Chapter 8: Forging the Spear

1

While Harry Potter was just awaking for his momentous trip to London on the Hogwarts Express, an old man located in New York City, who was far older than anyone else on the planet, was in a hospital bed in his living room, awaiting the end of his life. The end was nigh, and he was glad.

He had lived a rich, full life after being released in May of 1942. Sixty long years with the woman he loved, sixty years of just enjoying life, with no pressures from cosmic sources, no fires to start or put out. Damn near idyllic. And now it was over. Of course, the past year hadn't been all that idyllic-had, in fact, been almost pure torture- but he still wouldn't have traded it for anything.

The only relic of his past extant now was the sword hilt, that sword which had been with him since time immemorial. After it was over, the hilt had transmuted into iron from gold and silver. It was now wrapped in an old bed sheet in the linen closet down the hall. Some part of him just couldn't give it up, not after all they had gone through together.

Then last year everything started going to hell.

She had begun to decline, her brain eaten up by Alzheimer's disease. Of all the things in his long, long life, that was the thing he regretted most. To watch his beautiful Magda warp from the lovely Romanian girl into this … this shrewish harpy who didn't even remember him from day to day … well, that was hard.

Her mind was a chaotic stew of half-formed delusions, crazy, short-lived prejudices and paranoid fantasies. They flared in the dimness of more rational cogitation, like malignant bottle rockets spewing poisonous gas. They only lasted a short while, but she fully believed every delusion or paranoid raving that she spouted. Every cutting word she spoke was fully believed, and then forgotten again shortly thereafter.

The old man closed his eyes as he lay in his silent penthouse apartment and remembered how Magda used to be, back when they had first met: Her long, lustrous hair, her pale skin, her wide luminous eyes. Even after her beauty had faded, she was still Magda the poet, the scholar, the musician, with her passion for art, music, and literature. Her book, Songs of the Rom, a compendium of Romanian Gypsy music, was still in print and graced the shelves of many of the world's finer bookstores.

Then a year ago she had begun to disappear, replaced by the querulous, mad, and often incoherent stranger.

Watching her slip away relentlessly into the murkiness of Alzheimer's had been harder than just about anything he had ever faced, including the Adversary. Down she went, into vacuity, then into infancy, until, finally, she just slipped away one night, probably without even remembering that she had even lived.

The Adversary- in theory, anyhow- could be beaten. Not so this disease. No cure, no hope. Perhaps, in the old days, when knowledge of such things was greater, but no longer. He himself had never much dabbled in the sciences, being a creature of steel and tactics.

In any case, it was all moot now. Magda had passed away the previous week, and he would soon follow.

Thankfully, it was a peaceful death. One of the very few he had seen in his life. No screaming or bloody frothing at the mouth, no beheadings. She just went to sleep the previous Thursday and never woke up.

He had not been able to cry at her funeral. It was attended by only himself, the private nurse he had hired to help care for both of them, and the doorman of their building, and he had stood there, leaning on his cane, dry eyed, but full of hurt.

Now he, himself, after nearly fifteen thousand years, was on his last breaths. In the end, it had been cancer which had gotten him: Lung cancer. And lately; kidney failure - and of course, the inevitable arthritis. He was on pain killers almost all the time now. He had refused chemotherapy, having seen too many people wither up and die on it to be completely comfortable with the concept. He had lived long enough. It was time to move on.

Lately, though, he had been afflicted with an odd malaise, reminders of old nightmares and old wounds. Something seemed to be off in his world, aside from the physical maladies and the grief caused by the loss of his wife. But what, he couldn't say.

He was calling himself Mr Veilleur these days- Gaston Veilleur- and he had purchased an apartment building in New York City, living in the penthouse suite. Money was no problem, after all. He had a great deal of gold, which he could easily melt down and sell. Tonight, however, he could not sleep. Something was wrong. Something that should be over but wasn't. It wasn't the first time he'd had these feelings, but they had become more and more pronounced since the previous summer.

Mr Veilleur frowned into the dimness of his living room and shifted creakily in his hospital bed. Whatever was wrong would have to sort itself out. He couldn't do anything about it anymore. He was almost dead, husked out and dried up and put away wet. He had done his time.

He was just about to drift to sleep on a comforting cloud of Morphine when light caught his eye. Light from a place it shouldn't be coming from … A bluish glow from down the hall.

Reflexes dulled by painkillers, Mr Veilleur eased himself carefully into his wheelchair, as though he were a Ming vase and rolled down the hall to the linen closet.

He knew what was here, and his old heart sank in despair.

The light was coming from the bottom shelf, buried in the piles of sheets and blankets. Blue-white radiance was flowing out, seeming to chill the very air with its eerie effulgence.

Reaching into the pile of cloth, Mr Veilleur pulled all the sheets and blankets out, and slammed his hands over his eyes as the radiance lanced into his brain.

Then the brilliance faded down to a dimmer light.

Reaching carefully in, he took out what looked to be a huge iron cross. He gripped it with easy familiarity in his old, wrinkled hands. It wasn't a cross, but a sword hilt. He lifted it and held onto the lower crosspiece with both hands. Once it had been gold and silver, but after serving its purpose, it had changed to iron … Glowing iron.

The metal was still pulsing with blue-white radiance.

Then it died completely. What was happening?

Mr Veilleur stared at the dull grey surface of the cross. Watched it change yet again. The metal grew porous. Fine cracks started appearing in it, until suddenly it turned into coarse powder which ran through his old gnarled hands like grains of sand.

Something had happened something had gone wrong … But what?

Feeling very unnerved, Mr Veilleur sat in his wheelchair, suddenly very aware of how quiet the world had become. The only sound was a faint echo of cold laughter.

He was about to roll down the hall and climb back into bed, when a sharp pain shot down his left arm. So this is how it ends, he thought bitterly, as his breathing locked up. Let somebody else carry the mantle, I yield it at last. May the gods have mercy on your soul, whoever you are.

And then Mr Veilleur, known to a few as the Sentinel, to others as the Guardian, or the Defender, the man formerly known as Glaeken, who his wife knew as Glenn, passed away into the blackness.

2

Harry was having one of his headaches.

He cursed silently to himself as another wave of agony tore through his head. Why did it pick now, of all times, to flare up? His head buzzed and snarled, like a horde of hungry rats with jackboots on their paws. No, even worse than that; it felt as though Dudley and his gang, all pumped up on speed, were rattling around in his skull with cricket bats. Every noise was amplified. The mellow lantern light on the train flared into white sheets of horrible, coruscating brightness, even when he closed his eyes, and his stomach churned with barely suppressed nausea. This was one of the worst headaches he'd experienced since leaving the hospital. Why now of all times?

It felt different than his other headaches too. Normally, he would feel a few hard stabs of pain behind his forehead, above his eyebrow, and he would become a little dozy for a while, and be very sensitive to light. A few hours in the dark cocoon of his bed usually did the trick, and he would be right as rain.

This was completely different. It literally did feel like something was trying to get out of his head.

Or to get in, which was even more disturbing.

Worse, the train ride was only just starting. They had another seven hours to go before they arrived at King's Cross. Seven hours of torture.

Harry had not heard of Imitrex inhalers until a solicitous Hermione, who was fussing over him with a wet cloth, mentioned them to Susan, who was holding his other hand. He did not know that some of the symptoms could've possibly been alleviated with Muggle remedies. The wizarding world could cure the common cold, regrow bones overnight and give you working, prosthetic eyeballs, but it could not deal reliably with migraines. Something was wrong with this picture.

Hermione had changed her mind and had signed up during the last call for those going home for the holidays. In typical Hermione fashion, she did not want to wait two whole weeks for information, so she was going with Harry and Susan to the latter's home.

Ron was sitting on the other side of the compartment, looking worried. Both he and Susan had seen him when he had a headache, but not like this. As a fresh snarl of pain shot through his head, Harry moaned and scrunched his eyes shut.

"This is awful," Susan said, watching her friend's white face with its scrunched up eyes.

"Maybe he should've stayed at Hogwarts," Hermione said, sponging Harry's forehead, which streamed with cold sweat. "Madam Pomfrey could've helped him more…"

"I've never seen him like this," Susan fretted. "Usually it's over in a few hours and he's right as rain, but this has been going on for two hours with no let up."

"He's had headaches before?" Hermione asked.

"Yeah, but nothing like this," Ron piped up. "This is something new."

Harry was only vaguely aware of the conversation, which was being held in hushed tones. He was trying to fight through the headache, because he needed to be at his sharpest for what was coming at the end of this train ride. And something was bothering him about the headache itself.

He had woken up with a bad feeling that morning, a sense that something was bound to go wrong. Harry usually felt that way about a lot of things, however, and he couldn't tell if this one was something new or just his usual pessimism.

Nevertheless, Harry double checked with Richard, through the notebooks, that arrangements had been made for Aurors to be present on the platform. Richard had reassured him that, indeed, there was a team ready to be dispatched forthwith, and to "relax and let us handle things."

Harry was also informed that his godfather had been rescued. Croaker had gone to see Amelia, telling her that they had a good chance to catch a criminal hiding as an illegal animagus on Platform Nine and Three-Quarters after the Hogwarts Express pulled in. He did not tell her that the criminal they hoped to capture was Peter Pettigrew; he felt that trying to convince her would take too much time and might not work anyway. It was best to let her find out for herself. Seeing is believing, after all.

Remus Lupin had also promised to be there; he would be taking the Knight Bus later, as he had final papers to grade.

