Harry Potter and the Second War

CHAPTER ONE

The Calm Before A Storm

The summer of Harry Potter's sixteenth year elapsed, by his usual standards, rather peacefully.
There were no Brazilian Boa constrictors to set free from the zoo, nor unexpected visits from well-meaning house-elves, or midnight rides in flying Muggle cars. None of Vernon Dursley's obnoxious relatives came to stay; Aunt Marge herself had vowed never to set foot in Little Whinging again, although she couldn't quite remember why after her memory had been altered. And as for the Dementors, they hadn't been seen or heard of since deserting Azkaban several months earlier. Even the troubled dreams that had been plaguing Harry of late since the death of his godfather, Sirius, had ceased.
Yet Harry couldn't relax no matter how hard he tried. It was far too quiet, like the calm before a storm.

Much of the time he spent whiling away the long hours in his bedroom with Hedwig his sole companion, scrutinising copies of The Daily Prophet from cover to cover for anything of significance, or trying to catch up on essays for school. Perhaps not surprisingly, Dudley was doing his level best to avoid him. The only times Harry so much as glimpsed his portly cousin was from his bedroom window as he came and went with Piers Polkiss and the rest of his gang of bullies. There was no doubt in his mind that his aunt and uncle had warned their son to stay away from him to prevent any of the usual friction between the two, something which Harry felt unnecessary as he strongly suspected that having a Dementor sucking at his face last year was probably the real reason for Dudley's reluctance to be anywhere near him.

Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were barely speaking to him themselves following their encounter with Moody, Tonks and Arthur Weasley at King's Cross station at the end of term. Harry was certain that the very threat of Mad-Eye Moody - or indeed anyone from the Ministry of Magic - turning up on their doorstep or down their chimney to check on his well-being must be giving them sleepless nights.
But, after receiving Albus Dumbledore's Howler the previous year reminding her of the agreement she had made to allow Harry to live at Privet Drive for the sake of the protection charm, Aunt Petunia had made it clear upon Harry's return, and with a pointed look at her husband, that under no circumstances was anyone going to try to force him to leave this time. It had also been made quite clear, nevertheless, that Harry's presence was something which they would tolerate so long as he stayed out of their way in his room; even his meals were brought up on a tray and left outside his door.

Normally, Harry would have welcomed this enforced isolation. But without any household chores to keep him busy or the verbal sparring with Dudley, which he had to admit he enjoyed, he found he had more time alone with his thoughts. And right now that was the last thing he needed.
Finding a way to cope with the loss of the only father figure he'd ever known was difficult enough. He didn't think he would ever forget the twisted look of horror on Sirius Black's face as he had fallen through the strange veiled arch in the Department of Mysteries.
But the events of that fateful night last term had also signalled the start of something Harry wasn't sure he was quite ready to face. Something that he wasn't ashamed to admit, to himself at least, frightened him. He was, after all, only sixteen; a young man. He should be enjoying his teenage years instead of worrying about Dark Wizards who wanted him dead. He reached up and ran his fingers over the scar on his forehead. He had no choice though, that had been taken away from him before he was even born. No amount of hiding now could change what was going to happen. There was no escaping what he must do; what he was expected to do.

And so, along with everyone else whether they were aware of it or not, he found himself playing a waiting game. Exactly what they were all waiting for he wasn't entirely sure, but he knew something so important wouldn't pass unnoticed. It would signify the start of something that would destroy the lives of many, and not just those belonging to the wizarding world.

The beginning of the Second War was imminent.

There were those who thought it had already began, but Harry believed differently. Yes, Voldemort was back, a fact that was at last being acknowledged by the Ministry of Magic. And yes, it appeared he had already set his twisted plans in motion with the mass breakout of his followers from Azkaban, and their recent infiltration of Ministry headquarters.
But what he'd so far accomplished was nothing, he'd barely even touched the surface. The worst was yet to come, and Harry couldn't help feeling torn. Part of him was relieved that nothing had happened since the end of term, but the more realistic part of him knew it was just a matter of time and he almost wished Voldemort would do something to put an end to the interminable wait.

Harry threw his quill aside with an agitated grunt. Not even his Defence Against the Dark Arts homework, his favourite subject at school, could keep his mind off what wasn't happening elsewhere. He pushed himself off his rumpled bed and padded barefoot to the window, absently ruffling Hedwig's snowy feathers as he passed her cage and receiving a soft peck in return.
Outside, Privet Drive lay cloaked in darkness. Thick clouds hid the stars overhead from view, and the only visible sign of the moon in the night sky was a faint silvery glow. Harry stifled a yawn and peered down at Dudley's old watch that he had rescued from the bin last year.

Almost two in the morning.

He dragged himself up onto the window sill and sat looking out over the quiet street, hugging his knees to his chest. The nightmares may have stopped, but he wasn't finding sleeping any easier. It didn't seem to matter how tired he was, the moment his head touched the pillow he was wide awake, so many things running through his mind: Ron and Hermione and the rest of Dumbledore's Army; the incident at the Ministry when they had come face to face with Voldemort and his Death Eaters; Draco Malfoy's father, Lucius, being arrested by Ministry officials; a tiny revolving Professor Trelawney making her prophecy; his own parents smiling at him from within the confines of the Mirror of Erised...

Following Harry's discovery of the prophecy deep within the annals of the Ministry last term, Professor Dumbledore had opened up to Harry in a way he never had before. He had learnt a lot of things that brought certain areas of his life into clarity, such as why he'd been left with relatives who didn't want him after the deaths of his parents, the reason behind Snape's hatred for him, and not least of all why Voldemort wanted him dead. But Harry knew deep down that he still didn't know everything, that there was a lot more the ageing Hogwarts headmaster was withholding. Exactly what else was to come? Having found out that he must one day face Voldemort in what would be for both of them a life or death confrontation, it couldn't possibly get any worse.

