Harry arrived at the Dursleys' front door at around 7:00. Since he wasn't staying at the Burrow for dinner, Molly had made sure that he took some food back with him. This meant that he was trying to juggle a magically heated basket of roast chicken while reaching into his pockets for his key. He noticed that the light was on inside, and was worried that he'd left it on the whole time he'd been away. Eventually he extracted his key, but found after inserting it that the door was open. His first thought was that there were burglars here, but then he realised, with even more trepidation, that the Dursleys must have returned from their mysterious holiday. There was no sign of their car in the driveway, however. Just to be on the safe side, he drew his wand, before quietly entering.
He made his way into the kitchen, basket in one hand, wand in the other, to find his uncle Vernon and cousin Dudley sitting at the table. Their suitcases were yet to be lugged upstairs, and sat on the floor by the table.
"Finally decided to grace us with your presence, then?" Vernon grunted.
"I guess you're back," said Harry, disappointed. He really would have preferred to find burglars. "Where's Aunt Petunia?"
"Buying some dinner. What's that you got there?" his uncle asked, noticing the basket he held.
"Food," said Harry. He noticed, with some amusement, that Dudley's piggy little eyes lit up at this. "Cooked by Molly Weasley," Harry added, smugly. "You know, the witch?" Dudley's interest quickly turned to fear.
"Throw that stuff out," ordered Vernon immediately. "You'll eat good, normal food while we're here."
"Will do," said Harry noncommittally, turning to go upstairs, basket in hand.
"Boy, you throw that poison out this instant. And take our bags up!"
Harry just sighed as he went upstairs. He shoved the food under the loose floorboard in his room, before flopping down on his bed. It wasn't long before he heard the heavy footsteps of his uncle climbing the stairs. There was a loud bang on his door, before he heard the muffled yells of his uncle.
"You come out of there right now and take our bags up!"
Harry was in no mood to argue. He got up, and opened the door. He was confronted by a very red-faced Vernon Dursley, who was not used to Harry being disobedient. For Harry, the threat of his uncle paled in comparison to what Voldemort threatened now that Dumbledore was gone, and he did not feel like being bullied.
Before he knew it, Harry was struck in the head by the open hand of his uncle. He kept his feet, but only just. As his uncle wound up to hit him again, Harry drew his wand.
"You wouldn't dare," Vernon spat furiously, though he did edge backwards. "You aren't seventeen for another two weeks. You'll be expelled from that ruddy school."
"I'm touched you remembered," Harry replied, sarcasm dripping, "but I'm not going back to school next year. I've got bigger things to worry about than a little underage magic."
"Not going back?" Vernon asked, far less sure of himself. "They finally kick you out then?"
By this stage Harry's head was beginning to really ache, and he could feel his fury building. He noticed Dudley watching the scene playing out before him from the bottom of the staircase. The look Harry shot his cousin must have been positively terrifying, because it sent Dudley scurrying back to the kitchen.
"For your information," Harry ground out through clenched teeth, turning back to his uncle, "I have to kill possibly the most powerful and dangerous wizard this world has ever seen." Again, he felt things shake, rattle and chime as he tried to control his temper. "Yes, kill," Harry repeated, seeing the look on Vernon's face as he said this.
"You're a liar," said Vernon, more confidently. "You couldn't kill someone if your life depended on it."
Harry smiled inwardly at the irony. His life very much did depend on it. Neither can live while the other survives. Outwardly, however, his face remained the same mask of fury. With a deft swish and a quiet incantation, Harry's uncle was turned into a very large, very fat toad. It wasn't particularly original, but it got Harry's point across nicely. He noticed Dudley was once again staring wide-eyed from the bottom of the staircase. Harry casually pointed his wand in Dudley's direction, making him once again scamper off to the kitchen, clasping very firmly his large backside.
Harry left his uncle as a toad for a while. Petunia arrived about five minutes after their little row. Her first reaction upon seeing the toad was to grab a broom and try to shoo it out of the house. Harry couldn't help his laughing. His revealing that the toad was really Vernon corresponded exactly with an owl arriving, carrying the letter from the Improper Use of Magic Office. After a cursory glance, he realised he was in no real trouble. It wouldn't look good for the ministry to snap the wand of the "Chosen One".
