In Another's Hell

Prologue

Albus Dumbledore waited until the sound of Harry Potter's footsteps had faded out in the hall. The Headmaster's office grew terribly quiet. His gnarled hands were spread side by side on his desk and he looked down at them over his pale wiry beard. Blue and green veins stood out sharply under his papery skin. His joints were swollen and starting to become permanently crooked.

Only the silent portraits on the walls bore witness when the Headmaster's aging hands began to shake.

What he had seen, in Harry's unforgiving green eyes, was a tangle of anger and contempt. Disillusionment with the Headmaster's ability to protect his students. Despair over a loss that could have been avoided, if only Dumbledore had done something. The old man smiled bitterly. You are starting to grow up, Harry, he thought toward the youth. You are realizing that adults do not have the power that children attribute to them. We cannot make everything right in the world. We blunder and stumble through the dark like everyone else, relying only on experience for guidance.

It is frightening, isn't it?

"So you did it at last," murmured a female voice from thin air-- a Headmistress long dead, whose painting addressed his back. Her voice held neither approval nor disapproval. "You told him the prophecy. And you cannot unsay it."

"I had to," Dumbledore murmured. "I only grow weaker with age, and soon Voldemort will eclipse me. Who will protect the boy of the prophecy, then?"

"Harry Potter, of course," hissed another voice, so full of ire that Dumbledore stiffened. He looked up at the portrait of Phineas Nigellus, the Slytherin Headmaster who had been absent from his picture frame moments before.

"You do realize you have sent the unwitting brat to his death?" Nigellus said. There was a slight emphasis on the final word.

The words cracked open the last of his resolve. Dumbledore covered his grimace with a trembling hand, feeling sick in his entire being. I've done everything I could to help him--told him as much as was safe, hidden him in the Muggle world with his remaining family, given him special protections--

"And you've wasted all the defenses on him, too," Nigellus snorted, as though he had followed Dumbledore's train of thought. "What happens when the Dark Lord breaks the riddle?"

"Enough," Dumbledore snarled. "If there had been any other way to ensure that the prophecy came to pass, I would have chosen it. I have already reconciled the cost. Do not bait me."

"Of course not." The painting jeered at him, persistent as Dumbledore's internal doubts. "Why should you feel a qualm? He is marked for death anyway. The fact that he lived was just a fluke."

The trembling spread throughout Dumbledore's body. He braced his head in his feeble hands and bowed over his desk. Guilt choked him, heavier than it had been in sixteen years.

Because Phineas Nigellus was right.

He had just told Harry Potter a fatal lie.

Chapter 1:

Insomnia

The night had settled still and silent over Privet Drive and the entire suburb of Little Whinging was asleep. At least that was how it seemed to the boy staring up at the ceiling on the top floor of number four. To Harry Potter, it felt as if he were the only one awake in the whole world.

He had attempted all the usual suspects. Sheep. Warm milk. Suffocation by pillow. It was not until his cousin Dudley's snores had become white noise in his ears that he knew his sleeplessness had nothing to do with outside influences. With a sigh, Harry pushed himself up and sat on the edge of his bed. The lumpy mattress, misshapen from years of use before it had come to be Harry's, sagged limply beneath him. He felt like the mattress looked, weathered and worn. He wondered briefly if he were dreaming. The night air felt thick enough, misted enough.

Harry had forgotten what it felt like to dream. It was difficult to dream, after all, when he could not even manage to stay asleep for half the night.

Harry looked over at the small red clock standing on the edge of his desk. Half-two AM. It could have been the night before, or the one before that, or the night four weeks ago. It did not matter. Every night, he woke up and every night he found that it was two-thirty.

In a way, Harry was happy to be awake. Sleep usually meant dreams, and he was fairly certain he wanted no part of whatever his mind would conjure up nowadays. His thoughts beat a dull tattoo in his brain, all too familiar. He did not try to follow them. He knew where they would lead. They always led to the same place.

The same person.

