Chapter 2: Dumbledore and Dursleys
Harry's objections to his fake trunk being locked in the cupboard under the stairs were sufficient to make them think he'd tried but insufficient to succeeding. He thought that if he'd really pushed, he would've gotten to keep everything, just like last year. Instead, he'd pushed for freedom of the house, freedom to let Hedwig come and go as he liked, freedom to keep his wand, and a decrease in chores instead.
That settled, he'd gone straight to his room (which, this summer, was not going to be locked from the outside) shut the door and opened the window.
He'd taken the shrunken trunk out of his pocket and put it against the wall.
Two nights later, a soft fwooping woke him as the trunk returned to full size, and Harry got busy.
He put on the locket he'd made with Hermione, the most advanced product he hadn't bought or borrowed. When the locket was closed, the Notice-Me-Not was inactive. When it was open, the Notice-Me-Not engaged. Hopefully, his relatives would ignore him. Forget to think about him most of the time, even.
He applied the off-white Notice-Me-Not sticker to the outside of the door. He and Hermione thought that it ought to cover the whole room, and even, to some extent, the concept of the room.
He took the wizard's lock out of his trunk and attached it to the door. The room would only open for him. His secure little castle. Next was making it livable.
He took a spray from his trunk. Formula 509. Quite similar to the muggle household cleaners, except he only had to spray it around the room, and all the dirt and dust went away without him wiping a single thing, leaving only a fresh pine scent. He'd gotten it from Dobby, who'd assured him it wouldn't attract the ire of the Ministry.
Then he got the bedding out. Taken from Hogwarts, sheets, blankets and a mattress pad that somehow turned the uneven, pop-springed old mattress that Dursleys had given him into what had to the most comfortable bed in the house.
It wasn't stealing, since he'd return it all to Hogwarts at the start of the year.
Finally, he looked through the rest of his trunk for a while, glorying in the fact that he had his stuff, then he went to bed.
That night, he had a strange dream.
He was sitting in a chair. He could see the tip of his wand, only it wasn't quite his wand. Peter Pettigrew was standing out a window, looking nervous.
He spoke. "Are you of so little faith, Wormtail?
Wormtail looked away from the window. "Of course not, master."
"Setbacks occur in war. One plan failed, another will succeed. I am immortal, after all."
Wormtail said, not quietly enough, "That makes one of us."
He considered cruciating the fool. There was a chance that Wormtail would attempt to capture him and bring him to the Ministry, or hit him with a killing curse. Frightened rats made strange moves. Torturing the rat might cow him, but it also might drive the rat to take action.
"It does. It would be unwise to forget it." He let hang the implication that he would resurrect eventually, whether Pettigrew helped him or not. And would deal harshly with betrayal. That ought to counteract Pettigrew's nerves.
But he was nervous too. His nerves centered around the word 'Dumbledore.'
As if the thought had summoned the man, one of his wards tripped.
He said, "We are leaving immediately. Lift me."
Pettigrew's eyes lit with understanding, and the miserable excuse for his wizard was out the door in a shot, midway into his rat transformation.
He tried to apparate, though he could hardly manage it in his current form, and he bumped hard against the ward. Struggling with his weak, ungainly limbs, he grabbed the portkey he always kept near himself, and that failed as well.
His wards, though not what he would've made if he were himself, were of decent quality, and someone was cutting through them like an axe through butter.
Few wizards could do that, and only one of them was likely to be in France.
He hissed, "Nagini, flee."
The large snake wriggled into a prepared hole in the wall, and he began to scream, vision red and black, in agony that surpassed the Cruciatus.
Leaving one's body was never pleasant.
The wall exploded, brick and Nagini's tattered corpse crashing into the far wall, Dumbledore stepping through.
Too late, he thought. He was already spirit once more, immaterial, unharmable, quickly leaving.
A white light flashed from Dumbledore's wand, seeming little more than a Lumos Maxima, yet what it brought was worse than pain.
Harry woke up.
It was early morning, dawn on the horizon, and his scar hurt as if it had been cut, but otherwise he felt fine. Better than fine.
He looked at it in the mirror in the loo. It was red and inflamed, but the rest of him felt excellent. Voldemort had hated that white light, but the memory of it didn't bother him.
He walked quietly out the house, went for a jog around the neighborhood, pushing himself a little, wishing he had better sneakers.
Twenty minutes and he was back, running through the shower, then locking himself in his room. Hagrid had not, unfortunately, had a wizarding tent like Harry had used during the World Cup, but his other camping equipment was a life saver.
Harry poured a glass of water from the hundred-gallon-jug, and, from the food preserver, took two sausages, two Danish pastries and some sort of vegetable smoothy Harry wasn't thrilled by but Dobby had insisted on. The house-elves had proven enthusiastic.
Combine that with the self-vanishing chamber pot, and Harry hardly had to leave the room unless he wanted to.
Over breakfast, Harry wrote a letter.
Dear Professor Dumbledore,
I had a dream. The furry little traitor was there, and so was Quirrel's old head-scratcher, and a big snake. Then you arrived. You made a light that Quirrel's old head-scratcher didn't like. There's more, but I don't want to say it in a letter.
You know how to reach me if you want to,
Boy-Who-Gets-Into-Messes
Breakfast eaten and Hedwig sent off, Harry lay on his bed reading Mind's Mortar, the book on occlumency.
