Sentinels' Walk

Sentinels' Walk: Chapter One

Realizations

"Look in the mirror, and tell me just what you see.

What have the years of your life taught you to be?

Innocence dying in so many ways

Things that you dream of are lost--lost in the haze."--Kansas, "Hold On"

* * *

"Ugh! I think I liked it better when they weren't letting me eat with them, Hedwig."

The speaker, a black-haired boy of middling height, flung himself onto his narrow bed and sighed. He didn't really expect an answer from his pet owl, but silence was far preferable to having to sit through the false, saccharine-sweet conversations his aunt had taken to trying to hold with him over the past month.

Perhaps out of some vestigial sense of duty to his mother--or, he thought, smiling slightly, more likely because she's afraid of what Moody and the rest will do to her if she doesn't treat me well--Harry Potter's aunt had taken to treating him with a politeness that even managed to avoid feeling forced most of the time. Unfortunately, at least from Harry's perspective, this included regular meals with her and the rest of the family. While his Uncle Vernon was content to eat quietly, with no more attention paid to his nephew than an occasional glare, and his cousin Dudley rarely even seemed to notice Harry these days, his Aunt Petunia had taken to her role as family peacemaker with a grim determination.

To his surprise, Harry found that much of the time he didn't mind talking with her--except at supper. The rest of the day, she was content to ask shallow, gossipy questions about his time at school that were easy enough to answer, and he had to admit to himself that he enjoyed watching her reactions to some of the things he told her. Conversation around the supper table, though, was an entirely different matter, for that was when she asked him about the people in his life. The worst had been two weeks ago.

* * *

Supper had started out well enough. They were having baked ham with generous helpings of potatoes and, as a concession to Dudley's diet, some steamed carrots on the side, and Harry had to admit that after a hard day fixing up the lawn and garden, his aunt's cooking tasted rather good. He wasn't looking forward to the nightly interrogation disguised as a friendly chat, but at least they had already covered all of the really embarrassing topics.

"So, Harry," his aunt said, trying to sound friendly, "whatever happened to that man who was with you at the train station a few years back? We didn't see him with that...that group of people with you this year."

Harry looked down at his plate to disguise the rolling of his eyes. "Which man, Aunt Petunia?" he asked, trying not to sound as irritated as he felt. "I've met lots of people there since I've been going to Hogwarts."

Aunt Petunia pressed her thin lips together in what Harry supposed was intended to be a smile. "You said he was your godfather, I think, but we've never heard--Harry?"

He could hear a note of genuine shock in his aunt's exclamation, and for a moment he wondered what his face must look like. As if in a dream, he felt himself stand up and run from the table, trying desperately to control the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes.

* * *

A partial victory, I suppose, he thought, his lips twisting in a bitter half-smile at the memory. He had made it up the stairs and into his room before the tears became too much to hold back, but what little sleep he had managed for the next week and a half had been filled with nightmares--at first about that day at the Ministry, when Sirius had fallen behind death's Veil and Dumbledore had dueled Voldemort himself to save Harry, but soon joined by memories of one night little more than a year ago, and of blood spilled in a graveyard.

No two of them ever started out quite the same way, but the ending was always the same. Voldemort somehow looked straight out of the dream, grinning madly at Harry, and saying something that he was sure he would never forget: "Thank you so very, very much for your gift. I do hope you approve of how I'm making use of it."

Harry's aunt never mentioned his mysterious godfather after that night, but he found himself thinking about Sirius more and more now that the subject had been brought up, unable to hide behind the detachment he had allowed himself to feel at first. At least the nightmares had mostly, though not entirely, gone away. Even the happy memories--no, especially the happy ones, because they reminded him of what he had lost--could bring him to the point of sorrow or rage with frightening ease, though. He was aware that his feelings on the subject probably couldn't be considered entirely rational at the moment, but, at a loss as to what he could do about it, he simply tried to push it to the back of his mind as much as he could and go on with his life.

"I need someone to talk to about this..." he said, after a while. "And, no offense, Hed, but I'd like someone who could talk back." He grinned for a moment and Hedwig hooted softly, sounding almost like she was laughing.

Who, though? Not Ron or Hermione...I know they miss him too, and they don't need me dumping all over them. Neither of them had an easy time at the Ministry either. He had gotten messages from both of them, earlier in the summer, but at the time he had been too wrapped up in studying to spare the time to answer them--or, at least, that was what he had told himself. Now, he suspected he had just been delaying the inevitable, not wanting even to hear someone else mention Sirius to him. Truthfully, Harry's first choice for someone to talk with would have been Professor Lupin, but he didn't know where the older man was or how to get in contact with him. More than that, though, he had a feeling Lupin was mourning Sirius even more than Harry himself was.

I suppose I could talk to Professor Dumbledore, he thought, but even though he had largely gotten over his anger towards the Hogwarts headmaster, Harry didn't feel comfortable approaching him about something so personal.

That's the problem with everyone, really. They're either too caught up in it, or too distant to really understand everything. What he needed, he thought, was someone who could understand how he was feeling, but not for the same reason. If that made any sense at all, which he somewhat doubted.

With an effort, he pushed aside those thoughts and walked over to his desk. Part of Aunt Petunia's new "Harry-friendly" policy was for him to be given complete access to his school supplies over the summer, so he had all of his books spread over the desk's surface, with parchment sheets haphazardly piled wherever the books weren't. He had received O scores in the four subjects he cared most about--Defense against the Dark Arts, Potions, Charms, and Transfiguration--somewhat to his surprise in the cases of Transfiguration and, especially, Potions, and judged he was somewhere around halfway done with the summer work for those courses. Unfortunately, he still wasn't sure which elective he wanted to take, though he had to admit that it was somewhat tempting to make his choice based on which one had the least amount of summer work assigned.

If the summer assignments were any indication of what the regular coursework would be like for the upcoming year, he was more than a little worried about how he would possibly have time to finish it all, especially with a few other subjects added on. Then, of course, there was Quidditch to consider, assuming someone revoked his lifetime ban by the start of the season. Maybe I'll be busy enough that I won't have time to think about...

