Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders

Harry Potter and the Sins of the Founders: Part I [FictionAlley Edit]

Chapter Two v2 -- "Dumbledore's Plan"

"To my cousin Nymphadora Tonks, I leave my wand, the dueling equipment of Arcturus Black III to include: pauldrons, brigandine, and greaves, the sum of one hundred thousand Galleons . . ."

-- from the Last Will and Testament of Sirius Black III, 3 March 1996.

Harry Potter was not in a very good mood. In fact, he wasn't in much of a mood at all. At the moment, he was lying face down on top of his bed in the smallest bedroom of Number Four, Privet Drive. The bed was littered with newspaper pages and a number of textbooks that had, once upon a time, been neatly stacked. They had since been knocked over, spilling across the bed. Harry, uncaring, had sprawled out on top of the whole smorgasbord.

His room, likewise, was in a state of disarray, due to Harry's recent onset of apathy. The floor, like his bed, had its share of Daily Prophet pages scattered about. They were accompanied by a goodly sized collection of food wrappers, used napkins, and even a few half-eaten sweets.

Upon his desk stood a large circular cage, which housed Hedwig the snowy owl. Owl feathers littered the short distance between her cage and the window, but at least her master had made the effort to keep the bottom of her cage clean. For this, Hedwig was eternally grateful.

All the same, every time he let her in through the window, she would cast a critical eye about his room and give a disapproving hoot, to which he would reply, "I know, I'll clean it later."

Wizards and witches have long debated whether or not certain animals can read. It was discovered that Kneazles could understand short written sentences and that cats could comprehend individual words (but did not care about reading). Dogs on the other hand could not distinguish between letters. Xenophilius Lovegood, the editor of the peculiar Quibbler magazine, had postulated that Crumple-Horned Snorkacks might be able to understand short spoken phrases, but not written ones.

Whether or not owls could read and comprehend full paragraphs was still an often contested subject. However, that did not stop Hedwig from curiously examining the front page of the issue of the Daily Prophet upon which her cage was resting.

HARRY POTTER: THE CHOSEN ONE

30 JUNE 1996, LONDON -- Ministry reports have failed to quash rumors regarding the mysterious incident at the Ministry of Magic earlier this month.

In a recent press conference, Minister for Magic Rufus Scrimgeour assured Daily Prophet reporters that steps have been taken in order to combat the forces of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named ever since his sighting in the Atrium of the Ministry itself. The Minister refused to comment on the details of the disturbance.

However, highly ranked officials in the Minister's staff have confirmed that the disturbance took place in the Hall of Prophecy, a top-secret location deep within the Department of Mysteries, the existence of which has been long-denied by the Ministry.

Though little is known about the incident, rumor has it among a large portion of the Wizarding community that the Death Eaters captured during the conflict were attempting to steal a prophecy. The subject of the prophecy is up for debate, but a strong majority believes that it concerns Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, who is known to have been one of the combatants during the incident. Some are going so far as to call Potter "the Chosen One," believing that the prophecy concerns an upcoming climactic duel between him and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Spokeswizards for the (continued on page A-7)

The main story on the front page was a rather long-winded article preceded by the large black-and-white picture of a man whose hair resembled a lion's mane. His picture did not move very much. It simply blinked sternly back at the reader.

The article detailed a press conference recently given by Minister Scrimgeour regarding the safety of students who chose to continue education at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. For safety reasons, the paper read, the Minister would not go into detail regarding his plans, apart from confirming that an Auror task force would be assigned to patrol the school grounds at all times.

If Hedwig had indeed been able to read, she would not have been able to finish the article anyway, as her cage covered its latter half.

Harry's school trunk stood open in the gap between his desk and the window. He hadn't really bothered to unpack it properly, and had simply been living out of the trunk's contents, retrieving items as needed. As it turned out, his trunk now looked like it had spewed out its contents slowly into some kind of creep advancing on the rest of the room.

