Chapter One Hundred Nine: Return to Grimmauld Place

The confrontation with the Dursleys had been, to an extent, a familiar phenomenon, reminding him both of previous such encounters, as well as all of his failed attempts to justify his actions—to McGonagall, to Snape, to his father, to anyone who, whether with good cause or not, refused to believe his side of the story, and even if they did, gave him no quarter on its account. No lenity for extenuating circumstances!

That Dudley had pointed him out as the culprit—after all he'd done to save him—was galling but not unforeseeable. Sirius had taken the time to write him a brief note telling him to stay where he was. The Ministry of Magic had made matters worse, as only they could. The Dursleys had compounded his misery by taking the expulsion notice as proof of culpability.

Basically, everything ran as he should have expected. Being punished for saving his cousin's life pushed him over a certain boundary line. If he were to be expelled regardless of the fact that he had done no wrong, well, he would use no wizarding magic (his wand would prove that the only spell he'd cast had been the Patronus Charm, and he intended to keep it that way). But, he wouldn't hesitate to send Hedwig off with the red ring. Its time had come. This way, Ron would know. And since his brother was a force of nature in pretty much the most literal sense imaginable….

Harry allowed himself a small smile, even in the darkness of his room that he sensed was about to become his prison once more.

It was a bit amusing to know that the crazy cat lady with whom he'd spent so many unpleasant days was also a member of the Order. That didn't change the fact that she'd essentially thrown him under the metaphorical bus.

Dumbledore had ordered radio silence. Between these two facts, Harry's natural suspicion and mistrust were waxing. What were the old man's intentions? Even Sirius and Remus didn't know that. Was there a reason that, after the events of the Third Task, he was being kept isolated, removed from the Wizarding World? If Riddle had gained access to him even at Hogwarts, and if Mother's blood had been invoked in the ritual (albeit in a dormant state) didn't that suggest that he'd lost whatever protection was provided by his residence, here?

But, she had been there, the night of his birthday. Perhaps, he was being unjust (the Hat had never considered Hufflepuff a valid possibility, after all). Perhaps, there were something that Dumbledore knew, that he didn't. Why not share it, then, in the weeks before he was sentenced back to Number Four?

And, he was thinking of it as a sentence. Life at Number Four was essentially incarceration, as they seemed determined to treat him as a dangerous criminal mastermind, instead of a child. Despite not being in the know. It would horrify them if he accused them of being psychic, of knowing what would occur twenty years hence. As time wore on, this made the idea of voicing such an accusation ever more appealing. He must be a masochist. He knew how they'd punish him for such a suggestion.

Trapped in such an environment, even with his door unlocked (not that it mattered much, as he could always have picked the lock), it was difficult not to spend his free time in pacing. It mattered little to him that Dudley had made a full recovery, except that their need to dote upon their poor, long-suffering son ensured that all three Dursleys didn't bother him; they stayed as far away from him as they could, as if terrified that he might steal their souls if given the opportunity.

He managed to force himself to spend most of his time studying and planning in his room, except for when he left for unimportant things, like food. He wanted the house empty, and to himself, for no other reason than that it would feel less of a prison, that way. And, maybe, he could even practise some of the other magic—nothing flashy, per se, but….

He got his wish three days later, when Uncle Vernon interrupted his thoughts by throwing open the door to announce that the three of them (Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Dudley) were going to attend the awards ceremony for a community upstanding citizens award show. Apparently, they'd won the "Best Kept Lawn" Award. This despite the drought, and despite the fact that Harry had spent most of his time indoors. Their garden paled in comparison to Mother's, and lacked any sort of spontaneity or creativity. Very artificial. However, they shut up and stopped whining about both dementors and Tony Stark, so he figured he'd just appreciate what he could get.

Although, he couldn't blame her for being ashamed and horrified to be reminded of Professor Snape, who, given the infrequency of Aunt Petunia's interactions with her sister after Lily left for Hogwarts, had to be "that awful boy" who had told Mum about Azkaban. He would else have assumed that it was his father, but he was fairly sure that Aunt Petunia'd never even gone to the wedding. Even if they'd met, she wouldn't have listened to him talk about magic—she'd have shrieked that it was unnatural and wrong and fled. But, despite figuring this out, he refused to commiserate with her about Snape.

