Hey guys, so here we go. This is the start of the sequel to The Other Side of the Coin, so if you haven't read that this will make literally no sense at all! So yeah, go read that first, and then come back.

Anyways, here we are.

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Something Lost, Something Found

By Zennith

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CHAPTER ONE

The hour was late. Books were strewn around what appeared to be an entirely non-magical house stuffed to the brim with family photographs and plush purple armchairs. Several pages were torn from each of the books and had been stacked in a pile on the rustic wooden desk that sat front and center in what appeared to be the den. It was a large, homey, ancient seeming house. And at that desk a boy sat, furiously flipping through the torn out sheets of parchment. And he, Harry Potter, was alone.

Now for Harry this wasn't a particularly uncommon experience. There were many evenings where the young man, settled down in one place or another, was left alone to his studies. Where his mentor and former headmaster of Hogwarts Albus Dumbledore went at these times was a mystery to him. Harry had never directly questioned his teacher as to these absences, and whenever he tried to bring up the general subject the conversation was steered subtly away to safer ground. And so the disappearances went unexplained to him.

This particular evening Harry found himself in the home of an old and doddering muggle lady who, according to Dumbledore, was away from home on an extended vacation and would be gone for at least a few weeks. This wasn't remarkable in and of itself. The two had made residence wherever was convenient over the past several years, depending on their location and purpose. Several times they'd lodged with personal friends of Dumbledore, other times they'd found a comfortable room in one of the many inns that peppered small towns across Europe. There had even been a week where they'd purchased a room at a Best Western, which according to Dumbledore was the largest hotel chain in the world. Harry had no idea how the old man knew that, but laughed it off with a shrug. His professor was nothing if not confusing, especially when he was in a good spirits.

At that moment, though, Harry himself was not in good spirits. He'd been given a task by his professor, one that he'd been working at for a good number of hours with seemingly little progress to show for it.

He grabbed a stray leaf of parchment and flattened it out on the desk before him. The page was clearly decades old, the ink had faded and the corners were rolling in on themselves. He scanned the lines quickly but found that they bore very little resemblance to anything that could remotely help him with his work. Frustrated, Harry swept the page off the desk and drew his wand.

It felt like Hogwarts all over again. Dumbledore rarely gave him entirely academic assignments, usually pairing them with specific lessons and practical examples. And Harry knew that this exercise, if he could complete it, would certainly help him moving forward.

But to be honest, Harry had no idea how to carve a precise inscription on a surface with a single incantation. He'd meddled only minimally with spell crafting, and Dumbledore had decided that it would be the next area they stressed in his magical education. He was already behind, according to the old man, because Dumbledore had crafted his first true spell at the age of fourteen. Harry, newly fifteen, had simply shrugged at this declaration. Was it his fault that he wasn't Dumbledore? He didn't particularly think so. His main talents, they'd found, lay in different areas than his mentor's did.

He took the wand in his hand and swished it lightly, aiming it towards the smooth surface of the desk, muttering a few syllables he'd managed to string together. Nothing happened. Harry grunted and sat back in his chair, exhausted. It was late, and the words on the pages were running together in a way that made his head spin.

Resigned to the fact that he would make no more progress that night, Harry stood from the desk and walked towards the living room where he'd fashioned himself a bed on a large and overdesigned couch with floral patterned cushions and ornate wooden arms and legs. There was a large master bedroom and even a well furnished guest room, but Harry never felt truly comfortable sleeping in a bed when the owners were unaware. And so he'd quickly learned several cushioning spells to make even the stiffest couch comfortable. But since Dumbledore was away he couldn't even use those, having been told to not use magic without his presence to shield him from the laws regarding underage magic.

With a sigh Harry collapsed on the couch which was just too short for him to stretch out fully on. When he tried, he found his head bumping up against the wooden arm, and with another sigh he curled up and tried to go to sleep.

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Harry sat up. He wasn't sure if he'd ever been truly asleep or just lost in his thoughts, but there was something, a sound that he'd maybe heard, that caused him to snap quickly to awareness. He listened closely, relying on the wards set up by Dumbledore to alert him if anything truly dangerous came nearby. And, in the midst of a suburban muggle neighborhood, what was there to worry about?

But there is was again.

Harry grabbed his wand from the side table where it had been resting and stood carefully, angling his back to the corner of the room.

