If Only for Now

Chapter Two

Owls Again

A boy with jet-black, unruly hair and glasses on his pale face lay on his bed with in one of the square houses of Privet Drive. Harry Potter was utterly still, barely breathing, trying desperately to comprehend his last dream as the details slipped inevitably through his memory's fingers like water. It was almost hopeless. All he could remember was the Dark Lord, Voldemort, his archenemy and provider of the scar on his forehead, planning to kill himself and his godfather, Sirius Black.

Harry was not eager to investigate the idea of Voldemort being after him again. Of course, he had long since realized that he would never escape from this until he killed Voldemort, which a prophecy foretold of him doing, otherwise resulting in his own death. He also knew what would happen if he contacted his friends Ron, and Hermione, or Sirius, asking for help. He knew that he would be in very deep trouble for not closing his mind, as he was supposed to have learned last year.

Even though his ability to see Voldemort in dreams, even get into the Dark Lord's mind, was grand, Voldemort had turned the tables and used a vision to lure Harry to save his godfather. And Harry knew that if he hadn't gone to save Sirius, the Order would have, and likely more effectively. Because in trying to save Harry and his friends, Sirius had been mortally wounded. In fact, Harry didn't think his leg would be the same for lack of magical healing.

And then there was the burning feeling that Voldemort had planted another image in his head. And, strangely enough, his scar was not searing, or even prickling. It felt perfectly normal. Maybe this vision had been a simple dream. He couldn't even remember this dream as clearly as others.

But that's what he'd want me to think, Harry thought.

And then he remembered the last time he'd encountered Voldemort. The Dark Lord had no wish to be inside his body anymore. Why should he try anymore?

Yes, he finally agreed with himself, it probably was a dream. It wasn't that impossible that he would dream about Voldemort all the time because he would always be on Harry's conscious and subconscious mind.

He got out of bed, unable to go back to sleep. He stood by the small window for a moment. The light was becoming steadily grayer outside and Harry instinctively searched for a sign of his owl, Hedwig. But there was nothing on the horizon. Harry left the window, wondering for the millionth time that summer when his O.W.L. results would be coming, and fearing that they would stop him from becoming an Auror. Also, he'd been hoping for news of when he was going to be taken away from the Dursley's house, where he was seen as no better than a slug. He'd been promised that he would only have to spend ten days with the Dursleys, sealing the charm upon himself of the Dursley's house being his home.

Harry walked over to the wardrobe and pulled out a set of particularly baggy jeans and a short-sleeved shirt with sleeves so huge that they reached his elbows. He dressed quietly as the sun rose. As Harry was putting on his jeans he could hear movement his aunt and uncle's room. He'd noticed that there had been a definite change in the way that his aunt Petunia looked at him since he'd returned to the house. However he hand really taken the time to inspect the reasons for this abnormality. Of course, difference or no, Harry stayed outside most of the time. He kept his wand accessible at all times, walking down the pavement slowly.

He'd done something similar last summer, but then he'd been in a towering temper. This year he'd only have to be here for ten days, eight of which were spent. Harry was sure that in a day or so, he'd be taken away. He wished he could ask someone when this would be, knowing that last year there had been people tailing him. But now, the Order were focusing their attention on other more pressing matters, knowing that the Ministry of Magic would be keeping an eye on Harry. And, as Sirius had shown Harry a few days before he had to leave Grimmauld Place, they had rigged up a map very much like that which he and Lupin had made with Harry's father when they were at school. It could detect magic, setting off an alarm if the magic it sensed was anything close to dark, and had a little red dot labeled Harry Potter, tracking him wherever he went.

The idea of being watched whatever he did and wherever he went could have deeply disturbed Harry, but he was grateful that there was no longer an actual person following him. But, in needing to talk to someone, he'd found that there was a down side to this possibility. Harry had considered asking Mrs. Figg, but he had learnt that she was almost always out, and every time she rushed by to see that he was all right, she had rush away again, before he could even get his tongue around the words.