Harry's musings were interrupted by the soft creak of a door on the landing. A sliver of light illuminated the gap under his own door, and he could hear his aunt's unmistakeably light footsteps descending the stairs. He managed a wry grin. Moody really had given them sleepless nights. But then the grin fell from his face. Was it that? Or was it something else keeping her awake? Aunt Petunia knew enough about the wizarding world from having had a witch as a sister to know who Voldemort was and the threat that his return posed. Maybe it was weighing on her mind just as heavily as it was his.

For the briefest of moments, Harry had never felt so close to his aunt. He could hear her in the kitchen, filling the kettle, and was suddenly struck with an overwhelming sense of family that he'd never felt before. It was ridiculous really, he disliked her as much as she did him.
But she understood, and he would give anything to talk to someone - anyone - who did. Ron and Hermione sent letters, but it wasn't the same as when they were all together. Besides, they were under instruction from Dumbledore to be extra careful what they wrote about. They hinted at various things, but never in a way that would reveal anything important if the letters were intercepted.

He really wished he could see them again before term started, but this year that wouldn't be possible. Hermione was on holiday in Italy with her family, and Ron and his sister Ginny had been packed off to Romania with their brother Charlie. 'So that we won't mess in Order business' Ron had complained in one of his letters. Harry smiled inwardly as he remembered their attempts to listen in on the Order of the Phoenix's meetings during their stay at number twelve, Grimmauld Place a year ago. But thinking about the ancestral home of the Black family brought Sirius to the forefront of his thoughts again.

At that precise moment Harry missed his two best friends more than he ever had before.

He was about to leave the window when a movement in the street below caught his eye. Harry froze, his eyes scanning the pavement at the bottom of the Dursleys' drive. For a while he saw nothing, and was ready to put it down to his overwrought imagination when a shadow at the back of Uncle Vernon's car shifted. Harry squinted into the darkness, straining his eyes to catch another glimpse, but all was still. He waited several minutes, until a slight breeze shook the leaves of the bushy Rhododendron in the middle of the lawn, drawing his attention. When he looked back at the car it was just in time to see a small black shape shoot out from beneath and dart across the road. As it headed for the gate of the house opposite, a security light lit up and bathed it in a pool of golden light. It paused, turned its vivid green eyes to Harry and gazed at him for a moment, its mouth opening in a silent 'miaow', white fangs gleaming. Then it was gone; over the gate and down the path into the darkness in one swift dash.

Harry let out the breath he hadn't realised he was holding and tried to laugh it off. It was only a cat, one of batty old Mrs Figg's if he wasn't mistaken. Nothing to get spooked over. But the frown didn't leave his brow as he slithered off the sill, and the goose bumps on his arms had nothing to do with the night-time chill on the landing as he left his bedroom. He really hadn't liked the way the cat had stopped and looked at him. He knew it was silly, but then he also knew that Mrs Figg's cats weren't quite as ordinary as they appeared.

Dudley snorted in his sleep as Harry passed his bedroom door. And then something that had been nudging at the edge of Harry's thoughts finally butted in. Why was Privet Drive so dark? What had happened to the street lamps? Not one of them was lit...
This dawning realisation wasn't what brought him to an abrupt halt at the top of the stairs, however, his hand gripping the bannister so hard that his knuckles turned white. It was the ear piercing scream that suddenly split the silence of the night in two, and the accompanying flash of green light from the kitchen that lit up the hallway and turned his blood to ice.

Aunt Petunia!

But before Harry had time to react, Uncle Vernon came stumbling out onto the landing in his green-checked underpants and white vest, shaking a chintz duvet to the floor. "Petunia!" he bellowed, his face ashen. He didn't acknowledge his nephew's presence other than to push him aside in his hurry to get down the stairs. Still half-entangled in the duvet, though, he missed the bottom step and fell with a grunt onto his backside in the hall where he sat, winded. Harry, who was right behind him, managed to avoid him with a well-timed leap. He turned in the direction of the kitchen and came to a horrified stop at the sight that greeted him.

The conservatory doors were wide open and a hunched figure was crouched over the lifeless body of Aunt Petunia, dragging her awkwardly by the shoulders into the garden. The figure lifted his head as Harry appeared and Harry's heart sank into his stomach. Ever since the Dementor attack last year, what he had feared most had happened. Voldemort had brought the fight to the Dursleys.

Huffing and puffing, Uncle Vernon was struggling to his feet behind him. Harry wasted no time. He turned to him, grabbing him by the arms. "Get upstairs," he hissed. "Get Dudley, and get out of the house!"
His uncle blinked at him as if he'd never seen Harry before. "Now!" Harry urged desperately, trying to turn him back towards the stairs. It didn't matter that these people had made his childhood years hell; that was irrelevant to Harry now. He knew perfectly well why this had happened to his aunt. What concerned him was that he couldn't be sure if the protection he received from Petunia would continue through her own son. And if he didn't know that, then Voldemort and his followers wouldn't either. Dudley's life may also be in danger and Harry wasn't about to stand by if he could prevent it. Besides, despite everything, they didn't deserve this. Nobody deserved this.

But it was too late. A bewildered Vernon Dursley had looked past Harry's shoulder to see the limp body of his wife disappearing down the garden path between the flower beds. "Petunia!" he bellowed again, and this time it was Harry who ended up on the floor winded. He immediately scrambled back up and followed after his uncle who was blundering through the kitchen, bits of a broken mug crunching beneath his feet. "Uncle Vernon," he yelled, "it's no use. There's nothing you can do." He wasn't aware of the front door banging open behind him. "You need to get out of here," he continued helplessly, his words falling on deaf ears. All his uncle was concerned about was his wife, he didn't understand the danger that he was putting himself in.

Harry hesitated, unsure what to do, and in that split second of indecision someone shouted his name from the hallway. Harry looked back and for the first time in his life actually found himself wishing that this was one of his nightmares. Arabella Figg was advancing towards him in a flowery dressing gown and slippers, a lurid pink hairnet covering her rollered hair and, to Harry's utter astonishment, brandishing a wand. "Get down boy," she demanded, and Harry promptly dropped to his knees just in time as a flash of yellow light shot over him and struck Uncle Vernon on the back of the head.