The reason for Harry's onset of apathy was the lingering feeling that he had been responsible for the death of his godfather Sirius Black during the Battle of the Department of Mysteries -- the 'incident' mentioned by the June 30th issue of the Daily Prophet. Though he had discussed the subject with Dumbledore before returning to the Dursleys' for the summer holiday, the feeling of guilt had not completely vanished. Nor had the feelings of anger, sadness, or fear.

By the second week of the summer holiday, Harry had decided that it was easier to simply not concentrate on any of those emotions at all, or rather, to simply not care. He figured that Professor Snape, who had attempted to teach Harry the art of Occlumency the past year, would have been proud.

Harry rolled over and half of the spellbooks on his bed toppled off. His hand was still clenched around the letter had removed a few days prior from the leg of a small barn owl. It read:

Dear Harry,

I shall be visiting upon you this coming Friday at Number Four, Privet Drive at precisely eleven o'clock in the evening to discuss the recently reviewed last will and testament of Sirius Black.

Afterwards, if you wish, you may accompany me to the Burrow, where you are cordially invited to spend the remainder of your summer holiday.

If it is convenient for you, I would also be glad of your company on a short stop on the way to the Burrow, in order to discuss several important matters.

Yours most sincerely,

Albus Dumbledore

Harry had no idea why Dumbledore would want to discuss any matter with him, let alone something important. The last time he had conversed with Dumbledore, it was hardly on civil terms. It was with much embarrassment that Harry recalled his last meeting with Dumbledore. He had shouted at the old wizard, accused him of being uncaring, and thrown quite a few of Dumbledore's more expensive-looking knick-knacks against the stone walls of the Headmaster's Office.

In the end, Dumbledore had confessed to caring too much about Harry (an admission which made Harry feel slightly chastised for his previous tantrum), and showed him a record of the prophecy that Voldemort's Death Eaters had been attempting to steal.

Neither can live while the other survives, it said. Harry had mulled over the prophecy ever since he departed from school. Dumbledore had confirmed that it meant that Harry had to kill Voldemort, in the end, or be killed himself.

Murder, thought Harry, that's what it comes down to . . .

Harry had sent the school owl back to Dumbledore with 'yes' scrawled onto a small piece of parchment. However, he had not finished repacking his trunk. For seemingly no reason at all, he found it hard to believe that Dumbledore would actually be present at Privet Drive, let alone call on him, Harry, who had been close to yelling obscenities at him the last time they had met. Coupled with the apathetic demeanor that he had developed in the past few weeks, he hadn't the heart to really do anything.

At five minutes until eleven, all of the streetlights on Privet Drive were extinguished simultaneously. Hedwig, feeling that it was important that her master should know about this disturbance, gave a shrill hoot in the hopes of waking him up.

Harry groaned and raised his head off of the pages of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade Five and looked at the digital clock on his desk beside Hedwig's cage. Suddenly, his meticulously-constructed Wall of Apathy came crumbling down to be replaced by a wave of panic. He leapt out of bed, scattering the remaining books on the floor, and switched his lamp on. Then, he began throwing everything in his room into his trunk, not even considering the possibility of cleaning the newspapers off of the floor.

It was fortunate that Harry did not have many material possessions. He had given his old spellbooks except from his fifth year to Ginny Weasley. His textbooks from last year had been on his bed and were now on the floor -- these, he threw unceremoniously into the trunk. He was down to one good quill.

The majority of his clothes stood in 'clean' and 'dirty' piles at the foot of his bed, which he scooped up in his arms and dumped into the trunk as well, which expanded downwards in order to accommodate the load. Thank Merlin for magic.

His Firebolt was already wrapped in his collection of school robes---he hadn't bothered to take it out once he left school. He replaced this bundle on top of everything and slammed the trunk shut as the doorbell rang downstairs.

Harry smacked his forehead with his palm. It had slipped his mind to tell the Dursleys that Dumbledore would be ringing their doorbell at this time of night. Actually, no, that wasn't quite right. He hadn't quite forgotten. He simply hadn't cared enough to tell them. Or he hadn't cared enough to remember to tell them. One way or the other, the Dursleys would be opening the door to find a wizard -- one of their least favorite people on the planet -- on their doorstep.

