Chapter 12

Harry carried that little scrap of parchment around with him all through the next day. He periodically took it out to frown and ponder over it—it baffled him that Tonks would write him. He knew what he wanted from her—Machiavellian though the thought was—but what could she possibly want with him?

He never let himself think on it for long, since the question invariably left him feeling giddy and ridiculous by turns.

It was probably just Order business, he told himself. Tonks hadn't provided him with any details—just a simple request to meet for lunch someplace in London.

Maybe it had to do with all the legal trouble he was in with the Ministry. Maybe it was another imposter…

Maybe she just wanted to hang out…?

He quashed that last idea—several times—with a self-deprecating snort. She was an Auror, for Merlin's sake—she certainly had better things to do than shoot the breeze with a teenaged schoolboy.

It didn't stop him from grumbling at the unfairness of it all, nor from running the note through his overburdened mind once again.

Wotcher, Sunshine!

Was wondering if you'd like to meet for tea sometime this week? The Dragon's Perch is a few blocks up the street from the Leaky Cauldron, and something of a department favorite, so it should be secure. Hedwig knows where to find me.

-Tonks

Harry grunted as he dropped another armful of lumber in the shadow of the building he and Hagrid were working on. A side building—standing on its own it would have likely dwarfed most barns, but it was overshadowed by the main buildings many times over. The planks Harry was hauling around were obscenely heavy—he reckoned they were some kind of dense wood like walnut—and twice as long as Harry was tall.

He and Hagrid had spent the morning tearing out the old rotting sections—it seemed even magic had limitations when it came to preserving things. While Hagrid was otherwise occupied, Harry had begun to attempt wandless blasting hexes on the old planks. Presently, Hagrid was inside pushing nails in with his bare thumbs while Harry drug himself back and forth to the woodpile.

He'd wanted to try and levitate the wood, as any respectable witch or wizard would have, but Hagrid had declared that Harry needed some 'meat on yer bones.' Harry privately thought he had shot right past aerobic exercise and into the realm of anaerobic, in which case he was breaking down whatever meat there might have been.

He paused to catch his breath, pushing his hair back from his forehead. Another blister had ripped open on the grip of his hand, and he tiredly muttered, "Sutura." A cool blue glow suffused the blister, and it closed up again. This spell he'd been getting a little too much practice with—Harry knew it was neither the appropriate one to use, and with his clumsy wandless magic it wasn't nearly as potent as it could be. Unfortunately, it was the only healing spell he knew.

Huffing in the dry, dusty air, Harry grabbed another plank.

According to Hagrid, things like wood—or stone, or tiles, or shingles—had to be portkeyed over in large shipments like this from the middleman company that purchased the goods from muggle sources.

Harry had wondered aloud why wizards didn't simply conjure the materials needed for building, to which Hagrid had responded, "Are yeh kiddin', Harry? Most magical folk couldn' conjure a tea set that lasted more n' a few hours. Takes a lot o' power an' know-how to make somethin' that won' just disappear the mo' yeh turn around. Unless yeh transfigure it from somethin' else, o' course."

Harry reflected on this sourly as he hauled another armload of the infernal lumber. He thought he'd known hard labor at the Dursleys. If Dumbledore had been around, the old man could likely wave a hand and the colossal buildings would just construct themselves.

Hagrid did seem to enjoy the hands-on approach, though. If the big man knew an easier way to do things, he was keeping mum about it.

Eventually Hagrid called a halt to their efforts, and Harry slumped with relief. He'd never counted himself a slouch when it came to work, but the events of the week had been taking their toll on him. He was sleep-deprived, stressed out, nursing the last vestiges of injury, malnourished, and probably a bit dehydrated. The last was likely a product of his subconscious avoidance of water of any kind—short nerve-wracking showers, infrequent hydration, and suspicious regard of anything served in a bowl or eaten with a spoon.

He'd taken to counting down the time it took for things to start appearing whenever he was near water, and to his dismay he had yet to find any sort of consistency. At times it would take mere minutes before he began hearing whispers and scrabbling, but sometimes it would take hours.

He swiped a hand beneath his glasses—a dull ache had centered itself behind his left eye again—and trotted after Hagrid. The wooly aurochs had returned from their stint on the wizard ship, and were back in the rear paddock. Harry helped pitch bales of orchard grass over the fence.