Things had been fine until Harry had started packing for the trip home, or rather, to the Bone Yard, which was where he was calling home until more permanent arrangements could be made. The headache had sprung up without warning. At first, only a few, sudden stabs of pain, like usual. No big deal, he had gone through this before. Everything would be okay. He would just pull the shades on his compartment and hide all through the trip. No problem.

But then, as the carriages had clattered into Hogsmeade, the pain in his head increased. And by the time the train had gone twenty miles, it was unbearable. It felt like something trying to get out of his head … Or into it.

Yes, Harry realized, definitely trying to get in.

He had sunk into his meditative state; a feat made increasingly difficult as the miles wore on, shutting out the waves of pain, the nausea, the light in the compartment and the sounds of his friends' voices. Everything finally shrunk down until he alone remained, floating in the void of his mind.

And, in the silent, formless darkness, he saw it.

A pulsing light, shining in the void … right where his scar used to be … Trying to get in…

The sight of it made him afraid, the way the unknown had always made man afraid since he could walk upright and huddle over his tiny fires, whimpering at the sounds in the night as the beasts howled in the darkness.

Now, in his own internal darkness, Harry was afraid. There was something about that light pulsing out there in the void between thoughts that represented a threat to him. What the exact nature of that threat was he didn't know, but he knew it was there, the way he knew his right hand was there.

The light was chipping steadily away at the barrier between him and the outside world, demanding entrance, like a conquering army outside a castle. And he didn't want to let it in, not at all.

Desperately, he repeated the mantra he had learned while in the hospital, when he was first studying Occlumency and had to come to terms with everything that had happened to him.

"I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain."

He repeated this to himself three times and felt himself grow calmer … more steady. It had worked, the way it always did.

But before he could muster up any kind of a defence against the light trying to get into his head from wherever, the light suddenly grew brighter, blindingly bright, like a small supernova. It pummelled its way into his head like a bulldozer through a Papier Mache building, and lodged into the blank spot in his mind where the scar used to be. Harry was knocked, screaming, into the void of unconsciousness.

# # #

Susan, who was sitting with Harry's head in her lap, saw his face suddenly go slack. There was a sudden feeling of power in the compartment, the way the air feels just before a big electrical storm. Feeling unaccountably nervous, Susan peeled back Harry's right eyelid gently, and saw that his green eye was rolled up in his head, showing only white.

"Oh no," she said, looking frantically up at Ron and Hermione. "He's unconscious now."

"Maybe I better go see the conductor," Hermione fretted, rising and heading for the door.

Before her hand could touch the door knob, Harry sat up suddenly, startling Susan into a muffled shriek.

"I'm okay now," Harry said, rising smoothly from his position in Susan's lap and shooting her a smile. Susan noticed, with a sense of unease, that Harry was different somehow. For one thing, the face looking back at her had no sign of the headache upon it. It was as though he'd made a complete recovery in a matter of minutes. Fast enough to be a little alarming, anyway. And for another … well … she wouldn't go as far as to say that it was an older man looking out of his young face, but what she was feeling wasn't far from that, either. It was still Harry, but something was new.

"What happened?" Hermione asked, beating Susan to the question.

"Tell you later. No time now," Harry said, moving restlessly to the window and peering outside. They had moved, by this time, into the outskirts of London, and were only about half an hour from King's Cross.

"But-"

"Never mind. We don't have time to get into all of it now," Harry said, cutting off Hermione, who looked miffed. "Everybody," he said shortly to the rest, "into Muggle clothes."

Harry's curt tone of command looked as though it upset Hermione even more, but looking at the set, determined expression on Harry's face made her snap her mouth shut and head off with Susan for the loo.

Ron didn't argue either, once he really got a good look at Harry's expression. He didn't know what was up, but he was sure something was afoot; and he trusted his friend to tell him what it was.

The guy didn't look to be in much of a forthcoming mood, however; he was pacing around the compartment, looking out the windows on each side like he was expecting something to leap out of the wintry daylight and snatch at them. Ron thought, as he pulled on his worn Muggle jacket, that Harry looked about as jumpy as Scabbers in a room full of hungry cats and no door.

Scabbers was settled in his pocket now, still asleep, the lazy thing. And Harry kept pacing.

"Sit down before you have a haemorrhage," Ron advised. "We're going to be there soon."

Harry shot him a glance, but continued watching the windows. The feeling that something was about to go wrong had increased. Combined with the blank spot in his memory after he had been knocked out by whatever that light was; Harry was more on edge that Ron could've guessed. His nerves hummed like guitar strings wound up three octaves beyond their normal pitch.

Something had happened to him earlier. Something

(May the gods have mercy on your soul)

he couldn't remember. But whatever it was

(I yield the mantle at last)

couldn't be good. His head didn't hurt anymore; it was as though a switch had been turned off in there. It felt peculiar still, however, in a way he could not quite define, as though something had been added.

At the moment, he did not have time to delve too deeply into the fundamental changes which had taken place in him. They were now approaching the station, visible now through the smog that comprised London's atmosphere. Harry needed to alert Hermione and Susan to what was coming, without alerting Ron, and by extension Pettigrew.

"I'll be right back. Need to go check something. Stay here and hold down the fort in case Malfoy or one of his buddies decides to come rifle our trunks," Harry said to Ron, heading for the compartment door. It was a flimsy excuse, but the best thing he could come up with for getting his friend to stay behind on short notice.

"All right, mate, but don't be too long. We're almost there," Ron said, packing his Quidditch magazine into his trunk.

"Right," Harry said, somewhat distracted.

He met the girls coming toward the compartment, both now wearing Muggle jeans and jumpers. Quickly, he took both their arms and shepherded them toward the back of the train, which held a baggage car.

"Harry?" Hermione asked, looking at him, puzzled.

"I need to speak to you both, now," Harry said. "In about fifteen minutes we'll pull into the platform, and there are going to be Aurors there waiting for us. They are here to catch Peter Pettigrew, who has been hiding as Scabbers the rat for the past decade or so. Ron can't know this, because he keeps that thing with him wherever he goes. I need you to stay out of the way and don't interfere, okay?"

"Harry," Susan said, looking at him as though he were a little slow, "Sirius Black killed Peter Pettigrew. Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Now listen to me, we don't have much time. I want you two to come out behind me and off to the side. Ron is going to be in front of me, facing the Aurors, and we need to stay out of their way and any blast zone."

"Blast zone? Don't you think you're being a little paranoid?" Hermione asked.

"Hermione, we don't have time. This isn't going off to deal with a discorporated spirit like we did last year. There's real danger here and I need for you to follow my instructions. Now can I count on you?"

"I guess so," Hermione said, shooting him a somewhat frightened look.

Harry felt as though he was floating along in a glass ball of utter calm, watching things from a distance. Still, the sense of impending disaster loomed large on his internal horizon, like a hurricane. He felt helpless to stop it though, like he was merely along for the ride, as though things were preordained. And where the hell had that word, 'discorporated', come from? He'd never heard that word in his life.

Before they could go any farther the train began to slow down. Harry felt the urgency level rise a bit.

"Now," he said, grabbing the girls' arms and leading them toward their compartment. "Let's go."

# # #

When they got back to the compartment, Ron was double checking everything in his trunk was present and accounted for. Satisfied, he lined up all their trunks on the rack, ready to go. Harry tapped his with his wand and shrunk it, as did Susan (she had smacked herself on the forehead when Harry pointed out the obviousness of shrinking the trunk so they wouldn't have to deal with hauling them through the station.) Harry didn't know the time delay spells, so he couldn't do Hermione's trunk too. Of course, she did know them, and shrunk hers, tucking it into her pocket and muttering about the unfairness dealt out to all the Muggle-borns.

Harry sighed. He had hoped Hermione would begin to start thinking more instead of just going off on a wild rant about things which she had little understanding of, but no such luck. Perhaps he could sit her down with Godfrey over the holidays and have him explain things to her. No time for it now though; they had to move.

"What's with you, Harry?" Ron asked, as they joined the press of students in the hallway, shouting to be heard over the roar.

Harry gave him a distracted smile, still floating along in that ball of detachment. "Just glad this term's over, is all," he said, moving aside to let a pack of seventh years squeeze by.

Harry felt a steel wire twisting around his guts, making the feeling of expectant catastrophe stronger. This was insane. Why hadn't he suggested they catch Pettigrew at Ron's house, where the possibility of collateral damage was severely lessened? The man had been hiding out for over a decade already, so there was no real urgency about it. They could've set a better trap than this.

It was too late now. They were in the queue heading for the platform, Ron in front of Harry, Hermione and Susan just behind each of Harry's shoulders. They were jostled about in the crowd, buffeted by laughing, shouting students eager to get home for Christmas. Tales of presents they wished to receive and- in the case of the Muggle-borns - football matches they wanted to watch echoed around the train corridors, melding with the clatter of trunks, the rattle of wheels, the howling of outraged cats and the hooting of irritated owls into an ear splitting cacophony perhaps found nowhere else but the Hogwarts Express.

And then finally they were out on the platform.

3

Later, Harry Potter told himself, over and over, that there was nothing he could've done to prevent the death of Hermione Granger. Events had transpired in such a disintegrating cascade of chaos that there was little anyone could've done to prevent the almost foregone conclusion.

When they emerged onto the platform, Harry noticed, with approval, the presence of four Aurors. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Amelia were there, with two Aurors he didn't know. Both pairs were stationed on the opposite side of the entrance leading into King's Cross.