Harry shot his arm out and grabbed his glasses off of the desk, knocking the clock to the floor. It made a sad little clunk as it hit the floorboards, and something twanged loose inside its red plastic shell. Harry leaned down and picked it up, shoving his glasses onto his nose. He peered at the clock's face, squinting tired eyes, and smirked. Now it would always be two-thirty.

Harry walked over to the window and shoved it open, relishing the cool air that flowed into the room. A sound behind him made him turn. Hedwig fluttered against the bars of her cage, hooting softly. Harry unlatched the door and stepped back as she sidled out. The snowy white owl nuzzled his arm with her head and he absently stroked the soft downy feathers of her neck. He wondered vaguely whether his sleeplessness kept her awake as well.

Hedwig hopped over to the window and then turned back to look at him, cocking her head until it was nearly upside-down. Harry gestured at the window. "Well, go on. The night is yours for the taking."

She blinked at him for such a long moment that Harry started to fidget. Sometimes it was almost as if she knew what he was thinking. Or not thinking, as the case may be. Hedwig hooted once forlornly and shuffled onto the window ledge. Spreading her wings, she soared out into the night.

For one long breathless moment, Harry had the urge to follow her. He stepped to the window, wrapping his fingers over the sill, and looked down. The grass below was steeped in dew. The shadows from the next house over were very deep, very black. Maybe he could just fall into them. Dreamless sleep. He would not even need wings.

With a sigh, Harry pushed away and let himself fall backwards onto his desk chair instead. He surveyed his room in all its dimness. If he had not known every edge, every water spot, every crack in the ceiling before this summer, he knew them all now. He knew them by the light of streetlamps and, on some nights, by the moon and stars. Harry felt as if he lived in a different world, a world that was somehow parallel to the one he was so familiar with. He could see and hear everything that was going on, but he could not seem to be a part of it.

He was beginning to think, in a small part of his mind that he found it easier to ignore, that he did not want to be a part of it.

His eyes drifted to a stack of letters on his desk. They were from his friends from school, having arrived gradually over the two months of the holiday. All opened. All replaced in their envelopes. He did not need to read them anymore, he had pored over them time enough to know every word by heart. But try as he might, that was all he could do. Read and re-read and memorize. He had no idea how to respond.

Hermione's letter, the first to arrive, had been a welcome distraction from the mundane forms of torture which asserted themselves in the Dursley household. The evening it had arrived, Aunt Petunia had been visiting a sick acquaintance in the Cotswolds, and his uncle had decided that he would do something to make her life easier when she returned. That, of course, meant sloughing the "thoughtful favor" off on Harry. Harry had to deal with cataloguing and reorganizing his aunt's extensive spice rack, and it had made him want to pick up the nearest carving knife and kill himself. He was glad an hour later that he had not managed to do it: Hedwig had soared in through his window upstairs and dropped the letter lightly into his lap. It was from Hermione. Harry had torn at the envelope like a starving wolf over a fresh kill, and was already entertaining the thoughts of what his reply would be before he had even read the first line.

And that was about when his enthusiasm began to wilt.

Dear Harry,

I hope you have been having an easy summer. Mine has been all right. I have cousins visiting from Scotland. All they want to do is walk about London. They have this notion that I have never seen the sights here and they insist on dragging me to everything within view of the Eye. I can't tell you how much I wish you could be here. You would really enjoy my cousin Robert: he's a bit odd, but then again...

Harry read the rest of the letter dully, and then went back to the beginning, over and over. He was trying to find something he might have--no, must have--missed, hidden somewhere between the carefully quilled lines. Hermione's written words smacked so blatantly of her usual tone, it could have been her in his room, reading aloud. Harry felt himself drift as he read, and struggled to find something in the letter to hold on to. He could not figure out why a letter from one of his best friends should make him feel this way.

It was not until Ron's letter arrived two days later that Harry finally put his finger on it... and began to get angry. The two letters were full of words: summer trips, inside jokes, family rows. Yet, as many sentences as there were in the letters, they were empty. Underneath the stories and the greetings, there was nothing there.

The notes were cheery.

