Credit: Big thanks to my new and wonderful beta, Mimiheart!
CHAPTER 2: Shards of Black
Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and then into years. In a time of peace, a decade rolled by within a blink of an eye — like a shooting star across the starry night, like the faintest glint of the Golden Snitch in a long game of Quidditch. The baby with emerald eyes grew with each passing day into a healthy boy with a strong will and unbendable determination.
And fourteen years later….
On a lush, green hill in a quiet park, three teenagers lazed about under the shade of a large oak tree. Its branches and leaves cast rippling shadows onto the ground beneath, providing the teens with a comfortable shelter from the sweltering heat of the summer sun. It was a spot reserved for the gang for many years. And incidentally, as displayed by a boy with a mop of jet-black hair, it was the perfect place to take a nap.
"Hey, Harry? You awake there?" asked a voice through a blissful haze of warmth.
The fifteen-year-old boy shook himself into awareness and opened his brilliant green eyes. Harry Potter grinned sheepishly at the curious gazes of the two friends in his company as he sat up on the grassy slope. A warm breeze swept through the park, blowing back the teen's messy black hair to reveal a jagged scar running down his forehead.
"Not really. Sorry," said Harry with a yawn to the boy next to him. "I zoned out for a while there. You were saying?"
Alex Hammer, a light-haired teen and one of Harry's best friends since the age of five, looked at him in exasperation. "I said, is your grandfather coming back today? It is your fifteenth birthday, after all, and he's never missed any of your birthdays."
Harry shrugged. "Oh, him? Yeah, he is," he said half-heartedly.
"That's rather thoughtful for an old man who travels so often and leaves his grandson on his own for the better part of the year," chimed in Stephen Peterson, another childhood friend, with a grin from his cross-legged position at the foot of the tree. "He's a bit weird, though, isn't he? Not right in the head?"
Alex lightly whacked the grinning boy on the head. "That's his grandfather you're calling mad, you know," he said with a roll of his eyes.
"What?" Stephen defended. "Don't tell me you didn't freak out the first time we met him, Alex. I mean, look at his beard! And anyone who wears those horrid clothes of his has the right to be called crazy. The colors he wore must have scarred my eyes at the tender age of five." He then turned to Harry, and as if the thought occurred for the first time, he asked in surprise, "You're not offended, are you, Harry?"
Harry laughed while Alex shook his head with a small smile. "Of course not," Harry reassured his friend. "I've been telling him for years that he has atrocious tastes, and even I can't deny that he's crazy."
"Good," said Stephen brightly. "That's what I like about your gramps. He's definitely the coolest and the oldest man I've ever known."
Harry looked at him, highly amused. "You'd like him, wouldn't you? I'm the one who has to deal with the crazy old coot. And speaking of which," Harry got up and stretched luxuriously, "I should be getting home now. He said he'd be back by five. I guess I'll see you guys later. Give me a ring anytime, all right?" Alex and Stephen nodded, and Harry flashed them a grin.
"Oh, and thanks for the birthday present. I think I have just the picture to go in this frame. I'll be sure to put it up in my room."
"Don't mention it. Good luck with your gramps," said Alex as he waved him goodbye.
Harry waved in return and began the short walk from the park to his home.
As soon as he was out of his friends' range of sight, however, the smile slipped off Harry's face to be replaced by a grim frown. Today was his fifteenth birthday; a day that had been marked on his calendar since three years ago. Although he did look forward to seeing his 'grandfather' — better known as Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts and his legal guardian — for the first time in almost a month, today was the day he would finally be privy to the last of the old Headmaster's secrets. Or at least, that was what the man had insisted. Harry had barely gotten a wink of sleep last night, dreading what nasty surprises the next day might bring.
On his twelfth birthday, Harry had seriously underestimated just how nasty these revelations could get. He noticed that his 'grandfather' had hesitated to disclose the secret three years ago, but Harry hadn't thought much of it. He had later regretted this careless mindset.
