Harry Potter and the Green Flame Torch

CHAPTER ONE

DUMBLEDORE'S DEMISE

A year had passed since Mr. and Mrs. Dursley had caught Harry hiding behind their hydrangea bush so that he could listen to the evening news in peace, and that year had taken its toll on Privet Drive. The hydrangea that had managed, a year ago, to survive despite the heat and lack of water now stood withered, dead. Most everyone's gardens had perished during the long drought. Still, the neighborhood residents had cause for celebration. The drought had recently ended, meaning that hosepipes were again allowed; cars could be washed, lawns could be watered, and children and adults alike could cool themselves off in their yard with the hoses and sprinklers. Harry Potter was one of the few not joining in this activity.

He had black hair, glasses, torn and dirty jeans, a too-large t-shirt that looked old and faded, and trainers whose soles had close to peeled away. His most striking feature (to those in the wizarding world at least), was a thin, lightning-shaped scar on his forehead which he had received when Voldemort tried to kill him after murdering his parents.

At the moment, Harry was lying on his bed and staring up at the ceiling, which was where, on the whole, he preferred to be. The Dursleys hated having him around even more than they usually did because their 'Dinky Duddydums' wasn't there. He and his gang had finally gotten caught trying to burn the local high school down, and were sentenced to he didn't know how long in Juvenile Hall. Six months, maybe. Personally (and unsurprisingly), Harry was glad Dudley was gone, though he thought six years a much better sentence than six months.

Harry was anxious to leave Privet Drive, and though he was regularly receiving letters from Ron and Hermione, there was no mention of his returning to Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. They had told him they were again staying there for the summer. Perhaps they had no intention of bringing him back there; thinking that he was perfectly safe and relatively happy at the Dursleys' house? No, he had assumed that a year ago and he remembered Mrs. Weasley whispering in his ear as she gave him a hug, just before he left for Privet Drive with the Dursleys.

'Harry, we'll have you away from there as soon as we can.'

They would come for him, Harry decided. He just had to endure the inevitable wait until they did.

Draco Malfoy scowled at his reflection in the ornately carved, full-length mirror that stood in his bedroom. His bed took up as much space as an ordinary bedroom would, but then, that was to be expected. The bedroom of Draco Malfoy was not ordinary, nor had he ever once wished that it were. Larger than most living rooms, with hundreds of books (most affiliated with dark magic) lining the walls, it gave off a feeling of awe, reverence, and slight fear of the person who spent his nights here. It was on the third floor of the Malfoy Manor, with a balcony from which one could watch the sun rise and set, unless there was fog in the air. There often was, thick, gray, and damp, creeping in through cracks in the doors and windows.

The reason for Draco's frown, other than the fact that he liked to practice them every day, was that Father hosted a huge party/meeting for Voldemort's Death Eaters every month. It was always held on the first floor, partly so that Draco wouldn't be able to listen in from his bedroom. Draco, predictably (knowing his father), was never allowed to join in. Every time he asked permission to attend, respectfully of course, Father's reply was, 'not yet,' and every time he asked why (again, respectfully), he always answered, 'for your protection, Draco.' Draco found that rather demeaning. After all, he was sixteen years old! What was Father afraid of? His Father had escaped from Azkaban only two weeks ago and was now hiding in the manor, safe for the present. Surely Draco could do the same if he were caught?

He turned away from the mirror, only to flop down onto his bed and pull another one out of his pocket. But this small hand mirror was not so ordinary. He paused, as if considering something, and slowly, in his usual drawl, spoke four words.

"Show me Narcissa Malfoy."

The surface of the mirror rippled, as if it were boiling water; then it suddenly became smooth once again and cracked, seeming all at once like ice. When it finally cleared, the image of a fragile woman lying on a bed of white sheets (they were those awfully uncomfortable hospital sheets), became visible. Draco's mother was very ill. She was dying, and no one could cure her, because no one knew of the sickness she had. This saddened Draco immensely, for he loved his Mother dearly, despite her negative views on the Dark Lord. She did her best to make his life as easy as possible under the circumstances of their lives, and it had worked, at least partially. From the fastest racing broom to a gold cauldron studded with Rubies and Emeralds, his mother had given him everything he desired. But Narcissa Malfoy was very different from Lucius. His father thought that Draco should earn what he deserved, which, at the present, was dirt. The reason for this was a recent fight they had had. He stared sadly at the mirror a moment more, before touching it lightly with his wand. The surface shimmered slightly and Draco's face stared back at him in place of his mother's.

