The Champion's Legacy

Chapter 2: Helping Hands


Author's Note: Hope you all enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it.

Okay, that's a lie – I struggled with this chapter: my muse had to be coaxed into producing something plot-worthy and coherent. I hope it's decent enough, however, and I really hope you like it.

Many thanks to Dorothea Greengrass for beta-reading this chapter. Also, thanks to White Squirrel for his suggestion of the story title.


Disclaimer: Recognisable portions in this chapter have been taken from the Harry Potter series, by J.K. Rowling. I neither own nor intend to make any profit from the use of Harry Potter and the associated characters of the series, in my story.


Previously on "The Champion's Legacy"…

His melancholy feeling that had arisen on reading Daphne's letter, and which had subsisted up till that point, was now replaced by a thrill of apprehension mixed with fear. Thoughts of 'Don't do this!' and 'What's wrong with you?' flitted in and out of his mind as he reached for the nearest envelope.

It was different – Harry had never come across this kind of parchment, least of all for an envelope. It seemed…sleeker, thinner – of a richer quality than what he was used to. Apart from this distinctive characteristic, its overall appearance was unassuming, and gave nothing away. There was no return address, no signature…nothing. Just his name, scrawled across the front of the envelope in block letters and in black ink.

Ignoring the discouraging thoughts and feelings that his mind was now full of, Harry turned the envelope in his hand, opened it, and pulled out the parchment from within.


Harry stared at the parchment.

What on earth…

The secretive nature of the envelope had caused him to think of pranks, jokes, or something even more sinister. Daphne's reassuring words about the contents of the letters had not achieved the desired effect of assuaging his fear and apprehension. And yet…

He had not expected this.

It was a single piece of parchment, with exactly fifty-one words written upon it with the same ink as the one used for his name on the face of the envelope. The handwriting was flowing – neat and curved – but unfamiliar. He had no idea who had sent this to him – there was no signature at the bottom.

Extispex – the Entrails Expelling Curse. Causes the intestines to be expelled from the body, resulting in internal and external bleeding, and extreme pain for the victim.

No counter-curse exists – victim must be hit with the Full Body Bind Curse (or a suitable variation) within twelve seconds of the curse being cast.

Harry had to re-read the parchment at least three times before he was able to comprehend the meaning of the words. And as soon as he had done so, his first question was – why?

Why did this letter contain a description of what appeared to be an extremely dangerous curse? Why had that person not signed off on the letter, instead choosing to remain anonymous? And, more importantly, why had they sent it to him?

Even as these questions and thoughts bounced around in his mind, his recently developed habit of thinking things through, of questioning everything that happened around him, began to shine through.

Was this a curse that people were planning to use on him, and someone had decided to warn him in advance? Or were there other intended targets? If that was true, who were they? And who had decided to play the role of the good Samaritan, in warning him?

His eyes roved the parchment once more, and he caught sight of three letters, scripted at the bottom of the page in miniscule writing, as though the sender had wished to include them, but did not want them to be seen.

M.E.B.

Harry recognised them as being initials, although he didn't have the foggiest idea as to whose they were. He was, however, sure of one thing, at least: with the sender having signed off, albeit in an obscure manner, he or she was trying to help Harry – by warning him of the existence of such a spell.

But who would use such a spell? Who could possibly be so cruel, so vile, to cast a curse with the intent of expelling their victim's intestines, and causing them to die in, Harry assumed, the most gruesome and painful way imaginable?

And then, not for the first time, the answer came to him – so simple, so obvious, he wondered how he could not have seen it before.

Death Eaters…

Of course, he thought to himself. Who else would deign to use this kind of a curse, but someone with an affinity for the Dark Arts? Harry could think of no one except Lord Voldemort and his followers who could possibly have this curse in their magical arsenal.

In fact, it was more likely than not that Voldemort himself had invented this spell, to torture and kill his victims.

Harry shuddered involuntarily as he perused the description again. Reading about it was quite disturbing in itself – he could not imagine this actually being used on someone. Even thinking about it made him feel nauseous.

As he set the parchment to one side, the light from his desk lamp fell upon the tiny initials once again – M.E.B. He did not know anyone with such a name, much less someone who, it seemed, had links to the Death Eaters, or at least access to their library of spells and curses. With a token effort, he racked his brains, trying to recall if he'd encountered anyone with these initials during his four plus years in the magical world, but his mind drew a blank. For all he knew, it could be one of Dumbledore's many allies, or even – and he grimaced as he thought of this – an admirer of his from the wider wizarding world, concerned about his well-being and health following the re-birth of Lord Voldemort.

