Vires Incomitatus

Chapter One: Many Letters and Life Before Hogwarts

It was dark over the village of Little Hangleton, but that was no surprise. In the last few years, it seemed to most that the village was surrounded in a perpetual bank of fog and cloud. The sun rarely showed its face these days, but for the most part the citizens of Little Hangleton were optimistic. They went about their lives as if they noticed nothing out of the ordinary, and on those days that the sun did shine down, it seemed to them that it shone a bit brighter than it has before.

That is not to say that there were none in Little Hangleton who questioned the sudden fog. A group of scientists had been conducting studies on the weather, investigating the clouds with interesting instruments such as what those Muggles called a barometer, in the hopes of discovering the true purpose, but they had been entirely unsuccessful.

Soon, most of the town simply gave up and accepted the change as something that would happen no matter what they said about it. They went back to their lives, and lived as if nothing was different. All except one man.

His name was John Faulkner, the only wizard in Little Hangleton, and he remained firmly convinced that there was more to the change than met the eye. "He's loony, isn't he, Dot?" women would inquire when standard conversation ran dry, and Dot would beam in pleasure and turn to the crowd. "Oh yes, why, I remember -" Suffice it to say that the town did not hold John in high opinion. They could not understand his unwillingness to allow things to change and accept them. John would brush them all aside.

If he had told them what he knew, how he saw the world, what he could do, and if he had told them of the danger facing the world, the danger that they did not know existed because they would not even acknowledge the possibility, perhaps he would have been able to save that little town. Or perhaps not, for Little Hangleton was an old town, deep set in its roots, and would have more likely burned him at the stake than fled from their sheltered lives.

When night fell and the citizens of Little Hangleton turned for comfort to the Hanged Man, John would forsake the cheery lights glowing inside that little building and would instead put on his thick cloak, stout boots, and wide-brimmed hat. He would take his wand from his pocket, lock his door, and set out to explore the town and surrounding country. He had done so every night starting one month after the appearance of the mysterious clouds, and would continue to do so until he had discovered what it was that was not right.

It was cold, that night, and John almost shivered as he clamped his hat on his head and set out. He looked around him, and began his treck out in the hills behind the village. He whistled, a tuneless screeching sound that was not designed to cheer, but rather because without it the world would be silent; it was proof that he was still alive. With his wand out in front of him, John scanned the ground at his feet, the rocks, everything, just looking. He did not know what he was looking for, just knew that it ws there, and that some day it would find him.

Finally, John began to grow weary of his search. It was still dark, and would remain that way for several hours, but John could not bring himself to search any longer. With something of a sigh he turned back, and began to tread the miles back to his cottage. In the distance he could make out the cheery squares of the tavern and one or two dwellings where the inhabitants hadn't felt like going out that evening, and up ahead was the great looming structure of the Riddle House.

Then, because he was John and because it was the Riddle House, John knowing, of course, exactly who Tom Riddle had turned out to be, he didn't just pass the house. As always when he passed by that direction, John stopped at the house, and went to the windows. And, as always, he saw nothing.

He should have been satisfied with that. He had always been before. But that night, John decided that that wasn't enough proof. So he let himself in. The house, though it had once belonged to powerful wizards, opened simply with the most basic unlocking spell, and John crept in silently, closing the door behind himself. He whispered a spell and the tip of his wand began to glow softly.

Wand alight, John prowled the halls, searching. He never expected to find something, so when he first heard the voices, so softly, he wasn't even certain he'd heard anything. But, being who he was, he followed the distant sound as it grew more and more pronounced, until finally he could make out the words.

"It has been years, Wormtail." The speaker spoke with a high, cold drawl, the drawl of a man who simply knew that he was a superior being. At the sound of the name, John flinched and drew back, extinguishing his wand.

"Yes, my Lord!" The second voice was, if anything, higher, squeaky, obsequious.

"It has been two years, Wormtail. For two years I have planned; for two years I have prepared. Only now is everything set into place."

"Everything is ready, my Lord?"

"The girl is in place. She will do her duty, when it is time. As for the others, they will prove themselves in due time. Yes, Wormtail, everything is ready."

"Now we can come out of hiding, my Lord!" Wormtail exclaimed joyously. John heard a whispered word, a crack, and Wormtail whimpered in pain.

"I will hide no longer, Wormtail. These two years have been preparation, though you have done nothing of consequence and I cannot assume you would understand. We will not come out of hiding, because I was never in hiding. Only you hide, Wormtail, you pathetic speck. Only you hide from those you fear, praying that they will not find you, not hunt you down as I did. But I have found you, Wormtail, and you can hide no longer. The world will know us again!"

If that had been all that John had heard, he would have been certain. If that had been all that John had heard, he might have lived. But he could not leave. He stood in a hallway, petrified with fear, listening to that cold dreadful voice. Then there was a pop and a third voice, low and oily, joined the other two.

"My Lord?" he enquired.

"Ah, Lucius," the cold man greeted him. "You have joined us at last. You are still loyal to me. What have you to report?"

"Everything is going to plan, my Lord. You asked me to report. I have spoken with the dementors, and though they were unwilling at first they understand the need for what they must do and will do it."

"Perfect," the cold man almost hissed. "And as to you, Lucius? Will your son be ready when the time comes?" It was not a question, not really. Lucius hesitated.

"Draco ... Draco is difficult, my Lord," Lucius almost pleaded. "He-"

"Crucio," the cold man interrupted with no emotion in his voice, and John heard a thud, presumably as Lucius crumpled. He could hear whimpering.

"Draco will ... not ... be ... difficult," Lucius amended himself, his voice twisted with pain.

"No, Lucius, he will not." The cold voice gained intensity. "You were given two tasks these two years, Lucius. Two simple tasks to complete. You have completed your first; you will not complete your second. Do you understand me?" Once again, the question was not a question.

"Y .. yes, my Lord! I ... understand." At once he heaved a sigh of relief as the spell, presumably, was lifted.

"Now go, Lucius," the cold man snapped. "Prepare your son. He will be ready when the time comes. And if he is not, you know that it will be you who is blamed for his failure."

"Yes, my Lord," Lucius whimpered. Then John heard him whisper "Appareo" and there was a small pop.

"What if he fails, Master?" Wormtail asked, sounding almost eager. There was a silence that was thick enough, it seemed, to taste.

"He will not fail, Wormtail. And if he does, then I will simply have to employ another tactic. This time, Wormtail, I am invincible." There was another pause, and the sound of chairs shuffling, people moving. Then the cold man spoke again.

"It is time to replace my mark on the world. Soon, everyone will know me. Everyone will fear me! No one will be able to stop true power."

"No, Master!" Wormtail agreed fervently. "And Harry Potter -"

"Harry Potter," the cold man interrupted, "will be made to see my force. He will fear me, and he will bow down to me, and he will offer me his own life, by the end. Harry Potter, and the world, will bow down before the name of Lord Voldemort! We wait no more."

Though John had known, he had to have known, the identity of the cold, drawling voice, at the mention of the name he flinched. He knew for certain that this was the sign he had awaited. This was what he had been looking for. And now he had found it.

"Come, Wormtail," the Dark Lord cried, his voice filling with what seemed like a cold, cruel amusement. "The night is young. Before the sun has risen, the world will know that I am not a shadow any longer! The world will have its first taste of fear. Carpe Noctum, Wormtail."

