Dusk and Flame

Chapter 1: Myriad Forebodings

Down here it was still the England I had known in my childhood: the railway-cuttings smothered in wild flowers, the deep meadows where the great shining horses browse and meditate, the slow-moving streams bordered by willows, the green bosoms of the elms, the larkspurs in the cottage gardens; and then the huge peaceful wilderness of outer London, the barges on the miry river, the familiar streets, the posters telling of cricket matches and Royal weddings, the men in bowler hats, the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, the red buses, the blue policemen--all sleeping the deep, deep sleep of England, from which I sometimes fear that we shall never wake till we are jerked out of it by the roar of bombs.

-- George Orwell, Homage to Catalonia

14 July 1996

It was early morning when Luna came twirling into the kitchen. Her father was already seated at the table, sipping at a cup of sweetened tea and reading the Daily Prophet--to find evidence of the suppression of the press, he often said.

"Hi, Daddy," said Luna.

"Hey, Luna. How's your morning?"

"Perfectly dreadful," replied Luna in a matter-of-fact way. "First when I woke up, I couldn't find my socks, and now I keep hearing whispers."

Mr Lovegood smiled at Luna, ruffled her dirty blonde hair, and said fondly, "Well, let's hope you don't keep hearing those whispers anymore."

"Well, I still do right now," said Luna. "But maybe it'll go away after awhile." She stood up and went to get an apple. The apples were sitting neatly together on a plate, fresh from a cooling and freshening charm. As the sunlight came through the window, it struck the apples. The beautiful, dark red sheen of the apple suddenly struck Luna as amazingly wonderful, and she felt that she really didn't want to eat such a pretty apple. So she picked up a banana instead.

She peeled the stiff yellow of the banana peel off as she jumped up and scrabbled to get onto the kitchen counter. She sat there next to the fruit bowl, swinging her legs and savouring the undoubtedly somewhat mushy, yet tasty, flavour of the curved yellow fruit. Mr Lovegood always said that she found beauty in the smallest things. Luna was never sure exactly what her father meant by this.

And then, for a moment, her wide, silvery eyes opened and she stared at the air in front of her, as though asking it to reveal its secret.

There! It was the whispering again. Always the whispering. It was always there. Luna wondered if she were going insane--although many of her housemates already thought so. Crumple-Horned Snorkacks were perfectly fine. This whispering... it unnerved Luna. Luna, of all people! The girl who had made it an art to unnerve people herself was herself unnerved. But she had never heard the whisperings before, and now they served to put her on edge.

The voices fluttered slightly, and Luna strained to hear. Her banana was still clutched in her right hand, the peels falling limply to the sides. She was utterly still.

...Shouldn't have gone...the voice was agonised, and Luna felt some pity for whoever was speaking...Shouldn't have left him behind...

...They must fight for themselves...another voice said, this time a woman's voice, light and bell-like and pretty--yet there was sadness in her words... We have left them...it is up to them...

The voices slowly faded, slowly and surely. She blinked her eyes, feeling as though she had just come from a oddly serene and tranquil dream. It was like looking through a mirror and seeing your own reflection slowly dissipate into thin air, watching the colours fade, the contours fade, until there was nothing, nothing left but a hazy mirage of what had been--and maybe what was yet to come.

16 July 1996

Harry,

You must have your OWL results by now! Spill it out, and tell us, for Merlin's sake. I'd swear that you're withholding your results just to annoy me!

Harry smiled involuntarily as a fragment of Hermione's letter from 12 Grimmauld Place came drifting back into his mind, distracting him from his History of Magic essay--though, truth be told, it was rather more like distracting him from a near-doze: Binns had not yet lost his aptitude for assigning dull and tedious work, and this one was no different (Well, perhaps just a little bit). And considering that, quite literally, no one paid attention in the ghost professor's class (except for Hermione), and that he had missed part of the exam, he was amazed that he had made it through with an Acceptable.

No matter--history was hardly needed by Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived. Unless you were one who believed in the mantra "History repeats itself." And really, even if you knew history, sometimes you couldn't keep history from repeating. As the Boy-Who-Lived well knew.

Boy-Who-Lived... Boy-Who-Lived... the epithet had been bandied around by so many people--his rivals, his friends, and those people that he just didn't know--and yet that name would soon be changed to the Boy-Who-Lived-and-Then-Died-by-the-Dark-Lord's-Hand, if Voldemort had his way.

Gone unnoticed by Harry, the nib of his quill broke under his fingers. He savagely cursed (at Voldemort) and pulled out another quill from his drawer. There was a large supply of writing utensils in his desk, needed since he had broken at least three quills that morning already. The first one, he had dropped on the floor; the second one, he had accidentally stepped on; and the third one was the aforementioned one with the broken nib. The black ink oozed out of the broken quill upon the desk. Impatiently, Harry mopped it up with a tissue, which he threw onto the floor.

The phrase "think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts" was hopelessly corny, but Harry couldn't seem to get his mind off the precarious state of the wizarding world. "What you need is a distraction," Remus Lupin had said, over the phone--thank Merlin he had the sense to introduce himself as a government official conducting a survey on the psychological states of people; the Dursleys had fell for it, and handed the phone to Harry as quick as you could say, "Cheers!" "And call me Remus--I'm not your professor anymore..." The werewolf's voice had sounded unusually tired: Moony quickly informed Harry that the full moon hadn't come yet, but that his temper was coming to the breaking point with Mrs. Black's portrait, "...And I hate her, the old batty thing! Screeching like some overgrown Kneazle who's being transformed into an owl..." Evidently, Harry wasn't the only person who had lost his temper with Professor Dumbledore; Remus, sounding rather abashed, told Harry that he had yelled at Dumbledore for a while, trying to persuade him to let Harry come to the Burrow, but as Remus said unhappily, "He says it's for your safety. Not that I don't trust him or anything--but coming at a time like this! With..." One name was left unsaid.

Sirius. Long black hair, haunted face, and his familiar, barking laugh... falling through the Veil. Neither one of them mentioned him.

Then, instructions to give the phone back to the Dursleys, where he said that Harry was an unusually interesting case, and could he interview him some more every week throughout the month, pleasure to talk to you, thanks for your cooperation in participating in this study for the government, and good-bye, Mr Dursley, I'll hear from you next week. Once again, thank you. I appreciate your help in conducting this survey.

With a bump which sent him back to reality, Harry could hear the sizzling of cooking food downstairs in the kitchen, while the shouting and yelling in the next room was obviously Dudley playing his video games. Harry maintained in his letters to Ron that he knew, depending on Dudley's success at video games, whether or not a day would be a good one:

If Dudley is whooping in the next room, I know Aunt Petunia's going to be humming the rest of the day and saying, "My boy's so smart! He beat the ninth level!" to herself; then she gives extra-large portions at dinner, like the size of Dudley's, and chats non-stop about neighbourhood gossip. If Dudley is screaming at the video game, "Shut up! Shut up!" rest assured that Uncle Vernon is going to bury his fat ugly mug behind a Muggle newspaper while Aunt Petunia is frowning throughout dinner. Trust me, it's true, and it's really rather amusing. Dudley doesn't even dare come into my room these days; he thinks the minute he steps foot in here, the wards I've supposedly rigged are going to trap him and starve him to death. And he most certainly doesn't want a curly pig's tail--or a pudding dumped on his head--or being blown up like a balloon--or having a long tongue (thanks to Fred and George).

And speaking of Fred and George...

What had then followed were inquiries into the twins' business located in Diagon Alley (considered the prime meeting, shopping, and eating hub for Britain's witches and wizards, consisting of approximately one two-thousand-five-hundredth of the island country's population).

