Part Two: Foundations

by Taliath

It seemed ages since Harry had last been here—so much had happened since that night Dumbledore had picked him up the year before. And now as Harry approached the front door of number four, he felt almost as though he were slipping back in time. The house was remarkably untouched, appearing the same to his eyes, as was the whole street, and he couldn't help but feel as though he were finally waking up from a horrible nightmare—that he would blink, and find that the whole of the wizarding world was but a figment of his imagination. But of course, Dumbledore's memories were not false, and that ended the feeling fairly abruptly. Harry didn't know if he was disappointed that it wasn't a dream, or happy because it wasn't.

After a calming deep breath, he rang the door bell. Ding, dong.

"Who is it?" called out a voice. It was Aunt Petunia. Harry didn't answer.

The door opened. "Can I help—?" Aunt Petunia's eyes widened when she saw him, then they narrowed with hatred. "What are you doing here?"

"Good day to you too, Aunt Petunia," replied Harry pleasantly, with a touch of amusement.

Then Aunt Petunia caught sight of what he was wearing, his wizard's robes and all, and her eyes widened with scandalised, outraged, and highly offended disbelief. "Get inside!" she hissed, her hand clawing at his robes and pulling him in. "What were you thinking, you idiotic boy?" Aunt Petunia nearly moaned and shuddered with distress as she quickly glanced up and down the street, looking for anyone who could have possibly seen her nephew in such freaky, unnatural clothes. "Oh, you just have to ruin everything, don't you! Just like your filthy freak of a father—!"

"That is enough," said Harry coldly, and shrugged off his aunt's death grip on his robes. A touch of his wandless magic smoothened the wrinkles. Aunt Petunia gave a gasp when she saw with wide eyes the seemingly self-flattening robes. "Where's Uncle Vernon?"

"Petunia? Who was it, darling?" Uncle Vernon lumbered out of the kitchen, but froze when he saw Harry—and predictably turned into a dark shade of purple. "You!"

Harry couldn't help it; he replied pleasantly, "Me." He brushed off imaginary dust from his robes, and moved forward. "I need to talk to you both—and Dudley as well—in the living room. I suppose that's really the only place to have a decent chat. Now, where is Dudley, anyway?"

For a moment, both his relatives seemed too stunned to speak, before Uncle Vernon's eyes narrowed with fury. "How dare you—you filthy—freak! I WILL NOT BE ORDERED AROUND IN MY OWN HOUSE!"

Harry brushed past him dismissively and surveyed the living room. Ah, there was Dudley, asleep on the couch in the midst of a various half-eaten plates and dishes. The television volume was set to a quiet drone, and Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes.

He drew his wand and lightly swished it in the boy's direction, banishing the mess to the kitchen—and that seemed to wake his cousin up at last.

"Wha-what's going on?" asked Dudley as his eyes blinked groggily. He looked stupidly around him for a moment, as though wondering where his food had gone, before he finally seemed to reach the conclusion that his plates and dishes were indeed missing. "Hey!" he cried, now fully awake, and turned around with his piggy eyes narrowing with growing anger. "What happened to my—?" His eyes widened as far as they would go when he saw Harry. "Harry?"

Harry waved his wand a few times, clearing an small area in the living room by pushing away the television set and other miscellaneous items, and conjured a large posh chair for him to sit in. He placed the trophy by the foot of the chair, still carefully wrapped, then finally answered Dudley with calm puzzlement, "There seems to be a trend of stating the obvious today, Dudley. And yes, it's me. Tell me, how have you been doing since I last saw you—?"

Then Uncle Vernon finally found his voice again. "YOU—HOW DARE YOU DO YOUR YOU-KNOW-WHAT IN THIS HOUSE!"

Harry blinked a few times, then looked up with a small frown. "Uncle Vernon, you might want to tone down there a bit. I assure you, my hearing is perfectly normal."

Uncle Vernon's mouth opened and closed a few times, a gob-smacked expression on his face. Harry smiled pleasantly, and with a sweep of his wand, conjured tea enough for everyone. "Sit, sit—and have some tea. As I said earlier, we need to talk. Dudley, do budge up a little, will you? Your parents won't have room—you know what? Never mind." Instead, he pointed his wand at the couch—hiding a grin at Dudley's squeak—and enlarged it by a few more feet.

