Harry Potter 1. Chapter 1: An Unexpected Guest

Disclaimer: Nothing here belongs to me, except my original characters. You'll know who they are. Everything else is JKR's. So please don't sue. If I forget to put a disclaimer in any future chapter, this one goes for them, too.

Summary: Harry, reeling in the wake of Dumbledore's death, resolves to finish the job once and for all. But in order to do so, he's going to have to get help from unlikely sources and, with the help of his friends, pull off the greatest con job the wizarding world has ever seen…

A/N: So, my first story. It will be darker than the 6th book as the war really gets underway. Romantic pairings will be the same as in HBP, but romance will play a _very_ small part in this story, because frankly I don't want to write it. I'm not going to pretend it doesn't exist, but at the same time, it won't be a focus. I have a lot of OC bad guys, but no important OC good guys. Unless you count Aberforth Dumbledore (and Gawain Robards to some extent) as OCs, because they don't have any lines in the real books. Also, the chapters will be longer than Chapter 1. This intro's a little short.

**Chapter 1: An Unexpected Guest**

The lavish penthouse apartment was one of the most expensive in New York City, but this did not trouble its lone inhabitant. After all, he was not the owner. He was an old man, with only the last vestiges of black still showing in his silvery hair, which hung down almost to his shoulders. Despite the length it was surprisingly neat, proof that the man cared greatly about its appearance. He felt that its silver sheen brought out the color in his eyes, making the blue-grey, icy irises look even more intimidating than they otherwise did. Said eyes were currently peering out of a tanned but aristocratic face as if staring through the door of the apartment. The long, dexterous fingers of his right hand were curled around a thin, wooden wand inside the pocket of his trademark white robes, while his left hand rested calmly on the armrest of the couch he was reclined in.

The man's brow was furrowed in concentration, and his eyes were following something outside of the room, for this man really could see through the walls. He drummed his fingers on the couch impatiently, as though he was waiting for something and could not be bothered to wait much longer. His eyes twitched towards the window, assuring him that there was another way to exit the apartment besides the door. However, after a couple of seconds, his eyes jerked back to the door, and his fingers resumed their impatient drumming.

Half a minute later, a faint beeping filled the apartment, alerting the man of a possible intruder. The beeping began to grow louder and more frequent, signifying the intruder's slow approach, but the old man made no move other than to grip his wand a little tighter. As the seconds crawled by, the beeps started running together into a high pitched squeal, alerting him in a rather annoying fashion that the intruder was on his doorstep. He silenced the alarm with an irritable twitch of his wand. He peered through the door, and just as the man outside raised his hand to knock, he opened it with another twitch of the wand.

Standing outside the door was a man with his hand still raised rather foolishly in a knocking motion. He quickly lowered it, but the damage to his dignity was done. His red eyes flashed in anger for a moment, but then dulled just as quickly. The man was hairless, but that was the least of his physical deformities. He had red, glowing eyes with cat-like slits for pupils, a snake-like nose, and a slightly forked tongue that would occasionally protrude from his lipless mouth. But if the handsome man who was reclining on the other side of the room was repulsed, he didn't show it.

Lord Voldemort, for that was the name of the man with the serpentine face, began to take a step in the room. However, before he could get all the way in, the man on the couch used his wand to slam the door in his face. Before the door reached him, Lord Voldemort drew his own wand with a snarl and blasted the door into sawdust.

"I am not in the mood for games, Antonio," he said abruptly. "I have crossed an ocean into a hostile country to talk to you, and you have proven difficult enough to find already. I will not tolerate these meaningless trifles."

"Difficult?" repeated Antonio with a sardonic smile. "I didn't think anything was difficult for the great and glorious Dark Lord."

Lord Voldemort's face curled into a sour sneer. "If nothing posed a challenge to me, then I would be in charge of every government in a world devoid of Muggles and Mudbloods. No one is omnipotent, as you are well aware. I am merely closer than others."

"Not all others," replied Antonio softly with a mocking smile.

"You refer to Dumbledore," said Voldemort with a smirk. "Never fear, Antonio, that particular difficulty has been overcome."

Antonio raised his eyebrows. This was news to him, and he did not like it when the Dark Lord knew things that he didn't. He liked to have every bit of leverage possible over Voldemort during their meetings. "Then who leads the resistance movement? Moody? Or perhaps Robards?"

"Neither," said Voldemort. "Rufus Scrimgeour and Harry Potter currently stand against me. Both are easily eliminated. Robards is the Auror Commander, and will undoubtedly put up fierce resistance, but he is still the only Englishman on S.N.O.W., giving him limited international leverage. And I need not tell you of Scrimgeour's ineptitude in that department."

"Intriguing," said Antonio, digesting the new information. "So have you come to brief me on current events, or is there an underlying purpose to this visit?"

"Rest assured, there is a purpose," responded Voldemort in a soft but menacing tone. "You are the last of the strike team to have eluded me. I have spent the better part of two years tracking all of you down from across the globe. I was forced to break Zhang and Asagai from prison, among others, but I finally have all of you assembled. S.N.O.W. will be no match for us this time."

"All of us? Have you made the mistake of recruiting Müller again? I thought you would have learned your lesson last time."

"Müller is second only to you among the world's assassins," said Voldemort impatiently. "If you two would learn to work together, you would be formidable."

"I refuse to believe Müller is one of the best assassins in the world," said Antonio indignantly. "The man has the stealth of a rhinoceros and the reflexes of a three-toed sloth."

"It matters little what you believe," said Voldemort dismissively. "I have come a long way, and I must have your answer at the end of this meeting."

"And if I answer no?"

"Then I shall be forced to kill you, despite the great void your death will create in my team."

Antonio merely smirked. "You tried to kill me once before."

"I was young and inexperienced. I assure you that I could slaughter you where you lie."

"You are not a fighter, my Lord," said Antonio, using the title mockingly. "You have never been. But this discussion is pointless. You owe me fifty million Galleons."

"I do," admitted Voldemort. "And you will find that half of that sum has already been transferred to your Gringotts account."

"Not enough," said Antonio grimly. "You will pay me the full fifty before I even consider rejoining, with an additional twenty-five to prove your continued interest."

Voldemort's eyes flashed red in anger. "Our original agreement was for fifty. It will remain at fifty."

"Seventy-five, or I will send you running from the room like a dog."

"Empty threat, Antonio," sneered Voldemort. "You cannot touch me anymore."

"Then draw your wand," challenged Antonio, his icy eyes flashing with anger.

The two stared at each other, glaring daggers into each other's skulls. For minutes, neither looked away. Finally, Voldemort's eyes flashed again, and he snorted angrily.

"Sixty-five."

"Seventy-five," repeated Antonio adamantly.

"I shall make a compromise with you, Antonio," said Voldemort, nostrils flared in suppressed fury. "Fifty million as soon as I return to Britain, if you come with me. Twenty-five more will be paid once Harry Potter is dead and S.N.O.W. has been eliminated."

"Then you wish me to kill Harry Potter as well?"

"No. Your task, along with Müller, will be to eliminate S.N.O.W. Potter is my personal prey. When both jobs have been completed, you will receive your twenty-five."

"After which our contract will be renegotiated," said Antonio. "Very well, I accept the terms. You may return to Britain. I will arrive tomorrow, at which time you will pay me twenty-five million Galleons."

"I will brief you on your exact missions at that time as well. I am bringing you back to do far more than just destroy S.N.O.W."

"I look forward to it," said Antonio with a decidedly evil grin that showed almost all of his gleaming white teeth. "I haven't killed a man in almost a month."

"You will get all the chances in the world before we are through, my old friend," said Voldemort with a smirk. "I will put your skills to the test this time."

With that, the monster standing across the room from Antonio spun around and vanished into thin air with total silence. Antonio waited thirty seconds before slowly letting go of his wand, which had been clenched in his right hand throughout the discussion. He let his mind think through the meeting again, and he determined that he had gotten the better end of the deal by far. Seventy-five million Galleons to kill twelve of the best fighters ever to wield a wand? He would have _paid_ for that kind of opportunity.

Antonio packed up his effects, making sure that the apartment was completely cleared of all traces of him. Surprisingly for a man whose wealth was counted in millions, everything that he owned could be fit into one medium-sized trunk. But he was still missing his favorite knife. He racked his brain, trying to remember where he had put it, when his eyes fell on a small, insignificant rock sitting on his dresser.

"Ah, of course," he muttered, walking over to the rock. He held his wand over it and made a swirling motion. Instantly, the body of the man who owned the penthouse appeared, sprawled across the dresser. Antonio reached down, grasped the knife embedded in the man's chest, and tugged it loose. He siphoned the blood off with his wand and then carefully stowed the knife in the toe of his custom-made boots. He looked at the corpse, pondering whether to transfigure it back or not.

"Might as well let the police find it," he muttered. "This place has outlived its usefulness." At last, Antonio was ready to leave. He gave the room another once-over before walking to the center of the room. He tapped his trunk with his wand, muttering "_Portus_." The trunk glowed blue for a moment, before fading back to normal. Antonio reached down and grasped it tightly.

"Did you miss me, Europa?" he mumbled to himself, before disappearing in a confusing whirl of color and sound.

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**A/N:**

If you like it, leave a review! Questions, comments, and complaints are all welcome. What's S.N.O.W., you ask? Read on to find out!


	2. Chapter 2: MI5, X Branch

Disclaimer: Nothing here belongs to me, except my original characters. You'll know who they are. Everything else is JKR's. So please don't sue. If I forget to put a disclaimer in any future chapter, this one goes for them, too.

**Chapter 2: MI5, X Branch**

Kingsley Shacklebolt was bored out of his mind. He sat in the Prime Minister's grey-carpeted, fluorescent-lighted press conference room, listening to the man giving yet another of his long-winded, frighteningly dull policy statements to the media. Today, apparently, the man was concerned with the ever-present international dilemma of poverty. He was currently outlining his "revolutionary" new plan to combat world hunger, which, like most of its predecessors, would doubtlessly fail to have any revolutionary success. However, even if Kingsley had been mildly interested in what the Prime Minister had to say, he would have gained nothing from the speech that he did not already know. After all, he had been forced to type it up himself. Another one of his seemingly endless duties as the man's secretary.

The problem was, Kingsley did not want to be a secretary, even to the Prime Minister. He was an Auror, a Dark-wizard-catcher, and one of the best at that. He had once been one of the highest ranked Aurors in the corps, and by far the best werewolf hunter, but after the debacle in the Ministry of Magic a year ago, his true allegiance had been made clear. Once Scrimgeour had realized that Auror Shacklebolt's first loyalty was not to the Ministry, but to Albus Dumbledore, Kingsley had been shunted out of the way, into a dead-end job guarding the Muggle Prime Minister. However, as it turned out, the Prime Minister didn't actually need guarding. No attempts had been made on him by Death Eaters, and the man's bodyguards were better trained than Kingsley was to handle any Muggle threats.

And as time had progressed, Kingsley's job had deteriorated even further. The Prime Minister, after finally coming to terms with the fact that his new secretary was a wizard, began to realize the advantages it afforded. Since Kingsley was actually a bodyguard in disguise, the Prime Minister had realized that he couldn't simply quit the job, and as a wizard he was a far more efficient worker than a Muggle could ever be. So Kingsley ended up with more than double the work a traditional secretary would get, and received practically zero benefits for it. Lately, he had begun to half hope that someone would find a way to assassinate the Minister, just so that he would be transferred out of this dead-end job.

Kingsley was jerked out of his brooding by the sound of polite applause. He looked around, belatedly realizing that the speech was over, and quickly brought his hands together once or twice. The reporters who had been listening asked their questions, the Prime Minister gave his evasive answers, and then the ritual was over. The press began to file out of the room, ultimately leaving just Kingsley, the Prime Minister, and his bodyguards.

"What'd you think, Shacklebolt?" asked the Minister needlessly, as though Kingsley had actually been listening to what the Muggle had to say. "I was worried that the plan may have seemed a little extravagant, but then I figured…"

However, Kingsley was no longer listening. A buzzing sound was emanating from his left pocket, and the device inside was vibrating uncomfortably against his leg. He pulled out what looked like an old-fashioned pocket watch, and with a feeling of dread, flipped open the cover. Sure enough, his portable Dark Detector was registering something.

"Shacklebolt?" said the Prime Minister curiously. "Shacklebolt? Are you even listening to me?"

_No_, thought Kingsley silently, _I stopped listening to you a year ago_. Without even bothering to respond to the Minister's inquiries, he peered into the miniature Foe Glass that was attached to the inside. There were five shadowy figures that appeared to be moving closer, but their images stubbornly refused to become clearer. Kingsley knew of only two creatures that couldn't be seen using a Foe Glass: vampires and werewolves. Kingsley grinned viciously, causing the Prime Minister to jump in fright. _I hope it's werewolves._

However, even Kingsley couldn't protect the Prime Minister and fight five werewolves at the same time. As much as it irked him, he had to call for backup. He reached into his suit pocket and pulled out an ordinary cigarette lighter and a small, brown leather pouch. He flicked the lighter, causing a small, quivering flame to appear, and reached into the pouch with his other hand. He pulled out the tiniest pinch of a glittering purple powder and tossed it into the lighter's flame, which rose slightly and turned purple. The Prime Minister's bodyguards were watching him like he was crazy, but Kingsley ignored them, too.

"Gawain Robards," he said clearly into the purple flame, and then waited for a response. It was not long in coming. Five seconds later, the flame crackled and turned red.

"Auror Shacklebolt," said a deep, gravelly, rasping voice. The Auror commander sounded intimidating even over the low-quality portable Floo. "What's the situation?"

Kingsley wasted no time. "I have five possible hostiles. No image on the Foe Glass."

"Vampires or werewolves. I'm on my way."

The flame crackled from red back to purple, and Kingsley flicked the lighter closed, snuffing out the flame. Kingsley raised an eyebrow. The commander was going to show up in person. He must really care about the Muggle.

"Bloody _hell_!" cried the Prime Minister's lead bodyguard. "What the hell is going on?"

"Calm yourself," barked Kingsley. He didn't have time to deal with the Muggles. "The Prime Minister's life is under threat. Form a circle around him, protect him with your bodies. Things are going to get a little hairy in here."

"And who the hell do you think you are? You're a goddamn _secretary_!"

"That's my cover," said Kingsley, rolling his eyes. Time to spill the truth, or at least part of it. "I work in MI5, X Branch. I'm here to protect the Minister, at all costs. And I suggest you follow my orders, captain, because if there's one thing I hate, it's incompetence."

The bodyguard opened his mouth as if he was going to argue further, but at that moment, all hell broke loose. The wall to Kingsley's right exploded inward, sending choking white clouds of plaster dust into the air. Kingsley whirled, whipping his wand out of its wrist holster, pointing it with a steady, two-handed grip into the blank white haze. He noticed the security men moving next to him, and he noted with an approving eye that they immediately moved to protect the Minister, even before going for their guns. These men were well trained. Too bad they would probably die today.

The security men opened fire. NATO-issue hollowpoint bullets flew into the clouds of dust, filling unseen enemies with metal. For a moment, Kingsley hoped that they might have been successful. A bullet would kill an unprepared wizard as easily as it did a Muggle, but if one was prepared, a few simple spells were better than any bulletproof vest. Now Kingsley would find out whether his magical enemies knew what they were doing.

They did. The dust started to settle, and five unscathed werewolves walked out of the haze. Kingsley recognized their faces from the Auror facebooks. All five were child-killers, rapists, and man-eaters, the most repugnant kind of werewolf. And their leader, Fenrir Greyback, was the worst of the lot. He walked out in front, snarling as the Minister's bodyguards tried to fill his chest and head with useless bullets. As each slug impacted him, a small nimbus of pure white light appeared around it, and the bullet fell harmlessly to the floor. As soon as the bodyguards saw this, they stopped firing, conserving ammunition. _Very well trained_, thought Kingsley.

Greyback sneered disdainfully at the guards, and brushed the plaster dust off of his shoulders. "Kill them," he rasped, baring his yellowed, blood-caked teeth.

"_Avada Kedavra!_" yelled four voices in unison, and four of the bodyguards dropped dead, not even understanding how they were killed. The last two guards stepped in to take their places, but the looks of fear in their eyes were clearly evident. As for the Prime Minister himself, he was cowering uselessly on the ground, whimpering in fear.

Even as he observed all of this, Kingsley moved into action. He moved slightly to the left, keeping the remaining bodyguards between himself and the werewolves. At least these two would serve a purpose as his human shields. As two more Killing Curses cut them down, Kingsley sprang into the space where they had stood, putting himself between the werewolves and the Prime Minister. He felled two of the werewolves with nonverbal stunners before they even knew that the man facing them was a wizard.

A third werewolf turned to him, and triumphantly cast another Killing Curse. However, Kingsley calmly sidestepped and stunned him, too. The werewolf's curse sailed harmlessly over the Prime Minister's body, curled as it was into the fetal position on the floor. _A braver man would have died_, thought Kingsley without humor. Contrary to what they told you in boot camp, cowardice actually could save lives.

Fenrir Greyback was unaccustomed to losing, especially to one Auror. With a snarl of rage, he leapt toward Kingsley. He pulled a vicious, four-inch hunting knife out of his belt, and with accuracy born of years of practice, flung it towards Kingsley's wand. Before Kingsley could react, Greyback's knife sliced his wand neatly in two.

Kingsley ran through every swear word that he knew, but before he could say anything articulate, Greyback was on top of him, his strong arms forcing Kingsley to the ground. He could feel Greyback's hot, rancid breath all over his face, and with a roar of rage, tried to throw him off. But the werewolf was too powerful. With a savage grin of victory, he lowered his teeth to Kingsley's neck and started to squeeze. The scream of rage turned into one of horror, and then faded into a gurgle as Greyback did what he did best: rip, devour, and kill.

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"Werewolves or vampires. I'm on my way." Gawain Robards turned away from the roaring green fire in his office, moving quickly because there was no time to lose. He lifted his enormous body out of the too-small chair and loped out of the office, heading into the rows of cubicles housing his Aurors, some of the finest in the world. Most were away, either on active duty or taking one of their rare breaks, now that Lord Voldemort had returned from oblivion. In fact, Robards could only spot one Auror he would be willing to take on such a potentially risky mission. Well, one would have to do.

"Johnson!" he called sharply, and the man snapped to attention.

"Sir!" cried Reggie Johnson in response. Robards looked him up and down approvingly. The kid might be young (twenty, if Robards remembered correctly), but he had the demeanor of someone twice his age. He had impressed the Commander from the first day of Auror training with his cool, collected approach to crises. The man was unflappable, and had been trained personally by Robards. Both excellent reasons for Gawain to take him along.

"Follow," commanded Robards, and Johnson fell quickly into step. "I'll debrief you on the way to the Atrium. Auror Shacklebolt is currently guarding the Muggle Prime Minister from five werewolves, but it's unlikely he will last. We must hurry, or we'll be too late. I will guide your Apparition. You are familiar with the new Anti-Apparition and Portkey barriers I instituted?"

"Yes sir!"

"Good. We will set them up in a one-mile radius around the target site. Four corners. I will place the markers on the sides, you place front and back. Meet up opposite, run to the target area, ETA three minutes. You can run the mile in under three?"

"Yes sir!"

Robards allowed himself a brief moment of satisfaction, despite the grim situation. These new Aurors were shaping up well. In a year, he'd have the forces necessary to engage Lord Voldemort fully. But until then, they had to make do. "When we enter the fight, flash-bangs at the ready. You throw first, I'll assess the situation. Questions?"

"No sir!"

"Good, then grab my arm. We Apparate now."

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Fenrir Greyback grinned savagely as the scent of death assaulted his nostrils. To him, there was no sweeter aroma. The Auror had put up a good fight, but numbers had worked against him. As the man's dying gasps filled his ears, he kicked him viciously in the ribs, savoring the grunt of pain and terror. But sadly, his fun had to end. There was work to do.

He turned to the Muggle, the man they had been after. Lord Voldemort wanted the man dead, but Greyback had other ideas. He would, after all, make a perfect addition to Greyback's band of werewolves.

"Bind him," he rasped, and his lone companion still standing obeyed instantly. Fenrir didn't even remember the wolf's name, but that was unimportant. All that mattered was furthering his own goals. After the Muggle was securely bound, Greyback lifted him up by the throat, growling theatrically. A sharp stench filled the air, and Greyback chuckled in delight. The man had actually pissed himself! What a joke. He growled again, relishing in the whimpers of terror. He slung the man carelessly over his shoulder and then turned to leave the room, his associate trailing close behind.

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Gawain Robards moved efficiently. The pair Apparated in a mile out from the target zone. He immediately Apparated three more times, dropping a small black disk at each location. The black disks, unassuming as they looked, were the keys to success in many a mission he had had with S.N.O.W. When four of them were placed at corners around an area, they formed a box within which Apparation and Portkeys would both fail. This would keep the assailants from simply vanishing from the grasp of the law. He Apparated to his final location, and less than a second later, Auror Johnson joined him.

Johnson was one of the new recruits, one of the few to have been trained personally by Gawain Robards. Robards didn't need words to tell him what to do. He simply started running, and Johnson followed. Their destination, a little less than a mile away, was the very room in which Kingsley Shacklebolt lay dying. Robards opened up his stride, allowing his magic to flow through him and lend speed to his feet. He felt Johnson doing the same beside him. Soon they were running faster than the fastest Olympic sprinter. Two minutes later, they arrived.

As Robards' noted the structural damage to the side of the building, his experienced eyes could pinpoint the exact places where four men had stood when they had fired the Reductor curses. As he neared the gaping opening, the acrid smell of blood filled his nostrils. Without pausing in his stride, he donned a pair of special sunglasses and earplugs. Johnson did the same. They ran up to opposite sides of the hole in the wall and paused outside.