I ought to owl Ron and Hermione to find out what they're going to be taking, he thought, deliberately turning his mind back to the safe subject of classes. And to let them know I'm not really ignoring them, even though I was, sort of. But nothing about Sirius...there's no reason they should have to put up with my moods.

Harry still felt guilty about taking out his anger on his friends after last summer, and, to be completely honest with himself, he was a little afraid of what they might think of him now. He tried and failed to repress a shudder at the memories of Ron, convulsing on the floor of the tank room with leechlike brains clinging all over him, and of Hermione lying in a crumpled heap after a Death Eater's curse hit her. Mentioning anything about what had happened at the Ministry would definitely be a bad idea, he decided.

Brushing aside his nearly complete Potions essay, he pulled out two fresh parchment sheets and began to write.

Hey Ron,

Sorry I haven't written before now, but I've been (believe it or not) busy with work. My aunt and uncle are actually letting me have my stuff this summer, and I'd rather write essays than weed the garden or deal with Not-So-Ickle Duddykins. How's your summer going? Hope Hermione's not driving you too crazy, but I bet she's already on you about summer work and what classes to take next year. Any idea if I can come visit you before school starts again?

See you (soon, I hope),

Harry

After reading it over again to make sure it sounded okay, he folded it up and set it aside. Hopefully Ron would take the hint and not bring up the events of last May. Hermione's letter was going to be a bit trickier to write, but he figured he could distract her with talk of OWLs.

Dear Hermione,

I would have written earlier, but I've been doing my summer assignments...sorry about that (the not writing, that is). I'm going to sign up for NEWT-level DADA, Charms, Potions, and Transfiguration, but I'm not sure what else to take. Maybe Care of Magical Creatures, since I didn't even come close to passing Divination or History, and I only got Average in Herbology and Astronomy. What do you think you'll be taking? I hope we won't be the only Gryffindors in NEWT Potions this year. Anyway, I just wanted to see how you were doing...I promise I'll write back faster next time.

Yours,

Harry

He signed his name to the letter, folded it, and put it with the one to Ron, as well as a purchase request to Flourish and Blotts for some books he needed for his Transfiguration essay. It was still early enough in the evening that he didn't want to send Hedwig out, since he had a feeling that having post owls flying around in broad daylight would definitely violate the tentative treaty with his aunt and uncle.

Back to homework, I suppose. Truthfully, he didn't quite see the point of summer work in most of his courses, since it wasn't like he could actually practice anything. Essays were tolerable, and the research involved had actually turned out to be rather fun in some cases, but they couldn't come close to feeling the thrill of magic coursing through him when he cast actual spells. He couldn't even practice his Potions work, unlike most of his friends, since he didn't have a supply of ingredients or any adult wizards on hand to cast the cauldron heating spells for him. There were the Order members assigned to keep watch over him, but he knew he wasn't supposed to have any contact with them except in dire circumstances; somehow he doubted that needing a cauldron burner lit counted as such.

Just as Harry was shuffling through his collection of essays, a strikingly beautiful slate-grey owl with pale cream mottling swooped in through the half-open window, beating its wings a few times to slow down before it finally landed on one bedpost. He winced as he saw the owl's talons gouge a neat set of pits in the wood, hoping Uncle Vernon wouldn't notice. The owl had a thin roll of parchment tied to one of its legs, which it stuck out as it hooted impatiently.

"All right, already," Harry said, chuckling at the bird. "I'm coming." As he walked over to where the strange owl was perched, he noticed something tied around its other leg that glittered in the room's dim light. It appeared to be a band of some kind of silvery metal with a medallion attached to it, but he didn't recognize the insignia stamped on it--a snake biting its own tail, forming a circle around what looked like Hogwarts Castle.

Another hoot, this one conveying a decided note of irritation, brought his attention away from the strange device. As soon as he untied the parchment roll from the owl's leg, though, it took off and flew away, leaving Harry scrambling after the papers its powerful wingbeats had scattered around his bedroom.

"Wonderful," he muttered, after he had finally restored the room to some semblance of neatness. "You wouldn't ever do anything like that, would you, girl?" he asked, turning to look at Hedwig in her cage. The snowy owl blinked her amber eyes, apparently finding the question too ridiculous even to dignify with a response.

"Didn't think so." Harry grinned, then picked up the letter that the strange owl had brought. It was addressed to "Mr. Harry James Potter, Sixth Form, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," with no indication of who or what had sent it. Still, he figured, it couldn't be anything bad, since the owl had made it past his Order guards and hadn't triggered any of the powerful wards he now knew surrounded the house. Slipping the ribbon off and setting aside a slim sheet of parchment that fell out, he unrolled the letter and began to read it.

Mr. Potter,

In recognition of your superb OWL results in the four foundational spheres of wizardry, as well as your demonstrated skill in areas beyond the standard compass of the examinations, we hereby extend this invitation to you. Should you accept, you will be placed in an advanced practicum with other students of similar achievement levels, with the purpose of furthering your magical education in specific subject applications not normally covered in the NEWT-level curriculum. Please note that this practicum is intended to supplement your normal classes, not replace them; as such, it would fill two elective-level slots in your schedule, with a corresponding amount of extracurricular work. Your reply is required by the date of 28 July.

Yours Sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore
Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Michael S. Draven
Chair--Department of Magical Education, Ministry of Magic (Great Britain)

When he reached the end, Harry swallowed a few times, knowing his jaw would be on the floor if his face could adequately express his surprise at the moment. He had known he wasn't bad at most of his classes, with a few notable exceptions, but something like this... There was no question in his mind as to whether or not he would accept, though he did wonder if Dumbledore had pulled a few strings on his behalf. After all, with the prophecy--

That was the one thing he tried never to think about, even over and above Sirius's death. In the back of his mind, he knew it was there, waiting for him, but for now he was determined to have as little to do with it as possible. At the same time, though, some part of him knew he couldn't just ignore the whole thing, and so he had come to an uneasy compromise with himself. After thinking about little else for the first few days of the holiday, he had resolved to start paying more serious attention to his studies in the future, but aside from that he was determined to think of the prophecy as little as possible. He wouldn't--couldn't--ignore its implications, but at the same time he refused to let it rule his life.

