Awareness that the Order of the Phoenix had been compromised changed nothing, at least on paper. Harry continued to brew potions, dig deeper into dark magical theory texts, observe the local fairy communities. Yet all the time the shadow of war loomed distantly, haunting every pleasant conversation, every warm meal.
Dumbledore.
Harry had realized almost immediately that the revelation had shaken his confidence in Dumbledore. He'd nearly worshipped him, in the beginning. All-powerful, or nearly so. Even Voldemort wouldn't dare challenge him. He seemed to be seven steps ahead, always aware with a sparkle in his eye. Yet on more than a few occasions since he'd doubted Dumbledore's decisions. He knew, first-hand, that Dumbledore could walk in blissful ignorance, against the light of clear evidence, for years. This, however, seemed almost a weightier misstep. Not as personal as the Dursley's, but more strategically significant.
Voldemort's greatest enemy was compromised, perhaps because he refused to believe in the dark potential of fools. They knew they must confront him. Expose the informant and demand tighter restrictions. Yet they also agreed that this couldn't happen until after the trial, after Harry's birthday. Any manipulation of the events which led to Fudge's downfall seemed perilous and unnecessary.
So they spent their efforts recruiting. It became a rule that no one would know that Harry Potter loomed behind the Order of the Raven, yet Tonks and Lupin's ambiguous warnings and hints of revelatory foreknowledge had been enough to recruit another half dozen to their cause. Among them, Harry was pleased to recognize the names of Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spennet, Lee Jordan, Penelope Clearwater, and Roger Davies. Tonks and Lupin began to host training sessions, sharpening defensive and offensive spell craft.
As Harry paced among them, a black tabby cat with a funny, lightning shaped tuft of white hair between his ears, he couldn't help but hope.
They were building an army, and Voldemort didn't stand a chance.
"Harry?"
Luna sat amongst the gnarled roots of a broad oak, tapping a charcoal pencil against her lower lip, her distant gaze cast beyond the thestrals who grazed in the glen before them.
"Do you ever feel that something important is about to happen?"
Her expression softened as he curled into her lap, purring contentedly.
"I'm certain of it, Harry."
She scratched just beneath his ear, and he drove into her palm.
"I saw something last night, Harry. I was seated within that particular corner of the Ravenclaw common room that happens to be a perfect sound vacuum. I was attempting to meditate, but I couldn't, really. I'd seen Harry Potter in the library that afternoon, and he seemed troubled, and I couldn't escape the profound sense of concern I felt for him. So I was sitting there, attempting to shed all thought and all concern, but I couldn't. And suddenly I saw something."
She smiled, a bright, happy smile that Harry hadn't seen for many months.
"I saw something, and it's made me so happy." She paused, shifted her gaze to his emerald eyes. "Do you know what I saw, Harry?"
He watched her with unflinching attention.
"I saw a letter. I received a letter. In the middle of the night. And there's a lovely white owl on the perch. And I know, somehow, that this letter will change everything." She grinned now, a sweet, toothy grin of unabashed joy.
"I'm so excited, Harry." She paused. "I've never received a letter."
Perhaps due to his now extensive knowledge of dark magic theory, perhaps due to the now feverish pace of training and preparations, or perhaps due to the gravity Remus had adopted in his now daily reports, Harry no longer went anywhere without Cloak.
As he wandered the grounds, he cast an impossibly black profile against the spring leaves and blooming wildflowers, his dark cloak shifting here and there as if it obeyed a wind of mysterious origin.
March was coming to a close, and rumors of the prophesied return of the Raven King were whispered and traded over pints of butterbeer in the tavern in the tiny hamlet on the far side of Ravenswood.
"I seen him, I swear it. Wandering the wood, as he used to have done."
Harry listened, a black tabby with a curious marking between his ears, and he felt a stir of mischievous joy at the notion.
He shared the news at dinner that evening, and Lupin raised his glass in Harry's direction. "Cheers, Harry. People need hope. The darkness is rising; without hope we have no chance. Sure, you're just a boy. But what you represent? Well, it can be so much more."
At this, Harry's brow furrowed. "But I'm not, you know, the Raven King." He hesitated. "I'm not even sure the Raven King exists."
Lupin's gaze fell level upon Harry, and somehow the room stilled. "What does your heart tell you, Harry?"
He didn't respond, but from that moment forward something like faith stirred in him.
Dobby had been busy.
For months, following the orders of Harry Potter himself, with unerring precision, Dobby had sifted the dark depths of nefarious establishments. He'd rediscovered the trodden paths of the dark wizarding underground, which he'd once frequented in the service of the Malfoy family. Despite the stir of fear, despite the murderous whispers and looming horrors which seemed to lurk in every corner, Dobby persevered.
It was for Harry. Good Harry, of course.
Leveraging a series of shell organizations and back-channel accounting, disguised (by way of an altered polyjuice Harry had concocted himself, accounting for the weight and composition of House Elves) as the senior House Elf to an ancient Bulgarian family of dark wizards - a family which had been recently forced to flee Europe entirely due to the successful political machinations of a rival family. Thier departure, lucky enough, was not yet common knowledge, and thus he was granted entry into nearly every establishment without so much as a second glance.