"Master?" Wormtail enquired, sounding terrified.

"Seize the night, Wormtail."

With that there was the sound of people moving, and John finally felt the ice slip from his body. Quickly, without so much as making a single sound, he slipped down the hallway and turned into a room. However, he couldn't resist taking one look at the to residents as they passed by him, made visible by the light of the fire in the room that he could not see.

One, Wormtail, he presumed, was short, almost stout. He stood somewhat hunched, fawning to his master. The other man seemed almost literally stick thin. He stood impossibly tall for one of his slimness, and when he glanced casually down the hallway, John saw two eyes that burned a sooty red, ember-like. He passed by the hallway without so much as a second glance, then the sounds of footsteps stopped.

John peered out keeping, he hoped, just out of sight. He watched the Lord of Darkness withdraw his wand and wave it, without benefit of incantation. Suddenly, the fire in the other room flared and went out; all that John could see were the two twin embers of the Dark Lord's eyes.

Lord Voldemort then turned almost away. "It seems that our conquest will begin here, Wormtail, he said with almost a chuckle, if a block of solid ice can chuckle. Then his voice turned, becoming not a voice, but a hiss, as John heard him croon, "Come, my pretty. Come, Nagani. I have a treat for you."

John felt his throat close up as the evil Lord's hiss was answered by another, the rustle of scales on stone, and he saw shadow move. He suddenly realised that it was not, in fact, a shadow, but rather a large, black snake.

"Feast up, my pretty," the Dark Lord, urged, and John watched the shadow advance on him as he stood, his legs locked with fear as effective as any petrificus spell. His last thoughts were of amazement.

'I never knew I was a parslemouth!' Then the world went black for John Faulkner, and never lit again.

The world lit up for those in Little Hangleton, however. Flash after blinding green flash lit the streets, the cheery cottages, the stores. The destruction was absolute. As night turned into morning, not a single building was left standing intact. As the sky began to stain itself a majestic dusty rose, screams stopped echoing around the now seemingly deserted village. And as the first rays of the sun pulled themselves up and over the horizon, a green mist began to pour out of all of those dwellings. It converged above the ruin that was, only hours previously, Little Hangleton, and formed itself into a glowing green skull, twin stars glittering like eyes in the empty sockets. The Dark Mark had claimed another victim.

Albus Dumbledore shifted again in his seat and tried to continue to read. It was an interesting piece, written about the lives of under-sea wizards who had been discovered years ago by a group of Muggle divers, and it part of it contained genuine Mer contributions, though their words had been translated from Mermish for the convenience of the readers. Albus had been anticipating the time when he would be able to read this, but now that he had a moment to spare he could not seem to find the feel of the piece.

He shifted again, trying to find a more comfortable position. Finally, he tucked the scroll under one arm, rose, and stretched, stiff from a long day of administrative work for Hogwarts. Feeling slightly better, Dumbledore paced his not spacious office, before finally ending up at one of the windows. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply, enjoying the scent of the night air. It always made him feel more peaceful, he reflected, and now was certainly a time when he needed to be more relaxed.

Smiling slightly, he opened his eyes and gazed over the half moons of his spectacles into the night before him. Then, his breathing stopped and both hands reflexively flexed backwards, the Mermish scroll dropping to the stones beneath the window. There, almost invisible on the horizon, was a faint green glow.

Albus forced himself to breathe. Turning and extending one hand back to his study, he muttered "Accio" and his wand floated off of his desk towards him. He took it from where it hovered behind him, turned once more to the window, pointed his wand at the cloud, and whispered, "Mactus locus." There was a faint whooshing noise, and that part of the sky seemed to zoom towards him until he was looking at a square of slivery mist, the section of sky resting on top of the mist. The green glow was now more identifiable as a ball of green mist. Dumbledore tapped the mist with his wand and again there was a rushing noise as the screen magnified the image.

"The Dark Mark has struck again," Dumbledore whispered, staring at the glowing green skull, the serpent emerging from the mouth, twin emerald stars glowing as eyes. "We must prepare!"

Albus turned, then stooped and picked up his scroll. As he set it down on the desk, he heard a faint trill.

Fawkes had deserted his perch and came to rest on the back of the Headmaster's chair. Dumbledore looked at him gravely, and the phoenix returned the gaze with the same gravity. Dumbledore sighed, and then straightened his shoulders. There was no time for an old man with a bit too much weight on his shoulders.

"Winky?" he called. Almost instantly the house elf appeared from behind a bookcase.

"Master Dumbledore called?" she enquired.

"Please go and send Professor McGonagall up to me, would you kindly?" The house elf almost beamed.

"Winky will get Professor McGonagall for Master Dumbledore," she replied joyfully, turning back to the bookshelf.

"The password is fudge flies," Dumbledore told her before she disappeared behind the object.

"Winky knows," she replied, tennis ball head coming into view again. "Winky will send Professor McGonagall up in no time!"

Dumbledore began to get his desk in order, banishing papers that he didn't need to a shelf on the opposite side, and summoning those that he suspected would be useful. Fawkes sat quietly, watching the old wizard as he prepared himself to work more seriously than he had in the last two years.

Minerva McGonagall sat at her desk with two large stacks of paper in front of her. She picked up a page from the larger pile and quickly scanned it, absently tapping the feathered end of her quill against her nose. Satisfied, she lay the paper down on the desk, signed at the bottom with a flourish, and set it on the top of the smaller stack. Then, she picked up another sheet of paper.

Jeoffry Cummings,

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Scanning down the page, Minerva found the letter to be without fault, and signed her name under the words Deputy Headmistress, placed the letter in the second pile, and picked up a third.

Danni Blythe

That, too, met with her approval, and got her name on the bottom corner of the page before being set on the pile.

Robyn Joense

Professor McGonagall frowned. Where did people come up with those names? They were outrageous, she couldn't tell whether Robyn or Danni were male or female. Either way, their letters were in order, and so she moved on.

She had just picked up Rachael Francis when there was a small knock and a polite squeal from behind her bookshelf. Minerva made a polite coughing noise, and a small, brown, tennis ball head poked out.

"Professor McGonagall, Master Dumbledore needs you now. Winky said Winky would fetch you for Master Dumbledore."

McGonagall smiled at the little House Elf, and nodded. "I'll be up as soon as I can make it up those stairs, Winky," she told her. The elf smiled.

"Winky will tell Master Dumbledore," the elf informed her. "Master Dumbledore says that the password is -"

"I know," McGonagall interrupted. The elf nodded, then took off behind the bookcase. Minerva frowned at the stack of papers on her desk. Dumbledore's message must be urgent; he rarely sent House Elves on such tedious tasks as running messenger duty. Still, she would have liked to check over the letters by hand. Ah well, there was nothing to be done about that, and the quill that wrote the letters was painstakingly accurate. Professor McGonagall waved her wand over the unsigned stack of papers and said, "Subscriptum." She watched as an invisible quill seemed to write her name across the first page, then turned and left for the Headmaster's office.