He could not understand what a Squibb (someone with magical heritage but is not magical themselves) might need to do, but he was sure that she could do several things for the Order in ways unobvious to him. As he began to walk downstairs, he wondered what he would do today to waste the time. He was thinking of just walking about, but the sight of Uncle Vernon glaring up at him from the bottom of the stairs made him falter and wiped away all thoughts of the rest of day.

"Get down here, boy!" he boomed, shaking a purple fist. "There's another one of those ruddy birds in our kitchen!"

Without hesitation, Harry flashed excitedly down the stairs three at a time. He skidded to a halt in the kitchen, where Aunt Petunia crouched, defending herself with a spatula and a chair. The handsome brown owl was sitting on the once gleaming kitchen table, which was scattered with feathers that it had lost in some unknown struggle. His aunt gave a shriek at the sight of him, which she must have been containing for far too long.

"Don't worry," said Harry, trying desperately not to laugh. "He -- he won't hurt you! He's just trying to deliver the mail."

He walked over to the table.

"C'mere," he said quietly, letting the owl hold out its leg and he took the envelope attached to it.

As the bird flew away, he realized that this was not the letter from his friends, as he'd expected. It was of a sturdy, faintly purple parchment, which spelled out his name in red ink.

Harry Potter

4 Privet Drive

Little Whinging, Surry

It didn't include his sleeping quarters, which was probably why, Harry thought, the owl hadn't delivered it to him personally. My O.W.L.s, he thought, as though the paper had already told him so. These scores determined what jobs he could apply for and, most important to him, whether or not he could become an Auror.

"What is it?" said Aunt Petunia in a voice that was unnaturally high with terror. "It's not addressed to me again, is it?" Harry shook his head slowly, unsure if he wanted to open the letter or be left unknowing forever. "Then what is it?"

"My exam scores," Harry told her calmly, as Uncle Vernon stormed in, but not before making sure that the room was completely devoid of owl.

"If they chuck you out for doing badly, you're not staying here!" he growled.

But Harry never heard him. He ripped open the envelope with a flourish and gazed upon his scores.

Dear Mr. Potter

The following are your scores for the O.W.L. exams completed last June:

Astonomy Poor No OWL

Charms Exceeds Expectations OWL

Care of Magical

Creatures Outstanding OWL

Defense Against

The Dark Arts Outstanding OWL

Divination Poor No OWL

Herbology Exceeds Expectations OWL

History of Magic Accptable OWL

Potions Exceeds Expectations OWL

Transfiguration Exceeds Expectainos OWL

If you feel that there are any injustices within this grading, please contact the Ministry of Magic. The Minister of Magic personally apologizes for the inconvenience of the year in which your exams took place. The Ministry expresses its regret for the power struggle to which the students of Hogwarts fell victim. They feel obligated to answer to personal grievances regarding the scoring.

Congratulations in your achievements on these exams. May these results prompt you to a successful future.

Sincerely,

Professor Marchbanks

Professor Marchbanks

Harry stared at the letter for a long time before he mind would process it correctly. He suddenly became aware of Aunt Petunia staring over his shoulder. He jerked away suddenly and involuntarily, leaving her startled.

"You haven't been chucked out, have you?" wondered Uncle Vernon through clenched teeth, as his Aunt went to start the bacon. Harry didn't answer. "Well, boy?"
"He hasn't," said Aunt Petunia suddenly. "What's this power struggle, they're talking about?" she wondered, looking at Harry. "This--this 'Professor' Marchbanks isn't talking about--about Voldemort, is she?"

Harry stood frozen for a moment. The first thoughts that coursed through his mind for a mere second were the bravery it took for his Aunt to say Voldemort's name, and then he remembered that she couldn't know what it meant. And then the real change in his Aunt came over him. She had pretended all his life that there was no magical world, and those who thought there was were obviously insane or worse. The only time she'd acted otherwise was last year when Harry had told her that he'd watched Lord Voldemort rise to power.

But now Aunt Petunia seemed perfectly confident that there was a magical world, people in it, and also a form of government that operated it. Her gaze grew more persistent.

"No," said Harry finally. "No, all year no one would believe me or Dumbledore that Voldemort was alive again - "

"Who would believe you?" snarled Vernon. Obviously his wife's confusing change in perspective was making him irritable as he jogged to keep up with their conversation.