He bolted out of his room and actually turned too early, nearly colliding with the banister as he raced for the stairs. When he reached the bottom, he was greeted with exactly the sight he had been expecting.

Dumbledore stood in the doorway, looking old. He was clothed in a long, bright purple wizard's robe and a matching hat. Opposite him was Vernon Dursley, wearing the exact same shade of purple bathrobe. The difference was that his face was growing equally purple in anger, and his mouth was slightly open, but no sound was coming from it.

Dumbledore smiled serenely.

"I don't suppose that Harry has warned you that I would be arriving tonight, then?" he asked, amusedly.

Vernon Dursley sputtered, trying to find words. Presumably, he was trying to say several things at the same time. For instance, 'what the ruddy hell are one of you people doing here?' or perhaps, 'it's not decent to call at eleven o'clock at night.'

Eventually, he settled for stammering, "N -- NO!"

At this point, Petunia and Dudley Dursley appeared in the entrance hall, with identical looks of apprehension and fear.

"Let him in and be quick about it -- before the neighbors see!" Petunia managed to squeak, upon seeing Dumbledore in the doorway.

That seemed to be the extent of the Dursleys' vocabulary for the moment, because not one of them said a thing as Dumbledore entered, and Vernon closed the door behind him.

"Hello, Harry," said Dumbledore, removing his hat. "I hope your holiday has been agreeable so far?"

Harry, still coming to grips with the reality that Dumbledore was here at his uncle's house, nodded hesitantly.

"Good," said Dumbledore. "Ah, hello Petunia. Albus Dumbledore. I believe we have corresponded by owl."

Though it had been more a one-way correspondence than anything, Petunia nodded shakily.

"And this must be Dudley?"

Dudley gave a small, frightened squeak that was not becoming of a boy his size, and ran off into the living room.

"Shall we retire to your sitting room, then?" asked Dumbledore. Wordlessly, Petunia nodded.

"Just -- just wait one moment!" Vernon exclaimed, still beside the door. "Why are you here? Who do you think you are, inviting yourself into my house?"

Dumbledore turned to him, and Harry could have sworn that Vernon deflated a little bit under the headmaster's gaze.

"As I recall, your wife was kind enough to invite me into your home. As for my purpose, I am here to escort Harry to another location, where he will be spending the remainder of the summer. However, there is one matter I would like to discuss with at least one witness present -- preferably somebody related to Harry. Therefore, we will intrude upon you for only a few more minutes."

The prospect of seeing Harry leave his door after only a few weeks seemed to placate Vernon. His mouth working itself behind his gigantic mustache, he followed the rest of them into the sitting room.

Dumbledore took a seat in an armchair beside the fireplace. The Dursleys sat in the couch opposite him, squeezing close together as though it would offer them additional protection. They squeezed even tighter when Dumbledore drew his wand, but he simply pointed it at the windows to close the curtains.

As Dumbledore waved his wand, Harry noticed that his hand was heavily bandaged, and that he held his wand gingerly with only his two forward fingers and his thumb.

"Sir, your hand --" he began, but Dumbledore interrupted him.

"Later, Harry. Please sit with us."

Harry sat down on the remaining chair.

"Now, I have come to inform you, Harry, of the terms of Sirius's will."

At this, Vernon narrowed his eyes.

"He's dead? His godfather?" he asked. He accentuated the word 'his' by pointing at Harry, as though he were some bystander.

"Yes," said Dumbledore, not taking his eyes off Harry. "In his will, he left almost everything he owned to you, Harry. He also set aside some of his belongings to pass on to Nymphadora Tonks. However, ownership of the Black family vault at Gringotts has been transferred to you, as well as nearly all of Sirius's worldly possessions. If you wish to see the exact notation of his will, I can forward you a copy. However, there is a complication."

"What's that, sir?" asked Harry, now curious.

