The Champion's Legacy
Chapter 3: A Grim Old Place
Author's Note: Hope you all enjoy reading this chapter as much as I did writing it.
Many thanks to Dorothea Greengrass for beta-reading this chapter.
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"…
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.'
Harry turned to face the far end of Privet Drive, mirroring Tonks' actions as he did so: his wand was in his hand, his right foot slightly behind his left, feet spread apart to give him better balance and easy movement. Beside him, Hermione too drew her wand.
'Come on!' said Mr Weasley loudly, seizing Harry's upper arm. 'Hold on to me, Harry, and your trunk –'
Harry barely had two seconds to take in what was happening: Tonks, looking determined, had grabbed Hermione's arm as well – his best friend looked a little overwhelmed; the Death Eaters were slowly approaching them – they had crossed number ten already; Harry looked to Mr Weasley, who sported a grim, concentrated look on his face –
He felt Mr Weasley turning on the spot – he felt his trunk slipping out of his left hand, his right still clutching his wand, and being held by Mr Weasley – he tried holding onto the piece of Mr Weasley's robe nearest to him, allowing himself to be caught in Mr Weasley's swivel; he closed his eyes, waiting for whatever sensation was about to engulf him –
But nothing did. Mr Weasley almost stumbled on the spot, and Harry did stumble – he lost his grip on his trunk, which fell onto the pathway with a loud thunk – his momentum from the turn caught him off-balance, making him trip and fall, almost catching Mr Weasley; he landed painfully, his elbows and knees taking the brunt of his collision with the concrete; his wand, mercifully, remained in his hand –
Behind him, he heard a shriek, a colourful curse, and a loud squawk of indignation that could only be Hedwig – clearly the ladies hadn't been successful in whatever they wanted to do either. Bewildered, and his joints throbbing painfully, he glanced up to a worried looking Mr Weasley.
'What just happened?' asked Harry, trying to push himself up.
'We can't get out,' said Tonks, her teeth gritted. Her hair was suddenly a deep shade of red. Harry blinked, sure that he had imagined the change in colour – hadn't it been violet just five minutes ago? And blonde on that day when he had almost run into her?
'But why?' asked Hermione.
'Anti-Apparation Jinx,' said Mr Weasley, and Hermione gasped.
Harry's stomach dropped. An Anti-Apparation Jinx was quite difficult to break – only the original caster could remove it. The main drawback for the caster, however, was that it lasted only for five minutes: this meant that they only needed to hold off the Death Eaters for a short while before they could move. This was especially so given the complexity of the spell – it was quite difficult to cast in the first place.
'Duck!' shouted Tonks, and they all ducked down – even Harry, who was still on the ground – and allowed a jet of sickly yellow light to zip past over their heads, smashing into the low garden wall that separated number two and number four, Privet Drive.
'Stupefy!' yelled Mr Weasley, and a jet of red light zoomed from his wand to the oncoming Death Eaters, who had almost reached number six, but were forced to scatter.
'Harry, get back inside the house!' shouted the Weasley patriarch, stepping to the side to avoid another jet of light – it whizzed past his face and collided with the garden wall, dislodging a few bricks on impact.
'But –' he started to protest.
'This is no time to argue, Harry! Please, just get back inside!'
Harry didn't want to argue at all – he wanted to help. He moved to raise his wand, but his arm was pulled down quite forcefully by Hermione.
'Harry, no!' she whispered urgently in his ear. 'You're not of age – you can't be doing magic outside of school –'
'We can't just stand here and not help, Hermione –'
There was a shout of pain – both teenagers snapped their heads around to look at one of the three Death Eaters who had turned up: he had fallen to the ground from Tonks' curse, clutching his stomach.
'Hurry, Harry!'
The remaining two Death Eaters, perhaps taking inspiration from their comrade's fall, began duelling harder than ever, forcing Mr Weasley and Tonks a few steps back. Harry scrambled to his feet with Hermione's help, bent down, and began dragging the trunk back up the pathway to the house – party to protect the Marauder's Map and his Invisibility Cloak which were inside it, and partly to make sure that it didn't prove to be an obstacle for Tonks or Mr Weasley. More than once, he was forced to duck or bend, as stray – and sometimes intentional – curses came flying his way. He supposed the saving grace was that none of them were of the bright green colour that he knew and dreaded.
