AN whooohoooo for extended breaks! Sorry bbs. But this chapter is here and finished, i the next three chapters written already and am starting work on the 4th, so i figured i'd upload this for everybody.

As always thanks goes out to my beta team, Gamer0890, Palkey, and Red, you guys are invaluable!

Chapter 9

Some faces were harder to see than others.

Cedric, for instance, had played a pivotal role in Harry's early life, despite his relatively short time there. His death was the first Harry witnessed, the closest he'd been to death barring his unremembered parent's demise. Even still, the distance time had given him from his trip to the graveyard helped to dull the edge of that memory.

Seeing Cedric raise his hand in Harry's class, as he was now, did not sting and smart against the battered surface of his heart.

"Yes, Mr. Diggory?" he asked as the final echoes of the bell faded from the halls.

"It's a variation of the muggle repelling ward, designed to keep Peeves from your classroom," Cedric said with confidence, referring to his standing challenge to any of his students to decipher the nature of his protective wards over his door.

"Alas, Mr. Diggory, you are incorrect," Harry said, chuckling. "Though you aren't far off!"

They were halfway through October, most students had given up guessing, though they still eyed the dragon-leather wand holster on his desk wistfully. It was for the better, the first few weeks of class had been thoroughly derailed by wild guesses and attempts at revealing the runes. He was putting off showing them how to view the written aspect of wards and enchantments, if only to keep the game going, but eventually the game would be up. He mostly just wanted to see if anyone would take the initiative to try and learn it themselves just to surpass his challenge.

"Now, last week you were tasked with an occlusion ward, one that also protects from summoning-" he flicked his wand and conjured a collection of knick-knacks to their desks.

Small figurines, spinning tops, and bits of brass clockwork appeared. He shrugged off his desk and walked down the middle of the class.

"Everyone pull out your work and activate it, we will grade the homework before getting on with the lesson."

They all produced their small dragon vellum parchments and placed their item on it. He was glad to see, once the last ward was activated, that everyone had at least achieved full visual masking. Starting at one end of the room, first first he tapped their work with his wand to bring the equations powering it into view. He inspected the arithmetic, deducing whether the verbiage would satisfy his criteria, and then he attempted summoning whether he knew it would fail or succeed.

"Very good everyone, very good!" All but two of them had managed to fulfill the parameters of their assignment, and even though Penelope Clearwater's anti-summoning had failed, it put up a valiant effort before giving in.

"So," he started, beginning to pace the length of his desk before the class as he often must with his more advanced warding students. "I noticed most of you using octagonal foundations, a good pick for the level of complexity called for, was there anyone that had another approach?"

He had inspected all their work, so he knew some had, but he couldn't remember who in the wash of twenty odd circles he inspected. Penelope, Roger, and both the Weasley twins raised their hands. He went over to George's circle and tapped it once more to bring the shapes and runes to the surface. They hovered over the desk, a pale green color, like an aurora without the constant shifting.

"Ah, very interesting," he mused as he inspected it.

George stared up at him as he reviewed his work, a touch of nerves evident on his unscarred face. It was strange to see him so young and untested again.

The circle encompassed a decagon, but he'd used the extra ports at the vertices to avoid adding any additional geometry to the design. The runes and arithmancy had to be a bit more complex to make up for it, but the design had clearly worked. Penelope's design went the opposite direction, using only seven intrinsic ports configured as a square and triangle touching the outer circle.

"You were close," he told her as he inspected it, "two squares arranged at ninety degrees would've got the job done with this sort of configuration. It was possible using seven ports, you just needed to reinforce the balance in delineated arithmancy."

The class as a whole was going well, but their focus on runes and arithmancy, as written in the textbook, was showing. Without a standard class to marry the two, the fault lines in their application were showing. It worked out for Harry well enough. Rather than going into overly technical lectures about the manipulation of the two, he could instead tease the boundaries of their intuition.

Teaching an unconventional class as he was, one where students of varied learning were interacting together toward the same abstract goal, he had more room to level the playing field. The sixth year Runes and Arithmancy students lacked the deeper understanding that their N.E.W.T. upperclassmen possessed, but they were undeterred by the conventional limitations that those same students absorbed through study. The difference was even more pronounced in his Enchanting students, though surprisingly he found his youngest students to be the quickest learners.