Despite not living with his guardian for the past few years, Harry had grown up under his care long enough to know that Dumbledore would tell him any and all secrets that concerned him, no matter how unpleasant. Harry had made sure of that.
He had known, since he was a small child, the tale of how he lost his parents. He knew the significance of the scar on his forehead, and about the wizards who sought after him for vanquishing their Master. Not once did Dumbledore try to lie or stall telling the inevitable truth. Even if the man didn't always give full answers to Harry's questions when he was younger, he promised to give satisfactory explanations later. Usually set with a specific date, thanks to Harry's constant nagging.
But nothing could have prepared him for the big secret reserved for his birthday three years ago.
It was with an ashen face and trembling hands that he listened to his guardian's hollow voice explaining his destiny, with the prophecy of his fate replaying over and over in his own mind like a broken record. That day definitely ranked in as one of the worst three days of his life.
He really didn't want a repeat of that this year.
Walking down the familiar street that led to his house, he remembered the events of last summer. Like every year prior, the meeting with his guardian had started out with his vehement protests against going back to Britain. Dumbledore seemed to think that hiding his charge in Muggle America until immediate danger had passed was a good idea. He seemed to think that Harry would willingly come back to wizarding Britain, where he would receive proper magical education at the very school he ran. Well, he thought wrong.
Harry had lived here, in a small city in Muggle America, for almost fourteen years. He had a life here, and he had his friends. No matter how much Dumbledore pleaded, or what guilt-inducing words the old man used, Harry would not give in. It was Dumbledore himself that had placed Harry here in the first place, and it was entirely his fault that Harry became attached to the only home he knew.
There was simply no way he would go back to his parents' — and his guardian's — home country, or rather, the home world. Especially not when he knew how the people there worshipped his name.
Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, the only known survivor of Lord Voldemort's Killing Curse.
The Boy Who Lived.
And Harry-bloody-Potter would continue to exist in only their legends as the Boy Who Lived In Hiding And Never Came Out, for all he cared. In Harry's opinion, whatever the wizarding folks in Britain thought of him wasn't his business. He didn't want fame, he didn't want attention, and he most certainly didn't want Dark wizards with pure-blood bigotry after his hide.
He knew the annual argument was coming up again, and he knew where his heart belonged. Granted, in the few times he had visited Hogwarts, he'd found the school welcoming and more than a little interesting. There was also the fact that Remus Lupin, his honorary uncle of sorts, lived there, as did Frank Longbottom. It wasn't often that he could see Remus, but Frank was a frequent visitor, and Harry got on splendidly with both of them. However, he was determined not to leave America behind for a restricted and constantly watched life in Britain.
His feet carried him home through his muse, and before he knew it, he was standing at the front door. Without much thought, he stepped inside, heading for the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. However, he halted at the kitchen door.
In the room was a familiar figure dressed in bright purple robes. The man's back was turned to the doorway as he prodded the microwave on the kitchen counter — one of Harry's recent acquirements — as though it were the most awe-inspiring mystery.
Harry's lips quirked up into a wry smile.
"Albus," he called, causing the figure to turn around with benign surprise on his ancient face, "you're back early."
Dumbledore smiled under a pair of twinkling blue eyes. Loath as it was to admit, Harry had missed that infuriating twinkle through its absence. Crossing the room in several long strides, Dumbledore encased his charge in a grandfatherly embrace.
"Happy birthday, Harry," the wizened man greeted as they parted, holding Harry at arm's length to inspect him critically. "I think you've grown again. How are you? And how was your day?"
Harry smiled and rolled his eyes at the typical questions. "Great. I've spent the day with my Muggle friends from school. You remember them; Alex and Stephen. Here, look. They got me a photo frame," said Harry brightly, showing the frame made of glass. He didn't yet know which picture he was going to frame. He wasn't very keen on having his photos taken, even with his friends, and so there were very little to choose from. With a mental shrug, he set the gift down on the table. He would ponder it later.
