Harry Potter and the Keys of Light

Chapter One: "Wristwatch"

Hedwig hooted softly, asleep in her cage. Harry, however, lay wide awake on his bed, turning the pages of a leather-bound photo album. It had been given to him five years earlier, as a gift from Hagrid. He had faced so much that first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, and he'd ended it facing his parents' smiling, waving pictures. But now, he had another to look for in the album--Sirius.

Harry fingered his parents' wedding photo gently--there they were, the people that had been his family, now gone. They grinned up at him, Sirius gesturing rudely behind James' head, a wicked smile dominating his expression; he didn't have the haunted look in his eyes in that picture--he had only friends and happiness, with no thought of the terrible future that awaited him, that awaited them all.

Harry replaced the picture and closed the album. He felt loss overwhelm him, tears threatening his eyes. He still hadn't talked to anyone about it--didn't want to talk to anyone about it. Lupin and Dumbledore kept reminding him that he could tell them anything, but this was his; how could anyone else understand what he was going through? And yet, if anything, he had learned to not be so selfish--the fight with Voldemort was his, but he had to start thinking about how his actions affected everyone else around him. A saving people thing, Hermione had called it; he ran blindly into danger without thinking. And this time, this time, it had cost Sirius his life. Who would be next, Harry found himself wondering, Hermione? Ron?

A tapping sound at the window pulled him from his thoughts; it was a large brown barn owl that he didn't recognize--a hired post owl. Harry had to place three Knuts in the pouch tied to the owl's leg, which it held out expectantly, before it allowed him to take the letter. It was from Ron, his unruly scrawl greeting Harry's eyes. It had been several weeks since anyone had written, and Harry ached for news from the wizarding world.

Harry-

Sorry mate, it's been a nightmare around here. Dad's been non-stop at work-they're talking of getting rid of Fudge! Of course, if they do, I hope Dad gets the job. We need good people at the Ministry and Dumbledore's behind Dad, so it'll probably happen.

Anyway, not much new. More people found dead with the Dark Mark above their houses-Dad says You-Know-Who is getting rid of the ones he doesn't trust anymore. Maybe we'll get lucky, and he'll rid us of the lot of them. Then we'd only have one maniac to worry about.

I'm trying to get mum to let you come to the Burrow, but she doesn't think it's safe. Don't worry, though. Fred and George are coming from London Saturday, and they'll talk her into it.

Write soon,

Ron

P.S. I'm so glad I don't have to worry about my letters getting intercepted. It was a real pain not being able to talk to anyone properly.

That was true; Harry received all his news of the Order from Lupin or Tonks, who'd promised to come at least once every two weeks. They hadn't been by lately, though--apparently something important was demanding their attention. Harry was irritated, but he wouldn't let it bother him; they were at war now, even, and especially, if it wasn't on a neat battlefield, and decisions were made quickly. No one had time to sit down and write Harry a wordy letter of explanation. This, he had painfully admitted to himself at a letter from Hermione a week after term ended.

...It is all about you Harry, we know it is; but the fact is that others are involved, are important, and you can't expect people to be thinking only of you. I'm not mad at you, but you really seem to think only of yourself at times. Think about the Weasleys, endangering their entire family, or the professors, in the care of all the students at Hogwarts as well as you. It's not that no one wants you to know anything, but sometimes it isn't necessary...

Of course, he had been infuriated by it, and had drafted several angry letters in response, detailing exactly why he needed to know about everything that was going on, but, as each was tossed into the bin, he had to admit that Hermione was right; he had only managed to sound whiny and pathetic--there were others to consider, and it didn't help anyone if he was just going to complain. He had gone for eleven years without anyone to talk to or vent his emotions to or to pay him the slightest attention, and he could do it again. Besides, they all insisted that, as he was safe at the Dursleys', there wasn't a need to involve him in all the dangers--more like they were afraid he'd leave Privet Drive and try to do something about it, he thought bitterly, but he left the last comment out of his letter to Hermione.