Those just beginning to be introduced to the subject in their third year electives, such as Luna, were the most likely to surprise and delight with their approach. It made it so that Luna Lovegood could submit an assignment that was just as ingenious as her fifth year housemate Cho. Much to the chagrin of some of the older students.

He carried on with his lesson, and if he were being honest, he did a bad job of it. His mind was elsewhere, in a dingy house in London, to be specific. The inaugural meeting of the Order of the Phoenix was to be held this weekend. Just a few scant hours from now.

He wondered who would be there and what they would discuss. If any would recognize him and force them to ply their weak lies to yet more moving parts. He wondered if he would be believed, if the reformation of the Order would amount to anything. If Dumbledore's caution would prove to be as much of a hindrance to actionable change as he feared. This and more carried him through his last lecture of the week, a lackluster one for his distraction, but his students didn't seem to mind, especially when he dismissed them without additional homework.

"Next week we begin the Mind Arts, starting with muggle repelling!" He said cheerily as the last tones of the class bell fled the room. His students were packing up, and he was sinking into his chair to rest after an hour of pacing back and forth on his bad leg.

It was only another hour until dinner, he would of course be taking his meal privately in his office, but he planned to do so earlier than usual. He would use the castle's distraction over its nightly feast to slip out to the village and apparate to Grimmauld Place.

His office was cluttered as he passed through. The sprawl of his work, both official and personal, decorated the place in an academic way that felt almost cozy. Up the spiral stairs and through the trapdoor to his quarters and it was a dark mirror of the room below. The evidence of his obsession was just as present. Just as many diagrams and notes littered every surface. However, the collection of empty wine bottles, and the memories of a score of sleepless nights spent staring sightlessly at the walls in drunken determination, soured the image.

He collapsed into his chair, thinking offhandedly that he should clean the place up and brighten the room. He glanced toward the window, covered in scrollwork, and knew he wouldn't. It was too precarious, too loosely held together, to move for a little light and risk disorganizing the barely organized chaos of it. One page out of place could prove detrimental to everything he was trying to accomplish here.

"Dobby!" he called into the empty room, and he requested some food be brought to him with a smile and a kind 'thank you'.

-o-o-o-

Harry's head pounded. The room wasn't overly loud, not anymore, but the initial shouts and panicked questions thrown at Dumbledore when he told the assembled Order members of the reason for their convening was enough to kickstart the constant drumbeats between his temples.

They'd calmed now, and Albus was droning on about how unity and love for our friends and family would allow us to weather this storm. Pretty words that had the desired effect on the frightened witches and wizards.

He rubbed his shoulder, a constant reminder that friendship and love couldn't stop the demon in his time. That it would require more.

Harry scanned the faces, marking the ones he thought might share his thoughts on their tactics. Tonks was watching the Headmaster's face with a furrowed brow, her worries etched there to be read plainly. It was a bit jarring to see her, and realize they'd be about the same age now, but the shock gave way to a lighthearted giddiness that he could see and speak to his friend again. Once they became friends, of course.

The Weasleys: Molly, Arthur and Bill, all shared the same determined set to their faces. He was not surprised to see no fear there, the Weasleys were strong people even if the world often forgot that, but he would not involve Molly and Arthur in his plans. Not only were they unlikely to go against Dumbledore, even in secret, he would not put them in danger when they had so many children to look after. Bill, and presumably Charlie when he was brought into the fold, were a different matter.

He could see the white in Bill's knuckles as his fists clenched from across the room, he stood near his parents with his arms crossed over his chest and listened intently to Dumbledore's address. Harry nodded to himself, Bill's demeanor conveyed just the right blend of anger, defiance, and determination. He mentally noted it and moved on.

Kingsley wasn't there, as he suspected, but a mention from the Headmaster at the start of the meeting indicated he was at least informed. Mrs. Figg, Aberforth, Hestia and Podmore were there, displaying similar dismay and fear. None of them were on his radar. Too old, they were all original members, and as such would firmly back whatever course of action Dumbledore thought best. McGonagall stood to the right of Dumbledore, the only other staff member to join this first meeting apart from himself.

