A/N: Thanks to the first three reviewers! Rest assured that I'm not going to abandon this for a while – it's a very persistent plot bunny in my head, I tell you. I'm not going to be repeating my little disclaimer, as it goes without saying.

Now, in this chapter, we rejoin Harry, stuck in Grimmauld Place with only the Dursleys and Remus Lupin for company. However, the battle I refer to is not exactly what you'd expect…Enjoy…

Chapter 2 : The Battle of Grimmauld Place

Harry tried hard to cling to the precious tendrils of sleep in his worn out body to no avail. Even as he slowly opened tired green eyes, the same sounds that had ruled the dark upper floors of the house around him began to penetrate his morning deafness.

"No! NO! LET – GO – OF – MY – SON – "

Harry sighed, wrenching himself from his warm bed with not a little effort. It was Aunt Petunia, shrieking like never before, accompanied by the sounds of whacks and thuds that spoke of battle.

"Wait – calm down, please – " The harried tones of Remus Lupin cut through Petunia's shrieks. Harry brightened slightly as he padded silently through his door, which snapped shut behind him in the slightly odd manner the doors in the whole house had been doing recently. The only good thing, he thought to himself, pausing to look round at the empty corridor he found himself in, about this whole awful situation was the fact that Remus had been with him for the past week. He'd helped as much as he could to keep the frightened, panicky Dursleys from seriously damaging themselves, or the house, which seemed to actively dislike them.

Harry pondered the matter as he slipped through the door at the end of the corridor, heading as best as he could towards the shrieking – which had now been joined by frightened sobbing, of all things. The house was less dour, now, than it had been when he'd first arrived there by portkey at night about a week ago. Bored to tears and seeking to occupy himself, he'd joined Remus in the ongoing renovation of the house after only a day of near inactivity, helping him tear down the peeling, ghastly wallpaper and scrub away the dust and mould that seemed to accumulate abnormally fast. The best thing about the renovation, however, was that Harry could use magic.

Earlier that summer, Dumbledore had told him of plans to petition Fudge (who, though definitely on his way out, had still been scrambling to do anything he could to appease the public outcry against him) to lower the age of majority to sixteen. Fudge had disagreed, but had given a concession, by way of drafting the special dispensation Harry needed to be able to do magic. The fact that he'd leaked the fact to the Daily Prophet, however, did nothing to help his appeal against impeachment, and he was summarily deposed a week later. In his place was a man from a powerful pureblood family Harry had only heard of once or twice, both times from Percy Weasley's pompous talks of parties where he'd mixed the influential and wealthy.

"The Orwells – bunch of half-Arabs descended directly from Rowena Ravenclaw, with more influence than money – they don't really like the Minister," Percy had put forth, still faithfully calling the fallen Fudge by his old title. "The patriarch, old, grizzled fellow that he is, took it in his head that he'd rather have his son, Phillip Orwell, in power instead of the Minister…"

Percy had eventually returned to the Burrow after Fudge's fall from grace, or so Ron and Ginny had told Harry. He'd come by Mrs. Figg's a few days after his reappearance at the Burrow, obviously seeking to apologise to Harry. Harry, after grudgingly tendering his forgiveness (only after asking, rather sharply, if he'd apologised to Fred and George, and if they'd forgiven him), had asked him for political news. Percy had brightened and given Harry a rather rushed summary of his tenure with Fudge, as well as the maelstrom that had torn the useless man from his post. He'd told Harry a little bit about the new Minister of Magic before a panicky Mrs. Figg had practically shoved him into the fireplace, telling Harry that the man was working, albeit rather cautiously, with Dumbledore, and, although he did not know it, the Order of the Phoenix. He'd been the only real visitor Harry had had during his three weeks at Privet Drive, as the numerous attacks throughout Britain kept them busy.