Across the hall, Uncle Vernon's alarm sounded, and the gradually pinkish light that had been threatening to pass through his curtain for the last hour finally entered, filling the room with light. Harry replaced the photo album under the loose floorboard beneath his bed and got dressed. He moved slowly. It wasn't as if the Dursleys wanted him up anyway; today, Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were taking Dudley to London to shop for his birthday presents. It was also a celebratory trip--Dudley had returned home for the holidays for the first time without a note from the school nutritionist. He was still immense, but fat had been replaced with muscle from boxing training. Harry, of course, would be left behind. While the Dursleys had been much more civil since last summer, Uncle Vernon maintained Harry's isolation by declaring it "unsafe for him to be walking about like a moving target for those hooded delinquents that were mucking about. And what if they followed him home!"

He didn't mind--spending an afternoon with Dudley wasn't exactly Harry's idea of an action-packed time anyway. Dudley had been trying all summer to pick a fight with him (Harry was now a good deal taller than his cousin, and, apparently, Dudley felt the need to show him up.) His sharply tuned Seeker skills made Harry fast enough that he would, if necessary, be able to dodge his cousin's blows, and, perhaps, get in a few punches--he had, after all, been toughened by Dudley's former abuse, and been made strong by frequent life-and-death struggles.

Aunt Petunia could be heard in the kitchen making breakfast, and from the next room came a loud thud, followed by Dudley' swearing as he fell out of bed. Smiling, Harry left his room. Maybe it wouldn't be such a terrible day after all.

By way of greeting, his aunt nodded toward him, and Uncle Vernon continued to read the business section as though Harry hadn't entered the kitchen at all. As he sat down, Dudley appeared, still dressed in his pajamas.

"Good morning, Precious!" Aunt Petunia crooned, putting the eggs on the table and embracing her son.

"Geroff, Mum," Dudley said. He sat down next to Harry, having freed himself of his mother, and soon half the eggs in the pan were on his plate. "Dad, we're picking up Piers on the way to the station," he announced, bits of egg falling from his overfilled mouth.

"What?" Uncle Vernon peered over the top of his paper, and, eyeing Dudley, replied, "Oh, right." He added, as an afterthought, "We'll be leaving after breakfast, so make sure you hurry and dress, son."

"Duddlekins can take all the time he wants," Petunia said, sitting down. "Eating one's food too quickly can stunt growth." Harry coughed into his orange juice; shoveling food had never affected Dudley's growth, he thought. Uncle Vernon eyed him sharply.

"And I expect you will have something productive to be doing while we're gone? If not, I noticed a loose board in the fence--"

"No, I've got homework," Harry said quickly.

"Homework? Doing what, I suppose--turning mice into snuffboxes?" Uncle Vernon laughed at his joke, Dudley chuckled, and Harry exercised a great amount of control in not informing his Uncle that he had learnt that in his first year. Magic was still entirely forbidden at Number Four, unless mentioned by his uncle or cousin to be used as a means of ridicule or the constant reminder that he was an underage wizard. Last year, Harry might've replied cheekily, but he was stuck with the Dursleys, so he had resigned himself to making the experience as pleasant as possible.

Soon enough, Dudley was done eating, and the Dursleys were preparing to leave. Uncle Vernon was already in the car, and Aunt Petunia, waiting for Dudley to get his jacket, was checking her tidy blonde hair in the sitting-room mirror. Harry sat upon the stairs. Something compelled him to watch his aunt, to study her searchingly; she had a thin, graceful nose, high cheekbones, thin heart shaped mouth, pretty when not curved in a scornful frown...she looked like his mother, Harry realized. He blinked, and looked again, to see a blonde version of Lily Potter checking herself in the mirror, as she might have done before a family outing, waiting for James to hurry up--it felt strange, seeing Petunia this way, unfamiliar and kind...and he felt an urge to treasure the image, the way Aunt Petunia could be if she hadn't found him so distasteful. Harry was left feeling cold, a gentle prickling at his scar brought on by the torrent of icy sadness that had washed over him; he wanted to hold onto that moment of familial connection, to pretend for a moment that the past sixteen years of his life had been spent pleasantly with an aunt and uncle and cousin that loved him.

