Death Shan't Be Conquered

by Sariss

COMPLETE Snape has a hard time keeping up the Death Eater act, especially in the presence of the new DADA teacher. Both of them grudging and emotionally unstable, they're trying to come to terms with each other--while the Dark Lord bides his time..

2. Journey in my Head

Chapter 1: Journey in My Head

Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
The dear repose for limbs with travel tired;
But then begins a journey in my head,
To work my mind, when body's work's expired:
For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,
Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,
And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,
Looking on darkness which the blind do see
Save that my soul's imaginary sight
Presents thy shadow to my sightless view,
Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,
Makes black night beauteous and her old face new.
Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,
For thee and for myself no quiet find.

—William Shakespeare, Sonnet No. 27

Harry Potter sighed, wiped off the sweat from his forehead and ran a hand through his unruly black hair down to his neck that felt already as though it had been put in the microwave for ninety seconds. He'd get quite nasty sunburn; he was sure of this. No wonder, he had been clipping Aunt Petunia's rosebushes for… he glanced at his watch… five full hours already!

"This would go much more smoothly if I were allowed to cast a Clipping Charm," Harry muttered irritably. What use was it to be a wizard when you were forbidden to use magic?

He felt exhausted, his lips dry as parchment, and it would be another hour until dinner. Not that that would be worth mentioning, but at least he would get out of the sun.

He sighed again. If only Ginny were here. If only there were someone who smiled at him, who talked to him, treated him like a human being! Even Colin Creevey would be welcome now. He could take as much photos as he wanted, Harry would sign every single one of them if necessary—if only he were not so… alone. The Dursleys were no company. Thus, even with three people almost constantly in his proximity, he was completely and utterly alone.

Harry desperately hoped Ginny would send him another one of her letters soon again. Granted, Harry had received one only yesterday and had written back instantaneously as soon as he'd read it—with Pigwidgeon (Hedwig had been locked in her cage by Uncle Vernon for making such a racket—again—so Harry couldn't write to Ginny without her writing first).

Pig, a small fluffy tennis-ball of an owl, was now Ginny's since her brother Ron had gotten a larger one, a brand-new light brown barn owl, when he had been made a prefect in his and Harry's fifth year. Harry was glad that Ron had become a prefect. He had almost feared it would be him (he would have felt as though he had taken something from Ron who had always wanted to be noticed for more than only for being just another Weasley and the best friend of Harry Potter).

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived, the boy who had defeated the Dark Lord, the boy who was rich and famous and had everything he wanted… except a family who loved him, for which he would have given all of the above without a second thought.

The Weasleys were almost like a family to him; they—particularly Mrs Weasley—gave him a sense of belonging. Ron was what Harry would have wanted a brother to be like. And Ginny… Harry smiled at the thought of her. Yes, she had been his girlfriend for over a year and a half already…

The Dursleys, on the other hand, were no family to him; they were not his family. They despised him because he was a wizard, just like his father and mother had been. And they were as Muggle (non-magical) as a human being could ever be. Harry's mother had been a Muggle-born witch, a witch from a family that consisted (almost) entirely of non-magical folk. Aunt Petunia was Lily Potter's sister. Petunia had hated her sister for being special, she had been jealous that their parents had been so proud of having a witch in the family. And that was the reason she despised Harry so immensely, too. Because he was different, abnormal, as un-Dursleyish as possible, just like his mother and father—and Harry was glad that he was.

James and Lily Potter were dead. They had been killed by the most vicious and evil Dark wizard of the twentieth century—Tom Marvolo Riddle who had given himself the name Lord Voldemort, commonly called He Who Must Not Be Named or You-Know-Who, since people were too afraid to even utter his real name. Lily Potter had died protecting little Harry from Voldemort and he had killed her… But when he'd tried to curse Harry, who had been a little over a year old then, the curse had somehow rebounded and left Harry unscathed except for a thin, lightning bolt shaped scar on his forehead, while it had hit Voldemort and weakened him considerably.

It had taken him more than thirteen years to come back fully—and Harry had been involved in his resurrection. The Dark Lord had, with the help of his servant Wormtail, used Harry's blood to come back and had then intended to finish what he had started such a long time ago. Harry, however, had escaped and even managed to bring Cedric Diggory's body back, the second Hogwarts champion in the Triwizard Tournament… Harry still felt guilty about his death. If he hadn't insisted that they take the Triwizard Cup together, Cedric would still be alive… It was a comfort that no one seemed to really blame him for this—not even Mr and Mrs Diggory or Cho Chang, who had been very close to Cedric. That was a small comfort but it was something. And the memory wasn't quite as lively as it had been anymore…

Harry had a small scar on his right forearm now where Wormtail had cut him, Wormtail, who had betrayed Lily and James Potter when they had made him their Secret Keeper so they could go into hiding. The Dark Lord would never have found them had Peter Pettigrew (Wormtail was just Peter's Animagus form's name; he had been a rat—literally) not delivered the information about their whereabouts willingly. He had been responsible for their deaths and he had blamed Sirius Black, another one of James Potter's best friends—and Harry's godfather—for their deaths and for the deaths of twelve Muggles and his own, too. Peter had faked his death by blowing up a street full of Muggles when Sirius had tried to stall him. He had openly accused him of betraying his best friends and then blown up the street…

