Chapter Two

Cornelius Fudge slammed the door as he stormed into his office. He paced and fumed irritably for a moment before grabbing his bowler hat from his head and hurling it across the room. He finally flopped down in his armchair in the corner and began nervously pulling at the edge of his moustache. The Ministry's department head meeting had not gone well.

It was obvious that a division was forming in the Ministry, and Fudge was not making any friends. Almost nobody believed his assurances that Voldemort was long dead. Of course, Fudge knew the Dark Lord was quite alive, but if he admitted it, he could probably say goodbye to his job. The whole reason Fudge had become the Minister of Magic was because of Voldemort, and most people knew that, but nobody knew all the reasons why that was so true.

All his life, Fudge had wanted nothing more than power, influence, and popularity. As a youth, he hadn't had one of those things. He was constantly overshadowed by his larger, stronger, and more magically gifted Slytherin housemates. The only things he shared with them were a love of power and a less-than-friendly attitude towards Muggles and Mudbloods. He couldn't keep up with the other Slytherins. He didn't have the raw talent and power to handle the Dark Arts his housemates favoured, especially Tom Riddle.

Tom had been tall, handsome, and gifted, everything he was not, and he hated Tom for it. Fudge stood up and started pacing his office again. He had gotten an insignificant job in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement when Voldemort had begun his rise to power. The magical community's fear became an opportunity for Fudge to turn his personal, jealous vendetta into a public crusade. His craving for revenge and his power-lust were seen as bravery, strength, and determination in a time of fear, and he was soon appointed as Minister of Magic. Of course, his continued hold on that position was dependent on other people being willing to follow him. From the way the meeting went, it didn't look like that would last much longer.

Those few people who still supported him only did so for ulterior motives. The rest of them . . . somebody had leaked out what had happened at Hogwarts last spring. Somebody had been talking to Dumbledore, that Mudblood lover. That somebody had believed Potter's story, and was now causing this political chaos. His mind kept returning to the same person. Weasley. What a pitiful excuse for a pureblooded wizard. He was close to Potter, and now, the Boy Who Lived, who had once been Fudge's poster-child, was ruining his power and influence, and Weasley had to be at the bottom of it. He could handle Weasley, but there were some wizards who would always be out of his league. There would always Dumbledore.

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"Thank you, Arabella," said Dumbledore as her face faded from view in the fireplace. Dumbledore turned back to Arthur Weasley, who had arrived halfway through his conversation with Arabella Figg.

"We can't leave him with his aunt and uncle anymore," said Arthur in a strained voice. "I knew they didn't feed him well, but a huge bruise like that? Harry is not a clumsy boy, he got that bruise from his uncle. That man has a temper! You should have seen how he reacted that time his son ate one of Fred and George's toffees! I tried to fix it and he almost attacked me! Harry's not safe there . . ."

"Arthur! Please calm down," Dumbledore hushed the frantic wizard. "I had no intent of keeping Harry at the Dursleys any longer this summer. I had called you here to ask you to bring him to the Burrow."

Arthur Weasley had the look of a sprinter who had run into a wall. "Oh."

Dumbledore chuckled, but then became serious again. "Harry is most certainly still upset over the events of last spring, and staying with the Dursleys any longer than necessary will do more harm than good. You may wish to invite Miss Granger to visit soon. I also had to discuss some other things. You probably know what I'm talking about already."

"Yes, I have a fairly good idea," sighed Arthur. "Fudge."

"Quite right. He's about to make a move. You've done an excellent job of gathering support in the Ministry, almost too good. With the Death Eater attacks becoming more frequent, and striking Muggle communities as well now, people are becoming hard-pressed to ignore the facts. You know Fudge is going to be desperate soon. You have to be ready."

"Albus, I've been ready for this for a long time. I've got the support I need."

"Very good, Arthur. Send an owl to Harry, letting him know you'll be picking him up in two days. In the meantime," Dumbledore paused, "Be ready for a confrontation with Cornelius Fudge."