"That's good to hear," said Dumbledore, peering down at the beautifully crafted photo frame. He looked up at Harry. "I got you a present as well."
He extracted a thin, neatly wrapped package from inside his robes. Attached to the gift were two envelopes. Harry took the offered presents with a grin, and the two of them sat down at the kitchen table. As if on cue, a house-elf appeared with a crack, carrying a tray of iced tea.
"Thanks, Floppy," said Harry, and the tiny elf blushed, her head bowed and feet shuffling restlessly. "Of course. Enjoy your teas, Master Harry, Master Dumbles," Floppy squealed before she popped away.
Harry rolled his eyes. "She always does that. Shy thing." The teen ignored the tea and eagerly grabbed the gift from Dumbledore. Tearing the brown wrapping paper apart, he took out a rather plain-looking box. He opened the lid and tilted it — and out slid a handsome, black leather wand hostler. Harry held it up to the light to examine it closely.
"Wow," breathed Harry, and he looked up at his guardian. His face broke into a wide grin. "This is brilliant! Thanks!"
Dumbledore smiled. "I know how much you like to perform magic, Harry. Your dueling skills really are something, what with your natural talent and lessons from both Frank and Remus. I thought it was high time you got equipped with proper Auror gear. And on that note," he gestured to the two envelopes lying forgotten on the table next to the torn pieces of paper, "Why don't you open these as well?"
Following his gaze, Harry's eyes fell upon the abandoned envelopes. One was cream-colored with Dumbledore's loopy writing addressing it to Harry; the birthday card he received every year. The other was a light shade of green and looked formal. In fact, it was sealed with the familiar crest of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.
With a snort, Harry tossed the second letter back to the Dumbledore.
"Thanks, but no thanks. You can keep your invitation to yourself," said Harry distractedly as he scanned the birthday card. "You already know that I'm not going to attend your school. I'm doing just fine with studying out of textbooks, and the occasional tutoring from you, Frank, and Remus more than make up for the lack of other classes. Besides, why would I start Hogwarts from fifth year? That'd seem pretty strange."
Dumbledore sighed. "You're sure, Harry?" he asked almost pleadingly. "I would like it very much if you were to receive standard magical education with witches and wizards your own age. Books can take you only so far, and there is a certain limit to how much home schooling can provide. Classes such as Potions and Care of Magical Creatures cannot be taught here, where we don't have the proper facility or environment. And it will be good for you to interact with wizarding children with various backgrounds."
"You were the one who insisted that I live in America for my own safety, you know," said Harry tersely. He knew that Dumbledore, despite being his legal guardian and having the final say in where he should or shouldn't live, wouldn't force him to go back to Britain against his wishes. He was grateful that the man respected his opinion, but he really didn't want to repeat his arguments.
"Who needs subjects like Potions anyway?" he sniffed, "I heard your Potions master is a git. He's the one that got Remus to quit teaching, isn't he?"
The Headmaster visibly deflated. "It is true that Professor Snape has issues concerning old grudges, but he is a man of honor and loyalty. I trust him with my life. And his skills in potion brewing are rivaled by none other. But that's beside the point."
Dumbledore's clear blue eyes pierced into Harry's emerald green. Harry stiffened and braced himself.
"You are aware of the reason I keep offering you a position in my school every year, Harry. You have been since three years ago, when I told you of Sybil Trelawny's prediction," said Dumbledore with an expression so serious that Harry almost flinched. There was a hint of sadness — and was it guilt? — in his somber tone. "Soon, I believe that you will be forced to return to the British Isle, not by my urging, perhaps not even by your own choice. And even if I wish for you to spend your childhood free from danger, it is of vital importance that you gather allies and gain loyalty from among your peers while you can. My instincts tell me that a new time of darkness is fast approaching… perhaps faster than we may expect."
"And as I told you a hundred times before," said Harry crisply, "I will face Voldemort when the time comes. Not sooner, not later."
