The Daedylus Project

A/N: Hope you enjoy this first full chapter of what promises to be an exciting, engaging, suspenseful, romantic fic! (I hope...:::gulp::: ) Look for new chapters soon; please do review! It makes me so very happy...Wotcher!

It was the first day of August. Not that that meant particularly much to Harry...after all, his whole summer was little more than a countdown to September the First, when he would embark on the Hogwarts Express and jump-start his life once more.

At the moment, however, things weren't so bad. His sixteenth birthday had come and gone--with, of course, little notice from the Dursleys (though Aunt Petunia had actually made him breakfast, a gesture of kindness doubtless inspired by her last brush with the magical community, the summer before)--and he'd spent many lazy days relaxing, writing to his friends at the Burrow (Hermione was staying for the summer) and occasionally reviewing his notes for the inevitable potions quiz that he'd face on his first day back.

Snape's the only ruddy prof that quizzes us when we've hardly settled in. Bloody idiot.

Harry gazed up at the azure sky overhead. His dreams had been surprisingly relaxed that summer. After his nightmarish fifth year, he hadn't known quite what to expect--but it wasn't this. It's total serenity. It's like--it's like Voldemort's vanished. I expected things to be much more shaken up by now.

Then again, maybe they are. It's not like I'm exactly in the thick of things here. In a way, that's kind of good. It was dumb of me to feel so neglected last summer; Dumbledore was only trying to protect me.

I hate protection. But...but in a way, it was a good thing. I needed to hold out as long as I could. Now that I know the truth--the prophesy--it changes my whole outlook...

One of us will die...

He wandered into the garden. The Dursleys were gone for the day--shopping, no doubt, probably someplace expensive--which didn't bother Harry in the slightest. He sat down on a low-lying deck chair, and watched ripples form in the large in-ground pool the Dursleys had had installed only the week before. ("Little Duddy-doo needs his exercise! The doctors say swimming is one of the best ways to get trim!" Dudley hadn't touched the water thus far; Harry secretly guessed he was afraid of it.) He pulled his old canvas shoes and socks off, and dipped his bare feet in the cool, filtered water. He wriggled his toes--it felt just about perfect.

He glanced around. Aunt Petunia was always finicky about these sorts of things--apparently afraid that he might somehow pollute her precious son.

Satisfied, he pulled his t-shirt off, and dove into the cool water.

Sometimes...sometimes it's nice to be normal. Or as close as I'll ever be.

...

Ginny Weasley crunched a firm apple, savoring its luscious flavor and crisp texture. This is the life...

Sorta.

She was swinging on an old rubber tire--I think that's what dad called it, it's for those vee-ickles the Muggles drive around in--enjoying the warm summer sunshine.

There were definitely advantages to being the youngest--and only--girl in a large family. She was rarely asked to do much of anything. True, her brothers and parents could be a touch over-protective.

A touch...she snorted.

It had been an...interesting reception when they'd learned she had a boyfriend. She'd kept Michael more or less secret--after all, her mum and dad hardly knew of her comings and goings and Hogwarts--but Dean was an entirely different story. He'd owled her daily for weeks; her mother finally confronted her when the poor tawny creature had almost collapsed under the wait of three dozen chocolate frogs, neatly packaged with a sprig of wild roses.

There'd been a row, of course, and angry tears shed on both sides--primarily a put-on for Ginny, as she found this was often an effective way to get what she wanted. And eventually (of course), her parents had nominally condoned what Mrs. Weasley huffed was "three steps short of becoming a ruddy scarlet woman!" (though they had yet to so much as kiss) but the damage had been done.

I don't trust them.

And...and I don't love Dean.

Blast it.

She'd tried. She honestly had, but she had to admit--Dean was nothing more than a gesture of hopelessness. She was sick to death of Michael, and Harry--he seemed infatuated with Cho like there was no tomorrow.

Harry. I've always had a bit of a crush on him.

No, no...it's deeper than that.

I've always loved him.

But it's not like he gives two licks what I think. I shall forever be Ron's little sister. I can cope with that...

...who am I fooling?

