The Fourth Unforgivable
Disclaimer: The characters and places present in this story were created by J.K. Rowling.
A/N: Huge thankyou to Gaia30 (Linz) who beta-ed/omega-ed this.
Harry was sitting in his room watching the seconds pass by (literally) on his clock. It dawned on him that perhaps he had a surplus of time on his hands. The Dursleys had for their part tried to keep him busy, but Uncle Vernon's car could only be washed a certain number of times, and the grass cut so short. Not to mention Dudley's frequent temper tantrums ("What do you mean there's nothing on TV? You don't pay for 500 channels and then find there's nothing on TV!" shouted Uncle Vernon after one of Dudley's whinges. All credit to Uncle Vernon though, who was showing a heightened sense of resistance to Dudley's wails: it was two whole days before he bought the new cable subscription.)
Harry managed to work through his homework with efficiency Hermione would be proud of, and still have time enough to dwell on Voldemort's return to power. He resented being stuck in the Muggle world for six weeks each summer. That left him ignorant to everything happening in the Wizarding world, which he now considered his own. Even at Hogwarts, where they were sheltered from the attacks and various dangers, they were not sheltered from the truth.
He heaved a sigh. The small and flimsy links he shared with the Wizarding world while at No. 4 Privet Drive barely kept him happy. Some owls he received from Hermione and Ron, along with the books he'd battered in his re-reading (Quidditch through the Ages and Quidditch Teams of Britain and Ireland had both seen better days) were the only things between him and Muggle life.
His mind had settled into its usual pattern. He knew where it would lead him: to Hogwarts last year, to the Triwizard Tournament, to Cedric... Suddenly, he heard the excited hooting of Pig by his window. He got up and let the energetic owl in, then made several attempts to catch the flying ball of fluff before finally securing it in his hands. Attached was a note on rough parchment from Ron, the one he'd been waiting for:
Harry,
Dad's finally sorted everything out with Dumbledore and you can come to stay for the final week of the holidays! He had some funny requests first though. A man came here with a dog and let it go round our house; it sniffed about the house for about an hour, and then he gave the go-ahead for your visit. Hermione will be here in a couple of days, so sort it out with the Muggles, and we'll come to collect you on Sunday.
Ron
P.S. Don't worry, we'll bring a car this time. Dad says it's best; going by Floo might cause 'traumatic memories' to resurface in your relatives minds'. Don't ask me, he's gone all 'amateur psychiatrist' because of a book Ginny bought him for his birthday.
P.P.S. Hermione's been made a prefect.
Harry smiled. Even though he knew the invitation was coming, it still gave him an oddly giddy feeling to be holding it. He scribbled a reply to Ron without even asking permission, and sent it back with Pig before going downstairs to let the Dursleys know. He toyed briefly with the idea of mentioning the resurrection of a certain Dark Lord as leverage. No doubt, the Dursleys would assume him to be on Voldemort's side. With a murderer for a Godfather, evil connections were to be expected. He decided it was not needed since the Dursleys would jump, roll over, or fetch at any opportunity to get rid of him anyway.
It was six o'clock, Sunday. Uncle Vernon was again donning his best suit, Aunt Petunia a frilly, vulgar ensemble and Dudley was no-where to be found (he had muttered something about homework, which was preposterous because the only kind of 'homework' Dudley ever did was torture Harry.) The Dursleys had boarded up the fireplace with maximum-strength metal sheets despite Harry's protests that the Weasleys were coming by car anyway, (although he had found it funny when the man in the DIY shop had viewed them oddly because Uncle Vernon kept asking whether or not the sheet could stand minor explosions over and over again.)
Twenty minutes later there was a polite knock on the door (actually it was more of an incessant bang,) Aunt petunia slowly opened the door. A small rusty car had been parked in front of the Dursleys' driveway and Harry couldn't help but notice the swell of pride in Uncle Vernon's chest as it stood in comparison to his immaculate Mercedes. However, this was quick to disappear when he witnessed the large number of people and Harry's trunk all fit into it with ease.
***
A few days later, seated in the homey atmosphere of the Burrow, Harry wondered how he could ever have been unhappy. Hermione, slightly tanned from one of her family's European holidays (or so she said, Harry was trying to remember what the Bulgarian climate was like), was sitting across from him at the breakfast table and telling him the importance of securing some O.W.L.s. Her wording was suspiciously similar to that used by Aunt Petunia when she told Dudley about the GCSEs (away from Uncle Vernon, who would have frowned upon the attempt to change his son into a know-it-all.)
"So you see, Harry, in the end it's us who benefit from the exams," Hermione said, wrapping up her speech. Harry nodded solemnly into his porridge bowl before sharing a quick glance with Ron. Before Hermione could comment on this, a flurry of owls flew through the window. To everyone's surprise (and Ginny's annoyance) a letter was deposited into Ginny's pumpkin juice, splashing everyone nearby, before the owl swooped out without resting. A similar message was deposited in Mr. Weasley's lap, and the two quickly opened their messages. In what would have been a good synchronised-swimming act (had they been in a pool), both Ginny and Mr. Weasley paled at the contents of their notes, then shoved them haphazardly into their pockets. They then looked at each other with identical expressions.