Tonks had managed to injure another Death Eater, but he was still standing and duelling, blood pouring down his side onto the ground. She and Mr Weasley hadn't been spared, though – they were both sporting several cuts and nicks, while Mr Weasley was struggling with what seemed to be an immobile leg.
Harry dimly wondered why none of the neighbours had poked their heads out to investigate the noise and flashes of light – surely, they had to have seen them – but he couldn't think about that now; one other awry curse from the Death Eaters had missed Hermione's face by inches, singeing her hair slightly in the process –
He turned back to drag the trunk along the last few feet of the pathway – when the last street lamp on this side of the street flickered out, plunging number one, Privet Drive, into relative darkness.
What on earth…
None of the duellers seemed to have noticed this odd phenomenon – and it was certainly unusual: if anything, Little Whinging was known for its consistency in the supply of power and electricity, for both public and private uses. As far as Harry could remember, there had never been a faulty bulb for the street lamps on Privet Drive.
So how did that go out?
'Harry?' said Hermione, looking up into his face. His concern must have shown on it, for she looked worried – at least, more worried that what was expected for someone seeking cover from an imminent attack. 'What's wrong?'
He didn't answer. Hermione looked in the direction of his stare, and saw the non-functioning street lamp.
'It's probably just a faulty bulb, Harry –' she began, but stopped talking abruptly.
The lamp next to that had also died.
Harry swivelled on the spot, his trunk dropping to the ground once more as he turned towards the near end of Privet Drive. They were far enough from the action that was taking place on the street below, but at a good vantage point to see someone – or something – coming from the near side; for, Harry knew, there was no way this was a simple case of malfunctioning lightbulbs.
And then, from right behind him, he heard Hermione give an odd, shuddering gasp, as though she had been doused in icy water. He whirled around, finding her unharmed and okay, and yet…
He was breathing heavily, and some corner of his mind vaguely noticed his breath coming out in little puffs, as though as he was smoking – but he wasn't…
Night had fallen at last, but it didn't seem like night at all. The sky – up till then dotted here and there with stars – was now pitch black and devoid of any light; all forms of illumination had disappeared. Noises too, were muffled and indistinct: the distant rumble of cars was gone; Harry could not see or hear the Death Eaters, or Mr Weasley or Tonks clearly. Behind him, Hermione's sharp breaths were the only indication that she was next to him…
Hermione let out another gasp: one which Harry knew so well from the four years he had known her – a gasp of recognition, and horror…
And as the biting, piercing cold hit him moments later – the cold that went inside his chest, into his very heart; as his euphoria of him leaving the Dursleys that summer, already dimmed because of the Death Eater attack, seemed to slip away, his reason caught up with his senses…
He heard them before he could see them – their harsh, rattling breaths – even from his vantage point, a good thirty yards away – they seemed to go on forever, sucking in all the remaining air from around them, and along with that, the happiness and hope of every single person and living creature unfortunate enough to be in their vicinity. Harry heard a cat mewl and howl a miserable sound in the distance.
And then, he saw them – two towering, hooded figures, cloaked in black robes, were hovering at the near end of Privet Drive; their sightless faces under their hoods turning this way and that, as though looking for something, or someone… a second later, they were enshrouded in a thick mist, something that they had brought along with them…
How were they here? It was impossible…
'H-Harry…' came Hermione's stutter next to him.
'Hermione, take my hand,' he said, his voice sounding a lot more confident than he felt; he reached out behind him, blindly, groping in the thick, heavy air that swirled around them like an unnatural mist; a moment later, she had grabbed it, her nails digging slightly into his skin that made him wince, but not cry out. Her hand was cold – surely as cold as he was, for he could feel goose bumps erupting up and down his arms –
'Why are they here?' asked Hermione in a whisper. Harry could feel her trembling, and tried to squeeze her arm in reassurance.
'I dunno – wait. Lumos!'
His wand tip flared and ignited; beams of light cut through the fog around them. Harry raised it above his head, waiting for the light to increase in intensity, to illuminate more of his surroundings…
The cold was intense, striking him and all others with a vengeance; his teeth chattered slightly, and his arms shuddered in the chill – dressed as he was for an extremely warm summer evening, he was feeling the brunt of it.
The sound of hoarse, rattling breaths got closer and closer; while the light from his wand had cut through the mist in front of him, it was not enough for him to discern the immediate vicinity; he narrowed his eyes – wincing once again as Hermione's nails dug a little deeper into his arm – straining to see through the fog, to identify them.
