Harry Potter and the Power the Dark Lord Knows Not

Prologue

Across a patchwork of meager roadways and densely-set neighborhoods lay the quiet and very proper community of Little Whinging, Surrey. Within this district full of large square homes and perfectly manicured lawns lay the landscaped and slightly pretentious lane of Privet Drive. Privet Drive was currently full of its usual dark leafy shrubs and blossoming plants, and anyone who might walk down this street would probably never bat an eye as they passed through the vicinity of the house designated as number four. Number four, Privet Drive did not visibly stand out against its stuffy neighbors, there appeared to be nothing whatsoever special about this home, but there was. Only a handful of people were aware that something (or rather someone) quite extraordinary dwelled within this house, and that information still remained a closely guarded secret. One of the people presently residing at number four was a rather skinny and unassuming teenage boy. This boy, however - despite all appearances to the contrary - was destined to change the fate of the entire Wizarding population to which he belonged. Whether by chance or design, this not quite sixteen year old wizard would be the single defining figure in a war that was beginning to develop behind closed doors and in the darkest and most hidden places of that world. He would be the lone catalyst that would determine which force would ultimately reign there - and whether that force would be Good or Evil. Before any of that could happen, though, he must first come to terms with the fact that he actually is the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord. He must also determine if he will truly be able to one day accomplish the horrific and frankly terrifying task that now lies before him. Harry Potter will soon realize that his greatest strength must come not only from within himself, but also from those he cares about, from those he has already lost, and especially from those that he has yet to really find.

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CHAPTER ONE

HOME UNSWEET HOME

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The dark-haired bespectacled form of Harry Potter lay silently on his small bed in his tiny bedroom at Privet Drive. He slowly looked up and glanced numbly out his window at the darkening sky. Hedwig was still asleep in her cage, but she was beginning to wake as she ruffled her snow-white feathers restlessly. Harry reached over automatically and opened her cage and then sat listlessly at his desk. He knew he should stop, but he couldn't seem to help himself as he pulled the photo album towards him. The heavy pages inside were slightly dog-eared because of the number of times Harry had flicked through them, and lately he found himself doing little else. His fingers easily found the page he wanted, and Harry gazed once again into the smiling young face of his godfather.

Sirius Black had been young and relatively carefree in the days surrounding James and Lily Potter's wedding. Sirius' laughing face showed no signs of his near or more distant dark future. The Sirius in the wedding photograph had no idea that in a few short years he would be in Azkaban, convicted of a crime he never committed or that only weeks before his godson's sixteenth birthday he would die senselessly while Harry watched helplessly, unable to stop it. As Harry continued staring into his godfather's face the sun slowly dipped below the horizon. Harry didn't even glance up from the picture as Hedwig flew past him out his window and into the glowing twilight. "Stop torturing yourself," Harry muttered to himself, "it won't bring him back."

It had been a long dreary fortnight since Harry had arrived at King's Cross Station and resignedly got into Uncle Vernon's car to go back home. "Home" was the word Dumbledore had used when describing the depressingly boorish Muggle residence Harry had had to grow up in. Unfortunately for Harry, number four, Privet Drive was where Mrs. Petunia Dursley, Harry's mother's sister and only living blood relative resided. Harry now knew that Dumbledore had used that blood connection to keep him safe and alive after Voldemort's attack on him as a baby - and that that ancient charm was also the reason that Harry was still forced to continue spending his summers here rather than in his own magical world. "While you can still call home the place where your mother's blood dwells, Harry, there you cannot be touched or harmed by Voldemort."

But Harry couldn't have cared less about Voldemort at the moment. Nor did he care about some ancient charm or why he had to resume living with people who had always hated him - Harry's heart was still too full of the loss of his godfather; nothing else permeated, it simply didn't matter. Harry tried to swallow away the stubborn lump rising painfully in his throat, but couldn't. He felt hollow, empty. The Harry that had existed before Sirius had died was gone now, changed forever. Harry's feelings had sunk so low that he didn't seem to remember what happiness actually felt like or even if he'd ever truly been happy at all. Intellectually Harry knew that that wasn't really true, but he still couldn't stop the horrible gnawing pain in his heart....