Even if the headmaster had intervened for him in some way, though, Harry decided that he didn't mind. Dumbledore might have been thinking of the prophecy--which, Harry had to admit, was a compelling reason--but more than that, Harry had found that he actually enjoyed much of the studying he had done this summer. None of the other electives open to him seemed particularly appealing, and the thought of learning topics beyond even NEWT level was an attractive one, particularly in Charms. Professor Flitwick had told him he seemed to have inherited his mother's talent for the subject, and it was definitely one of his favorites.

Idly, he wondered if the same was true for his father and Transfiguration. It would be wonderful if one of the special topics of this practicum was the Animagus transformation, but he didn't have much hope of that; he thought he remembered Professor McGonagall saying that only certain people had the potential to become Animagi. Seems odd, then, that my dad and both of his friends just happened to have the gift, he thought, unless it's really common. Guess I'll just have to wait and find out.

The other note that had come with the letter turned out to be the means of replying. All he had to do was tap one of either the "Yes" or "No" squares inked on the parchment and sign his name, which he did immediately after reading the explanation. There was almost a week left before the deadline the letter had mentioned, but he didn't see any reason to wait.

Somewhat to Harry's disappointment, the note failed to light up, burst into song, or give any other sort of indication that something had happened, but he shrugged and set it aside. Glancing out his window, he decided it was dark enough that he could send Hedwig out with his mail, so he unlatched her cage and tied the three letters securely to her leg.

"You don't need to wait for any replies," he told the owl. "Just come back once you've dropped everything off." He didn't expect Ron or Hermione to have any letters ready to send him, and he assumed Flourish and Blotts had its own delivery owls.

Chirruping softly--a sound Harry had learned meant that she was feeling particularly contented--Hedwig flew out the window and swiftly disappeared into the darkening sky. Once she was no longer in sight, Harry turned back to his obstinate Potions essay, hoping that the pattern of the last week would hold and that a few hours of work before he went to bed would keep the nightmares away.

* * *

"...up, Harry!"

Wha...? Harry groaned and pulled his pillow over his head, only to have it yanked away by a firm hand. His covers followed immediately thereafter, and with a deep sigh he managed to pull himself to a half-sitting, half-slumped position on the edge of his bed. When he opened his eyes, blinking a few times to clear them, he saw a blurry Aunt Petunia standing a few feet away with his pillow in one hand and a telephone handset in the other.

"Phone for you," she said brusquely, handing it to him and walking out of his room. A moment later, her arm poked back through the doorway and tossed the pillow on the floor.

Harry looked at the receiver he was holding and gave a little shrug. Wondering who could possibly want to call him--or, more accurately, who would want to call him and also knew how to use a Muggle phone--he put it to his ear. "Err...hello?" he asked tentatively, hoping it was someone who at least knew enough not to yell into the other end.

"Harry!" an excited, instantly recognizable voice cried out. "I was getting so worried about you, but I didn't want to bother you, and then I got your letter. Are you really doing all right?"

Harry winced. He had been hoping Hermione wouldn't pick up on the fact that he hadn't mentioned anything about himself in his letter other than his OWL scores, but he should have realized she would be too observant for that. And, he had to admit to himself, because she cares too much to miss something like that.

"I'm doing better now, Hermione," he said after a few seconds. It wasn't a lie, really. "Thanks for not...for giving me some space, at first. It's really great to hear from you now, though, but how did you get my number?"

"I looked it up, of course," came her reply, and Harry could hear the amusement in her voice. "Honestly, Harry, you'd think you'd know these things about me by now."

Harry didn't bother stifling a chuckle of his own. Should have known, indeed, he thought. The only thing that surprised him was that it had taken her this long, though, knowing her, she had looked it up years ago and had just been waiting for the right time to call--which, he had to admit, it certainly was. He still didn't want to drop all of his troubles on her, especially over the phone, but surely just talking couldn't do anything to harm the fragile control he had built up over the last few weeks.

"Harry?" The question was tinged with some concern, and Harry realized that he had completely missed whatever Hermione had just said.

"Sorry, just thinking about how glad I am to talk to someone," he said quickly. "How has your summer been?"

Thankfully, she seemed to take him at his word, or at least not point out that he could have talked with her much earlier if he had so desired. "It's been wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Mum and Dad didn't want to leave the practice for too long, so we went up to Wales for a couple of weeks to visit my aunt and uncle. Everyone always says it's so cold and dreary up there, but I thought the scenery was beautiful. I got to see some fascinating old magical ruins, too."

Harry had to grin at her enthusiasm. "That's great," he said sincerely. "And since I'm sure you're dying to tell me about your OWL results..."

"Stop teasing, Harry, or I won't call you again!" Despite her attempt to sound indignant, Harry could tell that his friend was having a hard time trying to keep herself from laughing.

"You really do know me too well, though," Hermione said, one brief bout of giggles later. "I'm tempted to tell you I got all Ts, just for that, except I know you'd never believe me. Os in everything except Arithmancy, and an E in that." She sounded decidedly grumpy about the last bit, and Harry was unable to stifle a snicker.

"Sorry," he said quickly, before she could do more than sputter in indignation. "It's just that I've missed hearing you say stuff like that. How about courses? I already told you most of what I'll be taking, but what about you?"

Hermione didn't answer right away, and Harry was starting to worry that she really had gotten upset with him for laughing at her not-quite-perfect OWL scores. Apparently she was just thinking, though, as her next words sounded anything but displeased. In fact, he thought, I'm not sure I've ever heard her sound happier.

"Oh, Harry!" she gushed. "I got selected for a special class--not that kind of special, so don't you start laughing again--and of course I'm taking Arithmancy and Ancient Runes, still. I don't think I'm going to be able to take Care of Magical Creatures with you," she added, sounding a bit sad about this, "but at least we'll have our four NEWT courses together."

