A/N: Eagle is too depressed over the fact that we recieved 0 reviews and refuses to write an Authors Notes, so that means that I, Snake, have to do it. Come on people! Please review this one, just so I can get off the hook.

So, we have a new chapter for you, and this one's LONGER! Yea! We plan to average one chapter per week, at 3000-5000 words per chapter; perhaps more if the feeling takes us.

Again, we own nothing, and if you dont review there's very little we can do about it (could call on Trixabelle...), but we'd like you to do it anyway!

Of Strength and War
Chapter One : Of Draco and Dress Robes

Harry was bored.

Harry Potter, who wanted more than anything else to be normal, was bored. He had no summer homework to do because he wasn't planning on going back to school for his seventh year, and the Dursley's were avoiding him like the plague, probably hoping that if they didn't antagonise him, then he wouldn't turn them into something nasty when he left Privet Drive for good.

All of this meant that Harry was bored.

Sure, he could have been reading a book, but he'd read them all three times over. He could have been studying new spells, but he wasn't allowed to do magic outside of school for another thirty-one days. He could have been writing letters to his friends, but Hedwig was still out, and he was already awaiting their replies. He could have been working out, but it was July 16th, and too damn hot for any kind of extreme physical activity. This left him only the option of lying on his too-small bed, staring at the ceiling and making faces out of the cracks in the paint.

That one looked like Snape.

He growled, and rolled over, not wanting to look at the shoddy paintwork anymore. Snape, who they had trusted. Snape, who had betrayed them all. Snape, who had killed Albus Dumbledore and taken away the only person Voldemort had ever feared. He had fooled them all, and now the Wizarding World was paying for their mistake. In Dumbledore, they had not only lost a powerful wizard and a leader for the light side, but a kindly headmaster who had been a friend to them all.

In his dreams, Harry not only saw a grotesque, fetus-like form of Voldemort shout 'Kill the spare!' and Cedric die in a flash of green light, or his godfather - and only parental figure - fall through an archway to his untimely death, but in addition, he now saw the body of his headmaster fly backwards and over the battlements of the Hogwarts Astronomy Tower (a tower that was once remembered for romance will always be tainted with death and betrayal).

Death followed Harry not only through his waking hours, but also in his sleep. So much so, that he barely slept anymore. His eyes were bloodshot and the skin underneath an unhealthy purple colour. Constantly fatigued, he barely had the energy to eat, and the already baggy clothes seemed to completely dwarf his almost-emaciated figure. Even his school robes, which were usually the only clothes that actually fit him, now hung loosely over his thin frame. He knew that when he next saw Mrs. Weasley, she would scold him for not eating and then force-feed him second and third helpings at every meal, but he was too tired to care.

He remembered the saying, "You are only as young as you feel", and at that moment in time, Harry Potter felt older than Dumbledore. All he had wanted to be was a regular boy, with a regular life, but had somehow ended up with a destiny that meant no matter how fast or hard he ran, he would always be surrounded by death and by war. And it was taking its toll on him. He had found his first grey hair a few days ago, something that he should have been horrified by, but it didn't faze him. It wasn't the first, or last sacrifice he would pay before the war was over. Not by a long shot.

Slowly, he pushed himself up into a sitting position and then off of the bed altogether. He walked unhurriedly down the stairs and into the kitchen of number Four Privet Drive for the first time in three days. It was a Wednesday, which meant that his Uncle was at work, Dudley was down at the local Leisure Centre beating people up and calling it boxing, and Aunt Petunia was doing the food shopping at the local supermarket. That left him with the run of the house - not that there was anything to do, or that he had the energy to run anywhere.

He padded over to the fridge and pulled out a carton of orange juice, and got himself a glass from the cupboard. After pouring himself a small glass of the fruit juice, he began to make his way back up the stairs to his room when a sharp stab of unexpected pain ripped through his head. Dropping the glass and bringing both hands up to his scar, Harry realised a moment too late that his footing on the stairs had become far too precarious and could do nothing to stop himself from falling backwards down the staircase.

The last thing he remembered as his head bounced off the polished hardwood floor boards, was that Voldemort was happy. Too happy.

Am I dead, Harry asked himself? Did a simple fall down the stairs accomplish what Voldemort had failed to do periodically since his first birthday? Oh, the ironies of the life - or, perhaps, death - of Harry Potter.

