Harry Potter and the Sixth Year

“No Further News From Ministry. Fudge still silent.”

“No Date Yet Set For Trials of Suspected Death Eaters.”

“Special Feature for Today: 101 Tips for Detecting a Dark Wizard … see page 7”

The latest edition of the Daily Prophet had just been delivered by owl to Number 4, Privet Drive, complete with its large lurid headlines on the front page. The wizarding world had not yet got over the shock at the re-appearance of He Who Must Not Be Named – and at the Ministry of Magic itself, of all places. Harry flicked through its pages as he had done every day so far this summer, and saw the paper was still running Rita Skeeter’s articles reprinted from The Quibbler. “Harry Potter Vindicated!” He gave a slight, small cynical smile. Well, at least the Prophet was no longer under Fudge’s thumb. And Luna’s father must be raking in Galleons from the sale to the Daily Prophet. Still, thought Harry, fair enough. He’d been the only one to take him seriously – or, at least, who had been prepared to print the story in the face of the Ministry of Magic’s hostility. Mind you, whether any else had taken The Quibbler seriously before that was another matter. Harry slightly regretted having given any credibility to the magazine, but there was no doubting that it had published a story no one else would have touched. Which was probably true of all its other stories, as well.

But that long painful summer term was over now – which was why he was back at Privet Drive. Back with the Dursleys. But, on the other hand, with a feeling almost of relief this time, after the horrors of the past school year. Not even the Dursleys at their worst could rival the sheer vindictiveness of Dolores Umbridge.

Last week he had had an interview with a very dazed Fudge. It had felt funny – just him and Fudge alone in Fudge’s office at the Ministry, Fudge behind his big panelled desk, and all the former Ministers of Magic leaning forward from their portraits, listening to his every word. Telling his story yet again had dulled some of its sharper edges, but Harry wasn’t sure whether that was a good thing or not. At least the sharp edges had kept him alert, kept his mind sharp. For Voldemort hadn’t gone for good. Dumbledore might have fought him down, might have reduced his powers, but Harry knew that the Dark Lord would only be biding his time, waiting for his chance. And he still had a small group of Death Eaters with him, those who had escaped with him from the Ministry of Magic on that horrific night.

And that was another headache for the Ministry. Now that the guards of Azkaban, the Dementors, had disappeared, the Ministry had to find other ways of keeping the prison secure – particularly with its new influx of Death Eaters. No one knew exactly where the Dementors had gone, but most people had a fairly clear idea: they had gone to join Voldemort in his quest for power. One more weapon in Voldemort’s armoury.

Harry put the paper down and gazed out at the deep blue sky. Summer was here, and he ought to be outside, enjoying the warm weather. It was difficult, though, stuck here in Privet Drive, with none of his friends around him. The Dursleys had been warned to treat Harry better than they had done in the past, but their response to that had been to revert to their earlier tactics and ignore him completely. He was used to such behaviour from summers past, but it still didn’t help his mood. It was no fun, sitting at meals while everyone else behaved as if he was invisible. Maybe one day he’d put on his cloak and really be invisible. Perhaps Aunt Petunia was a fraction warmer than she had been. Perhaps. Dudley, on the other hand, was even more terrified of him now, after his encounter with a Dementor. Despite Harry’s efforts to persuade him otherwise, Dudley remained convinced that it had been Harry, rather than the Dementor, who had attacked him.

At least the food was better. Now Dudley had become a school boxing champion, he was being fed steaks most nights. And although Harry knew how much Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia must have hated it, he too was being fed steak each evening. Now he had reached nearly six foot, he seemed to have stopped growing so fast, and at last was beginning to fill out a little.

His scar hardly ever seemed to trouble him these days, either. Whether that was because Voldemort was too far away, or had lost too many of his powers, Harry didn’t know, but he was grateful for a summer where for once he wasn’t wincing from the twinges and burning of that zigzag bolt on his forehead.

The closest to a magical companion now was Mrs Figg. Although a Squib, Mrs Figg still knew enough about the wizarding world to be moderately good company for Harry, although he still found all her cats rather off putting. He had been trying to persuade her to get her fireplace connected to the Floo network, so that visiting Ron would be that much easier. Not being able to use it herself, she hadn’t seen the point before, but Harry had persuaded her that Mr Weasley would be able to have it connected on the quiet, and he would make it worth her while. A few Galleons to be able to use her fireplace would be money well spent. That would mean Harry would be able to sneak away to The Burrow from time to time, even if it was only for the day. Anything was better than Privet Drive and the Dursleys.

But as he gazed out of the window, something caught his eye. A bird. And not just any bird, but an owl. And one carrying a note for him, by the looks of things. The bird fluttered down and perched itself on the windowsill, preening itself, and trying looking as important as it could. Harry reached out for the roll of parchment tied to the owl’s leg, and carefully untied it. The bird gave a soft hoot, and, with a flap of its wings, disappeared back into the sky. Harry unravelled the parchment and began reading.

It was a letter from Hermione.