The authors seemed afraid that if you were traumatized, grief-stricken, or otherwise unstable, you should recover before attempting it. A lot of warning about how learning the ability to hide memories was dangerous for people who had memories they desperately wanted to forget. You might accidentally lock them away and never be able to find them again.
Harry made himself a promise he wouldn't bury any memories about the Dursleys or his various adventures, but he was more bothered by the book's claim that occlumency wasn't for everyone. He didn't match its description of the prototypical occlumens.
Disappointed, he read Dark Arts and Pure Hearts for a while, which was much closer to interesting. He'd never had any idea of why emotional states were so important in Defense class, and he thought a lot about how a Patronus used happiness, protego used a desire to protect yourself, and the Killing Curse required an intense and remorseless desire to kill.
Sometime after lunch, Hedwig flew through his open window bearing a letter.
Interesting. I should be by in two or three weeks. We'll talk then, unless you have an urgent problem. I don't know how much you saw, but I regret to report that both the furry little traitor and Professor Quirrell's old head-scratcher are still at large in the world, if worse for the wear.
I hope your summer reading is going well. Particularly the mental aspect of it.
Fidwitly, Dumbledore.
Harry returned to the book on occlumency. The first exercise was to sit still and think of nothing.
Harry thought of nothing. And of how thinking of nothing was interesting and might make him an occlumens, and meditation seemed like something a martial artist would learn in a movie. Then he realized he wasn't thinking of nothing anymore, so he went back to that, but quickly began thinking of how cool it would be to be a master occlumens, and how impressed some pretty girl would be when she found out after the ability somehow allowed him to save her life.
With a disgusted sigh, he noticed what he was thinking of, picked up Dark Arts and Pure Hearts, realizing that this summer, reading thick books on magical theory would be a method of procrastination.
#
#
Seventeen days later, with Uncle Vernon at work, Dudley at play, and Aunt Petunia attending a meeting of the homeowner's association, and Harry was putting his fingers to his toes.
Due to boredom, a need to move his body or go mad, and an increasing preoccupation with Dumbledore's suggestion that he date more in the coming year, he'd been exercising. A quick jog most mornings and evenings, pull-ups on the bar at the park. A daily routine of stretches, push-ups, sit-ups, lunges and squats in his room.
He didn't belong shirtless on a magazine cover, but seeing his muscles become a little bigger and more defined day-by-day was surprisingly satisfying.
A knock at the door rang unnaturally loud in his ears. He grabbed his wand and crept carefully down the stairs, though he was not really worried.
He saw through the peephole what he'd been expecting, and opened the door. "Professor Dumbledore, it's an honor to have you. My relatives aren't home, which is a bit of luck. Would you like some tea?"
"Luck has nothing to do with their absence, Harry, and thank you for your kind offer.
Harry soon came out of the kitchen with two teacups, milk, and a tea kettle holding Aunt Petunia's best tea (which he wasn't supposed to touch).
They drank, Harry noting how aggressively out of place Dumbledore looked in his purple suit with red stitching, Dumbledore noting that the pictures on the wall did not include Harry.
Dumbledore said, "How has your summer been thus far?"
"It's been great. They ignore me. Half the time, they forget I'm here."
Dumbledore said, "While I hesitate to call that great, I'm glad the situation has improved. I'd wondered if I ought to speak to them."
Harry said, "I wouldn't want to disrupt them when things are going so well."
Dumbledore said, "In the politics of your household, I shall let you be my guide. Now, if you don't mind, pleasant as this sitting room may be, I confess myself curious to see where you actually reside."
Harry wasn't eager to show the man his room, but he led Dumbledore upstairs, very happy that he'd already picked up his laundry and put it in the wash.
Entering the room, he kicked a stray sock under the bed.
Harry sat on the trunk, leaving the bed for Dumbledore, since he didn't have a chair and that was the nicer seat.
Dumbledore closed the door and conjured two fluffy purple armchairs, which took up nearly all the free space in the room.
Harry sat on the closer one, embarrassed about what he'd been thinking a moment ago, and embarrassed of his shabby room in general. At least it was clean, and the books on the bed gave mute testimony to his diligence.
Dumbledore cast several spells as he took his seat. "This house is already warded exceptionally well, and with this we can speak with complete freedom. Tell me about your dream."
So Harry told him, reciting every detail. "The weird part was that I was in his head a little, thinking his thoughts. It wasn't like that before. He's afraid of you Professor, and whatever that spell you cast at the end was, he didn't like it."
There was a sadness in the smile that Harry thought he might actually understand. "I'd imagine not. But I achieved more than simply giving Voldemort an unpleasant experience.
"We separated Pettigrew from Voldemort, and I doubt he'll be eager to seek Voldemort out. He did not enjoy his time in Lord Voldemort's service, and he ought to be rethinking his theory that Voldemort will keep him safe."
Harry said, "Do you think you'll catch him?"
"He is beyond the Ministry's jurisdiction, and Amelia must practice great compartmentalization in pursuing him. I myself am spread thin as it is. And the last thing we want is to drive him back into Voldemort's spectral arms. But we do still hope to catch him. I believe he's gotten the message that if he turns himself in and tells us all he knows, we'll place him in one of France's nicer cells, rather than Azkaban."