The notes were lighthearted.

The notes were completely devoid of anything remotely related to what had happened last year.

Ron, even with all his absentmindedness, did not manage to let slip an insinuation, a reference, a bloody clue as to the fact that he had been there beside Harry when the Death-Eaters attacked. In fact, the more Harry scrutinized his letter--Hi Harry! Just thought I'd owl you and see how you were doing. Everyone says hello, except Percy of course--the more he could pick out places where Ron had deliberately shifted topics that were getting too close to something he conceived of as painful. And Hermione... she hedged and avoided right along with him. There was nothing to suggest that she had been witness to the one event that Harry had been unable to rid himself of the entire summer.

Sirius, falling through the veil.

Harry sat in his chair, closed his eyes, and saw it again. And again. His every waking moment was filled with it, his every fleeting doze tainted with the sound of Bellatrix Lestrange's horrible high-pitched laughter. When he actually slept, he woke in a fever, certain that she was there in the room with him, about to push Sirius through the veil. He woke up scrabbling for his wand, praying that this time, this time, he would be fast enough to stop her. Instead, he was always alone, tangled in his sheets, chest heaving, wand-less, and Sirius was dead.

It was two-thirty.

Harry glared at the pile of letters, wanting nothing more than to rest his eyes, which he knew were bloodshot and red-rimmed. How could he respond to them? How could he talk about cousin Robert, or the enigma that was Percy Weasley, when he kept seeing a bitter montage of his godfather's death replaying in his mind? How could they write about it, for that matter?

Harry grabbed up the stack of envelopes, suddenly intent upon ripping them to shreds. How dare they pretend nothing was wrong, that nothing had happened, that they hadn't all escaped death by the skin of their teeth? How dare they pretend nothing had changed? How dare they assume that he would be that shallow? He wanted to throw the letters back in their faces, scream at them to acknowledge that Voldemort was back, that the Death-Eaters had nearly killed them all, that there was a war right now and they were all in it. That Sirius had been killed.

But just as quickly, his anger cooled, leaving nothing but a cold heavy stone in his chest. They did not know what to say. They did not know what he wanted them to say. So they said nothing.

And besides, it was not their fault that they had been there in the Department of Mysteries.

Harry shoved that thought away. That was another one he had grown accustomed to, and afraid of. It constantly snaked its way into his mind, and Harry knew exactly where it would lead him.

He rifled through the stack with his fingertips. There had been one letter that surprised him, concerning both the contents, and the sender. It had dragged him so far out of his stupor that he actually had not minded being awake all night to read it. For that was when it arrived. There was no name on the return address, but as soon has he opened it, he understood completely.

Hello Harry,

I am not certain when this will reach you, or where for that matter, but I hope it finds you well. I don't really know if I have a right to owl you at all. We were never exactly close. I am not all that close with anyone. But I really don't care about those people. You, on the other hand... well, let's just say I think you may understand what it's like to be a bit of a recluse, though your situation is quite a bit different from mine.

Anyway, I just wanted to see how you were holding up. I cannot imagine that you are having an easy time of it. Your loss is something that does not leave. I know. I have felt it.

Be kind to yourself.

Luna Lovegood

This letter said everything the others did not. And, unlike them, it did not require an answer. Harry felt that immediately. And yet he had wanted to answer it, had actually thought he could manage a few lines. Harry read that letter, and went to bed. For the first time in months, he fell asleep and stayed asleep.

But the next day, Sirius was still gone.

Harry sighed and stretched his arms over his head. The cricks in his back snapped out one by one, and for a moment, he felt a shivery ripple roll up and down his body. The ripple pushed everything aside, told him he was not an insomniac, told him he was not a wizard, told him he was a normal teenager dealing with normal things.

Harry froze, startled. That was the first time he had wished to be outside the magic world, really wished it. Until now, it had acted as his haven, a sanctuary from his aunt, uncle, and cousin. And now, it seemed his body had decided he did not even want to be there anymore.

What was wrong with him?