For twelve years he had then been living as a rat by the name of Scabbers with the Weasley family, while Sirius had spent the same amount of time in Azkaban, the wizard prison that had been guarded by Dementors, creatures who sucked the happiness out of you and sometimes even sucked their prisoners' souls out when they had been sentenced to the Dementor's Kiss. It was a fate worse than death, since the body was still alive but an empty shell… However, Sirius had escaped from Azkaban, when he had seen an issue of the Daily Prophet which had had a picture of the entire Weasley family on the front page—including Scabbers, the pet rat, Wormtail in his Animagus form, who had been at Hogwarts with Ron. Ron had owned him then, and thus he had been in the perfect position to strike against Harry as soon as Voldemort would call…

Sirius had wanted to kill Wormtail, but the whole wizarding world had thought he was after Harry. Thus, Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic, had stationed the Dementors at Hogwarts to catch Black as soon as he showed himself. And Harry, too, had thought he was in danger, which he hadn't been, after all—at least not from Sirius. The Dementors, however, were an entirely different matter. They made him hear his parents' deaths, see the green flash of Avada Kedavra, the Killing curse, and their presence made him faint.

Once they had even almost kissed Harry—he still shuddered at the thought—and Sirius had also been close to receiving the kiss, but had been saved by Harry and Hermione who had rescued him through the window of Professor Flitwick's office on the back of Buckbeak, a Hippogriff who should have been executed, too. Sirius had then escaped along with Buckbeak. Hagrid had been so happy about that, since he blamed himself for the fact that Buckbeak had almost died. The Hippogriff had attacked Draco Malfoy who had been a true bastard—that was what Malfoy was best at—and had taunted the poor animal into attacking him, although Hagrid had told the students how to approach and treat a Hippogriff properly…

Sirius' innocence had been proved shortly before Harry's sixteenth birthday, and Wormtail had received the Dementor's Kiss. It had been only a short time after that, that the Dementors had abandoned Azkaban Fortress and joined the Dark Lord, just as Dumbledore had foretold. And thus, he had sent Hagrid as an envoy to the Giants who had come to aid Hogwarts when it had been attacked only a few weeks ago. Dumbledore had been prepared for the attack, however, since Severus Snape—the greasy-haired, hooked-nosed Potions master, who hated Harry and yet saved his life over and over again—worked as a spy for the headmaster. Snape had joined the Death Eaters again, as far as Harry could tell, pretending to be a loyal servant of Voldemort, thus gathering information for Dumbledore…

The Potions master had changed during the last months. Often he had not even glared at Neville Longbottom when he'd blown up or melted another cauldron, let alone taken away points (which strangely had as a result that Neville's memory concerning the order, in which the ingredients had to be added to a potion, had gotten considerably better). It had almost startled Harry not to be constantly given detention for breathing too loud or smiling a little too broadly at Ron and Hermione's bickering when they should rather have brewed a potion.

However, on other occasions—as rare as they were—it took not much at all to make Snape virtually explode and give detentions as though he were handing out candy—not that he'd ever do that. This man was obviously under a lot of stress—no wonder when you lived in constant fear of being discovered as a traitor by the Dark Lord's minions… Not many people knew about Snape's act, as a means of safety. Harry was sure no one in the Ministry knew about it. The reason why he was sure about this, one word: Fudge. That said everything. Fudge hadn't believed him a single word he'd said when he explained what had happened at the Triwizard Tournament… He hadn't believed Dumbledore either; and he hadn't believed Snape, who had even revealed the Dark Mark, the sign that was burnt into every Death Eater's forearm—a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth. It had been livid. And the way Harry understood it, it gave a very sharp pain when the Dark Lord summoned his followers. Harry had seen him do so once.

Since the return of the Dark Lord, a shadow had fallen over the wizarding world. Many of Harry's fellow students had lost their parents or relatives by the hands of the Death Eaters during the last two years and some people he had known from seeing had died, too. People he had met but hadn't even known their names…

"Dinner is ready!" the shrill voice of Aunt Petunia pierced through the silence that had previously only been interrupted by the chirping of birds. They fell silent instantly at the sound of this yell.

Perfect timing it was. Harry had just finished the last rosebush. Ugly yellow rosebushes they were, not pink or red, not even pure white—Harry would have liked those; he would have sent Ginny one or two (Pig couldn't carry too much weight)—but yellow ones that very quickly turned into different shades of ugly browns after it had been raining; although, now that Harry had tended to them, they looked almost pretty, which they wouldn't be for very long.