Harry's dismal thoughts were rudely interrupted by Uncle Vernon's bellowing voice, "HARRY POTTER!" Harry started at the sudden loudness of his uncle's booming shout; the past two weeks had mostly been filled by awkwardly long silences. Ever since he had arrived on Privet Drive his three relatives had made it a point to ignore him even more diligently than they had previously; Harry knew that the only reason they acknowledged his presence at all was because of the fear the members of the Order had instilled in them at the train station before the summer holiday. Harry hastily slammed his photo album shut and started to get up as he heard someone thumping up the stairs towards him. A couple of heartbeats later, someone knocked loudly on his bedroom door. Harry paused just briefly and then opened it, glancing inquiringly at a huffing Uncle Vernon standing in the carpeted hallway just outside of his room.

This really was an unusual occurrence. Before Mad-Eye Moody's little chat with Uncle Vernon, Harry's uncle would have never hesitated to barge right in and had even locked Harry in this very room. Uncle Vernon's face looked blotchy, possibly from coming up the stairs as quickly as he did. He also appeared rather agitated, and distantly Harry wondered what all the fuss was about. "Boy, Mrs. Figg's at the door," Uncle Vernon whispered accusingly. "She wants to see you."

"All right," Harry responded, rather blankly. Harry had exchanged only a few rather cursory notes with Ron, Hermione, and Hagrid since his arrival, but nothing of any real substance. He hadn't felt like writing at all, but he hadn't wanted anyone to worry about him while he was stuck here in Little Whinging, either - especially since the Order had promised to swoop down upon the Dursleys if they didn't hear from him often enough. Harry had kept the responses he'd sent with Hedwig short and he hadn't corresponded with anyone else, so Mrs. Figg's sudden appearance came as something of a surprise. Harry had learned only last summer that the rather odd old lady who had once been his babysitter was actually a member of his own magical world. Unbeknownst to the Dursleys, their neighbor Mrs. Figg was a Squib. Mrs. Figg hadn't made her time with Harry very enjoyable so that the Dursleys wouldn't have any reason to grow suspicious of her. Uncle Vernon was certainly squinting at Harry suspiciously now, however, as his huge face twisted into an even uglier expression than usual.

"You're a bit old to need a ruddy sitter, boy," Uncle Vernon said sarcastically, his bushy mustache bristling. Obviously Uncle Vernon wanted to know why their batty old neighbor would want to call on Harry, and he was furious when his nephew didn't immediately offer any explanation. Slowly, however, Uncle Vernon's reddened face blanched slightly as though he was remembering something quite unpleasant; he suddenly peeked out Harry's bedroom window warily, his movements now jerky and tense. When he turned back and peered beadily at Harry before speaking once more, his expression was full of a barely concealed fury and Harry could plainly see that his uncle was attempting to reign himself in. "Well, go on then, boy. I guess I can't stop you," Uncle Vernon grunted through clenched teeth, his voice getting quieter but angrier as a vein in his temple pulsed noticeably underneath his perfectly flat hair. Had Harry not already been so depressed, he may have truly enjoyed watching his uncle gravitate so visibly between the impulse to throttle him and fear of the consequences if he actually did. It was odd really, but over the years the Dursleys' view of him had changed quite dramatically. They had gradually gone from bullying Harry to essentially fearing him, and this ongoing struggle had culminated last summer with Uncle Vernon trying to chuck him out of the house entirely. Uncle Vernon's face was now a peculiar mix of nervousness and suppressed rage - it seemed that Moody's threat and horrible visage were still apparently quite fresh in his mind.

Harry merely shrugged and walked slowly past his uncle. He didn't really care what his uncle said or did at the moment. Harry's relatives didn't know about Sirius' death, and Harry wouldn't have been able to tell them even if he'd wanted to. Numbly, Harry began to make his way to the front door. Upon reaching it, Harry noticed that Mrs. Figg was standing there in her tartan house slippers looking as anxious and batty as she always did. "Harry," Mrs. Figg cried without preamble. "Can you come with me?"