"Sirius also left you Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place," began Dumbledore, but he was interrupted.

"He's been left a house?" said Vernon, his eyes glinting. "Then why is he still here? He should be gone!"

"The problem," Dumbledore continued, "is that the ownership of the house did not obey Sirius's will."

This was perfectly fine with Harry. He had been dreading the thought of setting foot in the Black family house again. The thought of returning to the place where Sirius had spent his final days, desperately seeking an excuse to leave (and leaving to go to his death, once Harry had provided the excuse), would have been too much to handle. Still, he was curious.

"Why's that, sir?" he asked.

"It seems the house was bound by a bit of old and clever Blood Magic to pass only to members of the Black family, as long as they survived. Sirius was the last of the directly descended male line, as his brother, Regulus, has also passed away, and neither of them had children. The house therefore passed to the eldest of Sirius's living relatives -- Bellatrix Lestrange."

"No," Harry breathed. His curiosity was replaced by a wave of anger at the thought of Bellatrix Lestrange, who had killed Sirius, now living in the house he had previously owned.

"I'm afraid that is the case, Harry," said Dumbledore, nodding gravely. "Fortunately, the Order has been able to avoid a terrible disaster."

For a moment, Harry wore a perplexed look on his face, and then he came to a realization.

"Kreacher!"

Sirius's old house elf would have known all about the Order of the Phoenix, from sneaking around the house all the time, intruding on their meetings --

Dumbledore was taken aback, but then seemed pleased that Harry had come to that conclusion almost at once.

"Yes Harry, the House-Elf Kreacher would have been passed on to Bellatrix Lestrange as well. However, I did say that Sirius left almost everything to you. Apart from the portion he willed to Nymphadora Tonks, the one exception in his will was Kreacher, whom he willed to Hogwarts. It would seem," said Dumbledore in a highly amused tone, "that Sirius knew that you would not particularly enjoy keeping his company."

For the first time that summer, Harry grinned. The mention of his godfather since his death had usually brought on a pang of guilt and the weight of sadness would descend upon his chest, but the thought of Sirius being so . . . well, Sirius -- it brought nothing but thoughts of fondness for his deceased friend and godfather.

Dumbledore continued, "The material possessions belonging to Sirius have since been moved from Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, to the Black family vault at Gringotts. In order to expand the vault to accommodate these possessions, a sum of five thousand galleons has been deducted from the Black family fortune."

At the word 'fortune,' Vernon's eyes grew wide.

"He has money--?" he began, but he went unheeded.

"Sir, what is . . . Blood Magic?" asked Harry, his curiosity returning.

Dumbledore seemed as though he knew this question were coming.

"It is a very old branch of magic," he said. "In recent centuries, it has unfortunately become rather taboo in the mainstream community."

At this, Vernon gave a snort which could only be a reminder that he thought that all magic should be considered taboo.

"If you recall, I informed you at the end of last term that your mother's blood, present in your Aunt, gives you protection as long as you can call her house your home."

There was a small squeak of surprise, and everybody turned to look at Petunia. It was apparent on her face that she was mortified at the thought of magic having anything to do with her blood.

"That, Harry," finished Dumbledore, "is an application of Blood Magic."

There was a moment of profound silence, while Vernon seemed lost for words, Petunia was too frightened for words, and Dudley simply seemed too stupid for words.

"Well then, Harry, now that we have finished with business here, let us be off!" said Dumbledore, cheerfully breaking the silence.

Harry ran to his bedroom to fetch Hedwig and his trunk. By the time he returned downstairs, Dumbledore was standing in the doorway once more, while the Dursleys remained on the opposite end of the entrance hall, still wordless.

"Until we meet again!" said Dumbledore, bowing to the Dursleys. Then, he strode off in the direction of the street.

"Bye, then," muttered Harry hastily to the Dursleys, who looked positively petrified at the thought of ever seeing Dumbledore a second time, and carried Hedwig and his trunk out to the street as well, closing the door behind him.