A yell from the duellers caused him to lose focus – dim flashes of light were now visible, but he could not tell who had shouted out – was it Mr Weasley? Harry's chest tightened – Mr Weasley had to be fine, he just had to be –
Why was he waiting? He could cast a perfectly good Patronus – so why was he waiting to drive the Dementors off? Wasn't this a life or death experience: being approached by a Dementor? Harry could think of no reason for why he had waited for this long – waited for the Dementors to come closer. Maybe he was relying on the adults to drive them away; maybe he was waiting for the Dementors to attack the Death Eaters instead – surely, they were much easier prey than two school-children…
But as this thought came into his mind, a more disturbing, more morbid thought entered his head –
What if the Death Eaters had sent them? What if they were taking orders from someone else other than the Ministry – someone like Voldemort? Was this a diversionary tactic that Voldemort was employing – if yes, which one was the diversion? The Death Eater attack, or the Dementor assault?
Harry's head was swimming with questions, and he could not think of any answers for them – and yet, he still did not move. The cold and the fog seemed to have frozen him to place – to inaction, waiting for the Dementors to come and Kiss him, leaving him soulless and empty…
The screaming had started in his head – his mother's screams, begging and pleading with Voldemort to spare her son's life in exchange for her own – it morphed into his father's urgent tones, yelling at his wife to take him, Harry, and run, while he would hold off the intruder to their home in Godric's Hollow –
And then, the noises were different – more recent, and more nightmarish that the pain and horror from all those years ago…
'Harry, get out of here!'
His scar was on fire, his head seemed like it would split open –
'Kill the spare!'
'Avada Kedavra!'
A flash of blinding green light, a rushing sound – and Cassius Warrington was on the ground beside him, dead –
No…no…no!
He had shouted the last word out loud, and in that instant, he felt a great surge of determination flare up inside him. Voldemort had taken a lot from him and his life – but no more.
With a monumental effort, ignoring the high, cold laugh of Voldemort now ringing inside his head, he raised his wand.
'Expecto Patronum!'
The ethereal stag erupted from the tip of his wand, charging with its head down straight towards the Dementors; one of the creatures moved out of the way just in time, but the other was not so lucky – the stag's antlers caught it where its heart would have been; the Dementor was thrown backward, weightless as darkness, and swooped away.
Its fellow had tried to use the first attack as a distraction – Harry dimly wondered if it had actually thought that through, or if it was just following instincts – but the stag had sensed the ruse at once; it turned around at an impossible speed, and galloped straight for the second Dementor, impaling it in the back as it tossed it into the air –
But it didn't seem like it was over: the mist had not cleared up, the sounds from around them were still indistinct and muffled, and the lights had not come back on.
And then, Harry heard a yell of fright and shock from nearby – it seemed the Dementors had found another target as their prey, and were advancing on him. He was sure it wasn't Mr Weasley – that had not sounded like the man – but the thought of the Dementor's Kiss being administered on someone so close to him…
Prongs the Patronus seemed to understand what Harry was thinking, for it bent its head and charged into the fray, where, sure enough, one of the Dementors was clutching the wrists of one of the Death Eaters in its slimy, rotting hands, pulling them slowly apart, ready to give the man a loving kiss –
The stag caught the Dementor just in time, right in the face – it was tossed, once again, into the air, and disappeared into the night; a moment later, Harry saw its comrade join it in soaring away.
Normality returned so fast and abruptly, Harry took a good minute in taking it in. The stars and street lamps burst back into life; the mist disappeared, leaving a distinctly warmer and rarer summer breeze in its wake; the sounds of cars rumbling and people talking in the neighbouring houses filled his ears again.
He stood there, panting as though he'd run a mile, before he noticed the scene before him. The section of Privet Drive from number eight to the Dursleys' house was the most affected: the road was pockmarked and damaged in numerous places; scorch marks decorated the road as well as the low fences that lined the houses nearby. Number six had taken a lot of hits, with the Death Eaters taking shelter behind its walls from the spells fired by Tonks and Mr Weasley; chips of wood and concrete had been blown off from the house and its pathway respectively.