"Actually," Harry said, grinning widely even though she couldn't see him, "we'll have one other course together too. I think the letter called it a...hmm..." He trailed off speculatively, waiting until he was sure he could hear her literally dancing around in curiosity.

"Oh, right, a practicum. Sounds pretty tough, so I hope I'll be able to get help from someone," he finished, sounding as nonchalant as possible.

"Harry James Potter!" Hermione's voice could only be described as a shriek. "I swear I'm going to...I don't know what I'm going to do to you next time I see you, but it's going to be ugly!"

This was too much for Harry, who began laughing harder than he had all summer. After a moment of shocked silence from the other end of the phone, he heard Hermione join him, and nearly a minute passed before he felt sufficiently recovered to try talking again.

"So, err...you're not mad or anything, are you?" he asked, mentally picturing himself ducking an annoyed swat from her. "It's not like I could have told you any earlier. I just found out last night."

He could hear Hermione sigh into the phone. "No, Harry, I'm not mad at you," she said. "I might be a bit irritated, but I suppose you deserve to have a bit of fun, even if it was at my expense. I know living with your aunt and uncle isn't easy for you, especially after..."

"Actually," Harry said, cutting her off, "Aunt Petunia's been pretty decent to me this summer, and Uncle Vernon and Dudley are mostly just ignoring me. They've even let me keep my Hogwarts stuff in my room, so I've been getting a start on my summer work."

Please, take the hint, he silently begged her. I'm not ready to talk about it, not yet. Not even with you.

"That's good," she said after a moment's pause. "I've noticed you have a tendency to put things off until they turn into bigger problems than they really should be."

Anyone listening in would no doubt have thought Hermione was being terribly rude to him, but Harry recognized her tone of voice as the "I don't know why I'm doing this, but I wouldn't have it any other way" one she so often used when around him or Ron. He had the distinct feeling that she had seen right through his attempt to change the subject, and felt a rush of gratitude to her for playing along anyway.

"Well, other than the practicum, I'm only planning on taking four courses next year, so I don't really have all that much work for this summer," he said. "I figure I'll need the extra study time, since they'll all be NEWT-level."

"That's probably not a bad idea," Hermione responded. "Also, you'll have to make time for your special classes with Snape, which leaves even less time to study. And I assume you'll still be doing Quidditch."

Her tone made it clear what she thought of spending perfectly good study time on something as ridiculous as playing Quidditch, and Harry smiled despite himself. "Only if they get rid of that lifetime ban Umbridge gave me," he reminded her, a bit glumly. "I haven't heard anything about that at all, but I guess I'll have to wait until school starts again to be sure."

"Don't worry, Harry," she said. "You know Professor McGonagall is going to want you back on the team, and now that that horrible woman isn't headmistress any more, I'm sure it won't be a problem."

Hermione's words were comforting, even if Harry wondered how important one boy's Quidditch career was in light of all the other things that Dumbledore would undoubtedly be worrying about these days. "Thanks, Hermione," he said, and meant it. "I'm really glad you called, you know. I--"

It was Hermione's turn to interrupt, this time. "I know, Harry," she said. "I've missed you too. I love my parents, but it just isn't the same without you and Ron and everyone else around--even Parvati and Lavender, crazy as they are sometimes."

Harry tried to suppress a snort at her last words. Crazy was definitely one way to describe the other two Gryffindor girls in their year, and while he liked them just fine, he couldn't really say he missed them. He had had enough classes with them to know there was a lot more to them than the superficial image they liked to present, but the way that they seemed to revel in it was enough to make him cringe, most of the time. Nobody else seemed to find them as bothersome as he did, though, and lately even he had found himself not minding their company as much as he used to.

"--so," he heard Hermione say, and realized he had missed the first part of whatever she was saying, "my parents are going to need me to help out today after lunch. I have some things I want to do before then, so I guess I'd better get going."

"Okay, Hermione...have a good day," Harry said, trying to sound as if he had a clue what she was talking about. "Hope to talk to you again sometime."

Hermione laughed, a bright sound that, rare as it had become during the past year, made him feel happier just hearing it. "I think you can count on it," she said warmly. "Bye, Harry."

"Bye," Harry answered her, even though she had already hung up. He shut off the phone and set it on his small bedside table, sighing as he saw the blurry numbers on the alarm clock sitting there.

"Not even nine yet," he muttered. He almost wished he could be irritated at being woken up so early, but truthfully, talking with Hermione had been a rather pleasant start to his day. The unfortunate side effect, of course, was that he would have plenty of time to help Aunt Petunia around the house, but he decided he could handle a lot now that he was sure that at least one of his best friends was doing all right after the events of last year.

* * *

It was dark outside, the light of the half moon filtering only dimly through a layer of low-hanging clouds. Harry had left his window open in the hope that the evening breeze would relieve the stifling heat inside his room, but all that that accomplished was to let in the thick summer humidity. Even in the middle of the night, it was uncomfortable enough that he had given up on trying to get any work done, and simply lay on his bed, unable to sleep.

Harry couldn't get Hermione's words from earlier that day out of his mind. "I've noticed you have a tendency to put things off until they turn into bigger problems than they really should be," she had said, and while she wasn't exactly the subtlest person around, he had the feeling she was talking about something more than just schoolwork.

Sure, I don't like telling people my problems, he thought, but why would I? Nobody ever asks me about them, and besides, I wouldn't wish them on anyone even if they did. It was bad enough that he had to put up with them; there was no reason why anyone else should have to.

And what had the bit about "special classes with Snape" been about? Surely she couldn't think he would actually be continuing his Occlumency sessions with the man. He knew it was critically important that he learn to guard his mind from Voldemort, but...

But what? asked a small voice in his head. Sirius died because you couldn't swallow your damned pride enough to follow Snape's instructions. What if it's Hermione next time, or Ron?

There. The guilt that had been building for all summer, the one thing he couldn't rationalize away somehow--Bellatrix Lestrange may have cast the actual spell that killed Sirius, but Harry was directly responsible for his having been in that situation in the first place. It hadn't been a twist of fate or a random act of someone more powerful than he was, like he had finally accepted Cedric's death had been. My fault, and all because I was too lazy or blind or just plain stupid to see that the lesson could be more important than the teacher.