Thundering footfall interrupted Harry's thoughts, and Dudley rushed past him, declaring himself ready as he flew out the door. Aunt Petunia took a last look at the mirror, and turned to follow her son.

"Aunt Petunia," Harry said, unsure of what he was going to say to her. She stopped and looked back at him questioningly.

"What?"

"Don't...don't go out...not today."

"And why not?" she snapped.

"Just...please, just stay home." Harry tried to find more words but could not, he didn't know what was possessing him to ask this, but whatever it was, was incessant about it--his Aunt had to stay home. Outside, Uncle Vernon called from the driveway, and Aunt Petunia made to leave again. A sense of urgency overcame Harry, beyond the whims of imagining Aunt Petunia as a different Aunt Petunia; rising from the stair, he reached out and caught hold of one of Aunt Petunia's thin, gloved hands, and held on as tightly as he would a snitch. "Please," he said, as though the word would force his Aunt into submission. She looked at him, startled, and then, with something else...She opened her mouth to speak, but could only look at him in that strange way, as though looking deep in Harry, searching for something. The car horn flared, and she moved out the door, pulling her hand from Harry's. He stood in the entryway, watching as the car pulled out of the driveway of Number Four and turned onto Privet Drive. As the car stopped at the corner, Harry distinctly saw his aunt look back at him.

Then, several things happened; out of the corner of his eye, Harry noticed a hooded figure appear on Privet Drive; terror reeled through his body as he realized that the figure was wearing a mask, its outstretched left arm holding a wand, advancing on the Dursleys' car; a terrific pain shot through his scar, and Harry fell backward to the floor as thousands of piercing blades sheathed themselves in his skin; a tremendous blast went off, shaking the walls of the house, sending pictures of Dudley from their mounts to the floor, deafening the sounds of the glass as it broke. It seemed an eternity that Harry lay there, feeling his skull splitting in two, cold from fear, sweating in agony, while the very earth seemed to quake around him.

And, suddenly as it had begun, the world became quiet and still.

Harry shot up from the floor, still dizzy from the pain, clutching his scar and moving out the door. He ran down the street, unaware of the doors of curious neighbors opening as their owners entered the street. Dizziness caused him to run with his eyes closed, and he stumbled more than once before an ashy smell forced him to open them. He was a yard or two from the corner of Privet Drive, the corner at which Aunt Petunia had turned back to look at him. The car was still there, smoldering as though it had been burning for hours. Broken bits of glass and plastic encircled the wreckage. Harry looked wildly about, and found an arm, just visible on the hood of the car. The gold watch Petunia had given his Uncle last Christmas was now cracked, with a blackened face.

Slowly, Harry walked towards the car, trembling. As he moved to the front of the car, a grisly sight met his eyes; Uncle Vernon had been thrown through the windshield, his face contorted in an expression of mingled terror and anger, lifeless eyes staring blankly across the hood he was sprawled on. Harry turned away. Bile was rising in his throat, burning it. He swallowed painfully, looking anywhere but his uncle. He could see his cousin's head pressed against the back seat, motionless, no longer pale but blackened with ash. Then, he saw blonde hair, darkened and matted with blood, lying a foot from the car. She coughed roughly; at this sign of life, Harry ran desperately to his aunt's side.

"Harry?" she said, the first time he had ever heard her refer to him by his proper name.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia, it's me. Don't worry, I'll get help, I'll--"

"No, Harry, listen to me--there is a trunk, in the attic. Make sure you get it."

"What?"

"Promise me," she coughed. A narrow stream of burgundy found its way from the corner of Petunia's lips down her chin. "The only thing I ever promised her...get it." Harry nodded, casting his eyes about for something that could help. Aunt Petunia coughed again, her body shaking, and then, she was still.