And still the sound persisted. Almost a slithering, it was a sound almost reminiscent of leaves blowing in the wind, and yet somehow the tones were far more sinister in the dark of the night.

The house creaked, as old houses often do, and Harry listened carefully for any other sound that might be out of place.

And finally, he heard it. He heard a noise that chilled him to the bone.

It was the sound of tearing, of fabric being shredded and mattresses being torn asunder. The sound came from both the direction of the master bedroom to his left and traveled down the hallway to his right, where the guest room was situated. And Harry thought, with terrifying awareness, that there was clearly only a single explanation.

Someone was trying to kill him. And very likely Dumbledore as well. They were obviously aware of the location of both bedrooms and had been able to bypass Dumbledore's wards without setting them off. It was only because he had turned away from either room that he was still breathing. And his mentor, of course, was nowhere to be found.

His mind was racing. He was facing unknown assailants in unknown numbers. His back was to the wall and the front door was in the direction of the guest bedroom, where he knew attackers to be. And he had no time to think. They would notice that the rooms were empty, and they would undoubtedly search the house for anybody still on the premises.

And of course, they would find him.

So there was only one thing he could do. He had to run.

And just as he came to that decision the tearing sounds stopped. There was a moment of silence before that soft slithering sound resumed. And it was coming closer.

Beads of sweat began to form on Harry's forehead as he clenched his wand tightly in his hand. He knew that when he moved they'd likely hear him, so he couldn't be slow, he had to decide where he was going and run as quickly as possible. The next room over was the den in which he'd been working. There was a window above the desk that he'd opened earlier that evening to let in the cool air. He couldn't recall if he'd closed it or not, but that was no matter. He could get through it either way. And best of all, it was in the opposite direction of the guest room, and the sounds from that direction were growing steadily more audible with every passing moment.

He could not wait any longer. Mustering up every ounce of courage that he had, he took a deep breath and bolted towards the large and open doorway.

And as he moved into the next room he looked back to see a pair of tall, gaunt seeming men entering the living room behind him. They moved swiftly in near silence as they surveyed the room. Harry could see that they were on alert, and they almost certainly knew that someone was still in the house. He turned back to the room in front of him and stopped suddenly in his tracks. He could see the window, still open, letting in a soft breeze above the desk, the stack of papers fluttering lightly with the wind.

But he would never be able to reach it. Because in front of him stood two more men, identical to the ones behind him. They smiled slightly and Harry could see fangs glistening in the moonlight.

Fangs.

Vampires.

Harry's blood ran cold. He was alone. Surrounded by vampires. With no obvious means of escape other than to fight. And he'd heard the stories, he knew the lore. Vampires were strong. Vampires were tough, resistant to magic. And they were mean. Many of them delighted in causing great pain to their prey before feasting upon them.

Somehow Harry doubted that he'd happened upon the lucky few who just took they're subject's blood and left it at that.

Harry could hear the other two enter the room from behind. He didn't really want to stop and chat and if he waited even another moment they would close in on him and then he would really have nowhere to go.

Vampires.

Vampires don't like sunlight.

Harry had no idea whether or not wand light would have any impact at all, but he had to try. Brandishing his wand before him, he muttered softly "Lumos!"

A sphere of light appeared at the tip of his wand and the vampires before him drew back slightly and he could hear those behind him stop in their tracks. He allowed himself a moment to breathe, but he felt any amount of composure he had left flee from his body when one of the vampires, the one standing directly before him, began to laugh quietly.

Harry decided that he'd rather not wait around for the Vampire to speak, as every moment he wasted was another moment that they would gain position and power over him. While the light wasn't hurting them, it did seem to make them at least a bit uncomfortable. He gazed over the vampire's shoulder at the window, which remained his sole source of hope.

In a move that seemed to surprise his assailants, Harry darted forward, directly towards the vampires. With a whip his wand let loose two successive jets of fire that the two vampires were forced to spin away from and Harry jumped past them and on to the desk below the window. Escape was within his grasp, he could feel the crisp air on his cheek as he made to leap through the portal in to the open air.

But he never made it. A cold, strong hand wrapped around his ankle and pulled downwards with such force that the desk splintered and Harry was brought crashing to the ground.

Harry swung around so that his back was to the ground and cast another jet of flame straight into the air above him. As the flames struck one of the vampires who had gotten to close at the prospect of a quick kill, Harry rolled to the side and barely managed to avoid a strike from the one that had grabbed him, forcing the vampire to relinquish his hold upon the boy's ankle.

