Alastor Pruett Hogwarts, History Class, Fifth period Slytherin Seventh Years

"Not much is known about Harry Potter after his part in the Great War(1997- 2000). Some say, he flew away into the universe in search of greater truths, others say he went overseas to fight other evils. When he resurfaced, ten years after the Battle of Kent, the world immediately entered into another turmoil. Does anyone know what it was?"
"Very good, Mr. Hagrid. From late 2010 to early 2012, the world was plunged into another war. The Death Eater Resurgence, or Resurgence as it was called, claimed the lives of at least three thousand wizards, and untold numbers of Muggles. Their army of giants, chimeras, harpies, and other dark creatures came forth and laid waste to whole countrysides. But, for reasons alone, after the wintry January month of 2012, their attacks began to cease, and their movements became confused and disorderly. One of my ancestors, Elizabeth Pruett, led the final march into their secret stronghold located in Croatia, and apprehended their leader, thereby ending the resurgence."
"It is curious to note that Harry Potter disappeared during this Resurgence, and that there are no accounts of what he did during this time. The only passing mention of him is in the twelve volume anthology written by the late Percy Weasley—which, as an historian, I find to be utter drivel."

Ultimate Harry Potter
By Oirams

Chapter 6 Old Enemies

The Hallowed Halls of Hogwart's. The air was foul. Like the smell of age-old parchment coupled with the acidity of uncleanly children. As it should be. The smells had presided over Hogwart's for nearly a millennium, and it would continue to do so, until its very last breath.
Harry took into himself huge wafts of this pungent air, and then thought to himself: God, that smelled good.
"Harry?" repeated his companion for the fourth time. "Where are you going? Dumbledore's is this way."
"Oh," said Harry apologetically. "It's just...this place...well..."
Dennis smiled knowingly, and began to lead the way once more. The long winding stairs unfurled like political posters as they flapped nonchalantly into decidedly mazelike paths. It was absurdity to the Nth degree. Mobius corridors that led absolutely nowhere. Hallways that often wrote their own graffiti. To any sane person, it was utterly inefficient. But to its users (the students that would be abounding here soon) it was something new, something to entertain them as they ambled from classroom to classroom.
"Are you sure you can do this?" Harry asked. "It'll only take a second to retrieve the Marauder's map from—"
"Of course, I can! I'm Dennis, remember!"
Harry conceded. After all, Dennis did love puzzles.
Unfortunately, his affinity for it did not translate into expertise.

Dennis' face was sheepish, such was his embarrassment. "Sorry, Harry, I think we're..." "Excuse me, sirs. Are you lost?" Who? Turning around, Dennis saw to whom the high-pitched voice belonged. Oh, a student. My god. What the hell's he wearing? The Boy gave the word 'gaudy' a whole new meaning. He dared to wear a leather vest-Not just any vest; it had hot pink fringes and...get this...was totally orange. Even his sandals did not escape Dennis' notice. But then, how could it? The Boy's shoes were practically emitting ultraviolet rays. The clincher was his hat, however. The Boy sported a straw one, with a sash over it that had many weird, homemade items sewn onto its green surface. From key chains to zippers, and, of course, the quintessential component in all good hats, neon purple feathers-manner of animal had neon feathers?