“Dear Harry, Hope you’re having a good summer,” she began. At the Dursleys? But then Harry remembered that she’d never really met Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia. “The O.W.L. results came through yesterday. All Outstanding! And with a Commendation in Defence Against the Dark Arts! That must have been your teaching. It certainly wasn’t due to Umbridge.” Well, yes, perhaps those evenings training Dumbledore’s Army might have paid off in the exams. “Just as well I gave up Divination,” she went on. “I can’t see me scoring much there! How were your results?”

Well, yes. How were his results? He’d not yet an owl from the Ministry. He looked at Hermione’s letter again. Yesterday’s date. So the exams had been marked. Well, perhaps his results were still on their way. Not that he was looking forward to them – you could say he had had quite a lot on his mind at the time, and he certainly knew he hadn’t done himself justice in quite a few of them. Well, there hadn’t been a lot of time for revision, what with everything else going on.

He had just put the parchment down when a small feathery ball came zooming through the window, describing mad circles around his bedroom, before finally settling down on the sideboard, still fluttering its wings, and giving little hoots to draw attention to itself. Harry grinned. He knew who this letter was from, for the bird was unmistakeably Ron’s owl, Pig.

“Hi, Harry. O.W.L.s a bit mixed, I’m afraid. Outstanding in Dark Arts, of course. And Snape’s going to be grinding his teeth, cos I got an E in Potions.” Harry grinned. ‘E’ meant ‘Exceeding Expectation’, and Snape had given Ron more detentions than all the other teachers put together. “And an ‘E’ in Transfiguration, too. I’d better keep quiet about Divination and History of Magic, though.

“Dad’s still working on getting Mrs Figg’s fireplace connected up. But I’ve had another idea. You know I had my sixteenth birthday just after term ended? And yours is coming up soon. And have you seen the Daily Prophet? Well, with this new law we’re going to be allowed to Apparate when we’re sixteen. Don’t know how I’m going to pay for the lessons though.

“Bill’s gone back to Egypt. And Percy’s living in London. No one’s heard from him, but he’s still working for Fudge. What were your results like? Ron.”

Harry’s heart leapt. Apparation lessons! Why hadn’t he thought of that? He remembered how Fred and George used to Apparate all over 12 Grimmauld Place, just after they’d passed their test. Anyway, what new law was he talking about? He turned back to his copy of the Daily Prophet, and started thumbing through it. There it was on page 5.

“European Harmonisation of Wizarding Laws,” the headline read.

“A conference in Luxembourg has begun to take the first steps towards harmonising the wizarding laws in Europe.”

Harry wondered if this had anything to do with Percy and his cauldrons – the Department of International Magical Co-operation, or some such.

“Among the changes include a common age limit for various licensed magical activities. For example, in Britain, only those aged from seventeen are allowed to learn to Apparate. In France the age limit is fifteen, in Germany eighteen, and Italy sixteen. The conference has decided that the European wide age limit will be sixteen. This will also bring the age limit in line with America.”

The article went on to talk about other things, such as the various penalties for wizarding offences, which had also been harmonised, but Harry just skimmed through all of that – although he did wonder why broomstick flying for twelve year olds was illegal in Romania. But being able to Apparate would be wonderful. Providing he passed his test, that was. He leafed through all the adverts near the back of the paper. There it was! Just what he’d been looking for.

“Apparation Lessons,” it began. “For those Wizards and Witches who are aged sixteen and over. A one day Ministry of Magic approved course. Fee: 50 Galleons. Apply by owl to Professor Extollor, care of Ministry of Magic.”

Fifty Galleons! No wonder Ron was worried about the cost. But then, Harry thought, he’d never ever given Ron a birthday present before. At the end of each summer term he’d always been recovering from yet another encounter with Voldemort, and after that he’d been stuck in Privet Drive for the rest of the holidays. In fact, Harry remembered that on Ron’s last birthday, a week ago, Ron had spent the day in St Mungo’s, having a check up after his injuries in the fight against the Death Eaters in the Ministry of Magic. So why not give him an Apparating course for his birthday? They could both do it together on the same day.

But before Harry could put quill to parchment, the fourth owl of the day came fluttering through the window. What now? Just as well he was upstairs in his bedroom. He could imagine Uncle Vernon’s reaction if owl after owl had flown through the window into the kitchen or the living room. He carefully unfastened the parchment from the owl’s leg, paid him two Knuts, and opened it out. It was the latest edition of The Quibbler, together with a brief note from Luna.

“We’re in Iceland, hunting for the Fiery Snarkle. Someone’s spotted one in a volcano. Hope you’re having a good summer. Luna.”

Harry smiled. Some things hadn’t changed. He could just imagine Luna and her father scrambling up the sides of volcanoes looking for creatures that didn’t exist. He glanced at The Quibbler, but laid it aside, not being able to make head or tail of it as usual.

He found a fresh sheet of parchment in his trunk, and began a letter to Ron.