"Why would they not believe Dumbledore?" Aunt Petunia asked, "I was told that Dumbledore was the greatest, most powerful and trusted wizard of all time?"

She didn't flinch once in saying wizard, even though her husband twitched horribly.

"He's not the Minister of Magic, though," said Harry quietly, his eyes fixed on his aunt. "The man who is was too happy with his own life to admit that he had leave comfort." Both his aunt and uncle flinched at the cold, bitter tone of his voice. "He knew that Dumbledore would have to become the higher power in the Ministry again if he trusted him. Minister Fudge has grown to love power too much."

"How did your ruddy school get involved in all this?" growled Uncle Vernon.

"Dumbledore is Head there," answered Aunt Petunia coolly. She didn't seem to be impressed with her husband's inability to have respect for Harry's world, even on such notice.

"Yeah," said Harry, feeling that he might as well explain to the fullest. "They didn't want Dumbledore to have too much influence at the school -- or anywhere, really. So they sent someone to spy there and eventually she began to take control and Dumbledore ended up sacked!" Petunia gasped. Obviously his mother had told her that Hogwarts was such a safe place because it was where Dumbledore dwelled. "He's back though," Harry assured her. "The Ministry was finally convinced when Voldemort came there to lure me to his prophecy."

That didn't seem to calm her in the slightest. "He's still after you?" she cried. "And you -- I thought no one but Dumbledore remembered that stupid prophecy!"

Harry was surprised at how much she knew. He supposed that the letter left by Dumbledore so many long years ago had informed her of everything, not to mention the seven or so years that Lily had undoubtedly talked about it.

"The Ministry keeps records," said Harry, suddenly unsure if he should give a Muggle such detailed information about the Wizarding World. But then, he reasoned with himself, she would never tell another living soul for fear that the neighbors would begin to wonder for her sanity. "My godfather was hurt --"

"You mean that loon that murdered --" began Uncle Vernon.

"Vernon!" snapped Aunt Petunia.

"-- and I found about what the Prophecy says."

"How involved are you in all this, boy?" exclaimed Uncle Vernon.

"More than I want to be," Harry said heavily.

At that moment, Dudley, Harry's enormous cousin and his aunt and uncle's only son, waddled into the room, just escaping getting himself stuck in doorway.

"Good morning, Duddy-dums," said Aunt Petunia tremulously, acting as though the discussion with herself and Harry had never happened.

But Harry hardly cared. He'd never had such a civil conversation with his aunt and uncle before. He knew automatically that the presence of Dudley meant that the chat was over, but he couldn't help but contemplate his aunt's motives for unexpectedly wanting to know about the Wizarding World. But it didn't take him long to realize as she gave him threatening glare, saying all to clearly that she wanted her son to be shielded from the crisis in the world, whether magical or not.

With the O.W.L. results still clutched firmly in his hand, Harry sat down at the table as Aunt Petunia served bacon and eggs and toast around the table. One thing that Harry had always been able to credit the Dursleys was their breakfasts. Although they weren't as big, filling or full of variety as the Weasley's, perhaps, they were always well cooked and dependable. After smashing his eggs, bacon and toast into something of a sandwich and eating it (much to Uncle Vernon's disgust).

Harry left the table and hiked up to the second landing to his room.

There, he found Hedwig sitting on his bedroom chair with a letter clutched in her beak. He grabbed it at once, noting that his name was spelled in Hermione's handwriting, which seemed a little messier than usual. Normally, he would have noted that this was odd because usually Lupin or Sirius would have been the ones who would inform him of the Order's plans. He ripped the letter open. He observed immediately that it was dated to the night before. It read:

Harry --

Lupin told me to write to you right now. He says to tell you that they're not going to come and get you tomorrow! THEY WILL COME AND GET YOU SOON! But something BIG is going on. I'm sorry; we don't know anything else. I just got here and all of Order are grabbing their wands; most of them are leaving. Sirius just said to get our wands out too. I'm writing this as it happens. Sirius says he'll put a Non-Intercept Charm on this letter, so you don't have to worry about it being tampered with. You'll have to ask him about it later.