"You'd go easy on him?" said Harry. "He killed my parents, basically."
"He gave information to the Dark Lord for the sake of saving his own skin. But even if he had killed your parents with his own hands, then yes, I would keep him from torture at the hands of the dementors for the sake of preventing Voldemort's return." Dumbledore's eyes grew fierce. "I would do and have done a great many things for the sake of that."
"But he-"
"Harry, if you had to choose between Pettigrew spending the rest of his time in a prison, captive but humanely treated, and Voldemort not coming back, or Pettigrew being caught somewhat later and spending the rest of his life in Azkaban, and Voldemort returning, starting a war, and killing many or your friends, which would you choose?"
"The first," admitted Harry.
"And what do you think of Azkaban in general? I know how you feel about dementors. Do you think it's a good practice we wizards of Britain have, subjecting our prisoners to them? To torture of the soul?"
"Not for innocent people clearly, or for minor crimes, but for people like Pettigrew..."
"He ought to be tortured? If you could, would you keep him in an expanded trunk and practice the Cruciatus on him every day before dinner?"
"That's sick!"
"Then why do you want the dementors to torture him for dinner. Do not think it isn't your responsibility. Your hands are not washed of what you advocate for. Leaving Voldemort beside, would you prefer for Pettigrew to be in Azkaban to be tortured by dementors, or kept humanely in a cell?"
Harry knew what answer Dumbledore wanted from him; it was the same answer he wanted from himself. But it wasn't the answer he had. "I don't know."
"That puts you on a better moral footing than many." The headmaster continued in his normal tone. "Voldemort himself was forced to leave his homunculus body, as you saw. And the spell I cast did him damage that I doubt he himself is aware of, and best that it stays that way."
Dumbledore did not elaborate, even after Harry gave him a pointed look, so Harry said,
"Sir, this sounds ridiculous. But that spell you cast before he escaped. Was it sort of like a Cheering Charm?"
Dumbledore looked delighted. "Yes. More a spell to restore moral fortitude, but yes. Quite similar to a Cheering Charm. And a thing so daft and quixotic, so foolishly idealistic, damaged him as the Killing Curse itself in that form could not have. Being a homicidal maniac sustained by Dark Magic has real and practical costs. I have taught him that many times now."
"You're not going to explain more though?" said Harry, when Dumbledore appeared to have finished.
"Not until you've mastered occlumency. The Dark Mark has faded, and I doubt you'll connect to him in dreams again until such time as he regains physical form, which we shall aim to prevent him from doing, but I think you gather why I'm so insistent that you learn it?"
Harry didn't figure it out until Dumbledore asked, and he could've kicked himself. Occlumency wasn't just a general safety procedure. "Voldemort and I have a special connection," he felt dirty saying it, "and he could possibly see into my mind even from a distance, or even control me."
"Or he could simply become aware that you are seeing into his head, and show you false experiences to trick you."
"If he could use this connection to help himself, couldn't we do the same?"
"Possibly. But to even attempt it, you must first wrest the title of 'most skilled occlumens in all of Britain' from one Severus Snape, a tall mountain to climb, I assure you."
"Snape is-"
"Professor Snape is quite skilled at many matters. And that skill of his, Mr. Potter, is one of my secrets. Handle it well. You read the book on occlumency? Good. How about the exercises?"
Harry said, "I'm doing the memory hardening and recovery, and the observations and the meditation daily, and I'm getting used to it and better at it, but I'm not enjoying it or sustaining it for long periods like it says I should. Especially the meditation." He wouldn't have done them with any regularity if it weren't for how disappointed Dumbledore would be if he didn't.
"Good. I'll test you. Choose a memory which you'd rather I didn't know, but which is not truly a secret. A mildly embarrassing experience, perhaps."
"The Yule Ball," said Harry.
"Signal me when you feel you are ready to do your best, and I will try to see that memory."
They all become more sophisticated as they went up, but according to Mind's Mortar, there were three basic approaches to occlumency. The first was to think of nothing. The second was to think of something in particular. The third was to exist completely in the moment.
Harry was rubbish at the first two but hoped he might be a prodigy at the third to make up for it. The exercises for it were similar to the watchful focus of looking for the snitch.
His breathing slowed. He saw Dumbledore. A small green leaf that had lodged in Dumbledore's beard. The door, and the three scratches in the paint. He heard the faint hum of the fridge. He lifted a finger, and Dumbledore said "legilimens."
A part of him knew that all Dumbledore saw was Dumbledore. But only a very small part of him, because most of him was busy seeing Dumbledore.
"Well done," said Dumbledore.
A tiny, tiny part of him knew that Dumbledore saying 'well done,' was intended as a distraction, but the rest of him was busy looking at Dumbledore.
And feeling a push against his attention. And a stronger push. And a stronger push. And Dumbledore was inside, rifling through his mind, starting with the words 'dance' and 'Yule,' in a moment finding Harry standing awkwardly next to Parvati Patil.
He heard Dumbledore saying, "Fight me, Harry."
He fought. He pushed. He wasn't even sure what fighting entailed, but he could feel Dumbledore, like he might feel a man in front of him, and Dumbledore was seeing how he had ignored his date to stare at Cho, and he was trying to move Dumbledore outside his mind, but it was like trying to move a car.