Harry tiredly made his back towards the house wishing like never before he could stay with Sirius or the Weasleys for the entire summer. But no, the protection spells required a blood relative near him for a few weeks to work properly. And since there were only the Dursleys—or rather Aunt Petunia as his only blood relative—left of his family, that's were he got to be—for much too long a time, if one asked him… Only then was he allowed to go to the Weasleys' for the remainder of the summer; Sirius unfortunately was too busy fighting the Dark Lord, but he wrote to Harry as often as he could… Weren't there any better spells, ones that would protect him without the Dursleys constantly making his life miserable? Was there not a single curse, anything, that would rid the wizarding world of Voldemort?

As he entered the hall, he could already hear the voice of the one person he despised most of all. His cousin Dudley, that stupid, fat bully. Well, he wasn't that fat any more. He had lost quite a bit of weight—not that Aunt Petunia's attempts at making him keep his diet had been successful. No, it was sheer vanity! Dudley had discovered that girls didn't like it when one ate and looked like a pig—and Dudley had had practice in either one of those things. Hagrid had once hexed Dudley so that a pigtail had sprouted out of his backside. Harry still doubled over in laughter at that image.

Be that as it may, Dudley had discovered the girls, one particular girl to be exact. Dudley actually had a girlfriend—or at least he claimed to have one—a fact that seemed to have made his already oversized ego grow indirectly proportional to his loss of weight.

And right on cue, Harry heard a shrill, high-pitched, penetrating, artificial laughter echoing in the corridor outside the living room. Normally this house had no echoes at all… perhaps it was only echoing in Harry's head? Possible, since this girl's laughter was even worse than Aunt Petunia's most piercing yell.

Harry had a presentiment about whom that killing laughter belonged to: Pat. Dudley had constantly been talking about her, Patricia this, Patricia that… all summer!

Harry hadn't really believed half of what he'd heard; it had been too awful to only imagine that girl. He had even kind of wanted to meet her, see if Dudley told the truth…

Be careful what you wish for. You just might get it.

Right now, Harry would have given anything to make that voice stop wailing. Dudley must suffer from earache already. That might just explain his recent obnoxiousness. Another explanation might have been that Dudley was on a constant sugar-low, something he hadn't been since Aunt Petunia's attempt at setting him on a rather strict grapefruit diet.

"I know, Mr Dursley," she said in her wailing voice, and Harry could hear her give Dudley a noisy smooch on the cheek—or at least he hoped it was only his cheek. Yuck. The thought alone that… No, no, don't think about this. Think about something nice instead.

"Sure you do, Patty," Uncle Vernon answered. "And I sure hope Dudders here—."

"Dad!" Dudley wailed, the pitch of his voice strangely equalling his girlfriend's. Harry couldn't suppress a small snigger as he casually walked into the room. "How many times do I have to tell you? Don't call me D—Oh." Dudley broke off when he grew aware of Harry's presence and muttered something to his girlfriend.

"Hello," she said frostily. Harry stared at her. "So you are…"

"Er… I'm Harry. Harry Potter. Nice to meet you," Harry said, automatically extending his hand for her to shake, which she did, reluctantly, as though she were touching something poisonous; and she smiled broadly and very coldly as she did so.

Harry thought he'd never blink again. She looked so… well… like a younger version of Aunt Petunia, a dark-haired, not quite as bony version of her, but the face was as though one had ripped it off Aunt Petunia and plastered it on this girl.

This did not really surprise Harry. Being raised like Dudley had been… it just had to result in a serious Oedipus complex and voilà! there was the proof to nip all otherwise speculations in the bud.

As shocking as the thought was, Harry was sure those two had found each other. Both as Dursleyish as one could ever be. You had to be that to be liked by Aunt Petunia.

"Patricia Henderson," she still smiled, yet the smile did not reach her eyes. Dudley must have told her things about Harry. He didn't even want to know what he had been telling her during the last year. St Brutus's Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys or something like that? Harry didn't really remember the full name of the school he had been supposed to pretend he attended when Aunt Marge, Uncle Vernon's sister Marjorie Dursley, had come for a week's stay four years ago. But he was positive that that was the least Dudley could have told her. Not that Harry really cared—although it would have been nice to have someone around who didn't look at him as if he were something that deserved to be stepped on and smashed.

"Enough, enough, my dearest," Aunt Petunia interrupted. "Dinner's waiting already—and you," she added, having noticed Harry, "you wash your hands first and don't you dare walk into the kitchen with your dirty clothes still on."

Harry bit back a sarcastic reply such as 'If you'd rather have me walk in there naked, I'm all for it…' Instead he settled for, "Yes, Aunt Petunia," since he didn't want to risk not getting anything to eat at all, turned and walked up the stairs into his room. He grabbed some fresh clothes, went into the bathroom, took a nice and cold shower that cooled his sunburnt neck and back deliciously, hurriedly changed into his fresh clothes and was back down in the kitchen within a matter of minutes. Dudley didn't eat so much and so fast anymore, but better be quick nonetheless.

Not for the first time in his life, Harry asked himself why he let them treat him this way. He was almost seventeen years old, for heaven's sake! Shouldn't he fight them or something? Harry Potter, the boy who'd fought against Voldemort or one of his minions every single year since he had attended Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, couldn't stand up against three Muggles who insisted on treating him like dirt? Why was it that Harry let them go through with this?