They'd argued, he and Dumbledore, when he'd gone to see the man before leaving the school for London that afternoon. Perhaps that was the true origin of the dull ache between his temples. He'd gone to the Headmaster's office after his meal, succeeding in catching the man before he went down to the Great Hall for dinner, and ushered him back into his office with a: "can I have a word, professor?"

Dumbledore was surprised, but allowed entry and returned to his desk to hear him out.

"I just wanted to discuss tonight's meeting," he'd opened, "get on the same page, and know what to expect."

Dumbledore'd nodded sagely and steepled his fingers, his contemplative pose at odds with the smile on his face. "Just an introductory meeting really," he said, "the numbers will be low, most of the Order won't be able to convene until after holidays, maybe even over summer, but rest assured-"

Perhaps he'd seen dismay, or frustration even, written on Harry's face because he'd quelled any protests and carried on.

"We will lay out the plans for guarding the prophecy, even if it won't be on Voldemort's radar until June, and I think most importantly, we will get these few who can come on such short notice to begin putting out feelers. We'll need numbers, and that will be the focus at the start of it."

"And Gringotts, sir?" He tacked the respectful honorific on the end, feeling that his tone was a bit too harsh as he asked the question, but Dumbledore's reaction vindicated the distrust in his words.

The old man sat back ever-so-slightly in his chair, so that his gaze toward Harry was the faintest bit half-lidded. It transformed his face from the kindly, old professor to that of a shrewd man. Harry could see this, even now, and he'd wondered if Dumbledore knew that. Wondered if anyone questioned him enough to keep him versed at masking his countenance.

"Not tonight, I think," he said, sounding tired.

At one point, not too long ago even, Harry would have protested. He would exclaim some version of 'but professor!' and try to impress on the man how vital it was that they get into the bank, how much better it would be if they planned now.

Instead, he simply sighed.

Dumbledore seemed surprised by his acceptance, perhaps even off-put by it, for he continued speaking unprompted.

"Bill will be at the meeting tonight, however. We will focus on recruitment early and he has contacts within the bank. Rest assured, my boy, we will find a solution to this particular problem. Give it time."

Harry had nodded stiffly, and after moving the conversation into clearer waters he'd left the headmaster to his dinner, intent on setting out to Grimmauld Place in time to see Sirius before the others arrived.

He looked to his godfather now, at his side and slouched back in his chair with one booted foot up on the table. He looked, if Harry was being honest, like a haggard teenager. Sirius' time in Azkaban had aged him physically, he looked older than the mid-thirties Harry knew him to be, but it had the opposite effect on his behavior sometimes. As a child he had looked up to his godfather, Sirius' devil-may-care attitude and opposition to others treating him like a child had ingratiated him to Harry. Now, as a battle-worn adult, aged beyond his years by his own imprisonment, he could see it for what it was.

The fact did not instill doubt in Harry, paranoid as he sometimes could be, he never once doubted Sirius would help him. That brashness, that anger and bloodlust he saw in Sirius was exactly what he wanted to see in his allies, because it mirrored his own. Sirius looked his way, cocking one eyebrow near imperceptibly, and Harry shook his head just as covertly.

They'd discussed this meeting beforehand, Harry had told him of the vault in Gringotts and that it was the resistance's number one priority regardless of the agenda Dumbledore would lay out tonight. That look Sirius sent him was a silent question: "want me to say something?"

Harry's denial was a postponement: not yet

He jerked his head a bit toward Bill, who was still listening to the Headmaster. Sirius looked, and when he looked back Harry darted his eyes toward Tonks. The message was clear, these two, they were the target. They were the allies in the room that could be swayed to their side. He could see it in their anger, in their fear, they were ready to fight.

Sirius gave a near imperceptible nod and Harry leaned back in his chair.

"I know the horizon is clouded now," Dumbledore wrapped up, long-winded and inspirational, "but do not fear dear friends, we are better prepared now than ever we have been in the fight against darkness. We have new allies, new insights, and new resolve. Thirteen years of peace has reigned since last we defeated Voldemort, and peace, my friends, is what we will keep."