Shacklebolt saw Harry and waved discretely. Harry nodded back and waved to the girls behind him. They spread out into the crowd, just as he had asked them to do. Now, for some delaying tactics.

Drawing his wand behind Ron, Harry sent a mild tripping jinx at his friend. Ron sprawled out on the platform, his trunk shooting out of his other jacket pocket. Harry sent a finite at it, causing it to expand and spill everywhere.

Laughter rang out from those in the immediate area, causing Ron's ears to go violently red.

"Well, with feet that size, you shouldn't be surprised," Draco Malfoy snickered from nearby.

"You're a lousy poet, Malfoy," Harry said.

Malfoy looked caught on the hop for a second, then snickered. "Yeah, I guess I am, but he's still funny," he said, pointing toward Ron, who was now scrambling about, ears still dangerously crimson. He was trying, with little success, to scoop everything back into his trunk neatly, but only succeeding in making a bigger mess.

"Get outa here, Malfoy. Don't you have a silver spoon to polish?" Harry said, taking a step toward him.

Malfoy sneered in his usual condescending way. "Very witty, Potter. I suppose-"

"Now, now, Draco, you should know better than to rise to people such as these," came a drawling voice that could only originate with Draco's father. He was identical to Draco in every respect, right down to the way they parted their too-coiffed hair. Or, more accurately, Draco was identical to his father.

The elder Malfoy put his hand on his son's shoulder and gave a chilly smile to Harry. "So glad to see you up and about, Mr Potter," he said, although his eyes said otherwise. "We were all worried after your, ah, unfortunate … accident."

"Thank you for your concern, Mr Malfoy," Harry said, imitating the man's frosty tone. "The reports of my death were greatly exaggerated, I assure you."

The remark sailed right over the head of the pure-blood. "Splendid," Malfoy lied. "Well, we must be off. Come along, Draco, Vincent, Gregory." And he led the three of them toward the barrier. Draco sent a last smirk over his shoulder at the still scrambling Ron and followed.

"Stupid bloody shoes," Ron muttered, rising with his trunk once again packed. "Let's get out of here."

The crowd on the platform had thinned out considerably- there were only about a dozen people left, including the twins, Ginny, Percy, Harry's group and the Aurors- so Harry stepped away from Ron to allow the Aurors to do their work.

"What's going on?" Fred asked, eyeing the red-robed Aurors and Amelia with a worried expression.

Ginny moved closer to Percy, who put a protective arm around her shoulder. "I'm sure they're not here for us," Harry heard him say, before things started going wrong.

Shacklebolt stepped forward, blocking their path and looking like the proverbial immovable object. "Ronald Weasley, you have in your possession a rat, is this correct?" he rumbled.

"Er, yeah. Scabbers … he's been in the family for years."

Ron reached into his pocket and pulled out the bedraggled looking rat. "He's not been looking too well recently."

Shacklebolt's eyebrows rose in search of the Lost City of Hair as he beheld the rat. Faster than Harry could follow, his wand was in hand and a spell hit the rat, causing him to glow blue.

"This isn't a rat, Mr Weasley, it's-"

But before he could continue, the rat was suddenly transformed into a man. It was like watching a speeded up film of a growing tree. A head shot up from the ground and there in front of them was a ragged man with colourless hair and watery eyes; something of the rat still showed around his nose.

Harry had little time to marvel at this sudden transformation. The man's wand was in hand and a curse speeding toward Hermione faster than he could blink. Harry lunged to knock her out of his path, but his foot slipped on a wet patch of platform and he went down hard, his knee cap smashing with excruciating force on a pebble.

When the spell hit Hermione, she was yanked off her feet toward Pettigrew. The man was breathing hard, his crazy eyes darting everywhere. He looked like a man with nothing to lose. Nobody more dangerous than a guy like that.

"Let me pass," he panted, seizing the squealing Hermione around the throat and jamming his wand into her ear, "or I'll send a blasting curse into this girl's head. I swear I will!"

Hermione's own eyes were wide, full of tears. Her face was the colour of a freshly plucked oyster. The wand was pressing into her ear so hard that her head was forced onto her left shoulder.

One of the Aurors, who up to that point had been leaning against the wall, munching on his fingernails and looking to be mentally out somewhere near the moon, raised his wand and moved forward.

"Don't move!" Amelia barked, grabbing the kid's arm and lowering the wand.

"Smart move," Pettigrew said, beginning to edge toward one of the Apparition points on the platform, arm still locked tight around Hermione's throat and wand still jammed in her ear. Her face was beginning to purple from oxygen deprivation, and her eyes were more frightened than they had been when going after the Philosopher's Stone. Harry noticed a wet patch begin to spread on the poor girl's jeans. The sight ignited something in him and before he fully realized what he intended to do, his hand was up and pointing at Pettigrew. He did not feel contempt toward Hermione for wetting herself; he felt sheer rage at this … this rat for driving her to it.

A white beam of light speared out from his forefinger and struck the little man dead centre in the ribs.

Pettigrew squealed and his wand loosened from Hermione's ear for just a fraction of a second. That was all that was necessary though. Faster than Harry could follow, Shacklebolt shot a disarming charm at Pettigrew, and Harry sent a light summoning charm at Hermione's shoes, causing her to fall to the platform- and thus safely out of the way. Hermione quickly crawled away, hair hanging in her face, sobbing. Ginny Weasley helped her up and they ran off to one side (one of the first things the Aurors had done was to seal the barrier so nobody could leave.

Pettigrew was fast, too- scary fast. He ducked the disarming charm and shot a purple spell Harry didn't recognize at Shacklebolt. Harry noticed with some satisfaction that he favoured his right side a little more than before.

"Give it up, Pettigrew," Amelia said in her booming official voice. She shot spells at the man, too, but Pettigrew apparently had more than the nose of a rat; he could move like one too. Fred, George and Percy were protecting the girls, while Ron stood next to Harry, looking a little lost. His pet had turned into this raving psychopath, who had just tried to murder one of his friends.

"And have you ship me off to Azkaban? I don't think so," Pettigrew panted, sending curses wildly in every direction, trying to keep everybody pinned down so they couldn't mount a concerted attack against him.

"There's four of us and only one of you, Pettigrew," Shacklebolt said. He sounded unruffled even in the middle of this tense situation. Harry admired him for it. "Eventually we're going to win. It's going to happen, so give it up."

Pettigrew didn't answer, but continued sending random spells in every direction, most of which Harry didn't recognize. Due to the ducking and dodging the Aurors were engaged in, however, he could hazard a guess that their effects wouldn't be pleasant should they hit.

And then, with a cold shock of realization, Harry saw what Pettigrew was up to. He was edging closer and closer to the girls again, keeping the Aurors pinned down on the other side of the platform so that they could not rush to their aid. He discounted Ron and Harry as non-threats; and indeed Ron was just standing there, still looking lost. Fred, George and Percy drew closer together in front of Ginny, Hermione and Susan, readying their wands for use.

Harry, however, was not going to stand idly by. Pulling his wand, he started to try something of which he'd only read about: dual casting. According to the outdated training manuals he'd looked at back at Susan's house, it was possible to train oneself to cast spells from two wands. Such an effort required superior mental discipline and focus, two skills which the average wizard lacked in sufficient quantities to make such an effort worthwhile.

Having only the one wand, however, Harry was taking the concept further by both casting from his wand and his fingers. He had practiced the technique, albeit in a limited manner, over the preceding term, and he put his new skills to work now.

Thus it was a thoroughly surprised Pettigrew who was hit in the back by a low-powered punching curse. He was mere feet from the girls now, and Harry was a little desperate.

Pettigrew spun, raising his wand, only to be struck by another punching curse square on his beady little nose. The nose gushed blood and Pettigrew almost dropped his wand. Unfortunately, the punch knocked him back a few steps- right into the middle of the group comprised of the twins, Percy and the girls.

Events developed with the inevitability of a train wreck. Harry knew what was going to happen, but was powerless to stop it. He couldn't fire curses at Pettigrew without the possibility of hitting his friends, and neither could the Aurors; all they could do was watch in helpless horror.

"Pettigrew!" Amelia called, urgently. She too had spotted what was going to happen. "Don't do it!"

It was this scene that Algernon Croaker suddenly Apparated into. He took in the positions of all the players with a glance, but he was prevented from doing anything by what happened next.

Pettigrew laughed crazily. His eyes glittered. "Fuck you, Bones. The Dark Lord may be gone, but his cause lives on!" And, before anyone could react, he spun and fired a green Killing Curse from point blank range directly at Hermione.

There was an ominous silence that lasted only a split second, but seemed to stretch on into eternity. And then every wand on the platform fired at Pettigrew simultaneously. He transformed into his rat form, however, causing all the various curses to shoot over his head and crash into the barrier separating the platform from Muggle London. The barrier blew outward in a spray of debris, sending commuters scattering in all directions and letting in the sounds of trains and traffic. And of course, Pettigrew disappeared in the melee.

Harry saw his cousin, Richard, standing nearby, only to be struck on the chin by a flying chunk of shrapnel. He disappeared like a conjurer's trick, and Harry hoped he wasn't going to be trampled.

A wail from Susan focused Harry's attention back to the platform. Susan was kneeling over Hermione's body, crying, along with Ginny. Ron looked like he was close to tearing up, too. Harry wasn't; he just felt angry.