He'd been tasked with seeking as many books on dark soul magic as were presently available, as well as any that might be persuaded to shift hands under the influences of sizable quantities of gold. Additionally, he sought a number of dark artifacts - most of which Harry supposed had been destroyed or hidden beyond the grasp of mortal hands.
Dobby trembled with glee as he checked the final item off of his list and exited the smoky Peruvian establishment with a snap. A moment later, the library of Ravenswood Hall echoed with a sharp whip crack, and Dobby stood, bobbing with pleasure, before Harry Potter.
He'd been immersed in a large volume on potions theory, and he'd started at Dobby's arrival.
"Dobby!"
Dobby bowed deeply. "Harry Potter, sir! Dobby has returned, and is pleased to serve the Noble House-"
Harry had set aside his book and clapped Dobby joyfully on the shoulder, nearly taking him up in a friendly embrace, such that Dobby wasn't able to finish his greeting. His eyes filled with tears of affection as he stumbled through his report.
"Dobby is having fantastic success, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby has found eighteen volumes on dark soul magic, three of which are unique and highly reputable, sir."
Harry lit up. "Dobby, that's great!"
A moment later, a sizable stack of black leather tomes appeared beside the wingback behind him.
"Were you able to find anything specifically referencing Horcruxes?"
Dobby nodded so enthusiastically that his ears shook. "Indeed, Harry Portter, sir. Dobby has found six works that mention Horcruxes, two works devoted exclusively to Horcruxes, and a very, very old book that is referenced by them all."
Harry's eyes shot wide. "That's brilliant, Dobby! Well done!" He paused for a moment. "Of course it's too much to ask, but were you able to find-"
"Dobby has located and come into the possession of each of the three artifacts Harry Potter has requested."
"Hang on, Dobby, do you mean-" Harry couldn't believe his luck.
"Indeed, sir. The mirror." He snapped his fingers and a glass case appeared, in the midst of which slowly rotated a mirror.
It was small, the glass itself perhaps four inches in diameter. It was framed in ivory, with an ivory handle, intricately carved. Harry suspected it was a Lady's looking glass, before its purposes were twisted.
Dobby faltered. "Dobby suspects the mirror to be cursed, sir. The shopkeeper wouldn't touch it. He said it hadn't been touched in fifty years."
Harry was struck silent. A moment passed as he drew nearer the suspended mirror. "Susuri's Glass.' Unbelievable. But how? Where did you find this, Dobby? It was rumored destroyed in the midst of the Grindelwald crisis."
Dobby trembled with pride. "Dobby was told the same, Harry Potter, sir. Six historians confirmed it's likely destruction. Dobby wasn't thwarted, sir. For the last of them mentioned a German family with dark connections, whose youngest son joined the ranks of the Nazi party. He fled to Brazil in 1945, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby continued to follow the trail, discovering that he died at the hand of a rival wizard in 1948, and his possessions were stolen and sold throughout the black markets of South America. Dobby found this in a dusty corner of an illicit establishment in Peru."
Harry shook his head in overwhelmed wonder. "Dobby, you've no idea what this means."
Dobby bowed deeply. "Dobby will go to any lengths to serve the noble house of his friend, Harry Potter."
A moment later, Dobby snapped again. "As Harry Potter requested, Dobby has found one of the original twelve Daggers of Nikolai Morozov. Dobby has confirmed its authenticity with three military historians. The blade is comprised exclusively of Basilisk fang."
Floating a few feet before them was a mean looking blade, indeed resembling a fang nearly identical to that which nearly killed Harry in his second year at Hogwarts. The hilt of the dagger was comprised of a porous, dark stone, around which was tightly wrapped leather of a dark stain. Harry thought he could see blood dried near the base of the blade.
"This is perfect, Dobby. Again, you've no idea how much this will aid in our efforts against Voldemort."
He was still bobbing gleefully, and fighting back tears, when he snapped a third time.
Before them hovered a white scarf, of delicate make. It was thin, and intricately woven, such that its appearance was almost like lace. Harry was overcome with relief at the sight.
"Dobby, you've outdone yourself. Is that Persephone's Shawl?"
Dobby nodded, smiling broadly. "Indeed, sir. It was a gift to celebrate the inauguration of Elizabeth Tudor. Dobby has validated it's authenticity with eleven magical historians. Dobby has devoted quite a sum to it's retrieval."
"Yikes. I honestly don't want to know." Harry grinned. "Do you know what this does, Dobby?"
Dobby nodded with happy eyes.
Harry was nearly whispering. "It captures hearts. She who bears Persephone's Shawl will win the affection of strangers and stir the courage of friends. It's enchanted, you see. A gift, from a circle of powerful witches, to the fair Queen herself. Some say she passed unscathed through hell, winning the affection of Britain and turning the malice of Spain, by the thread of this shawl alone."
He shifted his gaze from the shawl before him, to Dobby, and then back again. "Brilliant, Dobby. It's absolutely perfect." And then he smiled warmly. "She's going to love it."