A Time of Understandings

Disclaimer: JKR—rich, famous and powerful. Punisher—broke, existence practically unknown and busted. Need I say more? I do? Fine: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Note: I had vowed to never do this. But it is clear I have the will power of a gnat.

A Time of Understandings
By Punisher

--Prologue--

Harry Potter was running across a wooden cross-bridge. Where he was going, he did not know. It was too dark to see his surroundings, but a strange mist—blue-gray at one point, dark blood red on another—was covering the air, and the atmosphere was oddly familiar. But in the same time, he couldn't shake the strong feeling of claustrophobia.

He had to get out of this place. He didn't know why, but he just knew he had to. A powerful force was urging him to go on, urging him to run, run, and run.

It was a low voice of a woman singing. He could not discern the words, but he felt warm, comfortable and energized at the sound. Then he realized how tired he was. He stopped, taking a short rest. He felt like whistling a happy tune.

"I'll be there soon."

The singing continued to echo through the space. It was more like humming than singing. Harry didn't know exactly what it was, but the warm feeling was quite clear.

Suddenly the singing stopped. A scream pierced through the air, shaking, rattling, and breaking.

Breaking. The scream was breaking the cross-bridge. The entire place was shaking, as if from an earthquake and the cross-bridge started bucking beneath him—flinging him from side to side, threatening to overboard him. He managed to grab hold of the ropes and started running again.

The bucking and withering cross-bridge finally gave away by the strain and started to break down, piece by piece.

The sound of his heart beat rang in his ears, numbing them. His heart was pounding away like the hooves of a stampede of horses.

Then suddenly, there was a bright white light. A strong force grabbed him from everywhere, twisting his body. It was as if the force was trying to wring him like a rag—squeezing, twisting, grappling, seizing. It was a horrible pain, but he was use to this—use to pain. Harry grit his teeth and continue to run, run, and run.

He had to run, but the cross-bridge was no more. He flung himself to the bright light. He felt nothing beneath his feet.

It was a bottomless abyss.

He was falling … endlessly falling.

Then he stopped. He surged upwards a moment, then he remained where he was. Harry tried to move, but all he could do was squirm in his spot. The sensation from the absence of gravity was keen.

Then he felt … the presence of someone else. He wasn't the only one here—the only one to witness what was about to happen.

There, in a far distance, was the serpentine body of a dragon. A black dragon—its scales darker than the blackest onyx stones, smooth and glossy. Harry couldn't say the dragon was flying—he could see no leathery wings on its back—it was as if the dragon was riding upon the wind, flowing naturally on air.

Whatever the case, the dragon was approaching him and the person he couldn't see. Now the dragon was near enough for Harry to make out the patterns of its black scales, its strange stag-like antlers, and lion-like mane. Then he finally realized the dragon looked very much like a Chinese Fire Ball, only it was black.

"Black Emperor …" Whispered a voice.

Black Emperor … that must be the dragon's name. It was very appropriate—the expression on the dragon's face was regal, wise, cunning, ruthless, and fierce. Like the face of a seasoned warrior king.

The black dragon rose high up in the space. Then, with the sound of an ancient tree splitting in two by lightening, Black Emperor divided into two—creating two new dragons. Both dragons bore a remarkable resemblance to the original dragon, but one had scales of polished silver; the other had scales of heated gold.

"Golden Princess … Silver Princess …" whispered the same voice.

Obviously this person was more informed than him. But this was last of Harry's thoughts. He watched in awe as the two dragons road upon the wind—which he could not see, nor hear, nor feel—entwining with one another, playing, feeling, living …

Harry heard a startled gasp when the two dragons collided with each other head-on. They merged again—this time, the resulting dragon was pure white.

He did not hear the whisper this time. He wouldn't have noticed even if the voice did speak—the white dragon was charging towards him, its gigantic jaws wide open. Strangely, Harry did not feel any fear in face of apparent death. From the sound of it, neither did his spectre-like companion.

The white dragon did not swallow Harry. It exploded into a blast of golden dust inches away from him, filling the air with haunting ethereal music that sounded remarkably like the phoenix song, only he knew it wasn't.

Then … silence. Nothingness.

A sense of sharp panic and loss seizing him from the gut, Harry looked around, trying to find something, anything.

He saw a swirl of long black hair and a pair of vermilion-red eyes.

Red eyes?

---oo00oo---

Harry Potter woke up with a startled gasp. For a long time he just lay there, flat on his back, breathing hard as though he had been running. His body with soaked with cold sweat—even the thin sheet he called blanket was soggy.