There was no time to provide any sort of comfort to his friends. Out in the main station, people were running, screaming, and getting trampled upon. Pettigrew had lost himself in the crowd and was firing destructive curses at kiosks and benches and parts of the floor, causing chaos and allowing him to get closer and closer to the doors out to the street. Amelia and her Aurors, along with Croaker and Harry, tore off after him. Ron, after an anguished glance at Hermione's body, let out a roar and charged along, his face red with rage.

"Harry, Ron - no!" Bones shouted, but they ignored her. This piece of shit had killed their friend and they weren't paying any attention. They ran, neck and neck, through the masses of screaming, yelling and frantically scattering pedestrians, Ron with a homicidal look of fury on his face, and Harry looking coldly enraged. Ahead, they could hear Pettigrew cackling madly, sounding as though he was more than a little unhinged.

Croaker, after being updated on what had just happened on the platform, tore off after them. Aside from catching Pettigrew, there was one other thing that must be accomplished: muffling the witnesses. It had only been fifteen seconds since the barrier blew, so there was time still to prevent anyone in the crowded station from leaving. While in motion, Croaker ran his fingers in a specific sequence over the runes on a wristband he wore, very similar to a Muggle hospital ID bracelet. This activated an emergency distress signal available to Unspeakables in the field. It would sound an alarm in the department's ready room, where there was supposed to be a team on standby twenty-four hours a day. Of course, the emergency response system had not been required since the last war, so things might be a little slack.

The station was in chaos. British transport police officers were trying to manage things, but with little success. Croaker saw one officer run down by a man in a wheelchair, his eyes wide with fright and his cheek dripping blood, apparently cut by a ricochet from a piece of stone.

Croaker lost sight of Pettigrew in the mess, but he heard his mad laughter up ahead, echoing off the glass roof and tile floor, like the sounds one might hear in a drug-induced nightmare. It blended with the sounds of exploding benches and the screams of commuters into a montage from hell. When did things start going so wrong?

Meanwhile, Richard Evans sat up, his head ringing like a bell, a thin trickle of blood running down his chin as though he was a vampire fresh from a banquet. He blinked dazedly- and then everything came back in a rush.

Ignoring the rush of dizziness that resulted, Richard shot to his feet, just in time to avoid being trampled by a mass of tourists, all shouting in birdy Japanese. He had caught just a glimpse of Harry before he was clipped on the chin by that brick. Where was he now?

Richard spun in a circle, trying to spot him. The station looked like an outpost in Iraq or Lebanon. Blasted apart benches, holes into floor, singed pillars … and more than a few still, lifeless bodies. One man had done all this?

But he wasn't just any man, Richard reminded himself, moving through the chaos. He was a wizard- a particularly violent wizard with nothing to lose and only a date with Dementors to gain. Guess I'd do whatever I could to avoid that, too, Richard thought.

There was Harry, running hell bent for leather toward the fleeing form of Pettigrew, dodging in and out of the running commuters like an American football quarterback. He made a flying tackle and struck the ratty little man in the back, sending his wand flying. Pettigrew's chin contacted the station floor with a crack, audible even over the horrendous noise of the panicking commuters. Teeth went flying. A second later, Ron Weasley, who Richard recognized from the descriptions Harry had given him over their nearly two-month correspondence, joined the pile. They instantly began pummelling Pettigrew into a pulp. He was reduced from terrible threat to sobbing, feeble, pathetic wreck in about ten seconds flat.

Richard noticed a team of red-clad wizards appear by the entrance onto Euston Road. One of them whipped out a stone tablet from his robe and did something to it. Richard didn't see anything happen, but a sense of calm overcame all the people in the station. They stopped running about and stood perfectly still. The only sound in the station now was the arrival of a few more trains.

"Tranquilizing wide area runes," said a voice behind Richard. "We use it for situations like this, to avoid too many people running away. After all, we have got to contain this."

Richard turned to see Croaker standing there, looking grim. "Haven't had time to debrief anyone yet, so I don't know what all happened. Pettigrew had apparently killed one of Harry's friends on the platform, and then … this happened," he said, gesturing vaguely at the carnage.

Richard shook his head and looked toward where he had last seen Pettigrew, Ron and Harry. Harry was standing there, with fists clenched, eyeing the little man like a cat eyeing a mouse as two red-robed wizards slapped him in handcuffs. Ron was next to him, still looking murderous, although Richard thought he saw tears in the boy's eyes.

"How the hell did this happen?" Richard wondered.

"We underestimated Pettigrew, that's how. I guess he didn't spend all those years as a rat, because it looks as though he's kept up his training. We'll have to wait until we shove some Veritaserum down his throat before we know for sure, though."

"I'd better go check on Harry," Richard said. "If one of his friends is dead, he'll need all the help he can get."

Croaker nodded. "I'll go and supervise the Obliviators. What a damn mess."

Richard walked toward Harry and Ron, while teams of wizards moved rapidly through the station. There must have been fifty of them, all working very fast, like battle surgeons under an aerial bombardment. They took no more than three or four seconds per person. And in a remarkably short time- Richard guessed about four minutes- the station was restored to normal again. Another team worked rapidly to restore the barrier between Nine and Three-Quarters and the rest of the station.

# # #

Harry watched Shacklebolt slap a Portkey on Pettigrew and send him away to a Ministry holding cell. He was only marginally aware of the frantic activity of the Obliviators and repair teams around him. Now that it was all over, he felt himself growing sleepy and at the same time shaky, like he had taken too much caffeine.

Ron was standing there next to him, looking sick. Harry was about to say something to him, when the lanky boy rushed over to a planter and hurled into it. He came back, face the colour of lime Gatorade, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"All right there, mate?" Harry asked, gripping Ron's shoulder reassuringly.

"Yeah, guess so," he replied in a hoarse voice. "Just … I never expected that. And Hermione…"

"I know, I know," Harry said. "Want to go check on her?"

"Suppose so," Ron said, now sending extremely tired. "Let's go."

4

Six hours later, while everyone else was asleep, Harry Potter sat in the dark lounge at the Bone Yard, thinking. It had been a rather eventful evening and he was having trouble sleeping as a result.

Hermione's parents had been notified by Amelia. They had not shown a whole lot of reaction to finding out their only chick and child had been murdered, but Harry had seen something in Mr Granger's eyes that he didn't like. Something contemplative… He would require watching.

Lupin had shown up about ten minutes after the last of the repair teams had left. He had been quite shocked indeed that one of his students had been murdered by a former friend, but even more so when he found out that the former friend was Peter Pettigrew and not Sirius Black. The two men, Black and Lupin, had stared at one another, and then embraced, but Harry could tell that Black wasn't all that enthusiastic at seeing Lupin. He wondered why, and made a note to ask Black later.

Ron had been given a calming draught after they had arrived at the Bone Yard. Hearing that his mother had been arrested the day before, on top of Hermione's death, had sent him into some kind of shock. They called it emotional overload or some such. Harry had never met Ron's mother, so he had not much of a reaction at all.

Fortunately, there was plenty of room for all the younger Weasleys at Susan's house. Amelia had even invited them all to stay over the holidays. Mr Weasley had gratefully accepted, promising the siblings that he would visit every day after his shift at work.

There hadn't been time for any kind of reunion between Black and Harry. He wasn't entirely sure how to feel about his godfather yet, the man being a virtual stranger as he was. Things were being put off until Black had swallowed a few nutrient potions (Harry had winced in sympathy, remembering his own course of treatment) and rested up a little bit. He had done no more than give Harry his own embrace and apologize for not being there when Harry needed him. Harry didn't quite know how to answer that, so said only, "We'll discuss it later. We both need rest now."

Croaker had gone back to the Ministry to debrief the response teams along with a weird looking fellow named Arnold Peasegood, whom Amelia had introduced as the head of the Obliviation squad. Although not strictly necessary, Richard had gone with them to oversee the erasing of the security cameras (wouldn't do for someone to see a wand firing spells on the footage) and he hadn't returned yet. Harry guessed Richard wanted to make himself feel useful, a feeling he could sympathise with.

Susan had stuck by Harry's side all evening, her eyes wet. She was just starting to become friends with Hermione, only for the brunette's life to be cruelly snatched away. It was the first loss in this war (not counting Adrian Pollard) but it wouldn't be the last. They would all have to get used to it, Harry knew, because there were going to be a lot more deaths in the future.

Harry had no idea how to comfort Susan, so he said nothing, but held her hand and held her when she cried. It seemed to be enough.

Now Harry shifted restlessly on the couch in front of the fire. Outside, a cold winter wind blew through the bare branches of the trees and rattled a loose window pane. The fire crackled, and Cottontail, the Bones' cat lay curled up on the hearth rug. Hedwig was out somewhere, Harry having released her before the train ride. It was a cosy, cheery scene, but Harry was not cheered. Chief among his concerns was where he went from here. During the fight at King's Cross, he had been almost useless. He had, in fact, contributed toward getting Hermione killed. It was his spell that had knocked Pettigrew into the middle of the group, after all. Now that he looked back on it, what he should have done was to use the summoning charm on some part of Pettigrew to drag him out of the way. He had reacted without thinking, something he would have to break himself of in future. Stupid, stupid Harry.

Then his logical side would kick in, telling him that he was only twelve, and thus not on par with an Auror, or even a junior league Death Eater like Pettigrew. But he hated feeling helpless. He had hated it ever since he was tiny and locked in his cupboard. He would have to do something about that, and very soon.