Harry mentally shook his head – there was no point in wondering about this right now. He would have asked Daphne about this almost at once, but she was probably on her way to France, and he had no hope or means of contacting her for the next six weeks.

After this letter joined the ever-growing pile of parchment at the corner of his desk, Harry turned to the last remaining envelope for that evening. He picked it up, noticing that unlike the previous one, it was of a similar quality and stock as what he generally used for his correspondence. This too, was addressed to him in black ink, but it was not in block letters. Indeed, it seemed to have been written quite hurriedly, as though the sender did not have enough time.

Fingers trembling slightly, he pulled out the parchment, and began to read. It was not a spell, but it wasn't a letter, either.

Thank you so much for what you did in June. I promise to help you in every way I can. If you need to reach me, ask Daphne – she will know.

S.M.

If Harry had been unsure of the first letter with the spell, the second missive had left him feeling utterly bewildered: who on earth was this? What did they know of what happened in June? He had only described the events of that night to Professor Dumbledore, Sirius, Ron, Hermione, and Daphne, and none of them had 'S.M.' as their initials.

'If you need to reach me, ask Daphne…'

So, Daphne had told someone about it – who though? And how much could it have impacted that person that he, Harry, deserved an expression of gratitude, and a willingness to help, from him or her? Yet…why would they wish to keep their identity anonymous? Wouldn't it have been simpler, and a lot easier, to reveal themselves, rather than maintain that level of secrecy?

His confusion was mingled with a tiny sense of curiosity at Daphne's assurance that these letters would prove to be useful for him. Admittedly, he could see the potential value of the first letter: he now knew what to do in case that horrible curse was ever cast on someone, or even himself; but the second one stumped him: while he had gained an ally in the imminent resistance against Voldemort, it was undermined by the anonymity of the sender. What was the point in offering help if you weren't going to reveal who you were?

Harry shook his head in frustration, but placed the letter from 'S.M.' on his parchment pile all the same. Just another question to bombard Daphne with when they would finally meet on the Hogwarts Express on the first of September.

He sighed, gazing out of the window once more: the sky was now dotted with twinkling stars, and the crescent moon flitted in and out of the occasional cloud that drifted past. Privet Drive below was illuminated by the bright street lamps, which cast shadows as people and cars passed by. Overall, it seemed like a normal summer evening.

And yet, with the knowledge that Daphne wouldn't be reachable for the rest of the summer, it felt anything but normal for Harry.


The following week at Privet Drive seemed to crawl by for Harry.

He had thought, on the first day of that week, that he could manage the summer without any correspondence from Daphne. They had been writing to each other for only three weeks, after all: surely that was too short a time to get used to something. After all, he'd gone almost five weeks during the summer after his first year without any contact from his best friends – six weeks without a friend who he'd just began writing to should be easy.

Just a friend?

Oh, shut up.

How very wrong he had been.

Harry had barely lasted half a day on the first day before succumbing to complete boredom in his bedroom. Even his Transfiguration essay had not been interesting or challenging enough to distract him from his thoughts about the blonde Slytherin girl; after writing the first two paragraphs, he gave it up as a bad job, half-heartedly resolving to finish it later – if he ever got the mood. Try as he might, he could not stop thinking about her.

Yeah, there's no way she's just a friend for you.

Harry didn't bother arguing with that thought – it was correct, after all. Ever since their dance at the Yule Ball the previous Christmas, their relationship had become something more than just a simple friendship. They had not discussed it, of course – they had only spoken to each other a handful of times – but he was sure of it, and he knew that she thought so, too.

Were they going out, though? Harry did not know. Naturally, he had had no prior experience in the matter – Seamus' gleeful retelling of his exploits in the Gryffindor boys' dormitories did not count – so he wasn't aware of this fact. He had obviously not asked her about it, and he knew that, even with his non-existent dating record, starting off his first ever conversation with her on the subject of dating was definitely not the best approach.

All in all, they were certainly not friends, but they weren't dating either. They were just…somewhere in between.

Ought he to talk about this with her, though? The thought crossed his mind several times as he lolled around in his room between mealtimes, or as he traversed his usual walking routes in the suburb of Little Whinging. Was it worth broaching the subject with her? Was she worth it?