As Harry took the destruction in, the damage began to seemingly repair itself – Mr Weasley and Tonks, looking a little worse for the wear, were waving their wands in complex motions as they set the street and the houses back to rights. Once they were finished, they staggered back to where Harry stood near the porch. Harry noticed they seemed to be supporting each other; Mr Weasley's leg looked quite bad, if its lack of mobility was anything to go by.
'That was…' said Hermione, and Harry only just noticed that his best friend was still holding onto his arm tightly. She looked pale and faint, but otherwise seemed unhurt. The sensations of touch and smell were slowly returning to him, and he found that he was sweating – which had nothing to do with the heat of that summer.
'Where did the Death Eaters go?' asked Harry; he was surprised that his voice sounded this steady and calm after everything.
Almost dying in a lonely graveyard changes you.
Shut it.
'Disapparated,' said Mr Weasley, slumping onto the porch, his leg no longer able to support him. 'After the Dementors went for them, they panicked.'
'Thank goodness they did,' said Tonks; she looked paler than how Harry had seen her earlier. 'I couldn't see or hear anything properly after those…things, showed up.' She shuddered. 'Kept bringing back…stuff.'
Mr Weasley patted her elbow soothingly. Harry didn't say anything: Dementors were supposed to make a person relive and re-experience their worst memories, and he didn't want to press Tonks for details.
'That was some impressive Patronus, Harry,' said Mr Weasley, after a few moments of silence. The balding red-headed man looked up at him. 'Was it a stag?'
Harry nodded, still not saying anything. His mind was whirring with questions and details from the evening's events. Fortunately, he was saved from opening his mouth by Hermione's question.
'Why were they here?'
Why, indeed…
Tonks shook her head. 'Haven't got a clue. The Dementors are supposed to be in Azkaban, like always. I don't understand how they could have turned up here.'
'It seems too much of a coincidence that they were here on the night Harry was being moved,' said Hermione. She turned to Mr Weasley, who was sporting an intrigued expression on his tired face. 'You don't think they –'
What exactly Mr Weasley did or did not think, they never found out; at that precise instant, an owl swooped down upon them from the darkness, so suddenly that Hermione shrieked in fright. The tawny bird circled above their heads, dropped an envelope at Harry's feet, turned gracefully in the air, and zoomed out of sight into the night.
The silence that seemed to follow the appearance of the letter was so absolute, Harry was sure he could have heard a thumbnail drop. Slowly, as though expecting another trap, he bent down and picked up the envelope, turning it over to see who it was addressed to.
Mr H. Potter
Number Four, Privet Drive
Little Whinging, Surrey
On the back of the envelope was a logo – a large, black, 'M', with projections that extended from the corners of the letter. There was also a wand, placed dead-centre of the seal. Harry did not need the gasp from Hermione, or the grim faces of Mr Weasley and Tonks, to tell him what the seal meant.
With his heart now pounding fiercely in his chest, Harry pulled out the letter and read its contents out loud.
Dear Mr. Potter,
We have received intelligence that you performed the Patronus Charm at eighteen minutes past eight this evening in a Muggle-inhabited area.
Given this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875 (Paragraph C), your presence is hereby required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 9.00 am on August 12th, 1995.
Following discussions with the Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, the Ministry has agreed that the question of your expulsion from school, and the decision to destroy your wand, shall be decided at that time. You should therefore consider yourself suspended from school pending further inquiries.
It may please be noted that the hearing would also investigate alleged offences under section 13 of the International Confederation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy.
Hoping you are well,
Yours sincerely,
Mafalda Hopkirk
IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE
Ministry of Magic
Harry stared at the letter, only vaguely aware of Hermione's sharp intake of breath, and Mr Weasley's exclamation of outrage. Inside his head, however, he felt numb. His chest seemed to have knotted itself, to a point where his breaths came out in short and shallow gasps.
Disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic…consider yourself suspended from school pending further inquiries…
The parchment had slipped from his fingers, floating to the ground as it caught the almost non-existent breeze. He could see, in his peripheral vision, Tonks catching it before it drifted away.
'Harry?' Hermione's voice seemed to reach him from a great distance; he turned to look at her, his befuddled mind registering some surprise that she was there, right next to him.
And then, like a wave gathering pace before reaching its crescendo, the reality of the situation built up and came crashing down around him. He was in Privet Drive – he had just used the Patronus Charm to drive off Dementors that had somehow turned up there; there had been a Death Eater attack at around the same time; and now he, Harry, was suspended from Hogwarts pending a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic.