The effect was immediate. Just like the characters in the Saturday morning cartoons that Dudley still watched, Vernon Dursley froze in mid-step, his feet not even touching the ground. Then almost in slow motion, he toppled forward like a felled tree, coming to rest face down on the gravel path with a heavy crunch.

Harry winced and turned to gape questioningly at Mrs Figg as she reached his side and extended a wrinkled hand to him.

"Stunned him," she said by way of an explanation, then peered at the body and added faintly, "... I hope." Harry noticed the old lady was shaking as she helped him to his feet.

"But..." Harry stared at her. "How?" He looked at the wand that she was gripping tightly in a manner that did little to instil confidence. "I mean," he exclaimed, "you're a Squ-!"

Mrs Figg shushed him with her hands. "Let's get you out of here," she whispered, nodding her head at the stooped figure now stood at the end of the garden. Petunia Dursley lay in a crumpled heap at his feet.

Harry looked from the wand to Mrs Figg, and then to his uncle. "But how did you-?" he began.

"That's not important," his elderly neighbour interrupted, a nervous edge to her voice. "What is important is getting you to safety while we still can." With frequent glances over her shoulder, Mrs Figg took Harry by the arm and attempted to usher him towards the front door but before they could reach it Harry shook free and turned back.

The figure was watching him from beneath his hooded cloak.

"Come on, boy," the old lady warned in a low voice. "There could be more of them and a simple stun won't be much use if there is."

But Harry shook his head. The shock and disbelief at what had happened was quickly being replaced by a seething anger, which left no room for common sense. He had recognised Aunt Petunia's killer, and was incensed by the gall that the man had shown in coming here. He gritted his teeth. "I don't care how many Death Eaters, or Dementors, or whatever else there might be out there," he stated. "He's not getting away again." A faint whisper in his mind urged him on.

"This isn't the time or the place," Mrs Figg replied in exasperation. But seeing the stubborn look on his face, she pressed the wand she was clutching into his hand without another word and hobbled through the conservatory after him, her small beady eyes peering all around as they reached the doors.

Harry paused. "Wait here," he said softly.

"I don't like this..." Mrs Figg hissed.

Harry's reply was swallowed up in a muted curse as he trod on something that screeched loudly, almost making him jump out of his skin.

"Twinkle!" Mrs Figg gasped, and bent clumsily to extract the small black feline's claws from where it had embedded them in Harry's ankle. Harry's eyes watered as she pulled them free. From the look of rebuke she gave him as she straightened with the offending creature cradled in her arms, he felt sure she'd deliberately been less gentle than she could have. He shook his head in irritation. "Just... wait here," he reiterated.
Harry's fingers tightened on the unfamiliar wand as he stepped cautiously outside and scanned the shadowed garden. Nothing moved. He slowly made his way down the path, stepping carefully over the prostrate form of Vernon Dursley.

The figure at the end of the garden shuffled his feet warily as Harry approached. He had the air of someone who wanted to be anywhere other than here, and given his history with the Potter family it wasn't at all surprising. They stood facing each other, ten feet or so apart, Harry trying as hard as he could not to look down into the horror-stricken, wide-eyed face of his dead aunt. Images of Cedric Diggory's face, also struck down by the killing curse, filled his head instead and it was all Harry could do to focus on the scruffy, smelly little rodent-faced man in front of him.

Peter Pettigrew, betrayer of Harry's parents, the man responsible for their murders and also the incarceration of Sirius Black who was wrongly arrested for the crime, snuffled and looked up at Harry, a sly smile revealing his prominent yellow front teeth. "Harry Potter..."

Harry fixed Pettigrew with a hard steady gaze.

Nonplussed, Pettigrew lifted his right arm out in front of him and slowly clenched and unclenched the solid silver hand attached to it, admiring it as he had when Voldemort had first bestowed it upon him. "Do you remember the last time we met?" he snivelled. "I hope the wound to your arm healed as well as mine..."

Harry clenched his jaw. The last time he'd had the misfortune of being in Pettigrew's company, Pettigrew had sliced a deep cut into Harry's arm for a few drops of blood, before slicing off his own hand and proceeding to resurrect Voldemort with some form of archaic magic.
The cut itself had healed well thanks to the skill of Madam Pomfrey, the Hogwarts school nurse, although there was a resulting scar and this irritated Harry more than anyone knew. It was a constant reminder whenever he looked at it of the part he'd been forced to play in Voldemort's return to the physical world. Something that conflicted sharply with the scar he was renowned for - the lightning bolt on his forehead. The scar that had formed from the very strike that had destroyed Voldemort in the first place. What angered Harry even more was that both of these scars were tied to deaths that he in some way blamed himself for - his parents and Cedric Diggory.
He often wondered how many more of these scars he would have to bear before it was all over...

Pettigrew was leering up at him from the hooded cowl of his cloak, awaiting Harry's reaction. Harry fought back the anger inside and said simply, "Why?"

Pettigrew immediately glanced down to the body at his feet and he gave a wheezy chuckle. "Not as pretty as her sister," he said slyly and poked Petunia Dursley with a grubby foot.

"Why?" Harry repeated in a tight voice, trying to keep a rein on the urge to wrestle this foul creature head first into the worm-filled compost bin behind him and leave him there for the Ministry officials to find.

Pettigrew looked up at him, his eyes narrowed quizzically. "What's this, Harry Potter? Upset at your aunt's death?" He pushed her more forcibly, his eyes fixed on Harry's face. "After the way they treated you, you should be on your knees thanking me." He broke into raspy laughter.

"I'm not talking about her," Harry forced out through gritted teeth. He took a step forward, clenching Mrs Figg's wand in his fist. "They never wanted me. They hate me. So no, I'm not upset. I don't care about her." It wasn't entirely true. He did care, but not through any real love for her. She had been murdered by the same man responsible for his parents' murders. That's why he cared. And that poor excuse of a man stood in front of him now, laughing in his face. "I'm talking about you. Wasn't murdering my parents enough for you?"

The laughter died abruptly. Pettigrew opened his mouth, seemingly to protest, but Harry ploughed on regardless. "Oh, you may not have done it with your own hands," he was struggling to keep his voice under control now, "but you are as much responsible for their deaths as Voldemort is."