She sighed. She was developing the rather unfortunate habit of talking to herself. She already looked forward to returning to Hogwarts, were--if she wasn't the popularity queen--she certainly had caring, compassionate friends.

I wonder, though, what Harry is doing these days, what with those horrid muggles getting on his case so often...

"Ginny!" Mrs. Weasley's voice rang out into the garden, and she felt a chill run down her spine. That was mum's "someone's dead" voice.

"Come inside, quickly! Something frightfully terrible has happened..."

...

Remus Lupin sat in his small hovel, sipping a steaming cup of Earl Pepper (his favorite tea--the leaves were roasted by dragons in the north). He put his worn copy of the Daily Prophet on the rugged block of wood that served as dining table, coffee table and front room centerpiece, and grunted.

Serves the old bloke right, I suppose. But really--it's a tragic mistake that should have been avoided.

I wonder why security lapsed so terribly?

And to think that the Daedylus Project is resurfacing now...

Not the best of timing.

He cursed. He'd vaguely remembered reading about the Project somewhere, so he'd apparated to Hogwarts to do bit of research at the school library shortly after receiving the debriefing from Dumbledore.

He'd come up with some very interesting information...though much of it was myth and speculation, much was also based on factual, first-hand accounts of the devastating nature of the dark magic.

The brief meeting with the other members of the Order at Dumbledore's office that morning had been less than inspiring. As with so many issues of the day, the vast majority either disbelieved the reports, or attributed them to some other cause.

It's so frustrating! They won't believe Voldemort has returned--and then he appears, and murders a key member of the wizarding community, and they relent.

They insist that Harry is insane--'til his name is cleared, and he's lauded once more as the Boy Who Lived.

They won't accept the looming danger encapsulated by Daedylus...they won't receive our warning until it is too late.

People will die needlessly because the public is too scared of change and risk.

I don't like it either, but we can't wish Tom back to non-existence.

We have to fight!

Or die trying.

This has been truly joyous.

...

Sixteen-year-old Hermione Granger stormed up the hill behind the Burrow. She gazed out over the small town of Ottery St. Catchpole, trying to push aside the seething anger and burning adoration that basically summed up her view of Ron Weasley at the moment.

I've been at his house for, what, two days? And we're already fighting! Honestly!

She'd awoken that morning to a pleasant surprise. Ron had knocked on her door at eight; she'd been asleep, but he looked so cute in the morning--messy hair, sleepy eyes, rumpled tee and bare feet--that she couldn't really resist granting him an early audience.

"So Hermione," he'd begun, his fingers and toes curling awkwardly and a slight shade of red slowly creeping along his lower neck.

"So," she tried to help him, semi-consciously checking to make sure that her night-robe was chaste. It was.

"So, erm...d'yawannahaveapicnicla'erwedonthavetoitspro'lydumb..." he turned to leave, and she couldn't help but grin.

She bit her lip. "Um, no Ron, that would be, uh, lovely. At noon?"

"How's one?" What does it ruddy matter? Ah, but there I go, already on the defensive...Oh well...

"Wonderful. One it is."

It had started off well enough. Ron, true to his word, had packed a tasty lunch--well, actually it had been Molly who had packed the lunch, but Ron did pick a couple of apples from the orchard--and the two had walked down to the riverside together.

They chatted about this and that...nothing deep, but then, pleasant conversation was a distinct change from their normal discourse.

Funny how "nothing" always becomes "Quidditch" with these ruddy boys!

She'd listened politely for what seemed to her to be a very, very long while. And then, half-jokingly, very casually...

"So do you think about anything else, Ron?"

Big mistake.

He'd gone off about how all she ever cares about "are books, books, and more books" and argued (rather scathingly) that if she'd just open her eyes and broaden her horizons, she'd be a much nicer person.

She'd felt affronted, and naturally responded in an equally acid tone.

A full-fledged argument ensued within moments, which ultimately resulted in the picnic basket floating upside down in the lake, Ron storming off to the house, swearing viciously, and Hermione--once again--in tears.

And so she wandered out to the hillside, and gazed at the sky above and the village below...

And as she reflected on their "picnic," one last tear slid down her cheek.

Why is everything so ruddy complicated with him?! We're just friends, just...friends...