He wished he could cry--surely you should cry when you realize you killed one of the few people who loved you, he thought--but found himself unable to do so. Tears were for the innocent, and he was anything but that after the past few years. Instead, he felt a cold deadness inside himself, and as he lay on his bed and stared up at the pitted ceiling of his room, he wished he could lose himself in its blank white expanse.

Well, at least now I know why the Hat didn't put me in Ravenclaw. It was so ludicrously inconsequential a thought that it succeeded in shattering the wall around his emotions, and at length the tears began to flow--trickling down his cheeks at first, then escalating into great, racking sobs that left him short of breath and curled into a ball, clutching his pillow. Finally, after what seemed like hours, he found himself strangely at peace, or at least numb enough to perhaps think properly.

"It's obvious what I have to do," he whispered hoarsely, not moving from his position, uncomfortable as it was. "Tomorrow, I write to Snape and beg him to teach me again. Tell him I'll crawl on my hands and knees in front of the whole school, if that's the only way he'll take me back--anything, to keep someone else from dying because of me."

Somehow, saying it aloud made it seem more definite, like a solemn oath. He couldn't bring Sirius back, but he could do anything in his power to keep safe the others who trusted him. This thought, cold a comfort as it may have been, finally succeeded in soothing him to sleep after what seemed like an endless time spent staring emptily at his ceiling.

* * *

Harry slammed the door to his room closed, wishing it was heavy enough to make a louder noise than the rather pathetic whiffing that rewarded his effort. Uncle Vernon had been in rare form that evening, as if to make up for his restraint during the previous weeks, though his ire had been spread out among all of the rest of the family rather than focused on Harry. Even Dudley had come in for his share--though not, as Harry would have expected, for his smoking or bullying activities with the rest of his gang of friends. Rather, Uncle Vernon seemed to have decided that it was time for Dudley to get a girlfriend, and would not accept any excuses in the matter.

Though he felt a bit sorry for Dudley--and even sorrier for whatever unlucky girl his cousin set his sights on--Harry was more worried about how he himself would possibly survive the next few days without dropping dead from exhaustion. His uncle had announced that several prospective business clients would be coming over for supper in three days, and that, as such, he expected everything about the house to be made perfect by that time.

There was no question, of course, about who would be expected to do this, and Harry groaned as he sat down heavily in his desk chair. No doubt he would get co-opted to help with the cooking, too, as Aunt Petunia had been given a hugely long list of dishes that each of the guests favored.

No time for homework until this stupid party's over, Harry thought, feeling a bit of disappointment, as the books he had ordered had arrived that day and he wanted to get started on his essay. Although Transfiguration was certainly not his favorite class, the essay's topic was human-animal transfigurations, and he was hopeful that he would be able to find some information on Animagi.

Thinking of homework, though, reminded him of his resolution of the night before, and he pulled a fresh piece of parchment out from the stack in his trunk. After briefly wondering if Snape would care what color ink he wrote in, he sighed and set quill to parchment to write the most difficult--and possibly the most important--letter he had ever written in his life.

Dear Professor Snape (he figured this was probably a safe enough start),

Before I write any more, I want to apologize for my behavior towards you this past year. You took the time to try to teach me, and...

He trailed off. What could he say that wouldn't sound either insulting or inane? Snape undoubtedly knew how he felt about the whole thing--or, at least, how he had felt at the time--and had made no secret of his own feelings either. He was quite certain there was nothing he could say would make the professor think more highly of him, but he had to try, at least. Finally, he crumpled up the parchment and tossed it in the general direction of his waste bin, then took out another sheet to start over again.

Professor Snape,

When I came to Hogwarts, you already hated me for reasons I couldn't help, and I am sure I have given you more reasons since then. You have given me plenty of reasons to hate you, also, but that still does not excuse my behavior of this past year. You attempted to teach me, but I did not attempt to learn, and for that I am sorry, whether you believe me or not.

If you would be at all willing to make that attempt again, I promise I will try to be worthy of it--and whatever you think of me, you should know that I have never broken a promise. If there is anything I can do to convince you of this, I will do it. Last year, I let my own selfishness rule me, and someone else paid the price for it. I suppose you could consider this offer an attempt to repay that debt; consider it anything you want, if it means you will teach me again.

Sincerely,

Harry Potter

Well, that's that. Harry didn't know what Snape would make of the letter, but it said everything he wanted to say in the most honest way he knew how to say it. He folded the parchment carefully, then wondered how he should address it. He didn't know anything about the Snape family, and he didn't really want to take the chance that there was another Professor Snape somewhere else in the world. He certainly didn't want anyone but the Hogwarts Potions master reading the letter--didn't really even want that, if he was honest with himself, but he had little choice there.

Finally, he shrugged and wrote "Professor S. Snape, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry" on the letter, then tied it to Hedwig's leg and let her out the window. Hope you know what you're doing, Potter, he thought uneasily. If Snape decided not to accept his apology, he wasn't sure what he could do, since he doubted that even Dumbledore could force Snape to teach.

'The irony of the situation was not lost on Harry; after all the time he had spent last year cursing Snape and the Occlumency lessons, now he was not just asking, but begging to start up with them again. Time to hope, I guess...

* * *

The response, when it came, was certainly not what Harry had been expecting. He was busy polishing some of the silver in preparation for Uncle Vernon's party that evening when the doorbell rang, and Aunt Petunia, almost literally up to her elbows in bubbling gravy, asked him to get the door.

Shouldn't be Uncle Vernon's guests yet, Harry thought as he obediently walked out to the entry hall. They're not supposed to be here for hours, and nobody else would be ringing the bell. Puzzled as to who it might be at the door, he peered out through one of the side windows, and then nearly sprained something in his haste to get the door open.

"Professor!" he cried out when he saw that his eyes were indeed working properly, and that Dumbledore himself was standing on the steps of Number Four, Privet Drive. Dressed as he was in a very fashionable--and very expensive-looking--black Muggle suit, with his long, flowing hair and beard hidden somehow, the headmaster of Hogwarts looked like nothing so much as a rich old businessman.

