In a normal town, on a normal street, in a very normal home, a not-at-all normal fifteen year old young man sat on his rickety desk chair staring out of his bedroom window and into the backyard of Number 4 Privet Drive, looking for something—perhaps anything at all—that didn't seem to be there, and at the same time didn't at all belong. Of course, the young man didn't seem to be there either, thanks to his father's invisibility cloak.

No, Harry Potter was not a normal young man by any stretch of the imagination.

Even by wizard standards, his life up to that point was highly unusual. Oddly enough, the fact that he survived a curse that had always caused instant death and had indeed killed both his parents minutes before it was used on himself—and that he somehow then proceeded to defeat the most terrible Dark Lord in history when he was just fifteen months old—was quite honestly just another drop in the bucket for Harry Potter.

Yes, Harry Potter was a strange young man, but then, most newly-minted fifteen year olds don't spend their summer holidays tracking the comings and goings of invisible people who seemingly had nothing better to do than camp in his backyard and follow him around during his walks in the neighborhood.

A loud chime sounded downstairs that signaled noontime had arrived. Harry sighed when he remembered his broken watch—having gotten wet when he forgot to remove it before he went for a dive in the Black Lake during the Second Task of the Triwizard Tournament—which he wore it out of habit.

He grimaced.

It truly was unfortunate that he couldn't use any of his money to buy himself new things, lest his awful relatives steal it all. But it wasn't like he wanted anything important that he could buy, anyway. Harry laughed lightly. His money might actually be better off in the greedy hands of the Dursleys, actually, given that he never spent any of it. It didn't even feel like the money belonged to him, so what was the difference?

But if he was going to buy anything, he really would like a new watch; one that he picked out and that he didn't have to steal from Dudley, at the very least. Just something nice and serviceable. And waterproof, he added, annoyed. It didn't have to be anything fancy.

Honestly, he wasn't very picky…

Anyway, he chided himself, I must pay attention. Hopefully the smelly drunk has kept his shift so I don't have to worry about being tracked.

Five minutes later Harry's attention was caught.

He saw what he had been waiting for—a great shimmer by the shed under the Maple tree. Apparently his belief had been right and Klutz had been spying on him, and—

Yes! The drunk is back! Merlin, I can smell him from here. Dunno how he's supposed to be discreet even with an invisibility cloak. Ugh.

But still.

He gave a relieved sigh.

Looking at his chart, he scribbled down the identifiers for the watchers he had come up with. Harry was quite proud of his accomplishment; it was usually quite accurate, and naturally the result of experience gained from his many wanderings of Hogwarts castle completely invisible to other people's senses.

Truly, while a magic wand, a touch of cleverness, an invisibility cloak, and a magic map that displayed all of Hogwarts and revealed everyone's locations was an invitation for mischief to be made, it also developed one's awareness of other not-quite-as-sneaky people.

He scoffed at them.

Amateurs.

Ha! As if they could to spy on him unnoticed! He wasn't expert at acting like a sneaky Slytherin for nothing!

Which was odd, because he was actually a Gryffindor.

Harry paused.

Where the Hell did that come from?!

He was a Gryffindor! He was!

He had told the Hat. Argued with it. Convinced it that he was right, and it—with its one thousand years of experience—was totally wrong. He wasn't like Voldemort; wouldn't be like him.

He told the Hat, and it agreed with him. His points were well made, and the ancient headwear eventually understood their validity. Yes.

He paused again.

It was brave of him to stand up to the Sorting Hat and assert himself. It was very courageous of him, he was sure.

And in the end, did it really matter that the stupid thing kept trying to re-Sort him?

The Slytherins he knew were all terrible people—bigoted jerks who thought they were Merlin's gift to magic!

And Harry wasn't a bigoted jerk (having experienced an awful lot of animosity in his life, he knew very well how dangerous and harmful that sort of disposition could be and was very diligent in treating people fairly, that you very much).

But…

But, Harry remembered the Hat hadn't considered him a potential Slytherin because he was like Malfoy…or Voldemort for that matter.

"You could be great, you know. It's all here in your head. And Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, there's no doubt about that."

Well, it just showed how wrong the Hat was, then. He certainly wasn't great—he wasn't even average! There was nothing remarkable about him at all, which was obvious to anyone who'd ever met him. He was just some scrawny kid with baggy old clothes, broken glasses, and a freaky scar.

Freak…

Harry quickly banished the thought, understanding why he had avoided even cursory self-reflection for so long—there was no way it could be good for one's long-term health.

And anyway, he had no time to get caught up thinking about unimportant things. He had some serious plotting to do.

Back to the chart, then.

There was Klutz, who liked to perch on one of the low-handing branches of the maple tree until they fell off the landed harshly on the grass, and was around most weekday mornings until noon; Scab—the smelly drunk—who, well, was present but usually passed out on a bender behind one of Aunt Petunia's prized rosebushes, and he usually took afternoons on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays; Big Man, who never silenced his feet and was allergic to ragweed, had weekend nights and Saturday afternoons; Voyeur took Monday and Wednesday afternoons and usually couldn't stop from climbing on the fence and peeking into the neighboring houses (as well as Number 4 itself)—and then promptly falling flat on his ass (and it was definitely a man because surely a woman would have more grace than that!); Unknown had weekday nights and possibly Friday afternoons as well, and was too good for Harry to divine any characteristics about him; and finally, someone always different showed up weekend mornings.

Well, regardless of who was spying on him, all he needed to know at that moment was that Scab was the only other wizard in the area, and that he, Harry, could stop worrying so much. He wasn't quite worried that all these people were agents of the recently reincorporated Dark Lord Voldemort there to get him. No. They wouldn't bother just spying if they were Death Eaters, who were more likely to burn down the house and try to capture him than simply spy on him.

What was worrying though was that he'd not been told people would be watching the house. Which Harry considered…odd, especially after the disastrous end of the Triwizard Tournament and the failed assassination attempt on his life. Naturally, he was a bit more—I'm not paranoid—cautious than most at the moment, which was considerably more than any fifteen year old young man had any right to be.

Not that Harry ever played by the rules, of course.

And that was just what Harry was doing now. At least that's what he assumed he was doing. Ostensibly, as he had worked out the other week, if he was allowed to do what he was planning, then there would not have been a total information black-out on him, and that he'd not be for all intents and purposes marooned at his awful relatives house while the world he belonged to—the Wizarding World—left him behind, forgotten. He would not have to suffer horrendous nightmares of a graveyard, a dark ritual, and fighting for his life. He wouldn't wake up screaming and crying after only a few hours of sleep, only to have his walrus of an uncle barge into his room roaring up a storm and—

No! That's not important. At all. Keep on task, Potter.

He sighed deeply, and, once again, Harry's indomitable will overrode what others could not have ignored, and allowed him to realign his sights on his goal and marshal onward.

Because today, Harry Potter was leaving Privet Drive.

But first, he needed help from an old friend.

"Dobby!"

Pop.

"The great Harry Potter calls for Dobby, sir! How can Dobby serve?"

Ah, Dobby.

Harry smiled warmly. "Hello, Dobby. It's nice to see you again. I need your help. Would like to w—"

Apparently that was enough to set the little bugger off. Said little bugger, with his bulbous eyes and huge, bat-like ears that were for some reason enveloped in socks during a heat-wave, began jumping up and down and—off a bloody wall!—at the chance to help "the mighty Harry Potter."

Absently, Harry thought that perhaps if others were so enthusiastic to help him that the world might not be such a terrible place.

"Dobby, shhh! You can't let anybody hear you or I'll get in trouble!" He whispered urgently.

Somehow, Dobby froze in midair.

Coming out of his bewilderment, Harry trudged on. "Dobby. Like I said, I need your help. And I'd like for you to work for me. I'll pay triple whatever Dumbledore is paying you now. You see, I'm in a spot of trouble here and I think you're the only person who could help me, so what I need you to do is—"

And Dobby wailed.

I guess that was too much, Harry surmised, as Dobby latched himself onto his leg, soaking his trousers in tears at the "privilege to help great and kind and powerful Harry Potter who is too nice to poor Dobby."

At least the window's closed so Scab probably won't hear, Harry thought.

But then—

"BOY!"

"Shit."

And Harry heard heavy feet pounding on the stairs, making his stomach drop. He had to act fast.

"Quick, Dobby! I need you to hide, and be quiet, and don't come back out until I tell you. Under no circumstances are you to come out until I tell you. Do you understand?!" Harry commanded desperately, not realizing that he was actually hissing.

Dobby looked fearfully into Harry's eyes.

"Dobby, do you understand?" He hissed again.

The many locks on Harry's door were coming undone. He was running out of time. His heart was hammering faster. And Dobby was still in the middle of his bloody room!