"I t-thought you weren't allowed to do m-mag-you-know-what when you're out of school," stuttered Dudley, fear making him shake. "That p-professor from your f-freak school said you couldn't until you were seventeen. Else you'd be expelled."

Harry shrugged. "I'm not supposed to, but that doesn't matter anymore—"

"Oho!" snarled Uncle Vernon, a triumphant look on his face. "You've been expelled, haven't you? That's why you didn't arrive at King's Cross that bloody day with the rest of the freaks! You were kicked out—"

"Wrong on all counts, I'm afraid," cut in Harry, his tone still calm and amiable. "Now, I must insist you all sit, as I fear my news will not be too pleasant to hear—"

"Then how are you doing magic without any warning, eh? Answer that!"

Arching a brow, Harry didn't deign to answer. "Sit, I said," he spoke firmly. "Aunt Petunia, Uncle Vernon, sit down."

"YOU WILL NOT COMMAND ME WITHIN MY OWN HOUSE!" roared Uncle Vernon.

" Vernon," consoled Aunt Petunia. "Quiet! The neighbors will hear."

Uncle Vernon took heed and hissed vehemently at Harry, "How dare you come barging in here, strutting around as though you own the bloody place, especially after keeping us waiting for hours last week? You've got nerve, boy!" Uncle Vernon's face was red, and twisted with anger. "I will not tolerate your freakiness again! OUT! GET OUT! I WILL NOT TOLERATE THIS ANY MORE! No matter what some old crackpot fool has to say this time—"

"Said fool is dead," interrupted Harry coldly, and he flicked his wand. Uncle Vernon soared backwards as a blast of air crashed into him, and he landed heavily onto the couch, sprawling partially on Dudley. "Professor Dumbledore was murdered little more than a week ago. Now, settle down—I will not say this again."

Harry coldly gazed at his relatives and dared them to speak. Uncle Vernon was groaning as he re-oriented himself on the couch, blinking away his daze from being so abruptly tossed back. Then Aunt Petunia did something had made Harry raise an eyebrow in mild surprise.

She gasped and collapsed on the ground—her eyes wide with fear as she gaped at Harry. "No. No, he can't be."

"He is," said Harry, after a moment. "He was killed by the same curse that killed my parents."

"Not Dumbledore," she whispered fearfully. "Not your Headmaster."

Harry cocked his head at her with a puzzled frown. What did she mean by that?

"Wait—hang on," said Uncle Vernon, one hand clutching his head. He ignored Harry entirely. "What do you mean, Petunia? If that old fool is dead, that means we can finally kick the boy out without consequences—"

" Vernon," whispered Aunt Petunia apprehensively. "No—he can't be dead. He mustn't be."

"Why do you care, Petunia?" asked Uncle Vernon, puzzlement clear on his face.

"Dumbledore," said Aunt Petunia weakly. "I've heard talk from my sister and her friends. Her freak friends. They say he's the most powerful freak alive. That he is the only one that mad Lord-freak of theirs feared. But if he's dead…."

Ah, thought Harry. Aunt Petunia did understand the gravity of the situation. He spoke at last, gently and calmly, "You understand now, Aunt Petunia, a little bit. But only a bit. Imagine for a moment, Uncle Vernon—as it appears you have yet to comprehend the severity and magnitude of the situation—that we were back in the times of World War II, and our Prime Minister Winston Churchill was assassinated on the eve of Hitler's invasion of Great Britain. Imagine the panic, the utter fear and terror that would grip this nation. That imagery, my dear uncle, is what is now tearing the wizarding world apart. Our Winston Churchill, Albus Dumbledore, has been murdered by our Hitler's forces—Lord Voldemort's Death Eaters. Perhaps you can see now what his death will mean."

Harry paused, and studied the faces of his relatives. Dudley seemed not to understand exactly his analogy, but it appeared he knew Harry was talking about a serious situation from how his parents were behaving. Aunt Petunia, on the other hand, was pale and shaky, breathing unsteadily from where she sat on the floor. And Uncle Vernon, Harry saw with mild amusement, seemed unwilling to believe; yet there was a look of wonderment and reluctant contemplation in his eyes. It was enough.