"That dream again," breathed out Harry. His voice sounded dusty.

It was possible Harry's mind was working overtime to produce the most bizarre of dreams. Whatever the reasons might be, every Friday night he had the same dream—accurate to the minutest detail—and woke up on the exact same time: 6:00 AM. This weekly cycle of 'same dream repetition' was going on for almost a year, starting from the summer holidays after Harry's fourth year. Only recently his dreams started last a bit longer, adding a little bit more detail into it.

By habit, Harry glanced at the woebegone clock on his pathetic sea-wreckage of a desk. It was 3:30 AM. Damn—last week Harry had woken up at 4:00 AM, 4:30 AM the week before that, and 5:00 AM two weeks before today. In short, he woke up 30 minutes earlier than the previous week for the past 5 weeks. This didn't bode well at all—it was bad enough he couldn't explain why he was having the same damn dream that woke him up like an alarm clock over and over, but to have a break in the pattern … he didn't know what to think of it.

'For all I know, this might be some creative way of a divine entity telling me I'm going to have another troublesome year,' Harry grumbled to himself. Knowing his … impressive … history of unusual and unexpected things happening to him, this might as well be the case. As Harry long since resigned to his tendency of (inadvertently) attracting trouble of all sorts, he didn't care much about something blowing up in his face. What irritated him was that he didn't know what was going to blow up. In the past, he at least had some vague idea to what source the impending explosion would come from.

'Nobody has any idea what's causing this,' Harry brooded. 'Not even Dumbledore. Hermione's researching the topic, but nothing so far … I even asked Trelawney about it, but the same doom-and-gloom from her.'

Well, Trelawney's answer wasn't entirely filled with the usual rubbish about his death by improbable causes. From all the chaff, Harry found one grain of wheat: according to the dream specialist Remeard Fye, dreams repeating more than three times are either prophetic or a symbolic representation of a significant past event.

But that was about it. If it was a prophetic dream, Harry had no idea what kind of future event it was trying to convey, and if the dream was showing him what had happened in the past, he sure couldn't remember what kind of event it was portraying.

'Why does my life have to be so complicated?' complained Harry to the world out loud. 'I have a Dark Lord after my blood, Hogwarts is closed, and now I'm having a prophetic dream no one can decipher!'

It was really decidedly unfair. But then, the world was never fair.

If only … if only he could know what might come and get him ahead of time, things would be so much easier. But since Harry wasn't about to develop the gift of foresight any time soon, he might as well get himself ready for another possible encounter with danger and bloodshed. If the past 5 weeks were any indication, than at some point he would stop waking earlier than the week before and face whatever explosion that was waiting for him.

'Though I can't imagine what dreams can do to me,' thought Harry as he closed his eyes again. Knowing his track-record something might smack him in the back, but this time it seemed unlikely. Dreams were just dreams after all—his unconscious mind running free as he slept. And unless it was a vision, how could it harm him?

'Of course I can always not wake up,' thought Harry sardonically. 'But I don't think it's possible with the Dursleys stomping about.' Harry could count on that—as the Dursleys seem to live to make their nephew's life as miserable as possible, and didn't know anything about Dark magic, it was most likely they would take extreme measures to wake him up from his 'beauty sleep'. Ha!

But as Harry drifted further away from consciousness, one thing kept coming back to him.

The red eyes … vermilion-red eyes.

When he saw them he immediately thought …

And then sleep claimed him, and the impression was lost to other dreams.

---oo00oo---

When Harry woke again, it was 7:30. He knew from experience the Dursleys would wake up in another 30 minutes or so as it was a Saturday. Quickly, Harry snatched the black and unblemished shirt on his the back of his chair and put his head through it. Once he dressed himself, Harry ran stealthily down stairs, making no noise least he wake the Dursleys, and stepped into the kitchen. He had breakfasts to make.

"Steam-pot … rice bag … measuring cup … check, check, check," muttered Harry as he gathered the mentioned items. He looked at the diet sheet taped to the fridge and smiled suddenly, "Radish soup for Dudley today!"

One might wonder what in the name of seven thousand miracles is Harry making with a steam-pot and rice, and what the hell is radish soup (with a muttered: 'it sounds disgusting'). What Harry is making is streamed rice, and radish soup is a Korean side-dish served very much like miso soup in Japan. (And it doesn't taste disgusting.) Then, besides the fact Harry liked the aforementioned food, why is he so happy with the fact he was cooking for the Dursleys? As one might have guessed, it was part of Dudley's diet regime and Dudley hated, no, despised Asian cuisine. That was enough to make Harry smile with unholy joy.