"D—"

Pop.

For the first time in his memory, Harry breathed a sigh of relief as his bedroom door burst open and his visibly addled Uncle Vernon came barging through—purple face and all—heading right for him.

hg

Not for the first time, Harry lay stiffly on his bed, his head was throbbing and his chest and stomach were aching (but Harry wasn't sure if his stomach hurt because he couldn't remember when he last ate or not). His Uncle Vernon had let him be after ten minutes or so on account of lunch being ready. Harry had the presence of mind to smile ruefully at the realization that while normally being denied food was bad for one's health, Harry's case at least sometimes proved that to be untrue. Food was an excellent distraction for his obese uncle and cousin; it was one Harry had used before many times to great effect. However—

Now was not the time for him to get distracted. He needed to leave. He needed—

Pop.

"Harry Potter, sir?" Dobby called out weakly.

Bless him.

Harry slowly turned his head to look at his faithful little friend. "Hello Dobby. How are you?"

For his part, Dobby stood there looking at him wide-eyed before he answered. "Dobby is being fine, sir. Is Harry Potter sir, okay?" he asked nervously.

Well, he thought humorously, I wouldn't put is past Dobby to kill Vernon, so—

"I'll be fine Dobby, don't worry." He sighed, not for the first time hoping that people didn't actually die from lying too much. "But like I said before, I need your help. And I'd like for you to come work for me. Would you like that?" he asked hopefully.

Dobby's face split into a shit-eating grin. "Oh Dobby has been wanting to work for Harry Potter sir forever! Dobby is so happy now! Dobby will be the best House Elf Harry Potter has ever known!"

Harry smirked.

Excellent.

"Okay, Dobby, here's the plan: I need to get out of here. I need to get to Gringotts in Diagon Alley so I can get gold. Can you help me get there?" Harry was hopeful. Dobby'd never let him down yet.

Dobby positively glowed. "Dobby can be doing that, sir, yes he can! He can be going to Gringotts to get Harry Potter sir's money for him!"

Well that's strangely convenient.

Harry smiled. "That's great Dobby. My key is under the loose floorboard under my bed, do you thi—"

With a snap of his fingers, Dobby had appeared the little golden key in his hand, causing Harry to chuckle, and Dobby's smile to widen.

"Excellent Dobby! Now, go to Gringotts and tell them I want…" How much am I going to need? Anything could happen… Perhaps it was time to start putting his fortune to good use? "Tell them I want five thousand Galleons and ten thousand Pounds, okay? Can you do that?"

Dobby jumped and did a twist in the air. "Of course Dobby can be doing that, sir! Dobby is being right back!" And Dobby popped out again, leaving behind a thoroughly bewildered though nonetheless pleased Harry Potter lying on his bed.

"Well that's that taken care of," he chuckled. "Now what?" He looked around his room from his prone position and noticed that, somehow, all of his belongings had migrated from his battered school trunk to occupy the space on his floor and desktop.

How curious.

"Maybe Dobby can help with that."

So instead of cleaning up after himself, Harry eased into a sitting position against the wall, reached onto his desk and picked up one of the wonderful and immensely helpful ancient tomes that he had spirited away from the Chamber of Secrets before the summer began and started reading from where he had left off—volume three of Salazar Slytherin's personal journal, and his earliest forays into the wonderful world of Mind Magic.

Harry had been devoting considerable time to this obscure branch of magic for almost three months, but so far had been unsuccessful in his endeavors—he knew there was some vital realization that was eluding him, and it was driving him absolutely barmy! He was hopeful that reading what Salazar had written during his own time as a student would shed a little more light on the subject than what the brilliant man had managed in his rather dense books.

With that in mind, Harry began to read:

926, 14 Maius

Master Alexander has finally begun teaching me the rudiments of the Art of Occlumency. I cannot say I have anticipated learning so much, especially after studying for so long merely about the development of ancient art.

Truly an ingenious field of magic, it will enable me to have better recall and increased clarity of my memories, increased self-control, but also, and perhaps most importantly, I will be able to protect my mind from intrusion, whether through Legilimency attacks or even Possession.

My mind is sacred to me—without it I would be nothing. It has always been the refuge where I may escape the confines of this grey world and create my own paradise, but I know that soon such selfish pleasantries and wish-thinking will not be enough. I long for a time when I am the Master of my life and no longer need to rely solely on my imagination and the assistance of others, and can actively change the world around me with my mind and magic and help others to do the same. I have no doubt that Occlumency will enable just that.

But I digress.

It might appear to the unlearned that Occlumency is the art of repressing one's emotions (which is a most dangerous and foolish thing to do). This is not the case. Rather, the object is for one to master them, rather than let them master oneself. It is to compartmentalize one's emotions, in other words. (Incidentally, it is this most basic precept of the discipline that I find the most difficult to comprehend. Our magic, our soul, our emotions—they are all the same; they are of and by and for each other. How can anyone distinguish or separate them?

Thus far, it remains incomprehensible to me. Though perhaps this impediment is merely a result of my personal growth and continued education—one is only wise when one understands how ignorant one is, after all, so my question might likely sound ignorant to the unlearned, ironically, but I know it to be legitimate.

The intense focusing that practitioners for some reason refer to as meditation is vital to Occluding one's mind. During the 'meditation' process, one must calm one's emotions and steady the breath and focus on one's mind and at the same time let one's magic "stew"—a curious way to describe it, I know, but Master Alexander used a rather technical term that I find overly complex; he is notorious for his preference for jargon. The reason for suppressing one's emotions, as I understand it, is that they interfere with the logical-rational magic that the Occlumens is attempting to harness. We are able to use Mind Magic—an apt, concise term!—because our magic enables us to interact with our minds on a rather sophisticated level, and harness it to become as much a part of our magical selves as it is part of our physical selves.

No, that is imprecise. And far too sentimental. Perhaps I have been spending too much of my days with Ophelia and Antonia?

Regardless, our mind is ruled by chaotic magic (hence so-called 'accidental magic' children are prone to precipitate when they are feeling particularly strong emotions and have not learned how to deal with them as most adults have)—since it is where our uncontained, or wild, memories exist (memories being capable of eliciting powerful emotions and hence the obscure 'Mind Magic'). Occlumency allows us to harness that chaotic magic in a logical-rational (i.e. unemotional or detached) manner and master our minds. Yes. That is why Legilimency is not the 'opposite' of Occlumency, but rather its equal; one cannot exist without the other. Mastering one's consciousness requires a thorough grounding of it capabilities, lest development be incomplete or retarded. But more on that later—

According to my understanding, the budding Occlumens would use magic to suppress (not repress) memories and emotions through constant, waking-state meditation (rather than the technique common among these Byzantines of mental conditioning, or the forced-reliving of memories through constant and violent intrusion), which would induce a calm state of being in which one may utilize the benefits of Occlusion: Clarity of thought by the suppression of free-floating or radical memories, enhanced recall from this memory suppression, control over one's emotions, which is, in great part, the result of memory suppression but also from actively engaging in strident self-control, and the mental protection one is afforded by the process of Occlusion, of course.

Mind-altering magics are plentiful, and it is best that one is as prepared as possible to ward off an assault. It is indeed a most invaluable skill, mastering one's mind. But it is not without complications.

I found focusing my mind particularly difficult and—in a flash of insight—I have discovered that rather than clearing my mind, focusing it solely on something which I find connects with my magic most deeply and naturally has enabled me to have the necessary concentration of calmness and magic in my mind to a greater degree than what even I had anticipated. (Rather like staying up for as long as possible and going to bed very tired, instead of waking up after only one or two hours of sleep in order to 'correct' one's sleeping pattern—one's goal is achieved either way, though one technique is more easily accomplished than the other for whatever reasons.)

For myself, ever since I began my formal education in magic, I have found that I have a certain affinity for water, and can easily call up in my mind an image that evokes all the sensations, sound and feeling being the most significant, of standing on the seashore during a powerful storm—it is truly exhilarating, and has in the past filled me with a calmness that I desperately needed. But this is only one step of many in Occluding one's mind.

I thought I was having great success until Master Alexander merely laughed at my technique and accused me of thinking too highly of myself for daring to go against the established norm. This is not the first time that particular accusation has been leveled against me (when I consider that I am writing these journals in part to aid my descendants and eventually myself when I write my memoirs and books of magic, it is a difficult accusation to counter), and I do not think it will be the last, but truly, what is arrogance if you actually are the best? Sometimes, it is indeed good to be me.