Looking at the stack of letters, Harry suddenly realized how unprepared he was for his return to Hogwarts. The train would be leaving in two days, an event he usually looked forward to. But somehow, he just could not get himself excited about his departure. The feeling he was experiencing was much more similar to the dread he felt upon entering Potions class. Harry stared out the window at the cold splinters of starlight and imagined sitting for hours in a train compartment with Ron and Hermione. And he just couldn't.

There was one letter Harry had looked at only once. It had come four days ago in the claws of a massive barn owl, and it rested in the middle of the pile, its green-edged envelope peeking out from under Hermione's white one. Harry stared nonplussed at the tiny snippet of green. Dumbledore. Dumbledore had owled him. But it did not really surprise him. Harry hadn't stepped outside the house all summer. Even if he had not received his Headmaster's letter detailing the reasons why he should confine himself indoors, he would not have left the house. Out there, there were people who would ask him mundane questions he did not feel like addressing. Out there, his surrogate family went about their everyday non-magical business, never meant to include him anyway. Out there, there was a wizard who wanted his scarred head. Dumbledore needn't have worried. Harry did not have the strength to even desire to leave. It was simply too overwhelming to pretend to be normal. He did not want to attempt it. He knew he would fail.

Dumbledore had warned him to take extra precautions. He himself had arranged for Harry's transport to King's Cross. Apparently, an escort would arrive the day after tomorrow in time to get him stowed safely on the train. Harry had wondered briefly what he was going to do for books and supplies for his sixth year, seeing as he would not be allowed into Diagon Alley, but over the four days it had slowly ceased to matter. Classes and tests and all of the demands of a normal student seemed far away, hazy and unimportant.

So there was nothing left to do except wait.

Harry found himself tapping his fingers dully on the desktop and forced himself to stop. His hands felt shaky, as if there were tiny insects crawling around just under the skin. He grabbed up his quill to stop his hands from quaking and dragged a blank sheet of old parchment toward him. He would try again, that's what he would do. Surely something owl-able would come out if he just kept at it.

He had been trying for weeks to pen a single letter, and all he had were crumpled scraps of good parchment in balls under his desk. It was not a response to Hermione, or Ron, or even Luna, though he could see the lines he wanted to write to Luna blazing in his mind like a neon sign. It would be so easy to write that letter. But somehow, his fingers kept attempting to do what was proving to be impossible.

Dear Neville.

Harry's hand went slack of its own accord. Two words. He could not get past those two words. They were like a gateway with a formidable iron bolt shoved through it, forever locked. He could see what was on the other side, but he could not get at it.

He picked up the quill and steadied himself.

Dear Neville,

How has your summer been? Mine has been horrid, but then, my cousin is a complete imbecile. I wish I were back at Hogwarts with everyone, even Snape. At least then...

Harry stared down at the parchment in disbelief. That was just too much. The worst he had written yet. He crumpled the parchment between his fingers, feeling it crack and crunch in his grip. It held just what he had been trying to get away from all summer; that letter was a carbon copy of Ron's and Hermione's. With an angry flick of his wrist, he added it to the pile slowly accumulating around his rubbish bin, and then pulled out a clean sheet.

Harry rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. Perhaps it was his approach. He had to stop treating this letter as a casual hello from a friend to a friend. There was nothing casual about it.

Without any warning, his fingers began to move of their own accord. Harry felt the quill scratching against the parchment, and he watched it dully, as if it were a Quick-Quotes quill, moving on its own. Somewhere, he understood the words he was writing. Somewhere.

Finally his letter, whatever it said, seemed to be finished. Harry leaned back and read what he had written.

Neville.

How is it that two boys can be so similar, yet so different? I don't know why I am asking you this. To you, we are probably as different as night and day. You wouldn't even understand where I am coming from.

As far as I'm concerned, you should know where I am coming from, and where I am now. Right now I am parentless, like you. I am living with people who don't understand me, as I assume your grandmother does not fully understand you. The difference is, my "family" does not even try. And now, the closest person I have to a father is dead, and I can't talk to anyone about it because they only see him as a murderer. That's how he will be remembered. No matter what information comes to light, no matter how many pardons he receives, most people will gloss over it and go back to what is comfortable: the heartless killer who deserved exactly what he got. And it is not true.