He sprung to his feet and found himself facing one vampire who was batting the flames from his body and another who was scowling and stalking towards him menacingly. Harry could see that the fire he had not disappeared. Instead it had caught the carpet and the predominately wooden household furniture. Even if, for some reason, the vampires didn't kill him, the house was going up in flames and Harry knew he would very quickly face death at the hands of either the flames themselves or asphyxiation caused by the billowing smoke that was spreading throughout the house.

He had to move quickly, even though he had lost sight of the two vampires who had been behind him. The one who had been set aflame would soon turn back to face him, so he had to hit the other and make another rush for the window.

Or at least that was his plan. But he never had the chance to execute it, because at that moment the two unseen vampires pounced from the shadows and tackled him to the ground. Harry watched in dismay as his wand fell from his hand at the impact and clattered across the floor, coming to a rest dangerously close to the licking flames that were threatening to encroach upon them all.

Harry looked up at the four vampires who were standing above him. He sighed in resignation and leaned his head back against the ground. He closed his eyes; he couldn't bear to watch as he waited for the final blows to fall.

And as he waited the roaring of the flames became muted, his mind slowed and his senses sharpened, he could smell his own sweat and fear above the charring smoke that had taken over.

Harry Potter waited. But the blows never came. And suddenly, he knew that Dumbledore had arrived.

His eyes opened to see what amounted to a war zone above him. Spells were flying at speeds unimaginable to him as a white beard and robes worked to dispatch the four vampires, who while outnumbering him were clearly outmatched and on the run.

Harry didn't stand. Instead, he turned and crawled towards his wand as quickly as he could. The flames, of course, were still burning merrily and the smoke was making Harry's pursuit of his wand extremely difficult, his glasses becoming a real distraction as they became gritty and covered with smoke so that when he opened his eyes he could see almost nothing. He felt around on the searing hot floor and knew he was close to the flames. Just as he was reaching out he felt himself pulled through the air and away from his wand. He shouted, but suddenly he felt himself tossed through the open window and out into the crisp and incredibly refreshing fall air. He hit the grass softly and could only manage a few gasping breaths before his consciousness collapsed around him.

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He awoke in clean white sheets and a crisp comforter. The bed was soft and the feather pillows were large and inviting. Harry immediately groaned and rolled over in the bed. He didn't know where he was, but at the moment he didn't particularly care. He was comfortable, but his body ached, and above all else he wanted to return to sleep.

But before he could manage to return to blissful slumber he heard the sound of a man clearing his throat. Sighing, he sat up.

And there sat his mentor, Albus Dumbledore. The man was looking at him over his gold rimmed half-moon glasses. He was sending Harry a light smile and appraised him carefully.

It was Harry who broke the silence and spoke first. "Where are we?"

Dumbledore smiled. "Harry, I'm glad to hear you speak. How are you feeling?"

Harry took a breath and then sat back against the head of the bed. "I'm okay, professor. I'm alive."

Albus nodded. "That you are, Harry. And to answer your question, we are residing in the home of Nicholas Flamel and his charming wife Perenelle. They are away on business at the moment, but were kind enough to offer us their home in our moment of need."

Harry looked about for a moment.

"Are we safe?" he asked.

Dumbledore nodded again and stood slowly from the gilded chair in which he had previously been seated. He took a deep breath and looked out the single window in the room.

"Yes, Harry. We will be safe here. I would be very stunned indeed if any assailant could bypass the wards surrounding this house."

Harry could not help himself. "They got past yours."

Dumbledore turned to look at him. "Yes, they did. And Nicolas has over five hundred years on me. I daresay he's as capable as any man alive when it comes to protection."

Harry nodded in a somewhat sheepish manner and a moment of silence descended upon the pair.

"What happened, sir? Do you know?"

Dumbledore sighed heavily. "Four vampires managed to bypass my wards in an attempt to murder the both of us. Only fortunate circumstances and your impressive performance prevented an untimely demise for each of us."

Harry nodded. "What happened to them?"

At this, Dumbledore let loose an almost feral smile that seemed to Harry entirely unnatural upon the old man's face. "Well, Harry, I would at the very least suggest that you have nothing more to worry about when it comes to those particular vampires."

Harry shuddered and sat forward once more. His mind was buzzing, and he could feel heat still in his lungs. He didn't want to even consider how much smoke he had inhaled during the fight. He sighed heavily and spoke, "Thank you, sir. For saving me."