"Aunt Petunia? Aunt Petunia," Harry whispered. The world went quiet then, soundless, draining into grayness; Harry found himself looking into the eyes of another woman, with curly hair, frightened. She spoke, but the words made no sense to him, and then, a blinding light. A cold, cruel, high-pitched laughter broke through the silence, and the sounds of the world turned back on.

A crowd had gathered around the car, neighbors whispering to each other, clutching children so as to keep them from looking. Harry felt his sorrow, heavy, pressing against his stomach, forcing its contents up his throat, and then he felt angry--a pure, blind rage, causing his fists to clench and tremble.

"What're you staring at!" He demanded. "Someone call for help! You damned idiots, they're dying! My family is dying! Someone help!" The stared at him, frightened, still, watching the dark haired boy, his eyes glittering with the tears that had found home there. "Someone help," he said, pathetically, turning back to his aunt's body. The tears began to fall, and the crowd huddled together as a loud crash sounded around them; there were four fire hydrants on Privet Drive, and they were now miniature geysers, streaming jets of water into the air, the tops having been blown off by an unknown force. Above all the noise, the distant sound of a siren echoed up Privet Drive. The crowd began to part as a short graying woman fought to the front, cursing the onlookers.

"Clear the street, you lot!" Mrs. Figg ordered. "The professionals are coming, and if you don't move out of their way, these people are going to die." She hadn't screamed, she hadn't needed to; the crowd sprang to life, and moved to the lawns and sidewalks as the white and red ambulance wailed up the road. Mrs. Figg rushed over to Harry, catching hold of his shoulders.

"There's nothing more you can do, lad," she said gently, pulling the youth to his feet. Harry nodded mutely, allowing him self to be led back through the crowd, past the uniformed men rushing toward the car. The walked past the crowd to the alleyway that led to Magnolia Crescent; Harry closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the night, almost a year ago, in that very alley, where Dementors had appeared and attacked him and Dudley. He had been angry with his cousin then, but an emotion had filled him that he only now understood--he had been scared, scared that Dudley was going to get hurt. He hadn't known that, after so many years of misery he could still feel for his family; he clenched his eyes shut, blocking the alley and its memories.

Soon, Harry smelled the familiar cat odor of Mrs. Figg's house, and opened his eyes slowly. The house had not changed in all the years that Harry had known Mrs. Figg, the paisley wallpaper lifting at the corners of the room, floral print sofas that sagged in the center and caused injury if sat upon at the wrong time of day, and, of course, cats--and lots of them. Mrs. Figg motioned for Harry to sit on the sofa and then disappeared around the half-wall that separated the sitting room from the kitchen.

Harry sank into the cushions, closing his eyes again. His head hurt, from the twinge still in his scar to the pressure from his running nose, from the maelstrom of emotion blurring his thoughts. Numbness began to take over, shock replacing adrenaline, and it was a moment before Harry recognized his name being spoken. Mr. Weasley was standing beside Mrs. Figg in the living room, looking concerned and nervous, covered in ash--evidence that he must have traveled by Floo powder.

"Come along now, Harry, we need to hurry," he said.

"Where are we going?" Harry replied after a moment, taking in the words slowly.

"To the Burrow, for now, and then...well, just hurry on. I will explain everything when we are safely at home." Harry wondered what Mr. Weasley meant by "safely," but did not question it--he was doing well to have control of his legs to make himself stand, and had no desire to test his fogged mind. He nodded and followed Mr. Weasley to the fireplace. He stepped through the flames, a warm breath falling over his cold body--he hadn't noticed until then that he was cold--and, though he didn't recall saying the words, the familiar spinning began, and Mr. Weasley and Mrs. Figg disappeared. He closed his eyes, to avoid the dizzying blur of open fireplaces that swirled past him, and he traveled in silence, letting the situation sink in; his aunt and uncle were dead, and, for some reason, Mr. Weasley had come to retrieve him, and he had seen...he was sure he had seen...

Suddenly, he stopped, and opened his eyes in time to feel a jolt as he was thrown forward onto the Weasley's kitchen floor.