Harry nodded, satisfied with what he saw. "Now, perhaps, you will all be willing to sit and take tea so we can talk." He gestured and three identical cups of tea rose and levitated near the three, the last of whom had finally gingerly situated herself in front of him on the couch. He smiled pleasantly. "Excellent. Very well, then. I will attempt to keep this discussion short. As I've said before, the wizarding world is nearly at open war, and it is bleeding into the Muggle—the non-wizarding—world as well. I'm certain you've all noticed the sudden mounting death tolls and bizarre accidents, yes?" Aunt Petunia nodded. "Yes, that is Lord Voldemort at work."

"Hang on, boy," growled Uncle Vernon. "Why aren't you freaks stopping him, then? I know you have a government—what're they doing?"

"At the moment?" said Harry. "Nothing. Our Minister Scrimgeour is a fool, no matter how battle-hardened." He sighed. "You need to understand, Uncle Vernon, that Lord Voldemort is the most powerful wizard alive now—well, perhaps." He frowned suddenly as a thought came to him. Was the Dark Lord really the most powerful wizard now that Dumbledore was dead?

He continued absentmindedly, "We have long called him the Dark Lord, for he has risen before and waged war before he was brought down for thirteen years. And believe me, he was very close to achieving victory back then—how much closer to his goals would he get this time?" Dumbledore had believed that Harry was the more powerful, for some odd reason, and Harry honestly did not know what to believe. Could it be he was more powerful than Lord Voldemort?

"How was he stopped?" asked Aunt Petunia. "I—the letter from Dumbledore only said the war had ended, and that m-my sister was dead."

Harry smiled bitterly. "Your sister stopped him, Aunt Petunia. My mother died to save me, invoking an ancient magical protection. That 'filthy sister' of yours saved not only the wizarding world, but also yours."

Aunt Petunia sat back, her eyes fluttering to a close—but he saw a glimpse of pain and tears before she turned away.

"But we are deviating from the whole point of my visit—" Uncle Vernon perked up at hearing that Harry would only be visiting, and Harry smiled amusedly "—yes, I am only visiting briefly, Uncle Vernon. Now, no need to look so happy." Harry chuckled, amused at the darkening look on his uncle's face. "So, why have I come here? Yes. Because of my mother's sacrifice, Lord Voldemort was vanquished for thirteen years—but as you well know, he's back now. And he's out for revenge." He gazed at the three Dursleys meaningfully.

Dudley's eyes widened with terror as it clicked in his mind. "Us?" he squeaked in a high voice. "He's after us?" Aunt Petunia gasped and Uncle Vernon's fist clenched tightly.

Harry nodded. "Specifically me, but as you're related to me—you can safely assume he's after you as well."

The Dursleys looked absolutely terrified and Harry had to take pity on them. "That's why you need to pack up and leave."

Wait for it, thought Harry.

"WHAT?"

Bingo.

Harry gave Uncle Vernon a stern look when his uncle opened his mouth, most likely preparing to roar and bellow as he always did, and spoke coldly, "You will pack up and leave, unless you want to see your family dead. The only reason Lord Voldemort had never managed to cross into this house—or why any of his Death Eaters weren't able to track you down—was because of the blood wards created through the link in Aunt Petunia's and my blood. You know that protection will end on the thirty-first of July, of course. And once the blood wards expire, you will open for targeting—do you really want to test yourself against trained wizards and witches?"

The Dursleys did not speak.

"I thought so," said Harry pleasantly. "Now, when you leave, tell no one. Leave for someplace far from here—out of Britain, if possible. Believe me, when the war really gets going, you do not want to be around. Is this all clear?"

The Dursleys did not speak.

Harry sighed. "Well, then, I'll be leaving now. You have until the thirty-first of July—and frankly, I could care less whether you heed my advice or not. Honestly, I have to admit I debated on whether I should warn you at all. For all that you raised me and gave me shelter, I am appalled now to think of the abuse you put me through. Be very glad, Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, that I am not vindictive in nature. Be thankful that I have more on my plate, more important things to deal with, than you."

Standing up tall, Harry held the Cup of Hufflepuff in one hand and his wand in the other, and said after a short moment of studying his relatives, "I believe this will be that last we ever see of each other, my dear relatives. It's fitting that our parting should come at the eve of the second war, when our meeting had come at the end of the first. Well, then. Good bye, everyone. I hope that we never cross paths again." With a final courteous nod, he turned and left the living room, then out the front door.