He was obliged to 'sutura' his hands again after that, and this time it caught Hagrid's attention. "Blimey, Harry!" the big man exclaimed, grabbing Harry's hands and turning them over for examination. "Why didn' yeh tell me yeh needed gloves? Yeh're gettin' qui' handy with tha' spell, though, make no mistake…" He paused, and an incredulous expression crossed his ruddy face. "Are yeh doin' tha' withou' a wand, Harry?"

Harry cleared his throat, feeling embarrassed that Hagrid had caught him trying—and mostly failing—to perform a spell that wasn't really even meant for something as mild as blisters. "Er, yeah. But I'm not very good."

Hagrid looked utterly gobsmacked. "Not very—blimey, Harry, I've never even seen… an' you figured out how ter do that spell all on yer own?" Harry barely had time to shrug a shoulder before Hagrid pounded his back in a fit of enthusiasm. "Come on, then, I'll tell yeh about a bunch o' healin' spells while we feed the critters!"

Harry could only wheeze in reply, trying to pop his spine back into alignment as he followed the big man.

Hagrid was, unsurprisingly, a firm believer in the philosophy of tough love—while he did discuss and demonstrate the spells, he left it up to Harry to perform the spell when it happened that one of the nesting griffins slashed him on the arm.

"I don't think it's working, Hagrid," he hissed through gritted teeth, trying to ignore how much of his blood was dripping from his fingers.

"Healin' spells won' do yeh any good if yeh can' work em when it counts, Harry," the big man said, hovering anxiously.

"Maybe I imagined I would be healing someone else," Harry growled. "Episky," he tried again, trembling with the effort. Hissing steam began to rise up from the wound, and slowly, slowly it sealed itself up. Harry let out a gusty sigh, wiping his bloody hand on his jeans and giving Hagrid a wry grin. "Flesh wound."

"Maybe this'll teach yeh two lessons. Be more careful next time, eh?" Hagrid said, trying to appear stern but ruining it with his relieved slump. "Yeh're a quick study when you want ter be, Harry. Well done."

Harry grimaced at the backhanded compliment. "Why didn't you just do it, Hagrid?"

"Well, strictly speakin' I'm not allowed ter do magic on students."

"Right," Harry said, remembering how Buckbeak had attacked Malfoy back in third year, and Hagrid had carried the boy up to the infirmary rather than perform a healing spell. Thinking about third year brought up other memories about a certain man, and he quickly distracted himself. "So when did you get your new wand?"

"Dumbledore had it commissioned for me at the start o' the summer. Said it was high time I had a proper wand again," Hagrid said, puffing up. "Great man, Dumbledore."

Harry just bowed his head slightly, conflicted, and soon after that he left Hagrid to make his way back to the castle.

A solid weight landed on his shoulder just before he made it to the mammoth front doors. "Lo, girl," he greeted his owl tiredly. He spotted a note grasped in her downy talons, and extracted it. "They really should have an award for best owl," he told her indulgently, stroking her head with one hand while he flipped open the note with the other.

She chattered happily into his ear while he read:

Harry,

Your presence is required tomorrow afternoon for the execution of your godfather's will. As the meeting will begin at 4:00 in the afternoon at Gringotts Bank, I will arrange for your transport to arrive at 3:45. Awaiting your owl,

Albus P. W. B. Dumbledore

Harry couldn't help but grimace at the painfully formal tone, and wondered if his blunt words to the Headmaster had been the final nail in the coffin of their relationship. The hollow feeling in his gut intensified when he turned the bit of parchment over to find a postscript:

Also, Harry, be aware that Professor Snape will soon be joining you at Hogwarts for the remainder of the summer. Please remember our agreement. –AD

"Urg," Harry grunted, scrubbing a hand down his face. The note didn't even say when the slimy git would show, which meant Harry would spend the next few days tiptoeing around, expecting Snape to appear around every corner. As if he really needed another reason to be on edge.

"Murder me, Hedwig." The owl just bit him on the ear.

The next morning, Harry waited impatiently on the front steps of Hogwarts, looking up every minute or so from his perusal of The Two Hundred Year War—an account of the hostile relations between Magical India and Britain—to scan the grounds for anyone coming. In his other hand, he idly rotated the bit of horn Karakash had given him. He'd taken to carrying it around with him, as it was comfortable in his hand, and he kind of hoped that eventually it would give up its mysteries on its own. It was actually closer to lunch than breakfast, since, to his great dismay, Harry hadn't roused until half past eleven.