As Harry arrived next to him, Dumbledore extracted his wand from his robes again with his bandaged hand.

"I shall send these ahead to the Burrow, if you have no objections," he said.

Harry nodded his go-ahead, and with a wave of Dumbledore's wand, his trunk and Hedwig vanished.

"Sir," asked Harry, looking back at Dumbledore, "where are we going?"

"Coffee!" said Dumbledore brightly, as though it were the most brilliant idea he'd ever had. "You have not learned how to Apparate, I take it."

"No," said Harry. "Don't you have to be seventeen to take the test, anyway?"

"Yes," said Dumbledore. "Therefore, I will be taking you via Side-Along Apparition. You will need to hold my arm very tightly -- the other one, if you please." Harry had reached for Dumbledore's wand arm, having forgotten about the bandages. He moved to Dumbledore's left side and gripped his forearm.

"Now, don't let go!" said Dumbledore, and Harry gripped tighter. Suddenly, his world went black, and he suddenly felt very constricted. It felt oddly like somebody was forcing him through a pipe that was much too small, and he could not breathe, the air was being forced out of his lungs --

Finally, he felt the warm June air tickle his nose again, and he gratefully inhaled a lungful. Looking around, he recognized that he and Dumbledore were no longer in Privet Drive, but on a nearly empty street, across from what appeared to be a late-night diner.

"How do you feel?" asked Dumbledore. "It took me quite a while to adjust to the sensation of Apparating."

"I'm fine," Harry replied. He let go of Dumbledore's arm and put his hand to his head. "I think I prefer flying."

With a chuckle, Dumbledore began leading the way towards the diner.

The diner turned out to be a Muggle establishment. Dumbledore pushed open the glass door, which bore a green and orange neon sign declaring that it was open. As they entered, the few heads in the diner turned when they saw Dumbledore in his purple robes and hat.

They ordered coffee from the single waitress who had seated them in their booth -- a small, plump woman wearing an apron and a weary look on her face. After she brought it to them, Dumbledore surreptitiously cast a Silencing Charm around their booth with his wand from under his robe.

Harry had had coffee before on several occasions, but it had always been prepared for him, and he found it much too sweet. He refrained from putting sugar into his cup, and found that its bitter taste was more palatable, but he was still pretty sure that he preferred tea. Setting it down, he looked up at Dumbledore, who was stirring sugar into his cup.

"Sir," he began, "did we come here for anything in particular?"

"I wanted a word with you before you returned to school," explained Dumbledore, taking a sip of his coffee. "How have you been coping, since the attack on the Ministry?"

Harry swallowed the lump in his throat. He had known this was coming, one way or another. He did not particularly want to discuss Sirius, but he knew it was inevitable. He fixed his gaze on a knot on the wooden table. It was a few moments before he spoke.

"I -- I don't know," he finally replied. A packet of artificial sweetener had somehow found its way into his hands, and his fingers were twiddling it around. "It's just hard to understand that he's just . . . gone. When he was around, I felt like I almost had a father again. And now he's dead too."

He felt slightly silly for admitting it, but it was true. He wiped a tear that was beginning to form.

"When I got back, for a while, I was just so . . . angry and sad all at once. I thought I was going insane. And last week, I just stopped caring altogether, about anything. I stopped cleaning my room, I stopped reading my spellbooks, and I even forgot to reply to Ron's and Hermione's letters. At least I cleaned Hedwig's cage every day --" He stopped at this, realizing that he was telling Dumbledore the most trivial, everyday things about his life at the Dursleys'.

Feeling very foolish, he looked up at the headmaster, and found that Dumbledore was watching him with rapt attention, concern in every line of his face. He decided to continue on, pausing between each sentence to collect his thoughts.

"I -- I think I know that this isn't what Sirius would have wanted for me. I don't think he'd want me to wallow like I have been, or hide from the world. He would have told me that life is short, especially now that Voldemort's back. I think . . . he always saw me as both my father and as his own son, kind of." At this, Dumbledore nodded in agreement.