The answer was almost too simple.

It was not in his nature to fight them. He was too kind to do that. He may have a sarcastic streak in his character, some kind of grim humour, but he was neither insensitive nor vicious nor anything else that he would have had to be to strike against them. His only weapons against them were words—and he paid dearly for every single one of them, in case they slipped, sometimes fairly unbidden, over his lips.

Thus, Harry still merely kept counting the days until the day he'd leave them. Ten out of twelve months in a year he didn't have to see them, didn't even have to think about them. Ten out of twelve months he was happy, accepted and loved.

Harry sat down in his chair.

Dudley didn't occupy the long side of the table all by himself anymore, so 'Patty' could sit next to him.

Harry shuddered involuntarily at the sight of them, trying not to listen to their hushed conversation that consisted mostly of 'Patty-pumpkin's and 'Duddy-darling's, as he wolfed down his dinner—sneaking a bit of bacon and small pieces of bread into his pocket—for Hedwig who couldn't fly out to hunt as she was still locked inside the cage. It broke Harry's heart to have her look at him with her large round owl eyes and hoot sadly, especially when he had to send his letters with Pig or Errol or whatever owl his correspondence partner used.

Harry knew he did well to eat fast, since mealtimes were the Dursleys' favourite times to insult and verbally abuse him. Harry found it harder and harder to hold his tongue when they did that. Perhaps this was because he wanted to at least give them a reason to treat him abysmally. Perhaps he wanted to deserve being treated the way he was. He wanted to actually deserve every rude word, every slap, every punch (even those of Dudley's). On the other hand… Perhaps he merely had to get it out of his system?

And as if Harry had magicked him into doing it, Uncle Vernon, on whose face Harry could see that he was in a mood that rivalled Dudley's when he was at his worst (of course, only when it concerned Harry), exclaimed, "If that cursed owl continues to make such a racket, I'm going to have it for dinner one day, I swear to you, boy!"

"If Hedwig weren't locked up in her cage, she wouldn't make half the racket she now does," Harry muttered. "If she makes any racket at all."

Harry waited for them to send him up to his room, which they normally did when he spoke up at the table, and they did it at once. That could be expected.

The considerable advantage of that was however, that Harry couldn't very well do the dish-wash if they sent him up to stay there ("And don't you dare come down until tomorrow!"). Perhaps, Harry's subconscious tricked him into speaking up unasked and in the way he did it.

Harry didn't care about them any longer. He merely left the kitchen and went up into his room to do some homework.

"Hi, Hedwig. I've got something for you," he said, shoving the food he'd nicked from the table through the bars of her cage. Hedwig accepted, affectionately giving Harry's finger a little nibbling peck. "I'm sorry, old girl, I'd really let you out if I could. If only I could…"

Hedwig hooted sadly but encouragingly as if she wanted to say, "I'm sorry, too. But it's only a few more weeks… If you can take it, so can I."

"Good night, old girl. I'll try to sleep."

~*~*~

Harry once again had the blankets over his head, a book propped up before him, a piece of parchment resting on the opposite page of the one he was reading, a quill in one hand and a torchlight in the other. He was doing his homework in exactly the way he had been forced to do it every holiday he'd spent at the Dursleys'. In secret.

In an unobserved moment, he had once again been able to pick the lock on the cupboard under the stairs and had sneaked his school things up into his room, carefully covering up his break-in. The Dursleys hadn't noticed anything as Harry's trunk and broomstick were still sitting in there. But Harry doubted they even chanced a glance in there; those things were magical, and magic was something not to be trifled with.

Anyway, Harry had always been one of the few boys who really wanted to do their homework. He had always had to write his essays in secret or quickly during the last days of the holidays when he was at The Burrow; once he had even written them at Florean Fortescue's Ice-cream Parlour in Diagon Alley. That had been very nice, as Florean had not only provided a steady supply of chocolate-nut ice cream but also a lot of information on medieval witch-burnings.

Not so this time.

Harry's Transfiguration and History of Magic essays were already finished. So was Charms. And as Moody had retired after last end of term, Harry didn't have any Defence Against the Dark Arts homework (Yes, there'd be a new teacher for DADA. Not that that would have been unheard of.). Which left him, among others, with Divination. He'd decided to do that particular essay as soon as he was at the Weasleys'. Ron was so creative when it came to making up a not yet covered death scenario for Harry. Should he be worried that Ron was putting so much effort into planning and plotting Harry's untimely demise?

Harry chuckled, pushed up his glasses, and returned his concentration to the task at hand, his quill scribbling furiously but as silently as possible. The Dursleys had quite sensitive ears when it came to any sounds coming from Harry's room. Harry idly asked himself if they'd come in one day and forbid him to breathe.