"Hello, kid...We're...uh...here on special business, you see...er..." started Harry as he tried his hand at distraction. He was not very good, and after a few stuttering attempts, it was Dennis who had the proper response. "Don't you mind who we are. Aren't you past your curfew?" Dennis had two hands on his hips. He was trying his mostest to look authoritative. "Second years aren't suppose to be out this late, as I recall." The Tall Boy laughed. His voice was thunderous. "Oh no. I'm not due for Hogwart's 'til for another year. Pa says I jerst tall for me age." The Boy narrowed his eyes before whispering conspiratorially, "Tho', like you, I'm not 'posed to be here either. How bout we both keep hush hush bout this little running on each other. Laters." The Boy gave his newfound friends a knowing wink and then ran off. He was fleet-footed but every step he strode was off-kilter and the fact that he hadn't plummeted down the stairs had to be due to some extraordinary gift—namely, luck. Harry ignored the peculiarity. The Boy was still growing, and the ungainliness was to be expected. After all, Ron...had been the same way. "Harry, are you all right?" "It's nothing. Come on. Let's be on our way." Remember when we used to play hide-and-go-seek here? You always let Hermione find you. You old softy. The memory played fanciful in Harry's head. These fantasies were unhealthy, Harry knew, and he struggled to forget. The stairs had fled again, forcing them to map yet another path up the winding tower. While the maze gave Dennis some pleasure, Harry was not so easily amused. I don't have time for this. Ever since he had arrived in England, Harry had not been well. And, right now, he felt the entirety of his disease. He coughed and felt a slimy aura threaten to escape from his bowels. He pushed it down. It was his 'bad blood' acting up again. His sickness. He didn't mind the death it omened but the inconvenience of it was annoying. Harry swallowed the filth all the way down to his stomach, where it fizzled and cracked. Morning class would soon begin, and he did not want the students to neither smell nor see his blood. For some reason, this was desperately important to him.
"Do you need a moment? To compose?" asked Dennis. "You seem a bit off to me, like you're about to throw up or something—Bollocks.."
Harry eyes narrowed and his mouth began to retch. Slow at first then torrential. It smelled almost as bad as it looked.
Dennis tiptoed over the resulting vomit.
"A ham sandwich for lunch, eh?" He grinned, shoved up his sleeves, and began the process of removing Harry's stomach bile from off Hogwart's (usually pristine) floor. The blood was easily cleaned away by his magic but the smells and stains of Harry's inner foulness were beyond even Dennis' power to contain. Harry just stood there, and watched with indignity as Dennis magicked the cleaning spells. He didn't feel obligated toward Dennis—first, for saving him from the Auror headhunters, or for taking care of him in general. No, what he felt was more human, more primal. He felt inferior and, had Harry not long ago surrendered his pride, anger. As the march continued on to Dumbledore's, they were both silent. Harry gave long strides, and stared unwaveringly at the floor in front of him. Dennis attempted again and again to bring up a conversation but after a few awkward silences, he stopped trying. Stop it, Harry, Dennis thought. Save your scary looks for your enemies. I'm a friend, right? Right?
The two walked on. Harry in front, and Dennis, steadily behind. It was an intolerable atmosphere, with Harry exuding his hostility, and Dennis, desperately needing toiletries, but Dennis strode on diligently. When they arrived, both assumed the other would knock on the door, and, as they stared at each other, they began to laugh.
"Look, Den, I've been a jerk. I'm sor—"
"Forget about it. It's not been a very good day. For both of us," Dennis replied. He squinted at the door and read out a few lines to himself. He nearly choked with laughter.
The door's sign read:
Alby's
Headmaster ^ Dumbledore's Office
Please remember not to knock. You'll scare me..

Dennis shook his head. Albus Percival Brian Wulfric Dumbledore was the only person in the world who would graffiti his own office door. The old man was improper, kiddish, and, at times, spoke with a humor that was entirely his own. Even with all these idiosyncrasies (or because of them), he was still loved by a great many people—including Dennis.
But when they opened the door, they did not find the old man. Instead, strangers crowded the ovular room. And the noise, now that they were inside the office, was deafening. French, German, Norwegian, English, as well as Mathematics were being thrown against each other in tumults and torrents.
"Nein! Verstehen sie nicht! Wihr sein am Rande eines Krieges stehen—"
"Oui! "Voulez-vous cesser de me cracher dessus pendant que vous parlez!"