“Dear Ron, Well done with the results. Hermione’s grades were all Outstanding. Now there’s a surprise.” He remembered all the times that he and Ron had copied Hermione’s homework – when she had let them. “Mine haven’t arrived yet, so I can’t tell you what I got.

“I’ve just read that article about how we can learn to Apparate when we’re sixteen. My birthday’s in a fortnight’s time, and there are adverts in the Daily Prophet for one day courses up at the Ministry. I didn’t get you a birthday present again this year, so how about my booking two places on a course? It would mean that I could come over to The Burrow or wherever else whenever I wanted to.”

Harry sucked the tip of his quill and looked at what he’d written. He knew the Weasleys didn’t have much money, and how sensitive Ron was on the subject. He’d got Galleons enough in Gringotts, left for him by his parents. He didn’t mind paying for Ron, not only because he was a friend, but also because it would mean the two of them would be able to go to places together whenever they liked.

He thought he’d just leave it there, so he scribbled a final “Harry” at the bottom of the page before looking round for Pig, who was still whizzing in small circles round the room. Hedwig was doing her best to look disapproving.

“Ok, you can take this to Ron,” he told the little owl. Pig sat still just long enough for Harry to fasten the note to his leg, before zooming off again into the clear summer sky.

No sooner had Harry picked up his copy of The Quibbler again than owl number five arrived and perched itself on the windowsill. What now? He put the magazine down still unread and retrieved his latest message. This one was written in the precise script of Professor McGonagall. “Dear Potter,” it began. “No doubt you may have been wondering why you have not had your O.W.L. results. I have asked for yours to be held back since I felt that you had taken them in rather difficult circumstances.” Harry remembered McGonagall herself being attacked by four Stunners during his Astronomy practical. Yes, they had been rather difficult circumstances, considering. Such as the nightmares and visions. And Dolores Umbridge’s persecution. He read on. “I must say your Defence Against the Dark Arts result was more than Outstanding – the examiner said it was the best performance he had seen in years.” So he had beat Hermione at something! “However, some of your other exam results leave, shall we say, a little to be desired. I have therefore arranged a meeting with the Chief Examiner at the Ministry of Magic on Tuesday at 11 o’clock. I hardly need remind you that this is a meeting you cannot afford to miss. Yours, Professor McGonagall.”

Harry had a sinking feeling in his stomach, combined with a rush of warmth towards McGonagall. He remembered how she’d vowed to help Harry in his ambition to become an Auror. But how badly had he done? Were his results really that awful? And he really did need top grades to have any chance of becoming an Auror. Perhaps that was it – not that they were so terrible, but that they needed that extra boost to get him the grades he needed. Maybe. He put the parchment down with an uneasy feeling.

And how was he going to get to the Ministry of Magic? It would mean taking a train to London, and he had no Muggle money. The Dursleys never gave him any pocket money. Perhaps he could try Mrs Figg. Were Galleons any use to her? Could he swap for Galleons for Muggle money? It was worth a try, he supposed. Hitchhike? He didn’t think Dumbledore would take kindly to him standing by the side of the road with his thumb out. Even though Voldemort did seem to be lying low, he knew how concerned Dumbledore and the others were about his safety.

He’d work something out. And as he stood there, there was a shout from below. “Lunch!” That was all he got from the Dursleys these days – barked commands or brooding silence. And lunch turned out to be one of the brooding silence meals. He sat opposite a bulging Dudley, who would never meet his eyes these days. Being boxing champion had proved no defence against Dementors. The Dursleys didn’t even talk between themselves – he supposed they kept that for when he was out of the room. As soon as he’d finished eating – and the lunch had really been quite good - he slipped out of the dining room to go back upstairs. He didn’t even have to do the washing up any more these days, which was one small relief.

But waiting patiently for him in his room was yet another owl. Harry hoped the neighbours hadn’t noticed all his visitors: if they said anything to Uncle Vernon or Aunt Petunia, he could imagine their reaction.

This letter, however, was much more impressive than the other ones he’d received that day. The parchment was stiff and crackly, there was a formal letter heading at the top, and the writing was in a beautiful copperplate. Harry knew how scruffy his own writing could be at times.

“Scrivener and Melchett, Magicians at Law,” the letter began.

“Dear Mr Potter,

“The reading of the will of the late Sirius Black will take place on Tuesday 15th July at Room 404 of the Ministry of Magic at 2p.m.

“You are requested to attend as you are one of the beneficiaries of the will.

“Yours, Walter Scrivener (Junior).”

Reading the letter brought back memories to Harry – memories he’d rather not have. Memories of his godfather. Memories of the fight in the Ministry of Magic when Sirius had fallen through that mysterious veil. Beneficiary of the will – he wasn’t sure that he wanted anything that came to him in that way. He’d far rather have Sirius alive again than any amount of money. He sighed and looked down at the letter again.

Well, at least the reading was on the same day as the meeting with the Chief Examiner. That would mean only the one trip up to London. Harry put the parchment down, staring out of the window, his pleasure in the sunny summer day now quite spoiled. Then he reached into his trunk for some Galleons. Might as well go and see Mrs Figg right away.