Any name, place, incantation, or magical creature used in this story that has more than a coincidental connection with the Harry Potter books by J.K. Rowling is probably taken from her, but as copyright law only dictates that you can't sell material copyrighted by someone else, I am legally in the clear. It is quite probable that in later chapters I will be making up some of my own names, places, etc. If you can't find it in Rowling or Tolkien, it belongs to me.

VI: Harry Potter and the School of Fugitives

Notes: Yes I know I'm skipping a year, that's the point. We are starting anew, and the clues to what happened last year will be worked out as we go along. You have to think, infer a little bit. I'm sorry if that puts too much of a strain on your brain but deal with it. You're old enough to start thinking now, and if you aren't then you really aren't old enough to be reading fanfiction because some of what I've read... well, let's get on with the story.

Chapter 1: Deja Vu

In which I follow the age-old Rowling tradition of restating everything from the previous books. Okay, I leave some of it out and make some pretty outlandish – from the narrow-minded, stereotypical view of the books – claims about what happened last year, but again, deal with it.

Harry Potter opened his eyes and put his hand to the scar on his forehead. He had been dreaming – again – and had awoken with a slight pain to the lightning-shaped cut – again. Thank heaven he had developed some resistance. Last year hadn't been too bad, but in his fourth year, Harry would sometimes lose control of himself. That time with Professor Trelawney... he shuddered.

Harry sat up in bed and reached for his glasses. The clock at his bedside read 2:24 am, and, as always in these stories, the date was now July 31st. Harry didn't particularly care that it was his birthday, and that he was now 16 years old. He was also sure that this year he wouldn't be receiving any presents. Uncle Vernon, who seemed to have taken a courage concoction over the summer, had again locked Hedwig in her cage and put bars on the bedroom windows. Still, Harry wasn't confined to his room, which was definitely a good thing. Even though Hermione had given him a copy of The Lord of the Rings to read over the summer (apparently she found it to be the one fiction story complicated enough to bother with), he would have finished it within a month and been bored for the rest of the time. As things were, he could entertain himself by taunting Dudley.

Dudley had changed a lot over the school year. Although still obnoxious, fat, and sadistic, he steadfastly refused to tell his parents anything. It seemed that Smeltings had finally had some good affect on him. Through threats of bodily harm (a tactic which surprised Harry in its success), Harry had extracted the story from his cousin. Someone had teased him for always running to his parents, as well as for being the size of a beluga whale; he had beaten Dudley severely with his Smeltings stick and left him crying on the ground. The other boys were not so kind. They threw rocks at the sobbing Dudley and taunted him beyond endurance. It was hard not to feel a little bit sorry for the gorilla, thought Harry, even though it had been deserved. Fifteen years of the old Dudley were not easily dismissed from the memory, and Harry was using every chance he had to get back, even reducing his cousin to tears once or twice.

A sudden movement in the corner of the room caught Harry's eye; no, it was just the Chudley Cannons poster Ron had gotten for him. He couldn't imagine why: Ron knew that Harry was a big Montrose Magpie fan, as he had been only barely able to put up with the orange and black sheets on Ron's bed when he went to stay at The Burrow last summer. Still, it was nice to have some reminder of Quidditch, and thus of the wizarding world, in his room. Quidditch was practically Harry's life – since being made Gryffindor team captain last year, he had become almost as fanatical as the previous captain, Oliver Wood. Now he worried constantly about finding replacements for the four players he had lost this past year (Fred, George, Katie, and Alicia had all graduated). The team had already been weakened by the loss of Angelina and the brilliant former Keeper, Wood, so that now Harry was the only upperclassman on the team.

His scar pricked again, reminding Harry of his dream. Although it was now only a memory, the horror dispersed by the calm of night, at the time it had been one of the most terrifying to date. Voldemort was obviously regaining much of his former strength, and his haunting presence in Harry's dreams seemed to be proportional to the cruelty that he inflicted each night. Usually it was on Professor Snape. Only now did Harry realize what a sacrifice Snape had made for – well, he wasn't sure for whom. Night after night he responded to the pain on his arm, and night after night Harry's dreams were filled with images of his least favorite teacher writhing on the ground with pain. Perhaps two years ago – before Cedric died – Harry would have found it slightly enjoyable to watch. Now it was incredibly hurtful. The worst part was the effect it had had on Snape's classes: last year, there had been days on which he was too weak to control his students. Too weak even to take points from Gryffindor, which was his favorite pastime.

As his thoughts were racing out of control, Harry decided to abandon even the pretense of trying to get back to sleep. He had always been a night owl. Even as he thought this last word in his head, a tap sounded at his windowpane. Despite the bars separating it from the recipient of its message, the owl managed to get its letter to Harry by half-perching on one of the bars and sticking the other foot into the room. After a brief struggle, the owl broke loose and Harry had a rolled letter squashed in his hand. On closer inspection, it appeared to be two letters: one the school supply list for Hogwarts, and tied on, almost like a postscript, a small slip of paper with words written in a handwriting that Harry recognized as familiar, but couldn't put a name to.

Harry Potter:

You must know before you come to Hogwarts this year that you are in grave danger. As your power grows so does that of the Enemy; but they were not equal in the first place, and his is growing faster than your own. Trust in no strength but the power of Hogwarts and the power of the spells that surround Privet Drive. There is nothing to stop him from killing you elsewhere.

I look forward to seeing you alive and well (hopefully) at some later date.

There was no signature.

Harry had once received a warning like this before, during his second year. The house-elf Dobby had come to stop him from going to Hogwarts, but had ultimately failed. He had not regarded that one, and he did not plan to take notice of this one now. Everything had turned out well in his second year; undoubtedly the same thing would happen now. Anyway, taking advice from unsigned messages was potentially allowing the sender to take advantage of you, Harry persuaded himself. Surely it was more sensible to ignore the letter.

And yet he wondered.

The dire things that Dobby had warned of had indeed come to pass. Harry had been as good as dead, and only the tears of Fawkes, Dumbledore's phoenix, had saved him. Voldemort was gaining power, it was true. Even so, would he dare to attack Harry while the latter was ensconced in a wizarding household? The letter could not be referring to The Burrow as one of the places to avoid. Diagon Alley, which was crowded with powerful witches and wizards every hour of the day, every day of the year, was certainly a safe place to be. After convincing himself a second time that there was nothing to fear, Harry got back in bed. It was a chilly night for July. He watched the time go by on his clock, and his eyelids slowly dropped until they were closed.