In response, Ron told Harry, Fred and George have so much business--I swear, they're going to destroy Zonko's soon. There's always so many people in their shop at Diagon Alley that George told me they were thinking of expanding into Hogsmeade. By the way, if Dumbledore will let you, you can come to the Burrow for part of the summer--we've been setting wards all around the house, so it'll be safe, and I don't think you'd fancy staying in you-know-what-house after what happened. Not like it would improve your temper any. Remus's been on a short fuse, he's already hexed Mrs Black's portrait several times, and nearly did the same to Snape--as though I'd care about that greasy-haired git.

Finish the history essay, Potter, a voice in his head said, sounding strangely like Snape when he was in a bad mood, his cold, sardonic, downright sneering voice silencing any opposition. Harry sighed and dipped his quill into the ink, loath to go back to his essay. Dumbledore really should have made Binns retire by now, especially since he was a ghost, and about as interesting as listening to a class of students snore (which was what his classes did). At this rate, he would be begging Voldemort to kill him. Not that it wouldn't be a bad thing, compared to two more years of Binns. He smiled fondly as he thought of the time when Padfoot had met them in Hogsmeade, carrying a soggy newspaper in his mouth...

Finish the history essay, Potter.

Harry contemplated the information from his history book. Instead of goblin rebellions for summer work, Binns had consented to change the subject to something just as obscure, although not as soporific: the general history of the Ministry of Magic, with leeway to choose any department, division, or office to research. Five feet of parchment required. Hermione, in a letter, had told Harry she was attacking the positions of the Department of International Magical Cooperation throughout the ages, while Ron cheerfully informed Harry that reading about the stories spread by the Office of Misinformation wasn't so bad: And you know what? It's actually okay. Maybe Binns has finally got some sense in him. Did you know that before flying carpets were banned, the Office had to make up stories about things called flying saucers? The Muggles call them UFOs! Whatever that means.

Maybe I shouldn't have chosen the Spirit Division, Harry thought ruefully. I haven't found any information about the Veil--should have taken the Department of Mysteries, you daft, dim-witted idiot. But his choice had been put down on parchment, and Professor Binns would be expecting a paper from Harry on the rather neglected Spirit Division of the Department for the Control and Regulation of Magical Creatures when he came back in September.

He put away all regrets on his choice, and set quill to paper.

In the wizarding world, there is a certain lack of recognition for the Spirit Division. Perhaps it is because it has never accomplished anything particularly needed by the general public, unlike the Department of Education, which, fittingly enough, oversees the education of young witches and wizards at schools around England, the most prominent of which is, of course, Hogwarts; perhaps it is because it has never had the fruits of controversy, ripe enough to be picked by the voracious hordes of the mass media and displayed to the public, unlike the 1862 scandal at the Department of International Magical Cooperation when the supposedly neutral head was found to be diverting funds and supplies from the department to American rebels in the southern states¹...

That sounded suitably pompous enough for Professor Binns to read. He would never know--being so absorbed in goblin rebellions as it was--that the essay was taken, almost verbatim, from an essay in a book Hermione had sent him earlier that month, writing to say that she hoped it would help him. Oh, it had, it had! In ways that she would never think of doing herself, meaning blatant plagiarism. Though perhaps Rita Skeeter would.

Harry frowned as he pictured Rita Skeeter as she had been during the Triwizard Tournament, with bouncy curls and ringlets of hair, painted fingernails, and an acid green Quick-Quotes Quill, which she constantly sucked on. Juxtaposing that image with one during his fifth year, as he had seen her in the Three Broomsticks--lank hair, chipped fingernails, haggard-looking face--he felt a sense of smugness, which, he thought, upon looking at what she had done to his reputation in the wizarding world, was entirely justifiable.

...Perhaps it is because it has never publicly achieved anything of real worth for people, unlike the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, which constantly has its Aurors on the alert for crime and wrongdoing...

Harry felt an intense impulse to add, Except when they have an incompetent minister, like Fudge, and do stupid things, but, with a longing sigh, he banished the thought from his head, and instead focused on keeping his essay as fair and un-biased as possible--if it were possible.

...However, for all its unobtrusiveness and quietness, the Spirit Division has the potential for mind-boggling research, if only the Ministry could contribute more money to the funding of the division. For instance, as described in the book But Do They Come When You Call Them? by an anonymous Spirit Division worker², published in 1991, she writes that "I applied to my boss for clearance and funding for my project, that of studying the nature of the Veil in the Department of Mysteries and if it really caused death, but he said 'no.' In a very disappointed voice, he told me that it was a very interesting subject, but that the division didn't have the money for it. This from one of the main divisions of a prominent Department; this from a division with only two sections, the Office of Research, where I work, and the Office of Phenomena, where people study strange phenomena; this from a division which has the potential to shake the foundation of the wizarding world with revelations about death and the afterlife, destroyed by a lack of funding! And, lastly, this was coming from a Ministry presiding over one of the most affluent countries in the world, with approximately 2.4 trillion galleons in the budget at last count--it couldn't spare even ten thousand for the Spirit Division! These are the times when I feel as though the other departments are lording it over us, and as I watch my co-workers struggle with limited budgets, and scrimp, and save, while others from other departments go to fancy gatherings and socialize, I truly--I truly, truly hate the way of bureaucracy. Fudge could at least spare some of his attention for us."³

First salvo at Fudge. Harry grinned. Perhaps there were other ways to insinuate Fudge's incompetence into this. It wouldn't improve the national situation any, but at least this gave him the chance to blow off steam. Which was something he badly needed to do.

Feeling incredibly bored with the History of Magic essay, he laid it aside for a while, and picked up a letter. It contained Harry's OWLs results, and he had received it just yesterday. Yesterday, mused Harry, and already Hermione's letter comes, asking for results. He pulled out and unfolded the documents inside. The OWL people didn't waste any parchment on idle talk, because there wasn't even a brief message of congratulations, only the results and a list of classes that he could take for sixth year, based upon his results. He glanced over the letter, rereading it and gleaning from it any information to send to Hermione. Who is probably waiting for this letter right now. Ron... he's probably arguing with her over academics and Quidditch. He skimmed the dispatch.

OWL Results

Name: Harry James Potter

School: Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

House: Gryffindor

Note: The number of OWLs is based upon the written and practical scores combined; for example, if a student receives an "O" for a overall subject, but in the written and practical portions only receives one "O," only that one "O" will be counted.

Transfiguration: O

Written: E

Practical: O

Charms: O

Written: O

Practical: O

Herbology: O

Written: O

Practical: E

Potions: O

Written: E

Practical: O

Astronomy: E*

Written: E

Practical: A

History of Magic: A**

Written: A

Defence Against the Dark Arts: O***

Written: O

Practical: O

Divination: A

Written: A

Practical: P

Care of Magical Creatures: O

Written: O

Practical: O

*Student was distracted during exam.

**Student was forced to leave exam due to medical reasons.

***Student earned extra credit (casting of the Patronus Charm).

Number of OWLs: 9

Sixth Year Classes:

If the student wishes to drop certain classes considered unnecessary to his or her desired career, please speak with your Head of House.

When Harry had first read the sheet of parchment reporting his results, he could not help grinning. He had made an "O" in Potions! He might be able to be an Auror, even.

Now, however, his elation at the possibility of being part of the law enforcement in the wizarding community was significantly dampened by the dismal fact he had just realised: since he had Advanced NEWT Potions, Professor Snape would work him harder than ever, for two more years. Two more years of Snape: greasy hair, unpleasant sneer, insinuating insults, scathing remarks... Harry frowned.

Shoving the unpleasant thoughts out of his head, he looked again at the list of classes. If the student wishes to drop certain classes considered unnecessary...

He hadn't really considered dropping classes last night when the results arrived, simply pulling the letter out, perusing through it, and then putting it in a drawer and going to bed. Now, he examined the list carefully for several moments. He would have to take all Advanced NEWT classes--he wasn't about to downgrade his classes. As for the regular NEWT classes, he would probably keep NEWT Astronomy, perhaps History of Magic (depending on the curriculum--if it included goblin rebellions, Harry wasn't going to take it), but Divination would go.