He rubbed at the dull throbbing behind his left eye, remembering the disturbing dreams that had woken him several times in the night. Nothing to do with Voldemort this time (so at least he could comfortably rule out anything to do with reality) they had all involved him growing horrific, translucent appendages and bursting out of his robes like some kind of mutant demon cephalopod.

Maybe he was experiencing unresolved guilt over the baby squid prank that would soon be coming to fruition.

His train of thought was derailed when a toasted baguette was thrust under his nose. "Pistol…" he sighed.

The old house elf only eyed him sternly until he took the hot sandwich, looming over his seated form like a disapproving butler. "Harry Potter sir is supposed to be eating every meal, sir."

"I know that, Pistol, but I'm about to go eat with a friend—"

"Mistress Pomfrey tells Pistol to make sure, Harry Potter sir."

Harry rolled his eyes in exasperation. "It's really okay, Pistol—I'm not going to drop dead if I miss a meal or two."

The house elf's washed out blue eyes crinkled wryly. "Respecting, Harry Potter sir, but Pistol would rather not be taking chances with Mistress Pomfrey."

Harry gave the elf a look and took a deliberate bite out of the sandwich. "I'm only doing this for you, Pistol. And call me Harry. There are plenty more important things to waste syllables on."

For some reason this caused Pistol's pale eyes to water, and he only managed a raspy, "Of course, Master Harry," before popping away.

Harry was still struggling with a peculiar mixture of guilt and confusion when the sound of footsteps on gravel made him look up from his book. He jumped to his feet. "Tonks!"

"Harry," she responded with a salute and a grin. Her hair was arranged in neon orange dreadlocks today, pulled back into a ponytail, and her attire was distinctly muggle. Harry immediately shucked his outer robe in favor of jeans and a tee, figuring the sun would burn off what was left of the clouds soon. He shrunk his books and robe down and stuck them, along with Karakash's horn, in his back pockets.

"You're looking fashionable," he commented, hopping down the steps to meet her.

"You're looking skinny," she replied lightly. "Turn sideways and I think you might disappear."

"I'm fine as long as I remember to watch out for cracks," he quipped.

"What happens in a stiff wind?" she asked while rummaging in the pockets of her aviator jacket.

"I'm aerodynamic; the air would just go around me."

She chuckled appreciatively, a sound that made Harry struggle mightily not to smile like an idiot. "Aha!" she said finally, fishing out what appeared to be a large tooth with a bit of twine wrapped around it. "Portkey," she supplied at his nonplussed expression. "They hand 'em out to all the regulars."

"Convenient."

"And untraceable," she said cheerfully.

Harry paused. "We are going to a pub, aren't we?"

"Well, yes, but being a 'Copper's' pub comes with its own slew of issues and… accoutrements. Shall we?"

Harry, whose dislike for travel by portkey surpassed even the floo, managed to dredge up a smile, and touched a finger to the old tooth. There was the familiar jerk that yanked him off his feet and sent his insides roiling, a brief tumble through the fabric of space, and the stinging aftershock of whiplash. He landed in a heap, as usual, and noticed bitterly that even Tonks—notoriously clumsy Tonks—had kept her feet.

He heard a few coughs of sympathy (or laughter, more likely) while he clambered upright, and took a look around. The first thing that caught his attention was the massive and slightly cobwebby dragon head looming out from the equally massive stone fireplace. It wasn't just the head, though—the taxidermist (if wizards even had such occupations) had included several meters of thick, sinewy neck as well, so that the beast reached well over the heads of the pub's patrons. Dusty shafts of light came down through windows near the high ceiling, playing eerily across the planes of the dragon's face and making it seem as if any moment it would move.

"Creepy," Harry muttered, staring up at it.

Tonks followed his gaze. "Oh, Turk? Yeah, he's a bit mordant, isn't he?"

"To put it lightly," Harry replied, following her through the clusters of occupied tables. He could feel innumerable sets of eyes on his back, but the low conversations never wavered except when Tonks greeted colleagues on her way by. Every witch and wizard in the place seemed rough and careworn—smoking cigars and downing shots, laughing uproariously at some lethal thing they'd encountered that day. It was like wading through a crowd of wolves—friendly enough around their own kind, but dangerous all the same.

Tonks lifted a hand to let the barman know they were settled before sliding into a booth next to a window.