'This is outrageous!' said Mr Weasley. Harry had never seen the Weasley patriarch look this…angry. Annoyance, yes – often when it came to the twins' antics – but never anger. But it made him feel a bit better, since he knew the man was angry on his behalf.
'Surely they can't expel him,' said Hermione worriedly. She looked between Tonks and Mr Weasley. 'Can they?'
Mr Weasley shook his head. 'Even if they wanted to, they wouldn't have any legal grounds. Underage witches and wizards are permitted to do magic outside school in the event of any life-threatening situation, and this certainly qualified as one.'
They lapsed into silence, each lost in their own thoughts. For his part, Harry was finally able to come to terms with what had just happened – the Death Eaters, the Dementors, and then the letter from the Ministry, suspending him from school. He had no idea if they even had the authority to do so – wasn't that supposed to be taken up with the Board of Governors? – but there was nothing more to be done for it. Everything seemed to hinge on this hearing on the twelfth of August – a little over two weeks away.
After they had reminisced for a few more minutes, Tonks finally suggested that they get a move on to Headquarters. Mr Weasley's leg was a bit better, but it still felt numb and immobile, and he swayed dangerously on the spot as he tried to walk along on it. Finally, he settled for waiting on the porch of number four, as Tonks took Hermione first, then Harry, and finally himself, to the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.
Harry's initial feelings about Apparation were that it was a really cool way to travel – disappearing from one place, only to appear instantly at another. It saved so much time that would have been spent on either broom travel, Floo powder, or even the Knight Bus.
By the end of his first Apparation experience, however, he was pretty sure even the Knight Bus would have been a better option.
'First time, huh?' asked Tonks, as Harry gulped in great lungfuls of blessed air. His chest felt very tight, as though it had been squeezed through a particularly small tube, and his ears seemed as though they hadn't wanted to fit into the tube at all. Absent-mindedly, he patted the pocket of his jeans for the bulge that signified his trunk's presence – Mr Weasley had, rather thoughtfully, decided to shrink his trunk before his Apparation, claiming that it would be easier to carry around.
Tonks chuckled at his reaction. 'You'll get used to it,' she said bracingly.
'I'm not sure I want to,' said Harry rather weakly, causing Tonks to snigger again.
'We'll just wait until someone comes out and gets you,' she said, looking around.
Harry, who had managed to overcome his mild nausea, mimicked her. They were standing in what appeared to be a small square in a rather unwelcoming neighbourhood, if the appearance of the surrounding houses was anything to go by. Most of them had grimy and uncleaned windows; the paint was peeling off some of the doors, and heaps of rubbish lay outside several sets of front steps.
Harry had never set foot in any part of London apart from Diagon Alley, the Leaky Cauldron, and King's Cross Station, so he had no idea what to expect from a London living neighbourhood. This, however, was definitely not it.
'This is Islington? I thought –'
But Tonks cut him off with a shushing motion of her hand. 'Wait till you're inside, Harry.'
He looked at her, bewildered. Inside – where? Not one of these houses, surely? He glanced up and down the road that ran adjacent to the square, and the dilapidated looking houses beyond. The area seemed so…odd, to be housing the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix.
It was then that he noticed something else that was odd. The square was scarcely lit – even the street lamps looked as though they had seen better days – but they cast enough light onto the house numbers on the other side of the road. From what he could make out, there was a number ten and a number eleven, but the house next to that was number thirteen.
'Hang on, where's –'
But he broke off, as a figure suddenly appeared on the pavement across the road. He watched as the figure glanced along both sides of the road, as though checking that they were indeed alone; then, with surprising quickness, hurried across it to the exact area of the square where he and Tonks stood. Harry noticed that Tonks had her wand out, but she was not yet pointing it at the figure.
He understood why a split second later: the figure passed beneath the glare of a grimy street lamp, revealing the tired visage of his favourite Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, and his father's old friend, Remus Lupin.
'Professor Lupin!' he almost shouted out loud, but thankfully managed to keep his excitement in check. He hadn't seen the man in over a year, and he had just realised how much he'd missed having the Professor around.
'It's good to see you, Harry,' said Lupin with a kind smile. He then turned to Tonks. 'Go and get him, I'll take Harry inside.' As Tonks nodded and turned to leave, he added, 'Quickly Tonks, he's just arrived.'
Tonks barely acknowledged the words as she Disapparated with a loud CRACK.