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The Dursleys hadn't said a word to Harry when they'd picked up him from Mrs. Figg's house. Vernon had glared the large, leather-bound book he was carrying with utmost suspicion, but had remained silent. It would have done him no good to speak, as Dudley was complaining loudly the entire time. Apparently, most of his friends from school had decided that he was more of an annoyance than anything else, and only two people had shown up at the carnival to meet him.

When they had arrived home, Harry had bolted for his room to send Hedwig to Ron and Hermione with messages about Mrs. Figg. He was excited about knowing there was a witch in his neighborhood, and it had given him a good emotional boost, but soon after he had returned it had faded again. In fact, it was almost worse than it had been before, because for all his fame, which he didn't want anyway, this was just one more reminder that he could never have a normal life. The next day, Harry was totally distracted by the anticipated arrival of replies from his friends. He was so distracted that, for the first time in years, he actually did let breakfast burn. The kitchen was in total chaos as Dudley howled for his food, Aunt Petunia fussed over Dudley, and Uncle Vernon raged at Harry's incompetence.

"You clumsy little freak!" he bellowed over Dudley's wails. "We give you the food off our table and you burn it! No gratitude, I tell you. You don't want to eat, do you? Get out of our kitchen and get to work on the garden. Don't let me see your face for the rest of the day!"

He grabbed Harry by the collar and heaved him out the back door, headfirst into the patio railing. Vernon slammed the door, and Harry was left in a dazed heap on the patio, rubbing his head and listening to the ringing sound in his ears. After several long minutes, he pulled himself to his feet, holding the railing to keep from tipping over. He felt up under his hairline and pulled his hand away to reveal a small, wet, red spot. Great, he thought to himself. What a perfect day.

He started on the weeding, trying to ignore the sick feeling in his stomach, unsure if it was the splitting headache, his hunger, or his steadily increasing worry. Dumbledore wouldn't have had Mrs. Figg talk to him unless something was very wrong.

Of course something was very wrong. Voldemort was back, and it was all his fault. Cedric was dead, and it was all his fault. Everything was all his fault.

Harry continued to work himself into an oblivious frenzy. Maybe, if he worked hard enough, pulling weeds and trimming hedges, he could make everything right, just by raw effort. The morning sun became the glaring heat of noon, and Harry only paused to take a drink from the garden hose. When the shadows had finally begun to lengthen, Harry's exhaustion and the oppressive heat finally got the better of him. With a pained expression brought on by aching muscles, he sprawled on his back in the flowerbed. His mind was feeling blissfully empty for the first time all day. He was shaken from his oblivion by a large owl landing on the wheelbarrow.

"Hedwig!" Harry walked over to the wheelbarrow and let Hedwig nip his finger lightly before he untied the parchments from her leg. There was a reply each from Ron and Hermione. He read Ron's first.

Harry,
I can't believe this! Ok, first, that's great about having Mrs. Figg helping you out. What's that book about exactly? Ok, better news than that. Dad told me I could give you the news. He's going to be going to the Dursley's tomorrow to bring you to the Burrow. Dumbledore said you can stay for the rest of the summer! Make sure your things are packed, I don't know what time Dad plans on going, and he's not here so I can't ask him. The sooner the better. Anyhow, he might also be inviting Hermione soon. I think he talked to her on the fellytone. He likes that thing a lot. Talk to you tomorrow!
Ron.

Harry allowed himself a smile. It was good for him to have a friend like Ron, especially now, when everything was getting so depressing. He unrolled Hermione's message next. It was much longer.

Dear Harry,
It's so good to hear from you. I haven't heard from you much this summer, and I've been worried, because I know you've been upset. I won't tell you not to worry, but you should know you've got people who love you, and who care about you. I'm glad Mrs. Figg gave you that book to read. I'd like a change to see it for myself. Defense Against the Dark Arts? It must talk about You-Know-Who, but maybe about other dark wizards too. There might be some ideas of how to fight back. Did Mrs. Figg say anything else able what Dumbledore told her? How many cats does she have? I bet she'd love Crookshanks.
Mr. Weasley called me and invited me to come visit soon. I'm glad he figured out how to use the telephone. He enjoys it so much. Anyhow, you take care of yourself. Make sure you tell Sirius or Dumbledore immediately if your scar hurts or if you have any more of those nightmares. I'll be seeing you soon.
Love, Hermione.