But how did this come to pass? Well, the reason started with Lord Voldemort and ended with Albus Dumbledore.

Six months after the Voldemort's resurrection last year, things had gotten so bad that the Ministry of Magic were obliged to close the school. Originally, the closing was only going to last a week so the Ministry Aurors and Charm Masters could recast and add defensive wards around and within the castle. But somehow (though everyone Harry knew blamed the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge) this information had leaked out, giving Voldemort the opportunity to plan and execute a mass guerrilla attack on castle when the wards were down. Nearly 15% of the school building had been damaged and/or destroyed by this attack alone, making the temporary one week closing into an indefinite one. Only two days ago Harry had received a letter from Hogwarts informing the school was now ready to open again and the O.W.L. exams were going to be held in the end this term.

Such circumstances forced Harry to stay at Privet Drive for indefinite period of time —an arrangement neither he nor his muggle relatives were happy about. Uncle Vernon had took various drastic measures to get rid of him (permanently)—like disowning him, or really sending him to St. Brutus' Secure Center for Incurably Criminal Boys—but his Uncle was prevented, much to his relatives' collective surprise as well as his own, by a brief (long?) visit from Albus Dumbledore.

To make a long and painful story short, Dumbledore had not been pleased of Harry's situation because: 1) the Dursleys deprived Harry of his wand and school items, 2) Harry was suffering chronic anemia, which was apparently very dangerous to be left untreated because he was a wizard, 3) Uncle Vernon had pulled out his shot gun and raised hell, and 4) Aunt Petunia called the police while the Headmaster was busy depriving Uncle Vernon of his gun.

The Dursleys had not been pleased at Dumbledore's presence in their house because: 1) he was wizard—plain and simple, 2) he was the one responsible of dumping Harry on their doorstep fifteen years ago, and 3) Dumbledore had the galls to Apparate in the middle of the kitchen, right on top of Aunt Petunia's banana cream cake, in fact (Dumbledore sat on it).

All things considered, it was good thing Dumbledore was well versed in memory charms; otherwise the Headmaster would now be much too familiar with the Muggle legal system.

So—after typical Dursleys-meets-a-wizard-behavior, closed gunfire, dodging of bullets, hiding behind walls and furniture, and several petrifying curses and memory charms—a not-so-jovial Dumbledore declared the following ultimatum(s): 1) the Headmaster will come via secured Floo-network or Apparition on a prearranged time to home-school Harry and check things; 2) the Dursleys will return Harry is school supplies and wand immediately and make no moves to deprive him from them; 3) the Dursleys will make no attempt to use any form of communication to slander Harry or they will be subjected to the Gossiper's curse; 4) since Dudley has to loose weight and (understandably) will be depressed if he did it alone, everyone will follow the diet sheet Dumbledore provided (which mainly composed of Asian food, for some reason) or else Dudley will be subjected to a Broken-Promise curse, and finally: 5) Both Harry and Dudley will have daily jogging sessions.

An enchanted invisible stick—which poked and prodded Dudley painfully until he ran—was left behind to make sure he didn't skive off. There were other minor details in the ultimatum(s), but that was the gist.

At first, the Dursleys followed Dumbledore's word to the letter, actually trying to 'nice' to Harry. Then, after the first week, they started testing their boundaries and see how much they could push the instructions. Once they realized the enchanted stick wasn't going to attack them for ordering Harry about, they took advantage. More assumptions were tested, and within a month the Dursleys found out that their treatment towards Harry didn't have to change much as long as they followed Dumbledore's explicit orders.

Perhaps Harry should have resented Dumbledore for keeping such loose ends. But strangely enough, the first week after Dumbledore's visit—when his relatives pretended to be nice—had been absolutely unbearable. In fact he was almost relieved when everything fell into a familiar pattern where the Dursleys simply ignored his existence when he wasn't needed for manual labor. He found that, as long as his so-called relatives didn't to talk with him or try isolate him from other people in the neighborhood—which they did, the former with considerable enthusiasm—he was fine.

He just hoped it wouldn't be too awkward when he talked with his friends in the wizarding world again after such a long separation.