There were nods around the room, smiles, reassured by his words. Most of them shot a glance his way when Dumbledore mentioned new allies. The older ones, the Weasley parents and Hestia, looked with more curiosity. They knew the Potters.

"Now," Sirius said with much aplomb, "who wants a drink?"

He grinned as he straightened up and stood, everyone in the room was nodding with easy smiles, weighing their want for some liquid courage against their apprehension of the man that until scant minutes ago they all believed a murderer.

Sirius circled the room to the liquor cabinet and retrieved a dusty bottle of something that likely cost his parents or grandparents quite a generous galleon. He poured with no consideration for its quality or price tag, giving all a goodly portion. Harry joined him, assisting in distributing the glasses as a guise to approach Tonks.

"Harry," he introduced himself as he handed her a glass, she took it with a weary thank you and sipped it heavily before replying.

"Tonks," she said, and the drink returned some of the cheer he was used to hearing in her voice. "Just Tonks, mind you, no matter what anyone says."

He laughed, nodding.

"Alright, just Tonks it is."

Sirius was making a big show of greeting the Weasley parents, they'd known him fresh out of school during the first war, and he was having a great time teasing them about not visiting him in Azkaban. He used the general distraction to his advantage.

"You work with the Aurors, yes?" He inspected the room casually as he asked it, making small talk he already knew the answers to, so as to steer the conversation in the direction he wanted.

"Fresh out training!" she said proudly, "Moody's last batch, though I guess you wouldn't know who that is."

"No, no, believe me, his reputation precedes him." They both shared a chuckle at that, and it felt good to form this new and different friendship with his once-friend.

"Well," he continued, not wanting to do a hasty job of this and botch it, "there's more to discuss about the coming war. Would you be available to meet up again with a few others?"

"Might do," she said, and a bit of that Auror training seemed to be kicking in as she gave him a side-long look. "Have a time in mind?"

"Week after next," he said casually, trying to diffuse her suspicion with nonchalance. "Bring anyone you feel may be a help."

Shrugging off the wall, he made a show of surveying the room. "As Dumbledore said, getting numbers is the important thing now. I've got to make the rounds and all that, it was good meeting you, Just Tonks."

With a raise of his half-full glass in salute he departed. He wondered if she would bring anyone else, wondered if she would mention this to Dumbledore, and if it mattered if she did. He would just have to cross that bridge when he got to it.

"Bill, right? Name's Harry," he shook the eldest Weasley son's hand.

Sirius had moved on from accosting Bill's parents, he looked to be enjoying making Mrs. Figg uncomfortable now as she tried to make pleasant small talk with a convicted murderer.

"Crazy stuff, this is," Bill noted, surveying the room of would-be resistance fighters as they mingled about.

"Yeah," Harry agreed, privately amused by how true Bill's statement was, unbeknownst to him. "Only going to get crazier too."

Bill glanced at him, worry on his face, but there was a glint of something else in his eye. The way he took in this dingy room, with its odd collection of witches and wizards, it was excitement.

The untempered look of one that had yet to experience war and found it all thrilling in a morbid way they wouldn't admit aloud.

Exactly the kind of attitude Harry was looking for.

"Listen," Harry said, going out on a limb, emboldened by that observation. He stepped closer and lowered his voice, which only served to entice the Weasley man more. "Dumbledore didn't want to go into this yet, but it's important. Gringotts has a part to play in what's to come and you're the key."

Bill's eyebrows shot up, but he returned Harry's cautious whisper, "if you think I have sway with the Goblins-"

"Not that," Harry quickly interjected, "weekend after next, we're going to meet up here again, can you make it?"

Bill's surprise was fading, a firm set to his jaw replacing it, and he gave a solitary nod. Harry smiled and clapped a hand on his shoulder.

"See you then."

-o-o-o-

Harry appeared on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place to a dreary but mild night, a light mist was falling, and a couple of Muggles hastened across the street and into a house two doors down. He didn't waste any time getting inside and out of the wet. The house was dark and quiet upon his arrival, and he kept it that way, tiptoeing across the entryway and past the slumbering portrait of Walburga Black.

