Albus need only catch a glimpse of the Prophet headline the next morning to see something that would reverberate through the Wizarding world: Celebrated British Wandmaker Slain! He choked into his orange juice as several students screamed at the headline, and rushed immediately to the Gryffindor dormitory. Rather than trotting, he sprinted up the staircases, taking the steps four at a time, arriving without having run out of breath. Samuel and the rest of Gryffindor house who weren't at breakfast had already made it into the dormitory. "Look at this paper!" shouted Albus, thrusting it into the face of Samuel, who was tired but alert.

"Bloody hell!" he shouted, snatching the paper from Albus and sitting at the table near the window. "Ollivander, maker of fine British wands, was found slain in the early hours of this morning, after he had been apparently tortured, and the Dark Mark being placed above the shop. However, in the many searches of the world, including the recent expeditions made and funded by Xenophillius Lovegood, no such trace has been found of the Dark Lord returning. Furthermore, the Minister of Magic, Merlinus Gandalfus Puckeringham has authorized investigations into the matter, particularly on behalf of Mr. Ollivander's death. 'We have no existing reason to believe that Voldemort has returned,' said the Minister. 'However, we will not allow the escape of whoever has done this disservice to our world. We have worked for many years to improve the lives of those in our community, and we will not return to the years of either of the Wizarding Wars.' Mr. Ollivander is the known maker of the wand of one Harry James Potter, Auror Department Head. While the community at large is deeply disturbed and aggrieved by such a loss, there are, as of yet, no reports that a panic has spread to the rest of the Wizarding World."

Samuel looked up. "Blimey, mate," he said, shaking his head and putting his hand on the front page. "This is awful."

"Yeah," agreed Albus, picking up the paper and examining the moving photograph of Ollivander. "There aren't going to be many wands sold in Ollivander's shop, if they do like Dad says they did last time. You know...when Voldemort gained power." The rest of the Common Room gasped at the mention of the name. "What? I honestly don't understand you people. If you don't want me to mention the damn name, don't be around when I do." Albus stood up. "I'm upset as you, Samuel," said Albus, patting his friend on the back. "But I think you should get down to breakfast. Don't want to be late to Herbology, yeah?"

Samuel nodded, agreeing, and shuffled off to the boys' dormitory to dress. Albus, on the other hand, Prefects' badge pinned to his chest, ushered the first years to their own dormitories, reminding them to get to class.

"Read about Ollivander," said Scorpius, walking alongside Albus as they made their way across the Transfiguration courtyard in front of the Dark Tower. "How mad d'you have to be to do off with a wandmaker?"

"I honestly don't know," replied Al, shaking his head. "But, if it's anything like Dad said it was when Voldemort had power, it'll be the talk of the whole school for days." Al sighed. "Mum'll be in full panic, about now. Be worrying constantly about us. I'm not saying we're not self-sufficient, but I'm also not saying she's not justified."

"I'm with you there, mate." Scorpius put a hand on Al's shoulder. They had passed a portrait depicting a small, eccentric wizard with a handlebar moustache and entered greenhouse one. "Wonder what Professor Longbottom's got planned?"

"I'll tell you what," said a bright, beaming blond man holding a venemous tentacula. "Careful. This one's a cross-polination. It's far more dangerous than the others. Instantly lethal if it manages to bite you on your neck or shoulder."

"Brilliant!" said Albus, momentarily forgetting the trouble that had been all over Hogwarts the entire morning.

Professor Longbottom lead them into greenhouse three, where the rest of the class was already gathered. The bell rang as they entered. "Hello, class, and welcome to another year in Herbology! You'll notice that I have what appears to be an ordinary venemous tentacula. I assure you, this is no ordinary tentacula. This is a cross-pollination that has just been approved by the Ministry. The venom has been diluted so that, if you should be bitten, it won't be instantly fatal if it's had a go at your neck or shoulder." The Professor set the plant down and tapped it a bit too enthusiastically with his wand, dissintegrating the pot and sending the tentacula flying through the air, where it landed on the floor some distance away. "Sorry! Sorry, don't worry!"

"Here, Professor," said Rose Weasley, carefully picking up the plant, which was attempting a rather slow escape over the greenhouse floor on its writhing tendrils.

"Thank you, Rose," said Professor Longbotom. "See? Need to be careful, especially with the most dangerous of plants!" He put the tentacula into a second pot, which was slightly larger and filled with fertilizer and soil. He lectured them on the need for safety, then demonstrated putting on his goggles and gloves, whil the class attempted to warn him of the plant, which was wrapping its tendrils about his waist, making its way up his thorax. Looking down when he finally realized that there was something wrong, Professor Longbottom rapped the plant smartly on the head, which appeared similar to the cavity of a Venus flytrap. "Exactly what I mean," said Professor Longbottom, finally prying the final tendrils from his stomach. "Just because you see your teacher being careless does not give you an excuse. In my day, I would've had twenty points deducted!"