Pettigrew shuffled backwards, his eyes darting from the wand to Harry's face and back again. Harry took another step forward, slowly raising the wand. The faint whisper in his mind returned, goading him. 'Do it, do it!' When he spoke again his voice didn't sound like his own. "I should have let Sirius kill you when he had the chance."

Pettigrew chuckled nervously and shook his head. "You wouldn't," he stated, but there was a waver of uncertainty in his words.

"Wouldn't I?" Harry replied.

In the next instant he was on the ground breathing in dirt, his head throbbing. He coughed and spluttered but when he tried to lift himself up he was pushed down again by a foot on the back of his neck. He twisted his head to one side with difficulty.

Pettigrew had slumped to his knees, his body shaking with renewed laughter. "I have a message for you," he wheezed, "from the Dark Lord." He grabbed hold of Petunia's colourless hand in his equally colourless silver one and promptly Disapparated with a loud crack, his final words echoing after him. "You're running out of places to hide, Harry Potter..."

The pressure holding him down lifted abruptly. Harry's fingers dug into the dry soil of the flower bed as he scrambled to his feet. The wand was missing. He opened his mouth to summon it back to him, but before he could utter a word someone shouted 'Crucio!' and he collapsed in agony, writhing on the ground as intense pain exploded throughout his body. He had suffered identical pain once before, at the hands of Voldemort, but it was no easier to bear for the experience. Everything else was forgotten, only the white-hot stabbing sensation of hundreds of phantom blades remained.
His torture lasted mere seconds, although it felt much longer. He was left gasping for air. He vaguely wondered where Mrs Figg was before another Crucio curse gripped his body, forcing him to curl into a ball, screaming in agony. Every muscle in his body had contracted into cramp-like spasms, not one part of him was spared. His screams dissolved into huge gulping sobs as the curse subsided but the respite was brief as another racked his body, twisting him horribly, almost lifting him from the ground. When it was over he was barely conscious.

"You couldn't, Harry." His name was literally spat at him. He fought against the blanket of fog clouding his head. The voice was muffled, yet it sounded vaguely familiar. "You don't have it in you to use a killing curse. That's your weakness."

This time, as a final curse struck him and he slipped into the darkness that opened up before him, he was certain. He knew that voice, and it shocked him to the core when he realised to whom it belonged.

***

Harry had been sat on Mrs Figg's back doorstep for what seemed like hours when the door opened and a bright shaft of light momentarily lit the backyard. A fox which had been nuzzling in a bag of rubbish beside the bin, apparently oblivious to Harry's presence, shot through a hole in the fence and disappeared into the night. Albus Dumbledore pulled the door closed behind him and, without so much as a word or even a glance at Harry, sat down on the step beside him.

Harry had regained consciousness in Arabella Figg's front room, stretched out on a threadbare sofa that bore the rather pungent aroma of cat. A thick knitted blanket covered his legs and his head rested on a very flat, uncomfortable pillow. He had no recollection of how he had gotten there, or even why he was there until he tried to sit up and received a sharp stabbing pain in the head for his effort. It was then that the night's events came flooding back to him in a sudden rush which left him dizzy and weak. Collapsing back on the sofa he stared up at the ceiling bathed in moonlight, watching the long shadows of a tree's branches swaying above him. Aunt Petunia's deathly white face popped unbidden into his head and a heavy feeling of guilt immediately settled upon his shoulders. Harry had felt the same insufferable guilt after Cedric Diggory's murder a year ago, but this threatened to be much worse. His words to Pettigrew came back to haunt him.

'They never wanted me. They hate me. So no, I'm not upset. I don't care about her.'

The night that Sirius had died, Dumbledore had sat Harry down in his office and they had shared a lengthy and at times difficult conversation, during which Dumbledore had explained his reasoning for leaving Harry with his aunt all those years ago. But Harry realised now that he still didn't know why Petunia had agreed to it. She must have known the danger she was placing herself in, but she had taken him in anyway. The son of a sister she loathed. He couldn't understand it. And now she was dead. He hated her as much as ever, but now he felt a strange kind of sympathy towards her too. She had wanted no part in Harry's life, or his parents'. So why had she done what she had for him? What had driven her to give him her protection despite all of that? Was it really just fear of Dumbledore as he had been led to believe? These thoughts played over and over in his head until things became so confused that it was Pettigrew who was telling a Harry-who-looked-like-Dudley why he had been left with his aunt, while Dumbledore was standing in the Dursleys' back garden with a dead Lily at his feet.

Eventually the loud crack of someone Apparating jolted him from his jumbled thoughts and forced his mind back to the present. The Ministry would be crawling all over Privet Drive by now, making sure that the residents were aware of nothing that had passed that night. If that wasn't one of them arriving here at Mrs Figg's, then it would only be a matter of time, and he could really do without them and their questions. The longer he could avoid having to talk to them, the better.

He struggled up off the settee, trying in vain to set his glasses straight on his nose until he realised that the reason they were askew was due to a large cotton pad on the side of his head, held in place by a tightly wound bandage which he immediately ripped off and threw onto the pillow. The room was cold and unlit, except for a small fringed lamp in one corner that barely illuminated the little end table upon which it stood. Harry wrapped the blanket around him and headed for the door. He could hear muted voices coming from the hallway. Cracking the door open slightly, he peered out. The hallway was in darkness but he could make out three shadowy figures silhouetted in the open front doorway. The kitchen door opposite stood ajar, the room beyond also in darkness. As the front door closed, one of the figures uttered 'Lumos' and the tip of his wand flared into light. It was Remus Lupin.

His was the first friendly face Harry had seen in months and he had to fight back the urge to call out to him. As he had feared upon hearing the Apparate, the two men with the former Hogwarts teacher were very clearly Ministry officials. Remus showed them into the living room but before he could shut the door there was a loud wail and the sound of smashing china. Harry jumped in shock, all his nerves on edge. The sound of someone sobbing uncontrollably reached his ears, and more than one soothing voice doing their best to calm the situation. But whatever the reason for the minor disruption, it gave him the opportunity to flee unnoticed into the kitchen.