The mildly self-castigated run of his thoughts was interrupted by the sound of a door opening. Harry turned on the couch to see Richard coming in, face red from the cold and drawn with tiredness.

"Hi," Harry said, speaking softly.

"Can't sleep?"

Harry shook his head and sighed. "Too much to think about. How'd it go?"

Richard took his coat off and hung it on the tree, before flopping into an easy chair across from Harry. "It was an absolute mess, my friend. I had to team up with one of Peasegood's men to get into the security room. Must've been a hundred transport police officers there, all gawking at the footage. Took a long time to trace back all the calls they made and erase their memories. Then of course we had to go to the hospital over on Euston Square and do damage control there as well."

"I get the feeling you don't exactly approve of what the Obliviators do," Harry said, raising an eyebrow.

"I don't," Richard said evenly, "but I understand why the think they need to do it. I find the thought of someone monkeying with my mind to be utterly reprehensible and abhorrent, which is why I got our friend Croaker to give me a charmed amulet that blocks Legilimency and other mind magic. My thoughts are mine and nobody else's and that's how it's going to stay."

"But-"

"I know the magical world has to stay secret. But it can't last, Harry. Sooner or later, somebody is going to spill the beans. Or somebody will see something who can't be Obliviated. I have heard from Argus how the magical world treats squibs. Suppose a bunch of them got together with the military? The Muggle repelling wards would be no good, and they could waltz right into Diagon Alley or Hogwarts with a nuclear suitcase bomb. Might take down half of London with them but if they're mad enough to do that, they probably won't care much. Or what if a disgruntled Muggle-born got on TV and spilled the beans? Not enough Obliviators in the world to handle that. The magical world creates its own problems."

"All that might be true, but right now a bunched of panicky Muggles running around yammering about a group of people with unknown powers loose in the world is more headache than we need right now."

"I suppose you're right. Just remember … it can't last forever."

There was a brief silence.

"What was the final toll of the injured and dead?" Harry asked, not wanting to know, but feeling he should.

"Forty with various injuries, four dead from trampling. Don't blame yourself, Harry. We all underestimated Pettigrew."

"I know, I know. It doesn't make it any easier though."

"Met your pal Dumbledore today," Richard said. "Quite a piece of work, that guy is."

"Really, now? I wondered about him. Thought he'd turn up here, matter of fact."

Richard nodded. "He came into the DMLE offices, while we were still trying to sort out the mess. Wanted to be in on the questioning of Pettigrew, tried to get Amelia to tell him where the guy was stashed. Guess he wants to try and censor what Pettigrew reveals."

"That sounds like Dumbledore. I'm more worried about somebody like Lucius Malfoy getting into the Ministry and killing Pettigrew before he can testify."

"Amelia was worried about that too, so she set up some safety precautions on the holding area. Didn't tell me what they were, but she seems pretty confident."

"Any idea when he'll go on trial?"

"Some time after the new year, is what I heard. Amelia needs to do some spinning for the minister. But by February you should have your godfather back."

But what a price, Harry thought to himself. Hermione dead because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. What a fucked up mess.

"Suppose we both better get to bed," Richard said at last, rising and yawning. "Busy day tomorrow."

"Yeah, suppose so," Harry agreed. "Meetings and a check-up. Do you know if Filch and Croaker are coming here, or are we going to Filch's place?"

"They're coming here. Amelia's been filled in on most of it, and your friends need to know what's happening too. You need to start gathering allies."

"It's really coming, isn't it?" Harry said, staring at the darkness outside the windows. "It's coming and there's not a whole lot we can do to stop it."

"I'm afraid so, Harry," Richard said, also glancing outside. "It really is."

They stared at each other in the silent room, and then, without a word, they both proceeded upstairs for a night of restless sleep.

5

Vernon Dursley was terrified.

As he stood in the steamy communal shower stall, water from the multiple heads splashing onto the floor and echoing around the concrete chamber, he was closer to death than he had ever been.

Vernon had been held at Coldingley Prison in Surrey from his arrest until August, when his day in court finally rolled around on the docket. That had been no picnic; many a night he had lain awake, waiting for somebody to come and try to sodomize him like in the movies. Nothing had happened- at least not until he got here after his trial.

The trial had been a farce, a real kangaroo court, and Vernon had been convicted so fast it made his head spin. Twenty years for attempted murder, another ten for child abuse, and another ten for child neglect. He wouldn't be getting out of here before he was old and decrepit. His lawyer tried to fight it, but the evidence was overwhelming. Vernon heard that Petunia had received a similar sentence. Nobody would tell him where she ended up. Not that it really mattered; Vernon had only married her because it was expected of him, and he needed a wife and family if he wanted to make any kind of advancement in the firm. He liked her well enough, but he did not, and never did love her.

Marge had taken Dudley in after his arrest, and after that Vernon didn't know what happened to him.

Once the trial was over, Vernon had then been shipped to Albany Prison, Isle of Wight, where the real fun had begun.

At first it was the small things. Vernon would be walking to a table after getting his dinner from the serving line, and somebody would stick a leg out and send him sprawling onto the hard tile floor, whereupon the cafeteria would fill with raucous male laughter. Once, Vernon tried going after the offender, but a guard smacked him across the back of the neck with his baton. Vernon was once again sent sprawling, and he quickly gave up that idea. Derisive laughter followed him as he slunk to his table, no longer having an appetite.

Or when he would be led out for his scheduled shower, guys would thwack him randomly with wet towels, as though this was high school gym class and not life in prison. He began to love his cell, an eight by eight box roughly carved out of concrete. They had done away with barred doors in modern prisons, and his door was a thick, solid piece of steel that clanged shut with a grim sense of finality, like it planned on keeping him there for a thousand years. But that closed door meant he could have some peace and quiet.

Still, the harassment was not a big deal. It was, in fact, mostly harmless stuff. Juvenile…

Then word started to spread about why he was here in prison. Vernon Dursley had been sent here because he had hit an eleven-year-old with a fireplace poker and put him in the hospital. Those who committed crimes against children were not particularly well regarded in prisons, and the level of harassment steadily increased until…

"Not so tough are you now, fatso?" the Arab looking fellow in front of him grinned, waving a knife made of a toothbrush in front of Vernon's face back and forth in mystic passes. "Not like beating up a baby, is it, you tub of guts?"

"What do you think we should do about him, eh?" asked a guy with crudely drawn tattoos all over his arms standing to Vernon's right, brandishing another knife, this one made out of a comb. "Think we oughta teach him a lesson?"

"Absolutely," a third guy said. He was behind Vernon, a huge fellow named Briggs. One of Briggs's thumbs was planted squarely and painfully over Vernon's Carotid artery, and his fingers were clamped with equally excruciating pressure over his Jugular. The guy had hands the size of wicket keeping gloves, and was all muscle. Vernon was afraid to move.

"I'll call the guards!" Vernon squeaked, sweating from fear. He wished he'd never heard of the freak. This was all his fault.

"Nope, not happening, Toothbrush said softly, shoving the crude shank toward Vernon's belly. It touched him and Vernon gasped. It felt cold, like it had just come out of a freezer. Vernon did not understand how that could be, but it was. At the same time, Gorilla Hands squeezed a little tighter, and Tattoos shoved his comb blade toward Vernon's eyeball, stopping about a quarter of an inch from the lid. Vernon reflexively closed his eyes, but just as quickly reopened them; he didn't want to chance missing a move this guy might make.

"Guards are all on the other side of the prison, Fatso," Gorilla said into Vernon's ear, squeezing a little more. Vernon moaned in terror. "No rescue coming for you."

"I got a kid about your nephew's age out there," Toothbrush said, poking the crude blade a little more into Vernon. "Anybody ever hit him the head with a fireplace poker … let's just say they ain't never gonna find his body."

Vernon decided right then and there that he wasn't going to take any more of this. That brat was an unnatural freak and deserved whatever he got. Not that he could tell these thugs- Who'd believe that he had raised a fucking wizard for ten years? He tensed, ready to send one of his fists through Toothbrush's face, which was wearing a Saddam Hussein moustache to dwarf Vernon's own, but the guy must've seen it coming, because all of a sudden Vernon was in more pain than he could ever remember having experienced. A roaring fire of agony lit in his gut and Vernon felt something warm and wet flop onto his naked feet. Another flare of agony, like being at ground zero of a nuclear blast, lit in his head, and he felt his eyeball pop like a rotten grape. All his dazed mind could think was: they did it, they actually did it…

Behind him, Gorilla gave his neck a shove and Vernon was sent sprawling into the mass of his own guts. With the last of his strength, he reached out for Toothbrush's ankle and jerked as hard as he could. Felt the guy's feet skid out from under him on the blood and water-slippery floor. Saw out of his good eye as Toothbrush flailed wildly with both hands, catching Tattoos square in the side of the neck with his weapon. Heard them start to scuffle, Gorilla joining in two seconds later. The last thing he heard as darkness overtook him was the sounds of flesh smacking flesh, and a mortal scream.

6

The whole household met in the big kitchen at the Bone Yard the next morning. It was a subdued group; even the twins were quiet. Ron was a little pale but otherwise mostly normal, especially with all his family around him.

"You sleep okay, Harry?" Susan fretted, serving him more bacon.

"Reasonably," Harry said.