"Put him back!" screamed Petunia. "PUT HIM BACK!"
"OK, OK, just move out of the way."
His aunt complied, and Harry reversed the spell. A very, very, very angry Vernon Dursley appeared where the toad had been a moment before.
"Don't come anywhere near me or I'll do it again," warned Harry, backing towards the staircase. "Read the letter. They don't care I used magic. I'm too valuable to them."
For added effect, Harry levitated the piece of parchment, settling it on his uncle's head. When he saw Vernon grab the letter and begin to read, he turned and walked calmly back upstairs to his room.
He locked his door, and retrieved his food from its hiding place. It was still piping hot due to the charm Molly Weasley had placed on it. He wasn't feeling particularly hungry at that point, so he placed it under the floorboards again. Feeling like he was safe from any Ministry reprimands, Harry continued his use of magic. He magically locked his door, since he knew his relatives had a spare key to the room. Deciding he had taken enough advantage of his unique position for the night (though he still felt he was owed a lot more than a bit of underage magic, given the task he had to complete), he dug up one of his old textbooks. He drifted to sleep reading about the effect of certain ingredients on the Wolfsbane potion, glasses on and fully clothed.
When morning broke, Harry was already wide awake. Having collapsed into slumber so suddenly the night before, Harry had woken early, and the thought of speaking with Dumbledore's portrait had kept him from getting back to sleep. Finally, at about eight thirty, he got up and had a shower. He made himself some breakfast, and the smell of bacon and eggs brought a groggy Dudley down.
"Mum and Dad's awake," said Dudley, helping himself to some of the breakfast. Harry, out of years of habit, had made enough for everyone. "Neither of them are coming down until you leave the house. Dad was pretty shook up about all that magic."
"And you're not?" asked Harry, not quite sure what to make of Dudley's rather relaxed attitude.
"Nah. It was pretty cool seeing Dad like that, actually," Dudley confided, not quite meeting Harry's eye. Harry by this stage had stopped eating and was scrutinising his cousin carefully. He wondered vaguely if he had been Imperiused, or if it was a Death Eater in disguise, who didn't quite have Dudley's character nailed.
"Sometimes I wish I could do that," he continued. "I mean, it wasn't like you hurt him or anything, right?"
"No, he'll be fine," said Harry with a bewildered smile. "Although I was a bit nervous picking that particular transfiguration. I've only managed it twice before, and the rest of the time it screwed up. It's pretty difficult."
They ate the rest of their breakfasts in silence. Harry decided there was no harm in asking.
"Why are you being so nice all of a sudden?" he asked, genuinely interested.
Dudley thought about it for a while. Harry was beginning to think he wasn't going to answer, when he suddenly replied.
"I guess I sort of… I don't know…respect you for being able to do that to Dad. And take a blow like that to the head and not flinch. I couldn't. And what's that about that guy you have to kill?"
With a sigh, Harry gave a very brief, played down description of his task. Dudley was still wide-eyed when he finished. By this time, they had both finished their breakfast. Harry got up, and took his plate over to the sink.
"Just so you know," said Dudley from the table, "this still doesn't mean I like you. And if you tell my parents I talked to you like this I will personally shove that wand of yours up your arse."
Harry couldn't help it. He just burst out in laughter. The past three weeks had been so bloody depressing that this was just too much. Dudley was looking at him like he'd lost his mind.
It was at this moment that Harry heard the doorbell ring. Professor McGonagall was here.
"A toad, Potter?" asked McGonagall with a smile as Harry opened the door. "Surely you could be more imaginative than that?"
"Sorry, Professor, but it just seemed so perfect. I couldn't help myself!"
"You know, I should be angry with you," said McGonagall, sounding not the least bit angry. "Though it is quite a difficult piece of magic for one as young as you. May I enquire as to whom it was used upon?"
"My uncle. We had a bit of a fight." It was as he said this that his professor noticed the large bruise that had risen on the left side of his face, where his uncle had hit him.