"Check."

...

Fred and George Weasley sat by the hearth in the small, cozy back room that functioned as den, study, rec room, receiving and family room. They were playing Wizard's Chess for the seventeenth time that summer--it grew old after a while, but business was so slow during these months! They'd made more than enough galleons to survive the summer; not that their expenses were particularly high, given that Molly fed them like a couple of adolescents just reaching the age of puberty. Of course, they had their image to keep up--dragon-hide was so very expensive, due to the risk and...legal considerations in obtaining it.

"Ah, my dear brother. Your move was premature. You've--Bishop to E-3--lost your knight!"

George swore. "Oh, my poor, youthful ears are fast losing their virginity!" George swore more loudly. "Something eating at you, brother mine?"

"Indeed, Fred my heart, indeed."

"And that would be?"

"Ah--Queen to C-2--partly that I was seeking a safe way to eradicate your castle."

Fred glared. "But there is more...I feel that we're not doing enough to help the magical community, do you know what I mean?"

"Yes, I feel it also. We are two young, able-bodied wizards, skilled in a..."

"...wide variety of trades..."

"...precisely, and we would be prudent to use our rare talents to aid our family and friends."

"But how?"

"My dear George, that is the question...that is the question..."

Molly appeared in the doorway, looking flustered.

"Boys--" "Mum, please. We're men. Men! MEN!" She reddened.

"Alright, men...something terrible has happened. Quick, come in the dining room, I'll let you read my copy of the Prophet."

Checkmate.

...

Life would be so much ruddy easier without girls. Ron Weasley punched his pillow, lending emphasis to the dark thought. It was bad enough that Hermione had fallen to pieces--again--when all he was trying for was a fun day. Worst part was that he'd been thinking about this picnic for over a week now, and he was well beyond slightly irked that she would mess up his grand vision.

I had it all figured out. A delightful afternoon by the river, playing games and chatting...then, as evening approached, sitting together by the old apple tree and watching the sky turn pink and orange with the setting of the sun...

What am I thinking?!

Ron had found himself increasingly caught between reviling and ogling over Hermione during the past months. 'Specially since she's here...she's so bloody cute, but...but...but she's Hermione!

Hadn't he tried to be friendly? Hadn't he gone out of his way to make her happy? Would she ever accept what he did for her at face value? What about all the times he had vouched for her, when no one else seemed to care? When Harry--bloody famous Harry--did something nice for Hermione, or anyone else for that matter, he received his due thanks. He was the Knight in Shining Armor to the entire blasted wizarding community, the most eligible wizard whatchamadingle in The Quibbler's Teen Witch edition...what about Ron? Haven't I been by his side all along? He'd be ruddy dead if it weren't for me!!

And Hermione could care less. It's always, "Oh Harry! How BRAVE and KIND and GOOD of you" and "Ron, tie your shoelaces."

A voice interrupted his sullenness. "Ron! Quick! Downstairs, NOW!"

Bloody hell.

...

Arthur arrived at his desk, flustered and worried. I wonder how much information they'll provide to lower-ranking members such as myself? I don't suppose it really matters...I'll learn everything else at the Order's gathering tonight.

The Daedylus Project. Who would have thought?

Memos were flying about in a much more harried state than normal. This wasn't a particularly great surprise; after all, something as significant as the murder of the Minister of Magic induced a bit of extra paperwork at the center of the British wizarding community.

Of course, there are some who will be glad to see him out of the way.

Actually, quite a few people.

Actually, I wonder if anyone particularly regrets losing him? I know I don't...but Great Scott, there I go again...I mustn't be so hard on the old chap. Of course, he was a bit of an obstinate idiot...he did try to have Harry expelled on more than one occasion, and he rather disliked Dumbledore...and the trial...actually, there was very little about him that is of redeemable quality.

Even so, it would have been so much more convenient if he had just died a natural death. Murder--it complicates things so, it makes everyone's job more difficult...and the Daedylus Project, well, that adds a whole 'nother dimension to the situation...

Arthur arrived in the Ministry press room at precisely seven o'clock a.m. Members of the major wizarding newspapers were already setting up their magical amplifiers, Wizarding Wireless Receivers and--in some cases--Quick Quotes Quills.