I don't know anything else. I'm sorry. "Be on the alert," Sirius just said. Everyone says to tell you to be careful. I think you should keep a look out too.

Love,

Hermione

Harry was shocked. The first impulse that would have normally overcome him would be to kick his bedpost in anger that he would not be leaving as soon as he'd hoped. But that was soon overwhelmed by a new emotion that arose in his chest like panic. Anxiety. What could be going on? The first image that flashed through Harry's mind was something like those memories he had of the Battle of the Department of Mysteries. He saw flashes of green light, spurts of blood, could hear the shrieks of agony. And then he found himself staring at Hedwig, who was nibbling his finger affectionately.

A sudden urge to protect his home captured Harry. Not only that, but he felt that he could not be on the look out if he was shut up in his room. He had to be outside, checking if the coast was clear, making sure Mrs. Figg was not defenseless. She was in Order. And, as Harry remembered Sirius, Lupin and Moody mentioning before, members of the Order had been preyed upon in the last war against Voldemort. He'd been reminded that now that Voldemort was in open, the Dark Lord would be commanding his minions to perform similar crimes.

He snatched up his wand and darted out the door of his bedroom. He descended the stairs hastily, and made for the front door, seeing a blazing day outside through the panes of glass in door.

"Where are you going, boy?" thundered Uncle Vernon.

"Out for the day," Harry answered after a short pause. "I might not be back until it's dark."

"Boy, what's going on?" his uncle questioned.

"I don't know," Harry said truthfully. He was very thankful for the early morning talk with his aunt, and that there seemed to have grown an untraceable understanding between them. It wasn't love, but an unspoken agreement. It even seemed to exist between himself and Uncle Vernon.

He strode out the door, taking an immediate route to Mrs. Figg's house. Hermione's note hadn't mentioned it, but Harry knew that he was alone. He had no one to look out for him tonight. There was no one to tail him, no one to help him if Voldemort should suddenly jump out from behind a dustbin. He was left to defend Privet Drive on his own.

When he reached Mrs. Figg's house, he noted that windows had no sign of life in them. He rang the doorbell once. Nothing happened. He heard no pitter-patter of carpet slippers, nor any distant noises of cats meowing; all was silent.

"Hello?" he said to the door, pressing his ear to it. "Mrs. Figg?"

Again, there was no answer. He knew from some unknown instinct that he should not enter through the front door. If someone was inside, he should not burst in. A part of him that existed long ago would have told Harry that this was ridiculous, and there was no need to worry. He didn't know that were Death Eaters inside the old woman's house! But that piece of him was long dead. And now he knew that he would never be sure.

He turned his head this way and that, panting slightly. The usual calm of the cheerful little neighborhood was making him uneasy. He couldn't even hear children laughing in the distance, as was typical of a Saturday morning. The first thing he saw was Mrs. Figg's gate to her backyard, almost like a dog, Harry bounded forward to pull the latch. And, with much creaking that made Harry's hair stand up, he was able to slip into the back garden. Cats lay lazily in sunlight. Harry spotted a pair licking each other's ears while another played peak-a-boo in the flower patch.

One would never expect anything if they were to come into this yard. Harry almost turned on his heel, but he went around to the back door; the grass crunched joyfully under his feet, but did not change Harry's mood. The sliding-glass door revealed no secrets as he looked through it. The house was dark. At cat was winding around his legs, apparently meowing for food. Harry ignored it.

There were no signs of a struggle. The cat mewled.

"What happened?" he asked the cat, not looking down.

There was a loud yowl from his knee. He swerved his head this way and that, trying to see if there was anything suspicious. A final scream of protest came from the cat, and he had to look down, fearful that any Death Eaters inside the house would hear it. Fastened in the little animal's mouth was a scroll. Its teeth were making little dents in the paper in its agitation.

It made a noise that sounded very much like, "Urgh."

Harry reached down and grasped the scroll, the cat releasing it easily. He read:

Harry --

I hope Tufty gets this to you in time. I'll be gone for a while, but don't worry, you'll find out soon enough. LOOK OUT HARRY! I can't tell you why, but please look out for yourself.

