There was some confusion about the prank war thing in chapter seven. It's a flash-back that signifies all the good things that happened to Harry and Sirius. Sorry if that wasn't clear enough, and thanks to Spots on a Pony for pointing it out. The poem is now by itself too and at some point,I will go through my writing again to look for spelling and stuff, butI did thinkI was being quite careful ...
In a private parlour in the Leaky Cauldron, Professor Dumbledore finally explained himself to Harry over a small dinner.
"Well, Harry, a difficulty has arisen which I hope you will be able to solve for us. By us, I mean the Order of the Phoenix. But first of all I must tell you that Sirius's will was discovered a week ago and that he left you everything he owned."
Harry showed no great visable reaction, the pain was written in his eyes, but he was not holding onto the dead 'Good' thought Dumbledore.
"This is, in the main, fairly straightforward. You add a reasonable amount of gold to your account at Gringotts, and you inherit all of Sirius's personal possessions. The slightly problematic part of the legacy… Our problem is that Sirius also left you number twelve, Grimmauld Place"
"Oh! You can keep using it as headquarters, I don't care. You can have it, I don't really want it." Harry spoke for the first time sonce they had entered the building.
"That is generous. We have, however, vacated the building temporarily. Black family tradition decreed that the house was handed down the direct line, to the next male with the name of 'Black'. Sirius was the very last of the line as his younger brother, Regulus, predeceased him and both were childless. While his will makes it perfectly plain that he wants you to have the house, it is nevertheless possible that some spell or enchantment has been set upon the place to ensure that it cannot be owned by anyone other than a pureblood."
"I would bet on that, Sir; it's just the thing that those inbred fools would do!" Harry was becoming more outspoken with every passing minute.
"Quite. And if such an enchantment exists, then the ownership of the house is most likely to pass to the eldest of Sirius's living relatives, which would mean his cousin, Bellatrix Lestrange" Harry's fists clenched, and he swallowed his potato rather forcefully, but said nothing more.
"We would, of course, prefer that she didn't get it, however, the situation is fraught with complications. We do not know whether the enchantments we ourselves have placed upon it, for example, making it Unplottable, will hold now that ownership has passed from Sirius's hands. It might be that Bellatrix will arrive on the doorstep at any moment. Naturally we had to move out until such time as we have clarified the position."
"And how do you propose to test that?"
"Well, that is the simple part. You see, if you have indeed inherited the house, you have also inherited"
He stopped eating to flick his wand, when Harry saw his hand for the first time that evening.
"Sir," he was stopped by a loud bang, and the appearance of a house elf with a snout for a nose, giant bat's ears, and enormous bloodshot eyes, crouching on the carpet and covered in grimy rags.
"Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't, Kreacher won't! Kreacher belongs to Miss Bellatrix, oh yes, Kreacher belongs to the Blacks, Kreacher wants his new mistress, Kreacher won't go to the Potter brat, Kreacher won't, won't, won't …"
"As you can see, Harry, Kreacher is showing a certain reluctance to pass into your ownership"
Harry's eyes, narrowed in contempt, still haven't left the old house-elf. "I don't care. I don't want him."
"Won't, won't, won't, won't—"
"You would prefer him to pass into the ownership of Bellatrix Lestrange? Bearing in mind that he has lived at the headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix for the past year?"
The words had their desired effect. Harry could not, in good conscience, let this elf (on whom both wizards present dearly wished to cast a silencing spell) go into enemy hands.
"Give him an order. If he has passed into your ownership, he will have to obey. If not, then we shall have to think of some other means of keeping him from his rightful mistress."
Harry's brow creased, first in thought, then in annoyance, then –
"Kreacher, shut up!"
Silence. Blessed silence.
"Well, that simplifies matters. It seems that Sirius knew what he was doing. You are the rightful owner of number twelve, Grimmauld Place and of Kreacher."
"Do I – do I have to keep him with me?" 'Can I kill him' the thought was left unsaid, where Harry knew it would be best kept.
"Not if you don't want to." Relief washed over the boy's face. "If I might make a suggestion, you could send him to Hogwarts to work in the kitchen there. In that way, the other house-elves could keep an eye on him."
"Yeah, I'll do that. Kreacher, go to Hogwarts to work there, and you are not to talk to anyone or anything," Harry knew he would find a way around that one "other than my self, headmaster Dumbledore or Dobby who works in the Hogwarts kitchens." That should keep the Order secrets safe; Dobby would never betray Harry, and the boy knew the Kreacher had to have someone to talk to other than the two wizards.
Kreacher, who was now lying flat on his back with his arms and legs in the air, gave Harry one upside-down look of deepest loathing and, with another loud crack, vanished.
"Good, well done. There is also the matter of the Hippogriff, Buckbeak. Hagrid has been looking after him since Sirius died, but Buckbeak is yours now, so if you would prefer to make different arrangements –"
"No, no of course not! He can stay with Hagrid. I think Buckbeak would prefer that, as would Hagrid."
"Incidentally, we have decided, in the interests of Buckbeak's safety, to rechristen him 'Witherwings' for the time being, though I doubt that the Ministry would ever guess he is the hippogriff they once sentenced to death."
Harry smiled at the headmaster, and then remembered the old man's hand. It was blackened and shrivelled; it looked as though his flesh had been burned away.
"Sir — what happened to your — ?"
"So tell me, Harry," said Dumbledore, before he could finish. "Your scar ... has it been hurting at all?"
Harry raised a hand unconsciously to his forehead and rubbed the lightning-shaped mark.