When she reached the gargoyle, she tapped its nose to wake it up, then said "Fudge flies." It looked slightly grumpy at having been awoken, but moved out of her way nonetheless, revealing the door to the Headmaster's stairs. She opened the door, and nearly got hit in the face with a scroll as it whizzed by on its way from a shelf. Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk with a look of concentration on his face, poring over a large parchment spread across the desk, held in place by two paperweights, an inkwell, and a phoenix, who was sitting quite content in his new vocation. Fawkes turned his head to nod to her, which she returned, before continuing to examine the parchment with his master.

"Ah," Dumbledore exclaimed as he looked up. "My dear Professor McGonagall." He reached out and caught the scroll as it flew towards him. "It appears that our day has come." He bent over the new scroll for a moment.

"Albus, what do you mean?" McGonagall came over to the front of the desk and looked at the parchment: a scale map of Britain. The Headmaster sighed and looked up at her sadly.

"Would you please look out that window for me?" he requested, gesturing with his wand towards one of the tower windows. As Minerva approached she noticed what looked almost like a silver screen floating in the middle. And in the middle of the screen...

"Morsmordre," she whispered, turning to look at Dumbledore.

"The Dark Mark," he echoed solemnly. Suddenly, a reality struck in and Minerva ghasped.

"But ... for the Mark to be visible at such a distance ... it would have had to have destroyed ... a whole village!" The Headmaster nodded gravely. "Which one?" McGonagall demanded, approaching the desk.

Dumbledore frowned, and opened another map of Britain. He scanned it for a second, then looked at the first. He shook his head and placed a finger on a spot of the second map, then another on a similar spot on the first.

On the second map, everything was clear, and just above his finger McGonagall read the words "Little Hangleton" written in a thin, spidery writing not unlike that of the Marauder's Map, a magical map she had once seen. On the first map, however, there was merely a faint green smudge.

"Little Hangleton?" she inquired softly. Albus Dumbledore nodded.

"I suppose it makes sense," he remarked. "It would be like him to want to erase every trace of his previous life. Starting ..."

"With where he was born, where everyone knew him as Tom Riddle," Minerva finished. "What can we do now, Albus?" she asked in a business-like tone. "How can we stop him?"

Ron Weasley sat on the chesterfield in the smaller family room in the Burrow, casually flipping through "Belinda Redroot's Complete Guide to Fantastic Quiddich". He loved this book, and had stolen it from his brother Bill when he wasn't looking, because there was little writing, mainly huge pictures depicting some of the most amazing events in Quiddich history. He was in the middle of watching an Australian wizard complete a Wronsky Feint when his mother, Molly Weasley, burst into the room.

"Ron," she said breathlessly. "Have you seen your father?"

"Uh," Ron replied, eyes glued to the book. "He was upstairs, last I saw." Molly nodded and raced up the flight of stairs. Minutes later Arthur Weasley came down even faster, heading for the larger family room. Somewhat intrigued in spite of himself, Ron followed, standing in the doorway. Arthur plonked himself in front of the fireplace and threw a handful of brightly sparkled powder into the flames. Almost instantly a head appeared.

"What is it, sir?" Arthur asked Cornelius Fudge, Minister of Magic. The head frowned.

"Arthur," he replied. "We're in trouble."

"How so?" Ron's father asked, also frowning. Fudge's face took on a somewhat abashed expression.

"It seems that that old man was right in the end," he replied.

"Um ... which old man?"

"Albus Dumbledore, of course," Fudge answered, rushing on. "No sign of him in two years, we thought we were safe. All of a sudden, last night, Boom. Little Hangleton has been destroyed, Arthur."

"Little Hangleton?" Arthur murmured. "Isn't that where - Oh, sir, you can't mean - Is it really happening at last?" The head in the flames nodded sadly.

"We should have listened. We could have prepared, we should have been more ready. As it is, we have to do all that we can to make sure that the entire wizarding community isn't utterly obliterated."

"I guess we have to do the best we can now, sir," Arthur said somewhat sadly. "Would you like me to come into the office?"

"If it isn't too much trouble for you, yes."

"All right, sir, I'll be in as soon as I can get myself straight." He turned to leave, but the head called out.

"Oh, and Arthur?" He turned around again.

"Yes?"

"You can tell Molly, but please keep this whole business about You-Know-Who from your children. We wouldn't want them making a ruckus at Hogwarts, and all."

Ron prudently chose that moment to slip out of sight.

The phone rang, and Hermione put down her book to pick it up.

"Hello?" spoke into the mouthpiece. There was sort of an awkward pause on the other end.

"Hermione?" Ron sounded unsure, as if unconvinced that his voice would reach his friend, even after years of using the telephone. She laughed.

"Ron! I can't believe that you're actually telephoning me! What's going on?" She stretched herself out on a chesterfield with the telephone on her lap. There was another pause from the other end.

"I'm not supposed to know this," Ron began. "My dad's been called off to the Ministry, and the Minister said that the children ... I guess that's me too, shouldn't know, but ... I just had to tell you."

"Ron," Hermione interrupted patiently, "What do you have to tell me?"

"It's ... it's You-Know-Who. He ... he's back." If Hermione had been standing she would have sat down hard. As it was, she gasped.

"Are you sure?" she inquired. "This isn't some joke, not a mistake?"

"It's no mistake, Hermione." Ron sounded as shaken as she was. "Last night a village was taken. Little Hangleton, you know, where -"

"Where You-Know-Who was born, yes, I know. Have you told Harry yet?"

"I can't, 'Mione. I'm not even supposed to know myself, how am I supposed to owl him? What if Mum or Dad saw?"

"You called me," Hermione pointed out. "Couldn't you have called him just as easily?"

"With those horrible relatives of his always wanting to know why I'm calling? They don't even let me talk to him half the time, because they don't think what I have to say is important enough. Do you think they'd listen if I tell them that the master villain of the wizarding world and Harry's mortal enemy is on the loose and will probably try to kill him soon?"

"You have a point," Hermione sighed. "I'll owl him as soon as I leave you." Yet another pause ensued. "What?" she demanded.

"Well," Ron definitely sounded unsure. "I just suddenly thought ... he's going to have to find out soon enough ... maybe we should just let him enjoy his summer."

"Ron," Hermione sounded firm. "Harry might be in danger now."

"But there are enchantments around the Dursley's house ..."

"And what if they fail?" Hermione pointed out. "You-Know-Who's one of the most powerful wizards in the history of the known world, and he wants to kill Harry. We need to warn him that he's in danger. And," she continued, somewhat warming to the subject, "do you think he deserves to be told by some hyper Fourth-Year wishing him good-luck and hoping that he doesn't die?"

"Okay," Ron agreed. "You're right."

"Yes," she added brightly. "I know." Her voice sobered. "I'll let you go, now," she said. "I'll owl Harry."

"Okay," Ron said again. "I'll see you in a few weeks, then, Herm."

"Bye," Hermione agreed. She sighed sadly as she put down the phone, and began to search for a quill. She frowned, annoyed by uncustomary lack of order, when she was interrupted by a knock on the doorframe.

A slim woman stood in the doorway, face framed by familiar bushy brown hair. Cleared her throat. "You have a visitor, Hermione," she informed her daughter. A faint coo sounded behind her, and she jumped out of the way as a large snowy owl drifted across the room to land on the arm of the chesterfield.

"How weird," Hermione commented. "I was just about to write to Harry, I thought I would have to use one of the post-owls."