Harry paused now, forgetting the shrieks emanating from the door before him, his thoughts straying to the attacks. He did not know for certain who exactly was dead – Ron, Ginny and Hermione had purposely avoided telling him all but the most important details of the attacks. Gringotts Bank had been hit, though unsuccessfully, just a day after Harry had first emerged from his room, and had the most casualties of any of the attacks. Azkaban had been broken into just a few days after the attack on Privet Drive, freeing a few of the Death Eaters that had been taken during the attack on the Department of Mysteries. There had even been rumours of a planned attack on St. Mungo's.

Harry sighed, opening the door slowly. For once, the disastrous scene before him did not irritate or annoy him in the least. It merely made him feel a bit bitter, that the Dursleys were seemingly confined to simple problems such as biting cupboards and malicious drawers, and, occasionally, traumatic travel by Portkey. It was, Harry thought to himself, heading into the fray, put simply, unfair.

"Hold still, Dudley – "

Finally, after fifteen minutes of cajoling and forceful shouting from both him and Remus, Dudley's arm was extracted, a bit worse for the wear, from danger, danger being in form of a bewitched sweet tin Dudley had uncovered somewhere. It seemed to have wizard space within, for otherwise Harry could simply not comprehend how Dudley's whale-like arm could have fit inside. After banishing the struggling tin, talking sternly to Dudley and consolingly to Aunt Petunia, Harry and Remus trudged down to the kitchen, already dreading the task they'd set for themselves.

Harry's books had arrived a day ago, accompanied by a demurely dressed Tonks, who Harry swore he'd seen smirking flirtatiously in Remus' direction once or twice. As the two men silently moved around the kitchen, getting breakfast ready, Harry gave a rather flirtatious smirk of his own at his memory of Lupin's red face and neck when he'd suggested the thing. That was another good thing about life here at Grimmauld – various Order members popped in from time to time on guard duty, sometimes flooing by to check up on Harry and Remus and fill them in on happenings in the wizarding world, Tonks most of all. Whenever she stumbled into the room, merrily coughing up soot, or slipped as silently as she could (which wasn't much) through the back door, a pink sheen would coat the Last Marauder's cheeks, and stay there in some form or the other until Tonks departed, taking her bright laughter and clumsy, flirtatious smiles with her.

Harry grinned harder, and, a teasing remark on the tip of his tongue, paused momentarily in his preparation of the large amount of bacon they always seemed to go through in the mornings. Not a word left his mouth, erased from existence by the crashing sound that heralded the coming of Vernon Dursley. He and Remus exchanged quick looks and readied their wands.

"So he's…?" Remus tried, as the door handle twisted and creaked ominously.

"Yes." Was Harry's short answer. Out of his three relatives, Vernon had been the hardest to manage, his rants and rages one step above his wife's frantic wailing and shrieking and his son's misguided, hungry curiosity. He'd been raging against their seeming captivity in the "ruddy old shack" he called Grimmauld Place. Whenever he decided to stir from the magically enlarged room in which he, Petunia and Dudley spent most of their day, he awoke the house with his muttering and ranting, and often goaded Mrs. Black's portrait into her own hoarse, screeching rants.

"FILTHY MUGGLE SCUM!" She'd shriek over and over again, to the counterpoint of Vernon's shouts.

"BOY! SHUT – THAT – RUDDY – THING – UP!"

Yesterday, they'd shaken the drawing room with their shouting, and Harry and Lupin had been forced to take drastic action. Leaving Harry to threaten the portrait into silence, Lupin had cornered Uncle Vernon and stunned him, to Petunia's horror.

"Murderers!" she'd wailed time and time again, until Harry, tired of the ineffectiveness of Lupin's steady remonstrances and assurances, had screamed back.

"Are you mad? HE'S NOT DEAD! HE'S ONLY ASLEEP, FOR GOODNESS' SAKE!" That, and the sparks of frustration emitted by Harry's wand, shut her up. Together, Harry and Lupin had managed to levitate Uncle Vernon's massive, prone frame up the three flights of stairs to the temporary bedroom of the Dursleys, accompanied by a wide-eyed Dudley and a weeping Petunia. Unwilling to waste the precious silence that had ensued by ennervating him, both wizards had assured the frightened muggles that the spell would wear off eventually.