"Er ... okay," Harry mumbled, before she grabbed his shoulder in one of her bony hands. Mrs. Figg marched Harry up the shadowed walk and stopped behind a nearby clump of bushes. As she did, she seemed to be looking everywhere as if expecting something terrible to happen. Harry frowned at her and began looking around, as well. To Harry's surprise Remus Lupin appeared on the other side of the bushes, ducking carefully as if not wanting to be seen.

"Harry," Lupin whispered, as his young but wrinkled face glanced at him sideways. "Are you doing okay?"

"I'm okay," Harry said. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, we're still staying rather cautious with our communications and Dumbledore wanted one of us to go ahead and check on you in person," Lupin explained in a rush.

"Has anything happened?" Harry asked quickly, suddenly feeling out of the loop and rather paranoid. He hadn't really been paying any attention to the outside world since leaving Hogwarts. Harry had planned to get a subscription started again for the Daily Prophet, just to keep tabs on what they were saying even if it was pure rubbish, but he still hadn't done it - he'd been much too distracted.

"Nothing you need to concern yourself over right now, Harry. I won't say more here," Lupin replied, looking around carefully as a streetlamp gradually blinked into life above them. Lupin turned towards Harry then, focusing directly on his face for the first time. "You're looking a little pale, Harry, are you sure you're feeling well?"

Harry turned his face away slightly and looked askew at Lupin with his hands in his pockets. He didn't want to tell his former professor that he had barely left his bedroom since arriving there two weeks ago. Harry had felt so isolated from everything and everyone since Sirius had died that he had kept almost entirely to himself. Harry had always taken every available excuse to avoid the company of his relatives anyway, and though he hated to admit it, he now felt so miserable that he was hesitant to be around anyone else, either. Lupin gazed intently into Harry's face when he didn't answer. He seemed able to read Harry easily, even though Harry had tried to disguise just how horrible he was really feeling. "I think you've been here quite long enough," Lupin concluded.

"Are you here to take me with you?" Harry asked quietly, afraid he would say no.

Lupin seemed to be making up his mind. "Yes," he replied resolutely, after a moment's consideration. "Can you get your things?"

Harry glanced anxiously past the bushes at the darkened front of the house. Even in his current state of mind Harry knew that he'd rather be almost anywhere else. "Sure, just give me a second, and I'll be right out."

Once inside, Harry ran swiftly up the stairs and past his bewildered relatives. He pocketed his wand, hastily threw books, robes, cauldron, and broomstick into his trunk, grabbed Hedwig's cage and made his way back across Aunt Petunia's sparkling clean kitchen and stuffy living room to the front door. All three Dursleys watched Harry's progress nervously as he crossed in front of them once more, and Harry began to quicken his pace, eager to escape. Unfortunately, before Harry could reach for the doorknob, Uncle Vernon found his voice again.

"And just what do you think you're doing?" he yelled.

"I'm leaving," Harry said simply, wondering vaguely if Uncle Vernon was about to try to accost him.

"Well, get going then," Uncle Vernon sneered viciously.

None of the Dursleys were now making any moves to stop Harry, though Uncle Vernon looked quite livid. The fact that Harry was going to be able to come and go as he pleased, even if it was with his apparently hateful ex-babysitter, seemed to absolutely enrage him. Aunt Petunia and Dudley didn't seem angry, however, they seemed perfectly petrified, instead. Since Harry had had to fight dementors off of Dudley and himself last summer, both Aunt Petunia and Dudley had decidedly given Harry a very wide berth. It was almost as if they had finally realized that Harry really was a wizard, and simply wasn't bound by the same limitations that they were. Aunt Petunia in particular had scrupulously avoided her nephew since his return. It was almost as though she thought she might let something slip, as she had last year when she had almost unwittingly mentioned that she knew about dementors. Aunt Petunia had apparently known about the evil soul-sucking prison guards of Azkaban for years. Harry had been quite astounded to find out that little scrap of information, and he sometimes wondered what else his aunt was hiding beneath her snobby Muggle pretenses. If Harry had appeared more pale and melancholy than usual upon his arrival, all three Dursleys had made a concerted effort not to notice. They had never worried about Harry's happiness or general state of mind, anyway.