Ms. Granger laughed. "My daughter is a witch, and has gone through more unimaginable experiences than I can think of, much less count, and yet she finds a psychic owl strange."

"Yes," Hermione replied as Hedwig hooted softly. The owl extended on leg importantly, and Hermione extracted the parchment and began to read.

Dear Hermione,

Thanks for the birthday present ... I didn't even know they had never-ending novels, but this one's brilliant! I'm sure it'll end one day ... yes, I read the guide at the beginning, though it's gone now - don't nag.

I've been trying some of those Muggle wards we learned in Magical Wards and Protections last year, and most of them have actually worked. Don't say it, I know they seem like a little bit much for the Seventh-Year restriction, but you don't know how much they've helped my life this summer. I placed a translocation ward across the bedroom doorframe, and it took Dudley a full two days to understand why he suddenly found himself on the roof with no idea how he got there every time he tried to follow me.

Thanks to the restriction, or lack of, summer hasn't been that bad. Still, I can't wait to get back to Hogwarts. How's Ginny been? Ron won't tell me.

Sorry, have to go now; Uncle Vernon's shouting something or other, and I think it might actually be moderately important. Do you think it would be against the restriction to transfigure him into a radish? I know, I know. Write me back,

Harry

Hermione laughed and handed the parchment to her mother, who chuckled, then frowned.

"I feel sorry for that boy," Ms. Granger commented.

"Mum," Hermione scolded lightly.

"I'm sorry," she replied. "I suppose I can't contain my motherly impulses."

Hermione laughed softly, and then began to look around again. "Have you seen my quill anywhere?" Ms. Granger shook her head.

"No," she replied. "But I have a normal pen and some paper here, if that'll do."

Hermione nodded her thanks and took the proffered items. Then, with Hedwig watching over her shoulder with keen interest, she wrote.

Harry,

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I think I have to be. Ron telephoned me this afternoon - incidentally he has been getting much better at that since last year, we carried on a veritable conversation - and he told me something that we both agreed you must know about. He happened to overhear a conversation between his Dad and Fudge - the Minister, you know - but he wasn't supposed to hear it, and so he couldn't owl you himself. He didn't want to risk the telephone with your Uncle, neither do I - how can you stand to be around them? So, I have to be the one who tells you this.

You probably know this already, what with your dreams, but anyway. Two nights ago, You-Know-Who - no, I will not write his name - emerged from hiding. He was staying at the Riddle House, in Little Hangleton. You might remember it from Fourth Year. He destroyed the entire town, and the Mark over it hasn't faded, even yet. The Ministry is really starting to wish that they'd taken Dumbledore's advice, now. They're keeping everything extremely hushed, no one's supposed to know that doesn't absolutely have to, Ron just happened to overhear. I hope you're all right, Harry.

It seems very insensitive of me to change the topic like this, but I thought it might cheer you up somewhat; I need to be going into Diagon Ally in two days - that is, Thursday - and I was wondering if you'd like to meet me at Fortescue's at, say, 1:00 pm. We could talk about this, or not. I'm glad Dudley hasn't been bothering you lately.

Please write back to me.

Hermione.

Harry frowned at the letter, the confirmation of his dreams. He looked at Hedwig somewhat curiously.

"That was coincidental, wasn't it?" he stroked her feathers, then winced as her affectionate nibble was just a bit too hard. She cocked her head to one side and stared at him, unblinking.

He sighed, and picked up his quill.

Hermione,

Thank you for confirming this for me. Two nights ago a had a dream, the first one I've had in almost two years. Actually, it was quite similar to the dream I had beginning Fourth Year. I dreamed about a man who was killed in the Riddle House, another one on the list, I guess, though now I suppose it's the end of that. Voldemort - yes, I know you won't say his name, but I will - and Wormtail were discussing his plans; there's going to be someone put in place at Hogwarts, so we should beware of the DDA teacher, maybe. He's also got some plans for Malfoy, I'd almost say the git deserved it, but I guess no one deserves that. At any rate, I can't speak with Dumbledore instantly, but I'll talk to him as soon as I get to Hogwarts. I hope he can sort everything out.

I'm all right, my scar hasn't hurt that much, not compared to before. As to Thursday, I wouldn't miss it for the world, even if I have to use an Unforgivable Curse on one of Them. I'll send this off as soon as Hedwig's rested, and I'll see you in Thursday.

Harry.

Hedwig, however, had no intention of resting. While Harry had been writing, she had taken a drink of water from her cage, and was now glaring at him impatiently.

"Are you sure you want to leave just now?" Harry inquired, feeling somewhat disappointed at seeing her leave again so soon, but she fixed him with a long-suffering look, and he sighed and attached the parchment to her leg. She nibbled affectionately at his ear, then was off with one mighty lift of her wings.

Harry turned to his desk and picked up a large black ball - a genuine magic eight ball, his birthday present from Ron. He shook it.

"Will I actually get to go meet Hermione without any problems?" he asked. The window on the eight ball clouded over with purple mist, then turned black again, and an invisible writer wrote in a violet neat, spidery writing that seemed to be the standard font for all wizarding items, Why on earth would you ask me that? Harry growled and shook it again. This time, the invisible hand seemed irritable, and the writing that appeared had a definite malicious twist. Ask him yourself and stop bothering me, you git.

"Fine, then," Harry retorted and put it back on the desk.

Harry put off asking his uncle until the dawn of Thursday morning, not for any reason specifically as that it seemed like a better idea at the time. He came into the kitchen bright and early, having been awakened by Dudley's howl above him that indicated that his cousin had either assumed that the field was gone or had forgotten it in his sleepiness, and had decided to play some trick on him. This noise was followed by Uncle Vernon's roar and a multitude of other sounds as a ladder was fetched, now conveniently stored by the veranda, and Dudley climbed down, falling the last four rungs. Harry then decided that there was little point to remaining in bed, as Dudley would most likely content himself to pestering his younger cousin by throwing objects from the safety of the hallway.

"It's not my fault he came in!" he exclaimed before any of his relatives could say anything. Uncle Vernon grumbled, but miraculously held his tongue. Aunt Petunia merely shoved a frying pan into his hand.

"Bacon," she commanded, and stepped out of the way. Harry got the bacon onto the stove, and then turned.

"Uncle Vernon," he began, somewhat unsure. "I was wondering if I could borrow the car today." One of Vernon's first acts when Harry had turned sixteen was to give him driving lessons, one of the only presents he had ever actually given his nephew. The purpose of this was not to show kindness or affection, but rather so that he could send him out to the shops and other inconvenient places and thereby be rid of him. The Dursley's had purchased a new car, which left Harry to drive their previous, now run down, vehicle.

"Whatever do you need a car for?" Vernon bellowed. Harry ducked, hiding somewhat behind his fringe.

"I need to get supplies for next year," he said. "And my robes are too short again."

"Unnecessary," Vernon declared. "You don't need to be wasting your money on new robes, if you have any left." Harry had wisely, he thought, hidden the magnitude of his fortune from his Aunt and Uncle.

"I need the supplies, Uncle," Harry insisted. "Of course, if you need the car I could always Apparate ... I'm seventeen now, after all."