I think I will have formed the foundations of my mental defenses far sooner than anyone expects of me. It is always better to be underestimated and then show the competition the error of their ways, I say—

Master Alexander's style is far too rigid and brutal to be adequate in the teaching of Mind Magic (I have no doubt that there are other ways of mastering Occlumency and I anticipate studying them during my travels, but he seems to enjoy the harshness of the method—something to consider later, perhaps).

The mind (which is composed of a person's consciousness and disposition, their thoughts, memories, and beliefs) from my understanding of it, is largely unique to the individual and is altogether too peculiar a realm to rely on 'standard practices' too heavily. The folly of old age perhaps—men become set in their ways and are no longer able to see the world for what it can be, and only for what it is.

It is truly a shame that for some people magic stops being magical. (As an aside, I find that this is the case for rather a lot of Transfigurationists—they are too rigid in their beliefs and rely greatly on those ridiculous charts of theirs.)

But back to my meditation exercises.

Emotional control is very important, as I have said, but so too is the quality of magic used to create the setting of my calming vision. I need to accustom myself to a new mode of thinking—of existence, really—if I am to be successful. That is in part why Mind Magic is so dangerous, because the practitioner risks losing oneself so completely to the mind and being trapped in it, and even splitting one's consciousness while attempting to promote emotional detachment.

I have no doubt that by the time I have mastered my mind that several facets of my character will have changed as I will no longer be ruled by my emotions (or at least not entirely, for not even I am so arrogant or indeed foolish to presume complete detachment, let alone strive for it). In what ways I will change are not known to me—I suspect this is more because such deep self-reflection has never been one of my strengths (yet), but I'm sure Master Alexander would have plenty to say on the subject.

Overall, I feel that my technique is ultimately more efficient that Master Alexander's own, because I will not only have mastered my mind, but I will have immersed it in protective magics while at the same time forming a greater connection to and control over my own magic through waking-meditation. Total magical immersion of the mind, body, and soul.

This is vital!

Master Alexander's technique would have me prepare myself to react to the forced-reliving of my memories—which would get progressively worse in content—in order to present my mind with a compelling reason to block an invasion and suppress my memories and emotions to present less of a target. I do not believe this technique is conducive to mastering Occlumency. What's more, I do not think that that process is wholly necessary, nor entirely healthy. (As I have said, it is crude and brutish.)

I know that I, for one, have no desire to relive some of my memories. Perhaps I am taking advantage of the rather compelling fact that by utilizing my unorthodox technique to Occlude my mind that I won't have to revisit the horrors of my youth just as Master Alexander warned. That being said, it should be taken as read that Mastery will only come after years of study and practice.

Regardless, magic is fundamentally about intent, and I have every intention of succeeding. I am Salazar Slytherin, now, and he is not one to back down from a challenge.

Well, if Harry was looking for clarification he certainly didn't get it. It was very obvious to Harry that Slytherin had never gone back and edited his journals (so many run-on sentences and tangents!). However, his reading wasn't a total loss. The stuff Slytherin had written about the soul and magic and mind was rather intriguing; Harry would definitely have to think on that more.

A familiar pop shocked Harry out of his thoughts.

"Master Harry Potter, Sir! Dobby has returned with sir's monies!" the little Elf exclaimed.

Harry beamed. "Well done, Dobby! That's great. Now, do you think you can help me pack my things? I've made a bit of a mess and with just myself without magic it'd ta—"

Not for the first time that afternoon, Dobby had broken Harry mid-word with a few snaps and waves of his long-fingered hands as he performed what any lazy teen would consider wondrous feats of magic. And then once again, Harry was broken from his concentration, but this time with a feeling not of relief or surprise, but what could only probably be a cardiac arrest come to finish him off before Voldemort ever got the chance.

"Oh no! Dobby! You can't use Magic here, I'll get expelled from school!" he exclaimed. Eyes bugging out, Harry got up and paced across his clutter-free floor, all the while eyeing his bedroom window for a sign of a Ministry owl bearing news of his expulsion.

Thoughts racing across his mind, stomach twisting in the most gruesome ways, he began developing a plan to go on the run—but where would he go? Not to any of his friends' houses. Diagon Alley was obviously not an option. Perhaps he could hide out in the Shrieking Shack? It had always been one of his potential safe-houses. He'd be able to steal from Hogsmeade, if so. It had possibilities, undoubtedly. Or he could just disappear into London and make his way to a youth hostel as he had been planning. He might also be able to hide out in the Hut-on-the-Rock.

Ugh!

If only he could Apparate!

However, noticing Dobby's sheepish expression, he paused mid-stride.

"Dobby?" he questioned haltingly.

The Elf squirmed. "D-Dobby is so sorry, sir, but Dobby was thinking Master Harry Potter didn't want to get in trouble with mean Ministry lady. Dobby is forgetting to tell Master Harry Potter sir this. Dobby is a bad elf!"

And then the little psycho leapt.

But just before Dobby crashed himself through Harry's window, Harry caught him in a dive. Landing harshly into his wall, Harry scowled down at Dobby as his arms enveloped his little body.

"Dobby. What did I tell you about not punishing yourself?" he demanded sternly.

Always one for hysterics, Dobby grew wide-eyed and tearful. "D-D-Dobby is terribly sorry Master Harry Potter sir! Dobby is bad, bad elf. He doesn't deserve to know the great Harry Potter. Dobby has betrayed kind Harry Potter, sir!" he wailed.

Completely taken aback, Harry stared nonplussed at Dobby. "What do you mean Dobby? How did you betray me?" he asked slowly.

Dobby shuddered. "When Dobby first met Harry Potter, sir, Dobby…Dobby" here he sniffled "He is wanting his magic to get sir in trouble with mean Ministry lady! Dobby is getting Harry Potter in trouble!"

Understanding dawned on Harry's face, but a new question needed answering. "Dobby, do you mean to say that you can do magic here and go undetected by the Ministry monitors?" he asked excitedly.

Dobby looked up at Harry sorrowfully. "Of course Harry Potter, Dobby is a House Elf. It is Dobby's job to do as the great Harry Potter commands."

Hmm, Harry reasoned, well that's good enough for me. "Okay Dobby, I'll tell you what," he said, setting Dobby down on his bed, "let's forget that whole incident ever happened just as long as you promise…uh, to conceal your magic, deal?" he asked hopefully.

And just like that, Dobby's face split into a grin and he launched himself at Harry's midsection. "Oh, Harry Potter is the greatest wizard ever! He is being so kind to poor Dobby. Dobby is not deserving of kind Harry Potter!"

Harry chuckled. "Well Dobby, I don't know about that, but…" he grimaced, "my stomach kind of hurts right now, so let's finish that hug later, yeah? In the meantime," he continued after Dobby had reluctantly let go of him, "we're escaping from this hellhole. Up for a jailbreak?" he asked with a grin that slowly faltered and turned into a harsh scowl as his mind turned to contemplate his situation.

"I have no idea what my friends are doing right now because all they've sent are useless letters, my godfather hasn't even deigned to contact me, Dumbledore is silent per usual, and the bloody press is dragging my name through the mud. I've just been abandoned here, again! It's hardly any better than being in my cupboard! At least then I didn't know what I was missing…"

And then black anger that had been simmering in his gut since ever he could remember, that had been struggling mightily inside of him since Cedric was killed, finally broke free.

"I don't know what's going on, Dobby! I mean, everyone's acting as if Voldemort isn't really back and I'm just some sort of twisted liar who murdered his friend and is a danger to everything around him!" He took a deep breath. "At least that's the impression I have," he explained casually. "I wouldn't really know what everyone in my life thinks about me because I'm not important enough for them to spare me any attention."

He snorted derisively. "I've never been important enough, or good enough, smart enough, nice enough. Never enough. Everyone wants me to be something I'm not. And I try so hard to be what they want, but I can't. I bloody can't! And they hate me for it! All of them! Ha! Judging by how people react to me not living up to their standards now, I guarantee you that if I had gone into Slytherin like I should have then the whole fucking world would have been calling for my head!"

Harry was the picture of despair as he looked at Dobby. "But that's hardly any better than what's going on now, you know? I have friends, yeah, people who are supposed to care for me, but what does that really mean? What's the point? All I do is fucking give, give, give. And everyone just keeps fucking betraying me! It's like they don't care about me at all, even though I can't help but care about them. I can't help it!

"What have I ever done to deserve any of this? Am I really so wretched a person that I don't even have the courage to tell everyone to go fuck themselves? That'd I'd rather agonize over every little bit of affection I get and ignore the constant, certain betrayals that are coming just so I don't feel like I'm completely alone? That maybe my life is worth something, after all? That I might not be a freak? What the hell is wrong with me?!" he yelled.

Really, Harry had no idea when he got so worked up during his rant, but only when he was on his feet and yelling did he realize just how much pent-up frustration he had accumulated in the four weeks since he'd arrived at Privet Drive. And he wasn't about to stop, let alone notice he had started hissing again.