Harry sighed. That was Hermione all right. It was almost reassuring to hear her familiar style of worrying. Hedwig hooted softly.

"I'm so sorry, but I don't have anything I can give you. You'll have to hunt for yourself tonight."

The owl hooted her understanding as he held out his hand, which she nipped affectionately before taking off for the edge of town to hunt. Harry looked up over the roof of the neighbor's house where the sun was just starting to dip out of sight. He would have preferred to stay outside all night, away from his uncle, but he knew he would never get away with that. He began gathering up the gardening tools when he saw something land in the tree in the neighbor's yard. At first he thought that Hedwig had returned for something, but the bird was barely visible in the branches and was most certainly not a snowy owl. He recognized the peculiar clacking call of a raven.

He had started to resume his cleanup when the bird's call changed. It was musical and haunting, certainly not the cry of a raven. It sounded like . . . Fawkes. He looked back at the tree, and in a sudden rush of movement, the bird launched itself from its branch directly at him. Harry froze, debating whether to stay where he was, to duck, or to run. Before he could decide, the bird had landed on the wheelbarrow, just where Hedwig had been a moment before. The two of them stood still for a moment, regarding each other carefully. The raven cocked its head, and Harry swore it laughed at him. Deciding it was safe, and still feeling quite foggy from his headache, Harry spoke to the bird.

"Thanks a lot," he moaned. "I've had a miserable day, and now I've got a crow laughing at me."

The raven stood bolt upright and screeched off an indignant reply. Harry was certain it had just told him to watch his manners.

"Sorry! Sorry, it's just that I've been upset all day, I've got a terrible headache, and I guess I'm overreacting." Harry eyed the bird appraisingly. "You're not a typical raven, are you?"

The bird winked at him. Harry shook his head to clear it, wondering if he was delusional, but only succeeded in making his head hurt more. The raven watched him for a moment, and then sang that same peculiar note again. Harry listened as it died away. "I'd ask where you come from, but that wouldn't do me much good, would it?"

The raven clacked at him, and although it sounded like any other raven, Harry distinctly got the impression that it had said something about his family. Harry became sullen again. "My so-called family is in that house, while I'm out here, working. Some family," he grumbled to himself. At that moment, Uncle Vernon stuck his head out the back door.

"Harry Potter! If I find one tool left outside to rust, you'll wish you had never been born!"

Harry turned to the raven. "Speak of the devil. Hey, I've got to go. Thanks for the company."

The raven clacked, and took off in a rush of wings. Harry picked up the hedge clippers and leaned over to put them in the wheelbarrow, when something shiny caught his attention. He reached in and picked up a large, glistening, black feather. He smiled weakly through his exhaustion and whispered a silent "thank you" as he tucked the feather into his pocket, for luck. He'd need all the luck he could get.

That night, Harry dragged himself into his room, dirty, hungry, and completely wiped out. His head was pounding, and even after he wiped off his glasses, everything was still slightly fuzzy. He didn't think about it for long. He pulled off his filthy clothes, washed up a little bit, and fell onto his bed. Sleep came almost immediately, and as his sleep had been for the past weeks, it was soon filled with unwelcome visions.

He found himself in a large, well furnished sitting room, watching three darkly robed men conversing.

"Malfoy, your son is ready to commit himself to us, is he?" came Voldemort's harsh voice.

"He is, my Lord. To your honour and glory."

"He is quite young, and children of his age are impressionable. He will have to prove himself before I consider this further."

"My Lord, what is he to do? He must stay at school all year, otherwise, suspicions will be raised."

"Ah, you answer your own question. Who else is at that miserable school with him?" Voldemort's voice held anticipation and a sinister kind of delight.

"My Lord, my son will serve you dutifully." Malfoy bowed deeply. "Do you simply want Potter dead, master?"

Voldemort's eyes narrowed sharply. "No, he must be brought here. I have not lost sight of why I wanted the Potters in the first place. Had I killed Potter this spring, I would have finally obtained the power I desired, but little bastard escaped." The Dark Lord looked at Wormtail. "And you, fool, had suggested I use another wizard. Potter had not only taken my body from me, he still holds the power of the Mind Touch."