"YOU WILL NOT USE MAGIC IN THIS HOUSE!" Vernon cried. "I can't believe that idiot school of yours actually allowed you to use magic at all. Letting juvenile delinquents out on the streets with magic?"

Harry's pride and joy of Sixth Year was returning to the Dursley residence with a special parchment. It stated that Harry, now considered a Seventh Year student, was no longer seen as a hazard to society and was therefore permitted to practice small magics, so long as they did not interfere with the largest, ignorant, portion of the Muggle community. This did not include the Dursley's, resulting in much entertainment for Harry. Fortunately, Apparation was included in the small magics, giving him freedom of transportation.

"Then I can use the car?" he ventured. "I really need to go, Uncle." Vernon seemed to fight with himself, torn between the desire to say no to Harry and the knowledge that his nephew could simply, and legally, use his own, freakish means to arrive at his destination if he did say no.

"Yes, you can use the car," he ground out. "But, if there is one single scratch on it -"

"Of course, Uncle," Harry replied, plating the bacon and setting it on the table, where Dudley gobbled it up in a flash. "If you'll excuse me, I'll go get ready."

"What do you need to get ready for?" Dudley asked provocatively, his mouth stuffed with bacon.

"I need my robes," Harry replied.

"You will not leave this house in those ... those ..." Aunt Petunia seemed to have difficulties finding the word. "Those things!"

"Of course not, Aunt Petunia," Harry replied. "May I be excused?" As they could find no reason to keep him, something of a collective grumble went across the table, and Harry took that as consent.

Harry went up to his bedroom and opened the trunk at the foot of his bed, and rummaged through to find a suitable set of robes. He quickly discarded his Hogwarts robes, and chose a set of deep green ones modeled slightly off of his dress robes from Fourth Year, though designed for everyday use. He folded the robes under one arm, took the car keys off of a peg in the front hall, and left the Dursley residence for the day. He drove quietly along, debating how to get into Wizarding London, and then turned left into the parking garage beside a bank. The head teller smiled warmly at him.

"'Allo, Harry," he waved cheerfully. "Got another package to check for?" Harry smiled back.

"I'm supposed to put something in the box," he replied, and the man behind the desk nodded.

"You 'ave your key, I suppose?" he enquired politely, and when Harry nodded he waved him through.

Harry walked through the door into a long corridor lined with safety-deposit boxes. He continued the corridor down where it turned right, then left, then left, and then right. Finally, he came to the end of it, a simple square of deposit boxes. He walked up to the wall, withdrawing his wand from the bundle of robes. He then shook them out, cast a quick neatening spell, and donned them. Then, the looked more closely at the wall, searching for a box.

When he found number 1247, he tapped the lock lightly with his wand and murmured, "Alohamora." The wall shimmered slightly, then firmed. Harry tucked his wand into a pocket in his robes, and then walked through the seemingly solid wall, and into Diagon Alley.

There was a dramatic difference as Harry left the deserted corridor and entered the friendly bustle of the Ally. All around him were witches and wizards in varying degrees of wizard finery, most smiling and chuckling to each other. He turned behind him, and saw a simple door that looked like it might go into a shop of some sort, the portal into the Muggle bank.

Harry's first stop was to Gringotts, the wizard bank. He entered the huge building and approached the counter. Slowly, a gnarled face appeared.

"Can I help you?" the goblin inquired, not sounding particularly thrilled by the prospect.

"I've come to withdraw something from my vault," Harry explained. "Number 687."

"And you have your key?" the goblin sounded bored. When Harry nodded, the goblin snapped his fingers, and another goblin appeared at Harry's feet.

"Griphook," the counter goblin ordered. "Take Master Potter to his vault." Griphook looked up at Harry.

"Master Harry Potter, nice to see you again." Harry nodded, though he noticed that the goblin didn't sound altogether pleased. "Follow me."

Harry boarded the somewhat rickety cart, and watched with almost the same fascination as he had in his First Year, when they suddenly passed through a curtain of flame.

"Dragon," Griphook explained, sounding bored. "Must have caught someone trying to sneak in."

"Erm, of course," Harry replied, as the cart screeched to an abrupt stop in front of a large vault.

"Hold this," Griphook commanded, taking a lantern off of the bow of the cart and extending it behind him to Harry without looking. Harry took it quickly; he wouldn't have been surprised if the goblin had simply let go, expecting Harry to have been there. "Key?" Harry produced a miniature golden key from the pocket of his jeans, underneath his robes, and handed it over.

The goblin inserted it in the lock and turned it, and Harry heard mechanisms clicking behind the door. Then Griphook ran a finger along the door, and it swung open.

To Harry's eyes, the amount of coins in the vault hadn't lessened significantly. He piled a quantity of galleons, sickles, and knuts into a velvet bag, then stepped back to allow the goblin to close the door.

Harry was somewhat relieved to leave the goblin bank. The large clock at the top, which seemed to be a recent instillation, said that it was only noon, so Harry went to Flourish and Blotts to pick up his textbooks for the upcoming year. As usual, he entered the store to find utter chaos incurring.

"Oh, hello," the manager called from across the room, looking up from a stack of books that appeared to be - burning?

"Hello, Mr ..." Harry paused, finding that he couldn't actually remember the name of the man. He hurried quickly over. "Can I help?"

"Oh, no, that's all right," he replied. "We're just having some problems with our new shipment for the second year charms class."

"Oh?" Harry found himself curious. "What's wrong now?" The manager made a wry face.

"We ordered a new book," he explained. "Blazing Inferno - a guide to Flame Spells, by Wanda Redwort. The books seem to have a tendency to burst into flames if they're not treated with utmost care. Omph!" The last was due to the fact that a clerk, who was attempting to put out the other flaming books, had accidentally knocked over another tome, which promptly hissed and burst into flames. Harry whipped out his wand and spent the next twenty minutes helping the manager extinguish the flaming textbooks.

Finally they had everything under control, and Harry was able to find and buy his textbooks. He left with the manager calling thanks after him, and decided to stop by the Magical Menagerie to pick up some Owl Treats for Hedwig. Finally, he made his way down Diagon Alley to Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour.

There was no sign of Hermione, so Harry ordered a mint-chocolate-raspberry ice cream with chopped up nuts, and sat down at a table near the window to wait. He wasn't there long when the door opened with a musical chime, and a collection of bags topped by bushy brown hair entered. The brown curls looked around, or so Harry assumed, because the bags moved over to his table and deposited themselves by a chair, revealing Hermione. She smiled at him and smoothed the front of her violet robes before hurrying over to the counter and getting her own ice cream (Swedish-vanilla with blueberries).

"Sorry I'm late," she apologized as she sat down opposite him. "There was a huge sale at Tornlay's Tomes, and I just had to stock up ..." she blushed slightly when Harry laughed. "Have you been to Flourish and Blotts?" she enquired. "The manager - what is his name? - was all flustered and there was a smell of burnt curtains coming from the back -"

"Problem with the Second Years' charms textbook," Harry explained. "Well, maybe they won't use them now ... they explode when they're bumped or anything."

"Second Years with delicate items?" she laughed. "That doesn't sound too safe." They sat and ate their ice cream for a while, a comfortable silence on Harry's part, somewhat awkward on Hermione's. Finally she looked at him.