"Argh! I can't stand it! What the hell is going on, Dobby?! What have I ever done to anybody that I'm treated like a piece of shit by everyone? Why doesn't anybody trust me?

"What did I do to deserve to be saddled with the fucking Dursleys for my pitiful excuse of a life?!" he exclaimed. "Don't people care about how much I hate it here? I mean, what use is it, being the bloody savior of Wizarding Britain, if no one bloody gives a damn about me as a person?!" And his ragged breathing stopped in his throat as he came to conclude an awful truth—I'm alone.

And then Harry noticed it.

Silence.

He turned to look at Dobby, who was cowering in a corner. Shit. Harry took several deep breaths then spoke again. His voice cracked. Harry cleared his throat loudly, then tried again. "Dobby, I'm sorry, I don't mean to get so angry. I'm not angry with you, not at all; it's just that…I'm not having a very good go of things right now and I'm feeling rather lost, you know?"

Dobby stepped tentatively from his place in the corner near the door over to where Harry had fallen into a seat on his lumpy mattress.

"Dobby understands, Harry Potter, sir. Dobby has been watching you, sir, in case you is needing him," he explained.

His head screaming at him for losing his cool yet again, Harry stood up and looked out the window, then leaned against his desk and heard it groan against his weight as he considered Dobby's words.

Watching me, eh?

gh

It was inconvenient indeed that just when Harry was about to escape from Privet Drive, an owl came. Several owls, in fact. Be that as it may, Harry couldn't deny the benefit of having a large cache of sweets to gorge on. Who knew that birthdays were good for something, after all?

Harry still felt like he had been forsaken by his friends, though. And he certainly wasn't about to let some sweets blind him to the reality of his situation: That everyone in his life seemed perfectly content to ignore him as he was held prisoner in a place he utterly hated—and would much rather burn to the ground with his relatives still inside of it—until they needed him to come out of his cage and save the world again.

Ever since his name came out of that damned Goblet of Fire his life had taken one turn for the worse after another, and now, with Voldemort back in the flesh, Harry's life was starting to spiral out of control entirely—he didn't know whom he could trust, he had more enemies than he honestly knew what to do with, and he hadn't had more than three hours of sleep per night since he got back from Hogwarts because of his nightmares.

No way in Hell could some candy make him forget any of that shit.

But! Dobby, of course, had been holding out on him, he'd come to discover. Harry couldn't hold it against his little friend, though, especially not when he had gifted a large tin of succulent and most precious treacle tart for Harry to devour.

Yeah, Harry reasoned, Dobby definitely deserves an award.

Harry's faithful owl Hedwig flew in from her morning hunt and alighted on his shoulder. She nibbled his ear and rubbed her head against his as he read his letters, offering the only comfort he had come to depend on and expect.

Instead of escaping from Privet Drive as he had been preparing to do, Harry had stayed. However, it wasn't the arrival of gifts that had derailed Harry's plans and convinced him to eat more comfort food than was advisable. No, it was the letters that came with the owls that set him off. Well, in a manner of speaking. The first letter, from his best friend Hermione Granger, ambled on about school and homework, offered vague reassurances, carried the occasional reprimand, and ended with a rather enigmatic promise to see him soon.

Nothing new there.

The letter from Ron Weasley was short and to the point like usual.

Ron never was one for words, he thought, smiling ruefully.

A third letter, this time from his first friend ever, the half-giant Hagrid, revealed just how good a heart the huge man really had.

Harry,

Hagrid here. I'm on the continent with Olympe looking for some creatures to study next year. I was thinking about what to get you. Let me say that you're not an easy fella to buy for first. I was gonna get you another pet, but figured that Hedwig wouldn't take kindly to that. And then I saw this beauty.

It's a fanged wallet. Bigger on the inside, see? Also, to make it work, just stick it with your wand and say your name, that way, you'll be the only one who can use it. Other people would just end up losing their fingers, but I say if they try to steal from you, it'd serve them right!

I know you're not having an easy time of it right now, especially when you're stuck with those awful relatives of yours. The world's getting darker. It feels a lot like it did last time. But there are good people here who care about you, even if they don't always show it. You're a good kid, Harry, and I'm damn proud to know you.

Hagrid

With a watery smile, Harry inspected the fanged wallet.

Trust Hagrid to get something that bites you.

He laughed and drew his wand from his pocket and stuck the wallet like Hagrid told him and said his name. The wallet opened—fangs and all—and Harry peeked inside. Blackness.

Harry hummed. Here goes nothing. He stuck his hand inside the wallet. Feeling no resistance, and with all fingers still attached, he sunk more and more of his arm inside until he was elbow-deep and able to scratch the bottom.

Harry turned to smile at Dobby. "Well this'll cut down on trips to Gringotts, eh? Let me see that money you brought, Dobby."

Dobby handed over the huge, heavy leather bag full of Galleons and the thick leather envelope, both bulging at their seams. Figuring it made more sense this way, Harry poured the galleons into the fanged wallet, and then tossed in the envelope holding British Pounds for easy access. Not detecting any change in the weight of his wallet, a grin spread across Harry's face.

"Nice." He spotted the other unopened letter, presumably from his godfather. Hopefully it told him just when he was getting out of his own personal Azkaban. "Dobby, will you fetch me that letter please?" he asked.

A snap later, the letter was soaring into Harry's hands. "Thanks Dobby."

Dobby just smiled.

Harry opened the letter and much to his surprise, an antique, richly decorated silver mirror fell out onto his lap with a note stuck to it.

It read:

Harry,

James and I used to use these mirrors to communicate when we were in separate detentions. Just say my name to make it work.

Love,

Padfoot

Immediately feeling bad about ever doubting his godfather, Harry screwed up his courage and toned down his resentment, which was an easier job than he usually had of it, because it seemed that Sirius was cleverer than he seemed to be.

"Sirius Black."

And then, to Harry's surprise, his godfather's smiling face appeared, looking much healthier than when he had seen him last.

"Hey Harry! Happy Birthday."

Harry couldn't help but smile in return. "Hey Padfoot. How's it going?"

Sirius smirked. "Eh, can't complain." And suddenly his happy expression seemed to disappear. "What's going on with you, kid? You don't look so good."

Harry hesitated. "Oh, well, you know…uh, it's really hot here in Surrey so I'm not sleeping too well." He really did hate lying to his godfather, but what use was telling the truth if there was nothing to be done about it? At least, that was Harry's experience anyway.

Unfortunately, if his godfather's expression was anything to go by, it didn't seem like the lie was good enough.

Damn.

"What's going on Harry?"

Harry averted his eyes desperately. What was wrong with him today?

"Nothing's wrong." He stammered. "It's fine. I just… Well, like I said, I haven't been getting very much sleep lately," he finished lamely.

On the other end of the mirror, Sirius was silently contemplating him. The silence stretched on for so long that it hurt, and not until Harry looked back at Sirius was it broken.

Sirius looked solemn. "Hmm. I'm sure being where you are isn't helping you very much, is it?"

Harry snorted softly. "Is it that obvious?" he asked quietly.

A sad smile crossed Sirius' face. "Yeah kid, it is. I'm really sorry you're stuck there. I would much rather have you be here with me," Sirius explained honestly, "even if the house is a mess…" he trailed off.

His anger was back quickly. "Well, how come I'm not with you then?" Harry demanded. "You're my godfather, you're the one who's supposed to take care of me! Why am I stuck here with the Dursleys away from you?!"

Sirius looked like he had just been slapped. "I'm sorry Harry, I really want to take care of you, but Dumbledore said that—" and that was as far as he got.

"I don't fucking care what Dumbledore said! Who is he to tell me anything? Or you for that matter?" Harry was standing now and storming across his unusually small room as he yelled at his godfather. "And what about what I want? And you?" Tears were threatening to fall from his eyes. "I don't want to be here. I've never wanted to be here. Dumbledore says I'm safe but that's complete bullshit and you know it Sirius! If I was safe then why are there people spying on me?! " Harry demanded.

All Sirius could do was listen fearfully as Harry ranted.

"And why isn't anybody talking to me? If it's not safe enough to send a stupid letter to me, then what the hell am I doing here? No one is telling me anything!" He paused, the snorted. "Well, that's not completely true," he confessed a tad snidely. "Merlin knows people have turned lying to me into a sport," he growled. "And what about you Padfoot? What are you doing? Why haven't you written? Or visited?" Harry's voice cracked here, but Sirius was the only one to notice.

"I thought you wanted me! That's what you said that night after we got Wormtail. Were you lying to me? I really thought you lo—" Harry stopped his tirade with a sharp gasp. He looked into the mirror to see Sirius looking back at him wide-eyed with a disbelieving look on his face.