"Bind him," came a rasping voice from the inside of the room, and Robards inhaled sharply. That was the voice of Fenrir Greyback. That he was talking so calmly implied that Shacklebolt was disabled, if not dead, and the Prime Minister was in custody. Now was the time for action, and his years of training and experience took over. He made a complicated hand motion, to which Johnson nodded. Robards slowly tilted his head around the wall, and saw Greyback, with the Minister over his shoulder, sauntering back to the hole in the wall. He made another quick motion with his hand, and then sprang around the corner with a cry.

Greyback suddenly saw the impossible before him. Against all odds, another Auror was blocking his path, quite literally. The man's seven-foot frame nearly filled the gap in the wall. However, before he could do much more than register the man's presence, the world seemed to explode before his eyes, and a thundering boom resounded throughout the room, knocking Greyback off his feet.

Robards quickly analyzed the situation, protected from the flash-bang's explosion of light and sound by the glasses and earplugs. Auror Shacklebolt was down, but not yet dead. Greyback had hurled the Prime Minister away from him, to relative safety. He would undoubtedly have some broken bones, but he would survive. Greyback and the other werewolf had been momentarily disabled by the sensory overload from the flash-bang. Robards silently stunned the one, but Greyback had inadvertently stumbled behind the protection of the Minister's podium. Robards snarled and ran towards him.

Johnson ran in behind Robards, surveying the room as he did. It appeared that the Minister was safe, and that the Commander had the two werewolves under control. However, Shacklebolt was in bad shape. He immediately ran over to the man, trying to stabilize his condition.

Gawain breathed a sigh of relief as he saw Johnson tend to Shacklebolt. That left him free to deal with the werewolf. The wolf would have undoubtedly recovered from the flash-bang's effects by now, so Gawain slowed and approached the podium with caution. He stopped ten feet from it, pointed his wand, and let off a powerful blasting spell. The werewolf cursed as the splinters impaled him, but rather than running away, as Robards had expected, he charged forward, snarling furiously.

Gawain quickly pointed his wand at him, but it was too late. Greyback was nearly on top of him, and there was no time to get a spell off. Instead, he sheathed his wand to free up his hands and rose to meet his foe.

The two met in a furious collision of sinew and bone. It was a fight between animals, brutal and deadly. Greyback had the enhanced strength of a werewolf on top of his already solid frame, and he was used to easily winning in hand-to-hand combat. But the Auror in front of him was a monster of another sort. Standing seven feet tall and sporting three hundred fifty pounds of solid muscle, Gawain Robards could match Greyback strength for strength. But the Auror Commander had something that Greyback could never hope to match: training.

He pretended to fall back under the werewolf's assault, allowing his foe to overextend himself. Without warning, he lashed violently into his opponent's groin with his foot. Greyback buckled, and Robards charged, throwing him bodily into the air. Greyback landed with a painful thud, and snarling, whirled to face Robards once more. But Gawain had taken advantage of the break to draw his wand, and sent Greyback hurtling backwards with a well-placed bludgeoning charm. He ran forward to continue the battle, but was suddenly stopped in his tracks.

"Commander!" cried Johnson, whom Robards had all but forgotten. "I'm losing him!" It wasn't so much the words that stopped Robards, but rather the note of panic in the young Auror's voice. Auror Johnson quite simply did _not_ panic. Robards growled with indecision, looking back. Fenrir Greyback was already up and running, fleeing the crime scene as fast as his legs would carry him. If Robards didn't go after him now, he would escape. But at the same time, if he abandoned Shacklebolt, the Auror would probably die. Of course, he might die even with Gawain's aid. Gawain was no medi-wizard, after all.

And then, as often happened in times of crisis, Gawain Robards heard the voice of Alastor Moody growling in his ear. "Always remember, kid," the disembodied voice of Captain Moody flashed through his memory, "that your first loyalty is to the corps. Not to the Ministry, not even to justice, but to the corps. These are not your coworkers, or your friends, but your brothers. Remember this one rule above all others: no one gets left behind."

Robards turned, his mind made up. He ran to the side of Auror Shacklebolt, checking the pulse as he did so. It was faint, barely a whisper fluttering through the once-proud Auror's veins. "Cancel the wards, put in the call to St. Mungo's immediately," he ordered. Johnson turned with a nod, and immediately began making complicated motions with his wand. Satisfied, Robards turned back to his dying comrade.

The main damage was at the throat, but Robards didn't have the skill to heal that. Instead, he focused his magic on keeping the Auror breathing and keeping his blood flowing. A few whispered spells allowed his magic to flow out of his wand and into Shacklebolt's lungs and veins, keeping the Auror's vital processes going strong. After a minute of intense concentration, Robards heard the pops signaling the arrival of the medi-wizards. He relaxed, released the magic, and stepped back from the body, allowing them plenty of room. Immediately, five medi-wizards rushed to the body, and one other turned to tend to the Prime Minister. He backed off, avoiding the temptation to interfere.

"Commander?" asked Auror Johnson tentatively.

"Yes, soldier?"

"What about Greyback? Should we go after him?"

Gawain glanced in the direction that Greyback had run off. "No, he'll be long gone. You know Moody's theory on the man?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then you know that he knows this world better than we do. He'll have succeeded in disappearing by now. There's no point in trying to find him. Just take his four henchmen into custody."

"Yes, sir," said Johnson, and proceeded to do just that.

Gawain sighed. All in all, the day had been a success. True, Shacklebolt had been horribly injured, and Greyback had once again eluded his grasp. But no Aurors were dead, and four dangerous werewolves were in custody. All he had to do was make sure the Prophet heard nothing about Shacklebolt and plenty about the four werewolves. He would leave Johnson to clean the place up and modify any memories, but for now he had to get back to the office and make sure that if any other emergencies came up, the Auror department would be ready to act. And with a small pop, Gawain Robards was gone.

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**A/N:**

Questions? Comments? Complaints? Please review. Unfortunately, this chapter is not some of my best work, in my opinion. I haven't gotten as much time to edit it as I'd like. After this, the story returns to Harry's viewpoint for the duration. Gawain Robards, despite all the mentions he's gotten in the first couple chapters, will basically remain on the periphery of this story. Harry won't even meet him until the story's almost over. Trust me, the story's about Harry.

Chapter 3: The Last Visit


	3. Chapter 3: A New Beginning

Disclaimer: I don't own much.

**Chapter 3: A New Beginning**

Harry Potter sat at Gryffindor table in the Great Hall of Hogwarts, contemplating his life up to this point. Harry stared unseeingly at the grain of the wood, acutely feeling the loss of Albus Dumbledore. Just recently, his longtime mentor and friend had been murdered before his eyes by none other than Professor Severus Snape. If Harry ever got his hands on that greaseball…

_No, don't think about that_, he interrupted himself furiously. All he seemed to think about these days was Snape and Ginny. Wishing he could kill Snape, and wishing he could kiss Ginny. But Harry knew that he really shouldn't be doing either. He hated the thought of murder, even if it was Snape. He knew he would eventually have to kill Lord Voldemort, the scourge of the magical world, but he'd still like to keep it to a minimum. And as for Ginny, going out with the Boy-Who-Lived, the Chosen One, was not a recipe for longevity. In fact, it was downright suicidal. Harry had a dangerous road ahead of him, and he couldn't afford a girlfriend as a liability or a distraction. But still, if he could kiss her just one more time...

There he went again. His mind seemed to be focused like a laser on those two topics. If only he knew Occlumency, he could clear his mind and not be bothered by these constant thoughts. But thinking about Occlumency led to thinking about Snape, and Harry was right back where he had started.

He was finally broken out of his circular thoughts by the arrival of the post owls in the Great Hall. This was the last time he would ever see it. Possibly the last time he would ever see Hogwarts again. Best to soak it all in. He saw one particular tawny owl carrying the Daily Prophet to one of his two best friends, Hermione Granger. She took the paper, paid the owl, and spread it out on the table in front of her.

"Harry, Ron, come look at this!" she exclaimed excitedly. Harry and Ron each leaned over a shoulder to get a better view. On the front page was a picture of a tall, blond man casually smoking a cigarette in front of a nondescript pub. "_DIETER MÜLLER SPOTTED IN MANCHESTER_," the headline proclaimed in large, black letters.

"Who's Dieter Muller?" asked Ron in confusion.

"That's M_ue_ller, Ron," corrected Hermione in an exasperated tone. "The u-umlaut is pronounced 'ue'."

"The u-what?" said Ron, even more confused, while Hermione just huffed and opened her mouth, probably to reprimand him again.

Harry, sensing one of their infamous arguments coming, leaned over the paper to find out the answer to Ron's question. To cut them off before they could get going, he read the body of the article aloud.

"Dieter Müller, the German assassin who made a name for himself during You-Know-Who's last rise to power, was seen and photographed outside 'The Hanged Man' in Manchester today by yours truly, Daily Prophet reporter Mark Lyons. Müller, who is Europe's second most wanted man (behind only You-Know-Who himself), has not been spotted in public since Harry Potter defeated You-Know-Who almost sixteen years ago, although seven prominent assassinations have been attributed to him. This reporter managed to contact no less an authority than Auror Commander Gawain Robards in order to verify that the man in question is indeed Müller.

"Robards merely looked at these photographs for a moment before pronouncing them authentic. 'I have little doubt that the man in the pictures is indeed Müller,' said the Commander. 'The British people have a right to know that this is only the latest in a series of events that seems to indicate that Lord V is recalling his old army to him. The Auror department will do its best to ensure that Müller does not harm any British citizens, magical or Muggle, but I believe this war is going to get worse before it gets better.'

"Another Auror, who agreed to be interviewed only if he could remain anonymous, was more optimistic. 'Robards is seeing conspiracies everywhere,' confided our source. 'Everyone knows he was a student of Mad-Eye Moody, and I'd say the old man's paranoia is rubbing off on him. We're much better prepared than last time, but if you ask me, the Auror corps needs more stable leadership in these times of war.'

"Story continued on page 4. More on Müller's activities­­—page 7. More on Robards—page 9."

Harry, Hermione, and Ron all looked at each other for a moment. They were processing the information they had gained from the article, and Harry especially was wondering how it would affect their mission to destroy the Horcruxes. Harry cast his mind about for something to say just to break the silence.

"So," said Harry, "Robards seems pretty straightforward for a Ministry guy. You reckon he's right?"

"The other guy's right, he does sound like Moody," criticized Ron. "I mean, a war's on, right? There's going to be Death Eaters spotted in England a lot more often now."

Hermione bit her lip and seemed to think her words over carefully before responding. "Ron, if it were Lestrange, or even Greyback, I might agree with you. But Müller…well, he's different. I've read about him."

"Go figure," muttered Ron with a grin, but both Hermione and Harry ignored him. Harry was too interested in what Hermione had to say.

"You know how they used to say that Sirius Black was Voldemort's right-hand man?" she asked, and waited for Ron and Harry to nod before continuing. "Well, we know that's wrong, but from what I've read, the real man was Müller. He's supposedly by far the most dangerous Death Eater." She paused for dramatic effect, lowered her voice, and then continued. "It's rumored that he and Voldemort are evenly matched. Neither could best the other."

"Then how does he keep Müller loyal?" asked Harry curiously. "He rules everyone else through intimidation and fear. Seems as though a guy like Müller would want to go it alone."

"Money. Müller's a hired killer, and Voldemort's followers are some of the richest people in England."

"How much is he paid?" asked Ron interestedly.

"How would I know?" said Hermione. "But I'm sure it's more than all of the professors in Hogwarts put together make in ten years."

Harry really wanted to know more about Müller, but he noticed that the Great Hall was starting to empty. He glanced around the hall to fix the place firmly in his memory one last time, and then turned back to his friends. "Guys," he broke in, "we'd better leave, or we're going to miss the train."

Hermione nodded and folded up the paper, and then the three of them got up and left the hall. They headed down to the platform in silence, where the scarlet train was sitting, gently sending up puffs of white steam into the clear blue sky. The train was about half full, and they easily found an empty compartment near the middle. As soon as they were inside, Hermione took out her wand, put a locking charm on the door, and cast a silencing spell on the whole room.

"Why'd you do that, Hermione?" asked Ron, who was already sprawled across one of the seats, his long legs stretched out across the compartment.

"I think we need to discuss what we're going to do this summer," Hermione said in a low voice while taking the seat beside Ron. "We need to plan out a schedule or we'll never get anything done."

Harry and Ron met each other's eyes. This was typical Hermione, always having to have a plan. "Hermione," Harry started, "I've already told you what I want to do this summer. I need to visit the Dursleys for a day or two, and then we'll go to Godric's Hollow. Oh, and we'll also go to Bill and Fleur's wedding. Can't miss that."

"Harry," Hermione replied with a smile, "do you even know where Godric's Hollow is?"

That brought Harry up short. "Er…no," he admitted sheepishly. "I just sort of thought…"

"See, Harry," said Hermione triumphantly. "That's why you always have to have a plan. I've told you guys for years…"

"Oh, give it a rest, Hermione," Ron interrupted. "We'll find out from someone where it is."

"Mister Weasley is right," a new voice broke in from the other side of the compartment. "You're wasting your time."

Harry jumped up from his seat and whirled to face the voice, whipping out his wand at the same time. "_Expelliarmus!_" he roared, pointing it at the window where the voice had come from, only to see the spell sail harmlessly into the wall of the compartment. Before he could cast a second spell, the wand was snatched from his hand, and ropes came from thin air to bind him tight. By this time, Ron and Hermione were standing with their wands drawn, glancing warily around the compartment, but before they could do anything, they too were bound helplessly.

Out of thin air, the last person they expected to see appeared in front of them, removing an Invisibility Cloak from his shoulders.

"Professor Moody!" Harry exclaimed. "What in the world…"

"CONSTANT VIGILANCE, Potter!" Moody barked, cutting him off. "What were you thinking, discussing your plans carelessly where anyone could hear?"

"We weren't discussing them where anyone could hear," Harry retorted angrily from the floor. "Hermione locked the door and silenced the whole compartment."

"But none of you—not a single one of you—thought to do anything about the window, did you?" Moody roared, looking angrier than Harry had ever seen him. "With carelessness like yours, it's no wonder people are dying every day. Honestly, if I'd been a Death Eater, all three of you kids would be dead, and there wouldn't even be any witnesses."

"Professor," said Hermione timidly, cutting off Moody's tirade, "we just came here to get some privacy so we could talk. We didn't think…"

"Of course you didn't think, girl!" Moody replied, still angry. "That's obvious. Whenever you're in a room, you need to ALWAYS mind your exits. You should recognize security issues the moment you enter. I would have expected it from these two, but I was told you had some brains. Use them."

"But, Professor!" said Harry, angry as well. Moody had no right to just barge into his compartment demanding vigilance. "Why are you even here? And could you get rid of these ropes, please?" he added sarcastically.

Moody flicked his wand, and the ropes disappeared. After casting his own locking and silencing charms over Hermione's, as well as a few others Harry didn't recognize on the window, Moody turned to face them. "Now get up off the floor, you look stupid," he said. "I hope you've learned something today."

"Never get to know an insane ex-Auror?" asked Ron insolently.

"Apparently not," said Moody icily, disappointment etched in every line of his battered face. "I should have known you children would be like this."

"We're not children," said Harry angrily.

"Then stop acting like it," Moody returned. "Let me tell you what you should have learned today, since you seem to be incapable of common sense. What you should have learned is that you are by no means ready to face the big, wide world. You aren't even up to facing an insane ex-Auror," he said, nastily echoing Ron's words. "How do expect to take on a Death Eater if you can't even handle an old has-been like me?"

"You just caught us off guard, Professor," said Harry defensively. "It wasn't a fair fight."

"And do you expect Death Eaters to fight fairly, Potter?" Moody asked in a quiet, dangerous tone. "Do you expect a Death Eater to kindly give you a warning before he attacks you? You've been lucky so far. They've underestimated you. But no longer. The next time they meet you, they will crush you, unless you are prepared. And the only way to be prepared is through constant, never-ending vigilance. You must realize this."

"We understand, Professor," Hermione said hastily, trying to stall Moody before he could get started, "but you still haven't told us why you came."

"And we still don't know whether you really are Professor Moody," realized Harry suddenly. "You could be an imposter."

"Fine, ask me a question, Potter," Moody replied. "Anything that'll prove I'm me. Although I'll tell you now, Voldemort's too clever to use the same tricks twice."

Harry thought for a minute. "Whose picture did you show me the night Ron and Hermione became prefects?"

"The picture of the old Order," Moody answered promptly. "And now, let me return the favor. What did I ask you for the night I came to pick you up from your house?"

"A glass of water," Harry answered after a moment's thought. "Are you happy?"

"No," Moody replied. "And I won't be happy until Lord Voldemort's corpse is rotting at your feet," he added with complete seriousness.

Harry was momentarily stunned. No one had ever just come out and said something like that to him. They all tried to skate around the fact that Harry was going to end up murdering Voldemort, but apparently not Moody. But now that Harry thought about it, Moody shouldn't even know the Prophecy, should he? "How do you know about that?" asked Harry suspiciously.

"Dumbledore tried to hide the contents of the prophecy," explained Moody, "but he and I are old friends. I can glean more from his silences than most can from his words. The contents of the prophecy were apparent to me, but I've never actually heard the words. As far as I know, you're the only one who knows the whole thing."

"Ron and Hermione know, too," Harry corrected, trying not to think about the fact that Dumbledore should have been on that list as well.

"Really?" said Moody with surprise. "That was unexpected. Did Albus know about this?"

"Yeah," Harry replied. "He was the one who said I could tell them."

"Not what I'd call wise, but perhaps it was necessary," Moody mumbled to himself. He opened his mouth to continue, but then abruptly closed it. Outside the compartment door, they could hear the voices of other students looking for a compartment. Some were in high end-of-year spirits, but most were clearly subdued after the death of the Headmaster. Moody paused a second, and then waved his wand in a circle above his head. A pure white light shot out of the tip, enveloped the compartment for a second, and then faded. Harry wondered what it was, but Moody answered his unasked question.

"That was a little charm of Albus' invention," he explained. Harry again tried to avoid thinking about Dumbledore. "Their eyes will slide right over this compartment. They won't even realize it's here."

"Sort of like the Leaky Cauldron," Harry said, understanding.

"Similar, but not the same," Moody replied. "Now, I believe you wanted to know why I'm here?"

Harry focused his full attention on Moody, and he felt Ron and Hermione doing the same beside him. Whatever it was, it had to be good. Moody might have just attacked him, but Harry still respected the old Auror, even if he was a little crazy at times. He wouldn't have come if it weren't important.

"Before I begin," Moody started, "I must warn you that you aren't going to like this at all. Particularly you, Potter. However, it must be done."

"Why am I not going to like it?" Harry asked, when Moody paused.

"Be patient, I'll explain everything. Though I agree with Miss Granger that plans are essential to success, it's a good thing you never got your summer planned. This way I'm not going to be making your hard work useless. I've come to tell you, Potter, what you're going to be doing over the summer."

"What?" asked Harry incredulously. "I don't get a choice in what I do over the summer? You can't do that! I'm going to be an adult this summer, and Ron and Hermione already are."

"I told you that you wouldn't like it," said Moody with a grin. "Although I don't see what the big fuss is. You've never had a say in how you spend your summer. Why start now?"

"'Cause I'm an adult now," Harry replied. "And Dumbledore's gone."

"Yes, Albus is dead," said Moody with a sad sigh, "and that's part of the problem. You see, I've managed to put two and two together. Albus would leave us for days at a time last year, and he refused to tell us where he was going, but I imagine he told you. What's more, I'm told you went with him the night that he died. I can guess that you're planning on continuing whatever he was doing."

"Yes," replied Harry defiantly. "I am planning on continuing his work. It's crucial, and you won't stop me. And you can't get me to tell you what it is, either. He told me to tell no one."

"Relax, Potter," Moody chuckled. "Don't get your knickers in a twist. I'm not going to stop you or go with you. I'm not even interested in what it is. The less I know, the less can be tortured out of me. But I can also guess that whatever he was doing, you're not ready for it. Not yet."

"What d'you mean?" asked Harry curiously. "I went with him."

"Potter," Moody said, focusing a penetrating gaze directly on Harry. "Can you honestly say that if Albus weren't there, you could have done everything he did? You know exactly what he did, and if you went back, you could do it again?"

Harry shifted uncomfortably in his seat. No, he had no clue how Dumbledore did half of what he did in the cave, and he had to admit it. "No," he sighed with defeat, "I've got no clue. I was hoping to find out how in some books."

"Books from where, Potter?" Moody asked, pressing his advantage. "And who would teach you what you can't learn from books?"

"You can learn almost anything from books," Hermione interrupted. "As long as you read them carefully, the instructions are all there. Study the theory enough and you can do anything."

"No, girl," Moody snorted. Hermione looked shocked. "You can learn a bunch of spells, but what good'll that do if you don't know when to use them?"

"What do you mean, when to use them?" Ron asked. "It's obvious. You need a spell, you use it. You don't need one, don't use it. Easy."

"It's not quite that simple, kid," replied Moody. "When do you stun, when do you bludgeon, when do you kill? When do you use magic, when do you use your hands? When do you blast a door, when do you ease it open? Do you use force or finesse? Books can't teach you that, only experience can."

"He's right, Ron, Hermione," admitted Harry. He could see Moody's logic clearly. He knew a lot of spells, but when it came to a fight, it all flew out the window. In his fourth year, he had dived behind gravestones. Fifth year, he had to smash shelves. Sixth year, he used Sectumsempra on Malfoy. He had used an unknown spell in a panic, and it was a disaster. Harry could have killed him. He could see the wisdom of having a teacher who could help him out. "So, you're going to teach me this stuff?" he asked Moody interestedly.