Pettigrew squeaked nervously. "M-m-my Lord, the boy has still shown no signs of having this power. Are you sure that he. . ."

"Silence!" Voldemort's voice echoed impossibly in the room. "This power is the key to my success, and most certainly Potter has it. I have considered this carefully, and now I am quite sure that the Mind Touch is how Potter survived as an infant. But before we can get Potter, we have another small matter to attend. The Ministry of Magic will fall. Malfoy, you, as our ministry spy, will lead the operation, Wormtail, assist him, except for one thing. Leave Fudge to me."

"Yes, My Lord," Malfoy and Pettigrew responded at the same time.

"Silence!" Voldemort's voice echoed impossibly in the room. "This power is the key to my success, and most certainly Potter has it. I have considered this carefully, and now I am quite sure that the Mind Touch is how Potter survived as an infant. But before we can get Potter, we have another small matter to attend. The Ministry of Magic will fall. Malfoy, you, as our ministry spy, will plan the operation. Wormtail, assist him, except for one thing. Leave Fudge to me."

"Yes, My Lord," Malfoy and Pettigrew responded at the same time.

"I will have Cornelius Fudge, and then I will have Potter." Voldemort looked past his Death Eaters, and although Harry was sure he couldn't see him, those red eyes bored right through his green ones. His scar began to burn, disorienting him as his sight dimmed around the edges. A scream began to tear itself from his mouth when Harry felt himself being gripped around the upper arms and pulled into the air. He felt the beating of wings over his head, and was reminded of riding Buckbeak. He gazed up and saw he was being carried by a giant crow. Wait, no! It was a raven. In fact, was it . . . the enormous bird clacked a reply to the unspoken question, and Harry was certain it was indeed the same raven. He thought he heard its name, in his mind, but he was too sleepy, his head hurt too much, and he just couldn't focus on it.

They were flying over the countryside, and sky was beginning to lighten before the sunrise. The raven veered and dropped towards the ground, and Harry saw a small campsite with a single tent and dying campfire. The ground came rushing up below his feet, and the great bird dropped him so that he rolled softly into the tall grass. He turned onto his stomach and pushed himself up. . .

And woke up in his own bed, in the smallest bedroom at 4 Privet Drive. He dropped himself back onto his pillow and groaned. His head still hurt, and it wasn't from his scar. He reached for his glasses, settled them on his nose, and looked out the window. The sun was certainly peeking up over the neighbor's roof. Harry rolled out of bed, trying to stretch the kink out of his neck, and made his way to the mirror. He almost balked at his own reflection. Instead of circles under his eyes, a deep black and blue ring surrounded each of them. How hard had he hit his head? He was starting to wonder if it was easier to deal with Voldemort or his uncle. He was stiff and sore and was not looking forward to another day of dealing with his vicious uncle when he suddenly remembered that he was leaving. Mr. Weasley would be coming for him sometime that day. With a grin, he grabbed his shower robe and dashed for the bathroom.

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Holly rolled over with a groan, feeling a sharp pain in her side. She reached under her sleeping bag, and pulled out a rock that must have spontaneously sprouted out of the ground overnight. She felt backwards behind her head and pulled down the tent zipper to throw the stone out of the tent when a big ball of black feathers came hurtling through the flap. It crashed against the far side of the tent and immediately up-righted itself and began clacking at her loudly.

"Bram! I haven't seen you in a long time. Slow down, girl! I'm still half asleep. I was having the strangest dream."

The raven twittered at her and cocked her head. Holly grinned faintly and shook her head. "I don't know, I'm trying to remember now. I saw you flying towards my tent, that's the last thing I saw. Before that there was the strange man with the red eyes again, and he was talking to these other two men in dark robes. They were planning to attack someone else. I can't remember it very clearly now. I was standing off to the side, but it was more like I was seeing through someone else's eyes. Does that make any sense?"

Bram sang one of her eerie tones then clacked her beak. "Well, it doesn't make sense to me. I'm on holiday, finally away from my father and other people, and I still can't get a good night's sleep." She rubbed her temples. "I've still got a headache. Where are my glasses?"