---oo00oo---

Harry smiled as he worked. There was something about rinsing rice that made him feel content—the sight of the white grain swirling around, the feeling of hard grain brushing between his fingers, the cold milky water, and the sound of water pouring out of the pot and hitting the sink. Harry dumped most of the water out of the pot and refilled it. Then he started rinsing again.

'Rice has to be rinsed three times by hand, and once by running water.' Harry mentally recited. 'The flavor is lost if you rinse it too much, but tastes dusty if you don't rinse it enough. Once the rinsing is done, fill the pot with water so there is about an inch of water above the rice.'

After that, all Harry had to do was seal the pot so no steam would escape and put the pot on high fire. Once the water started to boil, he would tamp down the fire and release the steam slowly. These directions were simple enough (now that he mastered it) and yet both Aunt Petunia and Harry had made utter failures in their initial attempts to steam rice—burning them crisp, making gooey paste, or a combination of thereof. After much experimentation, trail and error, and torture sessions consist of eating the miserable 'rice products', Harry finally got the hang of it. Aunt Petunia did not.

Perhaps Aunt Petunia privately resented the fact he got hang of Asian cooking when she couldn't. She always proud of her culinary skills—they were recognizably and admittedly excellent—and Harry … his potions skills were one demonstration of his distinct lack of ability in that area. But she never voiced any complaint regarding the shift of work places. Now Harry spent most of his time in the kitchen unless he had to wash the car and do garage/yard work, and Aunt Petunia would do most of the gardening. This arrangement was doing much better to Dudley, as his cousin lost half of his weight and more in the period of six months, and was (secretly, with a new girlfriend) enjoying it. Perhaps she found consolation from there.

When Harry finished filling the food tray, all three Dursleys were already seated around the table. None of them even looked up when he came balancing the large heavy food tray, let alone try to help him. Uncle Vernon's large face was hidden behind the morning's Daily Mail, and Dudley looked ill-tempered and sulky. He sulked even more when Harry placed the bowl of radish soup in front of him.

"Radish soup again?" he complained, looking at the bowl with disgust. "But we had it yesterday!"

"It's on the sheet," said Harry curtly. "So don't complain."

After all this time, Dudley still managed to turn pale at any mention of the sheet—i.e. the Diet Sheet. Aunt Petunia started chewing her tongue, but didn't say anything. Uncle Vernon put his paper down with deep sniff of disapproval and looked down at his bowl of soup.

"Is this it?" he said grumpily to Harry, who just put his own rice bowl on the table. The bowl, which was selected by Aunt Petunia, was barely half the size of everyone else's.

"It's on the sheet," repeated Harry. Dudley paled again. "And all we've got is Korean radish and powdered dried fish. I have to the Blue Dragon today if you want something else."

Uncle Vernon turned purple. "Why you …!"

Harry beat him at it this time. "And Professor Dumbledore told me he has to come at eight in the evening today. He mentioned something about having an important meeting on the usual time, so he can't make it."

"What?!" Uncle Vernon managed to turn red and white at the same time. "He's coming at eight? But we have guests today! He can't come here through the fireplace an—!"

"I already told him about your dinner party with the Carters," Harry retorted. Uncle Vernon would talk about nothing else for the past two weeks. "So he's going to Apparate directly to my room. Once he's there, he's putting a silencing ward. So you and your guest won't hear a thing—literally."

A slight spasm crossed through Uncle Vernon's face and the mustache bristled. He seemed to be torn between the unforgivable outrage of magic being performed freely in his house in the near future, and the fear of Dumbledore doing something horrible if he did anything that displeased the Headmaster. He did mutter something profane in reference to manipulative old men doing whatever he wanted if he had the power to do so, and how such people should be eradicated from the world. Ignoring this startling hypocrisy and implications of self-destruction, Harry delivered his final word:

"And just to make sure the Carters won't get the wrong idea—" Harry looked at his Uncle by marriage pointedly, "—I'll take THE STICK with me … if and only if you let Professor Dumbledore come at eight."

Uncle Vernon did an impressive imitation of a closed boiling kettle. Predictably, Dudley turned green and Aunt Petunia looked like she was going cry by the mere mentioning of the invisible enchanted stick that tormented her 'baby.' Harry felt his lips twitch slightly when he saw the inevitable conclusion forming in Uncle Vernon's panic stricken head—there was no way in hell he could risk THE STICK running wild in the house when important guests were coming!

"All right then. Tell your … your Headmaster that he can come when he pleases … as long there aren't any noises." Uncle Vernon added in a would-be menacing voice.