But the truth is that it is not so much Sirius' death that gets me. It is not the fact that Voldemort killed both my parents in cold blood, or the fact that he keeps shoving himself into my brain at all hours of the night if I don't focus completely. What really makes this what it is, is that none of it needed to happen. Do you understand me? I should not be the one here with a dead godfather and a price on my head. It could just as easily have been you. Sometimes, Neville, I wish with all my heart that it wasn't me here, and that you were the one Voldemort marked. You have no idea what it feels like to be part of a trade-off, a poker chip marked for sacrifice. I'm supposed to save the wizarding world, or die in the attempt, because either way, one of us dies, so Dumbledore tells me. Voldemort or myself. I wish to all hell that that man had said something sooner because maybe then I would have done something more effective with my time. My parents are already dead, but maybe I could have driven this whole damned deal to its climax before Sirius was killed. Maybe I could have defeated Voldemort, or maybe I could have just died and saved my godfather the trouble of trying to protect me.

So my question is, Neville Longbottom, why me? Why not you? By some trick of fate you were skipped over for this honor. I wish with every bone in my body that I had been the one he passed over. What was the deciding factor that directed him to my parents' door? It could just as easily have been you.

Harry stared at the words on the parchment for so long that his eyes began to ache. His brain tried to convince him that he hadn't written it, but he knew he had, and he also knew that, given the chance, he would have written it again, and again.

But he could not send that.

With stiff, mechanical fingers, Harry crumpled the parchment and dropped his arm to his side, holding the letter in his fist. Cold air blew in from the window, too cold for any self-respecting summer night, but it made sense to Harry. The world was growing colder by the minute. The warmth was going out of it with each life Voldemort ended. Sirius. His parents. Cedric. Harry had been there to witness most of those lives in the midst of their endings, but although he had tried, and although he had struggled, he had not been able to do a thing to save even one of them.

He wasn't sure how this was supposed to make him feel. But he knew how it did make him feel.

Like he was the only one awake in the world.

When the day of departure for Hogwarts finally came and Uncle Vernon actually ascended to pound on Harry's door midway through the morning, Harry had only to open the door and shove his trunk down the stairs to the front room. He had packed it days before, as soon as Dumbledore's letter had arrived. In fact, he had packed it and repacked it, attempting to fool himself into something other than the dull daze that constantly haunted him. His trunk could not be more ready for travel.

Getting Hedwig into her cage was easier than anticipated; the owl moved through the barred door complacently, bowing her head and gazing at her owner with large watery eyes. Harry paused and reached through the bars to stroke her head feathers. The snowy owl closed her eyes at his touch and made a guttural noise of contentment deep in her throat. As he petted his constant companion, Harry wondered exactly how much of his mood was carrying over to her. How much could she read? Could she sense his despondency?

Harry carried the cage down the stairs, expecting at every moment to hear his uncle's shouting voice telling him to hurry up. The man was already incredibly impatient, and it was only ten o'clock in the morning. Harry frowned to himself, remembering the harsh pounding that had threatened to break his flimsy door down. His uncle had demanded that Harry come downstairs immediately as his "spooky *harrumph* friend" had arrived to take him away for the summer, good riddance. Harry glanced around the living room, wondering who it was that was transporting him to King's Cross, and why he or she was here so early, but the room was empty. Not even the Dursleys were there to see him off, but then, had he really expected that?

Harry set Hedwig's cage down as gently as his impatience would allow and decided to dispense with the pleasantries. As if there had ever been any to begin with.

"Well?" he shouted through the house, spreading his hands out in front of him. "I assume you want me to leave. Where are they so I can bloody well go?"

A subdued voice came from close behind him in the direction of the kitchen. "He's waiting for you outside."

