The Greatest Power

Chapter One: In the Night

"Boy!" snarled Vernon Dursley through the closed door to Harry's bedroom at Number Four, Privet Drive. "Boy! Up!"

Harry did not need a wake-up call; he had been up for hours. He was sitting, still in his oversized pajama pants, watching the beginnings of the sunrise over the horizon of Little Whinging, trying to keep his mind completely blank. Sleep had not come easily to him since his return to his aunt and uncle's house three days before; in fact, it had come hardly at all.

"Boy!" shouted Uncle Vernon again. Harry sighed wearily and crossed the small bedroom to open his door.

"Yes, Uncle Vernon?"

"Have you written your letter yet?"

Harry could not register what exactly his uncle was on about so early in the morning. He stared at his uncle uncomprehendingly. "My...letter?"

"Don't play stupid with me, boy. It is time for you to write to those freaky friends of yours so they don't come barging into my home!"

At this, Harry remembered the warning given to Vernon by the members of the Order at King's Cross Station. They had said if they did not hear from Harry for three days in a row, they would be coming to check on him. Uncle Vernon had been repulsed by the entire lot of them, and (although he would never admit it) intimidated by Mad-Eye Moody's threats. Harry knew that the last thing his Uncle wanted was for any of them to be seen by his "normal" neighbors on Privet Drive, and had been lectured all the way back from the train station on what exactly would happen to him if any of the "freaks" came to call.

"No, Uncle Vernon. I haven't written them yet."

Vernon reached into the pocket of his plaid bathrobe and thrust a black ink pen and a pad of Grunnings memo notes into Harry's hand. "Get to it, boy. I want to read that letter before you send it, and mind you, do not even think of implying to them that we have been anything less than satisfactory. Keep in mind that we are the ones who have kept you your entire life, and you should be grateful."

Harry stared at the memo pad in his hands, suppressing a mirthless chuckle at the thought of Mr. Weasley's amazement at the laser-printed Grunnings logo on the top of each small sheet. "Yes, Uncle Vernon."

"I have to get ready for work. I want that letter finished by the time you come down to breakfast, and you had better hope it is written to my satisfaction." With a final, purple-faced glare at his nephew, Vernon turned away and stalked back down the hall to his bedroom.

Harry sat down at the small desk in front of his window, set the notepad aside, and pulled a roll of parchment and a quill from the top drawer. He thought for a moment before he began to write; for his own reasons he did not want any visitors from the wizarding world either.

Dear Professor Moody, Professor Lupin, Tonks, and Mr. Weasley,

Things are fine so far, and the house has remained calm, which is good. As Hermione and Ron will know, we were set quite a lot of homework for the holidays and I have started work on it.

Please tell Hermione and all of the Weasleys I said hello, and I hope their holiday has started off well.

Sincerely,

Harry

Harry read carefully over the short letter several times. Finally convinced that there was nothing in it that would alarm anyone, he set it aside on his desk, got his clothes and a towel, and headed for the shower. Another day had begun.

Uncle Vernon read Harry's note as he sipped his morning coffee, and then handed it to Aunt Petunia, who immediately pursed her lips and held it gingerly, as if the very parchment Harry had written on could be contagious. Harry did not look at either one of them. Instead, he concentrated on rearranging the small portion of scrambled eggs on his plate so that it would look as though he had eaten some, not that any of the Dursleys would notice or care.

"Fine. Go upstairs immediately and give this letter to that bird to deliver, and she had better be fast about it, too," Uncle Vernon stated, pushing the parchment back at Harry and disappearing behind his newspaper.

Grateful for the opportunity to leave the gleaming white kitchen, Harry took the parchment back up to his room. Waking Hedwig gently, he tied the note to her leg and asked her to take it to headquarters, where he knew that at least one person in the Order of the Phoenix would be there to receive it.

His duty done for the day, Harry lay on his back on his bed, staring at the small crack on the ceiling in his bedroom, trying desperately to keep his thoughts off of the Department of Mysteries and the devastating hole in his heart where Sirius had been. He focused on the beginning of the crack and began counting backwards from one thousand, moving his focus slightly along with each passing number. This was the only way he had found that he could stop his thoughts from spinning out of control and consuming him, the only way he had found to keep himself sane.