And Harry?

Well, his world came crashing down around him—all his hopes seemingly lost as he took in his godfather's expression. He needed to end the conversation now. Harry took a hurried breath. "I have to go. Bye."

Harry tossed the mirror on his bed and blinked furiously as at last his tears fell. What a fucking disaster. How could I let that happen? Sirius didn't deserve any of that. What the hell is wrong with me?

Harry would never know it, but almost the exact same thoughts were screaming through the distraught mind of the one person who cared about him the most—Sirius Black.

hg

Albus Dumbledore was tired. And old. And just a little mad. But still, he was an absolute genius; he had the kind of mind that could look at a tree and in a few seconds count all the leaves—truly an impressive feat, considering most would stare blankly and not even know where to begin, invariably becoming lost in the vastness of what lay before them. But anyway… He wasn't one to show off like that. No, Albus much preferred to let his…snappy sense of style do the showing off for him. And if his eccentricities made people underestimate him or threw them off balance, then so much the better for him.

Though truthfully, not many people underestimated him—no doubt thanks to his great many accomplishments and his glorious reputation.

Well, he equivocated, I suppose that it's a rather inglorious reputation now.

Not that it mattered. In all honesty, he hardly cared that he was being harangued in the national press and even in a few international publications. Who would? Or that he had been booted from two seats of great power. As if that really mattered in the grand scheme of things! He had hit worse lows in his one hundred and fourteen years of life. And in the end, he knew, he would be proven right.

Again.

Albus popped a lemon drop into his mouth.

It could be worse.

Albus chuckled mirthlessly. That had become a motto of sorts for him over the last four years—incidentally, the number of years since Harry Potter had come to Hogwarts.

Not that it's in any way the lad's fault, of course.

He sighed.

Harry Potter. The boy embodied all of the traits Albus prized most highly—bravery (even if Harry's particular brand of it was absolutely terrifying), unending compassion, a great capacity for love, and unmatched moral fortitude—and at the same time he personified most of Albus' worst failures. Of which, there had been far too many ever to enumerate.

All of those things swirling inside the boy had created a great deal of confusion for Albus, and many other people as well, he knew.

Truthfully, most people were complex—multifaceted, deep—even the young ones sometimes.

But Harry? He was something else entirely.

Harry was a r—he was a puzzle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. Despite his…harsh, grim existence, he possessed probably the most beautiful soul Albus had ever come across. Which was really saying something, because when one spoke of souls and Harry Potter, it was serious business.

Albus quickly popped a second lemon drop.

That isn't to say that Albus had any idea of what was really going on at the Dursley residence until Harry had come to Hogwarts. He had had a plan, after all; he had set things in motion, done what needed doing. It was all supposed to be okay. At least…that's what he told himself. (Not even a genius is immune to abject denial, you know.) Arabella's lukewarm reports of Harry's wellbeing had been just enough to keep him from interfering—from deviating from his grand plan.

His plan…

Of course he had a plan for Harry; he had plans for quite a lot of things. He was Albus Dumbledore, after all, Master of Plans! But this one was special—it was neat and elegant—it gave Harry a fighting chance, and would destroy Lord Voldemort's power for good.

His plan…

He was Albus Dumbledore, King of Fools.

It was all based on a lie, of course; a bloody-minded coercion. Yes, Petunia had given Harry houseroom and sealed the Bond of Blood charm that would protect him—keep his soul from spoiling—and ultimately save him and everyone else, but Albus knew that she had only done so because of the bank-breaking personal check that he had left with the letter describing the circumstances of James and Lily's deaths (which may or may not have also included a very politely-phrased threat).

Albus had no illusions about what sort of life Harry would likely have after being entrusted to Petunia's guardianship—she would be harsh, overly-critical, and jealous. But that was okay, because it would make him strong, confident in his independence.

A warrior.

It was Harry's only chance. (And Albus would know, wouldn't he?)

And maybe, even, Petunia might surprise everyone, and grow to love Harry. And then he would be strong, confident, and well-adjusted. Given the circumstances, it was the best Albus could hope for. (The world absolutely did not need another Draco Malfoy….)

But it was not to be.

Harry was not at all confident or well-adjusted.

He even had some mild sociopathic tendencies.

Love cannot suffer lies and deceit.

Albus had forgotten that.

But there was a variable he had not taken into account.

Rancor. (Some wounds, as he knew, go too deep for the healing.)

His plan had already failed. From the very beginning.

Or had it? There were positives from having Harry growing up being as mistreated as he was. He was unbelievably strong, surprisingly resourceful, dead clever, and sneaky; he even had some mild sociopathic tendencies. All were things that would help him survive and do what was necessary. His strength of character had been honed over many years—forged from his unyielding determination and ardent sense of justice, both born out of constant struggle and inequity—and it was most unlikely to falter. Albus knew—he had taken the trouble to get to know him. Harry would not fail.

To do what was necessary—that was how Albus had lived his life for the past quarter century. It was necessary. He did it. He didn't have to like it—Merlin knew he absolutely hated it, that it tore at his soul and blackened his old heart—he just had to do it.

But that wasn't enough—not nearly enough—to free Albus' conscience from his suffocating guilt. Was it all worth it, would Harry's suffering be worth it—perhaps even justified—if he finally had his soul all to himself and the world was free from Lord Voldemort?

Damn.

The world was lucky indeed that Harry had not lost himself to hatred, because Albus was sure that someone as strong and relentless as Harry would be nearly unstoppable on the path to power and ruination. (And Albus doubted he would even be able to stand against Harry, were that the case; it was all Albus' fault, after all, and it certainly wasn't like Harry didn't have every reason in the world to lash out against all and sundry.) In that sense, and many others, he was truly Voldemort's equal, but Harry was also so much more—Tom had no idea who he was dealing with.

Albus shivered.

Harry's behavior would be worrisome to anyone who did not make it their business to know as much about him as possible—to know exactly how Harry was distinguishable from Tom Marvolo Riddle—and that all had not been lost.

Harry did have compassion, he knew what it was to use force judiciously, and he was neither selfish nor vain. But…Harry showed no remorse when he killed Quirrell, he had probably broken all of the school's rules, and he was secretive—sometimes he was even false. Harry's school grades, for instance, were suspiciously mediocre for someone who was so possessed of magic and had as keen a mind as Harry did (and Albus would know, having probed it often enough, looking for signs that something—anything at all—had gone right.). He was a Quidditch star, was often in the middle of so much of the trouble at Hogwarts, and yet he had few friends, and tried his level best to avoid any attention at all. Truly, most might think that the poor boy had two personalities, or was up to some serious no good, but Albus knew better.

Oh, did he know. And to his eternal shame, he could not gather the courage to confront Harry about it.

(But that was okay too, wasn't it? Because it would make him stronger.)

His all-time favorite student was drowning in a world that he didn't understand, trying to balance who he was and who others wanted him to be, and he was about to get sucked into a war in which he was destined to fight, to lead—only far sooner than Albus ever hoped for.

He had thought that by not circumventing Trelawney's two prophecies things would be better—that their side would avoid the curse that came with such hubris—and maybe he was right.

And now? Well, all of his plans were coming together, only, he wasn't so sure if that was a good thing or not. He was no longer confident that he would be able to do what was necessary.

And it was all because of Harry Potter: Because Albus had taken the trouble to get to know him.

Harry had been through too much! (He conveniently glossed over that he himself had been the principal cause of Harry's pain and the soul-rending self-loathing that knowledge brought him). Albus was sure of it; damn the plan. Damn everything! Harry had to be kept safe, he had to be protected, and loved, and showered with everything else that he had been denied for his entire life. Harry couldn't—Albus wouldn't let him—No!

…But Albus couldn't. Because of the plan. The horrible, immoral, disgusting, nauseating, foul, devilish plan he had conceived so many years ago, when he realized the truth of Harry's scar—and what it really meant, and how Albus was powerless to fix it (although he had never stopped trying in fourteen years, and wasn't about to stop anytime soon, dammit!). How the devil was the boy going to survive otherwise? The plan would save everyone! Including Harry. Including Harry!

He had to be kept safe until the right moment, and then Lord Voldemort would be broken. It was all about Harry in the end; it always was.

Safe until the right moment…

Albus was supremely reluctant not to have a plan regarding Harry's safety. Merlin knew Gryffindors had no sense of self-preservation!

And wasn't that was another great enigma? Not that Albus had spent much time dwelling on it, really, but… Excepting his obvious, stroke-inducing Gryffindor traits that would put Godric himself to shame, why wasn't Harry in Slytherin? (It was likely the root cause for why he seemed to have two personalities, now that Albus thought about it.) Of course, he knew that that was Harry's decision during his Sorting, to go to Gryffindor.