Before Albus knew it, the bell had rung, and the class was filing out of the greenhouse. Albus had a break, so he headed for Hagrid's hut, saying goodbye to Scorpius as his friend made his way to Defense Against the Dark Arts.

This is a trip that Albus had taken many times, and caught his brother, James, along the way. Today, the sun was bright and the early-September sky was clear and blue. The birds chirped, and the Whomping Willow stood quite still. Albus laughed as he thought of the many stories his father had told about that tree. The tree, he recalled, was the guardian of a secret passage directly into the Shrieking Shack. His father had said that, despite the rumors, it was not haunted. Rather, the shack had been the moonlight haunt of one Remus John Lupin once in a full moon. The werewolf had been his grandfather's friend, and his father's teacher.

"Hullo, Albus!" said Hagrid, striding over. Albus noticed that Hagrid's hair had turned a slightly lighter shade of gray, contrasting from the silver that had been the majority of the color in his hair the previous year.

"Hey, Hagrid!" said Albus, waving and receiving the knee-buckling pat on the shoulder. "How're you?"

"Not bad, Albus. Flesh-eatin' slugs have been at me pumpkin patch, again. I'm thinkin' about puttin' a little more o' Professor Longbottom's secret repellent on 'em. Always does the trick." Hagrid gestured over to the pumpkin patch in front of his hut. "They're no' gonna be as big as every year since you've bin here, mind, but they'll be grand, they will."

Albus smiled. "I don't mind a small pumpkin, Hagrid. So long as it's a pumpkin, it's fine by me." He examined the pumpkin closely. "D'you mind if I Charmed these pumpkins, Hagrid? I'd help you harvest them, too. I don't mind."

Hagrid beamed, happy that his friend would volunteer. "I'd be mighty happy, at that, Albus, but I couln't accept that much help!" He withdrew a very large, spotted handkerchief and blew his nose, giving Albus the impression of a foghorn. "Yeh're father was like that, y'see?"

"Hagrid, I really woudn't mind. I'd Levitate them up to the castle, and we'd be done in half the time."

Hagrid waved a hand. "No, no! I won't have any o' that! It's too much fer me to think about!"

"Really, Hagrid. I wouldn't ask to help if I didn't mean it." Albus smiled, noting the slightly diminished size of the fruits compared to the previous Halloween's.

Hagrid sighed. "Alrigh', Albus. Ye sure you can handle it?"

"If you can lift them with your bare hands, I can lift them with my wand."

* * *

"This is what I had been waiting for," said Nick to himself, gazing in at the house that was about to empty itself of its inhabitants. "I notice he never takes them with him. What a petty mistake, really." Nick smiled, watching as the man with the glasses and the green eyes Disapparated. He and his wife, the one with the scarlet hair, had left for work at the perfect time. Nick stepped over the garden gate, noting the unusual silence that had overtaken the neighborhood this early in the day. It was not quite as early as it could have been, he noted, but nevertheless, it was something to be cautious of.

Nick tapped the lock with his wand and strode inside. He looked about him. The photographs of the man's children were well-taken, and they would be useful in keeping Potter from coming after him.

Although Dumbledore had not confided everything in him, there were certain bits of knowledge that he had been able to piece together, even after all these years. The Stone, for instance, was one of the two things that Potter was in possession of. And the other, the Cloak...that was a harder one to come by. Potter always kept it on his person, in what Nick suspected was an Undetectably-Extended inner pocket of his robes. Despite this knowledge, Nick smiled as he found his way into Potter's study, moving silently to the desk drawer where he knew the Stone to be kept. It was locked, but Nick was far more clever than he had ever been taken for, even after the creation of the Philosophers' Stone. He moved his wand in a complicated pattern, muttering incantations of a most peculiar kind. For a moment, nothing seemed too have taken place. Then a lock clicked most perceptively, and the drawer slowly opened to reveal a gold portrait frame, inlaid with the black stone that he had been looking for. Nick smiled, having thought it out carefully. He removed from his pocket a stone that looked alike and carefully took the stone decorating the portrait frame. Placing the real Stone in his cloak, Nick put the other where the former had been and readministered the Charms protecting the drawer.

Nick had never been this close to it in his life. He laughed quietly, noting the arrogance with which Potter guarded his possessions. He could feel the power surge within the Stone, even for that near imperceptible moment. Now, to wait for the appearance of the Cloak.

