First, apologies to those who have expressed confusion to this story's plot. There is currently no thorough plan on how this is going to go; I know where and how I want it to end and several specific scenes I wish to include. However, inconsistencies and continuity errors will be refined as the story progresses.

Another down-tempo chapter and in-depth contemplation on our guest's identity.

Chapter Three

Fallout

Sleep had been a tumultuous exercise for Harry. Emotionally exhausted, he hoped sleep would come sooner rather than later. Instead, his mind buzzed from the fallout of the night. He seemed to wait for the phone to call, which inevitably never came – perhaps he couldn't hear the phone if it did ring. Even his mind went as far as to conjure a ghostly ringtone, which he knew wasn't real although its mental existence did lull him to sleep.

Harry woke up to a suppressed orange glow illuminating the room, the closed venetian blinds restricting most of the sinking sunshine. Equipping his glasses, he read the time – half past seven! He had undoubtedly slept longer than he wanted. One clinical knock alerted him to the door. "Harry?" Hermione's tone indicated a sign of repetition.

"Yeah, sorry, give me a sec," he fumbled, inadvertently getting tangled in the duvet and falling out of bed. He gathered his clothes before haphazardly throwing them on. Happy that he was decent, he sat cross-legged on the bed and gave Hermione the all-clear.

She came in carrying a pint of water, which she gently placed on the chest of drawers. "You've been sleeping for half a day. I gathered that you'd be thirsty when you woke up," she smiled, sitting in the chair next to the door.

"Always one step ahead. Cheers, Hermione," said Harry, leaning over to grab the water. Once retrieved, he sank half of the glass in an instant. "Sorry to intrude on you and your parents."

Hermione shook her head, her lengthy locks dancing in her face as she did. "You're welcome to stay, Harry. I would have said it's a relief to get you away from those foul people." Her head sank. "It makes no difference now that they're dead."

"Either way, it's good to see you," Harry shrugged. "The Dursleys were slightly more tolerable this year, but 'slightly more' isn't much of an improvement compared to how they used to treat me. They were horrible people but I still wouldn't have wanted that end for them."

Hermione unexpectedly leapt from her seat and pounced on Harry delivering the heartiest hug anyone had ever given him. His shoulder filled the grove between his best friend's chin and neck, feeling her right hand cultivate his hair and her left holding tightly around his back. "You're really here, I'm so glad you're safe! Look at what I woke up to."

She broke the embrace and rushed out of the room, Harry gawping after her in utter shock. Hermione returned in seconds with the Daily Prophet. She held it taut so Harry could read the headline. THE BOY-WHO-LIVED IS DEAD. Below was a picture of the scarred remnants of the field Harry landed in before being ambushed, fires providing the backdrop to the image. Standing between cameraman and the blaze was the Dark Lord, Bellatrix LeStrange to his right and a masked Death Eater to the left with many more behind them, shooting celebratory curses into the air.

If Harry looked gobsmacked from Hermione's reaction moments ago, he was consciously comatose now. The emboldened words felt they would forever be imprinted upon his vision. Fortunately, Hermione relieved him of the sudden object of fascination and took a seat next to him. "I have been so anxious to speak to you, Harry. My mum told me that you were staying in here but told me to let you rest. It's been the tensest ten hours of my life."

"So the entire Wizarding world thinks Voldemort has killed me?" he sighed.

Hermione wrapped a tender arm around his shoulders. "Think of it as a silver lining. Everyone thinks you're dead, and that includes Voldemort! You're no longer his primary target." She returned to the chair she originally sat in. "He sent his report to the Prophet; he used Fiendfyre! Had you not escaped, there wouldn't be any remains to find! How did you escape, Harry? Mum and Lupin weren't very forthcoming."

"I wouldn't have had a chance," Harry mused to himself, looking up at Hermione's inquisitive eyes. "Some guy ..." He hesitated. Hermione relentlessly pursued the unknown. He knew this mystery would become another one of her persistent endeavours. Harry decided to relay to her what he revealed to the Order the night before. She never interrupted even when he paused in contemplation to recount the stream of subsequent events.

He finished his story quicker than before. For one, he wasn't as thorough with description, a lot more comfortable telling Hermione about it. "Professor Dumbledore took me out of the room and asked if he could make a copy of my memory," Harry specifically omitted any mention of the prophecy. "I'm surprised you didn't hear us," he added, wondering how the impromptu Order meeting hadn't woken her.

"My bedroom is on the floor above this one and sometimes I fall asleep with my headphones on," she told him, looking slightly embarrassed.