Startled, Harry spun and found his aunt standing in the doorway. To be sure, she was actually still in the kitchen, half of her body visible around the doorframe. She glanced up at him hesitantly, dark eyes meeting his. "Your uncle made him stay out on the porch."

Harry felt a smirk brush aside his lingering surprise. "Figures. Alright then."

He bent to pick up his trunk, but was stopped when his aunt moved around the doorway to stand beside him. He could see her woven loafers beside Hedwig's cage.

"Here."

Harry glanced up at the sound of her voice and blinked. Petunia's arm was extended toward him, and there was a napkin-wrapped parcel in her hand. Harry straightened and stared at it mutely. His aunt's hand did not move, except for an almost unnoticeable trembling. It captivated Harry. This show of weakness, and the fact that Petunia was here at all, without the support of her overbearing husband and smug son, kept Harry from the power of speech. It was just too... off.

Harry looked at her tight, carefully blank face, and narrowed his eyes. What was this? He curled his lip ever so slightly. "A going-away present? I'm flattered."

Petunia's eyes flickered and she half-closed them, as if attempting to block him out. She looked so small standing there in front of him. He had surpassed her height over the summer at last. It was an uncertainty that had worried him on some vague level because he was sure his growth had been hampered by the Dursley's mistreatment of him as a child. Harry had gained some sense of satisfaction when he had come downstairs earlier that summer to find Petunia looking up at him with something like fear in her eyes. Now, however, the satisfaction struggled to assert itself against something else that made Harry slightly uneasy. Her face was wearier than he had ever seen it, lined in places he had never noticed before.

His aunt shook her thin shoulders and her face took on a determined expression. "It's a sandwich," she said softly, tiredly. "For the train."

Harry was dumbstruck. He could not help it. Never in his wildest imaginings had he managed this scenario. His hand rose automatically and lifted the parcel from her fingers. Petunia dropped her arm slowly, as if she were not sure he had actually taken it. Harry looked at the wrapped sandwich in his hands, and then raised his eyes to hers.

"Thank you."

Petunia nodded jerkily. Her expression seemed to be fighting itself about whether to show relief or to mask it behind a blank slate. She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something else, and the play in her eyes reminded Harry abruptly of his sleepless turmoil night after night. He felt every nerve in his body spring to attention; he was suddenly sure that at any moment, his aunt was going to say something which would inexplicably release the tightness in his chest. He waited, holding his breath.

In the end, the blankness won out and Petunia pursed her lips. She darted a quick glance at her nephew, eyes fluttering over his face. "Well. Until next summer, then."

Harry's tension died away, and yet there did seem to be some sort of release, deep inside and indefinable. He nodded to her, pocketing the sandwich, and leaned down to pick up Hedwig's cage. His aunt crossed her arms protectively over her chest and watched him as he tucked his Firebolt under his arm, grabbed the handle of his trunk, and dragged it to the front door. Just as he turned the lock, he thought he heard her give a shuddering sigh, but it could simply have been the sound of the rusty bolt pulling back.

Harry tugged the Dursley's front door shut behind him and looked up. A man stood on the front walk, his back to the door, arms crossed in a weird parody of Aunt Petunia. He looked oddly familiar, though Harry could not place him immediately. He did not have long to wait, however. At the sound of the door closing, the man turned and smiled.

"Harry! At last."

Harry practically fell over his trunk, he was so startled. "Charlie?"

Charlie Weasley grinned and reached to steady Harry. "How are you?"

Harry grabbed his hand and shook it, feeling an elation he had not expected to feel ever again. The red hair, cropped short and left to brush haphazardly over the man's forehead, should have tipped him off.

"I'm... I just didn't expect... What?"

Charlie laughed shortly, eyes twinkling. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

He released Harry's hand and backed up slightly, sweeping a ridiculously low bow that made Harry want to laugh for the first time in months. "I'll be your chauffeur, Mr. Potter, to anywhere you wish to go. Provided that anywhere is Diagon Alley or King's Cross."

"Diagon Alley?"

Charlie gave him a lopsided smile. "Well, sure. Judging from that prat that kicked me onto your stoop, I don't expect you've had any time to shop for your school supplies?"