Harry turned back to the bacon, checking it for burns. He tipped the contents of the pan onto the last empty plate on the table, affecting unconcern as Vernon, all bloodshot eyes and quivering bulk, strode into the kitchen.

This was going to be bad.

"I'll give you five minutes to explain what you did to me, boy, and no more than that," the menacing tone of Uncle Vernon came from behind Harry. He spun round, frustration welling up inside him.

"Professor Lupin silenced you yesterday afternoon, not me," he began lowly, fighting down the rising storm in him. As he continued, gripping the handle of the spoon he held far too tightly, his voice became silky with rage. "You woke the portrait again, Uncle Vernon, just like we'd warned you not to." Harry set the spoon shakily back in the pan, breathing deeply, calling the calming ocean back to his mind. Yes. Calm. It's only piggy Uncle Vernon, and I am not going to lose my temper over such a little thing – and certainly not going to let Voldemort inside my head just because I'd dearly like to gut him with this spoon. Yes.

Calm.

"YOU – STUPID – BOY!" Uncle Vernon began, anger evidently stripping him of the constraints his disgusting reliance on Harry's kindness had forced on him. Lupin stepped forward angrily, forgetting the bread and knife he'd been overseeing on the counter, but was headed off by Harry, who picked up a fork from nearby and began to play with it, speaking so calmly and directly it was unnerving.

"You should know, Uncle Vernon, that the only reason I'm calm right now is because I'm using a very rare magical," Harry stressed the word slightly, "technique to let go of my emotions. If I wasn't," his tone took on an odd, silky menace, "I'd probably be strangling you to death right now – not with my hands, of course. But that's beside the point. The point is, we warned you. And, since you refused to pay attention to our warning, we took matters in our own hands, and Mr. Lupin here stunned you." Vernon's eyes widened as Harry moved forward, setting the fork down on the table unconcernedly. "Neither of us had the time or the inclination to wake you and explain ourselves – we had much more important things to be doing, such as renovating this ruddy old place." Harry's hands gripped the back of the chair before him as he leaned toward the now pale Vernon Dursley. "You'd do better to remember that your – your stay here depends on my patience – which is rapidly wearing thin. We warn you for the last time, Uncle Vernon." Harry abruptly let go of the chair, stepping back towards the stove. "The next time you waken that portrait, I will stun you – and I'll make sure you wake up in your bed at Privet Drive, after I've gotten to Hogwarts."

"You wouldn't – wouldn't dare – "

Harry gave him a cold look, disregarding Remus' stare. "Try me."

"The – call the police – " Harry's eyes narrowed, a cold smile rising to his lips.

"And if you didn't remember?" Vernon spluttered into silence, his fat mouth working soundlessly. "Be awfully hard to report what you couldn't remember. Sit down and eat your breakfast, Uncle." And, with a heavy thump, Uncle Vernon was seated at the large table, sullenly eating his bacon and eggs between the furtive, apprehensive glances he kept shooting at Harry, who waved his wand towards the fallen knife, which began to busily slice the loaf of bread once more.

"Harry," Remus began, drawing close. "You didn't need to threaten him…" Harry jerked, turning towards him.

"Oh, really? And what would you have done, Remus?" At Lupin's silence, Harry began again, sarcasm loading his words. "Really, I'd love to know – " Remus took firm hold of his arm, tugging him towards the door. "What – "

"Not here," came the terse answer, as Remus cast hasty warming charms on the food on the table. Harry saw, for the first time, the pale faces of his other two relatives as they huddled against the door. "Go ahead," Lupin said, tipping his head towards the set table. Petunia and Dudley shuffled out of their way, and they were in a small side room a few minutes later. Harry jerked his arm, hard, from Remus' grip, surprising him.

"Harry – " he began, but was cut off.

"You didn't need to drag me off like a child – "

"Would you have listened to me at all?" Remus said, then sighed at the way Harry scowled. "As I was saying, there wasn't any need to threaten him like that…"

"Oh, really? As I said, what would you have done? Pleaded with him?" Harry made a small noise of disgust. "The only thing he understands is a threat – "

" – and that's the same thing Snape keeps saying about you, and you know it's not true – "

" – what the hell does Snape have to do with anything?"