Dumbledore shook his head. "No, Harry. Do not thank me. I abdicated my duties and left you in grave danger. Do not thank me for that."

Harry didn't push the matter and instead asked another question that was grating upon him. "What were they doing there? How did they know where the bedrooms were? And why were they trying to kill us at all?"

Dumbledore turned from the window and paced to the far corner of the room. "Those are three questions, Harry, which I would very much like to know the answer to myself."

Harry sat forward on the bed and looked expectantly at the old man. "But you have a hunch."

There was a moment of silence again before the wizened old wizard shook his head. "No, Harry. I wish I could reassure you otherwise, but whoever was behind the attack was very thorough when it came to dismantling my wards. They left no trace."

Harry sighed. "So we'll just go on as if nothing happened?"

Another silence before Dumbledore spoke again. "Not exactly, Harry. We will be more vigilant. But beyond that I'm afraid there's nothing else to be done."

It was then that Harry happened upon a sobering fact in his head. He looked up at his professor, an extremely worried look upon his face. Dumbledore noticed this and looked at him with concern.

"What's the matter, Harry?"

Harry spoke quickly. "My wand, professor. Did you get it?"

Dumbledore sighed. "That is what you were grasping for, I suppose."

Harry nodded in response, looking at Dumbledore with fear on his face.

Albus shook his head. "I'm afraid I did not see it, Harry. I was otherwise occupied at the time. I'd suppose that it was engulfed in the flames much like the rest of the house."

Harry sighed. "I've already gone through two wands. How many more can there be that fit me well?"

At this, Albus Dumbledore actually smiled. "I wouldn't worry, Harry. This actually works out quite nicely. I'd been meaning to head a bit west, and we'll only have to make a small detour to find you a new wand."

Harry looked at the man quizzically. "What do you mean? Why not just go to Olivander's?"

Harry gestured for Harry to get up and the boy did. He found that he was fully dressed, except for shoes, and quite clean, as if he'd taken a nice shower. Of course, he could not recall having done so, but he merely shrugged and looked up at the man, who was speaking as he stood.

"Ollivander is absolutely a master of his craft. But I just feel the timing may be right for a change. Tell me, Harry, have you ever heard the name Gregorovitch?"

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The past two years had been nothing short of a whirlwind. They'd traveled through several countries just seeing places that Dumbledore deemed significant magically. And that was how Harry had spent his first several months as the man's student. It felt to him like he wasn't studying at all, merely seeing the sights that peppered the magical world. They'd been to places like Stonehenge, the Pantheon, and Persepolis. And Harry had seen firsthand the power of ancient magic, places that had stood for millennia, places that dwarfed anything he had seen in the common world of muggle or magical London.

And while he missed Hogwarts immensely, he also realized that he was having experiences that every other student would be jealous of, and that none would turn down a chance to trade places with him. And so he resolved, early on in the trip, to simply enjoy where he was and to try and put Hogwarts behind him. It wasn't his home anymore. He was on a grand adventure, Dumbledore said, and Harry believed him. How could he not?

And as he sat next to his mentor on the train (Dumbledore firmly believed that taking one's time in travel was a thing of leisure, not a hassle), he could not help but let his mind wander to some of his early days.

After they'd traveled for several months the two had settled down for what had turned out to be their longest stay in any one place so far. It was in Germany, a small town known as Zwickau where Dumbledore had some friends from times long gone by.

And there, Harry'd begun to study in earnest with the man. He'd spend two hours a day working in practical application of spells with Dumbledore, essentially practicing Transfiguration, Charms, and Defense in practical trial settings that Dumbledore put him through. Life size puzzles where he had to figure out which spell could save him and which branch of knowledge he needed had become a part of daily life for the boy, thirteen at the time they'd settled down.

There had also been bookwork. Not in any traditional sense, instead they would brew a potion and Harry would be instructed to write down everything he noted regarding the preparation and effects of ingredients and methods. In essence, he was writing his own textbook filled with all of the knowledge Dumbledore chose to share with him.

The train rumbled through the green of the European countryside, the season just beginning to turn to fall, there was little but green on the ground and in the trees. Harry watched in silence as the sights sped past. The old man was snoring lightly next to him, but Harry doubted that he was truly at rest. He'd never actually seen him in a truly relaxed position. The man was always at attention, always ready, always aware of his surroundings.