Something tapped continuously and painfully at his arm, and he opened his mouth to tell it to bugger off, when he heard a soft 'hoot'. He forced his eyes open and immediately regretted it, as right above him was the hallway lamp, showering him with a painfully bright intensity of light. Squinting, he slowly eased himself up into an unsteady sitting position and tentatively felt the back of his head. There was a slight lump, obviously from where he had used it try and break his fall, and when he bought his hand away, he could see a smattering of blood. He groaned. This was just what he needed.

Another 'hoot' bought his attention back to the fact there was an owl sitting on his leg. He reached over to stroke the bird and to relieve it of its burden, watching as it took off through the kitchen and out of the open window. He broke the wax seal on the pink coloured envelope and opened the flab, and was greeted by a spurt of gold confetti in the shape of bells, which settled in his hair and shoulders. Rolling his eyes at the oddity of wizards everywhere, he pulled out the card inside.

Mr. and Mrs. Bertrand Delacour

Invite you to the wedding of their daughter,

Fleur Amilie

To

William Arthur Weasley

on July Twentieth, Nineteen Ninety Seven

At The Burrow, Ottery St. Catchpole

(Please R.S.V.P by Owl Post before July 15th)

He smiled at the simple, elegant card in front of him. It was good to know that in the midst of all the heartache, loneliness and devastation that war so often brought with it, some people were able to find happiness and, yes, even love. Sighing, carefully he put the invitation back into its envelope, wishing that he was one of those lucky people. He got up, wincing at the sharp pain that even a simple movement sent shooting through his head, cleared up the broken glass and spilt juice, and slowly and very warily repeated his steps up those treacherous stairs as he made his way to his small bedroom.

He would have a quick nap, and then he would send his reply.

"CRUCIO!"

Harry bolted up out of his bed, wand in hand, suddenly wide awake and crouched down to minimise himself as a target for any attackers. It was however, a futile gesture, seeing as he was alone in his room at Privet Drive and the only dangerous thing seemed to be him - he was holding his wand the wrong way round.

He sat heavily on the bed and put his head into his hands, pressing the heel of his palms into his eyes, trying to remember what the dream was about. However, his head was throbbing from the earlier fall combined with all the sudden movement and he could only remember that cold, cruel voice and a flash of red light.

He looked at the old digital alarm clock that he had rescued from Dudley's room and kept at his bedside - it was 1.03pm. He had slept for a whole day? He checked the lump on the back of his head and found that it had swelled. He'd have to get that sorted before the wedding. Couldn't show up looking like he had tried to grow another head.

Thinking about the wedding reminded him that he had yet to tell the Weasley's that he was coming. Grabbing a piece of parchment, he dug around in his trunk for a quill and some ink, but only managed to find a regular ball-point pen. It would suffice.

Ron, Ginny and the Weasley's.

Hope everyone is doing fine and looking forward to the wedding. The Dursley's are being fine - we barely even see each other!

Just wanted to tell you that I will be attending Bill and Fleur's wedding, and thank you for the invitation. What time I should arrive on the 20th? I want to help out with the preparations - it's the least I can do!

Again, thanks for inviting me.

He scrawled his name, folded up the letter and stuffed it into an envelope. He crossed the small room to where Hedwig was dozing on her perch.

"Hey girl. You too tired to take this letter to the Weasley's?"

She hooted indignantly, undoubtedly telling him that she was offended at the notion that she was sleeping on the job, and would prefer him to never think that again.

He laughed. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I know you're the best owl around."

Another hoot - Good, and don't you forget it.

She nipped at his fingers and grabbed the letter in her beak before leaping up off her perch and out through his open window. He watched her go for a moment or two, feeling an odd sense of pride. Was this what a parent felt for their child, he wondered. Did his parents feel that when he took his first steps, or said his first word? Would he ever get the chance to feel proud of his children?

When he had first gotten together with Ginny, he had often wondered if she was the one for him, as his mother was for his father. He had wondered where they would get married, what their house would look like, how many children they would have, who they would resemble - their mother or their father? As they sat together in the Gryffindor common room, on the sofa in front of the fire, her on his lap, hundreds of different thoughts about their future ran through his head. However, all these thoughts ended abruptly when he thought of Voldemort. He had often had to resist the urge to push her off his lap and run away, screaming to her that they could never make it work. That it was too dangerous.