Behind him, the Dursleys were still slack-jawed from the amount of information Harry had just thrown in their faces. Behind him, the Dursleys were beginning to realise the trouble they were in. It was not five minutes after Harry had Disapparated that they burst into action, packing up what they could in order to run from the impending second war of Lord Voldemort.

And as for Harry, he left without ever turning back. He left without a single shred of remorse, grief, or regret. He had returned for the last time, he had warned the Dursleys, and now his final connection to them was severed. His conscience was satisfied.

But he did, as he disappeared once and for all from number four Privet Drive, wish them the best of luck.

It was a little past noon when Harry finally tugged off his clothes and was able to relax in a bath; something he had been unable to do for nearly a week now. He was in a room at the City Inn Westminster, a Muggle four-star deluxe hotel situated in London.

He had Apparated directly within the lobby restroom that Dumbledore had once used and had quickly transfigured himself into clothes more suitable for the occasion. It had only taken several minutes to get papers filled out and signed before he had been able to get one of their extremely overpriced suites. Of course, there had been a rather tricky situation to deal with when he had been asked for a credit card.

"We accept Mastercard, Visa, and American Express, Mr. Stones," the receptionist had said helpfully, in a false cheery voice, when Harry had hesitated for a moment. Mr. Stones was a name he had randomly chosen.

Frowning slightly, he had been forced to lean over and whisper a spell that had made her eyes glaze over. "What? But I've already given you all my details!"

She had blinked, then shaken her head. "Ah, yes. That's right. I'm sorry, Mr. Stones," she had replied with a knit in her brow as she had looked at the computer records. "There must be a problem with the computer database—the information isn't showing up on-screen. Er, please wait a moment, sir. I'll just go get the manager to sort this out—"

"Ah," Harry had said calmly, thinking quickly. "A moment, if you please. Would it suffice if I give you my card again?"

The receptionist had looked up at him hopefully. "Yes, that would be more than welcome."

He had reached into his pocket and pulled out a blank card that he had just conjured—then cast another spell when she had taken it.

The woman had peered at the card with glazed eyes, then nodded, and began typing into her computer—the spell had brought up the memory of the most recent credit card that had passed through her hands.

Everything had gone smoothly after that. As he had had no baggage with him except for the Special Services trophy, he had quickly gone to his suite—which, while not the best suite Dumbledore had ever had, let alone Harry himself had ever had, it sufficed for the moment.

And so it came to be that the first thing Harry did was to turn on the water in the spacious bathroom within the suite and jumped in when the temperature was just right, desiring a long bath.

Ah, he thought pleasantly. Perfect after a long week's work, I think.

It was then that a thought entered his mind: where were his trunk and his belongings? What did Tonks do with it after she had impersonated him?

That he would have to find out soon, he decided. For now, he would be forced to wear his old clothes. Magic would handle all the cleaning, and transfiguring them into more comfortable attire would be no problem. However, that did not mean he didn't desire to have new, fresh clothing. It was psychological, he knew, since, at least physically, a newly transfigured garment was no different from an altogether new pair—but the mind was a fickle thing.

As he relaxed in the tub, he began to, at last, do nothing but think. And he had a lot to think about.

Lord Voldemort. Six Horcruxes. The diary and ring, both of which were destroyed; the locket, the cup, and Nagini, all still out there, one of which he knew where to locate; the Horcrux trophy in his possession, which he had yet to destroy; and finally the unknown one, perhaps something of Gryffindor or Ravenclaw, or something else completely.

Tom Riddle will insist on making this hard, won't he? thought Harry with a sigh. Hopefully he won't ever find out that I'm destroying his Horcruxes, else he might create new ones. That had to be prevented at all costs. It was a rather disturbing thought.

So no telling anyone, Harry knew. He had to keep the knowledge of his enemy's weakness under the deepest wraps. He now wished he hadn't told Hermione or Ron—for, though they were both absolutely trustworthy, they weren't exactly in the position nor had the skills to defend what they knew if anyone came asking. After all, a few drops of Veritaserum would have anyone spilling their secrets.

And then there were Dumbledore's plans to consider. The Headmaster had spent most of the past year searching for hints and clues to the Horcruxes, believing they were the key to victory. But he had also been laying down foundations for a firmer front to be put up against Lord Voldemort—only a few, and not developed properly since Dumbledore had been so busy chasing Horcruxes. Dumbledore's preoccupation had cost him much, but there were still a few roots left that Harry could take advantage of.