"Yep," replied Moody. "And I'll do more than just teach you. I'm going to be your full-time bodyguard this summer. I'll go everywhere with you."

"I don't need a bodyguard," Harry replied. "I've always had to fight on my own, anyway. Just look at what happened with Dung and the Dementors."

"Mundungus Fletcher," Moody snorted, "is an idiot and a criminal to boot. If he were any dumber, he'd be officially retarded. He couldn't guard a pile of horse crap. He'll find that he's not going to be welcomed back into the Order when he gets out of jail, not that it's going to matter."

Harry was shocked to hear Moody talk about another member of the Order like that. He didn't understand it. Dung wasn't much of a bodyguard, true, but he was likeable enough. "Aren't you on the same side?" he asked Moody weakly.

"I've never been on his side, Potter," replied Moody angrily. "His is the side of sneaking, thieving, cheating, lying, and swindling honest men out of what they deserve. He's a good-for-nothing, pathetic worm, but he owed Dumbledore some favors. Morally, he's as corrupt as any Death Eater."

"Dung isn't that bad," Ron said defensively. "Besides, he's pretty funny, and he saved me once from some enchanted robes in Grimmauld Place."

"Only because you laughed at his stories," Moody snorted derisively. "If you and your brothers hadn't paid attention to him, I guarantee you he would've looked the other way. He abandoned Potter when he was needed most, and with all due respect, Potter's life is much more important than yours. And if you judge people by whether they're funny or not, you'll find yourself liking some Death Eaters more than honest men."

"I'd never like a Death Eater," Ron spat angrily. "They're just plain evil, and I'll never have anything to do with them."

"Then why do you like Fletcher?" Moody shot back. "He's just as mean-spirited as they are, he's just less capable of acting on it. The only reason he's a common thief is because he's not good enough at it to do any serious damage to anyone. And he's too scared of Voldemort to join him."

Harry was dumbfounded. Here was Moody, a respected member of the Order of the Phoenix, telling him that another member might as well be a Death Eater. But then again, he did see some of Moody's point. Impersonating an Inferius to rob someone was pretty low. Harry decided that he would reserve judgement.

"Never mind Dung," said Harry, cutting off the argument. "The point is, I've never seen the use of a bodyguard."

"That's because you've never had a good one," Moody replied. "And besides, my job won't just be to keep you safe, but to train you to keep yourself out of dangerous situations in the first place."

"You mean you're not going to let me fight?" asked Harry incredulously.

"Did I say that?" said Moody. "I said I would train you to keep yourself out of dangerous situations. An ambush is remarkably less dangerous if you see it coming from a mile away. I'm going to teach you to always be ready for an attack, no matter how unlikely it may be."

"You mean you're going to teach us to be paranoid?" said Ron skeptically. "Why would we want that?"

"We?" repeated Moody. "Who said anything about we? I'm just going to be training Potter. You two are going to go home with your parents."

Hermione just looked resigned, as if she had seen it coming (which, Harry reminded himself, she probably had), but Ron was livid. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "We swore that we were going to go with Harry this summer. We're a team, and we stick together."

"Stick together all you like," said Moody with a grin, "but you're the one who gets to tell your mother what you're going off to fight Death Eaters with Mad-Eye Moody."

Ron's face became noticeably paler at the thought of his mother's wrath, but he still held his ground. "She can't control me anymore. I'm an adult now."

"But I can," said Moody, suddenly deadly serious. "I'm an old man, lad. I can't guard three people effectively in the heat of a battle. Potter by himself I can handle. I might have been able to guard two of you, but if the rumors are true, then I doubt it."

"What rumors?" asked Harry.

"Did you see the Prophet this morning?"

"About Müller?"

"Yeah," said Moody. "Do you kids know anything about him?"

"I've read a little," said Hermione, and she proceeded to tell Moody what she had told Harry and Ron earlier. Moody leaned back into one of the compartment seats and nodded thoughtfully after she finished, mulling over what she had said.

"I'm impressed. You must have researched him thoroughly to dig up that much," said Moody at last. Hermione beamed. "He's not a very popular subject in books, since he's not a very well-known figure, despite what the Prophet implied. Most people probably didn't even remember who Müller was when they read the article this morning. However, almost none of what you told me is correct."

"What?" exclaimed Hermione. "I'm sure I remember what I read…"

"You misunderstand me," said Moody soothingly. "What I meant was that the information in the books was not correct. But it's not really wrong either. The Dieter Müller you've described is a composition of about thirty people into one man. First off, he's not Voldemort's right-hand man. Voldemort doesn't have a right-hand man. But he does plan out the logistics on many of the raids Voldemort conducts. Müller has one of the finest criminal minds in the world, and Voldemort's intelligent enough to use it. They often jointly planned the biggest raids back in the first war."

All three of them listened eagerly to what Moody had to tell them, and after a moment's pause he continued. "Also, Müller is not Voldemort's equal. Voldemort could best him easily in a duel. But Voldemort has another servant, a much deadlier servant, who does fit that description. I dedicated every spare moment I had in the first war to hunting that man: Antonio Ramirez Sanchez, the great Argentinean killer. I've seen both him and the Dark Lord in action, and I wouldn't bet on either of them in a duel. And Müller is not the only servant of the Dark Lord to be paid. As far as I know, Voldemort hires thirty-four people for their skills."

"And they follow him?" asked Harry incredulously. "They know he's a megalomaniac, and they aren't into the whole pureblood-supremacy thing, but they still follow him?"

"They're mercenaries, Potter," responded Moody. "They don't care who they're killing as long as the cash keeps coming. And they're the kind of people you need protection from. I'm not as worried about the run-of-the-mill, pureblood-supremacist type of Death Eater. You've proven you can hold your own against them. It's the skilled ones I worry about. The sooner you learn to think and act like an Auror, the sooner my mind'll be at ease."

"All right," said Harry. "I think you've made your point well enough. I'll train with you this summer, and I guess Ron and Hermione will have to stay at home."

Neither Ron nor Hermione looked very happy at this statement, but they both realized that it would probably be necessary for the war effort. Harry was ultimately the one who needed the training most, and if Harry had to go on without them, then they wouldn't try to stop him. They would still be there for him when he finished his training, to help him find the Horcruxes. It didn't sound like Moody was going to let them work on that over the summer anyway.

"Now," said Moody, "there's one more thing. From this moment forward, everything the four of us do must be shrouded in secrecy. No one, and I mean no one, can be told what has gone on in this compartment today. Weasley and Granger, both of you will need to go home and pretend it's just an ordinary summer. You need to pretend Potter's still at Privet Drive. Don't send owls to him. Wait for him to send his owl to you. When you write back, address your letters to Number Four. Potter's owl will be able to find him anyway, and if the letter's seen by anyone else, it'll throw 'em off the trail. Do you understand?"

Ron and Hermione nodded. "Good," continued Moody. "As far as the Order of the Phoenix is concerned, I'm escorting Potter back to Privet Drive and leaving him there. From now on, we must assume that there is a traitor in the Order. I know you guys are chummy with Lupin, but you have to assume he's a traitor."

"No way," said Harry. "I'm more sure of Lupin's loyalty than I am of yours! How can I pretend to think he's a traitor?"

"I trust Lupin too, Potter," agreed Moody. "However, he's dating Tonks, and I don't trust her anywhere near as far as I can throw her."

"What do you mean?" asked Hermione. "I always thought you Order members trusted each other completely."

"Look, Granger," said Moody with a sigh, "it's like this. Five years ago, a Metamorphmagus claiming to be Nymphadora Tonks showed up for Auror training. Now tell me, do we have any proof that the real Nymphadora Tonks wasn't replaced by a Death Eater before she ever joined up with the Auror Corps? That filth Crouch managed to impersonate me, and it's not much of a stretch to imagine that a Metamorphmagus could impersonate Tonks, someone none of us Aurors knew before she became one. To put it simply, I don't trust Tonks, and that means I don't trust Remus either."

Harry was pretty sure that this was just another example of the old Auror's paranoia, but he didn't want to argue. He figured it was probably a good idea to hide what he was doing from the Order anyway, because not all of them would be as understanding about him wanting to work on his own as Moody was. He shuddered to think what would happen if Mrs. Weasley learned that he planned on continuing Dumbledore's work without any help.

"All right," said Harry. "I think we've got the gist of it. Will I still be able to go to Bill and Fleur's wedding?"

"Of course," said Moody simply. "I told you that everything must be done in secrecy. That means we absolutely must pretend that everything is normal. You'll attend the wedding, maybe make an appearance at Grimmauld Place, and probably stay at the Burrow for a day or two as well. We need to pretend that it's just a normal summer."

"What about the Dursleys?" asked Harry. "I promised Dumbledore I would go back there this summer."

"You'll sleep there, but I'll sneak in with you. During the days I'll smuggle you out, and we'll go somewhere else to train. It's probably best if Weasley and Granger don't know where. That way it can't be tortured or tricked out of them."

"Right," said Harry, worried just at the thought of Ron or Hermione being tortured. "So, are we going to Apparate to the Dursley's?"

"No," answered Moody, "I'll meet up with you at the platform and drive you there in my car."

Harry was about to express his surprise that Moody actually had a car, but Hermione spoke up first. "Wait, what do you mean you'll meet up with him? You've already met up."

"It would look a tad suspicious if I was seen getting off the train with Potter, right?" Moody pointed out. "Got to keep up the secrecy and all that."

With that, Moody raised his wand and waved it in a circle opposite to the one he had made earlier. White light seeped back out of the walls and was sucked into his wand. He walked over to the window, removed the charms on it, and then turned around and looked at the three teenagers.

"I'll see you at the platform," he said, and then, with slight pop, vanished from the compartment.

"He's crazy," said Ron at once, barely a second after Moody had left.

"He's got some good points, Ron," said Harry, while Hermione nodded in agreement.

"I'm not arguing that," said Ron, "but you heard what he said about Dung. And Tonks! Can you imagine Tonks being a Death Eater? I'm telling you, the man is completely paranoid."

"You're right, Ron," said Hermione in a placating voice, "but remember Marietta Edgecombe? Would you have expected her to be a traitor?"

At that, Ron became more subdued, but Hermione wasn't finished. "Keep in mind, Moody's had a hard life. We don't know how he lost his leg and eye, but I'd bet he's been betrayed more than once in his life. It stands to reason he's a little paranoid."

"Right," said Harry grimly. "I'm not worried about Remus and Tonks the way Moody is, but still, I think it might be better if we keep everything secret. After all, we wouldn't want Mrs. Weasley to find out somehow, right?"

Ron and Hermione both nodded. The compartment lapsed into silence for a while, with all three occupants lost in their thoughts. Harry, for one, was worried about the upcoming summer. Even though he knew that Moody's training would be important, he had hoped to get started on the search for the Horcruxes over the summer. Now, it looked like there wouldn't be much chance for him to do anything. Suddenly, he was struck by inspiration.

"Hermione," he said quickly, "can you put those charms back up?" She quickly complied, and Harry noted with amusement that this time, she put up charms on the window as well.

"What is it, Harry?" she asked after the silencing charms were safely in place.

"Well," he responded, "I've been thinking. I wanted to work on finding the Horcruxes over the summer, but it doesn't look like I'm going to get the opportunity. But you two are going to be free pretty much the whole summer. I think you guys ought to get started on maybe trying to find out about the Horcruxes."

Hermione smiled. "I was just thinking the same thing."

This caused Ron to start laughing. When the other two looked at him, he simply grinned. "So was I."

Harry laughed. "Well, that's good then. We still need to find out who R.A.B. is, and also probably work on finding good locations for Horcruxes. They'll be in places that were significant to Voldemort. That probably means that you two will have to hit the history books. Or at least, Hermione will have to hit the history books." Hermione grinned sheepishly, while Ron laughed openly.

"But seriously," Harry continued, "you guys are going to have to work this summer. We also need to find out what a possible artifact of Gryffindor or Ravenclaw could be. Once we get a list of artifacts, we need to find out which ones could be Horcruxes. It's a lot of work, I know, but we have to do it at some point."

"We said we'd go all the way with you, Harry," said Ron grimly. "We meant it. Even if it means actually having to read something."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Oh, Ron…" she said, shaking her head playfully. All three burst into laughter again.

"You know, Harry," said Ron seriously, "I think we can do this. I mean, really do it, and do it right. I'll work on finding out who R.A.B. is, if Hermione will work on the history stuff. I'm no good at that."

Harry blinked, momentarily thrown off by Ron's maturity. Hermione, too, seemed slightly surprised. However, they both recovered quickly. "Right," said Harry, "Voldemort's going to regret the day he decided to mess with our lives."

Hermione and Ron nodded in agreement, and the compartment again lapsed into a comfortable silence, all three understanding the enormity of the task ahead, but feeling fully confident in their ability to overcome it. If Professor Dumbledore could have seen how his students had blossomed, it would have brought a smile to his face and a tear to his eye.

ooooo

ooooo

ooooo

**A/N: **

Okay, I posted the first two chapters a really really long time ago, and didn't get any reviews for ages. So I basically figured that nobody was reading the story and pretty much gave up on posting it. However, I checked the story again today for the first time in months, and to my shock, 3 reviews!!! So now I'm all inspired to post the story again. As long as one person is reading and enjoying this story, I figure it's worth writing. From now on, the only reason I'll stop posting is if I get zero reviews for a long time. Seriously, positive reviews are unbelievably inspiring for a new writer. So thanks to Lord Purity, Fox890, and Hamboy for being inspiring.

So good news, chapters will be updated pretty frequently from now. I will try my darndest to get out one chapter per week. And most of them won't be written from scratch in that week. I have the first 4 chapters written, as well as several others from random points in the story, depending on when inspiration struck.

Hope this chapter doesn't suck!


	4. Chapter 4: Training Begins

Disclaimer: I'm not the second-richest woman in entertainment, ergo I am not JKR, ergo I don't own Harry Potter. But I do sound smart when I say ergo.

A/N: This chapter contains a sneaky clue as to what kind of car Moody drives. If you catch the clue, you'll know what make his car is. If you know the make and you know your cars, I think you'll be able to guess the model too, based on Moody's personality. If you guess correctly, you win...well, nothing really. But I promise to be impressed.

**Chapter 4: Training Begins**

As the train rolled to a stop at platform nine and three-quarters, Harry rose from his seat and looked out the window. The platform was surprisingly not very crowded, due to the number of students whose parents had taken them straight from Hogwarts. Sure enough, Professor Moody was sitting on a bench with his back to the train, seemingly absorbed in his newspaper. Harry suppressed a grin as he saw that Moody was wearing his ridiculous trench coat and bowler hat combination. He wouldn't have been surprised if that magical eye were whizzing around under the hat, calculating how likely it was that any of the anxious parents standing around were Death Eaters.

Harry grabbed his trunk and together with Ron and Hermione disembarked from the train. They walked slowly over to where Moody sat reading, not wanting to seem like they were meeting the ex-Auror. At their approach, Moody laid down the paper, got to his feet, and walked towards the barrier into the Muggle world, surreptitiously signaling for them to follow. They walked a few steps behind him, crossed through the barrier, and were met by Harry's favorite group of redheads.

"Ron!" Mrs. Weasley exclaimed, moving forward to wrap her son in a crushing embrace. "Harry, Hermione, it's good to see all of you. Where's Ginny?"

Harry looked around. Now that he thought about it, where was Ginny? He hadn't seen her for the entire train ride, since he was locked in his compartment with Ron and Hermione. Who had she sat with? Just the thought of Ginny sitting with another man made his blood boil. Even as his anger flared, he felt guilty for feeling it. He knew that it was for Ginny's own good that they had to separate, and if she found a new boyfriend, the better for her. She deserved someone better than Harry, someone who would be able to take care of her and spend time with her without putting her in danger.

However, before Harry became further entrenched in his own thoughts, Ginny walked calmly through the barrier, looking around for a second before spotting the Weasleys and walking over to join them.

"Oh, Ginny, dear, there you are," said Mrs. Weasley, wrapping her in a hug, too. "I was just wondering where you'd gotten to. Did you have trouble with your luggage?"

"No, Mum," Ginny replied faintly from the center of the hug, "I couldn't find this lot on the train, so I sat with Neville and Luna instead." Harry shifted guiltily. "Where were you guys, anyway?"

"Oh, you know," said Hermione, "we just had to have a private talk. Sorry that you couldn't find us, but we didn't want anyone else to interrupt us."

"We can talk about this later, girls," said Mr. Weasley. "Let's get out of here. There's no safety in public places anymore. Hermione, are your parents here?"

"Yes, Mr. Weasley, right over there," she said, waving towards the couple that was walking towards them.

"Very well," Mr. Weasley said, looking around nervously. "Say your farewells quickly, and then Fred and George will escort you to your car and see you off." Fred flashed her a quick grin, but George just nodded. Both twins looked uncharacteristically serious. Harry didn't think he'd ever seen the twins stand quietly to the side. Even their clothes were normally flashy, but today they were dressed in drab black and grey. Harry realized the Order must have been taking things very seriously since Dumbledore's death. They were acting like they could literally be attacked at any time.

"Goodbye Ron, Harry," said Hermione, snapping Harry out of his musings. "I'll see you guys later this summer." She gave Harry a quick hug, and Ron a much longer one.

"Bye, Hermione," they said together. She waved, grinning, and then walked over to her parents, followed by Fred and George. She hugged them both briefly, and then all five headed out of the station, Ron's eyes following them until they were out of sight.

"Well, Potter," said Moody, speaking for the first time, "I'd better drop you off at home."

Harry turned and looked at all of the Weasleys standing there. "Before I go," he started, "I just wanted to thank you all for always being there for me. I really…"

"We don't have time for speeches, Potter," Moody interrupted with a growl. "The sooner we get out of here, the better. You'll see plenty of these folks over the summer. Bill's wedding is in two weeks, and you'll probably see them even before that."

Harry sighed. He'd never really gotten the chance to thank the Weasleys for all they had done for him. He supposed he'd have to do it some other time, though, since Mr. Weasley seemed almost relieved that Moody had cut him off. "Well," he said, "I'll see you guys at the wedding."

He hugged Mrs. Weasley and had his ribs crushed in return. He shook Mr. Weasley's hand, and then slapped Ron on the back. "See you soon, mate," he muttered, and Ron nodded in reply. He turned to Ginny, unsure of how he would act. Should he hug her, or should he just shake her hand? Ginny settled the problem for him, by pulling him into a tender embrace. She didn't seem to want to let go, and he didn't either, but he pulled himself away much sooner than he would have liked. He could feel Ginny still trying to hold on, and it took all of his willpower to let her go.

"Bye, Ginny," he said softly, and then turned to Moody. It looked like she wanted to say something back, but Harry quickly cut her off and said, "You ready to go, Professor?"

"Yeah, I reckon we'd better, Potter," the old man replied, and turned to the Weasleys himself. "Arthur, Molly," he said in farewell, tipping his bowler hat to them and uncovering his whizzing eye for a split second. Then he turned and left without a backward glance, Harry following close in his wake. They passed colorful billboards advertising luxury cars and soft drinks, and stepped out onto the streets. Moody led the way, heading towards a navy sedan parked at the curb. The back windows were tinted, but Harry could see through the clear front windows that there was no driver. Moody reached the car and stopped for a second, seeming to fumble in his pocket for the keys. However, Harry could see his uncovered eye staring at the car, and he was sure the magical eye was doing the same under the hat, looking for something wrong. As Moody finally pulled the keys out of his pocket, Harry shook his head: the old man really was out of his head.

Harry's first impression of the car was that it seemed much smaller on the inside than any wizard car he'd ever ridden in. There didn't seem to be any expanded space in this car, and much of the passenger room was taken up by various gadgets. As Harry sat down, he noticed that the seats were much harder and more uncomfortable than those in his uncle's car, and when he closed the door, silvery projections took up most of the elbow room. He tried to pull the seatbelt on, but the mechanism was confusing and unfamiliar.

"It's a four-point harness, Potter," Moody explained with a trace of a grin, pulling his own on with a practiced ease. "Far safer than ordinary window-shade seatbelts if I crash."

"And are you likely to crash?" asked Harry with some trepidation, finally figuring out the straps of the seat belt.

"Hardly," said Moody, while fiddling with several knobs on the dashboard unlike any Harry had ever seen. "My driving record is as clean as they come. It just never hurts to be prepared. Constant vigilance and all that."

Harry looked around the car for some sort of conversation starter. It wasn't hard to find. "What's all this stuff?" asked Harry, waving his hand at all of the unusual gadgets, buttons, and knobs that were strewn all over the inside of the car.

"Those would be the safety precautions," answered Moody. "I've got Dark Detectors, bug sweepers, bomb detectors, poison gas detectors, magical shields, physical shields, and a whole host of other equipment. It would take me a good day's work just to explain to you what everything in this car does. This car is the ultimate driving machine for anyone interested in surviving a war."

"Are the rock hard seats another one of those safety features?" asked Harry, wincing as he tried to shift his weight in a pointless attempt to make himself more comfortable.

"No, but they came with the car," said Moody with a barking laugh, before starting up the car, shifting into first, and slowly pulling out of the station. The trip to Privet Drive was long, but educational for Harry. While keeping his magical eye on the road, Moody spent almost the entire time showing Harry what each little gadget inside the car did. Harry knew he wouldn't remember half of what he'd been taught, but he had still learned a lot about different kinds of magical devices, some of which prevented against threats he hadn't even known existed.