Harry wished irritably that he had his wand with him as he fumbled his way along the wall. Eventually his fingers brushed over the plastic light switch and he flicked it on, bathing the kitchen in a harsh white glare. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard behind the door and filled it with water at the sink. His throat was horribly dry and sore. As he drank the cool liquid in long gulps, he reached up to feel his head where the bandage had been. It felt swollen and sore to the touch, and his fingers came back sticky from partially dried blood. He rinsed them under the tap, but as he watched the red droplets trickle down the plughole he was hit by another sudden wave of dizziness and was forced to clutch at the work surface to steady himself. The walls seemed to loom in on him from either side, and his chest felt constricted making breathing uncomfortable and difficult. He felt like a trapped animal with no means of escape. While the Ministry vultures gathered. He desperately needed some fresh air before he collapsed again.

The slabbed backyard was small compared to the neighbouring houses, something that wasn't helped by a large dilapidated shed in one corner. The mismatched fencing was missing in places and there wasn't a blade of grass to be seen, only a minimal number of tubs dotted here and there containing pitiful examples of Pansies. Harry knew from his occasional stays here that Mrs Figg rarely used it. This was the domain of her Kneazle cats. He shut the back door quietly behind him and slid down it, sinking onto the cold step. Pulling the blanket tightly around his shoulders, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the door.

It was here that Dumbledore found him some time later. Harry had no idea how long the Hogwarts headmaster had been at the house, certainly no one else had Apparated in or out. Neither of them spoke for a while, Harry because he didn't know where to start, and Dumbledore just content to wait in silence.

"The Ministry officials..?" Harry asked eventually.

"Have left," Dumbledore replied shortly.

There was another silence. "I didn't hear them leave..." Harry said at length.

"That would be because they left via the Floo Network, taking Arabella with them." Dumbledore appeared less than happy with the situation. He clasped his gnarled hands together in his lap and finally looked at Harry who was still staring off into the darkness. "It was Arabella they were here for, Harry, not you. They felt putting her through a side-along Apparition would be too much for her tonight." Dumbledore patted Harry's arm. "However," he added, "I daresay that someone from the Ministry will wish to speak with you at some point today."

Harry chose not to think about that. "Mrs Figg..." He turned to look at Dumbledore. "She can use magic?"

Dumbledore smiled a secret smile. "So it would appear. That was quite a stun she performed on Vernon Dursley, I fear it will take him a while to recover."

"But -" Harry's brow wrinkled in confusion. "Professor... I don't understand. Does this mean she's a witch?"

"Of sorts." Dumbledore sighed heavily. He knew Harry's sudden interest in Arabella Figg's magical status was his way of trying to avoid talking about the night's other events, so he would indulge him for as long as was necessary. "When I arrived here tonight, Arabella was in quite a state," he explained. "I managed to have a fairly intelligible talk with her before Adlow and Hunt from the Improper Use of Magic Office arrived, and from what I could gather she has been taking a Kwikspell course to learn how to perform magic."

Harry was instantly reminded of the Hogwarts caretaker, Argus Filch, another Squib who in the past had used a Kwikspell course for the same purpose but with no apparent success. "There's no law against that though, is there?" Harry asked. "The use of Kwikspell courses?"

"No, Harry, there's no law against using them. They are certainly not illegal; deceptive perhaps, but not illegal. For Squibs who believe what these courses claim to offer, the end result is usually nothing more than a financial loss."

"So what do the Ministry want with her?"

"Well, occasionally there are cases such as Arabella's, where an apparent Squib develops limited spell-casting abilities after taking a course such as the Kwikspell one. It isn't normally such an issue, the results being so weak they require no regulation. However, given the present situation that we all find ourselves in, the Ministry has introduced new laws concerning use of magic. Unfortunately for Arabella, she was unaware that with her new-found ability she would have to register as a witch. And the Ministry is not impressed."

Harry glanced up at Mrs Figg's house. For the Ministry to be tightening up on something it would normally consider a trivial matter was a sign of just how serious things were becoming. "What will happen to her?" he asked.

"I have spoken with Mafalda Hopkirk at the Improper Use of Magic Office and she has assured me that, given the circumstances, all Arabella will be required to do is complete registration papers and then she will be free to return home."

Harry nodded and lapsed back into silence. Dumbledore waited patiently.

Finally, Harry whispered, "Why did they kill her, Professor?"

"I think you already know the answer to that question."

Harry nodded. "To break the protection charm." That was the one thing that had been clear all along. "But why now, Professor? Why not fifteen years ago? Or five years ago? If it was as easy as someone walking into the house and killing my aunt, why hasn't Voldemort done it before now?"

"Fifteen years ago," Dumbledore reminded him, "Voldemort was nothing more than a shadow of his former self, helpless to do anything about you. Even as recently as eighteen months ago he lacked a physical form, and had few Death Eaters to aid him. It was only with his resurrection that you returned to the forefront of his plans once again."

"So, why not then?"

"The truth is, Harry, that the Dursley house has been protected by more than just the charm placed upon it by myself. Its location was a closely guarded secret with only a trusted few being privy to that information myself, Professor McGonagall and Hagrid. And, of course, Arabella. More recently, upon its reformation, the Order of the Phoenix members." Harry opened his mouth but Dumbledore pre-empted what he was about to say. "With the exception of Severus Snape," he emphasised, looking pointedly at the young man sat beside him, "who had no desire to know." Harry closed his mouth again and listened on in silence.

"Following your re-emergence into the wizarding world, and subsequent arrival at Hogwarts," Dumbledore continued, "those in the most senior positions at the Ministry had to be informed. It was then that added measures were put in place to protect Privet Drive, namely an Occultus charm. Similar to the charm placed on Hogwarts," Dumbledore supplied at Harry's questioning look, "except it works in reverse in that only Muggles may see through it. In your case, unless they knew the exact address of the Dursley house, anyone other than a Muggle would have been unable to find it. And you alone have been the one to decide who, in addition to those I've mentioned, it was given to." Seeing Harry's surprised expression, Dumbledore leaned in and said with a conspiratorial smile, "I didn't think for one moment you would give your home address to someone you didn't absolutely trust."