Harry decided now was the time he said something about this. "Don't worry—Professor Dumbledore thinks our … activities are too much for even you, anyway."

While Uncle Vernon tried to figure out whether he was insulted or not, Harry ducked his head and proceeded to demolish his pitiful breakfast. Other than Aunt Petunia barking: "Go to the Blue Dragon and buy some real food for my Dudders!" and Harry obediently replying: "Yes, Aunt Petunia," there was no further exchange of words between Harry and the Dursleys.

---oo00oo---

Promptly at nine in the morning, Harry left Privet Drive and walked towards the Blue Dragon—one of the two Asian supermarkets in Surrey, the Blue Dragon being the closest to the Dursleys' residence. Harry used it so often that every worker in the store, including the owners, recognized him by sight and name. Harry learned to like this kind of recognition; these ordinary people—muggles, every single one of them—knew him not for his fame and scar, but because of familiarity.

Harry fairly dashed into the store anxious to hear the clatter and bustle of early morning activity he grew rather fond of. He was disappointed immediately as the store was unusually quiet, the owners and workers alike huddled around something and discussing in very low voices in their native language. Harry tried to peer through the circle of people and caught the sight of a Muggle newspaper. Perhaps they were talking about the latest headline?

Whatever the headline was, it must be something very serious as the owner—an elderly Oriental who went by the name of John Yu—looked extremely upset and distressed. This flared Harry's curiosity even more, so he approached the group and cleared his throat loudly.

"Excuse me … Mr Yu?" said Harry tentatively.

Mr Yu turned around with the newspaper still in his hands. His eyes crinkled, forming numerous wrinkles around his eyes, as he gave Harry a small, very dignified smile.

"Hello Haeri," said Mr Yu, nodding. 'Haeri' was his rendition of Harry's name. "Here already?"

Harry made a rueful smile. "What can I do? My relatives eat a lot." Then he tilted his head. "Is there something wrong? You looked very … distressed."

Sorrow clouded the brown wrinkled face. "Not about me," said Mr Yu, waving around the newspaper in his right hand. "Bad thing happened in our country." Mr Yu was referring to his native country, not England, but he always used a collective pronoun. "Very, very bad thing," and he showed Harry the front page.

The headline screamed something in Mr Yu's native language with a two inch font. The picture below it showed the desolate ruins of a large building, half of it burnt and the other half simply smashed to pieces. The trees around the building site were burned, and a large metal bell with an ornate dragon emblem was half buried in the ground—chipped, scorched and cracked beyond repair. Harry had to close his eyes at the horrible sight. How many times had he witnessed such pointless destruction in his dreams?

"This is hell," muttered Harry with feeling. Mr Yu nodded empathetically. "What happened, Mr Yu?"

"Some murderers attacked a Buddhist temple in our country… and killed everyone." Mr Yu shuddered. "Women and children, and the elderly!" Then he touched the wooden rosary around his wrist. "Even the priests!"

The workers—most of them Christians, if their crosses were any indication—seemed to share Mr Yu's horror.

"That's simply … unforgivable!" growled Harry. "Do they know who's responsible? Did the police catch them? What are they doing about it?"

Mr Yu's expression was that of barely controlled anger. "They say… the killers are from neighbor country. They already escaped." He clenched his fists. "They always come to harass our country, taking everything away, insulting us, taking advantage—" Then he sighed heavily, drooping. "But we can do nothing. No one else listens. No one else cares."

Harry felt his head dropping. "I'm very sorry," he decided that was very lame. "I hope the police would catch the murderers." But that was the best he could do.

"Misfortune of our country, so you don' have to worry," said Mr Yu, flapping his hand. He tried to sound dismissive, but Harry could see he was touched. Then the elderly owner turned very somber. "You hurry up now. If you late, your Aunt and Uncle will get angry—again."

Harry said nothing. He always suspected Mr Yu and his wife had a good idea what his life at Privet drive was like, even though Harry never talked about it. He knew because they would always slip some extra food in his groceries when they thought he wasn't looking, or give him extra change. At first, Harry tried to return them, but the elderly couple adamantly refused to get them back, sometimes waiting with crossed arms and narrowed eyes, not speaking a word until he accepted them. Harry was utterly hopeless against such silent insistence.

Everything fell into a similar pattern after that. Harry picked up the usual things from the shelves. The marinated meat the Butcher gave him looked smaller than before. It kept getting smaller after she realized Harry didn't get to eat some. The bakery women pressed a couple of pound cakes in his hands, saying that he looked too skinny. Mrs Yu slipped a five pound note in the change. Harry knew better than to mention it.