Another Potions essay. A quite nasty one. It looked like Snape didn't like the thought of any student enjoying his or her stay at home. As usual, it was long, complex and complicated. It was about Polyjuice Potion and was to be regarded as a preparatory lesson for next year's curriculum. As a consequence, no student should be able to display too much knowledge—well, with the exception of Hermione, perhaps. But if Harry hadn't had experience with that particular potion, he would have been completely lost, especially since he didn't have any access to a wizarding library to look some things up. But he had to be careful. Snape was suspicious enough already. He still was.

Harry massaged the bridge of his nose and stifled a yawn, deciding to leave it at that for today… Today? He glanced at the clock. It wasn't today anymore. It was already tomorrow. And it was his seventeenth birthday!

And that meant something else. Only two more weeks and Harry would go to the Weasleys' for the remainder of the summer and escape the Dursleys and Patty-pumpkin who had been here visiting Dudley and torturing Harry's ears whenever he came in overhearing range. Harry avoided the sight of the two together. It made images pop up in his mind that he really didn't need, thank you very much.

Harry rather thought about Ginny, his mind journeying back to the last Christmas holidays at Hogwarts when Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny had had Gryffindor Tower all to themselves—and the boys' dormitory had belonged to Harry and Ginny alone for two weeks (as soon as Ginny had given her brother a good talking-to along the lines, 'Do I interfere in your life? Then keep out of mine!' Harry had stood by at that moment, blushing crimson, as he could almost see on Ron's face where his thoughts had been heading—and not without reason…). Anyway, it had resulted in fourteen nights that very much contributed to Harry's talent at conjuring up a Patronus extraordinaire; a thought to hold on to when he was extremely miserable which, as he lived with the Dursleys, he seemed to be constantly.

Ginny had been so beautiful. How her lovely brown eyes had sparkled when she'd smiled. How her hair, by now well past her shoulders and slightly wavy, had been spread all over the pillow… Her softness, her little hands, her deliciously smooth and hot skin, the few freckles she'd had in winter almost invisible on her flushed skin…

One could easily compare it to flying, Harry's most ecstatic experience until the moment he and Ginny had made love to each other.

To Harry it still felt unreal when his thoughts journeyed back. Stolen hours those had been. Stolen from the world, stolen from Voldemort who still wanted Harry dead if he couldn't have him by his side.

Dead.

But Harry should have died how many times already? Yet, he was alive; and he intended to stay alive for quite some time longer. And if there were nothing else to live for, the thought of Ginny's kisses alone would have been enough to fight for every single minute of life.

Ginny loved him.

Harry had almost thought he'd never hear those words spoken towards him. After all, until Ginny had said them, he hadn't been told that he was being loved, that he was needed. Not a single living soul had ever said the simple three words, 'I love you' to Harry—until Ginny had.

For a moment, Harry had been dumbstruck, unable to answer.

"I love you, Harry," she'd whispered, her blushing face not an inch from his. "I love you."

"You—you love me? Gin… I…" he had stuttered helplessly. "Oh, god, I love you more than I can say."

Harry set aside the book, parchment and quill, carefully stoppering the inkbottle. After all, it was his birthday! Harry would present himself with a completely Potions-essay-free day!

In her cage, Hedwig ruffled her feathers and, several times, hooted softly.

"What's up, old girl?"

She hooted again, tilting her head towards the window.

Harry jumped to his feet and looked out.

Several owls were sitting in the tree slightly opposite his window. Not ordinary owls, but ones that bore letters and packages of various sizes, as various as the owls themselves were.

Harry opened the window to grant the small flock of owls entry. They rose as one and soared in, dropping packets and parcels onto the bed and then waited until Harry would relieve them of the letters that were tied to their legs.

Harry recognized one of them as Ron's immediately. It was a brown barn owl, Athena (Ron called her 'Tina'), who had been carrying two parcels, one of which was very large.

One of the owls removed the letter on his or her own and took off immediately after it had delivered and gotten rid of its burden. That one must be Hermione's. She always sent presents or letters by a rented owl. Harry was used to that. Another one disappeared immediately.

Then there was Errol, bearing merely a letter.

Errol was lying spread-eagled on Harry's bed, his legs pointing at the ceiling, his chest heaving. His eyes were closed; he had definitely fainted. Harry gently took the thick letter that was bound to Errol's leg and carefully placed Errol on the rather shabby and thin pillow before he opened the envelope that bore Harry's name in Ginny's generous and loopy scrawl.

Dear Harry,

Happy Birthday! I haven't forgotten to get a little something for you, don't you worry. I just thought that I'd save Errol from another almost heart-attack and send you only a light piece of parchment… (Ron has already sent his owl on his way, the git. I could have saved Errol the trouble entirely. Pig isn't back yet either. Stupid as I am, I lent him to Fred(!). No idea what he wants to use him for… A Guinea Pig? I've got to save him!!! Fred!!!)

Ten minutes later. I'm back. Pig's fine. He's just not in a state to deliver any mail. Don't worry. He's just turned crimson. Looks cute; but can you imagine your relatives' (or any other Muggles') faces if they saw an owl the size of a red Muggle tennis ball fluttering past their windows? Anyway, now that's settled, I can return to what I actually was about to write…

Errol hasn't collapsed again, has he? Between you and me, it's a miracle that Errol hasn't snuffed it already. He looks as dead on his feet as ever. I suppose he'll still look and faint the same in ten years. Just let him rest a bit, give him a mouthful of water, and he'll be just fine.