The fact that Harry did not have the same authority as Dumbledore had once possessed was not quite as troubling as it was at first glance, for Harry had in his hands a different kind of power—the power of a saviour. He was the Chosen One—or at least, rumoured to be. That was his strength and power. And he would have to use it, to defeat Lord Volde—

THUNK.

Without thought, Harry leaped out of the bathtub, a swish of his wand drying him instantly. The bathroom door slammed open as he calmly but swiftly strode out, belatedly flicking his wand to conjure robes to cover him, holding his wand out before him in a defensive position—

But stopped and rolled his eyes when he saw what had made the noise.

It was an owl, dazed and struggling to keep adrift. Harry couldn't help but chuckle. The owl had obviously crashed into the window while trying to fly in.

He slid the window open and the once-regal-looking owl heaved in, glaring at him ferociously. With an indignant squawk, the owl ruffled its feathers and held out the tied letter irately.

Harry recognised the seal. The letter was from the Ministry of Magic. The moment he released the owl, the bird screeched harshly once more at him, before flying out the open window.

With an amused shake of his head, he turned his attention to the letter.

Dear Mr Potter,

It has come to our attention that you have performed a multitude of spells—including Apparition without license—at twenty-seven minutes past two this afternoon in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the presence of several Muggles. This is a severe breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery.

As it has yet to be announced to the public that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will remain open for schooling beginning the first of September, the Improper Use of Magic Office will not be calling on your expulsion from the school as you may not have been aware of the consequences that might have been attributed to your offences.

However, the Office has reached the decision that disciplinary action must take place, as this has been a rather repetitive offense committed by your person. Thus, this most recent breach has resulted in a 10-day suspension from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, to begin from the first of September to the eleventh. You will be permitted to take the Hogwarts Express to Hogsmeade Village Station on the first of September; however, you will not be allowed onto the school grounds until your suspension period has expired.

We regret to inform you, furthermore, that your unlicensed Apparition to Privet Drive is a serious legal offense under the International Confederation of Warlocks' Laws Concerning the Security and Safety of Apparition. Your unlawful act is a direct violation of the Laws of Apparition, and has resulted in a disciplinary hearing wherein a suitable penalty will be decided. Your presence is thus required at the Ministry of Magic at 11 a.m. on the sixth of July.

Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk
Improper Use of Magic Office
Ministry of Magic

He blinked, then chuckled. Suspension, when he wasn't even returning to Hogwarts? A hearing at the Ministry? How… amusing! He chuckled some more.

Why did the owl arrive so late, though? he wondered after a moment. It had been nearly thirty minutes since he had left Privet Drive—then he knew. The owl had most likely flown directly to number four—but then had been forced to wheel around when Harry had Apparated. That had most likely slowed the owl down.

Then another owl soared in through the window, interrupting his thoughts.

Dear Harry, it began in a neat writing. The letter was written on expensive stationery, soft yet firm under his hands. He didn't recognise the handwriting, but a quick glance at the signature at the bottom of the letter revealed who it was.

It was from Rufus Scrimgeour, Minister of Magic.

I have just recently been informed of your severe breaches of the Decree of Reasonable Restriction of Underage Wizardy and also of your upcoming disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic.

The consequences, I have heard, are that you would be suspended from Hogwarts for ten days and that at your hearing you would be further penalised quite heavily—and I myself have heard whispers from various members of the Wizengamot that your repeated offence will be, they believe, needed to be dealt with harshly. For such rumours to reach my ears concerned me greatly, Harry, and I have thus taken it upon myself to warn you to be wary.

I know you and I have not quite seen eye-to-eye in recent matters—yet I believe that we can achieve a working relationship if we were to both relent and compromise. After all, our real conflict is not with each other, but with the Dark Lord, and for us to quarrel between ourselves would be inexcusable in the face of these troubling times.

And so, as a gesture of goodwill, I am willing to do what I can to rid you of such trivialities as what the Improper Use of Magic Office wishes to restrict you with. I would like to, as an offering of peace between you and I, aid you in whatever way I can—and am in fact willing to lift the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Magic for you, if only you ask.

If you decide to accept this offering, this gesture of peace, and take my hand, I promise to do all that I can to rid you of all these troublesome details.