Of course she is.

The rejoinder from the voice in his head was almost instantaneous, yet he wondered if it was just the voice trying to convince him of something that wasn't set in stone. Even if he did raise the topic with her, where was the guarantee that she would listen to him? That she would even accept his point of view?

Do you even have a point of view?

Err…

Harry had to concede the point – he didn't have a point of view in that discussion. What would he say to her – rather, what did he want to say to her? He liked her, yes; he knew she liked him too, but…was it the right time? With Voldemort back, was it worth the risk of dating her – she would be specifically targeted by Death Eaters for going out with him, the Boy Who Lived. Plus, a Slytherin dating a Gryffindor at Hogwarts? It would cause an uproar. Wasn't that the reason why she didn't go with him to the Yule Ball in the first place?

You did dance with her in the end, didn't you?

Yes, but that was with Adrian's help. No one else knows about that.

How does it matter what others think?

It shouldn't, I know… He could feel this argument crumbling already.

And she's already in danger because of her father refusing to assist the Death Eaters. How would dating you make any difference?

It's like painting a target on her back! At least if we aren't together, she can stay neutral…pretend that nothing exists…

Would that help you? Is that what you want?

No, of course not!

Then why would you deny that for yourself?

Harry had no answer to provide for the last question. His stubborn streak had reared its head, and was refusing to budge.

You'll never know unless you talk to her.

Harry nodded to the empty room. He had to speak to Daphne about this, but not as soon as he met her on the train. He'd give it some time – they had the whole year, after all.

With this discussion having taken place, and subsequently set aside for another day, Harry's unoccupied mind began brooding over other issues: namely, the lack of news from Sirius and Ron.

Sirius' letters were becoming a bit more distant, irregular, and surprisingly full of advice. The last one, however, was something that Harry neither wanted, nor looked forward to: Sirius had resorted to repeating his earlier guidance, only that they were in different words. Harry found it a bit annoying, not to mention hypocritical, that Sirius, of all people, was warning him not to take risks, 'keep his nose clean', and 'not attract too much trouble'. It was to an extent, however, disconcerting: from what he knew of his godfather, he was rarely this solemn and cautious.

Even Ron had become rather vague in his letters – a marked departure from his earlier attempts at coding information. While he continued to drop hints about what was going on wherever he was – presumably that dingy place in Islington – there was no other mention of any discussions or plans made by Dumbledore, Mr and Mrs Weasley, or anyone else, regarding the fight against Voldemort.

Oddly enough, the letters from Sirius and Ron were being delivered by non-descript brown owls, which, to Harry's surprise, stayed with him until he had penned a response for them to take back. He had attempted to use Hedwig once – she had returned a day after Archibald's departure with his last letter to Daphne – but she could not go; Harry had watched her take off from his bedroom window, reach the borders of Little Whinging, which was as far as he could see, and then swivel around to return to him. He couldn't explain it, and, apart from a doleful hoot, she could not, either.

The back and forth exchange of letters using these brown owls at least ensured that his correspondence was on an almost daily basis. Despite the lack of news, and the excessive cautious advice, the regularity was welcomed by Harry: if anything, he was sure to hear from either Sirius or Ron on any given day. It was a comforting thought.

Harry had also received a couple of letters from Hermione during that week. Both of them had been delivered by the brown owls along with Ron's letters, confirming Harry's belief that the two of them were together, in the same house. Hermione had, admittedly, written about their homework and her study plans for their O.W.L.s ('I should have started studying two months ago!'), but even she hadn't mentioned anything else…anything of note, at least.

The fact that they were together, even though it wasn't at the Burrow, caused a flare of jealousy and anger to bubble up inside Harry. Ron's promise to get him out of Privet Drive seemed like an age ago; something from an alternate, impossible reality. He'd been stuck here with his Muggle relatives for four solid weeks, without a shred of news on the fight against Voldemort – was this his just reward for battling the said Dark wizard at that graveyard that night? Was it fair that he, who had been witness to his schoolmate's horrific, cold-blooded murder, was forced to be cut off from the wizarding world? Shouldn't he be more involved in the resistance – if there even was one? Wasn't it his right?