(Harry did so, before reading on. Errol blinked wearily, gave something that could be called an owl-language thanks, hobbled to a spot where he found himself apparently quite comfortable, and rested, his head hidden under his wing.)

I'm very much looking forward to your visit. Another two long weeks! How am I ever going to survive them without you here? Hermione's coming over, too. You can imagine that Ron's quite eager to have her here. With You-Know-Who on the loose, it's simply not very safe to meet somewhere else but protected areas, especially for Muggle-borns. By the way, the wards on our house have been improved considerably. They finished yesterday. With the recent Death Eater activities, I wasn't really surprised that Dad found it necessary. But I'm getting more and more worried, Harry.

Gwen Madison (one of my classmates) lost her aunt and uncle in a Death Eater attack. She was supposed to spend some days with them. If they had struck only a day later, she would have been there! I hardly dare imagine…

The thing is, I knew those people, Harry. I talked to them! They weren't strangers like the other ones. Anything could happen. I'm scared. I'm scared that something might happen to my family or to the Grangers or you…

Bill and Charlie are here, too. They arrived just this morning and said they had some weeks off—although I believe they're here only to calm Mum. She's really anxious about our safety. She told us she'd only sleep well again as soon as we've safely arrived at Hogwarts again. That's another month to go…

Well, those weren't the pleasant news I'd have liked to report…

If you can, write back immediately. Write anything. I don't care what you write. I just want to know that you're all right. I hope the Dursleys aren't treating you too bad. By the way, we're still figuring out a way to come and get you that doesn't arouse too much suspicion. It's a pity the Muggles closed the fireplace. Floo powder would have been safe and easy…

We'll find a way, even if we have to get you the Muggle way (Dad would certainly like that).

I love you, Harry, and I miss you more than I can express in words,

Gin

PS: Ron has something to announce as soon as you arrive. He forbade everybody to tell you, as he wants to do that himself. Just one thing: He behaves eerily like Percy lately—although Fred and George wager that he's just rubbing it in. Percy is not amused.

Harry grinned. Percy was always good for a joke. He took everything much more seriously than it actually was. Although what exactly it was that Percy was not amused about, Harry couldn't tell. Or had Ron been—? Was it possible? Well, of course, it was possible. Ron would be delighted if that were so. It must be. Ron the Prefect must have become Ron the Head Boy.

Harry set the letter down and took the next. It bore Ron's untidy scrawl on it.

Happy Birthday, Harry!

How are you doing? Silly question, I know. Everything about you is on the Ginny News every day—although she doesn't want me to read the letters you write to her… Should I grow suspicious? What naughty things are you writing to my sister?! Just kidding.

I'm looking forward to your visit. Hermione agreed to come over too. I wish she were already here, and safe. A Muggle-born in the wizarding world these days… You catch my meaning, don't you? Fortunately, the Grangers are connected to the Floo network and had some security spells cast on their house. It's really a necessity. But who am I telling this?

By the way, I've something to tell you as soon as you're here. I just hope Ginny and Hermione can keep it a secret until then… Just a hint. Percy doesn't like it very much when I rub it in. He always says, "The way you behaved…" and so on and so on. You might have guessed already.

Well, wouldn't want to keep you from opening your present any longer. Hope you enjoy it… You might just get the idea to test them on Dudley… Go ahead! Fred and George say he'd be a very good guinea pig. He could apply for a job at Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes any time…

See you soon, mate!

Ron

PS: Mum sends her love—and a cake. Don't let Dudley go near it. It's Mum's best recipe, and the git doesn't deserve it. But as every cake she bakes is delicious, that doesn't really matter, does it? Ginny helped baking it, by the way…

Harry smiled broadly. Yes, Ron had definitely been made Head Boy…

Now to open the packages.

The first (and relatively large one) contained indeed one of Mrs Weasley's delicious chocolate cakes, and a great deal of cookies and even some pumpkin pasties. "I don't think I'll be hungry the next weeks or so," Harry said, smiling. "Mmm. Yummy."

The considerably smaller parcel of Ron's contained a small treasure—at least when your name was Fred or George Weasley. A collection of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes—A Collection of the Most (In)Famous and Popular Tricks and Treats.

If Harry were to use them on Dudley… After all, there were Ton-Tongue Toffees inside (very dangerous if you didn't have a wizard around to do a counterspell) and the famous Canary Creams, fake wands and an array of other things that Harry hadn't seen before. They must be very recent inventions, so Harry had better treat them with the utmost care, meaning he'd rather leave them untouched. With the twins, you never knew what triggered the magic that was hidden behind a rather unobtrusive-looking candy…

There was a fluttering noise outside the window, and another owl swept through. A middle-sized whitish-grey one bearing a very large longish parcel. Harry immediately recognized the bird as Sirius' owl.