That's why he broke it off with her at the end of his sixth year - her fifth. Her romantic involvement with him painted her as a bigger target than she already was, and not just by Voldemort and the Death Eaters, but by the press and their peers. She would be scrutinised, slandered; her every move would be documented, and he couldn't do that to her - it wasn't fair. It would have never worked between them… would it?

'Why do I torture myself with these thoughts?' He asked himself, turning away from the window and back to his trunk, forcing himself to focus on something other than the funny, beautiful, talented Ginevera Weasley. 'Not helping!' he mentally chastised himself He once again rooted around in its cavernous depths, looking for his decent set of dress robes. There was no mention of a dress code on the invitation, but he figured nice robes would be fine.

After about five minutes of sorting through six years worth of junk, he saw a small flash of silver and lunged. Seconds later he emerged triumphant, holding a very expensive, but rather crumpled pair of black dress robes with a silver lining. He shook them out in a futile attempt to shake off some of the creases, but was not surprised to see that it hadn't worked. Perhaps if he asked her really nicely, Aunt Petunia would let him use the iron on them.

Downstairs, his Aunt was no-where to be found, so, thinking that she'd never know, he set up the ironing board and plugged in the iron. Just as he was about to place the hot iron onto the robes, a screeching voice assaulted his hearing.

"What do you think you're doing!"

Aunt Petunia had suddenly appeared, and looked as if she wanted to castrate him for using one of her precious things without permission.

"At that temperature, you'll burn the fabric!"

Harry stared at her in shock. She wasn't going to castrate him? While he was eternally grateful for that, he wanted to know what was going on. Why wasn't see getting out the spoon and rusty knife?

She stalked over toward him and turned the temperature gauge on the iron down to a much cooler setting. After a moments pause, she ran her hands over the robes, taking in the design and the expensive fabric. Then, she turned a suspicious eye on him.

"Where did you get these? How did you pay for them?" she snapped.

"They were a… uh… a birthday present. Yeah, a birthday present from… the Weasley's." he had never been very good at lying. Ron was the same - they usually got Hermione to do it for them.

She continued to look at him with distrust for a moment, before turning around and walking out of the kitchen, back to where ever she had been hiding.

Shaking his head, he turned back to his robes and started to make them presentable. Ten minutes later, he was finished, and was just holding them up for inspection when he heard the sneering voice of a whale.

"What you got there? A dress? Who's the unlucky lady?"

Harry spun around, robes flapping with the motion, and came face to face with Dudley.

"Well," he retorted, "at least I could fit in a dress, Whale-Boy. The closest you'd get is a four-man tent. I think you've been getting it the wrong way round, Dud. A diet is where you eat less food, not more. Although, I can understand how someone of your mental capacity could get that simple concept confused."

Dudley advanced on him, arms reaching, and with what was supposed to be a menacing look, but Harry figured it just made him look constipated.

"Say that to my face and then see what happens!"

"Er, I just did?"

Dudley stopped, momentarily stunned. "Oh… well, I'm still gonna punch your lights out!"

"Why don't you just try, but I'd sleep with one eye open tonight because I just might accidentally curse you with my wand when you least expect it."

As his cousin paused, with a slight look of fear in his eyes, and tried to consider the truth of this statement, Harry took his chance to exit the kitchen and escape to the relative safety of his room.

"POTTER!"

Harry muttered a stream of curses to himself and rolled off his bed. If his head didn't hurt so damn much, he might have screamed back at his Uncle. He walked down the stairs and found Uncle Vernon standing the kitchen doorway, looking reading to spit nails.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon?" Harry asked politely.

"How many times have we told you that those freaky owls of yours are NOT ALLOWED IN THE KITCHEN!" Spit flew out of his mouth, and Harry took a step back to avoid getting hit.

"There's an owl in the kitchen?"

"Get it out NOW!"

Harry manoeuvred around his Uncle's obese frame, into the kitchen, where there was in fact an owl sitting on the back of a chair. Stroking the owl on the head, he removed the letter and turned it over only to find that it wasn't addressed to him, but to Vernon and Petunia Dursley.

He turned back to his Uncle, who was still in the doorway, watching him with an ugly look on his face. "It's for you, Uncle."