"No," he said, "and I've been wondering about that. I thought it would be burning all the time now Voldemort's getting so powerful again."
He glanced up at Dumbledore and saw that he was wearing a satisfied expression.
"I, on the other hand, thought otherwise," said Dumbledore. "Lord Voldemort has finally realized the dangerous access to his thoughts and feelings you have been enjoying. It appears that he is now employing Occlumency against you."
"Well, I'm not complaining," said Harry, who missed neither the disturbing dreams nor the startling flashes of insight into Voldemort's mind. "Although I can't wait until I can do the same!"
"And have you started to read the book I sent you?" Harry could tell that the headmaster didn't think he would have even started the large book, let alone finished it!
"Of course, sir. In fact, I finished it today" he didn't mention that he only finished it about an hour ago.
"Well, I must say I am impressed, Harry. Well done, and I hope to see you keeping up the good work. Your NEWTs will be here before you know it." Harry could not believe that the old man was talking about NEWTs already – he hadn't even got his OWL results back yet!
And so the conversation continued, until nearly midnight, when all of the food had been cleared away, and Harry found himself being led out of the pub and back to the Apparition area.
Harry gripped Dumbledore's proffered forearm.
"Very good," said Dumbledore. "Well, here we go."
Harry felt Dumbledore's arm twist away from him and redoubled his grip; when he opened his still streaming eyes he and Dumbledore were now standing in what appeared to be a deserted village square, in the center of which stood an old war memorial and a few benches.
Dumbledore smiled, drew his traveling cloak a little more lightly around his neck, and said, "This way."
He set off at a brisk pace, past an empty inn and a few houses. According to a clock on a nearby church, it was almost midnight.
They turned a corner, passing a telephone box and a bus shelter. Harry looked sideways at Dumbledore again. "Professor?"
"Harry?"
"Er — where exactly are we?"
"This, Harry, is the charming village of Budleigh Babberton."
"And what are we doing here?"
"Ah yes, of course, I haven't told you," said Dumbledore. "Well, I have lost count of the number of times I have said this in recent years, but we are, once again, one member of staff short. We are here to persuade an old colleague of mine to come out of retirement and return to Hogwarts."
"How can I help with that, sir?" ¦
"Oh, I think we'll find a use for you," said Dumbledore vaguely. "Left here, Harry."
They proceeded up a steep, narrow street lined with houses. All the windows were dark. The odd chill that had lain over Privet Drive for two weeks persisted here too. Thinking of dementors, Harry cast a look over his shoulder and grasped his wand reassuringly in his pocket.
"Professor, why couldn't we just Apparate directly into your old colleague's house?"
"Because it would be quite as rude as kicking down the front door," said Dumbledore. "Courtesy dictates that we offer fellow wizards the opportunity of denying us entry. In any case, most Wizarding dwellings are magically protected from unwanted Apparators. At Hogwarts, for instance —"
"— you can't Apparate anywhere inside the buildings or grounds," said Harry quickly. "Hermione Granger told me."
"And she is quite right. We turn left again."
The church clock chimed midnight behind them. Harry wondered why Dumbledore did not consider it rude to call on his old colleague so late, but didn't really wish to say anything – it wad Dumbledore who knew the man, not him.
"This is the place, Harry, just here. . . ."
They were nearing a small, neat stone house set in its own garden, but as they reached the front gate, Dumbledore stopped dead and Harry walked into him.
"Oh dear. Oh dear, dear, dear."
Harry followed his gaze up the carefully tended front path and felt his heart sink. The front door was hanging off its hinges.
And so they entered the house of Horace Slughorn …
you can read this out of the book, it's chapter three.
Harry wasn't sure whether he liked Slughorn or not. He supposed he had been pleasant in his way, but he had also seemed vain and, whatever he said to the contrary, much too surprised that a Muggle-born should make a good witch.
"Horace," said Dumbledore, relieving Harry of the responsibility to say any of this, "likes his comfort. He also likes the company of the famous, the successful, and the powerful. He enjoys the feeling that he influences these people. He has never wanted to occupy the throne himself; he prefers the backseat — more room to spread out, you see. He used to handpick favorites at Hogwarts, some-limcs for their ambition or their brains, sometimes for their charm or their talent, and he had an uncanny knack for choosing those who would go on to become outstanding in their various fields. Horace formed a kind of club of his favorites with himself at the center, making introductions, forging useful contacts between members, and always reaping some kind of benefit in return, whether a free box of his favorite crystalized pineapple or the chance to recommend the next junior member of the Goblin liaison Office."
Harry had a sudden and vivid mental image of a great swollen spider, spinning a web around it, twitching a thread here and there to bring its large and juicy flies a little closer.
"I tell you all this," Dumbledore continued, "not to turn you against Horace — or, as we must now call him, Professor Slughorn — but to put you on your guard. He will undoubtedly try to collect you, Harry. You would be the jewel of his collection; 'the Boy Who Lived' ... or, as they call you these days, 'the Chosen One.'"
At these words, a chill that had nothing to do with the surrounding mist stole over Harry. He was reminded of the prophecy, but now also knew enough to realise, there was nothing he could do about it, and he may as well study as much as he could.
He would defeat Voldemort, even if it was to be the last thing he ever did, and could help but thing that maybe if Slughorn did try to collect him, it would be best to just play along, and see what happened – he had nothing to lose, only much to gain.
Dumbledore had stopped walking, level with the church they had passed earlier.
"This will do, Harry. If you will grasp my arm."
I'm nearly out of pre-written stuff, so the updates will be about once every week after the next chapter.