The Days After Sunday

"Oh, my ears and whiskers, how late it is getting!" -Alice in Wonderland

Chapter 1 Midnight Conversations

It was a dark and stormy night...

Nevertheless, a long stretch of people and, for lack of a better word, trolls were pacing and trundling about in the inclement weather. These admirable wizarding figures and their domesticated accomplices were braving the rain for a noble purpose, or in the case of the later, being such total dolts that getting repeatedly doused with icy cold water and slapped upside the head by wayward branches was not nearly enough to prevent their slow witted minds from remaining entirely unfazed. But whatever their strategy, the goal was clear. They were here to provide superior protection to the wizarding youth of Great Britain. It was quite a formidable task.

And these rain soaked wizards, armed with the fastest stunning spells this side of the equator, were not on duty because their troll charges were unstable (as Fudge had assured Dumbledore just that morning), but so as to provide further infallible security to the most precious possessions of some very uptight parents. Now their worries of Dark Marks over Hogwarts, as well as the incessant stream of fretful letters that the Ministry had been receiving as of late, could be put to rest. For you see, the team of harried wizard and lumbering oaf is an unbreakable guard, and everyone knows that the venerable title of SECURITY TROLL strikes fear in even the darkest of dark wizards.

It was perhaps surprising then, while such formidable creatures walked the sodden earth outside Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, that a small tabby was able to dart through all these fortress-like legs unnoticed. She remained alert, slipping through shadows and chasing snippets of conversation like invaluable mice. If anyone had noticed her, head tilted and ears alert, they may even have thought she was eavesdropping. But that's absurd, since cats do not eavesdrop. Of course they usually don't sit around in the middle of a rainstorm either.

"I can't see a darned thing in this storm," one short, bedraggled guard complained to his colleague.

"Well I'm more worried 'bout these damned trolls than anything. That big'un over there almost stepped on me," replied his gruff voiced and unshaven friend.

"What do you mean "that big one" they're all big", the first helpfully observed.

"Ye know I never really wanted ter do this job in the first place. 'The wave o' the future in wizarding security' my arse. See, I only took up with security trolls fer some extra money while I trained in the ballet," the second wizard reminisced ruefully. "I was gonna be a star."

Apparently this was not exactly the kind of conversation the cat had been looking for, since she was now slipping through the knotted gray trunks of trolls legs toward a second huddled group of wizards. She was almost within earshot, when-

CRACK!

...a deafening crack sounded from behind.

In the absolute pandemonium of stampeding trolls that ensued, the cat was forced to dodge many crashing feet while searching blindly for a way out. Then suddenly the earth shook, as a stunned troll fell to the ground inches from her side. Yet another troll was flailing about wildly with its club, while a panicked wizard ran in frantic circles wringing his hands and shouting, "We're all gonna die! We're all gonna die!" This premonition may have come partially true, as the troll's club came hurtling toward him, if a brave fellow guard hadn't made a flying (and astonishingly graceful) leap, managing to push the dizzy man out of harms way.

Meanwhile, the tabby skirted away from a wild stunning spell and fled into the comparative safety of a wind whipped bush. She observed as wizards ran about frantically, attempting to restore order after what turned out to be a particularly loud crack of thunder.