"What were you listening to?" he enquired conversationally, attempting to inject some normality in their conversation

"This and that," she muttered. However, Hermione persisted and scuppered his desire for normal banter. "Stop changing the subject, you!" she scolded playfully. "You have no idea who this stranger is?"

"Not the faintest idea," he admitted. "It was really dark most of the time and when there was light, it came from the Death Eaters. He kept his head turned; his hair got in the way of his face – so I saw nothing at all."

"And the person who phoned you is definitely the same person who saved you?"

"Without a shadow of a doubt," said Harry confidently. "I didn't recognise the voice but his accent reminded me of Mundungus."

"Fletcher?" finished Hermione, her intrigue heightened. "He's from the Midlands. Birmingham I think. You sure it wasn't him?"

"Definitely not Mundungus; this bloke sounded younger. He's sounded slightly older than us," he explained, unsure but that was as definitive as it was going to get for the time being. "I really think there's no point in bothering to think about it; even if I did see his face, I doubt Dumbledore or I will know who he was."

"I can't imagine Dumbledore not knowing; he seems to know every wizard in Britain," Hermione countered.

"Exactly, I don't think he's a wizard, Hermione. He knew how to use a phone for a start." Hermione cleared her throat. "Neither did he ever draw a wand," Harry pointed out; disputing the fact this ally was a wizard, even a Muggleborn.

"He wouldn't have needed one," she argued. "Swordsman wizards are known to exist – rare, but existent nonetheless."

Harry pondered, mulling over Hermione's explanation. "His Apparation didn't make any sound."

"Didn't it?"

"When he arrived, he emitted a green glow; I thought it was an Avada Curse, but he was there instead. He made absolutely no sound. Also when he brought me here, it was nothing like Side-Along Apparation."

"How different?" she asked, regarding him with an intense stare, her attention peeking like a Muggle heart monitor.

"Have you ever fallen asleep only to wake up a second later?" he analogised instantly.

"Almost every night," she nodded.

"It felt like that. In that blurring second, he had moved me from wherever we were to here. I wonder how he knew where you lived."

"We're on the electoral roll. Getting our telephone number isn't as easy to know though, but the fact he knew we were friends at all totally baffles me. It asks a lot more questions."

"Can they wait, Hermione?" he pleaded, his stomach rumbling on cue. "What's for tea?"

Moments after Chapter Two ...

Glowing embers spat harmlessly onto the aged rug that filled the space between the fireplace and the settee of number twelve, Grimmauld Place. One by one, the party of five who had just left Harry Potter at the Grangers stepped nonchalantly from the blaze. "Why on Earth are we leaving him there?" asked Moody once emerged, taking a seat on the sofa. "This bloke wanted him at the Grangers; which he is, alone!"

"This stranger is no enemy of ours," Dumbledore elaborated. His company reacted accordingly. "Tonight, he had the opportunity to extinguish the lives of either Mr Potter or Mr Riddle. Although I presume this person could very well have dispatched Voldemort, Harry's safety and escape was this person's primary priority. He seems to have the swordsmanship to deflect any wand-cast projectile spells, but spells which fill a larger area such as the Fiendfyre Voldemort used tonight would prove difficult to defend against."

"Your faith in Harry's saviour seems to have skyrocketed tonight, Dumbledore," Alastor noted. "Until we discover who this fella is, in my eyes, he's as good a Death Eater as Lucius Malfoy!"

"Then that is your opinion, Alastor. However, Harry has generously donated his memory of the event, which will hopefully help determine our friend's agenda – and his identity. Remus, could you have a look for a spare Pensieve? We can see for ourselves what happened to Mr Potter tonight."

Lupin took half an hour to fetch the Pensieve, which he placed on a coffee table Dumbledore swiftly conjured. The headmaster produced the small vial that contained Harry's memory and tipped it into the stone receptacle. He looked to the others, who looked excited to follow. "Apologies, Alastor, Remus, Nymphadora," he said, earning a severe stare from Tonks. "I need to inspect this by myself before I allow you to follow." Without much adieu, he inspected the memory unaccompanied.

Thirty tentative minutes passed as the remaining three Order members lulled about, drawing their own conclusions until Albus Dumbledore emerged from the Pensieve. "Anything!?" urged Tonks.

"Come with me," he smiled, his eyes twinkling, before the other three followed him into the Pensieve.

Author's Note: Perhaps Dumbledore should have asked Hermione's questions in the previous chapter? She is an inquisitive bird, ain't she? But even her unparalleled genius cannot fathom the stranger's identity. With help from Harry's memory, Dumbledore has his first clue.