Agitation clear on his face, Harry finally took a sip of his cold tea. It did nothing to soothe his nerves, but he took his time and gathered his wits about him. Making sure to keep any emotion from showing through his eyes, he met Dumbledore's gaze head-on.
"You said something about telling me the last of your secrets on my fifteenth birthday," he said, his voice demanding in its blank quality. Dumbledore raised his eyebrows in surprise, before the surprise melted into a pleased smile.
"You have been practicing Occlumency, I see. Most impressive. However," Dumbledore leaned in, amusement dancing in his eyes, "you are showing your nervousness by applying a mental shield at such obvious timing. That is one thing you should be careful about when trying to conceal your feelings. Mind you, constantly burying your emotions under a wall of Occlumency is anything but healthy."
Harry gave an impatient huff, which elicited a small chuckle from the old wizard. "Relax, Harry," he said soothingly, apparently taking pity on the boy. "The piece of information that I have planned to give you today is, while undeniably disturbing, not quite as terrible as the prophecy that I told you on your twelfth birthday. In any case, this news should not have as direct an impact on you as the prophecy did."
"That's hardly reassuring," Harry muttered under his breath.
Choosing not to acknowledge this comment, Dumbledore fished a small box from inside his robe pocket and set it on the table between his charge and himself. Dumbledore made no move to open it, to Harry's disappointment.
"Over the years," began Dumbledore in the lecturing tone he usually reserved for Harry's tutoring sessions, "I have told you of the history of Tom Riddle, of the crimes he and his followers committed, of the darkest times in wizarding Britain. I have relayed to you any and all plans Lord Voldemort may have for the future. Three years ago, I revealed to you the prophecy that directly ties your future to Voldemort's. Today, I shall tell you about how, exactly, one can destroy a seemingly infallible Dark Lord."
That grabbed Harry's attention. Keeping the burning curiosity to himself, he forced himself to sit calmly.
How to defeat Lord Voldemort? That was the thousand-Galleon question. It had occurred to him, numerous times after the revelation of the prophecy, that if Voldemort had not died by his own reflected Killing Curse, then he may well be immortal. And if he was — well, Harry wouldn't be able to defeat the monster, would he? According to the prophecy, that pretty much spelled out Harry's early grave, as well as the doom of the wizarding world.
Oh, he would fight. He would defy Voldemort with his dying breath, but he was aware of his chances at victory.
A mere schoolboy with some magical talent and the backup of a powerful sorcerer, against an immortal, murdering psychopath with godly powers. The situation seemed so hopeless when he put it that way, Harry thought despairingly. What were the odds of the former's survival?
Dumbledore went on, carefully studying Harry's expression. "It has been my speculation, for years now, that Voldemort owes his continued existence to what is called a Horcrux — or in this case, Horcruxes, plural. After much research and persuasion on certain individuals, I am now almost one hundred percent sure that my guess had been correct."
He reached over to the small box on the table and opened its lid.
Harry peered inside, expecting to see, perhaps, some beautiful jewelry or gemstone radiating off waves of raw magic. That was certainly what he envisioned would defeat the Dark Lord, if not some other ancient, deadly spell or obscure ritual. What he didn't expect to see was an old, rusted ring with a murky-colored stone set in the middle. An ugly ring. It did, however, stir the strangest feeling inside him that he should be close to the thing. Supposing this was a sign of danger, Harry kept his hands to himself and looked at Dumbledore inquiringly.
"A Horcrux is, simply put, a fragment of human soul that has been ripped off from the original whole for safekeeping," explained Dumbledore. "If the creator himself is killed, a Horcrux can keep the creator's soul anchored to the earth, so that the creator can never truly die until the Horcrux is destroyed. It can be made with a spell, but it requires the sacrifice of another human life. For Voldemort, this was not a problem, for murder was his forte. The only challenge for him was to create more than one Horcrux. This is not something that has ever been attempted, and in a sense, Voldemort had been right to boast that he had reached a level of immortality yet to be reached by anyone else. His soul is now in seven pieces, the seventh being Voldemort himself."