Harry smiled as he crossed out "NEWT Divination." Professor McGonagall, as Gryffindor Head of House, wasn't particularly fond of Divination herself, and he knew that she would agree immediately to his change, especially as she considered divination an "imprecise art." For Harry, it meant that the days of musty, perfume-filled rooms (with huge, uncomfortable poufs) was over, and it meant that crystal balls, tea leaves in cups, tarot cards, and morbid predictions were no more. No more dream diaries, he thought with a feeling of relief. Ron and Harry, after three years of Divination, were slowly and inevitably running out of creative ways for dying--the first time they put down "being choked to death by the giant squid in the lake," Professor Sibyll Trelawney had been delighted to no end, speaking in her mystical voice that so enchanted Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown; but after it had been used several times, Trelawney had begun remarking to Harry how mundane and boring his dreams were, sighing about his lack of "the Inner Sight." The boys could have bet money that Trelawney thrived upon stories of impending doom. No, not money--their lives. And they would be right.

During those times, Harry really wished that he could have walked out along with Hermione in his third year.

No doubt Hermione would be clamouring to know his results. Partly because he didn't want Hermione pestering him, and partly because he had nothing better to do (he had tired of the history essay), he found a clean piece of parchment and rubbed the nib of his quill between his fingers. He bent over the letter-to-be.

Dear Ron and Hermione,

Just so you'll be quiet about it, Hermione, I am proud to inform you that I received 9 OWLs. Of course I don't need to ask about you--you've probably got all your OWLs. Amazingly enough, I have an "O" in Potions, so Snape will just have to put up with me in his Advanced NEWT class.

By the way, speaking of classes, quit Divination, Ron. I know you and I just can't stand another year of Trelawney and death; we should have gotten out with Hermione when we had the chance. And are you dropping History of Magic? I really don't fancy more of Binns and goblin rebellions. Although the class is a good time to sleep...

I'll say that Fudge is really being chewed out by the newspapers, which is what he deserves. But anyway, I hope I can come this summer. Moody's threat at King's Cross really shook up the Dursleys; they haven't talked to me much this summer. Just "do this" and "time to eat" and "be quiet," mainly. And I'm not brooding over Snuffles. Even though I know it's my fault that he went in the first place, I've made myself feel somewhat better by blaming part of it on Snape, because if that slimy git had actually taught Occlumency to me, Snuffles wouldn't be dead. Don't bother glaring at me, Hermione, you know how that makes me feel better.

Harry

Harry studied the letter. He knew it seemed somewhat stilted, and he hadn't got over Sirius's death, but it was best to sound a little cheerful to put his friends' fears at rest.

He turned in his chair and looked across the room. It would have seemed odd, until you realized that he was looking in the mirror.

Contrary to the tone of his letter, he wasn't feeling cheerful at all. His face looked back at him from the reflective, smooth surface of the mirror. There was a hint of lassitude about it--not very perceptible, but it was there. He had not bothered to comb his black hair, and it stuck up in all directions, like several cowlicks in succession, one after another. His glasses hid the circles under his emerald green eyes. The angles of his face were unnaturally sharp, giving him the appearance of being on guard and alert (though, paradoxically, there hung an air of weariness over him). As he reached up his hand to brush away stray locks, his fingers felt his famous lightning-bolt scar on his forehead. Over the years, it had become the bane of his existence. Well, not exactly--but second to Voldemort.

Harry's hands clenched into fists as his thoughts turned darker and darker. He remembered hearing a quote that said, "Delay always breeds danger." Well, the Ministry of Magic and Cornelius Fudge had delayed, and now look what had happened. Voldemort returned to power, several Death Eaters gone from Azkaban... Could it get worse? Yes, he knew, it could. And that did not make him happy at all.

~

Certainly, Nymphadora Tonks wasn't happy that night, as she slammed the door of her flat shut, and threw her satchel full of surveillance assignments to the floor. "Bloody Williamson," she muttered, as she went into the kitchen and poured a cup of Darjeeling tea, adding, distractedly, three lumps of sugar, one more than her usual amount. "Who cares about doing surveillance? The junior Death Eater squad's sitting pretty right in front of them." By which she was referring to her erstwhile cousin Draco Malfoy... and others (that is, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, Parkinson, etc.).

The clock chimed. Its hands pointed to nine o'clock.

"Tonks!" Kingsley Shacklebolt suddenly came rolling out of the fireplace, a veritable ash-ball--Tonks yelped in surprise, knocking over her teacup. As he brushed off ashes, Tonks rose to help him, and promptly tripped over a chair. She cursed, quite splendidly. A long line of expletives flowed from her mouth.

"Wonderfully graceful as always, Nymphadora," said Shacklebolt sardonically. "Someone's in a bad mood. You know, you're going to be late to the Order meeting if you don't hurry. I've come to drag you there."

Tonks huffed. "Order meeting! I've already had a horrible day, Kingsley! Why haul me off? I want to go to sleep, and forget about Williamson trying to chat me up. I'm scarred for life--he's conceited and thinks the world revolves around him. Oh, and he's horrible!"

"We need to compare assignments." Shacklebolt was dry.

"During another shouting session at the wonderful Black house?" Tonks was equally dry, with a healthy dose of sarcasm. "And, unlike what you may think, I do not go to Order meetings simply for the sake of looking upon Snape's greasy hair."

"What about Bill Weasley's mop of red?" said Shacklebolt lasciviously. "Oh, you're turning pink, Tonks, not just your hair, but your face. Are you thinking about anything to do?" A pause. "In particular," his eyes moved up and down her body, "something causing great amounts of passion, maybe?"

Shacklebolt's delicacy in terms only served to increase Tonks's annoyance. Tonks knew very well what Shacklebolt was insinuating. She swiped at Shacklebolt, and missed. "Shut your trap, baldy," she said scathingly. "I've seen you eyeing Hestia Jones more than once. Well, more like her chest."

Shacklebolt didn't deny it, Tonks noted.

"Ah, yes, the romantic lives of Aurors!" said an amused Shacklebolt. "I suppose Amelia Bones is carrying on with Dawlish, isn't she?"

Tonks gagged. "I... didn't need that image, Kingsley. Bones with--with that stupid lout!"

"Just joking, Tonks," Shacklebolt said, smiling. "But get your assignments--we have to leave." The jar of Floo powder appeared in his hand, Summoned from the brick fireplace. If she had done it, Tonks reflected glumly, it probably would have crashed into something along the way.

She leaned down to grab her satchel. "All set to go," she called to Shacklebolt.

He threw the powder into the fireplace. As the flames flared green, he walked in, with a muffled shout to Order headquarters. Tonks followed, and did likewise.

"12 Grimmauld Place!" What a horrid place it is. "Toujours Pur," indeed. More like "Toujours Dégoûtant." Tonks did not much like the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, and she never bothered to disguise her antipathy for it. After all, she was disowned, and her mother's name had been obliterated from the Black

family tapestry long ago... as was Sirius's, Uncle Alphard's, and numerous others who had supposedly disgraced the famously Dark family.

Thank God Kreacher was finally gone. She tended not to dwell upon the circumstances in which he had gone--to death.

As she emerged--stumbled, to use the proper word--into the dank house at 12 Grimmauld Place, Tonks couldn't help but wrinkle her nose. There was a strange acrid smell in the air, and as she moved into the kitchen, she was met with the sight of a burnt-looking pudding, something rare in the cooking domain of Mrs Molly Weasley.

"Wotcher, Mrs Weasley. What happened with the pudding?" Tonks asked, pointing to the unfortunate pudding--Yorkshire stuff, she decided. That was real food.