"Merlin, so you did!" exclaimed McGonagall, suddenly angry. "I would have done a lot worse than a toad for that, had I been in your place."
The two went inside. Harry was just going to put some shoes on, as at that point he had bare feet, and he also wanted to lock his room again. McGonagall asked him to bring down his aunt and uncle. She wanted a word with them. Harry was, needless to say, a little apprehensive. He didn't think they would take kindly to him barging into their room and asking them to get up, and he was right.
"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!" yelled Harry's uncle. "Who do you bloody well think you are?!"
Harry didn't flinch, something he felt strangely proud of. Instead, he said, "It's just that my Transfiguration teacher is downstairs, and she wants a word about the bruise you left on my head last night. She is much more imaginative when it comes to magic than me, by the way. I'm sure she knows you're awake, after you yelling at me like that. But if you want to insult her and not speak with her, be my guest."
With that, Harry came back down, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Sure enough, Vernon Dursley shuffled into the living room not long after, and sat himself on the same couch that he had sat on last year, when Dumbledore spoke with him. This brought a sudden wave of sadness crashing down on Harry. Meanwhile, Petunia came in and offered them all a cup of coffee. Nobody accepted. Dudley even waddled in and sat himself on the couch, not entirely sure what this was all about. After introductions were made, McGonagall started speaking.
"It has come to my attention that you struck Harry last night. Quite firmly, if that bruise is anything to judge by." At this Vernon snorted. He found Professor McGonagall a far less imposing figure than Professor Dumbledore, though he still looked uncomfortable. Dudley was a little more relaxed.
"Now, normally I would look down upon the use of underage magic, particularly on a Muggle such as yourself. Especially since I am now Headmistress of Harry's school."
"Wait, what?" interrupted Vernon, confused. "I thought that old codger, Dumblydoor or something, I thought he was the Headmaster."
"He was up until a few days before the end of term," replied McGonagall, carefully controlling the emotion welling up inside her. "He passed away. As I'm sure you are aware, judging by the fact that he came to personally collect him last summer, he was quite close to Harry. Not only this, but Harry witnessed his death. Needless to say, your nephew has been quite shaken by this, or could you not tell?"
"They've been away for the last few weeks," said Harry distractedly. He was still thinking about Dumbledore.
"Excuse me, but what does this have to do with anything?" This was Petunia.
"Well, as I was saying, I would normally look down on behaviour similar to Harry's. However, I think given the circumstances, the way you have treated him in the past, and the simple fact that you would choose to strike him lead me to believe that if I were in his position, I would have done much more. The way you have treated Harry in the past has been truly appalling. I am aware that Professor Dumbledore had a similar conversation to this with you last year, but I would not feel like I have fulfilled my duty as Headmistress, former Housemaster and most importantly, friend, if I did not repeat his sentiments. However, what is done is done. You need only put up with Harry's presence two more weeks. After that, whatever you do is nobody's business but your own. Until then, if I get word that you have mistreated Harry again, you'll have to worry about a lot worse than being transfigured into a toad."
"Is that some kind of threat?" asked Vernon furiously.
"My, my! You are a sharp one, Mr Dursley," replied McGonagall coldly. Harry was quite sure this was the first sarcastic comment he'd ever heard his old Transfiguration teacher make. "Good day."
With that, Harry and McGonagall got up and left, leaving a stunned silence in the living room of Number 4, Privet Drive.
Harry and McGonagall would be apparating to Headquarters. Harry was forced to use side-along apparition, since he had not been old enough to take the test the year before. He took hold of Professor McGonagall's arm, and the next thing he knew, he was in a back alley, shaking off the effects of the violently sudden journey.
"The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix is at Number 12, Grimmauld Place," said McGonagall quietly. "I'm the new Secret Keeper. I have to tell that to everybody. That's the way the Fidelius Charm works. Otherwise you wouldn't be able to see it. You didn't remember the address before I told you, did you?"
Harry thought about it for a moment, and realised he hadn't. Without him noticing, the actual location of Headquarters had somehow slipped his mind since Dumbledore's death.