Harry reeled back, repulsed. Green eyes narrowed at the old ring sitting—well, not so innocently on the table.
"So this is a Horcrux?" asked Harry in a low voice. "And this… thing... has a piece of Voldemort in it?"
Dumbledore nodded. "The ring originally belonged to Salazar Slytherin. As I'm sure you remember, Slytherin was one of Hogwarts' four founders, as well as Voldemort's predecessor as a pure-blood idealist. Voldemort must have felt it fitting to store his soul within his prized ancestry."
There was a moment of silence as they both wordlessly stared at the Horcrux. The ring didn't look impressive or important at all, as though it might break when banged on the table hard enough. Harry gave Dumbledore a clearly impatient look. "Well? What are we waiting for, then? Let's destroy the damned thing and get it over with."
Harry closed his eyes and concentrated, silently willing for his wand to come; a useful trick he had learned from Dumbledore. The wand, twelve inches long and made of willow, responded by zooming straight in to Harry's awaiting hand. However, Dumbledore stopped him from hexing the ring to shambles by immediately covering the box with his hand.
"Not so fast, Harry," he said firmly, making his charge turn to him with a glare. "Voldemort would never make it easy for anyone with intentions of harming him to succeed. This Horcrux is no different."
Picking up Slytherin's ring, Dumbledore slipped it on the middle finger of his right hand before a dumbstruck Harry.
Harry shot out of his seat in alarm. He wouldn't have been surprised if, there and then, his guardian had started screaming under some unknown curse from the ring. But nothing happened. At least, nothing very strikingly remarkable. When he looked closely, he could see that the stone on the ring was emitting a faint glow from its murky depth, but that was about it.
"Don't worry. The ring won't hurt me," said Dumbledore, before adding thoughtfully, "yet."
Harry's glare intensified at the older man, but Dumbledore only smiled at his apparent anxiousness.
"This Horcrux is, I believe, fairly easy to destroy. A Killing Curse will be all it takes to banish this particular one-seventh of Voldemort's soul from the world of the living. But still, there are complications," said Dumbledore as he showed his hand to Harry. "It seems that, when worn on a wizard's wand hand, the very essence of the Horcrux comes up to the stone's surface, so to speak. When not, it retreats into unreachable depth. Voldemort must have arranged it so that his soul could be destroyed only while the ring is worn by the destroyer. Therein lies our problem."
Dumbledore raised his hand up before his face, staring intently at the ring that contained a shard of Voldemort's blackened soul.
"Even if one can aim a true hit on the small stone while casting the Killing Curse, and with a hand that isn't their wand hand — this, in itself, is not easy to accomplish— my guess is that the ring would concentrate the magic of the Killing Curse and transmit it to the hand on which it is worn. Simply put, to destroy this Horcrux would also destroy a wizard's wand hand; a vital tool for survival and for destroying Lord Voldemort himself."
Dumbledore's expression softened when he saw the warning look on Harry's face.
"You needn't look at me like that, Harry. I am not quite ready to attempt to destroy this Horcrux yet. I might need my right hand in the near future, though you would make an excellent replacement, I'm sure," he said, eyes twinkling. "I will destroy it when the right time comes. When I have hunted down all the other Horcruxes, perhaps, or when I feel that my hand would serve no better purpose."
Harry blew out a breath and glared at the ring. Voldemort's idea was clever. Twisted, most definitely, but clever. It screamed of his overt sense of self-preservation and persistence to live, even as the body-less, friendless spirit that Harry imagined him to be now. He scrunched up his nose in disgust. "How crude," he commented.
"It is," Dumbledore agreed, "but that is the way Voldemort's mind works."
"I guess I'll have to get used to it, then," said Harry grimly, looking up at Dumbledore. "Was that what you wanted to tell me? That I wouldn't be able to kill Voldemort before his other pieces of soul are destroyed… that we need to hunt down all of his Horcruxes first?"