Harry had left his bedroom this summer only when completely necessary, so seeing Harry in their living room now with his arms full of obviously magical items seemed to be almost more than the Dursleys could bear. Aunt Petunia had suddenly seized Dudley's massive shoulders as if trying to protect him from the magical objects in Harry's trunk. Harry's cousin - despite his monstrous bulk, his boxing title, and his bullying nature - was looking at Harry as though he was some strange and mysterious oddity, utterly unpredictable and possibly dangerous. Harry felt more than ready to be rid of the lot of them, so he didn't bother with so much as a backwards glance as he struggled getting his school things out the door.

Back behind the bushes, Mrs. Figg and Lupin were waiting anxiously. Mrs. Figg was now giving Harry a rather fond look - almost like a grandmother would bestow upon her favorite grandchild - but then she jumped as if she had forgotten something and began wringing her hands. "Oh dear me! You must follow me back to my house, dear boy."

Harry glanced quizzically at Lupin, but Lupin just shook his head discouragingly at him as he reached to help him with his trunk. Both Lupin and Mrs. Figg were very watchful of Harry as they carefully crossed the two streets that led to Mrs. Figg's home. Upon reaching their destination, Lupin urged Harry inside the house and away from the exposed Muggle streets hastily. As they opened the door, Mrs. Figg's many cats ran everywhere and disappeared into the gathering darkness almost as if they were following some unspoken command.

Mrs. Figg led the way to the large stone fireplace in her doily decorated living room as Lupin and Harry caught up to her. Harry noticed that her house still smelled faintly of cabbage, just as it had when he was a child, but now the smell reminded him rather forcefully of certain potion ingredients he had used at school. Harry took a brief moment to take in his surroundings - he had spent a lot of time here just a few short years ago. As Harry looked from the pot of floo powder by the mantle to the long black cloak hanging on the back of her closet door, he wondered how he could have missed all of the signs pointing to Mrs. Figg as being something other than just a common ordinary member of the Muggle community. Of course at that time, every adult in Harry's life was quite keen on telling him to not to ask questions of any kind, so even if he had noticed these rather subtle clues, there would have been no guarantee that he would've been told anything pertinent about it anyway. Before he could really think much more about this, however, Mrs. Figg had grabbed the floo powder and began to shove it towards him. She then held it just out of Harry's reach as she paused almost uncertainly.

"Harry, please take care of yourself...." she said somewhat unsteadily, a rather puzzling expression on her wizened face. Harry waited for her to say something else, but she then looked away, peering furtively out the window. Harry continued to watch her uneasily for a moment - her movements were erratic and unsettled, and her frizzy gray hair was beginning to fly free of its hairnet. He was just beginning to walk over to look out the lace-covered windows himself when Mrs. Figg abruptly pushed the pot of floo powder into his hand and propelled him back towards the fireplace insistently. "No, no - you must get going now, while it's still safe!"

Harry stood there staring at her. He was beginning to feel more and more confounded by her behavior - it was now giving him a feeling of slight foreboding in the pit of his stomach. Mrs. Figg had always been rather eccentric, but these mannerisms were extremely peculiar, even for her. What was it that she wasn't telling him? Harry didn't have time for any queries, though, as Lupin strode up beside him. Lupin clutched his arm firmly and said, "Let's just get you to headquarters, Harry."

Harry was still feeling rather confused and more than a bit curious, but he nodded at Lupin anyway as he stepped toward the grate. Somewhat distractedly, Harry took a pinch of floo powder and threw it into Mrs. Figg's massive stone fireplace. With one last glance at Mrs. Figg's flowered living room, Harry stepped gingerly into the fire that was now producing green flames and said, "Number twelve, Grimmauld Place!"