As he returned back to Privet Drive, dragging four grocery bags behind him, Harry wondered how long he could live on the Yu's generosity when he felt absolutely wretched about it. No wonder Ron was so sensitive about his small fortune… It was bad enough like this.

'Once I to go Gringotts,' Harry vowed. 'I'm going to find out how to exchange Wizarding Money to Muggle money and send them a check with the double, no triple amount they gave me … Or maybe I can buy that store for them so they don't have to pay the rent …'

But before that, he had to survive another week with the Dursleys before he left for Diagon Alley.

From the way things were going, it felt like another year was left.

---oo00oo---

The rest of the day proceeded very much like the summer after first year when Dobby made his introduction: Dudley would taunt him for something or another, and Harry would make the appropriate comments while he cleaned the already gleaming windows, oil-polished the new car, mowed the lawn for the second time this week, and pruned the well-trimmed hedges and roses. Dudley blinked once or twice as he tried to figure out what Harry's reply meant, or tried to figure out whether he was insulted or not.

'He doesn't have brains worth a toss,' thought Harry with mixed emotions. 'And Uncle Vernon wants him to succeed his place in Grunnings after he retires… fat chance.' Now that it didn't look like Dudley was going to die early by a massive coronary or diabetes, it was more likely he wouldn't be smart enough to fight his way up the management ladder. Harry could foresee that much with a certain degree of relish, but he couldn't help but pity his cousin who would soon learn about the real world in an avalanche if his life didn't change.

After bolting down a pitiful supper consist of five slices of pickled radish and a bowl of half-cooked rice ten minutes before eight, Harry tip-toed to his bedroom and closed the door behind him. He didn't even blink when Dumbledore Apparated in a few minutes later without much of a pop. The Headmaster muttered the incantations of the silencing ward around the room and a locking spell on the door before he did anything.

"I assume," Dumbledore said dryly, looking at Harry's disheveled and smelly person up and down. "You were … obliged … to improve the outward appearance of this household."

Harry simply shrugged. "Nothing I can't manage, Professor." he said, offering Dumbledore a chair. "I'm use to it." He seated himself on another chair in front of the one Dumbledore was sitting on.

"Not something that is worth getting use to," said Dumbledore in a self-deprecating tone.

"But what can we do?" said Harry, injecting a little humour in his tone. Dumbledore shook his head with a sad smile. Both of them knew Harry now completely accepted and acknowledged the reasons behind Dumbledore's difficult decision fifteen years ago, and he didn't hold any grudges against the man who was partially responsible of his miserable childhood.

Of course, it wasn't like this from the start. After the talk he had with Dumbledore during his incomplete fifth year, the poisonous resentment he had against the Headmaster was strong enough for him to want Voldemort have his way just to spite the Great man. Now, he couldn't dreg up such hatred towards Dumbledore even if he forced himself to. Not after the disaster that almost destroyed everything he held dear … but he wasn't going to think about that. Not now.

"I had the same dream again, Professor," said Harry, changing the subject. "This time I woke up three thirty in the morning … thirty minutes earlier than last week."

"Hmm," said Dumbledore thoughtfully. "So this is the fifth week … where you had the same exact dream, but have awaken thirty minutes earlier than the last time it happened?"

"Yes sir," answered Harry quickly. Then he thought again. "Wait, no … the time … the dream wasn't exactly the same."

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows. "The dream was different?"

"The dream progressed as usual until the white dragon burst into golden dust," explained Harry. "But this time I didn't wake up after that. I stayed a bit longer. I felt panic … and the desire to seek companionship. When I looked around I saw a swirl of long black hair and … a pair of red eyes."

There was a short silence as Dumbledore digested that.

"Red eyes," repeated Dumbledore. His eyes were blazing. "Did they look familiar?"

"… No," said Harry slowly, trying to remember his impressions. "I thought they were Voldemort's eyes at first, but …" He hesitated.

"Yes?"

"Those eyes… they weren't the color of blood, like Voldemort's." Harry said cautiously. "Rather, they looked like jewels… like rubies."

Harry looked up at Dumbledore. The slight frown between Dumbledore's eyebrows indicated he was thinking very hard, making connections. Harry waited in silence until Dumbledore was ready to tell him anything.

"It is strange," said Dumbledore at last, "that you have seen someone who is not Lord Voldemort and yet have red eyes in your dreams."

