harry Potter wasn't an ordinary fifteen-year-old boy. He was, as a matter of fact, a fifteen-year-old wizard, about to begin his fifth year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Actually, he wasn't even an ordinary wizard. For instance, the scar on his forehead had been given him by the dark wizard Voldemort, who had attacked Harry as a baby, killing his parents but not harming Harry in the slightest. He also had a convicted murderer for a godfather. It was that godfather Harry was worrying about just then.

Two years ago, Harry hadn't even known he had a godfather. He hadn't been ignorant for long. At first, he had believed, along with the rest of the wizarding world, that Sirius Black was a murderer who had worked for Voldemort. At the end of his third year at Hogwarts, however, he had met Sirius and learned how he was innocent, and another person was responsible for the crimes. When the real murderer escaped, it became impossible for Harry to prove Sirius' innocence, and so Sirius was forced to live in hiding. Harry had always worried slightly about him, on the run from the Ministry of Magic, but he knew Sirius could take care of himself. Now, though, Harry had cause to be anxious. He hadn't heard from Sirius for nearly a month, and last week had been Harry's birthday.

It wasn't that he was angry with Sirius for forgetting; Harry wasn't used to too many people remembering his birthday, as he had lived with his magic-hating aunt, uncle, and cousin for the last fourteen years. He was just worried that Sirius might have been caught. Harry had sent him a letter three weeks ago with his owl, Hedwig. She had returned only the previous evening, bringing the same letter back. This wasn't at all comforting. It meant that either Hedwig couldn't find Sirius (and she had never failed to deliver a letter before, even without an address), or she couldn't get to him. Harry still hadn't been able to come up with a good explanation for this; something was wrong. He just wasn't sure what.

In his hand was a scrap of parchment, which contained the most recent letter he had gotten from Sirius. It had been short, and Harry had the impression Sirius had written it in a hurry. For the hundredth time, he skimmed over it, looking for any hint of where Sirius might be.

Dear Harry,

I am writing this to let you know that, yes, I am perfectly fine and made it to Remus' house last week. Dumbledore's been keeping in touch, but there's no news so far on the present situation. Don't hesitate to send an owl if you need anything. Remus says hello.

Sirius

Harry sighed again. He wished he had someone to talk to. He reached for his cauldron, where some quills, ink, and parchment were scattered among the spellbooks. Harry smoothed out the parchment, unscrewed the ink well, dipped his quill into it, and began to write.

Dear Ron, he began. Ron, his best friend from Hogwarts, would be sure to understand why he was worried. How are you? I'm okay, except I haven't heard from Sirius in nearly a month. I sent Hedwig with a letter, but she brought it back to me yesterday. Why do you reckon she can't find him? I'm getting a bit worried. I-- He broke off. That didn't sound right, somehow. Harry yawned widely. Maybe he'd worry about that tomorrow; he was too tired right now. He threw back the covers on his bed, and, before getting in, went over to close his window. As he pulled it down, a sudden motion caught his eye, and he reopened it again to lean out. The street was empty.

Had his imagination been playing tricks on him? He had, for a moment, thought he saw a robed figure staring up at him. Harry shook his head and blinked, but nothing was there. He should have known better. Still, he couldn't be blamed for a moment of panic. Strange things had a habit of happening to him, and it all came down to what had happened when he was just a year old....

Fourteen years ago, the magical community lived in terror of Lord Voldemort--the most powerful dark wizard of the age. He commanded a group of other dark wizards called death eaters, and Voldemort, at the height of his power, hunted down all that dared oppose him, and brutally murdered them--one by one.

Harry's parents, Lily and James Potter, had been working against Voldemort at the time, forming a network of witches and wizards with Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts and one of the most renowned wizards of the age, at its head. Also included in this network were Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, and Peter Pettigrew, the Potters' oldest friends. Dumbledore's spies had informed him that Voldemort's next target was the Potters. Immediately, it became essential that Lily, James, and Harry, who was a baby at the time, go into hiding. This wasn't easy at all. Voldemort's spies were everywhere, and so Dumbledore suggested the Fidelius Charm. This would conceal the knowledge of the Potters' whereabouts inside a single person, and Voldemort would never be able to find them--unless the chosen person, or Secret-Keeper, revealed the secret to him.

Eventually, the Potters came to the decision that Sirius Black was the best person to be their Secret-Keeper, and told Dumbledore of their decision. However, at the last minute, Sirius had convinced Lily and James that Voldemort would expect that move, and Pettigrew became the Secret-Keeper instead. No-one but the Potters, Sirius, and Pettigrew knew of the change, as they didn't want to risk it leaking out to anybody. What they didn't know was that Pettigrew had long been in the employment of Voldemort, and he lost no time in informing him of the Potters' whereabouts. That night, Voldemort had shown up at Harry's house, and Lily and James had both been murdered. He had then turned to Harry and performed the same deadly curse he had just used on Harry's parents; but mysteriously, miraculously, it had failed, turning instead upon Voldemort. The curse had reduced him to something weak, powerless, and barely alive, so he had fled. Harry himself had not been harmed in the slightest, except for a the lightning-shaped scar that he still had on his forehead.

After his parents were killed, Harry was sent to live with the Dursleys--his mother's sister, Petunia, his uncle, Vernon, and his year-old cousin Dudley. His aunt and uncle had been terrified that Harry was going to become a wizard as well, as they hated anything mysterious or magical, so they hadn't told him a thing about his past. They pretended for ten years that Harry's parents had been killed in a car crash, and nearly succeeded in crushing the magic out of him, but he had learned the truth the day he turned eleven. Harry, who had been an friendless outcast as long as he could remember, suddenly not only belonged somewhere, but was famous to all members of the wizarding community. Naturally, they all knew about Harry's defeat of Voldemort--although no one dared, even then, to say that name aloud. Harry went to Hogwarts and made friends for the first time in his life, but he also came across someone else--Voldemort, weak and half-dead, depending on a faithful servant just to stay alive. Harry had managed to defeat him once again, but just last year, he had witnessed Voldemort's return to his former strength and physical body. No longer formless, the Dark Lord had once again attempted to kill Harry, but, yet again, he narrowly escaped.

Completely isolated from the wizarding world (except for his correspondence with Sirius and a few friends from Hogwarts), Harry had been on pins and needles for news about Voldemort. He hadn't heard much as of yet, but it was still frightening. Harry, of course, couldn't remember Voldemort's reign of terror, as he was only a baby at the time, but he knew enough about it to know that, now that Voldemort was back, no-one's life would be the same.

Harry rolled over onto his side. He wondered what Ron was doing now. Was he as worried as Harry was about what was going on? At least Ron would know what was happening. His parents were both wizards, so he would have no problem keeping up with the news. On the other hand, Hermione, another friend of Harry's, was Muggle born--her parents were Muggles, or non-magic people. Still, Hermione had a subscription to the Daily Prophet, the wizarding newspaper, and would be able to keep up on everything. Harry doubted Voldemort had done anything serious so far, or Hermione and Ron would have told him. That didn't comfort him much. Sure, if the Ministry of Magic caught Sirius, the Daily Prophet was sure to say so, but that didn't alleviate Harry's worries one bit.

Stop it, he told himself. You're getting paranoid. Harry sighed, rolled over again, and forced himself to close his eyes. In a minute, he had drifted off to sleep.

Number four, Privet Drive, was now as dark as all the other houses on the street. Outside, a short robed figure took a last long look at the second-story window, and disappeared into the darkness.