Molly Weasley was sitting down in a chair at the long table, with most of the Order members already there, as they chatted amiably with each other and exchanged information. She smiled weakly at Tonks. "Just a bit of a incident--I let Ginny cook, and she accidentally set the pudding on fire. She nearly burned down the house."

"Just like a Gryffindor is apt to do," said Snape, who sat across the table. His fathomless dark eyes showed nothing but a flicker of disdain.

Tonks had seen that disdainful look plenty of times during her time at Hogwarts, especially after her caldron explosions, which, unfortunately enough, involved some form of tripping, stumbling, or other physical falls. She had served plenty of detentions for that.

Mrs Weasley frowned, but wisely did not say anything. Instead, she settled for a pointed glare, clearly showing just what she thought of Snape and his teaching methods (which mostly consisted of glaring, snapping, and insulting, none of which endeared him to anyone at all).

Snape ignored the glare, and, thus, the implied displeasure of Mrs Weasley. "Please, do sit down, Tonks," he said, his eyes narrowing with... what? Tonks wondered. Contempt, undoubtedly. Snape really didn't think highly of the students of the House of red and gold and daring and nerve and chivalry, of which Tonks was one. "Otherwise there might be another... incident... and we wouldn't want that happening, would we?"

Nearby, the elderly Emmeline Vance whispered to Tonks, "Now I know why Neville Longbottom melts all those caldrons." Her eyes danced with amusement. "You wouldn't believe how many times his grandmother's complained to me about his Potions grade. I don't blame him, though."

Tonks snorted with suppressed laughter. "Oh, how we're shaking in our boots!" she replied.

The older woman answered with a knowing wink as she returned to chastising Dedalus Diggle over some event involving Ogden's Firewhisky. Tonks decided not to pry about the subject of the conversation, although her interest was piqued.

"Longbottom," intruded Snape, "melts his caldrons because he is incompetent."

Tonks started. She hadn't thought that Snape would be able to hear what they said.

"Or maybe because you look like the devil to him, except without the horns and pitchfork," she sniped back. "Or the hellfire around you."

Snape raised an eyebrow dismissively. "I am only preparing them for life."

Tonks was about to retort that life didn't necessarily consist of greasy-haired Potions Masters insulting students, but at that moment Dumbledore stood up and asked for quiet. What a pity, too. It would have been a wonderful comeback. (And Mrs Weasley--oh, she had looked like she was about to give Snape an earful. Tonks would've liked to see that.)

"The Order has convened," said Dumbledore briskly. "Now, I won't have any useless introductions to the meeting, so we'll go straight to assignments. Amelia?"

The stately woman rose from her seat. "Not much, at all. Minister Fudge hasn't done much other than increase security. I still think he's in a state of shock over You-Know--Voldemort's return, especially since he denied it all last year. He doesn't want to believe it."

"If it's bad enough," cut in Elphias Doge, "he'll have to believe it."

"True." Amelia Bones acknowledged the wheezing wizard's contribution. "The other heads of the departments are somewhat angry with Fudge over this, but they are content to stay with him for now. Oh, don't look at me like that," she said to the others. "Who knows what goes on in their heads? Leaving Fudge in charge? He'd make a good department head, but he was never cut out for Minister."

A series of angry murmurs made themselves known to Order headquarters at 12 Grimmauld Place. She continued, undaunted, "However, I've been prodding him lately, and I think I've at least made him do something. I believe the Aurors have new assignments?"

Shacklebolt and Tonks stood in unison. Shacklebolt began, "They're not really useful. Just surveillance and others. According to mine, I will be helping to ward Azkaban. The number of guards there has rocketed sky-high since June."

Tonks said, "I just have surveillance on the Malfoy manor in Wiltshire. Not like that's anything. Malfoy's smart enough to know not to go there. And I don't need to be my cousin's child-minder." She said it scornfully. "The Aurors might as well go to Hogwarts and arrest all the students and use Veritaserum on them. Now that might be more effective. Although," she inclined her head mockingly toward Snape, "you may lose most of your students, Professor. Perhaps ten at the most will remain out of the entire lot."

"As wonderful as your scheme is," retorted Snape, "it is not allowed by Ministry rules."

Tonks noted, with pleasure, that Snape had not been able to say anything more cutting. Only something about the legality? You're slipping, Snape, you're slipping. She felt very smug.

Dumbledore turned to Remus Lupin. "Remus?"

The werewolf plunged straight into his report on recent Death Eater activities... which didn't last very long. He concluded, "Of course, as you all know, there have been no attacks lately." A murmur of assent ran around the table. "Nevertheless, according to my colleague," a nod at Snape (who didn't look very happy at being named Remus's colleague--in fact, he outright scowled), "Voldemort," some people flinched, "is planning a huge one in the next month or so." Remus looked at Snape, eyebrows raised, which was his cue.

Snape didn't mince words. "Voldemort hasn't informed anyone of anything, except perhaps Bellatrix Lestrange, who is so insane that she won't give him away"--Tonks thought, Amazing. He's even contemptuous of his fellow Slytherins. Is there anyone that he actually respects? Hmm, well, besides Dumbledore, that is--"But lately, he's had some maps of Wiltshire brought to him, which is unusual.

"I highly doubt the attack will be on Azkaban--most of his Death Eaters have escaped from there anyway, and the Dementors will join him soon--that is inevitable. I don't believe it is the Ministry either; most of the Death Eaters caught at the Department of Mysteries are still being held, but most of them are the rank-and-file--they're only notorious for crimes, but nothing important, like Dolohov and Lestrange--and the only one worth something is Lucius Malfoy, and he managed to get away. I can't believe the Aurors weren't even able to keep hold of him." This was directed at Tonks.

"For your information," Tonks sneered back--why was she so ill-tempered today?--"Dawlish and Williamson were the ones on the job--and they're idiots. We aren't." Curse both of them, Tonks thought inwardly--Malfoy, Nott, Lestrange, and Crabbe managed to escape while they were playing cards. I'd hex all of them.

"I certainly hope not," Snape said. "That would bode ill for the Ministry." He paused, shook his head and continued, "He's also had a renewed interest in ancient magic. He mentioned something about ley lines, but other that..." Snape trailed off. "Nothing else."

Yes, thought Tonks, nothing. Voldemort had been very quiet that summer, and it made Tonks feel uneasy. Not to mention the fact that the wards around her parents' house still hadn't been finished. She didn't need crazy Aunt Bellatrix turning up on the doorstep. After all, her mother was a Healer, her father a stay-at-home dad who played the stock market and was a financial consultant. Compare that to Aunt Bellatrix, who was a rabidly insane Death Eater. And her Malfoy cousin, who was practically one anyway... And the rest of the Black family, who deserved to be thrown into the loony bin. Aunt Narcissa counted too--Mum had told her enough stories about her pretty blonde dreamer of a sister who was happy as long as she had fancy clothes and plenty of money--although, like all Blacks, she did have a streak of coolness and sadism running through her. A spark of family loyalty, too. Perhaps not the loony bin for her. She should be put to menial work, instead. Yes, that would suit her. Tonks smiled idly at her daydream of Narcissa Malfoy dressed in dirty clothes, kerchief tied around her hair, and scrubbing the floor of a house, with an unhappy expression pasted on her face.

It turned out to be a very short meeting. Dumbledore looked preoccupied and wasn't really paying attention to the proceedings; plainly, his thoughts were elsewhere. Since nothing had really happened, there wasn't much to report. As the Order members dispersed, waving their goodbyes, Tonks, Remus, Mrs Weasley, and Shacklebolt retreated to the parlour. With approval, she noted that the room looked a sight less gloomy. Evidently, Mrs Weasley's avid cleaning had finally doomed the fungus and darkness to oblivion.