Bram laughed at her, dug her beak under the edge of the sleeping bag and pulled out a pair of glasses. "Thanks a lot, you."

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Harry kept telling himself that it would all be over in a few hours, that Mr. Weasley would be coming for him any time now, but it wasn't helping much. Petunia had taken Dudley to the dentist, which meant he would also get an afternoon on the town to make him feel better after such an upsetting morning. Petunia seemed to have a calming effect on Vernon, if such a thing was possible, and with her gone, there was nothing to stop the man.

It had been tolerable until Vernon's new suit came back from the cleaners just before lunch, with a dirt stain still ground into the front of the jacket. It certainly hadn't helped that only moments before that, he had told his uncle that the Mr. Weasley would be picking him up sometime that day. At that point, Vernon Dursley had become Harry's worst nightmare.

Maybe it was that his head was still pounding from the day before, or maybe because it really was as bad as it seemed, but Harry swore his uncle had never been that terrible. Vernon kept hollering at him to move faster, to go do yet another chore, or simply to tell him what a miserable little freak he was. Harry suspected that Uncle Vernon wanted to get every last bit of work and misery out of him before he escaped for the rest of the summer. Harry had barely found time to throw his belongings into his trunk in-between chores. By mid-afternoon, Harry's temper had reached its limit.

"Harry Potter! Get down here this instant!"

Grumbling, Harry made his way to the kitchen to find his uncle standing next to the sink with his hands on his extremely beefy hips. "You left the counter all sticky when you washed the dishes, boy. It had better be cleaned by the time your aunt starts cooking dinner, and it will most certainly be done by the time your freakish friend comes to get you. Your type has no manners, absolutely indecent, not even announcing when they'll arrive!"

Don't react, Harry told himself. Just don't react. Don't rise to it. "Yes, Uncle Vernon."

"Don't you get cheeky with me, you hear?" Vernon was edging closer to the boy. Harry took a small step backwards, torn between yelling back and agreeing to whatever the man said, just to get him to go away. "You're not on holiday yet, and I will not have an ungrateful little leech like you thinking he can live under my roof without working for it." Harry was beginning to feel very hot behind the ears, and very uncomfortable. Vernon continued. "You parents go and get themselves killed, and leave us with the likes of you, and you feel as though you can breeze in and out as you please, with no responsibility, no respectable education and no job. Lazy and irresponsible, just like your parents."

The tidal wave that was threatening to overwhelm Harry spilled over. "Don't you ever talk about my mum and dad like that! They were better people than you'll ever be!"

"Don't you speak back to me, you little whelp!" Vernon bellowed, not noticing the slightly sooty wizard who had just walked into the kitchen behind him. "You should have died with your parents! It's probably your fault they're dead!"

"Screw you!" Harry screamed, having completely lost control. He knew what was coming next, and closed his eyes before the inevitable fist struck his jaw. It never came.

"Stupefy!" cried Mr. Weasley. The force of the spell sent Mr. Dursley flying into the edge of the countertop before he slumped to the floor.

"Oh my goodness, Harry! Are you alright?" Mr. Weasley ran to Harry and grabbed him by the shoulders, looking him squarely in the eye. Ron, who had been behind his father, widened his eyes in shock as he got a full view of the scene. "Bloody hell! Harry!"

"Yes, Mr. Weasley," said Harry, although his voice was shaky. "He didn't touch me. Hi Ron."

"What happened to your eyes?" Mr. Weasley wasn't going to be shaken off easily.

"Oh, that." Harry shrugged. "That was from yesterday, I think."

Some of the colour drained from Ron's face. "Harry, your eyes aren't focusing right, are they?" Harry shook his head, and Mr. Weasley grimaced. "We've got to get you out of here. Ron, go grab his trunk."

Harry nodded numbly and looked over at his uncle who was sprawled across the floor like a comatose hippopotamus. "What about him?"

"Oh don't worry. He'll come around eventually." Mr. Weasley scowled. "He's lucky that's all I did."

Ron's voice sounded from the living room. "I've got it, dad."

"Come on Harry. Let's get you home."