And Dumbledore withdrew, leaving Harry gripping his pounding head.
Dumbledore said, "Waging warfare in one's own head gives one a headache. The only real solution I know is to not let others in in the first place." He handed Harry a blue liquid in a glass vial. "I wouldn't normally give you this, as it might lead to a dependency, but just this once should be fine."
Harry downed the vial and immediately felt better, though as the pain receded he felt embarrassed.
He hadn't thought, he hadn't been thinking, but his perception had been that his wall had been holding against Dumbledore's assault, and then he'd found out that really, Dumbledore had been gently pressing against a paper screen to see how much force it would take.
Dumbledore said, "You can do better. Considering how you've thrown off the Imperius Curse, I know you can fight harder. Perhaps you'd raise more willpower if it were Professor Snape acting the part of the legilimens? Yes, I see from your expression that you would. Still, all told Harry, it was a surprisingly skillful first attempt, and a better fight back than most your age would muster."
"You won really easily," said Harry.
"Think of the difference between Professor McGonagall and Hermione on her first day of Transfiguration class. She had a good first day, but there was still quite the gap to traverse, wasn't there? You face a similar gap."
Harry's mind reeled. He'd been thinking of occlumency as a summer project which might, at worst, stretch till near the end of his fifth year.
"Take heart, Harry. It's quite a useful skill even at sub-Severus levels of expertise. How has your other reading been going?"
Harry was grateful for the shift. The other books hadn't had exercises for him to do. "In addition to Mind's Mortar, I've read, The Character of Magic, and Dark Arts and Pure Hearts, some parts twice. I've read most of Forming the Fundament and I've started Within the Cauldron's Bubble." A lot of In The Cauldron's Bubble reminded him of stuff Snape said, but it made more sense when it wasn't Snape saying it.
"Good," said Dumbledore, and questioned him on the books. Harry felt his answers were bumbling and incomplete, (why did interacted abstractions develop grooves anyway?) but Dumbledore seemed satisfied.
"You have been productive. I'm almost reluctant to take you away, but not quite. There are matters we must attend to at Diagon Alley."
They went out the door and down Privet Drive, those few who were outside paying no attention to the man in the purple suit.
To Harry's confusion, Dumbledore knocked on the door to Ms. Figg's house. The door opened, and Dumbledore said, "Arabella, might we make use of your floo?"
"Of course. Hello, Harry, well done with the tournament."
Floo. The tournament. "You're a witch?" said Harry. Finding out that Uncle Vernon's Thursday get-togethers for bowling were really a cover for his devotion to clown school would've been less shocking.
"A squib, dear," said Ms. Figg. "The fireplace is right over there, by the taller china hutch."
Dumbledore pulled Harry along, took a mug down from the mantle, which proved to be full of floo powder. "You've traveled by floo before?"
"Yes. Ms. Figg. This isn't just a coincidence, is it?"
The fire in the grate started without Harry seeing Dumbledore even touch his wand. "Diagon Alley, Harry."
Dumbledore threw in pinch of floo powder, stepped into the flames, said "Diagon Alley," and vanished.
Harry followed after, tolerated the usual spinning, and tumbled out an outdoor fireplace just inside the entrance to the Alley. He kept his feet.
Dumbledore waved his wand. The ash and soot vanished, then Dumbledore's suit became his usual robes, and Harry's muggle clothes were covered by bottle green robes, a casual version of what he'd worn to the Yule Ball. Harry guessed that his robes were conjured (and so would disappear in several hours or days) and that Dumbledore's robes were his lavender suit untransfigured.
Dumbledore began walking up Diagon Alley, and Harry chased after him, intending to ask about Ms. Figg.
Dumbledore said, "What we must do now, Mr. Potter, will challenge your maturity and sense of perspective as few other things have. To defend against this hazard, you must remember what is truly important, and never forget, even in your daily habits, that this is not it.
"I had wondered when to do this, wondered if I might wait till you were older, more ready to face this burden, but I have decided at last that it is better to prepare you properly for it than to wait till the day when it is forced upon us."
Harry followed Dumbledore up the steps of Gringotts.
"The problem, Mr. Potter, is that you are rich."
#
#
Harry and Dumbledore sat on one side of the paper-cluttered table, the goblin Macequill on the other.
Harry said, "It doesn't seem like I'm Malfoy rich."
Dumbledore said, "You are not 'forty galleon glass of wine every night with dinner' rich. You are 'could raise a family in comfort without ever working a day' rich."
"I know I have a lot of galleons, but wouldn't I run out eventually?"
"This must come as an unwelcome surprise to you, but you have income, Harry." The way Dumbledore said 'income' suggested it was an embarrassing but non-debilitating disease, like toe fungus.
Macequill pushed three of the papers toward Harry. "You own three properties outright in Diagon Alley, and two in Knockturn Alley. You see the monthly rents here and here." Macequill tapped the papers as he spoke. "You have six acres of land in Wales, valuable land for magical agriculture, and part ownership in the company that does production and distribution. And twenty acres of land in the Forbidden Forest-
"At a far remove from the school," put in Dumbledore.
"Twenty acres of land in the Forbidden Forest. You essentially run it as a wildlife preserve, with just a bit of income from fees paid by licensed collectors. They're there for unicorn hair, moonstones, truffles and the like. And you have a six-hundred-thousand galleon stake in Gringotts."