'Who's just arrived?' asked Harry curiously.
'Not here, Harry,' said Lupin, strangely wary and quite alert. He rummaged in the pocket of his robes, withdrew a single piece of parchment, and handed it over to Harry.
'Read it and memorise,' he instructed, and Harry did, vaguely recognising the slanted writing.
The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, Islington, London.
Harry memorised the note; once he'd indicated so to Lupin, the latter took the piece of parchment, and burned it to ashes with the tip of his wand.
'Right,' said Lupin, grabbing Harry's elbow and steering him to cross the road, all the while looking around anxiously. Once they'd reached the gate to enter number eleven, Lupin turned to Harry once more, and opened his mouth to speak – but Harry beat him to it.
'It's hidden, then?'
'What?'
'The house,' said Harry. 'It's hidden. Some charm, right?'
Lupin gave him an odd look, but nodded, nonetheless. 'Yes,' he said shortly. 'I'll explain inside. Now, think about what you've just memorised.'
Harry did so, and no sooner had he reached the bit about the address of Headquarters, the house in question quite literally inflated into existence. The battered door – looking as worn down and old as the others on that street – emerged out of nowhere, followed by walls, windows, and even a roof; the new house pushed numbers eleven and thirteen out of the way with surprising silence, with the door knocker materialising as the final touch.
'Come on,' said Lupin, and the two of them made their way up the worn stone steps. Harry noticed, as they approached the door, that the door knocker was silver, and in the form of a twisted serpent. There was no key-hole, or a post box, or even a door handle.
Lupin tapped the door with his wand, and Harry heard several loud, metallic clicks and what sounded like a chain rattling; then, the door swung open.
Harry's first impression of the Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix – an organisation fighting against the Dark forces of Lord Voldemort – was that it looked rather foreboding and dingy. The place had a feel of a derelict building, as though no one had lived in here for a long time. The stench of damp wood, dusty furniture and walls, and rotten…things, filled his nostrils. Somehow, he was thankful that he could not see any further than what was immediately in front of him – the hallway was completely dark, save for Lupin's wand, which he had lit upon entering the house.
A soft hissing noise filled the hall; all at once, old fashioned gas lamps sputtered into life along the walls, casting eerie shadows of the cobweb-filled chandelier hanging above, and what looked like a troll's leg fashioned into an umbrella stand. Now that Harry could see – albeit with some difficulty, given the flickering insubstantial light from the lamps – he noticed the long hallway, adorned with ancient-looking, grimy portraits that hung upon peeling, dirty wallpaper. The carpet below his feet was threadbare, and let out very faint clouds of dust with every step he took as he followed Lupin inside.
He could understand the need for secrecy – they were at war, after all, despite the Ministry's overt attempts at denying it – but to this level? This house seem protected, yes, but surely there were better places to station their Headquarters. Surely Dumbledore could have arranged for Hogwarts as a location? Or any other place, for that matter. Why choose this…dump – Harry had no other word for it – a place that looked like it was home to the Darkest of wizards?
His musings were cut short by a pattering of footsteps in front of them, and out of the darkness emerged Mrs Weasley, Ron's mother. She was wearing an apron over her usual dress, and beamed at the sight of Harry.
'Oh Harry, it's lovely to see you!' she whispered, and pulled him into one of her trademark rib-cracking hugs. She pulled back and examined him at arm's length with a critical eye – a look that he knew quite well.
'You haven't been eating well, you'll need feeding up, but you'll need to wait for dinner, I'm afraid…'
There was a series of clicks behind them: almost at once, Lupin swivelled around, pushing Harry back behind Mrs Weasley, who had raised her wand and pointed it towards the door. A moment later, however, she lowered it: Tonks and Mr Weasley had appeared in the doorway.
'Oh Arthur, thank goodness!' said Mrs Weasley, a little louder than how she'd greeted Harry, but still soft by her usual standards. Harry's confusion over the choice of location only increased as he watched Mrs Weasley hurry forward and support her husband, who gave her a weak smile in return.
'I'll Floo Poppy, she should be free to look at your leg, Arthur,' said Tonks, hurrying down the hallway as fast as she could. He heard Lupin whisper urgently, 'Quietly!' as she passed by.
Okay, what on earth…
'What is this place, Professor?'