The leather was old and faded, and the table pocked and scratched, but the place had an air of being homey and well cared for. Glass fishing floats hung from the rafters, emitting rich, orange illumination. Faded lines of colored cloth squares hung across the back cabinets and shelves, which were heavily stocked with liquor bottles of all shapes and sizes. The brassy back wall dimly reflected the rest of the pub.

"Marty O'Shea—that's the bartender there—says he slew old Turkey—"

"Turkey?" Harry interrupted, laughing. The dragon looked as if it could pop a turkey like a bubblegum ball.

"Feathers, see," Tonks said, pointing. Turk did indeed sport a coat of black plumage—tiny feathers on the face and sides of the long neck, growing progressively larger over the crest—but it was hopelessly dingy and missing great patches. Harry gave her a doubtful look, and she put up her hands. "I didn't come up with it, that's just what Marty calls him. Says he killed the dragon when he was a young man, apprenticing in the Himalayas." There was a laugh dancing in her voice, and she leaned forward, angling her head. "Look at him—we all love the man, but does he seem like the dragon dueling sort?"

Harry looked over at the subject of discussion. Sandy hair thinning on top and grey on the sides, O'Shea had a distinct girth and a gimp in his gait. Part of one eyebrow seemed to be missing, but despite his bedraggled appearance, there was a warmth in his eyes and a grin in the corner of his mouth as he spoke to his customers at the bar.

"Not particularly," Harry admitted before winking roguishly. "But neither do I."

"Touché," she said with a chuckle. "Although, I don't know if flying away from a dragon as fast as you can counts as a duel."

"Details."

"And I've never been able to figure out what he was doing as an apprentice in Nepal of all places that he came back to the UK to run a pub."

"Maybe he's actually undercover," Harry said, always enjoying a good mystery. "Spying for the Indian government or something. Maybe they got to him while he was over there."

"Well, it is an Auror bar," Tonks said thoughtfully. Harry found himself distracted by the dimple in her cheek that formed from her pensive expression. "I'm sure he overhears plenty of sensitive information, and Merlin knows how many times he's had access to Auror equipment or documents when some of us end up staying in the rooms…"

Just in time, Harry kicked her in the shin to alert her that the bartender (cum spy) was approaching their booth.

"Wotcher, Marty!" Tonks greeted the aging man with a perfectly innocent face.

Harry swallowed a grin.

"Why, afternoon Miss Tonks! Didn't expect to see you before five today, I must admit, but sometimes we all need to take the edge off a little, eh?" the barman teased, elbowing Harry lightly in the shoulder.

To his surprise Tonks actually flushed slightly. "Oh shove off, Marty, before you give this impressionable youth the wrong idea."

Now it was Harry's turn to redden. Impressionable youth? Damn. He covered his disconcertion by extending a hand to the man. "Harry—"

"Mr. Potter, it's quite an honor—" O'Shea stopped himself with a sheepish laugh. "I'm sorry, that was rude of me. Do you ever miss having to introduce yourself?"

Harry was surprised into laughing. "You know, I really do."

"Well then," the bartender said, shaking his hand. "My name is Martin O'Shea. I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr.…?"

Harry decided he liked this fellow. "Potter. Harry Potter."

They ordered their drinks and a platter of fish and chips to share—Harry was still digesting Pistol's sandwich, and Tonks confided that, aside from what she had at her apartment, half a meal was all she could afford until the end of the week.

Harry could sympathize, remembering his enforced 'fasting' periods while living with the Dursleys. When O'Shea returned with their lunch, Harry waited until Tonks was distracted before slipping a few sickles to the bartender and angling his head meaningfully toward the meal. O'Shea gave him a nod and a wink, and departed.

They chatted about meaningless and humorous things while they ate. The curiosity over why Tonks had asked him to lunch was killing him, but the proximity of their beverages was enough of a distraction to keep him from bringing it up. To his frustration, every time he drained his glass, someone came by to fill it up again. Though he tried not to, Harry couldn't help but begin a countdown in his head, ears trained to listen for whispers over the low buzz of pub conversation. An abrupt squeak halfway through the meal nearly sent him jumping from the booth before he realized there was somebody washing the window outside.

"Bloody hell…" he gasped, clutching at his chest, while Tonks tried unsuccessfully to stifle her sniggering. "What's a window-washer doing out there all strapped up like we're on the bloody… fiftieth…" Harry trailed off when he recognized the London skyline through the soapy glass.