"S-six-hundred-thousand?"
"Slightly over. That's in addition to the liquid funds in your vault."
"What's a stake?"
Macequill said, "The nearest muggle equivalent is an Index Fund."
"A what?" said Harry.
"Think of it as owning a small percentage of everything that for sale. You also have two smaller actual Index Funds on the muggle side."
Macequill pushed two more papers forward and pointed to the most pertinent items.
"Three-hundred-thousand pounds," Harry squeaked.
Macequill said, "Don't get too excited. Here are your expenses for all your accounts."
The paper was scrawled on with minuses. Fees paid to Gringotts, Hogwarts tuition, his yearly withdrawals to pay for his school supplies, and a bunch of other items he didn't recognize.
"Are these charitable donations?"
Macequill said, "A percentage of the yearly net gain is automatically donated to various causes, continuing from your grandparents' time."
Harry looked the items over. The War Survivors' Fund. The War Orphans' Fund. Hogwarts for All. Saint Mungo's Trust. The Wildlife Protection Fund. The Magical Civil Liberties Union. The yearly donations vastly dwarfed his yearly withdrawals for school supplies.
Even after those deductions, the yearly gain was more than he could imagine spending.
Harry said, "Could I raise the percentage?"
Macequill said, "You wish to increase the amount you give to others for free?"
"I think so."
Macequill muttered something about wizards, and said, "With your Magical Guardian's sign-off."
"My magical guardian?"
Dumbledore raised a hand.
Macequill said, "In most respects, he's done an acceptable job. Returns have been above average. The Potter account has recovered substantially from the beating it took during the war."
Dumbledore said, "I've simply ordered Macequill to reinvest the yearly remainder, focusing on the Gringotts Stake and brick and mortar locations."
Macequill said, "I do have one complaint against him. One could almost call it embezzlement." He sent Dumbledore a dirty look. "Your magical guardian is leasing the old Potter House to The Phoenix Foundation, which your magical guardian chairs, at the price of one knut per year. The Phoenix Foundation is merely obliged to pay taxes and upkeep. This relationship began before your parents' untimely death, but was not at the time set up to be permanent."
Dumbledore said, "The house plays host to those who find themselves temporarily without living arrangements. There's a caretaker, a counselor, and three house-elves."
"Are there any students at Hogwarts who...
"A number of students have had a stay in it, yes. You are of course free to see record of the beneficiaries."
"I'd rather not," said Harry. He didn't want to walk down the halls of Hogwarts thinking about which students had benefited from his family's money, and whether they owed him or not. But it did raise a question he'd been intending to raise with Dumbledore. Why did he have to stay with the Dursleys? He could've stayed at the Potter House, at least.
But he wasn't having that conversation in front of a goblin.
Dumbledore said, "I approve of your instinct to give, but I must insist on two requirements. First, you must research whatever organization you might consider giving to, and what your other options for giving are, and look at projections of the longterm financial impact on your account, and second, you must not give to anything with which I am involved with until you gain full control of your accounts at the age of seventeen."
Harry said, "I was thinking I'd give some to Hogwarts."
Dumbledore said, "That's wonderful, but no. Hogwarts could use the money, and use very it well I hope, but it is politically important that you and I avoid even the appearance of impropriety. But philanthropy, wonderful as it might be, is not why we're here."
Dumbledore said to Macequill. "I wish for Mr. Potter to become co-executor of his account, effective on his fifteenth birthday. I've already prepared the forms."
#
#
An hour later, with a Gringotts key, a purse full of galleons, and five-hundred pounds in his wallet, Harry sat with Dumbledore at the only table on a restaurant's roof, taking advantage of the sunny weather and Dumbledore's clout. Nan's Heart served Indian curry, which Harry hadn't had before, but quite liked.
Dumbledore said, "I'm hoping to add more regional variety to the Hogwarts' cuisine. Alas, I'm afraid it shall not occur in any organized fashion this year, but the house-elves will cater to you if you ask."
Harry intended to.
"With your OWLs coming up, have you begun thinking about career possibilities?"
Harry wasn't sure what kind of jobs there were. Mr. Weasley worked for the ministry, Charlie worked with dragons, Bill was a curse breaker at Gringotts, whatever that meant. And now he found out he didn't need to have a career if he didn't want to. "I guess I could be an Auror, like Moody, maybe. Since Defense is my best class. I don't know. What did my parents do?"
Dumbledore's voice was low. "Don't spread this around, but during the war, in addition to the Ministry, a number of citizen's groups fought the Death Eaters. Some might call them vigilante groups, but I'd call them militias. Fresh out of Hogwarts, James used his family's wealth to bankroll one such group, allowing many of its members, he, Lily, Sirius and Lupin included, to fight full-time."
Harry gulped. He'd known in a vague way that his parents had opposed Voldemort, but this was more than he'd guessed.
"If there had been no war, no Voldemort, I suspect Lily would've been a potioneer, focused more on research than brewing, and James would've used his talent for transfiguration to work in object creation-he and Sirius actually collaborated to make a pensieve for a class project as a seventh-year, which was very impressive.
"Sirius would almost uncertainly have made a career of adapting muggle technology and staying in compliance with Mr. Weasley's office. Or more likely, he would've hired an assistant and a lawyer to keep him out of too much trouble with it."