'Not now, Harry –'
But Harry's curiosity had reached its peak; he was burning with questions, and he was not going to just sit aside and be satisfied with the answers others gave him. He'd learnt that from his questioning of Hermione at the Dursleys' – Dumbledore wasn't going to give him information, so he was going to have to get it for himself.
'Please don't tell me 'not now', Professor,' he said, and even he was surprised by how firm his voice was. 'I've been stuck at Privet Drive for four whole weeks – I think I deserve to know what's happening around here.'
Mrs Weasley gave him a chiding look. 'That is no way to talk –' she began, but Lupin cut her off.
'You're right, Harry. However, I must insist that I cannot answer your questions right now. Please, if you could wait until dinner.'
Harry looked at his ex-Defence teacher: his lined face looked, if possible, even more worn out, but the look in his eyes was quite sincere enough. He gave a nod of assent, which Lupin returned.
'Molly, why don't you get help Arthur get to the meeting – Tonks should have Flooed Poppy by now –'
Harry privately thought Lupin had made a very good suggestion, because Mrs Weasley seemed to be very upset. She gave Lupin a curt nod, and supported her husband along the hallway to a door at its far end, which Harry hadn't initially noticed. Lupin then beckoned Harry to follow him, which he did, feeling a mixture of defiance, anxiety, and trepidation. It must have shown on his face, however, for Lupin turned to him and patted his shoulder.
'I'm not angry with you, and neither is Molly,' he said, his tone reassuring. 'She just wants to protect you – as do all of us.'
At those words, unbidden, an image of Cassius Warrington's dead body lying on the ground next to him rose into Harry's mind.
'I don't want anyone to become another spare, Professor.'
Even dinner with the Dursleys' had never been this tense.
After his conversation with Lupin, Harry had joined Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, and Ginny in his room on the second floor of the house, where they had greeted each other and discussed what they knew about the Order's activities, which, admittedly, wasn't much. Only a few Extendable Ears had survived Mrs Weasley purge of Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes items, and she had taken extra precautions in making sure that the children wouldn't glean more information than what she deemed necessary for them to know.
Her determination – and the Orders', too – to keep them in the dark gnawed at Harry. Even the simple fact that they were at Sirius' house – something he had found out after being introduced to his godfather and the portrait of Walburga Black, his mother – had not been told to him at the start.
With his own guilt at Percy's estrangement from his family over Voldemort's return, Harry had been in far from a cheerful mood as he entered the basement kitchen for dinner –
– only to almost bump into Professor Severus Snape.
Great, as if this day couldn't get any worse.
The kitchen, which had up till then been full of chatter and the occasional laugh, went very quiet. Clearly everyone present was expecting some sort of confrontation – Snape's dislike of Harry, and his loathing of Sirius, who'd come up to stand behind his godson – was well known.
And yet, Snape had not said a word. Well, his lip had curled distastefully, but apart from that, and a glare at Harry – which he returned with equal fervour – the Potions Master neither said nor did anything. A moment's silence later, he had swept out of the kitchen.
That's odd.
Maybe he didn't want to insult you in front of everyone.
He's done that several times in every Potions' class.
Harry had given himself a mental shake and shrug – wondering about Snape's unusual behaviour was not something he had wanted to do at that time – and had taken his place at the long table in the kitchen, only vaguely paying attention to Sirius and Mundungus' conversation about the Black family goblets.
It was after the quite sumptuous dinner – courtesy Mrs Weasley's superb culinary skills – that the atmosphere had altered dramatically.
As they finished their last helpings of dessert (rhubarb crumble and custard), and as several satisfied sighs and hums echoed around the long table, Harry placed his own spoon down and turned to Lupin, a determined expression on his face.
'You asked me to wait until dinner, Professor.'
If he had not been so focused on getting a reply from Lupin, he would have laughed at the scene before him: everyone had stopped in the middle of whatever they had been doing; it was as though someone had hit the "pause" button on a remote, causing all activity to cease midway. Ron had his spoon halfway inside his mouth, his expression curious as he stared between Harry and Lupin. Fred and George, who had been chuckling at Mundungus' latest story, looked at Lupin, their laughs still etched upon their identical faces. Tonks' nose – which had been in the middle of a transformation – was now halfway between a horse's nose and her own, which looked quite grotesque.
Lupin, who had been about to take a sip of wine, lowered his silver goblet, looking weary and resigned.
'So I did,' he said quietly, but his voice carried across the table in the pin-drop silence that had permeated the room.