"Harry?" A hand appeared before him. He accepted it, rising from the floor. "Sorry mate," Ron said, "We were expecting George, or else--"

"We wouldn't have put the jinx in. You didn't hurt yourself?" Ginny was sitting at the worn oak table, attempting to cover her laugh with a serious expression, though failing as the corners of her mouth remained curled upward.

"No, Gin, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You look awful."

"Thanks, Ron."

"Just an observation." They sat across from Ginny.

"You really don't look well," Ginny said, looking Harry over closely. "Are you sure you're okay?"

A small pop, preventing Harry from replying, was heard as Mr. Weasley apparated.

"Hi Dad," Ron said. "Harry's just--"

"I know. May I talk to him a moment...in private?"

"What? Why?" Ron asked, looking curiously at Harry.

"Please, it'll only be a moment." Ron shrugged and went to the stairs. He paused a moment, as he waited for Ginny to rise from the table. With a last glance, she joined him and they left the kitchen. Mr. Weasley turned from the stairs to Harry, fixing him with a serious look.

"I'm going to be honest with you, Harry," he said. "This afternoon...your Aunt and Uncle...well, it--that is, we have reason to believe that, it wasn't and accident."

"I know." Harry looked at the table. It made sense to him now, the feeling that had made him ask his Aunt to not leave the house, the pain from his scar, and the hooded figure... "Voldemort was behind this," he said quietly. Had he been looking at Mr. Weasley, Harry would have seen the slight flinch brought by the mention of the name.

"Well, Mundungus Fletcher was on watch, and he said it was a Death Eater, but we can't be sure. I mean, it is Mundungus, after all...and besides, we don't know that, even if it was a Death Eater, that the He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named ordered it; it could have been any of them."

"What does it matter?" Harry spat; as Mr. Weasley had been speaking, the nauseating feeling inside of Harry had built with a pressure that had become anger. "They're dead. My entire family is dead!"

"Look, Harry, I know you're upset--"

"Upset? I'm not upset." He was tightly clenching his fists, the knuckles white. The Dursleys were all he had left of his parents, and they, too, had been taken from him. Mr. Weasley watched the dark haired boy with sympathy. He made to rest a hand on Harry's shoulder, but with drew it quickly, staring about him in amazement; Mrs. Weasley's neatly stacked plates were lifting from their place at the kitchen sink and hurtling themselves at the walls, where they shattered and crumpled to heaps on the floor.

Hurrying, Mr. Weasley drew his wand and cried, "Reparo!" at the broken pieces.

"Harry, help me," he said, attempting to catch one of the plates in the air as it flew toward the fireplace mantle. "Harry... a little help would be nice...Harry?" He turned; Harry still sitting, body tense, eyes focused determinedly at the table, dark with emotion, unaware of the chaos around him. Realization dawning on him, Mr. Weasley walked to the table and sharply slapped Harry across the face. Clutching his cheek, Harry looked at Mr. Weasley in surprised alarm. The plates froze in the air-born paths, and dropped to the floor.

"Mr. Weasley, what--"

"It was for your own good," he said, returning to a pile of plates.

"I don't understand." Harry rose from the table, and took in the sight around him, the pieces of broken plate laying over every inch of the kitchen floor. "What happened here?"

"Harry," Mr. Weasley said, looking up from under the table, " did you know that you have Sentient magic?"

"What?"

"Mages, Harry, are wizards that can use a different kind of magic than ordinary wizards. Every Mage is different, but some have Sentient abilities, tied to their emotions. If a wizard hasn't been trained to control his power, it simply reacts in times of stress, like you did just now. I'm sorry I had to slap you, but you were destroying my plates." Guilty and a little confused, Harry took a pile of reassembled plates from Mr. Weasley to the counter.

"I'm sorry Mr. Weasley. I'm just..." But Harry couldn't find the words to describe the exhaustion he felt.