"That is our priority, yes."
Harry slumped back in his seat and flung his arms over the back of his chair. "That's going to take forever," he muttered angrily. "Do we even know where the rest of the Horcruxes are? Or what they are, even? They can be practically anything."
"As a matter of fact, we know about two more," said Dumbledore. Harry directed his attentive gaze to his guardian. "One of them is a locket. Again, this was formerly owned by Salazar Slytherin. Another one is Voldemort's pet snake, Nagini. She has lived an unnaturally long life for a serpent and is rumored to possess some magical abilities. Though I have no clues as to where she might be at the moment, I have a rough idea about the location of the locket. For the other three, I'm afraid we are still groping in the dark."
Harry ran a hand through his hair in frustration, ruffling his messy locks even further. But he was oblivious to the result of this habitual action as he dwelled on the new information. He wasn't at all eager to face Voldemort immediately, nor did he believe that he was ready for a confrontation, but the wait was going to be torturous. He even half-hoped that Voldemort would come looking for him already. He hated feeling so useless….
No. That was definitely a dangerous line of thoughts. He already knew his tendency to act rashly was one of his biggest flaws. Patience was a virtue he needed to learn, as his guardian had told him countless times. Harry sighed.
"I guess this is a long-term project, then," he said in forced calm. "Is there anything I can do to help you look for the Horcruxes?"
Dumbledore shook his head. "Nothing as of yet. However, I may call for your assistance to acquire Slytherin's locket. There is much research that needs to be done before I can safely confirm that the Horcrux is indeed where I imagine it to be."
Dumbledore took in the frustrated look on Harry's face with a slightly worried frown. He could easily see that Harry could use a distraction now. If he knew the boy well enough, nothing good could come out of his depression at the inaction and lack of reassurances. Dumbledore's gaze caught the wand still grasped loosely in Harry's hand, and then traveled over to the rejected Hogwarts letter lying on the table.
Staring thoughtfully at his charge, an idea began to form in Dumbledore's mind.
"In the meantime, you should take advantage of the holidays to have some fun, Harry. What do you say to a trip to Britain?" he suggested unexpectedly. Harry looked at him in surprise.
"I'm sure Remus and Frank will be thrilled to see you," tried Dumbledore in a hopeful voice. "There is also your need for a new wand. Even if you turned down my offer, yet again, would you object to staying a few nights in Hogwarts?"
Harry glanced at the wand in his hand, then back at his guardian's expectant face. Truth be told, he didn't particularly feel that he needed to buy a new wand. There was nothing inconvenient in using Dumbledore's old one. But he had to admit that the idea of seeing Remus and Frank was appealing, especially since it had been nearly three years since he last saw Remus.
Maybe the old coot was trying to make him change his mind about not attending Hogwarts by letting him stay there over the trip. But then again, probably not, since Dumbledore knew that Harry was unnaturally sharp. He could almost always see right through Dumbledore's manipulations. He decided to humor the man.
"No, that'd be great," Harry replied after a thoughtful silence. "I'll go, but only if you won't try to convince me to stay there for any longer than I deem necessary."
Dumbledore smiled. "I wouldn't dream of it."
Harry rolled his eyes in obvious disbelief, but smiled back nonetheless.
"So when are we leaving for Britain? I mean, are Frank and Remus fine with this?" he asked, his heart feeling a bit lighter. "Frank has his own family and plans, I'm sure, and there's also the full moon to consider. When would be the best time?"
Dumbledore appeared pensive for only a moment. "I believe full moon has passed a week ago. Remus should be sufficiently recovered from his transformation by now. Also, Frank had no plans to go on family trips the last time I checked, and he will be able to get himself a day off from work any time he pleases. If the sudden schedule doesn't bother you, how about tomorrow?"
Harry raised an eyebrow, but nodded without a protest. Dumbledore beamed.