Amelia, who had arrived while everybody was asleep and now sat to Godfrey's right at the head of the table, looked up from where she was tiredly stirring a cup of tea and nibbling at a piece of toast. "I wanted to say that I'm proud of you kids for handling things the way you did yesterday. You did a good job of keeping your heads and trying to keep things contained. There's going to be a ministerial hearing on what happened, but it's only a formality. Nobody's going to be facing any charges. And-" she cleared her throat, suddenly looking awkward, as though she didn't quite know how to handle what she was going to say next "-I'm sorry for the loss of your friend. Just remember the blame lies with Peter Pettigrew, not any of you."

"I could've done things a lot differently," Harry said, sounding bitter. "If-"

"You can 'if only' yourself into a straitjacket," Sirius spoke up. "Believe me, I know. Don't beat yourself up, Harry."

"That's right. It was a battle situation, and you acted with your best judgment," Richard put in. "Many career soldiers I've known would've froze up completely in a situation like that."

"Same with me. Most of my Aurors have not yet had to draw their wands in real combat. Not that I have a lot of them these days…"

Harry nodded, but he was already thinking about something else. Logically he accepted what they were saying as correct. He would take this as an object lesson and move on, learning from it.

No, his mind had switched to his dreams.

He didn't remember all of them, but he did have vaguely unsettling recollections of strange landscapes and surreal battles fought in some unimaginably distant past. They had all dissolved upon waking, as dreams are wont to do, leaving him with the even more chilling realization that his life was no longer his own. What had happened to him yesterday on the Hogwarts Express? What had gotten into his head? And how much longer could he remain himself?

Harry absentmindedly reached for a papaya in the middle of the table. He was not paying much attention to the conversation flowing around him- Sirius was telling some kind of funny story that involved the Slytherin girls' bathroom, vegetable oil and illusory insects. He began to cut the fruit out of the rind, still considering what might be happening to him, when the knife slipped and sliced a huge gash in his left thumb.

Harry gasped as the blood came out of his finger in scarlet billows. The knife had cut the tendon in his thumb, and it slumped over like a dead puppet.

Susan, who was sitting next to him, screamed and leapt to her feet. "Don't move, Harry, I'll get the-"

But she stopped speaking and gaped, along with everybody else, all of them having risen at her scream. They all watched, in mute astonishment as the bleeding stopped and the wound closed, right before their eyes. In forty seconds or so, it was as though it had never been, and the only evidence to the contrary was the spreading bloodstain on the tablecloth.

Harry flexed his hand. No pain, nothing wrong with it at all. Then he became aware of the silence.

Slowly, he looked up. The whole table was looking at him. Looking at him as though he was a bug in a box.

He got up and left the table. Nobody followed.

# # #

Ron found him outside an hour later, walking through the winter-denuded trees on the Bones property.

"All right, Harry?" he asked.

"Sure. What's up?"

Ron shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable. "Just wanted to make sure you're all right. You left pretty fast."

"Just fine," Harry said, kicking moodily at a rock on the ground.

"You know, Hermione would've had an answer for us," Ron said, looking sad. "She would've dragged us off to the library for hours until she found something."

Harry gave a reluctant smile at that. "I suppose she would at that. I just wish I knew what it was."

"It's pretty cool. Just think of the advantage you'd have on the Quidditch pitch."

"Suppose so," Harry said. "And I'd never need to see Madam Pomfrey again either."

"Yeah! So don't get all moody, mate. Just think of all the advantages."

Harry laughed a genuine laugh. Who'd have thought it? Ron, the comforter. Maybe something good had come out of this whole mess after all.

When they went back inside Susan rushed up to him and gave him a hug. "I'm sorry," she whispered in his ear. "I was just surprised. Don't run from me, okay?"

Harry hugged her back, feeling relieved. "Yeah, okay. I'll try anyway."

"You'd better tell the healers about what happened this morning," Amelia spoke up. "They'll want to know."

Harry frowned- he didn't want even more people looking at him like some strange form of alien life- but he knew she was right. "I'd better go get ready. Appointment's in half an hour."

# # #

Harry arrived back from St Mungo's with no more information than he had left with. The healers had no idea what had happened to him. Even after he had granted permission for Healer Palmer to enter his mind with Legilimency, they didn't come away with any new information, although she did say his thought patterns had changed. "They're those of an older man, somehow, is the best way I can put it," she had frowned. "I have no idea how that could be, though."

They had all been shocked at the rapidity with which he had healed himself at breakfast, too. Harry had declined the running of further tests. He did not want to come back here anymore than absolutely necessary. So other than his odd thought patterns, he was in good health. Better, in fact, than he had ever been. They told him that, barring further complications, he wouldn't have to return, although they had tried to convince him otherwise. Spontaneous self-healing was something they had never seen. Harry wasn't willing to be their lab rat, however.

Then Harry learned why Dumbledore had been feeding him weakening potions, and another explanation for why he had been left to rot at the Dursleys for all those years.

"I did not want to tell you this until we were certain," Robin Johnson said, once they had given up trying to convince him to allow them to run more tests. "Your scar was more than a scar. It was holding a piece of soul belonging to Voldemort. We think that, by isolating you in a magic-less environment, Dumbledore was hoping to keep it weak and marginalized. He had you put on those weakening potions for the same reason. By keeping you magically weak, he was also keeping the fragment subjugated."

"How did it get out of me, then?" Harry wanted to know, shuddering at the thought that he had been carrying around a bit of his parents' killer.

"We are not entirely sure. Our best guess is that the warding scheme around your house got rid of it, once it had exited from your body. Since it was attached to your life force and you almost died, the wards recognized it as a foreign body and zapped it out. We saw a bit of the leftover magic when you brought in here using an isolation pod, which I saved for further analysis."

"So it's completely gone, now?"

"Completely. Not a trace."

"Are you going to confront Dumbledore about this?"

Johnson shook his head. "We are going to tell Amelia Bones, since she is MLE head, and it will be up to her to press charges. Or you, of course."

"I'll have to give that some serious thought. I guess I can sort of understand why he did it, but he should've had that thing removed from me before dumping me at the Dursleys."

"He should have, indeed. As to why, you'll have to ask him."

"Oh, I will, don't you worry."

They had all shaken hands and harry left, hopefully never to return.

When Harry came in from the Floo, he found quite a gathering in the library. Richard, Argus Filch, Sirius (looking better even after only a day of solid meals and nutrient potions), Croaker, and a few other old wizards he didn't know were all scattered around a huge table that hadn't been there before. Ron, Susan and all the Weasley siblings except Percy were all there, too. A fire had been laid and there were decanters of hot drinks scattered along the table.

"What's this?" Harry wondered, coming in and taking a chair by Susan and eyeing the throng.

"It's time to fill your friends in on what we know," Croaker said. "These-" he indicated all the old wizards "-are the best brains in my department, all of whom are under oath. None of us are in fighting trim, however, being scholars, and we need to start building our forces. The Adversary won't wait for us to be ready, so we need to move fast."

"Who's this Adversary? Are you talking about Voldemort?" Ron asked, only stumbling a little over the name.

"No, Mr Weasley. Voldemort is dead. We're-"

"Whoa!" Susan exclaimed. "When did that happen? Does Dumbledore know? How come I haven't seen anything in the paper about it?"

"I was coming to that," Croaker said, frowning a little. "Voldemort is dead, but that isn't the good news it would ordinarily be. As to Dumbledore's knowledge or lack thereof, I don't know. He has Severus Snape working for him, and Snape is definitely a former Death Eater. What he might've told Dumbledore we have no idea; Dumbledore likes to keep his own council."

"As to how it happened," a sallow-skinned Unspeakable introduced as Broderick Bode put in, "Lucius Malfoy did it, although his reasons are as yet unclear. Harry can fill you in on all the details later, if you really want to know how it was done."

"Wait," Ron said slowly, frowning in concentration, "yesterday before he … killed Hermione, Pettigrew said the Dark Lord was gone. I just remembered."

"They all would've felt the Mark go," Croaker said, nodding. "What surprises me is that they haven't all gotten together to compare notes, at least not that we've seen."

"That's because none of them want the others to think they had anything to do with it," Sirius spoke up. "Cowardly bastards are all hiding in their holes, probably thinking somebody's going to be coming after them soon."

"It may come to that, but we need to get back on topic," Croaker added, heading off any further discussion.

What followed left the Weasleys, Sirius and Susan wide-eyed with wonder and dread.

"Let me see if I understand you here," Sirius said, rubbing his temples. "There's a shadow war between two giant cosmic forces, one of which is horrible and the other of which is, uh, less bad. You call the horrible one the Otherness and the less bad one the Ally. There's a point man for each force here, and you think Voldemort played host to the point man for the horrible force. That about right?"

"Basically. We don't know where the Guardian is, though. And I dare not ask too many questions about him, lest the Adversary get wind of it."

"Incredible," Fred or George said, no sign of their usually cheery expressions evident. "So, where do we come in," he asked, gesturing at his siblings and Susan.

Filch took that one. "You are all only second and fourth years, but you need to begin to prepare now. The Adversary has disappeared, and we don't know what he's up to. When you return to school, you all need to start feeling out likeminded people who you can count on to do what needs to be done. That will be your job, Fred and George, since you know people in almost all the houses."

"I still can't believe it," one of them said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Mr Filch, the secret agent. I mean, honestly."

"Yeah, after all the times we have been in your office, you'd think you would've said something to us. Us being your favourite students and all," the other twin said, mock pouting.

Filch snorted in spite of himself. "The only students here who have given me more trouble are Sirius here and his three friends."