The parlour was lit with bright lamps that illuminated every corner, and Tonks's mood lifted considerably. She looked in the now shining mirror, and let her facial muscles relax. Her lurid pink hair darkened to a jet black, and her face thinned and shortened. Her eyes grew bigger, and changed from round to almond-shaped, brown to grey. Mrs Weasley, who had been watching the process, said, "You know, that's so interesting to watch. Add some freckles, and see what happens."

Tonks obliged, and an amused, pretty, impish face looked back at her from the silvery depths of the mirror. It was the legacy of the Black women: their beauty and looks. Black hair, grey eyes, a heart-shaped face, and a voluptuous figure. Tonks didn't do it often, as she tended to play down the fact that she was a Black in the first place.

"You look very attractive, Tonks," said Mrs Weasley approvingly. "Like a proper young lady."

"Thanks," said Tonks, blushing. "It's my real face." She paused, before morphing back into her former pink-haired, wild-looking self.

"Yeah," said Shacklebolt, grinning. "At these times, I think of changing my mind and going after you instead of Hestia Jones. Wouldn't you, Remus?"

"What?" Remus had been engrossed in a book, and hadn't been paying attention. Now, without looking up, he said, "Uh huh. She looks stunning, I'm sure."

Shacklebolt snickered. He asked Remus what he was reading.

"P.G. Wodehouse," replied Remus. He looked up at Shacklebolt, and Tonks caught the remnants of a lingering smile on his face. "He's a humorist. Very funny. Makes me laugh..." His voice was light and somewhat happy, in a way. "You should read it some time, Kingsley."

"Oh, I will," said Shacklebolt. "I like humour."

The front door slammed, and the portrait of Mrs Black in the hall began to wail once again. The recipients of her screaming groaned.

"Stupid old woman--I'll shut her up," said Tonks. She rushed out of the parlour recklessly, and tripped on the carpet, falling ignominiously to the floor.

A hand reached down to her. "You all right, Tonks?"

Tonks felt the blood rushing to her head as she recognised Bill Weasley's voice. She looked up at the redhead, who looked somewhat dusty and tired, but he managed a small smile... which made Tonks's heart beat faster. "Yes, I'm all right." Why did she have to make a fool out of herself when he was around?

Often at times, Tonks would mourn the fact that she still had silly schoolgirl crushes. But it couldn't be helped. Bill Weasley was charming, she argued when trying to justify her choice, and he had a really nice earring. Dragon tooth, to boot.

But schoolgirl crushes were usually all-consuming, and this was no different. She did not need this--it distracted her from her work. Of which she had plenty. (And it did not help at all that Bill was already engaged.)

"You look... different." Bill looked at her, absent-mindedly. "You look sort of annoyed, I suppose with the world..."--What does he mean by that? Annoyed with the world?-- "By the way, do you know where mum is?"

"In the parlour," said Tonks, still blushing furiously. Thankfully, in the darkened hall (there was only one dim lamp), Bill didn't notice. He thanked her and walked into the parlour, leaving a trail of grains of sand after him, and her at the coat stand. She turned and, trying not to think of Bill Weasley, ran to Mrs Black's portrait. The old hag was still screaming, "FILTH! HOW DARE YOU TAINT THE HOUSE OF BLACK! BLOOD TRAITORS, HALF-BREEDS, UNWORTHY TO SET FOOT HERE!"

"Shut your bloody mouth," snarled Tonks at the portrait. "We've heard that a thousand times from you. You could at least have more creativity in your pea of a brain." She tugged at the curtains. God, how she wanted to throw the portrait in the dustbin! And watch the Muggles take her away!

But Mrs Black wasn't daunted. She continued, "BESMIRCHING THE NAME OF BLACK! HE DESERVED IT...!"

Tonks froze in anger. Did she mean...

"FILTHY BLOOD TRAITOR! HE GOT WHAT HE NEEDED; HE WAS NO SON OF MINE! I'M GLAD HE'S DEAD!"

Tonks knew exactly who "he" was.

How dare she...

In a fit of spite, Tonks pulled out her wand, and said, furiously, "Incendio!"

It was a lost cause. The fire-spell cancelled out upon hitting the picture; Mrs Black had insured that the portrait couldn't be damaged so easily by magic.

Tonks heard steps from the parlour. Remus's hard voice: "What did she say?" Deadly cold.

Tonks didn't answer. Instead, she transformed the coat stand into a dagger and pointed it at Mrs Black. "Be quiet!" she screamed. "You see what I have here?" She was breathing very hard. "If you keep acting like a banshee, I will personally slit your portrait from top to bottom, and we'll see how loud you can scream, you old hag! We can get rid of you!" She stepped back. She felt like she was detached from what was happening, watching as an onlooker instead of a participant--no, it wasn't as simple as that. She was her own spirit, hovering in detached interest and listening, watching her face twist with anger.

"DON'T TRY TO THREATEN ME!" screeched Mrs Black. "WHY SHOULD I LISTEN TO A MUDBLOOD LIKE YOU--"

Tonks hurled the dagger at the canvas. It pierced the picture, quivering in the material, only inches from Mrs Black's head; the old woman stopped in mid-scream, her sick yellow eyes wide in terror. "That," said Tonks evenly, "is why you should listen to the mudblood--like me." Now, if she could be quiet and look like that all the time...

What happened to me? Tonks realised, suddenly, that she had acted most unlike herself. It wasn't everyday that an Auror threatened to destroy a painting, albeit a maddeningly insulting one.

She reached up and took out the dagger. Tonks felt shaken after her own fit of anger. I didn't think I was capable... of something like that. She transformed the dagger back into the unfortunate coat stand and Banished it to its former place. She felt tired, and worn-out. It had been a long day, and now all her anger, resentment, temper came boiling into her mind, a long-delayed paroxysm of... something. At the world? Or something else? Perhaps she hadn't slept enough the night before. No... it was something more than a simple lack of sleep.

The world felt wrong. Undeniably wrong. It wasn't because of Voldemort. It was the wizarding world itself. Voldemort had only been the result of the something that pervaded the magical world and had caused two great and powerful Dark wizards since Seclusion. In History of Magic, she had learned at least one thing: that there had been none like the Dark Lord in the late 1800s, or Voldemort, throughout the time that wizards had coexisted with Muggles. Only after Seclusion. And that was why she thought that something was amiss. Magical prejudices? Social status? Or... maybe... the very foundation of the wizarding world itself...? But then again, that gave rise to the fundamental question--what was the foundation of the wizarding world?

Amazing, Tonks, you're turning philosophical. Leave that to the thinkers--your job is to fight. Only... I think I have a headache...

Yes, something was wrong with the world.

"Tonks, do you feel okay?" Remus came up behind her.

Tonks wanted to say, "Yes, I'm fine," but she knew she wasn't. Instead, she wearily sat down and pressed her head to the wall, closing her eyes and willing her headache to go away. It did recede, slowly.

Remus's voice floated over her shoulder. "I wish you had torn the picture to shreds," he said softly. "What a vile woman..."

"Vile, yes," Tonks said bitterly. "Except I'd rather shoot her full of bullets. I should go out and buy a machine gun. And that would still be lenient, for her."

Remus sat down next to her. His hand closed upon hers in a reassuring way, firm and supportive. "I'd do the same," he said, his voice low. "I still miss him, even after a month. He was my last schoolboy friend..."

"He was my friend, too," said Tonks. "I... remember, one time, before... everything happened..."

Remus looked at her. His dark eyes seemed to know what she was saying--what she meant.

"... I was young, and you, and Sirius, and..." she choked, "Peter--the three of you came visiting. And we played dolls. Sirius charmed them to act like soldiers."

She looked up. Remus was smiling, vaguely, as though a long-forgotten memory had risen to the surface of his mind. "There was a doll named Effie Sunshine. I charmed her face. And Peter made them fly around," he said, a sad smile on his face. "We tucked you in bed, didn't we?"