Also, I think you'll find interest in a boy named Mark Evans.

Arabella

Relief washed over him. Feeling unexplainably grateful, Harry bent down and stroked Tufty's orange fur as he purred loudly. Feeling that his work was done, he left to prowl his usual trails.

Harry wasn't sure how long he spent patrolling the neighborhood before he realized he was hungry and that it was about lunchtime. He was intent on getting to number four to ask about Mark Evans, knowing that Evans was his mother and aunt's maiden name, meaning that he could have some sort of genetic connection.

"What are you doing back here, boy?" barked Uncle Vernon. "When you left, it sounded urgent."

"It's all cleared up now," said Harry smoothly. He decided not to tell his uncle about his fears of for their batty old neighbor or that there was something very wrong going on, but he had no idea what it was.

Aunt Petunia gave an angry snort as she as forced to make another sandwich. She may not have always fed him as much as he'd wanted, but she'd always made sure that Harry had food.

"Who's Mark Evans?" Harry wondered without preamble.

"What're you talking about?" said Dudley from the table through his sandwich, which by now must have been his third helping. Harry could tell by the crumbs on the table and Dudley's expensive leather jacket.

"He's got the same name as our mums' maiden one," Harry explained evenly. Resorting to politeness to Dudley was never fun. He would have abandoned the whole feckless affair, but he wanted information. Aunt Petunia's chopping had ceased; her normally active elbow was very still.

"What does he have to do with anything?" she wondered.

"I -- I don't know . . . I just heard about him in passing from a neighbor and . . ."

"He's your second cousin," she snapped suddenly. "She --Your mother and I were very fond of his father, our cousin."

"What do you mean, 'were'?" Harry asked, knowing he was walking on thin ice. Aunt Petunia was almost never still.

Still not turning to look at him, she said, "He died about two years after Mark was born. If we hadn't accepted you, you would have gone to them."

Harry was shocked. He'd never known that he had any other living family, no matter how distant, other than the Dursleys. "But--no one ever told me that I had fami--"

"Just have a sandwich," she snapped, pushing one into his hands and sounding very much like Professor McGonagall.

Harry knew then that the conversation was over. He did not bother to press it any further. Knowing that he would receive only rude glares and hear only the grinding of teeth if he stayed any longer, Harry left the house. Once he was outside, he took a bite of the characteristic dry bread that he'd grown used to in Muggle primary school. The rest of the day was spent tramping around his favorite paths from last summer. He had the musings of what was going on in his world to haunt him, of course. He often tried to keep away from the thoughts that brought cold dread to his stomach. Most of which involved the idea of Grimmauld Place being attacked.

Harry found himself checking Mrs. Figg's house often as he could, finding himself unconsciously wandering toward it. He knew very well that she would not be there, but something of his subconscious told him that if she was there, everything would be safe again, meaning he'd be able to leave. And so Harry's will of her return grew so strong, that he could not bear it when he found the house untouched.

As they sky grew dark, Harry's instincts advised him to leave the streets, remembering the unpleasant experiences of last summer. But the sun was only setting, and Harry decided to go check Mrs. Figg's house, even though he knew what he would discover. But it was as he strode down Mongolia Crescent that something caught his eye. In the alleyway between Wisteria Walk and Magnolia Crescent, Dudley and his gang were advancing on a small figure that couldn't be much older than ten or eleven.

Last summer, Harry would have given anything for this opportunity -- a situation in which he could intimidate Dudley, leaving him dumbstruck before his minions. But he'd never seen Dudley torment a child younger than himself before. Sure, Harry had been victim to many of his cousin's beatings, but he'd always been as old as Dudley was. And, though he was hardly even measurable to his cousin, Harry had always been just big enough to withstand his blows without serious injury, which was why no one other than the students at their school ever believed that the bruises and cuts were because Dudley had hit him.

Dudley pushed the boy, who fell against the alley wall, with the smallest of cries.

"Ah, look at the baby cry!" cackled Malcolm. "Does he want his mummy?"

Harry was reminded forcefully of Bellatrix Lestrange and her mocking baby voice.