They walked out onto the street, and walked the short distance to the house. Harry still had to keep reminding himself it was his. In his mind it would always be Sirius'.
As they stepped inside, Harry asked McGonagall what to expect. He was becoming quite nervous.
"Well," started the Professor, not entirely sure what to say, "It is almost exactly like talking to the real Albus. At first it is, but the more you talk, the more you realise it isn't quite the same. There is something intrinsic that is missing. But the portrait has all the knowledge, if not wisdom, of Albus, at the point the portrait was made, which was just before the two of you left the school."
Harry looked at her in confusion. They had stopped just inside the hallway.
"The portrait was made before he was…before we got back?"
"Why, yes," said McGonagall, seemingly surprised Harry didn't know this. "The portraits are made with a spell, or rather, many spells, that can only be used on a living being. Many Headmasters, especially as they get old, constantly get updated portraits of themselves, to ensure the portrait is as close to their own personality as possible when they die. Of course, when Headmasters resign, they can have their portrait done on their last day."
McGonagall seemed to be rambling a little. They had started walking down the hall. She seemed nervous and emotional, just like Harry felt. Unbeknownst to Harry, she was remembering that she knew Dumbledore had died deliberately. She wasn't sure how Harry would react to this news, should Dumbledore choose to tell him. Harry just looked at her strangely.
Harry followed his old Transfiguration teacher into the drawing room. There sat Dumbledore, cleaning his glasses, humming to himself contentedly. It would almost have been as if he had never died, except for the fact that he was suspended within a small frame on the wall. Nevertheless, portrait-Dumbledore looked up and smiled as Harry and Professor McGonagall entered the room.
"Ah, I'm glad to see you two made it," said Dumbledore's portrait merrily.
Harry and McGonagall each took a seat in front of the portrait. Harry was too emotional to speak at that moment. McGonagall, however, had spoken to Dumbledore several times, and was far more accustomed to this unusual experience.
"How are you, Albus?" asked McGonagall.
"Oh, quite well, I suppose," said the portrait conversationally, "I can't really get sick, being a portrait, but times have been dull recently. With this house mostly abandoned for the last couple of weeks, and it being holidays at Hogwarts, there is not much to do. Remind me to ask someone to get me a portrait at the ministry, Minerva. From what I can gather, things are getting quite interesting there these days."
"You wouldn't be wrong there, Albus," replied McGonagall smiling. Harry was beginning to relax, though it still made him tremendously sad to be reminded of Dumbledore's death. Sure, he could talk to this portrait almost as often as he wanted, but it didn't take away his sense of vulnerability and loss that Dumbledore's absence left. Eventually he found his voice.
"Sir, what was it that you wanted to talk to me about?"
"Well, first of all, I just wanted to make sure you were handling yourself OK. I understand you have had Ron and Hermione over many times this summer. I think that was a good idea."
"They helped a lot," Harry said simply, and sadly.
"I also understand that you ended your relationship with Miss Weasley," Dumbledore continued.
"You're well informed," Harry said stiffly, annoyed that Dumbledore, or his portrait at least, knew so much about his personal life. Dumbledore continued, though with a slightly apologetic tone to his voice.
"I assume you thought she would be in danger, being in such a close relationship with you." It wasn't a question.
"Well, she would be, wouldn't she?" said Harry, now starting to feel so many mixed emotions it was beginning to make him feel dizzy. Sadness that Dumbledore was dead, happiness that he could still talk to him, or something like him, something like love for Ginny, regret that he couldn't have her, and annoyance at Dumbledore's know-it-all, but Harry had to admit, characteristic and well justified attitude.
"Yes, she would. It is perhaps in both yours and Miss Weasley's best interests that you remain simply friends for the time being."
This surprised Harry, as he was expecting Dumbledore, emphasising the power of love and companionship, to encourage him to renew his relationship with Ginny. Or hoping, perhaps, a rather insightful voice in the back of Harry's mind said.
"I see you are surprised by my attitude," said Dumbledore, smiling. "I think you and Ginny are old enough to make that sort of decision without my input."