The tabby, who now seemed thoroughly disgusted, stalked away from the scene to vanished in the dark shadows of an enormous castle.

~~~

"Minerva!" greeted the headmaster of a very well protected wizarding school, his eyes twinkling. "You must know term doesn't start for a few more weeks," he said while withdrawing a shockingly orange box with the lid removed from somewhere in his desk. "Chocolate?"

"I am well aware of that, and no thank you"

Professor McGonagall, who was absentmindedly dripping all over the rug, lowered herself into a straight back oak chair and regarded Albus Dumbledore sharply. She was not in a particularly pleasant mood and had obviously not swept into the room simply for idle chitchat. She was in fact so agitated that finding Dumbledore sitting calmly at his desk in the middle of the night during summer holidays didn't strike her the least bit odd. The head master lowered the box and continued to banter, seemingly unaware of his colleague's displeased air.

"More for me I suppose. These are a new favorite of mine actually, an ingenious creation by two of our recently graduated entrepreneurs..."

McGonagall interrupted this train of thought and questioned dryly (her voice being the only part of her sodden self that was dry), "Security trolls Albus?"

"So you've heard about our newest addition then."

"Actually I've met them," she said, "Not a particularly pleasant experience, and I hardly think they will work for whatever purpose you have in mind. You might as well send Peeves out to the gates. He'd be highly more effective in dissuading people from entering the grounds."

"While I'm sure that that would be highly amusing for our guests, I believe the current guards will have to remain. The Ministry believes, as does Cornelius..."

"Git", murmured a nearby portrait, allegedly in his sleep.

"...that parents will feel more secure with some sort of tangible patrol."

McGonagall straightened at this, interjecting, "It does not matter if something is tangible if it is entirely worthless. While that may be characteristic of most Ministry activities, I should think they would try a little harder for something like this."

"Surely you don't believe that this is the only precaution set up this year? I am well aware that mountain trolls will be ineffective in deterring anyone from the castle who truly wishes to enter. They do, however, provide quite a striking display, even if their actual defensive value is not enough to stop a small feline."

The other professor raised an eyebrow at this, but did not interrupt.

"There have always been multiple protections around Hogwarts, and I doubt that any outside forces will be able to break through these. Truly, my main worry is reserved for the dangers and discord that may arise within the school and not any physical entities that come from without. Unrest and suspicion are the enemies that I fear, and sadly I do not know of any spells that may keep them away from this school or any other place."

"Nor do I," replied McGonagall gravely, now slightly more content knowing Dumbledore felt the school well protected, "but I should hope that now the truth is publicly known, we will be able to achieve some solidarity. But our highest priority is, as always, the safety of the students."

The two professors continued to consider precautions for the coming year, but it was a tiring conversation, one that both had had many times, and would most likely have again. It seemed a topic without end, for, as many before them had found, it is almost impossible to guard against that which is unknown.

At last Dumbledore adopted a distinctly brighter tone, suggesting, "Let's not dwell on this year's challenges for too long. Although these are matters of grave importance, I truly prefer to keep the bulk of my holiday conversations a bit lighter."

McGonagall agreed saying, "Well, if you have the time, we might as well discuss the other irregularities of this year, especially the commemorative activities and the new students."

"Wonderful idea! " said Dumbledore. "You got my owl about Miss DeWar by now I'm sure?"

"Oh yes of course. And I do support that decision. Hopefully the adjustment won't be too difficult for her."

"Not nearly as difficult as what she's been through so far I'm sure. I doubt she'll have many problems." Dumbledore spoke while rummaging through his desk to finally pull out a bright green folder with the picture of a teenaged girl on the front.

"I think you'd like to flip through this. I'll be giving a copy to the heads of each house. But perhaps before you begin, you would also like to dry off first?"

"What? Oh yes of course, I hadn't even noticed..." Her voice trailed off as she brought a wand out for a quick drying spell. Albus began to hum and pick through his box of chocolates, while on the other side of the desk Minerva perused the history of a girl about to get a second chance.

~~~

"Sirius Black is dead."

A confused little man stated this with much less than confidence, characteristically, for he did very few things with confidence.

"I see your ability to state the obvious and distract my thoughts with worthless words is as astute as ever, Wormtail. Of course I know the man is dead."

A small collection of shady looking figures was gathered on this stormy night with only firelight to illuminate their sunken, often grotesque, faces. Some were sitting on battered chairs, others stood silently in dark corners, one cowered on the floor (a.k.a. Wormtail), and all were focused on the most daunting figure of all. He sat rigidly in an imposing armchair, a large black dog curled at his feet. His cold scarlet gaze was fixed on the burning fire as thoughts flicked through his head like so many destructive flames.

