The End

Additions to Disclaimer: I don't own anything that has anything to do with Alias, which was created by J.J. Abrams and is the property of ABC. This chapter title is lifted from the song "Acoustic #3" by the Goo Goo Dolls.

Author's Note: I forgot to mention last chapter, that this story was mostly written between Order of the Phoenix and Half-Blood Prince, but is almost entirely Half-Blood Prince compliant. The only real difference concerns side-along Apparation, which, in the books isn't much different from normal Apparation, but in this story is extremely difficult and dangerous to the point that people will very rarely try it.

Chapter 2: Nothing's Changing

The Weasleys awoke slightly earlier than usual the next morning, drawn down the stairs by a strange combination of smells coming from the kitchen. What they found when they arrived there was not at all what they expected. Instead of Mrs. Weasley cooking up an elaborate breakfast, Harry was managing several pots with self powered spoons stirring their contents and overseeing something in a frying pan. No less than four open cook books were scattered around him. Stacks of bacon, toast, and eggs were already on the table, but apparently Harry hadn't stopped at breakfast. One of the pots seemed to contain a complicated soup, plates of chicken and potatoes were on the counter, and a steak and kidney pie was in the works.

Everyone approached the kitchen cautiously, in case this was one of the situations in which confronting Harry required some care and tact. Everyone, that is, except Ginny, who stepped ahead, reached past a pile or rolls, and pulled a stack of plates out of the cupboard. Harry seemed not to notice any of their presences. Mrs. Weasley took the lead, prepared to defend her kitchen if necessary, and Ron and Hermione followed behind her. They all knew that Harry had been driven to some unusual behavior recently, but this was by far the strangest example of it that they had seen.

"Thanks for making breakfast," Mrs. Weasley said cautiously. "It's relaxing to have a break from cooking." She did not look relaxed at all.

Harry didn't reply.

"It looks like we're going to have all the food we could possibly eat for a month," Ron tried, looking around the kitchen with some impressed glee.

Finally, Harry acknowledged his company, although it was only with a look, followed by a visual tour of the kitchen. He looked a little surprised, as though he hadn't realized just how much food he had made.

"How long have you been working on this?" Hermione asked.

Harry shrugged.

"Why don't you let me take over dear?" Mrs. Weasley said gently, taking a spatula out of his hand and steering him in the direction of the table.

Ron and Hermione joined Ginny and busied themselves about setting up forks and cups, the pair still giving Harry a wider berth than they would usually as he sat down. He took a set of flatware and thanked the person it came from without actually taking in who it was. Harry was not especially tired, despite his lack of sleep, but he felt as though he was in a daze. He could barely remember when he had decided to start cooking.

"Ron, put those down," Mrs. Weasley commanded suddenly.

"I can carry forks, Mum," Ron protested, his sheepish attitude only slightly covered by an air of annoyance.

If Ron remembered being woken up in the middle of the night by the result of Harry's nightmare, he had probably told Hermione about it, but when they sat down across from Harry and acknowledged him with a solemn nod, there was nothing in their demeanor to indicate that they knew anything about the incident. They had long since given up conversation on the subject of Harry's dreams and anyone's odd behavior.

Mrs. Weasley, however, had not. Now that all hints of a waiting time bomb in Harry were gone, she stole his plate away and filled it with food before giving it back, then started fussing over the tell tale bags under his eyes and his untidy hair. In the case of the later, there was little argument, Harry had always had a precarious relationship with his hair, but lately it seemed to have taken the rebellion a step further, or Harry had simply given up trying to manage it.

Between bites of bacon and toast, Harry had to repeatedly assure Mrs. Weasley that he was fine. Finally, he was rescued by Ron, who suggested that they take their broomsticks up to the paddock.

"After all, this might be the last chance we get for awhile," he said as a quiet afterthought.

Harry looked up from his toast at this. Ron was correct, of course; Ginny's seventh year at Hogwarts began in two days, both Harry and Ron's Auror training started within a week, and Hermione would be starting her job with the Department of International Magical Cooperation soon.