"He's a right little whelp, he is," said Piers Polkiss, his rat-like face wrinkling into a sneer. He ran up behind the boy before he could turn his head and held his arms behind his back, just as he'd done to Harry in their youth. Dudley's beefy fist hit him full in the face. He cried out in pain. Piers let go and he collided with the cement with a smack.

Harry's blood began to boil. Fifteen long years of hatred and an entire childhood of Dudley's torment were pulsing violently through Harry's veins. Before he knew it, he was bolting forward, wand in hand, yelling, "Leave him alone!"

The next thing Harry knew, he was lying in the dirt, his lip numb and bleeding with four enormous boys standing over him. Dudley tried to leer, but Harry had seen the pupils of his eyes contract like his father's did when he was frightened. Harry realized that he hadn't been smart enough to take Harry's wand from him, or maybe he'd been to afraid to touch it or Harry. He pulled it upward, ignoring the weakness in his muscles at having struck the earth so brutally, and pointed it directly at his cousin's heart.

Seconds passed in silence as Harry began to the register the fact that he could kill Dudley on the spot and never care. He could kill all of them, and it would never come back to haunt him. And then they began to laugh -- laugh so hard that it was entirely possible that a few of their ribs could crack. Everyone was laughing except Dudley, who didn't seem to be breathing.

"Whoooh! Potter's got a twig!" said Gordon stupidly. "Whoooh, we should be scared now --"

"What's up Dud?" asked Piers, the only one smart enough to notice that Dudley was petrified with fear.

All of the other boys looked at him, even the younger boy, who was struggling to get to his feet. Several long moments of silence passed as Dudley did not dare move. Harry grinned slightly.

"Tell them, Big D," he said contemptuously. "Tell them what I can do with my 'twig'!"

Dudley began to tremble. He opened his mouth several times, but was unable to speak coherently. Had Harry not been so livid or preoccupied by the memories of what these boys had done to him, he would have enjoyed himself.

Finally, Dudley spoke. "We sh-should leave him a-al-lone," he said shakily.

"What're you talking about Dud?" asked Dennis. "You're twice as big as him!"

"He's in St. Brutus's!" whimpered Dudley. "That stick is like - er - like a gun!"

The boys gazed at Harry, who endeavored to allow himself an insane grin.

"Let's go!" said Dudley forcefully. "Now!"

And Dudley turned away from the wand and began to run in zigzag formations, his gang trailing behind him, all utterly bewildered an obviously terrified. Harry stood up, his knees shaking slightly. The boy had not raised himself off the ground. He was staring at Harry in a mixture of horror and awe.

"You all right?" Harry asked, remembering that all of the neighborhood children were horrified of him.

"You - you just saved me!" said the boy. He had strawberry-blond hair that was fashionably spiked at the front and almost brown with a few freckles on his nose that would undoubtedly fade with age. He had bright green, oval-shaped eyes, which could draw anyone's attention. Harry knew those eyes. As Harry pushed back his sweaty hair from his forehead, the boy's eyes fell upon his scar, not leaving it for several seconds.

"You're Harry Potter!" he cried out suddenly. "The Harry Potter! You're not a Muggle at all!"

Harry blinked. It took a few moments for him to register the ten or so words that this boy had said. First of all, he knew what a Muggle was, which could only mean one thing -- he wasn't one!

"Who are you?" asked Harry, reaching out to grasp the boy's hand.

"M-Mark Evans," he said, suddenly nervous as he was pulled upright by Harry. "I -- I heard that -- well my mum told me that you and me're cousins!"

Harry grinned ever so slightly. "Yeah -- er -- we're cousins -- second or something . . ." He felt embarrassed for not knowing, but Mark didn't seem to care. "So -- so you're a wizard then?"

"Yep!" said Mark proudly. "I got the letter and all July fifth (that's my birthday) and we went to Diagon Alley and all! I never knew there were such things as wizards and witches! And I've heard about everything that's been going on with you and Voldemort!"

Harry had never heard anyone so young say Voldemort's name.

"You're awfully brave for saying the name," Harry told him.

