CHAPTER 2

COMING AROUND

He was hardly surprised to find that things had proceeded as if he had never come near 4 Privet Drive. The Dursleys, while bound by honor and an undeveloped sense of familial protection to tolerate him whilst he was in their home, would have forgotten that he was supposed to arrive if it were not for the annual reminder from Hogwarts.

Undoubtedly, they had been advised of his imminent return from school, but when he had failed to materialize in their presence, they had probably begun to harbor a false sense of hope that he had finally been offed and no one had bothered to tell them.

As a result, when he rang the doorbell, it went unnoticed due to the blaring of three separate televisions in the kitchen alone—one on the counter in Dudley's line of sight, one behind the table in case he had to be bothered to move, and one for Uncle Vernon. The high, trilling voice of his horse-faced aunt occasionally punctuated the din, but no one seemed to be minding her in the slightest.

Finally, Hermione drew her wand in unaffectionate exasperation and muttered, "Alohamora." The door unlocked, then swung wide as she gave it a gentle shove.

"YOU!"

Instinctively, they all shrank back at Uncle Vernon's outraged bellow, but Harry didn't have time to wonder what had him in such a foul temper before a mass of white feathers and talons settled on his shoulder.

There was no telling how long Hedwig had been there, but even if she had just arrived, the mere sight of an owl would inspire this sort of conniption fit. Judging from the fact that Uncle Vernon was starting to resemble a ripe eggplant, Hedwig had probably been wreaking havoc on the home for a good three days now. Even better, he appeared to have tried to take a few swipes at her, since his hair was more untidy than Harry's and his shirt was ripped and bloodied on the arms.

The sight was comical enough, but Ron and Hermione, almost wholly unaccustomed to dealing with the Dursleys, had drawn their wands and were looking as if they were prepared to do battle.

Given his uncle's temperament on the best of days, this might not be too radical a stance.

"Three days," he hissed. "I have endured that bloody pigeon of yours for three days and if you're not gone within ten minutes, I'll show you the magic of my fists. Understood, boy?"

"Don't worry," Harry smirked. "I loathe the sight of myself here even more than you do."

He pushed past Vernon to mount the stairs two at a time and did not speak until Hermione had shut the small bedroom's door behind her.

"I think he's mellowing with age," Harry grinned.

"That isn't very encouraging," Hermione remarked with a roll of the eyes. "You'd best see what the letter says."

He had completely forgotten to wonder why Hedwig had appeared here, since she frequently arrived at a place ahead of him for convenience's sake. Nudging her onto the dresser, he gave her head a gentle stroke, then reached down to untie three scrolls of parchment fastened to her leg.

"One for each of us," Hermione observed. "It's a bit early for school letters, isn't it?"

"Especially when we're not sure that the school will reopen," Ron added.

"And when we won't be returning as it is," Harry finished, frowning at the envelope.

It certainly was from the school, complete with the wax seal and green writing that he had come to expect over the years, but why it was coming at the beginning of July was admittedly beyond his own comprehension.

He slit it open, then shook the contents into his hand. It was a single sheet of paper, folded around a hard object. He unfolded the top, pulling the metal badge into his other hand as he read.

Dear Mr. Potter,

Pursuant to the events of two weeks ago, the school governors have met regarding the future of Hogwarts. While all agree that closing the school would be against the students' best interests, it is an irrefutable fact that certain measures must be taken immediately to prepare the school for the year ahead.

Regarding this, your presence is requested at a meeting on July 3 at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. The enclosed badge will serve as a Portkey at precisely 4:13 in the afternoon. Please respond to confirm your intention to attend.

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall

Headmistress, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

"July 3?" he queried.

"The same," Hermione responded quietly. "What are we to do?"

"Go, of course," Ron said automatically. "Just because we won't be there next year doesn't mean we can't help the Order…"

Hermione didn't respond, only turned the badge in her hand over to reveal the inscription.

Head Girl.

Harry's was marked with the corresponding Head Boy and it suddenly seemed to become a lump of lead in his hand.

He couldn't return, not with so much at stake and his enemy growing steadily bolder, but he had not yet turned his back on his fellow students, much less the Order of the Phoenix.

"We don't have to decide now," Hermione said tentatively. "The meeting's not for another five days…"

"I have a responsibility," Harry bit out. "We've already been over this."

"Your duty to the prophecy doesn't have to exclude your duty to yourself," she reasoned.

"My duty to myself and the duty to kill Voldemort are the same," he retorted.

For a long moment, they both just stared at him, obviously mulling over every possible argument against him, but in the end, it was Ron who spoke first.

"You've never been afraid to take help before," he stated. "Why should that change now?"

"Because I want someone left behind in case I fail," Harry snapped.

"That's pretty selfish of you," Hermione snorted.

"I don't think so," he countered.

"Then think about this," she suggested. "If you have help, you won't have to leave anyone behind."

He wished more than anything that he could believe that.

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Seven minutes later, they were descending the staircase with a few extra supplies stored in their satchels when they found their way blocked.

"If you're so keen on me leaving," Harry growled, "standing between me and the door isn't the best way to do it."

Aunt Petunia was looking at him in much the same way that she had two years ago on the balmy night that he had been attacked by dementors. It was a look of uncannily sympathetic terror that he had never thought could exist in this place.

And for the first time, he realized that he still had another ally.

"No chance that you might…"

"Die?" Harry said nastily. "Don't worry, soon enough."

"Stay?" she finished instead.

She might as well have hit him with a rictusempra curse—he was suddenly unable to breathe out of the sheer shock of her question.

Finally, his breath left him in one word: "Why?"

"You have protection here," she answered, "whether we've given it willingly or not."

"I know," he admitted, "but it doesn't matter. Nowhere I can stay will be safe and I'm not putting the only family I have left at risk again."

It was probably the first time he had been willing to acknowledge them as such, but then again, it was the first time Aunt Petunia had bothered to offer something other than nominal protection.

"You have protection," she echoed herself, "but if you ever want it, you will have a home here as well."

Impulsively, he descended to the landing and hugged her for the first time in his own memory. It was not the same sort of embrace that he found comfort in when Mrs. Weasley treated him as one of her own or one that provided the relief of friendship as Hermione and Ron's did, but it was an embrace of promises.

"I'll keep that in mind," he assured her.

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