I would like to arrange a meeting with you, Harry, if you are willing to receive my help and my token of alliance. I will be keeping the first of July, from ten o'clock to eleven in the morning, open in my schedule. Feel free to drop in and discuss in more detail what such an alliance could mean for you.

Accept my hand, Harry, for there is much I can do for you. And in fact, I have just received word from a senior member of the Wizengamot that the word "expulsion" has been whispered in relation to your upcoming hearing.

I can promise to keep you safe from these vultures. Think on it, Harry, and join me on the first of July if you desire to forge a new relationship between myself and you, between the Ministry of Magic and the Boy Who Lived, and between the wizarding world and their Chosen One.

Yours truly,

Rufus Scrimgeour

Harry arched a brow. Oh? Indeed?

Scrimgeour had just pulled a rather often-used political ploy—to threaten someone through another, then to offer a lifeline. Usually, it would work. Usually, that someone would be desperate enough to seize the lifeline with both hands and be willing to do whatever was asked.

And usually, that someone was not Harry Potter, with Dumbledore's experience and knowledge and wisdom.

This will be entertaining, he thought amusedly. The man had even left off his titles in order to emphasise his human-ness, and to dispel any sense of distance between himself and Harry. It made the teen want to snort derisively.

Then two more owls flew in through the open window, making Harry wonder if the world had, all of a sudden, decided to bombard him with owls. He would hardly be surprised if more mail came from Ron or Hermione, or even Luna, Ginny, and Neville altogether by looking at how many owls had just flown by from the moment he had arrived at the hotel.

He quickly untied both and one flew away quickly, but the tawny brown ruffled her feathers and remained. This one wanted a reply, then.

He glanced quickly at the envelopes: one bore the official seal of Hogwarts.

He opened the Hogwarts letter first.

Dear Mr. Potter,

It is to our pleasure that we announce that Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry will open on the first of September to offer another year of schooling and education for young, budding wizards and witches. The decision to maintain opening of Hogwarts School came by a majority vote from the Board of Governors several days ago, and the new school year will begin under the administration of interim Headmistress Professor Minerva McGonagall.

List of supplies and equipment needed for this coming school year will be sent out at a later time.

Please be advised, also, that the Ministry of Magic is currently looking into offering Ordinary Wizarding Levels (O.W.L) and Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests (N.E.W.T) for those entering their sixth year at Hogwarts and to those who graduated without assessment of their education respectively. The tentative date for administering the examinations is the fourteenth of August. Rest assured that transportation to and from Hogwarts will be facilitated by the Hogwarts Express on whatever day is confirmed. The duration of the examination is at this moment expected to be equivalent to previous years—that is to say, a four-day period.

Also, for all years with the exception of those aforementioned, we regret to inform you that end-of-year examinations will be waived in view of the tragic event that took place at the end of the second term, which had caused the two-week early closure of Hogwarts School.

Finally, interim Headmistress McGonagall has allowed for a team of Ministry Aurors to take up residence within the grounds of Hogwarts, though not within the castle itself, for protection against You-Know-Who's forces.

We consider your security as being of the utmost importance and will strive to maintain an environment both friendly to learning and safe from intrusions.

Thank you for your time. The term starts on the first of September.

With regards,

Professor Aurora Sinistra
Interim Deputy Headmistress

Harry frowned. He wasn't returning to Hogwarts and he had told the Headmistress the same. Did she perhaps forget to exclude him from the list of students? Well, no matter. He wasn't retuning anyway. Besides, he had nothing left to learn—and in all actuality, could probably teach a course himself. Dumbledore had been a master of Transfiguration and Alchemy, true—that didn't mean he was ignorant of the other magical arts. He was more than excellent in Defence Against the Dark Arts and Charms, and was rather talented with Arithmancy.

Ah. And Professor Sinistra had taken up the position of Deputy Headmistress. She would do the job well, Harry knew. He personally would have preferred Filius Flitwick to take the position—but Professor McGonagall was the Headmistress now, not him. He no longer had much say, if any.

The last letter was the shortest of all—it was from Professor McGonagall.

Harry—

There will be a meeting of the old crowd in the morning two days from now at my new office. Your friends, Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger, as well as Mr. Longbottom, have also been invited. It is my decision to allow them to join the old crowd, for they have experience enough with dealing with arduous situations. I hope that you do not disagree.