Harry said, "Do you have any suggestions for me?
Dumbledore gave Harry a booklet with eight smiling Hogwarts students on the cover, two from each house. "Hogwarts produces this. It's on the OWLs, and various career options. The one-sentence summary is that good grades are good to have. We'll stop at a bookstore before we leave, and I'll give you more recommendations; you seem to have done well enough with my recommendations so far. Perhaps something you read will strike you.
"Additionally, this year, Hogwarts will have new programs, designed in part to better prepare older students to enter the workforce. The school made quite a lot of money off the Tri-Wizard tournament. If Voldemort had returned, I would've had to spend it all on security, but, luckily, he did not, and I get to follow my plans. Additionally, the Malfoy family has at last been kind enough to make a very substantial bequest to Hogwarts."
Harry said, "Why would they do that?" All he could think of was buying influence.
"It has to do with an ongoing conversation Lucius and I have been having in regards to how he might obtain sole ownership of certain sadly non-prosecutable but potentially very damaging items of information pertaining to certain events which took place during your second year."
"The Chamber of Secrets." said Harry.
Dumbledore's eyes twinkled. "I believe it's nearly time for us to discover that. The basilisk will have decayed little, and the parts of a thousand-year-old basilisk can be sold for quite the tidy sum, even split between you, Ginny and the school."
"Fawkes should get at least half."
"Fawkes will donate his share to the school," said Dumbledore. "Beyond the money, discovering the chamber will burnish our reputations, and may just furnish me with the political capital to remove purity of blood from the Slytherin House charter, especially now that Lucius Malfoy has withdrawn his opposition."
Harry said, "Which also has to do with those conversations you've been having with him about what happened during my second year?"
Dumbledore smiled. "Lucius and I are always talking. I thought we had come to an agreement at the start of last year, but as the mark strengthened, he dug his heels in. Now that it has subsided..."
Harry had the idea that many of the Headmaster's long-laid plans were coming to fruition all at once.
Dumbledore said, "It will be a busy year. I'll understand if you'd prefer that I scratch you off the list of candidates for the position of Gryffindor prefect, though I advise you not to."
The idea did not startle Harry. There were only five incoming Gryffindor boys, and it had to be one of them. He said, "It'd be me or Dean Thomas, wouldn't it?" Their marks, though not great, were the best. Harry got in trouble more, but usually for decent reasons, and had probably shown more 'leadership' than Dean.
Harry said, "Between OWLs, side-projects and Quidditch, I won't have a lot of time... what are the benefits of being a prefect anyway?"
"Principally, access to a very nice bathing room. And it looks excellent on one's resume. But the duties are their own reward. As a prefect, you would find yourself assisting younger children with their homework. That which you first learned rotely you would be forced to understand. You might like it. And you'd have legitimate reason to wander through the corridors of Hogwarts at night. There are any number of ways to make the time productive."
Harry said, "Hermione would be the girls' prefect, right?"
Dumbledore said nothing, but his face spoke volumes.
Ron wouldn't like it, even though Ron had objectively worse marks and was snappy with younger students. But though Harry had forgiven Ron for turning his back on him through much of last year, he wasn't feeling overly considerate. And Harry could think of worse things than walking around the castle with his other best friend. "Sure. Consider me for the position."
Dumbledore paid. "Now let's see about that bookstore.
#
#
Dumbledore loaded him down with books. Magical Careers, Reasons for Runes, Arithmancy Basics, Thirty-Three Wards Everyone Ought to Know, The Warp of the Ward, The Art of Spell Creation, Reading Magic, The Beginner's Guide to Cursebreaking, You-Know-What War, and A Cultural History of Wizarding Britain.
Also, a sketchbook, since Dumbledore said that drawing would improve his ability to visualize and notice details, hence improving his 'talent' in all subjects, but especially transfiguration.
Harry winced at the expense, but knew there were many, many, many more galleons were those had come from.
Dumbledore said, "Get to these after the others. I particularly recommend Reading Magic and The Warp of the Ward. Classics. I read them when I was young, and they include exercises you can practice without violating the statute against underage magic."
Ten books, plus the two he hadn't finished, with a little under seven weeks of summer vacation left. If he stayed at the Dursleys he'd finish them without question, on the basis of there being nothing else to do, but if he spent much time at the Weasleys it became more questionable.
Harry decided he'd pick the Weasleys.
Walking out of the bookstore, Dumbledore said, "I have an errand to run that you might assist me on if you like. It isn't dangerous in the least, but you may find it slightly unpleasant."
"I'm game," said Harry. Going back to the Dursleys would also be slightly unpleasant.
"Excellent. Harry, have you ever experienced side-along apparition?"
"No." What he'd heard about it wasn't good.
"First time for everything," said Dumbledore. "Take my arm, and hold on very tightly."
Harry took hold of Dumbledore's off-arm with both hands. The arm twisted, and the world turned black while pressing against him. Breathing wasn't possible even if there was anything to breathe. He felt like a jacket being compressed so the suitcase would close.
Then it was over. He was bent with his hands on his knees, thinking that his first experience of side-along apparition had better also be his last.
"It's better when you do it yourself," said Dumbledore.