"Are red eyes unnatural to humans? Even to magical folk?" asked Harry.

"Humans with red eyes are extremely rare," explained Dumbledore. "Rare, but they do exist, even amongst Muggles. People who are complete Albinos, those who are born with no melanin whatsoever, have red eyes because the red blood vessels in their eyes are seen right through. For similar reasons, such people have white hair as well. Then of course, there are partial humans—those who are descendants of other species—but I do not recall any case where the children were born with red eyes."

"Oh…" said Harry uncomfortably.

"However," Dumbledore told him. "Just because a person has red eyes does not imply he or she is a potential Dark Lord or Lady. A simple cosmetic spell can change your eye color to any color of your choice, and experimental charms can have strange side-effects." Then he started to chuckle. "I think my brother Aberforth had neon grass-green eyes on his left and flaming orange on his right after casting some charm he had developed on himself. He walked around in public like that for a month, but everyone just laughed at him."

Harry laughed uneasily as he tried to imagine someone who looked remarkably like Dumbledore, but had one green eye and one orange eye. The resulting mental image made him rather queasy.

"And you said that the eyes looked like rubies—a crystalline jewel," continued Dumbledore. "Am I right to assume they looked very clear and bright?"

"Yes …" answered Harry uncertainly.

"No impressions of darkness?" Dumbledore pressed on.

"None."

"Then I do not think we have to worry about it," assured Dumbledore. "Impressions in such dreams are rarely inaccurate, and even if you did feel a bit uncomfortable with the eyes, we cannot spend time searching for this person with such a vague description."

"I guess not," Harry agreed. Then he frowned. "Is there something you're not telling me?" He asked suspiciously.

Dumbledore just twinkled. Harry knew that look.

"Is this one of those thing you can't tell me because I'm not old enough or it's a secret?" Harry grumbled. When Dumbledore continued to twinkle, Harry muttered: "Fine, Professor, have it your way."

Dumbledore laughed lightly. "If it makes you feel any better," said the Headmaster, still twinkling. "I can tell you that it has something to do with the meeting I had to attend with the professors this afternoon, with Professor Snape in particular."

Harry felt the blood draining from his face and his jaw slowly dropping.

"Uhm …" he said hesitantly. "Would I … want to what this meeting was about?"

"Perhaps," answered Dumbledore, still twinkling. In fact, he looked like he was on the verge of laughter.

"Then I won't risk it," declared Harry. "Not when I'm still not sure if my stomach can withstand the machinations of you, professor, much less Professor Snape."

The smallest bedroom of number four Privet Drive rang with Albus Dumbledore's pearly laughter.

---oo00oo---

Elsewhere in the wizarding world, Professor Severus Snape was contemplating an unforeseen difficulty involving his spying activities and personal life in general.

As of now the Potions Master was seated at his personal desk in his private rooms in Hogwarts, pouring over a muggle letter—complete with envelope and stamps—and an obviously muggle newspaper. Anyone who knew of his pure-blood wizarding background would wonder why Severus had anything to do with the muggle world—his Death Eater-turn-spy status not withstanding—as plenty of wizards and witches didn't know a thing about muggles because, simply put, they didn't need to.

And yet there he was—reading a letter that went through several muggle post offices while occasionally flicking his dark gaze to the newspaper in front of him. A newspaper which headline screamed: 'Massacre at remote Buddhist Temple!!'

Leaning back in his chair, Severus mentally reviewed what he'd learned about his ex-wife and her clan, and wondered once again how he let himself be talked into marrying anyone, least the woman who had been his wife.

Most people would not believe Snape had been married. Perhaps it would be more believable if they realized he never wanted to marry anyone in the first place, but various reasons had even affected this confirmed bachelor and misanthropist. Of course, the ex-wife had divorce him after enduring his sarcastic presence for almost two years. No one had been surprised when they entered magical marital court, and, as far as Severus was concerned, the divorce had been more of a relief. The only thing that made the Potions Master recall the divorce with certain amount of bitterness was the fact the wife had gotten to raise the child they somehow miraculously produced.