Harry shook his head, grimacing. "Sorry about that, Charlie. My uncle really is impossible."

"Quite all right, Harry." Charlie bent and hefted Harry's trunk over his shoulder in a smooth movement that reminded Harry that Charlie had once been a Seeker for Gryffindor as well. "Shall we then? I've got one of the Ministry's cars... drives like a dream. Though to tell you the truth, I haven't driven all that many cars. Muggle contraptions are more of Dad's forte. But I expect you know that, don't you?"

Harry followed behind Charlie with Hedwig, looking around for the car. A sleek light blue Mustang shone in the summer sunlight in front of the walk. It was flawless, it was practically purring... and it was empty. Harry stopped.

"Oh, I thought... Are you it?"

Charlie glanced at him, a puzzled look on his face. Harry gestured toward the car. "I just assumed that I would basically be under lock and key. Dumbledore made it sound as if--"

"Oh, not necessary. This car"--he patted it fondly--"is protected by a high-level Confundus spell... lets us drive in public, but makes anyone who sees the car unable to remember a thing about us except that they were somehow in the presence of something much more beautiful than themselves."

He wiggled his eyebrows and Harry finally laughed. It felt good.

"Besides," Charlie said, shrugging, "a large entourage would only garner more attention, and Dumbledore thought it necessary that you be comfortable. So I volunteered, since I know you."

"That's the other thing... I thought you were busy with the dragons, in Romania, or... wherever. How did you get time off?"

A shadow passed briefly over Charlie's eyes and he looked away. "I gave myself the time off. Dragons just... well, my priorities have changed a bit."

Harry nodded, unhappiness at the sudden reminder stealing over him. Suddenly the daylight seemed milky and thin, as if the sun had been shaded over. He was not merely off on a jaunt through Diagon Alley. He was going back to school, where there would be nothing between him and his friends, nothing to block out the curious stares of his classmates, or the whispered conversations that inevitably cut off when he approached. Harry frowned and fingered his scar. Nothing to block him from the truth he had been trying to ignore the entire summer.

The war.

As far as he was concerned, he just could not see Hogwarts functioning normally, not with this hanging over everyone's heads. This accompaniment to King's Cross, albeit by a single trusted friend, was proof enough of that. Harry wondered if he would ever be left alone once he got to Hogwarts, if he would ever have time to just relax and think.

But then again, maybe he did not want time to think.

Shaking himself, Harry hoisted Hedwig up and walked to the car. "Well, let's go then. I probably have a lot of stuff to pick up, and I wouldn't want to miss the train."

By the way Charlie hesitated, Harry was sure the man had caught the sarcasm that crept into his words. He was relieved when Charlie chose not to pursue it.

Harry sat outside Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlor, sipping at a strawberry shake. He felt worn out already, and it had only been an hour since he and Charlie had arrived. They had already been to his vault at Gringott's, to Madam Malkin's for new robes that would actually reach past Harry's ankles, to Ollivander's for a wand check-up, and to the magic pet shop to replenish his supply of food for Hedwig. Harry must have looked tired because Charlie had directed him to the ice cream parlor and ordered him a shake... and then ordered him to sit down. Harry was only too glad to slump into one of the folding chairs on the parlor's patio as his guardian slipped over to Quality Quidditch Supplies to "say hello to the owner." Harry smirked, watching as Charlie lingered near the front window. He knew Charlie was only there to pine over the newest broom model.

For several minutes, Harry wrestled with the idea of walking over and joining him, until he realized that he just did not have the desire to look at brooms. This surprised him, but not overly so. It somehow fit with the lackadaisical approach he found himself taking to everything lately.

By the time Charlie returned - with a faint, wistful smile gracing his lips - Harry had finished his shake. He stood up and tossed the cup into a rubbish bin, wiping his hands against his pants. "So... I guess I have some books to buy, then?"

Charlie grinned. "Oh, yes. You are going to need books. Ron had to get quite a few."