"How are you?" she demanded. Harry looked somewhat baffled, and received one of Hermione's specialty long-suffering glares.

"Oh," he replied slowly, light dawning. "I'm all right. Really!" he added more forcefully when her eyebrow's raised. "I'm not really thinking about it, now. I don't see much point. There's nothing I can do about it, at least not while I'm at the Dursley's."

"I don't understand." Hermione frowned. Harry smiled wryly.

"Well, I don't know enough to fight him off now, do I? And there's no way I can practice anything, not there. If Voldemort -" Hermione winced somewhat, though no one else in the parlour heard him. "If Voldemort comes to the Dursleys', Uncle Vernon will probably tell him to take me and get out of his life."

"That's not true," Hermione admonished.

"No," Harry admitted. "It's probably not. He'd at least remember to tell him that he was a loony nutcase and that magic didn't exist before he gave me up." Hermione shook her head.

"He's not that bad, Harry."

"Oh, really?" Harry demanded. "You havn't lived with him, 'Mione. He's that bad."

"Don't worry," Hermione said brightly. "In another year you'll be an adult in the wizarding world. Then you'll be able to move away from the Dursleys' and get a place of your own, a life of your own."

"If I survive the year," Harry added, somewhat glumly. Then he straightened visibly, seeming to shake off the mood. "Can we change the subject?" he almost begged. "I don't really want to discuss the possibility of upcoming mortal danger."

"Of course," Hermione replied. "What are you taking?" Harry laughed.

"School?" he chuckled. "Why doesn't this surprise me? All right! Don't glare at me." Hermione smiled. "I'm taking Potions, with you, and Advanced DADA, Charms, History of Magic, and Transfiguration. Then I'm taking Advanced Magical Wards and Protections, and Advanced Magics, with Professor Dumbldore."

"Training to become an Auror?" Hermione asked, smiling. Harry shrugged.

"Maybe," he replied. "What about you?"

"Potions, Advanced DADA, Charms, History of Magic, Arithmacy, Muggle Studies, and Advanced Medical Magic."

"What, not Transfiguration?" Harry looked shocked.

"I did the Seventh-Year course along with the Sixth-Year one last year," Hermione reminded him.

"Oh, right. I still can't believe you're taking Muggle Studies. You're parents are -"

"I know," Hermione interrupted. "I know, they're Muggles, but the wizarding standpoint on that is amazing. The ignorance about simple things ... they find telephones fascinating."

Harry shook his head. "Whatever makes you happy. Considering life as a mediwitch?"

"Knowing you, I'd have to spend my entire life patching you up if I did," she retorted.

"I hope not," Harry shuddered. "That sounds painful."

"True, though," Hermione smiled, and Harry shrugged again. Suddenly, a young couple approached them.

"Um ..." the woman seemed incredibly shy. "Are you Harry Potter?" Harry nodded, embarrassed, as Hermione laughed.

"Yes, I am. Can I help you?" The man stepped over to one side, revealing a young witch about the age of seven, who was trying to hide behind her braids.

"My daughter saw you as we were walking past ... could she get your autograph?" Harry was somewhat surprised, though he had been asked this a few times. He nodded, and took a proffered quill and piece of parchment.

"What's your name?" he asked the girl, who managed to squeak out "Amelia" before retreating behind her hair again. He signed the parchment with something of a flourish, before handing it back.

"Thank you so much," the woman said gratefully, then the three of them left the Ice Cream Parlour.

Harry raised his eyebrows at Hermione. "Come on, Harry," she laughed tolerantly. "Amelia was sweet."

"Of course." He finished his ice cream, and then stretched. "I should probably be going, Hermione."

"Yeah, I should probably go too, now that I think about it." They both stood, and Harry helped her load herself up.

"Don't fall," he cautioned as she teetered out the door. He paid Florean Fortescue, and then picked up his bags.

Harry stopped off quickly at the Apothecary's, picking up the supplies he thought he would need and hoped that he wouldn't for Potions class. He opened the door quickly, and stepped out without looking. The next thing he knew he was looking up at the world from a ground-level view. A hand was offered to him, and he took it gratefully.

"Thank you," he told the witch in front of him. "Did I hurt you?" She looked to be in her late thirties, with wavy auburn hair and what looked like a sleek black cat draped across her shoulders. She was looking at him somewhat strangely.

"No," she replied. "I'm fine, thanks." She cast him another odd glance, then smiled in a friendly way and strolled down the Alley, turning into Oliviander's.

Harry frowned at her, wondering what he'd done, then shook his head and headed the opposite way until he saw a small, unassuming door somewhat out of the way behind a shop. He took off his robes and folded them neatly under one arm, then stepped through from the bustle of Diagon Alley into the isolation of the safety deposit room.

Harry rang the doorbell. No answer. Frustrated. He pressed the button twice more, then pounded on the heavy wooden door with one fist.

"Uncle Vernon?" He called. There was no verbal reply from inside the house, but Harry could make out noises of bodies moving inside. "Uncle Vernon? Aunt Petunia?" He didn't know what he expected, but it was no surprise when the noises stopped and a whiny voice called out,

"We're not home!" Harry shook his head. The sun would rise in the west before Dudley's stupidity lessened.

"Let me in!" He cried. Of course, further silence followed that, and Harry presumed that Aunt Petunia had shoved some sugar-laced treat into her son's mouth to keep him from shouting out again. Finally, Harry fumbled for his wand. Fortunately, the street was deserted as far as he could see, therefore making it legal to practice small magics.

'Alohomora," he whispered, and heard the lock click in the door. Harry tried the handle again, and the door opened smoothly.

Until it stopped, abruptly. Harry shoved his way through the numerous suitcases piled in front of the door. Uncle Vernon stood behind them, hastily stuffing an article of clothing into a bag. He turned as the door opened.

"HOW DID YOU GET IN HERE?" he bellowed. Then, his face smoothed visibly. "No matter," he muttered to himself, and then spoke more loudly to his nephew. "We're going on a holiday, boy. Without you."

"W - where are you going?" Harry couldn't get himself to pull together enough to make a sensible reply.

"Greece," Vernon replied. "Dudley's always wanted to see the pyramids." Harry frowned, but decided not to point out the inconsistency.

"What about me?" he enquired.

"Oh." Vernon's gigantic, purple face creased in thought, then he smiled again. "You can stay with Mrs. Figg for the rest of the summer, can't you, boy!" He sounded positively delighted at the prospect.

"Mrs. Figg?" Harry moaned. "But she-"

"No arguments, boy," Vernon bellowed, and Harry winced at the use of the word 'boy' for the third time since he'd entered the house. "Pack your trunks, I'll drop you off when we leave in ten minutes."

Harry thought of protesting at the lack of justice behind this decision, and then realised that his uncle was probably serious about the literal ten minutes. He raced upstairs and shoved everything he could find into his trunks. He was making a final sweep of his bedroom when the trunk closest to the door was suddenly pulled outside by a large, flabby hand. Harry quickly grabbed a few items from his desk, and Hedwig's cage. He prayed that she would find him, and that Mrs. Figg would permit owls, though he doubted it, then followed his remaining trunk as it followed the first down the stairs with loud thumps.