And like an avalanche, these thoughts came gushing forth, out from behind a dam he had so carefully constructed over the summer. What was Dumbledore doing? Why hadn't he bothered to check up on Harry all this while, instead leaving it to his friends and godfather, who seemed to have been subject to a modified gag order? Why wasn't Dumbledore getting Harry involved too? Was he not capable enough – had he not proved himself to be skilled enough to battle Voldemort and survive, again?

And what on earth was the Ministry of Magic doing? Cornelius Fudge's point-blank refusal to accept Voldemort's return was mind-boggling – the equivalent of an ostrich sticking its head in the sand – but there was only so much stupidity that one could display, wasn't there? Why hadn't the Minister realised it yet, hadn't connected the dots about the strange occurrences over the last twelve months to arrive at the simple, albeit frightening, conclusion?

More than once in the beginning of that summer, Harry had been tempted to simply send an owl to the Daily Prophet and Fudge himself, just to point out that Voldemort had returned. It had been Daphne who had convinced him otherwise, telling him that there was no point. With the Minister effectively in Lucius Malfoy's pocket, there was no way the former would give Harry's letter the time of the day. And despite Rita Skeeter's capture by Hermione at the end of last year, the Daily Prophet was building on the groundwork set by their former employee in elaborating Harry's questionable sanity, and frequent delusions of his mind. Daphne had pointed out all their snide references and remarks about him in their more recent issues, and had also explained to him why he ought not to react to them immediately.

An immediate reaction and denial, wrote Daphne, will only spark a war of words between you, the Prophet, and the Ministry. With the government refusing to believe you, and leaning heavily on the newspaper to convince the general populace of this notion, your protests are unlikely to be heard. It will just be made out as another ploy to seek attention.

Give it some time – they are bound to make a mistake. Once that happens, we can make our move.

Remembering those last words of her letter caused him to shiver slightly – partly in fear of what Daphne could do when she was riled up, and partly because he missed her a lot.

While he had grudgingly agreed to Daphne's reasoning, he was not used to showing restraint in such situations. It was clear, though, that his initial response of confronting the Prophet and the Ministry head-on was a very Gryffindor thing to do – bold, yet reckless – while Daphne's option of waiting to strike was intelligent, cunning, and at very least, quite sneaky. In short, the Slytherin way of doing things.

Everything said and done, as the week progressed, the feelings of frustration and, to a lesser extent, abandonment, continued to swirl inside Harry. Fortunately, he was able to control them using the calming techniques taught to him by Daphne, although there were instances where he feared being provoked and consequently losing his self-control. He took to longer walks in and around Little Whinging, sometimes even crossing into the neighbouring borough; but he always made sure to return before Dudley did.

More anonymous letters arrived for Harry during that week – some of them signed off with only their initials, while others were completely blank. All of them contained short descriptions of what Harry was sure were obscure hexes, jinxes, curses, along with their applicable counter-curses or suggestions on remedial measures to be taken. They ranged from the relatively harmless – causing nothing more than temporary pain and disfiguring, to the outright horrible, which were on levels similar to that of the Entrails Expelling Curse. Indeed, some of them made the Entrails Curse appear mild, by comparison.

Harry had attempted to discern the identity of some of the senders, but the initials did not match to anyone he personally knew. He gave it up in the end, instead choosing to focus on writing the spells and their counters in a separate book, enabling easy maintenance and access. He didn't fancy carrying a huge stack of parchment everywhere he went. As for the senders, he planned to question Daphne about it on the train to school in September.

For what it was worth, Harry felt quite comforted by the show of support from the anonymous senders – all of them appeared quite determined to help him in the upcoming fight against Voldemort, by sharing inside information and secrets about his spells and curses. Not all of them were offensive: some of them were, in fact, concerning wards and protective enchantments that Voldemort and his Death Eaters were probably using for their hideouts. It gave him hope that there was, however small, a possibility of winning.

He had had an inkling that it would boil down to him against Voldemort in the end, despite all that was said and done by others. Voldemort had chosen to come after him that fateful Halloween night in nineteen eighty-one: his parents had sacrificed their lives trying to protect him. He was Voldemort's prime target – a nemesis of sorts, one who the Dark wizard had tried very hard to eliminate several times, in person, without any aid.

'You all know that on the night I lost my powers and my body, I tried to kill him.'

And on some level, Harry had come to accept that fact – the cold truth that in the end, he would face off against Voldemort, on his own; and no one would protect him – no one should, he thought fiercely – and at that terrifying finale, there would be only one winner.