He found Sirius in the kitchen and smiled at the man's back as he watched him hover over a pot on the stove. The smells coming off hinted at pasta, but the unmistakable scent of charred food overpowered all. He couldn't contain himself when his godfather turned to his sauce and let out a curse at the smoke coming off it. He burst out laughing, and sent Sirius jumping out of his skin in the process.

"Merlin's balls!" the older man exclaimed, whipping around and leveling a glare at Harry. "Sneaking up like that is a good way to get hexed."

"Sneaking?" Harry asked, chuckling as he wiped a non-existent tear from his eye for show. "An army could've snuck up on you for all the focus it takes to burn food."

He crossed from the door and took a seat at the table as Sirius seemed to give up on the whole affair. With a wave of his wand the bubbling and smoking remains of his would-be meal were vanished away. He took one look at Harry and diverted course from the kitchen table to a cabinet on the wall.

"You look like hell," he said as retrieved a bottle and sat next to Harry. "Have a drink."

Harry took it, feeling like hell, and had himself a nice long sip before fully settling in. "The foreign delegations arrived today."

He realized belatedly that Sirius probably had no idea what he was talking about, but his godfather just quirked an eyebrow in response.

"Don't know what you've got to complain about," he said after a moment, in which Harry stared into the contents of his glass broodingly. "What I would've given to have the Tournament in my school days."

Harry gave a single, humorless chuckle and downed the rest of his drink. "Yeah, well it's not exactly like I can join in the festivities from the staff table."

He proffered his empty glass, and when Sirius just eyed him over the rim of the crystal tumbler, he gave it a little shake.

"So, you wanna talk about why a couple of stuffy foreigners coming into town has you looking like they've killed your owl, or…?" He refilled Harry's glass when he didn't get an answer and Harry took another sizable drink before speaking.

"It's complicated," he said, all but grunting the response out. He could still see Fleur from across the Great Hall when he closed his eyes. Like an image of the sun after staring at it for too long, he was faced with the reality unfolding in front of him.

A year of seeing her, and meaning nothing to her.

Though, perhaps that wasn't entirely true. They had locked eyes for a moment, and there had been something there, he was sure of it. He put that thought out of his mind as quick as it formed though, and choked down another sip through the tightness in his throat as he did so.

"Right, too complicated for the convict," Sirius said, nodding and rolling his eyes. "Sirius spent too long in Azkaban, and he never took his schooling seriously in the first place. There's no way he could ever under-"

"I've just seen my wife for the first time in months, only she doesn't know who I am." It felt good to say it, and the dumbfounded look on Sirius' face felt just as good, right up until the moment that shock faded and was replaced by incredulity.

"You've got it bad mate," Sirius managed, around his laughter, and he even went so far as to slap a palm down on the table for effect. "So, what's caught your fancy? A little Hungarian horn tail, or the French madam."

"I'm serious-"

"No, I'm Sirius-"

The old joke, as familiar as it was terrible, broke a dam in Harry. His eyes narrowed at his laughing godfather and he clenched his jaw around words that were best unspoken.

He was in an odd mood though, and the drinks didn't help. He was sad and angry at other things, unreachable things, and shutting Sirius up felt like a tremendous way of venting some of that frustration.

"You said it was enough to know that I was James' son, yeah? Well how's this for an explanation," he bit the words out, relishing the way they sobered his godfather's expression, "how'd the Potter's dead kid end up here teaching at Hogwarts you wonder? I'm from the future Sirius, a future where you and everyone else you know is dead."

He didn't let the man's shocked face slow his momentum, the purging of all this pent-up emotion was too relieving to pause and weigh the wisdom of his words.

"Dumbledore, dead. You, dead. The girl I loved at Hogwarts, dead. Every girl you loved at Hogwarts, along with every muggle you passed in the street throughout the course of your miserable life? Fucking dead, Sirius. And now I'm back here, for Merlin knows what reason, seeing all my dead friends and family pass me in the halls and trying to hide the notes they pass in my class. Their eyes passing over me with blatant disregard, just another face in the crowd, and the mother of my unborn child just arrived at Hogwarts. So, do us both a favor, and just shut the fuck up, yeah?"