The sneaky boy…

It was much like Albus' own Sorting, as the Hat was wont to remind him from its shelf. But he went to Gryffindor for a different reason than Harry—Albus would have had too easy a time in Slytherin, and he knew quite well even when he was eleven that the only things worth doing were those that required effort, so to Gryffindor it had been. Harry merely wanted to get away from anything to do with Voldemort, not that Albus could blame him. It was actually quite a relief for Albus—it would have been an utter disaster if Harry ended up in Slytherin House; given the fickle nature of British witches and wizards, practically everybody would likely have tried to have Harry drawn and quartered for being either a nascent Dark wizard or for having defeated Voldemort.

Albus popped another lemon drop.

I wonder what Severus would say if he knew Harry was almost in his House?

Albus sighed. One of the things likely to keep Harry alive in the long-run was that his mind was absolutely Slytherin; that is to say, he knew how to come out on top, or at least, and more precisely, Harry knew how not to lose. Harry was expert. And when life and death hung in the balance, that skill was invaluable indeed. Albus was quite sure that one need only look at Harry's history to come to that conclusion, because despite his young age, there was quite a lot of evidence—and Harry's continued existence was undeniable.

Now that Albus thought about it, perhaps he was onto something…

A proof for his theory, perhaps?

Let's see…

Indeed, it has for long been taken as read by even casual observers that Gryffindors have no proper sense of self-preservation, and yet…and yet, in the face of all the unbelievable and nearly constant danger Harry met that would have destroyed most others—remembering the fact that Harry had never actually received any training to handle such danger—Harry was still alive. So, Harry had some deep and powerful and abiding instinct for self-preservation that manifested itself in his sharp mind and well-honed instincts that was unusual in anyone, especially teenage Gryffindors. Thus, it must be said that, if he truly had not gone looking for trouble in the first place, then Harry was not as much a Gryffindor as he might appear to be—as he wanted others to think he was.

The rogue! Harry was even sneakier than Albus thought!

Albus couldn't help but laugh. What nerve!

Indubitably, Harry was a rather uniquely powerful wizard cast in the mold of a hero (for manifold reasons, Albus now understood)—and he clearly deferred to those traits and expectations frequently—but Harry had some rather dominant un-Gryffindorish qualities that served him most favorably. True, he was often confronted with situations that for some reason required him to take a clear moral stand, but his actions bespoke a subtle understanding of strategy and the strengths and weaknesses of actors. In other words, he was a Slytherin hiding in plain sight—possessed of the finest traits and skills of the best from that House. And he was doing exceptionally well for himself, too! It was most unusual.

(Albus had never even considered this side of Harry beyond an abstract recognition that the boy knew how to get out of trouble; never once had he thought that there was so much more to Harry than even he had realized. How extraordinary! How intriguing. Did he truly underestimate the boy so much? Albus had thought that, after Harry conquered Quirrell, a Basilisk, a hundred Dementors, a dragon, and Lord Voldemort, that he had finally stopped underestimating the boy; it was getting quite tiresome, having to keep correcting himself so regularly, to say nothing of the fact that anyone who can stand up to Lord Voldemort is not ever to be underestimated for one's own good, at the very least.)

Albus sighed again.

Well, he figured, Harry's never really had any regard for the rules.

Albus popped another lemon drop and, with a twist into the night, he Apparated away.

He reappeared in the dilapidated park across the street from the old Black townhome at Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, the new Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix. Not bothering to look either way before he crossed the street—Such is the arrogance of man!, he humored himself—he stepped swiftly across the old cobblestones, over the crumbling sidewalk, past the wrought-iron gate, up the black stone steps, and raised a fist.

He paused.

Mustn't knock.

Taking a deep breath, he grasped the door handle and pushed down on it with his thumb. The door opened to reveal a dank hallway lit by silver gas lamps. The old wallpaper was burned black with age and negligence, and was actually peeling off from the wood paneling.

Albus strode down the hallway, careful to avoid the troll leg umbrella stand and the bunched-up areas of carpeting, and made his way down the few steps that led into the basement kitchen.

Perhaps I should remove the Tripping Jinx on that ridiculous fixture? Hmm. He shook his head. Best to let it resolve itself. It's not like I'm one to enjoy slapstick humor, of course.

His hearty chuckle brought the attention of the room on him, and his moment of levity was lost as he took in the serious expressions of his allies.

Many old faces had returned. Alastor Moody, his long-time friend and one of his most trusted allies; Sturgis Podmore, an Undersecretary in the Department of International Magical Cooperation; Elphias Doge, his old schoolmate and influential Wizengamot member; Emmeline Vance, who had considerable and vital ties to high society; Remus Lupin, their werewolf connection and Albus' fellow bookworm; Sirius Black, a helplessly degenerate ex-con Albus had been very glad to know was not, in fact, evil; Mundungus Fletcher, whose job description was better left unsaid; Dedalus Diggle, an experienced Obliviator and undercover operative; Albus' brother Aberforth, who had reluctantly returned; and then there were Minerva McGonagall, Rubeus Hagrid, and Poppy Pomfrey, who were not present for the night's meeting.

They were all that remained of the old Order.

Of the new recruits, many were people he had known for practically their entire lives. Molly and Arthur were there of course. Their sons William and Charles were the Order's inside-man in Gringotts and their agent in Romania trying to dredge up foreign contacts, respectively. Hestia Jones, Jonas White, Mark Johnson, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Nymphadora Tonks were Aurors, and highly valued members of Albus' group, as well, because the Order desperately needed as many skilled fighters as possible. Amos Diggory and his wife Cecelia, still reeling from the tragedy of their son's murder, were quick to rally under the Order's banner. Ted and Andromeda Tonks were there too; a skilled accountant and solicitor, respectively, they would soon be doing more work pro-bono than they did work for pay. And lastly, there was Severus Snape.

Perhaps the less said about him the better.

He cleared his throat. "Welcome friends. Please be seated, and let this meeting of the Order of the Phoenix commence. Now," he continued after the scrapping of benches and chairs abated, "perhaps we should start with Severus' report. Severus, what news do you bring from Lord Voldemort's camp?"

Ignoring the way that most of those in his presence flinched at the mention of the Dark Lord's name, Severus began his report with his trademark sneer. "Headmaster, as you know, the Dark Lord is still recovering from the fight in the graveyard and the resurrection ritual." This drew confused stares Severus' way, and Albus was slightly amused to see the dour Potions Master ignore his audience.

"However, he has several plans in motion. Death Eaters have begun scouring the continent for allies—I know the Dark Lord wants to bring giants back to Britain in particular," here several people gasped, causing Severus to curl his lip, "—in addition to those witches and wizards he feels he can sway to his cause, along with the more bloodthirsty Werewolf packs. He has decided not to approach the vampire covens for the time being."

It was funny—when most people spoke their lips moved. Albus had never worked-out how Severus managed it.

"Furthermore, his successful political maneuverings in the Ministry have proven to be the Dark Lord's most fruitful endeavors since his return. Indeed, Lucius Malfoy has been so effective at manipulating the current administration and key members of the Wizengamot that very few have even been Imperiused yet. Currently, the Ministry is doing a great deal of the Dark Lord's bidding, even if they don't know it." And with that sobering statement, spoken in Severus' usual silky voice, the room exploded in a cacophony of voices.

And they say I have a flair for the dramatic, Albus scoffed.

He took in those seated around the huge oak table as they argued with each other and yelled questions back at Severus. Of course, his spy paid them all no mind and kept a bored expression on his face as he stared at nothing in particular.

He sighed.

"Please let us have silence!" he boomed.

And immediately the kitchen fell into a hush as all eyes turned to the venerable Headmaster.

Albus cleared his throat and popped another lemon drop. "Please, let us be calm. Let me impart to you all that war has not yet broken out, and that when the time comes, we will all need to be prepared for the worst. But I should say that I do not believe that war shall come soon. Lord Voldemort's position is much stronger so long as the world believes him dead, but when his presence is revealed, we shall have the upper hand again." He took in his audience and breathed deeply. "Now, we should continue with our members' reports before we question them."

Albus turned his gaze to Remus Lupin, but immediately focused on Sirius Black. The young man looked like death rolled over. His vacant expression and unfocused eyes made him eerily reminiscent of victims of the Dementors of Azkaban. And judging by the sidelong glances his friend Remus was giving him, Albus was not the only one with concerns. What struck Albus out of his musings, though, was the sudden death-glare Sirius sent his way. Albus didn't need Legilimency to know what was on Sirius' mind. Harry was alone on his birthday. Again.