Unbidden, unplanned, the words formed in Harry's mind:

Neither of us can survive… One of us must die…


By the end of that particular week, Harry had almost reached the end of his tether. Morbid thoughts about his seemingly apparent final confrontation with Voldemort aside, his missives from Ron, Hermione, and Sirius had seemed to dim in details and value. Indeed, Ron had even ended up stating the one line Harry had unconsciously dreaded hearing since the summer had begun:

'We've been told not to say anything important in case our letters go astray…'

His frustration, so often at its peak over the last few days, wilted, only to be replaced by uncertainty and a dull feeling of hopelessness. Were they ever going to share anything that he wanted to hear? Were they doing anything to help him get out of Privet Drive?

And just like that, the hopelessness leaked away, and his frustration, coupled with a righteous sense of injustice, built up inside him once more…

Try as much as he did to bring his fluctuating emotions under control, even Daphne's calming exercises were proving to be repetitive, monotonous, and ultimately futile. The feelings affected his sleep: where he was initially having nightmares about the graveyard and Cassius' murder, he was now having dreams of long, dark corridors, ending with dead ends and locked doors. He supposed the dreams had something to do with his trapped feelings, but he had never seen or been to such places in real life. To add to the discomfort, the scar on his forehead began prickling uncomfortably, with its intensity increasing during those corridor dreams. He knew something was amiss, and he ought to try and connect the dots – but his mind simply refused to work in his favour.

With the lack of a good night's sleep, his temper was short, and his mood irritable, and it was with a great deal of effort that he stopped himself from reacting to Uncle Vernon's frequent glowers and snide remarks directed at him. Once or twice, he had almost raised his wand on his cousin Dudley, but had, in the last moment, turned his back and walked away. No point in triggering a violation of the underage magic outside Hogwarts rule by cursing his cousin, however tempting it seemed to him.

Harry, therefore, felt quite relieved when, on the Saturday before his birthday, Uncle Vernon came up to his room to inform him that they were going out.

'Sorry?' asked Harry, certain that he had misheard him the first time. The Dursleys had never taken him out, not if they could help it.

Uncle Vernon glared at him, his small eyes roving over the surprisingly clean room for a moment. Harry knew his Uncle had expected him to be staying in an extremely dirty room.

'Your Aunt, Dudley, and I are going out,' he ground out finally. Harry saw the vein in his Uncle's temple pulsating slightly again: he did not like repeating things, especially to his nephew. Harry felt a sort of savage pleasure rise up within him, one which he looked to clamp down almost immediately.

'Right,' said Harry.

'We don't expect to be back for dinner.'

'Okay.'

'Your Aunt has left you something to eat. You are to eat that, and not steal anything from the fridge.'

'Okay.'

'You are not to leave the house, or call anyone else here.'

'Alright.'

'Don't blow up the house, or there'll be trouble, boy.'

'I'll try not to.'

Harry allowed a slight ghost of a smirk to flit across his face at Uncle Vernon's furious glare. He could also note, with some satisfaction, a hint of doubt in those tiny eyes at the lack of argument he had presented to the previous instructions.

Harry… He could hear Daphne's voice chiding him gently, but it didn't sound disapproving.

Uncle Vernon grunted, then turned around and stomped downstairs, shutting the door to Harry's room behind him. Harry stared at the door for a few minutes, then resumed his vigil of looking up at the ceiling, which he'd been doing for the last half hour. A few minutes later, he heard the sound of the Dursleys' car pulling out of the driveway, the sound of its tires and engine fading as it turned off Privet Drive.

Harry let out a small breath which he didn't realise he'd been holding. A dimmed sense of relief swept over him – it was three o'clock in the afternoon, and if the Dursleys were not returning for dinner, he would have at least six hours to himself. The thought was comforting for a while, but it was quashed by the ever-present feeling of bleakness: what was he going to do for six hours anyway?

It is a strange thing, the feeling that nothing right is ever going to happen. It induces lethargy and laziness – it causes one to feel exhausted and drained even without doing any activity of note. It is an oppressive emotion, ensuring that one can experience nothing else…must not experience anything else…

Harry closed his eyes, succumbing to the unseen pressure – he was tired, hungry, drained…

'Kill the spare!'

A wand was raised and swished…

'Avada Kedavra!'

A flash of blinding green light, a loud rushing sound…

And then, he was consumed by darkness…

He was walking along a dark corridor, the same corridor he had dreamt of before…and there was the door at the end of it, the door that was always locked, but now, he knew it would open for him…it had to open…

He raised his wand, and whispered, 'Alohomora.'