The German and the Parisian were almost up in arms against each other but a small Norwegian stood between them, trying to mediate things. Unfortunately, both parties were heavy-set beings and towered over their mediator several times over. He was shoved many, many times. The Norwegian ambassador had always been a patient man but, after the seventh push, even he was near his boiling point.
Children. A crisis happens, and this is how these people react, the Norwegian thought as he was again shoved away. Pitiful. "Vær så snill, gentleman! Stop and behave, please. We have guests!" As the attention focused on Harry, he could almost feel his ears popping from the pressure. Their staring eyes went from his face, to his trademark black-rim glasses, and then finally to his scar. Many of them began to whisper. Harry understood the tone if not the words. It was the same old thing, the same old story, just retold in a different time and place. And Harry was getting sick of it. Sick of them! Dennis frowned at Harry's heaving chest. Now was not the time for tantrums of any kind, no matter how justified. "Let it go," he whispered into Harry's right ear. "We need them." "I wasn't mad," Harry lied. As if it mattered even if he had been. Like if he could scare them. They were wizards, and Harry was a mere mortal. If anything, it was Harry who should be fawning and afraid. Harry sighed once again. I wasn't meant to live like this. "I think we were the last to arrive. Let's just sit down and wait for Dumbledore," Harry said lethargically." In silence, they made their way to their assigned chairs. The office was ovular in shape, and the chairs were lined up accordingly. The French and German parties stared across from each other, scowling and fidgeting all the while. The Norwegians were placed between them, a buffer to any aggressions that might develop. These foreigners numbered six persons and they filled up the entire left wing of Dumbledore's office. "Why were we placed here?" came a question from the group. "Why sit with these uglies when there's plenty of space over there." The man pointed to the right, and the group began to argue over who could relocate their places. "Because...it is reserved for our other guests, so kindly sit back down," came the sturdy reply. The people in the room, both the foreigners in the left wing, and the Englishmen in the right looked around to see where it came from. Finally, a panel slid open from the ceiling above of them and a recognizable figure floated down with full regalia and fanfare. Dennis could not help but smirk.
"Dumbledore, you old drama queen. Can't you just use the door like
normal people?" The old wizard touched down. He chuckled, "But it's so very much more spectacular this way. And I do so love spectacles. Besides, with all the hubbub Herr Krieg and Monsieur Montague were causing, I was a bit afraid to enter my own office. Seems rather outrageous, wouldn't you say, Mr. Creevey?" Although the tone was mirthful, Albus' face was far from friendly. "Very," replied Dennis. He glared at the Parisian and German diplomats, as if telling them: oh you're gonna get it now. Now that Dumbledore's here.
But then came even more babble as the German and Parisian heads began their apologies to Dumbledore. The diplomats were respectful...well, to a degree. After all, the man had defeated Grindelwald and an accomplishment like that had gained him the gratitude of every race subjugated by that past evil. Even though wizards (like most humans) were notorious for forgetting favors, there was a small instinct that told most to respect Dumbledore. Besides, it was never a wise thing to disrespect a powerful wizard. Never. The German was the first to make his excuse. "Oh, cause trouble? Me? Monsieur Montague und I sind the best of friends. It was no more than a discussion...between friends!"
"Oui! It is as Kriego says. We were merely—"
"The name's Krieg, dumpkoff!"
"Cretin!"
"Frog-eater!"
Dumbledore stamped his foot and the sound reverberated magically across the whole of the room.
"Gentleman! This is very, very unbecoming. You are here to represent the interest of your country, and I must say, you two reflect it very poorly," Dumbledore scolded. "Now hug each other so we may begin." Dumbledore mimicked hugging motions and then folded his arms. The Norwegian Ambassador grimaced. Over the years, as a member of the Wizengamot, he had relied and followed much of Dumbledore's advice. The old man's counsel was always logical. Always sound. As for everything else, it was safe to say that Dumbledore was completely insane. "Well, start hugging. We haven't all day."

"Don't play your games with me, Albus. I do no take kindly to your brand of ridicule," Herr Krieg said menacingly. "Remember, I came here at YOUR behest! I-our country will not be treated like this! We are not one of your students to be--" Before Herr could slam his hand down onto Dumbledore's desk, he was stopped. In a flurry of wings and scratches, the German had been beaten down to the ground Dumbledore chuckled. Fawkes, you big showoff. He bade his bird to return and Fawkes flapped happily back, even taking the time to pause in mid-flight to give Krieg a smug stare. Krieg did not notice. He was much too relieved to still be alive. The room was completely silent, except for Harry, Dennis and the Norwegian group, which were snickering up a storm. "Thank you, Mr. Krieg, for not damaging my desk. It is old wood. Very hard to come by," Dumbledore delivered with only the tiniest smile on his face. He turned away and spoke firmly. "Again, I shall enumerate. This is my office; this is my school. If you wish to behave like children here, I suggest you go somewhere else. I'm too old for this rubbish. I've allotted ten minutes for this meeting, and we've already used up too much. Let us begin, shall we? Mrs. Trelawney?" A gaunt woman appeared to his right. Harry's left eyebrow raised. Trelawney? The Oracle? What was she doing here? She's not part of the Order. What possible use could Albus have of someone like her? "Yes, Albus?" "The rest of the group may come in now." Trelawney opened a side door (or was it a back door? Magical offices tend to cast off geographic convention) and in came a veritable troop.
"Thank God..." Harry whispered as he saw and recognized the faces that
came in. "I haven't seen you people for so long..."
One of the figures threw back the hood of his cloak. The man's face
was revealed. Although, it was an ugly one, there was much hidden
within. Nothing could defeat him. This was a warrior. This was a legend. This was... "Alastor Moody? Sonuvabitch! What the hell are you doing here!" yelled Krieg from the floor he sat on. He seemed to forget that, just moments ago, he had been thrashed like a schoolboy by a birdie. "Hey, Craig. Nice to see you too."
"The name's Krieg..."
"So, what's going on, we left our son with the neighbor, and I want to get back before the Johnsons can corrupt my son with their version of the Bible."
Moody sat gruffly down, took a look at Harry, smiled a bit, and then went back to his usual dour demeanor.
"Old Man Moody re-married?" Harry whispered to Dennis.
"Yeah, you wouldn't believe to who..."