Draco had never been to a Death Eater's meeting, never seen anyone die... until the end of his fifth year. Father had taught him to Apparate at an early age, and Draco, wanting to see Father fight, to see the Dark Lord triumph over and finally kill Harry Potter, he did just that. Draco Apparated to the old telephone box that was the entrance to the Ministry of Magic, and reached the room in the Department of Mysteries where the Prophecies were kept (after some trial and error).

Draco arrived in the room where the Prophecies were kept. He wanted to help, wanted to watch his father fight bravely with the Death Eaters.

But when he saw the fighting, it didn't seem so grand as it had in his dreams, and when his father had described it. He couldn't see Father. Draco had no doubt he was there somewhere... and then he saw Albus Dumbledore. Everyone had stopped fighting to watch Dumbledore and Voldemort duel.

No, Draco thought desperately. Where is my Father? He backed into the shadows, and noticed that two people were still battling, apparently unaware of the new arrival. Draco recognized Bellatrix Lestrange, who had recently broken out of Azkaban along with nine other Death Eaters, and Sirius Black. He knew that Sirius was innocent, Father had made sure of that.

Black ducked a jet of red light from Mrs. Lestrange; he was laughing at her. It made Draco's blood boil. Laughing at Bellatrix Lestrange, who had learned the Dark Arts from Voldemort himself, was Voldemort's most loyal servant... and then it happened. The next jet of light hit Black squarely in the chest. Draco turned and saw Potter, who had just let go of Longbottom. Longbottom's legs were jerking and twitching in a sort of quickstep. Harry started towards Sirius, but Draco turned his eyes away from the sight. He had a horrible feeling in his chest.

I just watched someone die.

Finding a sort of pity in his cold heart that he never knew was there, Draco strode over to Longbottom (who stared at him fearfully), and muttered, "Finite Incantatem." Neville was shaking from exhaustion, and his wrist looked broken, so Draco helped him into a shadowy corner where no one would be able to see him.

He hissed, "Breathe one word to

anyone that I helped you, and I will personally make sure you regret it."

Then Draco left, sincerely hoping Father had not seen him.

But Father had seen him, and as soon as he was home for the summer he took the opportunity to lecture his only child. He had tried to defend himself, but to no avail; Father was adamant. Draco had ended up stomping off to his room. He often did that when things got out of hand in the house. As a rule his bedroom was a haven, an oasis in the middle of a desert.

As much as he loved his bedroom, he hated being cooped up in it for twenty-four hours or more while Death Eaters were discussing important things downstairs. However, Draco knew that if he were caught trying to listen in he would be severely punished. His Father had other ways of detecting someone sneaking around than just by seeing them, or he would have taken the chance of being caught well before now. As it was, he had to spend hours at a time in that one room; the only pleasure he found in it was being able to sit out on his balcony and watch the sun set.

Contrary to popular belief, Draco Malfoy did have a heart, as did his Father and Mother. Especially his Mother. But they had to work hard to hide it; working for the Dark Side wasn't a picnic. You had to keep up the impression that you were a cruel, heartless person with no mercy so that others would obey you, or else it was you who had to obey others. That was just how life went (at least to the extent of Draco's experience). Anyone who thought otherwise was an idealistic idiot who put happiness, which was only temporary, before power and wealth, which was the only thing that lasted, if you were careful with it.

It would be Harry's birthday in exactly two weeks, but he wasn't looking forward to it. He knew, of course, that he would receive presents from Ron and Hermione. It didn't much matter to him any more. He just wanted to leave Privet Drive, as he felt totally cut of from the Wizarding World. The Daily Prophet was the only source of information he got (Ron and Hermione's letters never said anything useful). It was reporting at least one death weekly now, and Harry had a hunch that if the Ministry didn't take more direct action, weekly would become daily. Fudge still hesitated over advice Dumbledore gave him before taking it.