"You remember, too? That was a fun day, for me... Sirius was always a lot of fun." Tonks looked at Remus. Her mouth slowly quirked up into a small smile. "You know what, Remus? If you were a Muggle, you should've been a therapist. You always make people feel better."

"Well," amended Remus, "except for Snape. No one can make him feel good about his hair."

Tonks sniggered. Remus, pleased at making her laugh, pulled her to her feet. "Come on," he said, sounding distinctly more cheerful. "I'll read you some P.G. Wodehouse. I think you'll like it."

He led her back to the parlour, now devoid of Shacklebolt, Mrs Weasley, and Bill--they had left, presumably for their respective abodes, and in Shacklebolt's case, Auror assignment. They sat down across from one other, in large comfy armchairs, and Remus opened a book which had been thrown onto the ground in evident haste. "Mrs Black," he said in answer to Tonks's questioning look. "I heard, and..." he shrugged. He looked at the pages of the book, and read.

His soothing voice floated over Tonks's head. She snuggled deep into the armchair, closed her eyes, and went to sleep.

~

17 July 1996

"Aunt Petunia, I'm going out!"

Aunt Petunia's shrill, irritable voice replied, "All right, then, go! What are you waiting for?"

"Your permission, maybe," muttered Harry to himself. He shoved his hands into his jeans pockets as he walked down the street. It was a mild day, with the sun shining, just brightly enough to be warm and not be hot. That was one thing he loved about his home country--the climate. Quite often, as the BBC whisked viewers around the world to see daily events, he had heard reporters comment enough about America to know that sometimes it was freezing cold, complete with ice storms, hail, and everything in between, and scorching, hot days. How did they live with such inconsistent weather?

When he had decided to leave the house for a walk, he wasn't entirely sure of what he was going to do in the first place. He had had a vague idea of visiting Mrs Figg, but ruled against it--he didn't want to see her cats, as it made him think of dogs--big, black ones.

The big black dog leaped at them from nowhere, and landed on Ron. There was a horrible snap, and Ron was dragged into the Whomping Willow, one leg twisted and broken...

He cut across the grass and came to another street, Appleby Place. It was nearly an exact replica of Privet Drive: ordinary, neat, and so clean that the white walls glared, while grasses and flowers stood stiffly in their places, and weeds were nonexistent. Harry slowly sat down on the grass and leaned his head against a large, gnarled oak. Staring up into the sky through thick branches, he could see placid, white clouds floating blissfully across a full blue sky. He thought bitterly, Merlin, how could the sky be so cheerful? At a time when the most evil thing since the Daily Star had arrived? (gossipy entertainment papers were grating on his ears, as it eerily reminded of Rita Skeeter's lurid, shocking, scandalous stories)

--sitting in front of the fire. "No," a dangerous voice said, slowly and deadly. "I will not allow it."

Where am I? Harry flailed about for a moment before he realised that the psychic connection between him and Voldemort must have flared up again. All right, calm down. Breathe in. Breathe out. Focus on listening, and don't let Voldemort know.

"My Lord," said Lucius Malfoy, silky voice and all. "Will you let me be so presumptuous as to ask why?"

Voldemort turned his head to look at Lucius. "The Ministry now knows of me. Before then, their security would have been fit for a Mudblood, but now they will enforce security. And I do not care for the Ministry."

Neither do I, thought Harry bitterly.

"And the prophecy is destroyed," continued Voldemort.

"My Lord," a woman's voice broke in. It was Bellatrix Lestrange; Harry felt a rush of anger. Oh, Sirius...

"My Lord," said Bellatrix, "the Potter brat--he couldn't have destroyed it. He--"

"Are you questioning me, Bellatrix?" said Voldemort, his abnormally red eyes fixed on Bellatrix Lestrange, whose once-beautiful, heavy-lidded eyes held a tint of fright. "I do not recall giving you the leeway to do so."

"Yes, my Lord. Forgive me for my transgressions, my Lord." Bellatrix stepped back and knelt down.

A flick of the wand, and she lay on the floor, twitching. "Be thankful, my dear Bellatrix," said Voldemort coldly, "that this Cruciatus is mild. Next time, I will not be so lenient."

Bellatrix had stopped trembling. She nodded once, and stepped back into the half-circle of Death Eaters around Voldemort.

"Not the Ministry," the man known as You-Know-Who said. "And Azkaban is finished. The Dementors will join us soon. They will be a great help in decapitating Aurors. And, I know, Hogwarts's defences are many. It will take some time to dismantle all the wards. But we must show the unworthy ones that we will not lie dormant while they ruin our world."

A sudden murmur of assent ran around the half-circle, and Harry felt Voldemort's pleased--and amused?--feeling. "Gather information," he ordered his subordinates. "Keep your eyes and ears open for anything. Lucius, ask your son Draco to see if any Hogwarts students can possibly be recruited. Dolohov, start working on the Hogwarts wards." The Death Eaters murmured and hastily assured their Dark Lord that his word was their command.

Voldemort smiled. "Good. Now come, I will give you something to do." He spoke as though it were merely fun, which, for him, it probably was. "Since the unworthy scream that they see us, we will make sure that they do see us. Put on your cloaks and masks, walk around a few houses. Do not attack or kill, but let them see you. It will demoralize the wizarding world, strike fear into their hearts. We will start attacking after November, so we can gather all our resources. The Dementors are with us, as are most of the giants. We will begin, soon."

Despite his growing dismay, Harry could not help but be amused at Voldemort's sense of humour (was it meant to be humorous?). To walk around in Death Eater attire and try to scare people to death--

Harry heard rather than saw a movement behind him. Whipping around, he nearly saw a cloaked Death Eater before him... until his imaginations vanished and he was left looking at a small common adder.

The snake was pale grey, with a contrasting black pattern of dorsal zigzag stripes. It looked vaguely curious at having Harry intrude upon its shady area of grass.

Harry could not for the life of him think what the adder was doing so far from its natural habitat. From the fading memories of state school, he remembered that adders usually lived in the woods, meadows, hedgerows, and other places, not in a Surrey neighbourhood.

He moved slowly, so as to not disturb the adder, which was poisonous (though not inclined to bite people, and the poison wasn't that fatal anyway), leaned toward the snake, and spoke in Parseltongue, "Hello."

The adder's head shot up, and it looked at Harry for several moments, as though it could not determine whether or not Harry had actually spoken. If it were human, no doubt both eyebrows would have shot up the forehead. Then, a wary, "So, you speak my language."

"Yes," Harry said, not knowing exactly how to respond.

Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon, Harry reflected, would be, of course, screaming their heads off right now if they knew he could talk to snakes (in fact, they probably would have already started doing so).

The adder watched Harry with dark, reptilian eyes. "I have not met one of your kind who can speak the language of the snakes until now. Tell me, how have you learned? There are few who respect us, and fewer who understand us."

"I was born with the ability to speak your language," said Harry. "My name is Harry. Yours?"

The snake looked vaguely offended. "Perhaps you can speak our language, but you certainly do not have good manners? The proper way to ask is to say, 'May I inquire of your name? But no matter," the snake continued, when Harry tried to apologize, "you would not know. My name is Tyrthian, son of Nidh and Drasil."

"Greetings, Tyrthian," Harry said politely. "Are you far from home?"

Tyrthian hissed, "Many a day have I been away from my home of the woods. A man came and took me to a cage. I escaped, but I do not know where I am now. This is not the place for me, I know. No good food, no good place to sleep..." He sounded as though he were complaining. Eerily enough, he sounded somewhat like a snobbish, although much nicer and unbiased, pureblood. "This is not a pleasant place. I would give everything to be back among the ground plants, hunting for food. Here, I have not tasted mice in a long time. I have been forced to eat crickets--what horror! Crickets are not very tasty--have you tried them?"