If Ron or Hermione could have seen Harry, they would have been quite alarmed. The truth about Harry's stay with the Dursleys was quite different than what he had implied in his letter. Yes, things were calm, but they were anything but "fine." Citing the episode with the dementors the previous summer, Uncle Vernon had confined Harry to his room, save only to take care of his hygienic needs and for meals, so that no one or nothing could find him. Petunia had told him that Harry was safe, and therefore so were the rest of them, as long as he was inside the house, so Harry was no longer allowed to leave. Period.

Harry had only left his room on a few occasions since his arrival, the weight of his depression so complete that it often rendered him unable to move. He had no appetite, and in only three days he had lost enough weight for his baggy jeans to become even baggier. He rarely slept, and there were dark circles underneath his eyes. Anyone looking at Harry Potter would never have guessed that he was only fifteen years old. The despair in his green eyes made it apparent that he had been through more in his short life than most adults would ever have to go through. He was near his breaking point, and he knew it, but he could just not find it in himself to care.

* * *

Remus Lupin sat at the long table in the kitchen of Number 12, Grimmauld Place, carefully perusing the Daily Prophet for any sign of Voldemort's whereabouts. Not, he reflected, because the idiots who ran the paper would actually know where Voldemort was building his stronghold, but because one of Voldemort's greatest powers lay in the subtle and insidious way that he injected his poisonous presence into the world. Many of his machinations would be imperceptible to someone who did not know what they were looking for.

Hearing a soft tapping at the door, he crossed the room and opened it to find a snowy owl with a small roll of parchment tied to its leg. The owl floated gracefully down to land on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

"Hello, Hedwig," Remus said softly, taking the letter from her and offering her a link of the sausage he had made that morning. "Are you taking good care of Harry?"

Hedwig hooted through her mouthful of sausage in what seemed to Remus to be a sad sort of way, then flew out the kitchen door towards the window through which she had entered the house.

After quickly reading Harry's note, Remus sighed heavily, his pale face registering even greater sadness. He knew Harry was not fine. How could he be? Remus was possibly the one person in the world who could understand how profoundly Harry was feeling the loss of Sirius, and far from reassuring him, Harry's short, impersonal letter made him worry even more about the boy. If only they could bring him back here, among people who cared for him. But Dumbledore insisted that Harry's safety was his most important concern, and that Harry could not leave Privet Drive until after his sixteenth birthday.

The kitchen door opened and Molly Weasley entered the kitchen in her flowered dressing gown.

"Morning, Molly," he greeted her. "How did you sleep?"

"Oh, fine, just fine, although I could hear Fred and George getting up to something in their room until late last night. I'm not sure if I dare ask them what they're on about this time." She turned to flash him a weary smile and noticed the small bit of parchment in his hands. "Remus, have you got a letter from Harry? Is he alright?"

Remus wordlessly handed her the note and her smile faded as she read it. "That poor child," she whispered. "He should not be alone at a time like this. Maybe if I talk to Dumbledore again..." She trailed off, knowing that talking to Dumbledore would not change Harry's present situation.

"Now, Molly, Harry has said nothing to indicate that he is being mistreated."

Molly frowned. "Do you really think he would tell us? I'm going to send Arthur to check on him straightaway." She made for the kitchen door, her thoughts of a cup of tea forgotten.

"I don't think that would make things much better for Harry right now..." Catching the worried creases on Molly's forehead, he added, "I am sure he would tell us if they were mistreating him. I know he wants to be here with us as much as we want him here."

"Have you written him, Remus?"

"Yes," Remus sighed. "I wrote him on his second day back. Aside from this, I have not heard from him."

"Ron and Ginny have both sent him owls, too. I'm sure Hermione has as well. No one has heard a word. Honestly, Remus, does he have to be there? Can't we keep him safe here, with us, where there are people to talk to, to care for him?"

"Dumbledore has insisted that Privet Drive is the only safe place for him right now, Molly. If nothing else, we have to trust him on that."