"Sixtieth, actually," Tonks told him. "Makes it harder for any old body to walk in."

Harry sat back and wrestled with an intense feeling of disorientation. "Dragon's Roost makes more sense now." He eyed the man hanging precariously just outside, apparently oblivious to all that was going on inside. "He can't see us, right?"

Tonks laughed. "Sometimes they forget to wash this floor altogether, the muggle repelling charms are so strong. You can see why the glass is so dingy."

Harry finally turned his attention away from the window-washer—it was so strange observing someone who had no idea you were even there. Harry felt like he could have prodded the bloke in the nose, and gotten no response.

"So—" he and Tonks said simultaneously.

"You first," Harry said, before draining his glass once more. He tried to hide it behind his elbow then, but the waitress seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to empty drinks, because she was back with the water pitcher and filled it before he had a chance to decline. "Thanks," he told her with a clenched smile. I'm going to let the Dementor that comes through get you first.

"I have a proposition for you," Tonks began. Harry immediately perked up, causing her to laugh. "Get your mind out of the gutter, it's nothing like that."

Harry spluttered in denial, but couldn't force down his grin.

"I was wondering if you'd like to take on some extracurricular activities for school credit," she went on, still smiling slightly. "After the last few weeks you've had, I thought—and my boss agrees—that some practical training wouldn't do you wrong."

Harry gaped at her. "Are you saying…?"

"I'd have to run it by Dumbledore for sure, but I don't think he'll say no. That is if you want to do it."

Harry's heart was leaping in his chest, and he could hardly contain his excitement. "Wait, just so we're clear; what exactly are you asking?"

"I'm asking if you'd like to get an early start at Auror training. You would join our new recruits for assignments, receive coursework and materials—"

"Yes! Yes, I want to do it," Harry said breathlessly.

"Excellent," Tonks cheered, smiling at him broadly, and proceeded to tell him about what he might expect during the coming school year. She told him that it wasn't often the Auror Academy took on students while they were still in school, and that his schedule might be somewhat hectic until he got used to coming and going all the time. She was a bit vague about what the assignments would be like, but that only served to fuel Harry's imagination. She informed him that he would need to get his Apparation License straight away—

"But that shouldn't be any trouble for you," she added with a wink.

Harry, remembering his flimsy story about how he'd escaped the Galleon, could only smile wanly, wishing there was some way to increase his chances of seeming like he'd already apparated on his own before.

"I'll be able to tell you more once we get official permission from the Headmaster," she went on, "but until then the details are still up in the air. Oh, I'm looking forward to this," she enthused.

Harry couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this kind of anticipation. Maybe the day he'd left the Dursleys for Hogwarts for the very first time? "So am I," he said earnestly. Then a clock on the wall caught his eye. 3:48. Bollocks. He hadn't had the chance to bring up Bahari. "Bloody hell—I'm sorry Tonks, but I have to get going."

Tonks took a look at her own watch and cursed colorfully. "Oh, but it's okay; I'm going to the Reading as well. Come on Harry, I'll just get the bill and—"

"On the house, lass!" O'Shea called from the bar, before tipping an invisible hat to Harry, who grinned.

"Marty, you barmy man," Tonks shouted back. "That's no way to run a business!"

"Bah," Marty said, waving a washrag at them. "Off with you!"

They went.

As soon as they stepped into Diagon Alley, Harry began to wish he'd brought that silly Cubs cap. Exclamations and flurried conversations followed them down the busy lane, growing more numerous and noisy as they went. He and Tonks were moving quickly enough that most people didn't realize they'd seen him until he was already past, but that didn't stop them from following along behind.

Harry didn't dare look over his shoulder for fear of encouraging them, or worse still: drawing more people in.

"It's always been unpleasant going out in public," he murmured to Tonks, "but this is ridiculous."

"Your abduction and heroic escape have just made the papers," she replied without taking her eyes off the crowds. "Add that to the fact that Sirius Black's will is being read today—reporters are waiting for you at the bank, by the way—and you've got yourself a nice, frothy mob waiting to happen."

"How many are following us now?"

Her eyes darted back. "Just a few."

Harry chanced a glance back, and immediately several people exclaimed, "It is him!" He scowled at Tonks sourly. "Liar."

Tonks grabbed his elbow and steered him toward the nearest shop door. "Okay, here's what we'll do—you know the disillusionment spell?" Harry nodded an affirmative. "Good. Head in there, find a nice corner where you're out of the way, or maybe a loo, and cast it on yourself. Come out here—I'll be waiting by the door—and tap me on the shoulder. Then we'll go."