"Why does everybody have such a fit about it?" Mark wondered. "Is it like swearing?"

"No," said Harry. "It's --" he wasn't quite sure he could explain the complexity of the fear surrounding Voldemort's name, "people are just really scared of everything that's him and regarding him."

"He must be really scary," said Mark.

"He is," Harry assured him.

"But everyone says you fought him like -- four times! And this boy at Diagonally said that you even fought Voldemort's sixteen-year-old memory!"

"I was scared every time," Harry told him darkly. He never liked people admiring him just because he'd faced Voldemort.

Mark seemed to understand these feelings, because he continued, "And this guy at that Quit-stitch shop said that you're on the house team and you're really good!" He added suddenly, "What is Quit-stitch?"

"It's Quidditch," said Harry, laughing and imagining that Mark's informant had been Oliver Wood. He wished he could see the look on Wood's face if he'd learned that the boy he'd been talking to had left not knowing the difference between Quit-stitch and Quidditch. "And people play it on broomsticks -- enchanted broomsticks."

"Oh, so that's what they were for!" said Mark, an expression of comprehension on his thin face. "So what're Death Eaters? I saw it on the cover a newspaper (at least I think it was newspaper) called the Daily Prophet. Something like, 'the Death Eaters Coming into the Open' and then I think it said 'Fudge Not Taking Action!' What's Fudge?"

Harry remembered this article, but it had held no proof of the Death Eaters. It had just been something for the press to feed on. Even though it was true that the Minister was doing nothing to stop any Death Eater activities.

"First of all, Death Eaters are Voldemort's supporters," Harry said heavily. "Some of them are just as bad as Voldemort is. They got out of Azkaban -- you know what Azkaban is?" Mark nodded, obviously having learned it somewhere. "Well, they got out last year, but no one believed that it was because of Voldemort."

"I heard about that," he told Harry. "Everyone was making you out to be a loony!"

"Yeah," said Harry, as they began to walk in the vague direction of the park. "That was Fudge's work. Cornelius Fudge is the Minister of Magic. You've heard of the Ministry of Magic, haven't you?" Mark nodded again. "Well, the entire Ministry of Magic was out to discredit me and Albus Dumbledore because they thought we were just trying to create panic and get Dumbledore back into power!"

"I was told that Professor Dumbledore never was Minister," said Mark, confused.

"He was always more powerful than Fudge though," Harry explained wearily. It seemed like he'd had this conversation twice today. He couldn't blame Mark though. He'd been the same way before his first year -- clueless and unhappy to remain so. He remembered bombarding Hagrid with what must have been hundreds of questions the day he'd found out he was a wizard.

"He's a very powerful wizard, you know. And he always knows what to do." Harry tried not to think about the mistake Dumbledore had made in not telling him about the Prophecy. He wanted him to remain ever strong and sturdy, incapable of making mistakes, no matter how untrue he knew this was. "He trusts anyone and everyone, even when no one else will."

He decided not to mention the fact that Dumbledore could read minds, and so knew if people were telling the truth or not.

"Wow!" said Mark, awe-stuck. "And he's gonna be our head?"

"Yeah," said Harry.

"What're houses?" Mark asked. "What do they do?"

Harry did what he could not to let out a long, agitated sigh. How was he supposed to explain houses? But he had to remind himself that this was far better than explaining something to Colin Creevey. At least Mark wasn't looking at him every moment.

"You'll -- you'll just have to find out on the train!"

Mark sighed himself. "You sound like Mum!"

Harry chuckled, finding joy in leaving him in the dark. He wondered if this was how it had felt for Ron's brothers felt like when he had been inquiring them about Hogwarts.

"Look, Mark," he said, "it was great meeting you and everything, but I've got to get back to my aunt and uncle's house. Dudley will have made something up and I'll be in for it when I get back."

"I'll be a witness!" Mark volunteered quickly. "I could tell --"

"I don't you to get involved in all of this," Harry said, know that Uncle Vernon would never believe him.

"But -- " Mark began to protest.

He never finished his sentence, because at that moment, the alley between Wisteria Walk and Magnolia Crescent exploded behind them.