Harry Potter and the Power Within

Chapter 2: the Dream

He was flying through the cold night sky. It was a strange feeling: he seemed to be flying by himself. He swooped down beneath the clouds and felt that not-so-familiar feeling of passing through a bucket of ice, not too dissimilar to walking through a ghost. He was reminded of the time he had flown to Grimmald Place, except this time he wasn't on a broom, but appeared to somehow have managed to transfigure himself, at least partly, into a phoenix.

He looked down below him, wondering what would happen if a muggle happened to look up and see him. Of course, there was no risk of that, as he was now flying above a thick forest. Not recognising any of the scenery around him, he spotted what looked to be a large clearing ahead, where he was obviously headed.

Little did he know that he was in fact in South Africa, and that the "clearing" he thought he was heading towards was in fact the beautiful Wanderers Cricket Ground, where the 2^nd day's play had just ended between Australia and South Africa. Australia had batted first and reached 371, and South Africa had just been bowled out for 235, courtesy of Shane Warne's six wicket haul.

As Harry landed with a soft thus on the perfectly cut grass covering the pitch, he was struck, like so many before him, by the loveliness of the ground. The sun was setting and the whole area was basked in a beautiful mixture of purple and orange light. The trees situated all around the ground gave it a feeling of intimacy quite similar to that of a village green in England, and the darkness of the thick rainforest contrasted with the bright light descending on the square.

Harry seemed to have regained human form when he hit the ground and he now begun the walk from the middle to the changing rooms so many disappointed batsmen had taken before him. As he mounted the stone steps, his footsteps echoed far into the distance; he could hear the teams leaving but he knew his target would still be there, enjoying a drink and perhaps a massage.

He headed towards a door labelled "visitors changing rooms" and it creaked as he pushed it open. Inside, he could see the usual mess spread around by cricketers and their coffins, with pads, helmets and bats lying all over the place. As he headed into the next room, he thought he could sense his target there. Good, that would make the whole thing easier.

He silently pushed the door ajar, and peeped inside. Shane Warne was lying down on the bench, topless and obviously resting after a long day's haul. Harry opened the door wider still, and watched the Australian bowler jump up in surprise.

"Who's there? Lord Voldemort, I might have guessed I would be seeing you shortly!"

Harry didn't seem at all surprised by this response, and merely took out his wand. Pointing it straight at Shane Warne's right hand he yelled "Manum Severiaere!" and watched as Warne's hand was sliced off from the rest of his arm.

"Accio Hand!"

The piece of flesh flew straight into Harry's grateful hand and he placed it into a transparent plastic bag and pocketed it. Turning back to face his adversary, he was surprised to see that the latter wasn't trying to escape or even fight him, but appeared to have accepted the inevitable.

"Avada Kedavra!" yelled Harry and he laughed as Warne's lifeless body hit the ground, with a loud crunch. The impact would probably have been enough to kill Warne had he not been dead before he hit the floor.

Harry, though, simply stepped over the lifeless body and strode purposefully towards a mirror. Although in the darkness he could only see an outline of himself, what he saw appeared to comfort him and as he opened his mouth to speak a tongue in the shape of a serpent came out.

"I would appreciate it if you didn't talk about this to anyone, Harry Potter," said Lord Voldemort with an evil cackle.

"But I dare say, foolish as you are, that you will feel the need to tell Dumbledore and the mudbloods you call friends," he finished with a sneer.

About 5000 Miles away, the real Harry Potter woke up in a cold sweat.

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Harry ran his hand over his scar for what must have been the thousandth time that morning. Surprisingly, it didn't hurt him as much as he was expecting and that fact seemed to worry him somehow. Apparently Dudley's birthday party had been a terrific success and in its aftermath the Dursleys seemed to have forgotten to be awful to Harry, which meant he could think through his dream in peace.

Harry didn't know much about cricket, but from what little he had read in the papers, Shane Warne was one of the most successful cricketers around. He decided he would ask Dean Thomas about it; Dean, like Harry, had been brought up by muggles and was more likely than most to know about muggle sports.

He kicked himself mentally for being so thoughtless. Lord Voldemort had just shown his first sign of power for a month and here he was thinking about cricket. And Harry had witnessed it, yet again from Voldemort's point of view. As if that wasn't enough, it now seemed like Voldemort had sensed his presence, maybe he had even forced his way into Harry's mind once more.