"Excellent," he said jovially with a clap of his hands. "Pack up your daily necessities to last a few days, and we'll be off tomorrow evening. I will go back now to tell Frank and Remus about your visit." As Dumbledore took out a silver pendant — an international Portkey, Harry assumed — he looked at Harry one last time. "Oh, and be sure to get a good night's sleep, Harry. You might not be getting much tomorrow because of the time difference," he added as an afterthought. "I will see you later."
"Right. Bye, Albus," Harry waved as Dumbledore activated the Portkey and disappeared in a swirl of magic.
Left alone in the house, Harry sighed to himself. Perhaps his guardian was right. He really could use a break, and he had a gut feeling that this trip would be different from the previous few that he'd taken to Britain.
With that curious thought in mind, he began to prepare for what was, unbeknownst to him, the start of a long vacation.
The next evening, the doorbell rang precisely at ten. Harry turned off the television and got up from his sprawled position on the sofa to greet his guests. However, he had barely taken three steps when two adults emerged from the hallway, led by Floppy the house-elf. Harry's face split into a wide grin.
"Harry! Good to see you," exclaimed Frank Longbottom, clapping Harry on the back with a smile. "I heard you've been giving Albus plenty of headaches with your tantrums again. Have you finally decided to take pity on the poor old man and come back with us?"
Harry snorted as Dumbledore pulled a face at the Auror's comment.
"Not a chance," Harry replied haughtily. He stuck his nose up in the air in an impression of an obnoxious child. "I wouldn't have agreed to this visit if Albus hadn't begged me to come. And if I disagreed, as I was wholly inclined to do, you and Remus would have spent the whole summer sulking that you weren't graced with the holy presence of the Boy Who Lived."
Frank let out a laugh.
"That's my boy," he said, ruffling Harry's head, much to the boy's indignation. "You've still got the wits."
From behind Frank, Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Highly entertaining as it is to hear you banter, gentlemen, I believe Remus is waiting for our arrival. We shan't keep him waiting for too long. It's time to go," he informed them in an amused voice. He directed his attention to his charge. "Harry, is everything packed?"
Harry nodded with a pointed look at the trunk in front of him.
"And your scar?"
Rolling his eyes, Harry lifted his bangs to show a clear patch of skin on his forehead where the lightning-shaped scar could usually be seen. He had taken the liberty of concealing it with a Glamour Charm beforehand. It was a precaution he always took when leaving America. If a British wizard didn't recognize him by his prominent green eyes or the uncanny resemblance to his father, the scar on his forehead was a dead giveaway.
There wasn't much need for secrecy, in Harry's opinion, since he hardly interacted with strangers during his visits. No one had yet discovered Harry Potter, despite the talks and speculations of his whereabouts when he didn't show up at Hogwarts when he was supposed to. However, Dumbledore was much more wary than Harry himself when it concerned his safety.
"Good," said Dumbledore with a satisfied nod. He then offered an old frying pan to his two companions. "Quickly, now. Grab hold of the Portkey."
Harry touched the Portkey with a slight wince. He didn't like traveling by Portkey, — it always made him nauseous, especially because of the long distance between the two countries — but he supposed it was a vast improvement from the time he traveled by Floo. He vividly remembered throwing up on the carpet of the Headmaster's office as soon as he stumbled out of the fireplace, vowing never to trust Dumbledore's twinkling eyes again. That was one of the reasons he didn't often visit Britain, even if it meant not seeing Remus, which was a source of enormous guilt for Harry.
He vaguely wondered if his guardian remembered this trauma. Probably not. The man had looked far too amused at his charge's fear of using Floo since then.
Dumbledore glanced at his pocket watch after making sure that all of them were in contact with the frying pan, oblivious to Harry's darker thoughts. "We depart in thirty seconds," he announced. "Twenty… ten… three, two, one—"
A split second later, Harry felt the tug of the Portkey somewhere behind his navel.
And then they were gone.
A/N: At the risk of sounding whiny… review, please? I'd love to know what readers think of the story :)