"It's all right, Harry. You didn't know, after all." Mr. Weasley brought the rest of the dishes to the counter, and they sat at the table. After a moment, Mr. Weasley said, " Now, Harry, there is the matter of where you are going live. You see, technically, Grimmauld Place is yours..." and he went on the explain that because Sirius couldn't officially be proven dead without revealing how he died, and, in turn, his involvement with the Order, but, Harry wasn't listening. Grimmauld Place--he remembered it as it was last Christmas, clean from the summer's work, and decorated; Sirius had been so happy to be surrounded by everyone, and Harry recalled thinking that, one day, he would have a real home there. But, his godfather was dead, as his aunt and uncle and cousin were dead, and his parents--he would never have a real home, with a family. If I survive this, he resolved, I'm going to have a proper home and Hermione, Hagrid and all of the Weasleys can live with me...The Weasleys! he realized.

"I'm not living here, am I?" he asked. Mr. Weasley, who had been lost in wizard law, looked at him as though surprised he to find him there. Before he could reply, however, a voice behind Harry said,

"No, Harry. The Weasleys have enough on their hands as it is." Harry turned to meet the familiar white beard and crooked nose of Albus Dumbledore.

"Our home is always open, though, dear," said Mrs. Weasley, whom, Harry noticed, was standing behind the headmaster. Mr. Weasley nodded in fervent agreement.

"But, for the moment, Harry, if you could say farewell to your friends upstairs. I believe they are anxious to talk with you, and I must discuss something with Mr. and Mrs. Weasley." Harry looked at Mrs. Weasley, smiling at him with motherly concern, and rose from the table.

Upstairs, Ron and Ginny immediately accosted him, both demanding to know what Mr. Weasley had said.

"And," Ginny said, "how did you get here? I thought you had to stay with the Muggles." She was sitting atop Ron's orange bedspread, flipping through a copy of Witch Weekly; Ron had been playing chess against the board; winning, too, judging from the pile of broken ebony pieces.

"My Aunt and Uncle," Harry began, though unable to finish; he couldn't find the strength to say what had happened--as if actually speaking it aloud made it a fact, a truth he couldn't ignore.

"Yes?'

"My Aunt and Uncle, and Dudley, they...they died, this morning." He looked to them, uncertain of their reactions.

"Well, at least you didn't...you know," Ron stumbled, "at least you didn't like them...you know."

"Ron!" Ginny exclaimed, casting her brother a furious glare. "You can be so insensitive!"

"It's okay, Ginny. He's right. It's just...I dunno..."

"Oh, Harry," Ginny sighed, moving off the bed and putting her arms around him. "I'm so sorry."

"Thanks." She pulled away, and turned to Ron expectantly.

"Sorry mate. Even if they weren't very nice--" Ginny rolled her eyes "--I am sorry."

"Thanks, Ron." Silence fell on them uncomfortably. After a moment, Ron said,

"So, I suppose you get to live with us now." Harry sighed and sat on the bed.

"I don't know."

"What?"

"Dumbledore said--"

"Dumbledore's here?"

"Ron stop interrupting," Ginny snapped. Ron's ears turned pink at the ends, and he returned to the chessboard.

"Dumbledore said I wasn't going to stay here, but he didn't say where I was going to live. I didn't bother to ask." He sighed again and let his eyelids droop; all the thoughts and emotions were jumbling in his mind, pounding in within his skull--it was so much, too much, to take in at once. "I'm just really tired." He fell back against the bed. Ron looked at Ginny a moment, then back to the game, expression somber. Ginny looked at Harry and Ron, then back at Harry, unsure what to say, or if she should say anything at all. They fell again into silence, sadly peaceful.

Five minutes passed before a knock interrupted them. Mrs. Weasley entered the room, and, eyeing the scene, motioned curiously toward Harry.

"He's not asleep," Ginny said. "Are you Harry?" Harry stirred at the sound of his name; seeing Mrs. Weasley, he sat up.

"It's time to go, Harry, dear," she said, holding the door open. Harry rose to follow her, pausing at the doorway. He turned, and said,

"I'll...um...I'll owl, okay?"

"See you mate," Ron said.

"Bye Harry." Ginny smiled encouragingly at him, and Harry and Mrs. Weasley began walking descending the stairs.