"Ahh," said Dumbledore. "Everyone is here now. Let me make the introductions." He pointed at the diplomats, "These are the emissaries I requested from the three countries affected by the past events. The Norwegians: Mister and Mrs. Amon. Monsieur Monatague and his attaché, Madame Belluci from the France Ministry. And I'm sure you all know Herr Krieg and his eldest son, Sigmund.

Dumbledore pointed to his right now.
"My dear diplomats, you may not know who these people are, be sure, you will not find them in any history books but they have played roles more vital than you will ever know. The bald one—" The one with the hat frowned. "—is my good friend, Kingsley Shacklebolt. And the two sitting next to him, is Dennis Creevey and Harry Potter. The one on the lonely spot to the right, is Alastor Moody and his lovely wife, Nymphadora Tonks. There will be one more to join this company but he will have to be briefed later, seeing as how we are already behind schedule. Now, I'm sure you diplomats have questions. Why have I called you all here? Why have I reassembled the Phoenix Order?—"
The Norwegian spoke up.
"Reassembled? When was the Phoenix Order ever disbanded? I've visited your Ministry's—"
"The true Phoenix Order works best in the dark. The Ministry's version of Order is no more than a front, so if an attack should come, it would fall on them and not on the true defenses." Dumbledore paused. "It was Minister Percy's idea to propagate this false Order, and, I must say, it showed considerable foresight. As you all know, the Ministry of England, as well your own, were attacked by unknown forces just last week. I have been quite busy calling forth the Order's agents from their hibernation, and they have found out very interesting things for me. But there is only so much one can do with mere whispers. I shall need physical presences. If you would follow Mrs. Trelawney into my solarium, she shall brief you on what is needed. Good day."

"But.."
"That's all!...Who do you think is behind this...WE demand answers..."
"Is it Voldemort?"
"Is it Harry?"

"You diplomats better close your rat mouths," growled Moody from his chair. Tonks was twirling his hair with an amused look on her face. "You are not the only important diplomats he has to see today. Your countries may seem to be the only ones that have been assaulted, but I assure you, that is not the case. Now get up and follow me."
Moody placed his hands in his pockets and bundled off. It was strange to see him out of battle gear. It was even stranger to see him in a fine Gallagher six-piece robe. Harry grinned at Moody's fidgeting. Moody had never been one to be at ease. Thank god, Harry thought. At least there are some things that won't change. But...
Moody married Tonks? Aren't they like decades apart?

"Harry, don't stare at them like that. You'll burn your eyes out," whispered Dennis jokingly. "And, it's not as disgusting as you think. In fact, once you find out how old Tonks really is..."

"DRACO!!!" Harry screamed.
Sitting with a smirk in the center of the solarium was a blond man. His robes were jet black, and his wand was pointed straight at Harry's face.
"Hello, Potter," Draco sneered. "Miss me, do you?"

---------------------------------------------------------------------------- -------------------------------

"Draco!" Harry screamed again. "Yes, you bastard." Draco sheathed his wand, and turned to look at Trelawney with droll eyes. "Can we speed this up? I've got many other things to do." Harry was completely silent. The Malfoy beast before him was acting casual but Harry was not at all convinced. Draco and him shared a history full of blood and vengeance. Draco's father had killed countless of Harry's friends during the Train Massacre. And Harry, months afterwards, in a fit of fury, had reduced Lucius' wife to a paraplegic. These were not simple things. Neither were they forgivable. Trelawney looked concernedly between Potter and Malfoy. She rolled her eyes. It was beyond her meager intelligence to fathom Dumbledore's true intentions. But if he trusted Malfoy, then...
She spoke: "Your orders, are within these manila envelopes. Please destroy them when you have finished." "Malfoy will head to Norway with the Amons." "The Moodys will accompany the Krogs back to Germany." "It's Krieg, dammit!" "That leaves...Potter with the French ambassadors."