The expression on Molly Weasley's face indicated that she did not have so much faith in the Headmaster when it came to Harry's well-being. Even as she fumed over the injustice of Harry's situation, her eyes testified to her immense sadness and worry over the boy she considered one of her own.

* * *

At one in the morning on Privet Drive, the dark-haired boy in the smallest bedroom thrashed around on his bed, his threadbare sheets entangled around his body and soaked in cold sweat. "No, no!" he moaned. "No, it's not me, it's not..."

The ghostly figure of a sixteen-years-younger Sybill Trelawney gleamed on the surface of the Pensieve in Dumbledore's office... "and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."

I have to kill him. I have to.

"Yes, Harry. It's you. It's always been you." Sirius Black appeared beside the chair where Harry was sitting. "That's why I died. That's why your parents died. It's always been you."

"No! It's not me!" He looked at the pale face of his Godfather.

"It's you, Harry, and more people are going to die because of it. I died because of it. I died because of you."

Harry watched, horrified, as a stone archway with a tattered veil appeared behind Sirius. Sirius doubled over as he had in the Department of Mysteries and slowly, gracefully fell through the veil. "It's you, Harry...it's you..."

"NOOOOOOO!" Harry screamed as he sat bolt upright in bed. "Sirius!"

Chapter Two: Reflections

Uncle Vernon burst into Harry's room with Aunt Petunia following closely behind. Both wore the heavy expressions of those who had been jolted out of a sound and dreamless sleep. Uncle Vernon violently slapped at the light switch until the room was flooded in brightness.

"What the devil is going on in here, boy? Have you any idea what time it is?" he shouted. "I will not have my family being woken up at all hours of the night!"

Harry did not reply. Still gripped in the terror of his nightmare, he only sat in his bed, his eyes staring blankly in front of him, shaking and sweating. Aunt Petunia noticed his state, and for an instant, it seemed as though she was about to go to him, maybe even comfort him. Just in time, however, she got hold of herself and the disapproving scowl she reserved just for Harry set into her face. She crossed her arms over her chest and let Vernon continue to rant at their nephew.

"Some people in this household work for a living, Potter. If you want me to continue putting food on the table and clothes on your ungrateful body, you'd do well to let me get a good night's sleep. And your window is open! What did I tell you about that, boy! I don't want the neighbors to know one bit about your...unnaturalness. You're to keep that window closed, hear? And furthermore..."

Another door opened down the hall and Harry's cousin Dudley wandered sleepily into the fray. Although Harry's scream had not woken him, his father's shouting was loud enough to make the windows rattle. Even through the sleepy haze in his eyes, Dudley realized what was going on and grinned stupidly at Harry. Dudley loved to hear his father telling Harry off.

"I'm sorry, Uncle Vernon," said Harry quietly, trying to keep the tremors from his voice. He didn't have the strength or the will to fight with his uncle, and he wanted the Order to have no excuse to try to come to his aid. "It won't happen again."

"You're damn right it won't happen again, boy!" Uncle Vernon shouted, his face going a darker purple as his temper rose. "I don't care what you have to do to stifle that blasted screaming, gag yourself if you have to, but I won't be woken in the middle of the night again! Screaming like a bloody baby! Are all wiz-"

"Vernon!" Aunt Petunia hissed. "The window!"

Vernon stopped in the middle of his words. No one in the room could believe that he had almost said "wizard," a word as forbidden in the Dursley household as the nastiest swear word imaginable.

Without another word, Vernon strode across the room and slammed the window shut. He paused and turned to face Harry, opening his mouth furiously as if he were about to start shouting again. Instead, he pulled back his hand and knocked Harry in the side of his head so hard that Harry almost fell off the other side of his bed. Without another word, he turned his back on Harry, stormed past Petunia and Dudley and back to his own bedroom. Now that the show was over, Dudley smiled dumbly at Harry before going back to his own room as well.