"And he died because he was only a man," the same icy voice continued in a tone barely louder than a whisper, more hiss than speech. "A mortal who lived an insignificant life, ending in an equally insignificant death. I, however, am far more than any such man."

He said this last phrase more to himself, then addressed Wormtail without lifting his gaze from the fire. " But really, such recollections of that unfortunate night are not helpful. Truly, they only serve to remind me of your previous failings." Voldemort punctuated this last word by sending a shock of orange light at the cowering, offending failure. Peter Pettigrew yelped in pain as the spell hit, scalding his sad face.

"It would serve you all well to learn a lesson from Wormtail and not speak to me unless spoken to."

While always a particularly evil master, this level of severity was unusual. Bodily harm was mostly limited to much more offensive acts than talking out of turn, such as bitter betrayal, or bringing a tall mocha cappuccino with extra cream, when specifically asked to bring it without. In other words, it was obvious to the small collection of Death Eaters that the Dark Lord was miffed.

"Now I trust that the rest of you understand your duties, and will be able to explain their functions to slower individuals," he paused briefly, "whom I, myself, have no time for. Macnair and Avery, you will assist Lestrange when the time comes. For now, have you yet managed to cultivate the needed ingredients?"

At this, Macnair nudged Avery, who poked Macnair, who tentatively responded, "Yes my Lord."

"Good. Then Rookwood, you will depart for Romania tomorrow. I expect reports weekly until you are successful."

Rookwood nodded, but remained silent.

"And finally Lucius. I trust the boy's lessons are going well?"

"Exceptionally, Master. He is dedicated to our cause and willing to act."

"Willing, yes, although perhaps not as dedicated as one would wish," replied Voldemort still staring intently at the fire. "However, we must work with the materials at hand. Certain restrictions have been established this past year because of newly exposed identities. Therefore, we have been forced to act along increasingly secretive lines. But soon our activities will emerge from the darkness of concealment. Already, the time has come when trembling people know and fear the power of the Dark Lord..."

Unfortunately, this climatic speech was suddenly interrupted by one pert knock on the downstairs front door. The Death Eaters attention turned toward the noise, away from their master.

"Ignore it," Voldemort commanded vehemently.

But then, precisely ten seconds after the first, a second and third insistent knock came as someone rapt on the door. Clearly, they would be answered.

"Jugson," said Voldemort coldly, causing the man to jump, "answer the door. Tell them to leave. If they persist, then stun them."

Jugson left hurriedly, his steps echoing down the stairs until they faded entirely from the ears of the attentive Death Eaters. Jugson reached the door, wand in hand, and cracked it open just enough to peer through. But before he could deliver a gruff "Go away", the offending visitor cut him off.

This intruder was a dedicated worker, shackled to his duty so much so that he insisted on finishing the job in one day, even if that meant working until such an ungodly hour as this. Now at the last house, his critical assignment was nearing an end. He would take no nonsense and waste no time. And so, with the first creak of the door, he had begun reading verbatim from the lengthy roll of parchment in his hands.

"Dear Sir or Miss, the Ministry of Magic has identified yours as a magical home, and would greatly appreciate it if you would participate in this short and vital survey. Question number one: When considering what sort of formal occasion dress robes to buy, your foremost criteria is a) color b) price c) whether or not the garment will piss off you parents d)

But Jugson did not wait around to hear the fourth choice. He was annoyed enough by the intrusion (one-because he hated surveys and two- because he'd been called "or Miss") to send a stunning spell straight at the chest of none other than Percy Weasley.

~~

On the same evening at roughly the same time, a dark-haired boy with striking green eyes (currently closed in frustration) was sprawled on his bed. This bed was located in one upstairs room of number four, Privet Drive. A small black notebook lay open face down on his chest, moving slowly up and down in rhythm with his soft breathing. At the moment, this boy, whose name is Harry, in case you hadn't guessed, was trying unsuccessfully to think of a word that rhymes with 'silver'. This may seem like an odd task for the boy hero of the wizarding world, whose future is entangled in the somber words of a fatal prophesy. Shouldn't he be out somewhere doing great deeds and helping small children? Or maybe, since he must stay inside the home of his loathed relatives, or else suffer grave consequences, he should be perfecting his already flourishing magical skills in order to be better equipped at vanquishing the Dark Lord?