Vernon blustered and fixed the envelope in Harry's hand with a distrustful glare. "Well… I… I don't want it. Get rid of it, boy."

Harry shrugged. "S'up to you, but it's nothing dangerous."

"Leave it on the table and get out."

Ten minutes later, Harry could hear a pounding on the stairs and the sound of short, sharp breaths which meant his Uncle was climbing the stairs. The noise came to a sudden halt outside of his bedroom door, and all of a sudden he felt wary. Vernon never comes to my room, he thought. What was in that letter?

"Boy, open the door."

Harry pushed back his chair and got up to open the door. For a split second he got a glimpse of his Uncle's smiling face, before all he knew was pain. As his head rocked back, pain blossomed from his left cheek and spread through his whole head. He fell backwards and landed on the floor; the back of his head connecting with the wooden floor boards once again, and to Harry it felt like it was threatening to explode.

He looked up at his Uncle and again saw that disturbing smile.

"Do you know what this letter said, boy?" he brandished the letter in his right hand. "Do you? It said that your precious Headmaster, Bumbledore, is dead. It said he died trying to protect you. Does that sound familiar to you, Murderer? First your good-for-nothing parents, then your bloody convict of a godfather, and now your Headmaster. They all died because of you, boy. You killed them all." He was smiling, a nasty, sneering smile that reminded Harry of Snape.

Harry, who was still lying on the floor, still reeling with the shock of both the punch and his Uncle's words, felt the familiar growing sensation of his magic responding to his anger. He could feel it pushing at him, convincing him to let it go, to direct it at the bastard in front of him. Oh, how he wanted to. Vernon Dursley would deserve every minute of pain that Harry could give him. But he swallowed it down, and forced himself to listen to his Uncle, who was once again speaking.

"I'll tell you something, boy; I don't care about any bloody wards that keep you safe from that Voldymart. As far as I care, he can have you, but it's not going to happen here, do you hear me? We had an agreement with your headmaster to keep you here until your seventeenth birthday, but he's dead now, so I am sure he won't mind if we terminated it a little early. Get your stuff and get out of my house, freak. Come near me and my family again and I will personally tell Voldymart where you are, understand?" He threw Dumbledore's letter down at Harry and marched out of the room and down the stairs.

Harry, however, stayed where he was, staring at the spot where his Uncle had just been, mind reeling. He was being kicked out? They were making him leave? Where would he go? What would he do? Did Vernon mean for him to leave right this moment? Questions ran through his mind and he found himself unable to find the answers.

Sighing, he dragged himself up, head protesting at every movement, and stoically began putting his belongings into his school trunk, leaving only that which he would never use again; clothes that had once belonged to Dudley, and a few used up bits of parchment. Closing the lid of his trunk, he grabbed his wand and Hedwig's cage and began the task of dragging it down the stairs.

He did not stop to say goodbye to the people brought him up, however grudgingly. They wouldn't appreciate any words of thanks or farewell that Harry had to offer, so he saved his breath. As he walked out of the front door and down the garden path, dragging his trunk and Hedwig's cage behind him, spared a look back at his childhood - was it really a childhood? - home and silently wished everyone inside of it the best of luck, in this life and the next. Somehow, someway, he knew that he would never see any of them in this life.

He walked aimlessly for a few streets trying to decide where to go, before he grabbed his wand and flung out his hand. Seconds later, a giant purple bus appeared in front of him, and with a hiss the doors flew open.

"Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. My name is Stan Shunpike and I will be your-" Stan broke off when he saw who he was talking to. "'Arry Potter? Is that you?"

"Hey Stan. Good to see you're free again. I need to get to the Leaky Cauldron, as soon as possible." Harry climbed the few stairs, dragging his belongings and dumped a couple of galleons in Stan's hand, before moving off to find an empty bed.

Stan stood there for a few moments before he straightened himself up and turned to the driver. "You 'eard 'him, Ern. Leaky Cauldron, as fast as you can." The bus started with a 'BANG!' and the houses and streets began rushing past the window at tremendous speed.

It took no time at all to reach Diagon Alley and the Leaky Cauldron. Harry said goodbye to Stan and Ernie, "Goodbye, Mister Potter. 'Member to just stick out cha wand and the Knight Bus will getcha!", and walked towards to entrance to the dingy little pub where he hoped to get a room for the night.