"May I come in, Harry?" he asked, the twinkle in his eyes seeming even more pronounced than usual. He looked perfectly comfortable in the Muggle clothes, and Harry wondered how much of an opportunity he had to wear them.

Harry blinked. "Err...of course, Professor," he said, then stepped back a bit into the house to let Dumbledore inside. While he was more than a bit confused about what his headmaster was doing here, he assumed it must have something to do with the letter he had sent to Snape--though how Dumbledore knew of it, he had no idea. Then again, at times the headmaster seemed almost omniscient, particularly in regards to anything having to do with Hogwarts.

As Harry led Dumbledore into the sitting room, he saw Aunt Petunia lean her head out of the kitchen. Her eyes widened when she caught sight of the distinguished-looking old man in her house, and her mouth opened and closed once or twice--remarkably like a fish's, Harry thought.

Harry's amusement increased further as he watched his aunt try to form a coherent sentence, though he was more than a little puzzled as well. Dumbledore was a powerful wizard, certainly, but how Aunt Petunia would know that, Harry had no idea. Finally, deciding to take pity on his aunt, he stepped forward and gently took her hand, pulling her out of the kitchen.

"Aunt Petunia, this is Professor Dumbledore, the headmaster of Hog--my school," he said, hoping the introduction would make her feel a little less nervous. If anything, though, it seemed to have the opposite effect, and he watched with no little worry as his aunt sank down, trembling, onto the sofa.

Dumbledore appeared particularly distressed at this reaction to his presence. "Mrs. Dursley," he began, sitting down next to her, "please don't be alarmed. I have no intention of harming anyone in this house. I simply need to speak with your nephew about something, but we can go elsewhere if this disturbs you."

Wordlessly, Harry watched his aunt shook her head, then stand up on shaking legs and walk back over to the kitchen door. "No, please stay," she said quietly, in a tone Harry had never heard her use before. "In this case, the fault is mine alone. Though I would ask that you leave before my husband and his guests arrive for supper."

"Of course," Dumbledore said, bowing slightly in her direction before turning to Harry. "Now then, I understand you wish to resume your Occlumency lessons."

Judging by the look in the old professor's eyes, Harry was sure there was more to the interaction with Aunt Petunia than he realized; just as clear, though, was the indication that Dumbledore had no desire to talk about it, so Harry simply nodded. "Yes, sir," he said. "But, how did you know? I told Hedwig to take the letter to Sn--to Professor Snape."

The twinkle in Dumbledore's eyes returned full-force. "Do not blame your owl, Harry," he said. "Professor Snape is doing some work for me that will require him to be unavailable for several months. As such, I am handling all of his post for him while he is absent."

Harry's face fell upon hearing this information. If Snape is away, he thought, who's going to teach me? I know Dumbledore can do Legilimency, but I'm sure he doesn't have the time to teach me, with everything else that's going on.

"I would teach you myself, but I am afraid I simply cannot, at the moment," Dumbledore said, as if to confirm Harry's thoughts. "Hogwarts is in disarray after the events of last term, and the Order has stepped up its reconnaissance efforts across Europe now that Voldemort has seemingly disappeared from England."

Voldemort...disappeared? That one sentence had contained more information about the wizarding world than Harry had heard all summer, and he was desperately anxious to hear more now. Instead, he tried to calm his racing thoughts and consider what it might mean, since he was sure Dumbledore would not have told him even that much without a reason.

"Is that why I haven't felt my scar hurting or had any more visions recently?" he asked. "Because he's too far away to be able to get to me?" He didn't really know much of anything at all about the link he shared with Voldemort through his scar, he realized--or anything else to do with Occlumency or Legilimency, for that matter. It was an oversight he had no intention of repeating in the future, if he had any say in the matter at all.

Dumbledore nodded approvingly at his question. "Possibly, Harry," he replied. "The connection you and Voldemort share through the scar he gave you seems to follow many of the conventions for Legilimentic links, despite its unusual origin, which would indeed imply that it is affected by the distance between you."

"But...?" Harry asked, sensing that there was more to the issue than that.

Again Dumbledore nodded. "Very good. Yes," he said, "there is one additional element to consider, and that is the taking of your blood. Blood bonds are among the most ancient and powerful types of magic, and while in a traditional bonding the blood must be given freely, it is possible that Voldemort has found a way around this limitation."

Harry wasn't sure what this meant, exactly, and while Dumbledore didn't seem to want to discuss the issue any further, he didn't particularly care. This was his mind they were talking about, after all.

"So does that mean he can read my mind wherever he is?" he asked, after thinking about the possibilities for a few moments. That possibility--that Voldemort could see into his mind without him even being aware of it--sounded even worse than the nightmarish visions.

This time, Dumbledore's nod seemed a bit more cautious. "Yes, among other things, that is exactly what this would mean," he said finally. "And, because the bond would be unidirectional--because you do not have any of his blood, that is--you would still be bound by the normal limitations on distance."

And let me guess, that would be a bad thing, Harry felt like saying, but couldn't bring himself to do so after the headmaster's forthright honesty. If he wanted to be treated like an adult, he would act in the same manner. The whole situation scared him more than a little, though, especially since it sounded like there was nobody who could teach him Occlumency this summer.

As if reading Harry's mind--Harry permitted himself a grin of amusement at this, given the subject--Dumbledore smiled and suddenly looked much more cheerful. "However, if you can sufficiently develop your skill at Occlumency, this will all be a moot point," he said. "Which, in turn, brings me to the purpose for my visit.

"This past year, one of the students a year ahead of you began to show signs of being a natural Legilimencer. When I contacted her father, he seemed unsurprised, saying it was a trait that ran strongly in the family line and that he himself was highly trained in the art. After I received your letter, I contacted him, and he agreed to assist you in developing your Occlumency skills at the same time as he instructs his daughter in Legilimency."