A startled Harry said, "No." After all, could he say "yes"? Crickets weren't exactly a staple of his diet. But Tyrthian had mentioned a cage... a pet shop, maybe? Unlikely. Most people didn't want adders for pets. So--

"Humph. They are stringy, and quite nearly inedible. Now mice, on the other hand, are very juicy."

"You like mice?"

"Oh, yes, very much."

Harry looked at the snake, who looked back. On an impulse (perhaps loneliness?), he said hesitantly, "I have a pet owl who hunts for mice now and then. I wonder... there may be some spare mice left over from her trips outside. If there are, I can give them to you, maybe tomorrow."

Tyrthian's head bobbed up and down. "I give thanks to you from the depths of my heart."

Harry suppressed a snort. Tyrthian sounded like a dignified, slightly stuck-up gentleman. "Or," he suggested, "you could come with me and stay in my room for a while, until I go back to school, so you would have something to eat, while I would have someone to talk to."

If it were possible for Tyrthian to do so, he would have frowned. "Inside? I do not like to be kept inside."

"I'll take you outside part of the day," Harry said. "I spend most of my time outside anyway, so that's no great loss."

Tyrthian paused. "And where shall I stay?"

Harry grinned. Tyrthian was a very practical snake, if a bit pompous. "I suppose in my room during the night. Unless you like to stay outside?"

"It will depend upon the circumstances surrounding your room."

Harry could not help but smile at the snake. "You know, you're fun to talk to."

Tyrthian inclined his head to Harry. "I accept the compliment."

"That's exactly what I mean," explained Harry. "Most people would simply say, 'Thanks,' but you say something more distinguished."

"That is the way of we snakes," said Tyrthian. "We know to be courteous."

"That's funny," said Harry. "I met one snake when I was eleven, and when I did a favour for it, it said, 'Thanks, amigo.'"

Tyrthian looked surprised. "And what snake was this?"

Harry said, "A boa constrictor."

"Oh, those South American snakes," said Tyrthian dismissively. "So uncouth. But," he added warmly, "they are very friendly and will support you in times of need, which more than makes up for their lack of courtesy."

"Er..."

"No matter," Tyrthian said. "Tell me, have you met and talked--actually talked--to other snakes?"

"Yes," said Harry. "A basilisk, once."

Tyrthian straightened out of his coiled position in shock. "A basilisk! A basilisk? You have met one?" he demanded.

Harry nodded.

"And you survived," Tyrthian said in amazement. "Do you know how legendary the basilisk is? Do you know what we call them? We call them 'those who kill with stony eyes.' And you escaped alive."

"I killed it too," said Harry.

"You killed it?" said Tyrthian incredulously. "How did you get into that predicament at all?"

Harry paused. "Well, I suppose I'd better start at the beginning," he said.

He told Tyrthian about the fateful All Hallows' Eve in 1981, that sent his parents to death, changed Voldemort into a spirit, banished his godfather to twelve years in the wizarding prison Azkaban, and catapulted Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, into the ranks of fame.

He talked about how the Dursleys disliked him, and the snake in the zoo. "That was the boa constrictor," he said, smiling faintly at the memory of a horrified Dudley, yelling about the vanishing glass.

"And then Hagrid came," he said to Tyrthian. "It was wonderful for me; the Dursleys didn't like me, and suddenly I'm in a world where I'm a hero. Except... sometimes it didn't turn out so well."

Then came the Philosopher's Stone, Salazar Slytherin's Chamber of Secrets, his godfather Sirius Black, the Triwizard Tournament...

"Last year was horrible. Even though Voldemort had come back, no-one would believe me. The new Defence Against the Dark Arts professor was this Ministry goon named Umbridge. She ran Dumbledore out of Hogwarts.

"And I had visions too. I kept dreaming about this dark door at the end of a long hall. I didn't know what it meant, but Dumbledore wanted me to learn Occlumency, to block my mind, but he had Snape to teach me, and I didn't do well.

"At the very end of the school year--I had a vision that Sirius was being held by Voldemort at the Department of Mysteries. I went there with my friends, but it was a fake. Sirius wasn't there, but Voldemort was. He'd been sending me the visions through the connection the entire time. We fought, and..." Harry hadn't mentioned the Order of the Phoenix; Mad-Eye Moody would have snapped at him about secrecy: "CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" "Sirius and some people that believed me came. They were fighting, and Sirius was killed. Bellatrix Lestrange cursed him, and he fell through the Veil of Death."

Tyrthian threw him a sympathetic look, but said nothing. He seemed to know that Harry just needed someone who would listen to him.

"Now the public adores me once again, after ridiculing me the year before. I'm like their scapegoat. To them, I'm not like a person--it's like I'm an ideal, a cardboard cut-out that they can throw eggs at. They've turned into a symbol, just as they imagined Voldemort to be invincible. It's all in their minds. They've practically betrayed my trust in them--but they still expect me to fight for them. And the newspapers are praising me for speaking the truth, and blasting the Ministry for not noticing earlier. They've completely turned around, so much that it's laughable. Last year, they were printing articles about how deranged and insane I was. How I hate those sensationalist rumour-mongering reporters..."

Tyrthian nodded. "Fight those dirty sons of bitches, Harry!"

Harry excused Tyrthian's profanity, as it so closely, if crudely, approximated his own feelings about the British wizarding media. Though it rather destroyed Tyrthian's gentlemanly persona.

He spent most of the afternoon talking to Tyrthian, his story pouring out to the adder (after all, the only other known Parselmouth was Voldemort, and he wasn't about to show Tyrthian to the Dark Lord any day to reveal Harry's secrets) and spent some time trying to see how he could smuggle Tyrthian into the house. If Aunt Petunia saw Tyrthian, she'd probably faint from fright. After much discussion, they finally decided to have Tyrthian wrap himself around Harry's ankle and lower leg, under his trousers, so the snake could not be seen.

Finally, Harry started back toward 4 Privet Drive. The time was five o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun's brightness had lessened. A cool breeze touched Harry's cheek as he strode up the steps, let himself in through the back door, and crept upstairs to his room while his relatives were congregated in the living room watching television, minus Aunt Petunia, who was cooking dinner.

As he opened the door, Tyrthian slithered off of him (Harry gave a small sigh of relief; the snake's tight grip had been cutting off the circulation around his ankle) and arranged himself neatly in a corner. He looked expectantly at Harry. Oh yes, thought Harry, the mice.

Hedwig, in her cage, hooted twice, in a quizzical manner, as if to say, who's this new intruder?

"He's a snake named Tyrthian," said Harry to Hedwig. "I was wondering if you could share some mice with him. He's very hungry, and I know you're a very generous owl."

The compliments did it. Hedwig preened her feathers, and held out a dead mouse to Harry. He took it to Tyrthian and averted his eyes from the messy task of eating the small rodent. Sitting down at his desk, Harry noticed that he had already received a reply from the letter to Ron and Hermione that he had sent off yesterday. He unfolded the letter. At the top, in Ron's scrawl, it said:

Harry,

You've got 9 OWLs? I got seven, just two less! I'm dropping Divination too. McGonagall will let us, she doesn't like Trelawney as it is, the old batty thing.

Ron! Hermione's neat cursive inserted itself into the letter. With a much more composed air, Hermione's writing went on:

I would've had 11 OWLs, but I got an "E" in Defence Against the Dark Arts--I wonder how that happened?--so I only have 10 OWLs.

Ron: Only 10 OWLs, shrieks our lovely Hermione. Only 10 OWLs! Oh, yes, never mind the fact that your best friends both got less OWLs than you. What a horrible, despicable tragedy, my dear Hermione.

Hermione: Oh, do shut up, Ron!