It had taken him only a few minutes to realise that he'd never figure out who had sent "the last" letter to Aunt Petunia. Given how horrible that voice had sounded, though, and that it was a wizard, it had to be someone powerful enough to be genuinely terrifying, and know about Aunt Petunia. Those two criteria narrowed the individual's potential identity down sufficiently for him. Maybe he could have figured it out, maybe not. It didn't matter to him.

He had made his work visible again, and was indulging in some pensive quill-tapping, when a noise downstairs made him pause in his tracks, immediately setting the paper aside, drawing his wand and moving in complete silence to the open door, and then to the top of the stairs. The house was completely dark; the Dursleys would never trouble themselves to waste money on him, and he knew better than to fight it. Even though he hadn't lived there in over four years, they still hadn't troubled themselves to change the lightbulb in the cupboard under the stairs.

This universal darkness was both helpful and harmful in such a case as this one. His eyes needed no further opportunity to adjust, but the entirety of the downstairs was covered in a blanket of darkness. It took even him a bit of time to understand what he was seeing, and in the meantime, he pointed the wand down at a steep angle, waiting for any attack.

"Who's there?" he demanded. "Show yourselves!"

"Good to see you have your wits about you, boy. Never know who or what you're dealing with. CONSTANT VIGILANCE!" cried a voice that was more familiar than it should have been. It sounded that of Alastor Moody. But, given that he only recognised the voice because an impostor had used it all last year….

He hesitated. "Do you claim to be the real Professor Moody, then?" he asked, in a voice filled with a sort of bored curiosity.

"This is a rescue mission," said an equally bored voice, in a slow drawl. No curiosity, just a sort of deliberate apathy. Harry knew that voice too well not to recognise it. This was seeming realer by the minute.

"Sirius?" he whispered. His voice shook nevertheless. "Is—is that you?"

"We've come to take you away, Harry," said the hoarse, quiet voice of Remus Lupin.

"Why are we all standing around here in the dark?" demanded a woman's voice. One he also knew well. Tonks. "Lumos!"

He considered reminding her that the Dursleys' house had working electricity, and then dismissed it. The Dursleys would not be pleased if he welcomed these strange, wizarding freaks into their home. Which made it very tempting.

He recognised only those four: Professor Moody, Remus, Sirius, and Tonks. The rest were strangers to him, and they were quite a few.

"A surprising number of people volunteered to come on this mission," Remus said, with a smile that somewhat softened the premature age lines creasing his face. It was a kindly smile, but there was also a sort of secret understanding to the quirk of the lips. He and Sirius were the only ones who would have understood it among their group, which he couldn't help noticing didn't include Ron.

He descended the stairs, wand trained somewhere near the middle, where a single attack would do the most damage. He opened his sixth sense, eyes narrowed, as his gaze ranged the group. He had the sense that none of them were impostors, although that was hardly infallible.

"Where are you bringing me, then?" he asked, as he descended the stairs.

"Headquarters," Remus said, prompt as ever. He shot Harry a significant look. Put two and two together, it seemed to say. If they were genuine, then he was speaking of Grimmauld Place.

"Just a minute. We have to be sure he is who he says he is. You can't go talking about Headquarters to—"

"Harry, what form does your patronus take?" asked Remus. Harry paused.

"Plenty of people know that, surely," he said. "I did use it against Malfoy, that one time."

"That one was less than corporeal," Remus said. "Perhaps, because it didn't need to be any more than it was."

Harry gave them an unimpressed stare, still three steps from the bottom of the stairs, to give himself more room…and height. Being short made things rather difficult.

"A stag," he said, opening his seventh sense a crack, and glancing at Remus for signs of his own, personal magic, which would have lingered, if ever he'd bound them into a promise. He didn't want to waste any test questions.

He relaxed when he found it, before turning to Moody. "You're suspicious if anyone is. You asked me to prove my identity, and I did. Now, prove yours."

"Smart kid," agreed Moody, with a chuckle, that Harry didn't recall ever having heard before. "You considering becoming an auror, kid?"