Harry had the feeling that this was all small talk, and the real reason for Harry's visit was yet to be revealed. Sure enough, after a few minutes of chatting, Dumbledore asked McGonagall, as politely as possible, if she would give Harry and him some time in private. McGonagall left, suspecting that this would be about, or related to, the trip Dumbledore and Harry had taken before that terrible night. She was not wrong.
"Now, Harry. As I was made, or recorded, however you wish to think of it, before we took our trip to the cave, I would very much like to know how it went."
Harry was surprised at this. He had naturally assumed that by this stage Dumbledore would know, but of course, the only other person who knew where they had gone was Harry himself, discounting Ron and Hermione, who he knew for a fact had not yet spoken with Dumbledore's portrait.
"We, um, got to the cave," stuttered Harry, not enjoying having to relive the terrible ordeal. "There was a lake, but you had to spill some blood on a rock to get to it." At this, Dumbledore's portrait nodded. "The horcrux was Salazar Slytherin's locket, by the way. It was in a bowl in the middle of the lake. We paddled across to it in a little boat. We had to, uh, you had to drink this green stuff, until it was all gone. The horcrux was in the bowl, and you couldn't get to it while the green stuff was in there. You made me force it down your throat. You didn't want it but you told me to keep giving it to you. It made you all weak." By this stage Harry was on the verge of tears and his voice was terribly quiet.
"Well, we got it in the end," continued Harry, gathering himself. Portrait-Dumbledore gave a sigh of relief. Harry was not looking forward to revealing that it wasn't the real horcrux. "Then we fought some Inferi. We made it out, obviously."
Dumbledore's portrait was quiet. He could tell that something had gone wrong. Apart from his death, that is. Sensing this, Harry continued.
"It wasn't the right one. It wasn't real. Someone had come and taken it." He paused for a few seconds, once again gathering himself. "We landed on the Astronomy Tower, and Malfoy came up. Draco, that is. You put me in a body-bind, with my Invisibility Cloak on. He was meant to kill you, but he hesitated. Then Snape came up. Snape killed you."
By this stage, Harry was barely keeping himself from shouting. He was grinding the words through his teeth, while tears trickled from his eyes.
"Why didn't you let me help?" Harry half-whimpered, half-moaned.
"You know perfectly well why," said the portrait, in a calming but stern voice. "If I'd let you help we would both be dead, and Voldemort would already have control."
Harry forced himself to calm down. This was an argument he'd had with himself many times since his Headmaster's death. It never led anywhere.
"Anyway, after a while, I noticed the locket was smaller than the one we'd seen in the memory. It wasn't the real one. Someone named R.A.B. had come and found it, and by the looks of it, destroyed it."
Harry read the note he had found in the locket to Dumbledore's portrait. He'd taken to carrying it around with him, in case he found a possible R.A.B., and needed to refer to it.
"My, my," said the portrait, having heard the message. "Tell me, Harry, have you any idea who this R.A.B. might be?"
"No idea, sir," replied Harry. "Ron, Hermione and I researched the initials in the library, but didn't find anything that fitted."
"Have you tried that tapestry hanging on the wall opposite me?"
Harry turned around quickly, wondering what the hell Dumbledore was talking about. Then he saw it: the Black family tapestry. R.A.B. Could the "B" stand for Black?
"It is just a hunch, mind you, but I believe your R.A.B. is one Regulus Arcturus Black."
"Sirius' brother, you mean? The Death Eater who left them?"
"Yes, quite. It would explain why he left them so suddenly."
Harry thought about it for a while. He could see no immediate problems with the theory. Although he doubted he could, given that it was Dumbledore's (his portrait's! Harry thought to himself stubbornly) theory to begin with.
They discussed possible reasons for this possible series of events. Professor McGonagall was right, Harry realised suddenly. This wasn't like talking to Dumbledore for real. It was similar, yes, but it wasn't quite right. Something was missing, and Harry could not put his finger on it.
Eventually, somehow, talk turned to Harry's upcoming birthday, and what he was hoping to get.
"I don't know," said Harry, a little uncomfortably. "I guess some defensive gear would be useful. Maybe some books about combating dark magic. Anything that will help me survive for however long it takes to get rid of Voldemort will be great, I guess."