"Yeah, the Marauders were quite a terror," Sirius beamed.

"Wait, you are a Marauder?" one of the twins asked.

"Padfoot, at your service," Sirius smiled.

"Wow, today is just full of surprises."

"Professor Lupin is Moony, and my Dad was Prongs. And," Harry finished darkly, "Peter Pettigrew was Wormtail."

As a conversation stopper, not much could beat that. Eventually it was Richard who broke it.

"Back in the Roman Empire, Rome had a corps of fire fighters called the Militia Vigilum. I think that's what you should call yourselves, once you get organized. Because that is, in a sense, what you will be doing."

"You need to get on that as soon as you get to school, too. Don't delay. This may be the most important thing you ever do in your lives," Croaker added.

"We will," all the kids chorused. "Don't worry."

Before the discussion could continue, the door to the library burst opened, admitting a very sombre looking Amelia Bones. She looked directly at Harry and said, "I need you to come with me, Harry. I have bad news."

# # #

"So now I really am an orphan," Harry mused a few minutes later in Amelia's private study. He had just learned that his uncle and aunt had died in prison the day before. Vernon, by stabbing, and his aunt, by being beaten to death. A bunch of women in Eastwood Park (a women's prison in Yorkshire) had thrown Petunia a, what Amelia said was called, 'a blanket party'. Three women had held her under a blanket while a bunch of others had beaten her to death with socks wrapped around bars of soap. By the time the guards had broken things up Petunia was dead, face battered into pulp.

"Why is this happening now? They've been in prison since the summer. Then they both die on the same day?"

"I don't know, but I don't like it either," Amelia said, frowning and toying with her monocle. "I sent Kingsley over to the Prison Service to dig around, just because I don't like the coincidence. You certainly aren't catching many breaks these days, are you?"

"To be honest, I don't care too much," Harry shrugged. "They were horrible people and the world is better without them. Where's my dear cousin?"

"Still with Marjorie Dursley, although it is looking as though he is going to find his way into a juvenile detention centre before long."

"Big shock there," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "He'll come to a sticky end, I have no doubt."

"Do you want us to watch him, maybe intervene if he might be in danger?"

"No, don't waste resources on him. We have more important things to worry about. Speaking of, what's the latest with Pettigrew?"

Amelia sighed. "We haven't dosed him with the Veritaserum yet, but we learned some things. For one thing, he was there the night your parents were killed, and he had Voldemort's wand on him. This was an invaluable resource because, by deconstructing it, we can get a full record of all the spells he cast with it and perhaps get to know what he got up to, other than killing."

Harry's expression darkened at hearing the little bastard had been there on that fateful night, but he had one more important question. "Did you learn why Pettigrew led him there?"

"No. That will have to wait until we can get some Veritaserum into him, but maybe Sirius knows. All that we know for sure is Voldemort really wanted you and your parents dead for some reason."

"I'll ask him," Harry said. "I really need to know."

"Yes, you do, but I want to be there for it. I need to know the right questions to ask Pettigrew at his public trial after the holidays."

"No time like the present. We got an hour or so before dinner."

Harry went out and found Sirius entertaining the Weasley twins with more of his exploits and brought him back to the office.

"Do you know why Voldemort went after my parents?" Harry asked abruptly, once Sirius was settled.

Sirius blinked at the blunt question, but nodded. "There was a prophecy that involved you and Voldemort. They didn't tell me what it was, and I didn't ask, figuring it was their business."

"So Voldemort found out about this prophecy, decided it meant my parents and I, and came after us. And Pettigrew led him straight there."

"Basically," Sirius growled.

"I wonder if this prophecy has anything to do with this Otherness business," Harry wondered.

"No way to know until you hear it. It's probably stored down in Croaker's department. I can get you in there on the twenty-sixth and you can listen to it," Bones offered.

"Maybe I'd better. It probably isn't valid anymore since Voldemort is dead, but better safe than sorry."

"That would explain Dumbledore's actions too," Bones mused. "If he knew the prophecy, he probably interpreted it his own way and tried to make things fit his view."

"He knew. It was Dumbledore who told James and Lily about it," Sirius said. "Said he had a spy who reported that the Potters were targets."

"Bet it was Snape," Harry said, thinking back to the potions master's odd behaviour over the past term and putting it together with the equally odd behaviour of the other Death Eaters out there.

"Well, Snape was definitely a Death Eater, although Dumbledore vouched for him. Said he had turned spy. So it could've been Snape who told Voldemort the prophecy. It certainly fits," Amelia said.

A wave of icy shock broke through Harry's usual apathy and he shot to his feet. "That son of a bitch," he breathed. "I can't believe it!"

Magic poured off Harry in waves and a shelf full of glass snow globes in the corner of the room broke with a horrendous crash. "I'll kill him!"

Sirius was standing up right alongside Harry, his still skeletal face twisted with fury as well. "And I'll be right there with you!"

"Calm down, both of you!" Amelia yelled, shooting to her feet. "Destroying my office won't accomplish anything. Now calm down before I have to stun you!"

Harry looked up at Amelia and what she saw there almost sent her staggering back a step. Shining out of the face of this twelve-year-old were eyes filled with a dark, seething rage. It was alive with the promise of violence, roiling with magical fury. She prayed that she would never, ever have that look directed at her personally. It took all her years of experience to not flinch back. What had happened to Harry? He was different now.

"That cowardly, greasy bastard set an even more cowardly, slimy bastard on my family, and he's going to pay!"

"That may be, but you're not going to accomplish anything by wrecking my office," Amelia repeated, as one of her bookcases shattered, throwing heavy volumes everywhere. It was unclear as to which of the wizards did it, since Sirius looked almost as enraged as Harry.

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He had really surprised himself there. It felt as though someone else had invaded his mind for a second there, filling him with a rage not entirely his own. And the thought of that happening to him sobered him up fast. What was wrong with him?

Sirius too looked sheepish, and got himself under control. "Sorry about that," he said, as Amelia waved her wand to repair her office. "But the thought of that grease-ball wandering around free while Harry here was living in a fucking cupboard…"

"He's over there taking points from Gryffindors for breathing too loud, while I was being worked like a slave in the garden," Harry said, glaring at nothing in particular.

"Snape will see justice done, I promise you, but we have to move carefully. Right now we have other things to worry about. What did the healers tell you today, Harry? Anything I should know?"

Blinking at the subject change, Harry mentally shifted gears and explained about the potions and Johnson's theory about why he had been dumped at the Dursleys. Sirius was livid when Harry told him the background.

"Something's gotta be done about Dumbledore," he said, pacing the office. "He knew I couldn't have given you up to Voldemort since I swore an oath as your godfather. I'd love to hear what he has to say for himself while under Veritaserum."

"That will happen," Amelia vowed. "I can guarantee it. Maybe not today or next week, but it will happen. Bet on it."

# # #

Albus Dumbledore sat in his office at Hogwarts, only partly enjoying the holiday quiet. Once again, he had been caught out in left field by the sudden capture of Peter Pettigrew. The death of Hermione Granger in said capture was only a minor blip on his internal radar. No, Dumbledore's main fear was what Pettigrew might reveal under Veritaserum questioning. If it came out that Dumbledore had been utilizing his services as a spy even before Snape, and that he had been aware that Sirius Black was innocent all the time, yet allowed him to be sent to prison … well, things could get very uncomfortable.

He had also not been able to find a trace of Sirius Black. There was evidence that the man had been hiding up there in the caves above Hogsmeade, but he was gone now. There were traces of an activated Portkey, but who could've given it to him? The man didn't have a wand to make one.

Also among the missing was Severus. He had disappeared yesterday after the students left, and had not been heard from since. He had been acting oddly all term, however. When he came back, Dumbledore was going to have to have a chat with him and remind him of the debts he owed.

Dumbledore's nice stable little world had been in a constant state of upheaval since last summer, and he didn't have any plans yet on what to do about it. Something momentous was in the offing that much he knew, and Harry Potter was right in the middle of it. A closer watch would have to be kept on him than had heretofore been done. Dumbledore needed to adjust his plans and he couldn't do that without all the information.

Also, he felt a growing sense of urgency to get his goals accomplished as quickly as possible. Not for the first time, he wished he had been able to make a full Philosopher's Stone. Two things had prevented him, however. One, he felt that by directly taking a life he would playing the game wrong. How the goal was accomplished was just as important as the goal itself. And two, he was sterile as a rock. One of the curses that had been flying around that fateful day in Godric's Hollow did something to him. To make a stone, it had to be your baby you killed, and Albus Dumbledore could not make any babies.

Dumbledore rose wearily from his desk and trudged into his quarters. So many loose ends dangling out there and no neat, elegant way to tie them up yet. He would have to make a new batch of his faux elixir. Normally it only needed to be taken every six months, but before too long he feared he would have to guzzle a fresh dose every day to keep himself going.

Yes, he thought to himself, settling in his large comfortable bed. I'll have to sit Harry down for a long, "clear the air" chat. No more of this Occlumency nonsense. And I have a way to get it done.

So thinking, Dumbledore fell asleep, unaware that things were already well out of his control.

7

The funeral of Hermione Granger was scheduled for December the twenty-ninth, down in Exeter. Amelia had made enquiries and found out the time and place, so that Harry, Susan and the younger Weasleys could attend. It was drizzling and misty when they arrived in an alleyway near the church using a Portkey. Harry promptly fell over upon landing, much to the twins' amusement.