However, the scenery outside eventually became the all-too-familiar manicured lawns and painstakingly decorated gardens of Privet Drive, and soon after that, Moody pulled into the driveway of Number 4. He parked the car, adjusted his bowler hat to once again cover his magical eye, and then stepped out of the car, motioning Harry to follow. Harry stepped out of the car, and as soon as he closed the door, Moody waved his wand, locking the doors and activating the safety charms. With that, the two of them walked towards the front door of the house, taking no care to avoid trampling Aunt Petunia's precious flowers.

Moody rapped his knuckles sharply on the heavy wooden door, and in a couple of seconds, Uncle Vernon's blotchy, angry face was sticking out of the door.

"For the LAST bloody time, we don't want to buy any ruddy siding!" he roared, before attempting to slam the door in their faces. However, before the door could close fully, Moody thrust out his hand, slamming it into the door and wedging it back open.

"Then it's a good thing we're not trying to sell any," said Moody with a trace of a grin splitting his marred face.

The effect of this simple statement on Uncle Vernon was comical. His face, which had been red with anger, faded to a pale white as a look of horror crossed it. Aghast, Uncle Vernon stumbled back a couple of steps, allowing the door to swing wide open and giving Moody room to cross the threshold. However, just as quickly as his face had paled, the anger returned in full force, and he attempted to force the wizards out. But Moody and Harry were both too quick for him and entered the house before he could close the door.

"You…him…you and him—here…why?" Uncle Vernon ground out through gritted teeth, apparently at a loss for words.

"Calm yourself, Dursley," warned Moody in a low voice. "We wouldn't want you to make a fool of yourself in front of the family," he added, with a nod towards Aunt Petunia and Dudley, who were standing behind Uncle Vernon with their mouths open in shock.

Uncle Vernon's vocabulary returned in a rush. "CALM myself?" he yelled, covering Moody in the spit flying from his mouth. "You barge into MY house, with no warning, and ask me to be calm? WELL I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT!"

And with that, before Harry could so much as make a move to stop him, Uncle Vernon let his right fist fly at Moody's face. However, before Harry could so much as blink, Moody had caught the punch in his left hand, stopping its momentum entirely. He twisted Uncle Vernon's wrist until it popped, and then sent the large man tumbling backwards with what seemed to be a light shove. The entire fight lasted less than a second.

"It would be wise for you to remember, Dursley," growled Moody menacingly, "that I don't take attempts on my person very kindly. If we're going to be living under the same roof, things will go smoother for both of us if you don't try anything rash."

Uncle Vernon scrambled back to his feet, wincing as he held his wrist. Noticing this, Moody flicked his wand at the man, and with a loud crack, the damage was instantly healed. Uncle Vernon looked down at his wrist for a moment in shock, before turning back to face Moody, still angry but under control.

"What do you mean, living under the same roof?" he spat. "We're not going to go live with you freaks."

"Of course not," replied Moody with equal disdain. "I wouldn't want filth like you dirtying my house. Potter and I are going to be living here."

Harry shifted uncomfortably as the gazes of the three Dursleys focused on him for the first time. He knew Moody and Uncle Vernon hated each other, but he hadn't really thought ahead to what was going to happen when they met. Even if he had, he would never have dreamed of something like this. He knew he had to do something before they tried to kill each other. Thinking quickly, he stepped in between the two men.

"Uncle Vernon, Professor Moody," he said with a forced calm, making a placating gesture with his hand. "Let's not get out of control, all right?"

Having a sixteen year old boy step between them seemed to snap both men back to their senses. Uncle Vernon blinked twice, confused for a moment, and then took a step backwards, some of the anger leaving his face. Moody, for his part, placed his wand back in its holster, and his face looked a little softer (if that was possible for Moody's scarred visage).

"Uncle Vernon," said Harry once more, addressing himself to the older man. "You won't even notice that we're living here. We'll be gone during the days, and at night we'll enter my bedroom directly. We won't stand outside, even for a moment, where the neighbors might see us. We won't eat your food, use your electricity, or even use your bathroom. It'll be as though we never existed."

Even Uncle Vernon couldn't find fault with that. But still, he wasn't completely satisfied. "Fine," he muttered. "Fine. You people can stay here till the boy turns seventeen. But you have to pay rent."

"Rent?" said Moody in disbelief. "You're going to make your own nephew pay rent?"

"Now see here, old man," said Uncle Vernon, angry again. "I've put up with his high-jinks for almost sixteen years, and I've made no secret of the fact that I don't want him here. I'm not going to let my house turn into some free boarding house for you frea—you people," he corrected himself hastily.

Harry was willing to do anything just to be able to get away from his Uncle. "Sure, whatever," he said. "How's a hundred thousand pounds sound?"

Uncle Vernon's eyes bulged, and his mouth opened wide in shock. "A—a hundred—hundred thousand?" he sputtered, disbelieving.

"Sure," said Harry calmly. "Think of it as seventeen years of rent." Before Uncle Vernon could so much as reply, Harry turned away and left the room, climbing the stairs towards his bedroom. He heard Moody's wooden leg clumping up the stairs behind him, and he figured that the old man was probably giving his uncle an extremely nasty look, undoubtedly using his magical eye to add to the effect. He heard a gasp from his aunt and knew that his suspicions were correct. However, he couldn't really bring himself to care anymore. Sixteen years of the Dursleys had been enough, and as far as he was concerned, he would be happy to never see them again. He entered his bedroom, and Moody followed close behind, closing the door behind him. Moody turned around, placed several charms that Harry didn't recognize on the room, and then turned back to face Harry.

"A hundred thousand pounds?" he asked dryly. "Don't you think that might be a bit much?"

Harry shrugged. "It's like I said, seventeen years worth of rent."

"A hundred thousand isn't pocket change, Potter," said Moody. "I'm not questioning the gesture. It was a very decent thing of you to do. I'm only questioning the amount."

Harry shrugged again. "What else would I use it for? I'm rich, Professor. I have the Potter and Black family money at my disposal. That's got to be well over a hundred thousand pounds, right?"

Moody's eyebrow raised slightly, and a slight grin appeared on his face, as though he knew something that Harry didn't. "Maybe. We'll wait until you get to Gringotts to see how much you have. You ready to go?"

"What, you mean to Gringotts?"

Moody shook his head. "No, Potter, I meant are you ready to head to my house. To stay for the summer."

"We're staying at your house?" asked Harry curiously. "How are we going to get there?"

"We're going to take the car, same as how we got here. Now remember, as far as the Order knows, you're staying here, and I'm leaving on my own. So put your Invisibility Cloak on, and we'll head down to the car again."

Harry rummaged through his trunk, found the cloak, and threw it over his shoulders. As soon as he was finished, Moody turned around and headed back out of the room. After clumping down the stairs and heading out the front door without so much as a word to the Dursleys, Moody limped his way over to the car, again going through the same routine of fumbling to find the keys. However, instead of entering through the driver's door, Moody walked around to the other side of the car and opened the passenger's side door wide. He leaned over for a moment, reached into the glove compartment, and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. He thumbed through it, still leaving the door wide open.

"In," Moody grunted, not moving his lips at all. Harry complied, slipping as quickly as he could into the cramped uncomfortable seat. However, it turned out he didn't need to hurry after all, as Moody spent another minute or two simply standing outside the car, flipping idly through the book. Eventually, he snapped the book shut, placed it back inside the car, and closed the door, causing Harry to nearly be impaled on what he vaguely remembered to be some form of bomb detector. With a sigh, he resigned himself to another long ride in the cramped, uncomfortable car.

Hours later, Harry stared out the window of the car as Moody slowly brought it to a stop. He had expected to be brought to another Grimmauld Place, but the scenery outside was the exact opposite of the dank, dingy Black manor. In a word, it was gorgeous. The car was parked on a narrow, winding dirt road that meandered its way through a pale golden meadow, with wildflowers slowly swaying in a light breeze. The evening sun shone red over the peaks of mountains far to the north, tinting the clouds with its fiery glow. At the edge of the meadow, perhaps half a mile away, tall pine trees stood majestically, ancient guardians of the forests they so diligently protected. Harry could hear the light, playful splashes of a brook or stream in the distance, although he couldn't pinpoint its location. In awe, he reached for the handle of the door to get out and get a better look.

However, before his hand could even grip the handle, Moody reached out and snatched it back. "The bodyguard always goes first," he grunted. "Even in a place like this."

It was only after Moody had exited the car and slowly circled it, magical eye staring off in all directions, that Harry was finally allowed to get out. As he straightened up, his back stretching and popping from road fatigue, he was able to get a good look at his surroundings. The stream, he discovered, cut its way lazily through the meadow, dividing it into two distinct halves. In the half they were currently in, there was no sign of any sort of place to stay, but in the other half, there was…no sign of any sort of place to stay.

"Professor Moody," Harry asked tentatively, "where's the house?" However, Moody was currently studying the ground beneath their feet very intently, and gave no sign that he had heard anything. "Professor?" tried Harry again.

Moody suddenly gave a start. "What's that? Oh…the house. Right. Well, the house is actually about three miles from here, as the Hippogriff flies. Our way is a little more roundabout. Probably four miles."

Now Harry was really confused. "Then why'd we get out of the car in the first place?"

"The road doesn't take us where we want to go, Potter," Moody explained, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world. "The house is that way," he said, pointing a gnarled finger towards the line of pine trees. "Though 'house' isn't the word I'd use for it, really."

With that, Moody turned back around to the car, and took several steps backwards from it. "Stand back, Potter," he ordered, and Harry quickly hurried to his side. Moody then waved his wand in a complex motion. At first, Harry thought nothing had happened. Then, to his astonishment, he realized that the car was slowly sinking into the ground. As though it were quicksand, the dust of the road methodically swallowed Moody's car, until only the very top was visible. In another second, it was completely lost to view.

As soon as it was gone, Moody walked over to the spot where it had vanished and began jumping up and down. Nothing happened. He kicked at the dust, spreading it all over the country lane, but still, nothing happened. The car had completely vanished. Moody gave a satisfied grunt, and then turned back to face Harry.

"Your training begins now. Follow," he said curtly, before turning and loping down the road. Harry stood still in shock. Did Moody really expect him to _run_ four miles?

"Come on, Potter, we don't have all day!" Moody called without turning back or slowing his pace, forcing Harry to sprint to catch up with him. After catching up to the former professor, Harry felt completely out of breath, especially compared to Moody. The old man was running at an astonishing pace, and was showing no signs of tiring. In fact, he wasn't even breathing hard! Suddenly, without any warning, he turned off the road onto an old, overgrown path that led through the meadow. Harry followed, staring at the ground to make sure that he didn't trip over any rocks, which seemed strewn over the path with the specific intent of making him fall.

The path continued through the meadow, until it reached the stream. Moody crossed a ford in the stream without even slowing his pace, forcing Harry to follow as fast as he could. As he reached the other side, his trainers were absolutely soaked, but Moody still hadn't let up. The trail continued, the terrain changing from open meadow to a closed, confined pine forest. After what Harry felt must have been at least two miles, the trail began to slope steadily uphill, until it became more like climbing a mountain than running on any sort of trail. Moody began to slow down, although Harry guessed that it was to make sure he kept up rather than because the ex-Auror was tiring. The blasted old man still wasn't even breathing heavily.

Finally, after nearly forty of the most exhausting minutes of Harry's life, Moody abruptly halted, almost causing Harry to run into his back. Apparently, they had reached their destination. For the first time in the past forty minutes, Harry lifted his eyes from his feet and gazed at his surroundings. His first thought, as he beheld the dilapidated old shack in front of him, was that this must be the tool shed. However, as he cast his gaze around, he didn't see the real house. Slowly, the truth began to dawn on him. This tiny, half-rotted wooden hut was going to be their home for the summer.

"_This_ is going to be our house?" he panted incredulously.

"I told you 'house' was an exaggeration," said Moody with a lopsided grin, which looked more like a grimace due to the grotesque stretching of his scars. Or maybe it was a grimace. Harry could never really read Moody's facial expressions. Moody, however, was already busy scanning the hut with his magical eye, looking for any sort of trap. Harry rolled his eyes. Completely paranoid.

After a minute of simply standing and waiting, Moody finally walked over to the house and opened the door, beckoning Harry inside. Harry had clung to a faint hope that perhaps the inside of the shack had been magically expanded, but sadly it wasn't the case. Their abode was every bit as small as it looked. Inside there were two small cots, a stove, and (of course) a plethora of Dark Detectors.

"Welcome to Moody Manor. I hope you're not claustrophobic, Potter," said Moody with a dry chuckle. "Not a safer place in the world to stay. A wizard can't come within ten miles of this place without my knowing."

"Right," Harry muttered, still gasping for breath from the intense run.

"Of course," Moody added, "we're not really going to be spending very much of our time in the house. I didn't bring you out into the middle of nowhere to make you sit inside all day. We're here so you can practice your magic without distractions or interruptions. And as I said, we'll be sleeping at Privet Drive. That will still be your home, at least until the end of July."

Ever since Moody had left the compartment on the Hogwarts Express, Harry had wondered exactly what the old Auror would be teaching him. When it came down to it, there was simply so much about magic that Harry _didn't_ know. Dumbledore had done things in the cave that Harry could never hope to replicate, and Harry didn't even know whether Moody was capable of teaching him how to be like that. Plucking up his courage (and catching his breath), Harry asked, "Sir, what exactly are you going to be teaching me here? Am I going to learn to fight Voldemort?"

Moody sat still for almost a full minute, silently thinking over the answer to Harry's question. "No," he said slowly, as though he himself were unsure of his answer.

"No, meaning you aren't going to teach me to fight him?" asked Harry. "Then what are you going to teach me? What could be more important?"

"It's not a question of importance, Potter," said Moody simply. "It's a question of ability. I've been thinking for a long time how honest to be with you during our summer training. After all, if I'm not fully honest, then I'm not giving you everything I've got. And that's not going to do any of us any good.

"On the other hand, if I speak my mind about everything, you might just give up. The way I see the world isn't sugarcoated, and a schoolboy like you has never heard anything like it. Some say old Mad-Eye's too cynical, or too paranoid, but the simple truth is that I've seen more of the world than they have, and I speak from my experience. But you're a tough kid, not one to give up easily, so I think you can handle it. Am I right?"

Enthralled, Harry could only nod.

"Good. Then here's the truth, as I see it. Teaching you to fight Voldemort is not something I want to do. Why? That way's a dead end. You can never hope to beat the Dark Lord. He is too strong for you, too skilled for you, and far more experienced than you can ever hope to become. If you try, you'll fail."

Harry was momentarily stunned, but shock soon gave way to anger. "Then what am I supposed to do? Am I just supposed to let him walk all over me, and my friends, and the whole world? It's my responsibility to beat him, and that's sure as hell what I'm going to do!"

Moody grinned wryly. "Nice idea, Potter, but empty words. Lord Voldemort is too good for you. At age sixteen, he was far more advanced in magic than you are now. Since then, he's had almost fifty years of intense study to get to the level he's at now. For ten years he left the wizarding world, and no one knows what he did during that time. But whatever it was, it transformed him from a gifted child into one of the most terrifying wizards of all time. Let me ask you a question, Potter. How long are you willing to wait to defeat him?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," said Harry slowly. "I'm going to kill him as soon as I can, and not a moment later."

"Of course," nodded Moody. "I wouldn't expect any less. But let's say you train as hard as you can, you grow by leaps and bounds, but ten years from now, you still aren't ready to kill him. Is that acceptable?"

"Ten years?" said Harry in what was almost a whisper. "You really think it's going to take me ten years?"

"No," said Moody, and Harry relaxed a little. But then Moody continued. "I imagine it will take a lot longer than that. After all, the Dark Lord's had nearly fifty. And he had a head start at age sixteen, being far better at magic then than you are now. If you also train for fifty years, I bet you'll be able to defeat him in battle."

Flabbergasted, Harry couldn't even find words to respond to what Moody was telling him. But Moody wasn't finished. "But remember, this fifty years scenario assumes that you're going to be training steadily all fifty years. I doubt that Voldemort will be willing to leave you alone that long, and I'm sure I'll be long dead by that time. Your training will be interrupted, so that even after fifty years, you may not be ready. You begin to see, I think, how hopeless this war is. I'm forced to count on a sixteen-year-old boy with all heart and no brains to defeat one of the most powerful wizards of all time and ensure the safety of the world. Let me tell you, it doesn't make it easy to fall asleep at night."

"Then what am I supposed to do?"

"Thank God, Potter," said Moody, "that you have allies in this fight, allies who are capable of taking the fight to the Dark Lord. The current Auror Commander, Gawain Robards, was once a student of mine, but he surpassed me long ago. He can match the Dark Lord strength for strength without breaking. But Robards is one of a kind. There's no one else like him in Britain."

"Is he really that good?" asked Harry.

"Yep. He can fight any soldier in Voldemort's arsenal single-handedly. When you decide to go after Voldemort, you'll need Gawain by your side. He'll work with you if I tell him to."

"Okay," said Harry, although he had some reservations. He wasn't sure that he wanted to involve a total stranger in his personal struggle with Voldemort, no matter how skilled that stranger was. "But if I'm not going to be learning to defeat Voldemort, what will I be learning?"

"I've got three things I want to teach you. The first is how to control your magic."

"What do you mean?" asked Harry curiously.

"Your magic is a tool that's much better than a good memory for spells or fast reflexes. With it, you have powers greater than you have ever dreamed of. But you have to learn to feel your magic within you, and to bend it to your command. I can teach you to tap into it, but from there, the burden is on your shoulders. You've got to practice at every opportunity you get."

"What do you mean, feel the magic within me? You mean when I'm doing a spell?"

"I'll elaborate later, Potter," Moody cut him off. "For now, I just want to get my plans for the summer out in the open. The next thing you'll work on is learning new spells. Because even though spell-less magic can work wonders, it's pretty limited. The more spells you know, the better off you'll be in a fight."

Harry nodded. "Makes sense."

"Of course it does," said Moody indignantly. "I'm telling it to you. And the final thing you're going to learn, Potter, is CONSTANT VIGILANCE!!!"

Harry jumped about a foot in the air, and hit the ground scowling. He'd gotten so wrapped up in Moody's explanations that he'd forgotten that the old man would scream about vigilance at the slightest provocation.

"Oh," Moody added, "I almost forgot. You'll also learn to keep your damn wand out of your damn back pocket. How many times am I going to have to tell you, kid, you never put the wand in the pocket. It slows your draw time, it makes it easy to steal, and it increases the risk of accidents a hundred fold. Next time I see it there, I'll blow off one of your buttocks to serve as a reminder."

Harry hastily pulled his wand out of his back pocket. He couldn't tell whether Moody was kidding or not about blowing off a buttock, but he wasn't going to risk it. He tried to stuff it in the waistband of his jeans, but Moody was too fast for him.

"No, boy," he growled, "don't put it there! Stick it in your wrist holster."

Harry looked at him blankly.

"You do have a wrist holster, don't you?"

No response.

Moody shook his head. "We've got our work cut out for us," he sighed. Still shaking his head, he turned around and left the cabin. "Well?" he added, as Harry stayed where he was. "You going to come on out or not? We have to get started sometime."

And Harry walked out of cabin, desperately hoping that he wouldn't look this stupid in front of Moody for the whole summer.

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**A/N: **

I'm still trying to get the hang of formatting text and stuff on this website. If anybody has any tips about spacing and borders and cool things like that, I'm all ears. What I do now is just write the chapters in word and then upload them to the site. But any formatting stuff that I do in word disappears as soon as I put it up. Alas, such is life.

Thanks to WulfMage, Gedpod, Lord Purity, and valandil for reviewing. Hope you guys enjoy this one.

Next chapter: The Order of the Phoenix.

See you then!


	5. Chapter 5: The Order of the Phoenix

Disclaimer: I hereby declare this story…disclaimed!

A/N: Some chapters flow easily out of my fingers, like a spider spinning an elaborate web. Every word falls effortlessly into its proper place, and every phrase is robust and delightful. This was not one of those chapters. That's why it took so damn long to write.

**Chapter 5: The Order of the Phoenix**

Harry stood in front of the mirror, fiddling irritably his tie. No matter how much effort he put in, his new dress robes flatly refused to be both comfortable and attractive at the same time. Perhaps it was because Tonks, who had bought the robes, had insisted on getting them in a color called "shiny grey." Then again, maybe the robes looked worse than usual because of the environment surrounding him. He was standing in the middle of Moody's dilapidated, one-room hut, peering into a conjured mirror in the corner. The lighting was practically nonexistent, causing his reflection to look distinctly shabbier than he remembered. With a sigh, he took off his tie and started over.

He knew he had to hurry. Moody wanted to leave for Bill and Fleur's wedding in a couple of minutes, and as Harry had learned, Moody was not one to excuse tardiness. Every morning for the past two weeks, Moody had insisted that Harry be up and out of Privet Drive by six o'clock sharp. And if he splinched himself out of exhaustion (which had happened three times already), Moody would make him go back, pick up the pieces, and put them back together unaided. The training was brutal but effective. In just two weeks, Apparition had become second nature to Harry.

Harry was halfway through retying his tie when the door to the cottage burst open. Moody flew through the opening, wand at the ready, and immediately sent two stunners blasting towards Harry. Despite the suddenness of the attack, Harry was prepared. Before the splinters from the door had hit the ground, he had whirled and drawn his wand, all previous thoughts forgotten. He ducked under the spells, but instead of counterattacking, he waved his wand towards the side of the hut, creating a small hole in the wall. Moody sent a third hex streaming in Harry's direction, but Harry was already gone.

Harry ran as hard as he could toward the wall and dove through the hole he had created. But he was too slow. As he sailed through the hole, Moody connected with a blasting hex, forcing Harry to fly much further than he had intended. He landed awkwardly, and by the time he was back on his feet, Moody had knocked him out cold with a stunner.