"Into the car," Aunt Petunia snapped, and Harry found himself squeezed in with Dudley's monstrous bulk. Mercifully, Mrs. Figg lived only two short blocks away, and Harry managed to extract himself, his trunks, and the cage before his relatives drove away without even turning to jeer at him.

Somewhat timidly, dragging his luggage behind him, Harry approached his neighbour's front door, and knocked. The door was opened quickly, and the wrinkled face of Mrs. Figg appeared.

"What are you doing here?" she grumbled, looking around. Then she frowned. "Come in, come in," she told him, bustling him inside and managing to include both of his trunks and the cage in the sweep before closing the door.

"Um ..." Harry couldn't quite figure out what to say as the elderly woman strode away into the kitchen. He wrinkled his nose at the too familiar smell of cat. Mrs. Figg returned quickly with a mug between her hands, which she sipped.

"Harry Potter," she declared, somewhat mysteriously.

"Yes?" Harry had no idea what she was up to, but decided that whatever it was, he didn't really want to know. The woman cackled at him, then somewhere in the middle the sound turned into a vibrant laugh.

"I've been waiting for you to visit me again," she told him, and Harry fought the strong urge to retreat backwards. This was turning far to quickly into one of the scenes from Dudley's horror films. Seeing the look on his face, Mrs. Figg smiled kindly.

"You really have no idea who I am, do you?" she asked, seeming to talk, for a moment, to the empty air in front of him. "Of course not." Mrs Figg's gaze grew somewhat distant, clouded. Then, the air around her shimmered and she seemed to melt. Her short, stringy white hair rippled into shining auburn waves. Her face smoothed out, her body straightened and adjusted, until Harry found himself looking at a figure he vaguely recognised.

"Who are you?" he demanded, pleased to sound a small degree less baffled than he actually was. Then, he realised where he knew her from. "You're the witch I bumped into at the Apothecary's this afternoon," he cried. The woman smiled and laughed.

"Yes," she replied. "My name is Arabella. Arabella Figg."

"You knew my dad."

Of all the responses that Arabella had expected to receive, this was not it. She looked at the boy in front of her - hardly a boy any more, she reflected - and didn't know what to say.

"Yes, I did." The answer seemed to satisfy Harry. He smiled and held out his hand.

"Nice to meet you," he said formally, and Arabella laughed.

"I already know you," she replied. Harry shrugged, then yowled and jumped a foot off of the ground. He glared at his feet or, more specifically, the cat that was now twining itself around his legs.

"It bit me," he complained somewhat pathetically.

"It's her way of saying she likes you," Arabella explained. "She's strange, somewhat." Harry looked at the tabby more intensely.

"So," he looked at the woman. "What are all of these? They can't be Animagi ..."

"They're cats," she shrugged. "Well, all except one." As if on command, a sleek animal appeared from behind a chesterfield. Harry recognised it as the animal that had been resting on Arabella's shoulders in Diagon Alley. At first glance it appeared to be a normal cat. Upon closer inspection, however, Harry saw that its ears were larger than normal, and shaped somewhat more gracefully, and that its tail ended with a tuft of sleek, black fur.

"It looks almost like ..." Harry struggled to remember the animal from Care of Magical Creatures, when Hermione had read them all the textbook. "A Kneazle? But, aren't they supposed to be spotted?"

Arabella nodded. "Kneazles are generally spotted, but Aquila is a very rare breed."

"Right," Harry replied. Arabella frowned.

"Harry," she said, looking at him directly. "I think I need to explain a few things." Harry returned the gaze.

"I've figured some of it out on my own, I think," he replied, but sounded interested.

"All right, then, what can you concluded?"

Harry frowned; it seemed quite a bit like a test. "You've been assigned by someone ... probably Professor Dumbledore ... to stay near me. Probably to keep the ward going on the Dursleys' house, because it would take someone who could monitor it almost constantly. And ... um ... you know the Dursleys, for some reason." He petered out somewhat pathetically.

"Dumbledore wanted someone to actually check in on you from time to time," Arabella finished. "Knowing the Dursleys, it seemed like it would be easier if you had to come to me, so he planted a memory in them."

"That makes sense," Harry decided. "Do you -" His question was cut off abruptly as he yawned. Arabella instantly looked embarrassed.

"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologized. "You're standing here in the front hallway like some stranger ... I didn't mean to ... here." She flicked her wand, which Harry didn't remember seeing her take out, and muttered "Mobiliarca." Harry's trunks rose from the floor and floated up a flight of stairs and out of sight. "Let me show you to my guest room," Arabella offered. Harry gratefully followed her up the stairs.

Hermione,

The Dursleys went on vacation and left me at Mrs. Figg's house (the lady with the cats). They actually just deserted me! And you said it would never happen. See if I ever listen to you again (except on homework).

Anyway, in case you thought my life couldn't get any weirder, and under the circumstances that would make a lot of sense, it turns out that Mrs. Figg is actually a witch named Arabella who was a friend of my Mom and Dad. It sounds cheesy, but she's really nice, and I'm actually enjoying part of my summer. Her cats all love me, which means I've got a new collection of purely accidental scars in no way associated with magic - Professor McGonagall would be thrilled - but aside from that it's great.

Sorry that I haven't written back to you recently, Hedwig got tied up somewhere, it seems, and just got back. Arabella says that she probably got lost, but that's not like her. Anyway, you don't have to write back, since I'm seeing you in three days. Just try and persuade Hedwig to come straight back - I don't like it when she has to get to Hogwarts on her own, even though I know she can do it.

Harry

Harry closed the lid of his trunk firmly, and then sat on it for good measure. When it seemed like the thing would actually stay closed, he got up.

"I think I have to go now," he called down the hallway, and Arabella's head appeared in a doorway.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" she asked. Harry shook his head.

"I'm fine, really. Thanks so much for taking me in."

Arabella laughed. "It was no trouble," she replied. "Have a good year."

Harry positioned his trunks so that he could touch both with one hand, and made contact with Hedwig's cage with his left foot. Then, fumbling to keep the contact and still use his wand, he waved it slightly and said "Apparate," picturing platform 9 ¾ in his mind. The world seemed to twist, as if grey mist had somehow gotten inside his eyelids, and when it cleared he was staring at the gleaming scarlet engine that was the Hogwarts Express.

He stood for a moment, disoriented, before he saw two redheads hurrying towards him.

"Harry!" Ginny exclaimed, then blushed slightly. She had long since gotten over her formerly monstrous crush on him, but remained shy around him. He smiled and hugged her.

"Gin, hey." Ginny beamed back at him, then seemed to remember that she was fifteen years old, almost sixteen, and that she should not be affected by the presence of any guy. She turned, waved, and ran back to join her other Sixth-Year friends.

"You made it," Ron punched him on the shoulder. Harry made a face and rubbed the spot.

"Yeah, no thanks to you."

"Sorry," Ron replied, not sounding sorry. "Why haven't you owled me?"

"Hermione kept owling me about ... well, you know ... and Hedwig thought it was important for my health to discuss it with someone, or something like that, so she refused to delay any reply to Hermione." Ron looked sceptical.

"Your owl makes decisions about your well being?" he asked, staring down at the snowy bird in the cage. Hedwig looked up at him, then seemed to glare at Harry, then turned back to Ron.

"Yes," Harry grumbled.