Dumbledore's portrait looked down at Harry with sadness. This was going to be his seventeenth birthday, and all he wanted was to survive until his eighteenth. Then, he guessed, he would want to survive until his nineteenth, and from there, his twentieth. Had the portrait been able to feel genuine emotion, he would have felt a tremendous longing to protect this boy, and help him through this. As it was, he just mimicked the movements the real Dumbledore would have made had he still been alive.
"Well, it so happens that I, or the real me, in any case, organised for you to receive a gift from me, but only on your birthday."
"Thank you," said Harry gratefully. Then it struck him as odd what Dumbledore had said.
"What do you mean, "organised"?" he asked with confusion. "It sounds as though you knew you wouldn't be here."
"Oh, there was a meeting of the Wizengamot, and it fell right on your birthday," the portrait lied smoothly. "It was unavoidable, really. I was hoping I wouldn't have to go. I guess I hoped a little too hard."
Harry accepted Dumbledore's explanation, though he thought it a bit odd.
"Harry, there is still a matter which I wish to discuss with you. It is about my will."
Harry froze. This was not something he wanted to discuss, but by the look on the portrait's face he knew he had no choice.
"My will has not yet been found. For the time being my entire estate is being held by the goblins. I will tell Professor McGonagall where it has been hidden, but first I want to tell you what I have left you."
Harry sat in silence. He was honoured that Dumbledore would feel any desire to leave him anything, but at the same time didn't want a thing from him. He had no need for any more money.
"Harry, I have left you my personal library, of which few people know and fewer have seen. I have also left you my pensieve, and all the memories I own. You also have one of my properties in the Netherlands, and three hundred thousand Galleons, though these are being held in a trust account until the fall of Voldemort. I figured you would have little time to indulge in these until after you defeat Tom."
"Th-Thank you sir," stammered Harry. "That's very generous."
" Nonsense. You need the pensieve and library, and you deserve the house and money. Anyway, I have also left a great deal to my many, many nephews and nieces of various generations. As you can probably guess, when I died, I died exceedingly wealthy. Just one of the legacies of living to 157."
"Sir, I was wondering," asked Harry after a while. "It hasn't really been mentioned, but will Hogwarts be closing down next year?"
"Ah, seeing as I am but a portrait, and a portrait of a man who is no longer head of the school, I am quite the wrong person to ask. Though I suspect Minerva plans to keep the school open, from what she has told me. Whether the trustees agree, we will have to wait and see.
"Now I believe you are welcome to visit the Weasleys for lunch at the Burrow today. I had a talk with Molly yesterday, before the wedding. She popped in here to find something; a tiara, that's what it was. She'd left it here by accident, and came to pick it up. I think it was for Miss Delacour, or should I now say, the young Mrs Weasley. Anyway, when I mentioned I would be speaking with you she offered to have you over for lunch."
"That sounds good," said Harry, feeling as though he could do with some friendly company after this rather emotional conversation.
"And Harry, I think the plan is for you to come and live here after you turn seventeen. That would be very handy, since I would like to still be in contact with you after your birthday."
"I think that sounds fine," said Harry, happy to be able to talk with Dumbledore's portrait, though a bit annoyed that this plan had been made without his input.
"Of course, if you are not comfortable," said the portrait, seemingly reading his mind, "you can refuse. The choice is yours entirely, seeing as you will be seventeen and this is your house."
"Well, I don't have anywhere else to live, so it'll do, I guess."
After a few talking for a further few minutes, Harry got up and walked to the fireplace. He was going to travel to the Burrow by the Floo system. Before simply barging in, however, he sprinkled the powder in the fire, and stuck his head in.
"Harry!" exclaimed Mrs Weasley, seeing him in the fire.
"Hello, Mrs Weasley," said Harry smiling. "According to Dumbldore's portrait you've invited m-"
"Yes, yes, of course," interrupted Mrs Weasly. "Come on over. Lunch will be ready in an hour. Ron and Hermione are here, of course."
"Thanks, Mrs Weasley," said Harry withdrawing his head, before stepping into the fireplace. "The Burrow!" he yelled.