But no, Harry was not inclined to do such things this summer, and had in fact, voluntarily spent most all of his time in this room. In the back of his mind, he feels he must eventually practice Avada Kedavra, the killing curse. Perhaps then he can vanquish that weighted voice that keeps telling him he's worthless without that spell, unable to save the wizarding world from Voldemort and unable to avenge his godfather's death. But he's not allowed to do magic outside of school, and without Quidditch to preoccupy him, he's been alone (when he's lucky) with so many horribly depressing thoughts. He needed some outlet for these, some way to remain (though precariously) just on the sane side of crazy. So he has taken up writing angst-ridden poetry in the aforementioned black notebook. Unfortunately, Harry Potter is a hopeless poet.

Suddenly, with a look of grave enlightenment on his face, Harry sat up, opened his notebook, and began scribbling madly with an unfortunate quill. Then with a heavy sigh, he realized that although it did rhyme with 'silver', 'milver' was not a word. He was about to attempt reworking the line (which was sadly NOT an ode to the white blond wisps of the perpetually persnickety Draco Malfoy's hair, which shines like spun silver), when he heard a loud bang against the window.

Peering into the stormy night outside, Harry made out the figure of a bedraggled owl leaning heavily against the glass pane. Harry opened the window gingerly, getting a face full off wind and rain, but still managed to catch the waterlogged owl before it could fall to the floor. The creature was out cold, so Harry placed it on the mahogany desk next to his forsaken wand before removing the envelope marked 'URGENT' in strikingly violet ink that was attached to one leg. He tore the envelope open to find what looked like a broken red toy truck inside, accompanied by a small slip of paper. Harry was about to read this note when his door burst open with a bang.

The entrance of his cousin Dudley, in a rage that made him resembled a very huffy hog, was surprising. Harry vaguely remembered locking the door. He was trying to prevent these persistent distractions that continued to interrupt his creative process.

"What do you think you're playing at?" Dudley yelled, slamming the door shut behind him.

"Well I could ask you the same thing," Harry stated matter of factly. "How did you get in my room?"

Dudley looked about wildly, glancing briefly at the mass of feathers and lone wand atop the desk. He ignored the question and continued his accusation.

"Where'd you put it, you thieving freak?"

"I've no idea what you're talking about," said Harry, who had absolutely no idea what his cousin was talking about. Then deciding it was as good a try as any Harry inquired, "Do you know anything that rhymes with 'silver'?"

Dudley puzzled for a moment, then shook the question off.

"You better give it now or you're gonna get it. I know you don't have that little stick thing with you," Dudley stated this last fact maliciously, displaying a surprising ability to conclude facts from observations, and began to lumber toward Harry, fists raised.

Backing away and thinking defensively Harry said, "Look, I've no idea what this thing is, maybe if you TOLD me..."

He was cut short as Dudley's beefy fist came hurtling toward his head. Ducking just in time, he jumped sideways attempting to escape the Wrath of Dudley. Unfortunately he tripped over an ill-placed chair and landed hard on the floor. Dudley crouched down beside him and Harry, still clutching the note, braced himself in preparation of getting pummeled to death. Dudley's fist came whizzing down toward Harry's chest and then...

WHAM!

Dudley's hand had gone straight through Harry, as if he was made of air, and had hit the wooden floor beneath him. Taking advantage of his cousin's momentary confusion and hopefully injured hand, Harry groped around for some sort of weapon. His fingers closed around the broken toy truck that had fallen to the floor. Harry was about to pelt this at his cousin when he felt that familiar jerk somewhere behind his navel, and the floor dropping away beneath him. Harry departed in a bewitched wind whose howls blocked out his cousin's horrified screams.