Another thought was hovering around in Harry's mind, one that disturbed him almost as much as the deaths reported in the Daily Prophet. It was Ron and Hermione. Harry knew he had absolutely no reason to be angry with them, but their letters were just repeats of last year: "You know we can't say much here..." "You'll be here soon, we don't know exactly when...." Things like that. It wasn't that he didn't want Ron and Hermione as friends anymore, but they just didn't seem like the same people. Or maybe it was he who had changed.

He felt alone, more alone than he had even before he discovered that he was a wizard. Sirius was gone; he had no parents, and no friends that he felt he could talk to anymore. Harry was hoping that once he was back at Number Twelve these feelings would dissipate.

He had a feeling they wouldn't.

Sirius. Harry couldn't talk to anyone about that, either. No one had actually seen him die, watched the look of shock on his face as he fell.

He struggled against sleep. Uncle Vernon had suddenly decided to have him clean the whole house last night, muttering that Harry could do his fair share of housework, whatever 'those weirdos' might think (meaning Moody, Tonks, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and everyone else that had told the Dursleys not to mistreat Harry or they'd have them to answer to). He couldn't really argue with that, but to completely ignore him for a month and then suddenly heap a ton of work onto him was certainly odd. And it wasn't just a normal house-cleaning, either. His Uncle had made him vacuum every bit of floor, dust every single tiny cobweb, and remove every speck of dirt from the house. It was a bit annoying, but Harry wasn't about to complain to Lupin (to whom he was writing daily) that his Aunt and Uncle had given him one day's worth of hard work after ignoring him for the whole summer.

Harry never wanted to fall asleep anymore. Every night he had horrible dreams of Death Eaters, them killing and torturing wizards and muggles alike, and Voldemort. But he hadn't slept in two days, and despite his best efforts, Harry slipped slowly into unconsciousness.

Tonight his dream was different. It wasn't he watching others be slowly tortured and murdered. This time, it was him who was in agony.

The pain was excruciating. Harry couldn't help it; he screamed in agony. Then he heard laughing. Forcing himself to look up, Harry saw the person he had least wanted to see, and yet the person he had most expected. Voldemort.

"Yes, Potter. It hurts, doesn't it? Now you will feel what I have had to feel for the past fifteen years. Despair."

Panting with exhaustion, Harry nevertheless stood up and faced his attacker. "You may be able to kill me," he said, more bravely than he felt, "but Dumbledore will stop you." Voldemort only laughed harder, and called into the darkness, "Bring him out!"

"Yes, my Lord," answered a voice Harry recognized as Lucius Malfoy. He walked slowly into the center of the room, dragging something. It took Harry a moment to realize what it was.

"Dumbledore!" he screamed. The Headmaster was unconscious, and lay sprawled on the floor where Malfoy left him. Lucius retreated into a corner of the room.

"He won't be alive to stop me," Voldemort spat venomously. He raised his wand, pointing it at Dumbledore.

In the back of the room, the door swung open with a crash. Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway.

"Harry!" he yelled.

"Avada Kedavra!" A flash of green light was streaking towards Dumbledore. In less than a second he would be dead....

"NOOOOOO!"

Harry woke up drenched in cold sweat. The blankets had been kicked completely off the bed, and Hedwig was screeching loudly. Within seconds he could hear feet thundering up the stairs. Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia arrived at his bedroom door.

"What the ruddy heck is going on here, boy?" Vernon yelled. He was fuming.

"Nothing. Just-just a nightmare."

"NIGHTMARE?" roared Vernon. "You woke up the entire neighborhood because you had a nightmare?"

"Er... yeah," Harry replied uncomfortably.

"Well I'll tell you one thing, boy, if you don't get your nightmare under control, I might just forget what those, those freaks said to me." With that he stomped back down the stairs, Aunt Petunia close behind him. Harry was left to flop back down onto his bed and stare at the ceiling in frustration.

Father had heard rumor that the Ministry was again searching for him, and had gone into hiding, Draco knew not where. As Mother was at St. Mungo's, Draco was supposedly staying with a relative. In reality he was doing no such thing. He had insisted on staying here by himself. Despite Father's yelling and ordering him to go, Draco had managed stand his ground. After all, he had argued, lying low at his house was extremely easy; there were plenty of house elves to do the work and hundreds of places to hide.