Harry blinked, needing a few moments to process this information. He wanted to ask who it was, though he wasn't sure he would know her; he knew very few even of the Gryffindors in that year, let alone the other houses. And what, exactly, is a natural Legilimencer? Snape always just used a spell, and that worked well enough, he thought a little bitterly.

One question stood out above all the others, though. "How do you know you can trust this person?" he asked, not caring if it sounded like an insult. While he had very reluctantly convinced himself that Snape was, if not kind or even civil, at least not actively malevolent, he wasn't sure he could bring himself to let anyone else see into his mind.

Dumbledore must have anticipated this question, as he simply smiled, the twinkle in his eyes in full force. "The girl's grandfather fought with me against Grindelwald," he said, his tone light despite his words, "and she herself has no reason to love Voldemort--quite the opposite, in fact. Her father, who will be responsible for your instruction, is on a very short list for admission to the Order of the Phoenix and will likely be inducted before the summer is over. Does that answer your question?"

"Y--yes," Harry said, stuttering a bit, as his mind raced with even more questions than before. Given what he had just heard, he was now quite anxious to meet this family that Dumbledore seemed to think so highly of.

"Excellent." Dumbledore bestowed a benign smile upon Harry. "Now that we have settled that, let me give you the details of your instruction. You will take a Portkey to their house every day at eight in the evening, and your lessons will last for two hours at a time. Should you wish--and assuming your hosts agree, of course--you may remain for longer, but two hours is the minimum."

Harry wasn't quite sure what to make of this. On the one hand, he found himself almost desperate to learn Occlumency now, but lessons for two hours a day, every day, seemed a bit excessive. Then again, I did say I was willing to do anything to learn, he thought. I guess I'd better just hope that I like the teacher...though I don't think he could possibly be worse than Snape.

Then an additional concern occurred to him. "Sir," he asked, "will it be safe for whoever is teaching me? What if Death Eaters find out that I'm going somewhere every day and decide to wait there?"

"We will have Order members watching your arrival point for several hours before the Portkey activates," Dumbledore said. "In addition, we have established a number of security measures around the entire estate. As I said, your teacher will almost certainly become a member of the Order within the next few months, and as such has been marked for special protection."

"What about--" Harry started to ask, but was cut off when Dumbledore lifted one hand to silence him.

"Any further questions can certainly wait until tomorrow," the old wizard said, a smile on his lips. "I admire your inquisitive nature, but I am not the best person to ask about this, as my skill at Legilimency is really quite small."

That's not what I wanted to ask, and you know it, Harry felt like saying, except even he wasn't sure what he had been going to say. The truth of the matter was that he somehow felt safer with Dumbledore nearby, and didn't want him to leave just quite yet. Well, he was more than a little curious about this whole situation, too--especially regarding why Dumbledore was being so secretive about the name of his teacher. When he voiced this question to Dumbledore, however, the only answer he received was a wink and a mock-solemn shake of the head, leaving him more curious than ever.

"Well, since I do not wish to take you away from your aunt, who looks very busy and no doubt would greatly appreciate your assistance," Dumbledore said after this, "I will leave you now." He stood up and walked out to the entry, then stopped as he seemed to remember something.

"Forgive an old man his failing memory, Harry," he said with a laugh, and took something small and shiny out of one of his pockets. "I believe you will need this--it will activate every day precisely at eight p.m., starting tomorrow, so make sure you are holding it at that time."

Catching the Portkey that Dumbledore tossed at him, Harry looked down at it and grinned; it was a miniature Golden Snitch, and he wondered if it was charmed to be able to fly around like the real ones. If so, he might even be able to get some Quidditch practice in this summer, at least enough to ensure that his catching skills wouldn't waste away entirely even if he couldn't fly during the summer. When Harry looked up, Dumbledore was gone--Disapparated, he supposed--and with a sigh he stuffed the miniature Snitch in his pants pocket and went back to join Aunt Petunia in the kitchen.

Now, though, at least he had something other than housework and schoolwork to look forward to this summer, and there was always the hope that he would get along well enough with this wizarding family that they would let him stay with them for longer than the two hours a day that the lessons would take. He wanted to think that he would automatically like them simply because of the high opinion Dumbledore seemed to have of them, but then he thought of Snape and realized it wasn't quite that simple. That wouldn't stop him from hoping, though.

"What was that about?" Aunt Petunia asked as Harry resumed the monotonous task of silver polishing. She still seemed somewhat subdued, though it was a bit hard to tell with her attention seemingly wholly absorbed by the task of preparing a crown roast, and he was sure now that his aunt knew Dumbledore somehow--maybe from when Harry's mother had been alive, though even that didn't make a whole lot of sense. From everything he knew, his aunt had always hated her sister, and by extension the rest of the magical world.

"Nothing much," he replied, giving an inward shrug at the whole matter. His aunt and Dumbledore were probably the only ones who could give him answers, and neither of them seemed inclined to talk about it. "Professor Dumbledore wanted to tell me that he found someone to teach me some special lessons, and I'll be going to his house for them every day after supper."

Aunt Petunia nodded absently. "That's nice," she said, her mind clearly on other things, for to Harry's surprise she didn't even ask how he would be getting to wherever he would be going. One thing she and Uncle Vernon refused to compromise on was their absolute ban on any wizards coming to visit Harry at Privet Drive, something that seemed to include even anyone coming by to pick him up to take him somewhere. Fortunately, that would not be an issue, something for which Harry was quite grateful to Dumbledore for providing a Portkey.

"Once you finish with the silver, I need the front windows washed, Harry." His aunt's voice snapped him out of his musings, and he sighed. At least this time he would get to eat with everyone else; Uncle Vernon had decided that the family's image would be served better if he had a nephew who went to a very exclusive boarding school in Scotland, rather than St. Brutus's Center for Incurably Criminal Boys. No names would be mentioned, and Harry would refrain from doing anything...unnatural, and everyone would be just fine--according to Uncle Vernon, at least, and Harry had to admit that he couldn't see any reason why anything should go wrong. It seemed a remarkably enlightened viewpoint for his uncle to hold, though.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia," he said, trying as best as he could to hide his annoyance. True, it wasn't anything he hadn't done hundreds of times before, but he still couldn't help but wish that Dudley was home to do some of the work too. His cousin, though, had been sent off to the strip for the day with a pocket full of change, presumably to get started on Operation Desperation, as Harry had privately nicknamed the quest to find Dudley a girlfriend.