Aunt Petunia stole one last furious glance at her nephew and was surprised to see that, although the boy had not made another sound, a single tear trickled from his left eye and down his cheek. Without another word, she left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

* * *

After his relatives had left his room, Harry finally got out of his bed, brushing the tears from his face. Aunt Petunia probably thought he was crying from Uncle Vernon's hit, but the truth was that the nightmare from which he had just awoken had, after the initial shock, left him with a large lump in his throat and a pain in his chest that made him feel that his heart was about to burst. He screwed up his face, fighting the despair that wanted so badly to come to the surface.

It's my fault. Sirius died because of me.

Harry knew from the core of his being that it was true. If Harry had not gone to the Department of Mysteries that night, Sirius would never have died. How many more would there be?

Not for the first time, Harry wished that he was not the Boy-Who-Lived. Since his first year at Hogwarts, he had often wished the trials and the celebrity of his status as the one who took Voldemort down would simply go away. Tonight, he did not wish for that. Tonight, he wished that he had died with his parents. He could no longer bear the pain of his own existence.

Against his will, more tears of despair trickled from his green eyes down his flushed and sweaty cheeks. He swiped them away, feeling stifling hot in the airless room. Listening to make sure he didn't hear his relatives in the hallway outside his bedroom, Harry went over to open the window once again. He knew he did not have to worry about any more nightmares tonight, for tonight there would be no more sleep.

...for neither can live while the other survives...

Upon reaching his window he saw in the glass, instead of his own reflection, another face. A horribly familiar face. A face that was more snake-like than human, a face with red, snake-like eyes and narrow holes where the nose should have been.

Lord Voldemort was staring through Harry's second-floor window, his face twisted in a sick grin.

"I see you, Harry Potter. It's only a matter of time. You are ready to die, I can see it in your thoughts. I eagerly await the pleasure..."

The face disappeared.

Harry's scar exploded with pain and he dropped to his knees, clutching his forehead. He was going to be sick. His body, weakened by lack of food and rest, shaking and pale as a ghost, finally gave in, and Harry fell, unconscious, the rest of the way to the floor.

* * *

Molly finished her note to Harry and tied it to Errol's leg, opening the drawing room window to let him into the dark night to take the message to Privet Drive. For years, she had known what it felt like to worry about Harry as well as the rest of her children, but she could not remember a time when she had been more worried about any of them than she was about Harry right now. What the poor dear must be going through...she did not like to think of him alone with those relatives of his when he was obviously in such a fragile emotional state.

Would they care for him, make sure he ate, make sure he slept? Would they be ensuring that he got out in the sun? Molly highly doubted it, and she knew that they would not make themselves available to talk to Harry if he needed help, not that Harry would ask them anyway. She wanted him away from them, she wanted him here, where he belonged, with her and the rest of her family, and with Remus, the last of his father's friends.

No matter what Remus said, Molly had made up her mind that if Harry did not answer her owl directly, did not give a more detailed account of what his life was like this summer, was not honest with her, she and Arthur both would be visiting Privet Drive in the near future. Dumbledore be damned. No one messed with Molly's children.

"Mum?" Molly's youngest child and only daughter entered the room behind her. Molly turned to face her, hoping that her worry was not too plain on her face.

"Yes, Ginny?"

"Is Errol taking a letter to Harry?" Ginny Weasley was extremely observant, and she had seen her mother fretting over the letter earlier in the evening.

"Just a quick note, dear, to let him know we are here if he needs us." Molly tried hard not to convey her worry to her children; they were worried enough without adding her own fears to their burden.

"He's been there for almost five days now, and we've not heard anything from him except that short note on the third day. I'm worried, Mum. Harry has an owl. Why isn't he answering our letters?"

Molly went to her daughter and hugged her tight, answering through the embrace. "Harry's grieving right now, Ginny. He's lost the closest thing he has ever had to a father. I imagine he is not writing because he just doesn't know what to say."

"Why, Mum? Why can't Harry be here? He needs us, and we need..." she trailed off, blushing slightly.

Molly broke apart from her daughter and studied her face intently. "Ginny, dear...is there something you want to talk to me about?"

Ginny sighed, lowering her eyes to avoid her mother's gaze. "No, Mum...I'm just worried, is all. Ron is too...even Fred and George are worried."