Both Monsieur Montague and Madame Belluci were visibly aggravated by this announcement but they put a brave face on. "Ah, Mr. Potter," Montague smiled meekly. "It will be a pleasure to work with you." "Yeah," replied Harry dryly. "I'll bet."

Trelawney handed out the envelopes one by one, starting with Alastor Moody, followed by Draco Malfoy, and lastly to Potter. Her eyes flared. An electric pulse seemed to reverberate and crackle around the point of contact between her and Harry. Alarmed, Harry pulled away, and she crumpled to the ground. "Miss Trelawney! Are you alright?" Winds issued from her pores and an ungodly light poured out from every seven of her orifices. Her voice was thunderous, and her face, could it be described, was the very image of terror.
"The End is Nigh
When the dead shall become free
As the morning dies
Where Two shall follow Three."

"Beware the Son of Adelaide
His hand be laden to the brim with prayers
Filled with thorns of hope
And take careful heed of what he boasts
For blood is his only recourse."

"Someone help me bloody hell write this stuff down!" screamed Moody.
"Don't worry, darling," said Nymphadora calmly. "This is an old prophecy. I remember it."
"Old?"
"Not just old. It's a direct translation from Ancient Greek...from when the Oracle inhabited a Telmissian girl named Tabitha," she said plainly. There was a nostalgic look on her face as if she were remembering better days. She continued, "Anyways, there's a full page of the complete prophecy in my records. Now help me get something for Sybil to bite on. I don't want her to gnaw her tongue off."
Sybil Trelawney was spasming violently on the floor now, and the language that issued from her mouth was barely human. The wizards around her were at once repulsed and amazed at the scene. For many, this was a first experience with a genuine Oracle Possession. Evidently, the literature that they had read on the subject was more than just a little inaccurate.
"Moody! I said, now!"
Moody grumbled, and reluctantly inserted his wand between Sybil's frothing mouth. Tonks(Mrs. Moody now, of course) heaved Sybil's form up and onto her arms, and began to step through the northernmost of the four exits.

As their forms disappeared into the dark corridors, there was a silence in the air. A bewildered silence. What the hell was going on?
Harry's eyes were fixed directly on Draco, however. How could Dumbledore allow a...Malfoy...into such a secret and important meeting? After all, the Malfoys weren't especially known for their loyalty. In fact...

"So?" Draco asked with a sneer. "I'm going to leave now. I do have my orders." He held up his manila envelope with the Norway instructions. In a flash of green flame, the papers became ashes.
"And Potter, after this is over, you and I, we've got unfinished business. You understand?"
Potter's face eased. "Look, about your mother..."
Draco black eyes glinted madly, "Don't even try to explain. I was there. Yes, I was there. I saw you. Unlike the rest of your friends. I saw you. The real you."
Great, Harry thought as he watched Draco's cape billow into the southernmost exit. Another person that wants me dead. Just what I need.

There was a brief shuffling as the people inside the solarium opened their envelopes to read their orders.
Harry opened his:

Dear French Ambassadors and to their charge, Mr. Potter,

The attacks on your Ministry, if I am not wrong, are but the first of
many. While I can only hope that your defenses will be enough, there
is but one way to be safe. Obliterate the enemy. But first, we must
find the snake to kill the snake. Your tasks are simple but, still, if
my surmises are correct, they will be more dangerous than you can
afford.
But I shall not send you to the Lion's den wholly unprepared. Ever
since Voldemort's demise, I've not been idle. It is unfortunate but
evil such as his is never an easy thing to uproot. I had hoped, after
Bellatrix's defeat five years ago, that there would be, at last, some
semblance of a steady peace. Sadly, as you can see by the recent
attack on your Ministry, that was an overly optimistic view. In
hindsight, there were more than a few clues that the Deatheaters were
once again on the move. Were I a few years younger, I would have had
them all rounded up by now. I am not saying it to be boastful. Just
realize how important your parts are in all of this. Should you fail,
expect no saving grace. I can nay lead a calvary to the rescue
anymore. Here is what I've learned.
Five months ago, I received a missive from one of my agents that the
remnant Deatheaters were researching large quantities of purified
Frankincense. Frankincense is a potent sap naturally and in its
magically-induced concentrated form, a candle made from it could last
for near decades. But other than smelling pleasant there are no other
properties. So, at that time, I dismissed it. But my agent was adamant
that it portended to some greater plan, though he himself did not have
any theories onto why they would need such quantities of Frankincense.