Harry nodded. "My past four years at Hogwarts should more than qualify me for the job. Tonks, don't touch that, you'll knock it off," he said, without turning to face her. She scowled, and withdrew her hand from reaching to examine the tea kettle Aunt Petunia had left atop a doily on the stove.

"You'd make a good auror, from all I've heard," agreed Moody, and Harry's eyes narrowed.

"Flattery won't help you," he said. "I asked you for proof."

Sirius and Remus said nothing, even though they both knew that Harry already knew that they were the real Sirius and Remus (and could extrapolate from that that their fellows were also the real things).

"I have proven myself to Tonks," he said. "You don't know me well enough for a passphrase, boy."

Harry rounded on Tonks. "Are you willing to vouch for him, Tonks?" he asked.

She shoved her hands in her pockets, and gave a sheepish little nod. She didn't dare to touch anything whilst he was watching.

"Who gave me the idea for what might make a dementor less threatening, and what was that idea?"

Tonks grinned at the memory. "Death in a dress," she said, with a cheeky, cheerful wave that nearly knocked the teapot off again. He scowled at her. "And, it was…I dunno, one of your yearmates, you said. That black boy. Thomas?"

"Well enough," he said, descending the rest of the steps. "The rest of you had better not be fakes," he said, glaring around the room. "Rescue missions rarely require this many people. Keep that in mind, next time. The more of you unknowns there are, the easier it is to slip in an impostor."

"Good Lord, he's more paranoid than Moody," someone said, under their breath.

Moody glared around the unnamed crowed, but couldn't pinpoint the accuser. He gave Harry a nod of approval.

"Good thinking, boy, but these have all been vetted by Dumbledore. Hard to get anything past him."

Harry raised his eyebrows. He was less than inclined to be forgiving towards the headmaster who had left him in the dark all this summer. "…Except for Professors with You-Know-Who attached to the back of their head under the turban, a man impersonating you, one of his closest friends, a mythic beast, an unregistered animagus or four—"

"Dumbledore is only human. He makes mistakes, but if you're looking for a foolproof means of defence…well, let me know if you ever find it, boy. I've been looking all my life, and I haven't found a way of proving that everyone is who they say they are. Hundred percent certainty, and all that."

Harry scowled, but conceded the point.

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, was a much busier place than he'd ever seen it before—even when the inspectors had been making their rounds, hauling away vast quantities of contraband (he'd called in Mr. Weasley's subordinates for a raid, amongst others). He'd also never before had to learn the location before he could even see it, however. Apparently, this was the structure of the Fidelius Charm.

He knew that he would never remember all the people to whom he'd been introduced tonight. Not even whoever it was had compared him to his dad. (Did they look that similar? He'd been told that only Snape saw any resemblance.)

He shrugged, content to be able to retreat inside, and lower his guard a bit. The Dursleys were the sort of threat that he needed to always keep half an eye on. Hogwarts was his safe haven, or rather the Gryffindor Tower was. Nowhere where he might encounter Malfoy was quite safe. But, Hogwarts was his Palace-on-Earth. Even combat there was like fighting on your home turf. Grimmauld Place was somewhere between. He knew it, but knew neither he nor Sirius had any fondness for it. Still, out of all the places he'd been to in this life, this was the only place he knew he'd been to before. In his past life.

He closed his eyes before he entered, reopening his seventh sense to try to feel out his own magic, the magic that Sirius and Remus agreed he'd invested in this place. While he was sure that it would do its best to hide from anyone else, why should it hide from him?

He only gave it the analysis of a few seconds from without the house, lest he attract attention by his delay. Grimmauld Place was like a model of a house that had had variegated yarn wrapt into a ball all 'round it, smothering it. Hardly an inch of it could be seen under all those thick, ropey threads. But, there were thinner, wiry threads in there, as well.

He realised that he'd never separate them out in the few seconds he'd given himself for study, and entered the house, instead. He'd try again, from within the house, after everyone was asleep.

Mrs. Weasley greeted them all at the door, asking them about the trip. Was Tonks exaggerating when she said that Moody had tried to make them come by way of Greenland? He wasn't sure. It hadn't seemed that cold for him, but….