"I know...I know, Ginny. But Professor Dumbledore has said that Privet Drive is the only place in which Harry can be safe right now...he simply has to stay. It's only a few weeks more, dear, until his birthday."

"Is Harry coming on his birthday?"

"That is what we have been planning. I have an idea...why don't you, Ron, and Fred and George put your heads together and plan a little party for Harry's birthday when he arrives? I am sure he would like that."

"Mum, that's brilliant!" Ginny said happily. "Of course we'll plan a party for him! Will you make food, and a cake? He's never had a real birthday cake before, with sixteen candles? And can we invite some of our other friends to come, too?"

Molly smiled at her daughter's enthusiasm, and she ruffled Ginny's red hair affectionately as she answered, "I would be delighted to make a birthday cake for Harry, dear...but I'm afraid the party will have to be confined to members of the Order, our family, and Hermione...we simply can't have too many people coming to headquarters. It wouldn't be safe."

Ginny was actually glad of this...if she invited others, she would have to invite her boyfriend, Dean Thomas, and that could prove to be awkward...but why, she wondered? It's not like she had a crush on Harry anymore...

* * *

Harry woke to the bright summer sun streaming through his bedroom window, and was puzzled at first as to how he had ended up sleeping on the floor...and how he had ended up sleeping so long. The clock on his bedside table said that it was nearly noon! Why hadn't his aunt woken him to help with breakfast? Even though he was mainly confined to his room, he was never allowed to be lazy and have a lie-in...and why in the name of Merlin was he on the floor?

Harry's scar gave a familiar twinge, and as he reached up to rub it, the events of the previous night came back to him in a rush. Harry jumped to his feet, grabbing his wand from his bedside table, moving faster than he had since he had come back to Privet Drive. The house was quiet...too quiet.

Pulling on the same baggy jeans he had worn the day before and a revolting vomit-green t-shirt, Harry crept out of his room and down the stairs. He nearly collapsed with relief when he heard water running in the kitchen and the familiar canned laughter coming from the television set in the lounge. He hid his wand under his shirt and continued to the kitchen, finding that the small burst of energy had rendered him quite tired again.

Aunt Petunia was scrubbing the kitchen, peering as usual through the windows to spy on the neighbors as she did so. Harry entered the room quietly and sat at the kitchen table, resting his aching head in his hands.

"We had breakfast hours ago," Aunt Petunia snapped. "Vernon decided that if you are not responsible enough to come down on your own, you simply won't eat. You'll have to wait for lunch."

Harry did not reply; he was not hungry anyway. His mind kept straying to the vision of Voldemort looking through the window into his bedroom. Harry knew now that Voldemort could not actually have been there. He must have been using legilimency to enter Harry's mind. Still, the memory was another thing to add to his list of items that were disturbing his peace of mind this summer.

"You are ready to die. I can see it in your thoughts. I eagerly await the pleasure..."

Although he had been afraid the night before, Harry could no longer even muster the will to worry anymore.

"Harry," Aunt Petunia said abruptly. Harry turned his head quickly to find his aunt looking at him intently, almost worriedly. He realized that this was one of the few times she had ever addressed him by his first name.

"Yes, Aunt Petunia?"

"What were you dreaming about last night? What's happened?"

Harry was startled enough to come briefly out of his stupor. "I was dreaming about..." he started tentatively, wondering why she wanted to know. He could not tell her about the Prophecy. "I was dreaming about Sirius...about how he...how he died," Harry answered, trying not to choke on the words as the lump in his throat formed anew.

For some reason, he saw definite signs of relief flooding his aunt's narrow face. "Sirius," she snapped, sounding much more like her old self. "Your Godfather is dead, then." This was said without a trace of emotion, nor any question as to what had happened to him.

"Yes," Harry muttered as he looked down. He did not want to talk about Sirius right now. That was one of the reasons he was avoiding communication with the Order.

"So the dream then, it was nothing about the man who killed your parents."

"Not directly, no."

"So we're still safe here."

"As far as I know." Harry, of course, was not about to tell Aunt Petunia that he had seen the face of the Dark Lord in his window the night before.

"Fine. Go back upstairs and make yourself presentable before lunch." Without another glance, Aunt Petunia turned her back on Harry and resumed scrubbing the kitchen sink.