* * *

Albus tapped his wand against the side of the desk as the Transfiguration teacher, Professor Baker, had demonstrated, Transfiguring it from a desk to a pig and back. "Very good, Albus," said Professor Baker, a tall, young, bearded man from America. "Excellent! Twenty points to Gryffindor!" As Albus sat back at his table, next to Samuel, the Professor leaned on his desk. "I want all of you to be aware that this is your N.E.W.T. year, and there will be more expectations of you than ever." He looked at all the sober faces of his students. "I will tolerate less of you now than I ever have. There will be no products whatsoever from Weasley's Wizard Wheezes, and anything unrelated to studying is prohibited. This is not to say," he continued, "that I will not immediately refer you to the nurse if I find that you are incapable of studying. If you are in a panic, I'll recommend you go straight there. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Professor," said the students.

* * *

James embraced Catherine in a kiss, the thoughts on his mind of the wedding plans. There was so much to do, he reflected. There were so many people to go through, and his father was a Wizarding hero.

"James," said Catherine, breathing into James' neck, "James, I want to be with you the rest of my life."

"As do I want to be with you, Sweetheart," he replied, kissing her once more. "I can't wait..."

Before James could complete his sentence, an owl swooped down the chimney and landed before him on the endtable, holding up its leg and showing him a scarlet-colored Howler, which he immediately seized and tore open. "James," said his father's voice, "The Aurors are on high alert, and we need every able-bodied witch and wizard we can muster. We need you here immediately. This is urgent, and we believe it involves what we discussed about the Prophet. Get down here, and bring Catherine." The Howler tore itself to shreds and burst into flame, reducing itself to ashes in moments. James turned to Catherine.

"Stay here, Catherine. I'm going to help Dad at the Ministry."

"But, James-!"

"No, Catherine," he said, gently. He kissed her tenderly on the mouth and withdrew, drinking in the sight of her. "No. Not after what we'd discussed." He placed a hand on her stomach, knowing it would begin to swell in the next few months. "I don't want to put you into any danger. I couldn't do that."

She nodded. "Promise me you'll come back, James." Her gaze met his and she did not blink. "Promise me. Say it."

He sighed, but meant it with all his heart. He would never abandon his wife and unborn child. Despite this meaning he secretly wished was true, he knew what she meant. "I promise, Catherine," he said, embracing her. "I promise I'll come back. You know I will."

As he threw on his robe and traveling cloak, he smiled at her. "I'll be damned if I don't." He winked and turned on the spot, immediately immersed in darkness.

James was about to gasp for breath when he heard urgent voices and opened his eyes. He was standing in the middle of the Atrium at the Ministry of Magic, witches and wizards passing, some of them nodding, others looking grim and saying to him over the din, "...wish it was under better circumstances you were here."

"James!" said his father, Harry. "James!" He made his way over to his father's voice and they walked toward a lift, together. The golden grilles clanged shut, crowding them in with other witches and wizards. In an urgent whisper, Harry spoke to his son. "I dunno, all this bullocks...Dementors traipsing about Stockton-on-Tees, Death Eaters loose in Surrey and where else. I tell you, it's all bloody mad."

"Death Eaters?" said James, recognizing this term as one his father only ever referred to when he was speaking of his own past. "Weren't they around when Voldemort was in power?"

"I don't bloody know. Why return after twenty-six years, though? This scar of mine," he gestured to the cut on his forehead, "only ever hurt when he was in power. Tell you the truth, I haven't even felt anyplace near it on my head so much as twinge the past twenty-six years. The point is, this is looking a bit mad. No one's been so scared since he was around, and all of a sudden, everything's chaos, mad." Harry shook his head, then looked about them in the emptying lift. "Where's Catherine?"

James drew a breath, having waited to tell his father since he had found out that morning. "Dad, there's more than one reason I asked her to marry me. Truth is..." James was uncertain he could do it, but he knew his father might fill in the blanks, eventually.

"You...hang on, James." He turned to his son in a combination of disbelief, shock and pride. "You didn't...?"

"I bloody did," he replied, subconsciously puffing up at the fact. "You're going to be a grandfather!"

"Congratulations!" Harry told his son as they stepped off the lift. "I don't bloody believe it! How long...?"

"Muggle doctors figure probably seven weeks." James winked.

Momentarily, they were joined by an stooped, elderly black man, once tall and proud, bald as ever and only slightly wrinkled, even for his age. "Harry, you know I never liked to stay out of a good fight. I'm going with you, if you don't mind. No arguments. You know they don't influence me." He smiled a grim smile, stepping into Harry's office and taking a pinch of Floo Powder from the inner pocket of his robe. "After you, Mr. Potter."

"Number Four, Privet Drive!" Harry stepped into the emerald flame, and James watched his father vanish into the Floo network, once again stepping into the house he knew to be the residence he had taken for seventeen years, the place he had grown up until the darkest times James could not even imagine.