Silence reigned for long heartbeats in the wake of his words. He felt light, deflated by the reveal, but in the best possible way. Like he'd finally dropped the burdensome weights he'd been carrying since the moment he woke up on the floor of a muggle mall. Sirius, of course, couldn't abide peace and quiet.

"Feel better?"

Harry could only blink at him. Much of the venom, and all of the drive that had fueled his outburst, was gone now. Sirius was smirking at him, and the look was so out of place in this moment that it only served to stall his brain longer.

"What-"

"How'd I die?" Sirius interrupted him, his brow furrowing in contemplation. "Must've been a whole pack of Deatheaters, yeah? Or Voldemort himself!"

"Sirius-"

"Don't tell me it was Dementors." He pulled a face, "not after last year-"

"Bellatrix kills you," Harry blurted out, taking his turn to interrupt, "in the Department of Mysteries, next year."

Perhaps it was the mention of his cousin, or the scene of the crime, that shut Sirius up. More than likely, though, it was the use of the present tense. Once more there was silence, and once more it lasted but a moment.

"That won't do." Sirius nodded to himself at that statement, and topped off both their glasses. "Can't give the old bat the satisfaction."

"Sirius, what are you on about?"

"What?" His godfather was looking at him like he was crazy.

"Do you even understand what I just said?" He couldn't find the right words to express the feeling in his chest. It felt lighter than he had in a long time, but that came with turbulence as well. A balloon, free and flying through the air, but battered around by harsh winds.

"Yeah," Sirius said defensively, and he brandished his glass at Harry for good measure, "contrary to popular belief I can actually speak and read English."

"But I-"

"Look," he was cut off yet again, but was far beyond such base emotions as annoyance. "You're Harry Potter, right?"

He accepted a mute nod in response, which was coincidentally all Harry had to give in that moment.

"And I know I was in Azkaban for a while, but not that long. You're a bloody man, you could be James' brother, or cousin I suppose, but definitely not his son. Not unless James was getting busy back in first year behind my back, so… It's not that far out of the realm of believability."

"Sirius… It definitely is."

"Eh," Sirius just shrugged.

"Eh?!" Harry exclaimed, incredulous.

"Eh," Sirius repeated, and for good measure added a: "Can't be bothered."

He sensed Harry's coming outburst and continued.

"Maybe you are from the future, maybe you're stark raving mad, or maybe I'm still in Azkaban and all of this—" he gestured around the room with his half-full glass and then downed the rest of it, "is just some new torture the Dementors have cooked up. The point is, Harry, a man in my position has no choice but to live in the moment."

Harry could only stare at him as he refilled his glass, a very light pour, as they had only been sitting and drinking for a short time and already put a sizable dent in the bottle.

"So you say you're James and Lilly's son, back from some hellish future to fix everything, and I say cheers mate!" He reached over to clink his glass against Harry's forgotten one on the table and toasted this insanity.

The first tear broke free as Harry watched him take a sip.

"Oh, don't do that." Sirius said, futilely, but the flood gates were open.

In no time at all Harry was a sobbing mess, and Sirius was left to hold him together as he cried wordlessly in his arms. It was a task Sirius took to without complaint, cradling his godson in his arms as he clutched and coughed through his emotions. Proving, without a doubt, that Sirius could be serious. When he wanted to.

Harry was composed by the time the portrait of Sirius' mother exploded to life in the hall.

"Merlin's balls," the older man cursed under his breath as he stood, and Harry joined him to go meet the new arrivals.

Tonks, and to Harry's surprise, Charlie Weasley were in the foyer when he cleared the kitchen door. They were skirting around the shrieking painting with concerned looks when they spotted Harry and Sirius.

Charlie came up short, stopping in the hall and blocking Tonks from sight momentarily as his eyes fell on Sirius. He must have been informed, but hearing about the escaped convict-turned-falsely-accused man and seeing him had to be different.

Sirius, in true fashion, didn't even seem to notice the scared look in the younger Weasley's eyes.

"Come in, come in," he said brightly, a jovial host. "Ignore mum, she's a right floppy cunt."