Draco's hand traveled along the shelf as he sought for a book to help him pass the time. His hand wavered above Mastering the Unforgivable Curses by Lucius Malfoy, but moved on. None of his favorite books seemed worth even looking at today! He sighed, frustrated, and finally pulled Moste Potente Potions off the shelf...

...and stopped. Memories came flooding back to him. Draco dropped the book in his hand; it hit the floor with a dull thud as Draco lunged for the bookcase. He yanked a few more books off of the shelf, and pulled out what was hidden behind them. A box.

It wasn't anything like the expensive gold, silver, wooden, and glass trunks and boxes that he owned. A grubby package made of cardboard, it seemed horribly out of place in that grand room. Draco opened it. His fingers were trembling and he looked fearful as he eased open an end of the box. He let the content of it slide out and fall without a sound onto his bed.

A book. A muggle book. He had been only a boy when he found it in the street, on one of the few occasions when he entered the muggle world. Draco had felt sorry for it, and taken it. He knew his father would not have approved. So he kept it hidden night and day, and had, over time, forgotten about it.

Draco wondered to himself what it would be like to read a muggle book, whether it would be that much different than what wizards wrote about. It couldn't be dangerous to use muggle things, could it? Could doing so slowly take away his magical power? Draco realized he didn't know very much about muggles.

He looked at the title. Walk Two Moons. Slowly, he turned to the first page and began reading....

Harry paced around his bedroom in exasperation. It had been a whole day since he had written to Remus. Why had he not replied yet? Even after such a long time the dream was still fresh in his mind, keeping him on edge. Normally, Harry would never even have thought of writing anyone a letter anymore. This dream had unnerved him a little too much to be ignored. If they lost Dumbledore... Voldemort might as well have already won. That was what Harry believed, even if he wasn't on the best of terms with the headmaster.

Strangely, Harry had felt no pain in his scar after he woke up, as was usual when having a dream concerning Voldemort. The absence of pain was almost frightening in itself.

And Malfoy had been in his dream. This was what confused Harry the most. Malfoy? A friend? After all, he had called him 'Harry.' Maybe his dream had been just that, a dream, and Harry was bothering everyone with a whole lot of nothing.

Harry heard someone moving downstairs.

Relax!

he thought. It's just Dudley getting a huge slab of cake, as usual.

Then he remembered that Dudley was in jail.

Harry could hear them slowly ascending the stairs, drawing nearer to his room. He lay down on his bed, pretending to be asleep, and slowly slipped his wand out of his pocket. The door creaked open, and he stiffened.

"Harry?" a familiar voice whispered.

"Remus! Are we going to-"

"Yes. Pack your things."

"No!" Draco screamed at the mirror. In this mirror a reflection of himself, red-eyed with tears streaming down his face, was screaming silently back. It slid out of Draco's hands, falling with a thud on the floor.

"She's not dead! Did you hear me? She's not dead!" Draco tried to yell, but the words came out as no more than a harsh croak. He turned away, ashamed, and threw himself on his bed. Draco pounded the pillows uselessly.

Draco had looked into his hand mirror as usual, to check on his mother. Her image appeared. There was a man next to her, listening to her. It was Albus Dumbledore.

Draco tried to listen to what his mother was saying.

"-at the Manor," she gasped. "Now, Albus, you must find him. Tell him I love him, and that this is what I believe is best. I wish I could tell Draco myself."

There was a sadness in Dumbledore's eyes that Draco had rarely seen there before.

"Goodbye, dear Narcissa. You have been a true friend."

Mrs. Malfoy closed her eyes slowly, and a look of peace came over her face. Wherever she was, clearly she was no longer in that room. The mirrors image faded, showing only a reflection of himself.

He didn't think once about Narcissa's words to Dumbledore, revealing Draco's whereabouts. This was why he had not made any motion to leave when, about an hour later, Professor Dumbledore entered the room. He surveyed Draco's tearstained face, the mirror on the floor, and the Dark Arts books lining the shelves.

"I am afraid, Mister Malfoy, that you must come with me," he said solemnly.