A sense of triumph stole over him as the lock clicked; he turned the handle, pushed open the door, and stepped over the threshold…

The lock clicked, and the door swung open…

Harry sat bolt upright in his bed, breathing hard through his nose. The clicking of the lock had not been only in his dream – but had come from the front door of number four.

He slipped out of his bed as quickly as he could, grabbing his wand from his desk and moving to the door of his room. Uncle Vernon had not deigned to lock him in, which was, Harry thought initially, a good thing: he didn't fancy alerting the intruders that there was somebody in the house, someone who could do magic.

Sweat dripped down from his brow as he crossed the threshold of his room and crept towards the stairs leading down to the floor below. The sky outside was beginning to darken – he had been asleep for a good while, it seemed – and the light from the setting sun filtered in the windows of the house, casting long shadows along the walls and floors.

Harry reached the top of the stairs and peered over the bannister and down onto the small passage leading to the living room and the kitchen below. There was no one in sight, but the shadows of at least three people could be seen, flitting in and about the kitchen. Then, he heard the sounds of cutlery being moved around, and an unfamiliar, feminine voice floated upstairs.

'Very clean, these Muggles, aren't they? My house looks like a right mess compared to this.'

Muggles…

These people were wizards and witches! Harry's heart pounded against his ribs as he stood, frozen in place at the revelation. Magical people had broken into his Uncle and Aunt's place – but who were they? Had they come for him – to take him? Were they Death Eaters, sent by Voldemort to kidnap him?

In the two seconds it took for him to contemplate these questions, another, much more familiar, female voice spoke.

'Why are we in the kitchen, anyway? We should be looking for Harry.'

Harry almost dropped his wand in shock. Hermione, here in Privet Drive?

'Quite right,' said a third, male voice – but this was familiar too.

Mr Weasley?

And before he could even move from his place on the landing, the owners of the three voices stepped out of the kitchen; one of them had illuminated their wand tip, which was raised above their heads, catching Harry in its full, slightly bright glare.

'Harry!'

The delighted exclamation had come from Hermione, who, before anyone else could do anything, had bounded up the staircase and had launched herself at him in a tight hug. Harry had barely had enough time to adjust his position so that he wasn't knocked over by the force of their collision.

'Oh Harry, it's so good to see you! Are you alright? Have you been eating? I'm sorry about our letters, we honestly couldn't tell you anything more, we weren't allowed –'

To Harry's relief, he was saved from Hermione's ramblings by Mr Weasley, who had come up behind them and had gently tugged Hermione away. A little breathless, Hermione stepped back, beaming at Harry with obvious happiness at seeing her best friend after four weeks.

'How are you, Harry?' asked Mr Weasley, holding out his hand and shaking Harry's.

'Erm –'

Harry looked between the two of them, a feeling of slight uncertainty creeping inside him; the third woman was yet to show herself. Was this a joke? He had still not ruled out this being an elaborate plan by the Death Eaters to kidnap him – impersonating known people and taking him away to some secret location. How was he to be sure that these were, in fact, Hermione Granger and Mr Arthur Weasley?

'Are you alright, Harry?' asked Hermione concernedly.

'Yeah, I mean…' he hesitated, 'this isn't a joke, right? I mean, you are, you?'

Hermione looked bewildered, but Mr Weasley smiled knowingly.

'Ask me a question, Harry, the answer to which only I would know.'

Harry racked his brains to remember something that he and Mr Weasley would have spoken about.

'What did you ask me to swear to you on the day I left for Hogwarts for my third year, when we were at platform nine and three-quarters?'

For a moment, Mr Weasley looked a bit confused, but then his eyes brightened with recognition. 'I asked you to swear that you wouldn't go looking for Sirius Black.'

Harry nodded, his shoulders slumping in relief. He had told Ron and Hermione about Mr Weasley's warning later that day, but it had never been explicitly mentioned that he had sworn not to go looking for Sirius that year. Harry supposed it was a minor detail, but admittedly, no one else had been around them at that time.

'Are we done, then?' called the other woman from down below. 'We should really get a move on, Arthur.'

'Right you are, Tonks,' replied Mr Weasley, checking his watch. 'She's right,' he said to Harry and Hermione, 'we don't have much time –'

'What's going on, Mr Weasley?' asked Harry. Mr Weasley shook his head.