Harry returned the smile faintly. "Still, Professor, it would have been nice to have known."

Dumbledore gave a slight apologetic nod and then his face grew serious as he peered at Harry intently. He would get no pleasure from admitting what he was about to. "As you well know, the only time its security was compromised was when Dolores Umbridge herself sent Dementors here." Dumbledore paused. It was vital that Harry should realise the importance of this. "Her memory was subsequently altered, and she has no recollection of any Privet Drive."

Harry met Dumbledore's solemn gaze with a feeling of growing apprehension as he read between the man's words. "What are you saying, Professor?"

"What I'm saying, Harry, is that it appears we have a leak amongst the people we trust most."

The words hung in the air between them, their meaning settling heavily on Harry's shoulders as he fought to comprehend the fact that someone they both knew, and had placed their trust in, had betrayed them. The first person that came to mind had unwittingly ruled himself out long ago. With Snape not an option, Harry focused on those he distrusted almost as much. "The Ministry," he muttered. "It has to be someone in the Ministry."

Dumbledore smiled sadly. "That would be the favourable outcome, given the alternatives. But I'm afraid, Harry, that the truth may be something neither of us wish to face."

Harry stared down at the ground. Aunt Petunia's face was no longer haunting him. Now it was the faces of those closest to him. Lupin, Tonks, the Weasleys, Mad-Eye... all the Order members who had become like a second family to him in many ways. He didn't want to think - couldn't think - of any of them being something other than what they were.

"Anyway, Harry..." Dumbledore's voice seemed to come from afar. Harry was barely able to hear him amidst the inner turmoil he was experiencing. "I think the attack tonight is Tom Riddle's way of saying enough is enough. This was his shot across the bow, if you wish to see it in such a way." When there was no response, Dumbledore carried on. "I must say, he has made a quite brilliant move in sending one of his lowest-ranked Death Eaters to strike right at the heart of Harry Potter's bubble of safety. He's shown his strength to his supporters, but more importantly, to those who stand against him."

Still no response.

"I think we can fully expect the war to start in earnest within the next few days," Dumbledore finished solemnly, attempting to impart the nature of the situation in the tone of his voice. But Harry only nodded distantly, and Dumbledore quickly realised he was in danger of overloading him. He had been put through a tremendous amount for one night, and it wasn't over yet. Voldemort's declaration of war would have to be addressed another day, when it could be given the attention it rightfully warranted. Dumbledore smiled to himself. He had to admire Harry's inability to be phased by something which would have brought others to their knees in fear. It was that, if nothing else, which was going to see him through what lay ahead.

"There was somebody else there..." Harry announced suddenly, the memory popping into his head from nowhere. "With Wormtail."

Dumbledore nodded. That was the next matter he had wanted to address. He touched a finger to the throbbing wound on Harry's head. "We had surmised that already, physical violence is hardly Peter Pettigrew's style." He peered closely at Harry. "Do you remember who it was?"

Harry frowned, desperately searching the recesses of his memory but the identity of his attacker would not come to him. "I didn't see their face..." he said instinctively "...it was only their voice I heard. But it was someone I knew." He rubbed his forehead in frustration. "I just can't remember who..." Harry's voice trailed off and his eyes met Dumbledore's as he began to realise what had happened to him. "It's like it's been ripped out of my memory..." he whispered.

Dumbledore's brow creased and he nodded his confirmation. "It would seem that someone has erased part of your memory. Unfortunately there's no easy way to retrieve it, if at all, and the effects of such a procedure can be horrific. However, the fact that you remember that there is something to remember in the first place is hopeful. It indicates a less than successful Obliviate, perhaps due to inexperience or haste. Let us hope that in time something will prompt the memory to return."

"Isn't there any way we can identify which spells were cast at the Dursleys' tonight, and by who?" Harry asked in frustration. He knew he was clutching at straws because he already knew what the answer would be, but he had a feeling that the identity of his mystery assailant was something they needed to find out. The sooner, the better.

Dumbledore shook his head. "Had it been someone underage, then yes." His blue eyes twinkled. "You know that better than most."

Harry smiled in spite of the seriousness of the situation.

"We've detected traces of several spells tonight in the immediate vicinity of the Dursley house," continued Dumbledore, "all of which can be accounted for, including the use of an Obliviate. But that tells us little as your uncle required one. We can't distinguish how many were cast, and without the wand used we cannot begin to trace by who."

"What about Mrs Figg? She was there, didn't she see anything?"

What sounded suspiciously like a snort of laughter escaped Dumbledore. "It would appear that Arabella, fearing for the safety of her cat, had popped inside to shut it in the living room. Which is where Remus found her. She had been locked in."

Harry shook his head with mild amusement. There was something oddly comforting about Mrs Figg putting her cat's welfare before his. He couldn't quite explain it, but it made him feel a little bit like a normal person for once, instead of one who held the future of the wizarding world in his hands.

"You were both very lucky tonight," Dumbledore said suddenly. "Confronting a Death Eater with an unknown wand could have had a disastrous outcome, Harry. Not to mention the fact that it was so obviously a trap you walked into. You allowed your judgement to be clouded by your desire to see Peter Pettigrew pay and in the process put your own life, as well as that of Arabella's, in danger."

Harry's face had grown solemn as Dumbledore spoke. He could not deny the truth of his words. He had been so focused on Pettigrew that he had not looked at the bigger picture.

"Do not make the mistake of underestimating any of Voldemort's Death Eaters," Dumbledore added, gazing into the night. "Whilst it may be true that they are under orders not to kill you, those orders will not stretch to torture, be it mental or physical. I know that you were subjected to the Cruciatus curse tonight."

"Several times," Harry mumbled.

Dumbledore glanced sideways at him briefly, then resumed his study of the shadows. "I doubt very much that I need to remind you of what happened to the Longbottoms. Voldemort only wants you alive; in what state he gets you is irrelevant to him."