It was all Harry could do to keep from showing outward signs as he marveled at his lapse in ability to follow the passage of time. The summer had passed in fits and starts: a haze of bad dreams and mock Quidditch games. He wasn't sure whether he wished it would go on forever or that it was long since over.

Harry and Ron went upstairs to get their broomsticks, and when they came back down they were surprised to find Hermione standing next to Ginny and holding an old and beaten looking broom. Ron looked like he had half a mind to ask if his Mum had managed to loop her into doing the sweeping, but she beat him to it.

"It's Charlie's," she said, eying the broom skeptically and shooting spiteful looks at the witch next to her, "Ginny said I should go out with you as an end of the summer treat." She looked as though flying would be anything but a treat for her. Harry couldn't blame her; he wasn't sure if she'd even considered flying since the experience in the flying key room in their first year. She hadn't been terrible then, but it was more than six years ago, and most people maintained that one lost the feel for flying rather quickly. He was inclined to believe them, especially in Hermione's case.

More excuses for not flying than she could keep track of were probably running through Hermione's head, but for reasons unfathomable, she kept them all to herself and walked with Harry, Ron, and Ginny up to the paddock without complaint, paying careful attention to Ron's crash course in staying airborne.

Even though the average talent in the field was much diminished with Hermione there, Harry had to admit it was much more fun with her around, mostly at her expense.

When noon came along, with its bright sun and blazing heat in tow, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny were too involved in a four person game of Quidditch to notice or care. It was mid afternoon before they paid any attention to the time at all.

Ron dove to recover a Quaffle he'd missed, making an offhand comment about how hungry he was. He was about to toss it back into play when Mr. Weasley appeared on the ground next to him with a particularly loud pop, nearly causing Ron to drop the ball again.

Mr. Weasley was looking extremely disheveled, even for him. He was out of breath and ghostly pale, like someone who had either just run a marathon or been told a very shocking and disturbing piece of news. It was the scared and hopeless expression on his face that suggested the latter.

"What is it, Dad?" Ron asked, fear prickling in his voice.

"Harry!" Mr. Weasley called without preamble, "you're needed at the Ministry, quickly!"

Sensing the urgency of the situation, Harry did not bother with reaching the ground and simply disapparated where he was.

He reappeared in the center of the Weasley's living room and in the few seconds it took for him to steady himself, Mr. Weasley appeared as well. Disapparating from midair to the ground generally was not particularly intelligent, but was one of many tricks Harry had needed to teach himself to defeat Voldemort.

Harry tossed his firebolt on a nearby chair and waited for an explanation from Mr. Weasley, but none came. Instead, Mr. Weasley simply shoved Harry and a rather larger pinch of floo powder than was truly necessary toward the fireplace, saying, "Everything will be explained to you when you get there."

Harry barely had time to spit out the words "Ministry of Magic" before he was enveloped in the green flames.

Less than a minute had passed between when Mr. Weasley first appeared and when Harry stepped into the fireplace, so the trip through the floo network, violent as it was, gave Harry his first chance to think. Try as he might, he could only come up with one possible explanation: this had something to do with Voldemort or his followers; only that would scare Mr. Weasley so much or cause the Ministry to call in Harry, although he persisted in considering the hopeful possibility that this was some sort of test designed to scare new recruits to the Auror force.

So intense was the barrage he was subjected to upon arriving at the Ministry of Magic that Harry would scarcely have been surprised if he had not actually left the whirlwind of the floo network. At least ten people surrounded him and they all started talking at once. Fear was the main player in all of their faces. It would seem that this, indeed, was not a test.

After a few seconds of incomprehensible babble, Harry shouted, "Start at the beginning, what's going on?" He hoped he didn't already know.

Mr. Randall, the new Minister of Magic after Scrimgeour, stepped forward. He was a man short in stature but large in opinion and had proven himself worthy of his job during the cleanup after the crisis with Voldemort. His most striking physical feature was his face, which he tended to hold in a strange, tensed up configuration, as though he was constantly on the verge of sneezing. At the moment his features also showed a considerable amount of worry, something which only reinforced the impression that Randall suffered from a lot of allergies. As Harry watched the Minister, his nose started itching sympathetically, but he ignored it.