'We're getting you out of here. I'll give you the details later,' he added, as Harry made to ask another question. 'Once we get to a more secure location.'

Harry closed his mouth, but thought that was a bit odd – if Privet Drive wasn't a secure location for information, how could it be a secure one for him to be living there? Especially when, given his theory, he was going to have to face Voldemort.

'We've got about ten minutes before we're supposed to leave. You'd best get your things packed, Harry.'

He nodded, and turned back to his room. He noticed Hermione following him, while the creak of the stairs told him that Mr Weasley had gone back to that Tonks woman. He waited until Hermione joined him inside the room, then shut the door and turned to her.

'What's this about, Hermione? What are you doing here?'

Hermione, who'd been looking around his room with an expression of curiosity mingled with annoyance, jumped at the question.

'Dumbledore's having you moved to headquarters,' she said.

'Headquarters?'

'Of the Order,' said Hermione. 'Mr Weasley's right, Harry, we can't explain much here, it's not safe.'

'Hermione, I've been perfectly safe here for the last four weeks,' he retorted, and he couldn't help the cold resentment from creeping into his tone. 'I'm pretty sure any information that's shared here would be safe as well.'

Hermione looked at him. She seemed…uncertain.

'You're right,' she said, after a few moments of silence. 'That makes logical sense, of course.'

Harry chose not to gloat over the fact that, for once, he had trumped her in logical reasoning. Instead, he chose to wait for her explanation. Hermione, for her part, took her time – she looked around the room, from the slightly rumpled bed to the neatly arranged desk; from Hedwig's case where the snowy owl was perched and secured, to his Hogwarts trunk in the side of the room.

Finally, she sighed softly, and turned to him. 'We should start packing, in any case. Mr Weasley and Tonks wouldn't want to be late.'

Harry nodded, even as he moved to his wardrobe and began gathering his clothes, while Hermione started on his desk.

'The Order of the Phoenix,' said Hermione, 'is a secret society founded by Dumbledore. It's made up of people who fought against You-Know-Who the last time he had power.'

Harry crossed the room to deposit a pile of his socks and trousers in his trunk, all the while listening to Hermione's explanation.

'They've been having meetings since the start of the summer holidays. Quite a few people are in it – Ron and I reckon we've seen about twenty people, but there are definitely more.'

'Where is this headquarters place?' interjected Harry. 'The Burrow?'

'No, the Burrow is too well-known a place,' replied Hermione, now stacking his ink bottles inside his trunk in a manner so that they wouldn't crack and leak. 'They used to meet there, yes, but they've moved to the new place now –'

'The one in Islington, right?'

'Yes,' said Hermione. 'That's where we're going now.'

'What's the Order doing, then?' His robes joined his socks and trousers.

'We're not really sure,' said Hermione nervously. 'They don't let us in on their meetings, you see, they think we're not of age yet.'

Harry snorted under his breath. Not of age – when had that ever stopped Voldemort or the Death Eaters from doing what they wanted to do?

'But we do have a general idea,' she continued. 'We know some of them are following Death Eaters – they call it Operation Tag a DE – while others are working on recruiting more people to the Order –'

'That's what – Operation Recruit, is it?' said Harry sarcastically.

'No, it's Operation Rebirth, actually. I think it ties in rather well, given how a phoenix is reborn from the ashes after it burns –'

'Hermione –'

'Oh right, sorry,' she said hastily. 'Some others are standing guard over something – they keep talking about guard duty.'

They had almost finished packing by now. The only things left were a few piles of clothes, Hedwig's cage, and the stack of letters on his desk. Hermione, rather tactfully, had chosen not to touch them, instead leaving it for Harry to pack them in his trunk.

'Guard duty?' queried Harry, as the letters were placed inside the trunk. 'What are they guarding?'

'I'm not sure,' said Hermione with a shrug. 'They've been the most secretive about that – no one's giving away much.'

'But…if you're not at the meetings, how do you –'

'– know all of this?' finished Hermione. 'Fred and George – they've invented Extendable Ears. That's allowed us to listen in on some of their meetings, at least before Mrs Weasley found out about them and almost binned the whole lot.'

Harry winced inwardly. He vividly recalled Mrs Weasley's fury at Fred and George's various inventions.