And the question of his absences gnawed at him sometimes. He knew that he had no right, that Dumbledore had essentially put his life on hold for him, but he couldn't help but be curious. Especially since the man was so reticent to talk, he could not help but want to know. He always shrugged it off, but it was still in the corner of his mind.

He could feel that he'd progressed. It was certainly different than what Riddle had been teaching him. He'd been forced to start small, start slowly. He wasn't learning, initially, any spells that could cause damage or that seemed particularly impressive in any way. It was, in some ways, quite boring at times. He'd certainly improved when it came to transfiguration, but it was still far from his favorite. Charms were okay, but not his favorite.

In truth, he still craved the power that he'd once held in his hands. He hadn't used spells like he'd learned in his first years at Hogwarts since he'd begun training with Dumbledore. He hadn't even thought to turn to them when faced with serious danger, he'd gone other ways. He couldn't help but wonder what he would have been able to do had he been training with Riddle.

He sighed and pushed those thoughts from his mind. He hadn't seen the man since that last day at Hogwarts, and he knew that he shouldn't even think about traveling down that path. He'd seen and heard stories of Dark Wizards who had been consumed by their own power and he knew that he didn't want to become one of them. However, he also was not convinced that Tom Riddle was truly dark. But as he hadn't seen the man and had no means of making contact with him, he had no way to verify his train of thought.

He could feel the train begin to slow and Dumbledore sat up slowly next to him. The old man gave him a bemused look. Harry smiled slightly as the man turned back to face the front of the cabin.

They reached their destination, a small town in northern Germany close to the Denmark border. They'd had to transfer trains twice, but here they were. The platform was almost entirely empty and Harry surveyed what seemed like a quaint and charming little town. Albus nodded at him and the two began to walk towards the main thoroughfare of the town.

"So, Gregorovitch. What makes him so good?" Harry asked as the two walked at a measured pace.

"He's not necessarily a better wandmaker than Ollivander. He's simply of a different nature, his wands of a different temperament. You've shown yourself to be particularly proficient in some of the more… destructive elements of magic, fire specifically. I believe that one of his wands may prove to be a better fit for you."

Harry nodded. "So his wands are a bit more… in the way of brute force?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I wouldn't put it that way. He's just as subtle as Ollivander in many ways. His wands simply seem to have a different temperament. I had a boyhood friend whose wand was of Gregorovitch's make. He was one of the most talented men I've ever known. His wand certainly was of no hindrance."

Harry shrugged. "Sounds interesting. He knows that we're coming."

Dumbledore nodded again. "He does. I sent word before we left, and he assured me that he'd be able to find a wand for you."

And soon they found themselves in front of a dingy, but comfortable seeming shop just off the main road. Harry gave Dumbledore a quick look, and then walked in.

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It was a start.

But now they were on their guard.

It was no matter, not really. They knew, but they'd forget soon enough. Especially the boy. Time was still on his side, and he wasn't particularly choosey when it came to the execution. All that mattered was that it happened.

He would have his revenge.

He'd been following them. He'd followed them for years. The pursuit had been long, but he had nothing else to hold on to. He'd been stuck for fifty years before now, so to take the time to do this right… well, it was what he'd had to do.

He'd finally decided to test the boy and Dumbledore's protections. He hadn't expected the coerced vampires to actually succeed, but they'd done better than he'd ever imagined. He'd been able to override the meager protections and set the attack in motion. The old man had grown complacent. It was a mere four vampires that had pushed him to the brink and forced him to return. He was growing old.

That was one advantage of his unique… status. He didn't age. He couldn't even die, not as he was, not as things were.

He was glad, truthfully, that the attack had failed. He wanted to do this thing right. It was going to be him, himself, personally. There was no other way.

And he would be back. And he would have a body.

The boy had power, the boy showed promise. It was why he was with Dumbledore, it was why he was traveling the world, and it was why Albus Dumbledore had made the trip to his old hideout.

And he had awoken.

He owed it to the boy's presence. And he would reward him. He would reward him with power beyond all comprehension. And all that would be required on his part was a meager sacrifice.

Things were starting to fall into place.

The world was moving and changing. The time had given him the opportunity to recoup what had been lost – the fragile strands of sanity had managed to weave themselves back into a coherent narrative.

Time heals all wounds.

The cliché was true. He was proof.

And he would have his revenge.