The next thing Harry knew, Moody was bending over him, examining him thoroughly with his magical eye. After giving a satisfied grunt, Moody extended a hand, helping Harry up off the ground.

"Getting better, Potter," he said, "but still not good. First let's talk about what you did well. Your vigilance is improving. Your reaction time was passable, and you didn't get flustered. That was a clever idea, creating your own door. But think. What did you do wrong?"

Harry thought back on the short skirmish with a distinct feeling of déjà vu. Moody must have done this a hundred times over the two weeks that Harry had spent with him, and the old man would inevitably choose the most awkward moments to attack. Once he had even cursed Harry while he was in the loo. At first Harry's responses had been terrible, but his reactions had slowly built up, until he could give a good account of himself even when caught completely off guard. However, he still made plenty of mistakes, such as the one that caused him to lose the latest fight.

"I turned my back on you when I jumped out of the hut," replied Harry dully. Even though he knew he wasn't really a match for a seasoned Auror, he still felt terrible every time he lost.

"Correct," nodded Moody. "I've told you dozens of times, you NEVER turn your back on an opponent, even when you think he's disarmed. But as bad as that was, it wasn't your biggest mistake."

"Then what was, sir?"

"You made that hole in the wall too early, Potter," explained Moody. "Even the dumbest Death Eater could have figured out your plan in time to stop you. If you'd paid closer attention, you'd have noticed that my spells were placed in order to force you to run to that hole. Then, when you jumped through, you gave me my free shot."

"I thought you said that it was clever thinking, sir?" asked Harry. He understood the problem, but he wondered why the old Auror had complemented him on his mistake.

"It was. The idea was great; it was just your timing that was off. You should have waited until the last possible moment to create that hole. Preferably when you had already reached the wall. Now clean yourself up, and we'll get going."

Harry looked down at his shiny grey dress robes. They had been immaculate before the attack, but now they were torn and covered in mud and dry pine needles from his fall. He pointed his wand at one of the rips. Concentrating hard, he mentally said, _Reparo_. He felt a small burst of satisfaction as the rip sewed itself back together, leaving no trace of a seam. Moody gave an approving nod, and Harry quickly and silently cleaned the rest of his robes.

If Moody had been tough on Apparition, that was nothing compared to his stance on nonverbal magic. Two weeks ago, Harry had been hopeless at nonverbal magic. Moody had quickly realized this and decided to remedy the problem, Auror style. He promptly forbade any verbal magic, enforcing the rule with a complex silencing charm that literally glued Harry's mouth shut whenever he tried to cast a spell. Moody then refused to provide Harry with food and drink, making him conjure his own sustenance. After an entire day of training without food and water, Harry had been forced to either learn nonverbal magic or starve. Again, the harsh training methods accomplished in two days what a year of Hogwarts hadn't been able to do: teach Harry nonverbal magic. And after two weeks, while Harry still wasn't entirely comfortable with nonverbal magic, he was certainly competent enough to use it in his fights with Moody.

"You go ahead to the Apparition point, Potter," instructed Moody after Harry had finished patching up his robes. "I'll catch up to you a little later. I've got a couple of people I need to talk to about security for the wedding."

Harry nodded. "Yes sir," he said, before turning and jogging lightly down a beaten dirt path. The Apparition point, as Moody liked to refer to it, was the peak of a small hill two miles away. According to Moody, it was the only spot in a ten-mile radius from which Disapparition was possible. Normally Harry would have walked the distance, but since that first exhausting run at the beginning of the summer, Moody had insisted that he run almost everywhere. At first, Harry thought that the old Auror was trying to get him physically fit, but apparently that wasn't the case.

"We don't have time for physical training," Moody had growled in response to Harry's inquiries. "You're not going to beat the Dark Lord by benching two hundred pounds or running a four-minute mile. Once we get past the basics and into the real meat of your magical training, running is going to be your best tool for understanding your magic."

Moody had never elaborated. When Harry pressed him for details, he simply stated that Harry would find out when he was ready, and not a moment sooner.

When Harry wasn't running, Moody had him practicing spells and fighting every waking moment. Harry was learning at a rapid rate, but it wasn't fast enough to please Moody. He continually pushed Harry to train faster and harder, even when Harry was on the brink of collapsing from exhaustion. Moody claimed that he was training Harry to fight even when his energy was completely drained, but Harry was pretty sure that Moody felt some sadistic pleasure as well.

When Harry reached the Apparition point, Moody was still nowhere in sight. Harry cleaned the sweat off of his robes with a quick, nonverbal _Scourgify_, and then sat down to rest on a weathered tree stump. He was sitting near the center of a quiet, empty glade that was an island within the woods. It was the one place on Moody's property where the merciless summer sun could burn the back of Harry's neck. Naturally, Moody loved to make him train there.

To pass the time, Harry reached into a pocket of his robes and pulled out two unassuming blue books: the Auror Spellbook and Facebook. While Moody was often tight-lipped and curt, the two books he had given Harry proved to be a gold mine of information. The Spellbook was actually tiny, containing just ten pages. It was nothing more than a list of five hundred spells deemed essential for any Auror to know. Moody told him that to be accepted into Auror training, a recruit had to prove familiarity with fifty of the spells in the book, but to graduate an Auror needed to know all five hundred. The spells were organized into three categories: curses, shields, and healing. After two weeks, Harry knew nearly fifty new curses, five shields, and four new healing spells (all of which were necessary whenever he splinched himself). He hoped that by the end of the summer, he would know the entire Spellbook cover to cover. Moody was certainly determined to push him there.

However, as good as the Spellbook was, it was the Facebook that Harry really treasured. In contrast to the Spellbook, the Facebook contained two hundred and twenty-seven pages. On each page was printed a picture of one Death Eater and a couple of paragraphs explaining who the man or woman was, how they were related to Voldemort, and their preferred methods of operation. But the best part of the book was that the pages were arranged in order of how dangerous the Death Eaters were. Antonio Ramirez Sanchez, the man Moody had warned Harry about on the Hogwarts Express, peered haughtily out of page one. Pages two, three, and four contained Dieter Müller, Shen Zhang, and Ronnie O'Bannon. Harry found it worrying that he had never heard of any of the fifteen most dangerous Death Eaters in the Facebook until this summer.

However, the Death Eater on page sixteen was all too familiar; Severus Snape's fierce black eyes glared out of the page. Harry hated looking at that page, hated reading about how Snape had betrayed the Order of the Phoenix, and especially hated seeing Snape's many skills listed under his despicable picture. However, every time he opened the Facebook, he found his eyes inexorably drawn to page sixteen. With a grimace, he wrenched his eyes away from Snape's page and thumbed through the rest of the book.

Page 57 contained Fenrir Greyback. Harry was astonished to find out that Greyback was actually a Muggle who had been bitten by a werewolf as a teenager. His sudden and terrible exposure to the magical world had warped his brain beyond all recognition, leaving behind a barbaric killing machine. However, while he was incapable of magic, his upbringing meant that he had a knack for disappearing into the Muggle world, leaving magical authorities incapable of tracking him down. Harry was torn by Greyback's story; on the one hand, Greyback had been afflicted by a terrible tragedy, but despite that, he had to be killed for the safety of others.

Lucius Malfoy graced page 98. Rodolphus Lestrange was opposite him on page 99, sixty-one places below his wife Bellatrix. Narcissa Malfoy was number 175, across from her cousin Regulus. On a whim, Harry read the short biography of Sirius's brother.

"_Regulus Arcturus Black (1961-1979?), son of Orion and Walburga Black, younger brother of Sirius Orion Black. Educated at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry (1972-1978). Joined the Dark Lord in 1978. Rumored to be murdered by the Dark Lord in 1979, but no body was found. Black's probable motive for joining the Death Eaters is pureblood supremacy._

_"There are few details surrounding his time with the Death Eaters. Black was low-ranked, unimportant, and overlooked. He is believed to have taken part in the murders of Gideon and Fabian Prewett. Black was a mediocre wizard in school, and by all accounts was weak and cowardly. It is believed that Lord Voldemort murdered him because of this same cowardice."_

Harry glanced back at Regulus's picture. Although he looked spookily similar to Sirius, his entire face appeared slightly weaker, and his eyes did not show the same strength of character that Sirius's had. All in all, he was quite an unremarkable man. And yet, something was tickling the back of Harry's mind. For reasons he couldn't understand, his eyes were drawn back to the bland, uninformative biography. He pored over it, trying to find something odd or out of place. However, no matter how much he studied the page, the tickling sensation refused to fade.

His concentration was broken by the sounds of Moody trudging up the path towards the Apparition point. He snapped the book shut with a sigh, placed both books back in his pocket, and straightened up. Moody nodded in greeting as he entered the glade.

"Change of plans, Potter," he grunted. "I've got to go to an Order meeting, so we'll go to Grimmauld Place first. We'll head to the wedding along with the other Order members."

"What's the Order meeting going to be about, sir?" inquired Harry. "Security for the wedding?"

"Among other things," said Moody blandly. "But it's none of your business, really, because you're not an Order member."

Harry was momentarily taken aback by Moody's rebuff, but then he rejoined, "Don't you think it's high time I got inducted into the Order, sir? Haven't I proved myself by now?"

Moody grimaced. "No lad, just forget the Order. You already have your purpose. You don't need the Order to give you one."

"What do you mean?" asked Harry confusedly.

"You want to fight Lord Voldemort, right?" said Moody. Without waiting for a reply, he continued on. "Good on you. But don't think that you have to join the Order of the Phoenix to do it. The Order was never meant to fight Voldemort the way you want to."

"What are you talking about, sir? I thought the purpose of the Order is to combat Voldemort?"

"Not quite," clarified Moody. "The purpose of the Order was to help Albus Dumbledore fight Lord Voldemort. Quite a different matter. And now that Albus is dead, the Order doesn't really serve much of a purpose at all."

"That's not true," argued Harry. "Losing Professor Dumbledore was terrible, but we can continue on without him. We have to!"

"Aye, we do. But not through the Order of the Phoenix. Go it alone, Potter. You're better off that way. Think of it like this: do you think the Order's going to let you go about this secret project of Dumbledore's all by yourself? Of course not. They're going to try to force you to tell them what you're doing and where you're going. And if you refuse, they can make life difficult for you. Trust me, it'll be much better to let them think that you're going to head quietly off to another year of Hogwarts, take your N.E.W.T.s, and check yourself into Auror training."

"You're probably right," said Harry, "but that still doesn't mean the Order serves no purpose. They can still fight Voldemort without me."

"Look, Potter," sighed Moody, "it's like this. During the first war, the Aurors were hard pressed trying to stop the Death Eaters from wreaking havoc across Britain. Everyone agreed that something had to be done, but disagreed on what that something was. A lot of young kids ended up getting themselves killed trying to take the fight into their own hands. Even worse, they would often get in the way of the Aurors by ruining stake-outs and destroying evidence, letting the Death Eaters get away scot-free. Again, something had to be done.

"Albus stepped up and created the Order of the Phoenix. It was supposed to constructively channel the energy of those reckless young men and women, and keep them out of the way of the Aurors. Albus found ways to recruit the kids and give them important tasks that Aurors weren't already working on. Early on, those tasks usually involved helping Albus in his personal struggle against Lord Voldemort. Later, after Dumbledore heard the Prophecy, he put the Order to work protecting your parents and the Longbottoms. Didn't end up doing a load of good, but there you are."

Harry could spot a clear hole in that logic. "But sir, if the Order was really meant to keep people from dying, why were you and Kingsley members?"

Moody let out a bitter bark of a laugh. "Oh, the Order didn't manage to keep those kids from dying. Some of the best and bravest young men and women I've ever known were slaughtered during the first war. But someone had to make sure the Order really was keeping out of the Aurors' way, and that was my job. As for Kingsley, he was one of those crazy kids. He only became an Auror after meeting me through the Order."

"Okay," said Harry. "I'm sure you're right about the last war. But there really aren't any kids in the Order this time, and the Order definitely hasn't been keeping out of the Aurors' way. What's the Order for this time around?"

"I already told you, Potter, it was to help Dumbledore fight Voldemort. The Order doesn't really have the manpower or the experience to fight the Death Eaters alone. Twice now you've seen the Order fail: once in the Department of Mysteries, and once on top of Hogwarts three weeks ago. In the Ministry, we were losing until Dumbledore showed up, and you know how badly they were beaten at Hogwarts. Without Dumbledore, the Order's pretty much powerless."

Harry knew all too well how badly they had been beaten at Hogwarts. But what right did Moody have to talk about it? He wasn't even there! "Where were you during the battle at Hogwarts, sir? I didn't see you there."

"None of your business, Potter," said Moody grimly. "Now, enough questions. We've really got to go. Apparate to Grimmauld Place on my mark. Three, two, one…now!"

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Two hours later, Harry was about ready to leave Moody holed up in Grimmauld Place and just head to the wedding alone. Predictably, after the usual warm welcome, the Order had immediately shut Harry out of the kitchen and went to work. Harry could only practice new spells for so long before he became bored, and there was remarkably little for a bored teenager to do in Grimmauld Place. He ultimately settled in an armchair and went back to reading Regulus Black's page in the Auror Facebook.

For some reason, Harry couldn't stop thinking about the man. He felt that the answer was on the tip of his tongue, but his brain simply couldn't make the last connection. The weird thing was, there were no interesting facts on Black's page. There were no tidbits of information that could have possibly made such a sharp impression on Harry's mind. But nevertheless, Harry found himself irresistibly drawn to Black's profile. He was sure there was something there. All he needed was that tiniest flash of insight…

"Harry!" said Remus Lupin jovially, jerking Harry abruptly out of his thoughts. The Order members were finally starting to file out of the kitchen, each of them looking bored beyond belief. "Sorry we took so long. Old Elphias drones on worse than Professor Binns, and no one could think of a polite way to shut him up." he added in a whisper, causing Harry to chuckle.

"It's no problem," replied Harry. "I managed to keep busy."

"I'll bet you did," said Remus, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the book in Harry's hand. "Isn't that the Auror Facebook? Where in the world did you find that?"

_Uh oh_, thought Harry. _Think quickly_. "Well, Moody thought that I might like to see it, so he, er…gave it to me as a gift at the beginning of the summer."

"Really?" said Remus, still a little suspicious. Turning around, he asked Moody, "Don't you think giving Harry the Facebook was a bit of a morbid way to start his summer?"

Moody's mouth was already set in an extremely thin line. He clearly hadn't enjoyed sitting through a two-hour meeting. "No," he said brusquely. Remus seemed to be waiting for him to continue, but Moody didn't offer up any more information. After an awkward pause, Remus turned back around to face Harry.

"Harry, do you think we can talk for a minute?" he asked.

"Er, sure," replied Harry hesitantly. Remus grabbed him by the arm and led him into the adjacent parlor. Harry glanced briefly over his shoulder and saw Moody mouth the words, 'Say nothing.' Harry gave the tiniest of nods to show that he understood. Even though he trusted Remus completely, he knew that Moody's training had transformed him in just two short weeks. He desperately needed to learn everything he could to go after the Horcruxes, and if Moody demanded that he keep his training secret, Harry had to obey.

As they entered the parlor, Remus shut the door and turned to face Harry, giving him a piercing look. "Harry, what have you been doing this summer?"

"How do you mean?" asked Harry, frantically stalling for time. He needed to think up some logical things he could have done over the summer, but his mind was drawing a complete blank.

"I mean…it's just…I'm worried about you, Harry," said Remus awkwardly. "I know Dumbledore's death hit all of us hard, but you especially. I mean, you watched him die, right?" Remus gave a bitter, humorless laugh. "It's just not fair, Harry. You've seen so much death, so many horrible things so early in your life. And yet you bear it so stoically. I guess I'm just worried about how you've been coping with Dumbldore's death."

"I'm fine, Remus," said Harry. Remus raised an eyebrow, so Harry continued on. "I mean, it still hurts. Every time anyone mentions his name, I feel awful, as though a part of me has been ripped out. But I'm coping. I'll be all right."

Remus heaved a deep sigh. "I hope so, Harry, I really do. But like I said, I'm worried about you. I walk out of a two-hour meeting and see you reading the Auror Facebook to pass the time. What kind of sixteen-year-old kid reads about criminals for fun? Seriously. I know you've never been exactly _normal_, but I should have come out and seen you reading a novel, or taking a nap, or playing Exploding Snap, or anything fun! If you spend all of your time reading about Death Eaters and spells and Aurors, you'll end up…well, a bit like Mad-Eye Moody, really."

Harry nodded. "If it helps, I wasn't reading it for fun. I was reading it because I have to. Whether I like it or not, I'm a part of this war, and I'd rather face it with my head held high than be dragged into it unwillingly."

Remus seemed slightly taken aback. "That's pretty deep, Harry."

"It's something I learned from Dumbledore."

"I see," said Remus. "But Harry, you never did answer my question. What have you been doing this summer?"

"Oh, a little of this and a little of that," said Harry vaguely. "Some gardening and reading, but nothing exciting. Nothing exciting ever happens when I'm with the Dursleys."

"Right," said Remus unhappily, but he didn't press for any further details. He started to walk out of the parlor, but suddenly he stopped and turned back around to face Harry.

"Incidentally, who were you reading about in the Facebook?" he said curiously.

"Regulus Black," answered Harry truthfully. "I was just curious about Sirius's brother. But there's not really any information about him in there."

Remus gave a sad smile. "I'm just glad it wasn't Severus Snape." And on that note, he left the parlor, leaving a nonplussed Harry in his wake.

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Harry gathered with the rest of the Order members as they prepared to travel to the wedding. The Delacours were hosting the wedding at their seaside villa in southern France. They would be traveling by Portkey, and unusually for Harry, the Portkey would be completely legal. Still, travelling by Portkey was one of Harry's least favorite methods of transportation, and he wasn't looking forward to the journey.

"Ten, nine, eight…." Professor McGonagall counted down to the departure.

As she reached five, Moody turned to Harry and muttered, "Land on your feet, boy. I don't want to see you sprawled all over the ground like the rest of them."

Harry opened his mouth to reply, but before he could get any sound out, he felt the familiar jerk behind his navel and was pulled violently into a rush of wind. He could feel his shoulders banging together against Moody on his left and Tonks on his right. As he felt the sensation ending, he bent his knees slightly, ready to absorb the shock of the landing. Even though he was prepared, the landing still caught him a little off guard. He staggered slightly before finding his footing and straightening up. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that Moody had somehow drawn his wand even before hitting the ground.

On his other side, Tonks was not quite so graceful. As she hit the ground, she stumbled and fell hard to the side, bowling over Remus in the process. This set off a chain reaction that resulted in most of the Order of the Phoenix tangled together on the ground. Other than Harry and Moody, only Professor McGonagall and Hestia Jones managed to remain standing.

"You are friends of zee groom, yes?" inquired a disinterested valet in a slight French accent, looking disdainfully down at the Order members scattered across the ground. When they nodded, he continued, "Very well. You will follow me."

The Order got up laughing off the ground and followed the valet, casual banter flowing back and forth. As they did so, Moody dropped to the back of the pack, signaling for Harry to follow him. As they let the Order get slightly ahead, Moody muttered, "Do you notice anything unusual about the valet?"

Harry turned his gaze to the man. He seemed to blend completely into the background of the party. Normally, he would have never given the man a second glance, but Moody seemed to think that there was something worth seeing. Harry looked the valet up and down, searching for anything out of place. His black hair seemed to have too much grease in it, but Harry doubted that was what Moody meant. He was wearing black slacks and a white button-down shirt under a red velvet vest. The man would have looked at home at a Muggle cocktail party. However, almost by accident, Harry noticed that the cuff of his left sleeve was unbuttoned. And underneath…

"He's wearing a wrist holster under that shirt," said Harry. "And it looks Auror-issue too. At least, it looks the same as the one you got for me."

"Excellent," said Moody. "Well-spotted." Harry looked over in surprise. Moody rarely used words like "excellent" when evaluating Harry's performance. Usually the highest compliment he got from the man was "not bad."

"So he's an Auror?" asked Harry quietly.

"Essentially yes," said Moody. "To be more exact, he's Jacques Foucan, the only Frenchman on S.N.O.W. I persuaded Commander Robards to send him to help provide security for the wedding."

"What's snow?" asked Harry curiously.

"You don't know?" said Moody. When Harry shook his head, he continued, "I'll tell you later. It's not the kind of thing you'd normally discuss at a wedding."

They were forced to end their conversation in any case, because Jacques had led them to their table. They were standing on a marble balcony with a perfect view overlooking the Med. For the first time in his life, Harry saw the azure water of the sea lapping lightly at a sandy beach. He paused a moment in appreciation of its beauty, before turning his gaze to the balcony. The tables were decked in pure white cloth, and there were sleek chairs at every place. The Order members took their places at the table, and Jacques turned to go. However, before he could leave, Moody reached out a hand and stopped him.

"Excuse me, sir," he said politely. "I was hoping to meet a friend of mine here, Gavin Smith. I was wondering if you have seen him?"

Jacques paused in thought. "Gavin Smith, you say? I have not seen him, no. But I zink zis friend of yours is here. I remember hearing his name once or twice."

For some reason, this news didn't seem to make Moody very happy. He nodded once and said, "Thank you. If you do find him, please let me know."

"Of course," said Jacques in a bored tone, before turning on his heel and drifting off to another table.

"Who's Gavin Smith, Mad-Eye?" asked Remus blithely. He had his arm snugly around Tonks's waist and looked as relaxed as Harry had ever seen him. "Is he an Auror pal of yours?"

It wasn't Moody who answered, but Tonks. Like Moody, she also looked troubled. "Gavin Smith is an old Auror code name. It means a stranger, someone who isn't supposed to be here."