Harry lay on his bead and decided he needed to do some serious thinking. Blinded by the bright morning sunlight filtering through the curtains, he closed his eyes. He tried to recall Voldemort's exact words; something like: "But I expect you will tell Dumbledore and your friends". That sounded like a challenge to Harry, and he was damned if he was going to yield in to Lord Voldemort. This was something which he would manage to keep to himself, for a change. With a sudden pang of sadness he thought back to Sirius, and how he would still be alive if Harry had listened to Hermione, and a tear rolled gently down his cheek.

Then, almost as suddenly, he realised he was probably acting just as Voldemort was hoping he would, and that he had planned on Harry trying to take up his challenge. How else could one explain him letting Harry into his thoughts so easily? And Harry knew then he must tell somebody. But what if he was giving Voldemort too much credit? What if his first impression had been right and Voldemort's challenge had indeed been real?

As Harry's tortured mind was swirling with all these thoughts, he decided the least he should do was find out whether what he had 'seen' was true, and if it was what possible reason Lord Voldemort could have for going after Shane Warne, and how come the latter knew his name. He picked up a piece of parchment, dipped his quill into an ink bottle and began to write.

Dear Hermione,

Are there any circumstances where people we presume to be ordinary muggles might have knowledge of the wizarding world, even if they are from muggle families? I ask this because this week-end at the local park, I was walking alongside a couple of local cricketers and I swear I heard one of them mention Lord Voldemort. Surely if they had been normal wizards they wouldn't have spoken his name out aloud? Or is my hearing just impaired?

Love - Harry.

That looked all right. No straight mention of the dream, but enough for Hermione to be able to give him an appropriate answer if she did know something about Shane Warne Harry didn't. Feeling a little appeased, he went downstairs and cooked himself up some breakfast. The Dursleys were still in the kitchen, but they seemed to have resumed their preferred attitude of ignoring Harry completely, which suited the teenager just fine.

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"Ron, it's Harry! The owl was from Harry!"

It was a couple of days after Harry's dream when Hermione's yelp resounded all through the house. Her excitement was understandable though for it was the first anybody had heard of from Harry since the beginning of the summer holidays. Of course, Hermione and Ron had expected their best friend to be depressed and had only really been half-surprised when he hadn't answered their regular owls.

Hermione rushed up the marble stairs, narrowly avoiding Mrs Weasley who was walking down with a basket full of dirty clothing. As Hermione let out a quick "Sorry Mrs Weasley", she was sure she heard the latter mutter something about "teenagers always being in a hurry". As soon as she reached the top of the stairs however, Hermione banged loudly on Ron's bedroom door, and went in, without waiting for an answer.

"Hermione, hasn't anybody ever taught you to knock before entering somebody's private domain?"

"I did knock Ron, and I really don't see what's so private about your room, I've been in here plenty of times."

"Yes, but usually only after I've had time to tidy up somewhat."

Ron did have a point there, as the state of the room could only be described as a mess. Clothes were lying everywhere, books were scattered all over the floor, and Hermione was sure she could see some porn magazines in the corner, which Ron quickly covered with...

"Ronald Weasley, what are those?" she demanded.

"Err, pyjamas", suggested Ron.

"I can see that, but orange????"

"Well, I like orange", Ron said firmly. "It's the Chudley Cannons' colour!"

Hermione rolled her eyes, and turned towards the desk, which was if possible an even worse mess than the rest of the room. She sighed loudly, prompting an annoyed "what?" from Ron.

"Well, it's just that it wouldn't kill you to occasionally tidy up your room even when I'm not around."

"What for?"

At this last comment Hermione gave up, and passed on to the subject of Harry's letter. She was disappointed to see that Ron, although possibly even more excited than she was by the fact that Harry had written to them at last, didn't regard the contents of the letter as strange.

"But Hermione, his godfather died less than a month ago, you can't expect him to be writing some kind of Steven Cranbury novel."

"I know perfectly well how long it's been since Sirius died, thank you very much Ron, but this letter just doesn't make sense!"

"In what way? It seems to me that he overheard this conversation and used it as an excuse to renew contact with his friends!"

"Oh Ron, don't be so naïve! Since when has Harry needed an excuse to write us a letter?"