The momentary hesitation passed and a grin split Charlie's face at his words. Tonks shoved him from behind, and Harry turned to lead the way back into the kitchen. He was relieved that, for the moment, Sirius was the center of attention. A moment was all he required to finish composing himself for the conversation to come.

They scarcely had more time than a round of introductory handshakes before the door to the street opened once more and rekindled the curses from the hall, heralding Bill's arrival.

"Sorry I'm late," he was saying before even making it into the kitchen, "Charlie said he was coming but-"

He came up short at the site of his brother already lounging in a chair next to Tonks.

"Sorry about that Bill, ran into an old friend," Charlie said, not sounding sorry at all.

"Back in the country for twelve hours," Bill muttered under his breath but just shook his head and joined them all at the table. "This everyone?"

His eyes swept the room, five altogether, and Harry nodded.

"Small for now, but you'll understand why soon enough." Now they were all gathered, a touch of nerves set in.

Harry was used to speaking in front of people, used to marshaling people even, but even still the circumstances presented new challenges. When he issued orders to Bill, or Neville, or whoever it may be, those orders were followed.

They were followed because all parties knew the truth of that matter: Dumbledore was dead. Voldemort reigned supreme and, willing or otherwise, Harry Potter was the only thing standing between them and certain death.

These people did not know Harry Potter, nor was their leader dead, and what he was about to ask of them was simple.

Trust him and lie to Dumbledore.

The situation was delicate, and that was the source of his nervous energy as he stood from the table.

"Right, to business then," he said by way of introduction, and it amused him somewhat to recognize his own new 'teacher voice' coming out. "Charlie, I take it Bill or your parents caught you up?"

The younger Weasley brother nodded, a grim look on his face, and Harry carried on.

"Good, what we're going to talk about tonight has to remain secret, from everyone." He cast his eyes around the room, making eye contact with each person before continuing. "No one can know, not your friends, not your families, not even Dumbledore. If you don't think you can do that, please leave now. There will be no hard feelings."

He gave them a moment to weigh his words and consider, they glanced about at one another, everyone except Sirius. He was looking at dirt under his fingernails and appearing positively bored by the preamble. No one left, and when they turned individually to give him solemn nods he could see new resolve in their faces.

"Good," he said again, some of his tension dissipating with that hurdle crossed. "Dumbledore doesn't want anyone to know what I'm about to tell you, I say that not to turn you against him, but rather to emphasize how serious this matter is. Dumbledore is right to want this knowledge contained, but I've seen first hand what keeping this bit of crucial information from your allies can do."

He was pacing now, across the width of the room at the head of the table, all occupants watched with rapt attention. Even Sirius, who'd already played a hand in destroying a horcrux himself.

"Voldemort is back because of something called a Horcrux," he scanned the faces of the gathered people, looking for recognition. Tonks had a furrowed brow, as if searching for where she'd heard the term, but the Weasley brothers were staring at him blankly.

"A Horcrux is an artifact that, through the ritual sacrifice of another witch or wizard, the murderer can siphon off a portion of their own soul to be stored away."

The contemplative looks gave way slowly to ones of horror.

"Once a Horcrux has been created it will prevent the owner from true death. The body dies, but the soul lives on, however damaged it may be. All they need do is create a new body to be born again." He ceased his pacing, not only because of his knee, but because it was beginning to feel too much like his class lectures.

"This task is easier said than done, but a witch or wizard of sufficient skill can do it. Voldemort could have, if his followers didn't fall apart and cannibalize themselves the moment word spread of his demise. That's why you're all here, we're going to get his Horcruxes."

There was silence for a moment before Bill spoke up: "Horcruxes?"

Harry nodded gravely.

"Voldemort created six horcruxes."

"Blood hell," Charlie muttered under his breath. The other occupants in the room, save Sirius, shared the same horrified looks Charlie expressed.

"How are we supposed to find them?" Tonks asked, uncharacteristically serious in the face of this news.

"Dumbledore and I have been working on this for some time already," Harry told them, "we've found and destroyed four of them, and we know of the last two."

The onlookers were too dumbfounded to be excited by the news right away and he pressed on.

"Getting them is the issue, or rather, getting one of them is." He turned to Bill, "that's where you come in. The final Horcrux we really need to worry about is currently nestled away safely in the Lestrange vault at Gringotts."