Harry straightened as Dumbledore changed their wizarding clothes to muggle ones, though he hadn't seen when. His current clothes fit better than his normal ones. He thought they might be stylish, and color coordinated, even if the green of the polo shirt beneath the brown felt jacket was a little bright.
He hadn't thought Dumbledore had it in him.
They were between two trees on a narrow country road with houses on both sides, the houses not quite manors, the yards larger.
Dumbledore said, "One of these is a wizarding household. Would you care to guess which?"
Harry walked back and forth a little, stopping before a house of red brick and high-peaked roofs. "This one. There's a certain warmth. I don't know how to explain. But the architectural style seems more wizarding, and I notice the telephone cable doesn't connect to it."
"Well spotted," said Dumbledore. "This is the house of Horace Slughorn, formerly a professor at Hogwarts. I'm endeavoring to convince him to come back in a new capacity."
Dumbledore pushed through the gate and knocked twice on the red door.
After a minute, an old fat man with a big mustache opened the door.
"Albus! What a pleasant surprise." But he didn't seem pleased. He did, however, move aside from the door, and say "Tea, Albus?"
"Of course."
As they came inside, he noticed Harry behind Dumbledore.. "And this is-" He took in Harry's scar. "Oh my."
"Harry Potter," said Harry, extending his hand. Slughorn shook it thoroughly.
Dumbledore said, "Harry and I were just having a counseling session, in regards to his OWLs and what sort of career he might like, and I thought he might enjoy coming along."
"It's a pleasure," said Harry.
"For me as well," Slughorn. "The Boy-Who-Loved and the Tri-Wizard co-champion." He motioned for Harry to take a seat. "Tell me all about it."
Harry began describing the tournament, slowing slightly when a house-elf brought out tea and blueberry scones, endeavoring to make the telling as entertaining as possible while editing out everything that had to do with Crouch and his plot. That wasn't hard.
"You made friends with the other champions?" said Slughorn.
"We became friendly," said Harry. "I think my friend Hermione was expecting to exchange letters with Krum this summer."
"Yes, the muggle-born he took to the ball. Would you like Hogwarts to have another ball this year?"
Harry hadn't expected that. "I don't know. Maybe. I'm sure the girls would. I made a hash of it, but maybe I'd like to take another stab at it. I think it would've been better if the guys had had more options for dancing lessons. It's worse not knowing what you're doing when you're the one who's supposed to lead."
"Quite," said Slughorn, and changed tack, "From your success in the tournament at such a young age, I take it Defense is your best subject."
"Yes. Then maybe charms after that."
"Not potions? Your mother was brilliant at potions."
That was a strange yet familiar feeling. Random strangers knowing his parents far better than he ever could.
"I'm alright at it," said Harry.
"You have her eyes." Slughorn's own eyes were misty.
"I know."
"If those are your favorites, is there anything you're curious about that's not being covered? Any interesting area the standard syllabi don't quite get to?"
Harry said, "I've been wondering about bright magic or deific magic, whatever you want to call it. Dark magic depends on destructive emotional states. So why haven't I learned many spells that depend on love or hope or compassion or even sorrow?"
Slughorn said, "Deific magic can be quite powerful, especially the self-sacrificial sort, but it's finicky, unpredictable stuff. Most find it hard to maintain the necessary mindset, and even when they do it can be curiously inflexible. The mindset for dark magic, unfortunately, is easier to manage. Like walking downhill."
Harry said, "My patronus is reliable enough."
Slughorn said, "You can produce a patronus at your age?"
Dumbledore said, "Harry first produced his patronus in his third year. A beautiful stag. Pity he can't demonstrate it to you outside of school."
"Impressive," said Slughorn. "Is that still the most advanced magic you know?"
"I guess. I learned a lot of spells for the tournament, but I think they were all considered fourth or fifth spells, sixth year at most. But other than finding the right memory and learning to do it in front of dementors, I didn't think the charm itself was that hard."
Slughorn said, "Learning to do it in front of dementors? They don't normally agree to be target practice."
Harry grinned. "My boggart's a dementor, or at least it was, so all I had to do to get a decent simulation of the real thing was find a boggart. We didn't test to see whether they can kiss, obviously, but it produced the same chilling and depressing effect as a real dementor, only maybe about a third as strong."
"Fascinating," said Slughorn. "And have you managed it against actual dementors?"
Dumbledore said, "He drove off a hundred near the end of his third year."
"A hundred! How did you manage that?"
"We were out of bounds after school, and they were hungry, so there wasn't much choice. I don't think the Ministry was very wise to send dementors to protect a school. They almost killed me three times, and I'm sure others had close calls too."
"Remarkable," said Slughorn. "Part of that whole Sirius Black business. I've been hearing the most interesting rumors about it from my contacts in the Ministry."
"I'd imagine," said Dumbledore, "But now we must get to business. "You've been considering my offer, Horace?"
Sounding somewhat regretful, Slughorn said, "It's tempting, but I don't have the energy for it. I'm retired." But he glanced at Harry.
"You would have assistance. Madam Hooch is eager to go full-time, and young Miss Clearwater proved most capable while a prefect. We have the budget, we have the manpower, what we're missing is someone with your skills and reputation."
"You mean my clout and connections," said Slughorn.
"Those as well."
Slughorn shook his head. "If I were ten years younger."