Please be advised that a mutual friend of ours, a rather paranoid man, came and asked me some rather revealing questions about your recent behavior. I have given him no answers. I felt it best not to tempt fate by allowing one more person to know your secret. I expect you will understand my decision for doing so and hope to have your approval in this.

Finally, I would also like to extend to you an invitation to come to the meeting, as well as join us in our efforts. I know not what went on between you and our former Headmaster, but I will do the best I can to include you in the activities of the old crowd. Not to mention, I believe the utilisation of your newfound abilities may be exploited to the greatest degree when supported by the old crowd.

I shall expect to see you there, then. Please reply soon.

—Minerva

Harry quickly scribbled a note on the back, assuring her that he agreed with her every decision, and that he would be there the day following tomorrow, and sent it off with the owl.

Once the owl was out of sight, he sat on the bed. So much was happening, so fast. It was as though he was in the middle of a snowball, gathering speed and growing in size as he sped and rolled faster and faster down a hillside.

The letters had brought several pieces of news that were, even now, beginning to click within his mind. He would have to deal with Scrimgeour and the Ministry in several days—and would need to plan for that. He would be facing the Order two days from now and would have to deal with his friends. And he would need to begin to unravel the secrets behind the Horcrux trophy and find a way to destroy it.

He had a lot of work cut out for him.

But the letters had also alerted him to a fact that he had—even just thirty minutes ago—dismissed as a low priority: finding a permanent residence for himself.

No. The various owls had taught him just now that he was very much unprotected at the moment. He would need to find a protected residence soon.

So, with that thought, Harry drifted off into an afternoon nap. He would go looking for a house as soon as he woke.

"A pleasure doing business," said Harry pleasantly, shaking hands with the owner of the flat he had just purchased. He had checked out the back pages of the newspaper to look for an open flat and found several, examined them all, before finally settling on one he thought would be the most easily hidden through magic. It had only taken hours afterwards to finalise the deal.

In London, apparently, money spoke. It spoke loudly. And Harry had quite a bit of it—especially when he had his wand with him.

"No, no," assured the other man, a wide grin slipping onto his face every now and then, though he fought earnestly to keep his face professional. He seemed positively delighted at having just earned several million pounds—Harry had given him a large tip to have things settled quickly. The expected three-day duration had shortened significantly afterwards to only a few hours. "The pleasure's all mine, sir!"

"Indeed," Harry replied calmly. "Well, then. I find myself desiring to move in immediately—you have arranged matters so that I can, I understand?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Stones," the other man said eagerly. "Everything is settled. In fact, the moment I'm gone, this residence is legally yours. You have a set of keys and copies of the forms—everything is done."

Harry felt like hitting the man on the head. Why couldn't he take the hint and leave? Harry forced a calm smile on his face. "Very well. Shall I see you out, then?"

"Oh," said the owner, going wide-eyed. "Oh. Yes! Of course! How very silly of me! Yes, yes, immediately!" The man babbled the whole way to the door, before Harry finally shut the door in his face.

How tiresome! he thought, exasperated. The excitable nature of the man had been amusing and entertaining at first—but even Dumbledore would have had his limits of patience tested today.

He turned and scanned his new residence. It was a fairly large flat, already filled with furniture that had come with the house—well, technically it wasn't quite supposed to, but he had tipped the former owner enough until he had relented.

All in all, it was satisfactory. The floor was carpeted with a soft, expensive material. The flat was the epitome of modern-day elegance, with smoothened edges and sleek metal. The huge bed looked exceedingly comfortable, the bathroom was large and spacious, and everything was brand-new.

Perfect.

Harry ambled to the front door and exited, casting a Muggle-repelling ward as he carefully closed the door to his flat. It would not do to have Muggles witness what he was about to do. He took a deep breath to calm his mind, then pointed his wand to where he thought was the center of his one-floor flat. Now for the warding.

He directed his wand to where he had carefully estimated were the four farthest corners of the flat, pointing at them one after the other, then intoned calmly—"Fidelius."

Quite opposite to what most people thought, the number of words a spell required didn't in any way reveal the strength of the spell. It was quite a common misconception that the most ancient and powerful of spells required memorisation of long chants in languages dead to the modern world, and that relatively simple incantations meant a spell was weak or useless—but this was quite far from the truth. Apart from a few anomalies, such as the Memoria Exsisto, the majority of the greatest, mightiest, and formidable spells were in fact only one word long—perhaps two.