"Harry!" he turned to see another redheaded female hurrying towards him, and had just enough time to face her before Molly Weasley swept him up in a hug. "We haven't heard from you much this summer!"

"Hedwig thought it was better for his health to talk with Hermione," Ron replied. Molly frowned, looking puzzled. Hedwig settled her feathers and hooted, sounding pleased with herself.

"Never mind," Molly decided. "Are you all right? Have the Dursleys been feeding you?"

"Actually ... it's a long story, but I'm all right, yeah."

"Good. Oh," Mrs. Weasley rummaged around in had handbag. "Provisions for you and Ron." She extracted a large wad of soggy-looking sandwiches. "Here you are, boys."

"Thanks, Mum," Ron replied, looking somewhat green. Molly didn't seem to notice. "On you get," she said cheerfully, bustling them onto the scarlet engine. "Have a good year!" Somewhat puzzled, the two found an empty compartment, and seated themselves beside the window. Molly Weasley stood and waved up at them, not seeming to realise that the train hadn't started to move yet.

"Is your mum okay?" Harry asked. Ron laughed.

"Well, Dad's been away a lot, again. Dunno, I think she's fine, it's my Mum."

"You have a point," Harry agreed. Finally, the train began to lurch to a start. Almost simultaneously, Hermione appeared in the doorway, tumbling unceremoniously into one of the seats.

"How were your summers?" she asked brightly.

"Good," Harry replied, echoed by Ron.

"That's good," she answered. "I'm really excited about Advanced Medical Magics. I think there will probably be a lot of homework, but-"

"Hermione," Ron interrupted with an anguished look on his face. "Could you please let me enjoy the few hours left to me before I have to do work?"

"Oh," Hermione replied. "Sorry." But she continued to beam, and Harry suspected that she was secretly thinking about the class. The look on Ron's face indicated that he agreed, and the two of them rolled their eyes at each other and began to chat about Quiddich.

Soon the trolly-witch came by, and all three glared at the soggy sandwiches before ordering pumpkin cakes, almost-gummy rats, and other treats.

"What's that?" Hermione asked fastidiously, pointing at the thing Ron was attacking with her pumpkin cake.

"Chocolate Salamander," Ron replied with his mouth full. "They came out last year ... trying to top Chocolate Frogs, I guess. But they're no good for anything, and the cards stink. Here," he tossed a collectable card over to her, and she looked at it.

"Bulver the Bruetal," she read. "Troll cards?" Ron nodded, and shrugged.

"Famous wizards are copywrited to the Magical Mayhem Candy co."

"What people will do for money," Hermione sighed and watched with some horror as the chocolate lizard tried in vain to escape being eaten.

"How perfect," a cool voice drawled from the doorway. They all turned to see Draco Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle, staring imperiously into the compartment. "The Weasel is eating a snake. I see you've finally come around and agreed with my common sense." Ron bristled, but Malfoy simply kept going, ignoring him. "Look," he said to Goyle. "It's the Potter club. The tragic tales of a Gutter Rat, a Mudblood, and a Freak."

Hermione glared at him, but was devoting the rest of her energy to restraining Ron, and could do nothing else. Harry sneered back at his rival.

"What about your little group, Malfoy?" he enquired innocently. "Three menaces to society, and only one brain between you. And with you hogging it all, it's no wonder that -" Malfoy straightened.

"You dare to insult me, Potter?" his voice was somewhat deadly.

"A little bit late for that question, Malfoy," Harry retorted. "I've already done it."

Malfoy glared at him, then realised that Hermione was still glaring at him. Instantly, he stopped. Icily, he drew his wand from his pocket. He pointed it at Harry, who was looking completely unconcerned.

"What's the matter with you, Potter?" Malfoy demanded. "Not even going to defend yourself? Are you really that weak? WHAT?" the last was directed at Crabbe, who had tapped him in the shoulder.

"Uh -"

"Malfoy," Hermione interrupted sweetly. "You wouldn't even think of hexing Harry in front of a teacher, now would you? Think of what it would look like if you had to arrive at school telling the other Slytherins that the house was down twenty points from the start just because you got them in trouble?"

"Wha -" Draco spun around and found himself face to face with Professor Lupin. "Professor?"

Lupin raised one eyebrow. "Yes?" he asked calmly. Then he looked at the blonde's wand. "You weren't planning to actually use that, now were you? Because, you know, if you were I would be forced to deduct twenty points from Slytherin House."

Draco's face seemed to work. "No, Professor," he answered finally, sneering slightly at the word. "Come on," he ordered impatiently to his flunkies, and they strode off down the car.

"Professor," Harry smiled. "You're back?"

"Apparently," Lupin replied. "How have you been?"

"Great," Harry replied, then frowned. "Have you seen Sirius, Professor? Is he all right?"

"Never fear," a voice from behind the Professor said. "You'll be able to see for yourself soon enough." The voice was distasteful, and Harry wasn't surprised when Lupin moved over to look at Severus Snape.

"That was supposed to be a surprise," Lupin accused him.

"Oh, what a shame," Snape mocked, turning and retreating down the car.

"You'll excuse me," Lupin apologized, and then followed the potions Professor out of sight.

"That was weird," Harry commented, but Ron shook his head.

"It's obvious, Professor Lupin's back as the DADA teacher, and Snape's jealous again." Hermione nodded, but frowned.

"I wonder what Sirius is doing at Hogwarts," she mused.

"Who was the secret supossed to be kept from," Harry supplied. Ron groaned.

"We're not even at school yet and we've got all of these questions ... I can't wait until we really get into it. We won't know a thing!"

Hermione laughed. "You're over exaggerating, Ron," she reminded him. He shrugged.

"So what?" he demanded. "It's more fun that way."

"What's fun?" a lilting voice asked, and two boys sat themselves down in the compartment, filling up the remaining room. Dean Thomas had the worst of it, being shoved into the sharp hinges of the compartment door, which Seamus Finnigan promptly closed.

"Hey Dean," Ron said warmly. "Seamus."

"He's overexaggerating," Hermione explained. "He seems to enjoy it."

"Well, Snape and Lupin have gone off down the corridor, which isn't very healthy," Ron pointed out. "And Sirius is at school -"

"Wait, wait," Dean interrupted. "Sirius as in Sirius Black?" The other three nodded. "But isn't he in hiding still?"

"That's what we thought," Harry explained. "But apparently he's working at the school."

"D'you think he's teaching DADA?" Seamus wondered. "That'd be brilliant! T'be taught Defence against the Dark Arts by someone who's actually been there!" His accent made his voice seem musical.

"Ron said that Lupin was here," Dean reminded his friend. "He'll probably be doing it."

"Oh," Seamus's face fell slightly, then rose again. "Still, Lupin was amazing!"

"Hey, guys?" Harry was looking out the window. "I think we're about to arrive." In the distance he could see a faint shape looming in the distance.

"We know," Dean smiled, and Harry realised that they were already dressed in their robes.

The rest of them changed, just as the train began to slow down.

"Okay," the trolley witch called. "Everyone get your things and let's go."

With that, the entire school managed to get itself off of the train, and lined up on the platform in Hogsmede. Harry, Ron, and Hermione got themselves into one of the horseless carriages lined up by the platform.

"And, here we go," Ron said cheerfully as they lurched to a start and approached the giant castle that was Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.