'So what have you been up to?' he asked. 'I thought you said you'd been busy.' Once again, he could not help the accusatory tone of his voice; it was hard to do so, especially when he felt he could have been there too, helping them in whatever they were doing.

'We have,' said Hermione. 'We've been cleaning the house – it's been uninhabited for ages, and there's all sorts of stuff breeding in it.'

On second thoughts, if it was cleaning, maybe he didn't want to help them.

'Just cleaning?' he asked. He moved to pick up Hedwig's cage and place it next to his trunk.

Hermione looked at him. She looked…apologetic.

'Harry, I'm really sorry,' she said in a quiet voice. 'We really wanted to tell you all of this in our letters –'

'Then why didn't you, Hermione?'

He did not shout, nor had he raised his voice in annoyance, anger, or exasperation. He was surprised he was able to keep his temper and emotions in check when this topic finally came up – he had half expected to be shouting at either or both his best friends for leaving him in the dark for the last four weeks. But still, it was hard not to miss the disappointment in his tone.

'But Dumbledore made us swear not to tell you anything, Harry,' she said, and Harry was surprised to hear her voice tremble slightly. He glanced over at her, and felt instantly uncomfortable at the sight of unshed tears in her eyes. 'He seemed to think it was best for you.'

An unexpected surge of irritation pooled inside his stomach at the mention of Dumbledore's insistence that Harry was to be kept without news. So it was true…Dumbledore had not thought him capable or trustworthy of information, despite whatever he'd done over the years – despite the events of June, in that graveyard.

'What changed, then?' he asked, and his voice was strangely flat and emotionless. 'Why's he changed his mind about getting me?'

Hermione seemed to hesitate with answering that question; she glanced around the room, as though trying to see if they'd missed packing anything, while she slowly wrung her hands.

'Hermione?' Harry pressed.

She turned to look at him at last, her eyes betraying a slight flicker of – was it fear? What could she possibly be scared of?

'Hermione, what –'

'They've got wind of an attack, Harry.' The words tumbled out of her mouth in a rush, as though she was trying to get it out as quick as possible.

'What?'

'Someone tipped the Order off about an attack on you – we're not sure by whom, but they think it'll happen today. That's why Mr Weasley said we don't have time, we think it'll happen at nightfall.'

Harry had only half-listened to her. He had already drawn his wand – which he had earlier stowed in the pocket of his jeans when he'd first entered the room – and had strode over to the window to look out onto the street. There was still some light from the sun in the distance, but it was rapidly fading. He could see street lamps flickering into life several streets away, while a few stars twinkled overhead.

He swivelled on the spot, just as the door opened and Mr Weasley walked in. He looked serious, and his wand was drawn too.

'Ready to go, Harry?' he asked. His eyes fell upon Harry's wand in his hand, and the alert expression on his face. 'What's going on?' he asked again, sharply this time, and his gaze flickered to Hermione as well.

'I told him –' she began.

'I asked her to tell me, Mr Weasley,' Harry cut across her. 'I know about the attack.' He ignored Mr Weasley's startled expression. 'When can we leave?'

Mr Weasley seemed to take a good moment or two to come to terms with the situation. When he did, however, he did not question the necessity or the details of the discussion between Harry and Hermione, for which Harry felt quite thankful.

'We are to leave in two minutes,' he said crisply. 'Tonks is checking the perimeter. We should go downstairs.'

'How are we going?' asked Harry, as he and Mr Weasley lugged the trunk down the stairs and out the front door, stopping in the middle of the pathway leading up to the house; Hermione was carrying Hedwig's cage behind them.

'Apparation,' said Mr Weasley. 'You are too young to Apparate on your own, of course,' he added in response to Harry's quizzical look, 'so I will be taking you along with me. Tonks will accompany Hermione.'

Just then, the other woman – Tonks – appeared at the foot of the pathway. Harry glanced at her, then did a double-take.

'I've seen you before,' he said, recognising the pale, heart-shaped face. Her hair, instead of its previous blonde, was now a violent shade of violet; it was also spiky, instead of being in curls. 'I almost ran into you last week, didn't I?'

Tonks did not respond, but her slightly reddening cheeks were enough of a confirmation for Harry.

'How come you were here –'

'Not now, Harry, please,' said Mr Weasley, almost imploringly. 'We're out of time. Tonks?' he addressed the woman, who had turned to stare at the end of Privet Drive, her stance almost as though she was ready to duel.

'They're here.'


To be continued…