At any other time, this would have been highly amusing, but today it meant that Harry was stuck doing all of the cleaning around the house by himself, since Aunt Petunia had been busy cooking all day. With another inaudible sigh--he really was getting too good at those, he decided--he finished up with the last of the silver and picked up a clean cloth to go start on the windows. Supper tonight would have to be awfully good to make up for all of this work, he thought. It had been excessive even by the standards of previous summers, which was saying quite a lot.

* * *

"So, Harry, what is your school like?" came the friendly voice of Mr. Roshan, one of Harry's uncle's guests. Harry had taken an instant liking to the older man, but he had been dreading this question all evening and had thought himself safe when it had not come up over supper. Now, though, everyone was in the sitting room with their drinks and desserts, and he saw no way to get out of answering. Fortunately, he had also devoted a bit of thought to the subject earlier in the day while completing all of the chores his aunt had set for him, so he had what he thought was a fairly good answer all ready.

"Well, it's co-ed," he began, noticing his aunt's and uncle's eyes locked on him in warning glares, but trying to ignore them. "My mum and dad both went there, so they left a request that I be sent there too, if I met the entrance requirements. It's pretty far away from any big cities, but there is a little town right nearby with shops and things, and the school grounds are plenty big enough that we have enough stuff to do all the time."

Mr. Roshan nodded and smiled. "It sounds like an excellent place," he said. "What do you study there?"

It was another innocent question, but this was not one that Harry had really prepared himself for, and he silently cursed his shortsightedness. Dimly, he recalled Hermione talking about what her parents told their friends when they asked about her school, but he couldn't think of what exactly she had said. Hopefully he could tell enough of the truth to satisfy the man without telling him anything suspicious.

"Well, we study pretty much the usual stuff," he said. "History, Maths, Chemistry--" he grinned at the thought of Snape's face if he ever heard Potions described as a Muggle class-- "but we also learn things like Latin and Astronomy, and there are specialized classes at the upper levels."

"Ah, so you are receiving something of a classical education, then," Mr. Roshan said, his smile growing even broader. "You are obviously a well-spoken young man, which is a testament to your school's quality as well. I shall have to advise my son to look into it--his daughter will be eleven next year, and he has been most displeased with what he has heard of the local comprehensive."

Harry nodded dumbly, not wanting to say anything. While his answer had apparently satisfied his uncle's guest, he didn't want to think about what would happen if the kindly man actually did start checking Scottish boarding schools and failed to find a trace of one called-- Wait a second! he realized with relief. He never asked me the name, so it should be okay.

Much to Harry's relief, Mr. Roshan turned back to where his wife was animatedly chatting with Aunt Petunia; apparently the two shared an interest in gardening, and had hit it off right from the start. The other guests, a couple who looked to be several years younger than the Dursleys, were talking with Uncle Vernon, who had a pleased grin on his face. Dudley had vanished into his room after supper with the couple's son, and at the moment Harry felt decidedly uncomfortable in the room full of adults, none of whom he could really talk to without revealing things that he shouldn't.

"Aunt Petunia," he asked suddenly, during a lull in the conversation, "could I be excused? My teachers assigned a lot of work over the summer, and I really should be working on it." Hopefully his aunt would believe the excuse, which really wasn't a lie at all; McGonagall's essay had a minimum length of seven feet, and Harry was sure it would probably take him the rest of the summer to finish it.

Far from looking upset, his aunt seemed quite pleased with him. Harry supposed she had been trying to think of an excuse to get him to leave the room since his brief conversation about his school, and would accept anything that sounded remotely reasonable. "Of course you may," she said, bestowing a fair imitation of a maternal smile upon him. "It's a shame you can't stay with us longer, but your studies must come first."

Barely suppressing the urge to cringe at the fake sincerity exuding from his aunt's tone of voice, Harry simply nodded and nearly fled up the stairs. Finally, he thought as he went into his room and shut the door, glad that Dudley seemed perfectly content to stay out of sight in his own room. While he had liked his uncle's guests, he was not at all used to hiding the facts about his school or his friends, at least not while talking to people. Supper had been nerve-wracking, to say the least, though he didn't think there was any way his aunt and uncle could get mad at him for anything he had said or done.

Flopping down on his bed, he reached out blindly for the first book in the stack on his nightstand, then groaned as he felt how heavy it was. The title, "So You Want to be an Animagus: An Examination of the Theory of Spontaneous Human-Animal Transfiguration," did not exactly fill him with confidence either, and the pictures on the front of the book merely served to accentuate his dislike. Apparently as an added deterrent to the casual reader, the cover cycled through a number of images of failed Animagus transformations which ranged from amusing to more than slightly disturbing, and he made a note never to let Fred or George see any of them. The last things the Weasley twins needed were more joke ideas.

Fortunately, I'm not actually going to be trying to learn from this thing, Harry thought as he flipped aimlessly through the pages. Even more fortunately, it had an index, as there was no way he would be able to read the entire book by the time school started. The print was miniscule and densely packed, and the few figures and diagrams were utterly incomprehensible at first glance--and second and third glances, too. All in all, he decided, it was the kind of book that would intimidate even Hermione, and he wished that the clerk at Flourish and Blotts had recommended something a little more readable.

He yawned as he pulled out a scrap piece of parchment and a quill to take notes--no way am I reading this any more times than I have to, he thought--then yawned even more widely as he turned to the first of several prefaces. Maybe I can use this book as an example for my Charms essay too, he wondered. It's got to have some sort of permanent Sleeping Charm cast on it. I can't be that--yawn--tired already. It's only...

What it was only, however, he never quite realized. Exhausted from the past several days of work and several weeks of nearly sleepless nights, he fell asleep with his quill dribbling a slowly expanding puddle of ink onto the few lines of notes he had managed to take.