Contrary to public opinion, Severus had not been happy when the marital court had decided to give the child to the ex-wife. But as the ex-wife had considerably more political power—not to mention monetary wealth—than Severus, the outcome had been clear from the start. At least his visitation rights the Magical British Laws granted him weren't taken away after the Death Eater trials. To this day, Severus had visited the ex-wife's estate every summer and spoiled his child rotten. To this day, he had told himself that it was better this way. This way it would be unlikely his child would learn his more regrettable tendencies and habits, which were likely to make people think the child was suffering some form of mental deficiency. The ex-wife—who had admittedly better interpersonal skills than Severus, despite the fact she was a she-pirate, figuratively speaking—would never let THAT happen.

Now, everything had changed.

For reasons he could not fathom, the wife and her clan had choose this point of time to get themselves murdered by a rival clan, who burned their ancient estate—not a temple, as the Muggles thought it to be—down to the ground and killed everyone in sight. The newspaper article, which explained in gory detail on how all of the inhabitants of the temple were either burned or stabbed to death, wrote in the last few sentences that no one had survived this massacre.

But the letter he received that morning told him otherwise. By some miracle, his child managed to escape the attack and found sanctuary in a real nearby Buddhist Temple. The letter also told him that everyone, excluding the priests and selected members of their governement, thought his child was dead. All things considered, this was fortunate.

'Wise tactic,' thought Snape, sighing with relief. 'Had enough wits to remember killing is forbidden in temples, thank Merlin. And no attempts to stupid Gryffindor heroics.'

For Severus, his ex-wife could be tortured to death with all her clansmen for all he cared, as long as his child was safe.

Severus knew it was extremely cold-blooded to think in such terms, but really, considering he had no particular affections towards the ex-wife—indeed, they had despised each other—the clansmen he absolutely detested, and his child rightfully had a hold over him, this should be expected. He doubted his own child would shed a tear for the clansmen who bullied the poor child mercilessly. As for the ex-wife … there would be tears for her. The two had never been close, but the woman was the mother after all. Common decency demanded it.

'And the same decency would demand us to mourn,' Severus mused. 'Mourning clothes and burning incense for three to ten days. Then the increment and parting ceremonies.' If he didn't do the prescribed funeral rituals, he'd never see his child again. The ex-wife's government would see to that.

But therein lay a couple of problems—problems he never thought he would be troubled with.

Physically bringing his child to England was no problem. If worse came to worse, he could always use a portkey to directly transport themselves to English territory. Once there, the rival clan would have to deal with the British Magical Law Enforcement if they were stupid enough to follow.

Voldemort wouldn't be a problem either. The Dark Lord already knew about his child, and would know about the ex-wife's death as soon as he read the owl Severus sent this afternoon. The Dark Lord would probably make a note of this minor detail and tell him to inform him when his child came to England. As for the Ministry, some Aurors would probably try to keep an eye on his child, but other than that, they could do nothing.

The first problem was his child's choice of allegiances. His child knew almost nothing about Death Eaters or Voldemort. For his child, they were people of a foreign country. But once here … the child would be expected to choose sides. As a supposed Death Eater's offspring, his child would be expected, at least to the Death Eater children, to have private allegiance to Voldemort. Otherwise, his child's life would be numbered for a matter a days, if not hours. But he dare not force his apparent allegiances to his child. Not even for appearance sake.

Then there was a more direct concern regarding his child's outlandish educational background. Not only was his child practically raised as a muggle—learning muggle knowledge—but was raised as a sorcerer! The muggle-sorcery school his child attended offered wizardry and witchcraft only as an elective, which his child took, but even that course only covered Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts. How in the Merlin's name was he going to fill the enormous gaps in his child's wizarding education? His child should be with the fifth years, but how was his child to learn enough to pass the O.W.L. exams?

So many questions and concerns … but one thing was clear: His child would be attending Hogwarts. The reaction from the students after learning this would probably be the few pleasures he could drive from the whole situation.

"Of course, you'll be with me," muttered Severus, pulling out one of the few photo's of his child he had. "I guess that's a good thing. Too bad you had to come now."

Severus looked at the face thoughtfully. At a glance, his child looked almost nothing like him except for the slender eyebrows and long thick lashes. One had to see his child scowling or glaring to see any real—to directly quote McGonagall—'disturbing resemblance'.

Of course, McGonagall had no idea how far their resemblance stretched. It would be quite a vindictive sight to see if his child managed to give McGonagall's precious Granger girl some competition, at least in Charms, and even more vindictive if his child gave Harry Potter some competition in … whatever subject or Quidditch. Severus didn't even consider Potions—everyone would expect that anyway.

"Looks like it would be an interesting year," smirked Severus, still looking at the photo'. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Lasair Snape."

---oo00oo---

To be continued.