"Yes, I can imagine that is what Sirius would have said," said Dumbledore reassuringly. "He always looked fiercely towards the bright side of life, even when death darkened the Order's doorstep in the first war."

Harry nodded, and spoke again.

"I think I'll try to do that too, now," he said, finally looking at the older wizard, who watched him through his half-moon spectacles. "It's been hard to think about him, but in the end, I know that I have to keep living. I might as well do it the way he would have wanted me to. I think I just needed to get this all out of my system. It --" He took a deep, steadying breath. "It does feel better to talk about him, after all. I thought it would just bring back painful memories, especially after it just happened, but I think my head is clearing up a little now." He gave it a little shake.

"I s'pose," he added, this time with hope apparent in his voice, "it should help if I could see Ron and Hermione again."

Dumbledore smiled at him gently.

"Yes, Harry. Friends are sometimes the best remedy for the most serious of ailments. Mr. Weasley will be delighted to see you, once I deliver you to the Burrow in a short while, and I daresay that he will have invited Miss Granger as well." Dumbledore had been sipping his coffee while Harry was talking, and now finished the last dregs before speaking.

"I am proud of you, Harry," he said as he returned the cup to the small saucer, "for coming to this decision."

Harry closed his eyes, and breathed evenly. Decision, yes, Dumbledore had put it into words -- or rather, a word. He, Harry Potter, had made his decision to go on living properly -- and he would do it in such a fashion that would make Sirius Black proud.

"Now, Harry, we must discuss another subject. If you are willing, I would like for you to attend private lessons with me this year."

Harry snapped out of his reverie.

"Private lessons, sir?" he asked, taken much by surprise. If there was anything he had been expecting Dumbledore to speak to him about, it would have been Sirius, or the prophecy, or his plans to combat Voldemort; certainly not this.

"Yes, Harry. Let me explain the situation as it stands. In the past few weeks, I have come to realize that we need to take greater action in the coming months to prepare for the inevitable conflict with Lord Voldemort."

The words 'inevitable conflict' brought Harry back into a brooding mood. What had been troubling him the most about the prophecy was its absoluteness. There was no mistake that he was the one who would have to eventually face Voldemort, and surely there was no escaping it. Even if he ran away from the prophecy, Voldemort would know -- Voldemort would track him down, and kill him. Harry took a long sip of his coffee.

"To this end," Dumbledore continued, "Professor McGonagall and I have drafted a special accelerated program for sixth and seventh years who volunteer --"

"I'd like to participate, sir," Harry said quickly.

Dumbledore chuckled at him.

"Yes, I'd thought as much. Letters will be sent to you and your fellow sixth years along with the results of your O.W.L.s -- in fact, I believe they are due to arrive on Monday. Anyhow . . ." Dumbledore glanced around the almost empty diner before continuing his explanation, despite the silencing charm he had cast earlier. When he began speaking again, he lowered his voice.

"Harry, I want to teach you magic that is very advanced -- magic that some of the most capable wizards have been unable to achieve, or even" -- his voice was barely above a whisper -- "to control."

Yes, that settled it, Harry thought to himself. In the words of Ronald Bilius Weasley, Dumbledore was officially off his rocker. To his surprise, the headmaster was actually smiling at the expression on his face, which Harry was quite certain read, 'you must be insane.'

"I see that you do not quite believe me, Harry."

"Sir," said Harry, clearing his throat. "Pardon me, but . . . what?"

"I thought I made it quite plain, Harry, that I am planning to teach you advanced magic --"

"No sir, I mean, why me? Why not somebody, you know, smarter? Like Hermione?"

"Your friend, Miss Granger, is a very capable witch; that fact I do not contest. But Harry, tell me: was she able to produce a corporeal Patronus at the age of thirteen?"

Harry shut his mouth, which had been hanging slightly open.

"And during your fight at the Department of Mysteries, if I recall correctly, you were the last one standing among your peers -- and let me remind you, you are fifteen years old. Let me put it this way, if you will: do you recall your first lessons at Hogwarts?"