If only they knew…

"Remus, what do you have to add?"

Truly, he had not seen Remus Lupin looking so haggard since Voldemort's fall in 1981. The man had more grey than any man not yet forty should. His tan robes had long-since lost their luster, and bore more patches and were much more thatched than advisable. His face was gaunt and his eyes were dark—clearly the man had pushed himself too hard over the course of the month.

Remus coughed. "Well, I've spent the past few weeks feeling out a few werewolf packs. Most have not decided one way or another which side they will support, the exception being Greyback's pack.

"As I think Severus can attest, there has been no official declaration from either Voldemort or Greyback on the matter of allegiance, but it's only a matter of time until something happens—I think Greyback is just waiting to see what he's offered," he explained with a pronounced grimace.

Albus looked around the table again and saw the looks of fear and revulsion as Order members contemplated what it would mean for Fenrir Greyback's horde of ravenous and fanatical werewolves to be unleashed upon the masses. He quite agreed with their assessment.

Albus took Remus' fidgeting as his cue to speak. "Well thank you, Remus. We all understand how difficult it is to obtain any reliable information at all from the werewolf packs and appreciate whatever information you are able to gather, as well as the danger your presence invites."

He popped another lemon drop.

"What news from the Ministry?"

Several dejected looks met his gaze and Albus held a sigh.

Really, he chastised himself, I should have eased into that more.

"Kingsley, what's going on in the Auror Department?"

Apparently that was the wrong question, because the usually calm Auror Sergeant practically growled. "Well Dumbledore," he intoned in his deep voice, "the Minister is cutting our funding by a quarter, as I'm sure you saw in the budget proposal for the new year, which means that there will be no overtime pay, no raises, no special compensation, and no new equipment. Much of that money is being used for 'Ministry renovations and special projects,' which I suppose is a euphemism for graft." Kingsley heaved a deep sigh and exhaled.

Oh what have you done now, Cornelius, you idiotic man?!

"It will be announced next week that staffing positions are going to be cut to make up for the budget cuts." He paused.

A pause is never good.

"Probably one half of the Aurors with twenty years or more of experience are going to be forced into retirement"—immediately people started demanding to know what was wrong with the Minister, and if Albus was sure the pompous dolt wasn't Imperiused—"and no new Aurors will be recruited for the foreseeable future. Similar cutbacks are working their way through the Hit Wizard force as well. The Magical Law Enforcement squad is really too disorganized to say what's going there."

Kingsley raised his voice to be heard over the ruckus. "But all this is nothing on the new regulations being steamrolled through the Wizengamot that restrict DMLE operational guidelines and investigative purviews. Essentially, the DMLE's capabilities and personnel are being gutted, and I do not think I am exaggerating too much when I say that Hogwarts prefects will soon rival Aurors in terms of the power their positions grant them."

Silence.

Kingsley continued after a moment, and seemed to know that not even his soothing bass voice could make his report any less grating on people's ears. "Honestly, it feels like we've lost the war before it has even truly begun."

Albus closed his eyes and tried to remember a time when his life was easier, but couldn't get past how hopeless their current situation seemed. All the support he had built since Voldemort's downfall had crumbled like a cookie in warm milk. It was truly gut-wrenching. Opening his eyes, he realized that he was being watched by the entire room.

Such is the burden of leadership.

But before Albus could speak, the fireplace chimed, and a head appeared. Arabella Figg had come to call. His heart skipped several beats.

Oh no, Harry!

"Albus! Albus! Come quick, help! Dementors attacked Harry and his cousin!"

hg

Feeling absolutely miserable not for the first time since his summer holiday began, Harry Potter sat on the floor leaning against his bed, glaring at the far wall. As a young child Harry had often taken to brooding while he was locked in his dark and dreary cupboard for one reason or another—it helped pass the time certainly—but lately, Harry's brooding had taken on a rather dark edge.

After all, one does not normally consider how much longer there is until a Dark Lord comes knocking and puts you out of your misery. Truly, Harry had never met another person until Sirius who had such a terribly unfair life as him. But really, Harry had come to understand a long time ago that if a situation seems fair, you just don't really understand it. And Harry thought he understood his life rather well—it sucked.

Harry's stomach growled. It was normal for him to go a day or so without food at Number 4, so he wasn't much bothered by the aches of hunger that usually roiled through his stomach. And now that he had a secret stash of food as well as a loyal worker who could use magic freely, there was no reason for him to go hungry. And that was currently the problem. He had eaten without thinking, and now he had to use to loo. Except that there were nine locks between him and relief, and certainly his relatives had no intention of letting him out of his room anytime soon.

Fuck.

Maybe he'd get lucky and someone would make a mess of dinner and he'd get to clean it up.

"Or maybe," he chuckled ruefully, "we'll finally be one big happy Dursley family." Harry snorted. "Yeah, like that's ever gonna happen."

So he was pretty much screwed unless he somehow managed to Apparate into the bathroom. Unfortunately for him, he had to wait until his seventeenth birthday to pass his test at the Ministry. And he didn't even have the twins' skill in picking locks to fall back on—Harry was much more adept at blowing doors apart than he was at bypassing their security. How he wished he could use magic; his life would be so much easier when he was no longer forced to spend summers locked up in his awful room at Number 4.

Harry froze. "Ugh! How could I be so stupid?!" he growled. "Dobby!"

Pop.

"Master Harry Potter called for Dobby, sir?" Dobby asked in his high-pitched voice.

Harry sighed in relief. "Hi Dobby. Think you can unlock my bedroom door for me?" he asked hopefully.

If Dobby's smile was any indication of things to come, life was suddenly looking up for Harry Potter.

"Oh of course Dobby can be doing that, sir!" He snapped his fingers and metal clacked. "It is being done now, Harry Potter," he proclaimed happily.

Harry grinned. "Excellent Dobby. Just hang out here and I'll be right back. We have things to discuss."

gh

Harry Potter was angry. Again.

"Stupid Dursleys."

Indeed, the Dursleys were very much to blame for his current predicament, but not entirely so. Maybe. He supposed that, in some insane way, Harry himself could be partly to blame for being banned from the house until he learned to control his urges and 'stop all that freakishness.' Well, it's not like he didn't try—that he hadn't always tried.

At least Dobby got away.

And how was he supposed to know that he'd be caught coming out of the bathroom? It just wasn't like Vernon at all to finish dinner early. And yet, he did, and Harry was now exiled to the derelict playground on Wisteria Walk, less than half a mile from Number 4.

The sun had only just fallen below the horizon by the time Harry had ambled his way to the park, so he figured it was close to eight in the evening. He sat on the only swing that had survived Dudley's and his gang's vandalism and contemplated his situation, figuring that, as birthdays go, this one was not the worst he ever had. True, instead of being happy and celebrating with his godfather, he had actually said terrible things to him while he was locked in his miserable room. And his Uncle Vernon lost his temper on him. But really, it's not like he hadn't been dealing with any that since he could ever remember. Well, okay, so Sirius had only recently come back into his life, but it's not like they hadn't had their rough patches. Harry did almost kill him two years ago, after all. Right before he saved his soul from being eaten by a hundred Dementors.

Ugh!

Raucous laughter in the distance caught Harry's attention. Passing under a streetlamp was Dudley and his gang of brutes and sycophants. They had grown up terrorizing the children of Little Whinging, all the while skirting bobbies and recrimination from parents.

If Muggles could be Death Eaters, Harry sniped.

Then his swing squeaked, and drew the gazes of the other teens.

Well damn.

Immediately, Harry began checking his surroundings for an escape route that would get him back to Number 4 the quickest, and was dismayed when he realized the way was blocked by some of his childhood tormentors.

Harry stood and tried to calm his breathing—it wouldn't do him any good to lose his head before the coming confrontation. That was how he usually made it through such things, after all, keeping himself calm and riling up his enemies—from the various incarnations of Voldemort he'd faced to the school bullies, namely Snape and Malfoy and his cronies.

Hopefully the insults won't be too smart for Dudley and his gang to understand.

"Oi, Potter! W-whatchu doin' ova there?" one of them yelled, probably Malcolm, if the slight stutter on the w was anything to go by.

"What else is he gonna do? He doesn't have any friends—he's a freak!"

Ah, Dudley; as eloquent as always.

"Ha! Yeah, what a loser."

Piers.

"What's up, Pothead? Haven't seen you around." The rat-like Piers had a strange look in his eye that Harry hadn't seen before. And so did the others. It made him worry. "What do you think fellas, he been up to no good?"

I solemnly swear…

Unfortunately, the other boys caught Harry's smile and leapt at the chance.

Dudley got there first. "You should hear him, moaning in his sleep at night." That statement brought Harry up short.