"Perhaps because you're starting to remind me of him, Harry," Remus shot back. Harry's eyes widened incredulously.

"Are you mad?" Harry replied, his voice high with frustration.

"You know," Remus began, voice level dropping to an amused low, "I actually meant that as a joke, but now that I think of it, you are starting to – "

"You are mad..." Harry shook his head in disbelief, sighing and rolling his eyes. "You know, Remus, this is really low, trying to head me off with that nonsense." His tone hardened. "I did what I had to back there, and you know it – "

"You did that on purpose, Harry?" Lupin's eyes narrowed. Harry coloured in anger once again. "That was – "

"I was this close, Remus," he spat out, gesturing restrainedly with his fingers. "I was starting to feel Voldemort in my head! If that pig believed what I said, then so much the better – maybe he'll actually shut his fat mouth for once – "

Remus sighed, cutting Harry off. Harry sighed too, in frustration. "I'm – I'm sorry, Remus. It's just this – this place – and here with them…"

"I know, Harry." Silence reigned for a few minutes, then was promptly broken by the slightly muted roar of the fireplace, followed by an equally distant shriek. Remus sighed again, a faint smile slipping lopsidedly onto his tired face. "That'll be the post, then…" He headed back toward the kitchen, Harry calling after him.

"Tell me if there's anything for me, will you? I'll be in my room…" Harry started upstairs with a vengeance, going immediately to the mirror in the toilet next to his room and immediately shutting the door and locking it. He turned an avid eye on the grumbling mirror before him, and, more importantly, on the black-haired reflection in it. His heart thumped with apprehension as he stared sharply at himself.

It was still there.

He shook his head violently, hands clenching into fists by his side. The comment about Snape had stung at him mercilessly, reminding him of the sudden realisation he'd had a few days into their stay at Grimmauld Place, as he absently looked at himself in the mirror after a bitingly cold shower. It was subtle – the flatter, tidier nature of his usually wild hair; the slightly larger nose, the lips that had started to thin out almost unnoticeably, and the sharper angles of his face. With his limp, rapidly growing hair hanging in his eyes, he'd looked for a moment like a distant cousin of Severus Snape's. Harry flattened his hair automatically now, making sure to keep it out of his eyes. Sneering experimentally, he blanched and shuddered at the further likeness.

If someone knew what to look for, they'd know. The problem, however, Harry thought, scowling at his reflection and blanching further at the result, was what. He himself could not understand why he'd changed like this in the slightest, and had no idea how to find out why, either, apart from asking Dumbledore. Dumbledore, who would probably just hedge and dance around the question vaguely, like he'd done about the question of the wards for the last week or so. It was still maddening the way he was told so little, sometimes. He'd felt overpoweringly guilty at the beginning of the holiday about how he'd smashed up the Headmaster's office, but now… Harry ran his fingers through his hair, trying not to think about his festering grievances with Dumbledore, then, looking at them, stilled in shock.

They were – thinner. Longer. Like Snape's fingers. Gulping, he shoved them in his pockets and made his way to his room, deciding to take another crack at his sixth year Transfiguration text, which McGonagall had strongly recommended he read. And, as he settled down into his bed with the fat book, he pushed back the matter of the mysterious changes to the back of his mind.

After all, he told himself reassuringly, it could just be my imagination.

Stress, and all that, he thought further, hearing a deep, odd groan, undoubtedly something to do with the Dursleys, from below. He shook his dark head slightly, forcing himself to reread his page. Soon enough, Remus called him down, haltingly announcing the arrival of Tonks, and Harry shut his book, an eager grin rising to his features as he bounded downstairs to tease his old Professor.

And for the last few days of his stay, the mysterious matter stayed where it was – at the back of his mind.


A/N: Thanks loads to those who reviewed. The next chapter should be up pretty soon...