After explaining his situation to the owner Tom, he was given the key to a room and a promise that his belongs would be up there by the time he went up. He got a butterbeer, and sat at the bar, trying to decide what to do.

He wasn't going back to school this year; that much he knew. He was going to take the fight to Voldemort, which meant he would need to train himself and that meant he needed books and supplies, and all of that meant he was in the perfect place to get them.

Dropping a few coins on the counter for Tom, he headed out of the pub and up the magical high street towards Gringotts Wizarding Bank, where he would proceed to take out a sum of money bigger than he had ever withdrawn before. After all, he would need a lot of help if he was going to take on the Dark Lord. After his account was two thousand galleons poorer, he moved on to Flourish and Blotts. He looked through their Curses and Hexes section, but found only two books which looked like they would be much use. At the counter, he asked the man behind the desk if there was another bookstore in Diagon Alley. The shopkeeper looked offended at the notion that anyone would need another bookshop, and told Harry in a sneering voice that he could 'always try Knockturn Alley,' Harry shocked the man when he said he'd do just that.

And he did.

He walked out of Diagon Alley into its darker companion. He walked past Borgin and Burkes - he had been there accidentally in the summer before his second year at Hogwarts and knew that it sold nothing he wanted to buy - and trekked further into the Alley. Ten minutes had passed and he hand yet to see a bookstore. He was about to give up when he caught sight of a dingy little store, tucked behind an apothecary, simply labelled 'Books'.

'Well,' Harry thought to himself. 'It couldn't be much clearer.'

But Harry would never make it into the book store because just as he began to make his way toward the shop, non other than Draco Malfoy appeared. Malfoy had just walked out of the apothecary next to the bookshop, right into Harry's path, and Harry saw red. He raised his wand and shouted the first curse that had come to mind: "Crucio!" A second later, a surge of light, fuelled by his intense anger, streaked from his wand, hitting Malfoy squarely in the chest. As the curse hit he suddenly wanted to take it back, but couldn't as Malfoy lay on the cobble-stoned street writhing in pain and shrieking.

Harry stepped towards him, wand still raised, curse still connected and only broke the spell when he was within kicking distance of the miserable excuse for a human being. As Malfoy panted, trying to catch his breath, Harry leaned down towards the blonde boy and whispered mockingly in his ear: "You must be used to that curse, ferret. After all, Voldemort doesn't tolerate failure and that's all you are, a failure. Couldn't even kill Dumbledore. Tut Tut." He sneered at his school-boy enemy.

"The… the ministry… unforgivable… you'll… Azkaban." Draco stuttered, speech still slurred, breath still scarce from the Cruciatus Curse.

'Shit!' Harry's mind reeled. He had forgotten all about the ministry. Not only had he broken the rule for under aged magic, he had performed an Unforgivable curse in a public place. Azkaban would be imminent.

Remembering Draco's eyes on him, he smirked down at the boy. "Are you planning on waltzing in there and telling them, Draco? I am sure they'd be so pleased to see you right now. Hell, perhaps I should just go and tell them who I met here today and what I did. It would be worth it to see you rotting alongside me in Azkaban!"

Draco's eyes went wide in fear, and he raised his wand, muttered an incantation and disapperated away with a loud 'pop!'

"Coward," Harry muttered into the wind. Feeling too exhausted to carry on with his shopping, he stumbled back out of Knockturn Alley and into the Leaky Cauldron, where he called Tom and told him that he didn't want to be disturbed for dinner before heading up the flight of stairs to his room.

When he got there he was dismayed to find that there was an owl waiting for him. An owl whose letter bore an official Ministry seal. With shaking hands, he lifted the familiar wax symbol, unrolled the parchment and read.

'Dear Mr. Potter,

At one minute past five this evening we detected the use of an unknown curse at Knockturn Alley, registered to your wand. This severity of this breech against the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Magic has resulted in your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

As you have already received an official warning for a previous offence, we regret to inform you that you are required to attend a disciplinary hearing which will take place in courtroom ten at the Ministry of Magic tomorrow morning at 10.30am. You are entitled to legal representation if you so choose.

Have a good day,

Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk,

Improper Use of Magic Office

Ministry of Magic.'

A/N: Oooohhh! Harry's in the poop again! What's gonna happen to him? That's for us to know and you to review for! ;)