"I dunno! Maybe he thinks we're angry with him because he hasn't been answering our letters!"

"Ron, you're being ridiculous! I think there's more than this than meets the eye."

"So what do you think we should do about it, then?"

"Well, obviously we've got to answer Harry, and try to probe around a little."

"What do you mean, 'answer'? You mean they are wizards no one knows about?"

"Ron, if you'd ever bothered to read some of the books littering your floor you wouldn't have to ask me that kind of question!"

Ron was about to get angrier still, when he noticed Hermione was frowning. Thinking it might be something to do with Harry, he asked "What is it?" in a concerned manner.

"Nothing, it's just... Who the hell is Steven Cranbury?"

Ron gave a short laugh and, with an amused grin which made his eyes light up, said: "If you bothered to read some of the books you get out of the library you wouldn't have to ask me that kind of question."

Hermione threw an old sock at her friend and they both went down to lunch in high spirits.

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About a week after sending Hedwig off to Hermione, Harry was sitting on a wooden bench, at the local park. He tossed a piece of stale bread onto the grass and looked on as three green-headed ducks fought each other over it. He was still waiting for a response to his last (Ok only) letter, and was becoming increasingly frustrated.

The situation was beginning to resemble last summer. Oh, of course, many things were better: for one, the Order's threat on the Dursleys seemed to have paid dividends, as Harry was being ignored totally now, a vast improvement on previous summers he thought, as it allowed him to roam around quite freely without being told to do some chore. He had also been kept regularly in touch with the latest from the wizarding, through regular owls from Hermione containing extracts from the Daily Prophet she thought he might find interesting.

But for the most part of the holidays nothing interesting had actually happened and Hermione's owls had said little more than "nothing happening; stay put, we'll see each other soon." Harry was so fed up with this kind of talk that he hadn't even bothered to reply to Hermione. From what he gathered, Hermione and Ron were staying somewhere, but not at Grimmald Place, although why he couldn't imagine (and his friends weren't allowed to tell him, lest their owls be intercepted), but they were at least together, along with most of Ron's family.

Thinking about Ron and Hermione made Harry wonder how long it would take for those two to get together at last. Harry could still recall vividly the time at the Yule Ball during their fourth year, when Ron had been insanely jealous seeing Hermione with Viktor Krum. Which made Harry think about his own love life; after all, he was nearly sixteen now and had only ever kissed one girl (and even that wasn't what you would call a proper kiss).

A loud "Quack" drove Harry out of his sleepiness, and looking down he saw that two of the ducks had conspired to wrestle the other duck of the bread Harry had offered them. Harry sighed and shivered slightly; the sun had disappeared behind some rather menacing clouds and he decided he'd better get back to the Dursleys (Harry couldn't quite bring himself to call it home) before the inevitable downpour.

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Harry had come to like Mrs Figg a lot more since the last summer, when she had found out she was in fact a squib, meaning somebody born from magical parents but with little or no magical ability. So when Uncle Vernon told him on his return from the park that she wanted to have him over for tea, he wasn't overly unhappy. Vernon however was so used to disregarding any kind of reaction from Harry that he failed to notice this and was still under the impression that he was forcing some kind of awful punishment on his nephew.

Mrs Figg's place was just down the road from the Dursleys and it hadn't started raining yet, so Harry set off almost immediately. He could see Mrs Figg standing in the doorway waiting for him, and was somewhat puzzled: this was obviously about something urgent, and it was with a feeling of apprehension that Harry followed her into the house.

As soon as he entered, he felt something small and furry jump onto his right jeans leg, and guessed that he had just been attacked by one of Mrs Figgs's many cats. He grimaced as he felt the cat's claws dig into his thigh. Shaking his furry friend off gently, he followed Mrs Figg into the sitting-room.

As he sat down on a well-used arm-chair, he was once again struck by a strong smell of cats. Doing his best to ignore it, he looked around the dimly lit room and was astonished to see some photos which could only be described as moving.

"Tea, Harry?"

Harry jumped as he was shaken out of his thoughts.

"Yes please! Oh, and Mrs Figg..."

"Arabella!" she interjected strongly.

"Sorry, Arabella, umm... are those photos ... well, are they wizarding photos?"