"Hi, Adhara," Harry said as she dropped the parcel onto the bed, landed on Harry's shoulder and stuck out her leg with a letter tied to it. Harry took the envelope, opened it and read (while Adhara affectionately nibbled on his ear),

Hi, Harry,

How are you? Happy Birthday to you. I don't have much time as I'm off to a hearing at the Ministry (again! I should take permanent residence there). I hope they get everything done soon. It's good to know that I'll soon get my motorcycle back. And it wouldn't be too bad to be paid a few galleons for my involuntary stay in Azkaban either. It's the least they could do, really; after all that I've been involved in recently, I'd deserve at least the regular paycheque of a qualified Auror (which I once was, if you remember).

Darn bureaucracy. It's been more than a year already…

Anyway, I've finally gotten access to my Gringotts vault again. Remarkable how well the not very high (to put it mildly) interest rates work when you can't touch your fortune for fifteen or so years. So I figured, the least I could do is buy you a birthday present that would make up for every birthday of yours that I missed. It's nice to be able to hand out real presents and write on rather expensive parchment again, after years of sending you muddy footprints.

Hoping to see you soon,

Sirius

PS: Looks like Remus is going to ask Adhara (my sister, not my owl) to marry him. I wonder when he'll get it out… Imagine that: My best friend will be my brother-in-law—as soon as he gets it out. You know Addi's famous for her cold-feet-syndrome… Moony would like to wish a happy birthday, too.

Dear Harry, (it went on in Remus' even handwriting)

Your godfather will never learn when to keep his mouth shut… And I can't even wish you a happy birthday now that he's already done that. But one thing I can do is spill the beans about something—or rather someone—he would like to keep to himself for the time being, right, Padfoot? Harry, the someone is a young woman by the name of Elizabeth, which (here the writing became illegible, but the letter continued—in Sirius' handwriting…)

That will do, Moony…

Below that came Adhara's fluent script. Harry had only met her a few times but found her very much like Sirius. She'd written a short note, congratulating him to his birthday and telling him that she'd added a signed poster into the parcel Sirius had sent. (Adhara was a professional singer—when she wasn't working with the Order.)

Harry chuckled softly to himself, dropped the letter and settled for opening Sirius' parcel before anything else. It was longish and of considerable size. It was not the first time that Harry had received a parcel like that. And sure enough…

"A new broomstick!" Harry exclaimed before he could stop himself. He heard Uncle Vernon grunt in his sleep and prayed he wouldn't wake up.

After a minute or two of listening closely, Harry decided that it was safe to breathe normally again and began to inspect the broom. The logo FIREBOLT II was engraved on its shiny new handle. If Harry had his old Firebolt in his room, he would have compared them to see what exactly had been improved. (At the moment, it was locked in the cupboard under the staircase. "What do you need a broom for, except sweeping the floor?") But even so, it looked even more aerodynamic than any broomstick he'd ever seen before.

"Wow," Harry whispered in awe, "Sirius, it's great." Then he chuckled. If one of the Dursleys saw Harry moon over a broomstick, they'd send him off to the Muggle equivalent of St. Mungo's faster than he could say 'Quidditch Captain'.

And the poster from Adhara was there, too. It was carefully rolled. After a quick look at it (it was from The Phantom of the Opera), Harry safely put it away. As soon as he had his own apartment or even house, he might frame it and stick it to the wall in the entrance hall or so. But to be able to do that, he'd have to keep it hidden from greedy Dursley-hands.

The next letter was from Hermione.

Happy Birthday, Harry,

Italy is great. I've included some cards and photos, by the way. If the Muggles knew the real reason why they simply can't get the Leaning Tower of Pisa stand straight… Anyway, it's fantastic. We must have seen half of Italy by now. You wouldn't believe how much magic is involved in everything in this country. I've taken so many notes about everything; I just hope I can use them for an essay or something. It's so interesting that some teacher simply must want us to know about all those things.

Anyway, I hope you don't have to join Dudley in a diet again. Don't get me wrong, but you tend to look dreadful when you've only eaten small slices of grapefruit for weeks. Perhaps you should ask Sirius to come over and scare the Dursleys a bit? He strikes me as the kind of man who'd enjoy such a thing greatly. Somehow, he's still the Marauder… How's he doing? The bureaucratic procedures should be done soon and then he'll finally be able to live a normal life again and have a family. God knows he deserves everything good you can think of. Have you heard of him lately? (Stupid question, I know. If only I could use an Erasing Charm…)

You're visiting the Weasleys too! This is so great. All of us together for two weeks. I must ask Ron to finally teach me a bit about Quidditch. I can't bear the way he looks at me when I once again display my absolute ignorance concerning the Chudley Cannons and Quidditch in general. I already read my copy of Quidditch Through the Ages numerous times, but it seems to be not enough. If Ron knew as much about Transfiguration and Charms as he does about Quidditch, he'd be a genius.

Well, I'll see you in two weeks.