"There's been an attack," Randall said.

"What happened?" Harry asked, aghast, discovering that however much he had suspected what was coming he was not truly prepared for this sort of news. "Who attacked whom?"

"St. Mungo's was broken into and searched," Randall sighed, but it was the next part he seemed most reluctant to discuss, "by Death Eaters."

"I thought they had security there. Was anyone hurt? Did they take anything?" Harry blurted out as his mind began racing.

"Apparently some of the guards were drugged, others were being controlled," Randall explained. "The hospital was ransacked, but nothing was taken, nor were there any serious injuries." The Minister faltered slightly. "I suppose you already have an idea why that particular location was the object of their attention."

Harry nodded. There was a reason he had not asked why that particular place was attacked, and it had a lot to do with why he, Ron, and Hermione were still staying at the Burrow. They'd been under a sort of house arrest all summer, for their own protection, or so they were constantly told. The Ministry had been worried that any remaining dark wizards and witches would try to seek retaliation on the three of them for the downfall of Voldemort. It had taken the combined influence of Mr. Weasley and Percy to prevent the trio from being hidden out of the country. Of course, it was difficult to make the famous Harry Potter disappear entirely, so as far as the general population knew, Harry, Ron, and Hermione were still at St. Mungo's, receiving treatment for injuries procured during the battle against Voldemort.

"I thought all of the Death Eaters were in Azkaban," Harry said, knowing that was exactly the question the Minister had been dreading.

"Yes, well, about that," Randall stammered. "You know it was unlikely we ever imprisoned all of them, but..."

"Some of them escaped again," Harry finished, not bothering to hide the accusing note in his voice.

"You must understand," Randall said, "Azkaban is no longer the impenetrable fortress it was when the Dementors were loyal to us."

"Sure," Harry sighed.

"All we really know is that the group was made up of former Death Eaters," Randall explained carefully. "An analysis of the Death Eaters who are missing from Azkaban indicates that their leader is probably Lucius Malfoy."

It was a mark of Harry's history with the Malfoys that this bit of information did not surprise him at all, although he was a bit curious about how Lucius had managed to win back the favor of the Death Eaters. "I suppose they're trying to regain Voldemort's power."

"Most likely," Randall agreed, after flinching slightly at the sound of Voldemort's name.

"Well, we've got to fight back, stop them before this happens all over again," Harry said, surprising himself with his own ferocity. "How much do most people already know?"

"Actually," Randall said, faltering slightly. "The patients who witnessed the attack have been asked to keep it to themselves; those who seemed unwilling have had their memory modified." A lesser man might have flinched while delivering this information, but Randall instead straightened up, as though daring Harry to criticize his actions.

If it had been Fudge who was standing opposite him, Harry might have been tempted to blow up in his face, but he at least had to admire Randall's resolve, especially considering the fact that if the situation was not taken care of the way he hoped, his actions would amount to no less than political suicide. Additionally, now was no time to criticize the actions of the man who would soon be his boss, especially since he could have Harry thrown out of Auror training without even a second thought. Instead, he said, "I thought Fudge already proved that we shouldn't keep people in the dark."

"Informing the population now would only cause widespread panic," Randall replied. "Plus, at the moment we have the element of surprise."

"How's that?" Harry muttered.

"Well, they obviously don't know where you are," Randall explained, as though Harry should have already considered this.

Harry stifled another sigh. Randall's so called element of surprise presumed that Harry would be willing to fight, a rather tall assumption, considering the terrible battle he had just been through. Of course he would fight, anything to keep history from repeating itself, but he didn't like being spoken for. "I can't do this on my own though, I'll need help."

"What about your friends?" Randall asked.

"I can't speak for them," Harry replied, cutting him off. "I don't know if you've visited the second floor recently, but you don't have many Aurors left, and..." Harry dropped his voice. "...the Order isn't in very good shape either." Even thought the battle was long over, it was agreed that the identities of those in the Order of the Phoenix should still remain secret.

"I've thought of that and I'm fairly certain I have the solution." Randall had a rather odd look in his eye.