My agent is now dead.
I do not know what you may find. It is my hopes that should you
uncover their goals for this substance; the resulting information may
eventually lead to the discovery of our true enemy. The dossier
enclosed has some information regarding the corporation that supplied
the Deatheaters. The Conner-Houdin Co. is a well-guarded place. It
will not be easy to ask them anything, much less extricate answers
from them.
Remember. A person has already died to obtain this information. So be
careful and godspeed.

Yours truly,
A.P.B.W.
Dumbledore

Harry noticed that the Montague and his attaché Belluci were already burning up their documents. He hurried to do the same.
Without magic, the only thing fire he could produce was from butane.
It's a good thing I smoke, he thought, fumbling in his pocket for the Zippo his girlfriend back in the States had bought him just a month ago. Where the hell is it?
The paper he held began to tingle softly.
What the hell?
The paper in his hand began to glow softly, only slightly so that only he would notice, and the words began to reform themselves.

Dear Harry,

Hello, Harry. It's been a long time since we've had a talk. And
a longer time still before I can fully forgive you. I know it wasn't
your fault, well, I just can't get past myself on that one. I hope you
understand.
About the Corner-Houdin company, there's additional information
that can only be entrusted to you. The agent that Dumbledore wrote you
about? His name was Victor Krum. Yes, Harry, the same Krum that was
murdered in Hamburg.
So, you can see, the situation in France isn't as kind as you'd think.
And we only decided to send you because of your link with Krum's
informant. Now that Krum's dead, he's gone underground—somewhere in
the Louge District, I believe, but he's spooked. Spooked bad. Even if
we find him, we need to have someone he'd trust. That's where you come
in. Finding Neville should be your topmost priority. I have a feeling
that, once he's uncovered, the threads to this mystery will finally be
unraveled.
And Harry, please come back alive. Contrary to public opinion, I don't
hate you. I would never do that.

Yours truly,
Arthur Weasley

P.S. Try to see Dumbledore before you go. Don't tell him that I told
you that he's sick. He made me swear not to tell you. You do know that
he thinks the world of you, right? Just see him before you leave for
France.

Dennis Creevey arched his back on his chair. He was yawning surreptitiously.
"Oh, stop it, Den," Harry grinned falsely. He could not let Dennis see how disturbed he was. "I know you want to know what was in my envelope. Just ask."
Dennis returned an indignant look before submitting a, "Fine, you got me. I'm dying from curiosity here. So tell me, where exactly in France are we heading to?"

Harry had finally found his Zippo. He scratched a flame out, and watched slowly as it began to eat its way slowly up, word by word, sentence by sentence.

"We're going to..." began Harry. His eyes stared at the two still un- burnt lines of Arthur Weasley's letter. ...I can't forgive you... ...I hope you understand...
...He's sick...Truly... "Harry? Are you there?" Harry snapped out from his reverie. He brushed the ashes from his corduroys, and began to head for the easternmost exit. "Let's go see Dumbledore, first," Harry said softly. "Everything else..." ...I can't forgive you... Harry sighed. "Everything else...can wait." Harry left the Solarium with a very irritated Dennis Creevey in tow. Monsieur Montague followed closely behind. Being partnered with Harry Potter was not something he had wanted. Played wrong, this could—would become a fatal mistake for his already shakey career. In fact, judging by the rumors regarding the Harry, it could just be plain fatal. Montague shivered just thinking about it. "Madame Belluci, a little hurry please. We are very behind schedule. Okay?" "Yes," returned Belluci. "Yes, sir." Belluci, however, stalled a little behind. When she was sure that she was the last one still inside the solarium, she produced a small black box from beneath her tight-fitting turtleneck robe. "Cinis Collectare! Ima!" The ashes underneath Harry's seat collected in a dust devil swirl, twirling faster and faster until it finally became a condensed solid. "Accio Cube!"
The cube levitated, and then bulleted straight into her black device.
With one hand, she clapped the box softly shut. As she hid the magic back into her folds, she began to gently whistle. The tune was not French.
Mission accomplished.

END OF CHAPTER SIX

Author Notes: I added a mini-Prologue to my stories. I was writing chapter 6 and I thought, how can I make people keep track of what's happened. I didn't want to write flashbacks all day so this is what I came up with.