'Remus?' said Mrs Weasley, every trace of her previous drowsiness gone from her face.
Lupin did not respond immediately. He was looking at his goblet of wine – Harry thought he was hoping for answers to bubble up out of the fruity concoction, given the intensity of his gaze. It was few moments later that Lupin raised his head and looked towards Mrs Weasley.
'Harry's right, Molly,' he said, his voice still soft. 'He deserves to know what's been going on.'
Mrs Weasley's fists were clenched upon the arms of her chair. She looked quite dangerous – Harry had never seen her like this before, even when she had been furious at her twin sons over their sweets.
'He's too young,' she said, her voice sharp. 'And have you forgotten Dumbledore's instructions on the matter –'
Lupin opened his mouth to respond, but Harry beat him to it.
'Since when has Voldemort cared about anyone's age, Mrs Weasley?'
Harry snorted at the shudders and winces from the occupants of the kitchen at the mention of the name. This was the Order of the Phoenix?
'None of you can even hear his name without getting scared – how do you expect to actually fight against him?'
The question elicited more than a few frowns and mutters, especially from Professor McGonagall, whom he had met before dinner.
'He's got a point,' said Sirius, giving his godson a proud look. 'I've been telling you lot the same thing for ages.'
'Be that as it may,' said Mrs Weasley, glaring at Sirius, 'Harry is still a child –'
'– who's faced and done more things than most of the Order, Molly,' interjected Sirius.
'No one's denying what he's done!' said Mrs Weasley sharply. 'But he's still too young, and not in the Order –'
'How does that make a difference?' asked Harry.
'You're not of age, Harry, and I don't think you should be worried about –'
Harry could not suppress the snort of laughter that burst out of him, and Mrs Weasley broke off.
'Shouldn't be worried?' he asked. 'Voldemort tried to kill me when I was a baby, Mrs Weasley, and now he's back. I think I have every right to be worried about him, don't you?'
There was a stunned silence. No one moved or spoke. Ron, Hermione, Ginny, and the twins had been turning their heads between Harry, Mrs Weasley, and Sirius as though watching a doubles' tennis rally, only with the last player missing. Now, however, they were staring at Harry, mouths agape at his retort.
'That was uncalled for, Harry –' said Mr Weasley, a bit firmly.
'I'm sorry, Mr Weasley,' interrupted Harry, 'but I'm not a child anymore. I never even had a childhood to begin with – Voldemort and the Dursleys saw to that.' He took a deep breath. 'I cannot be mollycoddled, Mr Weasley, not anymore. I think I have the right to know what's going on. Especially when I'm quite sure it's going to come down to me against Voldemort.'
The silence that permeated the room was deafening; if the occupants hadn't moved a muscle at the beginning of that conversation, they certainly weren't moving anything now. Even the air seemed to have become still, thick as it was with the tension developing between Harry and Mrs Weasley. Everyone stared at the pair of them – everyone, except Sirius and Lupin, who exchanged significant looks, which went unnoticed by everyone else, except the razor-sharp eyes of Hermione.
At last, it was Lupin who broke the silence.
'Arguing on this is not going to help any of us,' he said, looking between Sirius and Mrs Weasley. 'Personally, I think it best that Harry gets the facts – just a general picture of what's been going on – from us, rather than any garbled, misinterpreted version.'
Mrs Weasley let out a deep breath, while Sirius looked at his long-time friend with an inscrutable expression. Lupin then turned to Harry.
'It is not a question of mollycoddling you, Harry,' he said. 'You must understand that all of us have your best interests at heart, and only wish to keep you safe. Even if it means having to keep some things from you.' Harry thought he'd imagined it, but Lupin's eyes seemed to flicker very quickly towards Sirius as he said so.
There was a very awkward pause. No one seemed to know what to say, although it seemed to Harry like they were waiting for him to continue the conversation.
Channel your anger, Harry…and pick your battles.
Daphne's advice repeated itself in his mind, as he contemplated the argument he'd just had. Lupin was right – he was not a child anymore, but the adults in his life were acting with his best interests in mind. It wouldn't do any good for him to get angry at them for doing so. Voldemort deserved his rage, not them.
'I understand, Professor,' he said, hoping he sounded as genuine as he felt. 'And…thank you.'
'Very well,' said Lupin, clasping his hands in front of him. 'What would you like to know?'
To be continued…