Moody nodded. "Jacques is a French Auror. He and I both sense that there's something wrong here. But he hasn't been able to pinpoint who the spy is. All of you be on your guard."

That effectively killed the mood. All of the Order members quieted down and sat straighter in their seats. The talk turned to more serious subjects, such as the war effort and the Ministry's latest actions in fighting Lord Voldemort. However, Harry was soon distracted by the arrival of his two favorite people.

"Harry!" said Hermione Granger excitedly, practically running up to the table to hug him. "How's it going? How's your summer been?" she added, with a glance at Moody.

Harry was aware that the conversation of the Order had ceased, and they were all awaiting his answer. "Better than it usually is with the Dursleys. We don't really see very much of each other, which is actually a huge improvement."

"Mate," grinned Ron. "You're lucky you missed the wedding ceremony. The priest droned on and on, and all the girls were crying and getting all touchy-feely. It was like being the only bloke at a Gilderoy Lockhart poetry festival."

Harry found himself laughing out loud for the first time since Dumbledore's death. "Man, it must have been rough. I'm surprised to see you still standing."

"Don't I know it," grumbled Ron good-naturedly. "But come on, Harry, all us kids have got a table a little closer to the shore. We've been waiting for you. Ginny's there," he added, and looked at Harry as though gauging his reaction.

Harry realized with a start that over the past two weeks, he hadn't once thought about Ginny Weasley. The idea made him uncomfortable. He wondered whether he should feel guilty for forgetting about his ex-girlfriend, or glad that he had been able to keep his promise to himself and avoid putting her in danger. "Right," he said neutrally. "Let's go."

He left the Order's table with Ron and Hermione, but Moody insisted on accompanying him as his bodyguard. Harry felt himself relaxing for the first time in weeks as he talked to his two best friends. They filled him in on their summers so far, and Harry talked a little bit about his training, with Moody continually admonishing him to speak softer. Harry could tell that Ron in particular was itching to talk about the Horcruxes, but with Moody hovering around them like a terrier, they couldn't speak freely. Harry could see the rest of the Weasleys sitting at a table in the distance, and he knew that they were approaching their destination.

"Good afternoon, Alastor, Mr. Potter," said a vaguely familiar voice from behind Harry. "I'd like a word with the two of you, please." Harry turned and saw the familiar, wrinkled old face of the bartender at the Hog's Head. Harry had been so caught up in talking to Ron and Hermione that he had entirely overlooked the man. He glanced confusedly over at Moody. What in the world did a barman want with the two of them?

"You aren't on the guest list, Aberforth," growled Moody suspiciously. "How did you get here?"

_Aberforth_. Harry was shocked. The only man he knew of named Aberforth was Professor Dumbledore's brother. Could the bartender of a dingy, disreputable pub really be the brother of one of the greatest sorcerers the world had ever seen?

Aberforth simply grinned at Moody's inquiry. "I see that the years have not only made you uglier, but ruder as well." Moody's scowl deepened, and his hand twitched toward his wand, so Aberforth quickly added, "If you must know, I simply evaded your man, Foucan. And your enchantments were only designed to keep out people who mean harm. I do not intend any such thing, ergo I was able to pass your wards with relative ease."

Moody didn't look happy at this revelation, but the elder Dumbledore wasn't about to let him get started. "Like I said, Alastor, I'd like a word with you and Mr. Potter. It's about the will."

Moody's face softened slightly. "Right, the will. Well, come on then, Potter, let's get this over with."

Harry stayed where he was. "What will are you talking about?"

"My brother's," said Aberforth simply. "The will reading was last week, but Alastor was unavailable to come. I volunteered to deliver his effects."

"Why wasn't I invited to the will reading?" asked Harry.

"Because you weren't mentioned in the will," Aberforth clarified. Noting the slightly crestfallen look on Harry's face, he said sympathetically, "Never fear, young Harry, my dear brother did not forget about you. Walk with me a moment and I will explain everything."

With that, Aberforth turned off the beaten path and headed out onto the sandy beach. His dingy wizard's robes looked remarkably out of place on the crystalline sands, but he did not seem unduly bothered. Moody immediately fell in behind him, and after a shared look, the trio followed suit. Neither Aberforth nor Moody objected to Ron and Hermione's presence, even though Aberforth had not mentioned either of them. When they were well out of earshot of the other guests at the wedding, Aberforth resumed talking.

"First, I must deliver Alastor his parting gift from Albus," explained Aberforth, reaching into the pocket of his dirty robes. The man's clothes smelled strongly of alcohol and were starkly at odds with his polite speech. After fumbling for a moment in his pocket, he pulled out a small, clear vial. Moody looked at it blankly, so Aberforth explained.

"They're eye drops," he said with a chuckle. "Apparently Albus thought they might come in handy."

"Funny," said Moody, not laughing at all. "Real funny. Did Albus have any jokes for Potter, too?"

That sobered Aberforth up. "No, I'm afraid there was no joke for Harry. His parting gift was rather more serious. Shall I tell you what you received, Harry?"

"Er, sure," said Harry. To tell the truth, Harry didn't particularly care what material possessions he got from Professor Dumbledore. As far as he was concerned, nothing could replace the man he had come to love like a grandfather.

"Unfortunately, I cannot," said Aberforth seriously. "Albus cared deeply that the items I am to deliver to you remain completely secret. Officially, you received nothing. You are not mentioned in his last will and testament, and the objects that I am to deliver to you are not listed among his possessions. However, I received strict instructions from Albus that if he were to pass on to the next great adventure, I was to make sure they made their way to you, and nobody else."

"Where are they?" asked Harry curiously.

"I have them stored safely in my pub at the moment," answered Aberforth. "You may stop by and pick them up whenever you wish. In fact—whoops, here comes trouble! It appears that your friend Foucan has discovered my presence," he added almost happily, shielding his eyes from the afternoon sun and staring over Harry's shoulder.

Harry turned and saw that, indeed, Foucan was running towards them. He glanced over at Moody, wondering whether they should be alarmed or not. However, the old man didn't seem particularly worried, so Harry took his cue and relaxed. In moments, Foucan was at their side.

"I believe I have found your Gavin," he told Moody in a rush, all trace of his French accent gone. He didn't even spare a glance towards the other four. "It is imperative that we act quickly, sir, before he chooses to make his move."

Moody's face immediately became grave. "Come," he commanded, before setting off at a loping run back towards the party. Foucan followed Moody for a few yards. But suddenly, the man drew his wand and whirled around to face Harry.

Even before Harry's mind registered the fact that Foucan was a threat, his body had already acted. He managed to draw his wand, but before he could cast a shield spell, he was struck by Foucan's Full Body Bind curse. Powerless, he slowly toppled forwards. He could hear Ron shouting and Hermione screaming, but he couldn't react. Just before he hit the ground, he felt Foucan's powerful grip close over his neck, and he was pulled forcibly into the crushing blackness of Apparition.

ooooo

**A/N: **

Uh oh!!! This can't be good.

First, thanks to my reviewers: Suiadan, 10dedfish, anthropomorphizer, Theboss996, schmanski, Willow-Bee the Cat, saladin23, Shadow Lighthawk, japanese-jew, Brooklynight, Lord Grindelwald, Estel A Duath, valandil, and my only multiple reviewer thus far, Lord Purity. Thanks for the compliments, and you guys/girls rock.

I read each review (some of them several times), and I want to say that I have seriously considered everything you have to say. If you left me plot advice/requests, know that I did read it. However, this story isn't proceeding unplanned. I have a good idea of where it's going to go and how it's going to get there, so don't feel snubbed if what you asked for/suggested doesn't happen.

That said, there's a couple of things I'd like to clear up. The first is Moody's character. Don't think that Moody is a replacement Dumbledore, or Dumbledore-lite, because he isn't. He is an extremely different person than Albus Dumbledore, and that could conceivably cause some tension between him and Harry later in the story, if I decide to go there. Moody is not omniscient, and when he speaks, he is not necessarily putting the author's opinion onto the paper, the way Dumbledore was. If Albus Dumbledore said something was true, then JKR was pretty much saying that's true. But if Moody says something is true, I don't necessarily agree with that statement. Moody says it because it's the kind of thing that I believe Moody would think is true.

Also, Moody really is paranoid. For every real threat he sees, his mind invents ten other fake ones. However, he does see that real threat, and in Moody's mind, the tradeoff is worth it. He'd rather be wrong ten times and right once than wrong zero times and right zero times. Even if it makes him look like a laughing stock.

Finally, remember that Moody doesn't know the prophecy. He's guessed the contents based on what Dumbledore has and hasn't said. Moody is not aware of a "Power the dark lord knows not." As far as Moody's concerned, Harry's going to have to win on skill alone.

Oh yeah. Moody's car is a BMW M5. The clue is that Moody calls his car the "ultimate driving machine." That's BMW's slogan. I think Moody would buy an M5, because it looks almost exactly like a normal 5 series, but drives more like a Ferrari. He'd like the discreet, hidden power type thing. He'd also probably scrape off the M5 badge and replace it with one that says 535i. Moody likes being discreet.

Now, a lot of you have pointed out that Harry is too clueless and unskilled. I assure you that will change. In fact, you can see the start of the transformation in this chapter. In my opinion, the Harry that came out of Half Blood Prince, is still immature and unskilled. I needed to change that as quickly as possible so that we can read about a competent, but still not omnipotent hero. That's why I enlisted Moody. But even at the end of the story, Harry will be no Albus Dumbledore. It's just too unrealistic that he could make that kind of progress in a year.

I have never read "Make a Wish"

**NOW, ONE LAST IMPORTANT NOTE:**

If you skimmed the rest of this overly long A/N, I hope you read this. Discerning readers will be wondering where Moody was during the battle at Hogwarts, since he refused to share. I will tell you that I will be astonished if you can guess the answer. But if you do, you will know a huge key to a lot of little mysteries and some major plot points.

It is possible to figure it out without having ever read this story. All you need to do is read books four, five, and six of canon.

Signing off,

Alastor Robards


	6. Chapter 6: The Killing Curse

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. All of the characters that JK Rowling invented are hers. The characters that I invented are nobody's, really. I am doing this purely for my own enjoyment, not for any sort of commercial profit.

A/N: Some chapters flow easily out of my fingers, like a spider spinning an elaborate web. Every word falls effortlessly into its proper place, and every phrase is robust and delightful. This was one of those chapters. Enjoy.

**Chapter 6: The Killing Curse**

Harry was winded. The compression of Apparition had forced all of the breath out of him, and the Body Bind compounded the effect, making it difficult for him to draw a deep breath. However, he was given no respite. Barely half a second had passed before Foucan yanked him once again through the crushing, black tube that was Apparition. Foucan repeated the process five more times, each one driving even more air out of Harry's chest. He was dangerously close to asphyxiation; his vision was black even when he wasn't Apparating, and he could feel an unnatural pressure forcing his eyeballs back into his skull.

Finally, the sensation ended. Harry still couldn't draw a deep breath because of Foucan's curse, but at least he had some time to recover. He gratefully sucked in what little air he could as fast as possible, nearly hyperventilating in an attempt to keep himself conscious. He realized that Foucan had dropped him on a hard floor of some sort. Luckily he was facing up, so he could get some idea of his surroundings. The wood-paneled ceiling was low, and the bare walls were painted a cream color. He couldn't see Foucan, but he could hear the man retching somewhere nearby. He didn't know what had caused the man to become so violently ill, but he thanked his lucky stars that it happened when it did.

Suddenly, Harry heard a loud crack above him, and Moody appeared out of thin air, his clawed wooden leg nearly impaling Harry's head. Moody quickly ended the Body Bind, and Harry climbed hastily to his feet. He turned around and saw Foucan doubled over on the floor. His skin appeared to be melting and bubbling, and his face was stretching outward as if his body was too small to contain it. The effect was repulsive.

"Polyjuice," growled Moody tersely. "It's wearing off. Grab my arm, quickly!"

Harry obeyed immediately, turning and firmly grasping Moody's arm with both hands. He didn't want to tarry a second longer than absolutely necessary. However, just before Moody Apparated away, Harry couldn't resist looking back over his shoulder. What he saw made his blood run cold. The man crouched on the floor was not Foucan. Harry's eyes met the murderous glare of the man he had read about on page one of the Facebook: the most dangerous fighter in Voldemort's arsenal, Antonio Ramirez Sanchez.

Moody's arm started to twist out of his grasp, but Harry hung grimly on. This time, he was able to draw a deep breath before Apparating, so he was fully recovered when they popped out the other side. They were in an empty room with no doors, dominated by a large stone fireplace that contained a small, crackling fire. Moody pulled a cloth pouch out of the pocket of his robes and tossed the whole thing into the flames. The fire turned a bright, blinding red, and the flames leapt up to twice Harry's height, hungrily licking the ceiling of the room.

"_Haven_!" roared Moody, before grabbing Harry's arm and jerking him into the flames.

Flooing with another person was exponentially worse Flooing alone. As if the rapid, nauseating spin wasn't bad enough, Harry's elbows, knees, and head continually banged into the bony old Auror's body. After what seemed to be an eternity, Harry and Moody stumbled out at another grate, their tangled bodies sprawled across the floor. The pair immediately bounded to their feet, wands drawn and ready for action. A second passed. Ten seconds. A full minute went by, and still nothing happened.

"Shouldn't we be moving, sir?" panted Harry. "If we stay in one place, can't he find us?"

Moody's face was grim. "That was a secure Floo connection, Potter," he muttered. "It's untraceable, according to the man who sold it to me. But it wouldn't be the first time I've been lied to by a vendor," he added almost to himself.

"That's not reassuring, sir," Harry pointed out. "Shouldn't we get moving?"

Moody shrugged. "Where to? This bunker is the one of the most secure places that I know of. Apparition and Disapparition are impossible. Portkeys won't function here. We're five hundred feet underground. The only way in is by Floo, and only if you have access to the secure connection."

"We're five hundred feet underground? But there's a window, I can see London!" said a confused Harry. He pointed toward the window, from which Canary Wharf was clearly visible.

"It's enchanted. Trust me Potter, this place is almost impenetrable. If Sanchez can get to us here, he can get to us anywhere."

No sooner had these words left Moody's mouth than the flames in the fireplace behind him roared and turned bright red. Moody whirled, shouting "_Inflammo Clausus!_" The jet of purple light streamed towards the grate, but it bounced off the spinning figure that had materialized within the flames. Before Moody could get a second spell off, Antonio Ramirez Sanchez stepped calmly out of the fireplace and into Moody's secure bunker.

Oddly enough, the first thing that Harry noticed was that Sanchez had changed his clothes. He was no longer wearing the valet's uniform. Instead, he was dressed in a set of pure, snow-white robes that were somehow spotless, even though the man had just stepped out of a sooty fireplace. He had a sharp nose like a hawk's beak, and his eyes were like two chips of blue ice set in his face. His silver hair was cropped to shoulder length, and his fingers were curled gracefully around an ebony wand.

"Alastor, it has been too long," he said with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Tell me, from whom did you purchase the Floo powder? It was quite a clever enchantment."

"Leave or die, Antonio," snarled Moody, ignoring the question. "Choose quickly."

"Moody," said Sanchez in a slow, soothing drawl, raising his hands in a placating gesture. "My old friend, there is no need for such animosity! We are two of a kind, fighters born. I merely wish to know where you acquired the Floo powder. It is my business to know where such items may be found."

"This is your last warning, Antonio," Moody reiterated. "Leave or die. Those are your only two options."

"Alastor, calm down!" said Sanchez in a commanding tone. "I did not come here to kill you. Indeed, that is the reason I stole the boy in the first place. Rest assured, I could have killed you and your three companions back on the beach and taken the boy by force. Instead, I used subterfuge, so that I could avoid harming my old comrade, Alastor Moody. I did not come here to fight you. I just came for the boy. Lower your weapon, and I will take Potter and leave peaceably."

"Time's up," said Moody. "_Avada Kedavra!_"

The jet of green light soared straight towards Sanchez's head accompanied by a rush of wind, as if Death himself were riding the green wave of power. But Sanchez wasn't one of the greatest fighters in the world for naught. With the barest hint of a bend in his back, he leant out of the way of the curse. The jet of green light missed his head by millimeters, but Harry could tell that it was no accident. The movement had been precise and flawlessly timed.

Harry stared at Moody, momentarily shocked. Moody had just used the worst of the three Unforgivable curses as if it was a stunner, without even a modicum of remorse. And he wasn't done. Moody cast five more curses in rapid succession, trying to overwhelm Sanchez's defenses. But Sanchez merely gave one tiny flick of his wand, and all five curses altered their direction and streamed straight for Harry. Harry snapped out of his daze and leapt gracefully to the left, diving easily out of range of the spells.

The result of this maneuver was that Harry and Moody stood on opposite sides of Sanchez, wands raised and ready to cast at a moment's notice. Sanchez, for his part, had yet to cast an offensive spell. He stood tall in the center of the room, and his body was turned entirely to face Moody, as though Harry was an insignificant trifle by comparison. Sanchez opened his mouth, but it wasn't to utter a curse.

"Pathetic," he sneered. "Seventy years as an Auror and yet you still fight like you're fresh out of school. Your tactics are amateur and your spell selection unoriginal. You think to overwhelm a wizard who is twice as powerful and twice as fast with six spells? You insult me with such a juvenile display of dueling ineptitude. Crawl back to the Auror Academy and admit your failure, Alastor. Maybe they will take pity on you and teach you to duel properly."

Moody shrugged. "Tough words, Sanchez. Come over here and say that again to my face."

Sanchez tried to take a step, but his feet were glued solidly to the floor. He looked down and found them bound by a sticky, tar-like substance. "Touché," he growled, rage etched in every line of his face. He made as if to cancel the spell, but at that moment, Harry made his move.

While Sanchez was insulting Moody, Harry had not been idle. He had slowly crept forward until he was within perfect spell range: as close as possible, but still far enough away to react if his spell was blocked. As Sanchez pointed his wand at his feet, Harry wordlessly cast a powerful bludgeoning spell directly at his unprotected back. The spell worked exactly as planned, hurling Sanchez forcibly forward. But since his feet were still attached to the ground, he swung downwards as though on a hinge, and his nose smashed into the unforgiving ground below. Harry winced as he heard two loud cracks, signifying that the man's ankles had snapped.

Moody immediately cast three stunning spells at their fallen opponent, but they were ineffective. Sanchez somehow sensed the attacks coming and raised a small shield of golden mist, which sent the stunners careening into the ceiling. Suddenly Sanchez lashed out with his wand arm, causing Moody's wooden leg to explode so violently that some of the splinters embedded themselves in the walls. Moody let out a roar of rage and pain, but he couldn't stop himself from toppling to the side. He fell to the floor with a sickening thud, but he managed to keep his wand arm trained on Sanchez.

Harry rushed to the aid of his fallen guardian. He leaped toward Sanchez and cast a severing charm at his hamstring. But he was too late. Sanchez had already pushed himself up off the ground, causing the severing charm to pass harmlessly by. Sanchez waved his wand, and the pitch around his feet instantly vanished. He healed his ankles with another quick jab of his wand, and suddenly Harry found himself face to face with the Argentinian killer. Sanchez had blood streaming down his face from a broken nose, and the front of his white robes was bathed in crimson. But instead of making him look weaker, the blood made him feral, like a ravenous tiger closing in for the kill.

"I am tiring of this game," he spat, and that was the only warning Harry got.

Sanchez's hands moved in an intricate blur, making complex motions faster than Harry's eyes could follow. Harry felt himself plucked off his feet by an invisible hand. Before he could react, the giant hand hurled him viciously into one of the walls of the bunker. The impact knocked the wind out of him and jarred the wand from his hand. He gasped with pain as he tried to draw a breath. He coughed and tasted blood. Surely at least two of his ribs were broken. Even falling off of a broom couldn't compare to this sort of collision.

Harry felt himself start to slide down the wall, but his descent was abruptly halted. Chains and manacles snaked out of the wall behind him and bound him tight. His arms and legs were tied securely to the wall. He was trapped like a fly in a spider's web.

With Harry out of the way, Sanchez was able to turn his full attention to Alastor Moody. "You have been training the boy," said Sanchez conversationally. "I can see your style in him. The Dark Lord will be very interested in this bit of information."

Moody groaned, and Sanchez nodded. "I see, you were trying to keep this a secret. Well, it was a good idea, but doomed to failure. After all, when I take the boy to the dungeons of the Dark Lord, we will glean much more than just his training regimen."

"Over my dead body," said Moody grimly.

"Yes," agreed Antonio, "I'm afraid it will have to be over your dead body."

Moody raised his wand in a last attempt to curse his nemesis, but Sanchez was far too fast for him. He flicked his wand, and Moody's wrist snapped and fell limply to the side. Sanchez flicked his wand again and clove Moody's wand neatly in two. The sound of the pieces clattering to the floor could be heard clearly in the otherwise silent room. Moody slumped back against the wall, defeated. Sanchez sheathed his wand in victory.

However, Sanchez did not turn back to Harry. Instead, his gaze remained fixed on Moody. "I don't want to do this, Alastor," he said grimly. "We were once the best of friends, and even if you have forgotten that friendship, I still value it. You saved my life many a time during the Great War, and I consistently returned the favor. It seems such a waste to throw away a life that I used to work so hard to protect. But it is obvious to me that you won't give up this fight. You leave me no other choice."

Suddenly Sanchez's face twisted in revulsion and anger. "_Why, Alastor_?" he screamed. He ran over to Moody's fallen form and punched him hard across the face. "_Why_?" he yelled again, and kicked the old man viciously in the stomach. Moody curled into the fetal position, his entire face screwed up in agony.