Well, in any case, since Voldemort's return has been announced, the Order's had a lot of new recruits lately. There's Timothy Lahearn from the Department of Magical Transportation (he's going to be so much help--Tim, we need some Floo powder!), Diana Roverham (Department of Magical Education), Rosamund Darnley (a Daily Prophet reporter), and so on. Except I don't think Dumbledore's telling them everything. He's just saying to them, oh, the Order's an organization against Voldemort, and he just tells them to do what benefits the Order. But he hasn't said anything about Sirius's innocence, or what really happened in the Department of Mysteries.

Ron: I don't know if you've heard, but there are some reports in the newspapers that some in the Ministry are asking for Fudge's resignation. Not the heads, but the rank-and-file. Well, if it's true, we really need to get rid of him. You could help, Harry--denounce him as a clueless little man who doesn't know what's happened. I suppose that if he resigned, Amelia Bones would take over, she's very prominent at the Ministry. And have you read the papers? They're all showing you as a lone voice against a disbelieving public. Evidently they've forgotten that they were the ones who called you a glory-seeking teenager. Their turnaround's so disgusting, I could vomit.

Hermione: No slugs, please. It was a humorous reference to Ron's slug-vomiting incident in second year. Harry smiled.

Then, at the end, a signature by both of them: Ron and Hermione (see you soon!)

Harry laid down the letter with a small smile. It reminded him of the old times, his first few years at Hogwarts, when Voldemort was just some vague threat, and the Boy-Who-Lived could just have a good time.

He lay down his head; closed his eyes. He thought of his childhood, of Aunt Petunia, and Dudley...

... Aunt Petunia picked up a can of beef soup from the store shelves and sniffed contemptuously at it. "These silly preservatives," she clucked disapprovingly. "Only the best for my good little boy."

A few minutes earlier, her supposedly good little boy had thrown a temper tantrum because he wanted to buy frosted cookies with chocolate drizzled over them.

Dudley was now running up and down the aisles. He skidded to a halt in front of Aunt Petunia. Even at the young age of four, he had already begun to take on an overweight look--he was chubby, and his baby fat was slowly accumulating around his neck, just like Uncle Vernon.

Harry was still thin, and pale. Last night, Dudley had chased him around the house, trying to hit him. He kept his distance from his spoiled cousin.

But not far enough. Harry's movement caught Dudley's eye, and the blond toddler turned and whined, "Mummy, Harry's not staying close."

Harry's aunt turned, and in one rough movement, she grabbed Harry's arm and pulled him back so quickly that Harry felt his shoulder being stretched out. "You little brat!" she hissed at Harry, who shrank back, "you don't run off! So ungrateful and unnatural, just like your mother!"

"Sorry, Aunt Petunia," said Harry with contrition. "I didn't mean to."

"You didn't mean to!" said Aunt Petunia mockingly. Harry felt his eyes begin to water as she turned back to the canned goods. Dudley smirked at Harry, and kicked Harry in the shin.

"Aunt Petunia!" wailed Harry. "Dudley kicked me!"

Aunt Petunia once again wheeled around. "You, shut up!" she said harshly, and then spoke in a soft, indulgent voice to Dudley, "Poor little Dudleykins, Harry wants to get you in trouble," before turning upon Harry her full blown wrath, "And you! Trying to make trouble for my son! If your father and mother hadn't died in the accident, I wouldn't be stuck with you!" She managed to put in the word "you" all the disdain she could possibly muster. "I don't want to hear another peep out of you!" She slapped Harry's face lightly.

Harry staggered back, his tears spilling down his small cheeks. "But Aunt Petunia--" he began.

Aunt Petunia glared at Harry.

Harry shut his mouth, before, in a sudden spirit of rebellion, he ran off from Dudley and Aunt Petunia.

"Hey!" called Dudley, and in a flash, the bulky toddler was after Harry, his meaty--though little--fists held high. Harry hated Dudley's hitting and kicking; he seemed to try to make life miserable for Harry, and he had punched Harry in the stomach yesterday.

The dark-haired, green-eyed child darted out of the grocery aisles, and dove into the small books section in the corner of the store. Dudley ran past Harry's hiding place--Harry gave a small sigh of relief. Stifled abruptly, as Aunt Petunia rushed after Dudley, saying anxiously, "Dudley, where are you going? Stop running!"

Harry went deeper into the books section. The literature gave off a brand-new, sharp, bright look. As he came near the children's section, Harry reached out a longing hand to the children's books. He couldn't read, but he was attracted by the simple and bright picture illustrations. Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon never read to him, only to Dudley; his days were usually spent outside, where he had at least a good chance of getting away from Dudley without any trouble from his relatives. On shopping days, Aunt Petunia usually went by herself, although this time she had elected to bring Dudley and Harry to the grocer. Most times, Harry was left with an old lady called Mrs Figg, who had too many cats and smelled of cabbage. Harry didn't like to stay with her. She was boring.

The only very exciting thing that had ever happened at Mrs Figg's house--and truthfully, it hadn't really happened there--was on what seemed like an ordinary day. Harry was being taken to Magnolia Crescent, doomed to yet another day with Mrs Figg. As they turned the corner, Aunt Petunia yanked even harder on Harry's hand, in an effort to make him walk faster. Suddenly, the pair had found themselves right in front of Mrs Figg's house. Upon looking at Aunt Petunia's pasty, shocked face, Harry had naively asked what happened. Aunt Petunia only thinned her lips, arranged her features into a stern look, and effectively silenced Harry's queries. "Don't ask questions!" she snapped; but her face looked paler than usual, and Mrs Figg had asked Aunt Petunia if anything was wrong when the old lady opened the door to Aunt Petunia and Harry.

Harry crouched under the displays. He snaked out a hand and grabbed a picture book to look at. He tried to make out the words on the cover, but couldn't. As he turned the pages, he drank in the bright, happy pictures: a yellow, cuddly bear eating honey, a tiger bouncing on his tail, a rabbit growing carrots...

He was so absorbed in looking at the pictures that he never heard Aunt Petunia and Dudley's footsteps coming up behind him.

Aunt Petunia's hand suddenly landed on Harry's shoulder. Her fingernails dug tight into his flesh, Harry was forced to his feet, wincing in pain. "Oh, you naughty boy!" said Aunt Petunia angrily. "Running off like that--did you know I had to ask around to find you?" (Was that a crime? Harry wondered. Certainly, Aunt Petunia seemed to think so.) "We're going home, boy, and no more funny things out of you."

Harry spent the rest of the car trip listening to Aunt Petunia's harangue on how irresponsible certain boys were--she obviously showed what she thought of irresponsible boys--and wishing that someone would come and take him away from his relatives for the one-thousandth time.

And, for the one-thousandth time, it didn't come true. Instead, once they got home, Aunt Petunia ordered Harry to the cupboard under the stairs, and not to come out until supper.

Author's Notes:

* the 1862 scandal at the Department of International Magical Cooperation when the supposedly neutral head was found to be diverting funds and supplies from the department to American rebels in the southern states¹: by "American rebels in the southern states" I am referring to the American Civil War from 1861-1865; during that time, the British government was officially neutral, but at the beginning of the war had Confederate leanings.

*Yeah, I know my version of the OWLs is different from HBP. I don't have a copy, so I'm forced to create the format myself. Besides, I'd already written this chapter before HBP...

*"Delay always breeds danger": from Don Quixote, by Miguel de Cervantes

*"Toujours Dégoûtant" means, in French, "always disgusting/revolting."

*P.G. Wodehouse is a British writer, who created Jeeves the butler and other characters. His books are superb.

*Tonks's anecdote is taken from Fernwithy's The Doll Army.

*The names Tyrthian, Nidh, and Drasil come from Norse mythology. Tyr was the god of war, while Nidhogg was the name of the serpent that gnawed at the roots of the ash tree, Yggdrasil, to destroy the universe.

(11,880 words)