Dumbledore sighed. "I'm disappointed with your choice, but it is your decision. I'll have to move on to my second choice. Horace, if you don't mind, would you unblock your floo? We have elsewhere to be."
"You're going? I haven't said no yet. Who's your second choice?"
"Stella Schmitt."
Slughorn groaned. "Her. She's insufferable."
"I find her engaging," said Dumbledore. "Strong-willed, energetic, and in her prime. She-"
"I'll do it," said Slughorn.
"Oh? A sudden about-face. You're sure? I hardly want a Program Director who isn't committed."
"Don't push it, Albus. It's not as if it's not perfectly obvious what you're doing. And I want a raise."
"We'll have to discuss that later," said Dumbledore, pulling aside the grate from the fireplace, a turning a lever and starting a fire. He threw a pinch of floo dust in.
"Ms. Arabella Figg's residence."
Harry said, "Good-bye, Professor Slughorn," and followed Dumbledore, stumbling out into the cat-strewn sitting room.
Ms. Figg was at the stove, bent over a pan. "Would you two boys like to stay for dinner?"
Dumbledore said, "Thank you kindly for the offer, but we have other business to attend to."
When they were outside, Dumbledore leaned over and quietly said, "A kind woman, and terribly brave, but not the best cook."
Harry had already known the last part. He said, "You had her keeping an eye on me, didn't you?" She'd lived in her house for as long as he could remember. She'd used to babysit him.
"She's generally reported that you worked in the garden and wore your cousin's hand-me-downs, but seemed inquisitive and energetic. Well done with Horace."
"You talked me up."
"Stating a small part of the truth was sufficient to that purpose. Horace is a man who loves to find people who will be influential and introduce them to those who are influential. At school, he will certainly seek you out. You don't have to play the political game, but if you wish to see Voldemort destroyed and Snuffles exonerated, I suggest you push through your discomfort and be friendly."
Harry's eyes were wide. He had a hundred questions; Dumbledore seemed to be treating him differently all of a sudden, and he didn't know why, but the questions were blown out of his head when Dumbledore spoke again.
Dumbledore said, "How would you feel about spending the bulk of the rest of the summer in the company of a werewolf and a convicted murderer?"
"Really? When?"
"As soon as you're packed."
"Ten minutes," said Harry, and rushed for the Dursleys' front door.
"Harry, wait. Listen, and think about the option. If you stay with them, your ability to go outside will be limited, and remember that Snuffles is still a wanted man. The situation if you were caught with him would be very politically complicated."
Harry's head hurt thinking about it. "They think he's trying to kill me, so finding me with him should make them think they're wrong about that. But actually, lots of them don't really think he's trying to kill me, they're just trying to cover up that they used to think so and were wrong, so they'd think I was opposing them. Would the ones who know he's not a servant of Voldemort say I'm a secret sympathizer, while the ones who really do think he's a Death Eater... I guess they'd think I'm a Voldemort sympathizer too? Except I'm the Boy-Who-Lived, so it's hard to say?"
"Quite," said Dumbledore.
"I'd better not get caught then."
He opened the door to Number Four Privet, thankful the hinges were freshly greased, intending to slip in quietly, but Dumbledore came in behind him.
"Get ready Harry. I just need to speak to your Aunt or Uncle for a moment.
Harry hesitated. He wanted to be gone immediately, but he also wanted to see how his relatives would react to Albus Dumbledore in their sitting room. That Uncle Vernon wasn't back from work yet made it less tempting.
Pounding up the stairs, he heard Dumbledore say, "Good afternoon Petunia. Or is it evening already? I am Albus Dumbledore. We've corresponded. With your permission, I'll take Harry away to stay at a friend's house, and you won't see him until next year. Is that agreeable?"
The rest was loss to distance and hurry, Harry tearing his bedding off and stuffing it in his trunk, then moving on to the books.
Harry almost had his trunk filled when he remembered about his subterfuge.
He poked his head out the room and yelled down the stairs, "Professor, could you help me with something?"
Dumbledore came up the stairs. They got the real trunk shrunk, the fake trunk out of the cupboard (which Professor Dumbledore gave a long look), shrunk that trunk too, and were out of the house in a jiffy.
"Hold onto my arm, Harry," said Dumbledore, when they'd gone fifty paces.
Harry grimaced, grabbed Dumbledore's arm, and braced himself.
"I promise it'll be better the second time," said Dumbledore, and they were gone, with only a reverberating crack of sound left where they'd been.
:::
The symbolism of light vs dark is a perfectly nice symbolism, but I think our cultural commitment to it ends up coloring our views of actual, physical objects, (including people) so I try to avoid it. Thus, deific (god-like) magic rather than light magic. I don't love the phrase though. Holy magic? Altruistic magic? Positive magic? Any ideas?
As the story continues, the concentration of Dumbledore will fall.
When I read something I like, I check to see if the author has written other stories. In addition to my other fanfics, this author has also put an original book up on Amazon. Monstrosity, by JLL. Check the books department. Only 99 cents.
Some readers thought I was hard on Harry in the previous chapter. Sure. I'm the author. But it wasn't the story being hard on Harry, just Harry being hard on Harry.
If we believe canonical Dumbledore's guess at the chronology of horcruxes, Nagini was not yet a horcrux when fanfic Dumbledore killed her.
I didn't misspell Quirrell. Harry did.