"Why…do you insist…on being…so…damn…DIFFICULT!" Sanchez roared, punctuating each word with a blow to Moody's groin, gut, or face. Moody was gasping pitifully, rolling around on the floor uselessly trying to evade the blows. His magical eye was whirling impossibly fast in its socket, desperately trying to escape the pain. But Sanchez was beyond any sort of reason. He straightened up and let out an unearthly bellow.

"AAAARGHHHAAARRR!!!" he cried incoherently, and his eyes gleamed with a deranged light. "WHY?!?" he screamed one last time.

Sanchez whipped out his wand and set it against Moody's flesh. His face contorted in furious concentration, and his teeth were bared in a lion's grin. Moody's eyes opened wide, and his scars stretched in agony. But the scars continued to stretch, twisting and popping until blood started trickling from every wound that Moody had received in his long career. Harry realized with a thrill of horror that Sanchez was slowly killing Moody by opening up every old wound. Hot tears filled his eyes, and he found a renewed strength to struggle against his bonds.

Moody was moaning piteously, vainly swatting at Sanchez's arm in an attempt to stop the torture. But Sanchez continued unflappably onward, and blood was now flowing freely from every scar on Moody's body. Moody's struggles were weakening but his moans were getting louder and more desperate.

"Harry," the old man muttered. "Harry…please…God, no… "

Harry was transported back to a moment three weeks ago, when he had been similarly incapacitated on top of Hogwarts' tallest tower. He had helplessly witnessed Professor Dumbledore's last moments. Watched him beg for his life.

_Severus…_ Harry heard. _Severus…please…_

Harry made a decision. He could not, would not be helplessly forced to watch another mentor die. All tears were gone from his eyes. Instead, a feeling of rage and power suffused his body. With a terrible roar, he put forth all his strength into breaking his bonds. The steel was helpless against the power of Harry's wrath. The metal chains snapped like twine, and Harry dropped cat-like to the floor, all pain and fear forgotten in a wave of righteous anger. Sanchez whirled to face him, and for the first time in the confrontation, fear was evident in his eyes.

"Harry, catch!" yelled Moody, hurling Harry's wand through the air. Harry was encouraged to hear a note of strength in Moody's voice, even as his Seeker reflexes reached out and snatched his wand out of the air. He gripped it firmly and pointed it directly at Sanchez's heart.

"Now, Sanchez," he said brazenly, "fight someone who can fight back!"

With a cry, Harry brought the wand slashing down. _Stupefy, Everbero, Diffindo, Reducto, Lacerus, Sectumsempra, Fugo Cruentus_. The nonverbal curses flashed through his mind, each one more violent than the last. None had any effect. No matter how fast Harry was, and no matter how powerful his spells, Antonio was faster and stronger. With each failed attempt, the fear faded out of Sanchez's eyes, and he began to counterattack.

Harry managed to block Sanchez's first three spells with _Subsisto_, a new shield he had learned from Moody. However, even though the third spell was blocked, its force was sufficient to shatter the shield. Sanchez had a fourth spell right on its tail, and Harry was forced to dodge to the side. He ran to the right, staying just ahead of three more curses. But it was a trap. As Harry outran first three spells, he plunged directly into the path of the fourth. The Imperius Curse.

Harry felt himself slip into a blissful trance. Nothing mattered. He was free. He was floating through a dream world, every moment more peaceful and pleasing than the last. Vaguely, in the back of his mind, he remembered something about Professor Moody and a man named Sanchez, but they were unimportant. All that mattered was the feeling, the nirvana that was life.

A random thought came floating through the mist. _Come here, boy_….

Harry's feet wanted to obey. Every fiber of his being aimed solely to please that voice. And yet, there was another voice floating in the mist.

'Why should I?' thought the other voice. 'What's in it for me?'

Harry felt the second voice beginning to win out, as it usually did whenever he was under the Imperius curse. But then, out of the mist, a third voice floated past.

'Well, why not?' it said. 'What harm could it do? Let's just see where this goes, shall we?'

Then all three voices were in agreement, and it was the most glorious feeling in the world. Harry walked slowly towards Sanchez, every step taking him closer to supreme bliss. Finally he reached Sanchez's side and stood next to him, gazing down at the battered, bloody figure of Alastor Moody.

_Good man!_ said the first voice, sending a shiver of pleasure down Harry's spine. _Well done. Now, raise your wand, nice and slow._

That gave the second voice some pause.

'Well…I guess so…' it finally said. Harry raised his wand.

_Good, excellent,_ purred the first voice. Then its tone sharpened. _Kill him!_

Harry grinned savagely. 'Like_ hell_!' he thought, and the spell was broken. He whirled and plunged his wand straight at Sanchez's heart. "_Avada Kedavra!_" he roared.

Time stood still. Every despicable emotion Harry had ever felt surfaced in that one instant: hate, fear, rage, greed, and despair all bubbled to the forefront of his mind. The feeling was horrendous and nauseating, but it was euphoric. It was the best and worst moment of Harry's life. He had never felt more alive, and yet he had never felt more soulless and dead. It was the stuff of nightmares and dreams rolled into one fantastic, terrible moment. No other feeling in the world could compare.

A blast of green light emanated from the tip of Harry's wand. There was no room for Sanchez to dodge; the tip of the wand was just inches from his torso. The green messenger of Death sailed straight into Sanchez's chest. And straight out the other side.

Where the spell should have impacted Sanchez, there was a gaping, bloody hole. The man stared down at his chest in shock, and then looked back up into Harry's eyes. Harry could see pain and terror written there, but he was horribly confused. Why wouldn't Sanchez die? What had gone wrong?

Sanchez fled. He whipped around and dashed back towards the Floo, and Harry was too shocked to try and stop him. Harry could see that the tunnel in Sanchez's chest extended out the other side of Sanchez's body, as if someone had run him through with an invisible spear. There was a huge scarlet stain on the back of his robes that was rapidly expanding. Sanchez pointed his wand at the fireplace, and Floo powder poured out of it, sending up a huge spout of green flames.

"Kn-Knockt-turn Alley," he sputtered, before falling awkwardly into the flames and spinning away. Thus it was that Antonio Ramirez Sanchez lost his first fight in nearly seventy years.

Harry stared at the grate, stunned. His mind had yet to come to terms with what had happened. 'Foucan,' Sanchez, the fight, the Imperius Curse, the Killing Curse, everything was just a blur in his brain. He looked dumbly down at his wand. Just moments ago, it had been bathed in green light as he had attempted to kill Sanchez. The feeling of casting the curse returned in a rush, but it was just a pale memory that could never hope to capture the exhilaration. Suddenly, Harry felt overwhelmed by nausea, and he vomited. He held his head in his hands, mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted.

He felt a strong hand firmly patting his back, and he looked up into the scarred visage of Alastor Moody. Moody was using a different wand to heal the wounds that Sanchez had reopened. With one spell he would stop the bleeding, and with another he would sew the flesh back together. When he saw the old man standing and using magic after his ordeal, Harry completely forgot about his own worries.

"Sir, are you all right?" he asked concernedly. "Shouldn't you be resting after that? Sanchez nearly killed you!"

Moody just shook his head. "Nah, it wasn't so bad. I've lived through worse. You should be worrying about yourself, Potter. It's not every day that a man casts his first Killing Curse."

Harry was silent. The topic was still too raw to discuss comfortably.

Moody finished healing his wounds, and with a muttered "_Reparo_," he fixed his wooden leg. Moody walked over to Harry and examined Harry critically with his magical eye. "You've got five broken ribs, Potter," he said bluntly. "You better heal those, and fast. Remember, the more time that passes between an injury and the healing spell, the more difficult the spell becomes."

Harry nodded. It was one of the first things Moody had taught him when he began learning healing spells. Harry lay down on his stomach and pointed his wand at his back. _Corpus Resarcio_, he said mentally, and he felt one of his bones pop back into alignment. The spell was painful, but not excruciating. He repeated the process four more times, and then his body was right as rain. He cast a quick cleaning spell to remove the blood and bile that was left over from the duel, and then he sat up, leaning back against the wall. After a moment, Moody walked over and sat down beside him. The two of them stared idly out of the enchanted window, which still showed London as peaceful as ever. Harry broke the silence first.

"Should we be moving, sir? Will Sanchez be back?"

Moody shook his head in dissent. "No, I doubt it. If we're lucky, he may be dead. But even if he survived, he won't be recovering from that wound for a long time. Don't look so down, boy, you did a good thing today! You came closer to killing Sanchez than anyone I've ever known."

Harry turned his gaze to his old mentor. "What the hell happened, sir? Why didn't the killing curse work properly? And how are you fixed so soon? I thought you were dying for a moment there." Harry's voice broke as he said the last sentence. Every time he thought of Moody rolling around on the floor begging for help, he remembered the same desperate plea escaping Dumbledore's lips. _Severus…please…_

"Antonio's one fast bugger, isn't he?" said Moody with a humorless chuckle. "They say the first thing you notice about Sanchez is his speed. The second thing you notice is that you're dead. But he's also a genius in his own way. I never would have thought to evade the curse by committing suicide."

"What?" said Harry. "He killed himself? But he was still alive!"

"Not for long though," Moody pointed out. "You saw what he did. He cut a hole in himself to avoid the unblockable curse. Went in one side and out the other. What an idea! He must have been saving that one up for years, waiting for someone to try to kill him. There's no way he thought that up on the spot."

Finally, Harry understood. The Killing Curse had worked. It took a phenomenal feat of magic by Sanchez to cheat certain death. "How could he survive after cutting a hole in himself? That looked like it drilled a huge chunk of his heart out."

Moody looked at him strangely. "Magic, how else?" Harry snorted, so Moody continued. "Seriously, Potter, I'm not taking the mickey out of you. If you have enough control over your magic, you can use it to keep yourself alive even after your vitals have given up. I'll be showing you how to do that, to some extent."

Harry looked at him incredulously. "You'll teach me how to do that?"

"Well, I'll show you how to get started. Of all the things I have to teach you, it's the most important, but it's also the most self-taught. It takes time and practice, and that's about it. You'll be learning how to feel and control your magic, without crutches like wands and spells. It's magic at it's deepest and most basic."

Harry sat enthralled. "When will we start?"

"As soon as we start training again. I was keeping a pretty good eye on you today, and you're too slow. Your technique is pretty solid, but you're just not fast enough to keep up. You take a look at any of the greatest fighters in the world: Sanchez, Voldemort, Dumbledore, Shen Zhang, Robards, or the Black Mamba. You'll find that they all have one thing in common. They're all inhumanly fast. And that's not because their bodies are in good shape, but because they know how to control their magic and use it to boost their bodies' speed and strength. I need to teach you that if you're going to stand a chance in your next battle."

"Is that why you've had me run all the time?" asked Harry, finally understanding Moody's purpose.

"Right, so you'll have a baseline from which to work. You'll learn to stop using your muscular strength and stamina and start relying more on your magic."

Harry nodded. "What about my other question? How did you recover so quickly? Sanchez nearly killed you!"

Moody closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. After about five seconds of silence, he muttered, "I was faking it."

"_What_?" asked Harry with disbelief. "How could you possibly fake being tortured to death?"

"By screaming at blows that don't hurt and shrieking in agony at the tiniest scratch." He snorted at Harry's astonished look. "It's called playing dead, Potter. Get the bad guy to think he's killed you, and then when he turns his back, you get him good. By the way, that's a good reason to always have at least one spare wand on you," he added, gesturing with the wand he was currently holding. The shattered pieces of his old wand still lay on the ground.

Harry was still looking at Moody in shock, so the old man continued. "Stoicism gets you nowhere when you're being tortured, Potter. It sounds heroic on paper, but if you try it in real life, the bad guys will just torture you worse. What you want to do is go to the other extreme. Scream, cry, beg, piss your pants, do whatever it takes to make your would-be killer think he's got you broken. Dignity's worthless in the real world. You want him to worry that he's torturing you too hard, not that he's going too easy on you. Eventually, your enemy will be disgusted at your lack of courage. He'll start to underestimate you and start to drop his guard. That's when you go for the jugular."

"And that works?"

Moody nodded. "Most of the time. If you hadn't performed so well, I reckon I might have got him eventually. Antonio went crazy at the end there, he wasn't thinking clearly. I was just waiting for the best possible moment to strike."

Harry furrowed his brow. "What did happen at the end of the duel? Sanchez just went…berserk, really. Why was he shouting about you being friends in some war?"

"Because he's a couple cards short of a full deck, if you know what I mean," said Moody, tapping his head with a finger. "Not all there. He and I were never great friends. We fought in the same regiment in the Great War, or World War I as the Muggles call it now. At that time it was common for aspiring wizarding fighters to take part in Muggle wars, in order to hone their skills for combat. The two of us served under the _very_ British Corporal Basil Fotherington. You know the type: waxed moustache, very formal. 'Chin up, chest out, stiff upper lip, wot?'

"Sanchez is Argentinian, of course, so he had to pretend to be a British soldier to fight. He was the most stereotypical Brit you've ever laid eyes on, and I think a lot of the Privates saw right through him. But Fotherington just ate it up. We were the only two wizards in the unit, so we bonded slightly, but we never met up after the war. To this day, Sanchez insists that we were close friends, comrades bonded by hardship and danger and whatnot. I think he's never had a real friend, so he thinks that our relationship is friendship. Like I said, not quite right in the head. None of Voldemort's men are, really. No sane man would do what they do."

Moody heaved a long sigh, and then climbed stiffly to his feet. Harry followed suit, and watched as Moody walked slowly over to the fireplace. "Well, shall we be going?" Moody asked.

"Where to?" asked Harry curiously. "Your place?"

"Merlin's beard, no," said Moody with surprise. "We've got to go back to the wedding. Your friends'll probably be in a right state by now, wondering what's happened to you."

Harry blanched. He could see Hermione and Ron in his mind's eye. Ron would be pacing, nervously proclaiming that Harry could handle himself all right and would probably be back in no time. Hermione would be sitting down, biting her nails, and probably crying. Just the thought of Hermione crying over him left a foul taste in Harry's mouth. He hated it when girls cried. It made him feel so helpless.

Moody tossed a pinch of ordinary Floo powder into the fireplace. "Chateau Delacour!" he enunciated into the bright green flames. However, before he could step through, Harry grabbed his arm.

"Professor," said Harry haltingly, "can I ask you one more question?"

"Sure."

"What does it feel like when you cast the Killing Curse?"

Moody paused, looking searchingly into Harry's eyes. For a long time, he gave no response. Just when Harry thought that Moody wasn't going to answer him at all, the old man opened his mouth. "Why don't you tell me what it feels like when you cast the curse?"

Harry was momentarily stymied. He didn't want to admit what he felt while he cast the curse until he knew whether his feelings were normal or not. But Moody didn't look like he was going to budge. Reluctantly, Harry started to describe the sensation.

"It was terrible. I felt every emotion I hate feeling. I was full of hatred, despair, savagery, and violence. I could see memories. Memories of watching Cedric die, memories of torturing Lestrange, and all of the other memories that I see in my nightmares. It felt like a Dementor was standing at one shoulder and Voldemort was on my other side. It was awful. But at the same time…"

Moody nodded sagely. "You enjoyed it."

Harry nodded, ashamed of himself as he did so. "Yeah. What kind of person am I, that I _enjoyed_ casting the Killing Curse? I'll understand if you don't want to train me any more, sir."

Moody let out a barking laugh. "If only I had a Knut every time I heard that from an Auror recruit…. You've got nothing to be ashamed of, Potter. Everyone else feels the exact same thing. Even me."

Harry shook his head. "No, you don't understand. I didn't just enjoy it, I _loved_ it. I couldn't get enough of the feeling. I just wanted more."

"Don't argue with me, Potter," growled Moody, but his face wasn't unkind. "If I tell you everyone feels the same way, then everyone feels the same way. If anyone ever tells you that there's nothing to enjoy about killing, then they haven't killed. It's a great feeling. Murder is one of the most enjoyable things that I've ever done, and at the same time, it's one of the most appalling. The important thing to remember is that no matter how good it feels, killing is a sin. It's an evil act. Don't do it."

"But if it's evil, then why were you so willing to kill Sanchez?"

"So that you wouldn't have to, Potter," said Moody with a sigh. "That's the sacrifice we Aurors make. I'm almost certainly going to hell for all of the terrible things I've done in my life. But I maintain that everything I did was necessary, so that parents can let their kids play outside without fearing for their lives. People like Voldemort and Sanchez have to be stopped for everyone's sake. And if the only way to stop them is by killing them, so be it."

Harry paused for a moment, thinking of what to say next. "Do you really believe that killing Voldemort would be evil?"

"It's a necessary evil," said Moody at once. "But maybe I'm wrong. I'm just an Auror, not a philosopher. All I know is that the only way I've managed to avoid walking the way of Voldemort and Grindelwald is by remembering that killing is in fact evil, and should be avoided as much as possible. I would suggest that you keep it in mind, too. Now, enough talk. We really have to get back to the wedding. _Chateau Delacour!_"

Moody stepped into the bright green flames, and after a moment, Harry followed.

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"I told Aberforth to keep your friends here," said Moody grimly, kicking idly at the sand. They were standing on the beach very near where Harry had been kidnapped, but there was no sign of Harry's friends or the old barman. "They obviously Apparated, because there aren't any footprints leading away from this spot. But the trail is too cold, I can't trace their magic."

"Maybe they went to the Hog's Head, sir," suggested Harry. "Aberforth Dumbledore owns the place, doesn't he?"

"Good thinking, Potter," said Moody. "Grab my arm and we'll see if we can't find them."

Moments later, Harry and Moody popped into being outside the Hog's Head. The village of Hogsmeade looked almost entirely deserted. There wasn't a soul on the street, and Harry couldn't hear any noise coming from the usually busy Three Broomsticks. Harry realized that the residents were probably scared to leave their homes in the wake of Dumbledore's death. After all, as the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Dumbledore had probably been a fixture in the town for forty years.

Moody walked up to the entrance of pub. There was huge faded "Closed" sign nailed over the front door, and the grimy windows were shut with the blinds drawn. Undeterred, Moody rapped his knuckles sharply on the sign.

"Open up, Aberforth," he called. "It's me."

For a minute, nothing happened. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry caught a glimpse of movement. He turned just in time to see one of the blinds fall back into place. He breathed a sigh of relief. Aberforth and his friends must be here.

The door opened, and Aberforth stuck his head out. "Come in, quickly," he hissed. "We don't want everyone in Hogsmeade knowing that Harry Potter's in town. We'll be swarmed."

Moody and Harry stepped hastily over the threshold, and Aberforth shut the door with an audible snap. Even before the door was closed, Harry saw Ron and Hermione barreling towards him. A huge grin split his face, and he rushed over to hug them.

"Harry!" shouted Hermione gleefully, crushing his ribs as she hugged him close. "Oh my God, we were so worried! It all happened so fast, and then Moody was shouting instructions, and Aberforth grabbed us and took us here. It was terrifying! But I'm so glad you're safe," she added, giving him an extra squeeze. "Are you all right?"

Harry grinned, basking in the feeling of having his friends around him once more. "Yeah, I'm fine. It was pretty touch-and-go for a minute there, though." They sat down in the rickety wooden chairs of the Hog's Head, and Harry related the events that had happened to him in the past half hour. Ron and Hermione sat listening raptly, and when he was finished, Ron leaned back in his chair and gave a low whistle.

"I thought you were a goner for a moment there, mate," he said seriously. "Moody just shouted, 'Stay here and tell no one!' and then he was gone. I was pretty sure that he wasn't going to be able to find you."

Harry paused at that. He glanced over at Moody, who was talking to Aberforth in a low voice. Both men were sipping a translucent orange liquid that gave off a fiery glow when touched by a ray of light. "Professor," he asked Moody, "how did you find me after Sanchez Apparated away?"

"What's that?" said Moody, momentarily turning away from his conversation with Aberforth. "How did I find you? All magic leaves traces, Potter, including Apparition. I used the traces of Sanchez's magic to find out where he had Apparated you. Mind you, those traces fade with time. We're talking seconds, not hours. If I hadn't been there just a second after you and Sanchez Apparated, he might have lost me."

"Lucky you were there then," said Ron, looking at the old Auror with newfound respect.

"Luck had nothing to do with it, boy," growled Moody. "It all comes down to constant vigilance. I was expecting someone to try something fishy at the wedding, to be honest. That's why I stuck to Potter like glue. With Potter and the entire Order of the Phoenix there, the wedding was just too big a target for Voldemort to miss. At the same time, the wedding was in France, and Voldemort's not stupid enough to launch a major attack outside of Britain. He doesn't want an international war. He made that mistake the last time around. This time he wants us isolated, so he can take control of Britain before looking abroad."

"But sir," said Harry, "if you were expecting something, how did Sanchez get past your defenses?"

"He outsmarted me," said Moody bitterly. "Jacques Foucan was the one person at that party that I completely trusted. I've known him for years, and he's about as good as Aurors get. Sanchez must have killed the real Foucan and used Polyjuice to replace him. But Sanchez knew that I would see right through him if he brought Polyjuice into the party. So instead, he must have taken his last sip just before we arrived and then vanished the potion. From then on, he had exactly one hour to kidnap you before he ran out of potion. He mistimed it, and he paid the price."

Harry nodded. "Do we still have to keep our training between the four of us, sir?" he asked, gesturing towards Ron and Hermione. "Sanchez said he was going to tell Voldemort about us, so does secrecy really matter any more?"

"Absolutely," grunted Moody. "There's no way Sanchez is going to tell Voldemort about you."

"Why wouldn't he?" asked Ron curiously.

"Because that would mean admitting that a sixteen-year-old boy defeated him in a duel," explained Moody. "Antonio's ego will never allow it. If I know him, he'll pretend that today never happened. And that's fine with me."