Mrs Figg looked embarrassed. Changing the subject Harry asked her why she had asked him over. Mrs Figg however pretended not to hear the question and merely asked him how he wanted his tea. Thinking it best not to insist, Harry made himself comfortable and closed his eyes. It was stiflingly hot inhere; the curtains were drawn and Harry was just beginning to nod off, when he heard a soft voice say "Hello Harry" and looked up into a well-known pair of blue twinkling eyes.

"Professor Dumbledore sir, I'm sorry, I didn't hear you come in."

"Well, that would indeed have been an exploit for I have been here for the last two hours," he chuckled.

"Now, Harry, I want to ask you about the dream you had about a week ago, and after that I promise you can ask me any question you wish."

Harry was completely taken aback by this request, and not just because he couldn't figure out how Dumbledore could possibly have known about the dream. He just didn't know what to think of his headmaster nowadays: he had been furious with him for most of last year, but it seemed from what Lupin told him, and from the fact that Dumbledore was here now, that he was at least trying to correct last summer's 'mistakes'. There was also the fact that Harry felt he had to trust Dumbledore to win this war for him, and the small matter that Dumbledore probably saved Harry's life as well as his friends' by turning up at the ministry that day.

This all in all explained why Harry looked straight into the other man's eyes and began to tell him the whole story, not just the dream, but also his loss of temper with his uncle and the resulting fight with the ministry wizards. At the end of his story, once Harry's voice was hoarse from speaking, Dumbledore took a minute to reflect on what he'd just heard, before leaning forward and staring straight at Harry's eyes.

Like each time he did this, Harry felt uncomfortable, and averted his eyes. He wondered briefly whether the headmaster could do wandless Legilimency. Dumbledore once again interrupted Harry's train of thoughts:

"First of all, I would like to thank you for telling me all this, Harry. I fully realise you are still disappointed with me over how I behaved last year, but it's good to see that you are grown up enough to put those 'issues' aside at times like these. I feel that you deserve an explanation on how I came to know about this dream of yours.

'Well, the Order has of course been intercepting your mail. No no, there is no need to protest, I will explain: we know that unfortunately our enemies have developed a system which allows them to intercept all of or mail with ease."

Waiving his arm, Dumbledore threw Harry's protests aside.

"What you must understand Harry is that our enemies have spies in very high places. They can therefore ask to read all mail for 'security reasons'. To say anything would raise suspicion and there is no need for that.

'As I was saying then, our enemies read all we put into our letters. Therefore, The Order thought it wouldn't be a bad idea if they knew what the enemy would know before the enemy knew it, if you see what I mean."

Harry nodded and Dumbledore continued.

"So we had to intercept your mail. Not just yours in fact, but all the mail we could lay our hands on. If it was from somebody on our side, we would merely check it to see whether it contained anything our enemies might be interested to, and if not then we merely sent it off on an express owl. However, on the few occasions we have managed to intercept any of our enemies' owls, believe me, we have made excellent use of the knowledge acquired.

'I might also add that should any of our side's letters have contained information of shall we say a 'personal' nature, whoever had read the letter would have kept its contents to himself. In fact, all those whom we weren't sure could be trusted to be quiet about such matters were simply not allowed to read letters.

'Anyhow, I myself read your letter and I must say it was quite remarkable. Had I not known what to look for, I may even have regarded it as ..., but knowing as I did that Shane Warne had indeed been magically murdered the previous evening, it wasn't overly difficult to guess that you knew of his death, and you were puzzled as to why he addressed Lord Voldemort by his proper name. The only way you could possibly know all this was if you had 'seen' it through a dream.

'Why, then did I wait nearly a week before contacting you? Quite simply because I was wondering how you dreamt around midnight about something which happened in England little after 4 PM. This puzzled me greatly and I am sorry to say I have not yet come out with an answer, so you may want to share this problem with your friends when you next see them."

Harry began to say something but Dumbledore interrupted him.

"Just a little more patience, Harry. You will join your friends in the course of the next two or three days; Miss Granger and Mr Weasley are both equally impatient to see you, and they were very pleased to hear from you (I transmitted them the letter when I had finished with it). Now Harry, is there anything you would like to ask me?"

Harry took a deep breath and prepared to ask the question which had been plaguing him ever since he had heard the prophecy.

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