A moment of incaution on the part of Tonks awoke Mrs. Black, sleeping behind her curtains. Harry glanced at Sirius, who gave him a sheepish smile, and he and Remus rushed forwards to draw them shut across his mother's larger-than-life depiction, ignoring her even more amplified cries. Harry came over to stand by them for a moment, in the time it took for Mrs. Weasley to appear and haul him away to his guest quarters.

"Shall I see what I can do about removing this thing?" he asked of Sirius, who looked a bit flustered, and red with rage. He'd asked before, during holiday last year, but that was back when Sirius had thought he wouldn't have to endure this house often or long, let alone with guests…. He turned to Harry, then, who put on his best innocent expression, which didn't fool either of them. Sirius paused, glancing surreptitiously around the room.

"…Can I get back to you on that?" he asked, noticing Mrs. Weasley. Harry gave him a smile that held actual warmth, which was more than most people would ever receive from him.

"Of course, Sirius. Take your time," he said.

Sirius and Mrs. Weasley must have been at odds, because even though Sirius had already done the same thing before their departure for Grimmauld Place, he pulled Harry into a crushing hug (underscoring that he was the human equivalent of Ron), but then taking the opportunity to hiss back. "Yes, please. I'm at my wit's end. I don't think wizarding magic will work on it."

Mrs. Weasley tutted, arms akimbo as she stared both of them down, as if upset that Sirius should display any sort of care for Harry.

He was reconsidering liking her. Sirius was his friend first, and he was Harry's godfather. If any "adult" had "authority" over him, it was Sirius. Let her serve ten years in Azkaban for her fidelity, before she judged him.

He would, of course, be thinking this thrice as hard or more before the night was over. For now, he gave Sirius and Remus a sharp nod, and allowed himself to be led upstairs, a faint grin etched across his face, as he ignored the wall of elf heads.

Sirius insisted upon escorting them up the stairs, as if he didn't trust Mrs. Weasley alone with Harry. Something must have happened. Harry tried his very hardest not to roll his eyes. But, as Mrs. Weasley pushed open the door for Harry, who was still carrying his school trunk packed with all of his belongings of any consequence, Sirius took the opportunity afforded by her moment of distraction to lean in and whisper to Harry, "Watch out. The portrait in this bedroom reports to Dumbledore. One of my ancestors was a headmaster at Hogwarts."

Oh. He still had a guard, then. Of course. Let's treat him as if he were a criminal, shall we?

Sirius turned to head back down the stairs, standing aside for Mrs. Weasley to pass, before nodding, and giving Harry an encouraging smile.

Harry wondered which part of the house that Loki had found to hide in, and whether it were still possible to hide there.

He had scarce crossed the threshold when he dropped the heavy trunk onto his own foot as a direct result of the unexpected impact of something with impossibly tangled, curly brown hair, which was about all that he could see of her.

"Oh, Harry! You're alright! We were so worried…I mean, that dementor attack…but you're okay, the Ministry can't possibly expel you, I mean—"

Hermione was entering her mile-a-minute mode, and he knew that he had to head her off, and fast.

"Hermione, breathe," he managed to say. "Also, please let go. You do realise that I also need to breathe, don't you?"

He caught sight of Hermione's glare as she withdrew, taking a step back. He kicked the door closed behind him, and nudged the trunk aside with the same movement. He rolled his shoulders, as if that would redistribute the pain of impact. When Hermione hugged you, she tended to crush you. She spent all of her time lugging around heavy books, which made her far stronger than she had any right to be—at least, stronger than she should be without being aware of her own strength. She was like Thor, that way. And, speaking of—

With Hermione out of the way, it was Ron's turn to crush Harry in yet another fierce hug—Harry's third or fourth of the night. Ron, at least, understood how to hug people without compacting them like a clamp or a vise. Harry waited for a full fifteen seconds before realising that his participation was required, and giving Ron an awkward sort of half-hug back. Insufferable.

"It is good to see you again. I feared the worst when I heard of the dementors—I know how they affect you. Everyone was most distressed, little brother. I must apologise for not coming in person to assist in your rescue. I understand that there were a great number of volunteers, however…I assumed that you were safe,and had no way in which—"

He just had to remind Harry of the dementors, didn't he?