"Like the Floo, Harry, you need to move your feet like you're walking just before you land," Susan informed him, smiling in spite of the grim occasion.

"Yeah, yeah," Harry muttered, discretely using a bit of his still-developing wandless magic to clean the mud off his Muggle suit. "Let's go."

They found the church sparsely populated. Only Hermione's parents and a few older people whom Harry guessed were her aunts and uncles were in attendance. Harry's group received a nasty look from Mr Granger, but he didn't say anything.

Mrs Granger did, however, at the cemetery. There were standing in a tight little clump off to one side, Susan crying, Ron with wet eyes and Harry feeling bitter, when she walked carefully over in her good for-church shoes. Harry noticed she made Aunt Petunia look as warm as a summer day in the Sahara. This woman was cold, and it explained a lot about how Hermione had grown up acting the way she did.

"I want to thank you all for being friends to our daughter. I know she was very happy to finally have you all in her life. I'm afraid we weren't very enthusiastic about having a child and we didn't exactly do our best by her." Her icy mask slipped and she sniffled, but just once. "So thank you again, and good luck."

And before any of them could reply, she had spun and marched off, holding herself as stiff as though there was a broomstick studded with needles up her arse.

"Well what do you make of that?" Harry said, looking around at the Weasleys and Susan.

"I feel sorry for Hermione," Susan said softly, staring after the retreating Grangers with a look of distaste. "Imagine having to grow up with those."

"They have nothing on the Dursleys," Harry commented.

"I guess so, but still."

They were once again interrupted, this time by the sight of Albus Dumbledore, looking extremely out of place in a suit of emerald velvet striding across the neatly landscaped cemetery lawns.

"Harry, my boy," he said, smiling genially, "I thought I'd find you here. Do you mind, if we have a chat?"

Harry blinked. Seeing Albus Dumbledore in an Exeter cemetery was about the least likely thing he could think of. About the only thing that might top it would be Snape in a discothèque.

But before he could give any kind of answer, Dumbledore had whipped his wand out and, faster than his old body seemed capable of, beams of light had struck everybody in Harry's group, including Shacklebolt. They were frozen stiff and upright, like stone decorations.

Not for nothing, though, was Harry the youngest Seeker in a century. He was already moving as soon as he saw Dumbledore coming, and when the beam of light came at him, he was six feet away from where he started from.

"Stop this, Dumbledore. You don't know what you're doing."

"Oh but I do, Harry. You have information, and I must have it too. You were less than forthcoming in my office, and things are happening, things I think you know about. So you can either tell me voluntarily, or I can force you to. Don't worry; you will not remember that we had this talk."

"I don't think so, old man." Harry ducked another spell and tried to keep his eyes going in a three-sixty arc. He had learned his lesson after the Pettigrew fiasco, so he quickly moved to a clear area, far away from his friends, and stepped behind a tall headstone. "I have nothing to say that you need to hear."

"But I think you do," Dumbledore said, advancing on Harry's position behind the headstone. "I hate to do this, Harry, because it is not at all the way I like to operate, but I need that information."

The headstone was blasted apart, but when Harry tried to move, the grass wrapped around his ankles and held him fast in thick vine-like tendrils. He was stuck, and there was nothing he could do about it.

"I'm not a weak, barely competent wizard like Mr Pettigrew," Dumbledore smiled, coming to stand before Harry. "Now there'll be no more of this nonsense."

Harry strained with all his might, trying to break the grip of the tendrils which held him, but they were stone like and immovable. There was also some kind of blocking spell too, because he couldn't access his power as readily as before. If the fight with Pettigrew had made him feel powerless, then dealing with Dumbledore made him feel like a new born babe.

"Now," let's see what we have here," Dumbledore said. "Legil-"

"No, Albus, I don't think so," said a woman's voice behind Dumbledore.

Harry looked up and saw the same woman who had brought Hedwig to him earlier in the summer. Her dog, the same black Labrador as before, was standing at her side, hackles raised and teeth bared at Dumbledore.

Harry felt the vines released him and he quickly moved away, hands shaking. Never had he felt so useless.

"Who are you," Dumbledore said, wand still raised. From the look of astonishment on his face, he was trying to cast a spell and not having any luck at all.

"That does not matter," the lady said serenely. "Just know that others have their eye on this one, and he is off limits."

"What does that mean?" Dumbledore said, no longer smiling. His expression looked rather petulant.

"That does not matter either. Now, be gone from this place. And remember, someone is watching."

Dumbledore tried to wave his wand, but nothing happened. At last, throwing a frustrated and furious glance at the lady, he turned on the spot and Disapparated with a loud crack.

"Thank you," Harry said, sitting on a low headstone with his hands dangling between his knees.

"You are welcome," the lady said, still serene. "Be on your guard where he is concerned. There may come a time when you must deal with him, and I may not be here to help."

"Because of that prophecy?"

"Partially. Albus Dumbledore is a very dangerous man. You are one of the pieces in his game, but not the only one."

"What is his game?" This was something Harry had been wondering about ever since he began to ask questions last summer. Don't ask questions, you might not like the answer, he thought bitterly.

"Albus Dumbledore believes human beings are too corrupt to live, and so he wants to engineer the destruction of the world. Or at least of humanity. He wants to pit magical against non-magical, magical against magical and everybody else against everybody else. What he doesn't know, though, is that he is not entirely captain of his own ship. He has been nudged in certain directions by the Otherness."

"I wondered if it might be something like that. Some of his actions begin to make a little more sense."

"You are not the captain of your own ship anymore either, Harry," she said, and now there was sadness in her expression.

"What?"

"Five days ago, the Sentinel died. He was released in 1942 after it was thought that the Adversary had been vanquished, and he lived to be around ninety something, at least physically. Chronologically of course he is much older. And now that he is dead, you have been chosen to succeed him."

"Chosen? Don't I get a choice in the matter?" Harry got up and started pacing. He wanted to rage and scream, but how did you rage and scream at a cosmic entity? It was like fighting air.

"It is too late now. Perhaps something might've been done earlier, but once the death of your family started, it became clear that you were indeed slated to become the Sentinel. I had my suspicions once you received your head injury. You are now less emotionally involved and more willing to see things in a pragmatic manner, qualities which are important in a man so selected."

"Wait, so everything that's happened in my life has been managed by this cosmic entity called the Ally? With friends like that, who needs enemies."

"You forget, to the Ally we are nothing more than natural resources to be used. You are a spear, its spear to use against the Otherness. And a spear has no branches. That's why there will be no more coincidences in your life.

No more coincidences … Something about that sent a chill through Harry. He had thought Dumbledore was a manipulative bastard. He could take lessons from the Ally.

"What do you mean, a spear has no branches?" That sounded ominous too, and he wanted clarification.

"A spear must be cut from a tree branch, the straightest branch on the trunk. Only if it is perfectly straight can it fly true. But before that branch can be made into a spear, its own branches must be removed. Too many branches will slow it down, make it wobble, less capable as a spear. And your family and friends are your branches."

Harry sank onto the headstone again and stared at the still frozen group of his friends. "So there's nothing I can do? They're all going to die, just because they know me?"

"It has already started," the lady said, nodding toward Hermione's freshly dug grave. "No more coincidences, remember?"

Harry stayed silent, feeling like a trapped animal. "Isn't there anything I can do?"

"I'm afraid not. You are now more involved in this conflict than you could possibly imagine."

Desperately looking for a safer subject, Harry asked, "What does it mean … to become this Sentinel?"

"You'll change. The most noticeable thing is that you'll stop aging once you hit your full maturity. It's likely you'll be twenty or so forever, or at least until, or if, the Adversary is defeated. And you'll heal faster. Aside from a direct hit from a killing curse or a bullet in the heart or head, you'll be able to survive almost anything."

Harry flashed back to a few days ago, when he had cut his finger sectioning the papaya. And he was already starting to notice fuzz on his chin. So he was growing older more rapidly so as to assume his role.

He explained this to the lady, who nodded. "I figured as much. I wish it didn't have to be you, Harry. I really do. I will do what I can to aid you but I must go now."

"Wait, who exactly are you, and where do you fit in?"

"No time for that now. I will find you again."

Harry had a lot more questions, but she was already leaving. Before she disappeared over the crest of the hill, she waved her hand and the group of frozen wizards was reanimated.

Harry wasn't paying attention though. He was standing by Hermione's grave again, and he barely noticed when Susan slipped an arm around his waist.

"What happened, Harry?" Shacklebolt asked.

"Someone chased Dumbledore off. I'll tell you more later."

Harry bowed his head and stared at the grave, ignoring further questions. Only Susan felt him shaking. And only Susan saw the single tear that fell from Harry's eye onto the grave at his feet.

Who would be the next to pay for being his friend? Who would be the next person to die, just for the crime of knowing him and being close to him?

As Harry stared at the grave of one of his first ever friends, he heard the lady's words.

"You are now involved, more than you could possibly imagine…"

The End

# # #

Here ends the first installment in what I have decided to call the Darkness Rising Cycle. What will become of Harry? Will he adjust to his role as the Sentinel, or will outside forces destroy him before he can come into his own? Will he be able to protect his friends? What will he learn from the Compendium of Srem? What will Dumbledore do? And what is the Adversary up to?

Coming next summer, Darkness Rising will seek to answer these and many more questions. We have a long way to go, folks, and there is a lot of wonder, terror and drama ahead. I hope you will come back and join me on the trip.

-R. W. Hudson, AKA Opopanax.