What?

Like a hound on a hunt, Dudley smelled blood and went for the kill. "'Don't kill Cedric! Don't kill Cedric! Help me, mum. Help me!'" he taunted pathetically.

Harry was shaking with rage.

How dare they?

But before he could respond…

Dennis let loose a cackle. "Who's Cedric? Your boyfriend? Get tired of fuckin you, did he?" The others found that remark particularly witty, apparently. Not that Harry noticed.

Dudley smirked in triumph as his gang wrecked Harry's heart, but he missed entirely the rage boiling behind his cousin's emerald eyes.

"And wha' was tha' aboud 'is mum?" asked Gordon, hands-down the most brutal of the group. "'e's moanin' after 'is mum? I know she's a whore but—Hell, I guess she's lucky she's dead if that's the kinda freaky son she…." Gordon stopped talking abruptly, his breath caught in his throat from fear.

Standing across from Dudley's gang was a truly enraged Harry Potter. Eldritch fire burned behind his eyes—his mother's eyes—and a faint smell of ozone lingered in the air. He heard his mother's voice calling in the back of his head. Harry's hand shot to his pocket and he withdrew his Holly and Phoenix wand as his mother's voice got louder. He gave no thought to the Statute of Secrecy—only revenge was on his mind.

Revenge for years of brutal torment, and for daring even to speak of his mother and Cedric. Harry was filled with a righteous anger—it was calling for him to dispense justice of the kind which he had long ago stopped hoping for. Harry was happy to give his rage an outlet. And Harry raised his wand to curse the awful boys who were so deserving of their punishment, but stopped abruptly.

His mother's voice? What?

The hair on the back of Harry's neck stood up as an all-too-familiar shiver went down his spine.

Dementors.

The wind picked up and an unnatural chill blanketed Little Whinging, and darkness blotted out the stars, and all that was left was blackness, illuminated by flickering streetlamps. Not one of the boys was feeling any of the hot tension that thickened the air a minute ago—no, something had changed, but only Harry knew what was happening. What was coming.

Forgetting about cursing Dudley and his gang, Harry began searching for any sign of the Dementors coming for him out of the darkness, but he couldn't see anything.

Damn.

Giving up his brief search as hopeless, Harry did the only thing he could do.

"Dudley! Run!"

Apparently Dudley didn't need to be told twice, nor did the rest of his quivering gang, and all six boys sprinted for shelter.

Jumping over the rusty see-saw, Harry looked to his left and saw three boys split from the main group once they past the short chain-link fence as they headed toward Magnolia Road without looking back. Harry sneered.

Some friends.

Harry, Dudley, and Piers continued running down the street, trying to escape the encroaching cold, and made for the alley that would bring them to Wisteria Walk; it was short-cut to Privet Drive that might save their souls.

Harry tried to ignore the feeling of cold water running all over his body that was steadily weakening his muscles, and his mother's last words screaming in his head as he trudged on—easily the fastest of the three boys—but was brought about when he heard a thud behind him. Sliding against the rough pavement as he came to a sudden stop, Harry turned his body to glance back, and his stomach dropped. Dudley had fallen. Harry looked at Piers who also had stopped, and saw his face, it was milky white, abject fear seemed to have nestled in his wild eyes, and tears streamed down his face; Harry didn't have a good feeling about what was about to happen.

"Piers—"

"Screw you, Potter!" he screamed, and continued running home, leaving Harry and Dudley behind.

Harry knew he was running out of time, but—

"Dudley!" Harry ran over to his convulsing cousin. His face and shirt were covered in sick, and he moaned like an inferius. Harry had never seen anything quite like it. Coming out of his momentary stupor, Harry looked around for a threat; the cold was sharp enough that the Dementors had to be near, almost right on top of them. Harry swiveled his head around, but it was too difficult to make out any definitive shapes in the night, and went to help his cousin—there!

Looming in the distance, closing in on them, were four Dementors. The demons glided along the street, taking deep, rattling breaths that grew louder as they approached their prey. Harry was running out of time. He shouted at his cousin, tried to pick up his great bulk—and fell promptly when Dudley tackled him.

Dudley was in a blind panic. "What're you doing, freak?! Stop it! Stop it!" he cried, all the while pummeling Harry's face with his meaty fists.

Harry couldn't do anything with Dudley's massive bulk on top of him, and the Dementors were closing in. He had to act—

"Stupefy!" Harry cried, and almost regretted it quite a bit when Dudley fell on top of him, unconscious.

"Argh!" he groaned under the strain as he hefted the waste of space off of him. Harry looked to the Dementors.

"Shit." Harry reared his wand on his cousin for a second time.

"Mobilicorpus!" Dudley's body floated next to Harry as he ran for the Alley, hoping desperately that he could get back to Number 4 with his soul still in him.

The alley was teeming with over-full garbage cans, certainly not a good thing to have during a heat-wave, but Harry paid it no mind until the overpowering smell of rotten meats and his own fear-induced nausea became too much for him by the time he was halfway down the alley. He couldn't help it; Harry vomited. Dudley's unconscious body dropped as Harry lost his concentration. Harry's stomach heaved again, and he slipped on sludge that was oozing out of one of the tin cans.

His wand flew from his grip as he landed painfully on his back.

Harry scrambled to his feet, keenly aware of the direness of the situation. He looked down the alley and saw the Dementors closing in. And for the first time in his memory, Harry's fear took over his impulse control momentarily and he turned his back on his enemy—his worst fear—and he made to flee…only to stop dead in his tracks when, to his horror, he saw two more Dementors gliding down from the other end of the alley, cutting off his escape. He was trapped.

But he wasn't Harry Potter for nothing.

Harry dove in the direction he thought his wand had fallen and clawed away at the trash desperately, searching for any hint of a long, skinny piece of Holly wood. His mother Lily's voice still crying, pleading in his mind: "Not Harry! Not Harry!"

"Dammit!" he yelled. "Lumos!" Nothing. High-pitched laughter sounded off the inner walls of his skull—Voldemort's.

"Stand aside, silly girl."

The rattling breaths drew closer.

"Kill the spare."

His desperation ratcheted up. Harry would not die listening to that monster's cold laughs. But all his happy thoughts had long-since gone…

He could hear the high rattling breaths of the Dementors—they were just feet away, their hands reaching out to grab him, to Kiss—

"Lumos!" And there, just in front of his right knee, lay his wand, shining brightly against the blackness. Harry grabbed it and closed his eyes.

He was ready.

"Lumos Maxima!" he yelled as he backed up into high wooden fence, trying to put some distance between him and the Dementors. Trash bins were everywhere, and the exits were blocked, and just to his right lay Dudley, still unconscious and as pale as any Hogwarts ghost. It was just as well—this was a wizard's battle, now.

But it was so cold.

"Incendio!" Flame shot forth from Harry's wand and sprayed the four Dementors to his right with scorching fire, making them screech, and serving to keep at bay the biting frost that was attacking his mind relentlessly—trying to drown it.

"Incendio!" The two Dementors to his left were doused with Harry's rage. It wasn't enough though—they were still coming at him, and Harry was faltering.

"Expecto Patronum!" he intoned, but nothing more than silver wisps left his wand.

Where's Prongs?!

The Dementors moved closer, no longer beset by fire, and Harry's mother's screams got louder as his vision darkened. His mother—who died for him, who loved him so much…

His eyes lit up. "Expecto Patronum!"

And then at last came Prongs—brilliant and huge and powerful—and like a ferocious beast he charged down the Dementors as they fled from his magnificence. He was too much for these demons—they stood no chance when confronted with his and Harry's powers. Against his antlers the Dementors balked and shrieked, and were helpless as they were trampled and thrown about like so many raggedy dolls. He reared and sped down the alley toward where the last two were desperately trying to escape—he was not one to avoid a fight—and he charged them down, heedless of their terrified cries. And as Prongs did his work, the night cleared, Harry's mother's voice stopped calling out and begging the Dark Lord to spare her child, the unnatural chill lifted, and Harry fell to his knees, utterly spent.

His job done, Prongs returned to Harry and bent his head in a silent salute before shimmering away as if carried by a wind.

Harry took a deep, shuddering breath as he tried to clear his head.

Dementors! In Little Whinging!

He didn't understand what the hell was going on, but he did know he used magic, a lot of magic, and that spelled trouble for him.

"Fuck."

But before Harry could move to get his cousin up from the alley floor, a rattling noise came around the corner of Magnolia Crescent. He spun, wand at the ready, about to summon his Patronus again, only to stash it hurriedly in his pocket when he saw his old sitter—the crazy old cat lady, Mrs. Figg.

"Don't put away your wand, Harry," she pled, "they might come back."