Harry nodded mutely.

"Keep in mind, too, that they could have taken you with them tonight even if that hadn't been their initial intention. You gave them the perfect opportunity. Fortunately, Arabella's warning reached Remus just in time for us to disturb them." Dumbledore fell quiet, giving Harry time to dwell on his words.

"Are they okay?" Harry asked after a while. "Uncle Vernon and Dudley..."

Dumbledore shifted on the step. "Your uncle is fine, a little the worse for wear when we found him. Arabella's stun really was quite a powerful one for someone of her inexperience. Your cousin, I am surprised to say, managed to sleep through it all."

Harry wasn't at all surprised. Not even an uprooted Mandrake screech would wake a sleeping Dudley. "What will happen to them now?"

"Your uncle has had his memory of tonight erased, and both have had their memories altered." Dumbledore hesitated and gave Harry a searching gaze, unsure what the reaction would be to his next words. "We felt it wise for them to retain as little memory of you as possible."

Harry blinked in surprise. He hadn't expected that. "How little is 'little'?"

"Only that you are Petunia's nephew who, until recently, lived with them in Surrey. Nothing more. As for what will happen to them now, they are as we speak on their way to the safe house we'd intended to evacuate them to on the eve of your seventeenth birthday." Dumbledore faltered as Harry bowed his head deep into his chest. "I assure you," he promised, "they will be taken care of."

Harry shook his head. "It's not that, Professor. I know this is the best thing for everyone. It's just that..."

Dumbledore placed a hand on Harry's shoulder.

"I know they never wanted me, but Aunt Petunia was the closest thing I had left to my mum. In a way it's as if Voldemort has succeeded in taking away what little family I had left."

Dumbledore squeezed Harry's shoulder gently. "You have more family than anyone could ever wish for, Harry."

Harry smiled and bowed his head again. Talking of the Dursleys had brought him back to the reason for why his aunt had taken him in all those years ago. He almost felt that he owed it to her to learn the truth. "Aunt Petunia," he continued. "She hated me. Yet she gave me somewhere to live where she knew I would be protected." Harry was visibly confused, trying to reconcile the conflicting facts. "I've never thought about it much before tonight, but why? I know you had something to do with it, but even so. She didn't have to take me in." He looked questioningly at Dumbledore. "Did she?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, Harry, she was under no compulsion to look after you other than the one she placed upon herself." He looked at the young man sat beside him, the young man who he had seen grow so much over the last few years both in body and spirit, and decided that Petunia Dursley owed him the truth. "Your aunt never hated you, Harry. Not truly. She was, however, a very stubborn woman who buried her emotions deep inside. She harboured a bitter resentment of Lily which, upon her passing, she transferred to you. In Petunia's eyes, Lily had everything that she wanted and couldn't have; an aptitude for magic, a new life at Hogwarts, and eventually, the love of the man she herself cared for."

Harry was visibly shocked at this revelation. "My father?' he whispered in disbelief.

"No, Harry, not James." Dumbledore had said as much as he was prepared to. The elderly wizard rose to his feet and turned to look down at Harry. "Petunia turned her back on a world that it was clear she could never be a part of. What she became is the woman you knew. But there was a time when she and your mother were inseparable." And he slipped through the back door leaving Harry alone with his thoughts.

***

The dark sky was slowly being washed a deep shade of indigo blue when Harry entered Mrs Figg's kitchen to find Dumbledore sat at the kitchen table, stroking a large ginger cat which had curled up on his lap, purring loudly. It reminded him of Hermione's cat, Crookshanks, a big ball of fluff with a squashed face. Dumbledore looked up at him expectantly, his old face looking tired and strained.

"What happens now?" Harry asked him.

Dumbledore picked up the cat as he stood, and placed it on the floor where it rubbed itself happily against the headmaster's robes, twisting and turning and eventually rolling onto its back. "Your safety has been compromised, Harry. You are no longer safe here."

"Am I safe anywhere?" Harry couldn't hide the bitterness in his voice.

"At this precise moment, there is only one place I would consider safe for you."

"The Burrow?" asked Harry hopefully.

"No, The Burrow isn't safe either." Dumbledore suddenly looked every bit as old as he was rumoured to be. "It was targeted earlier tonight in a Death Eater attack, possibly to divert attention away from you."

Harry was aghast at this news. He gaped up at Dumbledore, a knot of fear and dread in his stomach making it impossible to voice the question that hovered on his lips.

"The Weasleys are fine," Dumbledore reassured him. "Their home, however, was destroyed. They've been moved to Grimmauld Place until we can make other arrangements." Dumbledore beckoned Harry to him and gripped him firmly by the shoulders. "Harry, there's something you need to be aware of. Sirius has left Grimmauld Place to you."

Harry's initial reaction was to push Dumbledore away but the man held him steadfast. "I don't want it, Professor." Harry was vehement. "I never want to go back there. It belongs to the Blacks, not me. Let them have it."

Dumbledore's grip tightened and he shook Harry slightly. "I understand how you feel Harry, but there are other things you must take into consideration."

Harry heard the urgent undertone to Dumbledore's voice. He studied his face, saw the keenness in his eyes and realised what he was intimating at. Harry's temper flared up instantly. "Oh, let me guess! The Order... It's always about the Order. Your precious bloody Order that seems to be full of traitors and Death Eaters." Harry's eyes flashed with anger as weeks of being forced to cope alone with the suppressed hurt over the loss of Sirius, and with no contact from anyone besides the occasional short letter from Ron and Hermione, rushed through him. "The Order, who couldn't stop my parents from dying. Or Cedric Diggory. Or my aunt. What use are they, Professor, tell me that! What use is an Order that has to rely on a Death Eater as its source of information, a Death Eater you can't even be sure is loyal to you? What use is an Order that the Ministry of Magic refuses to listen to, that has to hide away and work in secrecy? An Order that keeps me in the dark about everything yet hides behind me whenever Voldemort is around. An Order that wants me to risk my life but gives me nothing in return. An Order-"

"An Order which your parents were members of and believed in," Dumbledore cut in quietly. He had anticipated Harry's emotion-fuelled outburst and knew it was something he had to allow him to express. He released Harry as he felt the tension drain from his shoulders. Harry turned and slumped against the table, leaning on it heavily, his hands balled into fists. After a short while, he mumbled, "I'm sorry."