Harry smothered a sigh. The mention of his best friend had only served to remind him of the upcoming train ride.

"All right," he said, smiling wanly. "Let's go."

Charlie led the way through the crowds of wizards, a bag of school supplies slung over each shoulder. "Just a little longer, Harry. You can rest on the way home and get a good sleep tonight."

Harry blinked. "What about the Hogwarts Express?"

Charlie shook his head, looking slightly concerned. "No... that's tomorrow. Today's the 31^st of August, Harry."

Harry paused. Now that he thought about it, he was not at all sure what day it was. He hadn't been sure all summer. The letter from Dumbledore wavered in his head, his memory of the words blurring. "I... I don't know why I forgot... I guess I just figured from Dumbledore's letter..."

Charlie smiled sympathetically. "Well, then, you are in for a treat. You'll be staying with us at the Burrow for a night, and then you'll all catch the train tomorrow."

Harry suddenly felt as if all the energy had just floated right out of him. So he was going to the Burrow. A whole night. With Ron. Harry closed his eyes, glad that Charlie was ahead of him and could not see his expression. Suddenly the train ride seemed like the least of his problems.

He gradually realized that Charlie was still talking. "...so the class won't be much like last year's, thank goodness. You ought to like it very much. And I'll be up to visit you all from time to time."

Harry chose to ignore his confusion about why he ought to like whatever class Charlie was talking about, and instead went with the less complicated question. His weariness made his tone sound light, even to him. "Why will you be visiting? And please don't say you are bringing another Hungarian Horntail because I don't think I can take that again."

Charlie allowed a small secret smile to drift across his face. "No Horntails. I have... a friend who will be working at the school this year. Someone I went to school with."

Harry nodded, a bit intrigued by this information in spite of himself. New staff? It would have to be the Defense Against the Darks Arts teacher then, because as far as he knew, every other position was filled. He just hoped that whoever it was would turn out to be another Lupin rather than another Umbridge.

Flourish and Blotts was fairly empty, but the air had that closed-in musty smell of an old bookshop. Harry wandered through the aisles, looking at the massive cluttered collection of magical books. Charlie walked up behind him carrying four texts.

"Okay," he said softly, "Ron's taking all the same classes as you, so you'll need these two for Transfiguration, this one for History, and this one for DADA. And I'm going to wait for you outside. I can't bloody breathe in here."

Harry took the last book with interest as Charlie exited the shop. The book was old, with a black leather cover, worn white at the edges. The title shone up from the cover in pale yellowish gold. Practical Applications of the Ancient Magic. Harry turned the book over in his hands, running his fingers along the binding. He thumbed a few pages, eyeing the delicately rendered pictures and tiny text. It looked as if everything had been taken from a woodcarving or etching. Harry was fascinated.

He set the rest of his books down on the front counter and waited for the store owner to return from the back room. This book was doing what he had been unable to do for months: it was getting him interested in magic again. If this was for DADA, Harry could definitely see a bright light at the end of the tunnel.

Several minutes of reading later, he glanced up to check for the store owner, and saw someone standing in the shadows of one of the aisles in the back, struggling to peruse a green book bigger than his torso. Right at that moment, the person looked up and Harry recognized him.

Neville Longbottom.

Harry's mouth went dry. His unsent letter, now crumpled in a ball inside his trunk, came back to him in a rush. He swallowed and nodded to the other boy. Neville smiled faintly at him, closed the book he was holding, and began to walk up the aisle toward him.

For a moment, Harry panicked. He was not ready for this. He could not talk to Neville. Not Neville.

"Will that be all then?"

Harry jumped as he realized the store owner had returned and was holding his pile of books in his gnarled hands. Harry hurriedly placed Practical Applications of the Ancient Magic on top of the pile and nodded. The store keeper rang him up and bagged his books. Harry shot a glance at Neville, who had stopped and was standing in the aisle watching him curiously. Harry managed to smile weakly and nod once more. Then he turned and left the shop, struggling with the door handle in his hurry to leave.

He was finding it difficult to breathe in there as well.