Harry grimaced, thinking it highly unlikely that he'd manage to call any less attention to himself in there than outside, but it was worth a shot.

"Oh! Here, you might want this," she added with a sheepish grin, and handed him her wand.

"Right," he said, and chuckled weakly. Wow, Potter, what was the plan? Perform a wandless disillusionment, impress the lady-friend?

Grumbling a variety of curses to himself, he entered the dingy little shop. When his eyes adjusted, he saw that it appeared to be full of second-hand items. There were racks of robes that were slightly worn, stacks of cauldrons dented or missing a handle, brooms with a good number of the twigs pulled out, shelves of books with separated spines or covers ripped off—even a selection of second-hand wands along the back wall.

Harry had started forward before he knew it—whether it was out of some desperate hope that his own wand had found its way there, or to look at purchasing one despite the fact that he was forbidden, he wasn't sure.

Harry knew he shouldn't keep Tonks waiting, but his fascination was overpowering. The ministry had put him on wand probation. He couldn't buy a new one from Ollivander—of that he was fairly certain. But they would never know if he bought a used one here.

The wands were arranged in long rows, dozens of them, in little boxes with plush lining. All chipped, scratched, worn to a fine polish. Each had once been an extension of a witch or wizard's self, carried lovingly for what might have been long decades or short weeks. Harry had thought that most wands went into the ground with their masters, but apparently there were some cases where exceptions were made.

He reached out and brushed a hand over the little boxes, fancying he might get a sense of the wands' previous owners. One in particular caught his attention—a jet black one with intricate carvings in the handle, of beasts twisting around and between each other.

"Ah, that one does catch the eye," a voice commented when Harry reached for it. He jumped, and turned to find an old woman with a patch over one eye standing just at his shoulder.

"Oh?" he asked, a bit unnerved.

"Aye," she nodded, wispy honey-gray hair floating around her face. "But nobody's got the right temperament for it, s'far as I can tell. Most won't touch it; they just look."

"Huh," Harry responding. Feeling contrary, he reached out and plucked it from its case.

A thrum ran up his arm, so deep it felt like his bones rattled. Startled, he dropped it, but like a magnet it jumped back into his hand before it had fallen an inch. He stared at it, heart pounding.

"Well now," the woman said, rubbing her chin. "And what would a boy need with a second-hand wand?"

"Nothing—really I don't," Harry said, and hastily put the black wand back in its little box. "Just curious, I guess."

"Aye," the woman agreed. "Curious. Well, if you ever find yourself looking for some discretion, we have that here too."

"Right," Harry nodded. "Thank you. Er, do you know what this is made of?"

She squinted her single eye thoughtfully. "If I recall correctly, it ought to be grenadilla. Haven't the foggiest idea what the core is, I'm afraid. Could be damn near anything—its wizard came from Tanzania originally."

Harry filed this information away. "Thanks… I'll just keep looking, if that's all right."

She bobbed her head agreeably, and puttered off to another corner of the shop.

Harry sighed in relief, and firmly told himself he would not come back for the wand. But he couldn't help glancing back at it before he disillusioned himself and made for the door.

He tapped Tonks on the shoulder, and she impressed him by twitching only a little. "What took you so long?" she murmured out of the corner of her mouth.

"Nothing important," he said, handing back her wand.

She cocked an eyebrow, but shrugged in acceptance. "Stick close."

They reached the bank with a minimum of fuss. Tonks had changed her hair to a close cut dark red, and darkened her skin just enough that people didn't recognize her as the girl who'd been spotted walking with Harry Potter. Aside from bumping a few shoulders and stepping on a few feet, they didn't have any problems until the tall columns of Gringotts loomed overhead.

Tonks had managed to maneuver them past the gaggle of reporters—they barely gave her a second glance, too busy standing on tiptoe and scanning the crowds below. But when Harry passed through the wide doors, he felt a familiar sensation of warm liquid trickling down his back, and knew the disillusionment charm had been dispelled.

"Shit," he muttered.

"There he is!" the reporters bellowed in unison.

"Run!" Tonks cried, and Harry could swear she was laughing.

"Where are they reading Sirius Black's will?" Harry shouted to a goblin as he darted by. There was something funny about the little being—there was a distortion in the air, a looming shape—but he had no time to look closer. The journalists were coming.