Hermione

PS: I almost forgot. I am Head Girl! You're probably going to say, 'Why, of course. I knew it. Who else?' But seriously. I didn't really believe it until I got the letter. Mum and Dad are so proud!

PPS: I hope you like your present…

Harry tore open the parcel that bore his name in Hermione's handwriting. There was a writing set inside, consisting of non-blotching ink and a quill that prevented you from writing illegibly. 'Your notes never looked more professional,' it read.

He grinned. That was so typical Hermione. She was the one who always sent useful presents. But it was really exquisite. The picture on the front showed a little bearded wizard who kept advertising the content of the box. Words appeared in a little bubble along with little pictures. 'The ink inside an intricately ornamented refillable bottle', it read. 'The eagle feather quill equipped with a very fine unbreakable nib.'

Harry gently set it aside for the time being.

There was another letter, one that Harry hadn't seen before because of the almost fantastic arrivals and departs of owls. Harry had never before been showered in owls and their respective letters and parcels as he was now.

It bore the emblem of the Ministry of Magic.

"I haven't done any illegal magic," Harry muttered as he opened the envelope and unfolded the parchment.

Dear Mr Potter,

We are pleased to inform you that as of this instant you fall no longer under the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery.

(Of course! Ron had received his letter five months ago when at Hogwarts! Harry had completely forgotten about it…)

At the age of seventeen, you are being regarded as an adult wizard even though you haven't graduated yet. You may also apply for an Apparation license as soon as you see fit. Your teachers or guardian(s) might be the right address to help you decide when you should start. Regard this only as a reminder. It is completely optional.

As to the use of magic, however, we must advise you to act with the utmost care as you live in a Muggle area.

("Not for much longer," Harry muttered.)

Use it well.

Sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk, Improper Use of Magic Office

Something was added in a neat and even writing.

PS: Happy Birthday, Harry Potter. Take care.

Harry remembered Mafalda Hopkirk—or her name. She had sent him a warning letter once when serious magic had been detected in the Dursleys' house. It hadn't been Harry's fault. Dobby the house-elf had destroyed Aunt Petunia's pudding in the kitchen because he'd wanted to keep Harry from going back to Hogwarts. Dobby had been Mr Malfoy's house-elf and had gotten wind of something really awful. But no matter how much Harry had enquired, Dobby had refused to tell, not because he hadn't wanted to, it was just that every time he'd spoken ill of Lucius Malfoy, he had had to hit himself in one way or the other. Of course, Harry had arrived at Hogwarts nonetheless; not in the usual way, but he had arrived.

The last letter bore the Hogwarts crest. Harry's booklist for the following year would be inside.

Harry skimmed through the header and the first paragraph. Dear Mr Potter… 1st September… Deputy Headmistress M. McGonagall…

Then came the list.

Hideously Advanced Charms and Spells by Damien Houdini

The Appendix to Hideously Advanced Charms and Spells: A Practical Guide to the Most Splendid Transfigurations by Damien Houdini

The Dark Arts by A. D. Shade

A Hundred and Twelve Duelling Hexes, Paperback Edition by Drew Quick

Advanced Potions for Every Occasion by Newt Slicer

A History of Magic—From Agrippa to Zoroaster, Revised and Enhanced Edition by Bathilda Bagshot

Forewarned is Forearmed: How to Prepare Yourself for the Unexpectable by Crystal A. Tattore

Optional (but recommended):

Preparations for the N.E.W.Ts: A Guide to Give You a Heads-up When You Think It's Too Much to Cram Into Your Head by Optima Eversmile

"Well, Hedwig, that's that…" Harry stopped dead. "I'm allowed to do magic?" He grinned. "As my first deed as an officially declared adult wizard, I'll be setting you free from your cage… Now, where's my wand?"

Harry had of course tried to open Hedwig's cage numerous times. But this time Uncle Vernon had put a lock on it that rivalled the security measures of the Tower of London. There had been no way to overcome it. Until now.

Harry rummaged around on his desk, in the wardrobe and under the bed until he found his trusty holly wand in a dark corner. It must have fallen off the bedside table.

As soon as he had wriggled out from under the bed again and brushed the inches thick dust from his clothes, he cleared his throat, and head held high went to Hedwig's cage.

"Old girl, Milady Hedwig, this wizard needs no key to open a lock as secure as the one on your cage. He only needs his wand," Harry said, "and a word. Alohomora!"

And with several snaps the lock opened and with it the cage's door, releasing Hedwig who flew out through the window with a grateful hoot, after she'd flexed and tested her wings by soaring around the room in a circle.

Harry smiled as he looked after her, her white feathers glinting in the silvery moonlight as she swept down on her prey. She hadn't been able to fly or hunt for weeks. Harry didn't expect her to be back before morning light. Thus, he went to bed, unknowing that the following day would bring the comeuppance for his brave deed of freeing a lady from her prison.

Next chapter:

The comeuppance, a lot of redheads, snogging teenagers and a bit of random silliness to establish a good mood for the time being—oh and a cameo by Draco Malfoy.