Most of the staff had arrived as well. Some he recognized; many were unfamiliar faces, but that wasn't a great surprise; as a junior staff member, he rarely associated with those from other departments.

At seven-oh-five, Amos Diggory walked out from the sealed conference room immediately adjacent to the briefing room.

"Good morning, colleagues. As most of you are doubtless aware--if you aren't, you should begin searching for a new situation--Minister Fudge was assassinated early this morning. Details are still sketchy at this point, but we have reason to believe that the murder occurred in his own house, as he was sleeping in his bed chamber--"

One of the reporters coughed loudly and raised his pudgy hand.

"Yes, you in the blue."

"Uh, sir, Mr. Diggory--have we ruled out a sui--"

"Yes, Blue, we have absolutely ruled out a suicide. As I was saying--"

The reporter coughed again.

"Yes, Blue?"

"Uh, my name's Stew, sir. Ivan Stew."

"Yes, yes, whatever. You have a question?"

"I'm just wondering about some details--"

"As I said, details are sketchy, and specific information about the Minister's demise is strictly confidential at this point, known to only a very few important persons here at the Ministry.

A low-ranking secretary raised her trembling hand. Diggory nodded, tiredly.

"S-sir, I was t-told that all employees h-here are important..."

"Yes, yes...what I meant was--YES, BLUE?"

"Stew, sir. Iv--"

"Shut up and ask your question; I need a spot of tea!"

"Uh, I was just wondering--was it a morbid death? Graphic, bloody, violent? Share the gruesome details!" His fat eyes blinked excitedly, and he smacked his large lips several times, in apparent anticipation.

"Oh, look!" Diggory pointed at his watch. "That's all the time we have this morning. Go about your business, folks. I'll debrief you again as information is released."

Better make it brandy.

...

To any casual observer, it was an ordinary house. Unlike the Riddle Mansion, it was well-kept and fairly normal--if a touch large. A series of Muggle owners had lived in it over the past several centuries; very few individuals, wizard or non-magical, knew of its origins.

But there were some who remembered.

And the quiet, seemingly peaceful Little Whinging house had been consequently transformed into the center of command for the darkest wizard of the age.

Lord Voldemort had set up camp under the very nose of Albus Dumbledore, and seemed thus far to be getting away with it.

It is so satisfying, so...pleasant...to deceive your foe by chancing precisely what he expects you'd never risk. Why would I return when I'm yet weak, not yet fully recovered from our duel? Dumbledore is so busy with the foolish Potter boy, he passes me by completely. But he will regret this deficiency when I make my move--by then, it will be too utterly late."

A knock sounded at the door to his meditation chamber. "Yes," the Dark Lord barked with annoyance. Pity the black soul who interrupts my sanctity...

"My Master..."

"My faithful Crabbe. You bring word?"

"Yes, my lord. The attack...it was successful. Cornelia followed through on her pledge; she extracted all of the necessary information from the target. He was executed at precisely two-fifteen this morning. If I may, my Lord, the wizarding community has responded...just as we had anticipated."

"Excellent, excellent" his cold voice droned quietly. "Everything is proceeding as it must. Caught up in the demise of their ex-minister, they will utterly neglect my greater plan. I have another assignment for you."

"Anything, my Lord!"

"Yes...there is a member of the so-called Order of the Phoenix...goes by the nickname, Tonks. She will be in Diagon Alley late this evening. An opportune time for an...accident to occur."

"I will see to it!"

"Be sure that you do. She has...certain knowledge that could impede my plans. But Crabbe--before you depart, we have a small problem to attend to." A cruel smile spread slowly on Voldemort's face.

"S-sir?"

"You see, Crabbe, you entered my sanctuary without invitation. You disturbed my rest, and this angers me."

"B-but, m-my Lord..."

"So I think I shall have to teach you what it means to irritate Lord Voldemort."

"N-no my Lord, please, nooo..."

"Crucio!"

Screams flooded out from the chamber, evaporating in the dark night.

A/N: Next time...a touch of H/G and a deadly plot...