For—as any great wizard or witch would know—it was not the words that gave power to a spell, but rather the intent and the will and the focus of the individual casting it. The strongest of spells were, therefore, all will and all focus, and most importantly, all intent. The incantation only gave someone a direction.

Besides, Dumbledore had known a few spells that were utterly worthless in nature—after all, who wanted to cast a thirteen-syllable incantation to levitate an orange-coloured broomstick, when a simple Wingardium Leviosa would do the trick?

Well, direction was all Dumbledore had needed; that was all Harry now needed.

Magic in a swathe of power, blazing blue in colour, swung around the four corners of the flat and a veil-like spread of the Fidelius wrapped sheets around the residence—

Then drew tightly together—and the flat shrunk.

It was as though Harry was standing before a swirling twister as the view of the front door and the flat fizzled away, and blue light gathered into an increasingly opaque wall of magic—

Then the flat disappeared. The walls next to the front entrance drew together to form a seamless barrier, hiding any indication of there ever being a residence behind it.

A small blue sphere floated at the tip of Harry's wand, which he had kept steadily pointing at his flat. Carefully he turned his wand and gently nudged the sphere into his forehead—closing his eyes when the light of the blue magical sphere became too great—then sighed as knowledge of his flat, the location, returned to him. He was now the Secret-Keeper.

The moment he felt the knowledge secure in his mind, he opened his eyes to find the wall parting before him in a dizzying manner, and his flat appear once more.

He grinned and entered. He had a home, now, and it was secure—

Red and gold fire burst before him and a phoenix materialised—it was Fawkes.

"Fawkes," said Harry, a touch surprised. The last time he had seen Fawkes had been during Dumbledore's funeral. "What are you doing here?"

The bird cooed softly as he landed on Harry's shoulder, and images began appearing in the teen's mind in answer to his question. Fawkes had soared around the world, crying the whole while with sorrow for the death of his master, and had at last returned from his flight of Remorse. He had given the greatest honour a phoenix could bestow to a beloved master.

"Thank you," whispered Harry, his voice choked with emotion. He knew, through Dumbledore's memories, what the flight entailed. For a phoenix to cry so much and shed priceless tears that would fall into the oceans and lands would have weakened him greatly, and would bring the bird nearer to its Burning Day—and it was such a waste. And so phoenixes rarely, if ever, performed this act. For Fawkes to have done so was… phenomenal.

But, then again, it wasn't completely a waste. After all, the tears would generate fresh growth for the living, would heal the lucky person it landed on, and would ultimately mark the passing of the master with new existence. It was indeed a very great honour. "Professor Dumbledore would have cherished this greatly." He spoke again after a moment, the awe still affecting him. "Thank you."

Fawkes sang again, a soothing noise to Harry's ears, and another image entered his mind.

It was Fawkes burning as death claimed him, only to be reborn from his ashes—and Harry felt the conveyance of the time soon coming.

"I understand," said Harry quietly. Come to think of it, Fawkes did have a brown hue to his usually pristine red feathers. Harry drew his wand and conjured a stand for the phoenix. "It's not much, but it'll do for now. I'll unpack the one from the office soon. Will you be all right, Fawkes? You must be exhausted from the flight."

The bird trilled gently. He would be all right, once he had his Burning.

"I'm glad you're back, though," said Harry as he tenderly lifted the bird to the stand he had just conjured. "We've got a lot of work to do—and I know Dumbledore wouldn't have had managed half of what he had if he hadn't had you."

Fawkes warbled in agreement, then tucked his head and, by all appearances, went to sleep.

Yes, thought Harry as he turned to survey his new home again. Things are definitely working out.

He pointed his wand to his pocket and magically drew out the many crates full of Dumbledore's things, and set out to carefully unpack them.

Tomorrow, the fun would begin.

To be continued….

Part III: Dance of Life will be updated soon. But reviews really encourage me to write! So take the hint and review! A simple, "Wonderful!" or a "Love it!" will do! Even simple messages like that inspire authors to write more!

Ending Notes:

Another part. Thankfully, contest deadline's been moved down two weeks. I have a few more scenes to write before I'm done. My beta has the next part in the works. Honestly, I think I actually might finish it!

Read the "To be continued…." section for the date of the next upload. Happy reviewing!

Comments always welcome.

-- liath

! Updated: 9.04.06 !