Aberforth, who had been silent throughout the conversation, suddenly stood up. "Harry," he asked, "do you wish to see what Albus bequeathed to you? The package is in the cellar, and it would probably be best if you went down there today, when my pub is closed."

"Sure," said Harry with some trepidation. The attack had pushed Dumbledore's will clean out of his mind, but now that Aberforth mentioned it, Harry supposed that he had to see his new possessions. He wasn't sure if he was ready for another reminder of the permanence of Dumbledore's death, but he had to face it sometime.

Aberforth walked into a back room behind the bar, and Harry, Hermione, and Ron followed. Moody stayed put, explaining that he had no desire to find out anything Albus didn't want him to know. Aberforth turned on the light with a wave of his wand, and Harry saw that they were in a narrow, decrepit wooden stairwell. The wood panels were mostly blackened, leading Harry to wonder if the place had been burnt at some point in its history. He could see dust and mold on the walls and ceiling, clear evidence that no one had been down this way in many years.

"No offense, sir," said Harry, "but why is everything in this pub so dirty?"

"None taken," laughed Aberforth. "It's meant to attract a certain type of clientele. People come here to have dealings on the shady side of the law. I come here to eavesdrop on people making dealings on the shady side of the law. Generally, if I overheard any information that concerned my brother, I would relay it to him using a rather clever secret Floo connection that we had. He would then decide whether to act on the information or not."

"So you and Professor Dumbledore used this place to spy on people?" asked Harry, hardly believing his ears.

"Essentially yes," affirmed Aberforth. "Ah, here we are. The cellar!"

With a flourish of his hand, Aberforth directed them into a tiny room. It was constructed from the same moldy, blackened wood as the stairwell. The light came from a dimly flickering lantern on a shelf in the corner. The room was entirely bare except for a medium-sized wooden trunk in the center. The latches on the trunk were sculpted in the shape of golden bumblebees.

"There it is," said Aberforth with a gesture. "Everything Albus left to you is in the trunk. I'll just pop up back to the bar and have a delightful talk with Alastor. I'll leave you kids to satisfy your curiosity." With that, Aberforth turned around and clumped back up the stairs, leaving the three teens alone with Professor Dumbledore's gift to Harry.

All three stared at the trunk. For a moment, nobody moved or said anything. The silence was broken by an enormous sneeze from Ron.

"Sorry, it's dusty," he muttered, and Harry and Hermione chuckled. The tension in the room was broken, and Hermione bent down to undo the latches on the trunk.

"Ouch!" she said, jerking her hand back as though she had been shocked. "The bee just stung me!"

It was true. Harry could see that the bee's stinger was still quivering, as though daring anyone else to try and open the trunk.

"It must be because the trunk's for me," said Harry, as Hermione sucked on her finger. "I'm the one who has to open it." Sure enough, when Harry bent down, the latches opened with no resistance. And inside the trunk…

"It's just a bunch of parchment!" said Ron incredulously. "What's the use in that?"

Harry bent down to give the trunk a closer examination. He dug through the parchment, trying to find any hidden items or trick doors. He didn't have any success. It appeared that the only contents of the trunk were a bunch of pieces of parchment. Harry sat back with a sigh, idly picking up a piece. It was simply a list of random, meaningless words and phrases.

"Can I see that, Harry?" asked Hermione with a shrewd look on her face. Harry wordlessly handed the parchment to her. He felt a deep sense of disappointment. Dumbledore had simply left him a gag gift, the same as he had done to Moody.

"_Specialis Revelio_!" said Hermione, and the piece of parchment suddenly glowed a bright, electric blue. Harry and Ron stared at the parchment, amazed. Hermione had a satisfied look on her face.

"I thought so," she said excitedly. "The parchment's been enchanted to look worthless. You probably need a password to see what the real message is."

"Well, Dumbledore always uses candy for passwords," Ron pointed out. "What's Dumbledore's favorite candy?"

Harry reached out and took the parchment from Hermione's grasp. He laid his wand on top of it and firmly said, "Lemon Drop!"

Immediately, the letters began to rearrange themselves into recognizable words. As soon as Harry understood the title, he gasped. Curious, Hermione looked over his shoulder at the parchment and immediately started hyperventilating.

"Harry, do you know what this is?" she squealed excitedly. "These are the notes of one of the greatest magical researchers of all time! Oh, I knew Dumbledore would have left you something worthwhile. This is…it's just unbelievable!"

"Hang on, Dumbledore left you research notes?" asked Ron, coming to stand on Harry's other side. "That's great, but how is that going to help with, you know, the Horcruxes?"

"These aren't just research notes," said Harry, almost as amazed as Hermione. "These are all of the notes Dumbledore took while hunting down the Horcruxes. Look at this sheet, for instance. It's a list of all of the places where Dumbledore thought a Horcrux might be hidden. And look! See here, where it says 'Gaunt Residence'? There's a little note that says 'See page 27 for a full account.' This chest is going to make our search for the Horcruxes so much easier."

Hermione was already pulling other pieces of parchment out of the trunk, pure enthusiasm lighting up her face. However, Harry felt that he had to speak up.

"Hermione, stop for a moment," he said. Reluctantly, she put the parchment in her hands back into the trunk and turned around. Harry continued. "I don't think this is the right place for this. We need a lot of time to ourselves to really go over these notes in detail. I don't want to rush this, and I really don't want to lose anything in the basement of the Hog's Head."

Hermione nodded, and the three of them reverently placed the pieces of parchment back into the trunk. Harry closed the lid, mentally apologizing to Professor Dumbledore for doubting that he would give Harry something useful. He picked up the trunk, amazed at how light it felt. Another good thing about receiving parchment was that it weighed practically nothing. He was about to head back up the stairs, when Ron slapped his forehead.

"What is it, Ron?" Harry asked curiously.

"I forgot all about it," he said excitedly. "I really wanted to tell you at the wedding, but first Moody was with you, and then Aberforth showed up…"

"Alright," said Harry with a laugh. "I get it, you really wanted to tell me something. Be my guest."

"Harry," declared Ron with an overly dramatic pause. "I know who R.A.B. is."

Harry dropped the trunk in surprise. Even Hermione looked startled. But then, in Harry's mind, the pieces started to click together. He remembered the man he had been reading about earlier that day. Regulus Arcturus Black. R.A.B. It fit perfectly. As a Death Eater, he knew the Dark Lord personally. He came from a family steeped in the Dark Arts, so he could have known about Horcruxes. Regulus had been personally murdered by Lord Voldemort, just like R.A.B.

Harry looked Ron dead in the eyes. "So do I."

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**A/N:**

That's another chapter dealt with. I loved writing this chapter, and I hope you enjoyed reading it. This time, I'm posting it on a Thursday night. Last time I posted it on Saturday afternoon, and about four hours later the story was already on page two of 20,000 words. Hopefully it'll stay up a bit longer this time.

As always, thanks to everyone who reviewed: japanese-jew, Lord Purity, Shadow Lighthawk, darksentinant, Estel A Duath, 10dedfish, Lord Nott, and HP55. You guys rule.

Something funny I've noticed: a lot of Lords tend to like this story. Lord Purity, Lord Grindelwald, and Lord Nott. Here's hoping that more Lords come and join the party.

Nobody asked about this, but I thought I'll say it anyways. The character of Antonio Ramirez Sanchez is based loosely on a real person: Ilich Ramirez Sanchez, aka Carlos the Jackal. By 'based,' I mean that they are both South American assassins/terrorists. Basically, I just liked the name.

I don't dislike Harry/Ginny in particular, but I dislike Harry Potter romance in general. Practically every relationship seems to be dysfunctional, and I don't particularly like any of the pairings. I haven't read very much fanfiction, but I don't really like any of the romance there, either. In my opinion, the only way to write a good romance in the Harry Potter world is to take the characters and completely change their personalities so that they're compatible. Either that or just create new characters. Neither of these options makes for a particularly appealing story, in my opinion.

Finally, I just want to give you a quick idea of where I'm going with this story. There will probably be two or three more chapters before we move onto a new story arc. Harry will move from full time training mode into Horcrux hunting mode. That's where we'll get into the real story (that's where the Fatal Deception is, for instance), and that will probably be two-thirds of the story. I hope to finish before Deathly Hallows comes out. I may be off by a few weeks, but hopefully you guys will stick with me.

Oh wait, there's one more thing. If you like this story (which if you've read up to chapter six, you probably do), there's another story out there that simply destroys this one. It's called "The Phoenix and the Serpent" by Sanction, and it's unbelievably good. Those of you who like my Moody will love her Moody and his companion, Daniel Oaks. Her fight scenes are phenomenal, and she's amazingly creative with both characters and plot lines. The only thing to keep in mind is that it was written after Book 4 came out. That means that it's a little outdated, but in my opinion that actually makes it better. You can see the story in my Favorites, or you can just search for it.

Seriously, check it out. I promise you will be amazed.


	7. Chapter 7: RAB

Disclaimer: Harry Potter's not mine.

A/N: I apologize for the horrible delay in getting this chapter up. And it's not even done. This is only half a chapter. I plan on publishing it in two parts, just because I need to get some sort of update up. Again, sorry.

**Chapter 7: R.A.B.**

Silence reigned in the cellar of Aberforth Dumbledore's grimy Hogsmeade pub. Dumbledore's trunk was momentarily forgotten as Harry and Ron realized the magnitude of their discovery. Finally, Ron cleared his throat and spoke up.

"How did you find out?" he asked incredulously. "It took me a week of poring over _20th Century Wizarding History_ just to figure out that his first name began with 'R.'"

"What do you mean?" asked Harry confusedly. "Sirius told us his first name in fifth year."

"Maybe he told you, but he certainly didn't tell me," said Ron, giving Harry a strange look.

"I'm pretty sure you were there, Ron," said Harry slowly, "but maybe you just forgot. Anyway, I only just realized that he's actually R.A.B. I was reading about him earlier today in the Auror Facebook that Moody gave me. It's like a list of Death Eaters that tells you all about their backgrounds and stuff."

However, instead of enlightening Ron, Harry's explanation only caused Ron's brow to furrow. "Why was he in a list of Death Eaters? As far as I heard, he never joined with You-Know-Who."

"Ron," said Harry with a grin, "Regulus Black was Sirius's Death Eater brother. I can't believe you've already completely forgotten that."

Ron stared at Harry for a long moment, and then burst out laughing. Harry and Hermione both looked at him warily. With an effort, Ron contained his mirth and shook his head.

"No wonder you looked so bloody confused," he said, still grinning. "R.A.B. doesn't stand for Regulus Arcturus Black. It stands for Rutherford Algernon Borgin!"

Harry frowned. "Borgin? How do you figure that?"

"Simple," said Ron happily. "You-Know-Who used to work at Borgin and Burke's, right? The letter to 'The Dark Lord' isn't written very formally. It's more like something you would write to an employee, not something a Death Eater would write to someone they used to treat like a god."

"And he owns that shop," Hermione chipped in, realization making her brown eyes sparkle. "If anyone would know about dark artifacts like Horcruxes, it would be Borgin! He must be a powerful wizard to have collected everything in that shop, so he might have been able to get past those protections. Oh, Ron, you're a genius!"

With that, Hermione gave Ron a big hug and a kiss on the cheek, causing the redhead to blush furiously, muttering about how it was nothing and anyone could have come up with the answer. On the other hand, Harry was not so easily convinced. Oh, he understood the logic behind Ron's choice, but he wasn't quite ready to give up on Regulus Black. Every instinct in his body screamed that R.A.B. was Regulus, not Borgin. And his intuition had served him well in the past.

"You're missing something, Ron," said Harry, causing Ron and Hermione to break hurriedly apart. "Borgin's still walking and talking. R.A.B. says that he expects to be dead before Voldemort reads the note."

"But he could have been wrong," countered Ron. "I thought about that, but Borgin is just the perfect man for the job. Maybe Borgin expected You-Know-Who to find out, but he never did. Whatever it was, there's loads of reasons why Borgin might have survived."

"I'm still not convinced," said Harry, "but this isn't really the time to argue. We ought to be getting back upstairs, or Moody and Aberforth will probably come down and check on us right when we're in the middle of talking about the Horcruxes."

Ron and Hermione nodded, and the three headed back up the stairs together. Harry walked in front carrying Dumbledore's trunk, which forced Ron and Hermione to climb the narrow staircase behind him. As Harry neared the top, he could hear voices coming out of the pub above. He paused, wanting to make sure that there were no guests at the bar who might spot him. He heard Aberforth say something unintelligible, but as he strained his ears, he just managed to pick up the tail end of the sentence.

"…him here indefinitely. What do you suggest we do about him?"

However, it was not Moody who answered, but a different voice. It was too low for Harry to understand the words, but the tone sounded hauntingly familiar. Before he could recognize the voice he was hearing, Moody broke in.

"You'd better clear out of here, Potter's coming," he growled. Harry heard a loud crash, followed by the clumping sound of Moody's wooden leg limping across the pub's floor. The door at the top of the staircase opened, allowing a thin shaft of dim light to pass. Moody stuck his face into the crack and peered down at Harry.

"All right, Potter, you can come on up now," he grunted, allowing the door to swing open. Harry trudged up the rest of the stairs with Ron and Hermione in his wake. As he re-entered the bar, he discovered that the crashing sound had been caused by an overturned cauldron. Aberforth was in the process of siphoning away the acid green potion that had spilled. As Harry entered the room, Aberforth straightened up.

"Did you hear anything to spark your interest?" he asked casually, but his eyes were shifting nervously. It was clear to Harry that he had overheard a snippet of conversation that Aberforth had hoped to keep secret. He glanced over at Moody, but the old Auror was better at controlling his emotions than Aberforth. Harry could read nothing from his face.

"Relax," said Harry, "I didn't hear anything worthwhile. I'm guessing you're not about to tell me who you were talking to?"

"Too right we're not," grumbled Moody. "It's absolutely none of your business. But we do have to talk with you about a different matter. Aberforth?"

Aberforth nodded, picking up where Moody left off. "I was fascinated to hear the details of your new training regimen. I doff my cap to you for accepting your role in this war and learning the fighting arts with Alastor. However, I must confess that I am worried about several valuable skills that you are probably not going to learn from someone as…law-abiding, shall we say, as an Auror."

Moody snorted at this, but Aberforth continued in a slightly louder voice. "I have some unique magical skills that I think you will find useful. As a matter of fact, my brother came to me just a month before he died, asking for advice on how to…find items that others do not want found."

"He means stealing, Potter," said Moody distastefully. "The man's nearly as talented as his brother, but he chooses to be a common criminal."

"A criminal, yes," said Aberforth blithely. "Hardly common. And as immoral as thievery may be, it certainly tops the life of animal barbarism that my brother chose in his younger days."

"Albus quit fighting and developed a moral compass a century ago," replied Moody acidly. "As far as I can tell, you never got that far."

"I blame our upbringing," said Aberforth with a small laugh. "But this is pointless. Albus thought my skills were necessary for his pet project, and if Potter plans on continuing it, he must learn them as well. Whether you approve or not, Alastor."

"Hang on, can we go back a little bit?" said a very confused Harry. "What were you saying about Professor Dumbledore and animal fighting?"

"Not animal fighting, human fighting," corrected Aberforth. "My brother dueled professionally in some of the more violent underground circuits in Europe. The winners rolled in Galleons, prostitutes, and hallucinogens. The losers went hungry, if they were lucky. Most of the time, the losers either died in the ring or died of their wounds not long after."

Noting the shocked look on Harry's face, Moody chipped in. "You've got to understand, Potter, Albus never killed his opponents. He was skilled enough to dominate his competition without murdering them. Most of his peers weren't."

"Most of them didn't want to be," added Aberforth grimly. "You have never met people like that, Harry. Not even Death Eaters can compare. They were shockingly barbaric men who reveled in the blood that bathed their wands and were paid to do it. Albus finally left that arena after thirty years, but he could never shake off his reputation. Even when he was Headmaster of Hogwarts, aspiring fighters still came to him, hoping to learn the secrets that made him invincible. But Albus never accepted them as pupils. He washed his hands of that world a century ago."

Harry shook his head, unable to accept what Professor Dumbledore's brother was telling him. The Albus Dumbledore that Aberforth was describing had nothing in common with the benevolent, eccentric Headmaster of Hogwarts that Harry knew and loved.

"Why on earth would Professor Dumbledore do something like that for a living?" said Harry, repulsed by the very idea.

"It's how we were raised," said Aberforth simply. "Our father did not want us to be upstanding, polite citizens. He was an awful man, and he was obsessed with turning us into hard-nosed fighters who would help him intimidate his rivals. Fortunately as we grew older, we began to rebel against his notions of a dog-eat-dog world. Albus severed ties with him entirely when he left the dueling scene, and I gradually phased him out of my life as well. Understand, Harry, that while the younger Albus and Aberforth Dumbledore were not nice men, that had no bearing on our later personalities. Albus changed for the better, as did I."

Moody sat silently throughout the explanation, sipping idly at his burning amber Firewhiskey. As Aberforth finished, Moody leaned back and heaved a long sigh.

"It's why Albus was so willing to believe that people can change and fight their upbringing. It's why Albus was so willing to trust Snape. He had to believe that Snape could change, because he knew that a century ago, Albus Dumbledore had the exact same problem and chose to do the right thing."

Harry sat in stunned silence. He wanted to respond and react to what Aberforth and Moody had told him, but he couldn't think of anything to say. Twice he opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. It finally took Ron to break the silence.

"Blimey," he muttered, "I sure didn't see that coming. What about this stealing thing, though? I don't want to give anything away, but that sounds like it's going to come in pretty bloody handy. When do we start learning that?"

"Whenever you like," replied Aberforth, spreading his arms invitingly. "However, I must be frank a moment. I think it would be a waste of time for you and Ms. Granger to learn what I have to teach. The techniques I have to offer require a certain amount of raw magical strength to use properly. Unless I am sorely mistaken, only Harry has the requisite power to successfully use what I have to teach. I am truly sorry, but that is simply the fact of the matter."

"Power?" said Harry curiously. Aberforth's words reminded him strongly of the prophecy. "Is it some kind of power that only I have?"

"Don't be stupid, Potter," grunted Moody. "How would Aberforth know how to teach you his skills if only you had the strength to use them?"

"Right," mumbled Harry. "Sorry, I was just thinking of something else. So when do I start training with Aberforth?"

"We'll see," said Moody darkly. "I still have a lot to teach you, and no matter what Aberforth says, everything you're learning is essential if you're going to survive against Lord Voldemort."

Ron winced at Voldemort's name, and Moody whirled on him sharply. "Don't cringe, boy! When he's got you at wandpoint, then you can bloody well cringe! Have some respect for yourself, for Merlin's sake."

Moody's tirade was interrupted by a knock on the door. Clearly someone had heard the noise inside and decided that the pub was in fact open, despite the blatant "CLOSED" sign blocking the moldy door. Moody's magical eye whirled in its socket, and his hand twitched towards his wand. However, after a second's inspection, the old man relaxed.

"Just a drunk," he muttered disdainfully. "Come on, Potter, let's get out of here. Aberforth, you ought to take these two back to the wedding. People might start wondering if they're gone much longer. If anyone asks about us, tell 'em that old Mad-Eye got a fright and took Harry back home. They'll swallow that one for sure."

Aberforth nodded, and Moody stuck out his arm. Harry latched on tightly, and after a moment's blackness, they were back at the forested Apparition Point on Moody's property.

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**A/N:**

Again, I'm truly sorry for the delay. As I said above, this is only half a chapter. I'll upload the second half separately. I just haven't had the time to write it. Why was I delayed in writing it? Well, a lot of reasons, but basically I've just been extremely busy, and in the rare time that I got to write, I had massive writer's block. Hopefully I'll be able to get the next half of this chapter up by next weekend, but I'm not making any guarantees.

On a happier note, thanks to my reviewers: craziest1, Darksentinant, japanese-jew, HP55, Lord Purity, 10ded, Dumbledore, and valandil.

A couple of points:

The identity of R.A.B. is still undecided. There's a branch of the plot for a Borgin R.A.B. and a branch for a Regulus R.A.B., and I've got an idea of where I'd go with both of them. In Deathly Hallows, I think R.A.B. will be Regulus Black, based on clues from outside the books. That said, I think that Borgin is actually the better candidate, going purely on plot points. Both branches will be interesting to write, but whichever way I choose to go, it won't significantly affect the overall story. This isn't going to be a story where finding out who R.A.B. is suddenly unlocks the secret that allows all of the Horcruxes to fall into Harry's lap. Dumbledore's notes will be more helpful, but even with them, Harry's still going to have to work to find _all_ of the Horcruxes.

I'm convinced that there is some sort of dark secret in Dumbledore's past. Not necessarily a secret, but at least something that isn't common knowledge. This stems from the fact that Snape specifically says in Spinner's End that Bellatrix is "overlooking Dumbledore's greatest weakness: he has to believe the best of people." Now why would Dumbledore have to believe the best of people, unless in the past someone believed the best of him, and gave him a second shot at life? I think that in the past, someone took a chance on Dumbledore and gave him a job teaching at Hogwarts, despite a suspicious past. I don't think that he was necessarily a Dark Wizard per se, but I do believe he was involved in something illicit. Hence the whole illegal underground dueling thing. It explains a lot.

And why is Aberforth a thief? Well, I've always been suspicious of the scar on Dumbledore's knee that is an exact map of the London Underground. What's under the London Underground? The vaults of Gringotts. I think that at least once in the past, the Dumbledores used that scar on Albus's knee to break into the Gringotts vaults through the London Underground. But maybe I'm making too many bizarre connections. We'll see whether it matters or not when Book 7 comes out.

Until next time, which will hopefully be soon,

Alastor Robards


End file.

Harry Potter, Adventure