Harry nodded his head, very much unconvinced so far.

"One of the first Charms lessons for all first years involves the simple spell, Wingardium Leviosa. Was that an easy spell for you back then, Harry?"

"Not particularly, sir."

"And just over five years later, you were able to hold your ground against multiple, fully-educated, and fully-grown Death Eaters," Dumbledore said triumphantly, as though it were the answer to life itself.

"You may not be aware of this, having been raised in a Muggle household, but most students grow in strength by leaps and bounds during their final two years of schooling, far outstripping their previous achievements. It would not be terribly inaccurate to refer to it as a sort of magical growth spurt, so to speak. That is why the O.W.L.s are administered at the end of the fifth year: in order to take advantage of this growth spurt during the students' N.E.W.T.-level years.

"The fact that you could produce a corporeal Patronus in only your third year -- a charm that most grown wizards have difficulty performing -- speaks volumes of your inherent magical talents.

"Harry," urged Dumbledore, looking him straight in the eye. "If it is agreeable to you, I will help you unlock the true potential of your abilities. When I divulged the words of that prophecy to you, I realized that I was thrusting you towards Lord Voldemort without so much as a word of advice or a plan of action.

"If I recall correctly," the headmaster said with a rueful smile on his face, "you were quite upset with me last year, due to my lack of communication with you. And you were right to be upset with me, for I was undoubtedly at fault. I believe that, now, I should begin to take a greater hand in your education."

Harry's mouth had dropped open again several times, looking for a way to butt in, and he shut it again, considering.

"What exactly will I be learning, Professor?" he asked, after a few moments.

"I cannot discuss the specifics yet, Harry, not here. I will explain the details when we both return to the castle."

"If I'm having lessons with you, will I still have to do Occlumency with Snape?"

"Professor Snape, Harry. Has your scar been bothering you this summer?"

"No, sir, it's like Voldemort has broken off the connection."

The headmaster shook his head.

"I'd expected as much, but that's not quite it, Harry. I believe that Lord Voldemort has come to realize that you pose a more serious threat to him if you have such easy access to his private thoughts and feelings. It would seem that he is instead employing Occlumency against you."

"Good," breathed Harry cheerfully. "I'd rather not repeat . . . that."

Dumbledore nodded.

"From what I understand, those lessons made for quite a fiasco."

"Wh --" began Harry, but stopped as something else came to mind. "Professor, there's something I'm missing about these lessons, isn't there? What's the catch?"

Dumbledore smiled again, but this time in a somber sort of fashion.

"Very good, Harry," he said. "The lessons I am offering -- they will not be easy. In fact, they may be the most difficult lessons of your magical career. I cannot promise that they will be entirely safe, either -- no, in fact . . ." Dumbledore's voice trailed off, while Harry's attention was focused entirely on him. The headmaster's eyes were gazing into space, his expression suddenly distant, almost -- haunted.

"They will be dangerous," he finished.

Harry could not help but notice that Dumbledore's voice had wavered at that last admission. He found himself wanting to question Dumbledore further. He wanted to know what had made the headmaster look as though he had seen a ghost; but he realized that this was probably not the time.

Dumbledore had seemed to recover, at any rate, and was rummaging in his cloak for something.

"Anyway, Harry, I do not require your decision at this moment. In fact, I want you to wait until next week to send me an owl."

He pulled out several one-pound coins to pay for their coffee, and the two of them stood up to leave. Outside, they walked away from the lights of the diner, towards a dark end of the street.

"The Order has been forced to vacate Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, of course," said Dumbledore, as they finally stopped. "We have set up headquarters at the Burrow, and at least one person is always awake on the ground floor, so we will not have to worry about calling rudely at this time of night."

Harry suddenly realized that he was rather tired, despite his nap before Dumbledore's arrival, and the cup of coffee he'd ingested. He stifled a yawn as he took Dumbledore's left arm, and the two of them Disapparated with a sharp crack.

D U M B L E D O R E' S P L A N

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