"Arthur, dear, what is it?" Mrs. Weasley asked, peering anxiously over a copy of Witch Weekly ('European Festival of Arts in Magical Community Announced by Fudge'.)
"Er, nothing," he replied in a tone that suggested it was definitely something. "We'll discuss it later." All further probing from Fred and George was dismissed. The twins managed to get over their curiosity long enough to ask Harry and Ron if they'd like to practice their Quidditch skills in a game of Quidriot. Harry remembered it was often used by Oliver Wood to warm up the Gryffindor House team. It was then that he realised what Oliver's leaving meant: the Gryffindor team was missing a keeper and a captain.
Walking upstairs to fetch his broom, Harry turned to Ron. "Who d'you think will be the new Gryffindor keeper, now that Wood's graduated?" he asked.
Ron gave an animated shrug. "Dunno. Neville, maybe?"
***
Dumbledore stood in his circular office, looking at one of the portraits on his wall without really seeing it. War, for all its tactics and stratagem, was brutal. He had heard the glorified tales, the stories of amazing successes and wartime adventures, but through his knowing eyes and ears they added up to nothing more than wishful thinking and persuasive lies. Today's youth is tomorrow's defences, an opinion shared by many, but Dumbledore had not believed it himself. Now, he felt ashamed because a handful of his students were young without youth, and he was giving one more a responsibility that she shouldn't have to juggle. He looked down at his hands; age had left wrinkles running across them like rivers, marks and dents gained through time. A small bump on his third finger from all that writing, some small scars on his palm where he'd gripped his wand so hard it drove his nails into his skin. But in a way it was better. They had to be prepared, and it was his duty to get them ready. As Headmaster of the school, it was a duty he chose.
He stepped onto the revolving staircase and was taken downstairs. He went over what he was to say as several suits of armour nodded their heads or bowed at his passing. The Hall they were meeting in was separate from most of the school building, for safety reasons, and he had to pass through wards to reach the entrance. It was smaller than the Great Hall by a fair amount, but would suffice as a meeting point for the members of the Order. Tapestries hung from the bare stone walls, and a fake window was framed by red velvet drapes. The window depicted a snowy scene, which would have been more convincing had it been winter. The members of the Order would be arriving soon, coming in order of those who knew the least, to those who knew a fair amount, so that when the meeting started officially they would be on level ground. Prior to the meeting, he had only given out details on a need-to-know basis. He knew the plans and arrangements he made would have to revert back to the old method. It was a little like the tiers of a cake: most people would be at the bottom level, the roles they played small but still keeping the other levels up. Others would go higher up in this mini hierarchy, depending on their level of knowledge. There was only one version of the entire plan, though, and it existed inside Dumbledore's mind where it swirled, bent, twisted, and repaired itself over time. He was on top of this cake; the plastic groom without a bride.
Slowly the hall filled (via a series of fireplaces in little curtained booths set up on one side of the hall), queries were answered, rumours were dispelled, and a series of events was settled on. Next he explained, with the aid of several, the various defences that had to be set up in people's homes, and the plans that had to be made. Then, the work they'd need to do in the field to gather resources was discussed. Finally, as the meeting drew to a close, he asked Sirius (among them as a dog, as some things couldn't be revealed to all) and Remus for a word on their work on locating Mundungus Fletcher. As the final guest departed, Sirius transformed back into a man.
"I've looked everywhere. Either he's taken a liking to some remote corner of the world, or he just doesn't want to be found." Sirius said, rubbing his eyes to remove the sleep.
"You say you've looked everywhere?" Dumbledore asked. Sirius 'mm-hmmmed' while taking a bite out of a biscuit. Remus stood there between them, feeling somewhat neglected. Dumbledore turned to look at the polished wooden grandfather clock that stood in the corner of the room, "Perhaps," he stated, "it is not a matter of where, but when." He turned to face them again.. Sirius was standing, eyebrows raised with rapt attention while Remus continued to stare at the timepiece, seeming oblivious to the world around him. "Remus, did your father leave you his time-turner?" asked Dumbledore.
Remus' head snapped back toward Dumbledore. "Yes."
Dumbledore smiled. "Good, then I can see you will have no problems in your extended search for Mr. Fletcher. Now, if you'll excuse me, Miss Delacour is waiting in my office to sign a contract for the new school year." Before either Sirius or Remus could hold protest, he had walked out of the hall.
Sirius looked at Remus. "Time-turner?"
***
Remus was sitting in a deep armchair while Sirius paced the small length of red-carpeted floor in front of him. "Why did your father have a time-turner?" He asked suddenly. Remus could tell Sirius had been debating in his mind whether or not to ask. Remus took a sip of his tea before setting down his mug on a coaster.
"He worked in antiquities."
"Oh," said Sirius, "What has that got do with having a time-turner?" he added.
"Well, if an artifact was lost in the present he would go back to a time when its whereabouts were still known and put a locating spell on it. Then, he'd come back to the present and use the spell to find it. Understand?"
"Vaguely. So, how are we going to find out when Mundungus is?"
There was a pause as Remus thought about the task ahead. "Luck?"