Dumbledore weighed the delicacy of the situation and chose his next words carefully. "Sirius left Grimmauld Place to you for a reason. He trusted you with it. Not because its the headquarters of the Order. He trusted you, his godson, with it because he knew you would prevent it from returning to his family and allowing it to be used for the purposes of ill intent once again."

Harry was silent.

"However, I cannot and would not even attempt to deny that in accepting ownership of Grimmauld Place you would be ensuring the continued security of the Order." When there was no response, Dumbledore added softly, "Whatever you may think, we are working in your best interests."

Harry nodded wearily. "I know."

"There's also the matter of Kreacher."

Harry grimaced at the mention of the treacherous house-elf.

"As long as the house is without an owner, it's only a matter of time before he uses his freedom to seek out another of the Black family. We cannot risk him falling into the hands of either the Malfoys or the Lestranges with the information that he has been privy to. Should that happen not only will the Order be compromised, but also Grimmauld Place itself."

Harry's thoughts returned to the Weasleys, who had already lost one home that very night, and suddenly he realised why it was so important for the Black house to remain in the hands of the Order. It really was the only place where they were all assured of complete safety. He sighed in resignation. "What do I need to do?"

"Travel with me now to Grimmauld Place. Your arrival there will signify acceptance of ownership and Kreacher will be bound to serve you. I shall leave the rest in your hands, I am sure you will be able to find a way to ensure his loyalty to you."

Harry found himself wrestling with an inner desire to refuse. His irrational half was putting up a desperate fight, but he knew deep down that come the cold light of day he would regret not doing everything he could to help the Order. What he had said was unfair. He knew how much they were doing for him, it was simply that most of it was done without his knowledge and he really wished it wasn't so. He was old enough to know what was going on, and if he was to stand any chance of succeeding then he needed to know. He needed Dumbledore to understand that keeping him in the dark was no longer in his best interests. Eventually he straightened from the table. He didn't need to say anything, he knew Dumbledore had never doubted what his decision would be. "There's something I need to do first."

Dumbledore smiled slightly. "I would hope that involves changing into something more appropriate?"

Harry realised with a start that he was still barefoot and in his pyjamas. He smiled and nodded. "That too." He met Dumbledore's eyes. "I want to go back to the Dursleys'. Just for a moment."

Dumbledore didn't question why. He simply nodded. "There are some of your clothes in the front room for you to change into, along with your wand. I shall be waiting here when you're ready to leave. We can Apparate to Privet Drive, and then from there to Grimmauld Place."

***

Harry spent several long minutes in the Dursleys' house, walking from room to room. He felt oddly detached and empty, almost as if he was seeing it through the eyes of someone else. The house seemed different. It had never felt like home to him; just somewhere he stayed during the school holidays. But now it wasn't even that. His room had been cleared of what few possessions he owned, the majority of which had already been sent on to Hogwarts in preparation for the new term in a little over two weeks. There was nothing belonging to him left anywhere in the entire house, no evidence that he had ever lived there.

His aunt and uncle's room remained as they had left it, although the rumpled duvet had been returned to the bed. The Ministry would arrange to have the rest of the house emptied later that day and everything moved to storage until his uncle and cousin were rehoused. Harry looked at all the toys and games that were crammed into Dudley's room and wondered how long his cousin could survive without them. It was a fleeting thought but he regretted it immediately. It was unfair on Dudley, who after all had just lost his mother. He knew better than most how that felt.

Harry headed slowly downstairs. The broken mug had been cleared from the kitchen floor and the conservatory doors had been closed and locked. He peered out into the dark garden, not quite sure what he was expecting to see, but all was still and quiet. Nothing to give away what had happened only a few hours ago. He retraced his steps into the hall, pausing as he passed the cupboard under the stairs, his hand resting on the doorknob. It had been his home for so much of his sixteen years. For a moment Harry was a ten year old again, on the morning that he had received a cream envelope in the mail bearing the crest of Hogwarts. How much his life had changed since that day. Even with Voldemort casting his shadow over him from the moment he had found out he was a wizard, even with all the tragedy and heartache that had followed, he knew he would not have wanted to miss out on any of it.

Harry's fingers slipped from the doorknob as he moved towards the living room. He smiled wryly at the boarded up fireplace, remembering when Arthur Weasley had blasted his way through it much to the horror of the Dursleys. His gaze swept over the family photographs on the mantelpiece, none of which included him. Walking over, he picked up one and studied the faces of his cousin, uncle and aunt as they smiled back at him in frozen ignorance. It was difficult to comprehend as he looked at them that this would be the last time he would see them. He gently traced a finger over Petunia Dursley's face, recognising for the first time the faintest semblance of his mother in her features. He would never understand how she could have turned her back on her sister, yet a part of him was beginning to appreciate how she must have felt. If she had been as close to Lily as Dumbledore implied, the wizarding world would have quickly driven a wedge between them. It certainly explained why she wanted to pretend it didn't exist and was so hateful of anything that reminded her of it. Dumbledore had not said who the man was that Petunia had been in love with, and Harry wished now that he had pressed him on the matter. He was intrigued to know more, and made a promise to himself that he would bring it up with Dumbledore again when he had the chance.

A strange feeling of peace had unexpectedly settled over him and he realised with surprise that he had somehow found it within himself to forgive Petunia Dursley. He flipped over the silver frame, his intention to remove the photo and take it with him, but something inside him made him stop. Instead, he returned the frame to its place on the mantelpiece. This part of his life was over; it was time to leave it in the past. He took one last look around the room before closing the door behind him.

Dumbledore was waiting for him on the doorstep. Harry pulled shut the front door of number four, Privet Drive and took the headmaster's offered arm. "I'm ready, Professor."

Dumbledore nodded and with a sharp crack they Disapparated.