When Harry got upstairs to his room, intending to gather his things and go for a shower, the first thing he noticed was a bedraggled-looking owl perched precariously on his windowsill, a scroll of parchment tied to his leg. Harry dragged his feet as he approached the window, remembering all too clearly what had happened the night before. In addition to that, he was not looking forward to reading another letter from the Weasleys. He had received a letter each from Ron and Ginny and had not answered them yet. He knew they were probably angry with him, but he just couldn't bring himself to write to them.

Harry raised the window to let Errol come in. The owl immediately flew over to his bed and flopped down, falling onto his back. Harry untied the scroll and was surprised to see the gently flowing handwriting of Mrs. Weasley. She had never sent him an owl before.

Harry, dear,

How are you doing so far this summer? We're all a bit worried about you. You sent only that short note yesterday, and that did not give us much information to go on, I'm afraid.

Are the Dursleys treating you well, dear? Have you been eating properly? And sleeping? Harry, I know that this must be the hardest summer of your life thus far, and I know the pain you must be feeling at the loss of Sirius. We are here for you, Harry. We care for you. And even though we are not able to be together just yet, it won't be long.

Please send us an owl as soon as you can and let us know how you are doing. We miss you and we will get you out of there as soon as we can, I promise.

Love,

Molly Weasley

Harry sat down on his bed next to Errol and closed his eyes. He could almost hear Mrs. Weasley's motherly voice coming through the parchment, and he did not want to. Because of him, her son and her daughter had been injured at the Department of Mysteries. Because of him, they could have died.

The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...

Because of him, her entire family, herself included, was in even greater danger than the others in the Order. But she didn't know that, of course. Dumbledore had promised that Harry would not have to tell others about the prophecy until he was ready...and he would never be ready, he thought.

It's you, Harry. It's always been you.

It's you, and more people are going to die because of it. I died because of it. I died because of you.

Harry knew that Mrs. Weasley would feel differently about him if she knew. He was not her son, after all, and even though she had said last year that he was "as good as," Harry knew that it wasn't the same. If Ron or Ginny had died...if they did die because of him, Mrs. Weasley would never forgive him, and Harry would never forgive himself.

He knew he had to send Errol back with a reply, or members of the Order would show up on Uncle Vernon's doorstep, even though it had not been three days. He knew he couldn't look any of them in the eyes, so he crossed to his desk and took out a piece of parchment.

Dear Mrs. Weasley,

Thank you for your letter and your concern, but I promise you I am fine. Aunt Petunia is feeding me well, and I have gotten enough rest.

Harry cringed. He had never lied to any of the Weasleys. But this time, he knew he had to.

I am spending as much time out-of-doors as I can. This summer is not as hot as last summer, and it has been pleasant in Little Whinging. Taking long walks helps me to sort out my thoughts, as it always has.

Is there any news that I should know about? Tell Ron and Ginny that I will write to them soon and not to worry. I promise, I am fine.

Sincerely,
Harry

Harry looked at the parchment critically. His handwriting looked odd, as he had been having trouble stopping his hands from shaking as he wrote. Almost everything in it was a lie, but he would not let the Order come here. He would not put any of them in more danger because of him. A summer at the Dursleys was a small price to pay for the safety of his friends.

Harry rolled and sealed the parchment with shaky hands, tied it to Errol's leg, and sent him out the window and back to the Burrow...or were they at headquarters? Never mind, Errol would know where to find them.

Harry lay back on his bed, completely spent, and again focused on the crack on the ceiling, starting to count backwards again. But instead of calming him as it usually did, each time he counted back, another one of his friends' faces flashed in his mind, their eyes open and blank, like Cedric's had been in the graveyard.

999, dead Ron.

998, dead Hermione.

997, dead Ginny.

996, dead twins.

995, dead Mr. and Mrs. Weasley.

994, dead Lupin...

Harry began to shake uncontrollably. He never heard his aunt's shrill call that lunch was on the table, or later, that he had better come downstairs if he wanted dinner. Harry didn't sleep, but neither did he move from his bed for the rest of the day.