"It's fine, Ron," Harry said, with a sigh. "I think all of these hugs may have broken three of my ribs, however. What do you know of what is happening with the Order?"

"Almost nothing!" Hermione interjected before Ron could even open his mouth. She seemed to think that Harry needed placating. Perhaps, he did. But, he doubted that he was as ignorant as she believed him to be. Nevertheless, he leant back against the door behind him, and folded his arms. "We're underage—not told anything, you know, 'too young to join the Order'; Mrs. Weasley won't let Fred and George join even though they are of age, and—"

"Is there a particular reason that you refuse to speak of anything important?" Harry asked, keeping his voice very level and calm, which seemed to unnerve her rather.

She glanced over at a blank stretch of canvas on the wall, and Harry sighed, remembering what Sirius said.

"Well, at least you knew something!" he cried, throwing his hands in the air, voice now quite a bit louder, and carrying. "At least the two of you were together! Where was I? Stuck at Privet Drive. I was stuck on Privet Drive, trying to glean information of any worth from the Daily Prophet, although I realised soon enough that that was worthless, too. So what if you don't know precisely what the Order's up to? At least you've been here, and safe—I don't suppose either of you has been attacked by dementors at all this summer—"

He turned to glare at Ron for this, and Ron bowed his head, as if ashamed that he hadn't been there. Really, he couldn't save the world, and should stop acting as if everyone expected him to save the universe single-handed. "But, why should I be safe? Why should I know anything? I suppose I haven't done anything worth trusting, have I? I wasn't the one who got tied to a tombstone and nearly killed a couple of months ago—and I'm sure that experience had no adverse effects on my psyche. No, everyone is okay with casting me off to the Dursleys for the summer—I suppose they were hoping to be rid of me—"

"Oh, Harry, we wanted to tell you, but Dumbledore made us promise—" Hermione at last managed to interrupt. She was very wide-eyed, hunted rabbit. A twinge of conscience tried to develop. This was no time for that.

"Well, you can't have wanted to tell me that much, now could you? 'Dumbledore made you promise', hah!"

"Harry, you—you're absolutely right to be angry…I'd be furious if it were me, but I—"

"Enough!" Ron shouted, his voice so full of authority that Harry immediately straightened his back as if standing at attention, sparing only half a glance to the portrait on the walls. Hermione looked back and forth between them, clearly torn, and Ron come over to gently put an arm around her shoulder. "Harry, you understand full well that, no matter your deeds and feats, you are still considered underage. Dumbledore must have his reasons, but regardless, it is unfair to accuse Hermione and me of excluding you or withholding information from you when you yourself have kept some—"

"Well, this is all highly entertaining," Harry said, in a very level voice, his face blank. He hadn't been upset in the slightest until Ron had chastised him, with cause, for scaring Hermione. He forged on regardless. "But, I think we have more important matters to—"

"Harry! You've arrived!" cried a new arrival, permanently derailing the conversation.

"We thought we heard your dulcet tones!"

"You heard Ron, more like," Harry said, narrowing his eyes into a glare just for them. Fred-and-George. There went any chance of speaking with Ron and Hermione, which was probably a good thing. They'd have to wait to speak to him later, when they were alone. Perhaps, the library—

What, the Twins were still talking? Something about how he shouldn't repress his anger? Eh, what did they know?

"Well, Harry, just dropped in to say hello," they said, with a friendly wave. He glared in return. This had best not be revenge for shoving off his winnings onto them. They were the ones wanted to open a joke shop.

They apparated (for that must be what it had been) back whence they'd come (wherever that was), which couldn't have been far removed. The entire Weasley clan was staying here, after all. He was a bit surprised (and quietly disappointed) that Ginny hadn't come round yet. Then again, he could hardly blame her for avoiding a shouting match.

Mrs. Weasley came by a few moments later, showcasing why they'd been so eager to be away.

"Dinner, you lot," she said, looking around the room at the three of them in overt suspicion. Her gaze softened when it fell upon Harry. "Are you quite alright, Harry, dear?"

He blinked at the sudden change in her demeanour. "I'm fine, Mrs. Weasley."

Ron sighed.