"Third floor, room 36," the goblin growled after him.

Harry shouted a parting thanks before rounding the corner to catch up with Tonks, who had no idea where she was going but seemed intent on getting there fast.

When they found the room, it was 4:12.

"Ah, Harry… and Tonks. Fashionably late, I see," Remus said mildly when they opened the door.

"Sorry Professor—er, Remus," Harry said automatically. "We were—that is to say I was… er, there were a lot of people out today." He cleared his throat uncomfortably, taking in the room. It was lavishly appointed for all that it was simply a chamber with a long table and many chairs. A rich Persian carpet lay under foot, and the table and chairs were all carved with a matching Baroque sort of excess. Velvet draped around massive windows that couldn't possibly face the outside, and heavy golden molding framed a ceiling that seemed to be covered with gold leaf. Goblins certainly didn't do anything halfway.

There were not very many people sitting around the massive table, and the opulence of the room made the group seem even smaller. Harry supposed spending thirteen years in prison and then another two on the lamb had some bearing on the number.

Remus was there of course, looking threadbare in more ways than one. Molly Weasley was sitting nearby, and her appearance was not much better. Arthur's absence was painfully conspicuous. Andromeda and Ted Tonks sat on the other side of the table, and they smiled wearily at their daughter's belated presence. Professor McGonagall was there, which was a little surprising in Harry's mind, but not nearly as surprising as the presence of one Severus Snape. Harry gave the sallow man a long, considering look, one that was returned along with a sneer for good measure.

And last of all…

"Good afternoon, Harry," Dumbledore greeted him quietly from the head of the table. "If you and miss Tonks would please take a seat…?"

Harry swallowed slightly, suddenly all too aware of what they were here to discuss. He didn't want to be here. He didn't want to see Sirius' worldly possessions portioned and doled out, as if they were somehow more important than the man himself.

He did want to bolt from the room.

Tonks briefly squeezed the back of his neck in a consolatory sort of way as she went around him to take a seat, and Harry felt a bit of his anxiety vanish. Okay. He could get through this. He sat down, and Dumbledore began to read.

It was what Harry had expected. Sirius Black was unfailingly generous, first to Remus, then to the Weasleys, and the Tonks. He had left a heap of wealth to McGonagall, for the Order, with the provision that she oversee its dispersion, as he didn't "trust the old coot to spend wisely." For Snape, there was a long and drawn out statement that was made to seem like an apology but really wasn't, along with the portrait of Mrs. Black and "all of Kreacher's stuff."

It was all so cheerful, full of jokes and humor—Harry could almost hear Sirius' voice, could feel his spirit saturating the words.

How he wished that Sirius would read it out loud, years and years from now, while they gathered around and laughed with him at his folly during a time of war. And then he could crush it into a ball and throw it in the fire, and not think about writing wills for another forty years at least.

But it was only Dumbledore's voice, grave and old, a hollow echo of Sirius' laughing bark.

Harry felt his face crumpling, and put a shaking hand over his eyes. He tried to make a show of rubbing his forehead, but his damnable eyes were stinging, and his chest seemed to be trying to press all the air out of him.

I gave you up, Sirius. I let you go. Why did it still hurt so much?

"And to Harry," Dumbledore continued. Harry jerked, looking up, and Dumbledore met his gaze. For a brief moment it felt like it used to—a bolstering presence, a quiet confidence. The old man looked down again. "To Harry, who was both a son and a brother to me, most valued of treasures… I know you well, and I know you neither want nor need my worldly possessions. And so I leave you nothing but a rather embarrassing amount of love and affection, along with two very small trinkets that you will find in the keeping of my goblin banker."

Dumbledore slowly lowered the parchment, and looked up. "Signed Sirius Black, May fifth, 1996."

Just a month before…. Harry was very still for a moment, and then he scrubbed his face vigorously before standing. "Who do I need to talk to?" He knew he sounded brusque—he could see it on everyone's faces. He didn't care. He needed to get out of there.

"Harry," Dumbledore began. Molly looked heartbroken; Snape was perfectly expressionless, and Remus held his forehead in his hands. Harry didn't dare look at Tonks.

"Please," he entreated, desperate to escape.

Dumbledore's bushy eyebrows knotted in sadness, but he looked down to consult the documents in front of him. "Varnuk."

Harry nodded once, stiffly, and all but fled the room.