The color drained from Bill's face.

"Hate to disappoint, but I'm going to be all but useless there. Curse breakers don't have access to vaults."

"I figured as much," Harry said, unperturbed, "but don't discredit yourself, Bill. You're in the bank already, you've got the connections to move around freely. It's a big advantage, even if you can't stroll down to the Lestrange's vault and open it for us. Over the next few weeks we'll begin testing the securities at the bank, a lot of their defenses are known to the public but there's more that's kept quiet. We need to know what stands between us and that vault, definitively, if we're going to make a plan. For now, that's all you need to worry about."

A grim determination settled on Bill's face and after a moment he nodded.

"There's also the matter of the prophecy Dumbledore mentioned at the meeting," he turned to include Tonks in his gaze, "if all goes well, it won't be on Voldemort's radar until the end of this year, but he will seek it out if we're unable to stop his full return. Dumbledore wants to set up defenses early. My aim is to remove it from the board before it comes to that."

"Hate to break it to you, but the situation's the same," Tonks said, "I've never even set foot in the Department of Mysteries."

Harry shook his head, dismissing her worries.

"The prophecy is not as important, but mostly, its defenses are well known. You may be a part of its collection, but the same research and planning won't be required. You two," he swept his gaze to include Charlie in this, "are here for a simpler reason."

This was the gamble, the moment he would see if his selection of inaugural members was misguided.

"Dumbledore does not want this war to be public, and in many ways he's right to enforce this caution. If we go public with the knowledge that Voldemort has returned, the ministry will turn on us. This, we know for a fact. Fudge and his administration will seek to discredit any who claim a Dark Lord has risen, if you stood in opposition to that your job at the ministry would likely be short-lived. This climate creates a need for secrecy, but-"

He let his sentence hang for a second, collecting his thoughts, but also gauging their responses. They were all leaned in, even Sirius was showing interest now.

"I've seen war more recently than he. We need strength and numbers, and most of all we need people willing to fight. That is the true nature of what I'm trying to accomplish here, and it's the source of our need for secrecy. Dumbledore is a tactician. A brilliant man, who's plans will win us this war, but he will go out of his way to avoid becoming a General. That is where I, and you, come in."

He shrugged off the kitchen countertop he'd been leaning against and approached the table, all four onlookers gave their rapt attention.

"Dumbledore named his resistance the Order of the Phoenix, a fitting name, as Voldemort seeks to burn all that stands in his way. Like the Phoenix, Dumbledore will burn if it means preserving the life that comes after. Dumbledore would not have you fight. He would protect you, and your loved ones, from the reality of war. Do not fight. Trust him to fight. It's a noble deed, from a noble man. War is not noble."

He sighed, feeling the truth of his own words, and the weight of those yet unsaid. He pulled out the chair at the head of the table and dropped into it, feeling his exhaustion. Each person around the room made eye contact with him and he matched it, gauging their resolve.

"The casualties of war, the true cost in his eyes, isn't the loss of your friends and family. It is the loss of yourself. You can hear it in his speeches, and see it in his strategy, and it's commendable. It is correct. The evil we fight cannot even be fought, without inviting some of that evil into yourself. I have already done this. I have fought, and I have killed, to protect those that I love. To protect those that need protecting, because they cannot protect themselves."

He lowered his volume, lowered his gaze.

Seated at the table with them, casual, an equal.

It was not his conscious intent. He had done this so many times over the years, galvanized people to not give up, to fight back and live, so much so that he could do it on instinct.

"The problem with the Phoenix," he continued, in this more subdued way, "is that it isn't there to see what's born from the ashes. Its sacrifice is noble, and the life it gives will grow and thrive, but it is abandoned in the act of giving. For the second, and final time, I give you the chance to walk away-"

No one moved from the table, he swept his eyes one final time across them, and nodded. He could see what would become of them before the end of this war, even if it were shortened by his actions. Blood would stain their hands, almost certainly, before the last dying embers of Voldemort's soul were snuffed out.

"We are what's left behind," he said gravely, "the Ashborn, the answer to the Deatheaters, and we will fight."

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